IV

by Robert W. Chambers

“There’s a newcomer here,” Laffat drawled, leaning around his easel to address his friend Bowles. “This guy is so fresh and naïve that Heaven help him if he ever ends up in a salad bowl.”

“Country bumpkin?” Bowles asked, applying a background with a chipped palette knife and squinting at the effect with satisfaction.

“Yeah, from Squeedunk or Oshkosh. I have no idea how he grew up among the daisies and managed to avoid the cows!”

Bowles rubbed his thumb along the edges of his study to “add a little atmosphere,” as he put it, glared at the model, took a puff from his pipe, and when it went out, struck a match on his neighbor’s back to relight it.

“His name,” Laffat continued, tossing a piece of bread at the hat rack, “is Hastings. He’s a real gem. He knows less about the world,”—and Laffat’s expression conveyed a wealth of his own worldly knowledge,—“than a young cat on its first moonlit stroll.”

Now that Bowles had finally lit his pipe, he repeated the thumb rub on the other side of the study and said, “Ah!”

“Yes,” Laffat went on, “and can you believe it? He thinks everything here works just like it does back at his little backwoods ranch. He talks about how the pretty girls walk alone in the streets, claiming it’s sensible, and insists that French parents are misrepresented in America. He even said that, as far as he’s concerned, French girls—he admitted he only knows one—are just as fun as American girls. I tried to set him straight, to give him a hint about what kind of ladies stroll around alone or with students, but he was either too clueless or too innocent to get it. So I laid it out for him, and he called me a vile-minded fool and stormed off.”

“Did you give him a kick?” Bowles asked, feigning interest.

“Well, no.”

“He called you a vile-minded fool.”

“He was right,” Clifford chimed in from his easel.

“What—what do you mean?” Laffat asked, his face flushing.

“_That_,” Clifford replied.

“Who asked for your opinion? Is this your business?” Bowles sneered, nearly losing his balance as Clifford turned to glare at him.

“Yes,” Clifford said slowly, “it is my business.”

Silence fell over the group for a moment.

Then Clifford called out, “Hey, Hastings!”

When Hastings stepped away from his easel and approached, Clifford nodded toward the surprised Laffat.

“This guy has been rude to you, and I want you to know that if you ever feel like kicking him, I’ll gladly hold him back.”

Hastings, feeling awkward, replied, “No, I just don’t agree with his views, that’s all.”

“Of course,” Clifford said, linking his arm with Hastings’ and strolling around with him. He introduced Hastings to several of his friends, causing the other newcomers to look on with envy. The studio buzzed with the understanding that Hastings, while ready to do menial work like the other newcomers, was already being welcomed into the respected circle of the truly great.

Once the session wrapped up, the model resumed his place, and the work continued amid a chorus of songs, shouts, and the loud noises that art students make while studying beauty.

When five o’clock struck, the model yawned, stretched, and put on his trousers, while the noisy crowd from six studios poured into the hall and out onto the street. Ten minutes later, Hastings found himself on top of a tram heading to Montrouge, shortly joined by Clifford.

They got off at rue Gay Lussac.

“I always stop here,” Clifford said. “I love walking through the Luxembourg Gardens.”

“By the way,” Hastings said, “how can I visit you if I don’t know where you live?”

“Oh, I live right across from you.”

“What—the studio in the garden with the almond trees and the blackbirds—”

“Exactly,” Clifford replied. “I’m staying with my friend Elliott.”

Hastings recalled the description of the two American artists he had heard from Miss Susie Byng and felt a bit lost.

Clifford continued, “Maybe you should let me know when you plan to come by, so I can make sure I’m there,” he finished somewhat awkwardly.

“I wouldn’t want to meet any of your model friends there,” Hastings said with a smile. “You see, my views are a bit conservative—I suppose you’d call them Puritanical. I wouldn’t enjoy it and wouldn’t know how to act.”

“Oh, I get it,” Clifford said, but added with warmth, “I’m sure we’ll be friends, even if you don’t approve of me and my crowd. You’ll like Severn and Selby because—well, they’re a lot like you, old chap.”

After a moment, he added, “There’s something I want to discuss. You see, when I introduced you last week in the Luxembourg to Valentine—”

“Not a word!” Hastings interrupted, smiling. “You mustn’t say a thing about her!”

“Why—”

“No—not a word!” he insisted playfully. “I demand it—promise me on your honor that you won’t mention her until I give you the go-ahead; promise!”

“I promise,” Clifford said, taken aback.

