Selby, shy and nervous, walked over and began: "My name is Selby,—I have just arrived in Paris, and bring a letter of introduction—" His voice was lost in the crash of a falling easel, the owner of which promptly1 assaulted his neighbour, and for a time the noise of battle rolled through the studios of MM. Boulanger and Lefebvre, presently subsiding2 into a scuffle on the stairs outside. Selby, apprehensive3 as to his own reception in the studio, looked at Clifford, who sat serenely4 watching the fight.
"It's a little noisy here," said Clifford, "but you will like the fellows when you know them." His unaffected manner delighted Selby. Then with a simplicity5 that won his heart, he presented him to half a dozen students of as many nationalities. Some were cordial, all were polite. Even the majestic6 creature who held the position of Massier, unbent enough to say: "My friend, when a man speaks French as well as you do, and is also a friend of Monsieur Clifford, he will have no trouble in this studio. You expect, of course, to fill the stove until the next new man comes?"
"Of course."
"No," replied Selby, who hated it.
Clifford, much amused, put on his hat, saying, "You must expect lots of it at first."
Selby placed his own hat on his head and followed him to the door.
As they passed the model stand there was a furious cry of "Chapeau! Chapeau!" and a student sprang from his easel menacing Selby, who reddened but looked at Clifford.
"Take off your hat for them," said the latter, laughing.
"Et moi?" cried the model.
"You are charming," replied Selby, astonished at his own audacity11, but the studio rose as one man, shouting: "He has done well! he's all right!" while the model, laughing, kissed her hand to him and cried: "à demain beau jeune homme!"
All that week Selby worked at the studio unmolested. The French students christened him "l'Enfant Prodigue," which was freely translated, "The Prodigious12 Infant," "The Kid," "Kid Selby," and "Kidby." But the disease soon ran its course from "Kidby" to "Kidney," and then naturally to "Tidbits," where it was arrested by Clifford's authority and ultimately relapsed to "Kid."
Wednesday came, and with it M. Boulanger. For three hours the students writhed13 under his biting sarcasms,—among the others Clifford, who was informed that he knew even less about a work of art than he did about the art of work. Selby was more fortunate. The professor examined his drawing in silence, looked at him sharply, and passed on with a non-committal gesture. He presently departed arm in arm with Bouguereau, to the relief of Clifford, who was then at liberty to jam his hat on his head and depart.
The next day he did not appear, and Selby, who had counted on seeing him at the studio, a thing which he learned later it was vanity to count on, wandered back to the Latin Quarter alone.
Paris was still strange and new to him. He was vaguely14 troubled by its splendour. No tender memories stirred his American bosom15 at the Place du Chatelet, nor even by Notre Dame16. The Palais de Justice with its clock and turrets17 and stalking sentinels in blue and vermilion, the Place St. Michel with its jumble18 of omnibuses and ugly water-spitting griffins, the hill of the Boulevard St. Michel, the tooting trams, the policemen dawdling19 two by two, and the table-lined terraces of the Café Vacehett were nothing to him, as yet, nor did he even know, when he stepped from the stones of the Place St. Michel to the asphalt of the Boulevard, that he had crossed the frontier and entered the student zone,—the famous Latin Quarter.
A cabman hailed him as "bourgeois," and urged the superiority of driving over walking. A gamin, with an appearance of great concern, requested the latest telegraphic news from London, and then, standing20 on his head, invited Selby to feats21 of strength. A pretty girl gave him a glance from a pair of violet eyes. He did not see her, but she, catching22 her own reflection in a window, wondered at the colour burning in her cheeks. Turning to resume her course, she met Foxhall Clifford, and hurried on. Clifford, open-mouthed, followed her with his eyes; then he looked after Selby, who had turned into the Boulevard St. Germain toward the rue23 de Seine. Then he examined himself in the shop window. The result seemed to be unsatisfactory.
"I'm not a beauty," he mused8, "but neither am I a hobgoblin. What does she mean by blushing at Selby? I never before saw her look at a fellow in my life,—neither has any one in the Quarter. Anyway, I can swear she never looks at me, and goodness knows I have done all that respectful adoration24 can do."
