“I wish you would talk to the master, Mr. Colin. He’s really not well enough to go to your opening.”
Colin had entered the front door and started down the hallway into the marquis’ bedroom when Josephine stopped him and made her plea. He halted and turned to face her, his brow furrowed with worry. “I’ve tried my best to get him not to go, but you know how stubborn he can be.”
“I’m worried about him, sir. What did the doctor say?”
“He told him flatly that he would be risking his life to go to Paris, but he won’t listen. He says he’s worked too hard for this to miss it.”
Indeed, Armand had worked very hard for nearly two years since his return from New Orleans. It had been a good thing for him to stay busy, and he had done well for eighteen months. But then something had happened to his heart. Colin had entered his room to find him gasping and holding onto his chest in pain, his left arm numb and use-less. The doctors pronounced him the victim of a stroke. Some of the effects had passed away, but the marquis had lost part of the use of his left hand. His speech and memory were affected.
Nevertheless, Armand had asked Arnaud Heuse, the owner of the Paris Opera House, to put on a production of The Marriage of Figaro, by Mozart, starring Colin. It had not been hard to convince Heuse, for Colin had progressed tremendously, his talent becoming obvious to everyone who heard him. He had sung second tenor in several operas under Heuse, and Armand had set March 2, 1837, as the begin-ning of Colin’s new life as a starring operatic tenor.
Colin bit his lip and shook his head. “I’m worried. I wish he’d stay home, but he won’t.”
“Be as careful with him as you can, but then I know you will. You care so much for him.”
“We all do, Josephine. It’ll be a slow, careful trip. Where’s Philippe? I want him to help me get the marquis into the carriage.”
Armand de Cuvier sat in his box. Philippe, dressed in a decent black suit, had been pressed into service to get him up the stairs. The big man had simply picked up the wheelchair containing Armand and bore the burden as lightly as if it were nothing. He sat behind the marquis, who was speaking with Arnaud Heuse, the owner of the opera house. Philippe watched carefully as Colin sang the song that closed the opera. He had difficulty associating the man on the stage, so tall, strong, and handsome and full of life, his voice filling the tremendous opera house, with the skinny ragamuffin who had come up to the door in rags five years earlier. He was filled with pride, and once he leaned forward and said, “Our protégé is doing fine, my lord.”
“Yes, he is, Philippe,” Armand whispered back.
“Still, you spoiled a fine gardener.”
Armand could not but help smile. He was thin now and spoke little, for it embarrassed him that he sometimes stuttered and could not find the proper words.
He relished the opera, drinking it all in. As the curtain fell and the cast members began to take their bows, Heuse leaned forward and said, “You have written many fine works, Maestro, but your finest work is down there on that stage.”
“Thank—thank you for those kind words, Arnaud. I believe you are right.”
The marquis enjoyed the sound of the crowd calling out Colin’s name, the young man who had come to fill his life. He was pleased to see that his adopted son still had humility. He had undertaken to drill into Colin that pride was a deadly sin. Many times he had said, “God gave you the voice. It’s none of your doing. You simply must use it for His glory.” The marquis knew that Colin had been struggling with his faith since Jeanne had died.
Finally the curtain closed for the final time, and Philippe asked, “Shall I take you backstage?”
“I would like that.”
Arnaud said, “It’s so crowded. It will be hard for you.”
“This is his opening night. I must be there.”
At once Philippe wheeled the marquis to the stairs. He picked the chair up again and made his way down the stairs, calling out, “Make way there for the maestro!” in a booming voice. The crowd parted as the waters had parted for Moses, and Philippe continued to call out until Armand asked, “Could you please not be so loud, Philippe? You’re making—” He could not get the rest of the sentence out, and Arnaud Heuse said, “Here. I’ll get the door.”
They went in without knocking and found that Colin’s dressing room was already full. They all stepped back, however, as Philippe wheeled the marquis in. Colin went to him at once and took the thin hand that Armand held out.
“It was magnificent,” Armand whispered.
“All your doing, sir! All yours!”
The crowd listened, and one beautiful young woman, famous and rich and very prominent in the Paris social life, stepped forward and said, “I must congratulate you, sir, on your pupil.” The diamonds on her neck, arms, and hands glittered, but only slightly less than her eyes, which were fixed on Colin. “I must insist that you come to my home for refreshments.”
“Ordinarily it would be a pleasure,” Colin said quickly, “but I must get the marquis home. It’s been a trying time.”
“Then you must come, sir, next Tuesday. I’ll be waiting for you.” She swept away, and as she did, Heuse leaned over and said, “Stay away from that woman. She’s a carnivore. She eats opera stars for breakfast.”
