The Bonbonnière/Chapter 1

ISS MARCIA PRESBY, a slim little woman of uncertain age, stood at her window overlooking the grass court of the Hôtel Ritz. Her gentle face wore an expression of disapproval.

At a second-story window, diagonally opposite, sat a young woman in a pink négligée, whose Titian top-knot caught the light with a metallic luster unknown to mere hair. It was upon these shimmering tresses that Miss Presby's glances of disapprobation were bent. She turned from her contemplation at the sound of an opening door.

“You are home early, dear,” she said, softly, as her sister entered.

Mrs. Wysong-Lord nodded, motioning to the negro boy who followed in her wake bearing a black-topped box.

“Where's Elise?” she asked. “Elise! Unpack my gown and return the box.”

The boy, whose dusky face showed an unwonted spirit of cowed humility, bowed respectfully, as he obeyed Mrs. Lord's gesture toward the adjoining room.

“You seem vexed,” Miss Presby ventured.

“I cannot understand”—Mrs. Lord drew off her gloves as if they were responsible for her irritation—“I cannot understand the way these French people receive the colored races. As I came down the hall just now, I found that boy in conversation with one of the maids; she was actually flirting—that is a coarse word, but the only one. It revolted me more than I can tell you. I recognized him as the Martiniquais they employ at Francis's, and overheard him ask for our number. I ordered him to follow me. You should have seen his manner change—he looked positively guilty. He knows his place well enough. The fault lies with these utterly regardless French who permit such liberties!”

She paused, abruptly.

“My dear, remember what Mr. Van Zeim says—'All souls are equal,'” admonished Miss Presby.

“All souls may be equal, but all bodies are not, Marcia. I am not narrow, but one must hold to the dignities of life. They are the safeguards of society.”

“I'm not disagreeing with you,” Miss Presby hastened to aver, “but you express yourself too strongly. I know what you mean, and you are quite right, but we must consider the point of view.”

“I have always found it difficult to adjust myself, and I fear I always shall.” Mrs. Wysong-Lord seated herself by the centre-table, and absently turned the pages of her daughter's latest purchase, “Les Vieilles Chançons de France.” “I observe that Americans in Paris appear to be affected by their surroundings to such an extent that they lose control of themselves. I cannot do that, Marcia, and I am glad of it.”

The boy from Francis's recrossed the room, his eyes fixed with respectful admiration upon the dignified figure of Mrs. Wysong-Lord.

“Here,” she ordered. He advanced, obsequiously. She dropped a fifty-centime piece into his yellow palm. “And the next time you are sent here to deliver anything, don't stop in the halls to talk, or I shall report you. You may go.”

He backed to the door, which he opened noiselessly, and slipped outside.

Mrs. Lord went to her bedroom, laid aside her simple traveling hat, and adjusted the smooth bands of her white, soft hair. Her refined, pale face was somewhat stern, her thin lips tightly closed. Her fine eyes were distant, though kindly, in expression. An exquisite tailor gown, faultless shoes, and the few well-chosen rings upon her slender, tapering fingers, all betokened refinement, and quiet, somewhat studied elegance.

The sound of loud feminine laughter and high-pitched conversation in the hallway brought her back to the sitting-room, a frown contracting her straight brows. She exchanged a glance with Miss Presby that, louder than words, proclaimed their mutual opinion.

“This is the worst of these large hostelries,” sighed Marcia. “I wish we could find some quiet family hotel. Of course, we are women of the world, and, aside from the annoyance, there can be no possible harm. But the influence of these caravansaries cannot but be detrimental to a young girl like Margot.”

Mrs. Lord nodded emphatic approval.

“I have been impressed with that. It seems hard to deprive the child of the amusement of having tea down-stairs where all the world congregates, but, really, the atmosphere of the place is vitiating—the dress and manner of the women are disgracefully loud. I have been thinking that, in the future, we would better have our tea in our own salon. But what is one to do? The Trudeaus and the Buckinghams are stopping here, and even the Mortimer-Bangs. I do wish Adelaide would answer my letter! I fully expected to find she had planned everything for us. She always had a way of putting things through with astonishing rapidity. I don't quite understand her silence, unless she is preparing one of her pet surprises. She always loved a 'mystification,' as the French say.”

Again the high-pitched girlish voice rang out in the corridor.

“Why, you dear old skeesicks! when did you get here?”

The exclamation was followed by a shower of giggles and screams, through which the murmur of a well-modulated voice was audible.

