Pierrot and Pierrette.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIII, Issue XXVII, 31 December 1904, Page 23

Pierrot and Pierrette.

A TALE OF PARIS AND THE SPlKtl OF MDNTMAIRE.

(By

GUY WETMORE CARRYL.)

The studio was tuekeil away in the extreme upper north-easi corner of 13 ter, Hue Visconti, higher even than that einquiemc dearly- beloved of the impecunious and •of whoso, between stairs and street odours, chooses the lesser evil, and is more careful of lungs ..than , legs. Further still, after the six long flights had been achieved, around a sharp corner, and up a little winding (stairway, was the door which bore the name of Pierre Vauquelin. Inside, after stumbling along a narrow hall as black as Erebus, and floundering through a curtained doorway, one came abruptly into the studio, and, in all probability, fell headlong over a little rattan stool, or an easel, or a box of paints, mid was picked np by the host, and dusted, and put to rights, and made much of, like a bumped child. Thus restored to equanimity, one was belter able to appreciate what Pierre called la boite.

r ..“The Box” was a room eight metres in width by ten in length,, with a skylight above, and a great square window in the north wall, which latter sloped inward from floor to ceiling, by reason of the mansardc roof. Of what might be called furniture there was little — a Norman cupboard of black wood, heavily carved; a long divan, contrived jfvom various packing boxes and well worn rugs: a large square .table, halt a dozen chairs, three easels, and a repulsive little stove with an interminable pipe.

- But of minor things the Box was full to overflowing. The Norman cupboard was crammed with an assortment of crockery, much of it sadly nicked and cracked. The divan was strewn with boxes of broken pastels, paint brushes, mid pallets. coated with dried colours. The table was littered with papers, sketches, and books; and every ehair had its own particular trap for the unwary in.the form of. thumb tacks and glasses half full of cloudy water. Tn brief, it was. the workshop of a painter to whom .order was a thing unknown. In (lie midst of its chaos, late on a certain mid May, ajftcrnoon, stood the painter himself, with his hands thrust, deep into the pockets of his corduroy trousers, and his back turned upon the portrait upon which he had been at work. It was evident, that something untoward was in the air, because Pierre, .who always smoked, was not smoking, and Pierre, who never scowled, was scowling. , In the Quartier—that Quartier which, alone of them all, is spelled with a capital Q—there was in ordinary no gayer, more happy go lucky type than this same Pierre. He lived, as did a thousand of his kind, on eighty sous a day—there were those, who lived on less, pardie! — «iid breakfasted, and dined, and paid himself an absinthe at the Deux Magots at six o’clock, with a package of .green cigarettes into the bargain. For the rest of . the time he was - understood to be working on a portraft in his studio, and, what is more surprising; he usually was. There was nothing remarkable about Pierre’s portraits, except that occasionally he sold one for money—for ‘actual money.’ the astonishing animal! But if any patt of the modest proceeds of one of these transactions remained after the rent had been paid and a new canvas purchased, it was not the caisse d’epargne that got it, be sure of that! For Pierre lived always for the next 24 hours, and let the Test of time and eternity look out for .themselves.

Yet he took Ills work seriously. That was the trouble. Even admitting that, thus far, bis orders had come only from the more prosperous tradesmen of the Quartier, did that mean that they would not come in time from lhe millionaires of the sixteenth arrondissement? By no means. To be sure, he bad never had the .■Salon in the palm of bis hand, so lo ■peak, but what of that? .lean Paul himself would tell you that it was all favouritism! So Pierre toiled away at his portrait painting and, if the truth wore

