Capítulo 22: Chapter XXII
The rain recommenced at noon. Richard had spend the day frustrated and pacing, walking the avenues and alleys of Rochechouart to Auteuil to Val-de-Grâce until his feet were sore and the lanterns were alighted. He had not eaten since that morning. Richard's ire had made way for silent regret in the way he had treated Guilory, and he deemed it appropriate for him to offer his apologies. Richard had contemplated not going back there after all, seeing the vehemence with which James had been upset with him, although standing James and Mathi up would surely not settle the waters, either.
He bought a bottle and treats on a street-corner at Rue d'Antin and ruminated that morning over and over in his head. When finally arriving at James's doorstep for what was the second time that day, Richard Crawford was wet through and through, and had since long realised that his shoes were not made for walking.
Nobody came to the door. Richard put the bottle under his arm and tried a second time. In vain.
The traffic at Gaillon, was alleged to be the busiest part of Paris during the evenings, regardless of the weather. People walked hastily by; gentlemen opened car doors for their spouses as they came home; hansoms and horses rambled along; a stray paperboy, desperate to keep his wares dry, cried articles to passerby:
"— Japanese operating a landing in the bay of Korea? General Kuropatkin — The iron shirt strike in Hungary! — Offenbach's Paris on the Variety scene — The Postcard Salon — The death of correspondence —"
He waited and paced in quiet impatience, then climbed the steps again, listening at the door. He hissed in annoyance and slipped past the dias, trying to get a look in the windows but they were all curtained and dark, and everything beyond those panes of glass was undistinguishable. Richard reasoned he was very quickly running out of options. He shot the busy street a single look.
"James?!" Richard thumped the knob against the door, watching the thin copper rattle. There came no reaction. There was, in fact, a rather aggressive sort of silence. A purposeful sort of silence, stark against the demanding noisiness of the street, which he took as a bad sign.
Then, as Richard deemed himself too impatient to wait any longer, the door turned inwards, and James's old valet regarded him questioningly.
"Mr Crawford—"
"Good evening, Louis," Richard passed him, throwing his wet overcoat onto the table, cautious not to wet the particular growing pile of correspondence that covered that same surface. Richard's purchases where likewise abandoned.
The front hall was shadowed and dark, all lamps were turned down but for the single lantern the valet carried in his shaking hands. When he pushed himself up the first steps of the stairs it was to the sight of long, narrow bronze figures, spiralling the balustrade and seemingly moving under the swaying of the light behind him. At the first floor there was a large, half empty bookshelf to his left.
"James!" He called. "James Guilory?"
There was a shuffling scrape across the floor from behind, and Richard turned. The valet had followed him on unsure feet, holding out the lantern. The image of the elder man shuffling after him aggravated him for some unexplainable reason.
"Go back. Go back, man!" Richard bit.
The valet looked up from his feet but continued up the stairs. Richard made a tsking sound: "go," he waved his hand, "go to bed. I don't need your assistance."
He passed through the corridor, throwing open the only door from under which a faint light seeped.
"James?"
The crown of a young woman's head appeared from behind the back of a lounge-chair. Richard stood in the empty frame. A series of books lay spread on the floor. He entered, calling softly, unsettled.
"Mathi, dear?"
Moving closer, instinctively heading in a vaguely circular motion, he swerved round the lounge-chair. Only to startle, stagger back a step, knocking into a table behind him and flinging its contents to the floor. Richard barely payed attention to it, didn't even glance at the clutter left splayed open on the rug, for Richard knew something was wrong, that something was deeply wrong.
Mathilda was missing her shawl, and her pearled sleeves were unbuttoned, the small holes looking lost and unclad where they hung open. She had one arm resting across her stomach, and her collar was ajar, dangling unevenly. There was a wrinkled dampness to her that suggested she'd been sweating.
"Mathi?"
Sudden realisation hit him heavy in his chest.
"Mathi?" There was the faint edge of hysteria in his tone of voice, yet Richard couldn't find it in himself to care. He moved closer, his hands reaching but still uncertain.
Blinking eyes looked up at him. He knelt beside her, clutching her hands. Mathilda looked as if she'd been punched and was still summoning the energy to try and breathe again. A sweet, sickeningly familiar smell surrounded her. A sweet hazelnut aroma. Anger clenched his chest. He allowed himself a moment to be irritated — to be furious, before he asked her:
"Where's Guillory?" That sounded not unlike an accusation, but Richard supposed that it was. Mathilda's breath came in laborious coughs. Her eyebrows pinched in, and she heaved a sigh; and it sounded miserable, it sounded like a confession, and an apology:
"I should have taken care of him— I didn't take care of him. I just— I should have—"
"Where's James?" he grasped her higher up her arms as she went on, gripping her by the elbows, rising slightly from his heels, bidding her to look him in the eyes: "Mathilda, where's James? Mathi— Mathi, concentrate, where's James?"
