The Transgression of Andrew Vane/Chapter V

On the following Thursday morning, the bell of St. Germain-des-Prés was striking the hour of eleven when Monsieur Jules Vicot opened his eyes, instantly closed them again, and groaned. It was the hour which he disliked more than any other of the twenty-four, this of awakening, and from day to day it did not differ in essential details. The weather might be hot or cold, fair or foul, wet or dry — that was one thing and not important. What was important — what, in the estimation of Monsieur Vicot, distinguished this hour so unenviably from its fellows, was the variety of distressing physical symptoms which, in his own person, inevitably accompanied it. They were symptoms long familiar to Monsieur Vicot — a feeling under his eyelids which appeared to indicate the presence of coarse sand; a throbbing of the heart which seemed, inexplicably, to be taking place in his throat; a dull pain at his temples and back of his ears which prompted him to hold his head sedulously balanced, lest a sudden movement to right or left occasion an acuter pang; finally, a taste on his tongue which suggested a commingling of fur, blotting-paper, and raw quinces.
 * Chapter V. The Good and Faithful Servant.

Presently Monsieur Vicot opened his eyes once more and fixed them upon the window, from which, from his position, nothing was visible save sky of an intense blue. Against this background a number of small reddish-brown blotches swam slowly to and fro, and among these tiny whorls of a light gray colour expanded and contracted with inconceivable rapidity. At one time these symptoms had caused him peculiar uneasiness. Now he ignored them. They were less disturbing to his equanimity than the remarkable twitching of his fingers. For two years he had made a point of keeping his hands in the side pockets of his jacket, save when he found it absolutely necessary to use them. He no longer made gestures. They are desirable as aids to expression, but only when steady.

The majority of men, in waking, apply themselves to consideration of the day which lies before them. It was Monsieur Jules Vicot’s custom, on the contrary, to undertake a mental review of the night which lay behind. The review was not always complete. Often there were gaps, and, more frequently, he found himself completely at a loss to account for his return to his room on the cinquième of 70, Rue St. Benoit, and the indisputable fact that he was in bed, with his clothes reposing, with something not unrelated to order, on the solitary chair.

Now, as he surveyed it, he assured himself for the thousandth time that it was not a cheerful room. Abundant sunlight, the recompense of Nature for six flights of stairs, was its sole redeeming virtue. For the rest, everything belonging to Monsieur Vicot was applied to some use entirely foreign to the original purpose for which it had been designed. An inkstand served him as a candlestick, his chair was at once table and clothes-rack, a ramshackle sofa played the rôle of bed, and a frouzy plush table-cover was his rug. An astonishing accumulation of cigarette-ends and empty bottles suggested slovenliness in the occupant. On the contrary, they stood for his economical instincts. It is not every one who knows that twenty cigarette-ends make a pipeful of tobacco, and that as many empty brandy-flasks may be exchanged for a full half-pint, but the knowledge, if rare, is useful.

“It is a pig-pen,” said Monsieur Jules Vicot to himself, “and very appropriate at that!”

Then he set to work upon his matutinal review of the preceding night. His recollections were more than usually hazy. After a wretched dinner at La Petite Chaise, rendered yet more unpalatable by the proprietor’s unpleasant references to certain previous repasts, as yet unpaid, came a distinct hour or so of leaning on the parapet of the Quai d’Orléans, in dreamy contemplation of a man clipping a black poodle on the cobblestones below; then another period, of gradually lessening clearness, in a little wine-shop on the Rue de Beaune; then — nothing.

“Well, I was drunk,” reflected Monsieur Vicot; but again manifested his dissimilarity from the majority of men by not committing himself in respect to his intentions for the future.

He arose with an air of languor, yawned, looked dubiously at one trembling hand, shook his head, and then surveyed himself in a triangular bit of looking-glass tacked against the wall.

