Capítulo 8: Chapter VIII
Guillory had driven them there and they returned accordingly. It was a short journey through dimly lit streets, underneath shadowed archways and past serene, sleeping houses. They overhauled a huge cart filled with unidentifiable goods that rumbled slowly down the street and James was glad he saw no drunkards although people were crowding the pubs. Several hansoms came from the opposite direction and the horses stamped upon the stones, shaking their bells and trimmings.
You see them less and less now, James realised. They're steadily disappearing.
A single car overtook them. Mathilda rested her chin in her palm.
"So," he began. "What did you think of my English friend?"
"I think him very awkward. And very interesting. But don't worry, not as much as I find you interesting." Since he remained silent, Mathi continued: "he's a funny sort of character, isn't he? The conceited sort."
Faint annoyance flared up in his chest. "He's not conceited."
"Thinks he's better than others."
"What are you talking about. He's not. He's really not, just poised — you tease! I see you laugh—," he nudged her, "you wretch! You utter wretch!"
Mathilda laughed without constrictions, genuine, playfully, and utterly ridiculous. In a wave of sudden amusement, he started copying her gasping laugh.
"I'll push you out of the car!" Mathi warned him.
"You couldn't afford the dry cleaning, my dear."
"For that rag?"
"It's Italian!"
"It's a demonstration of poor taste."
The gas lanterns above put them in a benign halo one moment and doused them into darkness the next. The light from the pub windows fell in broad lines upon the pavement, its bright arms stretched and nigh touching the car.
"As I understand it, he gave you carte blanche for tomorrow night. Who do you plan on bringing?"
"I haven't decided yet. Probably Miss Moreau, maybe I'll ask my sister."
"What about Deslys?"
"I don't care for Deslys."
James exhaled heavily in discontent but decided not to intervene with her decision. She would invite him, he knew. But he would leave the convincing to Elaine.
"Bloody dreadful Jacques Deslys." Then Mathilda regarded him, asking cautiously: "what did your father have to say?"
"The usual."
Mathilda watched him breathe out long, slow breaths.
"James..."
He shrugged and smiled but knew that the act did not reach his eyes. They appeared morose and doleful; as blank as they might be whilst he halted before a traffic light and regarded the pavement beside the road; which was oddly aligned, he noticed, right where groove met pave.
"It's not going to matter much anyway," James said.
Mathi's voice and manner betrayed the utmost care. "You don't know that."
He saw the compassion she bore him, and James Guillory loathed himself for it. Clenching the steering wheel, he continued breathing through the harsh well of emotion.
"James..."
The traffic light changed.
"It's nothing." He said in an attempt to buoy himself up, unwilling to cause Mathilda any more concern than he had already done. Mathi grasped the bench at the abrupt restart of the car. The sky was a rich black, and several stars glistened like silver shards against it. From some chimneys, thin wreaths of smoke rose and danced and momentarily concealed the stars closer to the skyline.
Mathilda sighed. "So, Richard Crawford."
James knew he could not avoid the subject forever. Not with Mathi. Not that he wished to.
"I am aware it's a vain hope," he began. His eyes darted over the road. "I know that perfectly well. I would be very sorry to foster anything more optimistic. There is a tragedy about what I am; what I represent. It is better not to be different from others."
There was a moment before she answered. A mongrel let out its bay in the background. "I don't agree with a single word you said, James, and I'm sure you don't either."
"I am telling you the truth. It's a wretched thing."
"It is. But you're not."
"Mm-hm."
A well-known gate came into view. James pulled up before the Aldouin townhouse and already the porter came to help her down. Mathilda gestured him to wait. The man looked away. Mathi turned to James and he made no attempt to rush her and simply regarded the alighted avenue before him.
"Why not?" His hands slipped from the wheel and into his lap; they came up briefly to kill the engine and sank back. His own voice seemed on the brim of breaking. Soft, and so very pleading. "Why not, Mathi?"
"Because you shouldn't live your life subjected to the prejudices of others."
