by Thomas Wolfe
"Mon Dieu, oui!" the younger, taller girl, who had picked up the hat she had been making for the old woman and was shaping it in her hands, now answered instantly. "He can help Hélène now with the box while you try this on. Hélène," she called to the other girl, "show Monsieur where the boxes are and have him get one down for you."
He followed Hélène through the curtains to the rear of the shop, pursued by the laughter and chattering comment of the other two women. Upon a shelf in the rear a number of hat-boxes were stacked up, but when he looked inquiringly at Hélène, she smiled good-naturedly, and kindly said:
"Mais non, monsieur. Nous ne sommes pas sérieuses. Attendez," and got up briskly on a chair, reaching for a box herself. It was, in fact, almost out of reach; she touched it with her outstretched finger-tips, dislodged it, it came tumbling down, and he caught it as it fell. And Hélène herself came close to falling. She teetered uncertainly on her unsteady balance, swayed towards him, and he lifted her down. For a moment her weight was strong and palpable in his arms. He put her down reluctantly, and for an instant or two she stood flat against him, her hands gently resting on his arms. Then, with a pleasant little laugh, she said:
"Oh, là, là! Qu'il est fort!"
They went out front again, the Countess finished trying on the hat, and presently, after another burst of gay and rapid talk, he and the old woman departed. As he went out, the little bell tinkled thinly and pleasantly again; he had to stoop to go through the door. He turned to say good-bye again, the two girls were looking towards him with gay and friendly smiles; he was sorry to go and wanted some excuse for staying. Hélène looked strong and competent and desirable, she smiled at him a friendly farewell: he thought if he came back again she would be glad to see him, but he never saw her after that.
Later the two girls stayed in his memory with a vivid, pleasant warmth: he thought of Hélène many times, her strong seductive figure and her wide, dark face, and he wondered what her life had been, if she had married, and what time had brought to her.
XCIV
The crowning extravagance of the Countess's misrepresentation was revealed one morning when he found a letter addressed to him in a firm, feminine, and completely unfamiliar handwriting. The Countess had spoken to him several times of a great noblewoman in the neighbourhood, who lived in a magnificent château, and with whom, it was obvious, the Countess wished to improve her slight acquaintance. Now, upon opening the letter, the following message greeted his astounded eye:
Le Château de Mornaye,
February 23, 1925.
My dear Mr. Gant:
My old friend, La Comtesse de Caux, informs me that you are spending some time in Orléans preparing a series of articles for the great journal you represent, The New York Times.
It will be a great pleasure to me if you, together with La Comtesse, will give me the honour of your presence at Mornaye for luncheon on Thursday, the twenty-sixth. La Comtesse de Caux informs me that you became acquainted with my son Paul when he visited America with Le Maréchal Foch in 1922, and that a warm friendship grew up between you at that time. I have often heard my son speak of his American tour, and of the dear friendships he made there, and I know how keen will be his regret when he hears that you were here and that he missed you. He is at present, I regret to say, at Paris, but I have written informing him of your presence here.
At any rate, it will give me great pleasure to welcome one of my son's American friends to Mornaye, and I am looking forward to your visit with the most eager anticipation. La Comtesse de Caux has already informed me of your acceptance, and my motor will be waiting for you at the village station, Thursday, the twenty-sixth, at noon.
Until then, ever sincerely yours,
MATHILDE, MARQUISE DE MORNAYE.
He read the letter a second time, anger swelling in a hot flood as its full significance was revealed to him. When he at length found the Countess, he was so choked with exasperation that for a moment he could not speak, but stood glaring at her with infuriated eyes, holding the crumpled letter in one clenched fist.
"Now, you look here," he said at length in a smothered tone, "you look here--" he held the letter out and shook it furiously under her nose. "What do you mean by a thing like this?"
