Of all the spots on this fair, broad earth where the jaded globe
wanderer, surfeited with hackneyed sight-seeing, may sit in
perfect peace and watch the world go by, there is none more
fascinating nor one presenting a more brilliant panorama of
cosmopolitan life than that famous corner on the Paris boulevards,
formed by the angle of the Boulevard des Capucines and the Place
de l'Opéra. Here, on the "terrace" of the Café de la Paix, with
its white and gold façade and long French windows, and its
innumerable little marble-topped tables and rattan chairs, one may
sit for hours at the trifling expense of a few _sous_, undisturbed
even by the tip-seeking _garçon_, and, if one happens to be a
student of human nature, find keen enjoyment in observing the
world-types, representing every race and nationality under the
sun, that pass and re-pass in a steady, never ceasing, exhaustless
stream. The crowd surges to and fro, past the little tables,
occasionally toppling over a chair or two in the crush, moving up
or down the great boulevards, one procession going to the right,
in the direction of the Church of the Madeleine, the other to the
left heading toward the historic Bastille, both really going
nowhere in particular, but ambling gently and good humouredly
along enjoying the sights--and life!
Paris, queen of cities! Light-hearted, joyous, radiant Paris--the
playground of the nations, the Mecca of the pleasure-seekers, the
city beautiful! Paris--the siren, frankly immoral, always
seductive, ever caressing! City of a thousand political
convulsions, city of a million crimes--her streets have run with
human blood, horrors unspeakable have stained her history, civil
strife has scarred her monuments, the German conqueror insolently
has bivouaced within her walls. Yet, like a virgin undefiled, she
shows no sign of storm and stress, she offers her dimpled cheek to
the rising sun, and when fall the shadows of night and a billion
electric bulbs flash in the siren's crown, her resplendent,
matchless beauty dazzles the world!
As the supreme reward of virtue, the good American is promised a
visit to Paris when he dies. Those, however, of our sagacious
fellow countrymen who can afford to make the trip, usually manage
to see Lutetia before crossing the river Styx. Most Americans like
Paris--some like it so well that they have made it their permanent
home--although it must be added that in their admiration they
rarely include the Frenchman. For that matter, we are not as a
nation particularly fond of any foreigner, largely because we do
not understand him, while the foreigner for his part is quite
willing to return the compliment. He gives the Yankee credit for
commercial smartness, which has built up America's great material
prosperity; but he has the utmost contempt for our acquaintance
with art, and no profound respect for us as scientists.
Is it not indeed fortunate that every nation finds itself superior
to its neighbour? If this were not so each would be jealous of the
other, and would cry with envy like a spoiled child who cannot
have the moon to play with. Happily, therefore, for the harmony of
the world, each nation cordially detests the other and the much
exploited "brotherhood of man" is only a figure of speech. The
Englishman, confident that he is the last word of creation,
despises the Frenchman, who, in turn, laughs at the German, who
shows open contempt for the Italian, while the American, conscious
of his superiority to the whole family of nations, secretly pities
them all.
The most serious fault which the American--whose one god is Mammon
and chief characteristic hustle--has to find with his French
brother is that he enjoys life too much, is never in a hurry and,
what to the Yankee mind is hardly respectable, has a habit of
playing dominoes during business hours. The Frenchman retorts that
his American brother, clever person though he be, has one or two
things still to learn. He has, he declares, no philosophy of life.
It is true that he has learned the trick of making money, but in
the things which go to satisfy the soul he is still strangely
lacking. He thinks he is enjoying life, when really he is ignorant
of what life is. He admits it is not the American's fault, for he
has never been taught how to enjoy life. One must be educated to
that as everything else. All the American is taught is to be in a
perpetual hurry and to make money no matter how. In this mad daily
race for wealth, he bolts his food, not stopping to masticate it
properly, and consequently suffers all his life from dyspepsia. So
he rushes from the cradle to the grave, and what's the good, since
he must one day die like all the rest?
