Next morning, when Clifford arrived at the Atelier of MM. Boulanger and
Lefebvre, he found the students more excited than usual over the advent
of a “Nouveau.”
Hazing at Julien’s has assumed, of late, a comparatively mild form. Of
course there are traditions of serious trouble in former years and a
few fights have taken place, consequent upon the indignant resistance
of new men to the ridiculous demands forced upon them by their
ingenious tormentors. Still, the hazing of today is comparatively
inoffensive, and there is not much of it. In the winter the students
are too busy to notice a newcomer, except to make him feel strange and
humble by their lofty scorn. But in the autumn, when the men have
returned from their long out-of-door rest, with brush and palette, a
certain amount of friskiness is developed, which sometimes expends
itself upon the luckless “nouveau.” A harmless search for the
time-honored “grand reflecteur,” an enforced song and dance, a stern
command to tread the mazes of the shameless quadrille with an equally
shameless model, is usually the extent of the infliction. Occasionally
the stranger is invited to sit on a high stool and read aloud to the
others while they work, as he would like to do himself. But sometimes,
if a man resists these reasonable demands in a contumacious manner, he
is “crucified.” This occurs so seldom, however, that Clifford, on
entering the barn-like studios that morning, was surprised to see that
a “crucifixion” was in progress.
A stranger was securely strapped to the top rungs of a twenty-foot
ladder which a crowd of Frenchmen were preparing to raise and place in
a slanting position against the wall.
“Who is it that those fellows are fooling with?” he asked.
“An Englishman, and it’s about time we put a stop to it,” answered
Elliott.
When Americans or Englishmen are hazed by the French students, they
make common cause in keeping watch that the matter does not go too far.
“How many of us are here this morning?” said Clifford.
“Fourteen who can fight,” said Elliott; “they only want someone to give
the word.”
Clifford buttoned his jacket and shouldered his way into the middle of
the crowd. “That’s enough. He’s been put through enough for today,” he
said coolly.
A Frenchman, who had himself only entered the Atelier the week
previous, laughed and replied, “We’ll put _you_ on, if you say
anything.”
There was an ominous pause. Every old student there knew Clifford to be
one of the most skillful and dangerous boxers in the school.
They looked with admiration upon their countryman. It didn’t cost
anything to admire him. They urged him on, and he didn’t need much
urging, for he remembered his own recent experience as a new man, and
he didn’t know Clifford.
“Go ahead,” cried this misguided student, “he’s a nouveau, and he’s
going up!”
Clifford laughed in his face. “Come along,” he called, as some dozen
English and American students pushed into the circle and gathered round
the prostrate Englishman.
“See here, Clifford, what’s the use of interrupting?” urged a big
Frenchman.
Clifford began loosening the straps. “You know, Bonin, that we always
do interfere when it goes as far as this against an Englishman or an
American.” He laughed good naturedly. “There’s always been a fight over
it before, but I hope there won’t be any today.”
Bonin grinned and shrugged his shoulders.
After vainly fussing with the ropes, Clifford and the others finally
cut them and the “nouveau” scrambled to his feet and took an attitude
which may be seen engraved in any volume of instruction in the noble
art of self-defense. He was an Englishman of the sandy variety.
Orange-colored whiskers decorated a carefully scrubbed face,
terminating in a red-brown mustache. He had blue eyes, now lighted to a
pale green by the fire of battle, reddish-brown hair, and white hands
spattered with orange-colored freckles. All this, together with a well
made suit of green and yellow checks, and the seesaw accent of the
British Empire, answered, when politely addressed, to the name of
Cholmondeley Rowden, Esq.
“I say,” he began, “I’m awfully obliged, you know, and all that; but
I’d jolly well like to give some of these cads a jolly good licking,
you know.”
“Go in, my friend, go in!” laughed Clifford; “but next time we’ll leave
you to hang in the air for an hour or two, that’s all.”
“Damn their cheek!” began the Englishman.
“See here,” cried Elliott sharply, “you’re only a nouveau, and you’d
better shut up till you’ve been here long enough to talk.”
“In other words,” said Clifford, “don’t buck against custom.”
“But I _cahn’t_ see it,” said the nouveau, brushing his dusty trousers.
“I don’t see it at all, you know. Damn their cheek!”
