Chương 14: Chapter XIV
The sky cried upon the nodding peonies of Richard's planters hanging from the black framework of the balcony. It came rolling down the mansard roofs onto the ornate window frames and soaked the Parisian streets below. It was only five past two, but the flowers had been drowning since the clouds had gathered in the early midday sky and had brought into being a rainstorm of biblical proportions. In weather such as this, Richard could not bring himself to send his personnel for anything and gladdened himself with the fact that he had returned home in good weather that morning.
Now content with the prospect of an afternoon spend in relative privacy and at peace with his tea and weekend paper, he was sat in the small library that came out to the salon. He had left the doors open and could see the thick carpet from the other room peak out. Richard used the library as a study, whenever he was in need of one, and mostly to write his correspondence. The armchair in which he was seated happened to be located close by the window and while the glass panes revealed only a blurry world, Richard had made the effort to turn the armchair slightly, so that he could study the rainfall whenever it suited him. A single leaf was stuck to the window frame and tapped persistently on the glass.
Reclining into the olive-velvet fabric, Richard Crawford turned his head, in order to take up his tea, and saw lying next to the fragrant beverage the volume which Guillory had been reading yesterday. The exact volume which he had used to express his dissatisfaction. Curiosity invited him to inspect it for himself and while he couldn't claim to have read all the books surrounding him, he prided himself in being an avid reader, and presumed to at least know the contents of the room.
The book was a red, leather-bound volume, with a thick cover and a strong back. Picking it up — careful not to stir the porcelain cup beside it — he lifted the comfortable weight of the book off the rosewood table, into his lap, and peeled open the cover.
'Une Impression et Guide de l'Art de la 18ème Siècle, Essais sur l'Art Français' it read. By 'Jean-Pierre Houard'.
Ah, he recalled. It must be one of my aunt's gifts. Thoughtful of her to introduce me to the Rococo, although I don't share her passion for rosy cheeked figures from 1750.
His hair had fallen into view as he started reading, and Crawford reminded himself to have it cut. A smile charmed its way onto his face as he was reminded of James's comments on his hair.
His smile broadened.
By three, Richard Crawford had long ago laid aside the volume, and was drinking yet another cup in the library, looking over Allie's letter, when his valet came to inform him that a gentleman was enquiring after him at the door, and was most insistent on being given entry.
Richard, reminded of the notice he had sent out towards Vale before supper, now sat up straighter and told Christian to let him in. He had not thought Vale eager enough to endure the weather in order to see him, but, as Richard reminded himself— one could never know for sure with Auguste Vale.
He was folding away and pocketing the pages of Allie's letter, when Auguste W. Vale rushed into the room, talking merrily, with his wet and matted hair sticking to his forehead and neck. His shoulders and chest were filthy and drenched and he had failed to take off his raincoat.
"Oh, Richard — oh, have you seen the city! Oh, it is nice, delightful! And how have you been getting on? I am positively amazed at the people, and the food—! Can you believe that Mrs Scarbourgh warned me about the food! The idea—! But then she was always rather prissy about things, wasn't she—"
Richard rose in horror at the entry of his friend. "You look ghastly!" He said, looking him over with alarm. "Slow down, I beg you," he cried. "You'll get my carpet wet!"
"It'll be alright. It'll be alright. You wouldn't believe what a pleasure it is! How have you been these past months?"
"I'm sure you've heard plenty already." Richard moved towards him, reaching out and failing to calm Vale as the energised young man turned about to inspect the apartment. A pained ache passed Richard's chest as he realised Vale had no intention of slowing down.
"News travels fast," Vale said. "News travels fast. As always."
"Very well. But have you really been walking the whole way? You're drenched! And it's not that hard to get a hansom. You knew it was raining. It's been raining since supper!"
Vale's smiling face turned towards him. "Rain? Why, there was scarcely a drop. You've been out of England too long, my friend. You've forgotten what rain is! So you've had a nice few months, I reckon? I have some stories to tell you, some stories indeed!"
"I see. But why don't I have Christian get you something dry?"
"If it pleases you."
"It pleases me. And it pleases my sofas."
"And carpet."
"And my carpet."
Richard satisfied his dismay on account of his furniture with another tut in Vale's direction. "Christian," he called and shook his head at Vale.
"You've become quite a nagger, haven't you?" Vale scrunched his nose.
"Oh, shut it."
His valet appeared in the doorway. "Sir?"
"Ah— get some towels, will you? I expect you're hungry—?" Richard turned towards Vale.
"No, I don't feel hungry. I had something to eat two hours ago. But I'll go and dry."
"Yes, yes, go along and come back after," said Richard, once again shaking his head as he looked at his friend. "Go along, make haste," he added, and, gathering up his papers and letters, he readied himself for a chaotic afternoon. Or at least an eventful one.
Vale and Richard had met each other last year of University, and while their relationship, at the time, had been mutually beneficial, they had held a warm affection for one another. Nowadays, they had been in each other's confidence — with the occasional fall-out — for nearly two years.
Richard had taken the liberty to pour them a glass, and, ushering Vale in, who re-entered with his hair upright, told him to close the door.
"Won't you sit down?" Richard indicated to the sofa opposite him. Auguste Vale sat down, and, rubbing his hands, he bent his head to one side to inspect the drink on the table between them. Then he picked it up, crossed his legs and threw an arm over the back of the chair.
"Before you ask about anything," said Richard, following Vale's wrist as the young man languidly spun the bourbon, "I must tell you that you ought to believe nothing of the lies and stories spread about. I am doing quite well, thank you very much, and do not want people speaking ill of my competence."
It was then that Richard recalled his time spend in Paris, a tale which was interrupted every few sentences, but as Richard was used to it, he conceded with a patience he seldom mustered.
"Now why don't you come with me to Vienna?" Vale said.
"I just got here." Richard indicated towards the apartment.
"Why don't you go to Vienna for a while or somewhere in Italy? You could join me if you get hold of any money at home. Do you think you will get any money at home?"
Richard looked down at his drink. "No. I think I will stay in Paris for a while. I'd like to see more of what's going on here."
"I can tell you what's going on. And I haven't been here for months. Already."
"No. I mean I still didn't go to see the pictures. And I met some people and I want to go to the Six-Day and Auteuil and Enghien and Le Tremblay. Why don't you stay?"
"I don't like the crowd and I can't afford to gamble."
"You like parties."
"I like parties."
Richard smirked. "And will you behave?"
Vale threw his hands in the air. "Of course I will! — of course!"
"Yes—?" Richard crossed his legs and raised a brow.
"You know me."
"Vale—" Richard warned him. Yet as soon as he was to reprimand him, Vale emptied his glass in a single moment and resumed his former, enthusiastic attitude. Then his eyes flew to Richard's and Vale conceded at seeing whatever he found there:
"Fine. I promise. Other things you need to warn me to stay away from?"
"The entirety of female Paris would be nice."
"You prude."
"Ass."
"Now, what was that about parties?" Vale said as he leaned back, turning his empty glass round and round. Richard shrugged.
"Splendid. Boring. It varies." He said.
"When?"
"Tomorrow at eight. At the Brodeur's," he brought his glass up, and, changing his mind, nodded at Vale: "I'll introduce you." Then he emptied his glass. "Refill?"
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