A PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP.
The following week found Andrew fairly installed _en garcon_, with a
man-servant, recommended by Radwalader, presiding over his boots and
apparel, and a fat apple-cheeked _concierge_ preparing his favourite
dishes in a fashion which suggested that all former cooks of his
experience had been the veriest tyros. It had taken but a week at the
Ritz to disgust him with the elaborate pomposity of life at a
fashionable hotel, and, in its unpretentious way, Remson Peake's
apartment was a gem. A tiled bath, with a porcelain tub; a bedchamber in
white and sage-green, with charmingly odd, splay-footed furniture of the
Glasgow school; a severely simple dining-room, with curtains and
upholstery of heavy crimson damask; a study with furniture of
_marqueterie_ mahoghany, a huge divan, and a club-fender upon which to
cock one's feet; a pantry and a kitchen like a doll's--it was complete,
inviting, and equipped in every detail. For Andrew it had a very special
charm. His whole life had been, to a great extent, subordinate to the
presence and personality of his grandfather. Even college had not
brought him the usual accompaniment of rooms at Claverly or Beck,
for--and it was to his credit--he had never so much as suggested leaving
Mr. Sterling alone in the big house on Beacon Hill. But even an
influence as kindly as this gentle, indulgent old man's may irk. Now,
for the first time, Andrew found himself the practical master of his
movements. And Remson Peake's apartment had the rare, almost unique,
quality of disarming criticism. One had no suggestions to make. One
would--given the opportunity--have done the same in every particular.
And so, the faint qualms of homesickness having worn off in the course
of his initial fortnight in the capital, Andrew found himself supremely
contented, and discovered a new charm in life at every turn. Radwalader
was the essence of courtesy and consideration, invariable in his good
humour, tireless in his efforts to amuse and entertain the young
_protege_ of his good friend Mrs. Carnby. Paris, he told Andrew, was
like a box of delicate _pastilles_, each of which should be allowed to
melt slowly on the tongue: it disagreed with those who attempted to
swallow the whole box of its attractions at a gulp. So they went about
Andrew's sight-seeing in a leisurely manner, taking the Louvre and the
Luxembourg by half-hours, and sandwiching in a church, a monument, or a
celebrated street, on the way; for it was another theory of Radwalader's
that a franc found on the pavement, or in the pocket of a discarded
waistcoat, is more gratifying than fifty deliberately earned.
"It's the things you happen on which you will enjoy," he said, "not
those you go to work to find, by taking a tram or walking a mile.
Unpremeditated discoveries, like unpremeditated dissipations, are always
the most successful. There's nothing so flat as a plan."
As was to be expected, Mrs. Carnby was not able to monopolize Andrew.
Mrs. Ratchett took him into her good graces, and, as was usual with her
where men were concerned, contrived to make him think of her between his
calls. And there were many others--women characteristic of the American
Colony, whose husbands were never served up except with dinner. It was
as Mrs. Carnby told him:
"If a bachelor has manners, discretion, and presentable evening dress,
he need never pay for a dinner in Paris, so long as the Colony knows of
his existence. And remember this. Nothing is dearer to a woman's heart
than a man at five o'clock. She will excuse anything, if you'll give her
a chance to remember how many lumps you take and whether it's cream or
lemon. Attend to your teas, my young friend, and you can do just about
as you like about your _p_'s and _q_'s!"
Madame Palffy, too, seeking whom she might entertain (which, in her
case, was equivalent to devouring), collected young men as geologists
collect specimens of minerals. The analogy was strengthened by her
predilection for chipping off portions--the darker portions--of their
characters, and handing these around for the edification of her
friends. She cultivated Andrew assiduously, though it was not for this
reason that he dropped in so frequently at tea-time. Margery, with her
clean-cut beauty, appealed to him in a very special sense. They had in
common many memories of the free, open-air, sane, and wind-blown life of
the North Shore; and now, when they idled through portions of "The
Persian Garden," which had been the fad at Beverly, it was by way of
getting a whiff of sea air, and an echo of the laughter that had been.