Candour is oftentimes a depressing thing — particularly in a mirror. Monsieur Vicot’s glass showed him a clean-shaven face almost devoid of colour; eyes, the blackness of which seemed to have soaked out, like water-colour through blotting-paper, into gray-blue circles on the lower lids; hair almost white; a thin nose with widely dilated nostrils; a tremulous mouth; and a weak, receding chin. It was a face which might have been handsome before becoming a document with the signatures of the seven cardinal vices written large upon it. Now it was evidence which even Monsieur Vicot could not ignore. He leered defiantly at it, mixed himself a stiff drink of cheap brandy and water, and forthwith applied himself to his toilet.

Seeing the result which he presently achieved, one perceived him to be a man of a certain ability under crushing limitations. With a broken comb, a well-worn brush, which he applied, with admirable impartiality, to both his hair and his coat, a morsel of soap, and some cold water, Monsieur Vicot accomplished what was little short of a miracle; and when, a half-hour later, he emerged upon the Rue St. Benoit and turned toward the boulevard, his appearance was akin to respectability. Luck and his face were against him, but incidental obstacles he contrived to overcome.

He took a mazagran and a roll at the Deux Magots, fortified himself with a package of vertes, and swung aboard a passing tram. At one o’clock he was sauntering down the Rue de Villejust, with his hands in his pockets. Suddenly he stopped, looked intently for an instant at a certain window on a level with his eye, and then went on at a brisker gait. He had abruptly become cheerful, and that for no apparent reason. There is, commonly, nothing particularly enlivening in the aspect of a blue jar in an apartment window; yet that, and nothing else, was what had arrested the attention of Monsieur Jules Vicot, and brought the tune he was whistling to his lips.

Mr. Thomas Radwalader occupied a rez de chaussée on the Rue de Villejust, which differed from the ordinary run of Paris apartments in that its doorway gave directly on the street, independent of the loge de concierge, and, what was more important, of the concierges themselves. Yet the latter held that Radwalader was a gentleman of becomingly regular habits. He kept one servant, a bonne on the objectively safe side of fifty, who cooked and marketed for him; maintained, throughout his quarters, a neatness which would have put the proverbial pin to shame; and, in general, ministered to his material well-being more competently than the average man-servant. That she was not likely to wear his clothes, use his razors, or pilfer his tobacco was half a bachelor’s domestic problem solved at the very outset. On the debit side of the account, she pottered eternally, and was an ardent advocate of protracted conversation; but these tendencies Radwalader had managed, in the course of their five years of association, to temper to a considerable degree; so that now she was as near to perfection in her particular sphere as a mere mortal is apt to be. Her name was Eugénie Dufour, and in her opinion the entire system of mundane and material things revolved about the person of Thomas Radwalader.

In view of his avowed love of luxury, the latter’s quarters were distinguished by severe, almost military, simplicity. Without exception, the rooms were carpeted, but there were no draperies either at doors or windows. The salon, of which the solitary window opened on the street, was Louis Seize in style, with straight-backed chairs, upholstered in dark-red brocade, a grand piano which had belonged to Radwalader’s mother, and a large print of the period, simply framed, in the exact centre of each wall-panel. There were no ornaments, save a white Sèvres bust of Marie Antoinette on the mantel, two reading-lamps, and a few odds and ends of silver, ivory, and enamel, which had the guilty air of unavoidable gifts, rather than the easy assurance of chosen bibelots. Some books in old bindings, a stand of music, and a tea-table with its service — and that was all.

