Transcriber's note.
Minor punctuation inconsistencies have been silently repaired. Variable
spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Words in italics are
presented _this way_.
By Guy Wetmore Carryl.
THE LIEUTENANT-GOVERNOR. Crown 8vo, $1.50.
ZUT AND OTHER PARISIANS. Narrow 12mo.
GRIMM TALES MADE GAY. Illustrated by ALBERT LEVERING. Square crown
8vo, $1.50, _net._ Postpaid, $1.62.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY, BOSTON AND NEW YORK.
Zut
_AND OTHER PARISIANS_
_GUY WETMORE CARRYL_
Zut
AND OTHER PARISIANS
[Illustration]
_BOSTON AND NEW YORK_
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge_
1903
_Copyright 1903 by Guy Wetmore Carryl_
_All rights reserved_
_Published September, 1903_
[Illustration]
_A_
C. F. G.
_Mon cher ami_:
_En souvenir de maints beaux jours dont tu as partagé l'allégresse: en
attendant d'autres à venir: de ceux-là encore dont tu as adouci la
souffrance et l'ennui: par reconnaissance de conseils qu'on n'oublie
jamais et de prévoyances dont on se souvient toujours: je te dédie les
contes suivants. Tu y retrouveras beaucoup d'amis et peut-être autant
d'inconnus: tu les acceuilleras assurément, les uns et les autres, avec
cette belle hospitalité qui ne s'est jamais démentie, et qui m'a rendu
et me rendra encore--espérons-le!--ton obligé et reconnaissant_
_G. W. C._
_CONTENTS_
_Page_
ZUT 3
CAFFIARD, _Deus ex Machina_ 28
THE NEXT CORNER 56
THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 84
THE TUITION OF DODO CHAPUIS 109
LE POCHARD 138
A LATTER-DAY LUCIFER 161
POIRE! 190
PAPA LABESSE 215
IN THE ABSENCE OF MONSIEUR 245
LITTLE TAPIN 275
ZUT
[Illustration]
Zut
SIDE by side, on the avenue de la Grande Armée, stand the épicerie of
Jean-Baptiste Caille and the salle de coiffure of Hippolyte Sergeot, and
between these two there is a great gulf fixed, the which has come to be
through the acerbity of Alexandrine Caille (according to Espérance
Sergeot), through the duplicity of Espérance Sergeot (according to
Alexandrine Caille). But the veritable root of all evil is Zut, and Zut
sits smiling in Jean-Baptiste's doorway, and cares naught for anything
in the world, save the sunlight and her midday meal.
When Hippolyte found himself in a position to purchase the salle de
coiffure, he gave evidence of marked acumen by uniting himself in the
holy--and civil--bonds of matrimony with the retiring patron's daughter,
whose dot ran into the coveted five figures, and whose heart, said
Hippolyte, was as good as her face was pretty, which, even by the
unprejudiced, was acknowledged to be forcible commendation. The
installation of the new establishment was a nine days' wonder in the
quartier. It is a busy thoroughfare at its western end, is the avenue de
la Grande Armée, crowded with bicyclists and with a multitude of
creatures fearfully and wonderfully clad, who do incomprehensible things
in connection with motor-carriages. Also there are big cafés in plenty,
whose waiters must be smoothly shaven: and moreover, at the time when
Hippolyte came into his own, the porte Maillot station of the
Métropolitain had already pushed its entrée and sortie up through the
soil, not a hundred metres from his door, where they stood like
atrocious yellow tulips, art nouveau, breathing people out and in by
thousands. There was no lack of possible custom. The problem was to turn
possible into probable, and probable into permanent; and here the seven
wits and the ten thousand francs of Espérance came prominently to the
fore. She it was who sounded the progressive note, which is half the
secret of success.
"Pour attirer les gens," she said, with her arms akimbo, "il faut
d'abord les épater."
In her creed all that was worth doing at all was worth doing gloriously.
So, under her guidance, Hippolyte journeyed from shop to shop in the
faubourg St. Antoine, and spent hours of impassioned argument with
carpenters and decorators. In the end, the salle de coiffure was
glorified by fresh paint without and within, and by the addition of a
long mirror in a gilt frame, and a complicated apparatus of gleaming
nickel-plate, which went by the imposing title of appareil antiseptique,
and the acquisition of which was duly proclaimed by a special placard
that swung at right angles to the door. The shop was rechristened, too,
and the black and white sign across its front which formerly bore the
simple inscription "Kilbert, Coiffeur," now blazoned abroad the vastly
more impressive legend "Salon Malakoff." The window shelves fairly
groaned beneath their burden of soaps, toilet waters, and perfumery, a
string of bright yellow sponges occupied each corner of the window, and,
through the agency of white enamel letters on the pane itself, public
attention was drawn to the apparently contradictory facts that English
was spoken and "schampoing" given within. Then Hippolyte engaged two
assistants, and clad them in white duck jackets, and his wife fabricated
a new blouse of blue silk, and seated herself behind the desk with an
engaging smile. The enterprise was fairly launched, and experience was
not slow in proving the theories of Espérance to be well founded. The
quartier was épaté from the start, and took with enthusiasm the bait
held forth. The affairs of the Salon Malakoff prospered prodigiously.
