House of All Nations Read online

  She advanced with studied insulting vanity. ‘Charmed, I am sure.’ Her manners were perfect, that is, she flouted the Raccamonds outrageously, stirred the eels in their souls, while she went through the polite ritual minutely and coaxingly. Léon allowed them another gasp at his swan and then spoke to her in Russian. With a little frown and a lascivious smile, a short cooing broke out of her throat and she passed to the outer door, wallowing in the swelling air, not giving a second glance to the Raccamonds.

  Léon came back from shooing her off, with a bashful family smile. ‘What do you think of her, eh? Eh, Marianne?’ He flushed. ‘I value your opinion, Marianne.’

  ‘Russian, eh?’ asked Aristide, somewhat embarrassed.

  ‘Very beautiful: I admire your taste,’ croaked Marianne.

  Léon made a wry face, recovered himself, expostulated, ‘She’s a lady. I met her with Paul, Paul Méline, with a little friend, a Mme. Something, on the Champs-Élysées, Café du Berry. There were two of them right there at the little table. Méline was with me and I had a bet with him that they wouldn’t speak to us. He got them into conversation and he won. I didn’t pay him yet. He got the other girl. A lady, too.’ He begged, ‘She’s a decent woman, Marianne, married. Have you ever seen a girl like that, Aristide?’ He exulted, checked himself immediately out of respect for Marianne. He grinned at Marianne. ‘Marianne doesn’t mind if you speak up. She knows you’re faithful. Don’t you, eh, Marianne?’ He became earnest. ‘I can tell you one thing about that boy, Marianne. I’ve known him ten, fifteen years, I’ve tempted him.’ He bubbled over with the confession. ‘I’ve tempted him.’ He sobered again. ‘No disrespect to you, Marianne. That was before I met you. Since I met you, never! Never, I swear to you! You’re a fine type of woman. I respect you. But I’ve got to say it: he never fell! He’s faithful to you, Marianne, I’ve got to say that for him.’ He ended with a shade of regret.

  Then he laughed, ‘Listen, Aristide, there’s too much talk about how good the pound sterling is. I want to see that banker you were telling me about. Berty? Berty—Bertillon? I’ve got an idea. Never mind—’ He lowered his voice. ‘The other girl says she’s a widow. She’s quite a lady. Méline had breakfast with her. She’s just gone, I think. Poor girl—’ (He was evidently thinking of his own girl again.) He confided to Marianne: ‘A beauty like that. That’s surprising, isn’t it, Marianne? What do you make of it? And she lives in the Rue de Valence, near the Gobelins. Quite poor! Miserable! That shows she’s honest.’ He looked dubious. ‘I saw her room last night: two rooms. Her husband’s a naval lieutenant—comes home every three months. It’s not much. She hasn’t heard from him for three months. She’s had typhoid fever. Some little trouble between them, I guess.’ He said lustily, ‘I should worry! My profit, eh! He, he, my profit.’ He clouded again. ‘I didn’t like her telling me about the typhoid, but she says she comes from Transylvania too. Says she’s a country girl. Shows she’s honest. Eh? Eh?’ He meditated between them, convinced they were absorbed by his affair. ‘She seems unhappy—I don’t want no sympathy tales though. Imagine a girl like that living all alone. Can you?’ He became gigantically sunny. ‘If she does. Well, who knows? Well, where are we lunching, Aristide? How’s the son at Oxford, Marianne? My boy—not satisfied at all. Wants to be an archeologist; what’s that, eh? Old ruins, eh? No good. Well, wait, wait, we’ll see.’

  They went towards the door, Léon affectionately grabbing Marianne’s arm and murmuring, ‘What do you advise me to do, eh? You’re a mother. You’ve got brains. What can I do? Well, where shall we—here, here, downstairs, I’ve got some telephoning to do. Here, here, this way.’

  They had resigned themselves to Léon ten minutes before. Now, they let him waft them to the lounge, where they were supposed to wait for him respectably while he skirmished with his own business. They drifted to the bar of the hotel, waited, standing, awkwardly. ‘Let’s have a drink,’ said Marianne.

  ‘What for?’ Aristide asked. ‘We don’t know if Léon is going to drink.’

  A handsome, slender, middle-aged South Russian, with that mottled dusky-and-olive complexion often seen in underfed Negroes, leaned across the bar to a young woman whose silver curves resembled those of the chromium. He said in a conversational tone, ‘What beautiful nipples you have, Mademoiselle! I’m mad with enthusiasm. I should love to bite your splendid breasts.’

