Chapter IV: Part THREE: Paris (1)

I

At nine o’clock next evening a slightly confused Wynne Rendall was seeking a cab midst the din and clatter of the Gare St. Lazare. He had escaped the escort of several insidious gentlemen who offered their services as “Guides,” and spoke suggestively of Corybantine revels they were prepared to exhibit. Wynne had been warned by an amiable Customs official to have nothing to do with “zes blerdy scoundrills,” so he was able to reply to their English solicitations, “Pas ce soir, merci,” and move on in the press of crowds.

He succeeded in attracting the attention of a very aged cab-driver, who controlled two white steeds, of even greater age, with a pair of scarlet reins. Him he addressed in his best school French:

“Je desire trouver un hotel très petit et pas trop cher,” he said.

The driver seemed at some difficulty to understand, but when finally he succeeded in doing so he bade Wynne climb inside, and, gathering up his reins, shouted a frenzied command to the horses. Seemingly these beasts were unaffected by his cries, for they moved away in the stateliest fashion; whereupon the driver rose to his feet and laid about him with a whip like any Roman charioteer. This produced the desired result, and the vehicle, swaying perilously, thundered over the cobbles of the station yard and out into the night.

“This is magnificent,” said Wynne. “Oh, gorgeous!”

His eyes feasted on the broad boulevards—the _cafés_, with their little tables set upon the pavement beneath the gay striped awning—the unfamiliar cosmopolitan crowds who jostled along or sat sipping their syros and bocks at pleasant ease. Also it was very wonderful to be driving on the wrong side of the road and apparently ignoring all traffic laws. Once a gendarme with a long, clattering sword held up his hand to bid them stop, but him the driver ignored, beyond a sharp rattle of criticism as they brushed by.

At the corner of the Rue St. Honoré a _fiacre_ in front knocked a man off his bicycle, and proceeded as though nothing had happened. The unfortunate cyclist picked himself up and started in pursuit, leaving his bicycle lying in the highway. A motor bus, considering such an obstacle unworthy of changing its course to avoid, ran over it, crushing the frame and rims, and Wynne’s cab, following behind, did likewise.

Nobody seemed to care. Passers-by scarcely wasted a glance over the affair. A desire to cheer possessed Wynne. It seemed he had arrived at the City of Harlequinade, where the wildest follies were counted to be wise.

Further down the road a fight was in progress. No blows were exchanged, but the disputants grabbed and clawed at each other’s clothing. They ripped out neckties and tore the buttons from waistcoats. They stamped upon and kicked each other’s hats—pockets were wrenched from coats, and shirt-tails sprang unexpectedly to view.

Wynne could not help thinking how funny it would be if Wallace were to appear in Wimbledon High Street with a battered silk hat and his shirt-tail flapping over his breeches. There was humour in this fight which seemed to justify it—not blood and staggering figures, such as one saw outside the publichouses at home on a Saturday night.

Wynne blessed the old gentleman of the National Gallery who had inspired him to come to Paris.

They passed a great _magasin_ with blazed arch lights, and turned up a tiny street to the left. Wynne caught a glimpse of its name as the cab turned the corner. “Rue Croix des Petits Champs.” Then the vehicle stopped abruptly—so abruptly that the nearside horse fell to his knees and nearly dragged the driver from the box, who marked his disapproval by liberal use of the whip. Order being restored, he pointed to a big arched doorway and cried:

“Voilà! Voilà!”

So Wynne alighted and demanded:

“Comme bien?”

“Cinq francs quatre-vingt-cinq.”

Wynne was unaccustomed to French money, and the centimes conveyed nothing to him. He proffered four francs and was amazed at the flow of incomprehensible invective which followed. It was impossible to argue at anything approaching that speed, so he held up his palm with some silver in it and said:

“Alors prenez ce que vous voulez.”

The driver accordingly appropriated eight francs, and with a cry of “’Voir et merci,” whipped up his horses and vanished into the night.

Wynne subsequently learned that the fare should have been about one shilling and threepence.

He entered the arched gates and found himself in a small courtyard with a lighted door at the further end. Above this was written, “Hotel du Monde et Madagascar.”

The idea of referring to Madagascar as though it were a satellite of the world pleased his sense of humour and warmed his heart toward the new abode.

The foyer at the hotel was quite small, and there was a little office, on the immediate right of the entrance, in which sat a sweet-looking old lady dressed in black, and wearing a beautifully laundered cap.

Wynne gave her good evening, stated that he wanted a room, “très bon marché,” and told her his name.

“Et moi je suis Rosalie,” returned the little concierge, with the sweetest smile imaginable.

Certainly he could have a room—it was on the fifth floor, and cost but twenty francs a month. That he would like it she was sure, since it was “clair, propre et tout ce qu’il faut.” She would ring for Benoit, who was “un garçon bien gentil,” although suffering from “mal é la poitrine,” which would carry him off all too soon. “Qui, c’est triste!”

Benoit’s appearance, when eventually he arrived, did not give rise to any immediate anxiety regarding his health. He was a big and cheerful man, beside whom Wynne felt painfully insignificant. Taking possession of the bag, Benoit led the way up many flights of stairs, until at last they arrived at the fifth floor. Here he threw open a door and said:

“Voilà! N’est-ce pas?”

Wynne’s reply, “C’est de luxe,” amused Benoit greatly, who sat on the bed to enjoy a hearty laugh.

