A Chair on The Boulevard by Leonard Merrick

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Monsieur, if we sat 'ere in the restaurant until it closed, I could not
describe to you how passionately Tricotrin, the devoted Tricotrin,
worked for her. He has studied her without cease; he has studied her
attitudes, her expressions. He has taken his lyric as if it were
material and cut it to her figure; he has taken it as if it were
plaster, and moulded it upon her mannerisms. There was not a
_moue_ that she made, not a pretty trick that she had, not a word
that she liked to sing for which he did not provide an opportunity. At
the last line, when the pen fell from his fingers, he shouted to Pitou,
"Comrade, be brave--I have won her!"

And Pitou? Monsieur, if we sat 'ere till they prepared the tables for
déjeuner to-morrow, I could not describe to you how passionately Pitou,
the devoted Pitou, worked that she might have a grand popularity by his
music. At dawn, when he has found that _strepitoso_ passage, which
is the hurrying of the feet, he wakened the poet and cried, "Mon ami, I
pity you--she is mine!" It was the souls of two men when it was
finished, that comic song they made for her! It was the song the organ
has ground out--"Partant pour le Moulin."

And then they rehearsed it, the three of them, over and over, inventing
always new effects. And then the night for the song is arrived. It has
rained all day, and they have walked together in the rain--the singer,
and the men who loved her, both--to the little café-concert where she
would appear.

They tremble in the room, among the crowd, Pitou and Tricotrin; they
are agitated. There are others who sing--it says nothing to them. In
the room, in the Future, there is only Paulette!

It is very hot in the café-concert, and there is too much noise. At
last they ask her: "Is she nervous?" She shakes her head: "Mais non!"
She smiles to them.

Attend! It is her turn. Ouf; but it is hot in the café-concert, and
there is too much noise! She mounts the platform. The audience are
careless; it continues, the jingle of the glasses, the hum of talk. She
begins. Beneath the table Tricotrin has gripped the hand of Pitou.

Wait! Regard the crowd that look at her! The glasses are silent, now,
hein? The talk has stopped. To a great actress is come her chance.
There is _not_ too much noise in the café-concert!

But, when she finished! What an uproar! Never will she forget it. A
thousand times she has told the story, how it was written--the song--
and how it made her famous. Before two weeks she was the attraction of
the Ambassadeurs, and all Paris has raved of Paulette Fleury.

Tricotrin and Pitou were mad with joy. Certainly Paris did not rave of
Pitou nor Tricotrin--there have not been many that remembered who wrote
the song; and it earned no money for them, either, because it was hers
--the gift of their love. Still, they were enraptured. To both of them
she owed equally, and more than ever it was a question which would be
the happy man.

Listen! When they are gone to call on her one afternoon she was not at
'ome. What had happened? I shall tell you. There was a noodle, rich--
what you call a "Johnnie in the Stalls"--who became infatuated with her
at the Ambassadeurs. He whistled "Partant pour le Moulin" all the days,
and went to hear it all the nights. Well, she was not at 'ome because
she had married him. Absolutely they were married! Her lovers have been
told it at the door.

What a moment! Figure yourself what they have suffered, both! They had
worshipped her, they had made sacrifices for her, they had created for
her her grand success; and, as a consequence of that song, she was the
wife of the "Johnnie in the Stalls"!

* * * * *

Far down the street, but yet distinct, the organ revived the tune
again. My Frenchman shuddered, and got up.

"I cannot support it," he murmured. "You understand? The associations
are too pathetic."

"They must be harrowing," I said. "Before you go, there is one thing I
should like to ask you, if I may. Have I had the honour of meeting
monsieur Tricotrin, or monsieur Pitou?"

He stroked his hat, and gazed at me in sad surprise. "Ah, but neither,
monsieur," he groaned. "The associations are much more 'arrowing than
that--I was the 'Johnnie in the Stalls'!"

TRICOTRIN ENTERTAINS

One night when Pitou went home, an unaccustomed perfume floated to
meet him on the stairs. He climbed them in amazement.

"If we lived in an age of miracles I should conclude that Tricotrin was
smoking a cigar," he said to himself. "What can it be?"

The pair occupied a garret in the rue des Trois Frères at this time,
where their window, in sore need of repairs, commanded an unrivalled
view of the dirty steps descending to the passage des Abbesses.
To-night, behold Tricotrin pacing the garret with dignity, between
his lips an Havannah that could have cost no less than a franc. The
composer rubbed his eyes.

"Have they made you an Academician?" he stammered. "Or has your uncle,
the silk manufacturer, died and left you his business?"