Often he found himself looking at her admiringly. She had the knack of
satisfying one's sense of what ought to be. Her dress was almost always
of a studied simplicity which depended for its effect entirely upon
colour and fit, and could have been bettered in neither. Not the least
factor in her striking beauty was its purity, its freedom from the
smallest suggestion of artificiality. She was singularly alive,
admirably clear-eyed and strong, and in her fresh propriety there was
always a challenge to the open air and the full light of day. She had,
even in the ballroom, an indefinable hint of out-of-doors. The contrast
between her personality and that of Parisian women--of Mirabelle
Tremonceau, for example--was the contrast between the clean, dull linen
of a New England housekeeper and the dainty shams of an exhibition
bedroom; between a physician's hands and a manicure's; between the keen,
salt air of the North Shore and that of a tropical island. Her
femininity impressed where that of others merely charmed. The majority
of women are pink: Margery Palffy was a soft, clear cream.
Nevertheless, Andrew seemed to feel, rather than to see, a subtle
alteration in her. A few months had given her a new reserve, almost an
attitude of distrust, which puzzled and eluded him. Their talks at
Beverly had been different from these. There, they had spoken much of
the future, of what they hoped and believed: here they skirted, instead
of boldly boarding, serious topics, and were fallen unconsciously, but
immediately, into the habit of chaffing each other over meaningless
trifles. He was baffled and disconcerted by the change. There was much
which he had come to say. He had rehearsed it all many times, and
remembering the charming lack of constraint which had characterized all
their former intercourse, to say it had seemed comparatively easy. But
now he was like a man who has been recalling his fluent renderings, at
school or college, of the classic texts, but, suddenly confronted with
the same passages, cannot translate a word.
Again, the presence of her family depressed him with something of her
own visible distress, humiliated him with something of her own evident
shame. There was no such thing as making allowances for either Monsieur
or Madame Palffy. From the moment of one's first glimpse of them, they
were hopelessly and irretrievably impossible. Not that they had the
faintest suspicion of this. They were supremely self-satisfied, and
moved massively through life with a firm conviction that they fulfilled
all requirements. Madame, with her frightful French, was as complacent
in a conversation with a duchess of the Faubourg as was Monsieur, with
his feeble and flatulent observations upon subjects of which he had no
knowledge, in a company of after-dinner smokers. It was impossible to
exaggerate their preternatural idiocy. A bale of cotton, suddenly
introduced into polite society, could have manifested no more stupendous
lack of resource than they. It was only when tempted with the bait of
gossip--most probably untrue--that they rose heavily to the surface of
the conversation instead of floundering in its depths. Half the Colony
detested them, all of the Colony laughed at them, and none of the Colony
believed them. In short--they were Monsieur and Madame Palffy. There was
no more to be said.
Had Margery been farther from him, curiously enough she would have been
far more readily approached in the manner which Andrew had planned. He
was far from comprehending that it was her vital and intimate interest
in him which showed her that he would note all the defects of the
deplorable frame wherein he thus found her placed. The very fact that
they had known each other under different and happier conditions forced
her to assume the defensive now that other circumstances were patent to
his eyes. She was intensely proud. There must be no chance for him to
pity her. So, she assumed a gaiety which she was far from feeling, and
sought in the by-ways of banter a refuge from the broader and more open
road of surrender. On her side and on his it was a more mature case of
the painful embarrassment incidental to the early stages of a children's
party. They had played unrestrainedly together, as it were, but now, in
the artificial light of a society strange to both of them, were stricken
dumb.
