THE BOUDOIR
In the setting of her own boudoir Madame Piriac equalled, and in some ways
surpassed, the finest pictures which Audrey had imagined of her. Her
evening dress made Audrey doubt whether after all her own was the genuine
triumph which she had supposed; in Madame Piriac's boudoir, and close by
Madame Piriac, it had disconcertingly the air of being an ingenious but
unconvincing imitation of the real thing.
But Madame Piriac's dress had the advantage of being worn with the highest
skill and assurance; Madame Piriac knew what the least fold of her dress
was doing, in the way of effect, on the floor behind her back. And Madame
Piriac was mistress, not only of her dress, but of herself and all her
faculties. A handsome woman, rather more than slim, but not plump, she had
an expression of confidence, of knowing exactly what she was about, of
foreseeing all her effects, which Audrey envied more than she had ever
envied anything.
As soon as Audrey came into the room she had said to herself: "I will have
a boudoir like this." It was an interior in which every piece of furniture
was loaded with objects personal to its owner. So many signed photographs,
so much remarkable bric-à-brac, so many intimate contrivances of ornamental
comfort, Audrey had never before seen within four walls. The chandelier,
comprising ten thousand crystals, sparkled down upon a complex aggregate of
richness overwhelming to everybody except Madame Piriac, who subdued it,
understood it, and had the key to it. Audrey wondered how many servants
took how many hours to dust the room. She was sure, however, that whatever
the number of servants required, Madame Piriac managed them all to
perfection. She longed violently to be as old as Madame Piriac, whom she
assessed at twenty-nine and a half, and to be French, and to know all about
everything in life as Madame Piriac did. Yet at the same time she was
extremely determined to be Audrey, and not to be intimidated by Madame
Piriac or by anyone.
Just as they were beginning to suck iced lemonade up straws--a delightful
caprice of Madame Piriac's, well suited to catch Audrey's taste--the door
opened softly, and a tall, very dark, bearded man, appreciably older than
Madame Piriac, entered with a kind of soft energy, and Mr. Gilman followed
him.
"Ah! My friend!" murmured Madame Piriac. "You give me pleasure. This is
Madame Moncreiff, of whom I have spoken to you. Madame--my husband. We have
just come from the Foas."
Monsieur Piriac bent over Audrey's hand, and smiled with vivacity, and they
talked a little of the evening, carelessly, as though time existed not. And
then Monsieur Piriac said to his wife:
"Dear friend. I have to work with this old Gilman. We shall therefore ask
you to excuse us. Till to-morrow, then. Good night."
"Good night, my friend. Do not do harm to yourself. Good night, my oncle."
Monsieur Piriac saluted with formality but with sincerity.
"Oh!" thought Audrey, as the men went away. "I should want to marry exactly
him if I did want to marry. He doesn't interfere; he isn't curious; he
doesn't want to know. He leaves her alone. She leaves him alone. How clever
they are!"
"My husband is now chief of the Cabinet of the Foreign Minister," said
Madame Piriac with modest pride. "They kill themselves, you know, in that
office--especially in these times. But I watch. And I tell Monsieur Gilman
to watch.... How nice you are when you sit in a chair like that! Only
Englishwomen know how to use an easy chair.... To say nothing of the
frock."
"Madame Piriac," Audrey brusquely demanded with an expression of ingenuous
curiosity. "Why did you bring me here?" It was the cry of an animal at once
rash and rather desperate, determined to unmask all the secret dangers that
might be threatening.
"I much desired to see you," Madame Piriac answered very smoothly, "in
order to apologise to you for my indiscreet question on the night when we
first met. Your fairy tale about your late husband was a very proper reply
to the attitude of Madame Rosamund--as you all call her. It was very
clever--so clever that I myself did not appreciate it until after I had
spoken. Ever since that moment I have wanted to explain, to know you more.
Also your pretence of going to sleep in the automobile showed what in a
woman I call distinguished talent."
"But, Madame, I assure you that I really was asleep."
"So much the better. The fact proves that your instinct for the right thing
is quite exceptional. It is not that I would criticise Madame Rosamund, who
has genius. Nevertheless her genius causes her to commit errors of which
others would be incapable.... So she has captured you, too."
"Captured me!" Audrey protested--and she was made stronger by the
flattering reference to her distinguished talent. "I've never seen her from
that day to this!"
"No. But she has captured you. You are going."
"Going where?"
"To London, to take part in these riots."
"I shan't have anything to do with riots."
"Within a month you will have been in a riot, Madame ... and I shall
regret it."
"And even if I am, Madame! You are a friend of Rosamund's. You must be in
sympathy."
"In sympathy with what?"
"With--with all this suffragism, feminism. I am anyway!" Audrey sat up
straight. "It's horrible that women don't have the Vote. And it's horrible
the things they have to suffer in order to get it. But they _will_ get it!"
"Why do you say 'they'?"
