“For let Philosopher and Doctor preach
Of what they will and what they will not,—each
Is but one link in an eternal chain
That none can slip nor break nor over-reach.”
“Crimson nor yellow roses nor
The savour of the mounting sea
Are worth the perfume I adore
That clings to thee.”
“The languid-headed lilies tire,
The changeless waters weary me;
I ache with passionate desire
Of thine and thee.”
“There are but these things in the world—
Thy mouth of fire,
Thy breasts, thy hands, thy hair upcurled
And my desire.”
I
One morning at Julian’s, a student said to Selby, “That is Foxhall
Clifford,” pointing with his brushes at a young man who sat before an
easel, doing nothing.
Selby, shy and nervous, walked over and began: “My name is Selby,—I
have just arrived in Paris, and bring a letter of introduction—” His
voice was lost in the crash of a falling easel, the owner of which
promptly assaulted his neighbour, and for a time the noise of battle
rolled through the studios of MM. Boulanger and Lefebvre, presently
subsiding into a scuffle on the stairs outside. Selby, apprehensive
as to his own reception in the studio, looked at Clifford, who sat
serenely watching the fight.
“It’s a little noisy here,” said Clifford, “but you will like the
fellows when you know them.” His unaffected manner delighted Selby.
Then with a simplicity that won his heart, he presented him to half a
dozen students of as many nationalities. Some were cordial, all were
polite. Even the majestic creature who held the position of Massier,
unbent enough to say: “My friend, when a man speaks French as well as
you do, and is also a friend of Monsieur Clifford, he will have no
trouble in this studio. You expect, of course, to fill the stove until
the next new man comes?”
“Of course.”
“And you don’t mind chaff?”
“No,” replied Selby, who hated it.
Clifford, much amused, put on his hat, saying, “You must expect lots of
it at first.”
Selby placed his own hat on his head and followed him to the door.
As they passed the model stand there was a furious cry of “Chapeau!
Chapeau!” and a student sprang from his easel menacing Selby, who
reddened but looked at Clifford.
“Take off your hat for them,” said the latter, laughing.
A little embarrassed, he turned and saluted the studio.
“Et moi?” cried the model.
“You are charming,” replied Selby, astonished at his own audacity,
but the studio rose as one man, shouting: “He has done well! he’s all
right!” while the model, laughing, kissed her hand to him and cried: “À
demain beau jeune homme!”
All that week Selby worked at the studio unmolested. The French
students christened him “l’Enfant Prodigue,” which was freely
translated, “The Prodigious Infant,” “The Kid,” “Kid Selby,” and
“Kidby.” But the disease soon ran its course from “Kidby” to “Kidney,”
and then naturally to “Tidbits,” where it was arrested by Clifford’s
authority and ultimately relapsed to “Kid.”
Wednesday came, and with it M. Boulanger. For three hours the students
writhed under his biting sarcasms,—among the others Clifford, who
was informed that he knew even less about a work of art than he
did about the art of work. Selby was more fortunate. The professor
examined his drawing in silence, looked at him sharply, and passed on
with a non-committal gesture. He presently departed arm in arm with
Bouguereau, to the relief of Clifford, who was then at liberty to jam
his hat on his head and depart.
The next day he did not appear, and Selby, who had counted on seeing
him at the studio, a thing which he learned later it was vanity to
count on, wandered back to the Latin Quarter alone.
Paris was still strange and new to him. He was vaguely troubled by its
splendour. No tender memories stirred his American bosom at the Place
du Châtelet, nor even by Notre Dame. The Palais de Justice with its
clock and turrets and stalking sentinels in blue and vermilion, the
Place St. Michel with its jumble of omnibuses and ugly water-spitting
griffins, the hill of the Boulevard St. Michel, the tooting trams, the
policemen dawdling two by two, and the table-lined terraces of the Café
Vacehett were nothing to him, as yet, nor did he even know, when he
stepped from the stones of the Place St. Michel to the asphalt of the
Boulevard, that he had crossed the frontier and entered the student
zone,—the famous Latin Quarter.
A cabman hailed him as “bourgeois,” and urged the superiority of
driving over walking. A gamin, with an appearance of great concern,
requested the latest telegraphic news from London, and then, standing
on his head, invited Selby to feats of strength. A pretty girl gave
him a glance from a pair of violet eyes. He did not see her, but she,
catching her own reflection in a window, wondered at the colour burning
in her cheeks. Turning to resume her course, she met Foxhall Clifford,
and hurried on. Clifford, open-mouthed, followed her with his eyes;
then he looked after Selby, who had turned into the Boulevard St.
