little one! The end is so sure! Is there one who knows him better than
I? Ah, non! It is always the same story,--a pair of bright eyes, a good
figure, and v'là! But, without fail, he comes back to me, ce sacré
coureur!"
She glanced up and down the street with an air of complete unconcern,
and then her eyes came back to Papa Labesse with a vindictive snap.
"Happily," she added, "he will have taught her a way of earning white
pieces in abundance. She is not the first, thy Marcelle. They are
sprinkled from here to La Villette, the gonzesses who know the name of
Bombiste Fremier. Wouldst thou prove it? Walk, then, from the place
Pigalle to the place de la Rotonde to-night at twelve!" And La Trompette
laughed.
Papa Labesse rose suddenly to his full height.
"God damn you!" he said. And this was no oath, but rather a prayer.
Toward the end of July Papa Labesse resumed his pilgrimages to the
summit of the Butte. He had aged visibly in six weeks, and he walked no
longer with the brisk and cheerful step which had bespoken his
youthfulness of spirit, but shuffled his feet, and often stumbled over
trifling obstacles. He looked neither to the right nor to the left, and
if he heard the greetings of those along his way, for whom formerly he
had always had a hearty word, he made no reply. It is doubtful whether,
had he been suddenly asked, he could have told his exact whereabouts: it
was rather instinct than absolute intention which sent him shuffling up
to his old coign of vantage. His eyes took no note of his immediate
surroundings, but looked far beyond, with an expression that was half
question, half entreaty. It was only when he had come to the edge of the
bluff that he seemed to awaken into something resembling the man he had
been. Then, his lean, gnarled hands gripped the wattles with a kind of
convulsive eagerness, and, for a little, the old blue spark gleamed
under his lids, and his eyes swept the great city feverishly, as if they
would pluck out her secret from her by mere force of will. He no longer
dwelt upon the churches and the public buildings, but traced with his
glance the line of the great boulevards, des Batignolles, de Clichy, and
de Rochechouart, and their tributary streets; and often he remained at
his post until nearly midnight, motionless, silent, watching, watching,
watching, with his eyes fixed upon the distant red glare from the giant
revolving wings of the brilliantly lighted Moulin Rouge.
What he saw, what he heard, during those long hours of vigil no one ever
knew: what he thought he barely knew himself. The entire intensity of
his failing strength was concentrated upon one endeavor. Hour after hour
he sent a voice without sound out, over, and down into the labyrinth of
streets beneath him, into the dance-halls, the wine-shops, the
café-concerts, wooing, pleading, beseeching. It was as if, minute by
minute, he wove a great net of tenderest entreaty and persuasion,
fitting it cunningly into each nook and cranny of the city below, and
then, at the end, with one mighty effort of his will, drew the whole
fabric up and into his heart, hoping against hope that, mysteriously,
some one pleading thought of his might have caught her and swept her
back to his arms. It was a struggle, silent but to the death, between
Papa Labesse and the great siren city, for the possession of a soul.
And, as if, indeed, that eager voice without words of his entreaty had,
somehow, been able to reach and win her, Marcelle came back. It was at
the hour just following sunset, the hour they had loved to pass
together, and superbly still and clear. To the west, over the wide,
green sweep of the Bois de Boulogne, a great multitude of little puffs
of cloud lay piled up against a turquoise sky, and these were constantly
changing from tint to opalescent tint, as shafts of crimson and saffron
sunlight moved among them from below the horizon. Above, where the
turquoise dulled to steel, the stars were already nicking the sky, one
by one; and, one by one, the lights of the boulevard, red, white, and
yellow, flashed into being in reply.
As it was the dinner hour, the summit of the Butte was deserted save for
the figure of Papa Labesse, silhouetted against the sky, as Marcelle
emerged from the rue St. Rustique, came slowly across the open space
before the church, and stood at his side. She was very pale, with the
transparent, leaden pallor which comes only at the end, and her face
seemed little more than two great, stunned eyes. Her clothes, in the
last stage of what had been tawdry finery, were unspeakably more
slovenly than mere rags. It was but eight weeks since they had stood on
the same spot together, but this so brief period had wrought in each the
havoc of a decade.
