“Of course I don’t mean you look the same, Jane,” she continued honestly. “But you look as if you were the same! And that’s even nicer.”
“We’re all the same,” said Jane stoutly. “That’s one of the things you learn by growing old. Nobody ever changes.”
“Children do,” smiled Flora. “I was surprised at Cicily. She was a pretty child, but she’s grown up into much more than that. You must be very proud of her.”
Jane’s eyes met Flora’s for a moment in silence.
“Well, Flora,” said Jane slowly, “I can’t say that I am.”
Flora took Jane’s hand and squeezed it before she spoke.
“Jane,” she said gently, “the war changed everything. Even over here, it’s all quite different. People don’t act as they used to do—they don’t think as they used to do. Cicily’s a sweet child. It was a pleasure to have her here in Paris. She has lived so discreetly and charmingly in that little flat up near the Étoile—everyone likes her—her children are adorable and Albert’s a delightful young man. I think they’ll be very happy.”
“They don’t deserve to be very happy,” said Jane.
“But you want them to be,” said Flora brightly. Flora seemed almost a member of the friendly conspiracy. “And speaking of happiness,” she went on gaily, “isn’t Muriel funny with Ed Brown? She’s a perfect wife.”
“He’s a perfect husband,” smiled Jane.
“Well, Jane!” laughed Flora, “I think that statement’s a trifle exaggerated. He’s really awful—pretty awful, I mean. He’s been in Paris three weeks and he hasn’t talked of anything but prohibition. With disfavour, my dear—don’t misunderstand me!—with distinct disfavour! But he makes Muriel sublimely happy!” She paused to twinkle, brightly, for a moment at Jane’s noncommittal countenance. “Jane,” she said, “you’re no gossip. You never were. You’re holding out on me. I wish Isabel were here.”
“Well, I don’t,” said Jane, with emphasis.
Flora stopped in confusion. “No, I suppose you don’t,” she said. “It—it must have been terrible, Jane. All in the family, I mean.”
“It was terrible,” said Jane.
“Muriel’s very happy about it. She loves Cicily.”
“Muriel,” said Jane deliberately, “has no moral sense. She never had. She’s always been frivolous about falling in love. About anyone’s falling in love—”
“Jane,” said Flora suddenly, “André Duroy’s not in Paris.”
The simple statement fell in a little pool of silence.
“Oh,” said Jane, after a moment. “Well, I thought perhaps he wouldn’t be.” She tried to make her voice sound very casual. “People aren’t in cities much, you know, in the month of July. I thought he’d be off with his wife in the country.”
“He’s not with his wife,” said Flora meaningly. “His wife’s at Cowes. She has a lot of English friends, you know.” Flora’s voice had lost nothing of its meaning.
“Yes, I know,” said Jane hastily. Letters were one thing, she thought, and talk was another. Jane did not want to sit gossiping with Flora about André’s wife. It seemed vaguely indecent. But it did not take two to make a gossip.
“She has their boy with her. She’s very discreet. He’s a nice child. Thirteen years old and he looks just like André. André’s in the French Alps, I think. He has a studio up there somewhere. I sent him a letter.”
“You sent him a letter?” said Jane.
“Yes. To say you were coming. I asked him to the wedding.”
“Oh—he won’t come down for it,” said Jane defensively.
She was conscious of wishing, rather wildly, that Flora had not written. He would not come, of course. And yet—and yet—Jane felt curiously hurt, in advance, to know he was not coming. It would have been much nicer if André had never known that she was in Paris. If André had not had forced on him that faintly ungracious gesture of declining to cross France to see the girl who—Ridiculously, Jane was thinking of that letter he had written her when he had received the Prix de Rome. Of how she had read it in her little room on Pine Street, at the window that overlooked the willow tree. If André had not written that letter, she might not have married Stephen. What nonsense! Of course she would have married Stephen. On what other basis than that of marriage with Stephen were the last thirty years imaginable?
“I think he will,” said Flora. “He quite fell for Cicily—”
Just then Stephen entered the room. Flora greeted him with enthusiasm. They sat down together on the Empire sofa and began to talk about Chicago. Jane did not listen. She was thinking of how very odd it was to think that Cicily knew André. That Cicily might know him quite well. That she might know him, absurdly, much better than Jane herself did. Cicily was only five years younger than Cyprienne. Jane was seventeen years older. Oh, well—of course he would not cross France to come to the wedding.
VI
Jane and Stephen and Cicily and Albert were strolling down the Rue Vaugirard on their way to the Luxembourg Museum. They had just lunched at Foyot’s on a perfect sole and fraises à la créme. Five of Jane’s ten days in Paris had passed. They had passed very quickly, she had just been thinking, and mainly in the consumption of food and drink. Cocktails at the Ritz bar, snails at L’Escargot, blinis at the Russian Maisonnette, cointreau at the Café de la Rotonde, fish food at Prunier’s, absinthe at the Dome, Muriel’s magnificent little dinner at Le Pré Catelan, Flora’s smart one in her apartment, champagne and sparkling Burgundy and Rhine wine in brown, long-necked bottles—curious memories to blend with the sense of perplexity and despair that the sight of Cicily and Albert and the three grandchildren had engendered.
The three grandchildren had been very endearing and Cicily and Albert had devoted themselves to the
