Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “It is the custom in the Latin Quarter,” she said with a queer light in her eyes. Then suddenly she began talking almost feverishly.

  “You must know, Monsieur Hastings, that we are all un peu sans gêne here in the Latin Quarter. We are very Bohemian, and etiquette and ceremony are out of place. It was for that Monsieur Clifford presented you to me with small ceremony, and left us together with less, — only for that, and I am his friend, and I have many friends in the Latin Quarter, and we all know each other very well — and I am not studying art, but — but—”

  “But what?” he said, bewildered.

  “I shall not tell you, — it is a secret,” she said with an uncertain smile. On both cheeks a pink spot was burning, and her eyes were very bright.

  Then in a moment her face fell. “Do you know Monsieur Clifford very intimately?”

  “Not very.”

  After a while she turned to him, grave and a little pale.

  “My name is Valentine — Valentine Tissot. Might — might I ask a service of you on such very short acquaintance?”

  “Oh,” he cried, “I should be honoured.”

  “It is only this,” she said gently, “it is not much. Promise me not to speak to Monsieur Clifford about me. Promise me that you will speak to no one about me.”

  “I promise,” he said, greatly puzzled.

  She laughed nervously. “I wish to remain a mystery. It is a caprice.”

  “But,” he began, “I had wished, I had hoped that you might give Monsieur Clifford permission to bring me, to present me at your house.”

  “My — my house!” she repeated.

  “I mean, where you live, in fact, to present me to your family.”

  The change in the girl’s face shocked him.

  “I beg your pardon,” he cried, “I have hurt you.”

  And as quick as a flash she understood him because she was a woman.

  “My parents are dead,” she said.

  Presently he began again, very gently.

  “Would it displease you if I beg you to receive me? It is the custom?”

  “I cannot,” she answered. Then glancing up at him, “I am sorry; I should like to; but believe me. I cannot.”

  He bowed seriously and looked vaguely uneasy.

  “It isn’t because I don’t wish to. I — I like you; you are very kind to me.”

  “Kind?” he cried, surprised and puzzled.

  “I like you,” she said slowly, “and we will see each other sometimes if you will.”

  “At friends’ houses.”

  “No, not at friends’ houses.”

  “Where?”

  “Here,” she said with defiant eyes.

  “Why,” he cried, “in Paris you are much more liberal in your views than we are.”

  She looked at him curiously.

  “Yes, we are very Bohemian.”

  “I think it is charming,” he declared.

  “You see, we shall be in the best of society,” she ventured timidly, with a pretty gesture toward the statues of the dead queens, ranged in stately ranks above the terrace.

  He looked at her, delighted, and she brightened at the success of her innocent little pleasantry.

  “Indeed,” she smiled, “I shall be well chaperoned, because you see we are under the protection of the gods themselves; look, there are Apollo, and Juno, and Venus, on their pedestals,” counting them on her small gloved fingers, “and Ceres, Hercules, and — but I can’t make out—”

  Hastings turned to look up at the winged god under whose shadow they were seated.

  “Why, it’s Love,” he said.

  IV

  “There is a nouveau here,” drawled Laffat, leaning around his easel and addressing his friend Bowles, “there is a nouveau here who is so tender and green and appetizing that Heaven help him if he should fall into a salad bowl.”

  “Hayseed?” inquired Bowles, plastering in a background with a broken palette-knife and squinting at the effect with approval.

  “Yes, Squeedunk or Oshkosh, and how he ever grew up among the daisies and escaped the cows, Heaven alone knows!”

  Bowles rubbed his thumb across the outlines of his study to “throw in a little atmosphere,” as he said, glared at the model, pulled at his pipe and finding it out struck a match on his neighbour’s back to relight it.

  “His name,” continued Laffat, hurling a bit of bread at the hat-rack, “his name is Hastings. He is a berry. He knows no more about the world,” — and here Mr. Laffat’s face spoke volumes for his own knowledge of that planet,— “than a maiden cat on its first moonlight stroll.”

  Bowles now having succeeded in lighting his pipe, repeated the thumb touch on the other edge of the study and said, “Ah!”

