Índice Geral das Seções Índice da Seção Atual Indice da Obra Atual Anterior: XXII - For Her Sake Seguinte: XXIV - Vivian’s Summons from Head-Quarters
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CAPÍTULO XXIII
DIES VENERIS
IN the heart of commercial West-end London, but in one of those by-streets over which the tide of civilization seems to have rolled only to leave them more squalid and God-forsaken than before, stands a restaurant whose fame is much more than metropolitan. French cookery has never taken kindly to English soil, except in the houses of the great, whose chefs receive a salary in three figures, and whose guests’ appetite are too jaded ever to fancy food which is not disguised with an art that seems to have for its bizarre end to render the original staple as unlike its first principles as possible. With the restaurateurs matters are different. The seedy foreigners who affect the quartier Leycestere Squarr could not afford, and the middle classes of young England who dined in that ilk did not appreciate, the toothsome but mysterious edibles born of a French cuisine. So, while Providence permitted a Gladstone to substitute for the fiery drinks of our fathers the mild beverages of Bordeaux and Burgundy, Soyer the Great enjoyed but the briefest triumph in catering for his Anglican patrons. The exception which proves this rule exists in the restaurant I have named, and this, perhaps, owes its immunity from the common lot, more to amatory than to gastronomic considerations. Everything about the Luna savours of a grave and predetermined discretion. When a hoary M.P., full of years and honours, whose face is known to every London gamin from its appearance in the photographers’ windows, drives up to the door of the Luna in an unpretending Hansom, nothing but the most stolid civility and unctuous politeness can be traced in the manner of the attendant waiter, although the “honourable gentleman’s” companion for the evening’s meal is none other than Mademoiselle Courtejupe, the eminent danseuse, and the idol of
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the propriety-loving British public. Nor are the patrons of the Luna confined to our Legislature. There, officers, naval and military, club men, lawyers, actors, grave city merchants, and even parsons have their quiet little dinners, their Clicquot of the black seal, – and, let us add in all confidence that fair companion of the feast, without whom symposia are never held in so unlikely a locality. People smile when young or impulsive men mention the Luna as an excellent place of entertainment. “Heavy” fathers glance nervously at mamma, young husbands affect an unfelt calmness in the presence of their charming but jealous spouses, lovers look aghast at their innamorate if reckless speakers draw glowing word-pictures of the cuisine or cellar of this unpretending though celebrated house of festivity.
Let us enter the Luna at seven o’clock on a certain fine evening early in the December of 1868, and having mounted the single flight of straight, narrow stairs that leads us into a dark passage of corresponding proportions, let us turn aside to the left and drop invisibly into the first little cabinet particulier that presents itself.
A tiny little box it is, amply illuminated by the combined brilliance of gaslier and fire light, a cosy, warm-looking little triclinium, quaintly furnished with a cheval glass, a few chairs of homely pattern, a side-table vested with a white serviette, three or four crayon pictures, the indispensable couch of red velvet, an old-fashioned worsted bell-rope, and on the mantleshelf a pair of grotesque bronzes and a match-box. Voilà tout! Except, of course, the centre table, now groaning beneath a savoury burden of such toothsome comestibles and potables as the soul of Vane Vaurien loveth. Here then that modern Apicius sits and dines, taking, after the immortalized example of “thou great Anna whom three realms obey,” sometimes counsel, and sometimes – champagne; for Vane is here to-night on other quests than mere epicurean entertainment. Opposite him is seated our fair and wily acquaintance, Cora Bell, lustrous with blanc de perle and bloom of Ninon – Cora, with those flowing redundant
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tresses which are so deeply indebted for their amazing hue to the miracuous waters of Pactolus redivinus, – Cora in a gorgeous costume of velvet and satin, with a saucy smile on her round face, and saucy rosettes on her Pompadour shoes, impudent enough for any adventure, malicious enough for any mischief, clever enough to encounter gamely, if not successfully, the most perplexing situations.
Now Vane knew well that these three choice attributes of audacity, mischief, and invention, were native blooms in the fecund soil of Mrs. Archibald’s spiritual garden, and having done his best to cultivate them he reserved for himself the pleasure and privilege of enjoying whatever grateful sweets or healing balms they were capable of affording. So, now, having occasion for the services of some bel esprit, and suspecting that his fair ally herself cherished a certain animosity which might he useful to his own plans, Vaurien fancied that for once feminine spite might do him some acceptable work, and resolved accordingly to titillate Cora’s inventive powers by coaxing into a flame her smouldering pique against Vivian Brabazon. So presently, after a little inconsequent chat, Vaurien developed his scheme in the softest and tenderest manner – it was easy to him to be tender with Cora, for he was really fond of her, or thought he was, and such a hallucination with men of his kidney is the same thing as the actual affection.
