The Well of Loneliness

others who sauntered⁠—men and women, a couple of women together⁠—always twos⁠—the fine nights seemed prolific of couples. In the air there would be the inconsequent feeling that belongs to the night life of most great cities, above all to the careless night life of Paris, where problems are apt to vanish with sunset. The lure of the brightly lighted boulevards, the lure of the dim and mysterious bystreets would grip them so that they would not turn homeward for quite a long while, but would just go on walking. The moon, less clear than at Orotava, less innocent doubtless, yet scarcely less lovely, would come sailing over the Place de la Concorde, staring down at the dozens of other white moons that had managed to get themselves caught by the standards. In the cafés would be crowds of indolent people, for the French who work hard know well how to idle; and these cafés would smell of hot coffee and sawdust, of rough, strong tobacco, of men and women. Beneath the arcades there would be the shop windows, illuminated and bright with temptation. But Mary would usually stare into Sulka’s, picking out scarves or neckties for Stephen.

“That one! We’ll come and buy it tomorrow. Oh, Stephen, do wait⁠—look at that dressing-gown!”

And Stephen might laugh and pretend to be bored, though she secretly nurtured a weakness for Sulka’s.

Down the Rue de Rivoli they would walk arm in arm, until turning at last, they would pass the old church of St. Germain⁠—the church from whose Gothic tower had been rung the first call to a most bloody slaying. But now that tower would be grim with silence, dreaming the composite dreams of Paris⁠—dreams that were heavy with blood and beauty, with innocence and lust, with joy and despair, with life and death, with heaven and hell; all the curious composite dreams of Paris.

Then crossing the river they would reach the Quarter and their house, where Stephen would slip her latchkey into the door and would know the warm feeling that can come of a union between door and latchkey. With a sigh of contentment they would find themselves at home once again in the quiet old Rue Jacob.

III

They went to see the kind Mademoiselle Duphot, and this visit seemed momentous to Mary. She gazed with something almost like awe at the woman who had had the teaching of Stephen.

“Oh, but yes,” smiled Mademoiselle Duphot, “I teached her. She was terribly naughty over her dictée; she would write remarks about the poor Henri⁠—très impertinente she would be about Henri! Stévenne was a queer little child and naughty⁠—but so dear, so dear⁠—I could never scold her. With me she done everything her own way.”

“Please tell me about that time,” coaxed Mary.

So Mademoiselle Duphot sat down beside Mary and patted her hand: “Like me, you love her. Well now let me recall⁠—She would sometimes get angry, very angry, and then she would go to the stables and talk to her horse. But when she fence it was marvellous⁠—she fence like a man, and she only a baby but extrémement strong. And then.⁠ ⁠…” The memories went on and on, such a store she possessed, the kind Mademoiselle Duphot.

As she talked her heart went out to the girl, for she felt a great tenderness towards young things: “I am glad that you come to live with our Stévenne now that Mademoiselle Puddle is at Morton. Stévenne would be desolate in the big house. It is charming for both of you this new arrangement. While she work you look after the ménage; is it not so? You take care of Stévenne, she take care of you. Oui, oui, I am glad you have come to Paris.”

Julie stroked Mary’s smooth young cheek, then her arm, for she wished to observe through her fingers. She smiled: “Very young, also very kind. I like so much the feel of your kindness⁠—it gives me a warm and so happy sensation, because with all kindness there must be much good.”

Was she quite blind after all, the poor Julie?

And hearing her Stephen flushed with pleasure, and her eyes that could see turned and rested on Mary with a gentle and very profound expression in their depths⁠—at that moment they were calmly thoughtful, as though brooding upon the mystery of life⁠—one might almost have said the eyes of a mother.

A happy and pleasant visit it had been; they talked about it all through the evening.

XLI

I

Burton, who had enlisted in the Worcesters soon after Stephen had found work in London, Burton was now back again in Paris, loudly demanding a brand-new motor.

“The car looks awful! Snub-nosed she looks⁠—peculiar⁠—all tucked up in the bonnet;” he declared.

So Stephen bought a touring Renault and a smart little landaulette for Mary. The choosing of the cars was the greatest fun; Mary climbed in and out of hers at least six times while it stood in the showroom.

“Is it comfortable?” Stephen must keep on asking, “Do you want them to pad it out more at the back? Are you perfectly sure you like the grey whipcord? Because if you don’t it can be re-upholstered.”

Mary laughed: “I’m climbing in and out from sheer swank, just to show that it’s mine. Will they send it soon?”

“Almost at once, I hope,” smiled Stephen.

Very splendid it seemed to her now to have money, because of what money could do for Mary; in the shops they must sometimes behave like two children, having endless things dragged out for inspection. They drove to Versailles in the new touring car and wandered for hours through the lovely gardens. The Hameau no longer seemed sad to Stephen, for Mary and she brought love back to the Hameau. Then they drove to the forest of Fontainebleau, and wherever they went there was singing of birds⁠—challenging, jubilant, provocative singing: “Look at us, look at us! We’re happy, Stephen!”