One morning at Julian’s, a student pointed toward a young man sitting motionless in front of an easel.
“That’s Foxhall Clifford.”
Selby, shy and nervous, walked over.
“My name is Selby. I’ve just arrived in Paris, and I have a letter of introduction—”
He never finished.
An easel crashed to the floor. Its owner immediately attacked the student beside him, and within seconds the studios of Boulanger and Lefebvre were filled with shouting and fighting. The noise rolled down the stairs and spilled into the hallway.
Selby stood there, wondering whether he had made a terrible mistake by coming.
Clifford, however, calmly watched the fight as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
“It’s a little noisy here,” he said, “but you’ll like these fellows once you get to know them.”
Selby was instantly reassured by his easy manner.
Clifford introduced him to half a dozen students from different countries. Some welcomed him warmly, and all were polite.
Even the imposing student who served as the studio’s Massier took the trouble to speak to him.
“My friend, any man who speaks French as well as you do—and who is also a friend of Monsieur Clifford—will have no trouble here. You understand, of course, that you’ll be responsible for keeping the stove filled until the next new student arrives?”
“Of course.”
“And you don’t mind being teased?”
“No,” Selby replied.
In truth, he hated being teased.
Clifford smiled, put on his hat, and headed for the door.
“You’d better be prepared for plenty of it at first.”
Selby put on his own hat and followed him.
As they passed the model stand, someone suddenly shouted:
“Chapeau! Chapeau!”
A student jumped up from his easel and threatened Selby with an angry gesture.
Selby turned red and looked helplessly at Clifford.
“Take off your hat,” Clifford said, laughing. “They expect you to.”
Embarrassed, Selby turned toward the whole studio and made a polite bow.
“And me?” cried the model.
Selby looked at her.
“You’re charming,” he replied.
He was amazed at his own courage.
The entire studio erupted.
“Well done!”
“He’s all right!”
“That’s the spirit!”
The model laughed, blew him a kiss, and called out:
“À demain, beau jeune homme!”
See you tomorrow, handsome young man!
For the rest of the week, Selby worked at the studio without trouble.
The French students immediately gave him a nickname: “l’Enfant Prodigue.”
That became “The Prodigious Infant,” then “The Kid,” then “Kid Selby,” and finally “Kidby.”
Soon “Kidby” somehow turned into “Kidney.”
Then, naturally enough, it became “Tidbits.”
Clifford finally put a stop to the nonsense, and after a while everyone went back to calling him “Kid.”
Wednesday brought Monsieur Boulanger to the studio.
For three miserable hours, the students suffered under his sharp sarcasm.
Clifford suffered more than most.
“You know even less about art,” Boulanger told him, “than you do about the art of work.”
Selby escaped more easily.
The professor examined his drawing in silence. He stared sharply at Selby, made an unreadable gesture, and moved on.
A little later, Boulanger left arm in arm with Bouguereau.
Everyone breathed easier.
Clifford immediately jammed his hat onto his head and left.
The following day Clifford did not come to the studio.
Selby had expected to see him there, although he would later realize that expecting Clifford to appear anywhere was a foolish habit.
So Selby wandered back toward the Latin Quarter alone.
Paris was still strange and new to him.
Its beauty troubled him in a way he could not explain.
Nothing at the Place du Châtelet stirred any warm memories in his American heart. Even Notre Dame left him unmoved.
The Palais de Justice, with its clock, towers, and guards in blue and red uniforms, meant nothing to him.
Neither did the crowded Place St. Michel, packed with omnibuses and ugly griffins spitting water.
The slope of Boulevard St. Michel, the noisy trams, the policemen strolling together, and the café terraces filled with little tables were all still meaningless to him.
He did not even realize that when he stepped off the stones of Place St. Michel and onto the asphalt of the Boulevard, he had crossed an invisible boundary.
He had entered the student world—the famous Latin Quarter.
A cabman called out to him.
“Bourgeois! Take a cab! Why walk when you can ride?”
A street boy approached with a deeply serious expression.
“Sir, do you know the latest telegraphic news from London?”
Before Selby could answer, the boy suddenly stood on his head and challenged him to a contest of strength.
Then a pretty young woman glanced at him with violet eyes.
Selby never noticed her.
She caught her own reflection in a shop window and was surprised to see how brightly her cheeks had turned.
She continued walking.
Then she saw Foxhall Clifford.
She hurried on.
Clifford stared after her, his mouth slightly open.
Then he looked toward Selby, who had turned onto Boulevard St. Germain in the direction of the rue de Seine.
Clifford turned toward a shop window and examined his own reflection.
