“There’s a new fellow here,” Laffat drawled, leaning around his easel toward his friend Bowles. “And he’s so fresh, so innocent, and so deliciously green that Heaven help him if he ever falls into the wrong salad bowl.”
“Country boy?” Bowles asked, scraping paint onto the background with a broken palette knife. He squinted at the result and nodded approvingly.
“Country boy? More like Squeedunk or Oshkosh. How he ever grew up among cows and daisies without getting eaten alive is beyond me.”
Bowles rubbed his thumb along the outline of his sketch.
“I’m talking about Hastings,” Laffat continued, tossing a piece of bread toward the hat rack. “The fellow is a complete innocent. He knows about as much about the world as a kitten taking its first walk in the moonlight.”
“Ah,” Bowles said.
“He actually thinks Paris works the same way as his miserable little hometown. He talks about the pretty girls walking alone in the streets and says how sensible it is. He says French parents are badly represented in America. He even says French girls are just as lively as American girls.”
“How many French girls does he know?”
“One. And apparently that one is enough for him to become an expert.”
Bowles pulled at his pipe.
“I tried to educate him. I explained what kind of women usually walk around alone with students. He was either too innocent or too stupid to understand me. So I finally told him plainly.”
“And?”
“He called me a filthy-minded fool and walked away.”
“Did you help him along with your shoe?” Bowles asked lazily.
“No.”
“He called you a filthy-minded fool.”
“He was right,” Clifford said from his easel.
Laffat turned red.
“What do you mean?”
“That,” Clifford replied.
“Who asked you?” Bowles sneered. “Is this any of your business?”
Clifford slowly turned and looked at him.
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
Silence fell across the studio.
After a moment Clifford called out, “Hastings!”
Hastings left his easel and came over.
Clifford nodded toward Laffat.
“This man has been unpleasant to you. So I want you to know that if you ever feel like kicking him, I’ll be happy to hold him still.”
Hastings looked embarrassed.
“No, thank you. I simply disagree with his ideas. That’s all.”
“Naturally.”
Clifford slipped an arm through Hastings’s and walked him around the studio, introducing him to several of his own friends.
The other newcomers watched with open envy.
It quickly became clear to everyone that Hastings might be the newest and most inexperienced man in the Quarter, but he was already being welcomed into the inner circle of the older, respected, and slightly feared artists.
When the others had finished their work, the model returned to his place.
The studio exploded again with songs, shouting, laughter, and every possible noise an art student could make while pretending to study beauty.
At five o’clock the model yawned, stretched, and pulled on his trousers.
The occupants of six studios poured into the hallway and down into the street.
Ten minutes later Hastings was sitting on top of a Montrouge tram.
A little later, Clifford joined him.
They got off at the rue Gay-Lussac.
“I always get off here,” Clifford said. “I like walking through the Luxembourg.”
“By the way,” Hastings said, “how am I supposed to visit you when I don’t know where you live?”
“I live right across from you.”
“You mean that studio in the garden with the almond trees and the blackbirds?”
“Exactly. I share it with my friend Elliott.”
Hastings suddenly remembered Miss Susie Byng’s description of the two American artists and became rather thoughtful.
Clifford hesitated.
“Perhaps you should let me know before you come. That way I can make sure I’m actually there.”
“I’d rather not run into any of your model friends,” Hastings said with a smile. “You know I’m rather strict about these things. You’d probably call me Puritanical. I wouldn’t know how to behave.”
“Oh, I understand.”
Clifford smiled warmly.
“I’m sure we’ll be friends even if you don’t approve of me or my crowd. You’ll like Severn and Selby, though. They’re more like you, old fellow.”
After a pause, Clifford said, “There’s something else I wanted to mention. When I introduced you to Valentine in the Luxembourg last week—”
“Not a word!” Hastings laughed.
Clifford blinked.
“Why?”
“No. Not a word about her. I mean it. Promise me you won’t mention her until I give you permission.”
“I promise,” Clifford said, completely surprised.
“She’s a charming girl. We had a wonderful conversation after you left, and I’m grateful that you introduced us. But not another word about her until I say so.”
“Oh,” Clifford murmured.
“Remember your promise.”
Hastings smiled and turned into his own gateway.
Clifford crossed the street and entered the ivy-covered passage leading to his garden.
As he walked, he muttered to himself.
“I wonder. I wonder. But of course he doesn’t.”