While the bag was being unpacked, Benoit supplied information regarding Parisian life. Thus Wynne learnt that the average boarder in small French hotels went out for his meals and his bath. By this means either one or the other could be taken at the convenience of the individual, who was therefore in no way constrained to be at a certain place at any specified hour. Wynne inquired how far it was to the Quartier Latin, and was greatly delighted to learn that ten minutes’ walk would land him there.

Many students from the ateliers lodged at the hotel, he discovered, some of whom were “bien gentil,” and others “méchant.”

“Aprés le Bal Quatres Arts! O c’était terrible!” He, Benoit, was constrained to prevent a certain young Englishman, who habitually was “tout à fait milord,” from importing to his apartment a lady dressed as Britannia, whom he claimed as his bride. It was undoubtedly very droll, and he was sympathetic, but the good name of the house came first, and since no marriage lines were available, husband and wife were forced to celebrate their nuptials apart. Doubtless the young man was carried away by patriotism, but if the excellent “Madame” had heard of such goings on she would have been in a fine rage.

Further advices were given as to where Wynne would do well to seek his food. He would find excellent hospitality “chez Bouillon Aristide” at the corner, and a little further down the Rue St. Honoré was a creamery whose chocolate and croissons would compare with those set upon the table of the President.

He urged Wynne to avoid sliding on the polished floor of his bedroom, since the practice provided him with additional labour in the mornings. Also he volunteered the remark that the room was popular because it was very amusing.

Wynne liked the room, but could not at the time comprehend in what sense the word amusing could be associated with it. When he awoke the following morning an explanation arose, for his ears were filled with the sound of girls’ voices singing a merry song.

Opening his eyes he observed through the window an apartment some twenty feet away on the other side of the courtyard. Herein sat perhaps a dozen little workgirls, plaiting and combing long switches of false hair. They were employés of a perruquier, and cheerful, light-hearted souls they appeared to be. When he sat up in bed they greeted him with the friendliest gaiety, giving thanks that their fears that he might be dead were not realized.

Wynne felt a little embarrassed having to make his toilet in these circumstances. He remained between the sheets indecisively until forced to rise by the friendly chaffery from opposite. Then he grabbed his clothes from the chair and ran the gauntlet to the corner of the room, where he might dress without being observed.

This manœuvre excited gusts of merriment, in which he found himself joining very heartily.

After all, why should one mind dressing before an audience? It was ridiculous to be super-modest over such trifles. He realized with a start that his own stock of unconventionalism was thoroughly outclassed by these simple little midinettes, and this being so, he at once conceived for them a very profound esteem.

Accordingly, with a hairbrush in one hand and his braces trailing behind him, he stepped upon the tiny balcony and said:

“Bon jour. Je pense que vous êtes très, très douce les toutes.”

The cordial reception accorded to this sentiment encouraged him to further efforts. He found, however, that his stock of French was insufficient for the needs of the occasion. After a laborious endeavour to express appreciation for their sunny broad-minded temperaments and to include a few words stating that his mission in life was to inculcate a similar breadth of mind to the hide-bound pedants who infested the world, he was compelled to stop for lack of the material to proceed.

His merry audience, in spite of having failed to understand a single word, cheered the speech very generously, and blew him a cloud of aerial kisses.

II

Wynne Rendall took his chocolate and immersed his roll therein with all the skill of a Parisian, and later, in a very rapturous frame of mind, crossed the Seine by the Pont des Arts and made his way to the Rue du Dragon. He had no difficulty in discovering the Atelier Julien, and addressing himself to a bearded and aproned old gentleman who sat on a high stool in a very small office.

He had feared there might be difficulty in gaining admission, since he could claim no previous experience of the plastic arts, but in this his misgivings proved groundless. It was merely a matter of paying one’s fee—a small fee at that—and taking one’s place.

Asked if he had any choice of masters, he shook his head. He was placed therefore under the guardianship of Le Maître Jean Paul Laurens, a man “both strong and brilliant,” whose studio was on the first floor.

Since he desired to spend the day seeing Paris, and purchasing colours and canvas, Wynne decided he would not start work until the morrow.

“Bien; demain matin à huit heures! Très bien. Au ’voir.”

III

It was splendid to reflect that he was a full-blown student of the Quartier, thought Wynne, as with ringing steps he swung along the narrow thoroughfares. He wished Uncle Clem had been there to witness his glory. Never before had he felt so confident of his own personality. Rivulets of water danced and chattered along the gutters reflecting the gladness of his mood—the sun shone gloriously on the tall white houses. Quaint old men with baskets of merchandise piped beseechingly on tiny horns. Thousands of purple-dyed eggs filled the shop windows, and the wonderful, everchanging, raffish, homely crowds chattered, gesticulated and hurried along in ceaseless streams.

Wynne was possessed with a foolish desire to shake hands with every one he met, and tell them all about himself; to explain why he had come, and to give them a glimpse of the workings of his many-sided nature. A measure of common sense dissuaded him from so doing, but he sang as he walked, and expanded his narrow chest to its fullest capacity. Presently he found himself by the riverside, and hovered awhile over the book-sellers’ stalls perched on the stone copings of the embankment. At one of these he bought a translation of Shakespeare’s works, an old volume of Balzac, and some paper-bound copies of the plays of Molière. It was the first time he had rummaged among books, and the experience was delightful. The mere touch of them sent a thrill of learning through his being.

