Madame Claire/Chapter 8
Eric drove at once to the little hotel off the Avenue de la Grande Armée, and made himself known. He had wired for a room at the Crillon, preferring not to stay too near Connie lest he should find her surrounded by sympathetic friends. He dreaded her friends.
The granddaughter of old Madame Peritôt, a pleasant-faced woman named Le Blanc, gave him a cordial welcome, asked immediately after Madame Claire and then told him in answer to his question that Madame la Comtesse was resting, but would undoubtedly see her brother. Who indeed, she thought, would not be glad to see such a brother—a brother with such delightful manners, whose blue eyes—Ciel! Madame Le Blanc was enchanted by the blueness of his eyes.
Eric waited in the little salon, remembering incidents of their extremely happy childhood. Madame Claire had so often brought the three of them there, during vacations. They had nearly always come to Paris en route for the coast of Brittany or Normandy when the Roman summers became unbearable. He remembered how he and Connie, an exquisite, long-legged child of fifteen, had knocked over and broken a Dresden group during a scrimmage. They had secretly substituted for it another almost exactly like the first, except that the dress of the shepherdess which had been blue with pink flowers, was now pink with blue flowers. There it stood, just where their guilty hands had placed it, so many years ago, and he could not resist taking it off the mantelpiece and examining it. It was one of old Madame Peritôt's most prized possessions, and how they laughed when they realized that she had never noticed the difference! It might easily have met the fate just then of its unlucky predecessor, for he nearly dropped it, so suddenly and quietly did Connie enter—and such a Connie!
It was characteristic of Eric that he never said anything suitable to occasions. He kissed her cheek, and then said, holding her at arm's length and looking at her:
"You must come and dine with me. What do you say to a sole and a broiled chicken somewhere?"
But Connie felt that something more was due to the situation, so she clung to his arm and found—or seemed to find—speech difficult.
"Eric! Is it really you? My God! After all these years! Oh, Eric!"
"Nearly twenty, isn't it? And thirty or more since we broke the Dresden group there. Go and put your hat on. What a pretty dress!"
"You like it?" She turned about with something of her old grace and coquetry. "You were always quick to notice nice things. But how did you know where to find me, and why did you come? This seems like a dream to me. And you're still so good-looking!"
"Thank you, my dear. No one has ever told me that. It is charming of you. I came to see you. Mother guessed you would be here. And now go and put on your hat, for I'm very hungry."
"In a moment. I want to look at you. . . . I'd almost forgotten I had a brother. But how did you know I was in Paris at all? That meddlesome old Stephen de Lisle, I suppose, bless him!" Then her beautiful voice deepened. "Eric, I've got very old, haven't I? Tell me the truth."
Eric told it in his own way.
"I'm afraid I never think about age," he said, "so it's no good asking me. I think you look worried. Come, we'll dine early. There's a great deal to talk about. And don't change. I like you in that."
"I won't be long." She went to the door and then turned. "I'm being taken out to dinner by my own brother," she said softly. "You make me feel quite—respectable, Eric."
Her last words hurt him. If there had been any one with him he would have said as she left the room:
"Good God! The pity of it!"
It wasn't age he meant. He cared as little for that as most intelligent men. Connie had lost her youth. That was to be expected. But she had never gained its far more interesting successor, character. It was that he missed. She was spiritually, mentally and morally down at the heel. Her face was a weary mask, her yellow hair had known the uses of peroxide as well as of adversity, and her blue eyes, paler than her brother's, looked out, without expression, from a rim of carelessly darkened lashes. The frank vulgarity of her scarlet lips revolted him.
"All that," he said to himself, "to win a—Chiozzi!" He had hurried her off to get her hat because he couldn't bear to talk to her in that room of childish memories. It brought back to him too clearly the girl of fifteen, with her exquisite, sparkling face, her laughter, and that mane of fine golden hair that people in the streets too often turned to stare at. . . . He meant to help her, he had come to help her—but how to go about it? That he must leave to the inspiration of the moment.
When she returned, handsomely furred and too youthfully hatted, he gave her another kindly kiss to encourage her—for he could see that she was really moved—and took her arm as they went to the door. An old woman in another salon across the hall had observed their movements with the keenest interest. She carried an ear trumpet, but thanked Heaven that her eyes were as good as ever. Good enough to distinguish the paint on that woman's cheeks—which had not prevented Mr. Gregory from kissing her. Lady Gregory's only son! She knew he had married the youngest daughter of old Admiral Broughton, a great friend of the late King's. He had once been heard to say to him at a garden party—it must have been in 1907— There, they are getting into a cab together. He has taken her hand—off they go! Dear, dear! How very distressing! Poor Lady Gregory, and poor neglected wife! It wasn't as if she hadn't seen it with her own eyes. And she hadn't lived in this wicked old world for sixty-nine years—even though most of them had been spent in Kensington—without knowing a demi-mondaine when she saw one. Odd she was to see Miss Thomkinson, a cousin of the Broughtons, the very next day. No, shocked as she was at the presence of such a woman in that house, she preferred not to speak to Madame le Blanc about it. It didn't go to enter into arguments with these French people, and besides, her vocabulary wasn't equal to it.
In the cab, Eric said gently:
"Well, Connie, my dear, I've come to help you in any way that I can, and to take you back to England with me if you wish to go. I gather that your marriage is anything but happy. Tell me about it."
