her blue ones; ‘I could tell you almost anything, and you would believe
me, Julie?’
“‘Yes,’ says mademoiselle faintly.
“‘I could tell you no, I have not been all these things--I have not
drunk much nor gambled nor lost at cards, as they all say, nor--had
flirtations with women. I could tell you that, couldn’t I, and you would
believe me?’
“‘Ye-es,’ mademoiselle says--yet more faintly.
“‘Well, I tell you nothing of the sort! I tell you, yes, Julie--I have
done all these things; I have been wild and extravagant, and what you
call dissipated, perhaps. I have been all these; but since how long? and
to whose harm--except my own? Can you find me a man in the Quarter who
will tell you that, since a year, I have been anything but what you see
me now--sane and keen for my work? Can you find me a woman who will tell
you that since a year she has seen me anywhere but drinking coffee in
some place like this--or that ever, in all the five years, I was
anything but gentle and courteous to her? You cannot, Julie!’ cries
Monsieur Roger passionately, ‘you cannot!’
“Mademoiselle Julie is trembling--and there are tears in her blue eyes.
“‘With you,’ declares Monsieur Roger, ’as with all the world--Paris,
Baltimore, all!--I am what I am. I seek to be nothing else. But I think
you have never quite understood what I am--is it not so?’
“Mademoiselle shakes her head. She is overcome--_pauv’ petite!_--But
m’sieu is famishing! M’sieu’s _assiette anglaise_--an instant!”
He hurried back with it, and stood anxiously mixing my salad
dressing--though his sharp old eyes strayed sometimes to the trio in the
orangier opposite. “After that,” he went on triumphantly, “Monsieur
Roger is bold--but of a boldness! He takes mademoiselle’s hand--they
have no shame whatever over the tea which is still in the pot!--and says
to her with a simplicity that alarms, ‘tell me--do you love this Chames
Stuart?’
“‘Love him?’ almost screams mademoiselle. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
“‘Then,’ says Monsieur Roger, with the air of a King of France, ‘I’m
going to marry you. It is decided. You have nothing more to say about
it.’
“Mademoiselle blushes divinely--leans a suspicion towards him. They
sigh--ah, youth enchanting! What they feel one can but imagine. He
kisses her hand--of me they are oblivious; until--I cough like one in
the throes of sudden death. They start apart. _Madame_ has entered! And
Chames Stuart!
“I wring my hands and babble Holy Mary’s. In such a case what can one do
that is practical? Nothing. I wait--in terror for Monsieur Roger and
mademoiselle. But Monsieur Roger speaks, with a calm supernal, ‘Will you
not have tea, madame?’ he demands, offering her his place all politely.
But she--madame--sweeps by him. Catches mademoiselle by the arm. ‘I
thought this,’ she cries--‘when I missed you! I suspected it, you
ungrateful girl! Perhaps when you hear that you are to be married next
week at the Consulate, and to Chames Stuart’--then she does look at
Monsieur Roger, and with scorn. Chames Stuart looks at Monsieur Roger
too--and gives a little smile. It is like his shoulders, that smile,
m’sieu--made up and put on. When I see this Chames Stuart, I feel like
Bibi, our café dog, who shows her teeth at him. Madame says he is a good
man--_tant pis!_ For myself, if it is true, I prefer a devil.
“The three go out, mademoiselle looks at Monsieur Roger not at all. She
looks very far away from him. And Monsieur Roger is left with the pot of
tea--that has grown cold. When I ask him shall I renew it, he says ‘to
be married next week! And to Chames Stuart!’ And then he laughs one
laugh--very short--‘Indeed!’ he says--throwing back his head like he
does--‘indeed!’ And he marches out of the café, with two steps--but he
has legs, Monsieur Roger!--forgetting to pay--everything. But I do not
worry, m’sieu. I know, when he comes to-morrow, he will give me the two
francs fifty--and something more. He is very good for me, Monsieur
Roger.
