A Chair on The Boulevard by Leonard Merrick

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"As for that, it might not mar it," I said.

"We are not in England, in France gentlemen do not choose their wives
from the stage! I can speak freely to you; you move among these people
because your writing has taken you among them, but you are not of their
breed,"

"Have you reasoned with him?"

"Reasoned? Yes."

"What did he say?"

"Prepare to be amused. He said that 'unfortunately, the lady did not
love him'!"

"What? Then there is no danger?"

"Do you mean to say that it takes you in? You may be sure her
'reluctance' is policy, she thinks it wise to disguise her eagerness to
hook him. He told me plainly that he would not rest till he had won
her. It is a nice position! The honour of the family is safe only till
this adventuress consents, _consents_ to accept his hand! What can
I do? I can retard the marriage by refusing my permission, but I cannot
prevent it, if he summons me.... Of course, if I could arrange matters
with her, I would do it like a shot--at any price!"

"Who is she?"

"A nobody; he tells me she is quite obscure, I don't suppose you have
ever heard of her. But I thought you might make inquiries for me, that
you might ascertain whether she is the sort of woman we could settle
with?"

"I will do all I can, you may depend. Where is she--in Paris?"

"Yes, just now."

"What's her name?"

"Jeanne Laurent."

My mouth fell open: "Hein?"

"Do you know her?"

"She is there!"

"What?"

"In the next room. She just called on business."

"Mon Dieu! That's queer!"

"It's lucky. It was the first time I had ever met her."

"What's she like?"

"Have you never seen her? You shall do so in a minute. She came to beg
me to advance her professionally, she wants my help. This ought to save
you some money, my friend. We'll have her in! I shall tell her who you
are."

"How shall I talk to her?"

"Leave it to me."

I crossed the landing, and opened the salon door. The room was littered
with the illustrated journals, but she was not diverting herself with
any of them--she was sitting before a copy of _La Joconde_,
striving to reproduce on her own face the enigma of the smile: I had
discovered an actress who never missed an opportunity.

"Please come here."

She followed me back, and my friend stood scowling at her.

"This gentleman is General de Lavardens," I said.

She bowed--slightly, perfectly. That bow acknowledged de Lavardens'
presence, and rebuked the manner of my introduction, with all the
dignity of the patricians whom she had studied in the rain.

"Mademoiselle, when my servant announced that the General was
downstairs you heard the name. You did not tell me that you knew his
son."

"Dame, non, monsieur!" she murmured.

"And when you implored me to assist you, you did not tell me that you
aspired to a marriage that would compel you to leave the stage. I never
waste my influence. Good-morning!"

"I do not aspire to the marriage," she faltered, pale as death.

"Rubbish, I know all about it. Of course, it is your aim to marry him
sooner or later, and of course he will make it a condition that you
cease to act. Well, I have no time to help a woman who is playing the
fool! That's all about it. I needn't detain you."

"I have refused to marry him," she gasped. "On my honour! You can ask
him. It is a fact."

"But you see him still," broke in de Lavardens wrathfully; "he is with
you every day! That is a fact, too, isn't it? If your refusal is
sincere, why are you not consistent? why do you want him at your side?"

"Because, monsieur," she answered, "I am weak enough to miss him when
he goes."

"Ah! you admit it. You profess to be in love with him?"

"No, monsieur," she dissented thoughtfully, "I am not in love with him
--and my refusal has been quite sincere, incredible as it may seem that
a woman like myself rejects a man like him. I could never make a
marriage that would mean death to my ambition. I could not sacrifice my
art--the stage is too dear to me for that. So it is evident that I am
not in love with him, for when a woman loves, the man is dearer to her
than all else."

De Lavardens grunted. I knew his grunts: there was some apology in this
one.

"The position is not fair to my son," he demurred. "You show good sense
in what you say--you are an artist, you are quite right to devote
yourself to your career; but you reject and encourage him at the same
time. If he married you it would be disastrous--to you, and to him; you
would ruin his life, and spoil your own. Enfin, give him a chance to
forget you! Send him away. What do you want to keep seeing him for?"

She sighed. "It is wrong of me, I own!"

"It is highly unnatural," said I.

"No, monsieur; it is far from being unnatural, and I will tell you why
--he is the only man I have ever known, in all my vagabond life, who
realised that a struggling actress might have the soul of a
gentlewoman. Before I met him, I had never heard a man speak to me with
courtesy, excepting on the stage; I had never known a man to take my
hand respectfully when he was not performing behind the footlights....
I met him first in the country; I was playing the Queen in _Ruy
Blas_, and the manager brought him to me in the wings. In everything
he said and did he was different from others. We were friends for
months before he told me that he loved me. His friendship has been the
gift of God, to brighten my miserable lot. Never to see him any more
would be awful to me!"

