Bab Bab 10 · RUE BARRÉE

. RUE BARRÉE

“For let Philosopher and Doctor preach

Of what they will and what they will not,—each

Is but one link in an eternal chain

That none can slip nor break nor over-reach.”

“Crimson nor yellow roses nor

The savour of the mounting sea

Are worth the perfume I adore

That clings to thee.”

“The languid-headed lilies tire,

The changeless waters weary me;

I ache with passionate desire

Of thine and thee.”

“There are but these things in the world—

Thy mouth of fire,

Thy breasts, thy hands, thy hair upcurled

And my desire.”

I

One morning at Julian’s, a student said to Selby, “That is Foxhall

Clifford,” pointing with his brushes at a young man who sat before an

easel, doing nothing.

Selby, shy and nervous, walked over and began: “My name is Selby,—I

have just arrived in Paris, and bring a letter of introduction—” His

voice was lost in the crash of a falling easel, the owner of which

promptly assaulted his neighbour, and for a time the noise of battle

rolled through the studios of MM. Boulanger and Lefebvre, presently

subsiding into a scuffle on the stairs outside. Selby, apprehensive

as to his own reception in the studio, looked at Clifford, who sat

serenely watching the fight.

“It’s a little noisy here,” said Clifford, “but you will like the

fellows when you know them.” His unaffected manner delighted Selby.

Then with a simplicity that won his heart, he presented him to half a

dozen students of as many nationalities. Some were cordial, all were

polite. Even the majestic creature who held the position of Massier,

unbent enough to say: “My friend, when a man speaks French as well as

you do, and is also a friend of Monsieur Clifford, he will have no

trouble in this studio. You expect, of course, to fill the stove until

the next new man comes?”

“Of course.”

“And you don’t mind chaff?”

“No,” replied Selby, who hated it.

Clifford, much amused, put on his hat, saying, “You must expect lots of

it at first.”

Selby placed his own hat on his head and followed him to the door.

As they passed the model stand there was a furious cry of “Chapeau!

Chapeau!” and a student sprang from his easel menacing Selby, who

reddened but looked at Clifford.

“Take off your hat for them,” said the latter, laughing.

A little embarrassed, he turned and saluted the studio.

“Et moi?” cried the model.

“You are charming,” replied Selby, astonished at his own audacity,

but the studio rose as one man, shouting: “He has done well! he’s all

right!” while the model, laughing, kissed her hand to him and cried: “À

demain beau jeune homme!”

All that week Selby worked at the studio unmolested. The French

students christened him “l’Enfant Prodigue,” which was freely

translated, “The Prodigious Infant,” “The Kid,” “Kid Selby,” and

“Kidby.” But the disease soon ran its course from “Kidby” to “Kidney,”

and then naturally to “Tidbits,” where it was arrested by Clifford’s

authority and ultimately relapsed to “Kid.”

Wednesday came, and with it M. Boulanger. For three hours the students

writhed under his biting sarcasms,—among the others Clifford, who

was informed that he knew even less about a work of art than he

did about the art of work. Selby was more fortunate. The professor

examined his drawing in silence, looked at him sharply, and passed on

with a non-committal gesture. He presently departed arm in arm with

Bouguereau, to the relief of Clifford, who was then at liberty to jam

his hat on his head and depart.

The next day he did not appear, and Selby, who had counted on seeing

him at the studio, a thing which he learned later it was vanity to

count on, wandered back to the Latin Quarter alone.

Paris was still strange and new to him. He was vaguely troubled by its

splendour. No tender memories stirred his American bosom at the Place

du Châtelet, nor even by Notre Dame. The Palais de Justice with its

clock and turrets and stalking sentinels in blue and vermilion, the

Place St. Michel with its jumble of omnibuses and ugly water-spitting

griffins, the hill of the Boulevard St. Michel, the tooting trams, the

policemen dawdling two by two, and the table-lined terraces of the Café

Vacehett were nothing to him, as yet, nor did he even know, when he

stepped from the stones of the Place St. Michel to the asphalt of the

Boulevard, that he had crossed the frontier and entered the student

zone,—the famous Latin Quarter.

A cabman hailed him as “bourgeois,” and urged the superiority of

driving over walking. A gamin, with an appearance of great concern,

requested the latest telegraphic news from London, and then, standing

on his head, invited Selby to feats of strength. A pretty girl gave

him a glance from a pair of violet eyes. He did not see her, but she,

catching her own reflection in a window, wondered at the colour burning

in her cheeks. Turning to resume her course, she met Foxhall Clifford,

and hurried on. Clifford, open-mouthed, followed her with his eyes;

then he looked after Selby, who had turned into the Boulevard St.

Germain toward the rue de Seine. Then he examined himself in the shop

window. The result seemed to be unsatisfactory.

“I’m not a beauty,” he mused, “but neither am I a hobgoblin. What

does she mean by blushing at Selby? I never before saw her look at a

fellow in my life,—neither has any one in the Quarter. Anyway, I can

swear she never looks at me, and goodness knows I have done all that

respectful adoration can do.”

