"Ah!" exclaimed de Fronsac, in an impassioned quaver, "is that not
life? To all of us there is the unattainable--to you, to me!"
"To you?" she murmured. Her eyes were transcendental. Admiration and
alarm tore him in halves.
"In truth," he gasped, "I am the most miserable of men! What is genius,
what is fame, when one is lonely and unloved?"
She moved impetuously closer--so close that the perfume of her hair
intoxicated him. His heart seemed to knock against his ribs, and he
felt the perspiration burst out on his brow. For an instant he
hesitated--on the edge of his grave, he thought. Then he dropped her
hand, and backed from her. "But why should I bore you with my griefs?"
he stammered. "Au revoir, mademoiselle!"
Outside the stage door he gave thanks for his self-control. Also, pale
with the crisis, he registered an oath not to approach her again.
Meanwhile the expatriated Pitou had remained disconsolate. Though the
people at the Hague spoke French, they said foreign things to him in
it. He missed Montmartre--the interests of home. While he waxed
eloquent to customers on the tone of pianos, or the excellence of rival
composers' melodies, he was envying Florozonde in Paris. Florozonde,
whom he had created, obsessed the young man. In the evening he read
about her at Van der Pyl's; on Sundays, when the train carried him to
drink beer at Scheveningen, he read about her in the Kurhaus. And then
the unexpected happened. In this way:
Pitou was discharged.
Few things could have surprised him more, and, to tell the truth, few
things could have troubled him less. "It is better to starve in Paris
than grow fat in Holland," he observed. He jingled his capital in his
trouser-pocket, in fancy savoured his dinner cooking at the Café du Bel
Avenir, and sped from the piano shop as if it had been on fire.
The clock pointed to a quarter to six as Nicolas Pitou, composer,
emerged from the gare du Nord, and lightly swinging the valise that
contained his wardrobe, proceeded to the rue des Trois Frères. Never
had it looked dirtier, or sweeter. He threw himself on Tricotrin's
neck; embraced the concierge--which took her breath away, since she was
ill-favoured and most disagreeable; fared sumptuously for one franc
fifty at the Café du Bel Avenir--where he narrated adventures abroad
that surpassed de Rougemont's; and went to La Coupole.
And there, jostled by the crowd, the poor fellow looked across the
theatre at the triumphant woman he had invented--and fell in love with
her.
One would have said there was more than the width of a theatre between
them--one would have said the distance was interminable. Who in the
audience could suspect that Florozonde would have been unknown but for
a boy in the Promenoir?
Yes, he fell in love--with her beauty, her grace--perhaps also with the
circumstances. The theatre rang with plaudits; the curtain hid her; and
he went out, dizzy with romance. He could not hope to speak to her
to-night, but he was curious to see her when she left. He decided that on
the morrow he would call upon de Fronsac, whom she doubtless knew now,
and ask him for an introduction. Promising himself this, he reached the
stage door--where de Fronsac, with trembling limbs, stood giving thanks
for his self-control.
"My friend!" cried Pitou enthusiastically, "how rejoiced I am to meet
you!" and nearly wrung his hand off.
"Aïe! Gently!" expostulated de Fronsac, writhing. "Aïe, aïe! I did not
know you loved me so much. So you are back from Sweden, hein?"
"Yes. I have not been there, but why should we argue about geography?
What were you doing as I came up--reciting your poems? By the way, I
have a favour to ask; I want you to introduce me to Florozonde."
"Never!" answered the poet firmly; "I have too much affection for you--
I have just resolved not to see her again myself. Besides, I thought
you knew her in the circus?"
"I never spoke to her there--I simply admired her from the plank. Come,
take me inside, and present me!"
"It is impossible," persisted de Fronsac; "I tell you I will not
venture near her any more. Also, she is coming out--that is her coupé
that you see waiting."
She came out as he spoke, and, affecting not to recognise him, moved
rapidly towards the carriage. But this would not do for Pitou at all.
"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, sweeping his hat nearly to the pavement.
"Yes, well?" she said sharply, turning.
"I have just begged my friend de Fronsac to present me to you, and he
feared you might not pardon his presumption. May I implore you to
pardon mine?"
She smiled. There was the instant in which neither the man nor the
woman knows who will speak next, nor what is to be said--the instant on
which destinies hang. Pitou seized it.
