The Luxembourg was a blaze of flowers. He walked slowly through the
long avenues of trees, past mossy marbles and old-time columns, and
threading the grove by the bronze lion, came upon the tree-crowned
terrace above the fountain. Below lay the basin shining in the
sunlight. Flowering almonds encircled the terrace, and, in a greater
spiral, groves of chestnuts wound in and out and down among the moist
thickets by the western palace wing. At one end of the avenue of trees
the Observatory rose, its white domes piled up like an eastern mosque;
at the other end stood the heavy palace, with every window-pane ablaze
in the fierce sun of June.
Around the fountain, children and white-capped nurses armed with bamboo
poles were pushing toy boats, whose sails hung limp in the sunshine. A
dark policeman, wearing red epaulettes and a dress sword, watched them
for a while and then went away to remonstrate with a young man who had
unchained his dog. The dog was pleasantly occupied in rubbing grass and
dirt into his back while his legs waved into the air.
The policeman pointed at the dog. He was speechless with indignation.
“Well, Captain,” smiled the young fellow.
“Well, Monsieur Student,” growled the policeman.
“What do you come and complain to me for?”
“If you don’t chain him I’ll take him,” shouted the policeman.
“What’s that to me, mon capitaine?”
“Wha—t! Isn’t that bull-dog yours?”
“If it was, don’t you suppose I’d chain him?”
The officer glared for a moment in silence, then deciding that as he
was a student he was wicked, grabbed at the dog, who promptly dodged.
Around and around the flower-beds they raced, and when the officer
came too near for comfort, the bull-dog cut across a flower-bed, which
perhaps was not playing fair.
The young man was amused, and the dog also seemed to enjoy the exercise.
The policeman noticed this and decided to strike at the fountain-head
of the evil. He stormed up to the student and said, “As the owner of
this public nuisance I arrest you!”
“But,” objected the other, “I disclaim the dog.”
That was a poser. It was useless to attempt to catch the dog until
three gardeners lent a hand, but then the dog simply ran away and
disappeared in the rue de Medici.
The policeman shambled off to find consolation among the white-capped
nurses, and the student, looking at his watch, stood up yawning. Then
catching sight of Hastings, he smiled and bowed. Hastings walked over
to the marble, laughing.
“Why, Clifford,” he said, “I didn’t recognize you.”
“It’s my moustache,” sighed the other. “I sacrificed it to humour a
whim of—of—a friend. What do you think of my dog?”
“Then he is yours?” cried Hastings.
“Of course. It’s a pleasant change for him, this playing tag with
policemen, but he is known now and I’ll have to stop it. He’s gone
home. He always does when the gardeners take a hand. It’s a pity; he’s
fond of rolling on lawns.” Then they chatted for a moment of Hastings’
prospects, and Clifford politely offered to stand his sponsor at the
studio.
“You see, old tabby, I mean Dr. Byram, told me about you before I
met you,” explained Clifford, “and Elliott and I will be glad to do
anything we can.” Then looking at his watch again, he muttered, “I have
just ten minutes to catch the Versailles train; au revoir,” and started
to go, but catching sight of a girl advancing by the fountain, took off
his hat with a confused smile.
“Why are you not at Versailles?” she said, with an almost imperceptible
acknowledgment of Hastings’ presence.
“I—I’m going,” murmured Clifford.
For a moment they faced each other, and then Clifford, very red,
stammered, “With your permission I have the honour of presenting to you
my friend, Monsieur Hastings.”
Hastings bowed low. She smiled very sweetly, but there was something of
malice in the quiet inclination of her small Parisienne head.
“I could have wished,” she said, “that Monsieur Clifford might spare me
more time when he brings with him so charming an American.”
“Must—must I go, Valentine?” began Clifford.
“Certainly,” she replied.
Clifford took his leave with very bad grace, wincing, when she added,
“And give my dearest love to Cécile!” As he disappeared in the rue
d’Assas, the girl turned as if to go, but then suddenly remembering
Hastings, looked at him and shook her head.
“Monsieur Clifford is so perfectly harebrained,” she smiled, “it is
embarrassing sometimes. You have heard, of course, all about his
success at the Salon?”
He looked puzzled and she noticed it.
“You have been to the Salon, of course?”
“Why, no,” he answered, “I only arrived in Paris three days ago.”