Mrs. Wysong-Lord rose in amazement.

“Why, that's Margot's voice! Can she be talking to that—that ill-bred!”

The strident tones continued:

“Well, you're just going to have tea with papa and me—at five. I'll come for you. Isn't it a circus down there? This is great larks! You can't? Oh, but you've got to! I must run now, papa's waiting—'bye.”

The door opened, and Margot entered the room, followed by the majestic presence of the Rev. A. Z. Van Zeim, cousin and spiritual adviser of the late Mr. Wysong-Lord. The girl was undeniably beautiful, but the perfection of her features was marred by a repellent frigidity of manner. She was tall, slender, and not ungraceful. Her heavy black hair was wound in neat coils at the nape of her neck. Her brown eyes were over-serious, and her well-modeled mouth scrupulously prim. When she spoke, a single revolted chin-dimple begged indulgence of her Puritan rigidity.

“My child,” exclaimed her mother, “who spoke to you in the hall? I could not believe my ears when I heard your voice replying. Who and what is this creature, and how did you come to know such a person?”

“That was Polly Wheating, mother,” Margot answered, listlessly. “She had the room next to mine at school.”

“Indeed! I am surprised at the Misses Adams accepting such a pupil. Her laugh, her voice, her language, indicate from what stratum she has risen. You will not cultivate her acquaintance further! And as for having tea”

“Margot declined at once,” put in Van Zeim, tactfully. “It was really no fault of hers that the young person addressed her. But one must be indulgent. A hoydenish exterior may cover excellent qualities, and girls quickly outgrow the natural noisiness of buoyant youth.”

“You are always lenient,” smiled Miss Presby.

Margot slipped out of her modish little jacket, and unpinned her hat.

“What shall I do, mother?” she inquired. “I'll have to answer if she speaks to me. She's a schoolmate, after all. I don't like her, but she has always been very nice to me. Must I refuse to meet her father if she brings him over? If you don't let me present her to you, she will be very much hurt.”

Mrs. Lord looked distressed. At heart she was kindly.

“Well, my dear, of course, we shall have to be guided by circumstances. A lady must always conduct herself with politeness, but you must endeavor to keep relations formal, and not encourage any appearance of familiarity, particularly in public places.”

“Yes, mother,” acquiesced Margot.

“Did you enjoy the Louvre, Mr. Van Zeim?” asked Miss Presby, anxious to turn the conversation into pleasanter channels.

“Yes, indeed, and Margot, also. We have had a charming morning, have we not?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Margot. “The Botticellis are wonderful, and the Leonardo da Vincis. We are planning to go again very soon.”

“Dear me,” said Van Zeim, “I must be growing old—I'd quite forgotten. We stopped at the banker's on our way, and here are some letters.”

With a courtly bow, he handed a packet to Mrs. Lord.

“Ah, thank you, Augustus. Marcia, two for you; Margot, some wedding cards—a note from Ellie—and here is a letter from Adelaide at last! Now we shall know what she has been able to do for us. It's a good deal of an experiment, keeping house in France, but I've always wished to try it. These little châteaux are so charming.”

She tore open the crested envelope, and read aloud:

“Now, isn't that nice!” murmured Miss Presby.

Margot flushed with annoyance.

“She seems to think, mother, that you have match-making intentions.”

Mrs. Wysong-Lord raised her eyebrows.

“My dear, what nonsense! It is only one of Adelaide's little jokes. She knows perfectly well that I would never permit the attentions of these immoral Frenchmen. She is very kind, and her friends are sure to be desirable people, but as for anything more than mere neighborly relations—she wouldn't be so ridiculous.”

The Rev. Van Zeim smiled, faintly.

“You forget that Madame de Thierry's married life was singularly happy. She may not entertain the same opinion of Frenchmen as you do—her experience”

“De Thierry was an exceptional, a very exceptional, man,” Mrs. Lord admitted, reluctantly. “However,” she went on, “I am delighted Adelaide has been able to find us such a charming place, though I am exceedingly disappointed that she won't be there.”

“Poor little Gerald!” sighed Miss Presby.

Mrs. Lord settled back into her chair.

“I must telegraph my sympathy and thanks at once. Will you ring, please, Augustus? I shall be very glad,” she continued, “to be in another atmosphere. I confess the influence of Paris is distressing. I have invariably found that it grates upon one's nerves.”

Miss Presby glanced between the curtains at the glinting Henner tresses of the lady across the court, and agreed.