  Aristide started. ‘There’s Paul Méline! Let’s go and speak to him before Henri comes back.’

  The barman laughed. ‘I’ll introduce you to Mademoiselle, Mr. Méline, so that you needn’t be so formal: but you must behave.’

  The young woman had flushed, but looked at Méline without resentment. No woman had ever looked at Paul Méline with resentment.

  ‘See how beautiful my wife is,’ said Méline, getting out a leather billfold and extracting a bundle of photographs. ‘Here she is—that’s my little boy.’ Whereas Léon had an old, dull story and began by telling girls that he was unhappy and misunderstood at home, Méline always showed a picture of his wife and raved about his domestic happiness. It put everyone on the right footing and kept him out of scrapes.

  ‘Good morning, Paul,’ said Marianne. She took the photograph and looked again at the heavy Russian beauty whose dress was dashingly but comfortably draped over her, like a shawl over a grand piano. Meline got up, bowed, ignored Marianne’s plainness, seemed to enter it in large figures in her credit sheet that she was cherished by someone (Aristide) if not by him. Then he took the photograph back rather hastily. It was not intended for Marianne. ‘Let’s have our drinks in the foyer,’ he said. A waiter saw Méline a long way off and floated rapidly nearer.

  From their seats in the lounge, waiting for their drinks, they could see Léon at the desk. A black-coated manager with a set face appeared to remonstrate with Léon. Two clerks looked distantly preoccupied till they moved round the corner when they began to smirk in an unpleasant gentlemanly way. The revolving door turned and blew Léon’s voice to them, brisk: ‘No, no, no, no, no. You quoted me one price. I’ve been here for months. You made me one price. I don’t pay another. Next time you tell me beforehand, see.’ His voice faded again. They heard Léon commanding, ‘Send someone to fix up the room. Did Mr. Méline come downstairs? Where, where? Is there a lady waiting for me? Where is she?’

  He came springing towards them with his sturdy step, a short giant, five feet three in height, a great skull, bull neck, prizefighter’s shoulders, gorilla’s chest, thick waist and fleshy limbs, in a suit with too swagger a cut. His arms were short and thick above the elbow but of normal size in the forearm, so that they swung as he walked with an exaggerated sweep. Everything he did, even his sitting still, betrayed a violent will. He turned and rushed back to the desk with a swirl of coattails, to give the groom a message. He called peremptorily, ‘Hé, boy!’ Another groom approached with the self-respecting scuttle of a great hotel. When he dispatched the second, both grooms sneered and grinned behind his back. They were taller, and were slender, dark young fellows, wearing white collars and the hotel livery. They thought Léon a bounder and themselves the tailor’s dream. Besides, Léon had an all-in rate at the hotel and did not give any tips.

  A pale blonde with large hat, pointed chin, thin toes, thin neck but a good figure, sat and scrutinized them steadily. She also observed Léon with prepossession. Leon’s bossy back, bright shoes, and malacca cane at an angle of forty-five degrees performed at the telephone switchboard. The telephone girl smiled her sweetest. Now he came towards them again. ‘That’s right, Aristide, having a drink? No, none for me. Well, where shall we eat?’

  ‘Griffon’s is a good place: I’ve been there a lot since you were here last,’ Aristide informed the air.

  Léon recovered himself. ‘Yes, yes, is it good? I’ve got a lot to talk over with you, Aristide.’ He turned to them, ‘Excuse us, Marianne. I want to go over a lot of business with your husband. We’ll both m
ake a profit. You don’t mind, do you? I must look around. I’m expecting someone. A lady. I want her to come to lunch—er, I want you to run your eye over her, Marianne. I think a lot of your opinion. A very fine business head. I don’t usually go in for business ladies—’ (the sudden sunrise which was his smile) ‘—one of the smartest I ever met.’ He frowned slightly, shook his head vigorously into his collar, and pulled back his chin with a rebellious pout and a somber roll of the eye. He thrust at Aristide, ‘How’s Bertillon? Jules?’

  ‘As usual. I’d like you two to meet.’

  ‘He does, eh?’ he said vaguely. ‘I want to meet him, too. Saw him only a second. Heard about him. Smart feller. Must see for myself. Can’t believe it: a goyisher Kopf. Old Amsterdam family, isn’t it—Antwerp? Family in diamonds, something?’

  ‘The grandfather. The only non-Jew,’ said Aristide priggishly, ‘in the business.’

  Léon’s laughter rumbled in the seven mountains of his mind, ‘And he got out. He, he, he, ho, ho. When can I meet him?’

