A Chair on the Boulevard | Page 3

those when
men of like mind and occupation sit at table, with a bottle between
them.
I am convinced that Mr. Merrick is a very great and gifted man, deeply
skilled in his profession. I can bring forth arguments and proofs to
support this conviction; but I fail utterly to see why I should do so. To
people who have a sense of that which is sincere and fresh in fiction,
these facts will be apparent. To them my arguments and illustrations
would be profitless. As for those honest persons to whom the
excellencies of Merrick are not apparent, I can only think that nothing
which I or any other man could say would render them obvious.
"Happiness is in ourselves," as the Vicar remarked to the donkey who
was pulling the lawn-mower.
Good luck, Leonard Merrick, and good cheer! I shout my greeting to
you across the ripples of that inky lake which is our common fishery.
A. NEIL LYONS.

A CHAIR ON THE BOULEVARD

THE TRAGEDY OF A COMIC SONG

I like to monopolise a table in a restaurant, unless a friend is with me,
so I resented the young man's presence. Besides, he had a melancholy
face. If it hadn't been for the piano-organ, I don't suppose I should have
spoken to him. As the organ that was afflicting Lisle Street began to
volley a comic song of a day that was dead, he started.
"That tune!" he murmured in French. If I did not deceive myself, tears
sprang to his eyes.
I was curious. Certainly, on both sides of the Channel, we had long ago
had more than enough of the tune--no self-respecting organ-grinder
rattled it now. That the young Frenchman should wince at the tune I
understood. But that he should weep!
I smiled sympathetically. "We suffered from it over here as well," I
remarked.
"I did not know," he said, in English that reproved my French, "it was
sung in London also--'Partant pour le Moulin'?"
"Under another name," I told him, "it was an epidemic."
Clearly, the organ had stirred distressing memories in him, for though
we fell to chatting, I could see that he neither talked nor dined with any
relish. As luck would have it, too, the instrument of torture resumed its
répertoire well within hearing, and when "Partant pour le Moulin" was
reached again, he clasped his head.
"You find it so painful?" I inquired.
"Painful?" he exclaimed. "Monsieur, it is my 'istory, that comic tune! It
is to me romance, tragedy, ruin. Will you hear? Wait! I shall range my
ideas. Listen:"
* * * * *
It is Paris, at Montmartre--we are before the door of a laundress. A girl
approaches. Her gaze is troubled, she frowns a little. What ails her? I

shall tell you: the laundress has refused to deliver her washing until her
bill is paid. And the girl cannot pay it--not till Saturday-- and she has
need of things to put on. It is a moment of anxiety.
She opens the door. Some minutes pass. The girl reappears, holding
under her arm a little parcel. Good! she has triumphed. In coming out
she sees a young man, pale, abstracted, who stands before the shop. He
does not attempt to enter. He stands motionless, regarding the window
with an air forlorn.
"Ah," she says to herself, "here is another customer who cannot pay his
bill!"
But wait a little. After 'alf an hour what happens? She sees the young
man again! This time he stands before a modest restaurant. Does he go
in? No, again no! He regards the window sorrowfully. He sighs. The
dejection of his attitude would melt a stone.
"Poor boy," she thought; "he cannot pay for a dinner either!"
The affair is not finished. How the summer day is beautiful--she will do
some footing! Figure yourself that once more she perceives the young
man. Now it is before the mont-de-piété, the pawnbroker's. She
watches him attentively. Here, at least, he will enter, she does not doubt.
She is wrong. It is the same thing--he regards, he laments, he turns
away!
"Oh, mon Dieu," she said. "Nothing remains to him to pawn even!"
It is too strong! She addressed him:
"Monsieur!"
But, when she has said "Monsieur," there is the question how she shall
continue. Now the young man regards the girl instead of the
pawnbroker's. Her features are pretty--or "pretty well"; her costume has
been made by herself, but it is not bad; and she has chic--above all she
has chic. He asks:

"What can I have the pleasure to do for you?"
Remark that she is bohemian, and he also.
The conversation was like this:
"Monsieur, three times this morning I have seen you. It was impossible
that I resist speaking. You