But there is a serpent in every Eden, and in that of the Sergeot this
rôle was assumed by Alexandrine Caille. The worthy épicier himself was
of too torpid a temperament to fall a victim to the gnawing tooth of
envy, but in the soul of his wife the launch, and, what was worse, the
immediate prosperity of the Salon Malakoff, bred dire resentment. Her
own establishment had grown grimy with the passage of time, and the
annual profits displayed a constant and disturbing tendency toward
complete evaporation, since the coming of the big cafés, and the
resultant subversion of custom to the wholesale dealers. This persistent
narrowing of the former appreciable gap between purchase and selling
price rankled in Alexandrine's mind, but her misguided efforts to
maintain the percentage of profit by recourse to inferior qualities only
made bad worse, and, even as the Sergeot were steering the Salon
Malakoff forth upon the waters of prosperity, there were nightly
conferences in the household next door, at which impending ruin
presided, and exasperation sounded the keynote of every sentence. The
resplendent façade of Hippolyte's establishment, the tide of custom
which poured into and out of his door, the loudly expressed admiration
of his ability and thrift, which greeted her ears on every side, and,
finally, the sight of Espérance, fresh, smiling, and prosperous, behind
her little counter,--all these were as gall and wormwood to Alexandrine,
brooding over her accumulating debts and her decreasing earnings, among
her dusty stacks of jars and boxes. Once she had called upon her
neighbor, somewhat for courtesy's sake, but more for curiosity's, and
since then the agreeable scent of violet and lilac perfumery dwelt
always in her memory, and mirages of scrupulously polished nickel and
glass hung always before her eyes. The air of her own shop was heavy
with the pungent odors of raw vegetables, cheeses, and dried fish, and
no brilliance redeemed the sardine and biscuit boxes which surrounded
her. Life became a bitter thing to Alexandrine Caille, for if nothing is
more gratifying than one's own success, surely nothing is less so than
that of one's neighbor. Moreover, her visit had never been returned, and
this again was fuel for her rage.
But the sharpest thorn in her flesh--and even in that of her phlegmatic
husband--was the base desertion to the enemy's camp of Abel Flique. In
the days when Madame Caille was unmarried, and when her ninety kilos
were fifty still, Abel had been youngest commis in the very shop over
which she now held sway, and the most devoted suitor in all her train.
Even after his prowess in the black days of '71 had won him the
attention of the civil authorities, and a grateful municipality had
transformed the grocer-soldier into a guardian of law and order, he
still hung upon the favor of his heart's first love, and only gave up
the struggle when Jean-Baptiste bore off the prize and enthroned her in
state as presiding genius of his newly acquired épicerie. Later, an
unwittingly kindly prefect had transferred Abel to the seventeenth
arrondissement, and so the old friendship was picked up where it had
been dropped, and the ruddy-faced agent found it both convenient and
agreeable to drop in frequently at Madame Caille's on his way home, and
exchange a few words of reminiscence or banter for a box of sardines or
a minute package of tea. But, with the deterioration in his old friends'
wares, and the almost simultaneous appearance of the Salon Malakoff, his
loyalty wavered. Flique sampled the advantages of Hippolyte's
establishment, and, being won over thereby, returned again and again.
His hearty laugh came to be heard almost daily in the salle de coiffure,
and because he was a brave homme and a good customer, who did not stand
upon a question of a few sous, but allowed Hippolyte to work his will,
and trim and curl and perfume him to his heart's content, there was
always a welcome for him, and a smile from Madame Sergeot, and
occasionally a little present of brillantine or perfumery, for
friendship's sake, and because it is well to have the good-will of the
all-powerful police.
From her window Madame Caille observed the comings and goings of Abel
with a resentful eye. It was rarely now that he glanced into the
épicerie as he passed, and still more rarely that he greeted his former
flame with a stiff nod. Once she had hailed him from the doorway,
sardines in hand, but he had replied that he was pressed for time, and
had passed rapidly on. Then indeed did blackness descend upon the soul
of Alexandrine, and in her deepest consciousness she vowed to have
revenge. Neither the occasion nor the method was as yet clear to her,
but she pursed her lips ominously, and bided her time.
In the existence of Madame Caille there was one emphatic consolation for
all misfortunes, the which was none other than Zut, a white angora cat
of surpassing beauty and prodigious size. She had come into
Alexandrine's possession as a kitten, and, what with much eating and an
inherent distaste for exercise, had attained her present proportions and
her superb air of unconcern. It was from the latter that she derived her
name, the which, in Parisian argot, at once means everything and
nothing, but is chiefly taken to signify complete and magnificent
indifference to all things mundane and material: and in the matter of
indifference Zut was past-mistress. Even for Madame Caille herself, who
fed her with the choicest morsels from her own plate, brushed her fine
fur with excessive care, and addressed caressing remarks to her at
minute intervals throughout the day, Zut manifested a lack of interest
that amounted to contempt. As she basked in the warm sun at the shop
door, the round face of her mistress beamed upon her from the little
desk, and the voice of her mistress sent fulsome flattery winging toward
her on the heavy air. Was she beautiful, mon Dieu! In effect, all that
one could dream of the most beautiful! And her eyes, of a blue like the
heaven, were they not wise and calm? Mon Dieu, yes! It was a cat among
thousands, a mimi almost divine.
Jean-Baptiste, appealed to for confirmation of these statements, replied
that it was so. There was no denying that this was a magnificent beast.
And of a chic. And caressing--(which was exaggeration). And of an
affection--(which was doubtful). And courageous--(which was wholly
untrue.) Mazette, yes! A cat of cats! And was the boy to be the whole
afternoon in delivering a cheese, he demanded of her? And Madame Caille
would challenge him to ask her that--but it was a good, great beast all
the same!--and so bury herself again in her accounts, until her
attention was once more drawn to Zut, and fresh flattery poured forth.
