bayonets. Bayonets--they were everywhere, cleaving the fog or flowing
beneath it in rivers of steel. High on the wall of masonry and earth a
great gun loomed, and around it figures moved in silhouettes. Below, a
broad torrent of bayonets swept through the iron barred gateway, out into
the shadowy plain. It became lighter. Faces grew more distinct among the
marching masses and he recognized one.

"You, Philippe!"

The figure turned its head.

Trent cried, "Is there room for me?" but the other only waved his arm in a
vague adieu and was gone with the rest. Presently the cavalry began to
pass, squadron on squadron, crowding out into the darkness; then many
cannon, then an ambulance, then again the endless lines of bayonets.
Beside him a cuirassier sat on his steaming horse, and in front, among a
group of mounted officers he saw a general, with the astrakan collar of
his dolman turned up about his bloodless face.

Some women were weeping near him and one was struggling to force a loaf of
black bread into a soldier's haversack. The soldier tried to aid her, but
the sack was fastened, and his rifle bothered him, so Trent held it, while
the woman unbuttoned the sack and forced in the bread, now all wet with
her tears. The rifle was not heavy. Trent found it wonderfully manageable.
Was the bayonet sharp? He tried it. Then a sudden longing, a fierce,
imperative desire took possession of him.

"_Chouette!_" cried a gamin, clinging to the barred gate, "_encore toi mon
vieux_?"

Trent looked up, and the rat-killer laughed in his face. But when the
soldier had taken the rifle again, and thanking him, ran hard to catch his
battalion, he plunged into the throng about the gateway.

"Are you going?" he cried to a marine who sat in the gutter bandaging his
foot.

"Yes."

Then a girl--a mere child--caught him by the hand and led him into the
café which faced the gate. The room was crowded with soldiers, some, white
and silent, sitting on the floor, others groaning on the leather-covered
settees. The air was sour and suffocating.

"Choose!" said the girl with a little gesture of pity; "they can't go!"

In a heap of clothing on the floor he found a capote and képi.

She helped him buckle his knapsack, cartridge-box, and belt, and showed
him how to load the chasse-pot rifle, holding it on her knees.

When he thanked her she started to her feet.

"You are a foreigner!"

"American," he said, moving toward the door, but the child barred his way.

"I am a Bretonne. My father is up there with the cannon of the marine. He
will shoot you if you are a spy."

They faced each other for a moment. Then sighing, he bent over and kissed
the child. "Pray for France, little one," he murmured, and she repeated
with a pale smile: "For France and you, beau Monsieur."

He ran across the street and through the gateway. Once outside, he edged
into line and shouldered his way along the road. A corporal passed, looked
at him, repassed, and finally called an officer. "You belong to the 60th,"
growled the corporal looking at the number on his képi.

"We have no use for Franc-tireurs," added the officer, catching sight of
his black trousers.

"I wish to volunteer in place of a comrade," said Trent, and the officer
shrugged his shoulders and passed on.

Nobody paid much attention to him, one or two merely glancing at his
trousers. The road was deep with slush and mud-ploughed and torn by wheels
and hoofs. A soldier in front of him wrenched his foot in an icy rut and
dragged himself to the edge of the embankment groaning. The plain on
either side of them was grey with melting snow. Here and there behind
dismantled hedge-rows stood wagons, bearing white flags with red crosses.
Sometimes the driver was a priest in rusty hat and gown, sometimes a
crippled Mobile. Once they passed a wagon driven by a Sister of Charity.
Silent empty houses with great rents in their walls, and every window
blank, huddled along the road. Further on, within the zone of danger,
nothing of human habitation remained except here and there a pile of
frozen bricks or a blackened cellar choked with snow.

For some time Trent had been annoyed by the man behind him, who kept
treading on his heels. Convinced at last that it was intentional, he
turned to remonstrate and found himself face to face with a fellow-student
from the Beaux Arts. Trent stared.

"I thought you were in the hospital!"

The other shook his head, pointing to his bandaged jaw.

"I see, you can't speak. Can I do anything?"

The wounded man rummaged in his haversack and produced a crust of black
bread.

"He can't eat it, his jaw is smashed, and he wants you to chew it for
him," said the soldier next to him.

Trent took the crust, and grinding it in his teeth morsel by morsel,
passed it back to the starving man.

From time to time mounted orderlies sped to the front, covering them with
slush. It was a chilly, silent march through sodden meadows wreathed in
fog. Along the railroad embankment across the ditch, another column moved
parallel to their own. Trent watched it, a sombre mass, now distinct, now
vague, now blotted out in a puff of fog. Once for half-an-hour he lost it,
but when again it came into view, he noticed a thin line detach itself
from the flank, and, bellying in the middle, swing rapidly to the west. At
the same moment a prolonged crackling broke out in the fog in front. Other
lines began to slough off from the column, swinging east and west, and the
crackling became continuous. A battery passed at full gallop, and he drew
back with his comrades to give it way. It went into action a little to the
right of his battalion, and as the shot from the first rifled piece boomed
through the mist, the cannon from the fortifications opened with a mighty
roar. An officer galloped by shouting something which Trent did not catch,
but he saw the ranks in front suddenly part company with his own, and
disappear in the twilight. More officers rode up and stood beside him
peering into the fog. Away in front the crackling had become one prolonged
crash. It was dreary waiting. Trent chewed some bread for the man behind,
who tried to swallow it, and after a while shook his head, motioning Trent
to eat the rest himself. A corporal offered him a little brandy and he
drank it, but when he turned around to return the flask, the corporal was
lying on the ground. Alarmed, he looked at the soldier next to him, who
shrugged his shoulders and opened his mouth to speak, but something struck
him and he rolled over and over into the ditch below. At that moment the
horse of one of the officers gave a bound and backed into the battalion,
lashing out with his heels. One man was ridden down; another was kicked in
the chest and hurled through the ranks. The officer sank his spurs into
the horse and forced him to the front again, where he stood trembling. The
cannonade seemed to draw nearer. A staff-officer, riding slowly up and
down the battalion suddenly collapsed in his saddle and clung to his
horse's mane. One of his boots dangled, crimsoned and dripping, from the
stirrup. Then out of the mist in front men came running. The roads, the
fields, the ditches were full of them, and many of them fell. For an
instant he imagined he saw horsemen riding about like ghosts in the
vapours beyond, and a man behind him cursed horribly, declaring he too had
seen them, and that they were Uhlans; but the battalion stood inactive,
and the mist fell again over the meadows.

The colonel sat heavily upon his horse, his bullet-shaped head buried in
the astrakan collar of his dolman, his fat legs sticking straight out in
the stirrups.

The buglers clustered about him with bugles poised, and behind him a
staff-officer in a pale blue jacket smoked a cigarette and chatted with a
captain of hussars. From the road in front came the sound of furious
galloping and an orderly reined up beside the colonel, who motioned him to
the rear without turning his head. Then on the left a confused murmur
arose which ended in a shout. A hussar passed like the wind, followed by
another and another, and then squadron after squadron whirled by them into
the sheeted mists. At that instant the colonel reared in his saddle, the
bugles clanged, and the whole battalion scrambled down the embankment,
over the ditch and started across the soggy meadow. Almost at once Trent
lost his cap. Something snatched it from his head, he thought it was a
tree branch. A good many of his comrades rolled over in the slush and ice,
and he imagined that they had slipped. One pitched right across his path
and he stopped to help him up, but the man screamed when he touched him
and an officer shouted, "Forward! Forward!" so he ran on again. It was a
long jog through the mist, and he was often obliged to shift his rifle.
When at last they lay panting behind the railroad embankment, he looked
about him. He had felt the need of action, of a desperate physical
struggle, of killing and crushing. He had been seized with a desire to
fling himself among masses and tear right and left. He longed to fire, to
use the thin sharp bayonet on his chassepot. He had not expected this. He
wished to become exhausted, to struggle and cut until incapable of lifting
his arm. Then he had intended to go home. He heard a man say that half the
battalion had gone down in the charge, and he saw another examining a
corpse under the embankment. The body, still warm, was clothed in a
strange uniform, but even when he noticed the spiked helmet lying a few
inches further away, he did not realize what had happened.

The colonel sat on his horse a few feet to the left, his eyes sparkling
under the crimson képi. Trent heard him reply to an officer: "I can hold
it, but another charge, and I won't have enough men left to sound a
bugle."

"Were the Prussians here?" Trent asked of a soldier who sat wiping the
blood trickling from his hair.

"Yes. The hussars cleaned them out. We caught their cross fire."

"We are supporting a battery on the embankment," said another.

Then the battalion crawled over the embankment and moved along the lines
of twisted rails. Trent rolled up his trousers and tucked them into his
woollen socks: but they halted again, and some of the men sat down on the
dismantled railroad track. Trent looked for his wounded comrade from the
Beaux Arts. He was standing in his place, very pale. The cannonade had
become terrific. For a moment the mist lifted. He caught a glimpse of the
first battalion motionless on the railroad track in front, of regiments on
either flank, and then, as the fog settled again, the drums beat and the
music of the bugles began away on the extreme left. A restless movement
passed among the troops, the colonel threw up his arm, the drums rolled,
and the battalion moved off through the fog. They were near the front now
for the battalion was firing as it advanced. Ambulances galloped along the
base of the embankment to the rear, and the hussars passed and repassed
like phantoms. They were in the front at last, for all about them was
movement and turmoil, while from the fog, close at hand, came cries and
groans and crashing volleys. Shells fell everywhere, bursting along the
embankment, splashing them with frozen slush. Trent was frightened. He
began to dread the unknown, which lay there crackling and flaming in
obscurity. The shock of the cannon sickened him. He could even see the fog
light up with a dull orange as the thunder shook the earth. It was near,
he felt certain, for the colonel shouted "Forward!" and the first
battalion was hastening into it. He felt its breath, he trembled, but
hurried on. A fearful discharge in front terrified him. Somewhere in the
fog men were cheering, and the colonel's horse, streaming with blood
plunged about in the smoke.

Another blast and shock, right in his face, almost stunned him, and he
faltered. All the men to the right were down. His head swam; the fog and
smoke stupefied him. He put out his hand for a support and caught
something. It was the wheel of a gun-carriage, and a man sprang from
behind it, aiming a blow at his head with a rammer, but stumbled back
shrieking with a bayonet through his neck, and Trent knew that he had
killed. Mechanically he stooped to pick up his rifle, but the bayonet was
still in the man, who lay, beating with red hands against the sod. It
sickened him and he leaned on the cannon. Men were fighting all around him
now, and the air was foul with smoke and sweat. Somebody seized him from
behind and another in front, but others in turn seized them or struck them
solid blows. The click! click! click! of bayonets infuriated him, and he
grasped the rammer and struck out blindly until it was shivered to pieces.

A man threw his arm around his neck and bore him to the ground, but he
throttled him and raised himself on his knees. He saw a comrade seize the
cannon, and fall across it with his skull crushed in; he saw the colonel
tumble clean out of his saddle into the mud; then consciousness fled.

When he came to himself, he was lying on the embankment among the twisted
rails. On every side huddled men who cried out and cursed and fled away
into the fog, and he staggered to his feet and followed them. Once he
stopped to help a comrade with a bandaged jaw, who could not speak but
clung to his arm for a time and then fell dead in the freezing mire; and
again he aided another, who groaned: "Trent, c'est moi--Philippe," until a
sudden volley in the midst relieved him of his charge.

An icy wind swept down from the heights, cutting the fog into shreds. For
an instant, with an evil leer the sun peered through the naked woods of
Vincennes, sank like a blood-clot in the battery smoke, lower, lower, into
the blood-soaked plain.

IV

When midnight sounded from the belfry of St. Sulpice the gates of Paris
were still choked with fragments of what had once been an army.

They entered with the night, a sullen horde, spattered with slime, faint
with hunger and exhaustion. There was little disorder at first, and the
throng at the gates parted silently as the troops tramped along the
freezing streets. Confusion came as the hours passed. Swiftly and more
swiftly, crowding squadron after squadron and battery on battery, horses
plunging and caissons jolting, the remnants from the front surged through
the gates, a chaos of cavalry and artillery struggling for the right of
way. Close upon them stumbled the infantry; here a skeleton of a regiment
marching with a desperate attempt at order, there a riotous mob of Mobiles
crushing their way to the streets, then a turmoil of horsemen, cannon,
troops without, officers, officers without men, then again a line of
ambulances, the wheels groaning under their heavy loads.

Dumb with misery the crowd looked on.

All through the day the ambulances had been arriving, and all day long the
ragged throng whimpered and shivered by the barriers. At noon the crowd
was increased ten-fold, filling the squares about the gates, and swarming
over the inner fortifications.

At four o'clock in the afternoon the German batteries suddenly wreathed
themselves in smoke, and the shells fell fast on Montparnasse. At twenty
minutes after four two projectiles struck a house in the rue de Bac, and a
moment later the first shell fell in the Latin Quarter.

Braith was painting in bed when West came in very much scared.

"I wish you would come down; our house has been knocked into a cocked hat,
and I'm afraid that some of the pillagers may take it into their heads to
pay us a visit to-night."

Braith jumped out of bed and bundled himself into a garment which had once
been an overcoat.

"Anybody hurt?" he inquired, struggling with a sleeve full of dilapidated
lining.

"No. Colette is barricaded in the cellar, and the concierge ran away to
the fortifications. There will be a rough gang there if the bombardment
keeps up. You might help us--"

"Of course," said Braith; but it was not until they had reached the rue
Serpente and had turned in the passage which led to West's cellar, that
the latter cried: "Have you seen Jack Trent, to-day?"

"No," replied Braith, looking troubled, "he was not at Ambulance
Headquarters."

"He stayed to take care of Sylvia, I suppose."

A bomb came crashing through the roof of a house at the end of the alley
and burst in the basement, showering the street with slate and plaster. A
second struck a chimney and plunged into the garden, followed by an
avalanche of bricks, and another exploded with a deafening report in the
next street.

They hurried along the passage to the steps which led to the cellar. Here
again Braith stopped.

"Don't you think I had better run up to see if Jack and Sylvia are well
entrenched? I can get back before dark."