For awhile he hovered by the riverside watching the energetic steamboats—the sober barges—and the great floating warehouses moored by the tow-path. Everywhere were people sketching—placid and preoccupied. No crowds of curious urchins jostled around them with stupid comments, as was always the case at home when any one had the temerity to bring their colour-box into the open day.

Paris respected its artists, and gave them as great seclusion out of doors as in their own studios. Sombre sportsmen, rodded and camp-stooled, lined the banks and strove to catch the elusive gudgeon. It seemed as though their attention was centred anywhere but upon the float. Their eyes rested dreamily on the spanned arches of Pont Neuf or the flying buttresses of Notre Dame, while invisible fish in the green waters beneath worried the bait from the hook with perfect immunity from danger.

To the island of Notre Dame Wynne directed his steps, and spent an hour of sheer delight with imagination let loose. Romance breathed in the air around him, and memory of dead things sprang to life. He pictured himself back in Dumas’ days—with king’s men and cardinals—swashbuckling on the footway—with masked ladies flitting into dark doorways, and the tinkle of blade against blade from some courtyard near at hand.

Chance led him to enter a low, stone building by one of the bridges. All manner of men and women passed in and out of this place, and Wynne followed the general lead. There was a glass compartment across the far side of the hall, before which a large crowd was assembled. A nursemaid wheeling a perambulator, and a group of blue-smocked, pipe-smoking ouvriers hid from view what the case contained.

The exhibits, whatever they might be, were clearly very popular. Wynne reflected that probably they were Napoleonic relics, or maybe the crown jewels, when a rift in the crowd betrayed the fact that the case was full of dead men. With heads tilted at shy and foolish angles, with bodies lolling limply against the sloped marble slabs, the corpses of the Seine bleared stupidly at the quick.

It was the first time Wynne had looked on the face of the dead, and the sight chilled him with a faint, freezing sickness.

“Oh, God, how awful!” he muttered, and turned to go, but the way before him was barred by fresh arrivals. “I want to get out,” he cried, but no one heeded him. He began to struggle, when a firm hand fell on his shoulder, and a voice, speaking with a Southern American accent, said:

“Calm down, son. What’s the trouble?”

Wynne looked up and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man smiling upon him. He wore a blue serge shirt, a pair of sailor’s breeches, and no hat. His black, sleek hair hung loosely over his left temple.

“It’s horrible,” said Wynne. “I want to get away.”

“Yer wrong,” came the answer. “Yer wan’ to stop. The spirit of Paris abides in this place. There’s no intensive life without an intensive death. Only when they come here do they realize how very much alive they are. Sometimes I believe the Morgue is the greatest tonic in this city. Now jest pull up and we’ll step round the cases together.”

Wynne shook his head.

“Yer not afraid?”

“No, but—it seems so callous, and—I want to live—and do great things—wonders. I don’t want to stare at a row of corpses.”

“There’s a fellow there”—he nodded his head toward the case—“who was an artist. He wanted to live and perform wonders too. Then he found out that he couldn’t—found out that a dozen idle, do-nothing fellows could outclass him at every turn. What happens? He puts a brick in pocket and jumps. Seems to me, with your ideas, you might learn something from the page of those cold features.”

“All right,” said Wynne; “lead away.”

They joined the crowd that slowly filed past the silent watchers.

“I’m glad I saw them,” he said, as they turned once more toward the door. “I never realized before what full-stop meant. It makes one feel the need to get on—and on. Death is so horribly conclusive.”

He drew a breath of air gratefully as they came into the sunlight.

“A cure for slackers, eh?” said the American.

“Yes—rather.”

He was a pleasant fellow, the American, and volunteered to share a table at lunch.

“Painting student?” he asked.

“I’m making a start tomorrow at Julien’s.”

“Then pay for your drink when the Massier introduces himself, and if you know a rorty song sing it for all you’re worth.”

After lunch he helped Wynne buy colours, brushes, and a beautiful walnut palette, then wished him luck and departed.

They never met again. Paris is the place of quick friendships and equally quick partings. Races lose their characteristic shyness under the Paris sun. Strangers accost each other and join in day-long or night-long festivities, exchange their most intimate thoughts, and finally go their ways without even so much as asking each other’s names.

IV

Wynne arrived at the Atelier Jean Paul Laurens at a quarter to the hour of eight A. M. He was the first comer, and had a moment’s leisure to survey his surroundings. The studio itself was not large, and as high as the arm could reach the walls were plastered, generations deep, with palette scrapings. Above in great profusion were studies from the nude, heads and charcoal drawings in every possible mood of form and light. To Wynne, hitherto accustomed to regard paintings as pictures, these canvases struck a note of brutal coarseness, offending his æsthetic sensibilities. They seemed no more than men and women stripped of their clothing and indecently exposed.

“God! I won’t paint like that,” he thought.

From a great pile of easels in the corner he selected one and disposed it a few feet away from the model’s throne; which done, he set his palette with an infinite number of small dabs of colour. He thrust a few brushes through the thumb-hole, and was ready to make a start when the time arrived.

Presently a little Italian girl, with heavy gold rings in her ears, and a coloured kerchief over her head, came in and nodded a greeting.

“Nouveau?” she inquired.

“Oui,” replied Wynne.

She smiled agreeably, and seating herself on the throne kicked her shoes behind a screen and pulled off her stockings.

“O-ooo!” she shivered, “c’est pas chaud.”

She nodded toward the stove, and Wynne was glad of the opportunity to put on some coal, since he was conscious of some small uneasiness, alone and unoccupied while the maiden disrobed. He took as long as possible, and when he had finished discovered that she had finished too, and was calling upon him to provide her with a “couverture.” This he sought and handed to her, not entirely without embarrassment.

