Project Gutenberg's Mademoiselle Miss and Other Stories, by Henry Harland This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Mademoiselle Miss and Other Stories Author: Henry Harland Release Date: August 2, 2016 [EBook #52703] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MADEMOISELLE MISS AND OTHERS *** Produced by David Widger from page images generously provided by the Internet Archive MADEMOISELLE MISS And Other Stories By Henry Harland London: William Heinemann Bedford Street MDCCCXCIII 0001 0007 P CONTENTS MADEMOISELLE MISS THE FUNERAL MARCH OF A MARIONNETTE THE PRODIGAL FATHER. A SLEEVELESS ERRAND. A LIGHT SOVEREIGN. MADEMOISELLE MISS “Mais que diable allait-elle faire en cette galère?” aris is the gloomiest town in Christendom to-day,—though it is a lovely day in April, and the breeze is full of softness, and the streets are gay with people,—and the Latin Quarter is quite the dullest bit of Paris: Mademoiselle Miss left last night for England. We all know what it is like when a person who has been an absorbing interest in our lives suddenly goes away: how, apart from the immediate pang of the separation and the after-pain of more or less consciously missing the fugitive, there is a wide, complex, dim underworld of emotion, that may be compared to the thorough-bass of a sad tune, and seems in some sort to relate itself to the whole exterior universe. The sun rises as usual, but the sunlight is not the same. Other folk, apparently unconcerned, pursue the accustomed tenor of their way; but we are vaguely surprised that this should be the case,—surprised, and grieved, and a little resentful. We can’t realise without an effort how completely exempt they are from the loss that has befallen us; and we feel obscurely that their air of indifference is either sheer braggadocio, or a symptom of moral insensibility. The truth of the matter is, of course, that our departing friend has taken with him not his particular body and baggage only, but an element from the earth and the sky. and a fibre from ourselves. Everything is subtly, incommunicably altered. We wake up to a changed horizon: and our distress is none the less keen because the changeling bears a formal resemblance to the vanished original. So! Mademoiselle Miss has gone to England; and to-day it is anew and an unfamiliar and a most dismal Paris that confronts the little band of worshippers she has left behind her. Indeed, it was already a new Paris that the half dozen of us who had assembled at St. Lazare to see her off, emerged into from the station last night, after her train had rolled away. We found a corner seat for her in a third- class compartment reserved for dames seules; and while some of us attended to the registering of her box, others packed her light luggage into the rack above her head; and this man had brought a bunch of violets, and that a book for her to read; and Jean contributed a bottle of claret, and Jacques a napkin full of sandwiches: and taken for all in all, we were the forlornest little party you can easily conceive of, despite our spasmodic attempts at merriment. We grouped ourselves round the window of her carriage,— stopping the way thereby, though not with malice aforethought, for such other solitary ladies as might wish to enter,—whilst Miss smiled down upon us from eyes that were perilously bright; and we sought to defy the ache that was in our hearts, by firing off brisk little questions and injunctions, or abortive little jests. “Sure you’ve got your ticket all right?” “You must make a rush for a berth directly you reach Dieppe.” “Mind you write the moment you arrive.” “Oh, we’ll get news of her through Don Antonio.”—This was meant as facetious, and we all laughed, though rather feebly: Don Antonio being an aged Italian model whom Miss had painted a good deal, and between whom and herself there was humorously supposed to have taken place a desperate flirtation. We were constantly lapsing into silence, however; and for the last five minutes we scarcely spoke at all. We simply waited there, moving uneasily among ourselves, and gazed up at her. She kept on smiling at us; but it was a rueful smile, and we could easily see that the tears weren’t far behind it. Then suddenly a bell rang; the officials shouted “En voiture;” there was a volley of good-byes, a confusion of handshaking; the engine shrieked; her arm was drawn in through the window; the train moved; and Miss was gone. We lingered for a moment on the platform, looking stupidly after the red lamp at the end of the last carriage, as it waned swiftly smaller and fainter in the distance. Presently someone pulled himself together sufficiently to say, “Well, come on.” And we made our way out of the station into a Paris that was blank and strange. Aubémont (Adolphe) was frankly holding his pocket-handkerchief to his eyes; but we Anglo-Saxons chid and chaffed him till he put it out of sight. “By Christopher! when I think of the way we treated that girl in the beginning!” cried Chalks, an American, whose lay-name is Charles K. Smith, but he’s called Chalks by all his English-speaking fellow-craftsmen. Whereat—“Oh, shut up!” came in chorus from the rest of us. We didn’t care to be reminded of those old days. Then little Schaas-Keym, the Dutchman, proposed that we should finish the evening, and court oblivion, at the Galurin Cassé: and we adopted his suggestion, and drank beer, and smoked, and chattered, and ate cold beef and pickles, till the place was closed, at 2 a. m., when we returned to the Quarter, six in a single cab. Thus we managed to wear out last night with sufficient comfort. We gave ourselves no time, no chance, to think. We stood together, and drowned our sorrow in the noise we made. And then, by the time we parted, we were sleepy, so that we could go straight to our beds and forget everything. But—this morning! It is proverbially on the next morning that a man’s wound begins to hurt. For the others, since I’ve seen none of them, I can speak only by inference: in the morning our little cénacle scatters to the four corners of the town, not to be reunited till the hour of dinner; but what reason