She seemed to pay little heed to his explanation, but continued:
“Nobody imagined he had the energy to do anything good, but on
varnishing day the Salon was astonished by the entrance of Monsieur
Clifford, who strolled about as bland as you please with an orchid in
his buttonhole, and a beautiful picture on the line.”
She smiled to herself at the reminiscence, and looked at the fountain.
“Monsieur Bouguereau told me that Monsieur Julian was so astonished
that he only shook hands with Monsieur Clifford in a dazed manner, and
actually forgot to pat him on the back! Fancy,” she continued with much
merriment, “fancy papa Julian forgetting to pat one on the back.”
Hastings, wondering at her acquaintance with the great Bouguereau,
looked at her with respect. “May I ask,” he said diffidently, “whether
you are a pupil of Bouguereau?”
“I?” she said in some surprise. Then she looked at him curiously. Was
he permitting himself the liberty of joking on such short acquaintance?
His pleasant serious face questioned hers.
“Tiens,” she thought, “what a droll man!”
“You surely study art?” he said.
She leaned back on the crooked stick of her parasol, and looked at him.
“Why do you think so?”
“Because you speak as if you did.”
“You are making fun of me,” she said, “and it is not good taste.”
She stopped, confused, as he coloured to the roots of his hair.
“How long have you been in Paris?” she said at length.
“Three days,” he replied gravely.
“But—but—surely you are not a nouveau! You speak French too well!”
Then after a pause, “Really are you a nouveau?”
“I am,” he said.
She sat down on the marble bench lately occupied by Clifford, and
tilting her parasol over her small head looked at him.
“I don’t believe it.”
He felt the compliment, and for a moment hesitated to declare himself
one of the despised. Then mustering up his courage, he told her how new
and green he was, and all with a frankness which made her blue eyes
open very wide and her lips part in the sweetest of smiles.
“You have never seen a studio?”
“Never.”
“Nor a model?”
“No.”
“How funny,” she said solemnly. Then they both laughed.
“And you,” he said, “have seen studios?”
“Hundreds.”
“And models?”
“Millions.”
“And you know Bouguereau?”
“Yes, and Henner, and Constant and Laurens, and Puvis de Chavannes and
Dagnan and Courtois, and—and all the rest of them!”
“And yet you say you are not an artist.”
“Pardon,” she said gravely, “did I say I was not?”
“Won’t you tell me?” he hesitated.
At first she looked at him, shaking her head and smiling, then of a
sudden her eyes fell and she began tracing figures with her parasol in
the gravel at her feet. Hastings had taken a place on the seat, and
now, with his elbows on his knees, sat watching the spray drifting
above the fountain jet. A small boy, dressed as a sailor, stood poking
his yacht and crying, “I won’t go home! I won’t go home!” His nurse
raised her hands to Heaven.
“Just like a little American boy,” thought Hastings, and a pang of
homesickness shot through him.
Presently the nurse captured the boat, and the small boy stood at bay.
“Monsieur René, when you decide to come here you may have your boat.”
The boy backed away scowling.
“Give me my boat, I say,” he cried, “and don’t call me René, for my
name’s Randall and you know it!”
“Hello!” said Hastings,—“Randall?—that’s English.”
“I am American,” announced the boy in perfectly good English, turning
to look at Hastings, “and she’s such a fool she calls me René because
mamma calls me Ranny—”
Here he dodged the exasperated nurse and took up his station behind
Hastings, who laughed, and catching him around the waist lifted him
into his lap.
“One of my countrymen,” he said to the girl beside him. He smiled while
he spoke, but there was a queer feeling in his throat.
“Don’t you see the stars and stripes on my yacht?” demanded Randall.
Sure enough, the American colours hung limply under the nurse’s arm.
“Oh,” cried the girl, “he is charming,” and impulsively stooped to kiss
him, but the infant Randall wriggled out of Hastings’ arms, and his
nurse pounced upon him with an angry glance at the girl.
She reddened and then bit her lips as the nurse, with eyes still fixed
on her, dragged the child away and ostentatiously wiped his lips with
her handkerchief.
Then she stole a look at Hastings and bit her lip again.
“What an ill-tempered woman!” he said. “In America, most nurses are
flattered when people kiss their children.”
For an instant she tipped the parasol to hide her face, then closed it
with a snap and looked at him defiantly.
“Do you think it strange that she objected?”
