Collected Stories (53 page)

When Madame de Couçy went out with Seabury alone, he missed the companionship of Cherry Beamish. With Cherry the old beauty always softened a little; seemed amused by the other’s interest in whatever the day produced: the countryside, the weather, the number of cakes she permitted herself for tea. The imagination which made this strange friendship possible was certainly on the side of Cherry Beamish. For her, he could see, there was something in it; to be the anchor, the refuge, indeed, of one so out of her natural orbit—selected by her long ago as an object of special admiration.

One afernoon when he called, the maid, answering his ring, said that Madame would not go out this afternoon, but hoped he would stay and have tea with her in her salon. He told the lift boy to dismiss the car and went in to Madame de Couçy. She received him with unusual warmth.

“Chetty is out for the afternoon, with some friends from home. Oh, she still has a great many! She is much younger than I, in every
sense. Today I particularly wanted to see you alone. It’s curious how the world runs away from one, slips by without one’s realizing it.”

He reminded her that the circumstances had been unusual. “We have lived through a storm to which the French Revolution, which used to be our standard of horrors, was merely a breeze. A rather gentlemanly affair, as one looks back on it … As for me, I am grateful to be alive, sitting here with you in a comfortable hotel (I might be in a prison full of rats), in a France still undestroyed.”

The old lady looked into his eyes with the calm, level gaze so rare with her now. “Are you grateful? I am not. I think one should go out with one’s time. I particularly wished to see you alone this afternoon. I want to thank you for your tact and gentleness with me one hideous evening long ago; in my house in New York. You were a darling boy to me that night. If you hadn’t come along, I don’t know how I would have got over it—out of it, even. One can’t call the servants.”

“But, Gabrielle, why recall a disagreeable incident when you have so many agreeable ones to remember?”

She seemed not to hear him, but went on, speaking deliberately, as if she were reflecting aloud. “It was strange, your coming in just when you did: that night it seemed to me like a miracle. Afterward, I remembered you had been expected at eight. But I had forgotten all that, forgotten everything. Never before or since have I been so frightened. It was something worse than fear.”

There was a knock at the door. Madame de Couçy called:
“Entrez!”
without turning round. While the tea was brought she sat looking out of the window, frowning. When the waiter had gone she turned abruptly to Seabury:

“After that night I never saw you again until you walked into the dining-room of this hotel a few weeks ago. I had gone into the country somewhere, hiding with friends, and when I came back to New York, you were already on your way to China. I never had a chance to explain.”

“There was certainly no need for that.”

“Not for you, perhaps. But for me. You may have thought such scenes were frequent in my life. Hear me out, please,” as he protested. “That man had come to my house at seven o’clock that evening and
sent up a message begging me to see him about some business matters. (I had been stupid enough to let him make investments for me.) I finished dressing and hurried down to the drawing-room.” Here she stopped and slowly drank a cup of tea. “Do you know, after you came in I did not see you at all, not for some time, I think. I was mired down in something … 
the power of the dog,
the English Prayer Book calls it. But the moment I heard your voice, I knew that I was safe … I felt the leech drop off. I have never forgot the sound of your voice that night; so calm, with all a man’s strength behind it,—and you were only a boy. You merely asked if you had come too early. I felt the leech drop off. After that I remember nothing. I didn’t see you, with my eyes, until you gave me your handkerchief. You stayed with me and looked after me all evening.

“You see, I had let the beast come to my house, oh, a number of times! I had asked his advice and allowed him to make investments for me. I had done the same thing at home with men who knew about such matters; they were men like yourself and Hardwick. In a strange country one goes astray in one’s reckonings. I had met that man again and again at the houses of my friends,—your friends! Of course his personality was repulsive to me. One knew at once that under his smoothness he was a vulgar person. I supposed that was not unusual in great bankers in the States.”

“You simply chose the wrong banker, Gabrielle. The man’s accent must have told you that he belonged to a country you did not admire.”

“But I tell you I met him at the houses of decent people.”

Seabury shook his head. “Yes, I am afraid you must blame us for that. Americans, even those whom you call the decent ones, do ask people to their houses who shouldn’t be there. They are often asked
because
they are outrageous,—and therefore considered amusing. Besides, that fellow had a very clever way of pushing himself. If a man is generous in his contributions to good causes, and is useful on committees and commissions, he is asked to the houses of the people who have these good causes at heart.”

