[Henry Gastonard continues the story in a letter to his friend Paddy
O’Connell.]
The Hôtel St. Paul, Paris,
May 24th, 1905.
Dear Paddy,--Permit me to ignore the flattering document I had the
honour to receive from you three days ago.
Friendship, my dear Paddy, calls for something more than a pious
expression of opinion upon the reason or conduct of a friend. It
demands a sympathetic endeavour to understand, and an unshaken
determination to accept such facts as are confided to us and call for
our judgment. To tell a man he is a fool is often to tell him the
truth. But I am not aware of many who have become less foolish for the
knowledge, or have derived any consolation whatever from so bald an
utterance.
Now, Paddy, you know as well as I do that you are all agog for further
news of Mimi La Godiche; and were you in Paris this little chit of the
booths would have your warm friendship, and you would lay scalps upon
the green should any defame her. Cannot I see you with your feet upon
an historic mantel-shelf, and your eyes (so far as tobacco smoke will
permit) upon a regal ceiling, reading that same letter for a second
time, and willing to barter all Ireland and the people thereof for one
week of the Butte, one month of this rolling world of gilt and tinsel
and all its spangled joys. Admit the truth of it, and write me
something sensible. For, Paddy, I have need of you--there is the devil
to pay, and the game grows interesting.
You will remember that I left Mimi La Godiche upon my hearthrug.
Barrymore had left us; the time was the early morning of the day; the
_canaille_ of the Assassins had gone God knows where. Save for the old
soldier, who is at once my valet-de-chambre, butler, cook, housemaid,
and scullery wench, there was no one with me in the Maison du bon
Tabac.
Depict the scene, Paddy, and bear with a recital of my virtues. A room
as large as an opera box; about its walls the drawings of Caran
d’Ache, Henri Riviere, and Willette; a couple of armchairs, as ragged
as the beggars at the door of St. Eustache; a yacht’s piano bang
against the wall; a buffet with all the drinks that are not good for
us; the very worst novels littering all the tables; cigarettes and
cigars everywhere; pipes in all the niches--such is the mountain home
of Henry Gastonard, gentleman.
And upon the hearthrug of this charming apartment, style Louis de
Montmartre, the tousled-haired Mimi squatting like any lady of the
harem, her legs crossed, her feathered hat in her hand, her cheeks as
rosy as a picture from a Christmas-book.
Now, Paddy, I have told you something of Mimi the Simpleton; but, to
be as frank as the priest of Clanconnell, ’tis precious little that I
myself know of her, anyway. I can no more tell you whether she be
virtuous or otherwise than recite ten chapters of the Koran. This is a
difficulty, to be sure, which my friends of the Hill will never
understand. I can hear the roar of laughter which would attend its
expression either in the neighbourhood of Neuilly or in that of la
Galette. Mimi La Godiche virtuous! Then was Catherine of Russia a
latter-day saint, and Lucretia herself as misunderstood as all the
historians would now have us to believe. This would be the opinion of
the Butte and of Neuilly. It is not my opinion--I cannot tell you why;
nor do I trouble myself for reasons.
She sat upon my hearthrug, I say, her legs crossed and her great
feathered hat in her hand. When I questioned her, her answers were
often monosyllables; sometimes nods and smiles; long sentences but
rarely. Of her past she appeared to know nothing at all. Her
birthplace she named as Vendome, but was not sure of it. She could
tell me nothing of her childhood; the Fair she spoke of with dread;
the lion-tamer Cassadore stood to her for all terrors past, present,
and to come. She would have burned her hand in the fire rather than
return to him.
“Have you no remembrance of your father?” I asked her.
She shook her head many times, as one who wished to think but could
not.
“And your mother?”
“There was someone at Orleans, Monsieur Henry, and after that
Cassadore. Oh, Cassadore always, I assure you.”
“You must be able to tell me more than that, Mimi. Somewhere,
somewhere in your life, there was a woman who was kind to you. Now,
don’t you remember when?”
“I remember a very old lady, Monsieur Henry--that would have been at
Orleans. And then the road--the great, white, open road--so many days,
so many nights… and after that Cassadore always until you came,
Monsieur Henry.”
“Why did you not run away, Mimi?”
“To whom should I run?”
“Anywhere away from Cassadore. You are young… you can work; why did
you not leave him?”
“It was impossible, monsieur--as well ask the Abbé to run away from
his church.”
“You mean that the life had become necessary to you?”
“Yes, yes, I mean that--would you put me in the kitchen, Monsieur
Henry?”
“Certainly not, Mimi--but, you see, you can’t stop any longer in
Montmartre, and what then?”
Her face clouded, but only for an instant.
