[Footnote 1: Since absinthe has come under the ban in Paris, I am
informed that the correct form of approach is to ask not for a pernod,
but for un distingué.]
_Chapter V_
Notwithstanding that Peter occupied an undue share of my waking
thoughts for the next few days, perhaps a week went by before I found
it convenient to seek him out again. One afternoon, I shook myself
free from other entertainments and made my way in a taxi-auto to the
apartment in the street near the Rue Blanche. The concierge, who was
knitting at a little window adjacent to the door, informed me that
to the best of her belief Monsieur Whiffle was at home. Venturing to
operate the ascenseur alone, I was somewhat proud of my success in
reaching the fourth floor without accident. Standing before Peter's
door, I could hear the sound of a woman's voice, singing Manon's
farewell to her little table:
Adieu, notre petite table,
Qui nous réunit si souvent!
Adieu, notre petite table,
Si grande pour nous cependant.
On tient, c'est inimaginable,
Si peu de place en se serrant.
The voice was a somewhat uncertain soprano with a too persistent
larmoyante quality. When it ceased, I pressed the button and the door
was opened by Peter, in violet and grey striped pyjamas and Japanese
straw sandals with purple velvet straps across his toes.
Van Vechten! he cried. It's you! We've been home all day. Clara's been
singing.
So the voice was Clara's. She sat, indeed, on the long piano bench--the
piano was an acquisition since my last visit--, also slightly clad.
She was wearing, to be exact, a crêpe de chine night-dress. Her feet
were bare and her hair was loose but, as the day was cool, she had
thrown across her shoulders a black Manila shawl, embroidered with huge
flowers of Chinese vermilion and magenta.
How are you, Mr. Van Vechten? she asked, extending her hand. I'll get
some tea. Her manner, I noted, was more ingratiating than it had been
the day we met at Martha's.
Nothing whatever was said about the situation, if there was a
situation. For my part, I may say that I was entirely unaccustomed
to walking into an apartment at five o'clock in the afternoon and
discovering the host in pyjamas, conversing intimately with a
lightly-clad lady, who, a week earlier, I had every reason to believe,
had been only a casual acquaintance. The room, too, had been altered.
The piano, a Pleyel baby grand, occupied a space near the window
and George Moore was sitting on it, finding it an excellent point
of vantage from which to scan the happenings in the outside world.
Naturally his back was turned and he did not get up, taking his air
of indifference from Peter and Clara or, perhaps, they had taken their
air from him. The note-books had disappeared, although a pile of
miscellaneous volumes, on top of which I spied Jean Lombard's l'Agonie,
still occupied the corner. The table was covered with a cloth and the
remains of a lunch, which had evidently consisted of veal kidneys,
toast, and coffee. I detected the odour of Cœur de Jeannette and
presently I descried a brûle-parfum, a tiny jade dragon, valiantly
functioning. A pair of long white suède gloves and a black hat with a
grey feather decorated the clock and candelabra on the mantelshelf, and
a black and white check skirt, a pair of black silk stockings, and low
patent-leather lady's shoes in trees were also to be seen, lying over a
chair and on the floor.
Peter, however, attempted no explanations. Indeed, none was required,
except perhaps for a catechumen. He began to talk immediately, in an
easy conversational tone, evidently trying to cover my confusion. His
manner reminded me that an intelligent Negro, who had written many
books and met many people, had once told me that he was always obliged
to spend at least ten minutes putting new white acquaintances at their
ease, making them feel that it was unnecessary for them to put him
at his ease. It is a curious fact that the man in an embarrassing
situation is seldom as embarrassed as the man who breaks in upon it.
Peter asked many questions about what I had been doing, inquired
about Richards, whom he avowed he liked--they had not, I afterwards
recalled, exchanged more than three words--, and concluded with a sort
of rhapsody on Clara's voice, which he pronounced magnificently suited
to the new music.
Presently Clara herself came back into the room, bearing a tray with
a pot of tea, toast and petits fours. She placed her burden on the
piano bench while she quickly swept the débris from the table. Then she
transferred the tea service to the unoccupied space and we drew up our
chairs.
Where have you been? asked Clara. Martha says she hasn't seen you. Will
you have one lump or two?