IV

'You must come to us on the 17th; we expect to have a few people and

some good music,' Cousin Maria said to him before he quitted the house;

and he wondered whether, the 17th being still ten days off, this might

not be an intimation that they could abstain from his society until

then. He chose, at any rate, not to take it as such, and called several

times in the interval, late in the afternoon, when the ladies would be

sure to have come in.

They were always there, and Cousin Maria's welcome was, for each

occasion, maternal, though when he took leave she made no allusion to

future meetings--to his coming again; but there were always other

visitors as well, collected at tea round the great fire of logs, in the

friendly, brilliant drawing-room where the luxurious was no enemy to the

casual and Mrs. Temperly's manner of dispensing hospitality recalled to

our young man somehow certain memories of his youthful time: visits in

New England, at old homesteads flanked with elms, where a talkative,

democratic, delightful farmer's wife pressed upon her company rustic

viands in which she herself had had a hand. Cousin Maria enjoyed the

services of a distinguished _chef_, and delicious _petits fours_ were

served with her tea; but Raymond had a sense that to complete the

impression hot home-made gingerbread should have been produced.

The atmosphere was suffused with the presence of Madame de Brives. She

was either there or she was just coming or she was just gone; her name,

her voice, her example and encouragement were in the air. Other ladies

came and went--sometimes accompanied by gentlemen who looked worn out,

had waxed moustaches and knew how to talk--and they were sometimes

designated in the same manner as Madame de Brives; but she remained the

Marquise _par excellence_, the incarnation of brilliancy and renown. The

conversation moved among simple but civilised topics, was not dull and,

considering that it consisted largely of personalities, was not

ill-natured. Least of all was it scandalous, for the girls were always

there, Cousin Maria not having thought it in the least necessary, in

order to put herself in accord with French traditions, to relegate her

daughters to the middle distance. They occupied a considerable part of

the foreground, in the prettiest, most modest, most becoming attitudes.

It was Cousin Maria's theory of her own behaviour that she did in Paris

simply as she had always done; and though this would not have been a

complete account of the matter Raymond could not fail to notice the good

sense and good taste with which she laid down her lines and the quiet

_bonhomie_ of the authority with which she caused the tone of the

American home to be respected. Scandal stayed outside, not simply

because Effie and Tishy were there, but because, even if Cousin Maria

had received alone, she never would have received evil-speakers.

Indeed, for Raymond, who had been accustomed to think that in a general

way he knew pretty well what the French capital was, this was a strange,

fresh Paris altogether, destitute of the salt that seasoned it for most

palates, and yet not insipid nor innutritive. He marvelled at Cousin

Maria's air, in such a city, of knowing, of recognising nothing bad: all

the more that it represented an actual state of mind. He used to wonder

sometimes what she would do and how she would feel if some day, in

consequence of researches made by the Marquise in the _grand monde_, she

should find herself in possession of a son-in-law formed according to

one of the types of which _he_ had impressions. However, it was not

credible that Madame de Brives would play her a trick. There were

moments when Raymond almost wished she might--to see how Cousin Maria

would handle the gentleman.

Dora was almost always taken up by visitors, and he had scarcely any

direct conversation with her. She was there, and he was glad she was

there, and she knew he was glad (he knew that), but this was almost all

the communion he had with her. She was mild, exquisitely mild--this was

the term he mentally applied to her now--and it amply sufficed him, with

the conviction he had that she was not stupid. She attended to the tea

(for Mademoiselle Bourde was not always free), she handed the _petits

fours_, she rang the bell when people went out; and it was in connection

with these offices that the idea came to him once--he was rather ashamed

of it afterward--that she was the Cinderella of the house, the domestic

drudge, the one for whom there was no career, as it was useless for the

Marquise to take up her case. He was ashamed of this fancy, I say, and

yet it came back to him; he was even surprised that it had not occurred

to him before. Her sisters were neither ugly nor proud (Tishy, indeed,

was almost touchingly delicate and timid, with exceedingly pretty

points, yet with a little appealing, old-womanish look, as if,

small--very small--as she was, she was afraid she shouldn't grow any

more); but her mother, like the mother in the fairy-tale, was a _femme

forte_. Madame de Brives could do nothing for Dora, not absolutely

because she was too plain, but because she would never lend herself, and

that came to the same thing. Her mother accepted her as recalcitrant,

but Cousin Maria's attitude, at the best, could only be resignation. She

would respect her child's preferences, she would never put on the screw;

but this would not make her love the child any more. So Raymond

interpreted certain signs, which at the same time he felt to be very

slight, while the conversation in Mrs. Temperly's _salon_ (this was its

preponderant tendency) rambled among questions of bric-a-brac, of where

Tishy's portrait should be placed when it was finished, and the current

prices of old Gobelins. _Ces dames_ were not in the least above the

discussion of prices.

