"PARDON, YOU ARE MADEMOISELLE GIRARD!"
A newsvendor passed along the terrace of the Café d'Harcourt bawling La Voix Parisienne. The Frenchman at my table made a gesture of aversion. Our eyes met; I said:
"You do not like La Voix?"
He answered with intensity:
"I loathe it."
"What's its offence?"
The wastrel frowned; he fiddled with his frayed and filthy collar.
"You revive painful associations; you ask me for a humiliating story," he murmured—and regarded his empty glass.
I can take a hint as well as most people.
He prepared his poison reflectively,
"I will tell you all," he said.
One autumn the Editor of La Voix announced to the assistant-editor:
"I have a great idea for booming the paper."
The assistant-editor gazed at him respectfully. "I propose to prove, in the public interest, the difficulty of tracing a missing person. I shall instruct a member of the staff to disappear. I shall publish his description, and his portrait; and I shall offer a prize to the first stranger who identifies him."
The assistant-editor had tact and he did not reply that the idea had already been worked in London with a disappearing lady. He replied:
"What an original scheme!"
"It might be even more effective that the disappearing person should be a lady," added the chief, like one inspired.
"That," cried the assistant-editor, "is the top brick of genius!"
So the Editor reviewed the brief list of his lady contributors, and sent for mademoiselle Girard.
His choice fell upon mademoiselle Girard for two reasons. First, she was not facially remarkable—a smudgy portrait of her would look much like a smudgy portrait of anybody else. Second, she was not widely known in Paris, being at the beginning of her career; in fact she was so inexperienced that hitherto she had been entrusted only with criticism.
However, the young woman had all her buttons on; and after he had talked to her, she said cheerfully:
"Without a chaperon I should be conspicuous, and without a fat purse I should be handicapped. So it is understood that I am to provide myself with a suitable companion, and to draw upon the office for expenses?"
"Mademoiselle," returned the Editor, "the purpose of the paper is to portray a drama of life, not to emulate an opera bouffe. I shall explain more fully. Please figure to yourself that you are a young girl in an unhappy home. Let us suppose that a stepmother is at fault. You feel that you can submit to her oppression no longer—you resolve to be free, or to end your troubles in the Seine. Weeping, you pack your modest handbag; you cast a last, lingering look at the oil painting of your own dear mother who is with the Angels in the drawing-room; that is to say, of your own dear mother in the drawing-room, who is with the Angels. It still hangs there—your father has insisted on it. Unheard, you steal from the house; the mysterious city of Paris stretches before your friendless feet. Can you engage a chaperon? Can you draw upon an office for expenses? The idea is laughable. You have saved, at a liberal computation, forty francs; it is necessary for you to find employment without delay. But what happens? Your father is distracted by your loss, the thought of the perils that beset you frenzies him; he invokes the aid of the police. Well, the object of our experiment is to demonstrate that, in spite of an advertised reward, in spite of a published portrait, in spite of the Public's zeal itself, you will be passed on the boulevards and in the slums by myriads of unsuspecting eyes for weeks."
The girl inquired, much less blithely:
"How long is this experiment to continue?"
"It will continue until you are identified, of course. The longer the period, the more triumphant our demonstration."
"And I am to have no more than forty francs to exist on all the time?
Monsieur, the job does not call to me."
"You are young and you fail to grasp the value of your opportunity," said the Editor, with paternal tolerance. "From such an assignment you will derive experiences that will be of the highest benefit to your future. Rejoice, my child! Very soon I shall give you final instructions."
* * * * *
The Frenchman lifted his glass, which was again empty.
"I trust my voice does not begin to grate upon you?" he asked solicitously. "Much talking affects my uvula."
I made a trite inquiry.
He answered that, since I was so pressing, he would!
"Listen," he resumed, after a sip.
