Índice Geral das Seções Índice da Seção Atual Indice da Obra Atual Anterior: XXIII - DIES VENERIS Seguinte: XXV - “Say not good night, but in some brighter clime bid me good morning”
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CAPÍTULO XXIV
VIVIAN’S SUMMONS FROM HEAD-QUARTERS
VAURIEN’S friend, the Under-Secretary of the F. O., was disengaged and they dined together the next evening. The menu left nothing to be desired, the wines were perfect, the Under-Secretary was in a good humour, and in short, the Parcæ seemed mischievously inclined to favour the nefarious designs of Vivian’s enemy. Even Under-Secretaries have their weaknesses, and the Hon. Marmaduke Montmorency had had his in the shape of a rash and sudden mania for turf speculations, by means of which he would assuredly have been brought to bitter grief but for the timely and clever intervention of Vane Vaurien, who understood exactly what men to help, and how to help them. And it therefore fell out that upon the evening of which we are speaking, the Under-Secretary added to his past follies yet another, and had the weakness to be grateful.
Vane was right when he said he knew his man. Through the ineffable amber and violet that crowned those generous beakers, the Hon. Marmaduke could see in his handsome debonair entertainer only the friend that had assisted him in his need, and whose kindly action still remained unrecompensed. Then too the story which Vaurien told him over the Château Margaux was at once so witty and so plausible that it thoroughly delighted him, and personally unfamiliar as he was with the idiosyncrasies of his host, no disturbing doubt of that gentleman’s veracity presented itself to his genial mind.
But then, after all, the core and kernal of the secret was the dinner itself. Vane was a perfect master of the art of catering. He had studied gastronomy scientifically and practically, in all its combinations, adaptations, and applicabilities, for he knew it was the key to much in life. He understood the precise flavour for every entremet, the exact brand and
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vintage for every course and could calculate to a nicety the genre of any man’s palate and the duration of his appetite. Vaurien believed in Dinner, as Tristan believed in the eternal Logos.
It came to pass then, in few words which are all we need here on the subject, that the Under-Secretary was complaisant, and Vane obtained what he desired at the hands of his guest.
Next day he dropped a laconic epistle to the brilliant Cora, informing her that her suggestion had resulted in a happy issue; and having hastily settled some pressing affairs which had required his attendance in London; lost no time in effecting his return to that gayer metropolis whence he had imigrated, and was back in his hotel in the Rue S. Honoré before sunset on the sixth of December.
On the eighth he invited Vivian to dine with him.
For Vane had his weaknesses as well as the Under-Secretary; and knowing that on the evening of that day a certain dispatch would he handed to the baronet, determined, if it were possible, to afford himself the pleasure of witnessing the supreme disgust with which he fancied its contents would overwhelm the recipient.
In such a man as Vaurien this luxurious desire to gratify his esoteric tastes was no doubt unwise, but it was nevertheless a necessity of his character, and as little worthy of surprise in observers of humanity as the grotesque eccentricities of line in a slab of veinous marble.
Vivian, who remained wholly unapprised of Vane’s brief flight to London, was considerably astonished and embarrassed by the unexpected invitation with which his servant presented him when he brought the matutinal chocolate on the morning of the eighth. That Vaurien had something unpleasant to say which could best be said over Chablis or Moët he did not for a moment doubt, but that it could be anything likely to disturb his own equilibrium or to trepan him into any imprudent disclosures, these were apprehensions which troubled him not at all.
So after searching his memorandum book and meditating a few
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moments over the matter, he concluded that if he declined the proffered dinner Vaurien would certainly contrive some other and perhaps less agreeable mode of obtaining an interview with him; or might possibly carry another attack upon Tristan instead, for Vivian was convinced that the object of Vane’s recent visit to that young artist was one and the same with that which had prompted the courteous missive now addressed to himself.
“Under these circumstances,” thought Vivian, “I am at least a wiser fish to tackle than the little innocent greyling in the Rue Royale, who, I fear, would wriggle upon the hook very soon indeed, but I know at least as much of the world as my friend the angler here, and when Greek meets Greek, – yes, I will meet him. And he sat down and wrote an acceptance accordingly.
The day passed on, the afternoon waned, the appointed-hour arrived. Vaurien and his guest sat together at the table. The courses followed one another in sparkling succession, gruyère and celery appeared, and goblets of the choicest nectar in Paris inaugurated the evening’s libation to the festive god. Already the orgie had continued some time and the baronet was beginning to wonder why Vane so long delayed the point of the entertainment, when the door opened softly, and a servant approached bearing upon a silver salver a telegram which he handed to Sir Vivian with the brief information, “From your hotel, Sir.”
“This looks important – an F. O. dispatch I see. Vaurien, you will permit me? One must not neglect business.”
He opened the paper as he spoke, and the servant quitted the room as softly as he had entered. In the little pause that ensued, Vaurien filled his glass, and as he replaced the decanter, glanced stealthily at his companion’s face. To his surprise its expression was one neither of anguish nor dismay, nor even of discomfiture, but of simple annoyance not unmingled however with a gleam of satisfaction.
“It is an order from head-quarters,” said he, refolding the dispatch and
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laying it beside him upon the table; “I am to repair at once to Whitehall for instructions. They are going to send me off somewhere evidently, – Podolia, I daresay. Well it’s vexatious to be disturbed in the midst of one’s Paris season, and no doubt Diana will miss me, but on the whole l don’t think I’m sorry to be on the wing. I want a change, and a little bracing excitement.”
