III

by Robert W. Chambers

Around five o’clock that afternoon, the little sad-eyed woman who worked as the concierge at the Hôtel du Sénat raised her hands in surprise as a wagon filled with flowering shrubs pulled up outside. She called for Joseph, the somewhat reckless bellboy, who, while calculating the value of the flowers in small vases, gloomily claimed he had no idea where they were headed.

“Let’s find the woman!” said the concierge.

“You?” he suggested, raising an eyebrow.

The little woman paused, deep in thought, then sighed. Joseph rubbed his nose, which was as bright as any flower display.

Moments later, the gardener entered, hat in hand, and shortly after, Selby stood in the middle of his room, coat off and shirt sleeves rolled up. The space, which originally had about two square feet of walking room, was now taken up by a cactus. The bed creaked under the weight of crates filled with pansies, lilies, and heliotrope, the couch was piled high with hyacinths and tulips, and the washstand supported a young tree that was supposed to bloom at some point.

Clifford arrived a little later, tripped over a box of sweet peas, swore under his breath, apologized, and then, as the full splendor of the floral display hit him, sat down in shock on a geranium. The geranium was crushed, but Selby waved it off, glaring at the cactus instead.

“Are you throwing a ball?” Clifford asked.

“N—no, I just really like flowers,” Selby replied, though his tone lacked enthusiasm.

“I can see that.” After a pause, he added, “That’s quite a cactus.”

Selby examined the cactus, touched it like a connoisseur, and pricked his thumb.

Clifford poked at a pansy with his stick. Just then, Joseph walked in with the bill, announcing the total loudly, partly to impress Clifford and partly to pressure Selby into giving him a tip, which he would share with the gardener if he felt like it. Clifford tried to act like he hadn’t heard, while Selby paid the bill and the tip without a word. He then lounged back into the room, attempting to appear indifferent, but ended up tearing his trousers on the cactus.

Clifford made a casual remark, lit a cigarette, and looked out the window to give Selby a chance to speak. Selby tried to take it, but when he managed to say, “Yes, spring is finally here,” he froze. He stared at the back of Clifford’s head, which seemed to express volumes. Those little perked-up ears were practically buzzing with suppressed amusement. Desperate to regain control of the conversation, he jumped up to grab some Russian cigarettes as a conversation starter, but the cactus thwarted him once again.

“Damn the cactus.” The words slipped out of Selby against his will, driven by the sharp thorns that had pricked him repeatedly. It was too late; he had said it, and Clifford turned around.

“Selby, why on earth did you buy all those flowers?”

“I like them,” Selby replied.

“What are you going to do with them? You can’t sleep here.”

“I could, if you’d help me move the pansies off the bed.”

“Where would you put them?”

“Couldn’t I give them to the concierge?”

As soon as he said it, regret washed over him. What would Clifford think? He had heard the total of the bill. Would he believe that Selby had splurged on these luxuries as a timid gesture towards the concierge? And what would people in the Latin Quarter say? He dreaded the thought of ridicule, especially knowing Clifford’s reputation.

Just then, someone knocked.

Selby looked at Clifford with a hunted expression that tugged at the younger man’s heart. It was both a confession and a plea. Clifford jumped up, navigated through the floral chaos, and peered through the crack of the door.

“Who the hell is it?”

“It’s Elliott,” he said, glancing back, “and Rowden too, along with their bulldogs.” Then he addressed them through the door. “Sit down on the stairs; Selby and I will be out in a minute.”

Discretion is a rare virtue in the Latin Quarter, and they had little of it. They plopped down and began to whistle.

After a moment, Rowden called out, “I smell flowers. They’re having a feast in there!”

“You should know Selby better than that,” Clifford grumbled from behind the door, while hurriedly swapping his torn trousers for a fresh pair.

“We know Selby,” Elliott replied with emphasis.

“Yes,” Rowden added, “he throws parties with floral decorations and invites Clifford while we sit on the stairs.”

“Yes, while the youth and beauty of the Quarter revel,” Rowden suggested, then suddenly asked, “Is Odette there?”

“Hey,” Elliott chimed in, “is Colette there?”

Then he raised his voice in a mock lament, “Are you there, Colette, while I’m stuck kicking my heels on these tiles?”

“Clifford can do just about anything,” Rowden remarked. “He’s been in a bad mood ever since Rue Barrée showed up.”

Elliott raised his voice. “Hey, guys, we saw some flowers being brought into Rue Barrée’s house around noon.”

“Posies and roses,” Rowden clarified.

“Probably for her,” Elliott added, stroking his bulldog affectionately.

Clifford suddenly shot a suspicious glance at Selby. Selby, unfazed, began humming a tune as he picked out a pair of gloves and selected a dozen cigarettes, placing them neatly in a case. He then strolled over to the cactus, casually plucked a blossom, and tucked it into his buttonhole. With his hat and stick in hand, he flashed a smile at Clifford, which only served to deepen Clifford’s unease.