'Only just ourselves,' her note had said; and he arrived, in his natural
impatience, a few moments before the hour. He remembered his Cousin
Maria's habitual punctuality, but when he entered the splendid _salon_
in the quarter of the Parc Monceau--it was there that he had found her
established--he saw that he should have it, for a little, to himself.
This was pleasing, for he should be able to look round--there were
admirable things to look at. Even to-day Raymond Bestwick was not sure
that he had learned to paint, but he had no doubt of his judgment of the
work of others, and a single glance showed him that Mrs. Temperly had
'known enough' to select, for the adornment of her walls, half a dozen
immensely valuable specimens of contemporary French art. Her choice of
other objects had been equally enlightened, and he remembered what Dora
had said to him five years before--that her mother wished them to have
the best. Evidently, now they had got it; if five years was a long time
for him to have delayed (with his original plan of getting off so soon)
to come to Paris, it was a very short one for Cousin Maria to have taken
to arrive at the highest good.
Rather to his surprise the first person to come in was Effie, now so
complete a young lady, and such a very pretty girl, that he scarcely
would have known her. She was fair, she was graceful, she was lovely,
and as she entered the room, blushing and smiling, with a little
floating motion which suggested that she was in a liquid element, she
brushed down the ribbons of a delicate Parisian _toilette de jeune
fille_. She appeared to expect that he would be surprised, and as if to
justify herself for being the first she said, 'Mamma told me to come;
she knows you are here; she said I was not to wait.' More than once,
while they conversed, during the next few moments, before any one else
arrived, she repeated that she was acting by her mamma's directions.
Raymond perceived that she had not only the costume but several other of
the attributes of a _jeune fille_. They talked, I say, but with a
certain difficulty, for Effie asked him no questions, and this made him
feel a little stiff about thrusting information upon her. Then she was
so pretty, so exquisite, that this by itself disconcerted him. It seemed
to him almost that she had falsified a prophecy, instead of bringing one
to pass. He had foretold that she would be like this; the only
difference was that she was so much more like it. She made no inquiries
about his arrival, his people in America, his plans; and they exchanged
vague remarks about the pictures, quite as if they had met for the first
time.
When Cousin Maria came in Effie was standing in front of the fire
fastening a bracelet, and he was at a distance gazing in silence at a
portrait of his hostess by Bastien-Lepage. One of his apprehensions had
been that Cousin Maria would allude ironically to the difference there
had been between his threat (because it had been really almost a
threat) of following them speedily to Paris and what had in fact
occurred; but he saw in a moment how superficial this calculation had
been. Besides, when had Cousin Maria ever been ironical? She treated him
as if she had seen him last week (which did not preclude kindness), and
only expressed her regret at having missed his visit the day before, in
consequence of which she had immediately written to him to come and
dine. He might have come from round the corner, instead of from New York
and across the wintry ocean. This was a part of her 'cosiness,' her
friendly, motherly optimism, of which, even of old, the habit had been
never to recognise nor allude to disagreeable things; so that to-day, in
the midst of so much that was not disagreeable, the custom would of
course be immensely confirmed.
Raymond was perfectly aware that it was not a pleasure, even for her,
that, for several years past, things should have gone so ill in New York
with his family and himself. His father's embarrassments, of which
Marian's silly husband had been the cause and which had terminated in
general ruin and humiliation, to say nothing of the old man's 'stroke'
and the necessity, arising from it, for a renunciation on his own part
of all present thoughts of leaving home again and even for a partial
relinquishment of present work, the old man requiring so much of his
personal attention--all this constituted an episode which could not fail
to look sordid and dreary in the light of Mrs. Temperly's high success.
