Mademoiselle Clairette used to say that if a danseuse could not throw
a glance to the conductor of the band without the juggler being
jealous, the Variety Profession was coming to a pretty pass. She also
remarked that for a girl to entrust her life's happiness to a jealous
man would be an act of lunacy. And then "Little Flouflou, the Juggling
Genius," who was dying to marry her, would suffer tortures. He tried
hard to conquer his failing, but it must be owned that Clairette's
glances were very expressive, and that she distributed them
indiscriminately. At Chartres, one night, he was so upset that he
missed the umbrella, and the cigar, and the hat one after another, and
instead of condoling with him when he came off the stage, all she said
was "Butter-fingers!"
"Promise to be my wife," he would entreat: "it is not knowing where I
am that gives me the pip. If you consented, I should be as right as
rain--your word is better to me than any Management's contract. I trust
you--it is only myself that I doubt; every time you look at a man I
wonder, 'Am I up to that chap's mark? is my turn as clever as his?
isn't it likely he will cut me out with her?' If you only belonged to
me I should never be jealous again as long as I lived. Straight!"
And Clairette would answer firmly, "Poor boy, you couldn't help it--you
are made like that. There'd be ructions every week; I should be for
ever in hot water. I like you very much, Flouflou, but I'm not going to
play the giddy goat. Chuck it!"
Nevertheless, he continued to worship her--from her tawdry tiara to her
tinselled shoes--and everybody was sure that it would be a match one
day. That is to say, everybody was sure of it until the Strong Man had
joined the troupe.
Hercule was advertised as "The Great Paris Star." Holding himself very
erect, he strutted, in his latticed foot-gear, with stiff little steps,
and inflated lungs, to the footlights, and tore chains to pieces as
easily as other persons tear bills. He lay down and supported a posse
of mere mortals, and a van-load of "properties" on his chest, and
regained his feet with a skip and a smirk. He--but his achievements are
well known. Preceding these feats of force, was a feature of his
entertainment which Hercule enjoyed inordinately. He stood on a
pedestal and struck attitudes to show the splendour of his physique.
Wearing only a girdle of tiger-skin, and bathed in limelight, he felt
himself to be as glorious as a god. The applause was a nightly
intoxication to him. He lived for it. All day he looked forward to the
moment when he could mount the pedestal again and make his biceps jump,
and exhibit the magnificence of his highly developed back to hundreds
of wondering eyes. No woman was ever vainer of her form than was
Hercule of his. No woman ever contemplated her charms more tenderly
than Hercule regarded his muscles. The latter half of his "turn" was
fatiguing, but to posture in the limelight, while the audience stared
open-mouthed and admired his nakedness, that was fine, it was dominion,
it was bliss.
Hercule had never experienced a great passion--the passion of vanity
excepted--never waited in the rain at a street corner for a coquette
who did not come, nor sighed, like the juggler, under the window of a
girl who flouted his declarations. He had but permitted homage to be
rendered to him. So when he fell in love with Clairette, he didn't know
what to make of it.
For Clairette, sprightly as she was, did not encourage Hercule. He at
once attracted and repelled her. When he rent chains, and poised
prodigious weights above his head, she thrilled at his prowess, but the
next time he attitudinised in the tiger-skin she turned up her nose.
She recognised something feminine in the giant. Instinct told her that
by disposition the Strong Man was less manly than Little Flouflou, whom
he could have swung like an Indian club.
No, Hercule didn't know what to make of it. It was a new and painful
thing to find himself the victim instead of the conqueror. For once in
his career, he hung about the wings wistfully, seeking a sign of
approval. For once he displayed his majestic figure on the pedestal
blankly conscious of being viewed by a woman whom he failed to impress.
"What do you think of my turn?" he questioned at last.
"Oh, I have seen worse," was all she granted.
The giant winced.
"I am the strongest man in the world," he proclaimed.
"I have never met a Strong Man who wasn't!" said she.
"But there is someone stronger than I am," he owned humbly. (Hercule
humble!) "Do you know what you have done to me, Clairette? You have
made a fool of me, my dear."
"Don't be so cheeky," she returned. "Who gave you leave to call me
'Clairette,' and 'my dear'? A little more politeness, if you please,
monsieur!" And she cut the conversation short as unceremoniously as if
he had been a super.
