The crowd at the Gare du Nord was great, and the station was badly lit.Lady Sellingworth did not see her reason for coming to Paris. A carriagewas waiting for her. She got into it with her jewel-case, and drove awayto her apartment, leaving her maid to follow with the luggage.
In the evening she dined alone, and she went to bed early.
She had made no engagements in Paris; had not told any of her friendsthere that she was going to be there for some days. She had no wish togo into society. Her wish was to be perfectly free. But as she lay inbed in her pretty, familiar room, she began to wonder what she was goingto do. She had come to Paris suddenly, driven by an intense caprice,without making any plans, without even deciding how long she was goingto stay. She had imagined that in loneliness she would keep a hold onliberty. But now she began to wonder about things.
Even her secret wildness did not tell her that she could "knock about"in Paris like a man. For one thing she was far too well known for that.Many people might recognize her. When she had been much younger she hadcertainly been to all sorts of odd places, and had had a wonderful time.But somehow, with the passing of the years, she had learnt to pay someattention to the imp within her, though there were moments when shedefied him. And he told her that she simply could not now do many ofthe daring things which she had done when she was a brilliant andlovely young woman. Besides, what would be the use? Almost suddenly sherealized the difficulty of her situation.
She could not very well go about Paris alone. And yet to go about incompany must inevitably frustrate the only purpose which had broughther to Paris. She had come there with an almost overwhelming desire, butwith no plan for its realization.
But surely he had a plan. He must certainly have one if, as she stillbelieved, in spite of the trio, he had meant her to come to Pariswhen he did. She wondered intensely what his plan was. He looked verydetermined, audacious even, in spite of the curious and almost pleadingsoftness of his eyes, a softness which had haunted her imagination eversince she had first seen him. She felt convinced that, once thoroughlyroused, he would be a man who would stick at very little, perhaps atnothing, in carrying out a design he had formed. His design was surelyto make her acquaintance, and to make it in Paris. Yet he had come overwith two people, while she had come alone. What was he going to do? Shelonged to know his plan. She wished to conform to it. Yet how could shedo that in total ignorance of what his plan was? Perhaps he knew heraddress and would communicate with her. But that morning he had not evenknown her name! She felt excited but puzzled. As the night grew lateshe told herself that she must cease from thinking and try to sleep.She must leave the near future in the lap of the gods. But she could notmake her mind a blank. Over and over again she revolved the matter whichobsessed her in her mind. Almost for the first time in her life sheardently wished she were a man, able to take the initiative in anymatter of love.
The clocks of Paris were striking three before at last she fell asleep.
When she woke in the morning late and had had her coffee she did notknow how she was going to spend the day. She felt full of anticipation,excited, yet vague, and usually lonely. The post brought her nothing.About noon she was dressed and ready for the day. She must go out, ofcourse. It would be folly to remain shut up indoors after all the botherof the journey. She must lunch somewhere, do something afterwards. Therewas a telephone in her bedroom. She knew lots of people in Paris.She might telephone to someone to join her at lunch at the Ritz orsomewhere. Afterwards they might go to a matinee or to a concert.But she was afraid of getting immersed in engagements, of losing herfreedom. She thought over her friends and acquaintances in Paris. Whichof them would be the safest to communicate with? Which would be mostuseful to her, and would trouble her least? Finally she decided ontelephoning to a rich American spinster whom she had known for years, awoman who was what is called "large minded," who was very tolerant, veryunderstanding, and not more curious than a woman has to be. CarolineBriggs could comprehend a hint without demanding facts to explain it.
She telephoned to Caroline Briggs. Miss Briggs was at home and replied,expressing pleasure and readiness to lunch with Lady Sellingworthanywhere. After a moment's hesitation Lady Sellingworth suggested theRitz. Miss Briggs agreed that the Ritz would be the best place.
They met at the Ritz at one o'clock.
Miss Briggs, a small, dark, elderly and animated person, immensely richand full of worldly wisdom, wondered why Lady Sellingworth had come overto Paris, was told "clothes," and smilingly accepted the explanation.She knew Lady Sellingworth very well, and, being extremely sharp andintuitive, realized at once that clothes had nothing to do with thissudden visit. A voice within her said: "It's a man!"
And presently the man came into the restaurant, accompanied by theeternal old woman in the black wig.
Now Caroline Briggs had an enormous and cosmopolitan acquaintance. Shewas the sort of woman who knows wealthy Greeks, Egyptian pashas, Turkishprincesses, and wonderful exotic personages from Brazil, Persia, CentralAmerica and the Indies. She gave parties which were really romantic,which had a flavour, as someone had said, of the novels of Ouida broughtthoroughly up to date. Lady Sellingworth had been to some of them, andhad not forgotten them. And it had occurred to her that if anyone sheknew was acquainted with the brown man, that person might be CarolineBriggs. She had, therefore, come to the Ritz with a faint hope in hermind.
