text:
Zut and Other Parisians/Le Pochard

Le Pochard
His applicability was evident to the mind of Jean Fraissigne from the moment when the camelot placed Le Pochard on a table in front of the Taverne, and he proceeded to go through his ridiculous pretense of drinking from the cup in his left hand which he filled from the bottle in his right. Jean, who was dawdling over a demi, and watching the familiar ebb and flow of life on the Boul’ Miche’, was at first passively pleased at the distraction provided by the appearance of the toy, and then, of a sudden, consumedly absorbed in the progress of his operations. For what was plain to any but a blind man was the fact that Le Pochard was the precise counterfeit of Jean’s friend and comrade, Grégoire — Grégoire, with his flat-brimmed hat, and his loose working blouse, and his loud checked trousers — Grégoire, hélas! with his flushed face, and his tremulous hands, and his unsteady walk, as Jean had seen him a hundred times!

Le Pochard staggered to and fro upon the marble-topped table, nodding maudlinly, and alternately filling his cup and raising it uncertainly to his expressionless face. At last, weakened by his exertions, he passed one arm through the handle of Jean’s demi, hesitated, and then leaned heavily against the glass and stood motionless, with his topheavy head bent forward, and his eyes fixed on the price-mark upon the saucer below. This eloquent manœuvre, so unspeakably appealing, determined the future ownership of Le Pochard. Jean purchased him upon the spot, and bore him off in triumph to the rue de Seine, as an object lesson for Grégoire Caubert.

The two students shared a little sous-toit within a stone’s throw of the Beaux-Arts, neither luxuriously nor yet insufficiently furnished. It was Jean’s good fortune to have a father who believed in him — not a usual condition of mind in a provincial merchant whose son displays an unaccountable partiality for architecture — and, what was more to the point, who could afford to demonstrate his confidence by remittances, which were inspiring, if not on the score of magnitude, at least on that of regularity. And, since freedom from pecuniary solicitude is the surest guarantee of a cheerful spirit, there was no more diligent pupil at the Boîte, no blither comrade in idle hours, — above all, no more loyal friend, in sun or shadow, throughout the length and breadth of the Quartier, than little Jean le Gai, as he was called by those who loved him, and whom he loved.

That was why the comrades were at a loss to understand his friendship for Grégoire Caubert. Had the latter been one of themselves, a type of the schools, in that fact alone, whatever his peculiarities, would have lain a reason for the association. But, to all intents and purposes, he was of another world. His similarity to Jean and to themselves began and ended with his costume. For the rest he was silent and reserved, courting no confidence and giving none, unknowing and unknown to the haunts they frequented, — the Deux Magots, the Escholiers, the Taverne, the Bullier, and Madame Roupiquet’s in the rue de Beaune, and the Rouge on Thursday nights. Jean le Gai, when questioned as to the doings of Grégoire, seemed to reflect something of his friend’s reserve. He admitted that the other wrote: he even went so far as to prophesy that some day Grégoire would be famous. Further, he made no admissions.

“Diable!” he said. “What does it matter? He goes his way — I go mine. And if we choose to live together, whose concern is it then, I ask you? Fichez-moi la paix, vous autres!”

So popular curiosity went unsatisfied, so far as Grégoire was concerned, and the apparently uncongenial ménage came, in time, to be looked upon as one of the unexplained mysteries of the Quartier, — one, for the rest, which made no particular difference to any one save the two immediately concerned.

But if Jean made no admissions as to Grégoire, it was not for lack of sufficient knowledge. They had met, as men meet in the Quartier, — as bubbles meet in a stream, and, for reasons not apparent, are drawn together by an irresistible attraction, and fuse into one larger, brighter bubble than either has been before. For little Jean Fraissigne, whose exquisses were the wonder of the School, and whose projets had already come to be photographed and sold in the shops of the rue Bonaparte and the quai Conti, believed in his heart that architecture was as nothing compared to literature, and Grégoire, whose long, uphill struggle had been unaccompanied by comradely admiration or even encouragement, found indescribable comfort, in the hour of his success, in the faith and approbation of the friend who alone, of all men, knew his secret, knew that the Réné de Lys of the “Chansons de Danaé” and the “Voyage de Tristan” of which all Paris was talking, was none other than himself — Grégoire Caubert, on whose wrist the siren of absinthe had laid a hand that was not to be shaken off, and whom she was leading, if by the paths of subtlest fancy and almost miraculous creative faculty, yet toward an end inevitable on which he did not dare to dwell.

To Jean, healthy, rational, and cheerful as a young terrier, much that Grégoire said and did was totally incomprehensible, but what he did not understand he set down, with conviction, to the eccentricity of genius. The long nights which he spent alone, sleeping sanely in their bedroom in the rue de Seine, while Grégoire’s cot stood empty beside him, and Grégoire himself was tramping the streets of Paris; the return of his friend in the first faint light of dawn, pale-faced and swaying; the succeeding hours which, despite his exhaustion, he spent at his desk, feverishly writing, and tossing the pages from him, one by one, until the floor was strewn with them on all sides; finally, his heavy slumber far into the afternoon, — all this, to Jean, was but part and parcel of that marvelous thing called literature. He returned at seven to find that Grégoire had prepared a wonderful little meal, and was walking up and down the floor, unevenly, absinthe in hand, awaiting his arrival.

In the two hours which followed lay the keynote of their sympathy. It was then that Grégoire would read his work of the early morning hour, to Jean, curled up on the divan, with his hands clasped behind his head and his eyes round and wide with delight and admiration. What things they were, those fancies that Grégoire had pursued and caught, like night-moths, in the streets of Paris, while stupid folk were sleeping! And how he read them, Grégoire, with his flushed face lit with inspiration, and his eyes flaming with enthusiasm! If only he would not drink absinthe, thought little Jean, and said so, timidly at first, and then more earnestly, as, little by little, the marks of excess grew more plain in his friend. But Grégoire made a joke of this — he who always joked — and in time, Jean came to acquiesce. For he never wholly understood — until afterwards.

So, when nine struck, it was understood that they parted company till the following evening. Jean brought out his drawing board, his T square, and all their attendant paraphernalia, and toiled at his calques with infinite patience and unerring accuracy, until midnight; and Grégoire, having corrected his manuscript here and there, gnawing savagely at his pencil the while, inclosed it in one of his long envelopes, scrawled “Rédaction du Journal” upon it, stamped it, and went out into the night to mail the old, and seek new moths. And this was all there was to the comradeship which mystified the Quartier, save that the love of Jean for Grégoire and of Grégoire for Jean was as deep and unfaltering as the current of the eternal Seine — and, if anything, more silent!

Jean wound up Le Pochard stealthily, on the landing outside the apartment door, and, entering, placed it suddenly upon the table under the very nose of Grégoire, who stood, sipping his absinthe, in the centre of the room. Le Pochard rocked and swayed, ticking like a little clock, and drinking cup after cup of his imaginary beverage, as if his life depended upon the quantity consumed. Convulsed with merriment at the performance of the preposterous creature, Jean le Gai lay prone upon the divan, kneading the cushions with his fists and kicking his heels against the floor, and Grégoire, a slow smile curling his thin, sensitive lips, seemed to forget even his absinthe until the toy’s energy slackened and he paused, with the bottle shaking in his hand, and his eyes, as usual, bent upon the ground. Then — “Eh b’en — quoi?” said Grégoire, looking up at his friend.

“Mais c’est toi!” burst out the little architect in an ecstasy. “It is thou to the life, my Grégoire! Remark the blouse — what? — and the hat, sale pompier! — and the checked grimpant, name of a pipe! But it is thy brother, Le Pochard! — thy twin — thou, thyself!”

And seizing the glass from Grégoire’s hand, he carefully filled Le Pochard’s cup with absinthe, and set him reeling and swaggering again, so that the immoral little animal spilled the liquid on his blouse, and presently fell headlong, totally overcome, with his nose pressed flat against the table.

Thereafter, it was a comradeship of three instead of two. It was quite in accord with the whimsically fanciful nature of Grégoire that he should take Le Pochard into his affections, and even call him “brother” and “cher confrère.” He treated him, did Grégoire, with marked deference and studied non-observance of his besetting weakness, and he expected and received from Le Pochard a like respect and indulgence in return. That, at least, was how he described their relations to Jean, and Jean, curled up upon the divan, was never tired of the droll pretense, but would laugh night after night till the tears came, at the common tact and the mutual courtesy of Grégoire and Le Pochard.