He entered the hallway, took out his studio key, and stopped in front of the two cards fixed above the door panels.
FOXHALL CLIFFORD
RICHARD OSBORNE ELLIOTT
“Why the devil doesn’t he want me to mention her?”
He opened the door.
Two brindle bulldogs rushed to greet him. He pushed them aside as gently as possible and dropped onto the sofa.
Elliott sat by the window, smoking and sketching with a piece of charcoal.
“Hello,” he said without turning around.
Clifford stared at the back of his head.
“I’m afraid that fellow is too innocent.”
He paused.
“I say, Elliott. Hastings—you know, the fellow old Tabby Byram came here to tell us about? The day you had to hide Colette in the wardrobe?”
“Yes. What about him?”
“Nothing. He’s a splendid fellow.”
“Yes,” Elliott said without much enthusiasm.
“Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, but he’s going to have a hard time when some of his illusions disappear.”
“More shame on the people who destroy them.”
“Yes. Just wait until he comes here unexpectedly to visit us.”
Clifford looked innocent and lit a cigar.
“I was going to say that I told him not to come without warning us first. That way I can make sure to cancel any little celebration you might have planned.”
“Ah!” Elliott exclaimed indignantly. “I suppose you put it exactly that way.”
“Not exactly.”
Clifford grinned.
“Seriously, though, I don’t want anything happening here that might upset him. He’s a splendid fellow. It’s a shame the rest of us can’t be more like him.”
“I am,” Elliott said smugly. “I’m only living with you.”
“Listen. I’ve managed to make a complete mess of things. Do you know what I did?”
“What?”
“The first time I met Hastings—in the Luxembourg, actually—I introduced him to Valentine.”
“Did he object?”
“Believe me, that innocent country boy has absolutely no idea that Valentine is… well, Valentine.”
Elliott looked up.
“I heard enough of a conversation between that scoundrel Laffat and Bowles to understand the situation. Hastings is a real trump. He’s a clean-minded young fellow from a small country town. He grew up believing that saloons were halfway houses on the road to hell.”
“And women?”
“Well, his idea of a dangerous woman is probably some painted Jezebel.”
“Probably.”
“He’s a trump,” Clifford repeated. “If he believes the world is as good and pure as his own heart, then I’m willing to believe he’s right.”
Elliott rubbed the charcoal against his file to sharpen it.
“Hastings will never hear any pessimism from Richard Osborne Elliott.”
“He’s a lesson to me.”
Clifford picked up a small perfumed note lying on the table. It was written on pink paper.
He read it, smiled, and whistled a few bars from Miss Helyett.
Then he sat down and wrote a reply on his finest cream-colored paper.
After sealing it, he took his cane and walked around the studio twice, still whistling.
“Going out?” Elliott asked without turning.
“Yes.”
Clifford paused behind him, watching as Elliott picked out the highlights in his sketch with a piece of bread.
“Tomorrow is Sunday.”
“So?”
“Have you seen Colette?”
“No. I’m seeing her tonight. She, Rowden, and Jacqueline are coming to Boulant’s. I suppose you and Cécile will be there?”
“Well, no. Cécile is dining at home tonight. I was thinking of going to Mignon’s.”
Elliott looked at him with immediate disapproval.
“You can make all the arrangements for La Roche without me.”
“What are you up to now?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me. Men don’t rush off to Mignon’s when everyone else is dining at Boulant’s.”
Elliott sighed.
“Who is it this time? No, never mind. Why should I even ask?”
He raised his voice and struck the table with his pipe.
“What’s the point of trying to keep track of you? What will Cécile say? Yes, exactly—what will she say? It’s a miracle you can stay faithful for two months, and the whole Quarter has been patient enough with you. You’re abusing their patience—and mine.”
He stood and jammed his hat onto his head.
“Heaven knows why anyone puts up with your behavior, but they all do. And so do I.”
He pointed toward Clifford.
“If I were Cécile—or any of those pretty girls you’ve chased after and will probably keep chasing—I’d give you a good spanking.”
He opened the door.
“I’m going to Boulant’s. As usual, I’ll make excuses for you and smooth everything over. I don’t care where you’re going.”
He paused.
“But by the skeleton in this studio, if you don’t show up tomorrow with your sketching kit under one arm and Cécile under the other, looking respectable, I’m finished with you. Let the rest of the Quarter think whatever they like.”
“Good-night,” Clifford said pleasantly.