And he also took another glass of wine, reflecting that this official order had come to hand just at the right time, for it supplied him with a perfectly satisfactory and unquestionable reason for quitting Paris while in its gayest ferment, and thus forestalled the necessity he had anticipated for himself of inventing some figment as an excuse for premature wanderings. For Vivian felt, as all men feel in hours of trial and disappointment, that he wanted the stimulus of vigorous adventure and shifting scene. He knew that it was mentally unwholesome for him to remain from day to day in Adelheid’s presence with that unhappy revelation new in his memory and that bitterness fresh in his heart. Already he found himself thirsting for the morrow’s dawn, that he might actually be able to reckon himself free of the city that was the scene of his suffering, – quit of its nightly assemblies and crowded receptions, and brilliant cynical gossip; – found himself longing for saddle and spur and breezy Apennine or stretching southern plain, eager for the shriek of the steam-engine and the plash of the paddlewheel, the stinging sprinkle of sharp sea-brine and the murmur of distant town and forests far away, with all the change and whirl and flash of rapid urgent travel. Only he regretted leaving Tristan so directly in Vaurien’s way, for a strange apprehension haunted him that evil in some shape impended, like the sword of Damocles, over the head of the youthful visionary, and that when left entirely to his own devices he might commit some trifling indiscretion which would suffice to precipitate the disaster. The alarm was a vague one suggested, no doubt, by Tristan’s evident trepidation, his express admission of his own frailty and his dread of some mysterous self-betrayal.
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Vivian feared this danger, – in whatever it might consist, – partly indeed for the sake of Adelheid, whose service had first associated him with her boy-lover, but since the conversation between himself and Tristan, the somewhat inquisitive interest had yielded to a real personal regard, and Vivian decided that he should feel veritably grieved if in his absence any untoward chance should befall the young fellow. For this reason then and for this only, the baronet’s countenance wore that look of annoyance which Vane observed as he replaced the decanter on the table.
“Damn him,” thought Cora’s cher ami, can’t I make him feel? But at least he'll be out of the way!”
Just then Vivian happened to glance across at his host, and so doing caught the expression with which, unawares, Vane had accompanied his unspoken vituperation. In that expression a glimpse of the truth revealed itself; Vivian’s blood rose with his suspicions and determined him to ascertain their value without delay. He remembered that Vaurien, prognosticating foul weather, had persuaded him when they met that evening, to permit the dispatch of a messenger to Diana’s hotel with an order for his brougham, and had warmly insisted upon a late hour for its arrival. In the art of correctly multiplying a pair by a couple Brabazon was no tyro.
“It is fortunate,” said he,” and at the same time singular, than an hospitable act of yours early this evening should accidentally have been the means of acquainting my servants with my whereabouts. Otherwise this telegram might not have found its way hither.”
“Nor was I wrong,” said Vaurien, raising his hand like a wizard.” Listen!”
In the pause that ensued, the hissing sounds of contending sled and hail outside the window were unmistakeable and ominous enough. Gusts of wind came whirling madly round the comers and hurtling down the long Rue S. Honoré, burdened with driving cataracts of mingled rain and snow. It was a rattling, rough December night – a night of piercing frost
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and bitter stormy weather – a night of dreary douche and downright deluge.
Vane again refilled, and passed the decanter.
“To your better luck to-morrow!” said he, with airy malice, as he emptied the goblet. “Let us hope that before day break the fury of Æolus and his watery myrmidons may have amply expended itself! Bon voyage, mon ami!”
“We shall see,” returned Vivian, coolly. “Perhaps I may not go to-morrow after all.”
And he also drank again.
“Not go! I imagined an order from Whitehall –”
“To be peremptory? When it emanates from Whitehall – yes.”
“I fail to apprehend your meaning, Brabazon. Do you then infer that this dispatch is spurious? Surely it looks regular enough!”
Their eyes met.
“Sir,” said Vivian, heated with the wine he had been taking so liberally, and waxing suddenly indignant under the glance of Vaurien’s panther eye, “although I sit here to-night as your guest, I would have you apprehend at least so much as this, that I am not also your courier to I run half over Europe at your paltry bidding!"
How magically sometimes the spell of a single phrase – a single word, may reverse the aspect of an entire scene – transform a passion-play into a burlesque, or a farce into a tragedy! Scarcely was that angry exclamation uttered, than the whole situation changed as suddenly as a dissolving view. Both men sprang to their feet, Vivian reckless and exasperated, Vane defiant as a stag at bay, but yet far the cooler of the two; there was a rapid interchange of sharp, pungent sentences, like verbal bullets fired at a short range – a blow wildly struck – a challenge urbanely proffered and fiercely accepted. Then the door was flung hastily open, hurried footsteps descended the staircase, and Vivian, fired with anger, alcohol, and a sense of insult, his forehead flushed to a glow of crimson, and his eyes burning
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with agitation, panted through the hall with its lines of glaring lights and its moving throngs of busy astonished garçons, clashed the great hotel doors behind him, and plunged into the frozen tempestuous darkness of the street.
“Mon Dieu! Alphonse, allez vite trouver une parapluie pour monsieur!”
“Impossible, m’sieu est déjà parti!”
“Quelle nuit terrible! quelle pluie épouvantab'!”
“Je n’ose pas sortir – moi, par examp’!”
“Ciel! m’sieu est absolument fou!”
“C’est un Anglais, – que faire!”
For he is gone without waiting for brougham or umbrella, gone out defenceless into the teeth of the pelting, tearing, driving sleet and hail, gone out with the fever of passion in his blood and the flame of excitement hot upon his face, to meet the keenest north wind and the angriest rain-fall of the year.
En effet, monsieur est certainement fou.
Índice Geral das Seções Índice da Seção Atual Indice da Obra Atual Anterior: XXIII - DIES VENERIS Seguinte: XXV - “Say not good night, but in some brighter clime bid me good morning”