Linked by this new, if unstable, bond of sympathy, neither of the friends understood, during the months that followed, that their paths, which had so long lain parallel, were gradually but inevitably diverging. Jean was now wrapped heart and soul in the competition for the Prix de Rome, and, as he said himself, en charrette eternally. Even the work of his comrade, which formerly had held him spell-bound, lost for him, little by little, much of its compellant charm. His nimble mind, busy with the stern, symmetrical lines of columns and the intricate proportioning of capitals, drifted imperceptibly away from its one-time appreciation of pure imagery. He returned later at night from the atelier, consumed the meal they ate in common with growing impatience, and was busy with his calques again before Grégoire had fairly finished his coffee. The evening readings, grown shorter and shorter, were finally abandoned altogether, and, oftener than not, Jean was totally oblivious to the presence of Grégoire, correcting his manuscript at the little desk, or his noiseless departure with the stamped envelope under his arm. Had he been told, he would have denied his defection with the scorn bred by conviction. It was not that he loved his comrade less, but only that the growing promise of the Prix de Rome lay, like the marvel of dawn, on the horizon of the immediate future, blinding his eyes to all beside. For Jean le Gai was finding himself, and in the crescent light of that new and wonderful discovery whatever had been bright before grew tawdry.

Only one evidence remained of what had been. Le Pochard, with his absurd inanity, was yet a feature of every dinner in the rue de Seine, and because Grégoire invented daily some new drollery in connection with their senseless toy, Jean was unaware that things were no longer the same, — that his friend was thinner and more nervous, that the circles had deepened under his eyes, that he said no word of his work. They laughed together at Le Pochard, and laughed again at their own amusement. So the days went by and still their paths diverged, — Jean’s toward the sun-gilt hills of promise and prosperity, Grégoire’s toward the valley of shadow that a man must tread alone.

Despite his proclivities, neither foresaw the end of Le Pochard. So gradual was his decline toward utter degradation that the varnish was gone from his narrow boots and his round, weak face, and his simple attire was frayed and worn, before they had remarked the change. Then, one night, as Grégoire wound him, the key turned futilely in the spring. Placed in his accustomed position on the table, Le Pochard made one feeble gesture of surrender with his bottle, one unavailing effort to raise his absinthe to his lips, and, reeling dizzily, crashed down upon the floor, his debauches done with forever.

It was a curious thing that, in the face of this absurdity, neither of the comrades smiled. In some unaccountable fashion Le Pochard had come to be so much a part of their association that in his passing there was less of farce than tragedy. And Jean, looking across at Grégoire, saw for the first time the pitiful change that had crept into the face of his friend, the utter weariness where restless energy had been, the dullness of the eyes wherein had played imagination, like a will-o’-the-wisp above the slough of destiny. And Grégoire, looking across at Jean, knew that the moment had come, and dropped his glance, ashamed, fingering the tattered clothes of Le Pochard.

“One might have expected it,” said Jean, with a smile that was not a smile. “I suppose we must forgive him his faults, now that he is gone. De mortuis nil nisi bonum!”

Then, as Grégoire made no reply, he added,

“I shall not work to-night. I am tired. Que veux-tu? I have been doing too much. So we will sit by the fire, n’est ce pas, vieux? And thou shalt read to me as before. Dieu! It is a long time since the moths have shown their wings!”

In the tiny grate the cannel coal snapped and spat fretfully, and Jean, buried in the largest chair, winked at the sparks, and, furtively, from the corners of his brown eyes, watched Grégoire reading, half-heartedly, with the lamp-light cutting sharply across his thin cheek and his temples, on which the veins stood singularly out.

He was no critic, little Jean le Gai, yet even he knew that something had touched and bruised the wings of this latest moth that Grégoire had pursued and caught while stupid folk were sleeping, so that it was not, as had been the others, downed with the shifting brilliance of many unimagined hues, but dull and sombre, like the look he had surprised in the face of his friend. And so subtly keyed were the strings of their unspoken sympathy that night, that a sense of the other’s feeling stole in upon Grégoire long before the manuscript was finished, and suddenly he cast it from him into the grate, where the little flames caught at it, and wrapped it round, and sucked out its life, exulting, until it lay blackened and dying, writhing on the coals.

“Why?” said Jean. But he knew.

“Because,” answered Grégoire slowly, with his eyes upon the shrunken, faintly whispering ashes of his pages, whereat the sparks gnawed with insatiable greed, “because, my little one, it is finished. What I have done I shall never do again. Never didst thou wholly understand — least of all in these last days when thy work absorbed thee. If one is to catch night-moths with such a tender touch, and preserve them for other men to see so carefully, that no one little glint of radiance may be missing from their wings, one has need of a clear eye and of a steady hand. Neither is mine. My father, of whom I have never spoken to thee, — my father, who left me this gift of trapping the thoughts that others see not as they fly, yet love and prize when they are caught and pinned upon the page, yet left me a companion curse, — the curse of absinthe, little Jean, that is not to be gainsaid. For as the gift was beautiful, so was it also frail, and as the curse was subtle, so was it also strong. I have seen the end — long, long. Now it is here. My work is finished. The curse has knocked at the door of my body, and, at the signal, the gift has flown forth from the window of my soul.”

He paused, and pausing, smiled.

“Thou didst most nearly understand me, Jean,” he continued, “in buying Le Pochard. For in truth, he was my brother — my twin — my soul, in the semblance of a toy! How we have laughed at him! Yet all along I have seen myself in that senseless little man of tin. Is it fanciful? Peut-être bien! But, now that he is gone, I see that I must go, too, — and in the same way, my Jean, in the same way, — with my absinthe in my hand and the key of inspiration turning uselessly in the broken spring of my heart!”

He rose suddenly, with a shiver, and looked down at Jean le Gai. For an instant he touched him on the hair, and then he was gone into the night, leaving the little architect gazing, wide-eyed and mute, at the crinkling ashes of the last, unworthiest moth of all.

During the days that followed, Le Pochard stood upon the mantel-corner. They no longer touched him, but left him, as it were, a monument to his own folly.

There was no further trace in Grégoire’s manner of the mood which had loosed his tongue on the night of his last reading. To Jean, who, in his simplicity stood ready with comfort and encouragement, he seemed to be in need of neither. Plainly, what he had said was but a phase of that strange imagination which had dictated the exquisite pathos of his “Danaé” and his “Tristan;” and this one thing little Jean had learned, — that his friend lived the moods he wrote, and that oftentimes, when what he said was seemingly most personal, he was posing for his own pen — a painter in speech, drawing from his reflection in a mirror opposite. So the vague alarm aroused by Grégoire’s words died down, and Jean plunged once more into his work.

In those last days of the competition his projet, laboriously builded, detail by detail, leaped into completion with a suddenness startling even to himself. He knew that it was good, — knew so without the surprising enthusiasm of his comrades at the atelier, and the still more surprising commendation of his patron, the great Laloux himself, whose policy was nil admirari, whose frown a habit, and whose “Bon!” a miracle. But even Jean le Gai, with all his buoyant optimism, was unprepared in conviction for those words which reverberated, to his ears like thunder, beneath the dome of the Institut.

“Prix de Rome — Jean Fraissigne — Atelier Laloux!”

Would Grégoire never come? He asked himself the question a hundred times as he paced the floor of their living-room an hour before dinner, exulting in the cold roast chicken and the champagne, and the huge Maréchale Niel rose which he had purchased for the occasion. For he was determined, was Jean le Gai, that Grégoire should be the first to know. Was it not Grégoire who had encouraged him all along, who had prophesied success when as yet the projet was no more than an exquisse exquisse, who had laughed down Jean’s forebodings, and magnified Jean’s hopes a hundred-fold? Yes, evidently Grégoire must be the first to know, before even a bleu should be sent to Avignon to gladden the heart of Fraissigne père!

But when Grégoire came, there was no need to tell him after all. For it was the chicken that shouted Jean’s news — the chicken, and the champagne, and the great yellow rose, and, most of all, the face of Jean himself. So it was that Grégoire held out his long, thin arms, wide-spread, and that into them rushed Jean, to be hugged and patted, as he gabbled some things that there was such a thing as understanding and many more that there was not.

“Rome — Rome, think of it! And the paternel — but he will die of joy! Ah, mon vieux, — Rome! The dreams — the hopes — all I have wished for — and now — and now Ah, mon vieux, mon vieux!”

And so again and again, clamoring incoherently, while Grégoire, holding him tight, could only pat and pat, and say, over and over, —

“It is well, my little brother! My little brother, it is very, very well!”

They dined like princes, these two, pledging each other, laughing, singing, shouting. Never had Jean le Gai so well deserved his name, never had Grégoire been so whimsically droll. Even Le Pochard was restored to his old position and coaxed to repeat his former antics. But it was all in vain. The key refused to catch the spring, and, replaced upon the table, Le Pochard only nodded once or twice with profound melancholy, and stared at little Jean out of his round eyes. Once, Jean thought he caught in the face of his friend a hint of the sadness of that other night, but when he looked again the sadness, if sadness it were, was gone. Grégoire filled his glass, and pledged him anew with a laugh.

“Rome, mon petit frère — Rome!”

