A MONTH later--about the beginning of June--Paul had entered the Ecole
des Beaux Arts as a student of architecture. Not to have succeeded in
tearing himself away would have been to lose all self-respect. He had
determined to justify himself to himself, to prove he had a will he need
not be ashamed of. Thus it was that his astonished mother and a
favourite uncle--Celia's guardian--who both had a good deal to say about
Paris and its temptations, expended their speech to no purpose.
Paul entered into his student life with zest, working hard and
conscientiously in a very methodical fashion. He allowed himself,
however, plenty of time for enjoying the city; going to the theatres,
and peeping into all the show places, and hunting up curios at old
shops, and lounging and playing billiards at the cafes, and drinking
beer _al fresco_ on the boulevards. Occasionally he rode in the Bois, or
made excursions up and down the Seine, and into the neighbouring
country--mostly, of course, in company, for he soon struck acquaintance
with some of the men, many of whom he found had to manage on very little
money. So he said nothing about his own easy circumstances, rather
enjoying the two-franc seat at the theatre and the fifteen-centime ride
on the tops of tramcars. When he wanted expensive amusement he went
alone.
No one he knew had so far mentioned Miss Brooke's name, and though he
was often on the point of asking one or other of his new friends about
her, some instinct invariably restrained him. He had nurtured his love
for her, all his solitary thought turning to her, and it seemed a sort
of sacrilege to make even the most innocent inquiry about her in her
absence. This waiting for her in silence was part of the romance.
He understood the American girl a little better now, fellow-students
having introduced him to girl friends--that is to say, he was better
acquainted with her and her ways. And he was satisfied that whatever
appeared right to Miss Brooke, no matter how much it violated his own
notions, must be right absolutely. With her the fact of riches or
poverty was reduced to a mere indifferent background, against which her
personality stood out in all its charm and dignity. A girl like her
could make her home in one room, and yet make you welcome in it with as
much ease and grace as any lady in a fine drawing-room.
Time passed, and still nobody, by any chance, referred to Miss Brooke.
This was not surprising, for Paris was large, and American girl students
were plentiful and scattered all over it. Moreover, a girl who had gone
home months before was likely to be soon forgotten. Pemberton he had
never met, but he had seen him just once from the top of a tramcar. The
hot weather came on and Paul passed a delicious month at Montmorency in
company with one of the men. After his return he settled to work again,
and the months went by almost without his keeping count of them--for,
Miss Brooke having mentioned a year as the time she was likely to remain
in America, he would not look for her till the spring came on again. In
the meanwhile he inflicted much misery on himself by speculating as to
whether home and home ties might not have absorbed for good so ideal and
affectionate a girl as he conceived her to be, especially after so long
a residence abroad. But deep down was implanted in him an unswerving
faith in her coming, and, though the manner of their meeting had been
left so undefined, he was certain there would be no difficulty when the
time came, and that his life after that would be one long fairy tale.
The spring came at last, and with it _vernissage_ at the Salon. Paul
knew one or two men who were exhibiting, so he decided to pass his
afternoon at the Palais de l'Industrie. The tens of thousands that
thronged the galleries made picture-inspection difficult and tedious;
but the crowd itself presented many compensating features of interest.
Paul was hoping, too, he might see Miss Brooke there, as it was not
impossible she might by now be back in Paris. Occasionally he fancied a
girl resembled Miss Brooke, but when, after infinite striving, he had
got close to his quarry, he found the points of likeness were but few.
Once or twice the fair one eluded his pursuit, and got irretrievably
swallowed up.
On his going to _dejeuner_ the next day, at a little restaurant close by
the school, where he was in the habit of dropping in at mid-day--he
dined in the evening in state at a more pretentious establishment--there
sat Miss Brooke herself at a table at the end of the room, her face
towards the door. None of the usual clients had yet arrived, as it was a
trifle early, and _mademoiselle_ was distributing the newly-written
menus among the various tables. In any case he must have caught sight of
her at once, as the cluster of sharp red and black wings that shot up
from one side of the little toque, which just seemed to rest on her
hair, drew the eye at once. Her face showed glowing and bright, set
above the dark mass of her stuff dress. As the door swung to she looked
up from the menu she had been studying.
"How do you do, Mr. Middleton? You seem real scared to see me."
Her greeting seemed as calm and laughing as if they had but parted the
day before, and Paul felt some vague dissatisfaction with it--he did not
quite know why. It seemed, somehow, as if there were no romance between
them at all, as if they were the merest acquaintances. Perhaps it was
that the pent-up emotion of months of waiting needed more dramatic
expression than this commonplace situation afforded.
He asked permission, and sat down opposite her, scarcely knowing what
to say to her first.
"Can you tell me whether _cervelle de veau_ is anything good to eat?
It's the only unfamiliar thing on the menu, and my only hope."
