Part 26

She raised her eyes to his and kept them there. He continued pleasantly—“Since I have sat here I have seen a lot of pretty girls walking alone on the terrace there,—and then _you_ are alone too. Tell me, for I do not know French customs,—do you have the liberty of going to the theatre without a chaperone?” For a long time she studied his face, and then with a trembling smile said, “Why do you ask me?” “Because you must know, of course,” he said gaily. “Yes,” she replied indifferently, “I know.” He waited for an answer, but getting none, decided that perhaps she had misunderstood him. “I hope you don’t think I mean to presume on our short acquaintance,” he began,—“in fact it is very odd but I don’t know your name. When Mr. Clifford presented me he only mentioned mine. Is that the custom in France?” “It is the custom in the Latin Quarter,” she said with a queer light in her eyes. Then suddenly she began talking almost feverishly. “You must know, Monsieur Hastings, that we are all _un peu sans gêne_ here in the Latin Quarter. We are very Bohemian, and etiquette and ceremony are out of place. It was for that Monsieur Clifford presented you to me with small ceremony, and left us together with less,—only for that, and I am his friend, and I have many friends in the Latin Quarter, and we all know each other very well—and I am not studying art, but—but—” “But what?” he said, bewildered. “I shall not tell you,—it is a secret,” she said with an uncertain smile. On both cheeks a pink spot was burning, and her eyes were very bright. Then in a moment her face fell. “Do you know Monsieur Clifford very intimately?” “Not very.” After a while she turned to him, grave and a little pale. “My name is Valentine—Valentine Tissot. Might—might I ask a service of you on such very short acquaintance?” “Oh,” he cried, “I should be honoured.” “It is only this,” she said gently, “it is not much. Promise me not to speak to Monsieur Clifford about me. Promise me that you will speak to no one about me.” “I promise,” he said, greatly puzzled. She laughed nervously. “I wish to remain a mystery. It is a caprice.” “But,” he began, “I had wished, I had hoped that you might give Monsieur Clifford permission to bring me, to present me at your house.” “My—my house!” she repeated. “I mean, where you live, in fact, to present me to your family.” The change in the girl’s face shocked him. “I beg your pardon,” he cried, “I have hurt you.” And as quick as a flash she understood him because she was a woman. “My parents are dead,” she said. Presently he began again, very gently. “Would it displease you if I beg you to receive me? It is the custom?” “I cannot,” she answered. Then glancing up at him, “I am sorry; I should like to; but believe me. I cannot.” He bowed seriously and looked vaguely uneasy. “It isn’t because I don’t wish to. I—I like you; you are very kind to me.” “Kind?” he cried, surprised and puzzled. “I like you,” she said slowly, “and we will see each other sometimes if you will.” “At friends’ houses.” “No, not at friends’ houses.” “Where?” “Here,” she said with defiant eyes. “Why,” he cried, “in Paris you are much more liberal in your views than we are.” She looked at him curiously. “Yes, we are very Bohemian.” “I think it is charming,” he declared. “You see, we shall be in the best of society,” she ventured timidly, with a pretty gesture toward the statues of the dead queens, ranged in stately ranks above the terrace. He looked at her, delighted, and she brightened at the success of her innocent little pleasantry. “Indeed,” she smiled, “I shall be well chaperoned, because you see we are under the protection of the gods themselves; look, there are Apollo, and Juno, and Venus, on their pedestals,” counting them on her small gloved fingers, “and Ceres, Hercules, and—but I can’t make out—” Hastings turned to look up at the winged god under whose shadow they were seated. “Why, it’s Love,” he said. IV “There is a nouveau here,” drawled Laffat, leaning around his easel and addressing his friend Bowles, “there is a nouveau here who is so tender and green and appetizing that Heaven help him if he should fall into a salad bowl.” “Hayseed?” inquired Bowles, plastering in a background with a broken palette-knife and squinting at the effect with approval. “Yes, Squeedunk or Oshkosh, and how he ever grew up among the daisies and escaped the cows, Heaven alone knows!” Bowles rubbed his thumb across the outlines of his study to “throw in a little atmosphere,” as he said, glared at the model, pulled at his pipe and finding it out struck a match on his neighbour’s back to relight it. “His name,” continued Laffat, hurling a bit of bread at the hat-rack, “his name is Hastings. He _is_ a berry. He knows no more about the world,”—and here Mr. Laffat’s face spoke volumes for his own knowledge of that planet,—“than a maiden cat on its first moonlight stroll.” Bowles now having succeeded in lighting his pipe, repeated the thumb touch on the other edge of the study and said, “Ah!” “Yes,” continued his friend, “and would you imagine it, he seems to think that everything here goes on as it does in his d——d little backwoods ranch at home; talks about the pretty girls who walk alone in the street; says how sensible it is; and how French parents are misrepresented in America; says that for his part he finds French girls,—and he confessed to only knowing one,—as jolly as American girls. I tried to set him right, tried to give him a pointer as to what sort of ladies walk about alone or with students, and he was either too stupid or too innocent to catch on. Then I gave it to him straight, and he said I was a vile-minded fool and marched off.” “Did you assist him with your shoe?” inquired Bowles, languidly interested. “Well, no.” “He called you a vile-minded fool.” “He was correct,” said Clifford from his easel in front. “What—what do