A Chair on The Boulevard by Leonard Merrick

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The estimate that he had, by this time, formed of monsieur Lavalette's
taste convinced him that her return would not be yet. He sauntered to
and fro, composing a preliminary and winning phrase. What was his
surprise, after a very few seconds, to see that she had come out
already, and was hastening away!

He overtook her in a dozen strides, and with a bow that was eloquent of
his homage, exclaimed:

"Mademoiselle!"

"Hein?" she said, turning. "Oh, it's all right--there are too many
people there; I've changed my mind, I shan't wait."

He understood that she took him for a minion of the agent's, and he
hesitated whether to correct her mistake immediately. However, candour
seemed the better course.

"I do not bring a message from monsieur Lavalette, mademoiselle," he
explained.

"No?"

"No."

"What then?"

"I have ventured to address you on my own account--on a matter of the
most urgent importance."

"I have no small change," she said curtly, making to pass.

"Mademoiselle!" His outraged dignity was superb. "You mistake me first
for an office-boy, and then for a beggar. I am a man of means, though
my costume may be unconventional. My name is Théodosc Goujaud."

Her bow intimated that the name was not significant; but her exquisite
eyes had softened at the reference to his means.

"For weeks I have been seeking a face for a picture that I have
conceived," he went on; "a face of such peculiar beauty that I
despaired of finding it! I had the joy to see you enter the agency, and
I waited, trembling with the prayer that I might persuade you to come
to my aid. Mademoiselle, will you do me the honour to allow me to
reproduce the magic of your features on my canvas? I entreat it of you
in the sacred name of Art!"

During this appeal, the lady's demeanour had softened more still. A
faint smile hovered on her lips; her gaze was half gratified, half
amused.

"Oh, you're a painter?" she said; "you want me to sit to you for the
Salon? I don't know, I'm sure."

"It is not precisely for the Salon," he acknowledged. "But I am
absorbed by the scheme--it will be the crown of my career. I will
explain. It is a long story. If--if we could sit down?"

"Where?"

"There appears to be a café close to the agency," said Goujaud timidly.

"Oh!" She dismissed the café's pretensions with her eyebrows.

"You are right," he stammered. "Now that I look at it again, I see that
it is quite a common place. Well, will you permit me to walk a little
way with you?"

"We will go to breakfast at Armenonville, if you like," she said
graciously, "where you can explain to me at your leisure." It seemed
to Goujaud that his heart dropped into his stomach and turned to a
cannon-ball there. Armenonville? What would such a breakfast cost?
Perhaps a couple of louis? Never in his life had he contemplated
breakfasting at Armenonville.

She smiled, as if taking his consent for granted. Her loveliness and
air of fashion confused him dreadfully. And if he made excuses, there
would be no poster! Oh, he must seize the chance at any price!

"Oh course--I shall be enchanted," he mumbled. And before he half
realised that the unprecedented thing had happened they were rattling
away, side by side in a fiacre.

It was astounding, it was breathless, it was an episode out of a novel!
But Goujaud felt too sick, in thinking of the appalling expense, to
enjoy his sudden glory. Accustomed to a couple of louis providing meals
for three weeks, he was stupefied by the imminence of scattering the
sum in a brief half-hour. Even the cab fare weighed upon him; he not
infrequently envied the occupants of omnibuses.

It was clear that the lady herself was no stranger to the restaurant.
While he blinked bewildered on the threshold, she was referring to her
"pet table," and calling a waiter "Jules." The menu was a fresh
embarrassment to the bohemian, but she, and the deferential waiter,
relieved him of that speedily, and in five minutes an epicurean
luncheon had been ordered, and he was gulping champagne.

It revived his spirits. Since he had tumbled into the adventure of his
life, by all means let him savour the full flavour of it! His
companion's smiles had become more frequent, her eyes were more
transcendental still.

"How funnily things happen!" she remarked presently. "I had not the
least idea of calling on Lavalette when I got up this morning. If I had
not had a tiff with somebody, and decided to go on the stage to spite
him, I should never have met you."

"Oh, you are not on the stage yet, then?"

"No. But I have often thought about it, and the quarrel determined me.
So I jumped into a cab, drove off, and then--well, there was such a
crowd of girls there, and they looked so vulgar; I changed my mind."

"Can an angel quarrel?" demanded Goujaud sentimentally. "I cannot
imagine you saying an angry word to anyone."

"Oh!" she laughed. "Can't I, though! I'm a regular demon when I'm
cross. People shouldn't vex me."