At nine, they went out together, Jean to dispatch his bleu and join the comrades at the Taverne — for this was a night to be celebrated with songs and many drained demis — and Grégoire, who knew where?

Who knew where? Only the Seine, perhaps, sulking past the rampart on which he leaned, thinking, thinking, until the gaunt dawn crept up, like a sick man from his bed, behind the towers of Notre Dame; and the shutters of the shops on the quai Conti came rattling down, and the street cries went shrilly through the thin morning air: “Rac’modeur d’faïence et d’por-or-celaine!” or “’Archand de rôbinets! Tureetutu, tureetututututu!” Then Grégoire went slowly back to the rue de Seine.

Jean spent the succeeding days in a whirl of excitement. There were calls to be made, farewell suppers to be eaten, and all the preparation for departure to be superintended. Fraissigne père sent a joyful letter, and in the letter a substantial draft, so that Jean had two new complets, and shirts, and socks, and shoes, and a brilliantly varnished trunk with his name and address painted in black letters on the end, — “J. Fraissigne, Villa Medici, Rome.” It was magnificent! In this and a packing case he stowed his clothes and his household gods, though when the latter had been collected, the little apartment in the rue de Seine looked pitifully bare. There were dark squares on the faded red wall-paper, and clean circles in the dust of the shelves, where his pictures and casts and little ornaments had been, but Grégoire only laughed and said that the place had been too crowded before, and that the long-needed house-cleaning was no longer an impossibility. So, before they realized the fact, the moment of parting was upon them, and the sapin, with Jean’s luggage on top, stood waiting at the door. The concierge, wiping her hands upon her blue-checked apron, came out to bid her favorite lodger good-by. A little throng of curious idlers paused on the narrow sidewalk, gaping at the new trunk with the glaring lettering. The cocher was already untying the nose-bag in which his lean brown horse had been nuzzling for fifteen minutes. And, on the curb, arm linked in arm, the two comrades stood watching him, with no courage to meet each other’s eyes. For each had a thousand things to say and never a word in which to say so much as one.

At the end, as their hands met, it was only a commonplace that came to Jean’s tongue.

“Thou wilt write me, vieux? And in four years — ce qui va vite, du reste! we shall be together once more!”

In four years — in four years — in four years! The words beat dully at Grégoire’s temples, as he watched the cab swing round the corner of the Institut toward the quai Malaquais, with Jean’s handkerchief fluttering at the window of the portiere. Four years — four years — four years! How easy it was to say for one who did not know that the end had come, — that the moths of fancy that fly by night must be caught by others now, that the siren of absinthe was standing ready to claim her own!

Grégoire mounted the stairs slowly, unlocked the door, and stepped into the familiar room, dim now in the last faint light of day. His absinthe stood upon the table, and he took it up, and paused, looking about him. Presently he went forward to the mantel, and, laying one hand upon it, bent forward, peering at a little photograph of Jean which leaned against the mirror. The woodwork jarred under his touch, and Le Pochard in his corner stirred, ticked feebly, and strove to raise his cup to his lips. Wheeling at the sound, Grégoire met the eyes of the dissipated little toy for a full minute, motionless and silent. Then with a sob, he hurled his glass into the grate, where it was shivered into a hundred fragments, and flung himself on his knees by the divan, with his face buried in his hands.

“Mon frèrot!” he murmured, “my little brother — help me — help me to be strong.”

On the mantle, Le Pochard bent his head and gazed shamefacedly upon the ground.

For his reign was at an end.

title: Zut and Other Parisians/Le Pochard


text:
Zut and Other Parisians/A Latter-Day Lucifer

A Latter-Day Lucifer
The distance between them is far less than is commonly supposed. In fact, they are separated only by a parti-wall. But there is a vast difference in their exteriors, Heaven being gay with silver paint and stucco cherubs, and illuminated by a huge arc-light with a white globe, and Hell all red, with a monster’s grinning mouth for entrance, and a ruby lamp.

The two cabarets stand on the boulevard de Clichy, side by side, and, when one is passing through Paris on a Cook ticket, good for a two weeks’ stay, one is taken by an obliging friend of the Colony to see them, and so is enabled to return to the States with the pleasing conviction of having had a glimpse of the true life of Montmartre, — the which is so artistic, and Bohemian, and all that.

It is something, as every one knows, to be an angel in Le Ciel; but it is also something, as every one does not know, to be a demon in L’Enfer. Aside from the sentiment of the thing, it is all the same, harps and halos or horns and hoofs. The clientèle of both places is, for the most part, étrangère, and what is certain is that an American never counts the little money one gives him in change, and that an Englishman disputes it anyway, so that, in the beginning, one might as well be wrong as right, and that a German is unable to tell a louis from a new sou. And a pourboire is a pourboire, whether intentional or otherwise. That is why Maxime Perrot felt himself to be a remarkably fortunate person when, one evening in June, he was suddenly transformed into an angel, as a result of his intimacy with Gustave Robine.

Gustave was two metres twelve in height, which is something so astonishing in itself that it is not to be wondered at that, for more than a year, he had filled the eminent position of guardian of the gate of Le Ciel, and was much in favor with the management, because of the attention he attracted from the clients. Also, he kept his eyes open, and, moreover, he owed Maxime fifty francs. So, when one of the angels abruptly married a rich widow, and departed for Maisons-Laffitte, to live on her ample rentes, Gustave mentioned the name of his friend and creditor for the vacancy, and, the next day, Maxime became one of the personnel of Heaven, with a fresh pair of wings and new pink fleshings.

Maxime was short and slender, in all except his feet, which were long and large, so long and large, indeed, that he was called l’L Majuscule — the Capital L — by his intimates, and fully merited the nickname when viewed in profile, standing. His experiences in life had been diverse, for, as he himself was wont to say, he cared less for an existence without variety than does a fish for an apple. He had driven a voiture de remise, gorgeous in a green cockade and doeskin breeches: he had been collector for the Banque de France, dismissed, let charity say not why: and garçon de restaurant, racing to and fro, with a mammoth tray balanced on one upright arm, like a human umbrella: and camelot, hoarsely crying “La Patrie!” in front of the boulevard cafés: and, finally, valet de chambre to Captain the Honorable Michael Douglas, military attaché to the British Embassy. It was in the last capacity that he had learned English, which now he spoke, said Gustave, like a veritable Goddem. That was not the least of the new angel’s qualifications. To be sure, it was against all reason that the sales anglais should, under any circumstances, achieve an entrée into Heaven, but then there were many incongruities in connection with Le Ciel, and the fact remained that three out of five of the clients spoke Angliche, and an angel who could reply to them in their own ignoble argot was, without doubt, an invaluable acquisition.

It cannot be denied that Maxime made a good beginning in Heaven. He entered upon his new duties modestly, and spent a full half-hour of the early evening cleaning the long table in the main hall, dusting the surrounding stools of gold, upon which the chosen were to sit, and assisting his fellow angels in polishing the liqueur glasses. And it so happened that the first to enter that night was Major Amos E. Cogswell, of the United States Army, who had spent three weeks in Paris at the age of twenty-two, and distinguished himself by demanding, on his second arrival, the way to the Jardin Mabille. With the Major were his two nieces, and their attendant swains, John Selfridge Appleby and P. Hamilton Beck, the latter in narrow-brimmed straw hats, which resembled lids of Japanese tea-pots, and dog-skin walking gloves, turned back at the wrists. The party entered with an air of bravado, and were heard to remark that this was, — whatever that might mean. It was Maxime’s opportunity, and he improved it to the utmost, seating the newcomers around the head of the table, and demanding, “Ces messieurs désirent?” as if completely oblivious to the fact that they were anything but bred-in-the-bone boulevardiers. For there was need of precaution. It is an inexplicable thing about these English that one is charmed to be addressed in his own tongue, and the next is insulted. It pays to feel one’s way.

“What does he say?” said Major Cogswell, turning, helplessly, to P. Hamilton Beck, who had taken French II. at Columbia.

“Wants us to name the drinks,” responded that accomplished young gentleman.

“Spik Ingliss?” put in l’L Majuscule, deploying the skirmishers of his vocabulary.

“Tchure!” said Mr. Beck.

“Ah!” replied Maxime, much gratified, “zen v’at eest? Vat veel de zaintlemans aff?”

“Cream de mint,” said the Major, promptly, and, his companions agreeing with alacrity, Mr. Beck again undertook the rôle of interpreter.

“Sank cream de mint,” he commanded, holding up his left hand, wide-spread, “et toute suite.”

And, in a surprisingly brief space of time, five infinitesimal glasses of the green liqueur stood before them.

“Mais avec du glace,” remonstrated Mr. Beck.

“What’s that; what’s that?” inquired the Major anxiously, as the glasses were as suddenly removed by the abashed Maxime.

“Oh, ice, that’s all,” replied the other. “These chaps don’t know what’s what. Leave ’em to me. One has to know how to handle ’em.”

