No One Can Say For Certain

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 497, 29 October 1928, Page 14

No One Can Say For Certain

By

P. L. CONIGRAYE

Y ou are ver - v kind, m’sieur, but I

couldn’t marry you.” Yvette turned her fluffy head to one side, and opening her mouth smiled delightj fully up' at his serious, refined face. | “You see, If X did marry you, you would -want me to give up my dancing, and I could not do that. You would want me to live in your conventional middle-class respectability, and give up all my good friends. They may not be used to the lire you are used to, and to your line manners, your cult . your way of doing always what is right. But they are still my good friends—my very good friends. Again, I say it is extremely kind of you, but I cannot do as you ask.” 1 Franelaut’s face grew more grave, and he bent tow’ard the little dancer as if he would take her in his arms. But she drew away from him and walked over to a chair. “I knew that you would misunderstand me,” he replied. “Perhaps I should not have been so blunt. But why are you content to keep to this empty life, and to make yourself a show for the gaping crowds? It is all so—what shall I say? futile, unavailing.” He hesitated. “I almost said sordid.” An expression of annoyance passed over Yvette’s face, and she looked at him defiantly. ' “Do not be cross,” Franelaut pleaded. ’ “There is so much I want to say to you. But I say it so clumsily.” . , „ , “Not only clumsily, but rudely, she answered. “What you really want is that I should leave the stage, leave my companions, become your good, obedient wife, the mother of your dear, sweet-natured little children — they would surely be sweet-natured, wouldn’t they?—in short, that I should become prim, sedate, gentle, lifeless, and wholly uninteresting. Well, lam greatly honoured, m’sieur, hut as I have already said twice, I cannot marry you.” Franelaut was obviously pained, and Yvette, not wishing to offend him too deeply, changed her mood and began to tease him. “Now, my dear m’sieur, do not be so glum. Do not waste your thoughts over a poor little dancer, who is just a nobody, and who only wants to flit about here and there, and to win the praise and the cheers of the good Parisians.” She walked back to the sofa on wlych he was sitting, and sat beside him. She placed her hand on his knee. “If you don’t smile I shall laugh at you, and you do so hate being laughed at, don’t you?” Franelaut rose from the sofa, and taking his hat from her dressing-table, turned and faced her. “Yvette,” he said, softly, “you will never know my feelings toward you. You will not be serious to-night. But you must let me see you again. You must listen to me.”

Yvette stood poised on the tips of her shoes for a second, a thing of dainty, almost faery imagery. Her fluffy, golden hair glistened in the strong white glare of 1 lie electric globe above the large mirror, and her wide, dancing eyes sparkled with the spirit of mischief. Her pretty, warm, red lips were parted slightly, showing a perfect row of teeth. Just for a moment Franelaut saw a vision of loveliness floating, as it seemed, in a mass of soft, filgiy, billowy snow. The next moment the vision had gone, and he felt the warmth t>f soft fingers on his face, and the hot press of a soft mouth upon his lips. He grasped at the supple, enchanting form in front of him; but Yvette, with a little laugh, escaped. “There,” she said, “that’s just to remember me by. Good night.” With a disconsolate shrug of his shoulders Franelaut took his black silver-mounted cane, and went through the door. To learn the beginning of the events which led to the somewhat romantic scene that has just been described, it is necessary to go back a month or so to a cold, cheerless night, on which Franelaut for the first time entered the Theatre Bageliere. You who are familiar with Paris know the rather pretentious little building that stands in a side street off the Rue de Mordesant. You who know only the parts of Paris that are visited by the ordinary tourist have possibly never heard of the place. For all that, it has a certain renown. It is what might be described as a second rate, or, perhaps, a slightly third rate vaudeville house. Its audiences consist mainly of the easy-going, hearty, Parisians who do the more menial tasks of the great city, and who, while not followers of what the critical would call the highest standards of art, know what they want, and show loud and eloquent disapproval if it is not provided for them.

