Chapter II

All that week Clifford roamed about the studio blowing melancholy blasts from his cornet. Elliott sold a picture to Solomon Moritz for twenty francs, regretted it, tried to get it back, beat Mr. Moritz with a mahl-stick and resisted an officer. To his horror the French Government insisted on entertaining him for a week at Mazas, whither Clifford visited his comrade daily until Saturday and freedom arrived.

“This is a hell of a country,” observed Elliott as he shook the dust of Mazas from his heels in company with Clifford. “It’s no place for the breadwinner; the Jews have the country by the throat.”

“They said,” observed Clifford, “that you had Moritz by the throat.”

“I did; the ruffian refused me thirty francs for my ‘Judgment of Solomon.’”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Clifford with an impudent gesture, “wasn’t it worth it?”

“You will refrain,” said Elliott furiously, “from poking me in the ribs,—now and hereafter.”

Half an hour later they entered the studio and sat down opposite each other in silence. The canaries filled the room with their imbecile twittering, and hopped and hopped until Elliott jumped up and seized his hat.

“Is this studio a bird-cage?” he demanded bitterly.

Clifford said something about jail-birds and picked up his cornet. For an hour he played “’Tite Femme” and “Place aux Gosses.” But when he attacked “The Emperor’s Funeral March,” Elliott seized him.

“Let go,” said Clifford sullenly.

“No. See here, Clifford, let’s be friends and let’s try to be practical. We’ve got to make our living for the next three months. Let’s stop squabbling and hold a conference. Will you?”

“Yes,” replied Clifford amiably.

“Then where do we dine?”

“We haven’t lunched yet.”

“This is awful,” muttered Elliott, staring at the canaries; “do you suppose we could eat those birds?”

In the silence that ensued a piano began in the studio above, and a voice sang:

“Et qu’elle est folle dans sa joie,
Lorsq’elle chante le matin,—
Lorsqu’en tirant son bas de soie,
Elle fait; sur son flanc qui ploie,
Craquer son corset de satin!”

The piano ceased; there came a laugh, a double roll on a Tambour-Basque, and the clicking of castanets.

“Who’s that?” said Elliott morosely. Then with a sneer he paraphrased the last line of the song.

Clifford pricked up his ears but shook his head.

“Hear her laugh! I suppose she’s dined,” continued Elliott with a vicious eye on the birds. “Well, are we going to eat those cursed canaries?”

“I never heard you swear like that,” protested Clifford. “Has poverty weakened your intellect?”

“Yes,” said Elliott savagely.

“If we eat ’em our meal will cost five hundred francs.”

“Then you’ve got to sell them. They are no good,—yellow birds are always feeble-minded. Canaries are ridiculous.”

The castanets began again, and the voice took up the Spanish measure:

“My Picador! My Picador!
Thy Spanish customs I adore,
Thou garlic loving,
Cattle shoving,
Spick-and-spangled Picador!
...
I hear the mottled heifer roar,
My Picador!
The people pounding on the floor,
My Picador!
The ring is clear!
The cow is here!
They’ve had to haul her by the ear;
The Banderillos linger near!
Oh, Picador! My Picador!”

“She’s very gay,” observed Clifford, after another silence broken only by the distant click! click! click! of the castanets. “Hm! I—er—I suppose we ought to call—”

“Call,” repeated Elliott; “when I’m hollow!”

“If we call,” said Clifford briskly, “we may be invited to dinner.” He smiled, whistled a bar or two, and poked the fire.

“Don’t,” said the other, “you waste fuel.”

The wind showered the sleet across the great windows; in the twilight a chill crept in over the rugs; a distant shutter banged, rattled, and banged again.

Elliott jumped up and paced the floor.

“We’ve got to do something,” he said, “and do it now. Where’s your watch?”

“You ought to know,” said Clifford reproachfully. “Yours is there too.”

After a moment he continued; “I’ve got those cuff-buttons you gave me—” He went into his bed-room and returned with the cuff-buttons. Elliott took them, jerked on his overcoat, nodded, and opened the door.

“I’ll be back in half an hour,—wait for me,” he said, and slammed the door behind him.