“There’s nothing, friend, ’twixt you and meExcept the best of company.(There’s just one bock ’twixt you and me,and I’ll catch up full soon!)What woman’s lips compare to this:This sturdy seidel’s frothy kiss——”
“There’s nothing, friend, ’twixt you and meExcept the best of company.(There’s just one bock ’twixt you and me,and I’ll catch up full soon!)What woman’s lips compare to this:This sturdy seidel’s frothy kiss——”
“There’s nothing, friend, ’twixt you and meExcept the best of company.(There’s just one bock ’twixt you and me,and I’ll catch up full soon!)What woman’s lips compare to this:This sturdy seidel’s frothy kiss——”
His guests were coming to seek him. They had remembered him at last.
Cartaret’s mind, however, was busy with other matters. He had not thought of the gallant thing that he might have said to The Girl, but he had thought of something equally surprising.
“Gee whiz!” he cried. “I understand now—it’s probably the custom of her country: she expected me to kiss her hand. Kiss her hand—and I missed the chance!”
Que de femmes il y a dans une femme! Et c’est bien heureux.—Dumas, Fils:La Dame Aux Perles.
Que de femmes il y a dans une femme! Et c’est bien heureux.—Dumas, Fils:La Dame Aux Perles.
Cartaret did not see the Lady of the Rose next day, though his work suffered sadly through the worker’s jumping from before his easel at the slightest sound on the landing, running to his door, and sometimes himself going to the hall and standing there for many minutes, trying, and not succeeding, to look as if he had just come in, or were just going out, on business of the first importance. He concluded, for the hundredth time, that he was a fool; but he persevered in his folly. He asked himself why he should feel such an odd interest in an unknown girl practically alone in Paris; but he found no satisfactory answer. He declared that it was madness in him to suppose that she couldwant ever to see him again, and madness to suppose that a penniless failure had anything to gain by seeing her; but he continued to try.
On the night following the first day of his watch, Cartaret went to bed disappointed and slept heavily. On the second night he went to bed worried, and dreamed of scaling a terrible mountain in quest of a flower, and of falling into a hideous chasm just as the flower turned into a beautiful woman and smiled at him. On the third night, he surrendered to acute alarm and believed that he did not sleep at all.
The morning of the fourth day found him knocking on the panel of that magic door opposite. Chitta opened the door a crack, growled, and shut it in his face.
“I wonder,” reflected Cartaret, “what would be the best means of killing this old woman. I wonder if the hyena would eat candy sent her by mail.”
He had been watching, all the previous day, for the Lady of the Rose to go out, and she did not leave her room. Now it occurred to himto watch for Chitta’s exit on a forage foray and to renew his attack during her absence. This he accomplished. From a front window, he had no sooner seen the duenna swing into the rue du Val de Grâce, with her head-dress bobbing and a shopping-net on her arm, than he was again knocking at the door across the landing.
He knew now, did Cartaret, that, on whatever landing of life he had lived, there was always that door opposite, the handle of which he had never dared to turn, the key to which he had never yet found. He knew, on this morning—a clear, windy morning, for March had come in like a lion—that, for the door of every heart in the world, or high or low, or cruel or tender, there is a heart opposite with a door not inaccessible.
The pale yellow sun sang of it: Marvelous Door Opposite!—it seemed to sing—how, when they pass that portal, the commonplace becomes the unusual and reality is turned into romance. Lead becomes silver then, and copper—gold. Magical Door Opposite! All the possibilities oflife—aye, and what is better, all life’s impossibilities—are behind you, and all life’s fears and hopes before. All our young dreams, our mature ambitions, our old regrets, curl in incense from our brains and struggle to pass that keyhole. Unhappy he for whom the door never opens; more unhappy, often, he for whom it does open; but most unhappy he who never sees that it is there: the Door across the Landing.
Cartaret knocked as if he were knocking at the gate of Paradise, and, perhaps again as if he were knocking at the gate of Paradise, he got no answer. He knocked a second time and heard the rustle of a woman’s skirt.
“Who is there?”—She spoke in French now, but he would have known her voice had she talked the language of Grand Street.
“Cartaret,” he answered.
She opened the door. A ray of light beat its way through a grimy window in the hall to welcome her—Cartaret was sure that no light had passed that window for years and years—andrested on the beauty of her pure face, her calm eyes, her blue-black hair.
“Good morning,” said the Lady of the Rose.