“Merci, Bébé,” said the Italian, and draped the old curtain around herself.

From the passage outside came the sound of many footsteps—a clamour of voices, and a moment later some twenty students clattered into the studio, with others at their heels. They were men of all ages and every nationality—some dressed as typical art students, others as conventionally attired as any young gentleman from Bond Street. An impulse which they shared in common was to make a noise, and in this they achieved a very high standard of perfection. A great variety of sounds were produced, mostly patterned from the fowl-run or the asses’ stall. One serious-minded and bearded boy devoted his ingenuity to reproducing the noise of a motor horn; while another, leaping to the model’s throne, hailed the dawn like any chanticleer. Espying Wynne’s beautifully white canvas perched upon its easel, a red-headed Alsatian flung a tabouret which swept all before it, and sent the new palette planing to the floor.

“What the devil do you mean by that?” cried Wynne, and was told to “Shut up, you silly ass. Don’t ask for trouble,” by an English voice at the back of the crowd.

At this moment a very precise little Frenchman stepped forward and made a bow.

“Moi je suis le Massier,” he announced, and asked if Wynne were prepared to stand a drink to the students. Twelve francs was the sum required—payable in advance.

The money was produced, whereat every one, including the model, who had borrowed a long painter’s coat for the occasion, rushed from the studio. Half the crowd became wedged in the doorway, and the other half fell down the stairs _en masse_. Wynne was swept along by the tidal wave at the rear, and trod on many prostrate pioneers before swinging out into the Rue du Dragon. There was a small café fifty yards distant, and thither they raced, sweeping every one from the pavements as they ran. Further jostling ensued at the doors of the café, but finally every one struggled through and found accommodation.

A chair was set upon a table and Wynne invited to occupy it. This he did with very great satisfaction and a kingly feeling. Busy waiters below hurried round with trays, bearing glasses of black coffee, and a very innocuous fluid known as “grog Americaine.”

When all had been served the Massier called upon the “nouveau” to give a song, and reminded him that failure to do so might result in unhappy consequences.

So Wynne stood upon the chair, with his head touching the ceiling, and sang several questionable limericks at the top of his voice. Hardly a soul understood the words, but from the spirit of their delivery they judged them to be indecent and bawdy, and as such very acceptable to hear. Moreover, there was a refrain in which all were able to join, and this in itself readily popularized the effort.

The Massier personally complimented the vocalist, and suggested that the occasion was almost sufficient to justify a barricade.

Cries were raised that nothing short of the barricade could be contemplated, and in an instant all the chairs and tables from the café were cast outside into the street. Skilled at their work, the barricaders set one table against the other with chairs before them. The company then seated itself and began to sing. Ladies from adjoining houses leaned out and threw smiles of encouragement, and the traffic in both directions ceased to flow.

Many and strange were the songs sung, and they dealt with life and adventure of a coarse but frisky kind.

Thus the passers-by learned what befell an officer who came across the Rhine, a sturdy fellow with an eye for a maid, and a compelling way with him to wit. Some there were who glowered disapprovingly at this morning madness, but more generally the audience were sympathetic, and yielded to the student the right of levity.

All would have gone well but for a surly dray-driver, who, wearying of the hold-up, urged his hairies into the midmost table with a view to breaking the barricade. This churlish act excited the liveliest activity. The horses were drawn from the shafts and led forthwith into a small greengrocer’s shop, where they feasted royally upon the carrots and swedes basketed in abundance about them. The owner of the shop and the driver raised their voices in protest, and their cries attracted the attention of the patron of the café. This good man, supported by three waiters, came forth and argued that the jest had gone far enough.

In so doing he was ill-advised, for in Paris a kill-joy invariably prejudices his own popularity. Some of the students formed a cordon about the good man and his staff, while others seized the chairs and tables and piled them on the tops of the waiting vehicles. This done they started the horses with cries and blows, and a moment later the furniture was careering up the street in all directions.

“C’est fini,” said the Massier.

The cordon broke, Monsieur le Patron and his garçons were away in pursuit, and the students, headed by the bare-footed Italian girl in her paint-smeared jacket, turned once more to their labours.

Wynne was almost exhausted with laughter. It seemed impossible such revels could be conducted by perfectly sober men before half-past eight in the morning. Perhaps strangest of all was the suddenness with which the robes of gaiety were discarded, for ten minutes later each man was at his easel setting out his palette as soberly as a city clerk plays dominoes during the luncheon hour.

V

It should be stated that Wynne Rendall showed small skill as a painter. He approached the task with a pleasant conviction that he would at least rival if not excel the ordinary run of students. At school he had been able to achieve clever little caricatures of masters and boys, and he had thought to draw from life would be a simpler matter altogether. To his chagrin he discovered that he was not able even to place the figure roughly upon a canvas. He realized the intention of the pose, but his efforts to convey it were futile and grotesque.

With jealous irritation he observed how the other students dashed in the rough constructive features of a figure with sure sense of proportion and animation.

“Wha’ are ye trying to do?” inquired a Scotch lad, who had abandoned his work for the pleasure of watching Wynne’s confusion. “Mon, it’s awfu’. Have ye no drawn from the antique?”

Wynne was not disposed to give himself away, although the words made him hot with shame.

“Every one has his own method,” he retorted.

