THE GOOD AND FAITHFUL SERVANT.
On the following Thursday morning, the bell of St. Germain-des-Pres was
striking the hour of eleven when Monsieur Jules Vicot opened his eyes,
instantly closed them again, and groaned. It was the hour which he
disliked more than any other of the twenty-four, this of awakening, and
from day to day it did not differ in essential details. The weather
might be hot or cold, fair or foul, wet or dry--that was one thing and
not important. What _was_ important--what, in the estimation of Monsieur
Vicot, distinguished this hour so unenviably from its fellows, was the
variety of distressing physical symptoms which, in his own person,
inevitably accompanied it. They were symptoms long familiar to Monsieur
Vicot--a feeling under his eyelids which appeared to indicate the
presence of coarse sand; a throbbing of the heart which seemed,
inexplicably, to be taking place in his throat; a dull pain at his
temples and back of his ears which prompted him to hold his head
sedulously balanced, lest a sudden movement to right or left occasion an
acuter pang; finally, a taste on his tongue which suggested a
commingling of fur, blotting-paper, and raw quinces.
Presently Monsieur Vicot opened his eyes once more and fixed them upon
the window, from which, from his position, nothing was visible save sky
of an intense blue. Against this background a number of small
reddish-brown blotches swam slowly to and fro, and among these tiny
whorls of a light gray colour expanded and contracted with inconceivable
rapidity. At one time these symptoms had caused him peculiar uneasiness.
Now he ignored them. They were less disturbing to his equanimity than
the remarkable twitching of his fingers. For two years he had made a
point of keeping his hands in the side pockets of his jacket, save when
he found it absolutely necessary to use them. He no longer made
gestures. They are desirable as aids to expression, but only when
steady.
The majority of men, in waking, apply themselves to consideration of the
day which lies before them. It was Monsieur Jules Vicot's custom, on the
contrary, to undertake a mental review of the night which lay behind.
The review was not always complete. Often there were gaps, and, more
frequently, he found himself completely at a loss to account for his
return to his room on the _cinquieme_ of 70, Rue St. Benoit, and the
indisputable fact that he was in bed, with his clothes reposing, with
something not unrelated to order, on the solitary chair.
Now, as he surveyed it, he assured himself for the thousandth time that
it was not a cheerful room. Abundant sunlight, the recompense of Nature
for six flights of stairs, was its sole redeeming virtue. For the rest,
everything belonging to Monsieur Vicot was applied to some use entirely
foreign to the original purpose for which it had been designed. An
ink-stand served him as a candlestick, his chair was at once table and
clothes-rack, a ramshackle sofa played the _role_ of bed, and a frouzy
plush table-cover was his rug. An astonishing accumulation of
cigarette-ends and empty bottles suggested slovenliness in the occupant.
On the contrary, they stood for his economical instincts. It is not
every one who knows that twenty cigarette-ends make a pipe-ful of
tobacco, and that as many empty brandy-flasks may be exchanged for a
full half-pint, but the knowledge, if rare, is useful.
"It is a pig-pen," said Monsieur Jules Vicot to himself, "and very
appropriate at that!"
Then he set to work upon his matutinal review of the preceding night.
His recollections were more than usually hazy. After a wretched dinner
at _La Petite Chaise_, rendered yet more unpalatable by the proprietor's
unpleasant references to certain previous repasts, as yet unpaid, came a
distinct hour or so of leaning on the parapet of the Quai d'Orleans, in
dreamy contemplation of a man clipping a black poodle on the
cobblestones below; then another period, of gradually lessening
clearness, in a little wine-shop on the Rue de Beaune; then--nothing.
"Well, I was drunk," reflected Monsieur Vicot; but again manifested his
dissimilarity from the majority of men by not committing himself in
respect to his intentions for the future.
He arose with an air of languor, yawned, looked dubiously at one
trembling hand, shook his head, and then surveyed himself in a
triangular bit of looking-glass tacked against the wall.
Candour is oftentimes a depressing thing--particularly in a mirror.