"No. Go in and find Colette, and I'll go."

"No, no, let me go, there's no danger."

"I know it," replied West calmly; and, dragging Braith into the alley,
pointed to the cellar steps. The iron door was barred.

"Colette! Colette!" he called. The door swung inward, and the girl sprang
up the stairs to meet them. At that instant, Braith, glancing behind him,
gave a startled cry, and pushing the two before him into the cellar,
jumped down after them and slammed the iron door. A few seconds later a
heavy jar from the outside shook the hinges.

"They are here," muttered West, very pale.

"That door," observed Colette calmly, "will hold for ever."

Braith examined the low iron structure, now trembling with the blows
rained on it from without. West glanced anxiously at Colette, who
displayed no agitation, and this comforted him.

"I don't believe they will spend much time here," said Braith; "they only
rummage in cellars for spirits, I imagine."

"Unless they hear that valuables are buried there."

"But surely nothing is buried here?" exclaimed Braith uneasily.

"Unfortunately there is," growled West. "That miserly landlord of mine--"

A crash from the outside, followed by a yell, cut him short; then blow
after blow shook the doors, until there came a sharp snap, a clinking of
metal and a triangular bit of iron fell inwards, leaving a hole through
which struggled a ray of light.

Instantly West knelt, and shoving his revolver through the aperture fired
every cartridge. For a moment the alley resounded with the racket of the
revolver, then absolute silence followed.

Presently a single questioning blow fell upon the door, and a moment later
another and another, and then a sudden crack zigzagged across the iron
plate.

"Here," said West, seizing Colette by the wrist, "you follow me, Braith!"
and he ran swiftly toward a circular spot of light at the further end of
the cellar. The spot of light came from a barred man-hole above. West
motioned Braith to mount on his shoulders.

"Push it over. You _must_!"

With little effort Braith lifted the barred cover, scrambled out on his
stomach, and easily raised Colette from West's shoulders.

"Quick, old chap!" cried the latter.

Braith twisted his legs around a fence-chain and leaned down again. The
cellar was flooded with a yellow light, and the air reeked with the stench
of petroleum torches. The iron door still held, but a whole plate of metal
was gone, and now as they looked a figure came creeping through, holding a
torch.

"Quick!" whispered Braith. "Jump!" and West hung dangling until Colette
grasped him by the collar, and he was dragged out. Then her nerves gave
way and she wept hysterically, but West threw his arm around her and led
her across the gardens into the next street, where Braith, after replacing
the man-hole cover and piling some stone slabs from the wall over it,
rejoined them. It was almost dark. They hurried through the street, now
only lighted by burning buildings, or the swift glare of the shells. They
gave wide berth to the fires, but at a distance saw the flitting forms of
pillagers among the _débris_. Sometimes they passed a female fury crazed
with drink shrieking anathemas upon the world, or some slouching lout
whose blackened face and hands betrayed his share in the work of
destruction. At last they reached the Seine and passed the bridge, and
then Braith said: "I must go back. I am not sure of Jack and Sylvia." As
he spoke, he made way for a crowd which came trampling across the bridge,
and along the river wall by the d'Orsay barracks. In the midst of it West
caught the measured tread of a platoon. A lantern passed, a file of
bayonets, then another lantern which glimmered on a deathly face behind,
and Colette gasped, "Hartman!" and he was gone. They peered fearfully
across the embankment, holding their breath. There was a shuffle of feet
on the quay, and the gate of the barracks slammed. A lantern shone for a
moment at the postern, the crowd pressed to the grille, then came the
clang of the volley from the stone parade.

One by one the petroleum torches flared up along the embankment, and now
the whole square was in motion. Down from the Champs Elysées and across
the Place de la Concorde straggled the fragments of the battle, a company
here, and a mob there. They poured in from every street followed by women
and children, and a great murmur, borne on the icy wind, swept through the
Arc de Triomphe and down the dark avenue,--"Perdus! perdus!"

A ragged end of a battalion was pressing past, the spectre of
annihilation. West groaned. Then a figure sprang from the shadowy ranks
and called West's name, and when he saw it was Trent he cried out. Trent
seized him, white with terror.

"Sylvia?"

West stared speechless, but Colette moaned, "Oh, Sylvia! Sylvia!--and they
are shelling the Quarter!"

"Trent!" shouted Braith; but he was gone, and they could not overtake
them.

The bombardment ceased as Trent crossed the Boulevard St. Germain, but the
entrance to the rue de Seine was blocked by a heap of smoking bricks.
Everywhere the shells had torn great holes in the pavement. The café was a
wreck of splinters and glass, the book-store tottered, ripped from roof to
basement, and the little bakery, long since closed, bulged outward above a
mass of slate and tin.

He climbed over the steaming bricks and hurried into the rue de Tournon.
On the corner a fire blazed, lighting up his own street, and on the bank
wall, beneath a shattered gas lamp, a child was writing with a bit of
cinder.

"HERE FELL THE FIRST SHELL."

The letters stared him in the face. The rat-killer finished and stepped
back to view his work, but catching sight of Trent's bayonet, screamed and
fled, and as Trent staggered across the shattered street, from holes and
crannies in the ruins fierce women fled from their work of pillage,
cursing him.

At first he could not find his house, for the tears blinded him, but he
felt along the wall and reached the door. A lantern burned in the
concierge's lodge and the old man lay dead beside it. Faint with fright he
leaned a moment on his rifle, then, snatching the lantern, sprang up the
stairs. He tried to call, but his tongue hardly moved. On the second floor
he saw plaster on the stairway, and on the third the floor was torn and
the concierge lay in a pool of blood across the landing. The next floor
was his, _theirs_. The door hung from its hinges, the walls gaped. He
crept in and sank down by the bed, and there two arms were flung around
his neck, and a tear-stained face sought his own.

"Sylvia!"

"O Jack! Jack! Jack!"

From the tumbled pillow beside them a child wailed.

"They brought it; it is mine," she sobbed.

"Ours," he whispered, with his arms around them both.

Then from the stairs below came Braith's anxious voice.

"Trent! Is all well?"

THE STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS

  "Et tout les jours passés dans la tristesse
  Nous sont comptés comme des jours heureux!"

The street is not fashionable, neither is it shabby. It is a pariah among
streets--a street without a Quarter. It is generally understood to lie
outside the pale of the aristocratic Avenue de l'Observatoire. The
students of the Montparnasse Quarter consider it swell and will have none
of it. The Latin Quarter, from the Luxembourg, its northern frontier,
sneers at its respectability and regards with disfavour the correctly
costumed students who haunt it. Few strangers go into it. At times,
however, the Latin Quarter students use it as a thoroughfare between the
rue de Rennes and the Bullier, but except for that and the weekly
afternoon visits of parents and guardians to the Convent near the rue
Vavin, the street of Our Lady of the Fields is as quiet as a Passy
boulevard. Perhaps the most respectable portion lies between the rue de la
Grande Chaumière and the rue Vavin, at least this was the conclusion
arrived at by the Reverend Joel Byram, as he rambled through it with
Hastings in charge. To Hastings the street looked pleasant in the bright
June weather, and he had begun to hope for its selection when the Reverend
Byram shied violently at the cross on the Convent opposite.

"Jesuits," he muttered.

"Well," said Hastings wearily, "I imagine we won't find anything better.
You say yourself that vice is triumphant in Paris, and it seems to me that
in every street we find Jesuits or something worse."

After a moment he repeated, "Or something worse, which of course I would
not notice except for your kindness in warning me."

Dr. Byram sucked in his lips and looked about him. He was impressed by the
evident respectability of the surroundings. Then frowning at the Convent
he took Hastings' arm and shuffled across the street to an iron gateway
which bore the number 201 _bis_ painted in white on a blue ground. Below
this was a notice printed in English:

  1. For Porter please oppress once.
  2. For Servant please oppress twice.
  3. For Parlour please oppress thrice.

Hastings touched the electric button three times, and they were ushered
through the garden and into the parlour by a trim maid. The dining-room
door, just beyond, was open, and from the table in plain view a stout
woman hastily arose and came toward them. Hastings caught a glimpse of a
young man with a big head and several snuffy old gentlemen at breakfast,
before the door closed and the stout woman waddled into the room, bringing
with her an aroma of coffee and a black poodle."

"It ees a plaisir to you receive!" she cried. "Monsieur is Anglish? No?
Americain? Off course. My pension it ees for Americains surtout. Here all
spik Angleesh, c'est à dire, ze personnel; ze sairvants do spik, plus ou
moins, a little. I am happy to have you comme pensionnaires--"

"Madame," began Dr. Byram, but was cut short again.

"Ah, yess, I know, ah! mon Dieu! you do not spik Frainch but you have come
to lairne! My husband does spik Frainch wiss ze pensionnaires. We have at
ze moment a family Americaine who learn of my husband Frainch--"

Here the poodle growled at Dr. Byram and was promptly cuffed by his
mistress.

"Veux tu!" she cried, with a slap, "veux tu! Oh! le vilain, oh! le
vilain!"

"Mais, madame," said Hastings, smiling, "il n'a pas l'air très féroce."

The poodle fled, and his mistress cried, "Ah, ze accent charming! He does
spik already Frainch like a Parisien young gentleman!"

Then Dr. Byram managed to get in a word or two and gathered more or less
information with regard to prices.

"It ees a pension serieux; my clientèle ees of ze best, indeed a pension
de famille where one ees at 'ome."

Then they went upstairs to examine Hastings' future quarters, test the
bed-springs and arrange for the weekly towel allowance. Dr. Byram appeared
satisfied.

Madame Marotte accompanied them to the door and rang for the maid, but as
Hastings stepped out into the gravel walk, his guide and mentor paused a
moment and fixed Madame with his watery eyes.

"You understand," he said, "that he is a youth of most careful bringing
up, and his character and morals are without a stain. He is young and has
never been abroad, never even seen a large city, and his parents have
requested me, as an old family friend living in Paris, to see that he is
placed under good influences. He is to study art, but on no account would
his parents wish him to live in the Latin Quarter if they knew of the
immorality which is rife there."

A sound like the click of a latch interrupted him and he raised his eyes,
but not in time to see the maid slap the big-headed young man behind the
parlour-door.

Madame coughed, cast a deadly glance behind her and then beamed on Dr.
Byram.

"It ees well zat he come here. The pension more serious, il n'en existe
pas, eet ees not any!" she announced with conviction.

So, as there was nothing more to add, Dr. Byram joined Hastings at the
gate.

"I trust," he said, eyeing the Convent, "that you will make no
acquaintances among Jesuits!"

Hastings looked at the Convent until a pretty girl passed before the gray
façade, and then he looked at her. A young fellow with a paint-box and
canvas came swinging along, stopped before the pretty girl, said something
during a brief but vigorous handshake at which they both laughed, and he
went his way, calling back, "À demain Valentine!" as in the same breath
she cried, "À demain!"

"Valentine," thought Hastings, "what a quaint name;" and he started to
follow the Reverend Joel Byram, who was shuffling towards the nearest
tramway station.

II

"An' you are pleas wiz Paris, Monsieur' Astang?" demanded Madame Marotte
the next morning as Hastings came into the breakfast-room of the pension,
rosy from his plunge in the limited bath above.

"I am sure I shall like it," he replied, wondering at his own depression
of spirits.

The maid brought him coffee and rolls. He returned the vacant glance of
the big-headed young man and acknowledged diffidently the salutes of the
snuffy old gentlemen. He did not try to finish his coffee, and sat
crumbling a roll, unconscious of the sympathetic glances of Madame
Marotte, who had tact enough not to bother him.

Presently a maid entered with a tray on which were balanced two bowls of
chocolate, and the snuffy old gentlemen leered at her ankles. The maid
deposited the chocolate at a table near the window and smiled at Hastings.
Then a thin young lady, followed by her counterpart in all except years,
marched into the room and took the table near the window. They were
evidently American, but Hastings, if he expected any sign of recognition,
was disappointed. To be ignored by compatriots intensified his depression.
He fumbled with his knife and looked at his plate.

The thin young lady was talkative enough. She was quite aware of Hastings'
presence, ready to be flattered if he looked at her, but on the other hand
she felt her superiority, for she had been three weeks in Paris and he, it
was easy to see, had not yet unpacked his steamer-trunk.

Her conversation was complacent. She argued with her mother upon the
relative merits of the Louvre and the Bon Marché, but her mother's part of
the discussion was mostly confined to the observation, "Why, Susie!"

The snuffy old gentlemen had left the room in a body, outwardly polite and
inwardly raging. They could not endure the Americans, who filled the room
with their chatter.

The big-headed young man looked after them with a knowing cough,
murmuring, "Gay old birds!"

"They look like bad old men, Mr. Bladen," said the girl.

To this Mr. Bladen smiled and said, "They've had their day," in a tone
which implied that he was now having his.

"And that's why they all have baggy eyes," cried the girl. "I think it's a
shame for young gentlemen--"

"Why, Susie!" said the mother, and the conversation lagged.

After a while Mr. Bladen threw down the _Petit Journal_, which he daily
studied at the expense of the house, and turning to Hastings, started to
make himself agreeable. He began by saying, "I see you are American."

To this brilliant and original opening, Hastings, deadly homesick, replied
gratefully, and the conversation was judiciously nourished by observations
from Miss Susie Byng distinctly addressed to Mr. Bladen. In the course of
events Miss Susie, forgetting to address herself exclusively to Mr.
Bladen, and Hastings replying to her general question, the _entente
cordiale_ was established, and Susie and her mother extended a
protectorate over what was clearly neutral territory.

"Mr. Hastings, you must not desert the pension every evening as Mr. Bladen
does. Paris is an awful place for young gentlemen, and Mr. Bladen is a
horrid cynic."

Mr. Bladen looked gratified.

Hastings answered, "I shall be at the studio all day, and I imagine I
shall be glad enough to come back at night."

Mr. Bladen, who, at a salary of fifteen dollars a week, acted as agent for
the Pewly Manufacturing Company of Troy, N.Y., smiled a sceptical smile
and withdrew to keep an appointment with a customer on the Boulevard
Magenta.

