moon, a new white feather in a roof of blue-black steel, seemed but an ornament of the topmost pinnacle of the long silhouette of the cathedral. At first, engaged by the temperamental whim of Berenice, Cowperwood stared dutifully. But presently, it was the blend of her own response that swayed him. Oh, to be young, to be so thrilled, to be so deeply moved by color, form, the mystery and meaninglessness of human activity!
But Berenice was not thinking only of the faded memories and jumble of hopes and fears that had produced all this, but also of the mystery and immensity of voiceless time and space. Ah, to have understanding, knowledge! To think earnestly and seekingly for some reason or excuse for life! Was her own life merely to be one of clever, calculating, and ruthless determination to fulfil herself socially, or as an individual? What benefit could that be, to her or to anyone? What beauty would that create or inspire? Now . . . here . . . in this place . . . perfumed with memories and moonlight . . . something was at her elbow and in her heart . . . something that whispered of quiet and peace . . . solitude . . . fulfilment . . . a desire to create something utterly beautiful, so that her life would be complete and significant.
But . . . this was wild dreaming . . . the moon had bewitched her. Why should she want anything? She had all that women desired.
“Let’s go back, Frank,” she said, at last, something within herself failing her, some sense of beauty gone forever. “Let’s go back to the inn.”
Chapter 34
While Cowperwood and Berenice were touring the cathedral towns, Aileen and Tollifer were visiting the Paris cafes, smart shops, and popular resorts. Having made sure that Aileen was coming, Tollifer had preceded her by twenty-four hours, and used that time to arrange a program which should prove amusing and so detain her in Paris. For he knew that this French world was not a novelty to her. She had been there, and in most of the European resorts, at numerous times in the past, when Cowperwood was most anxious to see her happy. Even now these were precious memories, and occasionally flashed only too vividly before her.
Nonetheless, she was finding Tollifer a most diverting person. On the evening of her arrival he called at the Ritz, where she had installed herself with her maid, half-wondering why she had come. It was true that she had intended to go to Paris, but she had treasured the idea that Cowperwood would go with her. However, his affairs in London, shouted about by the press and glibly enough presented to her by himself, convinced her that his time was very much occupied. In fact, having encountered Sippens in the lobby of the Cecil one morning, he had regaled her with a brisk and colorful account of the tangle of affairs with which Cowperwood was now burdened.
“He’ll turn this town upside down, Mrs. Cowperwood,” Sippens had said, “if his interest holds out. I just hope he doesn’t work too hard”—which was really not at all what he hoped. “He’s not as young as he used to be, although he seems shrewder and quicker than ever.”
“I know, I know,” Aileen had replied at the time. “There isn’t anything about Frank that you can tell me. He’ll keep on working until he dies, I suppose.”
And she had left Sippens, feeling that this was true, yet suspecting that there must be a woman somewhere . . . possibly Berenice Fleming. However,
“Well, you did take my advice! And now that you’re here, I’m going to make myself responsible for you. If you’re in the mood, you must dress immediately for dinner. I’ve arranged a little party for you. Some friends of mine from home are here. I don’t know whether you know the Sidney Brainerds, of New York?”
“Oh, yes,” said Aileen, her brain a whirl of emotion. She knew by hearsay that the Brainerds were wealthy and socially significant. Mrs. Brainerd, as she remembered, had been Marigold Shoemaker, of Philadelphia.
“Mrs. Brainerd is here in Paris,” continued Tollifer. “She and several of her friends are coming on to dinner with us at Maxim’s, and afterward we’re going to an Argentinian’s place. He’ll amuse you, I know. Do you think you can be ready in an hour?” He turned toward the door with the air of one who was anticipating a very gay evening.
“Oh, I think so,” said Aileen, laughing. “But you’ll have to leave now if I’m to start.”
“That fits in perfectly for me. Wear white, if you have it, and dark red roses. You’ll look stunning!”
