COSETTE
Tom and Henry put up at the Grand Hotel, Paris. The idea was Tom's. He
decried the hotel, its clients and its reputation, but he said that it
had one advantage: when you were at the Grand Hotel you knew where you
were. Tom, it appeared, had a studio and bedroom up in Montmartre. He
postponed visiting this abode, however, until the morrow, partly because
it would not be prepared for him, and partly in order to give Henry the
full advantage of his society. They sat on the terrace of the Cafe de la
Paix, after a very late dinner, and drank bock, and watched the
nocturnal life of the boulevard, and talked. Henry gathered--not from
any direct statement, but by inference--that Tom must have acquired a
position in the art world of Paris. Tom mentioned the Salon as if the
Salon were his pocket, and stated casually that there was work of his in
the Luxembourg. Strange that the cosmopolitan quality of Tom's
reputation--if, in comparison with Henry's, it might be called a
reputation at all--roused the author's envy! He, too, wished to be
famous in France, and to be at home in two capitals. Tom retired at what
he considered an early hour--namely, midnight--the oceanic part of the
journey having saddened him. Before they separated he borrowed a
sovereign from Henry, and this simple monetary transaction had the
singular effect of reducing Henry's envy.
The next morning Henry wished to begin a systematic course of the
monuments of Paris and the artistic genius of the French nation. But Tom
would not get up. At eleven o'clock Henry, armed with a map and the
English talent for exploration, set forth alone to grasp the general
outlines of the city, and came back successful at half-past one. At
half-past two Tom was inclined to consider the question of getting up,
and Henry strolled out again and lost himself between the Moulin Rouge
and the Church of Sacre Coeur. It was turned four o'clock when he
sighted the facade of the hotel, and by that time Tom had not only
arisen, but departed, leaving a message that he should be back at six
o'clock. So Henry wandered up and down the boulevard, from the Madeleine
to Marguery's Restaurant, had an automatic tea at the Express-Bar, and
continued to wander up and down the boulevard.
He felt that he could have wandered up and down the boulevard for ever.
And then night fell; and all along the boulevard, high on seventh
storeys and low as the street names, there flashed and flickered and
winked, in red and yellow and a most voluptuous purple, electric
invitations to drink inspiriting liqueurs and to go and amuse yourself
in places where the last word of amusement was spoken. There was one
name, a name almost revered by the average healthy Englishman, which
wrote itself magically on the dark blue sky in yellow, then extinguished
itself and wrote itself anew in red, and so on tirelessly: that name was
'Folies-Bergere.' It gave birth to the most extraordinary sensations in
Henry's breast. And other names, such as 'Casino de Paris,' 'Eldorado,'
'Scala,' glittered, with their guiding arrows of light, from bronze
columns full in the middle of the street. And what with these devices,
and the splendid glowing windows of the shops, and the enlarged
photographs of surpassingly beautiful women which hung in heavy frames
from almost every lamp-post, and the jollity of the slowly-moving
crowds, and the incredible illustrations displayed on the newspaper
kiosks, and the moon creeping up the velvet sky, and the thousands of
little tables at which the jolly crowds halted to drink liquids coloured
like the rainbow--what with all that, and what with the curious gay
feeling in the air, Henry felt that possibly Berlin, or Boston, or even
Timbuctoo, might be a suitable and proper place for an engaged young
man, but that decidedly Paris was not.
At six o'clock there was no sign of Tom. He arrived at half-past seven,
admitted that he was a little late, and said that a friend had given him
tickets for the first performance of the new 'revue' at the
Folies-Bergere, that night.
'And now, since we are alone, we can talk,' said Cosette, adding, '_Mon
petit._'
'Yes,' Henry agreed.
'Dolbiac has told me you are very rich--_une vogue epatante_.... One
would not say it.... But how your ears are pretty!' Cosette glanced
admiringly at the lobe of his left ear.
('Anyhow,' Henry reflected, 'she would insist on me coming to Paris. I
didn't want to come.')
