Christmas Holiday (17 page)

Lydia snatched herself away and seized Madame Berger by the shoulders. She almost shook her.

“Listen to me. I don’t love for a month or a year. I love for always. He’s the only man I’ve loved. He’s the only man I shall ever love. Whatever he’s done, whatever the future has in store, I love him. Nothing can make me love him less. I adore him.”

Next day the evening papers announced that Robert
Berger had been arrested for the murder of Teddie Jordan.

A few weeks later Lydia knew that she was with child and she realized with horror that she had received the fertilizing seed on the very night of the brutal murder.

Silence fell between Lydia and Charley. They had long since finished their dinner and the other diners had gone. Charley, listening without a word, absorbed as he had never been in his life, to Lydia’s story, had, all the same, been conscious that the restaurant was empty and that the waitresses were anxious for them to go, and once or twice he had been on the point of suggesting to Lydia that they should move. But it was difficult, for she spoke as if in a trance, and though often her eyes met his he had an uncanny sensation that she did not see him. But then a party of Americans came in, six of them, three men and three girls, and asked if it was too late to have dinner. The patronne, foreseeing a lucrative order, since they were all very lively, assured them that her husband was the cook and if they didn’t mind waiting, would cook them whatever they wished. They ordered champagne cocktails. They were out to enjoy themselves and their gaiety filled the little restaurant with laughter. But Lydia’s tragic story seemed to encompass the table at which she and Charley sat with a mysterious and sinister atmosphere which the high spirits of that happy crowd could not penetrate; and they sat in their corner, alone, as though they were surrounded by an invisible wall.

“And do you love him still?” asked Charley at last.

“With all my heart.”

She spoke with such a passionate sincerity that it was impossible not to believe her. It was strange, and Charley could not prevent the slight shiver of dismay that passed through him. She did not seem to belong to quite the same human species as he did. That violence of feeling was rather terrifying, and it made him a little uncomfortable to be with her. He might have felt like that if he had been talking quite casually to someone for an hour or two and then suddenly discovered it was a ghost. But there was one thing that troubled him. It had been on his mind for the last twenty-four hours, but not wishing her to think him censorious, he had not spoken of it.

“In that case I can’t help wondering how you can bear to be in a place like the Sérail. Couldn’t you have found some other means of earning your living?”

“I tried to. I’m a good needle-woman, I was apprenticed to a dress-maker. You’d have thought I could have got work in that business; when they found out who I was no one would have me. It meant that or starvation.”

There seemed nothing more to say, and Charley was silent. She planted her elbows on the red-and-white checkered table-cloth and rested her face on her hands. Charley was sitting opposite to her and she gazed into his eyes with a long reflective look that seemed to bore into the depths of his being.

“I didn’t mind as much as you might have thought I would.” She hesitated for an instant. “I wanted to atone.”

Charley stared at her uncomprehendingly. Her words, spoken hardly above a whisper, gave him a shock. He had a sensation that he had never had before; it seemed to him that a veil that painted the world in pleasant, familiar colours had been suddenly rent and he looked into a convulsed and writhing darkness.

“What in God’s name do you mean?”

“Though I love Robert with all my heart, with all my soul, I know that he sinned. I felt that the only way I could serve Robert now was by submitting to a degradation that was the most horrible I could think of. At first I thought I would go to one of those brothels where soldiers go, and workmen, and the riffraff of a great city, but I feared I should feel pity for those poor people whose hurried, rare visits to such places afford the only pleasure of their cruel lives. The Sérail is frequented by the rich, the idle, the vicious. There was no chance there that I should feel anything but hatred and contempt for the beasts who bought my body. There my humiliation is like a festering wound that nothing can heal. The brutal indecency of the clothes I have to wear is a shame that no habit can dull. I welcome the suffering. I welcome the contempt these men have for the instrument of their lust. I welcome their brutality. I’m in hell as Robert is in hell and my suffering joins with his, and it may be that my suffering makes it more easy for him to bear his.”

