Of Time and the River (138 page)
She was breathing hoarsely and her eyes glinted with hard fires of passion. At this moment, fortunately, the butler entered, bowed, and, speaking in a quiet voice, informed his mistress that luncheon was served. The words recalled the angry woman to her duties as a hostess: with an almost comical suddenness she assumed her former manner of gracious cordiality, smiled amiably at her guests, and saying with benevolent good-nature, “After our lonk journey and our so much talk, ve are ‘ongry—yes?” led the way into the dining- room.
As they went in, the little old Countess nudged her young companion again with a stealthy warning, and whispered with nervous reproach:
“You should not have asked her that, my dear. Please do not say anything more to her about the government.”
The dining-room of the château was another magnificent chamber, like everything else about the château, nobly harmonious with those elements of strength and grace, splendour and simplicity, warmth and delicacy, united with princely dignity, which are the triumphs of this period of French architecture. In spite of the chill air of the room—for it was poorly heated—one felt its living and noble warmth immediately.
The boy, who had looked forward to this meeting with considerable awe and apprehension, now felt himself completely at home, stirred by a profound, tranquil and lovely joy at the noble beauty and simplicity of the château. Even in the sense of retrenchment, the worn uniforms of the servants, the knowledge that they served their mistress in various offices, there was something pleasant, homely, and familiar; he discovered, to his surprise, that he now felt none of the constraint and uneasiness which he experienced when Joel Pierce had taken him to his great estate upon the Hudson River and he had for the first time seen the lives of the great American millionaires.
With La Marquise de Mornaye he was not conscious of that exactly mannered style—most mannered in its very affectation of simplicity—that vulgar arrogance which he had felt among the rich Americans of Joel Pierce’s class. La Marquise was plain as an old shoe, vigorous and lusty as a peasant, and completely an aristocrat—magnificently herself, without an ounce of affectation— a woman Joel Pierce’s people would have fawned upon and to whom they would have given a king’s ransom if by so doing they could have bought for son or daughter an alliance with her family.
La Marquise seated him beside her, the Countess opposite her, and at once they began to eat. The food was magnificent, there was a different wine of royal vintage (brought up from the famous cellar of the château) with every course. La Marquise left no doubt at all about the robust nature of her appetite, and by everything she did and was—the plain shrewdness, warmth, and sensible humanity of her nature—she made it plain that she expected her guests to eat heartily also, and not to be too nice and dainty about it either.
“Ven vun is younk as you are,” she said, turning with a smile to her young guest, “he is ‘ongry often—non?” she inquired. She put her soup-spoon to her mouth, swallowed some soup, and smacking her lips with an air of relish, turned to the youth again, and said plainly and positively:
“Eet ees good! Oui! I s’ink you will like it, too.” Turning to the Countess, who had tasted nothing, she said severely:
“Vy do you vait, my dear? Are you not ‘ongry? You must eat.”
“Ah—hah—hah!” the Countess said with a little undecided laugh, her eyes greedily fixed upon the smoking soup. “—You know, my dear, I am on a diet by the doctor’s orders—sang de cheval, you know,” she chattered in a distracted tone as her greedy eyes went ravenously along the table—“I eat almost nothing—really, my dear, I don’t think I should.” She snatched up a piece of bread in one greedy little claw, broke it with an appetizing crackle, and began to cram it into her mouth like a starved animal—“Ah—hah—hah!” The poor starved old woman laughed with almost hysterical delight, and tried to speak with a mouth full of bread—“I know I shouldn’t— but you always have such delicious food, my dear.” She lifted the soup-spoon, and drew in with a long slobbering suction. “Ah, mon Dieu! mon Dieu!” she gurgled rapturously—“quel potage!”
And so the meal progressed. With such a lusty trencher-woman as La Marquise beside one, it was not hard to follow suit; they polished off the soup, which was a delicious, savoury, peasant-like brew, in record time, and, as if their hunger mounted from the delicious food it fed on, they turned then to the chicken. The chicken, which was almost all fat and juicy breast, was so young, crisp, tender, plump and succulent that it seemed almost to melt in the mouth, the boy took two or three rhapsodic swallows and the chicken was gone, at which La Marquise, lifting her voice over his feeble and half-hearted protests, said to the butler: “Encore du poulet pour Monsieur.”