She frowned up at him. Her eyes closed, opened, and fluttered towards the next room.
"He's here? Mathi— don't get up — he's here? What— good, well done," he guided her to lie on her back, easing her head onto the cushions, "well done. Now stay here. Sleep. No, just sleep. That's it. That's it."
Nervous with fright and trepidation, Richard breathed deeply. Once he had assured himself of Mathilda's wellbeing, he hurried away, throwing the door towards the music room open. It bounced of the wall. Richard's head was light, his heartbeat rapid. The floor swayed beneath his feet. James, in a sorrowful heap, lay draped on the chair next to the pianoforte as if sleeping. His mouth half open. His hair in a waze. Richard went up. His whole skin was flaming. Shaking, he took a deep breath and tried to keep himself from flying to pieces. He swallowed the hot lump in his throat and hastily tilted his friend's head of his chest, resting it, and checked his pulse. A shivering breath escaped him as he felt a strong rhythm. All his worry had been for nought. Or almost— Richard fought to regain his breath.
It took Mathilda three hours to recuperate, which gave him the time to clean up the room. Richard knew it wasn't necessary for him to do it; but he did. It gave him the distraction he so fretfully needed. Once the young woman was awake, she was greeted by Richard reading in the chair opposite her. The tremor in his hands had subsided.
"How late is it?" Her eyes remained closed.
"Past seven."
"Morning?"
"Evening."
She squinted and pulled herself up on the back of the divan as she came upright: "why is it so dark?"
"Closed the curtains. Thought you'd like that," he gestured towards the water next to her, "thought you would like that as well."
"Mm—hm," the young woman took no notice and attempted to stand, "oh, God," she said quietly, sinking back. "I did - I do." She shook her head, making a noise that sounded pained. Another book slipped from behind her and landed on the carpet with a dull thud, pages spilling open. She gave a short, helpless laugh that sounded exhausted, moving her hands as if to flatten her skirt, only to realise her sleeves were swinging open. Which gave rise to another chuckle.
Richard could not— for the life of him— discover what was so funny. Why would she laugh? Why would either of them be here in this state? It was the only solid course of thought in his head. He'd often seen them both in drunk and drugged-out stupor, but none had felt so numbing as this. There was no-one here were things to go wrong; not counting the senile valet downstairs. But why would neither James nor Mathi take care of themselves? Why would—
"James's in the bathroom." He interrupted himself before he might question himself into a state of shock.
"How's he?"
"As well as you might expect with some drug in his system."
"We didn't—"
He regarded her wide-eyed and vexed. "You didn't?" Richard let the words shape his mouth into a snarl, the sheet draped over the back of his chair slipping away long enough that he folded it and tosses it aside: "Don't insult me! I am well-aware of all what—"
"He only drank. I didn't let him touch it. Who do you take me for."
Richard very much wanted to keep shouting but was too relieved to hear her say it. In a moment, however, he was reminded of the fact that she didn't exclude herself, and fury once more swelled in his chest. His voice remained as calm as he might force it to be:
"What on earth were you thinking, Mathilda?" And Richard thought he might be more angry with himself than with her.
"Don't meddle."
"I have every right to meddle."
Mathilda inhaled sharply and then all the tension seemed to pour out of her. She staggered upward, pushing herself of the cushion. Her eyes told him he did not, in fact, had a claim on any right concerning her but she did not seem to deem it worth an argument. For now.
Which should have made Richard realise there was something dreadfully wrong.
Employing herself by the window, Mathi heaved one of the thick curtains away though a white sheet still obstructed her view of the street. Reaching out, she lifted the fragile fabric, allowing a glint to seep upon her arm and onto the floor, where particles danced in the undisturbed air. Mathilda looked about the verdant trees on the other side of the road, keeping her face turned away from him.
Her restlessness affected him. Richard rose and went to lean himself in the doorway of the salon and the corridor, so he might hear whenever anyone would visit. He knew nobody was expected; but he told himself to be vigilant, it gave him something to think about. The stairs croaked without cause and the faucet of the bath was heard two doors down. The corridor itself was sparsely lighted; in the beam that fell from the room behind him he could discern several pictures. He saw a Boudin, and a Le Brun; and if Richard tilted his head far enough, he could just spot a picture by James's own hand. They were landscapes mostly. Very few portraits. They were nothing special, but they were James's, so naturally he would always inspect them with a look of wonder and veined interest. If only to see James smile.
He startled slightly as Mathilda spoke up:
"You think he'll have to go back in?"