“Why not?” he said in surprise.
Again she looked at him with quick searching eyes.
His eyes were clear and bright, and he smiled back, repeating, “Why
not?”
“You _are_ droll,” she murmured, bending her head.
“Why?”
But she made no answer, and sat silent, tracing curves and circles in
the dust with her parasol. After a while he said—“I am glad to see
that young people have so much liberty here. I understood that the
French were not at all like us. You know in America—or at least where
I live in Milbrook, girls have every liberty,—go out alone and receive
their friends alone, and I was afraid I should miss it here. But I see
how it is now, and I am glad I was mistaken.”
She raised her eyes to his and kept them there.
He continued pleasantly—“Since I have sat here I have seen a lot of
pretty girls walking alone on the terrace there,—and then _you_ are
alone too. Tell me, for I do not know French customs,—do you have the
liberty of going to the theatre without a chaperone?”
For a long time she studied his face, and then with a trembling smile
said, “Why do you ask me?”
“Because you must know, of course,” he said gaily.
“Yes,” she replied indifferently, “I know.”
He waited for an answer, but getting none, decided that perhaps she had
misunderstood him.
“I hope you don’t think I mean to presume on our short acquaintance,”
he began,—“in fact it is very odd but I don’t know your name. When Mr.
Clifford presented me he only mentioned mine. Is that the custom in
France?”
“It is the custom in the Latin Quarter,” she said with a queer light in
her eyes. Then suddenly she began talking almost feverishly.
“You must know, Monsieur Hastings, that we are all _un peu sans gêne_
here in the Latin Quarter. We are very Bohemian, and etiquette and
ceremony are out of place. It was for that Monsieur Clifford presented
you to me with small ceremony, and left us together with less,—only
for that, and I am his friend, and I have many friends in the Latin
Quarter, and we all know each other very well—and I am not studying
art, but—but—”
“But what?” he said, bewildered.
“I shall not tell you,—it is a secret,” she said with an uncertain
smile. On both cheeks a pink spot was burning, and her eyes were very
bright.
Then in a moment her face fell. “Do you know Monsieur Clifford very
intimately?”
“Not very.”
After a while she turned to him, grave and a little pale.
“My name is Valentine—Valentine Tissot. Might—might I ask a service
of you on such very short acquaintance?”
“Oh,” he cried, “I should be honoured.”
“It is only this,” she said gently, “it is not much. Promise me not to
speak to Monsieur Clifford about me. Promise me that you will speak to
no one about me.”
“I promise,” he said, greatly puzzled.
She laughed nervously. “I wish to remain a mystery. It is a caprice.”
“But,” he began, “I had wished, I had hoped that you might give
Monsieur Clifford permission to bring me, to present me at your house.”
“My—my house!” she repeated.
“I mean, where you live, in fact, to present me to your family.”
The change in the girl’s face shocked him.
“I beg your pardon,” he cried, “I have hurt you.”
And as quick as a flash she understood him because she was a woman.
“My parents are dead,” she said.
Presently he began again, very gently.
“Would it displease you if I beg you to receive me? It is the custom?”
“I cannot,” she answered. Then glancing up at him, “I am sorry; I
should like to; but believe me. I cannot.”
He bowed seriously and looked vaguely uneasy.
“It isn’t because I don’t wish to. I—I like you; you are very kind to
me.”
“Kind?” he cried, surprised and puzzled.
“I like you,” she said slowly, “and we will see each other sometimes if
you will.”
“At friends’ houses.”
“No, not at friends’ houses.”
“Where?”
“Here,” she said with defiant eyes.
“Why,” he cried, “in Paris you are much more liberal in your views than
we are.”
She looked at him curiously.
“Yes, we are very Bohemian.”
“I think it is charming,” he declared.
“You see, we shall be in the best of society,” she ventured timidly,
with a pretty gesture toward the statues of the dead queens, ranged in
stately ranks above the terrace.
He looked at her, delighted, and she brightened at the success of her
innocent little pleasantry.
“Indeed,” she smiled, “I shall be well chaperoned, because you see
we are under the protection of the gods themselves; look, there are
Apollo, and Juno, and Venus, on their pedestals,” counting them on her
small gloved fingers, “and Ceres, Hercules, and—but I can’t make out—”
Hastings turned to look up at the winged god under whose shadow they
were seated.
“Why, it’s Love,” he said.