I perceived that if she was not in love with him she was so dangerously
near to it that a trifle might turn the scale. De Lavardens had the
same thought. His glance at me was apprehensive.

"However, you acknowledge that you are behaving badly!" I exclaimed.
"It is all right for _you_, friendship is enough for you, and you
pursue your career. But for _him_, it is different; he seeks your
love, and he neglects his duties. For him to spend his life sighing for
you would be monstrous, and for him to marry you would be fatal. If you
like him so much, be just to him, set him free! Tell him that he is not
to visit you any more."

"He does not visit me; he has never been inside my lodging."

"Well, that he is not to write there--that there are to be no more
dinners, drives, bouquets!"

"And I do not let him squander money on me. I am not that kind of
woman."

"We do not accuse you, mademoiselle. On the contrary, we appeal to your
good heart. Be considerate, be brave! Say good-bye to him!"

"You are asking me to suffer cruelly," she moaned.

"It is for your friend's benefit. Also, the more you suffer, the better
you will act. Every actress should suffer."

"Monsieur, I have served my apprenticeship to pain."

"There are other things than friendship--you have your prospects to
think about."

"What prospects?" she flashed back.

"Well, I cannot speak definitely to-day, as you know; but you would not
find me unappreciative."

De Lavardens grunted again--emotionally, this time. I checked him with
a frown.

"What use would it be for me to refuse to see him?" she objected
chokily. "When I am playing anywhere, _he_ can always see
_me_. I cannot kill his love by denying myself his companionship.
Besides, he would not accept the dismissal. One night, when I left the
theatre, I should find him waiting there again."

This was unpalatably true.

"If a clever woman desires to dismiss a man, she can dismiss him
thoroughly, especially a clever actress," I said. "You could talk to
him in such a fashion that he would have no wish to meet you again.
Such things have been done."

"What? You want me to teach him to despise me?"

"Much better if he did!"

"To turn his esteem to scorn, hein?"

"It would be a generous action."

"To falsify and degrade myself?"

"For your hero's good!"

"I will not do it!" she flamed. "You demand too much. What have
_you_ done for _me_ that I should sacrifice myself to please
you? I entreat your help, and you give me empty phrases; I cry that I
despair this morning, and you answer that by-and-by, some time, in the
vague future, you will remember that I exist. I shall not do this for
you--I keep my friend!"

"Your rhetoric has no weight with me," I said. "I do not pretend that I
have a claim on you. In such circumstances a noble woman would take the
course I suggest, not for my sake, not for the sake of General de
Lavardens, but for the sake of the man himself. You will 'keep your
friend'? Bien! But you will do so because you are indifferent to his
welfare and too selfish to release him."

She covered her face. There were tears on it. The General and I
exchanged glances again.

I went on:

"You charge me with giving you only empty phrases. That is undeserved.
I said all that was possible, and I meant what I said. I could not
pledge myself to put you into anything without knowing what you are
capable of doing; but, if you retain my good will, I repeat that I will
attend your next performance."

"And then?" she queried.

"Then--if I think well of it--you shall have a good part."

"Lead?"

"Bigre! I cannot say that. A good part, in Paris!"

"It is a promise?"

"Emphatically--if I think well of your performance."

"Of my next--the very next part I play?"

"Of the very next part you play."

She paused, reflecting. The pause lasted so long that it began to seem
to my suspense as if none of us would ever speak again. I took a
cigarette, and offered the box, in silence, to de Lavardens. He shook
his head without turning it to me, his gaze was riveted on the woman.

"All right," she groaned, "I agree!"

"Ah! good girl!"

"All you require is that Captain de Lavardens shall no longer seek me
for his wife. Is that it?"

"That's it."

"Very well. I know what would repel him--it shall be done to-night.
But you, gentlemen, will have to make the opportunity for me; you will
have to bring him to my place--both of you. You can find some reason
for proposing it? Tonight at nine o'clock. He knows the address."

She moved weakly to the door.

De Lavardens took three strides and grasped her hands. "Mademoiselle,"
he stuttered, "I have no words to speak my gratitude. I am a father,
and I love my son, but--mon Dieu! if--if things had been different,
upon my soul, I should have been proud to call you my daughter-in-law!"

