In the Quarter

``He was not.''

``Oh!''

A long silence followed, during which Mr Bulfinch sought and found an explanation of several things. After a while he said musingly:

``I should like to meet Mr Pick again.''

``Why should you want to meet him?''

``I wish to wring his nose two hundred times, one for each franc I lent him.''

``How was that?'' said Braith, absently.

``It was this way. He came to me and told me what I have repeated to you, and that you desired madame to go on at once and wait for you in Vienna, which you expected to reach in a few days after her arrival. That you had bought tickets – one first class for madame, two second class for him and for her maid – before you left, and had told her you had placed plenty of money for the other expenses in her dressing case. But this morning, on looking for the money, none could be found. Madame was sure it had not been stolen. She thought you must have meant to put it there, and forgotten afterwards. If she only had a few francs, just to last as far as Naples! Madame was well known to the bankers on the Santa Lucia there! etc. Well, I'm not such an ass that I didn't first see madame and get her to confirm his statement. But when she did confirm it, with such a charming laugh – she was very pretty – I thought she was a lady and your wife – ''

In the midst of his bitterness, Braith could not help smiling at the thought of Nina with a maid and a courier. He remembered the tiny apartment in the Latin Quarter which she had been glad to occupy with him until conducted by her courier into finer ones. He made a gesture of disgust, and his face burned with the shame of a proud man who has received an affront from an inferior – and who knows it to be his own fault.

``I can at least have the satisfaction of setting that right,'' he said, holding two notes toward the little Mirror man, ``and I can't thank you enough for giving me the opportunity.''

Bulfinch drew back and stammered, ``You don't think I spoke for that! You don't think I'd have spoken at all if I had known – ''

``I do not. And I'm very glad you did not know, for it gives me a chance to clear myself. You must have thought me strangely forgetful, Mr Bulfinch, when the money was not repaid in due time.''

``I – I didn't relish the manner in which you met me just now, I confess, but I'm very much ashamed of myself. I am indeed.''

``Shake hands,'' said Braith, with one of his rare smiles.

The notes were left in Mr Bulfinch's fingers, and as he thrust them hastily out of sight, as if he truly was ashamed, he said, blinking up at Braith, ``Do you – er – would you – may I offer you a glass of whiskey?'' adding hastily, ``I don't drink myself.''

``Why, yes,'' said Braith, ``I don't mind, but I won't drink all alone.''

``Coffee is my tipple,'' said the other, in a faint voice.

``All right; suit yourself. But I should think that rather hot for such a day.''

``Oh, I'll take it iced.''

``Then let us walk over to the Café by the bandstand. We shall find the others somewhere about.''

They strolled through the grove, past the music-stand, and sat down at one of the little iron tables under the trees. The band of the Garde Republicaine was playing. Bulfinch ordered sugar and Eau de selz for Braith, and iced coffee for himself.

Braith looked at the program: No. 1, Faust; No. 2, La Belle Hélène.

``Rex ought to be here, he's so fond of that.''

Mr Bulfinch was mixing, in a surprisingly scientific manner for a man who didn't drink himself, something which the French call a ``coquetelle''; a bit of ice, a little seltzer, a slice of lemon, and some Canadian Club whiskey. Braith eyed the well-worn flask.

``I see you don't trust to the Café's supplies.''

``I only keep this for medicinal purposes,'' said the other, blinking nervously, ``and – and I don't usually produce it when there are any newspapermen around.''

``But you,'' said Braith, sipping the mixture with relish, ``do you take none yourself?''

``I don't drink,'' said the other, and swallowed his coffee in such a hurry as to bring on a fit of coughing. Beads of perspiration clustered above his canary-colored eyebrows as he set down the glass with a gasp.

Braith was watching the crowd. Presently he exclaimed:

``There's Rex now,'' and rising, waved his glass and his cane and called Gethryn's name. The people sitting at adjacent tables glanced at one another resignedly. ``More crazy English!''

``Rex! Clifford!'' Braith shouted, until at last they heard him. In a few moments they had made their way through the crowd and sat down, mopping their faces and protesting plaintively against the heat.

Gethryn's glance questioned Braith, who said, ``Mr Bulfinch and I have had the deuce of a time to make you fellows hear. You'd have been easier to call if you knew what sort of drink he can brew.''

