“Et tout les jours passés dans la tristesse
Nous sont comptés comme des jours heureux!”
I
The street is not fashionable, neither is it shabby. It is a pariah
among streets—a street without a Quarter. It is generally understood
to lie outside the pale of the aristocratic Avenue de l’Observatoire.
The students of the Montparnasse Quarter consider it swell and will
have none of it. The Latin Quarter, from the Luxembourg, its northern
frontier, sneers at its respectability and regards with disfavour the
correctly costumed students who haunt it. Few strangers go into it. At
times, however, the Latin Quarter students use it as a thoroughfare
between the rue de Rennes and the Bullier, but except for that and the
weekly afternoon visits of parents and guardians to the Convent near
the rue Vavin, the street of Our Lady of the Fields is as quiet as a
Passy boulevard. Perhaps the most respectable portion lies between the
rue de la Grande Chaumière and the rue Vavin, at least this was the
conclusion arrived at by the Reverend Joel Byram, as he rambled through
it with Hastings in charge. To Hastings the street looked pleasant in
the bright June weather, and he had begun to hope for its selection
when the Reverend Byram shied violently at the cross on the Convent
opposite.
“Jesuits,” he muttered.
“Well,” said Hastings wearily, “I imagine we won’t find anything
better. You say yourself that vice is triumphant in Paris, and it seems
to me that in every street we find Jesuits or something worse.”
After a moment he repeated, “Or something worse, which of course I
would not notice except for your kindness in warning me.”
Dr. Byram sucked in his lips and looked about him. He was impressed
by the evident respectability of the surroundings. Then frowning at
the Convent he took Hastings’ arm and shuffled across the street to an
iron gateway which bore the number 201 _bis_ painted in white on a blue
ground. Below this was a notice printed in English:
1. For Porter please oppress once.
2. For Servant please oppress twice.
3. For Parlour please oppress thrice.
Hastings touched the electric button three times, and they were ushered
through the garden and into the parlour by a trim maid. The dining-room
door, just beyond, was open, and from the table in plain view a stout
woman hastily arose and came toward them. Hastings caught a glimpse
of a young man with a big head and several snuffy old gentlemen at
breakfast, before the door closed and the stout woman waddled into the
room, bringing with her an aroma of coffee and a black poodle.
“It ees a plaisir to you receive!” she cried. “Monsieur is Anglish? No?
Americain? Off course. My pension it ees for Americains surtout. Here
all spik Angleesh, c’est à dire, ze personnel; ze sairvants do spik,
plus ou moins, a little. I am happy to have you comme pensionnaires—”
“Madame,” began Dr. Byram, but was cut short again.
“Ah, yess, I know, ah! mon Dieu! you do not spik Frainch but you have
come to lairne! My husband does spik Frainch wiss ze pensionnaires. We
have at ze moment a family Americaine who learn of my husband Frainch—”
Here the poodle growled at Dr. Byram and was promptly cuffed by his
mistress.
“Veux tu!” she cried, with a slap, “veux tu! Oh! le vilain, oh! le
vilain!”
“Mais, madame,” said Hastings, smiling, “il n’a pas l’air très féroce.”
The poodle fled, and his mistress cried, “Ah, ze accent charming! He
does spik already Frainch like a Parisien young gentleman!”
Then Dr. Byram managed to get in a word or two and gathered more or
less information with regard to prices.
“It ees a pension serieux; my clientèle ees of ze best, indeed a
pension de famille where one ees at ’ome.”
Then they went upstairs to examine Hastings’ future quarters, test
the bed-springs and arrange for the weekly towel allowance. Dr. Byram
appeared satisfied.
Madame Marotte accompanied them to the door and rang for the maid, but
as Hastings stepped out into the gravel walk, his guide and mentor
paused a moment and fixed Madame with his watery eyes.
“You understand,” he said, “that he is a youth of most careful bringing
up, and his character and morals are without a stain. He is young and
has never been abroad, never even seen a large city, and his parents
have requested me, as an old family friend living in Paris, to see
that he is placed under good influences. He is to study art, but on no
account would his parents wish him to live in the Latin Quarter if they
knew of the immorality which is rife there.”
A sound like the click of a latch interrupted him and he raised his
eyes, but not in time to see the maid slap the big-headed young man
behind the parlour-door.
Madame coughed, cast a deadly glance behind her and then beamed on Dr.
Byram.
“It ees well zat he come here. The pension more serious, il n’en existe
pas, eet ees not any!” she announced with conviction.
So, as there was nothing more to add, Dr. Byram joined Hastings at the
gate.
“I trust,” he said, eyeing the Convent, “that you will make no
acquaintances among Jesuits!”
Hastings looked at the Convent until a pretty girl passed before the
gray façade, and then he looked at her. A young fellow with a paint-box
and canvas came swinging along, stopped before the pretty girl, said
something during a brief but vigorous handshake at which they both
laughed, and he went his way, calling back, “À demain Valentine!” as in
the same breath she cried, “À demain!”
“Valentine,” thought Hastings, “what a quaint name;” and he started to
follow the Reverend Joel Byram, who was shuffling towards the nearest
tramway station.