Following the entrance of the Americans, the cabaret had gradually filled. The majority of the places at the long table were occupied now by a curious assemblage of sensation-seekers, — Germans in little cloth hats of dark green, with a curled feather cropping up behind, Englishmen in tweeds and traveling-caps, with visors fore and aft, American architects from the Quartier, so well disguised by slouch felts, pointed beards, and baggy trousers, that only a nasal tang in their slangy French betrayed their nationality, and a sprinkling of Frenchmen, each clasping the hand of a grisette. Already the high-priest of Le Ciel was in his gilded pulpit, delivering an oration thickly sown with “mes sœurs” and “mes frères” and “chers bénis,” at which strangers and Parisians alike laughed uproariously, and all for one good reason — because the Frenchmen understood! Maxime returned, bringing the five liqueurs in larger glasses with chopped ice. The head angel made the round of the table, carrying, on a pole, the gilded image of a pig, and a pseudo-sexton stood leaning on the rail of a celestial stairway leading to the second floor, sprinkling the assemblage with so-called holy water from a colored brush. It was all very French, very conventional, — or unconventional, according to the point of view of the spectator, — very sacrilegious from any point of view.

With that curious instinct of womanhood which seems to recognize the indelicate, even in unfamiliar surroundings, even in an unknown tongue, the younger Miss Cogswell leaned forward suddenly and touched the Major on the hand.

“Let us go,” she said.

“Yes!” agreed Appleby, buttoning his coat, “let’s be moving. What do you say? Let’s go to Hell — I mean,” he added, with a blush, “let’s try the other cabaret.”

The Major agreed with a sigh of relief. He had understood nothing of the mummery going on about him, but he was possessed by the conviction that in some way his party was the butt of the occasion, and had kept looking around abruptly, in hope of catching the angels giggling behind his back.

“Will you ask the waiter how much I owe?” He appealed to Beck.

How much!

Maxime picked these two essential words out of the rapid phrase like a squirrel snapping a peanut from its shell. He had not been garçon at the Café Américain for nothing, Maxime. His countenance assumed an expression of beatific innocence as he looked over the Major’s head, at the high-priest in the gilded pulpit.

“Tain francs,” he observed, mildly.

This was a tide in the affairs of P. Hamilton Beck which, plainly, must be taken at the flood. The elder Miss Cogswell was looking at him expectantly, and Heaven had, of a sudden, grown very still. He leaped into the breach with all the eloquence accumulated during eight months of French II.

“Mon foi, non! cream de mint coute seulement un franc la verre dans les établissements plus chers. Il ne faut pas nous voler, parceque nous sont étrangeres!”

“What’s that; what’s that?” said the Major.

“He’s trying to rob us,” explained Beck, much excited. “Says it’s ten francs. It can’t possibly be more than five, and it ought to be two francs fifty.”

The Major immediately became purple with indignation.

“But, God bless my soul!” he exclaimed, “the rascal understands English as well as any one of us. What’s the use of wasting your French on him?”

He swung round upon his stool, and fixed an eye, which was celebrated in the 32d Regular Infantry, upon l’L Majuscule. That worthy surveyed with unfeigned astonishment this very angry, red-faced foreigner, who looked as if he was about to devour him, body and bones. He had not the most remote conception of the effect which his flaxen wig, and his ridiculous wings, and his short pleated tunic, and his pink tights, and his huge feet in their gilded sandals, produced upon the Major; and his attempt at extortion was strictly in line with the traditions of the place. Certainly, it was all very puzzling.

“You ape!” said the Major furiously, finding his breath. “You pinky-panky little scoundrel! You an angel? Why you’re not even shaved! You get two francs fifty, that’s what you get, and not a red cent of porbwure either, you Christmas-tree image!”

The exact phrasing of these remarks was somewhat lost upon Maxime, but the general trend of the Major’s meaning was quite unmistakable. Nevertheless, when one had been valet de chambre to Captain the Honorable Michael Douglas, one was not routed by a few emphatic words. So Maxime shrugged his shoulders apologetically, and reiterated his “Tain francs.”

“Damn it, sir, no!” thundered the Major. “And don’t pretend you can’t understand me. I’m a short-tempered man, sir, and — and” —

He pounded with his fist upon the table, seeking a fitting expression of his rage, until the little liqueur glasses danced like kernels of popping corn. But young Appleby leaned toward him and laid a hand on his arm. He was big and square-shouldered, was Appleby, and, only the year before, he had performed prodigies with the hammer and the shot in the Intercollegiate Games; but his eyes were very blue and gentle, and he spoke with extreme mildness.

“Don’t let us have any trouble here, sir,” he said. “It isn’t as if we were alone. We have the girls with us, you know. Leave the beggar two francs fifty, and we’ll go on to the next place.”

Now the Major, with all his fiery temper, was an ardent lover of discipline, and he recognized reason in Appleby’s words. So, after an instant, he deposited the amount upon the table, rose to his full height, with his eye still riveted on Maxime, and then, followed by the others, stalked majestically toward the door.

But for one circumstance, the Americans had never gone unmolested past Maxime’s fellow-angels, and, in particular, the towering form of Gustave Robine. Maxime himself was astounded that no celestial hand was stretched out to bar their progress. What he did not understand was that, while one may enter Le Ciel on the strength of an accomplishment not possessed by the other immortals, the achievement does not necessarily imply that one is persona grata in their eyes, or, in the least degree, sure of their support. The management was responsible for Maxime, and the edict had gone forth that the Angliches were to be turned over to him. But obedience to this command did not go hand in hand with approval thereof. The high-priest and the sexton and all the angels had looked on sourly, as he appropriated the Major’s party, for it is the Americans who give the largest pourboires; and, although they did not wholly comprehend the dispute which had arisen, it was evident that the linguistic angel had met with disaster at the very outset, and they were proportionately gratified. So, when Maxime glanced about in search of succor, he found himself abandoned in his discomfiture. The other angels were smiling broadly, and nudging each other with their pink elbows; the high-priest, with his fat hands on the pulpit’s edge, was looking down at him with a grin; the sexton above his head waved his brush to and fro and chanted, “Ora pro nobis!” in a high, whining voice. A French student at the further end of the table said “Roulé!” and his companion laughed shrilly. Even Gustave, at the door, was leaning on his halberd and chuckling, for he had not forgotten that Maxime, once sure of his position, had demanded repayment of the fifty francs.

All this was sufficiently intolerable, but a real disaster, more terrible than mere ridicule, confronted Maxime. The crême de menthe was, as a matter of fact, one franc a glass, and it was out of his pocket that the deficit would have to be made good. As this tragic thought smote him full and fair, he bounded forward past the other angels, dodged nimbly under Gustave’s outstretched arm, charged through the swinging doors, and emerged with a shout upon the boulevard de Clichy.

The Major’s party had paused before the entrance of L’Enfer, while Beck parleyed with the courteous demon in scarlet tights who kept the door, and the others stood by, sublimely unconscious of the none too complimentary comments of a half score of cochers and boulevard loungers who surrounded them. Into the midst of this assemblage swooped l’L Majuscule, his flaxen wig awry, his wings bobbing wildly on his shoulders, and his white tunic fluttering in the wind. Blind to consequences, he darted upon the unsuspecting Major, and seized him furiously by the coat.

“Eh! vieille saucisse!” he exclaimed. “Tu te fiches de moi — quoi?”

Now John Appleby had never enjoyed the advantages of French II., which shed such effulgence upon his classmate, but he knew the answer to this question, none the less. It had been taught him in the boxing-room of his athletic club, and it was surprisingly conclusive when applied to the under jaw of an infuriated angel. The ruby and white arc-lights before the cabarets suddenly joined in a mad waltz, the cabarets themselves turned upside down, the cochers and loungers swooped into the air like pigeons, a passing tram leaped into the trees on the further side of the driveway and disappeared, and, from somewhere, a factory whistle came close up to Maxime’s side and said, “Oo-oo-ooo-oooo!” in his ear.

He came to himself slowly. There was an acrid taste in his mouth, and this, upon investigation, proved to be boulevard mud. There was something fuzzy gripped tightly in his right hand, and this presently resolved itself into his wings. Then he saw his feet, which were elevated above the level of his head, by reason of being on the curb, while the rest of his person was in the gutter. Then the mammoth red face of a cocher bulged out of the night, close to his own, and a voice said, —

“Have you harm, angel?”

Then he remembered, sat up, and looked around.