At this moment the week-weaned Frenchman shoved up to Clifford.
“What did you mean by interfering? Eh! You English pig.”
Clifford looked at him with contempt. “What do you want, my little
Nouveau?”
“Nouveau!” spluttered the Gaul, “Nouveau, eh!” and he made a terrific
lunge at the American, who was sent stumbling backward, and slipping,
fell heavily.
The Frenchman gazed around in triumph, but his grin was not reflected
on the faces of his compatriots. None of them would have changed places
with him.
Clifford picked himself up deliberately. His face was calm and mild as
he walked up to his opponent, who hurriedly put himself into an
attitude of self-defense.
“Monsieur Nouveau, you are not wise. But some day you will learn
better, when you are no longer a nouveau,” said Clifford, kindly. The
man looked puzzled, but kept his fists up.
“Now I am going to punish you a little,” proceeded Clifford, in even
tones, “not harshly, but with firmness, for your good,” he added,
walking straight up to the Frenchman.
The latter struck heavily at Clifford’s head, but he ducked like a
flash, and catching his antagonist around the waist, carried him,
kicking, to the water-basin, where he turned on the water and shoved
the squirming Frenchman under. The scene was painful, but brief; when
one of the actors in it emerged from under the water-spout, he no
longer asked for anybody’s blood.
“Go and dry yourself,” said Clifford, cheerfully; and walking over to
his easel, sat down and began to work.
In ten minutes, all trace of the row had disappeared, excepting that
one gentleman’s collar looked rather limp and his hair was uncommonly
sleek. The men worked steadily. Snatches of song and bits of whistling
rose continuously from easel and taboret, all blending in a drowsy hum.
Gethryn and Elliott caught now and then, from behind them, words of
wisdom which Clifford was administering to the now subdued Rowden.
“Yes,” he was saying, “many a man has been injured for life by these
Frenchmen for a mere nothing. I had two brothers,” he paused, “and my
golden-haired boy—” he ceased again, apparently choking with emotion.
“But—I say—you’re not married, you know,” said the Englishman.
“Hush,” sighed Clifford, “I—I—married the daughter of an African duke.
She was brought to the States by a slave trader in infancy.”
“Black?” gasped Mr Rowden.
“Very black, but beautiful. I could not keep her. She left me, and is
singing with Haverley’s Minstrels now.”
Like the majority of his countrymen, Mr Rowden was ready to believe
anything he heard of social conditions in the States, but one point
required explanation.
“You said the child had golden hair.”
“Yes, his mother’s hair was red,” sighed Clifford.
Gethryn, glancing round, saw the Englishman’s jaw drop, as he said,
“How extraordinary!” Then he began to smile as if suspecting a joke.
But Clifford’s eye met his in gentle rebuke.
“C’est l’heure! Rest!” Down jumped the model. The men leaned back
noisily. Clifford rose, bowed gravely to the Englishman, and stepped
across the taborets to join his friends.
Gethryn was cleaning his brushes with turpentine and black soap.
“Going home, Rex?” inquired Clifford, picking up a brush and sending a
fine spray of turpentine over Elliott, who promptly returned the
attention.
“Quit that,” growled Gethryn, “don’t ruin those brushes.”
“What’s the nouveau like, Clifford?” asked Elliott. “We heard you
instructing him a little. He seems to have the true Englishman’s sense
of humor.”
“Oh, he’s not a bad sort,” said Clifford. “Come and be introduced. I’m
half ashamed of myself for guying him, for he’s really a very decent,
plucky fellow, a bit stiff and pig-headed, as many of ’em are at first,
and as for humor, I suppose they know their own kind, but they do get a
little confused between fact and fancy when they converse with us.”
The two strolled off with friendly intent, to seek out and ameliorate
the loneliness of Cholmondeley Rowden, Esq.
Gethryn tied up his brushes, closed his color box and, flinging on his
hat, hurried down the stairs and into the court, nodding to several
students who passed with canvas and paint-boxes tucked under their
arms. He reached the street, and, going through the Passage Brady,
emerged upon the Boulevard Sebastopol.
