is also something, as every one does _not_ know, to be a demon in
L'Enfer. Aside from the sentiment of the thing, it is all the
same,--harps and halos or horns and hoofs. The clientèle of both places
is, for the most part, étrangère, and what is certain is that an
American never counts the little money one gives him in change, and that
an Englishman disputes it anyway, so that, in the beginning, one might
as well be wrong as right, and that a German is unable to tell a louis
from a new sou. And a pourboire is a pourboire, whether intentional or
otherwise. That is why Maxime Perrot felt himself to be a remarkably
fortunate person when, one evening in June, he was suddenly transformed
into an angel, as a result of his intimacy with Gustave Robine.
Gustave was two metres twelve in height, which is something so
astonishing in itself that it is not to be wondered at that, for more
than a year, he had filled the eminent position of guardian of the gate
of Le Ciel, and was much in favor with the management, because of the
attention he attracted from the clients. Also, he kept his eyes open,
and, moreover, he owed Maxime fifty francs. So, when one of the angels
abruptly married a rich widow, and departed for Maisons-Laffitte, to
live on her ample rentes, Gustave mentioned the name of his friend and
creditor for the vacancy, and, the next day, Maxime became one of the
personnel of Heaven, with a fresh pair of wings and new pink fleshings.
Maxime was short and slender, in all except his feet, which were long
and large, so long and large, indeed, that he was called l'L
Majuscule--the Capital L--by his intimates, and fully merited the
nickname when viewed in profile, standing. His experiences in life had
been diverse, for, as he himself was wont to say, he cared less for an
existence without variety than does a fish for an apple. He had driven a
voiture de remise, gorgeous in a green cockade and doeskin breeches: he
had been collector for the Banque de France, dismissed, let charity say
not why: and garçon de restaurant, racing to and fro, with a mammoth
tray balanced on one upright arm, like a human umbrella: and camelot,
hoarsely crying "La Patrie!" in front of the boulevard cafés: and,
finally, valet de chambre to Captain the Honorable Michael Douglas,
military attaché to the British Embassy. It was in the last capacity
that he had learned English, which now he spoke, said Gustave, like a
veritable Goddem. That was not the least of the new angel's
qualifications. To be sure, it was against all reason that the sales
anglais should, under any circumstances, achieve an entrée into Heaven,
but then there were many incongruities in connection with Le Ciel, and
the fact remained that three out of five of the clients spoke Angliche,
and an angel who could reply to them in their own ignoble argot was,
without doubt, an invaluable acquisition.
It cannot be denied that Maxime made a good beginning in Heaven. He
entered upon his new duties modestly, and spent a full half-hour of the
early evening cleaning the long table in the main hall, dusting the
surrounding stools of gold, upon which the chosen were to sit, and
assisting his fellow angels in polishing the liqueur glasses. And it so
happened that the first to enter that night was Major Amos E. Cogswell,
of the United States Army, who had spent three weeks in Paris at the age
of twenty-two, and distinguished himself by demanding, on his second
arrival, the way to the Jardin Mabille. With the Major were his two
nieces, and their attendant swains, John Selfridge Appleby and P.
Hamilton Beck, the latter in narrow-brimmed straw hats, which resembled
lids of Japanese tea-pots, and dogskin walking gloves, turned back at
the wrists. The party entered with an air of bravado, and were heard to
remark that this was IT,--whatever that might mean. It was Maxime's
opportunity, and he improved it to the utmost, seating the newcomers
around the head of the table, and demanding, "Ces messieurs désirent?"
as if completely oblivious to the fact that they were anything but
bred-in-the-bone boulevardiers. For there was need of precaution. It is
an inexplicable thing about these English that one is charmed to be
addressed in his own tongue, and the next is insulted. It pays to feel
one's way.
"What does he say?" said Major Cogswell, turning, helplessly, to P.
Hamilton Beck, who had taken French II. at Columbia.
"Wants us to name the drinks," responded that accomplished young
gentleman.
"Spik Ingliss?" put in l'L Majuscule, deploying the skirmishers of his
vocabulary.
"Tchure!" said Mr. Beck.
"Ah!" replied Maxime, much gratified, "zen v'at eest? V'at veel de
zaintlemans aff?"
"Cream de mint," said the Major, promptly, and, his companions agreeing
with alacrity, Mr. Beck again undertook the rôle of interpreter.
"Sank cream de mint," he commanded, holding up his left hand,
wide-spread, "et toute suite."
