Crusader's Tomb

  Chapter Six

  Paris was unknown to Stephen, and although its first heady breath exhilarated him like wine, he entered it nervously – as though fearing those satirical glances which all true Parisians must bestow upon a stranger. Thus he clung to the name of a hotel he had heard his father mention in a tone of mild clerical approval, and giving it to the driver with as much assurance as he could muster, was swept from the Gare du Nord at a reckless pace through Sunday afternoon streets, surprisingly empty, to the Clifton in the Rue de la Sourdière.

  This seemed a quiet place, not particularly exciting perhaps, yet respectable, opening through a narrow entrance to a square glassed-in courtyard, around which the rooms were arranged behind flaking cast-iron balconies. In the sleepy office – the tone was set by a tortoiseshell cat drowsing upon the desk – they were not surprised by the sudden materialisation of a young Englishman. Indeed, when Stephen had been shown upstairs to his room, which was darkish and fusty, with faded wallpaper and an enormous red-curtained bed, the aged concierge, unstrapping the luggage from his shoulder in exaggerated breathlessness, startled him slightly by inquiring if he required tea.

  ‘No, thank you.’ Stephen smiled, thinking what superb values this dim interior gave to the water-eyed old man with his sagging, red-veined cheeks, his yellow-and-black-striped waistcoat. ‘I want to get out … to look around.’

  ‘Not much to see today, Monsieur.’ The porter shrugged amiably. ‘Everywhere is closed.’

  But Stephen could scarcely wait to unpack his valise and fling his things into the dusty armoire. Then, excitedly, he left the hotel and made his way into the streets, walking at random along the Rue du Mont Thabor and through the Place de la Concorde. His immediate thought had been of Glyn, but in that strained moment of parting, he had forgotten to ask for Richard’s address, and in the interim no word had come from him. Stephen felt sure, however, that in the circle he proposed to frequent, he would meet with him soon.

  The weather was mild and bright, the pale sky ribbed with glittering clouds. When he saw the long line of chestnut trees, now in full foliage, by the river, Stephen almost cried aloud. Stirred by the breeze, the leaves flickered light and dark, softly, meeting his eye like a caress. Across the avenue he came upon the Seine, steel-grey and polished, shimmering past a row of black moored barges. On one of these a young woman, plump-breasted and yellow-haired, was stringing pink washing on a line. A little white dog capered at her ankles. A man in a singlet and billycock hat smoked placidly, bare-armed, on an upturned bucket.

  In a kind of singing rapture Stephen slowly walked along the bank, across the Pont Royal, past the line of shuttered bookstalls, back over the Pont Neuf to L’Île de la Cité. There he stood, watching the play of colour upon the water, the darkening of shadows upon the masses of stone. Only when the light faded did he turn away, with a besotted sigh, and start back towards his hotel.

  Now the city was stirring from its Sunday torpor. In the side streets north of the river, the little corner cafés had begun to fill up in discreet yet lively fashion. Provision shops were opening, middle-class families began to take the air, stout men in carpet slippers appeared in doorways. Outside a baker’s shop, not yet unshuttered, housewives, gossiping quietly, were gathering to buy bread. I am in Paris, thought Stephen giddily, at last, at last.

  By way of contrast, the Clifton, bathed in a dim religious light, wore a solemn, near sepulchral air. Indeed, for a moment Stephen was tempted to turn back and go out for supper to Maxim’s or the Café Riche, or one of those gay restaurants he had read of so often. But he was tired, and shy of going alone. Besides, he had made up his mind to practice a reasonable economy. Out of his annual allowance, one hundred and fifty pounds remained, and this must last him for a full year.

  So he went into the chilly dining-room and ate in solitude – except for a remote, spinsterish gentleman in a drab Norfolk jacket who read continuously during and between the courses, and two whispering elderly ladies in mauve, all unmistakably British – a table d’hôte meal of soup, mutton, and sour stewed plums which, while perfectly wholesome, demonstrated conclusively the fallacy of the contention that in France, French cooking is a universal art. Yet nothing could dampen his spirits. He climbed the stairs whistling, and slept like a top in the canopied bed.

