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diff --git a/28489-h/28489-h.htm b/28489-h/28489-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..49434de --- /dev/null +++ b/28489-h/28489-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11825 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Belovéd Vagabond, by William J. Locke. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + + p {margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + text-indent: 1.25em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + img {border: 0;} + .tnote {border: dashed 1px; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em;} + ins {text-decoration:none; border-bottom: thin dotted gray;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + .copyright {text-align: center; font-size: 70%;} + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: justify;} + + .bbox {border: solid 2px; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold; font-size: 70%;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .unindent {margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + .right {text-align: right;} + .poem {margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: left;} + .poem2 {margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: left;} + .sig {margin-right: 10%; text-align: right;} + .hang1 {text-indent: -3em; margin-left: 3em;} + .cap:first-letter {float: left; clear: left; margin: -0.2em 0.1em 0; margin-top: 0%; + padding: 0; line-height: .75em; font-size: 300%; text-align: justify;} + .cap {text-align: justify;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Belovéd Vagabond, by William J. Locke + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Belovéd Vagabond + +Author: William J. Locke + +Release Date: April 4, 2009 [EBook #28489] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BELOVÉD VAGABOND *** + + + + +Produced by Bill Tozier, Barbara Tozier, Emmy and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> + +<h1><span class="smcap">The Belovéd Vagabond</span></h1> + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p> + +<div class='bbox'> +<h3>THE COMPLETE WORKS OF +WILLIAM J. LOCKE</h3> +</div> +<div class='bbox'> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Locke's Work"> +<tr><td align='left'>IDOLS</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>SEPTIMUS</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>DERELICTS</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>THE USURPER</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>WHERE LOVE IS</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>THE WHITE DOVE</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>SIMON THE JESTER</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>A STUDY IN SHADOWS</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>THE BELOVÉD VAGABOND</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>AT THE GATE OF SAMARIA</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>THE MORALS OF MARCUS ORDEYNE</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>THE DEMAGOGUE AND LADY PHAYRE</td></tr> +</table></div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p> + +<div class='bbox'> +<h1>The<br /> +Belovéd Vagabond</h1> +</div> +<div class='bbox'> +<h2>By William J. Locke</h2> +</div> +<div class='bbox'> +<div class='center'><br /><br />Author of<br /> + +"Septimus," "Idols," Etc.<br /><br /><br /></div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 150px;"> +<img src="images/emblem.png" width="150" height="153" alt="Emblem" title="" /> +</div><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<div class='bbox'><div class='center'> +A. L. BURT COMPANY<br /> +Publishers New York<br /></div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></p> + + + + +<div class='copyright'> +Copyright, 1905<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">By John Lane</span><br /> +Copyright, 1900<br /> +—————<br /> +<span class="smcap">By John Lane Company</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /><br /> +<small>SET UP, ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY</small><br /> +<small>THE PUBLISHERS PRINTING CO., NEW YORK</small><br /></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p> + +<h2>THE BELOVÉD VAGABOND</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">This</span> is not a story about myself. Like Canning's organ-grinder +I have none to tell. It is the story of Paragot, the +belovéd vagabond—please pronounce his name French-fashion—and +if I obtrude myself on your notice it is because I was so +much involved in the medley of farce and tragedy which made +up some years of his life, that I don't know how to tell the +story otherwise. To Paragot I owe everything. He is at +once my benefactor, my venerated master, my beloved friend, +my creator. Clay in his hands, he moulded me according to +his caprice, and inspired me with the breath of life. My +existence is drenched with the colour of Paragot. I lay claim +to no personality of my own, and any <i>obiter dicta</i> that may +fall from my pen in the course of the ensuing narrative are but +reflections of Paragot's philosophy. Men have spoken evil of +him. He snapped his fingers at calumny, but I winced, never +having reached the calm altitudes of scorn wherein his soul +has its habitation. I burned to defend him, and I burn now; +and that is why I propose to write his <i>apologia</i>, his justification.</p> + +<p>Why he singled me out for adoption from among the unwashed +urchins of London I never could conjecture. Once +I asked him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Because," said he, "you were ugly, dirty, ricketty, under-sized, +underfed and wholly uninteresting. Also because your +mother was the very worst washer-woman that ever breathed +gin into a shirt-front."</p> + +<p>I did not resent these charges, direct and implied, against my +mother. She did launder villainously, and she did drink gin, +and of the nine uncared-for gutter-snipes she brought into the +world, I think I was the most unkempt and neglected. I +know that Sunday-school books tell you to love your mother; +but if the only maternal caresses you could remember were +administered by means of a wet pair of woollen drawers or the +edge of a hot flat-iron, you would find filial piety a virtue somewhat +abstract. Verily do earwigs care more for their progeny +than did my mother. She sold me body and soul to Paragot +for half-a-crown.</p> + +<p>It fell out thus.</p> + +<p>One morning, laden with his—technically speaking—clean +linen, I knocked at the door of Paragot's chambers. He called +them chambers, for he was nothing if not grandiloquent, but +really they consisted in an attic in Tavistock Street, Covent +Garden, above the curious club over which he presided. I +knocked, then, at the door. A sonorous voice bade me enter. +Paragot lay in bed, smoking a huge pipe with a porcelain bowl +and reading a book. The fact of one individual having a room +all to himself impressed me so greatly with a sense of luxury, +refinement and power, that I neglected to observe its pitifulness +and squalor. Nor of Paragot's personal appearance was +I critical. He had long black hair, and a long black beard, +and long black finger-nails. The last were so long and commanding +that I thought ashamedly of my own bitten fingertips,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> +and vowed that when I too became a great man, able to +smoke a porcelain pipe of mornings in my own room, my nails +should equal his in splendour.</p> + +<p>"I have brought the washing, Sir," I announced, "and, +please, Sir, mother says I'm not to let you have it unless you +settle up for the last three weeks."</p> + +<p>I had a transient vision of swarthy, hairy legs, as Paragot +leaped out of bed. He stood over me, man of all the luxuries +that he was, in his nightshirt. Fancy having a shirt for the +day and a shirt for the night!</p> + +<p>"Do you mean that you will dispute possession of it with me, +<i>vi et armis?</i>"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Sir," said I, confused.</p> + +<p>He laughed, clapped me on the shoulder, called me David, +Jack the Giant-Killer, and bade me deliver the washing-book. +I fumbled in the pocket of my torn jacket and handed him a +greasy, dog's-eared mass of paper. As soon as his eyes fell +on it, I realised my mistake, and produced the washing book +from the other pocket.</p> + +<p>"I've given you the wrong one, Sir," said I, reaching for the +treasure I had surrendered.</p> + +<p>But he threw himself on his bed and dived his legs beneath +the clothes.</p> + +<p>"Wonderful!" he cried. "He is four foot nothing, he looks +like a yard of pack-thread, he would fight me for an ill-washed +shirt and a pair of holes with bits of sock round them, and he +reads 'Paradise Lost'!"</p> + +<p>He made a gesture of throwing the disreputable epic at my +head, and I curved my arm in an attitude only too familiarly +defensive.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I found it in a bundle of washing, Sir," I cried apologetically.</p> + +<p>At home reading was the unforgivable sin. Had my mother +discovered me poring over the half intelligible but wholly +fascinating story of Adam and Eve and the Devil, she would +have beaten me with the first implement to her hand. I had +a moment's terror lest the possession of a work of literature +should be so horrible a crime that even Paragot would chastise +me.</p> + +<p>To my consternation he thrust the tattered thing—it was an +antiquated sixpenny edition—under my nose and commanded +me to read.</p> + +<p>"'Of Man's first disobedience'—Go on. If you can read it +intelligently I'll pay your mother. If you can't I'll write to +her politely to say that I resent having my washing sent home +by persons of no education."</p> + +<p>I began in great fear, but having, I suppose, an instinctive +appreciation of letters, I mouthed the rolling lines not too +brokenly.</p> + +<p>"What's a Heavenly Muse?" asked Paragot, as soon as I +paused. I had not the faintest idea.</p> + +<p>"Do you think it's a Paradisiacal back yard where they keep +the Horse of the Apocalypse?"</p> + +<p>I caught a twinkle in the blue eyes which he bent fiercely +upon me.</p> + +<p>"If you please, Sir," said I, "I think it is the Bird of Paradise."</p> + +<p>Then we both laughed; and Paragot bidding me sit on the +wreck of a cane-bottomed chair, gave me my first lesson in +Greek Mythology. He talked for nearly an hour, and I,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> +ragged urchin of the London streets, my wits sharpened by +hunger and ill-usage, sat spell-bound on my comfortless +perch, while he unfolded the tale of Gods and Goddesses, +and unveiled Olympus before my enraptured vision.</p> + +<p>"Boy," said he suddenly, "can you cook a herring?"</p> + +<p>I came down to earth with a bang. Stunned I stared at +him. I distinctly remember wondering where I was.</p> + +<p>"Can you cook a herring?" he shouted.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Sir," I cried, jumping to my feet.</p> + +<p>"Then cook two—one for you and one for me. You'll +find them somewhere about the room, also tea and bread and +butter and a gas-stove, and when all is ready let me know."</p> + +<p>He settled himself comfortably in bed and went on reading +his book. It was Hegel's Philosophy of History. I tried to +read it afterwards and found that it passed my understanding.</p> + +<p>In a confused dream of gods and herrings, I set about my +task. Heaven only knows how I managed to succeed. In my +childish imagination Jupiter was clothed in the hirsute majesty +of Paragot.</p> + +<p>And I was to breakfast with him!</p> + +<p>The herrings and a half-smoked pipe shared a plate on +the top of the ricketty chest of drawers. I had to blow the +ash off the fish. A paper of tea and a loaf of bread I found in a +higgledy-piggledy mixture of clothes, books and papers. My +godlike friend had carelessly put his hair-brush into the butter. +The condition of the sole cooking utensil warred even against +my sense of the fitness of gridirons, and I cleansed it with his +towel.</p> + +<p>Since then I have breakfasted in the houses of the wealthy, +I have lunched at the Café Anglais, I have dined at the Savoy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> +but never have I eaten, never till they give me a welcoming +banquet in the Elysian fields, shall I eat so ambrosial a meal +as that first herring with Paragot.</p> + +<p>When I had set it on the little deal table, he deigned to remember +my existence, and closing his book, rose, donned a pair of +trousers and sat down. He gave me my first lesson in table-manners.</p> + +<p>"Boy," said he, "if you wish to adorn the high social spheres +for which you are destined, you must learn the value of convention. +Bread and cheese-straws and asparagus and the leaves +of an artichoke are eaten with the fingers; but not herrings or +sweetbreads or ice cream. As regards the last you are doubtless +in the habit of extracting it from a disappointing wine-glass +with your tongue. This in <i>notre monde</i> is regarded as bad form. +'<i>Notre Monde</i>' is French, a language which you will have to +learn. Its great use is in talking to English people when you +don't want them to understand what you say. They pretend +they do, for they are too vain to admit their ignorance. The +wise man profits by the vanity of his fellow-creatures. If I +were not wise after this manner, should I be here eating herrings +in Tavistock Street, Covent Garden?"</p> + +<p>I was too full of food and adoration to reply. I gazed at him +dumbly worshipping and choked over a cup of tea. When I +recovered he questioned me as to my home life, my schooling, +my ideas of a future state and my notions of a career in this +world. The height of my then ambition was to keep a fried-fish +shop. The restaurateur with whom my good mother +dealt used to sit for hours in his doorway in Drury Lane reading +a book, and I considered this a most dignified and scholarly +avocation. When I made this naïve avowal to Paragot, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> +looked at me with a queer pity in his eyes, and muttered an +exclamation in a foreign tongue. I have never met anyone +so full of strange oaths as Paragot. As to my religious convictions, +they were chiefly limited to a terrifying conception of +the hell to which my mother daily consigned me. In devils, +fires, chains and pitchforks its establishment was as complete +as any <i>inferno</i> depicted by Orcagna. I used to wake up of +nights in a cold sweat through dreaming of it.</p> + +<p>"My son," said Paragot, "the most eminent divines of the +Church of England will tell you that a material hell with consuming +flames is an exploded fallacy. I can tell you the same +without being an eminent divine. The wicked carry their +own hell about with them during life—here, somewhere between +the gullet and the pit of the stomach, and it prevents +their enjoyment of herrings which smell vilely of gas."</p> + +<p>"There ain't no devils, then?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"<i>Sacré mille diables</i>, No!" he shouted. "Haven't I been +exhausting myself with telling you so?"</p> + +<p>I said little, but to this day I remember the thrilling sense of +deliverance from a horror which had gone far to crush the little +childish joy allowed me by circumstance. There was no +fiery hell, no red-hot pincers, no eternal frizzling and sizzling +of the flesh, like unto that of the fish in Mr. Samuel's fish-shop. +Paragot had transformed me by a word into a happy young +pagan. My eyes swam as I swallowed my last bit of bread +and butter.</p> + +<p>"What is your name?" asked Paragot.</p> + +<p>"Augustus, Sir."</p> + +<p>"Augustus, what?"</p> + +<p>"Smith," I murmured. "Same as mother's."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I was forgetting," said he. "Now if there is one name I +dislike more than Smith it is Augustus. I have been thinking +of a very nice name for you. It is Asticot. It expresses you +better than Augustus Smith."</p> + +<p>"It is a very good name, Sir," said I politely.</p> + +<p>I learned soon after that it is a French word meaning the +little grey worms which fishermen call "gentles," and that it +was not such a complimentary appellation as I had imagined; +but Asticot I became, and Asticot I remained for many a year.</p> + +<p>"Wash up the things, my little Asticot," said he, "and afterwards +we will discuss future arrangements."</p> + +<p>According to his directions I took the tray down to a kind of +scullery on the floor below. The wet plates and cups I dried on +a greasy rag which I found lying on the sink; and this seemed +to me a refinement of luxurious living; for at home, when we +did wash plates, we merely held them under the tap till the +remains of food ran off, and we never thought of drying them. +When I returned to the bedroom Paragot was dressed for the +day. His long lean wrists and hands protruded far through +the sleeves of an old brown jacket. He wore a grey flannel +shirt and an old bit of black ribbon done up in a bow by way +of a tie; his slouch hat, once black, was now green with age, +and his boots were innocent of blacking. But my eyes were +dazzled by a heavy gold watch chain across his waistcoat and +I thought him the most glorious of betailored beings.</p> + +<p>"My little Asticot," said he, "would you like to forsake your +gentle mother's wash-tub and your dreams of a fried-fish shop +and enter my service? I, the heir of all the ages, am driven +by Destiny to running The Lotus Club downstairs. We call +it 'Lotus' because we eat tripe to banish memory. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> +members meet together in order to eat tripe, drink beer and +hear me talk. You can eat tripe and hear me talk too, and that +will improve both your mind and your body. While Cherubino, +the waiter, teaches you how to be a scullion, I will instruct +you in philosophy. The sofa in the Club will make an +excellent bed for you, and your wages will be eighteen pence +a week."</p> + +<p>He thrust his hands in his trouser pockets, and rattling his +money looked at me with an enquiring air. I returned his +gaze for a while, lost in a delirious wonder. I tried to speak. +Something stuck in my throat. I broke into a blubber and +dried my eyes with my knuckles.</p> + +<p>It was an intoxicated little Asticot that trotted by his side +to my mother's residence. There over gin-and-water the bargain +was struck. My mother pocketed half-a-crown and with +shaky unaccustomed fingers signed her name across a penny-stamp +at the foot of a document which Paragot had drawn up. +I believe each of them was convinced that they had executed +a legal deed. My mother after inspecting me critically for a +moment wiped my nose with the piece of sacking that served +as her apron and handed me over to Paragot, who marched +away with his purchase as proud as if I had been a piece of +second-hand furniture picked up cheap.</p> + +<p>I may as well remark here that Paragot was not his real +name; neither was Josiah Henkendyke by which he was then +known to me. He had a harmless mania for names, and I +have known him use half a dozen. But that of Paragot which +he assumed later as his final alias is the one with which he is +most associated in my mind, and to avoid confusion I must +call him that from the start. Indeed, looking backward down<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> +the years, I wonder how he could ever have been anything +else than Paragot. That Phœbus Apollo could once have +borne the name of John Jones is unimaginable.</p> + +<p>"Boy," said he, as we retraced our steps to Tavistock Street, +"you are my thing, my chattel, my <i>famulus</i>. No slave of old +belonged more completely to a free-born citizen. You will +address me as 'master'!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Sir," said I.</p> + +<p>"Master!" he shouted. "<i>Master</i> or <i>maître</i> or <i>maestro</i> or +<i>magister</i> according to the language you are speaking. Now +do you understand?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Master," said I.</p> + +<p>He nodded approval. At the corner of a by-street he stopped +short and held me at arm's length.</p> + +<p>"You are a horrible object, my little Asticot," said he. "I +must clothe you in a manner befitting the Lotus Club."</p> + +<p>He ran me into a slop-dealer's and fitted me out in sundry +garments in which, although they were several sizes too large +for me, I felt myself clad like Solomon in all his glory. Then +we went home. On the way up to his room he paused at the +scullery. A dishevelled woman was tidying up.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Housekeeper," said he, "allow me to present you our +new scullion pupil. Kindly instruct him in his duties, feed +him and wash his head. Also please remember that he answers +to the name of Asticot."</p> + +<p>He swung on his heel and went downstairs humming a tune. +I remained with Mrs. Housekeeper who carried out his instructions +zealously. I can feel the soreness on my scalp to this +day.</p> + +<p>Thus it fell out that I quitted the maternal roof and entered<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> +the service of Paragot. I never saw my mother again, as she +died soon afterwards; and as my brood of brothers and sisters +vanished down the diverse gutters of London, I found myself +with Paragot for all my family; and now that I have arrived +at an age when a man can look back dispassionately on his +past, it is my pride that I can lay my hand on my heart and +avow him to be the best family that boy ever had.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Lotus Club was the oddest society I have met. The +premises consisted of one long dingy room with two dingy +windows: the furniture of a long table covered with dirty +American cloth, a multitude of wooden chairs, an old sofa, +two dilapidated dinner-waggons, and a frame against the wall +from which, by means of clips, churchwarden pipes depended +stem downwards; and by each clip was a label bearing a +name. On the table stood an enormous jar of tobacco. A +number of ill-washed glasses decorated the dinner-waggons. +There was not a curtain, not a blind, not a picture. The +further end of the room away from the door contained a huge +fireplace, and on the wooden mantelpiece ticked a three-and-sixpenny +clock.</p> + +<p>During the daytime it was an abode of abominable desolation. +No one came near it until nine o'clock in the evening, +when one or two members straggled in, took down their long +pipes and called for whisky or beer, the only alcoholic beverages +the club provided. These were kept in great barrels in +the scullery, presided over by Mrs. Housekeeper until it was +time to prepare the supper, when Cherubino and I helped +ourselves. At eleven the cloth was laid. From then till half +past members came in considerable numbers. At half past +supper was served. A steaming dish of tripe furnished the +head of the table in front of Paragot, and a cut of cold beef +the foot.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p> + +<p>There were generally from fifteen to thirty present; men +of all classes: Journalists, actors, lawyers, out-at-elbows nondescripts. +I have seen one of Her Majesty's Judges and a +prizefighter exchanging views across the table. A few attended +regularly; but the majority seemed to be always new-comers. +They supped, talked, smoked, and drank whisky until +two or three o'clock in the morning and appeared to enjoy +themselves prodigiously. I noticed that on departing they +wrung Paragot fervently by the hand and thanked him for their +delightful evening. I remembered his telling me that they +came to hear him talk. He did talk: sometimes so compellingly +that I would stand stock-still rapt in reverential ecstasy: +once to the point of letting the potatoes I was handing round +roll off the dish on to the floor. I never was so rapt again; for +Cherubino picking up the potatoes and following my frightened +exit, broke them over my head on the landing, by way of chastisement. +The best barbers do not use hot mealy potatoes +for the hair.</p> + +<p>When the last guest had departed, Paragot mounted to his +attic, Mrs. Housekeeper and Cherubino went their several +ways—each went several ways, I think, for they had unchecked +command during the evening over the whisky and beer barrels—and +I, dragging a bundle of bedclothes from beneath the sofa, +went to bed amid the fumes of tripe, gas, tobacco, alcohol and +humanity, and slept the sleep of perfect happiness.</p> + +<p>In the morning, at about eleven, I rose and prepared breakfast +for Paragot and myself, which we ate together in his room. +For a couple of hours he instructed me in what he was pleased +to call the humanities. Then he sent me out into the street +for air and exercise, with instructions to walk to Hyde Park,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> +Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's Cathedral, Whiteley's—he +always had a fresh objective for me—and to bring him back +my views thereon and an account of what I had noticed on the +way. When I came home I delivered myself into the hands of +Mrs. Housekeeper and turned scullion again. The plates, +glasses, knives and forks of the previous evening's orgy were +washed and cleaned, the room swept and aired, and a meal +cooked for Mrs. Housekeeper and myself which we ate at a +corner of the long table. Paragot himself dined out.</p> + +<p>On Sunday evenings the Club was shut, and as Mrs. Housekeeper +did not make her appearance on the Sabbath, the remains +of Saturday night's supper stayed on the table till Monday +afternoon. Imagine remains of tripe thirty six hours old!</p> + +<p>I mention this, not because it is of any great interest, but +because it exhibits a certain side of Paragot's character. In +those early days I was not critical. I lived in a maze of delight. +Paragot was the Wonder of the Earth, my bedroom a palace +chamber, and the abominable Sunday night smell pervaded +my senses like the perfumes of all the Arabies.</p> + +<p>"My son," said Paragot one morning, in the middle of +a French lesson—from the first he was bent on my learning +the language—"My son, I wonder whether you are going +to turn out a young Caliban, and after I have shewn you +the True Divinity of Things, return to your dam's god +Setebos?"</p> + +<p>He regarded me earnestly with his light blue eyes which +looked so odd in his swarthy black-bearded face.</p> + +<p>"Is there any hope for the race of Sycorax?"</p> + +<p>As we had read "The Tempest" the day before, I understood +the allusions.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I would sooner be Ariel, Master," said I, by way of showing +off my learning.</p> + +<p>"He was an ungrateful beggar too," said Paragot. He went +on talking, but I heard him not; for my childish mind quickly +associated him with Prospero, and I wondered where lay his +magic staff with which he could split pines and liberate tricksy +spirits, and whether he had a beautiful daughter hidden in +some bower of Tavistock Street, and whether the cadaverous +Cherubino might not be a metamorphosed Ferdinand. He +appeared the embodiment of all wisdom and power, and yet +he had the air of one cheated of his kingdom. He seemed +also to be of reverential age. As a matter of fact he was not +yet forty.</p> + +<p>My attention was recalled by his rising and walking about +the room.</p> + +<p>"I am making this experiment on your vile body, my little +Asticot," said he, "to prove my Theory of Education. You +have had, so far as it goes, what is called an excellent Board +School Training. You can read and write and multiply sixty-four +by thirty-seven in your head, and you can repeat the Kings +of England. If you had been fortunate and gone to a Public +school they would have stuffed your brain full of Greek +verbs and damned facts about triangles. But of the +meaning of life, the value of life, the art of life, you would +never have had a glimmering perception. I am going to +educate you, my little Asticot, through the imagination. The +intellect can look after itself. We will go now to the National +Gallery."</p> + +<p>He caught up his hat and threw me my cap, and we went out. +He had a sudden, breathless way of doing things. I am sure<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> +thirty seconds had not elapsed between the idea of the National +Gallery entering his head and our finding ourselves on the +stairs.</p> + +<p>We went to the National Gallery. I came away with a +reeling undistinguishable mass of form and colour before my +eyes. I felt sick. Only one single picture stood out clear. +Paragot talked Italian art to my uncomprehending ears all +the way home.</p> + +<p>"Now," said he, when he had settled himself comfortably +in his old wicker-work chair again, "which of the pictures +did you like best?"</p> + +<p>Why that particular picture (save that it is the supreme art +of a supreme genius) should have alone fixed itself on my +mind, I do not know. It has been one of the psychological +puzzles of my life.</p> + +<p>"A man's head, master," said I; "I can't describe it, but I +think I could draw it."</p> + +<p>"Draw it?" he echoed incredulously.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Master."</p> + +<p>He pulled a stump of pencil from his pocket and threw it to +me. I felt luminously certain I could draw the head. A +curious exaltation filled me as I sat at a corner of the table +before a flattened-out piece of paper that had wrapped up tea. +Paragot stood over me, as I drew.</p> + +<p>"<i>Nom de Dieu de nom de Dieu!</i>" cried he. "It is Gian +Bellini's Doge Loredano. But what made you remember that +picture, and how in the name of Board schools could you manage +to draw it?"</p> + +<p>He walked swiftly up and down the room.</p> + +<p>"<i>Nom de Dieu de nom de Dieu!</i>"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I used to draw horses and men on my slate at school," +said I modestly.</p> + +<p>Paragot filled his porcelain pipe and walked about strangely +excited. Suddenly he stopped.</p> + +<p>"My little Asticot," said he, "you had better go down and +help Mrs. Housekeeper to wash up the dirty plates and dishes, +for your soul's sake."</p> + +<p>What my soul had to do with greasy crockery I could not in +the least fathom; but the next morning Paragot gave me a +drawing lesson. It would be false modesty for me to say that +I did not show talent, since the making of pictures is the means +whereby I earn my living at the present moment. The gift +once discovered, I exercised it in and out of season.</p> + +<p>"My son," said Paragot, when I showed him a sketch of +Mrs. Housekeeper as she lay on the scullery floor one Saturday +night, unable to go any one of her several ways, "I am afraid +you are an artist. Do you know what an artist is?"</p> + +<p>I didn't. He pronounced the word in tones of such deep +melancholy that I felt it must denote something particularly +depraved.</p> + +<p>"It is the man who has the power of doing up his soul in +whitey-brown paper parcels and selling them at three halfpence +apiece."</p> + +<p>This was at breakfast one morning while he was chipping +an egg. Only two eggs furnished forth our repast, and I was +already deep in mine. He scooped off the top of the shell, +regarded it for a second and then rose with the egg and went +to the window.</p> + +<p>"Since you have wings you had better fly," said he, and he +threw it into the street.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p> + +<p>"My little Asticot," he added, resuming his seat. "I myself +was once an artist: now I am a philosopher: it is much better."</p> + +<p>He cheerfully attacked his bread and butter. Whether it +was a sense of his goodness or my own greediness that prompted +me I know not, but I pushed my half eaten egg across to him +and begged him to finish it. He looked queerly at me for a +moment.</p> + +<p>"I accept it," said he, "in the spirit in which it is offered."</p> + +<p>The great man solemnly ate my egg, and pride so filled my +heart that I could scarcely swallow. A smaller man than +Paragot would have refused.</p> + +<p>From what I gathered from conversations overheard whilst +I was serving members with tripe and alcohol, it appeared +that my revered master was a mysterious personage. About +eight months before, he had entered the then unprosperous +Club for the first time as a guest of the founder and proprietor, +an old actor who was growing infirm. He talked vehemently. +The next night he took the presidential chair which he since +occupied, to the Club's greater glory. But whence he came, +who and what he was, no one seemed to know. One fat man +whose air of portentous wisdom (and insatiable appetite) +caused me much annoyance, proclaimed him a Russian Nihilist +and asked me whether there were any bombs in his bedroom. +Another man declared that he had seen him leading a bear in +the streets of Warsaw. His manner offended me.</p> + +<p>"Have you ever been to Warsaw, Mr. Ulysses?" asked the +fat man. Mr. Ulysses was the traditional title of the head of +the Lotus Club.</p> + +<p>"This gentleman says he saw you leading a bear there, +Master," I piped, wrathfully, in my shrill treble.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p> + +<p>There was the sudden silence of consternation. All, some +five and twenty, laid down their knives and forks and looked +at Paragot, who rose from his seat. Throwing out his right +hand he declaimed:</p> + +<div class='poem2'>"<ins title="Greek: Andra moi ennepe, Mousa, polutropon, hos mala polla">Ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, Μοῦσα, πολύτροπον, ὃς μάλα πολλὰ</ins><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .5em;"><ins title="Greek: plagchthê, epei Troiês hieron ptoliethron epersen">πλάγχθη, ἐπεὶ Τροίης ἱερὸν πτολίεθρον ἔπερσεν·</ins></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .5em;"><ins title="Greek: pollôn d' anthrôpôn iden astea, kai noon egnô">πολλῶν δ᾽ ἀνθρώπων ἴδεν ἄστεα καὶ νόον ἔγνω</ins>.</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>"Does anyone know what that is?"</p> + +<p>A young fellow at the end of the table said it was the opening +lines of the Odyssey.</p> + +<p>"You are right, sir," said Paragot, threading his fingers +through his long black hair. "They tell of my predecessor in +office, the first President of this Club, who was a man of many +wanderings and many sufferings and had seen many cities +and knew the hearts of men. I, gentlemen, have had my +Odyssey, and I have been to Warsaw, and," with a rapier +flash of a glance at the gentleman who had accused him of +leading bears, "I know the miserable hearts of men." He +rapped on the table with his hammer. "Asticot, come here," +he shouted.</p> + +<p>I obeyed trembling.</p> + +<p>"If ever you lift up your voice again in this assembly, I will +have you boiled and served up with onion sauce, second-hand +tripe that you are, and you shall be eaten underdone. Now +go."</p> + +<p>I felt shrivelled to the size of a pea. Beneath Paragot's +grotesqueness ran an unprecedented severity. I was conscious +of the accusing glare of every eye. In my blind bolt to +the door I had the good fortune to run headlong into a tray of +drinks which Cherubino was carrying.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span></p> + +<p>The disaster saved the situation. Laughter rang out loud +and the talk became general. The interlude was forgotten; +but the man who said he had seen my master leading bears +in Warsaw vanished from the Club for ever after.</p> + +<p>The next morning when I entered Paragot's room to wake +him I found him reading in bed. He looked up from his book.</p> + +<p>"My little Asticot," said he, "leading bears is better than +calumny, but indiscretion is worse than both."</p> + +<p>And that is all I heard of the matter. I never lifted up my +voice in the Club again.</p> + +<p>There was a curious black case on the top of a cupboard in +his room which for some time aroused my curiosity. It was +like no box I had seen before. But one afternoon Paragot +took it down and extracted therefrom a violin which after tuning +he began to play. Now although fond of music I have never +been able to learn any instrument save the tambourine—my +highest success otherwise has been to finger out "God save the +Queen" and "We won't go home till morning" on the ocarina—and +to this day a person able to play the piano or the fiddle +seems possessed of an uncanny gift; but in that remote period +of my fresh rescue from the gutter, an executant appeared +something superhuman. I stared at him with stupid open +mouth. He played what I afterwards learned was one of +Brahms's Hungarian dances. His lank figure and long hair +worked in unison with the music which filled the room with +a wild tumult of movement. I had not heard anything like +it in my life. It set every nerve of me dancing. I suppose +Paragot found his interest in me because I was such an impressionable +youngster. When, at the abrupt finale, he asked me +what I thought of it, I could scarce stammer a word.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span></p> + +<p>He gave me one of his queer kind looks while he tuned a +string.</p> + +<p>"I still wonder, my son, whether it would not be better for +your soul that you should go on scullioning to the end of +time."</p> + +<p>"Why, Master?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"<i>Sacré mille diables</i>," he cried, "do you think I am going to +give you a reason for everything? You'll learn fast enough."</p> + +<p>He laughed and went on playing, and, as I listened, the more +godlike he grew.</p> + +<p>"The streets of Paris," said he, returning the fiddle to its +case, "are strewn with the wrecked souls of artists."</p> + +<p>"And not London?"</p> + +<p>"My little Asticot," he replied, "I am a Frenchman, and +it is our fondest illusion that no art can possibly exist out of +Paris."</p> + +<p>I discovered later that he was the son of a Gascon father +and an Irish mother, which accounted for his being absolutely +bilingual and, indeed, for many oddities of temperament. +But now he proclaimed himself a Frenchman, and for a time +I was oppressed with a sense of disappointment.</p> + +<p>At the Board School I had bolted enough indigestible historical +facts to know that the English had always beaten the +French, and I had drawn the natural conclusion that the French +were a vastly inferior race of beings. It was, I verily believe, +the first step in my spiritual education to realise that the god +of my idolatry suffered no diminution of grandeur by reason +of his nationality. Indeed he gained accession, for after this +he talked often to me of France in his magniloquent way, +until I began secretly to be ashamed of being English. This<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +had one advantage, in that I set myself with redoubled vigour +to learn his language.</p> + +<p>So extraordinary was the veneration I had for the man +who had transplanted me from the kicks and soapsuds of my +former life into this bewildering land of Greek gods and Ariels +and pictures and music; for the man who spoke many unknown +tongues, wore a gold watch chain, had been to Warsaw and +every city mentioned in my school geography, and presided +like a king over an assembly of those whom as a gutter urchin +I had been wont to designate "toffs"; for the beneficent being +who had provided me, Gus Smith alias Asticot, with a nightshirt, +condescended to eat half my egg and to allow me to supervise +his bedchamber and maintain it in an orderly state of +disintegration, hair-brushes from butter and tobacco-ash from +fish; for the man who, God knows, was the first of human +creatures to awaken the emotion of love within my child's +breast—so extraordinary was the veneration I had for him, +that although I started out on this narrative by saying it was +Paragot's story and not my own I proposed to tell, I hope to +be pardoned for a brief egotistical excursion.</p> + +<p>Like the gentleman in Chaucer, Paragot had over "his +beddes hedde" a shelf of books to which, careless creature that +he was, he did not dream of denying me access. In that attic +in Tavistock Street I read Smollett and Byron and somehow +spelt through "Nana." I also found there the <i>De Imitatione +Christi</i>, which I read with much the same enjoyment as I did +the others. You must not think this priggish of me. The +impressionable child of starved imagination will read anything +that is printed. In my mother's house I used to purloin the +squares of newspaper in which the fried fish from Mr. Samuel's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> +had been wrapped, and surreptitiously read them. Why not +Saint Thomas à Kempis?</p> + +<p>I have in my possession now a filthy piece of paper, dropping +to bits, on which is copied, in my round Board School boy +handwriting, the eleventh chapter of the <i>De Imitatione</i>.</p> + +<p>It runs:</p> + +<p>"<i>My Son, thou hast still many things to learn, which thou hast +not well learned yet.</i>"</p> + +<p>"<i>What are they, Lord?</i>"</p> + +<p>"<i>To place thy desire altogether in subjection to my good +pleasure and not to be a lover of thyself, but an earnest seeker of +my will. Thy desires often excite and urge thee forward: but +consider with thyself whether thou art not more moved for thine +own objects than for my honour. If it is myself that thou seekest +thou shalt be well content with whatsoever I shall ordain; but if +any pursuit of thine own lieth hidden within thee, behold it is +this which hindreth and weigheth thee down.</i></p> + +<p>"<i>Beware, therefore, lest thou strive too earnestly after some +desire which thou hast conceived, without taking counsel of me: +lest haply it repent thee afterwards, and that displease thee which +before pleased, and for which thou didst long as for a great good. +For not every affection which seemeth good is to be forthwith +followed: neither is every opposite affection to be immediately +avoided. Sometimes it is expedient to use restraint even in good +desires and wishes, lest through importunity thou fall into distraction +of mind, lest through want of discipline thou become a +stumbling-block to others, or lest by the resistance of others thou +be suddenly disturbed and brought to confusion.</i></p> + +<p>"<i>Sometimes indeed it is needful to use violence, and manfully +to strive against the sensual appetite, and not to consider what<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> +the flesh may or not will; but rather to strive after this, that it +may become subject, however unwillingly, to the spirit. And +for so long it ought to be chastised and compelled to undergo +slavery, even until it be ready for all things; and learn to be +contented with little, to be delighted with things simple, and never +to murmur at any inconvenience.</i>"</p> + +<p>Let no one be shocked. It was one of the great acts of devotion +of my life. I copied this out as a boy, not because it +counselled me in my duty towards God, but because it summed +up my whole duty to Paragot. Paragot was "Me." I saw +the relation between Paragot and myself in every line. Had +not I often fallen into distraction of mind over my drawing +and books when I ought to have been helping Mrs. Housekeeper +downstairs? Was it not want of discipline that made +me a stumbling-block that memorable night in the Club? +Ought I not to be content with everything Paragot should +ordain? And was it not my duty to murmur at no inconvenience?</p> + +<p>Years afterwards I showed this paper to Paragot. He wept. +Alas! I had not well chosen my opportunity.</p> + +<p>I remember, the night after I copied the chapter, Cherubino +and I helped Paragot up the stairs and put him to bed. It +was the first time I had seen him the worse for liquor. But +when one has been accustomed to see one's mother and all +her adult acquaintances dead drunk, the spectacle of a god +slightly overcome with wine is neither here nor there.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">There</span> was one merit (if merit it was) of my mother's establishment. +No skeletons lurked in cupboards. They flaunted +their grimness all over the place. Such letters as she received +trailed about the kitchen, for all who chose to read, until they +were caught up to cleanse a frying-pan. As she possessed +no private papers their sanctity was never inculcated; and I +could have rummaged, had I so desired, in every drawer or box +in the house without fear of correction. When I took up my +abode with Paragot, he laid no embargo on any of his belongings. +The attic, except for sleeping purposes, was as much +mine as his, and it did not occur to me that anything it contained +could not be at my disposal.</p> + +<p>This must be my apologia for reading, in all innocence, but +with much enjoyment, some documents of a private nature +which I discovered one day, about a year after I had entered +Paragot's service, stuffed by way of keeping them together in +an old woollen stocking. They have been put into my possession +now for the purpose of writing this narrative, so my +original offence having been purged, I need offer no apology +for referring to them. There was no sort of order in the bundle +of documents; you might as well look for the quality of humour +in a dromedary, or of mercy in a pianist, as that of method in +Paragot. I managed however to disentangle two main sets, +one a series of love letters and the other disconnected notes +of travel. In both was I mightily interested.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p> + +<p>The love-letters, some of which were written in English and +some in French, were addressed to a beautiful lady named +Joanna. I knew she was beautiful because Paragot himself +said so. "<i>Pure et ravissante comme une aube d'avril</i>," "My +dear dream of English loveliness," "the fair flower of my +life" and remarks such as these were proof positive. The +odd part of it was that they seemed not to have been posted. +He wrote: "not till my arms are again around you will your +beloved eyes behold these outpourings of my heart." The +paper heading bore the word "Paris." Allusions to a great +artistic project on which he was working baffled my young and +ignorant curiosity. "I have Love, Youth, Genius, Beauty +on my side," he wrote, "and I shall conquer. We shall be +irresistible. Fame will attend my genius, homage your +Beauty; we shall walk on roses and dwell in the Palaces of +the Earth." My heart thrilled when I read these lines. <i>I +knew</i> that Paragot was a great man. Here, again, was proof. +I did not reflect that this vision splendid of earth's palaces +had faded into the twilight of the Tavistock Street garret. +Thank heaven we have had years of remembered life before +we learned to reason.</p> + +<p>I had many pictures of my hero in those strange letter days, +so remote to my childish mind. He crosses the Channel in December, +just to skulk for one dark night against the railings of the +London Square where she dwelt, in the hope of seeing her shadow +on the blind. For some reason which I could not comprehend, +the lovers were forbidden to meet. It rains, he sees nothing, +but he returns to Paris with contentment in his heart and a +terrible cold in his head. But, "I have seen the doorstep," +he writes, "<i>qu'effleurent tous les jours ces petits pieds si adorés</i>."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span></p> + +<p>I hate your modern manner of wooing. A few weeks ago +a young woman in need of my elderly counsel showed me a +letter from her betrothed. He had been educated at Oxford +University and possessed a motor-car, and yet he addressed +her as "old girl" and alluded to "the regular beanfeast" they +would have when they were married; and the damsel not only +found nothing wanting in the missive, but treasured it as if it +had been an impapyrated kiss. "<i>Joie de mon âme</i>," wrote +Paragot, "I have seen the doorstep which your little feet so +adored touch lightly every day." I like that better. But +this is the opinion of the Asticot of a hundred and fifty. The +Asticot of fourteen could not contrast: for him sufficed the +Absolute of the romance of Paragot's love-making. Yet I +did have a standard of comparison—Ferdinand, whom till +then I had regarded as the Prince of Lovers. But he paled +into the most prosaic young man before the newly illuminated +Paragot, and as for Miranda I sent her packing from her +throne in my heart and Joanna reigned in her stead. Little +idiot that I was, I set to dreaming of Joanna. You may not +like the name, but to me it held and still holds unspeakable +music.</p> + +<p>The other papers, as I have said, were records of travel, +and I instinctively recognized that they referred to subsequent +Joanna-less days. They were written on the backs of bills +in outlandish languages, leaves torn from greasy note-books, +waste stuff exhaling exotic odours, and odds and scraps of +paper indescribable. In after years in Paris I besought Paragot, +almost on my knees, to write an account of the years of +vagabondage to which these papers refer. It would make, +I told him, a <i>picaresque</i> romance compared with which that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> +of Gil Bias de Santillane were the tale of wanderings round a +village pump. Such, said I, is given to few men to produce. +But Paragot only smiled, and sipped his absinthe. It was +against his principles, he said. The world would be a gentler +habitat if there had never been written or graven record of a +human action, and he refused to pander to the obscene curiosity +of the multitude as to the thoughts and doings of an entire +stranger. Besides, literary composition was beset with too +many difficulties. One's method of expression had always +to be in evening dress which he abhorred, and he could not +abide the violet ink and pin-pointed pens supplied in cafés and +places where one writes. So the world has lost a new Odyssey.</p> + +<p>The notes formed reading as disconnected as a dictionary. +They were so abrupt. Incidents were noted which stimulated +my young imagination like stinging-nettles; and then nothing +more.</p> + +<p>"As soon as Hedwige had taught me German, she grew sick +and tired of me; and when she wanted to marry an under-officer +of cavalry with moustaches reaching to the top of his +<i>Pikelhaube</i>, who tried to run me through the body when he +saw such a scarecrow walking out with her, I left Cassel."</p> + +<p>And that was all I learned with regard to Cassel, Hedwige, +(save from two other notes) or his learning the German tongue.</p> + +<p>The following note is the only one he thought worth while +to make of a journey through Russia.</p> + +<p>"Novotorshakaya is a beastly hole (<i>un trou infect</i>). The +bugs are the most companionable creatures in it, and they are +the cleanest."</p> + +<p>"At Prague," he scribbles on a sheet of paper stained with +coffee-cup rings, "I made the acquaintance of a polite burglar,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> +who introduced me to his lady wife, and to other courteous +criminals, their spouses and families. My slight knowledge +of Czech, which I had by this time acquired, enabled me to +take vast pleasure in their society. Granted their sociological +premises, based on Proudhon, they are too logical. The lack +of imaginative power to break away from convention, <i>their +convention</i>, is a serious defect in their character. They take +their gospel of <i>tuum est meum</i> too seriously. I do not inordinately +sympathise with people who get themselves hanged +for a principle. And that is what my friend Mysdrizin did. +An old lady of Prague, obstinate as the old sometimes are, on +whom he called professionally, disputed his theories; whereupon, +instead of smiling with the indulgence of one who knows +the art of living, and letting her have her own way, he convinced +her with a life-preserver. His widow, like her predecessor +of Ephesus, desiring speedy consolation, I fled the +city. My Epicureanism and her iron-bound individualism +would have clashed. I had played the Battle of Prague <i>à +quatre mains</i> sufficiently in my tender childhood. I had no +wild yearning to recommence."</p> + +<p>Here is another:</p> + +<p>"Verona——"</p> + +<p>There is no date. None of these jottings bear a date, and +when I last saw Paragot he had not the patience to arrange +these far off memories. Verona! To me the word recalls +immemorable associations—vistas of narrow old streets redolent +of the Renaissance, echoing still with brawl and clash of +arms, and haunted by the general stock in trade of the artist's +historical fancy. But did Verona appeal to Paragot's romantic +sense? Not a bit of it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span></p> + +<p>"At Verona," runs the jotting, "I lodged with the cheeriest +little undertaker in the world, who had a capital low-class +practice. His wife, four children, and whoever happened to +be the lodger, were all pressed into the merry service. We +sang <i>Funiculi funiculà</i> as we drove in the nails. When I make +coffins again I shall sing that refrain. It has an unisonal +value that is positively captivating. Had it not been that a +diet of spaghetti and anæmic wine, a <i>tord-boyau</i> (intestine-twister) +of unparalleled virulence undermined my constitution, +and that the four children, whose bedroom I shared, all took +whooping-cough at once and thus robbed me of sleep, I might +have been coffin-making to the tune of <i>Funiculi, Funiculà</i> +to the present day."</p> + +<p>Here and there were jottings of figures. I know now they +refer to Paragot's tiny patrimony on which he—and I, in after +years—subsisted. It was so small that no wonder he worked +now and then for a living wage.</p> + +<p>I also see now, as of course I could not be expected to see +then, that Paragot, being a creature of extremes, would either +have the highest or the lowest. In these travel-sketches, as +he cannot go to Grand Hotels, I find him avoiding like lazar-houses +the commercial or family hostelries where he will foregather +with the half-educated, the half-bred, the half-souled; +the offence of them is too rank for his spirit. The pretending +simian class, aping the vices of the rich and instinct with the +vices of the low, and frank in neither, moves the man's furious +scorn. He will have realities at any cost. All said and done, +the bugs of Novortovshakaya did not masquerade as hummingbirds, +nor merry Giuseppi Sacconi of Verona as a critic of +Girolami dai Libri.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I don't mind," he writes on a loose sheet, apropos of nothing, +"the frank dunghill outside a German peasant's kitchen +window. It is a matter of family pride. The higher it can +be piled the greater his consideration. But what I loathe and +abominate is the dungheap hidden beneath Hedwige's draper +papa's parlour floor."</p> + +<p>When I came to this in my wrongful search through Paragot's +papers, I felt greatly relieved. I thought Hedwige had +seduced him from his allegiance to Joanna, and that he was +sorry she had married the sergeant with moustaches reaching +to his <i>Pikelhaube</i>, though what part of his person his <i>Pikelhaube</i> +was, I could not for the life of me imagine. I pictured +Hedwige as a gigantic awe-compelling lady. The name +somehow conveyed the idea to me. It was peculiarly comforting +to learn that she was a horrid girl whose papa had a +draper's shop over a dunghill. I no longer bothered my head +concerning her, for soon I came across a reference to Joanna.</p> + +<p>"I was lounging one day in the Puerta del Sol, that swarming +central parallelogram of Madrid, and musing on the possibilities +of progress in a nation which contents itself with ox-transport +in the heart of its capital, when a carriage drove past +me in which I can almost still swear I saw Joanna. It entered the +Calle de San Hieronimo. I started in racing pursuit and fell +into the arms of a green-gloved soldier. To avoid arrest as a +madman or a murderer, for no sane man runs in Spain, I +leaped into a fiacre and gave such chase as tomorrow's victim +of the bull-ring would allow. We came up with the carriage +on the Prado, just in time to see the skirts of a lady vanish +through the door of a house. I dismissed my cab and waited. +I waited two solid hours. That attracted no attention. Everyone<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> +waits in Spain. To stand interminably at a street corner +is to take out a patent of respectability. But my confounded +heart beat wildly. I had an <i>agonized desire</i> to see her again. +I addressed the liveried coachman in my best Spanish, taking +off my hat and bowing low.</p> + +<p>"'Señor, will you have the great goodness to tell me who is +that lady?'</p> + +<p>"'Señor,' he replied with equal urbanity, 'it is not correct +for coachmen to give rapscallions information as to their employers.'</p> + +<p>"'When your Señora bids the rapscallion sit beside her in the +carriage and orders you to drive, you will regret your insolence,' +said I.</p> + +<p>"I turned a haughty back on him; but I felt his lackey's +eye fixed disapprovingly on my rags.</p> + +<p>"'I will hear the sound,' said I to myself, 'of her silvery +English voice, or I will die.'</p> + +<p>"Then the door opened, and the beautiful lady entered the +carriage; <i>and it was not Joanna</i>.</p> + +<p>"The gods were without bowels of compassion for me that +day."</p> + +<p>Another scrap contains the following:</p> + +<p>"Thus have I come to the end of a five years' vagabondage. +I started out as a Pilgrim to the Inner Shrine of Truth which +I have sought from St. Petersburg to Lisbon, from Taormina +to Christiania. I have lived in a spiritual shadowland, dreaming +elusive dreams, my better part stayed by the fitful vision +of things unseen. Such an exquisite wild-goose-chase has +never man undertaken before or since the dear Knight of La +Mancha. And now I come to think of it, I don't know what<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> +the deuce I have been after, save that instead of pursuing I +have all the time been running away.</p> + +<p>"In my next quest I must not proclaim my Dulcinea too +loudly. When Hedwige's little sister came to me with a doll +into which Hedwige had savagely run hatpins so that the +stuffing came out, I consoled the weeping infant with a new +doll and the assurance that Hedwige was the spitefullest cat +as yet evolved from a feline sex. I had no notion at the time +of the reason for Hedwige's viciousness. But now I fancy +she must have acted according to mediæval superstition and +used the doll as Joanna's hated effigy. I remember that the +next time I saw her I criticised her straight Teutonic fringe +and fanfaronaded on the captivating frizziness of Joanna's +hair. The wonder is that Hedwige did not run hatpins into +<i>me</i>. The murderer's widow of Prague was built of sterner +stuff; she cared not a hempen strand for Joanna, a pale consumptive +doxy, according to her picturing, who had jilted me +for an eminent swell-mobsman in London."</p> + +<p>I spent many happy hours over these scraps, building up the +fantastic fairy tale of Paragot's antecedents, and should have +gone on reading them for an indefinite time had not Paragot +one day discovered me. It was then that I learned the sacrosanctity +of private papers.</p> + +<p>"I thought, my little Asticot," said he, bending his blue +eyes on me, "I thought you were a gentleman."</p> + +<p>Only Paragot could have had so crazy a thought. I could +not be a gentleman, I reflected, till I had a gold watch-chain. +However Paragot expected me to be one without the seal and +token of outward adornments, and I promised faithfully to +mould myself according to his expectations.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How much of this nightmare farrago have you read?"</p> + +<p>"I know it all by heart, Master," said I.</p> + +<p>He took off his old hat and threw it on the bed, and ran his +fingers through his hair perplexedly.</p> + +<p>"My son," said he at last, "if you were just a common boy +I should make you go on your bended knees and lift up your +hand and swear that you would not reveal to a living soul the +mysteries which these papers contain, and then I should send +you to dwell for ever among the tripe-plates. But I see before +me a gentleman, a scholar and an artist and I will not submit +him to such an indignity."</p> + +<p>He put his hand on my head and looked at me in kind +irony.</p> + +<p>"I will never tell no one, Master," I promised.</p> + +<p>"Anyone," he corrected.</p> + +<p>"Anyone, Master," I repeated meekly.</p> + +<p>"You will wipe it all out of your memory."</p> + +<p>I was habitually truthful with Paragot, because he never +gave me cause to lie.</p> + +<p>"I can't, Master," said I, thinking of my dreams of Joanna.</p> + +<p>The seriousness of my tone amused him.</p> + +<p>"What has made such an indelible impression on your +mind?"</p> + +<p>"I can't forget——" I blurted out, moved both by reluctance +to yield over my dreams of Joanna and by a desire to show off +my familiarity with French, "I can't forget about <i>ces petits +pieds si adorés</i>."</p> + +<p>The smile died from his face, which assumed a queer, +scared expression. He went to the window and stood there so +long, that I, in my turn grew scared. I realised dimly what I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> +had done, and I could have bitten my tongue out. I drew +near him.</p> + +<p>"Master," said I timidly.</p> + +<p>He did not seem to hear; presently he picked up his hat +from the bed and walked out without taking any notice of me.</p> + +<p>We did not refer to the papers again until long afterwards, +and though they lay unguarded as before in the old stocking, +never till this present day have I set my eyes on them.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">One</span> May morning a year after my surprising of Paragot's +secret, I awoke later than usual, the three-and-sixpenny clock +on the mantelpiece marking eleven, and huddling on my +clothes in alarm I left the foul smelling Club room, and ran +upstairs to arouse my master.</p> + +<p>To my astonishment he was not alone. A stout florid man, +wearing a white waistcoat which bellied out like the sail +of a racing yacht, a frock coat and general resplendency of garb, +stood planted in the middle of the room, while Paragot still +in nightshirt but trousered, sat swinging his leg on a corner of +the deal table. I noticed the fiddle which Paragot had evidently +been playing before his visitor's arrival, lying on the +disordered bed.</p> + +<p>"Who the devil is this?" cried the fat man angrily.</p> + +<p>"This is Mr. Asticot, my private secretary, who cooks my +herrings and attends to my correspondence. Usually he cooks +two, but if you will join us at breakfast Mr. Hogson——"</p> + +<p>"Pogson," bawled the fat man.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," said my master sweetly. "If you will +join us at breakfast he will cook three."</p> + +<p>"Damn your breakfast," said Mr. Pogson.</p> + +<p>"Only two then, Asticot. This gentleman has already breakfasted. +You will forgive us for not treating you as a stranger."</p> + +<p>Mr. Pogson, who was in a rage, thumped the table with +his hand.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I'll give you to understand Mr. Henkendyke, that I am the +proprietor of this club. I have bought it with my money, +and I'm not going to see it go to eternal glory as it's doing under +your management. I'm not like that old ass Ballantyne. +I'm a business man and I'm going to run this club for a profit, +and if you continue to be manager you'll jolly well have to +turn over a new leaf."</p> + +<p>"My good friend," said my master, rising and thrusting his +hands in his pockets, "you have told me that about ten times; +it is getting monotonous."</p> + +<p>"The way this place is run," continued Mr. Pogson, unheeding, +"is scandalous. Not a blessed account kept. No check +on provisions or drink. Every night your servants are drunk."</p> + +<p>"As owls," said Paragot.</p> + +<p>"And what the dickens do you do?"</p> + +<p>"I give the Lotus Club the prestige of my presidency. I +accept a salary and this presidential residence as my remuneration. +You do not expect a man like me to keep ledgers and +check butcher's bills like a twopennyhalfpenny clerk in the +City. It is you, my dear Mr. Pogson, who have curious ideas +of club management. You should put this sort of thing into +the hands of some arithmetical hireling. I—" he waved his +long fingers tipped with their long nails, magnificently—"am +the picturesque, the intellectual, the spiritual guide of the +club."</p> + +<p>"You are a —— fraud," cried Mr. Pogson, using so dreadful +an adjective that I dropped the gridiron. Paragot had +trained me to a distaste of foul language. "You are a drunken +incompetent thief."</p> + +<p>Paragot took his guest's glossy silk hat and gold mounted<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> +cane from the table and put them into his hands. He pointed +to the door.</p> + +<p>"Get out—quickly," said he.</p> + +<p>He turned on his heel and sitting on the bed began to play +the fiddle. Mr. Pogson instead of getting out stood in front +of him quivering like an infuriated jelly, and informed him +that it was his blooming club and his blooming room, that he +would choose the moment of exit most convenient to his own +blooming self; also that Paragot's speedy exit was a matter +for his decision. In a dancing fury he heaped abuse on Paragot +who played "The Last Rose of Summer," with rather +more tremolo than usual. Even I saw that he was dangerous. +Mr. Pogson did not heed. Suddenly Paragot sprang to his +feet towering over the fat man and swung his fiddle on high like +Thor's hammer. With a splitting crash it came down on Mr. +Pogson's head. Then Paragot gripped him and running with +him to the door, shot him down the stairs.</p> + +<p>"That, my little Asticot," said he, "is the present proprietor +of the Lotus Club, and this is the late manager."</p> + +<p>I ran to the door for the purpose of locking it. Paragot +smiled.