“Pet,” said he, replenishing her champagne glass, and speaking with great deliberation, “do you happen to remember a fellow named Brabazon – tall, muscular sort of fellow, with a strong-minded sister? we saw him at Epsom on the Derby-day, when he was rude to you, I think? Eh?”
Mrs. Archibald coloured violently, but the blush was immediately drowned in Clicquot.
“Yes, of course I remember him,” said she, with disdainful emphasis. “And he was disgustingly rude to me at the concert in St. James’s Hall afterwards. I always wondered how you could be friends with him, V.”
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(“V” was the diminutive by which Cora familiarly addressed her admirer, as being the initial letter of both his euphonius names.)
“But I am not friends with him now, ma mie, and that’s precisely what I’m going to tell you about. I want you to help me with that fertile and angelico-diabolic wit of yours, petite. Brabazon is a surly cad, as his behaviour to you was alone sufficient to prove, and he has been all this autumn rendering himself outrageously obnoxious in Paris, – politically obnoxious, you understand. Well, Pet, you know my Tory principles, and as it’s not necessary for me to bore you with details of parliamentary cabala and foreign court intrigues, which would only puzzle you and involve tedious explanations, – it is quite enough to the point to tell you that he has been making himself very busy with certain political combinations intended to promote the Liberal interests, and likely, in my opinion to be productive of very serious consequences next session, if a stopper is not prematurely and effectually put upon his machinations. Now, child, suggest something that will get him out of Paris immediately: invitations or things of that sort won’t do, it must be something peremptory – nothing optional. You see?”
Cora was quite as flattered by this atrocious lying of Vane’s as he had sagaciously calculated she was likely to be. Political combinations – foreign-court intrigues! – and she was asked to frustrate – to suppress them! She knew that Vane wished to become an M.P., and that he had once had a foot on the hustings, and a committee sitting in Parliament-street; and she believed that through some unknown channel and in some unexplained manner he possessed a vast but secret influence in the country. What if she were destined to furnish the means for his public assumption of this latent power, – destined to become a political entity, – a lever in national affairs, a second Madame Howard? She had read of such women in Disraeli’s novels, – in the romances of Dumas, – in history itself! And who could tell if Vane had not actually come over from France for the sole purpose of consulting her on this important crisis? The man too, whom
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she was asked to crush, – to confound, – to destroy, – was he not the viper that had dared to repay her kindness with his sting, the barbarian who was guilty of that capital offence of insensibility to her charms, – the monster whose impenetrable stolidity had made her ridiculous in the eyes of her immediate companions? These were all unpardonable crimes, and thus it came to pass that Cora’s ire against this heathen baronet was more than proportionate to the fancy she had formerly entertained for him. And now he was in her hands! at her disposal! he and his dearest designs! It was maddening, inebriating, – and with a sigh of pleasure Cora abandoned herself to the delicious distraction of social triumph and the sweet anticipations of political celebrity. Vaurien with consummate tact had appealed to the strongest impulses of her volatile nature; – ambition and Vanity; and her wicked little heart thumped with extatic delight.
“Get him out of Paris immediately, V. dear?” she repeated, in a low cooing tone, which she no doubt intended to simulate profound cogitation, “must he be got out of Paris then?”
“Yes, petite, invent me some means of sending him off. The farther the better – some remote comer from which letters will he slow to travel and telegrams to fly.”
“I don’t know much about these things, you know V.,” says Cora, almost choked with agitation, “but haven’t you some friends at the Foreign Office, and isn’t Sir Vivian a Queen’s Messenger?”
“Vane looked at her fixedly, drank some wine with a meditative air, smoothed his magnificent moustache, and slightly tossing his head, delivered himself of one of that numerous family of phantom coughs which always haunted him.
“Well done, chère petite! Yes, it will do I think. It’s practicable. But it will cost me turtle and venison, Pet. I must have a tête-à-tête with my friend Montmorency, and that means a dinner at the Club, you know. Eh?”
“And then,” added Cora, with huge elation and an expression of
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extraordinary sapience, “get your friend to send him off somewhere at once with papers of importance that will take the foreigners a good time to settle about – some despatch, or embassy, or protocol, or anything professional, you know,” she concluded, getting hopelessly out of her depth.
“Well, Pet, I’ll put your plan into execution to-morrow; possibly it may succeed. If it fails you shall advise me again. Now we’ll have some coffee and liqueurs. You’ll like a cigarette, won’t you Petite?”
So the discreet garçon is summoned, the débris of dinner is removed, Mocha, Maraschino, and papillottes appear in due order; and once again this promising couple find themselves alone together.