They were alone, and yet not alone. They occupied a 'loge' in the
crammed, gorgeous, noisy Folies-Bergere. But it resembled a box in an
English theatre less than an old-fashioned family pew at the Great Queen
Street Wesleyan Chapel. It was divided from other boxes and from the
stalls and from the jostling promenade by white partitions scarcely as
high as a walking-stick. There were four enamelled chairs in it, and
Henry and Cosette were seated on two of them; the other two were empty.
Tom had led Henry like a sheep to the box, where they were evidently
expected by two excessively stylish young women, whom Tom had introduced
to the overcome Henry as Loulou and Cosette, two artistes of the Theatre
des Capucines. Loulou was short and fair and of a full habit, and spoke
no English. Cosette was tall and slim and dark, and talked slowly, and
with smiles, a language which was frequently a recognisable imitation of
English. She had learnt it, she said, in Ireland, where she had been
educated in a French convent. She had just finished a long engagement at
the Capucines, and in a fortnight she was to commence at the Scala: this
was an off-night for her. She protested a deep admiration for Tom.
Cosette and Loulou and Tom had held several colloquies, in
incomprehensible French that raced like a mill-stream over a weir, with
acquaintances who accosted them on the promenade or in the stalls, and
at length Tom and Loulou had left the 'loge' for a few minutes in order
to accept the hospitality of friends in the great hall at the back of
the auditorium. The new 'revue' seemed to be the very last thing that
they were interested in.
'Don't be afraid,' Tom, departing, had said to Henry. 'She won't eat
you.'
'You leave me to take care of myself,' Henry had replied, lifting his
chin.
Cosette transgressed the English code governing the externals of women
in various particulars. And the principal result was to make the
English code seem insular and antique. She had an extremely large white
hat, with a very feathery feather in it, and some large white roses
between the brim and her black hair. Her black hair was positively
sable, and one single immense lock of it was drawn level across her
forehead. With the large white hat she wore a low evening-dress,
lace-covered, with loose sleeves to the elbow, and white gloves running
up into the mystery of the sleeves. Round her neck was a tight string of
pearls. The combination of the hat and the evening-dress startled Henry,
but he saw in the theatre many other women similarly contemptuous of the
English code, and came to the conclusion that, though queer and
un-English, the French custom had its points. Cosette's complexion was
even more audacious in its contempt of Henry's deepest English
convictions. Her lips were most obviously painted, and her eyebrows had
received some assistance, and once, in a manner absolutely ingenuous,
she produced a little bag and gazed at herself in a little mirror, and
patted her chin with a little puff, and then smiled happily at Henry.
Yes, and Henry approved. He was forced to approve, forced to admit the
artificial and decadent but indubitable charm of paint and powder. The
contrast between Cosette's lips and her brilliant teeth was utterly
bewitching.
She was not beautiful. In facial looks, she was simply not in the same
class with Geraldine. And as to intellect, also, Geraldine was an easy
first.
But in all other things, in the things that really mattered (such was
the dim thought at the back of Henry's mind), she was to Geraldine what
Geraldine was to Aunt Annie. Her gown was a miracle, her hat was
another, and her coiffure a third. And when she removed a glove--her
rings, and her finger-nails! And the glimpses of her shoes! She was so
_finished_. And in the way of being frankly feminine, Geraldine might go
to school to her. Geraldine had brains and did not hide them; Geraldine
used the weapon of seriousness. But Cosette knew better than that.
Cosette could surround you with a something, an emanation of all the
woman in her, that was more efficient to enchant than the brains of a
Georges Sand could have been.
And Paris, or that part of the city which constitutes Paris for the
average healthy Englishman, was an open book to this woman of
twenty-four. Nothing was hid from her. Nothing startled her, nothing
seemed unusual to her. Nothing shocked her except Henry's ignorance of
all the most interesting things in the world.
'Well, what do you think of a French "revue," my son?' asked Tom when he
returned with Loulou.
'Don't know,' said Henry, with his gibus tipped a little backward.
