A JULIA KEAN SCRAPE.
One day in late February when there was a faint hint of spring in the
air, on the way to the art school Judy said to Elise:
"I am dead tired of drawing from a model indoors. I've a great mind to
cut the whole thing and do something desperate. I know the sap is rising
in the trees and the color is getting wonderful and more wonderful every
day. I believe I'll go on a high old lonesome to the country, take my
sketch box, pick up some luncheon where I happen to land and have a
general holiday. Why don't you come, too?"
"Thank you, no. If I should go, too, it would not be a high old lonesome
for you; and then, besides, I am so interested in the model this week,"
said Elise.
She did not say that she half expected Mr. Kinsella back that afternoon
and could not bear to be out of Paris when he returned. Mr. Kinsella had
been off on a three weeks' jaunt, and during his absence Elise had taken
herself severely to task for her behavior to him and to everyone. She
had reasoned herself into seeing how absurd her jealousy was toward
Judy, and when Mr. Kinsella should return, he was to find a much
chastened Elise.
"But, Judy," continued Elise, "if you do go, you will skip a criticism
from the master; and then, isn't it a little imprudent for you to go out
to the country all alone?"
"Oh, I am glad to skip a criticism from old C----, he is such an old
fogy. All he can say is: '_Ça va mieux, mademoiselle, ça va mieux!_' As
for being imprudent going to the country alone, why, I am surely big
enough, old enough and ugly enough to take care of myself," and Judy
made a face and assumed a militant air.
"Well, you are ridiculous enough to carry through any project," laughed
Elise. "And where will you go, you big, ugly, old thing?"
"Oh, not far. St. Cloud, perhaps. I fancy I'll be back before you get
home. I am not so crazy about being by myself when I once get there. I
am a gregarious animal when all is told. Good-by, my love to old C----,"
and Judy swung off, determined to take one of the little boats to St.
Cloud.
It was a glorious day. The water of the Seine was clear and blue; the
little boats were puffing up and down; the fishermen lined the walls and
patiently and diligently cast their hooks. Judy stood on the Pont Neuf
glad she was living; glad she was in Paris and had eyes to see it and
ears to hear it; glad of her truancy; gladdest of all when one old
fisherman actually caught a fish and she was there to behold it. She had
been told that none were ever caught, that the fishermen sat there day
after day, year after year, with never a reward for their patience. She
wandered up the quay, not certain whether she would take a boat to St.
Cloud or go to the station and catch a train for Versailles. As she
loafed along, an ogling old man joined her and with voluble
protestations assured her of his admiration of her beauty. Judy gave him
a withering glance and, quickening her pace, soon left him far behind.
"That is exactly what Papa warned me against," she thought. "He said:
'Never loaf along the streets when you are alone. Have some business to
attend to and attend to it and no one will have anything to say to you.'
I must assume some business if I have it not."
She accordingly put on an air of great purpose, grasped her sketching
kit very firmly, and went and got on a little "penny puff puff" that was
just starting out for Sèvres and St. Cloud.
St. Cloud was beautiful, indeed. The sap was rising in the trees and a
few buds were showing their noses on bush and shrub. There was a haze
over everything like a tulle veil, and Judy had an idea if that would
lift, she could catch a glimpse of spring. She remembered that these
groves were the ones that Corot loved to paint and indeed the effect was
very much that obtained by that great artist: a soft, lovely, misty
atmosphere, with vistas through the trees, and an occasional glimpse of
shining water. Judy made several tiny "postage stamp" sketches. "Taking
notes from nature," she called it.
"I wish some nymphs would come dancing out now," she exclaimed. "Corot
could call them up at any time, and why not I? 'I can call spirits from
the vasty deep. And so can I, and so can any man; but will they come
when you do call them thus?'" No nymphs came, but a wedding party
appeared, the buxom bride dressed in white with a long veil and wreath
of artificial orange blossoms, the groom in dress coat, gray trousers,
and red cravat.
