The Reverberator: A Novel

  He avenged himself for the artist’s bewildering treatment of his first attempt to approach Miss Francie by indulging, at the end of another week, in a second. He went about six o’clock, when he supposed she would have returned from her day’s wanderings, and his prudence was rewarded by the sight of the young lady sitting in the court of the hotel with her father and sister. Mr. Dosson was new to Gaston Probert, but the visitor’s intelligence embraced him. The little party was as usual expecting Mr. Flack at any moment, and they had collected down stairs, so that he might pick them up easily. They had, on the first floor, an expensive parlour, decorated in white and gold, with sofas of crimson damask; but there was something lonely in that grandeur and the place had become mainly a receptacle for their tall trunks, with a half-emptied paper of chocolates or marrons glacés on every table. After young Probert’s first call his name was often on the lips of the simple trio, and Mr. Dosson grew still more jocose, making nothing of a secret of his perception that Francie hit the bull’s-eye “every time.” Mr. Waterlow had returned their visit, but that was rather a matter of course, because it was they who had gone after him. They had not gone after the other one; it was he who had come after them. When he entered the hotel, as they sat there, this pursuit and its probable motive became startlingly vivid.

  Delia had taken the matter much more gravely than her father; she said there was a great deal she wanted to find out. She mused upon these mysteries visibly, but without advancing much, and she appealed for assistance to George Flack, with a candour which he appreciated and returned. If he knew anything he ought to know who Mr. Probert was; and she spoke as if it would be in the natural course that he should elicit the revelation by an interview. Mr. Flack promised to “nose round”; he said the best plan would be that the results should “come back” to her in the Reverberator; he appeared to think that the people could be persuaded that they wanted about a column on Mr. Probert. His researches, however, were fruitless, for in spite of the one fact the girl was able to give him as a starting-point, the fact that their new acquaintance had spent his whole life in Paris, the young journalist couldn’t scare up a single person who had even heard of him. He had questioned up and down and all over the place, from the Rue Scribe to the far end of Chaillot, and he knew people who knew others who knew every member of the American colony; that select body which haunted poor Delia’s imagination, glittered and re-echoed there in a hundred tormenting roundabout glimpses. That was where she wanted to get Francie, as she said to herself; she wanted to get her right in there. She believed the members of this society to constitute a little kingdom of the blest; and she used to drive through the Avenue Gabriel, the Rue de Marignan and the wide vistas which radiate from the Arch of Triumph and are always changing their names, on purpose to send up wistful glances to the windows (she had learned that all this was the happy quarter) of the enviable but unapproachable colonists. She saw these privileged mortals, as she supposed, in almost every victoria that made a languid lady with a pretty head flash past her, and she had no idea how little honour this theory sometimes did her expatriated countrywomen. Her plan was already made to be on the field again the next winter and take it up seriously, this question of getting Francie in.

  When Mr. Flack said to her that young Probert’s set couldn’t be either the rose or anything near it, since the oldest inhabitant had never heard of them, Delia had a flash of inspiration, an intellectual flight that she herself did not measure at the time. She asked if that did not perhaps prove on the contrary quite the opposite—that they were just the cream and beyond all others. Was there not a kind of inner circle, and were they not somewhere about the centre of that? George Flack almost quivered at this pregnant suggestion from so unusual a quarter, for he guessed on the spot that Delia Dosson had divined. “Why, do you mean one of those families that have worked down so far you can’t find where they went in?” that was the phrase in which he recognised the truth of the girl’s idea. Delia’s fixed eyes assented, and after a moment of cogitation George Flack broke out—“That’s the kind of family we want a sketch of!”

  “Well, perhaps they don’t want to be sketched. You had better find out,” Delia had rejoined.

  The chance to find out might have seemed to present itself when Mr. Probert walked in that confiding way into the hotel; for his arrival was followed, a quarter of an hour later, by that of the representative of the Reverberator. Gaston liked the way they treated him; though demonstrative it was not artificial. Mr. Dosson said they had been hoping he would come round again and Delia remarked that she supposed he had had quite a journey—Paris was so big; and she urged his acceptance of a glass of wine or a cup of tea. She added that that wasn’t the place where they usually received (she liked to hear herself talk of “receiving”), and led the party up to her white and gold saloon, where they should be so much more private: she liked also to hear herself talk of privacy. They sat on the red silk chairs and she hoped Mr. Probert would at least taste a sugared chestnut or a chocolate; and when he declined, pleading the imminence of the dinner-hour, she murmured, “Well, I suppose you’re so used to them—living so long over here.” The allusion to the dinner-hour led Mr. Dosson to express the wish that he would go round and dine with them without ceremony; they were expecting a friend—he generally settled it for them—who was coming to take them round.

  “And then we are going to the circus,” Francie said, speaking for the first time.

