Part 9

"He speaks!" cried Huit Reflets, whirling around and addressing the throng. "He _dares_ to speak, this bad sou, this oyster! He does not comprehend that he is discharged. He counts that I am about to resign in his favor! Ah, non, it is too much!"

He flung himself about again, facing Maxime.

"Well, then," he added with forced calm, "thou art put at the door, is it clear? Take thy rags from yonder, and begone!"

"Mais, monsieur"--

"Oh!" cried the director, flinging his arms upward; and immediately vanished within the silver gates of Heaven, followed by his personnel, with the fallen angel bringing up the rear.

Half an hour later, having exchanged his celestial raiment for his former earthly garb, Monsieur Perrot sat in solitary state at a table in the café Cyrano, and pondered the details of a project of revenge. The idea had come to him suddenly, like an inspiration, on seeing the nonchalant demon at the portals of L'Enfer, but it required arranging, elaboration. A man who made one blunder was but human, but a man who made two in succession--that was a mere root of celery! So l'L Majuscule thought hard. And when the will is so earnest, it is strange if the way be not forthcoming. At midnight he arose with a sigh of satisfaction, and took his way homeward, smiling.

It was barely eight o'clock, the following evening, when Maxime entered L'Enfer. He was tastefully dressed in an excessively checked suit and a silk hat, and he wore a full black beard and spectacles, and rolled his r's in speaking, in the fashion of the South. The demon at the door, unsuspecting, greeted him effusively as "cher damné," and piloted him to a table at the further end of the cabaret. The table had a ground-glass top, through which shone electric lights which kept changing mysteriously from green to red and back again, and the whole interior of L'Enfer was of imitation rock, diversified by grinning faces. It was very artistic, and, what was better, very dark. Maxime was unnecessarily mistrustful of his false beard.

At this early hour, he was the only visitor. An obliging demon supplied him with a green chartreuse, and, upon invitation, procured another for himself, and took the opposite seat.

The conversation, which began with commonplaces, soon assumed a more intimate tone. Monsieur, it appeared, was from Toulouse, but this was not his first visit to L'Enfer. In fact, a place so amusing--what? He never missed it when he came to Paris.

Oh, but monsieur was too good!

No, on the contrary, it was for his own pleasure. It suited him to a marvel, blague à part! And often, he had had a curious fancy--to be a demon himself, imagine! To serve in the cabaret for just one evening, by way of variety--for, as for himself, he gave less for a life without variety than did a fish for an apple. That was the reason he had sometimes thought of applying to the management for permission to--but then, of course, the idea was fantastic, and, without doubt, quite impossible.

Oh, quite impossible, monsieur!

But, after all, why not? Not the management, naturally. That was out of the question, it went without saying. But an obliging demon, perhaps--a bon type, who understood these eccentricities, as a man of the world--one who would consent to a brief illness--for one night only--and who would provide a substitute, _in the person of monsieur_! Fantastic--what?--rigolo, mon Dieu!--very rigolo, and, of course, quite impossible.

In some mysterious fashion a louis suddenly made its appearance on the illuminated table.

Oh, quite impossible, monsieur! Evidently, affairs did not arrange themselves like that. Monsieur must understand that the pourboires which one gained in Hell were enormous--but _enormous_! It would be to throw away a fortune, to give up one's place for an entire evening. For forty francs, perhaps--but then it was certain that monsieur would not care--

There was a tiny click upon the table-top, and the one louis had become two. A most surprising place, L'Enfer!

Ah! But in addition, there were details to be arranged, and one could not talk with frankness in the cabaret.

The doors at the further end swung open, and the demon of the gate made his appearance, ushering in a group of tourists. Maxime substituted two francs for the two louis, and rose.

"That for the liqueurs, my friend," he said, "and what you say is true. The café Cyrano is a better place for talking. At midnight."

Fifty-seven francs. The project had cost him fifty-seven francs, said the fallen angel to himself, as, twenty-four hours later, he dusted an illuminated table. What with his beard, and his spectacles, and two chartreuses in L'Enfer, and six demis at the café Cyrano--for the conference had been long--and, finally, the bribe to the obliging demon, revenge had cost him fifty-seven francs and it was not yet complete! But the prospects therefor were fair. He chuckled silently, with his eyes on the parti-wall which divided Hell from Heaven. It was eleven o'clock.