“But he’s suffering because he committed a crime. You suffered enough for no fault of yours. Why should you expose yourself to suffering unnecessarily?”

“Sin must be paid for by suffering. How can you with your cold English nature know what the love is that is all my life? I am his and he is mine. I should be as vile as his crime was if I hesitated to share his suffering. I know that my suffering as well as his is necessary to expiate his sin.”

Charley hesitated. He had no particular religious feelings. He had been brought up to believe in God, but not to think of him. To do that would be—well, not exactly bad form, but rather priggish. It was difficult for him now to say what he had in mind, but he found himself in a situation where it seemed almost natural to say the most unnatural things.

“Your husband committed a crime and was punished for it. I daresay that’s all right. But you can’t think that a—a merciful God demands atonement from you for somebody else’s misdeeds.”

“God? What has God to do with it? Do you suppose I can look at the misery in which the vast majority of the people live in the world and believe in God? Do you suppose I believe in God who let the Bolsheviks kill my poor, simple father? Do you know what I think? I think God has been dead for millions upon millions of years. I think when he took infinity and set in motion the process that has resulted in the universe, he died, and for ages and ages men have sought and worshipped a being who ceased to exist in the act of making existence possible for them.”

“But if you don’t believe in God I can’t see the point of what you’re doing. I could understand it if you believed in a cruel God who exacted an eye for an eye and
a tooth for a tooth. Atonement, the sort of atonement you want to make, is meaningless if there’s no God.”

“You would have thought so, wouldn’t you? There’s no logic in it. There’s no sense. And yet, deep down in my heart, no, much more than that, in every fibre of my body, I know that I must atone for Robert’s sin. I know that that is the only way he can gain release from the evil that racks him. I don’t ask you to think I’m reasonable. I only ask you to understand that I can’t help myself. I believe that somehow—how I don’t know—my humiliation, my degradation, my bitter, ceaseless pain, will wash his soul clean, and even if we never see one another again he will be restored to me.”

Charley sighed. It was all strange to him, strange, morbid and disturbing. He did not know what to make of it. He felt more than ever ill-at-ease with that alien woman with her crazy fancies; and yet she looked ordinary enough, a prettyish little thing, not very well dressed; a typist or a girl in the post-office. Just then, at the Terry-Masons’, they would probably have started dancing; they would be wearing the paper caps they’d got out of the crackers at dinner. Some of the chaps would be a bit tight, but hang it all, on Christmas Day no one could mind. There’d have been a lot of kissing under the mistletoe, a lot of fun, a lot of ragging, a lot of laughter; they were all having a grand time. It seemed very far away, but thank God, it was there, normal, decent, sane and real; this was a nightmare. A nightmare? He wondered if there was anything in what she said, this woman with her tragic history and her miserable life, that God had died when he created the
wide world; and was he lying dead on some vast mountain range on a dead star or was he absorbed into the universe he had caused to be? It was rather funny, if you came to think of it, Lady Terry-Mason rounding up all the house party to go to church on Christmas morning. And his own father backing her up.

“I don’t pretend I’m much of a church-goer myself, but I think one ought to go on Christmas Day. I mean, I think it sets a good example.”

That’s what he would say.

“Don’t look so serious,” said Lydia. “Let’s go.”

They walked along the forbidding, sordid street that leads from the Avenue du Maine to the Place de Rennes, and there Lydia suggested that they should go to the news reel for an hour. It was the last performance of the day. Then they had a glass of beer and went back to the hotel. Lydia took off her hat and the fur she wore round her neck. She looked at Charley thoughtfully.

“If you want to come to bed with me you can, you know,” she said in just the same tone as she might have used if she had asked him if he would like to go to the Rotonde or the Dôme.

Charley caught his breath. All his nerves revolted from the idea. After what she had told him he could not have touched her. His mouth for a moment went grim with anger; he really was not going to have her mortify her flesh at his expense. But his native politeness prevented him from uttering the words that were on the tip of his tongue.

“Oh, I don’t think so, thank you.”