told, made no appreciable progress from year’s beginning to year’s end. For once, however, Pierre Vanquelin's luck had played him false. The fat restauranteiir, whose wife’s portrait he had finished that, afternoon and carried at top speed, with the varnish not yet dry, to the Hue de Bac. vvas out of tow.i on business, and would not return until 1 lie following evening; which, so far as Pierre xvas concerned, was quite as bad as if he were not expected until the following month. Pierre's total wealth amounted to one live franc piece and three- sou?, and be had been relying upon the restaiiranteur’s eighty francs to enable him to fulfil his promise to Mimi. For the’uexfc day was her fete, and they were to nave breakfasted in the country, and taken a boat upon the Seine, and returned to dine under the trees. Not at Suresnes or St. Cloud, ah, non! In the true country, sapristi! At Poissy. 28 kilometers from Paris. All*of which meant at least a louis, and probably more; and where, demanded Pierre of the great north window, was it to be found? There was a taeit understanding among the comrades in the Quartier that there must be no borrowing and lending of money. It was a clause of i heir creed, adopted in the early days of their companionship, for what was clearlv t-he greatest general good, the chances being that no one of them would ever ■ possess- sufficient unemployed capital either lo accommodate another or to repay an accommodation. For a moment, to be sure, the thought, had crossed Pierre’s mind, but be had rejected it instantly as impracticable. Aside from tbe unwritten compact, there was no one of them all who could have been of service, had lie so willed. Even Jacques Courbet, who possessed a disposition which would have impelled him to chop off his right baud with the utmost cheerfulness, if thereby he could have gratified a friend, was worse than useless in this emergency. Had it been a matter of forty sous—but a louis! As well have asked him for the Venus de Mito, and had done with it.

So it was that, with the premonition of Mimi’s disappointed eyes cutting great gaps in his tender heart, Pierro had four times shrugged his shoulders, and quoted to himself that favourite scrap of his remarkable philosophy: "Oh, lala; all tins will arrange itself!" and four times had paused in the act, of lighting a cigarette, and plunged again into the. depths of despondent reverie. ■ As lie was on the point of repeating this entirely futile operation for the fifth time, a distant clock struck six. and Pierre, remembering that Mimi must even now be waiting for him at the west- door of St. Germain des Pres, clapped on bis cap. east care ,t<i the winds, and sallied forth into the gat liering twilight.

It. was aperitif hour al I be Cafe des Deux VJagots. The long. leather covered benches against the windows, and the double, row of little marble topped tables in front, were rapidly tilting as Pierre and Mimi took their places and ordered two Turius a lean. The Boulevard St. Germain was alive with people, walking past with the admirable* lack of haste which dislinguislies the Parisian, or waiting tn patient, voluble groups for a chance to enter the trams and omnibuses. An unending succession ot open cutis tiled slowly along Hie curb, their drivers scanning the ierrasso of Hie cafe for a fare. The air was full of the mingled odours of wet. wood pavements and horse chestnut blossoms - .the outward. invisible sign of that most wonderful of inward and spiritual combinations, Paris and spring. ‘At the table directly behind Pierre and Mimi sat. Halliard. There was nothing about him to suggest a deus ex macliina; Iml in nothing were appearances ever more deceitful. Fur it was Cafliard. with his enormous double olu» and his general air of harmless