From the strain of this baffling position Andrew sought relief in the
company of Mirabelle Tremonceau. Here was no constraint, no unuttered
solemnities to come up choking into the throat. She was very beautiful,
very inconsequent, very gay; but the same light _insouciance_ which in
Margery distressed and humiliated him, because of the unsounded deeps
which lay below, attracted and amused him in Mirabelle, by simple reason
of its essential shallowness. She was altogether different from any
woman he had ever known, but her novelty meant no more to him than a
part of that charmingly sparkling and intoxicating wine of Paris of
which he was learning to take deep draughts. Never for an instant did it
alter the strength of the original purpose which had brought him from
America, but it went far toward lessening the keen disappointment which
Margery's apparent disregard of that purpose caused him. In the latter's
presence he was exquisitely sensitive to the possible significance of
every word. He thought too much, and the sombre current of these
reflections too often darkened the surface of conversation, turned her
uneasy and unnatural, and sent him away in a fit of the blues. With
Mirabelle, on the contrary, he never thought at all. Since he had
nothing to ask of her beyond what she had already granted him--the
privilege of her friendship and the fascination of her presence--he
enjoyed these to the full. It was his consuming desire for another and
more tender relation with Margery that caused him to be blind to the
promise of that which existed--almost to despise it.
Minutes grew into hours with unbelievable celerity in the company of
Mirabelle Tremonceau. With something akin to intuition, all unsuspecting
as he was, he said nothing of her to Mrs. Carnby, to Margery, or even to
Radwalader. At the first, there was but one who could have told him
whither he was tending--but Thomas Radwalader had all-sufficient reasons
for holding his tongue. Yet, back of his slight infatuation, there lay
in Andrew's mind a little sense of guilt. He could not have laid finger
upon the quality of his indiscretion, but he felt indefinitely that all
was not right. He recognized, or seemed to recognize, in Mirabelle a
fruit forbidden, but told himself that it was a passing episode. He was
confident that the way would yet lie open for the attainment of his
heart's desire, and meanwhile he would amuse himself and say nothing.
Your ostrich, with his silly head buried in the sand, is not the only
creature that fatuously underestimates both its own desirability and the
perspicacity of those interested in its movements. Twice, in the
afternoon, Andrew had driven with Mirabelle in the Allee des Acacias.
She gave him the seat at her right, and people turned to look at the
passing victoria, as they had turned and looked on the afternoon when
she took his arm at the gate of Auteuil.
But better than driving was the time passed, daily, in her apartment on
the Avenue Henri Martin. It was on the fifth floor, running the whole
width of the house, and with a broad balcony looking down upon the rows
of trees below. A corner of this balcony was enclosed by gay awnings,
and made garden-like by azaleas and potted palms. Mademoiselle
Tremonceau had a great lounging chair, and a table for books and
_bon-bons_, and Andrew sprawled at her feet, on red cushions, with his
back against the balcony rail, his hands linked behind his head, and his
long legs stretched out upon a Persian rug. All this was the most
unexpected feature of his new life, and hence the most attractive. It
was as far as possible removed from a suggestion of metropolitan
existence. May was already upon them, and the air above the wide and
shaded avenue was indescribably soft and sweet. The roar of the city
mounted to their high coign only in a subdued murmur, as of the sea at a
distance. Birds came and went, twittering on the cornice above their
heads. The sun soaked through Andrew's serge and linen, and sent
pleasurable little thrills of warmth through the muscles of his broad
back. A faint perfume came to him from the roses on the table. A
delicious, indefinable languor hung upon his surroundings. He was
vaguely reminded of afternoons at Newport and Nahant--afternoons when
everything smelt of new white flannel, warm leaves, and the fox-terrier
blinking and quivering on his knee--when the only sounds were the whine
of insects in the vines, the rasping snore of locusts in the nearest
trees, and the snarl of passing carriage-wheels on a Macadam driveway.
He could close his eyes and remember it all, and know that what had
been, was good. He could open them, and feel that what was, was better!
