Zut, and Other Parisians

by Guy Wetmore Carryl

"But, God bless my soul!" he exclaimed, "the rascal understands English as well as any one of us. What's the use of wasting your French on him?"

He swung round upon his stool, and fixed an eye, which was celebrated in the 32d Regular Infantry, upon l'L Majuscule. That worthy surveyed with unfeigned astonishment this very angry, red-faced foreigner, who looked as if he was about to devour him, body and bones. He had not the most remote conception of the effect which his flaxen wig, and his ridiculous wings, and his short pleated tunic, and his pink tights, and his huge feet in their gilded sandals, produced upon the Major; and his attempt at extortion was strictly in line with the traditions of the place. Certainly, it was all very puzzling.

"You ape!" said the Major furiously, finding his breath. "You pinky-panky little scoundrel! You an angel? Why you're not even shaved! You get two francs fifty, that's what you get, and not a red cent of porbwure either, you Christmas-tree image!"

The exact phrasing of these remarks was somewhat lost upon Maxime, but the general trend of the Major's meaning was quite unmistakable. Nevertheless, when one had been valet de chambre to Captain the Honorable Michael Douglas, one was not routed by a few emphatic words. So Maxime shrugged his shoulders apologetically, and reiterated his "Tain francs."

"Damn it, sir, no!" thundered the Major. "And don't pretend you can't understand me. I'm a short-tempered man, sir, and—and"—

He pounded with his fist upon the table, seeking a fitting expression of his rage, until the little liqueur glasses danced like kernels of popping corn. But young Appleby leaned toward him and laid a hand on his arm. He was big and square-shouldered, was Appleby, and, only the year before, he had performed prodigies with the hammer and the shot in the Intercollegiate Games; but his eyes were very blue and gentle, and he spoke with extreme mildness.

"Don't let us have any trouble here, sir," he said. "It isn't as if we were alone. We have the girls with us, you know. Leave the beggar two francs fifty, and we'll go on to the next place."

Now the Major, with all his fiery temper, was an ardent lover of discipline, and he recognized reason in Appleby's words. So, after an instant, he deposited the amount upon the table, rose to his full height, with his eye still riveted on Maxime, and then, followed by the others, stalked majestically toward the door.

But for one circumstance, the Americans had never gone unmolested past Maxime's fellow-angels, and, in particular, the towering form of Gustave Robine. Maxime himself was astounded that no celestial hand was stretched out to bar their progress. What he did not understand was that, while one may enter Le Ciel on the strength of an accomplishment not possessed by the other immortals, the achievement does not necessarily imply that one is persona grata in their eyes, or, in the least degree, sure of their support. The management was responsible for Maxime, and the edict had gone forth that the Angliches were to be turned over to him. But obedience to this command did not go hand in hand with approval thereof. The high-priest and the sexton and all the angels had looked on sourly, as he appropriated the Major's party, for it is the Americans who give the largest pourboires; and, although they did not wholly comprehend the dispute which had arisen, it was evident that the linguistic angel had met with disaster at the very outset, and they were proportionately gratified. So, when Maxime glanced about in search of succor, he found himself abandoned in his discomfiture. The other angels were smiling broadly, and nudging each other with their pink elbows; the high-priest, with his fat hands on the pulpit's edge, was looking down at him with a grin; the sexton above his head waved his brush to and fro and chanted, "Ora pro nobis!" in a high, whining voice. A French student at the further end of the table said "Roulé!" and his companion laughed shrilly. Even Gustave, at the door, was leaning on his halberd and chuckling, for he had not forgotten that Maxime, once sure of his position, had demanded repayment of the fifty francs.

All this was sufficiently intolerable, but a real disaster, more terrible than mere ridicule, confronted Maxime. The crême de menthe was, as a matter of fact, one franc a glass, and it was out of his pocket that the deficit would have to be made good. As this tragic thought smote him full and fair, he bounded forward past the other angels, dodged nimbly under Gustave's outstretched arm, charged through the swinging doors, and emerged with a shout upon the boulevard de Clichy.