He sighed, and murmuring a prophecy concerning the salvation of his

immortal soul swung into that graceful lounge which at all times

characterized Clifford. With no apparent exertion, he overtook Selby at

the corner, and together they crossed the sunlit Boulevard and sat down

under the awning of the Café du Cercle. Clifford bowed to everybody on

the terrace, saying, “You shall meet them all later, but now let me

present you to two of the sights of Paris, Mr. Richard Elliott and Mr.

Stanley Rowden.”

The “sights” looked amiable, and took vermouth.

“You cut the studio to-day,” said Elliott, suddenly turning on

Clifford, who avoided his eyes.

“To commune with nature?” observed Rowden.

“What’s her name this time?” asked Elliott, and Rowden answered

promptly, “Name, Yvette; nationality, Breton—”

“Wrong,” replied Clifford blandly, “it’s Rue Barrée.”

The subject changed instantly, and Selby listened in surprise to names

which were new to him, and eulogies on the latest Prix de Rome winner.

He was delighted to hear opinions boldly expressed and points honestly

debated, although the vehicle was mostly slang, both English and

French. He longed for the time when he too should be plunged into the

strife for fame.

The bells of St. Sulpice struck the hour, and the Palace of the

Luxembourg answered chime on chime. With a glance at the sun, dipping

low in the golden dust behind the Palais Bourbon, they rose, and

turning to the east, crossed the Boulevard St. Germain and sauntered

toward the École de Médecine. At the corner a girl passed them, walking

hurriedly. Clifford smirked, Elliott and Rowden were agitated, but they

all bowed, and, without raising her eyes, she returned their salute.

But Selby, who had lagged behind, fascinated by some gay shop window,

looked up to meet two of the bluest eyes he had ever seen. The eyes

were dropped in an instant, and the young fellow hastened to overtake

the others.

“By Jove,” he said, “do you fellows know I have just seen the prettiest

girl—” An exclamation broke from the trio, gloomy, foreboding, like

the chorus in a Greek play.

“Rue Barrée!”

“What!” cried Selby, bewildered.

The only answer was a vague gesture from Clifford.

Two hours later, during dinner, Clifford turned to Selby and said, “You

want to ask me something; I can tell by the way you fidget about.”

“Yes, I do,” he said, innocently enough; “it’s about that girl. Who is

she?”

In Rowden’s smile there was pity, in Elliott’s bitterness.

“Her name,” said Clifford solemnly, “is unknown to any one, at

least,” he added with much conscientiousness, “as far as I can learn.

Every fellow in the Quarter bows to her and she returns the salute

gravely, but no man has ever been known to obtain more than that. Her

profession, judging from her music-roll, is that of a pianist. Her

residence is in a small and humble street which is kept in a perpetual

process of repair by the city authorities, and from the black letters

painted on the barrier which defends the street from traffic, she has

taken the name by which we know her,—Rue Barrée. Mr. Rowden, in his

imperfect knowledge of the French tongue, called our attention to it as

Roo Barry—”

“I didn’t,” said Rowden hotly.

“And Roo Barry, or Rue Barrée, is to-day an object of adoration to

every rapin in the Quarter—”

“We are not rapins,” corrected Elliott.

“_I_ am not,” returned Clifford, “and I beg to call to your attention,

Selby, that these two gentlemen have at various and apparently

unfortunate moments, offered to lay down life and limb at the feet of

Rue Barrée. The lady possesses a chilling smile which she uses on such

occasions and,” here he became gloomily impressive, “I have been forced

to believe that neither the scholarly grace of my friend Elliott nor

the buxom beauty of my friend Rowden have touched that heart of ice.”

Elliott and Rowden, boiling with indignation, cried out, “And you!”

“I,” said Clifford blandly, “do fear to tread where you rush in.”

II

Twenty-four hours later Selby had completely forgotten Rue Barrée.

During the week he worked with might and main at the studio, and

Saturday night found him so tired that he went to bed before dinner and

had a nightmare about a river of yellow ochre in which he was drowning.

Sunday morning, apropos of nothing at all, he thought of Rue Barrée,

and ten seconds afterwards he saw her. It was at the flower-market on

the marble bridge. She was examining a pot of pansies. The gardener had

evidently thrown heart and soul into the transaction, but Rue Barrée

shook her head.

It is a question whether Selby would have stopped then and there to

inspect a cabbage-rose had not Clifford unwound for him the yarn of

the previous Tuesday. It is possible that his curiosity was piqued,

for with the exception of a hen-turkey, a boy of nineteen is the most

openly curious biped alive. From twenty until death he tries to conceal

it. But, to be fair to Selby, it is also true that the market was

attractive. Under a cloudless sky the flowers were packed and heaped

along the marble bridge to the parapet. The air was soft, the sun

spun a shadowy lacework among the palms and glowed in the hearts of a

thousand roses. Spring had come,—was in full tide. The watering carts

and sprinklers spread freshness over the Boulevard, the sparrows had

become vulgarly obtrusive, and the credulous Seine angler anxiously

followed his gaudy quill floating among the soapsuds of the lavoirs.