</p> + +<p>"He will not come back. When he has mended what +Fluellen calls his 'ploody coxcomb,' he will take out a summons +against me for assault."</p> + +<p>He threw himself on the bed, while I, in trembling bewilderment, +prepared the breakfast. Presently he broke into a loud +laugh.</p> + +<p>"The fool! The mammonite fool, Asticot! Does he think +that Mr. Ulysses-es are picked up by the hundred among the +smug young men of the Polytechnic who add up figures, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> +keep books by double entry? Do you know what double entry +is?"</p> + +<p>"No, Master," said I from my squatting seat on the floor +by the gas stove.</p> + +<p>"Thank the gods for your ignorance. It is a nescience +whereby human aspirations are cribbed within ruled lines +and made to balance on the opposite side. Would you like to +see me obey Mr. Mammon's behest and crib my aspirations +within ruled lines?"</p> + +<p>"No, Master," said I.</p> + +<p>"The gods have given you understanding," said he, "which +is better than book-keeping by double entry."</p> + +<p>At the time I thought my master's attitude magnificent and +I despised Mr. Pogson from the bottom of my heart. But +since then I have wondered how the deuce the Lotus Club +survived a month of Paragot's management. In after years +when I questioned him, he said airily that he left all financial +questions to Ballantyne, the old actor proprietor, who had +grown infirm, and that he was president and not manager. +Yet to my certain knowledge he paid wages to Mrs. Housekeeper, +Cherubino and myself, and as for tradesmen's bills +they were strewn about Paragot's bedchamber like the autumn +leaves of Vallombrosa, in greater numbers than the articles +of his attire. On the other hand, I have no recollection of +moneys coming in. There must have been some loose unbusinesslike +arrangement between Ballantyne and himself which +most justifiably shocked the business instincts of Mr. Pogson. +There I sympathise with the latter. But I must admit that he +showed a want of tact in dealing with Paragot.</p> + +<p>My master was in gay spirits during breakfast. When he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> +had finished, he declared the meal to be the most enjoyable +he had eaten in Tavistock Street. My insensate conceit regarded +the statement as a tribute to my culinary skill and I +glowed with pride. I informed him that my herring cookery +was nothing to what I could do with sprats.</p> + +<p>"My little Asticot," said he, filling his porcelain pipe, "I +have to offer you my joint congratulation and commiseration. +I congratulate you on your being no longer a scullion. I commiserate +with you on the loss of your salary of eighteen pence a +week. Your sensitive spirit would revolt against taking service +under anyone of Mr. Mammon's myrmidons, and even if it +didn't, I am sure he would not employ you. Like Caliban no +longer will you 'scrape trencher nor wash dish'—at least in +the Lotus Club—for from this hour I dismiss you from its +service."</p> + +<p>He smoked silently in his wicker chair, giving me time to +realise the sudden change in my fortunes. Then only did I +understand. I saw myself for a desolate moment, cast motherless, +rudderless on the wide world where art and scholarship +met with contumely and undergrown youth was buffeted and +despised. My gorgeous dreams were at an end. The blighting +commonplace overspread my soul.</p> + +<p>"What would you like to do, my little Asticot?" he asked.</p> + +<p>I pulled myself together and looked at him heroically.</p> + +<p>"I could be a butcher's boy."</p> + +<p>The corners of my mouth twitched. It was a shuddersome +avocation, and the prospect of the companionship of other +butcher boys who could not draw, did not know French, and +had never heard of Joanna filled me with a horrible sense of +doom.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span></p> + +<p>Suddenly Paragot leaped up in his wild way to his feet and +clapped me so heartily on the shoulder that I staggered.</p> + +<p>"My son," cried he, "I have an inspiration. It is spring, +and the hedgerows are greener than the pavement, and the high +roads of Europe are wider than Tavistock Street. We will seek +them to-day, Asticot <i>de mon cœur;</i> I'll be Don Quixote and you'll +be my Sancho, and we'll go again in quest of adventures." +He laughed aloud, and shook me like a little rat. "<i>Cela te +tape dans l'œil, mon petit Asticot?</i>"</p> + +<p>Without waiting for me to reply, he rushed to the ricketty +washstand, poured out water from the broken ewer, and after +washing, began to dress in feverish haste, talking all the time. +Used as I was to his suddenness my wits could not move fast +enough to follow him.</p> + +<p>"Then I needn't be a butcher's boy?" I said at last.</p> + +<p>He paused in the act of drawing on a boot.</p> + +<p>"Butcher's boy? Do you want to be a butcher's boy?"</p> + +<p>"No, Master," said I fervently.</p> + +<p>"Then what are you talking of?" He had evidently not +heard my answer to his question. "I am going to educate you +in the High School of the Earth, the University of the Universe, +and to-morrow you shall see a cow and a dandelion. And before +then you will be disastrously seasick."</p> + +<p>"The sea!" I cried in delirious amazement. "We are going +on the sea? Where are we going?"</p> + +<p>"To France, <i>petit imbécile</i>," he cried. "Why are you not +getting ready to go there?"</p> + +<p>I might have answered that I had no personal preparations +to make; but feeling rebuked for idleness while he was so busy, +I began to clear away the breakfast things. He stopped me.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span></p> + +<p>"<i>Nom de Dieu</i>, we are not going to travel with cups and +saucers!"</p> + +<p>He dragged from the top of the cupboard an incredibly dirty +carpet bag of huge dimensions and decayed antiquity, and +bade me pack therein our belongings. The process was not +a lengthy one; we had so few. When we had little more than +half filled the bag with articles of attire and the toilette stuffed +in pell-mell, we looked around for ballast.</p> + +<p>"The books, Master," said I.</p> + +<p>"We will take the immortal works of Maître François Rabelais, +and the dirty little edition of 'David Copperfield.' The +remainder of the library we will sell in Holywell Street."</p> + +<p>"And the violin?"</p> + +<p>He picked up the maimed instrument and, after looking at it +critically, threw it into a corner.</p> + +<p>"For Pogson," said he.</p> + +<p>When we had tied up the books with a piece of stout string +providentially lying at the bottom of the cupboard, our preparations +were complete. Paragot donned his cap and a storm-stained +Inverness cape, grasped the carpet bag and looked +round the room.</p> + +<p>"<i>En route</i>," said he, and I followed with the books. We +gained the street and left the Lotus Club behind us for ever.</p> + +<p>What Mrs. Housekeeper said, what Cherubino said, what +the members said when they found no Mr. Ulysses presiding +at the supper table that evening, what Mr. Pogson said when +he learned that his assailant had shaken the dust of the Lotus +Club from off his feet and strolled into the wide world without +giving him the opportunity of serving a summons for assault, +I have never been able to discover. Nor have I learned who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> +succeeded Paragot as president and occupied the palatial +chamber of all the harmonies that was Paragot's squalid attic. +When, in after years, I returned to London the Lotus Club +had passed from human memory, and at the present day a +perky set of office premises stands on its site. The morality +of Paragot's precipitate exodus I am not in a position to discuss. +From his point of view the fact of having disliked the new +proprietor from their first interview, and broken a fiddle over +his head, rendered his position as president untenable. Paragot +walked out.</p> + +<p>After having sold the books for a few shillings in Holywell +Street, we marched up Fleet Street into the City, and entered +a stupendous, unimagined building which Paragot informed me +was his bank. Elegant gentlemen behind the counter shovelled +gold to and fro with the same casual indifference as I had seen +grocers' assistants shovel tea. One of them, a gorgeous fellow +wearing a white piqué tie and a horse-shoe pin, paid such +deference to Paragot that I went out prodigiously impressed +by my master's importance. I was convinced that he owned +the establishment, and during the next quarter of an hour I +could not speak to him for awe.</p> + +<p>It was about two o'clock when we reached Victoria Station. +There Paragot discovered, for the first time, that there was not +a train till nine in the evening. It had not occurred to him +that trains did not start for Paris at quarter of an hour intervals +during the day.</p> + +<p>"My son," said he, "now is the time to make practical +use of our philosophy. Instead of heaping vain maledictions +on the Railway Company, let us deposit our luggage in the +cloak room and take a walk on the Thames Embankment."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span></p> + +<p>We walked thither and sat on a vacant bench beside the +Cleopatra's Needle. It was a warm May afternoon. My +young mind and body fired by the excitements of the day +found rest in the sunny idleness. It was delicious to be here, +instead of washing up plates and dishes with Mrs. Housekeeper. +Paragot took off his old slouch hat, stretched himself +easefully and sighed.</p> + +<p>"I am anxious to get to Paris to consult Henri Quatre."</p> + +<p>"Who is Henri Quatre, Master?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Henri Quatre is on the Pont Neuf. That is a French saying +which means that Queen Anne is dead. He was a great King +of France and his statue on horseback is in the middle of a +great bridge across the Seine called the Pont Neuf. He is a +great friend of mine. I will tell you a story. Once upon a time +there lived in Paris a magnificent young man who thought himself +a genius. He <i>was</i> a genius, my little Asticot. A genius +is a man who writes immortal books, paints immortal pictures, +rears immortal buildings and commits immortal follies. Don't +be a genius, my son, it isn't good for anybody. Well, this +young man was clad in purple and fine linen and fared sumptuously +every day. He also had valuable furniture. One +evening something happened to annoy him."</p> + +<p>Paragot paused.</p> + +<p>"What annoyed him?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"A flaw in what he had conceived to be the scheme of the +universe," replied my master. "It annoys many people. +The young man being annoyed, cast the fruits of his genius +into the fire, tore up his purple and fine linen and smashed his +furniture with a Crusader's mace which happened to be hanging +by way of an ornament on the wall. It's made of steel<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> +with a knob full of spikes, and weighs about nine pounds. I +know nothing like it for destroying a Louis Quinze table, or +for knocking the works out of a clock. If you're good, my +son, you shall have one when you grow up."</p> + +<p>I looked gratefully at him. Not content with his kindness +to me then, he would be my benefactor still when I reached +manhood.</p> + +<p>"The young man then packed a valise full of necessaries +and went out into the street. It was a rainy November evening. +He walked along the quays through the lamp-lit drizzle +till he came to the statue of Henri Quatre. The Pont Neuf +was alive with traffic and the swiftly passing lights of vehicles +threw conflicting gleams over the wet statue. The gas-lamps +flickered in the wind." Paragot flickered his long fingers +dramatically, to illustrate the gas-lamps. "On all sides rose +vague masses of building—the Louvre away beyond the bridge, +the frowning mass of the Conciergerie—the towering turrets +of Notre Dame—swelling like billows against the sky. Pale +reflections came from the river. Do you see the picture, my +little Asticot? And the young man clutched the railings that +surround the plinth of the statue, and caught sight of the +face of Henri Quatre, and Henri Quatre looked at him so kindly +that he said: '<i>Mon bon roi</i>, you are of the South like myself: +I am leaving Paris to go into the wide world, but I don't know +where in the wide world to go to.' <i>And the King nodded his +head and pointed to the Gare de Lyon.</i> And the young man +took off his hat and said, '<i>Mon bon roi</i>, I thank you!' He +went to the Gare de Lyon and found a train just starting for +Italy. So he went to Italy. I have a great respect for Henri +Quatre."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And what happened to him then, Master?" I asked, after +a breathless pause.</p> + +<p>"He became a vagabond philosopher," replied Paragot, +refilling his porcelain pipe.</p> + +<p>No argument has ever been able to convince Paragot that +the statue did not nod its head and point the way to Italy. +For some years I myself believed it; but at last it became obvious +that the flashing gleams of light over the wet statue had +made him the victim of a trick of the eyes. I think the only +serious offence I ever gave Paragot was when I presented to +him this solution of the mystery.</p> + +<p>Varied discourse and a meal in a Strand eating-house filled +up the hours till nine o'clock. And then I started for Wonderland +with Paragot.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We stayed in Paris but two days. When I asked my master +why our sojourn was not longer, he said something about the +"bitter-sweet" of it, which I could not understand. I have +only two clear memories of Paris. He took me to see Henri +Quatre, and explained how the statue nodded and how the +hand which held the reins lifted and pointed to the Gare de +Lyon. What more conclusive proof of his veracity need I have +than actual confrontation with Henri Quatre? The other +scene fixed on my mind is a narrow dark street with tall houses +on either side; an awning outside a humble café; a little table +beneath it at which Paragot and myself were seated. I sipped +luxuriously a celestial liquor which I have since learned was +grenadine syrup and water; in front of Paragot was a curious +opalescent milky fluid of which he drank great quantities +during those two days and ever afterwards.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span></p> + +<p>"The time has come," said he, rolling his eyes at me with +an awful solemnity and speaking in a thick voice, "the time +has come to talk of affairs. First let me impress on you that +Henkendyke is an appellation offensive to French ears. +Henceforward my name is Pradel—Polydore Pradel. And as +it is necessary for you to have an <i>état civil</i>, I hereby adopt +you as my son. Your name is therefore Asticot Pradel. I +hope you like it. You have never known what it is to have +a father. Now the possession of a father is a privilege to +which every human being has a right. I, Polydore Pradel, +confer on you that privilege. My son—"</p> + +<p>He raised his glass, clinked it against mine and pledged me.</p> + +<p>"Henceforward," said Paragot, "what is good enough for +me will I hope not be good enough for you, and what is too +bad for me shall never be your portion. I swear it by the devil +that dwells in this entrancing but execrated form of alcohol."</p> + +<p>He finished his drink and called for another. As soon as the +absinthe had curdled with the dropping water, he filled up the +glass and drank it off. Then he sat for a long time in bemused +silence, while I, perched on my chair, reflected on his great +goodness and wondered how I should help him up the darksome +stairs of our hotel without the aid of Cherubino.</p> + +<p>The next day we started on our pilgrimage. Why we went +in one direction more than another, why we went to one place +rather than to another, neither he nor I could tell. I never +questioned. Sometimes we wandered for days on foot, sleeping +in village inns or farm-houses—occasionally under a hedge +when the nights were warm. Sometimes we spent two or three +days in an old world town, and Paragot would show me +cathedrals and churches and lecture me on the history of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> +place, and set me to sketch bits of the picturesque that took +his fancy. In the cool, exquisite cloister of the Chateau of +Jacques Cœur at Bourges I learned more of the history of +Charles VII than any English boy of my generation. In the +Chateau of Blois, the salamanders of François Premier, the +statue of Diane de Poictiers, the poison cabinet of Catherine +de Medici, the dungeons of the Cardinal de Lorraine, became +living testimonies of the past under Paragot's imaginative +teaching. He had set his heart on educating me; suddenly +as the original impulse had seized him, yet it lasted strong +and became the object of his disordered and otherwise aimless +life. Books we always had in plenty. Tattered classics +are cheap enough in France, and what mattered it if pages +were missing? When done with we threw them away. We +might have been tracked through the country, like the hares +in a paper chase, by the trail of literature we left behind us.</p> + +<p>In spite of his unmethodical temperament Paragot made one +fixed rule for my habits. In towns and larger villages, I went +to bed at nine o'clock. What he did with himself by way of +amusement in the evenings I never knew. Nor did it occur to +me to conjecture. Healthily tired after a happy day I was +only too glad to crawl to whatever queer resting place chance +provided, and to sleep the sound sleep of boyhood. To be +for ever moving amid a fairyland of novelty, to have no care +for the morrow, to have no tasks save those that were a delight, +to be under the protecting guidance of a godlike being whose +very reproofs were couched in terms of humorous kindness, +to eat strange unexpected things, to fraternise in a new tongue, +which daily grew more familiar, with any urchin on the high-road +or city byway, to pass wondering days among country<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> +sights and country sounds—to be in short the perfect vagabond, +could boy dream of a more glorious life?</p> + +<p>Now and again a whimsy seized my master and he declared +that we must work and earn our daily bread by the sweat of +our brows. At a farm near Chartres we hired ourselves out +to an elderly couple, Monsieur and Madame Dubosc, and +spent toilsome but healthy days carting manure. Although +Paragot wrought miracles with his pitchfork, I don't think +Monsieur Dubosc took him seriously. Peasant shrewdness +penetrated to the gentleman beneath Paragot's blouse, and +peasant ignorance attributed to him the riches which he did +not possess. They became great friends, however, and before +we left he succeeded in establishing himself as a kind of oracle +by curing a pig of some mysterious disease by means of a remedy +which he said he had learned in Dalmatia. Old Madame +Dubosc shed tears when we left La Haye.</p> + +<p>Sometimes Paragot grew tired of tramping, and we travelled +by rail, in the wooden third class compartments of omnibus +trains that stopped at every station. Now and then pure chance +took us to any particular town. It was at Nancy that Paragot +went to the ticket office and said with the utmost politeness:—</p> + +<p>"Monsieur, will you have the kindness to give me a ticket?"</p> + +<p>"To what destination?" asked the clerk peering through +his pigeon hole.</p> + +<p>"<i>Parbleu</i>," said Paragot, "to any destination you like +provided it is not too expensive."</p> + +<p>The clerk called him a <i>farceur</i> and would have nothing to +do with him, but Paragot protested.</p> + +<p>"Pardon, Monsieur, I have but one wish, to get away from +Nancy. I have seen the Episcopal Palace on the Place Stanislas,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> +the Cathedral, and I have viewed but I have not read the +seventy-five thousand volumes in the University Library. +You know the places one gets to from Nancy, which I do not. +I am a stranger, in your hands. If you could suggest to me a +town about 100 kilometres distant——"</p> + +<p>"There is Longwy," said the haughty official.</p> + +<p>"Then have the kindness to give me two third class tickets +to Longwy," said Paragot.</p> + +<p>And to Longwy we went. Paragot contemplated the lack +of interest in the smug little town.</p> + +<p>"To hold out Longwy as a goal to the enthusiastic Pilgrim +to the Shrine of Truth," said he, "could only enter the timber-built +mind of a French railway official."</p> + +<p>The record of our wanderings would mark the stages of my +own development, but would be of little count as a history of +Paragot. We tramped and trained south through Italy and +spent the winter in Rome. Then it entered his head to obtain +employment for both of us, as workman and boy, on the excavations +of the Forum. We lived in the slums with our brother +excavators, and were completely happy. So happy that +though we wandered the next year over France and part of +Germany the winter again found us working in Rome. In +the following Spring we set our faces northward, and in July +Destiny overtook us in Savoy.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was the late afternoon of a sweltering July day. The +near hills slumbered in the sunshine. Far away beyond them +grey peaks of Alpine spurs, patched with snow, rose in faint +outline against the sky. The valley lay in rich idleness, green +and gold and fruitful, yielding itself with a maternal largeness +to the white fifteenth century château on the hillside. +A long white road stretched away to the left following the convolutions +of the valley, until it became a thread; on the right +it turned sharply by a clump of trees which marked a farm. +In the middle of it all, in the grateful shadow cast by a wayside +café, sat Paragot and myself, watching with thirsty eyes the +buxom but slatternly <i>patronne</i> pour out beer from a bottle. +A dirty, long-haired mongrel terrier lapped water from an +earthenware bowl, at the foot of the wooden table at which +we sat. This was Narcisse, a recent member of our vagabond +family, whom my master had casually adopted some weeks +before and had christened according to some <i>lucus a non lucendo</i> +principle of his own. I think he was the least beautiful dog +I have ever met; but I loved him dearly.</p> + +<p>Paragot drained his tumbler, handed it back to be refilled, +drained it again and cleared his throat with the contentment +of a man whose thirst has been slaked.</p> + +<p>"Now one can spit," he exclaimed heartily.</p> + +<p>"That is always a comfort to a man," remarked the <i>patronne</i>.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It is the potentiality that is the comfort. Have you apartments +for the night, Madame?"</p> + +<p>"They are for <i>des messieurs</i>—for gentlemen," said the patronne +diffidently.</p> + +<p>Narcisse having also finished his draught stretched himself +out on the ground, his chin on his fore paws, and glanced furtively +upwards at the disparaging lady.</p> + +<p>"<i>Tron de l'air!</i>" cried Paragot, "are we not gentlemen?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Tiens</i>, you are of the Midi," cried the woman, recognising +the expletive—for no one born north of Avignon says "<i>Tron +de l'air</i>"—"I too am from Marseilles. My husband was a +Savoyard. That is why I am here."</p> + +<p>"I am a gentleman of Gascony," said my master, "and this +is my son Asticot."</p> + +<p>"It is a droll name," said the <i>patronne</i>.</p> + +<p>"We are commercial travellers on our rounds with samples +of philosophy."</p> + +<p>"It is a droll trade," said the <i>patronne</i>.</p> + +<p>We were greasy and dirty, sunburnt to the colour of Egyptian +felaheen and dressed in the peasant's blue blouse. Creatures +more unlike professors of philosophy could not be conceived. +But the <i>patronne</i> seemed to be impressed—as who was not?—by +Paragot.</p> + +<p>"The rooms will be three francs, Monsieur," she said after +a calculating pause.</p> + +<p>"I engage them," said my master. "Asticot, aid Madame +to take our luggage up to our bedchambers." I grasped my +bundle and handed Paragot's dilapidated canvas gripsack to +the <i>patronne</i>. He arrested her.</p> + +<p>"One moment, Madame. As you see, my portmanteau contains<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> +a shirt, a pair of socks, a comb and a toothbrush. Also +a copy of the works of the divine vagrant Maître François +Villon, which I will take out at once. He was a thief and a +reprobate and got nearer hanged than any man who ever lived, +and he is the dearest friend I have."</p> + +<p>"You have droll friends," remarked the <i>patronne</i> continuing +her litany.</p> + +<p>"And to think that he died four hundred years ago," sighed +my master. "Isn't it strange, Madame, that all the bravest +men and most beautiful women are those that are dead?"</p> + +<p>The landlady laughed. "You talk like a true Gascon, +Monsieur. In this country people are so silent that one loses +the use of one's tongue."</p> + +<p>I departed with her to see after domestic arrangements and +when I returned I found Paragot smoking his porcelain pipe, +and talking to a dusty child in charge of a goat. Having, at +that period, a soul above dusty children in charge of goats. +I sprawled on the ground beside Narcisse, and being tired by +the day's tramp fell into a doze. The good earth, when you +have a casing of it already on clothes and person, is a comfortable +couch; but I think you must be in your teens to enjoy it.</p> + +<p>I awoke to the sound of Paragot's voice talking to Narcisse. +The goat child had slipped away. An ox cart laden with hay +lumbered past. The mellowness of late afternoon lay over +the land. The shadow cast by the little white café had deepened +gradually far beyond the table. From within the house +came the faint clatter of footsteps and cooking utensils. Paragot +was still smoking. Narcisse sat on his haunches, his ill +shaped head to one side and his ears cocked. After making a +vicious dig at a flea, he yawned and trotted about after the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span> +manner of his kind in search of adventure. Paragot summoned +him back.</p> + +<p>"My good Narcisse, every spot on the earth has its essential +quality which the wise man or dog knows how to enjoy in its +entirety. In great cities where life is pulsating around you, +you are alert for the unexpected. The underlying principle +of a world's backwater like this is restful stagnation. Here +you must wallow in the uneventful. In vain you sniff around +in quest of the exciting, mistaking like your fellow in the fable +the shadow for the substance. The substance here is rest. +Here nothing ever happens."</p> + +<p>"Pardon, Monsieur," said a voice close upon us. "Is it +very far to Chambéry?"</p> + +<p>"It does not matter," said a second voice following hard on +the first, "for I can go no further."</p> + +<p>I jumped to my feet and my master started round in his +chair. The first speaker was a girl, the second an old man. +She had merely the comeliness of tanned and hair-bleached peasant +youth; he was wizened, lined, browned and bent. A cotton +umbrella shaded the girl's bare head and she carried in her +hand a cane valise covered with grey canvas. The old man +was burdened with two ancient shabby cases, one evidently +containing a violin and the other some queerly shaped musical +instrument. Both the new comers were wayworn and dirty, +and my master seeing suffering on the old man's face rose and +courteously offered him a chair.</p> + +<p>"Sit down and rest," said he, "and Mademoiselle, you are +thinking of going to Chambéry? But it is nearly a day's +journey on foot."</p> + +<p>"We have to play at a wedding tomorrow, Monsieur," said<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> +the girl piteously. "It was arranged two months ago, and we +must get there in some manner."</p> + +<p>"There is a railway station not far off," said I.</p> + +<p>"Alas! we have only ten sous in the world, which is not enough +to pay for our tickets," she answered. "Imagine, Monsieur, +I had a piece of twenty francs in my pocket this morning, and +I went to the station to get a ticket, for I had counted on going +by railway, as my grandfather is so ill, and when I came to pay, +I found I had lost my louis. How, the <i>bon Dieu</i> only knows. +It is desolating, Monsieur; we had to walk so as to keep our +engagement at Chambéry. If we miss it, <i>nous sommes dans +la purée pour tout de bon</i>."</p> + +<p>To be in the <i>purée</i> is to be in a very bad mess indeed. The +prospect of abject pennilessness filled the damsel's eyes with woe.</p> + +<p>"You earn your living by playing at weddings for folks to +dance?" asked my master.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Monsieur. My grandfather plays the violin and I +the zither—we also go to fairs. In the winter we play at cafés +in large towns. Life is hard, Monsieur, is it not?"</p> + +<p>She closed her umbrella and laid it on the valise. The old +man sat by the table, his head resting on his hands, saying +nothing.</p> + +<p>"When I think of my good louis that is gone!" she added +tragically.</p> + +<p>The only feature making for charm in a coarse homely face +was a set of white even teeth. I found her singularly unattractive. +A tear rolled down her cheek and its course was +that of a rill in a dusty plain.</p> + +<p>"Suppose I lend you the money for the railway tickets?" +said my master kindly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></p> + +<p>"O Monsieur," she cried, "I should thank you from the +depths of my heart. <i>Grandpère</i>," she turned to the old man who, +ashen faced, was staring in front of him, "Monsieur will lend +us enough money to get to Chambéry."</p> + +<p>"I can go no further," he murmured.</p> + +<p>Then his eyelids quivered, his body moved spasmodically, +and he swayed sideways off the chair on to the ground.</p> + +<p>We rushed to aid him. The girl put his head on her lap. +My master bade me run into the café for brandy. When I +returned the old man was dead.</p> + +<p>Narcisse sat placidly by, with his tongue out, eyeing his +master ironically.</p> + +<p>"You are the man," his glance implied, "who said that +nothing happens here."</p> + +<p>I have known many dogs in my life, but never so mocking +and cynical a dog as Narcisse.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It was nearly midnight before my master and I sat down +again outside the café. The intervening hours had been spent +in journeying to and from the nearest village, and obtaining +the necessary services of doctor and curé. My master was +smoking his porcelain pipe, as usual, but strangely silent. A +faint circle of light came from the open ground-floor window +of the café. The white road gleamed dimly, and beyond +the hushed valley the hills loomed vague against a black, +starlit sky. In the lighted room a few peasants from neighbouring +farms drank their sour white wine and discussed the +death in low voices. In other circumstances my master would +have joined them under pretext of getting nearer the Heart of +Life, and would have told them amazing tales of Ekaterinoslav<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> +or Valladolid till they reeled home drunk with wine and wonder. +And I should have been abed. But to-night Paragot seemed to +prefer the silent company of Narcisse and myself.</p> + +<p>"What do you think of it all, Asticot?" he asked at length.</p> + +<p>"Of what, master?"</p> + +<p>"Death."</p> + +<p>"It frightens me," was all I could answer.</p> + +<p>"What I resent about it," said my master reflectively, "is +that one is not able to have any personal concern in the most +interesting event in one's career. If you could even follow +your own funeral and have a chance of weeping for yourself! +You are never so important as when you are a corpse—and +you miss it all. I have a good mind not to die. It is +either the silliest or the wisest action of one's life; I wonder +which."</p> + +<p>Presently the girl came down the passage of the café, stood +for a moment in the doorway, and seeing Paragot advanced to +the table.</p> + +<p>"You are very kind, Monsieur," she said, "and for what +you have done I thank you from my heart."</p> + +<p>"It was very little," said my master. "Asticot, why do you +not give Mademoiselle your chair? Your manners are worse +than those of Narcisse. Mademoiselle, do me the pleasure of +being seated."</p> + +<p>She sat down, her feet apart, peasant fashion, her hands in +her lap.</p> + +<p>"If I had not lost the twenty francs he would not have died," +she said dejectedly.</p> + +<p>"He would have died if you had brought him here in a +carriage. He had aneurism of the heart, the doctor says.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> +He might have died any moment the last ten years. How old +was he?"</p> + +<p>"Seventy, eighty, ninety—how should I know?"</p> + +<p>"But he was your grandfather."</p> + +<p>"Ah, no, indeed, Monsieur," she replied in a more animated +manner. "He was not a relative. My mother was poor and +she sold me to him three years ago."</p> + +<p>"Why that is like me, Master!" I cried, vastly interested.</p> + +<p>"My son," said he in English, "that is one of the things +that must be forgotten. And then, Mademoiselle?" he +asked in French.</p> + +<p>"Then he taught me to play the zither and to dance. I am +sorry he is dead. <i>Dame, oui, par exemple!</i> But I do not weep +for him as for a grandfather. Oh, no!"</p> + +<p>"And your mother?"</p> + +<p>"She died last year. So I am all alone."</p> + +<p>He asked her what she thought of doing for her livelihood. +She shrugged her shoulders with the resignation of her class.</p> + +<p>"I can always earn my living. There are brasseries, cafés-concerts +in all the towns—I am fairly well known. They +will give me an engagement. <i>Il faut passer par là comme les +autres.</i>"</p> + +<p>"You must go through it like the others?" repeated my +master. "But you are very young, my poor child."</p> + +<p>"I am eighteen, Monsieur, I know I shall not make a fortune. +I am not pretty enough even when I paint, and my +figure is heavy. That is what Père Paragot used to complain +of."</p> + +<p>"What was his name?" asked my master, pricking up his +ears.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Berzélius Paragot—and he took the name of Nibbidard, +which means 'no luck'—so he loved to call himself Berzélius +Nibbidard Paragot."</p> + +<p>"Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot," mouthed my master joyously. +"I would give anything for a name like that!"</p> + +<p>"It is yours if you like to take it," she said quite seriously. +"No one will want it any more."</p> + +<p>"Little Asticot of my heart," said he, "what do you think of +it?"</p> + +<p>It struck me as a most aristocratically romantic appellation. +I was used to his aliases by this time. He had long ceased to +call himself "Pradel," and what was our surname for the +moment I am now unable to recollect.</p> + +<p>"You look like 'Paragot,' Master," said I, and, in an inexplicable +way, he did—as I have before remarked. He called +me a psychometrical genius and enquired the name of the +young lady.</p> + +<p>"Amélie Duprat, Monsieur," she said. "But <i>pour le métier</i>—we +must have professional names for the cafés—Père Paragot +called me 'Blanquette de Veau.'"</p> + +<p>"Delicious!" cried he.</p> + +<p>"So everyone calls me Blanquette," she explained gravely. +There was a silence. Paragot—he really assumed the name +from this moment—refilled his pipe. The belated peasants, +having finished their wine, clattered out of the café, and took +off their hats as they passed us.</p> + +<p>"Life is very hard, is it not, Messieurs?" remarked Blanquette. +It seemed to be her favourite philosophic proposition. +She sighed. "If Père Paragot had only lived to play at the +wedding tomorrow!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What then?"</p> + +<p>"I should have had ten francs."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said my master.</p> + +<p>"First I lose my louis, and now I lose my ten francs! ah! +<i>Sainte Vierge de Miséricorde!</i>"</p> + +<p>It was heart-rending. Sometimes they received more than +the stipulated fee at these village weddings. They passed the +hat round. If the guests were mellow with good wine, which +makes folks generous, they often earned double the amount. +And they always had as much as they liked to eat, and could +take away scraps in a handkerchief.</p> + +<p>"And good wholesome nourishment, Monsieur. Once it +was half a goose."</p> + +<p>And now there was nothing, nothing. Blanquette did not +believe in the <i>bon Dieu</i> any longer. She buried her face in her +arms and wept. Paragot smoked helplessly for a few moments. +I, unused to women's tears, felt the desolation of the race of +Blanquette de Veau overspread me. But that I considered +it to be beneath my dignity as a man, I should have wept too.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Paragot brought his fist down on the table and +started to his feet. Blanquette lifted a scared wet face, dimly +seen in the half light.</p> + +<p>"<i>Tonnerre de Dieu!</i>" cried he, "If you hold so much to your +ten francs and half a goose, I myself will come with you to +Chambéry tomorrow and fiddle at the wedding."</p> + +<p>"You, Monsieur?" she gasped.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I. Why not? Do you think I can't scrape catgut +as well as Père Paragot?"</p> + +<p>He walked to and fro declaring his musical powers in his +boastful way. If he chose he could rip out the hearts<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> +of a dead Municipal Council with a violin, and could set a +hospital for paralytics a-dancing. He would have fiddled the +children of Hamelin away from the Pied Piper. Didn't Blanquette +believe him?</p> + +<p>"But yes, Monsieur," she said fervently.</p> + +<p>"Ask Asticot."</p> + +<p>My faith in him was absolute. To my mind he had even +understated his abilities. The experience of the disillusioning +years has since caused me to modify my opinions; but Paragot's +boastfulness has not lessened him in my eyes. And this leads +to a curious reflection. When a Gascon boasts, you love him +for it; when a Prussian does it, your toes tingle to kick him to +Berlin. His very whimsical braggadocio made Paragot adorable, +and I am at a loss to think what he would have been without +it.</p> + +<p>"Of course," said he, "if you are proud, if you don't want +to be seen in the company of a scarecrow like me, there is nothing +more to be said."</p> + +<p>Blanquette humbly repudiated the charge of pride. Her +soul was set on her ten francs and she didn't care how she got +them. She accepted Monsieur's generous offer out of a full +heart.</p> + +<p>"That's sense," said my master. "We shall rehearse at +daybreak."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Dawn</span> found us all in a field some distance from the café—Paragot, +Blanquette, Narcisse, the zither, the fiddle and I, +and while the two musicians rehearsed the jingly waltzes and +polkas that made up the old man's répertoire, I tried to explain +the situation to Narcisse who sat with his ears cocked +wondering what the deuce all the noise was about.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Monsieur," said Blanquette, during a pause, "you +play like a great artist."</p> + +<p>"Didn't I tell you so?" he cried triumphantly.</p> + +<p>"You must have studied much."</p> + +<p>"Prodigiously," said he.</p> + +<p>"Père Paragot had played the violin for sixty years, but he +could not make it sing like that."</p> + +<p>"You would not compare Père Paragot with my master?" +I exclaimed by way of rebuke.</p> + +<p>Blanquette acquiesced humbly.</p> + +<p>"When one hears Monsieur, one has the devil in one's +body."</p> + +<p>"Listen to this," said the delighted Paragot jumping on to +his feet and tucking the fiddle beneath his chin.</p> + +<p>And there in the pure dawn with nothing but God's sky and +green fields around us, he played Gounod's "Ave Maria," +putting into his execution all his imaginative fervour, and +accentuating the tremolo passages in a vibrating ecstasy which +to Blanquette's uncultured soul was the very passion of music.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> +I have since learned that the greatest violinists do not overemphasise +the tremolo.</p> + +<p>"Ah Dieu! it is beautiful," she murmured.</p> + +<p>"Isn't it?" cried Paragot. "And it touches your heart, my +little Blanquette, eh? We are all artists together."</p> + +<p>"I, Monsieur?"</p> + +<p>She laughed and ran her hands over the zither strings.</p> + +<p>"I ought to be at work in the fields. So Père Paragot used +to say. I make no progress—I am as stupid as a goose."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Two hours afterwards we started for Chambéry, as odd a +procession as ever gave food for a high-road's gaiety. From +the old grey valise carried the previous day by Blanquette she +had produced much property finery. A black velveteen jacket +resplendent with pearl-buttons, velveteen knee-breeches tied +with ribbons at the knees, and a rakish Alpine hat with a +feather adorned my master's person. His own disreputable +heavy boots and a pair of grey worsted stockings may not have +formed a fastidious finish to the costume; but in my eyes he +looked magnificent. Towards the transfiguration of Blanquette +a Pandora box could not have effected more. She was +attired in a short skirt, a white <i>fichu</i> moderately fresh, a kind +of Italian head-dress and scarlet stockings. Enormous gilt +ear-rings swung from her ears; a cable of blue beads encircled +her neck; her lips were dyed pomegranate, her eyes darkened +and her cheeks touched with rouge. A pair of substantial +gilt shoes slung over her shoulders clinked their heels together +as she walked. Narcisse barked his ecstatic admiration around +this beauteous creature, and had I been a dog I should have +barked mine too. My dignity as a man only allowed me to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> +cast sidelong glances at her and hope that she would soon put +on the gilt shoes. As for my master, on beholding her, he +doffed his hat and saluted her with a fantastic compliment, +whereat the girl blushed brick-red and turned her head away.</p> + +<p>"Motley's the only wear, my son," he cried gaily. "In +this cap and bells, I see life under a different aspect. Never +has it appeared to me sweeter and more irresponsible. Don't +you feel it? But I forgot. You haven't any motley. I +apologise for my want of tact. Blanquette," he added in +French, "why haven't you found a costume for Asticot?"</p> + +<p>Blanquette replied in her matter-of-fact way that she hadn't +any. They walked on together, and I dropped behind suddenly +realising my pariahdom. I wondered whether these +magnificent beings would be ashamed of my company when +we arrived at Chambéry. I pictured myself sitting lonesome +with Narcisse in the market-place while they revelled in their +splendour, and the self-pity of the child overcame me.</p> + +<p>"Master," said I dismally, "what shall Narcisse and I do +while you are at the wedding?"</p> + +<p>He wheeled round and regarded me, and I knew by the +light in his eyes that an inspiration was taking shape behind +them.</p> + +<p>"I'll buy you a red shirt and pomade your hair, and you +shall be one of us, my son, and go round with the hat."</p> + +<p>I exulted obviously.</p> + +<p>"Now the dog will feel out of it," said he, perplexed. "I will +consult Blanquette. Do you think we could shave Narcisse +and make him think he's a poodle?"</p> + +<p>"That would be impossible, Monsieur," replied Blanquette +gravely.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></p> + +<p>As Narcisse was enjoying himself to his heart's content, +darting from side to side of the road and sniffing for the smells +his soul delighted in, I did not concern myself about his feelings.</p> + +<p>For Paragot's suggestion which I knew was ironically directed +against myself, I did not care. So long as I was to be with +my companions and of them, irony did not matter. I caught +the twinkle in his eye and laughed. He was as joyous as +Narcisse. The gladness of the July morning danced in his +veins. He pulled the violin and bow out of the old baize bag +and fiddled as we walked. It must have been an amazing +procession.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>And the old man whose clothes and functions we had assumed +lay cold and stiff in the little lonely room with candles +at his head and his feet. During our railway journey to Chambéry +Blanquette told us in her artless way what she knew of +his history. In the flesh he had been a crabbed and crotchety +ancient addicted to drink. He had passed some years of his +middle life in prison for petty thefts. In his youth—Blanquette's +mind could not grasp the idea of Père Paragot having +once been young—he must have been an astonishing blackguard. +He had been wont to beat Blanquette, until one day +realising her young strength she held him firm in her grip and +threatened to throw him into a pond if he persisted in his attempted +chastisement. Since then he had respected her person, +but to the day of his death he had cursed her for anserine +stupidity. An unlovely, loveless and unloved old man. Why +should Blanquette have wept over him? She had not the +Parisian's highly strung temperament and capacity for facile +emotion. She was peasant to the core, slow to rejoice, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> +slow to grieve, and she had the peasant's remorseless logic in +envisaging the elemental facts of existence. Père Paragot +was wicked. He was dead. <i>Tant mieux.</i></p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Blanquette had not the divine sense of humour which rainbows +the tears of the world. That was my dear master's +possession. But at the obvious she could laugh like any child +of unsophistication. In the long shaded avenue of Chambéry, +with its crowded market-stalls on either side—stalls where +you saw displayed for sale rolls of calico and boots and gauffrettes +and rusty locks and melons and rosaries and flyblown +books—Paragot bought me my red shirt (which—<i>mirabile +dictu!</i>—had tasselled cords to tie the collar) and pomade +for my hair. He also purchased a yard of blue chiffon which +he tied in an artistic bow round Narcisse's neck, whereat +Blanquette laughed heartily; and when Narcisse bolted +beneath a flower-stall and growling dispossessed himself of +the adornment, and set to with tooth and claw to rend it into +fragments, she threw herself on a bench convulsed with mirth. +As Paragot had spent fifty centimes on the chiffon I thought +this hilarity exceedingly ill-natured; but when another and a +larger dog came up to see what Narcisse was doing and in +half a minute was whirling about with Narcisse in a death +grapple, and Blanquette sprang forward, separated the two +dogs at some risk and took our bleeding mongrel to her bosom, +consoling him with womanly words of pity, I saw there was +something tender in Blanquette which mitigated my resentment.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The Restaurant du Soleil, where the marriage feast was held,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> +was an earwiggy hostelry on the outskirts of the town, sheltered +from the prying roadway by a screen of green lattice and a +series of <i>tonnelles</i>, the dusty arbours, each furnished with table +and chairs, beloved of French revellers. Above the entrance +gate stretched the semi-circular sign-board bearing in addition +to the name, the legend "Jardin. Noces. Fêtes." Within, +a few lime-trees closely planted threw deep shadow over the +grassless garden; shrubs and flowers wilted in a neglected +bed.</p> + +<p>Usually the forlorn demesne was supervised by a mangy +waiter brooding over mangy tables and by a mangier cat who +kept a furtive eye on the placarded list of each day's <i>plat du +jour</i> and wondered when her turn would come for Thursday's +<i>Sauté de lapin</i>. But tables, cat and waiter cast manginess +aside when <i>we</i>(the pride of that day still remains and makes +me italicise the word) came down to play at the wedding of +Adolphe Querlat and Léontine Bringuet.</p> + +<p>"<i>Tiens!</i> where is Père Paragot?" asked fat Madame +Bringuet—perspiring in unaccustomed corset and black bombazine.</p> + +<p>"Alas! he is no longer, Madame," explained Blanquette. +"He had a seizure yesterday. He fell off his chair, and we +picked him up stone dead."</p> + +<p>"<i>Tiens, tiens</i>, but it is sad."</p> + +<p>"But no. It does not matter. This gentleman will make +you dance much better than Père Paragot," and she whispered +encomiums into Madame's ear.</p> + +<p>"Enchanted, Monsieur. And your name?"</p> + +<p>My master swept a courtly bow with his feathered hat—no +one ever bowed so magnificently as he.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot, <i>cadet</i>, at your service."</p> + +<p>"You must be hungry, Monsieur Paragot—and Mademoiselle +and this little monsieur," said Madame Bringuet hospitably. +"We are at table in the <i>salle à manger</i>. You will +join us."</p> + +<p>We entered the long narrow room and sat down to the banquet. +Heavens! what a feast! There were omelettes and +geese and eels and duck and tripe and onion soup and sausages +and succulences inconceivable. Accustomed to the Spartan +fare of vagabondage I plunged into the dishes head foremost +like a hungry puppy. Should I eat such a meal as that to-day +it would be my death. Hey for the light heart and elastic +stomach of youth! Some fifty persons, the <i>ban and arrière ban</i> +of the relations of the young couple, guzzled in a wedged and +weltering mass. Wizened grandfathers and stolid large-eyed +children ate and panted in the suffocating heat, and gorged +again. Not till half way through the repast did tongues begin +to wag freely. At last the tisane of champagne—syrupy +paradise to my uncultivated palate—was handed round and +the toasts were drunk. The bride's garter was secured amid +boisterous shouts and innuendos, and then we left the stifling +room and entered the garden, the elders to smoke and drink +and gossip at the little tables beneath the verandah, the younger +folk to dance on the uneven gravel. Young as I was, I felt +grateful that no physical exercise was required of me for some +hours to come. Even Narcisse and the cat (which followed +him) waddled heavily to the verandah where we were to play.</p> + +<p>The signal to start was soon given. Paragot tucked his +violin under his chin, tuned up, waved one, two, three with his +bow; Blanquette struck a cord on her zither and the dance<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> +began. At first all was desperately correct. The men in their +ill-fitting broadcloth and white ties and enormous wedding +favours, the women in their tight and decent finery, gyrated +with solemn circumspection. But by degrees the music and +the good Savoy wines and the abominable cognac flushed +faces and set heads a-swimming. The sweltering heat caused +a gradual discarding of garments. Arms took a closer grip of +waists. Loud laughter and free jests replaced formal conversation; +steps were performed of Southern fantasy; the +dust rose in clouds; throats were choked though countenances +streamed; the consumption of wine was Rabelaisian. And +all through the orgy Paragot fiddled with strenuous light-heartedness, +and Blanquette thrummed her zither with the +awful earnestness of a woman on whose efforts ten francs and +perhaps half a goose depended. But it was Paragot who made +the people dance. To me, sitting in red shirt and pomaded +hair at his feet, it seemed as if he were a magician. He threw +his bow across the strings and compelled them to do his bidding. +He was the great, the omnipotent personage of the feast. I +sunned myself in his glory.</p> + +<p>Indeed, he had the incommunicable gift of setting his soul +a-dancing as he played, of putting the devil into the feet of +those who danced. The wedding party were enraptured. If +he had consumed all the bumpers he was offered, he would have +been as drunk as a fiddler at an Irish wake. During a much +needed interval in the dancing he advanced to the edge of +the verandah and as a solo played Stephen Heller's "Tarantella," +which crowned his triumph. With his unkempt beard +and swarthy face and ridiculous pearl-buttoned velveteens, +there was an air of rakish picturesqueness about Paragot, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> +he retained, what indeed he never quite lost, a certain aristocracy +of demeanour. Wild cries of "<i>Bis!</i>" saluted him +when he stopped. Men clapped each other on the shoulder +uttering clumsy oaths, women smiled at him largely. Madame +Bringuet, reeking in her tight gown, held up to him a brimming +glass of champagne; the bride threw him a rose. He kissed +the flower, put it in his button-hole and after bowing low drank +to her health. I recalled my childish ambition to keep a +fried fish shop and despised it heartily. If I only could play +the violin like Paragot, thought I, and win the plaudits of the +multitude, what greater glory could the earth hold? The +practical Blanquette woke me from my dreams. Now was +the moment, said she, to go round with the hat. I swung myself +down from the verandah, the traditional shell (in lieu of a +hat) in my hand, and went my round. Money was poured into +it. Time after time I emptied it into my bulging pockets. +When I returned to the verandah, Blanquette's eyes distended +strangely. She glanced at Paragot, who smiled at her in an +absent manner. For the moment the artist in him was predominant. +He was the centre of his little world, and its adulation +was as breath to his nostrils.</p> + +<p>This is what I, the mature man, know to be the case. To +me, then, he was but the King receiving tribute from his subjects. +When Paragot with a flourish of his bow responded +to the encore, I found my hand slip into Blanquette's and there +it remained in a tight grip till flushed and triumphant he again +acknowledged the applause. Nothing was said between Blanquette +and myself, but she became my sworn sister from that moment. +And Narcisse sat at our feet looking down on the crowd, +his tongue lolling out mockingly and a satiric leer on his face.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p> + +<p>"My children," said Paragot, on our return journey in the +close, ill-lighted, wooden-seated third-class compartment, +"we have had a glorious day. One of those sun-kissed, snow-capped +peaks that rise here and there in the monotonous +range of life. It fills the soul with poetry and makes one talk +in metaphor. In such moments as these we are all metaphors, +my son. We are illuminated expressions of the divine standing +for the commonplace things of yesterday and tomorrow. +We have accomplished what millions and millions are striving +and struggling and failing to do at this very hour. We have +achieved <i>success!</i> We have left on human souls the impress +of our mastery! We are also all of us dog-tired and, I perceive, +disinclined to listen to transcendental conversation."</p> + +<p>"I'm not tired, master," I declared as stoutly as the effort +of keeping open two leaden eyelids would allow.</p> + +<p>"And you?" he asked turning to Blanquette by his side—I +occupied the opposite corner.</p> + +<p>She confessed. A very little. But she had listened to all +Monsieur had said, and if he continued to talk she would not +think of going to sleep. Whereupon she closed her eyes, and +when I opened mine I saw that her head had slipped along the +smooth wooden back of the carriage and rested on Paragot's +shoulder. Through sheer kindliness and pity he had put his +arm around her so as to settle her comfortably as she slept. +I envied her.</p> + +<p>When she awoke at the first stoppage of the train, she started +away from him with a little gasp.</p> + +<p>"O Monsieur! I did not know. You should have told me."</p> + +<p>"I am only Père Paragot," said he. "You must often have +had your head against this mountebank jacket of mine."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span></p> + +<p>She misunderstood him. Her eyes flashed.</p> + +<p>"It is the first time in my life—I swear it." She held up +her two forefingers crossed and kissed them. "Père Paragot! +<i>ah non!</i> neither he nor another. I am an honest girl, though +you may not think so."</p> + +<p>"My good Blanquette," said he kindly, taking her scarred +coarse hand in his, "you are as honest a girl as ever breathed, +and if Père Paragot didn't let you put your sleepy little head on +his shoulder he must have been a stonier hearted old curmudgeon +than you have given one to believe."</p> + +<p>So he soothed her and explained, while our two fellow passengers, +a wizened old peasant and his wife, regarded them +stolidly.</p> + +<p>"<i>Mon Dieu</i>, it is hot," said Blanquette. "Don't you think so, +Asticot? I wish I had a fan."</p> + +<p>"I will make you one out of the paper the fowl is wrapped in," +said Paragot.</p> + +<p>Not half a goose, but a cold fowl minus half a wing had been +our supplementary guerdon. Decently enveloped in a sheet +of newspaper it lay on her lap. When he had divested it of its +covering, which he proceeded to twist into a fan, it still lay on +her lap, looking astonishingly naked.</p> + +<p>At the next station the old peasant and his wife got out and we +had the compartment to ourselves. Blanquette produced from +her pocket a handkerchief knotted over an enormous lump.</p> + +<p>"These are the takings, Monsieur. It looks small; but +they changed the coppers into silver at the restaurant for me."</p> + +<p>"It's a fortune," laughed my master.</p> + +<p>"It is much," she replied gravely, and undoing the knot she +offered him with both hands the glittering treasure. "I hope<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> +you will be a little generous, Monsieur—I know it was you who +gained the <i>quête</i>."</p> + +<p>"My good child!" cried he, interrupting her and pushing +back her hands, "what lunacy are you uttering? Do you imagine +that I go about fiddling for pence at village weddings?"</p> + +<p>"But Monsieur—"</p> + +<p>"But little imbecile, I did it to help you, to enable you to get +your ten francs and half a goose. Asticot too. Haven't you +been enchanted all day to be of service to Mademoiselle? Do +you want to be paid for wearing a red shirt with a tasselled +collar and pommade in your hair? Aren't we going about +the world like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza rescuing damsels +in distress? Isn't that the lodestar of our wanderings?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, master," said I.</p> + +<p>Blanquette looked open-mouthed from him to me, from me +to him, scarce able to grasp such magnanimity. To the peasant, +money is a commodity to be struggled for, fought for, +grasped, prized; to be doled out like the drops of a priceless +Elixir Vitæ. Paragot had the aristocratic, artistic scorn of it; +and I, as I have said before, was the pale reflexion of Paragot.</p> + +<p>"It is yours," I explained, as might a great prince's chamberlain, +"the master gained it for you."</p> + +<p>The tears came into her eyes. The corners of her lips went +down. Paragot turned half round in his seat and put his hands +on her shoulders.</p> + +<p>"If you spill tears on the fowl you will make it too salt, and +I shall throw it out of the window."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Paragot paid the modest funeral expenses of the worn-out +fiddler. Asked why he did not leave the matter in the hands<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> +of the communal authorities he replied that he could not take +a man's name without paying for it. Such an appellation as +Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot was worth a deal coffin and a mass +or two. This fine sense of integrity was above Blanquette's +comprehension. She thought the funeral was a waste of money.</p> + +<p>"It should go to benefit the living and not the dead," she +argued.</p> + +<p>"Wait till you are dead yourself," he replied, "and see how +you would like to be robbed of your name. There are many +things for you to learn, my child."</p> + +<p>"<i>Il n'y a pas beaucoup</i>—not many," she said with a sigh. +"We who are poor and live on the high-roads learn very quickly. +If you are hungry and have two sous you can buy bread. If +you only have two sous and you throw them to a dog who +doesn't need them, you have nothing to buy bread with, and +you starve. And it is not so easy to gain two sous."</p> + +<p>Paragot sucked reflectively at his porcelain pipe.</p> + +<p>"Asticot," said he, "the <i>argumentum ad ventrem</i> is irrefutable."</p> + +<p>"Now I must go and make my <i>malle</i>" she said. "I return +to Chambéry to try to earn my two sous."</p> + +<p>"Won't you stay here over the night? You must be very +tired."</p> + +<p>"One must work for one's living, Monsieur," she said moving +away.</p> + +<p>It was afternoon. We had trudged the three dusty miles +back from the tiny churchyard where we had left the old man's +unlamented grave, and Paragot, as usual, was washing his +throat with beer. It must be noted, not to his glorification, +that about this time a chronic dryness began to be the main<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> +characteristic of Paragot's throat, and the only humectant +that seemed to be of no avail was water.</p> + +<p>The sun still blazed and the hush of the July afternoon lay +over the valley. Paragot watched the thickset form of Blanquette +disappear into the café; he poured out another bottle +of beer and addressed Narcisse who was blinking idly up at him.</p> + +<p>"If she had a pair of decent stays, my dog, or no stays at all, +she might have something of a figure. What do you think? +On the whole—no."</p> + +<p>Narcisse stood on his hind legs, his forepaws on his master's +arm, and uttered little plaintive whines. Paragot patted him +on the head.</p> + +<p>As I was engaged a yard or two away, elbows on knees, in +what Paragot was pleased to call my studies—Thierry's "Récits +des Temps Mérovingiens," a tattered, flyblown copy of which +he had bought at Chambéry—he was careful not to interrupt +me; he talked to the dog. Paragot had to talk to something. +If he were alone he would have talked to his shadow; in his +coffin he would have apostrophised the worms.</p> + +<p>"Yes, my dog," said he, after a draught of beer. "We have +passed through more than we wotted of these two days. We +have held a human being by the hand and have faced with her +the eternal verities. Now she is going to earn her two sous +in the whirlpool, and the whirlpool will suck her down, and as +she has not claims to beauty, Narcisse, of any kind whatsoever, +either of face or figure, hers will be a shuddersome career and +end. Say you are sorry for poor Blanquette de Veau."</p> + +<p>Narcisse sniffed at the table, but finding it bare of everything +but beer, in which he took no interest, dropped on his four +legs and curled himself up in dudgeon.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You damned cynical sensualist," cried my master. "I +have wasted the breath of my sentiment upon you." And he +called out for the landlady and more beer.</p> + +<p>Presently Blanquette emerged laden with zither case and +fiddle and little grey valise and the pearl-buttoned suit which +was slung over one arm.</p> + +<p>"Monsieur," she said, putting down her impedimenta, "the +<i>patronne</i> has told me that you have paid for my lodging and +my nourishment. I am very grateful, Monsieur. And if you +will accept this costume it will be a way of repaying your kindness."</p> + +<p>Paragot rose, took the suit and laid it on his chair.</p> + +<p>"I accept it loyally," said he, with a bow, as if Blanquette +had been a duchess.</p> + +<p>"<i>Adieu, Monsieur, et merci</i>," she said holding out her +hand.</p> + +<p>Paragot stuck both his hands in his trousers pockets.</p> + +<p>"My good child," said he, "you are bound straight for the +most cheerless hell that was ever inhabited by unamusing +devils."</p> + +<p>Blanquette shrugged her shoulders and spoke in her dull +fatalistic way.</p> + +<p>"<i>Que voulez-vous?</i> I know it is not gay. But it is in the +<i>métier</i>. When Père Paragot was alive it was different. He +had his good qualities, Père Paragot. He was like a watch-dog. +If any man came near me he was fierce. I did not amuse +myself, it is true, but I remained an honest girl. Now it is +changed. I am alone. I go into a brasserie to play and dance. +I can get an engagement at the Café Brasserie Tissot," and then +after a pause, turning her head away, she added the fatalistic<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> +words she had used before: "<i>If faut passer par là, comme les +autres</i>."</p> + +<p>"I forbid you!" cried my master, striding up and down in +front of her and ejaculating horrible oaths. He invoked the +sacred name of pigs and of all kinds of other things. My +attention had long since been diverted from the learned Monsieur +Thierry, and I wondered what she had to pass through +like the others. It must be something dreadful, or my master +would not be raving so profanely. I learned in after years. +Of all mutilated lives there are few more ghastly than those of +the <i>fille de brasserie</i> in a small French provincial town. And +here was Blanquette about to abandon herself to it with stolid, +hopeless resignation. There was no question of vicious instinct. +What semblance of glamour the life presented did not +attract her in the least. A sweated alien faces rabbit-pulling +in the East End with more pleasurable anticipation.</p> + +<p>"I am not going to allow you to take an engagement in a +brasserie!" shouted my master. "Do you hear? I forbid +you!"</p> + +<p>"But Monsieur——" began Blanquette piteously.