is there to doubt that the day will have treated them very much as it has treated me? And oh, the weary, dreary, bright spring day it is! The Luxembourg is fragrant with budding trees, and vocal with half a thousand romping children; the Boule-Miche is at its liveliest, with a ceaseless ebb and flow of laughing young men and women; the terrasse of the Vachette is a mass of gleaming top- hats and flaunting feminine bonnets; and the sky overhead is one smooth blue vault, and the sun is everywhere, a fume of gold: but the sparkle and the joyousness of it all are gone. Turn where I will, I find the same awful sense of emptiness. The streets are deserted, in spite of the crowds: I can hear my solitary footsteps echo gruesomely through them. Paris is like Pompeii. After luncheon, thinking to obtain relief by fleeing the Quarter (where every blessed stick and stone has its bitter-sweet association with her), I crossed the river, mixed with the throng in the Boulevard, sat for a while at the Café de la Paix. But things were no whit better. The sun shone with the same cheerless brilliancy; the air touched one with the same light, uncomforting caress; the laughter of the wayfarers had the same hollow ring. A blight had fallen upon man and nature. I came back to the Rue Racine, and its ghosts of her. That exclamation of Smith’s last night, to which we all cried taboo, really hit one of the salient points of the position: when I think of the way we treated her in the beginning! Extenuating circumstances might be pleaded for us, no doubt. It was only natural that we should have treated her so, if tradition and convention can make a thing natural—if it is natural that men should glare at a woman in a smoking-carriage, for example. And besides, she has had her revenge. For that matter, she was never conscious of our offences; but she has had her revenge, if to see us one by one prostrate ourselves at her feet, humble adorers, eager servitors,—if that may constitute revenge. And then, we are told, though our sins be as red as scarlet, if we do truly repent, they shall be washed as white as snow: and we have repented, goodness knows how truly. All the same, forgiveness without forgetfulness being but the guinea-stamp without the gold, I wish I could forget the way we treated her in the beginning. One is judged by the company one keeps; and she kept—ours. It is now some nine months ago that she appeared in it, at the Hôtel de l’.céan et de Shakespere, in the Rue Racine. We were just hasty enough, unobservant enough, blunt enough of perception, to judge her accordingly,—to take for granted, in a casual, matter-of-course fashion, that she would be a vessel of like clay to our own. The entrance to the Hôtel de l’.céan et de Shakespere, a narrow, dark, ambiguous-looking entrance, is flanked by two tin signs. That at the right hand reads, “Chambres ci Cabinets Meublés,” that at the left, “Pension de Famille.” Call it a Pension de Famille, if you will: at the epoch when Mademoiselle Miss arrived among us, we were, to put it squarely, the most disreputable family in Europe. Our proprietress, Madame Bourdon, was a gelatinous old person from Toulouse, with a pair of hazy blue eyes, a mottled complexion, a worldly-wise smile, an indulgent heart, and an extremely nasal accent. I speak of her as old; but she wasn’t old enough to know better, apparently. At any rate she had a certain unbeneficed abbé perpetually hanging to her apron-strings, and she kept him to dinner half a dozen evenings in the week. Of her boarders all the men were students, all the women étudiantes,—which, being interpreted, I suppose means students too. There were Mesdames Germaine, Fifine, Olga, Yvonne, Zélie, and Lucile,— “Whose names are six sweet symphonies,”—and perhaps it was because Lucile was her niece that Madame had dubbed her shop a pension de famille. You paid so much for your room and service, and then you could take table d’hôte or not, as you elected. Most of us took it, because it was only fifty francs a month, vin compris. Our ladies dined abroad a good deal, being inconstant quantities, according to the custom of their sex; but the men were almost always present in full number. We counted seven: Chalks, Schaas- Keym, Aubêmont, Jeanselme, Campbell, Norton, and myself. We formed a sort of close corporation, based upon a community of tastes, interests, and circumstances. We were all “arts,”—except Jeanselme, who was a “mines,” with a disordered tendency to break out in verse: we were all ridiculously poor, and we were all fond of bohemianising up and down the face of Paris. One evening in September of last year, on entering our salle-à—manger, we beheld a stranger, an addition to our ranks; and Madame, with a comprehensive gesture, introduced her to us in these terms: “Une nouvelle, une anglaise, Mees,...” Then she made awful hash of rather a long-winded English name: and we were content to accept the newcomer simply as Miss. The concierge and the servants, though, (to anticipate a little), treated Miss as a petit-nom, like Jane or Susan, and prefixed the title Mademoiselle. The pleonasm seemed a happy one, and we took it up: Mademoiselle Miss. On her visiting-card the legend ran, “Miss Edith Thorowether.” It was probably as well, on the whole, that French lips should not too frequently have tackled that. Now if she had been plain or elderly or constrained in her bearing or ill-natured-looking, no doubt we should have felt at once the difference between her and ourselves, and understood her presence with us as merely the outward and visible sign of some inward and spiritual blunder. But, as it happened, she was young and distinctly pretty; and she appeared to be entirely at her ease; and she smiled graciously in acknowledgment of the somewhat cursory nods with which we favoured her. We hadn’t the wit or the intuitions to recognise her ease for the ease of innocence; and our hotel was such a risky box; and ladies of English or American origin were no especial novelty in the Quarter; and we didn’t stop to examine this one critically, or to consider; and so things fell out in a way we now find disagreeable