And what, asks the foreigner, has the American hustler
accomplished that his slower-going Continental brother has not
done as well? Are finer cities to be found in America than in
Europe, do Americans paint more beautiful pictures, or write more
learned or more entertaining books, has America made greater
progress in science? Is it not a fact that the greatest inventors
and scientists of our time--Marconi, who gave to the world
wireless telegraphy, Professor Curie, who discovered radium,
Pasteur, who found a cure for rabies, Santos-Dumont, who has
almost succeeded in navigating the air, Professor Röntgen who
discovered the X-ray--are not all these immortals Europeans? And
those two greatest mechanical inventions of our day, the
automobile and the submarine boat, were they not first introduced
and perfected in France before we in America woke up to appreciate
their use? Is it, therefore, not possible to take life easily and
still achieve?
The logic of these arguments, set forth in _Le Soir_ in an article
on the New World, appealed strongly to Jefferson Ryder as he sat
in front of the Café de la Paix, sipping a sugared Vermouth. It
was five o'clock, the magic hour of the _apéritif_, when the
glutton taxes his wits to deceive his stomach and work up an
appetite for renewed gorging. The little tables were all occupied
with the usual before-dinner crowd. There were a good many
foreigners, mostly English and Americans and a few Frenchmen,
obviously from the provinces, with only a sprinkling of real
Parisians.
Jefferson's acquaintance with the French language was none too
profound, and he had to guess at half the words in the article,
but he understood enough to follow the writer's arguments. Yes, it
was quite true, he thought, the American idea of life was all
wrong. What was the sense of slaving all one's life, piling up a
mass of money one cannot possibly spend, when there is only one
life to live? How much saner the man who is content with enough
and enjoys life while he is able to. These Frenchmen, and indeed
all the Continental nations, had solved the problem. The gaiety of
their cities, and this exuberant joy of life they communicated to
all about them, were sufficient proofs of it.
Fascinated by the gay scene around him Jefferson laid the newspaper
aside. To the young American, fresh from prosaic money-mad New
York, the City of Pleasure presented indeed a novel and beautiful
spectacle. How different, he mused, from his own city with its one
fashionable thoroughfare--Fifth Avenue--monotonously lined for miles
with hideous brownstone residences, and showing little real animation
except during the Saturday afternoon parade when the activities of
the smart set, male and female, centred chiefly in such exciting
diversions as going to Huyler's for soda, taking tea at the Waldorf,
and trying to outdo each other in dress and show. New York
certainly was a dull place with all its boasted cosmopolitanism.
There was no denying that. Destitute of any natural beauty,
handicapped by its cramped geographical position between two rivers,
made unsightly by gigantic sky-scrapers and that noisy monstrosity
the Elevated Railroad, having no intellectual interests, no art
interests, no interest in anything not immediately connected with
dollars, it was a city to dwell in and make money in, but hardly a
city to _live_ in. The millionaires were building white-marble
palaces, taxing the ingenuity and the originality of the native
architects, and thus to some extent relieving the general ugliness
and drab commonplaceness, while the merchant princes had begun to
invade the lower end of the avenue with handsome shops. But in
spite of all this, in spite of its pretty girls--and Jefferson
insisted that in this one important particular New York had no
peer--in spite of its comfortable theatres and its wicked
Tenderloin, and its Rialto made so brilliant at night by thousands
of elaborate electric signs, New York still had the subdued air of
a provincial town, compared with the exuberant gaiety, the
multiple attractions, the beauties, natural and artificial, of
cosmopolitan Paris.
The boulevards were crowded, as usual at that hour, and the
crush of both vehicles and pedestrians was so great as to
permit of only a snail-like progress. The clumsy three-horse
omnibuses--Madeleine-Bastille--crowded inside and out with
passengers and with their neatly uniformed drivers and conductors,
so different in appearance and manner from our own slovenly
street-car rowdies, were endeavouring to breast a perfect sea of
_fiacres_ which, like a swarm of mosquitoes, appeared to be trying
to go in every direction at once, their drivers vociferating
torrents of vituperous abuse on every man, woman or beast
unfortunate enough to get in their way. As a dispenser of
unspeakable profanity, the Paris _cocher_ has no equal. He is
unique, no one can approach him. He also enjoys the reputation of
being the worst driver in the world. If there is any possible way
in which he can run down a pedestrian or crash into another
vehicle he will do it, probably for the only reason that it gives
him another opportunity to display his choice stock of picturesque
expletives.