On the 17th it was easy to see that more lamps than usual had been

lighted. They streamed through all the windows of the charming hotel and

mingled with the radiance of the carriage-lanterns, which followed each

other slowly, in couples, in a close, long rank, into the fine sonorous

court, where the high stepping of valuable horses was sharp on the

stones, and up to the ruddy portico. The night was wet, not with a

downpour, but with showers interspaced by starry patches, which only

added to the glitter of the handsome, clean Parisian surfaces. The

_sergents de ville_ were about the place, and seemed to make the

occasion important and official. These night aspects of Paris in the

_beaux quartiers_ had always for Raymond a particularly festive

association, and as he passed from his cab under the wide permanent tin

canopy, painted in stripes like an awning, which protected the low

steps, it seemed to him odder than ever that all this established

prosperity should be Cousin Maria's.

If the thought of how well she did it bore him company from the

threshold, it deepened to admiration by the time he had been half an

hour in the place. She stood near the entrance with her two elder

daughters, distributing the most familiar, most encouraging smiles,

together with hand-shakes which were in themselves a whole system of

hospitality. If her party was grand Cousin Maria was not; she indulged

in no assumption of stateliness and no attempt at graduated welcomes. It

seemed to Raymond that it was only because it would have taken too much

time that she didn't kiss every one. Effie looked lovely and just a

little frightened, which was exactly what she ought to have done; and he

noticed that among the arriving guests those who were not intimate

(which he could not tell from Mrs. Temperly's manner, but could from

their own) recognised her as a daughter much more quickly than they

recognised Dora, who hung back disinterestedly, as if not to challenge

their discernment, while the current passed her, keeping her little

sister in position on its brink meanwhile by the tenderest small

gesture.

'May I talk with you a little, later?' he asked of Dora, with only a

few seconds for the question, as people were pressing behind him. She

answered evasively that there would be very little talk--they would all

have to listen--it was very serious; and the next moment he had received

a programme from the hand of a monumental yet gracious personage who

stood beyond and who had a silver chain round his neck.

The place was arranged for music, and how well arranged he saw later,

when every one was seated, spaciously, luxuriously, without pushing or

over-peeping, and the finest talents in Paris performed selections at

which the best taste had presided. The singers and players were all

stars of the first magnitude. Raymond was fond of music and he wondered

whose taste it had been. He made up his mind it was Dora's--it was only

she who could have conceived a combination so exquisite; and he said to

himself: 'How they all pull together! She is not in it, she is not of

it, and yet she too works for the common end.' And by 'all' he meant

also Mademoiselle Bourde and the Marquise. This impression made him feel

rather hopeless, as if, _en fin de compte_, Cousin Maria were too large

an adversary. Great as was the pleasure of being present on an occasion

so admirably organised, of sitting there in a beautiful room, in a

still, attentive, brilliant company, with all the questions of

temperature, space, light and decoration solved to the gratification of

every sense, and listening to the best artists doing their best--happily

constituted as our young man was to enjoy such a privilege as this, the

total effect was depressing: it made him feel as if the gods were not

on his side.

'And does she do it so well without a man? There must be so many details

a woman can't tackle,' he said to himself; for even counting in the

Marquise and Mademoiselle Bourde this only made a multiplication of

petticoats. Then it came over him that she _was_ a man as well as a

woman--the masculine element was included in her nature. He was sure

that she bought her horses without being cheated, and very few men could

do that. She had the American national quality--she had 'faculty' in a

supreme degree. 'Faculty--faculty,' the voices of the quartette of

singers seemed to repeat, in the quick movement of a composition they

rendered beautifully, while they swelled and went faster, till the thing

became a joyous chant of praise, a glorification of Cousin Maria's

practical genius.