It sounded wonderful to him. Whenhereplied “Good morning”—and could think of nothing else to say—the phrase sounded less remarkable.
She waited a moment. She looked a little doubtful. She said:
“You perhaps wanted Chitta?”
Were her eyes laughing? Her lips were serious, but he was uncertain of her eyes.
“Certainly not,” said he.
“Oh, you wanted me?”
“Yes!” said Cartaret, and blushed at the vehemence of the monosyllable.
“Why?”
For what, indeed, had he come there? He vividly realized that he should have prepared some excuse; but, having prepared none, he could offer only the truth—or so much of it as seemed expedient.
“I wanted to see if you were all right,” he said.
“But certainly,” she smiled. “I thank you, sir; but, yes, I am—all right.”
She said no more; Cartaret felt as if he could never speak again. However, speak he must.
“Well, you know,” he said, “I hadn’t seen you anywhere about, and I was rather worried.”
“Chitta takes of me the best care.”
“Yes, but, you see, I didn’t know and I—Oh, yes: I wanted to see whether that turpentine worked.”
“The turpentine!” All suspicion of amusement fled her eyes: she was contrite. “I comprehend. How careless of Chitta not at once to have returned it to you.”
Turpentine! What a nectar for romance! Cartaret made a face that could not have been worse had he swallowed some of the liquid. He tried to protest, but she did not heed him. Instead, she left him standing there while she went to hunt for that accursed bottle. In five minutes she had found it, returned it, thankedhim and sent him back to his own room, no further advanced in her acquaintance than when he knocked at her door.
She had laughed at him. He returned fiercely to his work, convinced that she had been laughing at him all the while. Very well: what did he care? He would forget her.
He concentrated all his thoughts upon the idea of forgetting the Lady of the Rose. In order to assist his purpose, he set a new canvas on his easel and fell to work to make a portrait of her as she should be and was not. The contrast would help him, and the plan was cheap, because it needed no model. By the next afternoon he had completed the portrait of a beautiful woman with a white rose at her throat. It was quite his best piece of work, and an excellent likeness of the girl in the room opposite.
He saw that it was a likeness and thought of painting it out, but it would be a pity to destroy his best work, so he merely put it aside. He decided to paint a purely imaginative figure. He squeezed out some paints, almost athaphazard, and began painting in that mood. After forty-eight hours of this sort of thing, he had produced another picture of the same woman in another pose.
In more ways than one, Cartaret’s position was growing desperate. His money was almost gone. He must paint something that Fourget, or some equally kind-hearted dealer, would buy, and these two portraits he would not offer for sale.
Telling himself that it was only to end his obsession, he tried twice again to see the Lady of the Rose, who was now going out daily to some master’s class, and each time he gained nothing by his attempt. First, she would not answer his knock, though he could hear her moving about and knew that she must have heard him crossing the hall from his own room and be aware of her caller’s identity. On the next occasion, he waited for her at the corner of the Boul’ Miche’ when he knew that she would be returning from the class, and was greeted by nothing save a formal bow. So he had to forcehimself to pot-boilers by sheer determination, and finally turned out something that then seemed poor enough for Fourget to like.
Houdon came in and found him putting on the finishing touches. The plump musician, frightened by his impudence, had stopped below at his own room on the night of the dinner when the revelers at last came to seek their host. Now it appeared that he was anxious to apologize. He advanced with the dignity befitting a monarch kindly disposed, and his gesturing hands beat the score of the kettle-drums for the march of the priests inAïda.
“My very dear Cartarette!” cried Houdon. “Ah, but it is good again to see you! I so regretted myself not to ascend with our friends to call upon you the evening of our little collation.” He sought to dismiss the subject with a run on the invisible piano and the words: “But I was slightly indisposed: without doubt our good comrades informed you that I was slightly indisposed. I am very sensitive, and thesecommunions of high thought are too much for my delicate nerves.”
His good comrades had told Cartaret that Houdon was very drunk; but Cartaret decided that to continue his quarrel would be an insult to its cause. After all, he reflected, this was Houdon’s conception of an apology. Cartaret looked at the composer, who was a walking symbol of good feeding and iron nerves, and replied:
“Don’t bother to mention it.”
Houdon seized both of Cartaret’s hands and pressed them fondly.
“My friend,” said Houdon magnanimously, “we shall permit ourselves to say no more about it. What sings your sublime poet, Henri Wadsworth Longchap? ‘I shall allow the decomposed past to bury her dead.’—Or do I mistake: was it Whitman,hein?”
