*Look at Robin Redbreast!' she cried gaily to Stephen. 'Isn't he huge?'
It was then that she saw Albert. She suffered a quick sense of shock. Why hadn't she expected to see him? Of course he would be there. Nevertheless, his presence seemed vaguely indecent in that little family gathering. The pleasant, snub-nosed, twinkle-cved ghost of Jack loomed at his side. He lifted Robin Redbreast to his shoulder. They were all laughing and waving. Cicily looked radiant. The twins dashed into Jane's arms.
'Mumsy!' cried Cicily. She kissed Jane warmly. Then turned to greet her father. Albert thrust Robin Redbreast into Jane's embrace. Over the child's yellow head, surprisingly, he kissed her.
'Aunt Jane,' he was saying affectionately, 'it was great of you to come!'
Cicily's arm was thrust through Stephen's. She was talking excitedly as she led him through the crowded concourse.
*I reserved your rooms at the Chatham. Why do you go there? Aunt Muriel's at the Ritz. I wish I had room for you in my flat, but it's perfectly tiny. Molly hates it. Just one bathroom and we froze all winter. But it's sweet now. You can sit on the balcony and see the Arc de Triomphe.*
Albert was hailing two taxis.
T suppose you want to go straight to the hotel, sir, and rest,' he was saying. 'Did you have a smooth passage? We're going to have a gay week.'
'Cousin Flora's simply wild to sec you, Mumsy,' inter-
nipted Cicily. 'She's been awfully nice to me. She knows tho smartest people — real frogs, you know — and she asked me to all her parties. I've simply loved it. I don't want to go to Pekin at all. I'd like to live here all my life — if it weren't so far from Lake wood.'
Stephen was succumbing, with a faintly constrained smile, to Cicily's gay garrulity. She broke off suddenly to squeeze his elbow and kiss his cheek. Albert took up the burden of her song.
'We're all dining to-night at L'Escargot. Do you like snails, Aunt Jane? We're going to pick up Mother and my esteemed stepfather at the Ritz — my esteemed stepfather is really all right, you know. He's a good sort. We'll all get a drink at the Ritz bar. The Ritz bar's quite a sight, sir *
'Let's send the children home with Molly,' said Cicily gaily, 'and go up to the Chatham with Mumsy and Dad. I've got so much to say to you, darlings, that I don't know where to begin. We're going to be married in Cousin Flora's apartment. Just the families, you know. I know you'll like my dress, Mumsy. I won't let Albert see it *
This was another conspiracy, thought Jane, as she climbed into the waiting taxi. A conspiracy, this time, not of silence, but of chatter. A friendly conspiracy to keep two foolish old people from worrying over something that they could not control. A conspiracy to prove that this was a very usual situation, a very gay situation, a very happy situation — a situation that called for frivolity and celebration. A party, in fact. A purely social occasion.
But did not Cicily, Jane wondered, as their taxi dodged and tooted through chaotic traffic of the old grey streets, did not Cicily, beneath the gay garrulity of her hght and laughing chatter, feel at all disturbed by her equivocal position as Albert's fiancee and Jack's wife? Jane, herself, felt profoundly
disturbed by it. Belle's divorce had been granted in Reno the end of March. Albert had been — could you call him a bachelor? — for three months. Yet Jane could not really consider the engagement as 2ifait accompli until next Wednesday morning, when Cicily's decree would be made final and Gicily, herself, would be — hateful word — free. She would be married three days later in Flora's apartment. But not until Wednesday noon, Jane told herself, firmly, would she recognize the engagement. If she did not recognize it, however, what was Albert's status in the crowded little taxi? It was terribly complicated. It was terribly sordid. Glancing from Cicily's bright, smiling countenance to Stephen's grim, constrained one, Jane could not agree with Albert's initial statement. They would not have a gay week.
V
Jane and Flora were sitting side by side on the Empire sofa of Jane's little green sitting-room in the Chatham Hotel. The sitting-room was rather small and rather over-upholstered. It was extremely Empire and extremely green. The green carpet, the green curtains, the green wall-paper, and the green furniture were all emblazoned with Napoleonic emblems. Gold crowns and laurel wreaths and bees met the eye at every turn. Jane thought it looked rather sweet and stufiy and French, but 'I can't think in this room for the buzzing' had been Stephen's laconic comment, when Gicily and Albert had finally left them alone in it, yesterday afternoon.
