To realize Petit Patou in the British General of Brigade, we must turn to
the manuscript mentioned at the beginning of this story.
We meet him, a raw youth, standing, one blazing summer day on the Bridge
of Avignon. He insists on this episode, because, says he, the bridge is
associated with important events in his life. It was not, needless to
remark, the Pont d'Avignon of the gay old song, for the further arch of
that was swept away by floods long ago, and it now remains a thing of
pathetic uselessness. Three-quarters of the way across the Rhone might you
go, and then you would come to abrupt nothingness, just the swirling river
far below your arrested feet. It was the new suspension bridge, some
three hundred yards further up, sadly inharmonious with the macchiolated
battlements of the city and the austere mass, rising above them, of the
Palace of the Popes on the one side, and, on the other, the grey antiquity
of the castle of Villeneuve brooding like an ancient mother over its aged
offspring, the clustering sun-baked town. The joyous generation of the Old
Bridge has long since passed away, but to the present generation the New
Bridge affords the same wonder and delight. For it entices like the old,
from stifling streets to the haunts of Pan. There do you find leafy walks,
and dells of shade, and pathways by the great cool river leading to
sequestered spots where you may sit and forget the clatter of flagstones
and the stuffy apartment above them for which the rent is due; where the
air of early June is perfumed by wild thyme and marjoram and the far-flung
sweetness of new mown hay, and where the nightingales sing. So, whenever it
can, all Avignon turns out, as it has turned out for hundreds of years, on
its to and fro adventure across the Bridge of Promise.
It was on a Sunday afternoon when young Lackaday stood there, leaning
moodily over the parapet, regarding it not as a bridge of Promise, but as
a Bridge of Despair. He had fled from the dressing-room of the little
music-hall just outside the city walls, which he shared with three others
of the troupe, from its horrible reek of escaping gas and drainage and
grease-paint and the hoarded human emanations of years, and had come here
instinctively to breathe the pure air that swept down the broad stream.
He had come for rest of mind and comfort of soul; but only found himself
noisily alone amid an unsympathetic multitude.
He had failed. He had learned it first from the apathy of the audience.
He had learned it afterwards from the demeanour and the speech far from
apathetic of the manager and leader of the troupe. They were a company of
six, Les Merveilleux, five jugglers, plate spinners, eccentric musicians,
ventriloquists, and one low comedian. Lackaday was the low comedian, his
business to repeat in burlesque most of the performance of his fellow
artists. It was his first engagement, outside the Cirque Rocambeau, his
first day with the troupe. Everything had gone badly. His enormous lean
length put the show out of scale. The troupe, accustomed to the business of
a smaller man, whose sudden illness caused the gap which Lackaday came from
Paris to fill, resented the change, and gave him little help. They demanded
impossibilities. Although they had rehearsed--and the rehearsals had been
a sufficient nightmare of suffering--everybody had seemed to devote a
ferocious malice to his humiliation. Where the professional juggler is
accustomed to catch things at his hip, they threw them at his knees; they
appeared to decide that his head should be on the level of his breast. The
leading lady, Madame Coinçon, wife of the manager, a compact person of five
foot two, roundly declared that she could not play with him, and in his
funniest act, dependent on her co-operation, she left him to be helplessly
funny by himself. The tradition of the troupe required the comedian to be
attired in a loud check suit, green necktie and white felt bowler hat. On
the podgy form of Lackaday's predecessor it produced its comic effect. On
the lank Lackaday it was characterless. In consequence of all this, he had
been nervous, he had missed cues, he had fumbled when he ought to have been
clear, and been clear when he ought comically to have fumbled. He had gone
about his funny business with the air of a curate marrying his vicar to the
object of his hopeless affections.
And Coinçon had devastatingly insulted him. What worm was in the head
of Moignon (the Paris music-hall agent) that he should send him such a
monstrosity? He wasn't, _nom de Dieu_, carrying about freaks at a
fair. He wanted a comedian and not a giant. No wonder the Cirque Rocambeau
had come to grief, if it depended on such canaries as Lackaday. Didn't he
know he was there to make the audience laugh?--not to give a representation
of Monsieur Mounet-Sully elongated by the rack.