* * * * *
I am not in a position to say whether the young lady humoured the Editor by rejoicing, but she obeyed him by going forth. Her portrait was duly published, La Volx professed ignorance of her whereabouts from the moment that she left the rue Louis-le-Grand, and a prize of two thousand francs was to reward the first stranger who said to her, "Pardon, you are mademoiselle Girard!" In every issue the Public were urged towards more strenuous efforts to discover her, and all Paris bought the paper, with amusement, to learn if she was found yet.
At the beginning of the week, misgivings were ingeniously hinted as to her fate. On the tenth day the Editor printed a letter (which he had written himself), hotly condemning him for exposing a poor girl to danger. It was signed "An Indignant Parent," and teemed with the most stimulating suggestions. Copies of La Voix were as prevalent as gingerbread pigs at a fair. When a fortnight had passed, the prize was increased to three thousand francs, and many young men resigned less promising occupations, such as authorship and the fine arts, in order to devote themselves exclusively to the search.
Personally, I had something else to do. I am an author, as you may have divined by the rhythm of my impromptu phrases, but it happened at that time that a play of mine had been accepted at the Grand Guignol, subject to an additional thrill being introduced, and I preferred pondering for a thrill in my garret to hunting for a pin in a haystack,
Enfin, I completed the drama to the Management's satisfaction, and received a comely little cheque in payment. It was the first cheque that I had seen for years! I danced with joy, I paid for a shampoo, I committed no end of follies.
How good is life when one is rich—immediately one joins the optimists! I feared the future no longer; I was hungry, and I let my appetite do as it liked with me. I lodged in Montmartre, and it was my custom to eat at the unpretentious Bel Avenir, when I ate at all; but that morning my mood demanded something resplendent. Rumours had reached me of a certain Café Eclatant, where for one-franc-fifty one might breakfast on five epicurean courses amid palms and plush. I said I would go the pace, I adventured the Café Eclatant.
The interior realised my most sanguine expectations. The room would have done no discredit to the Grand Boulevard. I was so much exhilarated, that I ordered a half bottle of barsac, though I noted that here it cost ten sous more than at the Bel Avenir, and I prepared to enjoy the unwonted extravagance of my repast to the concluding crumb.
Monsieur, there are events in life of which it is difficult to speak without bitterness. When I recall the disappointment of that déjeuner at the Café Eclatant, my heart swells with rage. The soup was slush, the fish tasted like washing, the meat was rags. Dessert consisted of wizened grapes; the one thing fit to eat was the cheese.
As I meditated on the sum I had squandered, I could have cried with mortification, and, to make matters more pathetic still, I was as hungry as ever. I sat seeking some caustic epigram to wither the dame- de-comptoir; and presently the door opened and another victim entered. Her face was pale and interesting. I saw, by her hesitation, that the place was strange to her. An accomplice of the chief brigand pounced on her immediately, and bore her to a table opposite. The misguided girl was about to waste one-franc-fifty. I felt that I owed a duty to her in this crisis. The moment called for instant action; before she could decide between slush and hors d'oeuvres, I pulled an envelope from my pocket, scribbled a warning, and expressed it to her by the robber who had brought my bill.
I had written, "The déjeuner is dreadful. Escape!"
It reached her in the nick of time. She read the wrong side of the envelope first, and was evidently puzzled. Then she turned it over. A look of surprise, a look of thankfulness, rendered her still more fascinating. I perceived that she was inventing an excuse—that she pretended to have forgotten something. She rose hastily and went out. My barsac was finished—shocking bad tipple it was for the money!—and now I, too, got up and left. When I issued into the street, I found her waiting for me.
"I think you are the knight to whom my gratitude is due, monsieur?" she murmured graciously.
"Mademoiselle, you magnify the importance of my service," said I.
"It was a gallant deed," she insisted. "You have saved me from a great misfortune—perhaps greater than you understand. My finances are at their lowest ebb, and to have beggared myself for an impossible meal would have been no joke. Thanks to you, I may still breakfast satisfactorily somewhere else. Is it treating you like Baedeker's Guide to the Continent if I ask you to recommend a restaurant?"
