On the morrow, Jeroloman waited on his client, who received him in the
library, an agreeable room in which there was nothing literary, but
which succeeded at once in becoming extremely unpleasant.
M. P. was in tweeds. When his late lamented departed this life, he wore
crepe on his hat for ninety days. It was a tribute that he paid, not to
the lady's virtues, which were notoriously absent; nor to any love of
her, for he had disliked her exceedingly; nor yet because it was
conventional, he hated conventionality; but, by Gad, sir, because it
bucks the women up! All that was long ago. Since then he had become less
fastidious. At his son's funeral he appeared in black.
Now, on this day, dressed in tweeds, he greeted Jeroloman with his usual
cordiality.
"I hope to God you are not going to bother me about anything?"
The wicked old man, who had faced wicked facts before, faced a few of
them then. The stench of the main fact had been passing from him,
deodorised by the fumigating belief that his son had been killed by a
lunatic. Now here it was again, more mephitic than ever, and for the
whiffs of it with which Jeroloman was spraying him, he hated the man.
"Whom has she?"
"Dunwoodie."
He reviewed the bar. There was Bancroft, whose name was always in the
papers and to whom clients flocked. There was Gwathmay, whom the papers
ignored and whom only lawyers consulted. He might have either or both,
the rest of the crew as well, and in spite of them all, unless he
permitted himself to be done, the publicity would be just as resounding.
In the old nights, when social New York was a small and early, threats
had amused him. "I have my hours for being blackmailed, this is not one
of them," he had lightly remarked at a delightful gang. "Do your
damnedest."
They took him at his word and so completely that the small and early saw
him no more. What was that to him? There were other pastures, less
scrumptious perhaps, but also far less fatiguing. He had not cared, not
a rap. Behind him the yard of brass yodled in a manner quite as lordly
as before. His high-steppers lost none of their sheen; his yacht
retained all its effulgence; so, too, did the glare of his coin. No, he
had not cared. But that was long ago, so long that it might have
happened in an anterior existence. He had not cared then. Age is
instructive. He had learned to since. Moreover, in testimony of his
change of heart, a miracle had been vouchsafed. The affair at the Opera,
attributed to a lunatic, had been buried safely, like his son, the
scandal tossed in for shroud. How freely he had breathed since then! The
little green bottle of menthe he had barely touched. He might live to
see everything forgiven or, what is quite as satisfactory, forgotten.
And now! Columns and columns, endlessly, day in, day out; the Paliser
Case dragged from one court to another, the stench of it exceeded only
by that of the Huns! But, by comparison, blackmail, however bitter, was
sweet. When one may choose between honey and gall, decision is swift.
"What'll she take?"
Jeroloman, who had left his hat on the malachite bench in the hall,
smoothed his gloves. He was about to reply. Before he could, his client
shook a fist at him.
"The slut hasn't a cent. Came to the Place with a bundle, damn her. A
suit like this costs something. Where's she going to get it? What'll she
take?"