"_Hop, man petit_," said he at last. "_F---- moi le camp_," which
is a very vulgar way of insisting on a person's immediate retirement. "Here
is your week's salary. I gain by the proceeding. The baggage-man will see
us through. He has done so before. As for Moignon--"
Although Lackaday regarded Moignon as a sort of god dispensing fame and
riches, enthroned on unassailable heights of power, he trembled at the
awful destiny that awaited him. He would be cast, like Lucifer from heaven.
He would be stripped of authority. Coinçon's invective against him was so
terrible that Lackaday pitied him even more than he pitied himself. Yet
there was himself to consider. As much use to apply to the fallen Moignon
for an engagement as to the Convent of the Daughters of Calvary. He and
Moignon and their joint fortunes were sent hurtling down into the abyss.
On the parapet of the Bridge of Despair leant young Lackaday, gazing
unseeingly down into the Rhone. His sudden misfortune had been like the
stunning blow of a sandbag. His brain still reeled. What had happened was
incomprehensible. He knew his business. He could conceive no other. He had
been trained to it since infancy. There was not a phase of clown's work
with which he was not familiar. He was a passable gymnast, an expert
juggler, a trick musician, an accomplished conjurer. All that the
Merveilleux troupe act required from him he had been doing successfully for
years. Why then the failure? He blamed the check suit, the ill-will of the
company, the unreason of Madame Coinçon....
It did not occur to him that he had emerged from an old world into a new.
That between the old circus public and the new music-hall public there
was almost a generation's change of taste and critical demand. The Cirque
Rocambeau had gone round without perceiving that the world had gone round
too. It wondered why its triumphant glory had declined; and it could
not take steps to adapt itself to the new conditions which it could not
appreciate. Everyone grew old and tradition-bound in the Cirque Rocambeau,
even the horses, until gradually it perished of senile decay. Andrew
Lackaday carrying on the traditions of his foster father, the clown Ben
Flint, had remained with it, principal clown, to the very end. Now and
then, rare passers through from the outer world, gymnasts down on their
luck, glad to take a makeshift engagement while waiting for better things,
had counselled him to leave the antiquated concern. But the Cirque
Rocambeau had been the whole of his life, childhood, boyhood, young
manhood; he was linked to it by the fibres of a generous nature. All
those elderly anxious folk were his family. Many of the children, his
contemporaries, trained in the circus, had flown heartlessly from the
nest, and the elders had fatalistically lamented. Madame Rocambeau, bowed,
wizened, of uncanny age, yet forceful and valiant to the last--carrying
on for the old husband now lying paralysed in Paris who had inherited the
circus from his father misty years ago, would say to the young man, when
one of these defections occurred: "And you André, you are not going to
leave us? You have a fine position, and if you are dissatisfied, perhaps we
can come to an arrangement. You are a child of the circus and I love you
like my own flesh and blood. We shall turn the corner yet. All that is
necessary is faith--and a little youth." And Andrew, a simple soul, who had
been trained in the virtues of honour and loyalty by the brave Ben Flint,
would repudiate with indignation the suggestion of any selfish desire to go
abroad and seek adventure.
At last, one afternoon, when the tent, a miserable gipsy thing compared
with the proud pavilion of the days of the glory of Billy the pig, was
pitched on the outskirts of a poor little town, they found Madame Rocambeau
dead in the canvas box-office which she had occupied for fifty years, the
heartbreaking receipts in front of her, counted out into little piles of
bronze and small silver. The end had come. The circus could not be sold as
a going concern. It crumbled away. Somebody bought the old horses, Heaven
knows for what purpose. Somebody bought the antiquated harness and
moth-eaten trappings. Somebody else bought the tents and fittings. But
nobody bought the old careworn human beings, riders and gymnasts and stable
hands who crept away into the bright free air of France, dazed and lost,
like the prisoners released from the Bastille.
It was not so long ago; long enough ago, however, for young Andrew Lackaday
to have come perilously near the end of his savings in Paris, before the
Almighty Moignon (now curse-withered), but then vast and unctuous, reeking
of fat food and diamonds and great cigars, had found him this engagement at
Avignon. He had journeyed thither full of the radiant confidence of twenty.
He stood on the bridge overwhelmed by the despair whose Tartarean blackness
only twenty can experience.