For all of this Zut cared less than nothing. In the midst of her
mistress's sweetest cajolery, she simply closed her sapphire eyes, with
an inexpressibly eloquent air of weariness, or turned to the intricacies
of her toilet, as who should say: "Continue. I am listening. But it is
unimportant."
But long familiarity with her disdain had deprived it of any sting, so
far as Alexandrine was concerned. Passive indifference she could suffer.
It was only when Zut proceeded to an active manifestation of ingratitude
that she inflicted an irremediable wound. Returning from her marketing
one morning, Madame Caille discovered her graceless favorite seated
complacently in the doorway of the Salon Malakoff, and, in a paroxysm of
indignation, bore down upon her, and snatched her to her breast.
"Unhappy one!" she cried, planting herself in full view of Espérance,
and, while raining the letter of her reproach upon the truant,
contriving to apply its spirit wholly to her neighbor. "What hast thou
done? Is it that thou desertest me for strangers, who may destroy thee?
Name of a name, hast thou no heart? They would steal thee from me--and
above all, _now_! Well then, no! One shall see if such things are
permitted! Vagabond!" And with this parting shot, which passed
harmlessly over the head of the offender, and launched itself full at
Madame Sergeot, the outraged épicière flounced back into her own domain,
where, turning, she threatened the empty air with a passionate gesture.
"Vagabond!" she repeated. "Good-for-nothing! Is it not enough to have
robbed me of my friends, that you must steal my child as well? We shall
see!"--then, suddenly softening--"Thou art beautiful, and good, and
wise. Mon Dieu, if I should lose thee, and above all, _now_!"
Now there existed a marked, if unvoiced, community of feeling between
Espérance and her resentful neighbor, for the former's passion for cats
was more consuming even than the latter's. She had long cherished the
dream of possessing a white angora, and when, that morning, of her own
accord, Zut stepped into the Salon Malakoff, she was received with
demonstrations even warmer than those to which she had long since become
accustomed. And, whether it was the novelty of her surroundings, or
merely some unwonted instinct which made her unusually susceptible, her
habitual indifference then and there gave place to animation, and her
satisfaction was vented in her long, appreciative purr, wherewith it was
not once a year that she vouchsafed to gladden her owner's heart.
Espérance hastened to prepare a saucer of milk, and, when this was
exhausted, added a generous portion of fish, and Zut then made a tour of
the shop, rubbing herself against the chair-legs, and receiving the
homage of customers and duck-clad assistants alike. Flique, his ruddy
face screwed into a mere knot of features, as Hippolyte worked violet
hair-tonic into his brittle locks, was moved to satire by the
apparition.
"Tiens! It is with the cat as with the clients. All the world forsakes
the Caille."
Strangely enough, the wrathful words of Alexandrine, as she snatched her
darling from the doorway, awoke in the mind of Espérance her first
suspicion of this smouldering resentment. Absorbed in the launching of
her husband's affairs, and constantly employed in the making of change
and with the keeping of her simple accounts, she had had no time to
bestow upon her neighbors, and, even had her attention been free, she
could hardly have been expected to deduce the rancor of Madame Caille
from the evidence at hand. But even if she had been able to ignore the
significance of that furious outburst at her very door, its meaning had
not been lost upon the others, and her own half-formed conviction was
speedily confirmed.
"What has she?" cried Hippolyte, pausing in the final stage of his
operations upon the highly perfumed Flique.
"Do I know?" replied his wife with a shrug. "She thinks I stole her
cat--_I!_"
"Quite simply, she hates you," put in Flique. "And why not? She is old,
and fat, and her business is taking itself off, like that! You are young
and"--with a bow, as he rose--"beautiful, and your affairs march to a
marvel. She is jealous, c'est tout! It is a bad character, that."
"But, mon Dieu!"--
"But what does that say to you? Let her go her way, she and her cat. Au
r'voir, 'sieurs, 'dame."
And, rattling a couple of sous into the little urn reserved for tips,
the policeman took his departure, amid a chorus of "Merci, m'sieu', au
r'voir, m'sieu'," from Hippolyte and his duck-clad aids.
But what he had said remained behind. All day Madame Sergeot pondered
upon the incident of the morning and Abel Flique's comments thereupon,
seeking out some more plausible reason for this hitherto unsuspected
enmity than the mere contrast between her material conditions and those
of Madame Caille seemed to her to afford. For, to a natural placidity of
temperament, which manifested itself in a reluctance to incur the
displeasure of any one, had been lately added in Espérance a shrewd
commercial instinct, which told her that the fortunes of the Salon
Malakoff might readily be imperiled by an unfriendly tongue. In the
quartier, gossip spread quickly and took deep root. It was quite
imaginably within the power of Madame Caille to circulate such rumors of
Sergeot dishonesty as should draw their lately won custom from them and
leave but empty chairs and discontent where now all was prosperity and
satisfaction.
Suddenly there came to her the memory of that visit which she had never
returned. Mon Dieu! and was not that reason enough? She, the youngest
patronne in the quartier, to ignore deliberately the friendly call of a
neighbor! At least it was not too late to make amends. So, when business
lagged a little in the late afternoon, Madame Sergeot slipped from her
desk, and, after a furtive touch to her hair, went in next door to pour
oil upon the troubled waters.
