A Chair on The Boulevard by Leonard Merrick

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"By-and-by I shall punch you in the eye," returned the man, "just as
soon as I am feeling better! What have you done to my collar, too? I
declare you have played the devil with me!" His annoyance rose. "Who
are you, and what are you doing here, anyhow? You are a trespasser--I
shall give you in charge."

"Come, come," said Tournicquot, conciliatingly, "if your misfortunes
are more than you can bear, I regret that I was obliged to save you;
but, after all, there is no need to make such a grievance of it--you
can hang yourself another day."

"And why should I be put to the trouble twice?" grumbled the other. "Do
you figure yourself that it is agreeable to hang? I passed a very bad
time, I can assure you. If you had experienced it, you would not talk
so lightly about 'another day.' The more I think of your impudent
interference, the more it vexes me. And how dark it is! Get up and
light the candle--it gives me the hump here."

"I have no candle, I have no candle," babbled Tournicquot; "I do not
carry candles in my pocket."

"There is a bit on the mantelpiece," replied the man angrily; "I saw it
when I came in. Go and feel for it--hunt about! Do not keep me lying
here in the dark--the least you can do is to make me as comfortable as
you can."

Tournicquot, not a little perturbed by the threat of assault, groped
obediently; but the room appeared to be of the dimensions of a park,
and he arrived at the candle stump only after a prolonged excursion.
The flame revealed to him a man of about his own age, who leant against
the wall regarding him with indignant eyes. Revealed also was the coil
of rope that the comedian had brought for his own use; and the man
pointed to it.

"What is that? It was not here just now."

"It belongs to me," admitted Tournicquot, nervously.

"I see that it belongs to you. Why do you visit an empty house with a
coil of rope, hein? I should like to understand that ... Upon my life,
you were here on the same business as myself! Now if this does not pass
all forbearance! You come to commit suicide, and yet you have the
effrontery to put a stop to mine!"

"Well," exclaimed Tournicquot, "I obeyed an impulse of pity! It is true
that I came to destroy myself, for I am the most miserable of men; but
I was so much affected by the sight of your sufferings that temporarily
I forgot my own."

"That is a lie, for I was not suffering--I was not conscious when you
came in. However, you have some pretty moments in front of you, so we
will say no more! When you feel yourself drop, it will be diabolical, I
promise you; the hair stands erect on the head, and each spot of blood
in the veins congeals to a separate icicle! It is true that the drop
itself is swift, but the clutch of the rope, as you kick in the air, is
hardly less atrocious. Do not be encouraged by the delusion that the
matter is instantaneous. Time mocks you, and a second holds the
sensations of a quarter of an hour. What has forced you to it? We need
not stand on ceremony with each other, hein?"

"I have resolved to die because life is torture," said Tournicquot, on
whom these details had made an unfavourable impression.

"The same with me! A woman, of course?"

"Yes," sighed Tournicquot, "a woman!"

"Is there no other remedy? Cannot you desert her?"

"Desert her? I pine for her embrace!"

"Hein?"

"She will not have anything to do with me."

"_Comment?_ Then it is love with you?"

"What else? An eternal passion!"

"Oh, mon Dieu, I took it for granted you were married! But this is
droll. _You_ would die because you cannot get hold of a woman, and
_I_ because I cannot get rid of one. We should talk, we two. Can
you give me a cigarette?"

"With pleasure, monsieur," responded Tournicquot, producing a packet.
"I, also, will take one--my last!"

"If I expressed myself hastily just now," said his companion,
refastening his collar, "I shall apologise--no doubt your interference
was well meant, though I do not pretend to approve it. Let us dismiss
the incident; you have behaved tactlessly, and I, on my side, have
perhaps resented your error with too much warmth. Well, it is finished!
While the candle burns, let us exchange more amicable views. Is my
cravat straight? It astonishes me to hear that love can drive a man to
such despair. I, too, have loved, but never to the length of the rope.
There are plenty of women in Paris--if one has no heart, there is
always another. I am far from proposing to frustrate your project,
holding as I do that a man's suicide is an intimate matter in which
'rescue' is a name given by busybodies to a gross impertinence; but as
you have not begun the job, I will confess that I think you are being
rash."

"I have considered," replied Tournicquot, "I have considered
attentively. There is no alternative, I assure you."

"I would make another attempt to persuade the lady--I swear I would
make another attempt! You are not a bad-looking fellow. What is her
objection to you?"

"It is not that she objects to me--on the contrary. But she is a woman
of high principle, and she has a husband who is devoted to her--she
will not break his heart. It is like that."

