A Chair on The Boulevard by Leonard Merrick

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She gave a shrug. "It is a fact that devotion has not robbed me of my
appetite," she confessed. "But what would you have? His business goes
far better than you imagine--I have seen his books; and anyhow, my
sentiment for you is friendship, and no more."

"To the devil with friendship!" cried the unhappy wardrobe-dealer; "did
I dress you like the Empress Joséphine for friendship?"

"Do not mock yourself of it," she said reprovingly; "remember that
'Friendship is a beautiful flower, of which esteem is the stem.'" And,
having thrown the adage to him, coupled with a glance that drove him to
distraction, the little flirt jumped off the counter and was gone.

Much more reluctantly she contemplated parting with him whom the
costumier had described as a "hungry poet"; but matrimony did not enter
the poet's scheme of things, nor for that matter had she ever regarded
him as a possible parti. Yet a woman may give her fancy where her
reason refuses to follow, and when she imparted her news to Tricotrin
there was no smile on her lips.

"We shall not go to balls any more, old dear," she said. "Monsieur
Pomponnet has proposed marriage to me--and I settle down."

"Heartless girl," exclaimed the young man, with tears in his eyes. "So
much for woman's constancy!"

"Mon Dieu," she faltered, "did you then love me, Gustave--really?"

"I do not know," said Tricotrin, "but since I am to lose you, I prefer
to think so. Ah, do not grieve for me--fortunately, there is always the
Seine! And first I shall pour my misery into song; and in years to
come, fair daughters at your side will read the deathless poem, little
dreaming that the Lisette I sang to is their mother. Some time--long
after I am in my grave, when France has honoured me at last--you may
stand before a statue that bears my name, and think, 'He loved me, and
I broke his heart!'"

"Oh," she whimpered, "rather than break your heart I--I might break the
engagement! I might consider again, Gustave."

"No, no," returned Tricotrin, "I will not reproach myself with the
thought that I have marred your life; I will leave you free. Besides,
as I say, I am not certain that I should want you so much but for the
fact that I have lost you. After all, you will not appreciate the poem
that immortalises you, and if I lived, many of your remarks about it
would doubtless infuriate me."

"Why shall I not appreciate it? Am I so stupid?"

"It is not that you are stupid, my Soul," he explained; "it is that I
am transcendentally clever. To understand the virtues of my work one
must have sipped from all the flowers of Literature. 'There is to be
found in it Racine, Voltaire, Flaubert, Renan--and always Gustave
Tricotrin,' as Lemaître has written. He wrote, '--and always Anatole
France,' but I paraphrase him slightly. So you are going to marry
Pomponnet? Mon Dieu, when I have any sous in my pocket, I will ruin
myself, for the rapture of regretting you among the pastry!"

"I thought," she said, a little mortified, "that you were going to
drown yourself?"

"Am I not to write my Lament to you? I must eat while I write it--why
not pastry? Also, when I am penniless and starving, you may sometimes,
in your prosperity--And yet, perhaps, it is too much to ask?"

"Give you tick, do you mean, dear? But yes, Gustave; how can you doubt
that I will do that? In memory of--"

"In memory of the love that has been, you will permit me to run up a
small score for cakes, will you not, Lisette?"

"I will, indeed!" she promised. "But, but--Oh, it's quite true, I
should never understand you! A minute ago you made me think of you in
the Morgue, and now you make me think of you in the cake-shop. What are
you laughing at?"

"I laugh, like Figaro," said Tricotrin, "that I may not be obliged to
weep. When are you going to throw yourself away, my little Lisette? Has
my accursed rival induced you to fix a date?'

"We are to be married in a fortnight's time," she said. "And if you
could undertake to be sensible, I would ask Alphonse to invite you to
the breakfast."

"In a fortnight's time hunger and a hopeless passion will probably have
made an end of me," replied the poet; "however, if I survive, the
breakfast will certainly be welcome. Where is it to be held? I can
recommend a restaurant that is especially fine at such affairs, and
most moderate. 'Photographs of the party are taken gratuitously in the
Jardin d'Acclimatation, and pianos are at the disposal of the ladies';
I quote from the menu--I study it in the window every time I pass.
There are wedding breakfasts from six to twelve francs per head. At six
francs, the party have their choice of two soups and three hors
d'oeuvres. Then comes 'poisson'--I fear it may be whiting--filet de
boeuf with tomates farcies, bouchées à la Reine, chicken, pigeons,
salad, two vegetables, an ice, assorted fruits, and biscuits. The wines
are madeira, a bottle of mâcon to each person, a bottle of bordeaux
among four persons, and a bottle of champagne among ten persons. Also
coffee and liqueurs. At six francs a head! It is good, hein? At seven
francs there is a bottle of champagne among every eight persons--
Pomponnet will, of course, do as he thinks best. At eight francs, a
bottle is provided for every six persons. I have too much delicacy to
make suggestions, but should he be willing to soar to twelve francs a
head, I might eat enough to last a week--and of such quality! The soups
would then be bisque d'écrevisse and consommé Rachel. Rissoles de foies
gras would appear. Asparagus 'in branches,' and compote of peaches
flavoured with maraschino would be included. Also, in the twelve-franc
breakfast, the champagne begins to have a human name on the label!"