She returned his furious gaze with a glance of bright inquiry, took the letter from his hand, and immediately, after looking at it, said cheerfully:
"Oh, yes! La Marquise has written to you, as she said she would. Did I not tell you I had great things in store for you?" she said triumphantly. "Ah, my boy, how fortunate you were in finding me the way you did! Do you realize how few Americans ever have the opportunity you are getting? Here you are, a boy of twenty-four, being received with open arms into one of the greatest families in France. Why, there are American millionaires who would pay a fortune for the privilege!"
"Now, you see here," he said again in a choking tone. "What do you mean by doing a thing like this behind my back?"
She raised puzzled eyebrows inquiringly.
"Behind your back? What do you mean, my boy?"
"What right have you got to tell this woman I had accepted her invitation, when you never spoke to me about it?"
"But!" she said, with a small protesting gasp--"I was sure you would be delighted! It never occurred to me that you wouldn't be! I felt sure you'd jump at the opportunity!"
"Opportunity!" he jeered. "Opportunity for what? Opportunity to let you tell this woman a pack of lies about me, and try to work her with some trick or dodge that you've got up your sleeve!"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, with quiet dignity.
"Oh, yes, you have!" he snarled. "You know very well what I'm talking about. You've told these lying stories and misrepresented things to people ever since I met you, but you've gone too far this time. What the hell do you mean by telling this woman that I am a good friend of her son's and met him in America?" He picked up the letter and shook it in her face again. "What do you mean by telling her such a lie as that?"
"Lie!" Her brows were lifted with an air of pained surprise. "Why, my boy, you told me that you did know her son."
"I told you!" he fairly screamed. "I told you nothing! I never knew the woman had a son until I got this letter."
"Listen, my friend," the Countess spoke gently and patiently as she would speak to a child. "Think back a little, won't you--?"
"Think back my eye!" he said rudely. "There's nothing to think back about. It's another lying story you made up on the spur of the moment, and you know it!"
"Don't you remember," she went on in the same quiet and patient voice, "--don't you remember telling me you were a student at Harvard University?"
"Yes, I did tell you that. And that was true. What has that got to do with knowing this woman's son?"
"Wait!" she said quietly. "Don't you remember telling me that you were there at Harvard when Marshal Foch made his visit to America?"
"Yes, I did tell you that."
"And that you saw him when he visited the university? You told me that, you know."
"Of course I did! I did see him. Everyone else saw him, too. He stood on the steps of the library with his aides, and saluted while they fired the cannon off!"
"Ah!--With his aides, you say?" she said eagerly.
"Yes, of course, what's wrong with that?"
"But nothing is wrong! It's all just as I said!--Among his aides, now," she said persuasively, "did you not notice a young man, with a little moustache, about twenty-five years old, dressed in the uniform of a captain in the French army?--Think now, my boy," she went on coaxingly--"a young man--much younger than the other officers on the Marshal's staff?"
"Perhaps I did," he said impatiently. "How should I remember now? What difference does it make?"
"Because that young man, my dear," the Countess patiently explained, "that you saw standing there with the Marshal is the young Marquis--this woman's son."
He stared at her with fascinated disbelief.
"And do you mean to tell me," he said presently, "that because I may have seen someone like that standing in a great crowd of people three years ago, you had the gall to tell that woman that I knew her son--that we were friends?"
"No, no," the Countess said evasively, a little nervously. "I didn't tell her that, my dear. I'm sure I didn't tell her that. She must have misunderstood me. All I said was that you saw her son when he was in America. I'm sure that was all I said. And that was true, wasn't it? You did see him, didn't you?" she said triumphantly.
He stared at her, with mouth ajar, unable for a moment to comprehend the full enormity of such deception. Then he closed his jaws with a stubborn snap, and said:
"All right. You got yourself into this, now you get out of it. I'm not going with you."
The old woman's eyes were suddenly sharp with apprehension. She leaned forward, clutched him by the arm, and said pleadingly:
"Oh, my boy, you wouldn't do a thing like that to me, would you? Think what it means to me--the humiliation you would cause me now if you refused to go."
