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In the Quarter

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




Elise nodded seriously. "Monsieur Chaplain and I have finished our
picture," she announced, after a pause.

It is a naïve way models have of appropriating work in which, truly
enough, they have no small share. They often speak of "our pictures"
and "our success."

"How do you like it?" asked the artist, absently.

"Good," -- she shrugged her shoulders -- "but not truth."

"Right again," murmured Gethryn.

"I prefer Dagnan," added the pretty critic.

"So do I -- rather!" laughed Gethryn.

"Or you," said the girl.

"Come, come," cried the young man, coloring with pleasure, "you
don't mean it, Elise!"

"I say what I mean -- always," she replied, marching over to the
pups and gathering them into her arms.

"I'm going to take a cigarette," she announced, presently.

"All right," said Gethryn, squeezing more paint on his palette,
"you'll find some mild ones on the bookcase."

Elise gave the pups a little hug and kiss, and stepped lightly over to
the bookcase. Then she lighted a cigarette and turned and surveyed
herself in the mirror.

"I'm thinner than I was last year. What do you think?" she demanded,
studying her pretty figure in the glass.

"Perhaps a bit, but it's all the better. Those corsets simply ruined
you as a model last year."

Elise looked serious and shook her head.

"I do feel so much better without them. I won't wear them again."

"No, you have a pretty, slender figure, and you don't want them.
That's why I always get you when I can. I hate to draw or paint from a
girl whose hips are all discolored with ugly red creases from her
confounded corset."

The girl glanced contentedly at her supple, clean-limbed figure, and
then, with a laugh, jumped upon the model stand.

"It's not time," said Gethryn, "you have five minutes yet."

"Go on, all the same." And soon the rattle of the brushes alone
broke the silence.

At last Gethryn rose and backed off with a sigh.

"How's that, Elise?" he called.

She sprang down and stood looking over his shoulder.

"Now I'm like myself!" she cried, frankly; "it's delicious! But
hurry and block in the legs, why don't you?"

"Next pose," said the young man, squeezing out more color.

And so the afternoon wore away, and at six o'clock Gethryn threw down
his brushes with a long-drawn breath.

"That's all for today. Now, Elise, when can you give me the next
pose? I don't want a week at a time on this; I only want a day now and
then."

The model went over to her dress and rummaged about in the pockets.

"Here," she said, handing him a notebook and diary.

He selected a date, and wrote his name and the hour.

"Good," said the girl, reading it; and replacing the book, picked up
her stockings and slowly began to dress.

Gethryn lay back on the lounge, thoroughly tired out. Elise was
humming a Normandy fishing song. When, at last, she stood up and drew
on her gloves, he had fallen into a light sleep.

She stepped softly over to the lounge and listened to the quiet
breathing of the young man.

"How handsome -- and how good he is!" she murmured, wistfully.

She opened the door very gently.

"So different, so different from the rest!" she sighed, and
noiselessly went her way.

Eight

Although the sound of the closing door was hardly perceptible, it was
enough to wake Gethryn.

"Elise!" he called, starting up, "Elise!"

But the girl was beyond earshot.

"And she went away without her money, too; I'll drop around tomorrow
and leave it; she may need it," he muttered, rubbing his eyes and
staring at the door.

It was dinner time, and past, but he had little appetite.

"I'll just have something here," he said to himself, and catching up
his hat ran down stairs. In twenty minutes he was back with eggs,
butter, bread, a paté, a bottle of wine and a can of sardines. The
spirit lamp was lighted and the table deftly spread.

"I'll have a cup of tea, too," he thought, shaking the blue tea
canister, and then, touching a match to the well-filled grate, soon
had the kettle fizzling and spluttering merrily.

