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In the Quarter

R >> Robert W. Chambers >> In the Quarter




Braith looked at the program: No. 1, Faust; No. 2, La Belle Hélène.

"Rex ought to be here, he's so fond of that."

Mr Bulfinch was mixing, in a surprisingly scientific manner for a man
who didn't drink himself, something which the French call a
"coquetelle"; a bit of ice, a little seltzer, a slice of lemon, and
some Canadian Club whiskey. Braith eyed the well-worn flask.

"I see you don't trust to the Café's supplies."

"I only keep this for medicinal purposes," said the other, blinking
nervously, "and -- and I don't usually produce it when there are any
newspapermen around."

"But you," said Braith, sipping the mixture with relish, "do you
take none yourself?"

"I don't drink," said the other, and swallowed his coffee in such a
hurry as to bring on a fit of coughing. Beads of perspiration
clustered above his canary-colored eyebrows as he set down the glass
with a gasp.

Braith was watching the crowd. Presently he exclaimed:

"There's Rex now," and rising, waved his glass and his cane and
called Gethryn's name. The people sitting at adjacent tables glanced
at one another resignedly. "More crazy English!"

"Rex! Clifford!" Braith shouted, until at last they heard him. In a
few moments they had made their way through the crowd and sat down,
mopping their faces and protesting plaintively against the heat.

Gethryn's glance questioned Braith, who said, "Mr Bulfinch and I have
had the deuce of a time to make you fellows hear. You'd have been
easier to call if you knew what sort of drink he can brew."

Clifford was already sniffing knowingly at the glass and turning looks
of deep intelligence on Bulfinch, who responded gayly, "Hope you'll
have some too," and with a sidelong blink at Gethryn, he produced the
bottle, saying, "I don't drink myself, as Mr Gethryn knows."

Rex said, "Certainly not," not knowing what else to say. But the
fondness of Clifford's gaze was ineffable.

Braith, who always hated to see Clifford look like that, turned to
Gethryn. "Favorite of yours on the program."

Rex looked.

"Oh," he cried, "Belle Hélène." Next moment he flushed, and
feeling as if the others saw it, crimsoned all the deeper. This
escaped Clifford, however, who was otherwise occupied. But he joined
in the conversation, hoping for an argument.

"Braith and Rex go in for the Meistersinger, Walküre, and all that
rot -- but I like some tune to my music."

"Well, you're going to get it now," said Braith; "the band are
taking their places. Now for La Belle Hélène." He glanced at Gethryn,
who had turned aside and leaned on the table, shading his eyes with
his program.

The leader of the band stood wiping his mustache with one hand while
he turned the leaves of his score with the other. The musicians came
in laughing and chattering, munching their bit of biscuit or smacking
their lips over lingering reminiscences of the intermission.

They hung their bayonets against the wall, and at the rat-tat of
attention, came to order, standing in a circle with bugles and
trombones poised and eyes fixed on the little gold-mounted baton.

A slow wave of the white-gloved hand, a few gentle tips of the wand,
and then a sweep which seemed to draw out the long, rich opening chord
of the Dream Song and set it drifting away among the trees till it
lost itself in the rattle and clatter of the Boulevard St Michel.

Braith and Bulfinch set down their glasses and listened. Clifford
silently blew long wreaths of smoke into the branches overhead.
Gethryn leaned heavily on the table, one hand shading his eyes.

Oui c'est un rêve;
Un rêve doux d'amour --

The music died away in one last throb. Bulfinch sighed and blinked
sentimentally, first on one, then on the other of his companions.

Suddenly the little Mirror man's eyes bulged out, he stiffened and
grasped Braith's arm; his fingers were like iron.

"What the deuce!" began Braith, but, following the other's eyes, he
became silent and stern.

"Talk of the devil -- do you see him -- Pick?"

"I see," growled Braith.