The white-spiked chestnuts clad in tender green vibrated with the

hum of bees. Shoddy butterflies flaunted their winter rags among the

heliotrope. There was a smell of fresh earth in the air, an echo of

the woodland brook in the ripple of the Seine, and swallows soared and

skimmed among the anchored river craft. Somewhere in a window a caged

bird was singing its heart out to the sky.

Selby looked at the cabbage-rose and then at the sky. Something in

the song of the caged bird may have moved him, or perhaps it was that

dangerous sweetness in the air of May.

At first he was hardly conscious that he had stopped, then he was

scarcely conscious why he had stopped, then he thought he would move

on, then he thought he wouldn’t, then he looked at Rue Barrée.

The gardener said, “Mademoiselle, this is undoubtedly a fine pot of

pansies.”

Rue Barrée shook her head.

The gardener smiled. She evidently did not want the pansies. She had

bought many pots of pansies there, two or three every spring, and never

argued. What did she want then? The pansies were evidently a feeler

toward a more important transaction. The gardener rubbed his hands and

gazed about him.

“These tulips are magnificent,” he observed, “and these hyacinths—” He

fell into a trance at the mere sight of the scented thickets.

“That,” murmured Rue, pointing to a splendid rose-bush with her furled

parasol, but in spite of her, her voice trembled a little. Selby

noticed it, more shame to him that he was listening, and the gardener

noticed it, and, burying his nose in the roses, scented a bargain.

Still, to do him justice, he did not add a centime to the honest value

of the plant, for after all, Rue was probably poor, and any one could

see she was charming.

“Fifty francs, Mademoiselle.”

The gardener’s tone was grave. Rue felt that argument would be wasted.

They both stood silent for a moment. The gardener did not eulogize his

prize,—the rose-tree was gorgeous and any one could see it.

“I will take the pansies,” said the girl, and drew two francs from

a worn purse. Then she looked up. A tear-drop stood in the way

refracting the light like a diamond, but as it rolled into a little

corner by her nose a vision of Selby replaced it, and when a brush of

the handkerchief had cleared the startled blue eyes, Selby himself

appeared, very much embarrassed. He instantly looked up into the sky,

apparently devoured with a thirst for astronomical research, and as

he continued his investigations for fully five minutes, the gardener

looked up too, and so did a policeman. Then Selby looked at the tips of

his boots, the gardener looked at him and the policeman slouched on.

Rue Barrée had been gone some time.

“What,” said the gardener, “may I offer Monsieur?”

Selby never knew why, but he suddenly began to buy flowers. The

gardener was electrified. Never before had he sold so many flowers,

never at such satisfying prices, and never, never with such absolute

unanimity of opinion with a customer. But he missed the bargaining, the

arguing, the calling of Heaven to witness. The transaction lacked spice.

“These tulips are magnificent!”

“They are!” cried Selby warmly.

“But alas, they are dear.”

“I will take them.”

“Dieu!” murmured the gardener in a perspiration, “he’s madder than most

Englishmen.”

“This cactus—”

“Is gorgeous!”

“Alas—”

“Send it with the rest.”

The gardener braced himself against the river wall.

“That splendid rose-bush,” he began faintly.

“That is a beauty. I believe it is fifty francs—”

He stopped, very red. The gardener relished his confusion. Then a

sudden cool self-possession took the place of his momentary confusion

and he held the gardener with his eye, and bullied him.

“I’ll take that bush. Why did not the young lady buy it?”

“Mademoiselle is not wealthy.”

“How do you know?”

“_Dame_, I sell her many pansies; pansies are not expensive.”

“Those are the pansies she bought?”

“These, Monsieur, the blue and gold.”

“Then you intend to send them to her?”

“At mid-day after the market.”

“Take this rose-bush with them, and”—here he glared at the

gardener—“don’t you dare say from whom they came.” The gardener’s eyes

were like saucers, but Selby, calm and victorious, said: “Send the

others to the Hôtel du Sénat, 7 rue de Tournon. I will leave directions

with the concierge.”

Then he buttoned his glove with much dignity and stalked off, but

when well around the corner and hidden from the gardener’s view, the

conviction that he was an idiot came home to him in a furious blush.

Ten minutes later he sat in his room in the Hôtel du Sénat repeating

with an imbecile smile: “What an ass I am, what an ass!”

An hour later found him in the same chair, in the same position, his

hat and gloves still on, his stick in his hand, but he was silent,

apparently lost in contemplation of his boot toes, and his smile was

less imbecile and even a bit retrospective.

III

About five o’clock that afternoon, the little sad-eyed woman who fills

the position of concierge at the Hôtel du Sénat held up her hands in

amazement to see a wagon-load of flower-bearing shrubs draw up before

the doorway. She called Joseph, the intemperate garçon, who, while

calculating the value of the flowers in _petits verres_, gloomily

disclaimed any knowledge as to their destination.

“_Voyons_,” said the little concierge, “_cherchons la femme_!”

“You?” he suggested.

The little woman stood a moment pensive and then sighed. Joseph

caressed his nose, a nose which for gaudiness could vie with any floral

display.