</p> + +<p>Then Paragot had one of his sudden inspirations. He +crashed his fist on the little table so that the glass and bottles +leaped and Narcisse darted for shelter into the café.</p> + +<p>"<i>Tron de l'air!</i>" he cried. "I have it. It is an illumination. +Asticot—here! Leave your book. I shall be Paragot in +character as well as name. We shall fiddle with Blanquette +as we fiddled yesterday—and I shall be a watch-dog like Père +Paragot and keep her an honest girl. We'll make it a firm, +Paragot and Company, and there will always be two sous for +bread and two to throw to a dog. I like throwing sous to dogs.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> +It is my nature. Now I know why I was sent into the world. +It was to play the fiddle up and down the sunny land of France. +My little Asticot, why haven't we thought of it before? You +shall learn to play the trumpet, Asticot, and Narcisse shall walk +on his hind legs and collect the money. It will be magnificent!"</p> + +<p>"Are you serious, Monsieur?" asked Blanquette, trembling.</p> + +<p>"Serious? Over an inspiration that came straight from the +<i>bon Dieu?</i> But yes, I am serious. <i>Et toi?</i>" he added sharply +using for the first time the familiar pronoun, "are you afraid +I will beat you like Père Paragot?"</p> + +<p>"You can if you like," she said huskily; and I wondered +why on earth she should have turned the colour of cream cheese.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Not</span> being content with having attached to his person a stray +dog and a mongrel boy and rendering himself responsible for +their destinies, Paragot must now saddle himself with a young +woman. Had she been a beautiful gipsy, holding fascinating +allurements in lustrous eyes and pomegranate lips, and witchery +in a supple figure, the act would have been a commonplace of +human weakness. But in the case of poor Blanquette, squat +and coarse, her heavy features only redeemed from ugliness +by youth, honesty and clean teeth, the eternal attraction of +sex was absent.</p> + +<p>From the decorative point of view she was as unlovely as +Narcisse or myself. She was dull, unimaginative, ignorant, +as far removed from Paragot as Narcisse from a greyhound. +Why then, in the name of men and angels, should Paragot +have taken her under his protection? My only answer +to the question is that he was Paragot. Judge other men +by whatever standard you have to hand; it will serve its purpose +in a rough and ready manner; but Paragot—unless with +me idolatry has obscured reason—Paragot can only be measured +by that absolute standard which lies awful and unerring +on the knees of the high gods.</p> + +<p>Of course he saved the girl from a hideous doom. Thousands +of kindly, earnest men have done the same in one way or +another. But Paragot's way was different from anyone else's. +Its glorious lunacy lifted it above ordinary human methods.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span></p> + +<p>So many of your wildly impulsive people repent them of +their generosities as soon as the magnanimous fervour has +cooled. The grandeur of Paragot lay in the fact that he never +repented. He was fantastic, self-indulgent, wastrel, braggart, +what you will; but he had an exaggerated notion of the +value of every human soul save his own. The destiny of poor +Blanquette was to him of infinitely more importance than that +of the wayward genius that was Paragot. The pathos of his +point of view had struck me, even as a child, when he discoursed +on my prospects.</p> + +<p>"I am Paragot, my son," he would say, "a film full of +wind and wonder, fantasy and folly, driven like thistledown +about the world. I do not count. But you, my little Asticot, +have the Great Responsibility before you. It is for you to +uplift a corner of the veil of Life and show joy to men and +women where they would not have sought it. Work now and +gather wisdom, my son, so that when the Great Day comes +you may not miss your destiny." And once, he added wistfully—"as +I have missed mine."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>As Paragot decided that we should not start off then and +there into the unknown but remain at the café until we had laid +our plan of campaign, Blanquette took her valise into the house, +and, for the rest of the day, busied herself in the kitchen with +the <i>patronne;</i> Paragot drank with the villagers in the café; +and I, when Thierry and Narcisse had given me all the companionship +they had to offer, curled myself up on the <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'mattrass'">mattress</ins> +spread in a corner of the tiny <i>salle à manger</i> and went to sleep.</p> + +<p>The next morning Paragot awakened with an Idea. He +would go to Aix-les-Bains which was close by, and would return<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> +in the evening. The nature of his errand he would not +tell me. Who was I, little grey worm that I was, to question +his outgoings and his incomings? The little grey worm would +stay with Blanquette and Narcisse and see to it that they did +not bite each other. I humbly accepted the rebuke and +obeyed the behest. The afternoon found the three of us in a +field under a tree; Blanquette embracing her knees, and the +dog asleep with his throat across her feet. She was wearing +her old cotton dress, and as she had been helping the +<i>patronne</i> all the morning, her sleeves were rolled up to her +elbows displaying stout, stubby arms. The top button of her +bodice was open; she was bare-headed, but her hair, little +deeper in shade than her tanned face and neck, was coiled +neatly. Had it not been for the hard grip of the day before I +should have jealously resented her admission into our vagabond +fraternity. As it was, from the height of my sixteen-year-old +masculinity I somewhat looked down upon her: not as +poor Blanquette, the zither-playing vagrant; but as a girl. +Could we, creation's lords, do with a creature of an inferior +sex in our wanderings? Could she perform our feats of endurance? +I questioned her anxiously.</p> + +<p>"<i>Moi?</i>" she laughed, "I am as strong as any man. You +will see."</p> + +<p>She leaped to her feet and, before I could protest, had picked +me off the ground like a kitten and was tossing me in her +arms.</p> + +<p>"<i>Voilà!</i>" she said, depositing me tenderly on the grass; and +having collected the dislodged Narcisse she embraced her +knees and laughed again. It was a kind honest laugh; a good-natured, +big boy's laugh, coming full out of her eyes and shewing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> +her strong white teeth. I lost the sense of insult in admiration +of her strength.</p> + +<p>"You should have been a boy, Blanquette," said I.</p> + +<p>She assented, acknowledging at once her inferiority and +thus restoring my self respect.</p> + +<p>"You are lucky, you, to be one. In this world the egg is +for the men and the shell is for the women."</p> + +<p>"Why don't you cut off your hair and put on boy's clothes?" +I asked. "Then you would get the egg. No one could tell +the difference."</p> + +<p>"You don't think I look like a woman? I? <i>Mon Dieu!</i> +Where are your eyes?"</p> + +<p>She was actually indignant with me who had thought to +please her: my first encounter with the bewildering paradox +of woman.</p> + +<p>"<i>Ah! mais non</i>," she panted. "I may be strong like a man, +but <i>grâce à Dieu</i>, I don't resemble one. Look."</p> + +<p>And she sat bolt upright, her hands at her waist developing +her bust to its full extent. She was not <i>jolie, jolie</i>, she explained, +but she was as solidly built as another; I was to examine +myself and see how like I was to the flattest of boards. +Routed I chewed blades of grass in silence until she spoke +again.</p> + +<p>"Tell me of the <i>patron</i>."</p> + +<p>"The <i>patron?</i>" I asked, puzzled.</p> + +<p>"Yes—Monsieur—your master."</p> + +<p>"You must call him <i>maître</i>," said I, "not <i>patron</i>." For +the <i>patron</i> was any peddling "boss," the leader of a troupe of +performing dogs or the miserable landlord of a village inn, +Paragot a <i>patron<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>!</i></p> + +<p>"I meant no harm. I have too much respect for him," +said Blanquette, humbly.</p> + +<p>Again reinstated in my position of superiority I explained +the Master to her feminine intelligence.</p> + +<p>"He has been to every place in the world and knows everything +that is to be known, and speaks every language that is +spoken under the sun, and has read every book that ever was +written, and I have seen him break a violin over a man's head."</p> + +<p>"<i>Tiens!</i>" said Blanquette.</p> + +<p>"In the Forum at Rome last winter he had an argument +with the most learned professor in Europe who is making the +excavations, and proved him to be wrong."</p> + +<p>"<i>Tiens!</i>" repeated Blanquette, much impressed, though of +Forum or excavations she had no more notion than Narcisse.</p> + +<p>"If he wanted to be a king tomorrow, he would only have +to go up to a throne and sit upon it."</p> + +<p>"But no," said Blanquette. "To be a king one must be a +king's son."</p> + +<p>"How do you know that he isn't?" I asked with a could-and +if-I-would expression of mystery.</p> + +<p>"King's sons don't go about the high roads with little <i>gamins</i> +like you," replied the practical Blanquette.</p> + +<p>"How do you know that I am not a king's son too?" I +asked, less with the idea of self-aggrandisement than that of +vindication of Paragot.</p> + +<p>"Because you yourself said that your mother sold you as my +mother sold me to Père Paragot."</p> + +<p>Whereupon it suddenly occurred to me that as far as retentiveness +of memory was concerned, Blanquette was not such a +fool as in my arrogance I had set her down to be. I was going<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> +to retort that his magnificence in purchasing me proved him +a personage of high order, but as I quickly reflected that the +same argument might apply to the rank of the contemned Père +Paragot, I refrained. A silence ensuing, I uncomfortably +resolved to study my master with a view to acquiring his skill +in repartee.</p> + +<p>"But what does he do, the Master?" enquired Blanquette.</p> + +<p>"Do? What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"How does he earn his living?"</p> + +<p>"That shows you know nothing about him," I cried triumphantly. +"King's sons do not earn their living. They have +got it already. Haven't you ever read that in books?"</p> + +<p>"I can read and write, but I don't read books," sighed Blanquette. +"I am not clever. You will have to teach me."</p> + +<p>"This is the book I am reading," said I, taking the "Récits +des Temps Mérovingiens" from my pocket.</p> + +<p>Again Blanquette sighed. "You must be very clever, +Asticot."</p> + +<p>"Not at all," said I modestly, but I felt that it was nice of +Blanquette to realise the intellectual gulf between us. "It +is the Master who has taught me all I know." I spoke, God +wot, as if my knowledge would have burst through the covers +of an Encyclopædia—"Three years ago I could not speak a +word of French. Fancy. And now——"</p> + +<p>"You still talk like an Englishman," said Blanquette.</p> + +<p>Looking back now on those absurd far-off days, I wonder +whether after all I did not learn as much that was vital from +Blanquette as from Paragot. Her downright, direct, unimaginative +common-sense amounted to genius. At the time I +preferred genius in the fantastic form which inflated my bubbles<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> +of self-conceit, instead of bursting them; but in after life one +has a high appreciation of the burster.</p> + +<p>In the moment's mortification, however, I recriminated.</p> + +<p>"You make worse mistakes than I do. You say '<i>j'allons +faire</i>,' when you ought to say '<i>je vais faire</i>' and I heard you +talk about <i>une chien</i>."</p> + +<p>"That is because I have no education," replied Blanquette, +with her grave humility. "I speak like the peasants; not like +instructed people—not like the Master, for instance."</p> + +<p>"No one could speak like the Master," said I.</p> + +<p>There was a long silence. Blanquette hugged her knees and +Narcisse snored at her feet, accepting her as vagabond comrade. +I lay on my back and forgot Blanquette; and out of +the intricacies of myriad leaf and branch against the sky wove +pictures of Merovingian women. There where the black +branches cut a lozenge of blue was the pale Queen Galeswinthe +lying on her bed. Through yon dark cluster of under-leaves +one could discern the strangler sent by King Hilperic +to murder her. And in that radiant patch silhouetted clear +and cold and fierce in loveliness was Frédégonde waiting for +the King. She was a glittering sword of a woman whose +slayings fascinated me. I much preferred her to the gentler +Brunehilde whose form I saw outlined in a soft shadow of +green. I tried to find frames in my aerial gallery for Brunehilde's +two daughters, Ingonde and Chlodoswinde, especially +the latter whose name appealed to my acquired taste for odd +nomenclature, and the conscious effort brought me back to +the modern world, and the sound of Blanquette's voice.</p> + +<p>"<i>Tu sais</i>, Asticot, I can wash the Master's shirts and mend +his clothes. I can also make his coffee in the morning."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></p> + +<p>Her eyes had a far-away look. She was living in the land of +day dreams even as I had been.</p> + +<p>"I always prepare the Master's breakfast," said I jealously.</p> + +<p>"It is the woman's duty."</p> + +<p>"I don't care," I retorted.</p> + +<p>She unclasped her hands, and coming forward on to her +knees and bending over me, brushed a strand of hair from my +forehead.</p> + +<p>"I will prepare yours too, Asticot," she said gently, "and you +will see how nice that will be. Men can't do these things +where there is a woman to look after them. It is not proper."</p> + +<p>So, flattered in my masculinity, being ranked with Paragot +as a "man," I took a sultanesque view of the situation and +graciously consented to her proposed ministrations.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Paragot came back triumphant from Aix-les-Bains. Hadn't +he told me he had been inspired to go there? The man who +played the violin at the open-air Restaurant by the Lac de +Bourget had just that day fallen ill. The result, a week's +engagement for Blanquette and himself.</p> + +<p>"But, my child," said he, "you will have to suffer an inharmonious +son of Satan who makes a discordant Hades out of an +execrable piano. He had the impudence to tell me that he +came from the Conservatoire. He, with as much ear for music +as an organ-grinder's monkey! He said to me—Paragot—that +I played the violin not too badly! I foresee a hideous +doom overhanging that young man, my children. Before the +week is out I will throw him into the maw of his soul-devouring +piano. Ha! my children, give me to drink, for I am +thirsty."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mindful of my dignity as a man, I glanced at Blanquette, +who went into the café obediently, while I stayed with my +master. It was a sweet moment. Paragot gripped me by +the shoulder.</p> + +<p>"My son, while Blanquette and I work, which Carlyle says +is the noblest function of man, but concerning which I have +my own ideas, you cannot live in red-shirted, pomaded and +otherwise picturesque and studious laziness. Look," he cried, +pointing to a round, flat object wrapped in paper which he had +brought with him. "Do you know what that is?"</p> + +<p>"That," said I, "is a cake."</p> + +<p>"It is a tambourine," said my master.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The next day found us in the garden of the little lake-side +restaurant at Aix-les-Bains playing at lunch time. The young +man at the piano whom I had expected to see a fiend in human +shape was a harmless consumptive fellow who played with the +sweet patience of a musical box. He shook hands with me +and called me "<i>cher collègue</i>," and before nightfall told me +of a disastrous love-story in consequence of which, were it +not for his mother, he would drown himself in the lake. He +effaced himself before Paragot much as the bellows-blower +does before the organist. His politeness to Blanquette would +have put to the blush any young man at the Bon Marché or +the Louvre. His name was Laripet.</p> + +<p>I was ordered to make modest use of my tambourine until +sufficient instruction from Paragot should authorise him +to let me loose with it; I was merely to add to the picturesqueness +of the group on the platform, and at intervals to go +the round of the guests collecting money. I liked this, for I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> +could then jingle the tambourine without fear of reproof. You +have no idea what an ordeal it is for a boy to have a tambourine +which he must not jingle. But the shady charm of the garden +compensated for the repression of noisy instincts. After +months of tramping in the broiling sun, free and perfect as it +was, the easy loafing life seemed sweet. We went little into +the gay town itself. For my part I did not like it. Aix-les-Bains +consisted of a vast Enchanted Garden set in a valley, +great mountains hemming it round. Skirting the Enchanted +Garden were shady streets and mysterious palaces, some +having gardens of their own of a secondary enchantment, +and shops where jewels and perfumes and white ties and flowers +and other objects of strange luxury were exhibited in the windows. +But these took the humble place of mere accessories +to the Enchanted Garden, jealously guarded against Asticot +by great high gilded railings and by blue-coated, silver-buttoned +functionaries at the gates. Within rose two Wonder Houses +gorgeous with dome and pinnacle, bewildering with gold and +snow, displaying before the aching sight the long cool stretch +of verandahs, and offering the baffling glimpse of vast interiors +whence floated the dim sound of music and laughter; and +bright, happy beings, in wondrous raiment, wandered in and +out unchallenged, unconcerned, as if the Wonder Houses were +their birthright.</p> + +<p>I, a shabby, penniless little Peri, stood at the gilded gates +disconsolate. I didn't like it. The mystery of the unknown +beatitude within the Wonder Houses oppressed me to faintness. +<i>It was unimaginable.</i> Through the leaves of a tree I +could see the pale Queen Galeswinthe; but through those gay +enchanting walls I could see nothing. They baulked my soul.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> +When I tried to explain my feelings to Paragot he looked at +me in his kind, sad way and shook his head.</p> + +<p>"My wonder-headed little Asticot," said he, "within those +gewgaw Wonder Houses——" Then he stopped abruptly +and waved me away, "No. It's a devilish good thing for you +to have something your imagination boggles at. Stick to the +Ideal, my son, and hug the Unexplained. The people who +have solved the Riddle of the Universe at fifteen are bowled +over by the Enigma of their cook at fifty. Plug your life as +full as it can hold with fantasy and fairy-tale, and thank God +that your soul is baulked by the Mysteries of the Casinos of +Aix-les-Bains."</p> + +<p>"But what do they do there, Master?" I persisted.</p> + +<p>"The men worship strange goddesses and the women run +after false gods, and all practice fascinating idolatries."</p> + +<p>I did not in the least know what he meant, which was what +he intended. When I consulted Blanquette one morning, as +she and I alone were sauntering down the long shady avenue +which connects the town with the little-port of the lake, she +said that people went into the Cercle and the Villa des Fleurs, +the two Wonder Houses aforesaid, merely to gamble. I pooh-poohed +the notion.</p> + +<p>"The Master says they are Temples of great strange gods, +where people worship."</p> + +<p>"Gods! What an idea! <i>Il n'y a que le bon Dieu</i>," quoth +Blanquette.</p> + +<p>"You have evidently not heard of the gods of Greece and +Rome, Jupiter and Apollo and Venus and Bacchus."</p> + +<p>"<i>Ah, tiens</i>," said Blanquette. "I have heard Italians swear +'Corpo di Bacco.' That is why?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Of course," said I in my grandest manner, "and there are +heaps of other gods besides."</p> + +<p>"All the same," she objected, "I always thought the Italians +were good Catholics."</p> + +<p>"So they may be," said I, "but that doesn't prove that there +are not beautiful gods and goddesses and idols and shrines in +the Cercle and the Villa des Fleurs."</p> + +<p>As this was unanswerable Blanquette diverted the conversation +to the less transcendental topic of the premature baldness +of Monsieur Laripet.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>If the doings of the bright happy beings were hidden from +me while they worshipped in the Casinos, I at least met them +at close quarters in the garden of the Restaurant du Lac. In +some respects this garden resembled that of the Restaurant +du Soleil at Chambéry. There was a verandah round the +restaurant itself, there were trees in joyous leafage, there +were little tables, and there were waiters hurrying to and fro +with napkins under their arms. But that was all the resemblance. +Our little platform stood against the railings separating +the garden from the quay. Behind us shimmered the +blue lake, great mountains rising behind; away on the right, +embosomed in the green mountainside, flashed the white +Château de Hautecombe. Always in mid-lake a tiny paddle-steamer +churned up a wake of white foam. On the quay itself +stood an enchanting little box—a <i>camera obscura</i>—to which I +as a fellow artist was given the <i>entrée</i> by the proprietor, and in +which one could see heavenly pictures of the surrounding landscape; +there were also idle cabs with white awnings, and fezzed +Turks perspiring under furs and rugs which they hawked for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> +sale. In front of us, within the garden, a joyous crowd of the +radiantly raimented laughed over dainty food set on snowy +cloths. Here and there a lobster struck a note of colour, or a +ray of sunlight striking through the red or gold translucencies +of wine in a glass: which distracted my attention from my +orchestral duties and caused an absent-minded jingle of my +tambourine.</p> + +<p>What I loved most was to make my round among the tables +and mingle closely with the worshippers. Of the men, clean +and correct in their perfectly fitting flannels, sometimes stern, +sometimes mocking, sometimes pettishly cross, I was rather +shy; but I was quite at my ease with the women, even with +those whose many rings and jewels, violent perfumes and daring +effects of dress made me instinctively differentiate from their quieter +and less bejewelled sisters. Blanquette laughingly called +me a "<i>petit polisson</i>" and said that I made soft eyes at them. +Perhaps I did. When one is a hundred and fifty it is hard to +realise that one's little scarecrow boy's eyes may have touched +the hearts of women. But the appeal of the outstretched tambourine +was rarely refused.</p> + +<p>"Get out of this," the man would say.</p> + +<p>"But no. Remain. <i>Il a l'air si drôle</i>—what is your name?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Je m'appelle Asticot, Madame, à votre service.</i>"</p> + +<p>This always amused the lady. She would search through an +invariably empty purse.</p> + +<p>"Give him fifty centimes."</p> + +<p>And the man would throw a silver piece into the tambourine.</p> + +<p>Once I was in luck. The lady found a ten-franc piece in her +purse.</p> + +<p>"That is all I have."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I have no change," growled the man.</p> + +<p>"If I give you this," said the lady, "what would you do with +it?"</p> + +<p>"If Madame would tell me where to get it, I would buy a +photograph of Madame," said I, with one of Paragot's "inspirations"; +for she was very pretty.</p> + +<p>"<i>Voilà</i>," she laughed putting the gold into my hand. "<i>Tu +me fais la cour, maintenant.</i> Come and see me at the Villa +Marcelle and I will give you a photograph gratis."</p> + +<p>But Paragot when I repeated the conversation to him called +the lady shocking names, and forbade me to go within a mile +of the Villa Marcelle. So I did not get the photograph.</p> + +<p>The next best thing I loved was to see Blanquette's eyes +glitter when I returned to the platform and poured silver and +copper into her lap. She uttered strange little exclamations +under her breath, and her fingers played caressingly with the +coins.</p> + +<p>"We gain more here in a day than Père Paragot did in a +week. It is wonderful. <i>N'est-ce pas, Maître?</i>" she said one +morning.</p> + +<p>Paragot tuned his violin and looked down on her.</p> + +<p>"Money pleases you, Blanquette?"</p> + +<p>"Of course."</p> + +<p>She counted the takings sou by sou.</p> + +<p>"Yet you did not want to accept your just share."</p> + +<p>"What you make me take is not just, Master," she said, +simply.</p> + +<p>Much as she loved money, her sense of justice rebelled +against Paragot's division of the takings—a third for Laripet, +a third for Blanquette and a third for himself which he generously<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> +shared with me. Père Paragot used to sweep into his +pockets every sou and Blanquette had to subsist on whatever +he chose to allow for joint expenses. Her new position of independence +was a subject for much inward pride, mingled +however with a consciousness of her own unworthiness. Monsieur +Laripet, yes; she would grant that he was entitled to the +same as the Master; but herself—no. Was not the Master +the great artist, and she but the clumsy strummer? Was he +not also a man, with more requirements than she—tobacco, +absinthe, brandy and the like?</p> + +<p>"A third is too much," she added.</p> + +<p>"If you argue," said he, "I will divide it in halves for Laripet +and yourself, and I won't touch a penny."</p> + +<p>"That would be idiotic," said Blanquette.</p> + +<p>"It would be in keeping with life generally," he answered. +"In a comic opera one thing is not more idiotic than another. +Yes, Monsieur Laripet, we will give them <i>Funiculi, Funiculà</i>. +I once drove in coffin nails to that tune in Verona. Now we +will set people eating to it in Aix-les-Bains—we, Monsieur +Laripet, you and I, who ought to be the petted minions of great +capitals! It is a comic opera."</p> + +<p>"One has to get bread or one would starve," said Blanquette +pursuing her argument. "And to get bread one must have +money. If I had all the money you would not eat bread."</p> + +<p>"I should eat <i>brioches</i>," laughed Paragot quoting Marie +Antoinette.</p> + +<p>"You always laugh at me, Master," said Blanquette wistfully.</p> + +<p>Paragot drew his bow across the strings.</p> + +<p>"There is nothing in this comical universe I don't laugh at,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> +my little Blanquette," said he. "I am like good old Montaigne—I +rather laugh than weep, because to laugh is the more +dignified."</p> + +<p>Laripet struck a chord on the piano. Paragot joined in and +played three bars. Then he stopped short. There was not +the vestige of a laugh on his face. It was deadly white, and his +eyes were those of a man who sees a ghost.</p> + +<p>The four bright happy beings, two ladies and two men who +had just entered the garden and at whom his stare was directed, +took no notice, but followed a bowing maître d'hôtel to a table +that had been reserved for them.</p> + +<p>I sprang to the platform, on the edge of which I had been +squatting at Blanquette's feet.</p> + +<p>"Are you ill, Master?"</p> + +<p>He started. "Ill? Of course not. Pardon, Monsieur Laripet. +<i>Recommençons.</i>"</p> + +<p>He plunged into the merry tune and fiddled with all his might, +as if nothing had happened. But I saw his nostrils quivering +and the sweat running down his face into his beard.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> <i>Funiculi Funiculà</i> was over he sat on the wooden +chair provided for him and wiped his face. His hands shook. +He beckoned me to come near.</p> + +<p>"Do I look too grotesque a mountebank Tomfool?" he +asked in English.</p> + +<p>He was wearing the pearl-buttoned velveteen suit whose +magnificence he had enhanced by newly purchased steel-buckled +shoes and black stockings, and to a less bigoted worshipper +than me I suppose he must have looked a mountebank +Tomfool; but I only gaped at his question.</p> + +<p>"Do I?" he repeated almost fiercely.</p> + +<p>"You look beautiful, Master," said I.</p> + +<p>He passed his lean fingers wearily over his eyes. "Pardon, +my little Asticot. There are things in Heaven and Earth etc. +Myriads of Mysteries. As many in the heart of man as in +your Wonder Houses yonder. Get me some brandy. Three +<i>petits verres</i> poured into a tumbler."</p> + +<p>I went off to the restaurant and obtained the drink. When +I returned they were playing the mocking chorus that runs +through "Orphée aux Enfers."</p> + +<p>The number over, Paragot drained the glass at one gulp. +The company broke into unusual applause. Some one shouted +"<i>Bis!</i>"</p> + +<p>"Get me some more," said he. "Do you know why I chose +that tune?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No, Master."</p> + +<p>"Because twenty devils entered into me and played leapfrog +over one another."</p> + +<p>"I am very fond of that little tune. It is so gay," said Blanquette, +as if she were introducing a fresh topic of conversation.</p> + +<p>"I detest it," said my master.</p> + +<p>The maître d'hôtel came up and asked that the chorus should +be played again as an encore. I fetched Paragot's drink and +having set it down beside him on the platform, went round +with my tambourine. When I reached the table at which the +four new comers were seated I found that they spoke English. +They were a young man in a straw hat, a young girl, a forbidding +looking man of forty with a beaky nose, and the loveliest +lady I have ever seen in my life. She had the complexion of a +sea-shell. Her eyes were the blue of glaciers, and they shone +cold and steadfast; but her lips were kind. Her black hair under +the large white tulle hat had the rare bluish tinge, looking +as if cigarette smoke had been blown through it. Small and +exquisitely made she sat the princess of my boyish dreams.</p> + +<p>"I call it a ripping tune," cried the young girl.</p> + +<p>"I hate it more than any other tune in the world," said the +lovely lady with a shiver.</p> + +<p>Her voice was like a peal of bells or running water or whatever +silvery sounding things you will.</p> + +<p>"It is very absurd to have such prejudices," said the beaky-nosed +man of forty. He spoke like a Frenchman, and like a +very disagreeable Frenchman. How dared he address my +princess in that tone?</p> + +<p>I extended my tambourine.</p> + +<p>"<i>Qu'est-ce que vous désirez?</i>" asked the straw-hatted young<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> +man in an accent as Britannic as the main deck of the Bellerophon.</p> + +<p>"Anything that the ladies will kindly give me, Sir," I replied +in our native tongue.</p> + +<p>"Hullo! English? What are you knocking about France +for?"</p> + +<p>I glanced at the lovely lady. She was crumbling bread and +not taking the least notice of me. I was piqued.</p> + +<p>"My Master thinks it the best way to teach me philosophy, +Sir," said I politely. If I had not learned much philosophy +from him I had at least learned politeness. The lady looked +up with a smile. The young girl exclaimed that either my +remark or myself—I forget which—was ripping. I paid little +heed to her. I have always disregarded the people of one +adjective; they seem poverty-stricken to one who has sunned +himself in the wealth of Paragot's epithets.</p> + +<p>"Your master is the gentleman in the pearl buttons?" +enquired the young man.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Sir."</p> + +<p>"What's his name?"</p> + +<p>"Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot, Sir," said I so proudly that +the lovely princess laughed.</p> + +<p>"I must look at him," she said turning round in her chair.</p> + +<p>I too glanced at the familiar group on the platform: Laripet +with his back to us, working his arms and shoulders at the +piano; Blanquette seated on the other side, thrumming away +at the zither on her lap; Narcisse lolling his tongue in that +cynical grin of his; and Paragot fiddling in front, like a fiddler +possessed, his clear eyes fixed on the lady in a most uncanny +stare.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span></p> + +<p>When she turned again, she shivered once more. She +did not look up but went on crumbling bread. It shocked me +to notice that the pink of her sea-shell face had gone and that +her fingers trembled. Then a wild conjecture danced through +my brain and I forgot my tambourine.</p> + +<p>"You still here?" laughed the young man. "What are +you waiting for?"</p> + +<p>I started. "I beg your pardon, Sir," said I moving away. +He laughed and called me back.</p> + +<p>"Here are two francs to buy a philosophy book."</p> + +<p>"And here are five sous not to come and worry us again," +said the older man in French. While I was wondering why +they tolerated such a disagreeable man in the party my beautiful +lady's fingers flew to the gilt chain purse by her side. "And +here are five francs because you are English!" she exclaimed; +and as she held me for a second with her eyes I saw in them +infinite depths of sadness and longing.</p> + +<p>When I returned to the platform the piece had just been +brought to an end. Paragot poured his second brandy down +his throat and sat with his head in his hands. I shed, as usual, +my takings into Blanquette's lap. On seeing the five-franc +piece her eyes equalled it in size.</p> + +<p>"<i>Tiens! Cent sous!</i> who gave it you?"</p> + +<p>I explained. The most beautiful lady in the world. Paragot +raised his head and looked at me haggardly.</p> + +<p>"Why did she give you five francs?"</p> + +<p>"Because I was English, she said."</p> + +<p>"Did she talk to you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Master, and I have never heard anyone speak so +beautifully."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p> + +<p>Paragot made no answer, but began to tune his violin.</p> + +<p>During the next interval my quartette left the restaurant. +I ran to the gate, and bowed as they passed by.</p> + +<p>The young fellow gave me a friendly nod, but the lovely +lady swept out cold-eyed, looking neither to right nor left. +A large two-horsed cab with a gay awning awaited them on +the quay. As my lady entered, her skirt uplifted ever so little +disclosed the most delicately shaped, tiny foot that has ever +been attached to woman, and then I felt sure.</p> + +<p>"Those little feet so adored." The haunting phrase leaped +to my brain and I stood staring at the departing carriage +athrill with excitement.</p> + +<p>It was Joanna—lovelier than I had pictured her in my Lotus +Club dreams, more gracious than Ingonde or Chlodoswinde +or any of the <i>belles dames du temps jadis</i> whose ballade by +Maître François Villon my master had but lately made me +learn by heart and whose names were so many "sweet symphonies." +It was Joanna, "pure and ravishing as an April +dawn"; Joanna beloved of Paragot in those elusive days +when I could not picture him, before he smashed his furniture +with a crusader's mace and started on his wanderings under +the guidance of Henri Quatre. It was Joanna whom he had +an agonized desire to see in Madrid and whose silvery English +voice he had longed to hear. And I, Asticot, had seen her +and had heard her silvery voice. Among boys assuredly I +was the most blessed.</p> + +<p>But Paragot seemed that day of all men the most miserable, +and I more dog-like than Narcisse in my sympathy with +his moods, almost lifted up my nose and whined for woe. All +my thrill died away. I felt guilty, oddly ashamed of myself.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> +I took a pessimistic view of life. What, thought I, are Joannas +sent into the world for, save to play havoc with men's happiness? +Maître François Villon was quite right. Samson, +Sardanapalus, David, Maître François himself, all came to +grief over Joannas. "<i>Bien heureux qui rien n'y a.</i>" Happy +is he who has nothing to do with 'em.</p> + +<p>As soon as we were free Paragot left us, and went off by himself; +whereupon I, mimetic as an ape, rejected the humble +Blanquette's invitation to take a walk with her, and strolled +moodily into the town with Narcisse at my heels. A dog fight +or two and a Byronic talk with a little towheaded flower-seller +who gave me a dusty bunch of cyclamen—as a <i>porte-bonheur</i> +she said prettily—whiled away the time until the people began +to drift out of the Wonder Houses to dress for dinner. I +lingered at the gates, going from one to the other, in the unavowed +hope, little idiot that I was, of seeing Joanna. At +last, at the main entrance to the Villa des Fleurs I caught sight +of Paragot. He had changed from the velveteens into his +vagabond clothes, and was evidently on the same errand as +myself. I did not venture near, respecting his desire for +solitude, but lounged at the corner of the main street and the +road leading down to the Villa, playing with Narcisse and +longing for something to happen. You see it is not given every +day to an impressionable youngster, his brain stuffed with +poetry, pictures, and such like delusive visionary things, to +tumble head first into the romance of the actual world. For +the moment the romance was at a standstill. I longed for a +further chapter. It was a pity, I reflected, that we did not live +in Merovingian times. Then Paragot and I could have lain +in wait with our horses—everyone had horses in knightly days—and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> +when Joanna came near, we should have killed the beaky-nosed +man, and Paragot would have swung her on his saddlebow +and we should have galloped away to his castle in the +next kingdom, where Paragot, and Joanna and I, with Blanquette +to be tirewoman to our princess, would have lived +happy ever after. What I expected to get for myself, heaven +knows: it did not strike me that perennial contemplation of +another's bliss might wear out the stoutest altruism.</p> + +<p>Then suddenly out of the door of the Villa came two ladies, +one of whom I recognised as Joanna and the other as the young +girl of the luncheon party. The façade of the villa stretches +across the road and is about a hundred yards from the corner. +I saw Paragot stand rigid, and make no sign of recognition as +she passed him by, with her head up, like a proud queen. I +felt an odd pain at my heart. Why was she so cruel? Her eyes +were of the blue of glaciers, but all the rest of her face had +seemed tender and kind. I was aware, in a general way, that +radiantly attired ladies do not shake hands with ragamuffins +in public places, but you must please to remember that I no +more considered Paragot a ragamuffin than I thought Blanquette +the equal of Joanna. Paragot to me was the peer of +kings.</p> + +<p>I turned away sorrowing and sauntered up the little street +that leads to the Etablissement des Bains. I was disappointed +in Joanna and did not want to see her again. She should be +punished for her cruelty. I sat down on one of the benches +on the Place, and looking at the Mairie clock stolidly thought of +supper. They made famous onion soup at the little auberge +where we lodged, and Paragot, himself a connoisseur, had +pronounced their <i>tripes à la mode de Caen</i> superior to anything<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> +that Mrs. Housekeeper had executed for the Lotus Club. +Besides I was getting hungry. With youth a full heart rarely +compensates an empty stomach, and now even my heart was +growing empty.</p> + +<p>Presently who should emerge into the Place but the two +ladies. I sat on my bench and watched them cross. They +were evidently going up the hill to one of the hotels behind the +Etablissement. In her white dress and white tulle hat coloured +by three great roses, with her beautiful hair and sea-shell face +and swaying supple figure, she looked the incarnation of all +that was worshipful in woman. I could have knelt and prayed +to her. Why was she so cruel to my master? I regarded her +with mingled reproach and adoration. But the mixed feeling +gave place to one of amazement when I saw her separate from +her companion, who continued her way up the hill, and strike +straight across the Place in my direction.</p> + +<p><i>She was coming to me.</i></p> + +<p>I rose, took off my ragged hat and twirled it in my fingers, +which was the way that Paragot had taught me to be polite in +France.</p> + +<p>"I want to speak to you," she said quickly. "You are the +boy with the tambourine, aren't you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Mademoiselle."</p> + +<p>Paragot had threatened to shoot me if I called any young lady +"Miss."</p> + +<p>"What is the name of the—the gentleman who played the +violin?"</p> + +<p>"Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot."</p> + +<p>"That is not his real name?"</p> + +<p>"No, Mademoiselle," said I.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What is it?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said I. "This is a new name; he has only +had it a week."</p> + +<p>"How long have you known him?"</p> + +<p>"A long, long time, Mademoiselle. He adopted me when +I was quite small."</p> + +<p>"You are not very big now," she said with a smile.</p> + +<p>"I am nearly sixteen," said I proudly.</p> + +<p>To herself she murmured, "I don't think I can be mistaken."</p> + +<p>In a different tone she continued, "You spoke some nonsense +about his being your master and teaching you philosophy."</p> + +<p>"It wasn't nonsense," I replied stoutly. "He teaches me +everything. He teaches me history and Shakespeare and François +Villon, and painting and Schopenhauer and the tambourine."</p> + +<p>Her pretty lips pouted in a little gasp of astonishment as she +leaned on her long parasol and looked at me.</p> + +<p>"You are the oddest little freak I have come across for a +long time."</p> + +<p>I smiled happily. She could have called me anything opprobrious +in that silvery voice of hers and I should have smiled. +Now I come to think of it "smile" is the wrong word. The +man smiles, the boy grins. I grinned happily.</p> + +<p>"Has your master always played the violin in orchestras +like this?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, Mademoiselle," said I. "Of course not. He only +began four days ago."</p> + +<p>"What was his employment till then?"</p> + +<p>"Why, none," said I.</p> + +<p>It seemed absurd for Paragot to have employment like a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> +man behind a shop-counter. I remembered acquaintances of +my mother's who were "out of employment" and their unspeakable +vileness. Then, echo of Paragot (for what else +could I be?), I added: "We just walk about Europe for the +sake of my education. My master said I was to learn Life +from the Book of the Universe."</p> + +<p>The lovely lady sat down.</p> + +<p>"I believe you are nothing more nor less than an amazing +little parrot. I'm sure you speak exactly like your master."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, Mademoiselle," said I modestly, "I wish I could. +There is no one who can talk like him in all the world."</p> + +<p>She gave me a long, steady, half-frightened look out of her +blue eyes. I know now that I had struck a chord of memory; +that I had established beyond question in her mind Paragot's +identity with the man who had loved her in days past; that +old things sweet and terrifying surged within her heart. +Even then, holding their secret, I saw that she had recognised +Paragot.</p> + +<p>"You must think me a very inquisitive lady," she said, with +a forced smile; "but you must forgive me. What you said +this morning about your master teaching you philosophy +interested me greatly. One thing I should like to know," +and she dug at the gravel with the point of her parasol, "and +that I hardly like to ask. Is he—are you—very poor?"</p> + +<p>"Poor?" It was a totally new idea. "Why, no, Mademoiselle; +he has a great bank in London which sends him +bank-notes whenever he wants them. I once went with him. +He has heaps of money."</p> + +<p>The lady rose. "So this going about as a mountebank is +only a masquerade," she said, with a touch of scorn.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span></p> + +<p>"He did it to help Blanquette," said I.</p> + +<p>"Blanquette?"</p> + +<p>"The girl who plays the zither. My master has adopted her +too."</p> + +<p>"Oh, has he?" said the lady, the blue of her eyes becoming +frosty again. I dimly perceived that in mentioning Blanquette +I had been indiscreet. In what respect, I know not. I had +intended my remark to be a tribute to Paragot's wide-heartedness. +She took it as if I had told her of a crime. Women, +even the loveliest of dream Joannas, are a mystifying race. +"<i>Bien heureux qui rien n'y a.</i>"</p> + +<p>"Goodbye," she said.</p> + +<p>"Goodbye, Mademoiselle."</p> + +<p>She must have read mortification in my face, for she turned +after a step or two, and said more kindly.</p> + +<p>"You're not responsible, anyway." Then she paused, as +if hesitating, while I stood hat in hand, as I had done during +our conversation.</p> + +<p>"I wonder if I can trust you."</p> + +<p>She took her purse from the bag hanging at her waist and +drew out a gold piece.</p> + +<p>"I will give you this if you promise not to tell your Master +that you have spoken to me this afternoon."</p> + +<p>I shrank back. Remember I had been for three years in +the hourly companionship of a man of lofty soul for all his waywardness, +and he had modelled me like wax to his liking. The +gold piece was tempting. I had never owned a gold piece in +my life—and all the frost had melted from Joanna's eyes. +But I felt I should be dishonored in taking money.</p> + +<p>"I promise without that," I said.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span></p> + +<p>She put the coin back in her purse and held out her delicately +gloved hand.</p> + +<p>"Promise with this, then," she said.</p> + +<p>And then I knew for the first time what an exquisite sensitive +thing is a sweet, high-bred lady. Only such a one could have +performed that act of grace. She converted me into a besotted +little imbecile weltering in bliss. I would have pledged my +soul's welfare to execute any phantasmagoric behest she had +chosen to ordain.</p> + +<p>"I am leaving Aix tomorrow morning—but if you are ever +in any trouble—by the way what is your name?"</p> + +<p>"Asticot Pradel," said I, reflecting for the first time that +though Polydore Pradel had perished and Berzélius Nibbidard +Paragot reigned in his stead, my own borrowed or invented +name remained unaltered. Augustus Smith lingered in my +memory as a vague, mythical creature of no account.</p> + +<p>Joanna smiled. "You are a little masquerader too. Well—if +you are ever in any trouble, and I can help you—remember +the Comtesse de Verneuil, 7 Avenue de Messine, Paris."</p> + +<p>This offer of friendship took my breath away. I grinned +stupidly at her. I was also puzzled.</p> + +<p>"What is the matter?" she laughed.</p> + +<p>"The Comtesse de Verneuil?—but you are English," I stammered.</p> + +<p>"Yes. But my husband is French. He is the Comte de +Verneuil. Remember 7 Avenue de Messine."</p> + +<p>She nodded graciously and turned away leaving a stupefied +Asticot twirling his hat. Her husband! And I had been +calling her Mademoiselle all the time! And I had been weaving +fairy tales of our riding off with her to Paragot's castle!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> +She was married. Her husband was the Comte de Verneuil! +Worse than that. Her husband was the disagreeable beaky-nosed +man who gave me five sous to go away.</p> + +<p>A sense of desolation, disaster, disillusionment overwhelmed +me. I sat on the bench and burst out crying and Narcisse +jumped up and licked my face.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was nearly midnight when Paragot returned to our inn +on the outskirts of the town. He reeled up to the doorstep +where I sat in the moonlight awaiting his return.</p> + +<p>"Why aren't you in bed?"</p> + +<p>"It was too hot and I couldn't sleep, Master," said I. As a +matter of fact I had been dismally failing to compose a poem +on Joanna after the style of Maître François Villon. Just as +youthful dramatists begin with a five act tragedy, so do youthful +poets begin with a double ballade. In order to eke out the +slender stock of rhymes to Joanna, I had to drag in Indianna +which somehow didn't fit. I remember also that she showered +her favours like manna, which was not very original.</p> + +<p>Paragot seated himself heavily by my side.</p> + +<p>"The moon has a baleful influence, my son," said he in a +thick voice. "And you'll come under it if you sit too long +beneath its effulgence. That's what has happened to me. It +makes one talk unmentionable imbecility."</p> + +<p>He just missed concertina-ing the last two words, and looked +at me with an air of solemn triumph.</p> + +<p>"It isn't the Man in the Moon's fault, my little Asticot," +he continued. "I've been having a very interesting conversation +with him. He is a most polite fellow. He said if I would +go up and join him he would make room for me. It's all a +lie, you know, about his having been sent there for gathering +sticks on a Sunday. He went of his own accord, because it was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> +the only place where he could be four thousand miles away +from any woman. Think of it, little Asticot of my heart. +There are lots of lies told about the moon, he says. He looks +down on the earth and sees all of us little worms wriggling in and +out and over one another and thinking ourselves so important +and he cracks his sides with laughing; and your bald-headed +idiots with spyglasses take the cracks for mountain ranges and +volcanoes. I'm going to live in the moon, away from female +feminine women, and if you are good my son, you shall come too."</p> + +<p>I explained to him as delicately as I could that I should regard +such a change rather as a punishment than as a reward. He +broke into a laugh.</p> + +<p>"You too—with the milk of the feeding-bottle still wet on +your lips? The trail of the petticoat's over us all! What has +been putting the sex feminine into your little turnip-head? +Have you fallen in love with Blanquette?"</p> + +<p>"No, Master," said I. "When I fall in love it will be with a +very beautiful lady."</p> + +<p>Paragot pointed upwards. "I see another crack in my +friend's sides. We all fall in love with beautiful ladies, my +poor Asticot, one after the other, plunging into destruction +with the comic sheep-headedness of the muttons of Panurge. +Another woolly one over? Ho! ho! laughs the man in the +moon, and crack go his sides."</p> + +<p>The door opened behind us and the proprietor of the auberge +appeared on the threshold.</p> + +<p>"Give me half a litre of red wine, Monsieur Bonnivard," +cried Paragot. "I am the descendant of Maître Jehan Cotard +whose throat was so dry that in this world he was never known +to spit."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Bien, Monsieur," said the <i>patron</i>.</p> + +<p>Paragot filled his porcelain pipe and lit it with clumsy fingers, +and did not speak till his wine was brought.</p> + +<p>"My son, we are leaving Aix the first thing in the morning."</p> + +<p>I started up in alarm. We had not finished our engagement +at the Restaurant du Lac.</p> + +<p>"I care no more for the Restaurant du Lac than for the rest +of the idiot universe," he declared.</p> + +<p>"But Blanquette—it would break her heart."</p> + +<p>"All women's hearts can be mended for twopence."</p> + +<p>"And men's?"</p> + +<p>"They have to go about with them broken, my son, and the +pieces clank and jangle and chink and jingle inside like a crate +of broken crockery. We leave Aix tomorrow."</p> + +<p>"But Master," I cried, "there is no necessity."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"She is leaving Aix herself tomorrow."</p> + +<p>"She!" he shouted, quite sober for the moment. "Who +the devil do you mean by 'she'?"</p> + +<p>I upbraided myself for a vain idiot. Here was I on the point +of breaking my oath sworn on Joanna's hand. I felt ashamed +and frightened. He grasped my shoulder roughly.</p> + +<p>"Who do you mean by 'she'? Tell me."</p> + +<p>"The Lady of the Lake, Master," said I.</p> + +<p>He looked at me for a moment keenly, then relaxed his grip +and shrugged his shoulders with the ghost of a laugh.</p> + +<p>"If you see holes in ladders in this perspicacious fashion +you'll have to forsake the paths of art for the higher walks of +the Prefecture of Police."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p> + +<p>He puffed silently at his pipe for a few moments and then +turning his head away asked me in a low voice:</p> + +<p>"How can you know that she is leaving tomorrow?"</p> + +<p>I lied for the first time to Paragot.</p> + +<p>"I overheard her say so while I was waiting with the tambourine."</p> + +<p>"Sure?"</p> + +<p>"Quite sure."</p> + +<p>This seemed to satisfy him, to my great relief. How my +poor little oath would have fared under cross examination I +don't know. At any rate honour was saved. Paragot laid +aside his pipe and looked wistfully into the past over his wine +bowl.</p> + +<p>"The Lady of the Lake," he murmured. "I have called +her many things good and bad in my time, but never that. +You are a genius, my little Asticot."</p> + +<p>He finished his wine slowly, holding the bowl in both hands. +The moon smiled at us in a friendly way, sailing high over the +mountains. There entered my head the novel reflection that +he was smiling on all men alike, the good and the bad, the just +and the unjust. He was smiling just the same on Joanna's +beaky-nosed husband.</p> + +<p>Her husband! Something caught at my heart. Did Paragot +know? I debated anxiously in my mind whether I should +impart the disastrous information. If he knew that she was +a married woman he would put foolish thoughts out of his head, +for it was only in Merovingian and such like romantic epochs +that men loved other men's wives. I touched him timidly on +the arm.</p> + +<p>"Master,—I overheard something else."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Did you?"</p> + +<p>"She is married, and that is her husband."</p> + +<p>"Did he take off his hat?"</p> + +<p>"No, Master."</p> + +<p>"He is a scaly-headed vulture," said Paragot dreamily.</p> + +<p>"He only gave me five sous," said I, relieved and yet disappointed +at finding that my disclosure produced no agitation.</p> + +<p>Paragot fumbled in his pocket. "We will not batten on his +charity," said he, and he cast three or four coppers into the +silent street. They crashed, rolled and fell over with little +chinks. Narcisse who had hitherto been asleep trotted out +and sniffed at them. Paragot laughed; then checked himself, +and holding up a long-nailed forefinger looked at me with an +air of awful solemnity.</p> + +<p>"Listen to the wisdom of Paragot. There is not a woman +worth a clean man that does not marry a scaly-headed vulture."</p> + +<p>He murmured an incoherence or two, and there was then a +long silence. Presently his head knocked sharply against the +lintel. I roused him.</p> + +<p>"Master, it won't be good for us to sit any longer in the +moonshine."</p> + +<p>He turned a glazed look on me. "Minerva's Owl," said he, +"I am quite aware of it."</p> + +<p>He rose and lumbered into the inn, and I, having guided him +up the narrow staircase to his room, descended to my bunk +in a corner of the tiny salon. My sleeping arrangements were +always sketchy.</p> + +<p>In the morning when I questioned him as to our departure +from Aix, he affected not to understand, and told me that I had +been dreaming and that the moonshine had affected my brain.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Consider, my son," said he, "that when I returned last +night, I found you fast asleep on the doorstep, and you never +woke up till this morning."</p> + +<p>From this I gathered that for the second time he had dosed +the book of his life to my prying though innocent eyes. I also +learned the peculiar difference between Philip drunk and +Philip sober.</p> + +<p>When our engagement at Aix was at an end, the proprietor +of the restaurant desired to renew it, but Paragot declined. +The sick violinist whom we had replaced had recovered and +Paragot had seen him on the quay looking through the railings +with the hungry eyes of a sort of musical Enoch Arden. +Blanquette had some little difficulty in preventing him from +rushing out there and then and delivering his fiddle into +the other's hands. It was necessary to be reasonable, she +said.</p> + +<p>"<i>Nom de Dieu!</i>" he cried, "if I were reasonable I should be +lost. Reason would set me down in Paris with gloves and an +umbrella. Reason would implant a sunny smile on my face above +the red ribbon of the Legion of Honour. It would +marry me to the daughter of one of my <i>confrères</i> at the Académie +des Beaux Arts. It would make me procreate my species, +<i>cré nom de Dieu!</i> It would make me send you and Asticot +and Narcisse to the devil. If I were reasonable I should not +be Paragot. The man who lives according to reason has the +heart of a sewing-machine."</p> + +<p>But out of regard for Blanquette he served his time faithfully +at the Restaurant du Lac, and reconciled his conscience with +reason by giving the hungry violinist his own share of the +takings. It was only when Blanquette suggested the further<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> +exploitation of Aix that he showed his Gascon obduracy. If +there was one place in the world where the soul sickened and +festered it was Aix-les-Bains. Mammon was King thereof +and Astarte Queen. He was going to fiddle no more for sons +of Belial and daughters of Aholah. He had set out to travel +to the Heart of Truth, and the way thither did not lead +through the Inner Shrine of Dagon and Astaroth. Blanquette +did not in the least know what he was talking about, and I only +had a vague glimmer of his meaning. But I see now that his +sensitive nature chafed at the false position. Among the simple +village folk he was a personality, compelling awe and admiration. +Among the idlers of Aix, whom in his loftiness he despised, he +was but the fiddling mountebank to whom any greasy wallower +in riches could cast a disdainful franc.</p> + +<p>So once more we took to the high road, and Paragot threw off +the depressing burden of Mammon (Joanna) and became his +irresponsible self again.</p> + +<p>I have but confused memories of our fantastic journeyings. +Stretches of long white road and blazing sun. Laughing +valleys and corn fields and white farmsteads among the trees. +Now and then a village fête or wedding at which we played +to the enthusiasm of the sober vested peasantry. Nights passed +in barns, deserted byres, on the floor of cottages and infinitesimal +cafés. Hours of idleness by the wayside after the midday +meal, when the four of us sat round the fare provided by Blanquette, +black bread, cheese, charcuterie and the eternal bottle +of thin wine. It was rough, but there was plenty. Paragot +saw to that, in spite of Blanquette's economical endeavours. +Sometimes he would sleep while she and I chatted in low voices +so as not to wake him. She told me of her wanderings with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> +the old man, the hardness of her former life. Often she had +cried herself to sleep for hunger, shivering in wet rags the long +night through. Now it was all changed: she ate too much and +was getting as fat as a pig. Did I not think so? <i>Voilà!</i> In +her artless way she guided my finger into her waistband and +then swelled herself out like the frog in the fable to prove the +increase in her girth. She spoke in awestricken whispers of +the Master himself. Save that he was utterly kind, impulsive, +generous, boastful, and according to her untrained ear a violinist +of the first quality, she knew not what manner of man he +was. She had enough imagination to feel vaguely that he had +dropped from vast spaces into her narrow world. But he was a +mystery.</p> + +<p>Once, the previous summer, as she was resting by the roadside +with the old man, even as we were doing then, an amiable +person, she told me, with easel and stool and paint-box, came +along and requested their permission to make an oil sketch +of them. While he painted he conversed, telling them of +Sicily whither he was going and of Paris whence he came. +In a dim way she associated him with Paragot. The two had +the same trick of voice and manner, and held unusual views as +to the value of five francs. But the amiable painter had been +a gentleman elegantly dressed, such as she saw in the large +towns driving in cabs and consuming drinks in expensive cafés, +whereas the Master was attired like a peasant and slept in +barns and did everything that the elegantly dressed gentlemen +in cafés did not do. At all events she was penetrated +with the consciousness of a loftier mind and spirit, and she +contented herself even as I did with being his devoted slave.</p> + +<p>Often too she spoke of her own ambitions. If she were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> +rich she would have a little house of her own. Perhaps for +company she would like someone to stay with her. She would +keep it so clean, and would mend all the linen, and do the cooking, +and save to go to market, would never leave it from one +year's end to the other. A good sleek cat to curl up by the +fireside would complete her felicity.</p> + +<p>"But Blanquette!" I would cry. "The sun and the stars and +the high road and the smell of spring and the fields and the +freedom of this life—you would miss them."</p> + +<p>"<i>J'aime le ménage, moi</i>," she would reply, shaking her head.</p> + +<p>Of all persons I have ever met the least imbued with the +vagabond instinct was the professional vagabond Blanquette +de Veau.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, instead of sleeping, Paragot would talk to us +from the curious store of his learning, always bent on my education +and desirous too of improving the mind of Blanquette. +Sometimes it was Blanquette who slept, Narcisse huddled up +against her, while Paragot and I read our tattered books, or +sketched, or discussed the theme which I had written overnight +as my evening task. It was an odd school; but though I +could not have passed any examination held by the sons of +men, I verily believe I had a wider culture, in the truest sense +of the word, than most youths of my age. I craved it, it is true, +and I drank from an inexhaustible source; but few men have +the power of directing that source so as to supply the soul's +need of a boy of sixteen.</p> + +<p>Well, well—I suppose Allah Paragot is great and Mahomet +Asticot is his prophet.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We wandered and fiddled and zithered and tambourined<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> +through France till the chills and rains of autumn rendered +our vagabondage less merry. The end of October found us +fulfilling a week's engagement at a brasserie on the outskirts +of Tours. Two rooms over a stable and a manger in an empty +stall below were assigned to us; and every night we crept to +our resting places wearied to death by the evening's work.</p> + +<p>I have always found performance on a musical instrument +exhausting in itself: the tambourine, for instance, calls for +considerable physical energy; but when the instrument, tambourine, +violin or zither, is practised for several hours in a little +stuffy room filled with three or four dozen obviously unwashed +humans, reeking with bad tobacco and worse absinthe, and +pervaded by the ghosts of inferior meals, it becomes more +penitential than the treadmill. A dog's life, said Paragot. +Whereat Narcisse sniffed. It was not at all the life for a philosopher's +dog, said he.</p> + +<p>On the morning of the last day of our engagement, Blanquette +entered Paragot's bedchamber as usual, with the bowls +of coffee and hunks of coarse bread that formed our early +meal. I had risen from my manger and crept into Paragot's +room for warmth, and while he slept I sat on the floor by the +window reading a book. As for Blanquette she had dressed +and eaten long before and had helped the servant of the café +to sweep and wash the tables and make the coffee for the household. +It was not in her peasant's nature to be abed, which, +now I come to think of it, must be a characteristic of the artistic +temperament. Paragot loved it. He only woke when +Blanquette brought him his coffee. Ordinarily he would +remonstrate with picturesque oaths at being aroused from his +slumbers, and having taken the coffee from her hands, would<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> +dismiss her with a laugh. He observed the most rigid propriety +in his relations with Blanquette. But this morning +he directed her to remain.</p> + +<p>"Sit down, my child; I have to speak to you."</p> + +<p>As there was no chair or stool in the uncomfortable room—it +had lean-to walls and bare dirty boards and contained only +the bed and a table—she sat obediently at the foot of the bed +next to Narcisse and folded her hands in her lap. Paragot +broke his bread into his coffee and fed himself with the sops +by means of a battered table-spoon. When he had swallowed +two or three mouthfuls he addressed her.</p> + +<p>"My good Blanquette, I have been wandering through the +world for many years in search of the springs of Life. I do +not find them by scraping catgut in the Café Brasserie Dubois."</p> + +<p>"It would be better to go to Orléans," said Blanquette. +"We were at the Café de la Couronne there last winter and I +danced."