"Upon my word, I doubt if you can do better than the Bel Avenir," I said. "A moment ago I was lacerated with regret that I had not gone there. But there is a silver lining to every hash-house, and my choice of the Eclatant has procured me the glory of your greeting."
She averted her gaze with a faint smile. She had certainly charm.
Admiration and hunger prompted me to further recklessness. I said:
"This five-course swindle has left me ravenous, and I am bound for the
Avenir myself. May I beg for the rapture of your company there?"
"Monsieur, you overwhelm me with chivalries," she replied; "I shall be enchanted." And, five minutes later, the Incognita and I were polishing off smoked herring and potato salad, like people who had no time to lose.
"Do you generally come here?" she asked, when we had leisure.
"Infrequently—no oftener than I have a franc in my pocket. But details of my fasts would form a poor recital, and I make a capital listener."
"You also make a capital luncheon," she remarked.
"Do not prevaricate," I said severely. "I am consumed with impatience to hear the history of your life. Be merciful and communicative."
"Well, I am young, fair, accomplished, and of an amiable disposition," she began, leaning her elbows on the table.
"These things are obvious. Come to confidences! What is your profession?"
"By profession I am a clairvoyante and palmist," she announced.
I gave her my hand at once, and I was in two minds about giving her my heart. "Proceed," I told her; "reveal my destiny!"
Her air was profoundly mystical.
"In the days of your youth," she proclaimed, "your line of authorship is crossed by many rejections."
"Oh, I am an author, hein? That's a fine thing in guesses!"
"It is written!" she affirmed, still scrutinising my palm. "Your dramatic lines are—er—countless; some of them are good. I see danger; you should beware of—I cannot distinguish!" she clasped her brow and shivered. "Ah, I have it! You should beware of hackneyed situations."
"So the Drama is 'written,' too, is it?"
"It is written, and I discern that it is already accepted," she said.
"For at the juncture where the Eclatant is eclipsed by the Café du Bel
Avenir, there is a distinct manifestation of cash."
"Marvellous!" I exclaimed. "And will the sybil explain why she surmised that I was a dramatic author?"
"Even so!" she boasted. "You wrote your message to me on an envelope from the Dramatic Authors' Society, What do you think of my palmistry?"
"I cannot say that I think it is your career. You are more likely an author yourself, or an actress, or a journalist. Perhaps you are mademoiselle Girard. Mon Dieu! What a piece of luck for me if I found mademoiselle Girard!"
"And what a piece of luck for her!"
"Why for her?"
"Well, she cannot be having a rollicking time. It would not break her heart to be found, one may be certain."
"In that case," I said, "she has only to give some one the tip."
"Oh, that would be dishonourable—she has a duty to fulfil to La Voix, she must wait till she is identified. And, remember, there must be no half measures—the young man must have the intuition to say firmly, 'Pardon, you are mademoiselle Girard!'"
Her earnest gaze met mine for an instant.
"As a matter of fact," I said, "I do not see how anyone can be expected to identify her in the street. The portrait shows her without a hat, and a hat makes a tremendous difference."
She sighed.
"What is your trouble?" I asked.
"Man!"
"Man? Tell me his address, that I may slay him."
"The whole sex. Its impenetrable stupidity. If mademoiselle Girard is ever recognised it will be by a woman. Man has no instinct."
"May one inquire the cause of these flattering reflections?"
Her laughter pealed.
"Let us talk of something else!" she commanded. "When does your play come out, monsieur Thibaud Hippolyte Duboc? You see I learnt your name, too."
"You have all the advantages," I complained. "Will you take a second cup of coffee, mademoiselle—er—?"
"No, thank you, monsieur," she said.
"Well, will you take a liqueur, mademoiselle—er—?"
"Mademoiselle Er will not take a liqueur either," she pouted.
"Well, will you take a walk?"
In the end we took an omnibus, and then we proceeded to the Buttes- Chaumont—and very agreeable I found it there. We chose a seat in the shade, and I began to feel that I had known her all my life. More precisely, perhaps, I began to feel that I wished to know her all my life. A little breeze was whispering through the boughs, and she lifted her face to it gratefully.
