* * * * *
Three charming creatures are coming to have tea with me to-day. They had
heard of my loneliness and my savageness from Maurice--They burn to give
me their sympathy--and have tea with plenty of sugar in it--and
chocolate cake.
I used to wonder in my salad days what the brains of women were made
of--when they have brains!--The cleverest of them are generally devoid
of a logical sense, and they seldom understand the relative value of
things, but they make the charm of life, for one reason or another.
When I have seen these three I will dissect them. A divorcée--a war
widow of two years--and the third with a husband fighting.
All, Maurice assures me, ready for anything, and highly attractive. It
will do me a great deal of good, he protests. We shall see.
_Night._ They came, with Maurice and Alwood Chester, of the American Red
Cross. They gave little shrill screams of admiration for the room.
"_Quel endroit delicieux!_--What _boiserie_! English?--Yes, of course,
English _dix-septième_, one could see--What silver!--and cleaned--And
everything of a _chic_!--And the hermit so _séduisant_ with his air
_maussade_!--_Hein._"
"Yes, the war is much too long--One has given of one's time in the first
year--but now, really, fatigue has overcome one!--and surely after the
spring offensive peace _must_ come soon--and one must live!"
They smoked continuously and devoured the chocolate cake, then they had
liqueurs.
They were so well dressed! and so lissome. They wore elastic corsets, or
none at all. They were well painted; cheeks of the new tint, rather
apricot coloured--and magenta lips. They had arranged themselves when
they had finished munching, bringing out their gold looking-glasses and
their lip grease and their powder--and the divorcee continued to
endeavour to enthrall my senses with her voluptuous half closing of the
eyes, while she reddened her full mouth.
They spoke of the theatre, and the last _bons mots_ about their _chères
amies_--the last liasons--the last passions--They spoke of
Gabrielle--her husband was killed last week--'So foolish of him, since
one of Alice's 'friends' among the Ministers could easily have got him a
soft job, and one must always help one's friends! Alice adored
Gabrielle.--But he has left her well provided for--Gabrielle will look
well in her crepe--and there it is, war is war--_Que voulez vous?_'
"After all, will it be as agreeable if peace does come this summer?--One
will be able to dance openly--that will be nice--but for the rest? It
may be things will be more difficult--and there may be complications.
One has been very well during the war--very well, indeed--_N'est ce pas
ma cherie--n'est ce pas?_"
Thus they talked.
The widow's lover is married, Maurice tells me, and has been able to
keep his wife safely down at their place in Landes, but if peace should
come he must be _en famille_, and the wife can very well be disagreeable
about the affair.
The divorcée's three lovers will be in Paris at the same time. The
married one's husband returned for good--"Yes, certainly, peace will
have its drawbacks--The war knows its compensations--But considerable
ones!"
When they had departed, promising to return very soon--to dinner this
time, and see all the "exquisite _appartement_," Burton came into the
room to take away the tea things. His face was a mask as he swept up the
cigarette ash, which had fallen upon the William and Mary English lac
table, which holds the big lamp, then he carefully carried away the
silver ash trays filled with the ends, and returned with them cleaned.
Then he coughed slightly.
"Shall I open the window, Sir Nicholas?"
"It is a beastly cold evening."
He put an extra log on the fire and threw the second casement wide.
"You'll enjoy your dinner better now, Sir," he said, and left me
shivering.
* * * * *
I wish I were a musician, I could play to myself. I have still my two
hands, though perhaps my left shoulder hurts too much to play often. My
one eye aches when I read for too long, and the stump below the knee is
too tender still to fit the false leg on to, and I cannot, because of my
shoulder, use my crutch overmuch, so walking is out of the question.
These trifles are perhaps, the cause of my ennui with life.
I suppose such women as those who came to-day fulfill some purpose in the
scheme of things. One can dine openly with them at the most exclusive
restaurant, and not mind meeting one's relations. They are rather more
expensive than the others--pearl necklaces--sables--essence for their
motor cars--these are their prices.--They are so decorative, too, and
before the war were such excellent tango partners. These three are all
of the best families, and their relations stick to them in the
background, so they are not altogether _déclassé_. Maurice says they are
the most agreeable women in Paris, and get the last news out of the
Generals. They are seen everywhere, and Coralie, the married one, wears
a Red Cross uniform sometimes at tea--if she happens to remember to go
into a hospital for ten minutes to hold some poor fellow's hand.
