IV
"There is a nouveau here," drawled Laffat, leaning around his easel andaddressing his friend Bowles, "there is a nouveau here who is so tenderand green and appetizing that Heaven help him if he should fall into asalad bowl."
"Hayseed?" inquired Bowles, plastering in a background with a brokenpalette-knife and squinting at the effect with approval.
"Yes, Squeedunk or Oshkosh, and how he ever grew up among the daisies andescaped the cows, Heaven alone knows!"
Bowles rubbed his thumb across the outlines of his study to "throw in alittle atmosphere," as he said, glared at the model, pulled at his pipeand 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, "hisname is Hastings. He _is_ a berry. He knows no more about the world,"--andhere Mr. Laffat's face spoke volumes for his own knowledge of thatplanet,--"than a maiden cat on its first moonlight stroll."
Bowles now having succeeded in lighting his pipe, repeated the thumb touchon the other edge of the study and said, "Ah!"
"Yes," continued his friend, "and would you imagine it, he seems to thinkthat everything here goes on as it does in his d----d little backwoodsranch at home; talks about the pretty girls who walk alone in the street;says how sensible it is; and how French parents are misrepresented inAmerica; says that for his part he finds French girls,--and he confessedto only knowing one,--as jolly as American girls. I tried to set himright, tried to give him a pointer as to what sort of ladies walk aboutalone or with students, and he was either too stupid or too innocent tocatch on. Then I gave it to him straight, and he said I was a vile-mindedfool and marched off."
"Did you assist him with your shoe?" inquired Bowles, languidlyinterested.
"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 losthis 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 theastonished Laffat.
"This man has been disagreeable to you, and I want to tell you that anytime 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 weregiven to understand that Hastings, although prepared to do menial work asthe 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 achorus of songs and yells and every ear-splitting noise which the artstudent utters when studying the beautiful.
Five o'clock struck,--the model yawned, stretched and climbed into histrousers, and the noisy contents of six studios crowded through the halland down into the street. Ten minutes later, Hastings found himself on topof 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 theLuxembourg."
"By the way," said Hastings, "how can I call on you when I don't knowwhere you live?"
"Why, I live opposite you."
"What--the studio in the garden where the almond trees are and theblackbirds--"
"Exactly," said Clifford. "I'm with my friend Elliott."
Hastings thought of the description of the two American artists which hehad heard from Miss Susie Byng, and looked blank.
Clifford continued, "Perhaps you had better let me know when you think ofcoming so,--so that I will be sure to--to be there," he ended ratherlamely.
"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 wouldsay, Puritanical. I shouldn't enjoy it and wouldn't know how to behave."
"Oh, I understand," said Clifford, but added with great cordiality,--"I'msure we'll be friends although you may not approve of me and my set, butyou will like Severn and Selby because--because, well, they are likeyourself, 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, toValentine--"
"Not a word!" cried Hastings, smiling; "you must not tell me a word ofher!"
"Why--"
"No--not a word!" he said gaily. "I insist,--promise me upon your honouryou 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 Igive 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 coursehe doesn't!"
He entered the hallway, and fitting the key into the door, stood staringat 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 brindlebull-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 totell 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 illusionsare dispelled."
"More shame to those who dispel 'em!"
"Yes,--wait until he comes to pay his call on us, unexpectedly, ofcourse--"
Clifford looked virtuous and lighted a cigar.
"I was just going to say," he observed, "that I have asked him not to comewithout letting us know, so I can postpone any orgie you may haveintended--"
"Ah!" cried Elliott indignantly, "I suppose you put it to him in thatway."
"Not exactly," grinned Clifford. Then more seriously, "I don't wantanything to occur here to bother him. He's a brick, and it's a pity wecan'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 greatstyle. Do you know what I've done? Well--the first time I met him in thestreet,--or rather, it was in the Luxembourg, I introduced him toValentine!"
"Did he object?"
"Believe me," said Clifford, solemnly, "this rustic Hastings has no moreidea that Valentine is--is--in fact is Valentine, than he has that hehimself is a beautiful example of moral decency in a Quarter where moralsare as rare as elephants. I heard enough in a conversation between thatblackguard Loffat and the little immoral eruption, Bowles, to open myeyes. I tell you Hastings is a trump! He's a healthy, clean-minded youngfellow, bred in a small country village, brought up with the idea thatsaloons are way-stations to hell--and as for women--"
"Well?" demanded Elliott
>
"Well," said Clifford, "his idea of the dangerous woman is probably apainted Jezabel."
"Probably," replied the other.
"He's a trump!" said Clifford, "and if he swears the world is as good andpure as his own heart, I'll swear he's right."
Elliott rubbed his charcoal on his file to get a point and turned to hissketch saying, "He will never hear any pessimism from Richard Osborne E."
"He's a lesson to me," said Clifford. Then he unfolded a small perfumednote, written on rose-coloured paper, which had been lying on the tablebefore him.
