Plentywood herald. [volume] (Plentywood, Mont.) 1908-current, 1927-05-27

fol. They are so designed for especial
purposes and their efforts to overcome
this handicap are touching.
Our way led up past Notre Dame and
then across the bridge and along the
Boulevard Saint German, and then left
A cold January MOON, clear in a way
seldom seen In the midst OF winter Paris
walked with us. Before the cafes the
little open air stoves glowed, and people
drank beer n read newspapers. Pres
emily, in a side street tina twisted and
turned as If deliberately avoiding crowds
we came to the old white plastered house
where Celia had her apartment.
This is not a place" she said, where
a fashionable actress would live. and ]
suppose If ever 1 become fashionable ]
will have to change. but I lils 1t and 1t is
cheap. Won't you cor in2"
oh, no, thanks. I haze to be getting
along"
But you will come to see me. really
won't you? I'm in almost every after
noon at five"
Don't you ever get homesick?"
For what?"
For your own country
We were standing under the light of a
flour sided lamp that hung from the arch
of a doorway. Celia laughed uncertainty.
II don't know what is my own country
any more. You see, I've been here SO
OllltC 4 q u IL GA
cept for some visits. n I haven't any
body left over there now but uncles and
aunts and people like that. Besides-
she hesitated and laughed again-"I'm
terribly afraid Of America"
Afraid? What do you mean?"
I've the queerest dread of 1t. You
see, l probably like 1t better than most
people who live there-that's often the
way. It's a sort of a dream to me, and
| like Americans SO much, especially the
men, but New York is such a cruel, pre-
occupied place. Bril- 1t scares me. And
of course / have my place here and my
friends. When l come to America l want
to come as a great actress with q Euro
pean reputation"
But, my dear, all great cities are cruel
and preoccupied to those who don't
know them. Paris is cruel and preoc-
cupied to a stranger"
II suppose so"
However, you are really doing very
we'll. aren't your"
She shrugged her shoulders.
Fairly. I'm only twenty-four, and age
and precedent have a great deal to dc
with the French stage" An unexpected
, glimmer OF mischief wrinkled her eye
Tide. Paris has its limitations. You'll
come to see me in the play I'm In now,
won't you? I've the finest of parts"
"I1l come tomorrow night If / can
get in"
viii you? And then will you come
back for a bite and q talk2 You mustn't
be shocked If we are alone. I have an
ancient maiden lady with me, out that's
more for my American relations than my
French FRIENDS. On the whole, the rigid
proprieties of France don't apply to me.
I'm merely a French actress"
"Franco-American," / amended.
She smiled. yes, Franco-American-
that's right. Good-by."
"Good-by."
The next night I went to see Celia In
the play In which she was acting-"Chez
Nous" or something like that, regarded
by the French as a charming little idyl
The fat middle class that made up most
OF the audience laughed until tears came
into their eyes and then kept their tears
for tenderness over the ending. A broth
err and a sister were in love with each
other, blu IN the end it turned on splen-
didly because they discovered they
weren't brother and sister after all. A
parable OF unconscious irony, since NOR
ality was merely a bit of luck. whereas
the intent OF the hero and heroine had
been strictly wrong from the beginning.
Celia had been right in saying hat she
had "a tiny part" h played a maid,
and driften on with a tray filled with
tea things and drifted out and answered
a few rings of the bell, like a shaft of
real sunshine got by mistake into the
imitation garden beyond the long win
dows upstairs.
Afterward I went back to look for her,
and here was where Celia upset all nv
previous notions about her and kept on
upsetting them. Dear Celia! Extraordi-
narily disingenuous Celial And l had
thought her such a direct and simple
little girl.
An ancient ~doorkeeper with medals of
the Franco-Prussian war and the grand
l ~ " "a of oil t1ir0r @fRota1n r.A1r zJJ
men in minor positionsl-let me into a
dark ~passageway that led to a dirty little
waiting room. On a bench against the
wall, under the following photograph of
o beauty of the nineties, sat a tall, thin
youth in a dinner jacket. He was I'M
mistkably American, the dark, languid
American type that you always imagine
must come from Louisiana or the Ohio
river bottoms until you discover it Is
merely New York or Boston deadened by
too much noise and a repercussion Of
sensation. l thought the young man was
a gentleman, crossed with cabaret life,
although 1t Is hard to tell nowadays, but
after n glance / lost interest. AS for
him, he never had shown any interest,
had merely continued to lean forward
turning between his fingers his soft gray
hat.
So we sat for perhaps five minutes.
The dead dust of an unaired place
seemed to settle on us: the following
photographs made a cemetery more de-
pressing than any cemetery where winds
could enter. And then footsteps echoed,
and voices, and various people passed on
their way to the street. The brilliance
that was Celia paused in the doorway,
back of her a small, fat, youngish
Frenchman.
Monsieur Rameau," said Celia to me,
"one Of the co-authors of the piece She
smiled at the young man who had risen
.languidly to his feet. "Oh, Jacki / sent
you a petit bleu saying / had an en-
|gagement tonight. Didn't you get it?"
mo-
ooh, WE'LL Never mind" She turned
to me again. This is Mr.. Jack Norton"
she said, indicating the young man.
Monsieur Rameau had done with greet
ing me and thought himself unobserved.
i SAM him alida hlock ouoa oro,1nd 70