fatuity; he who edited the little coloured sheet "La Blague.*’ and so sent half Paris into convulsions of merriment every Thursday morning; he who knew every great caricaturist in town, and enabled each of them to live in comparitive ease by the heartiness of his appreciation and .tbe liberalities of his payments. In the first regard he was but one of many Parisian editors; but in the second lie stood without a peer. Caran d’Ache, Leandre. Willette, Forain, Hermann Paul, Abel Faiire—they rubbed their hands when they came out of CaffiSrd’s private office, and if the day chanced to be Saturday there was something in their hands worth rubbing. A line example. Caffiard! Mimi’s black eyes sparkled like a squirrel's as she watched Pierre over the rim of her tumbler of vermouth. Sue was far from being blind, Mimi, and already. though they had been together but six minutes, she had noted that unusual little pucker between liis eyebrows, that sad little droop at the earners of his merry mouth. She told herself that Pierre had been overworking himself, that Pierre was tired, that Pierre needed cheering up. S i Mirai, wb.o was never tired, not even after ten hours in Mme. Fraiehel’s millinery establishment, secretly declared war upon the unusual little pucker and the sad little droop. “Voyons done, my Pierrot!” she said. “It is not. a funeral to which we go tomorrow. at least! Thou must be gay. for we have much to talk of, thou know cst. One dines at the studio?” , „ “The dinner is there, such as it is,' replied Pierre, gloomily . "What it. is now, is not the question, said Mimi, with confidence, "11111 what l make, of it—pas? And then there is tomorrow! What a pleasure it will be. if only the good God gives us beautiful weather? Dis, done, great thunder cloud, dost thou know it, this Poissy?’.’ Pierre had begun a caricature .on the back of the wine card, glancing now and again at his model, an old man setting newspapers on the curb. He shook his head without replying. “Eli, b’en, my liTilc one, thou mayest believe me that it is of all places the most, beautiful! One eats at the r.sliirgedn. oh the Seine; on the Seine, wiin the water quite, near, like that chair, lie names himself Jarry, the proprietor, and it is a good type —fat and handsome. I adore him! Art thou jealoim, species of thinness? B’en. afterwards, one takes a boat, and goes softly, softly. down the little arm of the Seine, and creeps under the willows, and, perhaps, fishes. But no. for it is the closed season. But on? sings, eh? Wliat does one sing? Voyons!” She bent forward, and. in a little voice, like an elf’s, very thin and sweet, hummed a snatch of a song th y both knew. C'est vatre ami Pierrot, qui vient vo:;s voir I’onsoir, Madame la Lime! “And then,” she went on as Pierre continued his sketch in silence —"and then one disembarks at Villenues an t has a Turin under lhe arbors of Bodin. Another handsome type, Bodin!" Mimi paused suddenly, "and searched Pierre’s cloudy face with her earnest, tender little eyes. “Pierrot,” she said softly, “what, hast thou? Thou art not angry with thy little goose?” Pierre surveyed the outline of the newspaper vender thoughtfully, touched it here "and "there with liis'pencil'point, squinted, and then pushed the piper towards the girl. “Not bad?" ho remarked, replacing his pencil in his pocket. But Mimi had no eyes for the earii-a-ture, and flicked the wine card lo the -ground. ‘•Pierrot.!’’ she repeated. Vauquelin plunged his bands in h:s pockets and looked at her. “Well, then,” he announced, almost brutally, “we do not go tomorrow.” “Pierre!”

It was going to be much worse than he had supposed, this little tragedy How pretty she was, with her startled, hurl eyes, already filling with (ears, her parted lips, and tier little while hand, whieh had flashed up to her check at his words! Oil, much worse, than he had supposed! But she must be told; thera was nothing but that. So Pierre put his elbows on the table and bis chin in his hands, and brought li.s face close to hors.

;• Voyons)" he. .exclaimed, ‘’thou dost not- believe me angry? Listen. It is I

who am the next (• the last of idiot* since I have never a sou in pocket, nevert And the imbecile restauranteiir, whose wife I have beiii painting, will not return until tomorrow, and so I am not paid. Voila!”

He placed his five franc piece upon the tattle, and shrugged his shoulders. ‘One full moon!” he said, and pit-J the three sous upon it. “ An I three soldiers. As I sit here, that is all, u itil tomorrow night. We cannot go!” Brave little Mimi! Already she wis winking back her tears and smiling. “But that—that is nothing!” she mswered. “I do not care to go. Look? We shall spend ttie day in lhe studio, an t breakfast on the balcony, and pretend the Rue Visconti is the Sienc.” "I am an empty siphon!” said I'i rre, yielding lo desperation. “Non!” said Mimi firmly. . “I am a pierced basket, a box of matches!” insisted Pierre. “Thou art Pierrot, and I love thee.” said Mimi. “Let us say no more. I shall go on and prepare the dinner a"4 thou shall, remain and drink a Pernod. 11 will give thee heart. But follow quickly. Give me the key.” - She laid tier hand on his, palm upward, like a little pink starfish. "We go together, and I adore thee!" said Pierre, and kissed Iter in the sight of all men, ami was not ashamed. TIL Caffiard leaned firward, picked up the fatten wine card, pretended to. consult it. and arose, ponderously. As Pierre was turning the key of Hie little apartment they heard a sound of heavy breathing, and the deus ex inacliina earue lumbering up the little winding stair. "Monsieur is seeking some one?” asked the painter politely. 'There was no lireath left in Caffiard. By way of reply he pointed al the tpfi of the button of Pierre’s coal, and nodded, helplessly; and then, as Mimi ran ahead to light the gas. he laboured along tins hall-way. staggered through the curtained dcorway, stumbled over a rattan stool was reseu<-d by Pierre and finally, was established upon lhe divan, viry red and gasping. For a time there was silence, Pierre and Mimi busying themselves in putting the studio lo rights, with an instinctive