'Haven't seen it. We've been talking. The music's a fearful din.' He
felt nearly as Parisian as Tom looked.
'_Tiens!_' Cosette twittered to Loulou, making a gesture towards Henry's
ears. '_Regarde-moi ces oreilles. Sont jolies. Pas?_'
And she brought her teeth together with a click that seemed to render
somewhat doubtful Tom's assurance that she would not eat Henry.
Soon afterwards Tom and Henry left the auditorium, and Henry parted from
Cosette with mingled sensations of regret and relief. He might never see
her again. Geraldine....
But Tom did not emerge from the outer precincts of the vast music-hall
without several more conversations with fellows-well-met, and when he
and Henry reached the pavement, Cosette and Loulou happened to be just
getting into a cab. Tom did not see them, but Henry and Cosette caught
sight of each other. She beckoned to him.
'You come and take lunch with me to-morrow? _Hein?_' she almost
whispered in that ear of his.
'_Avec plaisir_,' said Henry. He had studied French regularly for six
years at school.
'Rue de Bruxelles, No. 3,' she instructed him. 'Noon.'
'I know it!' he exclaimed delightedly. He had, in fact, passed through
the street during the day.
No one had ever told him before that his ears were pretty.
When, after parleying nervously with the concierge, he arrived at the
second-floor of No. 3, Rue de Bruxelles, he heard violent high sounds of
altercation through the door at which he was about to ring, and then the
door opened, and a young woman, flushed and weeping, was sped out on to
the landing, Cosette herself being the exterminator.
'Ah, _mon ami_!' said Cosette, seeing him. 'Enter then.'
She charmed him inwards and shut the door, breathing quickly.
'It is my _domestique_, my servant, who steals me,' she explained. 'Come
and sit down in the salon. I will tell you.'
The salon was a little room about eight feet by ten, silkily furnished.
Besides being the salon, it was clearly also the _salle a manger_, and
when one person had sat down therein it was full. Cosette took Henry's
hat and coat and umbrella and pressed him into a chair by the shoulders,
and then gave him the full history of her unparalleled difficulties with
the exterminated servant. She looked quite a different Cosette now from
the Cosette of the previous evening. Her black hair was loose; her face
pale, and her lips also a little pale; and she was draped from neck to
feet in a crimson peignoir, very fluffy.
'And now I must buy the lunch,' she said. 'I must go myself. Excuse me.'
She disappeared into the adjoining room, the bedroom, and Henry could
hear the _fracas_ of silk and stuff. 'What do you eat for lunch?' she
cried out.
'Anything,' Henry called in reply.
'Oh! _Que les hommes sont betes!_' she murmured, her voice seemingly
lost in the folds of a dress. 'One must choose. Say.'
'Whatever you like,' said Henry.
'Rumsteak? Say.'
'Oh yes,' said Henry.
She reappeared in a plain black frock, with a reticule in her hand, and
at the same moment a fox-terrier wandered in from somewhere.
'_Mimisse!_' she cried in ecstasy, snatching up the animal and kissing
it. 'You want to go with your mamma? Yess. What do you think of my
_fox_? She is real English. _Elle est si gentille avec sa mere! Ma
Mimisse! Ma petite fille!_ My little girl! _Dites, mon ami_'--she
abandoned the dog--'have you some money for our lunch? Five francs?'
'That enough?' Henry asked, handing her the piece.
'Thank you,' she said. '_Viens, Mimisse._'
'You haven't put your hat on,' Henry informed her.
'_Mais, mon pauvre ami_, is it that you take me for a duchess? I come
from the _ouvriers_, me, the working peoples. I avow it. Never can I do
my shops in a hat. I should blush.'
And with a tremendous flutter, scamper, and chatter, Cosette and her
_fox_ departed, leaving Henry solitary to guard the flat.