St. Cloud is a famous place for wedding parties of the _petit
bourgeois_, and Judy felt herself to be very fortunate to witness this
first one of the spring. The bride's dress looked rather chilly for
February although it was such a warm, sunny day; but through the coarse
lace yoke it was easy to see that the prudent young woman had on a
sensible red flannel undershirt, and as she turned around and around in
the mazes of the dance, with the ecstatic groom, an equally sensible
gray woolen petticoat was in plain view. A hurdy-gurdy furnished the
music and the greensward was their ballroom floor. Everyone danced, old
and young, fat and lean.
Judy sat entranced and beat time with her eager feet. It was such a
good-natured crowd. The groom's mother danced with the bride's father,
and the bride's mother danced with the groom's father. Everyone had a
partner and everyone seemed to feel it to be his or her duty as well as
pleasure to dance as long as the hurdy-gurdy man could grind out a tune.
The fat mother of the bride (at least Judy thought she must be her
mother from a similarity of gray woolen petticoats) sank on the bench
almost into the wet sketch with the Corot effect, and made speechless
signals that she could proceed no farther. Her disconsolate partner was
not nearly through with his breath or enthusiasm. He was as lean as his
partner was fat and had not so much to carry as the poor mother of the
bride. He took two or three steps alone, kicking out his long legs like
a jumping-jack, and then he made a sudden resolve. Coming over to Judy,
he took off his hat, pressed it to his starched shirt bosom, made a low
bow and asked her to take pity on a poor old man who would have to dance
alone, as dance he must, unless she would be his partner.
Impulsive Julia Kean found herself on a terrace at St. Cloud, spinning
around like a dancing dervish. She, with her partner, danced down the
whole wedding party; even the untiring street piano gave up, and their
last spin was taken without music. The good-natured revelers applauded
loudly; and some of them congratulated her on her powers of endurance;
and the flattered _bon père_ declared that in his youth he had been able
to dance down three charming partners but he had never had the pleasure
of dancing with a young lady with the endurance of the English miss.
With that, he heard a scornful "Bah" from his good wife, who berated him
for his stupidity in not knowing _l'Americaine_ from _l'Anglaise_.
"An English lady would be scornful of our kind, but an American would
not be so particular, blockhead?" And the large grenadier of a woman,
looking like one of the commune, gave his ear a playful tweak.
"My wife is jealous, mademoiselle. She was ever thus," said the lean
dancer; and all the company roared with delight at his wit. Then the
hurdy-gurdy started up a brisk polka. Judy was claimed by the grinning
groom, and once more her endurance was put to the test. For the honor of
her country, she was glad of her athletic training and record at
Wellington. The bride was dancing with her new father-in-law, Judy's
former partner, and it was recognized at the beginning that this was to
be fight to the finish between the two couples.
"Breathe through your nose and save your wind," she whispered to her
partner, who was puffing like a porpoise and showed signs of giving in.
The others had one by one succumbed to fatigue and were now sitting in a
more or less exhausted state on the various benches, noisily applauding
the endurance of the spinning couples and betting on their favorites.
The groom was not the man his father was, but he had youth in his favor;
and Judy had the advantage of the bride in lightness and training. The
old father was beginning to look grim and haggard, and the bride very
hot, with her red flannel shirt showing in splotches through her moist
wedding finery. Judy's soul was filled with compassion. This was the
bride's day and no honor should be wrested from her. If the husband
scored one on her to-day she might never catch even, and he might hold
the whip hand over her for the rest of their married life. As for the
old man, it was hard enough to be old and have young ones usurp your
place.
Judy made a sudden resolve to let her opponents win. She was the
stronger member of their team and knew if it had not been for her
endurance, the young man would have given in long ago; so assuming a
shortness of breath that she did not really feel, she slid from her
partner's flabby embrace and sank on a bench by the side of the bride's
mother, just a second before the old man and his daughter-in-law flopped
in an ignominious heap on the grass.
Being tired and victorious is a very different thing from being tired
and beaten, so the fallen pair were soon restored. The groom picked up
his lady-love and bestowed a burning kiss on her panting mouth, (just to
let her know there was no hard feeling,) and Judy, remembering she had
in her shirtwaist in lieu of a missing button, a tiny enamelled American
flag, went forward and pinned it on the lapel of the old man's coat, and
making a low curtsey, said:
"A tribute from America to France!"
