THE CAFÉ ROUGE.
I.
Monsieur Anton Beauchamp was the proprietor of the Café Rouge in
London. Monsieur Anton Beauchamp was once proprietor of the Café Bleu
in Paris.
For many years he had cast envious eyes on London. Did not always his
guests, those strange blonde people with the clothes like blankets, pay
his prices without question? Did they not drink bad wine and never add
the bill? _Pardi_! if he could have only English as patrons, madame
and himself could purchase that wine-shop in the Bou' Mich', and never
worry again.
For years the thought of London haunted Anton; and then one day, in a
superb moment of decision, he announced his intention of journeying
thither. A large entourage followed him to the Gare du Nord, and, with
much the same feelings as those of an explorer leaving for the North
Pole, he bade a dramatic farewell, and almost missed his train by
running back to give a final embrace to Madame Beauchamp.
With no undue mishap he reached London the same night, and next day he
lunched at a famous London restaurant. At night he dined at a
fashionable establishment in Shaftesbury Avenue. In both places he
received ordinary food served without distinction, reckoned up the
bill, and found that in each case _l'addition_ was correct--and rushed
madly back to Paris, where he sold the Café Bleu, packed up his
belongings, and explained matters to his wife, doing all three things
simultaneously.
'The dinner,' he exclaimed in a fever of excitement, 'is served--so!
As a funeral. I order what I like, and the waiter he stands there
_comme un gendarme_, as if it is my name I give. "Any vegetables?"
demands he. _Mon Dieu_! As if vegetables they are no more to him than
so much--so much umbrellas. I say, "_Garçon, la carte des vins_!" and,
quite correct, he hands it me with so many wines he has not got, just
as in Paris, but--_que penses tu_?--he permits me to order what wine I
choose, so--by myself. _C'est terrible_! I give him three pennies and
say, "_Garçon_, for such stupidity you should pay the whole bill."'
Monsieur Beauchamp was a man of shrewdness. He knew he could not
compete with the established solidity of the Trocadero, the Ritz, the
Piccadilly, or the garishness of Frascati's, so he purchased and
remodelled an unobtrusive building in an unobtrusive street between
Shaftesbury Avenue and Oxford Street, but clear of Soho and its
adherents. He decorated the place in a rich red, and arranged some
_cabinets particuliers_ upstairs, where, by the screening of a curtain,
Madame the Wife and Monsieur the Lover could dine without molestation
of vulgar eyes.
Monsieur Beauchamp felt himself a benefactor, a missionary. He argued
that the only reason Londoners were not so flirtatious as Parisians was
lack of opportunity. He, the proprietor of the Café Rouge, would bring
light to the inhabitants of the foggy city. To assist in this
philanthropic work he brought with him an excellent cook, who had
killed a dyspeptic Cabinet Minister by tempting him with dishes
intended only for robust digestions, and three young and ambitious
waiters; while madame engaged what unskilled labour was required.
Unobtrusively they opened for business, for he knew that publicity
would spoil his chance of success. (Once convince a Londoner that he
is one of a select few who know a restaurant, and he will stand an hour
waiting for a table.) The first customer to enter received such
attention that he brought his family the next night. Monsieur
Beauchamp issued orders that he should be snubbed. _Parbleu_! was the
Café Rouge for _families_?
Gradually the justification of Monsieur Beauchamp's policy became
evident. Ladies of the Chorus brought their admirers there, and to the
former Monsieur Beauchamp paid particular courtesy. Long study of
feminine psychology had taught him that, whereas a woman may change her
lover, she will not change her favourite café. Therefore, though the
man may pay the bill, the woman is the one to please. Artists from
Chelsea would come as well to the Café Rouge, celebrating the sale of a
picture, and drinking plentifully to the confounding of all art
critics. Also, the _cabinets particuliers_ were the scene of some
exceedingly expensive and recherché dinners--and almost no one added
the bill. When any one did, Monsieur Beauchamp was mortified, and
invariably dismissed the same waiter on the spot--thereby gaining for
himself and France a reputation for sterling integrity.
'_Ma foi_! London may be gray,' thought Monsieur Beauchamp, 'but she
pays well.'
II.