Suddenly there was a stir in the cabaret. A voice was calling, "This way, chers damnés, to the Hall of the Infernal Visions!" and the clients were rising from their tables, and crowding out like sheep through a narrow door to the right. Almost immediately the place was empty, save for the fallen angel and two other demons, clearing away the liqueur glasses, and setting the stools in place. It was the dreamt-of moment. Maxime walked carelessly toward the door.

In Le Ciel, the long table was full from end to end. The high-priest in his pulpit was delivering his accustomed discourse with extreme satisfaction, and the head angel making the round of the room, bearing the golden pig upon the pole. The angels, each in his place, abode the moment of the clients' exodus into the Hall of the Celestial Visions, which was coincident with the semi-hourly harvest of pourboires. In particular, their eyes were fixed upon a party of American tourists, under direction of a uniformed guide. These were worthy of comment, and received it. It appeared that the thin lady with the loose cloth costume was an empty bed ticking. There were other remarks, but this, from Gustave Robine, was the most successful. However, there were the pourboires to be considered, so the angels spoke in whispers.

Of a sudden, the calm of Heaven was broken by an appalling sound, something midway between a shriek and a bark, and on the end of the table nearest the door appeared a terrible form, black-bearded and all in scarlet, with two long feathers nodding from his cap, and a polished two-pronged pitchfork brandished in one upraised hand. An instant he paused, superbly statuesque, his eyes blazing, an incarnation of demoniac fury. And, as if the sensation produced by his dramatic entrance were not sufficient, the newcomer received unexpected support from the thin lady in loose cloth costume, who, upon his appearance, promptly exclaimed "Good land!" and fell backward off her stool upon the floor.

Then Bedlam broke loose. The doorway of Le Ciel is less than a metre in width, and when a score of affrighted tourists, and seven angels, and six French students with their grisettes, and a high-priest, and two corpulent Germans, and a sexton, and Gustave Robine are suddenly and simultaneously imbued with a desire to sample the air of the boulevard de Clichy, confusion is apt to result. There were shrieks and groans, protestations, oaths in three languages, a wild chaos of legs and arms, wings, white tunics, traveling caps, tweed suits, and golden stools, and over all pranced the crimson form of the invader, whirling up and down the table with unearthly cries, and kicking the liqueur glasses and little saucers in every direction. They were all agreed, both mortals and celestials, in believing him a madman, and agreed, also, in thinking the pavement of the boulevard a thing greatly to be desired. The demon paused presently, and watched them struggling in a frenzied mass about the door, and then he vanished as abruptly as he had appeared.

For l'L Majuscule had not wasted the early hours of the evening in L'Enfer, and he knew now that the rear entrances of Heaven and Hell gave upon a common court, full of barrels, and empty bottles, and discarded properties, and even as the panic he had created was at its height, he had made the circuit, and was bustling into his original disguise.

The doorkeeper of L'Enfer, on the outlook for clients, had stared in stupefaction as Maxime, in his demon's garb, darted past him and plunged into the entrance of Le Ciel, and when, a moment later, his ears were startled by the pandemonium inside the rival cabaret, he had first, with commendable presence of mind, shouted "Au feu! A l'assassin! Au secours!" to his fellows in L'Enfer, and then repeated the cry at the top of his lungs on the curb of the boulevard. So it was that the clients and personnel of Heaven and Hell reached the sidewalk almost simultaneously. Gustave, halberd in hand, came full upon a demon barring his path, and, mistaking him for the original intruder, fell upon him furiously. Other demons came to their companion's aid, other angels to Gustave's, and immediately fourscore individuals were battling desperately, without knowing or caring why. Agents appeared as if by magic, screaming for reinforcement, and pulling fainting women out of the mêlée by their heads and heels. Spectators ran up by hundreds, and formed a rampart around the fray. And, to add chaos to confusion, a detachment of sapeurs-pompiers presently drove up in a red wagon, their horn hee-hawing like an impatient donkey. Last of all, a thin gentleman with preposterously large feet, black-bearded, spectacled, and wearing an excessively checked suit, came calmly out of L'Enfer, shouldered his way to a position of vantage in the throng, and stood, smiling down upon the havoc.

