It is possible that Madame Blaise felt for Lily the admiration which
Madame Gigon attributed to her, but she was such a queer old thing that
it was impossible ever to know for a certainty. It could not be said
that she revealed these sentiments by any open demonstration, or even by
an occasional word of approval. There are women whose manner of showing
their devotion assumes an inverted character; it takes to displaying
itself in sharp criticisms of the object they love or admire. There are
women who nag their lovers, who deprecate the charms of their own
children, who sharply denounce the behavior of their dearest friends.
And if there be any truth in this theory of inverted demonstration, it
could be said that Madame Blaise admired Lily. Indeed judging from her
behavior it could be said that she experienced a profound affection for
the younger woman.
The old woman seldom addressed Lily, yet when Lily politely assumed the
initiative and inquired after the health of Madame Blaise or her plans
for the summer, Madame Blaise was flattered and smiled with all the
warmth of an August sun. To Madame Gigon she criticized Lily
unmercifully. She called her indolent, without ambition. She accused her
of having wasted her life and permitted her beauty to fade without using
its power. It was not true that Lily had faded, yet Madame Blaise was
convinced of it. To have heard her talk, one would have thought Lily was
a withered old harridan.
“I understand these things,” she told Madame Gigon confidentially,
“because I was a beauty myself ... a famous beauty.” And the memory of
her triumphs led her to bridle and cast a glance at the nearest mirror.
Yet she never spoke of these things to Lily, whose greater youth,
already turning into middle-age, seemed to inspire the old woman with an
awe tinged by actual worship.
“Why does she bury herself among these old women?” she would say. “Has
she no energy ... no zest for life? If only she could capture some of
Mees Tolliver’s _élan_. Mees Tolliver could spare her a great deal and
be the more charming for it.”
And to all this, Madame Gigon had one answer which it was her habit to
repeat over and over again. “Madame Shane is content. Is not that
enough? What more can any of us wish upon this earth?”
So it ran, this perpetual and carping interest of Madame Blaise.
Although she avoided Lily, she could not resist discussing her. And
Madame Gigon, believing firmly that Madame Blaise was a little cracked,
never mentioned these things to Lily.
There hung about Madame Blaise something of the mystery which envelopes
people suffering from delusions. Not only was it impossible to know when
she was lying and when she was speaking the truth ... it was impossible
even to say, “Madame Blaise is thus and so. She is mean or she is
benevolent. She is hostile or she is friendly.” It was impossible to
reach any sensible opinion concerning her. She was subject to the most
absurd whims which rendered impossible any anticipation of her actions.
Besides, she lived in a world of her own which resembled in no way the
world of her friends, so bound up in shopkeepers, food, laundry,
housekeeping, etc. Her world was inhabited by all sorts of fantastic and
imaginary creatures. She believed passionately that she was still a fine
figure of a woman. Not even a mirror could persuade her otherwise. She
asserted with a challenging pugnacity that she had once played a
prominent part in European politics, and hinted that she was the last of
the women who would go down in history as creatures who ruled kings; but
what it was she had done or when she had done it, no one could discover.
The tragedy was that no one took her seriously. When one spoke of her,
there was always a suspicion in the speech of that comic gesture which
Madame Gigon used to indicate that her friend was a little cracked. Yet
they were kind to her. No one allowed her to suspect that she was
accepted generally as a mere pack of highly animated hallucinations.
Indeed her _faiblesse_ gave her the whip hand over her friends. People
humored her. They submitted to her insults with a calm good-nature.
When she began one of her long tales, people smiled and feigned interest
and remarked, “How wonderful! Who would have thought it?” Or with mock
protests, they would say, “But my dear Madame Blaise, you are still a
fine figure of a woman.” And she would go off home delighted that she
had managed to preserve her figure and her youthful complexion, even if
a bit of rouge was at times necessary. Her delight was always apparent.
It was visible in every line of her seamed old face.
There were all sorts of stories concerning Madame Blaise, stories of the
most fantastic and incredible nature, stories that she was well known in
the generation which she had outlived, stories even that she had been
the mistress of this or that politician. Indeed some of the most
fantastic tales were contributed slyly by Madame Blaise herself. But no
one really knew anything of her youth; and although every one repeated
the stories with a certain relish, there was no one who really believed
them.
The old women who came to Madame Gigon’s salon knew that she had come to
Paris some twenty years earlier as the widow of a merchant from
Marseilles. She was rich, respected, and at that time seemed wholly in
her right mind, save for an overfondness to surround herself with
mystery. A respectable Bonapartist, the uncle of Captain Marchand, acted
as her sponsor. She settled herself presently into the respectable
circle. She had her _salon_ and all went well. By now she had been
accepted for so long a time that she seemed always to have been a part
of that neat little society, so neat, so compact and so circumspect. She
was a figure. Madame Blaise? Why, of course, every one knew Madame
Blaise ... always. What had gone before became quickly veiled in the
mists of the past, and Madame Blaise, whose life may have been after all
one of the most romantic and exciting, found herself a part of a
singularly dull and prosaic society.
Lily could have known no more than this concerning the old woman. Indeed
it is probable that she knew even less, for her good nature and her
tolerant indifference had long since stifled all her curiosity
concerning people. She went to Madame Blaise on that Tuesday afternoon
to please Madame Gigon, because she had no other engagement, and because
she was accustomed to obliging her friends. She may even have suspected
that the visit would give pleasure to Madame Blaise herself. She arrived
very late as usual (it was impossible for Lily to be punctual) having
lingered a long time over lunch and made an expensive tour of the shops
in the Rue de la Paix.
In a little enclosure shaded by old trees and high, neglected shrubbery
in Passy five minutes walk from the Trocadero, Madame Blaise had her
house. The enclosure was shared by two other houses, less pretentious,
which stood respectfully apart at a little distance. The dwelling was
built of wood in imitation of a Swiss chalet, and ornamented with little
carved balconies and fantastic ornaments in bizarre exaggeration of some
cowherd’s house on the mountains above Lucerne. A wall ran about the
enclosure with an opening which was barred at night by a massive iron
gate. Here Lily stepped down from the fiacre, passing, on her way
through the gate, Madame de Cyon and the Marchands, who were leaving.
“You are late,” observed Madame de Cyon, taking in Lily’s costume with
her small green eyes.
“I have been hurrying all the way,” replied Lily. “I was kept by
business.”
Captain Marchand and his wife bowed gravely.
“Every one has gone,” observed Madame de Cyon, waiting as though curious
to see what Lily would do.
“Well, I must go in.... Madame Gigon was too ill to come. She asked me
to convey her compliments.”
Madame de Cyon brightened. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“No,” said Lily. “Madame is an old woman ...” And then politely, “She
tells me Monsieur de Cyon is back from the Balkans.”
“Yes. He is full of wars and intrigues. You must come to me on Thursday.
He has asked for you.”
Lily smiled. “Please remember me to him. I find him very interesting.”
She turned suddenly. “But I must hurry on. It is disgusting to be so
late. Good-by until Thursday.”
Madame de Cyon laid a hand on her arm. “Madame Blaise was eager that
you should come. She has been asking for you.”
“It is good of her,” said Lily politely, at the same time moving away.
“Good-by until Thursday,” said Madame de Cyon, and as Lily hurried into
the shadows of the enclosure the Russian woman turned and looked after
her, her small green eyes alight with an interest in which there was a
shade of malice and envy. It was well known that de Cyon admired Madame
Shane.
When Lily had disappeared in the thick shrubbery surrounding the house,
Madame de Cyon made a clucking noise and passed through the gate into
the street on her way to the Metro. She had lost money again to the
Marchands. She was planning to economize.