It was not long after this that the opera closed, and M'sieu went
back to his old out-of-season job. But somehow he did not do as
well this spring and summer as always. There is a certain amount
of cunning and finesse required to roll a cigar just so, that
M'sieu seemed to be losing, whether from age or deterioration it
was hard to tell. Nevertheless, there was just about half as
much money coming in as formerly, and the quaint little pucker
between M'sieu's eyebrows which served for a frown came oftener
and stayed longer than ever before.
"Minesse," he said one day to the white cat,--he told all his
troubles to her; it was of no use to talk to Ma'am Jeanne, she
was too deaf to understand,--"Minesse, we are gettin' po'. You'
pere git h'old, an' hees han's dey go no mo' rapidement, an' dere
be no mo' soirees dese day. Minesse, eef la saison don' hurry
up, we shall eat ver' lil' meat."
And Minesse curled her tail and purred.
Before the summer had fairly begun, strange rumours began to
float about in musical circles. M. Mauge would no longer manage
the opera, but it would be turned into the hands of Americans, a
syndicate. Bah! These English-speaking people could do nothing
unless there was a trust, a syndicate, a company immense and
dishonest. It was going to be a guarantee business, with a
strictly financial basis. But worse than all this, the new
manager, who was now in France, would not only procure the
artists, but a new orchestra, a new leader.
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