He read it, smiled, whistled a bar or two from "Miss Helyett," and satdown to answer it on his best cream-laid note-paper. When it was writtenand sealed, he picked up his stick and marched up and down the studio twoor three times, whistling.
"Going out?" inquired the other, without turning.
"Yes," he said, but lingered a moment over Elliott's shoulder, watchinghim 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 toBoulant's. I suppose you and, Cecile will be there?"
"Well, no," replied Clifford. "Cecile dines at home to-night, and I--I hadan 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 toMignon's when the set dine at Boulant's. Who is it now?--but no, I won'task that,--what's the use!" Then he lifted up his voice in complaint andbeat upon the table with his pipe. "What's the use of ever trying to keeptrack of you? What will Cecile say,--oh, yes, what will she say? It's apity you can't be constant two months, yes, by Jove! and the Quarter isindulgent, 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 doand so do I. If I were Cecile or any of the other pretty fools after whomyou have toddled and will, in all human probabilities, continue to toddle,I say, if I were Cecile I'd spank you! Now I'm going to Boulant's, and asusual I shall make excuses for you and arrange the affair, and I don'tcare a continental where you are going, but, by the skull of the studioskeleton! if you don't turn up to-morrow with your sketching-kit under onearm and Cecile under the other,--if you don't turn up in good shape, I'mdone 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, andthen sat down with his eyes on the door. He took out his watch and gaveElliott 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, "makeyourself clean and proper, Alfred, and replace your sabots with a pair ofshoes. Then put on your best hat and take this letter to the big whitehouse in the Rue de Dragon. There is no answer, _mon petit_ Alfred."
The concierge departed with a snort in which unwillingness for the errandand affection for M. Clifford were blended. Then with great care the youngfellow arrayed himself in all the beauties of his and Elliott's wardrobe.He took his time about it, and occasionally interrupted his toilet to playhis banjo or make pleasing diversion for the bull-dogs by gambling abouton all fours. "I've got two hours before me," he thought, and borrowed apair of Elliott's silken foot-gear, with which he and the dogs played balluntil he decided to put them on. Then he lighted a cigarette and inspectedhis dress-coat. When he had emptied it of four handkerchiefs, a fan, and apair of crumpled gloves as long as his arm, he decided it was not suitedto add _eclat_ 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 theman! 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 andlounged back to the studio.
Hastings was not far away. The Luxembourg is within five minutes' walk ofthe rue Notre Dame des Champs, and there he sat under the shadow of awinged god, and there he had sat for an hour, poking holes in the dust andwatching the steps which lead from the northern terrace to the fountain.The sun hung, a purple globe, above the misty hills of Meudon. Longstreamers of clouds touched with rose swept low on the western sky, andthe dome of the distant Invalides burned like an opal through the haze.Behind the Palace the smoke from a high chimney mounted straight into theair, purple until it crossed the sun, where it changed to a bar ofsmouldering fire. High above the darkening foliage of the chestnuts thetwin towers of St. Sulpice rose, an ever-deepening silhouette.
A sleepy blackbird was carolling in some near thicket, and pigeons passedand repassed with the whisper of soft winds in their wings. The light onthe Palace windows had died away, and the dome of the Pantheon swam aglowabove the northern terrace, a fiery Valhalla in the sky; while below ingrim array, along the terrace ranged, the marble ranks of queens lookedout into the west.
From the end of the long walk by the northern facade of the Palace camethe noise of omnibuses and the cries of the street. Hastings looked at thePalace clock. Six, and as his own watch agreed with it, he fell to pokingholes in the gravel again. A constant stream of people passed between theOdeon and the fountain. Priests in black, with silver-buckled shoes; linesoldiers, slouchy and rakish; neat girls without hats bearing milliners'boxes, students with black portfolios and high hats, students with beretsand big canes, nervous, quick-stepping officers, symphonies in turquoiseand silver; ponderous jangling cavalrymen all over dust, pastry cooks'boys skipping along with utter disregard for the safety of the basketbalanced on the impish head, and then the lean outcast, the shamblingParis tramp, slouching with shoulders bent and little eye furtivelyscanning the ground for smokers' refuse;--all these moved in a steadystream across the fountain circle and out into the city by the Odeon,whose long arcades were now beginning to flicker with gas-jets. Themelancholy bells of St Sulpice struck the hour and the clock-tower of thePalace lighted up. Then hurried steps sounded across the gravel andHastings raised his head.
"How late you are," he said, but his voice was hoarse and only his flushedface told how long had seemed the waiting.
She said, "I was kept--indeed, I was so much annoyed--and--and I may onlystay a moment."
She sat down beside him, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder at thegod 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 hisplay. Of course it was a man who conceived the idea of wings, otherwiseCupid 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 wewere speaking of."
"We were speaking of love," said Hastings.
"_I_ was not," said the girl. Then looking up at the marble god, "I don'tcare for this one at all. I don't believe he knows how to shoot hisarrows--no, indeed, he is a coward;--he creeps up like an assassin in thetwilight. I don't approve of cowardice," she announced, and turned herback on the statue.
