Ah, the song, that song, how they have sought it!--on the Butte, and in
the Bois, and round the Halles. Often they have tramped Paris till
daybreak, meditating the great chance for Paulette. And at last the
poet has discovered it: for each verse a different phase of life, but
through it all, the pursuit of gaiety, the fever of the dance--the
gaiety of youth, the gaiety of dotage, the gaiety of despair! It should
be the song of the pleasure-seekers--the voices of Paris when the lamps
are lit.
Monsieur, if we sat 'ere in the restaurant until it closed, I could not
describe to you how passionately Tricotrin, the devoted Tricotrin,
worked for her. He has studied her without cease; he has studied her
attitudes, her expressions. He has taken his lyric as if it were
material and cut it to her figure; he has taken it as if it were
plaster, and moulded it upon her mannerisms. There was not a
_moue_ that she made, not a pretty trick that she had, not a word
that she liked to sing for which he did not provide an opportunity. At
the last line, when the pen fell from his fingers, he shouted to Pitou,
"Comrade, be brave--I have won her!"
And Pitou? Monsieur, if we sat 'ere till they prepared the tables for
déjeuner to-morrow, I could not describe to you how passionately Pitou,
the devoted Pitou, worked that she might have a grand popularity by his
music. At dawn, when he has found that _strepitoso_ passage, which
is the hurrying of the feet, he wakened the poet and cried, "Mon ami, I
pity you--she is mine!" It was the souls of two men when it was
finished, that comic song they made for her! It was the song the organ
has ground out--"Partant pour le Moulin."
And then they rehearsed it, the three of them, over and over, inventing
always new effects. And then the night for the song is arrived. It has
rained all day, and they have walked together in the rain--the singer,
and the men who loved her, both--to the little café-concert where she
would appear.
They tremble in the room, among the crowd, Pitou and Tricotrin; they
are agitated. There are others who sing--it says nothing to them. In
the room, in the Future, there is only Paulette!
It is very hot in the café-concert, and there is too much noise. At
last they ask her: "Is she nervous?" She shakes her head: "Mais non!"
She smiles to them.
Attend! It is her turn. Ouf; but it is hot in the café-concert, and
there is too much noise! She mounts the platform. The audience are
careless; it continues, the jingle of the glasses, the hum of talk. She
begins. Beneath the table Tricotrin has gripped the hand of Pitou.
Wait! Regard the crowd that look at her! The glasses are silent, now,
hein? The talk has stopped. To a great actress is come her chance.
There is _not_ too much noise in the café-concert!
But, when she finished! What an uproar! Never will she forget it. A
thousand times she has told the story, how it was written--the song--
and how it made her famous. Before two weeks she was the attraction of
the Ambassadeurs, and all Paris has raved of Paulette Fleury.
Tricotrin and Pitou were mad with joy. Certainly Paris did not rave of
Pitou nor Tricotrin--there have not been many that remembered who wrote
the song; and it earned no money for them, either, because it was hers
--the gift of their love. Still, they were enraptured. To both of them
she owed equally, and more than ever it was a question which would be
the happy man.
Listen! When they are gone to call on her one afternoon she was not at
'ome. What had happened? I shall tell you. There was a noodle, rich--
what you call a "Johnnie in the Stalls"--who became infatuated with her
at the Ambassadeurs. He whistled "Partant pour le Moulin" all the days,
and went to hear it all the nights. Well, she was not at 'ome because
she had married him. Absolutely they were married! Her lovers have been
told it at the door.
What a moment! Figure yourself what they have suffered, both! They had
worshipped her, they had made sacrifices for her, they had created for
her her grand success; and, as a consequence of that song, she was the
wife of the "Johnnie in the Stalls"!
* * * * *
Far down the street, but yet distinct, the organ revived the tune
again. My Frenchman shuddered, and got up.
"I cannot support it," he murmured. "You understand? The associations
are too pathetic."
"They must be harrowing," I said. "Before you go, there is one thing I
should like to ask you, if I may. Have I had the honour of meeting
monsieur Tricotrin, or monsieur Pitou?"
He stroked his hat, and gazed at me in sad surprise. "Ah, but neither,
monsieur," he groaned. "The associations are much more 'arrowing than
that--I was the 'Johnnie in the Stalls'!"