He gestured his way to Cartaret’s easel, much as if the air were water and he were swimming there. He praised extravagantly the picture that Cartaret now knew to be bad. Finally hebegan to potter about the room with a pretense of admiring the place and looking at its other canvases, but all the while conveying the feeling that he was apprising the financial status of its occupant. Cartaret saw him drawing nearer and nearer to the two canvases that, their faces toward the wall, bore the likeness of the Lady of the Rose.
“I am just going out,” said Cartaret. He hurried to his visitor and took the fellow’s arm. “I must take that picture on the easel to the rue St. André des Arts. Will you come along?”
Houdon seemed suspicious of this sudden friendliness. He cast a curious glance at the canvases he had been about to examine, but his choice was obviously Hobson’s.
“Gladly,” he flourished. “To mycher amiFourget, is it? But I know him well. Perhaps my influence may assist you.”
“Perhaps,” said Cartaret. He doubted it, but he hoped that something would assist him.
He held the picture, still wet of course, exposed for all the world of the Quarter to see,hurried Houdon past the landing and could have sworn that the composer’s eyes lingered at the sacred door.
“But it is an infamy,” said Houdon, when they had walked as far down the Boul’ Miche’ as the Musée Cluny—“it is an infamy to sell at once such a superb work to such a little cow of a dealer. Why then?”
“Because I must,” said Cartaret.
Houdon laughed and wagged his head.
“No, no,” said he; “you deceive others: not Houdon. I know well the disguised prince. Come”—he looked up and down the Boulevard St. Germain before he ventured to cross it—“trust your friend Houdon, my dear Cartarette.”
“I am quite honest with you.”
“Bah! Have your own way, then. Pursue your fancy of self-support for a time. It is noble, that. But think not that I am deceived. Me, Houdon: I know. Name of an oil-well, you should send this masterpiece to the Salon!”
But just at the corner of the rue St. André des Arts, the great composer thought that he sawahead of him a friend with whom he had a pressing engagement of five minutes. He excused himself with such a wealth of detail that Cartaret was convinced of the slightness of the Fourget acquaintanceship, which Houdon had not again referred to.
“I shall be finished and waiting at this corner long ere you return,” vowed Houdon. “Go, my friend, and if that little dealer pays you one third of what your picture is worth, my faith, he will bankrupt himself.”
So Cartaret went on alone, and was presently glad that he was unaccompanied.
For Fourget would not buy the picture. It was a silly sketch of a pretty boy pulling to tatters the petals of a rose, and the gray-haired dealer, although he had kindly eyes under his bristling eyebrows, behind his glistening spectacles, shook his head.
“I am sorry,” he said: so many of these hopeful young fellows brought him their loved work, and he had so often, but never untruthfully, to say that he was sorry. “I am very sorry, butthis is not the real you, monsieur. The values—you know better than that. The composition—it is unworthy of you, M. Cartarette.”
Cartaret was in no mood to try elsewhere. He wanted to fling the thing into the Seine. He certainly did not want Houdon to see him return with it. Might he leave it with Fourget? Perhaps some customer might see and care for it?
No, Fourget had his reputation to sustain; but there was that rascal Lepoittevin across the street——
Cartaret went to the rascal, a most amiable man, who would buy no more than would Fourget. He was willing, however, to have the picture left there on the bare chance of picking up a sale—and a commission—and there Cartaret left it.
Houdon wormed the truth out of him as easily as if Cartaret had come back carrying the picture under his arm: the young American was too disconsolate to hide his chagrin. Houdon was at first incredulous and then overcome; he asked his dear friend to purchase brandy for thetwo of them at the Café Pantheon: such treatment of a veritable masterpiece was too much for his sensitive nerves.
With some difficulty, Cartaret got rid of the composer. On a bench in the Luxembourg Gardens, he took account of his resources. They were shockingly slender and, if they were to last him any time at all, he must exercise the most stringent economy. He must buy no more brandy for musical geniuses. Indeed, he must buy no more café dinners for himself....
It struck him, as a happy thought, that he might save a little if he lived on such cold solids as he could buy at the fruit-stand andpâtisseriesand such liquids as he might warm in a tin-cup over his lamp. Better men than he was had lived thus in the Quarter, and Cartaret, as the thought took shape, rather enjoyed the prospect: it made him feel as if he were another martyr to Art, or as if—though he was not clear as to the logic of this—he were another martyr to Love. He considered going to Père la Chaise and putting violets on the tomb ofHéloise and Abelard; but he decided that he could not afford the tram-fare, and he was already too tired to walk, so he made his scanty purchases instead, and had rather a good time doing it.
