“I am listening,” said Vincent.
But at that, Passavant immediately protested, as if the impatience were Vincent’s, and not his own:
“Goodness me! What a hurry you’re in! Between this and Paris there’s time enough surely.”
Passavant was particularly skilful in the art of fathering his own words—and anything else he preferred to disown—on other people. He made a feint of dropping his subject, like an angler who, for fear of startling his trout, makes a long cast with his bait and then draws it in again by imperceptible degrees.
“Apropos, thank you for sending me your brother. I was afraid you had forgotten.”
Vincent made a gesture and Robert went on:
“Have you seen him since? … Not had time, eh? … Then it’s odd you shouldn’t have asked me yet how the interview went off. At bottom, you don’t in the least care. You don’t take the faintest interest in your brother. What Olivier thinks and feels, what he is, what he wants to be, never concerns you in the least. …”
“Reproaching me?” asked Vincent.
“Upon my soul, yes. I can’t understand—I can’t swallow your indifference. When you were ill at Pau, it might pass; you could only think of yourself; selfishness was part of the cure. But now. … What! you have growing up beside you a young nature quivering with life, a budding intelligence, full of promise, only waiting for a word of advice, of encouragement. …”
He forgot as he spoke that he too had a brother.
Vincent, however, was no fool; the very exaggeration of this attack showed him that it was not sincere and that his companion’s indignation was merely brought forward to pave the way for something else. He waited in silence. But Robert stopped short suddenly; he had just surprised in the glimmer of Vincent’s cigarette a curious curl of his lip, which he took for irony; now there was nothing in the world he was more afraid of than being laughed at. And yet, was it really that which made him change his tone? I wonder whether the sudden intuition of a kind of connivance between Vincent and himself. … He assumed an air of perfect naturalness and started again in the tone of “there’s no need of any pretence with you”:
“Well, I had a most delightful conversation with young Olivier. I like the boy exceedingly.”
Passavant tried to catch Vincent’s expression (the night was not very dark); but he was looking fixedly in front of him.
“And now, my dear Molinier, the service I wished to ask you. …”
But, here again, he felt the need of marking time, something like an actor who drops his part for a moment with the assurance that he has his audience well in hand, and wishes to prove that he has, both to himself and to them. He bent forward therefore to Lilian, and speaking in a loud voice as if to accentuate the confidential character of what he had been saying, and of what he was going to say:
“Are you sure, dear lady, that you aren’t catching cold? We have a rug here that’s doing nothing. …”
Then, without waiting for an answer, he sank back into the corner of the carriage beside Vincent, and lowering his voice once more:
“This is what it is. I want to take your brother away with me this summer. Yes; I tell you so frankly; what’s the use of beating about the bush between us two? … I haven’t the honour of being acquainted with your parents and of course they wouldn’t allow Olivier to come away with me unless you were to intervene on my behalf. No doubt you’ll find a way of disposing them in my favour. You know what they’re like, I suppose, and you’ll be able to get round them. You’ll do this for me, won’t you?”
He waited a moment, and then, as Vincent kept silent, went on:
“Look here, Vincent. … I’m leaving Paris soon. … I don’t know for where as yet. I absolutely must have a secretary. … You know I’m founding a review. I have spoken about it to Olivier. He seems to me to have all the necessary qualities. … But I don’t want to look at it merely from my own selfish point of view: I also think that this will be an opportunity for him to show all his qualities. I have offered him the place of editor. … Editor of a review at his age! … You must admit that it’s unusual.”
“So very unusual, that I’m afraid my parents may be rather alarmed by it,” said Vincent at last, turning his eyes on him and looking at him fixedly.
“Yes; you’re no doubt right. Perhaps it would be better not to mention that. You might just put forward the interest and advantage it would be for him to go travelling with me, eh? Your parents must understand that at his age one wants to see the world a bit. At any rate, you’ll arrange it with them, won’t you?”
He took a breath, lighted another cigarette, and went on without changing his tone:
“And since you’re going to be so nice, I’ll try and do something for you. I think I can put you on to a thing which promises to turn out quite exceptionally. … A friend of mine in the highest banking circles is keeping it open for a few privileged persons. But please don’t mention it; not a word to Lilian. In any case I can only dispose of a very limited number of shares; I can’t offer them both to her and you … Your last night’s fifty thousand francs? …”
“I have already disposed of them,” answered Vincent rather shortly, for he remembered Lilian’s warning.
“All right, all right. …” rejoined Robert quickly, as though he were a little piqued; “I’m not insisting.” Then with the air of saying: “I can’t be offended with you,” he added: “If you change your mind, send me word at once … because after five o’clock tomorrow evening, it’ll be
