CHAPTER V.
THE GOOD AND FAITHFUL SERVANT.
On the following Thursday morning, the bell of St. Germain-des-Pres wasstriking the hour of eleven when Monsieur Jules Vicot opened his eyes,instantly closed them again, and groaned. It was the hour which hedisliked more than any other of the twenty-four, this of awakening, andfrom day to day it did not differ in essential details. The weathermight be hot or cold, fair or foul, wet or dry--that was one thing andnot important. What _was_ important--what, in the estimation of MonsieurVicot, distinguished this hour so unenviably from its fellows, was thevariety of distressing physical symptoms which, in his own person,inevitably accompanied it. They were symptoms long familiar to MonsieurVicot--a feeling under his eyelids which appeared to indicate thepresence of coarse sand; a throbbing of the heart which seemed,inexplicably, to be taking place in his throat; a dull pain at histemples and back of his ears which prompted him to hold his headsedulously balanced, lest a sudden movement to right or left occasion anacuter pang; finally, a taste on his tongue which suggested acommingling of fur, blotting-paper, and raw quinces.
Presently Monsieur Vicot opened his eyes once more and fixed them uponthe window, from which, from his position, nothing was visible save skyof an intense blue. Against this background a number of smallreddish-brown blotches swam slowly to and fro, and among these tinywhorls of a light gray colour expanded and contracted with inconceivablerapidity. At one time these symptoms had caused him peculiar uneasiness.Now he ignored them. They were less disturbing to his equanimity thanthe remarkable twitching of his fingers. For two years he had made apoint of keeping his hands in the side pockets of his jacket, save whenhe found it absolutely necessary to use them. He no longer madegestures. They are desirable as aids to expression, but only whensteady.
The majority of men, in waking, apply themselves to consideration of theday which lies before them. It was Monsieur Jules Vicot's custom, on thecontrary, to undertake a mental review of the night which lay behind.The review was not always complete. Often there were gaps, and, morefrequently, he found himself completely at a loss to account for hisreturn to his room on the _cinquieme_ of 70, Rue St. Benoit, and theindisputable fact that he was in bed, with his clothes reposing, withsomething not unrelated to order, on the solitary chair.
Now, as he surveyed it, he assured himself for the thousandth time thatit was not a cheerful room. Abundant sunlight, the recompense of Naturefor six flights of stairs, was its sole redeeming virtue. For the rest,everything belonging to Monsieur Vicot was applied to some use entirelyforeign to the original purpose for which it had been designed. Anink-stand served him as a candlestick, his chair was at once table andclothes-rack, a ramshackle sofa played the _role_ of bed, and a frouzyplush table-cover was his rug. An astonishing accumulation ofcigarette-ends and empty bottles suggested slovenliness in the occupant.On the contrary, they stood for his economical instincts. It is notevery one who knows that twenty cigarette-ends make a pipe-ful oftobacco, and that as many empty brandy-flasks may be exchanged for afull half-pint, but the knowledge, if rare, is useful.
"It is a pig-pen," said Monsieur Jules Vicot to himself, "and veryappropriate at that!"
Then he set to work upon his matutinal review of the preceding night.His recollections were more than usually hazy. After a wretched dinnerat _La Petite Chaise_, rendered yet more unpalatable by the proprietor'sunpleasant references to certain previous repasts, as yet unpaid, came adistinct hour or so of leaning on the parapet of the Quai d'Orleans, indreamy contemplation of a man clipping a black poodle on thecobblestones below; then another period, of gradually lesseningclearness, in a little wine-shop on the Rue de Beaune; then--nothing.
"Well, I was drunk," reflected Monsieur Vicot; but again manifested hisdissimilarity from the majority of men by not committing himself inrespect to his intentions for the future.
He arose with an air of languor, yawned, looked dubiously at onetrembling hand, shook his head, and then surveyed himself in atriangular bit of looking-glass tacked against the wall.