Peace was restored. But a half dozen of the combatants were already in the hands of the police, and were hurried away to the poste, protesting volubly. Among these were Gustave Robine, in a pitiful state of demoralization, and the doorkeeper of L'Enfer, and the director of Le Ciel, with his huits reflets, crushed to an unrecognizable mass, clutched desperately in his hand.

Then every second person in the crowd explained to his neighbor how it all occurred, and, among others, a stalwart workingman proceeded to enlighten the spectacled gentleman at his side.

"It appears there was a madman," he said. "Bon sang! What places, these cabarets--what infected boxes, name of a dog!"

"Ah, ça!" replied the other, rolling his r's in speaking, in the fashion of the South, and leering at the back of the struggling director. "But then such an affair is in the chapter of variety, and as for me, I care less for a life without variety than does a fish for an apple!"

Poire!

LIEUTENANT EUGENE DROUIN slid from his saddle with a little grunt, slipped his arm through the bridle-rein, and then, with his riding crop, rapped smartly on the round, tin-topped table nearest to him. At the summons, a small square door on the left of the archway snapped open, and a stumpy waiter, shaped like a domino, appeared abruptly on the sill.

"Froid!" shouted the officer.

The domino waiter made a vague gesture in the air with one fat hand, and then vanished as suddenly as he had appeared, closing the door behind him with a slam. If he had but seen fit to observe "Cuckoo!" the whole affair--the sort of châlet from which he emerged, the small square door, and his own performance--would have borne a remarkable resemblance to a Swiss clock striking one.

Lieutenant Drouin detached an end of the rein from the snaffle-bar, knotted it about the back of one chair and flung himself into another.

"Poof!" he said, and lit a cigarette.

It was exactly one o'clock, and the Pré Catalan was deserted, save for a half dozen cats of various breeds and colors, chasing each other about under the chairs and tables, and two brilliant macaws sitting on wooden perches in an apparent state of coma, broken only by an occasional reflective "Wawk!" Once, a high cart flashed in an opening of the trees to the left, and then disappeared with a rattle of harness chains, in the direction of the porte Dauphine. For the rest, there was nothing to suggest that Paris might not be fifty kilometres distant. All the world was at breakfast.

Eugène stretched his legs, squinted at the toes of his narrow riding boots, and swore tenderly at himself for having refused the invitation of the Marquise de Baucheron. Experience might have taught him that Rosa de Mirecourt would not be in the Bois that morning. It was a peculiarity of Rosa's to be in evidence on every occasion when her presence was not to be desired, and never to turn up when one was in the mood to chat or breakfast with her. Eugène had measured the Acacias bridle-path at a canter eight times since noon, scanning the driveway for a glimpse of the blue and scarlet victoria with the cream-colored mares, and all in vain. Rosa was nowhere to be seen. By this time, no doubt, some other lieutenant of chasseurs was thrashing out the latest gossip of the demi-monde over her breakfast table in the rue de Bassano, and still another was, in all probability, filling his place at Madame de Baucheron's, and eating the Friday breakfast--sole cardinale and oeufs brouillés aux crevettes--for which her chef was famous. Baste! what a world!

The domino waiter reappeared presently in the doorway, came quickly across to Eugène's table with a curious, tottering shuffle born of his swaddling apron, and served a small white mug of cold milk as if it had been Château Latour-Blanche.

"Beautiful weather, my lieutenant," he ventured cheerfully, for he had done his service, and knew the meaning of the single epaulette.

