She read over what she had written, three times, finding nothing at all that she wished to add, no word of tenderness, or of regret. She felt numb and then unbelievably lonely, but she wrote the address in her firm handwriting: “The Lady Anna Gordon,” she wrote, “Morton Hall. Near Upton-on-Severn.” And when she wept, as she presently must do, covering her face with her large, brown hands, her spirit felt unrefreshed by this weeping, for the hot, angry tears seemed to scorch her spirit. Thus was Anna Gordon baptized through her child as by fire, unto the loss of their mutual salvation.
XXXI
I
It was Jonathan Brockett who had recommended the little hotel in the Rue St. Roch, and when Stephen and Puddle arrived one evening that June, feeling rather tired and dejected, they found their sitting-room bright with roses—roses for Puddle—and on the table two boxes of Turkish cigarettes for Stephen. Brockett, they learnt, had ordered these things by writing specially from London.
Barely had they been in Paris a week, when Jonathan Brockett turned up in person: “Hallo, my dears, I’ve come over to see you. Everything all right? Are you being looked after?” He sat down in the only comfortable chair and proceeded to make himself charming to Puddle. It seemed that his flat in Paris being let, he had tried to get rooms at their hotel but had failed, so had gone instead to the Meurice. “But I’m not going to take you to lunch there,” he told them, “the weather’s too fine, we’ll go to Versailles. Stephen, ring up and order your car, there’s a darling! By the way, how is Burton getting on? Does he remember to keep to the right and to pass on the left?” His voice sounded anxious. Stephen reassured him good-humouredly, she knew that he was apt to be nervous in motors.
They lunched at the Hotel des Reservoirs, Brockett taking great pains to order special dishes. The waiters were zealous, they evidently knew him: “Oui, monsieur, tout de suite—à l’instant, monsieur!” Other clients were kept waiting while Brockett was served, and Stephen could see that this pleased him. All through the meal he talked about Paris with ardour, as a lover might talk of a mistress.
“Stephen, I’m not going back for ages. I’m going to make you simply adore her. You’ll see, I’ll make you adore her so much that you’ll find yourself writing like a heaven-born genius. There’s nothing so stimulating as love—you’ve got to have an affair with Paris!” Then looking at Stephen rather intently, “I suppose you’re capable of falling in love?”
She shrugged her shoulders, ignoring his question, but she thought: “He’s putting his eye to the keyhole. His curiosity’s positively childish at times,” for she saw that his face had fallen.
“Oh, well, if you don’t want to tell me—” he grumbled.
“Don’t be silly! There’s nothing to tell,” smiled Stephen. But she made a mental note to be careful. Brockett’s curiosity was always most dangerous when apparently merely childish.
With quick tact he dropped the personal note. No good trying to force her to confide, he decided, she was too damn clever to give herself away, especially before the watchful old Puddle. He sent for the bill and when it arrived, went over it item by item, frowning.
“Maître d’hotel!”
“Oui monsieur?”
“You’ve made a mistake; only one liqueur brandy—and here’s another mistake, I ordered two portions of potatoes, not three; I do wish to God you’d be careful!” When Brockett felt cross he always felt mean. “Correct this at once, it’s disgusting!” he said rudely. Stephen sighed, and hearing her Brockett looked up unabashed: “Well, why pay for what we’ve not ordered?” Then he suddenly found his temper again and left a very large tip for the waiter.
II
There is nothing more difficult to attain to than the art of being a perfect guide. Such an art, indeed, requires a real artist, one who has a keen perception for contrasts, and an eye for the large effects rather than for details, above all one possessed of imagination; and Brockett, when he chose, could be such a guide.
Having waved the professional guides to one side, he himself took them through a part of the palace, and his mind re-peopled the place for Stephen so that she seemed to see the glory of the dancers led by the youthful Roi Soleil; seemed to hear the rhythm of the throbbing violins, and the throb of the rhythmic dancing feet as they beat down the length of the Galerie des Glaces; seemed to see those other mysterious dancers who followed step by step, in the long line of mirrors. But most skilfully of all did he recreate for her the image of the luckless queen who came after; as though for some reason this unhappy woman must appeal in a personal way to Stephen. And true it was that the small, humble rooms which the queen had chosen out of all that vast palace, moved Stephen profoundly—so desolate they seemed, so full of unhappy thoughts and emotions that were even now only half forgotten.
Brockett pointed to the simple garniture on the mantelpiece of the little salon, then he looked at Stephen: “Madame de Lamballe gave those to the queen,” he murmured softly.
She nodded, only vaguely apprehending his meaning.
Presently they followed him out into the gardens and stood looking across the Tapis Vert that stretches its quarter mile of greenness towards a straight, lovely line of water.
Brockett said, very low, so that Puddle should not hear him: “Those two would often come here at sunset. Sometimes they were rowed along the canal in the sunset—can’t you imagine it, Stephen? They must often have felt
