"You were dancing at rehearsal this morning. You've danced at the music-hall this afternoon, you'll be dancing again this evening--why do you dance here?"

"One can only be young once," she replied.

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen. And you?"

"Twenty-two."

She would have given him thirty, she said, he looked so serious. And he, regarding her more narrowly, would have given her fifteen. She was very young, slight, scarcely formed, yet her movements were lithe and complete like those of a young lizard. She had laughing, black eyes and a fresh mouth set in a thin dark face that might one day grow haggard or coa.r.s.e, according to her physical development, but was now full with the devil's beauty of youth. A common type, one that would not arrest masculine eyes as she pa.s.sed by. Dozens of the girls there round about might have called her sister. She was dressed with cheap neatness, the soiled white wing of a bird in her black hat being the only touch of bravura. She spoke with the rich accent of the South.

"You are of the _Midi?_" he said.

Yes. She came from Ma.r.s.eilles. Ingenuously chattering she gave him her family history. In the meanwhile her companions and her partner having finished their dance had retired to a sequestered corner of the restaurant, leaving the pair here to themselves. Lackaday learned that her name was Elodie Figa.s.so. Her father was dead. Her mother was a dressmaker, in which business she, too, had made her apprenticeship. But an elderly man, a _huissier_, one of those people who go about with a tricolour-rosetted c.o.c.ked hat, and steel b.u.t.tons and canvas trousers and a leather satchel chained to their waist, had lately diverted from Elodie the full tide of maternal affection. As she hated the _huissier_, a vulgar man who thought of nothing but the good things that the Veuve Figa.s.so could put into his stomach, and as her besotted mother starved them both in order to fulfil the _huissier's_ demands, and as she derived no compensating joy from her dressmaking, she had found, thanks to a friend, a positron as _figurante_ in a Ma.r.s.eilles Revue, and, _voila_--there she was free, independent, and, since she had talent and application, was now earning her six francs a day.

She finished her grenadine. Then with a swift movement she caught a pa.s.sing serving maid and slipped into her hand the money for her companion's scarcely tasted drink and her own. Instantly Andrew protested--Mademoiselle must allow him to have the pleasure.

But no--never in life, she had not intruded on his table to have free drinks. As for the _consommation_ of the feather-headed Margot--from Margot herself would she get reimburs.e.m.e.nt.

"But yet, Mademoiselle," said he, "you make me ashamed. You must still be thirsty--like myself."

"_ca ne vous genera pas?_"

She asked the question with such a little air of serious solicitude that he laughed, for the first time. Would it upset his budget, involve the sacrifice of a tram ride or a packet of tobacco, if he spent a few sous on more syrup for her delectation? And yet the delicacy of her motive appealed to him. Here was a little creature very honest, very much of the people, very proud, very conscientious.

"On the contrary, Mademoiselle," said he, "I shall feel that you do me an honour."

"It is not to be refused," said she politely, and the serving maid was despatched for more beer and syrup.

"I waited to see your turn," she said, after a while.

"Ah!" he sighed.

She glanced at him swiftly. "It does not please you that I should talk about it?"

"Not very much," said he.

"But I found you admirable," she declared. "Much better than that _espece de poule mouillee_--I already forget his name--who played last week.

Oh--a wet hen--he was more like a drowned duck. So when I heard a comedian from Paris was coming, I said: 'I must wait' and Margot and I waited in the wings--and we laughed. Oh yes, we laughed."

"It's more than the audience did," said the miserable Andrew.

The audience! Of Avignon! She had never played to such an audience in her her life. They were notorious, these people, all over France. They were so stupid that before they would laugh you had to tell them a thing was funny, and then they were so suspicious that they wouldn't laugh for fear of being deceived.

All of which, of course, is a libel on the hearty folk of Avignon. But Elodie was from Ma.r.s.eilles, which naturally has a poor opinion of the other towns of Provence. She also lied for the comforting of Lackaday.

"They are so unsympathetic," said he, "that I shall not play any more."

She knitted her young brow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I play neither to-night nor to-morrow night, nor ever again.

To-morrow I return to Paris."

She regarded him awe-stricken. "You throw up an engagement--just like that--because the audience doesn't laugh?"

She had heard vague fairy-tales of pampered opera-singers acting with such Olympian independence; but never a music-hall artist on tour. He must be very rich and powerful.

Lackaday read the thought behind the wide-open eyes.

