الفصل الفصل 9 · THE STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS
. THE STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS
“Et tout les jours passés dans la tristesse
Nous sont comptés comme des jours heureux!”
I
The street is not fashionable, neither is it shabby. It is a pariah
among streets—a street without a Quarter. It is generally understood
to lie outside the pale of the aristocratic Avenue de l’Observatoire.
The students of the Montparnasse Quarter consider it swell and will
have none of it. The Latin Quarter, from the Luxembourg, its northern
frontier, sneers at its respectability and regards with disfavour the
correctly costumed students who haunt it. Few strangers go into it. At
times, however, the Latin Quarter students use it as a thoroughfare
between the rue de Rennes and the Bullier, but except for that and the
weekly afternoon visits of parents and guardians to the Convent near
the rue Vavin, the street of Our Lady of the Fields is as quiet as a
Passy boulevard. Perhaps the most respectable portion lies between the
rue de la Grande Chaumière and the rue Vavin, at least this was the
conclusion arrived at by the Reverend Joel Byram, as he rambled through
it with Hastings in charge. To Hastings the street looked pleasant in
the bright June weather, and he had begun to hope for its selection
when the Reverend Byram shied violently at the cross on the Convent
opposite.
“Jesuits,” he muttered.
“Well,” said Hastings wearily, “I imagine we won’t find anything
better. You say yourself that vice is triumphant in Paris, and it seems
to me that in every street we find Jesuits or something worse.”
After a moment he repeated, “Or something worse, which of course I
would not notice except for your kindness in warning me.”
Dr. Byram sucked in his lips and looked about him. He was impressed
by the evident respectability of the surroundings. Then frowning at
the Convent he took Hastings’ arm and shuffled across the street to an
iron gateway which bore the number 201 _bis_ painted in white on a blue
ground. Below this was a notice printed in English:
1. For Porter please oppress once.
2. For Servant please oppress twice.
3. For Parlour please oppress thrice.
Hastings touched the electric button three times, and they were ushered
through the garden and into the parlour by a trim maid. The dining-room
door, just beyond, was open, and from the table in plain view a stout
woman hastily arose and came toward them. Hastings caught a glimpse
of a young man with a big head and several snuffy old gentlemen at
breakfast, before the door closed and the stout woman waddled into the
room, bringing with her an aroma of coffee and a black poodle.
“It ees a plaisir to you receive!” she cried. “Monsieur is Anglish? No?
Americain? Off course. My pension it ees for Americains surtout. Here
all spik Angleesh, c’est à dire, ze personnel; ze sairvants do spik,
plus ou moins, a little. I am happy to have you comme pensionnaires—”
“Madame,” began Dr. Byram, but was cut short again.
“Ah, yess, I know, ah! mon Dieu! you do not spik Frainch but you have
come to lairne! My husband does spik Frainch wiss ze pensionnaires. We
have at ze moment a family Americaine who learn of my husband Frainch—”
Here the poodle growled at Dr. Byram and was promptly cuffed by his
mistress.
“Veux tu!” she cried, with a slap, “veux tu! Oh! le vilain, oh! le
vilain!”
“Mais, madame,” said Hastings, smiling, “il n’a pas l’air très féroce.”
The poodle fled, and his mistress cried, “Ah, ze accent charming! He
does spik already Frainch like a Parisien young gentleman!”
Then Dr. Byram managed to get in a word or two and gathered more or
less information with regard to prices.
“It ees a pension serieux; my clientèle ees of ze best, indeed a
pension de famille where one ees at ’ome.”
Then they went upstairs to examine Hastings’ future quarters, test
the bed-springs and arrange for the weekly towel allowance. Dr. Byram
appeared satisfied.
Madame Marotte accompanied them to the door and rang for the maid, but
as Hastings stepped out into the gravel walk, his guide and mentor
paused a moment and fixed Madame with his watery eyes.
“You understand,” he said, “that he is a youth of most careful bringing
up, and his character and morals are without a stain. He is young and
has never been abroad, never even seen a large city, and his parents
have requested me, as an old family friend living in Paris, to see
that he is placed under good influences. He is to study art, but on no
account would his parents wish him to live in the Latin Quarter if they
knew of the immorality which is rife there.”
A sound like the click of a latch interrupted him and he raised his
eyes, but not in time to see the maid slap the big-headed young man
behind the parlour-door.
Madame coughed, cast a deadly glance behind her and then beamed on Dr.
Byram.
“It ees well zat he come here. The pension more serious, il n’en existe
pas, eet ees not any!” she announced with conviction.
So, as there was nothing more to add, Dr. Byram joined Hastings at the
gate.
“I trust,” he said, eyeing the Convent, “that you will make no
acquaintances among Jesuits!”
Hastings looked at the Convent until a pretty girl passed before the
gray façade, and then he looked at her. A young fellow with a paint-box
and canvas came swinging along, stopped before the pretty girl, said
something during a brief but vigorous handshake at which they both
laughed, and he went his way, calling back, “À demain Valentine!” as in
the same breath she cried, “À demain!”
“Valentine,” thought Hastings, “what a quaint name;” and he started to
follow the Reverend Joel Byram, who was shuffling towards the nearest
tramway station.
II
“An’ you are pleas wiz Paris, Monsieur’ Astang?” demanded Madame
Marotte the next morning as Hastings came into the breakfast-room of
the pension, rosy from his plunge in the limited bath above.
“I am sure I shall like it,” he replied, wondering at his own
depression of spirits.
The maid brought him coffee and rolls. He returned the vacant glance
of the big-headed young man and acknowledged diffidently the salutes
of the snuffy old gentlemen. He did not try to finish his coffee, and
sat crumbling a roll, unconscious of the sympathetic glances of Madame
Marotte, who had tact enough not to bother him.
Presently a maid entered with a tray on which were balanced two bowls
of chocolate, and the snuffy old gentlemen leered at her ankles. The
maid deposited the chocolate at a table near the window and smiled at
Hastings. Then a thin young lady, followed by her counterpart in all
except years, marched into the room and took the table near the window.
They were evidently American, but Hastings, if he expected any sign of
recognition, was disappointed. To be ignored by compatriots intensified
his depression. He fumbled with his knife and looked at his plate.
The thin young lady was talkative enough. She was quite aware of
Hastings’ presence, ready to be flattered if he looked at her, but
on the other hand she felt her superiority, for she had been three
weeks in Paris and he, it was easy to see, had not yet unpacked his
steamer-trunk.
Her conversation was complacent. She argued with her mother upon the
relative merits of the Louvre and the Bon Marché, but her mother’s part
of the discussion was mostly confined to the observation, “Why, Susie!”
The snuffy old gentlemen had left the room in a body, outwardly polite
and inwardly raging. They could not endure the Americans, who filled
the room with their chatter.
The big-headed young man looked after them with a knowing cough,
murmuring, “Gay old birds!”
“They look like bad old men, Mr. Bladen,” said the girl.
To this Mr. Bladen smiled and said, “They’ve had their day,” in a tone
which implied that he was now having his.
“And that’s why they all have baggy eyes,” cried the girl. “I think
it’s a shame for young gentlemen—”
“Why, Susie!” said the mother, and the conversation lagged.
After a while Mr. Bladen threw down the _Petit Journal_, which he daily
studied at the expense of the house, and turning to Hastings, started
to make himself agreeable. He began by saying, “I see you are American.”
To this brilliant and original opening, Hastings, deadly homesick,
replied gratefully, and the conversation was judiciously nourished by
observations from Miss Susie Byng distinctly addressed to Mr. Bladen.
In the course of events Miss Susie, forgetting to address herself
exclusively to Mr. Bladen, and Hastings replying to her general
question, the _entente cordiale_ was established, and Susie and her
mother extended a protectorate over what was clearly neutral territory.
“Mr. Hastings, you must not desert the pension every evening as Mr.
Bladen does. Paris is an awful place for young gentlemen, and Mr.
Bladen is a horrid cynic.”
Mr. Bladen looked gratified.
Hastings answered, “I shall be at the studio all day, and I imagine I
shall be glad enough to come back at night.”
Mr. Bladen, who, at a salary of fifteen dollars a week, acted as agent
for the Pewly Manufacturing Company of Troy, N.Y., smiled a sceptical
smile and withdrew to keep an appointment with a customer on the
Boulevard Magenta.
Hastings walked into the garden with Mrs. Byng and Susie, and, at their
invitation, sat down in the shade before the iron gate.
