The Stoic tod-3

by Theodore Dreiser

  “Now, please, Ibrihim,” she would say. “Don’t forget, I’m married, and in love with my husband. I like you, I really do. But you mustn’t be begging me to do what I don’t want to do, because I won’t, and if you keep on, I won’t see you at all.”

  “But, you see,” he insisted, in quite good English, “we have so mooch in common. You like to play, and so do I. We like to talk, ride, gamble, play ze races a little. But still, you are like me, sober, not so . . . so . . .”

  “Flighty?” interjected Aileen.

  “What you mean, ‘flighty’?” he inquired.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She felt as though she were talking to a child. “Fussy, jumpy.” She waved her hands to indicate instability, mental as well as emotional.

  “So? So? Ha, ha! Flighty! It is so! I understan’. You are not flighty! Gudd! So I like you, mooch. Ha, ha! Very mooch. And me? You like me—the Sheik Ibrihim?”

  Aileen laughed. “Yes, I do,” she said. “Of course, I think you drink too much. And I think you are anything but a good man—cruel and selfish and a lot of things. But I like you just the same, and . . .”

  “Tchk, tchk,” clucked the sheik. “That is not mooch for a man like me. If I do not love, I do not sleep.”

  “Oh, stop being silly!” exclaimed Aileen. “Do go over there and fix yourself a drink. And then go away and come back tonight and take me to dinner. I’d like to go to that Mr. Sabinal’s place again.”

  And so Aileen’s days were passing agreeably enough.

  Her former tendency toward melancholia was dispelled, and she began to feel that her state was not as hopeless as it had been. Cowperwood had written her that he would be coming to Paris, and in anticipation of his arrival she was prepared to surprise him with the most impressive of M. Richard’s creations. And Tollifer had suggested that they take him to Orsignat’s for dinner, an interesting little place recently discovered by him. It was charming, located right in the shadow of Notre Dame. Sabinal was to furnish Orsignat, for the occasion, with the wines, brandies, liqueurs, aperitifs, and cigars. And Orsignat, under the direction of Tollifer, was to furnish a repast of which no gourmet could complain. For this time it was Tollifer who was seeking to make an impression. Among the guests were to be Madame Rezstadt, the devoted sheik, and Marigold, who because of her interest in Tollifer was still in Paris and, by his orders, reconciled to Aileen.

  “You and your husband,” he said to Aileen, “are so familiar with all the well-known places. I think it would be more original if we got up something quite simple for a change.” And he explained his plan to her.

  To make sure of Cowperwood’s presence, Tollifer had her cable him a pressing invitation to the dinner which they had arranged in his honor. And Cowperwood, on receipt of this, smiled, and wired his acceptance. To his genuine surprise, on his arrival, he found Aileen more attractive physically than he had thought she could be at this time in her life, and particularly after all she had endured. Her hair was a study in swirls that emphasized the good points of her face. And her dress was designed to show the lines of her much reduced figure.

  “Aileen!” he exclaimed, on seeing her, “I’ve never seen you looking better! What in the world have you been doing? That dress is most effective. And I like your hair. What have you been living on, birdseed?”

  “Well, just about that,” returned Aileen, smiling. “I haven’t had a single meal that I would call a meal in thirty days. But you may be sure of one thing! Now that I’ve gotten it off, it’s going to stay off! But did you have an easy trip over?” As she talked she was supervising the services of Williams, who was arranging glasses and liqueurs on a table in preparation for guests.

  “The Channel was smooth as a pond,” he said, “except for about fifteen minutes, when it looked as though everybody would go under. But we were all fine when we landed.

  “Oh, that dreadful Channel!” said Aileen, conscious all the while of his eyes upon her, and, in spite of herself, nervously excited by his complimentary remarks.

  “But what about this banquet tonight?”

  “Well, Mr. Tollifer and I have arranged a little party. You know, that man Tollifer is a perfect jewel. I like him ever so much. And I think you’ll be interested in some of the people who are coming, especially my friend, Madame Rezstadt. She and I have been going around together a great deal. She is charming, and different from any woman I have ever known.”