And, in a surprisingly brief space of time, five infinitesimal glasses
of the green liqueur stood before them.
"Mais avec du glace," remonstrated Mr. Beck.
"What's that; what's that?" inquired the Major anxiously, as the glasses
were as suddenly removed by the abashed Maxime.
"Oh, ice, that's all," replied the other. "These chaps don't know
what's what. Leave 'em to me. One has to know how to handle 'em."
Following the entrance of the Americans, the cabaret had gradually
filled. The majority of the places at the long table were occupied now
by a curious assemblage of sensation-seekers,--Germans in little cloth
hats of dark green, with a curled feather cropping up behind, Englishmen
in tweeds and traveling-caps, with visors fore and aft, American
architects from the Quartier, so well disguised by slouch felts, pointed
beards, and baggy trousers, that only a nasal tang in their slangy
French betrayed their nationality, and a sprinkling of Frenchmen, each
clasping the hand of a grisette. Already the high-priest of Le Ciel was
in his gilded pulpit, delivering an oration thickly sown with "mes
soeurs" and "mes frères" and "chers bénis," at which strangers and
Parisians alike laughed uproariously, and all for one good
reason--because the Frenchmen understood! Maxime returned, bringing the
five liqueurs in larger glasses with chopped ice. The head angel made
the round of the table, carrying, on a pole, the gilded image of a pig,
and a pseudo-sexton stood leaning on the rail of a celestial stairway
leading to the second floor, sprinkling the assemblage with so-called
holy water from a colored brush. It was all very French, very
conventional,--or unconventional, according to the point of view of the
spectator,--very sacrilegious from any point of view.
With that curious instinct of womanhood which seems to recognize the
indelicate, even in unfamiliar surroundings, even in an unknown tongue,
the younger Miss Cogswell leaned forward suddenly and touched the Major
on the hand.
"Let us go," she said.
"Yes!" agreed Appleby, buttoning his coat, "let's be moving. What do you
say? Let's go to Hell--I mean," he added, with a blush, "let's try the
other cabaret."
The Major agreed with a sigh of relief. He had understood nothing of the
mummery going on about him, but he was possessed by the conviction that
in some way his party was the butt of the occasion, and had kept looking
around abruptly, in hope of catching the angels giggling behind his
back.
"Will you ask the waiter how much I owe?" He appealed to Beck.
_How much!_
Maxime picked these two essential words out of the rapid phrase like a
squirrel snapping a peanut from its shell. He had not been garçon at the
Café Américain for nothing, Maxime. His countenance assumed an
expression of beatific innocence as he looked over the Major's head, at
the high-priest in the gilded pulpit.
"Tain francs," he observed, mildly.
This was a tide in the affairs of P. Hamilton Beck which, plainly, must
be taken at the flood. The elder Miss Cogswell was looking at him
expectantly, and Heaven had, of a sudden, grown very still. He leaped
into the breach with all the eloquence accumulated during eight months
of French II.
"Mon foi, non! cream de mint coute seulement un franc la verre dans les
établissements plus chers. Il ne faut pas nous voler, parceque nous sont
étrangères!"
"What's that; what's that?" said the Major.
"He's trying to rob us," explained Beck, much excited. "Says it's ten
francs. It can't possibly be more than five, and it _ought_ to be two
francs fifty."
The Major immediately became purple with indignation.
"But, God bless my soul!" he exclaimed, "the rascal understands English
as well as any one of us. What's the use of wasting your French on him?"
He swung round upon his stool, and fixed an eye, which was celebrated in
the 32d Regular Infantry, upon l'L Majuscule. That worthy surveyed with
unfeigned astonishment this very angry, red-faced foreigner, who looked
as if he was about to devour him, body and bones. He had not the most
remote conception of the effect which his flaxen wig, and his ridiculous
wings, and his short pleated tunic, and his pink tights, and his huge
feet in their gilded sandals, produced upon the Major; and his attempt
at extortion was strictly in line with the traditions of the place.
Certainly, it was all very puzzling.
"You ape!" said the Major furiously, finding his breath. "You
pinky-panky little scoundrel! _You_ an angel? Why you're not even
shaved! You get two francs fifty, that's what you get, and not a red
cent of porbwure either, you Christmas-tree image!"
The exact phrasing of these remarks was somewhat lost upon Maxime, but
the general trend of the Major's meaning was quite unmistakable.
Nevertheless, when one had been valet de chambre to Captain the
Honorable Michael Douglas, one was not routed by a few emphatic words.
