Chapter One
The Marquis Armand de Cuvier, Lord Beaufort, leaned forward with a sense of satisfaction as he touched the tip of his quill to the white parchment. Quickly the musical notes seemed to flow from his heart (which the marquis felt was the real producer of music!), and something close to rapture touched the composer. He continued to write as rapidly as possible, for he had discovered that when he composed his scores, when the inspiration flowed, nothing must be allowed to interfere.
The sun threw golden beams through the window to the marquis' right hand, and the warm breezes of May caressed him, stirring his hair gently. Spring had come to France in the year of 1832 almost in a bound, it seemed, bringing out the greenery and causing the flowers to burst in small explosions of color. Even now, as the marquis continued to cover the parchment with musical notes, he was conscious of a sense of well-being.
The composition had not gone well for some time, and Lord Beaufort had lost sleep over it for weeks. Ordinarily the marquis was a gentle man, soft-spoken, with a ready smile, but when whatever demon it is that clogs up the inspiration in the mind of the composer gripped him, he became short-tempered and hard to live with. His beloved wife, Jeanne, had learned to recognize those times and managed to keep him from the more violent outbursts. The servants also had learned to recognize the marquis' uncreative periods and walked softly around him during those days.
An ormolu clock beat out a rhythm like soft heartbeats, and once, as the marquis scribbled furiously, from a lower story came the sound of a clock tolling off one-two-three, sprinkling the hours all through the house. The marquis paid no attention to it. When he was composing, he had the gift of closing himself off to almost anything.
A loud, angry voice from outside his window sounded suddenly, the violence of it breaking into the composer's inspiration. "Cannot I have even a moment's peace?" he cried aloud.
Anger swept through Lord Beaufort, and with a violent gesture, he flung the quill down and saw a blob of ink obliterate his last few notations. He leaped up, knocking his chair over backwards. It fell with a crash as he moved quickly to the window. At forty-six, Armand de Cuvier was an active man of medium height with wavy brown hair and eyes that were ordinarily warm. Just now, however, they seemed to flash, sending off flecks of light. Leaning over the window and looking down, he saw his gardener, Philippe, a huge man of forty, grasping a stranger by the arm. Philippe was shouting something, and the young man he held was trying to respond.
Suddenly Philippe's massive arm moved, and his fist caught the visitor high on the forehead. He fell backwards as if poleaxed and lay without moving.
"What in the world is going on down there, Philippe?"
"This fellow insists on seeing you, my lord. He would not take no for an answer."
"Well, I think you've killed the fellow. I'll be right down."
The marquis hurried out of the room, stepping lightly down the stairs, through the hallway, and outside. He walked quickly to where Philippe was picking up the young fellow.
"Now, what's all this about?"
The young man Philippe gripped tightly by the arms was six feet tall but not strongly built like the gardener. His eyes were focused, at least, and the marquis saw that they were of a brilliant, cornflower blue. His hat had been knocked off, revealing thick hair of an auburn tint that caught the sun. He had a wedge-shaped face, a wide mouth, and his eyes were deep-set. When he saw the marquis, he tried to bow, but Philippe held him tightly. "Monsieur, I am Colin Seymour." Then he tried to speak in French, but it was so pitiful that the marquis could not understand much of it.
The marquis asked, "You are English?"
"Yes, sir," Seymour said at once. "I'm sorry I don't speak French."
"It doesn't matter," Armand said. "What do you want here?"
"I'll tell you what he wants," Philippe broke in. He shook the young man, saying, "He broke into the barn, and he's stolen some food."
"Is that right?"
"I did sleep in the barn, but I didn't steal any food."
"He's a liar!" Philippe said roughly. "He's a tramp. Look at him."
Indeed, Colin Seymour was dressed in clothing that would have done dishonor to a tramp. He wore a pair of brown britches that were patched on both knees and in the seat, and the stockings that enclosed his lower legs were more runs and holes than cloth. His shirt had at one time been white but now was filthy, and the light-greenish jacket looked as if it were covered with mold. His hair was untrimmed, and his unshaven face was grimy. He was thin and had a lean and hungry look about him.
"What do you want here?" the marquis demanded.
"I was just-"
"He wanted to steal something," Philippe said loudly. "That's all these tramps want."
"I expect you're right. Hang onto him and have Merle go get the sheriff."