He took the sheet of paper as she held it to him, but found the dish was
equally unknown to him. They appealed to _mademoiselle_, who informed
them, "_C'est dans la tete._"
"I wonder if she means 'brains.' I was hoping not to have to translate
_cervelle_ literally."
"I am not afraid of experimenting," suggested Paul.
"For my benefit. That is real kind of you. Whenever I've been curious
about things with strange names, I've always had to order them, which is
rather an expensive way of increasing one's French vocabulary."
When the dish came, neither Paul nor Miss Brooke liked the curly look of
it, so they fell back on _bifteck_, salad, cheese, and fruit.
"And so you are here after all," said Miss Brooke, musingly.
"Why? Did you think I was not serious about coming?"
"I didn't mean that. My expression was a sort of acknowledgment to
myself that I had found you--or rather, to be proper, that you had found
me."
His heart fairly leaped with pleasure. She had certainly then thought of
him during the past months!
"I must thank the happy chance that led you in here," he murmured,
feeling his emotion at length control him.
"Happy chance!" She charmed his ear with a ripple of laughter. "Why,
I've exhausted almost every restaurant near the Beaux Arts, that being
the most feminine way of pursuing you. The mathematical theory of
probability--college learning _does_ prove useful at times--told me the
happening of the event, that is, of the event I wanted to happen, was a
certainty. For some particular restaurant or other is a habit which
everybody contracts; it is, indeed, the first vice one picks up in
Paris. And it's a habit that can't be broken. Day after day you
revolt--if you're a man, you swear--against the _cuisine_. Things are
becoming intolerable. Time was when everything was perfect, when the
menu was varied, and always included your favourite dishes; when one
could eat the salad without too close an inspection of the under-side of
the leaves, and when the wine at eighty centimes a litre didn't turn
blue or taste like ink. To-day is, most certainly, the last time you
will ever set foot in the place. But the morrow comes, and at _dejeuner_
time your feet bear you there again, and you are so meek about it that
you scarcely protest."
"That is just my experience," he confessed.
"I was sure it would be. That is what enabled me to calculate so
infallibly. You see I speak my thoughts quite unashamed. Paris makes one
so frightfully immodest."
"I'm glad, then, I didn't take it into my head to apply the same method
in my search for you. Not only would it have upset your mathematics,
but, having no particular landmark, I might have wandered on forever.
All the same, I have kept my eyes open. In fact, I was hoping to see you
yesterday at _vernissage_."
"Were you there?" she exclaimed. "What a silly question!" she added
immediately, laughing. "What I meant to say was _I_ was there. But, of
course, it was quite impossible to find any one in such a crowd." Paul
noticed with pleasure that the conversation on both sides assumed the
fact of a positive rendezvous between them. Miss Brooke went on to
chatter about the _vernissage_.
"I see this morning's _Herald_ puts us down as a low lot. Its reporter
must be very _exigeant_. In spite of our presence he insists the models
gave the _ton_ to the assembly."
"Were there many models present?" asked Paul. "I don't remember seeing
any."
"There were quite enough of them to be noticeable. Perhaps you thought
they were all countesses."
"I did have some such idea," he admitted. "I didn't know models dressed
like countesses."
"They do when their artists take them to _vernissage_. Which affords
food for reflection."
Paul felt slightly embarrassed and did not answer.
"And now," resumed Miss Brooke, contemplating her _coeur a la creme_,
"if I may venture to intrude on your reflections, will you please pass
me the sugar?"
"Is it long since you returned?" he inquired soon. "I was going to ask
you before, only the _cervelle_ puzzle arose and somehow I forgot."
"Just three weeks," she replied. "Poppa had his bigger salary, and as it
was getting tedious seeing couples married I made haste to come over
again. You can't imagine how impatient I was to get back in time for
_vernissage_. It gives such a fillip to your ambitions to see crowds
round your friends' pictures, and to read about them in the papers; it
makes you realise your own powers, and sets you wondering why _you_
hadn't dared to send something in. When you are tired of lamenting your
folly you begin to admire your modesty, and of course you remember that
modesty is the mark of true genius."
"And you had all those thoughts?"
"Oh, no! They are the thoughts I should have had if I hadn't been busy
admiring the dresses. The pictures must wait--I shall be going again to
see those, perhaps two or three times. Most students do. One is supposed
to learn from them, but in practice one only criticises. The boys say
everything is rotten. We girls pretend to agree with them, only, of
course, it wouldn't be proper to express our opinion as violently as
that. Do you dine here as well?"
"I dine as the whim takes me. You see I haven't yet acquired a habit for
evening wear. Not every Bohemian can make that boast."
Miss Brooke laughed. "Bohemians mostly acquire bad habits for evening
wear. But I'm going to cut Bohemianism altogether so far as my meals are
concerned, and settle down in a _pension_. Two or three of the girls
live there, and they report well of it. I also made friends while
crossing with a girl who was being consigned there."