to remember. It was Saul who had strayed by hazard into the midst of our prophetic councils; and we mistook him for one of our own prophetic caste, and proceeded to demean and express ourselves in our usual prophetic manner. Fortunately, Saul’s knowledge of our prophetic tongue was limited. We spoke the slang of the Boulevards; whilst the little French that Mademoiselle Miss was mistress of she had learned from Ollendorf and Corinne. The situation was partially cleared up, I forget how long afterwards, by our discovering in her room, whither she had bidden us for an evening’s entertainment, an ancient copy of a certain Handbook to Paris,—“the badge of all our tribe,” as the tourist called it. On opening to its list of hotels (which somebody did by chance), we found the following note, with a pencil-mark against it: “Hotel de l’.céan et de Shake-spere, Rue Racine, chiefly frequented by visitors pursuing art-studies: well spoken-of and inexpensive.” That explained it. Mademoiselle Miss had trusted to a guide that was ten years behind the times: so the date on the title-page attested. And in ten years how had the Hôtel de l’.céan et de Shake-spere fallen from its respectable estate!—unless, ten years ago, the editor of that most exemplary handbook had been egregiously imposed upon. In his current edition the paragraph that I have cited does not appear. But to return to the evening of her arrival. In our salle-à-manger there was a rigid division of the sexes. The men sat on one side of the long table, the women on the other, with ‘Madame and her abbé cheek by jowl at the head. It was the only arrangement Madame had been able to effect, whereby to maintain amongst us something resembling order. Mademoiselle Miss had a seat assigned to her between Zélie and Yvonne, nearly opposite Chalks and myself; and she entered without embarrassment into conversation with all four of us. That is to say, she responded as well as she could in her broken classic French, and with perfect amiability, to such remarks as we directed at her. Save in addressing Madame or the abbé, nobody ever thought of saying vous at our unceremonious board; and Miss showed neither displeasure nor surprise when we included her in the prevailing tu. She had a quiet, sweet, English voice; an extremely delicate complexion, pale rose merging into lily-white (which we, I dare say, assumed was due to a scientific management of rouge and powder); a pair of large gray eyes; a lot of waving warm-brown hair; and a face so smooth of contour, so soft and fine in texture, that one might have thought her a mere girl of eighteen,—or twenty at the utmost,—whereas, in point of fact, as we learned later on, she was twenty-three. On this first evening of her arrival, however, neophyte though she was, we observed her with no special care, paid her no special attention, nor felt any special curiosity regarding her. Ladies of the quality we tacitly ascribed to her were such an old, old story for us; familiarity had bred apathy; we took her for granted very much as we might have taken for granted an addition to the number of chairs in the room. Besides, an attitude of nil-admirari towards all things, and particularly towards all things new, is the fashion of the Quarter; an attitude of torpid omniscience, of world-weary sophistication. We have seen everything, dissected everything, satisfied ourselves that stuffed with sawdust. We are fin-de-siecle, we are décadents, and we are Anglomaniacs to a man. To evince surprise at anything, therefore, or more than a supremely languid interest in anything, is what, when we are on our guard, most of us would die rather than do. Hence the questions that we put to Miss were few, desultory, superficial, and served in no wise to correct our misappreciation of her; whilst, together with the affirmative propositions that we laid down, they pre-supposed a point of view and a past experience similar to our own. Zélie, for example, asked her roundly (as one of a trade to another): “Tu cherches un callage, hein? On fais l’indépendante?” Miss looked a little puzzled, but answered tentatively, “Non, pas college. Je suis artiste.” Whereat one or two of us stared, thinking it meaningless; one or two smiled, thinking it doubly-meaning; but the majority heeded it not; and no one paused to consider the depths of ignorance (unless, indeed, ignorance of the French language) that the reply might indicate. I should perhaps add that with us the young ladies who dance at Bullier’s, sing at the concerts apéritifs, or serve in the brasseries-à-femmes, style themselves artistes. At the end of the dinner, when the stuff that Madame Bourdon euphemistically calls coffee was brought in, we all broke out in loud accord with a song that time-honoured custom has prescribed for the event and moment. We are never treated to this beverage at the Hôtel de l’.céan et de Shakespere, except on the advent of a nouveau or a nouvelle, when it is charged to his or her account; and here is the salute with which we hail it:— A la recherch’ de la paternité! Chaforé? Accident arrivé A l’amèr’ Chicorée Par liaison passagère ‘Vec le père Café. Papa Café? Pas, pas café! L’amèr’ Chicorée est française, Fill’ de fermier, Et pourtant,—comment donc,—ell’ baise Cet étranger, Ce gros gaillard de païen Pacha Café? Shocking—hein? Et le bébé, Chaforé? C’reti’n,— Baptisé A main pleine D’eau de Seine, This atrocious doggerel, with its false rhymes and impossible quantities, its bad puns and equivocal suggestions, we sang straight through, at the tops of our voices; and Mademoiselle Miss listened smiling. How were we to know that she hadn’t the faintest inkling of what it was all about, and that her smile betokened nothing deeper than pleasure in our high spirits and amusement at our vociferous energy? By and by she rose from the table, wished us a polite good-evening, and left the room. I think it was on the next night that we made up a party to go to Bruant’s, in the Boulevard Rochechouart; and Zélie, moved by an impulse of kindness, turned to Miss, and proposed that she should join us. Miss asked what Bruant’s was; and Zélie answered