But it was a lively, good-natured crowd and the fashionably gowned
women and the well-dressed men, the fakirs hoarsely crying their
catch-penny devices, the noble boulevards lined as far as the eye
could reach with trees in full foliage, the magnificent Opera
House with its gilded dome glistening in the warm sunshine of a
June afternoon, the broad avenue directly opposite, leading in a
splendid straight line to the famous Palais Royal, the almost
dazzling whiteness of the houses and monuments, the remarkable
cleanliness and excellent condition of the sidewalks and streets,
the gaiety and richness of the shops and restaurants, the
picturesque kiosks where they sold newspapers and flowers--all
this made up a picture so utterly unlike anything he was familiar
with at home that Jefferson sat spellbound, delighted.
Yes, it was true, he thought, the foreigner had indeed learned the
secret of enjoying life. There was assuredly something else in the
world beyond mere money-getting. His father was a slave to it, but
he would never be. He was resolved on that. Yet, with all his
ideas of emancipation and progress, Jefferson was a thoroughly
practical young man. He fully understood the value of money, and
the possession of it was as sweet to him as to other men. Only he
would never soil his soul in acquiring it dishonourably. He was
convinced that society as at present organized was all wrong and
that the feudalism of the middle ages had simply given place to a
worse form of slavery--capitalistic driven labour--which had
resulted in the actual iniquitous conditions, the enriching of the
rich and the impoverishment of the poor. He was familiar with the
socialistic doctrines of the day and had taken a keen interest in
this momentous question, this dream of a regenerated mankind. He
had read Karl Marx and other socialistic writers, and while his
essentially practical mind could hardly approve all their
programme for reorganizing the State, some of which seemed to him
utopian, extravagant and even undesirable, he realised that the
socialistic movement was growing rapidly all over the world and
the day was not far distant when in America, as to-day in Germany
and France, it would be a formidable factor to reckon with.
But until the socialistic millennium arrived and society was
reorganized, money, he admitted, would remain the lever of the
world, the great stimulus to effort. Money supplied not only the
necessities of life but also its luxuries, everything the material
desire craved for, and so long as money had this magic purchasing
power, so long would men lie and cheat and rob and kill for its
possession. Was life worth living without money? Could one travel
and enjoy the glorious spectacles Nature affords--the rolling
ocean, the majestic mountains, the beautiful lakes, the noble
rivers--without money? Could the book-lover buy books, the
art-lover purchase pictures? Could one have fine houses to live
in, or all sorts of modern conveniences to add to one's comfort,
without money? The philosophers declared contentment to be
happiness, arguing that the hod-carrier was likely to be happier
in his hut than the millionaire in his palace; but was not that
mere animal contentment, the happiness which knows no higher
state, the ignorance of one whose eyes have never been raised to
the heights?
No, Jefferson was no fool. He loved money for what pleasure,
intellectual or physical, it could give him, but he would never
allow money to dominate his life as his father had done. His
father, he knew well, was not a happy man, neither happy himself
nor respected by the world. He had toiled all his life to make his
vast fortune and now he toiled to take care of it. The galley
slave led a life of luxurious ease compared with John Burkett
Ryder. Baited by the yellow newspapers and magazines, investigated
by State committees, dogged by process-servers, haunted by
beggars, harassed by blackmailers, threatened by kidnappers,
frustrated in his attempts to bestow charity by the cry "tainted
money"--certainly the lot of the world's richest man was far from
being an enviable one.