"How delicious," she said. "I should like to take off my hat."
"Do, then!"
"Shall I?"
"Why not?"
She pulled the pins out slowly, and laid the hat aside, and raised her eyes to me, smiling.
"Well?" she murmured.
"You are beautiful."
"Is that all?"
"What more would you have me say?"
The glare of sunshine mellowed while we talked; clocks struck unheeded by me. It amazed me at last, to discover how long she had held me captive. Still, I knew nothing of her affairs, excepting that she was hard up—that, by comparison, I was temporarily prosperous. I did not even know where she meant to go when we moved, nor did it appear necessary to inquire yet, for the sentiment in her tones assured me that she would dismiss me with no heartless haste.
Two men came strolling past the bench, and one of them stared at her so impudently that I burned with indignation. After looking duels at him, I turned to her, to deprecate his rudeness. Judge of my dismay when I perceived that she was shuddering with emotion! Jealousy blackened the gardens to me.
"Who is that man?" I exclaimed.
"I don't know," she faltered.
"You don't know? But you are trembling?"
"Am I?"
"I ask you who he is? How he dared to look at you like that?"
"Am I responsible for the way a loafer looks?"
"You are responsible for your agitation; I ask you to explain it!"
"And by what right, after all?"
"By what right? Wretched, false-hearted girl! Has our communion for hours given me no rights? Am I a Frenchman or a flounder? Answer; you are condemning me to tortures! Why did you tremble under that man's eyes?"
"I was afraid," she stammered.
"Afraid?"
"Afraid that he had recognised me."
"Mon Dieu! Of what are you guilty?"
"I am not guilty."
"Of what are you accused?"
"I can tell you nothing," she gasped.
"You shall tell me all!" I swore. "In the name of my love I demand it of you. Speak! Why did you fear his recognition?"
Her head drooped pitifully.
"Because I wanted you to recognise me first!"
For a tense moment I gazed at her bewildered. In the next, I cursed myself for a fool—I blushed for my suspicions, my obtuseness—I sought dizzily the words, the prescribed words that I must speak.
"Pardon," I shouted, "you are mademoiselle Girard!"
She sobbed.
"What have I done?"
"You have done a great and generous thing! I am humbled before you. I bless you. I don't know how I could have been such a dolt as not to guess!"
"Oh, how I wish you had guessed! You have been so kind to me, I longed for you to guess! And now I have betrayed a trust. I have been a bad journalist."
"You have been a good friend. Courage! No one will ever hear what has happened. And, anyhow, it is all the same to the paper whether the prize is paid to me, or to somebody else."
"Yes," she admitted. "That is true. Oh, when that man turned round and looked at me, I thought your chance had gone! I made sure it was all over! Well"—she forced a smile—"it is no use my being sorry, is it? Mademoiselle Girard is 'found'!"
"But you must not be sorry," I said. "Come, a disagreeable job is finished! And you have the additional satisfaction of knowing the money goes to a fellow you don't altogether dislike. What do I have to do about it, hein?"
"You must telegraph to La Voix at once that you have identified me. Then, in the morning you should go to the office. I can depend upon you, can't I? You will never give me away to a living soul?"
"Word of honour!" I vowed. "What do you take me for? Do tell me you don't regret! There's a dear. Tell me you don't regret."
She threw back her head dauntlessly.
"No," she said, "I don't regret. Only, in justice to me, remember that I was treacherous in order to do a turn to you, not to escape my own discomforts. To be candid, I believe that I wish we had met in two or three weeks' time, instead of to-day!"
"Why that?"
"In two or three weeks' time the prize was to be raised to five thousand francs, to keep up the excitement."
"Ciel!" I cried. "Five thousand francs? Do you know that positively?"
"Oh, yes!" She nodded. "It is arranged."
Five thousand francs would have been a fortune to me.
Neither of us spoke for some seconds. Then, continuing my thoughts aloud, I said:
"After all, why should I telegraph at once? What is to prevent my waiting the two or three weeks?"
