I

by Robert W. Chambers

One morning at Julian’s studio, a student nudged Selby and said, “That’s Foxhall Clifford,” pointing with his brushes at a young man sitting before an easel, seemingly doing nothing.

Selby, feeling shy and a bit anxious, approached Clifford. “I’m Selby. I just got to Paris and I have a letter of introduction—” His words were drowned out by the loud crash of a falling easel. The owner, furious, immediately started a scuffle with his neighbor, and soon the sounds of chaos echoed through the studios of Boulanger and Lefebvre, eventually spilling out into a brawl on the stairs. Selby, worried about how he’d be received in the studio, glanced at Clifford, who was calmly observing the commotion.

“It can get a bit noisy here,” Clifford said with a relaxed smile, “but you’ll like the guys once you get to know them.” Selby found his easygoing demeanor refreshing. With a genuine simplicity, Clifford introduced him to a handful of students from various countries. Some were warm and welcoming, while all were polite. Even the imposing Massier took a moment to say, “My friend, when a man speaks French as well as you do and is a friend of Monsieur Clifford, he’ll have no trouble here. You know you’ll have to stoke the fire until the next newcomer arrives, right?”

“Of course,” Selby replied.

“And you don’t mind a bit of teasing?”

“No,” Selby said, though he secretly loathed it.

Clifford chuckled and put on his hat. “You should expect plenty of that at first.”

Selby placed his own hat on his head and followed him to the door.

As they passed the model stand, a loud cry of “Chapeau! Chapeau!” rang out, and a student jumped from his easel, playfully threatening Selby. He felt his face flush but looked to Clifford for guidance.

“Just take off your hat for them,” Clifford said, laughing.

Feeling a bit awkward, Selby turned and gave a small bow to the studio.

“And me?” called the model playfully.

“You’re lovely,” Selby replied, surprised by his own boldness. The studio erupted in cheers, shouting, “He did well! He’s all right!” The model laughed, blew him a kiss, and called out, “See you tomorrow, handsome!”

For the rest of the week, Selby worked in the studio without any trouble. The French students affectionately nicknamed him “l’Enfant Prodigue,” which morphed into “The Prodigious Infant,” then “The Kid,” and eventually “Kidby.” But soon it devolved into “Kidney,” and finally settled back to just “Kid,” thanks to Clifford’s intervention.

Wednesday arrived, bringing M. Boulanger with it. For three long hours, the students endured his sharp criticisms, including Clifford, who was told he knew less about art than he did about hard work. Selby was luckier. The professor scrutinized his drawing in silence, shot him a piercing look, and then moved on with a nonchalant gesture. He eventually left, arm in arm with Bouguereau, much to Clifford’s relief, who then jammed his hat on his head and made his exit.

The next day, Clifford didn’t show up, and Selby, who had expected to see him at the studio—a hope he would later realize was naive—wandered back to the Latin Quarter alone.

Paris still felt foreign and overwhelming to him. He was vaguely unsettled by its grandeur. The Place du Châtelet and Notre Dame stirred no nostalgic feelings in his American heart. The Palais de Justice, with its clock and towers, the bustling Place St. Michel filled with omnibuses and grotesque water-spitting griffins, the hill of Boulevard St. Michel, the honking trams, the policemen strolling in pairs, and the café terraces of Vacehett meant little to him at that moment. He didn’t even realize that when he stepped from the cobblestones of Place St. Michel onto the asphalt of Boulevard, he had crossed into the student zone—the famous Latin Quarter.

A cab driver called out to him, labeling him “bourgeois,” and insisted that taking a cab was better than walking. A street kid, feigning great concern, asked him for the latest news from London, then proceeded to stand on his head, inviting Selby to join in some feats of strength. A pretty girl caught his eye with her striking violet gaze. He didn’t notice her, but she, catching her reflection in a shop window, marveled at the color in her cheeks. As she turned to continue on her way, she bumped into Foxhall Clifford and hurried past him. Clifford, wide-eyed, watched her go, then turned his attention back to Selby, who had headed down Boulevard St. Germain toward rue de Seine. He glanced at his own reflection in the shop window and frowned.

