Max; “Mais — mais — c’est moi l’Archiveque—” Claire (much disturbed); “Té! je le savais bien, Monseigneur!”
“That’s going to take like wildfire,” whispered Elliott lowering his cornet; “I wish I could see the expression on Max’s face—”
“And on Claire’s! Hear the prompter laugh!”
“Look out — here comes the flourish — ready — now! Enter the Queen, you know I”
“Tara — ta-ta-tata!” wheezed the cornets for the entry of the Queen, while Boissy’s snare drum rattled the salute, Clifford was sulky and spoke no more that morning, but the next day he went to see Selby.
“I’m d — d if I miss the first night of my own opera,” he muttered.
VIII.
Clifford was determined to see the first night’s performance but he decided not to tell Elliott, as that youth might also wish to see it. No, he would not mention it to Elliott; he would quietly arrange it for Selby to play the dummy and blow a cotton-stuffed cornet beside Elliott. True, the flourish of trumpets that was to announce the entrance of the Queen would be, strictly speaking, a flourish of one cornet, but Bock could never know and the audience wouldn’t either for that matter. So he spoke to Selby and gave him his stuffed cornet.
“There’s no cornet in the overture, you know — it’s that stringed affair of Lalo’s. You are to watch Elliott and pretend to toot when he does. The first flourish is when the Queen comes in,” he explained to Selby.
Then he went to bed, chuckling, for he had covertly secured the last seat but one in a prominent box, and he chuckled again as he thought of Elliott’s fury on beholding him among the spectators.
All the next day he chuckled too, watching Elliott furtively. The latter seemed very unsuspicious; he did not even mention a wish to view the performance. And at last the impatiently expected night arrived.
The Théâtre Bobinot was ablaze; banners waved from the mansard; posters flamed under the gas jets outside, — big yellow posters announcing “THE QUEEN OF SIAM!”
Inside the theatre the orchestra was assembling.
IX.
Selby pretended to fuss over the leaves of the score; he fiddled with his cornet a moment, then he sat down and looked up at the house.
The audience was not what is termed “brilliant,” but the house was jammed with the good people of the Montparnasse Quarter, sandwiched in between hordes of Latin Quarter students, actresses, grisettes and vivacious young persons who preside over the counters of the Bon Marché and Grands Magazines of the Louvre. A first night always filled the little theatre, box, pit, and gallery, and the announcement of the “Queen of Siam,” with Mlle. Claire Plessis, Mlle. Nevers and Max and Bourdeille, had stirred the Quarter profoundly.
Selby polished the mouthpiece of his cornet and called to Boissy, who left his snare drum and came over.
“Where is Elliott?” he asked.
“Hasn’t come yet. “Oh, you’re here to give Clifford a chance? It’s a good house, isn’t it?”
“Great,” said Selby pensively, “I bet Clifford makes a lot out of this. Here comes old Bock now.” The leader of the orchestra, vinous as usual, emerged from below, wiping his moustache, and walked straight to his seat.
“I wish Elliott would hurry,” said Selby nervously. “There’s no overture, — Bock cut it out because the play’s long enough.”
“I know — I know, but there he is taking a last look at the gallery and Elliott isn’t here. The thing begins with a flourish of trumpets to the Queen.” As he spoke, a figure came out of the little door under the stage, holding a cornet.
“Thank goodness,” said Selby, “here he is now, — no,! by jingo, it’s a new cornettist!”
The stranger sat down in Elliott’s seat, picked pensively at some cotton in his cornet, and smiled at Selby.
“Where’s Elliott?” said Selby hoarsely.
“In that box, — see him? He wants to witness the first act. He says” — But Selby sprang to his feet, pallid with fright.
“Can you play a cornet?” he almost shrieked. “No, — can’t you?” stammered the new arrival. Before the wretched Selby could reply, Bock rapped for attention; there came three heavy knocks on the stage floor behind the curtain, and, as the violins began the “Air of the Petticoat,” the curtain twitched, trembled, and began to ascend, exposing a brilliant stage and dozens of glittering limbs.
Clifford in his box, gazed at the chorus in rapture.
Then, as the chorus began to sing, he felt a violent tug at his coat, and, looking round, beheld Elliott.