Aileen flushed a little at this familiarity. A high-handed caballero, to say the least!
“I’ll wear just that,” she said, giving him a vivid smile, “if I can find the dress.”
“Great! I’ll be back for you in an hour. Until then . . .” and he bowed and left.
As she dressed, she found herself more than ever at a loss to understand this sudden, assured invasion of Tollifer’s. It was obvious he was not without money. Yet, with these superior connections of his, why should he bother with her? Why should this Mrs. Brainerd join a dinner party of which she was not to be the principal guest? Pursued as she was by contradictory thoughts, this easy friendship of Tollifer, pretense though it might be, was still fascinating. If he were an adventurer, coldly seeking money, like so many, most certainly he was a clever one. And with diversions at his beck and call, such as all those who had approached her in the past few years had lacked. Their methods had all too often been dull, their manners irritating.
“Ready?” exclaimed Tollifer breezily as he came in an hour or so later, eyeing her white dress and the red roses at her waist. “We’ll be just in time if we go now. Mrs. Brainerd is bringing a young Greek banker, and her friend, Mrs. Judith Thorne, no acquaintance of mine, is bringing an Arab sheik, Ibrihim Abbas Bey, who is up to God knows what here in Paris! But, anyway, he speaks English, and so does the Greek.”
Tollifer was a little flushed and, if anything, even more assured. He paced the room with an easy stride, drunkenly elevated by the knowledge that he was once more in good form. To Aileen’s amusement he railed against the furnishings of her suite.
“Look at those hangings! God, what they get away with! As I came up in the elevator just now, it squeaked. Imagine that in New York! And it’s just such people as you who let them do it!”
Aileen was flattered. “Is it so bad?” she asked. “I haven’t even thought about it. After all, where else can we go here?”
He poked his finger at the tasseled silk shade of a floor lamp. “This has a wine stain on it. And somebody’s been burning this fake tapestry with cigarettes. I don’t blame them!”
Aileen laughed at him, amused by his swaggering maleness. “Oh, come on,” she said, “we could be in worse places than this. Besides, you’re keeping your guests waiting.”
“That’s right. I wonder if that sheik knows anything about American whiskey. Let’s go find out!”
Maxim’s of 1900. Glossily waxed black floors, reflecting Pompeian red walls, a gilded ceiling, and the lights of three enormous prismed electroliers. Except for front and rear exits, the walls lined with russet-red leather seats, and before them small and intimate supper tables: a Gallic atmosphere calculated to effect that mental as well as emotional release which the world of that day sought in one place, and one place only—Paris! Merely to enter was to lapse into a happy delirium. Types and costumes and varying temperaments of all the nations of the world. And all at the topmost toss of wealth, title, position, fame, and all tethered by the steel cords of convention in conduct and dress, yet all seeking freedom from convention, drawn to convention’s showplace of unconventionally.
Aileen was gloriously thrilled to see and be seen here. As Tollifer rather anticipated, his friends were late.
“The sheik,” he explained, “sometimes goes astray.”
But a few minutes later came Mrs. Brainerd and her Greek, and Mrs. Thorne with her Arab cavalier. The sheik in particular caused a slight stir and buzz. At once, in his grandest manner, Tollifer took over the business of ordering, delighting in the half-dozen waiters who hovered like flies about the table. The sheik, he was delighted to discover, was instantly attracted to Aileen. Her rounded form, her bright hair and high coloring suggested more delight to him than the slim and less flamboyant charms of either Mrs. Brainerd or Mrs. Thorne. At once he devoted himself to her, bombarding her with polite inquiries. From where did she come? Was her husband, like all these Americans, a millionaire? Might he have one of her roses? He liked their dark color. Had she ever been to Arabia? She would enjoy the life of a roving Bedouin tribe. It was very beautiful in Arabia.
Aileen, fixed by his blazing black eyes above his smartly clipped beard, his long hooked nose and swarthy
