X
It is quite useless for me to comment upon the utterly annoying circumstance of that mixup of cheque-books—Such things are fate—and fate I am beginning to believe is nothing but a reflex of our own actions. If Suzette had not been my little friend, I should not have given her eight thousand francs—but as she has been—and I did—I must stand by the consequences.
After all—a man?—Well—what is the use of writing about it. I am so utterly mad and resentful that I have no words.
It is Sunday morning, and this afternoon I shall hire the one motor which can be obtained here, at a fabulous price, and go into Paris. There are some books I want to get out of my bookcase—and somehow I have lost interest here. But this morning I shall go and sit in the parish church and hear Mass.—I feel so completely wretched, the music may comfort me and give me courage to forget all about Miss Sharp. And in any case there is a soothing atmosphere in a Roman Catholic church, which is agreeable. I love the French people! They are a continual tonic, if one takes them rightly. So filled with common sense, simply using sentiment as an ornament, and a relaxation; and never allowing it to interfere with the practical necessities of life. Ignorant people say they are hysterical, and overpassionate—They are nothing of the kind—They believe in material things, and in the "beau geste." Where they require a religion, they accept a comforting one; and meanwhile they enjoy whatever comes in their way and get through disagreeables philosophically.Vive la France!
I am waiting for the motor now—and trying to be resigned.—Mass did me good—I sat in a corner and kept my crutch by me. The Church itself told me stories, I tried to see it in Louis XV's time—I dare say it looked much the same, only dirtier—And life was made up with etiquette and forms and ceremonies, more exasperating than anything now. But they were ahead of us in manners, and a sense of beauty.
A little child came and sat beside me for about ten minutes, and looked at me and my crutch sympathetically.
"Blessé de la guerre," I heard her whisper to her mother—"Comme Jean."
The organ was not bad—and before I came out I felt calmer.
After all it is absurd of Miss Sharp to be disgusted about Suzette—She must know, at nearly twenty-four, and living in France, that there are Suzettes—and I am sure she is not narrow-minded in any way—What can have made her so censorious? If she took a personal interest in me it would be different, but entirely indifferent as she is, how can it matter toher?—As I write this, that hot sense of anger and rebellion arises in me—I'll have to keep saying to myself that I am in the trenches again and must not complain.
I'll make Burton find out if Coralie is really staying here, and get her to dine with me to-night—Coralie always pretended to have abéguinfor me—even when most engaged elsewhere.
Monday:
Sunday was a memorable day—.
I went through theBois de Marneon that bad road because the trees were so lovely—and then through theparc de St. Cloud. Even in war time this wonderful people can enjoy the open air life!—
I think of Henriette d' Angleterre looking from the terrace of her Château over the tree tops—The poor Château! not a stone of which is standing to-day—Did she feel sentimental with her friend the Comte de Guiche—as I would like to feel now?—If I had someone to be sentimental with. Alas! There was an ominous hot stillness in the air, and the sky beyond the Eiffel tower had a heavy, lurid tone in it.
When we got across the river into theBois de Boulogneit seemed as if all Paris was enjoying a holiday. I told the chauffeur to go down a sidealléeand to go slowly, and presently I made him draw up at the side of the road. It was so hot, and I wanted to rest for a little, the motion was jarring my leg.
I think I must have been half asleep, when my attentionwas caught by three figures coming up another by-path obliquely—the tallest of them was undoubtedly Miss Sharp—but Miss Sharp as I had never seen her before!—
And a boy of thirteen, and a girl of eleven were at either side of her, the boy clinging on to her arm, he was lame and seemed to be a dreadfully delicate, rickety person. The little girl was very small and sickly looking too—but Miss Sharp—my secretary!—appeared blooming and young and lovely in her inexpensive foulard frock—No glasses hid her blue eyes. Her hair was not torn back and screwed into a knot, but might have been dressed by Alice's maid—and her hat, the simplest thing possible, was most becoming, with the proper modish "look."—
Refinement and perfect taste proclaimed themselves from every inch of her, even if everything had only cost a small sum.
So that dowdy get-up is for my benefit, and is not habitual to her!—Or is it, that she has only one costume and keeps it for Sundays and days offête?—
In spite of my determination to put all thought of her from me—a wild emotion arose—a passionate longing to spring from the car and join her—to talk to her, and tell her how lovely I thought she was looking.
They came nearer and nearer—I could see that her face was rippling with smiles at something the little brother had said—Its expression was gentle and sympatheticand it was obvious that fond affection held all three.
The children might have been drawn by Du Maurier in Punch long ago, to express a family who were overbred. Race run to seed expressed itself in every line of them. The boy wore an Eton jacket and collar and a tall hat—and it looked quite strange in this place.
As they got close to me I could hear him cough in the hollow way which tells its own story—.
I cowered down behind the hood of the motor, and they passed without seeing me—or perhaps Miss Sharp did see me but was determined not to look—. I felt utterly alone and deserted by all the world—and the same nervous trembling came over me which once before made me suffer so, and again I was conscious that my cheek was wet with a tear.