For a time neither spoke. Papa Labesse had looked up briefly as she
reached his side, and then, as she swayed and seemed about to fall, had
put an arm about her and drawn her close to him. So they stood
watching, while Paris winked and sparkled into the starry splendor of
her summer night. Finally,--
"I knew thou wouldst come, my pigeon," said Papa Labesse. "For a time I
was desolate, is it not so?--and sat alone in the shop below there, and
thought of nothing. But then I remembered how that thou didst love this
place, and so I have come each night to wait for thee, because I knew
thou wouldst return. And now thou art here. It is well, my little white
pigeon, it is very well."
A keener ear than his would have caught the unmistakable warning that
underlay her voice when she replied. It lacked not only hope, but life
itself. It was the voice of one long dead.
"I did not think to find thee here, Papa Labesse--it has been so long
since then. I came to see it all once again--to hear the voice of the
great city that sings of love. And then, when at last comes the night, I
would throw myself down from here, even into the very heart of her, for
I am hers, and she has made me like herself."
She seemed to feel the unvoiced question which quivered on the lips of
Papa Labesse, and continued, presently,--
"He never married me. Not that I cared for that. I loved him, thou
seest, and when one loves one thinks not of little things. No, I was
happy so. But now--last week he left me. He has gone back to La
Trompette. He gave me a hundred sous. I think he was sorry to go."
A faint smile touched the corners of her lips.
"Pauvre Bombiste!" she added. "It is one who does not know his own
heart!"
And this again is unknowable mystery,--the gentle word of _the_ woman
for the man!
"He is mowing on the fortifs this week," went on Marcelle, wistfully
echoing her lover's slang, "and La Trompette is with him. I saw them but
to-day, from the porte de Clichy. So, since they are together, for me it
is finished. I have come back to the Butte, Papa Labesse--come back to
die. For now there is none to receive me, save Paris. She will take me,
thou knowest, she who has made me like herself."
That was all. There was no word, now at the end, of Bombiste Fremier,
except that he did not know his own heart,--no word of the days without
food, the long nights of following him from wineshop to wineshop,
perhaps to be refused at last the wretched shelter of his little room;
no word of curses, blows, and insults worse than either.
When she was silent again Papa Labesse drew her gently away from the
brink of the bluff.
"My pigeon," he said, "there is one to receive thee. Thou wilt come to
the little shop--pas?--and rest there upon my bed. For I have no need of
sleep, I. And in the morning thou wilt be strong again, and well. Come,
my pigeon!"
And silently, hand in hand, they retraced the familiar way, down the
long, curving incline of the rue Lepic, and the door of the little
joiner's shop closed behind them.
Marcelle died at daybreak, going out softly like a lamp that dims and
dims, and then flares once into brilliance before all is dark. Papa
Labesse was on his knees beside the narrow bed, when she woke from the
stupor into which she had fallen, and raised herself upright, her face
shining with a great light. The old man, himself unconscious that the
end had come, lifted his eyes eagerly to hers.
"My little white pigeon," he said tremulously, "thou findest thyself
better, is it not so?"
But the knowledge of him had passed utterly from Marcelle. For a moment
she was silent, looking at the wall of the tiny room, as she had looked
in the old days at the great city, spread like a map at the foot of the
Butte Montmartre. Then she sank back upon the pillow and crossed her
hands upon her breast.
"Paris!" she said. "Paris, toi qui chantes de l'amour!"
And then, very faintly, "Bombi!"
It was her pet name for Fremier, but Papa Labesse did not understand.
Half an hour later, he came out into the growing light of the dawn, and
looked vacantly up and down the short stretch of the rue Veron as if
uncertain what direction he desired to take. It was not yet five
o'clock, but already the quartier was astir. As Papa Labesse hesitated
in the doorway, a band of laborers passed the corner, laughing, on their
way to their work in the Rochechouart section of the Métropolitain. The
little assistant was taking down the shutters of the laundry across the
way, and on every side was the sound of opening doors and windows, and
voices suddenly raised in greeting or comment upon the weather. Madame
Rollin lumbered by, carrying a bundle of clothes on her way to the
public lavoir.
"Hé! bonjour, Papa Labesse!" she cried in passing. "A fine
morning--what?"