Clifford was already sniffing knowingly at the glass and turning looks of deep intelligence on Bulfinch, who responded gayly, ``Hope you'll have some too,'' and with a sidelong blink at Gethryn, he produced the bottle, saying, ``I don't drink myself, as Mr Gethryn knows.''

Rex said, ``Certainly not,'' not knowing what else to say. But the fondness of Clifford's gaze was ineffable.

Braith, who always hated to see Clifford look like that, turned to Gethryn. ``Favorite of yours on the program.''

Rex looked.

``Oh,'' he cried, ``Belle Hélène.'' Next moment he flushed, and feeling as if the others saw it, crimsoned all the deeper. This escaped Clifford, however, who was otherwise occupied. But he joined in the conversation, hoping for an argument.

``Braith and Rex go in for the Meistersinger, Walküre, and all that rot – but I like some tune to my music.''

``Well, you're going to get it now,'' said Braith; ``the band are taking their places. Now for La Belle Hélène.'' He glanced at Gethryn, who had turned aside and leaned on the table, shading his eyes with his program.

The leader of the band stood wiping his mustache with one hand while he turned the leaves of his score with the other. The musicians came in laughing and chattering, munching their bit of biscuit or smacking their lips over lingering reminiscences of the intermission.

They hung their bayonets against the wall, and at the rat-tat of attention, came to order, standing in a circle with bugles and trombones poised and eyes fixed on the little gold-mounted baton.

A slow wave of the white-gloved hand, a few gentle tips of the wand, and then a sweep which seemed to draw out the long, rich opening chord of the Dream Song and set it drifting away among the trees till it lost itself in the rattle and clatter of the Boulevard St Michel.

Braith and Bulfinch set down their glasses and listened. Clifford silently blew long wreaths of smoke into the branches overhead. Gethryn leaned heavily on the table, one hand shading his eyes.

Oui c'est un rêve;   Un rêve doux d'amour –

The music died away in one last throb. Bulfinch sighed and blinked sentimentally, first on one, then on the other of his companions.

Suddenly the little Mirror man's eyes bulged out, he stiffened and grasped Braith's arm; his fingers were like iron.

``What the deuce!'' began Braith, but, following the other's eyes, he became silent and stern.

``Talk of the devil – do you see him – Pick?''

``I see,'' growled Braith.

``And – and excuse me, but can that be madame? So like, and yet – ''

Braith leaned forward and looked steadily at a couple who were slowly moving toward them in deep conversation.

``No,'' he said at last; and leaning back in his seat he refused to speak again.

Bulfinch chattered on excitedly, and at last he brought his fist down on the table at his right, where Clifford sat drawing a caricature on the marble top.

``I'd like,'' cried Bulfinch, ``to take it out of his hide!''

``Hello!'' said Clifford, disturbed in his peaceful occupation, ``whose hide are you going to tan?''

``Nobody's,'' said Braith, sternly, still watching the couple who had now almost reached their group.

Clifford's start had roused Gethryn, who stirred and slowly looked up; at the same moment, the girl, now very near, raised her head and Rex gazed full into the eyes of Yvonne.

Her glance fell and the color flew to her temples. Gethryn's face lost all its color.

``Pretty girl,'' drawled Clifford, ``but what a dirty little beggar she lugs about with her.''

Pick heard and turned, his eyes falling first on Gethryn, who met his look with one that was worse than a kick. He glanced next at Braith, and then he turned green under the dirty yellow of the skin. Braith's eyes seemed to strike fire; his mouth was close set. The Jew's eyes shifted, only to fall on the pale, revengeful glare of T. Hoppley Bulfinch, who was half rising from his chair with all sorts of possibilities written on every feature.

``Let him go,'' whispered Braith, and turned his back.

Bulfinch sat down, his eyes like saucers. ``I'd like – but not now!'' he sputtered in a weird whisper.

Clifford had missed the whole thing. He had only eyes for the girl.

Gethryn sat staring after the couple, who were at that moment passing the gate into the Boulevard St Michel. He saw Yvonne stop and hastily thrust something into the Jew's hand, then, ignoring his obsequious salute, leave him and hurry down the Rue de Medicis.

The next Gethryn knew, Braith was standing beside him.

``Rex, will you join us at the Golden Pheasant for dinner?'' was what he said, but his eyes added, ``Don't let people see you look like that.''

``I – I – don't know,'' said Gethryn. ``Yes, I think so,'' with an effort.

``Come along, then!'' said Braith to the others, and hurried them away.