It was ten o'clock in the morning and Flora had just come in. She had brought a big box of roses and she was terribly glad to see Jane. Stephen was downtairs in the dining-room eating what he termed 'a Christian breakfast.' Jane's tray of coffee and rolls and honey was still on the sitting-room table.
*Jane,' said Flora, 'you're incredibly the same'
'Am I?' said Jane a little wistfully. She had not seen Flora for nine years. Flora, she thought, looked subtly subdued and sophisticated. Silver-haired and slender in her grey French frock she no longer suggested anything as bright and gay and concrete as a Dresden-china shepherdess. Frail and faded, well-dressed and weary, there was something just a little shadowy about Flora. She looked like a Sargent portrait of herself, Jane decided. There was nothing shadowy, however, in her enthusiasm over this reunion.
*Of course I don't mean you look the same, Jane,' she continued honestly. 'But you look as if you were the same! And that's even nicer.'
'We're all the same,' said Jane stoutly. 'That's one of the things you learn by growing old. Nobody ever changes.'
'Children do,' smiled Flora. *I was surprised at Cicily. She was a pretty child, but she's grown up into much more than that. You must be very proud of her.'
Jane's eyes met Flora's for a moment in silence.
'Well, Flora,' said Jane slowly, 'I can't say that I am.'
Flora took Jane's hand and squeezed it before she spoke.
'Jane,' she said gently, 'the war changed everything. Even over here, it's all quite different. People don't act as they used to do — they don't think as they used to do. Cicily's a sweet child. It was a pleasure to have her here in Paris. She has lived so discreetly and charmingly in that little flat up near the fitoile — every one likes her — her children are adorable and Albert's a delightful young man. I think they'll be very happy.'
'They don't deserve to be very happy,' said Jane.
'But you want them to be,' said Flora brightly. Flora seemed almost a member of the friendly conspiracy. 'And speaking of happiness,' she went on gaily, 'isn't Muriel/tt«nji with Ed Brown? She's a perfect wife.'
*He's a perfect husband,' smiled Jane.
'Well, Jane!' laughed Flora, 'I think that statement's a trifle exaggerated. He's really awful — pretty awful, I mean. He's been in Paris three weeks and he hasn't talked of anything but prohibition. With disfavour, my dear — don't misunderstand me!—with distinct disfavour! But he makes Muriel sublimely happy!' She paused to twinkle, brightly, for a moment at Jane's non-committal countenance. Jane,' she said, 'you're no gossip. You never were. You're holding out on me. I wish Isabel were here.'
'Well, I don't,' said Jane, with emphasis.
Flora stopped in confusion. 'No, I suppose you don't,' she said. 'It — it must have been terrible^ Jane. All in the family, I mean.'
'It was terrible,' said Jane.
'Muriel's very happy about it. She loves Gicily.'
'Muriel,' said Jane deliberately, 'has no moral sense. She never had. She's always been frivolous about falling in love. About any one's falling in love '
'Jane,' said Flora suddenly, 'Andr6 Duroy's not in Paris.*
The simple statement fell in a little pool of silence.
'Oh,' said Jane, after a moment. 'Well, I thought perhaps he wouldn't be.' She tried to make her voice sound very casual. 'People ar^n'/in cities much, you know, in the month of July. I thought he'd be off with his wife in the country.'
'He's not with his wife,' said Flora meaningly.
'His wife's at Gowcs. She has a lot of English friends, you know.' Flora's voice had lost nothing of its meaning.
'Yes, I know,' said Jane hastily. Letters were one thing, she thought, and talk was another. Jane did not want to sit gossiping with Flora about Andre's wife. It seemed vaguely indecent. But it did not take two to make a gossip.
'She has their boy with her. She's very discreet. He's a
nice child. Thirteen years old and he looks just like Andr^. Andre's in the French Alps, I think. He has a studio up there somewhere. I sent him a letter.'
'You sent him a letter?' said Jane.
'Yes. To say you were coming. I asked him to the wedding.'
*Oh — he won't come down for it,' said Jane defensively.