"Oh, to allow you to do that would be scandalous of me," she demurred;
"I should be actually swindling La Voix."
"La Voix will obtain a magnificent advertisement for its outlay, which is all that it desires," I argued; "the boom will be worth five thousand francs to La Voix, there is no question of swindling. Five thousand francs is a sum with which one might—"
"It can't be done," she persisted.
"To a man in my position," I said, "five thousand francs—"
"It is impossible for another reason! As I told you, I am at the end of my resources. I rose this morning, praying that I should be identified. My landlady has turned me out, and I have no more than the price of one meal to go on with."
"You goose!" I laughed. "And if I were going to net five thousand francs by your tip three weeks hence, don't you suppose it would be good enough for me to pay your expenses in the meanwhile?"
She was silent again. I understood that her conscience was a more formidable drawback than her penury.
Monsieur, I said that you had asked me for a humiliating story—that I had poignant memories connected with La Voix. Here is one of them: I set myself to override her scruples—to render this girl false to her employers.
Many men might have done so without remorse. But not a man like me; I am naturally high-minded, of the most sensitive honour. Even when I conquered at last, I could not triumph. Far from it. I blamed the force of circumstances furiously for compelling me to sacrifice my principles to my purse. I am no adventurer, hein?
Enfin, the problem now was, where was I to hide her? Her portmanteau she had deposited at a railway station. Should we have it removed to another bedroom, or to a pension de famille? Both plans were open to objections—a bedroom would necessitate her still challenging discovery in restaurants; and at a pension de famille she would run risks on the premises. A pretty kettle of fish if someone spotted her while I was holding for the rise!
We debated the point exhaustively. And, having yielded, she displayed keen intelligence in arranging for the best. Finally she declared:
"Of the two things, a pension de famille is to be preferred. Install me there as your sister! Remember that people picture me a wanderer and alone; therefore, a lady who is introduced by her brother is in small danger of being recognized as mademoiselle Girard."
She was right, I perceived it. We found an excellent house, where I was unknown. I presented her as "mademoiselle Henriette Delafosse, my sister." And, to be on the safe side, I engaged a private sitting-room for her, explaining that she was somewhat neurasthenic.
Good! I waited breathless now for every edition of La Voix, thinking that her price might advance even sooner. But she closed at three thousand francs daily. Girard stood firm, but there was no upward tendency. Every afternoon I called on her. She talked about that conscience of hers again sometimes, and it did not prove quite so delightful as I had expected, when I paid a visit. Especially when I paid a bill as well.
Monsieur, my disposition is most liberal. But when I had been mulcted in the second bill, I confess that I became a trifle downcast. I had prepared myself to nourish the girl wholesomely, as befitted the circumstances, but I had said nothing of vin supérieur, and I noted that she had been asking for it as if it were cider in Normandy. The list of extras in those bills gave me the jumps, and the charges made for scented soap were nothing short of an outrage.
Well, there was but one more week to bear now, and during the week I allowed her to revel. This, though I was approaching embarrassments re the rent of my own attic!
How strange is life! Who shall foretell the future? I had wrestled with my self-respect, I had nursed an investment which promised stupendous profits were I capable of carrying my scheme to a callous conclusion. But could I do it? Did I claim the prize, which had already cost me so much? Monsieur, you are a man of the world, a judge of character: I ask you, did I claim the prize, or did I not?
He threw himself back in the chair, and toyed significantly with his empty glass.
I regarded him, his irresolute mouth, his receding chin, his unquenchable thirst for absinthe. I regarded him and I paid him no compliments. I said:
"You claimed the prize."
"You have made a bloomer," he answered. "I did not claim it. The prize was claimed by the wife of a piano-tuner, who had discovered mademoiselle Girard employed in the artificial flower department of the Printemps. I read the bloodcurdling news at nine o'clock on a Friday evening; and at 9:15, when I hurled myself, panic-stricken, into the pension de famille, the impostor who had tricked me out of three weeks' board and lodging had already done a bolt. I have never had the joy of meeting her since."