Monsieur Vicot's glass showed him a clean-shaven face almost devoid of
colour; eyes, the blackness of which seemed to have soaked out, like
water-colour through blotting-paper, into gray-blue circles on the lower
lids; hair almost white; a thin nose with widely dilated nostrils; a
tremulous mouth; and a weak, receding chin. It was a face which might
have been handsome before becoming a document with the signatures of the
seven cardinal vices written large upon it. Now it was evidence which
even Monsieur Vicot could not ignore. He leered defiantly at it, mixed
himself a stiff drink of cheap brandy and water, and forthwith applied
himself to his toilet.
Seeing the result which he presently achieved, one perceived him to be a
man of a certain ability under crushing limitations. With a broken comb,
a well-worn brush, which he applied, with admirable impartiality, to
both his hair and his coat, a morsel of soap, and some cold water,
Monsieur Vicot accomplished what was little short of a miracle; and
when, a half-hour later, he emerged upon the Rue St. Benoit and turned
toward the boulevard, his appearance was akin to respectability. Luck
and his face were against him, but incidental obstacles he contrived to
overcome.
He took a _mazagran_ and a roll at the Deux Magots, fortified himself
with a package of _vertes_, and swung aboard a passing tram. At one
o'clock he was sauntering down the Rue de Villejust, with his hands in
his pockets. Suddenly he stopped, looked intently for an instant at a
certain window on a level with his eye, and then went on at a brisker
gait. He had abruptly become cheerful, and that for no apparent reason.
There is, commonly, nothing particularly enlivening in the aspect of a
blue jar in an apartment window; yet that, and nothing else, was what
had arrested the attention of Monsieur Jules Vicot, and brought the tune
he was whistling to his lips.
Mr. Thomas Radwalader occupied a _rez de chaussee_ on the Rue de
Villejust, which differed from the ordinary run of Paris apartments in
that its doorway gave directly on the street, independent of the _loge
de concierge_, and, what was more important, of the _concierges_
themselves. Yet the latter held that Radwalader was a gentleman of
becomingly regular habits. He kept one servant, a _bonne_ on the
objectively safe side of fifty, who cooked and marketed for him;
maintained, throughout his quarters, a neatness which would have put the
proverbial pin to shame; and, in general, ministered to his material
well-being more competently than the average man-servant. That she was
not likely to wear his clothes, use his razors, or pilfer his tobacco
was half a bachelor's domestic problem solved at the very outset. On the
debit side of the account, she pottered eternally, and was an ardent
advocate of protracted conversation; but these tendencies Radwalader had
managed, in the course of their five years of association, to temper to
a considerable degree; so that now she was as near to perfection in her
particular sphere as a mere mortal is apt to be. Her name was Eugenie
Dufour, and in her opinion the entire system of mundane and material
things revolved about the person of Thomas Radwalader.
In view of his avowed love of luxury, the latter's quarters were
distinguished by severe, almost military, simplicity. Without exception,
the rooms were carpeted, but there were no draperies either at doors or
windows. The _salon_, of which the solitary window opened on the street,
was Louis Seize in style, with straight-backed chairs, upholstered in
dark-red brocade, a grand piano which had belonged to Radwalader's
mother, and a large print of the period, simply framed, in the exact
centre of each wall-panel. There were no ornaments, save a white Sevres
bust of Marie Antoinette on the mantel, two reading-lamps, and a few
odds and ends of silver, ivory, and enamel, which had the guilty air of
unavoidable gifts, rather than the easy assurance of chosen _bibelots_.
Some books in old bindings, a stand of music, and a tea-table with its
service--and that was all.
Separated from this _salon_ by double doors was what had formerly been a
bedroom, but which now, for want of a better name, Radwalader called _La
Boite_. This was his _sanctum sanctorum_, wherein one might reasonably
have looked to find the confusion dear to the happy estate of
bachelorhood. But here again was evident, though in a lesser degree, the
austerity which characterized the _salon_. One naturally expected a
litter of periodicals, pipes, and papers; but, on the contrary, the
large table was almost clear, and the interior of the writing-desk,
which stood open by the window, revealed only symmetrical piles of
note-paper, envelopes, and blotters, and writing paraphernalia of the
ordinary office variety. In the chimney-place was a brazier on a low
tripod, and from this, each morning, the worthy Eugenie removed a
quantity of ashes--ashes which had entered the room in the form of
Radwalader's correspondence of the previous day. In one corner stood a
small safe, and on top of this were boxes of cigars, and cigarettes of
eight or ten varieties, but all arranged as methodically as the contents
of the desk. The remaining wall-space was occupied by book-shelves, in
which no single volume was an inch out of line.