The humiliation of it! the disgrace of such feebleness!—
When they had gone by, I started forward again to watch them—I could hear the little girl cry, "Oh! look Alathea!" as she pointed to the sky, and then all three began to quicken their pace down anotherallée, in the direction of Auteuil, and were soon out of sight.
Then, still quivering with emotion, I too glanced heavenward—Ye Gods! what a storm was coming on—!
Where were they going? there into the deep wood?—it was a good mile or two from the Auteuil gate—Theywould be soaked to the skin when the rain did commence to fall—and there was a thunder storm beginning also—were they quite safe?
All these thoughts tormented me, and I gave the chauffeur orders to take a road I thought might cut across the path they had followed, and when we reached the spot, I made him wait.
The livid lightning rent the sky and the thunder roared like guns, and the few people in sight rushed, panic-stricken, in a hopeless search for shelter—far greater fear on their faces than they show at German bombs.
My chauffeur complained audibly, as he got down to shut the car—Did Monsieur wish to be struck by lightning? he demanded, very enraged.
Still I waited—but no Sharp family appeared—and at last I knew I had missed them somehow—a very easy thing in that path-bisected wood. So I told him he could drive like hell to myappartementin thePlace des Etats Unis—and off we rushed in the now torrential rain—It was one of the worst thunder storms I have ever seen in my life.
I was horribly worried as to what could have happened to that little party, for thatalleéwhere I had seen them, was in the very middle of theBois, and far from any gate or shelter. They must have got soaking wet if nothing worse had happened to them. And how could I hear anything about them?—What should I do? Was the Duchesse in Paris?—Could I find the addresspossibly from her? But would she be likely to know it? just because Miss Sharp—"Alathea"—(what a lovely Greek name!) brought bandages to the hospital?
However, this was worth trying, and I could hardly wait to get out of the motor, and get to the telephone. Theconciergecame out with an umbrella in great concern and took me up in the lift herself—and there was Burton waiting for me, he had come in by train to take me back safely later on.
How I cursed my folly in not having asked Miss Sharp herself for her address! Could Burton possibly know it?—How silly of me not to have thought of that before!
"Burton, I saw Miss Sharp and her family in theBois—do you know their address by chance?—I want to ring up and find out if they got home all right."
Burton could see my anxiety—and actually hurried in his reply!
"They live in Auteuil, Sir Nicholas, but I can't exactly say where—the young lady never seems very particular to give me the address. She said I should not be needing it, and that they were likely to move."
"Get on to the Duchesse de Courville-Hautevine as quickly as you can—."
Burton did so at once, but it seemed a long time.
—No, Madame la Duchesse was down at Hautevine taking some fresh convalescents, and would not return until the middle of the week—if then!
I nearly swore aloud—.
"Are they talking from theconcierge'slodge or the hotel?—Burton ask at both if they know the address of a Miss Sharp who brings bandages to the hospital!"
Of course by this time the connection had been cut off, and it took quite ten minutes to get on again, and by that time I could have yelled aloud with the feverish fret of it all, and the pain!
No one knew anything of a "Mees Shearp."
"Mees Shearp—Mais non!"
Many ladies brought bandages,hein?!
I mastered myself as well as I could and got into my chair—.
And in a few moments Burton brought me a brandy and soda, and put it into my hand.
"It won't be cleared up enough to go back to Versailles before dinner, Sir Nicholas," he said—and coughed—"I was just thinking maybe—you'd be liking some friends to come in and dine—Pierre can get something in from the restaurant, if you'd feel inclined."
The cough meant that Burton knows I am dreadfully upset, and that under the circumstances anything to distract me is the lesser of two evils—!
"Ask whom you please," I answered and drank the brandy and soda down.
Presently, after half an hour, Burton came back to me, beaming—I had been sitting in my chair too exhausted even to feel pain meanwhile—.
He had telephoned everywhere, and no one was intown, but at last, at the Ritz, where theconciergeknows all my friends, he had been informed that Mrs. Bruce (Nina) had arrived the night before, alone—he had got connected up at herappartement, and she would be ''round at eight o'clock, very pleased to dine!'
Nina!—A pleasant thrill ran through me—Nina, and without Jim—!
The wood fire was burning brightly, and the curtains were drawn when Nina, fresh as a rose, came in—.
"Nicholas!" she cried delightedly—and held out both hands.
"Nina!—this is a pleasure, you old dear!—now let me look at you and see what marriage has done—."
Nina drew back and laughed!
"Everything, Nicholas!" she said—.
A feeling of envy came over me—Jim's ankle is stiff for life—it seems hard that an eye can make such a difference!—Nina is in love with Jim, but no woman can be in love with me.
Her face is much softer, she is more attractive altogether.
"You look splendid, Nina," I told her—"I want to hear all about it."
"So you shall when we have finished dinner," and she handed me my crutch as I got up from my chair.
Pierre had secured some quite respectable food, and during dinner and afterwards when we were cosily smoking our cigarettes in the sitting-room, Nina gave me all the news of our friends at home.—Everysingle one of them was still working, she said.
"It is marvelous how they have stuck it," I responded—.
