AN INVITATION TO DINNER
The creators of Eau d'Enfer invited designs for a poster calling the attention of the world to their liqueur's incomparable qualities. It occurred to Théodose Goujaud that this was a first-class opportunity to demonstrate his genius.
For an article with such a glistening name it was obvious that a poster must be flamboyant—one could not advertise a "Water of Hell" by a picture of a village maiden plucking cowslips—and Goujaud passed wakeful nights devising a sketch worthy of the subject. He decided at last upon a radiant brunette sharing a bottle of the liqueur with his Satanic Majesty while she sat on his knee.
But where was the girl to be found? Though his acquaintance with the models of Paris was extensive, he could think of none with a face to satisfy him. One girl's arms wreathed themselves before his mind, another girl's feet were desirable, but the face, which was of supreme importance, eluded his most frenzied search.
"Mon Dieu," groaned Goujaud, "here I am projecting a poster that would conquer Paris, and my scheme is frustrated by the fact that Nature fails to produce women equal to the heights of my art! It is such misfortunes as this that support the Morgue."
"I recommend you to travel," said Tricotrin; "a tour in the East might yield your heart's desire."
"It's a valuable suggestion," rejoined Goujaud; "I should like a couple of new shirts also, but I lack the money to acquire them."
"Well," said Tricotrin, "the Ball of the Willing Hand is nearer. Try that!"
Goujaud looked puzzled. "The Ball of the Willing Hand?" he repeated; "I do not know any Ball of the Willing Hand."
"Is it possible?" cried the poet; "where do you live? Why, the Willing Hand, my recluse, is the most fascinating resort in Paris. I have been familiar with it for fully a week. It is a bal de barrière where the criminal classes enjoy their brief leisure. Every Saturday night they frisk. The Cut-throats' Quadrille is a particularly sprightly measure, and the damsels there are often striking."
"And their escorts, too—if one of the willing hands planted a knife in my back, there would be no sprightliness about me!"
"In the interests of art one must submit to a little annoyance. Come, if you are conscientious I will introduce you to the place, and give you a few hints. For example, the company have a prejudice against collars, and, assuming for a moment that you possessed more than a franc, you would do well to leave the surplus at home."
Goujaud expanded his chest.
"As a matter of fact," he announced languidly, "I possess five hundred francs." And so dignified was his air that Tricotrin came near to believing him.
"You possess five hundred francs? You? How? No, such things do not occur! Besides, you mentioned a moment since that you were short of shirts."
"It is true that I am short of shirts, but, nevertheless, I have five hundred francs in my pocket. It is like this. My father, who is not artistic, has always desired to see me renounce my profession and sink to commerce. Well, I was at the point of yielding—man cannot live by hope alone, and my pictures were strangely unappreciated. Then, while consent trembled on my lips, up popped this Eau d'Enfer! I saw my opportunity, I recognised that, of all men in Paris, I was the best qualified to execute the poster. You may divine the sequel? I addressed my father with burning eloquence, I persuaded him to supply me with the means to wield my brush for a few months longer. If my poster succeeds, I become a celebrity. If it fails, I become a pétrole merchant. This summer decides my fate. In the meanwhile I am a capitalist; but it would be madness for me to purchase shirts, for I shall require every son to support existence until the poster is acclaimed."
"You have a practical head!" exclaimed Tricotrin admiringly; "I foresee that you will go far. Let us trust that the Willing Hand will prove the ante-chamber to your immortality."
"I have no faith in your Willing Hand," demurred the painter; "the criminal classes are not keen on sitting for their portraits—the process has unpleasant associations to them. Think again! I can spare half an hour this morning. Evolve a further inspiration on the subject!"
"Do you imagine I have nothing to do but to provide you with a model? My time is fully occupied; I am engaged upon a mystical play, which is to be called The Spinster's Prayer or the Goblin Child's Mother, and take Paris by storm. A propos—yes, now I come to think of it, there is something in Comoedia there that might suit you."
"My preserver!" returned Goujaud. "What is it?"
Tricotrin picked the paper up and read:
WANTED: A HUNDRED LADIES FOR THE STAGE.—Beauty more essential than talent. No dilapidations need apply. Agence Lavalette, rue Baba, Thursday, 12 to 5.