Miss Brigs happened to be seated with her smart back to the man and oldwoman when they entered the restaurant, and they sat down at a tablebehind her, but in full view of Lady Sellingworth, who wished to drawher companion's attention to them, but who also was reluctant to showany interest in them. She knew that Miss Briggs knew a great deal abouther, and she did not mind that. But nevertheless, she felt at thismoment a certain _pudeur_ which was almost like the _pudeur_ of a girl.Had it come to her with her entrance into the fifties? Or was it a cruelgift from her imp? She was not sure; but she could not persuade herselfto draw Miss Briggs's attention to the people who interested her untilthe bill was presented and it was almost time to leave the restaurant.
Then at last she could keep silence no longer, and she said:
"The people one sees in Paris seem to become more and moreextraordinary! Many of them one can't place at all."
Miss Briggs, who had lived in Paris for quite thirty years, remarked:
"Do you think they are more extraordinary than the people one sees aboutLondon?"
"Yes, really I do. That old woman in the black wig over there, forinstance, intrigues me. Where can she come from? Who can she be?"
Miss Briggs looked carelessly round, and at once understood the reasonof Lady Sellingworth's remarks. "The man" was before her, and she knewit. How? She could not have said. Had she been asked she would probablyhave replied: "My bones told me."
"Oh," she said, after the look. "She's the type of old woman who is bornand brought up in Brazil, and who, when she is faded, comes to Europeanspas for her health. I have met many of her type at Aix and BadenBaden."
"Ah!" replied Lady Sellingworth carelessly. "You don't know her then?"
"No. But I have seen her two or three times within the last fewmonths--three times to be exact. Twice she has travelled in the sametrain as I was in, though not in the same compartment, and once I sawher dining here. Each time she was with that marvelously handsome youngman. I really noticed her--don't blame me--because of him."
"Perhaps he's her son."
"He may be her husband."
"Oh--but the difference in their ages! She must be seventy at least, ifnot more."
"She may be very rich, too," said Miss Briggs dryly.
Lady Sellingworth remembered that it was always said that Miss Briggs'senormous fortune had kept her a spinster. She was generally supposed tobe one of those unfortunately cynical millionairesses who are unable tobelieve in man's disinterested affection.
"Shall we go?" said Lady Sellingworth.
Miss Briggs assented, and they left the restaurant.
>
They spent the afternoon together at a matinee at the Opera Comique, andafterwards Miss Briggs came to tea at Lady Sellingworth's apartment.Not another word had been said about the two strangers, but LadySellingworth fully realized that Caroline Briggs had found her out. Whenher friend finally got up to go she asked Lady Sellingworth how long sheintended to stay in Paris.
"Oh, only a day or two," Lady Sellingworth said. "I've got to see two orthree dressmakers. Then I shall be off. I haven't told anyone that I amhere. It didn't seem worth while."
"And you won't be dull all alone?"
"Oh, no, I am never dull. I love two or three days of complete restnow and then. One isn't made of cast iron, although some people seem tothink one is, or at ay rate ought to be."
There was a tired sound in her voice as she said this, and Miss Briggs'ssmall and sharp, but kind, eyes examined her face rather critically. ButMiss Briggs only said:
"Come and dine with me to-morrow night in my house. I shall be quitealone."
"Thank you, Caroline."
She spoke rather doubtfully and paused. But finally she said:
"I will with pleasure. What time?"
"Half-past eight."
When Miss Briggs had gone Lady Sellingworth gave way to an almostdesperate fit of despondency. She felt ashamed of herself, like asensitive person found out in some ugly fault. She sat down, and almostfor the first time in her life mentally she wrestled with herself.
Something, she did not quite know what, in Caroline Briggs's look, ormanner, or surmised mental attitude that day, had gone home to her.And that remark, "He may be her husband," followed by, "she may be veryrich, too," had dropped upon her like a stone.
It had never occurred to her that the old woman in the wig might be theyoung man's wife. But she now realized that it was quite possible.
She had always known, since she had known Caroline, that her friend wasone of those few women who are wholly free from illusions. Miss Briggshad not only never fallen into follies; she had avoided natural joys.She had perhaps even been the slave of her self-respect. Never at allgood-looking though certainly not ugly, she had been afraid of theeffect of her wealth upon men. And because she was so rich she hadnever chosen to marry. She was possibly too much of a cynic, but shehad always preserved her personal dignity. No one had ever legitimatelylaughed at her, and no one had ever had the chance of contemptuouslypitying her. She must have missed a great deal, but now in middle-ageshe was surround by friends who respected her.