But Eugène was in no mood for light conversation. For sole reply, he paid his score, and then drank the milk slowly, looking out toward the lower lake, across the wide stretch of fresh grass mottled with flecks of sunlight sifted through the foliage above. At his side Vivandière nuzzled the turf along the border of the graveled terrasse, the lithe muscles rippling in her polished neck, and her deep eye shifting now and again in its socket as she looked doubtfully, almost pleadingly, toward her master. They were well known on the Allée and the bridle-path of the avenue du Bois, these two,--the young chasseur, tall, clean-cut, and slender, with a complexion like a girl's, and the gayety of Polichinelle himself, in full red breeches and tunic of black and light blue; and the chestnut mare, nervous and alert, with her racing lines, and her long, leisurely gallop, superb in its suggestion of reserve speed and unflagging endurance.

The fates were kind to Lieutenant Eugène Drouin. Paris, spring, youth, an ample fortune, a commission in the _chasseurs_, good looks, a thoroughbred Arab, and a half dozen women frankly in love with him,--surely there was nothing lacking; and yet he knew that something was lacking, though he could not have said what, as he sat sprawling in his little iron chair at the Pré Catalan that morning.

He straightened himself suddenly, as she came up the driveway from the left, and then rose with a stiff salute, for, a pace or so behind, walked Vieux César, so-called by an irreverent garrison, leading two horses, one limping badly. Eugène had seen him but once, at the review of the Quatorze Juillet, but, though he was not in uniform now, the fierce gray mustache and keen black eyes of General Tournadour were too familiar to Parisians to pass unrecognized in a throng, much less under circumstances such as these. When one has been Military Governor of Paris, and held the portfolio of war, one does not achieve _incognito_ merely by donning a black civile. So Eugène saluted the general--but with his eyes on the girl.

She was not beautiful, he told himself, in that first moment of surprise and swift observation, but about her, as she barely glanced at him in passing, there was an indefinably compellant charm which arrested his attention and held it, like an unrecognized but strangely sweet perfume, suddenly met with in a familiar spot where there is no apparent reason for its presence. Without doubt, it was a very little thing. He knew enough of such matters to be aware that an unanalyzed attraction of the kind which, at first glance, makes a woman appear utterly irresistible, is apt, on closer acquaintance, to resolve itself into the merest trifle of dissimilarity from other women,--a tilt of a lip-corner, a dimple in an unlikely spot, a trick with the hands or the head, a rebellious wisp of hair. For he was very philosophical, and very wise, was Eugène, and twenty-six years of age, into the bargain. So there was nothing one could tell him about women. But, in any event, there was no time to define the particular charm in question. He felt rather than saw it, as she went by him, with the faintest possible whiff of orris, and the gleam of a patent-leather boot at the edge of her habit. No, she was certainly not beautiful, but she was something dangerously, deliciously akin, said Lieutenant Drouin to himself; and that, in the unloveliest costume that can be worn by womankind,--a deep-green habit of extreme severity, and a squat derby, like a boy's, with an elastic strap brutally grooving her ruddy hair.

General Tournadour did not follow the girl beyond the spot where Eugène was standing, but drew up abruptly, and indicated the lamed horse with a gesture of irritation.

"A beautiful affair, my word, lieutenant!" he said. "This animal stumbled, back there, and has received some injury,--I know not what. We have walked from the Allée, in hope of finding a sapin here, and all without result."

The young officer was already feeling the animal's hocks with a practiced hand. There was a swelling just above the right fore fetlock, and as he touched it, the horse winced and kicked out sharply.

"A bad wrench, I fear, my general," said Eugène. "He should have an hour's rest, at least." Then, looking quickly at the saddle, "It is evident that madame cannot ride him home. No doubt they will give him a stall in the farm stable. You can send a groom out for him this afternoon."

"Dieu! That is very well, monsieur," answered the former minister of war, with an air of perplexity amusingly in contrast with his fierce moustache. "But my daughter"--

Now Lieutenant Drouin, in matters where a woman was concerned, was nothing if not adroit. He sent a flying glance in the direction of the girl. She had aroused one of the comatose macaws from his lethargy, and now stood watching him as he munched the biscuit she had taken from a neighboring table. And again Eugène was conscious of an inexplicable but very decided little thrill.

"If Mademoiselle Tournadour--if you, my general, will consider me at your service, I shall be glad to have you make use of my mare Vivandière, here. She is as gentle as a lamb--but, perhaps, not unworthy of being seen in company with your own horse."

