A Chair on The Boulevard by Leonard Merrick

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And the justice that was done to it, and the laughter that pealed under
the slates! The Children didn't forget that it was all due to the dog.
Juliette raised her glass radiantly.

"Gentlemen," she cried, "I ask you to drink to the Fairy Poodle!"

LITTLE-FLOWER-OF-THE-WOOD

Janiaud used to lie abed all day, and drink absinthe all night. When
he contrived to write his poetry is a mystery. But he did write it, and
he might have written other things, too, if he had had the will. It was
often said that his paramount duty was to publish a history of modern
Paris, for the man was an encyclopaedia of unsuspected facts. Since he
can never publish it now, however, I am free to tell the story of the
Café du Bon Vieux Temps as he told it to an English editor and me one
night on the terrace of the café itself. It befell thus:

When we entered that shabby little Montmartre restaurant, Janiaud
chanced to be seated, at a table in a corner, sipping his favourite
stimulant. He was deplorably dirty and suggested a scarecrow, and the
English editor looked nervous when I offered an introduction. Still,
Janiaud was Janiaud. The offer was accepted, and Janiaud discoursed in
his native tongue. At midnight the Editor ordered supper. Being
unfamiliar with the Café du Bon Vieux Temps in those days, I said that
I would drink beer. Janiaud smiled sardonically, and the waiter
surprised us with the information that beer could not be supplied.

"What?"

"After midnight, nothing but champagne," he answered.

"Really? Well, let us go somewhere else," I proposed.

But the Editor would not hear of that. He had a princely soul, and,
besides, he was "doing Paris."

"All the same, what does it mean?" he inquired of Janiaud.

Janiaud blew smoke rings. "It is the rule. During the evening the
bock-drinker is welcomed here as elsewhere; but at midnight--well, you will
see what you will see!"

And we saw very soon. The bourgeoisie of Montmartre had straggled out
while we talked, and in a little while the restaurant was crowded with
a rackety crew who had driven up in cabs. Everybody but ourselves was
in evening-dress. Where the coppers had been counted carefully, gold
was scattered. A space was cleared for dancing, and mademoiselle Nan
Joliquette obliged the company with her latest comic song.

The Editor was interested. "It is a queer change, though! Has it always
been like this?"

"Ask Janiaud," I said; _I_ don't know."

"Oh, not at all," replied Janiaud; "no, indeed, it was not always like
this! It used to be as quiet at midnight as at any other hour. But it
became celebrated as a supper-place; and now it is quite the thing for
the ardent spirits, with money, to come and kick up their heels here
until five in the morning."

"Curious, how such customs originate," remarked the Editor. "Here we
have a restaurant which is out of the way, which is the reverse of
luxurious, and which, for all that, seems to be a gold mine to the
proprietor. Look at him! Look at his white waistcoat and his massive
watch-chain, his air of prosperity."

"How did he come to rake it in like this, Janiaud--you know
everything?" I said.

The poet stroked his beard, and glanced at his empty glass. The Editor
raised a bottle.

"I cannot talk on Clicquot," demurred Janiaud. "If you insist, I will
take another absinthe--they will allow it, in the circumstances. Sst,
Adolphe!" The waiter whisked over to us. "Monsieur pays for champagne,
but I prefer absinthe. There is no law against that, hein?"

Adolphe smiled tolerantly.

"Shall we sit outside?" suggested the Editor. "What do you think? It's
getting rather riotous in here, isn't it?"

So we moved on to the terrace, and waited while Janiaud prepared his
poison.

"It is a coincidence that you have asked me for the history of the Bon
Vieux Temps tonight," he began, after a gulp; "if you had asked for it
two days earlier, the climax would have been missing. The story
completed itself yesterday, and I happened to be here and saw the end.

"Listen: Dupont--the proprietor whom monsieur has just admired--used to
be chef to a family on the boulevard Haussmann. He had a very fair
salary, and probably he would have remained in the situation till now
but for the fact that he fell in love with the parlourmaid. She was a
sprightly little flirt, with ambitions, and she accepted him only on
condition that they should withdraw from domestic service and start a
business of their own. Dupont was of a cautious temperament; he would
have preferred that they should jog along with some family in the
capacities of chef and housekeeper. Still, he consented; and, with what
they had saved between them, they took over this little restaurant--
where monsieur the Editor has treated me with such regal magnificence.
It was not they who christened it--it was called the Café du Bon Vieux
Temps already; how it obtained its name is also very interesting, but I
have always avoided digressions in my work--that is one of the first
principles of the literary art."