The odour of success was in the warm, slightly heavy air, which seemed
distilled from rare old fabrics, from brocades and tapestries, from the
deep, mingled tones of the pictures, the subdued radiance of cabinets
and old porcelain and the jars of winter roses standing in soft circles
of lamp-light. Raymond felt himself in the presence of an effect in
regard to which he remained in ignorance of the cause--a mystery that
required a key. Cousin Maria's success was unexplained so long as she
simply stood there with her little familiar, comforting, upward gaze,
talking in coaxing cadences, with exactly the same manner she had
brought ten years ago from California, to a tall, bald, bending, smiling
young man, evidently a foreigner, who had just come in and whose name
Raymond had not caught from the lips of the _maitre d'hotel_. Was he
just one of themselves--was he there for Effie, or perhaps even for
Dora? The unexplained must preponderate till Dora came in; he found he
counted upon her, even though in her letters (it was true that for the
last couple of years they had come but at long intervals) she had told
him so little about their life. She never spoke of people; she talked of
the books she read, of the music she had heard or was studying (a whole
page sometimes about the last concert at the Conservatoire), the new
pictures and the manner of the different artists.
When she entered the room three or four minutes after the arrival of the
young foreigner, with whom her mother conversed in just the accents
Raymond had last heard at the hotel in the Fifth Avenue (he was obliged
to admit that she gave herself no airs; it was clear that her success
had not gone in the least to her head); when Dora at last appeared she
was accompanied by Mademoiselle Bourde. The presence of this lady--he
didn't know she was still in the house--Raymond took as a sign that
they were really dining _en famille_, so that the young man was either
an actual or a prospective intimate. Dora shook hands first with her
cousin, but he watched the manner of her greeting with the other visitor
and saw that it indicated extreme friendliness--on the part of the
latter. If there was a charming flush in her cheek as he took her hand,
that was the remainder of the colour that had risen there as she came
toward Raymond. It will be seen that our young man still had an eye for
the element of fascination, as he used to regard it, in this quiet,
dimly-shining maiden.
He saw that Effie was the only one who had changed (Tishy remained yet
to be judged), except that Dora really looked older, quite as much older
as the number of years had given her a right to: there was as little
difference in her as there was in her mother. Not that she was like her
mother, but she was perfectly like herself. Her meeting with Raymond was
bright, but very still; their phrases were awkward and commonplace, and
the thing was mainly a contact of looks--conscious, embarrassed,
indirect, but brightening every moment with old familiarities. Her
mother appeared to pay no attention, and neither, to do her justice, did
Mademoiselle Bourde, who, after an exchange of expressive salutations
with Raymond began to scrutinise Effie with little admiring gestures and
smiles. She surveyed her from head to foot; she pulled a ribbon
straight; she was evidently a flattering governess. Cousin Maria
explained to Cousin Raymond that they were waiting for one more
friend--a very dear lady. 'But she lives near, and when people live near
they are always late--haven't you noticed that?'
'Your hotel is far away, I know, and yet you were the first,' Dora
said, smiling to Raymond.
'Oh, even if it were round the corner I should be the first--to come to
_you_!' the young man answered, speaking loud and clear, so that his
words might serve as a notification to Cousin Maria that his sentiments
were unchanged.
'You are more French than the French,' Dora returned.
'You say that as if you didn't like them: I hope you don't,' said
Raymond, still with intentions in regard to his hostess.
'We like them more and more, the more we see of them,' this lady
interposed; but gently, impersonally, and with an air of not wishing to
put Raymond in the wrong.
'_Mais j'espere bien!_' cried Mademoiselle Bourde, holding up her head
and opening her eyes very wide. 'Such friendships as we form, and, I may
say, as we inspire! _Je m'en rapporte a Effie_', the governess
continued.
'We have received immense kindness; we have established relations that
are so pleasant for us, Cousin Raymond. We have the _entree_ of so many
charming homes,' Mrs. Temperly remarked.
'But ours is the most charming of all; that I will say,' exclaimed
Mademoiselle Bourde. 'Isn't it so, Effie?'
'Oh yes, I think it is; especially when we are expecting the Marquise,'
Effie responded. Then she added, 'But here she comes now; I hear her
carriage in the court.'
The Marquise too was just one of themselves; she was a part of their
charming home.
'She _is_ such a love!' said Mrs. Temperly to the foreign gentleman,
with an irrepressible movement of benevolence.
To which Raymond heard the gentleman reply that, Ah, she was the most
distinguished woman in France.
'Do you know Madame de Brives?' Effie asked of Raymond, while they were
waiting for her to come in.
