A Chair on The Boulevard by Leonard Merrick

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"But you must not be sorry," I said. "Come, a disagreeable job is
finished! And you have the additional satisfaction of knowing the money
goes to a fellow you don't altogether dislike. What do I have to do
about it, hein?"

"You must telegraph to _La Voix_ at once that you have identified
me. Then, in the morning you should go to the office. I can depend upon
you, can't I? You will never give me away to a living soul?"

"Word of honour!" I vowed. "What do you take me for? Do tell me you
don't regret! There's a dear. Tell me you don't regret."

She threw back her head dauntlessly.

"No," she said, "I don't regret. Only, in justice to me, remember that
I was treacherous in order to do a turn to you, not to escape my own
discomforts. To be candid, I believe that I wish we had met in two or
three weeks' time, instead of to-day!"

"Why that?"

"In two or three weeks' time the prize was to be raised to five
thousand francs, to keep up the excitement."

"Ciel!" I cried. "Five thousand francs? Do you know that positively?"

"Oh, yes!" She nodded. "It is arranged."

Five thousand francs would have been a fortune to me.

Neither of us spoke for some seconds. Then, continuing my thoughts
aloud, I said:

"After all, why should I telegraph at once? What is to prevent
_my_ waiting the two or three weeks?"

"Oh, to allow you to do that would be scandalous of me," she demurred;
"I should be actually swindling _La Voix_."

"_La Voix_ will obtain a magnificent advertisement for its outlay,
which is all that it desires," I argued; "the boom will be worth five
thousand francs to _La Voix_, there is no question of swindling.
Five thousand francs is a sum with which one might--"

"It can't be done," she persisted.

"To a man in my position," I said, "five thousand francs--"

"It is impossible for another reason! As I told you, I am at the end of
my resources. I rose this morning, praying that I should be identified.
My landlady has turned me out, and I have no more than the price of one
meal to go on with."

"You goose!" I laughed. "And if I were going to net five thousand
francs by your tip three weeks hence, don't you suppose it would be
good enough for me to pay your expenses in the meanwhile?"

She was silent again. I understood that her conscience was a more
formidable drawback than her penury.

Monsieur, I said that you had asked me for a humiliating story--that I
had poignant memories connected with _La Voix_. Here is one of
them: I set myself to override her scruples--to render this girl false
to her employers.

Many men might have done so without remorse. But not a man like me; I
am naturally high-minded, of the most sensitive honour. Even when I
conquered at last, I could not triumph. Far from it. I blamed the force
of circumstances furiously for compelling me to sacrifice my principles
to my purse. I am no adventurer, hein?

Enfin, the problem now was, where was I to hide her? Her portmanteau
she had deposited at a railway station. Should we have it removed to
another bedroom, or to a pension de famille? Both plans were open to
objections--a bedroom would necessitate her still challenging discovery
in restaurants; and at a pension de famille she would run risks on the
premises. A pretty kettle of fish if someone spotted her while I was
holding for the rise!

We debated the point exhaustively. And, having yielded, she displayed
keen intelligence in arranging for the best. Finally she declared:

"Of the two things, a pension de famille is to be preferred. Install me
there as your sister! Remember that people picture me a wanderer and
alone; therefore, a lady who is introduced by her brother is in small
danger of being recognized as mademoiselle Girard."

She was right, I perceived it. We found an excellent house, where I was
unknown. I presented her as "mademoiselle Henriette Delafosse, my
sister." And, to be on the safe side, I engaged a private sitting-room
for her, explaining that she was somewhat neurasthenic.

Good! I waited breathless now for every edition of _La Voix_,
thinking that her price might advance even sooner. But she closed at
three thousand francs daily. Girard stood firm, but there was no upward
tendency. Every afternoon I called on her. She talked about that
conscience of hers again sometimes, and it did not prove quite so
delightful as I had expected, when I paid a visit. Especially when I
paid a bill as well.

Monsieur, my disposition is most liberal. But when I had been mulcted
in the second bill, I confess that I became a trifle downcast. I had
prepared myself to nourish the girl wholesomely, as befitted the
circumstances, but I had said nothing of vin supérieur, and I noted
that she had been asking for it as if it were cider in Normandy. The
list of extras in those bills gave me the jumps, and the charges made
for scented soap were nothing short of an outrage.

Well, there was but one more week to bear now, and during the week I
allowed her to revel. This, though I was approaching embarrassments
_re_ the rent of my own attic!