So Maxime shrugged his shoulders apologetically, and reiterated his
"Tain francs."
"Damn it, sir, _no_!" thundered the Major. "And don't pretend you can't
understand me. I'm a short-tempered man, sir, and--and"--
He pounded with his fist upon the table, seeking a fitting expression of
his rage, until the little liqueur glasses danced like kernels of
popping corn. But young Appleby leaned toward him and laid a hand on his
arm. He was big and square-shouldered, was Appleby, and, only the year
before, he had performed prodigies with the hammer and the shot in the
Intercollegiate Games; but his eyes were very blue and gentle, and he
spoke with extreme mildness.
"Don't let us have any trouble here, sir," he said. "It isn't as if we
were alone. We have the girls with us, you know. Leave the beggar two
francs fifty, and we'll go on to the next place."
Now the Major, with all his fiery temper, was an ardent lover of
discipline, and he recognized reason in Appleby's words. So, after an
instant, he deposited the amount upon the table, rose to his full
height, with his eye still riveted on Maxime, and then, followed by the
others, stalked majestically toward the door.
But for one circumstance, the Americans had never gone unmolested past
Maxime's fellow-angels, and, in particular, the towering form of Gustave
Robine. Maxime himself was astounded that no celestial hand was
stretched out to bar their progress. What he did not understand was
that, while one may enter Le Ciel on the strength of an accomplishment
not possessed by the other immortals, the achievement does not
necessarily imply that one is _persona grata_ in their eyes, or, in the
least degree, sure of their support. The management was responsible for
Maxime, and the edict had gone forth that the Angliches were to be
turned over to him. But obedience to this command did not go hand in
hand with approval thereof. The high-priest and the sexton and all the
angels had looked on sourly, as he appropriated the Major's party, for
it is the Americans who give the largest pourboires; and, although they
did not wholly comprehend the dispute which had arisen, it was evident
that the linguistic angel had met with disaster at the very outset, and
they were proportionately gratified. So, when Maxime glanced about in
search of succor, he found himself abandoned in his discomfiture. The
other angels were smiling broadly, and nudging each other with their
pink elbows; the high-priest, with his fat hands on the pulpit's edge,
was looking down at him with a grin; the sexton above his head waved his
brush to and fro and chanted, "_Ora pro nobis!_" in a high, whining
voice. A French student at the further end of the table said "Roulé!"
and his companion laughed shrilly. Even Gustave, at the door, was
leaning on his halberd and chuckling, for he had not forgotten that
Maxime, once sure of his position, had demanded repayment of the fifty
francs.
All this was sufficiently intolerable, but a real disaster, more
terrible than mere ridicule, confronted Maxime. The crême de menthe was,
as a matter of fact, one franc a glass, and it was out of his pocket
that the deficit would have to be made good. As this tragic thought
smote him full and fair, he bounded forward past the other angels,
dodged nimbly under Gustave's outstretched arm, charged through the
swinging doors, and emerged with a shout upon the boulevard de Clichy.
The Major's party had paused before the entrance of L'Enfer, while Beck
parleyed with the courteous demon in scarlet tights who kept the door,
and the others stood by, sublimely unconscious of the none too
complimentary comments of a half score of cochers and boulevard loungers
who surrounded them. Into the midst of this assemblage swooped l'L
Majuscule, his flaxen wig awry, his wings bobbing wildly on his
shoulders, and his white tunic fluttering in the wind. Blind to
consequences, he darted upon the unsuspecting Major, and seized him
furiously by the coat.
"Eh! vieille saucisse!" he exclaimed. "Tu te fiches de moi--quoi?"
Now John Appleby had never enjoyed the advantages of French II., which
shed such effulgence upon his classmate, but he knew the answer to this
question, none the less. It had been taught him in the boxing-room of
his athletic club, and it was surprisingly conclusive when applied to
the under jaw of an infuriated angel. The ruby and white arc-lights
before the cabarets suddenly joined in a mad waltz, the cabarets
themselves turned upside down, the cochers and loungers swooped into the
air like pigeons, a passing tram leaped into the trees on the further
side of the driveway and disappeared, and, from somewhere, a factory
whistle came close up to Maxime's side and said, "_Oo-oo-ooo-oooo!_" in
his ear.
He came to himself slowly. There was an acrid taste in his mouth, and
this, upon investigation, proved to be boulevard mud. There was
something fuzzy gripped tightly in his right hand, and this presently
resolved itself into his wings. Then he saw his feet, which were
elevated above the level of his head, by reason of being on the curb,
while the rest of his person was in the gutter. Then the mammoth red
face of a cocher bulged out of the night, close to his own, and a voice
said,--
"Have you harm, angel?"