Oh, how she could bow, that woman--the eloquence of her ill-fed form!

"Au revoir, gentlemen," she said.

Phew! We dropped into chairs.

"Paul," he grunted at me, "we have been a pair of brutes!"

"I know it. But you feel much relieved?"

"I feel another man. What is she going to say to him? I wish it were
over. _I_ should find it devilish difficult to propose going to
see her, you know! It will have to be _your_ suggestion. And
supposing he won't take us?"

"He will take us right enough," I declared, "and rejoice at the chance.
Hourra! hourra! hourra!" I sprang up and clapped him on the back. "My
friend, if that woman had thrown herself away on Georges it might have
been a national calamity."

"What?" he roared, purpling.

"Oh, no slight to Georges! I think--I think--I am afraid to say what I
think, I am afraid to think it!" I paced the room, struggling to
control myself. "Only, once in a blue moon, Jules, there is a woman
born of the People with a gift that is a blessing, and a curse--and her
genius makes an epoch, and her name makes theatrical history. And if a
lover of the stage like me discovers such a woman, you stodgy old
soldier, and blazes her genius in his work, he feels like Cheops,
Chephrenus, and Asychis rearing the Pyramids for immortality!"

My excitement startled him. "You believe she is a genius? Really?"

"I dare not believe," I panted. "I refuse to let myself believe, for I
have never seen blue moons. But--but--I wonder!"

We dined at Voisin's. It had been arranged that he should make some
allusion to the courtship; and I said to Georges, "I hope you don't
mind your father having mentioned the subject to me--we are old
friends, you know?" The topic was led up to very easily. It was
apparent that Georges thought the world of her. I admired the way he
spoke. It was quiet and earnest. As I feigned partial sympathy with his
matrimonial hopes, I own that I felt a Judas.

"I, too, am an artist," I said. "To me social distinctions naturally
seem somewhat less important than they do to your father."

"Indeed, monsieur," he answered gravely, "mademoiselle Laurent is
worthy of homage. If she were willing to accept me, every man who knew
her character would think me fortunate. Her education has not qualified
her to debate with professors, and she has no knowledge of society
small-talk, but she is intelligent, and refined, and good."

It was child's play. A sudden notion, over the liqueurs: "Take us to
see her! Come along, mon ami!" Astonishment (amateurish); persuasion
(masterly); Georges's diffidence to intrude, but his obvious delight at
the thought of the favourable impression she would create. He had
"never called there yet--it would be very unconventional at such an
hour?" "Zut, among artists! My card will be a passport, I assure you."
Poor fellow, the trap made short work of him! At half-past eight we
were all rattling to the left bank in a cab.

The cab stopped before a dilapidated house in an unsavoury street. I
knew that the aspect of her home went to his heart. "Mademoiselle
Laurent has won no prize in her profession," he observed, "and she is
an honest girl." Well said!

In the dim passage a neglected child directed us to the fourth floor.
On the fourth floor a slattern, who replied at last to our persistent
tapping, told us shortly that mademoiselle was out. I realised that we
had committed the error of being before our time; and the woman,
evidently unprepared for our visit, did not suggest our going in. It
seemed bad stage-management.

"Will it be long before mademoiselle is back?" I inquired, annoyed.

"Mais non."

"We will wait," I said, and we were admitted sulkily to a room, of
which the conspicuous features were a malodorous lamp, and a brandy-
bottle. I had taken the old drab for a landlady rather the worse for
liquor, but, more amiably, she remarked now: "It's a pity Jeanne didn't
know you were coming."

At the familiar "Jeanne" I saw Georges start.

"Mademoiselle is a friend of yours?" I asked, dismayed.

"A friend? She is my daughter." She sat down.

By design the girl was out! The thought flashed on me. It flashed on me
that she had plotted for her lover to learn what a mother-in-law he
would have. The revelation must appal him. I stole a look--his face was
blanched. The General drew a deep breath, and nodded to himself. The
nod said plainly, "He is saved. Thank God!"

"Will you take a little drop while you are waiting, gentlemen?"

"Nothing for us, thank you."

She drank alone, and seemed to forget that we were present. None of us
spoke. I began to wonder if we need remain. Then, drinking, she grew
garrulous. It was of Jeanne she talked. She gave us her maternal views,
and incidentally betrayed infamies of her own career. I am a man of the
world, but I shuddered at that woman. The suitor who could have risked
making her child his wife would have been demented, or sublime. And
while she maundered on, gulping from her glass, and chuckling at her
jests, the ghastliness of it was that, in the gutter face before us, I
could trace a likeness to Jeanne; I think Georges must have traced it,
too. The menace of heredity was horrible. We were listening to Jeanne
wrecked, Jeanne thirty years older--Jeanne as she might become!