"Not quite like that," he admitted honestly. "It did not altogether depend on myself. You see the _patron_ found that the audience didn't laugh and the _patronne_ found that my long body spoiled her act--and so--I go to Paris to-morrow."

She rose from the depths of envying wonder to the heights of pity. She flashed indignation at the abominable treatment he had received from the Coincons. She scorched them with her contempt. What right had that _tortoise_ of a Madame Coincon to put on airs? She had seen better juggling in a booth at a fair. Her championship warmed Andrew's heart, and he began to feel less lonely in a dismal and unappreciative world. Longing for further healing of an artist's wounded vanity he said:

"Tell me frankly. You did see something to admire in my performance?"

"Haven't I always said so? _Tiens_, would you like me to tell you something? All my life I have loved Auguste in a circus. You know Auguste--the clown? Well, you reminded me of Auguste and I laughed."

"Until lately I was Auguste--in the Cirque Rocambeau."

She clapped her hands.

"But I have seen you there--when I was quite little--three--four years ago at Ma.r.s.eilles."

"Four years," said Andrew looking into the dark backward and abysm of time.

"Yes, I remember you well, now. We're old friends."

"I hope you'll allow me to continue the friendship," said Andrew.

They talked after the way of youth. He narrated his uneventful history. She added details to the previous sketch of her own career. The afternoon drew to a close. The restaurant garden emptied; the good folks of Avignon returned dinnerwards across the bridge. They looked for Margot, but Margot had disappeared, presumably with her new acquaintance. Elodie sniffed in a superior manner. If Margot didn't take care, she would be badly caught one of these days. For herself, no, she had too much character. She wouldn't walk about the streets with a young man she had only known for five minutes. She told Andrew so, very seriously, as they strolled over the bridge arm-in-arm.

They parted, arranging to meet at 10 o'clock when she was free from the music-hall, at the Cafe des Negociants or the Place de l'Hotel de Ville.

Andrew, shrinking from the table d'hote in the mangy hotel in a narrow back street where the Merveilleux troupe had their crowded being, dined at a cheap restaurant near the railway station, and filled in the evening with aimless wandering up and and down the thronged Avenue de la Gare. Once he turned off into the quiet moonlit square dominated by the cathedral and the walls and towers of the Palace of the Popes. The austere beauty of it said nothing to him. It did not bring calm to a fevered spirit. On the contrary, it depressed a spirit longing for a little fever, so he went back to the broad, gay Avenue where all Avignon was taking the air. A girl's sympathy had reconciled him with his kind.

She came tripping up to him, almost on the stroke of ten, as he sat at the outside edge of the cafe terrace, awaiting her. The reconciliation was complete. Like most of the young men there, he too had his maid. They met as if they had known each other for years. She was full of an evil fellow, _un gros type_, with a roll of fat at the back of his neck and a great diamond ring which flashed in the moonlight, who had waited for her at the stage door and walked by her side, pestering her with his attentions.

"And do you know how I got rid of him? I said: 'Monsieur, I can't walk with you through the streets on account of my comrades. But I swear to you that you will find me at the Cafe des Negotiants at a quarter past ten.' And so I made my escape. Look," said she excitedly, gripping Andrew's arm, "here he is."

She met the eyes of the _gros type_ with the roll of fat and the diamond ring, who halted somewhat uncertainly in front of the cafe.

Whereupon Andrew rose to his long height of six foot four and, glaring at the offender, put him to the flight of over-elaborated unconcern. Elodie was delighted.

"You could have eaten him up alive, _n'est-ce pas_, Andre?"

And Andrew felt the thrill of the successful Squire of Dames. For the rest of the evening, there was no longer any 'Monsieur' or 'Mademoiselle.' It was Andre and Elodie.

Yes, he would write to her from Paris, telling her of his fortunes. And she too would write. The Agence Moignon would always find him. It is parenthetically to be noted how his afternoon fears of the impermanence of the Agence Moignon had vanished. Time flew pleasantly. She seemed to have set herself, her youth and her femininity, to the task of evoking the wide baby smile on his good-natured though dismal face. It was only on their homeward way, after midnight, that she mentioned the '_boile_.' There had been discussions. Some had said this and some had said that. There had been partisans of the Coincons and partisans of Andre. There was subject matter for one of the pretty quarrels dear to music-hall folk. But Elodie summed up the whole matter, with her air of precocious wisdom--a wisdom gained in the streets and sewing-rooms and cafes-concerts of Ma.r.s.eilles.

"What you do is excellent, _mon cher_; but it is _vieux jeu_. The circus is not the music-hall. You must be original."