Now, it is not certain how much of this information Lisette repeated to
Pomponnet, but Pomponnet, having a will of his own, refused to
entertain monsieur Tricotrin at any price at all. More-over, he found
it unconventional that she should desire the poet's company,
considering the attentions that he had paid her; and she was forced to
listen, with an air of humility which she was far from feeling, to a
lecture on the responsibilities of her new position.

"I am not a jealous man," said the pastrycook, who was as jealous a man
as ever baked a pie; "but it would be discreet that you dropped this
acquaintance now that we are engaged. I know well that you have never
taken the addresses of such a fellow seriously, and that it is only in
the goodness of your heart you wish to present him with a blow-out.
Nevertheless, the betrothal of a man in my circumstances is much
remarked; all the daughters of the hairdresser next door have had their
hopes of me--indeed, there is scarcely a neighbour who is not chagrined
at the turn events have taken--and the world would be only too glad of
an excuse to call me 'fool.' Pomponnet's wife must be above suspicion.
You will remember that a little lightness of conduct which might be
forgiven in the employée of the florist would be unseemly in my
fiancée. No more conversation with monsieur Tricotrin, Lisette! Some
dignity--some coldness in the bow when you pass him. The boulevard will
observe it, it will be approved."

"You, of course, know best, my dear Alphonse," she returned meekly; "I
am only an inexperienced girl, and I am thankful to have your advice to
guide me. But let me say that never, never has there been any
'lightness of conduct,' to distress you. Monsieur Tricotrin and I have
been merely friends. If I have gone to a ball with him sometimes--and I
acknowledge that has happened--it has been because nobody more to my
taste has offered to take me." She had ground her little teeth under
the infliction of his homily, and it was only by dint of thinking hard
of his profits that she abstained from retorting that he might marry
all the daughters of the hairdresser and go to Uganda.

However, during the next week or so, she did not chance to meet the
poet on the boulevard; and since she wished to conquer her tenderness
for him, one cannot doubt that all would have been well but for the
Editor of _L'Echo de la Butte._ By a freak of fate, the Editor of
_L'Echo de la Butte_ was moved to invite monsieur Tricotrin to an
affair of ceremony two days previous to the wedding. What followed?
Naturally Tricotrin must present himself in evening dress. Naturally,
also, he must go to Touquet's to hire the suit.

"Regard," said the costumier, "here is a suit that I have just
acquired. Monsieur will observe that it is of the most distinguished
cut--quite in the latest fashion. I will whisper to monsieur that it
comes to me through the valet of the Comte de St.-Nom-la-Bretèche-
Forêt-de-Marly."

"Mon Dieu!" said Tricotrin, "let me try it on!" And he was so gratified
by his appearance in it that he barely winced at the thought of the
expense. "I am improving my position," he soliloquised; "if I have not
precisely inherited the mantle of Victor Hugo, I have, at any rate,
hired the dress-suit of the Comte de St.-Nom-la-Bretèche-Forêt-de-
Marly!"

Never had a more impressive spectacle been witnessed in Montmartre than
Tricotrin's departure from his latest lodging shortly after six
o'clock. Wearing a shirt of Pitou's, Flamant's patent-leather boots,
and a white tie contributed by Goujaud, the young man sallied forth
with the deportment of the Count himself. Only one thing more did he
desire, a flower for his buttonhole--and Lisette remained in her
situation until the morrow! What more natural, finally, than that he
should hie him to the florist's?

It was the first time that she had seen her lover in evening dress, and
sentiment overpowered her as he entered.

"Thou!" she murmured, paling.

On the poet, too, the influence of the clothes was very strong; attired
like a jeune premier, he craved with all the dramatic instinct of his
nature for a love scene; and, instead of fulfilling his intention to
beg for a rosebud at cost price, he gazed at her soulfully and breathed
"Lisette!"