"Oh no, not at all," Nina answered. "We as a nation are people of habit—the war is a habit to us now—heaps of us work from a sense of duty and patriotism, others because they are afraid what would be said of them if they did not—others because they are thankful to have some steady job to get off their superfluous energy on—So it ends by everyone being roped in—and you can't think, Nicholas, how divine it is to get home after long hours of drudgery, to find the person you love waiting for you, and to know you are going to have all the rest of the time together, until next day!"
"No, I can't imagine the bliss of that, Nina—."
She looked at me suddenly—.
"Well, why don't you marry then, dear boy?"
"I would, if I thought I could secure bliss—but you forget, it would be from pity and not love that a woman would be kind to me."
"I am—not quite sure of that, Nicholas"—and she looked at me searchingly—"You are changed since last time—you are not so bitter and sardonic—and you, always have that—oh! you know what Elinor Glyn writes of in her books—that "it."—Some kind of attraction that has no name—but I am sure has a lot to do with love—."
"So you think I have got 'it,' Nina?"
"Yes, your clothes fit so well—and you say rather whimsical things—Yes, decidedly, Nicholas, now that you are not so bitter—I am sure—."
"What a pity you did not find that out before you took Jim, Nina!"
"Oh! Jim! that is different—You have much more brain than Jim, and would not have been nearly so easy to live with!"
"Is it going well, Nina?"
"Yes—perfectly—that is why I came to Paris alone—I knew it would be good for him—besides I wanted a rest, Nicholas."
"I thought you had married for a rest!"
"Well, if a man 'in love' is what you really want,—and not his just 'loving' you—you have to use your wits; it can't be a rest, not if he has made you care too.—When I was just tossing up between Jim and Rochester, then I had not to bother about how I behaved to them. You see I was the, as yet, unattained desired thing—but having accepted one of them, he has time to think of things, not having to fight to get me, and so I have to keep him thinking of things which have still speculation in them—don't you see?"
"You have to keep the hunting instinct alive, in fact."
"Yes—"
"You don't think it would be possible to find someone who was just one's mate so that no game of any sort would be necessary?"
She thought hard for a moment.
"That, of course, would be heaven—" then she sighed—"I am afraid it is no use in hoping for that, Nicholas!"
"Someone who would understand so well that silence was eloquent—someone who would read books with one, and think thoughts with one. Someone who would lie in one's arms and respond to caresses—and not be counting the dollars—or—doing her knitting—. Someone who was tender and kind and true—Oh! Nina!"
I suppose my voice had taken on a tone of emotion—I was thinking of Miss Sharp—Alathea—that shall be her name always for me now—.
"Nicholas!" Nina exclaimed—"My dear boy, of course you are in love!"
"And if so?"
Instantly I became of more value to Nina—she realized that she had lost me, and that some other woman drew me and not herself—and although Nina is the best sort in the world and more or less really in love with Jim, I knew that a new note could grow in our friendship if I wished to encourage it—Nina's fighting instinct had been aroused to try to get me back!
"Who with?" she demanded laconically.
"With a dream—."
"Nonsense! you are much too cynical—Is it anyone I know?"
"I should not think so—she has not materialised yet."
"This is frightfully interesting, my dear old boy!"
"So you think I'll have a chance then?"
"Certainly when you are all finished."
"My new eye is to be in before Christmas, and my new leg after the new year, and my shoulder gets straighter every day!"
Nina laughed—.
"Real love would be—I suppose—if you could make her adore you before you looked any handsomer!"
And this sentence of Nina's rang in my ears long after she had gone, and often in the night. I could not sleep, I felt something had happened and that fate might be going to take Miss Sharp—Alathea—from me—.
And then before morning in fretful dreams I seemed to be obsessed by the cooing of love words between a woman and a child—.
XI
Monday was a perfectly impossible day—I spent all the morning before I returned to Versailles in writing to Maurice, telling him he must find out all about Miss Sharp—Alathea—I felt if I told him her Christian name it would be a clue—and yet even to assist in that, which was, at the moment, my heart's desire, I could not overcome my personal dislike to pronounce it to Maurice!—it seemed as something sacred to me alone—which makes me reflect upon how egotistical we all are—and how we would all rather fail in attaining what is our greatest wish than not to be able to express our own personality—!
Nina had suggested before she left that I should stay in Paris and come to the theatre with her—.
"We could have some delicious old times, Nicholas, now that you are so much better."
Once this would have thrilled me—only last Spring! but now the contrariness in me made me say that it was absolutely necessary that I returned immediately to Versailles. I believe I should have answered like that even if there had been no Miss Sharp,—Alathea—in the case, just because I now knew Nina really wanted me to stay—every man is like that, more or less, if only women knew!—The whole sex relation is one of fence—until the object has been secured—and then emotion dies out altogether, or is revived in one or the other, but veryseldom in both. Love—real love—is beyond all this I suppose, and does not depend upon whether or no the other person excites one's desire for conquest. Love must be wonderful—I believe Alathea—(I have actually written it naturally this time!—) could love. I never used to think I could, at the best of moments I have analysed my emotions, and stood aside as it were, and measured just how much things were meaning to me.
