A Chair on The Boulevard by Leonard Merrick

L >> Leonard Merrick >> A Chair on The Boulevard

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18

"My only son--the only soul I loved on earth. Yes; he was innocent,
monsieur Roux. And it was you who butchered him--he died by your
hands."

"I--I was but the instrument of the law," stammered Robichon. "I was
not responsible for his fate, myself."

"You have given a masterly lecture, monsieur Roux," said the Marquis
musingly; "I find myself in agreement with all that you said in it--
you are his murderer,' I hope the wine is to your taste, monsieur Roux?
Do not spare it!"

"The wine?" gasped the actor. He started to his feet, trembling--he
understood.

"It is poisoned," said the old man calmly, "In an hour you will be
dead."

"Great Heavens!" moaned Robichon. Already he was conscious of a strange
sensation--his blood was chilled, his limbs were weighted, there were
shadows before his eyes.

"Ah, I have no fear of you!" continued the other; "I am feeble, I could
not defend myself; but your violence would avail you nothing. Fight, or
faint, as you please--you are doomed."

For some seconds they stared at each other dumbly--the actor paralysed
by terror, the host wearing the smile of a lunatic. And then the
"lunatic" slowly peeled court-plaster from his teeth, and removed
features, and lifted a wig.

* * * * *

And when the whole story was published, a delighted Paris awarded the
palm to Quinquart without a dissentient voice, for while Robichon had
duped an audience, Quinquart had duped Robichon himself.

Robichon bought the silver candlesticks, which had been hired for the
occasion, and he presented them to Quinquart and Suzanne on their
wedding-day.

THE FAIRY POODLE

They were called the "Two Children" because they were so unpractical;
even in bohemia, where practicality is the last virtue to flourish,
their improvidence was surprising; but really they were not children at
all--they had been married for three years, though to watch their
billing and cooing, you would have supposed them to be bride and
bridegroom.

Julian and Juliette had fallen in love and run to the Mairie as
joyously as if chateaubriands were to be gathered from the boughs in
the Jardin des Buttes-Chaumont; and since then their home had been the
studio under the slates, where they were often penniless. Indeed, if it
had not been for the intermittent mercies of madame Cochard, the
concierge, they would have starved under the slates. However, they were
sure that the pictures which Julien painted would some day make him
celebrated, and that the fairy-tales which Juliette weaved would some
day be as famous as Hans Andersen's. So they laughed, and painted and
scribbled, and spent their money on bonbons, instead of saving it for
bread; and when they had no dinner, they would kiss each other, and say
"There is a good time coming," And they were called the "Two Children,"
as you know.

But even the patience of madame Cochard was taxed when Juliette brought
back the poodle.

She found him--a strayed, muddy, unhappy little poodle--in the rue de
Rivoli one wet afternoon in November, and what more natural than that
she should immediately bear him home, and propose to give him a bath,
and adopt him? It was the most natural thing in the world, since she
was Juliette, yet this madame Cochard, who objected to a dog on her
stairs as violently as if it were a tiger, was furious.

"Is it not enough," she cried, "that you are the worst tenants in the
house, you two--that you are always behindhand with your rent, and that
I must fill your mouths out of my own purse? Is a concierge an Angel
from Heaven, do you think, that you expect her to provide also for lost
dogs?"

"Dear, kind madame Cochard," cooed Juliette, "you will learn to love
the little creature as if it were your own child! See how trustfully he
regards you!"

"It is a fact," added Julien; "he seems to take to her already! It is
astonishing how quickly a dog recognises a good heart."

"Good heart, or not," exclaimed the concierge, "it is to be understood
that I do not consent to this outrage. The poodle shall not remain!"

"Be discreet," urged Juliette. "I entreat you to be discreet, for your
own sake; if you must have the whole truth, he is a fairy poodle!"

"What do you say?" ejaculated madame Cochard.

"He is a fairy poodle, and if we treat him ungenerously, we shall
suffer. Remember the history of the Lodgers, the Concierge, and the
Pug!"

"I have never heard of such a history," returned madame Cochard; "and I
do not believe that there ever was one."

"She has never heard the history of the Lodgers, the Concierge, and the
Pug!" cried Juliette. "Oh, then listen, madame! Once upon a time there
were two lodgers, a young man and his wife, and they were so poor that
often they depended on the tenderness of the concierge to supply them
with a dinner."

"Did they also throw away their good money on bonbons and flowers?"
asked madame Cochard, trying her utmost to look severe.

