house dropped away one after another, till Lorimer was almost the only
one they continued to see anything of. He had always felt a sincere
friendship for Philip and Dora, and now they were playing a little
comedy before him which interested him keenly. He watched closely and
awaited the denouement. He came in his old intimate way, without waiting
to be asked. His frequent visits delighted Dora, for he was the only
friend to whom she opened her heart or from whom she could hope for
sound advice. "Be patient," he would say; "Philip will grow tired of
this kind of life; one of these days he will set to work and will return
to his studio never to leave it."
To speak truly, Dora scarcely had time to brood on the past. The
management of her house, which was kept with scrupulous order, six
servants to superintend, her child to be watched over, visits to pay and
receive--all these things filled up her time. But, full of occupation as
her days might be, the life that they composed appeared to her empty and
aimless, compared to the one she had led hitherto.
Once a week she received, and her rooms were crowded. By her sweetness
and tact, the simplicity of her manner and rare beauty of her face and
figure, it had been easy to her to make the conquest of the fashionable
world as, years before, she had made the conquest of the artistic one.
The men were loud and untiring in their praises of her. The women, who,
with the best will in the world to do so, could find no flaw in her,
declared that she was "very nice." Some of them went so far as to
pronounce her charming, and one or two to say that she was fit to be a
duchess.
"What do you think of my new acquaintances?" asked Dora of Lorimer,
after he had helped her to entertain a number of them one Thursday
afternoon.
"Lady A. is pretty," he replied; "Lady B. is not bad in her own style."
"No, no; I ask you for a general opinion."
"In the lump? Well, I would give the whole batch for a new umbrella."
"You are like me," said Dora. "I would give all the trees of Hyde Park
and Kensington Gardens for the few chestnuts and limes in my garden in
Elm Avenue. And how stupidly they kill time, all these people! In spite
of their rank and their fortune, they are bored to death. I can see it
in their wrinkled foreheads and quenched, weary-looking eyes. The
theatre makes them yawn, they prefer the vulgar inanities of the
music-halls; they do not read; Art is nothing to them; their parties are
mass meetings where one is hours on one's feet without being able to
move or talk comfortably, and to get a sandwich or a glass of champagne
costs the poor victims of this strange hospitality frantic struggles.
When they speak of their pleasures it is with a sigh as if they were so
many irksome tasks, and, the season over, they go to Homburg or
elsewhere to drink the waters and get set up and patched up in readiness
for the shooting and house-parties of the autumn."
"You exaggerate slightly," said Lorimer; "there are in that set plenty
of very clever people with literary and artistic tastes, but I grant you
that the majority lead a pitiful existence."
Dora had taken a violent dislike to society, so when Lorimer came she
often revenged herself for the smiles she was obliged to dispense to her
new acquaintances by running them down to her heart's content.
Philip had lately been several times to Paris without taking Dora, as he
had always done formerly. He had not confided to her the object of these
journeys, but had contented himself with telling her that he was going
on business. He was always back again on the second or third day.
Without entering into details, he had mentioned some visits to the
Russian Embassy. He had even confided to her that, in consequence of a
rather lengthy correspondence between the Russian ambassador in Paris
and General Ivan Sabaroff, War Minister in St. Petersburg, it was not
impossible that the Czar might make overtures to him for the purchase of
the shell he had invented. The French Government, he said, would not be
opposed to his accepting such overtures from an ally of France.