He passed Chitta on his way up the stairs to his room, with his arms full of edibles, and he thought that she frowned disapproval. He supposed she would tell her mistress scornfully, and he hoped that her mistress would understand and pity him.
He got a board and nailed it to the sill of one of the rear windows. On that he stored his food and, contemplating it, felt like a successful housekeeper.
L’indiscrétion d’un de ces amis officieux qui ne sauraient garder inédite la nouvelle susceptible de vous causer un chagrin.—Murger:Scènes de la Vie de Bohème.
L’indiscrétion d’un de ces amis officieux qui ne sauraient garder inédite la nouvelle susceptible de vous causer un chagrin.—Murger:Scènes de la Vie de Bohème.
You would have said that it behooved a man in Charlie Cartaret’s situation to devote his evenings to a consideration of its difficulties and his days to hard work; but Cartaret, though he did, as you will see, try to work, devoted the first evening of his new régime to thoughts that, if they affected his situation at all, tended only to complicate it. He thought, as he had so much of late, and as he was to think so much more in the future, of the Lady of the Rose.
Who was she? Whence did she come? What was this native land of hers that she professed to love so well? And, if she did love it so well, why had she left it and come to Paris with acompanion that appeared to be some strange compromise between guardian and servant?
He wondered if she were some revolutionary exile: Paris was always full of revolutionary exiles. He wondered if she were a rightful heiress, dispossessed of a foreign title. Perhaps she was the lovely pretender to a throne. In that mysterious home of hers, she must have possessed some exalted position, or the right to it, for Chitta had kneeled to her on the dusty floor of this studio, and the Lady’s manner, he now recalled, was the manner of one accustomed to command. Her beauty was of a type that he had read of as Irish—the beauty of fair skin, hair black and eyes of deepest blue; but the speech was the English of a woman born to another tongue.
What was her native speech? Both her French and her English were innocent of alien accent—he had heard at least a phrase or two of the former—yet both had a precision that betrayed them as not her own and both had a foreign-born construction. Her frequent use of the word“sir” in addressing him was sufficiently peculiar. She employed the word not as one that speaks frequently to a superior, but rather as if she were used to it in a formal language, or a grade of life, in which it was a common courtesy. It was something more usual than the French “monsieur,” even more usual than the Spanish “señor.”
Cartaret leaned from a window. The air was still keen, but the night was clear. The rue du Val de Grâce was deserted, its houses dark and silent. Overhead, in the narrow ribbon of indigo sky, hung a pallid moon: a disk of yellow glass.
What indeed was she, this Lady of the Rose? He pictured as hers a distant country of deep valleys full of clamoring streams and high mountains where white roses grew. He pictured her as that country’s sovereign. Yet the rose which she treasured had not yet faded on the day of her arrival: she could not come from anywhere so far away.
He was cold. He closed the window, shivering. He was ridiculous: why, he had been indanger of falling in love with a woman of whom he knew nothing! He did not even know her name....
The passage of slow-footed time helped him, however, not at all. He would sit for hours, idle before his easel, listening for her light step on the stair and afraid to go to meet her when at last he heard it, for he was desperately poor now, and poverty was making him the coward that it will sooner or later make any man.
He had antagonized the concierge by preparing his own coffee in the morning instead of continuing to pay Mme. Refrogné for it. When he had something to cook, he cooked badly; but there were days when he had nothing, and lived on pastry and bricks of chocolate, and others when it seemed to him that such supplies as he could buy and store on that shelf outside the window were oddly short-lived.
For a while he called daily at the shop of M. Lepoittevin, but that absurd picture of a boy tearing a rose would not sell, and Cartaret soongrew ashamed of calling there; Fourget he would not face. He managed at first to dispose of one or two sketches and so kept barely alive, yet, as the days went by, his luck dwindled and his greatest energy was expended in keeping up a proud pretense of comfort to his friends of the Quarter.
