A Chair on the Boulevard | Page 5

instalment."
"The time goes on. There remains only a week to the marriage morning.
The little home is prepared, the little pastrycook is full of joy. Alors,
one evening they go out; for her the sole attraction in the town is the
hall of varieties. Yes, it is third class, it is not great things; however, it

is the only one in Rouen. He purchases two tickets. What a
misfortune--it is the last temptation to her! They stroll back; she takes
his arm--under the moon, under the stars; but she sees only the lamps of
Paris!--she sees only that he can say nothing she cares to hear!"
"Ah, unhappy man!" murmured the poet.
"They sit at a café table, and he talks, the fiancé, of the bliss that is to
come to them. She attends to not a word, not a syllable. While she
smiles, she questions herself, frenzied, how she can escape. She has
commanded a sirop. As she lifts her glass to the syphon, her gaze falls
on the ring she wears--the ring of their betrothal. 'To the future, cher
ange!' says the fiancé. 'To the future, vieux chéri!' she says. And she
laughs in her heart--for she resolves to sell the ring!"
Tricotrin had become absolutely enthralled.
"She obtained for the ring forty-five francs the next day--and for the
little pastrycook all is finished. She wrote him a letter--'Good-bye.' He
has lost his reason. Mad with despair, he has flung himself before an
electric car, and is killed.... It is strange," she added to the poet, who
regarded her with consternation, "that I did not think sooner of the ring
that was always on my finger, n'est-ce-pas? It may be that never before
had I felt so furious an impulse to desert him. It may be also--that there
was no ring and no pastrycook!" And she broke into peals of laughter.
"Ah, mon Dieu," exclaimed the young man, "but you are enchanting!
Let us go to breakfast--you are the kindred soul I have looked for all
my life. By-the-bye, I may as well know your name?"
Then, monsieur, this poor girl who had trembled before her laundress,
she told him a name which was going, in a while, to crowd the
Ambassadeurs and be famous through all Paris--a name which was to
mean caprices, folly, extravagance the most wilful and reckless. She
answered--and it said nothing yet--"My name is Paulette Fleury."
* * * * *

The piano-organ stopped short, as if it knew the Frenchman had
reached a crisis in his narrative. He folded his arms and nodded
impressively.
"Voilà! Monsieur, I 'ave introduced you to Paulette Fleury! It was her
beginning."
He offered me a cigarette, and frowned, lost in thought, at the lady who
was chopping bread behind the counter.
"Listen," he resumed.
* * * * *
They have breakfasted; they have fed the sparrows around their chairs,
and they have strolled under the green trees in the sunshine. She was
singing then at a little café-concert the most obscure. It is arranged,
before they part, that in the evening he shall go to applaud her.
He had a friend, young also, a composer, named Nicolas Pitou. I cannot
express to you the devotion that existed between them. Pitou was
employed at a publisher's, but the publisher paid him not much better
than his art. The comrades have shared everything: the loans from the
mont-de-piété, the attic, and the dreams. In Montmartre it was said
"Tricotrin and Pitou" as one says "Orestes and Pylades." It is beautiful
such affection, hein? Listen!
Tricotrin has recounted to his friend his meeting with Paulette, and
when the hour for the concert is arrived, Pitou accompanied him. The
musician, however, was, perhaps, the more sedate. He has gone with
little expectation; his interest was not high.
What a surprise he has had! He has found her an actress--an artist to the
ends of the fingers. Tricotrin was astonished also. The two friends, the
poet and the composer, said "Mon Dieu!" They regarded the one the
other. They said "Mon Dieu!" again. Soon Pitou has requested of
Tricotrin an introduction. It is agreed. Tricotrin has presented his friend,
and invited the chanteuse to drink a bock--a glass of beer.... A propos,

you take a liqueur, monsieur, yes? What liqueur you take? Sst,
garçon!... Well, you conjecture, no doubt, what I shall say? Before the
bock was finished, they were in love with her--both!
At the door of her lodging, Paulette has given to each a pressure of the
hand, and said gently, "Till to-morrow."
"I worship her!" Tricotrin told Pitou.
"I have found my ideal!" Pitou answered Tricotrin.
It is superb, such friendship, hein?
In the mind of the poet who had accomplished tragedies majestic--in
the mind of the composer, the