vaguely, “Comment, tu ne sais pas? Tant mieux, alors. Tu vas voir.” And Miss retired to put on her bonnet. Thank goodness, if her acquaintance with French was slight, her acquaintance with the jargon talked and chanted at the Cabaret du Mirliton was null. Otherwise, she must always have remembered her visit there with pain and humiliation, and she could never have forgiven us for allowing her to make one of our expedition. As a matter of fact, however, she is able to recall the occasion as that of a singularly jolly little adventure, and is entirely unaware of the blame that we deserved. At the outcry of “O-là-là, C’tte gueule qu’elle a! wherewith ladies crossing the threshold of Bruant’s establishment are welcomed, Miss only smiled in a dazed way, never dreaming, I suppose, that it was meant for her and her companions, but fancying that we had entered in the middle of a noisy chorus. Then, when we had secured places, and ordered our bocks, I dare say she employed a few minutes in glancing round her, and receiving a general impression of the queer little room,—with its dark colouring, its profuse jumble of ornaments and paintings, its precious old Fifteenth Century fireplace, its giant mirliton suspended from the ceiling, its dubious clients, and its improbable orderer and master, handsome, brigandish-looking Aristide, in his scarlet neck-cloth, his patent-leather riding-boots and corduroy knickerbockers: all visible through an atmosphere rendered opalescent by candlelight struggling with cigarette-smoke. At Bruants, as everybody knows, it is against the rules to call a spade a spade; you must find a stronger name for it, and reserve the comparatively inoffensive “spade” for some such mild implement as a teaspoon. This is among Aristide’s numerous dainty methods of certifying his scorn for the shifty refinements of modern life; and besides, for reasons that are not obvious, he thinks it’s funny, and expects people to laugh. So, when presently he swaggered up to our little group of peaceable art-students, slapping our shoulders with violent good-fellowship, he must needs hail us as mes mufles, mes cochons, et cetera; and we of course had to approve ourselves no milksops by smiling delightedly. Then he lowered his voice, and told us he was in great distress. “I’ve no piano-banger. The cut-purse who usually does for me has sent word that he’s laid up. Any of these chits here know how to thump the ivories?”—chits being rather a liberal translation of the term that he employed. “Chit yourself!” cried Zélie, playfully. “Vieux chien!” “Can you play the piano?” Chalks asked in English of Mademoiselle Miss. “Bruant wants somebody to play his accompaniments.” “I can play a little. I could try,” she answered simply. And Bruant led her to the instrument, where she sat with her back to the company, and worked hard for its entertainment, till, in about an hour, the delinquent pianist turned up, apparently recovered from his indisposition, and took her place. Now what were we to make of this? A young woman going to Bruants (than which there is scarcely a shadier resort in all the shady by-ways of Bohemia)—going to Bruant’s for the first time in her life, boldly gets up, and takes part in the performance! How were we to penetrate beneath the surface of her conduct, and perceive the world of innocence, the supreme unconsciousness of evil, that lay hidden there, and accounted for it? Bruant himself, to our shame be it owned,—rough, ribald, rowdy Aristide,—saw what we were blind to. “How the devil does she come to be knocking about with your flash mob?” he asked me, in the pauses of one of his songs; he struts hither and thither through the room, as he sings, you know and exchanges parenthetical remarks with everybody. “You’re no fit pals for the likes of her, vous autres, b———, m————!”—words that would put any English printing-machinery out of gear. “Why not?” I queried meekly. “Because she’s an honest girl, that’s all. She’s fallen among thieves, and I believe she doesn’t know it. You oughtn’t to have brought her to a sale trou like this.” “I didn’t bring her. She came of her own free will.” “Well, it’s some ridiculous mistake, mark what I’m telling you.” And he moved off singing the second stanza of “Saint Lazare.” Upon the arrival of his own paid pianist, he conducted Miss back to her seat at our table, made her a grand bow, thanked her in a speech every word of which could have been found in the Academy Dictionary, and insisted upon her drinking a galopin of beer with him, and clinking glasses. She laughed and blushed a good deal; but it was plain that in her heart she was murmuring, “What fun!” Afterwards we went to the Rat Mort for supper. Yes, heaven forgive us, we took Mademoiselle Miss to the Rat Mort for supper! One thing, in recalling those early days, I catch myself perpetually thanking our stars for, with a joy the obverse of a terror; and that is that it was mercifully given to us to find her out before she had a chance to do the same by us. Otherwise,—if we had persisted a little longer in our error, and in our consequent modes of speech and conduct, and she had come to understand,—my heart quails to picture the hurt and mortification she would have suffered, the contempt and horror she must have felt for us. But, by a good fortune that we had certainly done nothing to deserve, our eyes were opened to her true colours in the very nick of time; and we made haste to turn over a new leaf before she had been able to spell out the old. I can hardly tell just how it began. It began probably in vague misgivings, dim surmises, that gradually waxed stronger and clearer, and were in the end confirmed by circumstances. Little questions she would ask, little comments she would make, little things she would do, struck us as odd, as hopeless to explain,—unless on an hypothesis that at first seemed quite too far-fetched, but by-and-by forced itself upon us as the only one that would in any way fit the case; the hypothesis, namely, of her stupendous innocence; that, indeed, as Bruant had divined, her presence with us was due to some preposterous misconception; that, in her