The creators of Eau d'Enfer invited designs for a poster calling the
attention of the world to their liqueur's incomparable qualities. It
occurred to Théodose Goujaud that this was a first-class opportunity to
demonstrate his genius.
For an article with such a glistening name it was obvious that a poster
must be flamboyant--one could not advertise a "Water of Hell" by a
picture of a village maiden plucking cowslips--and Goujaud passed
wakeful nights devising a sketch worthy of the subject. He decided at
last upon a radiant brunette sharing a bottle of the liqueur with his
Satanic Majesty while she sat on his knee.
But where was the girl to be found? Though his acquaintance with the
models of Paris was extensive, he could think of none with a face to
satisfy him. One girl's arms wreathed themselves before his mind,
another girl's feet were desirable, but the face, which was of supreme
importance, eluded his most frenzied search.
"Mon Dieu," groaned Goujaud, "here I am projecting a poster that would
conquer Paris, and my scheme is frustrated by the fact that Nature
fails to produce women equal to the heights of my art! It is such
misfortunes as this that support the Morgue."
"I recommend you to travel," said Tricotrin; "a tour in the East might
yield your heart's desire."
"It's a valuable suggestion," rejoined Goujaud; "I should like a couple
of new shirts also, but I lack the money to acquire them."
"Well," said Tricotrin, "the Ball of the Willing Hand is nearer. Try
that!"
Goujaud looked puzzled. "The Ball of the Willing Hand?" he repeated; "I
do not know any Ball of the Willing Hand."
"Is it possible?" cried the poet; "where do you live? Why, the Willing
Hand, my recluse, is the most fascinating resort in Paris. I have been
familiar with it for fully a week. It is a bal de barrière where the
criminal classes enjoy their brief leisure. Every Saturday night they
frisk. The Cut-throats' Quadrille is a particularly sprightly measure,
and the damsels there are often striking."
"And their escorts, too--if one of the willing hands planted a knife in
my back, there would be no sprightliness about _me!_"
"In the interests of art one must submit to a little annoyance. Come,
if you are conscientious I will introduce you to the place, and give
you a few hints. For example, the company have a prejudice against
collars, and, assuming for a moment that you possessed more than a
franc, you would do well to leave the surplus at home."
Goujaud expanded his chest.
"As a matter of fact," he announced languidly, "I possess five hundred
francs." And so dignified was his air that Tricotrin came near to
believing him.
"You possess five hundred francs? You? How? No, such things do not
occur! Besides, you mentioned a moment since that you were short of
shirts."
"It is true that I am short of shirts, but, nevertheless, I have five
hundred francs in my pocket. It is like this. My father, who is not
artistic, has always desired to see me renounce my profession and sink
to commerce. Well, I was at the point of yielding--man cannot live by
hope alone, and my pictures were strangely unappreciated. Then, while
consent trembled on my lips, up popped this Eau d'Enfer! I saw my
opportunity, I recognised that, of all men in Paris, I was the best
qualified to execute the poster. You may divine the sequel? I addressed
my father with burning eloquence, I persuaded him to supply me with the
means to wield my brush for a few months longer. If my poster succeeds,
I become a celebrity. If it fails, I become a pétrole merchant. This
summer decides my fate. In the meanwhile I am a capitalist; but it
would be madness for me to purchase shirts, for I shall require every
son to support existence until the poster is acclaimed."
"You have a practical head!" exclaimed Tricotrin admiringly; "I foresee
that you will go far. Let us trust that the Willing Hand will prove the
ante-chamber to your immortality."
"I have no faith in your Willing Hand," demurred the painter; "the
criminal classes are not keen on sitting for their portraits--the
process has unpleasant associations to them. Think again! I can spare
half an hour this morning. Evolve a further inspiration on the
subject!"
"Do you imagine I have nothing to do but to provide you with a model?
My time is fully occupied; I am engaged upon a mystical play, which is
to be called _The Spinster's Prayer or the Goblin Child's Mother_,
and take Paris by storm. A propos--yes, now I come to think of it,
there is something in _Comoedia_ there that might suit you."
"My preserver!" returned Goujaud. "What is it?"
Tricotrin picked the paper up and read:
WANTED: A HUNDRED LADIES FOR THE STAGE.--Beauty more essential than
talent. No dilapidations need apply. _Agence_ Lavalette, rue Baba,
Thursday, 12 to 5.
"Mon Dieu! Now you are beginning to talk," said Goujaud. "A hundred!