The chestnut trees still bore their fragrant spikes of pink and white,
and the bees hummed among the roses, trellised on the white-walled
house.
A faint freshness was in the air. The watering carts moved up and
down the street, and a clear stream bubbled over the spotless gutters
of the rue de la Grande Chaumière. The sparrows were merry along the
curb-stones, taking bath after bath in the water and ruffling their
feathers with delight. In a walled garden across the street a pair of
blackbirds whistled among the almond trees.
Hastings swallowed the lump in his throat, for the song of the birds
and the ripple of water in a Paris gutter brought back to him the sunny
meadows of Millbrook.
“That’s a blackbird,” observed Miss Byng; “see him there on the bush
with pink blossoms. He’s all black except his bill, and that looks as
if it had been dipped in an omelet, as some Frenchman says—”
“Why, Susie!” said Mrs. Byng.
“That garden belongs to a studio inhabited by two Americans,” continued
the girl serenely, “and I often see them pass. They seem to need a
great many models, mostly young and feminine—”
“Why, Susie!”
“Perhaps they prefer painting that kind, but I don’t see why they
should invite five, with three more young gentlemen, and all get into
two cabs and drive away singing. This street,” she continued, “is
dull. There is nothing to see except the garden and a glimpse of the
Boulevard Montparnasse through the rue de la Grande Chaumière. No one
ever passes except a policeman. There is a convent on the corner.”
“I thought it was a Jesuit College,” began Hastings, but was at once
overwhelmed with a Baedecker description of the place, ending with, “On
one side stand the palatial hotels of Jean Paul Laurens and Guillaume
Bouguereau, and opposite, in the little Passage Stanislas, Carolus
Duran paints the masterpieces which charm the world.”
The blackbird burst into a ripple of golden throaty notes, and from
some distant green spot in the city an unknown wild-bird answered with
a frenzy of liquid trills until the sparrows paused in their ablutions
to look up with restless chirps.
Then a butterfly came and sat on a cluster of heliotrope and waved
his crimson-banded wings in the hot sunshine. Hastings knew him for a
friend, and before his eyes there came a vision of tall mulleins and
scented milkweed alive with painted wings, a vision of a white house
and woodbine-covered piazza,—a glimpse of a man reading and a woman
leaning over the pansy bed,—and his heart was full. He was startled a
moment later by Miss Byng.
“I believe you are homesick!” Hastings blushed. Miss Byng looked at
him with a sympathetic sigh and continued: “Whenever I felt homesick
at first I used to go with mamma and walk in the Luxembourg Gardens. I
don’t know why it is, but those old-fashioned gardens seemed to bring
me nearer home than anything in this artificial city.”
“But they are full of marble statues,” said Mrs. Byng mildly; “I don’t
see the resemblance myself.”
“Where is the Luxembourg?” inquired Hastings after a silence.
“Come with me to the gate,” said Miss Byng. He rose and followed her,
and she pointed out the rue Vavin at the foot of the street.
“You pass by the convent to the right,” she smiled; and Hastings went.
III
The Luxembourg was a blaze of flowers. He walked slowly through the
long avenues of trees, past mossy marbles and old-time columns, and
threading the grove by the bronze lion, came upon the tree-crowned
terrace above the fountain. Below lay the basin shining in the
sunlight. Flowering almonds encircled the terrace, and, in a greater
spiral, groves of chestnuts wound in and out and down among the moist
thickets by the western palace wing. At one end of the avenue of trees
the Observatory rose, its white domes piled up like an eastern mosque;
at the other end stood the heavy palace, with every window-pane ablaze
in the fierce sun of June.
Around the fountain, children and white-capped nurses armed with bamboo
poles were pushing toy boats, whose sails hung limp in the sunshine. A
dark policeman, wearing red epaulettes and a dress sword, watched them
for a while and then went away to remonstrate with a young man who had
unchained his dog. The dog was pleasantly occupied in rubbing grass and
dirt into his back while his legs waved into the air.
The policeman pointed at the dog. He was speechless with indignation.
“Well, Captain,” smiled the young fellow.
“Well, Monsieur Student,” growled the policeman.
“What do you come and complain to me for?”
“If you don’t chain him I’ll take him,” shouted the policeman.
“What’s that to me, mon capitaine?”
“Wha—t! Isn’t that bull-dog yours?”
“If it was, don’t you suppose I’d chain him?”
The officer glared for a moment in silence, then deciding that as he
was a student he was wicked, grabbed at the dog, who promptly dodged.
Around and around the flower-beds they raced, and when the officer
came too near for comfort, the bull-dog cut across a flower-bed, which
perhaps was not playing fair.
The young man was amused, and the dog also seemed to enjoy the exercise.
The policeman noticed this and decided to strike at the fountain-head
of the evil. He stormed up to the student and said, “As the owner of
this public nuisance I arrest you!”
“But,” objected the other, “I disclaim the dog.”
That was a poser. It was useless to attempt to catch the dog until
three gardeners lent a hand, but then the dog simply ran away and
disappeared in the rue de Medici.
The policeman shambled off to find consolation among the white-capped
nurses, and the student, looking at his watch, stood up yawning. Then
catching sight of Hastings, he smiled and bowed. Hastings walked over
to the marble, laughing.
“Why, Clifford,” he said, “I didn’t recognize you.”
“It’s my moustache,” sighed the other. “I sacrificed it to humour a
whim of—of—a friend. What do you think of my dog?”
“Then he is yours?” cried Hastings.
“Of course. It’s a pleasant change for him, this playing tag with
policemen, but he is known now and I’ll have to stop it. He’s gone
home. He always does when the gardeners take a hand. It’s a pity; he’s
fond of rolling on lawns.” Then they chatted for a moment of Hastings’
prospects, and Clifford politely offered to stand his sponsor at the
studio.
“You see, old tabby, I mean Dr. Byram, told me about you before I
met you,” explained Clifford, “and Elliott and I will be glad to do
anything we can.” Then looking at his watch again, he muttered, “I have
just ten minutes to catch the Versailles train; au revoir,” and started
to go, but catching sight of a girl advancing by the fountain, took off
his hat with a confused smile.
“Why are you not at Versailles?” she said, with an almost imperceptible
acknowledgment of Hastings’ presence.
“I—I’m going,” murmured Clifford.
For a moment they faced each other, and then Clifford, very red,
stammered, “With your permission I have the honour of presenting to you
my friend, Monsieur Hastings.”
Hastings bowed low. She smiled very sweetly, but there was something of
malice in the quiet inclination of her small Parisienne head.
“I could have wished,” she said, “that Monsieur Clifford might spare me
more time when he brings with him so charming an American.”
“Must—must I go, Valentine?” began Clifford.
“Certainly,” she replied.
Clifford took his leave with very bad grace, wincing, when she added,
“And give my dearest love to Cécile!” As he disappeared in the rue
d’Assas, the girl turned as if to go, but then suddenly remembering
Hastings, looked at him and shook her head.
“Monsieur Clifford is so perfectly harebrained,” she smiled, “it is
embarrassing sometimes. You have heard, of course, all about his
success at the Salon?”
He looked puzzled and she noticed it.
“You have been to the Salon, of course?”
“Why, no,” he answered, “I only arrived in Paris three days ago.”
She seemed to pay little heed to his explanation, but continued:
“Nobody imagined he had the energy to do anything good, but on
varnishing day the Salon was astonished by the entrance of Monsieur
Clifford, who strolled about as bland as you please with an orchid in
his buttonhole, and a beautiful picture on the line.”
She smiled to herself at the reminiscence, and looked at the fountain.
“Monsieur Bouguereau told me that Monsieur Julian was so astonished
that he only shook hands with Monsieur Clifford in a dazed manner, and
actually forgot to pat him on the back! Fancy,” she continued with much
merriment, “fancy papa Julian forgetting to pat one on the back.”
Hastings, wondering at her acquaintance with the great Bouguereau,
looked at her with respect. “May I ask,” he said diffidently, “whether
you are a pupil of Bouguereau?”
“I?” she said in some surprise. Then she looked at him curiously. Was
he permitting himself the liberty of joking on such short acquaintance?
His pleasant serious face questioned hers.
“Tiens,” she thought, “what a droll man!”
“You surely study art?” he said.
She leaned back on the crooked stick of her parasol, and looked at him.
“Why do you think so?”
“Because you speak as if you did.”
“You are making fun of me,” she said, “and it is not good taste.”
She stopped, confused, as he coloured to the roots of his hair.
“How long have you been in Paris?” she said at length.
“Three days,” he replied gravely.
