The Stoic tod-3

by Theodore Dreiser

  Nonetheless, she was finding Tollifer a most diverting person. On the evening of her arrival he called at the Ritz, where she had installed herself with her maid, half-wondering why she had come. It was true that she had intended to go to Paris, but she had treasured the idea that Cowperwood would go with her. However, his affairs in London, shouted about by the press and glibly enough presented to her by himself, convinced her that his time was very much occupied. In fact, having encountered Sippens in the lobby of the Cecil one morning, he had regaled her with a brisk and colorful account of the tangle of affairs with which Cowperwood was now burdened.

  “He’ll turn this town upside down, Mrs. Cowperwood,” Sippens had said, “if his interest holds out. I just hope he doesn’t work too hard”—which was really not at all what he hoped. “He’s not as young as he used to be, although he seems shrewder and quicker than ever.”

  “I know, I know,” Aileen had replied at the time. “There isn’t anything about Frank that you can tell me. He’ll keep on working until he dies, I suppose.”

  And she had left Sippens, feeling that this was true, yet suspecting that there must be a woman somewhere . . . possibly Berenice Fleming. However, she was Mrs. Frank Cowperwood. She had the consolation of knowing that wherever her name was mentioned, people would turn and look: in the shops, hotels, restaurants. And then there was this Bruce Tollifer. Here he was, on her arrival, as handsome as ever, and saying as he entered her hotel suite:

  “Well, you did take my advice! And now that you’re here, I’m going to make myself responsible for you. If you’re in the mood, you must dress immediately for dinner. I’ve arranged a little party for you. Some friends of mine from home are here. I don’t know whether you know the Sidney Brainerds, of New York?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Aileen, her brain a whirl of emotion. She knew by hearsay that the Brainerds were wealthy and socially significant. Mrs. Brainerd, as she remembered, had been Marigold Shoemaker, of Philadelphia.

  “Mrs. Brainerd is here in Paris,” continued Tollifer. “She and several of her friends are coming on to dinner with us at Maxim’s, and afterward we’re going to an Argentinian’s place. He’ll amuse you, I know. Do you think you can be ready in an hour?” He turned toward the door with the air of one who was anticipating a very gay evening.

  “Oh, I think so,” said Aileen, laughing. “But you’ll have to leave now if I’m to start.”

  “That fits in perfectly for me. Wear white, if you have it, and dark red roses. You’ll look stunning!”

  Aileen flushed a little at this familiarity. A high-handed caballero, to say the least!

  “I’ll wear just that,” she said, giving him a vivid smile, “if I can find the dress.”

  “Great! I’ll be back for you in an hour. Until then . . .” and he bowed and left.

  As she dressed, she found herself more than ever at a loss to understand this sudden, assured invasion of Tollifer’s. It was obvious he was not without money. Yet, with these superior connections of his, why should he bother with her? Why should this Mrs. Brainerd join a dinner party of which she was not to be the principal guest? Pursued as she was by contradictory thoughts, this easy friendship of Tollifer, pretense though it might be, was still fascinating. If he were an adventurer, coldly seeking money, like so many, most certainly he was a clever one. And with diversions at his beck and call, such as all those who had approached her in the past few years had lacked. Their methods had all too often been dull, their manners irritating.

  “Ready?” exclaimed Tollifer breezily as he came in an hour or so later, eyeing her white dress and the red roses at her waist. “We’ll be just in time if we go now. Mrs. Brainerd is bringing a young Greek banker, and her friend, Mrs. Judith Thorne, no acquaintance of mine, is bringing an Arab sheik, Ibrihim Abbas Bey, who is up to God knows what here in Paris! But, anyway, he speaks English, and so does the Greek.”

  Tollifer was a little flushed and, if anything, even more assured. He paced the room with an easy stride, drunkenly elevated by the knowledge that he was once more in good form. To Aileen’s amusement he railed against the furnishings of her suite.

  “Look at those hangings! God, what they get away with! As I came up in the elevator just now, it squeaked. Imagine that in New York! And it’s just such people as you who let them do it!”