The wind had blown up cold from the east and the young man shivered as
he closed and fastened the windows. Then he sat down, his chin on his
hands, and gazed into the glowing grate. Mrs Gummidge, who had smelled
the sardines, came rubbing up against his legs, uttering a soft mew
from sheer force of habit. She was not hungry -- in fact, Gethryn knew
that the concierge, whose duty it was to feed all the creatures,
overdid it from pure kindness of heart -- at Gethryn's expense.

"Gummidge, you're stuffed up to your eyes, aren't you?" he said.

At the sound of his voice the cat hoisted her tail, and began to march
in narrowing circles about her master's chair, making gentle
observations in the cat language.

Gethryn placed a bit of sardine on a fork and held it out, but the
little humbug merely sniffed at it daintily, and then rubbed against
her master's hand.

He laughed and tossed the bit of fish into the fire, where it
spluttered and blazed until the parrot woke up with a croak of
annoyance. Gethryn watched the kettle in silence.

Faces he could never see among the coals, but many a time he had
constructed animals and reptiles from the embers, and just now he
fancied he could see a resemblance to a shark among the bits of
blazing coal.

He watched the kettle dreamily. The fire glowed and flashed and sank,
and glowed again. Now he could distinctly see a serpent twisting among
the embers. The clock ticked in measured unison with the slow
oscillation of the flame serpent. The wind blew hard against the panes
and sent a sudden chill creeping to his feet.

Bang! Bang! went the blinds. The hallway was full of strange noises.
He thought he heard a step on the threshold; he imagined that his door
creaked, but he did not turn around from his study of the fire; it was
the wind, of course.

The sudden hiss of the kettle, boiling over, made him jump and seize
it. As he turned to set it down, there was a figure standing beside
the table. Neither spoke. The kettle burnt his hand and he set it back
on the hearth; then he remained standing, his eyes fixed on the fire.

After a while Yvonne broke the silence -- speaking very low: "Are you
angry?"

"Why?"

"I don't know," said the girl, with a sigh.

The silence was too strained to last, and finally Gethryn said,
"Won't you sit down?"

She did so silently.

"You see I'm -- I'm about to do a little cooking," he said, looking
at the eggs.

The girl spoke again, still very low.

"Won't you tell me why you are angry?"

"I'm not," began Gethryn, but he sat down and glanced moodily at the
girl.

"For two weeks you have not been to see me."

"You are mistaken, I have been -- " he began, but stopped.

"When?"

"Saturday."

"And I was not at home?"

"And you were at home," he said grimly. "You had a caller -- it was
easy to hear his voice, so I did not knock."

She winced, but said quietly, "Don't you think that is rude?"

"Yes," said Gethryn, "I beg pardon."

Presently she continued: "You and -- and he -- are the only two men
who have been in my room."

"I'm honored, I'm sure," he answered, drily.

The girl threw back her mackintosh and raised her veil.

"I ask your pardon again," he said; "allow me to relieve you of
your waterproof."

She rose, suffering him to aid her with her cloak, and then sat down
and looked into the fire in her turn.

"It has been so long -- I -- I -- hoped you would come."

"Whom were you with in the Luxembourg Gardens?" he suddenly broke
out.

She did not misunderstand or evade the question, and Gethryn, watching
her face, thought perhaps she had expected it. But she resented his
tone.

"I was with a friend," she said, simply.

He came and sat down opposite her.

"It is not my business," he said, sulkily; "excuse me."

She looked at him for some moments in silence.

"It was Mr Pick," she said at length.

Gethryn could not repress a gesture of disgust.

"And that -- Jew was in your rooms? That Jew!"

"Yes." She sat nervously rolling and unrolling her gloves. "Why do
you care?" she asked, looking into the fire.

"I don't."

"You do."

There was a pause.

"Rex," she said, very low, "will you listen?"

"Yes, I'll listen."

"He is a -- a friend of my sister's. He came from her to -- to -- "

"To what!"

"To -- borrow a little money. I distrusted him the first time he came
-- the time you heard him in my room -- and I refused him. Saturday he
stopped me in the street, and, hoping to avoid a chance of meeting --
you, I walked through the park."

