Chapitre 4: Chapter IV
The events building up to the incident that transpired on the 16th of August 1904, ending in the grave loss of Miss Mathilda Catherine Aldouin, were, to put it euphemistic, unsettling. And while it would be fair to say that the body of Miss Aldouin was already mouldering in the gravesite of Père Lachaise by the time Richard Crawford and James Guillory concluded their discourse within the four walls of Fresnes Prison, it would likewise be fair to take an interest in the story merely out of a very human sense of curiosity.
The story began— as many stories did before— with a young man, discovering the limits of his own competence.
❧ Six months earlier, March 1904 — Paris, France.
The sun lingered about the brim of the mansard rooftops. It warmed the arid pavements of the rousing city and incited the grey of the morning. A single gentleman was seen walking round the fountain by Carpeaux while a lonesome car passed through the frozen streets. Where, in summer, starlings lingered, today only pigeons could be spotted about the naked trees of the park as the cloudless heavens above bore the promise of a bright but cold winter day.
James Henry Guillory, as he was being beset by a flight of these deranged birds in pursuit of the bread that was being generously distributed by the elder lady on his right, walked on briskly and passed the bench round which the birds flocked with such fervour. Aware that they might have dirtied his exemplary state of dress, James attempted to examine his vest and breeches as he kept on walking. The gravel crunched beneath his feet. The more perspective spectator might have recognised in him the dismayed walk of a mentee who is subjected to an impossible deadline, or, at least, a deadline he had put off for too long. The more presumptive spectator would certainly be inclined to add that a capable young man should know better.
In that aspect, they had yet to meet James Henry Guillory. Although he was a youngster of respectable repute in society, his circle of closer friends would label him as 'rather erratic but overall percipient' when discussing him or his work ethic.
A smart, white facade came into view. Its shutters were opened, and its curtains were drawn, although, at this hour, most respectable people still slept and would only start their day at eight. Regardless, the sun was up and reflected brightly upon the glasswork as the long shadows of the trees on his side of the road nigh touched the main entrance. Taking, by the two, the flight of steps preceding the door, Guillory took a moment to recompose. Reminding himself that, after all, he came bearing the enquiry of a favour, instead of gifts.
A perfectly sour-faced valet answered his call with an expression that confirmed the ungodly hour. Which James decided to ignore. He expressed the reason for his visit and was led to a parlour where he was instructed to wait. Being rather restive in nature, he turned towards the elegant bookcases lining the wall, and, with his back to the door, reached over the rear of the divan and picked up a volume that stood within his reach. He didn't halt to register the title. Turning over the pages of the volume, he waded through, reading nothing.
If only I had taken the time to — sit down and do it, the young man ranted to the pages. If only I ever took the time to write down anything.
It wasn't that unusual for him to turn towards the Aldouin household whenever he found himself at a loss. So it was suspected by many and known by few, that the eldest Miss Aldouin was knowledgeable and well-versed where it concerned opinion pieces, and indulgent where it concerned James Guillory.
His agitated mind being the prime reason for his incapacity to concentrate on the words in front of him, James rather studied the glossy picture of a sun-laden valley containing various jolly dancers and a vast array of songbirds and pheasants and the occasional ornamental cow. Even so, the classical scenes of Colombel did not ease his foul mood; on the contrary, the picturesque angels exacerbated it and a sigh escaped him. A sound far more dramatic than was warranted for.
The doors opened. Without turning James said:
"What kept you, my dear?"
"Breakfast. And how incredibly rude of you to interrupt me in the midst of it."
"Oh, I am tired of it," James said, swinging round in a deliberate, captious manner. He slammed the book closed and lay it beside him. "Why is it all so terribly hard, Mathi, tell me. Why?"
Mathilda Aldouin came up to him and extended her hand. She wore a gown of pale blue cashmere which enveloped her gracefully although it was adorned by a mass of lace. Her hair was dressed high and curled on the nape of her neck. James took and kissed her hand. Mathilda was slightly taller than himself, had brown eyes, a small nose, high cheeks, and a rather heavy mouth; an imposing appearance, full of tenderness and yet of malevolence.
"Hard?" Mathilda raised an eyebrow as she made herself comfortable by the writing desk, resting her chin in her hand as she crossed her ankles.
He made a passive gesture. "How are you doing yourself?"
"That depends on the reason for your visit, my dear."
James made a noncommittal noise, swung up his legs over the side of the dark oak armrest of the divan, laying himself down upon his back with one arm down the side. And, in a premeditated manner that begged for attention of any kind, said: "Would you save me from the noose of incompetence where I to stand on the edge of credibility? I am on the very brim of my cachet. I am utterly subdued, —"
She interrupted with a laugh: "And I am the one to save you? Why, one would think you could handle it with all your esoteric talk."
"You hurt me."
"You'll live."
