A DECISION
The entire company was sitting or standing round the table in the
dining-room. It was a table at which eight might have sat down to dinner
with a fair amount of comfort; and perhaps thirty-eight now were
successfully claiming an interest in it. Not at the end, but about a third
of the way down one side, Madame Foa brewed tea in a copper receptacle over
a spirit lamp. At the other extremity was a battalion of glasses, some
syphons and some lofty bottles. Except for a border of teacups and glasses
the rest of the white expanse was empty, save that two silver biscuit boxes
and a silver cigarette box wandered up and down it according to the needs
of the community. Audrey was sitting next to the Oriental musical critic,
on her left, and on her right she had a beautiful stout woman who could
speak nothing but Polish, but who expressed herself very clearly in the
language of smiles, nods, and shrugs; to Audrey she seemed to be extremely
romantic; the musical critic could converse somewhat in Polish, and
occasionally he talked across Audrey to the Pole. Several other languages
were flying about. The subject of discussion was feminism, chiefly as
practised in England. It was Miss Ingate who had begun it; her striking and
peculiar appearance, and in particular her frock, had given importance to
her lightest word. People who comprehended naught of English listened to
her entranced. The host, who was among these, stood behind her in a state
of ecstasy. Her pale forehead reddened; her sardonic grin became
deliciously self-conscious. "I know I'm skidding," she cried. "I know I'm
skidding."
"What does she say? Skeed--skeed?" demanded the host.
Audrey interpreted. Shouts of laughter!
"Oh! These English! These Englishwomen!" said the host. "I adore them. I
adore them all. They alone exist."
"It's vehy serious!" protested Miss Ingate. "It's vehy serious!"
"We shall go to London to-morrow, shan't we, Winnie?" said Audrey across
the table to her.
"Yes," agreed Miss Ingate. "I think we ought. We're as free as birds. When
the police have broken our arms we can come back to Paris to recover. I
shan't feel comfortable until I've been and had my arm broken--it's vehy
serious."
"What does she say? What is it that she says?" from the host.
More interpretation. More laughter, but this time an impressed laughter.
And Audrey perceived that just as she was regarding the Polish woman as
romantic, so the whole company was regarding herself and Miss Ingate as
romantic. She could feel the polite, curious eyes of twenty men upon her;
and her mind seemed to stiffen into a formidable resolve. She grew
conscious of the lifting of all depression, all anxiety. Her conscience was
at rest. She had been thinking for more than a week past: "I ought to go to
London." How often had she not said to herself: "If any woman should be in
this movement, I should be in this movement. I am a coward as long as I
stay here, dallying my time away." Now the decision was made, absolutely.
The Oriental musical critic turned to glance upward behind his chair. Then
he vacated it. The next instant Madame Piriac was sitting in his place.
She said:
"Are you really going to London to-morrow, Madame?"
"Yes, Madame, really!" answered Audrey firmly, without the least
hesitation.
"How I regret it! For this reason. I wished so much to make your
acquaintance. I mean--to know you a little. You go perhaps in the
afternoon? Could you not do me the great pleasure of coming to lunch with
me? I inhabit the Quai Voltaire. It is all that is most convenient."
Audrey was startled and suspicious, but she could not deny the
persuasiveness of the invitation.
"Ah! Madame!" she said. "I know not at what hour we go. But even if it
should be in the afternoon there is the packing--you know--in a word...."
"Listen," Madame Piriac proceeded, bending even more intimately towards
her. "Be very, very kind. Come to see me to-night. Come in my car. I will
see that you reach the Rue Delambre afterwards."
"But Madame, we are at the Hôtel du Danube. I have my own car. You are very
amiable."
Madame Piriac was a little taken aback.
"So much the better," she said, in a new tone. "The Hôtel du Danube is
nearer still. But come in my car. Mademoiselle Ingate can return in yours.
Do not desolate me."
"Does she know who I am?" thought Audrey, and then: "What do I care if she
does?"
And she said aloud:
"Madame, it is I who would be desolated to deprive myself of this
pleasure."
A considerable period elapsed before they could leave, because of the
complex discussion concerning feminism which was delicately raging round
the edge of the table. The animation was acute, but it was purely
intellectual. The guests discussed the psychology of English suffragettes,
sympathetically, admiringly; they were even wonderstruck; yet they might
have been discussing the psychology of the ancient Babylonians, so perfect
was their detachment, so completely unclouded by any prejudice was their
desire to reach the truth. Many of the things which they imperturbably and
politely said made Audrey feel glad that she was a widow. Had she not been
a widow, possibly they would not have been uttered.