  Now that she had lived for a month in the company of Tollifer and his colourful group, she felt at ease in pointing out to Cowperwood a woman of Madame Rezstadt’s charm, where previously she would have jealously intrigued to prevent his noticing any woman as attractive as her new friend. He noted her new air of confidence, her assurance, good nature, and revived interest in life. If things were going to go as well as this, decidedly there might be no further cause for bitterness between them. At the same time ran the thought that this development was his doing, not hers. And she so unconscious of it. But no sooner had that thought been indulged in than he realized that it was really because of Berenice that this had happened. For he could feel that Aileen was inspired, not so much by his presence as by that of the man whom he had employed.

  But where was he? Cowperwood felt he had no right to inquire. He was in the position of a man who contrives a show, a masquerade, but is not permitted to announce himself as showman. But there was Aileen saying: “Frank, you’ll want to dress. And I have some things to do before the others arrive.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “But I have a piece of news for you. Do you think you could leave Paris just now and run back to New York with me?”

  “What do you mean?” Her voice was full of surprise. For she had been hoping that they might visit at least a few of the principal resorts of Europe this summer, and now here he was talking of returning to New York. Perhaps he was giving up his London plans entirely in order to return to America for good. She was a little disturbed, for somehow this seemed to shadow and even threaten all that she had so recently achieved.

  “Oh, nothing at all serious,” said Cowperwood, smiling. “Nothing has gone wrong in London. I haven’t been thrown out. In fact, it looks as though they might like me to stay. But only on condition that I go back home and return with a lot of money.” He smiled ironically, and Aileen, relieved, smiled with him. Knowing so much of his past experiences, she could not help sharing his cynicism.

  “Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “But let’s talk about it tomorrow. Suppose you dress now.”

  “Right! I’ll be ready in a half-hour.”

  Aileen covered him with her eyes as he passed into another room. As usual, he was certainly looking the picture of success. He was cheerful, adroit, aggressive. Plainly, he was interested by her present appearance and manner. She was sure of that, even though still conscious of the fact that he did not love her and that she feared him. What a blessing that the gay, handsome Tollifer had blown into her life! If she were to return to New York now, what was to become of this quite inexplicable and now quite soundly established friendship between herself and this handsome young loafer?

  Chapter 38

  Before Cowperwood reappeared, Tollifer breezed in. Handing his top hat and stick to Williams, he marched briskly over to Aileen’s bedroom door and knocked.

  “Hello!” she called out to him. “Mr. Cowperwood is here; he’s dressing. I’ll be with you in a second.”

  “Righto! The others should be here any moment now.”

  As he spoke, he heard a slight noise and turned just in time to note Cowperwood’s entrance into the reception room by another door. The two gave each other a swift glance of recognition. Tollifer conscious of his obligation, stepped quickly and cordially forward. But Cowperwood anticipated his address by saying: “Well, we meet again. How are you enjoying Paris?”

  “Oh, very much,” said Tollifer. “This season is particularly gay. I’ve been running into all sorts of people. And the weather has been perfect. You know Paris i
n the spring. I find it the gayest and most refreshing time.”

  “I hear we are to be the guests of my wife this evening.”

  “Yes, along with some others. I’m afraid I’m a little early.”

  “Suppose we have something to drink!”

  They were off on a casual conversation regarding London and Paris, both doing their best to ignore the relationship between them, and both succeeding. Aileen entered and greeted Tollifer. And then Ibrihim arriving, and ignoring Cowperwood as he would a sheepherder of his own land, proceeded to pay his compliments to Aileen.

  Cowperwood was at first a little astonished, then amused. The gleaming eyes of the Arab intrigued him. “Interesting,” he said to himself. “This fellow Tollifer is actually creating something here. And this robed Bedouin covets my wife. This should be a fine evening!”

  Next entered Marigold Brainerd. Her personality pleased him, and the appreciation appeared to be mutual. But this rapprochement was soon interrupted by the arrival of the serene and exotic Rezstadt, swathed in a cream white shawl, the long silken fringe trailing over one arm and about her feet. Cowperwood looked with approval on her olive-tinted face, framed so attractively by sleek black hair and a pair of heavy jet earrings which hung almost to her shoulders.