He swallowed some more absinthe.

"They took the establishment over, and they conducted it on the lines
of their predecessor--they provided a déjeuner at one franc fifty, and
a dinner at two francs. These are side-shows of the Bon Vieux Temps to-day,
but, in the period of which I speak, they were all that it had to
say for itself--they were its foundation-stone, and its cupola. When I
had two francs to spare, I used to dine here myself.

"Well, the profits were not dazzling. And after marriage the little
parlourmaid developed extravagant tastes. She had a passion for
theatres. I, Janiaud, have nothing to say against theatres, excepting
that the managers have never put on my dramas, but in the wife of a
struggling restaurateur a craze for playgoing is not to be encouraged.
Monsieur will agree? Also, madame had a fondness for dress. She did
little behind the counter but display new ribbons and trinkets. She was
very stupid at giving change--and always made the mistake on the wrong
side for Dupont. At last he had to employ a cousin of his own as dame-
de-comptoir. The expenses had increased, and the returns remained the
same. In fine, Dupont was in difficulties; the Bon Vieux Temps was on
its last legs.

"Listen: There was at that time a dancer called 'Little-Flower-of-the-
Wood'; she was very chic, very popular. She had her appartement in the
avenue Wagram, she drove to the stage-doors in her coupé, her
photographs were sold like confetti at a carnival. Well, one afternoon,
when Dupont's reflections were oscillating between the bankruptcy court
and the Morgue, he was stupefied to receive a message from her--she
bade him reserve a table for herself and some friends for supper that
night!

"Dupont could scarcely credit his ears. He told his wife that a
practical joker must be larking with him. He declared that he would
take no notice of the message, that he was not such an ass to be duped
by it. Finally, he proposed to telegraph to Little-Flower-of-the-Wood,
inquiring if it was genuine.

"Monsieur, as an editor, will have observed that a woman who is
incapable in the daily affairs of life, may reveal astounding force in
an emergency? It was so in this case. Madame put her foot down; she
showed unsuspected commercial aptitude. She firmly forbade Dupont to do
anything of the sort!

"'What?' she exclaimed. 'You will telegraph to her, inquiring? Never in
this life! You might as well advise her frankly not to come. What would
such a question mean? That you do not think the place is good enough
for her! Well, if _you_ do not think so, neither will _she_--
she will decide that she had a foolish impulse and stay away!

"'Mon Dieu! do you dream that a woman accustomed to the Café de Paris
would choose to sup in an obscure little restaurant like ours?' said
Dupont, fuming. 'Do you dream that I am going to buy partridges, and
peaches, and wines, and heaven knows what other delicacies, in the
dark? Do you dream that I am going to ruin myself while every instinct
in me protests? It would be the act of a madman!'

"'My little cabbage,' returned madame, 'we are so near to ruin as we
are, that a step nearer is of small importance. If Little-Flower-of-
the-Wood should come, it might be the turning-point in our fortunes--
people would hear of it, the Bon Vieux Temps might become renowned.
Yes, we shall buy partridges, and peaches--and bonbons, and flowers
also, and we shall hire a piano! And if our good angel should indeed
send her to us, I swear she shall pass as pleasant an evening as if she
had gone to Maxim's or the Abbaye!

"Bien! She convinced him. For the rest of the day the place was in a
state of frenzy. Never before had such a repast been seen in its
kitchen, never before had he cooked with such loving care, even when he
had been preparing a dinner of ceremony on the boulevard Haussmann.
Madame herself ran out to arrange for the piano. The floor was swept.
The waiter was put into a clean shirt. Dupont shed tears of excitement
in his saucepans.

"He served the two-franc dinner that evening with eyes that watched
nothing but the clock. All his consciousness now was absorbed by the
question whether the dancer would come or not. The dinner passed
somehow--it is to be assumed that the customers grumbled, but in his
suspense Dupont regarded them with indifference. The hours crept by. It
was a quarter to twelve--twelve o'clock. He trembled behind the
counter as if with ague. Now it was time that she was here! His face
was blanched, his teeth chattered in his head. What if he had been
hoaxed after all? Half-past twelve! The sweat ran down him. Terror
gripped his heart. A vision of all the partridges wasted convulsed his
soul. Hark! a carriage stopped. He tottered forward. The door opened--
she had come!

"Women are strange. Little-Flower-of-the-Wood, who yawned her pretty
head off at Armenonville, was enraptured with the Bon Vieux Temps. The
rest of the party took their tone from her, and everything was
pronounced 'fun,' the coarse linen, the dirty ceiling, the admiring
stares of the bock-drinkers. The lady herself declared that she had
'never enjoyed a supper so much in her life,' and the waiter--it was
not Adolphe then--was dumfounded by a louis tip.

