Polytechnic High School - Polytechnic Yearbook (San Francisco, CA)

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THE POLYTECHNIC STORIES La Pi Qui Chante Journal Prize Story odrique laughed. They were, as yet, but at the first steps of the stairs, and here was Laurence already puffing. You see, mon ami, he said, shaking his head, “you were not made to be an adventurer; you should content yourself with the role of bon vivant. At this hour you should be dining in the Cafe de Paris with plump, correctly gowned American ladies, instead of climbing up a queer little street, on your way to a notorious Montmartre cafe in the company of an impossible artist person. Tais-toi, replied Laurence good naturedly. 1 am every bit as adventurous as you, even though my waist band does exceed yours, and I am not as light on my feet as a young gazelle. Besides, how do you know that I am stopping to get my breath? Perhaps it is the view. Look! Far to the southwest, one can see against the midnight sky, the towers of the cathedral at I ours. The view from the crest of the little street was indeed magnificent, especially on this luminous summer night. All Paris lay at their feet in a symphony of light, from the golden blaze in the Place de 1 Opera to the tiny pinpoints of silvery light in the surrounding villages. If one w'ere possessed of a good imagination, one might see, even as Laurence did, the tow'ers of Tours in the distance. Rodrique smiled and slipped his arm around the shoulders of his friend. I take it all back, my dear American, you have indeed the soul of an artist, you who paint with words. I’ll wager your soul is a gay, dashing, devil-may-care sort of a fellow, a veritable Pierrot. Laurence shrugged his shoulders as he replied, Perhaps so. 1 think our souls are expressive of the things we love and not the things we are. I think, if you do not mind my saying it, that your soul, my debonair friend, is not, as you think it, a merry butterfly but rather a sleek, well-fed creature that loves warmth and com- fort, even luxury. I ll wager that if you become a great success as an artist, that in a few years’ time you will be an artist no longer but a jovial dilettante, 't ou will no longer take pleasure in poking around in quaint little corners; you will be an habitue of the smart salons, a little stouter, perhaps, but a lion among the ladies. At this point he was interrupted by the subject of his diagnosis, who put a silencing finger upon his lips. [23]

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THE POLYTECHNIC William Hardc.rave Paterio Bisquf.ra Robert Baker Harold Hadley Allan Wyatt Walter Sk rock i Akio Ujihara Harry Whitfield [ 22]

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THE POLYTECHNIC It is my turn to tais-toi , Laurence. 1 cannot let you thus slander me. But come, en avant, we must hurry if we are to reach the Cafe du Rat Mort before old Pierre has sold his last bottle of Chianti. At this, the two grown-up playfellows recommenced their climb up the steep, narrow stairs to the top where the crooked little street climbed and twisted its tortuous way into the sinister shadows. I he air in the Cafe du Rat Mort hung heavy w ith cigarette smoke and the vapor of steaming food. Old Pierre beamed happily; business was good. There were several tourists to augment his regular clientele; besides there was M. Rodrique, the artist, who was always generous, and with him was a friend who might prove to be equally liberal minded. It was past midnight. Rodrique and Laurence sat smoking and chatting over their liquers. Laurence was entertaining his companion by guessing who and what were the habitues of the place. He was a keen judge of human nature and his characterizations came close to the truth in most cases. Rodrique looked speculatively around in search of some more difficult type w ith which to puzzle his friend. Suddenly, he gave an exclamation and, turning to Laurence, said, Ah, M'sieu le savant, here is some one to try your powers on. Can you tell me who and what the person seated at the second table to our left is? Laurence turned and gasped, for the creature of whom Rodrique spoke was an oddity indeed. He—or possibly she—was clad in an old, ragged Blue Devil's coat, the sleeves of which ended in tatters at the elbow's, disclosing incredibly thin white arms, one of which rested on the table. The claw-like fingers of one hand held a Russian cigarette and from time to time flicked the ashes from it. The head was turned from the watchers so that all that could be seen was a shock of close-cropped, straight, black hair. The rest of the body was hidden by the inter- vening tables. Laurence was about to speak when the creature suddenly turned, and two large, black eyes, glowing like coals were fastened on him. He saw in that brief moment that it was indeed a girl. But what a girl! She was more like a bird than a human. The face, which would have been a perfect oval but for the sharp, thin chin, was a sort of ghastly white; the lips and cheeks were colorless; the only relief was the great dark eyes which burned so abnormally large in the thin pinched face. Above these eyes were straight, thick black eyebrows. The nose was very aquiline—almost Semitic—and by reason of the tightly-drawn skin and narrow straight mouth, gave her the look of a bird with a large beak. She looked as though she had not eaten heartily for weeks, yet she sat with her shoulders hunched up, and sipping a glass of absinthe, the price of which would have more than paid for a hearty meal. I admit 1 am puzzled, said Laurence speaking in a low voice. Of one thing 1 am certain: we are beholding a rara avis, of which much has been written and little known—a feminine Apache. And yet, there is something contradictory about this one. She is not of the grisette type; there is something of the boy about her, a sort of grown-up gamin, an atom of Paris as Victor Hugo says. [24]