  Observing him, and impressed, as were most women, Madame Rezstadt readily comprehended Aileen’s plight. This was not a man for any one woman. One must sip only and be content with that. Aileen should be brought to comprehend that truth.

  But Tollifer was impatiently urging that it was time to leave, and obeying his insistence they departed for Orsignat’s.

  A private dining room that was half-balcony commanded, through open French windows, a full view of Notre Dame and the green square before it. But all, as they entered, commented on the seeming lack of preparation for their dinner party, for there was only a plain wooden table completely bare. Tollifer, entering last, exclaimed:

  “Why, what the devil does this mean? I don’t understand. There’s something wrong here. They’re surely expecting us. Wait, I’ll go and see,” and turning swiftly, he disappeared.

  “I really can’t understand this,” said Aileen. “I thought we had everything arranged.” And she frowned and pouted and looked her irritated best.

  “We’ve probably been shown to the wrong room,” said Cowperwood.

  “They do not expect, what?” the sheik was saying to Marigold, when the door of an adjoining serving room suddenly opened, and in dashed Harlequin, enormously concerned. This was Pantaloon himself, tall and gawky, his garb the usual star-and-moon sewn slip, cornucopia atop his head, his ears yellowed with grease paint, his eyesockets green, his cheeks cerise, ruffs and bangles about his wrists and neck, tufts of hair protruding from under his horn hat, immense white gloves on his hands, long, flail-like shoes on his feet. Looking about with a kind of lunatic anguish and despair, he exclaimed:

  “Ah, Mon Dieu! Sacré-bleu! Ah, ladies and gentlemen! This is . . . indeed, this is . . . ah, no linen! No silver! No chairs! Pardon! Pardon! Something must be done about this! Pardon, mesdames and messieurs, something must have gone wrong. Something must be done! Ah!” and clapping his long hands and gazing toward the door, as though troops of servants must immediately respond to his bidding, he waited, without response. Then once more clapping, he waited, one ear cocked toward the door. After which, no sound ensuing, he turned to his audience, who, now comprehending, retreated to the walls to give Harlequin his stage.

  Finger to his lips, he tiptoed to the door and listened. Still no sound. After stooping down and peering through the keyhole, his head cocked now this way, now that, he looked back at them, and, with an amazing grimace, again put his finger to his lips and glued one eye to the keyhole. Finally he jumped back, falling flat as he did so, then jumped up and backed away, while the door flew open for a half-dozen waiters bearing linen, dishes, silver, glasses, trays—an orderly and businesslike procession—who proceeded to spread the table, ignoring him completely while he leaped and clattered about, exclaiming:

  “So! So! You come, do you? You pigs! You loafers! Put down the plates! Put down the plates, I say!” This to the man who was already swiftly and dexterously laying the plates. And to the waiter who was placing the silver: “Lay the silver, I tell you! And see that you make no noise! Swine!” After which he picked up a knife and re-laid it in exactly the same position. To the waiter who was arranging the glasses, he exclaimed: “No, no, no! Dunce! Will you never learn? See!” and taking up the glasses replaced them precisely as they had been. Then stepping aside to survey them, he knelt down and squinted, then moved one small liqueur glass a thousandth of an inch.

  Of course, during all this folderol, everyone, with the exception of Ibrihim—who simply stared queerly at all this—smiled or laughed by turns, especially when Harlequin proceeded to follow closely upon the heels of the headwaiter, actually stepping on them at times, while the waiter pretended not to see him. As he went out, Harlequin followed him, looking back as he shouted: “Bah! Conspiracy! Bah!”

  “A good show!” remarked Cowperwood to Madame Rezstadt.

  “That is Grelizan, of the Trocadero, the cleverest clown in Europe,” she said.

  “No!” exclaimed Marigold, whose estimate of his humor was rapidly heightened by the news of his fame.