"Mademoiselle, I returned to France only this evening. All the journey
my thought was--to see you as soon as I arrived!"
"Your friend," she said, with a scornful glance towards de Fronsac, who
sauntered gracefully away, "would warn you that you are rash."
"I am not afraid of his warning."
"Are you not afraid of _me_?"
"Afraid only that you will banish me too soon."
"Mon Dieu! then you must be the bravest man in Paris," she said.
"At any rate I am the luckiest for the moment."
It was a delightful change to Florozonde to meet a man who was not
alarmed by her; and it pleased her to show de Fronsac that his
cowardice had not left her inconsolable. She laughed loud enough for
him to hear.
"I ought not to be affording you the luck," she answered. "I have
friends waiting for me at the Café de Paris." "I expected some such
blow," said Pitou. "And how can I suppose you will disappoint your
friends in order to sup with me at the Café du Bel Avenir instead?"
"The Café du--?" She was puzzled.
"Bel Avenir."
"I do not know it."
"Nor would your coachman. We should walk there--and our supper would
cost three francs, wine included."
"Is it an invitation?"
"It is a prayer."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Nicolas Pitou,"
"Of Paris?"
"Of bohemia."
"What do you do in it?"
"Hunger, and make music."
"Unsuccessful?"
"Not to-night!"
"Take me to the Bel Avenir," she said, and sent the carriage away.
De Fronsac, looking back as they departed, was distressed to see the
young man risking his life.
At the Bel Avenir their entrance made a sensation. She removed her
cloak, and Pitou arranged it over two chairs. Then she threw her gloves
out of the way, in the bread-basket; and the waiter and the
proprietress, and all the family, did homage to her toilette.
"Who would have supposed?" she smiled, and her smile forgot to be
mysterious.
"That the restaurant would be so proud?"
"That I should be supping with you in it! Tell me, you had no hope of
this on your journey? It was true about your journey, hein?"
"Ah, really! No, how could I hope? I went round after your dance simply
to see you closer; and then I met de Fronsac, and then--"
"And then you were very cheeky. Answer! Why do I interest you? Because
of what they say of me?"
"Not altogether."
"What else?"
"Because you are so beautiful. Answer! Why did you come to supper with
me? To annoy some other fellow?"
"Not altogether."
"What else?"
"Because you were not frightened of me. Are you sure you are not
frightened? Oh, remember, remember your horrible fate if I should like
you too much!"
"It would be a thumping advertisement for you," said Pitou. "Let me
urge you to try to secure it."
"Reckless boy!" she laughed, "Pour out some more wine. Ah, it is good,
this! it is like old times. The strings of onions on the dear, dirty
walls, and the serviettes that are so nice and damp! It was in
restaurants like this, if my salary was paid, I used to sup on fête
days."
"And if it was not paid?"
"I supped in imagination. My dear, I have had a cigarette for a supper,
and the grass for a bed. I have tramped by the caravan while the stars
faded, and breakfasted on the drum in the tent. And you--on a bench in
the Champs Elysées, hein?"
"It has occurred."
"And you watched the sun rise, and made music, and wished _you_
could rise, too? I must hear your music some day. You shall write me a
dance. Is it agreed?"
"The contract is already stamped," said Pitou.
"I am glad I met you--it is the best supper I have had in Paris. Why
are you calculating the expenses on the back of the bill of fare?"
"I am not. I am composing your dance," said Pitou. "Don't speak for a
minute, it will be sublime! Also it will be a souvenir when you have
gone."
But she did not go for a long while. It was late when they left the
Café du Bel Avenir, still talking--and there was always more to say. By
this time Pitou did not merely love her beauty--he adored the woman. As
for Florozonde, she no longer merely loved his courage--she approved
the man.
Listen: he was young, fervid, and an artist; his proposal was made
before they reached her doorstep, and she consented!
Their attachment was the talk of the town, and everybody waited to hear
that Pitou had killed himself. His name was widely known at last. But
weeks and months went by; Florozonde's protracted season came to an
end; and still he looked radiantly well. Pitou was the most unpopular
man in Paris.
In the rue Dauphine, one day, he met de Fronsac.
"So you are still alive!" snarled the poet.
"Never better," declared Pitou. "It turns out," he added
confidentially, "there was nothing in that story--it was all fudge."
"Evidently! I must congratulate you," said de Fronsac, looking
bomb-shells.