Whilst remaining supine, with a bit of shuffling as the volume he had been reading now pressed into his side, he produced a faux-leather map from the inside of his vest and held it in a helpless manner.
"I need a hand," he said, looking about the swirling ornaments of the ceiling. He could clearly sense Mathi's displeasure; could recognise it in the way she pursed her lips and the jaded look with which she seemed to look right through him. James swallowed, laughing sheepishly. Eventually, Mathilda sighed, took pity and rose.
"Take my chair."
A mixture of solace and blatant relief welled up in him. Then relief melted into his usual sangfroid. He took a seat at the designated desk and Mathi took a cigarette from the mantelpiece and lighted it, "Who's your promoter?"
"Prof. Moreau."
"Ah!" She said with evident distaste, "a horrible tedious man. I once had to entertain him for a whole evening. He and papa are old friends."
"Mm—hm." James regarded the map he had laid before and peeled the cover open. Both bore witness to a pile of papers in complete and utter shambles. She sighed:
"How is it that someone as you is this chaotic?"
"The sufferance of every brilliant mind."
Mathi regarded him plainly. "You are mad."
"You're mad."
"I must be," she said. "We shall manage it all right."
They worked well into the morning. By the time the standing clock sounded eleven, they had yet to finish the first drafts, but the outline was there and was often all he needed. Then an enquiry came to mind, and with the sentiment of a question that was supposed to appear casual, but was laden with such hidden anxiousness that it was impossible for the more observant bystander to miss, he said:
"Are you, by chance, going to Rousseau's tonight?"
Mathilda put out her third cigarette. "Maybe."
"Do you want me to come pick you up?"
The young woman regarded him. "I will have Jacob drive me."
"Or I could drive you."
"Will you let me drive?"
"Not a chance."
She shrugged. "Be here at seven," Mathi inclined her chin towards the door and looked back at him with faint amusement, "now off you go."
On his way out, James witnessed Mr and Mrs Aldouin's arrival in the hallway.
"Ah— James!" Said the lady in a pleasant and inviting manner. Behind her, Mr Aldouin passed both her and his own coat to the valet. "I did hope to see you by the time we returned."
After making his greetings, James politely but clearly declined their offer for lunch, insisting that — no, he would not stay, and how could he intrude on them any further after claiming Mathilda's whole morning. And no, he would not dare to.
"Nonsense," said Mrs Aldouin. "It simply must be fate considering I was almost subjected to a day spend in worry."
"How can you say that, Mrs Aldouin. You look so well."
And so the lady told him of her husband's complaints; of the consultations, and the difficulty of following their doctor's advice. They had instructed them to spend the rest of winter in a warmer climate, but, how could they? He was in a responsible executive position. And then what about their girls?
During his wife's discourse, the man himself only ever so often nodded and responded whenever Mrs Aldouin required it from him. Then he noted upon the weather, the headlines of recent papers and fell back into his detached stillness. Present and attentive, but otherwise insipid.
Mr Aldouin had always been rather distant and impersonal in his overall decorum. This brought forth the image of a preoccupied, pensive man whilst his closer acquaintances knew that he simply had nothing to tell where it did not concern his children or his occupation, thus cancelling out the talkative disposition of Mrs Aldouin, whom James knew as a bright and astute individual. While he seldom cared for voluble people, Mrs Aldouin he found charming, as she was so very perspective.
"Now, — I will hold you no longer," said she. "I know you young people to be busy. Always! — I swear I haven't seen Elaine in two days," turning to Mr Aldouin, "don't you think so, dear?" Mr Aldouin opened his mouth but was too late. "—and you simply must grace us with your company during dinner one of these days."
"I thank you, Mrs Aldouin," James said, then nodded towards her husband. "Mr Aldouin."
When leaving the residence, he remarked it to be one of those cold noons when the wind dominated the streets; the sewers were too frozen to exhale gases and in between the steel whiff of cold lingered kindred smells. Porters in their thick coats smoked their pipes at the carriage gates of the townhouses, and pedestrians strolled along, hats pulled over their ears and chin disappearing in their coats.
Having contented himself with the work done that forenoon — much obliged to the eldest Miss Aldouin — the young man ventured about in search of a means to spend the rest of the day. And, if possible, distance himself somewhat from the emotional turmoil that seemed his constant companion these past weeks.
It was inevitable. And I willingly let myself, he thought, others would not understand it. I hardly understand it myself.
Of course, he had never let others know anything since it would have been impossible. Mathi had guessed it on her own years ago. And the exquisite, terrible dream of it haunted him.
As he pondered upon his unpleasant state of mind, he sauntered down the street, pulling his gloves and casting a rapid, sweeping glance upon the townhouses he passed. The streets were not near as crowded he had expected them to be and while he contemplated venturing back towards Boulevard des Capucines holding the alternative in mind of lunching at La Paix or Le Grand Café, he decided not to think of it for the rest of the day — or at least that afternoon.
Ah, how he excelled in lying to himself.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone