He presently departed arm in arm with Bouguereau, to the relief
of Clifford, who was then at liberty to jam his hat on his head and
depart. The next day he did not appear, and Selby, who had counted on seeing him
at the studio, a thing which he learned later it was vanity to count on,
wandered back to the Latin Quarter alone. Paris was still strange and new to him. He was vaguely troubled by its
splendour. No tender memories stirred his American bosom at the Place du
Châtelet, nor even by Notre Dame. The Palais de Justice with its clock and
turrets and stalking sentinels in blue and vermilion, the Place St. Michel
with its jumble of omnibuses and ugly water-spitting griffins, the hill of
the Boulevard St. Michel, the tooting trams, the policemen dawdling two by
two, and the table-lined terraces of the Café Vacehett were nothing to
him, as yet, nor did he even know, when he stepped from the stones of the
Place St. Michel to the asphalt of the Boulevard, that he had crossed the
frontier and entered the student zone,--the famous Latin Quarter. A cabman hailed him as "bourgeois," and urged the superiority of driving
over walking. A gamin, with an appearance of great concern, requested the
latest telegraphic news from London, and then, standing on his head,
invited Selby to feats of strength. A pretty girl gave him a glance from a
pair of violet eyes. He did not see her, but she, catching her own
reflection in a window, wondered at the colour burning in her cheeks. Turning to resume her course, she met Foxhall Clifford, and hurried on. Clifford, open-mouthed, followed her with his eyes; then he looked after
Selby, who had turned into the Boulevard St. Germain toward the rue de
Seine. Then he examined himself in the shop window. The result seemed to
be unsatisfactory. "I'm not a beauty," he mused, "but neither am I a hobgoblin. What does she
mean by blushing at Selby? I never before saw her look at a fellow in my
life,--neither has any one in the Quarter. Anyway, I can swear she never
looks at me, and goodness knows I have done all that respectful adoration
can do." He sighed, and murmuring a prophecy concerning the salvation of his
immortal soul swung into that graceful lounge which at all times
characterized Clifford. With no apparent exertion, he overtook Selby at
the corner, and together they crossed the sunlit Boulevard and sat down
under the awning of the Café du Cercle. Clifford bowed to everybody on the
terrace, saying, "You shall meet them all later, but now let me present
you to two of the sights of Paris, Mr. Richard Elliott and Mr. Stanley
Rowden." The "sights" looked amiable, and took vermouth. "You cut the studio to-day," said Elliott, suddenly turning on Clifford,
who avoided his eyes. "To commune with nature?" observed Rowden. "What's her name this time?" asked Elliott, and Rowden answered promptly,
"Name, Yvette; nationality, Breton--"

"Wrong," replied Clifford blandly, "it's Rue Barrée." The subject changed instantly, and Selby listened in surprise to names
which were new to him, and eulogies on the latest Prix de Rome winner. He
was delighted to hear opinions boldly expressed and points honestly
debated, although the vehicle was mostly slang, both English and French. He longed for the time when he too should be plunged into the strife for
fame. The bells of St. Sulpice struck the hour, and the Palace of the Luxembourg
answered chime on chime. With a glance at the sun, dipping low in the
golden dust behind the Palais Bourbon, they rose, and turning to the east,
crossed the Boulevard St. Germain and sauntered toward the École de
Médecine. At the corner a girl passed them, walking hurriedly. Clifford
smirked, Elliot and Rowden were agitated, but they all bowed, and, without
raising her eyes, she returned their salute. But Selby, who had lagged
behind, fascinated by some gay shop window, looked up to meet two of the
bluest eyes he had ever seen. The eyes were dropped in an instant, and the
young fellow hastened to overtake the others. "By Jove," he said, "do you fellows know I have just seen the prettiest
girl--" An exclamation broke from the trio, gloomy, foreboding, like the
chorus in a Greek play. "Rue Barrée!" "What!" cried Selby, bewildered. The only answer was a vague gesture from Clifford. Two hours later, during dinner, Clifford turned to Selby and said, "You
want to ask me something; I can tell by the way you fidget about." "Yes, I do," he said, innocently enough; "it's about that girl. Who is
she?" In Rowden's smile there was pity, in Elliott's bitterness. "Her name," said Clifford solemnly, "is unknown to any one, at least," he
added with much conscientiousness, "as far as I can learn. Every fellow in
the Quarter bows to her and she returns the salute gravely, but no man has
ever been known to obtain more than that. Her profession, judging from her
music-roll, is that of a pianist. Her residence is in a small and humble
street which is kept in a perpetual process of repair by the city
authorities, and from the black letters painted on the barrier which
defends the street from traffic, she has taken the name by which we know
her,--Rue Barrée. Mr. Rowden, in his imperfect knowledge of the French
tongue, called our attention to it as Roo Barry--"

"I didn't," said Rowden hotly. "And Roo Barry, or Rue Barrée, is to-day an object of adoration to every
rapin in the Quarter--"

"We are not rapins," corrected Elliott. "_I_ am not," returned Clifford, "and I beg to call to your attention,
Selby, that these two gentlemen have at various and apparently unfortunate
moments, offered to lay down life and limb at the feet of Rue Barrée. The
lady possesses a chilling smile which she uses on such occasions and,"
here he became gloomily impressive, "I have been forced to believe that
neither the scholarly grace of my friend Elliott nor the buxom beauty of
my friend Rowden have touched that heart of ice." Elliott and Rowden, boiling with indignation, cried out, "And you!" "I," said Clifford blandly, "do fear to tread where you rush in." II

Twenty-four hours later Selby had completely forgotten Rue Barrée. During
the week he worked with might and main at the studio, and Saturday night
found him so tired that he went to bed before dinner and had a nightmare
about a river of yellow ochre in which he was drowning. Sunday morning,
apropos of nothing at all, he thought of Rue Barrée, and ten seconds
afterwards he saw her. It was at the flower-market on the marble bridge. She was examining a pot of pansies. The gardener had evidently thrown
heart and soul into the transaction, but Rue Barrée shook her head. It is a question whether Selby would have stopped then and there to
inspect a cabbage-rose had not Clifford unwound for him the yarn of the
previous Tuesday. It is possible that his curiosity was piqued, for with
the exception of a hen-turkey, a boy of nineteen is the most openly
curious biped alive. From twenty until death he tries to conceal it.