ANOTHER REFLECTION
When a handsome young man commits a murder, forges a check, or sets his heart upon a hat of eight reflections, one may well say to oneself, “It is a woman.” And a woman it was; but it was Mme. Sutrin.
A work of art, upon obtaining a public success, however slight, becomes forthwith an irresistible magnet to its maker. Though every day had seen Ventrillon setting out to walk in the opposite direction, every day had found him at last somewhere in the neighbourhood of his prize-winning canvas in the Grand Palais.
It was there that he was discovered by Eugène Savillhac, an acquaintance who since his success had become his friend. In that portion of society smarter than good Savillhac was one of those hangers-on who boost their own stock by boosting the stock of others. It appeared, incredibly, that every one of the hundreds he knew was the most extraordinary person in Paris.
“Ah, there you are, mon vieux!” he cried. “What luck! The youngest prize winner of the spring Salon and the most extraordinary woman in Paris are under the same roof. It is the first duty of a celebrity to be known by Madame Sutrin.”
He indicated a large woman in black silk whose plain skirt, neither full enough to be picturesque nor scant enough to be fashionable, swayed like a peasant’s from side to side as she waddled briskly through the crowd. Before her marriage to Timoléon Sutrin, the rich sugar industrial, she had been the beautiful Simone d’Estray of the Opéra Comique; but her beauty had been of that drastic sort which perfectly represents the triumph of feminine mind over matter, and after her marriage, with her future secure, she had comfortably allowed herself to become what nature had always intended her to be—very fat and very ugly. But she had the faculty of retaining all her old friends and quickly making new ones, and her flamboyant hôtel in the Avenue Victor Hugo was continually the scene of brilliant though somewhat dubious gatherings of boulevard celebrities, leavened with a scattering of those persons of real distinction who find delight in such society.
“Come, and I shall present you,” said Savillhac, and darted across the space, Ventrillon unenthusiastically trailing.
Smiling benevolently, Mme. Sutrin turned to face them. Her tight black bodice was pointed like a basque, and a large plastron of jet beads was applied down its generous front from the high collar about her neck to where her skirt was gathered in at her expansive waist. The unmistakable shadow of a coming event decorated her upper lip.
“Aha,” boomed Mme. Sutrin in the mighty bass which once had been a magic contralto, “and to what lady of the Opéra Comique do you want me to introduce you now?”
“Ah, madame,” said Savillhac, “you deceive yourself. I have brought a young man to introduce to you. The most extraordinary young man in Paris, in fact. My friend Ventrillon, the youngest prize winner of the spring Salon.” With a fine gesture he produced Ventrillon from invisibility.
Mme. Sutrin gasped as if struck in the face.
“Bon dieu!” she exploded at last, “Adonis!”
“Enchanted, madame,” murmured Ventrillon. “I am honoured——”
“Don’t waste a look like that on an old woman!” boomed Mme. Sutrin. “Young man, this world is badly arranged. Either I should have been born twenty years later, or you twenty years earlier. You should have known me in my youth. Both of us would have profited.
“I know nothing about painting,” she rumbled on, “and I do not like yours; but I like you, though your clothes are abominable. Come to my house Wednesday afternoon. It will be a dancing. Do you fox trot? But it does not matter. Smile at everybody the way you are smiling at me, and grow a moustache as soon as you can.” She turned to Savillhac. “If Gabrielle sees him, his fortune is made. You know how she goes in for the young ones. But those clothes will never do. I’ll wager he hasn’t a sou. But make him sell his bed and buy something that wouldn’t shame a cab driver.” Then abruptly she shook hands with both the young men and, swinging her skirts, waddled her way.
“A droll of a type,” commented Ventrillon.
“Sacré nom de dieu!” breathed Savillhac, staring at him aghast.
“Why—why—what is the matter?” stammered Ventrillon.
“You are invited to Madame Sutrin’s on Wednesday afternoon, and you say, ‘What is the matter?’ It is you who are the droll of a type to ask it.”
“But of course I shall not go.”
“Then you will be an imbecile. It is the chance of your life. All Paris will be there. Does that mean nothing to you—tout Paris?”
Tout Paris! A definite social unit, it is a social unit without definition. Many belong, but more do not. If one goes where tout Paris goes, does what tout Paris does, says what tout Paris says, knows the people tout Paris knows, does not know the people tout Paris does not know, then one is of tout Paris. But if one is not of tout Paris, one can do none of these things. One does not know how. Tout Paris is success, it is failure, it is the heights, it is the depths, and it is always seeking a new sensation. Without laws, it is of fashion the law, and is of the greatest importance; for if the newspapers say, “tout Paris was there,” that settles the matter. But, above all, tout Paris can applaud, and the applause of tout Paris can more quickly than anything else fill the empty pockets. The pockets of Ventrillon were usually abysmally empty, as he again remembered.
“And do you not know who is this Gabrielle of whom she spoke?” Savillhac continued. “The great Gabrielle Belletaille herself, nom de dieu! The most extraordinary woman in Paris. And you heard what Madame Sutrin said? If the Belletaille becomes interested in you, she will soon introduce you to everybody of any importance. Think of the marvellous portraits you can paint, and the prices you can charge! Perhaps she may even allow you to paint her portrait! Who knows? Then you will be in a position to refuse kings and queens.”
Gabrielle Belletaille, the prima donna of the Opéra Comique, was, as everybody knew, the idol of tout Paris. There was nobody like her. Where she led, tout Paris followed. Where tout Paris leads, all the world follows. Ventrillon stood for a moment silent. His clear, deep eyes held a wonder such as one sees in the eyes of those who pause upon the thresholds of strange palaces.
“But,” he said at last, “I shall not know what to say to her, even if I see her.”
“Say anything but the name of Fanny Max,” said well-posted Savillhac. “She is beginning to attract attention, and you can understand what that means to the Belletaille.”
“But——” said Ventrillon again. Ruefully he looked down at his own baggy corduroys, his cracking shoes, his threadbare coat, and the rusty, black felt hat he held in his hand. Then he considered the slimly clad, gray-striped legs of the impeccable Savillhac, the glistening footgear, the smart morning coat with a gardenia in its lapel, the shining top hat. Savillhac was fashion itself, the embodiment in one person of tout Paris. Ventrillon reflected.
“My prize has brought me three hundred francs,” he said. “Take me to your tailor. But I refuse to wear one of those hats. I should be assaulted in the Boulevard du Montparnasse.”
For it was not until he had seen his image in the plate glass of the shop window that his head was completely turned.