Zut, and Other Parisians. Carryl Guy Wetmore

six minutes, she had noted that unusual little pucker between his eyebrows, that sad little droop at the corners of his merry mouth. She told herself that Pierre had been overworking himself, that Pierre was tired, that Pierre needed cheering up. So Mimi, who was never tired, not even after ten hours in Madame Fraichel's millinery establishment, secretly declared war upon the unusual little pucker and the sad little droop.

      "Voyons donc, my Pierrot!" she said. "It is not a funeral to which we go to-morrow, at least! Thou must be gay, for we have much to talk of, thou knowest. One dines at La Boîte?"

      "The dinner is there, such as it is," replied Pierre gloomily.

      "What it is now, is not the question," said Mimi, with confidence, "but what I make of it – pas? And then there is to-morrow! Oh, lala, lalala! What a pleasure it will be, if only the good God gives us beautiful weather. Dis, donc, 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 selling newspapers on the curb. He shook his head without replying.

      "Eh, b'en, my little one, thou mayest believe me that it is of all places the most beautiful! One eats at the Esturgeon, on the Seine, – but on the Seine, with the water quite near, like that chair. He names himself Jarry, the proprietor, and it is a good type – fat and handsome. I adore him! Art thou jealous, species of thinness of a hundred nails? 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 one sings, eh? What 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 they both knew.

      "C'est votre ami Pierrot qui vient vous voir:

      Bonsoir, madame la lune!"

      "And then," she went on, as Pierre continued his sketch in silence, "and then, one disembarks at Villennes and has a Turin under the arbors of Bodin. Another handsome type, Bodin! Flut! What a man!"

      Mimi paused suddenly, and searched his cloudy face with her earnest, tender little eyes.

      "Pierrot," she said, softly, "what hast thou? Thou art not angry with thy gosseline?"

      Pierre surveyed the outline of the newspaper vender thoughtfully, touched it, here and there, with his pencil-point, squinted, and then pushed the paper toward the girl.

      "Not bad," he said, replacing his pencil in his pocket.

      But Mimi had no eyes for the caricature, and merely flicked the wine-card to the ground.

      "Pierrot" – she repeated.

      Vauquelin plunged his hands in his pockets and looked at her.

      "Well, then," he announced, almost brutally, "we do not go to-morrow."

      "Pierre!"

      It was going to be much worse than he had supposed, this little tragedy. Bon Dieu, how pretty she was, with her startled, hurt eyes, already filling with tears, and her parted lips, and her little white hand, that had flashed up to her cheek at his words! Oh, much worse than he had supposed! But she must be told: there was nothing but that. So Pierre put his elbows on the table, and his chin in his hands, and brought his face close to hers.

      "Voyons!" he explained, "thou dost not believe me angry! Mais non, mais non! But listen. It is I who am the next to the last of idiots, since I have never a sou in pocket, never! And the imbecile restaurateur, whose wife I have been painting, will not return until to-morrow, and so I am not paid. Voilà!"

      He placed his five-franc piece upon the table, and shrugged his shoulders.

      "One full moon!" he said, and piled the three sous upon it. "And three soldiers. As I sit here, that is all, until to-morrow night. We cannot go!"

      Brave little Mimi! Already she was winking back her tears, and smiling.

      "But that – that is nothing!" she answered. "I do not care to go. No – but truly! Look! We shall spend the day in the studio, and breakfast on the balcony, and pretend the rue Visconti is the Seine."

      "I am an empty siphon!" said Pierre, yielding to desperation.

      "Non!" said Mimi firmly.

      "I am a pierced basket, a box of matches!"

      "Non! Non!" said Mimi, with tremendous earnestness. "Thou art Pierrot, and I love thee! Let us say no more. I shall go back and prepare the dinner, and thou shalt remain and drink a Pernod. It will give thee heart. But follow quickly. Give me the key."

      She laid her wide-spread hand on his, palm upward, like a little pink starfish.

      "We go together, and I adore thee!" said Pierre, and kissed her in the sight of all men, and was not ashamed.

      Caffiard leaned forward, picked up the fallen wine-card, pretended to consult it, and ponderously arose. As Pierre was turning the key in the door of the little apartment, they heard a sound of heavy breathing, and the deus ex machina came lumbering up the winding stair.

      "Monsieur is seeking some one?" asked the painter politely.

      There was no breath left in Caffiard. He was only able, by way of reply, to point at the top button of Pierre's coat, and nod helplessly: then, as Mimi ran ahead to light the gas, he labored along the corridor, staggered through the curtained doorway, stumbled over a rattan stool, was rescued by Pierre, and, finally, established upon the divan, very red and gasping.

      For a time there was silence, Pierre and Mimi busying themselves in putting the studio to rights, with an instinctive courtesy which took no notice of their visitor's snorts and wheezes; and Caffiard taking note of his surroundings with his round, blinking eyes. Opposite him, against the wall, reposed the portrait of the restaurateur's wife, as dry and pasty as a stale cream cheese upon the point of crumbling, and on an easel was another – that of Monsieur Pantin, the rich shirt-maker of the boulevard St. Germain – on which Pierre was at work. A veritable atrocity this, with a green background which trespassed upon Monsieur Pantin's hair, and a featureless face, gaunt and haggard with yellow and purple undertones. There was nothing in either picture to refute one's natural suspicion that soap had been the medium employed. Caffiard blinked harder still as his eyes rested upon the portraits, and he secretly consulted the crumpled wine-card in his hand. Then he seemed to recover his breath by means of a profound sigh.

      "Monsieur makes caricatures?" he inquired.

      "Ah, monsieur," said Pierre, "at times, and for amusement only. I am a portraitist." And he pointed proudly to the 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. I am not interested in portraits. When it comes to caricatures" —

      "They are well enough 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!"

      Oh, yes, they are all alike, these painters!

      "What is serious, what is not serious?" answered Caffiard. "It is all a matter of opinion. One prefers to have his painting glued to the wall of the Salon, next the ceiling, another to have his drawing on the front page of La Blague."

      "Oh, naturally La Blague," protested Pierre.

      "I am its editor," said Caffiard superbly.

      "Eigh!" exclaimed Pierre. For Mimi had cruelly pinched his arm. Before the sting had passed, she was seated at Caffiard's side, tugging at the strings of a great portfolio.

      "Are they imbeciles, these painters, monsieur?" she was saying. "Now you shall see. This great baby is marvelous, but marvelous, with his caricatures. Not Léandre himself – it is I who assure you, monsieur! – and to hear him, one would think – but thou tirest me, Pierrot! – With his portraits! No, it is too much!"

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

      Caffiard's