A Chair on The Boulevard by Leonard Merrick

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And thus were they betrothed.

To express what Flouflou felt would be but to harrow the reader's
sensibilities. What he said, rendered into English, was: "I'd rather
you had given me the go-by for any cove in the crowd than that swine!"

They were in the ladies' dressing-room. "The Two Bonbons" had not
finished their duet, and he was alone with her for a moment. She was
pinning a switch into her back hair, in front of the scrap of looking-
glass against the mildewed wall.

"You don't do yourself any good with me Flouflou, by calling Hercule
names," she replied icily.

"So he is!"

"Oh, you are jealous of him," she retorted.

"Of course I am jealous of him," owned Flouflou; "you can't rile me by
saying that. Didn't I love you first? And a lump better than _he_
does."

"Now you're talking through your hat!"

"You usedn't to take any truck of him, yourself, at the beginning. He
only got round you because he was drunk and queered his business. I
have been drunk, too--you didn't say you'd marry _me_. It's not in
him to love any girl for long--he's too sweet on himself."

"Look here," she exclaimed. "I've had enough. Hook it! And don't you
speak to me any more. Understand?" She put the hairpins aside, and
began to whitewash her hands and arms.

"That's the straight tip," said Flouflou, brokenly; "I'm off. Well, I
wish you luck, old dear!"

"Running him down to me like that! A dirty trick, I call it."

"I never meant to, straight; I--Sorry, Clairette." He lingered at the
door. "I suppose I shall have to say 'madame' soon?"

"Footle," she murmured, moved.

"You've not got your knife into me, have you, Clairette? I didn't mean
to be a beast. I'd have gone to hell for you, that's all, and I wish I
was dead."

"Silly kid!" she faltered, blinking. And then "The Two Bonbons" came
back to doff their costumes, and he was turned out.

Never had Hercule been so puffed up. His knowledge of the juggler's
sufferings made the victory more rapturous still. No longer did
Flouflou stand opposite-prompt to watch Clairette's dance; no longer
did he loiter about the passages after the curtain was down, on the
chance of being permitted to escort her to her doorstep. Such
privileges were the Strong Man's alone. She was affianced to him! At
the swelling thought, his chest became Brobdingnagian. His bounce in
company was now colossal; and it afforded the troupe a popular
entertainment to see him drop to servility in her presence. Her frown
was sufficient to reduce him to a cringe. They called him the "Quick-
change artist."

But Hercule scarcely minded cringing to her; at all events he scarcely
minded it in a tête-à-tête; she was unique. He would have run to her
whistle, and fawned at her kick. She had agreed to marry him in a few
weeks' time, and his head swam at the prospect. Visions of the future
dazzled him. When he saw her to her home after the performance, he used
to talk of the joint engagements they would get by-and-by--"not in
snide shows like this, but in first-class halls"--and of how
tremendously happy they were going to be. And then Clairette would
stifle a sigh and say, "Oh, yes, of course!" and try to persuade
herself that she had no regrets.

Meanwhile the Constellation had not been playing to such good business
as the manager had anticipated. He had done a bold thing in obtaining
Hercule--who, if not so famous as the posters pretended, was at least a
couple of rungs above the other humble mountebanks--and the box-office
ought to have yielded better results. Monsieur Blond was anxious. He
asked himself what the Public wanted. Simultaneously he pondered the
idea of a further attraction, and perspired at the thought of further
expense.

At this time the "Living Statuary" turn was the latest craze in the
variety halls of fashion, and one day poor Blond, casting an expert eye
on his danseuse, questioned why she should not be billed, a town or two
ahead, as "Aphrodite, the Animated Statue, Direct from Paris."

To question was to act. The weather was mild, and, though Clairette
experienced pangs of modesty when she learnt that the Statue's
"costume" was to be applied with a sponge, she could not assert that
she would be in danger of taking a chill. Besides, her salary was to be
raised a trifle.

Blond rehearsed her assiduously (madame Blond in attendance), and, to
his joy, she displayed a remarkable gift for adopting the poses, As
"The Bather" she promised to be entrancing, and, until she wobbled, her
"Nymph at the Fountain" was a pure delight. Moreover, thanks to her
accomplishments as a dancer, she did not wobble very badly.

All the same, when the date of her debut arrived, she was extremely
nervous. Elated by his inspiration. Blond had for once been prodigal
with the printing and on her way to the stage door, it seemed to her
that the name of "Aphrodite" flamed from every hoarding in the place.
Hercule met her with encouraging words, but the ordeal was not one that
she wished to discuss with him, and he took leave of her very much
afraid that she would break down.