"And you gave him the money -- I saw you!"

"I did -- all I could spare."

"Is he -- is your sister married?"

"No," she whispered.

"And why -- " began Gethryn, angrily, "Why does that scoundrel come
to beg money -- " He stopped, for the girl was in evident distress.

"Ah! You know why," she said in a scarce audible voice.

The young man was silent.

"And you will come again?" she asked timidly.

No answer.

She moved toward the door.

"We were such very good friends."

Still he was silent.

"Is it au revoir?" she whispered, and waited for a moment on the
threshold.

"Then it is adieu."

"Yes," he said, huskily, "that is better."

She trembled a little and leaned against the doorway.

"Adieu, mon ami -- " She tried to speak, but her voice broke and
ended in a sob.

Then, all at once, and neither knew just how it was, she was lying in
his arms, sobbing passionately.

*

"Rex," said Yvonne, half an hour later, as she stood before the
mirror arranging her disordered curls, "are you not the least little
bit ashamed of yourself?"

The answer appeared to be satisfactory, but the curly head was in a
more hopeless state of disorder than before, and at last the girl gave
a little sigh and exclaimed, "There! I'm all rumpled, but its your
fault. Will you oblige me by regarding my hair?"

"Better let it alone; I'll only rumple it some more!" he cried,
ominously.

"You mustn't! I forbid you!"

"But I want to!"

"Not now, then -- "

"Yes -- immediately!"

"Rex -- you mustn't. O, Rex -- I -- I -- "

"What?" he laughed, holding her by her slender wrists.

She flushed scarlet and struggled to break away.

"Only one."

"No."

"One."

"None."

"Shall I let you go?"

"Yes," she said, but catching sight of his face, stopped short.

He dropped her hands with a laugh and looked at her. Then she came
slowly up to him, and flushing crimson, pulled his head down to hers.

"Yvonne, do you love me? Truthfully?"

"Rex, can you ask?" Her warm little head lay against his throat, her
heart beat against his, her breath fell upon his cheek, and her curls
clustered among his own.

"Yvonne -- Yvonne," he murmured, "I love you -- once and forever."

"Once and forever," she repeated, in a half whisper.

"Forever," he said.

*

An hour later they were seated tete-à-tete at Gethryn's little table.
She had not permitted him to poach the eggs, and perhaps they were
better on that account.

"Bachelor habits must cease," she cried, with a little laugh, and
Gethryn smiled in doubtful acquiescence.

"Do you like grilled sardines on toast?" she asked.

"I seem to," he smiled, finishing his fourth; "they are delicious
-- yours," he added.

"Oh, that tea!" she cried, "and not one bit of sugar. What a
hopelessly careless man!"

But Gethryn jumped up, crying, "Wait a moment!" and returned
triumphantly with a huge mass of rock-candy -- the remains of one of
Clifford's abortive attempts at "rye-and-rock."

They each broke off enough for their cups, and Gethryn, tasting his,
declared the tea "delicious." Yvonne sat, chipping an egg and
casting sidelong glances at Gethryn, which were always met and
returned with interest.

"Yvonne, I want to tell you a secret."

"What, Rex?"

"I love you."

"Oh!"

"And you?"

"No -- not at all!" cried the girl, shaking her pretty head.
Presently she gave him a swift glance from beneath her drooping
lashes.

"Rex?"

"What, Yvonne?"

"I want to tell you a secret."

"What, Yvonne?"

"If you eat so many sardines -- "

"Oh!" cried Gethryn, half angrily, but laughing, "you must pay for
that!"

"What?" she said, innocently, but jumped up and kept the table
between him and herself.

"You know!" he cried, chasing her into a corner.

"We are two babies," she said, very red, following him back to the
table. The paté was eaten in comparative quiet.

"Now," she said, with great dignity, setting down her glass,
"behave and get me some hot water."

Gethryn meekly brought it.