  “Yes,” continued his friend, “and would you imagine it, he seems to think that everything here goes on as it does in his d —— d little backwoods ranch at home; talks about the pretty girls who walk alone in the street; says how sensible it is; and how French parents are misrepresented in America; says that for his part he finds French girls, — and he confessed to only knowing one, — as jolly as American girls. I tried to set him right, tried to give him a pointer as to what sort of ladies walk about alone or with students, and he was either too stupid or too innocent to catch on. Then I gave it to him straight, and he said I was a vile-minded fool and marched off.”

  “Did you assist him with your shoe?” inquired Bowles, languidly interested.

  “Well, no.”

  “He called you a vile-minded fool.”

  “He was correct,” said Clifford from his easel in front.

  “What — what do you mean?” demanded Laffat, turning red.

  “That,” replied Clifford.

  “Who spoke to you? Is this your business?” sneered Bowles, but nearly lost his balance as Clifford swung about and eyed him.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, “it’s my business.”

  No one spoke for some time.

  Then Clifford sang out, “I say, Hastings!”

  And when Hastings left his easel and came around, he nodded toward the astonished Laffat.

  “This man has been disagreeable to you, and I want to tell you that any time you feel inclined to kick him, why, I will hold the other creature.”

  Hastings, embarrassed, said, “Why no, I don’t agree with his ideas, nothing more.”

  Clifford said “Naturally,” and slipping his arm through Hastings’, strolled about with him, and introduced him to several of his own friends, at which all the nouveaux opened their eyes with envy, and the studio were given to understand that Hastings, although prepared to do menial work as the latest nouveau, was already within the charmed circle of the old, respected and feared, the truly great.

  The rest finished, the model resumed his place, and work went on in a chorus of songs and yells and every ear-splitting noise which the art student utters when studying the beautiful.

  Five o’clock struck, — the model yawned, stretched and climbed into his trousers, and the noisy contents of six studios crowded through the hall and down into the street. Ten minutes later, Hastings found himself on top of a Montrouge tram, and shortly afterward was joined by Clifford.

  They climbed down at the rue Gay Lussac.

  “I always stop here,” observed Clifford, “I like the walk through the Luxembourg.”

  “By the way,” said Hastings, “how can I call on you when I don’t know where you live?”

  “Why, I live opposite you.”

  “What — the studio in the garden where the almond trees are and the blackbirds—”

  “Exactly,” said Clifford. “I’m with my friend Elliott.”

  Hastings thought of the description of the two American artists which he had heard from Miss Susie Byng, and looked blank.

  Clifford continued, “Perhaps you had better let me know when you think of coming so, — so that I will be sure to — to be there,” he ended rather lamely.

  “I shouldn’
t care to meet any of your model friends there,” said Hastings, smiling. “You know — my ideas are rather straitlaced, — I suppose you would say, Puritanical. I shouldn’t enjoy it and wouldn’t know how to behave.”

  “Oh, I understand,” said Clifford, but added with great cordiality,— “I’m sure we’ll be friends although you may not approve of me and my set, but you will like Severn and Selby because — because, well, they are like yourself, old chap.”

  After a moment he continued, “There is something I want to speak about. You see, when I introduced you, last week, in the Luxembourg, to Valentine—”

  “Not a word!” cried Hastings, smiling; “you must not tell me a word of her!”

  “Why—”

  “No — not a word!” he said gaily. “I insist, — promise me upon your honour you will not speak of her until I give you permission; promise!”

  “I promise,” said Clifford, amazed.

  “She is a charming girl, — we had such a delightful chat after you left, and I thank you for presenting me, but not another word about her until I give you permission.”

  “Oh,” murmured Clifford.

  “Remember your promise,” he smiled, as he turned into his gateway.

  Clifford strolled across the street and, traversing the ivy-covered alley, entered his garden.

  He felt for his studio key, muttering, “I wonder — I wonder, — but of course he doesn’t!”

  He entered the hallway, and fitting the key into the door, stood staring at the two cards tacked over the panels.

  FOXHALL CLIFFORD

  RICHARD OSBORNE ELLIOTT

  “Why the devil doesn’t he want me to speak of her?”

  He opened the door, and, discouraging the caresses of two brindle bull-dogs, sank down on the sofa.