  Aileen was flattered. “Is it so bad?” she asked. “I haven’t even thought about it. After all, where else can we go here?”

  He poked his finger at the tasseled silk shade of a floor lamp. “This has a wine stain on it. And somebody’s been burning this fake tapestry with cigarettes. I don’t blame them!”

  Aileen laughed at him, amused by his swaggering maleness. “Oh, come on,” she said, “we could be in worse places than this. Besides, you’re keeping your guests waiting.”

  “That’s right. I wonder if that sheik knows anything about American whiskey. Let’s go find out!”

  Maxim’s of 1900. Glossily waxed black floors, reflecting Pompeian red walls, a gilded ceiling, and the lights of three enormous prismed electroliers. Except for front and rear exits, the walls lined with russet-red leather seats, and before them small and intimate supper tables: a Gallic atmosphere calculated to effect that mental as well as emotional release which the world of that day sought in one place, and one place only—Paris! Merely to enter was to lapse into a happy delirium. Types and costumes and varying temperaments of all the nations of the world. And all at the topmost toss of wealth, title, position, fame, and all tethered by the steel cords of convention in conduct and dress, yet all seeking freedom from convention, drawn to convention’s showplace of unconventionally.

  Aileen was gloriously thrilled to see and be seen here. As Tollifer rather anticipated, his friends were late.

  “The sheik,” he explained, “sometimes goes astray.”

  But a few minutes later came Mrs. Brainerd and her Greek, and Mrs. Thorne with her Arab cavalier. The sheik in particular caused a slight stir and buzz. At once, in his grandest manner, Tollifer took over the business of ordering, delighting in the half-dozen waiters who hovered like flies about the table. The sheik, he was delighted to discover, was instantly attracted to Aileen. Her rounded form, her bright hair and high coloring suggested more delight to him than the slim and less flamboyant charms of either Mrs. Brainerd or Mrs. Thorne. At once he devoted himself to her, bombarding her with polite inquiries. From where did she come? Was her husband, like all these Americans, a millionaire? Might he have one of her roses? He liked their dark color. Had she ever been to Arabia? She would enjoy the life of a roving Bedouin tribe. It was very beautiful in Arabia.

  Aileen, fixed by his blazing black eyes above his smartly clipped beard, his long hooked nose and swarthy complexion, was at once thrilled and dubious. What would intimate contact with this man be like? Suppose one went to Arabia—what would become of one in the clutches of such a creature? Although she smiled and gave all the required information, she was pleased to feel that Tollifer and his friends were near at hand, even though their amused attention was not exactly to her liking.

  Ibrihim, learning that she was to be in Paris for a few days, asked to be allowed to see more of her. He had entered a horse for the Grand Prix. She must go with him to see the horse. Later, they would dine together. She was at the Ritz? Ah . . . he was occupying an apartment in the Rue Said, near the Bois.

  During this scene, Tollifer, in high spirits, was doing his best to ingratiate himself with Marigold, who twitted him as to this latest affair of his, the nature of which she quite well understood.

  “Tell me, Bruce,” she teased, at one point, “what are you going to do with all the rest of us, now that you are so amply provided for?”

  “If you mean yourself, you can tell me that. I haven’t so many bothering me.”

  “No? Is the poor darling as lonely as that?”

  “Just as lonely as that, and more so, if you only knew,” he said soberly. “But what about your husband? Isn’t he l
ikely to resent interference?”

  “Nothing to worry about there!” she said, smilingly and encouragingly. “I just ran into him before I met you. Besides, how many years has it been since I last saw you?”

  “Oh, quite a few. But whose fault is that? And what about your yacht?”

  “Only my regular skipper, I swear! How would you like to take a cruise?”

  Tollifer was nonplussed. Here was one of those opportunities of which he had been dreaming. And obviously now he could not take advantage of it. He must go on with what he had agreed to do, or there would be an end to all this.

  “Well,” he said, laughingly, “you’re not sailing tomorrow?”

  “Oh, no!”

  “If you’re serious, be careful!”

  “Never more serious in my life,” she replied.

