IV

by Robert W. Chambers

Monday morning at Julian’s studio, students jostled for their spots. Those with prior claims pushed away others who had been anxiously waiting on coveted stools since the door opened, hoping to claim them before roll call. Arguments erupted over palettes, brushes, and portfolios, while the air filled with demands for Ciceri and bread. Ciceri, a scruffy former model who once posed as Judas, now sold stale bread for a sou, just enough to keep himself in cigarettes.

Monsieur Julian entered with a fatherly smile before disappearing again. His exit was quickly followed by the clerk, a sly figure darting through the chaos in search of easy prey.

Three men who hadn’t paid their dues were caught and summoned. A fourth was spotted, chased down, cornered, and finally captured behind the stove. As tensions rose, shouts erupted for “Jules!”

Jules arrived, mediating two fights with a weary look in his big brown eyes. He shook hands with everyone and then melted back into the crowd, leaving behind a sense of calm and goodwill. The lions settled down with the lambs, the massiers marked the best spots for themselves and their friends, and climbed onto the model stands to begin roll call.

The word spread, “They start with C this week.”

And they did.

“Clisson!”

Clisson sprang up and quickly marked his name on the floor in chalk before a front row seat.

“Caron!”

Caron dashed off to secure his spot. Bang! An easel crashed down. “What the hell are you doing?” someone shouted in English, followed by a string of French curses. A paintbox tumbled, brushes scattering everywhere. “Damn it!” A scuffle broke out, and the massier’s voice rang out, stern and reproachful: “Cochon!”

The roll call resumed.

“Clifford!”

The massier paused, glancing up, one finger holding the place in the ledger.

“Clifford!”

But Clifford was nowhere to be found. He was about three miles away, and with each passing moment, the distance grew. Not that he was in a hurry—he strolled leisurely, a pace unique to him. Elliott walked beside him, two bulldogs trailing behind. Elliott was absorbed in reading “Gil Blas,” finding amusement in it but keeping his laughter in check, sensing it wouldn’t suit Clifford’s mood. Clifford, aware of this but saying nothing, led the way into the Luxembourg Gardens, settling onto a bench by the northern terrace to survey the landscape with a frown.

Following the park’s rules, Elliott tied the dogs and, casting a questioning glance at his friend, returned to his reading and discreet smiles.

The day was perfect. The sun hung over Notre Dame, making the city sparkle. The soft leaves of the chestnut trees cast shadows on the terrace, dappling the paths with patterns so beautiful that Clifford might have found inspiration for his art if he had bothered to look. But, as was often the case during this phase of his life, his thoughts wandered far from his profession. Around them, sparrows squabbled and chirped their courtship songs, rosy pigeons glided from tree to tree, flies danced in the sunbeams, and flowers released a thousand fragrances that stirred a languorous yearning in Clifford. Under this spell, he finally spoke.

“Elliott, you’re a true friend—”

“You’re making me sick,” Elliott replied, folding his paper. “Just as I thought—you’re chasing after some new girl again. And,” he continued, his voice rising in frustration, “if this is why you’ve kept me away from Julian’s—if it’s to fill me with stories about some little idiot—”

“Not an idiot,” Clifford interjected gently.

“Seriously?” Elliott exclaimed. “Do you really have the nerve to tell me you’re in love again?”

“Again?”

“Yes, again and again and again—by God, are you?”

“This,” Clifford said sadly, “is serious.”

For a moment, Elliott looked like he wanted to shake him, but then he laughed in helplessness. “Oh, come on; let’s see, there’s Clémence, Marie Tellec, Cosette, Fifine, Colette, Marie Verdier—”

“All of whom are charming, truly charming, but I was never serious—”

“Swear to me, Moses,” Elliott said solemnly, “every single one of those girls has broken your heart and made me lose my place at Julian’s in the process; each and every one of them. Do you deny it?”

“What you say has some truth to it—but give me credit for being faithful to one at a time—”

“Until the next one comes along.”

“But this—this is really different. Elliott, believe me, I’m completely shattered.”

With nothing else to do, Elliott ground his teeth and listened.

“It’s—it’s Rue Barrée.”

"Well," Elliott scoffed, "if you're going to sit there moping over that girl—the one who’s given both of us every reason to wish we could just disappear—then go ahead!"

"I’m moving on—I don’t care; my shyness is gone—"

"Yes, your natural shyness."

"I’m desperate, Elliott. Am I in love? I’ve never felt so damn miserable. I can’t sleep; honestly, I can’t even eat properly."

"Same symptoms were noted in Colette’s case."

"Will you just listen?"

"Hold on a second, I know the rest by heart. Let me ask you something. Do you believe Rue Barrée is a pure girl?"

"Yes," Clifford replied, his face flushing.