How strange is life! Who shall foretell the future? I had wrestled with
my self-respect, I had nursed an investment which promised stupendous
profits were I capable of carrying my scheme to a callous conclusion.
But could I do it? Did I claim the prize, which had already cost me so
much? Monsieur, you are a man of the world, a judge of character: I ask
you, did I claim the prize, or did I not?

He threw himself back in the chair, and toyed significantly with his
empty glass.

I regarded him, his irresolute mouth, his receding chin, his
unquenchable thirst for absinthe. I regarded him and I paid him no
compliments. I said:

"You claimed the prize."

"You have made a bloomer," he answered. "I did not claim it. The prize
was claimed by the wife of a piano-tuner, who had discovered
mademoiselle Girard employed in the artificial flower department of the
Printemps. I read the bloodcurdling news at nine o'clock on a Friday
evening; and at 9:15, when I hurled myself, panic-stricken, into the
pension de famille, the impostor who had tricked me out of three weeks'
board and lodging had already done a bolt. I have never had the joy of
meeting her since."

HOW TRICOTKIN SAW LONDON

One day Tricotrin had eighty francs, and he said to Pitou, who was no
less prosperous, "Good-bye to follies, for we have arrived at an epoch
in our careers! Do not let us waste our substance on trivial pleasures,
or paying the landlord--let us make it a provision for our future!"

"I rejoice to hear you speak for once like a business-man," returned
Pitou. "Do you recommend gilt-edged securities, or an investment in
land?"

"I would suggest, rather, that we apply our riches to some educational
purpose, such as travel," explained the poet, producing a railway
company's handbill. "By this means we shall enlarge our minds, and
somebody has pretended that 'knowledge is power'--it must have been the
principal of a school. It is not for nothing that we have l'Entente
Cordiale--you may now spend a Sunday in London at about the cost of one
of Madeleine's hats."

"These London Sunday baits may be a plot of the English Government to
exterminate us; I have read that none but English people can survive a
Sunday in London."

"No, it is not that, for we are offered the choice of a town called
'Eastbourne,' Listen, they tell me that in London the price of
cigarettes is so much lower than with us that, to a bold smuggler, the
trip is a veritable economy. Matches too! Matches are so cheap in
England that the practice of stealing them from café tables has not
been introduced."

"Well, your synopsis will be considered, and reported on in due
course," announced the composer, after a pause; "but at the moment of
going to press we would rather buy a hat for Madeleine."

And as Madeleine also thought that this would be better for him, it was
decided that Tricotrin should set forth alone.

His departure for a foreign country was a solemn event. A small party
of the Montmartrois had marched with him to the station, and more than
once, in view of their anxious faces, the young man acknowledged
mentally that he was committed to a harebrained scheme. "Heaven
protect thee, my comrade!" faltered Pitou. "Is thy vocabulary safely in
thy pocket? Remember that 'un bock' is 'glass of beer.'"

"Here is a small packet of chocolate," murmured Lajeunie, embracing
him; "in England, nothing to eat can be obtained on Sunday, and
chocolate is very sustaining."

"And listen!" shouted Sanquereau; "on no account take off thy hat to
strangers, nor laugh in the streets; the first is 'mad' over there, and
the second is 'immoral.' May le bon Dieu have thee in His keeping! We
count the hours till thy return!"

Then the train sped out into the night, and the poet realised that home
and friends were left behind.

He would have been less than a poet if, in the first few minutes, the
pathos of the situation had not gripped him by the throat. Vague,
elusive fancies stirred his brain; he remembered the franc that he owed
at the Café du Bel Avenir, and wondered if madame would speak gently of
him were he lost at sea. Tender memories of past loves dimmed his eyes,
and he reflected how poignant it would be to perish before the papers
would give him any obituary notices. Regarding his fellow passengers,
he lamented that none of them was a beautiful girl, for it was an
occasion on which woman's sympathy would have been sweet; indeed he
proceeded to invent some of the things that they might have said to
each other. Inwardly he was still resenting the faces of his travelling
companions when the train reached Dieppe.

"It is material for my biography," he soliloquised, as he crept down
the gangway. "Few who saw the young man step firmly on to the good
ship's deck conjectured the emotions that tore his heart; few
recognised him to be Tricotrin, whose work was at that date practically
unknown.'" But as a matter of fact he did arouse conjectures of a kind,
for when the boat moved from the quay, he could not resist the
opportunity to murmur, "My France, farewell!" with an appropriate
gesture.