Candour is oftentimes a depressing thing--particularly in a mirror.Monsieur Vicot's glass showed him a clean-shaven face almost devoid ofcolour; eyes, the blackness of which seemed to have soaked out, likewater-colour through blotting-paper, into gray-blue circles on the lowerlids; hair almost white; a thin nose with widely dilated nostrils; atremulous mouth; and a weak, receding chin. It was a face which mighthave been handsome before becoming a document with the signatures of theseven cardinal vices written large upon it. Now it was evidence whicheven Monsieur Vicot could not ignore. He leered defiantly at it, mixedhimself a stiff drink of cheap brandy and water, and forthwith appliedhimself to his toilet.
Seeing the result which he presently achieved, one perceived him to be aman of a certain ability under crushing limitations. With a broken comb,a well-worn brush, which he applied, with admirable impartiality, toboth his hair and his coat, a morsel of soap, and some cold water,Monsieur Vicot accomplished what was little short of a miracle; andwhen, a half-hour later, he emerged upon the Rue St. Benoit and turnedtoward the boulevard, his appearance was akin to respectability. Luckand his face were against him, but incidental obstacles he contrived toovercome.
He took a _mazagran_ and a roll at the Deux Magots, fortified himselfwith a package of _vertes_, and swung aboard a passing tram. At oneo'clock he was sauntering down the Rue de Villejust, with his hands inhis pockets. Suddenly he stopped, looked intently for an instant at acertain window on a level with his eye, and then went on at a briskergait. He had abruptly become cheerful, and that for no apparent reason.There is, commonly, nothing particularly enlivening in the aspect of ablue jar in an apartment window; yet that, and nothing else, was whathad arrested the attention of Monsieur Jules Vicot, and brought the tunehe was whistling to his lips.
Mr. Thomas Radwalader occupied a _rez de chaussee_ on the Rue deVillejust, which differed from the ordinary run of Paris apartments inthat its doorway gave directly on the street, independent of the _logede concierge_, and, what was more important, of the _concierges_themselves. Yet the latter held that Radwalader was a gentleman ofbecomingly regular habits. He kept one servant, a _bonne_ on theobjectively safe side of fifty, who cooked and marketed for him;maintained, throughout his quarters, a neatness which would have put theproverbial pin to shame; and, in general, ministered to his materialwell-being more competently than the average man-servant. That she wasnot likely to wear his clothes, use his razors, or pilfer his tobaccowas half a bachelor's domestic problem solved at the very outset. On thedebit side of the account, she pottered eternally, and was an ardentadvocate of protracted conversation; but these tendencies Radwalader hadmanaged, in the course of their five years of association, to temper toa considerable degree; so that now she was as near to perfection in herparticular sphere as a mere mortal is apt to be. Her name was EugenieDufour, and in her opinion the entire system of mundane and materialthings revolved about the person of Thomas Radwalader.
In view of his avowed love of luxury, the latter's quarters weredistinguished by severe, almost military, simplicity. Without exception,the rooms were carpeted, but there were no draperies either at doors orwindows. The _salon_, of which the solitary window opened on the street,was Louis Seize in style, with straight-backed chairs, upholstered indark-red brocade, a grand piano which had belonged to Radwalader'smother, and a large print of the period, simply framed, in the exactcentre of each wall-panel. There were no ornaments, save a white Sevresbust of Marie Antoinette on the mantel, two reading-lamps, and a fewodds and ends of silver, ivory, and enamel, which had the guilty air ofunavoidable gifts, rather than the easy assurance of chosen _bibelots_.Some books in old bindings, a stand of music, and a tea-table with itsservice--and that was all.
Separated from this _salon_ by double doors was what had formerly been abedroom, but which now, for want of a better name, Radwalader called _LaBoite_. This was his _sanctum sanctorum_, wherein one might reasonablyhave looked to find the confusion dear
to the happy estate ofbachelorhood. But here again was evident, though in a lesser degree, theausterity which characterized the _salon_. One naturally expected alitter of periodicals, pipes, and papers; but, on the contrary, thelarge table was almost clear, and the interior of the writing-desk,which stood open by the window, revealed only symmetrical piles ofnote-paper, envelopes, and blotters, and writing paraphernalia of theordinary office variety. In the chimney-place was a brazier on a lowtripod, and from this, each morning, the worthy Eugenie removed aquantity of ashes--ashes which had entered the room in the form ofRadwalader's correspondence of the previous day. In one corner stood asmall safe, and on top of this were boxes of cigars, and cigarettes ofeight or ten varieties, but all arranged as methodically as the contentsof the desk. The remaining wall-space was occupied by book-shelves, inwhich no single volume was an inch out of line.