There was much applause. Judy was urged by all present to stay with them
all day, but she had decided to take a train at the nearby station for
Versailles and get her luncheon there, so she bade them good-by.
Gathering up her sketches and sliding them into the grooves in the back
of her kit, she left the gay throng and soon got a local to Versailles.
On reaching Versailles, she did not go into the palace but wandered in
the park, stopping to feed the carp in the pond with some gingerbread
she had bought from a red-cheeked old woman. These carp are large and
fat and lazy, lying at the bottom of the pool, moving their tails almost
imperceptibly and opening and shutting their eyes with such a bored
expression that Judy had to laugh. There is a rumor that they are the
same carp that Marie Antoinette used to feed; certainly they are very
old and very tired. Judy remembering this legend of the carp, began to
think of poor Marie Antoinette and decided to go over to the Trianon.
The poor misunderstood queen had always been one of Judy's favorites.
She walked along under the trees in a brown study musing on the fortunes
of that royal lady.
Suddenly she rubbed her eyes. Was she dreaming or was she crazy? The
Trianon was before her and on the terrace was Marie Antoinette herself
dressed as a shepherdess and leading a beautiful woolly lamb by a blue
ribbon. Accompanying her was a pretty maid of honor dressed as a milk
maid with a pail in her hand and a three-legged stool under her arm. The
Count d'Artois, gay, handsome, debonair, met them and held them in
conversation, then the grave, sedate Monsieur, as the elder of the two
brothers of King Louis XVI was styled, approached, and with him was our
own Benjamin Franklin, dressed in sober brown.
"Where am I? What can it mean? I am wide awake, and that is as certainly
Benjamin Franklin as that I ate Quaker Oats every morning for breakfast
at Wellington. But who is this madman?"
A furious person in shirt sleeves came tearing across the terrace. In
plain American he berated Marie Antoinette, the grave Monsieur, d'Artois
and even the dignified Franklin, and, strange to say, they took it very
amiably. True, the spoiled Marie pouted a bit, but Franklin, with a vile
Cockney accent, said:
"I saiy, wot's your 'urry? The negative hain't spoiled none. Hold 'Press
the Button' hain't in his box."
"Moving picture actors," exclaimed Judy. "What a sell!"
She sat and watched them for some time, amused by the vociferous
manager, who did not hesitate to swear at the royal Louis XVI, who came
into view, forgetting to show the bunch of keys he was supposed to have
fashioned with his own kingly hands.
The day had been full of adventure and in consequence a great success in
Judy's eyes. She was tired of the humdrum of the last few weeks and her
soul thirsted for excitement. "I do wish Molly had come. How she would
have enjoyed the thrill of seeing Marie Antoinette in her own setting of
the Trianon; but if I had been with anyone, I am sure the dear old
dancing father would never have asked me to dance and I should have
missed that delightful experience of being one of a wedding party at St.
Cloud.
"Molly is a little hurt with me, anyhow, because I have been rather
nasty about Frances Andrews. Frances is improved but I have not had the
courage to tell Molly I am sorry, and knowing I am wrong makes me ruder
than ever to Frances. As soon as I get back to town I am going to 'fess
up. Frances is off on a trip with her grandmother, but when she comes
back she will find me as polite as a basket of chips. Suppose Molly had
turned her back on me when I got into all of those mix-ups with Adele
Windsor! I don't know whether I would have had the backbone to go
through with the senior year or not if it had not been for Molly.
Frances is certainly much more of a lady than Adele Windsor and she has
never done a thing to hurt me. I am going to try to be good. I know dear
Mrs. Brown will be glad.
"I fancy that dear lady has had some worried moments lately. Elise has
got over her dumps and is behaving like a rational human being, and I am
the only one who has not reformed. I am going to get my lunch and go
right back to Paris and tell them what a brute I am and how good I am
going to be. Kent would hate me for worrying his mother, and he despises
meanness in anyone."
