A Chair on The Boulevard by Leonard Merrick

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Such admissions my brother sent to me in a disguised hand, and
unsigned; perhaps he feared that his blackmailer might prove to be
myself! Typewriting was not yet general in France.

Our mother still lived at Vernon, where she contemplated her favourite
son's success with the profoundest pride. Occasionally I spent a few
days with her; sometimes even more, for she always pressed me to
remain. I think she pressed me to remain, not from any pleasure in my
society, but because she knew that while I was at home I could commit
no actions that would corrupt Grégoire. One summer, when I visited her,
I met mademoiselle Leuillet.

Mademoiselle Leuillet was the daughter of a widower, a neighbour. I
remembered that when our servant first announced her, I thought, "What
a nuisance; how bored I am going to be!" And then she came in, and in
an instant I was spellbound.

I am tempted to describe Berthe Leuillet to you as she entered our
salon that afternoon in a white frock, with a basket of roses in her
little hands, but I know very well that no description of a girl ever
painted her to anybody yet. Suffice it that she was beautiful as an
angel, that her voice was like the music of the spheres--more than all,
that one felt all the time, "How good she is, how good, how good!"

I suppose the impression that she made upon me was plainly to be seen,
for when she had gone, my mother remarked, "You did not say much. Are
you always so silent in girls' company?" "No," I answered; "I do not
often meet such girls."

But afterwards I often met Berthe Leuillet.

Never since I was a boy had I stayed at Vernon for so long as now;
never had I repented so bitterly as now the error of my ways. I loved,
and it seemed to me sometimes that my attachment was reciprocated, yet
my position forbade me to go to monsieur Leuillet and ask boldly for
his daughter's hand. While I had remained obscure, painters of my
acquaintance, whose talent was no more remarkable than my own, had
raised themselves from bohemia into prosperity. I abused myself, I
acknowledged that I was an idler, a good-for-nothing, I declared that
the punishment that had overtaken me was no more than I deserved. And
then--well, then I owned to Berthe that I loved her!

Deliberately, of course, I should not have done this before seeking her
father's permission, but it happened in the hour of our "good-bye", and
I was suffering too deeply to subdue the impulse. I owned that I loved
her--and when I left for Paris we were secretly engaged.

Mon Dieu! Now I worked indeed! To win this girl for my own, to show
myself worthy of her innocent faith, supplied me with the most powerful
incentive in life. In the quarter they regarded me first with ridicule,
then with wonder, and, finally, with respect. For my enthusiasm did not
fade. "He has turned over a new leaf," they said, "he means to be
famous!" It was understood. No more excursions for Silvestre, no more
junketings and recklessness! In the morning as soon as the sky was
light I was at my easel; in the evening I studied, I sketched, I wrote
to Berthe, and re-read her letters. I was another man--my ideal of
happiness was now a wife and home.

For a year I lived this new life. I progressed. Men--men whose approval
was a cachet--began to speak of me as one with a future. In the Salon a
picture of mine made something of a stir. How I rejoiced, how grateful
and sanguine I was! All Paris sang "Berthe" to me; the criticisms in
the papers, the felicitations of my friends, the praise of the public,
all meant Berthe--Berthe with her arms about me, Berthe on my breast.

I said that it was not too soon for me to speak now; I had proved my
mettle, and, though I foresaw that her father would ask more before he
gave his consent, I was, at least, justified in avowing myself. I
telegraphed to my mother to expect me; I packed my portmanteau with
trembling hands, and threw myself into a cab. On the way to the
station, I noticed the window of a florist; I bade the driver stop, and
ran in to bear off some lilies for Berthe. The shop was so full of
wonderful flowers that, once among them, I found some difficulty in
making my choice. Hence I missed the train--and returned to my studio,
incensed by the delay. A letter for me had just been delivered. It told
me that on the previous morning Berthe had married my brother.

I could have welcomed a pistol-shot--my world rocked. Berthe lost,
false, Gregoire's wife, I reiterated it, I said it over and over, I
was stricken by it--and yet I could not realise that actually it had
happened. It seemed too treacherous, too horrible to be true.

Oh, I made certain of it later, believe me!--I was no hero of a "great
serial," to accept such intelligence without proof. I assured myself of
her perfidy, and burnt her love-letters one by one; tore her
photographs into shreds--strove also to tear her image from my heart.
Ah, that mocked me, that I could not tear! A year before I should have
rushed to the cafés for forgetfulness, but now, as the shock subsided,
I turned feverishly to work. I told myself that she had wrecked my
peace, my faith in women, that I hated and despised her; but I swore
that she should not have the triumph of wrecking my career, too. I said
that my art still remained to me--that I would find oblivion in my art.