"Young?"

"No more than thirty."

"And beautiful?"

"With a beauty like an angel's! She has a dimple in her right cheek
when she smiles that drives one to distraction."

"Myself, I have no weakness for dimples; but every man to his taste--
there is no arguing about these things. What a combination--young,
lovely, virtuous! And I make you a bet the oaf of a husband does not
appreciate her! Is it not always so? Now _I_--but of course I
married foolishly, I married an artiste. If I had my time again I would
choose in preference any sempstress. The artistes are for applause,
for bouquets, for little dinners, but not for marriage."

"I cannot agree with you," said Tournicquot, with some hauteur, "Your
experience may have been unfortunate, but the theatre contains women
quite as noble as any other sphere. In proof of it, the lady I adore is
an artiste herself!"

"Really--is it so? Would it be indiscreet to ask her name?"

"There are things that one does not tell."

"But as a matter of interest? There is nothing derogatory to her in
what you say--quite the reverse."

"True! Well, the reason for reticence is removed. She is known as 'La
Belle Lucrèce.'"

"_Hein?"_ ejaculated the other, jumping.

"What ails you?"

"She is my wife!"

"Your wife? Impossible!"

"I tell you I am married to her--she is 'madame Béguinet.'"

"Mon Dieu!" faltered Tournicquot, aghast; "what have I done!"

"So?... You are her lover?"

"Never has she encouraged me--recall what I said! There are no grounds
for jealousy--am I not about to die because she spurns me? I swear to
you--"

"You mistake my emotion--why should I be jealous? Not at all--I am only
amazed. She thinks I am devoted to her? Ho, ho! Not at all! You see my
'devotion' by the fact that I am about to hang myself rather than live
with her. And _you_, you cannot bear to live because you adore
her! Actually, you adore her! Is it not inexplicable? Oh, there is
certainly the finger of Providence in this meeting!... Wait, we must
discuss--we should come to each other's aid!... Give me another
cigarette."

Some seconds passed while they smoked in silent meditation.

"Listen," resumed monsieur Béguinet; "in order to clear up this
complication, a perfect candour is required on both sides. Alors, as to
your views, is it that you aspire to marry madame? I do not wish to
appear exigent, but in the position that I occupy you will realise that
it is my duty to make the most favourable arrangements for her that I
can. Now open your heart to me; speak frankly!"

"It is difficult for me to express myself without restraint to you,
monsieur," said Tournicquot, "because circumstances cause me to regard
you as a grievance. To answer you with all the delicacy possible, I
will say that if I had cut you down five minutes later, life would be a
fairer thing to me."

"Good," said monsieur Béguinet, "we make progress! Your income? Does it
suffice to support her in the style to which she is accustomed? What
may your occupation be?"

"I am in madame's own profession--I, too, am an artiste."

"So much the more congenial! I foresee a joyous union. Come, we go
famously! Your line of business--snakes, ventriloquism, performing-
rabbits, what is it?"

"My name is 'Tournicquot,'" responded the comedian, with dignity. "All
is said!"

"A-ah! Is it so? Now I understand why your voice has been puzzling me!
Monsieur Tournicquot, I am enchanted to make your acquaintance. I
declare the matter arranges itself! I shall tell you what we will do.
Hitherto I have had no choice between residing with madame and
committing suicide, because my affairs have not prospered, and--though
my pride has revolted--her salary has been essential for my
maintenance. Now the happy medium jumps to the eyes; for you, for me,
for her the bright sunshine streams! I shall efface myself; I shall go
to a distant spot--say, Monte Carlo--and you shall make me a snug
allowance. Have no misgiving; crown her with blossoms, lead her to the
altar, and rest tranquil--I shall never reappear. Do not figure
yourself that I shall enter like the villain at the Amibigu and menace
the blissful home. Not at all! I myself may even re-marry, who knows?
Indeed, should you offer me an allowance adequate for a family man, I
will undertake to re-marry--I have always inclined towards speculation.
That will shut my mouth, hein? I could threaten nothing, even if I had
a base nature, for I, also, shall have committed bigamy. Suicide,
bigamy, I would commit _anything_ rather than live with Lucrèce!"

"But madame's consent must be gained," demurred Tournicquot; "you
overlook the fact that madame must consent. It is a fact that I do not
understand why she should have any consideration for you, but if she
continues to harp upon her 'duty,' what then?"