Those who have seen Hercule only in his "act"--who think of him superb,
supreme--may find It difficult to credit the statement, but, honestly,
the Great Star used to trot at her heels like a poodle. And she was not
a beauty by any means, with her impudent nose, and her mouth that was
too big to defy criticism. Perhaps it was her carriage that fascinated
him, the grace of her slender figure, which he could have snapped as a
child snaps jumbles. Perhaps it was those eyes which unwittingly
promised more than she gave. Perhaps, above all, it was her
indifference. Yes, on consideration, it must have been her indifferent
air, the novelty of being scorned, that made him a slave.
But, of course, she was more flattered by his bondage than she showed.
Every night he planted himself in the prompt-entrance to watch her
dance and clap his powerful hands in adulation. She could not be
insensible to the compliment, though her smiles were oftenest for
Flouflou, who planted himself, adulating, on the opposite side.
_Adagio! Allegretto! Vivace!_ Unperceived by the audience, the
gaze of the two men would meet across the stage with misgiving. Each
feared the other's attentions to her, each wished with all his heart
that the other would get the sack; they glared at each other horribly.
And, meanwhile, the orchestra played its sweetest, and Clairette
pirouetted her best, and the Public, approving the obvious, saw nothing
of the intensity of the situation.
Imagine the emotions of the little juggler, jealous by temperament,
jealous even without cause, now that he beheld a giant laying siege to
her affections!
And then, on a certain evening, Clairette threw but two smiles to
Flouflou, and three to Hercule.
The truth is that she did not attach so much significance to the smiles
as did the opponents who counted them. But that accident was momentous.
The Strong Man made her a burning offer of marriage within half an
hour; and next, the juggler made her furious reproaches.
Now she had rejected the Strong Man--and, coming when they did, the
juggler's reproaches had a totally different effect from the one that
he had intended. So far from exciting her sympathy towards him, they
accentuated her compassion for Hercule. How stricken he had been by her
refusal! She could not help remembering his despair as he sat huddled
on a hamper, a giant that she had crushed. Flouflou was a thankless
little pig, she reflected, for, as a matter of fact, he had had a good
deal to do with her decision. She had deserved a better reward than to
be abused by him!
Yes, her sentiments towards Hercule were newly tender, and an event of
the next night intensified them. It was Hercule's custom, in every town
that the Constellation visited, to issue a challenge. He pledged
himself to present a "Purse of Gold"--it contained a ten-franc piece--
to any eight men who vanquished him in a tug-of-war. The spectacle was
always an immense success--the eight yokels straining, and tumbling
over one another, while Hercule, wearing a masterful smile, kept his
ten francs intact. A tug-of-war had been arranged for the night
following, and by every law of prudence, Hercule should have abstained
from the bottle during the day.
But he did not. His misery sent discretion headlong to the winds. Every
time that he groaned for the danseuse he took another drink, and when
the time came for him to go to the show, the giant was as drunk as a
lord. The force of habit enabled him to fulfil some of his stereotyped
performance, he emerged from that without disgrace; but when the eight
brawny competitors lumbered on to the boards, his heart sank. The other
artists winked at one another appreciatively, and the manager hopped
with apprehension.
Sure enough, the hero's legs made strange trips to-night. The sixteen
arms pulled him, not only over the chalk line, but all over the stage.
They played havoc with him. And then the manager had to go on and make
a speech, besides, because the "Purse of Gold" aroused dissatisfaction.
The fiasco was hideous.
"Ah, Clairette," moaned the Strong Man, pitifully, "it was all through
you!"
Elsewhere a Strong Man had put forth that plea, and the other lady had
been inexorable. But Clairette faltered.
"Through me?" she murmured, with emotion.
"I'm no boozer," muttered Hercule, whom the disaster had sobered. "If I
took too much today, it was because I had got such a hump."
"But why be mashed on me, Hercule?" she said; "why not think of me as a
pal?"
"You're talking silly," grunted Hercule.
"Perhaps so," she confessed. "But I'm awfully sorry the turn went so
rotten."
"Don't kid!"
"Why should I kid about it?"
"If you really meant it, you would take back what you said yesterday."
"Oh!" The gesture was dismayed. "You see! What's the good of gassing?
