Now, beyond the Alemeda, in the modish faubourg of Farananka, there
lived a lady of both influence and wealth--the widow of the Inventor
of Sunflower Piquant. Arbitress absolute of Cunan society, and owner,
moreover, of a considerable portion of the town, the _veto_ of
Madame Ruiz, had caused the suicide indeed of more than one social
climber. Unhappy, nostalgic, disdainful, selfish, ever about to
abandon Cuna-Cuna to return to it no more, yet never budging, adoring
her fairy villa far too well, Madame Ruiz while craving for the
International-world, consoled herself by watching from afar European
Society going speedily to the dogs. Art loving, and considerably
musical (many a dizzy venture at the Opera-house had owed its audition
to her), she had, despite the self-centeredness of her nature, done
not a little to render more brilliant the charming city it amused her
with such vehemence to abuse.
One softly gloomy morning, preceding Madame Ruiz’s first _cotillon_ of
the Season, the lodge-keeper of the Villa Alba, a negress, like some
great, violet bug, was surprised, while tending the brightly-hanging
Grape-Fruit in the drive, by an imperative knocking on the gate. At
such a matutinal hour only trashy errand-boys shouldering baskets might
be expected to call, and giving the summons no heed, the mulatress
continued her work.
The Villa Alba, half-buried in spreading awnings, and surrounded
by many noble trees, stood but a short distance off the main road,
its pleasaunces enclosed by flower-enshrouded walls, all a-zig-zag,
like the folds of a screen. Beloved of lizards, and velvet-backed
humming-birds, the shaded gardens led on one side to the sea.
“To make such a noise at dis hour,” the negress murmured, going
grumblingly at length to the gate, disclosing, upon opening, a
gentleman in middle-life, with a toothbrush moustache and a sapphire
ring.
“De mist’ess still in bed, sah.”
“In bed?”
“She out bery late, sah, but you find Miss Edwards up.”
And with a nod of thanks, the visitor directed his footsteps discreetly
towards the house.
Although not, precisely, _in_ her bed when the caller, shortly
afterwards, was announced, Madame Ruiz was nevertheless as yet in
deshabille.
“Tiresome man, what does he want to see me about?” she exclaimed,
gathering around her a brocaded-wrap formed of a priestly cope.
“He referred to a lease, ma’am,” the maid replied.
“A lease!” Madame Ruiz raised eyes dark with spleen.
The visit of her agent, or man of affairs, was apt to ruffle her
composure for the day: “Tell him to leave it, and go,” she commanded,
selecting a nectarine from a basket of iced-fruits beside her.
Removing reflectively the sensitive skin, her mind evoked, in ironic
review, the chief salient events of society, scheduled to take place on
the face of the map in the course of the day.
The marriage of the Count de Nozhel, in Touraine, to Mrs. Exelmans of
Cincinnati, the divorce of poor Lady Luckcock in London (it seemed
quite certain that one of the five co-respondents was the little
carrot-haired Lord Dubelly again), the last “pomps,” at Vienna, of
Princess de Seeyohl _née_ Mitchening-Meyong (Peace to her soul! She had
led her life).... The christening in Madrid of the girl-twins of the
Queen of Spain....
“At her time, I really _don’t_ understand it,” Madame Ruiz murmured to
herself aloud, glancing, as though for an explanation, about the room.
Through the flowing folds of the mosquito curtains of the bed, that
swept a cool, flagged-floor, spread with skins, showed the oratory,
with its waxen flowers, and pendant flickering lights, that burned,
night and day, before a Leonardo saint with a treacherous smile. Beyond
the little recess came a lacquer commode, bearing a masterly marble
group, depicting a pair of amorous hermaphrodites amusing themselves,
while above, against the spacious wainscoting of the wall, a painting
of a man, elegantly corseted, with a Violet in his moustache, “Study of
a Parisian,” was suspended, and which, with its pendant “Portrait of a
Lady,” signed Van Dongen, were the chief outstanding objects that the
room contained.
“One would have thought that at forty she would have given up having
babies,” Madame Ruiz mused, choosing a glossy cherry from the basket at
her side.
Through the open window a sound of distant music caught her ear.
“Ah! If only he were less weak,” she sighed, her thoughts turning
towards the player, who seemed to be enamoured of the opening movement
(rapturously repeated) of _L’Après midi d’un Faune_.
The venetorial habits of Vittorio Ruiz had been from his earliest years
the source of his mother’s constant chagrin and despair. At the age of
five he had assaulted his Nurse, and, steadily onward, his passions had
grown and grown....
“It’s the fault of the wicked climate,” Madame Ruiz reflected, as her
companion, Miss Edwards, came in with the post.
“Thanks, Eurydice,” she murmured, smilingly exchanging a butterfly kiss.
“It’s going to be oh so hot, to-day!”
“Is it, dear?”
“Intense,” Miss Edwards predicted, fluttering a gay-daubed paper fan.
Sprite-like, with a little strained ghost-face beneath a silver shock
of hair, it seemed as if her long blue eyes had absorbed the Cunan sea.
“Do you remember the giant with the beard?” she asked, “at the
Presidency fête?”
“Do I?”
“And we wondered who he could be!”
“Well?”
“He’s the painter of Women’s Backs, my dear!”
“The painter of women’s _what_?”
“An artist.”
“Oh.”
“I wanted to know if you’d advise me to sit.”
“Your back is charming, dear, _c’est un dos d’élite_.”
“I doubt, though, it’s classic,” Miss Edwards murmured, pirouetting
slowly before the glass.
But Madame Ruiz was perusing her correspondence, and seemed to be
absorbed.
“They’re to be married, in Munich, on the fifth,” she chirruped.
“Who?”
“Elsie and Baron Sitmar.”
“Ah, Ta-ra, dear! In those far worlds....” Miss Edwards impatiently
exclaimed, opening wide a window and leaning out.
Beneath the flame-trees, with their spreading tops, one mass of crimson
flower, coolly, white-garbed gardeners, with naked feet and big
bell-shaped hats of straw, were sweeping slowly, as in some rhythmic
dance, the flamboyant blossoms that had fallen to the ground.
“Wasn’t little Madame Haase, dear, born Kattie von Guggenheim?”
“I really don’t know,” Miss Edwards returned, flapping away a fly with
her fan.
“This villainous climate! My memory’s going....”
“I wish I cared for Cuna less, that’s all!” Miss Edwards said, her
glance following a humming-bird, poised in air, above the sparkling
turquoise of a fountain.
“Captain Moonlight ... duty ... (tedious word) ... can’t come!”
“Oh?”
“Such a dull post,” Madame Ruiz murmured, pausing to listen to the
persuasive tenor-voice of her son.
“Little mauve nigger boy,
I t’ink you break my heart!”
“My poor Vitti! Bless him.”
“He was out last night with some Chinese she.”
“I understood him to be going to _Pelléas and Mélisande_.”
“He came to the Opera-house, but only for a minute.”
“Dios!”
“And, oh, dearest,” Miss Edwards dropped her cheek to her hand.
“Was Hatso as ever delicious?” Madame Ruiz asked, changing the topic as
her woman returned, followed by a pomeranian of parts, “Snob”; a dog
beautiful as a child.
“We had Gebhardt instead.”
“In Mélisande she’s so huge,” Madame Ruiz commented, eyeing severely
the legal-looking packet which her maid had brought her.
“Business, Camilla; _how_ I pity you!”
Madame Ruiz sighed.
“It seems,” she said, “that for the next nine-and-ninety years, I have
let a Villa to a Mr. and Mrs. Ahmadou Mouth.”