"Do you not tell me that her only objection to your suit has been her
fear that she would break my heart? What an hallucination! I shall
approach the subject with tact, with the utmost delicacy. I shall
intimate to her that to ensure her happiness I am willing to sacrifice
myself. Should she hesitate, I shall demand to sacrifice myself! Rest
assured that if she regards you with the favour that you believe, your
troubles are at an end--the barrier removes itself, and you join
hands.... The candle is going out! Shall we depart?"

"I perceive no reason why we should remain; In truth, we might have got
out of it sooner."

"You are right! a café will be more cheerful. Suppose we take a bottle
of wine together; how does it strike you? If you insist, I will be your
guest; if not--"

"Ah, monsieur, you will allow me the pleasure," murmured Tournicquot.

"Well, well," said Beguinet, "you must have your way!... Your rope you
have no use for, hein--we shall leave it?"

"But certainly! Why should I burden myself?"

"The occasion has passed, true. Good! Come, my comrade, let us
descend!"

Who shall read the future? Awhile ago they had been strangers, neither
intending to quit the house alive; now the pair issued from it
jauntily, arm in arm. Both were in high spirits, and by the time the
lamps of a café gave them welcome, and the wine gurgled gaily into the
glasses, they pledged each other with a sentiment no less than
fraternal.

"How I rejoice that I have met you!" exclaimed Béguinet. "To your
marriage, mon vieux; to your joy! Fill up, again a glass!--there are
plenty of bottles in the cellar. Mon Dieu, you are my preserver--I must
embrace you. Never till now have I felt such affection for a man. This
evening all was black to me; I despaired, my heart was as heavy as a
cannon-ball--and suddenly the world is bright. Roses bloom before my
feet, and the little larks are singing in the sky. I dance, I skip. How
beautiful, how sublime is friendship!--better than riches, than youth,
than the love of woman: riches melt, youth flies, woman snores. But
friendship is--Again a glass! It goes well, this wine.

"Let us have a lobster! I swear I have an appetite; they make one
peckish, these suicides, n'est-ce pas? I shall not be formal--if you
consider it your treat, you shall pay. A lobster and another bottle! At
your expense, or mine?"

"Ah, the bill all in one!" declared Tourniequot.

"Well, well," said Béguinet, "you must have your way! What a happy man
I am! Already I feel twenty years younger. You would not believe what I
have suffered. My agonies would fill a book. Really. By nature I am
domesticated; but my home is impossible--I shudder when I enter it. It
is only in a restaurant that I see a clean table-cloth. Absolutely. I
pig. All Lucrèce thinks about is frivolity."

"No, no," protested Tournicquot; "to that I cannot agree."

"What do you know? You 'cannot agree'! You have seen her when she is
laced in her stage costume, when she prinks and prattles, with the
paint, and the powder, and her best corset on. It is I who am 'behind
the scenes,' mon ami, not you. I see her dirty peignoir and her curl
rags. At four o'clock in the afternoon. Every day. You 'cannot agree'!"

"Curl rags?" faltered Tournicquot.

"But certainly! I tell you I am of a gentle disposition, I am most
tolerant of women's failings; it says much that I would have hanged
myself rather than remain with a woman. Her untidiness is not all; her
toilette at home revolts my sensibilities, but--well, one cannot have
everything, and her salary is substantial; I have closed my eyes to the
curl rags. However, snakes are more serious."

"Snakes?" ejaculated Tournicquot.

"Naturally! The beasts must live, do they not support us? But
'Everything in its place' is my own motto; the motto of my wife--'All
over the place.' Her serpents have shortened my life, word of honour!--
they wander where they will. I never lay my head beside those curl rags
of hers without anticipating a cobra-decapello under the bolster. It is
not everybody's money. Lucrèce has no objection to them; well, it is
very courageous--very fortunate, since snakes are her profession--but
_I_, I was not brought up to snakes; I am not at my ease in a
Zoölogical Gardens."

"It is natural."

"Is it not? I desire to explain myself to you, you understand; are we
not as brothers? Oh, I realise well that when one loves a woman one
always thinks that the faults are the husband's: believe me I have had
much to justify my attitude. Snakes, dirt, furies, what a ménage!"

"Furies?" gasped Tournicquot.

"I am an honest man," affirmed Béguinet draining another bumper; "I
shall not say to you 'I have no blemish, I am perfect,' Not at all.
Without doubt, I have occasionally expressed myself to Lucrèce with
more candour than courtesy. Such things happen. But"--he refilled his
glass, and sighed pathetically--"but to every citizen, whatever his
position--whether his affairs may have prospered or not--his wife owes
respect. Hein? She should not throw the ragoút at him. She should not
menace him with snakes." He wept. "My friend, you will admit that it is
not _gentil_ to coerce a husband with deadly reptiles?"

