‘I don’t know. He was never here before. He was very large. Very, very large. She was very nice. Very, very nice. Last night she was, perhaps, a little—’ She put her head on one hand and rocked it up and down. ‘I’ll speak perfectly frankly, Monsieur Barnes. Last night I found her not so gentille. Last night I formed another idea of her. But listen to what I tell you. She is très, très gentille. She is of very good family. It is a thing you can see.’
‘They did not leave any word?’
‘Yes. They said they would be back in an hour.’
‘Send them up when they come.’
‘Yes, Monsieur Barnes. And that lady, that lady there is someone. An eccentric, perhaps, but quelqu’une, quelqu’une!’
The concierge, before she became a concierge, had owned a drink-selling concession at the Paris racecourses. Her life-work lay in the pelouse, but she kept an eye on the people of the pesage, and she took great pride in telling me which of my guests were well brought up, which were of good family, who were sportsmen, a French word pronounced with the accent on the men. The only trouble was that people who did not fall into any of those three categories were very liable to be told there was no one home, chez Barnes.
One of my friends, an extremely underfed-looking painter, who was obviously to Madame Duzinell neither well brought up, of good family, nor a sportsman, wrote me a letter asking if I could get him a pass to get by the concierge so he could come up and see me occasionally in the evenings.
I went up to the flat wondering what Brett had done to the concierge. The wire was a cable from Bill Gorton, saying he was arriving on the France. I put the mail on the table, went back to the bedroom, undressed, and had a shower, I was rubbing down when I heard the door-bell pull. I put on a bathrobe and slippers and went to the door. It was Brett. Back of her was the count. He was holding a great bunch of roses.
‘Hello, darling,’ said Brett. ‘Aren’t you going to let us in?’
‘Come on. I was just bathing.’
‘Aren’t you the fortunate man? Bathing.’
‘Only a shower. Sit down, Count Mippipopolous. What will you drink?’
‘I don’t know whether you like flowers, sir,’ the count said, ‘but I took the liberty of just bringing these roses.’
‘Here, give them to me.’ Brett took them. ‘Get me some water in this, Jake.’ I filled the big earthenware jug with water in the kitchen, and Brett put the roses in it, and placed them in the centre of the dining-room table.
‘I say. We have had a day.’
‘You don’t remember anything about a date with me at the Crillon?’
‘No. Did we have one? I must have been blind.’
‘You were quite drunk, my dear,’ said the count.
‘Wasn’t I, though? And the count’s been a brick, absolutely.’
‘You’ve got hell’s own drag with the concierge now.’
‘I ought to have. Gave her two hundred francs.’
‘Don’t be a damned fool.’
‘His,’ she said, and nodded at the count.
‘I thought we ought to give her a little something for last night. It was very late.’
‘He’s wonderful,’ Brett said. ‘He remembers everything that’s happened.’
‘So do you, my dear.’
‘Fancy,’ said Brett. ‘Who’d want to? I say, Jake, do we get a drink?’
‘You get it while I go in and dress. You know where it is.’
‘Rather.’
While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon, and then heard them talking. I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed.
‘What’s the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?’
She kissed me coolly on the forehead.
‘Oh, Brett, I love you so much.’
‘Darling,’ she said. Then: ‘Do you want me to send him away?’
‘No. He’s nice.’
‘I’ll send him away.’
‘No, don’t.’
‘Yes, I’ll send him away.’
‘You can’t just like that.’
‘Can’t I, though? You stay here. He’s mad about me, I tell you.’
She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the bed. I was having a bad time. I heard them talking but I did not listen. Brett came in and sat on the bed.
‘Poor old darling.’ She stroked my head.
‘What did you say to him?’ I was lying with my face away from her. I did not want to see her.
‘Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne.’
Then later: ‘Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?’
‘It’s better.’
‘Lie quiet. He’s gone to the other side of town.’
‘Couldn’t we live together, Brett? Couldn’t we just live together?’
‘I don’t think so. I’d just tromper you with everybody. You couldn’t stand it.’
‘I stand it now.’
‘That would be different. It’s my fault, Jake. It’s the way I’m made.’
‘Couldn’t we go off in the country for a while?’
‘It wouldn’t be any good. I’ll go if you like. But I couldn’t live quietly in the country. Not with my own true love.’
‘I know.’
‘Isn’t it rotten? There isn’t any use my telling you I love you.’