Then he remembered, sat up, and looked around.
On the boulevard de Clichy, spectators grow out of the ground,
spontaneously, when there is an excuse for their presence. A hundred or
more now surrounded Maxime, with open mouths, and staring eyes that slid
to and fro from his prostrate form to the faces of an agent and a
vehement gentleman in a frock coat and a flat-brimmed huit reflets, who
were disputing violently. In the crowd were all the other angels, and
the better part of those who had been seated at the table of Heaven. The
sexton, brush in hand, was gaping over the agent's shoulder, the
high-priest was explaining the affair, with much elaboration, to all who
would listen to him, and above the rest towered the face of Gustave
Robine, still smiling blandly. The only unconcerned figure in sight was
that of a courteous demon in scarlet tights, who was staring up at the
sky from the doorway of L'Enfer. For Beck had slipped a gold piece into
his hand,--as the Major and his party hurried inside, dragging the
protesting Appleby by the arm,--and he knew how to keep his counsel.
After all, the sanctity of hospitality must be respected, even in Hell.
"But no, I tell you, but no!" exclaimed the gentleman of the huit
reflets, who was none other than the manager of Heaven.
"It is equal to me! It is equal to me!" stormed the agent. "I saw it, do
you hear? He was struck, and the law does not allow--They went in
there"--
He made a motion, as if to thrust the other aside and plunge toward the
entrance of L'Enfer. But the manager of Heaven was not to be thus
outdone. He was determined that the incident should be considered
closed; and for this there were reasons. It was but the beginning of the
tourist season, and the foreign clientèle must not be antagonized. A
paragraph in the "Matin," a sensational article in the "Herald" of
to-morrow, and the Angliches would believe that the Cabaret du Ciel was
no safe place for foreigners to enter. In agonized imagination he saw
the gate receipts of Heaven dwindling, disappearing. It were better, far
better, to sacrifice Maxime. He grasped the agent by the arm, and
pointed to the fallen angel, who was still seated in the gutter,
collecting his scattered wits, with a vacant stare.
"Look you," he said, persuasively, "this tripe, this species of onion,
this example of an eel, is the cause of all. It is I who know, n'est ce
pas? being his patron. Eh b'en, I assure you that it is a drunkard of
the most abandoned. Thirteen times in the dozen, one finds him in the
fog, rigid as the Obelisk, bon Dieu! not merely lit, voyons, but
flaming,--as full as Robespierre's donkey,--asphyxiated! It is not a
man, sac à papier! It is a sponge--but a sponge, do you understand?--a
pompier! He dries glasses--_poof!_--like that! Il lave sa gueule
là-dedans, nothing less!"
"Bravo!" said Gustave Robine, and all the angels applauded. The agent
paused, doubtful of what course to pursue, overwhelmed by this burst of
eloquence, and Top-Hat, perceiving the impression he had made, addressed
himself to Maxime.
"Waffle!" he cried, contemptuously. "Cream of a tart! Thou wast there,
then, the day of the distribution, O stupid as thy feet! And who art
thou, let us hear, to find thyself in a position to apply kicks to the
clients? If thou wert employed at La Villette, where they slaughter
pigs, sacred stove, thy first blow would be suicide!"
He rose, in a majestic sweep, to the pinnacle of supreme courtesy.
"Monsieur le marquis has, perhaps, hurt himself, stumbling by accident?
Is it permitted to the obedient servitor of monsieur le marquis to
inquire if monsieur le marquis has sustained any damage by reason of his
deplorable mischance?"
He descended, in a graceful curve, to the depths of utter scorn.
"Animal low of ceiling! Camel! Gourd! Ancient senator! Gas-jet! Shut thy
mouth, or I jump within!"
And he paused,--breathless, but triumphant.
It was magnificent! In the annals of Heaven there was record of no such
climax of vituperation. The angels surveyed their patron with
undisguised admiration. Even the agent touched the visor of his cap.
"Monsieur," he said, "I yield the field to you. Your vocabulary is
unrivaled--unless by General Cambronne!"
"Monsieur, you flatter me," replied the other, with a bow.
Some one had helped l'L Majuscule to his feet, and he stood there, a
preposterous figure, in soiled pink tights, holding out his wings, with
his huge feet turned in like a pigeon's.
"Monsieur le directeur"--he began.