Brave words! But one does not recover from such blows so easily.

For months I persisted, denying myself the smallest respite, clinging
to a resolution which proved vainer daily. Were art to be mastered by
dogged endeavour, I should have conquered; but alas! though I could
compel myself to paint, I could not compel myself to paint well. It was
the perception of this fact that shattered me at last. I had fought
temptation for half a year, worked with my teeth clenched, worked
against nature, worked while my pulses beat and clamoured for the
draughts of dissipation, which promised a speedier release. I had wooed
art, not as art's lover, but as a tortured soul may turn to one woman
in the desperate hope of subduing his passion for another--and art
would yield nothing to a suitor who approached like that; I recognised
that my work had been wasted, that the struggle had been useless--I
broke down!

I need say little of the months that followed--it would be a record of
degradations, and remorse; alternately, I fell, and was ashamed. There
were days when I never left the house, when I was repulsive to myself;
I shuddered at the horrors that I had committed. No saint has loved
virtue better than I did during those long, sick days of self-disgust;
no man was ever more sure of defying such hideous temptations if they
recurred. As my lassitude passed, I would take up my brushes and feel
confident for an hour, or for a week. And then temptation would creep
on me once more--humming in my ears, and tingling in my veins. And
temptation had lost its loathsomeness now--it looked again attractive.
It was a siren, it dizzied my conscience, and stupefied my common
sense. Back to the mire!

One afternoon when I returned to my rooms, from which I had been absent
since the previous day, I heard from the concierge that a visitor
awaited me. I climbed the stairs without anticipation. My thoughts were
sluggish, my limbs leaden, my eyes heavy and bloodshot. Twilight had
gathered, and as I entered I discerned merely the figure of a woman.
Then she advanced--and all Hell seemed to leap flaring to my heart. My
visitor was Berthe.

I think nearly a minute must have passed while we looked speechlessly
in each other's face--hers convulsed by entreaty, mine dark with hate.

"Have you no word for me?" she whispered.

"Permit me to offer my congratulations on your marriage, madame," I
said; "I have had no earlier opportunity."

"Forgive me," she gasped. "I have come to beseech your forgiveness! Can
you not forget the wrong I did you?"

"Do I look as if I had forgotten?"

"I was inconstant, cruel, I cannot excuse myself. But, O Silvestre, in
the name of the love you once bore me, have pity on us! Reform, abjure
your evil courses! Do not, I implore you, condemn my husband to this
abyss of depravity, do not wreck my married life!" Now I understood
what had procured me the honour of a visit from this woman, and I
triumphed devilishly that I was the elder twin.

"Madame," I answered, "I think that I owe you no explanations, but I
shall say this: the evil courses that you deplore were adopted, not
vindictively, but in the effort to numb the agony that you had made me
suffer. You but reap as you have sown."

"Reform!" she sobbed. She sank on her knees before me. "Silvestre, in
mercy to us, reform!"

"I will never reform," I said inflexibly. "I will grow more abandoned
day by day--my past faults shall shine as merits compared with the
atrocities that are to come. False girl, monster of selfishness, you
are dragging me to the gutter, and your only grief is that _he_
must share my shame! You have blackened my soul, and you have no regret
but that my iniquities must react on _him!_ By the shock that
stunned him in the first flush of your honeymoon, you know what I
experienced when I received the news of your deceit; by the anguish of
repentance that overtakes him after each of his orgies, which revolt
you, you know that I was capable of being a nobler man. The degradation
that you behold is your own work. You have made me bad, and you must
bear the consequences--you cannot make me good now to save your
husband!"

Humbled and despairing, she left me.

I repeat that it is no part of my confession to palliate my guilt. The
sight of her had served merely to inflame my resentment--and it was at
this stage that I began deliberately to contemplate revenge.

But not the one that I had threatened. Ah, no! I bethought myself of a
vengeance more complete than that. What, after all, were these
escapades of his that were followed by contrition, that saw him again
and again a penitent at her feet? There should be no more of such
trifles; she should be tortured with the torture that she had dealt to
me--I would make him _adore another woman_ with all his heart and
brain!