Madame Caille, throned at her counter, received her visitor with
unexampled frigidity.
"Ah, it is you," she said. "You have come to make some purchases, no
doubt."
"Eggs, madame," answered her visitor, disconcerted, but tactfully
accepting the hint.
"The best quality--or--?" demanded Alexandrine, with the suggestion of a
sneer.
"The best, evidently, madame. Six, if you please. Spring weather at
last, it would seem."
To this generality the other made no reply. Descending from her stool,
she blew sharply into a small paper bag, thereby distending it into a
miniature balloon, and began selecting the eggs from a basket, holding
each one to the light, and then dusting it with exaggerated care before
placing it in the bag. While she was thus employed Zut advanced from a
secluded corner, and, stretching her fore legs slowly to their utmost
length, greeted her acquaintance of the morning with a yawn. Finding in
the cat an outlet for her embarrassment, Espérance made another effort
to give the interview a friendly turn.
"He is beautiful, madame, your matou," she said.
"It is a female," replied Madame Caille, turning abruptly from the
basket, "and she does not care for strangers."
This second snub was not calculated to encourage neighborly overtures,
but Madame Sergeot had felt herself to be in the wrong, and was not to
be so readily repulsed.
"We do not see Monsieur Caille at the Salon Malakoff," she continued.
"We should be enchanted"--
"My husband shaves himself," retorted Alexandrine, with renewed dignity.
"But his hair"--ventured Espérance.
"_I_ cut it!" thundered her foe.
Here Madame Sergeot made a false move. She laughed. Then, in confusion,
and striving, too late, to retrieve herself--"Pardon, madame," she
added, "but it seems droll to me, that. After all, ten sous is a sum so
small"--
"All the world, unfortunately," broke in Madame Caille, "has not the
wherewithal to buy mirrors, and pay itself frescoes and appareils
antiseptiques! The eggs are twenty-four sous--but we do not pride
ourselves upon our eggs. Perhaps you had better seek them elsewhere for
the future!"
For sole reply Madame Sergeot had recourse to her expressive shrug, and
then laying two francs upon the counter, and gathering up the sous which
Alexandrine rather hurled at than handed her, she took her way toward
the door with all the dignity at her command. But Madame Caille, feeling
her snub to have been insufficient, could not let her go without a final
thrust.
"Perhaps your husband will be so amiable as to shampoo my cat!" she
shouted. "She seems to like your 'Salon'!"
But Espérance, while for concord's sake inclined to tolerate all
rudeness to herself, was not prepared to hear Hippolyte insulted, and
so, wheeling at the doorway, flung all her resentment into two words.
"Mal élevée!"
"Gueuse!" screamed Alexandrine from the desk. And so they parted.
Now, even at this stage, an armed truce might still have been preserved,
had Zut been content with the evil she had wrought, and not thought it
incumbent upon her further to embitter a quarrel that was a very pretty
quarrel as it stood. But, whether it was that the milk and fish of the
Salon Malakoff lay sweeter upon her memory than any of the familiar
dainties of the épicerie Caille, or that, by her unknowable feline
instinct, she was irresistibly drawn toward the scent of violet and
lilac brillantine, her first visit to the Sergeot was soon repeated, and
from this visit other visits grew, until it was almost a daily
occurrence for her to saunter slowly into the salle de coiffure, and
there receive the food and homage which were rendered as her undisputed
due. For, whatever was the bitterness of Espérance toward Madame Caille,
no part thereof descended upon Zut. On the contrary, at each visit her
heart was more drawn toward the sleek angora, and her desire but
strengthened to possess her peer. But white angoras are a luxury, and an
expensive one at that, and, however prosperous the Salon Malakoff might
be, its proprietors were not as yet in a position to squander eighty
francs upon a whim. So, until profits should mount higher, Madame
Sergeot was forced to content herself with the voluntary visits of her
neighbor's pet.
Madame Caille did not yield her rights of sovereignty without a
struggle. On the occasion of Zut's third visit, she descended upon the
Salon Malakoff, robed in wrath, and found the adored one contentedly
feeding on fish in the very bosom of the family Sergeot. An appalling
scene ensued.
"If," she stormed, crimson of countenance, and threatening Espérance
with her fist, "if you _must_ entice my cat from her home, at _least_ I
will thank you not to give her food. I provide all that is necessary;
and, for the rest, how do I know what is in that saucer?"
And she surveyed the duck-clad assistants and the astounded customers
with tremendous scorn.
"You others," she added, "I ask you, is it just? These people take my
cat, and feed her--_feed_ her--with I know not what! It is overwhelming,
unheard of--and, above all, _now_!"
But here the peaceful Hippolyte played trumps.
"It is the privilege of the vulgar," he cried, advancing, razor in hand,
"when they are at home, to insult their neighbors, but here--no! My wife
has told me of you and of your sayings. Beware! or I shall arrange your
affair for you! Go! you and your cat!"
And, by way of emphasis, he fairly kicked Zut into her astonished
owner's arms. He was magnificent, was Hippolyte!
This anecdote, duly elaborated, was poured into the ears of Abel Flique
an hour later, and that evening he paid his first visit in many months
to Madame Caille. She greeted him effusively, being willing to pardon
all the past for the sake of regaining this powerful friend. But the
glitter in the agent's eye would have cowed a fiercer spirit than hers.
"You amuse yourself," he said sternly, looking straight at her over the
handful of raisins which she tendered him, "by wearying my friends. I
counsel you to take care. One does not sell inferior eggs in Paris
without hearing of it sooner or later. I know more than I have told, but
not more than I _can_ tell, if I choose."