What was his astonishment to hear her greeted with salvos of applause!
Blond's enterprise had undoubtedly done the trick. The little hall
rocked with enthusiasm, and, cloaked in a voluminous garment,
"Aphrodite" had to bow her acknowledgments again and again. When the
time came for Hercule's own postures, they fell, by comparison, quite
flat.

"Ciel!" she babbled, on the homeward walk; "who would have supposed
that I should go so strong? If I knock them like this next week too, I
shall make Blond spring a bit more!" She looked towards her lover for
congratulations; so far he had been rather unsatisfactory.

"Oh, well," he mumbled, "it was a very good audience, you know, I never
saw a more generous house--you can't expect to catch on like it
anywhere else."

His tone puzzled her. Though she was quite alive to the weaknesses of
her profession, she could not believe that her triumph could give
umbrage to her fiancé. Hercule, her adorer, to be annoyed because she
had received more "hands" than _he_ had? Oh, it was mean of her to
fancy such a thing!

But she was conscious that he had never wished her "pleasant dreams" so
briefly as he did that night, and the Strong Man, on his side, was
conscious of a strange depression. He could not shake it off. The next
evening, too, he felt it. Wherever he went, he heard praises of her
proportions. The dancing girl had, in fact, proved to be beautifully
formed, and it could not be disputed that "Aphrodite" had wiped
"Hercules" out. Her success was repeated in every town. Morosely now
did he make his biceps jump, and exhibit the splendours of his back--
his poses commanded no more than half the admiration evoked by hers.
His muscles had been eclipsed by her graces. Her body had outvied his
own!

Oh, she was dear to him, but he was an "artiste"! There are trials that
an artiste cannot bear. He hesitated to refer to the subject, but when
he nursed her on his lap, he thought what a great fool the Public was
to prefer this ordinary woman to a marvellous man. He derived less
rapture from nursing her. He eyed her critically. His devotion was
cankered by resentment.

And each evening the resentment deepened. And each evening it forced
him to the wings against his will. He stood watching, though every
burst of approval wrung his heart. Soured, and sexless, he watched her.
An intense jealousy of the slim nude figure posturing in the limelight
took possession of him. It had robbed him of his plaudits! He grew to
hate it, to loathe the white loveliness that had dethroned him. It was
no longer the figure of a mistress that he viewed, but the figure of a
rival. If he had dared, he would have hissed her.

Finally, he found it impossible to address her with civility. And
Clairette married Flouflou, after all.

"Clairette," said Flouflou on the day they were engaged, "if you don't
chuck the Statuary turn, I know that one night I shall massacre the
audience! Won't you give it up for me, peach?"

"So you are beginning your ructions already?" laughed Clairette, "I
told you what a handful you would be. Oh, well then, just as you like,
old dear!--in this business a girl may meet with a worse kind of
jealousy than yours."

"PARDON, YOU ARE MADEMOISELLE GIRARD!"

A newsvendor passed along the terrace of the Café d'Harcourt bawling
_La Voix Parisienne_. The Frenchman at my table made a gesture of
aversion. Our eyes met; I said:

"You do not like _La Voix?_"

He answered with intensity:

"I loathe it."

"What's its offence?"

The wastrel frowned; he fiddled with his frayed and filthy collar.

"You revive painful associations; you ask me for a humiliating story,"
he murmured--and regarded his empty glass.

I can take a hint as well as most people.

He prepared his poison reflectively,

"I will tell you all," he said.

One autumn the Editor of _La Voix_ announced to the assistant-editor:
"I have a great idea for booming the paper."

The assistant-editor gazed at him respectfully. "I propose to prove, in
the public interest, the difficulty of tracing a missing person. I
shall instruct a member of the staff to disappear. I shall publish his
description, and his portrait; and I shall offer a prize to the first
stranger who identifies him."

The assistant-editor had tact and he did not reply that the idea had
already been worked in London with a disappearing lady. He replied:

"What an original scheme!"

"It might be even more effective that the disappearing person should be
a lady," added the chief, like one inspired.

"That," cried the assistant-editor, "is the top brick of genius!"

So the Editor reviewed the brief list of his lady contributors, and
sent for mademoiselle Girard.

His choice fell upon mademoiselle Girard for two reasons. First, she
was not facially remarkable--a smudgy portrait of her would look much
like a smudgy portrait of anybody else. Second, she was not widely
known in Paris, being at the beginning of her career; in fact she was
so inexperienced that hitherto she had been entrusted only with
criticism.