Ciel! To choose a bride with this blood in her--a bride from the dregs!

"Let us go, Georges," I murmured. "Courage! You will forget her. We'll
be off."

He was livid. I saw that he could bear no more.

But the creature overheard, and in those bleary eyes intelligence
awoke.

"What? Hold on!" she stammered. "Is one of you the toff that wants to
marry her? Ah!... I've been letting on finely, haven't I? It was a
plant, was it? You've come here ferreting and spying?" She turned
towards me in a fury: "You!"

Certainly I had made a comment from time to time, but I could not see
why she should single me out for her attack. She lurched towards me
savagely. Her face was thrust into mine. And then, so low that only I
could hear, and like another woman, she breathed a question:

"Can I act?"

Jeanne herself! Every nerve in me jumped. The next instant she was back
in her part, railing at Georges.

I took a card from my case, and scribbled six words.

"When your daughter comes in, give her that!" I said. I had scribbled:
"I write you a star rôle!"

She gathered the message at a glance, and I swear that the moroseness
of her gaze was not lightened by so much as a gleam. She was
representing a character; the actress sustained the character even
while she read words that were to raise her from privation to renown.

"Not that I care if I _have_ queered her chance," she snarled. "A
good job, too, the selfish cat! I've got nothing to thank her for.
Serve her right if you do give her the go-by, my Jackanapes, _I_
don't blame you!"

"Madame Laurent," Georges answered sternly, and his answer vibrated
through the room, "I have never admired, pitied, or loved Jeanne so
much as now that I know that she has been--motherless."

All three of us stood stone-still. The first to move was she. I saw
what was going to happen. She burst out crying.

"It's I, Jeanne!--I love you! I thought I loved the theatre best--I was
wrong." Instinctively she let my card fall to the ground. "Forgive me--
I did it for your sake, too. It was cruel, I am ashamed. Oh, my own, if
my love will not disgrace you, take me for your wife! In all the world
there is no woman who will love you better--in all my heart there is no
room for anything but you!"

They were in each other's arms. De Lavardens, whom the proclamation of
identity had electrified, dragged me outside. The big fool was
blubbering with sentiment.

"This is frightful," he grunted.

"Atrocious!" said I.

"But she is a woman in a million."

"She is a great actress," I said reverently.

"I could never approve the marriage," he faltered. "What do you think?"

"Out of the question! I have no sympathy with either of them."

"You humbug! Why, there is a tear running down your nose!"

"There are two running down yours," I snapped; "a General should know
better."

And why has the doll in the pink silk dress recalled this to me? Well,
you see, to-morrow will be New Year's Day and the doll is a gift for my
godchild--and the name of my godchild's mother is "Jeanne de
Lavardens." Oh, I have nothing to say against her as a mother, the
children idolise her! I admit that she has conquered the General, and
that Georges is the proudest husband in France. But when I think of the
parts I could have written for her, of the lustre the stage has lost,
when I reflect that, just to be divinely happy, the woman deliberately
declined a worldwide fame--Morbleu! I can never forgive her for it,
never--the darling!

THE LAST EFFECT

Jean Bourjac was old and lazy. Why should he work any more? In his
little cottage he was content enough. If the place was not precisely
gay, could he not reach Paris for a small sum? And if he had no
neighbours to chat with across the wall, weren't there his flowers to
tend in the garden? Occasionally--because one cannot shake off the
interests of a lifetime--he indulged in an evening at the Folies-
Bergère, or Olympia, curious to witness some Illusion that had made a
hit.

At such times old Bourjac would chuckle and wag his head sagely, for he
saw no Illusions now to compare with those invented by himself when he
was in the business.

And there were many persons who admitted that he had been supreme in
his line. At the Folies-Bergère he was often recognised and addressed
as "Maître."

One summer evening, when old Bourjac sat reading _Le Journal_,
Margot, the housekeeper, who had grown deaf and ancient in his service,
announced a stranger.

She was a girl with a delicate oval face, and eyes like an angel's.

"Monsieur Bourjac," she began, as if reciting a speech that she had
studied, "I have come out here to beg a favour of you. I thirst for a
career behind the footlights. Alas! I cannot sing, or dance, or act.
There is only one chance for me--to possess an Illusion that shall take
Paris by storm. I am told that there is nothing produced to-day fit to
hold a candle to the former 'Miracles Bourjac.' Will you help me? Will
you design for me the most wonderful Illusion of your life?"

