A Chair on the Boulevard | Page 7

then they rehearsed it, the three of them, over and over, inventing
always new effects. And then the night for the song is arrived. It has
rained all day, and they have walked together in the rain--the singer,
and the men who loved her, both--to the little café-concert where she
would appear.
They tremble in the room, among the crowd, Pitou and Tricotrin; they
are agitated. There are others who sing--it says nothing to them. In the
room, in the Future, there is only Paulette!
It is very hot in the café-concert, and there is too much noise. At last
they ask her: "Is she nervous?" She shakes her head: "Mais non!" She
smiles to them.
Attend! It is her turn. Ouf; but it is hot in the café-concert, and there is

too much noise! She mounts the platform. The audience are careless; it
continues, the jingle of the glasses, the hum of talk. She begins.
Beneath the table Tricotrin has gripped the hand of Pitou.
Wait! Regard the crowd that look at her! The glasses are silent, now,
hein? The talk has stopped. To a great actress is come her chance.
There is not too much noise in the café-concert!
But, when she finished! What an uproar! Never will she forget it. A
thousand times she has told the story, how it was written--the song--
and how it made her famous. Before two weeks she was the attraction
of the Ambassadeurs, and all Paris has raved of Paulette Fleury.
Tricotrin and Pitou were mad with joy. Certainly Paris did not rave of
Pitou nor Tricotrin--there have not been many that remembered who
wrote the song; and it earned no money for them, either, because it was
hers --the gift of their love. Still, they were enraptured. To both of them
she owed equally, and more than ever it was a question which would be
the happy man.
Listen! When they are gone to call on her one afternoon she was not at
'ome. What had happened? I shall tell you. There was a noodle, rich--
what you call a "Johnnie in the Stalls"--who became infatuated with her
at the Ambassadeurs. He whistled "Partant pour le Moulin" all the days,
and went to hear it all the nights. Well, she was not at 'ome because she
had married him. Absolutely they were married! Her lovers have been
told it at the door.
What a moment! Figure yourself what they have suffered, both! They
had worshipped her, they had made sacrifices for her, they had created
for her her grand success; and, as a consequence of that song, she was
the wife of the "Johnnie in the Stalls"!
* * * * *
Far down the street, but yet distinct, the organ revived the tune again.
My Frenchman shuddered, and got up.

"I cannot support it," he murmured. "You understand? The associations
are too pathetic."
"They must be harrowing," I said. "Before you go, there is one thing I
should like to ask you, if I may. Have I had the honour of meeting
monsieur Tricotrin, or monsieur Pitou?"
He stroked his hat, and gazed at me in sad surprise. "Ah, but neither,
monsieur," he groaned. "The associations are much more 'arrowing
than that--I was the 'Johnnie in the Stalls'!"

TRICOTRIN ENTERTAINS
One night when Pitou went home, an unaccustomed perfume floated to
meet him on the stairs. He climbed them in amazement.
"If we lived in an age of miracles I should conclude that Tricotrin was
smoking a cigar," he said to himself. "What can it be?"
The pair occupied a garret in the rue des Trois Frères at this time,
where their window, in sore need of repairs, commanded an unrivalled
view of the dirty steps descending to the passage des Abbesses.
To-night, behold Tricotrin pacing the garret with dignity, between his
lips an Havannah that could have cost no less than a franc. The
composer rubbed his eyes.
"Have they made you an Academician?" he stammered. "Or has your
uncle, the silk manufacturer, died and left you his business?"
"My friend," replied the poet, "prepare yourself forthwith for 'a New
and Powerful Serial of the Most Absorbing Interest'! I am no longer the
young man who went out this evening--I am a celebrity."
"I thought," said the composer, "that it couldn't be you when I saw the
cigar."
"Figure yourself," continued Tricotrin, "that at nine o'clock I was

wandering on the Grand Boulevard with a thirst that could have
consumed a brewery. I might mention that I had also empty pockets,
but--"
"It would be to pad the powerful Serial shamelessly," said Pitou: "there
are things that one takes for granted."
"At the corner of the place de l'Opera a fellow passed me whom I knew
and yet did not