“But—but—surely you are not a nouveau! You speak French too well!”
Then after a pause, “Really are you a nouveau?”
“I am,” he said.
She sat down on the marble bench lately occupied by Clifford, and
tilting her parasol over her small head looked at him.
“I don’t believe it.”
He felt the compliment, and for a moment hesitated to declare himself
one of the despised. Then mustering up his courage, he told her how new
and green he was, and all with a frankness which made her blue eyes
open very wide and her lips part in the sweetest of smiles.
“You have never seen a studio?”
“Never.”
“Nor a model?”
“No.”
“How funny,” she said solemnly. Then they both laughed.
“And you,” he said, “have seen studios?”
“Hundreds.”
“And models?”
“Millions.”
“And you know Bouguereau?”
“Yes, and Henner, and Constant and Laurens, and Puvis de Chavannes and
Dagnan and Courtois, and—and all the rest of them!”
“And yet you say you are not an artist.”
“Pardon,” she said gravely, “did I say I was not?”
“Won’t you tell me?” he hesitated.
At first she looked at him, shaking her head and smiling, then of a
sudden her eyes fell and she began tracing figures with her parasol in
the gravel at her feet. Hastings had taken a place on the seat, and
now, with his elbows on his knees, sat watching the spray drifting
above the fountain jet. A small boy, dressed as a sailor, stood poking
his yacht and crying, “I won’t go home! I won’t go home!” His nurse
raised her hands to Heaven.
“Just like a little American boy,” thought Hastings, and a pang of
homesickness shot through him.
Presently the nurse captured the boat, and the small boy stood at bay.
“Monsieur René, when you decide to come here you may have your boat.”
The boy backed away scowling.
“Give me my boat, I say,” he cried, “and don’t call me René, for my
name’s Randall and you know it!”
“Hello!” said Hastings,—“Randall?—that’s English.”
“I am American,” announced the boy in perfectly good English, turning
to look at Hastings, “and she’s such a fool she calls me René because
mamma calls me Ranny—”
Here he dodged the exasperated nurse and took up his station behind
Hastings, who laughed, and catching him around the waist lifted him
into his lap.
“One of my countrymen,” he said to the girl beside him. He smiled while
he spoke, but there was a queer feeling in his throat.
“Don’t you see the stars and stripes on my yacht?” demanded Randall.
Sure enough, the American colours hung limply under the nurse’s arm.
“Oh,” cried the girl, “he is charming,” and impulsively stooped to kiss
him, but the infant Randall wriggled out of Hastings’ arms, and his
nurse pounced upon him with an angry glance at the girl.
She reddened and then bit her lips as the nurse, with eyes still fixed
on her, dragged the child away and ostentatiously wiped his lips with
her handkerchief.
Then she stole a look at Hastings and bit her lip again.
“What an ill-tempered woman!” he said. “In America, most nurses are
flattered when people kiss their children.”
For an instant she tipped the parasol to hide her face, then closed it
with a snap and looked at him defiantly.
“Do you think it strange that she objected?”
“Why not?” he said in surprise.
Again she looked at him with quick searching eyes.
His eyes were clear and bright, and he smiled back, repeating, “Why
not?”
“You _are_ droll,” she murmured, bending her head.
“Why?”
But she made no answer, and sat silent, tracing curves and circles in
the dust with her parasol. After a while he said—“I am glad to see
that young people have so much liberty here. I understood that the
French were not at all like us. You know in America—or at least where
I live in Milbrook, girls have every liberty,—go out alone and receive
their friends alone, and I was afraid I should miss it here. But I see
how it is now, and I am glad I was mistaken.”
She raised her eyes to his and kept them there.
He continued pleasantly—“Since I have sat here I have seen a lot of
pretty girls walking alone on the terrace there,—and then _you_ are
alone too. Tell me, for I do not know French customs,—do you have the
liberty of going to the theatre without a chaperone?”
For a long time she studied his face, and then with a trembling smile
said, “Why do you ask me?”
“Because you must know, of course,” he said gaily.
“Yes,” she replied indifferently, “I know.”
He waited for an answer, but getting none, decided that perhaps she had
misunderstood him.
“I hope you don’t think I mean to presume on our short acquaintance,”
he began,—“in fact it is very odd but I don’t know your name. When Mr.
Clifford presented me he only mentioned mine. Is that the custom in
France?”
“It is the custom in the Latin Quarter,” she said with a queer light in
her eyes. Then suddenly she began talking almost feverishly.
“You must know, Monsieur Hastings, that we are all _un peu sans gêne_
here in the Latin Quarter. We are very Bohemian, and etiquette and
ceremony are out of place. It was for that Monsieur Clifford presented
you to me with small ceremony, and left us together with less,—only
for that, and I am his friend, and I have many friends in the Latin
Quarter, and we all know each other very well—and I am not studying
art, but—but—”
“But what?” he said, bewildered.
“I shall not tell you,—it is a secret,” she said with an uncertain
smile. On both cheeks a pink spot was burning, and her eyes were very
bright.
Then in a moment her face fell. “Do you know Monsieur Clifford very
intimately?”
“Not very.”
After a while she turned to him, grave and a little pale.
“My name is Valentine—Valentine Tissot. Might—might I ask a service
of you on such very short acquaintance?”
“Oh,” he cried, “I should be honoured.”
“It is only this,” she said gently, “it is not much. Promise me not to
speak to Monsieur Clifford about me. Promise me that you will speak to
no one about me.”
“I promise,” he said, greatly puzzled.
She laughed nervously. “I wish to remain a mystery. It is a caprice.”
“But,” he began, “I had wished, I had hoped that you might give
Monsieur Clifford permission to bring me, to present me at your house.”
“My—my house!” she repeated.
“I mean, where you live, in fact, to present me to your family.”
The change in the girl’s face shocked him.
“I beg your pardon,” he cried, “I have hurt you.”
And as quick as a flash she understood him because she was a woman.
“My parents are dead,” she said.
Presently he began again, very gently.
“Would it displease you if I beg you to receive me? It is the custom?”
“I cannot,” she answered. Then glancing up at him, “I am sorry; I
should like to; but believe me. I cannot.”
He bowed seriously and looked vaguely uneasy.
“It isn’t because I don’t wish to. I—I like you; you are very kind to
me.”
“Kind?” he cried, surprised and puzzled.
“I like you,” she said slowly, “and we will see each other sometimes if
you will.”
“At friends’ houses.”
“No, not at friends’ houses.”
“Where?”
“Here,” she said with defiant eyes.
“Why,” he cried, “in Paris you are much more liberal in your views than
we are.”
She looked at him curiously.
“Yes, we are very Bohemian.”
“I think it is charming,” he declared.
“You see, we shall be in the best of society,” she ventured timidly,
with a pretty gesture toward the statues of the dead queens, ranged in
stately ranks above the terrace.
He looked at her, delighted, and she brightened at the success of her
innocent little pleasantry.
“Indeed,” she smiled, “I shall be well chaperoned, because you see
we are under the protection of the gods themselves; look, there are
Apollo, and Juno, and Venus, on their pedestals,” counting them on her
small gloved fingers, “and Ceres, Hercules, and—but I can’t make out—”
Hastings turned to look up at the winged god under whose shadow they
were seated.
“Why, it’s Love,” he said.
IV
“There is a nouveau here,” drawled Laffat, leaning around his easel and
addressing his friend Bowles, “there is a nouveau here who is so tender
and green and appetizing that Heaven help him if he should fall into a
salad bowl.”
“Hayseed?” inquired Bowles, plastering in a background with a broken
palette-knife and squinting at the effect with approval.
“Yes, Squeedunk or Oshkosh, and how he ever grew up among the daisies
and escaped the cows, Heaven alone knows!”
Bowles rubbed his thumb across the outlines of his study to “throw in a
little atmosphere,” as he said, glared at the model, pulled at his pipe
and finding it out struck a match on his neighbour’s back to relight it.
“His name,” continued Laffat, hurling a bit of bread at the hat-rack,
“his name is Hastings. He _is_ a berry. He knows no more about the
world,”—and here Mr. Laffat’s face spoke volumes for his own knowledge
of that planet,—“than a maiden cat on its first moonlight stroll.”
Bowles now having succeeded in lighting his pipe, repeated the thumb
touch on the other edge of the study and said, “Ah!”