"Mon Dieu! Now you are beginning to talk," said Goujaud. "A hundred! One among them should be suitable, hein? But, all the same—" He hesitated. "'Twelve to five'! It will be a shade monotonous standing on a doorstep from twelve to five, especially if the rain streams."
"Do you expect a Cleopatra to call at your attic, or to send an eighty horse-power automobile, that you may cast your eye over her? Anyhow, there may be a café opposite; you can order a bock on the terrace, and make it last."
"You are right. I shall go and inspect the spot at once. A hundred beauties! I declare the advertisement might have been framed to meet my wants. How fortunate that you chanced to see it! To-morrow evening you shall hear the result—dine with me at the Bel Avenir at eight o'clock. For one occasion I undertake to go a buster, I should be lacking in gratitude if I neglected to stuff you to the brim."
"Oh, my dear chap!" said Tricotrin. "The invitation is a godsend, I have not viewed the inside of a restaurant for a week. While our pal Pitou is banqueting with his progenitors in Chartres, I have even exhausted my influence with the fishmonger—I did not so much as see my way to a nocturnal herring in the garret. Mind you are not late. I shall come prepared to do justice to your hospitality, I promise you."
"Right, cocky!" said the artist. And he set forth, in high spirits, to investigate the rue Baba.
He was gratified to discover a café in convenient proximity to the office. And twelve o'clock had not sounded next day when he took a seat at one of the little white-topped tables, his gaze bent attentively upon the agent's step.
For the earliest arrival he had not long to wait. A dumpy girl with an enormous nose approached, swinging her sac à main. She cast a complacent glance at the name on the door, opened the bag, whipped out a powder-puff, and vanished.
"Morbleu!" thought the painter. "If she is a fair sample, I have squandered the price of a bock!" He remained in a state of depression for two or three minutes, and then the girl reappeared, evidently in a very bad temper.
"Ah!" he mused, rubbing his hands. "Monsieur Lavalette is plainly a person of his word. No beauty, no engagement! This is going to be all right, Where is the next applicant? A sip to Venus!"
Venus, however, did not irradiate the street yet. The second young woman was too short in the back, and at sight of her features he shook his head despondently. "No good, my dear," he said to himself. "Little as you suspect it, there is a disappointment for you inside, word of honour! Within three minutes, I shall behold you again."
And, sure enough, she made her exit promptly, looking as angry as the other.
"I am becoming a dramatic prophet!" soliloquised Goujaud; "if I had nothing more vital to do, I might win drinks, betting on their chances, with the proprietor of the café. However, I grow impatient for the bevy of beauty—it is a long time on the road."
As if in obedience to his demand, girls now began to trip into the rue Baba so rapidly that he was kept busy regarding them. By twos, and threes, and in quartettes they tripped—tall girls, little girls, plain girls, pretty girls, girls shabby, and girls chic. But though many of them would have made agreeable partners at a dance, there was none who possessed the necessary qualifications for The Girl on Satan's Knee. He rolled a cigarette, and blew a pessimistic puff. "Another day lost!" groaned Goujaud. "All is over, I feel it. Posterity will never praise my poster, the clutch of Commerce is upon me—already the smell of the pétrole is in my nostrils!"
And scarcely had he said it when his senses reeled.
For, stepping from a cab, disdainfully, imperially, was his Ideal. Her hair, revealing the lobes of the daintiest ears that ever listened to confessions of love, had the gleam of purple grapes. Her eyes were a mystery, her mouth was a flower, her neck was an intoxication. So violently was the artist affected that, during several moments, he forgot his motive for being there. To be privileged merely to contemplate her was an ecstasy. While he sat transfixed with admiration, her dainty foot graced the agent's step, and she entered.
Goujaud caught his breath, and rose. The cab had been discharged. Dared he speak to her when she came out? It would be a different thing altogether from speaking to the kind of girl that he had foreseen. But to miss such a model for lack of nerve, that would be the regret of a lifetime! Now the prospect of the poster overwhelmed him, and he felt that he would risk any rebuff, commit any madness to induce her to "sit."
The estimate that he had, by this time, formed of monsieur Lavalette's taste convinced him that her return would not be yet. He sauntered to and fro, composing a preliminary and winning phrase. What was his surprise, after a very few seconds, to see that she had come out already, and was hastening away!
He overtook her in a dozen strides, and with a bow that was eloquent of his homage, exclaimed:
"Mademoiselle!"