It was difficult, for first I must adore, and tire of another woman
myself--as my own passion faded, his would be born. I swore, however,
that I would compass it, that I would worship some woman for a year--
two years, as long as possible. He would be at peace in the meantime,
but the longer my enslavement lasted, the longer Berthe would suffer
when her punishment began.

For some weeks now I worked again, to provide myself with money. I
bought new clothes and made myself presentable. When my appearance
accorded better with my plan, I paraded Paris, seeking the woman to
adore.

You may think Paris is full of adorable women? Well, so contrary is
human nature, that never had I felt such indifference towards the sex
as during that tedious quest--never had a pair of brilliant eyes, or a
well-turned neck appealed to me so little. After a month, my search
seemed hopeless; I had viewed women by the thousand, but not one with
whom I could persuade myself that I might fall violently in love.

How true it is that only the unforeseen comes to pass! There was a
model, one Louise, whose fortune was her back, and who had long bored
me by an evident tenderness. One day, this Louise, usually so
constrained in my presence, appeared in high spirits, and mentioned
that she was going to be married.

The change in her demeanour interested me; for the first time, I
perceived that the attractions of Louise were not limited to her back.
A little piqued, I invited her to dine with me. If she had said "yes,"
doubtless that would have been the end of my interest; but she refused.
Before I parted from her, I made an appointment for her to sit to me
the next morning.

"So you are going to be married, Louise?" I said carelessly, as I set
the palette.

"In truth!" she answered.

"No regrets?"

"What regrets could I have? He is a very pretty boy, and well-to-do,
believe me!"

"And _I_ am not a pretty boy, nor well-to-do, hein?"

"Ah, zut!" she laughed, "you do not care for me."

"Is it so?" I said. "What would you say if I told you that I did care?"

"I should say that you told me too late, monsieur," she replied, with a
shrug, "Are you ready for me to pose?" And this changed woman turned
her peerless back on me without a scruple.

A little mortified, I attended strictly to business for the rest of the
morning. But I found myself, on the following day, waiting for her with
impatience.

"And when is the event to take place?" I inquired, more eagerly than I
chose to acknowledge. This was by no means the sort of enchantress that
I had been seeking, you understand.

"In the spring," she said. "Look at the ring he has given to me,
monsieur; is it not beautiful?"

I remarked that Louise's hands were very well shaped; and, indeed,
happiness had brought a certain charm to her face.

"Do you know, Louise, that I am sorry that you are going to marry?" I
exclaimed.

"Oh, get out!" she laughed, pushing me away. "It is no good your
talking nonsense to me now, don't flatter yourself!"

Pouchin, the sculptor, happened to come in at that moment. "Sapristi!"
he shouted; "what changes are to be seen! The nose of our brave
Silvestre is out of joint now that we are affianced, hein?"

She joined in his laughter against me, and I picked up my brush again
in a vile humour.

Well, as I have said, she was not the kind of woman that I had
contemplated, but these things arrange themselves--I became seriously
enamoured of her. And, recognising that Fate works with her own
instruments, I did not struggle. For months I was at Louise's heels; I
was the sport of her whims, and her slights, sometimes even of her
insults. I actually made her an offer of marriage, at which she snapped
her white fingers with a grimace--and the more she flouted me, the more
fascinated I grew. In that rapturous hour when her insolent eyes
softened to sentiment, when her mocking mouth melted to a kiss, I was
in Paradise. My ecstasy was so supreme that I forgot to triumph at my
approaching vengeance.

So I married Louise; and yesterday was the twentieth anniversary of our
wedding. Berthe? To speak the truth, my plot against her was frustrated
by an accident. You see, before I could communicate my passion to
Grégoire I had to recover from it, and--this invincible Louise!--I have
not recovered from it yet. There are days when she turns her remarkable
back on me now--generally when I am idle--but, mon Dieu! the moments
when she turns her lips are worth working for. Therefore, Berthe has
been all the time quite happy with the good Grégoire--and, since I
possess Louise, upon my word of honour I do not mind!

HERCULES AND APHRODITE

Mademoiselle Clairette used to say that if a danseuse could not throw
a glance to the conductor of the band without the juggler being
jealous, the Variety Profession was coming to a pretty pass. She also
remarked that for a girl to entrust her life's happiness to a jealous
man would be an act of lunacy. And then "Little Flouflou, the Juggling
Genius," who was dying to marry her, would suffer tortures. He tried
hard to conquer his failing, but it must be owned that Clairette's
glances were very expressive, and that she distributed them
indiscriminately. At Chartres, one night, he was so upset that he
missed the umbrella, and the cigar, and the hat one after another, and
instead of condoling with him when he came off the stage, all she said
was "Butter-fingers!"