"It is possible," admitted Juliette, who was perched on the table, with
the dirty little animal in her lap, "for though they are our hero and
heroine, I cannot pretend that they were very wise. Well, this
concierge, who suffered badly from lumbago and stairs, had sometimes a
bit of temper, so you may figure yourself what a fuss she raised when
the poor lodgers brought home a friendless pug to add to their
embarrassments. However--"

"There is no 'however,'" persisted madame Cochard; "she raises a fuss,
and that is all about it!"

"Pardon, dear madame," put in Julien, "you confuse the cases; we are
now concerned with the veracious history of the pug, not the uncertain
future of the poodle."

"Quite so," said Juliette. "She raised a terrible fuss and declared
that the pug should go, but finally she melted to it and made it
welcome. And then, what do you suppose happened? Why, it turned out to
be an enchanted prince, who rewarded them all with wealth and
happiness. The young man's pictures were immediately accepted by the
Salon--did I mention that he was an artist? The young woman's stories--
did I tell you that she wrote stories?--became so much the fashion that
her head swam with joy; and the concierge--the dear, kind concierge--
was changed into a beautiful princess, and never had to walk up any
stairs again as long as she lived. Thus we see that one should never
forbid lodgers to adopt a dog!"

"Thus we see that they do well to call you a pair of 'children,'"
replied madame Cochard, "that is what we see! Well, well, keep the dog,
since you are so much bent on it; only I warn you that if it gives me
trouble, it will be sausages in no time! I advise you to wash it
without delay, for a more deplorable little beast I never saw."

Julien and Juliette set to work with delight, and after he was bathed
and dry, the alteration in the dog was quite astonishing. Although he
did not precisely turn into a prince, he turned into a poodle of the
most fashionable aspect. Obviously an aristocrat among poodles, a
poodle of high estate. The metamorphosis was so striking that a new
fear assailed his rescuers, the fear that it might be dishonest of them
to retain him--probably some great lady was disconsolate at his loss!

Sure enough! A few days later, when Sanquereau called upon them, he
said:

"By the way, did I not hear that you had found a poodle, my children?
Doubtless it is the poodle for which they advertise. See!" And he
produced a copy of a journal in which "a handsome reward" was promised
for the restoration of an animal which resembled their protégé to a
tuft.

The description was too accurate for the Children to deceive
themselves, and that afternoon Juliette carried the dog to a
magnificent house which was nothing less than the residence of the
comtesse de Grand Ecusson.

She was left standing in a noble hall while a flunkey bore the dog
away. Then another flunkey bade her follow him upstairs; and in a salon
which was finer than anything that Juliette had ever met with outside
the pages of a novel, the Countess was reclining on a couch with the
poodle in her arms.

"I am so grateful to you for the recovery of my darling," said the
great lady; "my distress has been insupportable. Ah, naughty, naughty
Racine!" She made a pretence of chastising the poodle on the nose.

"I can understand it, madame," said Juliette, much embarrassed.

"Where did you find him? And has he been well fed, well taken care of?
I hope he has not been sleeping in a draught?"

"Oh, indeed, madame, he has been nourished like a beloved child.
Doubtless, not so delicately as with madame, but--"

"It was most kind of you," said the lady. "I count myself blessed that
my little Racine fell into such good hands. Now as to the reward, what
sum would you think sufficient?"

Juliette looked shy. "I thank you, madame, but we could not accept
anything," she faltered.

"What?" exclaimed the Countess, raising her eyebrows in surprise, "you
cannot accept anything? How is that?"

"Well," said Juliette, "it would be base to accept money for a simple
act of honesty. It is true that we did not wish to part with the dog--
we had grown to love him--but, as to our receiving payment for giving
him up, that is impossible."

The Countess laughed merrily. "What a funny child you are! And, who are
'we'--you and your parents?"

"Oh no," said Juliette; "my parents are in Heaven, madame; but I am
married."

"Your husband must be in heaven, too!" said the Countess, who was a
charming woman.

"Ah," demurred Juliette, "but although I have a warm heart, I have also
a healthy appetite, and he is not rich; he is a painter."

"I must go to see his pictures some day," replied the comtesse de Grand
Ecusson. "Give me the address--and believe that I am extremely grateful
to you!"

It need not be said that Juliette skipped home on air after this
interview. The hint of such patronage opened the gates of paradise to
her, and the prospect was equally dazzling to Julien. For fully a week
they talked of nothing but a visit from the comtesse de Grand Ecusson,
having no suspicion that fine ladies often forgot their pretty promises
as quickly as they made them.