“Why not? I’m there for that and that’s what you came to Paris for, isn’t it? Isn’t that why all you English come to Paris?”

“I don’t know. Anyhow I didn’t.”

“What else did you come for?”

“Well, partly to see some pictures.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“It’s just as you like.”

She went into the bathroom. Charley was a trifle piqued that she accepted his refusal with so much unconcern. He thought at least she might have given him credit for his delicacy. Because perhaps she owed him something, at least board and lodging for twenty-four hours, he might well have looked upon it as a right to take what she offered; it wouldn’t have been unbecoming if she had thanked him for his disinterestedness. He was inclined to sulk. He undressed, and when she came in from the bathroom, in his dressing-gown, he went in to wash his teeth. She was in bed when he returned.

“Will it bother you if I read a little before I go to sleep?” he asked.

“No. I’ll turn my back to the light.”

He had brought a Blake with him. He began to read. Presently from Lydia’s quiet breathing in the next bed he knew she was asleep. He read on for a little and switched off the light.

Thus did Charley Mason spend Christmas Day in Paris.

T
HEY DID NOT WAKE
till so late next morning that by the time they had had their coffee, read the papers (like a domestic couple who had been married for years), bathed and dressed, it was nearly one.

“We might go along and have a cocktail at the Dôme and then lunch,” he said. “Where would you like to go?”

“There’s a very good restaurant on the boulevard in the other direction from the Coupole. Only it’s rather expensive.”

“Well, that doesn’t matter.”

“Are you sure?” She looked at him doubtfully. “I don’t want you to spend more than you can afford. You’ve been very sweet to me. I’m afraid I’ve taken advantage of your kindness.”

“Oh, rot!” he answered, flushing.

“You don’t know what it’s meant to me, these two days. Such a rest. Last night’s the first night for months that I’ve slept without waking and without dreams. I feel so refreshed. I feel quite different.”

She did indeed look much better this morning. Her
skin was clearer and her eyes brighter. She held her head more alertly.

“It’s been a wonderful little holiday you’ve given me. It’s helped me so much. But I mustn’t be a burden to you.”

“You haven’t been.”

She smiled with gentle irony.

“You’ve been very well brought up, my dear. It’s nice of you to say that, and I’m so unused to having people say nice things to me that it makes me want to cry. But after all you’ve come to Paris to have a good time; you know now you’re not likely to have it with me. You’re young and you must enjoy your youth. It lasts so short a while. Give me lunch to-day if you like and this afternoon I’ll go back to Alexey’s.”

“And to-night to the Sérail?”

“I suppose so.”

She sighed, but she checked the sigh and with a little gay shrug of the shoulders gave him a bright smile. Frowning slightly in his uncertainty Charley looked at her with pained eyes. He felt awkward and big, and his radiant health, his sense of well-being, the high spirits that bubbled inside him, seemed to himself in an odd way an offence. He was like a rich man vulgarly displaying his wealth to a poor relation. She looked very frail, a slim little thing in a shabby brown dress, and after that good night so much younger that she seemed almost a child. How could you help being sorry for her? And when you thought of her tragic story, when you thought—oh, unwillingly, for it was ghastly and senseless, yet troubling so that it haunted you—of
that crazy idea of hers of atoning for her husband’s crime by her own degradation, your heart-strings were wrung. You felt that you didn’t matter at all, and if your holiday in Paris, to which you’d looked forward with such excitement, was a wash-out—well, you just had to put up with it. It didn’t seem to Charley that it was he who was uttering the halting words he spoke, but a power within him that acted independently of his will. When he heard them issue from his lips he didn’t even then know why he said them.

“I don’t have to get back to the office till Monday morning and I’m staying till Sunday. If you care to stay on here till then, I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”

Her face lit up so that you might have thought a haphazard ray of the winter sun had strayed into the room.

“Do you mean that?”

“Otherwise I wouldn’t have suggested it.”

It looked as though her legs suddenly gave way, for she sank on to a chair.

“Oh, it would be such a blessing. It would be such a rest. It would give me new courage. But I can’t, I can’t.”