  “That remains to be seen. Anyway, will you have luncheon with me one day this week? We’ll walk in the Tuileries afterward.”

  A little later he paid the bill and they left.

  Sabinal’s. Midnight. The customary swarm of people. Gambling. Dancing. Intimate groups in brisk or lazy conversation. Sabinal himself coming forward to greet Tollifer and his party, and suggesting they adjourn to his apartment until one o’clock, when a popular troupe of Russian singers and dancers would perform.

  Sabinal was the possessor of notable jewels, medieval Italian glass and silver, Asiatic fabrics of rare texture and color, but even more impressive than his collection—which he exhibited in the most casual manner—was his own elusive and Mephistophelean self, a shadowy and yet intriguing force which affected all as might an opiate. He knew so many people, and such interesting places. In the fall, he was planning a trip, he said; closing up his place for a while. He was off to the Orient to collect fine objects which later he would sell to private collectors. Indeed, his income from this sort of quest was considerable.

  Aileen, as well as the others, was enchanted. She was delighted with the place. All the more so because Tollifer was careful not to explain to any of them the commercial basis on which it was conducted. He intended sending his personal check to Sabinal, but preferred them to take away the impression that Sabinal was a friend of his.

  Chapter 35

  The importance of Tollifer’s job was impressed on him by the receipt, on the third day after Aileen’s arrival, of an additional $2,000 in cash from the Paris fiscal agent of the Central Trust of New York, which, before his leaving, had notified him to keep their London and Paris offices advised of his address.

  There was no doubt of Aileen’s compliant mood in regard to him. Telephoning her some five hours after their visit to Sabinal’s, and suggesting they have lunch together, he could tell from the tone of her voice that she was glad to hear from him again. It was the feeling of companionship with someone who seemed to take a personal interest in her that made her happy. In some respects, he was so like the Cowperwood of old, energetic, cordial, and not a little managerial.

  He left the telephone whistling. His attitude toward her was more kindly than it had been when he first considered the task. For in studying her so far, he was fully able to grasp what the favor and affection of Cowperwood must have meant to her, and what its complete loss must spell to her now. Often moody himself, and for not dissimilar reasons, he could sympathize with her.

  The night before, at Sabinal’s when Marigold and Mrs. Thorne had at times so casually and indifferently excluded her from their conversation, he had noticed a neglected and helpless look on her face. It had moved him to take her away from the group for a few minutes’ play at the roulette wheel. Unquestionably, she was going to prove a difficult protégée. But that was his job, and on the success of it rested his future.

  But, my God, he said to himself: she ought to take off at least twenty pounds! And she needs the right clothes, and a few attractive mannerisms. She’s too tame. She needs to be made to respect herself, and then these other people will respect her. If I can’t do that for her, she’ll do me more harm than good, money or no money!

  Always the industrious struggler for what he wanted, he decided upon immediate and intensive action. Conscious that inspiration for Aileen depended upon his own smart appearance, he took the utmost pains to look his best. He smiled as he contrasted himself with the figure he had cut in New York six months before. Rosalie Harrigan, that wretched room, his disappointing efforts to get a job!

  His apartment in the Bois was but a few moments’ walk from the Ritz, and he stepped forth this morning with the air of a Parisian favorite. He thought of the various dressmakers, hairdressers, milliners, he would enlist in the making-over of Aileen. Around the corner was Claudel Richard. He would take her to Richard, and persuade him to impress upon her that if she would take off twenty pounds he would design costumes for her that would arrest attention and that she should be among the first to wear. Then there was Kraussmeier, in the Boulevard Haussmann. His footwear was rumored to excel that of all bootmakers. Tollifer had satisfied himself as to that. In the Rue de la Paix, what ornaments, perfumes, jewels! In the Rue Dupont, what salon de beauté with Sarah Schimmel’s as the favored establishment in this particular field. Aileen should learn of her.