  At first fearful, but now elated by the success of this adventure, Aileen beamed with pleasure. Since Cowperwood chose to praise her ingenuity, and that of Tollifer, there was nothing Grelizan could do now that did not seem amusing to her, though he did produce a momentary chill when he stumbled and fell while bearing a large silver tureen filled with what appeared to be bright red tomato soup. The brilliant orange confetti was deftly hurled into the air and fell all over the guests, to the accompaniment of gasps, screams and laughter.

  Again he hurried back to the pantry, this time to bring no more than a single croûton held in a pair of sugar tongs, and again and again to follow the incoming waiters with exaggerated supervision, while they scrupulously served the courses.

  Imitation ices were served last. Beneath the surface of each was a frail inflated balloon, which, when pierced with a fork, revealed, in Cowperwood’s case, the key to the city of London; in Aileen’s, a bowing and smiling figure of Monsieur Richard, scissors in hand; for Madame Rezstadt, a small world globe, with a dotted line touching all of the places she had traveled to; for Ibrihim, a tiny horse with a sheik astride; for Tollifer, a small roulette wheel, with the indicator at zero; for Marigold, a handful of toy figures of men: a soldier, a king, a dandy, an artist, a musician. There was much laughter over these, and after the coffee, Grelizan bowed himself out, to the applause of all, Cowperwood and Madame Rezstadt calling: “Bravo! Bravo!”

  “Delightful!” she exclaimed. “I shall write him a note.”

  Afterward, at Le Grand Guignol which began at midnight, they saw the celebrated Laloute impersonate the celebrities of the day. Later Tollifer suggested Sabinal’s. And by dawn they were all fully satisfied that this night in Paris had been wonderful.

  Chapter 39

  Cowperwood concluded from all this that in Tollifer he had picked someone even more resourceful than he had hoped for. The man was gifted, decidedly. With the least encouragement, and, of course, financial aid, he could certainly make a world for Aileen with which, in the event of their separation, she might reasonably be satisfied. This was a situation requiring some thought. For, of course, if she were to find out about Berenice, she would probably turn to Tollifer for advice. And then it would be a matter of having to buy them off. A pretty kettle of fish! Also, with Aileen in a social limelight of her own, and with her husband rarely present, there would be increased speculation as to where he was, speculation which could lead but in one direction: Berenice. Best to persuade Aileen to go back to New York with him and leave Tollifer behind. It would, for the time being, modify the ascendancy which obviously he had already achieved, and prevent it from being too obvious to others.

&n
bsp; It developed that Aileen, on her part, was entirely willing. There were various reasons. She feared that otherwise Cowperwood might take another woman along with him, or that he might meet one in New York. And there was the effect on Tollifer and his friends. For just now Cowperwood was more of a public figure than ever, and it was among the highest of distinctions to be his acknowledged wife. Her chief curiosity was whether Tollifer would follow her or not. For this was a visit that was likely to last for six months, may be longer.

  Immediately, therefore, she informed him of her forthcoming departure. His reactions were rather complicated, for in the background there was Marigold, who wanted him to cruise with her to the North Cape. By now, he had seen enough of her to feel that if he continued his suit, she might actually arrange a divorce and marry him, and she possessed considerable money of her own. He did not really love her; he was still dreaming of a romance with a younger girl. Then, there was the matter of immediate and continued income. Any interruption of that would at once end his butterfly existence. He felt that Cowperwood, though having given no hint, would prefer him to return to New York. But whether he went or stayed, it had come to the point, he felt, when continued pursuit of Aileen, without some declaration of affection, would not seem to her reasonable. He was satisfied that she would yield nothing, but it would flatter her. And this, in itself, was excuse enough for the approach.

  “Pshaw!” he exclaimed, on hearing the news from her. “This throws me all out!” He paced nervously back and forth, having dropped in to see her after a luncheon with Marigold at Madame Gemy’s bar. His face simulated grave concern and disappointment.

  “What’s the matter?” inquired Aileen, seriously. “What has gone wrong?” She noticed that he had been drinking, not enough to unbalance him in any way but sufficient to darken his mood.