That is why Jefferson had resolved to strike out for himself. He
had warded off the golden yoke which his father proposed to put on
his shoulders, declining the lucrative position made for him in
the Empire Trading Company, and he had gone so far as to refuse
also the private income his father offered to settle on him. He
would earn his own living. A man who has his bread buttered for
him seldom accomplishes anything he had said, and while his father
had appeared to be angry at this open opposition to his will, he
was secretly pleased at his son's grit. Jefferson was thoroughly
in earnest. If needs be, he would forego the great fortune that
awaited him rather than be forced into questionable business
methods against which his whole manhood revolted.
Jefferson Ryder felt strongly about these matters, and gave them
more thought than would be expected of most young men with his
opportunities. In fact, he was unusually serious for his age. He
was not yet thirty, but he had done a great deal of reading, and
he took a keen interest in all the political and sociological
questions of the hour. In personal appearance, he was the type of
man that both men and women like--tall and athletic looking, with
smooth face and clean-cut features. He had the steel-blue eyes and
the fighting jaw of his father, and when he smiled he displayed
two even rows of very white teeth. He was popular with men, being
manly, frank and cordial in his relations with them, and women
admired him greatly, although they were somewhat intimidated by
his grave and serious manner. The truth was that he was rather
diffident with women, largely owing to lack of experience with
them.
He had never felt the slightest inclination for business. He had
the artistic temperament strongly developed, and his personal
tastes had little in common with Wall Street and its feverish
stock manipulating. When he was younger, he had dreamed of a
literary or art career. At one time he had even thought of going
on the stage. But it was to art that he turned finally. From an
early age he had shown considerable skill as a draughtsman, and
later a two years' course at the Academy of Design convinced him
that this was his true vocation. He had begun by illustrating for
the book publishers and for the magazines, meeting at first with
the usual rebuffs and disappointments, but, refusing to be
discouraged, he had kept on and soon the tide turned. His drawings
began to be accepted. They appeared first in one magazine, then in
another, until one day, to his great joy, he received an order
from an important firm of publishers for six wash-drawings to be
used in illustrating a famous novel. This was the beginning of his
real success. His illustrations were talked about almost as much
as the book, and from that time on everything was easy. He was in
great demand by the publishers, and very soon the young artist,
who had begun his career of independence on nothing a year so to
speak, found himself in a handsomely appointed studio in Bryant
Park, with more orders coming in than he could possibly fill, and
enjoying an income of little less than $5,000 a year. The money
was all the sweeter to Jefferson in that he felt he had himself
earned every cent of it. This summer he was giving himself a
well-deserved vacation, and he had come to Europe partly to see
Paris and the other art centres about which his fellow students at
the Academy raved, but principally--although this he did not
acknowledge even to himself--to meet in Paris a young woman in
whom he was more than ordinarily interested--Shirley Rossmore,
daughter of Judge Rossmore, of the United States Supreme Court,
who had come abroad to recuperate after the labours on her new
novel, "The American Octopus," a book which was then the talk of
two hemispheres.
Jefferson had read half a dozen reviews of it in as many American
papers that afternoon at the _New York Herald's_ reading room in
the Avenue de l'Opéra, and he chuckled with glee as he thought how
accurately this young woman had described his father. The book had
been published under the pseudonym "Shirley Green," and he alone
had been admitted into the secret of authorship. The critics all
conceded that it was the book of the year, and that it portrayed
with a pitiless pen the personality of the biggest figure in the
commercial life of America. "Although," wrote one reviewer, "the
leading character in the book is given another name, there can be
no doubt that the author intended to give to the world a vivid pen
portrait of John Burkett Ryder. She has succeeded in presenting a
remarkable character-study of the most remarkable man of his
time."
He was particularly pleased with the reviews, not only for Miss
Rossmore's sake, but also because his own vanity was gratified. Had
he not collaborated on the book to the extent of acquainting the
author with details of his father's life, and his characteristics,
which no outsider could possibly have learned? There had been no
disloyalty to his father in doing this. Jefferson admired his
father's smartness, if he could not approve his methods. He did
not consider the book an attack on his father, but rather a
powerfully written pen picture of an extraordinary man.
