Somerset maughan

boulevardier
. 
Dr Porhoët spoke English fluently, with scarcely a trace of foreign 
accent, but with an elaboration which suggested that he had learned 
the language as much from study of the English classics as from 
conversation. 
'And how is Miss Dauncey?' he asked, turning to his friend. 
Arthur Burdon smiled. 
'Oh, I expect she's all right. I've not seen her today, but I'm going to 
tea at the studio this afternoon, and we want you to dine with us at 
the Chien Noir.' 
'I shall be much pleased. But do you not wish to be by yourselves?' 
'She met me at the station yesterday, and we dined together. We 
talked steadily from half past six till midnight.' 
'Or, rather, she talked and you listened with the delighted attention 
of a happy lover.' 

---

Arthur Burdon had just arrived in Paris. He was a surgeon on the 
staff of St Luke's, and had come ostensibly to study the methods of 
the French operators; but his real object was certainly to see 
Margaret Dauncey. He was furnished with introductions from 
London surgeons of repute, and had already spent a morning at the 
Hôtel Dieu, where the operator, warned that his visitor was a bold 
and skilful surgeon, whose reputation in England was already 
considerable, had sought to dazzle him by feats that savoured 
almost of legerdemain. Though the hint of charlatanry in the 
Frenchman's methods had not escaped Arthur Burdon's shrewd 
eyes, the audacious sureness of his hand had excited his enthusiasm. 
During luncheon he talked of nothing else, and Dr Porhoët, drawing 
upon his memory, recounted the more extraordinary operations that 
he had witnessed in Egypt. 
He had known Arthur Burdon ever since he was born, and indeed 
had missed being present at his birth only because the Khedive 
Ismaïl had summoned him unexpectedly to Cairo. But the Levantine 
merchant who was Arthur's father had been his most intimate 
friend, and it was with singular pleasure that Dr Porhoët saw the 
young man, on his advice, enter his own profession and achieve a 
distinction which himself had never won. 
Though too much interested in the characters of the persons whom 
chance threw in his path to have much ambition on his own behalf, 
it pleased him to see it in others. He observed with satisfaction the 
pride which Arthur took in his calling and the determination, 
backed by his confidence and talent, to become a master of his art. 
Dr Porhoët knew that a diversity of interests, though it adds charm 
to a man's personality, tends to weaken him. To excel one's fellows it 
is needful to be circumscribed. He did not regret, therefore, that 
Arthur in many ways was narrow. Letters and the arts meant little 
to him. Nor would he trouble himself with the graceful trivialities 
which make a man a good talker. In mixed company he was content 
to listen silently to others, and only something very definite to say 
could tempt him to join in the general conversation. He worked very 
hard, operating, dissecting, or lecturing at his hospital, and took 
pains to read every word, not only in English, but in French and 
German, which was published concerning his profession. Whenever 

---

he could snatch a free day he spent it on the golf-links of 
Sunningdale, for he was an eager and a fine player. 
But at the operating-table Arthur was different. He was no longer 
the awkward man of social intercourse, who was sufficiently 
conscious of his limitations not to talk of what he did not 
understand, and sincere enough not to express admiration for what 
he did not like. Then, on the other hand, a singular exhilaration 
filled him; he was conscious of his power, and he rejoiced in it. No 
unforeseen accident was able to confuse him. He seemed to have a 
positive instinct for operating, and his hand and his brain worked in 
a manner that appeared almost automatic. He never hesitated, and 
he had no fear of failure. His success had been no less than his 
courage, and it was plain that soon his reputation with the public 
would equal that which he had already won with the profession. 
Dr Porhoët had been making listless patterns with his stick upon the 
gravel, and now, with that charming smile of his, turned to Arthur. 
'I never cease to be astonished at the unexpectedness of human 
nature,' he remarked. 'It is really very surprising that a man like you 
should fall so deeply in love with a girl like Margaret Dauncey.' 
Arthur made no reply, and Dr Porhoët, fearing that his words might 
offend, hastened to explain. 
'You know as well as I do that I think her a very charming young 
person. She has beauty and grace and sympathy. But your 
characters are more different than chalk and cheese. 
Notwithstanding your birth in the East and your boyhood spent 
amid the very scenes of the Thousand and One Nights, you are the 
most matter-of-fact creature I have ever come across.' 
'I see no harm in your saying insular,' smiled Arthur. 'I confess that I 
have no imagination and no sense of humour. I am a plain, practical 
man, but I can see to the end of my nose with extreme clearness. 
Fortunately it is rather a long one.' 
'One of my cherished ideas is that it is impossible to love without 
imagination.' 