However, the young woman had all her buttons on; and after he had
talked to her, she said cheerfully:

"Without a chaperon I should be conspicuous, and without a fat purse I
should be handicapped. So it is understood that I am to provide myself
with a suitable companion, and to draw upon the office for expenses?"

"Mademoiselle," returned the Editor, "the purpose of the paper is to
portray a drama of life, not to emulate an opera bouffe. I shall
explain more fully. Please figure to yourself that you are a young girl
in an unhappy home. Let us suppose that a stepmother is at fault. You
feel that you can submit to her oppression no longer--you resolve to be
free, or to end your troubles in the Seine. Weeping, you pack your
modest handbag; you cast a last, lingering look at the oil painting of
your own dear mother who is with the Angels in the drawing-room; that
is to say, of your own dear mother in the drawing-room, who is with the
Angels. It still hangs there--your father has insisted on it. Unheard,
you steal from the house; the mysterious city of Paris stretches before
your friendless feet. Can you engage a chaperon? Can you draw upon an
office for expenses? The idea is laughable. You have saved, at a
liberal computation, forty francs; it is necessary for you to find
employment without delay. But what happens? Your father is distracted
by your loss, the thought of the perils that beset you frenzies him; he
invokes the aid of the police. Well, the object of our experiment is to
demonstrate that, in spite of an advertised reward, in spite of a
published portrait, in spite of the Public's zeal itself, you will be
passed on the boulevards and in the slums by myriads of unsuspecting
eyes for weeks."

The girl inquired, much less blithely:

"How long is this experiment to continue?"

"It will continue until you are identified, of course. The longer the
period, the more triumphant our demonstration."

"And I am to have no more than forty francs to exist on all the time?
Monsieur, the job does not call to me."

"You are young and you fail to grasp the value of your opportunity,"
said the Editor, with paternal tolerance. "From such an assignment you
will derive experiences that will be of the highest benefit to your
future. Rejoice, my child! Very soon I shall give you final
instructions."

* * * * *

The Frenchman lifted his glass, which was again empty.

"I trust my voice does not begin to grate upon you?" he asked
solicitously. "Much talking affects my uvula."

I made a trite inquiry.

He answered that, since I was so pressing, he would!

"Listen," he resumed, after a sip.

* * * * *

I am not in a position to say whether the young lady humoured the
Editor by rejoicing, but she obeyed him by going forth. Her portrait
was duly published, _La Volx_ professed ignorance of her
whereabouts from the moment that she left the rue Louis-le-Grand, and a
prize of two thousand francs was to reward the first stranger who said
to her, "Pardon, you are mademoiselle Girard!" In every issue the
Public were urged towards more strenuous efforts to discover her, and
all Paris bought the paper, with amusement, to learn if she was found
yet.

At the beginning of the week, misgivings were ingeniously hinted as to
her fate. On the tenth day the Editor printed a letter (which he had
written himself), hotly condemning him for exposing a poor girl to
danger. It was signed "An Indignant Parent," and teemed with the most
stimulating suggestions. Copies of _La Voix_ were as prevalent as
gingerbread pigs at a fair. When a fortnight had passed, the prize was
increased to three thousand francs, and many young men resigned less
promising occupations, such as authorship and the fine arts, in order
to devote themselves exclusively to the search.

Personally, I had something else to do. I am an author, as you may have
divined by the rhythm of my impromptu phrases, but it happened at that
time that a play of mine had been accepted at the Grand Guignol,
subject to an additional thrill being introduced, and I preferred
pondering for a thrill in my garret to hunting for a pin in a haystack,

Enfin, I completed the drama to the Management's satisfaction, and
received a comely little cheque in payment. It was the first cheque
that I had seen for years! I danced with joy, I paid for a shampoo, I
committed no end of follies.

How good is life when one is rich--immediately one joins the optimists!
I feared the future no longer; I was hungry, and I let my appetite do
as it liked with me. I lodged in Montmartre, and it was my custom to
eat at the unpretentious Bel Avenir, when I ate at all; but that
morning my mood demanded something resplendent. Rumours had reached me
of a certain Café Eclatant, where for one-franc-fifty one might
breakfast on five epicurean courses amid palms and plush. I said I
would go the pace, I adventured the Café Eclatant.

The interior realised my most sanguine expectations. The room would
have done no discredit to the Grand Boulevard. I was so much
exhilarated, that I ordered a half bottle of barsac, though I noted
that here it cost ten sous more than at the Bel Avenir, and I prepared
to enjoy the unwonted extravagance of my repast to the concluding
crumb.