That was something.
And--Lady Sellingworth was sure of it--Caroline was not ravaged by theFuries who attack "foolish" middle-aged women.
What did Caroline Briggs think of her? What must she think?
Caroline knew well nearly all the members of the "old guard," and mostof them were fond of her. She had never got in any woman's way witha man, and she was never condemnatory. So among women she was a verypopular woman. Many people confided in her. Lady Sellingworth had neverdone this. But now she wished that she could bring herself to do it.Caroline must certainly know her horribly well. Perhaps she could behelped by Caroline.
She needed help, for she was abominably devoid of moral courage.
She did not quite know why at this particular moment she was overwhelmedby a feeling of degradation; she only knew that she was overwhelmed.She felt ashamed of being in Paris. She even compared herself with thehorrible old woman in the wig, who, perhaps, had bought the brown man asshe might have bought a big Newfoundland dog.
Fifty! Fifty! Fifty! It knelled in her ears. Caroline saw her as a womanof fifty. Perhaps everyone really saw her so. And yet--why had the mangiven her that strange look in Bond Street? Why had he wished her tocome to Paris? She tried, with a really unusual sincerity, to find someother reason than the reason which had delighted her vanity. But shefailed. Sincerely she failed.
And yet--was it possible?
She thought of giving up, of becoming like Caroline. It would be a greatrest. But how empty her life would be. Caroline's life was a habit. Butsuch a life for her would be an absolute novelty. No doubt Caroline'sreward had come to her in middle-age. Middle-age was bringing somethingto her, Adela Sellingworth, which was certainly not a reward. One gotwhat one earned. That was certain. And she had earned wages which shedreaded having paid to her.
She had a good brain, and she realized that if she had the moral courageshe might--it was possible--be rewarded by a peace of mind such as shehad never yet known. She was able as it were to catch a glimpse of afuture in which she might be at ease with herself. It even enticed her.But something whispered to her, "It would be stagnation--death in life."And then she was afraid of it.
She spent the evening in miserable depression, not knowing what shecould do. She distrusted and almost hated herself. And she could notdecide whether or not on the morrow to give Caroline some insight intoher state of mind.
On the following day she was still miserable, even tormented, and quiteundecided as to what she was going to do.
She spent the morning at her dressmaker's, and walked, with her maid,in the Rue de la Paix. There she met a Frenchwoman whom she knew well,Madame de Gretigny, who begged her to come to lunch at her house in theFaubourg St. Honore. She accepted. What else could she do? After lunchshe drove with her friend in the Bois. Then they dropped in to tea withsome French mutual friends.
The usual Paris was gently beginning to take possession of her. What wasthe good of it all? What had she really expected of this visit? She hadstarted from London with a crazy sense of adventure. And here she wasplunged in the life of convention! Oh, for the freedom of a man! Or thestable content of a Caroline Briggs!
At moments she felt enraged.
She saw the crowds passing in the streets, women tripping alongconsciously, men--flaneurs--strolling with their well-known look ofwatchful idleness, and she felt herself to be one of life's prisoners.And she knew she would never again take hands with the Paris she hadonce known so well. Why was that? Because of something in herself,something irrevocable which had fixed itself in her with the years. Shewas changing, had changed, not merely in body, but in something else.She felt that her audacity was sinking under the influence of herdiffidence. Suddenly it occurred to her that perhaps this sudden visitto Paris on the track of an adventure was the last strong effort of heraudacity. How would it end? In a meek and ridiculous return to Londonafter a lunch with Caroline Briggs, a dinner with Caroline, a visitto the Opera Comique with Caroline! That really seemed the probableconclusion of the whole business. And yet--and yet she still had a sortof queer under feeling that she was drawing near to a climax in herlife, and that, when she did return to London, she would return adefinitely changed woman.
At half-past eight that night she walked into Caroline's wonderful housein the Champs-Elysees.
During dinner the two women talked as any two women of their types mighthave talked, quite noncommittally, although, in a surface way, quiteintimately. Miss Briggs was a creature full of tact, and was the lastperson in the world to try to force a confidence from anyone. She wasalso not given at any time to pouring out confidences of her own.