And when Madame Piriac and Audrey did rise to go, both host and hostess
began to upbraid. The host, indeed, barred the doorway with his urbane
figure. They were not kind, they were not true friends, to leave so soon.
The morrow had no sort of importance. The hour was scarcely one o'clock.
Other guests were expected.... Madame Piriac alone knew how to handle the
situation; she appealed privately to Madame Foa. Having appealed to Madame
Foa, she disappeared with Madame Foa, and could not be found when Audrey
and Miss Ingate were ready to leave. While these two waited in the
antechamber, Monsieur Foa said suddenly in a confidential tone to Audrey:
"He is charming, Musa, quite charming."
"Did you like his playing?" Audrey demanded boldly.
She could not understand why it should be necessary for a violinist to play
and to succeed at this house before he could capture Paris. She was
delighted excessively with the home, but positively it bore no resemblance
to what she had anticipated; nor did it seem to her to possess any of the
attributes of influence; for one of her basic ideas about the world was
that influential people must be dull and formal, moving about with
deliberation in sombrely magnificent interiors.
"Yes," said Monsieur Foa. "I like it. He plays admirably." And he spoke
sincerely. Audrey, however, was a little disappointed because Monsieur Foa
did not assert that Musa was the most marvellous genius he had ever
listened to.
"I am very, very content to have heard him," said Monsieur Foa.
"Do you think he will succeed in Paris?"
"Ah! Madame! There is the Press. There are the snobs.... In fine...."
"I suppose if he had money?" Audrey murmured.
"Ah! Madame! In Paris, if one has money, one has everything. Paris--it is
not London, where to succeed one must be truly successful. But he is a
player very highly accomplished. It is miraculous that he should have
played so long in a café--Dauphin told me the history."
Musa appeared, and after him Madame Piriac. More appeals, more reproaches,
more asseverations that friends who left so early as one o'clock in the
morning were not friends--and the host at length consented to open the
door. At that very instant the bell clanged. Another guest had arrived.
When, after the long descent of the stairs (which, however, unlike the
stairs of the Rue Delambre, were lighted), Audrey saw seven automobiles in
the street, she veered again towards the possibility that the Foas might
after all be influential. Musa and Mr. Gilman, the yachtsman, had left with
the women. Audrey told Miss Ingate to drive Musa home. She said not a word
to him about her departure the next afternoon, and he made no reference to
it. As the most imposing automobile moved splendidly away, Mr. Gilman held
open the door of Madame Piriac's vehicle.
Mr. Gilman sat down opposite to the women. In the enclosed space the rumour
of his heavy breathing was noticeable. Madame Piriac began to speak in
English--her own English--with a unique accent that Audrey at once loved.
"You commence soon the yachting, my oncle?" said she, and turning to
Audrey: "Mistair Gilman is no oncle to me. But he is a great friend of my
husband. I call always him oncle. Do not I, oncle? Mistair Gilman lives
only for the yachting. Every year in May we lose him, till September."
"Really!" said Audrey.
Her heart was apprehensively beating. She even suspected for an instant
that both of them knew who she was, and that Mr. Gilman, before she had
addressed him in the drawing-room, had already related to Madame Piriac the
episode of Mozewater. Then she said to herself that the idea was absurd;
and lastly, repeating within her breast that she didn't care, she became
desperately bold.
"I should love to buy a yacht," she said, after a pause. "We used to live
far inland and I know nothing of the sea; in fact I scarcely saw it till I
crossed the Channel, but I have always dreamed about it."
"You must come and have a look at my new yacht, Mrs. Moncreiff," said Mr.
Gilman in his solemn, thick voice. "I always say that no yacht is herself
without ladies on board, a yacht being feminine, you see." He gave a little
laugh.
"Ah! My oncle!" Madame Piriac broke in. "I see in that no reason. If a
yacht was masculine then I could see the reason in it."
"Perhaps not one of my happiest efforts," said Mr. Gilman with
resignation. "I am a dull man."
"No, no!" Madame Piriac protested. "You are a dear. But why have you said
nothing to-night at the Foas in the great discussion about feminism? Not
one word have you said!"
"I really don't understand it," said Mr. Gilman. "Either everybody is mad,
or I am mad. I dare say I am mad."
"Well," said Madame Piriac. "I said not much myself, but I enjoyed it. It
was better than the music, music, which they talk always there. People talk
too much shops in these days. It is out-to-place and done over."
"Do you mean overdone?" asked Mr. Gilman mildly.
"Well, overdone, if you like better that."
"Do you mean shop, Hortense?" asked Mr. Gilman further.
"Shop, shop! The English is impossible!"
The automobile crossed the Seine and arrived in the deserted Quai Voltaire.