บท 10: Chapter X
The night passed into dawn. Which brought sleep. Richard Crawford complained as Michael came to wake him, but stirred around half past two in the afternoon, and awoke fully at five, three hours ere the dinner party. He grumbled, put on a Burton suit, and spend three hours procrastinating.
Le George was a remarkable elegant restaurant lit by large bay windows which overlooked a charming interior patio with a decor splendidly staged in an alabaster register, dominated by a huge Baccarat crystal chandelier. Throughout the evening, various courses were duly served before Richard and his guest, which consisted of James and Miss Aldouin, and their respective group of closer acquaintances.
There was Miss Elaine Aldouin, fetching, charming, and the youngest of the Aldouin children, who was known for her blithe character. She had gentle, quiet manners and an affectionate disposition; wrapped up in her own small world. She was known to live in a constant state of infatuation. Now seated opposite her sister, a silk dress adorning her opulent figure, Elaine Aldouin had her hair braided and her wrists adorned by a jewel too many— she resembled an angel, and had lived nearly seventeen years with very little reason for worry.
Next to her was Mr Charles Dalmon, a silent, grave, feminine young man who James introduced to Richard as being a fellow student of him at Sorbonne. He was the eleventh grandson of a major shareholder of a distinct international newspaper and Richard discovered him to have a very dry sense of humour.
On the other side of Miss Elaine Aldouin sat Miss Louise Moreau, accompanied by Mr Jacques Deslys. Miss Moreau was undeniably the result of years of polite schooling. She had a nervous disposition: there was a constant jumpiness in her hands and a stern expression lingering in her eyes.
They politely discussed the food, their travels, recent headlines, and the likelihood of future artists re-inventing the classics.
"So you're not happy with your Gauguin theory," Richard said, twirling his cutlery between his fingers. He sat reclined and content behind his empty plate. With James next to him and Miss Aldouin on James's right, Richard thought himself immensely satisfied. His dress was new. His company was splendid. And his mood was, for no other reason than the prospect of a night spent away from being alone, excellent.
"Mr Vollard said he did it twice," James said.
Richard shrugged. "People lie."
"If you're going to lie, would you do it when—"
"You know what, I'm not interested." He put down the cutlery as he saw waiters approach to do away with their finished plates.
"Not curious?" James raised an elegant brow.
"He's dead."
"Dead people are interesting. That's why his art is on the rise," the eldest Miss Aldouin said, which earned her a fretful look from her sibling. Richard thought her wrong:
"It's because Mr Vollard knows how to sell."
"But look at Gauguin," James made a wide gesture.
"I passed there last week. He's not being admired that much. It was practically empty back at gallery."
"First will be the other artists, then gradually the public. Society needs someone to tell them it's good, and Mr Vollard they trust."
"Hm-m."
"Look at your aunt."
"She's not interested in what's new, the woman's lost in the eighteenth century," then something James had said recalled to him, "you consider yourself an artist now?"
"No."
"You're a jurist."
"In training."
"Why would you throw the opportunity away? You've got the luck to take your father's seat, go get it." Richard did note the apprehensive look Miss Aldouin threw him, but the young woman remained silent. James sighed:
"I'd be throwing any artistic career out of the window."
"That's not a career!" Deslys cried.
"Gauguin would disagree with you," James said.
"I don't care for Gauguin," Richard told him. Then turned pointedly towards Deslys, "but he would agree with you," Richard shook his head, throwing James a concerned look, "poor bastard died broken and sick."
"Don't let Mr Vollard hear you." Miss Moreau laughed.
"I'm right and he'd know it."
James Guillory appeared all the more tiresome at his statements. The eldest Miss Aldouin smiled and subtly squeezed the young man's arm.
After diner Richard courteously invited his guests up for a drink and as various bottles were ordered, they continued their chat. A scandal the kind of which there were several circulating at all times was discussed, and the youngest Miss Aldouin was very much amused by it. A reluctant Michael returned with gin, vermouth, and some soda, to which Deslys added, on his own initiative, some drops of a fermented, foul-smelling liquid from a flask he procured from the inside of his vest.
"How many people wouldn't pursue their dreams of love, if they didn't fear the fact that it could very well end with sorrow and regret and irredeemable shame clinging to their name?" James said. Miss Moreau glanced at him approvingly.
"The hapless lovers!" Deslys cried with a sceptical laugh. The wine seeped from the brim of his glass each time he dared move. His laughter, gestures, and opinions became more violent by the moment.
Elaine Aldouin regarded the starry night and with a cheerful and casual indifference that could be considered improper, said, more to herself than anyone else: "no joy compares to receiving a lover's confession. When someone regards you for all you are and tells you: 'I adore you'. That is worth anything in the world."
"Mm—hm." Her sister emptied her glass.
"Mrs Simonds hasn't done right to follow her husband's example," Miss Elaine Aldouin continued. "She threw away all past affections between them. Granted, he was in the wrong first— she shouldn't forgive him, mind you, but she shouldn't have gotten a lover herself."
"Do you believe," James said. "That when a husband has an affair, the wife isn't in her right to get a lover?"
The youngest Miss Aldouin frowned. "Not if she is still attached to her husband. Which I assume she still is."
"You assume. But I believe her to have the right."
"Should she stoop so low as her husband, then? Because her husband acts in an abominable way— should she act abominable as well?"
"Abominable isn't the word I'd use."