own perfect soundness and honesty, she was totally unsuspicious of the corruption round about her. Chalks used to give expression to this growing sentiment of ours, by shaking his head, looking half wise, half mystified, and muttering, “There’s something queer about that girl. I’ll be gol-donged if I can make her out.” Once for instance, she confided to us that she thought Madame Bourdon must be a very religious person, because she was always with a priest. It was clear that she proffered this remark in entire literalness and good faith, with no ulterior intention of any sort; and we, after staring at it for a minute or two, reflected upon it for a fortnight. True enough, the black robe of Monsieur the Abbé did lend a meretricious air of orthodoxy both to Madame and to her establishment. Then the fact came out, I can’t remember how, that she was working at Julian’s,—taking “whole days,” too, which means nine or ten hours of heavy labour in the pestilential air of a studio packed with people, where every window is shut, and the temperature hovers between eighty and ninety Fahrenheit. Why should she be breaking her back and poisoning her lungs at Julian’s, if—-? “There’s something queer about her,” Chalks insisted. She was always extremely friendly, though, with the other ladies of our household: visited them in their rooms, received them in her own, walked out with them, chatted with them as freely as her French would let her; and this confused us, and deferred our better judgment. It was hard to believe that anybody, no matter how guileless, nor how ill-instructed in their idiom, could rub elbows much with Zélie, Yvonne, Fifine, and not become more or less distinctly aware of the peculiarities of their temperament. If actions speak louder than words, manners nowadays are masters of seven languages. Yet, one afternoon, in the garden of the Luxembourg, Miss asked of me, “Are they all married, those young ladies at our hotel?” I looked at her for a moment in a sort of stupefaction. Was it her pleasure to be jocular? No, she had spoken in utmost sobriety. “Married?” I echoed. “What on earth made you think they’re married?” “Everybody calls them Madame. I thought in French Madame was only used for married women, like Mrs. with us.” Some providential instinct in me bade me respect her simplicity, and answer with a prevarication. “Oh, no,” I said, “not in the Latin Quarter, at any rate. It’s the custom here to call all women Madame.” “But then,” she proceeded with swift logic, “why do they call me Mademoiselle?” This was rather a “oner,” but I came up manfully. “Ah, that’s—that’s because you’re English, don’t you see?” “Oh,” she murmured, apparently accepting the reason as sufficient. Then I ventured to sound her a little. “You like them, you find them pleasant, the girls at the hotel?” “Yes, I like them,” she answered deliberately. “Of course, their ways aren’t quite English, are they? But I suppose one must expect French girls to be different. They seem intelligent and good-natured, and they’ve been very nice to me.” “I dare say you don’t always understand each other?” I suggested. “Oh dear no. That is what prevents our being intimate. French is so difficult, and they talk so fast. It’s as much as I can do to understand the masters at the school, though they speak very slowly and clearly, because they know I’m English. But I think I’m learning a little. I can understand a great deal more than I could when I first came. Do all French girls smoke cigarettes? I knew that Spanish and Russian women did, but I didn’t know it was the custom in France.” “Yes, decidedly,” I said to myself, “Chalks is right. There’s something ‘queer,’ about her.” But how to reconcile the theory of her “queerness” with the fact of her residence here alone among us in the Latin Quarter of Paris? Assuming her to be a well brought-up, innocent young English girl, how in the name of verisimilitude had she contrived to get so far astray from her natural orbit? Nevertheless, in the teeth of difficulties, the theory gained ground. And as it did so, it was amusing to note the way in which the other girls accepted it. They were thoroughly scandalized, poor dears. Their sense of propriety bridled up in indignant astonishment. So long as they had been able to reckon Miss, simply and homogeneously, a case of total depravity,—a specimen of the British variety of their own species,—they had placed no stint upon their affable commendation of her. She was pas mal, très bien, très gentille, très comme il faut, even très chic. But directly the suspicion began to work in their minds that perhaps, after all, appearances had been misleading, and she might prove an entirely vertical member of society,—then perforce they had to wag their heads over her, and cry fie at her goings-on. What! how! a respectable unmarried woman,—a demoiselle, du monde,—a jeune fille bien élevie,—come by herself to Paris,—dwell unchaperoned in the Hôtel de l’.céan et de Shakespere,—hob and nob familiarly with you and me,—submit to be tutoyée by Tom, Dick, and Harry! Mais, allons donc, it was really quite too shameless. And they played my ladies Steyne and Bareacres to her inadequate Rebecca; looked askance at her when she came into the room, drew in their precious skirts when they had to pass her, gathered in corners to discuss her, and were, in fine, profoundly and sincerely shocked. For, here below, there are no sterner moralists, no more punctilious sticklers for the prunes and prisms of conventionality, than those harmful, unnecessary cats, the Zélies and the Germaines of the Quartier-Latin. “Mai’s, enfin, si c’est vrai,—si elle est réellement comme, ça, nest-ce pas,—mais c’est une honte,” was one of their refrains; and “Elle manque complètement de pudeur alors,” was another; to which the chorus: “Oh, pour sur!” And poor little Miss couldn’t understand it. Observing the frigid and austere reserve with which they met her, feeling their half suppressed disapproval in the atmosphere, she searched her conscience vainly to discover what she could have done to anger them, and was, for a time I fear, exceedingly unhappy. We