“And perhaps I, too, was asked because I was considered notorious? A divorcée, known to have more friends among men than among women at home? I think I see what you mean. There are not many shades in your society. I left the States soon after you sailed for China.
I gave up my New York house at a loss to be rid of it. The instant I recognized you in the dining-room downstairs, that miserable evening came back to me. In so far as our acquaintance was concerned, all that had happened only the night before.”

“Then I am reaping a reward I didn’t deserve, some thirty years afterward! If I had not happened to call that evening when you were so—so unpleasantly surprised, you would never have remembered me at all! We shouldn’t be sitting together at this moment. Now may I ring for some fresh tea, dear? Let us be comfortable. This afternoon had brought us closer together. And this little spot in Savoie is a nice place to renew old friendships, don’t you think?”

Some hours later, when Mr. Seabury was dressing for dinner, he was thinking of that strange evening in Gabrielle Longstreet’s house on Fifty-third Street, New York.

He was then twenty-four years old. She had been very gracious to him all the winter.

On that particular evening he was to take her to dine at Delmonico’s. Her cook and butler were excused to attend a wedding. The maid who answered his ring asked him to go up to the drawing-room on the second floor, where Madame was awaiting him. She followed him as far as the turn of the stairway, then, hearing another ring at the door, she excused herself.

He went on alone. As he approached the wide doorway leading into the drawing-room, he was conscious of something unusual; a sound, or perhaps an unnatural stillness. From the doorway he beheld something quite terrible. At the far end of the room Gabrielle Long-street was seated on a little French sofa—not seated, but silently struggling. Behind the sofa stood a stout, dark man leaning over her. His left arm, about her waist, pinioned her against the flowered silk upholstery. His right hand was thrust deep into the low-cut bodice of her dinner gown. In her struggle she had turned a little on her side; her right arm was in the grip of his left hand, and she was trying to free the other, which was held down by the pressure of his elbow. Neither of those two made a sound. Her face was averted, half hidden
against the blue silk back of the sofa. Young Seabury stood still just long enough to see what the situation really was. Then he stepped across the threshold and said with such coolness as he could command: “Am I too early, Madame Longstreet?”

The man behind her started from his crouching position, darted away from the sofa, and disappeared down the stairway. To reach the stairs he passed Seabury, without lifting his eyes, but his face was glistening wet.

The lady lay without stirring, her face now completely hidden. She looked so crushed and helpless, he thought she must be hurt physically. He spoke to her softly: “Madame Longstreet, shall I call—”

“Oh, don’t call! Don’t call anyone.” She began shuddering violently, her face still turned away. “Some brandy, please. Downstairs, in the dining-room.”

He ran down the stairs, had to tell the solicitous maid that Madame wished to be alone for the present. When he came back Gabrielle had caught up the shoulder straps of her gown. Her right arm bore red finger marks. She was shivering and sobbing. He slipped his handkerchief into her hand, and she held it over her mouth. She took a little brandy. Then another fit of weeping came on. He begged her to come nearer to the fire. She put her hand on his arm, but seemed unable to rise. He lifted her from that seat of humiliation and took her, wavering between his supporting hands, to a low chair beside the coal grate. She sank into it, and he put a cushion under her feet. He persuaded her to drink the rest of the brandy. She stopped crying and leaned back, her eyes closed, her hands lying nerveless on the arms of the chair. Seabury thought he had never seen her when she was more beautiful … probably that was because she was helpless and he was young.

“Perhaps you would like me to go now?” he asked her.

She opened her eyes. “Oh, no! Don’t leave me, please. I am so much safer with you here.” She put her hand, still cold, on his for a moment, then closed her eyes and went back into that languor of exhaustion.

Perhaps half an hour went by. She did not stir, but he knew she was not asleep: an occasional trembling of the eyelids, tears stealing
out from under her black lashes and glistening unregarded on her cheeks; like pearls he thought they were, transparent shimmers on velvet cheeks gone very white.

When suddenly she sat up, she spoke in her natural voice.