Rex sat still till they were out of sight, then he got up and turned into the Avenue de l'Observatoire. He stopped and drank some cognac at a little café, and then started on, but he had no idea where he was going.

Presently he found himself crossing a bridge, and looked up. The great pile of Notre Dame de Paris loomed on his right. He crossed the Seine and wandered on without any aim – but passing the Tour St Jacques, and wishing to avoid the Boulevard, he made a sharp detour to the right, and after long wandering through byways and lanes, he crossed the foul, smoky Canal St Martin, and bore again to the right – always aimlessly.

Twilight was falling when his steps were arrested by fatigue. Looking up, he found himself opposite the gloomy mass of La Roquette prison. Sentinels slouched and dawdled up and down before the little painted sentry boxes under the great gate.

Over the archway was some lettering, and Gethryn stopped to read it:

La RoquettePrison of the Condemned

He looked up and down the cheerless street. It was deserted save by the lounging sentinels and one wretched child, who crouched against the gateway.

``Fiche moi le camp! Allons! En route!'' growled one of the sentinels, stamping his foot and shaking his fist at the bundle of rags.

Gethryn walked toward him.

``What's the matter with the little one?'' he asked.

The soldier dropped the butt of his rifle with a ring, and said deferentially:

``Pardon, Monsieur, but the gamin has been here every day and all day for two weeks. It's disgusting.''

``Is he hungry?''

``Ma foi? I can't tell you,'' laughed the sentry, shifting his weight to his right foot and leaning on the cross of his bayonet.

``Are you hungry, little one?'' called Gethryn, pleasantly.

The child raised his head, with a wolfish stare, then sank it again and murmured: ``I have seen him and touched him.''

Gethryn turned to the soldier.

``What does he mean by that?'' he demanded.

The sentry shrugged his shoulders. ``He means he saw a hunchback. They say when one sees a hunchback and touches him, it brings good luck, if the hunchback is neither too old nor too young. Dame! I don't say there's nothing in it, but it can't save Henri Rigaud.''

``And who is Henri Rigaud?''

``What! Monsieur has not heard of the affair Rigaud? Rigaud who did the double murder!''

``Oh, yes! In the Faubourg du Temple.''

The sentry nodded. ``He dies this week.''

``And the child?''

``Is his.''

Gethryn looked at the dirty little bundle of tatters.

``No one knows the exact day set for the affair, but,'' the sentry sank his voice to a whisper, ``between you and me, I saw the widow going into the yard just before dinner, and Monsieur de Paris is here. That means tomorrow morning – click!''

``The – the widow?'' repeated Gethryn.

``The guillotine. It will be over before this time tomorrow and the gamin there, who thinks the bossu will give him back his father – he'll find out his mistake, all in good time – all in good time!'' and shouldering his rifle, the sentry laughed and resumed his slouching walk before the gateway.

Gethryn nodded to the soldier's salute and went up to the child, who stood leaning sullenly against the wall.

``Do you know what a franc is?'' he asked.

The gamin eyed him doggedly.

``But I saw him,'' he said.

``Saw what?'' said Gethryn, gently.

``The bossu,'' repeated the wretched infant vacantly.

``See here,'' said Gethryn, ``listen to me. What would you do with twenty francs?''

``Eat, all day long, forever!''

Rex slipped two twenty-franc pieces into the filthy little fist.

``Eat,'' he murmured, and turned away.

Seven

Next morning, when Clifford arrived at the Atelier of MM. Boulanger and Lefebvre, he found the students more excited than usual over the advent of a ``Nouveau.''

Hazing at Julien's has assumed, of late, a comparatively mild form. Of course there are traditions of serious trouble in former years and a few fights have taken place, consequent upon the indignant resistance of new men to the ridiculous demands forced upon them by their ingenious tormentors. Still, the hazing of today is comparatively inoffensive, and there is not much of it. In the winter the students are too busy to notice a newcomer, except to make him feel strange and humble by their lofty scorn. But in the autumn, when the men have returned from their long out-of-door rest, with brush and palette, a certain amount of friskiness is developed, which sometimes expends itself upon the luckless ``nouveau.'' A harmless search for the time-honored ``grand reflecteur,'' an enforced song and dance, a stern command to tread the mazes of the shameless quadrille with an equally shameless model, is usually the extent of the infliction. Occasionally the stranger is invited to sit on a high stool and read aloud to the others while they work, as he would like to do himself. But sometimes, if a man resists these reasonable demands in a contumacious manner, he is ``crucified.'' This occurs so seldom, however, that Clifford, on entering the barn-like studios that morning, was surprised to see that a ``crucifixion'' was in progress.