"So we have met again!" she said.

"The world is small," returned the poet, ignoring the fact that he had
come to the shop. "And am I yet remembered?"

"It is not likely I should forget you in a few days," she said, more
practically; "I didn't forget about the breakfast, either, but Alphonse
put his foot down."

"Pig!" said the poet. "And yet it may be better so! How could I eat in
such an hour?"

"However, you are not disconsolate this evening?" she suggested. "Mais
vrai! what a swell you are!"

"Flûte! some fashionable assembly that will bore me beyond endurance,"
he sighed. "With you alone, Lisette, have I known true happiness--the
train rides on summer nights that were joyous because we loved; the
simple meals that were sweetened by your smile!"

"Ah, Gustave!" she said. "Wait, I must give you a flower for your
coat!"

"I shall keep it all my life!" vowed Tricotrin. "Tell me, little one--I
dare not stay now, because my host lives a long way off--but this
evening, could you not meet me once again? For the last time, to say
farewell? I have nearly two francs fifty, and we might go to supper, if
you agree."

It was arranged before he took leave of her that she should meet him
outside the _débit_ at the corner of the rue de Sontay at eleven
o'clock, and sup with him there, in a locality where she was unlikely
to be recognised. Rash enough, this conduct, for a young woman who was
to be married to another man on the next day but one! But a greater
imprudence was to follow. They supped, they sentimentalised, and when
they parted in the Champs Elysées and the moonshine, she gave him from
her bosom a little rose-coloured envelope that contained nothing less
than a lock of her hair.

The poet placed it tenderly in his waistcoat pocket; and, after he had
wept, and quoted poetry to the stars, forgot it. He began to wish that
he had not mixed his liquors quite so impartially; and, on the morrow,
when he woke, he was mindful of nothing more grievous than a splitting
headache.

Now Touquet, who could not sleep of nights because the pastrycook was
going to marry Lisette, made a practice of examining the pockets of all
garments returned to him, with an eye to stray sous; and when he
proceeded to examine the pockets of the dress-suit returned by monsieur
Tricotrin, what befell but that he drew forth a rose-tinted envelope
containing a tress of hair, and inscribed, "To Gustave, from Lisette.
Adieu."

And the Editor who invited monsieur Tricotrin had never heard of
Lisette; never heard of Pomponnet; did not know that such a person as
Touquet existed; yet the editorial caprice had manipulated destinies.
How powerful are Editors! How complicated is life!

But a truce to philosophy--let us deal with the emotions of the soul!
The shop reeled before Touquet. All the good and the bad in his
character battled tumultuously. In one moment he aspired to be generous
and restore to Lisette the evidence of her guilt; in the next he sank
to the base thought of displaying it to Pomponnet and breaking off the
match. The discovery fired his brain. No longer was he a nonentity, the
odd man out--chance had transformed him to the master of the situation.
Full well he knew that there would be no nuptials next day were
Pomponnet aware of his fiancée's perfidy; it needed but to go to him
and say, "Monsieur, my sense of duty compels me to inform you--." How
easy it would be! He laughed hysterically.

But Lisette would never pardon such a meanness--she would always
despise and hate him! He would have torn her from his rival's arms, it
was true, yet his own would still be empty. "Ah, Lisette, Lisette!"
groaned the wretched man; and, swept to evil by the force of passion,
he cudgelled his mind to devise some piece of trickery, some diabolical
artifice, by which the incriminating token might be placed in the
pastrycook's hands as if by accident.

And while he pondered--his "whole soul a chaos"--in that hour Pomponnet
entered to hire a dress-suit for his wedding!

Touquet raised his head, blanched to the lips.

"Regard," he said, with a forced calm terrible to behold; "here is a
suit that I have just acquired. Monsieur will observe that it is of the
most distinguished cut--quite in the latest fashion. I will whisper to
monsieur that it comes to me through the valet of the Comte de St. Nom-
la-Bretéche-Forét-de-Marly." And, unseen by the guileless bridegroom,
he slipped the damning proof into a pocket of the trousers, where his
knowledge of the pastrycook's attitudes assured him that it was even
more certain to be found than in the waistcoat.

"Mon Dieu!" said the other, duly impressed by the suit's pedigree; "let
me try it on.... The coat is rather tight," he complained, "but it has
undeniably an air."

