Saratoga Trunk (30 page)

This bulky and aged Borgia now sat enthroned in her corner of the United States Hotel piazza. Each subject received his meed of poison as he approached the presence. The strident, overbearing voice carried up and down half the length of the enormous promenade.

“Oh, it’s Miss Vanderbilt! Still wearing your little caps, I see.” Then, in a piercing aside to Miss Diggs: “Bald as a billiard ball. Those curls are stitched to the cap.”

Bart Van Steed hung over her chair, captive. “Well, I’ll just drive down to Congress Spring, Mother. Shall I bring you a fresh bottle of water?”

“Diggs fetched it early this morning. Stay here with me, Bartholomew. After all, I arrived only last night, I haven’t had a chance to talk to you. . . . Who’s this? Oh, Mrs. Porcelain. You are still Mrs. Porcelain, I suppose? What’s the matter with the men these days! They want nothing but young chits of sixteen. The sillies! As soon as a woman gets along toward her thirties and has some sense they count her as shopworn. ... Is there a circus in town? But then who’s that driving tandem with the white reins? Oh, the Forosini! No wonder. The old man himself looks like a ringmaster and now all the daughter needs is spangles and a hoop to make it perfect.”

Only Mrs. Coventry Bellop gave her dart for dart. For well over a decade these two had been coming to Saratoga to partake of the waters and to enjoy their ancient feud. Madam Van Steed had the money, Mrs. Coventry Bellop the blood. She regarded Madam Van Steed as a parvenu and the Goulds, the Vanderbilts, the Astors, the Belmonts as upstarts. She loathed stupidity and dullness, played poker with the men; it was said she had been seen to smoke a pipe. Madam Van Steed, the conventional, regarded her with horror mingled with a wholesome fear. Bellop made no secret of her poverty. She knew the characters and the scandals of the Club House since the day of Morrissey; every hotel register was an open book to her. She knew how much the faro dealers were paid; which actually were secretaries and which were not in the cottages of the lonely millionaires whose wives were in Europe; had the most terrific inside political information about the doings, past, present and future of the late Boss Tweed, and of Samuel Tilden, James G. Blaine, Sanford Church. The lives of the Lorillards, the Kips, the Lelands were not only an open book to her but one from whose pages she gave free and delightful readings. She boasted that she was helping General Ulysses S. Grant with his memoirs; she gossiped with Mark Twain when he came to near-by Mount McGregor to visit General Grant. She was the confidante of chambermaids, racetrack touts, millionaires, cooks, dowagers, bookies, debutantes, brokers, jockeys and, amazingly enough, she rarely betrayed a genuine confidence. Hers was the expansive, sympathetic and outgoing nature which attracts emotional confession. She was at once generous and grasping. She never had a penny long.

Clio had been conscious that this woman marked her comings and goings; suspected her plans; coolly appraised her jewelry and her exhibitionistic outbursts. The plump good-natured face, like the Cheshire Cat, seemed to materialize out of thin air. The humorous intelligent eyes seemed to be weighing her, evaluating her.

This morning, as Clio ascended the steps of the United States Hotel with Clint Maroon at her side, her quick eye noted the staring group in the center of the piazza, her dramatic instinct sensed a tense moment impending. A bevy of sycophantic mamas and daughters clustered round the chair of an imperious old woman; the captive Bart leaned over her, offering filial attentions.

Clio had walked to Congress Spring, she had taken a glass of the water, she was conscious of a feeling of unusual alertness and excitement. Maroon, having breakfasted at the stables, had driven swiftly to Congress Park and had picked her up and driven her to the hotel in spite of her halfhearted protests. Kaka and Cupide, who had accompanied her as always, had been tucked into the back seat of the high cart. It was this picturesque company upon which Madam Van Steed’s eye now fell—fell, flickered and widened in astonishment. Cupide leaped down to hold the horses, Maroon in white hat, white full-skirted coat, Texas boots and fawn trousers, handed down a Clio all cream and black in cool India silk and a lush leghorn hat trimmed with lace and yellow roses. Cream lace and leghorn enhanced the black of her smooth hair, her creamy skin, accented the dark eyes, the cream-colored India silk was set off by black velvet bows. A lace-ruffled parasol made perfect the whole.

Up the piazza steps, Maroon’s eyes warm upon her. The statuesque Kakaracou walked behind. Cupide scrambled up to the driver’s seat to await Maroon’s return.

“Bless my soul!” came the trumpet tones of Madam Van Steed. “What’s this? We’ve not only a circus but a sideshow!”