Hastings walked into the garden with Mrs. Byng and Susie, and, at their
invitation, sat down in the shade before the iron gate.

The chestnut trees still bore their fragrant spikes of pink and white, and
the bees hummed among the roses, trellised on the white-walled house.

A faint freshness was in the air. The watering carts moved up and down the
street, and a clear stream bubbled over the spotless gutters of the rue de
la Grande Chaumière. The sparrows were merry along the curb-stones, taking
bath after bath in the water and ruffling their feathers with delight. In
a walled garden across the street a pair of blackbirds whistled among the
almond trees.

Hastings swallowed the lump in his throat, for the song of the birds and
the ripple of water in a Paris gutter brought back to him the sunny
meadows of Millbrook.

"That's a blackbird," observed Miss Byng; "see him there on the bush with
pink blossoms. He's all black except his bill, and that looks as if it had
been dipped in an omelet, as some Frenchman says--"

"Why, Susie!" said Mrs. Byng.

"That garden belongs to a studio inhabited by two Americans," continued
the girl serenely, "and I often see them pass. They seem to need a great
many models, mostly young and feminine--"

"Why, Susie!"

"Perhaps they prefer painting that kind, but I don't see why they should
invite five, with three more young gentlemen, and all get into two cabs
and drive away singing. This street," she continued, "is dull. There is
nothing to see except the garden and a glimpse of the Boulevard
Montparnasse through the rue de la Grande Chaumière. No one ever passes
except a policeman. There is a convent on the corner."

"I thought it was a Jesuit College," began Hastings, but was at once
overwhelmed with a Baedecker description of the place, ending with, "On
one side stand the palatial hotels of Jean Paul Laurens and Guillaume
Bouguereau, and opposite, in the little Passage Stanislas, Carolus Duran
paints the masterpieces which charm the world."

The blackbird burst into a ripple of golden throaty notes, and from some
distant green spot in the city an unknown wild-bird answered with a frenzy
of liquid trills until the sparrows paused in their ablutions to look up
with restless chirps.

Then a butterfly came and sat on a cluster of heliotrope and waved his
crimson-banded wings in the hot sunshine. Hastings knew him for a friend,
and before his eyes there came a vision of tall mulleins and scented
milkweed alive with painted wings, a vision of a white house and
woodbine-covered piazza,--a glimpse of a man reading and a woman leaning
over the pansy bed,--and his heart was full. He was startled a moment
later by Miss Byng.

"I believe you are homesick!" Hastings blushed. Miss Byng looked at him
with a sympathetic sigh and continued: "Whenever I felt homesick at first
I used to go with mamma and walk in the Luxembourg Gardens. I don't know
why it is, but those old-fashioned gardens seemed to bring me nearer home
than anything in this artificial city."

"But they are full of marble statues," said Mrs. Byng mildly; "I don't see
the resemblance myself."

"Where is the Luxembourg?" inquired Hastings after a silence.

"Come with me to the gate," said Miss Byng. He rose and followed her, and
she pointed out the rue Vavin at the foot of the street.

"You pass by the convent to the right," she smiled; and Hastings went.

The Luxembourg was a blaze of flowers. He walked slowly through the long
avenues of trees, past mossy marbles and old-time columns, and threading
the grove by the bronze lion, came upon the tree-crowned terrace above the
fountain. Below lay the basin shining in the sunlight. Flowering almonds
encircled the terrace, and, in a greater spiral, groves of chestnuts wound
in and out and down among the moist thickets by the western palace wing.
At one end of the avenue of trees the Observatory rose, its white domes
piled up like an eastern mosque; at the other end stood the heavy palace,
with every window-pane ablaze in the fierce sun of June.

Around the fountain, children and white-capped nurses armed with bamboo
poles were pushing toy boats, whose sails hung limp in the sunshine. A
dark policeman, wearing red epaulettes and a dress sword, watched them for
a while and then went away to remonstrate with a young man who had
unchained his dog. The dog was pleasantly occupied in rubbing grass and
dirt into his back while his legs waved into the air.

The policeman pointed at the dog. He was speechless with indignation.

"Well, Captain," smiled the young fellow.

"Well, Monsieur Student," growled the policeman.

"What do you come and complain to me for?"

"If you don't chain him I'll take him," shouted the policeman.

"What's that to me, mon capitaine?"

"Wha--t! Isn't that bull-dog yours?"

"If it was, don't you suppose I'd chain him?"

The officer glared for a moment in silence, then deciding that as he was a
student he was wicked, grabbed at the dog, who promptly dodged. Around and
around the flower-beds they raced, and when the officer came too near for
comfort, the bull-dog cut across a flower-bed, which perhaps was not
playing fair.

The young man was amused, and the dog also seemed to enjoy the exercise.

The policeman noticed this and decided to strike at the fountain-head of
the evil. He stormed up to the student and said, "As the owner of this
public nuisance I arrest you!"

"But," objected the other, "I disclaim the dog."

That was a poser. It was useless to attempt to catch the dog until three
gardeners lent a hand, but then the dog simply ran away and disappeared in
the rue de Medici.

The policeman shambled off to find consolation among the white-capped
nurses, and the student, looking at his watch, stood up yawning. Then
catching sight of Hastings, he smiled and bowed. Hastings walked over to
the marble, laughing.

"Why, Clifford," he said, "I didn't recognize you."

"It's my moustache," sighed the other. "I sacrificed it to humour a whim
of--of--a friend. What do you think of my dog?"

"Then he is yours?" cried Hastings.

"Of course. It's a pleasant change for him, this playing tag with
policemen, but he is known now and I'll have to stop it. He's gone home.
He always does when the gardeners take a hand. It's a pity; he's fond of
rolling on lawns." Then they chatted for a moment of Hastings' prospects,
and Clifford politely offered to stand his sponsor at the studio.

"You see, old tabby, I mean Dr. Byram, told me about you before I met
you," explained Clifford, "and Elliott and I will be glad to do anything
we can." Then looking at his watch again, he muttered, "I have just ten
minutes to catch the Versailles train; au revoir," and started to go, but
catching sight of a girl advancing by the fountain, took off his hat with
a confused smile.

"Why are you not at Versailles?" she said, with an almost imperceptible
acknowledgment of Hastings' presence.

"I--I'm going," murmured Clifford.

For a moment they faced each other, and then Clifford, very red,
stammered, "With your permission I have the honour of presenting to you my
friend, Monsieur Hastings."

Hastings bowed low. She smiled very sweetly, but there was something of
malice in the quiet inclination of her small Parisienne head.

"I could have wished," she said, "that Monsieur Clifford might spare me
more time when he brings with him so charming an American."

"Must--must I go, Valentine?" began Clifford.

"Certainly," she replied.

Clifford took his leave with very bad grace, wincing, when she added, "And
give my dearest love to Cécile!" As he disappeared in the rue d'Assas, the
girl turned as if to go, but then suddenly remembering Hastings, looked at
him and shook her head.

"Monsieur Clifford is so perfectly harebrained," she smiled, "it is
embarrassing sometimes. You have heard, of course, all about his success
at the Salon?"

He looked puzzled and she noticed it.

"You have been to the Salon, of course?"

"Why, no," he answered, "I only arrived in Paris three days ago."

She seemed to pay little heed to his explanation, but continued: "Nobody
imagined he had the energy to do anything good, but on varnishing day the
Salon was astonished by the entrance of Monsieur Clifford, who strolled
about as bland as you please with an orchid in his buttonhole, and a
beautiful picture on the line."

She smiled to herself at the reminiscence, and looked at the fountain.

"Monsieur Bouguereau told me that Monsieur Julian was so astonished that
he only shook hands with Monsieur Clifford in a dazed manner, and actually
forgot to pat him on the back! Fancy," she continued with much merriment,
"fancy papa Julian forgetting to pat one on the back."

Hastings, wondering at her acquaintance with the great Bouguereau, looked
at her with respect. "May I ask," he said diffidently, "whether you are a
pupil of Bouguereau?"

"I?" she said in some surprise. Then she looked at him curiously. Was he
permitting himself the liberty of joking on such short acquaintance?

His pleasant serious face questioned hers.

"Tiens," she thought, "what a droll man!"

"You surely study art?" he said.

She leaned back on the crooked stick of her parasol, and looked at him.
"Why do you think so?"

"Because you speak as if you did."

"You are making fun of me," she said, "and it is not good taste."

She stopped, confused, as he coloured to the roots of his hair.

"How long have you been in Paris?" she said at length.

"Three days," he replied gravely.

"But--but--surely you are not a nouveau! You speak French too well!"

Then after a pause, "Really are you a nouveau?"

"I am," he said.

She sat down on the marble bench lately occupied by Clifford, and tilting
her parasol over her small head looked at him.

"I don't believe it."

He felt the compliment, and for a moment hesitated to declare himself one
of the despised. Then mustering up his courage, he told her how new and
green he was, and all with a frankness which made her blue eyes open very
wide and her lips part in the sweetest of smiles.

"You have never seen a studio?"

"Never."

"Nor a model?"

"No."

"How funny," she said solemnly. Then they both laughed.

"And you," he said, "have seen studios?"

"Hundreds."

"And models?"

"Millions."

"And you know Bouguereau?"

"Yes, and Henner, and Constant and Laurens, and Puvis de Chavannes and
Dagnan and Courtois, and--and all the rest of them!"

"And yet you say you are not an artist."

"Pardon," she said gravely, "did I say I was not?"

"Won't you tell me?" he hesitated.

At first she looked at him, shaking her head and smiling, then of a sudden
her eyes fell and she began tracing figures with her parasol in the gravel
at her feet. Hastings had taken a place on the seat, and now, with his
elbows on his knees, sat watching the spray drifting above the fountain
jet. A small boy, dressed as a sailor, stood poking his yacht and crying,
"I won't go home! I won't go home!" His nurse raised her hands to Heaven.

"Just like a little American boy," thought Hastings, and a pang of
homesickness shot through him.

Presently the nurse captured the boat, and the small boy stood at bay.

"Monsieur René, when you decide to come here you may have your boat."

The boy backed away scowling.

"Give me my boat, I say," he cried, "and don't call me René, for my
name's Randall and you know it!"

"Hello!" said Hastings,--"Randall?--that's English."

"I am American," announced the boy in perfectly good English, turning to
look at Hastings, "and she's such a fool she calls me René because mamma
calls me Ranny--"

Here he dodged the exasperated nurse and took up his station behind
Hastings, who laughed, and catching him around the waist lifted him into
his lap.

"One of my countrymen," he said to the girl beside him. He smiled while he
spoke, but there was a queer feeling in his throat.

"Don't you see the stars and stripes on my yacht?" demanded Randall. Sure
enough, the American colours hung limply under the nurse's arm.

"Oh," cried the girl, "he is charming," and impulsively stooped to kiss
him, but the infant Randall wriggled out of Hastings' arms, and his nurse
pounced upon him with an angry glance at the girl.

She reddened and then bit her lips as the nurse, with eyes still fixed on
her, dragged the child away and ostentatiously wiped his lips with her
handkerchief.

Then she stole a look at Hastings and bit her lip again.

"What an ill-tempered woman!" he said. "In America, most nurses are
flattered when people kiss their children."

For an instant she tipped the parasol to hide her face, then closed it
with a snap and looked at him defiantly.

"Do you think it strange that she objected?"

"Why not?" he said in surprise.

Again she looked at him with quick searching eyes.

His eyes were clear and bright, and he smiled back, repeating, "Why not?"

"You _are_ droll," she murmured, bending her head.

"Why?"

But she made no answer, and sat silent, tracing curves and circles in the
dust with her parasol. After a while he said--"I am glad to see that young
people have so much liberty here. I understood that the French were not at
all like us. You know in America--or at least where I live in Milbrook,
girls have every liberty,--go out alone and receive their friends alone,
and I was afraid I should miss it here. But I see how it is now, and I am
glad I was mistaken."

She raised her eyes to his and kept them there.

He continued pleasantly--"Since I have sat here I have seen a lot of
pretty girls walking alone on the terrace there,--and then _you_ are alone
too. Tell me, for I do not know French customs,--do you have the liberty
of going to the theatre without a chaperone?"

For a long time she studied his face, and then with a trembling smile
said, "Why do you ask me?"

"Because you must know, of course," he said gaily.

"Yes," she replied indifferently, "I know."

He waited for an answer, but getting none, decided that perhaps she had
misunderstood him.

"I hope you don't think I mean to presume on our short acquaintance," he
began,--"in fact it is very odd but I don't know your name. When Mr.
Clifford presented me he only mentioned mine. Is that the custom in
France?"

"It is the custom in the Latin Quarter," she said with a queer light in
her eyes. Then suddenly she began talking almost feverishly.

"You must know, Monsieur Hastings, that we are all _un peu sans gêne_ here
in the Latin Quarter. We are very Bohemian, and etiquette and ceremony are
out of place. It was for that Monsieur Clifford presented you to me with
small ceremony, and left us together with less,--only for that, and I am
his friend, and I have many friends in the Latin Quarter, and we all know
each other very well--and I am not studying art, but--but--"

"But what?" he said, bewildered.

"I shall not tell you,--it is a secret," she said with an uncertain smile.
On both cheeks a pink spot was burning, and her eyes were very bright.

Then in a moment her face fell. "Do you know Monsieur Clifford very
intimately?"

"Not very."

After a while she turned to him, grave and a little pale.

"My name is Valentine--Valentine Tissot. Might--might I ask a service of
you on such very short acquaintance?"

"Oh," he cried, "I should be honoured."

"It is only this," she said gently, "it is not much. Promise me not to
speak to Monsieur Clifford about me. Promise me that you will speak to no
one about me."

"I promise," he said, greatly puzzled.

She laughed nervously. "I wish to remain a mystery. It is a caprice."

"But," he began, "I had wished, I had hoped that you might give Monsieur
Clifford permission to bring me, to present me at your house."

"My--my house!" she repeated.

"I mean, where you live, in fact, to present me to your family."

The change in the girl's face shocked him.

"I beg your pardon," he cried, "I have hurt you."

And as quick as a flash she understood him because she was a woman.

"My parents are dead," she said.

Presently he began again, very gently.