Separated from this salon by double doors was what had formerly been a bedroom, but which now, for want of a better name, Radwalader called La Boîte. This was his sanctum sanctorum, wherein one might reasonably have looked to find the confusion dear to the happy estate of bachelorhood. But here again was evident, though in a lesser degree, the austerity which characterized the salon. One naturally expected a litter of periodicals, pipes, and papers; but, on the contrary, the large table was almost clear, and the interior of the writing-desk, which stood open by the window, revealed only symmetrical piles of note-paper, envelopes, and blotters, and writing paraphernalia of the ordinary office variety. In the chimney-place was a brazier on a low tripod, and from this, each morning, the worthy Eugénie removed a quantity of ashes — ashes which had entered the room in the form of Radwalader’s correspondence of the previous day. In one corner stood a small safe, and on top of this were boxes of cigars, and cigarettes of eight or ten varieties, but all arranged as methodically as the contents of the desk. The remaining wall-space was occupied by book-shelves, in which no single volume was an inch out of line.

The opinion of Radwalader’s concierges as to the regularity of his habits was seemingly based on fact. Eugénie lived with her brother in the Chaussée d’Antin, and went to and fro every day, regardless of weather, on top of the Rue Taitbout-La Muette tram. With characteristic regularity and promptitude, she had never once failed, during the five years of her service, to awaken her patron at eight o’clock. Radwalader invariably replied with a cheerful “Bien!” and five minutes later was splashing in his bath. His coffee was served at nine, his mornings, in general, spent in La Boîte. He took déjeuner at one, and then went out, returning only to dress for dinner, which he rarely had at home. Midnight found him again in La Boîte, bending over a book or some papers at his desk. Then only it was that the door of his safe stood open. In all this there was, assuredly, no evidence of aught but tastes so quiet as to savour of asceticism. But then Radwalader was a man who believed in a place for everything and everything in its place.

His visitors were few, save only on Thursday afternoons, when he was known to be at home. Then a dozen or so of men lounged in his salon, which was reinforced for the occasion by chairs from the other rooms, and several little tables for whiskey and tobacco. Eugénie did not appear. They were served, when there was need of service, by a middle-aged man-servant with a furtive eye and a hand that trembled nervously when handling glasses and decanters; for which reason those of Radwalader’s guests to whom the situation was most familiar preferred to help themselves. They reproached him, when more important topics were exhausted, with the apparent decrepitude of this retainer, whose name was Jules. But their host made it plain that he had good and sufficient reasons for employing him. He had grown up in his mother’s family in Philadelphia, said Radwalader, first as page and then as butler. When the Radwalader millions went by the board, Jules had remained with the family through sheer loyalty, accepting but half the wages he had formerly earned. Once he had even saved Radwalader’s life in the surf at Atlantic City. Later he had taken to drink, gone rapidly to pieces, and, at last, had been discharged as a hopeless case. They had given him a reference, for charity’s sake, on the strength of which he had found a place as travelling valet; but once in Paris, his old weakness had returned, and so he had lost his position, and never chanced upon another. Then Radwalader had found him stranded, begging on the boulevards, and, for the sake of the old days, had given him clothes and money, and found him occasional employment, such as this Thursday service, by means of which he contrived to eke out a living, such as it was. At other times, when he was not drunk, he drove a cab for the Compagnie Urbaine. (This last, the most incongruous feature of Radwalader’s explanation, was, curiously enough, the only one which had the slightest foundation in fact!)

‘‘My best quality is gratitude,” Radwalader concluded. “He saved my life; so I give him such of my clothes as become unfit for publication, and pay him five francs every Thursday for not being of the least assistance. I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with him. It’s a case of ‘love me, love my dog.’”

And this, under its thin veneer of cynicism, was taken as an indication of a very admirable instinct on Radwalader’s part, for which men admired him. They continued to make fun of Jules, but, after this defence of him, they nodded to him on entering, and spoke to him by name.