Then the gardener came in, hat in hand, and a few minutes later Selby

stood in the middle of his room, his coat off, his shirt-sleeves rolled

up. The chamber originally contained, besides the furniture, about two

square feet of walking room, and now this was occupied by a cactus. The

bed groaned under crates of pansies, lilies and heliotrope, the lounge

was covered with hyacinths and tulips, and the washstand supported a

species of young tree warranted to bear flowers at some time or other.

Clifford came in a little later, fell over a box of sweet peas, swore

a little, apologized, and then, as the full splendour of the floral

_fête_ burst upon him, sat down in astonishment upon a geranium. The

geranium was a wreck, but Selby said, “Don’t mind,” and glared at the

cactus.

“Are you going to give a ball?” demanded Clifford.

“N—no,—I’m very fond of flowers,” said Selby, but the statement

lacked enthusiasm.

“I should imagine so.” Then, after a silence, “That’s a fine cactus.”

Selby contemplated the cactus, touched it with the air of a

connoisseur, and pricked his thumb.

Clifford poked a pansy with his stick. Then Joseph came in with the

bill, announcing the sum total in a loud voice, partly to impress

Clifford, partly to intimidate Selby into disgorging a _pourboire_

which he would share, if he chose, with the gardener. Clifford tried

to pretend that he had not heard, while Selby paid bill and tribute

without a murmur. Then he lounged back into the room with an attempt

at indifference which failed entirely when he tore his trousers on the

cactus.

Clifford made some commonplace remark, lighted a cigarette and looked

out of the window to give Selby a chance. Selby tried to take it, but

getting as far as—“Yes, spring is here at last,” froze solid. He

looked at the back of Clifford’s head. It expressed volumes. Those

little perked-up ears seemed tingling with suppressed glee. He made a

desperate effort to master the situation, and jumped up to reach for

some Russian cigarettes as an incentive to conversation, but was foiled

by the cactus, to whom again he fell a prey. The last straw was added.

“Damn the cactus.” This observation was wrung from Selby against his

will,—against his own instinct of self-preservation, but the thorns on

the cactus were long and sharp, and at their repeated prick his pent-up

wrath escaped. It was too late now; it was done, and Clifford had

wheeled around.

“See here, Selby, why the deuce did you buy those flowers?”

“I’m fond of them,” said Selby.

“What are you going to do with them? You can’t sleep here.”

“I could, if you’d help me take the pansies off the bed.”

“Where can you put them?”

“Couldn’t I give them to the concierge?”

As soon as he said it he regretted it. What in Heaven’s name would

Clifford think of him! He had heard the amount of the bill. Would he

believe that he had invested in these luxuries as a timid declaration

to his concierge? And would the Latin Quarter comment upon it in

their own brutal fashion? He dreaded ridicule and he knew Clifford’s

reputation.

Then somebody knocked.

Selby looked at Clifford with a hunted expression which touched

that young man’s heart. It was a confession and at the same time a

supplication. Clifford jumped up, threaded his way through the floral

labyrinth, and putting an eye to the crack of the door, said, “Who the

devil is it?”

This graceful style of reception is indigenous to the Quarter.

“It’s Elliott,” he said, looking back, “and Rowden too, and their

bulldogs.” Then he addressed them through the crack.

“Sit down on the stairs; Selby and I are coming out directly.”

Discretion is a virtue. The Latin Quarter possesses few, and discretion

seldom figures on the list. They sat down and began to whistle.

Presently Rowden called out, “I smell flowers. They feast within!”

“You ought to know Selby better than that,” growled Clifford behind the

door, while the other hurriedly exchanged his torn trousers for others.

“_We_ know Selby,” said Elliott with emphasis.

“Yes,” said Rowden, “he gives receptions with floral decorations and

invites Clifford, while we sit on the stairs.”

“Yes, while the youth and beauty of the Quarter revel,” suggested

Rowden; then, with sudden misgiving; “Is Odette there?”

“See here,” demanded Elliott, “is Colette there?”

Then he raised his voice in a plaintive howl, “Are you there, Colette,

while I’m kicking my heels on these tiles?”

“Clifford is capable of anything,” said Rowden; “his nature is soured

since Rue Barrée sat on him.”

Elliott raised his voice: “I say, you fellows, we saw some flowers

carried into Rue Barrée’s house at noon.”

“Posies and roses,” specified Rowden.

“Probably for her,” added Elliott, caressing his bulldog.

Clifford turned with sudden suspicion upon Selby. The latter hummed

a tune, selected a pair of gloves and, choosing a dozen cigarettes,

placed them in a case. Then walking over to the cactus, he deliberately

detached a blossom, drew it through his buttonhole, and picking up

hat and stick, smiled upon Clifford, at which the latter was mightily

troubled.

IV

Monday morning at Julian’s, students fought for places; students with

prior claims drove away others who had been anxiously squatting on

coveted tabourets since the door was opened in hopes of appropriating

them at roll-call; students squabbled over palettes, brushes,

portfolios, or rent the air with demands for Ciceri and bread. The

former, a dirty ex-model, who had in palmier days posed as Judas, now

dispensed stale bread at one sou and made enough to keep himself in

cigarettes. Monsieur Julian walked in, smiled a fatherly smile and

walked out. His disappearance was followed by the apparition of the

clerk, a foxy creature who flitted through the battling hordes in

search of prey.

