A Chair on the Boulevard Part 26

"It is a coincidence," added the visitor hesitatingly, "that monsieur Legrand has also disappeared. People are always ringing my bell to inquire where he is."

As soon as he was able to rise, Bourjac left for Paris; and, as the shortest route to the station was by the garden gate, he pa.s.sed the workroom on his way. He nodded, thinking of the time that he had wasted there, but he did not go inside--he was too impatient to find Laure, and, incidentally, to shoot Legrand.

Though his quest failed, he never went back to the cottage; he could not have borne to live in it now. He tried to let it, but the little house was not everybody's money, and it stood empty for many years; indeed, before it was reoccupied Bourjac was dead and forgotten.

When the new owners planned their renovations, they had the curiosity to open a mildewed cabinet in an outhouse, and uttered a cry of dismay.

Not until then was the "last effect" attained; but there were two skeletons, instead of one.

AN INVITATION TO DINNER

The creators of Eau d'Enfer invited designs for a poster calling the attention of the world to their liqueur's incomparable qualities. It occurred to Theodose Goujaud that this was a first-cla.s.s opportunity to demonstrate his genius.

For an article with such a glistening name it was obvious that a poster must be flamboyant--one could not advertise a "Water of h.e.l.l" by a picture of a village maiden plucking cowslips--and Goujaud pa.s.sed wakeful nights devising a sketch worthy of the subject. He decided at last upon a radiant brunette sharing a bottle of the liqueur with his Satanic Majesty while she sat on his knee.

But where was the girl to be found? Though his acquaintance with the models of Paris was extensive, he could think of none with a face to satisfy him. One girl's arms wreathed themselves before his mind, another girl's feet were desirable, but the face, which was of supreme importance, eluded his most frenzied search.

"Mon Dieu," groaned Goujaud, "here I am projecting a poster that would conquer Paris, and my scheme is frustrated by the fact that Nature fails to produce women equal to the heights of my art! It is such misfortunes as this that support the Morgue."

"I recommend you to travel," said Tricotrin; "a tour in the East might yield your heart's desire."

"It's a valuable suggestion," rejoined Goujaud; "I should like a couple of new s.h.i.+rts also, but I lack the money to acquire them."

"Well," said Tricotrin, "the Ball of the Willing Hand is nearer. Try that!"

Goujaud looked puzzled. "The Ball of the Willing Hand?" he repeated; "I do not know any Ball of the Willing Hand."

"Is it possible?" cried the poet; "where do you live? Why, the Willing Hand, my recluse, is the most fascinating resort in Paris. I have been familiar with it for fully a week. It is a bal de barriere where the criminal cla.s.ses enjoy their brief leisure. Every Sat.u.r.day night they frisk. The Cut-throats' Quadrille is a particularly sprightly measure, and the damsels there are often striking."

"And their escorts, too--if one of the willing hands planted a knife in my back, there would be no sprightliness about _me!_"

"In the interests of art one must submit to a little annoyance. Come, if you are conscientious I will introduce you to the place, and give you a few hints. For example, the company have a prejudice against collars, and, a.s.suming for a moment that you possessed more than a franc, you would do well to leave the surplus at home."

Goujaud expanded his chest.

"As a matter of fact," he announced languidly, "I possess five hundred francs." And so dignified was his air that Tricotrin came near to believing him.

"You possess five hundred francs? You? How? No, such things do not occur! Besides, you mentioned a moment since that you were short of s.h.i.+rts."

"It is true that I am short of s.h.i.+rts, but, nevertheless, I have five hundred francs in my pocket. It is like this. My father, who is not artistic, has always desired to see me renounce my profession and sink to commerce. Well, I was at the point of yielding--man cannot live by hope alone, and my pictures were strangely unappreciated. Then, while consent trembled on my lips, up popped this Eau d'Enfer! I saw my opportunity, I recognised that, of all men in Paris, I was the best qualified to execute the poster. You may divine the sequel? I addressed my father with burning eloquence, I persuaded him to supply me with the means to wield my brush for a few months longer. If my poster succeeds, I become a celebrity. If it fails, I become a petrole merchant. This summer decides my fate. In the meanwhile I am a capitalist; but it would be madness for me to purchase s.h.i.+rts, for I shall require every son to support existence until the poster is acclaimed."

"You have a practical head!" exclaimed Tricotrin admiringly; "I foresee that you will go far. Let us trust that the Willing Hand will prove the ante-chamber to your immortality."

"I have no faith in your Willing Hand," demurred the painter; "the criminal cla.s.ses are not keen on sitting for their portraits--the process has unpleasant a.s.sociations to them. Think again! I can spare half an hour this morning. Evolve a further inspiration on the subject!"

"Do you imagine I have nothing to do but to provide you with a model?

My time is fully occupied; I am engaged upon a mystical play, which is to be called _The Spinster's Prayer or the Goblin Child's Mother_, and take Paris by storm. A propos--yes, now I come to think of it, there is something in _Comoedia_ there that might suit you."