“Yes,” continued his friend, “and would you imagine it, he seems to
think that everything here goes on as it does in his d——d little
backwoods ranch at home; talks about the pretty girls who walk alone
in the street; says how sensible it is; and how French parents are
misrepresented in America; says that for his part he finds French
girls,—and he confessed to only knowing one,—as jolly as American
girls. I tried to set him right, tried to give him a pointer as to what
sort of ladies walk about alone or with students, and he was either too
stupid or too innocent to catch on. Then I gave it to him straight, and
he said I was a vile-minded fool and marched off.”
“Did you assist him with your shoe?” inquired Bowles, languidly
interested.
“Well, no.”
“He called you a vile-minded fool.”
“He was correct,” said Clifford from his easel in front.
“What—what do you mean?” demanded Laffat, turning red.
“_That_,” replied Clifford.
“Who spoke to you? Is this your business?” sneered Bowles, but nearly
lost his balance as Clifford swung about and eyed him.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “it’s my business.”
No one spoke for some time.
Then Clifford sang out, “I say, Hastings!”
And when Hastings left his easel and came around, he nodded toward the
astonished Laffat.
“This man has been disagreeable to you, and I want to tell you that
any time you feel inclined to kick him, why, I will hold the other
creature.”
Hastings, embarrassed, said, “Why no, I don’t agree with his ideas,
nothing more.”
Clifford said “Naturally,” and slipping his arm through Hastings’,
strolled about with him, and introduced him to several of his own
friends, at which all the nouveaux opened their eyes with envy, and the
studio were given to understand that Hastings, although prepared to
do menial work as the latest nouveau, was already within the charmed
circle of the old, respected and feared, the truly great.
The rest finished, the model resumed his place, and work went on in a
chorus of songs and yells and every ear-splitting noise which the art
student utters when studying the beautiful.
Five o’clock struck,—the model yawned, stretched and climbed into
his trousers, and the noisy contents of six studios crowded through
the hall and down into the street. Ten minutes later, Hastings found
himself on top of a Montrouge tram, and shortly afterward was joined by
Clifford.
They climbed down at the rue Gay Lussac.
“I always stop here,” observed Clifford, “I like the walk through the
Luxembourg.”
“By the way,” said Hastings, “how can I call on you when I don’t know
where you live?”
“Why, I live opposite you.”
“What—the studio in the garden where the almond trees are and the
blackbirds—”
“Exactly,” said Clifford. “I’m with my friend Elliott.”
Hastings thought of the description of the two American artists which
he had heard from Miss Susie Byng, and looked blank.
Clifford continued, “Perhaps you had better let me know when you think
of coming so,—so that I will be sure to—to be there,” he ended rather
lamely.
“I shouldn’t care to meet any of your model friends there,” said
Hastings, smiling. “You know—my ideas are rather straitlaced,—I
suppose you would say, Puritanical. I shouldn’t enjoy it and wouldn’t
know how to behave.”
“Oh, I understand,” said Clifford, but added with great
cordiality,—“I’m sure we’ll be friends although you may not approve
of me and my set, but you will like Severn and Selby because—because,
well, they are like yourself, old chap.”
After a moment he continued, “There is something I want to speak about.
You see, when I introduced you, last week, in the Luxembourg, to
Valentine—”
“Not a word!” cried Hastings, smiling; “you must not tell me a word of
her!”
“Why—”
“No—not a word!” he said gaily. “I insist,—promise me upon your
honour you will not speak of her until I give you permission; promise!”
“I promise,” said Clifford, amazed.
“She is a charming girl,—we had such a delightful chat after you left,
and I thank you for presenting me, but not another word about her until
I give you permission.”
“Oh,” murmured Clifford.
“Remember your promise,” he smiled, as he turned into his gateway.
Clifford strolled across the street and, traversing the ivy-covered
alley, entered his garden.
He felt for his studio key, muttering, “I wonder—I wonder,—but of
course he doesn’t!”
He entered the hallway, and fitting the key into the door, stood
staring at the two cards tacked over the panels.
+---------------------------+
| FOXHALL CLIFFORD |
+---------------------------+
+---------------------------+
| RICHARD OSBORNE ELLIOTT |
+---------------------------+
“Why the devil doesn’t he want me to speak of her?”
He opened the door, and, discouraging the caresses of two brindle
bull-dogs, sank down on the sofa.
Elliott sat smoking and sketching with a piece of charcoal by the
window.
“Hello,” he said without looking around.
Clifford gazed absently at the back of his head, murmuring, “I’m
afraid, I’m afraid that man is too innocent. I say, Elliott,” he said,
at last, “Hastings,—you know the chap that old Tabby Byram came around
here to tell us about—the day you had to hide Colette in the armoire—”
“Yes, what’s up?”
“Oh, nothing. He’s a brick.”
“Yes,” said Elliott, without enthusiasm.
“Don’t you think so?” demanded Clifford.
“Why yes, but he is going to have a tough time when some of his
illusions are dispelled.”
“More shame to those who dispel ’em!”
“Yes,—wait until he comes to pay his call on us, unexpectedly, of
course—”
Clifford looked virtuous and lighted a cigar.
“I was just going to say,” he observed, “that I have asked him not to
come without letting us know, so I can postpone any orgie you may have
intended—”
“Ah!” cried Elliott indignantly, “I suppose you put it to him in that
way.”
“Not exactly,” grinned Clifford. Then more seriously, “I don’t want
anything to occur here to bother him. He’s a brick, and it’s a pity we
can’t be more like him.”
“I am,” observed Elliott complacently, “only living with you—”
“Listen!” cried the other. “I have managed to put my foot in it in
great style. Do you know what I’ve done? Well—the first time I met him
in the street,—or rather, it was in the Luxembourg, I introduced him
to Valentine!”
“Did he object?”
“Believe me,” said Clifford, solemnly, “this rustic Hastings has no
more idea that Valentine is—is—in fact is Valentine, than he has
that he himself is a beautiful example of moral decency in a Quarter
where morals are as rare as elephants. I heard enough in a conversation
between that blackguard Loffat and the little immoral eruption, Bowles,
to open my eyes. I tell you Hastings is a trump! He’s a healthy,
clean-minded young fellow, bred in a small country village, brought up
with the idea that saloons are way-stations to hell—and as for women—”
“Well?” demanded Elliott.
“Well,” said Clifford, “his idea of the dangerous woman is probably a
painted Jezabel.”
“Probably,” replied the other.
“He’s a trump!” said Clifford, “and if he swears the world is as good
and pure as his own heart, I’ll swear he’s right.”
Elliott rubbed his charcoal on his file to get a point and turned to
his sketch saying, “He will never hear any pessimism from Richard
Osborne E.”
“He’s a lesson to me,” said Clifford. Then he unfolded a small perfumed
note, written on rose-coloured paper, which had been lying on the table
before him.
He read it, smiled, whistled a bar or two from “Miss Helyett,” and
sat down to answer it on his best cream-laid note-paper. When it was
written and sealed, he picked up his stick and marched up and down the
studio two or three times, whistling.
“Going out?” inquired the other, without turning.
“Yes,” he said, but lingered a moment over Elliott’s shoulder, watching
him pick out the lights in his sketch with a bit of bread.
“To-morrow is Sunday,” he observed after a moment’s silence.
“Well?” inquired Elliott.
“Have you seen Colette?”
“No, I will to-night. She and Rowden and Jacqueline are coming to
Boulant’s. I suppose you and Cécile will be there?”
“Well, no,” replied Clifford. “Cécile dines at home to-night, and I—I
had an idea of going to Mignon’s.”
Elliott looked at him with disapproval.
“You can make all the arrangements for La Roche without me,” he
continued, avoiding Elliott’s eyes.
“What are you up to now?”
“Nothing,” protested Clifford.
“Don’t tell me,” replied his chum, with scorn; “fellows don’t rush off
to Mignon’s when the set dine at Boulant’s. Who is it now?—but no,
I won’t ask that,—what’s the use!” Then he lifted up his voice in
complaint and beat upon the table with his pipe. “What’s the use of
ever trying to keep track of you? What will Cécile say,—oh, yes, what
will she say? It’s a pity you can’t be constant two months, yes, by
Jove! and the Quarter is indulgent, but you abuse its good nature and
mine too!”
Presently he arose, and jamming his hat on his head, marched to the
door.
“Heaven alone knows why any one puts up with your antics, but they all
do and so do I. If I were Cécile or any of the other pretty fools after
whom you have toddled and will, in all human probabilities, continue
to toddle, I say, if I were Cécile I’d spank you! Now I’m going to
Boulant’s, and as usual I shall make excuses for you and arrange the
affair, and I don’t care a continental where you are going, but, by the
skull of the studio skeleton! if you don’t turn up to-morrow with your
sketching-kit under one arm and Cécile under the other,—if you don’t
turn up in good shape, I’m done with you, and the rest can think what
they please. Good-night.”
