CHAPTER I

AFTER THE QUAT’Z-ARTS BALL

At daybreak, Phil Longwill, the young American painter, entered his studio, threw away his cigar, gulped down the contents of his water-jug—and then slipped into an arm-chair and dozed.

What a night!

In his half-sleep he thought he was still at the Quat’z-Arts Ball, from which he had just come; he still heard the murmuring noise of the multitude, like the prolonged “moo-o-o” of oxen in the stable; and there still moved before his eyes the restless throng, masked in the skins of beasts or trailing gilt-embroidered mantles.

His dreaming had the sharp relief of life; but it was the car on which Helia was drawn—Helia the circus-girl, the little friend of his boyhood, whom he had not seen for so long and whom he found here with surprise—it was this car, with the superb figure of Helia at its summit, which eclipsed all the rest.

The car itself was an attention of Phil’s friends. They had chosen for its subject the personages of the “Fata Morgana”—a great decorative picture which Phil was finishing for the Duke of Morgania.

Helia, upright at the very summit of the car, like an idol at the pinnacle of a temple, personified Morgana, the fairy, the saint, the legendary Queen of the Adriatic. Lower down, seated at the four corners, Thilda, Marka, Rhodaïs the slave, and Bertha the Amazon—the four heroines of Morgania—kept watch and ward over their queen.

The car, drawn by knights, advanced amid hushed admiration. Helia seemed to float above the sea of heads, and behind her the great hall was ablaze with lights.

Phil, dozing in his arm-chair, saw himself, clad in his magnificent Indian costume, marching at the head of the car, brandishing his tomahawk in honor of Morgana. Then, at the breaking up of the cortège when the procession was over, there were the supper-tables taken by storm amid cries and laughter.

And the feast began.

Helmets and swords ceased to shine. Hands laid down battle-axes to wield knives and forks; warriors fell upon the food as they might have done after a night of pillage. Each man kissed his fair neighbor. Poufaille, the sculptor, disguised as the prehistoric man, put his hairy muzzle against the rosy cheeks of Suzanne, his model. Close at hand, Phil, the Indian chief, seated at the table of the Duke of Morgania, talked with Helia of old times, of the strolling circus in which he had known her, of their meeting in her dressing-room below the benches; and he said to her in a low voice:

“Do you remember when I used to go to wait for you?”

“And you,” answered Helia, “the flowers you gave me—do you remember?”

But now it was full day and the sun was lighting up the studio. Phil’s memories faded little by little, scattered by the early morning cries of Paris. The shrill piping of the wandering plumber awakened him with a start just as he was dropping off into real sleep and seeing in his dream Helia soar through a strange world amid heavenly splendors.

“Here’s the morning paper, M. Longwill,” said the old concierge, who came up with the mail; but he stopped short with open mouth at the sight of Phil’s costume. To dress one’s self like that! _Etait-il Dieu possible!_ They didn’t have such ideas in his time!

Certainly, Phil was an odd figure in his Indian dress. If he lowered his head he risked scratching his chin against the bear’s claws of his collar. He was clad in leather and glass beads. There were feathers down his legs and a calumet was stuck in his belt. At his feet lay the tomahawk which he had brandished a few hours before in honor of beautiful Helia. He had the look of a veritable savage. No one would have recognized in him the society painter, descendant of Philidor de Longueville, the Protestant banished from France by Louis XIV, who became a great proprietor in Virginia.

“Ah, monsieur,” the concierge began again, “in the old times when you took walks with Mlle. Helia in my garden on the roofs of the Louvre, where I was inspector, you didn’t need to dress up like that to amuse yourself. Ah, it was the good time then! I remember one day—”

“I say, concierge,” interrupted Phil, in a solemn tone; “go down quick and get me a bottle of seltzer water. I am dying of thirst!”

The concierge disappeared.

“Ouf!” Phil gave a sigh of relief. “The old man, with his good old times, was starting off on his remembrances. He is in for two hours when he begins with the Louvre garden. Bah! that’s all fol-de-rol,” he added, smoothing his hair with his hand, “not to speak of my having so many things to do this morning. Let’s see: first, Miss Rowrer; then the duke is to bring Helia. It appears that Helia has the legendary Morgana type,—so the duke told me, after seeing her last night,—and, at the duke’s request, she agrees to pose for my picture. Oh, I was forgetting! I am expecting Caracal also.”