Not a gleam anywhere of hope. His humiliation was absolute. The maniacal
Coinçon had not even given him an opportunity of redeeming his failure. He
had been paid to go away. The disgusting yet necessary price of his shame
rattled in his pockets. To-night the baggage man would play his part--a
being once presumably trained, yet sunk so low in incompetence that he was
glad to earn his livelihood as baggage man. And he, Andrew Lackaday, was
judged more incompetent even than this degraded outcast. Why? How could it
be? What was the reason? He dug his nails into his burning temples.
The summer sun beat down on him, and set a-glitter the currents in the
Rhone. The ceaseless, laughing stream of citizens passed him by. Presently
youth's need of action brought him half-unconsciously to an erect position.
He glanced dully this way and that, and then slowly moved along the bridge
towards the Villeneuve bank. Girls bare-headed, arm-in-arm, looked up
at him and laughed, he was so long and lean and comical with his ugly
lugubrious face and the little straw hat perched on top of his bushy
carroty poll. He did not mind, being used to derision. In happier days he
valued it, for the laugh would be accompanied by a nudge and a "_Voilà
Auguste!_" He took it as a tribute. It was fame. Now he was so deeply
sunk in his black mood that he scarcely heeded. He walked on to the end of
the bridge, and turned down the dusty pathway by the bank.
Suddenly he became aware of sounds of music and revelry, and a few yards
further on he came to a broad dell shaded by plane trees and set out as a
restaurant garden, with rude tables and benches, filled with good-humoured
thirsty folk; on one side a weather-beaten wooden châlet, having the proud
title of Restaurant du Rhône, served apparently but to house the supply
of drinks which nondescript men and sturdy bare-headed maidens carried
incessantly on trays to the waiting tables. On the dusty midway space--the
garden boasted no blade of grass--couples danced to the strains of a
wheezing hurdy-gurdy played by a white bearded ancient who at the end of
each tune refreshed himself with a draught from a chope of beer on the
ground by his side, while a tiny anæmic girl went round gathering sous in a
shell. When the music stopped you could hear the whir and the click of the
bowls in an adjoining dusty and rugged alley and the harsh excited cries
of the players. During these intervals the serving people in an absent way
would scatter an occasional carafe-full of water on the dancing floor to
lay the dust.
Young Lackaday hung hesitatingly on the outskirts under the wooden archway
that was at once the entrance and the sign-board. The music had ended. The
tables were packed. He felt very thirsty and longed to enter and drink some
of the beer which looked so cool in the long glasses surmounted by its
half inch of white froth--inviting as sea-foam. Shyness held him. These
prosperous, care-free bourgeois, almost indistinguishable one from the
other by racial characteristics, and himself a tragic failure in life and
physically unique among men, were worlds apart. It had never occurred to
him before that he could find himself anywhere in France where the people
were not his people. He felt heart-brokenly alien.
Presently the hurdy-gurdy started the ghostly tinkling of the _Il
Bacio_ waltz, and the ingenuous couples of Avignon rose and began to
dance. The thirst-driven Lackaday plucked up courage, and strode to
a deserted wooden table. He ordered beer. It was brought. He sipped
luxuriously. One tells one's thirst to be patient, when one has to think of
one's sous. He was half-way through when two girls, young and flushed from
dancing together, flung themselves down on the opposite bench--the table
between.
"We don't disturb you, Monsieur?"
He raised his hat politely. "By no means, Mesdemoiselles."
One of them with a quick gesture took up from the table a forgotten
newspaper and began to fan herself and her companion, to the accompaniment
of giggling and chatter about the heat. They were very young. They ordered
grenadine syrup and eau-de-seltz. Andrew Lackaday stared dismally beyond
them, at the dancers. In the happy, perspiring girls in front of him he
took no interest, for all their youth and comeliness and obviously frank
approachability. He saw nothing but the fury-enflamed face of Coinçon and
heard nothing but the rasping voice telling him that it was cheaper to pay
him his week's salary than to allow him to appear again. And "_f---- moi
le camp!_" Why hadn't he taken Coinçon by the neck then and there with
his long strong fingers and strangled him? Coinçon would have had the
chance of a rabbit. He had the strength of a dozen Coinçons--he, trained to
perfection, with muscle like dried bull's sinews. He could split an apple
between arm and forearm, in the hollow of his elbow. Why shouldn't he go
back and break Coinçon's neck? No man alive had the right to tell him to
_f---- le camp!_
"You don't seem very gay," said a laughing voice.