Yes, I suppose they have their uses--there are a horde of them, anyway.
To-morrow Maurice is bringing another specimen to divert me--American
this time--over here for "war work." Maurice says one of the cleverest
adventuresses he has ever met; and I am still irresistible, he assures
me, so I must be careful--(for am I not disgustingly rich!)
Burton is sixty years old--He is my earliest recollection. Burton knows
the world.
* * * * *
_Friday_--The American adventuress delighted me. She was so shrewd. Her
eyes are cunning and evil--her flesh is round and firm, she is not
extremely painted, and her dresses are quite six inches below her knees.
She has two English peers in tow, and any casual Americans of note whom
she can secure who will give her facilities in life. She, also, is
posing for a 'lady' and 'a virtuous woman,' and an ardent war worker.
All these parasites are the product of the war, though probably they
always existed, but the war has been their glorious chance. There is a
new verb in America, Maurice says--"To war work"--It means to get to
Paris, and have a splendid time.
Their _toupé_ is surprising! To hear this one talk one would think she
ruled all the politics of the allies, and directed each General.
* * * * *
Are men fools?--Yes, imbeciles--they cannot see the wiles of woman.
Perhaps I could not when I was a human male whom they could love!
Love?--did I say love?
Is there such a thing?--or is it only a sex excitement for the
moment!--That at all events is the sum of what these creatures know.
Do they ever think?--I mean beyond planning some fresh adventure for
themselves, or how to secure some fresh benefit.
I cannot now understand how a man ever marries one of them, gives his
name and his honour into such precarious keeping. Once I suppose I
should have been as easy a prey as the rest. But not _now_--I have too
much time to think, I fear. I seem to find some ulterior motive in
whatever people say or do.
To-day another American lunched with me, a bright girl, an heiress of the
breezy, jolly kind, a good sort before the war, whom I danced with
often. She told me quite naturally that she had a German prisoner's
thigh bone being polished into an umbrella handle--She had assisted at
the amputation--and the man had afterwards died--"A really cute
souvenir," she assured me it was going to be!
Are we all mad--?
No wonder the finest and best "go West."--Will they come again, souls of
a new race, when all these putrid beings have become extinguished by
time? I hope so to God....
These French women enjoy their crepe veils--and their high-heeled shoes,
and their short black skirts, even a cousin is near enough for the
trappings of woe.--Can any of us feel woe now?--I think not....
Maurice has his uses--Were I a man once more I should despise
Maurice--He is so good a creature, such a devoted hanger on of the very
rich--and faithful too. Does he not pander to my every fancy, and
procure me whatever I momentarily desire?
How much better if I had been killed outright! I loathe myself and all
the world.
* * * * *
Once--before the war--the doing up of this flat caused me raptures. To
get it quite English--in Paris! Every _antiquaire_ in London had
exploited me to his heart's content. I paid for it through the nose, but
each bit is a gem. I am not quite sure now what I meant to do with it
when finished, occupy it when I did come to Paris--lend it to
friends?--I don't remember--Now it seems a sepulchre where I can retire
my maimed body to and wait for the end.
* * * * *
Nina once proposed to stay with me here, no one should know,
Nina?--would she come now?--How dare they make this noise at the
door--what is it?--Nina!
* * * * *
_Sunday_--it was actually Nina herself--"Poor darling Nicholas," she
said. "The kindest fate sent me across--I 'wangled' a passport--really
serious war work, and here I am for a fortnight, even in war time one
_must_ get a few clothes--"
I could see I was a great shock to her, my attraction for her had
gone--I was just "poor darling Nicholas," and she began to be
motherly--Nina motherly!--She would have been furious at the very idea
once. Nina is thirty-nine years old, her boy has just gone into the
flying corps, she is so glad the war will soon be over.
She loves her boy.
She gave me news of the world, our old world of idle uselessness, which
is now one of solid work.
"Why have you completely cut yourself off from everything and everybody,
ever since you first went out to fight?--Very silly of you."
"When I was a _man_ and could fight, I liked fighting, and never wanted
to see any of you again. You all seemed rotters to me, so I spent my
leaves in the country or here. Now you seem glorious beings, and I the
rotter. I am no use at all--"