"Certainly not," he agreed. "And no one but a brute would do so.
Besides, some women are attractive even in a rage. On the whole, I
think I should like to see you in a rage with _me_, providing
always that you 'made it up' as nicely as I should wish."

"Do you fancy that I could?" she asked, looking at the table-cloth.

"My head swims, in fancying!"

Her laughter rippled again, and her fascination was so intense that the
poor fellow could scarcely taste a mouthful of his unique repast. "Talk
to me," she commanded, "sensibly I mean! Where do you live?"

"I am living in the rue Ravignan."

"The rue Ravignan? Where is that?"

"Montmartre."

"Oh, really?" She seemed chilled. "It is not a very nice quarter in the
daytime, is it?"

"My studio suits me," murmured Goujaud, perceiving his fall in her
esteem. "For that reason I am reluctant to remove. An artist becomes
very much attached to his studio. And what do I care for fashion, I?
You may judge by my coat!"

"You're eccentric, aren't you?"

"Hitherto I have lived only for Art. But now I begin to realise that
there may be something more potent and absorbing still."

"What is that?"

"Love!" added Goujaud, feeling himself the embodiment of all the heroes
of romance.

"Oh?" Her glance mocked, encouraged. "I am dying to hear about your
picture, though! What is the subject?"

"It is not exactly what you mean by a 'picture.'" He fiddled with his
glass. "It is, in fact, a poster that I project."

"A poster?" she exclaimed. "And you ask _me_ to--oh, no, I
couldn't possibly!"

"Mademoiselle!"

"I really don't think I could. A poster? Ah, no!"

"To save me!" he implored. "Because my whole life depends on your
decision!"

"How can a poster matter so much to you? The proposal is absurd." She
regarded her pêche Melba with a frown.

"If you think of becoming an actress, remember what a splendid
advertisement it would be!" he urged feverishly.

"Oh, flûte!" But she had wavered at that.

"All Paris would flock to your debut. They would go saying, 'Can she be
as beautiful as her portrait?' And they would come back saying, 'She is
lovelier still!' Let me give you some more wine."

"No more; I'll have coffee, and a grand marnier--red."

"Doubtless the more expensive colour!" reflected Goujaud. But the time
had passed for dwelling on minor troubles. "Listen," he resumed; "I
shall tell you my history. You will then realise to what an abyss of
despair your refusal will plunge me--to what effulgent heights I may be
raised by your consent. You cannot be marble! My father--"

"Indeed, I am not marble," she put in. "I am instinct with sensibility
--it is my great weakness."

"So much the better. Be weak to _me_. My father--"

"Oh, let us get out of this first!" she suggested, "You can talk to me
as we drive."

And the attentive Jules presented the discreetly folded bill.

For fully thirty seconds the Pavilion d'Armenonville swirled round the
unfortunate painter so violently that he felt as if he were on a
roundabout at a fair. He feared that the siren must hear the pounding
of his heart. To think that he had dreaded paying two louis! Two louis?
Why, it would have been a bagatelle! Speechlessly he laid a fortune on
the salver. With a culminating burst of recklessness he waved four
francs towards Jules, and remarked that that personage eyed the tip
with cold displeasure. "What a lucrative career, a waiter's!" moaned
the artist; "he turns up his nose at four francs!"

Well, he had speculated too heavily to accept defeat now! Bracing
himself for the effort, Goujaud besought the lady's help with such a
flood of blandishment during the drive that more than once she seemed
at the point of yielding. Only one difficult detail had he withheld--
that he wished to pose her on the knee of Mephistopheles--and to
propitiate her further, before breaking the news, he stopped the cab at
a florist's.

She was so good-humoured and tractable after the florist had pillaged
him that he could scarcely be callous when she showed him that she had
split her glove. But, to this day, he protests that, until the glove-shop
had been entered, it never occurred to him that it would be
necessary to present her with more than one pair. As they came out--
Goujaud moving beside her like a man in a trance--she gave a faint
start.

"Mon Dieu!" she muttered. "There's my friend--he has seen us--I must
speak to him, or he will think I am doing wrong. Wait a minute!" And a
dandy, with a monocle, was, indeed, casting very supercilious glances
at the painter.

At eight o'clock that evening, monsieur Tricotrin, with a prodigious
appetite, sat in the Café du Bel Avenir, awaiting the arrival of his
host. When impatience was mastering him, there arrived, instead, a
petit bleu. The impecunious poet took it from the proprietress, paling,
and read:

"I discovered my Ideal--she ruined, and then deserted me! To-morrow
there will be a painter the less, and a petrole merchant the more.
Pardon my non-appearance--I am spending my last sous on this message."