“You!” faltered Clifford, “what are you doing here?”
Elliott’s face was shrunken with fright.
“Heavens!” he gasped, “they’ll miss the flourish! Those fellows can’t play! I — I didn’t know you had engaged Selby so I hired a man in the street” — Clifford was rooted to the spot; his eyes fixed on the miserable substitutes below. Then his hair slowly rose as Max cried joyously:
“The Queen! The Queen! Hark — hark to the trumpets’ shrill welcome!”
A dismal silence ensued. All eyes were turned on the orchestra where Selby sat frozen stiff with horror, while his companion, scarlet in the face, cheeks puffed out and eyes starting from their sockets, blew madly into his cotton-stuffed cornet from which no sound proceeded.
“Hark! The trumpets ring again!” cried Max, looking anxiously at Bock, who, speechless and furious, waved his wand toward Selby.
“Idiots! Play!” he roared at last.
“We can’t!” gasped Selby. The audience screamed.
Claire coolly walked to the footlights, but the sight of Selby’s face sent her into wild uncontrollable laughter.
Claire’s laughter saved the piece. The house stood by her from that moment, and the “Queen of Siam” went merrily on to the sound of a cornetless orchestra. For Clifford and Elliott and Selby had fled; — fled away into the snowy night, far, far from the haunts of men.
* * * * * *
This is a story of the Quarter, truer than it ought to be. You have, doubtless, heard it before. It is not original with me. I myself have heard it told in London.
Ah! when shall we be wise, Madame? — When shall we learn wisdom — we of the Quartier Montparnasse?
I could tell you how Clifford returned and was forgiven by, Claire and Bobinot, — but I won’t. I could tell you how Clifford presented his royalty rights to Claire on the occasion of her marriage to Monsieur Bobin — but there! — I nearly told you a stage secret! So I shall answer no more questions — unless you care to know about Colette and Elliott and Selby.
Do you?
ANOTHER GOOD MAN.
“Ah! d’une ardeur sincere.
Le temps ne peut distraire,
Et nos plus doux plaisirs
Sont dans nos souvenirs.
On pense, on pense encore
A celle qu’on adore,
Et Von revient toujours
A ses premiers amours.”
Une conscience sans Dieu est un tribunal sans juge.
LAMARTINE.
I.
WHEN Fradley came to Paris he renounced literature as a means of livelihood, for, although his success as a writer in “Brooklyn Babyhood,” had been pecuniarily satisfying, it occurred to him that painting might be less fatiguing than poetry, and he decided to adopt it as his profession.
His illustrations to his own rhymes had been, up to the present time, of archaic simplicity, and were limited to pen and ink productions representing infants afflicted with exaggerated eyes and eyelashes.
Young mothers hovered over the pages of “Brooklyn Babyhood” spelling out his rhymes to crowing infancy. In these jingles, children were told that they were “arch” and “cute,” they were assured of their importance, their every action was applauded, solid pages of baby-talk were administered, and baby-ridden Brooklyn writhed with delight.
There were some people, however, who revolted, — some who even declared that Fradley was a p
ublic nuisance and that his rhymes inculcated self-consciousness; but these people were probably unnatural parents.
When he wrote his immortal poem, “How many toes has the Baby?” the Brooklyn “Banner” published the poem in full with a portrait of and a peon to “Brooklyn’s Brilliant Son.”
This was all very well but it couldn’t last. A rival poet from Flatbush got hold of the Brooklyn “Star” and began a series of poems, the baby talk of which made Fradley’s most earnest efforts fall flat. In vain he demanded to know the exact number of fingers and toes which the baby possessed; in vain he cooed and gurgled and bleated! The Flatbush poet was a woman, and she knew her business. When Fradley cooed, she cooed; when Fradley gurgled and bleated, she gurgled and bleated, backed up by the entire staff of the Brooklyn “Star.” In vain Fradley called for a counting of toes; she extended her researches into distant sections of baby’s anatomy, and Fradley was doomed. The last blow fell when the Flatbush poet produced
“BABY’S ICKLE TOOFY,”
which, translated freely, means “baby’s little tooth.” That settled it. Fickle Brooklyn fell down and worshipped the Flatbush lady, and Fradley sullenly packed his bag and sailed for France.