"I think," said Hastings quietly, "that he does shoot fairly--yes, andeven gives one warning."
"Is it your experience, Monsieur Hastings?"
He looked straight in
to her eyes and said, "He is warning me."
"Heed the warning then," she cried, with a nervous laugh. As she spoke shestripped off her gloves, and then carefully proceeded to draw them onagain. When this was accomplished she glanced at the Palace clock, saying,"Oh dear, how late it is!" furled her umbrella, then unfurled it, andfinally 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 inlove."
"I don't know," he muttered, "I suppose I am."
She raised her head with a quick gesture. "You seem delighted at theidea," she said, but bit her lip and trembled as his eyes met hers. Thensudden fear came over her and she sprang up, staring into the gatheringshadows.
"Are you cold?" he said.
But she only answered, "Oh dear, oh dear, it is late--so late! I mustgo--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, solate!"
The rolling of the drum came nearer and nearer, and then the silhouette ofthe drummer cut the sky above the eastern terrace. The fading lightlingered a moment on his belt and bayonet, then he passed into theshadows, drumming the echoes awake. The roll became fainter along theeastern terrace, then grew and grew and rattled with increasing sharpnesswhen he passed the avenue by the bronze lion and turned down the westernterrace walk. Louder and louder the drum sounded, and the echoes struckback the notes from the grey palace wall; and now the drummer loomed upbefore them--his red trousers a dull spot in the gathering gloom, thebrass of his drum and bayonet touched with a pale spark, his epaulettestossing on his shoulders. He passed leaving the crash of the drum in theirears, and far into the alley of trees they saw his little tin cup shiningon 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 downon the marble seat until a hand on his shoulder and a glimmer of bayonetswarned 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 violetsand walked on along the Boulevard to the rue des Ecoles. A cab was drawnup 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 littleshiver, nodding good-night, then turning into the Boulevard St. Germain,she walked a tittle faster to escape a gay party sitting before the CafeCluny who called to her to join them. At the door of the Restaurant Mignonstood a coal-black negro in buttons. He took off his peaked cap as shemounted the carpeted stairs.
"Send Eugene to me," she said at the office, and passing through thehallway to the right of the dining-room stopped before a row of panelleddoors. A waiter passed and she repeated her demand for Eugene, whopresently appeared, noiselessly skipping, and bowed murmuring, "Madame."
"Who is here?"
"No one in the cabinets, madame; in the half Madame Madelon and MonsieurGay, Monsieur de Clamart, Monsieur Clisson, Madame Marie and their set."Then he looked around and bowing again murmured, "Monsieur awaits madamesince half an hour," and he knocked at one of the panelled doors bearingthe number six.
Clifford opened the door and the girl entered.
The garcon bowed her in, and whispering, "Will Monsieur have the goodnessto ring?" vanished.
He helped her off with her jacket and took her hat and umbrella. When shewas seated at the little table with Clifford opposite she smiled andleaned 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 blueeyes, the curling hair, the straight nose and short curled lip flashed inthe mirror an instant only, and then its depths reflected her pretty neckand back. "Thus do I turn my back on vanity," she said, and then leaningforward again, "What are you doing here?"
"Waiting for you," repeated Clifford, slightly troubled.
"And Cecile."
"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 eachother with the usual regularity until Eugene brought coffee, and there wasnothing left on the table but a small silver lamp.
"Valentine," said Clifford, after having obtained permission to smoke, "isit 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 knowwhat 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, "heis 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 ayear."
"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 withyou?" she said. "Don't you know that we are too good comrades,--too oldfriends for that? And were we not,--do you think that I do not know yourhistory, 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 Cecile."
"Cecile is tired of me."
"I hope she is," said the girl, "for she deserves a better fate. Tiens, doyou know your reputation in the Quarter? Of the inconstant, the mostinconstant,--utterly incorrigible and no more serious than a gnat on asummer night. Poor Cecile!"
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 onecannot be a victim to caprice."
"Caprice!" he cried. "By Jove, if the girls of the Latin Quarter are notcapricious--"
"Never mind,--never mind about that! You must not sit in judgment--you ofall 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 inhis 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 afriend. I have come to acknowledge it to you here,--and it is because ofthat 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 as
k youto--to--in case you should speak of me before him,--not to say,--not tosay,--"
"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,--ashe considers every woman. You know how different he is from you and therest. 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 theQuarter. Oh, I do not wish him to know! I do not wish him to--to turn fromme--to cease from speaking to me as he does! You--you and the rest cannotknow what it has been to me. I could not believe him,--I could not believehe was so good and--and noble. I do not wish him to know--so soon. He willfind out--sooner or later, he will find out for himself, and then he willturn away from me. Why!" she cried passionately, "why should he turn fromme and not from _you_?"
Clifford, much embarrassed, eyed his cigarette.
The girl rose, very white. "He is your friend--you have a right to warnhim."
"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 warnhim!"
"I shall trust your word," he said pleasantly.