  ‘This afternoon. Whenever you like. What hour? I’ll be there.’

  ‘No, no. Not this afternoon. No. I’ve got some business. Yes. Business. Be occupied until late tonight. This woman’s introducing me to a cotton planter and a man with an oil-royalties business in Mexico. Very smart girl. A cotton-picker, she says: revolutionize the southern states of the U.S.A. I hope it’s one hundred per cent. I don’t trust women’s introductions. I’ll see. At any rate. When can I see Bertillon? Tomorrow morning early? First thing? Eh, early? What time’s he get in, eight?’

  ‘Nine-thirty,’ said Aristide.

  ‘All right: late. I’ll be—where is it?—39, Pillet-Will, nine-thirty.’ He wrote it down. ‘All right. Come along, Marianne. Wait, I’ll look round. She must be here. Smart woman. She wouldn’t come upstairs. Nice woman.’

  Léon frowned. ‘No, no, no, no: she doesn’t want me to put up—nothing like that. If she does, good-by: nothing doing. But—I’ll see. You’ll give me your opinion, Marianne,’ he said coaxingly, but without conviction.

  He bustled into the passage, came round through the winter garden and the writing room, energetically shuttling his haunches, enumerating the women. Halfway, he saw the observant blonde and, hooking his stick over his arm, rushed towards her. She sat still and when he bent over her, smiled a pearly smile. The great impediment in her career was her expression: she looked as calculating as she was. She had a sweet smile and had brought out with care the lights of her soft skin and pale blonde hair, but the gray-blue eyes looked out sharply still from between her pale lashes and the California sun had drawn early crow’s-feet in the corners. Léon held her pear-shaped small hand with its diamond and platinum bracelet for a minute, patted it, devoured the jewels. Méline lost nothing of all this. ‘Will she?’ said Léon’s attitude. ‘Won’t she!’ replied Méline’s.

  She rose, and they approached. Aristide stood up. Nothing distinguished him from hundreds of Paris stock-exchange runners but an extensible melancholy, indicated by a gloomy bend of the head, feet firmly placed, and eyes bent down as if he were forever in a struggle, torn between pleasing others and doing his duty to himself. He was a Mediterranean, pallid, with large mistral-shaded eyes, glossy like the polished woods of ornaments: the hairs of his large head had moved aside to form a Suez Canal in the center. His sensually rounded, great-bodied, sulky, sloping frame was almost drowned in a tidal wave of flesh that had struck him two years before, at forty.

  ‘Mrs. Weyman—good friend,’ said Léon, ‘from Hollywood.’

  Marianne took a fancy to Mrs. Weyman while Léon was introducing her. She appeared to be as clever as Marianne herself; physically she was her antithesis.

  Léon left. In about a quarter of an hour, he joined them at the table, with a wink at Méline and a smile as big as an oyster in each eye. His mind was elsewhere. He cheerfully threw an observation into the conversation, ‘Alfonso XIII will fly if he loses, eh? It would be pretty cowardly, eh? You expect a man with Alfonso’s salary to show more manhood. But he won’t. They sent a bull into the arena and found it was a cow.’ He laughed, looked round the table, blooming and nodding, like a great peony.

  Raccamond was a little more talkative than usual, from the wine and the presence of ‘personalities’ and money. ‘When the bull doesn’t fight, they say, Go home, cow!’ He laughed under his breath. ‘You know,’ he looked at the American, ‘that is the worst thing you can say to a bull.’ His voice became confidential, almost as if they talked about sexual matters. ‘And the worst thing you can say to a man is to call him a femmelette, puny woman: did you know that?’

  The restaurant manager came near at this moment and, seeing his client Aristide fat, prosperous, and conversational, he bowed his old head to him, ‘How do you like the sole? Is it good today? I believe so.’ Aristide resented this familiarity, was furious at being interrupted in this rare imaginative vein, and scolded, without looking up, ‘Wait till I’ve tasted it: then perhaps I’ll have something to say.’ The manager moved away with bitterness. Méline threw him a posy of smiles on the way.

  Léon was intensely impatient, hardly listening even to what Mrs. Weyman had to say. His ideas had reached a certain heat so that sitting down, eating, thinking, reading the menu, even the appearance of light streaming on palms, even the sound of water splashing and the orchestra playing, were impediments to his will. He wanted to be gesticulating, calling attention to himself in a very grand manner. When they made remarks to him, he drew them into his eyes thickly, with a somber look; his eyes snapped away from them, he drew himself up and looked at them all from under his monumental lids as if they were enemies who would insult him in another minute: but he was ready for them.