"Figure yourself the exultation of madame! 'Ah,' she chuckled, when
they shut up shop at sunrise, 'what did I tell you, my little cabbage?'
Monsieur, as an editor, will have observed that a woman who reveals
astounding force in an emergency may triumph pettily when the emergency
is over?

"'It remains to be seen whether they will come any more, however,' said
Dupont. 'Let us go to bed. Mon Dieu, how sleepy I am!' It was the first
occasion that the Bon Vieux Temps had been open after two o'clock in
the morning.

"It was the first occasion, and for some days they feared it might be
the last. But no, the dancer came again! A few eccentrics who came with
her flattered themselves on having made a 'discovery.' They boasted of
it. Gradually the name of the Bon Vieux Temps became known. By the time
that Little-Flower-of-the-Wood had had enough, there was a supper
clientèle without her. Folly is infectious, and in Paris there are
always people catching a fresh craze. Dupont began to put up his
prices, and levied a charge on the waiter for the privilege of waiting
at supper. The rest of the history is more grave ... _Comment_,
monsieur? Since you insist--again an absinthe!"

Janiaud paused, and ran his dirty fingers through his hair.

"This man can talk!" said the Editor, in an undertone.

"Gentlemen," resumed the poet, "two years passed. Little-Flower-of-the-
Wood was on the Italian Riviera. The Italian Riviera was awake again
after the heat of the summer--the little town that had dozed for many
months began to stir. Almost every day now she saw new faces on the
promenade; the sky was gentler, the sea was fairer. And she sat
loathing it all, craving to escape from it to the bleak streets of
Paris.

"Two winters before, she had been told, 'Your lungs will stand no more
of the pranks you have been playing. You must go South, and keep early
hours, or--' The shrug said the rest. And she had sold some of her
diamonds and obeyed. Of course, it was an awful nuisance, but she must
put up with it for a winter in order to get well. As soon as she was
well, she would go back, and take another engagement. She had promised
herself to be dancing again by May.

"But when May had come, she was no better. And travelling was
expensive, and all places were alike to her since she was forbidden to
return to Paris. She, had disposed of more jewellery, and looked forward
to the autumn. And in the autumn she had looked forward to the spring.
So it had gone on.

"At first, while letters came to her sometimes, telling her how she was
missed, the banishment had been alleviated; later, in her loneliness,
it had grown frightful. Monsieur, her soul--that little soul that
pleasure had held dumb--cried out, under misfortune, like a homeless
child for its mother. Her longing took her by the throat, and the
doctor had difficulty in dissuading her from going to meet death by the
first train. She did not suspect that she was doomed in any case; he
thought it kinder to deceive her. He had preached 'Patience,
mademoiselle, a little patience!' And she had wrung her hands, but
yielded--sustained by the hope of a future that she was never to know.

"By this time the last of her jewels was sold, and most of the money
had been spent. The fact alarmed her when she dwelt upon it, but she
did not dwell upon it very often--in the career of Little-Flower-of-
the-Wood, so many financial crises had been righted at the last moment.
No, although there was nobody now to whom she could turn for help, it
was not anxiety that bowed her; the thoughts by which she was stricken,
as she sauntered feebly on the eternal promenade, were that in Paris
they no longer talked of her, and that her prettiness had passed away.
She was forgotten, ugly! The tragedy of her exile was that.

"Now it was that she found out the truth--she learnt that there was no
chance of her recovering. She made no reproaches for the lies that had
been told her; she recognized that they had been well meant. All she
said was, 'I am glad that it is not too late; I may see Paris still
before the curtain tumbles--I shall go at once.'

"Not many months of life remained to her, but they were more numerous
than her louis. It was an unfamiliar Paris that she returned to! She
had quitted the Paris of the frivolous and fêted; she came back to the
Paris of the outcast poor. The world that she had remembered gave her
no welcome--she peered through its shut windows, friendless in the
streets.

"Gentlemen, last night all the customers had gone from the little Café
du Bon Vieux Temps but a woman in a shabby opera-cloak--a woman with
tragic eyes, and half a lung. She sat fingering her glass of beer
absently, though the clock over the desk pointed to a quarter to
midnight, and at midnight beer-drinkers are no longer desired in the
Bon Vieux Temps. But she was a stranger; it was concluded that she
didn't know.

"Adolphe approached to enlighten her; 'Madame wishes to order supper?'
he asked.