During the intermission, in the middle of the concert, people changed

places more or less and circulated, so that, walking about at this time,

he came upon the Marquise, who, in her sympathetic, demonstrative way,

appeared to be on the point of clasping her hostess in her arms.

'Decidement, ma bonne, il n'y a que vous! C'est une perfection----' he

heard her say. To which, gratified but unelated, Cousin Maria replied,

according to her simple, sociable wont: 'Well, it _does_ seem quite a

successful occasion. If it will only keep on to the end!'

Raymond, wandering far, found himself in a world that was mainly quite

new to him, and explained his ignorance of it by reflecting that the

people were probably celebrated: so many of them had decorations and

stars and a quiet of manner that could only be accounted for by renown.

There were plenty of Americans with no badge but a certain fine

negativeness, and _they_ were quiet for a reason which by this time had

become very familiar to Raymond: he had heard it so often mentioned that

his country-people were supremely 'adaptable.' He tried to get hold of

Dora, but he saw that her mother had arranged things beautifully to keep

her occupied with other people; so at least he interpreted the

fact--after all very natural--that she had half a dozen fluttered young

girls on her mind, whom she was providing with programmes, seats, ices,

occasional murmured remarks and general support and protection. When the

concert was over she supplied them with further entertainment in the

form of several young men who had pliable backs and flashing breastpins

and whom she inarticulately introduced to them, which gave her still

more to do, as after this serious step she had to stay and watch all

parties. It was strange to Raymond to see her transformed by her mother

into a precocious duenna. Him she introduced to no young girl, and he

knew not whether to regard this as cold neglect or as high

consideration. If he had liked he might have taken it as a sweet

intimation that she knew he couldn't care for any girl but her.

On the whole he was glad, because it left him free--free to get hold of

her mother, which by this time he had boldly determined to do. The

conception was high, inasmuch as Cousin Maria's attention was obviously

required by the ambassadors and other grandees who had flocked to do her

homage. Nevertheless, while supper was going on (he wanted none, and

neither apparently did she), he collared her, as he phrased it to

himself, in just the right place--on the threshold of the conservatory.

She was flanked on either side with a foreigner of distinction, but he

didn't care for her foreigners now. Besides, a conservatory was meant

only for couples; it was a sign of her comprehensive sociability that

she should have been rambling among the palms and orchids with a double

escort. Her friends would wish to quit her but would not wish to appear

to give way to each other; and Raymond felt that he was relieving them

both (though he didn't care) when he asked her to be so good as to give

him a few minutes' conversation. He made her go back with him into the

conservatory: it was the only thing he had ever made her do, or probably

ever would. She began to talk about the great Gregorini--how it had been

too sweet of her to repeat one of her songs, when it had really been

understood in advance that repetitions were not expected. Raymond had no

interest at present in the great Gregorini. He asked Cousin Maria

vehemently if she remembered telling him in New York--that night at the

hotel, five years before--that when he should have followed them to

Paris he would be free to address her on the subject of Dora. She had

given him a promise that she would listen to him in this case, and now

he must keep her up to the mark. It was impossible to see her alone,

but, at whatever inconvenience to herself, he must insist on her giving

him his opportunity.

'About Dora, Cousin Raymond?' she asked, blandly and kindly--almost as

if she didn't exactly know who Dora was.

'Surely you haven't forgotten what passed between us the evening before

you left America. I was in love with her then and I have been in love

with her ever since. I told you so then, and you stopped me off, but you

gave me leave to make another appeal to you in the future. I make it

now--this is the only way I have--and I think you ought to listen to it.

Five years have passed, and I love her more than ever. I have behaved

like a saint in the interval: I haven't attempted to practise upon her

without your knowledge.'

'I am so glad; but she would have let me know,' said Cousin Maria,

looking round the conservatory as if to see if the plants were all

there.

'No doubt. I don't know what you do to her. But I trust that to-day your

opposition falls--in face of the proof that we have given you of mutual

fidelity.'

'Fidelity?' Cousin Maria repeated, smiling.

'Surely--unless you mean to imply that Dora has given me up. I have

reason to believe that she hasn't.'

'I think she will like better to remain just as she is.'

'Just as she is?'

'I mean, not to make a choice,' Cousin Maria went on, smiling.