Apparently, he was not pleased with what he saw.
“I’m not handsome,” he thought, “but I’m certainly not a monster either. So why did she blush at Selby?”
He frowned.
“I’ve never seen her look at another man in my life. Nobody in the Quarter has. And I know she never looks at me.”
He sighed.
“Good Lord knows I’ve shown her every respectful admiration a man can possibly show.”
He sighed again, muttered something about the salvation of his immortal soul, and resumed the relaxed, elegant walk that always seemed natural to him.
Without appearing to hurry, he caught up with Selby at the corner.
They crossed the sunlit Boulevard together and sat beneath the awning of the Café du Cercle.
Clifford bowed to nearly everyone on the terrace.
“You’ll meet them all later,” he told Selby. “But for now, allow me to introduce you to two of the great sights of Paris—Mr. Richard Elliott and Mr. Stanley Rowden.”
The two “sights” looked friendly enough and ordered vermouth.
Elliott suddenly turned toward Clifford.
“You skipped the studio today.”
Clifford carefully avoided his eyes.
“To commune with nature?” Rowden asked.
“What’s her name this time?” Elliott demanded.
Rowden answered immediately.
“Name: Yvette. Nationality: Breton.”
“Wrong,” Clifford said calmly. “Rue Barrée.”
The subject was abandoned at once.
Selby listened with fascination as the others discussed people he had never heard of and praised the latest winner of the Prix de Rome.
He enjoyed hearing them argue freely and defend their opinions without hesitation. Most of their conversation was a mixture of English and French slang, but Selby loved every minute of it.
He longed for the day when he too would be involved in this fierce struggle for artistic fame.
The bells of St. Sulpice struck the hour.
The Luxembourg Palace answered with another series of chimes.
Clifford glanced at the sun, now sinking into the golden haze behind the Palais Bourbon.
They got up and headed east.
They crossed Boulevard St. Germain and walked toward the École de Médecine.
At the corner, a young woman passed them quickly.
Clifford gave her a knowing smile.
Elliott and Rowden suddenly became very interested.
All three men bowed.
Without looking up, the woman returned their greeting and continued on.
Selby had fallen behind because a colorful shop window had caught his attention.
When he finally looked up, he found himself staring directly into the bluest eyes he had ever seen.
The eyes dropped at once.
The girl hurried away.
Selby quickly caught up with the others.
“By Jove,” he said, “do you fellows know that I’ve just seen the prettiest girl—”
A dark groan came from all three men.
It sounded almost like the mournful chorus of a Greek tragedy.
“Rue Barrée!”
“What?” Selby asked, completely confused.
Clifford merely made a vague gesture.
Two hours later, during dinner, Clifford looked across the table at him.
“You want to ask me something.”
Selby looked surprised.
“How do you know?”
“You’ve been fidgeting for the last ten minutes.”
“Yes, I do have a question.”
He hesitated.
“It’s about that girl. Who is she?”
Rowden gave him a sympathetic smile.
Elliott looked bitter.
Clifford became very solemn.
“Her name is unknown.”
He paused.
“At least, no one knows it as far as I can discover.”
Selby listened closely.
“Every man in the Quarter bows to her, and she always returns the greeting with perfect seriousness. But no man has ever managed to get any further than that.”
“What does she do?”
“Judging by the music roll she carries, she’s probably a pianist.”
“And where does she live?”
“In a small, rather poor street that the city seems determined to repair forever.”
Clifford leaned forward.
“There are black letters painted on the barrier at the entrance, warning traffic that the street is closed. The words are ‘Rue Barrée.’ So that is the name we have given her.”
Rowden interrupted.
“I thought we called her ‘Roo Barry.’”
“I didn’t,” Rowden said indignantly.
Clifford ignored him.
“Roo Barry, or Rue Barrée, has now become the object of worship for every rapin in the Quarter.”
“We are not rapins,” Elliott objected.
“I am not,” Clifford replied.
He looked at Selby.
“But I must point out that both of these gentlemen have, at various unfortunate moments, offered to sacrifice life and limb at the feet of Rue Barrée.”
Elliott and Rowden stared at him furiously.
Clifford continued.
“She has a smile that could freeze a man to death, and she uses it whenever either of them gets too close.”
He sighed dramatically.
“I have been forced to conclude that neither my scholarly friend Elliott nor my handsome friend Rowden has succeeded in warming that heart of ice.”
Both men exploded.
“And what about you?”
Clifford calmly raised his glass.
“I,” he said, “have enough sense not to charge into a place where you two fools are already rushing headfirst.”