Monday morning at Julian’s studio was chaos from the moment the doors opened.
Students fought for the best seats. Those who had been waiting outside rushed in and claimed stools, only to be chased away by students who had held those places in previous weeks.
Others argued over palettes, brushes, and portfolios, while the entire room rang with shouts for Ciceri and bread.
Ciceri had once been a model and, in his better days, had even posed as Judas. Now he sold stale bread for one sou a piece and made just enough money to keep himself supplied with cigarettes.
Monsieur Julian walked in, gave everyone a fatherly smile, and walked out again.
The moment he disappeared, the clerk appeared.
He was a sly little man who slipped through the crowd like a fox, hunting for students who had not paid their fees.
Three were caught immediately and ordered to come forward.
A fourth tried to escape.
The clerk followed him, cut him off from the door, chased him around the room, and finally caught him hiding behind the stove.
By then, the revolution had reached full force.
“Jules!”
“Jules!”
Jules finally appeared.
He broke up two fights with a tired look in his big brown eyes, shook hands with everyone, and somehow disappeared into the crowd.
Peace returned almost at once.
The lions settled down beside the lambs.
The massiers claimed the best places for themselves and their friends, climbed onto the model stands, and opened the attendance book.
Someone shouted:
“They’re starting with C this week!”
They were.
“Clisson!”
Clisson sprang forward and quickly chalked his name on the floor in front of a coveted seat.
“Caron!”
Caron raced across the room to save his place.
An easel crashed to the floor.
“Nom de Dieu!”
“Where the hell are you going?”
A paint box hit the floor next, brushes scattering everywhere.
“Dieu de Dieu de—”
Someone threw a punch.
There was a brief rush, a grapple, and a struggle.
Then the massier shouted sternly:
“Cochon!”
The roll call continued.
“Clifford!”
The massier stopped and looked up from the ledger, one finger holding his place.
“Clifford!”
No answer.
Clifford was nowhere near the studio.
He was about three miles away, and every minute was taking him farther from it.
He wasn’t even walking quickly.
He was strolling along at his usual leisurely pace.
Elliott walked beside him.
Two bulldogs followed behind.
Elliott was reading Gil Blas and clearly found it amusing, but since he knew Clifford was in a miserable mood, he kept his laughter under control and merely smiled from time to time.
Clifford noticed.
He said nothing.
When they reached the Luxembourg Gardens, he led the way to a bench near the northern terrace and sat down.
He looked over the beautiful landscape as if he personally disapproved of every tree, flower, and ray of sunshine.
Elliott tied up the two dogs according to the garden regulations.
Then he glanced at Clifford, opened Gil Blas again, and went back to his quiet smiles.
It was a perfect day.
The sun hung above Notre Dame and made the whole city glitter.
The young chestnut leaves cast cool shadows over the terrace, while the sunlight broke through them and covered the paths with delicate blue patterns.
If Clifford had been thinking about painting, he might have found enough inspiration there for a dozen dramatic impressions.
But lately, painting was the last thing on his mind.
Sparrows chattered in the trees.
Pink pigeons flew lazily from branch to branch.
Flies danced through the sunlight.
The flowers filled the air with perfume.
The whole garden seemed to whisper of love and spring.
At last Clifford spoke.
“Elliott, you’re a true friend.”
“You make me sick,” Elliott replied, folding his newspaper.
“I knew it. You’re chasing after another woman again.”
“And if you’ve kept me away from Julian’s just so you could fill my head with the supposed perfection of some little idiot—”
“She’s not an idiot,” Clifford said gently.
Elliott stared at him.
“Tell me something. Do you seriously expect me to believe you’re in love again?”
“Again?”
“Yes. Again, again, and again.”
Clifford looked troubled.
“This is serious.”
For a moment Elliott looked as if he might grab him.
Then he laughed helplessly.
“Oh, go on. Let’s see. There was Clémence, Marie Tellec, Cosette, Fifine, Colette, Marie Verdier—”
“They were all charming,” Clifford said. “Very charming. But I was never serious about any of them.”
“Moses help me,” Elliott said solemnly. “Every single one of those women broke your heart, one after another. And every single one of them cost me my place at Julian’s because you dragged me into the same nonsense.”
“Do you deny it?”
“What you say may be based on facts,” Clifford admitted.
“But give me credit for being faithful to one woman at a time.”
“Until the next one came along.”
“This is different.”
“How?”
Clifford looked miserable.
“Elliott, believe me. I’m completely broken up.”
Elliott clenched his teeth.
There was nothing else to do but listen.
“It’s Rue Barrée.”
Elliott lowered his paper.
“Well, if you’re going to sit here mooning over that girl—the girl who has given both of us every reason to wish the earth would swallow us—then go ahead.”
“I am going ahead,” Clifford said. “I don’t care anymore. My shyness is gone.”
“Yes. Your natural shyness.”
“I’m desperate, Elliott. Am I in love? I’ve never felt so miserable in my life. I can’t sleep. I honestly can’t eat properly.”
“Same symptoms you had with Colette.”
“Will you listen to me?”
“Wait. I already know the rest by heart.”
Elliott leaned toward him.
“Let me ask you something. Do you really believe Rue Barrée is an innocent girl?”
“Yes,” Clifford said, turning red.
“Do you love her? I don’t mean the way you chase after every pretty little thing that catches your eye. Do you honestly love her?”
“Yes.”
Clifford’s answer was stubborn and immediate.
“I would—”
“Wait. Would you marry her?”
