A Chair on The Boulevard by Leonard Merrick

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But Legrand said nothing to the point. Though he was a little chagrined
by the intelligence, it never even entered his mind to attempt to cut
the inventor out. How should it? She was certainly an attractive girl,
but as to marrying her--He thought Bourjac a fool. As for himself, if
he married at all, it would be an artist who was drawing a big salary
and who would be able to provide him with some of the good things of
life. "I pray you will be very happy, mademoiselle," he said, putting
on a sentimental air.

So, after she had cried with mortification, Laure promised to be old
Bourjac's wife.

A few weeks later they were married; and in that lonely little cottage
she would have been bored to death but for the tawdry future that she
foresaw. The man's dream of awakening her tenderness was speedily
dispelled; he had been accepted as the means to an end, and he was held
fast to the compact. She grudged him every hour in which he idled by
her side. Driven from her arms by her impatience, old Bourjac would
toil patiently in the workroom: planning, failing--surmounting
obstacles atom by atom, for the sake of a woman whose sole interest in
his existence was his progress with the Illusion that was to gratify
her vanity.

He worshipped her still. If he had not worshipped her, he would sooner
or later have renounced the scheme as impracticable; only his love for
her supported him in the teeth of the impediments that arose. Of these
she heard nothing. For one reason, her interest was so purely selfish
that she had not even wished to learn how the cabinet was to be
constructed. "All those figures gave her a headache," she declared. For
another, when early in the winter he had owned himself at a deadlock,
she had sneered at him as a duffer who was unable to fulfil his boasts.
Old Bourjac never forgot that--his reputation was very dear to him--he
did not speak to her of his difficulties again.

But they often talked of the success she was to achieve. She liked to
go into a corner of the parlour and rehearse the entrance that she
would make to acknowledge the applause. "It will be the great moment,"
she would say, "when I reappear as myself and bow."

"No, it will be expected; that will not surprise anybody," Bourjac
would insist. "The climax, the last effect, will be the skeleton!"

It was the skeleton that caused him the most anxious thought of all. In
order to compass it, he almost feared that he would be compelled to
sacrifice one of the preceding scenes. The babe, the girl, the matron,
the crone, for all these his mechanism provided; but the skeleton, the
"last effect," baffled his ingenuity. Laure began to think his task
eternal.

Ever since the wedding, she had dilated proudly to her mother and
Legrand on her approaching début, and it angered her that she could
never say when the début was to be. Now that there need be no question
of his marrying her, Legrand's manner towards her had become more
marked. She went to the house often. One afternoon, when she rang, the
door was opened by him; he explained that the old woman was out
marketing.

Laure waited in the kitchen, and the conjurer sat on the table, talking
to her.

"How goes the Illusion?" he asked.

"Oh, big!" she said. "It's going to knock them, I can tell you!" Her
laugh was rather derisive. "It's a rum world; the shop-girl will become
an artist, with a show that draws all Paris. We expect to open at the
Folies-Bergère." She knew that Legrand could never aspire to an
engagement at the Folies-Bergère as long as he lived.

"I hope you will make a hit," he said, understanding her resentment
perfectly.

"You did not foresee me a star turn, hein?"

He gave a shrug. "How could I foresee? If you had not married Bourjac,
of course it would not have happened?"

"I suppose not," she murmured. She was sorry he realised that; she
would have liked him to feel that she might have had the Illusion
anyhow, and been a woman worth his winning.

"Indeed," added Legrand pensively, rolling a cigarette, "you have done
a great deal to obtain a success. It is not every girl who would go to
such lengths."

"What?" She coloured indignantly.

"I mean it is not every girl who would break the heart of a man who
loved her."

They looked in each other's eyes for a moment. Then she turned her head
scornfully away.

"Why do you talk rot to me? Do you take me for a kid?"

He decided that a pained silence would be most effective.

"If you cared about me, why didn't you say so?" she flashed, putting
the very question he had hoped for.

"Because my position prevented it," he sighed. "I could not propose, a
poor devil like me! Do I lodge in an attic from choice? But you are the
only woman I ever wanted for my wife."

After a pause, she said softly, "I never knew you cared."

"I shall never care for anybody else," he answered. And then her mother
came in with the vegetables.

It is easy to believe what one wishes, and she wished to believe
Legrand's protestations. She began to pity herself profoundly, feeling
that she had thrown away the substance for the shadow. In the
sentimentality to which she yielded, even the prospect of being a star
turn failed to console her; and during the next few weeks she invented
reasons for visiting at her mother's more frequently than ever.