A car was passing and he boarded it, climbing up to the imperiale. The
only vacant seat was between a great, red-faced butcher, and a market
woman from the Halles, and although the odors of raw beef and fish were
unpleasantly perceptible, he settled himself back and soon became lost
in his own thoughts. The butcher had a copy of the _Petit Journal_ and
every now and then he imparted bits of it across Gethryn, to the market
woman, lingering with relish over the criminal items.
“Dites donc,” he cried, “here is the affair Rigaud!”
Gethryn roused up and listened.
“This morning, I knew it,” cackled the woman, folding her fat hands
across her apron. “I said to Sophie, ‘Voyons Sophie,’ I said—”
“Shut up,” interrupted the butcher, “I’m going to read.”
“I was sure of it,” said the woman, addressing Gethryn, “‘Voyons,
Sophie,’ said—” but the butcher interrupted her, again reading aloud:
“The condemned struggled fearfully, and it required the united efforts
of six gendarmes—”
“Cochon!” said the woman.
“Listen, will you!” cried the man. “Some disturbance was caused by a
gamin who broke from the crowd and attacked a soldier. But the
miserable was seized and carried off, screaming. Two gold pieces of 20
francs each fell from some hiding-place in his ragged clothes and were
taken charge of by the police.”
The man paused and gloated over the column. “Here,” he cried,
“Listen—‘Even under the knife the condemned—’”
Gethryn rose roughly and, crowding past the man, descended the steps
and, entering the car below, sat down there.
“Butor!” roared the butcher. “Cochon! He trod on my foot!”
“He is an English pig!” sneered the woman, reaching for the newspaper.
“Let me read it now,” she whined.
“Hands off,” growled the man, “I’ll read you what I think good.”
“But it’s my paper.”
“It’s mine now—shut up.”
The first thing Gethryn did on reaching home was to write a note to his
friend, the Prefect of the Seine, telling him how the child of Rigaud
came by the gold pieces. Then he had a quiet smoke, and then he went
out and lunched at the Café des Écoles, frugally, on a sandwich and a
glass of beer. After that he returned to his studio and sat down to his
desk again. He opened a small memorandum book and examined some columns
of figures. They were rather straggling, not very well kept, but they
served to convince him that his accounts were forty francs behind, and
he would have to economize a little for the next week or two. After
this, he sat and thought steadily. Finally he took a sheet of his best
cream laid note paper, dipped his pen in the ink, and began to write.
The note was short, but it took him a long while to compose it, and
when it was sealed and directed to “Miss Ruth Deane, Lung’ Arno
Guicciardini, Florence, Italy,” he sat holding it in his hand as if he
did not know what to do with it.
Two o’clock struck. He started up, and quickly rolling up the shades
from the glass roof and pulling out his easel, began to squeeze tube
after tube of color upon his palette. The parrot came down and tiptoed
about the floor, peering into color boxes, pastel cases, and pots of
black soap, with all the curiosity of a regulation studio bore. Steps
echoed on the tiles outside.
Gethryn opened the door quickly. “Ah, Elise! Bon jour!” he said,
pleasantly. “Entrez donc!”
“Merci, Monsieur Gethryn,” smiled his visitor, a tall, well-shaped girl
with dark eyes and red cheeks.
“Ten minutes late,” Elise, said Gethryn, laughing, “my time’s worth a
franc a minute; so prepare to pay up.”
“Very well,” retorted the girl, also laughing and showing her pretty
teeth, “but I have decided to charge twenty francs an hour from today.
Now, what do you owe me, Monsieur?”
Gethryn shook his brushes at her. “You are spoiled, Elise—you used to
pose very well and were never late.”
“And I pose well now!” she cried, her professional pride piqued.
“Monsieur Bonnat and Monsieur Constant have praised me all this week.
Voila,” she finished, throwing off her waist and letting her skirts
fall in a circle to her feet.
“Oh, you can pose if you will,” answered Gethryn, pleasantly. “Come, we
begin?”
The girl stepped daintily out of the pile of discarded clothes, and
picking her way across the room with her bare feet, sprang lightly upon
the model stand.
“The same as last week?” she asked, smiling frankly.
“Yes, that’s it,” he replied, shifting his easel and glancing up at the
light; “only drop the left elbow a bit—there, that’s it; now a little
to the left—the knee—that will do.”
The girl settled herself into the pose, glanced at the clock, and then
turning to Gethryn said, “And I am to look at you, am I not?”