There would be nothing very extraordinary in such a proceeding, of
course. The young Czar of all the Russias and the worthy President of
the Republic had given each other the kiss of brotherhood in public;
Monsieur Felix Faure had returned the visit which the young Sovereign
had paid him; and there had been signed at St. Petersburg that gigantic
joke, that Titanic hoax which is called the Franco-Russian alliance, an
alliance between the Phrygian cap and the Cossack cap, between the sons
of the great Revolution and the scourgers of women, an alliance by the
terms of which the blind Gallic cook undertook to pull the chestnuts
out of the fire for the wily bear of the Caucasians, and gave to the
rest of Europe a grotesque and amusing spectacle. The French _badaud_
rarely misses an opportunity of making France the laughing-stock of the
whole world. It is much to be regretted that the French do not read the
two or three columns that are devoted to them every day by the
newspapers of London, New York, and Berlin. Their follies supply these
great dailies with more material for comment than they can hope to get
out of all that goes on in their respective countries, and that, I say
it to their credit and to be just, without bitterness, without
prejudice, for France counts among her sincerest friends and admirers,
in England and America, all that is most intelligent and enlightened in
these two countries of light and leading. It is a cosmopolitan
traveller, French-born and still French at heart, who ventures to speak
thus in parenthesis. Alexis de Tocqueville might have written in the
year of grace 1899 the following lines, which were penned by him in
1849: "France, the most brilliant and most dangerous nation of Europe,
is destined ever to be, in turn, an object of admiration, of hatred, of
terror and of pity, but of indifference, never."
VIII
THE HOUSE-WARMING
Philip decided to give a house-warming party in the month of November,
and to ask to a large _soiree musicale_ all the society notabilities, in
fact all London and his wife. Cards of invitation were sent to
ambassadors, cabinet ministers, aristocracy, and City princes. He
invited a few literary friends, but not many artists, being afraid of
passing for a man who was trying to dazzle his less fortunate brothers
in art by his wealth. Perhaps he also rather feared meeting them--the
studio world has not a very developed bump of admiration for painters
who make a rapid fortune and settle in Belgravia. Those who believed
that he still painted had nicknamed him _le Grantham des Salons_, a not
very brilliant pun upon his name which sounded rather like the two
French words _grand homme_. Between four and five hundred people
accepted invitations. The artists for the most part refused, "having a
previous engagement which prevented them from accepting Mrs. Philip
Grantham's kind invitation." Poor Dora seemed to see the artistic world
slipping away from her, since Art itself had deserted the house. Lorimer
had accepted. Thank Heaven, she would at least have one real friend at
her reception. She set about doing her best to ensure the success of her
party. She had a long list of the people who were coming, all well-known
names. She gave _carte blanche_ to the best impresario of London, who
was entrusted with the arrangement of the musical programme. She ordered
her supper from Benoist, and flowers and palms in profusion for the
decoration of the house, and went to the best dressmaker in London for a
gown which, when it came home, Philip pronounced simply beyond
competition. Dora was a born _grande dame_. True, she preferred the
simple intellectual life that she had led hitherto, but she was fitted
to shine in the gay world. If she had been the wife of the President of
the French Republic, all the Faubourg St. Germain would willingly have
rendered her homage at the Elysee, and would probably have said, on
returning home, "A _Republicaine_ can be as beautiful, witty, and
distinguished-looking as the most high-born _Marquise_, were she as
noble as Charlemagne or Louis XIV."
Dora felt sure of herself, certain of doing honour to Philip, and,
notwithstanding the profound sadness that reigned in her heart, she was
still woman enough to rejoice in advance over the success which she
anticipated. She accordingly made all her preparations to that end, and
took pains to put her beauty and intelligence at her husband's service.
Philip, for that matter, did things in lordly style; he had given Dora
an unlimited credit, _carte blanche_, that is to say a blank cheque.
Philip wished to have a great social success.
Without saying anything to his wife, he had sent invitations to all the
principal papers, thinking that if the editors did not come they would
not fail to send reporters who would write accounts of the party, the
publication of which would make them known, he and Dora, in the society
in which he had taken a firm resolution to shine.
The concert alone caused Dora some anxiety. She almost regretted having
had _music_ printed on her cards. Her artistic temperament had often
caused her to pity from the bottom of her heart those pianists and
singers, whom nobody listens to at parties, and whose first notes
invariably give the signal for general conversation. She thought this
unmannerly, even offensive, not only to the hosts, but to the artistes.
The shopkeeper demands only the price of the goods that he sells you,
and it is a matter of indifference to him whether you have your hat in
your hand or on your head in his shop. The artiste is more difficult to
please. He asks for the appreciation of those who pay him, and more than
one celebrated star has consented to sing in drawing-rooms for hundreds
of pounds, but only on the formal condition that silence would be
enforced. It must be said that at these gatherings many people, who are
too busy to pay one another frequent calls, are pleased to have the
opportunity of meeting, the men to talk of politics and business, the
women of dress, theatres, gossip, or scandals. They can so well dispense
with music that many Englishwomen have the words _no music_ printed on
their invitation cards. I know one who, in order to persuade me to
accept her invitation, put a postscript thus: "I shall have a Hungarian
orchestra, but you won't hear it."