"My friend," replied the poet, "prepare yourself forthwith for 'a New
and Powerful Serial of the Most Absorbing Interest'! I am no longer the
young man who went out this evening--I am a celebrity."

"I thought," said the composer, "that it couldn't be you when I saw the
cigar."

"Figure yourself," continued Tricotrin, "that at nine o'clock I was
wandering on the Grand Boulevard with a thirst that could have consumed
a brewery. I might mention that I had also empty pockets, but--"

"It would be to pad the powerful Serial shamelessly," said Pitou:
"there are things that one takes for granted."

"At the corner of the place de l'Opera a fellow passed me whom I knew
and yet did not know; I could not recall where it was we had met. I
turned and followed him, racking my brains the while. Suddenly I
remembered--"

"Pardon me," interrupted the composer, "but I have read _Bel-Ami_
myself. Oh, it is quite evident that you are a celebrity--you have
already forgotten how to be original!"

"There is a resemblance, it is true," admitted Tricotrin. "However,
Maupassant had no copyright in the place de l'Opera. I say that I
remembered the man; I had known him when he was in the advertisement
business in Lyons. Well, we have supped together; he is in a position
to do me a service--he will ask an editor to publish an Interview with
me!"

"An Interview?" exclaimed Pitou. "You are to be Interviewed? Ah, no, my
poor friend, too much meat has unhinged your reason! Go to sleep--you
will be hungry and sane again to-morrow."

"It will startle some of them, hein? 'Gustave Tricotrin at Home'--in
the illustrated edition of _Le Demi-Mot?_"

"Illustrated?" gasped Pitou. He looked round the attic. "Did I
understand you to say 'illustrated'?"

"Well, well," said Tricotrin, "we shall move the beds! And, when the
concierge nods, perhaps we can borrow the palm from the portals. With a
palm and an amiable photographer, an air of splendour is easily arrived
at. I should like a screen--we will raise one from a studio in the rue
Ravignan. Mon Dieu! with a palm and a screen I foresee the most opulent
effects. 'A Corner of the Study'--we can put the screen in front of the
washhand-stand, and litter the table with manuscripts--you will admit
that we have a sufficiency of manuscripts?--no one will know that they
have all been rejected. Also, a painter in the rue Ravignan might lend
us a few of his failures--'Before you go, let me show you my pictures,'
said monsieur Tricotrin: 'I am an ardent collector'!"

In Montmartre the sight of two "types" shifting household gods makes
no sensation--the sails of the remaining windmills still revolve. On
the day that it had its likeness taken, the attic was temporarily
transformed. At least a score of unappreciated masterpieces concealed
the dilapidation of the walls; the broken window was decorated with an
Eastern fabric that had been a cherished "property" of half the
ateliers in Paris; the poet himself--with the palm drooping gracefully
above his head--mused in a massive chair, in which Solomon had been
pronouncing judgment until 12:15, when the poet had called for it. The
appearance of exhaustion observed by admirers of the poet's portrait
was due to the chair's appalling weight. As he staggered under it up
the steps of the passage des Abbesses, the young man had feared he
would expire on the threshold of his fame.

However, the photographer proved as resourceful as could be desired,
and perhaps the most striking feature of the illustration was the
spaciousness of the apartment in which monsieur Tricotrin was presented
to readers of _Le Demi-Mot._ The name of the thoroughfare was not
obtruded.

With what pride was that issue of the journal regarded in the rue des
Trois Frères!

"Aha!" cried Tricotrin, who in moments persuaded himself that he
really occupied such noble quarters, "those who repudiated me in the
days of my struggles will be a little repentant now, hein? Stone Heart
will discover that I was not wrong in relying on my genius!"

"I assume," said Pitou, "that 'Stone Heart' is your newest pet-name for
the silk-manufacturing uncle?"

"You catch my meaning precisely. I propose to send a copy of the paper
to Lyons, with the Interview artistically bordered by laurels; I cannot
draw laurels myself, but there are plenty of persons who can. We will
find someone to do it when we palter with starvation at the Café du Bel
Avenir this evening--or perhaps we had better fast at the Lucullus
Junior, instead; there is occasionally some ink in the bottle there. I
shall put the address in the margin--my uncle will not know where it
is, and on the grounds of euphony I have no fault to find with it. It
would not surprise me if I received an affectionate letter and a
bank-note in reply--the perversity of human nature delights in generosities
to the prosperous."

"It is a fact," said Pitou. "That human nature!"

"Who knows?--he may even renew the allowance that he used to make me!"

"Upon my word, more unlikely things have happened," Pitou conceded.