</p> + +<p>"Not even your dancing at Orléans would help me in my +quest," said he.</p> + +<p>"I don't understand," murmured Blanquette looking at him +helplessly.</p> + +<p>"Have the kindness," said he, pointing to the table, "to +smash that confounded violin into a thousand pieces."</p> + +<p>"<i>Mon Dieu!</i> What is the matter?" cried Blanquette.</p> + +<p>"It does not please me."</p> + +<p>"I know it is not a good one," said Blanquette. "We will +save money until we can buy a better."</p> + +<p>"I would execrate it were it a Stradivarius," said he, his +mouth full of sop. "Asticot," he called, "don't you loathe +your tambourine?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, Master," I replied from the floor.</p> + +<p>"Do you love playing the zither?"</p> + +<p>"But no, Maître," said Blanquette.</p> + +<p>"Why then," said my master, "should we pursue a career +which is equally abominable to the three of us? We are not +slaves, <i>nom d'un chien!</i>"</p> + +<p>"We must work," said Blanquette, "or what would become +of us?"</p> + +<p>Paragot finished his coffee and bread and handed the bowl +to Blanquette who nursed it in her lap, while he settled himself +snugly beneath the bedclothes. The autumn rain beat against +the dirty little window and the wind howled through chinks +and crevices, filling the room with cold damp air. I drew the +old blanket which I had brought from my manger-bed closer +round my shoulders. Blanquette with her peasant's indifference +to change of temperature sat unconcerned in her thin cotton +dress.</p> + +<p>"But what will become of us?" she repeated.</p> + +<p>"I shall continue to exist," said he.</p> + +<p>"But I, what shall I do?"</p> + +<p>"You can fill my porcelain pipe, and let me think," replied +Paragot.</p> + +<p>She rose in her calm obedient way and, having carried out his +orders, reseated herself at the foot of the bed.</p> + +<p>"You are the most patient creature alive," said he, "otherwise +you would not be contented to go on playing the zither, which +is not a very exhilarating instrument, my little Blanquette. +I am not patient, and I am not going to play the violin again +for a million years after tonight, and the violin is superior to +the zither."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span></p> + +<p>Blanquette regarded him uncomprehending.</p> + +<p>"If I were a king I would live in a palace and you should be +my housekeeper. But as I am a ragged vagabond too idle to +work, I am puzzled as to the disposal of you."</p> + +<p>She grew very white and rose to her feet.</p> + +<p>"I understand. You are driving me away. If it is your +desire I will earn my living alone. <i>Je ne vous serai pas sur +le dos.</i>"</p> + +<p>For all her vulgar asseveration that she would not be on his +back, her manner held a dignity which touched him. He +held out his hand.</p> + +<p>"But I don't drive you away, little idiot," he laughed. "On +the contrary. You are like Asticot and Narcisse. You belong +to me. But Asticot is going to learn how to become an artist, +and Narcisse when he is bored can hunt for fleas. You are a +young woman; things must arrange themselves differently. +But how? <i>Voilà tout!</i>"</p> + +<p>"It is very simple," said Blanquette.</p> + +<p>"How, simple?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Dame!</i> I can work for you and Asticot."</p> + +<p>"The devil!" cried Paragot.</p> + +<p>"But yes," she went on earnestly. "I know that men are men, +and sometimes they do not like to work. It happens very +often. <i>Tiens! mon maître</i>, I am alone, all that is most alone. +You are the only friends I have in the world, you and Asticot. +You have been kinder to me than any one I have ever met. +I put you in my prayers every night. It is a very little thing +that I should work for you, if it fatigues you to scrape the +fiddle in these holes of cabarets. It is true. True as the <i>bon +Dieu</i>. I would tear myself into four pieces for you. <i>Je suis<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> +brave fille</i>, and I can work. But no!" she cried, looking deep +into his eyes. "You can't refuse. It is not possible."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I refuse," said Paragot.</p> + +<p>He had turned on his side, face on palm, elbow on pillow, +had regarded her sternly as she spoke. I saw that he was +very angry.</p> + +<p>"For what do you take me, little imbecile? Do you know +that you insult me? I to be supported by a woman? <i>Nom de +Dieu de Dieu!</i>"</p> + +<p>His ire blazed up suddenly. He cursed, scolded, boasted +all in a breath. Blanquette looked at him terrified. She could +not understand. Great tears rolled down her cheeks.</p> + +<p>"But I have made you angry," she wailed.</p> + +<p>The scornful spurning of her devotion hurt her less than the +sense of having caused his wrath. The primitive savage +feminine is not complicated by over-subtlety of feeling. As +soon as she could speak she broke into repentant protestation. +She had not meant to anger him. She had spoken from her +heart. She was so ignorant. She would tear herself into four +pieces for him. She was <i>brave fille</i>. She was alone and he was +her only friend. He must forgive her.</p> + +<p>I, feeling monstrously tearful, jumped to my feet.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Master, forgive her."</p> + +<p>He burst out laughing. "Oh what three beautiful fools +we are! Blanquette to think of supporting two hulking men, +I to be angry, and Asticot to plead tragically as if I were a +tyrant about to cut off her head. My little Blanquette, you +have touched my heart, and who touches the heart of Paragot +can eat Paragot's legs and liver if he is hungry and drink his +blood if he is thirsty. I will remember it all my life, and if you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> +will bring me my déjeuner I will stay in bed till this afternoon."</p> + +<p>"Then I am not to leave you?" she asked, somewhat bewildered.</p> + +<p>"Good heavens no!" he cried. "Because I am sick of +fiddling do you suppose I am going to send you adrift? We +shall settle down for the winter. Some capital. Which one +would you like, Asticot?"</p> + +<p>"Buda-Pesth," said I at random.</p> + +<p>"Very well," said Paragot, "the day after tomorrow we start +for Buda-Pesth. Now let me go to sleep."</p> + +<p>We took exactly two months getting to Buda-Pesth. The +only incident of our journey which I clearly remember is a +week's sojourn at the farm of La Haye near Chartres where +we had carted manure, and where we renewed our acquaintance +with Monsieur and Madame Dubosc.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> Buda-Pesth three things happened.</p> + +<p>First, Paragot slipped in the street and broke his ankle bone, +so that he lay seven weeks in hospital, during which time Blanquette +and I and Narcisse lived like sparrows on the housetops, +dazed by the incomprehensibilities of the strange city.</p> + +<p>Secondly, Paragot's aunt, his mother's sister, died intestate +leaving a small sum of money which he inherited as her nearest +surviving relative.</p> + +<p>Thirdly, Paragot fell into the arms of Theodor Izelin the +painter, an old friend of Paris student days.</p> + +<p>The consequences of the first accident, though not immediate, +were lasting. Paragot walked for ever afterwards with a +slight limp, and his tramps along the high-roads of Europe had +to be abandoned.</p> + +<p>The consequence of the second was that Paragot went to +London. Some legal formality, the establishment of identity +or what not, necessitated his presence. I daresay he could have +arranged matters through consuls and lawyers and such-like +folk, but Paragot who was childishly simple in business matters +obeyed the summons to London without question.</p> + +<p>As a consequence of the third I became an inmate of the +house of Theodor Izelin.</p> + +<p>It was all very bewildering.</p> + +<p>It was arranged that during Paragot's absence in England +I should board with Izelin, Blanquette with Izelin's elderly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> +model, a lady of unimpeachable respectability and a rough and +ready acquaintance with the French language, and that Narcisse +should alternate between the two establishments. Paragot's +business concluded, he would return to Buda-Pesth, +collect us and go whither the wind might drift him. I was provided +with a respectable outfit and with detailed instructions +as to correct behaviour in a lady's house. Theodor Izelin's +wife was a charming woman.</p> + +<p>Everything was arranged; but who could reckon on Paragot?</p> + +<p>On the night before his departure—indeed it must have been +two or three in the morning—Paragot burst into my little attic +bedroom, candle in hand, and before I had time to rub my +startled eyes, sat down on the bed and began to speak.</p> + +<p>"My son," said he, "I have had an inspiration!"</p> + +<p>Who but Paragot would have awakened a boy at two or +three in the morning to announce an inspiration? And who +but Paragot would alter the course of human lives on the flash +of an impulse?</p> + +<p>"It came," he cried, "while I was supping with Izelin. I told +him. I worked it all out. He agreed. So it is settled."</p> + +<p>"What, Master?" I asked, sitting up. His slouch felt hat +and his swarthy bearded face, his glittering eyes and the candle +on his knees gave him the air of an excited Guy Fawkes.</p> + +<p>"Your career, my son. The money I am going to collect +in London shall be devoted to your education. You shall +learn to paint, infant Raphael and Izelin shall teach you. And +you shall learn the manners of a gentleman, and Madame +Izelin shall teach you. And you shall learn what it is to have +a heart, and if you care a hang for Paragot two years' separation +shall teach you."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Two years!" I cried aghast. "But master I can't live +two years here without you!"</p> + +<p>"We find we can live without a devil of a lot of things when +we have to, my son. When I smashed my furniture with the +crusader's mace I thought I could not live anywhere without—something. +But here I am as alive as a dragon-fly."</p> + +<p>He went on talking. It was for my good. His broken ankle +bone had compelled him to resign his peripatetic tutorship in +the University of the Universe. In a narrower Academy he +would be but a poor instructor. If he had taught me to speak +the truth and despise lies and shams, and to love pictures and +music and cathedrals and books and trees and all beautiful +things, <i>nom de Dieu!</i> he had accomplished his mission. It +was time for other influences. When an inspiration such as +tonight's came to him he took it as a command from a Higher +Power (I am convinced that he believed it), against which he +was powerless.</p> + +<p>"Providence ordains that you stay here with the Izelins. +Afterwards you shall go to Janot's studio in Paris. In the +meantime you can attend classes in the humanities at Buda-Pesth."</p> + +<p>"I can't understand the beastly language!" I grumbled.</p> + +<p>"You will learn it, my son."</p> + +<p>"No one ever speaks it out of Hungary," I contended.</p> + +<p>"My son," said he, "the value of a man is often measured +by his useless and fantastic attainments."</p> + +<p>Then the candle end sputtered out and we were in darkness. +Paragot bade me good night, and left me to a mingled sense of +burned candle grease and desolation.</p> + +<p>He departed the next day. Blanquette and I with a dejected<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> +Narcisse at our heels, walked back from the railway station +to the hotel, where losing all sense of manly dignity I broke +down crying and Blanquette put her arm round my neck and +comforted me motherwise.</p> + +<p>Two months afterwards Paragot wrote to Blanquette to +join him in Paris, and when the flutter of her wet handkerchief +from the railway carriage window became no longer +visible, then indeed I felt myself to be a stranger in a strange +land.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Two years! I can remember even now their endless heartache. +The Izelins were kind; Madame Izelin, a refined +Hungarian lady, became my staunch friend as well as +my instructress in manners; my life teemed with interests, +and I worked like a little maniac; but all the time I longed for +Paragot. Had it not been for his letters I should have scented +my way back to him like a dog, across Europe. Ah those +letters of Paragot—I have them still—what a treasury they are +of grotesque fantasy and philosophic wisdom! They gave +me but little news of his doings. He had settled down in Paris +with Blanquette as his housekeeper. His floridly anathematised +ankle kept him hobbling about the streets while his heart was +chasing butterflies over the fields. He had founded a coenaculum +for the cultivation of the Higher Conversation at the Café +Delphine. He had taken up Persian and was saturating +himself with Hafiz and Firdusi. His health was good. Indeed +he was a man of iron constitution.</p> + +<p>Blanquette now and then supplemented these meagre details +of objective life. The master had taken a <i>bel appartement</i>. +There were curtains to his bed. Food was dear in Paris.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> +They had been to Fontainebleau. Narcisse had stolen the +sausages of the concierge. The Master was always talking of +me and of the great future for which I was destined. But when +I became famous I was not to forget my little Blanquette. I +see the sprawling mis-spelt words now: "<i>Il ne fot jamés oublié +ta petite Blanquette</i>."</p> + +<p>As if I could ever forget her!</p> + +<p>I arrived in Paris one evening a day or two earlier than I was +expected. It had been ordained by Paragot that I should +break my journey at Berlin, in order to visit that capital, but +affection tugged at my heart-strings and compelled me to travel +straight through from Buda-Pesth. It was Paragot and Blanquette +and Narcisse that I wanted to see and not Berlin.</p> + +<p>Yet when I stepped out of the train on to the Paris platform, +I was conscious for the first time of development. I was decently +attired. I had a bag filled with the garments of respectability. +I had money in my pocket, also a packet of cigarettes. +A porter took my luggage and enquired in the third person +whether Monsieur desired a cab. The temptation was too +great for eighteen. I took the cab in a lordly way and drove +to No. 11 Rue des Saladiers where Paragot had his "bel +appartement." And with the anticipatory throb of joy at beholding +my beloved Master was mingled a thrill of vain-glorious +happiness. Asticot in a cab! It was absurd, and yet it seemed +to fall within the divine fitness of things.</p> + +<p>The cab stopped in a narrow street. I had an impression of +tall houses looking fantastically dilapidated in the dim gas-light, +of little shops on the ground floor, and of little murky +gateways leading to the habitations above. Beside the gateway +of No. 11 was a small workman's drinking shop, sometimes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> +called in Paris a <i>zinc</i> on account of the polished zinc +bar which is its principal feature. Untidy, slouching people +filled the street.</p> + +<p>Directed by the concierge to the <i>cinquième à gauche</i>, I mounted +narrow, evil smelling, badly lighted stairs, and rang at the +designated door. It opened; Blanquette appeared with a +lamp in her hand.</p> + +<p>"<i>Monsieur désire?</i>"</p> + +<p>"<i>Mais c'est moi, Blanquette.</i>"</p> + +<p>In another minute she had ushered me in, set down the lamp +and was hugging me in her strong young arms.</p> + +<p>"But my little Asticot, I did not know you. You have +changed. You are no longer the same. <i>Tu es tout à fait +monsieur!</i> How proud the Master will be."</p> + +<p>"Where is he?"</p> + +<p>Alas, the Master did not expect me to-day and was at the Café +Delphine. She would go straightway and tell him. I must be +tired and hungry. She would get me something to eat. But +who would have thought I should have come back a <i>monsieur!</i> +How I had grown! I must see the <i>appartement</i>. This was +the salon.</p> + +<p>I looked around me for the first time. Nothing in it save the +rickettiness of a faded rep suite arranged primly around the +walls, and a few bookshelves stuffed with tattered volumes +suggested Paragot. The round centre table, covered with +American cloth, and the polished floor were spotless. Cheap +print curtains adorned the windows and a cage containing a +canary hung between them. Three or four oleographs—one +a portrait of Garibaldi—in gilt frames formed the artistic +decoration.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It was I who chose the pictures," said Blanquette proudly.</p> + +<p>She opened a door and disclosed the sleeping chamber of +the Master, very bare, but very clean. Another door led into +the kitchen—a slip of a place but glistening like the machine +room of a man-of-war.</p> + +<p>"I have a bedroom upstairs, and there is one also for you +which the Master has taken. Come and I will show you."</p> + +<p>We mounted to the attics and I was duly installed.</p> + +<p>"I would have put some flowers if I had known you were +coming," said Blanquette.</p> + +<p>We went down again and she prepared food for me, her +plain face beaming as she talked. She was entirely happy. +No one so perfect as the Master had ever been the head +of a household. Of course he was untidy. But such was +the nature of men. If he did not make stains on the floor with +muddy boots and lumps of meat thrown to Narcisse, and +litter the rooms with clothes and tobacco and books, what +occupation would there be for a housekeeper? As it was she +worked from morning to night. And the result; was it not +neat and clean and beautiful? Ah! she was happy not to be +playing the zither in <i>brasseries</i>. All her dreams were realised. +She had a <i>ménage</i>. And she had the Master to serve. Now +would she fetch him from the Café Delphine.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Half an hour afterwards he strode into the room, followed +by Blanquette and Narcisse. He spoke in French and embraced +me French fashion. Then he cried out in English and +wrung me by the hand. He was almost as excited as Narcisse +who leaped and barked frantically.</p> + +<p>"It is good to have him back, eh Blanquette?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span></p> + +<p>"<i>Oui, Maître.</i> He does not know how sad it has been without +him."</p> + +<p>Blanquette smiled, wept and removed the remains of my +supper. Then she set on the table glasses and a bottle of +<i>tisane</i> they had bought on the way home. We drank the sour +sweet champagne as if it were liquid gold and clinked glasses, +and with Narcisse all talked and barked together. It was a +glad home-coming.</p> + +<p>Paragot had changed very little. The hair on his temple +was beginning to turn grey and his sallow cheeks were thinner. +But he was the same hairy unkempt creature of prodigious +finger nails and disreputable garments, still full of strange +oaths and picturesque fancy, and still smoking his pipe with +the porcelain bowl.</p> + +<p>Presently Blanquette retired to bed and Paragot and I talked +far into the night. Before we separated, with a comprehensive +wave of the hand he indicated the primly set furniture and +polished floor.</p> + +<p>"Did you ever behold such exquisite discomfort?"</p> + +<p>Poor Blanquette!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">How</span> far away it all seems; Paris; the Rue des Saladiers: +the <i>atelier</i> Janot where the illustrious painter called us his +children and handed us the sacred torch of his art for us to +transmit, could we but keep it aflame, to succeeding generations; +the Café Delphine, with Madame Boin, fat, pink, urbane, her +hair a miracle of perrukery, enthroned behind the counter; +my dear Master, Paragot, himself! How far away! It is not +good to live to a hundred and fifty. The backward vista down +the years is too frighteningly long.</p> + +<p>I found Paragot established as the Dictator of the Café Delphine. +No one seemed to question his position. He ruled +there autocratically, having instituted sundry ordinances disobedience +to which had exile as its penalty. The most generous +of creatures, he had nevertheless ordained that as Dictator he +should go scot-free. To have declined to pay for his absinthe +or <i>choucroute</i> would have closed the Café Delphine in a student's +face. He had a prescriptive right to the table under the +lee of Madame Boin's counter, and the peg behind him was +sacred to his green hat. To the students he was a mystery. +No one knew where he lived, how he subsisted, what he had +been. Various rumours filled the <i>Quartier</i>. According to one +he was a Russian Nihilist escaped from Siberia. Another, +and one nearer the mark, credited him with being a kind of +Rip van Winkle revisiting old student scenes after a twenty +years' slumber. He seemed to pass his life between the Luxembourg<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> +Gardens, the Pont Neuf and the Café Delphine. "Paris," +he used to say, "it is the Boul' Mich'!" Although he would +turn to the absolute stranger who had been brought as a privilege +to his table and say, using the familiar second person +singular, "Buy me an evening paper," or addressing the company +at large, "Somebody is going to offer me an absinthe," +and promptly order it, he was never known to borrow money.</p> + +<p>This eccentricity vexed the soul of the <i>Quartier</i>, where the +chief use of money is to be borrowed. To me the idea of Paragot +asking needy youngsters for the loan of five francs was +exquisitely ludicrous; I am only setting down the impression +of the <i>Quartier</i> regarding him. Not only did he never borrow +but sometimes gave whole francs in charity. One evening an unseemly +quarrel having arisen between two law-students from Auvergne +(the Bœotia of France) and the waiter as to an alleged +overcharge of two sous, Paragot arose in wrath, and dashing a +louis on the table with a "<i>Hercule paie-toi</i>," stalked majestically +out of the Café. A deputation waited on him next day +with the object of refunding the twenty francs. He refused +(naturally) to take a penny. It would be a lesson to them, +said he, and they meekly accepted the rebuke.</p> + +<p>"But what did you study here, before you went to sleep?" +an impudent believer in the Rip van Winkle theory once asked +him.</p> + +<p>"The lost arts of discretion and good manners, <i>mon petit</i>," +retorted Paragot, with a flash of his blue eyes which scorched +the offender.</p> + +<p>The students paid his score willingly, for in his talk they +had full value for their money. I found the Café Delphine a +Lotus Club, with a difference. Instead of being the scullion<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> +I was a member, and took my seat with the rest, and, though +none suspected it, paid for Paragot's drinks with Paragot's +money. Our real relations were never divulged. It would +affect both our positions, said he. To explain our friendship, +it was only necessary to say that we had met at Buda-Pesth +where I had been sent to study with the famous Izelin, who was +a friend of Paragot's.</p> + +<p>"My son," said he, "the fact of your being an Englishman +who has studied in Buda-Pesth and speaks French like a +Frenchman will entitle you to respect in the <i>Quartier</i>. Your +previous acquaintance with me, on which you need not insist +too much, will bring you distinction."</p> + +<p>And so it turned out. I felt that around me also hung a +little air of mystery, which was by no means unprofitable or +unpleasant. To avoid complications, however, and also in +order that I should have the freedom befitting my man's estate +and my true education in the <i>Quartier</i>, Paragot threw me out of +the nest in the Rue des Saladiers, and assigning to me a fixed +allowance bade me seek my own shelter and make my way in +the world.</p> + +<p>I made it as best I could, and the months went on.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Why I should have been dreaming outside the Hôtel Bristol +that afternoon, I cannot remember. If to Paragot Paris was +the Boulevard Saint-Michel, to me it spread itself a vaster +fairyland through which I loved to wander, and before whose +magnificences I loved to dream. Why not dream therefore in +the Place Vendôme? Surely my aspirations in those days +soared as high as the Column, and surely the student's garb +(beloved and ordained by Paragot)—the mushroom-shaped cap,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> +the tight ankled, tight throated velveteens—rendered any eccentricity +a commonplace. Early Spring too was in the air, +which encourages the young visionary. Spruce young men +and tripping <i>modistes</i> with bandboxes under their arms and +the sun glinting over their trim bare heads hurried along +through the traffic across the Place and landed on the pavement +by my side. I must own to have been not unaffected +by the tripping milliners. Why should they not weave themselves +too into a painter lad's spring visions?</p> + +<p>Suddenly a lady—of so radiant a loveliness as to send <i>modistes</i> +packing from my head—emerged from the Hôtel Bristol +and crossed the broad pavement to a waiting victoria. She +had eyes like the blue of glaciers and the tenderest mouth in +the world. She glanced at me. A floppy picturesque Paris +student, lounging springlike in the Place Vendôme, is worth a +fair lady's glance of curiosity. I raised my cap. She glanced +at me again, haughtily; then again, puzzled; then stopped.</p> + +<p>"If I don't know you, you are a very ill-bred young man to +have saluted me," she said in French. "But I think I have +seen you before."</p> + +<p>"If I had not met you before I should not have bowed. You +are the Comtesse de Verneuil," said I in English, very boyishly +and eagerly. The spring and the sight of Joanna had sent the +blood into my pasty cheeks.</p> + +<p>"I once played the tambourine at Aix," I added.</p> + +<p>She grew suddenly pale, put her hand to her heart and +clutched at a bunch of Parma violets she was wearing. They +fell to the ground.</p> + +<p>"No, no, it is nothing," she said, as I stepped forward. +"Only a slight shock. I remember you perfectly. You said<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> +your name was Asticot. I asked you to come and see me. +Why haven't you?"</p> + +<p>"You said I might come if I were in want. But thanks to +my dear Master I am not." I picked up the violets.</p> + +<p>"Your master?" She looked relieved, and thanked me with +a smile for the flowers. "He is well? He is with you in +Paris? Is he still playing the violin?"</p> + +<p>"He is well," said I. "He is in Paris, but he only plays the +violin at home when, as he says, he wants to have a conversation +with his soul."</p> + +<p>The frost melted from her eyes and they smiled at me.</p> + +<p>"You have caught his trick of talking."</p> + +<p>"You once called me an amazing parrot, Madame," said I. +"It is quite true."</p> + +<p>"In the meantime," said she, "we can't stand in the Place +Vendôme for ever. Come for a drive and we can talk in the +carriage."</p> + +<p>"In the——" I gasped stupefied, pointing to the victoria.</p> + +<p>"Why not?" she laughed. "Do you think it's dangerous?"</p> + +<p>"No," said I, "but——"</p> + +<p>But she was already in the carriage; and as I stepped in +beside her I noted the tips of her little feet so adored by Paragot.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad you're English," she remarked, arranging the +rug. "A young Frenchman would have replied with the +obvious gallantry. I think the young Englishman rather +despises that kind of obviousness."</p> + +<p>The coachman turned on his seat and asked whither he +should drive Madame la Comtesse.</p> + +<p>"Anywhere. I don't know"—then desperately, "Drive +to the fortifications. Where the fortifications are I haven't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> +the remotest idea. I believe they are a kind of pleasure resort +for people who want to get murdered. You hear of them in +the papers. We'll cross the river," she said to the coachman.</p> + +<p>We started, drove down the Rue Castiglione, along the Rue +de Rivoli, struck off by the Louvre and over the Pont Neuf. +Standing in conversation with Joanna, I had the gutter urchin's +confidence of the pavement, the impudence of the street. +Seated beside Madame la Comtesse de Verneuil in an elegant victoria +I was as dumb as a fish, until her graciousness set me more +at my ease. As we passed through the <i>Quartier</i> I trembled lest +any of my fellow students should see me. "<i>Asticot avec une +femme du monde chic! Il court les bonnes fortunes ce +sacré petit diable. Ou l'as-tu pêchée?</i>" I shivered at their +imagined ribaldries. And all the time I was athrill with pride +and joy—suffused therewith into imbecility. Verily I must be +a <i>monsieur</i> to drive with Countesses! And verily it must be +fairyland for Asticot to be driving in Joanna's carriage.</p> + +<p>"That is Henri Quatre," said she pointing to the statue as +we crossed the bridge.</p> + +<p>"It was the first thing my Master brought me to see in Paris—years +ago," I said, with the very young's curious mis-realisation +of time. "He is very fond of Henri Quatre."</p> + +<p>"Why?" she asked.</p> + +<p>I told her vaguely the story of the crusader's mace. She +listened with a somewhat startled interest.</p> + +<p>"I believe your Master is mad," she remarked. "Indeed," +she added after a pause, "I believe everyone is mad. I'm +mad. You're mad."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I am not," I cried warmly.</p> + +<p>"You must be to set up a human god and worship him as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> +you do your Master. You are the maddest of all of us, Mr. +Asticot."</p> + +<p>A touch of light scorn in her tone nettled me. Even Joanna +should not speak of him irreverently.</p> + +<p>"If he had bought you from your mother for half-a-crown," +said I, "and made you into a student at Janot's, you would +worship him too, Madame."</p> + +<p>"I have been wondering whether you kept your promise to +me," she said—I wish women were not so disconcertingly +irrelevant—"but now I am quite sure."</p> + +<p>"Of course I didn't tell my master," I declared stoutly.</p> + +<p>"Good. And this little drive must be a secret too."</p> + +<p>"If you wish," I said. "But I don't like to have secrets from +him."</p> + +<p>"Give me his address," she said after a pause, and I noticed +she spoke with some effort. "Does he still go by that absurd +name? What was it?"</p> + +<p>"His name is <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'Berzelius'">Berzélius</ins> Paragot, and he lives at No. 11 Rue des +Saladiers."</p> + +<p>"Do you know his real name?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Madame," said I. "It is Gaston de Nérac. I only +learned it lately through Monsieur Izelin."</p> + +<p>"Do you know Izelin, too?" she asked.</p> + +<p>I explained my stay in Buda-Pesth. I also mentioned Monsieur +Izelin's reticence in speaking of Paragot's early days.</p> + +<p>I think he was cautioned by my Master.</p> + +<p>"And who do you think I am?" The sudden question +startled me.</p> + +<p>"You," said I, "are Joanna."</p> + +<p>"Indeed? How long have you known that, pray?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span></p> + +<p>"When I came to you with the tambourine at Aix-les-Bains."</p> + +<p>"I don't understand," she said, the frozen blue coming into +her eyes. "Did he tell you then—a child like you?"</p> + +<p>"He has never mentioned your name to me, Madame," +I said eagerly, for I saw her resentment.</p> + +<p>"Then how did you know?"</p> + +<p>I recounted the history of the old stocking. I also mentioned +Paragot's appeal to me as a scholar and a gentleman.</p> + +<p>A wan smile played about her lips.</p> + +<p>"Was that soon after he bought you for half-a-crown?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Madame," said I.</p> + +<p>"And an old stocking?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Madame. And since then we have never spoken of +the papers."</p> + +<p>"But how did you know I was the—the Joanna of the +papers?"</p> + +<p>"I guessed," said I. I could not tell her of the <i>petits pieds si +adorés</i>.</p> + +<p>"You are an odd boy," she said. "Tell me all about yourself."</p> + +<p>Unversed in woman's wiles I flushed with pleasure at her +flattering interest. I did not perceive that it was an invitation +to tell her all about Paragot. I related, however, artlessly +the story of my life from the morning when I delivered my +tattered copy of "Paradise Lost" to Paragot instead of the greasy +washing book: and if my narrative glowed rosier with poetic +illusion than the pages on which it has been set down, pray +forgive nineteen for seeing things in a different light and perspective +from a hundred and fifty. In my description of the +Lotus Club, for instance, I felt instinctively that Madame de<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> +Verneuil would wince at the sound of tripe; I conveyed to her +my own childish impression of the magnificence of Paragot's +bedchamber, and the story of our wanderings became an Idyll +of No Man's Land.</p> + +<p>"And what is he doing now?" We had grown so confidential +that we exchanged smiles.</p> + +<p>"He is cultivating philosophy," said I.</p> + +<p>Perhaps it was a sign of my development that I could detect +a little spot of clay in my idol.</p> + +<p>We had gone south, past the Observatoire to Montrouge, +and had turned back before I realised that we were in +the Boulevard Saint-Michel again near the prearranged end of +my drive.</p> + +<p>"Do you know why I am so glad to have met you to-day?" +she asked. "I think—indeed I know I can trust you. I am +in great trouble and I have an idea that your Master can help +me."</p> + +<p>She looked at me so earnestly, so wistfully, her face seemed +to grow of a sudden so young and helpless, that all my boy's +fantastic chivalry was roused.</p> + +<p>"My Master would lay down his life for you, Madame," I +cried. "And so would I."</p> + +<p>"Even if I never, never, in this world forgave him?"</p> + +<p>"You would forgive him in the next, Madame," I answered, +scarce knowing what I said, "and he would be contented."</p> + +<p>The carriage stopped at the appointed place. I felt as if I +were about to descend from the side of an Olympian goddess to +sordid humanity, to step from the Land East of the Sun and +West of the Moon on to the common earth. It was I who +looked wistful.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span></p> + +<p>"May I come to see you, Madame?"</p> + +<p>The quick fear came into her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Not as yet, Mr. Asticot," she said holding out her hand. +"My husband is queer tempered at times. I will write to you."</p> + +<p>The carriage drove off. For the second time she had left +me with her husband on her lips. I had forgotten him completely. +I stamped my foot on the pavement.</p> + +<p>"He is a scaly vulture," said I, echoing Paragot. Gods! +How I hated the poor man.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>One evening, about a week after this, some seven or eight +of us were gathered around Paragot's table at the Café Delphine. +Two were <i>rapins</i>—we have no word for the embryo +painter—my companions in Janot's <i>atelier</i>. Of the rest I +only remember one—poor Cazalet. He wore a self-tailored +grotesque attire, a brown stuff tunic girt at the waist by a +leathern belt, shapeless trousers of the same material, and +sandals. He had long yellow hair and untrimmed chicken +fluff grew casually about his face. A sombre genius, he used +to paint dark writhing horrors of souls in pain, and in his hours +of relaxation to drink litres of anisette. At first he disliked +and scoffed at me because I was an Englishman, which grieved +me sorely, for I regarded him as the greatest genius, save +Paragot, of my acquaintance. I found him ten years afterwards +a <i>sous-chef de gare</i> on the Belgian frontier.</p> + +<p>It was about half past eleven. Our table gleamed a motley +wilderness of glasses and saucers. Only two other tables were +occupied: at the one two men and a woman played <i>manille</i>, on +the other a pair of players rattled dominoes, Madame Boin, +sunk into her rolls of fat, drowsed on her throne behind the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> +counter. Hercule stood by, his dirty napkin tucked under +his arm, listening to Paragot's discourse. Through the +glass side of the café one could see the moving, flaring lights +of the Boulevard Saint-Michel. Paragot sipped absinthe and +smoked his eternal pipe with the porcelain bowl, and talked.</p> + +<p>"The <i>Quartier Latin!</i> Do you call this bourgeois-stricken +aceldama the <i>Quartier Latin?</i> Do you miserable little white +mice in clean shirts call this the <i>Vie de Bohème?</i> Is there +a devil of a fellow among you, save Cazalet whose chilblains +make him indecent, who doesn't wear socks? Haven't you +all dress suits? Aren't you all suffocating with virtue? Would +any Marcel of you lie naked in bed for two days so that Rodolfe +could pawn your clothes for the wherewithal to nurse Mimi +in sickness? Is there a Mimi in the whole etiolated <i>Quartier?</i>"</p> + +<p>"But yes, <i>mon vieux</i>," said my friend Bringard who prided +himself on his intimacy with life. "There are even a great +many."</p> + +<p>Paragot swept his skinny fingers in a circular gesture.</p> + +<p>"Where are they? Here? You see not. It is a stunted +generation, my gentle little lambs. Why <i>sacré nom de Saint-Antoine!</i>" +he cried, with one of his apposite oaths, "the very +pigs in the good days could teach you lessons in the romantic. +Vices you have—but the noble passions? No! Did you ever +hear of the Café du Cochon Fidèle? Of course not. What +do you know? It was situated in the Rue des Cordiers. +Mimi la Blonde was the <i>demoiselle du comptoir</i>. Ah <i>bigre!</i> +There are no such <i>demoiselles du comptoir</i> now. Exquisite. +Ah!" He blew a kiss from the tips of his long nails.</p> + +<p>"You are very impolite, Monsieur Paragot," cried Madame +Boin from her throne.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Listen, Madame," said he, "to the story of the pig and you +shall judge. The whole quartier was mad for Mimi, including +a pig. Yes, a great fat clean pig with sentimental eyes. He +belonged to the <i>charcutier</i> opposite. I am telling you the authentic +history of the <i>Quartier</i>. Every day the devoted animal +would stand at the door and gaze at Mimi with adoration—ah! +but such an adoration, my children, an adoration, respectful, +passionate, without hope. Only now and then his poor sensitive +snout quivered his despair. Sometimes happier rivals, +with two legs, <i>mais pour ça pas moins cochons que lui</i>, admitted +him into the café. He would sit before the counter, his little +tail well arranged behind him, his ears cocked up politely, his +eyes full of tears—he wept like a cow this poor Népomucène—they +called him Népomucène—and when Mimi looked at him +he would utter little cries of the heart like a strangulated troubadour. +Ah, it was hopeless this passion; but for one long +year he never wavered. The <i>Quartier</i> respected him. Of him +it was said: "Love is given to us as a measure to gauge our +power of suffering." Suddenly Mimi disappeared. She married +a certain Godiveau, a charcoal merchant in the vicinity. +Népomucène stood all day by the door with haggard eyes. +Then knowing she would return no more, he walked with a +determined air to the roadway of the Boul' Mich' and cast +himself beneath the wheels of an omnibus. He committed +suicide."</p> + +<p>Paragot stopped abruptly and finished his absinthe. There +was vociferous applause. I have never met anyone with his +gift of magical narration. Hercule was summoned amid a +confused hubbub and received orders for eight or nine different +kinds of drink. We were fantastic in our potations in those days.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Ah!" said Paragot, excited as usual by his success, "<i>ou +sont les neiges d'antan?</i> Where is the good Père Cordier of +the Café Cordier? He would play billiards with his nose, +and a little pug nose at that, my children. When it grew +greasy he would chalk it deliberately. Once he made a break +of two hundred and forty-five. A champion! The Café +Cordier itself? Swept long ago into the limbo of dear immemorable +dissolute things. Then there was the Café du Bas-Rhin +on the Boul' Mich' where Marie la Démocrate drank +fifty-five bocks in an evening against Hélène la Sévère who +drank fifty-three. Where are such women now, O generation +of slow worms? Where is——"</p> + +<p>He stopped. His jaw dropped. "My God!" he exclaimed +in English, rising from his chair. We followed his gaze. +Astounded, I too sprang up.</p> + +<p>It was the Comtesse de Verneuil standing in the doorway +and looking in her frightened way into the café: Joanna in +dark fitting toque and loose jacket beneath which one saw a +gleaming high evening dress. I noted swiftly that she had +violets in her toque. Her beauty, her rare daintiness compelled +a stupefied silence. I sped towards the door and went with her +into the street. A closed carriage stood by the kerb.</p> + +<p>She took me by the front of my loose jacket and twisted it +nervously.</p> + +<p>"Get him out, Mr. Asticot. Tell him I must see him."</p> + +<p>"But how did you come here?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"I went first to the Rue des Saladiers. The servant told me +I should find him at the Café Delphine."</p> + +<p>I left her outside, and re-entering, met him in the middle of +the Café, grasping his green hat in one hand and the pipe with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> +the porcelain bowl in the other. All eyes were turned anxiously +towards us.</p> + +<p>"She has come for you, Master," I whispered. "She needs +you. Come."</p> + +<p>"What does she want with me? It was all over and done +with thirteen years ago." His voice shook.</p> + +<p>"She is waiting," said I.</p> + +<p>I drew him to the door and he obeyed me with strange docility. +He drew a deep breath as soon as we emerged on to +the wind-swept pavement.</p> + +<p>"Gaston."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said he.</p> + +<p>They remained looking at each other for several seconds, +agitated, neither able to speak.</p> + +<p>"You were very cruel to me long ago," she said at last.</p> + +<p>My Master remained silent; the wooden stem of the pipe +snapped between his fingers and the porcelain bowl fell with a +crash to the pavement.</p> + +<p>"Very cruel, Gaston. But you can make a little reparation +now, if you like."</p> + +<p>"I repair my cruelty to you?" He laughed as men laugh in +great pain. "Very well. It will be a fitting end to a topsy-turvy +farce. What can I do for Madame la Comtesse?"</p> + +<p>"My husband is ill. Come to him. My carriage is here. +Oh, put on your hat and don't stand there French fashion, +bareheaded. We are English."</p> + +<p>"We are what you will," said my Master putting on his hat. +"At present however I am mystified by your lighting on me +in the dustbin of Paris. You must have done much sifting."</p> + +<p>"I will tell you as we drive," she said.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span></p> + +<p>I walked with them across the pavement and opened the +carriage door.</p> + +<p>"Goodnight, Mr. Asticot," said Madame la Comtesse holding +out her hand.</p> + +<p>Paragot looked from me to her, shrugged his shoulders and +followed her into the carriage. My master had many English +attributes, but in the shrug, the pantomime of Kismet, he was +exclusively French.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2> + + +<p>"<i>Mais dis donc, Asticot</i>," said Blanquette holding a half +egg-shell in each hand while the yolk and white fell into the +bowl, "who was the lady that came last night and wanted to +see the Master?"</p> + +<p>"You had better ask him," said I.</p> + +<p>"I have done so, but he will not tell me."</p> + +<p>"What did he say?"</p> + +<p>"He told me to ask the serpent. I don't know what he +meant," said Blanquette.</p> + +<p>I explained the allusion to the curiosity of Eve.</p> + +<p>"But," objected the literal Blanquette, "there is no serpent +in the Rue des Saladiers—unless it is you."</p> + +<p>"You have beaten those eggs enough," I remarked.</p> + +<p>"You can teach me many things, but how to make omelettes—ah +no!"</p> + +<p>"All right," said I, "when your inordinate curiosity has +spoiled the thing, don't blame me."</p> + +<p>"She is very pretty," said Blanquette.</p> + +<p>"Pretty? She is entirely adorable."</p> + +<p>Blanquette sighed. "She must have a great many lovers."</p> + +<p>"Blanquette!" cried I scandalised, "she is married."</p> + +<p>"Naturally. If she weren't she could not have lovers. I +wish I were only half as beautiful."</p> + +<p>The lump of butter cast into the frying-pan sizzled, and +Blanquette sighed again. I must explain that I had come, as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span> +I often did, to share Paragot's midday meal, but as he was still +abed, Blanquette had enticed me into her tiny kitchen. The +omelette being for my sole consumption I may be pardoned +for my interest in its concoction.</p> + +<p>"So that you could be married and have lovers?" I asked +in a superior way.</p> + +<p>"Too many lovers make life unhappy," she replied sagely. +"If I were pretty I should only want one—one to love me for +myself."</p> + +<p>"And for what are you loved now?"</p> + +<p>"For my omelettes," she said with a deft turn of the frying-pan.</p> + +<p>"Blanquette," said I, "<i>je t'adore</i>."</p> + +<p>She laughed with an "<i>es-tu bête!</i>" and ministered to +my wants as I sat down to my meal at a corner of the kitchen +table. She loved this. Great as was her pride in the speckless +and orderly salon, she never felt at her ease there. In the +kitchen she was herself, at home, and could do the honours as +hostess.</p> + +<p>"Do you think the beautiful lady is in love with the Master?"</p> + +<p>"You have been reading the <i>feuilletons</i> of the <i>Petit Journal</i> +and your head is full of sentimental nonsense," I cried.</p> + +<p>"It is not nonsense for a woman to love the Master."</p> + +<p>"Oho!" I exclaimed teasingly, "perhaps you are in love +with him too."</p> + +<p>She turned her back on me and began to clean a spotless +casserole.</p> + +<p>"<i>Mange ton omelette</i>," she said.</p> + +<p>My meal over, I went to Paragot's room. I found him in +bed, not as usual pipe in mouth and a tattered volume in his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> +hand, but lying on his back, his arms crossed beneath his head, +staring into the white curtains of which Blanquette was so +proud.</p> + +<p>"My son," said he, after he had enquired after my welfare +and my lunch and advised me as to cooling medicaments +wherewith to mitigate a certain pimplous condition of cheek, +"My son, I want you to make me a promise. Swear that if a +hitch occurs in your scheme of the cosmos, you will not break +up your furniture with a crusader's mace. Such a proceeding +has infinite consequences of effraction. It disrupts your existence +and ends with the irreparable smash of your porcelain +pipe." Whereupon he asked me for a cigarette and began to +smoke reflectively.</p> + +<p>"One ought to order one's scheme so that no hitch can occur," +said I.</p> + +<p>"As far as I can gather from the theologians that is beyond +the power even of the Almighty," said Paragot.</p> + +<p>Blanquette appeared with the morning absinthe.</p> + +<p>"The hitch, my son, in my case was beyond mortal control," +he said looking up at the bed-curtains. "You may think that +I caused it in the first place. You heard me last night accused +of cruelty. You, discreet little image that you are, know more +about things than I thought. And yet you must wonder, now +that you are nearly a man, what can be, what can have been +between this disreputable hairy scallywag who is eating the +bread of idleness and," with a sip of his absinthe, "drinking the +waters of destruction, and that fair creature of dainty life. +Don't judge anyone, my little Asticot '<i>Hi sumus, qui +omnibus veris falsa <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'quœdam'">quædam</ins> esse dicamus, tanta similitudine, +ut in iis nulla insit certe judicandi et assentiendi nota.</i>' That is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> +Cicero, an author to whom I regret I have not been able to +introduce you, and it means that the false is so mingled with the +true and looks so like it, that there is no sure mark whereby +we may distinguish one from the other. It is a damned fool +of a world."</p> + +<p>In this chastened mood I left him.</p> + +<p>I learned later in the day that the appearance of the Comtesse +in the Café Delphine and the exodus of Paragot had caused no +small sensation. Cazalet had peeped through the glass door.</p> + +<p>"<i>Cré nom de nom</i>, she is driving him off in her own carriage!"</p> + +<p>He returned to the table and drank a glass of anisette to +steady his nerves. Who was the lady? Evidently Paragot +was leading a double life. Madame Boin nodded her head +mysteriously as though possessed of secrets she would not +divulge. They spent the evening in profitless conjecture. +The fact remained that Paragot, the hairy disreputable scallywag, +had relations with a high born and beautiful woman. It +was stupefying. <i>C'était abracadabrant!</i> That was the final +word. When the Quartier Latin calls a thing <i>abracadabrant</i> +there is no more to be said.</p> + +<p>The Café Delphine was far from being the school of discretion +and good manners that Paragot frequented in his youth, but +such was his personal influence that when he reappeared in his +usual place no one dared allude to the disconcerting incident. +Paragot had recovered from the chastened mood and was gay, +Rabelaisian, and with great gestures talked of all subjects under +heaven. One of the International Exhibitions was in prospect +and many architects' offices were busy with projects for the +new buildings. A discussion on these having arisen—two of our +company were architectural students—Paragot declared that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> +the Exhibition would be incomplete without a Palais de Dipsomanie. +Indeed it should be the central feature.</p> + +<p>"<i>Tiens!</i>" he cried, "I have an inspiration! Some one give +me a soft black pencil. Hercule, clear the table."</p> + +<p>He caught the napkin from beneath Hercule's arm and as +soon as the glasses were removed, he dried the marble top, +and holding the pencil draughtsman's fashion, a couple of +inches from the point, began to draw with feverish haste. His +long fingers worked magically. We bent over him, holding our +breath, as gradually emerged the most marvellous, weird, +riotous dream of drunken architecture the world could ever +behold. There were columns admirably indicated, upside +down. The domes looked like tops of half inflated balloons. +Enormous buttresses supporting nothing leaned incapable +against the building. Bottles and wine cups formed part of +the mad construction. Satyrs' heads leered instead of windows. +The whole palace looked reeling drunk. It was a tremendous +feat of imagination and skill. The hour that he spent in elaborating +it passed like five minutes. When he had finished he +threw down his pencil.</p> + +<p>"<i>Voilà!</i>"</p> + +<p>Then he called for his drink and emptied the glass at a gulp. +We all clamoured our admiration.</p> + +<p>"But Paragot," cried one of the architectural students in +considerable excitement, "you are a trained architect, and +a great architect! It is the work of a genius. Garnier himself +could not have done it."</p> + +<p>Paragot whipped up the napkin from the seat and, before +we could protest, rubbed the drawing into a black smudge.</p> + +<p>"I am a poet, painter, architect, musician and philosopher,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> +<i>mon petit</i> Bibi," said he, "and my name is Berzélius Nibbidard +Paragot."</p> + +<p>It was growing late and we all rose in a body—except Paragot, +who made a point of remaining after everyone had gone. He +caught me by the sleeve.</p> + +<p>"Stay a bit to-night, my little Asticot," said he.</p> + +<p>Usually he would not allow me to remain late at the Café. +It was bad for my health; and indeed I was not supposed to +waste my time thus more than two evenings a week. Paragot +did not include my seeing him make a Helot of himself as part +of my education. This was the theory at the back of his mind. +In practice it had occurred at intervals since the days (or +nights) of the Lotus Club.</p> + +<p>Paragot ordered another drink. It was astonishing, said he, +how provocative of thirst was any diversion from the ordinary +course of life.</p> + +<p>"If the pig of the Café Cordier had been human," he remarked, +"he would have sat down and consumed intoxicating +liquors instead of throwing himself under the wheels of an +omnibus. My son," he said with solemn eyes, "reverence that +pig. It is few of us who have his courage and single-heartedness."</p> + +<p>He went on talking for some time in a semi-coherent strain, +clouding over with dim allusions the vital idea which, I verily +believe, had I been a kind woman of the world instead of a raw +youth of nineteen, he would have crystallised with flaming +speech. I could only listen to him dumbly, vaguely divinatory +through my love for him and I suppose through a certain temperamental +sensitiveness, but alas! uncomprehending by reason +of my inexperience in the deeps of life.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span></p> + +<p>Presently he announced that he was ready to start. He +walked somewhat unsteadily to the door, his hand on my +shoulder.</p> + +<p>"My little son Asticot," said he on the threshold, "I am so +far on my road to immortality that I ought to have vine-leaves +in my hair; instead of which I have wormwood in my heart. +Will you kindly take me to the Pont Neuf."</p> + +<p>"But dear Master," said I, "what on earth are you going to +do there?"</p> + +<p>"I have something important to say to Henri Quatre."</p> + +<p>"You can say it better," I urged, "in the Rue des Saladiers."</p> + +<p>"To the Pont Neuf," said he brusquely, pushing me away.</p> + +<p>I had to humour him. We started up the Boulevard Saint-Michel. +It was drizzling with rain.</p> + +<p>"Master, we had better go home."</p> + +<p>He did not reply, but strode on. I have a catlike dislike of +rain. I bear it philosophically, but that is all. To carry on a +conversation during a persistent downpour is beyond my +powers. I might as well try to sing under water. Paragot, +who ordinarily was indifferent to the seasons' difference, and +would discourse gaily in a deluge, walked on in silence. We +went along amid the umbrella-covered crowd, past the steaming +terraces of cafés, whose lights set the kiosques in a steady +glare and sent shafts of yellow from the tops of stationary cabs, +and caught the wet passing traffic in livid flashes, and illuminated +faces to an unreal significance; down the gloom-enveloped, +silent quais frowned upon by the dim and monstrous +masses of architecture, guarding the Seine like phantasmagorical +bastions, none visible in outline, but only felt looming in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> +rain-filled night, until we reached the statue of Paragot's +tutelary King. And the rain fell miserably.</p> + +<p>We were wet through. I put my hand on his dripping sleeve.</p> + +<p>"Master, let me see you home."</p> + +<p>He shook me off roughly.</p> + +<p>"You can go."</p> + +<p>"But dear Master," I implored. He put both hands behind +his head and threw out his arms in a great gesture.</p> + +<p>"Boy! Can't you see," cried he, "that I am in agony of +soul?"</p> + +<p>I bent my head and went away. God knows what he said +to Henri Quatre. I suppose each of us has a pet Gethsemane +of his own.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>One night, a few weeks later, Blanquette appeared in my +little student's attic. Fired by the example of some of my comrades +at Janot's who showed glistening five-franc pieces as the +rewards of industry, I was working up a drawing which I fondly +hoped I could sell to a comic paper. Youth is the period of +insensate ambitions.</p> + +<p>I put down my charcoal as Blanquette entered, bare-headed—wise +girl, she scorned hats and bonnets—and as neatly +dressed as her figure daily growing dumpier would allow. She +was laughing.</p> + +<p>"Guess what your concierge said."</p> + +<p>"That it was improper for you to come to see me at this hour +of the night."</p> + +<p>"Improper? Bah!" cried Blanquette, for whom such conventions +existed not. "But she told me that it was <i>un joli petit +amant</i> that I had upstairs. What an idea!" She laughed again.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You find that funny?" I asked, my dignity somewhat +ruffled. "I suppose I am as pretty a little lover as anyone else."</p> + +<p>"But you and me, Asticot, it is so droll."</p> + +<p>"If you put it that way," I admitted, "it is. But the concierge +doesn't think it possible that you are not my <i>maîtresse</i>. +Why otherwise should you be running in and out of my room, +as if it belonged to you?"</p> + +<p>"You will be bringing a <i>maîtresse</i> of your own here soon, +and then you won't want Blanquette any longer."</p> + +<p>I dismissed the idea as one too remote for contemplation. +At the same time I reflected that I kissed a pretty model at +Janot's when we met alone on the stairs. I wondered whether +the diabolical perspicacity of women had seen traces of the kiss +on my lips.</p> + +<p>"I disturb you?" she asked drawing up my other wooden +chair to the deal table and sitting down.</p> + +<p>"Why, no. I can work while you talk."</p> + +<p>She put her elbow on a couple of pickled gherkins that +remained casually on the table after a perambulatory meal.</p> + +<p>"Oh, how dirty men are! You are worse than the Master. +Oh la! la! and he puts his boots and his dirty plates together +on his bed! It is time that you did have a <i>maîtresse</i> to keep +the place in order."</p> + +<p>"I believe you really do want to come here in that capacity," +I said laughingly.</p> + +<p>She flushed at the jest and drew herself up. "You have no +right to say that, Asticot. I would sooner be the Master's +servant than the mistress or even the wife of any man living. +He is everything to me, my little Asticot, everything, do you hear? +although he loves me just as he loves you and Narcisse. <i>Il ne<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> +faut pas te moquer de moi.</i> You must not laugh at me. It +hurts me."</p> + +<p>It was only then, for the first time, that I realised in Blanquette +a grown woman. Hitherto I had regarded her merely as a +female waif picked up like the dog and myself under Paragot's +vagabond arm and attached to him by ties of gratitude. Now, +lo and behold! she was a woman talking of deep things with a +treacherous throb in her voice.</p> + +<p>I reached across the table and took one of her coarse +hands.</p> + +<p>"<i>Mais tu l'aimes donc, ma pauvre Blanquette!</i>" I exclaimed +in sympathy and consternation.</p> + +<p>She looked down and nodded. I did not know what to say. +A tear fell on my hand. I knew still less. Then crying out +she was very unhappy, she began to sob.</p> + +<p>"He does not want me—even to pass the time. It has +never entered his head. I am too ugly. I do not demand that +he should love me. It would be asking for the moon."</p> + +<p>"But he does love you, like a father," I said, in vain consolation. +"I love him like a son and you should love him like +a daughter."</p> + +<p>She did not even condescend to notice this counsel of perfection. +She was too ugly. She was built like a hayrick. +The Master had never cast his eyes on her, as doubtless he would +have done, being a man, had she any of the qualities of allurement. +She suffered, poor Blanquette, from the <i>spretæ injuria +formæ</i> with reason even more solid than the forsaken Dido. +She was humble, she sobbed; she did not demand a bit of +love bigger than that—and she clicked her finger nail. With +that she would be proud and happy.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span></p> + +<p>"If the master were as gay as he used to be, I should not +mind," she said, lifting a grotesquely stained face. "But when +he goes drinking, drinking so as to drown his love for another +woman, <i>c'est plus fort que moi</i>. It is more than I can bear."</p> + +<p>"Which other woman?"</p> + +<p>"You know very well. That beautiful lady. She has come +more than once to fetch him away. She is a wicked woman, +for she does not love him; she even detests him; one can see +that. I should like to kill her," cried Blanquette.</p> + +<p>The idea of anyone wanting to kill Joanna was so novel +that I stared at her speechless. It took some time for my wits +to accommodate themselves to the point of view.</p> + +<p>"If I were a man I would not drink myself to death for the +sake of a woman who treated me so," she remarked, recovering +her composure.</p> + +<p>"Is it as bad as that?" I asked.</p> + +<p>She shrugged her shoulders. Men must drink. It is their +nature. But there should be limits. One ought to be reasonable, +even a man. Did I not think so? In her matter of fact +way she gave me details of Paragot's habits. The one morning +absinthe had grown to two or three. There was brandy too +in his bedroom.</p> + +<p>"And it eats such a deal of money, my little Asticot," she +remarked.</p> + +<p>After which, to relieve her feelings, she washed up my dirty +plates, and discoursed on the economics of catering.</p> + +<p>I walked with her through the two or three streets that separated +me from the Rue des Saladiers, and went upstairs with +her to see whether Paragot had returned. It was past midnight. +There was no Paragot. I went to the Café Delphine<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> +profoundly depressed by Blanquette's story. Here was Blanquette +eating her heart out for Paragot, who was killing his +soul for Joanna, who was miserably unhappy on account of her +husband, who was suffering some penalty for his scaly-headed +vulturedom. It was a kind of House-that-Jack-built tale of +misery, of which I seemed to be the foundation.</p> + +<p>Save for Paragot the café was empty. He was asleep in his +usual corner, breathing stertorously, his head against the wall. +Madame Boin on her throne was busy over accounts. Hercule +dozed at a table by the door, his napkin in the crook of his arm. +He nodded towards Paragot as I entered and made a helpless +gesture. I looked at the huddled figure against the wall and +wondered how the deuce I was to take him home. I had no +money to pay for a cab. I tried in vain to rouse him.</p> + +<p>"Monsieur had better let him stay here," said Hercule. "It +won't be the first time." My heart grew even heavier +than it was before. No wonder poor Blanquette was dismayed.</p> + +<p>"He will catch his death of cold when the morning comes," +said I, for the night was fresh and three years of warm lying had +softened the Paragot of vagrant days.</p> + +<p>"One must die sooner or later," moralised Hercule inhumanly.</p> + +<p>I shook my master again. He grunted. I shook him more +violently. To my relief he opened his eyes, smiled at me and +waved a limp salutation.</p> + +<p>"The Palace of Dipsomania," he murmured.</p> + +<p>"No, Master," said I. "This is the Café Delphine and you +live in the Rue des Saladiers."</p> + +<p>"It is a nuisance to live anywhere. I was born to be a bird—to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> +roost on trees." I had considerable difficulty in disentangling +the words from his thick speech. He shut his eyes—then +opened them again.</p> + +<p>"How does a drunken owl stay on his twig?"</p> + +<p>As I felt no interest in the domestic habits of dissolute owls, +I set about getting him home. I took his green hat from the +peg and put it on his head, and with Hercule's help drew +away the table and set him on his feet.</p> + +<p>"A man like that! It goes to my heart," said Madame Boin +in a low voice.</p> + +<p>I felt unreasonably angry that any one, save myself or perhaps +Blanquette, should pity my beloved master. I did not +answer, whereby I am afraid I was rude to the good Madame +Boin. Paragot lurched forward and would have fallen had +not Hercule caught and steadied him.</p> + +<p>"Broken ankle," explained Paragot.</p> + +<p>"You must try to walk, Master," I urged anxiously. How +was I going to get him to the Rue des Saladiers? His arm +round my neck weighed cruelly on my frail body.</p> + +<p>"Put best foot forward," he murmured making a step and +pausing. "That is very easy; but the devil of it is when time +comes for worst foot."</p> + +<p>"Try it, for goodness sake," said I.</p> + +<p>He tried it with a silly laugh. Then the swing door of the +café opened and Joanna with her sweet frightened face appeared +on the threshold.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> sight of Joanna froze Paragot into momentary sobriety. +He stood rigid for a few seconds and then swayed into a chair +by one of the tables and sat with his head in his hands. I went +up to Joanna.</p> + +<p>"He can't come to-night, Madame."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"He is not fit."</p> + +<p>As she realised my meaning a look of great pain and repulsion +passed over her face.</p> + +<p>"But he must come. Perhaps he will be better presently. +You will accompany us and help me, Mr. Asticot, won't you?"</p> + +<p>As usual the frost melted from her eyes and her voice—the +silvery English voice—went to my heart. I bent over Paragot +and whispered.