“She’s a charming girl,” Clifford said, a smile spreading across his face. “We had such a delightful conversation after you left, and I really appreciate you introducing us. But let’s not discuss her again until I say so.”

“Oh,” Clifford murmured, his curiosity piqued.

“Remember your promise,” he added with a grin as he stepped through his gate.

Clifford wandered across the street, making his way through the ivy-covered alley into his garden.

He fished for his studio key, muttering to himself, “I wonder—I wonder, but of course he doesn’t!”

Once inside the hallway, he paused, staring at the two cards pinned above the door panels.

+---------------------------+

| FOXHALL CLIFFORD |

+---------------------------+

+---------------------------+

| RICHARD OSBORNE ELLIOTT |

+---------------------------+

“Why on earth doesn’t he want me to mention her?”

He opened the door, brushing aside the affectionate nuzzles of two brindle bulldogs, and sank onto the sofa.

Elliott was sitting by the window, sketching with a piece of charcoal and smoking.

“Hey,” he said, not bothering to turn around.

Clifford stared at the back of his head, lost in thought. “I’m afraid, I’m afraid that man is too innocent. I say, Elliott,” he finally said, “Hastings—you know, the guy old Tabby Byram came to tell us about the day you had to hide Colette in the armoire—”

“Yes, what about him?” Elliott replied, still focused on his sketch.

“Oh, nothing. He’s a good guy.”

“Yes,” Elliott said, his tone flat.

“Don’t you think so?” Clifford pressed.

“Well, sure, but he’s going to have a rough time when some of his illusions get shattered.”

“More shame on those who shatter them!” Clifford retorted.

“Just wait until he comes to visit us, unexpectedly, of course—”

Clifford feigned innocence and lit a cigar.

“I was just about to say,” he remarked, “that I’ve asked him not to drop by without letting us know first, so I can avoid any wild party you might have planned—”

“Ah!” Elliott exclaimed indignantly. “I suppose you put it to him that way.”

“Not exactly,” Clifford grinned. Then, more seriously, he added, “I don’t want anything to happen here that might upset him. He’s a good guy, and it’s a shame we can’t be more like him.”

“I am,” Elliott said, sounding quite pleased with himself. “I’m just living with you—”

“Listen!” Clifford interrupted. “I’ve really messed up this time. Do you know what I did? The first time I met him, it was in the Luxembourg, and I introduced him to Valentine!”

“Did he mind?”

“Believe me,” Clifford said solemnly, “this Hastings fellow has no idea that Valentine is—well, is Valentine. He’s as clueless about it as he is about being a shining example of moral decency in a neighborhood where morals are as rare as elephants. I overheard enough from that scoundrel Loffat and the little immoral pest, Bowles, to open my eyes. Hastings is a gem! He’s a healthy, clean-minded young man, raised in a small village, brought up to think that bars are gateways to hell—and as for women—”

“Well?” Elliott prompted.

“Well,” Clifford continued, “his idea of a dangerous woman is probably a painted Jezebel.”

“Probably,” Elliott agreed.

“He’s a gem!” Clifford insisted. “And if he believes the world is as good and pure as his own heart, I’ll back him up on that.”

Elliott sharpened his charcoal and turned back to his sketch. “He’ll never hear any pessimism from Richard Osborne E.”

“He’s a lesson for me,” Clifford said. He then unfolded a small, perfumed note written on rose-colored paper that had been lying on the table.

He read it, smiled, and whistled a few bars from “Miss Helyett,” before sitting down to respond on his finest cream-laid stationery. Once it was written and sealed, he picked up his stick and paced around the studio a few times, still whistling.

“Going out?” Elliott asked, still focused on his work.

“Yes,” Clifford replied, but lingered for a moment over Elliott’s shoulder, watching him highlight the lights in his sketch with a piece of bread.

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” he noted after a brief silence.

“Well?” Elliott replied.

“Have you seen Colette?”

“No, I’ll see her tonight. She, Rowden, and Jacqueline are going to Boulant’s. I assume you and Cécile will be there?”

“Well, no,” Clifford said. “Cécile is having dinner at home tonight, and I—I was thinking of going to Mignon’s.”

Elliott shot him a disapproving look.

“You can make all the arrangements for La Roche without me,” he said, avoiding Clifford’s gaze.

“What are you up to now?”

“Nothing,” Clifford protested.

“Don’t give me that,” Elliott replied scornfully. “Guys don’t rush off to Mignon’s when the group is dining at Boulant’s. Who is it this time?—but no, I won’t ask—what’s the point?” He raised his voice in frustration, banging his pipe on the table. “What’s the use of trying to keep track of you? What will Cécile say? Oh yes, what will she say? It’s a shame you can’t be consistent for two months. The Quarter is forgiving, but you’re abusing its good nature—and mine too!”