Franelaut on this particular night was impelled by that restlessness which occasionally bests the most unimaginative people to wander from his lodgings aimlessly around the city. It was only by chance that he found himself in the Rue de Mordesant just as some of the patrons of the little theatre —we shall give them that dignified name, for it will flatter their vanity—were leaving it for the interval. Franelaut was bored, but he sudhoped would duly find their way to doorkeeper two francs, which he the managerial treasury, and took a seat in the stalls. The estimable patrons re-entered the theatre, the orchestra began to play, and the lights were extinguished. Franelaut several times stifled a polite yawn during the first turn, given by a more or less unhumorous comedian, whose patter of crude -witticisms -was delivered at a terrific rate, which seemed to amuse the remainder of the audience. He was even more ill at ease while a conjurer was trying to demonstrate the falsity of most principles of optics and physics. It was not until the orchestra began to play Saint Saens’ well-worn “La Cygne” that he felt any interest in the proceedings. He thought that perhaps at last there might be something worth watching. Presently from the wings of the stage there glided a dainty figure balanced on its toes, the body swaying gently a? in a breeze. Then began the dance which he had seen so many times before in so many more comfortable and better ventilated places. Franelaut was fascinated, not by the dancing—that was mediocre, and the dancer made many careless mistakes—but by the splendid beauty of the young girl who was moving about the stage. To him she made an irresistible appeal, although he murmured to himself that she was probably only a midinette who made a few extra shillings by accepting engagements at the various theatres at night time. He watched her every movement intently until the shot was fired off the stage—there was

always the shot, he reflected, and it always seemed crude, although there did not seem any way of doing without it —and he saw the beautiful body stagger, and gradually swoon to the floor. Then as the last two bars of the music faded away, and the curtain descended, the audience burst into loud applause. Franelaut joined enthusiastically in the hand-clapping. The curtain was raised, and the girl, flushed -with excitement and exertion, vivaciously bowed her thanks to the crow T ded auditorium. Again the curtain was lowered. Apparently there was to be no encore.