---

Again Arthur Burdon made no reply, but a curious look came into 
his eyes as he gazed in front of him. It was the look which might fill 
the passionate eyes of a mystic when he saw in ecstasy the Divine 
Lady of his constant prayers. 
'But Miss Dauncey has none of that narrowness of outlook which, if 
you forgive my saying so, is perhaps the secret of your strength. She 
has a delightful enthusiasm for every form of art. Beauty really 
means as much to her as bread and butter to the more soberly-
minded. And she takes a passionate interest in the variety of life.' 
'It is right that Margaret should care for beauty, since there is beauty 
in every inch of her,' answered Arthur. 
He was too reticent to proceed to any analysis of his feelings; but he 
knew that he had cared for her first on account of the physical 
perfection which contrasted so astonishingly with the countless 
deformities in the study of which his life was spent. But one phrase 
escaped him almost against his will. 
'The first time I saw her I felt as though a new world had opened to 
my ken.' 
The divine music of Keats's lines rang through Arthur's remark, and 
to the Frenchman's mind gave his passion a romantic note that 
foreboded future tragedy. He sought to dispel the cloud which his 
fancy had cast upon the most satisfactory of love affairs. 
'You are very lucky, my friend. Miss Margaret admires you as much 
as you adore her. She is never tired of listening to my prosy stories 
of your childhood in Alexandria, and I'm quite sure that she will 
make you the most admirable of wives.' 
'You can't be more sure than I am,' laughed Arthur. 
He looked upon himself as a happy man. He loved Margaret with 
all his heart, and he was confident in her great affection for him. It 
was impossible that anything should arise to disturb the pleasant 
life which they had planned together. His love cast a glamour upon 
his work, and his work, by contrast, made love the more entrancing. 

---

'We're going to fix the date of our marriage now,' he said. 'I'm 
buying furniture already.' 
'I think only English people could have behaved so oddly as you, in 
postponing your marriage without reason for two mortal years.' 
'You see, Margaret was ten when I first saw her, and only seventeen 
when I asked her to marry me. She thought she had reason to be 
grateful to me and would have married me there and then. But I 
knew she hankered after these two years in Paris, and I didn't feel it 
was fair to bind her to me till she had seen at least something of the 
world. And she seemed hardly ready for marriage, she was growing 
still.' 
'Did I not say that you were a matter-of-fact young man?' smiled Dr 
Porhoët. 
'And it's not as if there had been any doubt about our knowing our 
minds. We both cared, and we had a long time before us. We could 
afford to wait.' 
At that moment a man strolled past them, a big stout fellow, 
showily dressed in a check suit; and he gravely took off his hat to Dr 
Porhoët. The doctor smiled and returned the salute. 
'Who is your fat friend?' asked Arthur. 
'That is a compatriot of yours. His name is Oliver Haddo.' 
'Art-student?' inquired Arthur, with the scornful tone he used when 
referring to those whose walk in life was not so practical as his own. 
'Not exactly. I met him a little while ago by chance. When I was 
getting together the material for my little book on the old alchemists 
I read a great deal at the library of the Arsenal, which, you may 
have heard, is singularly rich in all works dealing with the occult 
sciences.' 
Burden's face assumed an expression of amused disdain. He could 
not understand why Dr Porhoët occupied his leisure with studies so 
profitless. He had read his book, recently published, on the more 
famous of the alchemists; and, though forced to admire the 

---

profound knowledge upon which it was based, he could not forgive 
the waste of time which his friend might have expended more 
usefully on topics of pressing moment. 
'Not many people study in that library,' pursued the doctor, 'and I 
soon knew by sight those who were frequently there. I saw this 
gentleman every day. He was immersed in strange old books when I 
arrived early in the morning, and he was reading them still when I 
left, exhausted. Sometimes it happened that he had the volumes I 
asked for, and I discovered that he was studying the same subjects 
as myself. His appearance was extraordinary, but scarcely 
sympathetic; so, though I fancied that he gave me opportunities to 
address him, I did not avail myself of them. One day, however, 
curiously enough, I was looking up some point upon which it 
seemed impossible to find authorities. The librarian could not help 
me, and I had given up the search, when this person brought me the 
very book I needed. I surmised that the librarian had told him of my 
difficulty. I was very grateful to the stranger. We left together that 
afternoon, and our kindred studies gave us a common topic of 
conversation. I found that his reading was extraordinarily wide, and 
he was able to give me information about works which I had never 
even heard of. He had the advantage over me that he could 
apparently read, Hebrew as well as Arabic, and he had studied the 
Kabbalah in the original.' 
'And much good it did him, I have no doubt,' said Arthur. 'And 
what is he by profession?' 
Dr Porhoët gave a deprecating smile. 
'My dear fellow, I hardly like to tell you. I tremble in every limb at 
the thought of your unmitigated scorn.' 
'Well?' 
'You know, Paris is full of queer people. It is the chosen home of 
every kind of eccentricity. It sounds incredible in this year of grace, 
but my friend Oliver Haddo claims to be a magician. I think he is 
quite serious.' 
'Silly ass!' answered Arthur with emphasis. 

---

2 
Margaret Dauncey shared a flat near the Boulevard du 
Montparnasse with Susie Boyd; and it was to meet her that Arthur 
had arranged to come to tea that afternoon. The young women 
waited for him in the studio. The kettle was boiling on the stove; 
cups and