He asked whether she had had a good crossing, and whether she were a
good sailor. Miss Brooke replied that the weather had been perfect the
whole way and she had enjoyed herself, and she proceeded to entertain
him by relating incidents of the passage. Meanwhile the little
restaurant had filled, and was nearly empty again. They rose at last and
settled their _additions_. Paul then noticed that Miss Brooke had her
painting materials with her, and insisted on carrying them so far as her
school. They stepped out into the sunshine, and became aware how fine a
day it was.
"The afternoon almost tempts me to cut the Beaux Arts," said Paul.
"By the way, how are you getting on there?" asked Miss Brooke.
He was only too eager to tell her of his progress, and to discuss his
chances of a medal. He also gave her an account of the new friends he
had made--he liked the American "boys" very much, was indebted to them
for endless kindnesses.
"Why didn't you look up Charlie?" she asked suddenly.
"How could I?" he asked, annoyed at the mention of the man's name,
reminding him, as it did, of the apparent and inexplicable intimacy
between the two, and also telling him they must already have seen each
other.
"You could easily have found him if you had inquired among the boys. He
lives in his studio and he has scarcely left it the whole time I've been
away. By the way, you remember Katharine, don't you? She's married
again. To her editor this time. This is my school."
They came to a standstill and faced each other to say "good-bye."
"I scarcely feel like working this afternoon," observed Miss Brooke. "My
laziness really overpowers my ambition. Did you not say something
before, Mr. Middleton, about your being tempted to cut the Beaux Arts?
Do be nice and yield to that temptation. I want to give way to mine so
badly, but being a woman I daren't do anything unless somebody else is
doing it at the same time."
Paul's fibres of resistance did not relax gradually; they collapsed all
at once.
"Well," he laughed. "I've been so good all along, I think I've earned
the right to play truant for once."
"Mr. Middleton! That's bringing morality into it again, and I wanted to
indulge in undiluted wickedness. You have to carry my box as I'm
sufficiently occupied in holding up my skirts. I'll give you some tea
afterwards as a reward."
They strolled slowly in the sunshine, making for the river and crossing
by the Pont des Arts; and passed through the Jardins des Tuileries,
where the freshness of the greens, and the playing fountains, and the
leafy trees, and the pretty children, and the odour of lilac proclaimed
the spring. They sauntered across the Place de la Concorde and into the
shady avenues of the Champs Elysees, where huge spots of sunlight
freckled the ground; talking the while of the life of the city, of the
foreign elements, of the Old and New Salons. Miss Brooke explained how
her own day was spent. Seven o'clock in the morning found her punctually
at school, and she worked two hours before taking her _cafe au lait_,
afterwards continuing till midday. In the afternoon she usually copied
and studied at the Louvre or Luxembourg. Such had been the routine of
her work before, and she had had no difficulty in falling into it again.
She could not hope to exhibit even next year, as she could neither
afford a studio nor the expense of models. At the present she was living
with some friends at their _appartement_ in the Avenue de Wagram. After
their departure at the end of May she would enter into the _pension_,
which was within a stone's throw of her school.
Paul, eagerly listening to all these details, was only conscious in a
far-off way of the eternal roll of smart carriages in the roadway, or of
the multitude of children playing under the trees in charge of _bonnes_,
whilst the mammas sat about on chairs, chatting, or with books or
needlework. Onward the pair strolled past the Arc de Triomphe and down
the great Avenue into the Bois de Boulogne, only stopping to rest by the
laughing lake. Here the appeal of the water and the moored boats soon
became irresistible. They fleeted the remainder of the afternoon
ideally, till Miss Brooke announced it was time to repair to the Avenue
de Wagram. Paul was afraid of her friends--he was scarcely presentable.
"Be calm, my friend," she reassured him. "We shall have a nice little
tea all to ourselves. The others have gone to Versailles and are only
coming back in time to dine. We dine _chez nous_, as we have a _bonne_
who cooks. Of course I can't be in to _dejeuner_, as the distance is too
great from my school. You must come one evening and I'll present you."
He thanked her for the suggestion, glad to welcome every arrangement
that promised in any way to throw their lives together, for he had been
not a little afraid he might not after all have the opportunity of
seeing very much of her.
As Miss Brooke made the tea in the pretty drawing room of the cosy flat,
Paul began to realise with surprise how much progress their friendship
had made in that one day. His dream had turned out true! He was so happy
that the consciousness of all but the moment faded from him. London, his
mother, Celia, and even chess were for the time absolutely non-existent.
"Charlie," too, was forgotten, as the obnoxious name had not again
dropped from Miss Brooke's lips.
He took his leave at last, filled with joy by Miss Brooke's promise to
run in on the morrow to _dejeuner_ at the same little restaurant. But as
he turned from the broad stairway into the hall, he almost collided in
his pre-occupation with a tall well-dressed man. Both murmured
"_Pardon!_" and pursued their ways. Paul had seen the other's face, but
he had taken several steps forward before the features sank into his
brain, and he realised with a great shock they were those of "Charlie."