men, meanwhile, were cursing ourselves for blockheads, chewing the sharp cud of repentance, and trying in a hundred sheepish, clumsy fashions to make amends. It would have been diverting for an outsider to have watched us; the deference with which we spoke and listened to her, the interest we took in her work, the infinite little politenesses we paid her. When all is said, the sins we were guilty of towards her had been chiefly metaphysical; it was what we had thought, rather than what we had done. But I don’t know that our contrition was on this account any the less acute; we had thought such a lot. We fancied a sister of our own in her position, and we conceived a frantic desire to punch the heads of the men who should have dared to think of her as we, quite nonchalantly and with no sense of daring, had thought of Miss. Our biggest positive transgression was the latitude of speech we had allowed ourselves at the table d’hôte; and the effect of that was happily neutralised (no thanks to us) by the poverty of her French. But, though our salvation lay in the circumstance, I am far from sure that it did not aggravate our remorse. We were profiting by her limitations, taking sanctuary in her ignorance; and that smacked disagreeably of the sneakish. Our yearning to make amends was singularly complicated by the necessity we were under, as much for her sake as for our own, to prevent her ever guessing how (or even that) we had offended. Not to confess is to shirk the better half of atonement; yet confession in this case was impossible, concealment was imperative. That, if she should get so much as a glimmer of the truth, it would blast us forever in her esteem, was a consideration, but a trifling one to the thought of what her emotions must be like to realise the sort of place she had lately held in ours. No, she must never guess. With the consciousness in our hearts that we had practised a kind of intellectual foul play upon her, and in our minds a vivid picture of the different footing things would be on if she only knew, we must continue cheerfully to enjoy her smiles and her good graces, and try to look as if we felt that we deserved them. It was bare-faced hypocrisy, it was a game of false pretences; but it was Hobson’s choice. We could not even cease to thee-and-thou her, lest she should wonder at the change, and from wonderment proceed to ratiocination. “One thing we must do, though,” said Chalks, “we must get her out of this so-called hotel. Blamed if I can guess how she ever came here.” This was before we had found the guidebook in her room, long before we had heard her simple story, which explained everything. “We’ve acted like a pack of hounds, that’s my opinion,” Chalks went on. “And now we’ve got to step up to the captain’s office and settle.” His rhetoric was confused, but I dare say we caught the idea. “We’ve been acting like a pack of poodles latterly,” somebody put in, “following her about, fawning at her feet, fetching and carrying for her.” “Well, and hadn’t we oughter?” demanded Chalks. “Is there any gentleman here who doesn’t like it?” “Oh, no, I only mentioned the circumstance as a source of unction,” said the speaker. “Chalks is right. We must get her out of the hotel,” Campbell agreed. “She mustn’t be exposed any longer to contact with those little beasts of Mimis.” “That’s all very well, but how are we to manage it?” inquired Norton. “We can’t give her the word to move, without saying why. And as I understand it, that’s precisely the last thing we wish to do.” “We want to get her out of the mud, without letting her know she’s in it,” said another. “Yes, that’s the devil of it,” admitted Chalks. “But I’ll tell you what,” he added, with an air of inspiration. “Why not work it from the other end round? Get rid of the Mimis, and let Miss stop?” This proposition was so radical, so revolutionary, we were inclined to greet it with derision. But Chalks stood by his guns. “How to do it?” he cried. “Why, boycott ‘em. Make this shop too hot to hold ‘em. Cultivate the art of being infernally disagreeable. They’ll clear out fast enough. Then there’d be no harm in Miss staying till the end of time.” “What’ll Madame say?” “Oh, we can fill their places up with fellows. I’ll go touting among the men at the school. Easy enough to bag a half a dozen.” “But what about Lucile?”—Lucile, it will be remembered, was Madame’s niece. “That’s so,” confessed Chalks, dashed for a moment. “Lucile’s the snag. But I guess on the whole Lucile will have to go too. I’ll hire a man I know to want her room. Madame won’t let family feeling stand in the way of trade. Especially the sky-pilot won’t, not he. And I’d like to know who’s the boss of this shebang, if not Monsieur the Abbé? There’s no love lying around loose between him and Lucile, as it stands. Just let a man turn up and ask for her room, Madame’ll drop her like a hot potato.” But from the labour of putting such schemes in operation we were saved by a microbe: a mouse can serve a lion. Half of our male contingent went down with the influenza: and our ladies, Lucile included, incontinently fled the ship. They dreaded the infection; and the house was as melancholy as a hospital; and noise being inhibited, they couldn’t properly entertain their friends. Besides, I think they were glad enough of an occasion to escape from the proximity of Miss. She had infused an element of ozone into our moral atmosphere; their systems weren’t accustomed to it; it filled them with a vague malaise: they made a break for fouler air. And it was at this crisis that Miss came out strong. She laid aside all business and excuses, and constituted herself our nurse. All day long, and very nearly all night long too, she was at it: flying from room to room, administering medicines to this man, reading aloud to that, spraying eucalyptus everywhere, running for the doctor when somebody appeared to have taken a turn for the worse,— in short, heaping coals of fire upon our heads with a lavish, untiring hand. When we got up from our sick-beds, every mother’s son of us was dead in love with her. From that time to the end she went about like a queen with her