Raymond hesitated a moment. 'Do you mean that you have tried to make her

make one?'

At this the good lady broke into a laugh. 'My dear Raymond, how little

you must think I know my child!'

'Perhaps, if you haven't tried to make her, you have tried to prevent

her. Haven't you told her I am unsuccessful, I am poor?'

She stopped him, laying her hand with unaffected solicitude on his arm.

'_Are_ you poor, my dear? I should be so sorry!'

'Never mind; I can support a wife,' said the young man.

'It wouldn't matter, because I am happy to say that Dora has something

of her own,' Cousin Maria went on, with her imperturbable candour. 'Her

father thought that was the best way to arrange it. I had quite

forgotten my opposition, as you call it; that was so long ago. Why, she

was only a little girl. Wasn't that the ground I took? Well, dear, she's

older now, and you can say anything to her you like. But I do think she

wants to stay----' And she looked up at him, cheerily.

'Wants to stay?'

'With Effie and Tishy.'

'Ah, Cousin Maria,' the young man exclaimed, 'you are modest about

yourself!'

'Well, we are all together. Now is that all? I _must_ see if there is

enough champagne. Certainly--you can say to her what you like. But

twenty years hence she will be just as she is to-day; that's how I see

her.'

'Lord, what is it you do to her?' Raymond groaned, as he accompanied his

hostess back to the crowded rooms.

He knew exactly what she would have replied if she had been a

Frenchwoman; she would have said to him, triumphantly, overwhelmingly:

'Que voulez-vous? Elle adore sa mere!' She was, however, only a

Californian, unacquainted with the language of epigram, and her answer

consisted simply of the words: 'I am sorry you have ideas that make you

unhappy. I guess you are the only person here who hasn't enjoyed

himself to-night.'

Raymond repeated to himself, gloomily, for the rest of the evening,

'Elle adore sa mere--elle adore sa mere!' He remained very late, and

when but twenty people were left and he had observed that the Marquise,

passing her hand into Mrs. Temperly's arm, led her aside as if for some

important confabulation (some new light doubtless on what might be hoped

for Effie), he persuaded Dora to let the rest of the guests depart in

peace (apparently her mother had told her to look out for them to the

very last), and come with him into some quiet corner. They found an

empty sofa in the outlasting lamp-light, and there the girl sat down

with him. Evidently she knew what he was going to say, or rather she

thought she did; for in fact, after a little, after he had told her that

he had spoken to her mother and she had told him he might speak to

_her_, he said things that she could not very well have expected.

'Is it true that you wish to remain with Effie and Tishy? That's what

your mother calls it when she means that you will give me up.'

'How can I give you up?' the girl demanded. 'Why can't we go on being

friends, as I asked you the evening you dined here?'

'What do you mean by friends?'

'Well, not making everything impossible.'

'You didn't think anything impossible of old,' Raymond rejoined,

bitterly. 'I thought you liked me then, and I have even thought so

since.'

'I like you more than I like any one. I like you so much that it's my

principal happiness.'

'Then why are there impossibilities?'

'Oh, some day I'll tell you!' said Dora, with a quick sigh. 'Perhaps

after Tishy is married. And meanwhile, are you not going to remain in

Paris, at any rate? Isn't your work here? You are not here for me only.

You can come to the house often. That's what I mean by our being

friends.'

Her companion sat looking at her with a gloomy stare, as if he were

trying to make up the deficiencies in her logic.

'After Tishy is married? I don't see what that has to do with it. Tishy

is little more than a baby; she may not be married for ten years.'

'That is very true.'

'And you dispose of the interval by a simple "meanwhile"? My dear Dora,

your talk is strange,' Raymond continued, with his voice passionately

lowered. 'And I may come to the house--often? How often do you mean--in

ten years? Five times--or even twenty?' He saw that her eyes were

filling with tears, but he went on: 'It has been coming over me little

by little (I notice things very much if I have a reason), and now I

think I understand your mother's system.'

'Don't say anything against my mother,' the girl broke in, beseechingly.

'I shall not say anything unjust. That is if I am unjust you must tell

me. This is my idea, and your speaking of Tishy's marriage confirms it.

To begin with she has had immense plans for you all; she wanted each of

you to be a princess or a duchess--I mean a good one. But she has had to

give _you_ up.'