</p> + +<p>"Take her from this pigstye and the sight of the hog," +muttered Paragot. His hands were clenched in a mighty +effort to concentrate his wits. Joanna approached and +touched him on the shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Gaston."</p> + +<p>Suddenly he relaxed his grip and broke into a stupid laugh.</p> + +<p>"Very well. What does it matter? Sorry haven't got—velveteen +suit."</p> + +<p>"What does he say?" she asked turning to me.</p> + +<p>"That he will come, Madame," said I.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span></p> + +<p>Hercule aided me to frog-march him out of the café and +across the pavement to the waiting carriage. Joanna took her +seat by his side and I sat opposite. Hercule shut the carriage +door and we drove off. Paragot relapsed into stupor.</p> + +<p>"I don't know how to ask you to forgive me, Mr. Asticot, +for keeping you out of your bed at this time of night," said +Joanna. "But I am very friendless here in Paris."</p> + +<p>We went along the Boul' Mich' by the quais to the Pont de +la Concorde, crossed the vast and now silent expanse of the +Place de la Concorde and, going by the Rue Royale and the +long dull Boulevard Malesherbes and the Boulevard Haussmann, +entered the Avenue de Messine. It is a long drive under +the most cheerful circumstances; but at one o'clock in the +morning in the company of the dearest thing in the world to me +half drunk, and the dear lady whom he worshipped horrified +and disgusted at the thought thereof, it seemed interminable. +At last we arrived at No. 7. At my ring the door +swung open drawn by the concierge within. I helped Paragot +out of the carriage. He made a desperate effort to +stand and walk steadily. Heaven knows how he managed +to clamber with not too great indecency up the stairs to the +Comte de Verneuil's flat on the first floor. Joanna opened the +door with her latch key and we entered a softly-lit drawing +room.</p> + +<p>"Let me sit down," said Paragot. "I shall be better presently."</p> + +<p>He sank an ashamed heap on a sofa by the wall, and +with his fingers through his long black hair fought for mastery +over his intoxication. The Comtesse de Verneuil left us and +presently returned, having taken off her hat and evening wrap.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> +She brought a little silver tray with Madeira wine and +biscuits.</p> + +<p>"We need something, Mr. Asticot," she said graciously.</p> + +<p>We drank the wine and sat down to wait for Paragot's +recovery. Although it was late May, a wood fire glowed beneath +the great chimney-piece. This made of blue and white +ware with corbels of cherubs caught my attention. I had +seen things like it in the stately museums of Italy.</p> + +<p>"But this is Della Robbia," I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>She smiled, somewhat surprised. "You are a connoisseur +as well as a philosopher, Mr. Asticot? Yes, it is Della Robbia. +The Comte de Verneuil is a great collector."</p> + +<p>Then for the first time I looked about the room, and I caught +my breath as I realised its wealth and luxury. For a time I +forgot Paragot, lost in a dream of Florentine tapestries, priceless +cabinets, porcelain, silver, pictures, richly toned rugs, +chairs with rhythmic lines, all softened into harmonious mystery +by the shaded light of the lamps. At the end of a further room +just visible through the looped curtains a great piece of statuary +gleamed white. I had never entered such a room in my life +before. My master had taken me through the show apartments +of great houses and palaces, but they were uninhabited, +wanted the human touch. It had not occurred to me that men +and women could have such wonder as their daily environment, +or could invest it with the indefinable charm of intimacy. I +turned and looked at Joanna as she sat by the Della Robbia +chimney-piece, gracious and distinguished, and Joanna became +merged in the Countess de Verneuil, the great lady, as far +removed from me as my little bare attic from this treasure +house of luxury. She wore the room, so to speak, as I wore<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> +the attic. Overcome by sudden timidity I could barely reply +to her remarks.</p> + +<p>She was in no mood for conversation, poor lady; so there +dropped upon us a dead silence, during which she stared +frozenly into the fire while I, afraid to move, occupied the time +by storing in my memory every bewitching detail of her dress +and person. The oil sketch of her I made a day or two afterwards +hangs before me as I write these lines. I prided myself +on having caught the colour of her hair—black with the blue +reflections like the blue of cigarette smoke.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the quietness was startled by loud groans of agony +and unintelligible speech coming from some room of the flat. +Paragot staggered noisily to his feet, a shaking, hairy, dishevelled +spectre, blinking glazed eyes.</p> + +<p>Madame de Verneuil started and leaned forward, her hands +on the arms of her chair.</p> + +<p>"My husband," she whispered, and for a few seconds we all +listened to the unearthly sounds. Then she rose and turned to me.</p> + +<p>"You had better see it through."</p> + +<p>She crossed to Paragot.</p> + +<p>"Are you better now?"</p> + +<p>"I can do what is required of me," said my master, humbly, +though in his ordinary voice. He was practically sober.</p> + +<p>"Then come," said Joanna.</p> + +<p>We followed her out of the room, through softly carpeted +corridors full of pictures and statues and beautiful vases, and +entered a dimly lit bedroom. A nurse rose from a chair by +the bed, where lay a bald-headed, beaky-nosed man groaning +and raving in some terrible madness. Joanna gripped my +arm as Paragot went to the bedside.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I am Gaston de Nérac," said he.</p> + +<p>The Comte de Verneuil raised himself on his elbow and +looked at him in a wild way. I too should have liked to grip +someone's arm, for the sight of the man sent a shudder through +me, but I braced myself up under the consoling idea that I +was protecting Joanna.</p> + +<p>"You are not dead then? I did not kill you?" said the +Comte de Verneuil.</p> + +<p>"No, since I am here to tell you that I am alive."</p> + +<p>The sweat poured off the man's face. He lay back exhausted.</p> + +<p>"I do not know why," he gasped, "but I thought I had killed +you." He closed his eyes.</p> + +<p>"That is enough," said the nurse.</p> + +<p>Without a word, we all returned to the drawing-room. It +was an astounding comedy.</p> + +<p>"I am grateful," said Joanna to my master. "I wish there +were some means of repaying you."</p> + +<p>"I thought," said he, with a touch of irony which she did not +notice, "that it was I who was paying for a wrong I did you."</p> + +<p>She drew herself up and surveyed him from head to foot, +with a little air of disdain.</p> + +<p>"I forget," she said icily, "that you ever did me any wrong."</p> + +<p>"And I can't," said he; "I wish to heaven I could. You +beheld me to-night in the process of trying—an unedifying sight +for Madame la Comtesse de Verneuil."</p> + +<p>"An unedifying sight for anybody," said Joanna.</p> + +<p>He bowed his head. Something pathetic in his attitude +touched her. She was a tender-hearted woman. Her hand +caught his sleeve.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Gaston, why have you come down to this? You of all +men?"</p> + +<p>"Because I am the one poor fool of all poor fools who takes +life seriously."</p> + +<p>Joanna sighed. "I can't understand you."</p> + +<p>"Is there any necessity?"</p> + +<p>"You belong to a time when one wanted to understand everything. +Now nothing much matters. But curiously in your +case the desire has returned."</p> + +<p>"You understood me well enough to be sure that when you +wanted me I would be at your service."</p> + +<p>"I don't know," she said. "It was a desperate resort to save +my husband's reason. Oh, come," she cried, moving to the +chairs by the fire, "let us sit and talk for five minutes. The +other times you came and went and we scarcely spoke a word. +Besides," with a forced laugh, "it would not have been <i>convenable</i>. +Now Mr. Asticot is here as chaperon. It doesn't +seem like real life, does it, that you and I should be here? It +is like some grotesque dream in which all sorts of incoherences +are mixed up together. Don't you at least find it interesting?"</p> + +<p>"As interesting as toothache," replied Paragot.</p> + +<p>"If it is pain for you to talk to me, Gaston, I will not detain +you," said Joanna, rising from her chair.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me," said he; "I suppose my manners have gone +with the rest. You may help me to recover them if you allow +me to talk to you."</p> + +<p>He passed his hand wearily over his face, which during the +last minute or two had been overspread by a queer pallor. He +looked ghastly.</p> + +<p>"Tell me," said he, "why you come to that boozing-ken<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> +of a place? A note would reach me and I would +obey."</p> + +<p>She explained that there was no time for letter-writing. The +Comte's attacks came on suddenly at night. To soothe him +it was necessary to find the chief actor in the absurd comedy +at once, at any cost to her reputation. Besides, what did it +matter? The only person who knew of her escapade was the +coachman, an old family servant of the Comte, as discreet as +death.</p> + +<p>"How long have these attacks been going on?" asked my +master.</p> + +<p>Joanna poured out her story with the pathetic eagerness of a +woman who has kept hateful secrets in her heart too long and +at last finds a human soul in whom she can confide. I think +she almost forgot my presence, for I sat modestly apart, separated +from them by the wide cone of light cast by the shaded +lamp.</p> + +<p>The first symptoms of mental derangement, she said, had +manifested themselves two years ago. They had gradually +increased in frequency and intensity. During the interval +the Comte de Verneuil went about the world a sane man. The +attacks, as she had explained, came on suddenly, always at +night, and his fixed idea was that he had killed Gaston de Nérac. +Before Paragot had appeared they lasted two or three days, +till they spent themselves leaving the patient in great bodily +prostration. When she had met me taking the Spring outside +the Hôtel Bristol, a wild idea had entered her head that the +confrontation of the Comte with the living Gaston de Nérac +might end his madness. On the occasion of the next attack +she had rushed in eager search for Paragot, had brought him<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> +to the raving bedside, and the result had been magical. She +had thought the cure permanent; but a fortnight later the attack +returned, as it had returned again and again, and as it had +returned to-night.</p> + +<p>"It is charitable of you to have come, Gaston," she said, in +her sweet way, "and I must ask you to forgive me for anything +unkind I may have said."</p> + +<p>He made some reply in a low voice which I did not hear, and +for a little time their talk was pitched in the same tone. I began +to grow sleepy. I aroused myself with a jerk to hear Joanna +say,</p> + +<p>"Why did you play that detestable tune from 'Orphée +aux Enfers'?"</p> + +<p>"To see if you would recognise it. Some mocking devil +prompted me. It was the last tune you and I heard together—the +night of our engagement party. The band played it in the +garden."</p> + +<p>"Don't—don't!" exclaimed Joanna, putting up her hands to +her face.</p> + +<p>This then was why each had cried out at Aix-les-Bains +against the merry little tune. It was interesting. I saw however +that it must have jangled horribly on tense nerves.</p> + +<p>She dashed away her hands suddenly and strained her face +towards him.</p> + +<p>"Why, Gaston—why did you?"</p> + +<p>He rose with a deprecating gesture and there was a hunted +look in his eyes. During all this strange scene he was no +longer Paragot, my master, but Gaston de Nérac whom I +did not know. His wild, picturesque speech, his dear vagabond +manner had gone. The haggardness of some desperate<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> +illness changed his features and I grew frightened. I came +to his side.</p> + +<p>"Master—we must take a cab. Have you any money?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said faintly, "let us go home."</p> + +<p>"But you are ill! You look as white as a ghost!" cried +Joanna, in alarm.</p> + +<p>"I had a dinner of herbs—in the liquid form of absinthe," +said my master with a clutch at Paragot. "How does it go? +Better a dinner of herbs where love is——"</p> + +<p>"Ah! Monsieur has not yet gone," said the nurse, hurrying +into the room. "Monsieur le Comte begs me to give this to +Monsieur."</p> + +<p>She held out a letter.</p> + +<p>"Monsieur le Comte made me open his despatch box, Madame," +she added apologetically.</p> + +<p>She left the room. Paragot stood twirling the letter between +his fingers. Joanna bade him open it. It might be something +important Paragot drew from the envelope half a sheet of +note-paper. He looked at it, made a staggering step to the +door and fell sprawling prone upon the carpet.</p> + +<p>Joanna uttered a little cry of fright, and, as I did, cast herself +on her knees beside him. He had fainted. Abstinence from +food, drink, his tremendous effort of will towards sobriety, the +strain of the interview, had brought him to the verge of the +precipice, and it only required the shock of the letter to send him +toppling over. We propped his head on cushions and loosened +his collar.</p> + +<p>"What can we do?" gasped my dear lady.</p> + +<p>"I will call the nurse from Monsieur le Comte's room," +said I.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span></p> + +<p>"She will know," said Joanna hopefully.</p> + +<p>I went to the Comte's room, opened the door and beckoned +to the nurse. She gave a glance at her sleeping patient and +joined me in the corridor. On my explanation she brought +water and sal-volatile and returned with me to the drawing-room. +It was a night of stupefying surprises. The <i>quartier</i> +would have called it <i>abracadabrant</i> and they would not have +been far wrong. There was necromancy in the air. I felt +it, as I followed the nurse across the threshold. I anticipated +something odd, some grotesque development. In the atmosphere +of those I loved in those days I was as sensitive as a +barometer.</p> + +<p>Paragot lay still as death, his wild hairy head on the satin +cushions, but Joanna was crouching on her knees in the midst +of the cone of light cast by the shaded lamp, reading, with +parted lips and blanched face, the half sheet of note-paper. +As we entered she turned and looked at me and her eyes were +frozen hard blue. The nurse bent over by my master's side.</p> + +<p>Joanna stretched out her arms full length towards me.</p> + +<p>"Read," she cried, and her voice was harsh with no silvery +tone in it at all. I took the paper wonderingly from her fingers.</p> + +<p>Why she should have shown it to me, the wretched little +pasty-faced gutter-bred art student, I could not conceive for +many of the after years during which I wrestled with the head- and +heart-splitting perplexities of women. But experience +has taught me that human beings, of whichever sex they may +be, will do amazing things in times of spiritual upheaval. I +have known the primmest of vicar's churchwardens curse like +a coal-heaver when a new incumbent chose in his stead a less +prim man than he.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span></p> + +<p>I was just a human entity, I suppose, who had strayed into +the sacred and intimate sphere of her life—the only one perhaps +in the world who had done so. She was stricken to the soul. +Instinct compelled my sharing of her pain.</p> + +<p>She commanded me to read. I was only nineteen. Had +she commanded me to drink up eisel or eat a crocodile, I would +have done it. I read.</p> + +<p>The address of the letter was Eaton Square: the date, the +20th of June thirteen years before. The wording as follows:—</p> + +<p>"In consideration of the sum of Ten thousand pounds I +the undersigned Gaston de Nérac promise and undertake +from this moment not to hold any communication by word +or writing with Miss Joanna Rushworth for the space of two +years—that is to say until midnight of the 20th June 18—. Should +however Miss Joanna Rushworth be married in the +meantime, I solemnly undertake on my honour as a gentleman +not of my own free will to hold any communication +with her whatever as long as I live, or should circumstances +force us to meet, not to acquaint her in any +way with the terms of this agreement, whereof I hold myself +bound by the spirit as well as by the letter. <span class="smcap">Gaston de +Nérac.</span>"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>My young and unpractised mind required some minutes to +realise the meaning of this precious agreement. When it had +done so I stared blankly at Joanna.</p> + +<p>The nurse in her businesslike fashion drew the curtains and +flung the French windows wide open.</p> + +<p>"He has only fainted. He will soon come round."</p> + +<p>She returned to Paragot's side. Joanna and I remained<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> +staring at each other. She rose, took me by the sleeve and +dragged me to the fireplace.</p> + +<p>"The writing is my husband's," she said in a whisper. "The +signature is his," pointing to Paragot. "He sold me to my +husband for ten thousand pounds on the evening of our engagement +party. What am I to do? I haven't a friend in this +hateful country."</p> + +<p>I longed to tell her she had at least one friend, but as I could +neither help nor advise her I said nothing.</p> + +<p>"No wonder he has a banking account," she said with a +bitter laugh. I noticed then that a strained woman's humour is +unpleasant. She sat down. The corners of her kind lips +quivered.</p> + +<p>"The world is turned upside down," she said piteously. +"There is no love, honour or loyalty in it. I felt this evening +as if I could forgive him; but now—" She rose and wrung her +hands and exclaimed sharply, "Oh, it's hateful, it's hateful for +men to be so base!"</p> + +<p>That it was a base action to sell Joanna for any sum of +money, however bewildering in largeness, I could not deny. +But that Paragot should have been guilty of it I would not have +believed had the accusation come from Joanna's own lips. +The confounded scrap of paper, however, was proof. Therein +he had pledged himself to give up Joanna for ten thousand +pounds, and the scaly-headed vulture had paid the money. I +turned away sadly and went to help the nurse minister to my +master.</p> + +<p>He opened his eyes and whispered that I must fetch a cab.</p> + +<p>"Or a dung-cart," he added, characteristically.</p> + +<p>Glad of action I went out into the long quiet avenue and after<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> +five minutes' walk hailed a passing fiacre. The nurse admitted +me when I rang the bell. I found Paragot sitting on the sofa +by the wall, and Joanna where I had left her, by the Della +Robbia chimney-piece. Apparently they had not had a very +companionable five minutes. He rose as I entered.</p> + +<p>"I thought you were never coming," said he. "Let us go."</p> + +<p>"I must say good-bye to Madame."</p> + +<p>"Be quick about it," he whispered.</p> + +<p>I crossed the room to Joanna's chair and made a French +bow according to my instruction in manners.</p> + +<p>"Good night, Madame."</p> + +<p>She held out her hand to me—such a delicate soft little hand, +but quite cold and nerveless.</p> + +<p>"Good night, Mr. Asticot. I am sorry our friendship +has been so short."</p> + +<p>I joined Paragot. He said from where he stood by the +door:—</p> + +<p>"Good night, Madame la Comtesse."</p> + +<p>She made no reply. Instinctively both of us lingered a +second on the threshold, filling our eyes with the beauty and +luxury that were all part and parcel of Joanna, and as the door +closed behind us we felt like two bad angels turned out of +Paradise.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">I came</span> across him the next afternoon sitting on a stone bench +in the Luxembourg Gardens. His hat was slouched forward +over his eyes. His hand supported his chin so that his long +straggling beard protruded in a curious Egyptian horizontality. +His ill-laced boots innocent as usual of blacking, for he would +not allow Blanquette to touch them, were stuck out ostentatiously, +and to the peril of the near passers-by. He had never +during our acquaintance manifested any sense of the dandified; +on our travels he had worn the casual, unnoticeable +dress of the peasant, save when he had masqueraded in the +pearl-buttoned velveteens; in London a swaggering air of +braggadocio had set off his Bohemian garb: but never had the +demoralised disreputability of Paragot struck me until I saw +him in the Luxembourg Gardens.</p> + +<p>Everything else wore a startlingly fresh appearance, after +the heavy rains. The gravel walk had the prim neatness +of a Peter de Hoogh garden path. The white balustrades and +flights of steps around the great circle, the statuary and the +fountains in the middle lake, flashed pure. The enormous +white caps of nurses, their gay silk streamers fluttering behind +them, the white-clad children, the light summer dresses of +women; the patches of white newspaper held by other loungers +on the seats; a dazzling bit of cirro-cumulus scudding across +the clear Paris sky; the pale dome of the Panthéon rising to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> +the East; the background of the Luxembourg itself in which +one was only conscious of the high lights on the long bold +cornices; all set the key of the picture and gave it symphonic +value. The eye rejected everything but the whites and the +pearl greys, subordinating all other tones to its impression +of fantastic purity.</p> + +<p>And there like an ink blot splashed on the picture, sat Paragot. +The very foulest odd-volume of Montesquieu's "Esprit +des Lois" which could be picked up on the quays lay unopened +on his knee. Not until Narcisse, who was sleeping at his feet, +jumped up and barked a welcome around me did Paragot +notice my approach. He held out his hand, and the finger-nails +seemed longer and dirtier than ever. He drew me down +to the seat beside him.</p> + +<p>"You were asleep when I ran in this morning, Master," +said I apologetically, for it was the first time I had seen him +that day.</p> + +<p>"Since then I have been thinking, my little Asticot. It is +a vain occupation for a May afternoon, and it makes your +head ache. I should be much better employed carting manure +for Madame Dubosc. We earned two francs. Do you remember?"</p> + +<p>"I remember that my back ached terribly afterwards," said +I laughing.</p> + +<p>"Ah, but the ease and comfort in your soul! Perhaps +there's nothing much the matter with yours yet, is there?"</p> + +<p>"I think it's all right," I answered.</p> + +<p>"Something must be wrong with mine," he remarked +meditatively, "because at a crisis in my life I haven't had an +inspiration. It is sluggish. I want a soul pill."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span></p> + +<p>This time it was I who had an inspiration—one of terrifying +audacity.</p> + +<p>"Master, perhaps absinthe isn't good for it," said I all in +a breath.</p> + +<p>"Infant Solomon," replied Paragot ironically, "where have +you gathered such a store of wisdom? Have you a scrap +of paper in your pocket?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Master," said I, producing a sketch-book and preparing +to tear out a leaf. He stopped my hand.</p> + +<p>"Leave it in. All the better. As I am sure you don't +remember the passage from Cicero's <i>De Natura Deorum</i> which +I quoted to you some time ago, since you are unacquainted +with the Latin tongue, I will dictate it to you, and you can learn +it by heart and say it like a Pater or an Ave morning and evening."</p> + +<p>I wrote down at his dictation the passage concerning the impossibility +of judging between the false and true. And that is +how I was able to set it down in its proper place in a previous +chapter.</p> + +<p>"Do you know why I have made you do this?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Master," said I, for I knew that he referred to the sale +of Joanna for ten thousand pounds.</p> + +<p>"Circumstance flattens a man out sometimes," said he, +"like a ribbon—as if he had been carefully ironed by a hot +steam roller. I suppose a flattened man can't have an inspiration. +I am my own tomb-stone and you can chalk across me +'<i>Hic jacet qui olim Paragotus fuit</i>.'"</p> + +<p>His tone was so dejected that I felt a sinking at my heart, +a scratchiness in my nose and a wateriness in my eyes. I suffered +the pangs of suppressed sympathy. What could a boy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> +of nineteen say or do in order to restore rotundity to a flattened +hero?</p> + +<p>"Years ago," he continued after a pause, "I found the world +a Lie and I started off to chase the wild goose of Truth. I +captured nothing but a taste for alcohol which brought me eventually +beneath the steam roller. Were it not the silliest legend +invented by man, I should say to you 'Beware of the steam +roller.' But if a man's sober he can see the thing himself; +if he isn't, he can't read the warning. I can only tell you to +be unalcoholic and you'll be happy. You see, my little son +Asticot, to what depths I have descended in that I can be the +Apostle of the Platitudinous."</p> + +<p>He leaned forward, chin on knuckles, and his beard again +stuck out horizontally. Happy people passed us by. For +many the work of the day was already over and they had the +lingering magic of the sunshine for their own. A young blue-bloused +workman and a girl hanging on his arm brushed close +by our seat.</p> + +<p>"<i>Si, nous aurons des enfants, et de beaux enfants</i>," she +cried.</p> + +<p>"I hope they will," said Paragot, looking at them wistfully. +Then after a pause: "Has the Comtesse de Verneuil any +children?"</p> + +<p>"No, Master," said I in a tone of conviction. It struck me +later that I had spoken from blank ignorance. But at the +moment the question seemed preposterous. In many ways +I had still the unreasoning instincts of a child. Because I had +never contemplated my dear lady Joanna in the light of a +mother, I unhesitatingly proclaimed her childless. As a matter +of fact I was right.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span></p> + +<p>Paragot, satisfied with my reply, watched the endless stream +of cheerful folk. Once he quoted to himself:—</p> + +<p>"'The golden foot of May is on the flowers'—and on the +heads of all but me."</p> + +<p>Suddenly he sat back and seized me by the arm.</p> + +<p>"Asticot, you are a man now, and you must see things with +the eyes of a man. I have loved you like my son—if you should +turn away, thinking evil things of me, like someone else, it +would break my heart. Neither she nor you ought to have +seen that accursed paper. You and Blanquette and the dog +are all I have in the world to care for, and I want you all to +think well of me."</p> + +<p>Then the tears did spring into my eyes, for my beloved +master's appeal went home to that which was truest and best +in me. I stammered out something, I know not what; but +it came from my heart. It pleased him. He jumped to his +feet in his old impetuous way.</p> + +<p>"Bravo, <i>petit Asticot de mon cœur!</i> The nightmare is over, +and we can enjoy the sunshine again. We will drag Blanquette +from the Rue des Saladiers which does not lay itself out +for jollity, and we will dine at a reckless restaurant. Blanquette +shall eat the snails which she adores and I shall eat pig's feet +and you an underdone beefsteak to nourish your little body. +And we shall all eat with our dinner '<i>le pain bénit de la gaîté</i>.'"</p> + +<p>He strode off eager as usual to put his idea into immediate +execution. He talked all the way to the Rue des Saladiers. +Poor Blanquette! He had been neglecting her. A girl of her +age needed some amusement; we would go to the Théâtre, +the Porte Saint-Martin, like good bourgeois, and see a melodrama +so that Blanquette could weep.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span></p> + +<p>"They are playing 'Les Eventreurs de Paris.' I hear they +rip each other up on the stage and everybody is reeking with +blood—good honest red blood—carried in bladders under their +costumes, my son. You turn up what you can of your snub little +superior artistic nose—but Blanquette will be in Paradise."</p> + +<p>Blanquette was in the slip of a kitchen and a flurried temper +when we entered.</p> + +<p>"But, Master, you said you would not be home for dinner. +There is nothing in the house—only this which I was cooking +for myself," and she dived her fork into the pot and brought up +on the prongs a diminutive piece of beef. "And now you and +Asticot demand dinner, as if dinners came out of the pot of their +own accord. Ah men! They are always like that."</p> + +<p>I put my arm round her waist. "We are all dining out together, +Blanquette; but if you don't want to come, you shall +stay at home."</p> + +<p>"And without dinner," said Paragot, taking the fork from +her hand and throwing the meat to Narcisse.</p> + +<p>"<i>Ah, mais non!</i>" cried Blanquette, whose sense of economy +was outraged. But when Narcisse sprang on the beef and +finding it too hot, lay growling at it until it should cool, she +broke out laughing.</p> + +<p>"After all, it would have been very tough," she admitted.</p> + +<p>"Then why in the sacred name of shoe leather were you +going to eat it?" asked Paragot.</p> + +<p>"Food is to be eaten, not thrown away, Master," she replied +sententiously.</p> + +<p>We took the omnibus and crossed the river and went up the +Grands Boulevards, an unusual excursion for Paragot who kept +obstinately to the Boulevard Saint-Michel and the poorer<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> +streets of the <i>quartier</i>, through fear, I believe, of meeting friends +of former days. A restaurant outside the Porte Saint-Martin +provided a succulent meal. The place was crowded. Two +young soldiers sat at our table, and listened awe-stricken to +Paragot's conversation and were prodigiously polite to Blanquette, +who, they discovered, was from Normandy, like themselves. +And when they asked, after the frank manner of their +kind, which of us had the honour to be the lover of Mademoiselle, +and she cried with scarlet face, "But neither, Monsieur!" +we all shouted together and laughed and became the best friends +in the world. Happy country of fraternity! The little soldiers—they +were dragoons and wore helmets too big for them +and long horsehair plumes—accompanied us with clanking +sabres to the gallery of the theatre, and at Paragot's invitation +sat one on each side of Blanquette, who, what with the unaccustomed +bloodshed of the spectacle and the gallantry of her +neighbours, passed an evening of delirious happiness. In those +days I had an æsthetic soul above the 'Eventreurs de Paris,' and +I made fun of it to Paragot, whose thoughts were far away. +When I perceived this, I kept my withering sarcasm to myself, +and realised that a flattened man cannot be blown like a bladder +into permanent rotundity even by the faith and affection of a +little art-student. But I marvelled all the more at his gaiety +during the intervals, when we all went outside into the thronged +boulevard and drank bocks on the terrace of the café, and I +learned how great a factor in the continued existence of humanity +is the Will-to-Laugh, which I think the German philosopher +has omitted from his system.</p> + +<p>I mention this incident to show how Paragot defied the effects +of the steam roller and became outwardly himself again. He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span> +did not visit the Café Delphine that night, but went soberly +home with Blanquette, and I believe read himself to sleep with +his tattered odd volume of Montesquieu. The following evening +however found him in his usual seat under the lee +of Madame Boin's counter, arguing on art, literature and +philosophy and consuming a vast quantity of ill-assorted alcohols. +And then his life resumed its normal course.</p> + +<p>It was about this time that Madame Boin seeing in Paragot +an attractive adjunct to her establishment and, with a Frenchwoman's +business instinct, desiring to make it permanent, +paralysed him by an offer of marriage.</p> + +<p>"Madame," said he, as soon as he had recovered, "if I +accepted the great honour which you propose, you would +doubtless require me to abandon certain personal habits +which are dear to me, and also to trim my hair and beard +and cut my finger-nails of whose fantastic length I am inordinately +proud."</p> + +<p>"I think I should ask you to cut your nails," said Madame +Boin reflectively.</p> + +<p>"Then, Madame," said Paragot, "it would be impossible. +Shorn of these adornments I should lose the power of conversation +and I should be a helpless and useless Samson on your +hands."</p> + +<p>"I don't see what long nails have to do with talking," argued +Madame Boin.</p> + +<p>"They give one the necessary thirst," replied Paragot.</p> + +<p>"My son," said he when relating to me this adventure, "do +not cultivate a habit of affability towards widows of the lower +middle classes. There was once a murderer's widow of +Prague—"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I know," said I.</p> + +<p>"How?"</p> + +<p>"There was an old stocking."</p> + +<p>"I forgot," said he, and his laughing face darkened and I +saw that he fell to thinking of Joanna.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Although much of my leisure was absorbed by the companionship +of my beloved Master and Blanquette, I yet had an +individual life of my own. I made dozens of acquaintances +and one or two friends. I had not a care in the world. Bisard, +the great man attached to the life school in Janot's atelier, +proclaimed me one of the best of my year, and sent my heart +leaping sky-high. I worked early and late. I also played +the fool as (worse luck) only boyhood can. With my fellows, +arm in arm through the streets, I shouted imbecile songs. I +went to all kinds of reprehensible places—to the <i>bals du quartier</i>, +for instance, where we danced with simple-minded damsels who +thought <i>choucroute garnie</i> a generous supper and a bottle of <i>vin +cacheté</i> as setting the seal of all that was most distinguished +upon the host. With the first five francs that I made by selling a +drawing I treated Fanchette, the little model I kissed on the +stairs, to a trip to Saint-Cloud. Five francs went prodigiously +far in those days. They had to, as some of us were desperately +poor and could afford but one meal a day. Fortunate youth +that I was, whenever money ran short, instead of borrowing +or starving, I had only to climb to Blanquette and open my +mouth like a young bird and she filled it with nice fat things. +Poor sandalled Cazalet of the yellow hair, on the other hand, +lived sometimes for a week on dry bread and water. It was +partly his own fault; for had he chosen to make saleable drawings<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> +he too might have had five francs wherewith to take Fanchette +to Saint-Cloud. Pretty little Pierrettes in frills and pointed +caps are more attractive to the cheap purchaser than ugly +souls writhing in torment; and really they are quite as artistic. +We quarrelled fiercely over this one day, and he challenged +me to a duel. I replied that I had no money to buy pistols. +Neither had he, he retorted, but I could borrow a sabre. He +himself had one. His father had been an officer. Whereupon +the studio bawled in gleeful unison "<i>Voici le sabre, +le sabre de mon père</i>," and dragged us in tumult to the +Café opposite where we swore eternal friendship over <i>grogs +américains</i>.</p> + +<p>From this I do not mean you to infer that I was a devil of a +fellow, the mention of whose name spread a hush over godly +families. God wot! I did little harm. I only ate what Murger +calls "the Blessed bread of gaiety," the food of youth. Remember, +too, it was the first time in my life that I had companions +of my own age. Indeed, so nearly had I modelled +myself on Paragot the ever young, that my comrades laughed +at my old fashioned ideas, and I found myself hopelessly behind +the times. Youth hops an inch sideways and thinks it has +leaped a mile ahead. All is vanity, even youth.</p> + +<p>'Tis a pleasant vanity though, on which the wise smile with +regretful indulgence; and therein lay the wisdom of Paragot.</p> + +<p>"Ah! confounded little cock-sparrow—I haven't seen you +for a week," he said one morning, shaking me by the shoulders +till my teeth chattered. "What about the other little sparrow +you neglected me for on Sunday? Is she at least good-looking? +A model? And she is a good girl and supports her widowed +mother and ten brothers and sisters, I suppose? And she calls<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> +herself Fanchette? Narcisse, the lady of Monsieur Asticot's +affections has the singular name of Fanchette."</p> + +<p>Whereupon Narcisse uncurled himself from slumber and +planted himself on his hindquarters in front of me and grinned +at me with lolling tongue.</p> + +<p>"But she is quite a different kind of girl from all the other +models!" I cried eagerly.</p> + +<p>"What does she pose for?"</p> + +<p>"Well—of course—you know how it is—" I stammered, +reddening.</p> + +<p>Paragot laughed and quoted something in Latin about an +ingenuous boy.</p> + +<p>"Would she be a fit companion for Blanquette and Narcisse +and myself?"</p> + +<p>Having deep convictions as to the essential virtues of Fanchette, +I swore that she could not disgrace so respectable a +company.</p> + +<p>"We will all picnic together in the woods of Fontainebleau on +Sunday," said he.</p> + +<p>We picnic-ed. Fanchette had no shynesses. She found Paragot +peculiarly diverting, and though I enjoyed the day prodigiously, +I realised afterwards that I had spent most of it in +the company of Blanquette.</p> + +<p>"My son," said he, "there never was a model so like all +the other models that have posed for the well-of-course-you-know-how-it-is, +since the world began."</p> + +<p>A week later, when I found my particular friend Ewing, +whom as a tongue-tied Englishman I had relieved of many +embarrassments, and for whom I had secured an easel, branding +it myself in twenty places with his name, and for whom I had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span> +engineered a good position next to mine in the Life School—when +I saw Ewing hugging Fanchette on the stairs, on the very +landing sacred to my embraces, I knew that Paragot was right, +and that Fanchette was just a fickle, naughty little model like +the others. But if Paragot had not taken her measure before +my eyes at Fontainebleau and made a figured drawing so to +speak of her heart and soul, shewing their exiguous dimensions, +I might have cast myself beneath the wheels of an omnibus like +the pig Népomucène, or blacked the eyes of Ewing who was +smaller than myself. As it was, I put my hands in my trousers' +pockets and surveyed the abashed couple in Paragot's best +manner.</p> + +<p>"Amuse yourselves well, my children," I laughed, in French, +and turned away heart-whole.</p> + +<p>This is an instance of the wisdom of Paragot. He smiled +on the vanity of my youth, and personally conducted me to the +barrenness whither it led. In this particular case the result +was more positive still. Ewing in admiration of my magnanimity +at the time, and a fortnight later of my profound knowledge +of women—for he in his turn witnessed the alien osculations +of Fanchette—cultivated my friendship to the extent of +urging me to spend some of the summer recess at his father's +country vicarage in Somerset.</p> + +<p>"But you'll have to get some other togs," said he, eyeing my +attire dubiously. "If you come like that to church on Sunday, +my governor would forget and want to baptise you. He was +once a missionary, you know."</p> + +<p>When I mentioned the invitation, Paragot insisted on acceptance.</p> + +<p>"The Latin Quarter confers an exuberance of tone which conflicts<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span> +with the reposeful ideal of manners required in the <i>beau +monde</i> which I destined you to grace when I took you from the +maternal soapsuds. You will find an English Parsonage <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'exert'">exerts</ins> +a repressive influence. But for Heaven's sake don't fall in love +with Ewing's eldest sister, who, I am sure, is addicted to piety +and good works. She will try to make a good work of you +and thus all my labour will have been in vain."</p> + +<p>In his heart, however, I believe he was immensely proud +at having trained me to meet gentlefolk on more or less equal +terms. Ewing's invitation was a tribute to himself. To fit me +for church on Sunday and other functions of civilisation he +took Ewing (as counsellor) and myself to a tailor's and plunged +enthusiastically into the details of my outfit. I can see him +now, shaggy and shabby, fingering stuffs with the anxious +solicitude of a woman at a draper's counter.</p> + +<p>"That's a nice country suiting. It expresses its purpose, +suggests the right gaiety of mood. What says <i>Arbiter elegantiarum?</i>"</p> + +<p>"Don't you think it might make the cart-horses shy?" says +Ewing, and Paragot drops reluctantly the thunder-and-lightning +check that has seized his unaccustomed fancy.</p> + +<p>My wardrobe included a dress suit.</p> + +<p>At Paragot's bidding, I donned it when it arrived, and on my +way to him transfixed the Rue des Saladiers with awe and +wonder. Upstairs, Paragot twirled me slowly round as if I +were a mannequin on a pivot, and called Blanquette to +admire, and uttered strange oaths in the dozen languages of +which he was master. Was I not beautiful?</p> + +<p>Blanquette admitted that I was. All that was most beautiful; +without a doubt. I resembled the stylish people who went to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span> +expensive funerals. In fact, she added with a sigh, I was too +beautiful.</p> + +<p>She saw her brother Asticot transfigured into the resplendent +gentleman beyond her sphere, and sighed womanlike at my +apotheosis. She could no longer walk by my side, bareheaded, +in the streets. The dress suit was a symbol of change detested +by woman. She gave the matter however her practical attention.</p> + +<p>"He ought to have patent-leather shoes," she observed.</p> + +<p>"That's true," said Paragot, pulling his beard reflectively. +"Ewing should have mentioned it; but I have noticed a +singular lack of universality in the sons of English clergymen."</p> + +<p>"And now my son," said he on the eve of my departure, "I +too have the nostalgia of green fields and the smell of hay and +manure and the fresh earth after rain. I have at last an inspiration. +As this confounded ankle will not let me walk, I +shall hire a donkey and let him take me whither he will. Narcisse +shall accompany me."</p> + +<p>"And Blanquette, will she trudge beside the donkey?"</p> + +<p>"I have arranged for Blanquette to go into villégiatura at +the farm of La Haye."</p> + +<p>"With Monsieur and Madame Dubosc?"</p> + +<p>"Your logical faculty does you credit, my son. They are +most excellent people, although they could not tell me how +many towers the Cathedral of Chartres possessed. You will +remember an excursion we made on Sunday, and I lectured +learnedly on the archæology of the fabric. My learning impressed +them less than my skill in curing a pig according to a +Dalmatian recipe. They will board and lodge Blanquette +for ten francs a week and she will be as happy as Marie Antoinette<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> +while haymaking at the Petit Trianon. She will occupy +herself with geese and turkeys while I shall be riding my donkey."</p> + +<p>"Master," said I, "I only have one fear. You will adopt +that donkey and bring it to live in the Rue des Saladiers."</p> + +<p>Paragot laughed, drained his glass of absinthe and ordered +another.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Thus</span> the three of us were again separated. Blanquette +was enjoying herself amongst the pigs and ducks of La Haye, +whence she wrote letters in which her joy in country things +mingled with anxiety as to the neglected condition of the +Master; I led a pleasant but somewhat nervous life in Somersetshire, +spending hours in vain attempts to reconcile the cosmic +views of Paragot and an English vicar, and learning sometimes +with hot humiliation the correctitudes of English country +vicarage behaviour; and Paragot, his long legs dangling on +each side of his donkey, rode, as I thought, picturesquely +vagrant, through the leafy byways of France.</p> + +<p>A fortnight after my arrival, however, he informed me by +letter of his resolve to stay in Paris. He had failed to find an +ass of the true vagabond character. The ideal ass he sought +should be a companion as well as a means of locomotion. He +would not take an urban donkey into the country against its +will. To force any creature, man, woman, or ass, out of the +groove of its temperament were a crime of which he could not +be guilty. Then, again, Narcisse did not enter into the spirit +of the pilgrimage. He laid his head along his forepaws and +glowered sullenly instead of barking with enthusiasm. Again, +when he announced his intention of leaving Paris, Hercule +groaned aloud and Madame Boin wept so profusely that sitting +beneath her counter he had to put up a borrowed umbrella. +Cazalet too, and a few others too poor for railway fares, were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span> +staying in town. Also the Café Delphine had spoiled him for +the horrible alcohols of wayside cafés. And, lastly, what did +it matter where the body found itself so long as the soul had its +serene habitations?</p> + +<p>The letter depressed me. I was beginning to see Paragot +with the eyes of a man. I felt that this inability to carry out an +inspiration was a sign of decay. The springs of action had +weakened. Though the spirit thirsted for sweet things, habit +chained him to the squalor of the Café Delphine. When the +quiet Somersetshire household knelt around the drawing-room +for evening prayers, I speculated on the stage of intoxication at +which my lonely master had arrived.</p> + +<p>I was a million miles from speculating on what was really +happening, and when I received a curt uncharacteristic note +from Paragot a fortnight later begging me to return to Paris +at once, a day or two before the formal expiry of my visit, it +only occurred to me that he might be ill.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The crowded train steamed into the Gare Saint-Lazare at +half past seven in the morning. I was desperately anxious to +get to Paragot, and bag in hand I stood with a sickening feeling +of suspense by the open door, waiting for the train to slow down. +I sprang out. In an instant the line of porters were odd dots +of blue in the throng that swarmed out of the carriages. I +became a mere ant in the heap, and struggled with the others +towards the barrier. After giving up my ticket, I set down my +bag to rest my strained arm for a minute, and looked around me. +Then I noticed a stranger approaching whose smiling face had +an air of uncanny familiarity. Where had I seen the long +gaunt man before? He wore a silk hat and a frock coat. My<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span> +acquaintance with silk-hatted gentlemen in Paris was limited. +I picked up my bag.</p> + +<p>"Ah! My little Asticot," cried the stranger. "How good +it is to see you."</p> + +<p>I dropped my bag. I dropped my jaw. I would have +dropped my brains had they been loose. This cadaverous +image of respectability was Paragot—but a Paragot transmogrified +beyond recognition even by me. His hair was cropped +short. His face was clean shaven. On his transfigured head +shone a flat brimmed silk hat. He wore a villainously fitting +frock coat buttoned across his chest, with long wrinkly creases +stretching horizontally from each button. His hands were +encased in lemon coloured gloves a size too large for him. When +he extended his hand even my bewilderment did not blind me +to the half-inch of flat dead tips to the fingers. Beneath his +arm was an umbrella—on a broiling August morning! He +wore spats—in mid-summer! His trousers were fawn coloured. +I could only gape at him as he wrung me by the hand.</p> + +<p>"You are surprised, my son."</p> + +<p>"I did not expect you to meet my train, Master," said I.</p> + +<p>"If one could anticipate all the happenings of life it would +lose its fascination. My son, go your way and do your duty, +but believe in the unexpected."</p> + +<p>"But what has happened?" I asked, again surveying his +ill-fitting glory.</p> + +<p>"The Comte de Verneuil is dead," he answered.</p> + +<p>"Are you going to his funeral?"</p> + +<p>"In these?" he cried holding up the lemon kids, "and this +cravat?"</p> + +<p>I noticed that he wore a floppy purple tie adorned with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span> +yellow spots, outside the lapels of his coat. It required more +than two glances to take in all his detail.</p> + +<p>"Besides," he added, "my distinguished patient was buried +a fortnight ago."</p> + +<p>He looked at me with an amused smile, enjoying my mystification +like a child.</p> + +<p>"You didn't know me."</p> + +<p>"No, Master." I rubbed my eyes. "In fact I scarcely +recognise you now."</p> + +<p>"That is because I am again Gaston de Nérac," said he +magnificently.</p> + +<p>I had an idea that he must have come into the family fortune. +But what had the death of the Comte de Verneuil to do with it? +I picked up my bag again and walked with him to the exit. +The hurrying crowd of passengers by my train and of clerks +and work-people pouring from suburban platforms rendered +conversation impossible.</p> + +<p>At the station gates Paragot stood and watched the brisk +life that swarmed up and down the Rue Saint-Lazare and the +Rue du Havre. Paris awakens a couple of hours earlier than +London. Clerks hurried by with flat leather portfolios +under their arms. Servants trotted to market, or homewards, +with the end of a long golden loaf protruding from +their baskets. Work-girls sped by in all directions. Omnibuses +lumbered along as at midday. Before the great +cafés opposite, the tables were already set out on the terrace +and the awnings lowered, and white-aproned waiters stood +expectant. The whole scene was bathed in the gay morning +sunshine.</p> + +<p>"It is good to be alive, Asticot," said my master. "It is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span> +good to be in Paris. It is good to get up early. It is good to +see the world's work beginning. It is also good to feel infernally +hungry and to have the means of satisfying one's desires. +But as, in the absence of Blanquette, my establishment is disorganised, +I think we had better have our breakfast at a +<i>crêmerie</i> than in the Rue des Saladiers. We can talk over our +coffee."</p> + +<p>I accompanied him across the street in a muddled condition +of intellect, casting sidelong glances at him from time to time, +as if to assure myself that he was real. Having just come from +an English environment where the niceties of costume were as +rigidly observed as the niceties of religion, I could not help +marvelling at Paragot's attire. He looked like a tenth-rate +French provincial actor made up to represent a duke, and in a +country where none but actors and footmen are clean-shaven +this likeness was the more accentuated. Also the difference +between Paragot hairy and bearded and Paragot in his present +callow state was that between an old unbroken hazel nut and +its bald, shrivelled kernel.</p> + +<p>We entered the <i>crêmerie</i>, sat down and ordered our coffee +and crisp horse-shoe loaves. I think the <i>petit déjeuner</i> at a +<i>crêmerie</i> is one of the most daintily served meals in France. +The morning dew glistens so freshly on the butter, the fringed +napkin is so spotless, the wide-mouthed cups offer themselves +so delicately generous. If everyone breakfasted there crime +would cease. No man could hatch a day's iniquity amid such +influences.</p> + +<p>When we were half-way through, Paragot unbuttoned his +frock coat and took from his pocket a black-edged letter which +he flourished before my eyes. It was then that I noticed, to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> +my great surprise, that he had cut his finger-nails. I thought +of Madame Boin.</p> + +<p>"It is from the Comtesse de Verneuil, and it gives you the +word of the enigma."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Master," said I, eyeing the letter.</p> + +<p>"Confess, my little Asticot," he laughed, "that you are dying +of curiosity."</p> + +<p>"You would tell me," said I, "that it was no death for a +gentleman."</p> + +<p>"You have a way of repeating my unsaid epigrams which +delights me," said he, throwing the letter on the table. "Read +it."</p> + +<p>I read as follows:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><div class='right'> +<span style="margin-right: 4em;">"<span class="smcap">Château Marlier</span></span><br /> +<span style="margin-right: 2em;">près de Nevers.</span><br /> +13th Aug. 18—</div> + +<div class='unindent'>"<span class="smcap">My dear Gaston</span>: +</div> + +<p>"The newspapers may have told you the news of my husband's +death on the 1st August. Since then I have been +longing to write to you but I have not found the strength. +Yet I must.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me for the cruel things I said on the last unhappy +night we met. I did not know what I do now. Before my +husband died he told me the true circumstances of the money +transaction. My husband bought me, it is true, Gaston, +but you did not sell me. You sacrificed all to save my father +from prison and me from disgrace. You have lived through +everything a brave, loyal gentleman, and even on that hateful +night you kept silent. But oh, my friend, what misery it has +been to all of us!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I shall be in Paris on the 28th—Hôtel Meurice. If you +care to see me will you make an appointment? I would +meet you at any place you might suggest. The flat in the +Avenue de Messine is dismantled and, besides, I shrink from +going back there. Yours sincerely,</p> + +<div class='sig'> +"<span class="smcap">Joanna de Verneuil.</span>"<br /> +</div></div> + +<p>"You see, my son, what she calls me—a brave, loyal gentleman," +he cried, with his pathetic boastfulness. "Thank +Heaven she knows it. I have kept the secret deep in my heart +all these years. One must be a man to do that, eh?" He +thumped his heart and drank a draught of coffee. Then he +wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.</p> + +<p>He eyed the brown stain disgustedly.</p> + +<p>"That," said he, "is Paragot peeping out through Gaston +de Nérac. You will have observed that in the polite world +they use table-napkins."</p> + +<p>"The Comtesse de Verneuil," said I, bringing back the conversation +to more interesting matters, "writes that she will be +in Paris on the 28th. It was the 28th yesterday."</p> + +<p>"I am aware of it. I have been aware of it for a fortnight. +Yesterday I had a long interview with Madame la Comtesse. It +was very satisfactory. To-day I pay her a ceremonious visit at +eleven o'clock. At twelve I hope you will also pay your respects +and offer your condolences to Madame. You ought to +have a silk hat."</p> + +<p>"But, Master," I laughed, "If I went down the Boul' Mich' +in a silk hat, I should be taken up for improper behaviour."</p> + +<p>"You at least have gloves?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Master."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Remember that in this country you wear both gloves while +paying a call. You also balance your hat on your knees."</p> + +<p>"But Madame de Verneuil is English," I remarked.</p> + +<p>"She has learned correct behaviour in France," he replied +with the solemnity of a professor of deportment. "You will +have noticed in her letter," he continued, "how delicately she +implies that the Hôtel Meurice would not be a suitable rendezvous. +In my late incarnation I doubtless should have surprised +the Hôtel Meurice. I should have pained the Head Porter. +In my live character of Gaston de Nérac I command +the respect of flunkeydom. I give my card——"</p> + +<p>He produced from his pocket and flourished in the air an +ornate, heavily printed visiting-card of somewhat the size and +appearance of the Three of Spades. I felt greatly awed by the +sight of this final emblem of respectability.</p> + +<p>"I give my card," he repeated, "and the Hôtel Meurice +prostrates itself before me."</p> + +<p>While Paragot was playing on the lighter side of the conjuncture, +my mind danced in wonder and delight. I read the +letter, which he left in my hands, several times over. He was +cleared in Joanna's eyes; nay more, he stood revealed a hero. +The generous ardour of youth bedewed my eyelids.</p> + +<p>"Master," I cried, "this must be wonderful news for you."</p> + +<p>He nodded over his coffee cup.</p> + +<p>"You are right, my little Asticot; it is," he answered +gravely.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>When I called at the Hôtel Meurice at noon, I was conducted +with embarrassing ceremony to Madame de Verneuil's +private sitting-room, and on my way I rehearsed, in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> +some trepidation, the polite formula of condolence which +Paragot had taught me. When I entered, the sight of Joanna's +face drove polite formulæ out of my head. She was dressed +in black, it is true, but the black only set off the shell pink of +her cheeks and the blue of her eyes which were no longer +frozen, but laughed at me, as if a visit of condolence were +the gayest event possible.</p> + +<p>"It is so good of you, Mr. Asticot, to come and see me. Mr. +de Nérac tells me you have travelled straight from Somerset +in order to do it. How is the West Country looking? I am +of the West Country myself—one of these days you will let me +shew it you. I like him much better, Gaston, dressed like an +Englishman, instead of in that dreadful student get-up, which +makes him look like a brigand. Yes, England has agreed with +him. Oh! do take off your gloves and put your hat down. +I am not a French mamma with a daughter whose hand you +are asking. Gaston, I am sure you told him to keep on his +gloves!"</p> + +<p>"I am responsible for his decorum, Joanna," said my Master, +solemnly.</p> + +<p>I noticed that he too had discarded hat, gloves and umbrella +which lay forlorn on a distant table. Still his coat was buttoned, +and he sat bolt upright on his chair. Madame de Verneuil's +silvery voice rippled on. She was girlishly excited.</p> + +<p>"I have persuaded Mr. de Nérac to lunch with me," she said +happily. "And you must do the same. Will you ring the +bell? We'll have it up here. And now tell me about Somerset."</p> + +<p>Never was there a sweeter lady than mine. Yes, I call her +mine; and with reason. Was she not the first vision of gracious<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> +womanhood that came into my childhood's world? Up to +then woman to me was my mother and Mrs. Housekeeper. +Joanna sprang magically, as in an Arabian Night, out of an +old stocking. Never was there a sweeter lady than mine. +She welcomed me as if such things as wash-tubs, tambourines, +Café Delphines and absinthiated Paragots had never existed, +and I were one of her own people.</p> + +<p>"How I long to get back," she cried when I had told her of +my modest exploits at the Ewings. "I have not been to Melford +for five years. When will you come, Gaston?"</p> + +<p>They had evidently made good use of their previous interviews.</p> + +<p>"I am going to live in England," she explained. "At +first I shall stay with my mother at Melford. She is an old +friend of Mr. de Nérac's. Oh, Gaston, she does so want to +see you—I have told her the whole story—of course she knew +all my poor father's affairs. And I have a cousin whose people +live at Melford too, Major Walters—I don't think you know +him—a dear fellow. He has just been at Nevers helping me +to settle up things. He is my trustee. You must be great +friends."</p> + +<p>"I remember the name," said Paragot.</p> + +<p>"Why of course you ought to," she cried prettily with a +laugh and a blush. "I had forgotten. You were pleased to +be jealous of him. Mr. Asticot, you will have to forgive us for +dragging memories out of the dust heap. It is all so very +long ago. Dear me!" Her face grew pathetic. "It is very +long ago, Gaston."</p> + +<p>"Thirteen years," said he.</p> + +<p>I calculated. Joanna was a grown-up woman about to be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span> +married when my age was six. I suddenly felt very young +indeed.</p> + +<p>The waiters set the lunch. Joanna, most perfect of hostesses, +presided gaily, cracked little jokes for my entertainment +and inspired me with the power of quite elegant conversation. +Paragot preserved his correct demeanour and, to my puzzledom, +spoke very little. I wondered whether the repressive +influence lay in the spats or the purple cravat with the yellow +spots. As a painter I didn't like the cravat. He drank a great +deal of water with his wine. I noticed him once pause in the +act of conveying to his mouth a bit of bread held in his fingers +with which he had mopped up the sauce in his plate, and +furtively conceal it between his cutlet bones—a manœuvre +which, at the time, I could not understand. In the <i>Quartier +Latin</i> we cleaned our plates to a bright polish with bits of bread. +How else could you consume the sauce?</p> + +<p>At the end of the meal Joanna gave us permission to smoke.</p> + +<p>"I won't smoke, thank you," said Paragot politely.</p> + +<p>"Rubbish!" laughed Joanna, whereupon Paragot produced +a cigarette case from the breast pocket of his frock coat. +Paragot and a cigarette-case! Once more it was <i>abracadabrant!</i> +He also refused cognac with his coffee.</p> + +<p>After a time, still feeling that I was very young, and that my +seniors might have further confidential things to say to each +other, I rose to take my leave. Paragot rose too.</p> + +<p>"I would ask you to stay, Gaston, if I hadn't my wretched +lawyer to see this afternoon. But you'll come in for an hour +after dinner, won't you? No one knows I'm in Paris. Besides, +at this time of year there is no one in Paris to know."</p> + +<p>"Willingly," said Paragot, "but <i>les convenances</i>——"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span></p> + +<p>Joanna's pretty lips parted in astonishment.</p> + +<p>"You—preaching the proprieties?—My dear Gaston!"</p> + +<p>I turned to the window and looked at the Tuileries Gardens +which baked in the afternoon sun. The two spoke a little in +low voices, but I could not help overhearing.</p> + +<p>"Is it true, Gaston, that you have wanted me all these years?"</p> + +<p>"I want you as much now as I did then."</p> + +<p>"I, too," whispered Joanna.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">As</span> we emerged from the Hôtel Meurice I turned instinctively +to the left. Paragot drew me to the right.</p> + +<p>"Henceforward," said he, "I resume the Paris which is my +birthright. We will forget for a moment that there are such +places as the Boulevard Saint-Michel and the Rue des Saladiers."</p> + +<p>We walked along the Rue de Rivoli and taking the Rue +Royale passed the Madeleine and arrived at the Café de la Paix. +It was a broiling afternoon. The cool terrace of the café +invited the hot wayfarer to repose.</p> + +<p>"Master," said I, "isn't it almost time for your absinthe?"</p> + +<p>He raised his lemon kids as if he would ban the place.</p> + +<p>"My little Asticot, I have abjured absinthe and forsworn +cafés. I have broken my new porcelain pipe and have cut +my finger-nails. As I enter on the path of happiness, I scatter +the dregs and shreds and clippings of the past behind me. I +divest myself of all the crapulous years."</p> + +<p>If he had divested himself of the superfluous trappings of +respectability beneath which he was perspiring freely, I thought +he would have been happier. The sight of the umbrella alone +made one feel moist, to say nothing of the spats.</p> + +<p>"We might have some grenadine syrup," I suggested ironically.</p> + +<p>"Willingly," said he.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span></p> + +<p>So we sat and drank grenadine syrup and water. He gave +me the impression of a cropped lion sucking lollipops.</p> + +<p>"It is peculiarly nasty and unsatisfying," he remarked after +a sip, "but doubtless I shall get used to it. I shall have to get +used to a devil of a lot of things, my son. As soon as the period +of her widowhood has elapsed I hope to marry Madame de +Verneuil."</p> + +<p>"Marry Madame de Verneuil?" I cried, the possibility of +such an occurrence never having crossed my mind.</p> + +<p>"Why not? When two people of equal rank love and are +free to marry, why should they not do so? Have you any +objection?"</p> + +<p>"No, Master," said I.</p> + +<p>"I shall resume my profession," he announced, lighting a +cigarette, "and in the course of a year or two regain the position +to which an ancient <i>Prix de Rome</i> is entitled."</p> + +<p>I was destined that day to go from astonishment to astonishment.</p> + +<p>"You a <i>Prix de Rome</i>, Master?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, my son, in Architecture."