"Would it displease you if I beg you to receive me? It is the custom?"

"I cannot," she answered. Then glancing up at him, "I am sorry; I should
like to; but believe me. I cannot."

He bowed seriously and looked vaguely uneasy.

"It isn't because I don't wish to. I--I like you; you are very kind to
me."

"Kind?" he cried, surprised and puzzled.

"I like you," she said slowly, "and we will see each other sometimes if
you will."

"At friends' houses."

"No, not at friends' houses."

"Where?"

"Here," she said with defiant eyes.

"Why," he cried, "in Paris you are much more liberal in your views than we
are."

She looked at him curiously.

"Yes, we are very Bohemian."

"I think it is charming," he declared.

"You see, we shall be in the best of society," she ventured timidly, with
a pretty gesture toward the statues of the dead queens, ranged in stately
ranks above the terrace.

He looked at her, delighted, and she brightened at the success of her
innocent little pleasantry.

"Indeed," she smiled, "I shall be well chaperoned, because you see we are
under the protection of the gods themselves; look, there are Apollo, and
Juno, and Venus, on their pedestals," counting them on her small gloved
fingers, "and Ceres, Hercules, and--but I can't make out--"

Hastings turned to look up at the winged god under whose shadow they were
seated.

"Why, it's Love," he said.

IV

"There is a nouveau here," drawled Laffat, leaning around his easel and
addressing his friend Bowles, "there is a nouveau here who is so tender
and green and appetizing that Heaven help him if he should fall into a
salad bowl."

"Hayseed?" inquired Bowles, plastering in a background with a broken
palette-knife and squinting at the effect with approval.

"Yes, Squeedunk or Oshkosh, and how he ever grew up among the daisies and
escaped the cows, Heaven alone knows!"

Bowles rubbed his thumb across the outlines of his study to "throw in a
little atmosphere," as he said, glared at the model, pulled at his pipe
and finding it out struck a match on his neighbour's back to relight it.

"His name," continued Laffat, hurling a bit of bread at the hat-rack, "his
name is Hastings. He _is_ a berry. He knows no more about the world,"--and
here Mr. Laffat's face spoke volumes for his own knowledge of that
planet,--"than a maiden cat on its first moonlight stroll."

Bowles now having succeeded in lighting his pipe, repeated the thumb touch
on the other edge of the study and said, "Ah!"

"Yes," continued his friend, "and would you imagine it, he seems to think
that everything here goes on as it does in his d----d little backwoods
ranch at home; talks about the pretty girls who walk alone in the street;
says how sensible it is; and how French parents are misrepresented in
America; says that for his part he finds French girls,--and he confessed
to only knowing one,--as jolly as American girls. I tried to set him
right, tried to give him a pointer as to what sort of ladies walk about
alone or with students, and he was either too stupid or too innocent to
catch on. Then I gave it to him straight, and he said I was a vile-minded
fool and marched off."

"Did you assist him with your shoe?" inquired Bowles, languidly
interested.

"Well, no."

"He called you a vile-minded fool."

"He was correct," said Clifford from his easel in front.

"What--what do you mean?" demanded Laffat, turning red.

"_That_," replied Clifford.

"Who spoke to you? Is this your business?" sneered Bowles, but nearly lost
his balance as Clifford swung about and eyed him.

"Yes," he said slowly, "it's my business."

No one spoke for some time.

Then Clifford sang out, "I say, Hastings!"

And when Hastings left his easel and came around, he nodded toward the
astonished Laffat.

"This man has been disagreeable to you, and I want to tell you that any
time you feel inclined to kick him, why, I will hold the other creature."

Hastings, embarrassed, said, "Why no, I don't agree with his ideas,
nothing more."

Clifford said "Naturally," and slipping his arm through Hastings',
strolled about with him, and introduced him to several of his own friends,
at which all the nouveaux opened their eyes with envy, and the studio were
given to understand that Hastings, although prepared to do menial work as
the latest nouveau, was already within the charmed circle of the old,
respected and feared, the truly great.

The rest finished, the model resumed his place, and work went on in a
chorus of songs and yells and every ear-splitting noise which the art
student utters when studying the beautiful.

Five o'clock struck,--the model yawned, stretched and climbed into his
trousers, and the noisy contents of six studios crowded through the hall
and down into the street. Ten minutes later, Hastings found himself on top
of a Montrouge tram, and shortly afterward was joined by Clifford.

They climbed down at the rue Gay Lussac.

"I always stop here," observed Clifford, "I like the walk through the
Luxembourg."

"By the way," said Hastings, "how can I call on you when I don't know
where you live?"

"Why, I live opposite you."

"What--the studio in the garden where the almond trees are and the
blackbirds--"

"Exactly," said Clifford. "I'm with my friend Elliott."

Hastings thought of the description of the two American artists which he
had heard from Miss Susie Byng, and looked blank.

Clifford continued, "Perhaps you had better let me know when you think of
coming so,--so that I will be sure to--to be there," he ended rather
lamely.

"I shouldn't care to meet any of your model friends there," said Hastings,
smiling. "You know--my ideas are rather straitlaced,--I suppose you would
say, Puritanical. I shouldn't enjoy it and wouldn't know how to behave."

"Oh, I understand," said Clifford, but added with great cordiality,--"I'm
sure we'll be friends although you may not approve of me and my set, but
you will like Severn and Selby because--because, well, they are like
yourself, old chap."

After a moment he continued, "There is something I want to speak about.
You see, when I introduced you, last week, in the Luxembourg, to
Valentine--"

"Not a word!" cried Hastings, smiling; "you must not tell me a word of
her!"

"Why--"

"No--not a word!" he said gaily. "I insist,--promise me upon your honour
you will not speak of her until I give you permission; promise!"

"I promise," said Clifford, amazed.

"She is a charming girl,--we had such a delightful chat after you left,
and I thank you for presenting me, but not another word about her until I
give you permission."

"Oh," murmured Clifford.

"Remember your promise," he smiled, as he turned into his gateway.

Clifford strolled across the street and, traversing the ivy-covered alley,
entered his garden.

He felt for his studio key, muttering, "I wonder--I wonder,--but of course
he doesn't!"

He entered the hallway, and fitting the key into the door, stood staring
at the two cards tacked over the panels.

  FOXHALL CLIFFORD

  RICHARD OSBORNE ELLIOTT

"Why the devil doesn't he want me to speak of her?"

He opened the door, and, discouraging the caresses of two brindle
bull-dogs, sank down on the sofa.

Elliott sat smoking and sketching with a piece of charcoal by the window.

"Hello," he said without looking around.

Clifford gazed absently at the back of his head, murmuring, "I'm afraid,
I'm afraid that man is too innocent. I say, Elliott," he said, at last,
"Hastings,--you know the chap that old Tabby Byram came around here to
tell us about--the day you had to hide Colette in the armoire--"

"Yes, what's up?"

"Oh, nothing. He's a brick."

"Yes," said Elliott, without enthusiasm.

"Don't you think so?" demanded Clifford.

"Why yes, but he is going to have a tough time when some of his illusions
are dispelled."

"More shame to those who dispel 'em!"

"Yes,--wait until he comes to pay his call on us, unexpectedly, of
course--"

Clifford looked virtuous and lighted a cigar.

"I was just going to say," he observed, "that I have asked him not to come
without letting us know, so I can postpone any orgie you may have
intended--"

"Ah!" cried Elliott indignantly, "I suppose you put it to him in that
way."

"Not exactly," grinned Clifford. Then more seriously, "I don't want
anything to occur here to bother him. He's a brick, and it's a pity we
can't be more like him."

"I am," observed Elliott complacently, "only living with you--"

"Listen!" cried the other. "I have managed to put my foot in it in great
style. Do you know what I've done? Well--the first time I met him in the
street,--or rather, it was in the Luxembourg, I introduced him to
Valentine!"

"Did he object?"

"Believe me," said Clifford, solemnly, "this rustic Hastings has no more
idea that Valentine is--is--in fact is Valentine, than he has that he
himself is a beautiful example of moral decency in a Quarter where morals
are as rare as elephants. I heard enough in a conversation between that
blackguard Loffat and the little immoral eruption, Bowles, to open my
eyes. I tell you Hastings is a trump! He's a healthy, clean-minded young
fellow, bred in a small country village, brought up with the idea that
saloons are way-stations to hell--and as for women--"

"Well?" demanded Elliott

"Well," said Clifford, "his idea of the dangerous woman is probably a
painted Jezabel."

"Probably," replied the other.

"He's a trump!" said Clifford, "and if he swears the world is as good and
pure as his own heart, I'll swear he's right."

Elliott rubbed his charcoal on his file to get a point and turned to his
sketch saying, "He will never hear any pessimism from Richard Osborne E."

"He's a lesson to me," said Clifford. Then he unfolded a small perfumed
note, written on rose-coloured paper, which had been lying on the table
before him.

He read it, smiled, whistled a bar or two from "Miss Helyett," and sat
down to answer it on his best cream-laid note-paper. When it was written
and sealed, he picked up his stick and marched up and down the studio two
or three times, whistling.

"Going out?" inquired the other, without turning.

"Yes," he said, but lingered a moment over Elliott's shoulder, watching
him pick out the lights in his sketch with a bit of bread.

"To-morrow is Sunday," he observed after a moment's silence.

"Well?" inquired Elliott.

"Have you seen Colette?"

"No, I will to-night. She and Rowden and Jacqueline are coming to
Boulant's. I suppose you and, Cécile will be there?"

"Well, no," replied Clifford. "Cécile dines at home to-night, and I--I had
an idea of going to Mignon's."

Elliott looked at him with disapproval.

"You can make all the arrangements for La Roche without me," he continued,
avoiding Elliott's eyes.

"What are you up to now?"

"Nothing," protested Clifford.

"Don't tell me," replied his chum, with scorn; "fellows don't rush off to
Mignon's when the set dine at Boulant's. Who is it now?--but no, I won't
ask that,--what's the use!" Then he lifted up his voice in complaint and
beat upon the table with his pipe. "What's the use of ever trying to keep
track of you? What will Cécile say,--oh, yes, what will she say? It's a
pity you can't be constant two months, yes, by Jove! and the Quarter is
indulgent, but you abuse its good nature and mine too!"

Presently he arose, and jamming his hat on his head, marched to the door.

"Heaven alone knows why any one puts up with your antics, but they all do
and so do I. If I were Cécile or any of the other pretty fools after whom
you have toddled and will, in all human probabilities, continue to toddle,
I say, if I were Cécile I'd spank you! Now I'm going to Boulant's, and as
usual I shall make excuses for you and arrange the affair, and I don't
care a continental where you are going, but, by the skull of the studio
skeleton! if you don't turn up to-morrow with your sketching-kit under one
arm and Cécile under the other,--if you don't turn up in good shape, I'm
done with you, and the rest can think what they please. Good-night."

Clifford said good-night with as pleasant a smile as he could muster, and
then sat down with his eyes on the door. He took out his watch and gave
Elliott ten minutes to vanish, then rang the concierge's call, murmuring,
"Oh dear, oh dear, why the devil do I do it?"

"Alfred," he said, as that gimlet-eyed person answered the call, "make
yourself clean and proper, Alfred, and replace your sabots with a pair of
shoes. Then put on your best hat and take this letter to the big white
house in the Rue de Dragon. There is no answer, _mon petit_ Alfred."

The concierge departed with a snort in which unwillingness for the errand
and affection for M. Clifford were blended. Then with great care the young
fellow arrayed himself in all the beauties of his and Elliott's wardrobe.
He took his time about it, and occasionally interrupted his toilet to play
his banjo or make pleasing diversion for the bull-dogs by gambling about
on all fours. "I've got two hours before me," he thought, and borrowed a
pair of Elliott's silken foot-gear, with which he and the dogs played ball
until he decided to put them on. Then he lighted a cigarette and inspected
his dress-coat. When he had emptied it of four handkerchiefs, a fan, and a
pair of crumpled gloves as long as his arm, he decided it was not suited
to add _éclat_ to his charms and cast about in his mind for a substitute.
Elliott was too thin, and, anyway, his coats were now under lock and key.
Rowden probably was as badly off as himself. Hastings! Hastings was the
man! But when he threw on a smoking-jacket and sauntered over to Hastings'
house, he was informed that he had been gone over an hour.

"Now, where in the name of all that's reasonable could he have gone!"
muttered Clifford, looking down the street.

The maid didn't know, so he bestowed upon her a fascinating smile and
lounged back to the studio.

Hastings was not far away. The Luxembourg is within five minutes' walk of
the rue Notre Dame des Champs, and there he sat under the shadow of a
winged god, and there he had sat for an hour, poking holes in the dust and
watching the steps which lead from the northern terrace to the fountain.
The sun hung, a purple globe, above the misty hills of Meudon. Long
streamers of clouds touched with rose swept low on the western sky, and
the dome of the distant Invalides burned like an opal through the haze.
Behind the Palace the smoke from a high chimney mounted straight into the
air, purple until it crossed the sun, where it changed to a bar of
smouldering fire. High above the darkening foliage of the chestnuts the
twin towers of St. Sulpice rose, an ever-deepening silhouette.

A sleepy blackbird was carolling in some near thicket, and pigeons passed
and repassed with the whisper of soft winds in their wings. The light on
the Palace windows had died away, and the dome of the Pantheon swam aglow
above the northern terrace, a fiery Valhalla in the sky; while below in
grim array, along the terrace ranged, the marble ranks of queens looked
out into the west.

From the end of the long walk by the northern façade of the Palace came
the noise of omnibuses and the cries of the street. Hastings looked at the
Palace clock. Six, and as his own watch agreed with it, he fell to poking
holes in the gravel again. A constant stream of people passed between the
Odéon and the fountain. Priests in black, with silver-buckled shoes; line
soldiers, slouchy and rakish; neat girls without hats bearing milliners'
boxes, students with black portfolios and high hats, students with bérets
and big canes, nervous, quick-stepping officers, symphonies in turquoise
and silver; ponderous jangling cavalrymen all over dust, pastry cooks'
boys skipping along with utter disregard for the safety of the basket
balanced on the impish head, and then the lean outcast, the shambling
Paris tramp, slouching with shoulders bent and little eye furtively
scanning the ground for smokers' refuse;--all these moved in a steady
stream across the fountain circle and out into the city by the Odeon,
whose long arcades were now beginning to flicker with gas-jets. The
melancholy bells of St Sulpice struck the hour and the clock-tower of the
Palace lighted up. Then hurried steps sounded across the gravel and
Hastings raised his head.