Three men who had not paid dues were caught and summoned. A fourth was

scented, followed, outflanked, his retreat towards the door cut off,

and finally captured behind the stove. About that time, the revolution

assuming an acute form, howls rose for “Jules!”

Jules came, umpired two fights with a sad resignation in his big brown

eyes, shook hands with everybody and melted away in the throng, leaving

an atmosphere of peace and good-will. The lions sat down with the

lambs, the massiers marked the best places for themselves and friends,

and, mounting the model stands, opened the roll-calls.

The word was passed, “They begin with C this week.”

They did.

“Clisson!”

Clisson jumped like a flash and marked his name on the floor in chalk

before a front seat.

“Caron!”

Caron galloped away to secure his place. Bang! went an easel. “_Nom de

Dieu_!” in French,—“Where in h—l are you goin’!” in English. Crash!

a paintbox fell with brushes and all on board. “_Dieu de Dieu de_—”

spat! A blow, a short rush, a clinch and scuffle, and the voice of the

massier, stern and reproachful:

“Cochon!”

Then the roll-call was resumed.

“Clifford!”

The massier paused and looked up, one finger between the leaves of the

ledger.

“Clifford!”

Clifford was not there. He was about three miles away in a direct line

and every instant increased the distance. Not that he was walking

fast,—on the contrary, he was strolling with that leisurely gait

peculiar to himself. Elliott was beside him and two bulldogs covered

the rear. Elliott was reading the “Gil Blas,” from which he seemed

to extract amusement, but deeming boisterous mirth unsuitable to

Clifford’s state of mind, subdued his amusement to a series of discreet

smiles. The latter, moodily aware of this, said nothing, but leading

the way into the Luxembourg Gardens installed himself upon a bench

by the northern terrace and surveyed the landscape with disfavour.

Elliott, according to the Luxembourg regulations, tied the two dogs and

then, with an interrogative glance toward his friend, resumed the “Gil

Blas” and the discreet smiles.

The day was perfect. The sun hung over Notre Dame, setting the city

in a glitter. The tender foliage of the chestnuts cast a shadow over

the terrace and flecked the paths and walks with tracery so blue

that Clifford might here have found encouragement for his violent

“impressions” had he but looked; but as usual in this period of his

career, his thoughts were anywhere except in his profession. Around

about, the sparrows quarrelled and chattered their courtship songs,

the big rosy pigeons sailed from tree to tree, the flies whirled in

the sunbeams and the flowers exhaled a thousand perfumes which stirred

Clifford with languorous wistfulness. Under this influence he spoke.

“Elliott, you are a true friend—”

“You make me ill,” replied the latter, folding his paper. “It’s just

as I thought,—you are tagging after some new petticoat again. And,”

he continued wrathfully, “if this is what you’ve kept me away from

Julian’s for,—if it’s to fill me up with the perfections of some

little idiot—”

“Not idiot,” remonstrated Clifford gently.

“See here,” cried Elliott, “have you the nerve to try to tell me that

you are in love again?”

“Again?”

“Yes, again and again and again and—by George have you?”

“This,” observed Clifford sadly, “is serious.”

For a moment Elliott would have laid hands on him, then he laughed from

sheer helplessness. “Oh, go on, go on; let’s see, there’s Clémence and

Marie Tellec and Cosette and Fifine, Colette, Marie Verdier—”

“All of whom are charming, most charming, but I never was serious—”

“So help me, Moses,” said Elliott, solemnly, “each and every one of

those named have separately and in turn torn your heart with anguish

and have also made me lose my place at Julian’s in this same manner;

each and every one, separately and in turn. Do you deny it?”

“What you say may be founded on facts—in a way—but give me the credit

of being faithful to one at a time—”

“Until the next came along.”

“But this,—this is really very different. Elliott, believe me, I am

all broken up.”

Then there being nothing else to do, Elliott gnashed his teeth and

listened.

“It’s—it’s Rue Barrée.”

“Well,” observed Elliott, with scorn, “if you are moping and moaning

over _that_ girl,—the girl who has given you and myself every reason

to wish that the ground would open and engulf us,—well, go on!”

“I’m going on,—I don’t care; timidity has fled—”

“Yes, your native timidity.”

“I’m desperate, Elliott. Am I in love? Never, never did I feel so d—n

miserable. I can’t sleep; honestly, I’m incapable of eating properly.”

“Same symptoms noticed in the case of Colette.”

“Listen, will you?”

“Hold on a moment, I know the rest by heart. Now let me ask you

something. Is it your belief that Rue Barrée is a pure girl?”

“Yes,” said Clifford, turning red.

“Do you love her,—not as you dangle and tiptoe after every pretty

inanity—I mean, do you honestly love her?”

“Yes,” said the other doggedly, “I would—”

“Hold on a moment; would you marry her?”

Clifford turned scarlet. “Yes,” he muttered.

“Pleasant news for your family,” growled Elliott in suppressed fury.

“‘Dear father, I have just married a charming grisette whom I’m sure

you’ll welcome with open arms, in company with her mother, a most

estimable and cleanly washlady.’ Good heavens! This seems to have gone

a little further than the rest. Thank your stars, young man, that my

head is level enough for us both. Still, in this case, I have no fear.