There was a murmur of remonstrance from the wretched Bart and a snicker of amusement from the piazza collection.

Clio heard a murmur of French from Kaka in the rear. “The old devil has arrived, then, to protect her imp.”

Clio nodded coolly in the direction of Van Steed, Maroon swept off the white sombrero in salute, the little group entered the hotel, but not before they heard the beldame’s next words shrilled from her nook and evidently addressed to her son. “Who? De Chanfret? What’s the world coming to! Well, run along, run after them, fetch her over to me, and the cowboy too. I want to see them.”

Another murmur of remonstrance from the wretched Bart; another titter from the group. Hurried footsteps behind them; Bartholomew Van Steed caught up with them. He stood before them, his cheeks were very pink, his amber eyes held a look of pleading.

“Mrs. De Chanfret, my mother arrived unexpectedly last evening—she wants so much to meet you—uh—you, too, Maroon—if you’d—do you mind—she’s out on the piazza—not very well, you know—heard so much about you—”

“But I’d be enchanted to meet your dear mother,” Clio said; and tossing her parasol to Kaka she gaily tucked one hand in Bart’s limp and unresponsive arm, the other in Maroon’s, and so through the screened doorway and down the piazza’s length, a radiant smiling figure squired by two devoted swains. Now Clio saw that the stout black-clad Bellop was among the group and yet apart from it. She was leaning against one of the piazza pillars, her hands on her broad hips, her mocking eyes regarding the scene before her with anticipatory relish.

She called out to Clio in her deep hearty voice, “Good morning, Countess!
Comment ça va!” A.
look of friendly warning in her eye, a something in her tone.

Clio grinned.
“C’est ce que nous verrons.”
That remains to be seen.

Stumblingly Van Steed began the introduction. “Mother, this is Mrs. De Chanfret—Colonel Maroon—my—”

“Howdy do! I hear you call yourself a countess.”

“I call myself Mrs. De Chanfret.”

“Touché!”
boomed Mrs. Coventry Bellop.

“Colonel Maroon, eh?” the rasping voice went on. “What war was that? You look a bit young to have been a colonel in the Civil War, young man.”

The Texan looked down at her, the sunburned face crinkled in laughter, the drawling voice had in it a note of amused admiration.

“Shucks, Ma’am, I’m no Colonel, any more than old Vanderbilt was a Commodore. You know how it is, Ma’am. Vanderbilt, he ran a Staten Island ferry and some scows loaded with cow manure, and that’s all the Commodore he ever was.”

In the little ripple of laughter that followed this the cold gray eyes shifted to Clio’s lovely face. “That ninny, Bean, the head usher, couldn’t find your husband’s signature in the old hotel register. Isn’t that odd!”

This is going to be bad, after all, Clio thought. Aloud she said, “Signature?”

“I’ve been coming to the United States Hotel for years. Before it was burned down and after it was rebuilt. I’ve met every well-known person that ever stopped here—in my day, that is. They saved the old registers from the big fire, you know. You’d be interested to see the signatures. There’s the Marquis de Lafayette and General Burnside and General Grant and Washington Irving and even Joseph Bonaparte, the late King of Spain. But no Count de Trenaunay de Chanfret. You say he stayed here?”

“Incognito.” Serenely. “When a French diplomat is in America on affairs of state connected with his country, it is sometimes wise to discard titles.”

“Mother doesn’t mean—” stammered Bart Van Steed, miserably.

Mrs. Coventry Bellop’s hearty voice cut in. “She doesn’t mean a thing—do you, Clarissa? It doesn’t pay to inquire too closely into the background of us Saratoga summer folks. Now you, Clarissa, you call yourself a lady. But that doesn’t necessarily mean you are one, does it! Come on, Mrs. De Chanfret. Let’s take a turn in the garden along with this handsome Texan. It’s too hot out here in the sun for a woman of my girth.”

“Good day to you, Ma’am,” said Maroon to Madam Van Steed; and bowed, the white sombrero held over his heart.

Clio looked into Sophie Bellop’s steady eyes, and her own were warm with gratitude for this new ally. “The garden? That will be charming, dear Mrs. Bellop. . . . Enchanted to have met you, Madam Van Steed. You are all that your dear son had led me to expect.”

Into the grateful coolness of the hotel lobby. “Phew!” exclaimed Mrs. Coventry Bellop inelegantly and wiped her flushed face. “The old hell-cat!” Then, as Clint Maroon stared at her with new eyes, she proceeded to take charge. “Look, Colonel, I want to talk to this young lady. You’re probably off, anyway, to the track. By the way, that little jockey of yours—where did he ever race before?”

