The Stoic

made to loan enough to this English company to assure its capture and control in the event of disaster. He would see.

As for Berenice and Stane, ah, well, he would wait and see as to that also. He was sixty years old, and except for fame and public acclaim, it might, in a very few years, make no particular difference. Actually, because of the relentless whirl of duties now threatening to engulf him, he was beginning to feel a little weary. Sometimes, at the close of a busy day, he felt this whole London venture to be such a senseless thing for him to be undertaking at this time. Why, only a year or two before, in Chicago, he had been saying to himself that if he could but achieve the extension of his franchises there, he would be willing to disassociate himself from the direction, and retire and travel. He had even thought at the time that if Berenice finally refused his offer, and he were left to himself again, he might patch up some form of peace with Aileen and return to his New York house and such amusements and activities as would not overtax what he looked upon as a deserved leisure.

But now, here he was. And what was it all about? What was he to get out of it, other than the pleasure with Berenice, which, had she willed it otherwise, he might have found in a more peaceful way. At the same time, there was the point made by her, and even by himself, that he owed it to himself, to his life, his reputation as representing an immense creative force, a financial figure of the first rank, to go forward and round out his career in some such climactic fashion as this. But could it be effected without impairing his reputation as well as his fortune? Would it be possible, in view of the present state of opinion of him at home, to go back and, in a reasonably brief time, assemble the required money?

In short, his position in almost all of its aspects was care-full and trying. He was fagged, and disconcerted. Perhaps the first premonitory breath of the oncoming winter of age.

That evening, after dinner, he talked to Berenice about his plans. It would be best, he thought, to have Aileen accompany him to New York. He would need to entertain a number of people, and it would look better if his wife were there. Besides, at this point, they would have to be especially careful to keep her in a good mood, just when everything was hanging in the balance.

Chapter 37

Meanwhile, Aileen, in Paris, at the end of a month, was, as all her new friends declared, “a different person!” Twenty pounds lighter; her color, her eyes, as well as her mood brighter; her hair arranged a la chanticleer, as Sarah Schimmel described it; her gowns designed by M. Richard, her shoes by M. Kraussmeier, all as Tollifer had planned. She had achieved a real friendship with Madame Rezstadt, and the sheik, though his attentions were a little bothersome, was an amusing individual. He seemed to like her for herself alone; in fact, seemed bent on developing an affair with her. But that costume! White, and of the finest silk and wool, with a white silk cord binding it at his waist. And his oily, savage-looking black hair! And the small silver rings in his ears! And long, thin, pointed and upward-curling red leather slippers on his feet, which were certainly not small. And that hawklike nose and dark piercing eyes! When with him, one became part of a show, gazed at by all. And if she entertained him alone, she spent most of the time trying to avoid his caresses.

“Now, please, Ibrihim,” she would say. “Don’t forget, I’m married, and in love with my husband. I like you, I really do. But you mustn’t be begging me to do what I don’t want to do, because I won’t, and if you keep on, I won’t see you at all.”

“But, you see,” he insisted, in quite good English, “we have so mooch in common. You like to play, and so do I. We like to talk, ride, gamble, play ze races a little. But still, you are like me, sober, not so . . . so . . .”

“Flighty?” interjected Aileen.

“What you mean, ‘flighty’?” he inquired.

“Oh, I don’t know.” She felt as though she were talking to a child. “Fussy, jumpy.” She waved her hands to indicate instability, mental as well as emotional.

“So? So? Ha, ha! Flighty! It is so! I understan’. You are not flighty! Gudd! So I like you, mooch. Ha, ha! Very mooch. And me? You like me—the Sheik Ibrihim?”

Aileen laughed. “Yes, I do,” she said. “Of course, I think you drink too much. And I think you are anything but a good man—cruel and selfish and a lot of things. But I like you just the same, and . . .”

“Tchk, tchk,” clucked the sheik. “That is not mooch for a man like me. If I do not love, I do not sleep.”

“Oh, stop being silly!” exclaimed Aileen. “Do go over there and fix yourself a drink. And then go away and come back tonight and take me to dinner. I’d like to go to that Mr. Sabinal’s place again.”

And so Aileen’s days were passing agreeably enough.

Her former tendency toward melancholia was dispelled, and she began to feel that her state was not as hopeless as it had been. Cowperwood had written her that he would be coming to Paris, and in anticipation of his arrival she was prepared to surprise him with the most impressive of M. Richard’s creations. And Tollifer had suggested that they take him to Orsignat’s for dinner, an interesting little place recently discovered by him. It was charming, located right in the shadow of Notre Dame. Sabinal was to furnish Orsignat, for the occasion, with the wines, brandies, liqueurs, aperitifs, and cigars. And Orsignat, under the direction of Tollifer, was to furnish a repast of which no gourmet could complain. For this time it was Tollifer who was seeking to make an impression. Among the guests were to be Madame Rezstadt, the devoted sheik, and Marigold, who because of her interest in Tollifer was still in Paris and, by his orders, reconciled to Aileen.

“You and your husband,” he said to Aileen, “are so familiar with all the well-known places. I think it would be more original if we got up something quite simple for a change.” And he explained his plan to her.

To make sure of Cowperwood’s presence, Tollifer had her cable him a pressing invitation to the dinner which they had arranged in his honor. And Cowperwood, on receipt of this, smiled, and wired his acceptance. To his genuine surprise, on his arrival, he found Aileen more attractive physically than he had thought she could be at this time in her life, and particularly after all she had endured. Her hair was a study in swirls that emphasized the good points of her face. And her dress was designed to show the lines of her much reduced figure.

“Aileen!” he exclaimed, on seeing her, “I’ve never seen you looking better! What in the world have you been doing? That dress is most effective. And I like your hair. What have you been living on, birdseed?”

“Well, just about that,” returned Aileen, smiling. “I haven’t had a single meal that I would call a meal in thirty days. But you may be sure of one thing! Now that I’ve gotten it off, it’s going to stay off! But did you have an easy trip over?” As she talked she was supervising the services of Williams, who was arranging glasses and liqueurs on a table in preparation for guests.

“The Channel was smooth as a pond,” he said, “except for about fifteen minutes, when it looked as though everybody would go under. But we were all fine when we landed.

“Oh, that dreadful Channel!” said Aileen, conscious all the while of his eyes upon her, and, in spite of herself, nervously excited by his complimentary remarks.

“But what about this banquet tonight?”

“Well, Mr. Tollifer and I have arranged a little party. You know, that man Tollifer is a perfect jewel. I like him ever so much. And I think you’ll be interested in some of the people who are coming, especially my friend, Madame Rezstadt. She and I have been going around together a great deal. She is charming, and different from any woman I have ever known.”

Now that she had lived for a month in the company of Tollifer and his colourful group, she felt at ease in pointing out to Cowperwood a woman of Madame Rezstadt’s charm, where previously she would have jealously intrigued to prevent his noticing any woman as attractive as her new friend. He noted her new air of confidence, her assurance, good nature, and revived interest in life. If things were going to go as well as this, decidedly there might be no further cause for bitterness between them. At the same time ran the thought that this development was his doing, not hers. And she so unconscious of it. But no sooner had that thought been indulged in than he realized that it was really because of Berenice that this had happened. For he could feel that Aileen was inspired, not so much by his presence as by that of the man whom he had employed.

But where was he? Cowperwood felt he had no right to inquire. He was in the position of a man who contrives a show, a masquerade, but is not permitted to announce himself as showman. But there was Aileen saying: “Frank, you’ll want to dress. And I have some things to do before the others arrive.”

“That’s right,” he said. “But I have a piece of news for you. Do you think you could leave Paris just now and