"And -- and excuse me, but can that be madame? So like, and yet -- "

Braith leaned forward and looked steadily at a couple who were slowly
moving toward them in deep conversation.

"No," he said at last; and leaning back in his seat he refused to
speak again.

Bulfinch chattered on excitedly, and at last he brought his fist down
on the table at his right, where Clifford sat drawing a caricature on
the marble top.

"I'd like," cried Bulfinch, "to take it out of his hide!"

"Hello!" said Clifford, disturbed in his peaceful occupation,
"whose hide are you going to tan?"

"Nobody's," said Braith, sternly, still watching the couple who had
now almost reached their group.

Clifford's start had roused Gethryn, who stirred and slowly looked up;
at the same moment, the girl, now very near, raised her head and Rex
gazed full into the eyes of Yvonne.

Her glance fell and the color flew to her temples. Gethryn's face lost
all its color.

"Pretty girl," drawled Clifford, "but what a dirty little beggar
she lugs about with her."

Pick heard and turned, his eyes falling first on Gethryn, who met his
look with one that was worse than a kick. He glanced next at Braith,
and then he turned green under the dirty yellow of the skin. Braith's
eyes seemed to strike fire; his mouth was close set. The Jew's eyes
shifted, only to fall on the pale, revengeful glare of T. Hoppley
Bulfinch, who was half rising from his chair with all sorts of
possibilities written on every feature.

"Let him go," whispered Braith, and turned his back.

Bulfinch sat down, his eyes like saucers. "I'd like -- but not now!"
he sputtered in a weird whisper.

Clifford had missed the whole thing. He had only eyes for the girl.

Gethryn sat staring after the couple, who were at that moment passing
the gate into the Boulevard St Michel. He saw Yvonne stop and hastily
thrust something into the Jew's hand, then, ignoring his obsequious
salute, leave him and hurry down the Rue de Medicis.

The next Gethryn knew, Braith was standing beside him.

"Rex, will you join us at the Golden Pheasant for dinner?" was what
he said, but his eyes added, "Don't let people see you look like
that."

"I -- I -- don't know," said Gethryn. "Yes, I think so," with an
effort.

"Come along, then!" said Braith to the others, and hurried them
away.

Rex sat still till they were out of sight, then he got up and turned
into the Avenue de l'Observatoire. He stopped and drank some cognac at
a little café, and then started on, but he had no idea where he was
going.

Presently he found himself crossing a bridge, and looked up. The great
pile of Notre Dame de Paris loomed on his right. He crossed the Seine
and wandered on without any aim -- but passing the Tour St Jacques,
and wishing to avoid the Boulevard, he made a sharp detour to the
right, and after long wandering through byways and lanes, he crossed
the foul, smoky Canal St Martin, and bore again to the right -- always
aimlessly.

Twilight was falling when his steps were arrested by fatigue. Looking
up, he found himself opposite the gloomy mass of La Roquette prison.
Sentinels slouched and dawdled up and down before the little painted
sentry boxes under the great gate.

Over the archway was some lettering, and Gethryn stopped to read it:

La Roquette
Prison of the Condemned

He looked up and down the cheerless street. It was deserted save by
the lounging sentinels and one wretched child, who crouched against
the gateway.

"Fiche moi le camp! Allons! En route!" growled one of the sentinels,
stamping his foot and shaking his fist at the bundle of rags.

Gethryn walked toward him.

"What's the matter with the little one?" he asked.

The soldier dropped the butt of his rifle with a ring, and said
deferentially:

"Pardon, Monsieur, but the gamin has been here every day and all day
for two weeks. It's disgusting."

"Is he hungry?"

"Ma foi? I can't tell you," laughed the sentry, shifting his weight
to his right foot and leaning on the cross of his bayonet.

"Are you hungry, little one?" called Gethryn, pleasantly.

The child raised his head, with a wolfish stare, then sank it again
and murmured: "I have seen him and touched him."

