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Chapter III
Madame
"En paroles ou en actions, etre discret, c'est s'abstenir."
It is to be presumed that the reader knows the usual result of such atussle with the conscience as that upon which I now entered. Atvarious turning points in a chequered career I have met my consciencethus face to face, and am honest enough to confess that the victoryhas not always fallen to that ghostly monitor.
After favouring me with his ultimatum, the Vicomte looked at meexpectantly. I thought of Mademoiselle de Clericy's presence in thatold house. Who was I to turn my back on the good things that the godsgave me? I hate your timid man who looks behind him on an unknownroad.
"As Monsieur wills," I said, and with a sigh, almost of relief Ithought, my companion rose.
"We will seek the Vicomtesse," he said. "My wife will have pleasure inmaking your acquaintance. And to-morrow you shall have my answer."
"Ah!" thought I; "the Vicomtesse decides it."
And I followed Monsieur de Clericy towards the door.
"It is half-past eleven," he said, looking at his modest silver watch."We shall find Madame in her boudoir."
This apartment, it appeared, was situated beyond the drawing-room, ofwhich we now passed the door. Below us was the great square hall, darkand gloomy; for its windows had been heavily barred in the oldstirring times, and but little light filtered through the ironwork. Atthe head of the stairs was a gallery completely surrounding thequadrangle, and from this gallery access was gained to all thedwelling rooms.
The Vicomte tapped at the door of Madame's room, and without waitingfor an answer passed in. I, having purposely lingered, did not hearthe few words spoken upon the threshold, and only advanced when biddento do so by my companion.
"MONSIEUR HOWARD NATURALLY WISHED TO BE PRESENTED TO YOU."]
An elderly lady stood by the window, having just risen from the broadseat thereof, which was littered with the trifles of a lady'swork-basket. The Vicomtesse was obviously many years younger than herhusband--a trim woman of fifty or thereabouts, with crinkled grey hairand the clear brown complexion of the Provencale. Beneath the greyhair there looked out at me the cleverest eyes I have ever seen in ahuman head. I bowed, made suddenly aware that I stood in thepresence of an individuality, near an oasis--as it were--in the drearydesert of human commonplace. And strange to say, at the same moment myconscience laid itself down to sleep. Madame la Vicomtesse de Clericywas a woman capable of guarding those near and dear to her.
"Monsieur Howard," explained her husband, looking at me, with hiswhite fingers nervously intertwined, "is desirous of filling the postleft vacant by the departure of our friend Charles Miste. We have hada little talk on affairs. It is possible that we may come to amutually satisfactory arrangement. Monsieur Howard naturally wished tobe presented to you."
Madame bowed, her clear dark eyes resting almost musingly on my face.She waited for me to speak, whereas nine women out of ten would havebroken silence.
"I have explained to Monsieur le Vicomte," I hastened to say, "that Ihave none of the requisite qualifications for the post, and that myfemale relatives--my aunts, in fact--looked upon me as a _mauvaissujet_."
She smiled, and her eyes sought the lace-work held in her busyfingers. Mademoiselle de Clericy had, I remembered, worn a piece ofsuch dainty needlework at her throat on the previous morning. Ilearnt to look for that piece of ever-growing lace-work in later days.Madame was never without it, and worked quaint patterns, learnt in aconvent on the pine-clad slopes of Var.
"Monsieur Howard," went on the Vicomte, "is a gentleman of position inhis own country on the east coast of England. He has, however, had adifference--a difference with his father."
The eyes were raised to my face for a brief moment.
"In the matter of a marriage of convenience," I added, giving theplain truth on the impulse of the moment, or under the influence,perhaps, of Madame de Clericy's glance. Then I recollected that thiswas a different story from that tale of a monetary difficulty which Ihad related to Madame's husband ten minutes earlier. I glanced at himto see whether he had noticed the discrepancy, but was instantlyrelieved of my anxiety, so completely was the old man absorbed in anaffectionate and somewhat humble contemplation of his wife. It waseasy to see how matters stood in the Clericy household, and Iconceived a sudden feeling of relief that so delicate a flower asMademoiselle de Clericy should have so capable a guardian in theperson of her mother. Evil takes that shape in which it is first heldup to our vision. Incompetent and careless mothers are in factcriminals. Mademoiselle de Clericy had one near to her who could atall events clothe necessary knowledge in a reassuring garment.
"A marriage of convenience," repeated Madame, speaking for the firsttime. "It is so easy to be mistaken in such matters, is it not?"
"As easy for the one as for the other, Madame," replied I. "And it wasI, and not my father, who was most intimately concerned."
She looked at me with a little upward nod of the head and a slow, wisesmile. One never knows whence some women gather their knowledge of theworld.
"Monsieur knows Paris?" she asked.
"As an Englishman, Madame."
"Then you only know the worst," was her comment.
She did not ask me to be seated. It was, I suspected, the hour fordejeuner. For this household was evidently one to adhere toold-fashioned customs. There was something homelike about thispleasant lady. Her presence in a room gave to the atmosphere somethingrefined and womanly, which was new to one who, like myself, had livedmostly among men. Indeed, my companions of former days--no saints, Iadmit--would have been surprised could they have seen me bowing andmaking _conges_ to this elderly lady like a dancing master. Moreover,the post I sought was lapsing into a domestic situation, for which myantecedents eminently unfitted me, nor did I pretend to thinkotherwise. Had I reached the age of discretion? Is there indeed suchan age? I have seen old men and women who make one doubt it. Atthirty-one does a man begin to range himself? "Ah, well!" thought I,"_vogue la galere_." I had made a beginning, and in Norfolk they donot breed men who leave a quest half accomplished.