"How late you are," he said, but his voice was hoarse and only his flushed
face told how long had seemed the waiting.

She said, "I was kept--indeed, I was so much annoyed--and--and I may only
stay a moment."

She sat down beside him, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder at the
god upon his pedestal.

"What a nuisance, that intruding cupid still there?"

"Wings and arrows too," said Hastings, unheeding her motion to be seated.

"Wings," she murmured, "oh, yes--to fly away with when he's tired of his
play. Of course it was a man who conceived the idea of wings, otherwise
Cupid would have been insupportable."

"Do you think so?"

"_Ma foi_, it's what men think."

"And women?"

"Oh," she said, with a toss of her small head, "I really forget what we
were speaking of."

"We were speaking of love," said Hastings.

"_I_ was not," said the girl. Then looking up at the marble god, "I don't
care for this one at all. I don't believe he knows how to shoot his
arrows--no, indeed, he is a coward;--he creeps up like an assassin in the
twilight. I don't approve of cowardice," she announced, and turned her
back on the statue.

"I think," said Hastings quietly, "that he does shoot fairly--yes, and
even gives one warning."

"Is it your experience, Monsieur Hastings?"

He looked straight into her eyes and said, "He is warning me."

"Heed the warning then," she cried, with a nervous laugh. As she spoke she
stripped off her gloves, and then carefully proceeded to draw them on
again. When this was accomplished she glanced at the Palace clock, saying,
"Oh dear, how late it is!" furled her umbrella, then unfurled it, and
finally looked at him.

"No," he said, "I shall not heed his warning."

"Oh dear," she sighed again, "still talking about that tiresome statue!"
Then stealing a glance at his face, "I suppose--I suppose you are in
love."

"I don't know," he muttered, "I suppose I am."

She raised her head with a quick gesture. "You seem delighted at the
idea," she said, but bit her lip and trembled as his eyes met hers. Then
sudden fear came over her and she sprang up, staring into the gathering
shadows.

"Are you cold?" he said.

But she only answered, "Oh dear, oh dear, it is late--so late! I must
go--good-night."

She gave him her gloved hand a moment and then withdrew it with a start.

"What is it?" he insisted. "Are you frightened?"

She looked at him strangely.

"No--no--not frightened,--you are very good to me--"

"By Jove!" he burst out, "what do you mean by saying I'm good to you?
That's at least the third time, and I don't understand!"

The sound of a drum from the guard-house at the palace cut him short.
"Listen," she whispered, "they are going to close. It's late, oh, so
late!"

The rolling of the drum came nearer and nearer, and then the silhouette of
the drummer cut the sky above the eastern terrace. The fading light
lingered a moment on his belt and bayonet, then he passed into the
shadows, drumming the echoes awake. The roll became fainter along the
eastern terrace, then grew and grew and rattled with increasing sharpness
when he passed the avenue by the bronze lion and turned down the western
terrace walk. Louder and louder the drum sounded, and the echoes struck
back the notes from the grey palace wall; and now the drummer loomed up
before them--his red trousers a dull spot in the gathering gloom, the
brass of his drum and bayonet touched with a pale spark, his epaulettes
tossing on his shoulders. He passed leaving the crash of the drum in their
ears, and far into the alley of trees they saw his little tin cup shining
on his haversack. Then the sentinels began the monotonous cry: "On ferme!
on ferme!" and the bugle blew from the barracks in the rue de Tournon.

"On ferme! on ferme!"

"Good-night," she whispered, "I must return alone to-night."

He watched her until she reached the northern terrace, and then sat down
on the marble seat until a hand on his shoulder and a glimmer of bayonets
warned him away.

She passed on through the grove, and turning into the rue de Medici,
traversed it to the Boulevard. At the corner she bought a bunch of violets
and walked on along the Boulevard to the rue des Écoles. A cab was drawn
up before Boulant's, and a pretty girl aided by Elliott jumped out.

"Valentine!" cried the girl, "come with us!"

"I can't," she said, stopping a moment--"I have a rendezvous at Mignon's."

"Not Victor?" cried the girl, laughing, but she passed with a little
shiver, nodding good-night, then turning into the Boulevard St. Germain,
she walked a tittle faster to escape a gay party sitting before the Café
Cluny who called to her to join them. At the door of the Restaurant Mignon
stood a coal-black negro in buttons. He took off his peaked cap as she
mounted the carpeted stairs.

"Send Eugene to me," she said at the office, and passing through the
hallway to the right of the dining-room stopped before a row of panelled
doors. A waiter passed and she repeated her demand for Eugene, who
presently appeared, noiselessly skipping, and bowed murmuring, "Madame."

"Who is here?"

"No one in the cabinets, madame; in the half Madame Madelon and Monsieur
Gay, Monsieur de Clamart, Monsieur Clisson, Madame Marie and their set."
Then he looked around and bowing again murmured, "Monsieur awaits madame
since half an hour," and he knocked at one of the panelled doors bearing
the number six.

Clifford opened the door and the girl entered.

The garçon bowed her in, and whispering, "Will Monsieur have the goodness
to ring?" vanished.

He helped her off with her jacket and took her hat and umbrella. When she
was seated at the little table with Clifford opposite she smiled and
leaned forward on both elbows looking him in the face.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Waiting," he replied, in accents of adoration.

For an instant she turned and examined herself in the glass. The wide blue
eyes, the curling hair, the straight nose and short curled lip flashed in
the mirror an instant only, and then its depths reflected her pretty neck
and back. "Thus do I turn my back on vanity," she said, and then leaning
forward again, "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you," repeated Clifford, slightly troubled.

"And Cécile."

"Now don't, Valentine--"

"Do you know," she said calmly, "I dislike your conduct?"

He was a little disconcerted, and rang for Eugene to cover his confusion.

The soup was bisque, and the wine Pommery, and the courses followed each
other with the usual regularity until Eugene brought coffee, and there was
nothing left on the table but a small silver lamp.

"Valentine," said Clifford, after having obtained permission to smoke, "is
it the Vaudeville or the Eldorado--or both, or the Nouveau Cirque, or--"

"It is here," said Valentine.

"Well," he said, greatly flattered, "I'm afraid I couldn't amuse you--"

"Oh, yes, you are funnier than the Eldorado."

"Now see here, don't guy me, Valentine. You always do, and, and,--you know
what they say,--a good laugh kills--"

"What?"

"Er--er--love and all that."

She laughed until her eyes were moist with tears. "Tiens," she cried, "he
is dead, then!"

Clifford eyed her with growing alarm.

"Do you know why I came?" she said.

"No," he replied uneasily, "I don't."

"How long have you made love to me?"

"Well," he admitted, somewhat startled,--"I should say,--for about a
year."

"It is a year, I think. Are you not tired?"

He did not answer.

"Don't you know that I like you too well to--to ever fall in love with
you?" she said. "Don't you know that we are too good comrades,--too old
friends for that? And were we not,--do you think that I do not know your
history, Monsieur Clifford?"

"Don't be--don't be so sarcastic," he urged; "don't be unkind, Valentine."

"I'm not. I'm kind. I'm very kind,--to you and to Cécile."

"Cécile is tired of me."

"I hope she is," said the girl, "for she deserves a better fate. Tiens, do
you know your reputation in the Quarter? Of the inconstant, the most
inconstant,--utterly incorrigible and no more serious than a gnat on a
summer night. Poor Cécile!"

Clifford looked so uncomfortable that she spoke more kindly.

"I like you. You know that. Everybody does. You are a spoiled child here.
Everything is permitted you and every one makes allowance, but every one
cannot be a victim to caprice."

"Caprice!" he cried. "By Jove, if the girls of the Latin Quarter are not
capricious--"

"Never mind,--never mind about that! You must not sit in judgment--you of
all men. Why are you here to-night? Oh," she cried, "I will tell you why!
Monsieur receives a little note; he sends a little answer; he dresses in
his conquering raiment--"

"I don't," said Clifford, very red.

"You do, and it becomes you," she retorted with a faint smile. Then again,
very quietly, "I am in your power, but I know I am in the power of a
friend. I have come to acknowledge it to you here,--and it is because of
that that I am here to beg of you--a--a favour."

Clifford opened his eyes, but said nothing.

"I am in--great distress of mind. It is Monsieur Hastings."

"Well?" said Clifford, in some astonishment.

"I want to ask you," she continued in a low voice, "I want to ask you
to--to--in case you should speak of me before him,--not to say,--not to
say,--"

"I shall not speak of you to him," he said quietly.

"Can--can you prevent others?"

"I might if I was present. May I ask why?"

"That is not fair," she murmured; "you know how--how he considers me,--as
he considers every woman. You know how different he is from you and the
rest. I have never seen a man,--such a man as Monsieur Hastings."

He let his cigarette go out unnoticed.

"I am almost afraid of him--afraid he should know--what we all are in the
Quarter. Oh, I do not wish him to know! I do not wish him to--to turn from
me--to cease from speaking to me as he does! You--you and the rest cannot
know what it has been to me. I could not believe him,--I could not believe
he was so good and--and noble. I do not wish him to know--so soon. He will
find out--sooner or later, he will find out for himself, and then he will
turn away from me. Why!" she cried passionately, "why should he turn from
me and not from _you_?"

Clifford, much embarrassed, eyed his cigarette.

The girl rose, very white. "He is your friend--you have a right to warn
him."

"He is my friend," he said at length.

They looked at each other in silence.

Then she cried, "By all that I hold to me most sacred, you need not warn
him!"

"I shall trust your word," he said pleasantly.

V

The month passed quickly for Hastings, and left few definite impressions
after it. It did leave some, however. One was a painful impression of
meeting Mr. Bladen on the Boulevard des Capucines in company with a very
pronounced young person whose laugh dismayed him, and when at last he
escaped from the café where Mr. Bladen had hauled him to join them in a
_bock_ he felt as if the whole boulevard was looking at him, and judging
him by his company. Later, an instinctive conviction regarding the young
person with Mr. Bladen sent the hot blood into his cheek, and he returned
to the pension in such a miserable state of mind that Miss Byng was
alarmed and advised him to conquer his homesickness at once.

Another impression was equally vivid. One Saturday morning, feeling
lonely, his wanderings about the city brought him to the Gare St. Lazare.
It was early for breakfast, but he entered the Hôtel Terminus and took a
table near the window. As he wheeled about to give his order, a man
passing rapidly along the aisle collided with his head, and looking up to
receive the expected apology, he was met instead by a slap on the shoulder
and a hearty, "What the deuce are you doing here, old chap?" It was
Rowden, who seized him and told him to come along. So, mildly protesting,
he was ushered into a private dining-room where Clifford, rather red,
jumped up from the table and welcomed him with a startled air which was
softened by the unaffected glee of Rowden and the extreme courtesy of
Elliott. The latter presented him to three bewitching girls who welcomed
him so charmingly and seconded Rowden in his demand that Hastings should
make one of the party, that he consented at once. While Elliott briefly
outlined the projected excursion to La Roche, Hastings delightedly ate his
omelet, and returned the smiles of encouragement from Cécile and Colette
and Jacqueline. Meantime Clifford in a bland whisper was telling Rowden
what an ass he was. Poor Rowden looked miserable until Elliott, divining
how affairs were turning, frowned on Clifford and found a moment to let
Rowden know that they were all going to make the best of it.

"You shut up," he observed to Clifford, "it's fate, and that settles it."

"It's Rowden, and that settles it," murmured Clifford, concealing a grin.
For after all he was not Hastings' wet nurse. So it came about that the
train which left the Gare St. Lazare at 9.15 a.m. stopped a moment in its
career towards Havre and deposited at the red-roofed station of La Roche a
merry party, armed with sunshades, trout-rods, and one cane, carried by
the non-combatant, Hastings. Then, when they had established their camp in
a grove of sycamores which bordered the little river Ept, Clifford, the
acknowledged master of all that pertained to sportsmanship, took command.

"You, Rowden," he said, "divide your flies with Elliott and keep an eye on
him or else he'll be trying to put on a float and sinker. Prevent him by
force from grubbing about for worms."

Elliott protested, but was forced to smile in the general laugh.

"You make me ill," he asserted; "do you think this is my first trout?"

"I shall be delighted to see your first trout," said Clifford, and dodging
a fly hook, hurled with intent to hit, proceeded to sort and equip three
slender rods destined to bring joy and fish to Cécil, Colette, and
Jacqueline. With perfect gravity he ornamented each line with four split
shot, a small hook, and a brilliant quill float.

"_I_ shall never touch the worms," announced Cécile with a shudder.

Jacqueline and Colette hastened to sustain her, and Hastings pleasantly
offered to act in the capacity of general baiter and taker-off of fish.
But Cécile, doubtless fascinated by the gaudy flies in Clifford's book,
decided to accept lessons from him in the true art, and presently
disappeared up the Ept with Clifford in tow.

Elliott looked doubtfully at Colette.

"I prefer gudgeons," said that damsel with decision, "and you and Monsieur
Rowden may go away when you please; may they not, Jacqueline?"

"Certainly," responded Jacqueline.

Elliott, undecided, examined his rod and reel.

"You've got your reel on wrong side up," observed Rowden.

Elliott wavered, and stole a glance at Colette.

"I--I--have almost decided to--er--not to flip the flies about just now,"
he began. "There's the pole that Cécile left--"

"Don't call it a pole," corrected Rowden.

"_Rod_, then," continued Elliott, and started off in the wake of the two
girls, but was promptly collared by Rowden.

"No, you don't! Fancy a man fishing with a float and sinker when he has a
fly rod in his hand! You come along!"