</p> + +<p>He was clothed in a new and sudden radiance. To a Paris +art student a <i>Prix de Rome</i> is what a Field Marshal is to a +private soldier, a Lord Chancellor to the eater of dinners in the +Temple. I must confess that though my passionate affection +for him never wavered, yet my childish reverence had of late +waned in intensity. I saw his faults, which is incompatible +with true hero-worship. But now he sprang to cloud summits +of veneration. I looked awe-stricken at him and beheld nothing +but an ancient <i>Prix de Rome</i>. Then I remembered our enthusiasm +over the Palace of Dipsomania.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span></p> + +<p>"They said you were an architect that night at the Café +Delphine," I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"I was a genius," said Paragot modestly. "I used to think +in palaces. Most men's palaces are little buildings written big. +My small buildings were palaces reduced. I could have +roofed in the whole of Paris with a dome. My first commission +was to put a new roof on a Baptist Chapel in Ireland. It was +then that I met Madame de <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'Vernueil'">Verneuil</ins> after an interval of five +years. We are second cousins. Her father and my mother +were first cousins. I have known her since she was born. +When I was at Rugby, I spent most of my holidays at her house. +You must take all this into account, my little Asticot, before +you begin to criticise my plans for the future."</p> + +<p>By this time the nerve or brain cell whereby one experiences +the sensation of amazement was numb. If Paragot had informed +me that he had been a boon companion of King Qa +and had built the pyramids of Egypt I should not have been +surprised. I could only record the various facts.</p> + +<p>Paragot was at Rugby.</p> + +<p>Paragot was Joanna's second cousin.</p> + +<p>Paragot was a <i>Prix de Rome</i>.</p> + +<p>Paragot was a genius who had put a new roof to a Baptist +Chapel in Ireland.</p> + +<p>Paragot was going to marry Joanna.</p> + +<p>How he proposed to start in practice at his age, with no connection, +I did not at the moment enquire. Neither did Paragot. +It was Paragot's easy way to leap to ends and let the means +take care of themselves. He drained his glass meditatively +and then with a wry face spat on the ground.</p> + +<p>"If I don't have a cognac, my little Asticot," said he, "I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> +shall be sick. To-morrow I may be able to swallow syrup +without either salivation or the adventitious aid of alcohol."</p> + +<p>He summoned the languid waiter and ordered <i>fine champagne</i>. +Everything seemed languid this torrid afternoon, +except the British or American tourists who passed by with +Baedekers under their arms. The cab-horses in the file opposite +us dropped their heads and the glazed-hatted cabmen +regarded the baking Place de l'Opéra with more than their +usual apathy. It looked more like the market place of a sleepy +provincial town than the heart of Paris. When the waiter +had brought the little glass in a saucer and the <i>verseur</i> had +poured out the brandy, Paragot gulped it down and cleared his +throat noisily. I drowsed in my chair, feeling comfortably +tired after my all night journey. Suddenly I awakened to the +fact that Paragot was telling me the story of Joanna and the +Comte de Verneuil.</p> + +<p>She was exquisite. She was fragrant. She was an English +rosebud wet with morning-dew. She had all manner of attributes +with which I was perfectly well acquainted. They loved +with the ardour of two young and noble souls. (Your ordinary +Englishman would not thus proclaim the nobility of his soul; +but Paragot, remember, was half French—and Gascon to boot—and +the other half Irish.) It was more than love—it was a +consuming passion; which was odd in the case of an English +rosebud wet with morning-dew. However, I suppose Paragot +meant that he swept the beloved maiden off her feet with his +own vehemence; and indeed she must have loved him truly. +He was fresh from the Villa Medici, the Paradise where all the +winners of the <i>Prix de Rome</i> in the various arts complete their +training; he had won an important competition; fortune<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span> +smiled on him; he had only to rule lines on drawing paper to +become one of the great ones of the earth. He became engaged +to Joanna.</p> + +<p>Now, Joanna's father, Simon Rushworth, was a London +solicitor in very fashionable practice; a man of false geniality, +said Paragot, who smiled at you with lips but seemed always to +be looking at some hell over your shoulder. He also promoted +companies, and the Comte de Verneuil, an Anglo-French +financier, stood ever by his elbow, using him as his tool and +dupe and drawer in general of chestnuts from the fire. +The Comte wanted to marry Joanna, "which was absurd, +seeing that I was his rival," said Paragot simply.</p> + +<p>One of Mr. Rushworth's companies failed. Mr. Rushworth's +fashionable clients grew alarmed. He gave a party +in honour of Joanna's engagement and invited all his clients. +Ugly rumours spread among the guests. The presage of disaster +was in the air. Paragot began to suspect the truth. It was +a hateful party. The band in the garden played selections from +"Orphée aux Enfers," and the mocking refrain accompanied +the last words he was to have with Joanna. The Comte de +Verneuil called him aside, explained Rushworth's position. +Ten thousand pounds of his clients' money which he held in +trust had gone in the failure of the company. If that amount +was not at his disposal the next morning, he was finished, +snuffed out. It appeared that no one in Paris or London +would lend him the money, his credit being gone. Unless M. +de Nérac could find the ten thousand pounds there was the +gaol yawning with horrible certainty for M. de Nérac's prospective +father-in-law. As Paragot's patrimony, invested in +French government securities, was not a third of this sum, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> +could do nothing but wring his hands in despair and call on +Providence and the Comte de Verneuil. The former turned +a deaf ear. The latter declared himself a man of business and +not a philanthropist; he was ready however to purchase an option +on the young lady's affections. Did not M. de Nérac +know what an option was? He would explain. He drafted +the famous contract. In return for Paragot's signature he +would hand him a cheque drawn in favour of Simon Rushworth.</p> + +<p>"<i>Nom de Dieu!</i>" cried Paragot, banging the marble table, +with his fist, "Do you see in what a vice he held me? He +was a devil, that man! The only human trait about him was +a passion for rare apes of which he had a collection at Nevers. +Thank Heaven they are dead! Thank Heaven he is dead! +Thank Heaven he lost most of the money for which he preyed +on his kind. He was a vulture, a scaly-headed vulture. He +was the carrion kite above every rotten financial concern in +London and Paris. That which went near to ruin my poor +vain fool of a father-in-law filled his bulging pockets. I hated +him living and I hate him dead!"</p> + +<p>He tore open his frock coat and pushed the flat brimmed +silk hat to the back of his head and waved his lemon kids in +his old extravagant gestures.</p> + +<p>"What did the stolen ten thousand pounds matter to him? +It mattered prison to Rushworth, Joanna's father—think of +the horror of it! She would have died from the disgrace—her +mother too. And the devil jested, Asticot. He talked of +Rushworth being smitten with the slings and black arrows of +outrageous fortune. <i>Nom de Dieu</i>, I could have strangled +him! But what could I do? Two years! To go out of her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span> +life for two years as if I had been struck dead! Yet after two +years I could come back and say what I chose. I signed the +contract. I went out of the house. I kept my word. <i>Noblesse +oblige.</i> I was Gaston de Nérac. I came back to Paris. +I worked night and day for eighteen months. I had genius. +I had hope. I had youth. I had faith. She would never +marry the Comte de Verneuil. She would not marry anybody. +I counted the days. Meanwhile he posed as the +saviour of Simon Rushworth. He poisoned Joanna's mind +against me. He lied, invented infamies. This I have heard +lately. He confessed it all to her before the devil took him as +a play-fellow. Of one who had so cruelly treated her all things +were possible. She half believed them. At last he told her I +was dead. An acquaintance had found me in a Paris hospital +and had paid for my funeral. She had no reason for disbelief. +He pressed his suit. Her father and mother urged her—the +fool Rushworth soon afterwards came to another crisis, +and de Verneuil again stepped in and demanded Joanna as +the price. She is gentle. She has a heart tenderer than that +of any woman who ever lived. One day I heard she had +married him. My God! It is thirteen years ago."</p> + +<p>He poured some water into the syrup glass and gulped it +down. I remained silent. I had never seen him give way +to violent emotion—save once—when he broke the fiddle over +Mr. Pogson's head.</p> + +<p>Presently he said with a whimsical twist of his lips:</p> + +<p>"You may have heard me speak of a crusader's mace."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Master."</p> + +<p>"That's when I used it. I had an inspiration," he remarked +quietly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Master," said I after a while, "if Madame de Verneuil +believed you to be dead, it must have been a shock to her when +she saw you alive at Aix-les-Bains."</p> + +<p>"She learned soon after her marriage that her husband +had been mistaken. Her mother had caught sight of me in +Venice. Madame de Verneuil never forgave him the lie. +She is gentle, my son, but she has character."</p> + +<p>It was after that, I think, that the frozen look came into her +eyes. Thenceforward she was ice to the Comte de Verneuil, +who for pleasant, domestic companionship had to resort to +his rare apes. No wonder his madness took the form of the +fixed idea that he had murdered Paragot.</p> + +<p>"After all," he mused, "there must have been some good +in the man. He desired to make amends. He sent me the +old contract, so that his wife should not find it after his death. +He confessed everything to her before he died. There is a +weak spot somewhere in the heart of the Devil himself. I +shouldn't wonder if he were devoted to a canary."</p> + +<p>"Master," said I, suddenly bethinking me of the canary in +the Rue des Saladiers, "if you marry Madame de Verneuil, +what will become of Blanquette?"</p> + +<p>"She will come and live with us, of course."</p> + +<p>"H'm!" said I.</p> + +<p>Respect forbade downright contradiction. I could only +marvel mutely at his pathetic ignorance of woman. Indeed, +his reply gave me the shock of an unexpected stone wall. He, +who had but recently taught me the chart of Fanchette's soul, +to be unaware of elementary axioms! Did I not remember +Joanna's iciness at Aix-les-Bains when I told her of his adoption +of my zither-playing colleague? Was I not aware of poor<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span> +Blanquette's miserable jealousy of the beautiful lady who +enquired for her master? To bring these two together seemed, +even to my boy's mind, a ludicrous impossibility. Yet Paragot +spoke with the unhumorous gravity of a Methodist parson +and the sincerity of a maiden lady with a mission to obtain +good situations for deserving girls; a man, so please you, who +had gone into the holes and corners of the Continent of Europe +in search of Truth, who had come face to face with human +nature naked and unashamed, who had run the gamut of +femininity from our rare princess Joanna to the murderer's +widow of Prague; a man who ought to have had so sensitive +a perception that the most subtle and elusive harmonies of +woman were as familiar to him as their providential love of +babies or their ineradicable passion for new hats.</p> + +<p>He lit another cigarette, having dallied in a somewhat youthful +fashion with the newly acquired case, and blew two or three +contented puffs.</p> + +<p>"I believe in the Roman conception of the <i>familia</i>, my son. +You and Blanquette are included in mine. You being a man +must go outside the world and make your way; but Blanquette, +being a woman, must remain under the roof of the <i>paterfamilias</i> +which is myself."</p> + +<p>I foresaw trouble.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>When he left me after dinner to pay his promised visit to +Joanna, I went in quest of Cazalet of the sandals, with whom +I spent a profitable evening discussing the question of Subject +in Art. Bringard and Bonnet and himself had rented a dilapidated +stable in Menilmontant which they had fitted up as +a studio, and, as his two colleagues were away, Cazalet had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span> +displayed his own horrific canvases all over the place. The +argument, if I remember right, was chiefly concerned with +Cazalet's subject in art over which we fought vehemently; +but though the sabre of his father hung proudly on the wall, +he did not challenge me to a duel. Instead, he invited me to +join the trio in the rent of the studio, and I, suddenly struck +with the advantage and importance of having a studio +of my own, gladly accepted the proposal. When one can +say "my studio," one feels that one is definitely beginning one's +professional career. I left him to sleep on some contrivance +of sacking which he called a bed, and trudged homewards to +the Boulevard Saint-Michel. Curiosity tempted me to look +into the Café Delphine. It was deserted. Madame Boin +opened her fat arms wide and had it not been for the intervening +counter would have clasped me to her bosom. What had +become of Monsieur Paragot? It was more than a fortnight +since he had been in the café. I lied, drank a glass of beer and +went home. I could not take away Paragot's character by +declaring his reversion to respectability.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">My</span> taking the share of the stable-studio in Menilmontant +had one unlooked-for result.</p> + +<p>"You must paint my portrait," said Joanna.</p> + +<p>"Madame," I cried, "if I only could!"</p> + +<p>"What is your charge for portraits, Mr. Asticot?"</p> + +<p>Paragot set down his tea-cup and looked at me with a shade +of anxiety. We were having tea at the Hôtel Meurice.</p> + +<p>"The pleasure of looking a long time at the sitter, Madame," +said I.</p> + +<p>"That is very well said, my son," Paragot remarked.</p> + +<p>"You will not make a fortune that way. However, if you +<i>will</i> play for love this time—"</p> + +<p>She smiled and handed me the cakes.</p> + +<p>"Where did you say your studio was?"</p> + +<p>"But, Madame, you can't go there!" I expostulated. "It +is in the slums of Menilmontant beyond the Cemetery of Père +Lachaise. The place is all tumbling down—and Cazalet +sleeps there."</p> + +<p>"Who is Cazalet?"</p> + +<p>"A yellow-haired Caliban in sandals," said Paragot.</p> + +<p>Joanna clapped her hands like a child.</p> + +<p>"I should love to go. Perhaps Mr. de Nérac would come +with me, and protect me from Caliban. If you won't," she +added seeing that Paragot was about to raise an objection, +"I will go by myself."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span></p> + +<p>"There are no chairs to sit upon," I said warningly.</p> + +<p>"I will sit upon Caliban," she declared.</p> + +<p>Thus it came to pass that I painted the portrait of Madame +de Verneuil in periods of ecstatic happiness and trepidation. +She came every day and sat with unwearying patience on +what we called the model throne, the one comfortless wooden +arm-chair the studio possessed, while Paragot mounted guard +near by on an empty box. Everything delighted her—the +approach through the unsavoury court-yard, the dirty children, +the crazy interior, Cazalet's ghastly and unappreciated masterpieces, +even Cazalet himself, who now and then would slouch +awkwardly about the place trying to hide his toes. She +expressed simple-hearted wonder at the mysteries of my art, +and vowed she saw a speaking likeness in the first stages of +chaotic pinks and blues. I have never seen a human being so +inordinately contented with the world.</p> + +<p>"I am like a prisoner who has been kept in the dark and is +let out free into the sunshine," she said one day to Paragot, +who had remarked on her gaiety. "I want to run about and +dance and smell flowers and clap my hands."</p> + +<p>In these moments of exuberance she seemed to cast off the +shadow of the years and become a girl again. I regarded her +as my contemporary; but Paragot with his lined time-beaten +face looked prematurely old. Only now and then, when he +got into fierce argument with Cazalet and swung his arms +about and mingled his asseverations with the quaint oaths +of the Latin Quarter, did he relax his portentous gravity.</p> + +<p>"That is just how he used to go on," she laughed confidentially +to me, her pink-shell face close to mine. "He +was a whirlwind. He carried everybody off their feet."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span></p> + +<p>She caught my eye, smiled and flushed. I quite understood +that it was she who had been carried off her feet by my tempestuous +master.</p> + +<p>"<i>Mais sacré mille cochons, tu n'y comprends rien du tout!</i>" +cried Paragot, at that moment. I, knowing that this was not +a proper expression to use before ladies, kept up the confidential +glance for a second.</p> + +<p>"I hope he didn't use such dreadful language."</p> + +<p>"You couldn't in English, could you? He always spoke +English to me. In French it is different. I like it. What +did he say? <i>'Sacré mille cochons'!</i>"</p> + +<p>She imitated him delightfully. You have no idea what a +dainty musical phrase this peculiarly offensive expletive became +when uttered by her lips.</p> + +<p>"After all," she said, "it only means 'sacred thousand +pigs'—but why aren't you painting, Mr. Asticot?"</p> + +<p>"Because you have got entirely out of pose, Madame."</p> + +<p>Whereupon it was necessary to fix her head again, and my +silly fingers tingled as they touched her hair. It is a good thing +for a boy of nineteen to be romantically in love with Joanna. +He can thus live spiritually beyond his means, without much +danger of bankruptcy, and his extravagance shall be counted +to him for virtue. Also if he is painting the princess of his +dreams, he has such an inspiration as is given but to the elect, +and what skill he is possessed of must succeed in its purpose.</p> + +<p>One morning she found on her arrival a bowl of roses, which +I had bought in the markets, placed against her chair on the +dais. She uttered a little cry of pleasure and came to me +both hands outstretched. Taking mine, she turned her +head, in an adorable attitude, half upwards to Paragot.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I believe it is Mr. Asticot who is in love with me, Gaston. +Aren't you jealous?"</p> + +<p>I blushed furiously. Paragot smiled down on her.</p> + +<p>"Hasn't every man you met fallen in love with you since +you were two years old?"</p> + +<p>"I forgive you," she cried, "because you still can make +pretty speeches. Thank you for the roses, Mr. Asticot. If +I wore one would you paint it in? Or would it spoil your +colour scheme?"</p> + +<p>I selected the rose which would best throw up the pink +sea-shell of her face, and she put it gaily in her corsage. She +pirouetted up to the dais and with a whisk of skirts seated +herself on the throne.</p> + +<p>"If any of my French friends and relations knew I were +doing this they would die of shock. It's lovely to defy conventions +for a while. One will soon have to yield to them."</p> + +<p>"Conventions are essential for the smooth conduct of +social affairs," remarked Paragot.</p> + +<p>She looked at him quizzically. "My dear Gaston, if you +go on cultivating such unexceptional sentiments, they'll turn +<i>you</i> into a churchwarden as soon as you set foot in Melford."</p> + +<p>I had seen, for the first time in my life, a churchwarden +in Somerset, a local cheesemonger of appalling correctitude. +If Paragot ever came to resemble him, he was lost. There +would be an entity who had passed through Paragot's experiences; +but there would be no more Paragot.</p> + +<p>"You must save him, Madame," I cried, "from being made +a churchwarden."</p> + +<p>Paragot lit a cigarette. I watched the first few puffs, awaiting +a repartee. None came. I felt a qualm of apprehension.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> +Was he already becoming de-Paragot-ised? I did not realise +then what it means to a man to cast aside the slough of many +years' decay, and take his stand clean before the world. He +shivers, is liable to catch cold, like the tramp whose protective +hide of filth is summarily removed in the workhouse bath. +Nor did my dear lady realise this. How could she, bright +freed creature, hungering after the long withheld joyousness of +existence, and overwilling to delude herself into the belief that +every shadow was a ray of sunlight? She had no notion of the +man's grotesque struggles to conceal the shivering sensitiveness +of his roughly cleaned soul.</p> + +<p>She twitted him merrily.</p> + +<p>"You can argue like a tornado with Monsieur Cazalet, but +you think I must be talked to like this country's <i>jeune fille à +marier</i>. Isn't he perverse, Mr. Asticot? I think I am quite +as entertaining as Caliban."</p> + +<p>Well you see, when he talked to Cazalet, he slipped on the +slough again and was comfortable.</p> + +<p>He waited for a moment or two as if he were composing a +speech, and then rose and drawing near her, said in a low voice, +thinking that as I was absorbed in my painting I could not +hear:—</p> + +<p>"This new happiness is too overwhelming for fantastic +talk."</p> + +<p>"Oh no it isn't," she declared in a whisper. "We have put +back time thirteen years—we wipe out of our minds all that +has happened in them, and start just where we left off. You +were fantastic enough then, in all conscience."</p> + +<p>"I had the world at my feet and I kicked it about like a +football." He hunched up his shoulders in a helpless gesture.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span> +"Somehow the football burst and became a helpless piece of +leather."</p> + +<p>"I haven't the remotest idea what you mean," laughed +Joanna.</p> + +<p>"Madame," said I, "if you turn your head about like that +I shall get you all out of drawing."</p> + +<p>"Oh dear," said Joanna, resuming her pose.</p> + +<p>These were enchanted days, I think, for all of us. Even +Cazalet felt the influence and put on a pair of gaudily striped +socks over which his sandals would not fit. Joanna was very +tender to him, as to everybody, but she appeared to draw her +skirts around her on passing him by, as if he were a slug, which +she did not love but could not harm for the world. Paragot, +having for some absurd reason forsworn his porcelain pipe, +smoked the cigarette of semi-contentment and fulfilled his +happiness by the contemplation of Joanna and myself. I +verily believe he was more at his ease when I was with them. +As for the portrait, he viewed its progress with enthusiastic +interest. Now and then he would forget himself and discourse +expansively on its merits, to the delight of Joanna. He regarded +it as his own production. Had he not bought this poor little +devil and all his works for half-a-crown? Ergo, the work +taking shape on the canvas was his, Paragot's. What could be +more logical? And it was he who had given me my first lessons. +No mother showing off a precocious brat to her gossips +could have displayed more overweening pride. It was pathetic, +and I loved him for it, and so did Joanna.</p> + +<p>The time came however—all too soon—-when Madame de +Verneuil could live in her Land of Cockaigne no longer. Convention +claimed her. Her cousin, Major Walters, was coming<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> +from England to aid her in final arrangements with the lawyers, +and he was to carry her off in a day or two to Melford. At +the end of the last sitting she looked round the dismal place—it +had discoloured, uneven, bulging whitewashed walls, an +unutterably dirty loose plank floor, and a skylight patched +with maps of hideous worlds on Mercator's projection, and +was furnished with packing cases and grime and the sacking +which was Cazalet's bed—and sighed wistfully, as if she had +been an unoffending Eve thrust out of Eden.</p> + +<p>"I have been so happy here," she said to me. "I wonder +whether I shall ever be so happy again! Do you think I shall?"</p> + +<p>I noticed her give a swift, sidelong glance—almost imperceptible—at +Paragot, who had sauntered down the studio to +look at one of Cazalet's pictures.</p> + +<p>"The first time you saw me," she added, as I found nothing +to say, "you announced that you were learning philosophy. +Haven't you learned enough yet to answer me?"</p> + +<p>"Madame," I replied, driven into a corner, "happiness is +such an awfully funny thing. You find it when you least +expect it, and when you expect it you often don't find it."</p> + +<p>"Is that supposed to be comforting or depressing, Mr. +Asticot?"</p> + +<p>"I think we had better ask my master, Madame," I said. +"He can tell you better than I."</p> + +<p>But she shook her head and did not ask Paragot.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>"My son," said Paragot that evening by his window in the +Rue des Saladiers, trying to disintegrate some fresh air from +the fetid odours that rose from the narrow street below, "you +have won Madame de Verneuil's heart. You are a lucky little<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span> +Asticot. And I am proud of you because I made you. <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'you'">You</ins> +are a proof to her that I haven't spent all my life in absorbing +absinthe and omitting to decorate Europe with palaces. Instead +of bricks and mortar I have worked in soul-stuff and my +masterpiece is an artist,—and a great artist, by the Lord God!" +he cried with sudden access of passion, "if you will keep 'the +sorrowful great gift' pure and undefiled as a good woman does +her chastity. You must help me in my work, my son. Let +me be able to point to you as the one man in the world who +does not prostitute his art for money or reputation, who sees +God beneath a leper's skin and proclaims Him bravely, who +reveals the magical beauty of humanity and compels the fool +and the knave and the man with the muck-rake and the harlot +to see it, and sends them away with hope in their hearts, and +faith in the destiny of the race and charity to one another—let +me see this, my son, and by heavens! I shall have done more +with my life than erect a temple made by hands—and I shall +have justified my existence. You will do this for me, Asticot?"</p> + +<p>I was young. I was impressionable. I loved the man with +a passionate gratitude. I gave my promise. Heaven knows +I have tried to keep it—with what success is neither here nor +there.</p> + +<p>The fantastic element in the psychological state of Paragot +I did not consider then, but now it moves me almost to tears. +Just think of it. I was his one <i>apologia pro vita sua;</i> his one +good work which he presented with outstretched hands and +pleading eyes, to Joanna. I love the man too well to say more.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Madame de Verneuil went away leaving both of us desolate. +Even the prospect of visiting Melford a month hence—at Mrs.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span> +Rushworth's cordial invitation—only intermittently raised +Paragot's spirits. It did not affect mine at all. I felt that a +glory had faded from Menilmontant. Still, I had the portrait +to finish, and the preliminary sketches to make of a deuce of a +mythological picture for which Cazalet and Fanchette (who +for want of better company had become addicted during August +to my colleague) were to serve as models. I had my head and +hands full of occupation, whereas the reorganized Paragot had +none. He talked in a great way of resuming his profession, and +even went the length of buying drawing-paper and pins, and +drawing-board and T-squares and dividers and other working +tools of the architect. But as a man cannot design a palace or a +pigstye and put it on the market as one can a book or a picture, +he made little headway with his project. He obtained +the conditions of an open competition for an Infectious Diseases +Hospital somewhere in Auvergne, and talked grandiosely +about this for a day or two; but when he came to set +out the plan he found that he knew nothing whatever about +the modern requirements of such a building and cared less.</p> + +<p>"I will wait, my son, until there is something worthy of an +artist's endeavour. A Palace of Justice in an important town, +or an Opera House. Hospitals for infectious diseases do not +inspire one, and I need inspiration. Besides, the visit to Melford +would break the continuity of my work. I begin, my son Asticot, +when I come back, and then you will see. An ancient Prix +de Rome, <i>nom de nom!</i> has artistic responsibilities. He must +come back in splendour like Holger Danske when he wakes +from his enchanted slumber to conquer the earth."</p> + +<p>Poor Holger Danske! When he does wake up he will find +his conquering methods a trifle out of date. Paragot did not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span> +take this view of his simile. I believed him, however, and looked +forward to the day when his winning design for a cathedral +would strike awe into a flabbergasted world.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>"My son," said he a day or two after he had resolved upon +this Resurrection in State, "I want Blanquette. An orderly +household cannot be properly conducted by the intermittent +ministrations of a concierge."</p> + +<p>Our good Blanquette, believing as I had done, that the Master +was riding about France on a donkey, was still in villégiatura +with our farmer friends near Chartres, and in order that +she should have as long a holiday as possible he had hitherto +forbidden me to enlighten her as to his change of project.</p> + +<p>"Besides," he added, "Blanquette has a place in my heart +which the concierge hasn't. I also want those I love to share +the happiness that has fallen to my lot. You will write to her +my son and ask whether she wants to come home."</p> + +<p>"She will take the first train," said I.</p> + +<p>"Blanquette is a curious type of the absolute feminine," +he remarked. "She is never happier than when she can regard +us as a couple of babies. Her greatest delight would be +to wash us and feed us with a spoon."</p> + +<p>"Master," said I, somewhat timidly, "I think Blanquette +is sometimes just a little bit miserable because you don't seem +to care for her."</p> + +<p>He regarded me in astonishment.</p> + +<p>"I not care for Blanquette? But you ridiculous little +lump of idiocy! will you never understand? She, like you, is +part of myself." He thumped his chest as usual. "In the name +of petticoats, what does she want? In Russia I met an honest<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span> +German artisan who had married a peasant girl. After a +month's unclouded existence she broke down beneath the load +of misery. Her husband didn't love her. Why? Because +they had been married a whole month and he hadn't beaten her +yet! Does the child want me to beat her? I believe lots of +women do. And you, mindless little donkey, what do you +want me to make of her? Your head is full of the imbecilities +of the studio. Because I keep her here like my daughter, and +have not made her my mistress, you take it upon yourself to +conclude that I have no affection for her. Bah! You know +nothing. You have lived with me all these years, and you +know nothing whatever about me. You don't even know +Blanquette. Beneath an unprepossessing exterior she has a +heart of gold. She has every large-souled quality that a woman +can stuff into her nature. She would live on cheese-rind and +egg shells, if she thought it would benefit either of us. I not +care for Blanquette? You shall see."</p> + +<p>So the following afternoon when we met Blanquette's train +at the Gare Saint-Lazare, Paragot had taken her into his arms +and planted a kiss on each of her broad cheeks before she +realised who the magnificent, clean-shaven welcomer in the +silk hat really was.</p> + +<p>When he released her, she stared at him even as I had done.</p> + +<p>"<i>Mais—qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?</i>" she cried, and I am sure +that the comfort of his kisses was lost in her entire bewilderment.</p> + +<p>"It is the Master, Blanquette," said I.</p> + +<p>"I know, but you are no longer the same. I shouldn't have +recognised you."</p> + +<p>"Do you prefer me as I used to be?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span></p> + +<p>"<i>Oui, Monsieur</i>," said Blanquette.</p> + +<p>I burst out laughing.</p> + +<p>"She is saying '<i>Monsieur</i>' to the silk hat."</p> + +<p>"<i>Méchant!</i>" she scolded. "But it is true." She turned to +the master and asked him how he had enjoyed his holiday.</p> + +<p>"I never went, my little Blanquette."</p> + +<p>"You have been in Paris all the time?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"And you only send for me now? But <i>mon Dieu!</i>—how +have you been living?"</p> + +<p>Visions of hideous upheaval in the Rue des Saladiers floated +before her mind, and she hurried forward as if there was no +time to be lost in getting there. When we arrived she held up +horror-stricken hands. The dust! The dirt! The state of +the kitchen! The Master's bedroom! Oh no, decidedly she +would not leave him again! She would only go to the country +after she had seen him well started in the train with a ticket +for a long way beyond Paris. There was a week's work in +front of her.</p> + +<p>"Anyway, my little Blanquette," said Paragot, "you are +glad to be with me?"</p> + +<p>"It is never of my own free will that I would leave you," +she replied.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> + + +<p>"<span class="smcap">You</span> perceive," said Paragot, waving a complacent hand, +as soon as Blanquette had retired to make the necessary purchases +for the evening meal, "you perceive that she is perfectly +happy. You were entirely wrong. All is for the best in this +best of all possible worlds."</p> + +<p>When my master adopted the Panglossian view of the universe +I used no arguments that might cloud his serenity. I acquiesced +with mental reservations. We talked for a time, Paragot +sitting primly on a straight-backed chair. He had abandoned +his sprawling attitudes, for fear, I suspect, of spoiling his new +clothes. The position, however, not making for ease of conversation, +he presently took up a book and began to read, while +I amused myself idly by making a furtive sketch of him. Since +his metamorphosis he was by no means the entertaining companion +of his unregenerate days. He himself was oppressed, +I fancy, by his own correctitude. The eternal reading which +filled so much of his life did not afford him the same wholehearted +enjoyment now, as it did when he lolled dishevelled, +pipe in mouth and glass within reach, on bed or sofa. This +afternoon, I noticed, he yawned and fidgeted in his chair, and +paid to his book the distracted attention of a person reading a +back number of a magazine in a dentist's waiting room. My +sketch, which I happen to have preserved, shows a singularly +bored Paragot. At last he laid the book aside, and gathering +together hat, gloves, and umbrella, the precious appanages of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span> +his new estate, he announced his intention of taking the air +before dinner. I remained indoors to gossip with Blanquette +during its preparation. I had considerable doubts as to her +optimistic view of things, and these were confirmed as soon as +the outer door closed behind my master, and the salon door +opened to admit Blanquette.</p> + +<p>She came to me with an agitated expression on her face which +did not accord with perfect happiness of spirit.</p> + +<p>"<i>Dis donc, Asticot</i>," she cried. "What does it mean? Why +did the master not go on his holiday? Why did he not send +for me? Why has he cut off his hair and beard and dressed +himself like a <i>Monsieur?</i> I know very well the master is a +gentleman, but why has he changed from what he used to be?"</p> + +<p>I temporised. "My dear," said I, "when you first knew me +I wore a blue blouse and boots with wooden soles. Almost +the last time you had the happiness of beholding me, I was clad +in the purple and fine linen of a dress-suit. You weren't +alarmed at my putting on civilised garments, why should you +be excited at the master doing the same?"</p> + +<p>"If you talk like the master, I shall detest you," exclaimed +Blanquette. "You do it because you are hiding something. +<i>Ah, mon petit frère</i>," she said with a change of tone and putting +her arm round my neck, "tell me what is happening. He is +going to be married to the beautiful lady, eh?"</p> + +<p>She looked into my eyes. Hers were deep and brown and +a world of pain lay behind them. I am a bad liar. She freed +me roughly.</p> + +<p>"I see. It is true. He is going to be married. He does +not want me any longer. It is all finished. O <i>mon Dieu, +mon Dieu!</i> What is to become of me?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span></p> + +<p>She wept, rubbing away the tears with her knuckles. I +tried to comfort her and lent her my pocket-handkerchief. +She need have no fear, I said. As long as the master lived her +comfort was assured. She turned on me.</p> + +<p>"Do you think I would let him keep me in idleness while +he was married to another woman? But no. It would be +<i>malhonnête</i>. I would never do such a thing."</p> + +<p>She looked at me almost fiercely. There was something +noble in her pride. It would be dishonourable to accept +without giving. She would never do that, never.</p> + +<p>"But what will become of you, my dear Blanquette?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Look, Asticot. I would give him all that he would ask. +I am his, all, all, to do what he likes with. I have told you. +I would sleep on the ground outside his door every night, if +that were his good pleasure. It is not much that I demand. +But he must be alone in the room, <i>entends-tu?</i> Another woman +comes to cherish him, and I no longer have any place near him. +I must be far away. And what would be the good of being +far away from him? What shall I do? <i>Tiens</i>, as soon as he +marries, <i>je vais me fich' à l'eau</i>."</p> + +<p>"You are going to do <i>what?</i>" I cried incredulously.</p> + +<p>She repeated that she would "chuck" herself into the river—"<i>Se +fich à l'eau</i>" is not the French of Racine. I remonstrated. +She retorted that if she could not keep the master's house in +order there was nothing left to live for. Much better be dead +than eat your heart out in misery.</p> + +<p>"You are talking like a wicked girl," said I severely, "and +it will be my duty to tell the master."</p> + +<p>She gave her eyes a final dab with my handkerchief which +she restored to me with an air of scornful resentment.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span></p> + +<p>"If you do, you will be infamous, and I will never speak to +you again as long as I live."</p> + +<p>I descended from my Rhadamanthine seat and reflected +that the betrayal of Blanquette's confidence would not be a +gallant action. I maintained my dignity, however.</p> + +<p>"Then I must hear nothing more about you drowning yourself."</p> + +<p>"We will not talk of it any longer," said Blanquette, frigidly. +"I am going to cook the dinner."</p> + +<p>As the prim salon provided little interest for an idle youth, +I followed her into the slip of a kitchen, where I lounged in +great contentment and discomfort. Blanquette relapsed into +her fatalistic attitude towards life and seemed to dismiss the +disastrous subject from her mind. While she prepared the +simple meal she entertained me with an account of the farm +near Chartres. There were so many cows, so many ducks and +hens and so many pigs. She rose at five every morning and +milked the cows. Oh, she had milked cows as a child and had +not forgotten the art. It was difficult for those who did not +know. <i>Tiens!</i> She demonstrated with finger and thumb +and a lettuce how it was done.</p> + +<p>"I shall not forget it," said I.</p> + +<p>"It is good to know things," she remarked seriously.</p> + +<p>"One never can tell," said I, "when a cow will come to you +weeping to be milked: especially in the Rue des Saladiers."</p> + +<p>"That is true," replied Blanquette. "The oddest things +happen sometimes."</p> + +<p>Light satire was lost on Blanquette.</p> + +<p>After dinner she continued the recital of her adventures for +the Master's delectation. The old couple no longer able to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span> +look after the farm were desirous of selling it, so that they +could retire to Evreux where their only son who had married +a rich wife kept a prosperous hotel.</p> + +<p>"Do you know what they said, Master. 'Why does not +Monsieur Paragot, who must be very rich, buy it from us and +come to live in the country instead of that dirty Paris?' <i>C'est +drôle, hein?</i>"</p> + +<p>"Why do they think I am very rich?"</p> + +<p>"That is what I asked them. They said if a man did not +work he must be either rich or a rogue; and they know you are +not a rogue, <i>mon Maître</i>."</p> + +<p>"They flatter me," said Paragot. "Would you like to live +in the country, Blanquette?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes!" she cried with conviction. "<i>Il y a des bêtes. +J'adore ça.</i> And then it smells so good."</p> + +<p>"It does," he sighed. "I haven't smelt it for over three +years. Ah! to have the scent of the good wet earth in one's +nostrils and the sound of bees in one's ears. For two pins I +would go gipsying again. If I were a rich man, my little +Blanquette, I would buy the farm, and give it you as your +dowry, and sometimes you would let me come and stay with +you."</p> + +<p>"But as I shall never marry, <i>mon Maître</i>, there will be no +need of a dowry."</p> + +<p>She said it smilingly, as if she welcomed her lot as a predestined +old maid. There was not a sign on her plain pleasant +face of the torment raging in her bosom. In my youthful ignorance +I did not know whether to deplore woman's deceit or to +admire her stout-heartedness.</p> + +<p>"My child," said Paragot, "no human being can, without<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span> +arrogance, say what he will or what he will not do. Least of +all a woman."</p> + +<p>Having uttered this profound piece of wisdom my master +went to bed.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>During the next few weeks Paragot suffered the boredom of +a provisional condition of existence. He went to bed early, +for lack of evening entertainment, and rose late in the morning +for lack of daily occupation. With what he termed "the +crapulous years," he had divested himself of his former associates +and habits. Friends that would harmonise with his +gloves and umbrella he had none as yet. If he ordered an +<i>apéritif</i> before the midday meal, it was on the terrace of a café +on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, where he sat devouring newspapers +in awful solitude. Sometimes he took Blanquette for +a sedate walk; but no longer Blanquette <i>en cheveux</i>. He +bought her a mystical headgear composed as far as I could see +of three plums and a couple of feathers, which the girl wore +with an air of happy martyrdom. He discoursed to her on the +weather and the political situation. At this period he began +to develop republican sympathies. Formerly he had swung, +according to the caprice of the moment, from an irreconcilable +nationalism to a fantastic anarchism. Now he was proud to +identify himself with the once despised <i>bourgeoisie</i>. He would +have taken to his bosom the draper papa of Hedwige of Cassel.</p> + +<p>Most of his time he spent in the studio at Menilmontant; +there at any rate he was at ease. We were not too disreputable +for the umbrella, and though he deprecated the loose speech of +Bringard and Bonnet who had returned to Paris, and the queer +personal habits of Cazalet, he appeared to find solace in our<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span> +society. At any rate the visits gave him occupation. He also +posed for the body of M. Thiers in an historical picture which +Bringard proposed to exhibit at the Salon the following spring.</p> + +<p>"<i>L'homme propose et Dieu expose</i>," said Paragot.</p> + +<p>"If he is anything of a judge this ought to be hung on the line," +said Bonnet.</p> + +<p>I regret to say the picture was rejected.</p> + +<p>At last the time came for the Melford visit. Paragot consulted +Ewing and myself earnestly as to his outfit, and though +he clung to his frock-coat suit as a garb of ceremony, we succeeded +in sending him away with a semblance of English country-house +attire. He took with him my portrait of Joanna, packed +in a wooden case and bearing, to my great pride, the legend, +"Precious. Work of Art. With great care," in French and +English.</p> + +<p>When he had gone I moved my belongings from my attic to +the Rue des Saladiers, and gave myself up to the ministrations +of Blanquette.</p> + +<p>A little while later I received from my dear lady an invitation +to visit Melford and paint the portrait of her mother, who +regarded my portrait of Joanna as a work of genius. If you +are a young artist it makes your head spin very pleasantly to +hear yourself alluded to as a genius. Later in life you do not +quite like it, for you have bitter knowledge of your limitations +and are mortally afraid your kind flatterers will find you +out. But at twenty you really do not know whether you are a +genius or not. Mrs. Rushworth, however, backed her opinion +with a hundred guineas. A hundred guineas! When I read +the words I uttered a wild shriek which brought Blanquette +in a fright from the bedroom. It was a commission, Joanna<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span> +explained, and I was to accept it just like any other artist, and +I was to stay with them, again like any other artist, during the +sittings.</p> + +<p>"I am to go to England to paint another portrait, Blanquette. +How much do you think I shall be paid for it?"</p> + +<p>"Much?" queried Blanquette, in her deliberate way.</p> + +<p>I indicated with swinging arms a balloon of gold. Blanquette +reflected.</p> + +<p>"Fifty francs?"</p> + +<p>"Two thousand six hundred and twenty five francs," I cried.</p> + +<p>Blanquette sat down in order to realise the sum. It was +difficult for her to conceive thousands of francs.</p> + +<p>"That will make you rich for the rest of your life."</p> + +<p>"It is only the beginning," I exclaimed hopefully.</p> + +<p>Blanquette shook a reproachful head.</p> + +<p>"There are some folks who are never satisfied," she said<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> I arrived at Melford my head was full of painting and +self-importance; and for the first week or so, Mrs. Rushworth, +my subject, occupied the centre of my stage. She was a placid +lady of sixty, whose hair, once golden, had turned a flossy white, +and whose apple cheeks, though still retaining their plumpness, +had grown waxen and were criss-crossed by innumerable tiny +lines. The light blue of her eyes had faded, and the rich redness +of her lips had turned to faint coral. One could trace how +Time had day by day touched her with light but unfaltering +fingers, now abstracting a fleck of brightness, now lowering +by an imperceptible shade a tone of colour, until she had become +what I saw her, still the pink and white beauty, but with +rose all deadened into white, like a sick pink pearl. Her pink +and white character had also suffered the effacement of the +years. She was as dainty and as negative as a piece of Dresden +China. She loved to dress in lilac and old lace: and that is +how I painted her, regarding her as a bit of exquisite decoration +to be treated flat like a panel of Puvis de Chavannes.</p> + +<p>My young head, I say, was full of the masterpiece I was +about to execute, and though I found much joy in renewed +intercourse with my beloved lady and my master, I took no +particular note of their relations. We met at meals, sometimes +in the afternoons, and always of evenings, when I played dutiful +piquet with Mrs. Rushworth, while Joanna made music on the +piano, and Paragot read Jane Austen in an arm-chair by the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span> +fire. To me the quietude of the secluded English home had an +undefinable charm like the smell of lavender, for which I have +always had a cat-like affection. Not having the Bohemian +temperament—I am now the most smugly comfortable painter +in Europe—I was perfectly happy. I took no thought of Paragot, +whose temperament was essentially Bohemian; and how he +enjoyed the gentle monotony of the days it did not occur to me +to consider. Outwardly he shewed no sign of impatience. +A dean might have taken him as a model of decorum, and when +he drove of afternoons with Joanna in the dog-cart, no dyspeptic +bishop could have assumed his air of grim urbanity. But after +a while I realised that the old Paragot still smouldered within +him; and now and then it burst into unregenerate flame.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rushworth had inherited from her father an old Georgian +Bath-stone house at the end of the High Street of Melford. +He had been the Duke of Wiltshire's agent and a person of note +in the town. Mrs. Rushworth also was a person of note, and +her beautiful daughter, the Countess, a lady of fortune, became +a person of greater note still. Now on Tuesday afternoons +Mrs. Rushworth was "at home." We saw a vast deal of Society, +ladies of county families, parsons' wives, doctors' wives +and the female belongings of the gentlemen farmers round +about. There were also a stray hunting man, a curate or two +and Major Walters. The callers sat about the drawing room in +little groups drinking tea and discoursing on unimportant and +unintelligible matters, and seemed oddly shy of Paragot and +myself, whom Joanna always introduced most graciously. +They preferred to talk among themselves. I considered them +impolite, which no doubt they were; but I have since reflected +that Paragot was an unusual guest at an English country tea-party,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span> +and if there is one thing more than another that an +English country tea-party resents, it is the unusual. I am sure +that a square muffin would be considered an indelicacy. On +the second of these Tuesday gatherings which I was privileged +to attend, Joanna presented me to two well-favoured young +women, the daughters, I gathered, of people who had country +places near by.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Pradel is the artist from Paris who is painting mamma's +portrait," she explained.</p> + +<p>I bowed and remarked that I was enchanted to make their +acquaintance. They stared. I know now that this Gallic +mode of address is not usual in Melford. One young woman, +recovering from the shock, said she would like to be an artist. +The other asked me whether I had been to the Academy. I +said, no. I lived in Paris. Then had I been to the Salon?</p> + +<p>"At Janot's," said I, with the idiot egregiousness of youth, +"we don't go to the Salon."</p> + +<p>"Why?" asked the first, looking across the room, apparently +at a curate.</p> + +<p>"On principle," I answered. "In the first place it costs a +franc which might be spent in food and raiment, and in the +second we desire to preserve our ideals from the contaminating +spectacle of commercial art."</p> + +<p>"Do you play much tennis?" asked Number Two, with no +desire to snub me (as I deserved) for fatuity, but through sheer +lack of interest in my observation.</p> + +<p>"No," said I.</p> + +<p>"Shoot?"</p> + +<p>"No; there is not much shooting to be got in the Boulevard +Saint-Michel."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh," she remarked. "Where's that?"</p> + +<p>"Paris," said I.</p> + +<p>"Oh yes. You live in Paris." And she regarded me with +the expression of bored curiosity exhibited by a superior child +before the Yak's enclosure at the Zoological Gardens. An +English country-bred maiden's cosmic horizon was sadly limited +in those days. Now I believe she has extended it to include +the more depressing forms of drama when she pays her +annual visit to London. There was a silence after which she +enquired whether I fished. As my ideas of fishing were restricted +to the patient hosts—pale shades of Acheron—who have +angled off the quays of the Seine for centuries and have till +now caught nothing, I smiled and shook my head.</p> + +<p>"The Browns have taken a fishing in Scotland," observed +Number One taking her eyes from the curate, "and I'm to join +them next month."</p> + +<p>"Myra Brown is going to be married, I hear."</p> + +<p>"At Christmas."</p> + +<p>"What is he like?"</p> + +<p>The hitherto unspeculative eyes of the young woman lit up; +an answering gleam awoke in the other's. Myra Brown and +her engagement absorbed their attention, and I slunk back in +my chair, forgotten. I suffered agonies of shyness. I disliked +these foolish virgins and longed to flee from them; but how to +rise and make my escape, without rudeness, passed my powers +of invention. I looked around me. At the tea-table on the +farther side of the room stood Joanna and Major Walters. He +was a tall soldierly man with a blond moustache and fair hair +thinning on the crown. There are about two thousand like him +at the present moment on the active and retired list of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span> +British Army. He seemed to be talking earnestly to her, +for her eyes were fixed on the point of her shoe, which she +moved slightly, from side to side. Presently she flashed a +glance at him somewhat angrily and her lips moved as though +she said:—</p> + +<p>"What right have you to speak like that?"</p> + +<p>He made the Englishman's awkward paraphrase of the shrug, +looked swiftly over at Paragot, and turned to her with a remark. +Then for the first time since the Comte de Verneuil's death, +the glacier blue came into her eyes. She said something. He +executed a little stiff bow and walked away. Joanna, bearing +herself very haughtily, crossed the room with a cup of tea for a +new arrival.</p> + +<p>Paragot, gaunt and tight-buttoned in his famous frock coat—he +had donned it for the ceremonious afternoon, but Joanna +(I think) had suppressed the purple cravat with the yellow +spots—was talking to an elderly and bony female owning a +great beak of a nose. I wondered how so unprepossessing a +person could be admitted into a refined assembly, but I +learned later that she was Lady Molyneux, one of the Great +Personages of the county. The lady seemed to be emphatic; +so did Paragot. She regarded him stonily out of flint-blue +eyes. He waved his hands; she raised her eyebrows. +She was one of those women whose eyebrows in the normal +state are about three inches from the eyelids. I understood +then what superciliousness meant. Paragot raised his voice. +At that moment one of those strange coincidences occurred in +which the ends of all casual conversations fell together, and a +shaft of silence sped through the room, killing all sound save +that of Paragot's utterance.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But Great Heavens, Madam, babies don't grow in the +cabbage patch, and you are all well aware they don't, and it's +criminal of your English writers to mislead the young as to the +facts of existence. Charlotte Yonge is infinitely more immoral +than Guy de Maupassant."</p> + +<p>Then Paragot realized the dead stillness. He rose from +his chair, looked around at the shocked faces of the women and +curates, and laughing turned to Mrs. Rushworth.</p> + +<p>"I was stating Zola to be a great ethical teacher, and Lady +Molyneux seemed disinclined to believe me."</p> + +<p>"He is an author very little read in Melford," said the placid +lady from her sofa cushions, while the two or three women +with whom she was in converse gazed disapprovingly at my +master.</p> + +<p>"It would do the town good if it were steeped in his writings," +said he.</p> + +<p>As this was at a period when like hell you could not mention +the name of Zola to ears polite, no one ventured to argue the +matter. Mrs. Rushworth's plump faded lips quivered helplessly, +and it was with a gush of gratitude that she seized the +hand of one of the ladies who rose to take her leave, and save +the situation. The little spell of shock was broken. Groups +resumed their mysterious conversations, and Paragot swung +to the hearth-rug and stood there in solitary defiance. I seized +the opportunity to escape from my two damsels. As I passed +Lady Molyneux, she turned to her neighbour.</p> + +<p>"What a dreadful man!" she said. "I entirely disapprove +of Mrs. Rushworth having such persons in her house."</p> + +<p>I could have wept with rage. Here was this turtle-brained, +ugly woman (so, in my presumption, I called her) daring to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span> +speak slightingly of my beloved master who had condescended +to speak out of his Olympian wisdom, and no fire from +Zeus shrivelled her up! She signified her disapproval with the +air of a law-giver, and the other woman acquiesced. I longed +to flame into defence of Paragot; but remembering how +ill I fared on a similar occasion when a member of the Lotus +Club accused him of having led a bear in Warsaw, I wisely +held my peace. But I was very angry.</p> + +<p>I joined Paragot on the hearth-rug. Presently Joanna came +with her silvery laugh.</p> + +<p>"You mustn't be so dreadfully emphatic, Gaston," she +said.</p> + +<p>"Unintelligent women must not lay down the law on matters +they don't understand," said Paragot.</p> + +<p>"But it was Lady Molyneux."</p> + +<p>"Which signifies?"</p> + +<p>"The sovereign lady of Melford."</p> + +<p>"God help Melford!" ejaculated my master.</p> + +<p>When the ladies had left us that evening after dinner, Paragot +poured out a glass of port and pushed the decanter across to +me.</p> + +<p>"My son," said he, "as a philosopher and a citizen of the +world you will find Melford repay patient study as much as +Chambéry or Buda-Pesth or the Latin Quarter. It is a garden +of Lilliput. Here you will see Life in its most cultivated +littleness. A great passion bursting out across the way would +convulse the town like an earthquake. Observe at the same +time how constant a factor is human nature. However variable +the manifestation may be, the degree is invariable. In spacious +conditions it manifests itself in passions, in narrow ones<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span> +in prejudices. The females in and out of petticoats who +were here this afternoon experience the same thrill in expressing +their dislike of me as a person foreign to their convention, +as the Sicilian who plunges his dagger into a rival's bosom. +When I am married, my son, I shall not live at Melford."</p> + +<p>"Where do you propose to live, Master?" I enquired.</p> + +<p>He made a great gesture and drew a deep breath.</p> + +<p>"On the Continent of Europe," said he, as if even a particular +country were too cabined to satisfy his nostalgia for +wide spaces. "I must have room, my son, for the development +of my genius. I must dream great things, and immortal +visions are blasted under the basilisk eye of Lady Molyneux."</p> + +<p>"She is a <i>vieille pimbêche!</i>" I cried.</p> + +<p>"She is the curse of England," said Paragot.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>After this it occurred to me that I might take more note of +Melford and its ways than I had done hitherto, and the more +I observed it the less did it appear to resemble either Eden or +the Boulevard Saint-Michel. At times I felt dull. I would +lean over the parapet of the bridge at the other end of the High +Street, and watch the tower and decorated spire of the old +parish church rise from the gold and russet bosom of the +church-yard elms, and wish I were back on the Pont Neuf +with the tumultuous life of Paris around me. There was a +lack of breeziness in the social air of Melford.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Paragot and Joanna continued the romance of +long ago. They walked together in the garden like lovers, +his arm around her waist, her delicate head lightly leaning +on his shoulder. Once when I made my presence known, he +withdrew his arm, but Joanna laughingly replaced it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What does it matter? Asticot is in our confidence," she +remarked. "Isn't he going to be your best man? You will +bring him over for the wedding, Gaston."</p> + +<p>"You cling to the idea of being married in Melford?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Of course."</p> + +<p>"By that dry, grey-whiskered gentleman who treats me as +if I were a youth he would like to prepare for confirmation? +And all these dreadful people to look on? My dear, doesn't +the thought of it chill you into the corpse of a Melfordian?"</p> + +<p>"I should have imagined that so long as we were married +the 'how' would not matter to you."</p> + +<p>"Quite so," said he. "Why does the 'how' matter so much +to you?"</p> + +<p>"It is different," said Joanna. "It is right for me to be +married here."</p> + +<p>"We must do what is right at all costs," assented my master +in an ironical note, which she was quick to detect. She +swerved from his encircling arm.</p> + +<p>"You would not be married under a bush like a beggar?" +she quoted.</p> + +<p>"I wish to heaven I could!" he exclaimed with sudden +spirit. "It is the only way of mating. I would take you to +a little village I know of in the Vosges, overhanging a precipice, +with God's mountains and sky above us, and not a schedule +of regulations for human conduct within thirty miles, and +Monsieur le Maire would tie his tricolor scarf around him +and marry us, and we would go away arm in arm and the +cow-bells overhead would ring the wedding peal, and there +would be just you and I and the universe."</p> + +<p>"We'll compromise," said Joanna, smiling. "We'll spend<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span> +our honeymoon in your village in the Vosges after we are +well and duly and respectably married in Melford. Don't +you think I am reasonable, Asticot?"</p> + +<p>"My dear Joanna," said Paragot, "you have infatuated +this boy to such an extent that he would agree with you in +anything. Of course he will say that the Reverend and respectable +Mr. Hawkfield is better than the picturesque Monsieur +le Maire, and that a wedding cake from Gunter's is +preferable to the curdled cheese of Valdeauvau. He would +perjure his little soul to atoms for your sake."</p> + +<p>"I thought somebody else would too," whispered Joanna +softly.</p> + +<p>Paragot yielded as he looked down at her sea-shell face.</p> + +<p>"So he would. For your sake he would go through Hell +and the Church of England service for the Solemnization of +Matrimony."</p> + +<p>We were walking round and round the broad gravel path +that enclosed the tennis lawn. Land was cheap in the days +when the Georgian houses of the High Street were built, and +people took as much for garden purposes as they desired. +The gardens were the only truly spacious things in Melford. +There was a long silence. The lovers seemed to have forgotten +my existence. Presently Joanna spoke.</p> + +<p>"You must remember that I am still a member of the +Church of England, and look at the religious side of marriage. +It would be very pretty to be married by Monsieur le Maire, +but I could not reconcile it to my conscience. So when you +speak scoffingly of a marriage in church you rather hurt me, +Gaston."</p> + +<p>"You must forgive me, <i>ma chérie</i>," said he, humbly. "I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span> +am a happy Pagan and it is so long since I have met anyone +who belonged to the Church of England that I thought the +institution had perished of inanition."</p> + +<p>"Why, you went with me to church last Sunday."</p> + +<p>"So I did," said he, "but I thought it was only to worship +the Great British God Respectability."</p> + +<p>Joanna sighed and turned the conversation to the autumn +tints and other impersonal things, and I noticed that she +drew Paragot's arm again around her waist, as if to reassure +herself of something. As we passed by the porch, I entered +the house; but loving to look on my dear lady, I lingered, +and saw her hold up her lips. He bent down and kissed them.</p> + +<p>"Don't think me foolish, Gaston," she said, "but I have +starved for love for thirteen years."</p> + +<p>By the gesture of his arm and the working of his features, +I saw that he rhapsodised in reply.</p> + +<p>To the sentimental youngster who looked on, this love-making +seemed an idyll without a disturbing breath. Joanna, +though she had lost the gay spontaneity of her Paris holiday, +smiled none the less adorably on Paragot and myself. She +wore a little air of defiant pride when she introduced him to +her acquaintance as "my cousin, Monsieur de Nérac," which +was very pretty to behold. Convention forbade the announcement +of their engagement at so early a stage of her widowhood, +but anyone of rudimentary intelligence could see that +she was presenting her future husband. Few women can +hide that triumphant sense of proprietorship in a man, especially +if they have at the same time to hold themselves on the +defensive against the possible fulminations of Lady Molyneux. +Joanna proclaimed herself a champion. Even when Paragot<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span> +forgot his social reformation and banged his fist down on the +dinner table till the glasses rang again, with a great <i>nom de +Dieu!