One among them should be suitable, hein? But, all the same--" He
hesitated. "'Twelve to five'! It will be a shade monotonous standing on
a doorstep from twelve to five, especially if the rain streams."
"Do you expect a Cleopatra to call at your attic, or to send an eighty
horse-power automobile, that you may cast your eye over her? Anyhow,
there may be a café opposite; you can order a bock on the terrace, and
make it last."
"You are right. I shall go and inspect the spot at once. A hundred
beauties! I declare the advertisement might have been framed to meet my
wants. How fortunate that you chanced to see it! To-morrow evening you
shall hear the result--dine with me at the Bel Avenir at eight o'clock.
For one occasion I undertake to go a buster, I should be lacking in
gratitude if I neglected to stuff you to the brim."
"Oh, my dear chap!" said Tricotrin. "The invitation is a godsend, I
have not viewed the inside of a restaurant for a week. While our pal
Pitou is banqueting with his progenitors in Chartres, _I_ have
even exhausted my influence with the fishmonger--I did not so much as
see my way to a nocturnal herring in the garret. Mind you are not late.
I shall come prepared to do justice to your hospitality, I promise
you."
"Right, cocky!" said the artist. And he set forth, in high spirits, to
investigate the rue Baba.
He was gratified to discover a café in convenient proximity to the
office. And twelve o'clock had not sounded next day when he took a seat
at one of the little white-topped tables, his gaze bent attentively
upon the agent's step.
For the earliest arrival he had not long to wait. A dumpy girl with an
enormous nose approached, swinging her _sac à main_. She cast a
complacent glance at the name on the door, opened the bag, whipped out
a powder-puff, and vanished.
"Morbleu!" thought the painter. "If she is a fair sample, I have
squandered the price of a bock!" He remained in a state of depression
for two or three minutes, and then the girl reappeared, evidently in a
very bad temper.
"Ah!" he mused, rubbing his hands. "Monsieur Lavalette is plainly a
person of his word. No beauty, no engagement! This is going to be all
right, Where is the next applicant? A sip to Venus!"
Venus, however, did not irradiate the street yet. The second young
woman was too short in the back, and at sight of her features he shook
his head despondently. "No good, my dear," he said to himself. "Little
as you suspect it, there is a disappointment for you inside, word of
honour! Within three minutes, I shall behold you again."
And, sure enough, she made her exit promptly, looking as angry as the
other.
"I am becoming a dramatic prophet!" soliloquised Goujaud; "if I had
nothing more vital to do, I might win drinks, betting on their chances,
with the proprietor of the café. However, I grow impatient for the bevy
of beauty--it is a long time on the road."
As if in obedience to his demand, girls now began to trip into the rue
Baba so rapidly that he was kept busy regarding them. By twos, and
threes, and in quartettes they tripped--tall girls, little girls, plain
girls, pretty girls, girls shabby, and girls chic. But though many of
them would have made agreeable partners at a dance, there was none who
possessed the necessary qualifications for The Girl on Satan's Knee. He
rolled a cigarette, and blew a pessimistic puff. "Another day lost!"
groaned Goujaud. "All is over, I feel it. Posterity will never praise
my poster, the clutch of Commerce is upon me--already the smell of the
pétrole is in my nostrils!"
And scarcely had he said it when his senses reeled.
For, stepping from a cab, disdainfully, imperially, was his Ideal. Her
hair, revealing the lobes of the daintiest ears that ever listened to
confessions of love, had the gleam of purple grapes. Her eyes were a
mystery, her mouth was a flower, her neck was an intoxication. So
violently was the artist affected that, during several moments, he
forgot his motive for being there. To be privileged merely to
contemplate her was an ecstasy. While he sat transfixed with
admiration, her dainty foot graced the agent's step, and she entered.
Goujaud caught his breath, and rose. The cab had been discharged. Dared
he speak to her when she came out? It would be a different thing
altogether from speaking to the kind of girl that he had foreseen. But
to miss such a model for lack of nerve, that would be the regret of a
lifetime! Now the prospect of the poster overwhelmed him, and he felt
that he would risk any rebuff, commit any madness to induce her to
"sit."
The estimate that he had, by this time, formed of monsieur Lavalette's
taste convinced him that her return would not be yet. He sauntered to
and fro, composing a preliminary and winning phrase. What was his
surprise, after a very few seconds, to see that she had come out
already, and was hastening away!
