At the door Lily was admitted by a fat Bretonne maidservant who ushered
her through a dark hall and up a dark stairway where the light was so
bad that she was unable to distinguish any of the furnishings. It might
have been a tunnel for all the impression it made upon a visitor. At a
turn of the stairs she was forced to press her body against the wall in
order to allow pass two strangers whom she had never seen at Madame
Gigon’s salon. At the top she was led through another hall lighted by a
sort of chalice, with a gas flame burning inside a red globe suspended
by Moorish chains from the low ceiling. Here it was possible to discern
the most enormous quantity of furniture and decorations, bronze
ornaments, bits of chinoiserie, pictures of all sizes in enormous gilt
frames, umbrellas, cloaks, chairs, pillows and what not. At the end of
the hall the maidservant opened the door of a large square room and
silently indicated Madame Blaise who was seated before a gentle charcoal
fire. Lily entered and the servant closed the door behind her.
Madame Blaise, dressed in old-fashioned gown of some thick black stuff,
sat on the edge of her chair like a crow upon a wall. Her cheeks and
lips were rouged and this, together with the red glow from the fire and
the thick mass of dyed red hair, gave her an appearance completely
bizarre and inhuman. She could not have heard Lily enter, for she did
not look up until the younger woman came quite close to her and said,
“Madame Blaise!”
“Ah!” said the old woman suddenly, as if waking from a dream. “It’s
you.”
Lily was smiling and apologetic. She lied about being detained on
business. She explained Madame Gigon’s indisposition. Altogether she
made herself charming, agreeable and insincere.
“Yes,” said Madame Blaise. “Madame Gigon is old,” in a tone which
implied “much older than I shall ever be.”
“I shan’t stay but a moment,” said Lily, sitting in a chair on the
opposite side of the fire.
“No, I suppose not.”
And then a silence fell during which it seemed that Madame Blaise
returned again to her dream. Lily took off her gloves, straightened her
hat and fell to regarding the room. It was an amazing room, full of
shadows and indefinable and shapeless objects which danced in the dim
gaslight. Gradually these things began to take shape. There were all
sorts of chairs and tables and cushions of every fashion and period. The
room fairly crawled with furniture. Near the fire stood a red lacquer
table, exquisitely made, laden with the remnants of tea--a chocolate
pot, a tea urn with the lamp extinguished and the tea growing cold,
plates with sandwiches and gateaux. The windows were covered by thick
curtains of some brocaded stuff which were drawn now to shut out the
twilight. But the most remarkable feature of the room was the number of
pictures. They hung in every conceivable nook and corner, standing
upright in little frames of gilt bronze, tortoiseshell or ebony, leaning
against the walls and against the mirror over the fireplace. Some,
judging from the flamboyance and heroic note of the poses, were pictures
of actresses and opera singers. Others from the pomposity of the subject
were undoubtedly politicians. There were pictures of ladies in
crinolines and gentlemen with beards or flowing mustaches. Some were
photographs, faded and worn; others were sketches or prints clipped out
of journals. There were at least a half dozen portraits in oil of
varying degrees of excellence.
Lily occupied herself for a time in studying the room. At last Madame
Blaise. “I am glad the others have gone. They weary me--inexpressibly.”
She leaned forward a little in her chair. “You understand I have had an
interesting life. These others ...” She made a stiff gesture of
contempt. “What have they known of life? They go round and round like
squirrels in a cage ... always the same little circle. Always the same
dull people.”
Lily smiled agreeably. She was remarkably beautiful in the soft light.
“I understand,” she said, with the air of humoring the old woman.
Madame Blaise rose suddenly. “But I forgot.... You must forgive me for
not asking you sooner. Will you have some tea or some chocolate?”
“Nothing,” said Lily. “I must think of my figure.”
Madame Blaise sat down again. “I am glad you have come ...” And after a
little pause, she added, “Alone.” A frown contracted her brow beneath a
neatly clipped bang. “You understand.... I think we have some things in
common ... you and I.”
Lily still sat complacently. “I’m sure we have!” she said, purely to
oblige her companion.
“But not what you suppose,” said Madame Blaise looking at her sharply.
“Not at all what you suppose. I am not speaking of the youth which we
share ... you and I. I am speaking rather of the qualities which have
nothing to do with youth. I mean the capacity to love.” This sentiment
she uttered with a look of profound mystery. In spite of her
eccentricity, there gleamed now and then through the cloud of mystery
traces of a grand manner, a certain elusive distinction. It showed in a
turn of the head, a gesture, an intonation ... nothing very tangible,
indeed, little more than a fleeting illusion.
Lily’s eye began to wander once more, round and round the room to this
picture and that, hesitating for a moment on one or another of the
amazing collection which caught her fancy. When Madame Blaise fell
silent once more for a long interval, she remarked,
“But have you no picture of yourself among all these?”
“No,” replied the old woman. “I am coming to that later.” And without
pausing, she added, “You have had lovers of course.” And when Lily,
astounded by this sudden observation, stirred nervously in her chair,
Madame Blaise raised her hand. “Oh, I know. I am not going to reproach
you. I approve, you understand. It is what beautiful women are made
for.” Her eyes took on an uncanny look of shrewdness.
“Don’t fancy that I am ignorant. Some people of course say that I am
crazy. I am not. It’s the others who are crazy, so they think that I am.
But I understand. You have a lover now.... He is Madame Gigon’s
cousin.” She looked fiercely into Lily’s face which had grown deathly
pale at the crazy outburst of the old woman. She appeared frightened
now. She did not even protest.
“I have watched,” continued Madame Blaise, in the most intimate manner
possible. “I understand these things. I know what a glance can mean ...
a gesture, a sudden unguarded word. You, my dear, have not always been
as cautious, as discreet, as you might have been. You needn’t fear. I
shall say nothing. I shall not betray you.” She reached over and touched
Lily’s hand with an air of great confidence. “You see, we are alike. We
are as one. It is necessary for us to fight these other women ... like
de Cyon. She is a cat, you understand.”
Lily, all her complacency vanished now, glanced at the watch on her
wrist. She stood up and walked to the fireplace in an effort to break
the way toward escape. She was, it appeared, unable to collect her wits
so that she might deal with Madame Blaise.
“You must not go yet,” continued the harridan. “I have so much to tell
you.” She pursed her withered lips reflectively and put her head a
little on one side. “When I was a young girl, I was very like you. You
can see that my hair is still the same. People notice and remark how
beautifully it has kept its color. Oh yes, many have spoken to me of it.
There is nothing like preserving your beauty.” And at this she chuckled
a little wildly with an air of savage triumph.