“A’mitted, but there’s no meethod in yon. Stand awa’ a meenit.” And before Wynne had time to protest he struck a dozen red lines upon the canvas which gave an almost instantaneous likeness to the subject.

“Leave it alone,” said Wynne. “It isn’t yours.”

“I need hairdly say I’m glad. Now look ye here. Ye know naything, and a leetle ceevil attention will profit ye.”

He did not pay the slightest heed to Wynne’s sulky rejoinder, but, sucking at his pipe, continued to work on the canvas with great dexterity and skill. Presently he wearied of the occupation, and Wynne came back to his own with a somewhat chastened spirit.

It is an understood thing in the ateliers that every one criticizes every one else, and supports his theories by painting on the canvas he may be discussing. Before the day was out half a dozen different men left their mark on Wynne’s study. The most irritating feature about this practice was the coincidence that they always obliterated some little passage with which he was pleased. To quote one instance, he had succeeded rather happily in the treatment of an eye, imparting to it a sparkle and lustre that gave him profound satisfaction. He could have screamed with rage when the red-headed Alsatian, dipping his thumb in some raw umber, blotted it out, saying sweetly:

“It is not that it is an eye—it is a shadow that it should be.”

A similar experience occurred when, a week later, the great Jean Paul Laurens halted in amazement and disgust before his performance.

“This,” said he, “is a series of trivial incidents, of disjointed details! To we artists the human figure is a mass of light and shade. It is not made up of legs and hands, and breasts, and ears and teeth. No—by the good God, no!”

With which he seized a brush and scrabbled a quantity of flake white over the entire surface.

“Good!” he said. “It is finished.” And passed on to the next.

Thinking the matter over in bed that night Wynne realized he had learnt a great and valuable lesson: breadth of view—visualizing life as a whole. It was knowledge that could be applied to almost everything. Detail merely existed as part of the whole, but the whole was not arrived at by assembling detail.

The same would apply, he perceived, to every art, to business, too, and to life in general. He began to understand how it was possible for people like Wallace and his father to have their place in the scheme of things. They ceased to exist as individual items, brought into undue prominence by enforced propinquity, but became parts of a great machinery whose functions were too mighty to comprehend. These were the shadows which gave tone-value to the high-lights. They were vital and essential, and without them there would be no contrast, no variety, nothing but flat levels—dull and marshy—and never a hill on the horizon showing purple in the morning sun.

“I must learn this trade of painting,” said Wynne, “it’s the short road to all knowledge.”

He flung himself into the work with an energy truly remarkable. From early morning till midnight he battled with the craft, and thought and talked of nothing else. In the cafés, where students met and thrashed out their thousand ideas, Wynne was well bethought, for although his skill with a brush was small he could advance and support a theory with the liveliest talker in the Quartier. His success in argument was, perhaps, not altogether of advantage to his immortal soul, since it led him to cultivate a cynical attitude toward most affairs. He very readily became conversant with the works of the Masters, old and new, and praised or attacked them with great impartiality. Preferably he would detract from accepted geniuses, and deliver the most scathing criticisms against pictures before which mankind had prostrated itself for centuries. One day he would admit of the value of no artist save Manet, and another would accuse him of possessing neither skill nor artistry, but merely “a singularly adroit knack of expressing vulgarity.”

He did not attempt to be honest in regard to his points of view, being perfectly satisfied so long as he could hold a controversial opinion.

Not infrequently high words would result from these discussions, and on one occasion a table was overset, glasses smashed, and a chair flung. Police arrived on the scene, and Wynne and three companions spent the night in a lockup. This he did not mind in the least, and continued to air his views in the small hours of the morning until threatened with solitary confinement unless he desisted.

VI

On the tenth week after his arrival in Paris, Wynne’s money gave out. He had not bothered to consider what he should do when this happened, and as a result poverty seized him unprepared.

To do him justice he did not bother in the least as to the future of his bodily welfare, but was distressed beyond expression at the thought of abandoning his studies.

A wild idea possessed him to sell some of his future years for a few more terms at the studio. He even went to the length of discussing the project with the Massier. This gentleman, however, shook his head dubiously.

“Impossible,” he said.

“Why?” said Wynne. “I’ll give two-thirds of all I earn for the next three years to any one who’ll finance me now.”

“No doubt; but, monsieur, philanthropists are few in the Quartier—and your painting!” He made an expressive gesture. “Your paintings will never be sold. He who gave the money would see it again—never! I am sorry—it is sad—but what would you?”

Wynne turned away heavy at heart and angry, and next morning his place before the throne was vacant.

VII

Of all cities in the world Paris is the least hospitable to a bankrupt. It does not ask a man to be rich, and it does not mind if he be poor, for the great Parisian heart is warm to either state, but for the man who is destitute there is no place in its affections.

Your Quartier art student is an easy-going fellow in most directions, who will share his wine and his love with amiable impartiality, but he is proof against the borrower’s craft, and will do anything rather than lend money.

Of this circumstance Wynne was already aware, and in a sense was glad that it should be so. He was not of the kind who borrow, but had it been easy to negotiate a loan his awkward plight might have weighed against the maintenance of his ideals.

As he walked up the Rue Buonaparte, his colour-box swinging in his hand, he reflected that the moment had come to prove his fibre. Between himself and starvation was a sum amounting to one franc fifty centimes, barely enough to purchase a couple of modest meals.

“This time the day after tomorrow I shall be very hungry,” he said.