"I mean 'we.'"
"Supposing you meant 'they,' after all? And you did, Madame. Let me tell
you. You ask me if I sympathise with suffragism. You might as well ask me
if I sympathise with a storm or with an earthquake, or with a river running
to the sea. Perhaps I do. But perhaps I do not. That has no importance.
Feminism is a natural phenomenon; it was unavoidable. You Englishwomen will
get your vote. Even we in France will get it one day. It cannot be
denied.... Sympathy is not required. But let us suppose that all women
joined the struggle. What would happen to women? What would happen to the
world? Just as nunneries were a necessity of other ages, so even in this
age women must meditate. Far more than men they need to understand
themselves. Until they understand themselves how can they understand men?
The function of women is to understand. Their function is also to
preserve. All the beautiful and luxurious things in the world are in the
custody of women. Men would never of themselves keep a tradition. If there
is anything on earth worth keeping, women must keep it. And the tradition
will be lost if every woman listens to Madame Rosamund. That is what she
cannot see. Her genius blinds her. You say I am a friend of Madame
Rosamund. I am. Madame Rosamund was educated in Paris, at the same school
as my aunt and myself. But I have never helped her in her mission. And I
never will. My vocation is elsewhere. When she fled over here from the
English police, she came to me. I received her. She asked me to drive her
to certain addresses. I did so. She was my guest. I surrounded her with all
that she had abandoned, all that her genius had forced her to abandon. But
I never spoke to her of her work, nor she to me of it. Still, I dare to
think that I was of some value to the woman in Madame Rosamund."
Audrey felt very young and awkward and defiant. She felt defiant because
Madame Piriac had impressed her, and she was determined not to be
impressed.
"So you wanted to tell me all this," said she, putting down her glass, with
the straws in it, on a small round table laden with tiny figures in silver.
"Why did you want to tell me, Madame?"
"I wanted to tell you because I want you to do nothing that you will
regret. You greatly interested me the moment I saw you. And when I saw you
in that studio, in that Quarter, I feared for you."
"Feared what?"
"I feared that you might mistake your vocation--that vocation which is so
clearly written on your face. I saw a woman young and free and rich, and I
was afraid that she might waste everything."
"But do you know anything about me?"
Madame Piriac paused before replying.
"Nothing but what I see. But I see that you are in a high degree what all
women are to a greater extent than men--an individualist. You know the
feeling that comes over a woman in hours of complete intimacy with a man?
You know what I mean?"
"Oh, yes!" Audrey agreed, blushing.
"In those moments we perceive that only the individual counts with us. And
with you, above all, the individual should count. Unless you use your youth
and your freedom and your money for some individual, you will never be
content; you will eternally regret. All that is in your face."
Audrey blushed more, thinking of certain plans formed in that head of hers.
She said nothing. She was both very pleased and very exasperated.
"I have a relative in England, a young girl," Madame Piriac proceeded, "in
some unpronounceable county. We write to each other. She is excessively
English."
Audrey was scarlet. Several times during the sojourn in Paris she had sent
letters (to Madame Piriac) to be posted in Essex by Mr. Foulger. These
letters were full of quaint inventions about winter life in Essex, and
other matters.
Madame Piriac, looking reflectively at the red embers of wood in the grate,
went on:
"She says she may come to Paris soon. I have often asked her to come, but
she has refused. Perhaps next month I shall go to England to fetch her. I
should like her to know you--very much. She is younger than you are, but
only a little, I think."
"I shall be delighted, if I am here," Audrey stammered, and she rose. "You
are a very kind woman. Very, very amiable. You do not know how much I
admire you. I wish I was like you. But I am not. You have seen only one
side of me. You should see the inside. It is very strange. I must go to
London. I am forced to go to London. I should be a coward if I did not go
to London. Tell me, is my dress really good? Or is it a deception?"
Madame Piriac smiled, and kissed her on both cheeks.
"It is good," said Madame Piriac. "But your maid is not all that she ought
to be. However, it is good."
"If you had simply praised it, and only that, I should not have been
content," said Audrey, and kissed Madame Piriac in the English way, the
youthful and direct way.
Not another word about the male sex, the female sex, tradition or
individualism, passed between them.
Mr. Gilman was summoned to take Audrey across the river to the right bank.
They went in a taxi. He was protective and very silent. But just as the cab
was turning out of the Rue de Rivoli into the Rue Castiglione he said:
"I shall obey you absolutely, Mrs. Moncreiff. It is a great pleasure for an
old, lonely man to keep a secret for a young and charming woman. A greater
pleasure than you can possibly imagine. You may count on me. I am not a
talker, but you have put me under an obligation, and I am very grateful."
She took care that her thanks should reward him.
"Winnie," she burst out in the rose-coloured secrecy of the bedroom, "has
Elise gone to bed? ... All right. Well, I'm lost. Madame Piniac is going
to England to fetch me."