Clifford said good-night with as pleasant a smile as he could muster,
and then sat down with his eyes on the door. He took out his watch and
gave Elliott ten minutes to vanish, then rang the concierge’s call,
murmuring, “Oh dear, oh dear, why the devil do I do it?”
“Alfred,” he said, as that gimlet-eyed person answered the call, “make
yourself clean and proper, Alfred, and replace your sabots with a
pair of shoes. Then put on your best hat and take this letter to the
big white house in the Rue de Dragon. There is no answer, _mon petit_
Alfred.”
The concierge departed with a snort in which unwillingness for the
errand and affection for M. Clifford were blended. Then with great
care the young fellow arrayed himself in all the beauties of his
and Elliott’s wardrobe. He took his time about it, and occasionally
interrupted his toilet to play his banjo or make pleasing diversion
for the bull-dogs by gambling about on all fours. “I’ve got two hours
before me,” he thought, and borrowed a pair of Elliott’s silken
foot-gear, with which he and the dogs played ball until he decided to
put them on. Then he lighted a cigarette and inspected his dress-coat.
When he had emptied it of four handkerchiefs, a fan, and a pair of
crumpled gloves as long as his arm, he decided it was not suited to
add _éclat_ to his charms and cast about in his mind for a substitute.
Elliott was too thin, and, anyway, his coats were now under lock and
key. Rowden probably was as badly off as himself. Hastings! Hastings
was the man! But when he threw on a smoking-jacket and sauntered over
to Hastings’ house, he was informed that he had been gone over an hour.
“Now, where in the name of all that’s reasonable could he have gone!”
muttered Clifford, looking down the street.
The maid didn’t know, so he bestowed upon her a fascinating smile and
lounged back to the studio.
Hastings was not far away. The Luxembourg is within five minutes’ walk
of the rue Notre Dame des Champs, and there he sat under the shadow
of a winged god, and there he had sat for an hour, poking holes in
the dust and watching the steps which lead from the northern terrace
to the fountain. The sun hung, a purple globe, above the misty hills
of Meudon. Long streamers of clouds touched with rose swept low on
the western sky, and the dome of the distant Invalides burned like an
opal through the haze. Behind the Palace the smoke from a high chimney
mounted straight into the air, purple until it crossed the sun, where
it changed to a bar of smouldering fire. High above the darkening
foliage of the chestnuts the twin towers of St. Sulpice rose, an
ever-deepening silhouette.
A sleepy blackbird was carolling in some near thicket, and pigeons
passed and repassed with the whisper of soft winds in their wings. The
light on the Palace windows had died away, and the dome of the Pantheon
swam aglow above the northern terrace, a fiery Valhalla in the sky;
while below in grim array, along the terrace ranged, the marble ranks
of queens looked out into the west.
From the end of the long walk by the northern façade of the Palace
came the noise of omnibuses and the cries of the street. Hastings
looked at the Palace clock. Six, and as his own watch agreed with it,
he fell to poking holes in the gravel again. A constant stream of
people passed between the Odéon and the fountain. Priests in black,
with silver-buckled shoes; line soldiers, slouchy and rakish; neat
girls without hats bearing milliners’ boxes, students with black
portfolios and high hats, students with bérets and big canes, nervous,
quick-stepping officers, symphonies in turquoise and silver; ponderous
jangling cavalrymen all over dust, pastry cooks’ boys skipping along
with utter disregard for the safety of the basket balanced on the
impish head, and then the lean outcast, the shambling Paris tramp,
slouching with shoulders bent and little eye furtively scanning the
ground for smokers’ refuse;—all these moved in a steady stream across
the fountain circle and out into the city by the Odeon, whose long
arcades were now beginning to flicker with gas-jets. The melancholy
bells of St Sulpice struck the hour and the clock-tower of the Palace
lighted up. Then hurried steps sounded across the gravel and Hastings
raised his head.
“How late you are,” he said, but his voice was hoarse and only his
flushed face told how long had seemed the waiting.
She said, “I was kept—indeed, I was so much annoyed—and—and I may
only stay a moment.”
She sat down beside him, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder at
the god upon his pedestal.
“What a nuisance, that intruding cupid still there?”
“Wings and arrows too,” said Hastings, unheeding her motion to be
seated.
“Wings,” she murmured, “oh, yes—to fly away with when he’s tired of
his play. Of course it was a man who conceived the idea of wings,
otherwise Cupid would have been insupportable.”
“Do you think so?”
“_Ma foi_, it’s what men think.”
“And women?”
“Oh,” she said, with a toss of her small head, “I really forget what we
were speaking of.”
“We were speaking of love,” said Hastings.
“_I_ was not,” said the girl. Then looking up at the marble god, “I
don’t care for this one at all. I don’t believe he knows how to shoot
his arrows—no, indeed, he is a coward;—he creeps up like an assassin
in the twilight. I don’t approve of cowardice,” she announced, and
turned her back on the statue.
“I think,” said Hastings quietly, “that he does shoot fairly—yes, and
even gives one warning.”
“Is it your experience, Monsieur Hastings?”
He looked straight into her eyes and said, “He is warning me.”
“Heed the warning then,” she cried, with a nervous laugh. As she spoke
she stripped off her gloves, and then carefully proceeded to draw them
on again. When this was accomplished she glanced at the Palace clock,
saying, “Oh dear, how late it is!” furled her umbrella, then unfurled
it, and finally looked at him.
“No,” he said, “I shall not heed his warning.”
“Oh dear,” she sighed again, “still talking about that tiresome
statue!” Then stealing a glance at his face, “I suppose—I suppose you
are in love.”
“I don’t know,” he muttered, “I suppose I am.”
She raised her head with a quick gesture. “You seem delighted at the
idea,” she said, but bit her lip and trembled as his eyes met hers.
Then sudden fear came over her and she sprang up, staring into the
gathering shadows.
“Are you cold?” he said.
But she only answered, “Oh dear, oh dear, it is late—so late! I must
go—good-night.”
She gave him her gloved hand a moment and then withdrew it with a start.
“What is it?” he insisted. “Are you frightened?”
She looked at him strangely.
“No—no—not frightened,—you are very good to me—”
“By Jove!” he burst out, “what do you mean by saying I’m good to you?
That’s at least the third time, and I don’t understand!”
The sound of a drum from the guard-house at the palace cut him short.
“Listen,” she whispered, “they are going to close. It’s late, oh, so
late!”
The rolling of the drum came nearer and nearer, and then the silhouette
of the drummer cut the sky above the eastern terrace. The fading light
lingered a moment on his belt and bayonet, then he passed into the
shadows, drumming the echoes awake. The roll became fainter along
the eastern terrace, then grew and grew and rattled with increasing
sharpness when he passed the avenue by the bronze lion and turned down
the western terrace walk. Louder and louder the drum sounded, and the
echoes struck back the notes from the grey palace wall; and now the
drummer loomed up before them—his red trousers a dull spot in the
gathering gloom, the brass of his drum and bayonet touched with a pale
spark, his epaulettes tossing on his shoulders. He passed leaving the
crash of the drum in their ears, and far into the alley of trees they
saw his little tin cup shining on his haversack. Then the sentinels
began the monotonous cry: “On ferme! on ferme!” and the bugle blew from
the barracks in the rue de Tournon.
“On ferme! on ferme!”
“Good-night,” she whispered, “I must return alone to-night.”
He watched her until she reached the northern terrace, and then sat
down on the marble seat until a hand on his shoulder and a glimmer of
bayonets warned him away.
She passed on through the grove, and turning into the rue de Medici,
traversed it to the Boulevard. At the corner she bought a bunch of
violets and walked on along the Boulevard to the rue des Écoles. A
cab was drawn up before Boulant’s, and a pretty girl aided by Elliott
jumped out.
“Valentine!” cried the girl, “come with us!”
“I can’t,” she said, stopping a moment—“I have a rendezvous at
Mignon’s.”
“Not Victor?” cried the girl, laughing, but she passed with a little
shiver, nodding good-night, then turning into the Boulevard St.
Germain, she walked a tittle faster to escape a gay party sitting
before the Café Cluny who called to her to join them. At the door of
the Restaurant Mignon stood a coal-black negro in buttons. He took off
his peaked cap as she mounted the carpeted stairs.
