CHAPTER VII.
A PLEDGE OF FRIENDSHIP.
The following week found Andrew fairly installed _en garcon_, with aman-servant, recommended by Radwalader, presiding over his boots andapparel, and a fat apple-cheeked _concierge_ preparing his favouritedishes in a fashion which suggested that all former cooks of hisexperience had been the veriest tyros. It had taken but a week at theRitz to disgust him with the elaborate pomposity of life at afashionable hotel, and, in its unpretentious way, Remson Peake'sapartment was a gem. A tiled bath, with a porcelain tub; a bedchamber inwhite and sage-green, with charmingly odd, splay-footed furniture of theGlasgow school; a severely simple dining-room, with curtains andupholstery of heavy crimson damask; a study with furniture of_marqueterie_ mahoghany, a huge divan, and a club-fender upon which tocock one's feet; a pantry and a kitchen like a doll's--it was complete,inviting, and equipped in every detail. For Andrew it had a very specialcharm. His whole life had been, to a great extent, subordinate to thepresence and personality of his grandfather. Even college had notbrought him the usual accompaniment of rooms at Claverly or Beck,for--and it was to his credit--he had never so much as suggested leavingMr. Sterling alone in the big house on Beacon Hill. But even aninfluence as kindly as this gentle, indulgent old man's may irk. Now,for the first time, Andrew found himself the practical master of hismovements. And Remson Peake's apartment had the rare, almost unique,quality of disarming criticism. One had no suggestions to make. Onewould--given the opportunity--have done the same in every particular.
And so, the faint qualms of homesickness having worn off in the courseof his initial fortnight in the capital, Andrew found himself supremelycontented, and discovered a new charm in life at every turn. Radwaladerwas the essence of courtesy and consideration, invariable in his goodhumour, tireless in his efforts to amuse and entertain the young_protege_ of his good friend Mrs. Carnby. Paris, he told Andrew, waslike a box of delicate _pastilles_, each of which should be allowed tomelt slowly on the tongue: it disagreed with those who attempted toswallow the whole box of its attractions at a gulp. So they went aboutAndrew's sight-seeing in a leisurely manner, taking the Louvre and theLuxembourg by half-hours, and sandwiching in a church, a monument, or acelebrated street, on the way; for it was another theory of Radwalader'sthat a franc found on the pavement, or in the pocket of a discardedwaistcoat, is more gratifying than fifty deliberately earned.
"It's the things you happen on which you will enjoy," he said, "notthose you go to work to find, by taking a tram or walking a mile.Unpremeditated discoveries, like unpremeditated dissipations, are alwaysthe most successful. There's nothing so flat as a plan."
As was to be expected, Mrs. Carnby was not able to monopolize Andrew.Mrs. Ratchett took him into her good graces, and, as was usual with herwhere men were concerned, contrived to make him think of her between hiscalls. And there were many others--women characteristic of the AmericanColony, whose husbands were never served up except with dinner. It wasas Mrs. Carnby told him:
"If a bachelor has manners, discretion, and presentable evening dress,he need never pay for a dinner in Paris, so long as the Colony knows ofhis existence. And remember this. Nothing is dearer to a woman's heartthan a man at five o'clock. She will excuse anything, if you'll give hera chance to remember how many lumps you take and whether it's cream orlemon. Attend to your teas, my young friend, and you can do just aboutas you like about your _p_'s and _q_'s!"
Madame Palffy, too, seeking whom she might entertain (which, in hercase, was equivalent to devouring), collected young men as geologistscollect specimens of minerals. The analogy was strengthened by herpredilection for chipping off portions--the darker portions--of theircharacters, and handing these around for the edification of herfriends. She cultivated Andrew assiduously, though it was not for thisreason that he dropped in so frequently at tea-time. Margery, with herclean-cut beauty, appealed to him in a very special sense. They had incommon many memories of the free, open-air, sane, and wind-blown life ofthe North Shore; and now, when they idled through portions of "ThePersian Garden," which had been the fad at Beverly, it was by way ofgetting a whiff of sea air, and an echo of the laughter that had been.