But when I think of that scrap of a girl, with her elusive ways, her pride, her refinement, even her little red hands—! I have a longing—a passionate longing to hold her always near me—to know that she is mine—that for the rest of time I should be with her, learning from her high thoughts, comforted by her strength of character—believing in her—respecting her—Yes, that is it—respecting her. How few women one meets with attractions that one really respects.—One respects many elderly ones, of course, and abstract splendid creatures, but bringing it down to concrete facts, how few are the women who have drawn one's admiration or excited one's desire, who at the same time one reverenced!—Love must mean reverence—that is it.
And what is reverence—?
The soul's acknowledgment of the purity of another—and purity in this sense means truth and honor, and lofty aims—not the denial of all passion, or the practice of asceticism.
I utterly reverence Alathea, and yet I am surewith that mouth—if she loved me she would be anything but cold. How on God's earth can I make her love me—?
I went back to Versailles after luncheon, having had to see the specialist about my eye, he thinks the socket is so marvelously healed lately, that I could have the glass one in now much sooner than Christmas. I wonder if some self confidence will return when I can feel people are not revolted when looking at me?—That again is super-sensitiveness. Of course no one is revolted—they feel pity—and that is perhaps worse. When I get my leg too, shall I have the nerve to make love to Alathea and use all the arts which used to be so successful in the old days?
I believe if I were back in 1914—I should still be as nervous as a cat when with her—Is this one of the symptoms of love again?
George Harcourt has many maxims upon the subject of love—One is that a Frenchman thinks most of the methods of love—An Englishman more of the sensations of love—and an Austrian of the emotions of love—. I wonder if this is true? He also says that a woman does not really appreciate a man who reverences her sex in the abstract, and is chivalrous about all women,—she rather thinks him a simpleton—. What she does appreciate is a man who holds cynical views about the female sex in general, and shows reverence and chivalry towards herself in particular!
This I feel is probably the truth—!
I did not expect to hear anything of Alathea on the Monday, she was not due until Tuesday at eleven o'clock, but when I came in from my sunset on the terrace, I found two telegrams, all the first one said was—
"Extremely sorry will be unable to come to-morrow,brother seriously ill.A. Sharp—."
And no address!
So I could not send sympathy, or even offer any help—I could have sworn aloud! The storm had wrecked its vengeance on someone, then, and the poor little chap had probably taken cold.
If I could only be of some use to them—Perhaps getting the best Doctor is out of their reach. I was full of turmoil while I tore open the other blue paper—this was from Suzette—.
"I come this evening at eight."
It was nearly seven o'clock now, so I could not put her off—and I am not sure that I wanted to—Suzette is a human being and kindly, and her heart is warm.
When Burton was dressing me I told him of Miss Sharp's telegram.
"The poor young lady!" he said—.
Burton always speaks of her as the "young lady"—he never makes a mistake about class.
Suzette for him is "Mam'zell"—and he speaks of her as a mother might about her boy's noisy, tiresome rackety school friends—necessary evils to be put upwith for the boy's sake—The fluffies he announces always by their full titles—"Madame la Comtesse"—etc., etc., with a face of stone. Nina and the one or two other Englishwomen he is politely respectful to, but to Miss Sharp he is absolutely reverential—she might be a Queen!
"I expect the poor little fellow got wet through yesterday," I hazarded—.
"He's that delicate," Burton remarked.
So Burton knows something more about the family than I do after all—!
"How did you know he was delicate, Burton, or even that Miss Sharp had a brother?"
"I don't exactly know, Sir Nicholas—it's come out from one time to another—the young lady don't talk."
"How did you guess, then?"
"I've seen her anxious when I've brought in her tray—sometimes, and once I ventured to say to her—'I beg pardon Miss, but can I do anything for you,' and she took off her glasses sudden like—and thanked me, and said it was her little brother she was worrying about—and you may believe me or not as you like, Sir Nicholas, but her eyes were full of tears."
I wonder if Burton guessed the deep emotion he was causing me—My little darling! with her beautiful blue eyes full of tears, and I impotent to comfort or help her—!
"Yes—yes?" I said—.
"She told me then that he'd been delicate since birth,and she feared the winter in Paris for him—I do believe Sir, it's that she works so hard for, to get him away south."
"Burton—what the devil can we do about it?"
"I don't very well know, Sir Nicholas—Many's the time I've badly wanted to offer her the peaches and grapes and other things, to take back to him—but of course I know my place better than to insult a lady—tisn't like as if she were of another class you see Sir—she'd have grabbed 'em then, but bein' as she is, she'd have been bound to refuse them, and it might have tempted her for him and made things awkward."
Burton not only knows the world but has tact—!
He went on, now once started.
"I saw her outside a wine shop once when I got off the tram at Auteuil—She was looking at the bottles of port—and I made so as to pass, and her not see me, but she turned and said friendly like—'Burton, do you suppose this shop would keep really good port—?' I said as how I would go in and see, and she came with me—They had some fairly decent—though too young, Sir Nicholas, and it was thirty-five francs the bottle—I saw she had not an idea it would be as much as that—her face fell—Do you know, Sir, I could see she hadn't that much with her,—it was the day before she's paid you see—her colour came and went—then she said—'I wonder Burton if you could oblige me with paying the ten extra francs until to-morrow—I must have the best!'—You may believe me, Sir Nicholas, I gotout my purse quick enough—and then she thanked me so sweet like—'The Doctor has ordered it for my mother, Burton,' she said—'and of course she couldn't drink any but the best!'"