  Elliott sat smoking and sketching with a piece of charcoal by the window.

  “Hello,” he said without looking around.

  Clifford gazed absently at the back of his head, murmuring, “I’m afraid, I’m afraid that man is too innocent. I say, Elliott,” he said, at last, “Hastings, — you know the chap that old Tabby Byram came around here to tell us about — the day you had to hide Colette in the armoire—”

  “Yes, what’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing. He’s a brick.”

  “Yes,” said Elliott, without enthusiasm.

  “Don’t you think so?” demanded Clifford.

  “Why yes, but he is going to have a tough time when some of his illusions are dispelled.”

  “More shame to those who dispel ‘em!”

  “Yes, — wait until he comes to pay his call on us, unexpectedly, of course—”

  Clifford looked virtuous and lighted a cigar.

  “I was just going to say,” he observed, “that I have asked him not to come without letting us know, so I can postpone any orgie you may have intended—”

  “Ah!” cried Elliott indignantly, “I suppose you put it to him in that way.”

  “Not exactly,” grinned Clifford. Then more seriously, “I don’t want anything to occur here to bother him. He’s a brick, and it’s a pity we can’t be more like him.”

  “I am,” observed Elliott complacently, “only living with you—”

  “Listen!” cried the other. “I have managed to put my foot in it in great style. Do you know what I’ve done? Well — the first time I met him in the street, — or rather, it was in the Luxembourg, I introduced him to Valentine!”

  “Did he object?”

  “Believe me,” said Clifford, solemnly, “this rustic Hastings has no more idea that Valentine is — is — in fact is Valentine, than he has that he himself is a beautiful example of moral decency in a Quarter where morals are as rare as elephants. I heard enough in a conversation between that blackguard Loffat and the little immoral eruption, Bowles, to open my eyes. I tell you Hastings is a trump! He’s a healthy, clean-minded young fellow, bred in a small country village, brought up with the idea that saloons are way-stations to hell — and as for women—”

  “Well?” demanded Elliott

  “Well,” said Clifford, “his idea of the dangerous woman is probably a painted Jezabel.”

  “Probably,” replied the other.

  “He’s a trump!” said Clifford, “and if he swears the world is as good and pure as his own heart, I’ll swear he’s right.”

  Elliott rubbed his charcoal on his file to get a point and turned to his sketch saying, “He will never hear any pessimism from Richard Osborne E.”

  “He’s a lesson to me,” said Clifford. Then he unfolded a small perfumed note, written on rose-coloured paper, which had been lying on the table before him.

  He read it, smiled, whistled a bar or two from “Miss Helyett,” and sat down to answer it on his best cream-laid note-paper. When it was written and sealed, he picked up his stick and marched up and down the studio two or three times, whistling.

  “Going out?” inquired the other, without turning.

  “Yes,” he said, but lingered a moment over Elliott’s shoulder, watching him pick out the lights in his sketch with a bit of bread.

  “To-morrow is Sunday,” he observed after a moment’s silence.

  “Well?” inquired Elliott.

  “Have you seen Colette?”

  “No, I will to-night. She and Rowden and Jacqueline are coming to Boulant’s. I suppose you and Cécile will be there?”

  “Well, no,” replied Clifford. “Cécile dines at home to-night, and I — I had an idea of going to Mignon’s.”

  Elliott looked at him with disapproval.

  “You can make all the arrangements for La Roche without me,” he continued, avoiding Elliott’s eyes.

  “What are you up to now?”

  “Nothing,” protested Clifford.

  “Don’t tell me,” replied his chum, with scorn; “fellows don’t rush off to Mignon’s when the set dine at Boulant’s. Who is it now? — but no, I won’t ask that, — what’s the use!” Then he lifted up his voice in complaint and beat upon the table with his pipe. “What’s the use of ever trying to keep track of you? What will Cécile say, — oh, yes, what will she say? It’s a pity you can’t be constant two months, yes, by Jove! and the Quarter is indulgent, but you abuse its good nature and mine too!”

  Presently he arose, and jamming his hat on his head, marched to the door.

