About five o’clock that afternoon, the little sad-eyed woman who fills
the position of concierge at the Hôtel du Sénat held up her hands in
amazement to see a wagon-load of flower-bearing shrubs draw up before
the doorway. She called Joseph, the intemperate garçon, who, while
calculating the value of the flowers in _petits verres_, gloomily
disclaimed any knowledge as to their destination.
“_Voyons_,” said the little concierge, “_cherchons la femme_!”
“You?” he suggested.
The little woman stood a moment pensive and then sighed. Joseph
caressed his nose, a nose which for gaudiness could vie with any floral
display.
Then the gardener came in, hat in hand, and a few minutes later Selby
stood in the middle of his room, his coat off, his shirt-sleeves rolled
up. The chamber originally contained, besides the furniture, about two
square feet of walking room, and now this was occupied by a cactus. The
bed groaned under crates of pansies, lilies and heliotrope, the lounge
was covered with hyacinths and tulips, and the washstand supported a
species of young tree warranted to bear flowers at some time or other.
Clifford came in a little later, fell over a box of sweet peas, swore
a little, apologized, and then, as the full splendour of the floral
_fête_ burst upon him, sat down in astonishment upon a geranium. The
geranium was a wreck, but Selby said, “Don’t mind,” and glared at the
cactus.
“Are you going to give a ball?” demanded Clifford.
“N—no,—I’m very fond of flowers,” said Selby, but the statement
lacked enthusiasm.
“I should imagine so.” Then, after a silence, “That’s a fine cactus.”
Selby contemplated the cactus, touched it with the air of a
connoisseur, and pricked his thumb.
Clifford poked a pansy with his stick. Then Joseph came in with the
bill, announcing the sum total in a loud voice, partly to impress
Clifford, partly to intimidate Selby into disgorging a _pourboire_
which he would share, if he chose, with the gardener. Clifford tried
to pretend that he had not heard, while Selby paid bill and tribute
without a murmur. Then he lounged back into the room with an attempt
at indifference which failed entirely when he tore his trousers on the
cactus.
Clifford made some commonplace remark, lighted a cigarette and looked
out of the window to give Selby a chance. Selby tried to take it, but
getting as far as—“Yes, spring is here at last,” froze solid. He
looked at the back of Clifford’s head. It expressed volumes. Those
little perked-up ears seemed tingling with suppressed glee. He made a
desperate effort to master the situation, and jumped up to reach for
some Russian cigarettes as an incentive to conversation, but was foiled
by the cactus, to whom again he fell a prey. The last straw was added.
“Damn the cactus.” This observation was wrung from Selby against his
will,—against his own instinct of self-preservation, but the thorns on
the cactus were long and sharp, and at their repeated prick his pent-up
wrath escaped. It was too late now; it was done, and Clifford had
wheeled around.
“See here, Selby, why the deuce did you buy those flowers?”
“I’m fond of them,” said Selby.
“What are you going to do with them? You can’t sleep here.”
“I could, if you’d help me take the pansies off the bed.”
“Where can you put them?”
“Couldn’t I give them to the concierge?”
As soon as he said it he regretted it. What in Heaven’s name would
Clifford think of him! He had heard the amount of the bill. Would he
believe that he had invested in these luxuries as a timid declaration
to his concierge? And would the Latin Quarter comment upon it in
their own brutal fashion? He dreaded ridicule and he knew Clifford’s
reputation.
Then somebody knocked.
Selby looked at Clifford with a hunted expression which touched
that young man’s heart. It was a confession and at the same time a
supplication. Clifford jumped up, threaded his way through the floral
labyrinth, and putting an eye to the crack of the door, said, “Who the
devil is it?”
This graceful style of reception is indigenous to the Quarter.
“It’s Elliott,” he said, looking back, “and Rowden too, and their
bulldogs.” Then he addressed them through the crack.
“Sit down on the stairs; Selby and I are coming out directly.”
Discretion is a virtue. The Latin Quarter possesses few, and discretion
seldom figures on the list. They sat down and began to whistle.
Presently Rowden called out, “I smell flowers. They feast within!”
“You ought to know Selby better than that,” growled Clifford behind the
door, while the other hurriedly exchanged his torn trousers for others.
“_We_ know Selby,” said Elliott with emphasis.
“Yes,” said Rowden, “he gives receptions with floral decorations and
invites Clifford, while we sit on the stairs.”
“Yes, while the youth and beauty of the Quarter revel,” suggested
Rowden; then, with sudden misgiving; “Is Odette there?”
“See here,” demanded Elliott, “is Colette there?”
Then he raised his voice in a plaintive howl, “Are you there, Colette,
while I’m kicking my heels on these tiles?”
“Clifford is capable of anything,” said Rowden; “his nature is soured
since Rue Barrée sat on him.”
Elliott raised his voice: “I say, you fellows, we saw some flowers
carried into Rue Barrée’s house at noon.”
“Posies and roses,” specified Rowden.
“Probably for her,” added Elliott, caressing his bulldog.
Clifford turned with sudden suspicion upon Selby. The latter hummed
a tune, selected a pair of gloves and, choosing a dozen cigarettes,
placed them in a case. Then walking over to the cactus, he deliberately
detached a blossom, drew it through his buttonhole, and picking up
hat and stick, smiled upon Clifford, at which the latter was mightily
troubled.