"If you touch me while I am washing these dishes!"

"But let me help?"

"No, go and sit down instantly."

He fled in affected terror and ensconced himself upon the sofa.
Presently he inquired, in a plaintive voice: "Have you nearly
finished?"

"No," said the girl, carefully drying and arranging the quaint
Egyptian tea-set, "and I won't for ages."

"But you're not going to wash all those things? The concierge does
that."

"No, only the wine-glasses and the tea-set. The idea of trusting such
fragile cups to a concierge! What a boy!"

But she was soon ready to dry her slender hands, and caught up a towel
with a demure glance at Gethryn.

"Which do you think most of -- your dogs, or me?"

"Pups."

"That parrot, or me?"

"Poll."

"The raven, or me? The cat, or me?"

"Bird and puss."

She stole over to his side and knelt down.

"Rex, if you ever tire of me -- if you ever are unkind -- if you ever
leave me -- I think I shall die."

He drew her to him. "Yvonne," he whispered, "we can't always be
together."

"I know it -- I'm foolish," she faltered.

"I shall not always be a student. I shall not always be in Paris,
dear Yvonne."

She leaned closer to him.

"I must go back to America someday."

"And -- and marry?" she whispered, chokingly.

"No -- not to marry," he said, "but it is my home."

"I -- I know it, Rex, but don't let us think of it. Rex," she said,
some moments after, "are you like all students?"

"How do you mean?"

"Have you ever loved -- before -- a girl, here in Paris -- like me?"

"There are none -- like you."

"Answer me, Rex."

"No, I never have," he said, truthfully. Presently he added, "And
you, Yvonne?"

She put her warm little hand across his mouth.

"Don't ask," she murmured.

"But I do!" he cried, struggling to see her eyes, "won't you tell
me?"

She hid her face tight against his breast.

"You know I have; that is why I am alone here, in Paris."

"You loved him?"

"Yes -- not as I love you."

Presently she raised her eyes to his.

"Shall I tell you all? I am like so many -- so many others. When you
know their story, you know mine."

He leaned down and kissed her.

"Don't tell me," he said.

But she went on.

"I was only seventeen -- I am nineteen now. He was an officer at --
at Chartres, where we lived. He took me to Paris."

"And left you."

"He died of the fever in Tonquin."

"When?"

"Three weeks ago."

"And you heard?"

"Tonight."

"Then he did leave you."

"Don't, Rex -- he never loved me, and I -- I never really loved him.
I found that out."

"When did you find it out?"

"One day -- you know when -- in a -- a cab."

"Dear Yvonne," he whispered, "can't you go back to -- to your
family?"

"No, Rex."

"Never?"

"I don't wish to, now. No, don't ask me why! I can't tell you. I am
like all the rest -- all the rest. The Paris fever is only cured by
death. Don't ask me, Rex; I am content -- indeed I am."

Suddenly a heavy rapping at the door caused Gethryn to spring
hurriedly to his feet.

"Rex!"

It was Braith's voice.

"What!" cried Gethryn, hoarsely.

There was a pause.

"Aren't you going to let me in?"

"I can't, old man; I -- I'm not just up for company tonight,"
stammered Gethryn.

"Company be damned -- are you ill?"

"No."

There was a silence.

"I'm sorry," began Gethryn, but was cut short by a gruff:

"All right; good night!" and Braith went away.

Yvonne looked inquiringly at him.

"It was nothing," he murmured, very pale, and then threw himself at
her feet, crying, "Oh, Yvonne -- Yvonne!"

Outside the storm raged furiously.

Presently she whispered, "Rex, shall I light the candle? It is
midnight."

"Yes," he said.

She slipped away, and after searching for some time, cried, "the
matches are all gone, but here is a piece of paper -- a letter; do you
want it? I can light it over the lamp."

She held up an envelope to him.

"I can light it over the lamp," she repeated.

"What is the address?"