Rue Barrée sat on your aspirations in a manner unmistakably final.”

“Rue Barrée,” began Clifford, drawing himself up, but he suddenly

ceased, for there where the dappled sunlight glowed in spots of gold,

along the sun-flecked path, tripped Rue Barrée. Her gown was spotless,

and her big straw hat, tipped a little from the white forehead, threw a

shadow across her eyes.

Elliott stood up and bowed. Clifford removed his head-covering with

an air so plaintive, so appealing, so utterly humble that Rue Barrée

smiled.

The smile was delicious and when Clifford, incapable of sustaining

himself on his legs from sheer astonishment, toppled slightly, she

smiled again in spite of herself. A few moments later she took a chair

on the terrace and drawing a book from her music-roll, turned the

pages, found the place, and then placing it open downwards in her lap,

sighed a little, smiled a little, and looked out over the city. She had

entirely forgotten Foxhall Clifford.

After a while she took up her book again, but instead of reading began

to adjust a rose in her corsage. The rose was big and red. It glowed

like fire there over her heart, and like fire it warmed her heart, now

fluttering under the silken petals. Rue Barrée sighed again. She was

very happy. The sky was so blue, the air so soft and perfumed, the

sunshine so caressing, and her heart sang within her, sang to the rose

in her breast. This is what it sang: “Out of the throng of passers-by,

out of the world of yesterday, out of the millions passing, one has

turned aside to me.”

So her heart sang under his rose on her breast. Then two big

mouse-coloured pigeons came whistling by and alighted on the terrace,

where they bowed and strutted and bobbed and turned until Rue Barrée

laughed in delight, and looking up beheld Clifford before her. His hat

was in his hand and his face was wreathed in a series of appealing

smiles which would have touched the heart of a Bengal tiger.

For an instant Rue Barrée frowned, then she looked curiously at

Clifford, then when she saw the resemblance between his bows and the

bobbing pigeons, in spite of herself, her lips parted in the most

bewitching laugh. Was this Rue Barrée? So changed, so changed that she

did not know herself; but oh! that song in her heart which drowned

all else, which trembled on her lips, struggling for utterance, which

rippled forth in a laugh at nothing,—at a strutting pigeon,—and Mr.

Clifford.

* * * * *

“And you think, because I return the salute of the students in the

Quarter, that you may be received in particular as a friend? I do

not know you, Monsieur, but vanity is man’s other name;—be content,

Monsieur Vanity, I shall be punctilious—oh, most punctilious in

returning your salute.”

“But I beg—I implore you to let me render you that homage which has so

long—”

“Oh dear; I don’t care for homage.”

“Let me only be permitted to speak to you now and

then,—occasionally—very occasionally.”

“And if _you_, why not another?”

“Not at all,—I will be discretion itself.”

“Discretion—why?”

Her eyes were very clear, and Clifford winced for a moment, but only

for a moment. Then the devil of recklessness seizing him, he sat

down and offered himself, soul and body, goods and chattels. And all

the time he knew he was a fool and that infatuation is not love, and

that each word he uttered bound him in honour from which there was no

escape. And all the time Elliott was scowling down on the fountain

plaza and savagely checking both bulldogs from their desire to rush to

Clifford’s rescue,—for even they felt there was something wrong, as

Elliott stormed within himself and growled maledictions.

When Clifford finished, he finished in a glow of excitement, but Rue

Barrée’s response was long in coming and his ardour cooled while the

situation slowly assumed its just proportions. Then regret began to

creep in, but he put that aside and broke out again in protestations.

At the first word Rue Barrée checked him.

“I thank you,” she said, speaking very gravely. “No man has ever before

offered me marriage.” She turned and looked out over the city. After

a while she spoke again. “You offer me a great deal. I am alone, I

have nothing, I am nothing.” She turned again and looked at Paris,

brilliant, fair, in the sunshine of a perfect day. He followed her eyes.

“Oh,” she murmured, “it is hard,—hard to work always—always alone

with never a friend you can have in honour, and the love that is

offered means the streets, the boulevard—when passion is dead. I know

it,—_we_ know it,—we others who have nothing,—have no one, and who

give ourselves, unquestioning—when we love,—yes, unquestioning—heart

and soul, knowing the end.”

She touched the rose at her breast. For a moment she seemed to forget

him, then quietly—“I thank you, I am very grateful.” She opened the

book and, plucking a petal from the rose, dropped it between the

leaves. Then looking up she said gently, “I cannot accept.”

V

It took Clifford a month to entirely recover, although at the end of

the first week he was pronounced convalescent by Elliott, who was an

authority, and his convalescence was aided by the cordiality with

which Rue Barrée acknowledged his solemn salutes. Forty times a day he

blessed Rue Barrée for her refusal, and thanked his lucky stars, and at

the same time, oh, wondrous heart of ours!—he suffered the tortures of

the blighted.