"Mademoiselle," said Bourjac, with a shrug, "I have retired."

"I implore you!" she urged. "But I have not finished; I am poor, I am
employed at a milliner's, I could not pay down a single franc. My offer
is a share of my salary as a star. I am mad for the stage. It is not
the money that I crave for, but the applause. I would not grudge you
even half my salary! Oh, monsieur, it is in your power to lift me from
despair into paradise. Say you consent."

Bourjac mused. Her offer was very funny; if she had been of the
ordinary type, he would have sent her packing, with a few commercial
home-truths. Excitement had brought a flush to the oval face, her
glorious eyes awoke in him emotions which he had believed extinct. She
was so captivating that he cast about him for phrases to prolong the
interview. Though he could not agree, he didn't want her to go yet.

And when she did rise at last, he murmured, "Well, well, see me again
and we will talk about it. I have no wish to be hard, you understand."

Her name was Laure. She was in love with a conjurer, a common, flashy
fellow, who gave his mediocre exhibitions of legerdemain at such places
as Le Jardin Extérieur, and had recently come to lodge at her mother's.
She aspired to marry him, but did not dare to expect it. Her homage was
very palpable, and monsieur Eugéne Legrand, who had no matrimonial
intentions, would often wish that the old woman did not keep such a
sharp eye upon her.

Needless to say, Bourjac's semi-promise sent her home enraptured. She
had gone to him on impulse, without giving her courage time to take
flight; now, in looking back, she wondered at her audacity, and that
she had gained so much as she had. "I have no wish to be hard," he had
said. Oh, the old rascal admired her hugely! If she coaxed enough, he
would end by giving in. What thumping luck! She determined to call upon
him again on Sunday, and to look her best.

Bourjac, however, did not succumb on Sunday. Fascinating as he found
her, he squirmed at the prospect of the task demanded of him. His
workshop in the garden had been closed so long that rats had begun to
regard it as their playroom; the more he contemplated resuming his
profession, the less inclined he felt to do it.

She paid him many visits and he became deeply infatuated with her; yet
he continued to maintain that he was past such an undertaking--that she
had applied to him too late.

Then, one day, after she had flown into a passion, and wept, and been
mollified, he said hesitatingly:

"I confess that an idea for an Illusion has occurred to me, but I do
not pledge myself to execute it. I should call it 'A Life.' An empty
cabinet is examined; it is supported by four columns--there is no stage
trap, no obscurity, no black velvet curtain concealed in the dark, to
screen the operations; the cabinet is raised high above the ground, and
the lights are full up. You understand?" Some of the inventor's
enthusiasm had crept into his voice. "You understand?"

"Go on," she said, holding her breath.

"Listen. The door of the cabinet is slammed, and in letters of fire
there appears on it, 'Scene I.' Instantly it flies open again and
discloses a baby. The baby moves, it wails--in fine, it is alive. Slam!
Letters of fire, 'Scene II.' Instantly the baby has vanished; in its
place is a beautiful girl--you! You smile triumphantly at your
reflection in a mirror, your path is strewn with roses, the world is at
your feet. Slam! 'Scene III.' In a moment twenty years have passed;
your hair is grey, you are matronly, stout, your face is no longer
oval; yet unmistakably it is you yourself, the same woman. Slam! 'Scene
IV.' You are enfeebled, a crone, toothless, tottering on a stick. Once
more! It is the last effect--the door flies open and reveals a
skeleton."

"You can make this?" she questioned.

"I could make it if I chose," he answered.

"Will you?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"On you!"

"Take any share you want," she cried. "I will sign anything you like!
After all, would not the success be due to you?"

"So you begin to see that?" said the old man drily. "But, I repeat, it
depends! In spite of everything, you may think my terms too high."

"What do you want me to do?" she stammered.

"Marry me!" said Bourjac.

He did not inquire if she had any affection for him; he knew that if
she said "Yes" it would be a lie. But he adored this girl, who, of a
truth, had nothing but her beauty to recommend her, and he persuaded
himself that his devotion would evoke tenderness in her by degrees. She
found the price high indeed. Not only was she young enough to be his
granddaughter--she had given her fancy to another man. Immediately she
could not consent. When she took leave of him, it was understood that
she would think the offer over; and she went home and let Legrand hear
that Bourjac had proposed for her hand. If, by any chance, the news
piqued Legrand into doing likewise--?

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