Monsieur, there are events in life of which it is difficult to speak
without bitterness. When I recall the disappointment of that déjeuner
at the Café Eclatant, my heart swells with rage. The soup was slush,
the fish tasted like washing, the meat was rags. Dessert consisted of
wizened grapes; the one thing fit to eat was the cheese.

As I meditated on the sum I had squandered, I could have cried with
mortification, and, to make matters more pathetic still, I was as
hungry as ever. I sat seeking some caustic epigram to wither the dame-
de-comptoir; and presently the door opened and another victim entered.
Her face was pale and interesting. I saw, by her hesitation, that the
place was strange to her. An accomplice of the chief brigand pounced on
her immediately, and bore her to a table opposite. The misguided girl
was about to waste one-franc-fifty. I felt that I owed a duty to her in
this crisis. The moment called for instant action; before she could
decide between slush and hors d'oeuvres, I pulled an envelope from my
pocket, scribbled a warning, and expressed it to her by the robber who
had brought my bill.

I had written, "The déjeuner is dreadful. Escape!"

It reached her in the nick of time. She read the wrong side of the
envelope first, and was evidently puzzled. Then she turned it over. A
look of surprise, a look of thankfulness, rendered her still more
fascinating. I perceived that she was inventing an excuse--that she
pretended to have forgotten something. She rose hastily and went out.
My barsac was finished--shocking bad tipple it was for the money!--and
now I, too, got up and left. When I issued into the street, I found her
waiting for me.

"I think you are the knight to whom my gratitude is due, monsieur?" she
murmured graciously.

"Mademoiselle, you magnify the importance of my service," said I.

"It was a gallant deed," she insisted. "You have saved me from a great
misfortune--perhaps greater than you understand. My finances are at
their lowest ebb, and to have beggared myself for an impossible meal
would have been no joke. Thanks to you, I may still breakfast
satisfactorily somewhere else. Is it treating you like Baedeker's Guide
to the Continent if I ask you to recommend a restaurant?"

"Upon my word, I doubt if you can do better than the Bel Avenir," I
said. "A moment ago I was lacerated with regret that I had not gone
there. But there is a silver lining to every hash-house, and my choice
of the Eclatant has procured me the glory of your greeting."

She averted her gaze with a faint smile. She had certainly charm.
Admiration and hunger prompted me to further recklessness. I said:
"This five-course swindle has left me ravenous, and I am bound for the
Avenir myself. May I beg for the rapture of your company there?"

"Monsieur, you overwhelm me with chivalries," she replied; "I shall be
enchanted." And, five minutes later, the Incognita and I were polishing
off smoked herring and potato salad, like people who had no time to
lose.

"Do you generally come here?" she asked, when we had leisure.

"Infrequently--no oftener than I have a franc in my pocket. But details
of my fasts would form a poor recital, and I make a capital listener."

"You also make a capital luncheon," she remarked.

"Do not prevaricate," I said severely. "I am consumed with impatience
to hear the history of your life. Be merciful and communicative."

"Well, I am young, fair, accomplished, and of an amiable disposition,"
she began, leaning her elbows on the table.

"These things are obvious. Come to confidences! What is your
profession?"

"By profession I am a clairvoyante and palmist," she announced.

I gave her my hand at once, and I was in two minds about giving her my
heart. "Proceed," I told her; "reveal my destiny!"

Her air was profoundly mystical.

"In the days of your youth," she proclaimed, "your line of authorship
is crossed by many rejections."

"Oh, I am an author, hein? That's a fine thing in guesses!"

"It is written!" she affirmed, still scrutinising my palm. "Your
dramatic lines are--er--countless; some of them are good. I see danger;
you should beware of--I cannot distinguish!" she clasped her brow and
shivered. "Ah, I have it! You should beware of hackneyed situations."

"So the Drama is 'written,' too, is it?"

"It is written, and I discern that it is already accepted," she said.
"For at the juncture where the Eclatant is eclipsed by the Café du Bel
Avenir, there is a distinct manifestation of cash."

"Marvellous!" I exclaimed. "And will the sybil explain why she surmised
that I was a dramatic author?"

"Even so!" she boasted. "You wrote your message to me on an envelope
from the Dramatic Authors' Society, What do you think of my palmistry?"

"I cannot say that I think it is your career. You are more likely an
author yourself, or an actress, or a journalist. Perhaps you are
mademoiselle Girard. Mon Dieu! What a piece of luck for me if I found
mademoiselle Girard!"

"And what a piece of luck for her!"

"Why for her?"