Dora was reassured, however, as the impresario, who was to arrange the
music, knew his public. He had guaranteed her "complete satisfaction."
She thought no more about it, and awaited the day with all the serenity
of a society stager who had done nothing else all her life.
IX
THE CONFESSION
Like the great Conde, on the eve of the battle of Rocroy, Dora slept
peacefully and profoundly on the eve of the day that was to see her play
the role of hostess for the first time in her new house in Belgravia.
She was careful not to tire herself during the day, in order to feel
fresh and alert at half-past nine, the hour at which the guests would
begin to arrive.
For a mistress of a house, for a novice especially, a reception of this
kind is a severe trial. She stands four mortal hours at the entrance of
the drawing-room, all the while on the _qui-vive_. She would like to
possess a hundred pairs of eyes instead of one, to assure herself that
everything is going as smoothly as she could wish, for the least little
_contretemps_ will spoil the party. Out of four hundred people who
accept an invitation, two hundred come to criticise--some the music,
others the supper, others the wines, others the dresses. If there is the
slightest hitch in the proceedings, there are whispered comments on it.
If the music is bad, people drown it with their voices; if the supper is
of doubtful quality, they go early; if the servants do not number the
hats carefully, the men, on leaving, choose the best that come to their
notice; if the hostess is embarrassed, they smile. If the women meet
people whom they have ceased to know, they look bored. The most
thankless task in the world is giving a large "At home." I know many
women who, after giving such parties, have to go to bed for a couple of
days.
Dora dined lightly at seven o'clock, and, after giving her last
instructions, went to dress. At nine o'clock she was ready. Her white
dress of exquisite material, trimmed with old lace and silver
embroidery, suited her to perfection, and set off every line of her
supple figure. She seemed to be moulded in it. She wore a _riviere_ of
diamonds and emeralds, and three magnificent diamond stars were fastened
on her bodice. Philip had given her these diamonds, to console her for
the portrait that he had not had the courage to finish. She would have
infinitely preferred the portrait, but she accepted the jewels
willingly, and, thanking her husband prettily, she said to herself,
"When the shell bursts, its pieces will be useful. I shall at any rate
have a couple of thousand pounds with which to face the situation." She
wore no ornament in her hair, which seemed to be proud of being
entrusted alone with the task of showing off her beautiful pure
Madonna-like face. Never had a lovelier head, framed in luxuriant
tresses, been placed more proudly on classical shoulders. Her beauty was
dazzling.
She went into the drawing-room to give a last glance at the decorations.
Everything looked perfect.
Notwithstanding the air of calm and simple dignity that she wore, like
all who have the knowledge of their own worth and who know their triumph
is assured, those who had examined Dora's expression attentively would
have discovered a new anxiety depicted on her countenance, perhaps
nothing very important, but nevertheless an annoyance at the least.
General Ivan Sabaroff, Russian War Minister, was in London. Philip had
invited him to Dora's party, and he had accepted. Philip told his wife
this at dinner.
Dora sat down in the drawing-room with a cloud on her brow.
"Sabaroff!" she said to herself, "General Sabaroff! What if it be the
Colonel Sabaroff that I met eight years ago at Monte Carlo? He was
already much talked about. To-day he is the Russian Minister of War--it
is quite possible, even probable; but then? See the man again! Oh no,
never! And yet, I shall be obliged to receive him--I shall warn Philip
that he had a detestable reputation with women, and if that does not
suffice, well--I will tell Philip everything. And why shouldn't I? The
confession will not be very painful, and I have often been on the point
of making it. I have made up my mind--I will not, and I cannot meet this
man. I will be polite to him to-night, but very distant; of course, I
know what is expected of me as hostess. After that I hope there will be
an end of it."
