Tom and Henry put up at the Grand Hotel, Paris. The idea was Tom's. He decried1 the hotel, its clients and its reputation, but he said that it had one advantage: when you were at the Grand Hotel you knew where you were. Tom, it appeared, had a studio and bedroom up in Montmartre. He postponed2 visiting this abode3, however, until the morrow, partly because it would not be prepared for him, and partly in order to give Henry the full advantage of his society. They sat on the terrace of the Café de la Paix, after a very late dinner, and drank bock, and watched the nocturnal life of the boulevard, and talked. Henry gathered—not from any direct statement, but by inference—that Tom must have acquired a position in the art world of Paris.[Pg 257] Tom mentioned the Salon5 as if the Salon were his pocket, and stated casually6 that there was work of his in the Luxembourg. Strange that the cosmopolitan7 quality of Tom's reputation—if, in comparison with Henry's, it might be called a reputation at all—roused the author's envy! He, too, wished to be famous in France, and to be at home in two capitals. Tom retired8 at what he considered an early hour—namely, midnight—the oceanic part of the journey having saddened him. Before they separated he borrowed a sovereign from Henry, and this simple monetary9 transaction had the singular effect of reducing Henry's envy.
The next morning Henry wished to begin a systematic10 course of the monuments of Paris and the artistic11 genius of the French nation. But Tom would not get up. At eleven o'clock Henry, armed with a map and the English talent for exploration, set forth12 alone to grasp the general outlines of the city, and came back successful at half-past one. At half-past two Tom was inclined to consider the question of getting up, and Henry strolled out again and lost himself between the Moulin Rouge13 and the Church of Sacré Cœur. It was turned four o'clock when[Pg 258] he sighted the façade of the hotel, and by that time Tom had not only arisen, but departed, leaving a message that he should be back at six o'clock. So Henry wandered up and down the boulevard, from the Madeleine to Marguéry's Restaurant, had an automatic tea at the Express-Bar, and continued to wander up and down the boulevard.
He felt that he could have wandered up and down the boulevard for ever.
And then night fell; and all along the boulevard, high on seventh storeys and low as the street names, there flashed and flickered14 and winked15, in red and yellow and a most voluptuous16 purple, electric invitations to drink inspiriting liqueurs and to go and amuse yourself in places where the last word of amusement was spoken. There was one name, a name almost revered18 by the average healthy Englishman, which wrote itself magically on the dark blue sky in yellow, then extinguished itself and wrote itself anew in red, and so on tirelessly: that name was 'Folies-Bergère.' It gave birth to the most extraordinary sensations in Henry's breast. And other names, such as 'Casino de Paris,' 'Eldorado,'[Pg 259] 'Scala,' glittered, with their guiding arrows of light, from bronze columns full in the middle of the street. And what with these devices, and the splendid glowing windows of the shops, and the enlarged photographs of surpassingly beautiful women which hung in heavy frames from almost every lamp-post, and the jollity of the slowly-moving crowds, and the incredible illustrations displayed on the newspaper kiosks, and the moon creeping up the velvet19 sky, and the thousands of little tables at which the jolly crowds halted to drink liquids coloured like the rainbow—what with all that, and what with the curious gay feeling in the air, Henry felt that possibly Berlin, or Boston, or even Timbuctoo, might be a suitable and proper place for an engaged young man, but that decidedly Paris was not.
At six o'clock there was no sign of Tom. He arrived at half-past seven, admitted that he was a little late, and said that a friend had given him tickets for the first performance of the new 'revue' at the Folies-Bergère, that night.
'And now, since we are alone, we can talk,' said Cosette, adding, 'Mon petit.'
[Pg 260]
'Yes,' Henry agreed.
'Dolbiac has told me you are very rich—une vogue20 épatante.... One would not say it.... But how your ears are pretty!' Cosette glanced admiringly at the lobe21 of his left ear.
('Anyhow,' Henry reflected, 'she would insist on me coming to Paris. I didn't want to come.')
They were alone, and yet not alone. They occupied a 'loge' in the crammed22, gorgeous, noisy Folies-Bergère. But it resembled a box in an English theatre less than an old-fashioned family pew at the Great Queen Street Wesleyan Chapel23. It was divided from other boxes and from the stalls and from the jostling promenade24 by white partitions scarcely as high as a walking-stick. There were four enamelled chairs in it, and Henry and Cosette were seated on two of them; the other two were empty. Tom had led Henry like a sheep to the box, where they were evidently expected by two excessively stylish25 young women, whom Tom had introduced to the overcome Henry as Loulou and Cosette, two artistes of the Théâtre des Capucines. Loulou was short and fair and of a full habit, and spoke17 no English.Cosette was tall and slim and dark, and talked slowly, and with smiles, a language which was frequently a recognisable imitation of English. She had learnt it, she said, in Ireland, where she had been educated in a French convent. She had just finished a long engagement at the Capucines, and in a fortnight she was to commence at the Scala: this was an off-night for her. She protested a deep admiration27 for Tom.
Cosette and Loulou and Tom had held several colloquies28, in incomprehensible French that raced like a mill-stream over a weir29, with acquaintances who accosted30 them on the promenade or in the stalls, and at length Tom and Loulou had left the 'loge' for a few minutes in order to accept the hospitality of friends in the great hall at the back of the auditorium32. The new 'revue' seemed to be the very last thing that they were interested in.
'Don't be afraid,' Tom, departing, had said to Henry. 'She won't eat you.'
'You leave me to take care of myself,' Henry had replied, lifting his chin.
Cosette transgressed33 the English code governing the externals of women in various particulars. And the principal result was to make the English code seem insular34 and antique. She had an extremely large white hat, with a very feathery feather in it, and some large white roses between the brim and her black hair. Her black hair was positively35 sable26, and one single immense lock of it was drawn36 level across her forehead. With the large white hat she wore a low evening-dress, lace-covered, with loose sleeves to the elbow, and white gloves running up into the mystery of the sleeves. Round her neck was a tight string of pearls. The combination of the hat and the evening-dress startled Henry, but he saw in the theatre many other women similarly contemptuous of the English code, and came to the conclusion that, though queer and un-English, the French custom had its points. Cosette's complexion37 was even more audacious in its contempt of Henry's deepest English convictions. Her lips were most obviously painted, and her eyebrows38 had received some assistance, and once, in a manner absolutely ingenuous39, she produced a little bag and gazed at herself in a little mirror, and patted her chin with a little puff40, and then smiled happily at Henry. Yes, and Henry approved. He was forced to approve, forced to admit the artificial and decadent41 but indubitable charm of paint and powder. The contrast between Cosette's lips and her brilliant teeth was utterly42 bewitching.
She was not beautiful. In facial looks, she was simply not in the same class with Geraldine. And as to intellect, also, Geraldine was an easy first.
But in all other things, in the things that really mattered (such was the dim thought at the back of Henry's mind), she was to Geraldine what Geraldine was to Aunt Annie. Her gown was a miracle, her hat was another, and her coiffure a third. And when she removed a glove—her rings, and her finger-nails! And the glimpses of her shoes! She was so finished. And in the way of being frankly43 feminine, Geraldine might go to school to her. Geraldine had brains and did not hide them; Geraldine used t............