When Fradley took up his abode in the Latin Quarter, he expected that his arrival would create something of a stir. It did not. He waited a month for appreciation and finally asked Garland what he thought of his illustrations.
“I haven’t seen any,” replied Garland.
“I didn’t know you illustrated,” added Carrington, but noticing the mortification on Fradley’s face, said good-naturedly, “You know we don’t see much over here except the Paris papers; what do you illustrate for?”
Fradley was speechless.
“What paper are they in?” asked Garland, yawning innocently.
“In ‘Brooklyn Babyhood,’” snarled Fradley and left the café.
Carrington, a modest young Englishman with a high colour and blond moustache, looked troubled. Garland was irritated.
“You know,” he said to Carrington, “if he shows that sort of temper the older men will be down on him.”
“It’s very annoying,” said Carrington.
“Very. We new men have got to keep pretty quiet just now or the old men will make it hot for us. This man Fradley is enough to turn the whole studio against us. Did you make the fire this morning?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Clifford was very decent to me.” me.
“He’s all right, but there are some of the older men in Julian’s who are spoiling to discipline us. Did you notice it to-day?”
“I fancy I did,” replied Carrington, swallowing his beer.
“This man Fradley,” continued Garland, “is enough to queer the whole batch of this year’s men. Confound him, he’s effeminate.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Carrington pleasantly. “Well, I do. His room is opposite mine, you know, and he’s trotting in and bothering me all the time about the decorations of his boudoir. Whew! Why, Carrington, he has tied ribbons all over his furniture, and he has tidies and things about so that you are afraid to sit down. I don’t want to misjudge the man, for we new men must hang together, but I draw the line at embroidered night shirts stuck all over with lace and ribbon.”
“So do I,” said Carrington, “does he do that sort of thing?”
“I suppose so. He brought one in to show me.”
“Maybe it wasn’t his,” suggested Carrington.
“Possibly not. It would have been more appropriate for the Queen of Sheba.”
II.
Don’t,” said Clifford, “pat me on the back and tell me to keep my shirt on!”
“Nonsense!” said Elliott, “you are making a mountain out of a mole-hill!”
“And your language,” said Selby, “is not exactly—”
“Oh, isn’t it! Now you listen to me; the Café des Écoles is no boudoir, and if a man can’t express his views here then I’m a fossil.”
Rowden looked vaguely uneasy and Braith studied Clifford over his pipe.
“The Quarter,” continued Clifford, “is going to the devil; do you deny it?”
“Yes,” said Elliott cheerfully.
“That makes no difference — keep cool, Elliott, I know you only said it for argument, but it isn’t so—”
“Messieurs, you must make less noise,” said the proprietor, hurrying over from the desk.”
“Stop pounding on the table and yelling,” said Clifford to Carroll.
“If you don’t,” observed Elliott, “the sergot will come back and take our names again—”
“For the last time too, and Elliott’s already got three, so he’ll go to the cooler and devil a sou will I go bail,” growled Clifford; “now listen to me, you fellows, if you want to know why the Quarter is going to the bow-wows. Just look at the crop of this year’s men! Are we going to put up with McCloud. He threw the proprietor of the Café des Arts out of doors and ran the Café himself at ruinous rates until the proprietor came back with the police. I paid his fine.”
“Well,” said Elliott, “McCloud is certainly cocky for a nouveau!”
“Cocky? Well rather. Because he’s a sort of infant Hercules and has played on the Australian team is no reason why he should split all the tables with his fist and do cheap feats of strength, and grab a cab by the hind wheels and hold it with the cabby yelling like a demon and everybody laughing at me—”
“You!”
“I was in the cab; it was on the Boulevard Montparnasse—”
“And you were going—” began Elliott.
“Never mind where I was going,” said Clifford with dignity, “the fact remains that I was inside. It was lucky for McCloud that I was, for when a policeman nipped his budding humour my bail came in very handy.”
“And is that,” inquired Braith suavely, “the ground for your assertion that the Quarter is doomed?”
