THE HOUSE IN THE PARC MONCEAU.
There had been a crash in Wall street. Two of the best houses had gone
under. Of one of these the senior partner had had recourse to the
bare bodkin. For several years previous his wife had dispensed large
hospitality from a charming hôtel just within the gates of the Parc
Monceau. At the news of her ruined widowhood she fled from Paris. In a
week it was only her creditors that remembered her. The hôtel was sold
under the hammer. A speculator bought it and while waiting a chance to
sell it again at a premium, offered it for rent, fully furnished, as it
stood. This by the way.
After the dinner in Spain, Mr. Incoul passed some time in thought.
The next morning he sent for Karl, and after a consultation with him,
he went to the square that overhangs the sea, entered the telegraph
office, found a blank, wrote a brief message, and after attending
to its despatch, returned to the villa. His wife was in the library,
and as he entered the room the _maître d’hôtel_ announced that their
excellencies were served.
Maida had never been more bewildering in her beauty. Her lips were
moist, and under her polar-blue eyes were the faintest of semicircles.
“Did you enjoy your trip to Fuenterrabia?” she asked.
“Exceedingly,” he answered. But he did not enter into details and the
breakfast was done before either of them spoke again.
At last as Maida rose from the table Mr. Incoul said: “We leave for
Paris at five this afternoon. I beg you will see to it that your things
are ready.”
She steadied herself against a chair, she would have spoken, but he had
risen also and left the room.
For the time being her mind refused to act. Into the fibres of her
there settled that chill which the garb and aspect of a policeman
produces on the conscience of a misdemeanant. But the chill passed as
policemen do, and a fever came in its place.
To hypnotize her thoughts she caught up an English journal. She read
of a cocoa that was grateful and comforting, the praises of Pear’s
Soap, an invitation from Mr. Streeter to view his wares, a column of
testimonials on the merits of a new pill, appeals from societies for
pecuniary aid. She learned that a Doré was on exhibition in New Bond
street, that Lady Grenville, The Oaks, Market Litchfield, was anxious
to secure a situation for a most excellent under-housemaid, that money
in large amounts or small could be obtained without publicity on simple
note of hand by applying personally or by letter to Moss & Lewes,
Golden Square. She found that a harmless, effective and permanent cure
for corpulency would be sent to any part of the world, post-paid, on
receipt twelve stamps, and that the Junior Macready Club would admit a
few more members without entrance fee. She read it all determinedly,
by sheer effort of will, and at last in glancing over an oasis her eye
fell upon a telegram from Madrid which stated cholera had broken out
afresh.
She took the paper with her and hurried from the room. In the hall
her husband stood talking to Karl. She went to him and pointed to the
telegram. “Is it for this we are to leave?” she asked.
He read the notice and returned it. “Yes,” he answered, “it is for
that.” And then it was that both chill and fever passed away.
The journey from Biarritz was accomplished without incident. On their
previous visit to Paris, they had put up at the Bristol and to that
hostelry they returned. The manager had been notified and the yellow
suite overlooking the Palace Vendôme was prepared for their reception.
On arriving, Maida went at once with her maid to her room. Mr. Incoul
changed his clothes, passed an hour at the Hamman, breakfasted at
Voisin’s, and then had himself driven to a house-agent.
The clerk, a man of fat and greasy presence, gave him a list of
apartments, marking with a star those which he thought might prove
most suitable. Mr. Incoul visited them all. He had never lived in an
apartment in Paris and the absence of certain conveniences perplexed
him. The last apartment of those that were starred was near the Arc de
Triomphe. When he had been shown it over he found a seat, and heedless
of the volubility of the concierge, rested his head in his hand and
thought. For the moment it seemed to him as though it would be best to
return to New York, but there were objections to that, and reflecting
that there might be other and better arranged apartments, he left the
chattering concierge and drove again to the agent’s.
“I have seen nothing I liked,” he said simply.
At this the clerk expressed his intense surprise. The apartment in
the Avenue Montaigne was everything that there was of most fine, and
wait, the Hospodar of Wallachia had just quitted the one in the Rue de
Presbourg. “It astonishes me much,” he said.
The astonishment of the clerk was to Mr. Incoul a matter of perfect
indifference. “Have you any private houses?” he asked.
“Ah, yes, particular hôtels.” Yes, there was one near the Trocadero,
but for his part he found that the apartment in the Avenue Montaigne
would fit him much better. “But now that I am there,” he continued, “I
recall myself of one that is enchanter as a subjunctive. I engage you
to visit it.” And thereupon he wrote down the address of the house in
the Parc Monceau.
It was not, Mr. Incoul discovered, a large dwelling, but the
appointments left little to be desired. In the dressing-rooms
was running water, and each of the bed-rooms was supplied with
gas-fixtures. He touched one to see if it were in working order, and
immediately the escaping ether assured him that it was. He sniffed it
with a feeling akin to pleasure. One would have thought that since he
left Madison avenue he had not enjoyed such a treat. There was gas to
be found in the dining-room, but the reception-rooms were furnished
with lamps and candelabras. The bed-rooms were on the floor above. One
of these overlooked the park. There was a dressing-room next to it, but
to the two rooms there was but one entrance, and that from the hall.
This little suite, Mr. Incoul resolved, should be occupied by his wife.
Beyond, across the hall, was a sitting-room, and at the other end of
the house was a second suite, which Mr. Incoul mentally selected for
himself.
He returned to the agent, and informed him that the house suited him,
an announcement which the man received with an air of personal sympathy.
“Is it not!” he exclaimed, “it made the mouth champagne nothing but
to think there. And again, one was at home with one’s self. Truly,
the hôtel was beautiful as a boulevard. Monsieur would never regret
himself of it. And had Monsieur servants? No, good then. Let Monsieur
not disquiet himself. He who spoke knew of a cook, veritably a blue
ribbon, and as to masters of hôtel, why, anointed name of a dog, not
later than yesterday, he had heard that Baptiste--he who had served the
family of Cantacuzène--Monsieur knew her, without doubt, came to be
free.”
In many respects Paris is not what it might be. The shops are vulgar
in their ostentation. Were Monte Cristo to return he would find his
splendor cheap and commonplace. In a city where Asiatic magnificence is
sold from misfit and remnant counters by the ton, where emeralds large
as swallows’ eggs are to be had in the side-streets at a discount,
where agents are ready to provide everything from an opéra-seria to a
shoelace, the _badauds_ have lost their ability to be startled. Paris,
moreover, is not what it was. The suavity and civility for which it was
proverbial have gone the way of other old-fashioned virtues; the wit
which used to run about the streets never by any chance enters a salon;
save in China a more rapacious set of bandits than the restauranteurs
and shop-keepers do not exist; the theatres are haunts of ennui; the
boulevards are filled with the worst-dressed set of people in the
world. As for Parisian gaiety, there is nothing duller--no, not even a
carnival. In winter the city is a tomb; in summer a furnace. In fact,
there are dozens and dozens of places far more attractive, but there
is not one where house-keeping is easier. The butcher and baker are
invisible providers of the best of fare. The servants understand their
duties and attend to them, and, given a little forethought and a good
bank account, the palace of the White Cat is there the most realizable
of constructions.
In a week’s time the house in the Parc Monceau ran in grooves. To keep
it running the tenants had absolutely nothing to do but to pay the
bills. For this function Mr. Incoul was amply prepared, and, that the
establishment should be on a proper footing, he furnished an adjacent
stable with carriages, grooms and horse.