When politicians gather it is necessary to have conventions, receptions,
or some sort of a congregation where they may talk or at least make of
themselves a spectacle. And so it happened that Paris, where most of the
politicians in the world had congregated, began to break out as if
suffering from a disease with receptions at this hotel, or that embassy
or this palace. It was important that every one should see every one
else. It was an opportunity not to be overlooked.
And so it happened that Lily Shane, one gray afternoon in the late
winter, found herself for the first time in years surrounded by her
countrymen. Rather weary, confused, and a little breathless, she
discovered a refuge from the throng in a little alcove of the Hotel
Crillon by a window which gave out upon the wide spaces of the Place de
la Concorde. The white square was filled now with trophies. High on the
terrace of the Tuileries gardens lay a row of shattered
aeroplanes--hawklike Gothas, Fokkers like chimney swifts, all torn and
battered now, their bright wings bedraggled by the mud and grease of
victory. At intervals along the parapet rose great pyramids of German
helmets, empty, ghastly, like the heaps of skulls strewn by Ghengis Khan
to mark his triumphant progress across the face of Europe. Near the
obelisk--so ancient, so withdrawn, so aloof, survivor of a dozen
civilizations--the captured guns crouched together pointing their steel
muzzles mutely toward the low gray sky. Some came from the great
furnaces of the Krupps, some from the celebrated Skoda mills. In the
circle marked by the seven proud cities of France, the statues of Lille
and Strasbourg, no longer veiled in crêpe, stood impassive, buried
beneath heaps of wreaths and flowers. The whole square appeared dimly
through the mists that rose from the Seine. The fog hung low and gray,
clinging in torn veils about the silent guns, settling low upon the
pyramids of empty, skull-like helmets, caressing the hard, smooth
granite of the eternal obelisk that stood aloof, mocking, ironic,
silent.
Lily sat alone watching the spectacle of the square, as if conscious
that in that moment she was at the very heart of the world. Behind her
at a little distance moved a procession of figures, confused, grotesque,
in the long crystal-hung corridors. It circulated restlessly through the
big rooms, moving about the gilt furniture, past the gilt framed
mirrors, brushing the heavy curtains. There were British, French,
Belgians, Italians, Portuguese, triumphant Japanese, smiling secretly
perhaps at the spectacle in the misty Place de la Concorde. There was,
of course, a vast number of Americans, ... politicians, senators,
congressmen, mere meddlers, some in neat cutaways, some in gray or blue
suits. There were women among them ... a great many women, brave in
mannish clothes, dominating and active in manner.
In all the crowd, so merry, so talkative over the victory, the figure of
Lily, withdrawn and silent, carried an inexpressible air of loneliness.
It was as if she imitated the obelisk and turned a scornful back upon
the restless, gaudy spectacle. She was dressed all in black in a neat
suit and a close fitting hat that covered all but a narrow band of amber
hair. About her full white throat she wore a tight collar of big pearls.
She was no longer young. The voluptuous curves had vanished. She was
thinner and, despite the rouge on her lips and cheeks, appeared old. The
youthful sparkle of her dark eyes had given place to a curious, hard
brilliance. The old indolence appeared to have vanished forever. She sat
upright, and at the moment the poise of her body carried a curious sense
of likeness to the defiance which had been her mother’s. Yet despite all
these things she was beautiful. It was impossible to deny her beauty,
even though its quality of flamboyance was gone forever. The new beauty
was serene, distinguished, worldly--above all else calm. Even the
weariness of her face could not destroy a beauty which had to do as much
with spirit as with body. She was, after all, no pretty blond thing of
the sort which fades into a haggard old age. She was a fine woman, a
magnificent woman, not to be overlooked even with youth gone forever.
After a time she turned away from the window and fell to watching the
procession of figures. Her rouged lips were curved in the faintest of
mocking smiles,--a smile which conveyed a hint of scoffing at some
colossal futility, a smile above all else of sophistication and
weariness, as if she were at once amused and saddened by the spectacle.
Yet it was a kindly smile, tolerant, sympathetic, colored by a hint of
some secret, profound, and instinctive wisdom. Motionless, she sat thus
for a long time stirring only to fumble with the clasp of the silver bag
that lay in her lap. No one noticed her, for she took no part in the
spectacle. She sat apart, a little in the shadow, in a backwater, while
the noisy tempestuous throng pushed its way through the long vista of
gilded, rococo rooms.