One November evening Monsieur Anton Beauchamp's critical eye noted the
entrance of a dark-haired young man in well-fitting evening clothes,
and with him a young lady whose deep-green cloak and white fur round
the shoulders set off to perfection her radiant colouring and
well-poised figure. Monsieur Beauchamp did not hesitate. After all,
he was an artist, and subject to inspiration like other men of genius;
so, hurrying downstairs, he waved the waiter aside, and greeted them
with a bow which almost amounted to virtuosity.
'_Bon soir, monsieur et madame_.' He cast an anxious glance about the
café, which was two-thirds filled. 'This tabil will do?--_Ah, mais
non_! He grew indignant at the very thought. '_Pardon, monsieur_,
that one is very nice--_par ici_--_Non, non_! Ah--perhaps you would
like a _cabinet particulier_?'
The sirenic tone of voice and the gesture of his hands indicated the
seraphic pleasure to be obtained only in one of those secluded spots.
The American turned inquiringly to the girl.
'When I was here before,' she said, 'I was at a table just upstairs to
the right. Have you one there, Monsieur Beauchamp?'
_Nom d'une pipe_! She knew him. And she was beautiful, this English
lady. As he personally escorted them upstairs, with the importance of
a Lord Chamberlain at a Court function, Monsieur Beauchamp speculated
on the flirtatious potentialities of the young woman. If she were only
clever enough to be fickle, what a source of profit she might be to the
Café Rouge! And was she not in appearance much like Mademoiselle
Valerie, for whom a member of the Chamber of Deputies had blown out the
brains of Monsieur P---- de l'Académie Française?
With the assistance of a waiter, he ushered them to a table almost
hidden by a pillar, where a crimson-shaded light sent a soft glow that
was guaranteed to make the most of a woman's eyes. Monsieur Beauchamp
with his own hands brought them the menu card, while the waiter stood
expectantly, crouched for an immediate start as soon as he received the
signal. A small waitress appeared with the butter and rolls, and made
her way underneath the arms of the proprietor and the waiter like a tug
running round two ocean liners. Monsieur Beauchamp could recommend the
_Barquettes Norvégienne_--No? Madame did not so desire? Of course
not. He frowned terrifically at the waiter, who glared ferociously at
the diminutive waitress. _Morbleu_! What imbecile suggested
_Barquettes Norvégienne_? Monsieur Beauchamp mentioned other dishes as
an overture to the meal, waxing increasingly wrathy towards the waiter
on each veto. Ah! monsieur desired _Consommé Anton_. The proprietor's
face beamed and his arms were outstretched towards heaven. That this
gentleman should order _Consommé Anton_, the soup of which he alone
knew the secret, and which had been named after himself! Truly, the
life of a restaurateur was not without compensations. He turned on the
waiter--but that worthy had darted away to execute the order.
III.
The soup appeared. Monsieur Beauchamp stood by with the attitude of an
artist watching the hanging of his first painting in the Academy.
'You might let me see the wine list,' said Selwyn.
Monsieur Beauchamp struck an attitude of horror. Had it come to this
in the Café Rouge, that a patron must _ask_ for the wine list?
Brandishing his arms, he rushed from the table, almost colliding with
the little waitress, flew downstairs to the very farthest table near
the door, seized a wine card, and puffing generously, arrived with the
trophy at the table, much as Rothschild's messenger must have reached
London with the news that the British were winning at Waterloo. Having
then succeeded in making the American order a red wine when he wanted
white, Monsieur Beauchamp withdrew in a state of histrionic
self-satisfaction.
With a smile of relief Selwyn looked across the table at the girl.
Even in the soft glow of the lamp, which made for flattery, it seemed
to him that the vivacity of the morning had disappeared, and in its
place was the petulance of the previous evening. Her eyes, which
seemed when they were riding to have caught something of the alchemy of
the skies, were steady and lighter in shade. Again he noticed the
suggestion of discontent about the mouth, and the upper lip looked thin
and lacking in colour.
'It is your turn to-night to be pensive,' she said.
'I was thinking,' he answered, 'that it is hardly twenty-four hours
since we met, and yet I have as many impressions of you as an ordinary
woman would give in six months. For instance, last night when you
entered the room'----
'But, Mr. Selwyn, any girl knows enough to arrive late when there is no
woman within twenty years of her age in the room. The effect is
certain.'