  At Natasha Lubovsky’s balcony restaurant overlooking the park across from Notre Dame, lingering over iced coffee and eggs Sudanoff, he lectured Aileen on current modes and tastes. Had she heard that Teresa Bianca, the Spanish dancing sensation, was wearing Kraussmeier slippers? And Francesca, the youngest daughter of the Duke of Toller, was one of his patronesses. And had she heard of the marvels of beautifying accomplished by Sarah Schimmel? He recited a dozen instances.

  Followed a visit to Richard’s, then to Kraussmeier’s, and certain Luti, newly favored vendor of perfumes, and the afternoon ended with tea at Germay’s. And at nine in the evening, at the Café de Paris, there was a dinner, at which appeared Rhoda Thayer, of American light-opera fame, and her summer companion, the Brazilian Mello Barrios, under-secretary of the Brazilian Embassy. Also a guest was a certain Maria Rezstadt, of Czech and Hungarian extraction. On one of his earlier visits to Paris, Tollifer had met her as the wife of one of the Austria’s secret military representatives in France. Lunching in Marguery’s one day recently, he had met her again, in company with Santos Castro, a baritone of the French opera, who was singing opposite the new American opera star, Mary Garden. He learned her husband had died, and noted she seemed a little bored with Castro. If Tollifer were free, she would be glad to see him again. And since her mood as well as her natural intelligence and suave maturity seemed better suited to Aileen than some of the younger women he knew, Tollifer had immediately planned to introduce her to Aileen.

  And, on presentation, Aileen was strongly impressed by her. She was a woman of arresting appearance: tall, with smooth black hair and strange gray eyes, and this evening dressed in what appeared to be a single length of ruby velvet, draped seductively around her. In sharp contrast to Aileen, she wore no jewels, and her hair was drawn back smoothly from her face. Her attitude toward Castro suggested that he meant little to her, except maybe the publicity which contact with him might bring her. Turning to Aileen and Tollifer, she proceeded to relate that only recently she and Castro had made a tour of the Balkans, an admission—and coming so soon after Tollifer’s explanation to Aileen that the two were merely good friends—which somewhat startled Aileen, since always, and regardless of her personal and private transgressions, she was a little overawed by convention. Yet this woman •was so suave and assured as practically to laugh at the demands of organized society. Aileen was fascinated.

  “You see, in the East,” said Madame Rezstadt, commenting on her trip, “the women are slaves. Truly, only the gypsies appear to be free, and they, of course, have no position. The wives of most of the officials and men of title are really slaves, living in fear of their husbands.”

  Aileen smiled wanly at this. “That is probably not true of the East alone,” she said.

  Madame Rezstadt smiled wisely. “No,�
� she said, “not exactly. We have slaves here, too. In Ahmayreecah, too, yaays?” She showed her even white teeth.

  Aileen laughed, thinking of her emotional enslavement to Cowperwood. How was it that a woman like this could be so wholly emancipated, caring apparently for no man, at least not deeply or torturingly, whereas she . . . At once she wished that she might know her better, perhaps by contact gather some of her emotional calm and social indifference.

  Curiously enough, Madame Rezstadt appeared to show more than a casual interest in her. She asked Aileen about her life in America. How long was she to be in Paris? Where was she staying? She suggested they have lunch together on the following day, to which Aileen agreed with alacrity.

  At the same time, her head was swimming with all of the practical business of the afternoon, and Tollifer’s part in it. For most certainly, and by the pleasant indirection of shopping, there had been conveyed to her a sense of her personal lacks, which, at the same time, she had been convinced could be remedied. There was to be a doctor, a masseuse, a diet, and a new method of facial massage. She was to be changed, and by Tollifer. But for what purpose? And to what end? Plainly, he was not attempting familiarities. There was only this platonic relationship. She was puzzled. Yet what difference? Cowperwood was not interested, and she must find some way to go on with her life.

  Back in her hotel suite, Aileen felt a sudden and poignant longing for one person, in all the world, to whom she could confide her troubles, one person with whom she could relax and be natural. She would like a friend whose criticism she need not fear, whose confidence she could trust. There was something about Maria Rezstadt, as she had pressed Aileen’s hand in parting, that made her feel that in her she might find these things or a semblance of them.