Colin laughed. “Thanks for the advice,” he said, planning to fol-low Arnaud’s recommendation. He turned back and said, “Come now. We’ve got to get you to the hotel and then back home tomorrow.”
“I will never forget this night.”
“And I will never forget the years, sir, that you have given to me.”
Colin’s debut marked the beginning of a professional triumph. All of Paris was speaking about the young American tenor. No one could understand how anyone not European could sing so well! Colin found it amusing, more than anything else, and he spent a great deal of time avoiding the women who flocked to him.
But opening night had marked a decline in the health of the mar-quis. In the days that followed, he grew weaker, and by the time the month was out and Colin’s engagement was over, he was confined to his bed and growing weaker daily.
“I must tell you, Monsieur, that your benefactor is failing.”
Colin had caught the doctor leaving the house, and he said, “But you must be able to do something.”
Dr. Marteau answered sadly, “We doctors have no control over the final illness. It may come when a man is ninety or when a child is one, but when the good God decides that it is a man’s appointed time, there’s nothing we can do.”
“How long will he live?”
“At the rate he’s going, no more than a month. Possibly much less. I’m sorry. Stay very close to him, for you will lose him soon.”
The end came two months later, on a Monday evening at sunset. Colin was sitting beside Armand, looking out as the light faded in the west. The dying sun threw a crimson ray that tinged the clouds, and Colin watched as the sun seemed perceptibly to sink behind the hills to the west.
“Colin.”
Colin turned, and seeing something in the marquis’ face, he took the frail hand and said, “Yes, what is it, Father?”
“I—must ask you . . .” He had trouble continuing, and Colin leaned forward to catch the words. Gathering strength, the marquis said, “Many times I have asked you—to trust in Jesus Christ.” The silence seemed to fill the room, but the words echoed in Colin’s ears. He had once believed, but he had lost his faith after Jeanne died. He saw that life was leaving this man who had done so much for him, so he said quickly, “Yes, you have, my father, and I will put my faith in Jesus.”
“Will you do that right now, my son?”
Colin bowed his head. He felt the presence of God at that moment, and in a faltering, stumbling voice, he cried, “Oh, God, I have been a sinner all my life, and I am so sorry!” He began to weep, and for some time he could not utter a word. Finally he said meekly, “I ask you to save my soul, Father, in the name of Jesus! I believe He died for me! Forgive me, please, and make me Your child!”
Armand cried out with joy, “My son—my son! How happy you have made me! Now, give Him your life, my dear boy. Serve God with all your heart!”
The marquis lay quietly for five minutes, and then suddenly he stiffened, and his eyes opened. Colin saw that his life was fading. Armand smiled and put his hand up to touch Colin’s cheek. “Good-bye, my beloved son.”
The arm grew limp, and Armand lay very still. For fifteen minutes he lingered, and then he simply stopped breathing. Colin stood over the bed, holding the frail hand in his own. Tears filled his eyes. He leaned over, kissed the thin cheek, and whispered, “Good-bye, best of men.”
“I don’t understand what you’re doing,” Philippe said. “You are now the marquis, Lord Beaufort. Why are you leaving France for that awful country of yours?”
Colin was packing one of his trunks. He was taking most of his clothes with him. Three months had passed since the death of the marquis. The legal work had been done, many papers had been signed, and now Colin Seymour was the Marquis Lord Beaufort. He himself preferred the simple American name, but everyone on the staff and the lawyers insisted on calling him Lord Beaufort. “Why must you go to America? The last time you went, it was nothing but a tragedy,” Philippe protested.
Colin dropped the shirt into the trunk and turned to face Philippe. He smiled. “I promised Armand that I would follow Christ, but first, before I begin that life—” He hesitated and then said, “I have business.”
Suddenly Philippe, who, though uneducated, was a clever man, watched Colin carefully. His eyes narrowed, and he said, “It has some-thing to do with the man who shot the master, doesn’t it?”
Colin shook his head. “I refuse to talk about it. Let us just say that I have a chore to do before I can really begin living.”
Philippe gripped the young man’s shoulder. “You are now Lord Beaufort, but I think of you as the young man who came years ago. I never thought you would become anything, but now you are a man. And I say to you: avenge Armand de Cuvier!”
“That is exactly what I plan to do, Philippe. Then I will come back here.”
“It will be lonely until you return.” Philippe suddenly reached out, put his massive arms around the younger man and squeezed him, then turned and left the room abruptly. Colin stared after him, and his lips tightened. “Yes, just one more chore to do, and then I can think about life itself.”