There was no humour in her voice, but just a tone of weary, world-wise
knowledge. A look of displeasure clouded his face.
'Surely,' he said, 'with your qualities and appearance, you don't need
such an elaborate technique.'
'In a world where there is so little that is genuine, why should I
debar myself from the pleasure of being a humbug?'
'Come, come,' he said, smiling, 'you are not going to join the ranks of
England's detractors?'
She shrugged her shoulders. 'I'm certainly not going to become a
professional critic like Stackton Dunckley, who hasn't even the excuse
that he's an Irishman; or Lucia Carlotti, who hardly ever leaves London
because her dinners cost her nothing. But I reserve the right of
personal resentment.'
IV.
They were interrupted by a waiter, who removed the soup-plates with
studied dexterity, and substituted _Tronçon de turbotin Duglère_;
_pommes vapeur_, the dish which had delivered the fatal blow against
the Cabinet Minister's digestive armour.
'Perhaps I am too personal,' resumed Selwyn after the completion of
this task, 'but last night one of the impressions I took away with me
was your critical attitude towards your surroundings. Then this
morning you were so completely'----
'Charming?'
'----bewitching,' he said, smiling, 'that I thought myself an idiot for
the previous night's opinion. But, then, this evening'----
'Mr. Selwyn, you are not going to tell me I'm disappointing, and we
just finished with the soup?'
More than her words, the forced rapidity with which she spoke nettled
him. With bad taste perhaps, but still with well-meant sincerity, he
was trying to elucidate the personality which had gripped him; while
she, though seemingly having no objection to serving as a study for
analysis, was constantly thrusting her deflecting sentences in his
path. To him words were as clay to the sculptor. When he conversed he
liked to choose his theme, then, by adroit use of language, bring his
artistry to bear on the subject, accentuating a line here, introducing
a note of subtlety elsewhere, amplifying, smoothing, finishing with the
veneer of words the construction of his mind. Another quality in her
that troubled him was the apparent rigidity of her thoughts. Not once
did she give the impression that she was nursing an idea in the lap of
her mentality, but always that she had arrived at a conclusion by an
instantaneous process, which would not permit of retraction or
expansion. As though by suggestion he could reduce her phrasing to a
_tempo_ less quick, his own voice slowed to a drawl.
'Miss Durwent,' he said, 'you are unique among the English girls I have
met. I should think that contentment, almost reduced to placidity, is
one of their outstanding characteristics.'
'That is because you are a man, and with a stranger we have our company
manners on. England is full of bitter, resentful women, but they don't
cry about it. That's one result of our playing games like boys. We
learn not to whine.'
'I suppose the activities of your suffragettes are a sign of this
unrest.'
'Yes--though they don't know what is really the trouble. I do not
think women should run the country, but I do feel that we should have
something to say about our ordinary day-to-day lives. Man-made laws
are stupid enough, but a man-made society is intolerable. Just a very
little wine, please.'
For a moment there was silence; then she continued: 'Oh, I suppose if
it were all sifted down I should find that it is largely egotism on my
part.'
He waited, not wanting to alter her course by any injudicious comment.
'Mr. Selwyn,' she said abruptly, 'do you feel that there is a Higher
Purpose working through life?'
'Y-yes,' he said, rather startled, 'I think there is.'
'Sometimes I do,' she went on; 'then, again, I think we're here on this
earth for no purpose at all. It often strikes me that Some One up
above started humanity with a great idea, but lost interest in us.'
'I think,' he said slowly, 'that every man has an instinctive feeling
sometime in his life that he is a small part of a great plan that is
working somehow towards the light.'
'Yes. It's a comfortable thought. It's what makes good Christians
enjoy their dinner without worrying too much about the poor.'
He made no answer, though he was not one who often let an epigram go by
without a counter-thrust; but he could see that the girl was struggling
towards a sincerity of expression much as a frightened horse crosses a
bridge which spans a roaring waterfall, ready to bolt at the first
thing that affrights it.
'Mr. Selwyn,' she said--and for the first time her words had something
of a lilt and less incision--'do you think women are living the life
intended for them?'