The hours fled and drinks were emptied — they imbibed themselves without constrictions. Miss Moreau spilled hers on Richard's waistcoat and as the sleepy pull of alcohol became relentless, one by one, the guests began passing out. In the end it was Richard himself and the eldest Miss Aldouin who remained, smoking, and ruminating as they had somehow succeeded in both seating themselves across from each other in the frame of the open window. One of Richard's legs nigh touched the wooden flooring of the balcony, and the other was cropped up before him; his hand leisurely rested on his knee as he held his cigar. Miss Aldouin, opposite him and likewise leaning her back against the frame sat sideways, and succeeded, by some miracle, to have it look elegant.
Richard and his inebriated mind thought her captivating. When he was near Mathilda Aldouin, whose gracious eyes held him at a distance, and seemed to say: 'watch yourself,' he was subjected to a curious elation. As if he were a bug attracted to an alighted candle.
The air was cold but not freezing as the consumed liquor gave him the impression of being warm. The front doors of the cafés lining the square before the hotel were closed and its rooms were empty, but they remained visible in the pools of light thrown from the globe lanterns. An abandoned cart stood parked by one of the bleached windows. The wind had disappeared, taking the clouds with it, leaving a bright night where nocturnal birds flew about the poplars. The silhouette of a cat moved about the skyline of chimneys.
Richard led his gaze wander from the roofs to the street below, to Miss Aldouin's pensive countenance and the fetid bottles spread across the carpeted floor.
"They're good people." He said.
"No. Not all of them. But a great deal of them are."
Richard squinted his eyes to distinguish the dormant shapes spread around his hotel room. "Who's the problem child?"
"Deslys. Jacques Deslys."
"Mr horse gambler? What did he do?"
"To me—?" He thought her to hesitate. "Not a thing. People must seldom really do something to be disliked; sometimes being is enough. As long as they've got the personality to support it. I'm never going to feel for him what I feel for the rest of them," the young woman stroked a wayward hair out of her face, "he's the false carried so far that it's made true."
Richard did not so much deem Jacques Deslys disagreeable, as simply mundane. But he trusted her judgement as he had it on good account that it was nigh faultless. "He's hasn't got our taste, that's a 'being' enough for me."
"That's right. He's got no taste to speak of," she grinned in delight and brought her cigar to her lips, "it's incredibly foul, don't you think?"
"Hm-m."
"It's the dependence. I never enjoyed that much."
He agreed and laughed aloud: "what an absurd reason."
"Now, do tell me, Mr Crawford—"
"Richard." He interrupted, and was taken aback as Miss Aldouin regarded him gently. His cheeks warmed and he added in good humour: "you've torn off my waistcoat and smoked my cigars. In some communities, I imagine that's a marriage."
"Well then, husband," she extended her hand. Not for him to kiss it, he realised. To shake it. "Mathilda Catherine Aldouin. Call me Mathilda, or Mathi. I despise Catherine as it makes me think of the crone," he took her hand, "now that we're married, let's talk about my first significant other," she let go and nodded towards the sleeping shape that was James Guillory reclined on the divan pulled before the open terrace.
"He's a lucky man to have you," he said.
"If only he'd realise it." He regarded her curiously, but Mathilda was quick to explain herself: "I'm not saying he takes me for granted. He's too kind for that. Excruciatingly likeable, to the point where it sometimes annoys me."
"I deemed him to be a charmer."
The long broken horn of a car resounded. The charmer in question awoke from his drowse and started in a daze. When he had calmed, his eyes slid closed once more and he turned around and around and settled back on the divan. Mathilda watched him, telling Richard:
"He is. But he is less of a flatterer than you are."
He smiled. "I would be very sorry to be seen by you as a sycophant."
"I don't— I know enough sycophants to recognise them. But you seemed to enjoy yourself this afternoon."
"Do you dislike being complimented?" The liquor had increased Richard's spirits. It seldom failed to.
"Don't laugh. Let's say I don't dislike compliments, but I don't see why one should think they are pleasing someone when they say to them things that they don't mean. Certainly when they hide an alternative motive."
"Don't all compliments hide a motive? No matter the person bestowing them?"
"Not only do I think so, I count upon it."
Richard bit his lip, doubting her sincerity but genuinely amused enough to indulge her. "So you deem yourself to be the decisive vote to determine which compliments are well-meant and which are not."
"I deem my judgement to be."
"Isn't that— what's the word— presumptive? — to decide, for the bestower, whether their compliments were genuine?"
"Not in the least. And I trust my own judgement. Is not presumptive to assume you are in someone's good graces by simply complimenting them? You prove yourself to be so."
"Add that to the list then."
"What list?"
"That makes out my character in your mind based on your 'judgement'."
"I'll add cheeky as well."
"I enjoy being cheeky. But I seldom am."
"What else are you? — or do you not enjoy talking of yourself?"
"I believe you enjoy talking of others, while hiding your own."
Another genuine smile was brought forth upon her features, and so the subject was discussed in a frank but cheerful manner.
"So—" said Mathilda, with sure decisiveness. "From your own account, I have come to know that you consider yourself vain, hypocritical, and idle. Do you enjoy telling people of your bad qualities?"
"You haven't heard the worst of them yet."
"I wouldn't want you to part with them. It makes you more interesting."
"You're quite fond of that word, aren't you? If one would want to acquaint themselves with you, how can they appeal to you? — by being interesting?"
"It's a start."
"How ruthless!" He cried.
"Can you claim to be any different? Can anyone claim to be any different?"
"I think anyone would 'want' to claim to be different."
"What sort of a person would you like to be, then?"
"Someone who is both a genius and a charmer."
"I dislike him already."
"You're being absurd again." Richard Crawford tipped his head back against the frame and regarded the lights change on the road below as the traffic went ever onwards. The nightly call of a tawny owl resounded not too far from them.
And all vicious thoughts remained silent.
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