Pear-shaped Devignes was easy to deceive: the opera-singer lived too well to want to believe that anybody in the world could starve. Garnier, the cadaverous poet, saved trouble, indulging his dislike of other people’s poverty by remaining away from it; but Seraphin, who came often and sat about the studio in a silence wholly uncharacteristic, was difficult. Houdon, finally, was frequent and expensive: he always foraged about what he called Cartaret’s “tempting window-buffet,” but he regarded the condition of affairs as the passing foible of a young man temporarily wearied by the pleasures of wealth.
“Ah,” he snorted one day when he had come in with Varachon, “you fail wholly to deceive me, Cartarette. You say you are not well-to-doso that we shall think that you are not, but I know, I! Had you not your own income, you would try to sell more pictures, and your pictures are superb. They would fetch a pretty sum. Believe not that because I have a great musical genius I have no eye for painting. I know good painting. All Arts are one, my brother.”
He jabbed Cartaret’s empty stomach and, whistling a theme and twisting his little mustache, went to the window and took a huge bite of the last apple there.
Cartaret watched the composer toss half the apple into the concierge’s garden.
Varachon, the sculptor, grunted through his broken nose.
“Your work is bad,” he whispered to Cartaret—“very bad. You require a long rest. Go to Nice for a month.”
The weeks passed. Cartaret was underfed and discouraged. He was too discouraged now to attempt to renew his acquaintance with the Lady of the Rose. He was pale and thin, and this from reasons wholly physical.
Meanwhile, through the scented dawns, April was coming up to that city in which April is most beautiful and most seductive. From the spicy Mediterranean coasts, along the Valley of the Rhone, Love was dancing upon Paris with laughing Spring for his partner. Already the trees had blossomed between the Place de La Concorde and the Rond Point, and out in the Bois the birds were singing to their mates.
One morning, when Cartaret, with unsteady hand, drew back his curtain,rouge-gorgeswere calling from the concierge’s garden, and seemed to be calling to him.
“Seize hold of love!” they chorused in that garden. “Life is short; time flies, and love flies with it. Love will pass you by. Take it, take it, take it, while there still is time! Like us, it is a bird that flies, but, unlike us, it never more returns. It is a rose that withers—a white rose: take it while it blooms. Take it, though it leave you soon; take it, though it scratch your fingers. Take it, take it, take it now!”
On that day the annual siege of Paris ended,the city fell before her invaders, and by the time that Cartaret went into the streets, the army of occupation was in possession. The Luxembourg Gardens, the very benches along the Boul’ Miche’ were full of lovers: he could not stir from the house without encountering them.
From it, however, he had to go: the Spring called him with a sad seductiveness that he could no longer resist. He wandered aimlessly, trying the impossible: trying to keep his eyes from the couples that also wandered, but wandered hand in hand, and trying to keep his thoughts from roses and the Lady of the Rose.
He found himself before one of the riverside bookstalls, fingering an old book, leather-bound. The text, he realized, was English, or what once was so: it was a volume of Maundeville, and Cartaret was reading:
“Betwene the cytee and the chirche of Bethlehem is the felde Floridus; that is to seyne, the field florsched. For als moche as a fayre mayden was blamed with wrong ... for whiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to bebrent in that place, to the which she was ladd. And, as the fyre began to brenne about hire, she made her preyeres to oure Lord, that als wissely as sche was not gylty ... that he would help hire, and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace. And, whanne sche had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer; and anon was the fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge becomen white roseres, full of roses; and theise werein the first roseres and roses, both white and rede, that ever ony man saughe. And thus was this mayden saved by the grace of God.” ...
All that week—while the contents of his window-sideboard dwindled, he was sure, faster than he ate from it—he had tried to forget everything by painting heavily at pot-boilers. He had begun with the aim of earning enough to resume his studies; he had continued with the hope of getting together enough to keep alive—in Paris. And yet, fleeing from that bookstall, he was fool enough to walk all the way to Les Halles, to walk into Les Halles, and to stop, fascinatedby a counter laden with boxes of strawberries, odorous and red, the smallest box of which was beyond the limits of his economy.
