...
"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."
I
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 neighbor, 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,'' 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 noncommittal 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 splendor. 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 Vachette, 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 color
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 tile 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,
"its 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 Medecine. At the corner a girl passed
them, walking hurriedly. Clifford smirked, Elliott 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."
End of PART ONE..... GO TO PART
TWO..... 