"He didn't touch it." He said. Mathilda had come to stand beside him.
"This time."
"Then next time you don't buy it. You don't take it in front of him. You don't take it yourself if you're as smart as you believe you are."
"Don't presume to—"
"You don't get to say that to the person who was cleaning up your filth an hour ago."
"I didn't ask you."
"You're welcome."
She crossed her arms and reclined against the doorframe. He refused to acknowledge her staring.
"Thank you," she said.
He thew her a look, understood her to be sincere and contented himself by acknowledging with a brief nod. Silence ruled between them. The faucet had been turned off and the wet step of damp feet on tiles faintly resounded. Mathilda seemed to be thinking of something; they remained as they were, resting themselves against either side of the doorframe.
"My father's unwell."
Richard blinked and regarded her. "I thought you—"
She tipped back her head. "Doctors thought he was out of it. He took a turn for the worse. And he's still up and about, you know. He's got moments of clarity. Where it seems as if he's not even sick at all. Where it seems he's his old self. He's still been trying to sell the factory. Laying off workers. He'll be going to Rue de Grenelle tomorrow."
He studied her curiously. She didn't seem sad. Simply tired. It explained the drinking, he knew. It explained the drugs. Richard could understand that much as he had often done it himself. Everything he'd done until now he'd done to avoid pain, or to lessen it. It explained most of tonight, but for her choice to endanger James.
"How long?" He said.
"Don't know. Doctors don't know. I don't. He doesn't. Maybe it's better that way."
"Is it?"
Mathilda's voice broke: "I don't know, Richard."
"What are you doing here?"
She shook her head. She didn't know. Something in the woman's tone, a thickness, a hesitancy, made Richard turn to look at her. Mathi was crying. He'd never seen Mathilda cry before. She was a paragon of stoicism. And yet here she was, tears making wet tracks down both of her pale cheeks, her eyes gone anguished and her mouth twisted into a worried frown. But then again, had there ever been cause for her to cry? Had they ever had to help each other through situations that inflicted such heavy emotions? Richard thought not. They partied; they danced. They gossiped and played. But they never had to lend a shoulder. Did that even make them friends of any kind? Richard hesitated.
"Why aren't you at home," he asked, his voice a whisper.
She didn't know. And Richard knew well enough to stop asking. Mathilda stood lost in thought for the next few minutes, repressing her sobs, and when rousing herself, it was only to say:
"You were right." It was no more than a whisper.
"I'm very sorry to have been right."
Despite herself, a smile lay faintly on her lips. Mathi hiccupped. "That's a sentence I never imagined you to say."
"Either of us."
She tipped back against the frame while shaking her head. Her eyes moved anxiously as she studied the ceiling without discerning anything. Richard decided to have her break the silence. He was still very much affected by today's events and his emotions lay all over the place.
Then she said:
"Are we mad, Richard?"
To say it did not took him by surprise, would have been a lie. Nonetheless, his voice, if not his manner, was calm when he asked:
"What do you mean?"
"We— us. Are we ill?"
It didn't suit her, this uncertainty. The nervousness abound. But at that moment Mathi wasn't putting on farces, wasn't presenting herself as someone she wanted others to see in her. It was perhaps the most honest Richard had ever seen her.
But Richard had no idea what she was asking. Had no idea what she wanted to hear from him. A long moment passed, and mayhap Mathi thought Richard to be thinking on her question, to take it under serious consideration. But he came up blank.
"I don't believe we are." He said at last, as the silence kept on drawing.
She seemed to have decided something for herself. Straightening her posture, Mathi seemed eager to return home, and made known that she was to take her leave. Richard simply nodded and left her standing in the doorway and made his way towards the liquor cabinet where he poured a glass of scotch and downed it.
"Mathi?"
"Yes?"
Richard opened his mouth, not sure what he wanted to say. He just- he wanted to embrace her, focus on Mathilda's warmth and forget about the world around. Mathi would probably let him, too. Maybe not as long as he'd like, but at least a few moments.
"It's nothing."
Then Richard poured another drink, sipping it as the liquor burned down his throat. Mathi should have listened to her own advice, Richard knew — but it was not as he knew any better what was right for her.
Sudden nausea overtook him and rendered him rooted on the spot. "Damn." Richard shut the cabinet and pressed his forehead against the wooden door. The mental exhaustion of the past days was taking its toll.
Deep breaths, he told himself. Deep breaths.
Richard set the remainder of his scotch aside and managed to find a vase to puke the liquid up into it. It burned more coming up than it had going down. His trembling slowly eased and gave way to exhaustion, and when he turned round again, Mathi had left. He thereupon heard the bathroom door in the hallway shut, and Richard at least knew he wouldn't be alone tonight.
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