Connie tried to speak but her efforts ended in a sudden burst of tears. She sobbed openly and unbecomingly. Eric, his eyes full of pain and concern, held her hand and looked out of the window at the once familiar streets. She had lived on her emotions for so long that self-control, he supposed, was utterly beyond her now. It was true that she had cried whenever she had felt inclined, during the whole of her unhappy, stormy life. But she usually cried for a purpose. This was different. Something, probably the amazing matter-of-factness of her brother, had touched the springs of her self-pity. At one step he had spanned all that had happened in the last twenty years. He was so entirely unchanged, while she—his eyes were as clear as ever, his fitness obvious at a glance, and his face scarcely lined. He represented all that she had lost, all that was sane and clean and wholesome. He reminded her of childish cricket, and nursery teas, and days on the river, and May Week, and clean young men in flannels. She had not met a man of his type since she had left her husband. She loved the faint scent of lavender that lingered in the fresh folds of the handkerchief he presently offered her. She wondered if it would be possible for her to go back with him, into the well-ordered life that he and his kind led, away from the shoddy women who had been her companions for years and the men who were rotten to the core.
"It has been a shock to you," Eric said. "I should have warned you."
She shook her head. It wasn't that. What it was she didn't feel capable of telling him now.
She wiped her eyes and cheeks recklessly with his handkerchief. Her make-up was ruined, and for the moment she didn't care, but presently at the sight of the well-filled restaurant she pulled herself together, and while Eric ordered dinner she busied herself repairing her haggard mask. No matter how badly Connie was looking, people always observed that she was a woman who had once been very beautiful. She joined him at the table in a few minutes, looking as though tears were as foreign to her nature as to a statue's.
It is characteristic of Connie's sort that they forget they have made a scene two minutes after it is over, and imagine that others forget as easily. She glanced about the crowded room as she sat down, hoping that she might be seen in the company of such a man. She was proud of him, and, to do her justice, proud of the fact that they were brother and sister, forgetting that in twenty years a resemblance that had once been remarkable had nearly vanished.
Before dinner was over, she had given him an outline of her life down to the present with commendable honesty. She had no wish, apparently, to gild the ugly sordidness of some of it, though she made it appear that her misfortunes had come to her more through the faithlessness and selfishness of men than through her own weakness. And yet men, it was obvious, were still her chief interest in life. As she talked to Eric her glance often wandered, and she made much play with her still beautiful hands.
Her dread of Chiozzi and his treatment of her seemed to Eric the most important part of her story. It was that he had to deal with now. She said he had threatened her life more than once in order to extort money from her. Her income had dwindled to barely seven hundred a year, all that remained of the considerable fortune left her by Morton Freeman. That much she had managed to keep intact, in spite of the efforts of her greedy Count.
"If I go back to him," she said with a shudder, "he'll have it all."
Eric dreaded the idea of a divorce. Her affairs had already had so much unsavory publicity.
"You must not think of going back to him at present," he told her. "Later we will see what can be done. You can write to him from London, if you wish."
"I dread London."
"You will be safest there. And you will find that people have forgotten. You must try to begin again, my dear, and be content with contentment, and simple things. You will not find life exciting, but you may find it pleasant. I will do what I can, and you will have mother, who is a marvel of marvels. I would suggest a little house in the country, or a small flat in town."
She considered this, smoking a faintly perfumed cigarette.
"What are Millicent's children like?"
"They're delightful. You'll love Judy and Noel."
"But Millie won't let them know me."
"I doubt if Millie will have very much to say in the matter. If they choose to know you, they will."
"And your wife—Louise?"
He hesitated.
"You may find her difficult."
"How difficult? One of those . . . those good women, I suppose." This with a sneer that made Eric wince.
"Louise is very . . . indifferent. Frankly, she doesn't care a straw for me."
"Not care for you? She must be a fool."
He inclined his head in the slightest of bows.
"You are my sister, and prejudiced."
"I know a man when I see one, whether he's my brother or not." She gave a short laugh. "Mon Dieu! I ought to, by this time."
"My wife," said Eric, "considers me a tiresome and conceited fellow. She dislikes a great many things about me; no doubt with reason."
"Jealous," commented his sister, who could see through other women.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"So some of my friends say. I cannot understand it. But you needn't see much of each other."
"I think I know her sort," said Connie, watching the smoke from her cigarette. "Well, we both seem to have made a mess of things."
This struck Eric as humorous, but not a sign of his amusement appeared in his face.
"Where is Petrovitch now?" he asked her.
She smiled to a passing acquaintance before she answered.
"In America, I believe. Still lionized and applauded. It seems to me, Eric, that men have nine lives to a woman's one. Look at me . . . a worn-out wreck, while he"
"A bad fellow, Connie," said Eric; at which she bit her lip.
"I can't let you say that. I love him."
"Still?"
She nodded.
Eric looked at her as though he would like to see into her mind.
"Tell me this. I ask you as I might ask any woman in your place. Has it been worth it?"
Her eyes fell, and she seemed to be groping for words. Then she rose from the table, gathering up her long gloves and beaded bag.
"I would tell you, if I knew," she said at last. "But I don't know. I suppose I have lost all sense of values."
"That is answer enough," he replied. ****** As they drove back to the hotel she turned to him and said:
"When do you want me to be ready?"
"I ought to go back to-morrow," he told her. "Would that be possible for you?"
"Yes." Then, a little dramatically, "I place myself in your hands, Eric. Do with me what you will."