Often he found himself looking at her admiringly. She had the knack ofsatisfying one's sense of what ought to be. Her dress was almost alwaysof a studied simplicity which depended for its effect entirely uponcolour and fit, and could have been bettered in neither. Not the leastfactor in her striking beauty was its purity, its freedom from thesmallest suggestion of artificiality. She was singularly alive,admirably clear-eyed and strong, and in her fresh propriety there wasalways a challenge to the open air and the full light of day. She had,even in the ballroom, an indefinable hint of out-of-doors. The contrastbetween her personality and that of Parisian women--of MirabelleTremonceau, for example--was the contrast between the clean, dull linenof a New England housekeeper and the dainty shams of an exhibitionbedroom; between a physician's hands and a manicure's; between the keen,salt air of the North Shore and that of a tropical island. Herfemininity impressed where that of others merely charmed. The majorityof women are pink: Margery Palffy was a soft, clear cream.
Nevertheless, Andrew seemed to feel, rather than to see, a subtlealteration in her. A few months had given her a new reserve, almost anattitude of distrust, which puzzled and eluded him. Their talks atBeverly had been different from these. There, they had spoken much ofthe future, of what they hoped and believed: here they skirted, insteadof boldly boarding, serious topics, and were fallen unconsciously, butimmediately, into the habit of chaffing each other over meaninglesstrifles. He was baffled and disconcerted by the change. There was muchwhich he had come to say. He had rehearsed it all many times, andremembering the charming lack of constraint which had characterized alltheir former intercourse, to say it had seemed comparatively easy. Butnow he was like a man who has been recalling his fluent renderings, atschool or college, of the classic texts, but, suddenly confronted withthe same passages, cannot translate a word.
Again, the presence of her family depressed him with something of herown visible distress, humiliated him with something of her own evidentshame. There was no such thing as making allowances for either Monsieuror Madame Palffy. From the moment of one's first glimpse of them, theywere hopelessly and irretrievably impossible. Not that they had thefaintest suspicion of this. They were supremely self-satisfied, andmoved massively through life with a firm conviction that they fulfilledall requirements. Madame, with her frightful French, was as complacentin a conversation with a duchess of the Faubourg as was Monsieur, withhis feeble and flatulent observations upon subjects of which he had noknowledge, in a company of after-dinner smokers. It was impossible toexaggerate their preternatural idiocy. A bale of cotton, suddenlyintroduced into polite society, could have manifested no more stupendouslack of resource than they. It was only when tempted with the bait ofgossip--most probably untrue--that they rose heavily to the surface ofthe conversation instead of floundering in its depths. Half the Colonydetested them, all of the Colony laughed at them, and none of the Colonybelieved them. In short--they were Monsieur and Madame Palffy. There wasno more to be said.
Had Margery been farther from him, curiously enough she would have beenfar more readily approached in the manner which Andrew had planned. Hewas far from comprehending that it was her vital and intimate interestin him which showed her that he would note all the defects of thedeplorable frame wherein he thus found her placed. The very fact thatthey had known each other under different and happier conditions forcedher to assume the defensive now that other circumstances were patent tohis eyes. She was intensely proud. There must be no chance for him topity her. So, she assumed a gaiety which she was far from feeling, andsought in the by-ways of banter a refuge from the broader and more openroad of surrender. On her side and on his it was a more mature case ofthe painful embarrassment incidental to the early stages of a children'sparty. They had played unrestrainedly together, as it were, but now, inthe artificial light of a
society strange to both of them, were strickendumb.