  If she had not spoken before she had done something still more to the purpose; she had removed any shade of doubt that might have lingered in the young man’s spirit as to her charm of line. He was aware that his Parisian education, acting upon a natural aptitude, had opened him much—rendered him perhaps even morbidly sensitive—to impressions of this order; the society of artists, the talk of studios, the attentive study of beautiful works, the sight of a thousand forms of curious research and experiment, had produced in his mind a new sense, the exercise of which was a conscious enjoyment, and the supreme gratification of which, on several occasions, had given him as many ineffaceable memories. He had once said to his friend Waterlow: “I don’t know whether it’s a confession of a very poor life, but the most important things that have happened to me in this world have been simply half-a-dozen impressions—impressions of the eye.” “Ah, malheureux, you’re lost!” the painter had exclaimed, in answer to this, and without even taking the trouble to explain his ominous speech. Gaston Probert however had not been frightened by it, and he continued to be thankful for the sensitive plate that nature (with culture added), enabled him to carry in his brain. The impression of the eye was doubtless not everything, but it was so much gained, so much saved, in a world in which other treasures were apt to slip through one’s fingers; and above all it had the merit that so many things gave it and that nothing could take it away. He had perceived in a moment that Francie Dosson gave it; and now, seeing her a second time, he felt that she conferred it in a degree which made acquaintance with her one of those “important” facts of which he had spoken to Charles Waterlow. It was in the case of such an accident as this that he felt the value of his Parisian education—his modern sense.

  It was therefore not directly the prospect of the circus that induced him to accept Mr. Dosson’s invitation; nor was it even the charm exerted by the girl’s appearing, in the few words she uttered, to appeal to him for herself. It was his feeling that on the edge of the glittering ring her type would form his entertainment and that if he knew it was rare she herself did not. He liked to be conscious, but he liked others not to be. It seemed to him at this moment, after he had told Mr. Dosson he should be delighted to spend the evening with them, that he was indeed trying hard to discover how it would feel to be an American; he had jumped on the ship, he was pitching away to the west. He had led his sister, Mme. de Brécourt, to expect that he would dine with her (she was having a little party), and if she could see the people to whom, without a scruple, with a quick sense of refreshment and
freedom, he now sacrificed her! He knew who was coming to his sister’s, in the Place Beauvau: Mme. d’Outreville and M. de Grosprò, old M. Courageau, Mme. de Brives, Lord and Lady Trantum, Mlle. de Saintonge; but he was fascinated by the idea of the contrast between what he preferred and what he gave up. His life had long been wanting—painfully wanting—in the element of contrast, and here was a chance to bring it in. He seemed to see it come in powerfully with Mr. Flack, after Miss Dosson had proposed that they should walk off without their initiator. Her father did not favour this suggestion; he said, “We want a double good dinner to-day and Mr. Flack has got to order it.” Upon this Delia had asked the visitor if he couldn’t order—a Frenchman like him; and Francie had interrupted, before he could answer the question—“Well, are you a Frenchman? that’s just the point, isn’t it?” Gaston Probert replied that he had no wish but to be of her nationality, and the elder sister asked him if he knew many Americans in Paris. He was obliged to confess that he did not, but he hastened to add that he was eager to go on, now that he had made such a charming beginning.

  “Oh, we ain’t anything—if you mean that,” said the young lady. “If you go on you’ll go on beyond us.”

  “We ain’t anything here, my dear, but we are a good deal at home,” Mr. Dosson remarked, smiling.