"Our ancient friendship"--faltered Alexandrine, touched in a vulnerable
spot.
"--preserves you thus far," added Flique, no less unmoved. "Beware how
you abuse it!"
And so the calls of Zut were no longer disturbed.
But the rover spirit is progressive, and thus short visits became long
visits, and finally the angora spent whole nights in the Salon Malakoff,
where a box and a bit of carpet were provided for her. And one fateful
morning the meaning of Madame Caille's significant words "and above all,
_now_!" was made clear.
The prosperity of Hippolyte's establishment had grown apace, so that, on
the morning in question, the three chairs were occupied, and yet other
customers awaited their turn. The air was laden with violet and lilac. A
stout chauffeur, in a leather suit, thickly coated with dust, was
undergoing a shampoo at the hands of one of the duck-clad, and, under
the skillfully plied razor of the other, the virgin down slid from the
lips and chin of a slim and somewhat startled youth, while from a
vaporizer Hippolyte played a fine spray of perfumed water upon the ruddy
countenance of Abel Flique. It was an eloquent moment, eminently fitted
for some dramatic incident, and that dramatic incident Zut supplied. She
advanced slowly and with an air of conscious dignity from the corner
where was her carpeted box, and in her mouth was a limp something,
which, when deposited in the immediate centre of the Salon Malakoff,
resolved itself into an angora kitten, as white as snow!
"Epatant!" said Flique, mopping his perfumed chin. And so it was.
There was an immediate investigation of Zut's quarters, which revealed
four other kittens, but each of these was marked with black or tan. It
was the flower of the flock with which the proud mother had won her
public.
"And they are all yours!" cried Flique, when the question of ownership
arose. "Mon Dieu, yes! There was such a case not a month ago, in the
eighth arrondissement--a concierge of the avenue Hoche who made a
contrary claim. But the courts decided against her. They are all yours,
Madame Sergeot. My felicitations!"
Now, as we have said, Madame Sergeot was of a placid temperament which
sought not strife. But the unprovoked insults of Madame Caille had
struck deep, and, after all, she was but human.
So it was that, seated at her little desk, she composed the following
masterpiece of satire:
CHÈRE MADAME,--We send you back your cat, and the others--all but
one. One kitten was of a pure white, more beautiful even than its
mother. As we have long desired a white angora, we keep this one as
a souvenir of you. We regret that we do not see the means of
accepting the kind offer you were so amiable as to make us. We fear
that we shall not find time to shampoo your cat, as we shall be so
busy taking care of our own. Monsieur Flique will explain the rest.
We pray you to accept, madame, the assurance of our distinguished
consideration,
HIPPOLYTE AND ESPÉRANCE SERGEOT.
* * * * *
It was Abel Flique who conveyed the above epistle, and Zut, and four of
Zut's kittens, to Alexandrine Caille, and, when that wrathful person
would have rent him with tooth and nail, it was Abel Flique who laid his
finger on his lip, and said,--
"Concern yourself with the superior kitten, madame, and I concern myself
with the inferior eggs!"
To which Alexandrine made no reply. After Flique had taken his
departure, she remained speechless for five consecutive minutes for the
first time in the whole of her waking existence, gazing at the spot at
her feet where sprawled the white angora, surrounded by her mottled
offspring. Even when the first shock of her defeat had passed, she
simply heaved a deep sigh, and uttered two words,--
"Oh, _Zut_!"
The which, in Parisian argot, at once means everything and nothing.
[Illustration]
Caffiard
DEUS EX MACHINA
THE studio was tucked away in the extreme upper northeast corner of 13
ter rue Visconti, higher even than that cinquième, dearly beloved of the
impecunious, and of whoso, between stairs and street odors, chooses the
lesser evil, and is more careful of lungs than legs. After the six long
flights had been achieved, around a sharp corner and up a little winding
stairway, was the door which bore the name of Pierre Vauquelin. Inside,
after stumbling along a narrow hall, as black as Erebus, and floundering
through a curtained doorway, one came abruptly into the studio, and, in
all probability, fell headlong over a little rattan stool, or an easel,
or a box of paints, and was picked up by the host, and dusted, and put
to rights, and made much of, like a bumped child. Thus restored to
equanimity one was better able to appreciate what Pierre called la
Boîte.
The Box was a room eight metres in width by ten in length, with a
skylight above, and a great, square window in the north wall, which
latter sloped inward from floor to ceiling, by reason of the mansarde
roof. Of what might be called furniture there was but little, a Norman
cupboard of black wood, heavily carved, a long divan, contrived from
various packing boxes and well-worn rugs, a large, square table, a half
dozen chairs, three easels, and a repulsive little stove with an
interminable pipe, which, with its many twists and turns, gave one the
impression of a thick, black snake, that had, a moment before, been
swaying about in the room, and had suddenly found a hole in the roof
through which to thrust its head.
But of minor things the Box was full to overflowing. The Norman cupboard
was crammed with an assortment of crockery, much of it sadly nicked and
cracked, the divan was strewn with boxes of broken pastels,
paint-brushes, and palettes coated with dried colors, the table littered
with papers, sketches, and books, and every chair had its own particular
trap for the unwary, in the form of thumb-tacks or a glass half full of
cloudy water: and in the midst of this chaos, late on a certain mid-May
afternoon, stood the painter himself, with his hands thrust deep into
the pockets of his corduroy trousers, and his back turned upon the
portrait upon which he had been at work. It was evident that something
untoward was in the air, because Pierre, who always smoked, was not
smoking, and Pierre, who never scowled, was scowling.