"Who on earth can she be, Burton? It does worry me—can't you possibly find out? I would so like to help them."
"I feel that, Sir—but here's the way I figure it—When gentry lives in foreign towns and don't seem anxious for you to know their address it don't seem right like to pry into it."
"Burton, you dear old brick!—well supposing we don't try to pry, but just try how we can possibly help her—You could certainly be sympathetic about the brother since she has spoken to you—and surely something can be done—? I saw her at the Duchesse's you know—do you suppose she knows her—?"
"I do, Sir Nicholas—I never meant to speak of it, but one day Her Grace came to see you and you were out and she caught sight of Miss Sharp through the half open door—and she jumped like a cat, Her Grace did, 'Halthee'—she cried out—or some name like that,—and Miss Sharp started up and went down the stairs with her—She seemed to be kind of explaining, and I am not sure that Her Grace was too pleased—."
(Burton thinks all Duchesses should be called "Grace" whether they are French or English.)
"Then we should certainly be able to find out from the Duchesse—."
"Well, I would not be so sure of that Sir Nicholas—You see the Duchesse is a very kind lady, but she is a lady of the world, and she may have her reasons."
"Then what do you suggest, Burton?"
"Why, I hardly know—perhaps to wait and see, Sir Nicholas."
"Masterly inactivity!"
"It might be that I could do a bit of finding out if I felt sure no harm could come of it."
I was not quite certain what Burton meant by this—What possible harm could come of it?
"Find out all you can and let me know—."
Suzette opened the door and came in just as I finished dressing—Burton left the room.—She was pouting.
"So the book is not completed, Nicholas?—and the English Mees comes three times a week—hein?"
"Yes—does that upset you?"
"I should say!"
"May I not have a secretary?—You will be objecting to my Aunt coming to stay with me, or my dining with my friends—next!"
I was angry—.
"No—mon ami—not that—they are not for me—those—but a secretary—a 'Mees'—tiens?—for why do you want us two?"
"Youtwo! good Lord! Do you think, Suzette—Mon Dieu!"—I now became very angry. "My secretaryis here to type my book—. Let us understand one another quite—You have overstepped the mark this time, Suzette, and there must be an end. Name whatever sum you want me to settle on you and then I don't ever wish to see you again."
She burst into frantic weeping. She had meant nothing—she was jealous—she loved me—even going to the sea could do nothing for her! I was heradoré—her sun, moon and stars—of what matter a leg or an eye—! I was her life—herAmant!!
"Nonsense, Suzette!—you have told me often it was only because I was very rich—now be sensible—these things have to have an end some day. I shall be going back to England soon, so just let me make you comfortable and happy and let us part friends—."
She still stormed and raged—'There was someone else—it was the "Mees"—I had been different ever since she had come to the flat—She, Suzette, would be revenged—she would kill her—!'
Then I flew into a rage, and dominated her, and when I had her thoroughly frightened I appealed to the best in her—and when she was sobbing quietly Burton came in to say that dinner was ready—his face was eloquent!
"Don't let the waiters see you like that," I said.
Suzette rushed to the glass and looked at herself, and then began opening her gold chain bag to get out her powder and lip grease—I went on into the salon and left her—.
What an irony everything is—! When I was yearningfor tenderness and love—, even Suzette's, I was unable to touch her, and now because I am quite indifferent, both she and Nina, in their separate ways, have begun to find me attractive. So there is nothing in it really, it is only as to whether or no you arouse the hunting instinct!
Suzette wore an air of deep pathos during our repast—. She had put some blue round her eyes to heighten the effect of the red of the real tears, and she appeared very pretty and gentle—It had not the slightest effect upon me—I found myself looking on like a third person. The mole with its three black hairs seemed to be the only salient point about her.
Poor little Suzette!—How glad I felt that I had never even pretended a scrap of love for her!
That astonishing sense of the fitness of things which so many of these women possess, showed itself as the evening wore on—. Finding the situation hopeless, Suzette accepted it, curbed the real emotion in herself and played the game—She tried to amuse me—and then we discussed plans for her future. A villa at Monte Carlo she decided at last—Abijouof a place! which she knew of—. And when we parted at about eleven o'clock everything was arranged satisfactorily. Then she said good-bye to me—She would go back to Paris by the last train—.
"Good-bye, Suzette!"—and I bent down and kissed her forehead—"You have been the jolliest littlepal possible—and remember that I have appreciated it,—and you will always have a real friend in me!"
She burst into tears once more—real tears—.
"Je t'aime bien!" she whispered—"I shall go to Deauville—Va!"
We wrung hands, and she went to the door, but there she turned, and some of her old fire came back to her—.
"Pah! these English Meeses! thin, stiff,ennuyeuse!—thou wilt yet regret thy Suzette, Nicholas!" and with this she left me.
