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. |