After these visits, Legrand used to smirk to himself in his attic. He
reflected that the turn would, probably, earn a substantial salary for
a long time to come. If he persuaded her to run away with him when the
show had been produced, it would be no bad stroke of business for him!
Accordingly, in their conversations, he advised her to insist on the
Illusion being her absolute property.

"One can never tell what may occur," he would say. "If the managers
arranged with Bourjac, not with you, you would always be dependent on
your husband's whims for your engagements." And, affecting
unconsciousness of his real meaning, the woman would reply, "That's
true; yes, I suppose it would be best--yes, I shall have all the
engagements made with _me_."

But by degrees even such pretences were dropped between them; they
spoke plainly. He had the audacity to declare that it tortured him to
think of her in old Bourjac's house--old Bourjac who plodded all day to
minister to her caprice! She, no less shameless, acknowledged that her
loneliness there was almost unendurable. So Legrand used to call upon
her, to cheer her solitude, and while Bourjac laboured in the workroom,
the lovers lolled in the parlour, and talked of the future they would
enjoy together when his job was done.

"See, monsieur--your luncheon!" mumbled Margot, carrying a tray into
the workroom on his busiest days.

"And madame, has madame her luncheon?" shouted Bourjac. Margot was very
deaf indeed.

"Madame entertains monsieur Legrand again," returned the housekeeper,
who was not blind as well.

Bourjac understood the hint, and more than once he remonstrated with
his wife. But she looked in his eyes and laughed suspicion out of him
for the time: "Eugène was an old friend, whom she had known from
childhood! Enfin, if Jean objected, she would certainly tell him not to
come so often. It was very ridiculous, however!"

And afterwards she said to Legrand, "We must put up with him in the
meanwhile; be patient, darling! We shall not have to worry about what
he thinks much longer."

Then, as if to incense her more, Bourjac was attacked by rheumatism
before the winter finished; he could move only with the greatest
difficulty, and took to his bed. Day after day he lay there, and she
fumed at the sight of him, passive under the blankets, while his work
was at a standstill.

More than ever the dullness got on her nerves now, especially as
Legrand had avoided the house altogether since the complaint about the
frequency of his visits. He was about to leave Paris to fulfil some
engagements in the provinces. It occurred to her that it would be a
delightful change to accompany him for a week. She had formerly had an
aunt living in Rouen, and she told Bourjac that she had been invited to
stay with her for a few days.

Bourjac made no objection. Only, as she hummed gaily over her packing,
he turned his old face to the wall to hide his tears.

Her luggage was dispatched in advance, and by Legrand's counsel, it was
labelled at the last minute with an assumed name. If he could have done
so without appearing indifferent to her society, Legrand would have
dissuaded her from indulging in the trip, for he had resolved now to be
most circumspect until the Illusion was inalienably her own. As it was,
he took all the precautions possible. They would travel separately; he
was to depart in the evening, and Laure would follow by the next train.
When she arrived, he would be awaiting her.

With the removal of her trunk, her spirits rose higher still. But the
day passed slowly. At dusk she sauntered about the sitting-room,
wishing that it were time for her to start. She had not seen Legrand
since the previous afternoon, when they had met at a café to settle the
final details. When the clock struck again, she reckoned that he must
be nearly at his destination; perhaps he was there already, pacing the
room as she paced this one? She laughed. Not a tinge of remorse
discoloured the pleasure of her outlook--her "au revoir" to her husband
was quite careless. The average woman who sins longs to tear out her
conscience for marring moments which would otherwise be perfect. This
woman had absolutely no conscience.

The shortest route to the station was by the garden gate; as she raised
the latch, she was amazed to see Legrand hurriedly approaching.

"Thank goodness, I have caught you!" he exclaimed--"I nearly went round
to the front."

"What has happened?"

"Nothing serious; I am not going, that is all--they have changed my
date. The matter has been uncertain all day, or I would have let you
know earlier. It is lucky I was in time to prevent your starting."

She was dumb with disappointment.

"It is a nuisance about your luggage," he went on; "we must telegraph
about it. Don't look so down in the mouth--we shall have our trip next
week instead."

"What am I to say to Jean--he will think it so strange? I have said
good-bye to him."

"Oh, you can find an excuse--you 'missed your train.' Come out for half
an hour, and we can talk." His glance fell on the workroom. "Is that
fastened up?"

"I don't know. Do you want to see what he has done?"