'Why not?' he fenced.
'Well, it seems to me that when any living creature is placed in the
world it is given certain powers to use. You saw this morning how our
horses wanted to race, and couldn't understand our holding them back.
A mosquito bites because that's apparently its job in the world, and it
doesn't know anything else. I was once told that if animals do not use
some faculty they possess, in time Nature takes it away from them.'
'You are quite a student of natural history, Miss Durwent.'
'No--but every now and then mother unearths a man who teaches us
something, like last night.'
He acknowledged the compliment with a slight inclination of his head.
The waiter leant expectantly beside him.
'To descend from the metaphysical to the purely physical,' he said,
glancing in some perplexity at the terrific nomenclature of Monsieur
Beauchamp's dishes, 'do you think we might take a chance on this
_Poulet reine aux primeurs; salade lorette_? I gather that it has
something to do with chicken.'
'It's rather artful of Monsieur Beauchamp to word it so we poor English
can get that much, isn't it?'
'Yes. He apparently acts on the principle that a little learning is a
common thing.'
V.
As Selwyn gave the necessary order to the waiter, a noisy hubbub of
laughter from an adjoining _cabinet particulier_ almost drowned his
words. There was one woman's voice that was rasping and sustained with
an abandon of vulgarity released by the potency of champagne.
Elise Durwent looked across the table at her companion. 'Are you bored
with all my talk?' she said. 'You Americans aren't nearly so candid
about such things as Englishmen.'
'On the contrary, Miss Durwent, I am deeply interested. Only, I am a
little puzzled as to how you connect the usual functions of animals
with woman's place in the world.'
With an air of abstraction she drew some pattern on the table-cloth
with the prongs of a fork. 'I don't know,' she said dreamily, 'that I
can apply the argument correctly, 'but--Mr. Selwyn, when I was a child
playing about with my little brother "Boy-blue"--that was a pet name I
had for him--I was just as happy to be a girl as he was to be a boy. I
think that is true of all children. But ask any woman which she would
rather be, a man or a woman, and unless she is trying to make you fall
in love with her she will say the former. That is not as it should be,
but it's true. Yet, if we are part of your great plan working towards
the light, we're entitled to the same share in life as you--more, if
anything, because we perpetuate life and have more in common with all
that it holds than men have. There, that is a long speech for me.'
'Please don't stop.'
There was a howl in a man's voice from the noisy _cabinet particulier_,
followed by a laugh from the same woman as before, which set the teeth
on edge.
'That woman in there,' she went on, 'will partly show what I mean. In
the beginning we were both given certain qualities. She has lost her
modesty through disuse; I'm losing my womanliness and power of sympathy
for the same reason. She's more candid about it, that's all. When
Dick and I were youngsters I dreamed of life as Casim Baba's cave full
of undiscovered treasures that would be endless. Now I look back upon
those days as the only really happy ones I shall ever have.'
'You are--how old?'
'Twenty-three.'
'You will grow less cynical as you grow older,' he said, from the
altitude of twenty-six.
'I agree,' she said. 'As, unlike the Japanese, we haven't the moral
courage of suicide, I shall get used to the idea of being an
Englishman's wife; of living in a calm routine of sport, bridge,
week-ends, and small-talk--entertaining people who bore you, and in
turn helping to bore those who entertain you. In time I'll forget that
I was born, as most women are, with a fine perception of life's
subtleties, and settle down to living year in and year out with no
change except that each season you're less attractive and more petty.
After a while I shall even get to like the calm level of being an
Englishman's wife, and if I see any girl thinking as I do now, I'll
know what a little fool she is. That's what happens to us--we get used
to things. Those of us who don't, either get a divorce, or go to the
devil, or just live out our little farce. It is a real tragedy of
English life that women are losing through disuse the qualities that
were given them. That is why an American like you comes here and says
we do not edit ourselves cleverly.'
The rapid succession of sentences came to an end, and the colour which
had mounted to her cheeks slowly subsided.
VI.
'I feel,' he said, 'that I can only vaguely understand what you mean.
But is it not possible that you are looking at it too much from the
standpoint of an individualist?'
