"On still nights," said Genevive MacMillan, the blonde propriatrice of Club Henri IV, "I can hear my bells from Harvard Square." The four bells, bought at Filene's and tied to a cherry branch which overshadows Genevieve's terrace, tinkled restlessly in the wind. Like most of the decorations of Club Henry IV, Genevieve's own creating, the bells lent an air very simply, with little effort. Genevieve's restaurant occupies the two lower floors of an ancient frame building on Winthrop Street.

Genevieve's success as a decorator is evident in the atmosphere of the Club. With a twist of odd fabric for a curtain, a dangling red shaded lamp, and a small record player equipped with Charles Trenet records, she achieves a complete and quiet atmosphere for the Champagne lounge on the second flood. A "Cocteau machine," which relays the orders for Rose or Alsatain wines from downstairs, completes the picture. In the restaurant on the ground floor, a strategically placed modern lamp or a bull fight poster are some of the fitting additions to the twenty-five checkered cloth covered tables.

Despite its closeness to the disjointed rattle of Boylston street, this unlabored decor has captured a rare kind of leisure for Henry IV. "Even the Americans," Genevieve claims, "seem to cat slower and really enjoy themselves here at night. And I discovered that Americans like fancy things after all; snails are the most popular dish. I import them from France, but the sauce, the most important part, is made right here."

The excellent food and vigorous Gallic flavor of the restaurant, with its almost militant, straight backed chairs, have attracted many notables. Genevieve remembers William Faulkner, who used to eat lunch in the same corner every day, as "a small man, sharp blue eyes and a moustache. He seemed to be watching for something and always ordered Coq au Vin."Thornton Wilder and Miro frequented the restaurant, but neither made the impression on Genevieve that Louis Jouvet did, in a single visit. He came to Henri IV early one evening, out of temper and unwilling to talk. With some escargots and two bottles of Chateauncuf du pape all this changed. He stayed until four in the morning, he and the chef, a wiry Frenchman, roaring off-color Gallic songs to each other.

The Club's success must go to Genevieve's ability to draw her world of French and Italian friends around her in her restaurant. Speaking French or Spanish almost all day at the restaurant, she says her English has even deteriorated since she came to this country. On her own, she mastered Italian and plans to import an Italian expresso coffee machine as well as bull fight, flags to give the restaurant a "Latin" feeling.

But French history and France itself, to which she returns each summer, are her first loves. She named the Club, Henri IV, in honor of that great French king's benevolent gluttony. Every French family, he vowed, would have a Poule au Maison, at least on Sundays--and this is the Club's specialty. to keep Henri company, Genevieve is opening a pastry shop called Gabrielle across Boylston Street. "Gabrielle," explains Genevieve, "was Henri's mistress. It's only right that they should be together, don't you think?"