"I may as well." He had never had an opportunity before--Bourjac had
always been in there.

"No, it isn't locked," she said; "come on then! Wait till I have shut
it after us before you strike a match--Margot might see the light."

A rat darted across their feet as they lit the lamp, and he dropped the
matchbox. "Ugh!"

"The beastly things!" she shivered, "Make haste!"

On the floor stood a cabinet that was not unlike a gloomy wardrobe in
its outward aspect. Legrand examined it curiously.

"Too massive," he remarked. "It will cost a fortune for carriage--and
where are the columns I heard of?" He stepped inside and sounded the
walls. "Humph, of course I see his idea. The fake is a very old one,
but it is always effective." Really, he knew nothing about it, but as
he was a conjurer, she accepted him as an authority.

"Show me! Is there room for us both?" she said, getting in after him.
And as she got in, the door slammed.

Instantaneously they were in darkness, black as pitch, jammed close
together. Their four hands flew all over the door at once, but they
could touch no handle. The next moment, some revolving apparatus that
had been set in motion, flung them off their feet. Round and round it
swirled, striking against their bodies and their faces. They grovelled
to escape it, but in that awful darkness their efforts were futile;
they could not even see its shape.

"Stop it!" she gasped.

"I don't know how," he panted.

After a few seconds the whir grew fainter, the gyrations stopped
automatically. She wiped the blood from her face, and burst into
hysterical weeping. The man, cursing horribly, rapped to find the
spring that she must have pressed as she entered. It seemed to them
both that there could be no spot he did not rap a thousand times, but
the door never budged.

His curses ceased; he crouched by her, snorting with fear.

"What shall we do?" she muttered.

He did not answer her.

"Eugène, let us stamp! Perhaps the spring is in the floor."

Still he paid no heed--he was husbanding his breath. When a minute had
passed, she felt his chest distend, and a scream broke from him--
"_Help!_"

"Mon Dieu!" She clutched him, panic-stricken. "We mustn't be found
here, it would ruin everything. Feel for the spring! Eugène, feel for
the spring, don't call!"

"_Help!_"

"Don't you understand? Jean will guess--it will be the end of my hopes,
I shall have no career!"

"I have myself to think about!" he whimpered. And pushing away her
arms, he screamed again and again. But there was no one to hear him, no
neighbours, no one passing in the fields--none but old Bourjac, and
deaf Margot, beyond earshot, in the house.

The cabinet was, of course, ventilated, and the danger was, not
suffocation, but that they would be jammed here while they slowly
starved to death. Soon her terror of the fate grew all-powerful in the
woman, and, though she loathed him for having been the first to call,
she, too, shrieked constantly for help now. By turns, Legrand would
yell, distraught, and heave himself helplessly against the door--they
were so huddled that he could bring no force to bear upon it.

In their black, pent prison, like a coffin on end the night held a
hundred hours. The matchbox lay outside, where it had fallen, and
though they could hear his watch ticking in his pocket, they were
unable to look at it. After the watch stopped, they lost their sense of
time altogether; they disputed what day of the week it was.

* * * * *

Their voices had been worn to whispers now; they croaked for help.

In the workroom, the rats missed the remains of old Bourjac's
luncheons; the rats squeaked ravenously.... As she strove to scream,
with the voice that was barely audible, she felt that she could resign
herself to death were she but alone. She could not stir a limb nor draw
a breath apart from the man. She craved at last less ardently for life
than for space--the relief of escaping, even for a single moment, from
the oppression of contact. It became horrible, the contact, as
revolting as if she had never loved him. The ceaseless contact maddened
her. The quaking of his body, the clamminess of his flesh, the smell of
his person, poisoning the darkness, seemed to her the eternities of
Hell.

* * * * *

Bourjac lay awaiting his wife's return for more than a fortnight. Then
he sent for her mother, and learnt that the "aunt in Rouen" had been
buried nearly three years.

The old man was silent.

"It is a coincidence," added the visitor hesitatingly, "that monsieur
Legrand has also disappeared. People are always ringing my bell to
inquire where he is."

As soon as he was able to rise, Bourjac left for Paris; and, as the
shortest route to the station was by the garden gate, he passed the
workroom on his way. He nodded, thinking of the time that he had wasted
there, but he did not go inside--he was too impatient to find Laure,
and, incidentally, to shoot Legrand.

Though his quest failed, he never went back to the cottage; he could
not have borne to live in it now. He tried to let it, but the little
house was not everybody's money, and it stood empty for many years;
indeed, before it was reoccupied Bourjac was dead and forgotten.