With that, he stood up, jamming his hat on his head, and marched toward the door.

“Heaven knows why anyone puts up with your antics, but they all do, and so do I. If I were Cécile or any of the other pretty fools you’ve chased after—and will probably continue to chase—I’d give you a good spanking! Now I'm off to Boulant’s, and as usual, I’ll cover for you and sort things out. I don’t care where you’re going, but by the skull of the studio skeleton! If you don’t show up tomorrow with your sketching kit under one arm and Cécile under the other—if you don’t show up in good shape—I’m done with you, and let the rest think what they want. Good night.”

Clifford managed a pleasant smile as he said good night, then sat down, staring at the door. He pulled out his watch, giving Elliott ten minutes to disappear, then rang for the concierge, muttering, “Oh dear, why do I even bother?”

“Alfred,” he said when the sharp-eyed man answered, “make yourself presentable and swap your clogs for shoes. Put on your best hat and take this letter to the big white house on Rue de Dragon. No reply is needed, _mon petit_ Alfred.”

The concierge left with a snort that mixed reluctance with a hint of affection for M. Clifford. Then, with great care, the young man dressed himself in the finest pieces from his and Elliott’s wardrobe. He took his time, occasionally interrupting his grooming to play his banjo or entertain the bulldogs by crawling around on all fours. “I’ve got two hours,” he thought, borrowing a pair of Elliott’s fancy shoes, which he and the dogs tossed around until he decided to wear them. After lighting a cigarette, he inspected his dress coat. After emptying it of four handkerchiefs, a fan, and a pair of crumpled gloves, he decided it didn’t add any flair to his look and started thinking of alternatives. Elliott was too thin, and anyway, his coats were locked away. Rowden was probably in the same boat. Hastings! Hastings was the one! But when he threw on a smoking jacket and strolled over to Hastings’ place, he found out he had left over an hour ago.

“Where on earth could he have gone?” Clifford muttered, glancing down the street.

The maid didn’t know, so he flashed her a charming smile and sauntered back to the studio.

Hastings wasn’t far away. The Luxembourg was just a five-minute walk from Rue Notre Dame des Champs, where he sat under the shadow of a winged statue, poking holes in the dust and watching the steps leading from the northern terrace to the fountain. The sun hung like a purple globe above the misty hills of Meudon. Long, rose-tinted clouds swept low across the western sky, and the dome of the distant Invalides glowed like an opal through the haze. Behind the palace, smoke from a tall chimney rose straight into the air, purple until it crossed the sun, where it turned into a bar of smoldering fire. High above the darkening foliage of the chestnut trees, the twin towers of St. Sulpice stood, an ever-deepening silhouette.

A sleepy blackbird sang from a nearby thicket, and pigeons flitted by, their wings whispering like soft winds. The light on the palace windows faded, and the dome of the Pantheon glowed above the northern terrace, a fiery Valhalla in the sky, while below, the marble ranks of queens lined the terrace, gazing out into the west.

From the end of the long walkway by the palace’s northern façade came the sounds of buses and street vendors. Hastings glanced at the palace clock. It was six, and since his own watch confirmed it, he returned to poking holes in the gravel. A steady stream of people moved between the Odéon and the fountain: priests in black with silver-buckled shoes, slouchy soldiers, neat girls without hats carrying milliners’ boxes, students with black portfolios and tall hats, others in bérets with big canes, quick-stepping officers in turquoise and silver, and heavy cavalrymen covered in dust. Pastry cooks’ boys skipped along, completely unconcerned about the basket balanced on their heads, while the lean outcast, a shambling Parisian tramp, slouched with his shoulders bent, furtively scanning the ground for discarded cigarette butts. All these figures flowed in a steady stream across the fountain circle and out into the city by the Odéon, where the long arcades began to flicker with gas lights. The melancholy bells of St. Sulpice struck the hour, and the clock tower of the palace lit up. Just then, hurried footsteps echoed across the gravel, and Hastings lifted his head.

“How late you are,” he said, his voice rough, but the flush on his face revealed just how long the wait had felt.

“I was held up—really, it was quite annoying—and I can only stay for a moment,” she replied.

She settled beside him, casting a quick glance over her shoulder at the statue of the god on his pedestal.

“What a nuisance, that intrusive Cupid still up there,” she remarked.

“Wings and arrows too,” Hastings replied, ignoring her hint to sit down.

