Some work that I was doing about this time on the decorations for
Geneviève’s boudoir kept me constantly at the quaint little hotel in
the Rue Sainte-Cécile. Boris and I in those days laboured hard but as
we pleased, which was fitfully, and we all three, with Jack Scott,
idled a great deal together.
One quiet afternoon I had been wandering alone over the house examining
curios, prying into odd corners, bringing out sweetmeats and cigars
from strange hiding-places, and at last I stopped in the bathing-room.
Boris, all over clay, stood there washing his hands.
The room was built of rose-coloured marble excepting the floor,
which was tessellated in rose and grey. In the centre was a square
pool sunken below the surface of the floor; steps led down into it,
sculptured pillars supported a frescoed ceiling. A delicious marble
Cupid appeared to have just alighted on his pedestal at the upper end
of the room. The whole interior was Boris’ work and mine. Boris, in his
working-clothes of white canvas, scraped the traces of clay and red
modelling wax from his handsome hands, and coquetted over his shoulder
with the Cupid.
“I see you,” he insisted, “don’t try to look the other way and pretend
not to see me. You know who made you, little humbug!”
It was always my rôle to interpret Cupid’s sentiments in these
conversations, and when my turn came I responded in such a manner, that
Boris seized my arm and dragged me toward the pool, declaring he would
duck me. Next instant he dropped my arm and turned pale. “Good God!” he
said, “I forgot the pool is full of the solution!”
I shivered a little, and dryly advised him to remember better where he
had stored the precious liquid.
“In Heaven’s name, why do you keep a small lake of that gruesome stuff
here of all places?” I asked.
“I want to experiment on something large,” he replied.
“On me, for instance?”
“Ah! that came too close for jesting; but I do want to watch the action
of that solution on a more highly organized living body; there is that
big white rabbit,” he said, following me into the studio.
Jack Scott, wearing a paint-stained jacket, came wandering in,
appropriated all the Oriental sweetmeats he could lay his hands on,
looted the cigarette case, and finally he and Boris disappeared
together to visit the Luxembourg Gallery, where a new silver bronze by
Rodin and a landscape of Monet’s were claiming the exclusive attention
of artistic France. I went back to the studio, and resumed my work.
It was a Renaissance screen, which Boris wanted me to paint for
Geneviève’s boudoir. But the small boy who was unwillingly dawdling
through a series of poses for it, to-day refused all bribes to be good.
He never rested an instant in the same position, and inside of five
minutes I had as many different outlines of the little beggar.
“Are you posing, or are you executing a song and dance, my friend?” I
inquired.
“Whichever monsieur pleases,” he replied, with an angelic smile.
Of course I dismissed him for the day, and of course I paid him for the
full time, that being the way we spoil our models.
After the young imp had gone, I made a few perfunctory daubs at my
work, but was so thoroughly out of humour, that it took me the rest
of the afternoon to undo the damage I had done, so at last I scraped
my palette, stuck my brushes in a bowl of black soap, and strolled
into the smoking-room. I really believe that, excepting Geneviève’s
apartments, no room in the house was so free from the perfume of
tobacco as this one. It was a queer chaos of odds and ends, hung with
threadbare tapestry. A sweet-toned old spinet in good repair stood by
the window. There were stands of weapons, some old and dull, others
bright and modern, festoons of Indian and Turkish armour over the
mantel, two or three good pictures, and a pipe-rack. It was here that
we used to come for new sensations in smoking. I doubt if any type of
pipe ever existed which was not represented in that rack. When we had
selected one, we immediately carried it somewhere else and smoked it;
for the place was, on the whole, more gloomy and less inviting than any
in the house. But this afternoon, the twilight was very soothing, the
rugs and skins on the floor looked brown and soft and drowsy; the big
couch was piled with cushions—I found my pipe and curled up there for
an unaccustomed smoke in the smoking-room. I had chosen one with a long
flexible stem, and lighting it fell to dreaming. After a while it went
out, but I did not stir. I dreamed on and presently fell asleep.
I awoke to the saddest music I had ever heard. The room was quite dark,
I had no idea what time it was. A ray of moonlight silvered one edge
of the old spinet, and the polished wood seemed to exhale the sounds
as perfume floats above a box of sandalwood. Some one rose in the
darkness, and came away weeping quietly, and I was fool enough to cry
out “Geneviève!”
She dropped at my voice, and, I had time to curse myself while I made
a light and tried to raise her from the floor. She shrank away with a
murmur of pain. She was very quiet, and asked for Boris. I carried her
to the divan, and went to look for him, but he was not in the house,
and the servants were gone to bed. Perplexed and anxious, I hurried
back to Geneviève. She lay where I had left her, looking very white.
“I can’t find Boris nor any of the servants,” I said.
“I know,” she answered faintly, “Boris has gone to Ept with Mr. Scott.
I did not remember when I sent you for him just now.”
“But he can’t get back in that case before to-morrow afternoon,
and—are you hurt? Did I frighten you into falling? What an awful fool
I am, but I was only half awake.”
“Boris thought you had gone home before dinner. Do please excuse us for
letting you stay here all this time.”
“I have had a long nap,” I laughed, “so sound that I did not know
whether I was still asleep or not when I found myself staring at a
figure that was moving toward me, and called out your name. Have you
been trying the old spinet? You must have played very softly.”
I would tell a thousand more lies worse than that one to see the look
of relief that came into her face. She smiled adorably, and said in her
natural voice: “Alec, I tripped on that wolf’s head, and I think my
ankle is sprained. Please call Marie, and then go home.”