“_Enfin_, that was two weeks ago. And still mademoiselle is not
married. But _hèlas_, it approaches. Yesterday when madame came with her
alone, I heard madame say, ‘Monday--not a day later.’ And I know that it
is because of money difficulties that she is anxious. Chames Stuart has
much money. So has Monsieur Roger, but not so much as Chames Stuart,
and, as madame insists to mademoiselle, Monsieur Roger is not good. One
day--yesterday--mademoiselle cried out, ‘Oh, how do you know what is
good and what is not good? What matters is what is true!’ Madame is
shocked--horrified at this temper. And after an instant mademoiselle
apologizes--with meekness--_Pauv’ petite!_ What she feels, one can but
imagine.”
He gave me my cheese, and stared gloomily at the back of Chames Stuart’s
sandy head. “Monday!” I heard him mutter, belligerently. Then to
me--“But where then is Monsieur Roger? Only now does mademoiselle
whisper to me if he has been here--Monsieur Roger. Since that day when
he comes to pay for the tea, he is not here. I think he tries somewhere
to console himself, but I do not tell mademoiselle. A young girl cannot
understand such things.”
“Then she should,” I declared with a warmth that surprised
myself--forty, and inclined to take young girls and the rest of life
negligently. “It is because young girls don’t understand such things
better, that they let themselves be overruled by James Stuarts and
mammas with empty shopping-bags,” I snapped, to the wonder of old
Marcel.
My eyes just then had met the troubled blue of the girl’s--the three
were leaving. James Stuart took her arm, always with that thin,
satisfied smile. I glared at him. I do not like good young men with
padded shoulders, and a smile for features. I grumbled as much to
Marcel, who shook his head astonished (delighted, too) at my vehemence.
“Madame tells mademoiselle there is nothing in his life which this
Chames Stuart might not tell to her,” he said scornfully. “That no one
has seen him or heard of him doing anything to be condemned. _Eh! la!
la!_” The Frenchman rolled his eyes. “_C’est un drôle d’idéale, hein_
m’sieu? These Americans!--pardon, m’sieu! M’sieu’s hat? _À ce soir_,
alors, m’sieu.”
That evening at dinner he came up to my table, with an air of tremendous
excitement. Indeed the whole Café aux Oranges seemed curiously alert,
almost explosive. Mademoiselle Julie and her mother were there in their
corner, sipping _petits verres_--mademoiselle’s cheeks the color of
jacqueminots, to be sure, and madame’s with more corners than ever--if
possible. But what caught my attention was--heaven of heavens!--Roger
Elmont sitting directly opposite them, _between Margot and Suzette_! the
two madcaps of the Quarter! James Stuart was not in the café.
“But, m’sieu, listen--listen while I tell you,” old Marcel’s words
tumbled over themselves in his eagerness--“M’sieu has dined, _hein_?
M’sieu takes only coffee and his liqueur? Listen, then, m’sieu: these
ladies, they come in alone. They order dinner--which mademoiselle will
scarcely touch. She is miserable, she is without herself. At last she
says with a bitterness that is to break the heart, ‘If it’s only the
money, Roger has plenty; and I am going to tell him to-night that if
it’s true, what he says about his life this last year, and if he can
prove to you that it’s true, I will marry him. Chames Stuart,’ says
mademoiselle--but with a calm--‘can go back to America.’
“Madame is furious. ‘But,’ she repeats, ‘he cannot prove it--Roger can
never prove it, that he has been good this last year.’
“‘_I_ can,’ flashes mademoiselle with a defiance, mon Dieu, divine! ‘We
can prove it. Only wait and----’
“M’sieu, at this heart-rending moment, I ask you does not Monsieur Roger
come in! Monsieur Roger and” (Marcel groaned in anguish) “that mad
Suzette!--arm in arm, singing, laughing--m’sieu, I, the old _garçon de
café_, Marcel, want to perish! And, can you believe me, they do not see
those ladies, no! But--_nom de Dieu!_--another sees them! Margot--the
vixen--who was mad for Monsieur Roger all last year; Margot sees them.