</i> her glance swept the company as if to defy them to find +anything uncommon in the demeanour of her guest. It was +only towards the end of my stay that she began to wince. +And Paragot, save on occasion of outburst, went through +the love-making and the social routine with the grave but +contented face of a man who had found his real avocation.</p> + +<p>Looking back on these idyllic days I realise the greatness +of Paragot's self-control. In his domestic habits he was less +a human being than a mechanical toy. At half past eight +every morning he entered the breakfast-room. At half past +nine he went into the town to get shaved. Had he an appointment +with Joanna, he was there to the minute. He clothed +himself in what he considered were orthodox garments. He +even folded up his trousers of nights. He limited his smoking +to a definite number of cigarettes consumed at fixed hours. +Apparently he had never heard of the reprehensible habit of +drinking between meals. If he only went to church to worship +the British God Respectability, he did so with impeccable +unction. No undertaker listened to the funeral service with +more portentous solemnity than Paragot exhibited during the +Vicar's sermon. Indeed, sitting bolt upright in the pew, his +lined, brown face set in a blank expression, his ill-fitting +frock coat buttoned tight across his chest, his hair—despite +the barber's pains—struggling in vain to obey the rules of the +unaccustomed parting, he bore considerable resemblance +to an undertaker in moderate circumstances. Of the delectable +vagabond in pearl-buttoned velveteens fiddling wildly to capering +peasants; of the long-haired, unkempt Dictator of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span> +Café Delphine roaring his absinthe-inspired judgments on +art and philosophy for the delectation of his disciples, not a +trace remained. He sang the hymns. It was a pity they did +not invite him to go round with the plate. Yet the signs of +a rebellious spirit continued now and then to manifest themselves. +He asked me, one day, with a groan whether he was +condemned to a daily clean collar for the rest of his life. Another +day he seized me by the arm, as we were lounging on +the porch, and dragged me out of earshot of the house.</p> + +<p>"My good Asticot," said he in a dramatic whisper, "if I +don't talk to a man, I shall go mad. I shall dance around the +flower beds and scream. I have a yearning to converse with +the host of the Black Boar, a fat Rabelaisian scoundrel +who has piqued my imagination. And besides, if Shadrach, +Meshach and Abednego were cast into my throat this minute +they would find it quite a different thing from Nebuchadnezzar's +ineffectual bonfire."</p> + +<p>"There is no reason why we should not go to the Black Boar," +said I.</p> + +<p>He clapped me on the shoulder, calling me a Delphic oracle, +and haled me from the premises through the garden gate, +with the lightning rapidity of the familiar Paragot.</p> + +<p>"Master," said I, as we hastened down the High Street—the +Black Boar stood at the other end, by the bridge—"if you +want a man to talk to, there is always Major Walters."</p> + +<p>Paragot threw out his hand.</p> + +<p>"He is a man, in that he is brave and masculine; in that +he is intelligent, he is naught. He is a machine-gun. He +fires off rounds of stereotyped conversation at the rate of +one a minute, which is funereal. I also have the misfortune,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> +my little Asticot, to be under the ban of Major Walters' displeasure. +Your British military man is prejudiced against +anyone who is not cut out according to pattern."</p> + +<p>"Madame de Verneuil is not cut out according to pattern," +said I maliciously.</p> + +<p>"Your infant eyes have noticed it too? But I, my son, am +Gaston de Nérac, a vidame of Gascony, <i>nom de Dieu! et il +aura affaire à moi, ce pantin-là! Sacredieu!</i> Do you know +what he had the impertinence to ask me yesterday? What +settlements I proposed to make on Madame de Verneuil. +Settlements, <i>mon petit</i> Asticot! He spoke as trustee, whatever +that may be, under her husband's will. 'Sir,' said I, +'I will settle my love and my genius upon her, and thereby +insure her happiness and her prosperity. Besides, Madame +de Verneuil has a fortune which will suffice her needs and of +which I will not touch a penny.'"</p> + +<p>I smiled, for I could see Paragot in his grand French manner, +one hand thrust between the buttons of his coat and the other +waving magnificently, as he proclaimed himself to Major +Walters.</p> + +<p>"I explained," he continued, "in terms which I thought +might reach his intelligence, that I only had to resume my +profession and my financial position would equal that of +Madame de Verneuil. 'And, Sir,' said I, 'I will not suffer +you to say another word.' We bowed, and parted enemies. +Wherefore the conversation of the excellent Major Walters +does not appeal to me as attractive."</p> + +<p>At the time I thought this very noble of Paragot. In a +way it was so, for my master, who had never committed a +dishonourable action in his life, was genuine in his scorn of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span> +insinuation that he proposed to live on Joanna's money. He +verily believed himself capable of reattaining fame and fortune. +It was only the nuisance of having to do so that, at introspective +times, disconcerted him. He knew that to break away from +a thirteen-year-old habit of idleness would need considerable +effort. But he was a man, <i>nom d'un chien!</i></p> + +<p>To prove it he called for a quart of ale in the bar-parlour of +the Black Boar, an old coaching inn, set back from the road. +The little eyes of the fleshy rubicond host, loafing comfortably +in shirt-sleeves, glistened as he received the Pantagruelian +order and brought the great tankard with a modest half pint +for me, and a jorum of rum for himself. Paragot was worthy +of a host's attention.</p> + +<p>Paragot pledged him and literally poured the contents of the +tankard down his throat.</p> + +<p>The landlord stared in an ecstasy of admiration.</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm damned," said he.</p> + +<p>"I'll take another," said Paragot.</p> + +<p>The landlord brought another tankard.</p> + +<p>"How do you manage it?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Paragot explained that he had learned the art in Germany. +You open your throat to the good beer without moving the +muscles whereby you swallow, and down it goes.</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm jiggered," said mine host.</p> + +<p>"Have you no pretty drinkers hereabouts?" asked my +master, sipping the second quart.</p> + +<p>"They lots of 'em comes here and gets fuddled, if that's +what you mean."</p> + +<p>Paragot waved an impatient hand. "To get fuddled on +beer is not pretty drinking. Haven't you any hard-headed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span> +topers who are famous in the neighborhood? Men who can +carry their liquor like gentlemen and whose souls expand as +they get more and more filled with the alcohol of human +kindness? If so, I should like to meet them."</p> + +<p>"There isn't any as could toss off a quart like that."</p> + +<p>"Have you always lived in Melford?"</p> + +<p>"Oh no," replied the landlord, as if resenting the suggestion, +"I was born and bred in Devizes."</p> + +<p>"It must be a devil of a place, Devizes," said Paragot.</p> + +<p>"It be none so bad," assented the landlord. A woman's +voice from the bar summoned him away. Paragot pushed his +unfinished quart from him and rose. He shook his head sadly.</p> + +<p>"I am disappointed in that man. He is a mere bucolic +idiot. I shall waste my talents intellectual and bibulous on +him no longer. Our excursion into the Bohemia of Melford +is a failure, my little Asticot, and the beer is confoundedly +sour. I am glad I did not vagabondise in rural England."</p> + +<p>"Why?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"To avoid an asylum for idiots I should have rushed into +the dissenting ministry. I might have expected mine host to +be a dullard. In this country the expected always happens, +which paralyses the brain. Now let us go home to lunch."</p> + +<p>He paid the bill, and as we issued from the door of the inn +we fell into the arms of Joanna and Major Walters.</p> + +<p>The latter regarded us superciliously, and Joanna catching +his glance flushed to the wavy hair over her forehead. The +ordinary greetings having been exchanged, she proudly and +markedly drew Paragot ahead, leaving me to follow with +Major Walters. As he made no remark of any kind during +our little walk, I did not find him an exhilarating companion.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XX</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">I had</span> worked till the last glimmer of daylight at the portrait, +which was now approaching completion.</p> + +<p>"That's the end of it for to-day," said I, laying my palette +and brushes aside, and regarding the picture.</p> + +<p>Joanna rose from her chair by the fire where she had been +sewing for the last hour and stood by my side. The morning-room, +which had a clear north-east light through the French +window leading into the garden, had been assigned to me as +a studio, and here, sometimes on a murky afternoon, Joanna, +who preferred the bright, chintz-covered place to the gloomy +drawing-room, honoured me with her company. Mrs. Rushworth +was asleep upstairs, and Paragot had gone for a solitary +walk. We were cosily alone.</p> + +<p>It pleased my lady to be flattering.</p> + +<p>"It is wonderful how a boy like you can do such work—for +you <i>are</i> a boy, Asticot," she said with one of her bright +comrade-like smiles. "In a few years you will have the world +at your feet imploring you to paint its portrait. You will +fulfil the promise, won't you?"</p> + +<p>"What promise, Madame?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"The promise of your life now. It is not everyone who +does. You won't allow outside things to send you away from +it all."</p> + +<p>She had slung the stole which she was embroidering for the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span> +vicar across her shoulders, and holding the two ends looked +at me wistfully.</p> + +<p>"I owe it to my master, Madame," said I, "to work with +all my might."</p> + +<p>"If only he had had a master in the old days!" she sighed, +"He would have been by now a famous man full of honours, +with all the world can give in his possession."</p> + +<p>"Hasn't he the best the world can give now that he has +found you again?" said I, somewhat shyly.</p> + +<p>Joanna gave a short laugh. "You talk sometimes like +one's grandfather. I suppose that is because you became a +student of philosophy at a tender age. Yes, your master +has found me again; but after all, what is a woman? Just a +speck of dust on top of the world."</p> + +<p>She half seated herself on my painting stool, her back to the +picture.</p> + +<p>"Tell me, Asticot, is he at least happy?"</p> + +<p>"Can you doubt it, Madame?" I cried warmly.</p> + +<p>"I do so want him to be happy, Asticot. You see it was all +through me that he gave up his career and took to the strange +life he has been leading, and I feel doubly responsible for his +future. Can you understand that?"</p> + +<p>Her blue eyes were very childish and earnest. For all my +love of Paragot, I suddenly felt something like pity for her, +as for one who had undertaken a responsibility that weighed +too heavily on slender shoulders. For the first time it struck +me that Paragot and Joanna might not be a perfectly matched +couple. Intuition prompted me to say:—</p> + +<p>"My master is utterly happy, but you must give him a little +time to accustom himself to the new order of things."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span></p> + +<p>"That's it," she said. Then there was a pause. "You are +such a wise boy," she continued, "that perhaps you may be +able to do something for me. I can't do it myself—and it's +horrid of me to talk about it—but do you think you might +suggest to him that people of our class don't visit the Black +Boar? I don't mind it a bit; but other people—my cousin +Major Walters said something a day or two ago—and it hurt. +They don't understand Gaston's Continental ways. It is +natural for a man to go to a café in France; but in England, +things are so different."</p> + +<p>I promised to convey to Paragot the tabu of the Black Boar, +and then I asked her which she preferred, England or France. +She shivered, and a gleam of frost returned to her eyes.</p> + +<p>"I never want to see France again. I was so unhappy +there. I am trying to persuade Mr. de Nérac to live in London. +He can find as much scope for his art there as in Paris, can't +he?"</p> + +<p>"Surely," said I.</p> + +<p>"And you'll come too," she said with the flash of gaiety +that was one of her charms. "You'll have a beautiful studio +near by and we'll all be happy together."</p> + +<p>She jumped off the painting stool and having bidden me light +the gas, resumed her task of embroidering the stole, by the fireside.</p> + +<p>"It's pretty, isn't it?" she asked, holding it up for my +inspection.</p> + +<p>I agreed. She had considerable talent for art needlework.</p> + +<p>"Gaston doesn't appreciate it," she remarked, laughing. +"He disapproves of clergymen."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span></p> + +<p>"They have scarcely been in his line," I answered apologetically.</p> + +<p>"They will have to be. Oh, you'll see. I'll make him a +model Englishman before very long."</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid you will find it rather difficult, Madame," said I.</p> + +<p>"Do you think I'm afraid of difficulties? Isn't everything +difficult? Is it easy for you to get everything to come out on +that canvas just as you want it? If you could dash it off in +a minute it wouldn't be worth doing. As you yourself said, +I'll have to give Gaston time."</p> + +<p>I seated myself on the fender-seat close by her chair, and +for some minutes watched the clever needle work its golden +way through the white silk. No one has ever had such +dainty fingers and delicate wrists.</p> + +<p>"You mustn't think, because I have spoken about Mr. de +Nérac, that I am discontented. I wouldn't have him a bit +altered integrally, for there is no one like him living. And +I'm utterly happy in the fulfilment of the great romance of +my life. Isn't it wonderful, Asticot? Have you ever heard +the like outside a story book? To meet again after thirteen +years and to find the old—the old——"</p> + +<p>"Love," I whispered, as I saw that she suddenly blushed at +the word.</p> + +<p>"As strong and true as ever. It is the inner things that +matter, Asticot. The outside ones are nothing. Dreadful +things have happened to each of us during those years, but +they haven't clouded the serenity of our souls."</p> + +<p>"Ah, Madame," said I, with a smile—it strikes me now +that I was slightly impertinent—"I am sure my master said +that."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes," she admitted, raising wide innocent eyes. "How +did you guess?"</p> + +<p>"You yourself once detected echoes in me!"</p> + +<p>We both laughed.</p> + +<p>"That is what brought us together, Asticot. You seemed +to regard him as a god rather than as a man—and I loved you +for it."</p> + +<p>She put out her left hand. I touched it with my lips.</p> + +<p>"That's a charming French way we haven't got in England. +And—you did it very nicely, Asticot."</p> + +<p>I almost scowled at the servant who entered with the announcement +that tea was waiting in the drawing-room.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I think of all human utterances I have heard fall from the +lips of those I love and honour, that formula of Paragot's +echoed by Joanna was the most pathetically vain. And +they believed it. Indeed it was the vital article of their faith. +On its truth the whole fabric of their love depended.</p> + +<p>It counted for nothing in Joanna's romantic eyes that the +brilliant eager youth, "rich in the glory of his rising-sun," +who had won her heart long ago—(she shewed me his photograph: +alas poor Paragot!)—was now the tongue-tied spectre, +the tale of whose ungentle past was scarred upon his face: +who stalked grotesquely comfortless in his ill-fitting clothes: +who with the art of dress had lost in the boozing-kens +of Europe the graces of social intercourse. It counted for +nothing that he was middle-aged, deserted forever by the +elusive wanton, inspiration, condemned (she knew it in her +heart) to artistic barrenness in perpetuity. It counted for +nothing that her gods awakened his contempt, and his gods her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span> +fear. It counted for nothing that they had scarcely a single +taste or thought in common—half-educated, half-bred boy that +I was, I vow I entered a sweeter chamber of intimacy in my +dear lady's heart than was open to Paragot.</p> + +<p>You see, in spite of all the deadening influences, all the horror +of her married life, she had remained a child. When the +Comte de Verneuil had found her unforgiving in the matter +of the false announcement of Paragot's death, he had left her +pretty much to herself, and had gone after the strange goddesses, +the ignoble Astaroths, beloved by a man of his type. Month +had followed month and year had followed year, and she had +not developed. His family, nationalist and devout, of the old +school, regarded him, rightly, as a renegade from their traditions, +and regarded Joanna, wrongly, as the English heretic +who had seduced him from the paths of orthodoxy. Their +relations with Joanna were of the most frigid. On the other +hand, the society of Hebraic finance in which the Comte de +Verneuil found profit and entertainment was repugnant to +the delicately nurtured Englishwoman. She led a lonely +existence. "I have so few friends in Paris," were almost her +first words to me on the day of our meeting outside the Hôtel +Bristol. She went through the world, her lips set in a smile, and +her dear eyes frozen, and her heart yearning for the sheltered +English life with its rules for guidance and its barriers of +convention, its pleasant little routine of duties, and its gentle +communion of unemotional temperaments. Her eleven +years married life had been merely a suspension of existence. +Her few excursions into the unusual had been the scared +adventures of a child. Her romance was the romance of a +child. Her gracious simplicity, and her caressing adorableness<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span> +which made my boy's love for her a passionate worship which +has lasted to this day, when we both are old and only meet +to shake heads together in palsied sympathy, were the essential +charms of a child. How should she understand the Paragot +that I knew? His soul still shone the stainless radiance +that had dazzled her young eyes. That was all that mattered. +It was easy to convert the outer man to convention. It was +the simplest thing in the world to make the chartered libertine +of talk accept the Index Expurgatorius of subjects mete for +discussion: to regulate the innate vagabond by the clock: +to bring the pantheistic pagan of wide spiritual sympathies +(for Paragot was by no means an irreligious man) into the +narrowest sphere of Anglicanism. The colossal nature of +her task did not occur to her; and there again she exhibited +a child's unreasoning confidence. Nor did it occur to her to +bid him throw off his undertaker's garb and gloom and to adopt +his free theories of life and conduct. At her mother's knee +she had learned the First Commandment, "Thou shalt have +none other gods but me"; and Joanna's god, though serving +her sweet innocent soul all the reasonable purposes of a deity, +was Matthew Arnold's gigantic clergyman in a white tie. In +obedience to his maxims alone lay salvation: Joanna's conviction +was unshakable. As a matter of course Paragot +must walk the same path. There was not another one to +walk.</p> + +<p>Paragot accepted meekly my report of Joanna's tabu of +the Black Boar.</p> + +<p>"Whatever Madame de Verneuil says is right. I was +forgetting that the refrain of the ballade of the immortal +Villon '<i>Tout aux tavernes et aux filles</i>' which was that of my<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span> +life for so many years is so no longer, I wonder what the +devil the refrain is now? Ha!" he exclaimed clapping his +hand on my shoulder in his old violent way, "I have it! also +Villon. Guess. Didn't I teach you all the ballades by rote +as we wandered through Savoy?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Master," said I; but I could only think of the one +that came into my Byronic little head on the occasion of my +first meeting with Joanna, "<i>Bien heureux qui rien n'y a</i>," +which in the present circumstances was clearly not applicable. +The romantic lover does not base his conduct on the formula +that blessed is he who has nothing to do with women.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Master?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"'<i>En ceste foy je veuil vivre et mourir.</i>'"</p> + +<p>I did not understand. "In which faith do you wish to live +and die?" I asked.</p> + +<p>He made a gesture of disappointment. He too was a +child in many respects.</p> + +<p>"You must go back to Paris to sharpen your wits, my son. +I thought I had trained you to catch allusion, one of the most +delicate and satisfying arts of life. Did I not preface my +remarks by saying that Madame de Verneuil was infallible? +By which I mean that she is the mouthpiece of all the sweeter +kinds of angels. That is the faith, my little Asticot," and he +repeated to himself the rascal poet's refrain to his most perfect +poem: "<i>En ceste foy je veuil vivre et mourir.</i>"</p> + +<p>"But that," said I, wishing to prove that I had not forgotten +my scholarship, "is a prayer to Our Lady made by +Villon at the request of his mother."</p> + +<p>"You are as hopeless as mine host of the Black Boar," said +my master, and being wound up to talk—it was during the after-dinner<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span> +interval before joining the ladies—he launched into a +half hour's disquisition on the philosophic value of allusiveness, +addressing me as if I had been his audience at the Lotus +Club or a choice band of disciples at the Café Delphine.</p> + +<p>In the drawing-room I played my piquet with Mrs. Rushworth, +while Paragot sat with Joanna in a far corner. I +could not help noticing how little they spoke. Paragot's +torrent of words had dried up, and the talk seemed to flow in +unsatisfying driblets. Why did he not entertain her with his +newly adopted romantical motto from Villon? Why did he +not express, in terms of which he was such a master, his +fantastic adoration? Why even did he not continue his +disquisition on the philosophic value of allusiveness? Anything, +thought I, as I declared a <i>quinzième</i> and fourteen kings, +rather than this staccato exchange of commonplaces which +I was sure neither Joanna nor himself in the least enjoyed. +In fact, my dear Joanna yawned.</p> + +<p>Presently Major Walters was announced. He had come, +he explained apologetically, on trustee business and required +Joanna's signature to an important document. She flew to +him with a pretty air of delight, drew him by the arm to an +escritoire in a corner of the room, and laughed girlishly as she +inked her fingers and confessed her powerlessness to comprehend +the deed she was signing. Paragot, after a very cold +exchange of greetings with Major Walters, sat down by our +card-table, and watched the game with the funereal expression +he always wore when he desired to exhibit his entire correctness +of demeanour. To Mrs. Rushworth's placid remarks during the +deals he made the politest of monosyllabic replies. Meanwhile +his dingy white tie, which he never could arrange properly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span> +(he dressed for dinner each night without a murmur) had +worked up beyond his collar, and encircling his lean neck +like a pussy-cat's ribbon, gave him a peculiarly unheroic +appearance.</p> + +<p>The signing over, Joanna kept Major Walters by the escritoire +and chatted in a lively manner. As far as I could +hear—and I am afraid my attention was sadly abstracted +from my game—they talked of the same unintelligible +things as the Tuesday afternoon guests, personalities, +local doings and what not. She ran to fetch the stole, over +which Paragot had not glowed with rapturous enthusiasm; +apparently Major Walters said just the thing concerning it +her heart craved to hear; her silvery voice rippled with pleasure. +A while later he must have returned to some business matter +which he declared settled, for she put her hand on his sleeve +in her impulsive caressing way and her eyes beamed gratitude.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what I should do without you, Dennis. You +bear all my responsibilities on your strong shoulders. How +can I thank you?"</p> + +<p>He bent down and said something in a low voice, at which +she blushed and laughed reprovingly. His remark did not +offend her in the least. She was enjoying herself. He drew +himself up with a smile. It was then that I noted particularly +how well bred and clean-limbed he was; how easily his clothes +fitted. It seemed as impossible for Major Walters' tie to work +up round his neck as for his toes to protrude through his boots. +He gave one the impression of having followed cleanliness +of thought and person all his life. I began to have a sneaking +admiration for the man. I beheld in its openness that which +I had often seen pierce through Paragot's travesty of mountebankery<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span> +or rags, but which singularly enough seemed hidden +beneath his conventional garb—the inborn and incommunicable +quality of the high-bred gentleman. I set to dreaming +of it and scheming out a portrait in which that essential quality +could be expressed; whereby I played the fool with my hand +and incurred the mild rebuke of my adversary, as she repiqued +and capoted me and triumphantly declared the game.</p> + +<p>There was a short, general conversation. Then Major +Walters, declining the offer of whisky and soda in the dining-room, +took his leave. Paragot accompanied him to the front +door. When he returned, Mrs. Rushworth retired, as she +always did after her game, and Joanna instead of remaining +with us for an hour, as usual, pleaded fatigue and went to bed.</p> + +<p>"Master," said I, boyishly full of my new idea, "do you +think Major Walters would sit to me? I don't mean as a +commission—of course I couldn't ask him—but for practice. +I should like to paint him as a knight in armour."</p> + +<p>"Why this lunatic notion?" asked my master.</p> + +<p>I explained. He looked at me for some time very seriously. +There was a touch of pain in his tired blue eyes.</p> + +<p>"You are right, my little Asticot," he said, "and I was wrong. +My perception is growing blunt. I regarded our friend as +having fallen out of the War Office box of tin soldiers. Your +vision has been keener. Breed counts for much; but for it +to have full value there must be the <i>life</i> as well. All the same, +the notion of asking Major Walters to pose to you in +a suit of armour is lunatic, and the sooner you finish Mrs. +Rushworth and get back to Janot's the better. There is also +Blanquette who must be bored to death in the Rue des Saladiers, +with no one but Narcisse to bear her company."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span></p> + +<p>He put a cigarette into his mouth, but for some time did not +light it although he held a match ready to strike in his fingers. +His thoughts held him.</p> + +<p>"My son," he said at last, "I would give the eyes out of my +head to have my violin."</p> + +<p>"Why, Master?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Because," said he, "when one is afflicted with a divine +despair, there is nothing for it like fiddling it out of the system."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXI</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Paris</span> again; Janot's; the organized confusion of the studio; +the boisterous comradeship of my coevals; the Monday +morning throng of models in all stages of non-attire crowding +the staircases; the noisy café over the way; the Restaurant +Didier where those of us, young men and maidens, who had +princely incomes dined marvellously for one franc fifty, <i>vin +compris</i>—such wine!—I writhe sympathetically at its memory; +the squabbles, the new romances, the new slang on the tip of +everyone's tongue; the studio in Menilmontant where the +four of us slaved at never-to-be-purchased masterpieces; +the dear, full-blooded, inspiring life again. Paris, too, which +meant the Rue des Saladiers and Blanquette and Narcisse, +and the grace of dear familiar things.</p> + +<p>It must not be counted to me for ingratitude that I was glad +to be back. I was still a boy, under twenty. My pockets +bulged with the bank notes into which I had converted Mrs. +Rushworth's cheque, and I found myself master of infinite +delight. I presented Blanquette with a tortoise-shell comb and +Narcisse with a collar, and I electrified my intimate and less +fortunate friends by giving them a dinner in the dismal entresol +at Didier's which was superbly styled the "<i>Salle des Banquets</i>." +Fanchette and one or two of her colleagues being of the party, +I fear we behaved in a disreputable manner. If Melford +had looked on it would have blushed to the top of its decorated +spire. We put the table aside and danced eccentric quadrilles.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span> +We shouted roystering songs. When Cazalet tried +to sing a solo we held him down and gagged him with his own +sandals. We flirted in corners. A goodly portion of Rosaria, +a Spanish model born and bred in the Quartier Saint-Antoine, +we washed in red wine. It was a memorable evening. The +next day Blanquette listened with great interest to my expurgated +account of the proceedings, and in her good unhumorous +way prescribed for my headache. When one is +young, such a night is worth a headache. I am unrepentant, +even though I am old and the almond tree flourishes and the +grasshopper is trying to be a nuisance. I don't like your +oldsters who pretend to be ashamed of the follies of their +youth. They are humbugs all. There is no respectable elderly +gentleman in the land who does not inwardly chuckle over the +chimes he has heard at midnight.</p> + +<p>Though I always had Joanna's gracious personality at the +back of my mind, and the love of my good master as part of +my spiritual equipment, yet I must confess to concerning my +thoughts very little with the progress of their romance. I +took it for granted as I took many things in those unspeculative +days. The actual whirl of Paris caught me and left me +little time for conjecture. I wrote once or twice to Joanna; +but my letters were egotistical outpourings; the mythological +picture at Menilmontant inspired sheets of excited verbiage. +She replied in her pretty sympathetic way, but gave me little +news of Paragot. It was hardly to be expected that she should +write romantically, like a young girl foolishly in love, gushing +to a bosom friend. Paragot himself, who disliked pen, ink, +and paper, merely sent me the casual messages of affection +through Joanna. He took the view of the Duenna in "Ruy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span> +Blas" as to the adequacy of the King's epistle to the Queen: +"Madame. It is very windy and I have killed six wolves. +Carlos." What more was necessary? asked the Duenna. So +did Paragot.</p> + +<p>When I was with Blanquette I avoided the subject of the +impending marriage as much as possible. She looked forward +with dull fatalism to the day when another woman would +take the master into her keeping and her own occupation +would be gone.</p> + +<p>"But, Blanquette, we shall go on living together just as we +are doing now," I cried in the generosity of youth.</p> + +<p>"And when a woman comes and takes you too?"</p> + +<p>I swore insane vows of celibacy; but she laughed at me in +her common-sense way, and uttered blunt truths concerning +the weaknesses of my sex.</p> + +<p>"Besides, my little Asticot," she added, "I love you very +much; you know that well; but you are not the Master."</p> + +<p>Once I suggested the possibility of her marrying some one +else. There was a cheerful <i>quincaillier</i> at the corner of the +street who, to my knowledge, paid her assiduous attentions. +He was evidently a man of substance and refinement, for a +zinc bath was prominently displayed among his hardware. +But Blanquette's love laughed at tinsmiths. She who had lived +on equal terms with the Master and myself (I bowed my +acknowledgment of the tribute) to marry a person without +education? <i>Ah! mais non! Au grand nom! Merci!</i> She was +as scornful as you please, and without rhyme or reason plucked +a bunch of Christmas roses from a jug on the table and threw +them into the stove. Poor <i>quincaillier!</i> There was nothing +for it but to <i>se fich' à l'eau</i>—to chuck herself into the river.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span> +That was the end of most of our conversations on the disastrous +subject.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It was the end of a talk on one November evening, about +three weeks after I had returned to Paris. I had dined at +home with Blanquette, and was in the midst of a drawing +which I blush to say I was doing for <i>Le Fou Rire</i>, an unprincipled +comic paper fortunately long since defunct—(fortunately? +Tartuffe that I am. Many a welcome louis did I get from +it in those necessitous days)—when she looked up from her sewing +and asked when the Master was coming back. The question +led to an answer, the answer to an observation, and the +observation to the discussion of the Subject.</p> + +<p>"There is no way out of it, <i>mon pauvre Asticot, je vais me +fich' à l'eau, comme je l'ai dit</i>."</p> + +<p>"In the meanwhile, my dear," said I, throwing down the +crow-quill pen and pushing my drawing away, "if you remain +in this pestilential condition of morbidness, you will die without +the necessity of drowning yourself. Instead of making +ourselves miserable, let us go and dance at the Bal Jasmin. +<i>Veux-tu?</i>"</p> + +<p>"This evening?" she asked, startled. She had never grown +accustomed to the suddenness of the artistic temperament.</p> + +<p>"Of course this evening. You don't suppose I would ask you +to dance next month so as to cure you of indigestion to-night."</p> + +<p>"But nothing is wrong with my stomach, <i>mon cher</i>," said +the literal Blanquette.</p> + +<p>"It is indigestion of the heart," said I, after the manner of +Paragot, "and dancing with me at the Bal Jasmin will be +the best thing in the world for you."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It would give you pleasure?"</p> + +<p>This was charmingly said. It implied that she would sacrifice +her feelings for my sake. But her eyes brightened and her +cheeks flushed a little. Women are rank hypocrites on +occasion.</p> + +<p>Ten minutes later Blanquette, wearing her black Sunday +gown set off by a blue silk scarf embroidered at the edges +with a curious kind of pink forget-me-not, her hair tidily +coiled on top and fixed with my tortoise-shell comb, announced +that she was ready. We started. In those days I did not +drive to balls in luxurious hired vehicles. I walked, pipe in +mouth, correctly giving my arm to Blanquette. No doubt +everybody thought us lovers. It is odd how wrong everybody +can be sometimes.</p> + +<p>The Bal Jasmin was situated in the Rue Mouffetard. It +has long since disappeared with many a haunt of my youth's +revelry. The tide of frolic has set northward, and Montmartre, +which to us was but a geographical term, now dazzles +the world with its venal splendour. But the Moulin de la +Galette and the Bal Tabarin of the present day lack the gaiety +of the Bal Jasmin. It was not well frequented; it gathered +round its band-stand people with shocking reputations; the +sight of a man in a dress coat would have transfixed the assembly +like some blood-curdling ghost. The ladies would have +huddled together in a circle round the wearer and gazed at +him open-mouthed. He would subsequently have had to +pay for the ball's liquid refreshment. The Bal Jasmin did +not employ meretricious ornament to attract custom. A +low gallery containing tables ran around the bare hall, the +balustrade being of convenient elbow height from the floor,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span> +so that the dancers during intervals of rest could lounge and +talk with the drinkers. In the middle was a circular bandstand +where greasy musicians fiddled with perspiring zeal. +At the doors a sergent de ville stood good-humouredly and +nodded to the ladies and gentlemen with whom he had a +professional acquaintance.</p> + +<p><ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'Everbody'">Everybody</ins> came to dance. If good fortune, such as a watch +or a freshly subventioned student, fell into their mouths, +they swallowed it like honest, sensible souls; but they did not +make reprehensible adventure the main object of their evening. +They danced the quadrilles, not for payment and the delectation +of foreigners as at the Jardin de Paris, but for their own +pleasure. A girl kicked off your hat out of sheer kindness of +heart and animal spirits; and if you waltzed with her, she +danced with her strange little soul throbbing in her feet. +There were, I say, the most dreadfully shocking people at the +Bal Jasmin; but they could teach the irreproachable a lesson +in the art of enjoyment.</p> + +<p>As I came with Blanquette, and danced only with Blanquette, +and sat with Blanquette over bock or syrup in the gallery, +the unwritten etiquette of the place caused us to be undisturbed. +Like the rest of the assembly we enjoyed ourselves. Dancing +was Blanquette's one supreme accomplishment. Old Père +Paragot had taught her to play the zither indifferently well, +but he had made her dance divinely: and Blanquette, I may +here mention incidentally, had been my instructress in the art. +Seeing her thick-set, coarse figure, and holding your arm +around her solid waist as you waited for the bar, you would +not have dreamed of the fairy lightness it assumed the moment +feet moved in time with the music. If life had been a continuous<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span> +waltz no partner of hers less awkward than a rhinoceros +could have avoided falling in love with her. But waltzes +ended all too soon and the thistle-down sylph of a woman +became my plain homely Blanquette, uninspiring of romance +save in the hardware bosom of the <i>quincaillier</i> at the corner of +the Rue des Saladiers.</p> + +<p>The <i>bal</i> was crowded. Gaunt ill-shaven men, each a parody +of one of the Seven Deadly Sins, capered grotesquely with +daughters of Rahab in cheap hats and feathers. Shop assistants +and neat, bare-headed work-girls, students picturesquely +long-haired and floppily trousered and cravated, and poorly +clad models, a whole army of nondescripts, heaven knows +with what means of livelihood, all dancing, drinking, eating, +laughing, jesting, smoking, primitively love-making, moving, +shouting, a phantasmagoria of souls making merry beyond +the pale of reputable life; such were the frequenters of the +Bal Jasmin. Gas flared in two concentric circles of flame +around the hall and around the central bandstand. There +was no ventilation. The <i>bal</i> sweltered in perspiration. Hollow-voiced +abjects hawked penny paper fans between the +dances, and the whole room was a-flutter.</p> + +<p>Blanquette, who had forgotten tragedy for the time, sat +with me at a table by the balustrade and alternately sipped +her syrup and water and looked, full of interest, at the scene +below, now and then clutching my arm to direct my attention +to startling personalities. The light in her eyes and the +colour in her coarse cheeks made her almost pretty. You +have never seen ugliness in a happy face. And Blanquette +was happy.</p> + +<p>"Don't you want to go and dance with any other <i>petite<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span> +femme?</i>" she asked generously. "I will wait for you +here."</p> + +<p>I declined with equal magnanimity to leave her alone.</p> + +<p>"Suppose some rapscallion came up and asked you to +dance?"</p> + +<p>"I can take care of myself, <i>mon petit</i> Asticot," she laughed, +bracing her strong arms. "And suppose I wanted to go off +with him? They are amusing sometimes, people like that. +There is one. <i>Regarde-moi ce type-là.</i>"</p> + +<p>The "<i>type</i>" in question was a fox-faced young man, unwashed +and collarless, wearing the peaked cap of Paris villainy. +He crossed the hall accompanied by two of the brazenest +hussies that ever emerged from the shadow of the fortifications. +As they passed the sergent de ville they all cocked themselves +up with an air of braggadocio.</p> + +<p>"He makes me shiver," said I. Blanquette shrugged her +shoulders.</p> + +<p>"One must have all sorts of people in the world, as there are +so many things to make people different. It is only a chance +that I have not become like those girls. It's no one's fault."</p> + +<p>"'There, but by the grace of God, goes John Bunyan,'" I +quoted reflectively. "You are developing philosophy, Blanquette +<i>chérie</i>, and your gentle toleration of the infamous +does you credit. But only the master would get what wasn't +infamous out of them."</p> + +<p>The band struck up a waltz. Blanquette drank her syrup +quickly and rose.</p> + +<p>"Come and dance."</p> + +<p>We descended and soon were swept along in the whirl of +ragamuffin, ill-conditioned couples dancing every step in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span> +tradition of Paris. Steering was no easy matter. After a +while, we were hemmed in near the side of the hall, and were +just on the point of emerging from the crush when the sound +of a voice brought us to a dead stop which caused us to be +knocked about like a pair of footballs.</p> + +<p>"My good Monsieur Bubu le Vainqueur, you do me infinite +honour, but until I have devoured the proceeds of my last +crime I lead a life of elegant leisure."</p> + +<p>We escaped from danger and reaching the side stood and +looked at each other in stupefaction. Blanquette was the +first to see him. She seized my arm and pointed.</p> + +<p>"It is he! <i>Sainte Vierge</i>, it is he!"</p> + +<p>It was he. He was sitting at a table a few yards off, and +his companions were the fox-faced youth and the two girls +over whom Blanquette had philosophised. He wore his +silk hat. Brandy was in front of him. He seemed to be on +familiar terms with his friends. For a long time we watched +him, fascinated, not daring to accost him and yet unwilling +to edge away out of his sight and make our escape from the +ball. I saw that he was incredibly dirty. His beard of some +days growth gave him a peculiarly grim appearance. His +hat had rolled in the mud and was everything a silk hat ought +not to be. His linen was black. Never had the garb of respectability +been so battered into the vesture of disrepute.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he caught sight of us. He hesitated for a moment; +then waved us a bland, unashamed salutation. We +went up the nearest steps to the gallery and waited. After +a polite leave-taking he bowed to his companions, and reeled +towards us. I knew by the familiar gait that he had had many +cognacs and absinthes during the day.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span></p> + +<p>But what in the name of sanity was he doing here?</p> + +<p>"<i>Mon dieu, mon dieu, qu'est-ce qu'il fait ici?</i>" asked Blanquette.</p> + +<p>I shook my head. It was stupefying.</p> + +<p>"<i>Eh bien, mes enfants</i>, you have come to amuse yourselves, +eh? I too, in the company of my excellent friend Bubu le +Vainqueur, whose acquaintance together with that of his fair +companions I would not advise you to cultivate."</p> + +<p>"But Master," I gasped, "what has happened?"</p> + +<p>"I'll veil it, my son," said he, laying his hand on my shoulder, +"in the decent obscurity of a learned language, '<i>Canis reversus +ad suum vomitum et sus lota in volutabro luti</i>.'"</p> + +<p>"<i>Oh, mon Dieu</i>," sighed Blanquette again, as if it were +something too appalling.</p> + +<p>"But why, Master?" I entreated.</p> + +<p>"Why wallow? Why not? And now, my little Blanquette, +we will all go home and you shall make me some good coffee. +Or do you want to stay longer and dance with Asticot?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, let us go away, Master," said Blanquette, casting a +scared glance at Bubu le Vainqueur, who was watching us +with an interested air.</p> + +<p>"<i>Allons</i>," said Paragot, blandly.</p> + +<p>The dance stopped, and the thirsty crowd surged to the +gallery. We threaded our way towards the door, and I thought +with burning cheeks that the eyes of the whole assembly were +turned to my master's mud-caked silk hat. It was a relief to +escape from the noise and gas-light of the <i>bal</i>, which had suddenly +lost its glamour, into the cool and quiet street. After +we had walked a few yards in silence, he hooked his arms in Blanquette's +and mine, and broke into a loud laugh.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But it is astonishing, the age of you children! You might +be fifty, each of you, and I your little boy whom you had +discovered in an act of naughtiness and were bringing home! +Really are you as displeased with me <i>à ce point-là? C'est +épatant!</i> But laugh, my little Blanquette, are you not glad to +see me?"</p> + +<p>"But yes, Master," said Blanquette. "It is like a dream."</p> + +<p>"And you, Asticot of my heart?"</p> + +<p>"I find it a dream too. I can't understand. When did +you leave Melford?"</p> + +<p>"About five days ago. I would tell you the day of the +week, if I had the habit of exactness."</p> + +<p>"And Madame de Verneuil?"</p> + +<p>"Is very well, thank you."</p> + +<p>After this rebuff I asked no more questions. I remarked +that the weather was still cold. Paragot laughed again.</p> + +<p>"He has turned into a nice little bourgeois, hasn't he, +Blanquette? He knows how to make polite conversation. +He is tidy in his habits in the Rue des Saladiers, eh? He does +not spit on the floor or spill absinthe over the counterpane. +<i>Ah! je suis un vieux salaud, hein?</i> Don't say no. And Narcisse?"</p> + +<p>"It is he who will be contented to see you," cried +Blanquette. "And so are we all. <i>Ah oui, en effet, je suis +contente!</i>" She heaved a great sigh as though she had +awakened from the night-mare of seeing herself a dripping +corpse in the Morgue. "It is no longer the same thing when +you are not in the house. Truly I am happy, Master. You +can't understand."</p> + +<p>There was a little throb in her voice which Paragot seemed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span> +to notice, for as he bent down to her, his grip of my arm relaxed, +and, I suppose, his grip of hers tightened.</p> + +<p>"It gives you such pleasure that I come back, my little +Blanquette?" he said tenderly.</p> + +<p>I craned my head forward and saw her raise her faithful +eyes to his and smile, as she pronounced her eternal "<i>Oui, +Maître</i>."</p> + +<p>"It is only Asticot who does not welcome the prodigal +father."</p> + +<p>I protested. He laughed away my protestations. Then +suddenly he stopped and drew a long breath, and gazed at the +tall houses whose lines cut the frosty sky into a straight strip.</p> + +<p>"Ah! how good it smells. How good it is to be in Paris +again!"</p> + +<p>The door of a <i>marchand de vin</i> swung open just by our +noses to give exit to a reveller, and the hot poisoned air streamed +forth.</p> + +<p>"And how good it is, the smell of alcohols. I could kiss +the honest sot who has just reeled out and is skating across +the road. <i>A bas les bourgeois!</i>"</p> + +<p>He did not carry out his unpleasing desire, but when we +reached the salon in the Rue des Saladiers, and we had lit the +lamp, he kissed Blanquette on both cheeks, still crying out +how good it was to be back. Narcisse, mad with delight, +capered about him and barked his rapture. He did not +in the least mind a master lapsed from grace.</p> + +<p>Paragot threw himself on a chair, his hat still on his head. +Oh, how dirty, dilapidated and unshaven he was! I felt too miserable +with apprehension to emulate Narcisse's enthusiasm. +It was cold. I opened the door of the stove to let the glowing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span> +heat come out into the room. Blanquette went to the kitchen +to prepare the coffee.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Paragot leaped to his feet, cast his silk hat on the +floor and stamped it into a pancake. Then he thrust it into +the stove and shut the door.</p> + +<p>"<i>Voilà!</i>" he cried.</p> + +<p>Before I could interfere he had taken off his frock-coat and +holding one skirt in his hands and securing the other with +his foot had ripped it from waist to neck. He was going to +burn this also, when I stopped him.</p> + +<p>"<i>Laisse-moi!</i>" said he impatiently.</p> + +<p>"It will make such a horrid smell, Master," said I.</p> + +<p>He threw the garment across the room with a laugh.</p> + +<p>"It is true." He stretched himself and waved his arms. +"Ah, now I am better. Now I am Paragot. Berzélius +Nibbidard Paragot, again. Now I am free from the forms +and symbols. Yes, my son. That hat has been to me Luke's +iron crown. That coat has been the <i>peine forte et dure</i> crushing +my infinite soul into my liver." He tore off his black tie and +hurled it away from him. "This has been strangling every +noble inspiration. I have been swathed in mummy bands +of convention. I have been dead. I have come to life. My +lungs are full. My soul regains its limitless horizons. My +swollen tongue is cool, and <i>nom de Dieu de nom de Dieu</i>, I can +talk again!"</p> + +<p>He walked up and down the little salon vociferating his +freedom, and kicking the remains of the frock-coat before +him. With one of his sudden impulses he picked it up and +threw it out of a quickly opened window.</p> + +<p>"The sight of it offended me," he explained.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Master," said I, "where are your other things?"</p> + +<p>"What other things?"</p> + +<p>"Your luggage—your great coat—your umbrella."</p> + +<p>"Why, at Melford," said he with an air of surprise. "Where +else should they be?"</p> + +<p>I had thought that no action of Paragot could astonish me. +I was wrong. I stared at him as stupefied as ever.</p> + +<p>"Usually people travel with their luggage," said I, foolishly.</p> + +<p>"They are usual people, my son. I am not one of them. +It came to a point when I must either expire or go. I decided +not to expire. These things are done all in a flash. I was +walking in the garden. It was last Sunday afternoon—I +remember now: a sodden November day. Imagine a sodden +November Sunday afternoon English country-town garden. +Joanna was at a children's service. Ah, <i>mon Dieu!</i> The +desolation of that Sunday afternoon! The <i>death</i>, my son, +that was in the air! Ah! I choked, I struggled. The garden-wall, +the leaden sky closed in upon me. I walked out. I +came back to Paris."</p> + +<p>"Just like that?" I murmured.</p> + +<p>"Just like that," said he. "You may have noticed, my +son, that I am a man of swift decisions and prompt action. +I walked to the Railway Station. A providential London +train was expected in five minutes. I took it. <i>Voilà.</i>"</p> + +<p>"Did you stay long in London?" I asked by way of saying +something; for he began to pace up and down the room.</p> + +<p>"Did I see anything worth seeing at the theatres? And did +I have a good crossing? My little Asticot, I perceive you have +become an adept at conventional conversation. If you can't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span> +say something original I shall go back to Bubu le Vainqueur, +whose society for the last three days has afforded me infinite +delectation. Although his views of life may be what Melford +would call depraved, at any rate they are first-hand. He +does not waste his time in futile politeness." Suddenly he +paused, and seized me by the shoulder and shook me, as he +had often done before. "Creep out of that shell of gentility, +you little hermit-crab," he cried, "and tell me how you would +like to live in Melford for the rest of your natural life."</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't like it at all," said I.</p> + +<p>"Then, how do you expect me to have liked it?"</p> + +<p>Blanquette entered with the great white coffee jug and some +thick cups and set the tray on the oilskin-covered table. Seeing +Paragot in his grubby shirt-sleeves, she looked around, with +her housewifely instinct of tidiness, for the discarded garments.</p> + +<p>"Where are—"</p> + +<p>"Gone," he shouted, waving his arms. "Cast into the flames, +and rent in twain, and scattered to the winds of Heaven."</p> + +<p>He laughed, seeing that she did not understand, and poured +out a jorum of coffee.</p> + +<p>"The farcical comedy is over, Blanquette," said he gently, +"I'm a <i>Monsieur</i> no longer, do you see? We are going to +live just as we did before you went away in the summer, and I +am not going to be married. I am going to live with my +little Blanquette for ever and ever <i>in sæculo sæculorum, +amen</i>."</p> + +<p>She turned as white as the coffee jug. I thought she was +about to faint and caught her in my arms. She did not faint, +but burying her head against my shoulder burst into a passion +of tears.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What the devil's the matter?" asked Paragot. "Are you +sorry I'm not going to be married?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Mais non, mais non!</i>" Blanquette sobbed out vehemently.</p> + +<p>"I think she's rather glad, Master," said I.</p> + +<p>He put down his coffee-cup, and laid his hands on her as +if to draw her comfortingly away from me.</p> + +<p>"My dear child—" he began.</p> + +<p>But she shrank back. "<i>Ah non, laissez-moi</i>," she cried, +and bolted from the room.</p> + +<p>Paragot looked at me inquiringly, and shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"The eternal feminine, I suppose. Blanquette like the rest +of them."</p> + +<p>"It's odd you haven't noticed it before, Master."</p> + +<p>"Noticed what?"</p> + +<p>I lit a cigarette.</p> + +<p>"The eternal feminine in Blanquette," I answered.</p> + +<p>"What the deuce do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"She was jealous even of my friendship with Madame de +Verneuil," said I diplomatically, realising that I was on the +point of betraying Blanquette's confidences.</p> + +<p>"It never struck me that she was jealous," he remarked +simply.</p> + +<p>He took his coffee-cup to the rickety sofa and sat down +with the sigh of a tired man. I took mine to the chair by the +stove, and we drank silently. I have never felt so hopelessly +miserable in my life as I did that night. I was old enough, +or perhaps rather I had gathered experience enough, to feel +a shock of disgust at Paragot's return <i>in volutabro luti</i>. In +what sordid den had he found shelter these last days of reaction? +I shuddered, and loving him I hated myself for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span> +shuddering. Yet I understood. He was a man of extremes. +Having fled from the intolerable virtues of Melford, with the +nostalgia of the vagabond life devouring him like a flame, he +could not have been expected to return tamely to the Rue des +Saladiers. He had plunged head foremost into the depths. +But Bubu le Vainqueur! The Latin Quarter was not exactly +a Sunday School; very probably it flirted with Bubu's lady companions; +but between Bubu and itself it raised an impassable +barrier.</p> + +<p>The idyll too was over. He had left my dear lady Joanna +without drum or trumpet. As my destiny hung with his, I +should never behold her adored face again. All the graciousness +seemed suddenly to be swept out of my life. I pictured +her forsaken, heartbroken, for the second time, weeping +bitterly over this repetition of history, and including me in +her indictment of my master. At nineteen we are all presumptuous +egotists: if I mixed pity for myself with sorrow +for Joanna and dismay for my master, I am not too greatly +to be blamed. The best emotions of older, wiser and better +men than I are often blends of queer elements.</p> + +<p>The romance was dead. There was no more Joanna. I +broke down and shed tears into my coffee-cup.</p> + +<p>Paragot snored.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXII</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">I spent</span> the night on the sofa, as the only bed in the establishment +belonged to Paragot. The next morning I +took my scanty belongings to my old attic, which fortunately +happened to be unlet, and left my master in undisturbed +possession of his apartment. In the evening, calling to make +polite inquiries as to his health, I found him still in bed looking +grimier and bristlier than the night before.</p> + +<p>"My son," said he, "the bread of liberty is sweet, but when +you are starving you should not over-eat yourself. An old +French writer says:</p> + +<div class='poem'> +'<i>Après le plaisir vient la peine,<br /> +Après la peine la vertu.</i>'<br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>I've had the pain that follows pleasure, but whether I shall +attain the consequential virtue I don't know. For the present, +however, I am condemned to it against my will."</div> + +<p>"How so?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"I have a great desire to rise and seek the Nepenthe of the +Café Delphine, but a whimsical fate keeps me coatless and +hatless in a virtuous house. I am also comparatively shirtless, +which does not so much matter."</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid my things wouldn't fit you, Master," said I +sitting on the edge of the bed.</p> + +<p>"The only coat which the good Blanquette has preserved<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span> +is the pearl-buttoned velveteen jacket in which I fiddled away +so many happy hours."</p> + +<p>"Why not wear it, until your bag arrives from Melford?"</p> + +<p>"In Arcadian villages," he replied, "it commanded respect. +In the Café Delphine I'm afraid it would only excite derision."</p> + +<p>Presently a strong odour of onions gave promise of an +approaching meal, and a little while afterwards Blanquette +entered with the announcement that soup was on the table. +Paragot rose, donned trousers and slippers and went forth +into the salon to dine.</p> + +<p>"Simplicity is one of the canons of high art. Life is an +art, as I have endeavoured to teach you. Therefore in life +we should aim at simplicity. To complicate existence into the +intricacy of a steam-engine with white ties and red socks is an +offence against art of which I will never again be guilty. It +is also more comfortable to eat soup with your elbows on the +table. <i>N'est-ce pas</i>, Blanquette?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Bien sûr</i>," she replied, bending over her bowl, "where +else could one put them?"</p> + +<p>This pleased Paragot, who continued to talk in high good +humour during the rest of the meal. Afterwards, he filled a +new porcelain pipe, which Blanquette had purchased, and +smoked contentedly the rest of the evening. Blanquette +sat dutifully on a straight-backed chair, her hands in her lap, +listening as she had so often done before to our inspiring +conversation, and adding her word whenever it entered the +area of her comprehension. If we had lectured each other +alternately on the Integral Calculus, Blanquette would have +given us her rapt and happy attention. This evening she +would not have minded our talking English; the mere sound<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span> +of the Master's voice was sweet: sweeter than ever, now that +the other woman had been "planted there" (she thought of +it with a fierce joy), and the master had come back to her +for ever and ever, <i>in sæculo sæculorum, amen</i>. Like many +peasant women of strong nature, she had the terrible passion +of possession. In her soul she would rather have had the +most degraded of Paragots in her arms, as her own unalienable +property, than have seen him honourable and prosperous +in the arms of another. Had she been of a nervous and +emotional temperament there might have been tragedy in +the Rue des Saladiers, and the newspapers of Paris might have +chronicled yet another <i>crime passionnel</i> and the appearance +of Blanquette before a weeping jury. But the days of tragedy +were over. Paragot thundered invectives against insincerity +in Art (we were discussing my famous mythological picture +still on the easel at Menilmontant) and Blanquette beamed +approval. She remarked, referring to my picture, that she +didn't like so many unclad ladies. It was not decent. Besides, +if they lay in the grass like that, they would catch cold.</p> + +<p>"And they have no pocket-handkerchiefs to blow their +noses," cried Paragot.</p> + +<p>Whereat Blanquette's sense of humour being tickled she +screamed with laughter. Narcisse sprang from sleep and +barked, and there reigned great happiness, in which even I, +still reproachful of my master, had my share.</p> + +<p>"What a thing it is to be at home!" observed Paragot.</p> + +<p>I had never heard him utter so domestic a sentiment.</p> + +<p>"'After pleasure follows pain and after pain comes virtue.' +This is virtue with a vengeance," I reflected cynically.</p> + +<p>"<i>Bien sûr</i>," was Blanquette's inevitable response.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span></p> + +<p>When she bade us good night, Paragot drew her down and +kissed her cheek, which was an unprecedented mark of domesticity. +Blanquette turned brick-red, and I suppose her +foolish heart beat wildly. I have known my own heart to +beat wildly for far less, and I am not a woman; but I have been +in love.</p> + +<p>"It is because you belong to me, my little Blanquette, and +I am among mine own people. We understand one another, +don't we? <i>Et tout comprendre c'est tout pardonner.</i>"</p> + +<p>When she had gone he smoked reflectively for a few moments.</p> + +<p>"I never realised till now," said he, "the sense of stability +and comfort that Blanquette affords me. She is unchangeable. +God has given her a sense whereby she has pierced +to the innermost thing that is I, and externals don't matter. +She has got nearer the true Paragot than you, my son, although +I know you love me."</p> + +<p>"What is the true Paragot, Master?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"There are only two that know it—Blanquette and the +<i>bon Dieu</i>. I don't."</p> + +<p>"I only know," said I, "that I owe my life to you and that +I love you more than any one else in the world."</p> + +<p>"Even more than Mme. de Verneuil?" he asked with a +smile.</p> + +<p>I blushed. "She is different," said I.</p> + +<p>"Quite different," he assented, after a long pause. "My +son," he added, "it is right that you should know why the +end came. One generally keeps these things to oneself—but +I see you are blaming me, and a barrier may grow up +between us which we should both regret. You think I have +treated your dear lady most cruelly?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I can't judge you, Master," said I, terribly embarrassed.</p> + +<p>"But you do," said he.</p> + +<p>Paragot was in one of his rare gentle moods. He spoke +softly, without a trace of reproach or irony. He spoke, too, +lying pipe in mouth on the old rep sofa, instead of walking +about the room. He told me his story. Need I repeat +it?</p> + +<p>They had escaped a life-long misery, but on the other hand +they had lost a life-long dream. She was still in his eyes all +that is beautiful and exquisite in woman; but she was not the +woman that Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot could love. The +twain had been romantic, walking in the Valley of Illusion, +wilfully blinding their eyes to the irony of Things Real. Love +had flown far from them during the silent years and they +had mistaken the afterglow of his wings for the living radiance. +They had begun to realise the desolate truth. They read it +in each other's eyes. She had been too loyal to speak. She +would have married him, hoping as a woman hopes, against +hope. Paragot, whose soul revolted from pretence, preferring +real mire to sham down, fled from the piteous tragedy.</p> + +<p>He might have retired more conventionally. He might have +had a dismal explanatory interview with Joanna, and ordered +a fly to convey himself and his luggage to the Railway Station +the next morning. Perhaps if Joanna had found him in the +November Sunday afternoon garden this might have occurred. +But Joanna did not find him. His temperament found him +instead; and when you have a temperament like Paragot's, +it plays the very deuce with convention. It drew him out of +the garden, across the Channel and into the society of Bubu +le Vainqueur. But, all the same, in the essential act of leaving<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span> +Melford, Paragot behaved like the man of fine honour I shall +always maintain him to be.</p> + +<p>How many men of speckless reputation, though feeling the +pinch of poverty, would not have married Joanna for the great +wealth her husband left behind? Answer me that.