BLANCHE OF THE QUARTER
Yes, she's American—you'd hardly think it
To see her order absinthe, sip and drink it,
And rattle off French slang to her last lover—
Sculptor, collegian or wealthy rover.
Her countrymen? No, never. Once they say,
She sang in church and taught and had a Day
When maiden aunts dropped in—or, better, clambered up—
For impecunious Blanche was always perched tiptop.
She painted hard and won a Salon prize
Then—something happened. (Oh, her tell-tale eyes!)
The man went back, I think. No money, so—what use!
And she as lovely as a fawn let loose
In Fontainebleau—and with that infant's face!
Her age?—it's hard to guess. Oh, yes—a studio-place,
Terrors behind the screen, a divan and all that.
Goes out to tea, with the same picture-hat,
At—blank—Grande Chaumière, you know the number,
There certain rules the gaiety encumber.
Jests of her griefs so gallantly! Yes, poor, in truth—
So she's a puzzle—is a Lure to Youth
To men, can't help herself. No niche at home—
It must he Paris always, or roam and roam.
Of course she's sick of it—art's not enough.
We'll say she's lost her bearings . . . who would be rough
In judging her! . . . She is so pretty still!
(Tiens, ma Blanche! Oh, Blanche, the glass will spill
[191]