When the new owners planned their renovations, they had the curiosity
to open a mildewed cabinet in an outhouse, and uttered a cry of dismay.
Not until then was the "last effect" attained; but there were two
skeletons, instead of one.

AN INVITATION TO DINNER

The creators of Eau d'Enfer invited designs for a poster calling the
attention of the world to their liqueur's incomparable qualities. It
occurred to Théodose Goujaud that this was a first-class opportunity to
demonstrate his genius.

For an article with such a glistening name it was obvious that a poster
must be flamboyant--one could not advertise a "Water of Hell" by a
picture of a village maiden plucking cowslips--and Goujaud passed
wakeful nights devising a sketch worthy of the subject. He decided at
last upon a radiant brunette sharing a bottle of the liqueur with his
Satanic Majesty while she sat on his knee.

But where was the girl to be found? Though his acquaintance with the
models of Paris was extensive, he could think of none with a face to
satisfy him. One girl's arms wreathed themselves before his mind,
another girl's feet were desirable, but the face, which was of supreme
importance, eluded his most frenzied search.

"Mon Dieu," groaned Goujaud, "here I am projecting a poster that would
conquer Paris, and my scheme is frustrated by the fact that Nature
fails to produce women equal to the heights of my art! It is such
misfortunes as this that support the Morgue."

"I recommend you to travel," said Tricotrin; "a tour in the East might
yield your heart's desire."

"It's a valuable suggestion," rejoined Goujaud; "I should like a couple
of new shirts also, but I lack the money to acquire them."

"Well," said Tricotrin, "the Ball of the Willing Hand is nearer. Try
that!"

Goujaud looked puzzled. "The Ball of the Willing Hand?" he repeated; "I
do not know any Ball of the Willing Hand."

"Is it possible?" cried the poet; "where do you live? Why, the Willing
Hand, my recluse, is the most fascinating resort in Paris. I have been
familiar with it for fully a week. It is a bal de barrière where the
criminal classes enjoy their brief leisure. Every Saturday night they
frisk. The Cut-throats' Quadrille is a particularly sprightly measure,
and the damsels there are often striking."

"And their escorts, too--if one of the willing hands planted a knife in
my back, there would be no sprightliness about _me!_"

"In the interests of art one must submit to a little annoyance. Come,
if you are conscientious I will introduce you to the place, and give
you a few hints. For example, the company have a prejudice against
collars, and, assuming for a moment that you possessed more than a
franc, you would do well to leave the surplus at home."

Goujaud expanded his chest.

"As a matter of fact," he announced languidly, "I possess five hundred
francs." And so dignified was his air that Tricotrin came near to
believing him.

"You possess five hundred francs? You? How? No, such things do not
occur! Besides, you mentioned a moment since that you were short of
shirts."

"It is true that I am short of shirts, but, nevertheless, I have five
hundred francs in my pocket. It is like this. My father, who is not
artistic, has always desired to see me renounce my profession and sink
to commerce. Well, I was at the point of yielding--man cannot live by
hope alone, and my pictures were strangely unappreciated. Then, while
consent trembled on my lips, up popped this Eau d'Enfer! I saw my
opportunity, I recognised that, of all men in Paris, I was the best
qualified to execute the poster. You may divine the sequel? I addressed
my father with burning eloquence, I persuaded him to supply me with the
means to wield my brush for a few months longer. If my poster succeeds,
I become a celebrity. If it fails, I become a pétrole merchant. This
summer decides my fate. In the meanwhile I am a capitalist; but it
would be madness for me to purchase shirts, for I shall require every
son to support existence until the poster is acclaimed."

"You have a practical head!" exclaimed Tricotrin admiringly; "I foresee
that you will go far. Let us trust that the Willing Hand will prove the
ante-chamber to your immortality."

"I have no faith in your Willing Hand," demurred the painter; "the
criminal classes are not keen on sitting for their portraits--the
process has unpleasant associations to them. Think again! I can spare
half an hour this morning. Evolve a further inspiration on the
subject!"

"Do you imagine I have nothing to do but to provide you with a model?
My time is fully occupied; I am engaged upon a mystical play, which is
to be called _The Spinster's Prayer or the Goblin Child's Mother_,
and take Paris by storm. A propos--yes, now I come to think of it,
there is something in _Comoedia_ there that might suit you."

"My preserver!" returned Goujaud. "What is it?"