The opinion of Radwalader's _concierges_ as to the regularity of hishabits was seemingly based on fact. Eugenie lived with her brother inthe Chaussee d'Antin, and went to and fro every day, regardless ofweather, on top of the Rue Taitbout-La Muette tram. With characteristicregularity and promptitude, she had never once failed, during the fiveyears of her service, to awaken her _patron_ at eight o'clock.Radwalader invariably replied with a cheerful "_Bien!_" and five minuteslater was splashing in his bath. His coffee was served at nine, hismornings, in general, spent in _La Boite_. He took _dejeuner_ at one,and then went out, returning only to dress for dinner, which he rarelyhad at home. Midnight found him again in _La Boite_, bending over a bookor some papers at his desk. Then only it was that the door of his safestood open. In all this there was, assuredly, no evidence of aught buttastes so quiet as to savour of asceticism. But then Radwalader was aman who believed in a place for everything and everything in its place.
His visitors were few, save only on Thursday afternoons, when he wasknown to be at home. Then a dozen or so of men lounged in his _salon_,which was reinforced for the occasion by chairs from the other rooms,and several little tables for whiskey and tobacco. Eugenie did notappear. They were served, when there was need of service, by amiddle-aged man-servant with a furtive eye and a hand that tremblednervously when handling glasses and decanters; for which reason thoseof Radwalader's guests to whom the situation was most familiar preferredto help themselves. They reproached him, when more important topics wereexhausted, with the apparent decrepitude of this retainer, whose namewas Jules. But their host made it plain that he had good and sufficientreasons for employing him. He had grown up in his mother's family inPhiladelphia, said Radwalader, first as page and then as butler. Whenthe Radwalader millions went by the board, Jules had remained with thefamily through sheer loyalty, accepting but half the wages he hadformerly earned. Once he had even saved Radwalader's life in the surf atAtlantic City. Later he had taken to drink, gone rapidly to pieces, and,at last, had been discharged as a hopeless case. They had given him areference, for charity's sake, on the strength of which he had found aplace as travelling valet; but once in Paris, his old weakness hadreturned, and so he had lost his position, and never chanced uponanother. Then Radwalader had found him stranded, begging on theboulevards, and, for the sake of the old days, had given him clothes andmoney, and found him occasional employment, such as this Thursdayservice, by means of which he contrived to eke out a living, such as itwas. At other times, when he was not drunk, he drove a cab for theCompagnie Urbaine. (This last, the most incongruous feature ofRadwalader's explanation, was, curiously enough, the only one which hadthe slightest foundation in fact!)
"My best quality is gratitude," Radwalader concluded. "He saved my life;so I give him such of my clothes as become unfit for publication, andpay him five francs every Thursday for not being of the leastassistance. I'm afraid you'll have to put up with him. It's a case of'love me, love my dog.'"
And this, under its thin veneer of cynicism, was taken as an indicationof a very admirable instinct on Radwalader's part, for which men admiredhim. They continued to make fun of Jules, but, after this defence ofhim, they nodded to him on entering, and spoke to him by name.