Papa Labesse turned suddenly, clamped the padlock on his door, and was
presently shuffling along the avenue de Clichy. As he went, the city
awoke around him to full activity, but he noted his surroundings even
less than he had been wont to do of late, on his climbs to the Butte.
The return of Marcelle had quickened him, but for a moment only. Now he
was again, as it were, a mere automaton, going forward without volition,
or purpose, or perception, on, on, on, whither and why he knew not.
After a time he was conscious of a great weariness. The noisy clamor of
the crowds on the avenue, marketing and bargaining in the new sunlight,
seemed unaccountably to have given place to quiet; and looking about
him, Papa Labesse learned from a little signboard that he was passing
through the porte de Clichy. The octroi officials looked curiously at
the shuffling, stooping figure as he went by, and one of them laughed.
"As full as an egg, the grandfather!" he said.
Turning to the left, Papa Labesse toiled up upon the slope of the
fortifications, stumbled on for a little, and, finally, as his
exhaustion gained upon him, flung himself, face down, upon the grass. He
had passed the need of sleep long since, but he lay quite motionless for
a long time, with his chin on his hands. Directly before him, seen more
clearly from the elevation upon which he lay, was the dingy suburb of
Clichy, and, to the left, its still dingier neighbor, Levallois-Perret,
studded, both of them, with gaunt sheds of blackened wood, and ghastly
factories and storehouses of cheap brick, their endless windows, in
close-set rows, giving them the appearance of rusted waffle-irons, and
their tall chimneys slabbering slow coils of smoke. In the immediate
foreground, a man with a scythe was lazily cutting the long grass on the
outward slope of the fortifications.
Presently Papa Labesse began to talk to himself. His eyes were very
bright, and as he spoke they jumped nimbly from shed to shed, from
factory to factory, of the dispiriting scene before him.
"But what are those?" he began, scowling at two high chimneys standing
side by side. "Tiens! Sainte Clotilde! But the evening is clear then,
par exemple, that one sees so far and so well. It is all so
wonderful--but I have never understood it till now. Ah! Saint
Etienne-du-Mont! That I know, since the dome of the Panthéon is quite
near. Sapristi! What is that? L'amour, Papa Labesse, l'amour,--that
which, finally, thou canst never understand, poor Papa Labesse! Tiens!
Notre Dame! Ah, ça! A woman like herself, what?--like Paris that sings
of love! My pigeon!"
So, for an hour, the thin stream of jumbled phrases slipped from his dry
lips. He talked softly,--no one could have heard him at two paces,--but
the babble never ceased.
At seven o'clock a woman carrying a basket appeared upon the
fortifications from the direction of the gate, and, pausing at the top
of the slope, looked down upon the mower.
"Hé! Allô--labago! Bom-biste!" she cried. The man turned. There was no
such thing as not being able to hear La Trompette.
And suddenly Papa Labesse held his peace.
Bombiste came up the slope with a long leisurely stride, flung his
scythe upon the grass, and placing his arm around La Trompette's neck,
kissed her loudly on both cheeks.
"Name of God!" he said. "But I have thirst!"
They seated themselves side by side and close together, with their backs
to Papa Labesse, some fifty metres distant, and La Trompette opened her
basket. Presently Bombiste lowered his left elbow and raised his right
in the act of drawing a cork, and then raised his left again and took a
long draught from the bottle. At the same moment Papa Labesse swung
round a quarter circle to the right, as if upon a pivot, and began to
crawl very slowly forward.
"Chouette!" said Bombiste to La Trompette, biting a great mouthful from
a slice of rye bread and cheese, "c'est du suisse!"
"Thou deservest water and a raw turnip!" replied the woman, assuming a
tone of angry reproach. "If it were not I, thou knowest, long since
thou wouldst have been put ashore, heart of an artichoke--va!"
"I am like that," observed Bombiste, with regret. "But what wouldst
thou, name of God! They come, they go: but at the end it is always
thou."
The woman made no reply, and Papa Labesse, two metres away, laid his
gnarled brown fingers on the handle of Bombiste's discarded scythe.
Bombiste capped his philosophy with a second long draught of wine, and
then, taking a stupendous bite of bread and cheese, glanced slyly at his
companion out of the corners of his eyes. She was gazing straight before
her, her teeth nicking the edge of her lower lip.