That was bad enough—it was absurd that his will should voluntarily play the Barmecide for the torture of his unrewarded Shacabac of a stomach—but worse, without fault of his own, was yet to follow this mere aggravation of his baser appetites. Spring and Paris are an irresistible combination on the side of folly, and that evening another sign of them presented itself: there was a burst of music; a hurdy-gurdy was playing in the rue du Val de Grâce, and Cartaret, from his window, listened eagerly. It has been intimated from the best of sources that all love lives on music, and it is the common experience that when any love cannot get the best music, it takes what it can get:
“Her brow is like the snaw-drift;Her throat is like the swan;Her face it is the fairestThat e’er the sun shone on—That e’er the sun shone on—And dark blue is her e’e——”
“Her brow is like the snaw-drift;Her throat is like the swan;Her face it is the fairestThat e’er the sun shone on—That e’er the sun shone on—And dark blue is her e’e——”
“Her brow is like the snaw-drift;Her throat is like the swan;Her face it is the fairestThat e’er the sun shone on—That e’er the sun shone on—And dark blue is her e’e——”
That French hurdy-gurdy was playing “Annie Laurie,” and, since the lonely artist’s heart ached to hear the old, familiar melody, when the bearded grinder looked aloft, Cartaret drew a coin from his pocket. Anxious to pay for his pain, as the human kind always is, he tossed his last franc to that vendor of emotions in the twilit street.
He was drunk at last with the wine that his own misery distilled. He abandoned himself to the admission that he was in love: he abandoned himself to his dream of the Lady of the Rose.
Seraphin, in a wonderful new suit of clothes, found him thus the next morning—it was a Friday—and found him accordingly resentful of intrusion. Cartaret was sitting before an empty easel, his hands clasped in his lap, his eyes looking vacantly through the posts of the easel.
“Good-day,” said Seraphin.
Cartaret said “Good-day” as if it were a form of insult.
Seraphin’s hands tugged at his two wisps of whisker.
“You are not well,hein?”
“I was never better in my life,” snapped Cartaret, turning upon his friend a face that was peaked and drawn.
The Frenchman came timidly nearer.
“My friend,” he said, “I have completed mymagnum opus. It has not sold quite so well as I hoped, not of course one thousandth of its value. That is this Spanish cow of a world. But I have three hundred francs. If you need——”
“Go away,” said Cartaret, looking at his empty easel. “Can’t you see I’m trying to begin work?”
Seraphin himself had suffered. His dignity was not offended: he kept it for only his creditors and other foes. He guessed that Cartaret was at last penniless, and he guessed rightly.
“Come, my friend,” he began; “none shall know. Will you not be so kind as to let me——”
Cartaret got up and, for all his weakness,gripped the Frenchman’s hand until Dieudonné nearly screamed.
“I’m a beast, Seraphin!” said Cartaret. “I’m a beast to treat a friendly offer this way. Forgive me. It’s just that I feel a bit rocky this morning. I drank too much champagne last night. I do thank you, Seraphin. You’re a good fellow, the best of the lot, and a sight better than I am. But I’m not hard up; really I’m not. I’m poor, but I’m not a sou poorer than I was this time last year.”
It was a magnificent lie. Seraphin could only shrug, pretend to believe it, and go away.
Cartaret scarcely heeded the departure. He had relapsed into his day-dream. He took from against the wall the two portraits that he had painted of the Lady of the Rose and hung them, now here, now there, trying them in various lights. There were at least ten more sketches of her by this time, and these, too, he hung in first one light and then another. He studied them and tried to be critical, and forgot to be.
His thoughts of her never took the shape ofconscious words—he loved her too much to attempt to praise her—but, as he looked at his endeavors to portray her, his mind was busy with his memories of all that loveliness—and passed from memories to day-dreams. He saw her as something that might fade before his touch. He saw her as a Princess, incognito, learning his plight, buying his pictures secretly, and, when she came to her throne, letting him serve her and worship from afar. And then he saw her even as a Galatea possible of miraculous awakening. Why not? Her eyes were the clear eyes of a woman that has never yet loved, but they were also, he felt, the eyes of one of those rare women who, when they love once, love forever. Cartaret dared, in his thoughts, to lift the heavy plaits of her blue-black hair and, with trembling fingers, again to touch that hand at the recollection of touching which his own hand tingled.
Why not, indeed? Already a stranger thing had happened in his meeting her. Until that year he had not guessed at her existence; oceansdivided them; the barriers of alien race and alien speech were raised high between them, and all of these things had been in vain. The existence was revealed, the ocean was crossed, the bar of sundering speech was down. He was here, close beside her, as if every event of his life had been intended to bring him. Through blind ways and up ascents misunderstood, unattracted by the many and lonely among the crowd, he had, somehow, always been making his way toward—Her.
Thus Cartaret dreamed while Seraphin made a hurried journey to the rue St. André des Arts and the shop of M. Fourget.