"It is very long; I can't read it all, only `Florence, Italy."'

"Burn it," he said, in a voice so low she could scarcely hear him.

Presently she came over and knelt down by his side. Neither spoke or
moved.

"The candle is lighted," she whispered, at last.

"And the lamp?"

"Is out."

Nine

Cholmondeley Rowden had invited a select circle of friends to join him
in a "petit diner a la stag," as he expressed it.

Eight months of Paris and the cold, cold world had worked a wonderful
change in Mr Rowden. For one thing, he had shaved his whiskers and now
wore only a mustache. For another, he had learned to like and respect
a fair portion of the French students, and in consequence was
respected and liked in return.

He had had two fights, in both of which he had contributed to the
glory of the British Empire and prize ring.

He was a better sparrer than Clifford and was his equal in the use of
the foils. Like Clifford, he was a capital banjoist, but he insisted
that cricket was far superior to baseball, and this was the only bone
of contention that ever fell between the two.

Clifford played his shameless jokes as usual, accompanied by the
enthusiastic applause of Rowden. Clifford also played "The Widow
Nolan's Goat" upon his banjo, accompanied by the intricate pizzicatos
of Rowden.

Clifford drank numerous bottles of double X with Rowden, and Rowden
consumed uncounted egg-flips with Clifford. They were inseparable; in
fact, the triumvirate, Clifford, Elliott and Rowden, even went so far
as to dress alike, and mean-natured people hinted that they had but
one common style in painting. But they did not make the remark to any
of the triumvirate. They were very fond of each other, these precious
triumvirs, but they did not address each other by nicknames, and
perhaps it was because they respected each other enough to refrain
from familiarities that this alliance lasted as long as they lived.

It was a beautiful sight, that of the three youths, when they sallied
forth in company, hatted, clothed, and gloved alike, and each followed
by a murderous-looking bulldog. The animals were of the brindled
variety, and each was garnished with a steel spiked collar. Timid
people often crossed to the other side of the street on meeting this
procession.

Braith laughed at the whole performance, but secretly thought that a
little of their spare energy and imagination might have been spent to
advantage upon their artistic productions.

Braith was doing splendidly. His last year's picture had been hung on
the line and, in spite of his number three, he had received a third
class medal and had been praised -- even generously -- by artists and
critics, including Albert Wolff. He was hard at work on a large canvas
for the coming International Exhibition at Paris; he had sold a number
of smaller studies, and besides had pictures well hung in Munich and
in more than one gallery at home.

At last, after ten years of hard work, struggles, and disappointments,
he began to enjoy a measure of success. He and Gethryn saw little of
each other this winter, excepting at Julien's. That last visit to the
Rue Monsieur le Prince was never mentioned between them. They were as
cordial when they met as ever, but Braith did not visit his young
friend any more, and Gethryn never spoke to him of Yvonne.

"Good-bye, old chap!" Braith would say when they parted, gripping
Rex's hand and smiling at him. But Rex did not see Braith's face as he
walked away.

Braith felt helpless. The thing he most dreaded for Rex had happened;
he believed he could see the end of it all, and yet he could prevent
nothing. If he should tell Rex that he was being ruined, Rex would not
listen, and -- who was he that he should preach to another man for the
same fault by which he had wasted his own life? No, Rex would never
listen to him, and he dreaded a rupture of their friendship.

Gethryn had made his debut in the Salon with a certain amount of
éclat. True, he had been disappointed in his expectations of a medal,
but a first mention had soothed him a little, and, what was more
important, it proved to be the needed sop to his discontented aunt.
But somehow or other his new picture did not progress rapidly, or in a
thoroughly satisfactory manner. In bits and spots it showed a certain
amount of feverish brilliancy, yes, even mature solidity; in fact, it
was nowhere bad, but still it was not Gethryn and he knew that.

"Confound it!" he would mutter, standing back from his canvas; but
even at such times he could hardly help wondering at his own marvelous
technique.