“Isn’t it enough?” demanded Clifford;— “a nouveau taking liberties, — making me ridiculous before the whole Montparnasse Quarter, — who know me — every one of them, — and to crown all, being with a lady—”
“Oh!” said Elliott tenderly. Osborne smirked and whistled the devil’s quadrille, Elliott and Thaxton played phantom trombones with enervating effect and Carroll beat madly upon a bottle.
Clifford became redder and redder. His unrequited affection for that wonderful little creature, the new Bullier star, was a topic for mirth and gentle jest throughout the Latin Quarter. They had recently parted, friends, — it being understood that she liked him, but hardly cared to pin her affections to a man who sat helpless in a cab while somebody held the hind wheels and the boulevard laughed. It was putting it plainly perhaps, but it did no harm, and Clifford was very careful to keep it to himself.
“You fellows,” observed Clifford scornfully, “had better stop those monkey shines. Put down that bottle, Carroll, or I’ll take it away. You’ll be trying to stuff it in your mouth next. Bite on the cork, it’s better for teething.”
This cruel thrust at the very recent advent of Carroll to full-fledged honours in the studio had its effect.
“I know,” continued Clifford, “that you all think I’m blighted, but you’re all mistaken. I’m sure you will see that I am right about these new men when I tell you what happened at the studio this morning. I sat down in a front place and waited for the roll call, and, before my name was called, a thing — a nouveau took the place himself.”
“What!” cried the others incredulously.
“It’s true,” continued Clifford, “this baby — this nouveau violated all precedent, and, because his name came before mine on the list, he actually had the impudence to throw me down!”
The others looked thoughtful.
“That is going too far,” observed Elliott gravely, “we must discipline these young gentlemen.”
“There are two or three,” said Thaxton, “who seem worse than the rest, for instance, young Garland—”
“Seems to
me that was the creature’s name who took my place,” interrupted Clifford.
“It couldn’t be — he’s a decent fellow and makes the fire when he’s told to,” said Selby.
“Perhaps he didn’t know you were an old man,” suggested Elliott.
“Probably not,” said Carroll, who was still smarting from the teething taunt, “Clifford hasn’t been twice in the studio since the nouveaux came’”
Elliott took out a note-book and wrote down Garland’s name.
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” he said, “but there is another little wretch who ought to have an example made of him at once.”
“Who?” asked Clifford.
“I believe his name is Fradley,” replied Elliott lighting a cigar.
“Then we’ll fix Fradley,” muttered Clifford. “Who cares for a game of billiards?”
III.
The roll call was over at Julian’s and every place had been marked in white chalk on the floor. The model in the first studio had profited by the confusion attendant on the distribution of bread, colours and canvasses, and, shuffling into his trousers and slippers, strolled into the second studio of Boulanger and Lefevre to investigate the cause of the uproar which had arisen and which continued with increasing violence.
The studio was packed with yelling students, some mounted on tabourets, some on the old dust-chest by the door, others on the stove and model stand. From Doucet’s two studios a delegation had arrived, all of the Sculptors and most of Bouguereau’s men were there, and the noise was terrific. A big blond fellow wearing the uniform of a cuirassier seemed to be directing things, and his bellows shook the windows and rattled the bones on “Pierre,” the battered studio skeleton.
The clerk came in and remonstrated, but Clifford put him out and locked the glass door, leaving him gesticulating and taking names as fast as he could write. Then Jules peeped in, smiled sadly and beckoned to Boissy, the cuirassier massier. Boissy opened the door and explained that they were only “organising.” That was sufficient, and Jules and the clerk withdrew.
When the classic halls of Julian’s echoed with demoniac screams, cat-calls, and howls — when voices were uplifted in every language except German, and the thickets of easels were mowed down in rows by some playful boot-heel, it was generally an indication that the students were “organising.” They had a passion for organising, and they seldom failed to indulge it. Just now they were organising under the leadership of that strange creature, Sara, also known as “La Rousse,” who was generally the root of all mischief in the Quarter. She stood on the model stand beside Boissy, her fiery red hair coiled along her neck, her wonderful white skin glistening, her mysterious face bathed in the sunshine which streamed down from the glass roof above.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 1114