“But no, but no, but no!” Fourget’s bushy brows met in a frown. “It is out of the question. Something has happened to the boy. He can no longer paint.”
Oh, well, at least monsieur could go to the boy’s rooms and see what he had there.
“No. Am I then a silly philanthropist?”
Seraphin tried to produce his false dignity. What he brought out was something genuine.
“I ask it from the heart,” he pleaded. “Do not I, my God, know what it is to be hungry?”
“Hungry?” said the dealer. “Hungry! The boy has an uncle famously rich. What is an uncle for? Hungry? You makeune bêtise. Hungry.” He called his clerk and took up his hat. “I will not go,” he vowed. “Hungry,par example!”
“Truly you will not,” smiled Seraphin. “And do not tell him that I sent you: he is proud.”
The sound of the door opening interrupted Cartaret’s dream. He turned, a little sheepish, wholly annoyed. Spectacled Fourget stood there, looking very severe.
“I was passing by,” he explained. “I have not come to purchase anything, but I grow old: I was tired and I climbed your stairs to rest.”
It was too late to hide those portraits. Cartaret could only place for Fourget a chair with its back to them.
“What have you been doing?” asked the dealer.
He swung ’round toward the portraits.
“Don’t look at them!” said Cartaret. “They’re merely sketches.”
But Fourget had already looked. He was on his feet. He was bobbing from one to the other, his lean hands adjusting his glasses, his shoulders stooped, his nose thrust out. He was uttering little cries of approval.
“But this is good! It is good, then. This is first-rate. This is of an excellence!”
“They’re not for sale,” said Cartaret.
“Hein?” Fourget wheeled. “If they are not for sale, they are for what, then?”
“They—they are merely sketches, I tell you. I was trying my hand at a new method; but I find there is nothing in it.”
Fourget was unbuttoning his short frock-coat. He was reaching for his wallet.
“I tell you there is everything in it. There is the sure touch in it, the clear vision, the sympathy. There is reputation in it. In fine, there is money.”
He had the wallet out as he concluded.
Cartaret shook his head.
“Oh,” said Fourget, the dealer in him partially overcoming the lover of art, “not much as yet; not a great deal of money. You have still a long way to go; but you have found the road, monsieur, and I want to help you on your journey. Come, now.” He nodded to the first portrait. “What do you ask for that?”
“I don’t want to sell it.”
“Poof! We shall not haggle. Tell Fourget what you had thought of asking. Do not be modest. Tell me—and I will give you half.”
He kept it up as long as he could; he tried at last to buy the least of the preliminary sketches of the Rose-Lady; he offered what, to Cartaret, were dazzling prices; but Cartaret was not to be shaken: these experiments were not for sale.
Fourget was first disappointed, then puzzled. His enthusiasm had been genuine; but could it be possible that Dieudonné was mistaken? Was Cartaret not starving? The old man wasbeginning to button his coat when a new idea struck him.
“Who was your model?” he asked abruptly.
“I—I had none,” Cartaret stammered.
“Ah!”—Fourget peered hard at him through those glistening spectacles. “You painted them from memory?”
“Yes.” Cartaret felt his face redden. “From imagination, I mean.”
Then Fourget understood. Perhaps he had merely the typical Frenchman’s love of romance, which ceases only with the typical Frenchman’s life; or perhaps he remembered his own youth in Besançon, when he, too, had wanted to be an artist and when, among the vines on the hillside, little Rosalie smiled at him and kissed his ambition away—little Rosalie Poullot, dust and ashes these twenty years in the Cimetière du Mont Parnasse....
He turned to a pile of pot-boilers. He took one almost at random.
“This one,” he said, “I should like to buy it.”
It was the worst pot-boiler of the lot. Before the portraits, it was hopeless.
Cartaret half understood.
“No,” he said; “you don’t really want it.”
Seraphin had been right: the young man was proud. “How then?” demanded Fourget. “This also did you paint not-to-sell?”
“I painted it to sell,” said Cartaret miserably, “but it doesn’t deserve selling—perhaps just because I did paint it to sell.”
To his surprise, Fourget came to him and put an arm on his shoulder, a withered hand patting the American’s back.
“Ah, if but some more-famous artists felt as you do! Come; let me have it. That is very well. I shall sell it to a fool. Many fools are my patrons. How else could I live? There is not enough good art to meet all demands, or there are not enough demands to meet all good art. Who shall say? Suffice it there are demands of sorts. Daily I thank the good God for His fools....”