body-guard; and there wasn’t one of us who wouldn’t have given his life to spare her a pain in the little finger; and our rewards were her smiles. It is to be noted that she W accepted our devotion with the same calm unconsciousness of anything extraordinary that she had shown in the old days to our doubtful courtesy. She wore her crown and wielded her gentle sceptre like one in the purple born, whilst her subjects outdid each other in zeal to please her. Meantime we had learned her previous history; we had pieced it together from a multitude of little casual utterances. Her father, some five years ago, had died a bankrupt; and she had gone as governess with an English family to the far West of America, where they had a cattle ranch; and now she was on her way home, to seek a new engagement; and she was breaking her pilgrimage with a season of art in Paris (she had always wanted to cultivate her natural gift for painting); and she had chosen the Hôtel de l’.céan et de Shakespere because her guide-book recommended it. Now Norton had a sister married to a squire in Derbyshire; and one day this good lady advertised in the Times for a governess; and Miss, who kept watch on such advertisements (going to Neal’s library to study the English papers), was on the point of answering it, when Norton cut in with a “Let me write that letter for you. Mrs. Clere happens to be my sister.” Of course Miss got the place; and it was to take it, and begin her duties, that she left us last night. I follow her in fancy upon her journey, and imagine her arrival at the big, respectable, dull country house; and I wonder will she regret a little and think fondly now and then of Madame Bourdon’s hotel and the ragged staff of comrades she has left behind her here. For the present the Rue Racine is an abhorrent vacuum, and I am sick with nostagia for the Paris of yesterday. THE FUNERAL MARCH OF A MARIONNETTE “Elle est morte et n’a point vécu.” ho does not know the sensation that besets an ordinary man on entering a familiar room, where, during his absence, some change has been made?—a piece of furniture moved, an old hanging taken down, a new picture put up?—that teasing sense of strangeness, which, if subordinate to the business of the moment, yet persists, uncomfortably formless, till, for instance, the presiding genius of the place inquires, “How do you like the way we have moved the piano?” or something else happens to crystallise the sufferer’s mere vague feeling into a perception; after which his spirit may be at rest again? When I woke this morning, here in my own dingy furnished room, in this most dingy lodging-house, I had an experience very like that I mean to suggest: something seemed wrong and unusual, something had been changed overnight. This was the more perplexing, because my door had remained locked and bolted ever since I had tucked myself into bed; and within the room, after all, there isn’t much to change; only the bed itself, and the armoire, and my writing-table, and my wash-hand-stand, and my two dilapidated chairs; and these were still where they belonged. So were the shabby green window-curtains, the bilious green paper on the walls, the dismal green baldaquin above my head. Nevertheless, a tantalising sense of something changed, of something taken away, of an unwonted vacancy, haunted me through the brewing and the drinking of my coffee, and through the first few whiffs of my cigarette. Then I put on my hat, and “went to school,” and forgot about it. But when I came back, in the afternoon, I found that whatever the cause might be of my curious psychical disturbance, it had not ceased to act. No sooner had I got seated at my table, and begun to arrange my notes, than down upon me settled, stronger if possible than ever, that inexplicable feeling of emptiness in the room, of strangeness, of an accustomed something gone. What could it mean? It was disquieting, exasperating; it interfered with my work. I must investigate it, and put an end to it, if I could. But just at that moment the current of my ideas was temporarily turned by somebody rapping on my door. I called out, “Entrez!” and there entered a young lady: a young lady in black, with soiled yellow ribbons, and on her cheeks a little artificial bloom. The effect of this, however, was mitigated by a series of flesh-colored ridges running through it; and as the young person’s eyes, moreover, were red and humid, I concluded that she had been shedding tears. I looked at her for two or three seconds without being able to think who she was; but before she had pronounced her “B’jour, monsieur,” I remembered: Madame Germaine, the friend of poor little Zizi, my next-door neighbour. And then, in a flash, the reason appeared to me for my queer dim feeling of something not as usual in my surroundings, I had not heard Zizi cough! That was it! Zizi, the poor little girl in the adjoining room,—behind that door against which my armoire stands,—who for three months past has scarcely left the house, but has coughed, coughed, coughed perpetually: so that every night I have fallen asleep, and every morning wakened, and every day pursued my indoor occupations, to that distressing sound. Oh, our life is not all cakes and ale, here in the Quarter; we have our ennuis, as well as the rest of mankind; and when we are too poor to change our lodgings, we must be content to abide in patience—whatever sounds our neighbours choose to make. At all events, so it came to pass that the sight of Madame Germaine, in her soiled finery, cleared up my problem for me: Zizi had not coughed. And I said to myself, “Ah, the poor little thing is better, and is spending the day out of doors.” (It has been a lovely day, soft as April, though in midwinter; and my inference, therefore, was not overdrawn.) “And Madame Germaine,” I proceeded rapidly, “has come to see her; and finding her away, has looked in on me.” Meanwhile my visitor stood still, just within the threshold, and gazed solemnly, almost reproachfully, at me with her big protruding eyes: eyes that, protruding always far more than enough, seemed now, swollen by recent weeping, fairly ready to leave their sockets. What had she been crying for, I wondered. Then I began our conversation with a cheery “Zizi isn’t there?” “Ah, m’sieu! Ah, la pauv’ Zizi!”