| Franelaut rose from his seat and walked out of the theatre. Having reached the footpath he stood looking up and down the street. He then decided that he would do what he had never done before. He had never sent his card in to a theatrical artist, but no artist had ever made such an inexplicable impression upon him as this one had done. He therefore sent his card in by the stage-door keeper, and in a few minutes received word that “Vizimoscka, the world’s greatest classical dancer,” as she was billed, would see him. It was not until later that Franelaut, elder son of that Franelaut who in the Senate had denounced Guesde and the Socialists in the ’eighties, and had declaimed against the Radicals after the fall of Jules Ferry, learned that the little dancer, with the high-sounding title, was just Yvette, and that she lived in an apartment in a shabby square-fronted house that had once been white and had once had fresh green shutters. It was after that that Yvette dined several nights following with Franelaut when her work at the theatre was ended, and that she had laughed her way into his serious head and filled his heart with a deep longing for her beauty. It was not until the sound of Franelaut’s steps had disappeared down the passage after his dismissal that Yvette felt sorry for him. Not that she could ever feel very sorry for anybody. For real sorrow implies a certain amount of spirituality, and Yvette was not spiritual. If she had been so she would not have had to earn her living at the Theatre Bageliere. She had every attribute of a dancer but brains, and to attain success among the first rank of dancers brains are as necessary as light bounding feet. Yvette was not only unspiritual; she was selfish; she was also extremely vain. And her vanity caused her many disappointments. She could not understand why the manager of the Casino de Paris would not accept her at her own valuation. But despite her disappointments she was determined and ambitious. She was sure that she would one day reach the top of the tree. It did not surprise her that Franelaut should propose to her. She had expected that he would, but she knew from remarks that he had made previously that he did not like her earning money as she did. It when he had asked her to marry him, he had been willing to allow her to remain a dancer, and to continue her friendships, she would probably have accepted him. He was wealthy, he had influence and he undoubtedly was in love with her. But she would never give up her idea of making her own career. Then there was Robert Delanschel. Robert was a trapezist who often appeared at the Bageliere. He was a good fellow, and he had proposed to her. She was fond of him, and he had no foolish qualms about her being a professional dancer. But he was a spendthrift, always without money, and would probably be more a hindrance than a help to her in making her way in the world. So she had rejected Robert, and had dismissed Franelaut, and was still independent to do as she willed. Poor Robert, he had taken it badly, but what would you? ’One did not marry merely to make a man content. So thought Yvette as she changed into her street dress, and so she continued to think as she later blew out the candle beside her bed and nestled down among the hospitable sheets. There is much truth in the not very profound saying that if we could read the future our present decisions would often be different from what they are. And if Yvette had known that there would be a change in the management o the Bageliere shortly, and that she would be affected by it, she might have dallied awhile with Franelaut and might even have married Robert. But she did not think of such things as she nestled still further down among the hospitable sheets. Several weeks after Franelaut had left her dressing-room, and, despite his ardour, had not tried to see her again, evidently realising that it was undignified to be laughed at, the change took place at the Bagliere. Andrea Friole, the manager, had accepted a position in London, and Simeon Lavepier was appointed in his stead. To Yvette it did not seem long before Lavenier became the most intolerant person on earth. Whereas Friole had not worried much about the work of the artists, leaving this almost solely to the rather easy-going stage manager, Lavenier took a keen personal interest in everything connected with the theatre. He watched the artists at rehearsal, and did not hesitate to criticise them frankly. He had even told Yvette that she was no more a dancer than he was, whereupon Yvette, looking at his solid bulk, burst into tears. After that it appeared that Lavenier took every opportunity to annoy her. This, of course, was chiefly because she was so vain. Had she been willing to accept some of the sound advice that Lavenier gave her, she would have benefited, but because she disliked him she resented it and refused it. One morning, about five weeks after Lavenier went to the Bageliere. Yvette was practising when he walked down into the stalls. He watched her for several minutes and suddenly called out to her, “Don’t hold your hands so stiffly, stand up a trifle longer on your toes.” It so happened that at that moment Yvette was in a particularly irritable mood. She had been trying for a long while to stand longer on her toes, and had been practising hard for an hour or so before Lavenier appeared. His words galled her, and in her temper she shouted: “Go to the -devil, you’re—you’re—you’re a big fat pig.” A second later she regretted what she had said. Lavenier frowned, but merely replied: “Is that so? Well, we shall not want you after Saturday night.” They did not engage artists on contract at the Bageliere. Yvette danced for four more nights, and then said good-bye to Lavenier and the pretentious little building. - In the days that followed Yvette had even more cause to regret her hasty temper. Her wages at the Bageliere—they were hardly large enough to call salary—had not enabled her to save much, and there did not seem any imemdiate prospect of getting other work. She had been told that

there might be something at the Cafe Oranez in three or four months, but that was a long way ahead when one’s funds were scanty. She had tried to obtain employment as a waitress, or as a shop-girl, as she had done on previous occasions between engagements; but. notwithstanding her good looks, every position in Paris seemed to be filled.

The situation was becoming desperate when one morning, two months after she had left the Bageliere, Yvette received a letter from M. Caesar Falierand, manager of the Theatre Cansonin, which had for many years been a rival to the Bageliere. She had applied to Falierand for an engagement the week after Lavenier had dismissed her, but there had been no opening. Now Falierand informed her that he could engage her for eight weeks. That, she remembered, would just about fill in the time before she went to the Cafe Oranez, assuming that the work there did become available.