Gethryn turned to the soldier.

"What does he mean by that?" he demanded.

The sentry shrugged his shoulders. "He means he saw a hunchback. They
say when one sees a hunchback and touches him, it brings good luck, if
the hunchback is neither too old nor too young. Dame! I don't say
there's nothing in it, but it can't save Henri Rigaud."

"And who is Henri Rigaud?"

"What! Monsieur has not heard of the affair Rigaud? Rigaud who did
the double murder!"

"Oh, yes! In the Faubourg du Temple."

The sentry nodded. "He dies this week."

"And the child?"

"Is his."

Gethryn looked at the dirty little bundle of tatters.

"No one knows the exact day set for the affair, but," the sentry
sank his voice to a whisper, "between you and me, I saw the widow
going into the yard just before dinner, and Monsieur de Paris is here.
That means tomorrow morning -- click!"

"The -- the widow?" repeated Gethryn.

"The guillotine. It will be over before this time tomorrow and the
gamin there, who thinks the bossu will give him back his father --
he'll find out his mistake, all in good time -- all in good time!"
and shouldering his rifle, the sentry laughed and resumed his
slouching walk before the gateway.

Gethryn nodded to the soldier's salute and went up to the child, who
stood leaning sullenly against the wall.

"Do you know what a franc is?" he asked.

The gamin eyed him doggedly.

"But I saw him," he said.

"Saw what?" said Gethryn, gently.

"The bossu," repeated the wretched infant vacantly.

"See here," said Gethryn, "listen to me. What would you do with
twenty francs?"

"Eat, all day long, forever!"

Rex slipped two twenty-franc pieces into the filthy little fist.

"Eat," he murmured, and turned away.

Seven

Next morning, when Clifford arrived at the Atelier of MM. Boulanger
and Lefebvre, he found the students more excited than usual over the
advent of a "Nouveau."

Hazing at Julien's has assumed, of late, a comparatively mild form. Of
course there are traditions of serious trouble in former years and a
few fights have taken place, consequent upon the indignant resistance
of new men to the ridiculous demands forced upon them by their
ingenious tormentors. Still, the hazing of today is comparatively
inoffensive, and there is not much of it. In the winter the students
are too busy to notice a newcomer, except to make him feel strange and
humble by their lofty scorn. But in the autumn, when the men have
returned from their long out-of-door rest, with brush and palette, a
certain amount of friskiness is developed, which sometimes expends
itself upon the luckless "nouveau." A harmless search for the
time-honored "grand reflecteur," an enforced song and dance, a stern
command to tread the mazes of the shameless quadrille with an equally
shameless model, is usually the extent of the infliction. Occasionally
the stranger is invited to sit on a high stool and read aloud to the
others while they work, as he would like to do himself. But sometimes,
if a man resists these reasonable demands in a contumacious manner, he
is "crucified." This occurs so seldom, however, that Clifford, on
entering the barn-like studios that morning, was surprised to see that
a "crucifixion" was in progress.

A stranger was securely strapped to the top rungs of a twenty-foot
ladder which a crowd of Frenchmen were preparing to raise and place in
a slanting position against the wall.

"Who is it that those fellows are fooling with?" he asked.

"An Englishman, and it's about time we put a stop to it," answered
Elliott.

When Americans or Englishmen are hazed by the French students, they
make common cause in keeping watch that the matter does not go too
far.

"How many of us are here this morning?" said Clifford.

"Fourteen who can fight," said Elliott; "they only want someone to
give the word."

Clifford buttoned his jacket and shouldered his way into the middle of
the crowd. "That's enough. He's been put through enough for today,"
he said coolly.

A Frenchman, who had himself only entered the Atelier the week
previous, laughed and replied, "We'll put you on, if you say
anything."

There was an ominous pause. Every old student there knew Clifford to
be one of the most skillful and dangerous boxers in the school.