His repose during the night was fitful, and when Victoria was reached
at last, he was conscious of some bodily fatigue. However, his mind was
never slow to receive impressions, and at the sight of the scaffolding,
he whipped out his note-book on the platform. He wrote, "The English
are extraordinarily prompt of action. One day it was discerned that la
gare Victoria was capable of improvement--no sooner was the fact
detected than an army of contractors was feverishly enlarging it."
Pleased that his journey was already yielding such good results, the
poet lit a Caporal, and sauntered through the yard.

Though the sky promised a fine Sunday, his view of London at this early
hour was not inspiriting. He loitered blankly, debating which way to
wander. Presently the outlook brightened--he observed a very dainty
pair of shoes and ankles coming through the station doors. Fearing that
the face might be unworthy of them, he did not venture to raise his
gaze until the girl had nearly reached the gate, but when he took the
risk, he was rewarded by the discovery that her features were as
piquant as her feet.

She came towards him slowly, and now he remarked that she had a grudge
against Fate; her pretty lips were compressed, her beautiful eyes
gloomy with grievance, the fairness of her brow was darkened by a
frown. "Well," mused Tricotrin, "though the object of my visit is
educational, the exigencies of my situation clearly compel me to ask
this young lady to direct me somewhere. Can I summon up enough English
before she has passed?"

It was a trying moment, for already she was nearly abreast of him.
Forgetful of Sanquereau's instructions, as well as of most of the
phrases that had been committed to memory, the poet swept off his hat,
and stammered, "Mees, I beg your pardon!"

She turned the aggrieved eyes to him inquiringly. Although she had
paused, she made no answer. Was his accent so atrocious as all that?
For a second they regarded each other dumbly, while a blush of
embarrassment mantled the young man's cheeks. Then, with a little
gesture of apology, the girl said in French--

"I do not speak English, monsieur."

"Oh, le bon Dieu be praised!" cried Tricotrin, for all the world as if
he had been back on the boulevard Rochechouart. "I was dazed with
travel, or I should have recognized you were a Frenchwoman. Did you,
too, leave Paris last night, mademoiselle?"

"Ah, no," said the girl pensively. "I have been in London for months. I
hoped to meet a friend who wrote that she would arrive this morning,
but,"--she sighed--"she has not come!"

"She will arrive to-night instead, no doubt; I should have no anxiety.
You may be certain she will arrive to-night, and this contretemps will
be forgotten."

She pouted. "I was looking forward so much to seeing her! To a stranger
who cannot speak the language, London is as triste as a tomb. Today, I
was to have had a companion, and now--"

"Indeed, I sympathise with you," replied Tricotrin. "But is it really
so--London is what you say? You alarm me. I am here absolutely alone.
Where, then, shall I go this morning?"

"There are churches," she said, after some reflection.

"And besides?"

"W-e-ll, there are other churches."

"Of course, such things can be seen in Paris also," demurred Tricotrin.
"It is not essential to go abroad to say one's prayers. If I may take
the liberty of applying to you, in which direction would you recommend
me to turn my steps? For example, where is Soho--is it too far for a
walk?"

"No, monsieur, it is not very far--it is the quarter in which I lodge."

"And do you return there now?" he asked eagerly.

"What else is there for me to do? My friend has not come, and--"

"Mademoiselle," exclaimed the poet, "I entreat you to have mercy on a
compatriot! Permit me, at least, to seek Soho in your company--do not,
I implore you, leave me homeless and helpless in a strange land! I
notice an eccentric vehicle which instinct whispers is an English
'hansom.' For years I have aspired to drive in an English hansom once.
It is in your power to fulfil my dream with effulgence. Will you
consent to instruct the acrobat who is performing with a whip, and to
take a seat in the English hansom beside me?"

"Monsieur," responded the pretty girl graciously, "I shall be charmed;"
and, romantic as the incident appears, the next minute they were
driving along Victoria Street together.

"The good kind fairies have certainly taken me under their wings,"
declared Tricotrin, as he admired his companion's profile. "It was
worth enduring the pangs of exile, to meet with such kindness as you
have shown me."

"I am afraid you will speedily pronounce the fairies fickle," said she,
"for our drive will soon be over, and you will find Soho no fairyland."

"How comes it that your place of residence is so unsuitable to you,
mademoiselle?"