The opinion of Radwalader's _concierges_ as to the regularity of his
habits was seemingly based on fact. Eugenie lived with her brother in
the Chaussee d'Antin, and went to and fro every day, regardless of
weather, on top of the Rue Taitbout-La Muette tram. With characteristic
regularity and promptitude, she had never once failed, during the five
years of her service, to awaken her _patron_ at eight o'clock.
Radwalader invariably replied with a cheerful "_Bien!_" and five minutes
later was splashing in his bath. His coffee was served at nine, his
mornings, in general, spent in _La Boite_. He took _dejeuner_ at one,
and then went out, returning only to dress for dinner, which he rarely
had at home. Midnight found him again in _La Boite_, bending over a book
or some papers at his desk. Then only it was that the door of his safe
stood open. In all this there was, assuredly, no evidence of aught but
tastes so quiet as to savour of asceticism. But then Radwalader was a
man who believed in a place for everything and everything in its place.
His visitors were few, save only on Thursday afternoons, when he was
known to be at home. Then a dozen or so of men lounged in his _salon_,
which was reinforced for the occasion by chairs from the other rooms,
and several little tables for whiskey and tobacco. Eugenie did not
appear. They were served, when there was need of service, by a
middle-aged man-servant with a furtive eye and a hand that trembled
nervously when handling glasses and decanters; for which reason those
of Radwalader's guests to whom the situation was most familiar preferred
to help themselves. They reproached him, when more important topics were
exhausted, with the apparent decrepitude of this retainer, whose name
was Jules. But their host made it plain that he had good and sufficient
reasons for employing him. He had grown up in his mother's family in
Philadelphia, said Radwalader, first as page and then as butler. When
the Radwalader millions went by the board, Jules had remained with the
family through sheer loyalty, accepting but half the wages he had
formerly earned. Once he had even saved Radwalader's life in the surf at
Atlantic City. Later he had taken to drink, gone rapidly to pieces, and,
at last, had been discharged as a hopeless case. They had given him a
reference, for charity's sake, on the strength of which he had found a
place as travelling valet; but once in Paris, his old weakness had
returned, and so he had lost his position, and never chanced upon
another. Then Radwalader had found him stranded, begging on the
boulevards, and, for the sake of the old days, had given him clothes and
money, and found him occasional employment, such as this Thursday
service, by means of which he contrived to eke out a living, such as it
was. At other times, when he was not drunk, he drove a cab for the
Compagnie Urbaine. (This last, the most incongruous feature of
Radwalader's explanation, was, curiously enough, the only one which had
the slightest foundation in fact!)
"My best quality is gratitude," Radwalader concluded. "He saved my life;
so I give him such of my clothes as become unfit for publication, and
pay him five francs every Thursday for not being of the least
assistance. I'm afraid you'll have to put up with him. It's a case of
'love me, love my dog.'"
And this, under its thin veneer of cynicism, was taken as an indication
of a very admirable instinct on Radwalader's part, for which men admired
him. They continued to make fun of Jules, but, after this defence of
him, they nodded to him on entering, and spoke to him by name.