A stranger was securely strapped to the top rungs of a twenty-foot ladder which a crowd of Frenchmen were preparing to raise and place in a slanting position against the wall.

``Who is it that those fellows are fooling with?'' he asked.

``An Englishman, and it's about time we put a stop to it,'' answered Elliott.

When Americans or Englishmen are hazed by the French students, they make common cause in keeping watch that the matter does not go too far.

``How many of us are here this morning?'' said Clifford.

``Fourteen who can fight,'' said Elliott; ``they only want someone to give the word.''

Clifford buttoned his jacket and shouldered his way into the middle of the crowd. ``That's enough. He's been put through enough for today,'' he said coolly.

A Frenchman, who had himself only entered the Atelier the week previous, laughed and replied, ``We'll put you on, if you say anything.''

There was an ominous pause. Every old student there knew Clifford to be one of the most skillful and dangerous boxers in the school.

They looked with admiration upon their countryman. It didn't cost anything to admire him. They urged him on, and he didn't need much urging, for he remembered his own recent experience as a new man, and he didn't know Clifford.

``Go ahead,'' cried this misguided student, ``he's a nouveau, and he's going up!''

Clifford laughed in his face. ``Come along,'' he called, as some dozen English and American students pushed into the circle and gathered round the prostrate Englishman.

``See here, Clifford, what's the use of interrupting?'' urged a big Frenchman.

Clifford began loosening the straps. ``You know, Bonin, that we always do interfere when it goes as far as this against an Englishman or an American.'' He laughed good naturedly. ``There's always been a fight over it before, but I hope there won't be any today.''

Bonin grinned and shrugged his shoulders.

After vainly fussing with the ropes, Clifford and the others finally cut them and the ``nouveau'' scrambled to his feet and took an attitude which may be seen engraved in any volume of instruction in the noble art of self-defense. He was an Englishman of the sandy variety. Orange-colored whiskers decorated a carefully scrubbed face, terminating in a red-brown mustache. He had blue eyes, now lighted to a pale green by the fire of battle, reddish-brown hair, and white hands spattered with orange-colored freckles. All this, together with a well made suit of green and yellow checks, and the seesaw accent of the British Empire, answered, when politely addressed, to the name of Cholmondeley Rowden, Esq.

``I say,'' he began, ``I'm awfully obliged, you know, and all that; but I'd jolly well like to give some of these cads a jolly good licking, you know.''

``Go in, my friend, go in!'' laughed Clifford; ``but next time we'll leave you to hang in the air for an hour or two, that's all.''

``Damn their cheek!'' began the Englishman.

``See here,'' cried Elliott sharply, ``you're only a nouveau, and you'd better shut up till you've been here long enough to talk.''

``In other words,'' said Clifford, ``don't buck against custom.''

``But I cahn't see it,'' said the nouveau, brushing his dusty trousers. ``I don't see it at all, you know. Damn their cheek!''

At this moment the week-weaned Frenchman shoved up to Clifford.

``What did you mean by interfering? Eh! You English pig.''

Clifford looked at him with contempt. ``What do you want, my little Nouveau?''

``Nouveau!'' spluttered the Gaul, ``Nouveau, eh!'' and he made a terrific lunge at the American, who was sent stumbling backward, and slipping, fell heavily.

The Frenchman gazed around in triumph, but his grin was not reflected on the faces of his compatriots. None of them would have changed places with him.

Clifford picked himself up deliberately. His face was calm and mild as he walked up to his opponent, who hurriedly put himself into an attitude of self-defense.

``Monsieur Nouveau, you are not wise. But some day you will learn better, when you are no longer a nouveau,'' said Clifford, kindly. The man looked puzzled, but kept his fists up.

``Now I am going to punish you a little,'' proceeded Clifford, in even tones, ``not harshly, but with firmness, for your good,'' he added, walking straight up to the Frenchman.

The latter struck heavily at Clifford's head, but he ducked like a flash, and catching his antagonist around the waist, carried him, kicking, to the water-basin, where he turned on the water and shoved the squirming Frenchman under. The scene was painful, but brief; when one of the actors in it emerged from under the water-spout, he no longer asked for anybody's blood.