"Monsieur will give his order now?" inquired the proprietress.

"Er--thank you, I do not dine to-night," said Tricotrin.

THE JUDGMENT OF PARIS

In the summer of the memorable year ----, but the date doesn't matter,
Robichon and Quinquart both paid court to mademoiselle Brouette,
Mademoiselle Brouette was a captivating actress, Robichon and Quinquart
were the most comic of comedians, and all three were members of the
Théâtre Suprême.

Robichon was such an idol of the public's that they used to laugh
before he uttered the first word of his rôle; and Quinquart was so
vastly popular that his silence threw the audience into convulsions.

Professional rivalry apart, the two were good friends, although they
were suitors for the same lady, and this was doubtless due to the fact
that the lady favoured the robust Robichon no more than she favoured
the skinny Quinquart. She flirted with them equally, she approved them
equally--and at last, when each of them had plagued her beyond
endurance, she promised in a pet that she would marry the one that was
the better actor. Tiens! Not a player on the stage, not a critic on
the Press could quite make up his mind which the better actor was. Only
Suzanne Brouette could have said anything so tantalising.

"But how shall we decide the point, Suzanne?" stammered Robichon
helplessly. "Whose pronouncement will you accept?"

"How can the question be settled?" queried Quinquart, dismayed. "Who
shall be the judge?"

"Paris shall be the judge," affirmed Suzanne. "We are the servants of
the public--I will take the public's word!"

Of course she was as pretty as a picture, or she couldn't have done
these things.

Then poor Quinquart withdrew, plunged in reverie. So did Robichon.
Quinquart reflected that she had been talking through her expensive
hat. Robichon was of the same opinion. The public lauded them both, was
no less generous to one than to the other--to wait for the judgment of
Paris appeared equivalent to postponing the matter _sine die_. No
way out presented itself to Quinquart. None occurred to Robichon.

"Mon vieux," said the latter, as they sat on the terrace of their
favourite café a day or two before the annual vacation, "let us discuss
this amicably. Have a cigarette! You are an actor, therefore you
consider yourself more talented than I. I, too, am an actor, therefore
I regard you as less gifted than myself. So much for our artistic
standpoints! But we are also men of the world, and it must be obvious
to both of us that we might go on being funny until we reached our
death-beds without demonstrating the supremacy of either. Enfin, our
only hope lies in versatility--the conqueror must distinguish himself
in a solemn part!" He viewed the other with complacence, for the quaint
Quinquart had been designed for a droll by Nature.

"Right!" said Quinquart. He contemplated his colleague with
satisfaction, for it was impossible to fancy the fat Robichon in
tragedy.

"I perceive only one drawback to the plan," continued Robichon, "the
Management will never consent to accord us a chance. Is it not always
so in the theatre? One succeeds in a certain line of business and one
must be resigned to play that line as long as one lives. If my earliest
success had been scored as a villain of melodrama, it would be believed
that I was competent to enact nothing but villains of melodrama; it
happened that I made a hit as a comedian, wherefore nobody will credit
that I am capable of anything but being comic."

"Same here!" concurred Quinquart. "Well, then, what do you propose?"

Robichon mused. "Since we shall not be allowed to do ourselves justice
on the stage, we must find an opportunity off it!"

"A private performance? Good! Yet, if it is a private performance, how
is Paris to be the judge?"

"Ah," murmured Robichon, "that is certainly a stumbling-block."

They sipped their apéritifs moodily. Many heads were turned towards the
little table where they sat. "There are Quinquart and Robichon, how
amusing they always are!" said passers-by, little guessing the anxiety
at the laughter-makers' hearts.

"What's to be done?" sighed Quinquart at last.

Robichon shrugged his fat shoulders, with a frown.

Both were too absorbed to notice that, after a glance of recognition,
one of the pedestrians had paused, and was still regarding them
irresolutely. He was a tall, burly man, habited in rusty black, and the
next moment, as if finding courage, he stepped forward and spoke:

"Gentlemen, I ask pardon for the liberty I take--impulse urges me to
seek your professional advice! I am in a position to pay a moderate
fee. Will you permit me to explain myself?"

"Monsieur," returned Robichon, "we are in deep consideration of our
latest parts. We shall be pleased to give you our attention at some
other time."

"Alas!" persisted the newcomer, "with me time presses. I, too, am
considering my latest part--and it will be the only speaking part I
have ever played, though I have been 'appearing' for twenty years."

"What? You have been a super for twenty years?" said Quinquart, with a
grimace.