He overtook her in a dozen strides, and with a bow that was eloquent of
his homage, exclaimed:
"Mademoiselle!"
"Hein?" she said, turning. "Oh, it's all right--there are too many
people there; I've changed my mind, I shan't wait."
He understood that she took him for a minion of the agent's, and he
hesitated whether to correct her mistake immediately. However, candour
seemed the better course.
"I do not bring a message from monsieur Lavalette, mademoiselle," he
explained.
"No?"
"No."
"What then?"
"I have ventured to address you on my own account--on a matter of the
most urgent importance."
"I have no small change," she said curtly, making to pass.
"Mademoiselle!" His outraged dignity was superb. "You mistake me first
for an office-boy, and then for a beggar. I am a man of means, though
my costume may be unconventional. My name is Théodosc Goujaud."
Her bow intimated that the name was not significant; but her exquisite
eyes had softened at the reference to his means.
"For weeks I have been seeking a face for a picture that I have
conceived," he went on; "a face of such peculiar beauty that I
despaired of finding it! I had the joy to see you enter the agency, and
I waited, trembling with the prayer that I might persuade you to come
to my aid. Mademoiselle, will you do me the honour to allow me to
reproduce the magic of your features on my canvas? I entreat it of you
in the sacred name of Art!"
During this appeal, the lady's demeanour had softened more still. A
faint smile hovered on her lips; her gaze was half gratified, half
amused.
"Oh, you're a painter?" she said; "you want me to sit to you for the
Salon? I don't know, I'm sure."
"It is not precisely for the Salon," he acknowledged. "But I am
absorbed by the scheme--it will be the crown of my career. I will
explain. It is a long story. If--if we could sit down?"
"Where?"
"There appears to be a café close to the agency," said Goujaud timidly.
"Oh!" She dismissed the café's pretensions with her eyebrows.
"You are right," he stammered. "Now that I look at it again, I see that
it is quite a common place. Well, will you permit me to walk a little
way with you?"
"We will go to breakfast at Armenonville, if you like," she said
graciously, "where you can explain to me at your leisure." It seemed
to Goujaud that his heart dropped into his stomach and turned to a
cannon-ball there. Armenonville? What would such a breakfast cost?
Perhaps a couple of louis? Never in his life had he contemplated
breakfasting at Armenonville.
She smiled, as if taking his consent for granted. Her loveliness and
air of fashion confused him dreadfully. And if he made excuses, there
would be no poster! Oh, he must seize the chance at any price!
"Oh course--I shall be enchanted," he mumbled. And before he half
realised that the unprecedented thing had happened they were rattling
away, side by side in a fiacre.
It was astounding, it was breathless, it was an episode out of a novel!
But Goujaud felt too sick, in thinking of the appalling expense, to
enjoy his sudden glory. Accustomed to a couple of louis providing meals
for three weeks, he was stupefied by the imminence of scattering the
sum in a brief half-hour. Even the cab fare weighed upon him; he not
infrequently envied the occupants of omnibuses.
It was clear that the lady herself was no stranger to the restaurant.
While he blinked bewildered on the threshold, she was referring to her
"pet table," and calling a waiter "Jules." The menu was a fresh
embarrassment to the bohemian, but she, and the deferential waiter,
relieved him of that speedily, and in five minutes an epicurean
luncheon had been ordered, and he was gulping champagne.
It revived his spirits. Since he had tumbled into the adventure of his
life, by all means let him savour the full flavour of it! His
companion's smiles had become more frequent, her eyes were more
transcendental still.
"How funnily things happen!" she remarked presently. "I had not the
least idea of calling on Lavalette when I got up this morning. If I had
not had a tiff with somebody, and decided to go on the stage to spite
him, I should never have met you."
"Oh, you are not on the stage yet, then?"
"No. But I have often thought about it, and the quarrel determined me.
So I jumped into a cab, drove off, and then--well, there was such a
crowd of girls there, and they looked so vulgar; I changed my mind."
"Can an angel quarrel?" demanded Goujaud sentimentally. "I cannot
imagine you saying an angry word to anyone."
"Oh!" she laughed. "Can't I, though! I'm a regular demon when I'm
cross. People shouldn't vex me."
"Certainly not," he agreed. "And no one but a brute would do so.
Besides, some women are attractive even in a rage. On the whole, I
think I should like to see you in a rage with _me_, providing
always that you 'made it up' as nicely as I should wish."
"Do you fancy that I could?" she asked, looking at the table-cloth.
"My head swims, in fancying!"