The General's eyes twinkled at the boyishness of the remark. He knew a horse as well as another, Vieux César, and to describe the superb Arab before him as being, perhaps, not unworthy of being seen in company with his own sturdy charger was a bit of satire much to his relish.

"Merci!" he answered. "It is the proposal of an officer and a gentleman. But my daughter must decide if it is possible for us to accept it. In the matter of names, monsieur, you have me at an advantage."

"Pardon!" said the other. "I should have realized that. I am Eugène Drouin, lieutenant of the 29th Chasseurs."

"Natalie!" cried the General, beckoning with his crop.

As Mademoiselle Tournadour came forward, the young chasseur again made a confidant of himself, this time for the satisfaction of observing that he was an imbecile, and that a man who could not tell at the first glance whether or not a woman was entirely beautiful, deserved not to have an opportunity of discovering the fact at all. Their eyes met fairly, his glowing with delighted surprise, hers touched with that expression of negative inquiry and polite interest which immediately precedes an introduction.

"My daughter," said the General, prodding the air with his crop in her direction. "Lieutenant Drouin, of the 29th Chasseurs," he added, prodding again, in the direction of Eugène. "Monsieur le lieutenant has been so kind as to offer thee the use of his own horse, and suggests that we leave Le Cid here to be cared for until I can send Victor for him. I tell him thou art the one to decide."

"Monsieur, you are truly kind," said the girl easily--_too_ easily, thought Eugène!--"but it would be to presume upon your generosity."

"But it is nothing," protested the officer. "Voyons! It is but a step to La Muette, and there I have the Ceinture!"

"You are stationed at the quartier de cavalerie?" asked Tournadour.

"Rue Desaix, yes, mon général," answered Eugène. Then, turning again to the girl, "Surely you must consent, mademoiselle. It is the simplest way. And this afternoon, if you will permit me"--

"Yes," put in the General, "and this afternoon Victor can leave your horse at the caserne as he is coming to take Le Cid.

"Eh, dis-donc, Natalie," he added, fretfully, observing that the girl still hesitated. "Don't make difficulties, my dear. There is breakfast--yes, breakfast to be considered, and it is one, and past. Since the lieutenant is so kind"--

"Since the lieutenant is so kind," said his daughter with a smile, "eh bien, I accept."

It was the work of a moment for Eugène to shift the side-saddle from Le Cid to Vivandière. The general had already mounted, and was gazing off toward the porte Dauphine, with his nose in the air, as if he scented breakfast from afar.

"She is very beautiful, monsieur, your Vivandière, and you are very good," said Mademoiselle Tournadour, as the chasseur tightened the girth, after her boot had touched his hand, and she was in the saddle.

"She is very fortunate, mademoiselle," answered Eugène, curiously embarrassed for one so skilled in compliment. "If she wins, I shall feel that she owes the race to this good omen."

"The race?" said the girl.

"The Officers' Steeple Chase at Auteuil, on Sunday."

"You ride her yourself?"

There was a strange little note of more than casual interest in the question, and Eugène looked up suddenly. For the second time their eyes met.

"Yes," he answered. "Why?"

"Why? But nothing, monsieur, except, perhaps, to wish you bonne chance."

She touched Vivandière with her heel.

"Adieu, monsieur," she added, "and a thousand thanks!"

Eugène bowed.

"For nothing," he said, "and au revoir, mademoiselle!"

Then he watched them out of sight, with his arm through Le Cid's bridle-rein, and his trim English saddle sprawling at his feet.

There was something delightfully ingenuous, to Eugène's way of thinking, in Vieux César's method of unloading the burden of his embarrassment on the shoulders of the first young lieutenant who crossed his path, and then riding off serenely to breakfast, leaving the other, as it were, to gather up and disentangle the loose ends of the situation. He was half amused, half annoyed that his offer of Vivandière had not been taken less as a matter of course; but, in view of the circumstances, he attended with fairly good grace to the details of stabling Le Cid, and arranging to send for his saddle, and then struck out at a swinging gait for the footpath to La Muette. For all of which there was a sufficient reason in the person of Mademoiselle Tournadour.