  “Heaven alone knows why any one puts up with your antics, but they all do and so do I. If I were Cécile or any of the other pretty fools after whom you have toddled and will, in all human probabilities, continue to toddle, I say, if I were Cécile I’d spank you! Now I’m going to Boulant’s, and as usual I shall make excuses for you and arrange the affair, and I don’t care a continental where you are going, but, by the skull of the studio skeleton! if you don’t turn up to-morrow with your sketching-kit under one arm and Cécile under the other, — if you don’t turn up in good shape, I’m done with you, and the rest can think what they please. Good-night.”

  Clifford said good-night with as pleasant a smile as he could muster, and then sat down with his eyes on the door. He took out his watch and gave Elliott ten minutes to vanish, then rang the concierge’s call, murmuring, “Oh dear, oh dear, why the devil do I do it?”

  “Alfred,” he said, as that gimlet-eyed person answered the call, “make yourself clean and proper, Alfred, and replace your sabots with a pair of shoes. Then put on your best hat and take this letter to the big white house in the Rue de Dragon. There is no answer, mon petit Alfred.”

  The concierge departed with a snort in which unwillingness for the errand and affection for M. Clifford were blended. Then with great care the young fellow arrayed himself in all the beauties of his and Elliott’s wardrobe. He took his time about it, and occasionally interrupted his toilet to play his banjo or make pleasing diversion for the bull-dogs by gambling about on all fours. “I’ve got two hours before me,” he thought, and borrowed a pair of Elliott’s silken foot-gear, with which he and the dogs played ball un
til he decided to put them on. Then he lighted a cigarette and inspected his dress-coat. When he had emptied it of four handkerchiefs, a fan, and a pair of crumpled gloves as long as his arm, he decided it was not suited to add éclat to his charms and cast about in his mind for a substitute. Elliott was too thin, and, anyway, his coats were now under lock and key. Rowden probably was as badly off as himself. Hastings! Hastings was the man! But when he threw on a smoking-jacket and sauntered over to Hastings’ house, he was informed that he had been gone over an hour.

  “Now, where in the name of all that’s reasonable could he have gone!” muttered Clifford, looking down the street.

  The maid didn’t know, so he bestowed upon her a fascinating smile and lounged back to the studio.

  Hastings was not far away. The Luxembourg is within five minutes’ walk of the rue Notre Dame des Champs, and there he sat under the shadow of a winged god, and there he had sat for an hour, poking holes in the dust and watching the steps which lead from the northern terrace to the fountain. The sun hung, a purple globe, above the misty hills of Meudon. Long streamers of clouds touched with rose swept low on the western sky, and the dome of the distant Invalides burned like an opal through the haze. Behind the Palace the smoke from a high chimney mounted straight into the air, purple until it crossed the sun, where it changed to a bar of smouldering fire. High above the darkening foliage of the chestnuts the twin towers of St. Sulpice rose, an ever-deepening silhouette.

  A sleepy blackbird was carolling in some near thicket, and pigeons passed and repassed with the whisper of soft winds in their wings. The light on the Palace windows had died away, and the dome of the Pantheon swam aglow above the northern terrace, a fiery Valhalla in the sky; while below in grim array, along the terrace ranged, the marble ranks of queens looked out into the west.

  From the end of the long walk by the northern façade of the Palace came the noise of omnibuses and the cries of the street. Hastings looked at the Palace clock. Six, and as his own watch agreed with it, he fell to poking holes in the gravel again. A constant stream of people passed between the Odéon and the fountain. Priests in black, with silver-buckled shoes; line soldiers, slouchy and rakish; neat girls without hats bearing milliners’ boxes, students with black portfolios and high hats, students with bérets and big canes, nervous, quick-stepping officers, symphonies in turquoise and silver; ponderous jangling cavalrymen all over dust, pastry cooks’ boys skipping along with utter disregard for the safety of the basket balanced on the impish head, and then the lean outcast, the shambling Paris tramp, slouching with shoulders bent and little eye furtively scanning the ground for smokers’ refuse; — all these moved in a steady stream across the fountain circle and out into the city by the Odeon, whose long arcades were now beginning to flicker with gas-jets. The melancholy bells of St Sulpice struck the hour and the clock-tower of the Palace lighted up. Then hurried steps sounded across the gravel and Hastings raised his head.