"Hein?" she said, turning. "Oh, it's all right—there are too many people there; I've changed my mind, I shan't wait."
He understood that she took him for a minion of the agent's, and he hesitated whether to correct her mistake immediately. However, candour seemed the better course.
"I do not bring a message from monsieur Lavalette, mademoiselle," he explained.
"No?"
"No."
"What then?"
"I have ventured to address you on my own account—on a matter of the most urgent importance."
"I have no small change," she said curtly, making to pass.
"Mademoiselle!" His outraged dignity was superb. "You mistake me first for an office-boy, and then for a beggar. I am a man of means, though my costume may be unconventional. My name is Théodosc Goujaud."
Her bow intimated that the name was not significant; but her exquisite eyes had softened at the reference to his means.
"For weeks I have been seeking a face for a picture that I have conceived," he went on; "a face of such peculiar beauty that I despaired of finding it! I had the joy to see you enter the agency, and I waited, trembling with the prayer that I might persuade you to come to my aid. Mademoiselle, will you do me the honour to allow me to reproduce the magic of your features on my canvas? I entreat it of you in the sacred name of Art!"
During this appeal, the lady's demeanour had softened more still. A faint smile hovered on her lips; her gaze was half gratified, half amused.
"Oh, you're a painter?" she said; "you want me to sit to you for the
Salon? I don't know, I'm sure."
"It is not precisely for the Salon," he acknowledged. "But I am absorbed by the scheme—it will be the crown of my career. I will explain. It is a long story. If—if we could sit down?"
"Where?"
"There appears to be a café close to the agency," said Goujaud timidly.
"Oh!" She dismissed the café's pretensions with her eyebrows.
"You are right," he stammered. "Now that I look at it again, I see that it is quite a common place. Well, will you permit me to walk a little way with you?"
"We will go to breakfast at Armenonville, if you like," she said graciously, "where you can explain to me at your leisure." It seemed to Goujaud that his heart dropped into his stomach and turned to a cannon-ball there. Armenonville? What would such a breakfast cost? Perhaps a couple of louis? Never in his life had he contemplated breakfasting at Armenonville.
She smiled, as if taking his consent for granted. Her loveliness and air of fashion confused him dreadfully. And if he made excuses, there would be no poster! Oh, he must seize the chance at any price!
"Oh course—I shall be enchanted," he mumbled. And before he half realised that the unprecedented thing had happened they were rattling away, side by side in a fiacre.
It was astounding, it was breathless, it was an episode out of a novel! But Goujaud felt too sick, in thinking of the appalling expense, to enjoy his sudden glory. Accustomed to a couple of louis providing meals for three weeks, he was stupefied by the imminence of scattering the sum in a brief half-hour. Even the cab fare weighed upon him; he not infrequently envied the occupants of omnibuses.
It was clear that the lady herself was no stranger to the restaurant. While he blinked bewildered on the threshold, she was referring to her "pet table," and calling a waiter "Jules." The menu was a fresh embarrassment to the bohemian, but she, and the deferential waiter, relieved him of that speedily, and in five minutes an epicurean luncheon had been ordered, and he was gulping champagne.
It revived his spirits. Since he had tumbled into the adventure of his life, by all means let him savour the full flavour of it! His companion's smiles had become more frequent, her eyes were more transcendental still.
"How funnily things happen!" she remarked presently. "I had not the least idea of calling on Lavalette when I got up this morning. If I had not had a tiff with somebody, and decided to go on the stage to spite him, I should never have met you."
"Oh, you are not on the stage yet, then?"
"No. But I have often thought about it, and the quarrel determined me. So I jumped into a cab, drove off, and then—well, there was such a crowd of girls there, and they looked so vulgar; I changed my mind."
"Can an angel quarrel?" demanded Goujaud sentimentally. "I cannot imagine you saying an angry word to anyone."
"Oh!" she laughed. "Can't I, though! I'm a regular demon when I'm cross. People shouldn't vex me."
"Certainly not," he agreed. "And no one but a brute would do so. Besides, some women are attractive even in a rage. On the whole, I think I should like to see you in a rage with me, providing always that you 'made it up' as nicely as I should wish."
"Do you fancy that I could?" she asked, looking at the table-cloth.
"My head swims, in fancying!"