Andrew Vane joined the gathering in Radwalader’s rooms on the Thursday following their Sunday at Auteuil. It was observable that, without exception, the guests were men who had done, or were going to do, something out of the ordinary. No one of them seemed to be in the present tense of achievement. They talked slowly, choosing their words with noticeable care, with an eye to their effect, and switching ever and anon in a new direction, as irresponsibly as a fly in mid-air. To Andrew the atmosphere was not only that of another city, but of another world. From art to literature, from literature to music, from music to the stage, the talk drifted, punctuated with names of men and things whereof he did not remember ever to have heard. Save for their air of having but just stepped out of a barber’s chair, they were men of a general type familiar to him — well dressed, evenly poised. The scene might have been Boston or New York, save for one thing: in all that was said, there was never the most remote hint of actual interest. The opinions were like those of more than usually brilliant schoolboys, putting into their own phraseology certain fundamental axioms. The speakers, with the sole exception of Radwalader, gave the impression of being unutterably tired, and of playing with words with the unique intent of passing the time. Your American has but little leisure for grammar, and less for eloquence, but in what he says there is always present the vivifying spark of vital and intimate concern. His theories are jewels in the rough, but one is conscious of the ceaseless clink-clink of the tool which is busily transforming them into fame and fortune. The men in Radwalader’s salon were toying with gems long since cut and polished, whose sole virtue lay in the new light caught by their facets, as the result of some unexpected turn. Radwalader himself went farther. He combined the confidence of the American in his future with that of the Frenchman in his past. Andrew had thought him cynical, but he gained by contrast with his companions. The others seemed merely to be giving thought to what they said, but he to be saying what he thought.

“I’m almost remorseful at having asked you to join us this afternoon,” he began, when the introductions were over. “Whenever I see a man in a strange crowd, it reminds me of society’s phrase at parting — ‘I’ve enjoyed myself immensely!’ It has the distinction of being the only polite remark which has any claim upon veracity. Usually, one hasn’t enjoyed anything else! Of course, for the moment, you feel like a brook-trout in salt water. But it’s a crowd that I think you’ll like, when the grossly overestimated element of novelty wears off. Let me tell you, in a word, who they are, and what they stand for. That’s De Boussac at the piano, He knows four major and two minor chords in every key of the gamut, and contrives to fashion, out of the six, an accompaniment for anything you may ask of him. Beside him, leaning over the music, is Lister. He’s a would-be playwright, with a mother who has gained the nickname of the ‘Jail-breaker,’ because she never finishes a sentence. You’ll meet her some day and be amused. To the left is Rafferty — who’s popular because, just now, brogue happens to rhyme with vogue. Then, Clavercil. He thinks he’s not understood, without realizing that his sole ground for dissatisfaction lies in the fact that he is. He’s a fool, pure and simple, who inherited a fortune from his uncle — a bully old chap who never made a mistake in his life, and only the one I have mentioned, in his death. Next, Wisby — who paints things as they are not, and will be famous when the public gets educated down to him. The man helping himself to whiskey is Berrith. He wrote ‘The Foibles of Fate’ in the early ’90’s, and has been living ever since on the dregs of its success — a ‘one-book author’ with a vengeance. That’s Ford, by the window, with the red hair. He’s a crank on aerial navigation, and says his air-ship will be the solution of the problem. I’ve already christened it ‘Eve,’ with an eye to its share in another fall of man.”

Radwalader lowered his voice.

“On your right is Barclay-Jones. Barclay was his mother’s name, and when he came abroad he hyphenated it with his father’s. The combination always reminds me of a rather stylish tug-boat with its towline attached to a scow on a mud-flat. The man listening to him is Gerald Kennedy, the singer. He hasn’t advanced beyond the Tommy Tucker stage yet, but he’s a good sort, an Englishman, a friend of Mrs. Carnby and of the Ratchetts. On my left are Norrich, Peake, and Pfeffer, in the order named. Pfeffer is the only married man in the crowd. He married in haste, and his leisure is employed to the full. He gets his pin-money from his wife, and a prick of the pin goes with every franc. Norrich is on the staff of the Paris Herald. Peake, like Clavercil, is simply the disbursing agent of an inherited fortune.”

Radwalader paused, lighted a cigarette, and smiled at Andrew frankly.