"I lodge in the neighbourhood of the coiffeur's where I am employed,
monsieur--where I handle the tails and transformations. Our specialty
is artificial eyelashes; the attachment is quite invisible--and the
result absolutely ravishing! No," she added hurriedly; "I am not
wearing a pair myself, these are quite natural, word of honour! But we
undertake to impart to any eyes the gaze soulful, or the twinkle
coquettish, as the customer desires--as an artist, I assure you that
these expressions are due, less to the eyes themselves than to the
shade, and especially the curve, of the lashes. Many a woman has
entered our saloon entirely insignificant, and turned the heads of all
the men in the street when she left."

"You interest me profoundly," said Tricotrin, "At the same time, I
shall never know in future whether I am inspired by a woman's eyes, or
the skill of her coiffeur. I say 'in future.' I entertain no doubt as
to the source of my sensations now."

She rewarded him for this by a glance that dizzied him, and soon
afterwards the hansom came to a standstill amid an overpowering odour
of cheese.

"We have arrived!" she proclaimed; "so it is now that we part,
monsieur. For me there is the little lodging--for you the enormous
London. It is Soho--wander where you will! There are restaurants
hereabouts where one may find coffee and rolls at a modest price.
Accept my thanks for your escort, and let us say bonjour."

"Are the restaurants so unsavoury that you decline to honour them?" he
questioned.

"_Comment?"_

"Will you not bear me company? Or, better still, will you not let me
command a coffee-pot for two to be sent to your apartment, and invite
me to rest after my voyage?"

She hesitated. "My apartment is very humble," she said, "and--well, I
have never done a thing like that! It would not be correct. What would
you think of me if I consented?"

"I will think all that you would have me think," vowed Tricotrin.
"Come, take pity on me! Ask me in, and afterwards we will admire the
sights of London together. Where can the coffee-pot be ordered?"

"As for that," she said, "there is no necessity--I have a little
breakfast for two already prepared. Enfin, it is understood--we are to
be good comrades, and nothing more? Will you give yourself the trouble
of entering, monsieur?"

The bedroom to which they mounted was shabby, but far from
unattractive. The mantelshelf was brightened with flowers, a piano was
squeezed into a corner, and Tricotrin had scarcely put aside his hat
when he was greeted by the odour of coffee as excellent as was ever
served in the Café de la Régence.

"If this is London," he cried, "I have no fault to find with it! I own
it is abominably selfish of me, but I cannot bring myself to regret
that your friend failed to arrive this morning; indeed, I shudder to
think what would have become of me if we had not met. Will you mention
the name that is to figure in my benisons?"

"My name is Rosalie Durand, monsieur."

"And mine is Gustave Tricotrin, mademoiselle--always your slave. I do
not doubt that in Paris, at this moment, there are men who picture me
tramping the pavement, desolate. Not one of them but would envy me from
his heart if he could see my situation!"

"It might have fallen out worse, I admit," said the girl. "My own day
was at the point of being dull to tears--and here I am chattering as if
I hadn't a grief in the world! Let me persuade you to take another
croissant!"

"Fervently I wish that appearances were not deceptive!" said Tricotrin,
who required little persuasion. "Is it indiscreet to inquire to what
griefs you allude? Upon my word, your position appears a very pretty
one! Where do those dainty shoes pinch you?"

"They are not easy on foreign soil, monsieur. When I reflect that you
go back to-night, that to-morrow you will be again in Paris, I could
gnash my teeth with jealousy."

"But, ma foi!" returned Tricotrin, "to a girl of brains, like yourself,
Paris is always open. Are there no customers for eyelashes in France?
Why condemn yourself to gnash with jealousy when there is a living to
be earned at home?"

"There are several reasons," she said; "for one thing, I am an
extravagant little hussy and haven't saved enough for a ticket."

"I have heard no reason yet! At the moment my pocket is nicely lined--
you might return with me this evening,"

"Are you mad by any chance?" she laughed.

"It seems to me the natural course."

"Well, I should not be free to go like that, even if I took your money.
I am a business woman, you see, who does not sacrifice her interests to
her sentiment. What is your own career, monsieur Tricotrin?"

"I am a poet, And when I am back in Paris I shall write verse about
you. It shall be an impression of London--the great city as it reveals
itself to a stranger whose eyes are dazzled by the girl he loves."

"Forbidden ground!" she cried, admonishing him with a finger. "No
dazzle!"

"I apologise," said Tricotrin; "you shall find me a poet of my word.
Why, I declare," he exclaimed, glancing from the window, "it has begun
to rain!"

"Well, fortunately, we have plenty of time; there is all day for our
excursion and we can wait for the weather to improve. If you do not
object to smoking while I sing, monsieur, I propose a little music to
go on with."