"Promise to be my wife," he would entreat: "it is not knowing where I
am that gives me the pip. If you consented, I should be as right as
rain--your word is better to me than any Management's contract. I trust
you--it is only myself that I doubt; every time you look at a man I
wonder, 'Am I up to that chap's mark? is my turn as clever as his?
isn't it likely he will cut me out with her?' If you only belonged to
me I should never be jealous again as long as I lived. Straight!"

And Clairette would answer firmly, "Poor boy, you couldn't help it--you
are made like that. There'd be ructions every week; I should be for
ever in hot water. I like you very much, Flouflou, but I'm not going to
play the giddy goat. Chuck it!"

Nevertheless, he continued to worship her--from her tawdry tiara to her
tinselled shoes--and everybody was sure that it would be a match one
day. That is to say, everybody was sure of it until the Strong Man had
joined the troupe.

Hercule was advertised as "The Great Paris Star." Holding himself very
erect, he strutted, in his latticed foot-gear, with stiff little steps,
and inflated lungs, to the footlights, and tore chains to pieces as
easily as other persons tear bills. He lay down and supported a posse
of mere mortals, and a van-load of "properties" on his chest, and
regained his feet with a skip and a smirk. He--but his achievements are
well known. Preceding these feats of force, was a feature of his
entertainment which Hercule enjoyed inordinately. He stood on a
pedestal and struck attitudes to show the splendour of his physique.
Wearing only a girdle of tiger-skin, and bathed in limelight, he felt
himself to be as glorious as a god. The applause was a nightly
intoxication to him. He lived for it. All day he looked forward to the
moment when he could mount the pedestal again and make his biceps jump,
and exhibit the magnificence of his highly developed back to hundreds
of wondering eyes. No woman was ever vainer of her form than was
Hercule of his. No woman ever contemplated her charms more tenderly
than Hercule regarded his muscles. The latter half of his "turn" was
fatiguing, but to posture in the limelight, while the audience stared
open-mouthed and admired his nakedness, that was fine, it was dominion,
it was bliss.

Hercule had never experienced a great passion--the passion of vanity
excepted--never waited in the rain at a street corner for a coquette
who did not come, nor sighed, like the juggler, under the window of a
girl who flouted his declarations. He had but permitted homage to be
rendered to him. So when he fell in love with Clairette, he didn't know
what to make of it.

For Clairette, sprightly as she was, did not encourage Hercule. He at
once attracted and repelled her. When he rent chains, and poised
prodigious weights above his head, she thrilled at his prowess, but the
next time he attitudinised in the tiger-skin she turned up her nose.
She recognised something feminine in the giant. Instinct told her that
by disposition the Strong Man was less manly than Little Flouflou, whom
he could have swung like an Indian club.

No, Hercule didn't know what to make of it. It was a new and painful
thing to find himself the victim instead of the conqueror. For once in
his career, he hung about the wings wistfully, seeking a sign of
approval. For once he displayed his majestic figure on the pedestal
blankly conscious of being viewed by a woman whom he failed to impress.

"What do you think of my turn?" he questioned at last.

"Oh, I have seen worse," was all she granted.

The giant winced.

"I am the strongest man in the world," he proclaimed.

"I have never met a Strong Man who wasn't!" said she.

"But there is someone stronger than I am," he owned humbly. (Hercule
humble!) "Do you know what you have done to me, Clairette? You have
made a fool of me, my dear."

"Don't be so cheeky," she returned. "Who gave you leave to call me
'Clairette,' and 'my dear'? A little more politeness, if you please,
monsieur!" And she cut the conversation short as unceremoniously as if
he had been a super.

Those who have seen Hercule only in his "act"--who think of him superb,
supreme--may find It difficult to credit the statement, but, honestly,
the Great Star used to trot at her heels like a poodle. And she was not
a beauty by any means, with her impudent nose, and her mouth that was
too big to defy criticism. Perhaps it was her carriage that fascinated
him, the grace of her slender figure, which he could have snapped as a
child snaps jumbles. Perhaps it was those eyes which unwittingly
promised more than she gave. Perhaps, above all, it was her
indifference. Yes, on consideration, it must have been her indifferent
air, the novelty of being scorned, that made him a slave.