“I shall go away with you, Monsieur Henry.”
“Why should you go with me?”
“Because I do not wish to go with Cassadore.”
“There are plenty of others who would take you away, Mimi. Why do you
think of me?”
“I cannot tell you, Monsieur Henry--you must know yourself why it is.”
“And if I do, what then? Suppose I cannot take you away?”
“I shall ask Mr. Barrymore.”
“Oh, Barrymore would not be of any use to you.”
“Then I shall go back to Cassadore.”
“It wouldn’t be safe for you to stop in Montmartre now--I suppose you
understand that much, Mimi?”
She laughed a little at the suggestion.
“Jean-le-Mont is very angry,” she said, “I am afraid of Jean-le-Mont.”
“When did you steal my cigarette-case, Mimi; how did you know that
Jean-le-Mont had it?”
“He came to Mr. Barrymore’s atelier three days ago--the Italian who
makes the models told me that Jean had the box. At the Lapin Agil I
gave him a rose, Monsieur Henry, and then put my arms about his neck.
Ah, the droll--he discovered it at once, but he did not wish to tell
because the others would know and rob him afterwards. Then Mr.
Barrymore came in because he saw me there, and I told him, and we sent
for you----”
“And this was the first time you have stolen anything, Mimi?”
“Monsieur Henry, you know that it is.”
* * * * *
Observe, Paddy, the reiteration of this. I know that she is virtuous;
I know that she is honest. No reasons given or asked, as they say in
the thieves’ advertisements. Upon my word of honour, the good faith of
it is astonishing! For I do know, Paddy… and I would stake my fortune
(or what is left of it) upon the truth of my astonishing creed.
I shall not fatigue you with further particulars of this amazing
morning. For a couple of hours, perhaps, I slept upon my bed, and Mimi
upon the hearthrug; but at six o’clock I waked her, and stopping only
for coffee and a roll, I was out of the house by seven and upon my way
to the Paris of law and of civilisation. All my instinct told me that
the thieves of the Butte would make short work of Mimi La Godiche if
she remained in their neighbourhood. Let her go to the old haunt this
night, and a knife in the back or a collarette of rope would certainly
be her reward. You know Montmartre; you know the particular kind of
blackguard and of blackguardess it can vomit from its cavernous and
detestable mouth. From these I fled with Mimi at my side--whither, the
great Saint Christopher, patron of travellers, alone might tell me.
You are aware that I have an apartment at the Hôtel St. Paul, and
thither first I took the child in the hope that inspiration would come
and a swift solution of a pretty problem be found. Be sure the
excellent _patron_ stared not a little, and that Madame, his wife,
sniffed more of the morning air than had filled her ancient lungs for
many a day. But a better entertainment was that provided by Narisse of
the Faubourg St. Honoré, who came round with his hand-maidens to
dress her, and must take my directions three times before assuring
himself finally of the madness of this English traveller.
Oh, Paddy, cannot you hear this man as he exclaims to heaven upon the
feathers of Montmartre, and sees a national infamy in the fine, if
tattered stuffs of Belleville? No doubt I should have gone not “Chez
Narisse” but the Magazin du Louvre; there bought not silk and chiffon
but good, honest serges, a hat to fit a governess and lace suitable to
the deaconess of a Sunday-school. But, Paddy, I am a man, and I know
the name but of one costumier in all Paris, and he is Narisse, and he
made of Mimi La Godiche a veritable beauty in less time than you or I
could finish a rubber of bridge at the club. Ah, these mad
Englishmen--they still exist it appears, and blessed is Paris because
of them! And what shall be said for the girl herself, and what must
she do upon the instant but sing the man a song after the fashion of
Jehan Rictus, just because of the clothes he had put upon her back.
Believe me, when I tell you that the models themselves came near to
joining in the chorus, and that Narisse was speechless before the end
of the second verse.
Mimi, then, is dressed and in her right mind. Will you follow me as I
lead her forth about the hour of twelve o’clock, and ask myself, what
next? There are many in Paris who know me, and not a few who stared
with some astonishment. Whatever the costumier’s art, my dear Paddy,
it cannot disguise the walk, the airs, the manner of the Butte. I am a
person of some sensibility out of doors, and I object to that freedom
which grips you hysterically by the arm, at odd intervals, to drag you
to a shop window and exclaim upon a rope of pearls which would ruin a
Maharajah, or an emerald bracelet none but a Rothschild could buy. It
is not a joy to me when my companion has the wit and the language
which silences enterprising cabmen or calls for the retort
discourteous of the foot-passenger who has been obstructed. Publicity
has no charms for me; I prefer to give the wall to the humourists and
to go in obscurity.