Germain toward the rue de Seine. Then he examined himself in the shop
window. The result seemed to be unsatisfactory.
“I’m not a beauty,” he mused, “but neither am I a hobgoblin. What
does she mean by blushing at Selby? I never before saw her look at a
fellow in my life,—neither has any one in the Quarter. Anyway, I can
swear she never looks at me, and goodness knows I have done all that
respectful adoration can do.”
He sighed, and murmuring a prophecy concerning the salvation of his
immortal soul swung into that graceful lounge which at all times
characterized Clifford. With no apparent exertion, he overtook Selby at
the corner, and together they crossed the sunlit Boulevard and sat down
under the awning of the Café du Cercle. Clifford bowed to everybody on
the terrace, saying, “You shall meet them all later, but now let me
present you to two of the sights of Paris, Mr. Richard Elliott and Mr.
Stanley Rowden.”
The “sights” looked amiable, and took vermouth.
“You cut the studio to-day,” said Elliott, suddenly turning on
Clifford, who avoided his eyes.
“To commune with nature?” observed Rowden.
“What’s her name this time?” asked Elliott, and Rowden answered
promptly, “Name, Yvette; nationality, Breton—”
“Wrong,” replied Clifford blandly, “it’s Rue Barrée.”
The subject changed instantly, and Selby listened in surprise to names
which were new to him, and eulogies on the latest Prix de Rome winner.
He was delighted to hear opinions boldly expressed and points honestly
debated, although the vehicle was mostly slang, both English and
French. He longed for the time when he too should be plunged into the
strife for fame.
The bells of St. Sulpice struck the hour, and the Palace of the
Luxembourg answered chime on chime. With a glance at the sun, dipping
low in the golden dust behind the Palais Bourbon, they rose, and
turning to the east, crossed the Boulevard St. Germain and sauntered
toward the École de Médecine. At the corner a girl passed them, walking
hurriedly. Clifford smirked, Elliott and Rowden were agitated, but they
all bowed, and, without raising her eyes, she returned their salute.
But Selby, who had lagged behind, fascinated by some gay shop window,
looked up to meet two of the bluest eyes he had ever seen. The eyes
were dropped in an instant, and the young fellow hastened to overtake
the others.
“By Jove,” he said, “do you fellows know I have just seen the prettiest
girl—” An exclamation broke from the trio, gloomy, foreboding, like
the chorus in a Greek play.
“Rue Barrée!”
“What!” cried Selby, bewildered.
The only answer was a vague gesture from Clifford.
Two hours later, during dinner, Clifford turned to Selby and said, “You
want to ask me something; I can tell by the way you fidget about.”
“Yes, I do,” he said, innocently enough; “it’s about that girl. Who is
she?”
In Rowden’s smile there was pity, in Elliott’s bitterness.
“Her name,” said Clifford solemnly, “is unknown to any one, at
least,” he added with much conscientiousness, “as far as I can learn.
Every fellow in the Quarter bows to her and she returns the salute
gravely, but no man has ever been known to obtain more than that. Her
profession, judging from her music-roll, is that of a pianist. Her
residence is in a small and humble street which is kept in a perpetual
process of repair by the city authorities, and from the black letters
painted on the barrier which defends the street from traffic, she has
taken the name by which we know her,—Rue Barrée. Mr. Rowden, in his
imperfect knowledge of the French tongue, called our attention to it as
Roo Barry—”
“I didn’t,” said Rowden hotly.
“And Roo Barry, or Rue Barrée, is to-day an object of adoration to
every rapin in the Quarter—”
“We are not rapins,” corrected Elliott.
“_I_ am not,” returned Clifford, “and I beg to call to your attention,
Selby, that these two gentlemen have at various and apparently
unfortunate moments, offered to lay down life and limb at the feet of
Rue Barrée. The lady possesses a chilling smile which she uses on such
occasions and,” here he became gloomily impressive, “I have been forced
to believe that neither the scholarly grace of my friend Elliott nor
the buxom beauty of my friend Rowden have touched that heart of ice.”
Elliott and Rowden, boiling with indignation, cried out, “And you!”
“I,” said Clifford blandly, “do fear to tread where you rush in.”