  Next morning, without delay, he set out for Montparnasse. After considerable reflection, he had resolved not to enroll in the Ecole des Beaux Arts but to seek the more personal attention provided by Professor Dupret, in his renowned academy in the Boulevard Seline. He found the studio without difficulty, having equipped himself, from the hotel letter-rack, with a folding map of Paris. It occupied the top floor of a queer barracks of a building that stood behind high spiked railings, guarded by two empty sentry-boxes, well back from the boulevard. A lingering smell of tan bark indicated that it had once been an armoury, and a great shindy coming from above suggested to Stephen, for one startled moment, that the troops were still in occupation. When he went up, after completing the necessary formalities of admission with the massier, a burly, flat-faced character in grey sweater and canvas trousers who had the appearance of a retired prize-fighter – and who, indeed, was there to prevent flagrant disorder – he found that the class had begun.

  The large, light room heated by a huge Dutch stove, with walls which seemed all windows, was crowded with perhaps fifty students, as strange a company as he had ever seen. For the most part they were men, between twenty and thirty years of age, dressed in a variety of taste, from many nationalities – bearded Slavs, a dark-skinned Indian, a group of blond Scandinavians, several young Americans. The few women were as oddly assorted. Stephen’s eye was caught by an elderly female in a mouse-coloured blouse, peering at her canvas through gold-rimmed pince-nez, like a schoolmistress at her blackboard in a country kindergarten.

  The din, at near hand, was deafening – a continuous babble of conversation, loud snatches of song, in competitive tongues, boisterous remarks shouted across the room. It seemed as though the tumult might permit Stephen to make his entry unobserved. But as he stood, hesitant and rather pale, upon the threshold, wearing his dark clerical suit, stiff white collar and black tie, the regulation attire of the Clinker Street curates, there came an unlucky lull during which the attention of the class was directed towards him. Then, in the silence, a falsetto voice exclaimed:

  ‘Ah! C’est Monsieur l’Abbé.’

  A howl of laughter greeted the remark. Entering in confusion, Stephen found a stool covered with dried palette scrapings, but no easel, squeezed with difficulty into a place and set up his portfolio of Ingres paper upon his knee.

  The model, an old man with long silver hair, who had the appearance of a decayed actor, was seated in a conventional attitude upon the central raised wooden platform, leaning forward slightly, chin resting upon the back of his hand. Stephen did not like the pose, and the ancient’s expression was bored and indifferent, but, taking his charcoal, he set to work.

  At eleven o’clock Monsieur Dupret appeared – a man of about sixty, handsome in a theatrical way, with bushy head of hair, an erect, dignified carriage, and mobile hands. Despite the slight bagginess of his trousers, his tight-fitting frock coat gave to him a correct, distinguished air, intensified by the ribbon in his buttonhole. His entry, which was impressively abrupt, caused a cessation of the worst of the noise, and in comparative calm he began slowly to make a tour of the room, pausing here and there to scrutinise a canvas with narrowed eyes, to utter, with a flowing gesture of the hands, a few curt words, rather like a surgeon making the round of his wards.

  As he drew near, Stephen prepared himself for some words of greeting, of civil interrogation, but the professor, with impersonal aloofness, said nothing whatsoever. He glanced once sideways at Stephen, half curious, half indifferent, then at his drawing, and the next moment, without the flicker of an eyebrow, he was gone.

  At one o’clock a bell rang. Immediately a yell went up, the model rose as though rel
eased by a spring and shuffled off the platform, while all around the students flung down brushes or charcoal and began piling towards the door. Disturbed and disappointed, Stephen was swept off, against his will, by the pushing throng. Suddenly, at his elbow, he heard a pleasant voice.

  ‘You’re English, aren’t you? I noticed you come in. My name’s Chester.’

  Stephen turned his head and discovered a good-looking young man of about his own age smiling down at him. His hair, cleft chin, and blue eyes shaded by long dark lashes gave him an air of frank and engaging charm. He was wearing an old Harrovian tie.

  ‘I’ll wait for you downstairs,’ he called out as an eddy of the crush took him away.

  Outside, Chester offered his hand.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my speaking to you. In this rabble we fellows from across the Channel ought to hang together.’

  After his depressing reception, Stephen was glad to find a friend. When he had introduced himself Chester paused for a moment, then exclaimed:

  ‘How about lunching with me?’

  They set off together along the boulevard.