courtesy which took no notice of their visitor’s snorts and wheezes; and Cafflard taking note of his surroundings with his round, blinking eyes. Opposite him, against the wall, reposed the portrait of the restauranteur’s wife, with its stiff, unwinking rigidity made hideously glassy by a liberal application of varnish. On an easel was the other portrait—that of M. I’antin, the rich shirt maker of the Boulevard St. Germain—on whieh Pierre was at work, A veritable atrocity, this, with a green background whieh trespassed upon M. Pantin's hair, and a featureless face, gaunt and haggard, with yellow ami purple undertones. Cafliard blinked harder still as his eyes rested upon the portraits, and he secretly consulted the crumbled wine card in jjis hand. Then he seemed to recover his breath by means of a profound sigh. "Monsieur makes caricatures?"’ he inquired. “All, monsieur,” said Pierre, “at timeand for amusement only. I am a portraitist.” And he pointed proudly to his glassy picture against the wall. For they are all alike, these painters —proudest of what they do least well! “Ah, then,” said CafFiard, with an air of resignation, “I must ask monsieur’s pardon and descend. lam not interested in portraits. When it comes to caricatures ” “They are well en< igh in their way,” put in Pierre, “but as a serious affair — to sell for instance—well, monsieur comprehends that one does not debauch one’s art!” “What is serious, what is not serious,” said Cafliard, “it is all a matter of opinion. One prefers to have his painting glued on to the Salon wall, next to the ceiling; another to have his drawing on the front page of La Blague.” “Oh, La Blague ” protested Pierre. “I am its editor,” said Cafliard, superbly. . “High!” exclaimed Pierre. For Minn had cruelly pinched his arm. An instant later she was seated at Cafliard’s side, tugging at the strings of a great port folio. “Are they imbeciles, these artists, monsier?” site was saying. “Kow you shall see. This great baby is marvellous, but marvellous with his caricatures. Not Lcandre himself —it is I who assure you, monsieur—and to hear him one would think—but thou tirest me, Pierrot, with thy portraits! No, it is too much? Voyons!”

She spread the portfolio wide, and began to shuffle through the drawings it contained.

Cafliard’s small eyes glistened as he •saw them. Even in her enthusiasm Mimi had not so far overshot the mark. They were truly clever, these caricatures—mere outlines for the most part —with here and there a dot of red or a little streak of green to lend them a curious, unusual charm. The subjects were legion—a host of types, cochers, grisettes, flower women, camelots—the products of half a hundred idle hours, wherein foolish Pierre had builded better than he knew! Cafliard selected five at random, and then, from a waistcoat pocket that clung as closely to his rounded figure as if it had been glued thereto, produced a hundred-franc note.

“I must have these for Iju Blague,

monsieur,” he said. “Bring me two caricatures a week at my office in the Rue St. Joseph, and you shall be paid at the same rate. It is not much, to be sure, but you will have ample time left for your—for your portrait painting, monsieur.”