In the Quartier--that Quartier which alone, of them all, is spelt with a
capital Q--there was, in ordinary, no gayer, more happy-go-lucky type
than this same Pierre. He lived, as did a thousand of his kind, on
eighty sous a day (there were those who lived on less, pardi!), and
breakfasted, and dined, at that,--yes, and paid himself an absinthe at
the Deux Magots at six o'clock, and a package of green cigarettes, into
the bargain. For the rest of the time, he was understood to be working
on a portrait in his studio, and, what is more surprising, often was.
There was nothing remarkable about Pierre's portraits, except that
occasionally he sold one, and for money--for _actual money_, the
astonishing animal! But if any part of the modest proceeds of such a
transaction remained, after the rent had been paid and a new canvas
purchased, it was not the caisse d'épargne which saw it, be sure of
that! For Pierre lived always for the next twenty-four hours, and let
the rest of time and eternity look out for themselves.
Yet he took his work seriously. That was the trouble. Even admitting
that, thus far, his orders had come only from the more prosperous
tradesmen of the Quartier, did that mean, par exemple, that they would
not come in time from the millionaires of the sixteenth arrondissement?
By no means, whatever, said Pierre. To be sure, he had never had the
Salon in the palm of his hand, so to speak, but what of that? Jean-Paul
himself would tell you that it was all favoritism! So Pierre toiled away
at his portrait painting, and made a little competency, but, if the
truth were told, no appreciable progress from year's beginning to year's
end.
For once, however, his luck had played him false. The fat restaurateur,
whose wife's portrait he had finished that afternoon and carried at top
speed, with the paint not yet dry, to the rue du Bac, was out of town on
business, and would not return until the following evening; and that, so
far as Pierre was concerned, was quite as bad as if he were not expected
until the following year. Pierre's total wealth amounted to one
five-franc piece and three sous, and he had been relying upon the
restaurateur's four louis, to enable him to fulfill his promise to Mimi.
For the next day was her fête, and they were to have breakfasted in the
country, and taken a boat upon the Seine, and returned to dine under the
trees. Not at Suresnes or St. Cloud, ah, non! Something better than
that--the true country, sapristi! at Poissy, twenty-eight kilometres
from Paris. All of which meant at least a louis, and, no doubt, more!
And where, demanded Pierre of the great north window, where was a louis
to be found?
For there was a tacit understanding among the comrades in the Quartier
that there must be no borrowing and lending of money. It was a clause of
their creed, which had been adopted in the early days of their
companionship, for what was, clearly, the greatest general good, the
chances being that no one of them would ever possess sufficient surplus
capital either to accommodate another or to repay an accommodation. For
a moment, to be sure, the thought had crossed Pierre's mind, but he had
rejected it instantly as impracticable. Aside from the unwritten
compact, there was no one of them all who could have been of service,
had he so willed. Even Jacques Courbet, who possessed a disposition
which would have impelled him to chop off his right hand with the utmost
cheerfulness, if thereby he could have gratified a friend, was worse
than useless in this emergency. Had it been a matter of forty sous--but
a louis! As well have asked him for the Vénus de Milo, and had done with
it.
So it was that, with the premonition of Mimi's disappointed eyes cutting
great gaps in his tender heart, Pierre had four times shrugged his
shoulders, and quoted to himself this favorite scrap of his remarkable
philosophy,--"Oh, lala! All this will arrange itself!" and four times
had paused, in the act of lighting a cigarette, and plunged again into
the depths of despondent reverie. As he was on the point of again
repeating this entirely futile operation, a distant clock struck six,
and Pierre, remembering that Mimi must even now be waiting for him at
the west door of St. Germain-des-Prés, clapped on his cap, and sallied
forth into the gathering twilight.
It was apéritif hour at the Café des Deux Magots, and the long,
leather-covered benches against the windows, and the double row of
little marble-topped tables in front were rapidly filling, as Pierre and
Mimi took their places, and ordered two Turins à l'eau. A group of
American Beaux Arts men at their right were chattering in their uncouth
tongue, with occasional scraps of Quartier slang, by way of local color,
and now and again hailing a newcomer with exclamations, apparently of
satisfaction, which began with "Hello!" The boulevard St. Germain was
alive with people, walking past with the admirable lack of haste which
distinguishes the Parisian, or waiting, in patient, voluble groups, for
a chance to enter the constantly arriving and departing trams and
omnibuses; and an unending succession of open cabs filed slowly along
the curb, their drivers scanning the terrasse of the café for a possible
fare. The air was full of that mingled odor of wet wood pavements and
horse-chestnut blossoms, which is the outward, invisible sign of that
most wonderful of inward and spiritual combinations--Paris and Spring!
And, at the table directly behind Pierre and Mimi sat Caffiard.
There was nothing about Caffiard to suggest a _deus ex machina_, or
anything else, for that matter, except a preposterously corpulent old
gentleman with an amiable smile. But in nothing were appearances ever
more deceitful than in Caffiard. For it was he, with his enormous double
chin, and his general air of harmless fatuity, who edited the little
colored sheet entitled La Blague, which sent half Paris into convulsions
of merriment every Thursday morning, and he who knew every caricaturist
in town, and was beloved of them all for the heartiness of his
appreciation and the liberality of his payments. In the first regard he
was but one of many Parisian editors: but in the second he stood
without a peer. Caran d'Ache, Léandre, Willette, Forain, Hermann Paul,
Abel Faivre--they rubbed their hands when they came out of Caffiard's
private office, and if the day chanced to be Saturday, there was
something in their hands worth rubbing. A fine example, Caffiard!