  ‘Have you been to the zoo in London?’ said Mrs. Weyman in passing.

  ‘Eh, eh? Animals? What is there in animals? Do you like animals?’ he said desperately to Aristide, thrusting his Adam’s apple across his plate. Animals were, God knew, quite another thing from himself and his affairs. ‘No animals!’ He looked round and perceived the waiter serving fish at a side table. He snapped his fingers, ‘Hey, cigars!’ He stuck a large cigar in his mouth and rolled his head around the restaurant, Jovelike. ‘Hey, allumettes!’ he called. The waiter, ruffled, took no notice. ‘Hey, hey’ (snapping his fingers) ‘—I don’t think much of this restaurant,’ said Léon to Méline. ‘Not as good as the Criterium in Antwerp and this—in Paris—not as good as the—you know, you know the—’ He snapped his fingers at Aristide. Aristide cravenly replied, ‘Rôtisserie Ardennaise in Brussels?’

  ‘No, no Ardennaise! No!’ He looked furiously at Aristide as if he had committed the most stupid mistake. ‘No—hey! Hey! Allumettes!’

  ‘Rocher de Cancale,’ said Méline, flirting with Mrs. Weyman the while.

  Léon noted this and muted his pipe for a moment. ‘That’s it: Rocher de Cancale: not so good! Much better! No taste!’ He forgot his manners and looked round impatiently.

  Marianne said sagely, ‘I think they have finer flavors here.’

  Léon thundered, ‘No! Allumettes!’ The head waiter was now quite near, side on, endeavoring to make up his mind to obey, trying to hide his chagrin.

  Méline brought the scene to an end by saying sweetly to the waiter, ‘Would you kindly bring some matches for Mr. Léon?’

  Léon rumbled, ‘Very bad service here—no good, like the other—bad—’ When the cigar began to run through his veins, he melted somewhat and began to take notice of Mrs. Weyman, leaving Marianne to her own devices. He patted Mrs. Weyman’s silky arm and issued an ukase: ‘Paul, Aristide, Paul—Marianne, what do you say? Tonight we’ll make whoopee.’ He blushed and smiled like a small boy, ‘I mean fun, by that.’ He patted Mrs. Weyman’s hand, ‘I feel like making whoopee, we’ll rejoice. We’ve got—’ he hesitated, looking at Marianne, ‘—beautiful—’ he swallowed with embarrassment and cheered up again ‘—
beautiful woman, Aristide, you must come, make Marianne come, no excuses, you haven’t got an engagement, have you? Put it off! Put it off! Méline!’

  Paul Méline excused himself. Léon frowned for a moment, bit his cigar at the unperturbed Méline. He began clapping and looking round. ‘The bill! The bill!’ A flustered and irate waiter arrived with the bill. He planked down some notes, got up before the women were ready, helped Mrs. Weyman brusquely with her furs and marshaled them all out, like some sultan, decent fellow, who has taken his wives and flatterers to a restaurant for a mild birthday. The women tried to keep each other in countenance. Outside, Léon dropped behind and asked Méline, ‘Did you see him, eh? Achitophelous? He’s in there with Henrietta, his daughter. Pretty girl. Wonder what he’s here for? You know what he’s doing here? Have you seen him?’

  Méline looked through the curtained glass which separated the lounge from the fountain court. ‘No. Henrietta? She must be nineteen. She’s a raving beauty, isn’t she ? He must have difficulty keeping her at home at night.’

  They both peered like conspirators through the curtain. ‘Maybe he’s come down to fix up a wedding,’ said Léon. ‘I heard he was after Rhys of Rotterdam’s boy. But where’s the mother? Are they on good terms still? My, what a beauty! Let’s get rid of the girls for half an hour and go in, see what he’s up to.’ ‘Mrs. Weyman?’ said Méline. Léon laughed uneasily and looked inquisitively at Méline. ‘I’m looking for romance, you know.’ Méline knew then that Léon really believed in the business Mrs. Weyman had proposed to him. Léon saw his twinkle and clouded a little, ‘I don’t know if I ought to go in there when he’s with his daughter. What’s his game?’

  Méline said without malice, ‘I thought you and he weren’t friends since the diamond deal.’

  Léon looked at him directly, divining how much he knew, ‘Never mind, never mind!’ he finished vaguely. He went to the desk to ask if Mr. and Mlle. Achitophelous were staying in the hotel. They were. Much pleased, he came back towards the women with Méline.