Tournicquot had turned very pale. He signed to the waiter for the bill,
and when it was discharged, sat regarding his companion with round
eyes, At last, clearing his throat, he said nervously:

"After all, do you know--now one comes to think it over--I am not sure,
upon my honour, that our arrangement is feasible?"

"What?" exclaimed Béguinet, with a violent start. "Not feasible? How is
that, pray? Because I have opened my heart to you, do you back out? Oh,
what treachery! Never will I believe you could be capable of it!"

"However, it is a fact. On consideration, I shall not rob you of her."

"Base fellow! You take advantage of my confidence. A contract is a
contract!"

"No," stammered Tournicquot, "I shall be a man and live my love down.
Monsieur, I have the honour to wish you 'Good-night.'"

"Hé, stop!" cried Béguinet, infuriated. "What then is to become of
_me_? Insolent poltroon--you have even destroyed my rope!"

THE CONSPIRACY FOR CLAUDINE

"Once," remarked Tricotrin, pitching his pen in the air, "there were
four suitors for the Most Beautiful of her Sex. The first young man was
a musician, and he shut himself in his garret to compose a divine
melody, to be dedicated to her. The second lover was a chemist, who
experimented day and night to discover a unique perfume that she alone
might use. The third, who was a floriculturist, aspired constantly
among his bulbs to create a silver rose, that should immortalise the
lady's name."

"And the fourth," inquired Pitou, "what did the fourth suitor do?"

"The fourth suitor waited for her every afternoon in the sunshine,
while the others were at work, and married her with great éclat. The
moral of which is that, instead of cracking my head to make a sonnet to
Claudine, I shall be wise to put on my hat and go to meet her."

"I rejoice that the dénoûment is arrived at," Pitou returned, "but it
would be even more absorbing if I had previously heard of Claudine."

"Miserable dullard!" cried the poet; "do you tell me that you have not
previously heard of Claudine? She is the only woman I have ever loved."

"A--ah," rejoined Pitou; "certainly, I have heard of her a thousand
times--only she has never been called 'Claudine' before."

"Let us keep to the point," said Tricotrin. "Claudine represents the
devotion of a lifetime. I think seriously of writing a tragedy for her
to appear in."

"I shall undertake to weep copiously at it if you present me with a
pass," affirmed Pitou. "She is an actress, then, this Claudine? At what
theatre is she blazing--the Montmartre?"

"How often I find occasion to lament that your imagination is no larger
than the quartier! Claudine is not of Montmartre at all, at all. My
poor friend, have you never heard that there are theatres on the Grand
Boulevard?"

"Ah, so you betake yourself to haunts of fashion? Now I begin to
understand why you have become so prodigal with the blacking; for some
time I have had the intention of reproaching you with your shoes--our
finances are not equal to such lustre."

"Ah, when one truly loves, money is no object!" said Tricotrin.
"However, if it is time misspent to write a sonnet to her, it is even
more unprofitable to pass the evening justifying one's shoes." And,
picking up his hat, the poet ran down the stairs, and made his way as
fast as his legs would carry him to the Comédie Moderne.

He arrived at the stage-door with no more than three minutes to spare,
and disposing himself in a graceful attitude, waited for mademoiselle
Claudine Hilairet to come out. It might have been observed that his
confidence deserted him while he waited, for although it was perfectly
true that he adored her, he had omitted to add that the passion was not
mutual. He was conscious that the lady might resent his presence on the
door-step; and, in fact, when she appeared, she said nothing more
tender than--

"Mon Dieu, again you! What do you want?"

"How can you ask?" sighed the poet. "I came to walk home with you lest
an electric train should knock you down at one of the crossings. What a
magnificent performance you have given this evening! Superb!"

"Were you in the theatre?"

"In spirit. My spirit, which no official can exclude, is present every
night, though sordid considerations force me to remain corporally in my
attic. Transported by admiration, I even burst into frantic applause
there. How perfect is the sympathy between our souls!"

"Listen, my little one," she said. "I am sorry for your relatives, if
you have any--your condition must be a great grief to them. But, all
the same, I cannot have you dangling after me and talking this bosh.
What do you suppose can come of it?"

"Fame shall come of it," averred the poet, "fame for us both! Do not
figure yourself that I am a dreamer. Not at all! I am practical, a man
of affairs. Are you content with your position in the Comédie Moderne?
No, you are not. You occupy a subordinate position; you play the rôle
of a waiting-maid, which is quite unworthy of your genius, and
understudy the ingénue, who is a portly matron in robust health. The
opportunity to distinguish yourself appears to you as remote as Mars.
Do I romance, or is it true?"