Her laughter rippled again, and her fascination was so intense that the
poor fellow could scarcely taste a mouthful of his unique repast. "Talk
to me," she commanded, "sensibly I mean! Where do you live?"
"I am living in the rue Ravignan."
"The rue Ravignan? Where is that?"
"Montmartre."
"Oh, really?" She seemed chilled. "It is not a very nice quarter in the
daytime, is it?"
"My studio suits me," murmured Goujaud, perceiving his fall in her
esteem. "For that reason I am reluctant to remove. An artist becomes
very much attached to his studio. And what do I care for fashion, I?
You may judge by my coat!"
"You're eccentric, aren't you?"
"Hitherto I have lived only for Art. But now I begin to realise that
there may be something more potent and absorbing still."
"What is that?"
"Love!" added Goujaud, feeling himself the embodiment of all the heroes
of romance.
"Oh?" Her glance mocked, encouraged. "I am dying to hear about your
picture, though! What is the subject?"
"It is not exactly what you mean by a 'picture.'" He fiddled with his
glass. "It is, in fact, a poster that I project."
"A poster?" she exclaimed. "And you ask _me_ to--oh, no, I
couldn't possibly!"
"Mademoiselle!"
"I really don't think I could. A poster? Ah, no!"
"To save me!" he implored. "Because my whole life depends on your
decision!"
"How can a poster matter so much to you? The proposal is absurd." She
regarded her pêche Melba with a frown.
"If you think of becoming an actress, remember what a splendid
advertisement it would be!" he urged feverishly.
"Oh, flûte!" But she had wavered at that.
"All Paris would flock to your debut. They would go saying, 'Can she be
as beautiful as her portrait?' And they would come back saying, 'She is
lovelier still!' Let me give you some more wine."
"No more; I'll have coffee, and a grand marnier--red."
"Doubtless the more expensive colour!" reflected Goujaud. But the time
had passed for dwelling on minor troubles. "Listen," he resumed; "I
shall tell you my history. You will then realise to what an abyss of
despair your refusal will plunge me--to what effulgent heights I may be
raised by your consent. You cannot be marble! My father--"
"Indeed, I am not marble," she put in. "I am instinct with sensibility
--it is my great weakness."
"So much the better. Be weak to _me_. My father--"
"Oh, let us get out of this first!" she suggested, "You can talk to me
as we drive."
And the attentive Jules presented the discreetly folded bill.
For fully thirty seconds the Pavilion d'Armenonville swirled round the
unfortunate painter so violently that he felt as if he were on a
roundabout at a fair. He feared that the siren must hear the pounding
of his heart. To think that he had dreaded paying two louis! Two louis?
Why, it would have been a bagatelle! Speechlessly he laid a fortune on
the salver. With a culminating burst of recklessness he waved four
francs towards Jules, and remarked that that personage eyed the tip
with cold displeasure. "What a lucrative career, a waiter's!" moaned
the artist; "he turns up his nose at four francs!"
Well, he had speculated too heavily to accept defeat now! Bracing
himself for the effort, Goujaud besought the lady's help with such a
flood of blandishment during the drive that more than once she seemed
at the point of yielding. Only one difficult detail had he withheld--
that he wished to pose her on the knee of Mephistopheles--and to
propitiate her further, before breaking the news, he stopped the cab at
a florist's.
She was so good-humoured and tractable after the florist had pillaged
him that he could scarcely be callous when she showed him that she had
split her glove. But, to this day, he protests that, until the glove-shop
had been entered, it never occurred to him that it would be
necessary to present her with more than one pair. As they came out--
Goujaud moving beside her like a man in a trance--she gave a faint
start.
"Mon Dieu!" she muttered. "There's my friend--he has seen us--I must
speak to him, or he will think I am doing wrong. Wait a minute!" And a
dandy, with a monocle, was, indeed, casting very supercilious glances
at the painter.
At eight o'clock that evening, monsieur Tricotrin, with a prodigious
appetite, sat in the Café du Bel Avenir, awaiting the arrival of his
host. When impatience was mastering him, there arrived, instead, a
petit bleu. The impecunious poet took it from the proprietress, paling,
and read:
"I discovered my Ideal--she ruined, and then deserted me! To-morrow
there will be a painter the less, and a petrole merchant the more.
Pardon my non-appearance--I am spending my last sous on this message."
"Monsieur will give his order now?" inquired the proprietress.
"Er--thank you, I do not dine to-night," said Tricotrin.