When Clifford reached his own door on the floor below, he heard voices
in the studio. A hard world had driven some caution into his head and
he listened for a moment to assure himself that the voices were not the
voices of creditors.
“It’s Elliott and Colette,” he murmured, knocking discreetly. Elliott
opened the door; on the piano-stool sat Colette demurely twisting the fur
of her boa. Clifford bent over the extended hand, then looked at Elliott.
The latter felt in his pocket, produced the cuff-buttons, and tossed them
on the table.
“You can keep your jewellery,” he said, “I’ve got a better scheme;
Colette proposed it—”
“You wouldn’t listen to the other plan,” she said shyly, “I don’t want
that coupé—”
“You mustn’t say such things,” interposed Clifford gravely; then, turning
to Elliott, “what are we going to do?”
“Let me tell,” cried Colette, fanning her flushed face with the end of
the boa; “sit down and be very still,—you also, Monsieur Clifford,—there!
Now listen! I, Colette, have a very beautiful plan.”
“How to become a millionaire in a week,—by Mademoiselle Colette,” began
Clifford, and was beaten with the fur boa.
“Very well,” she cried; “then I shall not trouble myself,—oh! you had
better say you are sorry! Now listen! It is my plan,—mine, Co-lette!”
She settled herself on the piano-stool, whirled around until her pointed
shoes rested on the rug, smiled, buried her nose in the point of her boa,
and said; “To begin, you are poor!—don’t interrupt! It is well to begin
at the beginning. Then, you are poor. You have nothing to live on—you
improvident ones,—for three more months. Comment faire! Paint and sell
pictures? No. Why? Because you have not yet learned enough at the École
des Beaux Arts! But yet you must live. How? Ah, Dick, if you would only
let me return you that old coupé—there! I didn’t mean it! Now let us
begin again!—You are poor—”
“We’re back where we started,” began Clifford but was snubbed.
“So,—you are poor. You must earn _something_. How? Why, with your
cornets!”
“Eh?” stammered Clifford.
“Exactly!” cried Colette; “you shall play every evening in Bobinot’s
orchestra and gain many many francs, industrious ones! Voilà!”
Clifford stared at her. She nodded her head at him and smiled.
“It’s an idea,” said Elliott; “Boissy told Colette that Bobinot’s two
cornet players had gone, and old Bobinot is looking for two new ones.
It’s a chance,—we need only play in the evenings—it will keep soul and
body together—won’t it? Why don’t you say something?”
“It’s an idea,—isn’t it?” repeated Colette solemnly.
“What!” faltered Clifford, “play a cornet in that cheap Montparnasse
Theatre,—Bobinot’s! Suppose they hear of it in New York?”
“Suppose we have to go to the American Consul and ask him to ship us
home,” retorted Elliott.
Bobinot’s, the students’ theatre on Montparnasse, was not the Théâtre
Français perhaps, but the acting was good,—indeed it was better than
that seen in most New York theatres. Clifford had spent joyous evenings
at this “Quarter” theatre; it was often better than the “Cluny”—even
“Antonio, père et fils,” admitted that.
“Still,” he said, “the Quarter will never stop laughing—er—Colette in her
coupé and you in the orchestra—”
“I shall not drive in my coupé until Dick wishes it!” cried Colette,
crimson and white by turns. “For your bad taste I—I pardon you.”
Too utterly snubbed to have a mind of his own, Clifford meekly made his
peace with Colette and opened the door for her and Elliott.
“Are you sure we can get the place?” he asked. “Perhaps Bobinot won’t
want us.”
“Bobinot must!” said Colette; “I shall call upon Claire Plessis who is to
sing the première rôles there. She is sweet; she is also from Tours. That
is my country. And I love her very much.”
“Where does she live?” inquired Clifford with a guilty start.
“Upstairs. I shall call upon her to-morrow. Dick, are you coming? Then
good night, wicked one! Come, Dick, dear! To your evil conscience I leave
you, Monsieur Clifford”—and she laughed and gave him her gloved hand.
Clifford closed the door gently behind them. For a moment he stood
staring at the panels, then raised his eyes to the ceiling.
“I wonder,” he thought, “I—I wonder whether Claire will tell Colette?”
He shivered. The Quarter is pitiless in ridicule.
Elliott came back late that night, but he was cheerful and he whistled as
he shook the snow from hat and coat and stamped around the studio.
“We’ll see Bobinot to-morrow,” he said; “I tell you it’s not a bad
idea—all Colette’s, too!”
“I thought you and Colette had agreed to disagree,” observed Clifford.
The other reddened a little. “We have,” he said—“for three months.”
Before he was ready for bed he missed the canary birds and questioned
Clifford, but the latter told him to mind his business. This Elliott
cheerfully complied with and went to bed.
“By the way, did you dine to-night?” he called out before he closed his
door.
“Yes,” snapped Clifford.