In the Quarter

No – he would not go home just yet. The sun shone brightly; men passed, carrying their overcoats on their arms; a steam was rising from the pavements in the Square.

There was a crowd on the Pont au Change. He did not see any face distinctly, but there seemed to be a great many people, leaning over the parapets, looking down the river. He stopped and looked over too. The sun glared on the foul water eddying in and out among the piles and barges. Some men were rowing in a boat, furiously. Another boat followed close. A voice close by Gethryn cried, angrily:

``Dieu! who are you shoving?''

Rex moved aside; as he did so a gamin crowded quickly forward and craned over the edge, shouting, ``Vive le cadavre!''

``Chut!'' said another voice.

``Vive la Mort! Vive la Morgue!'' screamed the wretched little creature.

A policeman boxed his ears and pulled him back. The crowd laughed. The voice that had cried, ``Chut!'' said lower, ``What a little devil, that Rigaud!''

Rex moved slowly on.

In the Court of the Louvre were people enough and to spare. Some of them bowed to him; several called him to turn and join them. He lifted his hat to them all, as if he knew them, but passed on without recognizing a soul. The broad pavements were warm and wet, but the air must have been sharp to hurt his chest so. The great pigeons of the Louvre brushed by him. It seemed as if he felt the beat of their wings on his brains. A shabby-looking fellow asked him for a sou – and, taking the coin Rex gave him, shuffled off in a hurry; a dog followed him, he stooped and patted it; a horse fell, he went into the street and helped to raise it. He said to a man standing by that the harness was too heavy – and the man, looking after him as he walked away, told a friend that there was another crazy foreigner.

Soon after this he found himself on the Quai again, and the sun was sinking behind the dome of the Invalides. He decided to go home. He wanted to get warm, and yet it seemed as if the air of a room would stifle him. However, once more he crossed the Seine, and as he turned in at his own gate he met Clifford, who said something, but Rex pushed past without trying to understand what it was.

He climbed the dreary old stairs and came to his silent studio. He sat down by the fireless hearth and gazed at a long, slender glove among the ashes. At his feet her little white satin slippers lay half hidden in the long white fur of the rug.

He felt giddy and weak, and that hard pain in his chest left him no peace. He rose and went into the bedroom. Her ball dress lay where she had thrown it. He flung himself on the bed and buried his face in the rustling silk. A faint odor of violets pervaded it. He thought of the bouquet that had been placed for her at the dinner. Then the flowers reminded him of last summer. He lived over again their gay life – their excursions to Meudon, Sceaux, Versailles with its warm meadows, and cool, dark forests; Fontainebleau, where they lunched under the trees; St Cloud – Oh! he remembered their little quarrel there, and how they made it up on the boat at Suresnes afterward.

He rose excitedly and went back into the studio; his cheeks were aflame and his breath came sharp and hard. In a corner, with its face to the wall, stood an old, unfinished portrait of Yvonne, begun after one of those idyllic summer days.

When Braith walked in, after three times knocking, he found Gethryn painting feverishly by the last glimmer of daylight on this portrait. The room was full of shadows, and while they spoke it grew quite dark.

That night Braith sat by his side and listened to his incoherent talk, and Dr White came and said ``Pleuro-pneumonia'' was what ailed him. Braith had his traps fetched from his own place and settled down to nurse him.

Eleven

C arnival was over. February had passed, like January, for most of the fellows, in a bad dream of unpaid bills. March was going in much the same way. This is the best account Clifford, Elliott and Rowden could have given of it. Thaxton and Rhodes were working. Carleton was engaged to a new pretty girl – the sixth or seventh.

Satan found the time passing delightfully. There was no one at present to restrain him when he worried Mrs Gummidge. The tabby daily grew thinner and sadder-eyed. The parrot grew daily more blasé. He sneered more and more bitterly, and his eyelid, when closed, struck a chill to the soul of the raven.

At first the pups were unhappy. They missed their master. But they were young, and flies were getting plentiful in the studio.

For Braith the nights and the days seemed to wind themselves in an endless chain about Rex's sickbed. But when March had come and gone Rex was out of danger, and Braith began to paint again on his belated picture. It was too late, now, for the Salon; but he wanted to finish it all the same.

One day, early in April, he came back to Gethryn after an unusually long absence at his own studio.

Rex was up and trying to dress. He turned a peaked face toward his friend. His eyes were two great hollows, and when he smiled and spoke, in answer to Braith's angry exclamation, his jaws worked visibly.

``Keep cool, old chap!'' he said, in the ghost of a voice.

``What are you getting up for, all alone?''

``Had to – tired of the bed. Try it yourself – six weeks!''

``You want to go back there and never quit it alive – that's what you want,'' said Braith, nervously.

``Don't, either. Come and button this collar and stop swearing.''

``I suppose you're going back to Julien's the day after tomorrow,'' said Braith, sarcastically, after Rex was dressed and had been helped to the lounge in the studio.

``No,'' said he, ``I'm going to Arcachon tomorrow.''

``Arca– twenty thousand thunders!''

``Not at all,'' smiled Rex – a feeble, willful smile.

Braith sat down and drew his chair beside Gethryn.

``Wait a while, Rex.''

``I can't get well here, you know.''

``But you can get a bit stronger before you start on such a journey.''

``I thought the doctor told you the sooner I went south the better.''

That was true; Braith was silent a while.

At last he said, ``I have all the money you will want till your own comes, you know, and I can get you ready by the end of this week, if you will go.''

Rex was no baby, but his voice shook when he answered.

``Dear old, kind, unselfish friend! I'd almost rather remain poor, and let you keep on taking care of me, but – see here – '' and he handed him a letter. ``That came this morning, after you left.''

Braith read it eagerly, and looked up with a brighter face than he had worn for many a day.

``By Jove!'' he said. ``By Jupiter!''

Rex smiled sadly at his enthusiasm.

``This means health, and a future, and – everything to you, Rex!''

``Health and wealth, and happiness,'' said Gethryn bitterly.

``Yes, you ungrateful young reprobate – that's exactly what it means. Go to your Arcachon, by all means, since you've got a fortune to go on – I say – you – you didn't know your aunt very well, did you? You're not cut up much?''

``I never saw her half a dozen times in my whole life. But she's been generous to me, poor old lady!''

``I should think so. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a nice sum for a young fellow to find in his pocket all on a sudden. And now – you want to go away and get well, and come back presently and begin where you left off – a year ago. Is that it?''

``That is it. I shall never get well here, and I mean to get well if I can,'' – he paused, and hesitated. ``That was the only letter in my box this morning.''

Braith did not answer.