So that episode in my life is ended—and I shall never repeat the experiment.
But are not women the most amazing creatures!
You adore them and give them abject devotion and they treat you as dirt—nothing can be so cruel as the tenderest hearted woman is to a male slave—! Another woman appears upon the scene—then the first one begins to treat you with some respect. You grow masterful—love is aroused in her. You become indifferent—and very often it is she who then turns into the slave!—The worst of it is that when you really care you are incapable of playing a game successfully. The woman's subconscious mindknowsthat it is merely pretense—and so she remains a tyrant.—It is only when she herself has ceased to put forth sufficient attraction to keep you and you are growing numb that you can win out and find your self-respect again.
There was a moment when I was very angry with Suzette and almost shaking her, when I saw in her eyes the first look of real passionate affection—!
Are there any women in the world who could be mates?—who would be able to love one, and hold one at the same time—satisfying one's mind and one's spirit and one's body—?—Could Alathea—?—I do not know.
I had got this far in my speculations when a note was brought to me by a smart French maid—it was now past eleven at night—.
It was from Coralie—.
"I am here,cher Ami—I am rather in a difficulty—Can I come to your sitting-room?"
I scribbled "of course"—and in a moment she came—seductive and distressful. Duquesnois had been recalled to the front suddenly—her husband would be back on the morrow—. Might she stay and have some St. Galmier water with me—could we ring the bell and order it, so that the waiter might see her there?—because if the husband asked anything—he could be sure it was only the much wounded Englishman, and he would not mind—!!
I was sympathetic!—the St. Galmier came.
Coralie did not seem in a hurry to drink it, she sat by the fire and talked, and looked at me with her rather small expressive eyes—and suddenly I realized that it was not to save any situation that even a complacentand much-tried war-husband might object to, but just to talk to me alone—!!
She put forth every charm she possessed for half an hour—I led her on—watching each move with interest and playing right cards in return. Coralie is very well born and never could be vulgar or blatant, so it was all entertaining for me. This is the first time she has had the chance of being quite alone. We fenced—I showed enoughempressementnot to discourage her too soon—and then I allowed myself to be natural, which was being completely indifferent—and it worked its usual charm!
Coralie grew restless—she got up from the sofa she stood by the fire—she came at last quite close up to my chair—.
"What is there about you, Nicholas," she cooed, "which makes one forget that you are wounded—. When I saw you even in theparc—with thatdemoiselleI felt—that—"—She looked down with a sigh—.
"How hard upon Duquesnois, Coralie! a good-looking, whole man!"
"I have tired of him,Mon ami—he loves me too much—the affair has become tame—."
"And I am wild, is that it?"
"A savage—yes—One feels that you would break one's bones if you were angry—and would mock most of the time,—but if you loved.Mon Dieu!—it would be worth while!"
"You have had immense experience of love Coralie, haven't you?"
She shrugged her shoulders—.
"I am not sure that it has been love—."
"Neither am I."
"They say that you have given millions to the littledemi-mondaineSuzette la Blonde——and that you are crazy about her, Nicholas—Did I see her on the stairs just now?"—
I frowned—. She saw in a moment it was not the right line—. "For that! it is nothing, Nicholas—they are very attractive, those ladies—one understands—but—your book and your secretary?—hein?—"
I lit a cigarette with supreme calm, and did not answer, so that she was obliged to go on—.
"Her face is pretty in spite of those glasses, Nicholas—and one saw that she walked well as she went on."
"May not a secretary have a decent appearance then?"
"When they have they do not remain secretaries long."
"You had better ask Miss Sharp if she means to stay when next you chance upon her then—I don't exchange much conversation with her myself."
There is no exact English word which would describe Coralie's face—She was longing to believe me—but felt she could not—quite—! She knew it was foolish to bait me, and yet the female in her was toostrong for any common sense to win—Her personality had to express herself just as strongly about her jealousy of my secretary, as mine had to express itself about not telling Maurice, Alathea's name,—in both cases we cut off our noses to spite our faces. I was aware of my folly, I do not know if Coralie was aware of hers. Her exasperation so increased in a few moments that she could not control herself—and she spoke right out—.
"When we have all been so kind to you, Nicholas, it is too bad for you to waste your time upon that—!"
I became stern, then, as I had earlier become with Suzette, and made Coralie understand that I would have no interference from anyone. I frightened her—and presently she left me more attracted than she has ever been—. As I said before, women are amazing creatures.
XII
On Wednesday morning I received a reply from Maurice at Deauville—he hastened to answer he said—He had heard of Miss Sharp through a man in the American Red Cross, where Miss Sharp had been employed. He knew nothing more about her, he had seen her once when he was interviewing her, and Miss whatever the other woman's name was, he had forgotten now—and he had thought her suitable and plain and capable, that is all.
I had tried to word my letter not to give the impression of peculiar interest, but no doubt Coralie, who had returned to the band on Monday, had given him her view of the case, for he added that these people were often designing although they looked simple—and in my loneliness he felt sure I would be happier and better at the sea with my friends—!