Mimi's black eyes sparkled like a squirrel's as she watched Pierre over
the rim of her tumbler of vermouth. She was far from being blind, Mimi,
and already, though they had been together but six minutes, she had
noted that unusual little pucker between his eyebrows, that sad little
droop at the corners of his merry mouth. She told herself that Pierre
had been overworking himself, that Pierre was tired, that Pierre needed
cheering up. So Mimi, who was never tired, not even after ten hours in
Madame Fraichel's millinery establishment, secretly declared war upon
the unusual little pucker and the sad little droop.
"Voyons donc, my Pierrot!" she said. "It is not a funeral to which we go
to-morrow, at least! Thou must be gay, for we have much to talk of, thou
knowest. One dines at La Boîte?"
"The dinner is there, such as it is," replied Pierre gloomily.
"What it is now, is not the question," said Mimi, with confidence, "but
what I make of it--pas? And then there is to-morrow! Oh, lala, lalala!
What a pleasure it will be, if only the good God gives us beautiful
weather. Dis, donc, great thunder-cloud, dost thou know it, this
Poissy?"
Pierre had begun a caricature on the back of the wine-card, glancing now
and again at his model, an old man selling newspapers on the curb. He
shook his head without replying.
"Eh, b'en, my little one, thou mayest believe me that it is of all
places the most beautiful! One eats at the Esturgeon, on the Seine,--but
_on_ the Seine, with the water quite near, like that chair. He names
himself Jarry, the proprietor, and it is a good type--fat and handsome.
I adore him! Art thou jealous, species of thinness of a hundred nails?
B'en, afterwards, one takes a boat, and goes, softly, softly, down the
little arm of the Seine, and creeps under the willows, and, perhaps,
fishes. But no, for it is the closed season. But one sings, eh? What
does one sing? Voyons!"
She bent forward, and, in a little voice, like an elf's, very thin and
sweet, hummed a snatch of a song they both knew.
_"C'est votre ami Pierrot qui vient vous voir:
Bonsoir, madame la lune!"_
"And then," she went on, as Pierre continued his sketch in silence, "and
then, one disembarks at Villennes and has a Turin under the arbors of
Bodin. Another handsome type, Bodin! Flut! _What_ a man!"
Mimi paused suddenly, and searched his cloudy face with her earnest,
tender little eyes.
"Pierrot," she said, softly, "what hast thou? Thou art not angry with
thy gosseline?"
Pierre surveyed the outline of the newspaper vender thoughtfully,
touched it, here and there, with his pencil-point, squinted, and then
pushed the paper toward the girl.
"Not bad," he said, replacing his pencil in his pocket.
But Mimi had no eyes for the caricature, and merely flicked the
wine-card to the ground.
"Pierrot"--she repeated.
Vauquelin plunged his hands in his pockets and looked at her.
"Well, then," he announced, almost brutally, "we do not go to-morrow."
"_Pierre!_"
It was going to be much worse than he had supposed, this little tragedy.
Bon Dieu, how pretty she was, with her startled, hurt eyes, already
filling with tears, and her parted lips, and her little white hand, that
had flashed up to her cheek at his words! Oh, much worse than he had
supposed! But she must be told: there was nothing but that. So Pierre
put his elbows on the table, and his chin in his hands, and brought his
face close to hers.
"Voyons!" he explained, "thou dost not believe me angry! Mais non, mais
non! But listen. It is I who am the next to the last of idiots, since I
have never a sou in pocket, never! And the imbecile restaurateur, whose
wife I have been painting, will not return until to-morrow, and so I am
not paid. Voilà!"
He placed his five-franc piece upon the table, and shrugged his
shoulders.
"One full moon!" he said, and piled the three sous upon it. "And three
soldiers. As I sit here, that is all, until to-morrow night. We cannot
go!"
Brave little Mimi! Already she was winking back her tears, and smiling.
"But that--that is nothing!" she answered. "I do not care to go. No--but
truly! Look! We shall spend the day in the studio, and breakfast on the
balcony, and pretend the rue Visconti is the Seine."
"I am an empty siphon!" said Pierre, yielding to desperation.
"_Non!_" said Mimi firmly.
"I am a pierced basket, a box of matches!"
"_Non! Non!_" said Mimi, with tremendous earnestness. "Thou art Pierrot,
and I love thee! Let us say no more. I shall go back and prepare the
dinner, and thou shalt remain and drink a Pernod. It will give thee
heart. But follow quickly. Give me the key."
She laid her wide-spread hand on his, palm upward, like a little pink
starfish.
"We go together, and I adore thee!" said Pierre, and kissed her in the
sight of all men, and was not ashamed.
* * * * *
Caffiard leaned forward, picked up the fallen wine-card, pretended to
consult it, and ponderously arose. As Pierre was turning the key in the
door of the little apartment, they heard a sound of heavy breathing, and
the _deus ex machina_ came lumbering up the winding stair.
"Monsieur is seeking some one?" asked the painter politely.