Cartaret went to Les Halles and bought a large box of strawberries.
He had put them carefully on his window-shelf and covered them with a copy of a last week’sMatin—being an American, he of course read theMatin—for he was resolved that, now he again had a little money, these strawberries should be his final extravagance and should be treasured accordingly—he had just anchored the paper against the gentle Spring breeze when he became aware that he had another visitor.
Standing by his table, much as she had stood there on the night of his second sight of her, was the Lady of the Rose.
Cartaret thought that his eyes were playing him tricks. He rubbed his eyes.
“It is I,” she said.
He thought that again he could detect the perfume of the Azure Rose. He again thought that he could see white mountain-tops in the sun. He could have sworn that, in the street, a hurdy-gurdy was playing:
“Her brow is like the snaw-drift;Her throat is like the swan——”
“Her brow is like the snaw-drift;Her throat is like the swan——”
“Her brow is like the snaw-drift;Her throat is like the swan——”
“I came in,” she was saying, “to see how you were. I should have sent Chitta, but she was so long coming back from an errand.”
“Thank you,” he said—he was not yet certain of himself—“I’m quite well. But I’m very glad you called.”
“Yet you, sir, look pale, and your friend”—her forehead puckered—“told me that you had been ill.”
“My friend?” He spoke as if he had none in the world, though now he knew better.
“Yes: such a pleasant old gentleman with gray hair and glasses. As I came in half an hour ago, I met him on the stairs.”
“Fourget!”
“Was that his name? He seemed most anxious about you.”
“He is my friend.”
“I like him,” said the Lady of the Rose.
“Then you understand him. I didn’t understand him—till this morning. He is anart-dealer: those that he won’t buy from think him hard; the friends of those that he buys from think him a fool.”
Although he had reassured her of his health, she seemed charmingly willing to linger. Really, she was looking at Cartaret’s haggard cheeks with a wonderful sympathy.
“So he bought from you?”
Cartaret nodded.
“Only I hopeyouwon’t think him a fool,” he said.
“I shall consider,” she laughed. “I must first see some of your work, sir.”
She came farther into the room. She moved with an easy dignity, her advance into the light displaying the lines of her gracile figure, the turn of her head discovering the young curve of her throat; her eyes, as they moved about his studio, were clear and starry.
In the presence of their original, Cartaret had forgotten the portraits. Now she saw them and turned scarlet.
It was a time for no more pride on the partof the painter: already, head high in air, she had turned to go. It was a time for honest dealing. Cartaret barred her way.
“Forgive me!” he cried. “Won’t you please forgive me?”
She tried to pass him without a word.
“But listen. Only listen a minute! You didn’t think—oh, you didn’t think I’d sold him one of those? They were on the wall when he came in, and I couldn’t get them away in time. I’d put them up—Well, I’d put them up there because I—because I couldn’t see you, so I wanted to see them.”
His voice trembled; he looked ill now: she hesitated.
“What right had you, sir, to paint them?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t any. Of course, I hadn’t any! But I wouldn’t have sold them to the Luxembourg.”
What was it that Fourget had told her when he met her on the stair?—“Mademoiselle, you will pardon an old man: that Young Cartarette cannot paint pot-boilers, and in consequence hestarves. For more things than money, mademoiselle. But because he cannot paint pot-boilers and get money, he starves literally.”—Her heart smote her now, but she could not refrain from saying:
“Perhaps the Luxembourg did not offer—in the person of M. Fourget?”
The last vestige of his pride left Cartaret.
“He wanted to buy those portraits,” he said. “I know that my action loses by the telling of it whatever virtue it might have had, but I’d rather have that happen than have you think what you’ve been thinking. He offered me more for them than for all my other pictures together, but I couldn’t sell.”
It was a mood not to be denied: she forgave him.
“But you, sir, must take them all down,” she said, “and you must promise to paint no more of them.”
He would have promised anything: he promised this, and he had an immediate reward.
“To-morrow,” she asked, “perhaps you will eatdéjeunerwith Chitta and me?”
Would he! He did not know that she invited him because of Fourget’s use of the phrase “starving literally.” He accepted, declaring that he would never more call Friday unlucky.
“At eleven o’clock?” she asked.
“At eleven,” he bowed.
When she was gone, Cartaret went again to the window that looked on the concierge’s garden. The robins were still singing:
“Seize hold of love! It is a rose—a white rose. Take it—take it—take it now!”