Tricotrin picked the paper up and read:

WANTED: A HUNDRED LADIES FOR THE STAGE.--Beauty more essential than
talent. No dilapidations need apply. _Agence_ Lavalette, rue Baba,
Thursday, 12 to 5.

"Mon Dieu! Now you are beginning to talk," said Goujaud. "A hundred!
One among them should be suitable, hein? But, all the same--" He
hesitated. "'Twelve to five'! It will be a shade monotonous standing on
a doorstep from twelve to five, especially if the rain streams."

"Do you expect a Cleopatra to call at your attic, or to send an eighty
horse-power automobile, that you may cast your eye over her? Anyhow,
there may be a café opposite; you can order a bock on the terrace, and
make it last."

"You are right. I shall go and inspect the spot at once. A hundred
beauties! I declare the advertisement might have been framed to meet my
wants. How fortunate that you chanced to see it! To-morrow evening you
shall hear the result--dine with me at the Bel Avenir at eight o'clock.
For one occasion I undertake to go a buster, I should be lacking in
gratitude if I neglected to stuff you to the brim."

"Oh, my dear chap!" said Tricotrin. "The invitation is a godsend, I
have not viewed the inside of a restaurant for a week. While our pal
Pitou is banqueting with his progenitors in Chartres, _I_ have
even exhausted my influence with the fishmonger--I did not so much as
see my way to a nocturnal herring in the garret. Mind you are not late.
I shall come prepared to do justice to your hospitality, I promise
you."

"Right, cocky!" said the artist. And he set forth, in high spirits, to
investigate the rue Baba.

He was gratified to discover a café in convenient proximity to the
office. And twelve o'clock had not sounded next day when he took a seat
at one of the little white-topped tables, his gaze bent attentively
upon the agent's step.

For the earliest arrival he had not long to wait. A dumpy girl with an
enormous nose approached, swinging her _sac à main_. She cast a
complacent glance at the name on the door, opened the bag, whipped out
a powder-puff, and vanished.

"Morbleu!" thought the painter. "If she is a fair sample, I have
squandered the price of a bock!" He remained in a state of depression
for two or three minutes, and then the girl reappeared, evidently in a
very bad temper.

"Ah!" he mused, rubbing his hands. "Monsieur Lavalette is plainly a
person of his word. No beauty, no engagement! This is going to be all
right, Where is the next applicant? A sip to Venus!"

Venus, however, did not irradiate the street yet. The second young
woman was too short in the back, and at sight of her features he shook
his head despondently. "No good, my dear," he said to himself. "Little
as you suspect it, there is a disappointment for you inside, word of
honour! Within three minutes, I shall behold you again."

And, sure enough, she made her exit promptly, looking as angry as the
other.

"I am becoming a dramatic prophet!" soliloquised Goujaud; "if I had
nothing more vital to do, I might win drinks, betting on their chances,
with the proprietor of the café. However, I grow impatient for the bevy
of beauty--it is a long time on the road."

As if in obedience to his demand, girls now began to trip into the rue
Baba so rapidly that he was kept busy regarding them. By twos, and
threes, and in quartettes they tripped--tall girls, little girls, plain
girls, pretty girls, girls shabby, and girls chic. But though many of
them would have made agreeable partners at a dance, there was none who
possessed the necessary qualifications for The Girl on Satan's Knee. He
rolled a cigarette, and blew a pessimistic puff. "Another day lost!"
groaned Goujaud. "All is over, I feel it. Posterity will never praise
my poster, the clutch of Commerce is upon me--already the smell of the
pétrole is in my nostrils!"

And scarcely had he said it when his senses reeled.

For, stepping from a cab, disdainfully, imperially, was his Ideal. Her
hair, revealing the lobes of the daintiest ears that ever listened to
confessions of love, had the gleam of purple grapes. Her eyes were a
mystery, her mouth was a flower, her neck was an intoxication. So
violently was the artist affected that, during several moments, he
forgot his motive for being there. To be privileged merely to
contemplate her was an ecstasy. While he sat transfixed with
admiration, her dainty foot graced the agent's step, and she entered.

Goujaud caught his breath, and rose. The cab had been discharged. Dared
he speak to her when she came out? It would be a different thing
altogether from speaking to the kind of girl that he had foreseen. But
to miss such a model for lack of nerve, that would be the regret of a
lifetime! Now the prospect of the poster overwhelmed him, and he felt
that he would risk any rebuff, commit any madness to induce her to
"sit."

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