“Wings,” she murmured, “oh yes—just to fly away with when he’s tired of playing. Of course, it was a man who thought of wings; otherwise, Cupid would have been unbearable.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Of course, that’s what men think.”

“And women?”

“Oh,” she said, tossing her small head, “I’ve completely forgotten what we were talking about.”

“We were talking about love,” Hastings said.

“I wasn’t,” she countered. Then, glancing up at the marble figure, she added, “I don’t care for this one at all. I don’t believe he knows how to shoot his arrows—no, he’s a coward; he sneaks up like an assassin in the twilight. I don’t approve of cowardice,” she declared, turning her back on the statue.

“I think,” Hastings said quietly, “that he does shoot fairly well—yes, and even gives a warning.”

“Is that your experience, Monsieur Hastings?”

He looked directly into her eyes and replied, “He is warning me.”

“Then heed the warning,” she laughed nervously. As she spoke, she removed her gloves, only to carefully put them back on again. Once she was finished, she glanced at the Palace clock and exclaimed, “Oh dear, how late it is!” She furled her umbrella, then unfurled it again, finally looking back at him.

“No,” he said, “I won’t heed his warning.”

“Oh dear,” she sighed again, “still talking about that tiresome statue!” Then, stealing a glance at his face, she added, “I suppose—I suppose you’re in love.”

“I don’t know,” he muttered, “I suppose I am.”

She lifted her head quickly. “You seem delighted by the idea,” she said, but bit her lip and trembled as their eyes met. Suddenly, fear washed over her, and she sprang up, staring into the deepening shadows.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

But she only replied, “Oh dear, oh dear, it’s late—so late! I must go—goodnight.”

She offered him her gloved hand for a moment, then pulled it back with a start.

“What is it?” he pressed. “Are you frightened?”

She looked at him oddly.

“No—no, not frightened—you’re very kind to me—”

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “what do you mean by saying I’m kind to you? That’s at least the third time, and I don’t understand!”

The sound of a drum from the guardhouse at the palace interrupted him. “Listen,” she whispered, “they’re going to close. It’s late, oh, so late!”

The drumbeat grew louder as it approached, and soon the silhouette of the drummer appeared against the sky above the eastern terrace. The fading light caught on his belt and bayonet for a moment before he vanished into the shadows, drumming the echoes awake. The sound faded along the eastern terrace, only to grow sharper as he passed the avenue by the bronze lion and turned down the western terrace walk. The drumbeat echoed louder, bouncing off the grey palace wall, and soon the drummer loomed before them—his red trousers a dull spot in the gathering gloom, the brass of his drum and bayonet glinting faintly, his epaulettes bouncing on his shoulders. He passed, leaving the crash of the drum ringing in their ears, and far down the tree-lined path, they caught sight of his little tin cup shining on his haversack. Then the sentinels began their monotonous call: “On ferme! On ferme!” and the bugle sounded from the barracks on rue de Tournon.

“On ferme! On ferme!”

“Goodnight,” she whispered, “I must go back alone tonight.”

He watched her until she reached the northern terrace, then sat down on the marble seat until a hand on his shoulder and the glimmer of bayonets urged him to leave.

She walked through the grove, turning onto rue de Medici, crossing it to the Boulevard. At the corner, she bought a bunch of violets and continued along the Boulevard to rue des Écoles. A cab was waiting in front of Boulant’s when a pretty girl, aided by Elliott, jumped out.

“Valentine!” the girl called, “come with us!”

“I can’t,” she replied, pausing for a moment. “I have a rendezvous at Mignon’s.”

“Not with Victor?” the girl laughed, but Valentine shivered slightly, nodding goodnight before turning onto Boulevard St. Germain, quickening her pace to avoid a lively group sitting outside Café Cluny who called out for her to join them. At the entrance of Restaurant Mignon, a coal-black waiter in a uniform took off his peaked cap as she ascended the carpeted stairs.

“Send Eugene to me,” she instructed at the office, then passed through the hallway to the right of the dining room, stopping before a row of panelled doors. A waiter passed by, and she repeated her request for Eugene, who soon appeared, gliding in silently and bowing as he murmured, “Madame.”

“Who is here?”

“No one in the cabinets, madame; just Madame Madelon and Monsieur Gay, Monsieur de Clamart, Monsieur Clisson, Madame Marie, and their group.” He glanced around, bowed again, and murmured, “Monsieur has been waiting for you for half an hour,” before knocking on one of the panelled doors marked with the number six.

Clifford opened the door, and the girl stepped inside.