"No, monsieur," replied the stranger grimly. "I have been the public
executioner; and I am going to lecture on the horrors of the post I
have resigned."

The two comedians stared at him aghast. Across the sunlit terrace
seemed to have fallen the black shadow of the guillotine.

"I am Jacques Roux," the man went on, "I am 'trying it on the dog' at
Appeville-sous-Bois next week, and I have what you gentlemen call
'stage fright'--I, who never knew what nervousness meant before! Is it
not queer? As often as I rehearse walking on to the platform, I feel
myself to be all arms and legs--I don't know what to do with them.
Formerly, I scarcely remembered my arms and legs; but, of course, my
attention used to be engaged by the other fellow's head. Well, it
struck me that you might consent to give me a few hints in deportment.
Probably one lesson would suffice."

"Sit down," said Robichon. "Why did you abandon your official
position?"

"Because I awakened to the truth," Roux answered. "I no longer agree
with capital punishment: it is a crime that should be abolished."

"The scruples of conscience, hein?"

"That is it."

"Fine!" said Robichon. "What dramatic lines such a lecture might
contain! And of what is it to consist?"

"It is to consist of the history of my life--my youth, my poverty, my
experiences as Executioner, and my remorse."

"Magnificent!" said Robichon. "The spectres of your victims pursue you
even to the platform. Your voice fails you, your eyes start from your
head in terror. You gasp for mercy--and imagination splashes your
outstretched hands with gore. The audience thrill, women swoon, strong
men are breathless with emotion." Suddenly he smote the table with his
big fist, and little Quinquart nearly fell off his chair, for he
divined the inspiration of his rival. "Listen!" cried Robichon, "are
you known at Appeville-sous-Bois?"

"My name is known, yes."

"Bah! I mean are you known personally, have you acquaintances there?"

"Oh, no. But why?"

"There will be nobody to recognize you?"

"It is very unlikely in such a place."

"What do you estimate that your profits will amount to?"

"It is only a small hall, and the prices are very cheap. Perhaps two
hundred and fifty francs."

"And you are nervous, you would like to postpone your début?"

"I should not be sorry, I admit. But, again, why?"

"I will tell you why--I offer you five hundred francs to let me take
your place!"

"Monsieur!"

"Is it a bargain?"

"I do not understand!"

"I have a whim to figure in a solemn part. You can explain next day
that you missed your train--that you were ill, there are a dozen
explanations that can be made; you will not be supposed to know that I
personated you--the responsibility for that is mine. What do you say?"

"It is worth double the money," demurred the man.

"Not a bit of it! All the Press will shout the story of my practical
joke--Paris will be astounded that I, Robichon, lectured as Jacques
Roux and curdled an audience's blood. Millions will speak of your
intended lecture tour who otherwise would never have heard of it. I am
giving you the grandest advertisement, and paying you for it, besides.
Enfin, I will throw a deportment lesson in! Is it agreed?"

"Agreed, monsieur!" said Roux.

Oh, the trepidation of Quinquart! Who could eclipse Robichon if his
performance of the part equalled his conception of it? At the theatre
that evening Quinquart followed Suzanne about the wings pathetically.
He was garbed like a buffoon, but he felt like Romeo. The throng that
applauded his capers were far from suspecting the romantic longings
under his magenta wig. For the first time in his life he was thankful
that the author hadn't given him more to do.

And, oh, the excitement of Robichon! He was to put his powers to a
tremendous test, and if he made the effect that he anticipated he had
no fear of Quinquart's going one better. Suzanne, to whom he whispered
his project proudly, announced an intention of being present to "see
the fun." Quinquart also promised to be there. Robichon sat up all
night preparing his lecture.

If you wish to know whether Suzanne rejoiced at the prospect of his
winning her, history is not definite on the point; but some chroniclers
assert that at this period she made more than usual of Quinquart, who
had developed a hump as big as the Panthéon.

And they all went to Appeville-sous-Bois.

Though no one in the town was likely to know the features of the
Executioner, it was to be remembered that people there might know the
actor's, and Robichon had made up to resemble Roux as closely as
possible. Arriving at the humble hall, he was greeted by the lessee,
heard that a "good house" was expected, and smoked a cigarette in the
retiring-room while the audience assembled.

At eight o'clock the lessee reappeared.

"All is ready, monsieur Roux," he said.

Robichon rose.

He saw Suzanne and Quinquart in the third row, and was tempted to wink
at them.

"Ladies and gentlemen--"

All eyes were riveted on him as he began; even the voice of the
"Executioner" exercised a morbid fascination over the crowd. The men
nudged their neighbours appreciatively, and women gazed at him, half
horrified, half charmed.