I would have been angry, only there was something humorous in the way everyone seems to think I am incapable of managing my own affairs!—What is it they all want of me—? Not that I should be happy in my own way, but that I should contribute to their happiness—they want to participate in what my money is able to procure—and they do not want interference from outside. Every one of my friends—and relations—would be hostile if I were to announce that I was in love with Miss Sharp, and wanted to marry her—Even though it was provedto them that she was pretty—a perfect lady—intelligent—virtuous—clever! She is not of their set and might, and probably would, be a stumbling block in their path when they wished to make use of me!—so she would be taboo! None of them would put it in that way of course, their opposition would be (and they might even think they were sincere) because they were thinking ofmyhappiness!
Burton is the only person whose sympathy I could count upon!
How about the Duchesse?—that is the deepest mystery of all—I must find out from Burton what was the date about when she came to myappartementand found Alathea. Was it before that time when she asked me if I were in love—and I saw that dear little figure in the passage?—Could she have been thinking of her—?
By Thursday when there was no further news I began to feel so restless that I determined to go back to Paris the following week. It was all very well to be out in theparcat Versailles with a mind at ease, but it feels too far away when I am so troubled.
I sent Burton in on Friday to Auteuil—.
"Just walk about near the wine shop, Burton, and try to find out by every clue your not unintelligent old pate can invent, where Miss Sharp lives, and what is happening? Then go to the Hotel de Courville and chat with the concierge—or whatever you think best—I simply can't stand hearing nothing!"
Burton pulled in his lips.
"Very good, Sir Nicholas."
I tried to correct my book in the afternoon. I really am trying to do the things I feel she thinks would improve my character—But I am one gnawing ache for news—Underneath is the fear that some complication may occur which will prevent her returning to me. I find myself listening to every footstep in the passage in case it might be a telegram, so of course quite a number of messages and things were bound to come from utterly uninteresting sources, to fill me with hope and then disappoint me—It is always like that. I really was wild on Friday afternoon, and if George Harcourt had not turned up—he is at the Trianon Palace now with the Supreme War Council—I don't know what I should have done with myself. Lots of those fellows would come and dine with me if I wanted them—some are even old pals—but I am out of tune with my kind.
George was very amusing.
"My dear boy," he said, "Violetta is upsetting all my calculations—she has refused everything I have offered her—But I fear she is beginning to show me too much devotion!"
This seemed a great calamity to him.
"It is terribly dangerous that, Nicholas!—because you know, my dear boy, when a woman shows absolute devotion, a man is irresistibly impelled to offer her a back seat—it is when she appeals to his senses, shows him caprice, and remains an insecure possession, that hewill offer her the place his mother held of highest honour."
"George, you impossible cynic!"
"Not at all—I am merely a student of human instincts and characteristics—Half a cynic is a poor creature—A complete one has almost reached the mercy and tolerance of Christ."
This was quite a new view of the subject—!
He went on—.
"You see, when men philosophize about women, they are generally unjust, taking the subject from the standpoint that whatever frailties they have, the male is at all events exempt from them. Now that is nonsense—Neither sex is exempt—and neither sex as a rule will contemplate or admit its failings.—For instance, the sense of abstract truth in the noblest woman never prevents her lyingforher lover or her child, yet she thinks herself quite honest—In the noblest man the sense is so strong that it enables him to make only the one exception, that of invariably lyingtothe woman!"
I laughed—he puffed one of my pre-war cigars—.
"Women have no natural sense of truth—they only rise to it through sublime effort,"—
"And men?"
"It is ingrained in them, they only sink from it to cover their natural instincts of infidelity."
His voice was contemplative now—.
"How we lie to the little darlings, Nicholas! How we tell them we have no time to write—when of coursewe have always time if we really want to—we never are at a loss for the moments before the creatures are a secure possession!"
"The whole thing gets back to the hunting instinct, my dear George—I can't see that one can be blamed for it—."
"I am not blaming, I am merely analysing. Have you remarked that when a man feels perfectly secure about the woman he will give his hours of duty to his country, his hours of leisure to his friends who flatter him, and the crumbs snatched from either to the poor lady of his heart! But if she excites his senses, and remains problematic, he will skimp his duty, neglect his friends, and snatch even hours from sleep to spend them in her company!"
"You don't think then that there is something higher and beyond all this in love, George?—something which you and I have never come across perhaps?"
"If one met a woman who was all man in mind, all woman in body, and all child in soul—it is possible—but where are these phoenixes to be discovered, my son?—It is wiser not to dissatisfy oneself by thinking of them—but just go on accepting that which is always accorded to the very rich!—By the way, I saw Suzette la Blonde dining last night with old Solly Jesse—Monsieur le Comte Jessé!—She had a new string of pearls on and was stroking his fat hand, while her lips curled with love—I thought—??"
I lay back in my chair and laughed and laughed—And Ihad imagined that Suzette really felt for me, and would grieve for at least a week or two—but I am replaced in four days—!
I do not think I even felt bitter—all those things seem so far away now.
When George had gone, I said to myself—"All man in mind"—yes I am sure she is—"All woman in body"—Certainly that—"All child in soul"—I want to know about her soul—if we have souls, as Nina says—by the way, I will send a messenger into the Ritz with a note to ask Nina to spend the day with me to-morrow. We have got accustomed to the impossible difficulty of telephoning to Paris, and waiting hours for telegrams—a messenger is the quickest in the end.