On the boulevard de Clichy, spectators grow out of the ground, spontaneously, when there is an excuse for their presence. A hundred or more now surrounded Maxime, with open mouths, and staring eyes that slid to and fro from his prostrate form to the faces of an agent and a vehement gentleman in a frock coat and a flat-brimmed huit reflets, who were disputing violently. In the crowd were all the other angels, and the better part of those who had been seated at the table of Heaven. The sexton, brush in hand, was gaping over the agent’s shoulder, the high-priest was explaining the affair, with much elaboration, to all who would listen to him, and above the rest towered the face of Gustave Robine, still smiling blandly. The only unconcerned figure in sight was that of a courteous demon in scarlet tights, who was staring up at the sky from the doorway of L’Enfer. For Beck had slipped a gold piece into his hand, — as the Major and his party hurried inside, dragging the protesting Appleby by the arm, — and he knew how to keep his counsel. After all, the sanctity of hospitality must be respected, even in Hell.

“But no, I tell you, but no!” exclaimed the gentleman of the huit reflets, who was none other than the manager of Heaven.

“It is equal to me! It is equal to me!” stormed the agent. “I saw it, do you hear? He was struck, and the law does not allow — They went in there” —

He made a motion, as if to thrust the other aside and plunge toward the entrance of L’Enfer. But the manager of Heaven was not to be thus outdone. He was determined that the incident should be considered closed; and for this there were reasons. It was but the beginning of the tourist season, and the foreign clientele must not be antagonized. A paragraph in the “Matin,” a sensational article in the “Herald” of to-morrow, and the Angliches would believe that the Cabaret du Ciel was no safe place for foreigners to enter. In agonized imagination he saw the gate receipts of Heaven dwindling, disappearing. It were better, far better, to sacrifice Maxime. He grasped the agent by the arm, and pointed to the fallen angel, who was still seated in the gutter, collecting his scattered wits, with a vacant stare.

“Look you,” he said, persuasively, “this tripe, this species of onion, this example of an eel, is the cause of all. It is I who know, n’est ce pas? being his patron. Eh b’en, I assure you that it is a drunkard of the most abandoned. Thirteen times in the dozen, one finds him in the fog, rigid as the Obelisk, bon Dieu! not merely lit, voyons, but flaming, — as full as Robespierre’s donkey, — asphyxiated! It is not a man, sac à papier! It is a sponge — but a sponge, do you understand? — a pompier! He dries glasses — poof! — like that! Il lave sa gueule là-dedans, nothing less!”

“Bravo!” said Gustave Robine, and all the angels applauded. The agent paused, doubtful of what course to pursue, overwhelmed by this burst of eloquence, and Top-Hat, perceiving the impression he had made, addressed himself to Maxime.

“Waffle!” he cried, contemptuously. “Cream of a tart! Thou wast there, then, the day of the distribution, O stupid as thy feet! And who art thou, let us hear, to find thyself in a position to apply kicks to the clients? If thou wert employed at La Villette, where they slaughter pigs, sacred stove, thy first blow would be suicide!”

He rose, in a majestic sweep, to the pinnacle of supreme courtesy.

“Monsieur le marquis has, perhaps, hurt himself, stumbling by accident? Is it permitted to the obedient servitor of monsieur le marquis to inquire if monsieur le marquis has sustained any damage by reason of his deplorable mischance?”

He descended, in a graceful curve, to the depths of utter scorn.

“Animal low of ceiling! Camel! Gourd! Ancient senator! Gas-jet! Shut thy mouth, or I jump within!”

And he paused, — breathless, but triumphant.

It was magnificent! In the annals of Heaven there was record of no such climax of vituperation. The angels surveyed their patron with undisguised admiration. Even the agent touched the visor of his cap.

“Monsieur,” he said, “I yield the field to you. Your vocabulary is unrivaled — unless by General Cambronne!”

“Monsieur, you flatter me,” replied the other, with a bow.

Some one had helped l’L Majuscule to his feet, and he stood there, a preposterous figure, in soiled pink tights, holding out his wings, with his huge feet turned in like a pigeon’s.

“Monsieur le directeur” — he began.

“He speaks!” cried Huit Reflets, whirling around and addressing the throng. “He dares to speak, this bad sou, this oyster! He does not comprehend that he is discharged. He counts that I am about to resign in his favor! Ah, non, it is too much!”

He flung himself about again, facing Maxime.

“Well, then,” he added with forced calm, “thou art put at the door, is it clear? Take thy rags from yonder, and begone!”

“Mais, monsieur” —

“Oh!” cried the director, flinging his arms upward; and immediately vanished within the silver gates of Heaven, followed by his personnel, with the fallen angel bringing up the rear.

Half an hour later, having exchanged his celestial raiment for his former earthly garb, Monsieur Perrot sat in solitary state at a table in the café Cyrano, and pondered the details of a project of revenge. The idea had come to him suddenly, like an inspiration, on seeing the nonchalant demon at the portals of L’Enfer, but it required arranging, elaboration. A man who made one blunder was but human, but a man who made two in succession — that was a mere root of celery! So l’L Majuscule thought hard. And when the will is so earnest, it is strange if the way be not forthcoming. At midnight he arose with a sigh of satisfaction, and took his way homeward, smiling.

It was barely eight o’clock, the following evening, when Maxime entered L’Enfer. He was tastefully dressed in an excessively checked suit and a silk hat, and he wore a full black beard and spectacles, and rolled his r’s in speaking, in the fashion of the South. The demon at the door, unsuspecting, greeted him effusively as “cher damné,” and piloted him to a table at the further end of the cabaret. The table had a ground-glass top, through which shone electric lights which kept changing mysteriously from green to red and back again, and the whole interior of L’Enfer was of imitation rock, diversified by grinning faces. It was very artistic, and, what was better, very dark. Maxime was unnecessarily mistrustful of his false beard.

At this early hour, he was the only visitor. An obliging demon supplied him with a green chartreuse, and, upon invitation, procured another for himself, and took the opposite seat.

The conversation, which began with commonplaces, soon assumed a more intimate tone. Monsieur, it appeared, was from Toulouse, but this was not his first visit to L’Enfer. In fact, a place so amusing — what? He never missed it when he came to Paris.

Oh, but monsieur was too good!

No, on the contrary, it was for his own pleasure. It suited him to a marvel, blague à part! And often, he had had a curious fancy — to be a demon himself, imagine! To serve in the cabaret for just one evening, by way of variety — for, as for himself, he gave less for a life without variety than did a fish for an apple. That was the reason he had sometimes thought of applying to the management for permission to — but then, of course, the idea was fantastic, and, without doubt, quite impossible.

Oh, quite impossible, monsieur!

But, after all, why not? Not the management, naturally. That was out of the question, it went without saying. But an obliging demon, perhaps — a bon type, who understood these eccentricities, as a man of the world — one who would consent to a brief illness — for one night only and who would provide a substitute, in the person of monsieur! Fantastic — what? — rigolo, mon Dieu! — very rigolo, and, of course, quite impossible.

In some mysterious fashion a louis suddenly made its appearance on the illuminated table.

Oh, quite impossible, monsieur! Evidently, affairs did not arrange themselves like that. Monsieur must understand that the pourboires which one gained in Hell were enormous — but enormous! It would be to throw away a fortune, to give up one’s place for an entire evening. For forty francs, perhaps — but then it was certain that monsieur would not care —

There was a tiny click upon the table-top, and the one louis had become two. A most surprising place, L’Enfer!

Ah! But in addition, there were details to be arranged, and one could not talk with frankness in the cabaret.

The doors at the further end swung open, and the demon of the gate made his appearance, ushering in a group of tourists. Maxime substituted two francs for the two louis, and rose.

“That for the liqueurs, my friend,” he said, “and what you say is true. The café Cyrano is a better place for talking. At midnight.”

Fifty-seven francs. The project had cost him fifty-seven francs, said the fallen angel to himself, as, twenty-four hours later, he dusted an illuminated table. What with his beard, and his spectacles, and two chartreuses in L’Enfer, and six demis at the café Cyrano — for the conference had been long — and, finally, the bribe to the obliging demon, revenge had cost him fifty-seven francs and it was not yet complete! But the prospects therefor were fair. He chuckled silently, with his eyes on the parti-wall which divided Hell from Heaven. It was eleven o’clock.

Suddenly there was a stir in the cabaret. A voice was calling, “This way, chers damnés, to the Hall of the Infernal Visions!” and the clients were rising from their tables, and crowding out like sheep through a narrow door to the right. Almost immediately the place was empty, save for the fallen angel and two other demons, clearing away the liqueur glasses, and setting the stools in place. It was the dreamt-of moment. Maxime walked carelessly toward the door.

In Le Ciel, the long table was full from end to end. The high-priest in his pulpit was delivering his accustomed discourse with extreme satisfaction, and the head angel making the round of the room, bearing the golden pig upon the pole. The angels, each in his place, abode the moment of the clients’ exodus into the Hall of the Celestial Visions, which was coincident with the semi-hourly harvest of pourboires. In particular, their eyes were fixed upon a party of American tourists, under direction of a uniformed guide. These were worthy of comment, and received it. It appeared that the thin lady with the loose cloth costume was an empty bed ticking. There were other remarks, but this, from Gustave Robine, was the most successful. However, there were the pourboires to be considered, so the angels spoke in whispers.