"What hast thou?" mumbled the man, with his mouth full.
"She was very pretty," answered La Trompette, "and she loved thee, that
garce. But thou art going to tell me that it is finished forever!--That
never, never," she went on, clenching her hands, "wilt thou see her
again! Else I plant thee, and thou canst earn thine own white
pieces,--mackerel!"
Bombiste leaned over and placed his face beside hers.
"Is it not enough?" he said in his softest voice. "Voyons bien! What is
she to me, this Marcelle? Fichtre! I planted her last week, thou
knowest. B'en, quoi? Thou knowest the blue gown? It is that which sweeps
the Boul' Roch' at present! But that is not for long. Perhaps the
Morgue--more likely St. Lazare. Art thou not content?" And he pressed
his cheek to the woman's and moved his head up and down slowly,
caressing her.
Papa Labesse rose slowly to his feet, and stretched his lean arms to
their full length. The sun winked for the fraction of a second on the
downward swirling scythe, and then all was still, save for the dull
thud, thudding of two round objects rolling down the uneven slope of
sod. In a moment even this sound ceased.
Papa Labesse revolved slowly upon his heels, pausing as his blue eyes,
wide and vacant, fell upon the distant walls of Sacré-Coeur, swimming,
cream-white and high in air, between him and the sun. Then he pitched
softly forward upon the grass.
[Illustration]
In the Absence of Monsieur
MONSIEUR ARMAND MICHEL--seated before his newly installed Titian--was in
the act of saying to himself that if its acquisition could not, with
entire accuracy, be viewed as an unqualified bargain, it had been, at
least, an indisputable stroke of diplomacy, when his complacent
meditation was interrupted by the entrance of Arsène. It was the first
time that Monsieur Michel had seen his new servant in his official
capacity, and he was not ill-pleased. Arsène was in flawless evening
dress, in marked contrast to the objectionably flamboyant costume in
which, on the preceding evening, he had made application for the
position of valet-maître d'hôtel, left vacant by the fall from grace of
Monsieur Michel's former factotum. That costume had come near to being
his undoing. The fastidious Armand had regarded with an offended eye the
brilliant green cravat, the unspeakable checked suit, and the painfully
pointed chrome-yellow shoes in which the applicant for his approval was
arrayed, and more than once, in the course of conversation, was on the
point of putting a peremptory end to the negotiations by a crushing
comment on would-be servants who dressed like café chantant comedians.
But the reference had outweighed the costume. Monsieur Michel did not
remember ever to have read more unqualified commendation. Arsène Sigard
had been for two years in the service of the Comte de Chambour, whose
square pink marble hôtel on the avenue de Malakoff is accounted, in this
degenerate age, one of the sights of Paris; and this of itself, was more
than a little. The Comte did not keep his eyes in his pockets, by any
manner of means, when it came to the affairs of his household, and
apparently there was nothing too good for him to say about Arsène. Here,
on pale blue note-paper, and surmounted by the de Chambour crest, it was
set forth that the bearer was sober, honest, clean, willing, capable,
quiet, intelligent, and respectful. _And_ discreet. When the Comte de
Chambour gave his testimony on this last point it meant that you were
getting the opinion of an expert. Monsieur Michel refolded the
reference, tapped it three times upon the palm of his left hand, and
engaged the bearer without further ado.
Now, as Arsène went quietly about the salon, drawing the curtains and
clearing away the card table, which remained as mute witness to Monsieur
Michel's ruling passion, he was the beau idéal of a gentleman's
manservant,--unobtrusive in manner and movement, clean-shaven and
clear-eyed, adapting himself without need of instruction to the details
of his new surroundings. A less complacent person than Armand might have
been aware that, while he was taking stock of Arsène, Arsène was taking
stock, with equal particularity, of him. And there was an unpleasant
slyness in his black eyes, a something akin to alertness in his thin
nostrils, which moved like those of a rabbit, and seemed to accomplish
more than their normal share of conveying to their owner's intelligence
an impression of exterior things. Also, had Monsieur Michel but observed
it, his new servant walked just a trifle _too_ softly, and his hands
were just a trifle _too_ white and slender. Moreover, he had a habit of
smiling to himself when his back was turned, which is an undesirable
thing in anybody, and approaches the ominous in a valet-maître d'hôtel.