"Technique be damned! Give me stupidity in a pupil every time, rather
than cleverness," Harrington had said to one of his pupils, and the
remark often rang in Gethryn's ears even when his eyes were most
blinded by his own wonderful facility.

"Some fools would medal this," he thought; "but what pleasure could
a medal bring me when I know how little I deserve it?"

Perhaps he was his own hardest critic, but it was certain that the
old, simple honesty, the subtle purity, the almost pathetic effort to
tell the truth with paint and brush, had nearly disappeared from
Gethryn's canvases during the last eight months, and had given place
to a fierce and almost startling brilliancy, never, perhaps, hitting,
but always threatening some brutal note of discord.

Even Elise looked vaguely troubled, though she always smiled brightly
at Gethryn's criticism of his own work.

"It is so very wonderful and dazzling, but -- but the color seems to
me -- unkind."

And he would groan and answer, "Yes, yes, Elise, you're right; oh, I
can never paint another like the one of last June!"

"Ah, that!" she would cry, "that was delicious -- " but checking
herself, she would add, "Courage, let us try again; I am not tired,
indeed I am not."

Yvonne never came into the studio when Gethryn had models, but often,
after the light was dim and the models had taken their leave, she
would slip in, and, hanging lightly over his shoulder, her cheek
against his, would stand watching the touches and retouches with which
the young artist always eked out the last rays of daylight. And when
his hand drooped and she could hardly distinguish his face in the
gathering gloom, he would sigh and turn to her, smoothing the soft
hair from her forehead, saying: "Are you happy, Yvonne?" And Yvonne
always answered, "Yes, Rex, when you are."

Then he would laugh, and kiss her and tell her he was always happy
with La Belle Hélène, and they would stand in the gathering twilight
until a gurgle from the now well-grown pups would warn them that the
hour of hunger had arrived.

The triumvirate, with Thaxton, Rhodes, Carleton, and the rest, had
been frequent visitors all winter at the "Ménagerie," as Clifford's
bad pun had named Gethryn's apartment; but, of late, other social
engagements and, possibly, a small amount of work, had kept them away.
Clifford was a great favorite with Yvonne. Thaxton and Elliott she
liked. Rowden she tormented, and Carleton she endured. She captured
Clifford by suffering him to play his banjo to her piano. Rowden liked
her because she was pretty and witty, though he never got used to her
quiet little digs at his own respected and dignified person. Clifford
openly avowed his attachment and spent many golden hours away from
work, listening to her singing. She had been taught by a good master
and her voice was pure and pliant, although as yet only half
developed. The little concerts they gave their friends were really
charming -- with Clifford's banjo, Gethryn's guitar, Thaxton's violin,
Yvonne's voice and piano. Clifford made the programs. They were
profusely illustrated, and he spent a great deal of time rehearsing,
writing verses, and rehashing familiar airs (he called it
"composing") which would have been as well devoted to his easel.

In Rowden, Yvonne was delighted to find a cultivated musician.
Clifford listened to their talk of chords and keys, went and bought a
"Musical Primer" on the Quai d'Orsay, spent a wretched hour groping
over it, swore softly, and closed the book forever.

But neither the triumvirate nor the others had been to the
"Ménagerie" for over a fortnight, when Rowden, feeling it incumbent
upon him to return some of Gethryn's hospitality, issued very proper
cards -- indeed they were very swell cards for the Latin Quarter --
for a "dinner," to be followed by a "quiet evening" at the Bal
Masqué at the Opera.

The triumvirate had accordingly tied up their brindled bulldogs,
"Spit," "Snap" and "Tug"; had donned their white ties and
collars of awful altitude, and were fully prepared to please and to be
pleased. Although it was nominally a "stag" party, the triumvirate
would as soon have cut off their tender mustaches as have failed to
invite Yvonne. But she had replied to Rowden's invitation by a dainty
little note, ending:

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