A second chicken, even plumper, crisper and more tender than the first, was instantly provided, after which the roast and vegetables were served. He had never tasted better food in his life— everything, haricots, peas, beef, seemed to melt like an ambrosial ether the moment that he put it in his mouth; there was a new wine with every course, each wine rarer, older, richer and more delicious than the last, the butler kept filling up their glasses, and he kept drinking the grand wine until heart, mind, and soul, and every conduit of his life seemed infused by its glorious warmth and fragrance. They talked little as they ate: for some time there were no sounds except the crisp crackle of the bread, the ring of heavy silver, the sound of wine gulped down, the delicate chime of glasses, and the low, quiet orders of the butler speaking to his helper, as swiftly, expertly, and noiselessly they moved round the table, seeming to be there at one’s elbow and to read the gastronomic hopes and wishes of each guest before he had time to open his mouth and utter them.
La Marquise ate with robust concentration, putting down her knife from time to time to pick up her wine-glass and take a generous swallow, after which she would put the glass down and wipe a napkin deliberately across her mouth and pause, for a moment, breathing a little heavily, with an air of hearty satisfaction.
As for the Countess, she ate like a famished wolf: where the movements of La Marquise were hearty and deliberate, those of the Countess were almost frantically swift and eager. Her sharp and greedy little eyes glittered with an almost delirious joy, she would seize a glass of wine and drain it in one greedy gulp; at times she was so excited by the variety and abundance of the dishes that she seemed unable to decide what to reach for next. She reached out greedily in all directions, her eyes darting avaricious glances to and fro; chicken, meat, vegetables, salad, wine disappeared as if by magic, and were replenished, and all the time the poor old woman chuckled craftily to herself and muttered to herself in broken monologue:
“Ah—hah—hah!”—crunch, crunch, crunch! And away went the chicken. “Mon Dieu!—but it’s good!—Ah—hah—hah!” gulp, gulp, gulp! down would go the wine. “Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Such food! Such wine!—Mais oui! Mais oui! . . . Un peu encore, s’il vous plaît! Quel boeuf! Quel boeuf!”
At which La Marquise would put down her glass, wipe her mouth, look across the table at the Countess, and say:
“‘Ow you like, eh? Good? Mais oui! Il faut manger,” she said coarsely, and applied herself again to knife and fork.
By the time they got down to the cheese—which was a ripe, delicious Brie—La Marquise de Mornaye was at last fortified for conversation. Putting down her empty wine-glass with a deliberate movement, she straightened in her chair, wiped her mouth, sat upright for a moment in an attitude of solid satisfaction, and then, turning to her American guest, said:
“Do you know PatterSON T. Jones—eh? ‘E is an officer—a vat you call it?—a major in ze Américain army.” She pronounced these words with an air of naďve confidence, as if Patterson T. Jones must be a name instantly familiar to every American. When the boy told her, however, that he did not know Major Patterson T. Jones and confessed, further, that he had never heard of him, La Marquise looked slightly astonished and disappointed; and in a moment, her shrewd eyes narrowing slightly as she spoke, she said rather grimly:
“I should like verree verree motch to see zat gentleman again. I should like verree verree motch to know vere he now iss. . . . Attendez!” she said sharply, as inspiration struck her. “Perhaps if I show you this—vat you say?—his photographie—you will know ze man. . . . Guillaume!” she raised her voice a little in command. “Apportez-moi les photographies des officiers américains.”
“Oui, madame,” the butler answered, and went swiftly and silently out of the room.
“Yes,” La Marquise continued with an air of grim meditation, “I should verree verree motch like to know vere Major PatterSON T. Jones iss to be found.”
The butler returned with several large square photographs, bowed, and gave them to his mistress.
“‘Ere, you see,” she said, taking one of them and pointing with her finger, “zis vas taken here—in zis verree room at a great banQUET vitch I have made for ze Américains in 1918. Zis,” she said proudly, and pointing with a plump white finger—“zis is me—c’est moi, La Marquise!” she cried in a jolly tone, and laughed with satisfaction as she pointed to her own beaming likeness at the head of a long table, sumptuously adorned with fine silver, china, linen, and a forest thicket of dark, crusty-looking bottles of old wine—obviously the relics of a memorable feast. “And zis,” La Marquise said more grimly, pointing again with her plump white finger, “zis is Major PatterSON T. Jones—You know him, eh?” she said.
The boy looked at the picture for a moment and then handed it back to La Marquise, telling her that he did not recognize the face of Patterson T. Jones.
“PatterSON T. Jones,” La Marquise answered, slowly, and with an air of grim deliberation, “is a gentleman I vant verree verree motch to see. Zat is ze man,” she said, “who took my picture—who told me he vould get for me, oh! soch huge soms of mon-nee if he could teck my picture to America,” she laughed ironically—“and so I let him teck ze picture, and I have heard nozzing from him since.”