Clifford turned scarlet.
“Yes,” he whispered.
Elliott groaned.
“Wonderful news for your family.”
He lowered his voice and mocked Clifford’s imagined letter home.
“Dear Father, I have just married a charming grisette. I’m sure you’ll welcome her with open arms, along with her mother, an extremely respectable and clean washerwoman.”
He shook his head.
“Good heavens. This has gone further than the others.”
Then his expression softened slightly.
“Thank your lucky stars that at least one of us still has a sensible head.”
He glanced toward Clifford.
“Still, I don’t think you have much to worry about. Rue Barrée rejected your ambitions pretty clearly.”
“Rue Barrée—”
Clifford stopped.
Along the sun-dappled path, Rue Barrée was walking toward them.
Her dress was perfectly clean.
A large straw hat tilted slightly over her white forehead, casting a soft shadow across her eyes.
Elliott immediately stood and bowed.
Clifford took off his hat.
His expression became so humble, so pleading, and so painfully hopeful that Rue Barrée smiled.
It was a beautiful smile.
Clifford was so startled that his legs almost gave way.
She smiled again.
A little later, Rue Barrée sat down on the terrace.
She took a book from her music roll, found her place, and laid it open across her lap.
Then she sighed softly.
She smiled.
She looked out over Paris.
She had completely forgotten Foxhall Clifford.
After a while she picked up the book again.
But instead of reading, she adjusted the rose pinned to her dress.
It was large and red.
It seemed to burn against her heart.
And beneath its soft petals, her heart was beating wildly.
Rue Barrée sighed again.
She was happy.
The sky was blue.
The air was warm and sweet with flowers.
The sunlight seemed to caress her.
Something inside her was singing.
And the song said:
Out of all the people passing by, out of the whole world, out of all the millions of people alive, one person had turned aside and chosen me.
That was the song in her heart beneath the rose.
Two large, grayish pigeons suddenly flew onto the terrace.
They bowed.
They strutted.
They bobbed their heads and turned around in circles.
Rue Barrée laughed.
Then she looked up.
Clifford was standing in front of her.
His hat was in his hand.
His face wore a whole series of pleading smiles that might have softened even the heart of a Bengal tiger.
Rue Barrée frowned for a moment.
Then she studied him.
When she noticed that his bows looked almost exactly like the pigeons’ ridiculous bobbing, she couldn’t help laughing.
Was this really Rue Barrée?
She hardly recognized herself.
But the song inside her was louder than everything else.
It trembled on her lips.
It wanted to escape.
And somehow it came out as laughter over nothing more than two strutting pigeons—and Mr. Clifford.
She looked at him.
“And you think that because I return the greetings of the students in the Quarter, I will therefore treat you as a friend?”
Clifford remained silent.
“I don’t know you, Monsieur.”
Her eyes sparkled.
“But vanity is another name for man, isn’t it?”
She smiled sweetly.
“So be satisfied, Monsieur Vanity. I shall return your greetings.”
“But I beg you—”
“I implore you—”
“Please allow me to show you the respect and admiration I have felt for you for so long.”
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I don’t care for admiration.”
“Then let me at least speak with you now and then.”
“Occasionally?”
“Yes.”
“Very occasionally?”
“Yes. As rarely as you wish.”
She tilted her head.
“And if I allow you, why shouldn’t I allow someone else?”
“Not at all. I promise I will be perfectly discreet.”
“Discreet?”
She looked directly into his eyes.
“Why?”
Clifford winced.
Only for a moment.
Then recklessness took over.
He sat beside her.
He offered her everything—his heart, his soul, his future, everything he possessed.
As he spoke, he knew he was behaving like a fool.
He knew that infatuation was not love.
He knew that every promise he made was another chain around his own neck.
But he couldn’t stop.
A short distance away, Elliott watched with a dark expression.
He stood near the fountain plaza and struggled to keep the two bulldogs from rushing over to Clifford.
Even the dogs seemed to sense that something was going badly wrong.
Elliott muttered under his breath and cursed the entire situation.
When Clifford finally finished, he was flushed with excitement.
Rue Barrée said nothing.
The silence lasted long enough for his excitement to fade.
Slowly, he began to understand how foolish he had been.
Regret crept into his heart.
He pushed it away and began speaking again.
Rue Barrée stopped him with a single word.
“Thank you.”
Her voice was very serious.
“No man has ever offered to marry me before.”
She turned and looked out across Paris.
After a while, she continued.
“You are offering me a great deal.”
She looked down.
“I am alone. I have nothing. I am nothing.”
She turned back toward the city.
Paris was bright and beautiful beneath the perfect sky.
Clifford followed her gaze.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Her voice trembled.
“It is hard. So hard to work every day, always alone, without even one friend you can proudly bring into your life.”
She paused.
“And the kind of love that is offered to women like me usually means the streets and the boulevard once the passion is gone.”
She looked at him.
“I know that.”
Her fingers touched the rose over her heart.
“We all know it. Women like us. Women who have nothing and no one.”
“When we love, we give ourselves completely.”
Her voice grew softer.
“Without asking questions.”
She touched the rose again.
“Yes. Without asking questions. Heart and soul.”
She looked down at the flower.
“Even when we already know how it will end.”
For a moment, she seemed to forget Clifford completely.
Then she spoke quietly.
“Thank you.”
She opened her book.
“I am very grateful.”
She plucked one petal from the rose and slipped it between the pages.
Then she looked up at him.
Her voice was gentle.
“I cannot accept.”