And the week, and a fortnight, and a month passed, and at last the
expectation faded; they ceased to indulge their fancies of a carriage-
and-pair dashing into the street with a Lady Bountiful. And what was
much more serious, madame Cochard ceased to indulge their follies. The
truth was that she had never pardoned the girl for refusing to accept
the proffered reward; the delicacy that prompted the refusal was beyond
her comprehension, and now that the pair were in arrears with their
rent again, she put no bridle on her tongue. "It appears to me that it
would have been more honourable to accept money for a poodle than to
owe money to a landlord," she grunted. "It must be perfectly understood
that if the sum is not forthcoming on the first of January, you will
have to get out. I have received my instructions, and I shall obey
them. On the first day of January, my children, you pay, or you go! Le
bon Dieu alone knows what will become of you, but that is no affair of
mine. I expect you will die like the babes in the wood, for you are no
more fit to make a living than a cow is fit to fly."

"Dear madame Cochard," they answered, peacefully, "why distress
yourself about us? The first of January is more than a week distant; in
a week we may sell a picture, or some fairy tales--in a week many
things may happen!" And they sunned themselves on the boulevard the
same afternoon with as much serenity as if they had been millionaires.

Nevertheless, they did not sell a picture or some fairy tales in the
week that followed--and the first of January dawned with relentless
punctuality, as we all remember.

In the early morning, when madame Cochard made her ascent to the attic
--her arms folded inexorably, the glare of a creditor in her eye--she
found that Juliette had already been out. (If you can believe me, she
had been out to waste her last two francs on an absurd tie for Julien!)

"Eh bien," demanded the concierge sternly, "where is your husband? I am
here, as arranged, for the rent; no doubt he has it ready on the
mantelpiece for me?"

"He is not in," answered Juliette coaxingly, "and I am sorry to say we
have had disappointments. The fact is there is something wrong with the
construction of a story of which I had immense hopes--it needs letting
out at the waist, and a tuck put in at the hem. When I have made the
alterations, I am sure it will fit some journal elegantly."

"All this passes forbearance!" exclaimed madame Cochard. "Well, you
have thoroughly understood, and all is said--you will vacate your
lodging by evening! So much grace I give you; but at six o'clock you
depart promptly, or you will be ejected! And do not reckon on me to
send any meal up here during the day, for you will not get so much as a
crust. What is it that you have been buying there?"

"It is a little gift for Julien; I rose early to choose it before he
woke, and surprise him; but when I returned he was out."

"A gift?" cried the concierge. "You have no money to buy food, and you
buy a gift for your husband! What for?"

"What for?" repeated Juliette wonderingly. "Why, because it is New
Year's Day! And that reminds me--I wish you the compliments of the
season, madame; may you enjoy many happy years!"

"Kind words pay no bills," snapped the concierge. "I have been lenient
far too long--I have my own reputation to consider with the landlord.
By six o'clock, bear in mind!" And then, to complete her resentment,
what should happen but that Julien entered bearing a bouquet!

To see Julien present Juliette with the roses, and to watch Juliette
enchant Julien with the preposterous tie, was as charming a little
comedy of improvidence as you would be likely to meet with in a
lifetime.

"Mon Dieu!" gasped madame Cochard, purple with indignation, "it is,
indeed, well that you are leaving here, monsieur--a madhouse is the
fitting address for you! You have nothing to eat and you buy roses for
your wife! What for?"

"What for?" echoed Julien, astonished. "Why, because it is New Year's
Day! And I take the opportunity to wish you the compliments of the
season, madame--may your future be as bright as Juliette's eyes!"

"By six o'clock!" reiterated the concierge, who was so exasperated that
she could barely articulate. "By six o'clock you will be out of the
place!" And to relieve her feelings, she slammed the door with such
violence that half a dozen canvases fell to the floor.

"Well, this is a nice thing," remarked Julien, when she had gone. "It
looks to me, mignonne, as if we shall sleep in the Bois, with the moon
for an eiderdown."

"At least you shall have a comfy pillow, sweetheart," cried Juliette,
drawing his head to her breast.

"My angel, there is none so soft in the Elysée, And as we have nothing
for déjeuner in the cupboard, I propose that we breakfast now on
kisses."

"Ah, Julien!" whispered the girl, as she folded him in her arms.

"Ah, Juliette!" It was as if they had been married that morning.

"And yet," continued the young man, releasing her at last, "to own the
truth, your kisses are not satisfying as a menu; they are the choicest
of hors d'oeuvres--they leave one hungry for more."