Phil detested Caracal. This critic was his _bête noire_, a man sweet and bitter at the same time, who talked of him behind his back as a painter for pork-packers and a dauber without talent.

Phil had never forgotten his first impression of the critic. He met him shortly after his arrival in Paris, in the studio of the sculptor Poufaille, and later on in the Restaurant de la Mère Michel, and at the Café des Deux Magots, during his student years. Caracal was outwardly correct and an intimate friend of the duke, and he was received at the Rowrers’; and Phil had to be agreeable to him. Nevertheless, he was going to play him a trick.

As he opened the morning paper, Phil looked around to assure himself that the pictures in his studio had their faces turned to the wall, and that his painting of the Fata Morgana was covered with a veil. It was for Caracal’s benefit that he had made these arrangements the evening before; and he smiled as he gave a glance at the portière which separated his studio from a little adjoining room, where his trick was ready.

“Ah, I’m commonplace, am I—no originality? We shall see!” he said to himself, laughing.

“What’s the news?” Phil went on, as he looked absently through the paper. “‘A Description of the Bal des Quat’z-Arts.’ Pass!—‘A Case of Treason.’ Pass!—‘War Declared.’ _Diable!_ ‘The Fleet of the Prince of Monaco Threatening English Ports.’ Pass!—Good! Here’s another extract from the ‘Tocsin’: ‘The Tomb of Richard the Lion-hearted to be Stolen from France! Interference of Yankee Gold in French Politics,’ signed ‘An Indignant Patriot.’”

The foolishness of the article did not prevent Phil’s reading it to the end.

“That’s all very amusing,” he thought; “but why these personal allusions? What have the Rowrers to do with it? And who can be writing such nonsense?”

Phil turned the page disdainfully, when a sound in the room made him lift his eyes.

Caracal stood before him.

Phil had not heard him come in. Caracal entered without knocking, as the concierge in his hurry had forgotten to close the door. The critic looked mockingly at Phil, like those devils who, in German legends, start up from a hole in the floor and offer you some crooked bargain in exchange for your soul. He greeted Phil with an affectation of politeness.

“How are you, _cher ami_?”

Caracal turned the glitter of his monocle on the Indian costume.

“Very, very curious—very amusing—very American! From last night’s ball, doubtless?”

For once there was nothing to say, and Caracal was right. It was really very American.

Occupied with his paper, Phil had forgotten to change his costume. He rose, excused himself briefly, and asked after Caracal’s health.

“Thanks, _cher ami_, I’m very well; allow me to admire you!”

“Wait a bit,” thought Phil to himself. “I’ll give you something to admire!”

But Caracal, with his squirrel-like activity, was already inspecting the studio and the pictures which were turned with their faces to the wall.

“Oh, ho!” he asked, “so you blush for your work, _mon cher_? Yet your talent is very interesting, very American.”

“Don’t let us talk of such trifles,” said Phil; “I show them only to the ignorant. You’re not really acquainted with my works, M. Caracal—those which I paint for myself alone, those into which I put my soul, as your friend, the painter-philosopher Socrate, used to say. Allow me to show them to you. Enter, M. Caracal!”

Lifting the portière of the little room, Phil showed the way to Caracal, who stopped on the threshold in amazement. Phil was fond of practical jokes. With imperturbable seriousness he had gathered in this room all the grotesque works which he had found among the art-junk-dealers in his chance explorations. If he found a picture cast aside,—provided it was utterly bad,—Phil bought it. There was one canvas, among the others, which represented cows—something so fearful that Phil, the first time he saw it, scarcely knew whether to groan, or shout with laughter.

It was in his concierge’s lodge that Phil one day had conceived the idea of this collection. The old man of “my time,” the former inspector of the Louvre roofs, had on his chimney under bell-glasses two little personages—Monsieur and Madame—made from lobster-shells; a claw formed the nose, and the tail was turned into coat-skirts.