She was conscious of wishing, rather wildly, that Flora had not written. He would not come, of course. And yet — and yet — Jane felt curiously hurt, in advance, to know he was not coming. It would have been much nicer if Andr6 had never known that she was in Paris. If Andre had not had forced on him that faintly ungracious gesture of declining to
cross France to see the girl who Ridiculously, Jane was
thinking of that letter he had written her when he had received the Prix de Rome. Of how she had read it in her little room on Pine Street, at the window that overlooked the willow tree. If Andre had not written that letter, she might not have married Stephen. What nonsense! Of course she would have married Stephen. On what other basis than that of marriage with Stephen were the last thirty years imaginable?
'I think he will,' said Flora. 'He quite fell for Cicily *
Just then Stephen entered the room. Flora greeted him with enthusiasm. They sat down together on the Empire sofa and began to talk about Chicago. Jane did not listen. She was thinking of how very odd it was to think that Cicily knew Andre. That Cicily might know him quite well. That she might know him, absurdly, much better than Jane herself did. Cicily was only five years younger than Cyprienne. Jane waj seventeen years older. Oh, well — of course he would not cross France to come to the wedding.
Jane and Stephen and Cicily and Albert were strolling down the me Vaugirard on their way to the Luxembourg Museum. They had just lunched at Foyot's on a perfect sole a.nd/raises d la crime. Five of Jane's ten days in Paris had passed. They had passed very quickly, she had just been thinking, and mainly in the consumption of food and drink. Cocktails at the Ritz bar, snails at L'Escargot, blinis at the Russian Maisonnette, Cointreau at the Cafe de la Rotonde, fish food at Prunier's, absinthe at the Dome, Muriel's magnificent little dinner at Lc Pr6 Catelan, Flora's smart one in her apartment, champagne and sparkling Burgundy and Rhine wine in brown, long-necked bottles—curious memories to blend with the sense of perplexity and despair that the sight of Cicily and Albert and the three grandchildren had engendered.
The three grandchildren had been veryendearing and Cicily and Albert had devoted themselves to the entertainment of the older generation. Between their engagements at restaurants they had crowded in two trips to the Louvre and one to Notre Dame, a visit to the Cluny Museum, a drive through the midsummer Bois, a motor ride to Versailles, a jaunt by boat down the Seine to Saint-Cloud, a wild evening on Mont-martre and a mild one at the Comedie-Fran9aise. That night they were taking the twins to the Cirque Madrano, to watch the Fratellinis. The Fratellinis, Albert had explained to Jane, were the funniest clowns in the world. At the moment, between lunch at Foyot's and tea with Flora, they had just time to take in the Luxembourg Gallery. There was not much in it, Cicily had said.
The friendly conspiracy of chatter, Jane thought as they crossed the sun-washed court, had never faltered. The illusion of the 'party' had been consistently sustained. The two foolish old people, she reflected, as they climbed the grey stone
steps of the museum, had not been left alone for an hour to think or to worry. The children had been kind and capable and very, very clever. There had been no emotional moments, no awkward discussions, no embarrassing contretemps. They were carrying it all off beautifully. They would carry it all off beautifully until the end.
Nevertheless, Jane had felt during the last five days that she would have been glad of an hour in which to think or not think, worry or not worry, as she chose. An hour, perhaps, in which to look at Paris, without the tinkling accompaniment of the friendly conspiracy of chatter.
They entered the main galler}'.
'We've got to hurry,' said Cicily.
Jane thought how much she wished that she were entering the main gallery alone. It looked just as she remembered it. The walls were hung with the same fine Gobelin tapestries. The familiar bronze and marble figures stood on their pedestals. Jane had not seen them for twenty years, but she remembered them well. Stephen and Albert were conscientiously buying catalogues. Cicily had paused before a case of Sevres china. A rough-hewn Rodin arrested Jane's attention. But Jane had not come to the Luxembourg to look at the Rodins. Jane had come to the Luxembourg for quite another purpose. She moved away from Cicily and strolled casually to the corner where Andre's Eve awaited her. Jane stared up at her. She stood smiling provocatively over her yet untasted apple — an Eve still innocent, yet subdy provocative. Jane gazed in silence at her rounded cheeks, at the fresh virginal curves of her parted lips. Could it be possible, Jane was tliinking, that she had ever looked like that? That she had ever smiled like that? Could it be possible that she had ever been anything so fresh and young and fair and inexperienced? Stephen and Cicily turned up at her elbow. Jane was con-
scious of a quick fear that Cicily would recognize that smile, that Stephen would comment on it. But Stephen was glancing up at the Eve with a look of complete indifference. Jane suddenly realized that Stephen had quite forgotten that it was a Duroy. But Cicily had opened her catalogue.
