V
I slipped back into Paris, its pleasant walls closed round me, and the
voice I had heard over there, in my wide country was hushed. It was
like coming out of a great open space into a room. There was all at
once about me a multitude of nice pretty things, a shimmer of lights,
a harmony of bright sounds, the smooth, soothing, flattering touch
of luxury. No whisper of elemental forces could penetrate here. Men
of incomparable taste and limited vision had made this place to suit
themselves.
Jinny was waiting for me, a prim fairy with starry eyes, standing
daintily on tip-toe to be kissed, smoothing her white frock carefully
after my hug. She told me that she had seen her Papa. He had been on a
visit to _Grand’ mère_! He had given her a strawberry ice in the Bois
and had taken her to see Punch and Judy. Then he had gone far away to a
country where old kings were buried and one rode on camels across the
sand. The _Guignol_ had been very amusing, but she had agreed with her
papa that she was rather old for Punch and Judy. Some day he would come
back and take her to big parties. I looked at Jinny, little Jinny, who
didn’t like to be hugged, pirouetting on one toe and looking at herself
in the glass, and I remembered my promise to Patience Forbes. It wasn’t
enough to dote on my child, to crave her sweetness, her caresses, her
laughter. There would be a struggle. There would be endless things. I
saw them coming, all the events of her poor little life, so spectacular
in its setting. I was there to ward them off, to challenge fate and the
future, to love her with enough wisdom and enough tenacity and enough
self-abasement to--well, to see her through.
And I had an idea that she wouldn’t help me much. She would perhaps
always be content to curtsey to herself in the glass. I felt this, but
I felt it with less keenness than I expected. There seemed something
a little unreal about struggling desperately to ward off evil from
my child. There were flowers in the room, orchids and violets and
roses, sent to greet me. A sheaf of letters, invitations to lunch, to
dine, to listen to music. The first night of the Russian Ballet was
announced for the following week. Rodin asked me to his studio to see
a new bronze. Beauty all about me, amusement, stimulus, within easy
reach, treasures of pleasure like sugared fruit hanging from fantastic
branches waiting to be plucked.
Your mother’s kiss of greeting showed me that Philibert’s visit had
made a difference. It was a cold, gay little peck and was accompanied
by nervous pats and hurried playful remarks on a high, forced note.
Clearly she was nervous. Almost, it seemed, as if she were afraid of
me. Poor little _belle-mère_. She had fallen in love with her son all
over again, but why need that make her afraid of me? I was disappointed
and annoyed by her renewed subterfuges. It seemed to me strange that
she should think I would begrudge her the pleasure her son could still
give her. I thought of explaining my feelings to Claire, but Claire was
not in a receptive mood and there was after all nothing to be gained by
it. I was a little tired of explaining. I was, I found, even a little
tired of the de Joigny family. My obligations to them and theirs to me
seemed less important since my return. It occurred to me that I had
taken myself and my problems with a ridiculous seriousness. I was still
very fond of your mother, but I no longer asked of her the impossible.
All that I now wanted of the family was a sufficiently respectable show
of approval and a mild give-and-take of friendliness. I felt equal to
living a life of my own and I proposed doing so. When you suggested
giving a dinner for me in your rooms I was delighted. You promised me
Ludovic and half a dozen of the best brains in Paris. That seemed to
me an excellent way to begin.
Aunt Clothilde sent for me one morning a few days later. I found her
in bed under an immensely high canopy of crimson damask, sipping a cup
of the richest chocolate, a coarse, white cambric cap, like a peasant
woman’s, tied under her double chin, her wig hung on the bed-post. The
room was vast and stuffy and dark and hung with dingy tapestries. On
one side of the bed sat her _dame de compagnie_, knitting, on the other
a frightened priest with a sallow, perspiring face. Aunt Clo waved a
plump hand as I came in. The duenna and the priest rose hurriedly.
“No, _mon Père_, I won’t help you. You are no doubt a saintly man, but
that’s not enough for the business in hand. You’ve not got the brains.
You couldn’t preach to a lot of worldly women, you’re too timid. Look
at yourself now. You’re trembling before a wicked old woman who may
have some influence with the Archbishop but has none whatever with
Saint Peter. Come, _mon Père_, brace up and go to the heathen. There’s
a nice post vacant in Madagascar. I’ll put in a word for you there if
you like.”
The poor man’s face worked painfully. He murmured something and
scuttled away across the great room. The little companion held open the
door for him and followed him out.
Aunt Clothilde turned to me. “Blaise,” she began at once, motioning
me to sit down, “has asked me to dine with him. Does he dine? Has he
a cook? He says so, but how do I know? What will he give me to eat?
He says the dinner is for you. Since when has he taken to giving his
sister-in-law dinners? He wants me to put you in countenance, and
to impress his disreputable bohemian friends. He says they are all
geniuses. What is a genius? Your mother-in-law thinks they all died in
the seventeenth century. She may be right. How can one be sure? And why
should I dine with a genius? Is that a reason? He promises me, as if it
were a favour, that man Ludovic, a monster with greasy grey curls who
worships an Egyptian cat. Blaise says he is a very great scholar and
that you deserve a little pleasure. Will you find pleasure in his old
scholar? Why should you? I’d rather have a beautiful young fool myself.
It appears the family is horrid to you. Is that so? Wouldn’t let you
take your child to America, eh? Well, I don’t mind having a dig at the
family. Tiresome people, always splitting hairs. And you’re a good
girl. You’ve got pluck, but I thought you were going to hurt Bianca
that night.” She chuckled. “Well, what do you think? Shall I come to
this dinner to meet your crazy friends?”
“They’re not mine, Aunt, I don’t know them.”
“You know Clémentine, she likes you. She’s all right, a Bourbon and a
S---- on her mother’s side, but of course as mad as a March hare, and
no morals. She doesn’t need ’em. But don’t take after her, you’ve got
’em and you need ’em. All Anglo-Saxons are like that. Take care. Of
course it would be no more than Philibert deserves.”