This resolution seemed to clear away the clouds from her face. She
smiled eagerly at her husband when he came gaily into the drawing-room.
"Everything is ready and admirably arranged," said Philip. "The
drawing-room is decorated with such taste! Ah, my dearest, it is easy to
see you have had a hand in the arrangements. I recognise your touch in
a thousand little details. Your party will be a huge success--the rooms
will look splendid, the music will be excellent, the supper first-rate,
and we shall have a regular crowd of celebrities and pretty women--it
will be a triumph! And you, darling--how beautiful you look to-night!
that gown suits you to perfection. I wish I was going to have you all to
myself."
"How absurd! nothing would have been easier, if you had only expressed
the wish," said she, a little piqued.
There are many men who are on the point of falling in love with their
wives when they see them near to making the conquest of a crowd of
outsiders.
"And those diamonds," continued he, "how splendid they look on you! You
were built to wear a diadem, that's your style. At last you are playing
your proper role, and I am proud to see you doing the honours of a house
that is worthy of you. When I come to think of it, fortune has been very
kind to me."
On seeing Dora quite unmoved, he added--
"Really, one would think, to look at you, that all this does not stir
you to the least enthusiasm: it's curious! sometimes I can't quite make
you out. I am nearly beside myself with delight. Now, listen a moment,"
said he, taking her hand. "I am negotiating with Russia. If they take my
invention, as I have every hope that they will, my ambition will be
satisfied, my wildest dreams realised. I shall be rich. You know we are
not really rich. It costs a perfect fortune to keep this house going.
Ah, but only let General Sabaroff approve of my shell, and, dearest,--we
are all right."
He rubbed his hands with joy.
"Philip," said Dora, "I want to speak to you about this General
Sabaroff."
"Yes, yes," said Philip, without heeding her; "I want you to charm him.
You must make a conquest of him. Bring all your diplomacy to bear. He
has an immense influence at the Russian Court, and is, I hear, the
favourite Minister of the Czar. Being Minister of War, he is the master,
the autocrat of his department. And, darling, I count on you to help me.
I repeat to you, everything depends on him."
"Money again, Philip, always money," replied Dora. "Are you not rich
enough yet? If we have not the income to keep a house like this, why do
we live in it? Why should we live beyond our means? I don't think it is
right, Philip. What has become of those happy days when we loved each
other so much, and when you thought only of your art? Ah, give me back
my dear studio."
"I am not rich enough yet," said Philip, "but I am perhaps on the road
that leads to fortune."
"You were rich before, and on the road to fame. I loved an artist and I
adored his art."
"Oh, deuce take art and artists," cried Philip, getting angry.
"Philip, how can you? If you only knew how it pains me to hear you speak
like that."
"Well, my dear Dora," said Philip, "there are times at which I can
scarcely keep my patience with you--you don't interest yourself in me as
you used to do."
"Is it really you who dare speak to me in that way?" exclaimed Dora
indignantly. "Is it you who accuse me of not being the same, you who
consecrated your life to art and to my happiness, and who to-day think
of nothing but making money, like the first City man in the street?
There are times when I long to go and earn my own living with my brush.
The only thing that holds me back is Eva--you too, perhaps, for I am
certain that one of these days you will cry 'Help!' and I shall have to
rescue you from drowning."
"You are ungrateful, Dora. It is for you that I work."
"For me? But can't you see I loathe the life I lead? For me? When the
thirst for wealth gets hold of a man, he has always the same excuse--it
is not for himself. It is even the eternal parrot-cry of the miser; if
he holds fast to his money, it is for the children; and under this
pretext he renders his wife, his children, and everyone around him as
miserable as he is himself."
"Night and day," said Philip, "I have worked, and God is my witness that
in working all my thoughts were for you. Now that I am almost at the
goal, you turn against me--you refuse to give a smile to the man who can
realise all my hopes."
"Ah, why do you choose that one?" said Dora, frowning.
"What a funny remark!" said Philip. "Just as if he was my choice."
Then, looking at Dora, who seemed agitated, he added--
"What do you mean?"
"I have been told that General Sabaroff is a libertine, a roue of the
worst type, and you know what a detestation I have of such men."