She came in at that moment, and the girl turned away quickly without an
answer.
'How in the world should I know her?' That was the answer he would have
been tempted to give. He felt very much out of Cousin Maria's circle.
The foreign gentleman fingered his moustache and looked at him sidewise.
The Marquise was a very pretty woman, fair and slender, of middle age,
with a smile, a complexion, a diamond necklace, of great splendour, and
a charming manner. Her greeting to her friends was sweet and familiar,
and was accompanied with much kissing, of a sisterly, motherly,
daughterly kind; and yet with this expression of simple, almost homely
sentiment there was something in her that astonished and dazzled. She
might very well have been, as the foreign young man said, the most
distinguished woman in France. Dora had not rushed forward to meet her
with nearly so much _empressement_ as Effie, and this gave him a chance
to ask the former who she was. The girl replied that she was her
mother's most intimate friend: to which he rejoined that that was not a
description; what he wanted to know was her title to this exalted
position.
'Why, can't you see it? She is beautiful and she is good.'
'I see that she is beautiful; but how can I see that she is good?'
'Good to mamma, I mean, and to Effie and Tishy.'
'And isn't she good to you?'
'Oh, I don't know her so well. But I delight to look at her.'
'Certainly, that must be a great pleasure,' said Raymond. He enjoyed it
during dinner, which was now served, though his enjoyment was diminished
by his not finding himself next to Dora. They sat at a small round table
and he had at his right his Cousin Maria, whom he had taken in. On his
left was Madame de Brives, who had the foreign gentleman for a
neighbour. Then came Effie and Mademoiselle Bourde, and Dora was on the
other side of her mother. Raymond regarded this as marked--a symbol of
the fact that Cousin Maria would continue to separate them. He remained
in ignorance of the other gentleman's identity, and remembered how he
had prophesied at the hotel in New York that his hostess would give up
introducing people. It was a friendly, easy little family repast, as she
had said it would be, with just a marquise and a secretary of
embassy--Raymond ended by guessing that the stranger was a secretary of
embassy--thrown in. So far from interfering with the family tone Madame
de Brives directly contributed to it. She eminently justified the
affection in which she was held in the house; she was in the highest
degree sociable and sympathetic, and at the same time witty (there was
no insipidity in Madame de Brives), and was the cause of Raymond's
making the reflection--as he had made it often in his earlier
years--that an agreeable Frenchwoman is a triumph of civilisation. This
did not prevent him from giving the Marquise no more than half of his
attention; the rest was dedicated to Dora, who, on her side, though in
common with Effie and Mademoiselle Bourde she bent a frequent,
interested gaze on the splendid French lady, very often met our young
man's eyes with mute, vague but, to his sense, none the less valuable
intimations. It was as if she knew what was going on in his mind (it is
true that he scarcely knew it himself), and might be trusted to clear
things up at some convenient hour.
Madame de Brives talked across Raymond, in excellent English, to Cousin
Maria, but this did not prevent her from being gracious, even
encouraging, to the young man, who was a little afraid of her and
thought her a delightful creature. She asked him more questions about
himself than any of them had done. Her conversation with Mrs. Temperly
was of an intimate, domestic order, and full of social, personal
allusions, which Raymond was unable to follow. It appeared to be
concerned considerably with the private affairs of the old French
_noblesse_, into whose councils--to judge by the tone of the
Marquise--Cousin Maria had been admitted by acclamation. Every now and
then Madame de Brives broke into French, and it was in this tongue that
she uttered an apostrophe to her hostess: 'Oh, you, _ma toute-bonne_,
you who have the genius of good sense!' And she appealed to Raymond to
know if his Cousin Maria had not the genius of good sense--the wisdom of
the ages. The old lady did not defend herself from the compliment; she
let it pass, with her motherly, tolerant smile; nor did Raymond attempt
to defend her, for he felt the justice of his neighbour's description:
Cousin Maria's good sense was incontestable, magnificent. She took an
affectionate, indulgent view of most of the persons mentioned, and yet
her tone was far from being vapid or vague. Madame de Brives usually
remarked that they were coming very soon again to see her, she did them
so much good. 'The freshness of your judgment--the freshness of your
judgment!' she repeated, with a kind of glee, and she narrated that
Eleonore (a personage unknown to Raymond) had said that she was a woman
of Plutarch. Mrs. Temperly talked a great deal about the health of their
friends; she seemed to keep the record of the influenzas and neuralgias
of a numerous and susceptible circle. He did not find it in him quite to
agree--the Marquise dropping the statement into his ear at a moment when
their hostess was making some inquiry of Mademoiselle Bourde--that she
was a nature absolutely marvellous; but he could easily see that to
world-worn Parisians her quiet charities of speech and manner, with
something quaint and rustic in their form, might be restorative and
salutary. She allowed for everything, yet she was so good, and indeed
Madame de Brives summed this up before they left the table in saying to
her, 'Oh, you, my dear, your success, more than any other that has ever
taken place, has been a _succes de bonte_! Raymond was greatly amused at
this idea of Cousin Maria's _succes de bonte_: it seemed to him
delightfully Parisian.