"Mon Dieu, Nicolas, we shall again have enough to eat!"

"Ah, visionary!" exclaimed Pitou; "are there no bounds to your
imagination?"

Now, the perversity to which the poet referred did inspire monsieur
Rigaud, of Lyons, to loosen his purse-strings. He wrote that he
rejoiced to learn that Gustave was beginning to make his way, and
enclosed a present of two hundred and fifty francs. More, after an
avuncular preamble which the poet skipped--having a literary hatred of
digression in the works of others--he even hinted that the allowance
might be resumed.

What a banquet there was in bohemia! How the glasses jingled afterwards
in La Lune Rousse, and oh, the beautiful hats that Germaine and
Marcelle displayed on the next fine Sunday! Even when the last ripples
of the splash were stilled, the comrades swaggered gallantly on the
boulevard Rochechouart, for by any post might not the first instalment
of that allowance arrive?

Weeks passed; and Tricotrin began to say, "It looks to me as if we
needed another Interview!"

And then came a letter which was no less cordial than its predecessor,
but which stunned the unfortunate recipient like a warrant for his
execution. Monsieur Rigaud stated that business would bring him to
Paris on the following evening and that he anticipated the pleasure of
visiting his nephew; he trusted that his dear Gustave would meet him at
the station. The poet and composer stared at each other with bloodless
faces.

"You must call at his hotel instead," faltered Pitou at last.

"But you may be sure he will wish to see my elegant abode."

"'It is in the hands of the decorators. How unfortunate!'"

"He would propose to offer them suggestions; he is a born suggester."

"'Fever is raging in the house--a most infectious fever'; we will ask a
medical student to give us one."

"It would not explain my lodging in a slum meanwhile."

"Well, let us admit that there is nothing to be done; you will have to
own up!"

"Are you insane? It is improvident youths like you, who come to lament
their wasted lives. If I could receive him this once as he expects to
be received, we cannot doubt that it would mean an income of two
thousand francs to me. Prosperity dangles before us--shall I fail to
clutch it? Mon Dieu, what a catastrophe, his coming to Paris! Why
cannot he conduct his business in Lyons? Is there not enough money in
the city of Lyons to satisfy him? O grasper! what greed! Nicolas, my
more than brother, if it were night when I took him to a sumptuous
apartment, he might not notice the name of the street--I could talk
brilliantly as we turned the corner. Also I could scintillate as I led
him away. He would never know that it was not the rue des Trois
Frères."

"You are right," agreed Pitou; "but which is the pauper in our social
circle whose sumptuous apartment you propose to acquire?"

"One must consider," said Tricotrin. "Obviously, I am compelled to
entertain in somebody's; fortunately, I have two days to find it in. I
shall now go forth!"

It was a genial morning, and the first person he accosted in the rue
Ravignan was Goujaud, painting in the patch of garden before the
studios. "Tell me, Goujaud," exclaimed the poet, "have you any gilded
acquaintance who would permit me the use of his apartment for two hours
to-morrow evening?"

Goujaud reflected for some seconds, with his head to one side. "I have
never done anything so fine as this before," he observed; "regard the
atmosphere of it!"

"It is execrable!" replied Tricotrin, and went next door to Flamant.
"My old one," he explained, "I have urgent need of a regal apartment
for two hours to-morrow--have you a wealthy friend who would
accommodate me?"

"You may beautify your bedroom with all my possessions," returned
Flamant heartily. "I have a stuffed parrot that is most decorative, but
I have not a friend that is wealthy."

"You express yourself like a First Course for the Foreigner," said
Tricotrin, much annoyed. "Devil take your stuffed parrot!"

The heat of the sun increased towards midday, and drops began to
trickle under the young man's hat. By four o'clock he had called upon
sixty-two persons, exclusive of Sanquereau, whom he had been unable to
wake. He bethought himself of Lajeunie, the novelist; but Lajeunie
could offer him nothing more serviceable than a pass for the Elysée-
Montmartre. "Now how is it possible that I spend my life among such
imbeciles?" groaned the unhappy poet; "one offers me a parrot, and
another a pass for a dancing-hall! Can I assure my uncle, who is a
married man, and produces silk in vast quantities, that I reside in a
dancing-hall? Besides, we know those passes--they are available only
for ladies."

"It is true that you could not get in by it," assented Lajeunie, "but I
give it to you freely. Take it, my poor fellow! Though it may appear
inadequate to the occasion, who knows but what it will prove to be the
basis of a fortune?"