For a moment I waited, and Madame seemed to have nothing more to say.I had not at that time, nor indeed have I since, acquired that polishof the world which takes the form of a brilliant, and I suspectinsincere, manner in society. I had no compliments ready. I thereforetook my leave.
The Vicomte accompanied me to the top of the stairs, and there madesure that the servants were awaiting my departure in the hall.
"To-morrow morning," he said, with a friendly touch on my arm, "youshall have my answer."
With this news then I returned to my comfortable quarters in JohnTurner's _appartement_ in the Avenue d'Antan. I found that greatbanker about to partake of luncheon, which was served to him atmidday, after the fashion of the country of his adoption. During mywalk across the river and through the gardens of the Tuileries--atthat time at the height of their splendour--I had not reflected verydeeply on the matter in hand. I had thought more of Mademoiselle deClericy's bright eyes than aught else.
"Good morning," said my host, whom I had not seen before going out."Where have you been?"
"To the Vicomte de Clericy's."
"The devil you have! Then you are not so stolid as you look."
And he laughed as he shook out his table napkin. His thought was onlyhalf with me, for he was looking at the menu.
"Arcachon oysters!" he added; "the best in the world! I hate yourbloated natives. Give me a small oyster."
"Give me a dozen," I answered, helping myself from the dish at myelbow.
"And did the Vicomte kick you downstairs?" asked my host, as hecompounded in the dip of his plate a wonderful mixture of vinegar andspices.
"No. He is going to consider my application, and will give me hisanswer to-morrow morning."
John Turner set down the vinegar bottle and looked across the table atme with an expression of wonder on his broad face.
"Well, I never! Did
you see Madame? Clever woman, Madame. Givesexcellent dinners."
"Yes; I was presented to her."
"Ah! A match for you, Mr. Dick. Did you notice her feet?"
"I noticed that they were well shod."
"Just so!" muttered John Turner, who was now engaged in gastronomicdelights. "In France a clever woman is always _bien chaussee_. Herbrains run to her toes. In England it is different. If a woman has abrain it undermines her morals or ruins her waist."
"Only the plain women," suggested I, who had passed several seasons inLondon not altogether in vain.
"A pretty woman is never clever--she is too wise," said John Turner,stolidly, and he sipped his chablis.
The mysterious sauce with which this great gastronome flavoured hisoysters was now prepared, while I, it must be confessed, had consumedmy portion, and John Turner relapsed into silence. I watched him as heate delicately, slowly, with a queer refinement. Many are ready totalk of some crafts under the name of art, which must now, forsooth,be spelt with a capital letter--why, I know no more than the artists.John Turner had his Art, and now exercised it. I always noticed thatduring the earlier and more piquant courses of a meal he was cynicaland apt to give speech on matters of human meanness and vanity notunknown to many who are silent about them. Later on, when the dishesbecame more succulent, so would his views of life sweeten and acquirea mellower flavour. His round face now began to beam more pleasantlyat me across the well-served table, like a rich autumn moon risingover a fat land.
"Pity it is," he said, as he placed a lamb cutlet on my plate, "thatyou and your father cannot agree."
"Pity that the guv'nor is so unreasonable," I answered.
"I do not suppose there is any question of reason on either side,"rejoined my companion, with a laugh. "But I think you might make alittle more allowance. You must remember that we old fellows are notso wise and experienced as our youngers and betters. I know he is ahot-blooded old reprobate--that father of yours. I thumped him at Etonfor it half a century ago. And you're a worthy son to him, I make nodoubt--you have his great chin. But you are all he has, Dick--don'tforget that now and remember it too late. Have another cutlet?"
"Thanks."
"Gad! I'd give five hundred a year for your appetite and digestion.Think of that old man, my boy, down in Norfolk at this time of year,with nobody to swear at but the servants. Norfolk is just endurablein October, when game and 'longshore herrings are in. But now--withlamb getting muttony--poor old chap!"
"Well," I answered, "he could not eat me if I was at home. But I'll goback in the autumn. I generally make it up before the First."
"What a beautiful thing is filial love," murmured my companion, with astout sigh, as he turned his attention to the matter of importance onthe plate before him; and indeed--with its handicap of fifty years--Ithink his appetite put my hearty craving for food to shame.
We talked of other things for a while--of matters connected with thegay town in which we found ourselves. We discussed the merits of thewine before us, and it was not until later in the course of the repastthat John Turner again reverted to my affairs. If these portions ofour talk alone are reported, the reader must kindly remember that theyare at all events relevant to the subject, however unworthy, of thisnarrative.
"So," said my stout companion when the coffee was served, "you aretricking the father so that you may make love to the daughter?"
This view of the matter did not commend itself to my hearing. Indeed,the truth so often gives offence that it is no wonder so few deal init. A quick answer was on my tongue, but fortunately remained there.I--who had never been too difficult in such matters--did not likesomething in my friend's voice that savoured of disrespect towardsMademoiselle de Clericy. In a younger man I might have been tempted toallow such a hint to develop into something stronger which would offerme the satisfaction of throwing the speaker down the stairs. But JohnTurner was not a man to quarrel with, even when one was in the wrong.So I kept silence and burnt my lips at my coffee cup.
"Well," he went on placidly, "Mademoiselle Lucille is a pretty girl."
"Lucille," I said. "Is that her name?"
He cocked his eye at me across the table.
"Yes--a pretty name, eh?"
"It is," I answered him, with steady eyes. "I never heard aprettier."