As is always the case, when sympathy is pregnant with prophecy, Andrew's
acquaintance with Mirabelle Tremonceau had grown into friendship before
he realized the change. At first he had made excuses for the frequency
of his calls; but at the end of three weeks the daily visit had come, in
his eyes as well as hers, to be a matter of course.
So it was that three o'clock would find him upon her balcony, or in a
cushioned corner of her divan; and whereas, at the outset, he had been
but one of several men present, he discovered of a sudden not only that
for four days had he found her alone at the accustomed hour, but that
she refused herself to other callers when the _maitre d'hotel_ brought
in their cards. He was not insensible to the compliment, but it was one
he had experienced before.
That afternoon, the _maitre d'hotel_ had not even taken his name, but
ushered him directly through the _salon_ to the Venetian blind at the
window, and lifted this to let him pass out upon the balcony.
Mademoiselle Tremonceau was in her great chair, with a yellow-covered
novel perched, tent-like, upon her knee. She smiled as he came out, and
gave him her hand. Andrew bent over and kissed it, before taking his
seat. It was a trick of the Frenchmen he had met at Mrs. Carnby's--one
of the things which are courtesies in Paris, and impertinence elsewhere.
The girl's hand lay for an instant against his lips. It was as soft as
satin, and smelt faintly of orris, and her fingers closed on his with a
little friendly pressure.
"You were expecting me?" he asked, as he dropped upon the cushions
beside her.
"I'd given you up," she answered. "It's ten minutes past three."
"Am I as regular as that?" he laughed. "I was lunching at my friend Mrs.
Carnby's, and we didn't get up from table till long after two. I came
directly over."
Mirabelle looked away across the house-tops with a little frown.
"What is it?" asked Andrew. "Anything gone wrong?"
"Oh no! My thoughts wouldn't be a bargain at a penny. Tell me--have you
seen Mr. Radwalader lately?"
"Last night. We went to the Francais."
"You continue to like him?"
"I think we should never be intimate friends. Apart from the difference
in our ages and opinions, there's something about him which I don't
seem to get at--like shaking a gloved hand, if you know what I mean."
"Ye-es," said Mirabelle slowly. "It's odd you should have noticed that."
"But it's ungrateful of me to mention even that small objection,"
continued Andrew. "He's been the soul of kindness, and has shown me all
over Paris, introduced me everywhere, and, in general, explained things.
I've learned more in three weeks with him than I could have learned
myself in a year. So, you see, I couldn't very well help liking him,
even if I wanted to help it--which I don't. Why do you ask?"
For an instant Mirabelle's slender hand fluttered toward him with an odd
little tentative gesture, and then went back to her cheek.
"I'm not sure," she answered. "Perhaps only for lack of anything else to
say. People have told me that they disliked Mr. Radwalader--that they
distrusted him."
"I suppose we're all of us disliked and distrusted--by somebody," said
Andrew. "But, so far as I'm concerned, Radwalader's my friend. Perhaps
you don't know me well enough yet to understand that that means a great
deal."
"You're very loyal you mean?" suggested the girl.
"I hope so--yes. I have few friends; but those I have, I care for and
respect and, if necessary, defend. They can't be talked against in my
presence."
"I wonder," said Mirabelle slowly, "if I'm one of the happy few."
"Decidedly!" said Andrew heartily.
"Do you mean," she continued, "that you care for me as you care for
these other friends, that you--that you respect me, and that you'd
defend me--if necessary?"
"Decidedly, decidedly! I hope I've proved the first two, and I hope
there'll never be any cause to prove the last. But if there is, you may
count on me."
Mirabelle looked at him for a moment, and then leaned back and closed
her eyes.
"Thank you," she said. "You don't know what that means to me."
"Why, how serious you are over it!" laughed Andrew. "Does it seem to you
so very wonderful? To me it appears to be the most natural thing in the
world."
"Ah, to _you_, perhaps," answered Mirabelle. "But to me--yes, it does
seem _very_ wonderful. You see--I've never had it said to me before!"