They looked with admiration upon their countryman. It didn't cost
anything to admire him. They urged him on, and he didn't need much
urging, for he remembered his own recent experience as a new man, and
he didn't know Clifford.

"Go ahead," cried this misguided student, "he's a nouveau, and he's
going up!"

Clifford laughed in his face. "Come along," he called, as some dozen
English and American students pushed into the circle and gathered
round the prostrate Englishman.

"See here, Clifford, what's the use of interrupting?" urged a big
Frenchman.

Clifford began loosening the straps. "You know, Bonin, that we always
do interfere when it goes as far as this against an Englishman or an
American." He laughed good naturedly. "There's always been a fight
over it before, but I hope there won't be any today."

Bonin grinned and shrugged his shoulders.

After vainly fussing with the ropes, Clifford and the others finally
cut them and the "nouveau" scrambled to his feet and took an
attitude which may be seen engraved in any volume of instruction in
the noble art of self-defense. He was an Englishman of the sandy
variety. Orange-colored whiskers decorated a carefully scrubbed face,
terminating in a red-brown mustache. He had blue eyes, now lighted to
a pale green by the fire of battle, reddish-brown hair, and white
hands spattered with orange-colored freckles. All this, together with
a well made suit of green and yellow checks, and the seesaw accent of
the British Empire, answered, when politely addressed, to the name of
Cholmondeley Rowden, Esq.

"I say," he began, "I'm awfully obliged, you know, and all that;
but I'd jolly well like to give some of these cads a jolly good
licking, you know."

"Go in, my friend, go in!" laughed Clifford; "but next time we'll
leave you to hang in the air for an hour or two, that's all."

"Damn their cheek!" began the Englishman.

"See here," cried Elliott sharply, "you're only a nouveau, and
you'd better shut up till you've been here long enough to talk."

"In other words," said Clifford, "don't buck against custom."

"But I cahn't see it," said the nouveau, brushing his dusty
trousers. "I don't see it at all, you know. Damn their cheek!"

At this moment the week-weaned Frenchman shoved up to Clifford.

"What did you mean by interfering? Eh! You English pig."

Clifford looked at him with contempt. "What do you want, my little
Nouveau?"

"Nouveau!" spluttered the Gaul, "Nouveau, eh!" and he made a
terrific lunge at the American, who was sent stumbling backward, and
slipping, fell heavily.

The Frenchman gazed around in triumph, but his grin was not reflected
on the faces of his compatriots. None of them would have changed
places with him.

Clifford picked himself up deliberately. His face was calm and mild as
he walked up to his opponent, who hurriedly put himself into an
attitude of self-defense.

"Monsieur Nouveau, you are not wise. But some day you will learn
better, when you are no longer a nouveau," said Clifford, kindly. The
man looked puzzled, but kept his fists up.

"Now I am going to punish you a little," proceeded Clifford, in even
tones, "not harshly, but with firmness, for your good," he added,
walking straight up to the Frenchman.

The latter struck heavily at Clifford's head, but he ducked like a
flash, and catching his antagonist around the waist, carried him,
kicking, to the water-basin, where he turned on the water and shoved
the squirming Frenchman under. The scene was painful, but brief; when
one of the actors in it emerged from under the water-spout, he no
longer asked for anybody's blood.

"Go and dry yourself," said Clifford, cheerfully; and walking over
to his easel, sat down and began to work.

In ten minutes, all trace of the row had disappeared, excepting that
one gentleman's collar looked rather limp and his hair was uncommonly
sleek. The men worked steadily. Snatches of song and bits of whistling
rose continuously from easel and taboret, all blending in a drowsy
hum. Gethryn and Elliott caught now and then, from behind them, words
of wisdom which Clifford was administering to the now subdued Rowden.

"Yes," he was saying, "many a man has been injured for life by
these Frenchmen for a mere nothing. I had two brothers," he paused,
"and my golden-haired boy -- " he ceased again, apparently choking
with emotion.