Yvette accepted Fallerand’s offer eagerly, and, much chastened in spirit, determined to take more pains with her dancing, and to act on advice when it was given her. She appeared at the Cansonin on the following Saturday. The audience cheered her loudly, and Falierand told her that he was very pleased with her. Falierand was, judging by his appearance, a little more than 60, and he was a cheery soul. He had, if report were true, been somewhat of a gallant in his day, but he had now settled down to a comparatively quiet life. He nevertheless retained his admiration for a beautiful or smartly dressed woman. This probably accounted for his unusually deep interest in Yvette, an interest of which she was not unaware, and which, despite Fallerand’s age, she did not find unwelcome. For Falierand was, after all, the manager, and it might be as well to court his favour. In addition, he was a fatherly old fellow, and she liked him. There was something warming in his round, healthy, brightly-coloured face and in his smiling eyes. His grey hair fascinated her. It certainly gave him dignity. Yvette had been at the Cansonin for nearly five weeks, when Fallerand asked her one night to have supper with him. She agreed to do so, and they drove to a cabaret several streets away from the theatre. Suppers followed on other nights, and on a Sunday afternoon they went for a walk in the Bois de Boulogne. So the days passed until the last week of Yvette’s engagement. Yvette’s experience of men had led her to believe that Falierand intended asking her to marry him, and she had debated in her mind whether she would do so. That would depend on several things. She would hate to give up dancing, but it was no good being a dancer if nobody wanted you. The manager of the Oranez was not yet certain whether he could give her any work. But, perhaps, somebody else could, and she did love the applause of those she danced for. It was even worth while working in a shop or a restaurant between the intervals in her engagements.

In some such form were Yvette’s thoughts running as she sat opposite Falierand in their favourite corner in the cafe two nights before her engagement ended. Suddenly Fallerand’s voice broke in on her meditations. “What are you looking so serious about?” he asked.

"I didn’t know that I was looking serious,” she replied. He hesitated, and lowered his voice. “You’ve only got two more nights,” he added, “and then you’re going to leave me.”

“Well, I only came for eight weeks, didn’t I?” she said, smiling. “Won’t you stay longer?" asked Falierand.

“That depends entirely on you,” she fenced, realising that the momeut was coming. “If you care to extend my engagement, I shall be pleased to stay, and I will think it very good of you. Again she smiled at him. “Yvette,” he said, suddenly, “you know as well as I do that I want you to marry me. Will you? You know I love you, and would do anything I could for you. I suppose you think I’m an old fogey, but don’t laugh at me on that account.”

“I’m not laughing at you. I think you’re the dearest old thing imaginable. But I don’t think I could ever marry. You see, I want to make a career. If I married Vou you would want me to give up all ideas of that.” “Not unless you wanted to. But I wouldn’t like to go away alone, and I couldn’t travel with you. I would be too busy for that.” “Would you let me dance at your theatre sometimes—only sometimes — when I wanted to?” Yvette questioned. “Yes, of course.” You can do as you like if you marry me,” he answered. “You are so beautiful I couldn’t refuse you anything.” And so M. Caesar Falierand, the Caesar having been adopted in his youthful days when he was a singer of some note, laid his heart at the feet of little Yvette with w ( ords so lavish that they would seem' foolish- to anyone for whose ears they were not intended. But, as this a true story and all the relevant facts should be recorded, it ought to be mentioned that he told Yvette that he had married previously, and that his first wife had eloped six years ago with a young Italian tenor, leaving him with two baby girls. The elder of these was now nine and the second seven. He had obtained a divorce from his wife, and had given his love to his two little daughters. If Yvette would share that love and not object to the small girls, he would be the happiest man in Christendom. Yvette did not at first like the idea of the daughters, but she weighed them in the balance against her other advantages, and • decided to become Madame Falierand. And as Falierand walked with her to her home from the cafe, and kissed her in his bighearted, fatherly way before saying good night at the door, she was supremely happy. So it came about that Yvette found a comfortable home and an adoring husband, and banished all need for future care. And she could return to her dancing whenever she felt like doing so, although, after she had been married two years she said that she would never go back to the stage, because she was so contented where she was. But before she achieved such contentment she had been dismissed by Lavenier from the Theatre Bageliere. Which seems to suggest that the gods always arrange matters for the best, and that there might be, after all, something in Maeterlinck’s saying that there is, perhaps, no such thing as the occurrence of a purposeless event. —“The Australasian.”