"I can't help that. You had no right to make arrangements with the woman, in the first place, before you spoke to me. Even that wouldn't matter so much if you hadn't told her that other story about her son and me. That's the reason she's inviting me--because she thinks her son and I were friends. How can I accept such an invitation--take advantage of the woman's hospitality because you told her a story that had no truth in it?"
"Oh, that doesn't matter," the Countess spoke quickly, eagerly. "If you want me to, I shall explain to her that there was a mistake--that you really do not know her son. But it makes no difference, anyway. She would want you to come just the same.--You see," she spoke carefully, and for a moment there was a gleam of furtive, cunning understanding in her eye--the wisdom of fox for fox--"I don't think it's exactly for that reason she is inviting you."
"What other reason could there be? The woman does not know me. What other interest could she have in me?"
"Well, my boy--" the Countess hesitated, and spoke carefully--"you see, it's this way. I think she wants to speak to you," she paused carefully again before she spoke--"about a certain matter--about something she's interested in--When she heard that you were connected with The New York Times--"
"What!" He stared at her again, and suddenly exploded in a short angry laugh of resignation and defeat--"Are the whole crowd of you alike? Is there a single one of you who doesn't have some scheme, some axe to grind--who doesn't hope to get something out of Americans--"
"Then you'll go?" she said eagerly.
"Yes, I'll go!" he shouted. "Tell her anything you like. It'll serve both of you right! I'll go just to see what new trick or scheme you and this other woman are framing up. All right, I'll go!"
"Good!" she nodded briskly, satisfied. "I knew you would, my boy. La Marquise will tell you all about it when she sees you."
This final grotesque episode had suddenly determined his decision to leave Orléans. For a short time his chance meeting with this strange old woman, his instant inclusion in the curious schemes, designs and stratagems of her life, with all that it evoked of the strange and the familiar, its haunting glimpse of the million-noted web and weaving of dark chance and destiny, had struck bright sparks of interest from his mind, had fused his spirit to a brief forgetfulness and wonder.
Now, as suddenly as it had begun, that wonder died: the life of the town, the people, the old Countess and her friends, which had for a few days seemed so new, strange, and interesting, now filled him with weariness and distaste. He was suddenly fed up with the provincial tedium of the town, he felt the old dislike and boredom that all dark bloods and races could awake in him an importunate and unreasonable desire, beneath these soft, dull skies of grey, for something bright, sharp, Northern, fierce, and wild, in life--for something gold and blue and shining, the lavish flesh of great blond women, the surge of savage drunkenness, the fatal desperation of strong joy. The dark, strange faces of the Frenchmen all around, and all the hard perfection of that life, at once so alien and so drearily familiar, the unwearied energies of their small purposes fixed there in the small perfection of their universe, so dully ignorant of the world, so certain of itself, filled him suddenly with exasperation and dislike. He was tired suddenly of their darkness, their smallness, their hardness, their cat-like nervousness, their incessant ebullience, their unwearied and yet joyless vitalities, and the dreary monotony of their timeless greed.
He was tired of Orléans, tired of the Vatels; most of all tired, with a feeling of weary disgust and dislike, of the old Countess and all the small tricks and schemings of her life.
And with this sudden weariness and distaste, this loss of interest in a life which had for a week or two devoured his interest, the old torment and unrest of spirit had returned. Again the old question had returned in all its naked desolation: "Why here? And where shall I go now? What shall I do?" He saw, with a return of the old naked shame, in a flash of brutal revelation, the aimless lack of purpose in his wandering. He saw that there had been no certain reason, no valid purpose, for his coming here to Orléans, and with a sense of drowning horror, as if the phial of his spirit had exploded like a flash of ether and emptied out into the formless spaces of a planetary vacancy, he felt that there was no purpose and no reason for his going anywhere.