"He speaks!" cried Huit Reflets, whirling around and addressing the
throng. "He _dares_ to speak, this bad sou, this oyster! He does not
comprehend that he is discharged. He counts that I am about to resign in
his favor! Ah, non, it is too much!"
He flung himself about again, facing Maxime.
"Well, then," he added with forced calm, "thou art put at the door, is
it clear? Take thy rags from yonder, and begone!"
"Mais, monsieur"--
"Oh!" cried the director, flinging his arms upward; and immediately
vanished within the silver gates of Heaven, followed by his personnel,
with the fallen angel bringing up the rear.
Half an hour later, having exchanged his celestial raiment for his
former earthly garb, Monsieur Perrot sat in solitary state at a table
in the café Cyrano, and pondered the details of a project of revenge.
The idea had come to him suddenly, like an inspiration, on seeing the
nonchalant demon at the portals of L'Enfer, but it required arranging,
elaboration. A man who made one blunder was but human, but a man who
made two in succession--that was a mere root of celery! So l'L Majuscule
thought hard. And when the will is so earnest, it is strange if the way
be not forthcoming. At midnight he arose with a sigh of satisfaction,
and took his way homeward, smiling.
It was barely eight o'clock, the following evening, when Maxime entered
L'Enfer. He was tastefully dressed in an excessively checked suit and a
silk hat, and he wore a full black beard and spectacles, and rolled his
r's in speaking, in the fashion of the South. The demon at the door,
unsuspecting, greeted him effusively as "cher damné," and piloted him to
a table at the further end of the cabaret. The table had a ground-glass
top, through which shone electric lights which kept changing
mysteriously from green to red and back again, and the whole interior of
L'Enfer was of imitation rock, diversified by grinning faces. It was
very artistic, and, what was better, very dark. Maxime was
unnecessarily mistrustful of his false beard.
At this early hour, he was the only visitor. An obliging demon supplied
him with a green chartreuse, and, upon invitation, procured another for
himself, and took the opposite seat.
The conversation, which began with commonplaces, soon assumed a more
intimate tone. Monsieur, it appeared, was from Toulouse, but this was
not his first visit to L'Enfer. In fact, a place so amusing--what? He
never missed it when he came to Paris.
Oh, but monsieur was too good!
No, on the contrary, it was for his own pleasure. It suited him to a
marvel, blague à part! And often, he had had a curious fancy--to be a
demon himself, imagine! To serve in the cabaret for just one evening, by
way of variety--for, as for himself, he gave less for a life without
variety than did a fish for an apple. That was the reason he had
sometimes thought of applying to the management for permission to--but
then, of course, the idea was fantastic, and, without doubt, quite
impossible.
Oh, quite impossible, monsieur!
But, after all, why not? Not the management, naturally. That was out of
the question, it went without saying. But an obliging demon, perhaps--a
bon type, who understood these eccentricities, as a man of the
world--one who would consent to a brief illness--for one night only--and
who would provide a substitute, _in the person of monsieur_!
Fantastic--what?--rigolo, mon Dieu!--very rigolo, and, of course, quite
impossible.
In some mysterious fashion a louis suddenly made its appearance on the
illuminated table.
Oh, quite impossible, monsieur! Evidently, affairs did not arrange
themselves like that. Monsieur must understand that the pourboires which
one gained in Hell were enormous--but _enormous_! It would be to throw
away a fortune, to give up one's place for an entire evening. For forty
francs, perhaps--but then it was certain that monsieur would not care--
There was a tiny click upon the table-top, and the one louis had become
two. A most surprising place, L'Enfer!
Ah! But in addition, there were details to be arranged, and one could
not talk with frankness in the cabaret.
The doors at the further end swung open, and the demon of the gate made
his appearance, ushering in a group of tourists. Maxime substituted two
francs for the two louis, and rose.
"That for the liqueurs, my friend," he said, "and what you say is true.
The café Cyrano is a better place for talking. At midnight."
Fifty-seven francs. The project had cost him fifty-seven francs, said
the fallen angel to himself, as, twenty-four hours later, he dusted an
illuminated table. What with his beard, and his spectacles, and two
chartreuses in L'Enfer, and six demis at the café Cyrano--for the
conference had been long--and, finally, the bribe to the obliging demon,
revenge had cost him fifty-seven francs and it was not yet complete! But
the prospects therefor were fair. He chuckled silently, with his eyes on
the parti-wall which divided Hell from Heaven. It was eleven o'clock.