Andrew Vane joined the gathering in Radwalader's rooms on the Thursday
following their Sunday at Auteuil. It was observable that, without
exception, the guests were men who had done, or were going to do,
something out of the ordinary. No one of them seemed to be in the
present tense of achievement. They talked slowly, choosing their words
with noticeable care, with an eye to their effect, and switching ever
and anon in a new direction, as irresponsibly as a fly in mid-air. To
Andrew the atmosphere was not only that of another city, but of another
world. From art to literature, from literature to music, from music to
the stage, the talk drifted, punctuated with names of men and things
whereof he did not remember ever to have heard. Save for their air of
having but just stepped out of a barber's chair, they were men of a
general type familiar to him--well dressed, evenly poised. The scene
might have been Boston or New York, save for one thing: in all that was
said, there was never the most remote hint of actual interest. The
opinions were like those of more than usually brilliant schoolboys,
putting into their own phraseology certain fundamental axioms. The
speakers, with the sole exception of Radwalader, gave the impression of
being unutterably tired, and of playing with words with the unique
intent of passing the time. Your American has but little leisure for
grammar, and less for eloquence, but in what he says there is always
present the vivifying spark of vital and intimate concern. His theories
are jewels in the rough, but one is conscious of the ceaseless
clink-clink of the tool which is busily transforming them into fame and
fortune. The men in Radwalader's _salon_ were toying with gems long
since cut and polished, whose sole virtue lay in the new light caught by
their facets, as the result of some unexpected turn. Radwalader himself
went farther. He combined the confidence of the American in his future
with that of the Frenchman in his past. Andrew had thought him cynical,
but he gained by contrast with his companions. The others seemed merely
to be giving thought to what they said, but he to be saying what he
thought.
"I'm almost remorseful at having asked you to join us this afternoon,"
he began, when the introductions were over. "Whenever I see a man in a
strange crowd, it reminds me of society's phrase at parting--'I've
enjoyed _myself_ immensely!' It has the distinction of being the only
polite remark which has any claim upon veracity. Usually, one hasn't
enjoyed anything else! Of course, for the moment, you feel like a
brook-trout in salt water. But it's a crowd that I think you'll like,
when the grossly overestimated element of novelty wears off. Let me tell
you, in a word, who they are, and what they stand for. That's De Boussac
at the piano. He knows four major and two minor chords in every key of
the gamut, and contrives to fashion, out of the six, an accompaniment
for anything you may ask of him. Beside him, leaning over the music, is
Lister. He's a would-be playwright, with a mother who has gained the
nickname of the 'Jail-breaker,' because she never finishes a sentence.
You'll meet her some day and be amused. To the left is Rafferty--who's
popular because, just now, brogue happens to rhyme with vogue. Then,
Clavercil. He thinks he's not understood, without realizing that his
sole ground for dissatisfaction lies in the fact that he is. He's a
fool, pure and simple, who inherited a fortune from his uncle--a bully
old chap who never made a mistake in his life, and only the one I have
mentioned, in his death. Next, Wisby--who paints things as they are not,
and will be famous when the public gets educated down to him. The man
helping himself to whiskey is Berrith. He wrote 'The Foibles of Fate' in
the early '90's, and has been living ever since on the dregs of its
success--a 'one-book author' with a vengeance. That's Ford, by the
window, with the red hair. He's a crank on aerial navigation, and says
his air-ship will be the solution of the problem. I've already
christened it 'Eve,' with an eye to its share in another fall of man."
Radwalader lowered his voice.
"On your right is Barclay-Jones. Barclay was his mother's name, and when
he came abroad he hyphenated it with his father's. The combination
always reminds me of a rather stylish tug-boat with its towline attached
to a scow on a mud-flat. The man listening to him is Gerald Kennedy, the
singer. He hasn't advanced beyond the Tommy Tucker stage yet, but he's a
good sort, an Englishman, a friend of Mrs. Carnby and of the Ratchetts.
On my left are Norrich, Peake, and Pfeffer, in the order named. Pfeffer
is the only married man in the crowd. He married in haste, and his
leisure is employed to the full. He gets his pin-money from his wife,
and a prick of the pin goes with every franc. Norrich is on the staff of
the Paris _Herald_. Peake, like Clavercil, is simply the disbursing
agent of an inherited fortune."
Radwalader paused, lighted a cigarette, and smiled at Andrew frankly.