"Let him be what he likes; what on earth does it matter to me?"
exclaimed Philip. "Really, Dora, you can help me with a few smiles; ask
him to come and see you on one of your Thursdays, without compromising
yourself, and without your virtue running any danger. It ought to be
easy enough for a woman to protect her virtue against a man--in a
drawing-room," added Philip, with a slightly mocking air which intensely
displeased Dora.
"Yes, much easier than protecting one's reputation against women. I hope
you will not insist. I shall receive the General politely, that goes
without saying, but I shall certainly not ask him to come and see me on
the days I receive or the days on which I do not receive."
Philip and Dora looked at each other for a few seconds. They seemed both
very determined.
"And suppose I insist," said Philip, who was the first to break the
silence, "and, what is more, suppose I expect you to do what I wish?"
"In that case," said Dora, "since there is no other way of obtaining
your indulgence, stay a moment and listen to me."
Philip looked at the clock.
"There is plenty of time," continued Dora, "we have nearly half an hour
before anyone will come. My dear Philip, I have every reason to believe
that this General Sabaroff is no stranger to me. Perhaps I should have
told you this before, but when I have been on the point of doing so, I
always said to myself, 'What is the use?' and I really did not see the
need of it. This is the incident in two words. When I was nineteen, just
out of the schoolroom, my aunt took me to winter in the Riviera. Among
the many people we met there was a Colonel Sabaroff, a man of about
thirty-five. From the first he paid me marked attention, and at the end
of two months he made me an offer of marriage. He was handsome, clever,
say fascinating if you like, had the reputation of being a brilliant
officer, and was much sought after in society. I, a mere child, could
not but feel flattered at his choice of me. What my answer might have
been--I had asked for a week to consider it--I can scarcely tell,
although my heart, I can say in all sincerity, was not touched. A _bal
masque_ was to be held that week and my aunt had subscribed to it, but
she disliked public balls, and it had been decided that we were not to
go, especially as she thought it hardly proper for two women alone to be
present at such a ball. You know, my aunt was then still young and
pretty. However, my uncle, arriving from England on the day of the ball,
persuaded her to let him take me, for he guessed at my eagerness to go,
and he assured her that if he came with me, the strictest British
propriety would be satisfied. When we reached the ball, it was already
late. After making a tour of the rooms, we sat down in a dimly lit
conservatory, and I was just going to tell him of the offer of marriage
I had received, when I started at hearing Colonel Sabaroff's voice in
low but fierce altercation with that of a woman. Both were masked, and
the language they spoke in was French, which was unintelligible to my
uncle. Signing to him to keep silence, I listened intently. My own
future was decided in those few minutes. But what need I tell you more
except that I, a girl ignorant of all the world's falseness and ugly
coarseness, sat dumfounded, petrified, as the history of a vulgar
liaison was unfolded to my young ears, and the man who had asked for my
hand and heart flung off a wretched woman who, to her own undoing, had
given herself to him a year before."
"What did you do?" asked Philip.
"I sat spellbound as long as their conversation lasted; but when they
rose and passed in front of us, I removed my mask, looked the man
straight in the face, and, in as steady a voice as I could command,
asked my uncle to take me home."
"Did you see any more of him after that?"
"No--the next day, at my request, we left Monte Carlo. During several
months I received letters from him, all of which I tore up without
reading, and soon, thank God, I ceased to know whether he existed or
not."
"Perhaps it is he who sends the pansies," said Philip.
"Don't talk nonsense," replied Dora.
"But General Sabaroff may not be the man at all."
"I feel sure he must be," said Dora. "The description I have been giving
of him corresponds perfectly. Philip, if it should be so, you won't
throw me into the society of this man, will you? You won't ask me to
make him welcome here?"
A servant came into the room to say that the decorations in the
dining-room were finished, and to ask whether Dora would go and give a
look to them before the florist left the house.
"Very well," said she to the servant, "I will go."
And, smiling at Philip, she said to him--
"It is understood, then,--you will not insist any more, Philip."
"Curious tricks Fate plays us all!" exclaimed Philip when Dora had gone.
"One would think the devil had a hand in it."