you mean?” demanded Laffat, turning red. “_That_,” replied Clifford. “Who spoke to you? Is this your business?” sneered Bowles, but nearly lost his balance as Clifford swung about and eyed him. “Yes,” he said slowly, “it’s my business.” No one spoke for some time. Then Clifford sang out, “I say, Hastings!” And when Hastings left his easel and came around, he nodded toward the astonished Laffat. “This man has been disagreeable to you, and I want to tell you that any time you feel inclined to kick him, why, I will hold the other creature.” Hastings, embarrassed, said, “Why no, I don’t agree with his ideas, nothing more.” Clifford said “Naturally,” and slipping his arm through Hastings’, strolled about with him, and introduced him to several of his own friends, at which all the nouveaux opened their eyes with envy, and the studio were given to understand that Hastings, although prepared to do menial work as the latest nouveau, was already within the charmed circle of the old, respected and feared, the truly great. The rest finished, the model resumed his place, and work went on in a chorus of songs and yells and every ear-splitting noise which the art student utters when studying the beautiful. Five o’clock struck,—the model yawned, stretched and climbed into his trousers, and the noisy contents of six studios crowded through the hall and down into the street. Ten minutes later, Hastings found himself on top of a Montrouge tram, and shortly afterward was joined by Clifford. They climbed down at the rue Gay Lussac. “I always stop here,” observed Clifford, “I like the walk through the Luxembourg.” “By the way,” said Hastings, “how can I call on you when I don’t know where you live?” “Why, I live opposite you.” “What—the studio in the garden where the almond trees are and the blackbirds—” “Exactly,” said Clifford. “I’m with my friend Elliott.” Hastings thought of the description of the two American artists which he had heard from Miss Susie Byng, and looked blank. Clifford continued, “Perhaps you had better let me know when you think of coming so,—so that I will be sure to—to be there,” he ended rather lamely. “I shouldn’t care to meet any of your model friends there,” said Hastings, smiling. “You know—my ideas are rather straitlaced,—I suppose you would say, Puritanical. I shouldn’t enjoy it and wouldn’t know how to behave.” “Oh, I understand,” said Clifford, but added with great cordiality,—“I’m sure we’ll be friends although you may not approve of me and my set, but you will like Severn and Selby because—because, well, they are like yourself, old chap.” After a moment he continued, “There is something I want to speak about. You see, when I introduced you, last week, in the Luxembourg, to Valentine—” “Not a word!” cried Hastings, smiling; “you must not tell me a word of her!” “Why—” “No—not a word!” he said gaily. “I insist,—promise me upon your honour you will not speak of her until I give you permission; promise!” “I promise,” said Clifford, amazed. “She is a charming girl,—we had such a delightful chat after you left, and I thank you for presenting me, but not another word about her until I give you permission.” “Oh,” murmured Clifford. “Remember your promise,” he smiled, as he turned into his gateway. Clifford strolled across the street and, traversing the ivy-covered alley, entered his garden. He felt for his studio key, muttering, “I wonder—I wonder,—but of course he doesn’t!” He entered the hallway, and fitting the key into the door, stood staring at the two cards tacked over the panels. +---------------------------+ | FOXHALL CLIFFORD | +---------------------------+ +---------------------------+ | RICHARD OSBORNE ELLIOTT | +---------------------------+ “Why the devil doesn’t he want me to speak of her?” He opened the door, and, discouraging the caresses of two brindle bull-dogs, sank down on the sofa. Elliott sat smoking and sketching with a piece of charcoal by the window. “Hello,” he said without looking around. Clifford gazed absently at the back of his head, murmuring, “I’m afraid, I’m afraid that man is too innocent. I say, Elliott,” he said, at last, “Hastings,—you know the chap that old Tabby Byram came around here to tell us about—the day you had to hide Colette in the armoire—” “Yes, what’s up?” “Oh, nothing. He’s a brick.” “Yes,” said Elliott, without enthusiasm. “Don’t you think so?” demanded Clifford. “Why yes, but he is going to have a tough time when some of his illusions are dispelled.” “More shame to those who dispel ’em!” “Yes,—wait until he comes to pay his call on us, unexpectedly, of course—” Clifford looked virtuous and lighted a cigar. “I was just going to say,” he observed, “that I have asked him not to come without letting us know, so I can postpone any orgie you may have intended—” “Ah!” cried Elliott indignantly, “I suppose you put it to him in that way.” “Not exactly,” grinned Clifford. Then more seriously, “I don’t want anything to occur here to bother him. He’s a brick, and it’s a pity we can’t be more like him.” “I am,” observed Elliott complacently, “only living with you—” “Listen!” cried the other. “I have managed to put my foot in it in great style. Do you know what I’ve done? Well—the first time I met him in the street,—or rather, it was in the Luxembourg, I introduced him to Valentine!” “Did he object?” “Believe me,” said Clifford, solemnly, “this rustic Hastings has no more idea that Valentine is—is—in fact is Valentine, than he has that he himself is a beautiful example of moral decency in a Quarter where morals are as rare as elephants. I heard enough in a conversation between that blackguard Loffat and the little immoral eruption, Bowles, to open my eyes. I tell you Hastings is a trump! He’s a healthy, clean-minded young fellow, bred in a small country village, brought up with the idea that saloons are way-stations to hell—and as for women—”