“Was—was it your own picture, Marquise? A portrait of yourself?”
“Mais non, mon ami,” she said impatiently. “Dat’s vat I tell you— eet vas a picture, a photographie of Le Maréchal. Zere was only seex sotch pictures of Le Maréchal in existence—I say to Madame Foch vun time ven I am at Paris—I see ze picture in her house—I say—‘Oh, my dear, zat so lovely picture of Le Maréchal—I must have vun for myself,’ I say. ‘Ah,’ she say, ‘I do not know, Mathilde—he do not like to give away zese pictures—I have only t’ree,’ she say, ‘but vait. I see vat I can do—’ Zen, vun night I go to dinnaire at zere house. ‘Mathilde,’ he say, ‘for vat you vant my picture? I give it to you,’ he say, ‘and zen all ze ozzer girls vill vant vun, too. I meck my vife jalouse, and zen zere is no peace. I have enough of var,’ he say. ‘I am too old to start anozzer vit my vife!” ‘You give to me zat picture,’ I say. ‘I am no young leddy in ze chorus,’ I say, ‘to meck your vife jalouse. She vant you to give it to me, too.’ ‘Bon,’ he say. ‘Here it is, zen.’ . . . And he give to me ze so beautiful photographie vit his name below written out to me: ‘To Mathilde, old comrade, fet’ful friend’—I bring ze picture beck ven I come beck to Mornaye,” La Marquise continued, “and Major ParterSON T. Jones he see it ven he iss here. ‘How motch you vant for zat picture of Le Maréchal?’ he say. ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘I cannot say. Already I have an offer of ten s’ousand francs,’ I say, ‘but I vould not sell it because ze Maréchal himself, he give to me.’ ‘Vell,’ say Major PatterSON T. Jones, ‘you lett me teck zat picture vit me ven I go beck to America, and I sell it for you.’ ‘How motch you get for me, eh?” I ask him. ‘Oh,’ he say, ‘I get twent’ s’ousand francs for you— mebbe more.’ ‘You sure?’ I say. ‘Mais oui!’ say Major PatterSON T. Jones. ‘Absolument’—‘All right,’ I say. ‘I give to you. If you get twenty s’ousand francs I give you five,’ I say. And so he teck my picture and he go avay, and since den,” La Marquise bitterly concluded, “I nevaire hear from him.”
“Ah!” the Countess cried indignantly. “Le scélérat!”
“Mais oui!” the other woman now said passionately. “It is infâme! Zis man have my picture, I have nozzing—Ze lest time Madame Foch is here, she look around, she say, ‘But vere, my dear,—vere iss ze picture zat Le Maréchal give you? I do not see it,’ she say. What can I do?” La Marquise went on in a despairing tone. “I cannot say to her, ‘I lose it!’ I cannot say to her, ‘I give it avay to an Américain who sell it for me.’ I don’t know vat to say. All I can say is, ‘I leave it, my dear, in Paris vit my son Paul ven I vas zere. He have it, but ze next time zat he come to Mornaye he vill bring it.’ But ven she come again, vat story can I tell her zen?” La Marquise demanded. “Ah! Zat scélérat! Zat PatterSON T. Jones! If ever I get my fingers on zat gentleman I s’ink he vill remember me!” she said, with a glint in her eye and a grim note in her voice that left no doubt of her intention—“But is it not infâme, monsieur,” she said with a virtuous indignation that was now ludicrous after her naďve exposure of her own avarice and greed— “is it not infâme zat somevun teck avay a picture zat a friend give to you—and promise you motch monnee for it—and zen to hear from him no more? Scélérat! T’ief!” she muttered. “I like to get my hands on him!—But now, monsieur,” she said, turning to him abruptly, with a smile of winning ingratiation, “I meck a leetle speech to you. You are—la Comtesse tells me—a younk journalist— eh?”
“Well, Marquise,” he flushed, and began to blunder out an explanation—“I can’t exactly say—”
“Mais oui!” the Countess swiftly interposed. “He has written many clever articles—pour les grands journaux américains, n’est-ce pas— la tęte, vous voyez?” she whispered craftily, bending over the table and nodding towards him as she spoke—“C’est trčs intelligent, n’est-ce pas?”
“Et pour Le Times?” La Marquise demanded. “Il écrit tout ça pour Le New York Times?”
“Mais oui,” the Countess said glibly, before he could object. “Il est déjŕ bien connu. Moi, j’ai lu beaucoup de choses de sa main—”
“Now, look here,” he began, glaring angrily across the table at the lying old woman. “You have no right—”