"The stranger shook her head.

"'Madame will have champagne?'

"'Don't bother me!' said the woman.

"Adolphe nodded toward the bock contemptuously. 'After midnight, only
champagne is served here,' he said; 'it is the rule of the house,'

"'A fig for the rule!' scoffed the woman; 'I am going to stop.'

"Adolphe retired and sought the _patron_, and Dupont advanced to
her with dignity.

"'Madame is plainly ignorant of our arrangements,' he began; 'at twelve
o'clock one cannot remain here for the cost of a bock--the restaurant
becomes very gay,'

"'So I believe,' she said; 'I want to see the gaiety,'

"'It also becomes expensive. I will explain. During the evening we
serve a dinner at two francs for our clients in the neighbourhood--and
until twelve o'clock one may order bocks, or what one wishes, at
strictly moderate prices. But at twelve o'clock there is a change; we
have quite a different class of trade. The world that amuses itself
arrives here to sup and to dance. As a supper-house, the Bori Vieux
Temps is known to all Paris.'

"'One lives and learns!' said the woman, ironically; 'but I--know more
about the Bon Vieux Temps than you seem to think. I can tell you the
history of its success.'

"'Madame?' Dupont regarded her with haughty eyes.

"'Three years ago, monsieur, there was no "different class of trade" at
twelve o'clock, and no champagne. The dinners at two francs for your
clients in the neighbourhood were all that you aspired to. You did the
cooking yourself in those days, and you did not sport a white waistcoat
and a gold watch-chain.'

"'These things have nothing to do with it. You will comply with the
rule, or you must go. All is said!' "'One night Little-Flower-of-the-
Wood had a whim to sup here,' continued the woman as if he had not
spoken. 'She had passed the place in her carriage and fancied its name,
or its flowerpot--or she wanted to do something new. Anyhow, she had
the whim! I see you have the telephone behind the desk, monsieur--your
little restaurant was not on the telephone when she wished to reserve a
table that night; she had to reserve it by a messenger.'

"'Well, well?' said Dupont, impatiently.

"'But you were a shrewd man; you saw your luck and leapt at it--and
when she entered with her party, you received her like a queen. You had
even hired a piano, you said, in case Little-Flower-of-the-Wood might
wish to play. I notice that a piano is in the corner now--no doubt you
soon saved the money to buy one.'

"'How do you know all this, you?' Dupont's gaze was curious.

"'Her freak pleased her, and she came again and again--and others came,
just to see her here. Then you recognized that your clients from the
neighbourhood were out of place among the spendthrifts, who yielded
more profit in a night than all the two-franc dinners in a month; you
said, "At twelve o'clock there shall be no more bocks, only champagne!"
I had made your restaurant famous--and you introduced the great rule
that you now command me to obey.'

"'You? You are Little-Flower-of-the-Wood?'

"'Yes, it was I who did it for you,' she said quietly. 'And the
restaurant flourished after Little-Flower-of-the-Wood had faded. Well,
to-night I want to spend an hour here again, for the sake of what I
used to be. Time brings changes, you understand, and I cannot conform
with the great rule.' She opened the opera-cloak, trembling, and he saw
that beneath it Little-Flower-of-the-Wood was in rags.

"'I am very poor and ill,' she went on. 'I have been away in the South
for more than two years; they told me I ought to stop there, but I had
to see Paris once more! What does it matter? I shall finish here a
little sooner, that is all. I lodge close by, in a garret. The garret
is very dirty, but I hear the muisc from the Bal Tabarin across the
way. I like that--I persuade myself I am living the happy life I used
to have. When I am tossing sleepless, I hear the noise and laughter of
the crowd coming out, and blow kisses to them in the dark. You see,
although one is forgotten, one cannot forget. I pray that their
laughter will come up to me right at the end, before I die.'

"'You cannot afford to enter Tabarin's?' faltered Dupont; 'you are so
stony as that?'

"'So stony as that!' she said. 'And I repeat that to-night I want to
pass an hour in the midst of the life I loved. Monsieur, remember how
you came to make your rule! Break it for me once! Let me stay here
to-night for a bock!'

"Dupont is a restaurateur, but he is also a man. He took both her
hands, and the waiters were astonished to perceive that the
_patron_ was crying.

"'My child,' he stammered, 'you will sup here as my guest.'

"Adolphe set before her champagne that she sipped feverishly, and a
supper that she was too ill to eat. And cabs came rattling from the
Boulevard with boisterous men and women who no longer recalled her
name--and with other 'Little-Flowers-of-the-Wood,' who had sprung up
since her day.