“But, my dear boy, you have gone dinnerless all this while! Won’t you stay with me and have just a bit of something up here? Do ring for Hopkins, please.”

The young man caught at the suggestion. If once he could get her mind on the duties of caring for a guest, that might lead to something. He must try to be very hungry.

The kitchen maid was in and, under Hopkins’s direction, got together a creditable supper and brought it up to the drawing-room. Gabrielle took nothing but the hot soup and a little sherry. Young Seabury, once he tasted food, found he had no difficulty in doing away with cold pheasant and salad.

Gabrielle had quite recovered her self-control. She talked very little, but that was not unusual with her. He told her about Hardwick’s approaching marriage. For him, the evening went by very pleasantly. He felt with her a closer intimacy than ever before.

When at midnight he rose to take his leave, she detained him beside her chair, holding his hand. “At some other time I shall explain what you saw here tonight. How could such a thing happen in one’s own house, in an English-speaking city …?”

“But that was not an English-speaking man who went out from here. He is an immigrant who has made a lot of money. He does not belong.”

“Yes, that is true. I wish you weren’t going out to China. Not for long, I hope. It’s a bad thing to be away from one’s own people.” Her voice broke, and tears came again. He kissed her hand softly, devotedly, and went downstairs.

He had not seen her again until his arrival at this hotel some weeks ago, when he did not recognize her.

One evening when Mrs. Allison and Madame de Couçy had been dining with Seabury at the Maison des Fleurs, they went into the tea
room to have their coffee and watch the dancing. It was now September, and almost everyone would be leaving next week. The floor was full of young people, English, American, French, moving monotonously to monotonous rhythms,—some of them scarcely moving at all. Gabrielle watched them through her lorgnette, with a look of resigned boredom.

Mrs. Allison frowned at her playfully. “Of course it’s all very different,” she observed, “but then, so is everything.” She turned to Seabury: “You know we used to have to put so much drive into a dance act, or it didn’t go at all. Lottie Collins was the only lazy dancer who could get anything over. But the truth was, the dear thing couldn’t dance at all; got on by swinging her foot! There must be something in all this new manner, if only one could get it. That couple down by the bar now, the girl with the
very
low back: they are doing it beautifully; she dips and rises like a bird in the air … a tired bird, though. That’s the disconcerting thing. It all seems so tired.”

Seabury agreed with her cheerfully that it was charming, though tired. He felt a gathering chill in the lady on his right. Presently she said impatiently: “Haven’t you had enough of this, Chetty?”

Mrs. Allison sighed. “You never see anything in it, do you, dear?”

“I see wriggling. They look to me like lizards dancing—or reptiles coupling.”

“Oh, no, dear! No! They are such sweet young things. But they are dancing in a dream. I want to go and wake them up. They are missing so much fun. Dancing ought to be open and free, with the lungs full; not mysterious and breathless. I wish I could see a spirited waltz again.”

Gabrielle shrugged and gave a dry laugh. “I wish I could dance one! I think I should try, if by any chance I should ever hear a waltz played again.”

Seabury rose from his chair. “May I take you up on that? Will you?”

She seemed amused and incredulous, but nodded.

“Excuse me for a moment.” He strolled toward the orchestra. When the tango was over he spoke to the conductor, handing him something from his vest pocket. The conductor smiled and bowed, then spoke to his men, who smiled in turn. The saxophone put down
his instrument and grinned. The strings sat up in their chairs, pulled themselves up, as it were, tuned for a moment, and sat at attention. At the lift of the leader’s hand they began the “Blue Danube.”

Gabrielle took Mr. Seabury’s arm. They passed a dozen couples who were making a sleepy effort and swung into the open square where the line of tables stopped. Seabury had never danced with Gabrielle Longstreet, and he was astonished. She had attack and style, the grand style, slightly military, quite right for her tall, straight figure. He held her hand very high, accordingly. The conductor caught the idea; smartened the tempo slightly, made the accents sharper. One by one the young couples dropped out and sat down to smoke. The two old waltzers were left alone on the floor. There was a stir of curiosity about the room; who were those two, and why were they doing it? Cherry Beamish heard remarks from the adjoining tables.