"It is true," she said. "Well?"

"Well, I propose to alter all this--I! I have the intention of writing
a great tragedy, and when it is accepted, I shall stipulate that you,
and you alone, shall thrill Paris as my heroine. When the work of my
brain has raised you to the pinnacle for which you were born, when the
theatre echoes with our names, I shall fall at your feet, and you will
murmur, 'Gustave--I love thee!'"

"Why does not your mother do something?" she asked. "Is there nobody to
place you where you might be cured? A tragedy? Imbecile, I am
comédienne to the finger-tips! What should I do with your tragedy, even
if it were at the Français itself?"

"You are right," said Tricotrin; "I shall turn out a brilliant comedy
instead. And when the work of my brain has raised you to the pinnacle
for which you were born, when the theatre echoes with our names--"

She interrupted him by a peal of laughter which disconcerted him hardly
less than her annoyance.

"It is impossible to be angry with you long," she declared, "you are
too comic. Also, as a friend, I do not object to you violently. Come, I
advise you to be content with what you can have, instead of crying for
the moon!"

"Well, I am not unwilling to make shift with it in the meantime,"
returned Tricotrin; "but friendship is a poor substitute for the
heavens--and we shall see what we shall see. Tell me now, they mean to
revive _La Curieuse_ at the Comédie, I hear--what part in it have
you been assigned?" "Ah," exclaimed mademoiselle Hilairet, "is it not
always the same thing? I dust the same decayed furniture with the same
feather brush, and I say 'Yes,' and 'No,' and 'Here is a letter,
madame.' That is all."

"I swear it is infamous!" cried the poet. "It amazes me that they fail
to perceive that your gifts are buried. One would suppose that managers
would know better than to condemn a great artiste to perform such
ignominious roles. The critics also! Why do not the critics call
attention to an outrage which continues year by year? It appears to me
that I shall have to use my influence with the Press." And so serious
was the tone in which he made this boast, that the fair Claudine began
to wonder if she had after all underrated the position of her out-at-
elbows gallant.

"Your influence?" she questioned, with an eager smile. "Have you
influence with the critics, then?"

"We shall see what we shall see," repeated Tricotrin, significantly. "I
am not unknown in Paris, and I have your cause at heart--I may make a
star of you yet. But while we are on the subject of astronomy, one
question! When my services have transformed you to a star, shall I
still be compelled to cry for the moon?"

Mademoiselle Hilairet's tones quivered with emotion--as she murmured
how grateful to him she would be, and it was understood, when he took
leave of her, that if he indeed accomplished his design, his suit would
be no longer hopeless.

The poet pressed her hand ardently, and turned homeward in high
feather; and it was not until he had trudged a mile or so that the
rapture in his soul began to subside under the remembrance that he had
been talking through his hat.

"In fact," he admitted to Pitou when the garret was reached, "my
imagination took wings unto itself; I am committed to a task beside
which the labours of Hercules were child's play. The question now
arises how this thing, of which I spoke so confidently, is to be
effected. What do you suggest?"

"I suggest that you allow me to sleep," replied Pitou, "for I shall
feel less hungry then."

"Your suggestion will not advance us," demurred Tricotrin. "We shall,
on the contrary, examine the situation in all its bearings. Listen!
Claudine is to enact the waiting-maid in _La Curieuse,_ which will
be revived at the Comédie Moderne in a fortnight's time; she will dust
the Empire furniture, and say 'Yes' and 'No' with all the intellect and
animation for which those monosyllables provide an opening. Have you
grasped the synopsis so far? Good! On the strength of this performance,
it has to be stated by the foremost dramatic critic in Paris that she
is an actress of genius. Now, how is it to be done? How shall we induce
Labaregue to write of her with an outburst of enthusiasm in _La
Voix_?"

"Labaregue?" faltered Pitou. "I declare the audacity of your notion
wakes me up!"

"Capital," said Tricotrin, "we are making progress already! Yes, we
must have Labaregue--it has never been my custom to do things by
halves. Dramatically, of course, I should hold a compromising paper of
Labaregue's. I should say, 'Monsieur, the price of this document is an
act of justice to mademoiselle Claudine Hilairet. It is agreed? Good!
Sit down--you will write from my dictation!'"

"However--" said Pitou.

"However--I anticipate your objection--I do not hold such a paper.
Therefore, that scene is cut. Well, let us find another! Where is your
fertility of resource? Mon Dieu! why should I speak to him at all?"

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