He laughed to himself, at himself. 'Well,' he murmured, looking down
into the court, 'I suppose----'
Cosette came back with a tin of sardines, a piece of steak, some French
beans, two cakes of the kind called 'nuns,' a bunch of grapes, and a
segment of Brie cheese. She put on an apron, and went into the
kitchenlet, and began to cook, giving Henry instructions the while how
to lay the table and where to find the things. Then she brought him the
coffee-mill full of coffee, and told him to grind it.
The lunch seemed to be ready in about three minutes, and it was merely
perfection. Such steak, such masterly handling of green vegetables, and
such 'nuns!' And the wine!
There were three at table, Mimisse being the third. Mimisse partook of
everything except wine.
'You see I am a woman _pot-au-feu_,' said Cosette, not without
satisfaction, in response to his praises of the meal. He did not exactly
know what a woman _pot-au-feu_ might be, but he agreed enthusiastically
that she was that sort of woman.
At the stage of coffee--Mimisse had a piece of sugar steeped in
coffee--she produced cigarettes, and made him light his cigarette at
hers, and put her elbows on the table and looked at his ears. She was
still wearing the apron, which appeared to Henry to be an apron of
ineffable grace.
'So you are _fiance, mon petit_? Eh?' she said.
'Who told you?' Henry asked quickly. 'Tom?'
She nodded; then sighed. He was instructed to describe Geraldine in
detail. Cosette sighed once more.
'Why do you sigh?' he demanded.
'Who knows?' she answered. '_Dites!_ English ladies are cold? Like
that?' She affected the supercilious gestures of Englishwomen whom she
had seen in the streets and elsewhere. 'No?'
'Perhaps,' Henry said.
'Frenchwomen are better? Yes? _Dites-moi franchement._ You think?'
'In some ways,' Henry agreed.
'You like Frenchwomen more than those cold Englishwomen who have no
_chic_?'
'When I'm in Paris I do,' said Henry.
'_Ah! Comme tous les Anglais!_'
She rose, and just grazed his ear with her little finger. '_Va!_' she
said.
He felt that she was beyond anything in his previous experience.
A little later she told him she had to go to the Scala to sign her
contract, and she issued an order that he was to take Mimisse out for a
little exercise, and return for her in half an hour, when she would be
dressed. So Henry went forth with Mimisse at the end of a strap.
In the Boulevard de Clichy who should accost him but Tom, whom he had
left asleep as usual at the hotel!
'What dog is that?' Tom asked.
'Cosette's,' said Henry, unsuccessfully trying to assume a demeanour at
once natural and tranquil.
'My young friend,' said Tom, 'I perceive that it will be necessary to
look after you. I was just going to my studio, but I will accompany you
in your divagations.'
They returned to the Rue de Bruxelles together. Cosette was dressed in
all her afternoon splendour, for the undoing of theatrical managers.
The role of woman _pot-au-feu_ was finished for that day.
'I'm off to Monte Carlo to-morrow,' said Tom to her. 'I'm going to paint
a portrait there. And Henry will come with me.'
'To Monte Carlo?' Henry gasped.
'To Monte Carlo.'
'But----'
'Do you suppose I'm going to leave you here?' Tom inquired. 'And you
can't return to London yet.'
'No,' said Cosette thoughtfully, 'not London.'
They left her in the Boulevard de Strasbourg, and then Tom suggested a
visit to the Luxembourg Gallery. It was true: a life-sized statue of
Sappho, signed 'Dolbiac,' did in feet occupy a prominent place in the
sculpture-room. Henry was impressed; so also was Tom, who explained to
his young cousin all the beauties of the work.
'What else is there to see here?' Henry asked, when the stream of
explanations had slackened.
'Oh, there's nothing much else,' said Tom dejectedly.
They came away. This was the beginning and the end of Henry's studies
in the monuments of Paris.
At the hotel he found opportunity to be alone.
He wished to know exactly where he stood, and which way he was looking.
It was certain that the day had been unlike any other day in his career.
'I suppose that's what they call Bohemia,' he exclaimed wistfully,
solitary in his bedroom.
And then later:
'Jove! I've never written to Geraldine to-day!'