'No one has asked for me,' said Dora, with unexpected honesty.

'I don't believe it. Dozens of fellows have asked for you, and you have

shaken your head in that divine way (divine for me, I mean) in which you

shook it the other night.'

'My mother has never said an unkind word to me in her life,' the girl

declared, in answer to this.

'I never said she had, and I don't know why you take the precaution of

telling me so. But whatever you tell me or don't tell me,' Raymond

pursued, 'there is one thing I see very well--that so long as you won't

marry a duke Cousin Maria has found means to prevent you from marrying

till your sisters have made rare alliances.'

'Has found means?' Dora repeated, as if she really wondered what was in

his thought.

'Of course I mean only through your affection for her. How she works

that, you know best yourself.'

'It's delightful to have a mother of whom every one is so fond,' said

Dora, smiling.

'She is a most remarkable woman. Don't think for a moment that I don't

appreciate her. You don't want to quarrel with her, and I daresay you

are right.'

'Why, Raymond, of course I'm right!'

'It proves you are not madly in love with me. It seems to me that for

you _I_ would have quarrelled----'

'Raymond, Raymond!' she interrupted, with the tears again rising.

He sat looking at her, and then he said, 'Well, when they _are_

married?'

'I don't know the future--I don't know what may happen.'

'You mean that Tishy is so small--she doesn't grow--and will therefore

be difficult? Yes, she _is_ small.' There was bitterness in his heart,

but he laughed at his own words. 'However, Effie ought to go off

easily,' he went on, as Dora said nothing. 'I really wonder that, with

the Marquise and all, she hasn't gone off yet. This thing, to-night,

ought to do a great deal for her.'

Dora listened to him with a fascinated gaze; it was as if he expressed

things for her and relieved her spirit by making them clear and

coherent. Her eyes managed, each time, to be dry again, and now a

somewhat wan, ironical smile moved her lips. 'Mamma knows what she

wants--she knows what she will take. And she will take only that.'

'Precisely--something tremendous. And she is willing to wait, eh? Well,

Effie is very young, and she's charming. But she won't be charming if

she has an ugly appendage in the shape of a poor unsuccessful American

artist (not even a good one), whose father went bankrupt, for a

brother-in-law. That won't smooth the way, of course; and if a prince is

to come into the family, the family must be kept tidy to receive him.'

Dora got up quickly, as if she could bear his lucidity no longer, but he

kept close to her as she walked away. 'And she can sacrifice you like

that, without a scruple, without a pang?'

'I might have escaped--if I would marry,' the girl replied.

'Do you call that escaping? She has succeeded with you, but is it a part

of what the Marquise calls her _succes de bonte_?'

'Nothing that you can say (and it's far worse than the reality) can

prevent her being delightful.'

'Yes, that's your loyalty, and I could shoot you for it!' he exclaimed,

making her pause on the threshold of the adjoining room. 'So you think

it will take about ten years, considering Tishy's size--or want of

size?' He himself again was the only one to laugh at this. 'Your mother

is closeted, as much as she can be closeted now, with Madame de Brives,

and perhaps this time they are really settling something.'

'I have thought that before and nothing has come. Mamma wants something

so good; not only every advantage and every grandeur, but every virtue

under heaven, and every guarantee. Oh, she wouldn't expose them!'

'I see; that's where her goodness comes in and where the Marquise is

impressed' He took Dora's hand; he felt that he must go, for she

exasperated him with her irony that stopped short and her patience that

wouldn't stop. 'You simply propose that I should wait?' he said, as he

held her hand.

'It seems to me that you might, if _I_ can.' Then the girl remarked,

'Now that you are here, it's far better.'

There was a sweetness in this which made him, after glancing about a

moment, raise her hand to his lips. He went away without taking leave of

Cousin Maria, who was still out of sight, her conference with the

Marquise apparently not having terminated. This looked (he reflected as

he passed out) as if something might come of it. However, before he went

home he fell again into a gloomy forecast. The weather had changed, the

stars were all out, and he walked the empty streets for an hour.

Tishy's perverse refusal to grow and Cousin Maria's conscientious

exactions promised him a terrible probation. And in those intolerable

years what further interference, what meddlesome, effective pressure,

might not make itself felt? It may be added that Tishy is decidedly a

dwarf and his probation is not yet over.