They were still making love when Sanquereau burst in to wish them a
Happy New Year.

"How goes it, my children?" he cried. "You look like a honeymoon, I
swear! Am I in the way, or may I breakfast with you?"

"You are not in the way, mon vieux," returned Julien; "but I shall not
invite you to breakfast with me, because my repast consists of
Juliette's lips."

"Mon Dieu!" said Sanquereau. "So you are broke? Well, in my chequered
career I have breakfasted on much worse fare than yours."

At this reply, Juliette blushed with all the bashfulness of a bride,
and Julien endeavoured to assume the air of a man of the world.

"Tell me," he said; "we are in difficulties about the rent--have you by
chance a louis that you could lend me?"

Sanquereau turned out his pockets, like the good fellow he was, but he
could produce no more than a sou. "What a bother!" he cried. "I would
lend you a louis if I had it as readily as a cigarette-paper, but you
see how I am situated. On my honour, it rends my heart to have to
refuse."

"You are a gallant comrade," said Julien, much touched. "Come back and
sup with us this evening, and we will open the New Year with a
festivity!"

"Hein? But there will be no supper," faltered Juliette.

"That's true," said Julien; "there will be no supper--I was forgetting.
Still--who knows? There is plenty of time; I shall have an idea.
Perhaps I may be able to borrow something from Tricotrin."

"I shall be enchanted," responded Sanquereau; "depend on my arrival! If
I am not mistaken, I recognize Tricotrin's voice on the stairs."

His ears had not deceived him; Tricotrin appeared with Pitou at this
very moment.

"Greeting, my children!" they cried. "How wags the world? May the New
Year bring you laurels and lucre!"

"To you also, dear Gustave and Nicolas," cried the Children. "May your
poems and your music ignite the Seine, and may Sanquereau rise to
eminence and make statues of you both!"

"In the meantime," added Sanquereau, "can either of you put your hands
on a few francs? There is a fine opening for them here."

"A difference of opinion exists between ourselves and the landlord,"
Julien explained; "we consider that he should wait for his rent, and he
holds a different view. If you could lend us fifteen francs, we might
effect a compromise."

The poet and the composer displayed the lining of their pockets as
freely as the sculptor had done, but their capital proved to be a sou
less than his own. Tears sprang to their eyes as they confessed their
inability to be of use, "We are in despair," they groaned.

"My good, kind friends," exclaimed Julien, "your sympathy is a noble
gift in itself! Join us in a little supper this evening in celebration
of the date."

"We shall be delighted," declared Tricotrin and Pitou.

"But--but--" stammered Juliette again, "where is it to come from, this
supper--and where shall we be by supper-time?"

"Well, our address is on the lap of the gods," admitted Julien, "but
while there is life there is hope. Possibly I may obtain a loan from
Lajeunie."

Not many minutes had passed before Lajeunie also paid a visit to the
attic, "Aha," cried the unsuccessful novelist, as he perceived the
company, "well met! My children, my brothers, may your rewards equal
your deserts this year--may France do honour to your genius!"

"And may Lajeunie be crowned the New Balzac," shouted the assembly;
"may his abode be in the Champs Elysées, and his name in the mouth of
all the world!"

But, extraordinary as it appears, Lajeunie proved to be as impecunious
as the rest there; and he was so much distressed that Julien, deeply
moved, said:

"Come back to supper, Lajeunie, we will drink toasts to the Muses!" And
now there were four guests invited to the impracticable supper, and
when the Children were left alone they clapped their hands at the
prospect.

"How merry we shall be!" Julien exclaimed; "and awhile ago we talked of
passing the night in the Bois! It only shows you that one can never
tell what an hour may bring forth."

"Yes, yes," assented Juliette blithely. "And as for the supper--"

"We shall not require it till nine o'clock at the earliest."

"And now it is no more than midday. Why, there is an eternity for
things to arrange themselves!"

"Just so. The sky may rain truffles in such an interval," said the
painter. And they drew their chairs closer to the fire, and pretended
to each other that they were not hungry.

The hours crept past, and the sunshine waned, and snow began to flutter
over Paris. But no truffles fell. By degrees the fire burnt low, and
died. To beg for more fuel was impossible, and Juliette shivered a
little.

"You are cold, sweetheart," sighed Julien. "I will fetch a blanket from
the bed and wrap you in it."

"No," she murmured, "wrap me in your arms--it will be better."

Darker and darker grew the garret, and faster and faster fell the snow.