James Guillory tipped his head back and a tearful smile graced his features. "That's a fantasy."
"Stay here tonight. I'll have them ready a room. Let me take care of you."
"I wouldn't want to impose."
"You're not. Not with me. Let Jacob put the Rouxel away and come in."
James shook his head as it remained resting on the bench. "I'm going home tonight," he whispered.
A car passed in the distance.
"Alright."
A gentle hand came up and he allowed himself to rest against Mathilda's shoulder. "He simply— fascinates me," he said. "This rapture comes over me every time I meet him. He's so unlike others; so disarming; so engaging in my eyes that it scares me. It honestly scares me, Mathi, you know yourself how dependent I am by nature. I know I cannot call it anything more than infatuation, — passing infatuation if I'm lucky."
The young woman petted the hair out of his eyes. "I believe you mean that."
"That makes one of us."
"Do you promise to call me?"
"I will."
"Once you're home—"
"— and once in the morning. I know, dear. I know the drill."
Mathilda nodded but was clearly reluctant to leave. James was grateful for her solicitous disposition, but right now, he wanted nothing more than be alone. He refused to say another word, only "Goodnight" when she descended onto the pavement and waited until the door fell back in its ornate frame to restart the car and drive towards Gaillon.
It had started raining.
It was not a particularly heavy rain. Just a sauntering drip of wetness that barely called for the intervention of the windshield wipers.
It hadn't ceased when he arrived home.
Guillory passed through the hallway, abandoning his hat and coat on the table, and ventured towards the staircase. The faint light of the brass lampposts lingered in the polished woodwork of the bannisters. His valet must have left them on for him before he retired for the night. Behind, above and beyond hung a discordant mess of pictures from any style and any period, in a system James claimed to understand and only silently admitted to himself that it was indeed just that: a miss-managed disarray of masterworks.
He had been living here by himself for no longer than two years. Granted, it was still his parents' house, but ever since his mother had felt the need to buy a house on the outskirts of Orleans, where it was quieter, and would have them in the possession of a vast garden, his parents and siblings had gone to live in Olivet. James, on his part, had stayed in Paris, as it would enable him to keep studying at Sorbonne. Not that his younger brothers never graced him a visit. Not that his parents never used the house during the social season. Not that James would have minded joining them: studies or no studies.
James Guillory nowadays generally believed that there were no conditions to which he could not become used to. The young man would not have believed such a notion several years ago, but the circumstances in which he was today — that was, leading an acclaimed but irrational life, for the purpose of other's expectations — proved otherwise. His life and future were not his own.
The skeletons in his closet were scant, but not irrelevant in the eyes of those harbouring high expectations of him. There were some things beyond what his family and good society would call respectful behaviour: drinking to excess, being dismissive of his studies, dreaming of forming inappropriate relations with men with whom he took a liking in, and the only thing inexcusable in his own eyes: calling upon a friend to help him hide it, by having her, not so much pose but go about life without denying any rumours in circulation. Luckily, under the influence of fatigue, alcohol, and the sleepless night of yesterday, he was sure to sleep soundly tonight. It was to be a good night. A night spent sleeping.
On a slender table by one of the windows of the mezzanine stood, next to the sodalite sculpture of an elephant, a candlestick telephone. With faint reluctance but the determination of a promise he had to effectuate, James employed himself by the phone and called Mathi — fingering the trunk of the elephant as he did so. They exchanged very few words before he returned the receiver.
The gallery on the first floor spread out towards all rooms James had currently in use. The second and third floor had been rendered redundant and white sheets had overtaken the entire upper part of the house. To his left, there was the study, where he kept a Le Brun he was especially fond of, and he would have displayed it for his occasional guests to fawn over if it did not curiously please him to keep this masterpiece hidden. Only for him to see. To admire.
Guillory stretched himself out. He wished to go to bed as soon as possible.
He passed the study, taking the second door on his left and as he was turning the handle of the door leading to his bedroom, one hand came up and loosened the buttons by his collar. He pushed the door back against the frame with his elbow and took off his jacket and waistcoat.