After dinner they sat in a little room which Miss Briggs had hadconveyed from Persia to Paris. Everything in it was Persian. When thedoor by which it was entered had been shut there was absolutely nothingto suggest Europe to those within. A faint Eastern perfume pervadedthis strange little room, which suggested a deep retirement, an almostcloistered seclusion. A grille in one of the walls drew the imaginationtowards the harem. It seemed that there must be hidden women overthere beyond it. Instinctively one listened for the tinkle of childishlaughter, for the distant plash of a fountain, for the shuffle ofslippers on marble.
Lady Sellingworth admired this room, and envied her friend forpossessing it. But that night it brought to her a thought which shecould not help expressing.
"Aren't you terribly lonely in this house, Caroline?" she said. "Itis so large and so wonderful that I should think it must make so
litudealmost a bodily shape to you. And this room seems to be in the veryheart of the house. Do you ever sit here without a friend or guest?"
"Now and then, but not often at night," said Miss Briggs, with sereneself-possession.
"You are an extraordinary woman!" said Lady Sellingworth.
"Extraordinary! Why?"
"Because you always seem so satisfied to live quite alone. I hatesolitude. I'm afraid of it."
Suddenly she felt that she must be partially frank with her hostess.
"Is self-respect a real companion for a woman?" she said. "Can one sitwith it and be contented? Does it repay a woman for all the sacrificesshe has offered up to it? Is it worth the sacrifices? That's what I wantto know."
"I dare say that depends on the woman's mental make up," replied MissBriggs. "One woman, perhaps, might find that it was, another that it wasnot."
"Yes, we are all so different, so dreadfully different, one fromanother."
"It would be very much duller if we weren't."
"Even as it is life can be very dull."
"I should certainly not call your life dull," said Miss Briggs.
"Anyhow, it's dreadful!" said Lady Sellingworth, with suddenabandonment.
"Why is it dreadful?"
"Caroline, I was fifty a few days ago."
As Lady Sellingworth said this she observed her friend closely to see ifshe looked surprised. Miss Briggs did not look surprised. And she onlysaid:
"Were you? Well, I shall be fifty-eight in a couple of months."
"You don't look it."
"Perhaps that's because I haven't looked young for the last thirtyyears."
"I hate being fifty. The difficulty with me is that my--my nature and mytemperament don't match with my age. And that worries me. What is one todo?"
"Do you want me to advise you about something?"
"I think I do. But it's so difficult to explain. Perhaps there is a timeto give up. Perhaps I have reached it. But if I do give up, what am I todo? How am I to live? I might marry again."
"Why not?"
"It would have to be an elderly man, wouldn't it?"
"I hope so."
"I--I shouldn't care to marry an elderly man. I don't want to."
"Then don't do it."
"You think if I were to marry a comparatively young man--"
She paused, looking almost pleadingly at the uncompromising Miss Briggs.
"I'm convinced of this, that no really normal young man could ever becontented long if he married a middle-aged woman. And what intelligentwoman is happy with an abnormal man?"
"Caroline, you are so dreadfully frank!"
"I say just what I think."
"But you think so drastically. And you are so free from sentiment."
"What is called sentiment is very often nothing but what is described inthe Bible as the lust of the eye."
This shaft, perhaps not intended to be a shaft, went home. LadySellingworth reddened and looked down.
"I dare say it is," she murmured. "But--no doubt some of us are moresubject to temptation than others."
"I'm sure that is so."
"It's very difficult to give up deliberately nearly all that has madelife interesting and attractive to you ever since you can remember.Caroline, would you advise me to--to abdicate? You know what I mean."
Miss Briggs's rather plain, but very intelligent, face softened.
"Adela, my dear," she said, "I understand a great deal more than youhave cared to hint at to me."
"I know you do."
"I think that unless you change your way of life in time you are headingstraight for tragedy. We both know a lot of women who try to defy thenatural law. Many of them are rather beautiful women. But do you thinkthey are happy women? I don't. I know they aren't. Youth laughs atthem. I don't know what you feel about it, but I think I would rather bepelted with stones than be jeered at by youth in my middle age. Respectmay sound a very dull word, but I think there's something very warmin it when it surrounds you as you get old. In youth we want love, ofcourse, all of us. But in middle age we want respect too. And nothingelse takes its place. There's a dignity of the soul, and women likeus--I'm older than you, but still we are neither of us very young anylonger--only throw it away at a terrible price. When I want to seetragedy I look at the women who try to hang on to what refuses to staywith them. And I soon have to shut my eyes. It's too painful. It's likelooking at bones decked out with jewels."
Lady Sellingworth sat very still. There was a long silence between thetwo friends. When they spoke again they spoke of other things.
That night Lady Sellingworth told her maid to pack up, as she wasreturning to London by the morning express on the following day.