"Do you love her—not just the way you chase after every pretty face—I mean, do you truly love her?"

"Yes," he said stubbornly. "I would—"

"Wait a minute; would you marry her?"

Clifford turned bright red. "Yes," he muttered.

"Great news for your family," Elliott growled, barely containing his anger. "‘Dear father, I’ve just married a lovely working girl whom I’m sure you’ll welcome with open arms, along with her mother, a very respectable laundress.’ Good heavens! This seems to have gone a bit further than usual. Thank your lucky stars that I’m level-headed enough for both of us. Still, I have no worries. Rue Barrée has crushed your dreams in a way that’s unmistakably final."

"Rue Barrée," Clifford started, straightening up, but he stopped short. There, where the dappled sunlight fell in golden patches along the sunlit path, walked Rue Barrée. Her dress was immaculate, and her large straw hat, tilted slightly from her fair forehead, cast a shadow over her eyes.

Elliott stood and bowed. Clifford removed his hat with such a plaintive, appealing, and utterly humble expression that Rue Barrée smiled.

Her smile was enchanting, and when Clifford, unable to keep his balance from sheer astonishment, swayed slightly, she smiled again despite herself. Moments later, she took a seat on the terrace, pulled a book from her music roll, flipped through the pages, found her spot, and then placed it open on her lap. She sighed a little, smiled a little, and gazed out over the city. She had completely forgotten about Foxhall Clifford.

After a while, she picked up her book again, but instead of reading, she began to adjust a rose in her corsage. The rose was large and red, glowing like fire over her heart, warming her as it fluttered beneath the silken petals. Rue Barrée sighed again. She felt very happy. The sky was so blue, the air so soft and fragrant, the sunshine so gentle, and her heart sang within her, singing to the rose on her breast. It sang: "Out of the crowd of passersby, out of yesterday’s world, out of the millions passing by, one has turned aside to me."

So her heart sang beneath the rose on her breast. Then two large, gray pigeons flew by and landed on the terrace, where they bowed and strutted and bobbed around until Rue Barrée laughed in delight. Looking up, she saw Clifford before her. His hat was in his hand, and his face was lit up with a series of charming smiles that would have melted the heart of a Bengal tiger.

For a moment, Rue Barrée frowned, then she looked at Clifford with curiosity. When she noticed how his bows resembled the bobbing pigeons, she couldn’t help but break into the most enchanting laugh. Was this really Rue Barrée? So transformed that she hardly recognized herself; yet that song in her heart drowned out everything else, trembling on her lips, struggling to be expressed, bursting forth in laughter at nothing—at a strutting pigeon—and Mr. Clifford.

* * * * *

"And you think that because I acknowledge the students in the Quarter, you can be received as a friend? I don’t know you, Monsieur, but vanity is another name for man;—be content, Monsieur Vanity, I will be very proper—oh, most proper in returning your greeting."

"But I beg—I implore you to let me offer you the respect that has long—"

"Oh dear; I don’t care for respect."

"Just let me speak to you now and then—occasionally—very occasionally."

"And if I do, why not another?"

"Not at all—I will be the very definition of discretion."

"Discretion—why?"

Her eyes were very clear, and Clifford flinched for a moment, but only for a moment. Then the reckless impulse took hold of him, and he sat down, offering himself, heart and soul, belongings and all. All the while, he knew he was being foolish, that infatuation wasn’t love, and that every word he spoke bound him in honor with no way out. Meanwhile, Elliott scowled down at the fountain plaza, fiercely holding back both bulldogs from rushing to Clifford’s aid—because even they sensed something was off, as Elliott seethed within himself and muttered curses.

When Clifford finished speaking, he was filled with excitement, but Rue Barrée took her time to respond, causing his enthusiasm to wane as the reality of the situation settled in. Regret began to creep in, but he pushed it aside and launched into another round of heartfelt declarations. Just as he began, Rue Barrée interrupted him.

“I appreciate your offer,” she said, her tone serious. “No man has ever proposed to me before.” She turned her gaze toward the city, and after a moment, she continued, “You’re offering me so much. I’m alone, I have nothing, I am nothing.” She glanced back at Paris, radiant and beautiful in the light of a perfect day. He followed her gaze.

“Oh,” she sighed, “it’s so hard—so hard to work all the time, always alone, without a friend you can truly trust. The love that is offered often leads to the streets, to the boulevard—when passion fades. I know it—we know it—those of us who have nothing, who are alone, and who give ourselves completely when we love—yes, completely—heart and soul, knowing how it will end.”

She touched the rose at her breast, momentarily lost in thought. Then, quietly, she said, “I appreciate it, truly.” She opened her book, plucked a petal from the rose, and let it fall between the pages. Looking up at him, she added softly, “But I cannot accept.”