"You are as crazy as the stories you write," said Tricotrin, "Still, it
can go in my pocket." And he made, exhausted, for a bench in the place
Dancourt, where he apostrophised his fate.

Thus occupied, he fell asleep; and presently a young woman sauntered
from the sidewalk across the square. In the shady little place Dancourt
is the little white Theatre Montmartre, and she first perused the
play-bill, and then contemplated the sleeping poet. It may have been that
she found something attractive in his bearing, or it may have been that
ragamuffins sprawled elsewhere; but, having determined to wait awhile,
she selected the bench on which he reposed, and forthwith woke him.

"Now this is nice!" he exclaimed, realising his lapse with a start.

"Oh, monsieur!" said she, blushing.

"Pardon; I referred to my having dozed when every moment is of
consequence," he explained. "And yet," he went on ruefully, "upon my
soul, I cannot conjecture where I shall go next!"

Her response was so sympathetic that it tempted him to remain a little
longer, and in five minutes she was recounting her own perplexities. It
transpired that she was a lady's-maid with a holiday, and the problem
before her was whether to spend her money on a theatre, or on a ball.

"Now that is a question which is disposed of instantly," said
Tricotrin, "You shall spend your money on a theatre, and go to a ball
as well." And out fluttered the pink pass presented to him by Lajeunie.

The girl's tongue was as lively as her gratitude. She was, she told
him, maid to the famous Colette Aubray, who had gone unattended that
afternoon to visit the owner of a villa in the country, where she would
stay until the next day but one. "So you see, monsieur, we poor
servants are left alone in the flat to amuse ourselves as best we can!"

"Mon Dieu!" ejaculated Tricotrin, and added mentally, "It was decidedly
the good kind fairies that pointed to this bench!"

He proceeded to pay the young woman such ardent attentions that she
assumed he meant to accompany her to the ball, and her disappointment
was extreme when he had to own that the state of his finances forbade
it. "All I can suggest, my dear Léonie," he concluded, "is that I shall
be your escort when you leave. It is abominable that you must have
other partners in the meantime, but I feel that you will be constant to
me in your thoughts. I shall have much to tell you--I shall whisper a
secret in your ear; for, incredible as it may sound, my sweet child,
you alone in Paris have the power to save me!"

"Oh, monsieur!" faltered the admiring lady's-maid, "it has always been
my great ambition to save a young man, especially a young man who used
such lovely language. I am sure, by the way you talk, that you must be
a poet!"

"Extraordinary," mused Tricotrin, "that all the world recognises me as
a poet, excepting when it reads my poetry!" And this led him to reflect
that he must sell some of it, in order to provide refreshment for
Léonie before he begged her aid. Accordingly, he arranged to meet her
when the ball finished, and limped back to the attic, where he made up
a choice assortment of his wares.

He had resolved to try the office of _Le Demi-Mot;_ but his
reception there was cold. "You should not presume on our good nature,"
demurred the Editor; "only last month we had an article on you, saying
that you were highly talented, and now you ask us to publish your work
besides. There must be a limit to such things."

He examined the collection, nevertheless, with a depreciatory
countenance, and offered ten francs for three of the finest specimens.
"From _Le Demi-Mot_ I would counsel you to accept low terms," he
said, with engaging interest, "on account of the prestige you, derive
from appearing in it."

"In truth it is a noble thing, prestige," admitted Tricotrin; "but,
monsieur, I have never known a man able to make a meal of it when he
was starving, or to warm himself before it when he was without a fire.
Still--though it is a jumble-sale price--let them go!"

"Payment will be made in due course," said the Editor, and became
immersed in correspondence.

Tricotrin paled to the lips, and the next five minutes were terrible;
indeed, he did not doubt that he would have to limp elsewhere. At last
he cried, "Well, let us say seven francs, cash! Seven francs in one's
fist are worth ten in due course." And thus the bargain was concluded.

"It was well for Hercules that none of his labours was the extraction
of payment from an editor!" panted the poet on the doorstep. But he was
now enabled to fête the lady's-maid in grand style, and--not to be
outdone in generosity--she placed mademoiselle Aubray's flat at his
disposal directly he asked for it.

"You have accomplished a miracle!" averred Pitou, in the small hours,
when he heard the news.

Tricotrin waved a careless hand. "To a man of resource all things are
possible!" he murmured.

The next evening the silk manufacturer was warmly embraced on the
platform, and not a little surprised to learn that his nephew expected
a visit at once. However, the young man's consternation was so profound
when objections were made that, in the end, they were withdrawn.
Tricotrin directed the driver after monsieur Rigaud was in the cab,
and, on their reaching the courtyard, there was Léonie, all frills,
ready to carry the handbag.