“I’m not a beauty,” he thought, “but I’m not a monster either. What does she see in Selby? I’ve never seen her look at anyone like that, and neither has anyone else in the Quarter. I can swear she’s never looked at me, and I’ve done everything a respectful admirer could do.”

He sighed, murmuring a quiet thought about the salvation of his immortal soul, and settled into the elegant lounge that was always a part of Clifford’s demeanor. With effortless grace, he caught up with Selby at the corner, and together they crossed the sunlit Boulevard, taking a seat under the awning of the Café du Cercle. Clifford greeted everyone on the terrace with a nod, saying, “You’ll meet them all later, but for now, let me introduce you to two of the sights of Paris: Mr. Richard Elliott and Mr. Stanley Rowden.”

The “sights” appeared friendly and were sipping vermouth.

“You skipped the studio today,” Elliott said suddenly, turning to Clifford, who avoided his gaze.

“To commune with nature?” Rowden remarked.

“What’s her name this time?” Elliott asked, and Rowden quickly replied, “Name: Yvette; nationality: Breton—”

“Wrong,” Clifford said smoothly, “it’s Rue Barrée.”

The topic shifted immediately, and Selby listened in surprise as they tossed around names that were unfamiliar to him, praising the latest Prix de Rome winner. He was thrilled to hear bold opinions and honest debates, even if the conversation was laced with slang, both English and French. He yearned for the day when he would be caught up in the struggle for fame.

The bells of St. Sulpice rang out the hour, and the Palace of the Luxembourg chimed in response. Glancing at the sun, which was dipping low in the golden haze behind the Palais Bourbon, they stood up and, turning east, crossed Boulevard St. Germain, strolling toward the École de Médecine. At the corner, a girl hurried past them. Clifford smirked, while Elliott and Rowden seemed agitated, but they all bowed, and she returned their gesture without lifting her eyes. However, Selby, who had fallen behind, captivated by a vibrant shop window, looked up to meet the gaze of two of the bluest eyes he had ever seen. The eyes dropped away instantly, and he hurried to catch up with the others.

“By Jove,” he exclaimed, “do you guys know I just saw the prettiest girl—” An exclamation erupted from the trio, dark and foreboding, like a chorus in a Greek play.

“Rue Barrée!”

“What!” Selby replied, bewildered.

The only response was a vague gesture from Clifford.

Two hours later, during dinner, Clifford turned to Selby and said, “You want to ask me something; I can tell by the way you’re fidgeting.”

“Yes, I do,” he replied innocently enough. “It’s about that girl. Who is she?”

Rowden’s smile held a hint of pity, while Elliott’s was laced with bitterness.

“Her name,” Clifford said solemnly, “is unknown to anyone, at least as far as I can find out. Every guy in the Quarter bows to her, and she returns the gesture with a serious expression, but no man has ever managed to get more than that. Judging by her music roll, she seems to be a pianist. She lives on a small, humble street that’s always under repair by the city, and from the black letters painted on the barrier that keeps traffic out, she’s taken the name we know her by—Rue Barrée. Mr. Rowden, in his less-than-perfect French, pointed it out as Roo Barry—”

“I didn’t,” Rowden shot back, heated.

“And Roo Barry, or Rue Barrée, is currently the object of adoration for every aspiring artist in the Quarter—”

“We’re not aspiring artists,” Elliott corrected.

“I’m not,” Clifford replied, “and I’d like to point out, Selby, that these two gentlemen have, at various unfortunate moments, offered to lay down their lives at the feet of Rue Barrée. The lady has a chilling smile she uses on such occasions and,” here he grew dramatically serious, “I’ve come to believe that neither the scholarly charm of my friend Elliott nor the robust good looks of my friend Rowden have managed to thaw her icy heart.”

Elliott and Rowden, seething with indignation, exclaimed, “And you!”

“I,” Clifford said with a calm smile, “am cautious about treading where you rush in.”