“Send Eugene to me,” she said at the office, and passing through
the hallway to the right of the dining-room stopped before a row of
panelled doors. A waiter passed and she repeated her demand for Eugene,
who presently appeared, noiselessly skipping, and bowed murmuring,
“Madame.”
“Who is here?”
“No one in the cabinets, madame; in the half Madame Madelon and
Monsieur Gay, Monsieur de Clamart, Monsieur Clisson, Madame Marie and
their set.” Then he looked around and bowing again murmured, “Monsieur
awaits madame since half an hour,” and he knocked at one of the
panelled doors bearing the number six.
Clifford opened the door and the girl entered.
The garçon bowed her in, and whispering, “Will Monsieur have the
goodness to ring?” vanished.
He helped her off with her jacket and took her hat and umbrella. When
she was seated at the little table with Clifford opposite she smiled
and leaned forward on both elbows looking him in the face.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Waiting,” he replied, in accents of adoration.
For an instant she turned and examined herself in the glass. The wide
blue eyes, the curling hair, the straight nose and short curled lip
flashed in the mirror an instant only, and then its depths reflected
her pretty neck and back. “Thus do I turn my back on vanity,” she said,
and then leaning forward again, “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you,” repeated Clifford, slightly troubled.
“And Cécile.”
“Now don’t, Valentine—”
“Do you know,” she said calmly, “I dislike your conduct?”
He was a little disconcerted, and rang for Eugene to cover his
confusion.
The soup was bisque, and the wine Pommery, and the courses followed
each other with the usual regularity until Eugene brought coffee, and
there was nothing left on the table but a small silver lamp.
“Valentine,” said Clifford, after having obtained permission to smoke,
“is it the Vaudeville or the Eldorado—or both, or the Nouveau Cirque,
or—”
“It is here,” said Valentine.
“Well,” he said, greatly flattered, “I’m afraid I couldn’t amuse you—”
“Oh, yes, you are funnier than the Eldorado.”
“Now see here, don’t guy me, Valentine. You always do, and, and,—you
know what they say,—a good laugh kills—”
“What?”
“Er—er—love and all that.”
She laughed until her eyes were moist with tears. “Tiens,” she cried,
“he is dead, then!”
Clifford eyed her with growing alarm.
“Do you know why I came?” she said.
“No,” he replied uneasily, “I don’t.”
“How long have you made love to me?”
“Well,” he admitted, somewhat startled,—“I should say,—for about a
year.”
“It is a year, I think. Are you not tired?”
He did not answer.
“Don’t you know that I like you too well to—to ever fall in love with
you?” she said. “Don’t you know that we are too good comrades,—too old
friends for that? And were we not,—do you think that I do not know
your history, Monsieur Clifford?”
“Don’t be—don’t be so sarcastic,” he urged; “don’t be unkind,
Valentine.”
“I’m not. I’m kind. I’m very kind,—to you and to Cécile.”
“Cécile is tired of me.”
“I hope she is,” said the girl, “for she deserves a better fate. Tiens,
do you know your reputation in the Quarter? Of the inconstant, the most
inconstant,—utterly incorrigible and no more serious than a gnat on a
summer night. Poor Cécile!”
Clifford looked so uncomfortable that she spoke more kindly.
“I like you. You know that. Everybody does. You are a spoiled child
here. Everything is permitted you and every one makes allowance, but
every one cannot be a victim to caprice.”
“Caprice!” he cried. “By Jove, if the girls of the Latin Quarter are
not capricious—”
“Never mind,—never mind about that! You must not sit in judgment—you
of all men. Why are you here to-night? Oh,” she cried, “I will tell
you why! Monsieur receives a little note; he sends a little answer; he
dresses in his conquering raiment—”
“I don’t,” said Clifford, very red.
“You do, and it becomes you,” she retorted with a faint smile. Then
again, very quietly, “I am in your power, but I know I am in the power
of a friend. I have come to acknowledge it to you here,—and it is
because of that that I am here to beg of you—a—a favour.”
Clifford opened his eyes, but said nothing.
“I am in—great distress of mind. It is Monsieur Hastings.”
“Well?” said Clifford, in some astonishment.
“I want to ask you,” she continued in a low voice, “I want to ask you
to—to—in case you should speak of me before him,—not to say,—not to
say,—”
“I shall not speak of you to him,” he said quietly.
“Can—can you prevent others?”
“I might if I was present. May I ask why?”
“That is not fair,” she murmured; “you know how—how he considers
me,—as he considers every woman. You know how different he is from
you and the rest. I have never seen a man,—such a man as Monsieur
Hastings.”
He let his cigarette go out unnoticed.
“I am almost afraid of him—afraid he should know—what we all are in
the Quarter. Oh, I do not wish him to know! I do not wish him to—to
turn from me—to cease from speaking to me as he does! You—you and the
rest cannot know what it has been to me. I could not believe him,—I
could not believe he was so good and—and noble. I do not wish him
to know—so soon. He will find out—sooner or later, he will find
out for himself, and then he will turn away from me. Why!” she cried
passionately, “why should he turn from me and not from _you_?”
Clifford, much embarrassed, eyed his cigarette.
The girl rose, very white. “He is your friend—you have a right to warn
him.”
“He is my friend,” he said at length.
They looked at each other in silence.
Then she cried, “By all that I hold to me most sacred, you need not
warn him!”
“I shall trust your word,” he said pleasantly.
V
The month passed quickly for Hastings, and left few definite
impressions after it. It did leave some, however. One was a painful
impression of meeting Mr. Bladen on the Boulevard des Capucines in
company with a very pronounced young person whose laugh dismayed him,
and when at last he escaped from the café where Mr. Bladen had hauled
him to join them in a _bock_ he felt as if the whole boulevard was
looking at him, and judging him by his company. Later, an instinctive
conviction regarding the young person with Mr. Bladen sent the hot
blood into his cheek, and he returned to the pension in such a
miserable state of mind that Miss Byng was alarmed and advised him to
conquer his homesickness at once.
Another impression was equally vivid. One Saturday morning, feeling
lonely, his wanderings about the city brought him to the Gare St.
Lazare. It was early for breakfast, but he entered the Hôtel Terminus
and took a table near the window. As he wheeled about to give his
order, a man passing rapidly along the aisle collided with his head,
and looking up to receive the expected apology, he was met instead by
a slap on the shoulder and a hearty, “What the deuce are you doing
here, old chap?” It was Rowden, who seized him and told him to come
along. So, mildly protesting, he was ushered into a private dining-room
where Clifford, rather red, jumped up from the table and welcomed
him with a startled air which was softened by the unaffected glee
of Rowden and the extreme courtesy of Elliott. The latter presented
him to three bewitching girls who welcomed him so charmingly and
seconded Rowden in his demand that Hastings should make one of the
party, that he consented at once. While Elliott briefly outlined the
projected excursion to La Roche, Hastings delightedly ate his omelet,
and returned the smiles of encouragement from Cécile and Colette and
Jacqueline. Meantime Clifford in a bland whisper was telling Rowden
what an ass he was. Poor Rowden looked miserable until Elliott,
divining how affairs were turning, frowned on Clifford and found a
moment to let Rowden know that they were all going to make the best of
it.
“You shut up,” he observed to Clifford, “it’s fate, and that settles
it.”
“It’s Rowden, and that settles it,” murmured Clifford, concealing a
grin. For after all he was not Hastings’ wet nurse. So it came about
that the train which left the Gare St. Lazare at 9.15 a.m. stopped a
moment in its career towards Havre and deposited at the red-roofed
station of La Roche a merry party, armed with sunshades, trout-rods,
and one cane, carried by the non-combatant, Hastings. Then, when they
had established their camp in a grove of sycamores which bordered
the little river Ept, Clifford, the acknowledged master of all that
pertained to sportsmanship, took command.
“You, Rowden,” he said, “divide your flies with Elliott and keep an eye
on him or else he’ll be trying to put on a float and sinker. Prevent
him by force from grubbing about for worms.”
Elliott protested, but was forced to smile in the general laugh.
“You make me ill,” he asserted; “do you think this is my first trout?”
“I shall be delighted to see your first trout,” said Clifford, and
dodging a fly hook, hurled with intent to hit, proceeded to sort and
equip three slender rods destined to bring joy and fish to Cécile,
Colette, and Jacqueline. With perfect gravity he ornamented each line
with four split shot, a small hook, and a brilliant quill float.
“_I_ shall never touch the worms,” announced Cécile with a shudder.