He was not alarmed at the prospect—and, indeed, he regarded it with a queer sense of excitement. By some twist of imagination he conceived that an adventurous credit was reflected upon himself by the very emptiness of his pockets. Tradition showed that most of the world’s great artists had passed through straitened circumstances, wherefore it was only right and proper he should do otherwise. Certainly there was no very manifest advantage in starving, but it would be pleasant to reflect that one _had_ starved. Almost he wished he could banish the still haunting flavour of the chocolate he had drunk at his _petit déjeuner_, and feel the pangs of hunger tormenting his vitals. He consoled himself with the thought that these would occur soon enough. In the meantime it would be well to consider what line of action he proposed to take. The impulse to do a sketch and carry it to market he dismissed at once. The schools had taught him that whatever virtues his artistry might possess, they were not of a saleable kind. It was therefore folly to waste his money in buying a good canvas which would undoubtedly be spoilt.

“No good,” he argued. “No good at all. I must do something that I can do.”

On the embankment he was accosted by the keeper of a bookstall which of late he had patronized freely.

“I have here a copy of the verses of Sully Prudhomme,” said the man, “and the price is but one franc. Such a chance will scarcely arrive again.”

It was sheer bravado, but Wynne bought the little volume without so much as an attempt to beat down the price. He felt no end of a fine fellow as he pocketed it and strolled away. Yet, curiously enough, he had not gone far before a panic seized him and he longed to rush back and beg for his money to be returned.

“That’s silly,” he told himself—“cowardly.” His hand stole to his pocket and took comfort from the feel of the fifty centime piece which remained.

“If I were really a man I’d spend that too.”

And spend it he did, but on a long loaf of stale bread which he brought back with him to the hotel.

He found Benoit at his interminable occupation of polishing the bedroom floor. This duty was performed by means of a flat brush strapped to the sole of the boot. The excellent fellow, while so employed, resembled a chicken scratching in straw for oats. Polishing had become a second nature to Benoit. He polished while he made beds, he polished while he emptied slops, he polished while he indulged in his not infrequent spells of religious rumination.

It was in this latter state of mind Wynne found him, and for want of a better confidant explained his unfortunate predicament.

“Benoit,” he said, “I am ruined—utterly ruined and penniless.”

“That,” replied the garçon, “is a pity, since I had had in mind that on the morrow you would be giving me five francs.”

It is the custom to give five francs to the garçon at the beginning of each month.

“Your chances of getting it, Benoit, are very remote.”

“It is to be hoped you will, then, be able to give me ten in the month which follows.”

“I pray that it may be so. In the meantime what am I to do that I may subsist?”

“That is a matter which rests with the good God.”

“Suing your pardon, I prefer to believe that it rests with me, Benoit.”

“It is inferior! I remark that you already possess bread.”

“It is the smaller part of my possessions.”

“And the larger, m’sieur?”

“Brains, Benoit—brains.”

“For myself I had rather have of the bread, believing it to be the more substantial blessing.”

“Which proves, Benoit, that you speak without consideration. A fool and his loaf are soon parted, but a wise man has that within his head which will stock a bakery.”

“May it prove so with you, m’sieur.”

“A thousand thanks. But, to return to our muttons, how am I to use my brains to best advantage?”

“By considering the lives of the saints, m’sieur.”

“A pious answer, Benoit, but I seek to use them to more profitable account. When I am relieved of the immediate anxiety of prematurely meeting these personages, I shall doubtless be better able to direct my thoughts toward them.”

“I can only repeat, m’sieur, that in divine consideration lies the province of the brain. If it be the body you desire to profit, then, beyond doubt, it is your hands must seek employment.”

“But I have no skill of the hands, Benoit.”

“There is no great skill required, m’sieur, to carry a basket at Les Arles.”[1]

“I urge you, Benoit, to avoid words of folly. Am I of the fibre to lift crates from a market cart? And if I were, do you suppose I could adjust my intellect to so clumsy a calling?”

“It is better, m’sieur, to engage upon a humble task than to wallow with the gudgeon of the Seine.”

“Pooh! Benoit, am I a likely suicide?”

“Given no meat, a man will drink betimes over-deeply of the water.”

The answer and memory of a certain grotesque figure in the Morgue gave Wynne to pause.

“You are a cold comforter,” he said. “Have you no happier suggestion to offer?”

“I speak from knowledge, m’sieur. If you are destitute you must be content with the smallest blessings.”

“But I have intellect, Benoit, in larger measure than most. Is there no market for intellect in this city of Paris?”

“There will be better intellects than yours that sleep without a roof in Paris tonight. Why should you, a stranger, look to France to buy your thoughts?”

“Because France alone, of all countries, holds out the hand of welcome to Art.”

“It may be so—and it may be in so doing she fills her own coffers. These are matters which I do not understand, but I know well, and well enough, that the stranger may learn an art in this city, but he cannot sell it here. M’sieur, when your bread is eaten I would advise that you go to Les Arles and offer your hands. There is always a value for hands, even though it be but very small, and maybe, by using them, you would in the end find profit for the brain.”

“Hum!” said Wynne despondently, “of all men you are the most cheerless.”

“But indeed no. If my mind was melancholy it was but to suit an occasion of some sadness. Let us, if you will, speak of lighter affairs.”

But since that line of conversation inevitably led to descriptions of _jeunes filles_ who at one time or another had confided their affections over-deeply to Benoit’s keeping, Wynne declined the invitation, and, picking up his cap, descended the stairs and walked towards the Louvre.

