III

by Robert W. Chambers

The Luxembourg Gardens were bursting with flowers. He strolled slowly along the long tree-lined paths, passing moss-covered statues and ancient columns. As he made his way through the grove by the bronze lion, he reached the terrace overlooking the fountain. Below, the water sparkled in the sunlight. Flowering almond trees framed the terrace, while further out, chestnut groves twisted in and out among the lush thickets by the western wing of the palace. At one end of the tree-lined avenue, the Observatory rose, its white domes reminiscent of an Eastern mosque. At the other end stood the grand palace, its windows glowing fiercely in the June sun.

Around the fountain, children and white-capped nurses wielding bamboo poles pushed toy boats, their sails drooping in the heat. A dark-skinned policeman, adorned with red epaulettes and a ceremonial sword, watched them for a moment before striding over to confront a young man who had let his dog off the leash. The dog was happily rolling in the grass, dirt smudging its back as its legs flailed in the air.

The policeman pointed at the dog, his face a mask of indignation.

“Well, Captain,” the young man said with a grin.

“Well, Monsieur Student,” the policeman replied gruffly.

“Why are you complaining to me?”

“If you don’t chain him, I’ll take him,” the officer shouted.

“What’s that to me, mon capitaine?” the young man shrugged.

“What! Isn’t that bulldog yours?”

“If it were, do you think I’d leave him unchained?”

The officer glared at him for a moment, then, deciding that as a student he must be trouble, lunged for the dog, who nimbly dodged him. They raced around the flower beds, and when the policeman got too close, the bulldog darted across a flower bed, perhaps not playing fair.

The young man found it amusing, and the dog seemed to relish the chase.

Noticing their antics, the policeman decided to tackle the source of the problem. He stormed up to the student and declared, “As the owner of this public nuisance, I’m arresting you!”

“But,” the young man protested, “I deny ownership of the dog.”

That was a tricky situation. It was futile to try to catch the dog until three gardeners joined in, but even then, the dog simply bolted and vanished down the rue de Medici.

The policeman trudged off to seek solace among the white-capped nurses, while the student, glancing at his watch, stood up with a yawn. Just then, he spotted Hastings and smiled, waving him over.

“Clifford,” Hastings said, laughing, “I didn’t recognize you.”

“It’s my mustache,” Clifford sighed. “I sacrificed it to humor a whim of—well, a friend. What do you think of my dog?”

“So he is yours?” Hastings exclaimed.

“Of course. It’s a nice change for him to play tag with policemen, but he’s well-known now, so I’ll have to put a stop to it. He’s gone home; he always does when the gardeners get involved. It’s a shame; he loves rolling on the lawns.” They chatted for a moment about Hastings’ prospects, and Clifford graciously offered to sponsor him at the studio.

“You see, old tabby—I mean Dr. Byram—told me about you before we met,” Clifford explained. “Elliott and I would be happy to help in any way we can.” Then, glancing at his watch again, he muttered, “I have just ten minutes to catch the Versailles train; au revoir,” and started to leave. But when he noticed a girl approaching the fountain, he took off his hat with a sheepish smile.

“Why aren’t you at Versailles?” she asked, giving Hastings a nearly imperceptible nod.

“I—I’m going,” Clifford stammered.

For a moment, they stood facing each other, and then, blushing, Clifford said, “With your permission, I’d like to introduce my friend, Monsieur Hastings.”

Hastings bowed deeply. She smiled sweetly, though there was a hint of mischief in the tilt of her small Parisian head.

“I wish,” she said, “that Monsieur Clifford could spare me more time when he brings such a charming American with him.”

“Must—must I go, Valentine?” Clifford started.

“Certainly,” she replied.

Clifford left with noticeable reluctance, wincing as she added, “And give my dearest love to Cécile!” As he disappeared down the rue d’Assas, the girl turned as if to leave but then suddenly remembered Hastings. She looked at him and shook her head.

“Monsieur Clifford is so perfectly scatterbrained,” she smiled, “it can be quite embarrassing at times. You’ve heard, of course, about his success at the Salon?”

He looked confused, and she noticed.

“You’ve been to the Salon, haven’t you?”

“Actually, no,” he replied. “I just arrived in Paris three days ago.”