With a start he recovered consciousness of immediate surroundings. Instead
of two girls opposite, there was only one. Vaguely he remembered that a man
had come up.
"_Un tour de valse, Mademoiselle?_"
"_Je vieux bien_."
And one of the girls had gone, leaving her just sipped grenadine syrup and
seltzer-water. But it had been like some flitting unreality of a dream.
At his blinking recovery the remaining girl laughed again.
"You look like a somnambulist."
He replied: "I beg pardon, Mademoiselle, but I was absorbed in my
reflections."
"Black ones--_hein?_ They have made you little infidelities?"
He frowned. "They? Who do you mean--they?"
"_Un joli garçon is not absorbed in his reflections_"--she mimicked
his tone--"unless there is the finger of a _petite femme_ to stir them
round and darken them."
"Mademoiselle," said he, seriously. "You are quite mistaken. There's not a
woman in the world against whom I have the slightest grudge."
He spoke truly. It was a matter of love, and Mme Coinçon's hostility did
not count.
"Word of honour," he added looking into the smiling ironical face.
Love had entered very little into his serious scheme of life. He had had
his entanglements of course. There was Francine Dumesnil, who had fluttered
into the Cirque Rocambeau as a slack wire artist, and after making him vows
of undying affection, had eloped a week afterwards with Hans Petersen, the
only man left who could stand on the bare back of a horse that was not
thick with resin. But the heart of Andrew Lackaday had nothing to do
with the heart of Francine Dumesnil. He had agreed with the aged Madame
Rocambeau. _Sales types_, both of them.
"If it had been _chagrin d'amour_--sorrow of love, Mademoiselle,"
said he, "I should not have been so insensible to the presence of two such
charming young ladies."
"We are polite, all the same," she remarked approvingly.
She sipped her grenadine. Having nothing further to say he sipped his beer.
Presently she said:
"I saw you this afternoon at the _boite_." He looked at her with a
touch of interest. No one would allude to the music-hall as the "box"
except a fellow professional engaged there.
"You too?" he asked.
She nodded. She belonged to a troupe of dancing girls. As they were the
first number, they got away early. She and her friend had gone for a walk
and found this restaurant. It was gay, wasn't it? He said, soberly:
"You were dancing at rehearsal this morning. You've danced at the
music-hall this afternoon, you'll be dancing again this evening--why do you
dance here?"
"One can only be young once," she replied.
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen. And you?"
"Twenty-two."
She would have given him thirty, she said, he looked so serious. And he,
regarding her more narrowly, would have given her fifteen. She was very
young, slight, scarcely formed, yet her movements were lithe and complete
like those of a young lizard. She had laughing, black eyes and a fresh
mouth set in a thin dark face that might one day grow haggard or coarse,
according to her physical development, but was now full with the devil's
beauty of youth. A common type, one that would not arrest masculine eyes as
she passed by. Dozens of the girls there round about might have called her
sister. She was dressed with cheap neatness, the soiled white wing of a
bird in her black hat being the only touch of bravura. She spoke with the
rich accent of the South.
"You are of the _Midi?_" he said.
Yes. She came from Marseilles. Ingenuously chattering she gave him her
family history. In the meanwhile her companions and her partner having
finished their dance had retired to a sequestered corner of the restaurant,
leaving the pair here to themselves. Lackaday learned that her name was
Elodie Figasso. Her father was dead. Her mother was a dressmaker, in which
business she, too, had made her apprenticeship. But an elderly man, a
_huissier_, one of those people who go about with a tricolour-rosetted
cocked hat, and steel buttons and canvas trousers and a leather satchel
chained to their waist, had lately diverted from Elodie the full tide of
maternal affection. As she hated the _huissier_, a vulgar man who
thought of nothing but the good things that the Veuve Figasso could put
into his stomach, and as her besotted mother starved them both in order to
fulfil the _huissier's_ demands, and as she derived no compensating
joy from her dressmaking, she had found, thanks to a friend, a positron as
_figurante_ in a Marseilles Revue, and, _voilà_--there she was
free, independent, and, since she had talent and application, was now
earning her six francs a day.