"No more than one client has worn it," gasped the wardrobe dealer
haggardly: _"monsieur Gustave Tricotrin, the poet, who hired it last
night!_ The suit is practically new; I have no other in the
establishment to compare with it. Listen, monsieur Pomponnet! To an old
client like yourself, I will be liberal; wear it this evening for an
hour in your home--if you find it not to your figure, there will be
time to make another selection before the ceremony to-morrow. You shall
have this on trial, I will make no extra charge."

Such munificence was bound to have its effect, and five minutes later
Touquet's plot had progressed. But the tension had been frightful; the
door had scarcely closed when he sank into a chair, trembling in every
limb, and for the rest of the day he attended to his business like one
moving in a trance.

Meanwhile, the unsuspecting Pomponnet reviewed the arrangement with
considerable satisfaction; and when he came to attire himself, after
the cake-shop was shut, his reflected image pleased him so well that he
was tempted to stroll abroad. He decided to call on his betrothed, and
to exhibit himself a little on the boulevard. Accordingly, he put some
money in the pocket of the waistcoat, oiled his silk hat, to give it an
additional lustre, and sallied forth in high good-humour.

"How splendid you look, my dear Alphonse!" exclaimed Lisette, little
dreaming it was the same suit that she had approved on Tricotrin the
previous evening.

Her innocent admiration was agreeable to Pomponnet; he patted her on
the cheek.

"In truth," he said carelessly, "I had forgotten that I had it on! But I
was so impatient for to-morrow, my pet angel, that I could not remain
alone and I had to come to see you."

They were talking on her doorstep, for she had no apartment in which it
would have been _convenable_ to entertain him, and it appeared to
him that the terrace of a café would be more congenial.

"Run upstairs and make your toilette, my loving duck," he suggested,
"and I shall take you out for a tasse. While you are getting ready, I
will smoke a cigar." And he drew his cigar-case from the breast-pocket
of the coat, and took a match-box from the pocket where he had put his
cash.

It was a balmy evening, sweet with the odour of spring, and the streets
were full of life. As he promenaded with her on the boulevard,
Pomponnet did not fail to remark the attention commanded by his
costume. He strutted proudly, and when they reached the café and took
their seats, he gave his order with the authority of the President.

"Ah!" he remarked, "it is good here, hein?" And then, stretching his
legs, he thrust both his hands into the pockets of his trousers.
"_Comment?_" he murmured. "What have I found?... Now is not this
amusing--I swear it is a billet-doux!" He bent, chuckling, to the
light--and bounded in his chair with an oath that turned a dozen heads
towards them. "Traitress," roared Pomponnet, "miserable traitress! It
is _your_ name! It is your _writing_! It is your _hair_!
Do not deny it; give me your head--it matches to a shade! Jezebel, last
night you met monsieur Tricotrin--you have deceived me!"

Lisette, who had jumped as high as he in recognising the envelope, sat
like one paralysed now. Her tongue refused to move. For an instant, the
catastrophe seemed to her of supernatural agency--it was as if a
miracle had happened, as she saw her fiancé produce her lover's
keepsake. All she could stammer at last was:

"Let us go away--pay for the coffee!"

"I will not pay," shouted monsieur Pomponnet. "Pay for it yourself,
jade--I have done with you!" And, leaving her spellbound at the table,
he strode from the terrace like a madman before the waiters could stop
him.

Oh, of course, he was well known at the café, and they did not detain
Lisette, but it was a most ignominious position for a young woman. And
there was no wedding next day, and everybody knew why. The little
coquette, who had mocked suitors by the dozen, was jilted almost on the
threshold of the Mairie. She smacked Tricotrin's face in the morning,
but her humiliation was so acute that it demanded the salve of
immediate marriage; and at the moment she could think of no one better
than Touquet.

So Touquet won her after all. And though by this time she may guess how
he accomplished it, he will tell you--word of honour!--that never,
never has he had occasion for regret.

THE SUICIDES IN THE RUE SOMBRE

Having bought the rope, Tournicquot wondered where he should hang
himself. The lath-and-plaster ceiling of his room might decline to
support him, and while the streets were populous a lamp-post was out of
the question. As he hesitated on the kerb, he reflected that a pan of
charcoal would have been more convenient after all; but the coil of
rope in the doorway of a shop had lured his fancy, and now it would be
laughable to throw it away.

Tournicquot was much averse from being laughed at in private life--
perhaps because Fate had willed that he should be laughed at so much in
his public capacity. Could he have had his way, indeed, Tournicquot
would have been a great tragedian, instead of a little droll, whose
portraits, with a bright red nose and a scarlet wig, grimaced on the
hoardings; and he resolved that, at any rate, the element of humour
should not mar his suicide.