She seemed unfazed by his explanation and continued, “No one thought he had the energy to create anything worthwhile, but on varnishing day, the Salon was shocked when Monsieur Clifford strolled in, as casual as can be, with an orchid in his buttonhole and a stunning painting on display.”

She smiled to herself at the memory and gazed at the fountain.

“Monsieur Bouguereau told me that Monsieur Julian was so surprised he just shook hands with Monsieur Clifford in a daze and completely forgot to give him a pat on the back! Can you imagine that?” she said, her laughter bubbling over. “Just think of Papa Julian forgetting to give someone a pat on the back.”

Hastings, intrigued by her connection to the famous Bouguereau, looked at her with newfound respect. “May I ask,” he said hesitantly, “are you a student of Bouguereau?”

“Me?” she replied, a bit taken aback. Then she studied him, wondering if he was joking, given how little they knew each other.

His earnest expression seemed to seek an answer.

“Tiens,” she thought, “what a funny man!”

“You must study art,” he insisted.

Leaning back against the crooked handle of her parasol, she regarded him with curiosity. “Why do you think that?”

“Because you talk like someone who does.”

“You’re teasing me,” she said, a hint of indignation in her voice. “That’s not very tasteful.”

She paused, her cheeks flushing as he turned a deep shade of red.

“How long have you been in Paris?” she finally asked.

“Three days,” he replied, keeping his tone serious.

“But surely you can’t be a newcomer! Your French is too good!”

After a brief silence, she asked, “Are you really a newcomer?”

“I am,” he admitted.

She settled onto the marble bench recently vacated by Clifford, tilting her parasol over her small head as she scrutinized him.

“I don’t believe it.”

He felt flattered by her disbelief and hesitated to admit he belonged to the group looked down upon. But gathering his courage, he confessed how inexperienced he was, and her blue eyes widened in surprise, her lips breaking into a sweet smile.

“You’ve never seen a studio?” she asked.

“Never.”

“Nor a model?”

“No.”

“How amusing,” she said, her tone serious. They both burst into laughter.

“And you,” he said, “have you seen studios?”

“Hundreds.”

“And models?”

“Millions.”

“And you know Bouguereau?”

“Yes, and Henner, Constant, Laurens, Puvis de Chavannes, Dagnan, Courtois, and all the rest!”

“And yet you say you’re not an artist.”

“Pardon,” she replied, her expression turning serious. “Did I say that?”

“Would you tell me?” he asked, hesitating.

At first, she shook her head and smiled, but then suddenly her gaze dropped, and she began tracing patterns in the gravel with her parasol. Hastings had taken a seat, resting his elbows on his knees as he watched the water spray from the fountain. Nearby, a small boy dressed as a sailor was poking at his yacht, crying, “I won’t go home! I won’t go home!” His nurse raised her hands in exasperation.

“Just like a little American boy,” Hastings thought, a wave of homesickness washing over him.

Eventually, the nurse managed to capture the boat, and the boy stood defiantly.

“Monsieur René, when you decide to come here, you can have your boat.”

The boy scowled and backed away. “Give me my boat, I say! And don’t call me René; my name’s Randall, and you know it!”

“Hello!” Hastings exclaimed. “Randall? That’s English.”

“I’m American,” the boy declared in perfect English, turning to Hastings. “And she’s such a fool she calls me René because Mama calls me Ranny—”

At that moment, he dodged the irritated nurse and positioned himself behind Hastings, who laughed and, wrapping his arms around the boy’s waist, lifted him onto his lap.

“One of my countrymen,” he said to the girl beside him, smiling despite the strange feeling in his throat.

“Don’t you see the stars and stripes on my yacht?” Randall insisted. Sure enough, the American colors hung limply under the nurse’s arm.

“Oh,” the girl exclaimed, “he’s charming!” She leaned down impulsively to kiss him, but the little Randall wriggled free from Hastings’ grasp, and his nurse swooped in, shooting an angry look at the girl.

She flushed and bit her lip as the nurse, still glaring at her, dragged the child away, ostentatiously wiping his lips with her handkerchief.

Then she glanced at Hastings and bit her lip again.

“What a bad-tempered woman!” he said. “In America, most nurses are flattered when people kiss their children.”

For a moment, she tilted her parasol to hide her face, then snapped it shut and looked at him defiantly.