  The restaurant they entered was quite near, in the Place Seline, a narrow, low-ceilinged room, almost a cellar, opening into a dark little kitchen half a dozen steps down from the street level, with a charcoal fire and roasting spit, filled by the clatter of copper pans and an agreeable aroma of cooking. Already the place was crowded, mainly by Dupret students, but Chester, with easy assurance, led the way through to a little yard adorned by tubs of privet and, calmly removing the card marked RESERVED from a table at the far end, skilfully ringed his hat upon a peg, and invited Stephen to be seated.

  Immediately a stout, red-faced woman in black bustled out of the kitchen in protest.

  ‘No, no, Harry … this place is reserved for Monsieur Lambert.’

  ‘Do not agitate yourself, Madame Chobert.’ Chester smiled. ‘You know Monsieur Lambert is my good friend. Besides, he is always late.’

  Madame Chobert was not pleased; she argued and grumbled, but Harry Chester’s charm – though she clearly tried to harden herself against it – was in the end too much for her. With a shrug commiserating her own weakness, she raised the slate which hung from her aproned waist and offered the menu chalked upon it for their inspection.

  At Chester’s suggestion they ordered potage maison, boeuf bordelaise, and a Brie cheese. A carafe of frothy yellow beer was already upon the table.

  ‘Not a bad old bird,’ Chester grinned when she had gone. During the meal he kept up a lively flow of talk; commentating with an unflagging supply of bandinage and ready-made phrases upon their neighbours. He pointed out Biondello, the Italian, who had actually exhibited at the Salon last year, and Pierre Aumerle, a hopeless case, who drank a bottle of Pernod every day, lunching with a raddled-looking woman in a large hat, regarding whom Chester raised his eyebrows with a smile. In between he sounded out Stephen with a few pleasant questions; then, after the café filtre was brought, he paused, with a somewhat conscious air, and seemed to find it necessary to explain himself.

  ‘Queer, isn’t it,’ he commented, drawing patterns on the chequered cloth, ‘how you can always tell a ’ varsity man? Philip Lambert is one too. After Harrow’ – he shot a quick glance at Stephen – ‘ I should have gone to Cambridge myself … if I hadn’t thrown it up for art.’

  He went on to reveal, with a deprecating smile, that his father had been a prominent tea-planter in Ceylon, while his mother, now a widow, had come home to inhabit a large, overstaffed mansion in Highgate. Naturally she spoiled him, gave him a generous allowance. He had been in Paris eighteen months.

  ‘It’s tremendous fun,’ he concluded. ‘You must let me show you the ropes.’

  ‘What do you think of Dupret?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘He’s the soundest teacher around. You know he has the Legion of Honour.’

  Jarred slightly, Stephen made no reply. Chester puzzled him, as he might be puzzled by an unfamiliar design which, while agreeable, held intricacies foreign to his taste.

  They had finished their coffee. People were beginning to leave.

  ‘Your friend Lambert doesn’t seem to be coming,’ Stephen said at last, to break the silence.

  Chester laughed.

  ‘Philip’s an erratic beggar. You never quite know when he’ll turn up … or with what attractive petticoat.’

  ‘Does he attend Dupret’s?’

  ‘He works at home … when he does work. He has private means, you know, and has knocked about all over Europe, studied in Rome and Vienna. But now he and his wife have rented a little apartment near the Esplanade des Invalides.’

  ‘Yes.’ Chester nodded. ‘And I can tell you, Desmonde, Mrs Lambert is a smart one. But of course, a perfect lady.’

  Here again was a remark that grated on Stephen’s ear, and he looked at his companion oddly, wondering how he could use so unfortunate a phrase. But before he had time to answer the question, Harry Chester sat up.

  ‘Here’s Philip now.’

  Following Chester’s gaze, Stephen saw entering the restaurant a slim, affected-looking man of about thirty, dressed in a short brown surcoat, with a low collar and a flowing tie. His face, pale and deeply shadowed beneath the eyes, wore a look of languor. His glossy black hair was parted neatly in the middle, but on one side a lock had escaped and fell in a little curl over his white forehead. His manner, indeed his general appearance, conveyed the impression of mannered indolence, of boredom and conceit.

  When he came over he put his cane under his arm, began peeling off a lemon-yellow glove, meanwhile contemplating Chester with slightly contemptuous amusement.