“Good-night.”
The door closed.
Clifford sat down and stared at it.
He waited ten minutes, then rang for the concierge.
“Oh dear,” he muttered. “Why the devil do I keep doing this?”
When Alfred appeared, Clifford handed him the letter.
“Alfred, clean yourself up properly and put on shoes instead of those wooden clogs. Then put on your best hat and take this letter to the big white house on the rue de Dragon.”
He smiled.
“There’s no answer, my little Alfred.”
The concierge left with a snort that somehow combined reluctance about the errand with affection for Monsieur Clifford.
Clifford then began dressing with great care, using the best clothes available between himself and Elliott.
He took his time.
Every now and then he stopped dressing to play the banjo or amuse the bulldogs by crawling around on all fours.
“I’ve got two hours,” he thought.
He borrowed a pair of Elliott’s silk slippers and played ball with the dogs until he finally decided to put them on.
Then he lit a cigarette and examined his evening coat.
He emptied four handkerchiefs, a fan, and a pair of long, crumpled gloves from the pockets.
“This won’t do.”
Elliott was too thin, and his coats were locked away anyway.
Rowden probably wouldn’t help.
Then Clifford thought of Hastings.
“Hastings! That’s the man.”
He threw on a smoking jacket and went across the street.
But Hastings was already gone. The maid told him he had left more than an hour earlier.
“Where in the name of common sense could he have gone?”
The maid didn’t know.
Clifford gave her a charming smile and returned to his studio.
Hastings was not far away.
The Luxembourg was only five minutes from the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs.
He had been sitting there for nearly an hour beneath the shadow of a winged Cupid, idly poking holes in the gravel and watching the steps leading from the northern terrace down toward the fountain.
The sun hung low over the misty hills of Meudon.
Pink clouds drifted across the western sky.
The distant dome of the Invalides glowed softly through the haze.
Behind the Palace, smoke rose straight from a tall chimney, purple against the evening sky until it crossed the sun and became a glowing strip of fire.
Above the dark chestnut trees, the twin towers of Saint-Sulpice stood against the fading light.
A blackbird sang sleepily somewhere nearby.
Pigeons flew overhead, their wings making a soft whisper.
The Palace windows slowly went dark.
The dome of the Panthéon glowed above the northern terrace like a fiery city in the sky, while the marble statues of the queens stood in silent rows, facing west.
From the long walk beside the Palace came the noise of omnibuses and the cries of people in the street.
Hastings looked at the Palace clock.
Six o’clock.
His own watch agreed.
He went back to poking the gravel.
People streamed constantly between the Odéon and the fountain.
Priests in black passed beside soldiers.
Girls without hats carried milliner’s boxes.
Students hurried by with black portfolios, high hats, berets, and enormous walking sticks.
Officers walked quickly through the crowd.
Cavalrymen covered in dust clattered past.
Pastry boys skipped along with baskets balanced precariously on their heads.
And among them wandered the thin, shabby Parisian tramp, shoulders bent, eyes searching the pavement for discarded cigarette ends.
The crowd flowed steadily toward the Odéon, where gas lamps were beginning to flicker beneath the long arcades.
The bells of Saint-Sulpice struck the hour.
The Palace clock tower lit up.
Then Hastings heard quick footsteps across the gravel.
He raised his head.
“You’re late,” he said.
His voice was hoarse. Only his flushed face showed how long he had been waiting.
“I was delayed,” she said. “I was so terribly annoyed. And I can only stay for a moment.”
She sat beside him and glanced nervously over her shoulder at the marble Cupid.
“That ridiculous Cupid is still here?”
“Wings and arrows, too,” Hastings said, missing her invitation to sit closer.
“Wings,” she murmured. “Of course. So he can fly away when he gets tired of playing.”
She smiled.
“Only a man would think Cupid needed wings. Otherwise the creature would be unbearable.”
“Do you think so?”
“Of course. That is what men think.”
“And women?”
She tossed her head.
“Oh, I’ve forgotten what we were talking about.”
“We were talking about love.”
“I wasn’t.”
She looked up at the marble god.
“I don’t like this Cupid at all. I don’t believe he even knows how to shoot his arrows.”
She frowned.
“He’s a coward. He sneaks up on people like an assassin in the twilight. I don’t approve of cowards.”
She turned her back on the statue.
“I think he shoots quite well,” Hastings said quietly. “And sometimes he even gives you a warning.”