“Pet,” says Vane, twisting his chair from the table, “come and sit on my knee.” He speaks to her as he always does, with an air of playful authority, as though she were a kitten, and he her master. And Cora, kitten-like, responds as she always does with a rebellious show of coy perversity, and ends, as she always does when she has had enough of her pretty coquettish game, by a still more charming obedience. Vaurien produces a cigar-case emblazoned, as are all other of his properties and adornments, with a complete pattern of crests, scattered incontinently all over it like a collection of loose livery buttons; and selecting a certain weed of matchless flavour, lights up with slow and unctuous satisfaction. Then Cora presents her dainty cigarette, and a mystic process of ignition takes place in the Spanish fashion; Vane’s little finger pressed to hers, their eyes meeting in a gleam of conscious excitement, and their lips the while some six inches apart.
Ah-h-h! Life has its pleasant hours too at the Luna – its pleasant, swift-winged hours!
“V.,” says Cora, blushing, and twirling the ends of Vaurien’s moustache, “do you think you will succeed in squashing that baronet?”
“Je ferai mon possible, petite! Things often work wonderfully well after dinner with a little management; and I think I know Marmaduke
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Montmorency, I did him a good turn once in connection with Turf matters. He may choose to remember it. ‘Cast thy bread upon the waters,’ you know, ‘and thou shalt find it after many days,’ Eh? Mais cela dépend, you understand, Pet.”
“Well, let me know if you succeed, V.,” And with a sudden flash of vicious light in her eyes and a kind of snap in her voice, she bursts out, “Because I hate that fellow!”
“The Under Secretary?” asks Vane, lifting his black eyebrows in innocent contemplation of his cigar.
“No, of course not, idiot! I mean Sir Vivian!”
“Oh,” says Vaurien with placidity. “Exactly. ‘Heaven knows no rage like love to hatred turned!’ ”
“Love!” echoes Cora in real anger.” What are you talking about!”
“Nothing, Pet. Only a quotation. Come, kiss me, we understand each other, you and I. This follow is a bore isn’t he? And neither of us can endure being done, – eh?”
Mrs. Bell was affable immediately, for she adored Vane,” and the minutes they spent together she held too precious to be wasted in vulgar explanations or squabbles. So she nestled her head on his shoulder, laughed, pulled his moustache, blew in his ear, and kissed him.
“Were you ever done in your life, V. darling?”
Vaurien took his cigar from his lips. And thoughtfully readjusted a ruffled leaf of it with his finger and thumb.
“Well, petite, once I was, when I was younger; done brown. I can afford to laugh at it now. It was rather good thing, and happened more than twenty years ago. Shall I tell you about it, mignonne?”
“Yes,” purred Cora, with kitten-like rapture at the prospect of a story.
“Well then, when I was somewhere about five-and-twenty I had a difference with the paternal bird. The cause of this misunderstanding was a certain widow, ‘fat, fair, and forty,’ whom my father, being a widower, had taken into his head to espouse. Well, I admired the lady,
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it was only filial conduct in me to endorse my progenitor’s tastes – made a little love to her on my own account, was detected and reprimanded – et enfin – pet, the old gentleman and I could not agree. He swore he would cut me out of his will, and I thought from the way he had that he meant to keep his word. So I went down to the midland counties, and made up fiercely to a bachelor uncle of mine there, my mother’s only brother – an old boy that had some money and one gouty foot in the grave before I took him in hand. Now I knew that the property of this maternal kinsman of mine, unless he otherwise disposed of it by will, would at his death become legally mine, for I was his only nephew and nearest relative, and although I had not cared about the thing when I thought myself sure of my father’s cash, it was quite another way now that he had taken it into his head to marry again, and had behaved to me in the shabby manner I have mentioned. So I determined to guard against any paper arrangements to my prejudice on my uncle’s part by wheedling and befooling him as much as I could, and in a little while I made him so fond of me that one evening he told me with emotion he had not long to live and that I should be his heir. That was all I wanted of course, and when he had done talking I fell on his neck and implored him to keep his pecker up. In order to accomplish this feat I persuaded him there was nothing like old port and good living, and as he followed my advice it wasn’t long before both his gouty feet were in the grave together. But, Pet, I had been too sharp. Before I came down to lay siege to the old gentleman, a certain cute young parson had been dodging about the premises, shewing my uncle all manner of delicate attentions and humouring his whims in the most amazing style. He was a clever young fellow, and might have made his fortune honestly as a detective, but Nature never meant him for the Church, and his bishop, I think, was of Nature’s opinion, for Golightly got into disgrace with him after a little while and was suspended. But that happened afterwards, as you will hear.”
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“What did you say his name was, V.?” asks Cora, with a little choke in her voice. Perhaps it was a champagne bubble. She had been imbibing “fiz” pretty freely.
