Then, after a silence, "That's a fine cactus." Selby contemplated the cactus, touched it with the air of a connoisseur,
and pricked his thumb. Clifford poked a pansy with his stick. Then Joseph came in with the bill,
announcing the sum total in a loud voice, partly to impress Clifford,
partly to intimidate Selby into disgorging a _pourboire_ which he would
share, if he chose, with the gardener. Clifford tried to pretend that he
had not heard, while Selby paid bill and tribute without a murmur. Then he
lounged back into the room with an attempt at indifference which failed
entirely when he tore his trousers on the cactus. Clifford made some commonplace remark, lighted a cigarette and looked out
of the window to give Selby a chance. Selby tried to take it, but getting
as far as--"Yes, spring is here at last," froze solid. He looked at the
back of Clifford's head. It expressed volumes. Those little perked-up ears
seemed tingling with suppressed glee. He made a desperate effort to master
the situation, and jumped up to reach for some Russian cigarettes as an
incentive to conversation, but was foiled by the cactus, to whom again he
fell a prey. The last straw was added. "Damn the cactus." This observation was wrung from Selby against his
will,--against his own instinct of self-preservation, but the thorns on
the cactus were long and sharp, and at their repeated prick his pent-up
wrath escaped. It was too late now; it was done, and Clifford had wheeled
around. "See here, Selby, why the deuce did you buy those flowers?" "I'm fond of them," said Selby. "What are you going to do with them? You can't sleep here." "I could, if you'd help me take the pansies off the bed." "Where can you put them?" "Couldn't I give them to the concierge?" As soon as he said it he regretted it. What in Heaven's name would
Clifford think of him! He had heard the amount of the bill. Would he
believe that he had invested in these luxuries as a timid declaration to
his concierge? And would the Latin Quarter comment upon it in their own
brutal fashion? He dreaded ridicule and he knew Clifford's reputation. Then somebody knocked. Selby looked at Clifford with a hunted expression which touched that young
man's heart. It was a confession and at the same time a supplication. Clifford jumped up, threaded his way through the floral labyrinth, and
putting an eye to the crack of the door, said, "Who the devil is it?" This graceful style of reception is indigenous to the Quarter. "It's Elliott," he said, looking back, "and Rowden too, and their
bulldogs." Then he addressed them through the crack. "Sit down on the stairs; Selby and I are coming out directly." Discretion is a virtue. The Latin Quarter possesses few, and discretion
seldom figures on the list. They sat down and began to whistle. Presently Rowden called out, "I smell flowers. They feast within!" "You ought to know Selby better than that," growled Clifford behind the
door, while the other hurriedly exchanged his torn trousers for others. "_We_ know Selby," said Elliott with emphasis. "Yes," said Rowden, "he gives receptions with floral decorations and
invites Clifford, while we sit on the stairs." "Yes, while the youth and beauty of the Quarter revel," suggested Rowden;
then, with sudden misgiving; "Is Odette there?" "See here," demanded Elliott, "is Colette there?" Then he raised his voice in a plaintive howl, "Are you there, Colette,
while I'm kicking my heels on these tiles?" "Clifford is capable of anything," said Rowden; "his nature is soured
since Rue Barrée sat on him." Elliott raised his voice: "I say, you fellows, we saw some flowers carried
into Rue Barrée's house at noon." "Posies and roses," specified Rowden. "Probably for her," added Elliott, caressing his bulldog. Clifford turned with sudden suspicion upon Selby. The latter hummed a
tune, selected a pair of gloves and, choosing a dozen cigarettes, placed
them in a case. Then walking over to the cactus, he deliberately detached
a blossom, drew it through his buttonhole, and picking up hat and stick,
smiled upon Clifford, at which the latter was mightily troubled. IV

Monday morning at Julian's, students fought for places; students with
prior claims drove away others who had been anxiously squatting on coveted
tabourets since the door was opened in hopes of appropriating them at
roll-call; students squabbled over palettes, brushes, portfolios, or rent
the air with demands for Ciceri and bread. The former, a dirty ex-model,
who had in palmier days posed as Judas, now dispensed stale bread at one
sou and made enough to keep himself in cigarettes. Monsieur Julian walked
in, smiled a fatherly smile and walked out. His disappearance was followed
by the apparition of the clerk, a foxy creature who flitted through the
battling hordes in search of prey. Three men who had not paid dues were caught and summoned. A fourth was
scented, followed, outflanked, his retreat towards the door cut off, and
finally captured behind the stove. About that time, the revolution
assuming an acute form, howls rose for "Jules!" Jules came, umpired two fights with a sad resignation in his big brown
eyes, shook hands with everybody and melted away in the throng, leaving an
atmosphere of peace and good-will. The lions sat down with the lambs, the
massiers marked the best places for themselves and friends, and, mounting
the model stands, opened the roll-calls. The word was passed, "They begin with C this week." They did. "Clisson!" Clisson jumped like a flash and marked his name on the floor in chalk
before a front seat. "Caron!" Caron galloped away to secure his place. Bang! went an easel. "_Nom de
Dieu_!" in French,--"Where in h--l are you goin'!" in English. Crash! a
paintbox fell with brushes and all on board. "_Dieu de Dieu de_--" spat! A
blow, a short rush, a clinch and scuffle, and the voice of the massier,
stern and reproachful:

"Cochon!" Then the roll-call was resumed. "Clifford!" The massier paused and looked up, one finger between the leaves of the
ledger. "Clifford!" Clifford was not there. He was about three miles away in a direct line and
every instant increased the distance. Not that he was walking fast,--on
the contrary, he was strolling with that leisurely gait peculiar to
himself. Elliott was beside him and two bulldogs covered the rear. Elliott
was reading the "Gil Blas," from which he seemed to extract amusement, but
deeming boisterous mirth unsuitable to Clifford's state of mind, subdued
his amusement to a series of discreet smiles. The latter, moodily aware of
this, said nothing, but leading the way into the Luxembourg Gardens
installed himself upon a bench by the northern terrace and surveyed the
landscape with disfavour. Elliott, according to the Luxembourg
regulations, tied the two dogs and then, with an interrogative glance
toward his friend, resumed the "Gil Blas" and the discreet smiles. The day was perfect. The sun hung over Notre Dame, setting the city in a
glitter.