“Why—uh—” floundered Clint.

“He rode
Sans Nom
at Longchamp two years ago,” Clio snapped, for she was by now cross, tired, hot. “What a curious custom you Americans have of asking questions!”

Mrs. Bellop’s round white cheeks crinkled in a grin. “You’re a wonderful girl,” she boomed. “Run along, Colonel. Mrs. De Chanfret and I, we’re going to have a little chat, just us girls.”

He looked at Clio. “Would you care to go to the races at eleven?”

“I am weary of the races.”

“We’ll drive at three.”

“I am bored with the parade of carriages, like a funeral procession, up and down this Broadway.”

“What do you say to dinner out at the Lake?”

“I am sick to death of black bass—corn on the cob—red raspberries—ugh!”

“Why—honey—!”

Sophie Bellop’s comfortable laugh cut the little silence. “That’s Saratoga sickness. Everybody feels that way after two weeks. If you can stand it after two weeks of it you can stand it for two months, and like it.” She waved him away with a flirt of her strangely small, lean hand. “She’ll be all right by this evening. You run along, Colonel Maroon.”

He looked at Clio. She nodded. He was off, his Texas boots tapping smartly on the flagstones, the broad shoulders straightening in relief at being out of this feminine pother.

Clio thought, I must be rid of this woman. There is a reason for this sudden friendliness. She held out her hand. “I hope you weren’t too sharp, after all, with that very provincial old lady. But thank you. Good-by.”

“Nonsense. I want to talk to you. It’s important. Don’t be silly, child.”

“The garden?”

“No. Your room. We can talk there.”

With a shrug Clio turned toward the cottages. Kakaracou was accustomed to surprises. Her face, as she opened the door, remained impassive. Only the eyes narrowed a little in suspicion.

“Make me some coffee, Kaka. Will you have some, Mrs. Bellop? I’ve had no breakfast. But these huge trays of heavy food—I can’t face them any more. How I should love a crisp
croissant
with sweet butter! Ah, well.” She took off the broad-brimmed leghorn with its heavy trimming of blond lace and roses and ribbons, she flung it on the table among a litter of books and trinkets and
bibelots.
The grim litde hotel sitting room had, with her occupancy, taken on a luxurious and feminine air. Sophie Bellop’s eyes, intelligent, materialistic, encompassed the room and its contents, stared openly, without obliqueness, into the bedroom beyond with its lacy pink pillows, its scent bottles, its flowers and yellow-backed French books and its froth of furbelows.

“If you’d ask me,” boomed Sophie Bellop, “who I’d rather be than anyone in the world this minute, I’d say—you.”

Clio had gone straight to the bedroom and, Southern fashion, she was unconcernedly getting out of her elaborate street clothes and into an airy ruffled wrapper. Thus she had seen Rita Dulaine and Belle Piquery do, thus she always would do. Kaka, on her knees, was unlacing her. Now, as Clio, in petticoats and corset cover, moved toward the door the better to gaze upon the astonishing Mrs. Bellop, Kaka too moved forward, still on her knees.

“Me!” Bare-armed, her hands on her hips, Clio stared in unbelief. “But why?”

Mrs. Bellop had discovered a dish of large meaty black cherries on the sitting-room table and was munching them and blowing the pits into her palm. “No reason. No reason, my girl, except that you’re young and beautiful and smart and brassy and have two dashing young men in love with you—at least, poor Bart would be dashing if that old harridan didn’t catch on to his coat-tails every time he tries to dash—and are going to be rich if you use some sense. That’s all.” She popped another cherry into her mouth.

Clio said nothing. She moved back into her bedroom. Her corsets came off; you heard a little sigh of relief as lungs and muscles expanded. The cool flimsy gabrielle enveloped her. “The coffee, Kaka. Quickly. In there. A napkin and bowl for Mrs. Bellop’s hands.”

She crossed the little sitting room then with her easy indolent stride and sank back against the lumpy couch whose bleakness was enlivened by the Spanish silk shawl of lemon yellow thrown over its back.

Mrs. Bellop, relieved of the cherry pits, relaxed in her chair, belched a little and began to drum dreamily on the marble table top with her slim sensitive fingers. A silence fell between the two women—a silence of deliberate waiting, weighing, measuring.

At last Clio spoke, deliberately. “Just what is it you want of me?”

“Money.”

“I have no money.”

“You will have.”

“How?”

“By listening to me.”

“You have no money. Why have you not listened to yourself?”