“Golightly – Romeo Golightly, and very lightly he did go too, Pet! It was like this. After my old uncle’s funeral, I found in his desk a packet addressed to me, which I opened. It was his will, dated only a fortnight before his death, and appointing me his heir, as he had promised, but appended to the document was a codicil which bequeathed out of his estate the sum of one thousand to the Rev. Romeo Golightly, ‘as a slight acknowledgment of his unremitting kindness and valuable friendship to the testator.’ Well, ma mie, I had not then had the experience that I have got now, and I argued thus. If this will did not exist, I should be sole heir – no one knows of its existence – and one thousand pounds is a serious sum. After a little meditation, I locked the door and put the will into the fire. Next day in comes Golightly.
‘Morning, Vaurien,’ says he, in his rough, off-hand style – ‘fine day after the funeral. Glad to see you so well.’ Then he takes a chair, sits down familiarly, and puts his feet on the fender. ‘Happen to know whether the old boy left a will or not?’ he says presently. ‘My uncle left no will, sir,’ I said. ‘Sure of that, now?’ says he again. ‘Quite,’ answered I, very emphatically, because you see, Pet, I was telling a lie. ‘Very well,’ says he, ‘then if you’re quite sure he didn’t, I know he did, and here it is.’ So he pulls out of his pocket a will bearing date about a month before I had appeared on the scene, all legally drawn up; signed in my uncle’s hand, and no mistake about it; actually making this rascal Golightly his sole inheritor, and admonishing him to pay me annually the sum of £20! Conceive my situation, Pet! I couldn’t dispute this wretched will, for I had burnt the later one which would have invalidated it, and of course to confess what I had done was utterly out of the question. I had been too clever. So I absconded next morning, and after some little further difficulty with Vaurien senior, who had married his widow, he and I made it up again. ‘For
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after all Vane,’ said the old gentleman, ‘between you and me, she’s not worth quarrelling about.’ As for Golightly, his bishop came down upon him so sharp about some unclerical frolic or other of his, that soon after we parted he drew his capital and took a ticket that wasn’t return, for the Western world. At least that’s the last I heard of him. And that’s my story, Pet.”
“What a funny thing Fate is, isn’t it, V.?” said Cora, pinching his ear.
What particular concatenation of ideas prompted this somewhat irrevalent observation Vaurien did not distinctly apprehend nor care to enquire, but he laughed as he knocked the ash from his cigar, and answered lightly:
“Life is a joke, my child.”
“A practical joke, V.?” chirped the little lady on his knee, regarding him keenly.
“Of course. The universe is full of humour, Nature is full of humour, circumstance is full of humour, the laws of existence and metaphysics are full of humour, otherwise there would he no humour in man, the microcosm – the epitome of things. Yes, Pet,” says he, announcing a quotation with a fine theatrical sweep of his hand.
“Life is a jest, and all things show it.”
But Cora is too quick for him, and pounces perversely upon the familiar verse, like a merlin on her quarry:
“I thought it once, and now I know it”
cries she, with an enunciation of singular earnestness and decision.
Vane glanced at her, but she had already hidden her face in her coffee-cup.
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That evening, before retiring to rest, Mrs. Archibald Bell, seated comfortably in dressing-gown and slippers beside a cosy fire in the bedroom she occupied within the precincts of the aunt’s house at Brompton, drew a tiny table to her elbow, opened her desk, and wrote the following letter:
“Midnight, Dec. 3rd.
“DEAR OLD CHRISS, –
“Something so droll has occurred to-day that I feel I can’t go to sleep without telling you about it. You remember how poor Romeo got that old Wood’s money down in Staffordshire by securing the will and tricking the nephew that thought himself so crafty. You must recollect all about it, but I was so little at the time that I only know the details by hear-say. Well, you know we never heard the nephew’s name, and poor Romeo went abroad just a little while after the thing happened. Well, Chriss, what do you think – only fancy! I have found that very nephew quite accidentally, and who should it he but Vane Vaurien!!! Positively it is! He told me this very night, little dreaming I was Romeo’s sister! I am so glad I never happened to tell him my maiden name. He would not have told me the story then, I guess! When he came out so innocently with the name of his trepanner, I thought I must have screamed. Isn’t it funny, Chriss? But he made one mistake, by the way. He said. Romeo went off to America, whereas you know we tracked the poor fellow to Paris. Well, good-night; I’ve relieved my mind now, and its late and I’m sleepy.
“Your affectionate sister,
“CORA”
And upon the envelope in which this missive was presently enclosed Mrs. Archibald wrote in round legible characters:
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“Christopher Golightly, Esquire,
Gower-street Chambers,
“Bloomsbury,
“W.C.”
Then she put a stamp in the comer, curled her hair, washed off the blanc de perle climbed into bed, and slept the sleep of the virtuous.
Índice Geral das Seções Índice da Seção Atual Indice da Obra Atual Anterior: XXII - For Her Sake Seguinte: XXIV - Vivian’s Summons from Head-Quarters