Before dinner was over she inquired of him how he had got on 'in his
profession' since they last met, and he was too proud, or so he thought,
to tell her anything but the simple truth, that he had not got on very
well. If he was to ask her again for Dora it would be just as he was, an
honourable but not particularly successful man, making no show of lures
and bribes. 'I am not a remarkably good painter,' he said. 'I judge
myself perfectly. And then I have been handicapped at home. I have had a
great many serious bothers and worries.'
'Ah, we were so sorry to hear about your dear father.'
The tone of these words was kind and sincere; still Raymond thought that
in this case her _bonte_ might have gone a little further. At any rate
this was the only allusion that she made to his bothers and worries.
Indeed, she always passed over such things lightly; she was an optimist
for others as well as for herself, which doubtless had a great deal to
do (Raymond indulged in the reflection) with the headway she made in a
society tired of its own pessimism.
After dinner, when they went into the drawing-room, the young man noted
with complacency that this apartment, vast in itself, communicated with
two or three others into which it would be easy to pass without
attracting attention, the doors being replaced by old tapestries, looped
up and offering no barrier. With pictures and curiosities all over the
place, there were plenty of pretexts for wandering away. He lost no time
in asking Dora whether her mother would send Mademoiselle Bourde after
them if she were to go with him into one of the other rooms, the same
way she had done--didn't she remember?--that last night in New York, at
the hotel. Dora didn't admit that she remembered (she was too loyal to
her mother for that, and Raymond foresaw that this loyalty would be a
source of irritation to him again, as it had been in the past), but he
perceived, all the same, that she had not forgotten. She raised no
difficulty, and a few moments later, while they stood in an adjacent
_salon_ (he had stopped to admire a bust of Effie, wonderfully living,
slim and juvenile, the work of one of the sculptors who are the pride of
contemporary French art), he said to her, looking about him, 'How has
she done it so fast?'
'Done what, Raymond?'
'Why, done everything. Collected all these wonderful things; become
intimate with Madame de Brives and every one else; organised her
life--the life of all of you--so brilliantly.'
'I have never seen mamma in a hurry,' Dora replied.
'Perhaps she will be, now that I have come,' Raymond suggested,
laughing.
The girl hesitated a moment 'Yes, she was, to invite you--the moment she
knew you were here.'
'She has been most kind, and I talk like a brute. But I am liable to do
worse--I give you notice. She won't like it any more than she did
before, if she thinks I want to make up to you.'
'Don't, Raymond--don't!' the girl exclaimed, gently, but with a look of
sudden pain.
'Don't what, Dora?--don't make up to you?'
'Don't begin to talk of those things. There is no need. We can go on
being friends.'
'I will do exactly as you prescribe, and heaven forbid I should annoy
you. But would you mind answering me a question? It is very particular,
very intimate.' He stopped, and she only looked at him, saying nothing.
So he went on: 'Is it an idea of your mother's that you should
marry--some person here?' He gave her a chance to reply, but still she
was silent, and he continued: 'Do you mind telling me this? Could it
ever be an idea of your own?'
'Do you mean some Frenchman?'