The discussion had done little to brighten his horizon, and he was oppressed with misgivings as he passed through the streets. Obviously it was absurd to attach importance to the words of an ignorant _valet de chambre_. On the other hand, there was a degree of probability in what he had said which could not be lightly dismissed.

Suddenly an idea possessed him, and his spirits rose with a leap. It occurred from the memory of a remark made by the patron of a _brasserie_ in the Boule Miche.

“Ah, monsieur,” he had said, “it is long since we entertained a customer who spoke with such inspiration on so many subjects.”

The remark had been made after a long sitting in which Wynne had held the attention of a dozen students for several hours while he threw off his red-hot views on art and life in general. As a result the little absorbent mats, upon which the glasses stand, and which mark the number of drinks each man has taken, had piled high.

“I measure the value of conversation,” the patron had continued, “by the amount of bock which is consumed, and tonight has surpassed all previous records. I trust m’sieur will return many times, and place me even more deeply in his debt.”

“By Heaven,” thought Wynne, “I believe he’d pay me a salary to talk.”

So greatly did the belief take hold of him that, unthinkingly, he sprang upon a tram, only to spring off again with the recollection that he had not the wherewithal to pay the fare.

M. le Patron greeted Wynne with amiable courtesy, and invited him to be seated, asking at the same time what manner of drink would be agreeable to his taste.

“I want nothing,” said Wynne, “but the privilege of a few moments’ conversation.”

“That will be delightful; then we will sit together.”

“I do not know if you remember an evening a short while ago when I was here.”

“It is, indeed, one of my pleasantest recollections.”

“On that occasion you were good enough to observe that my conversation resulted in a marked increase in your sales of liquor.”

“And indeed, m’sieur, it was no less than the truth. The nimbleness of m’sieur’s wit, the charm of his address, and the adroitness of his argument are only comparable to those of that most admirable Bohemian, Monsieur Robinson, who, I have no doubt, is well known in England.”

“Probably,” said Wynne, “although I have never heard of him. But to return. I have come here today to make you a business proposition.”

“It is very kind.”

“Not at all. I am obliged to do something of the sort owing to financial difficulties which have suddenly arisen.”

“Tch-tch-tch! How very provoking.”

It was noticeable, however, that the brow of M. le Patron had clouded, and his sympathy was not wholly genuine. Wynne, however, was paying more attention to himself than to the attitude of his hearer.

“What I was about to suggest is this. Encouraged by your words of a month ago, I am willing to occupy a table at your café each night, and to discourse upon all the burning questions of the day. In return for this small service and the undoubted credit it will bring to the establishment, I put forward that you should offer me the hospitality of free meals and a trifle of twenty francs a week for my expenses.”

He delivered the speech with an air of cordiality and condescension designed to introduce the offer in the most favourable light. Hearing his words as he spoke them there remained small doubt in his mind that the astute Frenchman would embrace the opportunity with gratitude. In this, however, he was sadly at fault.

“M’sieur is an original,” came the answer; “but he can hardly be serious.”

“I am entirely serious.”

“Then I fear that, with due regret, I must decline.”

“Decline? But—but the notion was originally your own. I should not have suggested it had it not been that you—”

“Pardon, m’sieur, I see the fault was mine, and my words evidently placed m’sieur under a misapprehension. He will readily perceive, however, that, as patron, it is my duty to be affable, and, although it desolates me to confess so much, it has been my long habit to express to all my more loquacious guests precisely the same sentiments which I addressed to m’sieur on the evening of which he spoke.”

“Oh! has it?” said Wynne, rather dully. “Then there’s no more to be said.”

“Alas! no. It is sad, but what would you? Au revoir, m’sieur.”

“Au ’voir.” He moved a pace away, then turned. “I suppose you haven’t any sort of job you could offer me?”

“Unhappily!” said the patron, and turned to welcome a new arrival.

“I shan’t give up,” muttered Wynne, as he walked moodily down the busy boulevard. “After all, it was only a first attempt.”

But he did not sleep very easily that night. He lay with his eyes open in the dark and wondered what would befall him—where he would be in a week’s time—if what Benoit had said were true. These and a thousand perplexing fears and fancies raced and jostled through his brain. Presently one big thought rose and dominated all the rest.

“I mustn’t forget any of this. It is all valuable—all part of the lesson—part of the training—part of the price which a climber has to pay.”

Then he thought of The Cedars, and of Wallace setting forth to the City after a “good” breakfast.

Wallace would have “sensible” boots, and would carry an umbrella. Wallace would exchange views on the subject of politics or chip-carving with other folk as sober as himself. Wallace would smirk at his employer, and would eat a Cambridge sausage for his lunch. Wallace would go to bed at 10.30 P. M. that he might be ready to do these things again on the morrow. With this reflection there came to Wynne a very glorious satisfaction.

“I wouldn’t change with you,” he said, and turning on his side fell into a comfortable and easy sleep.

-----

[1] The Covent Gardens of Paris.

VIII

The sun was shining brightly when he awoke, and all the little midinettes were in full song.

Wynne sat up in bed and ate a piece of his bread and drank a glass of water. Asked why he did so, he cheerfully replied,

“Moi, je suis ruiné.”

Whereupon the maidens laughed very heartily and said he was a droll.

Wynne had become quite used to the little audience across the way and scarcely took them into consideration. Women, as such, made little or no impression upon him. He liked them well enough, but never cared to better his knowledge or acquaintance with any with whom he had come into contact. Physically they made not the slightest appeal to him—his senses were inert toward the impulse of sex, and he was given to criticize contemptuously those of his companions who staked their emotions in the ways of passion.