We lunched at the Café of the Cascade in the Bois. There was a goodly
company present, and “her ladyship” fell in love with the Baroness
Séchard, who was with Pechala, of the Spanish Embassy. I think the
grand manners of many of these far from grand dames somewhat
astonished her; but the size of the asparagus tickled her sense of
humour, and the bill was ever in her mind.
“What will happen to us if you cannot pay the bill, Monsieur Henry?”
“We shall go to prison, Mimi.”
“Cassadore went to prison once--at Châlons-sur-Marne--I do not wish
to go to prison, Monsieur Henry.”
“Then we must try to find some money, Mimi. How much have you now?”
The question should not have been put, for Mimi carries her money
where she carried my cigarette-case, and made no secret of the matter.
I was but just in time to prevent a display which might have brought
us the bill on the spot, and, as it was, Etienne, the waiter, grinned
from ear to ear as he floated to us with a sole à la Victorine.
“Did they not tell you in the Rue Pigalle that I am rich, Mimi?”
“You could never be rich, Monsieur Henry; you are not clever enough.”
“But, Mimi, am I not a sculptor?”
This appeared to her a droll saying. She laughed quite honestly and
again appealed to my candour.
“You know that you will never be a sculptor; you have no talent,
Monsieur Henry; even I have more talent than you. Besides, if you
were”--she added wisely--“how poor we should be.”
“It is not good to be poor in Paris, Mimi.”
“It is not good to be poor anywhere, Monsieur Henry.”
“But if one has no way to get a living--as I have not, what then,
Mimi?”
“Oh, then one sleeps at the Hôtel of the Belle Etoile. I have stayed
there often when I used to go to the Fêtes. It is a very large hotel,
and you can see the stars while you lie in bed.”
“Would you go back there, Mimi?”
“Jesu--no; why do you speak of it when one is no longer hungry,
Monsieur Henry?”
I did not pursue the subject further, but paid the bill and went out
with her to the Bois. A shabby cab made the usual grand tour with us
and helped us to pass a pleasant hour. Perhaps it astonished me to
discover that the Bois impressed her but little--but then she had been
accustomed to the spangles all her life and could make little of a
passable equipage with a fat Baroness in it, or a costly motor driven
by a man who looked like an Oneida Indian. Her exclamations were few
but her observation unfailing. She detected me at once when I nodded
to Lea d’Alençon, who drove a pair of cream-colored ponies near the
Cascade.
“Why did that lady look so angry, Monsieur Henry? Are you in love with
her?”
“Why should I be, Mimi? She is the wife of Captain d’Alençon of the
Engineers.”
“But she is in love with you--I am sure of it. And she is very angry
with you.”
“Then I cannot help it. Let us get out and walk, Mimi, and ask
ourselves where we are going to stay to-night. That will be more
interesting than Madame d’Alençon.”
“You wish to see her pass again--is not that the reason, Monsieur
Henry?”
Well, of course it was, and she had guessed wisely enough; but what
was I to say to her? Lea is one of my virtues, as I have told you
before, Paddy. When I wish to balance the books of all the moralities,
cash, day and ledger, Lea d’Alençon stands for the most valuable of
my assets. She is too clever to be anything else, and yet you might
call her the most amorous woman and one of the most dangerous in
Paris. Just a hundred times, perhaps, has she advised me to get out of
this delectable country and go back to England. I might have done so
but for her promise to visit me there upon an early occasion. Be sure,
Paddy, that I have no desire whatever to cut the Captain’s throat
merely to prove myself a good Parisian. Lea is charming as a friend.
She would be all the malignities impersonified otherwise.
I should tell you that I had recognised her when she passed me, and
that this astonished her considerably. It is considered less than
nothing at all in Paris to drive in the Bois with a cocotte--but to
recognise your lady friends when thus employed must be named little
less than an infamy. So here was a pretty problem for this majestic
Astarte with the raven locks and the liquid black eyes and all the
langour of the trained voluptuary. Either I wished to insult her or it
were possible that my companion might be introduced. This she must
have told herself, for the chariot reappeared presently and was drawn
up at the pavement not fifty yards from the place where we stood.
“Bon jour, Madame d’Alençon.”
“Bon jour, Monsieur Gastonard.”
“I have a story for you; when will a good comrade hear it?”
“Why not at five o’clock; my husband is at Valérien. Is it a story of
the theatre, Monsieur Gastonard?”
“It is a story of virtue, madame.”
We laughed together. This poor old Pantaloon Virtue still provokes a
smile--if his name be ever mentioned--in such saloons as Lea
d’Alençon and her kind have made famous. Some spirit of sheer devilry
must have prompted me to this confidence, Paddy; but behind it lay a
firm belief in the sagacity of this shrewd woman of the world and in
her honesty. She would place Mimi the Simpleton in some possible
situation--I had not a moment’s doubt of it.