"But -- I say -- you're not married, you know," said the Englishman.

"Hush," sighed Clifford, "I -- I -- married the daughter of an
African duke. She was brought to the States by a slave trader in
infancy."

"Black?" gasped Mr Rowden.

"Very black, but beautiful. I could not keep her. She left me, and is
singing with Haverley's Minstrels now."

Like the majority of his countrymen, Mr Rowden was ready to believe
anything he heard of social conditions in the States, but one point
required explanation.

"You said the child had golden hair."

"Yes, his mother's hair was red," sighed Clifford.

Gethryn, glancing round, saw the Englishman's jaw drop, as he said,
"How extraordinary!" Then he began to smile as if suspecting a joke.
But Clifford's eye met his in gentle rebuke.

"C'est l'heure! Rest!" Down jumped the model. The men leaned back
noisily. Clifford rose, bowed gravely to the Englishman, and stepped
across the taborets to join his friends.

Gethryn was cleaning his brushes with turpentine and black soap.

"Going home, Rex?" inquired Clifford, picking up a brush and sending
a fine spray of turpentine over Elliott, who promptly returned the
attention.

"Quit that," growled Gethryn, "don't ruin those brushes."

"What's the nouveau like, Clifford?" asked Elliott. "We heard you
instructing him a little. He seems to have the true Englishman's sense
of humor."

"Oh, he's not a bad sort," said Clifford. "Come and be introduced.
I'm half ashamed of myself for guying him, for he's really a very
decent, plucky fellow, a bit stiff and pig-headed, as many of 'em are
at first, and as for humor, I suppose they know their own kind, but
they do get a little confused between fact and fancy when they
converse with us."

The two strolled off with friendly intent, to seek out and ameliorate
the loneliness of Cholmondeley Rowden, Esq.

Gethryn tied up his brushes, closed his color box and, flinging on his
hat, hurried down the stairs and into the court, nodding to several
students who passed with canvas and paint-boxes tucked under their
arms. He reached the street, and, going through the Passage Brady,
emerged upon the Boulevard Sebastopol.

A car was passing and he boarded it, climbing up to the imperiale. The
only vacant seat was between a great, red-faced butcher, and a market
woman from the Halles, and although the odors of raw beef and fish
were unpleasantly perceptible, he settled himself back and soon became
lost in his own thoughts. The butcher had a copy of the Petit Journal
and every now and then he imparted bits of it across Gethryn, to the
market woman, lingering with relish over the criminal items.

"Dites donc," he cried, "here is the affair Rigaud!"

Gethryn roused up and listened.

"This morning, I knew it," cackled the woman, folding her fat hands
across her apron. "I said to Sophie, `Voyons Sophie,' I said -- "

"Shut up," interrupted the butcher, "I'm going to read."

"I was sure of it," said the woman, addressing Gethryn, "`Voyons,
Sophie,' said -- " but the butcher interrupted her, again reading
aloud:

"The condemned struggled fearfully, and it required the united
efforts of six gendarmes -- "

"Cochon!" said the woman.

"Listen, will you!" cried the man. "Some disturbance was caused by
a gamin who broke from the crowd and attacked a soldier. But the
miserable was seized and carried off, screaming. Two gold pieces of 20
francs each fell from some hiding-place in his ragged clothes and were
taken charge of by the police."

The man paused and gloated over the column. "Here," he cried,
"Listen -- `Even under the knife the condemned -- "'

Gethryn rose roughly and, crowding past the man, descended the steps
and, entering the car below, sat down there.

"Butor!" roared the butcher. "Cochon! He trod on my foot!"

"He is an English pig!" sneered the woman, reaching for the
newspaper. "Let me read it now," she whined.

"Hands off," growled the man, "I'll read you what I think good."

"But it's my paper."

"It's mine now -- shut up."