The garçon bowed her in, whispering, “Will Monsieur please ring?” before disappearing.

He helped her out of her jacket, taking her hat and umbrella. Once she was seated at the small table with Clifford across from her, she smiled and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table as she looked him in the eye.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Waiting,” he replied, his voice filled with admiration.

For a moment, she turned to the mirror, examining her reflection. Her wide blue eyes, curling hair, straight nose, and short, curled lip flashed back at her, and then the mirror revealed her pretty neck and back. “Thus do I turn my back on vanity,” she said, leaning forward again. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” Clifford repeated, a hint of unease creeping in.

“And Cécile.”

“Now don’t, Valentine—”

“Do you know,” she said calmly, “I dislike your behavior?”

He felt a bit flustered and rang for Eugene to mask his discomfort.

The soup was bisque, the wine Pommery, and the courses arrived in their usual order until Eugene brought coffee, leaving only a small silver lamp on the table.

“Valentine,” Clifford said after getting permission to smoke, “are we going to the Vaudeville or the Eldorado—or both, or the Nouveau Cirque, or—”

“It’s right here,” Valentine replied.

“Well,” he said, flattered, “I’m afraid I couldn’t entertain you—”

“Oh, yes, you’re funnier than the Eldorado.”

“Now see here, don’t tease me, Valentine. You always do, and, well—you know what they say—a good laugh kills—”

“What?”

“Er—er—love and all that.”

She laughed until her eyes sparkled with tears. “So he’s dead, then!”

Clifford looked at her with growing concern.

“Do you know why I came?” she asked.

“No,” he replied, feeling uneasy. “I don’t.”

“How long have you been in love with me?”

“Well,” he admitted, somewhat startled, “I’d say about a year.”

“It’s been a year, I think. Aren’t you tired?”

He didn’t answer.

“Don’t you realize that I like you too much to ever fall in love with you?” she said. “Don’t you know we’re too good as friends—too old friends for that? And even if we weren’t—do you think I don’t know your history, Monsieur Clifford?”

“Don’t be—don’t be so sarcastic,” he urged. “Don’t be unkind, Valentine.”

“I’m not. I’m kind. I’m very kind—to you and to Cécile.”

“Cécile is tired of me.”

“I hope she is,” the girl said. “She deserves better. Do you know your reputation in the Quarter? The most inconstant, utterly incorrigible, and no more serious than a gnat on a summer night. Poor Cécile!”

Clifford looked so uncomfortable that she softened her tone.

“I like you. You know that. Everyone does. You’re a spoiled child here. Everything is permitted to you, and everyone makes allowances, but not everyone can be a victim of your whims.”

“Whims!” he exclaimed. “By Jove, if the girls of the Latin Quarter aren’t whimsical—”

“Never mind about that! You can’t judge—of all people. Why are you here tonight? Oh,” she exclaimed, “I’ll tell you why! Monsieur receives a little note; he sends a little answer; he dresses in his conquering attire—”

“I don’t,” Clifford said, his face turning red.

“You do, and it suits you,” she shot back with a faint smile. Then, more seriously, she said, “I am in your power, but I know I’m in the power of a friend. I’ve come to admit that to you here—and it’s because of that that I’m here to ask you for a favor.”

Clifford’s eyes widened, but he remained silent.

“I am in great distress,” she said, her voice low. “It’s about Monsieur Hastings.”

“Well?” he asked, surprised.

“I want to ask you,” she continued, “if you happen to mention me before him—not to say—not to say—”

“I won’t mention you to him,” he said quietly.

“Can you prevent others from doing so?”

“I might if I’m present. May I ask why?”

“That’s not fair,” she murmured. “You know how he sees me—as he sees every woman. You know how different he is from you and the rest. I’ve never met a man—such a man as Monsieur Hastings.”

He let his cigarette go out without noticing.

“I’m almost afraid of him—afraid he’ll know what we all are in the Quarter. Oh, I don’t want him to know! I don’t want him to turn away from me—to stop speaking to me as he does! You—you and the others can’t understand what it’s been like for me. I couldn’t believe him—I couldn’t believe he was so good and noble. I don’t want him to find out—at least not yet. He will discover it—sooner or later, he will find out for himself, and then he’ll turn away from me. Why!” she cried passionately, “why should he turn from me and not from you?”

Clifford, feeling awkward, stared at his cigarette.

The girl stood up, her face pale. “He’s your friend—you have every right to warn him.”

“He is my friend,” he finally replied.

They exchanged a long, silent gaze.

Then she exclaimed, “I swear to you, you don’t need to warn him!”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said with a friendly smile.