'It's awfully vieuxjeu, isn't it?' she was saying calmly. 'He's nice, though. I met him at Cousin Flora's.'
Albert slipped his arm through Jane's. 'There are some good paintings,' he was saying, 'but most of them have been moved to the Louvre.'
Jane passed at his side from the entrance hall to the farther galleries. She wandered, blindly, past a succession of canvases. Cicily's light prattle fell unheeded on her ears. An hour later, when they stood once more in the entrance hall, Jane could not remember one single painting that she had seen in the Luxembourg.
'Come look at the gardens,' Albert was saying. 'They're really charming.'
'You go without me,' said Jane. 'I'm a little tired.'
'It won't take a minute,' said Albert brightly.
'I'll wait here,' said Jane.
Stephen and Cicily and Albert moved toward the door. From the grey light of the entrance hall, Jane watched them descend the stone steps in the dazzling sunlight of the Paris afternoon. She walked slowly back to the Eve. 'There is something of you in all my nymphs and Eves and saints and Madonnas,' she was thinking. 'Something you brought into my life. Romance, I guess. Nothing more tangible.'
She Ao^f been young once, thought Jane, as she stood staring up at the Eve. She had been fresh and fair and inexperienced. She had smiled hke that. Twenty-three years ago, Stephen himself had recognized that smile. Absurd, ridiculous, however, that fleeting fear that Cicily would recognize it now!
Jane wondered vaguely what Eve had looked like after thirty years with Adam. After Cain and Abel had disappointed her. Why had no one ever thought of doing Eve at the age of fifty-one? Cicily's light voice broke in upon her revery. Jane turned with a start.
*! wonder who she is, Mumsy?' said Cicily.
*Who — she is?' faltered Jane.
*Yes,' said Cicily brightly. 'They say that all those rather saccharine ladies of his are some one, Mumsy. They're a record of his sentimental journey. His wife's the Venus in the Metropolitan. He did it the year he was married. I think' — Cicily's blue eyes gleamed experimentally — 'I think it would be rather nice to be loved by an artist who would recreate you and preserve you forever in words or paint or marble. Though I suppose you'd grow up and beyond his idea of
you and then you'd want to throw a brick at what he'd done. It must give lots of Andr6 Duroy's old girls a pain to look at what he once thought they were. You'd wonder, you know, if you ever had been anything so silly. And you'd fear you had. One's always silly, Mumsy, when one's in love. Which is quite as it should be. But the silliness should be ephemeral. It shouldn't be perpetuated in words or paint or marble, any more than it is in life. Don't you think so, Mumsy?'
Jane's eyes were still on the Eve. T don't know,' she said. •There's Keats — and the "Grecian Urn" — "Forever wilt thou love and she be fair." '
'It doesn't sound so good,' said Cicily, 'if you read it "Forever wilt thou love and she be silly"!' She tucked her arm under Jane's elbow. 'Come on, Mumsy, Albert and Dad arc waiting.'
vn
*I think/ said Stephen, Til try to take a nap.'
*Why don't you, dear?' said Jane.
Jane herself was far from feeling sleepy. She had been sitting in silence for the last half-hour on the Empire sofa in the little green sitting room, watching Stephen turn over the pages of the Paris 'Herald' and the London 'Times.' She rose, now, and followed him into their bedroom. It was rather a relief, she was thinking, to have something definite to do, even if that something was only pulling down three window-shades and raising one window and tucking a light steamer rug over Stephen's recumbent form. Stephen was looking very grim and tired. They had had a hard day, though nothing much had happened in it. At eleven in the morning Cicily had telephoned. She had telephoned to announce that her lawyer had just called her up from the courtroom to inform her that her decree had been made final. There had been no complications and the last requirement had been complied with. That was all there had been to the formal proceedings that Jane and Stephen had tragically prepared themselves to witness. Two months ago two foreign lawyers had spoken in an alien tongue. Cicily had murmured a few French words of acquiescence. A judge had entered an interlocutory judgment. To-day that judgment had been entered on the records of the Bureau of Vital Statistics. And a marriage had been dissolved.
Years of Grace Page 50