Where the placid little Ept flows down between its thickets to the Seine,
a grassy bank shadows the haunt of the gudgeon, and on this bank sat
Colette and Jacqueline and chattered and laughed and watched the swerving
of the scarlet quills, while Hastings, his hat over his eyes, his head on
a bank of moss, listened to their soft voices and gallantly unhooked the
small and indignant gudgeon when a flash of a rod and a half-suppressed
scream announced a catch. The sunlight filtered through the leafy thickets
awaking to song the forest birds. Magpies in spotless black and white
flirted past, alighting near by with a hop and bound and twitch of the
tail. Blue and white jays with rosy breasts shrieked through the trees,
and a low-sailing hawk wheeled among the fields of ripening wheat, putting
to flight flocks of twittering hedge birds.

Across the Seine a gull dropped on the water like a plume. The air was
pure and still. Scarcely a leaf moved. Sounds from a distant farm came
faintly, the shrill cock-crow and dull baying. Now and then a steam-tug
with big raking smoke-pipe, bearing the name "Guêpe 27," ploughed up the
river dragging its interminable train of barges, or a sailboat dropped
down with the current toward sleepy Rouen.

A faint fresh odour of earth and water hung in the air, and through the
sunlight, orange-tipped butterflies danced above the marsh grass, soft
velvety butterflies flapped through the mossy woods.

Hastings was thinking of Valentine. It was two o'clock when Elliott
strolled back, and frankly admitting that he had eluded Rowden, sat down
beside Colette and prepared to doze with satisfaction.

"Where are your trout?" said Colette severely.

"They still live," murmured Elliott, and went fast asleep.

Rowden returned shortly after, and casting a scornful glance at the
slumbering one, displayed three crimson-flecked trout.

"And that," smiled Hastings lazily, "that is the holy end to which the
faithful plod,--the slaughter of these small fish with a bit of silk and
feather."

Rowden disdained to answer him. Colette caught another gudgeon and awoke
Elliott, who protested and gazed about for the lunch baskets, as Clifford
and Cécile came up demanding instant refreshment. Cécile's skirts were
soaked, and her gloves torn, but she was happy, and Clifford, dragging out
a two-pound trout, stood still to receive the applause of the company.

"Where the deuce did you get that?" demanded Elliott.

Cécile, wet and enthusiastic, recounted the battle, and then Clifford
eulogized her powers with the fly, and, in proof, produced from his creel
a defunct chub, which, he observed, just missed being a trout.

They were all very happy at luncheon, and Hastings was voted "charming."
He enjoyed it immensely,--only it seemed to him at moments that flirtation
went further in France than in Millbrook, Connecticut, and he thought that
Cécile might be a little less enthusiastic about Clifford, that perhaps it
would be quite as well if Jacqueline sat further away from Rowden, and
that possibly Colette could have, for a moment at least, taken her eyes
from Elliott's face. Still he enjoyed it--except when his thoughts drifted
to Valentine, and then he felt that he was very far away from her. La
Roche is at least an hour and a half from Paris. It is also true that he
felt a happiness, a quick heart-beat when, at eight o'clock that night the
train which bore them from La Roche rolled into the Gare St. Lazare and he
was once more in the city of Valentine.

"Good-night," they said, pressing around him. "You must come with us next
time!"

He promised, and watched them, two by two, drift into the darkening city,
and stood so long that, when again he raised his eyes, the vast Boulevard
was twinkling with gas-jets through which the electric lights stared like
moons.

VI

It was with another quick heart-beat that he awoke next morning, for his
first thought was of Valentine.

The sun already gilded the towers of Notre Dame, the clatter of workmen's
sabots awoke sharp echoes in the street below, and across the way a
blackbird in a pink almond tree was going into an ecstasy of trills.

He determined to awake Clifford for a brisk walk in the country, hoping
later to beguile that gentleman into the American church for his soul's
sake. He found Alfred the gimlet-eyed washing the asphalt walk which led
to the studio.

"Monsieur Elliott?" he replied to the perfunctory inquiry, "_je ne sais
pas_."

"And Monsieur Clifford," began Hastings, somewhat astonished.

"Monsieur Clifford," said the concierge with fine irony, "will be pleased
to see you, as he retired early; in fact he has just come in."

Hastings hesitated while the concierge pronounced a fine eulogy on people
who never stayed out all night and then came battering at the lodge gate
during hours which even a gendarme held sacred to sleep. He also
discoursed eloquently upon the beauties of temperance, and took an
ostentatious draught from the fountain in the court.

"I do not think I will come in," said Hastings.

"Pardon, monsieur," growled the concierge, "perhaps it would be well to
see Monsieur Clifford. He possibly needs aid. Me he drives forth with
hair-brushes and boots. It is a mercy if he has not set fire to something
with his candle."

Hastings hesitated for an instant, but swallowing his dislike of such a
mission, walked slowly through the ivy-covered alley and across the inner
garden to the studio. He knocked. Perfect silence. Then he knocked again,
and this time something struck the door from within with a crash.

"That," said the concierge, "was a boot." He fitted his duplicate key into
the lock and ushered Hastings in. Clifford, in disordered evening dress,
sat on the rug in the middle of the room. He held in his hand a shoe, and
did not appear astonished to see Hastings.

"Good-morning, do you use Pears' soap?" he inquired with a vague wave of
his hand and a vaguer smile.

Hastings' heart sank. "For Heaven's sake," he said, "Clifford, go to bed."

"Not while that--that Alfred pokes his shaggy head in here an' I have a
shoe left."

Hastings blew out the candle, picked up Clifford's hat and cane, and said,
with an emotion he could not conceal, "This is terrible,
Clifford,--I--never knew you did this sort of thing."

"Well, I do," said Clifford.

"Where is Elliott?"

"Ole chap," returned Clifford, becoming maudlin, "Providence which
feeds--feeds--er--sparrows an' that sort of thing watcheth over the
intemperate wanderer--"

"Where is Elliott?"

But Clifford only wagged his head and waved his arm about. "He's out
there,--somewhere about." Then suddenly feeling a desire to see his
missing chum, lifted up his voice and howled for him.

Hastings, thoroughly shocked, sat down on the lounge without a word.
Presently, after shedding several scalding tears, Clifford brightened up
and rose with great precaution.

"Ole chap," he observed, "do you want to see er--er miracle? Well, here
goes. I'm goin' to begin."

He paused, beaming at vacancy.

"Er miracle," he repeated.

Hastings supposed he was alluding to the miracle of his keeping his
balance, and said nothing.

"I'm goin' to bed," he announced, "poor ole Clifford's goin' to bed, an'
that's er miracle!"

And he did with a nice calculation of distance and equilibrium which would
have rung enthusiastic yells of applause from Elliott had he been there to
assist _en connaisseur_. But he was not. He had not yet reached the
studio. He was on his way, however, and smiled with magnificent
condescension on Hastings, who, half an hour later, found him reclining
upon a bench in the Luxembourg. He permitted himself to be aroused, dusted
and escorted to the gate. Here, however, he refused all further
assistance, and bestowing a patronizing bow upon Hastings, steered a
tolerably true course for the rue Vavin.

Hastings watched him out of sight, and then slowly retraced his steps
toward the fountain. At first he felt gloomy and depressed, but gradually
the clear air of the morning lifted the pressure from his heart, and he
sat down on the marble seat under the shadow of the winged god.

The air was fresh and sweet with perfume from the orange flowers.
Everywhere pigeons were bathing, dashing the water over their iris-hued
breasts, flashing in and out of the spray or nestling almost to the neck
along the polished basin. The sparrows, too, were abroad in force, soaking
their dust-coloured feathers in the limpid pool and chirping with might
and main. Under the sycamores which surrounded the duck-pond opposite the
fountain of Marie de Medici, the water-fowl cropped the herbage, or
waddled in rows down the bank to embark on some solemn aimless cruise.

Butterflies, somewhat lame from a chilly night's repose under the lilac
leaves, crawled over and over the white phlox, or took a rheumatic flight
toward some sun-warmed shrub. The bees were already busy among the
heliotrope, and one or two grey flies with brick-coloured eyes sat in a
spot of sunlight beside the marble seat, or chased each other about, only
to return again to the spot of sunshine and rub their fore-legs, exulting.

The sentries paced briskly before the painted boxes, pausing at times to
look toward the guard-house for their relief.

They came at last, with a shuffle of feet and click of bayonets, the word
was passed, the relief fell out, and away they went, crunch, crunch,
across the gravel.

A mellow chime floated from the clock-tower of the palace, the deep bell
of St. Sulpice echoed the stroke. Hastings sat dreaming in the shadow of
the god, and while he mused somebody came and sat down beside him. At
first he did not raise his head. It was only when she spoke that he sprang
up.

"You! At this hour?"

"I was restless, I could not sleep." Then in a low, happy voice--"And
_you!_ at this hour?"

"I--I slept, but the sun awoke me."

"_I_ could not sleep," she said, and her eyes seemed, for a moment,
touched with an indefinable shadow. Then, smiling, "I am so glad--I seemed
to know you were coming. Don't laugh, I believe in dreams."

"Did you really dream of,--of my being here?"

"I think I was awake when I dreamed it," she admitted. Then for a time
they were mute, acknowledging by silence the happiness of being together.
And after all their silence was eloquent, for faint smiles, and glances
born of their thoughts, crossed and recrossed, until lips moved and words
were formed, which seemed almost superfluous. What they said was not very
profound. Perhaps the most valuable jewel that fell from Hastings' lips
bore direct reference to breakfast.

"I have not yet had my chocolate," she confessed, "but what a material man
you are."

"Valentine," he said impulsively, "I wish,--I do wish that you
would,--just for this once,--give me the whole day,--just for this once."

"Oh dear," she smiled, "not only material, but selfish!"

"Not selfish, hungry," he said, looking at her.

"A cannibal too; oh dear!"

"Will you, Valentine?"

"But my chocolate--"

"Take it with me."

"But _déjeuner_--"

"Together, at St. Cloud."

"But I can't--"

"Together,--all day,--all day long; will you, Valentine?"

She was silent.

"Only for this once."

Again that indefinable shadow fell across her eyes, and when it was gone
she sighed. "Yes,--together, only for this once."

"All day?" he said, doubting his happiness.

"All day," she smiled; "and oh, I am so hungry!"

He laughed, enchanted.

"What a material young lady it is."

On the Boulevard St. Michel there is a Crémerie painted white and blue
outside, and neat and clean as a whistle inside. The auburn-haired young
woman who speaks French like a native, and rejoices in the name of Murphy,
smiled at them as they entered, and tossing a fresh napkin over the zinc
_tête-à-tête_ table, whisked before them two cups of chocolate and a
basket full of crisp, fresh croissons.

The primrose-coloured pats of butter, each stamped with a shamrock in
relief, seemed saturated with the fragrance of Normandy pastures.

"How delicious!" they said in the same breath, and then laughed at the
coincidence.

"With but a single thought," he began.

"How absurd!" she cried with cheeks all rosy. "I'm thinking I'd like a
croisson."

"So am I," he replied triumphant, "that proves it."

Then they had a quarrel; she accusing him of behaviour unworthy of a child
in arms, and he denying it, and bringing counter charges, until
Mademoiselle Murphy laughed in sympathy, and the last croisson was eaten
under a flag of truce. Then they rose, and she took his arm with a bright
nod to Mile. Murphy, who cried them a merry: "_Bonjour, madame! bonjour,
monsieur_!" and watched them hail a passing cab and drive away. "_Dieu!
qu'il est beau_," she sighed, adding after a moment, "Do they be married,
I dunno,--_ma foi ils ont bien l'air_."

The cab swung around the rue de Medici, turned into the rue de Vaugirard,
followed it to where it crosses the rue de Rennes, and taking that noisy
thoroughfare, drew up before the Gare Montparnasse. They were just in time
for a train and scampered up the stairway and out to the cars as the last
note from the starting-gong rang through the arched station. The guard
slammed the door of their compartment, a whistle sounded, answered by a
screech from the locomotive, and the long train glided from the station,
faster, faster, and sped out into the morning sunshine. The summer wind
blew in their faces from the open window, and sent the soft hair dancing
on the girl's forehead.

"We have the compartment to ourselves," said Hastings.

She leaned against the cushioned window-seat, her eyes bright and wide
open, her lips parted. The wind lifted her hat, and fluttered the ribbons
under her chin. With a quick movement she untied them, and, drawing a long
hat-pin from her hat, laid it down on the seat beside her. The train was
flying.

The colour surged in her cheeks, and, with each quick-drawn breath, her
breath rose and fell under the cluster of lilies at her throat. Trees,
houses, ponds, danced past, cut by a mist of telegraph poles.

"Faster! faster!" she cried.

His eyes never left her, but hers, wide open, and blue as the summer sky,
seemed fixed on something far ahead,--something which came no nearer, but
fled before them as they fled.

Was it the horizon, cut now by the grim fortress on the hill, now by the
cross of a country chapel? Was it the summer moon, ghost-like, slipping
through the vaguer blue above?

"Faster! faster!" she cried.

Her parted lips burned scarlet.

The car shook and shivered, and the fields streamed by like an emerald
torrent. He caught the excitement, and his faced glowed.

"Oh," she cried, and with an unconscious movement caught his hand, drawing
him to the window beside her. "Look! lean out with me!"

He only saw her lips move; her voice was drowned in the roar of a trestle,
but his hand closed in hers and he clung to the sill. The wind whistled in
their ears. "Not so far out, Valentine, take care!" he gasped.

Below, through the ties of the trestle, a broad river flashed into view
and out again, as the train thundered along a tunnel, and away once more
through the freshest of green fields. The wind roared about them. The girl
was leaning far out from the window, and he caught her by the waist,
crying, "Not too far!" but she only murmured, "Faster! faster! away out of
the city, out of the land, faster, faster! away out of the world!"

"What are you saying all to yourself?" he said, but his voice was broken,
and the wind whirled it back into his throat.

She heard him, and, turning from the window looked down at his arm about
her. Then she raised her eyes to his. The car shook and the windows
rattled. They were dashing through a forest now, and the sun swept the
dewy branches with running flashes of fire. He looked into her troubled
eyes; he drew her to him and kissed the half-parted lips, and she cried
out, a bitter, hopeless cry, "Not that--not that!"