From the strain of this baffling position Andrew sought relief in thecompany of Mirabelle Tremonceau. Here was no constraint, no unutteredsolemnities to come up choking into the throat. She was very beautiful,very inconsequent, very gay; but the same light _insouciance_ which inMargery distressed and humiliated him, because of the unsounded deepswhich lay below, attracted and amused him in Mirabelle, by simple reasonof its essential shallowness. She was altogether different from anywoman he had ever known, but her novelty meant no more to him than apart of that charmingly sparkling and intoxicating wine of Paris ofwhich he was learning to take deep draughts. Never for an instant did italter the strength of the original purpose which had brought him fromAmerica, but it went far toward lessening the keen disappointment whichMargery's apparent disregard of that purpose caused him. In the latter'spresence he was exquisitely sensitive to the possible significance ofevery word. He thought too much, and the sombre current of thesereflections too often darkened the surface of conversation, turned heruneasy and unnatural, and sent him away in a fit of the blues. WithMirabelle, on the contrary, he never thought at all. Since he hadnothing to ask of her beyond what she had already granted him--theprivilege of her friendship and the fascination of her presence--heenjoyed these to the full. It was his consuming desire for another andmore tender relation with Margery that caused him to be blind to thepromise of that which existed--almost to despise it.
Minutes grew into hours with unbelievable celerity in the company ofMirabelle Tremonceau. With something akin to intuition, all unsuspectingas he was, he said nothing of her to Mrs. Carnby, to Margery, or even toRadwalader. At the first, there was but one who could have told himwhither he was tending--but Thomas Radwalader had all-sufficient reasonsfor holding his tongue. Yet, back of his slight infatuation, there layin Andrew's mind a little sense of guilt. He could not have laid fingerupon the quality of his indiscretion, but he felt indefinitely that allwas not right. He recognized, or seemed to recognize, in Mirabelle afruit forbidden, but told himself that it was a passing episode. He wasconfident that the way would yet lie open for the attainment of hisheart's desire, and meanwhile he would amuse himself and say nothing.Your ostrich, with his silly head buried in the sand, is not the onlycreature that fatuously underestimates both its own desirability and theperspicacity of those interested in its movements. Twice, in theafternoon, Andrew had driven with Mirabelle in the Allee des Acacias.She gave him the seat at her right, and people turned to look at thepassing victoria, as they had turned and looked on the afternoon whenshe took his arm at the gate of Auteuil.
But better than driving was the time passed, daily, in her apartment onthe Avenue Henri Martin. It was on the fifth floor, running the wholewidth of the house, and with a broad balcony looking down upon the rowsof trees below. A corner of this balcony was enclosed by gay awnings,and made garden-like by azaleas and potted palms. MademoiselleTremonceau had a great lounging chair, and a table for books and_bon-bons_, and Andrew sprawled at her feet, on red cushions, with hisback against the balcony rail, his hands linked behind his head, and hislong legs stretched out upon a Persian rug. All this was the mostunexpected feature of his new life, and hence the most attractive. Itwas as far as possible removed from a suggestion of metropolitanexistence. May was already upon them, and the air above the wide andshaded avenue was indescribably soft and sweet. The roar of the citymounted to their high coign only in a subdued murmur, as of the sea at adistance. Birds came and went, twittering on the cornice above theirheads. The sun soaked through Andrew's serge and linen, and sentpleasurable little thrills of warmth through the muscles of his broadback. A faint perfume came to him from the roses on the table. Adelicious, indefinable languor hung upon his surroundings. He wasvaguely reminded of afternoons at Newport and Nahant--afternoons wheneverything smelt of new white flannel, warm leaves, and the fox-terrierblinking and quivering on his knee--when the only sounds were the whineof insects in the vines, the rasping snore of locusts in the nearesttrees, and the snarl of passing carriage-wheels on a Macadam driveway.He could close his eyes and remember it all, and know that what hadbeen, was good. He could open them, and feel that what was, was better!