"Please, sir, I really am not a thief!"
"Shut your mouth!" Philippe said, shaking the young man like a rat. "You're going to jail where you belong."
At that moment the front door of the house opened, and Jeanne de Cuvier, Lady Beaufort, stepped outside and approached the trio. She was a small woman, well shaped, in her late thirties. Her hair was light with a trace of gold in it, and her eyes were hazel flecked with blue.
"What is this, Armand?"
"Oh, just a petty thief, my dear. Don't trouble yourself about it. Philippe, take him now, and hold him until Merle gets back with the sheriff."
"Just a minute, Philippe." Madam de Cuvier had her eyes fixed on the young man's features. "He doesn't look very dangerous to me."
"You don't know these tramps, my lady," Philippe grunted. "He'd slit your throat in a minute if he had the chance."
"What is your name, young man?"
"My name is Colin Seymour, Madam."
"And you are English?"
"I am American."
"That is even worse," Philippe snarled, tightening his grip. "Every-one knows the Yankees are nothing but a bunch of killers."
"Please go inside, my dear," Armand said with concern. "In your condition, you don't need this excitement."
"Just a minute, Armand. Let me talk with him."
Armand threw up his hands. "That will be the end of it, I suppose. You take in every broken-winged bird until I can't get in the house, but this fellow is not a crippled animal. He could be dangerous, as Philippe says."
"How long have you been in France, Colin?"
Young Seymour attempted to smile. "About two weeks. I was picked up by the police and put in jail."
"You see!" Philippe exclaimed triumphantly. "He's a criminal!"
"I had done nothing and committed no crime-unless having no money is a crime in France."
"You're bleeding," Jeanne said. Indeed, Philippe's massive fist had opened a cut over the young man's left eyebrow. The blood was trickling down, and Jeanne said, "Bring him inside. That must be attended to."
Philippe began to protest, but Armand interrupted. "Never mind, Philippe. All he can do is run away, and that might solve the problem."
"He'll cut our throats. You'll see!" Philippe said, glaring at Seymour. "Give me the word, and I'll have Merle go for the sheriff."
"Come inside, young man," Jeanne said.
"Go on. Do what she tells you," Armand commanded.
Colin followed the woman, aware that Philippe was glaring at him as he left. He had no intention of escaping, however. When they reached the kitchen, the housekeeper, Josephine Bettencourt, stared at them. "Who is this?"
"Another one of your mistress's injured creatures."
"Sit down there, young man," Jeanne said. "Josephine, get something that we can clean this blood off with, and perhaps a plaster to put over it."
"Sit down there," Armand commanded fiercely, pointing at a stool. He stood back and studied the young man as the two women cleaned the blood off his face. He could not help but smile when he saw the tender expression in his wife's eyes. I think she would be kind to Judas, he thought. He watched as they carefully put a plaster over the cut, and then he stepped forward. "Now that you've saved his life, I have a few questions for him."
Jeanne went to her husband and took his arm. "He's only a boy. How old are you, Colin?"
"I'm twenty-one, ma'am."
"'Ma'am'? What is 'ma'am'?"
"That's what we call ladies in America."
"Ma'am! What a hideous word! Everything from America is ugly," Armand said, but kindness had begun to show in his expression. "Why did you come to France?"
"I came all the way here to meet you, sir."
"To meet me!" Armand exclaimed in surprise. "But I don't know you."
"But I know you-at least, I know your music."
Armand suddenly slapped his forehead with his open palm. "Oh no, don't tell me! Not another genius who has come to let me expose his talent to the world."
"Armand, be quiet. Let him talk," Jeanne said firmly. "Tell us about yourself."
"I want to sing in the opera," Colin said simply.
Armand stared at him and shook his head, laughing cynically. "So do about one million other people the world over. It seems half the people I meet want to be in opera. What do you know about music, anyway? Have you studied?"
"Not exactly."
"Not exactly? What does that mean? You've either studied, or you haven't."
"I've never been to a singing school, but I want to learn."
Armand was amused. Indeed, he had been besieged for years by budding operatic hopefuls. He could no longer attend a party without someone saying, "I have a nephew who has great talent. If you would only take him in hand, Marquis . . ." Armand had developed a hard shell when such requests were thrown at him. Sometimes he lost his temper. One lady had produced her son with a statement: "I believe my son ...