Andrew Vane joined the gathering in Radwalader's rooms on the Thursdayfollowing their Sunday at Auteuil. It was observable that, withoutexception, the guests were men who had done, or were going to do,something out of the ordinary. No one of them seemed to be in thepresent tense of achievement. They talked slowly, choosing their wordswith noticeable care, with an eye to their effect, and switching everand anon in a new direction, as irresponsibly as a fly in mid-air. ToAndrew the atmosphere was not only that of another city, but of anotherworld. From art to literature, from literature to music, from music tothe stage, the talk drifted, punctuated with names of men and thingswhereof he did not remember ever to have heard. Save for their air ofhaving but just stepped out of a barber's chair, they were men of ageneral type familiar to him--well dressed, evenly poised. The scenemight have been Boston or New York, save for one thing: in all that wassaid, there was never the most remote hint of actual interest. Theopinions were like those of more than usually brilliant schoolboys,putting into their own phraseology certain fundamental axioms. Thespeakers, with the sole exception of Radwalader, gave the impression ofbeing unutterably tired, and of playing with words with the uniqueintent of passing the time. Your American has but little leisure forgrammar, and less for eloquence, but in what he says there is alwayspresent the vivifying spark of vital and intimate concern. His theoriesare jewels in the rough, but one is conscious of the ceaselessclink-clink of the tool which is busily transforming them into fame andfortune. The men in Radwalader's _salon_ were toying with gems longsince cut and polished, whose sole virtue lay in the new light caught bytheir facets, as the result of some unexpected turn. Radwalader himselfwent farther. He combined the confidence of the American in his futurewith that of the Frenchman in his past. Andrew had thought him cynical,but he gained by contrast with his companions. The others seemed merelyto be giving thought to what they said, but he to be saying what hethought.
"I'm almost remorseful at having asked you to join us this afternoon,"he began, when the introductions were over. "Whenever I see a man in astrange crowd, it reminds me of society's phrase at parting--'I'veenjoyed _myself_ immensely!' It has the distinction of being the onlypolite remark which has any claim upon veracity. Usually, one hasn'tenjoyed anything else! Of course, for the moment, you feel like abrook-trout in salt water. But it's a crowd that I think you'll like,when the grossly overestimated element of novelty wears off. Let me tellyou, in a word, who they are, and what they stand for. That's De Boussacat the piano. He knows four major and two minor chords in every key ofthe gamut, and contrives to fashion, out of the six, an accompanimentfor anything you may ask of him. Beside him, leaning over the music, isLister. He's a would-be playwright, with a mother who has gained thenickname of the 'Jail-breaker,' because she never finishes a sentence.You'll meet her some day and be amused. To the left is Rafferty--who'spopular because, just now, brogue happens to rhyme with vogue. Then,Clavercil. He thinks he's not understood, without realizing that hissole ground for dissatisfaction lies in the fact that he is. He's afool, pure and simple, who inherited a fortune from his uncle--a bullyold chap who never made a mistake in his life, and only the one I havementioned, in his death. Next, Wisby--who paints things as they are not,and will be famous when the public gets educated down to him. The manhelping himself to whiskey is Berrith. He wrote 'The Foibles of Fate' inthe early '90's, and has been living ever since on the dregs of itssuccess--a 'one-book author' with a vengeance. That's Ford, by thewindow, with the red hair. He's a crank on aerial navigation, and sayshis air-ship will be the solution of the problem. I've alreadychristened it 'Eve,' with an eye to its share in another fall of man."
Radwalader lowered his voice.
"On your right is Barclay-Jones. Barclay was his mother's name, and whenhe came abroad he hyphenated it with his father's. The combinationalways reminds me of a rather stylish tug-boat with its towline attachedto a scow on a mud-flat. The man
listening to him is Gerald Kennedy, thesinger. He hasn't advanced beyond the Tommy Tucker stage yet, but he's agood sort, an Englishman, a friend of Mrs. Carnby and of the Ratchetts.On my left are Norrich, Peake, and Pfeffer, in the order named. Pfefferis the only married man in the crowd. He married in haste, and hisleisure is employed to the full. He gets his pin-money from his wife,and a prick of the pin goes with every franc. Norrich is on the staff ofthe Paris _Herald_. Peake, like Clavercil, is simply the disbursingagent of an inherited fortune."
Radwalader paused, lighted a cigarette, and smiled at Andrew frankly.