Of a sudden, the calm of Heaven was broken by an appalling sound, something midway between a shriek and a bark, and on the end of the table nearest the door appeared a terrible form, black-bearded and all in scarlet, with two long feathers nodding from his cap, and a polished two-pronged pitchfork brandished in one upraised hand. An instant he paused, superbly statuesque, his eyes blazing, an incarnation of demoniac fury. And, as if the sensation produced by his dramatic entrance were not sufficient, the newcomer received unexpected support from the thin lady in loose cloth costume, who, upon his appearance, promptly exclaimed “Good land!” and fell backward off her stool upon the floor.

Then Bedlam broke loose. The doorway of Le Ciel is less than a metre in width, and when a score of affrighted tourists, and seven angels, and six French students with their grisettes, and a high-priest, and two corpulent Germans, and a sexton, and Gustave Robine are suddenly and simultaneously imbued with a desire to sample the air of the boulevard de Clichy, confusion is apt to result. There were shrieks and groans, protestations, oaths in three languages, a wild chaos of legs and arms, wings, white tunics, traveling caps, tweed suits, and golden stools, and over all pranced the crimson form of the invader, whirling up and down the table with unearthly cries, and kicking the liqueur glasses and little saucers in every direction. They were all agreed, both mortals and celestials, in believing him a madman, and agreed, also, in thinking the pavement of the boulevard a thing greatly to be desired. The demon paused presently, and watched them struggling in a frenzied mass about the door, and then he vanished as abruptly as he had appeared.

For l’L Majuscule had not wasted the early hours of the evening in L’Enfer, and he knew now that the rear entrances of Heaven and Hell gave upon a common court, full of barrels, and empty bottles, and discarded properties, and even as the panic he had created was at its height, he had made the circuit, and was bustling into his original disguise.

The doorkeeper of L’Enfer, on the outlook for clients, had stared in stupefaction as Maxime, in his demon’s garb, darted past him and plunged into the entrance of Le Ciel, and when, a moment later, his ears were startled by the pandemonium inside the rival cabaret, he had first, with commendable presence of mind, shouted “Au feu! A l’assassin! Au secours!” to his fellows in L’Enfer, and then repeated the cry at the top of his lungs on the curb of the boulevard. So it was that the clients and personnel of Heaven and Hell reached the sidewalk almost simultaneously. Gustave, halberd in hand, came full upon a demon barring his path, and, mistaking him for the original intruder, fell upon him furiously. Other demons came to their companion’s aid, other angels to Gustave’s, and immediately fourscore individuals were battling desperately, without knowing or caring why. Agents appeared as if by magic, screaming for reinforcement, and pulling fainting women out of the mêlée by their heads and heels. Spectators ran up by hundreds, and formed a rampart around the fray. And, to add chaos to confusion, a detachment of sapeurs-pompiers presently drove up in a red wagon, their horn hee-hawing like an impatient donkey. Last of all, a thin gentleman with preposterously large feet, black-bearded, spectacled, and wearing an excessively checked suit, came calmly out of L’Enfer, shouldered his way to a position of vantage in the throng, and stood, smiling down upon the havoc.

Peace was restored. But a half dozen of the combatants were already in the hands of the police, and were hurried away to the poste, protesting volubly. Among these were Gustave Robine, in a pitiful state of demoralization, and the doorkeeper of L’Enfer, and the director of Le Ciel, with his huits reflets, crushed to an unrecognizable mass, clutched desperately in his hand.

Then every second person in the crowd explained to his neighbor how it all occurred, and, among others, a stalwart workingman proceeded to enlighten the spectacled gentleman at his side.

“It appears there was a madman,” he said. “Bon sang! What places, these cabarets — what infected boxes, name of a dog!”

“Ah, ça!” replied the other, rolling his r’s in speaking, in the fashion of the South, and leering at the back of the struggling director. “But then such an affair is in the chapter of variety, and as for me, I care less for a life without variety than does a fish for an apple!”

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


text:
Zut and Other Parisians/Poire!

Poire!
Lieutenant Eugène Drouin slid from his saddle with a little grunt, slipped his arm through the bridle-rein, and then, with his riding crop, rapped smartly on the round, tin-topped table nearest to him. At the summons, a small square door on the left of the archway snapped open, and a stumpy waiter, shaped like a domino, appeared abruptly on the sill.

“Froid!” shouted the officer. The domino waiter made a vague gesture in the air with one fat hand, and then vanished as suddenly as he had appeared, closing the door behind him with a slam. If he had but seen fit to observe “Cuckoo!” the whole affair — the sort of châlet from which he emerged, the small square door, and his own performance — would have borne a remarkable resemblance to a Swiss clock striking one.

Lieutenant Drouin detached an end of the rein from the snaffle-bar, knotted it about the back of one chair and flung himself into another.

“Poof!” he said, and lit a cigarette.

It was exactly one o’clock, and the Pré Catalan was deserted, save for a half dozen cats of various breeds and colors, chasing each other about under the chairs and tables, and two brilliant macaws sitting on wooden perches in an apparent state of coma, broken only by an occasional reflective “Wawk!” Once, a high cart flashed in an opening of the trees to the left, and then disappeared with a rattle of harness chains, in the direction of the porte Dauphine. For the rest, there was nothing to suggest that Paris might not be fifty kilometres distant. All the world was at breakfast.

Eugène stretched his legs, squinted at the toes of his narrow riding boots, and swore tenderly at himself for having refused the invitation of the Marquise de Baucheron. Experience might have taught him that Rosa de Mirecourt would not be in the Bois that morning. It was a peculiarity of Rosa’s to be in evidence on every occasion when her presence was not to be desired, and never to turn up when one was in the mood to chat or breakfast with her. Eugène had measured the Acacias bridle-path at a canter eight times since noon, scanning the driveway for a glimpse of the blue and scarlet victoria with the cream-colored mares, and all in vain. Rosa was nowhere to be seen. By this time, no doubt, some other lieutenant of chasseurs was thrashing out the latest gossip of the demi-monde over her breakfast table in the rue de Bassano, and still another was, in all probability, filling his place at Madame de Baucheron’s, and eating the Friday breakfast — sole cardinale and œufs brouillés aux crevettes — for which her chef was famous. Baste! what a world!

The domino waiter reappeared presently in the doorway, came quickly across to Eugène’s table with a curious, tottering shuffle born of his swaddling apron, and served a small white mug of cold milk as if it had been Château Latour-Blanche.

“Beautiful weather, my lieutenant,” he ventured cheerfully, for he had done his service, and knew the meaning of the single epaulette.

But Eugène was in no mood for light conversation. For sole reply, he paid his score, and then drank the milk slowly, looking out toward the lower lake, across the wide stretch of fresh grass mottled with flecks of sunlight sifted through the foliage above. At his side Vivandière nuzzled the turf along the border of the graveled terrasse, the lithe muscles rippling in her polished neck, and her deep eye shifting now and again in its socket as she looked doubtfully, almost pleadingly, toward her master. They were well known on the Allée and the bridle-path of the avenue du Bois, these two, — the young chasseur, tall, clean-cut, and slender, with a complexion like a girl’s, and the gayety of Polichinelle himself, in full red breeches and tunic of black and light blue; and the chestnut mare, nervous and alert, with her racing lines, and her long, leisurely gallop, superb in its suggestion of reserve speed and unflagging endurance.

The fates were kind to Lieutenant Eugène Drouin. Paris, spring, youth, an ample fortune, a commission in the chasseurs, good looks, a thoroughbred Arab, and a half dozen women frankly in love with him, — surely there was nothing lacking; and yet he knew that something was lacking, though he could not have said what, as he sat sprawling in his little iron chair at the Pré Catalan that morning.

He straightened himself suddenly, as she came up the driveway from the left, and then rose with a stiff salute, for, a pace or so behind, walked Vieux César, so-called by an irreverent garrison, leading two horses, one limping badly. Eugène had seen him but once, at the review of the Quatorze Juillet, but, though he was not in uniform now, the fierce gray mustache and keen black eyes of General Tournadour were too familiar to Parisians to pass unrecognized in a throng, much less under circumstances such as these. When one has been Military Governor of Paris, and held the portfolio of war, one does not achieve incognito merely by donning a black civile. So Eugène saluted the general — but with his eyes on the girl.