“Where could you find a more charming object?” murmured he, sorting his
brushes.
“Thank you,” she pouted, stealing a glance at him; “than you?”
“Except Mademoiselle Elise. There, now we begin!”
The rest of the hour was disturbed only by the sharp rattle of brushes
and the scraping of the palette knife.
“Are you tired?” asked Gethryn, looking at the clock; “you have ten
minutes more.”
“No,” said the girl, “continue.”
Finally Gethryn rose and stepped back.
“Time,” he said, still regarding his work. “Come and give me a
criticism, Elise.”
The girl stretched her limbs, and then, stepping down, trotted over to
Gethryn.
“What do you say?” he demanded, anxiously.
Artists often pay more serious attention to the criticisms of their
models than to those of a brother artist. For, although models may be
ignorant of method—which, however, is not always the case—from seeing
so much good work they acquire a critical acumen which often goes
straight to the mark.
It was for one of these keen criticisms that the young man was
listening now.
“I like it very much—very much,” answered the girl, slowly; “but, you
see—I am not so cold in the face—am I?”
“Hit it, as usual,” muttered the artist, biting his lip; “I’ve got more
greens and blues in there than there are in a peacock’s tail. You’re
right,” he added, aloud, “I must warm that up a bit—there in the
shadows, and keep the high lights pure and cold.”
Elise nodded seriously. “Monsieur Chaplain and I have finished our
picture,” she announced, after a pause.
It is a naïve way models have of appropriating work in which, truly
enough, they have no small share. They often speak of “our pictures”
and “our success.”
“How do you like it?” asked the artist, absently.
“Good,”—she shrugged her shoulders—“but not truth.”
“Right again,” murmured Gethryn.
“I prefer Dagnan,” added the pretty critic.
“So do I—rather!” laughed Gethryn.
“Or you,” said the girl.
“Come, come,” cried the young man, coloring with pleasure, “you don’t
mean it, Elise!”
“I say what I mean—always,” she replied, marching over to the pups and
gathering them into her arms.
“I’m going to take a cigarette,” she announced, presently.
“All right,” said Gethryn, squeezing more paint on his palette, “you’ll
find some mild ones on the bookcase.”
Elise gave the pups a little hug and kiss, and stepped lightly over to
the bookcase. Then she lighted a cigarette and turned and surveyed
herself in the mirror.
“I’m thinner than I was last year. What do you think?” she demanded,
studying her pretty figure in the glass.
“Perhaps a bit, but it’s all the better. Those corsets simply ruined
you as a model last year.”
Elise looked serious and shook her head.
“I do feel so much better without them. I won’t wear them again.”
“No, you have a pretty, slender figure, and you don’t want them. That’s
why I always get you when I can. I hate to draw or paint from a girl
whose hips are all discolored with ugly red creases from her confounded
corset.”
The girl glanced contentedly at her supple, clean-limbed figure, and
then, with a laugh, jumped upon the model stand.
“It’s not time,” said Gethryn, “you have five minutes yet.”
“Go on, all the same.” And soon the rattle of the brushes alone broke
the silence.
At last Gethryn rose and backed off with a sigh.
“How’s that, Elise?” he called.
She sprang down and stood looking over his shoulder.
“Now I’m like myself!” she cried, frankly; “it’s delicious! But hurry
and block in the legs, why don’t you?”
“Next pose,” said the young man, squeezing out more color.
And so the afternoon wore away, and at six o’clock Gethryn threw down
his brushes with a long-drawn breath.
“That’s all for today. Now, Elise, when can you give me the next pose?
I don’t want a week at a time on this; I only want a day now and then.”
The model went over to her dress and rummaged about in the pockets.
“Here,” she said, handing him a notebook and diary.
He selected a date, and wrote his name and the hour.
“Good,” said the girl, reading it; and replacing the book, picked up
her stockings and slowly began to dress.
Gethryn lay back on the lounge, thoroughly tired out. Elise was humming
a Normandy fishing song. When, at last, she stood up and drew on her
gloves, he had fallen into a light sleep.
She stepped softly over to the lounge and listened to the quiet
breathing of the young man.
“How handsome—and how good he is!” she murmured, wistfully.
She opened the door very gently.
“So different, so different from the rest!” she sighed, and noiselessly
went her way.