“Do you think it’s strange that she objected?”

“Why would it be?” he replied, surprised.

Again, she searched his eyes with a quick, probing gaze.

His eyes were bright and clear, and he smiled back, repeating, “Why would it be?”

“You _are_ funny,” she murmured, lowering her head.

“Why?”

But she didn’t answer, remaining silent as she traced curves and circles in the dust with her parasol. After a while, he said, “I’m glad to see that young people have so much freedom here. I thought the French were very different from us. You know, in America—or at least where I live in Milbrook—girls have a lot of freedom—they go out alone and receive their friends alone. I was worried I’d miss that here. But now I see I was mistaken, and I’m glad.”

She lifted her gaze to his and held it there.

He smiled as he spoke. “Since I’ve been sitting here, I’ve noticed quite a few lovely girls strolling alone on the terrace—and then there’s you, all by yourself. Tell me, since I’m not familiar with French customs, do you have the freedom to go to the theater without a chaperone?”

She studied his face for a long moment, then offered a shy smile. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because you must know, right?” he replied playfully.

“Yes,” she said, her tone indifferent. “I know.”

He waited for her to elaborate, but when she didn’t, he wondered if she had misunderstood him.

“I hope you don’t think I’m trying to overstep our brief acquaintance,” he began. “It’s actually quite strange, but I don’t know your name. When Mr. Clifford introduced us, he only mentioned mine. Is that how it works in France?”

“That’s how it is in the Latin Quarter,” she replied, a peculiar glimmer in her eyes. Suddenly, she began to speak almost feverishly.

“You should know, Monsieur Hastings, that we’re all a bit unconventional here in the Latin Quarter. We live a very Bohemian lifestyle, and formalities just don’t fit in. That’s why Monsieur Clifford introduced you to me so casually and left us together without much fuss. I’m his friend, and I have many friends here, and we all know each other quite well—and I’m not studying art, but—”

“But what?” he asked, confused.

“I won’t tell you—it’s a secret,” she said, her smile wavering. A flush crept onto her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled.

But then her expression changed, and she looked serious. “Do you know Monsieur Clifford very well?”

“Not really.”

After a moment, she turned to him, her demeanor grave and a bit pale.

“My name is Valentine—Valentine Tissot. May I ask you for a favor, even though we’ve just met?”

“Oh,” he exclaimed, “I’d be honored.”

“It’s just this,” she said softly, “it’s not much. Promise me you won’t mention me to Monsieur Clifford. Promise me you won’t speak to anyone about me.”

“I promise,” he said, feeling puzzled.

She laughed nervously. “I want to remain a mystery. It’s just a whim.”

“But,” he started, “I had hoped you might allow Monsieur Clifford to bring me to your home, to introduce me to your family.”

Her face changed instantly, and he felt a pang of regret.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

In an instant, she understood him, as only a woman could.

“My parents are dead,” she said quietly.

After a moment, he spoke again, gently. “Would it bother you if I asked to see you? It’s customary, isn’t it?”

“I can’t,” she replied. Then, looking up at him, she added, “I’m sorry; I would like to, but believe me, I can’t.”

He bowed his head, feeling uneasy.

“It’s not that I don’t want to. I—I like you; you’ve been very kind to me.”

“Kind?” he said, surprised and confused.

“I like you,” she said slowly, “and we can see each other sometimes if you’re willing.”

“At friends’ houses?” he asked.

“No, not at friends’ houses.”

“Where then?”

“Here,” she said defiantly.

“Why,” he exclaimed, “in Paris, you’re much more open-minded than we are.”

She regarded him with curiosity.

“Yes, we are very Bohemian.”

“I think it’s charming,” he declared.

“You see, we’ll be in the best of company,” she said shyly, gesturing toward the statues of the queens standing proudly above the terrace.

He looked at her, delighted, and she brightened at the success of her playful remark.

“Indeed,” she smiled, “I’ll be well chaperoned, because we’re under the protection of the gods themselves. Look, there’s Apollo, Juno, and Venus,” she counted on her gloved fingers, “and Ceres, Hercules, and—oh, I can’t make out—”

Hastings turned to look up at the winged god whose shadow they were sitting under.

“Why, it’s Love,” he said.