As soon as I ask anything of you, you dry up. Bah! I daresay you will
guy me just as much as all the rest, I know you!"
"If you weren't in trouble, I'd give you a thick ear for that," she
said. "You ungrateful brute!" She turned haughtily away,
"Clairette!"
"Oh, rats!"
"Don't get the needle! I'm off my rocker to-night."
"Ah! That's all right, cully!" Her hand was swift. "I've been there
myself."
"Clairette!" He caught her close.
"Here, what are you at?" she cried. "Drop it!"
"Clairette! Say 'yes.' I'm loony about you. There's a duck! I'll be a
daisy of a husband. Won't you?"
"Oh, I--I don't know," she stammered.
And thus were they betrothed.
To express what Flouflou felt would be but to harrow the reader's
sensibilities. What he said, rendered into English, was: "I'd rather
you had given me the go-by for any cove in the crowd than that swine!"
They were in the ladies' dressing-room. "The Two Bonbons" had not
finished their duet, and he was alone with her for a moment. She was
pinning a switch into her back hair, in front of the scrap of looking-
glass against the mildewed wall.
"You don't do yourself any good with me Flouflou, by calling Hercule
names," she replied icily.
"So he is!"
"Oh, you are jealous of him," she retorted.
"Of course I am jealous of him," owned Flouflou; "you can't rile me by
saying that. Didn't I love you first? And a lump better than _he_
does."
"Now you're talking through your hat!"
"You usedn't to take any truck of him, yourself, at the beginning. He
only got round you because he was drunk and queered his business. I
have been drunk, too--you didn't say you'd marry _me_. It's not in
him to love any girl for long--he's too sweet on himself."
"Look here," she exclaimed. "I've had enough. Hook it! And don't you
speak to me any more. Understand?" She put the hairpins aside, and
began to whitewash her hands and arms.
"That's the straight tip," said Flouflou, brokenly; "I'm off. Well, I
wish you luck, old dear!"
"Running him down to me like that! A dirty trick, I call it."
"I never meant to, straight; I--Sorry, Clairette." He lingered at the
door. "I suppose I shall have to say 'madame' soon?"
"Footle," she murmured, moved.
"You've not got your knife into me, have you, Clairette? I didn't mean
to be a beast. I'd have gone to hell for you, that's all, and I wish I
was dead."
"Silly kid!" she faltered, blinking. And then "The Two Bonbons" came
back to doff their costumes, and he was turned out.
Never had Hercule been so puffed up. His knowledge of the juggler's
sufferings made the victory more rapturous still. No longer did
Flouflou stand opposite-prompt to watch Clairette's dance; no longer
did he loiter about the passages after the curtain was down, on the
chance of being permitted to escort her to her doorstep. Such
privileges were the Strong Man's alone. She was affianced to him! At
the swelling thought, his chest became Brobdingnagian. His bounce in
company was now colossal; and it afforded the troupe a popular
entertainment to see him drop to servility in her presence. Her frown
was sufficient to reduce him to a cringe. They called him the "Quick-
change artist."
But Hercule scarcely minded cringing to her; at all events he scarcely
minded it in a tête-à-tête; she was unique. He would have run to her
whistle, and fawned at her kick. She had agreed to marry him in a few
weeks' time, and his head swam at the prospect. Visions of the future
dazzled him. When he saw her to her home after the performance, he used
to talk of the joint engagements they would get by-and-by--"not in
snide shows like this, but in first-class halls"--and of how
tremendously happy they were going to be. And then Clairette would
stifle a sigh and say, "Oh, yes, of course!" and try to persuade
herself that she had no regrets.
Meanwhile the Constellation had not been playing to such good business
as the manager had anticipated. He had done a bold thing in obtaining
Hercule--who, if not so famous as the posters pretended, was at least a
couple of rungs above the other humble mountebanks--and the box-office
ought to have yielded better results. Monsieur Blond was anxious. He
asked himself what the Public wanted. Simultaneously he pondered the
idea of a further attraction, and perspired at the thought of further
expense.
At this time the "Living Statuary" turn was the latest craze in the
variety halls of fashion, and one day poor Blond, casting an expert eye
on his danseuse, questioned why she should not be billed, a town or two
ahead, as "Aphrodite, the Animated Statue, Direct from Paris."