Jefferson had met Shirley Rossmore two years before at a meeting
of the Schiller Society, a pseudo-literary organization gotten up
by a lot of old fogies for no useful purpose, and at whose monthly
meetings the poet who gave the society its name was probably the
last person to be discussed. He had gone out of curiosity, anxious
to take in all the freak shows New York had to offer, and he had
been introduced to a tall girl with a pale, thoughtful face and
firm mouth. She was a writer, Miss Rossmore told him, and this was
her first visit also to the evening receptions of the Schiller
Society. Half apologetically she added that it was likely to be
her last, for, frankly, she was bored to death. But she explained
that she had to go to these affairs, as she found them useful in
gathering material for literary use. She studied types and
eccentric characters, and this seemed to her a capital hunting
ground. Jefferson, who, as a rule, was timid with girls and
avoided them, found this girl quite unlike the others he had
known. Her quiet, forceful demeanour appealed to him strongly, and
he lingered with her, chatting about his work, which had so many
interests in common with her own, until refreshments were served,
when the affair broke up. This first meeting had been followed by
a call at the Rossmore residence, and the acquaintance had kept up
until Jefferson, for the first time since he came to manhood, was
surprised and somewhat alarmed at finding himself strangely and
unduly interested in a person of the opposite sex.
The young artist's courteous manner, his serious outlook on life,
his high moral principles, so rarely met with nowadays in young
men of his age and class, could hardly fail to appeal to Shirley,
whose ideals of men had been somewhat rudely shattered by those
she had hitherto met. Above all, she demanded in a man the
refinement of the true gentleman, together with strength of
character and personal courage. That Jefferson Ryder came up to
this standard she was soon convinced. He was certainly a
gentleman: his views on a hundred topics of the hour expressed in
numerous conversations assured her as to his principles, while a
glance at his powerful physique left no doubt possible as to his
courage. She rightly guessed that this was no _poseur_ trying to
make an impression and gain her confidence. There was an
unmistakable ring of sincerity in all his words, and his struggle
at home with his father, and his subsequent brave and successful
fight for his own independence and self-respect, more than
substantiated all her theories. And the more Shirley let her mind
dwell on Jefferson Ryder and his blue eyes and serious manner, the
more conscious she became that the artist was encroaching more
upon her thoughts and time than was good either for her work or
for herself.
So their casual acquaintance grew into a real friendship and
comradeship. Further than that Shirley promised herself it should
never go. Not that Jefferson had given her the slightest hint that
he entertained the idea of making her his wife one day, only she
was sophisticated enough to know the direction in which run the
minds of men who are abnormally interested in one girl, and long
before this Shirley had made up her mind that she would never
marry. Firstly, she was devoted to her father and could not bear
the thought of ever leaving him; secondly, she was fascinated by
her literary work and she was practical enough to know that
matrimony, with its visions of slippers and cradles, would be
fatal to any ambition of that kind. She liked Jefferson
immensely--more, perhaps, than any man she had yet met--and she
did not think any the less of him because of her resolve not to
get entangled in the meshes of Cupid. In any case he had not asked
her to marry him--perhaps the idea was far from his thoughts.
Meantime, she could enjoy his friendship freely without fear of
embarrassing entanglements.
When, therefore, she first conceived the idea of portraying in the
guise of fiction the personality of John Burkett Ryder, the
Colossus of finance whose vast and ever-increasing fortune was
fast becoming a public nuisance, she naturally turned to Jefferson
for assistance. She wanted to write a book that would be talked
about, and which at the same time would open the eyes of the
public to this growing peril in their midst--this monster of
insensate and unscrupulous greed who, by sheer weight of his
ill-gotten gold, was corrupting legislators and judges and trying
to enslave the nation. The book, she argued, would perform a
public service in awakening all to the common danger. Jefferson
fully entered into her views and had furnished her with the
information regarding his father that she deemed of value. The
book had proven a success beyond their most sanguine expectations,
and Shirley had come to Europe for a rest after the many weary
months of work that it took to write it.