The opening of his address was quiet enough--there was even a humorous
element in it, as he narrated imaginary experiences of his boyhood.
People tittered, and then glanced at one another with an apologetic
air, as if shocked at such a monster's daring to amuse them. Suzanne
whispered to Quinquart: "Too cheerful; he hasn't struck the right
note." Quinquart whispered back gloomily: "Wait; he may be playing for
the contrast!"

And Quinquart's assumption was correct. Gradually the cheerfulness
faded from the speaker's voice, the humorous incidents were past.
Gruesome, hideous, grew the anecdotes, The hall shivered. Necks were
craned, and white faces twitched suspensively. He dwelt on the agonies
of the Condemned, he recited crimes in detail, he mirrored the last
moments before the blade fell. He shrieked his remorse, his lacerating
remorse. "I am a murderer," he sobbed; and in the hall one might have
heard a pin drop.

There was no applause when he finished--that set the seal on his
success; he bowed and withdrew amid tense silence. Still none moved in
the hall, until, with a rush, the representatives of the Press sped
forth to proclaim Jacques Roux an unparalleled sensation.

The triumph of Robichon! How generous were the congratulations of
Quinquart, and how sweet the admiring tributes of Suzanne! And there
was another compliment to come--nothing less than a card from the
marquis de Thevenin, requesting an interview at his home.

"Ah!" exclaimed Robichon, enravished, "an invitation from a noble! That
proves the effect I made, hein?"

"Who may he be?" inquired Quinquart. "I never heard of the marquis de
Thevenin!"

"It is immaterial whether you have heard of him," replied Robichon. "He
is a marquis, and he desires to converse with me! It is an honour that
one must appreciate. I shall assuredly go."

And, being a bit of a snob, he sought a fiacre in high feather.

The drive was short, and when the cab stopped he was distinctly taken
aback to perceive the unpretentious aspect of the nobleman's abode. It
was, indeed, nothing better than a lodging. A peasant admitted him, and
the room to which he was ushered boasted no warmer hospitality than a
couple of candles and a decanter of wine. However, the sconces were
massive silver. Monsieur le marquis, he was informed, had been suddenly
compelled to summon his physician, and begged that monsieur Roux would
allow him a few minutes' grace.

Robichon ardently admired the candlesticks, but began to think he might
have supped more cozily with Suzanne.

It was a long time before the door opened.

The marquis de Thevenin was old--so old that he seemed to be falling to
pieces as he tottered forward. His skin was yellow and shrivelled, his
mouth sunken, his hair sparse and grey; and from this weird face peered
strange eyes--the eyes of a fanatic.

"Monsieur, I owe you many apologies for my delay," he wheezed. "My
unaccustomed exertion this evening fatigued me, and on my return from
the hall I found it necessary to see my doctor. Your lecture was
wonderful, monsieur Roux--most interesting and instructive; I shall
never forget it."

Robichon bowed his acknowledgments.

"Sit down, monsieur Roux, do not stand! Let me offer you some wine. I
am forbidden to touch it myself. I am a poor host, but my age must be
my excuse."

"To be the guest of monsieur le marquis," murmured Robichon, "is a
privilege, an honour, which--er--"

"Ah," sighed the Marquis. "I shall very soon be in the Republic where
all men are really equals and the only masters are the worms. My reason
for requesting you to come was to speak of your unfortunate
experiences--of a certain unfortunate experience in particular. You
referred in your lecture to the execution of one called 'Victor
Lesueur.' He died game, hein?"

"As plucky a soul as I ever dispatched!" said Robichon, savouring the
burgundy.

"Ah! Not a tremor? He strode to the guillotine like a man?"

"Like a hero!" said Robichon, who knew nothing about him.

"That was fine," said the Marquis; "that was as it should be! You have
never known a prisoner to die more bravely?" There was a note of pride
in his voice that was unmistakable.

"I shall always recall his courage with respect," declared Robichon,
mystified.

"Did you respect it at the time?"

"Pardon, monsieur le marquis?"

"I inquire if you respected it at the time; did you spare him all
needless suffering?"

"There is no suffering," said Robichon. "So swift is the knife that--"
The host made a gesture of impatience. "I refer to mental suffering.
Cannot you realise the emotions of an innocent man condemned to a
shameful death!"

"Innocent! As for that, they all say that they are innocent."

"I do not doubt it. Victor, however, spoke the truth. I know it. He was
my son."

"Your son?" faltered Robichon, aghast.

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