How we laughed together over the whole story when I went to her rooms
an hour later. Mimi, meanwhile, had been dispatched to the Hôtel St.
Paul, and there entrusted to the safe custody of _la patronne_. I
myself sat in a wonderful cradle chair and watched Lea pour out really
excellent tea from a Chinese pot that should have been behind glass.
She had changed her gown for a delicate robe of lace and chiffon, and
thrust the prettiest pair of feet in all Paris from a petticoat over
which a costumier must have shed tears of joy.
“Who is this girl?” she asked me.
I told her that I did not know.
“Why has she become virtuous?”
“A natural condition, Lea; why is not marble chalk?”
Observe, Paddy, that Lea and I have been some months at the point when
“Monsieur” or “Madame” provokes ridicule, and no formality clouds our
brutal frankness. Had it been otherwise I could not have spoken to her
of Mimi La Godiche at all.
“Let me tell you the girl’s story,” I said, “or what I know of it. Six
months ago she was performing outside the walls of Paris with a
monster of a man named Cassadore, whose riches are three lions and
whose wardrobe a pair of spangled tights. I was in the tent when this
child was taken into the cages with this man, and I did not fail to
remark two facts; one, that she was absolutely lacking in a sense of
fear, and, secondly, that she might become eventually one of the most
beautiful women in Paris. Five francs judiciously expended obtained an
introduction to her--a hundred francs bought her of the lion-tamer.
Rejoice, my dear Lea, that in our society women are not sold for a
hundred nor for ten hundred francs, or who can tell what I might not
bid for you at an auction. In Mimi’s case the bargain was soon made.
After all, the tamer had a dozen girls of her station ready to be
driven into the cages at his nod--what was this girl to him? I bought
her and took her to the Butte. Febry, of La Galette, gave her a chance
to get hissed upon his stage, and she did not disappoint him. I tried
her again, paying a thousand francs for the privilege at the
Quat-Z-Arts and the Coq d’Or. Again, my dear lady, she was a hopeless
failure. No femme de chambre acting in the kitchen could have failed
so dismally. And yet I continue to believe in her; my faith is
unshaken. I am ready to declare that she will become a great actress,
astonish Paris, and end in an apartment not a third of a mile removed
from the Arc de Triomphe or the Avenue Marigny. It is this faith which
brings me now to the house of the charming Lea d’Alençon. I come,
_foi d’honneur_, simply to seek a salve to my vanity. How shall I get
this child taught? Where shall I place her while she is being taught?
You, of all my friends, can best advise me upon that point. Do so, and
you shall not find a more grateful man in Paris to-day.”
Well, I could see that I had impressed her, but I had not convinced
her, as the next question proved.
“Why do you say that the child is virtuous?” she asked me.
“Because I know her to be so,” was my retort. “Put your hand upon the
marbles at the Madeleine and will they burn you? It is true that a
fire might be conceived of such a nature as to melt your marble and
cause it to run as liquid steel--but, my dear Lea, we are not talking
of the forges, but of the facts. This child is virtuous because she is
utterly devoid of any desire to be anything else. The wisest up on the
Butte recognise the truth and are proud of it.”
“And now these very people drive her out. Did you not tell me that she
cannot return to Montmartre, Henry?”
“Certainly not--at least, to the only quarter of Montmartre where it
would be possible for her to live. The thieves have marked her
down--she would not be alive a week if she remained up there.”
“And you propose----?”
“My dear Lea, nothing of the kind. I have no matrimonial intentions,
believe me. It is you who will propose.”
She laughed a little wickedly. The talk had drifted apart from my
idea, and I could not but be amused by her sudden _volte face_.
“Louis does not return from Valérien until to-morrow,” she said
quickly. “I am supposed to dine with my sister Lucille. Where are you
going to take me, Henry?”
“Alone, Lea?”
She looked me straight in the face.
“Let us ask the Curé of the Madeleine.”
“By all means. And while we dine we will make plans for Mimi.”
“Let us dine on the island,” she cried, ignoring it; “there is the
safest place in Paris.”
“I will be at the Cascade at a quarter to seven. Of course, it may be
a tragedy.”
“The tragedies, my dear Henry, are always for to-morrow.”
And so, Paddy, amiable fool that I was, I consented. It will be no
surprise to you to hear that the Curé of the Madeleine had another
appointment, and could not turn up. But of this dinner and of all the
absurdities which followed upon it, I will write to-morrow.
Meanwhile, find me, my dear fellow, your friend,
Harry.