"_Finis!_" he said. "Do you think me very uncharitable? I hope not. Itseems so much better to get men's bad qualities out of the way and donewith at the start, and then to find out their good points, one by one,in a succession of pleasant surprises. It's a crowd you'll like, whenonce you get the point of view. You've been used to poise, and at firstyou won't like pose. But, after all, the difference lies only in theeye--a pun's only permissible when it tells the truth. We all pose overhere. You will, yourself, if you stay long enough. It's as contagious assmallpox. And, by the way, I was talking with Peake about you onlyyesterday. He's going to the States next week, and wants to find someone to occupy his apartment while he's away. If you're not thinking ofremaining at the Ritz, you couldn't do better than to take it. It's acharming little place, on the Rue Boissiere, near the Place d'Iena,perfectly furnished, and with a balcony and bath. Of course, the rent'sno object to him. All he wants is some one to keep it aired and clean."
"It can't do any harm to ask him about it," said Andrew. "To tell youthe truth, I've rather been thinking of doing something of the kind."
"No sooner said than done," agreed Radwalader, and, leaning forwardacross Norrich, he added: "I say, Peake, move up here, will you?
"I've been telling Vane about your apartment," he continued, as Peakedrew close to them, dragging his chair by the arms, "and he seems tothink he might like to have a look at it. He's over here for quite atime, you know, and he certainly couldn't be as comfortable anywhereelse."
"I hope you'll take the place, Mr. Vane," said Peake. "I've alwaysmaintained that a man of my tastes had no business in the States; but itseems I have, after all. I think I told you, Radwalader--my late,lamented Aunt Esther, you know. She threatened to leave me nothin' buther good will, and now she's popped off, saddlin' me with everythin' shehad in the world."
"That's what she meant by her good will, probably," observed Radwalader.
"P'r'aps," said Peake, with a little nod. "But the c'lamity's just asgreat. She was a good-hearted creature, but she belonged to theblack-walnut and marble-group period. Her sideboard weighed a ton, andshe had wax flowers in her 'parlour.' And I'm to sell _nothin'_, my goodman! It's all to go to my wife! Why, the very thought's enough to keepany woman from marryin' me. Oh, my dear Radwalader, I mourn my find, Ido indeed."
"But about the apartment?" suggested Radwalader.
"Oh! Well, all I can say, Mr. Vane, is that I'm sure you'll becomfortable. It's a modest box, at best; but it suits me, and willprobably suit you. 'Man wants but little here below'--a bath, sunlight,a good bed, and cleanliness--that's all. You'll find 'em at my place.Radwalader'll get you a _valet de chambre_, no doubt. I'd throw mine in,if I hadn't already thrown him out. The wife of my _concierge_ is doin'for me till I go. I can't say more. Two hundred francs a month. I'll beback by the first of August--I can't miss Trouville, you know,Radwalader--and the chances are I'll have to evict you, Mr. Vane. I know_I_ wouldn't leave that apartment except at the business end of apitch-fork!"
"It sounds like the very thing I want," said Andrew, with a smile at theother's eloquence.
"And there's actually some prospect of your getting it," drawledRadwalader. "What an exceptional animal you are, Vane!"
"Come 'round to-morrow mornin' to breakfast, both of you," said Peake."Then you can have a look over the place, Mr. Vane, and judge foryourself. If you like it, we'll clinch a bargain on the spot."
"Very well," agreed Andrew. "Shall I stop for you, Mr. Radwalader?"
"By all means. About twelve."
"Then _that's_ settled!" observed Peake, with an air of profoundsatisfaction. "I positively must have a whiskey, Radwalader. I'm quiteexhausted. I haven't talked so much business in a year."
For an hour the conversation was general, and presently thereafterRadwalader was alone. For a time he stood by the _salon_ table, idlyfingering a paper-cutter and scowling. Then he stepped noiselessly tothe door, listened briefly but intently, and abruptly flung it open andlooked out into the _antichambre_.
"Not this time!" observed Jules laconically, from the dining-roombeyond, where he was languidly polishing wine-glasses.
"I'm glad to see you profit by experience," retorted Radwalader. "Comehere."
The faithful servitor came slowly across the hallway, glanced about theempty _salon_, helped himself liberally from the whiskey decanter,swallowed the raw spirit at a gulp, and flung himself heavily into achair.
"Fire away!" he remarked. "I hope it's something worth while. I don'tmind saying I'm hard up."
The Transgression of Andrew Vane: A Novel Page 7