Elliott was annoyed, partly by Clifford’s reticence, partly by the

unexplainable thaw in the frigidity of Rue Barrée. At their frequent

encounters, when she, tripping along the rue de Seine, with music-roll

and big straw hat would pass Clifford and his familiars steering an

easterly course to the Café Vachette, and at the respectful uncovering

of the band would colour and smile at Clifford, Elliott’s slumbering

suspicions awoke. But he never found out anything, and finally gave

it up as beyond his comprehension, merely qualifying Clifford as an

idiot and reserving his opinion of Rue Barrée. And all this time Selby

was jealous. At first he refused to acknowledge it to himself, and

cut the studio for a day in the country, but the woods and fields of

course aggravated his case, and the brooks babbled of Rue Barrée and

the mowers calling to each other across the meadow ended in a quavering

“Rue Bar-rée-e!” That day spent in the country made him angry for

a week, and he worked sulkily at Julian’s, all the time tormented

by a desire to know where Clifford was and what he might be doing.

This culminated in an erratic stroll on Sunday which ended at the

flower-market on the Pont au Change, began again, was gloomily extended

to the morgue, and again ended at the marble bridge. It would never do,

and Selby felt it, so he went to see Clifford, who was convalescing on

mint juleps in his garden.

They sat down together and discussed morals and human happiness, and

each found the other most entertaining, only Selby failed to pump

Clifford, to the other’s unfeigned amusement. But the juleps spread

balm on the sting of jealousy, and trickled hope to the blighted, and

when Selby said he must go, Clifford went too, and when Selby, not

to be outdone, insisted on accompanying Clifford back to his door,

Clifford determined to see Selby back half way, and then finding it

hard to part, they decided to dine together and “flit.” To flit, a verb

applied to Clifford’s nocturnal prowls, expressed, perhaps, as well

as anything, the gaiety proposed. Dinner was ordered at Mignon’s, and

while Selby interviewed the chef, Clifford kept a fatherly eye on the

butler. The dinner was a success, or was of the sort generally termed

a success. Toward the dessert Selby heard some one say as at a great

distance, “Kid Selby, drunk as a lord.”

A group of men passed near them; it seemed to him that he shook hands

and laughed a great deal, and that everybody was very witty. There

was Clifford opposite swearing undying confidence in his chum Selby,

and there seemed to be others there, either seated beside them or

continually passing with the swish of skirts on the polished floor.

The perfume of roses, the rustle of fans, the touch of rounded arms

and the laughter grew vaguer and vaguer. The room seemed enveloped in

mist. Then, all in a moment each object stood out painfully distinct,

only forms and visages were distorted and voices piercing. He drew

himself up, calm, grave, for the moment master of himself, but very

drunk. He knew he was drunk, and was as guarded and alert, as keenly

suspicious of himself as he would have been of a thief at his elbow.

His self-command enabled Clifford to hold his head safely under some

running water, and repair to the street considerably the worse for

wear, but never suspecting that his companion was drunk. For a time he

kept his self-command. His face was only a bit paler, a bit tighter

than usual; he was only a trifle slower and more fastidious in his

speech. It was midnight when he left Clifford peacefully slumbering

in somebody’s arm-chair, with a long suede glove dangling in his hand

and a plumy boa twisted about his neck to protect his throat from

drafts. He walked through the hall and down the stairs, and found

himself on the sidewalk in a quarter he did not know. Mechanically

he looked up at the name of the street. The name was not familiar.

He turned and steered his course toward some lights clustered at the

end of the street. They proved farther away than he had anticipated,

and after a long quest he came to the conclusion that his eyes had

been mysteriously removed from their proper places and had been reset

on either side of his head like those of a bird. It grieved him to

think of the inconvenience this transformation might occasion him, and

he attempted to cock up his head, hen-like, to test the mobility of

his neck. Then an immense despair stole over him,—tears gathered in

the tear-ducts, his heart melted, and he collided with a tree. This

shocked him into comprehension; he stifled the violent tenderness in

his breast, picked up his hat and moved on more briskly. His mouth was

white and drawn, his teeth tightly clinched. He held his course pretty

well and strayed but little, and after an apparently interminable

length of time found himself passing a line of cabs. The brilliant

lamps, red, yellow, and green annoyed him, and he felt it might be

pleasant to demolish them with his cane, but mastering this impulse he

passed on. Later an idea struck him that it would save fatigue to take

a cab, and he started back with that intention, but the cabs seemed

already so far away and the lanterns were so bright and confusing that

he gave it up, and pulling himself together looked around.

A shadow, a mass, huge, undefined, rose to his right. He recognized

the Arc de Triomphe and gravely shook his cane at it. Its size annoyed

him. He felt it was too big. Then he heard something fall clattering

to the pavement and thought probably it was his cane but it didn’t

much matter. When he had mastered himself and regained control of

his right leg, which betrayed symptoms of insubordination, he found

himself traversing the Place de la Concorde at a pace which threatened

to land him at the Madeleine. This would never do. He turned sharply

to the right and crossing the bridge passed the Palais Bourbon at

a trot and wheeled into the Boulevard St. Germain. He got on well

enough although the size of the War Office struck him as a personal

insult, and he missed his cane, which it would have been pleasant

to drag along the iron railings as he passed. It occurred to him,

however, to substitute his hat, but when he found it he forgot what

he wanted it for and replaced it upon his head with gravity. Then he

was obliged to battle with a violent inclination to sit down and weep.