</p> + +<p>I know that Joanna wept bitterly over her lost romance. +But she has owned to me that the words written on a scrap of +paper by Paragot and posted from London were tragically true:</p> + +<p>"My dear. It is only the shadows of our past selves that +love. You and I are strangers to each other. To continue +this sweet pretence of love is a mockery of the Holiest. God +bless you. Gaston."</p> + +<p>"If you love a Dream Woman," said Paragot, "let her stay +the divine Woman of the Dream. To awaken and clasp +flesh and blood, no matter how delicately tender, and find that +love has sped at the dawn is a misery too deep for tears."</p> + +<p>And Paragot, lying unshaven, unwashed, in grimy shirt +and trousers, smoked silently and stared into a future in which +the dear sweet Dream Woman with "the little feet so adored" +would never, never again have a place.</p> + +<p>"If I had a coat to my back," said he, after nearly half an +hour's silence, "I verily believe I would go to the Pont Neuf +and talk to Henri Quatre."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p><i>Le Fou Rire</i> had given me a commission for a front page +in colours; and I was deep in the disreputable task on the +following evening when Paragot appeared in my attic. He +wore a jacket, his bag having arrived from Melford.</p> + +<p>"My soul hungers," said he, "for the Café Delphine, and +my throat thirsts for sociable alcohol. If you can cease the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span> +prostitution of your art to a salacious public for an hour or +two, I shall be very glad of your company."</p> + +<p>"I think it's rather good," said I complacently, regarding +the drawing with head bent sideways. "It's an old theme, +but it's up to date. At Janot's they would say it was palpitating +with modernity."</p> + +<p>"That's what makes it vile," said Paragot.</p> + +<p>We were thrown into immediate argument. One of the +flying art notions of the hour was to revive the old subjects +which contained the eternal essentials of life and present +them in "palpitatingly modern" form. I eloquently developed +my thesis. We were sick to death, for instance, of the quasi-scriptural +Prodigal Son, sitting half-naked in a desert beside +a swine trough. Was it not more "palpitating" to set the +prodigal in modern Paris?</p> + +<p>"Your moderns can't palpitate with dignity, my son," +replied Paragot. "Take Susannah and the Elders. Classically +treated the subject might yet produce one of the greatest +pictures of all time. Translate it into the grocer's wife and +the two churchwardens and you cannot escape from bestial +vulgarity."</p> + +<p>Conscious of the wide horizon of extreme youth, I sighed at +my master's narrowness. He was hopelessly behind the times. +I dropped the argument and hunted for my cap.</p> + +<p>We found the Café Delphine fairly full. Madame Boin, +whom the past few months had provided with a few more rolls +of fat round her neck, gave a little gasp as she caught sight +of Paragot, and held out her hand over the counter.</p> + +<p>"Is it really you, Monsieur Paragot? One sees you no more. +How is that? But it is charming. Ah? You have been<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span> +<i>en voyage?</i> In England? <i>On dit que c'est beau là-bas.</i> And +where will you sit? Your place is taken. It is Monsieur +Papillard, the poet, who has sat there for a month. We will +find another table. There is one that is free."</p> + +<p>She pointed to a draughty, unconsidered table by the door. +Paragot looked at it, then at Madame Boin and then at his +own private and particular table usurped by Monsieur Papillard +and his associates, and swore a stupefied oath of +considerable complication. A weird, pug-nosed, pig-eyed, +creature with a goatee beard scarce masking a receding chin, +sat in the sacred seat against the wall. His hat and cloak +were hung on Paragot's peg. He was reading a poem to half +a dozen youths who seemed all to be drinking <i>mazagrans</i>, or +coffee in long glasses. They combined an air of intellectual +intensity with one of lyrical enthusiasm, like little owls pretending +to be larks. Not one of the old set was there to smile +a welcome.</p> + +<p>We stood by the counter listening to the poem. When +Monsieur Papillard had ended, the youths broke into applause.</p> + +<p>"<i>C'est superbe!</i>"</p> + +<p>"<i>Un chef d'œuvre, cher maître.</i>"</p> + +<p>They called the pug-nosed creature, <i>cher maître!</i></p> + +<p>"It is demented idiocy," murmured my astounded master.</p> + +<p>At that moment entered Félicien Garbure, a down-at-heel +elderly man, who had been wont to sit at Paragot's table. +He was one of those parasitic personages not unknown in the +<i>Quartier</i>, who contrived to attach themselves to the special +circle of a café, and to drink as much as possible at other +people's expense. His education and intelligence would have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span> +disgraced a Paris cabman, but an ironical Providence had +invested him with an air of wisdom which gave to his flattery +the value of profound criticism.</p> + +<p>This sycophant greeted us with effusion. Where had we +been? Why had the delightful band been dispersed? Did +we know Monsieur Papillard, the great poet? Before we +could reply he approached the chair.</p> + +<p>"<i>Cher maître</i>, permit me to present to you my friends +Monsieur Berzélius Paragot and Monsieur Asticot."</p> + +<p>"<i>Enchanté, Messieurs</i>," said the great poet urbanely.</p> + +<p>We likewise avowed our enchantment, and Paragot swore +beneath his breath. The waiter—no longer Hercule, who +had been dismissed for petty thievery some time before—but +a new waiter who did not know Paragot—set us chairs +at the end of the table far away from the great man. We +ordered drinks. Paragot emptied his glass in an absent-minded +manner, still under the shock of his downfall. But +a few short months ago he had ruled in this place as king. +Now he was patronizingly presented to the snub-nosed, idiot +usurper by Félicien Garbure. <i>His</i> friend, Berzélius Paragot! +<i>Nom de Dieu!</i> And he was assigned a humble place below +the salt. Verily the world was upside down.</p> + +<p>"Give me another <i>grog</i>," said Paragot, "a double one."</p> + +<p>The poet read another poem. It was something about +topazes and serpents and the twilight and the pink palms of +a negress. More I could not gather. The company hailed +it as another masterpiece. Félicien Garbure called it a +supreme effort of genius. A young man beside Paragot +vaunted its witchery of suggestion.</p> + +<p>"It is absolute nonsense," cried my master.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But it is symbolism, Monsieur," replied the young man in +a tone of indulgent pity.</p> + +<p>"What does it mean?"</p> + +<p>The young man—he was very kind—smiled and shrugged +his shoulders politely.</p> + +<p>"What in common speech is the meaning of one of Bach's +fugues or Claude Monet's effects of sunlight? One cannot +say. They appeal direct to the soul. So does a subtle harmony +of words, using words as notes of music, or pigments, what +you will, arranged by the magic of a master. These things are +transcendental, Monsieur."</p> + +<p>"<i>Saperlipopette!</i>" breathed Paragot. "My little Asticot," +he whispered to me, "have I really come to this, to sit at the +feet of an acting pro-sub-vice-deputy infant Gamaliel and be +taught the elements of symbolic poetry?"</p> + +<p>"But Master," said I, somewhat captivated by the balderdash, +"there is, after all, colour in words. Don't you +remember how delighted you were with the name of a little +town we passed through on our way to Orléans—Romorantin? +You were haunted by it and said it was like the purple note of +an organ."</p> + +<p>"Which shews you my son that I was aware of the jargon +of symbolism before these goslings were hatched," he replied.</p> + +<p>He drained his tumbler, called the waiter and paid the +reckoning.</p> + +<p>"Let us go to Père Louviot's in the Halles where we can +meet some real men and women."</p> + +<p>We went, and the Café Delphine knew Paragot no more.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>After this he took to frequenting indiscriminately the various<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span> +cafés of the neighbourhood, wandering from one to the other +like a lost soul seeking a habitation. Now and again he +hit upon fragments of the old band, who had migrated from +the Café Delphine when it became the home of the symbolic +poets. He tried in vain to collect the fragments together in +a new hostelry. But the cohesive force had gone. These +queer circles of the Latin Quarter are organisms of spontaneous +growth. You cannot create them artificially or re-create +them when once they are disintegrated. The twos and +threes of students received him kindly and listened to his talk; +but his authority was gone. Once or twice when I accompanied +him I fancied that he had lost also the peculiar magic of +his vehement utterances. Cazalet also noticed a change.</p> + +<p>"What is the matter with Paragot? He no longer talks. +He preaches. <i>Ça ennuie à la fin.</i>"</p> + +<p>Paragot a bore! It was unimaginable.</p> + +<p>Was he paying the penalty of his past respectability? Had +Melford repressed his noble rage and frozen the genial current +of his soul? It is not unlikely. He often found himself condemned +to solitary toping over a stained newspaper, one of +the most ungleeful joys known to man. Sometimes he played +dominoes with Félicien Garbure, now icily received by the +symbolists on account of an unpaid score. Whether desperation +drove him occasionally to Bubu le Vainqueur and his +friends I do not know. He was not really proud of his acquaintance +with Bubu. Once he whimsically remarked +that as he was half way between Gaston de Nérac and Berzélius +Paragot, and therefore neither fish nor fowl, he could not find +an appropriate hole in Paris. But when his hair and his beard +and his finger nails had attained their old luxuriance of growth,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span> +and he was in every way Paragot again, the desired haven +remained still unfindable. There were taverns without number +and drink in oceans, and the life of Paris surged up and down +the Boulevards as stimulating as ever: but the heart of Paragot +cried out for something different. He took the old violin from +its dirty case and spent hours in the Rue des Saladiers trying +to fiddle the divine despair out of his system. Sometimes he +would call upon Blanquette to accompany him on her almost +forgotten zither.</p> + +<p>One day he was with me at the Café opposite Janot's, when +two or three of the studio came in and sat at our table. There +was the usual eager talk. The subject, the new impressionism.</p> + +<p>"But to understand it, you must be in the movement," +cried Fougère, not dreaming of discourtesy.</p> + +<p>But Paragot took the saying to heart.</p> + +<p>"I see it now," said he afterwards. "I am no longer in +the movement. You young men have passed me by. I am +left stranded. You may ask why I don't seek the company +of my own contemporaries? Who are they that know me, +save worthless rags like Félicien Garbure? Stranded, my son. +I have had my day."</p> + +<p>After that he refused to talk at such social gatherings as +chance afforded, and moodily listened, while he consumed +profitless alcohol. Then he began to frequent the low-life +cafés of the Halles. When he had nearly poisoned himself +with vile absinthe and sickened himself with the conversation +of fishwives, he sent for me in despair.</p> + +<p>I found him half-dressed walking up and down the salon. +He looked very ill.</p> + +<p>"I am going to leave Paris to-day," he began, as soon as I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span> +entered. "It is a city of Dead Sea apples. It has no place +for me, save the sewer. I don't like the sewer. I am going +away. I shall never come back to Paris again."</p> + +<p>"But where are you going, Master?" I asked in some +surprise.</p> + +<p>He did not know. He would pack his bundle and flee like +Christian from the accursed city. Like Christian he would +go on a Pilgrim's Progress. He would seek sweet pure things. +He would go forth and work in the fields. The old life had +come to an end. The sow had been mistaken. It could +not return to its wallowing in the mire. Wallowing was disgustful. +Was ever man in such a position? The vagabond +life had made the conventions of civilisation impossible. +The contact with convention and clean English ways had +killed his zest for the old order of which only the mud remained. +There was nothing for it but to leave Paris.</p> + +<p>He poured out his heart to me in a torrent of excited words, +here and there none too coherent. He must work. He had +lost the great art by which he was to cover Europe with palaces. +That was no longer.</p> + +<p>"My God!" said he stopping short. "The true knowledge +of it has only come to me lately. I was living in a Fool's +Paradise. I could never have designed a building. I should +have lived on her bounty. Thank God I was saved the shame +of it."</p> + +<p>He went on. Again he repeated his intention of leaving +Paris. I must look after Blanquette for the present. He must +go and dree his weird alone.</p> + +<p>"And yet, my little Asticot, it is the dreadful loneliness that +frightens me. Once I had a dream. It sufficed me. But<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span> +now my soul is empty. A man needs a woman in his life, +even a Dream Woman. But for me, <i>ni-ni, c'est fini</i>. There +is not a woman in the wide world who would look at me now."</p> + +<p>"Master," said I, "if you are going to settle down in the +country, why don't you marry Blanquette?"</p> + +<p>"Marry Blanquette! Marry——"</p> + +<p>He regarded me in simple, undisguised amazement which +took his breath away. He passed his hand through his hair +and sat on the nearest seat.</p> + +<p>"<i>Nom de Dieu!</i>" said he, "I never thought of it!"</p> + +<p>Then he leaped up and caught me in the old way by the +shoulders, and cried in French, as he did in moments of great +excitement:</p> + +<p>"But it's colossal, that idea! It is the solution of everything. +And I never thought of it though it has been staring me in the +face. Why I love her, our little Blanquette. I have loved +her all the time without knowing it as the good Monsieur +Jourdain spoke prose. <i>Sacré nom d'un petit bonhomme!</i> Why +didn't you tell me before, confounded little animal that you are?"</p> + +<p>He swung me with a laugh, to the other side of the room, +and waved his arms grotesquely, as he continued his dithyrambic +eulogy of the colossal idea. I have never seen two +minutes produce a greater change in a human countenance. +Ten years fell from it. He looked even younger than when he +had broken his fiddle over Mr. Pogson's head and received +the inspiration of our vagabondage. His blue eyes cleared, +and in them shone the miraculous light of laughter.</p> + +<p>"But it was written, my son Asticot. It was preordained. +She is the one woman in the world to whom I need not pretend +to be other than I am. She is <i>real, nom de Dieu!</i> What<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span> +she says is Blanquette, what she does is Blanquette, and her +sayings and doings would grace the greatest Queen in Christendom. +But, have you thought of it? I have come indeed to +the end of my journey. I started out to find Truth, the Reality +of Things. I have found it. I have found it, my son. It is +a woman, strong and steadfast, who looks into your eyes; +who can help a man to accomplish his destiny. And the +destiny of man is to work, and to beget strong children. And +his reward is to have the light in the wife's eyes and the welcome +of a child's voice as he crosses the threshold of his house. +And it cleanses a man. But Blanquette——" he smote his +forehead, and burst into excited laughter. "Why did it not +enter into this idiot head before?"</p> + +<p>The laughter ceased all of a sudden, and at least three +years returned to his face.</p> + +<p>"It takes two parties to make a marriage," said he in a +chastened tone. "Blanquette is young. I am not. She may +be thinking of a future quite different. It is all very well +to say I will marry Blanquette, but will Blanquette marry +me?"</p> + +<p>"Master," said I, feeling a person of elderly experience, +"it was entirely on your account that Blanquette refused the +<i>quincaillier</i> at the corner of the street."</p> + +<p>I had learned from her the day before that the superior +hardware merchant had recently made her a ceremonious +offer of marriage.</p> + +<p>"A sense of duty, perhaps," said Paragot.</p> + +<p>I laughed at his seriousness.</p> + +<p>"But, Master, she has been eating her heart out for you +since the wedding at Chambéry."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Asticot," said he, planting himself in front of me, "are you +jesting or speaking what you know to be the truth?"</p> + +<p>"The absolute truth."</p> + +<p>"And you never told me? You knew that a real woman +loved me, and you let me chase a will-o'-the-wisp with gloves +and an umbrella? Truly a man's foes are of his own household."</p> + +<p>"But, Master——" I began.</p> + +<p>He laughed at the sight of my dejected face.</p> + +<p>"No, you were loyal, my son. The man who gives away +a woman's confidence, even when she avows the poisoning +of her husband and the strangulation of her babes, is a transpontine +villain."</p> + +<p>He took up his porcelain pipe and filled it from the blue +packet of caporal that lay on the table with the oilskin cover. +He struck a match and was about to apply it to the bowl, +when one of his sudden ideas caused him to blow out the +match and lay down the pipe. Then with his old lightning +swiftness he strode to the door and flung it open.</p> + +<p>"Blanquette! Blanquette!" he cried.</p> + +<p>"<i>Oui, maître</i>," came from the kitchen, and in a moment +Blanquette entered the room.</p> + +<p>He took her by the hand and led her to the centre, while +she regarded him somewhat mystified. With his heels together, +he made her a correct bow.</p> + +<p>"Blanquette," said he, "in the presence of Asticot as witness +I ask you to do me the honour to become my wife."</p> + +<p>It was magnificent; it was what Paragot would have called +<i>vieille école;</i> but it was not tactful. It was half an hour +before Blanquette fully grasped the situation.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Joanna</span> married Major Walters, as soon as the conventionalities +would permit.</p> + +<p>She wrote then, for the first time, to Paragot.</p> + +<p>"I bear you no malice, my dear Gaston, and I am sure you +bear me none. Your breaking off of our engagement was +the only way out of a fantastic situation. You might have +broken it less abruptly; but you were always sudden. If +I may believe Asticot, your own marriage was a lightning incident. +I can laugh now, and so I suppose can your wife; +but believe me this sort of thing does leave a woman rather +breathless.</p> + +<p>"Wish me happiness, as I wish you. If ever we meet it +will be as loyal friends."</p> + +<p>Could woman have spoken more sweetly?</p> + +<p>"My dear Joanna," replied Paragot, "I do wish you all +the happiness in the world. You can't fail to have it. You +have a real husband as I have a real wife. Let us thank +heaven we have escaped from the moon vapour of the Ideal, +in which we poor humans are apt to lose our way and stray +God knows whither. I am sending you a real marriage +gift."</p> + +<p>"My dear Asticot," wrote Joanna from an hotel in Florence, +"what do you think your delightful but absurd master has +sent me as a wedding present? It arrived here this morning,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span> +to the consternation of the whole hotel. A crate containing +six live ducks. The label stated that they were real ducks +fed by his own hand.</p> + +<p>"But what am I to do with six live ducks on a wedding +journey, my dear Asticot? I can't sell them. I hate the +idea of eating them—and even if I didn't, Major Walters and +I can't eat six. And I can't put blue ribbons round their +necks, and carry them about with me on my travels as pets. +Can't you see me walking over the Ponte Vecchio followed +by them as by a string of poodles? And they are so voracious. +The hotel people are already charging them full pension terms. +Oh, dear! Do tell me what I am to do with these dreadful +fowl!"</p> + +<p>"My dearest Lady," I answered. "Offer the ducks like +the Dunmow flitch of bacon to the most happily married +couple in Florence."</p> + +<p>Whether Joanna acted on my brilliant suggestion I cannot +say. A little while ago I enquired after their ultimate destiny; +but Joanna had forgotten. I believe Major Walters and herself +fled from them secretly.</p> + +<p>Paragot on his label stated that he had fed the ducks with +his own hand. This was practically true; indeed, in the +case of those who declined to nourish themselves to the requisite +degree of fatness, it was literally true. I have beheld +him since perform the astounding operation, a sight <i>Dis +hominibusque;</i> but not in the Rue des Saladiers. It was on +his own farm, the farm near Chartres, which he bought, in +his bewildering fashion, as soon as lawyers could prepare +the necessary documents. He took train the day after his +proposal of marriage to Blanquette, and returned, I remember,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span> +somewhat crestfallen, because he could not conclude the +purchase then and there.</p> + +<p>"My dear sir," said the lawyer whom he consulted, "you +can't buy landed property as you can a pound of sugar over +a counter."</p> + +<p>"Why not?" asked Paragot.</p> + +<p>"Because," said the lawyer, "the law of France mercifully +concedes to men of my profession the right of gaining a +livelihood."</p> + +<p>"I see that you are a real lawyer," said Paragot, pleased by +the irony, "and it is an amiable Providence that has guided +my steps to your <i>cabinet</i>."</p> + +<p>But Paragot was married, and the little <i>appartement</i> in the +Rue des Saladiers passed into alien hands, and the newly +wedded pair settled down on the farm, long before all the +legal formalities of purchase were accomplished. It takes +my breath away, even now, to think of the hurry of those +days. He decided human destinies in the fraction of a +second.</p> + +<p>"My son," said he, "when I have paid for this farm, I shall +have very little indeed of the capital, on the interest of which +we have been living. I am now a married man, with the +responsibilities of a wife and a future family. I have put £200 +to your credit at the Crédit Lyonnais and that is all your +fortune. If art can't support you, when you have spent it, +you will have to come to La Haye (the farm) and feed pigs. +You'll be richer if you paint them; the piggier they are, and +the heavier the gold watch chains across their bellies, the +richer you will be; but you'll be happier if you feed them. +<i>Crede experturo.</i>"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span></p> + +<p>I went to bed that night swearing a great oath that I would +neither paint pigs nor feed pigs, but that I would prove myself +worthy of the generosity of my master and benefactor. I +felt then that his goodness was great; but how great it was I +only realised in after years when I came to learn his financial +position. Bearing in mind the relativity of things, I know +that few fathers have sent their sons out into the world with +so princely a capital.</p> + +<p>Fortune smiled on me; why, I don't know; perhaps because +I was small and sandy haired and harmless, and did not worry +her. I sold two or three pictures, I obtained regular employment +on an illustrated journal, and raised my price for contributions +to <i>Le Fou Rire</i>. Bread and butter were assured. +There was never prouder youth than I, when one August +morning I started from Paris for Chartres, with fifty superfluous +pounds in my pocket which I determined to restore to +Paragot.</p> + +<p>The old Paragot of the high roads, hairy and bronzed, and +wearing a great straw hat with wide brim turned down, met +me at the little local station. He forgot that he was half +British and almost hugged me. At last I had come—it was +my third visit—at last I had torn myself away from that +<i>sacré</i> Paris and its flesh-pots and its paint-pots and its artificialities.</p> + +<p>"Nothing is real in Paris, whether it be the smile on the +painted lady's lips or the dream of the young poet. Here, +in the midst of God's fields, there is no pretending, no shamming, +no lying, none of your confounded idealism. All is +solid, <i>mon gars</i>. Solid like that," and he thumped his chest +to illustrate the argument.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Bucéphale, too?" I queried with a laugh, as we fetched +up beside the most ancient horse in the Department, drooping +between the shafts of a springless cart. Needless to say, +Bucéphale had been rechristened in his extreme old age.</p> + +<p>"He is a living proof," cried Paragot, "of the solidity <i>rerum +agrestium</i>. Look at him! Shew me a horse of his age in +Paris. The Paris horses, like Youth in the poem, grow pale +and spectre thin and die of premature decay. Here, <i>mon +petit</i>," said he giving a sou to a blue bloused urchin who was +restraining the impetuous Bucéphale from a wild gallop over +the Eure et Loire, "when you have spent that come to La Haye +and I will give you another."</p> + +<p>He threw my bag into the cart, and we took our places on +the plank that served as a seat.</p> + +<p>"<i>En route</i>, Bucéphale!" cried Paragot, gathering up the +reins. "Observe the kindly manners of the country. If I +had addressed him like your Paris cabman with a '<i>Hue Cocotte!</i>' +it would have wounded his susceptibilities."</p> + +<p>Bucéphale started off jog-trot down the straight white road +edged with poplars, while Paragot talked, and the sun blazed +down upon us from a cobalt sky. All around the fertile +plain laughed in the sunshine—a giant, contented laugh, +like that of its broad-faced, broad-hipped daughters who +greeted Paragot as we raced by at the rate of five miles an hour. +Did I ever meet a Paris horse that went this speed? asked +Paragot, and I answered him truthfully, "Never."</p> + +<p>We stopped in a white-walled, red-roofed village, beside a +tiny shop gloriously adorned with a gilt bull's head. The +butcher's wife came out. "<i>Bonjour</i>, Monsieur Paragot."</p> + +<p>"<i>Bonjour</i>, Madame Jolivet, have you a nice fatted calf<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span> +for this young Prodigal from Paris? If you haven't, we can +do with four kilos of good beef."</p> + +<p>And the result of ten minutes talk was a great lump of raw +meat, badly wrapped in newspaper, which Paragot, careless +of my Paris clothes, thrust on my knees, while he continued to +drive Bucéphale. I dropped the beef into the back of the +cart. Paragot shook his head.</p> + +<p>"To-morrow, my son, you shall be clothed in humility +and shall clean out the cow pen."</p> + +<p>"I should prefer to accept your original invitation, Master," +said I, "and help with the corn."</p> + +<p>For Paragot, besides Bucéphale and cows and ducks and +pigs and fowls and a meadow or two, possessed a patch of +cornfield of which he was passionately proud. He had sown +it himself that spring and now was harvest. He pointed to +it with his whip as soon as we came in sight of the farm.</p> + +<p>"<i>My</i> corn, my little Asticot. It is marvellous, eh? Who +says that Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot can't make things +grow? I was born to it. <i>Nom de Dieu</i> I could make anything +grow. I could plant your palette and it would come +up a landscape. And <i>sacré mille cochons</i>, I have done the +most miraculous thing of all. I am the father of a human +being, a real live human being, my son. He is small as yet," +he added apologetically, "but still he is alive. He has teeth, +Asticot. It is the most remarkable thing in this astonishing +universe."</p> + +<p>The dim form of a woman standing with a child in her arms +in front of a group of farm buildings across the fields to the +right, gradually grew into the familiar figure of my dear +Blanquette. She came down the road to meet us, her broad<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span> +homely face beaming with gladness and in her eyes a new +light of welcome. Narcisse trotted at her heels. The rheumatism +of advancing years gave him a distinguished gait.</p> + +<p>We sprang from the cart. Bucéphale left to himself regarded +the family meeting with a grandfatherly air, until an +earth-coloured nondescript emerged from the ground and led +him off towards the house. After our embraces, we followed, +Paragot dancing the delighted infant, Blanquette with her +great motherly arm around my shoulders, and Narcisse soberly +sniffing for adventure, after the manner of elderly dogs.</p> + +<p>"Do you remember, Asticot?" said Blanquette. "Four of +us started for Chambéry. Now five of us come to La Haye. +<i>C'est drôle, hein?</i>"</p> + +<p>"<i>Tu es contente?</i>" I asked.</p> + +<p>Her arm tightened, and her eyes grew moist.</p> + +<p>"<i>Mais oui</i>," she said in a low voice. Then she looked at +Paragot and the child, a yard or two in front of us.</p> + +<p>"He is the image of his father," she said almost reverentially.</p> + +<p>I burst out laughing. Where the likeness lay between the +chubby, snub-nosed, eighteen months old baby, and the hairy, +battered Paragot, no human eye but Blanquette's could discover. +I vowed he resembled a little Japanese idol.</p> + +<p>"<i>Pauvre chéri</i>," said Blanquette, motherwise.</p> + +<p>The house of Paragot was not a palace. It stood, low and +whitewashed, amid a medley of little tumble-down erections, +and was guarded on one side by cowsheds and on the +other by the haystack. You stepped across the threshold +into the kitchen. A door on the right gave access to the bedroom. +A ladder connected with a hole in the roof enabled +you to reach the cockloft, the guest room of the establishment.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span> +That was all. What on earth could man want more? asked +Paragot. The old rep suite, the table with the American +cloth, the coloured prints in gilt frames including the portrait +of Garibaldi, the cheap deal bookcases holding Paragot's +tattered classics, gave the place an air of familiar homeliness. +A mattock, a gun and a cradle warred against old associations.</p> + +<p>When we entered, the child began to whimper. Perhaps +it did not approve of the gun. Like myself he may, in trembling +fancy, have heard its owner cry: "I have an inspiration! +Let us go out and shoot cows." Paragot found another +reason.</p> + +<p>"That infant's life is a perpetual rebellion against his name. +I chose Triptolème. A beautiful name. If you look at him +you see it written all over him. Blanquette was crazy for +Thomas. In indignation I swore he should be christened +Triptolème Onésime. Blanquette wept. I yielded. 'At +least let him be called Didyme,' I pleaded. Didyme! There +is something caressing about Didyme. Repeat it. 'Didyme.' +But no. Blanquette wept louder. She wept so loud that +all the ducks ran in to see whether I was murdering her——"</p> + +<p>"It is not true!" protested Blanquette. "How can you +say those things? You know they are not true."</p> + +<p>"Her state was so terrible," continued my master, "that +I sacrificed my son's destiny. Behold Thomas. I too would +howl if I had such a name."</p> + +<p>"He is hungry," said Blanquette, "and it is a very pretty +name. He likes to hear it, <i>n'est-ce pas, mon petit Tho-Thom +chéri?</i> There! He smiles."</p> + +<p>"She is really convinced that he has heard her call him +Thomas. Oh, woman!" said Paragot.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span></p> + +<p>That evening, after we had feasted on cabbage-soup and +the piece of beef which I had been too stuck-up to dandle on +my knees, and clear brown cider, the three of us sat outside +the house, in the warm August moonlight. Sinking into an +infinitely far horizon stretched the fruitful plain of France, +cornland and pasture, and near us the stacked sheaves of +Paragot's corn stood quiet and pregnant symbols of the good +earth's plenty. Here and there dark patches of orchard +dreamed in a haze. Through one distant patch a farmhouse +struck a muffled note of grey. On the left the ribbon of road +glistened white between the sentinel poplars silhouetted +against the sky. The hot smell of the earth filled the air +like spice. A thousand elfin sounds, the vibration of leaves, +the tiny crackling of cornstalks, the fairy whirr of ground +insects, melted into a companionable stillness.</p> + +<p>Blanquette half dozed, her head against Paragot's shoulder, +as she had done that far-off evening of our return from Chambéry. +The smoke from his porcelain pipe curled upwards +through the still air. I was near enough to him on the other +side, for him to lay his hand on my arm.</p> + +<p>"My son," he whispered in English, "I was right when I +said I had come to the end of my journey. Eventually I am +right in everything. I prophesied that I would make little +Augustus Smith a scholar and a gentleman. <i>Te voilà.</i> I +knew that my long pilgrimage would ultimately lead me to +the Inner Shrine. Isn't all this," he waved his pipe in a +circular gesture, "the Holy of Holies of the Real? Is there +any illusion in the unutterable poetry of the night? Is there +anything false in this promise of the fruitful earth? My +God! Asticot, I am happy! When the soul laughs tears come<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span> +into the eyes. I have all that the heart of man can desire—the +love of this dear wife of mine—the child asleep within +doors—the printed wisdom of the world in a dozen tongues +of men, caught up hap-hazard in what I once, in a failing +hour, thought was my wildgoose chase after Truth—the pride +in you, my little Asticot, the son of my adoption—and the +most overpowering sleepiness that ever sat upon mortal +eyelid."</p> + +<p>He yawned. I protested. It was barely nine o'clock.</p> + +<p>"It is bedtime," said Paragot. "We have to get up at five."</p> + +<p>"Good Heavens, Master," said I, "why these unearthly +hours?"</p> + +<p>He laughed and quoted Candide.</p> + +<p>"<i>Il faut cultiver notre jardin.</i>"</p> + +<p>"No," said the drowsy Blanquette at last understanding +the conversation, "we have to cut the rest of the corn."</p> + +<p>"It's all the same, my dear," said Paragot tenderly. "We +were talking philosophy. Philosophy merely means the love +of wisdom. And all that the wisdom of all the ages can tell +us, is summed up in the last words of one of the wisest books +that ever was written: 'We must cultivate our garden.'"</p> + +<p>But how my dear erratic master has managed for years +and years to cultivate the farm of La Haye and to bring up +my godson in the fear of the Lord and the practice of land +surveying is a proof that the late Mr. Matthew Arnold was +hopelessly wrong in his categorical declaration that miracles +do not happen.</p> + + +<h3>THE END</h3> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span></p> + +<h2>Popular Copyright Books</h2> + +<h3>AT MODERATE PRICES</h3> + +<div class='center'><b>Any of the following titles can be bought of your<br /> +bookseller at the price you paid for this volume</b><br /><br /><br /></div> + + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Popular books"> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Circle, The.</b> By Katherine Cecil Thurston (author of "The Masquerader," "The Gambler").</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Colonial Free Lance, A.</b> By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Conquest of Canaan, The.</b> By Booth Tarkington.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Courier of Fortune, A.</b> By Arthur W. Marchmont.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Darrow Enigma, The.</b> By Melvin Severy.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Deliverance, The.</b> By Ellen Glasgow.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Divine Fire, The.</b> By May Sinclair.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Empire Builders.</b> By Francis Lynde.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Exploits of Brigadier Gerard.</b> By A. Conan Doyle.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Fighting Chance, The.</b> By Robert W. Chambers.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>For a Maiden Brave.</b> By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>For Love or Crown.</b> By Arthur W. Marchmont.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Fugitive Blacksmith, The.</b> By Chas. D. Stewart</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>God's Good Man.</b> By Marie Corelli.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Heart's Highway, The.</b> By Mary E. Wilkins.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Holladay Case, The.</b> By Burton Egbert Stevenson.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Hurricane Island.</b> By H. B. Marriott Watson.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>In Defiance of the King.</b> By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Indifference of Juliet, The.</b> By Grace S. Richmond.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Infelice.</b> By Augusta Evans Wilson.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>In the Name of a Woman.</b> By Arthur W. Marchmont.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Lady Betty Across the Water.</b> By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Lady of the Mount, The.</b> By Frederic S. Isham.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Lane That Had No Turning, The.</b> By Gilbert Parker.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Langford of the Three Bars.</b> By Kate and Virgil D. Boyles.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Last Trail, The.</b> By Zane Grey.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Leavenworth Case, The.</b> By Anna Katharine Green.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Lilac Sunbonnet, The.</b> By S. R. Crockett.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Lin McLean.</b> By Owen Wister.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Long Night, The.</b> By Stanley J. Weyman.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span><b>Maid at Arms, The.</b> By Robert W. Chambers.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Man from Red Keg, The.</b> By Eugene Thwing.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Marthon Mystery, The.</b> By Burton Egbert Stevenson.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes.</b> By A. Conan Doyle.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Millionaire Baby, The.</b> By Anna Katharine Green.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Missourian, The.</b> By Eugene P. Lyle, Jr.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Mr. Barnes, American.</b> By A. C. Gunter.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Mr. Pratt.</b> By Joseph C. Lincoln.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>My Friend the Chauffeur.</b> By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>My Lady of the North.</b> By Randall Parrish.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Mystery of June 13th.</b> By Melvin L. Severy.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Mystery Tales.</b> By Edgar Allan Poe.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Nancy Stair.</b> By Elinor Macartney Lane.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Order No. 11.</b> By Caroline Abbot Stanley.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Pam.</b> By Bettina von Hutten.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Pam Decides.</b> By Bettina von Hutten.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Partners of the Tide.</b> By Joseph C. Lincoln.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Phra the Phoenician.</b> By Edwin Lester Arnold.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>President, The.</b> By <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'Afred'">Alfred</ins> Henry Lewis.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Princess Passes, The.</b> By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Princess Virginia, The.</b> By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Prisoners.</b> By Mary Cholmondeley.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Private War, The.</b> By Louis Joseph Vance.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Prodigal Son, The.</b> By Hall Caine.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Queen's Advocate, The.</b> By Arthur W. Marchmont.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Quickening, The.</b> By Francis Lynde.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Richard the Brazen.</b> By Cyrus T. Brady and Edw. Peple.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Rose of the World.</b> By Agnes and Egerton Castle.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Running Water.</b> By A. E. W. Mason.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Sarita the Carlist.</b> By Arthur W. Marchmont.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Seats of the Mighty, The.</b> By Gilbert Parker.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Sir Nigel.</b> By A. Conan Doyle.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Sir Richard Calmady.</b> By Lucas Malet.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span><b>Speckled Bird, A.</b> By Augusta Evans Wilson.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>The Shepherd of the Hills.</b> By Harold Bell Wright.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Jane Cable.</b> By George Barr McCutcheon.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Abner Daniel.</b> By Will N. Harben.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>The Far Horizon.</b> By Lucas Malet.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>The Halo.</b> By Bettina von Hutten.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Jerry Junior.</b> By Jean Webster.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>The Powers and Maxine.</b> By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>The Balance of Power.</b> By Arthur Goodrich.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Adventures of Captain Kettle.</b> By Cutcliffe Hyne.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Adventures of Gerard.</b> By A. Conan Doyle.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.</b> By A. Conan Doyle.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Arms and the Woman.</b> By Harold MacGrath.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Artemus Ward's Works</b> (extra illustrated).</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>At the Mercy of Tiberius.</b> By Augusta Evans Wilson.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Awakening of Helena Richie.</b> By Margaret Deland.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Battle Ground, The.</b> By Ellen Glasgow.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Belle of Bowling Green, The.</b> By Amelia E. Barr.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Ben Blair.</b> By Will Lillibridge.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Best Man, The.</b> By Harold MacGrath.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Beth Norvell.</b> By Randall Parrish.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Bob Hampton of Placer.</b> By Randall Parrish.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Bob, Son of Battle.</b> By Alfred Ollivant.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Brass Bowl, The.</b> By Louis Joseph Vance.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Brethren, The.</b> By H. Rider Haggard.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Broken Lance, The.</b> By Herbert Quick.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>By Wit of Women.</b> By Arthur W. Marchmont.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Call of the Blood, The.</b> By Robert Hitchens.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Cap'n Eri.</b> By Joseph C. Lincoln.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Cardigan.</b> By Robert W. Chambers.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Car of Destiny, The.</b> By C. N. and A. N. Williamson.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Casting Away of Mrs. Lecks and Mrs. Aleshine.</b> By Frank R. Stockton.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span><b>Cecilia's Lovers.</b> By Amelia E. Barr.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Spirit of the Border, The.</b> By Zane Grey.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Spoilers, The.</b> By Rex Beach.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Squire Phin.</b> By Holman F. Day.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Stooping Lady, The.</b> By Maurice Hewlett.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Subjection of Isabel Carnaby.</b> By Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Sunset Trail, The.</b> By Alfred Henry Lewis.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Sword of the Old Frontier, A.</b> By Randall Parrish.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Tales of Sherlock Holmes.</b> By A. Conan Doyle.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>That Printer of Udell's.</b> By Harold Bell Wright.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Throwback, The.</b> By Alfred Henry Lewis.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Trail of the Sword, The.</b> By Gilbert Parker.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Treasure of Heaven, The.</b> By Marie Corelli.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Two Vanrevels, The.</b> By Booth Tarkington.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Up From Slavery.</b> By Booker T. Washington.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Vashti.</b> By Augusta Evans Wilson.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Viper of Milan, The</b> (original edition). By Marjorie Bowen.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Voice of the People, The.</b> By Ellen Glasgow.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Wheel of Life, The.</b> By Ellen Glasgow.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>When I Was Czar.</b> By Arthur W. Marchmont.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>When Wilderness Was King.</b> By Randall Parrish.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Where the Trail Divides.</b> By Will Lillibridge.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Woman in Grey, A.</b> By Mrs. C. N. Williamson.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Woman in the Alcove, The.</b> By Anna Katharine Green.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Younger Set, The.</b> By Robert W. Chambers.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>The Weavers.</b> By Gilbert Parker.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>The Little Brown Jug at Kildare.</b> By Meredith Nicholson.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>The Prisoners of Chance.</b> By Randall Parrish.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>My Lady of Cleve.</b> By Percy J. Hartley.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Loaded Dice.</b> By Ellery H. Clark.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>Get Rich Quick Wallingford.</b> By George Randolph Chester.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>The Orphan.</b> By Clarence Mulford.</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><b>A Gentleman of France.</b> By Stanley J. Weyman.</td></tr> +</table></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span></p> + +<h2>BURT'S SERIES <i>of</i> STANDARD FICTION.</h2> + + +<p><b>THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER.</b> A Romance of the Early Settlers in the +Ohio Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson +Davis. Price, $1.00.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>A book rather out of the ordinary is this "Spirit of the Border." The +main thread of the story has to do with the work of the Moravian missionaries +in the Ohio Valley. Incidentally the reader is given details of the +frontier life of those hardy pioneers who broke the wilderness for the planting +of this great nation. Chief among these, as a matter of course, is +Lewis Wetzel, one of the most peculiar, and at the same time the most +admirable of all the brave men who spent their lives battling with the +savage foe, that others might dwell in comparative security.</p> + +<p>Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian "Village +of Peace" are given at some length, and with minute description. The +efforts to Christianize the Indians are described as they never have been +before, and the author has depicted the characters of the leaders of the +several Indian tribes with great care, which of itself will be of interest <ins title="Transcriber's Note: This word not present in original text">to</ins> +the student.</p> + +<p>By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivid word-pictures +of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings of the beauties +of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests.</p> + +<p>It is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by it, +perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly braved +every privation and danger that the westward progress of the star of empire +might be the more certain and rapid. A love story, simple and tender, +runs through the book.<br /><br /><br /></p></div> + + +<p><b>CAPTAIN BRAND, OF THE SCHOONER CENTIPEDE.</b> By Lieut. +Henry A. Wise, U. S. N. (Harry Gringo). Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations +by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The re-publication of this story will please those lovers of sea yarns +who delight in so much of the salty flavor of the ocean as can come through +the medium of a printed page, for never has a story of the sea and those +"who go down in ships" been written by one more familiar with the scenes +depicted.</p> + +<p>The one book of this gifted author which is best remembered, and which +will be read with pleasure for many years to come, is "Captain Brand," +who, as the author states on his title page, was a "pirate of eminence in +the West Indies." As a sea story pure and simple, "Captain Brand" has +never been excelled, and as a story of piratical life, told without the usual +embellishments of blood and thunder, it has no equal.<br /><br /><br /></p></div> + + +<p><b>NICK OF THE WOODS.</b> A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. By +Robert Montgomery Bird. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson +Davis. Price, $1.00.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life in +Kentucky was originally published in the year 1837. The novel, long out of +print, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its realistic presentation of +Indian and frontier life in the early days of settlement in the South, narrated +in the tale with all the art of a practiced writer. A very charming +love romance runs through the story. This new and tasteful edition of +"Nick of the Woods" will be certain to make many new admirers for +this enchanting story from Dr. Bird's clever and versatile pen.<br /><br /><br /></p></div> + + +<p><b>GUY FAWKES.</b> A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason. By Wm. Harrison +Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. +Price, $1.00.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The "Gunpowder Plot" was a modest attempt to blow up Parliament, +the King and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of England, +was weak-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efficient scheme of +extorting money from the people by imposing taxes on the Catholics. In +their natural resentment to this extortion, a handful of bold spirits concluded +to overthrow the government. Finally the plotters were arrested, +and the King put to torture Guy Fawkes and the other prisoners with +royal vigor. A very intense love story runs through the entire romance.<br /><br /><br /></p></div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span></p> + + +<p><b>TICONDEROGA:</b> A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley. +By G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four page illustrations by J. Watson +Davis. Price, $1.00.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The setting of the story is decidedly more picturesque than any ever +evolved by Cooper: The frontier of New York State, where dwelt an English +gentleman, driven from his native home by grief over the loss of his wife, +with a son and daughter. Thither, brought by the exigencies of war, comes +an English officer, who is readily recognized as that Lord Howe who met his +death at Ticonderoga. As a most natural sequence, even amid the hostile +demonstrations of both French and Indians, Lord Howe and the young girl +find time to make most deliciously sweet love, and the son of the recluse has +already lost his heart to the daughter of a great sachem, a dusky maiden +whose warrior-father has surrounded her with all the comforts of a civilized +life.</p> + +<p>The character of Captain Brooks, who voluntarily decides to sacrifice his +own life in order to save the son of the Englishman, is not among the least +of the attractions of this story, which holds the attention of the reader even +to the last page. The tribal laws and folk lore of the different tribes of +Indians known as the "Five Nations," with which the story is interspersed, +shows that the author gave no small amount of study to the work in question, +and nowhere else is it shown more plainly than by the skilful manner in +which he has interwoven with his plot the "blood" law, which demands a +life for a life, whether it be that of the murderer or one of his race.</p> + +<p>A more charming story of mingled love and adventure has never been +written than "Ticonderoga."<br /><br /><br /></p></div> + + +<p><b>ROB OF THE BOWL:</b> A Story of the Early Days of Maryland. By John +P. Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. with four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. +Price, $1.00.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>It was while he was a member of Congress from Maryland that the +noted statesman wrote this story regarding the early history of his native +State, and while some critics are inclined to consider "Horse Shoe Robinson" +as the best of his works, it is certain that "Rob of the Bowl" stands at the +head of the list as a literary production and an authentic exposition of the +manners and customs during Lord Baltimore's rule. The greater portion of +the action takes place in St. Mary's—the original capital of the State.</p> + +<p>As a series of pictures of early colonial life. In Maryland, "Rob of the +Bowl" has no equal, and the book, having been written by one who had +exceptional facilities for gathering material concerning the individual members +of the settlements in and about St. Mary's, is a most valuable addition +to the history of the State.</p> + +<p>The story is full of splendid action, with a charming love story, and a +plot that never loosens the grip of its interest to its last page.<br /><br /><br /></p></div> + + +<p><b>BY BERWEN BANKS.</b> By Allen Raine.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>It is a tender and beautiful romance of the idyllic. A charming picture +of life in a Welsh seaside village. It is something of a prose-poem, true, +tender and graceful.<br /><br /><br /></p></div> + + +<p><b>IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING.</b> A romance of the American Revolution. +By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson +Davis. Price, $1.00.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The story opens in the month of April, 1775, with the provincial troops +hurrying to the defense of Lexington and Concord. Mr. Hotchkiss has etched +in burning words a story of Yankee bravery and true love that thrills from +beginning to end with the spirit of the Revolution. The heart beats quickly, +and we feel ourselves taking a part in the exciting scenes described. You +lay the book aside with the feeling that you have seen a gloriously true +picture of the Revolution. His whole story is so absorbing that you will sit +up far into the night to finish it. As a love romance it is charming.<br /><br /><br /></p></div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span></p> + + +<p><b>DARNLEY.</b> A Romance of the times of Henry VIII. and Cardinal Wolsey. +By G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. +Price, $1.00.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>As a historical romance "Darnley" is a book that can be taken up +pleasurably again and again, for there is about it that subtle charm which +those who are strangers to the works of G. P. R. James have claimed was +only to be imparted by Dumas.</p> + +<p>If there was nothing more about the work to attract especial attention, +the account of the meeting of the kings on the historic "field of the cloth of +gold" would entitle the story to the most favorable consideration of every +reader.</p> + +<p>There is really but little pure romance in this story, for the author has +taken care to imagine love passages only between those whom history has +credited with having entertained the tender passion one for another, and +he succeeds in making such lovers as all the world must love.<br /><br /><br /></p></div> + + +<p><b>WINDSOR CASTLE.</b> A Historical Romance of the Reign of Henry VIII., +Catharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, +12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price $1.00.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Windsor Castle" is the story of Henry VIII., Catharine, and Anne +Boleyn. "Bluff King Hal," although a well-loved monarch, was none too +good a one in many ways. Of all his selfishness and unwarrantable acts, +none was more discreditable than his divorce from Catharine, and his marriage +to the beautiful Anne Boleyn. The King's love was as brief as it +was vehement. Jane Seymour, waiting maid on the Queen, attracted him, +and Anne Boleyn was forced to the block to make room for her successor. +This romance is one of extreme interest to all readers.<br /><br /><br /></p></div> + + +<p><b>HORSESHOE ROBINSON.</b> A tale of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina +in 1780. By John P. Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. +Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Among the old favorites in the field of what is known as historical fiction, +there are none which appeal to a larger number of Americans than +Horseshoe Robinson, and this because it is the only story which depicts +with fidelity to the facts the heroic efforts of the colonists in South Carolina +to defend their homes against the brutal oppression of the British +under such leaders as Cornwallis and Tarleton.</p> + +<p>The reader is charmed with the story of love which forms the thread +of the tale, and then impressed with the wealth of detail concerning those +times. The picture of the manifold sufferings of the people, is never overdrawn, +but painted faithfully and honestly by one who spared neither +time nor labor in his efforts to present in this charming love story all that +price in blood and tears which the Carolinians paid as their share in the +winning of the republic.</p> + +<p>Take it all in all, "Horseshoe Robinson" is a work which should be +found on every book-shelf, not only because it is a most entertaining +story, but because of the wealth of valuable information concerning the +colonists which it contains. That it has been brought out once more, well +illustrated, is something which will give pleasure to thousands who have +long desired an opportunity to read the story again, and to the many who +have tried vainly in these latter days to procure a copy that they might +read it for the first time.<br /><br /><br /></p></div> + + +<p><b>THE PEARL OF ORR'S ISLAND.</b> A story of the Coast of Maine. By +Harriet Beecher Stowe. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Written prior to 1862, the "Pearl of Orr's Island" is ever new; a book +filled with delicate fancies, such as seemingly array themselves anew each +time one reads them. One sees the "sea like an unbroken mirror all +around the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr's Island," and straightway +comes "the heavy, hollow moan of the surf on the beach, like the wild +angry howl of some savage animal."</p> + +<p>Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life, named Mara, which +came into this world under the very shadow of the Death angel's wings, +without having an intense desire to know how the premature bud blossomed? +Again and again one lingers over the descriptions of the character +of that baby boy Moses, who came through the tempest, amid the +angry billows, pillowed on his dead mother's breast.</p> + +<p>There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that +which Mrs. Stowe gives in "The Pearl of Orr's Island."<br /><br /><br /></p></div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span></p> + + +<p><b>RICHELIEU.</b> A tale of France in the reign of King Louis XIII. By G. P. +R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>In 1829 Mr. James published his first romance, "Richelieu," and was +recognized at once as one of the masters of the craft.</p> + +<p>In this book he laid the story during those later days of the great cardinal's +life, when his power was beginning to wane, but while it was +yet sufficiently strong to permit now and then of volcanic outbursts which +overwhelmed foes and carried friends to the topmost wave of prosperity. +One of the most striking portions of the story is that of Cinq Mar's conspiracy; +the method of conducting criminal cases, and the political trickery +resorted to by royal favorites, affording a better insight into the statecraft +of that day than can be had even by an exhaustive study of history. +It is a powerful romance of love and diplomacy, and in point of thrilling +and absorbing interest has never been excelled.<br /><br /><br /></p></div> + + +<p><b>A COLONIAL FREE-LANCE.</b> A story of American Colonial Times. By +Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson +Davis. Price, $1.00.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>A book that appeals to Americans as a vivid picture of Revolutionary +scenes. The story is a strong one, a thrilling one. It causes the true +American to flush with excitement, to devour chapter after chapter, until +the eyes smart, and it fairly smokes with patriotism. The love story is a +singularly charming idyl.<br /><br /><br /></p></div> + + +<p><b>THE TOWER OF LONDON.</b> A Historical Romance of the Times of Lady +Jane Grey and Mary Tudor. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with +four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>This romance of the "Tower of London" depicts the Tower as palace, +prison and fortress, with many historical associations. The era is the +middle of the sixteenth century.</p> + +<p>The story is divided into two parts, one dealing with Lady Jane Grey, +and the other with Mary Tudor as Queen, introducing other notable characters +of the era. Throughout the story holds the interest of the reader +in the midst of intrigue and conspiracy, extending considerably over a +half a century.<br /><br /><br /></p></div> + + +<p><b>IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING.</b> A Romance of the American Revolution. +By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson +Davis. Price, $1.00.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Mr. Hotchkiss has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery, +and true love that thrills from beginning to end, with the spirit of the +Revolution. The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking a +part in the exciting scenes described. His whole story is so absorbing +that you will sit up far into the night to finish it. As a love romance +it is charming.<br /><br /><br /></p></div> + + +<p><b>GARTHOWEN.</b> A story of a Welsh Homestead. By Allen Raine. Cloth, +12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"This is a little idyl of humble life and enduring love, laid bare before +us, very real and pure, which in its telling shows us some strong points of +Welsh character—the pride, the hasty temper, the quick dying out of wrath.... +We call this a well-written story, interesting alike through its +romance and its glimpses into another life than ours. A delightful and +clever picture of Welsh village life. The result is excellent."—Detroit Free +Press.<br /><br /><br /></p></div> + + +<p><b>MIFANWY.</b> The story of a Welsh Singer. By Allan Raine. Cloth, +12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"This is a love story, simple, tender and pretty as one would care to +read. The action throughout is brisk and pleasing; the characters, it is apparent +at once, are as true to life as though the author had known them +all personally. Simple in all its situations, the story is worked up in that +touching and quaint strain which never grows wearisome, no matter how +often the lights and shadows of love are introduced. It rings true, and +does not tax the imagination."—Boston Herald.<br /><br /><br /></p></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class='tnote'><h3>Transcriber's Notes:</h3> +<p>Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Varied hyphenation was retained including to-morrow and tomorrow.</p> + +<p>The remaining corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text will <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'apprear'">appear</ins>.</p></div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Belovéd Vagabond, by William J. 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