The acquaintance of his son with the daughter of Judge Rossmore
had not escaped the eagle eye of Ryder, Sr., and much to the
financier's annoyance, and even consternation, he had ascertained
that Jefferson was a frequent caller at the Rossmore home. He
immediately jumped to the conclusion that this could mean only one
thing, and fearing what he termed "the consequences of the insanity
of immature minds," he had summoned Jefferson peremptorily to his
presence. He told his son that all idea of marriage in that
quarter was out of the question for two reasons: One was that
Judge Rossmore was his most bitter enemy, the other was that he
had hoped to see his son, his destined successor, marry a woman of
whom he, Ryder, Sr., could approve. He knew of such a woman, one
who would make a far more desirable mate than Miss Rossmore. He
alluded, of course, to Kate Roberts, the pretty daughter of his
old friend, the Senator. The family interests would benefit by
this alliance, which was desirable from every point of view.
Jefferson had listened respectfully until his father had finished
and then grimly remarked that only one point of view had been
overlooked--his own. He did not care for Miss Roberts; he did not
think she really cared for him. The marriage was out of the
question. Whereupon Ryder, Sr., had fumed and raged, declaring
that Jefferson was opposing his will as he always did, and ending
with the threat that if his son married Shirley Rossmore without
his consent he would disinherit him.
Jefferson was cogitating on these incidents of the last few months
when suddenly a feminine voice which he quickly recognised called
out in English:
"Hello! Mr. Ryder."
He looked up and saw two ladies, one young, the other middle aged,
smiling at him from an open _fiacre_ which had drawn up to the
curb. Jefferson jumped from his seat, upsetting his chair and
startling two nervous Frenchmen in his hurry, and hastened out,
hat in hand.
"Why, Miss Rossmore, what are you doing out driving?" he asked.
"You know you and Mrs. Blake promised to dine with me to-night. I
was coming round to the hotel in a few moments."
Mrs. Blake was a younger sister of Shirley's mother. Her husband
had died a few years previously, leaving her a small income, and
when she had heard of her niece's contemplated trip to Europe she
had decided to come to Paris to meet her and incidentally to
chaperone her. The two women were stopping at the Grand Hotel
close by, while Jefferson had found accommodations at the Athénée.
Shirley explained. Her aunt wanted to go to the dressmaker's, and
she herself was most anxious to go to the Luxembourg Gardens to
hear the music. Would he take her? Then they could meet Mrs. Blake
at the hotel at seven o'clock and all go to dinner. Was he
willing?
Was he? Jefferson's face fairly glowed. He ran back to his table
on the _terrasse_ to settle for his Vermouth, astonished the
waiter by not stopping to notice the short change he gave him, and
rushed back to the carriage.
A dirty little Italian girl, shrewd enough to note the young man's
attention to the younger of the American women, wheedled up to the
carriage and thrust a bunch of flowers in Jefferson's face.
"_Achetez des fleurs, monsieur, pour la jolie dame?_"
Down went Jefferson's hand in his pocket and, filling the child's
hand with small silver, he flung the flowers in the carriage. Then
he turned inquiringly to Shirley for instructions so he could
direct the _cocher_. Mrs. Blake said she would get out here. Her
dressmaker was close by, in the Rue Auber, and she would walk back
to the hotel to meet them at seven o'clock. Jefferson assisted her
to alight and escorted her as far as the _porte-cochère_ of the
modiste's, a couple of doors away. When he returned to the
carriage, Shirley had already told the coachman where to go. He
got in and the _fiacre_ started.
"Now," said Shirley, "tell me what you have been doing with
yourself all day."
Jefferson was busily arranging the faded carriage rug about
Shirley, spending more time in the task perhaps than was
absolutely necessary, and she had to repeat the question.
"Doing?" he echoed with a smile, "I've been doing two
things--waiting impatiently for seven o'clock and incidentally
reading the notices of your book."