For a moment the words of Cafliard affected Pierre and Mimi as the stairs had affected Cafliard. They stared at him, opening and shutting their mouths and gasping, like fish newly landed. Then, suddenly, animated by a common impulse, they rushed into each other’s arms and set out around the studio in a mad waltz. After this Mimi kissed Cafliard twice; once on the top of his bald head, and once on the end of his stubby nose. And, finally, nothing would do but that he must accompany them upon the morrow. She explained to him in detail the plan which had so nearly fallen through, and the deus ex machina did not betray by so much as a wink that he had heard all of it only lialf an hour before.

Cafliard protested. She was insane, the little one, completely! Had he, then, the air of a bonhommie, who gave himself into those boats there, name of a pipe? But let us be reasonable, voyons! He yas not young like Pierre and Mimi; one comprehended that these holidays did not recommence when one was sixty. What should he do trailing along with them, he and his odious fatness? Ah, non! For la belle jeunesse was la belle jeunesse, there w as no means of denying it, and it was not for a species of dried sponge to be giving itself the airs of a fresh flower.

“But no! But no!” said Cafliard, striving to rise from the divan. .“In the morning I have my article to do for the “Figaro,” and I am going with Caran to Lougehainp eu auto, for the races in the afternoon. But no! But no!”

His protests came to an abrupt termination, for Mimi suddenly seated herself on his lap and put one arm around his neck.

It was nothing short of an achievement, this. Even Cafliard himself had not imagined that such a thing as his lap was still extant. Yet here was Mimi, actually installed thereon, with her cheek pressed against his and her breath stirring the ends of his moustache. But she was smiling at I’ierre, the witch! Cafliard eould see it out of the corner of his eye. “Mais non!” lie repeated, but more feebly.

“Mais non! Mais non! Mais non!” mocked Mimi. “Great farceur! Will you listen, at least? If for any one—■ yes, even for a species of dried sponge, if you will—to propose io go into the country is insanity, well, then, I am insane! Soit! And, again, if you wish to appear serious—in Paris, that is to say—soit, egalement! But when you speak of odious fatness you are a type of monsieur extremely low of ceiling, do you know? Moreover, you are going. Voila! It is finished. As for Caran, let him go his way and draw liis caricatures —whieh are not like Pierre’s, all the world knows!—and, without doubt, his auto will refuse to move, beyond the Porte Dauphine, yes, and blow up, bon Dieu. when he is in the act of mending it. One knows these boxes of vapours, what they do! And as for the Figaro, b’en, flut! Evidently it will not cease to exist for lack of your article.

And it is Mimi who asks you— Mimi, do you understand, who invites you to her fete; and yqu would refuse hejfc—thou!*

At this point Pierre wrapped! five two sous pieces in a bit of paper and tossed them out of a little window across the hallway, to a street singer who was wailing in the court below. Pierre said that they weighted down his pockets. They were in the way, the clumsy doublins, said wonderful, spendthrift Pierre!

The veriest bat might have foreseen the end, when once Mimi had put her arm about the neek of Cafliard. Before the deus ex machina knew what he was about he found his army of objections routed, horse, foot, and dragoons, and had promised to be at the Gare St. Lazare at eleven the following morning.