“Is that your experience, Monsieur Hastings?”
He looked directly into her eyes.
“He is warning me now.”
“Then you should listen.”
She laughed nervously.
As she spoke, she took off her gloves, then slowly pulled them back on again.
When she finished, she looked at the Palace clock.
“Oh dear. How late it is.”
She folded her umbrella, then opened it again.
Finally, she looked at him.
“No,” Hastings said. “I won’t listen to him.”
“Oh dear,” she sighed. “Still talking about that tiresome statue?”
She stole another look at him.
“I suppose… I suppose you’re in love.”
“I don’t know,” he murmured. “I suppose I am.”
She lifted her head quickly.
“You sound rather pleased about it.”
But when his eyes met hers, she bit her lip and trembled.
Suddenly frightened, she stood and stared into the deepening shadows.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
“Oh dear. It’s late. So late. I must go. Good-night.”
She placed her gloved hand in his for a moment, then suddenly pulled it away.
“What is it?” he asked. “Are you frightened?”
She looked at him strangely.
“No. No, I’m not frightened. You’re very good to me.”
“By Jove! What do you mean by that?”
She looked startled.
“That’s at least the third time you’ve said I’m good to you. I don’t understand.”
A drum sounded from the Palace guardhouse.
She turned toward the sound.
“Listen. They’re closing the gardens. It’s late. So late.”
The drumbeat came closer.
Soon the drummer appeared against the eastern sky.
For a moment the fading light caught his belt and bayonet.
Then he disappeared into the shadows, his drum echoing through the gardens.
The sound faded along the eastern terrace, then grew louder again as he passed the avenue near the bronze lion and turned toward the western walk.
The drumbeat rolled across the Palace walls.
Then the drummer came into view again, his red trousers barely visible in the gathering darkness, his drum and bayonet catching the last pale light.
He marched past them and disappeared into the trees.
Then the sentries began calling:
“On ferme! On ferme!”
A bugle sounded from the barracks in the rue de Tournon.
“On ferme! On ferme!”
“Good-night,” she whispered. “I have to go back alone tonight.”
Hastings watched her until she reached the northern terrace.
Then he sat on the marble bench.
He remained there until a hand on his shoulder and the glimmer of bayonets warned him that the garden was closing.
She walked through the grove, turned into the rue de Médicis, crossed it, and continued toward the Boulevard.
At the corner she stopped to buy a bunch of violets.
Then she continued along the Boulevard toward the rue des Écoles.
A cab stood outside Boulant’s.
Elliott helped a pretty girl out of it.
“Valentine!” the girl called. “Come with us!”
“I can’t.”
Valentine stopped briefly.
“I have a meeting at Mignon’s.”
“Not Victor?”
The girl laughed.
Valentine shivered slightly and nodded good-night.
Then she turned onto the Boulevard Saint-Germain and quickened her pace to avoid a cheerful group sitting outside the Café Cluny.
They called after her, inviting her to join them.
She ignored them.
At the entrance to Restaurant Mignon stood a coal-black doorman in a uniform covered with brass buttons.
He removed his cap as she climbed the carpeted stairs.
“Send Eugene to me,” she told the clerk.
She walked through the hallway beside the dining room and stopped in front of a row of paneled doors.
A waiter passed.
“Eugene,” she repeated.
A moment later Eugene appeared and bowed.
“Madame.”
“Who is here?”
“No one in the private rooms, madame. In the other room are Madame Madelon and Monsieur Gay, Monsieur de Clamart, Monsieur Clisson, Madame Marie, and their friends.”
He looked around before leaning closer.
“And Monsieur has been waiting for madame for half an hour.”
He knocked on door number six.
Clifford opened it.
Valentine entered.
Eugene bowed her inside.
“If Monsieur would be so kind as to ring,” he murmured.
Then he disappeared.
Clifford helped Valentine remove her jacket and took her hat and umbrella.
Once she was seated across from him at the small table, she smiled and leaned forward on both elbows.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you,” he replied, with obvious admiration.
For a moment she turned toward the mirror.
Her wide blue eyes, curling hair, straight nose, and small curved lips appeared in the glass.
Then she turned back.
“So much for vanity,” she said.
She leaned forward again.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you,” Clifford repeated.
“And Cécile.”
“Now, Valentine, don’t—”
“Do you know that I dislike the way you behave?”
He looked uncomfortable and rang for Eugene.
Dinner arrived.