``Go and dry yourself,'' said Clifford, cheerfully; and walking over to his easel, sat down and began to work.

In ten minutes, all trace of the row had disappeared, excepting that one gentleman's collar looked rather limp and his hair was uncommonly sleek. The men worked steadily. Snatches of song and bits of whistling rose continuously from easel and taboret, all blending in a drowsy hum. Gethryn and Elliott caught now and then, from behind them, words of wisdom which Clifford was administering to the now subdued Rowden.

``Yes,'' he was saying, ``many a man has been injured for life by these Frenchmen for a mere nothing. I had two brothers,'' he paused, ``and my golden-haired boy – '' he ceased again, apparently choking with emotion.

``But – I say – you're not married, you know,'' said the Englishman.

``Hush,'' sighed Clifford, ``I – I – married the daughter of an African duke. She was brought to the States by a slave trader in infancy.''

``Black?'' gasped Mr Rowden.

``Very black, but beautiful. I could not keep her. She left me, and is singing with Haverley's Minstrels now.''

Like the majority of his countrymen, Mr Rowden was ready to believe anything he heard of social conditions in the States, but one point required explanation.

``You said the child had golden hair.''

``Yes, his mother's hair was red,'' sighed Clifford.

Gethryn, glancing round, saw the Englishman's jaw drop, as he said, ``How extraordinary!'' Then he began to smile as if suspecting a joke. But Clifford's eye met his in gentle rebuke.

``C'est l'heure! Rest!'' Down jumped the model. The men leaned back noisily. Clifford rose, bowed gravely to the Englishman, and stepped across the taborets to join his friends.

Gethryn was cleaning his brushes with turpentine and black soap.

``Going home, Rex?'' inquired Clifford, picking up a brush and sending a fine spray of turpentine over Elliott, who promptly returned the attention.

``Quit that,'' growled Gethryn, ``don't ruin those brushes.''

``What's the nouveau like, Clifford?'' asked Elliott. ``We heard you instructing him a little. He seems to have the true Englishman's sense of humor.''

``Oh, he's not a bad sort,'' said Clifford. ``Come and be introduced. I'm half ashamed of myself for guying him, for he's really a very decent, plucky fellow, a bit stiff and pig-headed, as many of 'em are at first, and as for humor, I suppose they know their own kind, but they do get a little confused between fact and fancy when they converse with us.''

The two strolled off with friendly intent, to seek out and ameliorate the loneliness of Cholmondeley Rowden, Esq.

Gethryn tied up his brushes, closed his color box and, flinging on his hat, hurried down the stairs and into the court, nodding to several students who passed with canvas and paint-boxes tucked under their arms. He reached the street, and, going through the Passage Brady, emerged upon the Boulevard Sebastopol.

A car was passing and he boarded it, climbing up to the imperiale. The only vacant seat was between a great, red-faced butcher, and a market woman from the Halles, and although the odors of raw beef and fish were unpleasantly perceptible, he settled himself back and soon became lost in his own thoughts. The butcher had a copy of the Petit Journal and every now and then he imparted bits of it across Gethryn, to the market woman, lingering with relish over the criminal items.

``Dites donc,'' he cried, ``here is the affair Rigaud!''

Gethryn roused up and listened.

``This morning, I knew it,'' cackled the woman, folding her fat hands across her apron. ``I said to Sophie, `Voyons Sophie,' I said – ''

``Shut up,'' interrupted the butcher, ``I'm going to read.''

``I was sure of it,'' said the woman, addressing Gethryn, ```Voyons, Sophie,' said – '' but the butcher interrupted her, again reading aloud:

``The condemned struggled fearfully, and it required the united efforts of six gendarmes – ''

``Cochon!'' said the woman.

``Listen, will you!'' cried the man. ``Some disturbance was caused by a gamin who broke from the crowd and attacked a soldier. But the miserable was seized and carried off, screaming. Two gold pieces of 20 francs each fell from some hiding-place in his ragged clothes and were taken charge of by the police.''

The man paused and gloated over the column. ``Here,'' he cried, ``Listen – `Even under the knife the condemned – '''

Gethryn rose roughly and, crowding past the man, descended the steps and, entering the car below, sat down there.

``Butor!'' roared the butcher. ``Cochon! He trod on my foot!''

``He is an English pig!'' sneered the woman, reaching for the newspaper. ``Let me read it now,'' she whined.