The first thing Gethryn did on reaching home was to write a note to
his friend, the Prefect of the Seine, telling him how the child of
Rigaud came by the gold pieces. Then he had a quiet smoke, and then he
went out and lunched at the Café des Écoles, frugally, on a sandwich
and a glass of beer. After that he returned to his studio and sat down
to his desk again. He opened a small memorandum book and examined some
columns of figures. They were rather straggling, not very well kept,
but they served to convince him that his accounts were forty francs
behind, and he would have to economize a little for the next week or
two. After this, he sat and thought steadily. Finally he took a sheet
of his best cream laid note paper, dipped his pen in the ink, and
began to write. The note was short, but it took him a long while to
compose it, and when it was sealed and directed to "Miss Ruth Deane,
Lung' Arno Guicciardini, Florence, Italy," he sat holding it in his
hand as if he did not know what to do with it.

Two o'clock struck. He started up, and quickly rolling up the shades
from the glass roof and pulling out his easel, began to squeeze tube
after tube of color upon his palette. The parrot came down and tiptoed
about the floor, peering into color boxes, pastel cases, and pots of
black soap, with all the curiosity of a regulation studio bore. Steps
echoed on the tiles outside.

Gethryn opened the door quickly. "Ah, Elise! Bon jour!" he said,
pleasantly. "Entrez donc!"

"Merci, Monsieur Gethryn," smiled his visitor, a tall, well-shaped
girl with dark eyes and red cheeks.

"Ten minutes late," Elise, said Gethryn, laughing, "my time's worth
a franc a minute; so prepare to pay up."

"Very well," retorted the girl, also laughing and showing her pretty
teeth, "but I have decided to charge twenty francs an hour from
today. Now, what do you owe me, Monsieur?"

Gethryn shook his brushes at her. "You are spoiled, Elise -- you used
to pose very well and were never late."

"And I pose well now!" she cried, her professional pride piqued.
"Monsieur Bonnat and Monsieur Constant have praised me all this week.
Voila," she finished, throwing off her waist and letting her skirts
fall in a circle to her feet.

"Oh, you can pose if you will," answered Gethryn, pleasantly.
"Come, we begin?"

The girl stepped daintily out of the pile of discarded clothes, and
picking her way across the room with her bare feet, sprang lightly
upon the model stand.

"The same as last week?" she asked, smiling frankly.

"Yes, that's it," he replied, shifting his easel and glancing up at
the light; "only drop the left elbow a bit -- there, that's it; now a
little to the left -- the knee -- that will do."

The girl settled herself into the pose, glanced at the clock, and then
turning to Gethryn said, "And I am to look at you, am I not?"

"Where could you find a more charming object?" murmured he, sorting
his brushes.

"Thank you," she pouted, stealing a glance at him; "than you?"

"Except Mademoiselle Elise. There, now we begin!"

The rest of the hour was disturbed only by the sharp rattle of brushes
and the scraping of the palette knife.

"Are you tired?" asked Gethryn, looking at the clock; "you have ten
minutes more."

"No," said the girl, "continue."

Finally Gethryn rose and stepped back.

"Time," he said, still regarding his work. "Come and give me a
criticism, Elise."

The girl stretched her limbs, and then, stepping down, trotted over to
Gethryn.

"What do you say?" he demanded, anxiously.

Artists often pay more serious attention to the criticisms of their
models than to those of a brother artist. For, although models may be
ignorant of method -- which, however, is not always the case -- from
seeing so much good work they acquire a critical acumen which often
goes straight to the mark.

It was for one of these keen criticisms that the young man was
listening now.

"I like it very much -- very much," answered the girl, slowly;
"but, you see -- I am not so cold in the face -- am I?"

"Hit it, as usual," muttered the artist, biting his lip; "I've got
more greens and blues in there than there are in a peacock's tail.
You're right," he added, aloud, "I must warm that up a bit -- there
in the shadows, and keep the high lights pure and cold."

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