There was bisque soup and Pommery champagne, followed by course after course.
Eventually Eugene brought coffee.
The table was cleared, leaving only a small silver lamp between them.
“Valentine,” Clifford said after getting permission to smoke, “are we going to the Vaudeville? The Eldorado? Both? The Nouveau Cirque?”
“It’s here.”
Clifford looked delighted.
“Well, I’m afraid I could never entertain you as well as those places.”
“Oh, yes, you could.”
She smiled.
“You’re funnier than the Eldorado.”
“Don’t tease me, Valentine. You always do. You know what they say—a good laugh kills—”
“What?”
“Love, and all that.”
She laughed until her eyes filled with tears.
“Tiens! Then love must already be dead.”
Clifford looked increasingly nervous.
“Do you know why I came?”
“No,” he said uneasily. “I don’t.”
“How long have you been in love with me?”
He hesitated.
“I suppose about a year.”
“It has been a year.”
She studied him.
“Are you not tired yet?”
He said nothing.
“Don’t you understand?” she continued. “I like you too much ever to fall in love with you.”
He looked at her.
“We’re too good friends. Too much like old comrades. And if we weren’t, do you really think I don’t know your reputation, Monsieur Clifford?”
“Don’t be sarcastic. Please don’t be cruel.”
“I’m not being cruel. I’m being kind.”
She paused.
“Very kind—to you and to Cécile.”
“Cécile is tired of me.”
“I hope she is,” Valentine said. “She deserves better.”
She shook her head.
“Do you know what people say about you in the Quarter? That you’re the most unreliable man here. Completely incorrigible. You take nothing seriously. You move from one woman to another as easily as a gnat moves through summer air.”
She sighed.
“Poor Cécile.”
Clifford looked so miserable that her tone softened.
“I do like you. You know that. Everyone does. You’re spoiled here. People forgive everything you do.”
She looked directly at him.
“But not everyone can spend their life paying for your whims.”
“Whims!” Clifford protested. “If the girls in the Latin Quarter aren’t capable of being capricious—”
“Never mind.”
She waved him off.
“You have no right to judge them. Not you of all people.”
She studied him for a moment.
“Why are you here tonight?”
Then she smiled.
“Oh, I know why.”
She imitated him playfully.
“Monsieur receives a little note. Monsieur sends a little answer. Then Monsieur puts on his most irresistible clothes—”
“I do not,” Clifford said, turning red.
“You do.”
She smiled faintly.
“And it suits you.”
Then her expression became serious.
“I am in your power, Clifford. But I know I am in the power of a friend.”
She took a breath.
“That is why I came here tonight. I want to ask you for a favor.”
Clifford stared at her.
“I’m listening.”
“I’m very troubled.”
Her voice dropped.
“It is because of Monsieur Hastings.”
“Hastings?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated.
“If you ever speak about me to him, I want you to promise me that you will not tell him…”
“I won’t speak about you to him,” Clifford said quietly.
She looked relieved, but still uncertain.
“Can you stop other people from speaking?”
“I might, if I’m there.”
He studied her.
“Why?”
“That isn’t fair,” she whispered. “You know how he thinks of me. You know how he thinks of women in general. He is completely different from you and the others.”
She lowered her eyes.
“I have never met a man like Monsieur Hastings.”
Clifford’s cigarette slowly went out between his fingers.
“I’m almost afraid of him,” she continued. “Afraid that he’ll learn what we are all like here.”
She looked up.
“I don’t want him to know. Not yet.”
Her voice trembled.
“I don’t want him to turn away from me. I don’t want him to stop speaking to me the way he does now.”
She pressed her hands together.
“You and the others have no idea what that has meant to me. I could hardly believe someone could be so good, so honorable.”
Her eyes filled with emotion.
“I don’t want him to know too soon. Eventually he will find out. He’ll discover the truth for himself, and then he’ll turn away.”
She suddenly cried out:
“Why should he turn away from me, when he doesn’t turn away from you?”
Clifford looked down at his cigarette, deeply uncomfortable.
Valentine rose.
Her face had gone very pale.
“He is your friend,” she said quietly. “You have the right to warn him.”
“He is my friend,” Clifford finally said.
They stood facing each other in silence.
Then she spoke with sudden intensity.
“By everything I hold sacred, you must not warn him.”
Clifford looked at her for a long moment.
Then he smiled gently.
“I’ll trust your word.”