She was not beautiful, he told himself, in that first moment of surprise and swift observation, but about her, as she barely glanced at him in passing, there was an indefinably compellant charm which arrested his attention and held it, like an unrecognized but strangely sweet perfume, suddenly met with in a familiar spot where there is no apparent reason for its presence. Without doubt, it was a very little thing. He knew enough of such matters to be aware that an unanalyzed attraction of the kind which, at first glance, makes a woman appear utterly irresistible, is apt, on closer acquaintance, to resolve itself into the merest trifle of dissimilarity from other women, — a tilt of a lip-corner, a dimple in an unlikely spot, a trick with the hands or the head, a rebellious wisp of hair. For he was very philosophical, and very wise, was Eugène, and twenty-six years of age, into the bargain. So there was nothing one could tell him about women. But, in any event, there was no time to define the particular charm in question. He felt rather than saw it, as she went by him, with the faintest possible whiff of orris, and the gleam of a patent-leather boot at the edge of her habit. No, she was certainly not beautiful, but she was something dangerously, deliciously akin, said Lieutenant Drouin to himself; and that, in the unloveliest costume that can be worn by womankind, — a deep-green habit of extreme severity, and a squat derby, like a boy’s, with an elastic strap brutally grooving her ruddy hair.

General Tournadour did not follow the girl beyond the spot where Eugène was standing, but drew up abruptly, and indicated the lamed horse with a gesture of irritation.

“A beautiful affair, my word, lieutenant!” he said. “This animal stumbled, back there, and has received some injury, — I know not what. We have walked from the Allée, in hope of finding a sapin here, and all without result.”

The young officer was already feeling the animal’s hocks with a practiced hand. There was a swelling just above the right fore fetlock, and as he touched it, the horse winced and kicked out sharply.

“A bad wrench, I fear, my general,” said Eugène. “He should have an hour’s rest, at least.” Then, looking quickly at the saddle, “It is evident that madame cannot ride him home. No doubt they will give him a stall in the farm stable. You can send a groom out for him this afternoon.”

“Dieu! That is very well, monsieur,” answered the former minister of war, with an air of perplexity amusingly in contrast with his fierce moustache. “But my daughter” —

Now Lieutenant Drouin, in matters where a woman was concerned, was nothing if not adroit. He sent a flying glance in the direction of the girl. She had aroused one of the comatose macaws from his lethargy, and now stood watching him as he munched the biscuit she had taken from a neighboring table. And again Eugène was conscious of an inexplicable but very decided little thrill.

“If Mademoiselle Tournadour — if you, my general, will consider me at your service, I shall be glad to have you make use of my mare Vivandière, here. She is as gentle as a lamb — but, perhaps, not unworthy of being seen in company with your own horse.”

The General’s eyes twinkled at the boyishness of the remark. He knew a horse as well as another, Vieux César, and to describe the superb Arab before him as being, perhaps, not unworthy of being seen in company with his own sturdy charger was a bit of satire much to his relish.

“Merci!” he answered. “It is the proposal of an officer and a gentleman. But my daughter must decide if it is possible for us to accept it. In the matter of names, monsieur, you have me at an advantage.”

“Pardon!” said the other. “I should have realized that. I am Eugène Drouin, lieutenant of the 29th Chasseurs.”

“Natalie!” cried the General, beckoning with his crop.

As Mademoiselle Tournadour came forward, the young chasseur again made a confidant of himself, this time for the satisfaction of observing that he was an imbecile, and that a man who could not tell at the first glance whether or not a woman was entirely beautiful, deserved not to have an opportunity of discovering the fact at all. Their eyes met fairly, his glowing with delighted surprise, hers touched with that expression of negative inquiry and polite interest which immediately precedes an introduction.

“My daughter,” said the General, prodding the air with his crop in her direction. “Lieutenant Drouin, of the 29th Chasseurs,” he added, prodding again, in the direction of Eugène. “Monsieur le lieutenant has been so kind as to offer thee the use of his own horse, and suggests that we leave Le Cid here to be cared for until I can send Victor for him. I tell him thou art the one to decide.”

“Monsieur, you are truly kind,” said the girl easily — too easily, thought Eugène! — “but it would be to presume upon your generosity.”

“But it is nothing,” protested the officer. “Voyons! It is but a step to La Muette, and there I have the Ceinture!”

“You are stationed at the quartier de cavalerie?” asked Tournadour.

“Rue Desaix, yes, mon général,” answered Eugène. Then, turning again to the girl, “Surely you must consent, mademoiselle. It is the simplest way. And this afternoon, if you will permit me” —

“Yes,” put in the General, “and this afternoon Victor can leave your horse at the caserne as he is coming to take Le Cid.

“Eh, dis-donc, Natalie,” he added, fretfully, observing that the girl still hesitated. “Don’t make difficulties, my dear. There is breakfast — yes, breakfast to be considered, and it is one, and past. Since the lieutenant is so kind” —

“Since the lieutenant is so kind,” said his daughter with a smile, “eh bien, I accept.”

It was the work of a moment for Eugène to shift the side-saddle from Le Cid to Vivandière. The general had already mounted, and was gazing off toward the porte Dauphine, with his nose in the air, as if he scented breakfast from afar.

“She is very beautiful, monsieur, your Vivandière, and you are very good,” said Mademoiselle Tournadour, as the chasseur tightened the girth, after her boot had touched his hand, and she was in the saddle.

“She is very fortunate, mademoiselle,” answered Eugène, curiously embarrassed for one so skilled in compliment. “If she wins, I shall feel that she owes the race to this good omen.”

“The race?” said the girl.

“The Officers’ Steeple Chase at Auteuil, on Sunday.”

“You ride her yourself?”

There was a strange little note of more than casual interest in the question, and Eugène looked up suddenly. For the second time their eyes met.

“Yes,” he answered. “Why?”

“Why? But nothing, monsieur, except, perhaps, to wish you bonne chance.”

She touched Vivandière with her heel.

“Adieu, monsieur,” she added, “and a thousand thanks!”

Eugène bowed.

“For nothing,” he said, “and au revoir, mademoiselle!”

Then he watched them out of sight, with his arm through Le Cid’s bridle-rein, and his trim English saddle sprawling at his feet.

There was something delightfully ingenuous, to Eugène’s way of thinking, in Vieux César’s method of unloading the burden of his embarrassment on the shoulders of the first young lieutenant who crossed his path, and then riding off serenely to breakfast, leaving the other, as it were, to gather up and disentangle the loose ends of the situation. He was half amused, half annoyed that his offer of Vivandière had not been taken less as a matter of course; but, in view of the circumstances, he attended with fairly good grace to the details of stabling Le Cid, and arranging to send for his saddle, and then struck out at a swinging gait for the footpath to La Muette. For all of which there was a sufficient reason in the person of Mademoiselle Tournadour.

Now, as he revolved the meeting in his mind, he found that it was not in the least degree a surprise. Somehow, he had always expected that this girl would step suddenly into his life, with her ruddy hair and her gray eyes. It seemed to him to be something which the natural evolution of that life demanded. He had sounded every note in the gamut of emotions appropriate to a man in his position. He had had his serious, almost ascetic moods, his despondencies, his flights of folly, his impulses of stern ambition, his hours of morbid brooding and of reckless gayety. He could no longer number his love-affairs with any approach to accuracy. They were hopelessly jumbled in his memory, by very reason of their number and their triviality. Here and there, a face stood out from its fellows — the Baronne de Banis, Lady Mary Kaswellyn, Rosa de Mirecourt, or the Marquise de Baucheron — but none of these impelled him to regret. There were no entanglements, no uncomfortable circumstances to recall. Not a stone lay in the way of the gate of the future, as, in his imagination, it swung open before him. As we have said, the fates were kind to Lieutenant Eugène Drouin. The current of experience had borne his individual shallop over deeps and shallows safely and with a song, and, now that a sudden turn of the stream had shown him Natalie Tournadour waiting on the bank, it seemed to him to be the most natural thing imaginable, — something which intuition had taught him was inevitable, and, what was better, which experience told him was desirable. The event had found him ready and willing to make room for her beside him in the boat, and, so, continue the journey in her company, well content. He bowed to fate politely, with a graceful merci!

For forty-eight hours he watched, almost as if he had been a disinterested outsider, this pleasant fancy moulding the details of his future life. He reckoned his rentes anew, assigning a due proportion to a little hôtel in the Monceau quarter, to a villa at Houlgate, to horses, household expenses, his wife’s allowance, servants, entertainment, a month at Aix, another at Nice, a third at Hombourg. He saw himself retired, and in the Chambre. And over all hovered, like a luminous presiding angel, the presence of Mademoiselle Tournadour — Madame Drouin!

So Sunday came, and, with it, breakfast at Armenonville with two fellow officers, and the growing exhilaration of the approaching race. Eugène was in his gayest mood — for was not Vivandière not only the winner of last year’s Steeple Chase, but to-day in better form than she had ever been? But he allowed his good spirits to be touched, now and again, with a gentle, pleasurable melancholy, as the violins of the tziganes glided into the long, languorous swell of the Valse Bleue, and his handsome eyes clouded thoughtfully, and his fine mouth drooped, so that Gaston Cavaignac rallied him joyously upon the new affair, which alone could account for such tristesse. It lent an added zest, this. Eugène smiled, and was glad that in his denial of the charge rang so little of conviction.