But, of course, she was more flattered by his bondage than she showed.
Every night he planted himself in the prompt-entrance to watch her
dance and clap his powerful hands in adulation. She could not be
insensible to the compliment, though her smiles were oftenest for
Flouflou, who planted himself, adulating, on the opposite side.
_Adagio! Allegretto! Vivace!_ Unperceived by the audience, the
gaze of the two men would meet across the stage with misgiving. Each
feared the other's attentions to her, each wished with all his heart
that the other would get the sack; they glared at each other horribly.
And, meanwhile, the orchestra played its sweetest, and Clairette
pirouetted her best, and the Public, approving the obvious, saw nothing
of the intensity of the situation.

Imagine the emotions of the little juggler, jealous by temperament,
jealous even without cause, now that he beheld a giant laying siege to
her affections!

And then, on a certain evening, Clairette threw but two smiles to
Flouflou, and three to Hercule.

The truth is that she did not attach so much significance to the smiles
as did the opponents who counted them. But that accident was momentous.
The Strong Man made her a burning offer of marriage within half an
hour; and next, the juggler made her furious reproaches.

Now she had rejected the Strong Man--and, coming when they did, the
juggler's reproaches had a totally different effect from the one that
he had intended. So far from exciting her sympathy towards him, they
accentuated her compassion for Hercule. How stricken he had been by her
refusal! She could not help remembering his despair as he sat huddled
on a hamper, a giant that she had crushed. Flouflou was a thankless
little pig, she reflected, for, as a matter of fact, he had had a good
deal to do with her decision. She had deserved a better reward than to
be abused by him!

Yes, her sentiments towards Hercule were newly tender, and an event of
the next night intensified them. It was Hercule's custom, in every town
that the Constellation visited, to issue a challenge. He pledged
himself to present a "Purse of Gold"--it contained a ten-franc piece--
to any eight men who vanquished him in a tug-of-war. The spectacle was
always an immense success--the eight yokels straining, and tumbling
over one another, while Hercule, wearing a masterful smile, kept his
ten francs intact. A tug-of-war had been arranged for the night
following, and by every law of prudence, Hercule should have abstained
from the bottle during the day.

But he did not. His misery sent discretion headlong to the winds. Every
time that he groaned for the danseuse he took another drink, and when
the time came for him to go to the show, the giant was as drunk as a
lord. The force of habit enabled him to fulfil some of his stereotyped
performance, he emerged from that without disgrace; but when the eight
brawny competitors lumbered on to the boards, his heart sank. The other
artists winked at one another appreciatively, and the manager hopped
with apprehension.

Sure enough, the hero's legs made strange trips to-night. The sixteen
arms pulled him, not only over the chalk line, but all over the stage.
They played havoc with him. And then the manager had to go on and make
a speech, besides, because the "Purse of Gold" aroused dissatisfaction.
The fiasco was hideous.

"Ah, Clairette," moaned the Strong Man, pitifully, "it was all through
you!"

Elsewhere a Strong Man had put forth that plea, and the other lady had
been inexorable. But Clairette faltered.

"Through me?" she murmured, with emotion.

"I'm no boozer," muttered Hercule, whom the disaster had sobered. "If I
took too much today, it was because I had got such a hump."

"But why be mashed on me, Hercule?" she said; "why not think of me as a
pal?"

"You're talking silly," grunted Hercule.

"Perhaps so," she confessed. "But I'm awfully sorry the turn went so
rotten."

"Don't kid!"

"Why should I kid about it?"

"If you really meant it, you would take back what you said yesterday."

"Oh!" The gesture was dismayed. "You see! What's the good of gassing?
As soon as I ask anything of you, you dry up. Bah! I daresay you will
guy me just as much as all the rest, I know you!"

"If you weren't in trouble, I'd give you a thick ear for that," she
said. "You ungrateful brute!" She turned haughtily away,

"Clairette!"

"Oh, rats!"

"Don't get the needle! I'm off my rocker to-night."

"Ah! That's all right, cully!" Her hand was swift. "I've been there
myself."

"Clairette!" He caught her close.

"Here, what are you at?" she cried. "Drop it!"

"Clairette! Say 'yes.' I'm loony about you. There's a duck! I'll be a
daisy of a husband. Won't you?"

"Oh, I--I don't know," she stammered.

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