But he held her close and strong, whispering words of honest love and
passion, and when she sobbed--"Not that--not that--I have promised! You
must--you must know--I am--not--worthy--" In the purity of his own heart
her words were, to him, meaningless then, meaningless for ever after.
Presently her voice ceased, and her head rested on his breast. He leaned
against the window, his ears swept by the furious wind, his heart in a
joyous tumult. The forest was passed, and the sun slipped from behind the
trees, flooding the earth again with brightness. She raised her eyes and
looked out into the world from the window. Then she began to speak, but
her voice was faint, and he bent his head close to hers and listened. "I
cannot turn from you; I am too weak. You were long ago my master--master
of my heart and soul. I have broken my word to one who trusted me, but I
have told you all;--what matters the rest?" He smiled at her innocence and
she worshipped his. She spoke again: "Take me or cast me away;--what
matters it? Now with a word you can kill me, and it might be easier to die
than to look upon happiness as great as mine."

He took her in his arms, "Hush, what are you saying? Look,--look out at
the sunlight, the meadows and the streams. We shall be very happy in so
bright a world."

She turned to the sunlight. From the window, the world below seemed very
fair to her.

Trembling with happiness, she sighed: "Is this the world? Then I have
never known it."

"Nor have I, God forgive me," he murmured.

Perhaps it was our gentle Lady of the Fields who forgave them both.

RUE BARRÉE

  "For let Philosopher and Doctor preach
  Of what they will and what they will not,--each
  Is but one link in an eternal chain
  That none can slip nor break nor over-reach."

  "Crimson nor yellow roses nor
  The savour of the mounting sea
  Are worth the perfume I adore
  That clings to thee.
  The languid-headed lilies tire,
  The changeless waters weary me;
  I ache with passionate desire
  Of thine and thee.
  There are but these things in the world--
  Thy mouth of fire,
  Thy breasts, thy hands, thy hair upcurled
  And my desire."

One morning at Julian's, a student said to Selby, "That is Foxhall
Clifford," pointing with his brushes at a young man who sat before an
easel, doing nothing.

Selby, shy and nervous, walked over and began: "My name is Selby,--I have
just arrived in Paris, and bring a letter of introduction--" His voice was
lost in the crash of a falling easel, the owner of which promptly
assaulted his neighbour, and for a time the noise of battle rolled through
the studios of MM. Boulanger and Lefebvre, presently subsiding into a
scuffle on the stairs outside. Selby, apprehensive as to his own reception
in the studio, looked at Clifford, who sat serenely watching the fight.

"It's a little noisy here," said Clifford, "but you will like the fellows
when you know them." His unaffected manner delighted Selby. Then with a
simplicity that won his heart, he presented him to half a dozen students
of as many nationalities. Some were cordial, all were polite. Even the
majestic creature who held the position of Massier, unbent enough to say:
"My friend, when a man speaks French as well as you do, and is also a
friend of Monsieur Clifford, he will have no trouble in this studio. You
expect, of course, to fill the stove until the next new man comes?"

"Of course."

"And you don't mind chaff?"

"No," replied Selby, who hated it.

Clifford, much amused, put on his hat, saying, "You must expect lots of it
at first."

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

As they passed the model stand there was a furious cry of "Chapeau!
Chapeau!" and a student sprang from his easel menacing Selby, who reddened
but looked at Clifford.

"Take off your hat for them," said the latter, laughing.

A little embarrassed, he turned and saluted the studio.

"Et moi?" cried the model.

"You are charming," replied Selby, astonished at his own audacity, but the
studio rose as one man, shouting: "He has done well! he's all right!"
while the model, laughing, kissed her hand to him and cried: "À demain
beau jeune homme!"

All that week Selby worked at the studio unmolested. The French students
christened him "l'Enfant Prodigue," which was freely translated, "The
Prodigious Infant," "The Kid," "Kid Selby," and "Kidby." But the disease
soon ran its course from "Kidby" to "Kidney," and then naturally to
"Tidbits," where it was arrested by Clifford's authority and ultimately
relapsed to "Kid."

Wednesday came, and with it M. Boulanger. For three hours the students
writhed under his biting sarcasms,--among the others Clifford, who was
informed that he knew even less about a work of art than he did about the
art of work. Selby was more fortunate. The professor examined his drawing
in silence, looked at him sharply, and passed on with a non-committal
gesture. He presently departed arm in arm with Bouguereau, to the relief
of Clifford, who was then at liberty to jam his hat on his head and
depart.

The next day he did not appear, and Selby, who had counted on seeing him
at the studio, a thing which he learned later it was vanity to count on,
wandered back to the Latin Quarter alone.

Paris was still strange and new to him. He was vaguely troubled by its
splendour. No tender memories stirred his American bosom at the Place du
Châtelet, nor even by Notre Dame. The Palais de Justice with its clock and
turrets and stalking sentinels in blue and vermilion, the Place St. Michel
with its jumble of omnibuses and ugly water-spitting griffins, the hill of
the Boulevard St. Michel, the tooting trams, the policemen dawdling two by
two, and the table-lined terraces of the Café Vacehett were nothing to
him, as yet, nor did he even know, when he stepped from the stones of the
Place St. Michel to the asphalt of the Boulevard, that he had crossed the
frontier and entered the student zone,--the famous Latin Quarter.

A cabman hailed him as "bourgeois," and urged the superiority of driving
over walking. A gamin, with an appearance of great concern, requested the
latest telegraphic news from London, and then, standing on his head,
invited Selby to feats of strength. A pretty girl gave him a glance from a
pair of violet eyes. He did not see her, but she, catching her own
reflection in a window, wondered at the colour burning in her cheeks.
Turning to resume her course, she met Foxhall Clifford, and hurried on.
Clifford, open-mouthed, followed her with his eyes; then he looked after
Selby, who had turned into the Boulevard St. Germain toward the rue de
Seine. Then he examined himself in the shop window. The result seemed to
be unsatisfactory.

"I'm not a beauty," he mused, "but neither am I a hobgoblin. What does she
mean by blushing at Selby? I never before saw her look at a fellow in my
life,--neither has any one in the Quarter. Anyway, I can swear she never
looks at me, and goodness knows I have done all that respectful adoration
can do."

He sighed, and murmuring a prophecy concerning the salvation of his
immortal soul swung into that graceful lounge which at all times
characterized Clifford. With no apparent exertion, he overtook Selby at
the corner, and together they crossed the sunlit Boulevard and sat down
under the awning of the Café du Cercle. Clifford bowed to everybody on the
terrace, saying, "You shall meet them all later, but now let me present
you to two of the sights of Paris, Mr. Richard Elliott and Mr. Stanley
Rowden."

The "sights" looked amiable, and took vermouth.

"You cut the studio to-day," said Elliott, suddenly turning on Clifford,
who avoided his eyes.

"To commune with nature?" observed Rowden.

"What's her name this time?" asked Elliott, and Rowden answered promptly,
"Name, Yvette; nationality, Breton--"

"Wrong," replied Clifford blandly, "it's Rue Barrée."

The subject changed instantly, and Selby listened in surprise to names
which were new to him, and eulogies on the latest Prix de Rome winner. He
was delighted to hear opinions boldly expressed and points honestly
debated, although the vehicle was mostly slang, both English and French.
He longed for the time when he too should be plunged into the strife for
fame.

The bells of St. Sulpice struck the hour, and the Palace of the Luxembourg
answered chime on chime. With a glance at the sun, dipping low in the
golden dust behind the Palais Bourbon, they rose, and turning to the east,
crossed the Boulevard St. Germain and sauntered toward the École de
Médecine. At the corner a girl passed them, walking hurriedly. Clifford
smirked, Elliot and Rowden were agitated, but they all bowed, and, without
raising her eyes, she returned their salute. But Selby, who had lagged
behind, fascinated by some gay shop window, looked up to meet two of the
bluest eyes he had ever seen. The eyes were dropped in an instant, and the
young fellow hastened to overtake the others.

"By Jove," he said, "do you fellows know I have just seen the prettiest
girl--" An exclamation broke from the trio, gloomy, foreboding, like the
chorus in a Greek play.

"Rue Barrée!"

"What!" cried Selby, bewildered.

The only answer 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 fidget about."

"Yes, I do," he said, innocently enough; "it's about that girl. Who is
she?"

In Rowden's smile there was pity, in Elliott's bitterness.

"Her name," said Clifford solemnly, "is unknown to any one, at least," he
added with much conscientiousness, "as far as I can learn. Every fellow in
the Quarter bows to her and she returns the salute gravely, but no man has
ever been known to obtain more than that. Her profession, judging from her
music-roll, is that of a pianist. Her residence is in a small and humble
street which is kept in a perpetual process of repair by the city
authorities, and from the black letters painted on the barrier which
defends the street from traffic, she has taken the name by which we know
her,--Rue Barrée. Mr. Rowden, in his imperfect knowledge of the French
tongue, called our attention to it as Roo Barry--"

"I didn't," said Rowden hotly.

"And Roo Barry, or Rue Barrée, is to-day an object of adoration to every
rapin in the Quarter--"

"We are not rapins," corrected Elliott.

"_I_ am not," returned Clifford, "and I beg to call to your attention,
Selby, that these two gentlemen have at various and apparently unfortunate
moments, offered to lay down life and limb at the feet of Rue Barrée. The
lady possesses a chilling smile which she uses on such occasions and,"
here he became gloomily impressive, "I have been forced to believe that
neither the scholarly grace of my friend Elliott nor the buxom beauty of
my friend Rowden have touched that heart of ice."

Elliott and Rowden, boiling with indignation, cried out, "And you!"

"I," said Clifford blandly, "do fear to tread where you rush in."

II

Twenty-four hours later Selby had completely forgotten Rue Barrée. During
the week he worked with might and main at the studio, and Saturday night
found him so tired that he went to bed before dinner and had a nightmare
about a river of yellow ochre in which he was drowning. Sunday morning,
apropos of nothing at all, he thought of Rue Barrée, and ten seconds
afterwards he saw her. It was at the flower-market on the marble bridge.
She was examining a pot of pansies. The gardener had evidently thrown
heart and soul into the transaction, but Rue Barrée shook her head.

It is a question whether Selby would have stopped then and there to
inspect a cabbage-rose had not Clifford unwound for him the yarn of the
previous Tuesday. It is possible that his curiosity was piqued, for with
the exception of a hen-turkey, a boy of nineteen is the most openly
curious biped alive. From twenty until death he tries to conceal it. But,
to be fair to Selby, it is also true that the market was attractive. Under
a cloudless sky the flowers were packed and heaped along the marble bridge
to the parapet. The air was soft, the sun spun a shadowy lacework among
the palms and glowed in the hearts of a thousand roses. Spring had
come,--was in full tide. The watering carts and sprinklers spread
freshness over the Boulevard, the sparrows had become vulgarly obtrusive,
and the credulous Seine angler anxiously followed his gaudy quill floating
among the soapsuds of the lavoirs. The white-spiked chestnuts clad in
tender green vibrated with the hum of bees. Shoddy butterflies flaunted
their winter rags among the heliotrope. There was a smell of fresh earth
in the air, an echo of the woodland brook in the ripple of the Seine, and
swallows soared and skimmed among the anchored river craft. Somewhere in a
window a caged bird was singing its heart out to the sky.

Selby looked at the cabbage-rose and then at the sky. Something in the
song of the caged bird may have moved him, or perhaps it was that
dangerous sweetness in the air of May.

At first he was hardly conscious that he had stopped then he was scarcely
conscious why he had stopped, then he thought he would move on, then he
thought he wouldn't, then he looked at Rue Barrée.

The gardener said, "Mademoiselle, this is undoubtedly a fine pot of
pansies."

Rue Barrée shook her head.

The gardener smiled. She evidently did not want the pansies. She had
bought many pots of pansies there, two or three every spring, and never
argued. What did she want then? The pansies were evidently a feeler toward
a more important transaction. The gardener rubbed his hands and gazed
about him.

"These tulips are magnificent," he observed, "and these hyacinths--" He
fell into a trance at the mere sight of the scented thickets.

"That," murmured Rue, pointing to a splendid rose-bush with her furled
parasol, but in spite of her, her voice trembled a little. Selby noticed
it, more shame to him that he was listening, and the gardener noticed it,
and, burying his nose in the roses, scented a bargain. Still, to do him
justice, he did not add a centime to the honest value of the plant, for
after all, Rue was probably poor, and any one could see she was charming.

"Fifty francs, Mademoiselle."

The gardener's tone was grave. Rue felt that argument would be wasted.
They both stood silent for a moment. The gardener did not eulogize his
prize,--the rose-tree was gorgeous and any one could see it.

"I will take the pansies," said the girl, and drew two francs from a worn
purse. Then she looked up. A tear-drop stood in the way refracting the
light like a diamond, but as it rolled into a little corner by her nose a
vision of Selby replaced it, and when a brush of the handkerchief had
cleared the startled blue eyes, Selby himself appeared, very much
embarrassed. He instantly looked up into the sky, apparently devoured with
a thirst for astronomical research, and as he continued his investigations
for fully five minutes, the gardener looked up too, and so did a
policeman. Then Selby looked at the tips of his boots, the gardener looked
at him and the policeman slouched on. Rue Barrée had been gone some time.

"What," said the gardener, "may I offer Monsieur?"

Selby never knew why, but he suddenly began to buy flowers. The gardener
was electrified. Never before had he sold so many flowers, never at such
satisfying prices, and never, never with such absolute unanimity of
opinion with a customer. But he missed the bargaining, the arguing, the
calling of Heaven to witness. The transaction lacked spice.

"These tulips are magnificent!"

"They are!" cried Selby warmly.

"But alas, they are dear."

"I will take them."

"Dieu!" murmured the gardener in a perspiration, "he's madder than most
Englishmen."

"This cactus--"

"Is gorgeous!"

"Alas--"

"Send it with the rest."

The gardener braced himself against the river wall.

"That splendid rose-bush," he began faintly.

"That is a beauty. I believe it is fifty francs--"

He stopped, very red. The gardener relished his confusion. Then a sudden
cool self-possession took the place of his momentary confusion and he held
the gardener with his eye, and bullied him.