She finished her grenadine. Then with a swift movement she caught a passing
serving maid and slipped into her hand the money for her companion's
scarcely tasted drink and her own. Instantly Andrew protested--Mademoiselle
must allow him to have the pleasure.
But no--never in life, she had not intruded on his table to have free
drinks. As for the _consommation_ of the feather-headed Margot--from
Margot herself would she get reimbursement.
"But yet, Mademoiselle," said he, "you make me ashamed. You must still be
thirsty--like myself."
"_Ça ne vous gênera pas?_"
She asked the question with such a little air of serious solicitude that
he laughed, for the first time. Would it upset his budget, involve the
sacrifice of a tram ride or a packet of tobacco, if he spent a few sous on
more syrup for her delectation? And yet the delicacy of her motive appealed
to him. Here was a little creature very honest, very much of the people,
very proud, very conscientious.
"On the contrary, Mademoiselle," said he, "I shall feel that you do me an
honour."
"It is not to be refused," said she politely, and the serving maid was
despatched for more beer and syrup.
"I waited to see your turn," she said, after a while.
"Ah!" he sighed.
She glanced at him swiftly. "It does not please you that I should talk
about it?"
"Not very much," said he.
"But I found you admirable," she declared. "Much better than that _espèce
de poule mouillée_--I already forget his name--who played last week.
Oh--a wet hen--he was more like a drowned duck. So when I heard a comedian
from Paris was coming, I said: 'I must wait' and Margot and I waited in the
wings--and we laughed. Oh yes, we laughed."
"It's more than the audience did," said the miserable Andrew.
The audience! Of Avignon! She had never played to such an audience in her
her life. They were notorious, these people, all over France. They were so
stupid that before they would laugh you had to tell them a thing was funny,
and then they were so suspicious that they wouldn't laugh for fear of being
deceived.
All of which, of course, is a libel on the hearty folk of Avignon. But
Elodie was from Marseilles, which naturally has a poor opinion of the other
towns of Provence. She also lied for the comforting of Lackaday.
"They are so unsympathetic," said he, "that I shall not play any more."
She knitted her young brow. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that I play neither to-night nor to-morrow night, nor ever again.
To-morrow I return to Paris."
She regarded him awe-stricken. "You throw up an engagement--just like
that--because the audience doesn't laugh?"
She had heard vague fairy-tales of pampered opera-singers acting with such
Olympian independence; but never a music-hall artist on tour. He must be
very rich and powerful.
Lackaday read the thought behind the wide-open eyes.
"Not quite like that," he admitted honestly. "It did not altogether depend
on myself. You see the _patron_ found that the audience didn't laugh
and the _patronne_ found that my long body spoiled her act--and so--I
go to Paris to-morrow."
She rose from the depths of envying wonder to the heights of pity. She
flashed indignation at the abominable treatment he had received from
the Coinçons. She scorched them with her contempt. What right had that
_tortoise_ of a Madame Coinçon to put on airs? She had seen better
juggling in a booth at a fair. Her championship warmed Andrew's heart, and
he began to feel less lonely in a dismal and unappreciative world. Longing
for further healing of an artist's wounded vanity he said:
"Tell me frankly. You did see something to admire in my performance?"
"Haven't I always said so? _Tiens_, would you like me to tell
you something? All my life I have loved Auguste in a circus. You know
Auguste--the clown? Well, you reminded me of Auguste and I laughed."
"Until lately I was Auguste--in the Cirque Rocambeau."
She clapped her hands.
"But I have seen you there--when I was quite little--three--four years ago
at Marseilles."
"Four years," said Andrew looking into the dark backward and abysm of time.
"Yes, I remember you well, now. We're old friends."
"I hope you'll allow me to continue the friendship," said Andrew.
They talked after the way of youth. He narrated his uneventful history. She
added details to the previous sketch of her own career. The afternoon
drew to a close. The restaurant garden emptied; the good folks of Avignon
returned dinnerwards across the bridge. They looked for Margot, but Margot
had disappeared, presumably with her new acquaintance. Elodie sniffed in a
superior manner. If Margot didn't take care, she would be badly caught one
of these days. For herself, no, she had too much character. She wouldn't
walk about the streets with a young man she had only known for five
minutes. She told Andrew so, very seriously, as they strolled over the
bridge arm-in-arm.