"I have a fancy," said Juliette, breaking a long silence, "that it is
the hour in which a fairy should appear to us. Let us look to see if
she is coming!"

They peered from the window, but in the twilight no fairy was to be
discerned; only an "old clo'" man was visible, trudging on his round.

"I declare," cried Julien, "he is the next best thing to your fairy! I
will sell my summer suit and my velvet jacket. What do I want of a
velvet jacket? Coffee and eggs will be much more cheerful."

"And I," vowed Juliette, "can spare my best hat easily--indeed, it is
an encumbrance. If we make madame Cochard a small peace-offering she
may allow us to remain until the morning."

"What a grand idea! We shall provide ourselves with a night's shelter
and the means to entertain our friends as well Hasten to collect our
wardrobe, mignonette, while I crack my throat to make him hear. Hé,
hé!"

At the repeated cries the "old clo'" man lifted his gaze to the fifth-
floor window at last, and in a few minutes Julien and Juliette were
kneeling on the boards above a pile of garments, which they raised one
by one for his inspection.

"Regard, monsieur," said Julien, "this elegant summer suit! It is
almost as good as new. I begin to hesitate to part with it. What shall
we say for this elegant summer suit?"

The dealer fingered it disdainfully. "Show me boots," he suggested; "we
can do business in boots."

"Alas!" replied Julien, "the only boots that I possess are on my feet.
We will again admire the suit. What do you estimate it at--ten francs?"

"Are you insane? are you a lunatic?" returned the dealer. "To a
reckless man it might be worth ten sous. Let us talk of boots!"

"I cannot go barefoot," expostulated Julien. "Juliette, my Heart, do
you happen to possess a second pair of boots?"

Juliette shook her head forlornly. "But I have a hat with daisies in
it," she said. "Observe, monsieur, the delicate tints of the buds! How
like to nature, how exquisite they are! They make one dream of
courtship in the woods. I will take five francs for it."

"From me I swear you will not take them!" said the "old clo'" man.
"Boots," he pleaded; "for the love of God, boots!"

"Morbleu, what a passion for boots you have!" moaned the unhappy
painter; "they obsess you, they warp your judgment. Can you think of
nothing in the world but boots? Look, we come to the gem of the
exhibition--a velvet jacket! A jacket like this confers an air of
greatness, one could not feel the pinch of poverty in such a jacket. It
is, I confess, a little white at the elbows, but such high lights are
very effective. And observe the texture--as soft as a darling's cheek!"

The other turned it about with indifferent hands, and the Children
began to realise that he would prove no substitute for a fairy after
all. Then, while they watched him with sinking hearts, the door was
suddenly opened, and the concierge tottered on the threshold.

"Monsieur, madame!" she panted, with such respect that they stared at
each other.

"Eh bien?"

"A visitor!" She leant against the wall, overwhelmed.

"Who is it?"

"Madame, la comtesse de Grand Ecusson!"

Actually! The Countess had kept her word after all, and now she rustled
in, before the "old clo'" man could be banished. White as a virgin
canvas, Julien staggered forward to receive her, a pair of trousers,
which he was too agitated to remember, dangling under his arm. "Madame,
this honour!" he stammered; and, making a piteous effort to disguise
his beggary, "One's wardrobe accumulates so that, really, in a small
ménage, one has no room to--"

"I have suffered from the inconvenience myself, monsieur," said the
Countess graciously. "Your charming wife was so kind as to invite me to
view your work; and see--my little Racine has come to wish his
preservers a Happy New Year!"

And, on the honour of an historian, he brought one! Before they left
she had given a commission for his portrait at a thousand francs, and
purchased two landscapes, for which a thousand francs more would be
paid on the morrow. When Sanquereau, and Lajeunie, and Tricotrin, and
Pitou arrived, expecting the worst, they were amazed to discover the
Children waltzing round the attic to the music of their own voices.

What _hurras_ rang out when the explanation was forthcoming; what
loans were promised to the guests, and what a gay quadrille was danced!
It was not until the last figure had concluded that Julien and Juliette
recognised that, although they would be wealthy in the morning, they
were still penniless that night.

"Hélas! but we have no supper after all," groaned Julien.

"Pardon, it is here, monsieur!" shouted madame Cochard, who entered
behind a kingly feast. "_Comment_, shall the artist honoured by
madame la comtesse de Grand Ecusson have no supper? Pot-au-feu,
monsieur; leg of mutton, monsieur; little tarts, monsieur; dessert,
monsieur; and for each person a bottle of good wine!"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18