How the war drags on—! Will it really finish this year after all—people are very depressed these last days—I do not write of any of this in my journal—others will chronicle every shade—When I let myself think of it I grow too wild. I become feverish with longing to be up and with the old regiment—When I read of their deeds—then I grow rebellious.
Monday:
No news—yet—It is unbearable—Burton returned from Auteuil with no clue whatsoever—except that theconciergeat the Hotel de Courville had never heard of the name of Sharp! That proves to me that "Sharp" is not Alathea's name at all. He was a newcomer—andthere were so many young ladies who came and went to see Madame la Duchesse that he could not identify anyone in particular by description.
Nina turned up early on Saturday in time for lunch—She was looking ravishing in entirely new clothes—like Suzette, she has found that the "geste" is altering—Germans may be attacking Paris—Friends and relations may be dying in heaps, but women must have new clothes and fashion must have her say as to their shapes—And what a mercy it is so! If there was nothing to relieve war and seriousness—all the nations would be raving lunatics by now.
"Jim will be crazy about you, Nina, when he sees you in that hat!"
"Yes, won't he! I put it on to make you crazy now!"
"Of course I always am!"
"No, Nicholas—you were once—but you are altered, some quite new influence has come into your life—you don't say half such horrid things."
We lunched in the restaurant. Some of the Supreme War Council were about at the different tables, and we exchanged a few words—Nina preferred it to my sitting-room.
"Englishmen do look attractive in uniform, Nicholas, don't they," she said—. "I wonder if I had seen Jim in ordinary things if I would have been so drawn to him?"
"Who knows? Do you remember how sensibleyou were about him and Rochester!—it is splendid that it has turned out so well."
" ... Where is happiness, Nicholas?" and her eyes became dreamy,—"I have a well balanced nature, and am grateful for what has been given me in Jim, but I can't pretend that I have found perfect content—because some part of me is always hungry—. I believe really that you were the only person who could have fulfilled all I wanted in a man!"
"Nina, you had not the least feeling for me when you first saw me after I was wounded, do you remember you felt like a sister—a mother—and a family friend!"
"Yes, was not that odd!—because of course the things which used to attract me in you and which could again now, were there all the time."
"At that moment you were so occupied with 'Jim's blue eyes,' and his 'white nice teeth,' and 'how his hair was brushed,' and 'how well his uniform fitted'—to say nothing of his D.S.O. and his M.C. that you could not appreciate anything else."
"You have a V.C., your teeth are divine, and you too have blue eyes, Nicholas—."
"Eye—please,—the singular or plural in this case makes all the difference, but I shall have my new one in fairly soon now and then illusion will help me!"
Nina sighed—.
"Illusion! I am just not going to think of whatperhaps might have happened if I had not been surrounded with illusion, last February—."
"Well, you can always have the satisfaction of knowing that as your interest in Jim diminishes, so his will increase—George Harcourt and I thrashed it all out the other day—and you yourself admitted it, when we dined. To keep the hunting instinct alive is the thing—You will have the fondest lover when you go back to Queen Street, Nina!"
"I—suppose so—. But would it not be wonderful if one had not to play any game, but could just love and be so satisfied with each other that there would not be any fear—."
Nina's eyes were sad—Did she remember my words at our last meeting?
"Yes that would be heaven!"
"Is that what you are dreaming about, Nicholas?"
"Perhaps."
"What a fortunate woman she will be!—And of yourself, what shall you give her?"
"I shall give her passion—and tenderness, and protection, and devotion—she shall share the thoughts of my mind and the aspirations of my soul—."
"Nicholas!—you talking in this romantic way—she must be a miracle!"
"No—she is just a little girl."
"And it is she who has made you think about souls?"
"I expect so—."
"Well, I must not think of them, or of anything but what a good time we shall all have when the war is over, and what nice things I've bought in Paris—and of how good-looking Jim is—Let us talk of something else!"
So we spoke of every-day matters—and then we went into theparc—and Nina stayed by my bath chair and amused me. But she does not know anything about Versailles or its history—and she cannot make psychological deductions—and all the time I was understanding with one part of me that her hat was awfully becoming, and everything about her perfect; and with another part I was seeing that her brain is limited—and that if I had married her I should have been bored to death!
And when the evening came and she left me, after our long day, I felt a sense of relief—Oh! there can be no one in the world like my Alathea—with her little red hands, and cheap cotton garments! I realize now that life used to be made up of the physical—and that something,—perhaps suffering, has taught me that the mental and the spiritual matter more.
Even if she does come back—how am I to break through the wall of ice which she has surrounded herself with since the Suzette cheque business?—I can't explain—she won't even know that I have parted with her.
Of course she has heard the fluffies often in the nextroom when they have come to play bridge in the afternoon. Perhaps she may even have heard the idiotic things they talk about—yes—of course she must have an awful impression of me—.
The contrast of her life and theirs—and mine! I shall go on with my Plato—it bores me—it is difficult, and I am tired—butI will!.