‘You know I love you.’
‘Let’s not talk. Talking’s all bilge. I’m going away from you, and then Michael’s coming back.’
‘Why are you going away?’
‘Better for you. Better for me.’
‘When are you going?’
‘Soon as I can.’
‘Where?’
‘San Sebastian.’
‘Can’t we go together?’
‘No. That would be a hell of an idea after we’d just talked it out.’
‘We never agreed.’
‘Oh, you know as well as I do. Don’t be obstinate, darling.’
‘Oh, sure,’ I said. ‘I know you’re right. I’m just low, and when I’m low I talk like a fool.’
I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed and put them on. I stood up.
‘Don’t look like that, darling.’
‘How do you want me to look?’
‘Oh, don’t be a fool. I’m going away to-morrow.’
‘To-morrow?’
‘Yes. Didn’t I say so? I am.’
‘Let’s have a drink, then. The count will be back.’
‘Yes. He should be back. You know he’s extraordinary about buying champagne. It means any amount to him.’
We went into the dining-room. I took up the brandy bottle and poured Brett a drink and one for myself. There was a ring at the bell-pull. I went to the door and there was the count. Behind him was the chauffeur carrying a basket of champagne.
‘Where should I have him put it, sir?’ asked the count.
‘In the kitchen,’ Brett said.
‘Put it in there, Henry,’ the count motioned. ‘Now go down and get the ice.’ He stood looking after the basket inside the kitchen door. ‘I think you’ll find that’s very good wine,’ he said. ‘I know we don’t get much of a chance to judge good wine in the States now, but I got this from a friend of mine that’s in the business.’
‘Oh, you always have someone in the trade,’ Brett said.
‘This fellow raises the grapes. He’s got thousands of acres of them.’
‘What’s his name?’ asked Brett. ‘Veuve Cliquot?’
‘No,’ said the count. ‘Mumms. He’s a baron.’
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ said Brett. ‘We all have titles. Why haven’t you a title, Jake?’
‘I assure you, sir,’ the count put his hand on my arm. ‘It never does a man any good. Most of the time it costs you money.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s damned useful sometimes,’ Brett said.
‘I’ve never known it to do me any good.’
‘You haven’t used it properly. I’ve had hell’s own amount of credit on mine.’
‘Do sit down, count,’ I said. ‘Let me take that stick.’
The count was looking at Brett across the table under the gaslight. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes on the rug. She saw me notice it. ‘I say, Jake, I don’t want to ruin your rugs. Can’t you give a chap an ash-tray?’
I found some ash-trays and spread them around. The chauffeur came up with a bucket full of salted ice. ‘Put two bottles in it, Henry,’ the count called.
‘Anything else, sir?’
‘No. Wait down in the car.’ He turned to Brett and to me. ‘We’ll want to ride out to the Bois for dinner?’
‘If you like,’ Brett said. ‘I couldn’t eat a thing.’
‘I always like a good meal,’ said the count.
‘Should I bring the wine in, sir?’ asked the chauffeur.
‘Yes. Bring it in, Henry,’ said the count. He took out a heavy pigskin cigar-case and offered it to me. ‘Like to try a real American cigar?’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll finish the cigarette.’
He cut off the end of his cigar with a gold cutter he wore on one end of his watch-chain.
‘I like a cigar to really draw,’ said the count. ‘Half the cigars you smoke don’t draw.’
He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table at Brett. ‘And when you’re divorced, Lady Ashley, then you won’t have a title.’
‘No. What a pity.’
‘No,’ said the count. ‘You don’t need a title. You got class all over you.’
‘Thanks. Awfully decent of you.’
‘I’m not joking you,’ the count blew a cloud of smoke. ‘You got the most class of anybody I ever seen. You got it. That’s all.’
‘Nice of you,’ said Brett. ‘Mummy would be pleased. Couldn’t you write it out, and I’ll send it in a letter to her.’
‘I’d tell her, too,’ said the count. ‘I’m not joking you. I never joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. That’s what I always say.’
‘You’re right,’ Brett said. ‘You’re terribly right. I always joke people and I haven’t a friend in the world. Except Jake here.’
‘You don’t joke him.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Do you, now?’ asked the count. ‘Do you joke him?’
Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t joke him.’
‘See,’ said the count. ‘You don’t joke him.’
‘This is