The first race had been already run, as the three officers slipped through the main entrance of Auteuil, and made their way across the pesage, and past the betting booths, to the grass oval around which the horses, in charge of stable lads, were slowly circling. It was one of May’s clearest and most brilliant afternoons. The gravel pathways and stretches of vivid turf were thronged with the best known men and women of the two great Parisian worlds of sport and fashion, and the air rang with gay gossip and spirited discussion. But Eugène had ears for none of this, and eyes but for two things, — Vivandière, blanketed, and swinging around the oval with her long, sure stride, and Natalie Tournadour, in a delicious gown of soft blue, standing at the side of Vieux César. Life, at that moment, was good to live. The chasseur drew a quick breath of pleased surprise. She was there, then, to see him win. He might have known!

A mixture of sudden, unfamiliar embarrassment and boyish vanity caused him to avoid her eye as he made a turn of the oval, consulting with his stable lad about the mare’s condition; but he held himself very straight, and was pleasantly conscious that his tunic was new, and his boots a veritable triumph of Coquillot’s. When he went back to his companions his eyes were glowing.

“Content?” asked Cavaignac.

“Je te crois, mon vieux!” he answered. “One never can say, but it is certain that no one has a better chance. She is perfection!”

“There is the white,” put in Lieutenant Mors, dubiously.

Eugène vouchsafed the rival racer a brief, contemptuous glance. It was a lean, powerfully built brute, with an astonishing reach to even the leisurely stride with which he paced the oval. A trainer would have had something to say of those lithe shoulders, and that long barrel, dwindling along the flanks, and that easy swing of haunch and swathed hock. But Eugène was not a trainer.

“A fine animal,” he observed, carelessly, “but there is no comparison. One has only to look at Vivandière.”

“Tiens!” cried Gaston, “the saddling-bell! I am off to put five louis on you gagnant, and five placé. Bonne chance, vieux!”

In truth, the saddling-bell was jangling from the little pavilion to the left, and the officers hurrying forward to weigh in. As he passed into the enclosure, Eugène glanced over his shoulder. General Tournadour and his daughter were still standing at the oval-side, and he had a glimpse of Natalie clapping her hands and pointing, as the stable lad slipped the blanket off Vivandière. But he made no sign, even when, three minutes later, he mounted, within five metres of where they stood. Time enough, when the victory was won, to claim his reward in the gray eyes of which he had been dreaming. His heart leaped, nevertheless, as he gave Vivandière the rein. It was the voice of Vieux César, almost at his side: —

“Be not afraid, ma petite. There is no doubt that he is going to win.”

No doubt, indeed, with her eyes upon him, and her heart praying for his success!

Once upon the course, he swept the vast enclosure with a glance, and his blood danced with the excitement of the moment, and the brilliancy of the scene. To the right the great tribunes of the pesage, and the chair-dotted turf in front, glowed with a shifting rainbow of spring gowns and vivid parasols, and sparkled with a myriad white waistcoats, drifting, like large, lazy snowflakes, to and fro; to the left lay the vast enclosure of the pelouse, flooded with dazzling sunlight, its thousands circling here and there like ants. Beyond, the race-course swept away, smooth and green, to the long rows of trees in their new foliage, banked along the route de Boulogne and the allée des Fortifications. It was a day of days, whether one stood inside the rail, straining for a glimpse of the horses, or swept slowly to the left, on the course itself, toward the starting point, with a thoroughbred’s flanks quivering between one’s knees!

As the horses circled about the start, getting into position, Eugène’s keen, handsome eyes were busy with trivial details, dwindled by distance to mere specks, — two men, leaning far over the rails, signaling bets to each other across the track, a gleam of orange from the finish flag, the starter rocking toward him on a ridiculously fat pony. Then, in an instant, every faculty came taut like a stretched string, and they were off, in a thunder of hoofs and a whirl of flying sod. He saw a red flag fluttering stiffly in the breeze as he swept past, and heard, in the distance, the whirr of the signal gong from the judge’s stand. It was a fair start. He touched Vivandière lightly with his hand, and, at the signal, felt her lengthen under him into her long, magnificent gallop. The tribunes and the crowded pelouse rushed down upon him with a murmur of many voices. The long double line of faces at the rail slid past like white dots, and the dark green hedge of the water-jump sprang out of the track at his feet. Houp, ma belle! A whish of brushed twigs, a gleam of silver water passing under, a thud of hoofs on the soft turf beyond, and they were over, and away into the southern loop to the left!

As he swung to the north again, he saw the ants of the pelouse scurrying across to the rail along the transverse cut. Let them run, les drôles! They had need to if they would see the passing of Vivandière! Past the high hurdle — so much the better that one did not have to take it! — and down the transverse to the second water-jump. It was easy, that. The mare crossed it like a bird, and Eugène saw the tribunes again from the corner of his eye. and laughed at the shrill “Bravo!” of a little grisette in a red hat, who flew past him, leaning on the rail.

Vivandière was well into the left reach of the northern loop before Eugène fairly realized what that smooth, empty width of turf before him meant. He was leading, — had been leading from the very start! And somewhere, back there in the gay throng of the pesage, two gray eyes were watching him, straining to catch each movement of the blue tunic, each bound of the gallant mare. He threw back his head and laughed at the clear, wide sky. It was very good to be alive!

So, with a broad sweep to the right, into the home stretch, the last curve of the giant “8” he had described. It lay ahead, full and fair, cut by one low hedge. And then —

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The sound battered its way into the chasseur’s understanding, and hurt as if it had been, in verity, that of blow on blow. He leaned forward, spurring the mare to her utmost endeavor. And she responded, but still the beat of following hoofs grew louder. For Vivandière was thoroughbred, and she had kept her maddest pace from the start. It was reserved for racers of ignobler spirit to hold their greatest effort for the end.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Once more pesage and pelouse rushed down upon him, not now with a murmur of voices, but with a mighty roar, that swelled, deafening, into his ears.

“Flambeau! Flambeau! C’est Flambeau qui gagne!”

There was a gasp of short-coming breath at his elbow, a gleam of white, tense neck, a flash of red breeches and of polished boots, and the Steeple Chase Militaire was run, with Vivandière second, and the lean, white Flambeau winner by a length.

The officers rode back slowly, past the applauding tribunes. Eugène saw dimly that it was a colonel of infantry who rode Flambeau, a metre ahead of him, but his thoughts were more for Natalie than for himself or his successful competitor. Poor little girl! She had been so anxious for his victory, and no doubt so confident, after the brave words of Vieux César. But, after all, — second! It was not so bad in a field of twelve. But he had been wrong not to speak to her before he mounted. Well, he would atone for that, never fear! Moreover, when once they were married, he would give her Vivandière — the cause of their first meeting — the reason of their present sympathy! It was a good thought.

Eugène did not find the general and his daughter readily in the vast throng in the pesage. Three times he made the circuit of the tribunes, scanning the tiers of seats, and threading his way through the little wooden chairs upon the turf in front. Once he passed Cavaignac and Mors, walking arm in arm, who swore at him picturesquely for his defeat. Vivandière had paid but seventeen francs fifty placé, and so they had only seventy-five to show for the five louis they had placed upon her gagnant. The privilege of calling her master tête de laitue was but trifling recompense, and they strolled on, surprised that one noted for his eloquence in this variety of obloquy did not deign to reply.

Finally, at the doors of the little refreshment pavilion, and talking with a colonel of infantry, he found the objects of his quest, and went up eagerly, saluting. Vieux César greeted him with heartiness.

“Ah, lieutenant! Our preserver of Friday — quoi? Natalie, see who is here — our preserver of Friday!”

The girl was radiant. Her cheeks were flushed, and the gray eyes shone with a brightness that set Eugène’s heart pounding so hard that he felt its throbbing must be dimpling the breast of his tunic.

“What a magnificent race!” she said, giving him her hand. “You have cause to be proud of Vivandière. It is something to have ridden such a horse.”

“It is always something to ride a good horse,” said Eugène, looking into her eyes, “and it is something, also, to be second in a good race, but it is more to be first. And I had my reasons for wishing to be that, mademoiselle.”

Natalie smiled.

“Ah, sans doute!” she answered. “But you must not call me mademoiselle, monsieur. You must know that since yesterday I am a serious married woman. And what is more, my husband rode Flambeau! Am I not a veritable mascotte?”

She laid her hand on the arm of the officer at her side.

“My husband, Colonel Montrésor,” she added. “Paul, this is the officer of whom I spoke to you — who was so kind Lieutenant” —

She turned to Eugène, blushing divinely, with an embarrassed little laugh.

“Oh, pray forgive me!” she said. “I am so stupid — but — but — I have forgotten your name!”

title: Zut and Other Parisians/Poire!