Jacqueline and Colette hastened to sustain her, and Hastings pleasantly
offered to act in the capacity of general baiter and taker-off of fish.
But Cécile, doubtless fascinated by the gaudy flies in Clifford’s book,
decided to accept lessons from him in the true art, and presently
disappeared up the Ept with Clifford in tow.
Elliott looked doubtfully at Colette.
“I prefer gudgeons,” said that damsel with decision, “and you and
Monsieur Rowden may go away when you please; may they not, Jacqueline?”
“Certainly,” responded Jacqueline.
Elliott, undecided, examined his rod and reel.
“You’ve got your reel on wrong side up,” observed Rowden.
Elliott wavered, and stole a glance at Colette.
“I—I—have almost decided to—er—not to flip the flies about just
now,” he began. “There’s the pole that Cécile left—”
“Don’t call it a pole,” corrected Rowden.
“_Rod_, then,” continued Elliott, and started off in the wake of the
two girls, but was promptly collared by Rowden.
“No, you don’t! Fancy a man fishing with a float and sinker when he has
a fly rod in his hand! You come along!”
Where the placid little Ept flows down between its thickets to the
Seine, a grassy bank shadows the haunt of the gudgeon, and on this bank
sat Colette and Jacqueline and chattered and laughed and watched the
swerving of the scarlet quills, while Hastings, his hat over his eyes,
his head on a bank of moss, listened to their soft voices and gallantly
unhooked the small and indignant gudgeon when a flash of a rod and
a half-suppressed scream announced a catch. The sunlight filtered
through the leafy thickets awaking to song the forest birds. Magpies
in spotless black and white flirted past, alighting near by with a hop
and bound and twitch of the tail. Blue and white jays with rosy breasts
shrieked through the trees, and a low-sailing hawk wheeled among the
fields of ripening wheat, putting to flight flocks of twittering hedge
birds.
Across the Seine a gull dropped on the water like a plume. The air was
pure and still. Scarcely a leaf moved. Sounds from a distant farm came
faintly, the shrill cock-crow and dull baying. Now and then a steam-tug
with big raking smoke-pipe, bearing the name “Guêpe 27,” ploughed up
the river dragging its interminable train of barges, or a sailboat
dropped down with the current toward sleepy Rouen.
A faint fresh odour of earth and water hung in the air, and through the
sunlight, orange-tipped butterflies danced above the marsh grass, soft
velvety butterflies flapped through the mossy woods.
Hastings was thinking of Valentine. It was two o’clock when Elliott
strolled back, and frankly admitting that he had eluded Rowden, sat
down beside Colette and prepared to doze with satisfaction.
“Where are your trout?” said Colette severely.
“They still live,” murmured Elliott, and went fast asleep.
Rowden returned shortly after, and casting a scornful glance at the
slumbering one, displayed three crimson-flecked trout.
“And that,” smiled Hastings lazily, “that is the holy end to which the
faithful plod,—the slaughter of these small fish with a bit of silk
and feather.”
Rowden disdained to answer him. Colette caught another gudgeon and
awoke Elliott, who protested and gazed about for the lunch baskets, as
Clifford and Cécile came up demanding instant refreshment. Cécile’s
skirts were soaked, and her gloves torn, but she was happy, and
Clifford, dragging out a two-pound trout, stood still to receive the
applause of the company.
“Where the deuce did you get that?” demanded Elliott.
Cécile, wet and enthusiastic, recounted the battle, and then Clifford
eulogized her powers with the fly, and, in proof, produced from his
creel a defunct chub, which, he observed, just missed being a trout.
They were all very happy at luncheon, and Hastings was voted
“charming.” He enjoyed it immensely,—only it seemed to him at moments
that flirtation went further in France than in Millbrook, Connecticut,
and he thought that Cécile might be a little less enthusiastic about
Clifford, that perhaps it would be quite as well if Jacqueline sat
further away from Rowden, and that possibly Colette could have, for a
moment at least, taken her eyes from Elliott’s face. Still he enjoyed
it—except when his thoughts drifted to Valentine, and then he felt
that he was very far away from her. La Roche is at least an hour and
a half from Paris. It is also true that he felt a happiness, a quick
heart-beat when, at eight o’clock that night the train which bore them
from La Roche rolled into the Gare St. Lazare and he was once more in
the city of Valentine.
“Good-night,” they said, pressing around him. “You must come with us
next time!”
He promised, and watched them, two by two, drift into the darkening
city, and stood so long that, when again he raised his eyes, the vast
Boulevard was twinkling with gas-jets through which the electric lights
stared like moons.
VI
It was with another quick heart-beat that he awoke next morning, for
his first thought was of Valentine.
The sun already gilded the towers of Notre Dame, the clatter of
workmen’s sabots awoke sharp echoes in the street below, and across
the way a blackbird in a pink almond tree was going into an ecstasy of
trills.
He determined to awake Clifford for a brisk walk in the country, hoping
later to beguile that gentleman into the American church for his soul’s
sake. He found Alfred the gimlet-eyed washing the asphalt walk which
led to the studio.
“Monsieur Elliott?” he replied to the perfunctory inquiry, “_je ne sais
pas_.”
“And Monsieur Clifford,” began Hastings, somewhat astonished.
“Monsieur Clifford,” said the concierge with fine irony, “will be
pleased to see you, as he retired early; in fact he has just come in.”
Hastings hesitated while the concierge pronounced a fine eulogy on
people who never stayed out all night and then came battering at the
lodge gate during hours which even a gendarme held sacred to sleep. He
also discoursed eloquently upon the beauties of temperance, and took an
ostentatious draught from the fountain in the court.
“I do not think I will come in,” said Hastings.
“Pardon, monsieur,” growled the concierge, “perhaps it would be well
to see Monsieur Clifford. He possibly needs aid. Me he drives forth
with hair-brushes and boots. It is a mercy if he has not set fire to
something with his candle.”
Hastings hesitated for an instant, but swallowing his dislike of such
a mission, walked slowly through the ivy-covered alley and across
the inner garden to the studio. He knocked. Perfect silence. Then he
knocked again, and this time something struck the door from within with
a crash.
“That,” said the concierge, “was a boot.” He fitted his duplicate key
into the lock and ushered Hastings in. Clifford, in disordered evening
dress, sat on the rug in the middle of the room. He held in his hand a
shoe, and did not appear astonished to see Hastings.
“Good-morning, do you use Pears’ soap?” he inquired with a vague wave
of his hand and a vaguer smile.
Hastings’ heart sank. “For Heaven’s sake,” he said, “Clifford, go to
bed.”
“Not while that—that Alfred pokes his shaggy head in here an’ I have a
shoe left.”
Hastings blew out the candle, picked up Clifford’s hat and cane,
and said, with an emotion he could not conceal, “This is terrible,
Clifford,—I—never knew you did this sort of thing.”
“Well, I do,” said Clifford.
“Where is Elliott?”
“Ole chap,” returned Clifford, becoming maudlin, “Providence which
feeds—feeds—er—sparrows an’ that sort of thing watcheth over the
intemperate wanderer—”
“Where is Elliott?”
But Clifford only wagged his head and waved his arm about. “He’s out
there,—somewhere about.” Then suddenly feeling a desire to see his
missing chum, lifted up his voice and howled for him.
Hastings, thoroughly shocked, sat down on the lounge without a word.
Presently, after shedding several scalding tears, Clifford brightened
up and rose with great precaution.
“Ole chap,” he observed, “do you want to see er—er miracle? Well, here
goes. I’m goin’ to begin.”
He paused, beaming at vacancy.
“Er miracle,” he repeated.
Hastings supposed he was alluding to the miracle of his keeping his
balance, and said nothing.
“I’m goin’ to bed,” he announced, “poor ole Clifford’s goin’ to bed,
an’ that’s er miracle!”
And he did with a nice calculation of distance and equilibrium which
would have rung enthusiastic yells of applause from Elliott had he
been there to assist _en connaisseur_. But he was not. He had not
yet reached the studio. He was on his way, however, and smiled with
magnificent condescension on Hastings, who, half an hour later, found
him reclining upon a bench in the Luxembourg. He permitted himself to
be aroused, dusted and escorted to the gate. Here, however, he refused
all further assistance, and bestowing a patronizing bow upon Hastings,
steered a tolerably true course for the rue Vavin.
Hastings watched him out of sight, and then slowly retraced his steps
toward the fountain. At first he felt gloomy and depressed, but
gradually the clear air of the morning lifted the pressure from his
heart, and he sat down on the marble seat under the shadow of the
winged god.