"My preserver!" returned Goujaud. "What is it?"

Tricotrin picked the paper up and read:

WANTED: A HUNDRED LADIES FOR THE STAGE.--Beauty more essential than talent. No dilapidations need apply. _Agence_ Lavalette, rue Baba, Thursday, 12 to 5.

"Mon Dieu! Now you are beginning to talk," said Goujaud. "A hundred!

One among them should be suitable, hein? But, all the same--" He hesitated. "'Twelve to five'! It will be a shade monotonous standing on a doorstep from twelve to five, especially if the rain streams."

"Do you expect a Cleopatra to call at your attic, or to send an eighty horse-power automobile, that you may cast your eye over her? Anyhow, there may be a cafe opposite; you can order a bock on the terrace, and make it last."

"You are right. I shall go and inspect the spot at once. A hundred beauties! I declare the advertis.e.m.e.nt might have been framed to meet my wants. How fortunate that you chanced to see it! To-morrow evening you shall hear the result--dine with me at the Bel Avenir at eight o'clock.

For one occasion I undertake to go a buster, I should be lacking in grat.i.tude if I neglected to stuff you to the brim."

"Oh, my dear chap!" said Tricotrin. "The invitation is a G.o.dsend, I have not viewed the inside of a restaurant for a week. While our pal Pitou is banqueting with his progenitors in Chartres, _I_ have even exhausted my influence with the fishmonger--I did not so much as see my way to a nocturnal herring in the garret. Mind you are not late.

I shall come prepared to do justice to your hospitality, I promise you."

"Right, c.o.c.ky!" said the artist. And he set forth, in high spirits, to investigate the rue Baba.

He was gratified to discover a cafe in convenient proximity to the office. And twelve o'clock had not sounded next day when he took a seat at one of the little white-topped tables, his gaze bent attentively upon the agent's step.

For the earliest arrival he had not long to wait. A dumpy girl with an enormous nose approached, swinging her _sac a main_. She cast a complacent glance at the name on the door, opened the bag, whipped out a powder-puff, and vanished.

"Morbleu!" thought the painter. "If she is a fair sample, I have squandered the price of a bock!" He remained in a state of depression for two or three minutes, and then the girl reappeared, evidently in a very bad temper.

"Ah!" he mused, rubbing his hands. "Monsieur Lavalette is plainly a person of his word. No beauty, no engagement! This is going to be all right, Where is the next applicant? A sip to Venus!"

Venus, however, did not irradiate the street yet. The second young woman was too short in the back, and at sight of her features he shook his head despondently. "No good, my dear," he said to himself. "Little as you suspect it, there is a disappointment for you inside, word of honour! Within three minutes, I shall behold you again."

And, sure enough, she made her exit promptly, looking as angry as the other.

"I am becoming a dramatic prophet!" soliloquised Goujaud; "if I had nothing more vital to do, I might win drinks, betting on their chances, with the proprietor of the cafe. However, I grow impatient for the bevy of beauty--it is a long time on the road."

As if in obedience to his demand, girls now began to trip into the rue Baba so rapidly that he was kept busy regarding them. By twos, and threes, and in quartettes they tripped--tall girls, little girls, plain girls, pretty girls, girls shabby, and girls chic. But though many of them would have made agreeable partners at a dance, there was none who possessed the necessary qualifications for The Girl on Satan's Knee. He rolled a cigarette, and blew a pessimistic puff. "Another day lost!"

groaned Goujaud. "All is over, I feel it. Posterity will never praise my poster, the clutch of Commerce is upon me--already the smell of the petrole is in my nostrils!"

And scarcely had he said it when his senses reeled.

For, stepping from a cab, disdainfully, imperially, was his Ideal. Her hair, revealing the lobes of the daintiest ears that ever listened to confessions of love, had the gleam of purple grapes. Her eyes were a mystery, her mouth was a flower, her neck was an intoxication. So violently was the artist affected that, during several moments, he forgot his motive for being there. To be privileged merely to contemplate her was an ecstasy. While he sat transfixed with admiration, her dainty foot graced the agent's step, and she entered.

Goujaud caught his breath, and rose. The cab had been discharged. Dared he speak to her when she came out? It would be a different thing altogether from speaking to the kind of girl that he had foreseen. But to miss such a model for lack of nerve, that would be the regret of a lifetime! Now the prospect of the poster overwhelmed him, and he felt that he would risk any rebuff, commit any madness to induce her to "sit."

The estimate that he had, by this time, formed of monsieur Lavalette's taste convinced him that her return would not be yet. He sauntered to and fro, composing a preliminary and winning phrase. What was his surprise, after a very few seconds, to see that she had come out already, and was hastening away!

He overtook her in a dozen strides, and with a bow that was eloquent of his homage, exclaimed:

"Mademoiselle!"

"Hein?" she said, turning. "Oh, it's all right--there are too many people there; I've changed my mind, I shan't wait."