Her laughter rippled again, and her fascination was so intense that the poor fellow could scarcely taste a mouthful of his unique repast. "Talk to me," she commanded, "sensibly I mean! Where do you live?"
"I am living in the rue Ravignan."
"The rue Ravignan? Where is that?"
"Montmartre."
"Oh, really?" She seemed chilled. "It is not a very nice quarter in the daytime, is it?"
"My studio suits me," murmured Goujaud, perceiving his fall in her esteem. "For that reason I am reluctant to remove. An artist becomes very much attached to his studio. And what do I care for fashion, I? You may judge by my coat!"
"You're eccentric, aren't you?"
"Hitherto I have lived only for Art. But now I begin to realise that there may be something more potent and absorbing still."
"What is that?"
"Love!" added Goujaud, feeling himself the embodiment of all the heroes of romance.
"Oh?" Her glance mocked, encouraged. "I am dying to hear about your picture, though! What is the subject?"
"It is not exactly what you mean by a 'picture.'" He fiddled with his glass. "It is, in fact, a poster that I project."
"A poster?" she exclaimed. "And you ask me to—oh, no, I couldn't possibly!"
"Mademoiselle!"
"I really don't think I could. A poster? Ah, no!"
"To save me!" he implored. "Because my whole life depends on your decision!"
"How can a poster matter so much to you? The proposal is absurd." She regarded her pêche Melba with a frown.
"If you think of becoming an actress, remember what a splendid advertisement it would be!" he urged feverishly.
"Oh, flûte!" But she had wavered at that.
"All Paris would flock to your debut. They would go saying, 'Can she be as beautiful as her portrait?' And they would come back saying, 'She is lovelier still!' Let me give you some more wine."
"No more; I'll have coffee, and a grand marnier—red."
"Doubtless the more expensive colour!" reflected Goujaud. But the time had passed for dwelling on minor troubles. "Listen," he resumed; "I shall tell you my history. You will then realise to what an abyss of despair your refusal will plunge me—to what effulgent heights I may be raised by your consent. You cannot be marble! My father—"
"Indeed, I am not marble," she put in. "I am instinct with sensibility —it is my great weakness."
"So much the better. Be weak to me. My father—"
"Oh, let us get out of this first!" she suggested, "You can talk to me as we drive."
And the attentive Jules presented the discreetly folded bill.
For fully thirty seconds the Pavilion d'Armenonville swirled round the unfortunate painter so violently that he felt as if he were on a roundabout at a fair. He feared that the siren must hear the pounding of his heart. To think that he had dreaded paying two louis! Two louis? Why, it would have been a bagatelle! Speechlessly he laid a fortune on the salver. With a culminating burst of recklessness he waved four francs towards Jules, and remarked that that personage eyed the tip with cold displeasure. "What a lucrative career, a waiter's!" moaned the artist; "he turns up his nose at four francs!"
Well, he had speculated too heavily to accept defeat now! Bracing himself for the effort, Goujaud besought the lady's help with such a flood of blandishment during the drive that more than once she seemed at the point of yielding. Only one difficult detail had he withheld— that he wished to pose her on the knee of Mephistopheles—and to propitiate her further, before breaking the news, he stopped the cab at a florist's.
She was so good-humoured and tractable after the florist had pillaged him that he could scarcely be callous when she showed him that she had split her glove. But, to this day, he protests that, until the glove-shop had been entered, it never occurred to him that it would be necessary to present her with more than one pair. As they came out— Goujaud moving beside her like a man in a trance—she gave a faint start.
"Mon Dieu!" she muttered. "There's my friend—he has seen us—I must speak to him, or he will think I am doing wrong. Wait a minute!" And a dandy, with a monocle, was, indeed, casting very supercilious glances at the painter.
At eight o'clock that evening, monsieur Tricotrin, with a prodigious appetite, sat in the Café du Bel Avenir, awaiting the arrival of his host. When impatience was mastering him, there arrived, instead, a petit bleu. The impecunious poet took it from the proprietress, paling, and read:
"I discovered my Ideal—she ruined, and then deserted me! To-morrow there will be a painter the less, and a petrole merchant the more. Pardon my non-appearance—I am spending my last sous on this message."
"Monsieur will give his order now?" inquired the proprietress.
"Er—thank you, I do not dine to-night," said Tricotrin.