! was her response, in a sort of hysterical gasp; and two fresh tears rolled down her cheeks, making further havoc of her rouge. She took a few steps forward, and sank into my arm-chair. “La pauv’ petite!” she sobbed, I was puzzled, of course, and a little troubled. “What is it? What is the matter?” I asked. “Zizi isn’t worse, surely? I haven’t heard her cough all day.” “Oh, no, m’sieu, she isn’t worse. Oh, no, she—she is dead.” I don’t need to recount any more of my interview with Madame Germaine, though it lasted a good half-hour longer, and was sufficiently vivacious. I can’t describe to you the shock her announcement caused me, nor the chill and despondency that have been growing on me ever since. Zizi—dead? Zizi and Death!—the notions are too awfully incongruous. I look at the door that separates our rooms,—the door athwart which, in former times, I have heard so many bursts of laughter, snatches of song, when Zizi would be entertaining her——she called them “friends;” and, latterly, that hacking, unyielding cough of hers,—I look at the door, and a sort of cold and blackness seems to creep in from its edges; and then I fancy the darkened chamber beyond it, with the open window, and Zizi’s little form stretched on the bed, stark and dead,—poor little chirping, chattering, ribald Zizi! Oh, it is ghastly. And all her trumpery, twopenny fripperies round about her, their occupation gone: her sham jewels, and her flounces, and her tawdry furs and laces, and her powder-puffs and rouge-pots—though it was only towards the end that Zizi took to rouge. It is as if they were to tell you that a doll is dead: can such things die? They are not wholly inhuman, then? They have viscera? are made of real flesh and blood? can experience real pains? and—and die? Here are you and I, serious folk, not without some sense of the solemnity and mystery of God’s creation, here are we still working the first degree of our arcana,—Life; and yonder lies that tinselled little gewgaw, admitted to the second! She has passed the dread portals, she has accomplished the miracle of Death! She was vain and shallow and hard: she was malicious: she was shameless in her speech as in her conduct: she was lively, it is true, and merry-mannered, and pretty: but she had no affections, no illusions, no remorse; and lies dropped like toads from her mouth whenever she opened it: yet she is dead! And to-morrow women (who would have shrunk from her in her lifetime, as from something pestilential) will reverently cross themselves, and men (who would have.... ah, well, it is best not to remember what the men would have done) will decently bare their heads, as her poor coffin is borne through the streets on its way to the graveyard. Isn’t it ghastly? Isn’t it quite enough to depress a fellow, to sober him up, when there is only a thin partition, broken by a door, to separate him from such a death-chamber?—Wait; I must tell you something about Zizi, as I have known her. Long before our personal acquaintance began I used to see her here and there in the Quarter: at the Bullier balls, or the Café Vachette, or in the Luxembourg or the Boule-Miche when the weather was fine: and to admire her as a singularly inoffensive specimen of her class. Those were her palmy days. Her “friend” was a student of law, from the Quartier Marbouf, with a pocketful of money and a pointed beard. She was the smallest of possible little women, no higher than her law-student’s heart, if he had one; and he was only a medium-sized Frenchman. She was very daintily formed, with fine hands and feet; she had a great quantity of black hair, and a pair of bright black eyes. Her face was pale, and decidedly an interesting face: pert, if you please, and tremendously mischievous, but suggestive of wit, of intelligence, even of humour and passion: a most uncommon face, with character in it,—I believe I may even say with distinction. It was a face you would have noticed anywhere, to wonder who and what its owner might be. And then she used to dress very well, very quietly: in refined grays or blacks: there was absolutely nothing in her dress to betray her place in the world’s economy: passing her in the street, you would have taken her for an entirely irreproachable little housewife, with an unusually interesting face. I used to see her in all the pleasure-resorts of the Quarter, ami to admire her, and speculate about her in a languid, melancholy way. Then I left town for the summer; and when I came back last September I established myself here in the Hôtel du Saint Esprit. The first morning after my arrival I was awakened by queer but unambiguous noises coming through that door, there behind my armoire; a strident laugh, and a few hardy exclamations, that could leave me in no doubt as to the sex and quality of my fellow-lodger. An hour or two later I encountered Zizi on the landing; and the concierge informed me that she was the tenant of the next room to my own. Such a neighbourship would horrify you in London or New York: but we think nothing of accidents much worse than that, here in the Latin Quarter of Paris. Afterwards, night and morning, and more especially in those small hours that are properly both or neither, I would hear Zizi’s laughter beyond our dividing door; her laughter, or her thin little voice raised in a stupid song, or the murmur of light talk, that would sometimes leap to the pitch of anger, for I suspect that Zizi’s temper was uncertain; and then, rare at first, but recurring more and more frequently, till it became quite the dominant note, her hard, dry, racking little cough. Elinor was in Paris about this time. To my great joy, she had come to pass the autumn, and perhaps the winter too; and she was very anxious that I should show her something of the seamy side of life here. She had taken lodgings on the other—the right and wrong —bank of the river; and every afternoon, my day’s work done, I would join her there, and we would go off together for little excursions...