And what a morning it was! The bon Dieu must have loved Mimi an atom better than other mortals, for in the blue black crucible of the night He fashioned a day as clear and glowing as a great jewel, and set it, blazing with warm light and vivid colour, foremost in the diadem of the year. Ami it was something to see Mimi at the carriage window, with Pierre at her side and her left hand in his, and in her right a huge bouquet—Cafliard’s contribution —while the deus ex machina himself, breathing like a happy hippopotamus, beamed upon the pair from the opposite corner. So the train slipped through the fortifications, swung through a trim suburb, slid smoothly out into the open country. It was a Wednesday, and there was no holiday crowd to incommode them. They had the compartment to themselves, and the half-hour flew like six minutes, when at last they came to a shuddering standstill, and two guards hastened along the platform iu opposite directions, one droning “Poiss-y-y-y-y!” and the other shouting “ ‘Poiss’! ‘Poiss’! ‘Poiss’!” as if he had been sneezing. It was an undertaking to get Cafliard out of the carriage, just as it had been to get him in; but finally it was accomplished. A whistle trilled from somewhere like a bird, another wailed like a stepped on kitten, the locomotive squealed triumphantly* and the next minute the trio were alone in their glory. It was a day that Cafliard never forgot. They breakfasted at once, so as to have a longer afternoon. Mimi was guide and commander-in-chief, as having been to the Esturgeon before. The table was set upon the terrace overlooking the Seine, and there were radishes, and little individual omelettes, and a famous gibelotte, which M. Jarry himself served with the air of a Caesar, and, finally, a great dish of quatre saisons, and for each of the party a squat brown pot of fresh cream. And, moreover, no ordinaire, but St. Emilion, if you please, with a tin foil cap, which had to be removed before one eould draw’ the cork, and a bottle of Source Badoit as well. And Cafliard, who had dined v with the Russian ambassador on Monday and breakfasted with the Nuncio on Tuesday, and had been egregiously displeased with the fare in both instances, consumed an unprecedented quantity of gibelotte, and went back to radishes after he liad eaten his strawberries and cream. To cap the climax, Pierre paid

the addition pith a louis—a«id gave the gaicon all the change. 3» Afterwards they engaged a'boat, and, with much alarm on the part of Mimi, and satirical comment from Cafliard, and severe admonitions to prudence by Pierre, pushed out into the stream and headed for Villennes, to the enormous edification of three small boys, who hung precariously over the railing of the terrace above them, and called Cafliard a captive balloon. They made the three kilometers at a snail’s pace, allowing the boat to drift with the current for half an hour at a time, and, now and again, creeping in under the willows at the water’s edge until they were wholly hidden from view: and the voice of Mimi singing was as that of some river fijiry invisible to mortal eyes. She sang “Bon Soir, Madame la Tame” so sweetly and so sadly that Cafliard was moved to tears. It was her favourite song, because —oh, because it was about Pierrot! And Pierrot responded with a gay soldier ballad, a chanson de route which he had picked up at the Noctambules, and even Cafliard sang - —a ridiculous ditty it was, which scored the English and went to a rollicking time. They all shouted the refrain, convulsed with merriment at the -drollery of the sound. Dou-gle-di-gle-dum! Avec les ha-a-a-alles dum-dum! Cafliard was to leave them at Villennes after they should have taken their aperitifs. They protested, stormed at him, scolded and cajoled by turns, and called him a score of fantastic names—for they knew him intimately now —as they sat in M. Bodin’s arbor and sipped amer menthe, but all in vain. Cafliard looked across the table at them, dreamily, through his cigarette smoke. “Pierrot,” he said, after he bad per'suaded them to let him depart in peace when the train should be due. “Pierrot—yes. that is it. You, with your. garret, and your painting, and your songs, and jour black, black sadness at one moment and your laughter the next, and, above all, your Pierrette, your bonbon of a Pierrette —you are Pierrot, the spirit of Paris, in powder and white muslint Eigho, my children, what it is, la belle jeunesse? You have given me a taste of it to-day, and I thank you. I thought I had forgotten. But no, one never forgets! It all comes baek, youth, and strength, and beauty, love, and music, and laughter, but only like a breath upon a mirror, my children. For lam an old man.” He paused, and looked up at the vine leaves on the trellis roof, and murmured a few words of Mimi's song: Pierrette en songe va venir me voir: Bonsoir, roadame la lune! Then his eyes came back to her face. “I must be off,” he said. “Why, what hast thou, little one? There are tears in those tw’o stars!” “C’est vrai?” said Mimi, smiling at him and then at Pierre, wlio had drawn her close to him at Cafliard’s words, and brushing her hand across her eyes. “C’est vrai ? Well, then, they are gone as quickly as they came. Voila! Without his tears Pierrot is not Pierrot, and ' without Pierrot ” She turned to Pierre suddenly, and buried her face on his shoulders.

“Je t’aime!” she whispered. “Jb t’aime!”