And yet the demons of unrest and tortured wandering had returned with all their fury: he knew that he must leave, that he must go on to some other destination, and he knew nowhere to go. Like a drowning man who clutches at a straw, he sought for some goal or purpose in his life, some justification for his wanderings, some target for his fierce desire. A thousand plans and projects suggested themselves to him, and each one seemed more futile, hopeless, barren than the rest. He would return to Paris and "settle down and write." He would go back to England, get a room in London, go to Oxford, the Lake District, Cornwall, Devon--a thousand towns and places, evoked by a thousand fleeting memories, returned to argue some reasonable purpose for his blind wandering. Or he would go to the South of France, "to some quiet place," or to Switzerland, "to some quiet place," or to Germany, Vienna, Italy, Spain, Majorca,--always "to settle down in some quiet place"--and for what? for what? Why, always, of course, "to write," "to write"--Great God! "to write," and even as he spoke the words the old dull shame returned to make him hate his life and all these sterile, vain pretensions of his soul. "To write"--always to seek the magic skies, the golden clime, the wise and lovely people who would transform him. "To write"--always to seek in the enchanted distances, in the dreamy perspectives of a fool's delusions, the power and certitude he could not draw out of himself. "To write"--to be that most foolish, vain, and impotent of all impostors, a man who sought the whole world over "looking for a place to write," when, he knew now, with every naked, brutal penetration of his life, "the place to write" was Brooklyn, Boston, Hammersmith, or Kansas--anywhere on earth, so long as the heart, the power, the faith, the desperation, the bitter and unendurable necessity, and the naked courage were there inside him all the time.
Now, having agreed to accompany the Countess on her visit to the Marquise, he suddenly decided to leave Orléans at the same time, spend the night at Blois, and go on to Tours the next day, after visiting Mornaye. And with this purpose he packed his bag, paid his bill at the hotel, and set out on the appointed day with the old woman who for two weeks now had been his self-constituted guide and keeper.
XCV
The village of Mornaye was a small and ancient settlement, similar to thousands of others, situated near the gate of the château from which it got its name. A man was waiting for them at the station with a motor car: they got in and were driven swiftly through the town--a dense cluster of old grey-lemon buildings with tiled roofs, a thatched one here and there, the shops of the village grocer, cobbler, baker, visible through small dormer windows, some farm buildings, a fleeting glimpse of the old cobbled court yard of a barn, some wagons and farm implements--a
little universe of life, compact, unbroken, built up to the edge of the road--and then, almost immediately, the gates of the château.
They drove through the gates and down a long and stately avenue of noble trees, and presently came to a halt before the great entrance of the château. As they approached, a footman came swiftly down the steps, opened the door of the car, and bowed, and in another moment, led by the man, they had entered the hall and were being escorted into the great salon where their hostess was awaiting them.
La Marquise de Mornaye was a woman of about sixty, but from the energy and vigour of her appearance she seemed to be in the very prime of life. She was an extraordinary figure of a woman, as tall and strong-looking as a man, with a personal quality that was almost mountainously impressive in its command. The image of the boy's recent discontent had so shaped the French as a dark and swarthy people of mean stature that it was now startling to be confronted by a woman of this grand proportion.
She had a wide, round face, smooth, brown and unwrinkled, such as one often finds in peasant people; her eyes were round, bright, and shrewd, webbed minutely by fine wrinkles at the corners. She had strong, coarse hair of grey, brushed vigorously back from a wide, low forehead. She was big in foot and limb and body, everything about the woman was strong, large and vigorous except her hands. And her hands were plump, white, tiny, as useless-looking as a baby's, shockingly disproportionate to the power and vigour of the rest of her big frame.
The woman had on a long, brown dress that completely covered her from neck to toe: it was a strangely old-fashioned garment--or, rather, it did not seem to have any fashion or style whatsoever--but it was, nevertheless, a magnificent garment, in its plain and homely strength perfectly appropriate to the extraordinary woman who wore it.
In every respect--in word, tone, gesture, look, and act--the woman showed a plain, forceful, and immensely able character. Her strong, brown face was friendly, yet shrewd and knowing; she greeted the Countess cordially, but it was evident from the humour in her round, bright eyes that she was no fool in the ways of the world and perfectly able to hold her own in any worldly encounter.