“Eureka!” thought Phil, when he saw them. “But I must have something better still.” And he at once began a search through the slums of impressionism and modern style; and he had found what he wanted.

“_Eh bien_, M. Caracal, what do you think of that?” asked Phil.

Caracal, at first upset, pulled himself together.

“Bravo, _mon cher_! you’ve found your line! You are revealed to yourself! My congratulations, _cher ami_!”

“Does the ignoramus take it seriously?—No; that would be too funny!” Phil said to himself amazed in his turn.

Phil, with his glass beads jingling at every step, took the cow painting and set it in full light. The frightful beasts lowered their crocodile heads to graze in a fantastic meadow whose daisies resembled white plates with egg-yolks in the middle.

Phil looked at Caracal and winked his eye. Caracal answered by a prudent shrug. Phil was one of those rare Americans who can shrug and wink. The mute dialogue went on:

“That catches you, _mon vieux_ Caracal!” said the wink.

“Idiot!” answered the shoulders; “you’ll pay me for this—to make fun of me—Caracal!”

“Each has his turn!” winked Phil.

Caracal fixed his eye-glass and stared at the picture.

“Very—very interesting—very original. That’s art—that ought to be at the Luxembourg! Oughtn’t it, _cher ami_?”

“The deuce!” thought Phil.

“And this, look at this!” said Caracal, taking up an abominable sketch for a pork-butcher’s sign. “Here’s the quintessence of animalism! Bravo, _mon cher_, you’re the man I’m looking for!”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Phil, to himself.

“Let me explain. I am looking for an artist to illustrate my new novel.”

Phil made a gesture of protest.

“No commonplace book,” Caracal went on, “but a bitter, bleeding slice of life—something which takes you by the throat, makes you weep and shriek and pant!”

Caracal explained his book. The general idea (an idea of genius, according to him) was this: A vast house rises in the midst of Paris, all of glass, transparent from top to bottom, without curtains. Therein swarm all the vices; yet there are no crimes, so soft and weak-willed are the personages, so incapable of anger or hatred. And they drag themselves from floor to floor, on all-fours like swine. Title, “The House of Glass”—and there you are!

“And you offer me collaboration in such nastiness?” said Phil.

“Do you know what you are saying?” replied Caracal.

“It’s my idea of your literature, and I say what I think.”

“Let it be so, _mon cher_; we’ll say no more about it. Rather let us look at your beautiful works. That cow painting is superb! It’s as fine as a Millet. If it’s for sale, I’ll buy it!”

“If you want it, take it. I won’t sell it. I’ll give it to you.”

They came back into the studio. Caracal, well pleased with the gift, swung his monocle familiarly. Then they talked of other things, of yesterday’s ball, of the “Tocsin,” whose sensational head-lines stared at them from the floor.

“What do you think of that?” Phil asked, pointing to the newspaper.

“It’s idiotic, _mon cher_, utterly idiotic. I don’t know where Vieillecloche picks up such asinine stuff.”

“Who does the articles for him?” demanded Phil.

“Who knows?” answered Caracal.

With a glance at the clock, Phil excused himself.

“Will you permit me? I must get ready—the concierge is going to do up the studio. Be seated, please; I’ll be with you again in a moment.”

Caracal sat down on a lounge to wait for Phil, who went to his room to change his Indian costume.

The concierge returned. He began dusting the studio, and in his zeal rubbed off half a pastel with his feather duster. He pulled the veil from sketches, and set the easels in place. The studio began to be peopled with half-finished portraits, with designs, with studies of every kind, representing an immense amount of labor. The canvas of Morgana, in particular, rid of the cover which veiled it, illuminated all with a glow of legend. The figure of the fairy queen was barely indicated; but Helia was to pose for Phil, as she had promised, and with a month’s work all would be finished.

Caracal, in spite of his jealous ignorance, could not help admiring the superb production; but he rubbed his hands as he thought of the picture of the cows which he was going to carry away with him. He glanced slyly at Phil, who came back smartly dressed and refreshed from his bath, fit and full of the joy of life, ready for work, in spite of his sleepless night.