This lasted until he came to the rue de Rennes, but there he became

absorbed in contemplating the dragon on the balcony overhanging the

Cour du Dragon, and time slipped away until he remembered vaguely that

he had no business there, and marched off again. It was slow work.

The inclination to sit down and weep had given place to a desire for

solitary and deep reflection. Here his right leg forgot its obedience

and attacking the left, outflanked it and brought him up against a

wooden board which seemed to bar his path. He tried to walk around

it, but found the street closed. He tried to push it over, and found

he couldn’t. Then he noticed a red lantern standing on a pile of

paving-stones inside the barrier. This was pleasant. How was he to get

home if the boulevard was blocked? But he was not on the boulevard. His

treacherous right leg had beguiled him into a detour, for there, behind

him lay the boulevard with its endless line of lamps,—and here, what

was this narrow dilapidated street piled up with earth and mortar and

heaps of stone? He looked up. Written in staring black letters on the

barrier was

RUE BARRÉE.

He sat down. Two policemen whom he knew came by and advised him to get

up, but he argued the question from a standpoint of personal taste,

and they passed on, laughing. For he was at that moment absorbed in a

problem. It was, how to see Rue Barrée. She was somewhere or other in

that big house with the iron balconies, and the door was locked, but

what of that? The simple idea struck him to shout until she came. This

idea was replaced by another equally lucid,—to hammer on the door

until she came; but finally rejecting both of these as too uncertain,

he decided to climb into the balcony, and opening a window politely

inquire for Rue Barrée. There was but one lighted window in the house

that he could see. It was on the second floor, and toward this he cast

his eyes. Then mounting the wooden barrier and clambering over the

piles of stones, he reached the sidewalk and looked up at the façade

for a foothold. It seemed impossible. But a sudden fury seized him, a

blind, drunken obstinacy, and the blood rushed to his head, leaping,

beating in his ears like the dull thunder of an ocean. He set his

teeth, and springing at a window-sill, dragged himself up and hung to

the iron bars. Then reason fled; there surged in his brain the sound of

many voices, his heart leaped up beating a mad tattoo, and gripping at

cornice and ledge he worked his way along the façade, clung to pipes

and shutters, and dragged himself up, over and into the balcony by the

lighted window. His hat fell off and rolled against the pane. For a

moment he leaned breathless against the railing—then the window was

slowly opened from within.

They stared at each other for some time. Presently the girl took two

unsteady steps back into the room. He saw her face,—all crimsoned

now,—he saw her sink into a chair by the lamplit table, and without

a word he followed her into the room, closing the big door-like panes

behind him. Then they looked at each other in silence.

The room was small and white; everything was white about it,—the

curtained bed, the little wash-stand in the corner, the bare walls, the

china lamp,—and his own face,—had he known it, but the face and neck

of Rue were surging in the colour that dyed the blossoming rose-tree

there on the hearth beside her. It did not occur to him to speak. She

seemed not to expect it. His mind was struggling with the impressions

of the room. The whiteness, the extreme purity of everything occupied

him—began to trouble him. As his eye became accustomed to the light,

other objects grew from the surroundings and took their places in the

circle of lamplight. There was a piano and a coal-scuttle and a little

iron trunk and a bath-tub. Then there was a row of wooden pegs against

the door, with a white chintz curtain covering the clothes underneath.

On the bed lay an umbrella and a big straw hat, and on the table, a

music-roll unfurled, an ink-stand, and sheets of ruled paper. Behind

him stood a wardrobe faced with a mirror, but somehow he did not care

to see his own face just then. He was sobering.

The girl sat looking at him without a word. Her face was

expressionless, yet the lips at times trembled almost imperceptibly.

Her eyes, so wonderfully blue in the daylight, seemed dark and soft as

velvet, and the colour on her neck deepened and whitened with every

breath. She seemed smaller and more slender than when he had seen her

in the street, and there was now something in the curve of her cheek

almost infantine. When at last he turned and caught his own reflection

in the mirror behind him, a shock passed through him as though he had

seen a shameful thing, and his clouded mind and his clouded thoughts

grew clearer. For a moment their eyes met then his sought the floor,

his lips tightened, and the struggle within him bowed his head and

strained every nerve to the breaking. And now it was over, for the

voice within had spoken. He listened, dully interested but already

knowing the end,—indeed it little mattered;—the end would always be

the same for him;—he understood now—always the same for him, and he

listened, dully interested, to a voice which grew within him. After

a while he stood up, and she rose at once, one small hand resting on

the table. Presently he opened the window, picked up his hat, and shut

it again. Then he went over to the rosebush and touched the blossoms

with his face. One was standing in a glass of water on the table and

mechanically the girl drew it out, pressed it with her lips and laid

it on the table beside him. He took it without a word and crossing the

room, opened the door. The landing was dark and silent, but the girl

lifted the lamp and gliding past him slipped down the polished stairs

to the hallway. Then unchaining the bolts, she drew open the iron

wicket.

Through this he passed with his rose.