Capítulo 7: Chapter VII
Inside, the orchestra had begun a slow waltz. The persistent murmur of the crowd changed in volume the more liquor there was consumed. Civilised, broad-belied men conversed in feigned politesse; Mathi thought them to resemble capons in silk coats. In one of the windows behind, the curtains had been moved aside and two lovers stood kissing behind the heavy floral fabric, unaware they were visible to the eyes of those out on the parlour.
The flock of socialites surrounding her dissolved.
Mrs Calvet went to greet a friend as James ventured inside, and an awkward silence fell between her and Mr Crawford, who enquired whether she wanted to return inside as well. The parlour harboured undoubtedly more possibility for conversation, but she was glad to return as she always deemed the nightly eeriness to be vaguely disquieting. Mathilda turned her head as though she had been warned of something behind her. Only Mr Crawford was there, but she thought, for a moment, that other eyes were regarding her with peculiar intensity. Mathi frowned. Quieting her intuition for its peculiarities, she exalted a good-humoured smile:
"He will be back in a few minutes, his father often happens to call on him unexpectedly," Mathilda said as she took Mr Crawford's arm, "such things become the norm when acquainted with James."
Taking off James's jacket and laying it beside her, Mathilda sat down upon the sofa she had previously occupied. It was a very soft sofa, with an upholstery in tufted velvet, and a massive beech wooden frame finished in black with high-end leaf detailing. Mr Crawford took a seat in the armchair opposite her. The young gentleman had an air of anxiousness about him, eyes darting about the buoyant expanse, and then, seemingly in order to make some remark, said:
"How are you?"
"Very well— yourself?"
"Very well. Very well, indeed. Fine evening, is it not?"
She crossed her ankles. "It is. Although I expect it will be rather rainy later on."
"It will be rainy."
"It will."
He opened his mouth only to close it again.
Another moment passed.
"That's a fine painting." Mr Crawford then said, near desperation. He was looking at the faded picture of an agitated swan reacting brusquely and wide-winged to an attacking mongrel that hung on the wall between two windows.
She followed his gaze. Deemed the painting anything but 'fine', and, on closer inspection, thought Mr Crawford to share her opinion. "You think so? I find it rather curt."
"Oh, well. It's very, uh—" Mr Crawford flustered and cast about for a compliment suitable to pay a painting so disagreeable. "—very characterful."
He kept nodding, as if greatly convinced. She took pity on him and as Mathi folded her hands in her lap, she offered a smile, and said:
"Richard Crawford. I've heard... many things about you." She had not.
"All bad I suppose?" The young man asked sheepishly and to his evident horror Mathi flashed a wolfish grin.
"Immensely bad, but seeing you in person, you don't seem as bad as I thought you were." The young man blushed. Mathi continued: "Have you been in France a long time?"
"Not at all. I arrived a few weeks ago in Calais. Then came down to Paris."
"And what did you see on your journey here?"
"I was particularly pleased by the cathedral as I passed through d'Amiens." Mr Crawford said.
"Ah— yes. The pride of d'Amiens."
"Certainly!"
"I fear I could hardly agree with you there," — he let out a surprised breath — "but now tell me, what made you exchange your London for our Paris?"
Mr Crawford laughed in an embarrassed manner either due to shame or a lack of self-confidence. She did not know which one. The young man directed his gaze towards the floor and back to her. "I got bored."
"Paris isn't going to fix that for you. No city is."
He smiled, his eyebrows in a gentle frown. "That sounds dreadful. Why would one travel if not to distract themselves?"
"For the experience?"
He seemed to consider it, and, feeling more relaxed, reclined pensively. "You were right to insinuate that London's no different from Paris," he admitted at length. "I believe we enjoy saying that one's better than the other, but it's because we're so alike that we rival each other."
"Don't let the nationalists hear you."
"They just enjoy making a racket. Or at least that's what the newspaper's always telling us."
"Then I suppose you can read between all the nonsensical prattle."
He regarded her pensively. Mr Crawford — not yet comfortable enough to speak out on such issues— let the subject drop and said: "if I wanted to 'experience' something, I would have started a farm in one of the colonies."
"So why didn't you?" She reclined, rather amused with his self-wise attitude.
"I don't like livestock. Or husbandry. And I don't thrive in warm weather."
"Or without pluming."
"Do they have pluming?" He paused for a moment, his brows furrowing in silent contemplation. "Must have."
"I wouldn't know, I've never been further south than Alicante."
"You've been to Spain?"
"Years ago," she nodded, eyes trailing off, bored with the polite direction the conversation was once again taking. "James told me of you, Mr Crawford. Told me you've been searching for an apartment."
"I am. I'm in need of something more permanent if I'm to stay here for summer. I've been living in a hotel for two weeks now."
"Where?"
"Marceau, on Avenue George V."
"I won't pity you. You're nearby the Four Seasons."
"The things they do with mirabelles! Marvellous indeed!"
Finally, a true, genuine smile adorned his features. Mathilda surprised herself by thinking him to look rather endearing; his eyes were bright and expectant and Mathi decided she now partly understood James's infatuation. Richard Crawford had an absorbing character; he seemed reticent, but he bared his heart on his face and in him she recognised a youthful naivety she deemed lost to herself. He was beguiling, and one could easily lose themselves in the way he looked at you, how he could make you believe you got his every attention.
"Why don't you and James join me for dinner there tomorrow?" He asked her.
Mathi tutted her lips and tilted her head. Then a sly look graced her features.
"Would you mind a few extra guests?"
Mr Crawford hesitated. "I— no. No, I wouldn't mind."
"Good," she smiled. They shared a moment of amiability before a good-humoured voice resounded from behind her:
"I am sorry to have left you."
James Guillory looked slightly more fatigued than half an hour ago — but as elegant as he always was. He threw her a grave look, but he looked not so much stern as rather amused. James seemed happy to see Mathilda and Crawford become acquainted.
"I've secured us an invitation," she informed him as he rounded the settee and picked up his jacket to sit down beside her. Then pity marred the tender lines of her face, "are you alright?"
"I'll tell you some other time."
"Oh, don't mind me— I'll be going." Mr Crawford intervened with a smile. He gestured vaguely with his hands. James regarded him in surprise:
"Stay, Richard! Please, — I would not want you to think yourself unwelcome."
The young man wafted any hospitalities away, "perhaps another time. I am afraid I have yet some people to greet. I hope to see the both of you tomorrow at eight. My treat — no, I insist — now, goodbye." A faltering bow.
Mathilda looked after him as he went off towards the innermost part of the ballroom.
"Mathi, I am tired," James confessed. "The air is stifling here."
"Why don't we head back."
"Is it that late already?"
"Not at all."
"Good. I do like leaving prematurely."
"Really?" A quick glance told her the young Englishman was in conversation with Mr Rousseau. James rose and offered his hand.
"Makes one seem preoccupied and more mysterious." He winked.
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