"The woman who used to reign there sat among them looking back, until
the last jest was bandied, and the last bottle was drained. Then she
bade her host 'good-bye,' and crawled home--to the garret where she
'heard the music of the ball'; the garret where she 'prayed that the
laughter would come up to her right at the end, before she died.'"

Janiaud finished the absinthe, and lurched to his feet. "That's all."

"Great Scott," said the Editor, "I wish he could write in English! But
--but it's very pitiable, she may starve there; something ought to be
done.... Can you tell us where she is living, monsieur?"

The poet shrugged his shoulders. "Is there no satisfying you? You asked
me for the history of the Bon Vieux Temps, and there are things that
even I do not know. However, I have done my best. I cannot say where
the lady is living, but I can tell you where she was born." He pointed,
with a drunken laugh, to his glass: "There!"

A MIRACLE IN MONTMARTRE

Lajeunie, the luckless novelist, went to Pitou, the unrecognized
composer, saying, "I have a superb scenario for a revue. Let us join
forces! I promise you we shall make a fortune; we shall exchange our
attics for first floors of fashion, and be wealthy enough to wear sable
overcoats and Panama hats at the same time." In ordinary circumstances,
of course, Pitou would have collaborated only with Tricotrin, but
Tricotrin was just then engrossed by a tragedy in blank verse and seven
acts, and he said to them, "Make a fortune together by all means, my
comrades; I should be unreasonable if I raised objections to having
rich friends."

Accordingly the pair worked like heroes of biography, and, after
vicissitudes innumerable, _Patatras_ was practically accepted at
La Coupole. The manager even hinted that Fifi Blondette might be seen
in the leading part. La Coupole, and Blondette! Pitou and Lajeunie
could scarcely credit their ears. To be sure, she was no actress, and
her voice was rather unpleasant, and she would probably want everything
rewritten fifteen times before it satisfied her; but she was a
beautiful woman and all Paris paid to look at her when she graced a
stage; and she had just ruined Prince Czernowitz, which gave her name
an additional value. "Upon my word," gasped Pitou, "our luck seems as
incredible, my dear Lajeunie, as the plot of any of your novels! Come
and have a drink!"

"I feel like Rodolphe at the end of _La Vie de Bohème_," he
confided to Tricotrin in their garret one winter's night, as they went
supper-less to their beds. "Now that the days of privation are past, I
recall them with something like regret. The shock of the laundress's
totals, the meagre dinners at the Bel Avenir, these things have a
fascination now that I part from them. I do not wish to sound
ungrateful, but I cannot help wondering if my millions will impair the
taste of life to me."

"To me they will make it taste much better," said Tricotrin, "for I
shall have somebody to borrow money from, and I shall get enough
blankets. _Brrr_! how cold I am! Besides, you need not lose touch
with Montmartre because you are celebrated--you can invite us all to
your magnificent abode. Also, you can dine at the Bel Avenir still, if
sentiment pulls you that way."

"I shall certainly dine there," averred Pitou. "And I shall buy a house
for my parents, with a peacock and some deer on the lawn. At the same
time, a triumph is not without its pathos. I see my return to the Bel
Avenir, the old affections in my heart, the old greetings on my lips--
and I see the fellows constrained and formal in my presence. I see
madame apologising for the cuisine, instead of reminding me that my
credit is exhausted, and the waiter polishing my glass, instead of
indicating the cheapest item on the menu. Such changes hurt!" He was
much moved. "A fortune is not everything," he sighed, forgetting that
his pockets were as empty as his stomach. "Poverty yielded joys which I
no longer know."

The poet embraced him with emotion. "I rejoice to find that Fame has
not spoilt your nature," he cried; and he, too, forgot the empty
pockets, and that the contract from La Coupole had yet to come. "Yes,
we had hard times together, you and I, and I am still a nobody, but we
shall be chums as long as we live. I feel that you can unbosom yourself
to me, the poor bohemian, more freely than to any Immortal with whom
you hobnob in scenes of splendour."

"Oh indeed, indeed!" assented Pitou, weeping. "You are as dear to me
now as in the days of our struggles; I should curse my affluence if it
made you doubt that! Good-night, my brother; God bless you."

He lay between the ragged sheets; and half an hour crept by.

"Gustave!"

"Well?" said Tricotrin, looking towards the other bed. "Not asleep
yet?"

"I cannot sleep--hunger is gnawing at me."

"Ah, what a relentless realist is this hunger," complained the poet,
"how it destroys one's illusions!"

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