'Women are all individualists,' she broke in; 'or they are until
society breaks their spirit. This lumping of people into generations
and tuning your son's brain to the same pitch as his medieval
ancestors' doesn't interest women--that's man's performance. The great
thing about a woman is her own life, isn't it? And the great event in
a woman's life is when she has a child--because it's _hers_. This
class and family stuff comes from men, because their names are
perpetuated, not ours. There is no snobbery equal to men's; it is more
noticeable with women, because it isn't instinctive with them, and they
have to talk to show it.'
'Then,' said Selwyn, 'in addition to an Irish Rebellion, we may look
for one from English women?'
'Yes. I don't know when, but it will come.'
He produced a cigarette-case. 'Would you care for a cigarette now?' he
asked.
'No, thanks. But you smoke.'
'Poor England!' he said in pretended seriousness, tapping the table
with the end of the cigarette, 'with two revolutions on her hands, and
neither party knowing what it wants.'
'We may not know what we want,' she said, 'but, as an Irishman said the
other day, "we won't be satisfied till we get it." If the rebellion of
our women doesn't come, I prophesy that in a couple of thousand years,
when the supermen inhabit the earth, they will find a sort of land
mermaid with an expressionless face, perpetually going through the
motion of dealing cards or drinking tea. Then some old fogy will spend
ten years in research, and pronounce her an excellent example of the
extinct race "_Femina Anglica_."'
'As one of the tyrants who wishes you well,' said Selwyn, after a laugh
in which she joined, 'may I be permitted to know what women want--or
think they want?'
'Mr. Selwyn, revolutions never come from people who think. That is why
they are so terrible. The unhappiness of so many Englishwomen comes
from the life which does not demand or permit the use of half the
powers they possess. Nor does it satisfy half their longings. Such a
condition produces either stagnation or revolution. Our ultimatum
is--give us a life which demands all our resources and permits women
unlimited opportunity for self-development.
'And if the men cannot do this?'
'The women will have to take charge.'
'And when does the ultimatum expire?'
She shrugged her shoulders.
'When will the next great earthquake be?'
VII.
The noise of the party in the _cabinet particulier_ had been growing
apace with the reinforcement of champagne-bottles. The strident
laughter of the women dominated the lower level of men's voices, and
there was a constant clinking of glasses, punctuated by the occasional
drawing of a cork, which always whipped the gaiety to a feverish pitch.
Monsieur Beauchamp rubbed his hands rather anxiously. He would have
preferred a little more intrigue and not quite so much noise. But,
then, was it not a testimony to his wine?--and certainly there would be
an excellent bill.
One of the men in the party called on some one for a song. There was a
hammering on the table, a promise of a kiss in a girl's voice that
trailed off into a tipsy giggle, the sound of shuffling chairs and
accompanying hilarity as the singer was apparently hoisted on to the
table. There came a crash of breaking glass as his foot collided with
some dinner-things.
Monsieur Beauchamp winced, but consoled himself with the reflection
that he could charge what he wished for the damage. The voices were
hushed at the order of the singer, who was trying to enunciate the
title of his song.
'I shall shing,' he said, with considerable difficulty, '"Moon, Moon,
Boo--(hic)--Booful Moon," composhed by myself at the early age of
sheven months. It ish very pash--pashesh--it ish very shad, so, if ye
have tearsh, pre--(hic)--pare to shed 'em now.'
There was loud applause, which the singer interrupted by commencing to
sing in a bass voice that broke into falsetto with such frequency that
it was difficult to tell which voice was the natural one. He started
off the verse very stoutly, but was growing rather maudlin, when,
reaching the chorus, he seemed to take on a new lease of vitality and
bellowed quite lustily:
'Moon, Moon, boo-oo-oo-ooful Moon,
Shining reshplendantly, radiant an' tenderly;
Moon, Moon, boo-oo--(hic)--booful Moon--
Tell her I shy for her, tell her I die for her,
Booful, BOO-OO-ooful Moon.
'Now then, fellow Athenians, chorush, chorush!' With an indescribable
medley of discordant howling the party broke into a series of 'Moon,
Moon, boo-oo-ooful Moon,' which came to an abrupt ending as the singer
fell back, apparently unconscious, in the arms of his friends. There
was a murmuring of voices, and a waiter was sent for some water to
revive the young man.