But Monsieur Michel was far too much of an aristocrat to have any doubt
of his power to overawe and impress his inferiors, or to see in the
newcomer's excessive inconspicuity anything more than a commendable
recognition of monsieur's commanding presence. So, when Arsène completed
his work and had shut the door noiselessly behind him, his master rubbed
his hands and said "Ter-rès bien!" in a low voice, this being his
superlative expression of satisfaction. Had his glance been able to
penetrate his salon door, it would have met, in the antichambre, with
the astounding spectacle of his new servant in the act of tossing
monsieur's silk hat into the air, and catching it, with extreme
dexterity, on the bridge of his nose. Unfortunately, the other side of
the door is something which, like the future and the bank-accounts of
our debtors, it is not given us to see. So Monsieur Michel repeated his
"Ter-rès bien!" and fell again to contemplating his Titian.
Yes, undoubtedly, it had been a great stroke of diplomacy. The young
Marchese degli Abbraccioli was not conspicuous for his command of ready
money, but his father had left him the finest private collection of
paintings in Rome, and this, in consequence of chronic financial stress,
was gradually passing from the walls of his palazzo in the via Cavour
into the possession of an appreciative but none too extravagant
government. It had been an inspiration, this proposal of Monsieur
Michel's to settle his claim upon the Marchese for his overwhelming
losses at baccarat by taking over one of the two Titians which flanked
the chimney-piece in his study. The young Italian had assented eagerly,
and had supplemented his acquiescence with a proposal to dispose of the
pendant for somewhat more material remuneration than canceled
reconnaissances. But Armand Michel had undertaken it before, this
delicate task of getting objets d'art over the Italian frontier--yes,
and been caught in the act, too, and forced to disgorge. For the moment,
it was enough to charge himself with one picture, on the given
conditions, without risking hard cash in the experiment. Later--well,
later, one would see. And so, _a rivederla, mio caro marchese_.
Monsieur Michel fairly hugged himself as he thought of his success. Mon
Dieu, quelle génie, that false bottom to his trunk! He had come safely
through them all, the imbecile inspectors, and now his treasure hung
fairly and finally upon his wall, smiling at him out of its tapestry
surroundings. It was épatant, truly, and moreover, all there was of the
most calé. Only one small cloud of regret hung upon the broad blue
firmament of his satisfaction--the other picture! It had been so easy.
He might as well have had two as one. And now, without doubt, the
imbecile Marchese would sell the pendant to the imbecile government, and
that would be the end of it so far as private purchase was concerned.
Monsieur Michel rose from his chair with a gesture of impatience, and,
drawing the curtain back from the window, looked out lugubriously upon
the March cheerlessness of the place Vendôme. Little by little, a most
seductive plan formed itself in his mind. After all, why not? A couple
of weeks at Monte Carlo, a week at Sorrento, and a fortnight at Rome, in
which to win the Titian from the Marchese degli Abbraccioli, by baccarat
if possible, or by banknotes should fortune prove unkind. It was the
simplest thing in the world, and he would avoid the remainder of the wet
weather and be back for the opening of Longchamp. And Monsieur Michel
rubbed his hands and said "Ter-rès bien!" again, with much emphasis.
When, a week later, Arsène was informed of Monsieur's intention to leave
him in sole charge of his apartment for a time, he received the
intelligence with the dignified composure of one who feels himself
worthy of the confidence reposed in him. The cook was to have the
vacation for which she had been clamoring, that she might display to her
relatives in Lille the elaborate wardrobe which was the result of her
savings during three years in Monsieur Michel's employ. Perfectly. And
the apartment was to be aired and dusted daily, as if monsieur himself
were there. And visitors to be told that monsieur was returning in a
month. And letters to be made to follow monsieur, to Monte Carlo at
first, and then to Rome. But perfectly; it was completely understood.
Arsène bowed a number of times in succession, and outwardly was as calm
as a tall, candid-faced clock, being wound up to run for a specified
time independent of supervision. But beneath that smooth and carefully
oiled expanse of jet-black hair a whole colony of the most fantastic
ideas suddenly aroused themselves and began to elbow each other about in
a veritable tumult.