She makes a rush--she leaves her escort--she insults Suzette--tears her
hat off. They scream! they pull each other’s hair--the café is of a
_furore_! And Monsieur Roger, he only laughs--he just laughs, and teases
those girls to wilder and wilder rage.
“Still he does not see mademoiselle--_pauv’ petite_, so white,
suddenly!--who begs to go; but madame will not permit her. Hard as iron
she holds mademoiselle’s arm and _makes_ her see. ‘Now will you prove?’
she demands, with triumph. ‘Now can you prove?--this scandal!’
Mademoiselle answers nothing. She looks very little and very white. Now
the patron has come in, peace is ruled, and Monsieur Roger with good
nature promises to give both those girls dinner. But _ciel!_ m’sieu, at
the instant, he has seen mademoiselle! It is tragedy. What will happen?
It is just at the moment of m’sieu’s entrance that he perceived
this--oh, poor young man! Is he desolated!--what he feels one can but
imagine. I am bringing m’sieu’s liqueur.”
I glanced about. Mademoiselle Julie was indeed abject; nor did madame
and her shopping-bag look too happy in their triumph. As for Roger
Elmont--dark, gloomy-eyed, between the two now chattering girls--he
looked, if anything, the most wretched of the three. All at once he
rose, walked swiftly over to mademoiselle. They were sitting quite near
me, to-night, and I heard him say in a firm voice, “Julie, I want to
explain.”
“Sir!” said madame, indignantly. (One could have sworn she would say,
‘Sir!’)
Roger beautifully disregarded her. “What I told you was true, Julie,” he
concentrated all the conviction of his black eyes on mademoiselle. “I
have been this afternoon to the studio of a friend for whom Suzette
poses. I was sad--God knows I had reason--she suggested we should come
here. Margot--the other girl--came across us. And--you saw the rest. If
you do not believe me, others will tell you--what I told you was true!
And there is nothing else to tell--nothing.”
The girl looked at him--straight in the eyes. Then suddenly she stood
up. “I believe you,” she said--with a smile for which I would give all
the philosophy of forty and a bald head.
“Julie!” cried madame sharply. “You foolish girl, what do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Julie slowly, “that I am going to marry Roger.”
“You shan’t do it!” declared madame. By this time again the café was on
the verge of uproar. “You are to marry James Stuart, who is a man of
moral sense, a good man who----”
Just here, James Stuart came in--in evening dress, very debonair and
with the smile. “Er--how de do?” he said feebly--seeing Roger.
Then some one saw him--and darted forward. “_C’est lui, c’est lui_,”
screamed Suzette, seizing him with an impish laugh--“that one who was
with me at the Olympia last night--with whom I did the tour of
Montmartre. La! la! _ces anglais!_” And the minx kissed Chames Stuart
loudly on both cheeks--before the outraged eyes of madame.
As for Roger Elmont--he looked steadily at madame.
Madame had shrunk back--for an instant crushed. Then she regained
confidence, caught the girl’s hand. “Come,” she said in a voice choking
with emotion, “come, Julie! Let us go, quickly--let us get out of this
mire--this mud of Paris, where nothing seems to be clean or good. Come!”
But the girl--with a new gleam in her blue eyes--turned and gave her
hand to Roger. “I think,” she said to her mother in a clear voice, “it
is not the mud that counts, but the way one comes out of it.”
“And did you perceive, m’sieu,” chuckled Marcel--when later I was
drinking their health in a _fine champagne_--“did you see that Chames
Stuart had, fault of the wet evening, mud on his boots? Chames
Stuart--that ‘good man,’ _eh nom d’un pipe_! These Americans--pardon,
m’sieu!”
THE END
The Chalk Line
By Anne Warwick
Author of “The Unknown Woman,” “Victory Law,” etc.
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Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
All the subleties=> All the subtleties {pg 24}
man would be a tryant=> man would be a tyrant {pg 37}