Considerably disgusted at the ending to the incident, Selwyn, who had
turned to look towards the _cabinet particulier_, once more sought his
companion's eyes.
Her face was white; there was not a vestige of colour in the cheeks.
'Miss Durwent,' he gasped, 'you are not well.'
'I am quite well,' she answered quickly, but her voice was weak and
quivering. 'I--I thought I recognised the singer's voice. That was
all.'
The curtain of the _cabinet particulier_ was drawn aside, and two
youths in evening-dress emerged, supporting between them the
dishevelled singer, who was miserably drunk, and whose hat almost
completely obscured his right eye. They were followed by three girls
with untidy hair, whose flushed, rouged faces had been made grotesque
by clumsy dabs of powder.
The singer's hat fell off, and Monsieur Beauchamp, who was hovering
about with the bill, had just stooped to recover it, when Selwyn heard,
a suppressed cry of pain from Elise Durwent. Thrusting her chair away
from her, she made for the emerging party, and halted them at the top
of the stairway.
'Dick!' she said breathlessly. 'Dick!'
The drunken youth raised his heavy eyelids and looked with bewildered
eyes at his sister. One of the girls tried to laugh, but there was
something in the insane lightness of his eyes and the agony of hers
that stifled the ribaldry in its birth. His face was as pale as hers,
a pallor that was accentuated by dark hair, matted impotently over his
forehead. But there was a careless, debonair charm about the fellow
that made him stand out apart from the other revellers.
'Hello, sis!' he muttered, trying to pull himself together. 'My li'l
sister Elise--friends of mine here--forget their names, but jolly good
fellosh--and ladies too; nice li'l ladies'----
'Bravo, Durwent!' cried one of his friends, emitting a dismal howl of
encouragement.
'Dick! Boy-blue!' The breathy intensity of her voice seemed to rouse
some latent manhood in her brother. He stiffened his shoulders and
threw off his two supporting friends--a manoeuvre which enabled
Monsieur Beauchamp to present his trifling bill to the more sober of
the two. 'Why aren't you at Cambridge?'
'Advice of conshul,' he muttered. 'Refushe to answer.' He shook his
head solemnly from side to side.
With a swift gesture she turned to the American. 'This is my brother,'
she said, 'and I know where his rooms are in town. If you will bring
my cloak, I'll get him to my car and take him home.'
Selwyn nodded his understanding. He hardly knew what words he could
speak that might not hurt her.
'Listen, Dick dear,' she said, stepping very close to him and taking
his hand in hers. 'Please don't say anything. Just come with me, and
I'll take you to your rooms.'
Through the befuddled wits of the young fellow came the sound of the
voice that had dominated his childhood. He smelt the freshness of the
long grass in the Roselawn meadows; with his disordered imagination he
heard again the clattering of horses' hoofs on the country-road, and he
saw his sister with her copper-tinted hair flung to the breeze. With a
look of mixed wonder and pain in the yellowish blue of his eyes, he
allowed her to take his arm, and together they went slowly downstairs
and through the throng of diners craning their necks to see, while the
party he had left emitted snorts and howls of contempt.
Selwyn reached the door in time to help the drunken youth into the car,
and then placed the cloak about Elise's shoulders. She put out her
hand.
'Good-night,' she said.
'But you will permit me to come?' he said. 'I could be of assistance.'
'No--no,' she said tensely, 'please--I want to be alone with him. Have
no fear, Mr. Selwyn. Poor old Dick would do anything for me.'
He held her hand in his. 'Miss Durwent,' he said, 'I cannot express
what I mean. But if this makes any difference at all, it is only that
I admire you infinitely more for'----
'No--please--please say nothing more,' she cried with a sound of pain
in her voice.
'But may I come and see you again?'
She withdrew her hand and pressed it against her brow.
'Yes. I--I don't know. Good-night. Please don't say any more.' The
words ended in a choking, tearless sob. She stepped into the car, and
with no further sign to him threw in the clutch and started away.
Huddled in the corner, his pale face glistening in the lamplight of the
street, the Honourable Richard Durwent lay in a drunken sleep.