As to the motive for his death, it was as romantic as his heart
desired. He adored "La Belle Lucèrce," the fascinating Snake Charmer,
and somewhere in the background the artiste had a husband. Little the
audience suspected the passion that devoured their grotesque comedian
while he cut his capers and turned love to ridicule; little they
divined the pathos of a situation which condemned him behind the scenes
to whisper the most sentimental assurances of devotion when disfigured
by a flaming wig and a nose that was daubed vermilion! How nearly it
has been said, One half of the world does not know how the other half
loves!

But such incongruities would distress Tournicquot no more--to-day he
was to die; he had worn his chessboard trousers and his little green
coat for the last time! For the last time had the relentless virtue of
Lucrèce driven him to despair! When he was discovered inanimate,
hanging to a beam, nothing comic about him, perhaps the world would
admit that his soul had been solemn, though his "line of business" had
been funny; perhaps Lucrèce would even drop warm tears on his tomb!

It was early in the evening. Dusk was gathering over Paris, the promise
of dinner was in the breeze. The white glare of electric globes began
to flood the streets; and before the cafés, waiters bustled among the
tables, bearing the vermouth and absinthe of the hour. Instinctively
shunning the more frequented thoroughfares, Tournicquot crossed the
boulevard des Batignolles, and wandered, lost in reverie, along the
melancholy continuation of the rue de Rome until he perceived that he
had reached a neighbourhood unknown to him--that he stood at the corner
of a street which bore the name "Rue Sombre." Opposite, one of the
houses was being rebuilt, and as he gazed at it--this skeleton of a
home in which the workmen's hammers were silenced for the night--
Tournicquot recognised that his journey was at an end. Here, he could
not doubt that he would find the last, grim hospitality that he sought.
The house had no door to bar his entrance, but--as if in omen--above
the gap where a door had been, the sinister number "13" was still to be
discerned. He cast a glance over his shoulder, and, grasping the rope
with a firm hand, crept inside.

It was dark within, so dark that at first he could discern nothing but
the gleam of bare walls. He stole along the passage, and, mounting a
flight of steps, on which his feet sprung mournful echoes, proceeded
stealthily towards an apartment on the first floor. At this point the
darkness became impenetrable, for the _volets_ had been closed,
and in order to make his arrangements, it was necessary that he should
have a light. He paused, fumbling in his pocket; and then, with his
next step, blundered against a body, which swung from the contact, like
a human being suspended in mid-air.

Tournicquot leapt backwards in terror. A cold sweat bespangled him, and
for some seconds he shook so violently that he was unable to strike a
match. At last, when he accomplished it, he beheld a man, apparently
dead, hanging by a rope in the doorway.

"Ah, mon Dieu!" gasped Tournicquot. And the thudding of his heart
seemed to resound through the deserted house.

Humanity impelled him to rescue the poor wretch, if it was still to be
done. Shuddering, he whipped out his knife, and sawed at the cord
desperately. The cord was stout, and the blade of the knife but small;
an eternity seemed to pass while he sawed in the darkness. Presently
one of the strands gave way. He set his teeth and pressed harder, and
harder yet. Suddenly the rope yielded and the body fell to the ground.
Tournicquot threw himself beside it, tearing open the collar, and using
frantic efforts to restore animation. There was no result. He
persevered, but the body lay perfectly inert. He began to reflect that
it was his duty to inform the police of the discovery, and he asked
himself how he should account for his presence on the scene. Just as he
was considering this, he felt the stir of life. As if by a miracle the
man groaned.

"Courage, my poor fellow!" panted Tournicquot. "Courage--all is well!"

The man groaned again; and after an appalling silence, during which
Tournicquot began to tremble for his fate anew, asked feebly, "Where am
I?"

"You would have hanged yourself," explained Tournicquot. "Thanks to
Heaven, I arrived in time to save your life!"

In the darkness they could not see each other, but he felt for the
man's hand and pressed it warmly. To his consternation, he received,
for response, a thump in the chest.

"Morbleu, what an infernal cheek!" croaked the man. "So you have cut me
down? You meddlesome idiot, by what right did you poke your nose into
my affairs, hein?"

Dismay held Tournicquot dumb.

"Hein?" wheezed the man; "what concern was it of yours, if you please?
Never in my life before have I met with such a piece of presumption!"

"My poor friend," stammered Tournicquot, "you do not know what you say
--you are not yourself! By-and-by you will be grateful, you will fall on
your knees and bless me."

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