Judy accordingly went to a little café near the station and ordered a
good luncheon, which took almost all of the change she had in her
pocket; but her ticket back to Paris, which was only a few sous, was all
that she needed so she did not let her finances worry her. She still had
a bag with a big slab of gingerbread in it. This she determined to leave
at the café as it was a cumbersome parcel, but the _garçon_ ran after
her with it and she thought it a simpler matter just to take it along,
not knowing that the time would come when she would look upon that
gingerbread as her preserver. Inquiring at the station, she found there
would not be a train back to Paris for about half an hour and so, after
buying her ticket, she determined to take a walk in the Versailles
grounds rather than spend the time waiting.
She chose a rather unfrequented path leading to the lake and walked
slowly for Judy, who was ever quick in her movements; but the day was
beginning to drag a little. She was, as she had told Elise, a gregarious
animal, and a whole day of her own company was beginning to pall on her.
She sat down on a bench. Along the path came a typical Boulevardier, a
very much over-dressed dandy, with shiny boots and hat, lemon colored
gloves, waxed black mustache and beard, and all the manner of a
"would-be-masher." How Judy hated his expression as he ogled her! But
she thought utter disregard of him would discourage him, so she assumed
a very superior air and looked the other way. The Frenchman was so
certain of his powers of fascination that he could not believe her
manner to be anything but coy, so he sank on the bench by her side and
began in the most insinuating way to praise her beauty and style, her
hair, eyes and mouth. The girl was furious, but determined to say
nothing, hoping by her scornful silence to drive off her admirer. He
persisted, however, in his unwelcome attentions.
"_Peut-être madamoiselle_ does not schpick _Français_. I can _parler_ a
leetle Eenglesh, _mais pas beaucoup_." Judy rose from her seat, overcome
with indignation and a slight feeling of fear.
"I know he can't hurt me," thought the girl, "but he can make things
very disagreeable and embarrassing for me."
The place seemed singularly lonesome and desolate. The bright sun had
gone behind a cloud and a sharp breeze had sprung up. There was not a
soul in sight and the station was at least a five minutes' walk distant.
As she hurried off, the man picked up the bag, from the top of which
gingerbread was protruding, and followed her.
"You have forgot your _gouter_, _cherie_. Do you like puddeen very much,
my dear?"
Judy seized the bag of gingerbread that she seemed unable to lose, and a
sudden remembrance of her talk with Elise came to her: "I am big enough,
old enough and ugly enough to take care of myself." She thought if it
was beauty that he was admiring she would cure him fast enough. She
grabbed the slab of soggy brown cake from the bag and crammed about six
inches of it into her mouth, the rest of it sticking out in a manner far
from dainty. It had the desired effect. The fastidious Frenchman was
completely disgusted. He immediately stopped his pursuit, exclaiming
with a shrug: "_Ah quelle betise!_"
When Judy arrived at the little station a train was on the track, and
without waiting to ask any question of the guard, since she had her
ticket, she jumped into a second class coach from which someone had just
alighted, slammed the door shut, sank back on the cushions and burst out
crying. Crying was something in which Judy was not an adept and only a
few tears came, but she felt better because of them. Then she settled
herself for a pleasant, if short, trip to Paris. There was no one in the
coach with her, for which she was very thankful.
"I'd hate for anyone, even a Frenchy, to see me blubber. Oh, how I
should have liked to hit that man a good uppercut on the jaw! I shall
crow over Molly. I did as much with a piece of gingerbread as she did
with a tennis racket when she floored the burglar who was after Mildred
Brown's wedding presents. This looks like a long trip to Paris. We
should be getting there by this time. We are going mighty fast for a
local. Oh, these beastly foreign trains where they hermetically seal you
and you can't ask a question until you get to a station."
The train slowed up but did not stop. They passed a village and then
another and another. The country was not familiar to Judy. She read
"Rambouillet" on a passing station, and then the fact became clear to
her that she was on the wrong train, going from Paris instead of towards
it.
"Rambouillet is at least twenty miles from Paris. Judy Kean, you idiot,
you idiot, you idiot!"
Judy was in truth on the Chartres express with six sous in her pocket,
left after she bought her ticket to Paris; and the one piece of jewelry
she might have converted into enough cash at least to telegraph her
friends, was pinned on the coat of that crazy old dancing fiend.