  ‘Thank you for keeping my table, dear boy. But now you must clear out. I’m expecting a guest at two o’clock. And I shan’t need a chaperon.’

  ‘We’re just going, Philip.’ Chester’s tone had taken on a submissive inflection. ‘ Look here, I’d like you to meet Desmonde. He joined us at Dupret’s today.’

  Lambert took a look at Stephen, then he bowed politely.

  ‘Desmonde just came down from Oxford last term,’ Chester threw out quickly.

  ‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Lambert. ‘Which college, may I ask?’

  ‘Trinity,’ said Stephen.

  ‘Ah!’ Lambert relaxed into a smile, showing even white teeth, and, removing the second of his tight kid gloves – a lengthy operation which he performed in silence and without turning a hair – held out a small hand to Stephen. ‘I am happy to meet you. I myself was at the House. Pray do not inconvenience yourself by hurrying. I can easily find another table.’

  ‘I assure you,’ said Stephen, rising, ‘ we’ve quite finished.’

  ‘Then come to tea at my house one day. We are at home most Wednesdays at five. Harry will bring you along. Then we shall be two men from Oxford and one’ – his smile flickered towards Chester – ‘who so nearly went to Cambridge.’

  The bill, swiftly presented by Madame Chobert, now lay upon the table. Since Chester did not appear to see it, Stephen picked it up and, despite Harry’s sudden and energetic protests, paid.

  Chapter Seven

  Under the spell of his new freedom, Stephen fell quickly and with delightful ease into a most agreeable routine, the more so since, a week after his arrival, a letter came from Stillwater which greatly relieved his mind. While stressing the pain occasioned by Stephen’s sudden departure, the Rector had, in a sense, condoned it. Obviously, he wrote, the inclination (the word temptation had been crossed out) was too strong to be resisted. It might therefore be ‘all for the best’ if, as Stephen had himself proposed, this interim of a year be regarded on both sides as a ‘proving ground’. Meantime, he approved Stephen’s choice of lodging, knew him too well to have need of exhorting him to virtue, and wished him to lack for nothing befitting his position.

  In the morning it was a sensation which never palled to awaken to the knowledge that he was in Paris, actually pursuing his ‘artistic career’. He rose, dressed quickly,
and as breakfast at the Clifton had nothing to recommend it, went out to a little crèmerie round the corner from the hotel. Here, for thirty sous, he was served a jug of steaming café au lait and two flaky croissants still warm from the batch just brought in by the baker. His walk to the studio through the fresh streets was always a delight. The hurrying crowds and blue-cloaked policemen, the early housewives with arms crooked on laden baskets, a Zouave soldier in scarlet trousers, two concierges gossiping across their brooms, an old street-cleaner sending a swirl of water along the gutter, pushcarts of fresh vegetables clattering from the Halles – all this entranced him, cut by sharp, sudden cries, the chatter of many tongues, a slow chime of bells against the background of the soft grey buildings, the graceful white bridges, the lovely river, already beginning to sparkle in the sun.

  At the studio, it is true, he did not yet feel at home. The lack of order and perpetual noise made concentration difficult. It seemed as if many of the students had come less for work than for sheer diversion and a wild display of animal spirits. They laughed and sang, played rough practical jokes, held endless loud discussions in the cafés, argued and quarrelled, affected an exaggerated bohemianism in their dress and manner. They spoke the argot of the quarter, were all-knowing on the subject of the latest ‘ movements’, acknowledged Manet, Degas and Renoir as their masters and aped them painfully, despised Millet and Ingres, were critical of Delacroix, yet had little, or nothing, to offer of their own.

  Of course there were others who did apply themselves. Next to Stephen was a Polish youth from a small country town near Warsaw who, fired by ambition, had come penniless to Paris. To pay his fees at Dupret’s he had worked for twelve months as a porter at the Gare Montparnasse. The intensity of his effort was frightening, yet he was entirely without talent. Often, when Dupret made his daily round, Stephen hoped he would, with a single word, mercifully end this futile striving. But the professor said nothing, did nothing beyond correcting a line, or pointing, with a blank expression, to the lack of balance in the composition. His attitude towards Stephen remained equally impassive, although once or twice, after studying some piece of work, he glanced at him in a curious manner, almost covertly, as though seeing him, examining him, for the first time.