He sighed, and murmuring a prophecy concerning the salvation25 of his immortal26 soul swung into that graceful27 lounge which at all times characterized Clifford. With no apparent exertion28, he overtook Selby at the corner, and together they crossed the sunlit Boulevard and sat down under the awning29 of the Café du Cercle. Clifford bowed to everybody on the terrace, saying, "You shall meet them all later, but now let me present you to two of the sights of Paris, Mr. Richard Elliott and Mr. Stanley Rowden."
"You cut the studio to-day," said Elliott, suddenly turning on Clifford, who avoided his eyes.
"To commune with nature?" observed Rowden.
"What's her name this time?" asked Elliott, and Rowden answered promptly, "Name, Yvette; nationality, Breton—"
The subject changed instantly, and Selby listened in surprise to names which were new to him, and eulogies32 on the latest Prix de Rome winner. He was delighted to hear opinions boldly expressed and points honestly debated, although the vehicle was mostly slang, both English and French. He longed for the time when he too should be plunged33 into the strife34 for fame.
The bells of St. Sulpice struck the hour, and the Palace of the Luxembourg answered chime on chime. With a glance at the sun, dipping low in the golden dust behind the Palais Bourbon, they rose, and turning to the east, crossed the Boulevard St. Germain and sauntered toward the école de Médecine. At the corner a girl passed them, walking hurriedly. Clifford smirked35, Elliott and Rowden were agitated36, but they all bowed, and, without raising her eyes, she returned their salute10. But Selby, who had lagged behind, fascinated by some gay shop window, looked up to meet two of the bluest eyes he had ever seen. The eyes were dropped in an instant, and the young fellow hastened to overtake the others.
"By Jove," he said, "do you fellows know I have just seen the prettiest girl—" An exclamation37 broke from the trio, gloomy, foreboding, like the chorus in a Greek play.
"Rue Barrée!"
"What!" cried Selby, bewildered.
The only answer was a vague gesture from Clifford.
Two hours later, during dinner, Clifford turned to Selby and said, "You want to ask me something; I can tell by the way you fidget about."
"Yes, I do," he said, innocently enough; "it's about that girl. Who is she?"
In Rowden's smile there was pity, in Elliott's bitterness.
"Her name," said Clifford solemnly, "is unknown to any one, at least," he added with much conscientiousness38, "as far as I can learn. Every fellow in the Quarter bows to her and she returns the salute gravely, but no man has ever been known to obtain more than that. Her profession, judging from her music-roll, is that of a pianist. Her residence is in a small and humble39 street which is kept in a perpetual process of repair by the city authorities, and from the black letters painted on the barrier which defends the street from traffic, she has taken the name by which we know her,—Rue Barrée. Mr. Rowden, in his imperfect knowledge of the French tongue, called our attention to it as Roo Barry—"
"I didn't," said Rowden hotly.
"And Roo Barry, or Rue Barrée, is to-day an object of adoration to every rapin in the Quarter—"
"We are not rapins," corrected Elliott.
"I am not," returned Clifford, "and I beg to call to your attention, Selby, that these two gentlemen have at various and apparently40 unfortunate moments, offered to lay down life and limb at the feet of Rue Barrée. The lady possesses a chilling smile which she uses on such occasions and," here he became gloomily impressive, "I have been forced to believe that neither the scholarly grace of my friend Elliott nor the buxom41 beauty of my friend Rowden have touched that heart of ice."
Elliott and Rowden, boiling with indignation, cried out, "And you!"
"I," said Clifford blandly, "do fear to tread where you rush in."
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1
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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3
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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5
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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6
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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7
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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8
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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9
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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10
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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11
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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12
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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13
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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15
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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16
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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17
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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18
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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20
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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27
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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29
awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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30
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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32
eulogies
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| n.颂词，颂文( eulogy的名词复数 ) | |
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33
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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35
smirked
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| v.傻笑( smirk的过去分词 ) | |
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36
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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37
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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38
conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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39
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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40
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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41
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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