"Your servant?" inquired monsieur Rigaud, with some disapproval, as
they went upstairs; "she is rather fancifully dressed, hein?"

"Is it so?" answered Tricotrin. "Perhaps a bachelor is not sufficiently
observant in these matters. Still, she is an attentive domestic. Take
off your things, my dear uncle, and make yourself at home. What joy it
gives me to see you here!"

"Mon Dieu," exclaimed the silk manufacturer, looking about him, "you
have a place fit for a prince! It must have cost a pretty penny."

"Between ourselves," said Tricotrin, "I often reproach myself for what
I spent on it; I could make very good use to-day of some of the money I
squandered."

"What curtains!" murmured monsieur Rigaud, fingering the silk
enraptured. "The quality is superb! What may they have charged you for
these curtains?"

"It was years ago--upon my word I do not remember," drawled Tricotrin,
who had no idea whether he ought to say five hundred francs, or five
thousand. "Also, you must not think I have bought everything you see--
many of the pictures and bronzes are presents from admirers of my work.
It is gratifying, hein?"

"I--I--To confess the truth, we had not heard of your triumphs,"
admitted monsieur Rigaud; "I did not dream you were so successful."

"Ah, it is in a very modest way," Tricotrin replied. "I am not a
millionaire, I assure you! On the contrary, it is often difficult to
make both ends meet--although," he added hurriedly, "I live with the
utmost economy, my uncle. The days of my thoughtlessness are past. A
man should save, a man should provide for the future."

At this moment he was astonished to see Léonie open the door and
announce that dinner was served. She had been even better than her
word.

"Dinner?" cried monsieur Rigaud. "Ah, now I understand why you were so
dejected when I would not come!"

"Bah, it will be a very simple meal," said his nephew, "but after a
journey one must eat. Let us go in." He was turning the wrong way, but
Léonie's eye saved him.

"Come," he proceeded, taking his seat, "some soup--some good soup! What
will you drink, my uncle?"

"On the sideboard I see champagne," chuckled monsieur Rigaud; "you
treat the old man well, you rogue!"

"Hah," said Tricotrin, who had not observed it, "the cellar, I own, is
an extravagance of mine! Alone, I drink only mineral waters, or a
little claret, much diluted; but to my dearest friends I must give the
dearest wines. Léonie, champagne!" It was a capital dinner, and the
cigars and cigarettes that Léonie put on the table with the coffee were
of the highest excellence. Agreeable conversation whiled away some
hours, and Tricotrin began to look for his uncle to get up. But it was
raining smartly, and monsieur Rigaud was reluctant to bestir himself.
Another hour lagged by, and at last Tricotrin faltered:

"I fear I must beg you to excuse me for leaving you, my uncle; it is
most annoying, but I am compelled to go out. The fact is, I have
consented to collaborate with Capus, and he is so eccentric, this dear
Alfred--we shall be at work all night."

"Go, my good Gustave," said his uncle readily; "and, as I am very
tired, if you have no objection, I will occupy your bed."

Tricotrin's jaw dropped, and it was by a supreme effort that he
stammered how pleased the arrangement would make him. To intensify the
fix, Leonie and the cook had disappeared--doubtless to the mansarde in
which they slept--and he was left to cope with the catastrophe alone.
However, having switched on the lights, he conducted the elderly
gentleman to an enticing apartment. He wished him an affectionate
"good-night," and after promising to wake him early, made for home,
leaving the manufacturer sleepily surveying the room's imperial
splendour.

"What magnificence!" soliloquised monsieur Rigaud. "What toilet
articles!" He got into bed. "What a coverlet--there must be twenty
thousand francs on top of me!"

He had not slumbered under them long when he was aroused by such a
commotion that he feared for the action of his heart. Blinking in the
glare, he perceived Léonie in scanty attire, distracted on her knees--
and, by the bedside, a beautiful lady in a travelling cloak, raging
with the air of a lioness.

"Go away!" quavered the manufacturer. "What is the meaning of this
intrusion?"

"Intrusion?" raved the lady. "That is what you will explain, monsieur!
How comes it that you are in my bed?"

"Yours?" ejaculated monsieur Rigaud. "What is it you say? You are
making a grave error, for which you will apologise, madame!"

"Ah, hold me back," pleaded the lady, throwing up her eyes, "hold me
back or I shall assault him!" She flung to Leonie. "Wretched girl, you
shall pay for this! Not content with lavishing my champagne and my
friend's cigars on your lover, you must put him to recuperate in my
room!"

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