  “I think we are very nice anywhere!” Francie exclaimed; upon which Gaston Probert declared that they were as delightful as possible. It was in these amenities that George Flack found them engaged; but there was none the less a certain eagerness in his greeting of the other guest, as if he had it in mind to ask him how soon he could give him half an hour. I hasten to add that, with the turn the occasion presently took, the correspondent of the Reverberator renounced the effort to put Mr. Probert down. They all went out together, and the professional impulse, usually so irresistible in George Flack’s mind, suffered a modification. He wanted to put his fellow-visitor down, but in a more human, a more passionate sense. Probert talked very little to Francie, but though Mr. Flack did not know that on a first occasion he would have thought that violent, even rather gross, he knew it was for Francie, and Francie alone, that the fifth member of the party was there. He said to himself suddenly and in perfect sincerity that it was a mean class any way, the people for whom their own country was not good enough. He did not go so far however, when they were seated at the admirable establishment of M. Durand, in the Place de la Madeleine, as to order a bad dinner to spite his competitor; nor did he, to spoil this gentleman’s amusement, take uncomfortable seats at the pretty circus in the Champs Elysées to which, at half-past eight o’clock, the company was conveyed (it was a drive of but five minutes) in a couple of cabs. The occasion therefore was superficially smooth, and he could see that the sense of being disagreeable to an American newspaper-man was not needed to make his nondescript rival enjoy it. He hated his accent, he hated his laugh, and he hated above all the lamblike way their companions accepted him. Mr. Flack was quite acute enough to make an important observation: he cherished it and promised himself to bring it to the notice of his gullible friends. Gaston Probert professed a great desire to be of service to the young ladies—to do something which would help them to be happy in Paris; but he gave no hint of an intention to do that which would contribute most to such a result—bring them in contact with the other members, and above all with the female members, of his family. George Flack knew nothing about the matter, but he required for purposes of argument that Mr. Probert’s family should have female members, and it was lucky for him that his assumption was just. He thought he foresaw the effect with which he should impress it upon Francie and Delia (but above all upon Delia, who would then herself impress it upon Francie), that it would be time for their French friend to talk when he had brought his mother round. But he never would—they might bet their pile on that! He never did, in the sequel, in fact—having, poor young man, no mother to bring. Moreover he was mum (as Delia phrased it to herself) about Mme. de Brécourt and Mme. de Cliché: such, Miss Dosson learned from Charles Waterlow, were the names of his two sisters who had houses in Paris—gathering at the same time the information that one of these ladies was a marquise and the other a comtesse. She was less exasperated by their non-appearance than Mr. Flack had hoped, and it did not prevent an excursion to dine at Saint-Germain, a week after the evening spent at the circus, which included both of the new admirers. It also matter of course included Mr. Flack, for though the party had been proposed in the first instance by Charles Waterlow, who wished to multiply opportunities for studying his future sitter, Mr. Dosson had characteristically constituted himself host and administrator, with the young journalist as his deputy. He liked to invite people and to pay for them, and he disliked to be invited and paid for. He was never inwardly content, on any occasion, unless a great deal of money was spent, and he could be sure enough of the magnitude of the sum only when he himself spent it. He was too simple for conceit or for pride of purse, but he always felt that any arrangements were a little shabby as to which the expenses had not been referred to him. He never told any one how he met them. Moreover Delia had told him that if they should go to Saint-Germain as guests of the artist and his friend Mr. Flack would not be of the company: she was sure those gentlemen would not invite him. In fact she was too acute, for though he liked him little, Charles Waterlow would on this occasion have made a point of expressing by a hospitable attitude his sense of obligation to a man who had brought him such a subject. Delia’s hint however was all-sufficient for her father; he would have thought it a gross breach of friendly loyalty to take part in a festival not graced by Mr. Flack’s presence. His idea of loyalty was that he should scarcely smoke a cigar unless his friend was there to take another, and he felt rather mean if he went round alone to get shaved. As regards Saint-Germain, he took over the project and George Flack telegraphed for a table on the terrace at the Pavillon Henri Quatre. Mr. Dosson had by this time learned to trust the European manager of the Reverberator to spend his money almost as he himself would.

  IV

  DELIA HAD BROKEN OUT THE EVENING THEY took Mr. Probert to the circus; she had apostrophised Francie as they each sat in a red-damask chair after ascending to their apartments. They had bade their companions farewell at the door of the hotel and the two gentlemen had walked off in different directions. But up stairs they had instinctively not separated; they dropped into the first place and sat looking at each other and at the highly-decorated lamps that burned, night after night, in their empty saloon. “Well, I want to know when you’re going to stop,” Delia said to her sister, speaking as if this remark were a continuation, which it was not, of something they had lately been saying.

  “Stop what?” asked Francie, reaching forward for a marron.

  “Stop carrying on the way you do—with Mr. Flack.”

  Francie stared, while she consumed her marron; then she replied, in her little flat, patient voice, “Why, Delia Dosson, how can you be so foolish?”

  “Father, I wish you’d speak to her. Francie, I ain’t foolish.”

  “What do you want me to say to her?” Mr. Dosson inquired. “I guess I’ve said about all I know.”

  “Well, that’s in fun; I want you to speak to her in earnest.”

  “I guess there’s no one in earnest but you,” Francie remarked. “These are not so good as the last.”

  “No, and there won’t be if you don’t look out. There’s something you can do if you’ll just keep quiet. If you can’t tell difference of style, well, I can.”

  “What’s the difference of style?” asked Mr. Dosson. But before this question could be answered Francie protested against the charge of carrying on. Quiet? Wasn’t she as quiet as a stopped clock? Delia replied that a girl was not quiet so long as she didn’t keep others so; and she wanted to know what her sister proposed to do about Mr. Flack. “Why don’t you take him and let Francie take the other?” Mr. Dosson continued.

  “That’s just what I’m after—to make her take the other,”
said his elder daughter.

  “Take him—how do you mean?” Francie inquired.

  “Oh, you know how.”

  “Yes, I guess you know how!” Mr. Dosson laughed, with an absence of prejudice which might have been thought deplorable in a parent.

  “Do you want to stay in Europe or not? that’s what I want to know,” Delia declared to her sister. “If you want to go bang home you’re taking the right way to do it.”

  “What has that got to do with it?” asked Mr. Dosson.

  “Should you like so much to reside at that place—where is it?—where his paper is published? That’s where you’ll have to pull up, sooner or later,” Delia pursued.

  “Do you want to stay in Europe, father?” Francie said, with her small sweet weariness.

  “It depends on what you mean by staying. I want to go home some time.”

  “Well, then, you’ve got to go without Mr. Probert,” Delia remarked with decision. “If you think he wants to live over there—”