And it turned out that this singular assistant of a hairdresser had a
very sympathetic voice, and no contemptible repertoire. Although the
sky had now broken its promise shamefully and the downpour continued,
Tricotrin found nothing to complain of. By midday one would have said
that they had been comrades for years. By luncheon both had ceased even
to regard the rain. And before evening approached, they had confided to
each other their histories from the day of their birth.

Ascertaining that the basement boasted a smudgy servant girl, who was
to be dispatched for entrées and sauterne, Tricotrin drew up the menu
of a magnificent dinner as the climax. It was conceded that at this
repast he should be the host; and having placed him on oath behind a
screen, Rosalie proceeded to make an elaborate toilette in honour of
his entertainment.

Determined, as he had said, to prove himself a poet of his word, the
young man remained behind the screen as motionless as a waxwork, but
the temptation to peep was tremendous, and at the whispering of a silk
petticoat he was unable to repress a groan.

"What ails you?" she demanded, the whispering suspended.

"I merely expire with impatience to meet you again."

"Monsieur, I am hastening to the trysting-place, And my costume will be
suitable to the occasion, believe me!"

"In that case, if you are not quick, you will have to wear crape.
However, proceed, I can suffer with the best of them.... Are you
certain that I can be of no assistance? I feel selfish, idling here
like this. Besides, since I am able to see--"

"See?" she screamed.

"--see no reason why you should refuse my aid, my plight is worse
still. What are you doing now?"

"My hair," she announced.

"Surely it would not be improper for me to view a head of hair?"

"Perhaps not, monsieur; but my head is on my shoulders--which makes a
difference."

"Mademoiselle," sighed Tricotrin, "never have I known a young lady
whose head was on her shoulders more tightly. May I crave one
indulgence? My imprisonment would be less painful for a cigarette, and
I cannot reach the matches--will you consent to pass them round the
screen?"

"It is against the rules. But I will consent to throw them over the
top. Catch! Why don't you say 'thank you'?"

"Because your unjust suspicion killed me; I now need nothing but
immortelles, and at dinner I will compose my epitaph. If I am not
mistaken, I already smell the soup on the stairs."

And the soup had scarcely entered when his guest presented herself.
Paquin and the Fairy Godmother would have approved her gown; as to her
coiffure, if her employer could have seen it, he would have wanted to
put her in his window. Tricotrin gave her his arm with stupefaction.
"Upon my word," he faltered, "you awe me. I am now overwhelmed with
embarrassment that I had the temerity to tease you while you dressed.
And what shall I say of the host who is churl enough to welcome you in
such a shabby coat?"

The cork went pop, their tongues went nineteen to the dozen, and the
time went so rapidly that a little clock on the chest of drawers became
a positive killjoy.

"By all the laws of dramatic effect," remarked the poet, as they
trifled with the almonds and raisins, "you will now divulge that the
fashionable lady before me is no 'Rosalie Durand,' of a hairdresser's
shop, but madame la comtesse de Thrilling Mystery. Every novel reader
would be aware that at this stage you will demand some dangerous
service of me, and that I shall forthwith risk my life and win your
love."

"Bien sûr! That is how it ought to be," she agreed.

"Is it impossible?"

"That I can be a countess?"

"Well, we will waive the 'countess'; and for that matter I will not
insist on risking my life; but what about the love?"

"Without the rest," she demurred, "the situation would be too
commonplace. When I can tell you that I am a countess I will say also
that I love you; to-night I am Rosalie Durand, a friend. By the way,
now I come to think of it, I shall be all that you have seen in
London!"

"Why, I declare, so you will!" exclaimed Tricotrin. "Really this is a
nice thing! I come to England for the benefit of my education--and when
it is almost time for me to return, I find that I have spent the whole
of the day in a room."

"But you have, at least, had a unique experience in it?" she queried
with a whimsical smile.

"Well, yes; my journey has certainly yielded an adventure that none of
my acquaintances would credit! Do you laugh at me?"

"Far from it; by-and-by I may even spare a tear for you--if you do not
spoil the day by being clumsy at the end."

"Ah, Rosalie," cried the susceptible poet, "how can I bear the parting?
What is France without you? I am no longer a Frenchman--my true home is
now England! My heart will hunger for it, my thoughts will stretch
themselves to it across the sea; banished to Montmartre, I shall mourn
daily for the white cliffs of Albion, for Soho, and for you!"

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