"_Finis!_" he said. "Do you think me very uncharitable? I hope not. It
seems so much better to get men's bad qualities out of the way and done
with at the start, and then to find out their good points, one by one,
in a succession of pleasant surprises. It's a crowd you'll like, when
once you get the point of view. You've been used to poise, and at first
you won't like pose. But, after all, the difference lies only in the
eye--a pun's only permissible when it tells the truth. We all pose over
here. You will, yourself, if you stay long enough. It's as contagious as
smallpox. And, by the way, I was talking with Peake about you only
yesterday. He's going to the States next week, and wants to find some
one to occupy his apartment while he's away. If you're not thinking of
remaining at the Ritz, you couldn't do better than to take it. It's a
charming little place, on the Rue Boissiere, near the Place d'Iena,
perfectly furnished, and with a balcony and bath. Of course, the rent's
no object to him. All he wants is some one to keep it aired and clean."
"It can't do any harm to ask him about it," said Andrew. "To tell you
the truth, I've rather been thinking of doing something of the kind."
"No sooner said than done," agreed Radwalader, and, leaning forward
across Norrich, he added: "I say, Peake, move up here, will you?
"I've been telling Vane about your apartment," he continued, as Peake
drew close to them, dragging his chair by the arms, "and he seems to
think he might like to have a look at it. He's over here for quite a
time, you know, and he certainly couldn't be as comfortable anywhere
else."
"I hope you'll take the place, Mr. Vane," said Peake. "I've always
maintained that a man of my tastes had no business in the States; but it
seems I have, after all. I think I told you, Radwalader--my late,
lamented Aunt Esther, you know. She threatened to leave me nothin' but
her good will, and now she's popped off, saddlin' me with everythin' she
had in the world."
"That's what she meant by her good will, probably," observed Radwalader.
"P'r'aps," said Peake, with a little nod. "But the c'lamity's just as
great. She was a good-hearted creature, but she belonged to the
black-walnut and marble-group period. Her sideboard weighed a ton, and
she had wax flowers in her 'parlour.' And I'm to sell _nothin'_, my good
man! It's all to go to my wife! Why, the very thought's enough to keep
any woman from marryin' me. Oh, my dear Radwalader, I mourn my find, I
do indeed."
"But about the apartment?" suggested Radwalader.
"Oh! Well, all I can say, Mr. Vane, is that I'm sure you'll be
comfortable. It's a modest box, at best; but it suits me, and will
probably suit you. 'Man wants but little here below'--a bath, sunlight,
a good bed, and cleanliness--that's all. You'll find 'em at my place.
Radwalader'll get you a _valet de chambre_, no doubt. I'd throw mine in,
if I hadn't already thrown him out. The wife of my _concierge_ is doin'
for me till I go. I can't say more. Two hundred francs a month. I'll be
back by the first of August--I can't miss Trouville, you know,
Radwalader--and the chances are I'll have to evict you, Mr. Vane. I know
_I_ wouldn't leave that apartment except at the business end of a
pitch-fork!"
"It sounds like the very thing I want," said Andrew, with a smile at the
other's eloquence.
"And there's actually some prospect of your getting it," drawled
Radwalader. "What an exceptional animal you are, Vane!"
"Come 'round to-morrow mornin' to breakfast, both of you," said Peake.
"Then you can have a look over the place, Mr. Vane, and judge for
yourself. If you like it, we'll clinch a bargain on the spot."
"Very well," agreed Andrew. "Shall I stop for you, Mr. Radwalader?"
"By all means. About twelve."
"Then _that's_ settled!" observed Peake, with an air of profound
satisfaction. "I positively must have a whiskey, Radwalader. I'm quite
exhausted. I haven't talked so much business in a year."
For an hour the conversation was general, and presently thereafter
Radwalader was alone. For a time he stood by the _salon_ table, idly
fingering a paper-cutter and scowling. Then he stepped noiselessly to
the door, listened briefly but intently, and abruptly flung it open and
looked out into the _antichambre_.
"Not this time!" observed Jules laconically, from the dining-room
beyond, where he was languidly polishing wine-glasses.
"I'm glad to see you profit by experience," retorted Radwalader. "Come
here."
The faithful servitor came slowly across the hallway, glanced about the
empty _salon_, helped himself liberally from the whiskey decanter,
swallowed the raw spirit at a gulp, and flung himself heavily into a
chair.
"Fire away!" he remarked. "I hope it's something worth while. I don't
mind saying I'm hard up."