Part 24 (1/2)
”Play,” said I, to him in my poor Hungarian (that de Savignac might not understand, for I wished to surprise him) ”a real czardas of your people--ah! I have it!” I exclaimed. ”Play the legend and the mad dance that follows--the one that Racz Laczi loved--the legend of the young man who went up the mountain and met the girl who jilted him.”
Boldi nodded his head and grinned with savage enthusiasm. He drew his bow across the sobbing strings and the legend began. Under the spell of his violin, the chatter of the supper room ceased--the air now heavy with the mingled scent of perfume and cigars, seemed to pulsate under the throb of the wild melody--as he played on, no one spoke--the men even forgetting to smoke; the women listening, breathing with parted lips. I turned to look at de Savignac--he was drunk and there was a strange glitter in his eyes, his cheeks flushed to a dull crimson, but not from wine.
Boldi's violin talked--now and then it wept under the vibrant grip of the master, who dominated it until it dominated those to whom it played.
The young man in the legend was rus.h.i.+ng up the mountain path in earnest now, for he had seen ahead of him the girl he loved--now the melody swept on through the wooing and the breaking of her promise, and now came the rush of the young man down to the nearest village to drown his chagrin and forget her in the mad dance, the ”Czardas,” which followed.
As the czardas quickened until its pace reached the speed of a whirlwind, de Savignac suddenly staggered to his feet--his breath coming in short gasps.
”Sit down!” I pleaded, not liking the sudden purplish hue of his cheeks.
”Let--me--alone,” he stammered, half angrily. ”It--is so good--to--be alive again.”
”You shall not,” I whispered, my eye catching sight of a gold louis between his fingers. ”You don't know what you are doing--it is not right--this is my dinner, old friend--_all of it_, do you understand?”
”Let--me--alone,” he breathed hoa.r.s.ely, as I tried to get hold of the coin--”it is my last--my last--my last!”--and he tossed the gold piece to the band. It fell squarely on the cymballum and rolled under the strings.
”Bravo!” cried a little woman opposite, clapping her warm, jewelled hands. Then she screamed, for she saw Monsieur de Savignac sway heavily, and sink back in his seat, his chin on his chest, his eyes closed.
I ripped open his collar and s.h.i.+rt to give him breath. Twice his chest gave a great bound, and he murmured something I did not catch--then he sank back in my arms--dead.
During the horror and grim reality of it all--the screaming women, the physician working desperately, although he knew all hope was gone--while the calm police questioned me as to his ident.i.ty and domicile, I shook from head to foot--and yet the worst was still to come--I had to tell Madame de Savignac.
[Ill.u.s.tration: spilled bottle of wine]
[Ill.u.s.tration: The man with the gun]
CHAPTER NINE
THE MAN WITH THE GUN
It is at last decided! The kind and sympathetic Minister of Agriculture has signed the official doc.u.ment opening the shooting-season for hares and partridges in _La belle France_, to-morrow, Sunday, the thirtieth of September. Thrice happy hunters!--they who had begun to grumble in their cafes over the rumour that the opening of the shooting-season might be postponed until the second or even third Sunday in October.
My good friend the mayor of Pont du Sable has just handed me my hunting-permit for the coming year bearing the stamp of the _Republique Francaise_, the seal of the prefecture, the signature of the prefet, and including everything, from the colour of my hair and complexion to my height, age, birth and domicile. On the back of this important piece of paper I read as follows:
That the permit must be produced at the demand of all agents authorized by law. That it is prohibited to shoot without it, or upon lands without the consent of the proprietor having the right--or outside of the season fixed by the laws of the prefets.
Furthermore:
The father--the mother--the tutor--the masters, and guardians are civilly responsible for the misdemeanours committed while shooting by their infants--wards--pupils, or domestics living with them.
And finally:
That the hunter who has lost his permit cannot resume again the exercise of the hunt until he has obtained and paid for a new one, twenty-eight francs and sixty centimes.
To-morrow, then, the jolly season opens.