They parted, arranging to meet at 10 o'clock when she was free from the
music-hall, at the Café des Négociants or the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville.
Andrew, shrinking from the table d'hôte in the mangy hotel in a narrow back
street where the Merveilleux troupe had their crowded being, dined at a
cheap restaurant near the railway station, and filled in the evening with
aimless wandering up and and down the thronged Avenue de la Gare. Once he
turned off into the quiet moonlit square dominated by the cathedral and the
walls and towers of the Palace of the Popes. The austere beauty of it said
nothing to him. It did not bring calm to a fevered spirit. On the contrary,
it depressed a spirit longing for a little fever, so he went back to the
broad, gay Avenue where all Avignon was taking the air. A girl's sympathy
had reconciled him with his kind.
She came tripping up to him, almost on the stroke of ten, as he sat at the
outside edge of the café terrace, awaiting her. The reconciliation was
complete. Like most of the young men there, he too had his maid. They met
as if they had known each other for years. She was full of an evil fellow,
_un gros type_, with a roll of fat at the back of his neck and a great
diamond ring which flashed in the moonlight, who had waited for her at the
stage door and walked by her side, pestering her with his attentions.
"And do you know how I got rid of him? I said: 'Monsieur, I can't walk with
you through the streets on account of my comrades. But I swear to you that
you will find me at the Café des Négotiants at a quarter past ten.' And so
I made my escape. Look," said she excitedly, gripping Andrew's arm, "here
he is."
She met the eyes of the _gros type_ with the roll of fat and the
diamond ring, who halted somewhat uncertainly in front of the cafe.
Whereupon Andrew rose to his long height of six foot four and, glaring at
the offender, put him to the flight of over-elaborated unconcern. Elodie
was delighted.
"You could have eaten him up alive, _n'est-ce pas_, André?"
And Andrew felt the thrill of the successful Squire of Dames. For the rest
of the evening, there was no longer any 'Monsieur' or 'Mademoiselle.' It
was André and Elodie.
Yes, he would write to her from Paris, telling her of his fortunes. And
she too would write. The Agence Moignon would always find him. It is
parenthetically to be noted how his afternoon fears of the impermanence of
the Agence Moignon had vanished. Time flew pleasantly. She seemed to have
set herself, her youth and her femininity, to the task of evoking the wide
baby smile on his good-natured though dismal face. It was only on their
homeward way, after midnight, that she mentioned the '_boîle_.' There
had been discussions. Some had said this and some had said that. There had
been partisans of the Coinçons and partisans of André. There was subject
matter for one of the pretty quarrels dear to music-hall folk. But Elodie
summed up the whole matter, with her air of precocious wisdom--a wisdom
gained in the streets and sewing-rooms and cafés-concerts of Marseilles.
"What you do is excellent, _mon cher_; but it is _vieux jeu_. The
circus is not the music-hall. You must be original."
As originality was banned from the circus tradition, he stood still in the
narrow, quiet street and gasped.
"Original?"
"You are so long and thin," she said.
"That has always been against me; it was against me to-day."
"But you could make it so droll," she declared. "And there would be no one
else like you. But you must be by yourself, not with a troupe like the
Merveilleux. _Tiens_," she caught him by the lapels of his jacket and
a passer-by might have surmised a pleading stage in a lovers' discussion,
"I have heard there is a little little man in London--oh, so little, _et
pas du tout joli_."
"I know," said Andrew, "but he is a great artist."
"And so are you," she retorted. "But as this little man gets all the
profit he can out of his littleness--it was _la grosse_ Léonie--the
_brune_, number three, you know--ah, but you haven't seen us--anyhow
she has been in London and was telling me about him this evening--all that
nature has endowed him with he exaggerates--_eh bien!_ Why couldn't
you do the same?"
The street was badly lit with gas; but still he could see the flash in
her dark eyes. He drew himself up and laid both his hands on her thin
shoulders.
"My little Elodie," said he--and by the dim gaslight she could see the
flash of his teeth revealed by his wide smile--"My little Elodie, you have
genius. You have given me an idea that may make my fortune. What can I give
you in return?"
"If you want to show me that you are not ungrateful, you might kiss me,"
said Elodie.