The windows of his bedroom had been closed, but the curtains were not yet drawn. The budding twigs of the beech outside were nigh indistinguishable against the dark crying heavens. The lobelia in his planters had been spared, James reckoned, as they stood under the small awning of the window.
He slightly turned up the light. A faint gloom would have him sleep better.
Guillory draped his jacket and waistcoat over the back of his bed. It was a fourposter of dark oak. Ribbon moulding enriched the footboard to spread and swirl the posts. On either side stood tall nightstands with a marble top and a single drawer; one held an enamel cabinet vase featuring a trio of dancing muses; beside it lay a copy of the second volume of Jules Verne's' 'Les Enfants du Capitaine Grant'.
He tipped off his shoes, leaving them in the middle of the room.
The door stood against the frame and the brief noise as it slipped open had him start. A cat entered and made itself comfortable on the Aubusson carpet. It was an old animal, though heavy and loving with long limps that walked and stretched as if he lay claim to the room. It was a Birman. He had been named Oscar by Emile, and although his younger brother had attempted to bring it with him to the mansion in Olivet, the animal had returned. Which made Oscar become James's only housemate. Emile had whined when the animal didn't want to stay with them, and it had taken the acquiring of a fowl pen with goldfinches, and an African grey parrot for him to cease his tantrum. The parrot was a beautiful thing. It was also the vilest creature James had ever encountered — it was the spawn of Moloch; Guillory did not talk of it and only referred to it as 'the Abomination'.
He went and sat down upon the bed, unfastened his cuffs, and regarded the cat. Oscar refused to look at him. Daring the animal, with his eyes, to barf on the carpet as he had done two nights ago, James said:
"You have just enough sense not to piss on your legs, don't you?"
The cat regarded the wall. James thought it to have the audacity to act insulted.
"Don't be. Even that proves you to be more refined than some of the people I know."
The animal rested its head. James lay down the cuffs on the nightstand.
"Dreadful self-important people. The less humble an academic is, the more nonsensical things they say."
Laying down partly clothed under the sheets, he realised he had forgotten the curtains but found himself too tired to rise again. He sighed and rolled his eyes, turning on his back and stared at the off-white plaster ornaments of the ceiling.
There was movement by the window as Oscar passed over the sill before vanishing into the lobelia. His thoughts ventured towards the Englishman. Richard was more like Oscar than anything—aloof and prickly, prone to the dramatic when things weren't going as planned, silently showing up by James's side for attention every now and then. Sometimes James would come home from work or uni and Richard would be lounging in a chair just waiting for him, having bothered old Louis with tea and lavish desserts, and truthfully, that was something James enjoyed coming home to. Not that he'd confess to it.
It kept happening more and more, both of them seeking each other out without any real reason. It was usually easiest for Richard to wander into his home, find James and just… hang around. Sometimes James suspected him of just zoning out and sleeping, because apparently some people could do that.
James himself tried to always have some excuse, something to keep his hands busy and answers prepared, when he was the one chasing down Richard. Besides, going out with him was as close as he ever got to proper down time.
James remembered when Richard had brought over an immense potted plant. Courtesy of Richard's aunt. When James had finally accepted, Richard had made a content noise and passed him, throwing himself onto the sofa. Upon which James had swallowed a comment about his shoes and looked around for what might be a good spot for the bush —by the south window? Or perhaps near the desk there. Of course, everywhere he moved to Richard had shrieked, was the wrong area ("It's an indoor plant, don't drown it in light."), until James finally placed it next to the globe by the calender and Richard didn't have an absolute fit about it.
"Just don't name it," Richard had said.
"I'm not naming it."
"That's what you said about Rose."
"It was a 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦-bush!"
Richard had snorted and thrown him an indecipherable look, playing with the blue tassels of the couch as he reclined even more. Not that James had deemed that possible. He'd just sighed and rolled his eyes, turning his back on him to claim his spot in the open doors of the veranda.
He sometimes did not understand the enigma that was Richard Crawford.
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