...
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 paint box 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 disfavor. 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 tbe 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, Ellioft 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
ot 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-colored 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 you Monsieur, but vanity is man's
other name;---be content, Monsieur Vanity, I shall be punctilious---oh
most punctilious in returning your salute."
"But I beg---I implore you to let
me render you that homage which has so long---"
"Oh dear, I don't care for homage."
"Let me only be permitted to speak
to you now and then,---occasionally---very occasionally."
"And if you, why not another?"
Not at all,---I will be discretion
itself."
"Discretion---why?"
Her eyes were very clear and Clifford
winced for a moment, but only for a moment. Then the devil of recklessness
seizing him he sat down and offered himself, soul and body, goods and chattels.
And all the time he knew he was a fool and that infatuation is not love,
and that each word he uttered bound him in honor from which there was no
escape. And all the time Elliott was scowling down on the fountain plaza
and savagely checking both bulldogs from their desire to rush to Clifford's
rescue,---for even they felt there was something wrong, as Elliott stormed
within himself and growled maledictions.
When Clifford finished, he finished
in a glow of excitement, but Rue Barrée's response was long in coming
and his ardor cooled while the situation slowly assumed its just proportions.
Then regret began to creep in, but he put that aside and broke out again
in protestations. At the first word Rue Barrée checked him.
"I thank you," she said, speaking
very gravely. "No man has ever before offered me marriage." She turned
and looked out over the city. After a while she spoke again. "You offer
me a great deal. I am alone, I have nothing, I am nothing." She turned
again and looked at Paris, brilliant, fair, in the sunshine of a perfect
day. He followed her eyes.
Oh," She murmured, ''it is hard,---hard
to work always---always alone with never a friend you can have in honor,
and the love that is offered means the streets, the boulevard---when passion
is dead. I know it,---we know it,---we others who have nothing,---have
no one, and who give ourselves, unquestioning---when we love,---yes, unquestioning---heart
and soul, knowing the end."
She touched the rose at her breast.
For a moment she seemed to forget him, then quietly---"I thank you, I am
very grateful." She opened the book and, plucking a petal from the rose
dropped it between the leaves. Then looking up she said gently, "I cannot
accept."
End of PART FOUR..... GO TO PART
FIVE..... 