As is always the case, when sympathy is pregnant with prophecy, Andrew'sacquaintance with Mirabelle Tremonceau had grown into friendship beforehe realized the change. At first he had made excuses for the frequencyof his calls; but at the end of three weeks the daily visit had come, inhis eyes as well as hers, to be a matter of course.
So it was that three o'clock would find him upon her balcony, or in acushioned corner of her divan; and whereas, at the outset, he had beenbut one of several men present, he discovered of a sudden not only thatfor four days had he found her alone at the accustomed hour, but thatshe refused herself to other callers when the _maitre d'hotel_ broughtin their cards. He was not insensible to the compliment, but it was onehe had experienced before.
That afternoon, the _maitre d'hotel_ had not even taken his name, butushered him directly through the _salon_ to the Venetian blind at thewindow, and lifted this to let him pass out upon the balcony.Mademoiselle Tremonceau was in her great chair, with a yellow-coverednovel perched, tent-like, upon her knee. She smiled as he came out, andgave him her hand. Andrew bent over and kissed it, before taking hisseat. It was a trick of the Frenchmen he had met at Mrs. Carnby's--oneof the things which are courtesies in Paris, and impertinence elsewhere.The girl's hand lay for an instant against his lips. It was as soft assatin, and smelt faintly of orris, and her fingers closed on his with alittle friendly pressure.
"You were expecting me?" he asked, as he dropped upon the cushionsbeside her.
"I'd given you up," she answered. "It's ten minutes past three."
"Am I as regular as that?" he laughed. "I was lunching at my friend Mrs.Carnby's, and we didn't get up from table till long after two. I camedirectly over."
Mirabelle looked away across the house-tops with a little frown.
"What is it?" asked Andrew. "Anything gone wrong?"
"Oh no! My thoughts wouldn't be a bargain at a penny. Tell me--have youseen Mr. Radwalader lately?"
"Last night. We went to the Francais."
"You continue to like him?"
"I think we should never be intimate friends. Apart from the differencein our ages and opinions, there's something about him which I don'tseem to get at--like shaking a gloved hand, if you know what I mean."
"Ye-es," said Mirabelle slowly. "It's odd you should have noticed that."
"But it's ungrateful of me to mention even that small objection,"continued Andrew. "He's been the soul of kindness, and has shown me allover Paris, introduced me everywhere, and, in general, explained things.I've learned more in three weeks with him than I could have learnedmyself in a year. So, you see, I couldn't very well help liking him,even if I wanted to help it--which I don't. Why do you ask?"
For an instant Mirabelle's slender hand fluttered toward him with an oddlittle tentative gesture, and then went back to her cheek.
"I'm not sure," she answered. "Perhaps only for lack of anything else tosay. People have told me that they disliked Mr. Radwalader--that theydistrusted him."
"I suppose we're all of us disliked and distrusted--by somebody," saidAndrew. "But, so far as I'm concerned, Radwalader's my friend. Perhapsyou don't know me well enough yet to understand that that means a greatdeal."
"You're very loyal you mean?" suggested the girl.
"I hope so--yes. I have few friends; but those I have, I care for andrespect and, if necessary, defend. They can't be talked against in mypresence."
"I wonder," said Mirabelle slowly, "if I'm one of the happy few."
"Decidedly!" said Andrew heartily.
"Do you mean," she continued, "that you care for me as you care forthese other friends, that you--that you respect me, and that you'ddefend me--if necessary?"
"Decidedly, decidedly! I hope I've proved the first two, and I hopethere'll never be any cau
se to prove the last. But if there is, you maycount on me."
Mirabelle looked at him for a moment, and then leaned back and closedher eyes.
"Thank you," she said. "You don't know what that means to me."
"Why, how serious you are over it!" laughed Andrew. "Does it seem to youso very wonderful? To me it appears to be the most natural thing in theworld."
"Ah, to _you_, perhaps," answered Mirabelle. "But to me--yes, it doesseem _very_ wonderful. You see--I've never had it said to me before!"