"Well, she cannot be having a rollicking time. It would not break her
heart to be found, one may be certain."

"In that case," I said, "she has only to give some one the tip."

"Oh, that would be dishonourable--she has a duty to fulfil to _La
Voix_, she must wait till she is identified. And, remember, there
must be no half measures--the young man must have the intuition to say
firmly, 'Pardon, you are mademoiselle Girard!'"

Her earnest gaze met mine for an instant.

"As a matter of fact," I said, "I do not see how anyone can be expected
to identify her in the street. The portrait shows her without a hat,
and a hat makes a tremendous difference."

She sighed.

"What is your trouble?" I asked.

"Man!"

"Man? Tell me his address, that I may slay him."

"The whole sex. Its impenetrable stupidity. If mademoiselle Girard is
ever recognised it will be by a woman. Man has no instinct."

"May one inquire the cause of these flattering reflections?"

Her laughter pealed.

"Let us talk of something else!" she commanded. "When does your play
come out, monsieur Thibaud Hippolyte Duboc? You see I learnt your name,
too."

"You have all the advantages," I complained. "Will you take a second
cup of coffee, mademoiselle--er--?"

"No, thank you, monsieur," she said.

"Well, will you take a liqueur, mademoiselle--er--?"

"Mademoiselle Er will not take a liqueur either," she pouted.

"Well, will you take a walk?"

In the end we took an omnibus, and then we proceeded to the Buttes-
Chaumont--and very agreeable I found it there. We chose a seat in the
shade, and I began to feel that I had known her all my life. More
precisely, perhaps, I began to feel that I wished to know her all my
life. A little breeze was whispering through the boughs, and she lifted
her face to it gratefully.

"How delicious," she said. "I should like to take off my hat."

"Do, then!"

"Shall I?"

"Why not?"

She pulled the pins out slowly, and laid the hat aside, and raised her
eyes to me, smiling.

"Well?" she murmured.

"You are beautiful."

"Is that all?"

"What more would you have me say?"

The glare of sunshine mellowed while we talked; clocks struck unheeded
by me. It amazed me at last, to discover how long she had held me
captive. Still, I knew nothing of her affairs, excepting that she was
hard up--that, by comparison, I was temporarily prosperous. I did not
even know where she meant to go when we moved, nor did it appear
necessary to inquire yet, for the sentiment in her tones assured me
that she would dismiss me with no heartless haste.

Two men came strolling past the bench, and one of them stared at her so
impudently that I burned with indignation. After looking duels at him,
I turned to her, to deprecate his rudeness. Judge of my dismay when I
perceived that she was shuddering with emotion! Jealousy blackened the
gardens to me.

"Who is that man?" I exclaimed.

"I don't know," she faltered.

"You don't know? But you are trembling?"

"Am I?"

"I ask you who he is? How he dared to look at you like that?"

"Am I responsible for the way a loafer looks?"

"You are responsible for your agitation; I ask you to explain it!"

"And by what right, after all?"

"By what right? Wretched, false-hearted girl! Has our communion for
hours given me no rights? Am I a Frenchman or a flounder? Answer; you
are condemning me to tortures! Why did you tremble under that man's
eyes?"

"I was afraid," she stammered.

"Afraid?"

"Afraid that he had recognised me."

"Mon Dieu! Of what are you guilty?"

"I am not guilty."

"Of what are you accused?"

"I can tell you nothing," she gasped.

"You shall tell me all!" I swore. "In the name of my love I demand it
of you. Speak! Why did you fear his recognition?"

Her head drooped pitifully.

"Because I wanted _you_ to recognise me first!"

For a tense moment I gazed at her bewildered. In the next, I cursed
myself for a fool--I blushed for my suspicions, my obtuseness--I sought
dizzily the words, the prescribed words that I must speak.

"Pardon," I shouted, "you are mademoiselle Girard!"

She sobbed.

"What have I done?"

"You have done a great and generous thing! I am humbled before you. I
bless you. I don't know how I could have been such a dolt as not to
guess!"

"Oh, how I wish you had guessed! You have been so kind to me, I longed
for you to guess! And now I have betrayed a trust. I have been a bad
journalist."

"You have been a good friend. Courage! No one will ever hear what has
happened. And, anyhow, it is all the same to the paper whether the
prize is paid to me, or to somebody else."

"Yes," she admitted. "That is true. Oh, when that man turned round and
looked at me, I thought your chance had gone! I made sure it was all
over! Well"--she forced a smile--"it is no use my being sorry, is it?
Mademoiselle Girard is 'found'!"

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