The air was fresh and sweet with perfume from the orange flowers.
Everywhere pigeons were bathing, dashing the water over their iris-hued
breasts, flashing in and out of the spray or nestling almost to the
neck along the polished basin. The sparrows, too, were abroad in force,
soaking their dust-coloured feathers in the limpid pool and chirping
with might and main. Under the sycamores which surrounded the duck-pond
opposite the fountain of Marie de Medici, the water-fowl cropped the
herbage, or waddled in rows down the bank to embark on some solemn
aimless cruise.
Butterflies, somewhat lame from a chilly night’s repose under the lilac
leaves, crawled over and over the white phlox, or took a rheumatic
flight toward some sun-warmed shrub. The bees were already busy among
the heliotrope, and one or two grey flies with brick-coloured eyes sat
in a spot of sunlight beside the marble seat, or chased each other
about, only to return again to the spot of sunshine and rub their
fore-legs, exulting.
The sentries paced briskly before the painted boxes, pausing at times
to look toward the guard-house for their relief.
They came at last, with a shuffle of feet and click of bayonets, the
word was passed, the relief fell out, and away they went, crunch,
crunch, across the gravel.
A mellow chime floated from the clock-tower of the palace, the deep
bell of St. Sulpice echoed the stroke. Hastings sat dreaming in the
shadow of the god, and while he mused somebody came and sat down beside
him. At first he did not raise his head. It was only when she spoke
that he sprang up.
“You! At this hour?”
“I was restless, I could not sleep.” Then in a low, happy voice—“And
_you!_ at this hour?”
“I—I slept, but the sun awoke me.”
“_I_ could not sleep,” she said, and her eyes seemed, for a moment,
touched with an indefinable shadow. Then, smiling, “I am so glad—I
seemed to know you were coming. Don’t laugh, I believe in dreams.”
“Did you really dream of,—of my being here?”
“I think I was awake when I dreamed it,” she admitted. Then for a
time they were mute, acknowledging by silence the happiness of being
together. And after all their silence was eloquent, for faint smiles,
and glances born of their thoughts, crossed and recrossed, until lips
moved and words were formed, which seemed almost superfluous. What they
said was not very profound. Perhaps the most valuable jewel that fell
from Hastings’ lips bore direct reference to breakfast.
“I have not yet had my chocolate,” she confessed, “but what a material
man you are.”
“Valentine,” he said impulsively, “I wish,—I do wish that you
would,—just for this once,—give me the whole day,—just for this
once.”
“Oh dear,” she smiled, “not only material, but selfish!”
“Not selfish, hungry,” he said, looking at her.
“A cannibal too; oh dear!”
“Will you, Valentine?”
“But my chocolate—”
“Take it with me.”
“But _déjeuner_—”
“Together, at St. Cloud.”
“But I can’t—”
“Together,—all day,—all day long; will you, Valentine?”
She was silent.
“Only for this once.”
Again that indefinable shadow fell across her eyes, and when it was
gone she sighed. “Yes,—together, only for this once.”
“All day?” he said, doubting his happiness.
“All day,” she smiled; “and oh, I am so hungry!”
He laughed, enchanted.
“What a material young lady it is.”
On the Boulevard St. Michel there is a Crémerie painted white and blue
outside, and neat and clean as a whistle inside. The auburn-haired
young woman who speaks French like a native, and rejoices in the name
of Murphy, smiled at them as they entered, and tossing a fresh napkin
over the zinc _tête-à-tête_ table, whisked before them two cups of
chocolate and a basket full of crisp, fresh croissons.
The primrose-coloured pats of butter, each stamped with a shamrock in
relief, seemed saturated with the fragrance of Normandy pastures.
“How delicious!” they said in the same breath, and then laughed at the
coincidence.
“With but a single thought,” he began.
“How absurd!” she cried with cheeks all rosy. “I’m thinking I’d like a
croisson.”
“So am I,” he replied triumphant, “that proves it.”
Then they had a quarrel; she accusing him of behaviour unworthy of a
child in arms, and he denying it, and bringing counter charges, until
Mademoiselle Murphy laughed in sympathy, and the last croisson was
eaten under a flag of truce. Then they rose, and she took his arm
with a bright nod to Mile. Murphy, who cried them a merry: “_Bonjour,
madame! bonjour, monsieur_!” and watched them hail a passing cab and
drive away. “_Dieu! qu’il est beau_,” she sighed, adding after a
moment, “Do they be married, I dunno,—_ma foi ils ont bien l’air_.”
The cab swung around the rue de Medici, turned into the rue de
Vaugirard, followed it to where it crosses the rue de Rennes, and
taking that noisy thoroughfare, drew up before the Gare Montparnasse.
They were just in time for a train and scampered up the stairway and
out to the cars as the last note from the starting-gong rang through
the arched station. The guard slammed the door of their compartment,
a whistle sounded, answered by a screech from the locomotive, and the
long train glided from the station, faster, faster, and sped out into
the morning sunshine. The summer wind blew in their faces from the open
window, and sent the soft hair dancing on the girl’s forehead.
“We have the compartment to ourselves,” said Hastings.
She leaned against the cushioned window-seat, her eyes bright and wide
open, her lips parted. The wind lifted her hat, and fluttered the
ribbons under her chin. With a quick movement she untied them, and,
drawing a long hat-pin from her hat, laid it down on the seat beside
her. The train was flying.
The colour surged in her cheeks, and, with each quick-drawn breath, her
breath rose and fell under the cluster of lilies at her throat. Trees,
houses, ponds, danced past, cut by a mist of telegraph poles.
“Faster! faster!” she cried.
His eyes never left her, but hers, wide open, and blue as the summer
sky, seemed fixed on something far ahead,—something which came no
nearer, but fled before them as they fled.
Was it the horizon, cut now by the grim fortress on the hill, now by
the cross of a country chapel? Was it the summer moon, ghost-like,
slipping through the vaguer blue above?
“Faster! faster!” she cried.
Her parted lips burned scarlet.
The car shook and shivered, and the fields streamed by like an emerald
torrent. He caught the excitement, and his faced glowed.
“Oh,” she cried, and with an unconscious movement caught his hand,
drawing him to the window beside her. “Look! lean out with me!”
He only saw her lips move; her voice was drowned in the roar of a
trestle, but his hand closed in hers and he clung to the sill. The wind
whistled in their ears. “Not so far out, Valentine, take care!” he
gasped.
Below, through the ties of the trestle, a broad river flashed into view
and out again, as the train thundered along a tunnel, and away once
more through the freshest of green fields. The wind roared about them.
The girl was leaning far out from the window, and he caught her by the
waist, crying, “Not too far!” but she only murmured, “Faster! faster!
away out of the city, out of the land, faster, faster! away out of the
world!”
“What are you saying all to yourself?” he said, but his voice was
broken, and the wind whirled it back into his throat.
She heard him, and, turning from the window looked down at his arm
about her. Then she raised her eyes to his. The car shook and the
windows rattled. They were dashing through a forest now, and the sun
swept the dewy branches with running flashes of fire. He looked into
her troubled eyes; he drew her to him and kissed the half-parted lips,
and she cried out, a bitter, hopeless cry, “Not that—not that!”
But he held her close and strong, whispering words of honest love and
passion, and when she sobbed—“Not that—not that—I have promised!
You must—you must know—I am—not—worthy—” In the purity of his own
heart her words were, to him, meaningless then, meaningless for ever
after. Presently her voice ceased, and her head rested on his breast.
He leaned against the window, his ears swept by the furious wind, his
heart in a joyous tumult. The forest was passed, and the sun slipped
from behind the trees, flooding the earth again with brightness. She
raised her eyes and looked out into the world from the window. Then she
began to speak, but her voice was faint, and he bent his head close to
hers and listened. “I cannot turn from you; I am too weak. You were
long ago my master—master of my heart and soul. I have broken my word
to one who trusted me, but I have told you all;—what matters the
rest?” He smiled at her innocence and she worshipped his. She spoke
again: “Take me or cast me away;—what matters it? Now with a word you
can kill me, and it might be easier to die than to look upon happiness
as great as mine.”
He took her in his arms, “Hush, what are you saying? Look,—look out at
the sunlight, the meadows and the streams. We shall be very happy in so
bright a world.”
She turned to the sunlight. From the window, the world below seemed
very fair to her.
Trembling with happiness, she sighed: “Is this the world? Then I have
never known it.”
“Nor have I, God forgive me,” he murmured.
Perhaps it was our gentle Lady of the Fields who forgave them both.