“Do not imagine I suffer from moral convictions,” he would say; “but, according to my views, you attach an importance to these matters out of all relation to their value.”

The sentence had inflamed to a very high degree the student to whom it was addressed.

“Fool! Fish!” he had shouted, by way of argument; and again, “Fish! Fish!”

To a running fire of semi-serious sympathy Wynne dressed himself and went out. In a sense he was a little distressed to sacrifice his accustomed cup of early morning chocolate—but this, he argued, was a matter of small concern. A plethora of victuals stagnates the mind, and on this day he had every reason to desire a clear head.

In the Elysée Gardens he found a bench and contracted his brow in meditation. What, he ruminated, were the essentials required to gain a livelihood? Obviously there was a place for every one in this world, or mankind would not survive the ordeal of birth. There was a place for people of every kind of intelligence—a glance at the passers-by proved it, and proved that even the stupid may sometimes prosper. This being so, it was obvious that the wise must prosper even more greatly.

“What have I got to sell?” he asked himself. “What have I got that these other people desire? What can I do that other people can’t do?”

But though he racked his brain he could find no answer to the questions.

After a while he rose and started to walk. He walked fast, as if to escape from his own thoughts, and Fear, so it seemed, walked by his side.

“Nothing,” said Fear—“you have nothing to sell. Nobody wants you—nobody will care if you starve.”

“Go away,” said Wynne. “I tell you I am wanted. I say I shan’t starve.”

“Little idiot! What have you learnt to do but sneer at the real worker? There is no market price for sneers. Sneerers starve—starve! Who are you to laugh at the honest people of the world?”

“I didn’t laugh. I only pitied.”

“How dared you pity—you, who have achieved nothing? Even that small errand boy yonder is a worthier citizen than you—he at least earns his ten francs a week. What have you earned? Only the wage-slave deserves to be a freeman. What is the value of all this trash of art and æsthetics? These are only accessories of life—life itself must be learnt before you can deal in these.”

“But I don’t want to be a wage-slave. I want to be a king.”

“Kingdoms are not won by desire. You must be a subject first.”

“I will be a king—a ruler.”

“A beggar in a week. Come off the heights, little idiot; come down into the plains and lay a road.”

Wynne stopped suddenly in the great quadrangle of the Louvre.

“Right,” he said. “I’ll be content with small beginnings, but show me the way to find them.”

And looking across the cobbled yard he saw three people. They were quite ordinary, and obviously English. There was a middle-aged man with a disposition toward side-whiskers. He carried an umbrella, and wore a severe bowler hat. His clothes spoke of prosperity coupled with a due regard for quiet colours. By his side walked a stout lady, in a tailor-made dress of suburban cut. Upon her head reposed an example of Paris millinery, and consciousness of its beauty gave her face an added tendency to perspire. It was a new hat, and did not seem to have sympathetic relations with her boots. People who go abroad for the first time are apt to overestimate the probable amount of wear their shoe-leather is likely to incur, and guard against walking barefoot by donning boots whose sturdiness would defeat the depredations of a Matterhorn climb.

By the lady’s side was a youth—a very unprepossessing youth too. His face was blotchy, almost as blotchy as his tie. His waistcoat was double-breasted and of a violent grey. He carried a vulgar little cane in his yellow-gloved hand.

That the trio were strangers to the city was indisputably betrayed by the consciousness of their manner and the elaborate precautions they were at to look at everything. The elder man drew attention to a sewer grating in the middle of the quadrangle, and pointed with his umbrella at the pigeons.

Presently they came to a halt, and produced a Baedeker, which provided them with small enlightenment.

“You are supposed to know French,” Wynne heard the elder man say, “then why not ask some one how we get into the place.”

“I can’t,” replied the son.

“Well, all I can say is it seems a very funny thing.”

While conversing they failed to observe the approach of an official guide, who, complete with ingratiating smile and a parchment of credentials, offered to pilot them round the galleries.

At this they at once took flight, with much head-shaking and confusion, and had the misfortune to run into the arms of two more of the fraternity. These two importuned them afresh.

“Certainly not,” said the paterfamilias, as though he had been asked to participate in some very disgraceful orgy.

An Englishman always runs away from a guide, although sooner or later he becomes a victim.

Being aware of this fact, one, more assiduous than the rest, followed them closely with invitations and beseechings, and headed them toward the spot where Wynne was standing. It was clear that the unhappy people were greatly unnerved, and equally clear that in a moment they would cease to retreat, and surrender.

Perceiving this, Wynne was conceived of an idea, and as they came abreast he brought to bear upon the guide with a quick barrage of Paris invective. In effect his words were: “These people are my friends—get out,” although he coloured up the phrase with some generosity. The victory was instantaneous, and a moment later he had raised his hat and was saying:

“I don’t think you will be bothered any more.”

“Very kind of you—very kind,” said the father, mopping his brow. “Great nuisance, these people.” And the lady favoured Wynne with a grateful smile.

“You were about to visit the galleries?”

“Well, we thought we’d take a look round, you know. The thing to do!”

“Oh, quite. Are you familiar with the Louvre?”

“Er, no—no. Can’t say we are—no.”

“H’m. I was wondering if I should offer to conduct you.”

“Hey? Well. Ho! I see! Not a bad idea! What do you say, Ada?”

“It would be very nice.”