To question was to act. The weather was mild, and, though Clairette
experienced pangs of modesty when she learnt that the Statue's
"costume" was to be applied with a sponge, she could not assert that
she would be in danger of taking a chill. Besides, her salary was to be
raised a trifle.
Blond rehearsed her assiduously (madame Blond in attendance), and, to
his joy, she displayed a remarkable gift for adopting the poses, As
"The Bather" she promised to be entrancing, and, until she wobbled, her
"Nymph at the Fountain" was a pure delight. Moreover, thanks to her
accomplishments as a dancer, she did not wobble very badly.
All the same, when the date of her debut arrived, she was extremely
nervous. Elated by his inspiration. Blond had for once been prodigal
with the printing and on her way to the stage door, it seemed to her
that the name of "Aphrodite" flamed from every hoarding in the place.
Hercule met her with encouraging words, but the ordeal was not one that
she wished to discuss with him, and he took leave of her very much
afraid that she would break down.
What was his astonishment to hear her greeted with salvos of applause!
Blond's enterprise had undoubtedly done the trick. The little hall
rocked with enthusiasm, and, cloaked in a voluminous garment,
"Aphrodite" had to bow her acknowledgments again and again. When the
time came for Hercule's own postures, they fell, by comparison, quite
flat.
"Ciel!" she babbled, on the homeward walk; "who would have supposed
that I should go so strong? If I knock them like this next week too, I
shall make Blond spring a bit more!" She looked towards her lover for
congratulations; so far he had been rather unsatisfactory.
"Oh, well," he mumbled, "it was a very good audience, you know, I never
saw a more generous house--you can't expect to catch on like it
anywhere else."
His tone puzzled her. Though she was quite alive to the weaknesses of
her profession, she could not believe that her triumph could give
umbrage to her fiancé. Hercule, her adorer, to be annoyed because she
had received more "hands" than _he_ had? Oh, it was mean of her to
fancy such a thing!
But she was conscious that he had never wished her "pleasant dreams" so
briefly as he did that night, and the Strong Man, on his side, was
conscious of a strange depression. He could not shake it off. The next
evening, too, he felt it. Wherever he went, he heard praises of her
proportions. The dancing girl had, in fact, proved to be beautifully
formed, and it could not be disputed that "Aphrodite" had wiped
"Hercules" out. Her success was repeated in every town. Morosely now
did he make his biceps jump, and exhibit the splendours of his back--
his poses commanded no more than half the admiration evoked by hers.
His muscles had been eclipsed by her graces. Her body had outvied his
own!
Oh, she was dear to him, but he was an "artiste"! There are trials that
an artiste cannot bear. He hesitated to refer to the subject, but when
he nursed her on his lap, he thought what a great fool the Public was
to prefer this ordinary woman to a marvellous man. He derived less
rapture from nursing her. He eyed her critically. His devotion was
cankered by resentment.
And each evening the resentment deepened. And each evening it forced
him to the wings against his will. He stood watching, though every
burst of approval wrung his heart. Soured, and sexless, he watched her.
An intense jealousy of the slim nude figure posturing in the limelight
took possession of him. It had robbed him of his plaudits! He grew to
hate it, to loathe the white loveliness that had dethroned him. It was
no longer the figure of a mistress that he viewed, but the figure of a
rival. If he had dared, he would have hissed her.
Finally, he found it impossible to address her with civility. And
Clairette married Flouflou, after all.
"Clairette," said Flouflou on the day they were engaged, "if you don't
chuck the Statuary turn, I know that one night I shall massacre the
audience! Won't you give it up for me, peach?"
"So you are beginning your ructions already?" laughed Clairette, "I
told you what a handful you would be. Oh, well then, just as you like,
old dear!--in this business a girl may meet with a worse kind of
jealousy than yours."
"PARDON, YOU ARE MADEMOISELLE GIRARD!"
A newsvendor passed along the terrace of the Café d'Harcourt bawling
_La Voix Parisienne_. The Frenchman at my table made a gesture of
aversion. Our eyes met; I said:
"You do not like _La Voix?_"
He answered with intensity:
"I loathe it."
"What's its offence?"
The wastrel frowned; he fiddled with his frayed and filthy collar.
"You revive painful associations; you ask me for a humiliating story,"
he murmured--and regarded his empty glass.