The middle of the studio was occupied by a rug. The middle of the rug
was occupied by Clifford. He sat on the floor playing a dirge on a
brass cornet. Around him lay bureau drawers, empty trunks and satchels,
flanked by cabinets and chests littered with palettes, underclothes,
colour-tubes, pipes, and paint-rags.
When Elliott came in, an hour later, he found Clifford still performing
on the cornet. He played “Hark! from the Tomb,” and “Death and The
Maiden”; and while he played he winked ominously at Elliott.
Now, when Clifford played on his cornet, something was amiss. Elliott
knew this and watched him sideways, sullenly removing overcoat and
gloves. Every dismal bleat of the brass prophesied calamity. The hollow
studio echoed with forebodings of disaster.
“Stop that,” said Elliott, flinging his hat on a chair; “what’s the
matter with you?”
“O Commander of the Faithful,” said Clifford, “behold the end of the
world! J’ai beau cherchai—je n’en trouve point—”
“Money?” asked Elliott, sitting down; “stop blowing into that cornet.”
“I know of no other way to raise the wind,” said Clifford,—“get your
cornet and we’ll play duets.”
“You mean we are actually without means?”
Clifford threaded his way through an abatis of easels, canvasses, books,
and bird-cages to the Japanese tea-table.
“Have some tea?” he inquired.
“No, I won’t,” snapped Elliott, “and you can tell me where our funds have
gone.”
Clifford poured himself a cup of tea, raised his eyes piously, sipped it,
and looked at Elliott over the edge of the cup.
“Where’s our money?” repeated Elliott; “you had charge of the common
account for the last three months—”
Clifford sighed, unrolled a sheet of paper, shoved it toward his
confrère, and offered himself more tea. Elliott examined the figures
anxiously.
“You hopeless ass!” he blurted out. “Why didn’t you draw the purse
strings?”
“I can deny you nothing, my son,” protested Clifford, casting furtive
glances toward his cornet again.
“But we’re ruined!” bawled Elliott in sudden fright.
“Utterly,” admitted Clifford pleasantly.
Through the broad glass roof the pale winter sunlight fell over piles
of rugs and weapons on the floor; in the garden the sparrows chirped
unceasingly around the frozen fountain. Elliott sat motionless,
hypnotised by the column of figures before him. Clifford regarded his
canary birds with vague reproach.
At last Elliott broke the silence:
“We had enough,—more than enough to live on decently; we threw our money
away! Ass that I am, I didn’t realise I was such an ass.”
“I didn’t either,” said Clifford.
“Oh, you didn’t?” sneered Elliott: “who was it that spent five hundred
francs on those idiot birds?”
They frowned at the two dozen canaries. The birds hopped aimlessly from
pole to perch and from perch to pole.
“I didn’t buy a coupé for a lady,” retorted Clifford.
“No, but you gave garden parties with fireworks and Chinese lanterns, and
the company broke windows and set the curtains ablaze, and the police
fined us for shooting rockets without a permit—”
“Accidents,” observed Clifford; “our social position in the Latin Quarter
required us to entertain.”
“Our social position on this planet will also require us to
eat,—occasionally.”
“There’s the furniture.”
“I won’t! I won’t! You hear me, Clifford! I’ll not sell a chair. Isn’t
there any money in any of those bureau drawers?”
“No,—look for yourself,” replied Clifford cheerfully.
“Now I’ll not mortgage our furniture,” said Elliott; “so you needn’t
finger my carved chairs. We must pull through,—I don’t know how,—but we
must pull through. I shall cut down my tobacco, I shall drink cheap wine,
I shall see Colette at once—”
“Do you think she can stand the blow?” inquired Clifford.
“Your wit is unseasonable,” said Elliott haughtily; “how much can you get
for your canaries?”
Clifford flatly refused to sell the birds and played a dirge on his
cornet. Then the horror of poverty laid hold of Elliott and drove him out
into the Luxembourg where he sat in the fading sunshine until the drums
boomed from the southern terrace and the challenge of the sentinels,
droning, monotonous, sounded and resounded across the windy park.
There was a hint of snow in the air as he passed out into the Place de
Medici. He clinked the few gold pieces in his pocket as he walked. This
appalled him, and he stepped more quickly.
On the Boulevard, a slim white-browed girl, exquisitely gowned, called to
him from a coupé. When he motioned the coachman to stop and stepped to
the curb, she buried her nose in a bunch of violets and laughed.
“Colette,” said Elliott gloomily, “Mr. Clifford and I are compelled to
retire for the space of three months. Therefore, most charming and most
wise Colette,—therefore—”
He raised one hand and opened his fingers as though releasing a butterfly.