“You must acknowledge that I have done you a
great service.”
Mattre Saval, notary at Vernon, was passionately fond
of music. Although still young he was already
bald; he was always carefully shaven, was somewhat
corpulent as was suitable, and wore a gold pince-nez
instead of spectacles. He was active, gallant
and cheerful and was considered quite an artist in
Vernon. He played the piano and the violin, and
gave musicals where the new operas were interpreted.
He had even what is called a bit of a voice; nothing
but a bit, very little bit of a voice; but he managed
it with so much taste that cries of “Bravo!”
“Exquisite!” “Surprising!”
“Adorable!” issued from every throat as
soon as he had murmured the last note.
He subscribed to a music publishing house in Paris,
and they sent him the latest music, and from time
to time he sent invitations after this fashion to
the elite of the town:
“You are invited to be present on Monday evening
at the house of M. Saval, notary, Vernon, at the first
rendering of ‘Sais.’”
A few officers, gifted with good voices, formed the
chorus. Two or three lady amateurs also sang.
The notary filled the part of leader of the orchestra
with so much correctness that the bandmaster of the
190th regiment of the line said of him, one day, at
the Cafe de l’Europe.
“Oh! M. Saval is a master. It is a
great pity that he did not adopt the career of an
artist.”
When his name was mentioned in a drawing-room, there
was always somebody found to declare: “He
is not an amateur; he is an artist, a genuine artist.”
And two or three persons repeated, in a tone of profound
conviction:
“Oh! yes, a genuine artist,” laying particular
stress on the word “genuine.”
Every time that a new work was interpreted at a big
Parisian theatre M. Saval paid a visit to the capital.
Now, last year, according to his custom, he went to
hear Henri VIII. He then took the express which
arrives in Paris at 4:30 P.M., intending to return
by the 12:35 A.M. train, so as not to have to sleep
at a hotel. He had put on evening dress, a black
coat and white tie, which he concealed under his overcoat
with the collar turned up.
As soon as he set foot on the Rue d’Amsterdam,
he felt himself in quite jovial mood. He said
to himself:
“Decidedly, the air of Paris does not resemble
any other air. It has in it something indescribably
stimulating, exciting, intoxicating, which fills you
with a strange longing to dance about and to do many
other things. As soon as I arrive here, it seems
to me, all of a sudden, that I have taken a bottle
of champagne. What a life one can lead in this
city in the midst of artists! Happy are the elect,
the great men who make themselves a reputation in
such a city! What an existence is theirs!”