There was no breath left in Caffiard. He was only able, by way of reply,
to point at the top button of Pierre's coat, and nod helplessly: then,
as Mimi ran ahead to light the gas, he labored along the corridor,
staggered through the curtained doorway, stumbled over a rattan stool,
was rescued by Pierre, and, finally, established upon the divan, very
red and gasping.
For a time there was silence, Pierre and Mimi busying themselves in
putting the studio to rights, with an instinctive courtesy which took no
notice of their visitor's snorts and wheezes; and Caffiard taking note
of his surroundings with his round, blinking eyes. Opposite him, against
the wall, reposed the portrait of the restaurateur's wife, as dry and
pasty as a stale cream cheese upon the point of crumbling, and on an
easel was another--that of Monsieur Pantin, the rich shirt-maker of the
boulevard St. Germain--on which Pierre was at work. A veritable atrocity
this, with a green background which trespassed upon Monsieur Pantin's
hair, and a featureless face, gaunt and haggard with yellow and purple
undertones. There was nothing in either picture to refute one's natural
suspicion that soap had been the medium employed. Caffiard blinked
harder still as his eyes rested upon the portraits, and he secretly
consulted the crumpled wine-card in his hand. Then he seemed to recover
his breath by means of a profound sigh.
"Monsieur makes caricatures?" he inquired.
"Ah, monsieur," said Pierre, "at times, and for amusement only. I am a
portraitist." And he pointed proudly to the picture against the wall.
For they are all alike, these painters--proudest of what they do least
well!
"Ah! Then," said Caffiard, with an air of resignation, "I must ask
monsieur's pardon, and descend. I am not interested in portraits. When
it comes to caricatures"--
"They are well enough in their way," put in Pierre, "but as a serious
affair--to sell, for instance--well, monsieur comprehends that one does
not debauch one's art!"
Oh, yes, they are all alike, these painters!
"What is serious, what is not serious?" answered Caffiard. "It is all a
matter of opinion. One prefers to have his painting glued to the wall of
the Salon, next the ceiling, another to have his drawing on the front
page of La Blague."
"Oh, naturally La Blague," protested Pierre.
"I am its editor," said Caffiard superbly.
"_Eigh!_" exclaimed Pierre. For Mimi had cruelly pinched his arm. Before
the sting had passed, she was seated at Caffiard's side, tugging at the
strings of a great portfolio.
"Are they imbeciles, these painters, monsieur?" she was saying. "Now you
shall see. This great baby is marvelous, but _marvelous_, with his
caricatures. Not Léandre himself--it is I who assure you, monsieur!--and
to hear him, one would think--but thou _tirest_ me, Pierrot!--With his
portraits! No, it is _too_ much!"
She spread the portfolio wide, and began to shuffle through the drawings
it contained.
Caffiard's eyes glistened as he saw them. Even in her enthusiasm, Mimi
had not overshot the mark. They were marvelous indeed, these
caricatures, mere outlines for the most part, with a dot, here and
there, of red, or a little streak of green, which lent them a curious,
unusual charm. The subjects were legion. Here was Loubet, with a great
band of crimson across his shirt bosom, here Waldeck-Rousseau, with eyes
as round and prominent as agate marbles, or Yvette, with a nose on which
one might have hung an overcoat, or Chamberlain, all monocle, or
Wilhelmina, growing out of a tulip's heart, and as pretty as an old
print, with her tight-fitting Dutch cap and broidered bodice. And then a
host of types--cochers, grisettes, flower women, camelots, Heaven knows
what not!--the products of half a hundred idle hours, wherein
great-hearted, foolish Pierre had builded better than he knew!
Caffiard selected five at random, and then, from a waistcoat pocket that
clung as closely to his round figure as if it had been glued thereto,
produced a hundred-franc note.
"I must have these for La Blague, monsieur," he said. "Bring me two
caricatures a week at my office in the rue St. Joseph, and you shall be
paid at the same rate. It is not much, to be sure. But you will have
ample time left for your--for your portrait-painting, monsieur!"
For a moment the words of Caffiard affected Pierre and Mimi as the
stairs had affected Caffiard. They stared at him, opening and shutting
their mouths and gasping, like fish newly landed. Then, suddenly,
animated by a common impulse, they rushed into each other's arms, and
set out, around the studio, in a mad waltz, which presently resolved
itself into an impromptu can-can, with Mimi skipping like a fairy, and
Pierre singing: "Hi! _Hi!!_ HI!!!" and snapping at her flying feet with
a red-bordered handkerchief. After this Mimi kissed Caffiard twice: once
on the top of his bald head, and once on the end of his stubby nose. It
was like being brushed by the floating down of a dandelion. And,
finally, nothing would do but that he must accompany them upon the
morrow; and she explained to him in detail the plan which had so nearly
fallen through, and the _deus ex machina_ did not betray by so much as a
wink that he had heard the entire story only half an hour before.
But, in the end, he protested. But she was insane, the little one,
completely! Had he then the air of one who gave himself into those boats
there, name of a pipe? But let us be reasonable, voyons! He was not
young like Pierre and Mimi--one comprehended that these holidays did not
recommence when one was sixty. What should he do, he demanded of them,
trailing along, as one might say, he and his odious fatness? Ah, _non_!
For la belle jeunesse was la belle jeunesse, there was no means of
denying it, and it was not for a species of dried sponge to be giving
itself the airs of a fresh flower. "But no! But no!" said Caffiard,
striving to rise from the divan. "In the morning I have my article to do
for the Figaro, and I am going with Caran to Longchamp, en auto, for the
races in the afternoon. But no! But no!"