"I'll take that bush. Why did not the young lady buy it?"

"Mademoiselle is not wealthy."

"How do you know?"

"_Dame_, I sell her many pansies; pansies are not expensive."

"Those are the pansies she bought?"

"These, Monsieur, the blue and gold."

"Then you intend to send them to her?"

"At mid-day after the market."

"Take this rose-bush with them, and"--here he glared at the
gardener--"don't you dare say from whom they came." The gardener's eyes
were like saucers, but Selby, calm and victorious, said: "Send the others
to the Hôtel du Sénat, 7 rue de Tournon. I will leave directions with the
concierge."

Then he buttoned his glove with much dignity and stalked off, but when
well around the corner and hidden from the gardener's view, the conviction
that he was an idiot came home to him in a furious blush. Ten minutes
later he sat in his room in the Hôtel du Sénat repeating with an imbecile
smile: "What an ass I am, what an ass!"

An hour later found him in the same chair, in the same position, his hat
and gloves still on, his stick in his hand, but he was silent, apparently
lost in contemplation of his boot toes, and his smile was less imbecile
and even a bit retrospective.

About five o'clock that afternoon, the little sad-eyed woman who fills the
position of concierge at the Hôtel du Sénat held up her hands in amazement
to see a wagon-load of flower-bearing shrubs draw up before the doorway.
She called Joseph, the intemperate garçon, who, while calculating the
value of the flowers in _petits verres_, gloomily disclaimed any knowledge
as to their destination.

"_Voyons_," said the little concierge, "_cherchons la femme_!"

"You?" he suggested.

The little woman stood a moment pensive and then sighed. Joseph caressed
his nose, a nose which for gaudiness could vie with any floral display.

Then the gardener came in, hat in hand, and a few minutes later Selby
stood in the middle of his room, his coat off, his shirt-sleeves rolled
up. The chamber originally contained, besides the furniture, about two
square feet of walking room, and now this was occupied by a cactus. The
bed groaned under crates of pansies, lilies and heliotrope, the lounge was
covered with hyacinths and tulips, and the washstand supported a species
of young tree warranted to bear flowers at some time or other.

Clifford came in a little later, fell over a box of sweet peas, swore a
little, apologized, and then, as the full splendour of the floral _fête_
burst upon him, sat down in astonishment upon a geranium. The geranium was
a wreck, but Selby said, "Don't mind," and glared at the cactus.

"Are you going to give a ball?" demanded Clifford.

"N--no,--I'm very fond of flowers," said Selby, but the statement lacked
enthusiasm.

"I should imagine so." Then, after a silence, "That's a fine cactus."

Selby contemplated the cactus, touched it with the air of a connoisseur,
and pricked his thumb.

Clifford poked a pansy with his stick. Then Joseph came in with the bill,
announcing the sum total in a loud voice, partly to impress Clifford,
partly to intimidate Selby into disgorging a _pourboire_ which he would
share, if he chose, with the gardener. Clifford tried to pretend that he
had not heard, while Selby paid bill and tribute without a murmur. Then he
lounged back into the room with an attempt at indifference which failed
entirely when he tore his trousers on the cactus.

Clifford made some commonplace remark, lighted a cigarette and looked out
of the window to give Selby a chance. Selby tried to take it, but getting
as far as--"Yes, spring is here at last," froze solid. He looked at the
back of Clifford's head. It expressed volumes. Those little perked-up ears
seemed tingling with suppressed glee. He made a desperate effort to master
the situation, and jumped up to reach for some Russian cigarettes as an
incentive to conversation, but was foiled by the cactus, to whom again he
fell a prey. The last straw was added.

"Damn the cactus." This observation was wrung from Selby against his
will,--against his own instinct of self-preservation, but the thorns on
the cactus were long and sharp, and at their repeated prick his pent-up
wrath escaped. It was too late now; it was done, and Clifford had wheeled
around.

"See here, Selby, why the deuce did you buy those flowers?"

"I'm fond of them," said Selby.

"What are you going to do with them? You can't sleep here."

"I could, if you'd help me take the pansies off the bed."

"Where can you put them?"

"Couldn't I give them to the concierge?"

As soon as he said it he regretted it. What in Heaven's name would
Clifford think of him! He had heard the amount of the bill. Would he
believe that he had invested in these luxuries as a timid declaration to
his concierge? And would the Latin Quarter comment upon it in their own
brutal fashion? He dreaded ridicule and he knew Clifford's reputation.

Then somebody knocked.

Selby looked at Clifford with a hunted expression which touched that young
man's heart. It was a confession and at the same time a supplication.
Clifford jumped up, threaded his way through the floral labyrinth, and
putting an eye to the crack of the door, said, "Who the devil is it?"

This graceful style of reception is indigenous to the Quarter.

"It's Elliott," he said, looking back, "and Rowden too, and their
bulldogs." Then he addressed them through the crack.

"Sit down on the stairs; Selby and I are coming out directly."

Discretion is a virtue. The Latin Quarter possesses few, and discretion
seldom figures on the list. They sat down and began to whistle.

Presently Rowden called out, "I smell flowers. They feast within!"

"You ought to know Selby better than that," growled Clifford behind the
door, while the other hurriedly exchanged his torn trousers for others.

"_We_ know Selby," said Elliott with emphasis.

"Yes," said Rowden, "he gives receptions with floral decorations and
invites Clifford, while we sit on the stairs."

"Yes, while the youth and beauty of the Quarter revel," suggested Rowden;
then, with sudden misgiving; "Is Odette there?"

"See here," demanded Elliott, "is Colette there?"

Then he raised his voice in a plaintive howl, "Are you there, Colette,
while I'm kicking my heels on these tiles?"

"Clifford is capable of anything," said Rowden; "his nature is soured
since Rue Barrée sat on him."

Elliott raised his voice: "I say, you fellows, we saw some flowers carried
into Rue Barrée's house at noon."

"Posies and roses," specified Rowden.

"Probably for her," added Elliott, caressing his bulldog.

Clifford turned with sudden suspicion upon Selby. The latter hummed a
tune, selected a pair of gloves and, choosing a dozen cigarettes, placed
them in a case. Then walking over to the cactus, he deliberately detached
a blossom, drew it through his buttonhole, and picking up hat and stick,
smiled upon Clifford, at which the latter was mightily troubled.

IV

Monday morning at Julian's, students fought for places; students with
prior claims drove away others who had been anxiously squatting on coveted
tabourets since the door was opened in hopes of appropriating them at
roll-call; students squabbled over palettes, brushes, portfolios, or rent
the air with demands for Ciceri and bread. The former, a dirty ex-model,
who had in palmier days posed as Judas, now dispensed stale bread at one
sou and made enough to keep himself in cigarettes. Monsieur Julian walked
in, smiled a fatherly smile and walked out. His disappearance was followed
by the apparition of the clerk, a foxy creature who flitted through the
battling hordes in search of prey.

Three men who had not paid dues were caught and summoned. A fourth was
scented, followed, outflanked, his retreat towards the door cut off, and
finally captured behind the stove. About that time, the revolution
assuming an acute form, howls rose for "Jules!"

Jules came, umpired two fights with a sad resignation in his big brown
eyes, shook hands with everybody and melted away in the throng, leaving an
atmosphere of peace and good-will. The lions sat down with the lambs, the
massiers marked the best places for themselves and friends, and, mounting
the model stands, opened the roll-calls.

The word was passed, "They begin with C this week."

They did.

"Clisson!"

Clisson jumped like a flash and marked his name on the floor in chalk
before a front seat.

"Caron!"

Caron galloped away to secure his place. Bang! went an easel. "_Nom de
Dieu_!" in French,--"Where in h--l are you goin'!" in English. Crash! a
paintbox fell with brushes and all on board. "_Dieu de Dieu de_--" spat! A
blow, a short rush, a clinch and scuffle, and the voice of the massier,
stern and reproachful:

"Cochon!"

Then the roll-call was resumed.

"Clifford!"

The massier paused and looked up, one finger between the leaves of the
ledger.

"Clifford!"

Clifford was not there. He was about three miles away in a direct line and
every instant increased the distance. Not that he was walking fast,--on
the contrary, he was strolling with that leisurely gait peculiar to
himself. Elliott was beside him and two bulldogs covered the rear. Elliott
was reading the "Gil Blas," from which he seemed to extract amusement, but
deeming boisterous mirth unsuitable to Clifford's state of mind, subdued
his amusement to a series of discreet smiles. The latter, moodily aware of
this, said nothing, but leading the way into the Luxembourg Gardens
installed himself upon a bench by the northern terrace and surveyed the
landscape with disfavour. Elliott, according to the Luxembourg
regulations, tied the two dogs and then, with an interrogative glance
toward his friend, resumed the "Gil Blas" and the discreet smiles.

The day was perfect. The sun hung over Notre Dame, setting the city in a
glitter. The tender foliage of the chestnuts cast a shadow over the
terrace and flecked the paths and walks with tracery so blue that Clifford
might here have found encouragement for his violent "impressions" had he
but looked; but as usual in this period of his career, his thoughts were
anywhere except in his profession. Around about, the sparrows quarrelled
and chattered their courtship songs, the big rosy pigeons sailed from tree
to tree, the flies whirled in the sunbeams and the flowers exhaled a
thousand perfumes which stirred Clifford with languorous wistfulness.
Under this influence he spoke.

"Elliott, you are a true friend--"

"You make me ill," replied the latter, folding his paper. "It's just as I
thought,--you are tagging after some new petticoat again. And," he
continued wrathfully, "if this is what you've kept me away from Julian's
for,--if it's to fill me up with the perfections of some little idiot--"

"Not idiot," remonstrated Clifford gently.

"See here," cried Elliott, "have you the nerve to try to tell me that you
are in love again?"

"Again?"

"Yes, again and again and again and--by George have you?"

"This," observed Clifford sadly, "is serious."

For a moment Elliott would have laid hands on him, then he laughed from
sheer helplessness. "Oh, go on, go on; let's see, there's Clémence and
Marie Tellec and Cosette and Fifine, Colette, Marie Verdier--"

"All of whom are charming, most charming, but I never was serious--"

"So help me, Moses," said Elliott, solemnly, "each and every one of those
named have separately and in turn torn your heart with anguish and have
also made me lose my place at Julian's in this same manner; each and every
one, separately and in turn. Do you deny it?"

"What you say may be founded on facts--in a way--but give me the credit of
being faithful to one at a time--"

"Until the next came along."

"But this,--this is really very different. Elliott, believe me, I am all
broken up."

Then there being nothing else to do, Elliott gnashed his teeth and
listened.

"It's--it's Rue Barrée."

"Well," observed Elliott, with scorn, "if you are moping and moaning over
_that_ girl,--the girl who has given you and myself every reason to wish
that the ground would open and engulf us,--well, go on!"

"I'm going on,--I don't care; timidity has fled--"

"Yes, your native timidity."

"I'm desperate, Elliott. Am I in love? Never, never did I feel so d--n
miserable. I can't sleep; honestly, I'm incapable of eating properly."

"Same symptoms noticed in the case of Colette."

"Listen, will you?"

"Hold on a moment, I know the rest by heart. Now let me ask you something.
Is it your belief that Rue Barrée is a pure girl?"

"Yes," said Clifford, turning red.

"Do you love her,--not as you dangle and tiptoe after every pretty
inanity--I mean, do you honestly love her?"

"Yes," said the other doggedly, "I would--"

"Hold on a moment; would you marry her?"

Clifford turned scarlet. "Yes," he muttered.

"Pleasant news for your family," growled Elliott in suppressed fury.
"'Dear father, I have just married a charming grisette whom I'm sure
you'll welcome with open arms, in company with her mother, a most
estimable and cleanly washlady.' Good heavens! This seems to have gone a
little further than the rest. Thank your stars, young man, that my head is
level enough for us both. Still, in this case, I have no fear. Rue Barrée
sat on your aspirations in a manner unmistakably final."

"Rue Barrée," began Clifford, drawing himself up, but he suddenly ceased,
for there where the dappled sunlight glowed in spots of gold, along the
sun-flecked path, tripped Rue Barrée. Her gown was spotless, and her big
straw hat, tipped a little from the white forehead, threw a shadow across
her eyes.

Elliott stood up and bowed. Clifford removed his head-covering with an air
so plaintive, so appealing, so utterly humble that Rue Barrée smiled.

The smile was delicious and when Clifford, incapable of sustaining himself
on his legs from sheer astonishment, toppled slightly, she smiled again in
spite of herself. A few moments later she took a chair on the terrace and
drawing a book from her music-roll, turned the pages, found the place, and
then placing it open downwards in her lap, sighed a little, smiled a
little, and looked out over the city. She had entirely forgotten Foxhall
Clifford.

After a while she took up her book again, but instead of reading began to
adjust a rose in her corsage. The rose was big and red. It glowed like
fire there over her heart, and like fire it warmed her heart, now
fluttering under the silken petals. Rue Barrée sighed again. She was very
happy. The sky was so blue, the air so soft and perfumed, the sunshine so
caressing, and her heart sang within her, sang to the rose in her breast.
This is what it sang: "Out of the throng of passers-by, out of the world
of yesterday, out of the millions passing, one has turned aside to me."

So her heart sang under his rose on her breast. Then two big
mouse-coloured pigeons came whistling by and alighted on the terrace,
where they bowed and strutted and bobbed and turned until Rue Barrée
laughed in delight, and looking up beheld Clifford before her. His hat was
in his hand and his face was wreathed in a series of appealing smiles
which would have touched the heart of a Bengal tiger.

For an instant Rue Barrée frowned, then she looked curiously at Clifford,
then when she saw the resemblance between his bows and the bobbing
pigeons, in spite of herself, her lips parted in the most bewitching
laugh. Was this Rue Barrée? So changed, so changed that she did not know
herself; but oh! that song in her heart which drowned all else, which
trembled on her lips, struggling for utterance, which rippled forth in a
laugh at nothing,--at a strutting pigeon,--and Mr. Clifford.

"And you think, because I return the salute of the students in the
Quarter, that you may be received in particular as a friend? I do not know