“Finis!” he said. “Do you think me very uncharitable? I hope not. It seems so much better to get men’s bad qualities out of the way and done with at the start, and then to find out their good points, one by one, in a succession of pleasant surprises. It’s a crowd you’ll like, when once you get the point of view. You’ve been used to poise, and at first you won’t like pose. But, after all, the difference lies only in the eye — a pun’s only permissible when it tells the truth. We all pose over here. You will, yourself, if you stay long enough. It’s as contagious as smallpox. And, by the way, I was talking with Peake about you only yesterday. He’s going to the States next week, and wants to find some one to occupy his apartment while he’s away. If you’re not thinking of remaining at the Ritz, you couldn’t do better than to take it. It’s a charming little place, on the Rue Boissière, near the Place d’Iéna, perfectly furnished, and with a balcony and bath. Of course, the rent’s no object to him. All he wants is some one to keep it aired and clean.”

“It can’t do any harm to ask him about it,” said Andrew. “To tell you the truth, I’ve rather been thinking of doing something of the kind.”

“No sooner said than done,” agreed Radwalader, and, leaning forward across Norrich, he added: “I say, Peake, move up here, will you?

“I’ve been telling Vane about your apartment,” he continued, as Peake drew close to them, dragging his chair by the arms, “and he seems to think he might like to have a look at it. He’s over here for quite a time, you know, and he certainly couldn’t be as comfortable anywhere else.”

“I hope you’ll take the place, Mr. Vane,” said Peake. “I’ve always maintained that a man of my tastes had no business in the States; but it seems I have, after all. I think I told you, Radwalader — my late, lamented Aunt Esther, you know. She threatened to leave me nothin’ but her good will, and now she’s popped off, saddlin’ me with everythin’ she had in the world.”

“That’s what she meant by her good will, probably,” observed Radwalader.

“P’r’aps,” said Peake, with a little nod. “But the c’lamity’s just as great. She was a good-hearted creature, but she belonged to the black-walnut and marble-group period. Her sideboard weighed a ton, and she had wax flowers in her ‘parlour.’ And I’m to sell nothin’, my good man! It’s all to go to my wife! Why, the very thought’s enough to keep any woman from marryin’ me. Oh, my dear Radwalader, I mourn my find, I do indeed.”

“But about the apartment?” suggested Radwalader.

“Oh! Well, all I can say, Mr. Vane, is that I’m sure you’ll be comfortable. It’s a modest box, at best; but it suits me, and will probably suit you. ‘Man wants but little here below’ — a bath, sunlight, a good bed, and cleanliness — that’s all. You’ll find ’em at my place. Radwalader’ll get you a valet de chambre, no doubt. I’d throw mine in, if I hadn’t already thrown him out. The wife of my concierge is doin’ for me till I go. I can’t say more. Two hundred francs a month. I’ll be back by the first of August — I can’t miss Trouville, you know, Radwalader — and the chances are I’ll have to evict you, Mr. Vane. I know I wouldn’t leave that apartment except at the business end of a pitch-fork!”

“It sounds like the very thing I want,” said Andrew, with a smile at the other’s eloquence.

“And there’s actually some prospect of your getting it,” drawled Radwalader. “What an exceptional animal you are, Vane!”

“Come ’round to-morrow mornin’ to breakfast, both of you,” said Peake. “Then you can have a look over the place, Mr. Vane, and judge for yourself. If you like it, we’ll clinch a bargain on the spot.”

“Very well,” agreed Andrew. “Shall I stop for you, Mr. Radwalader?”

“By all means. About twelve.”

“Then that’s settled!” observed Peake, with an air of profound satisfaction. “I positively must have a whiskey, Radwalader. I’m quite exhausted. I haven’t talked so much business in a year.”

For an hour the conversation was general, and presently thereafter Radwalader was alone. For a time he stood by the salon table, idly fingering a paper-cutter and scowling. Then he stepped noiselessly to the door, listened briefly but intently, and abruptly flung it open and looked out into the antichambre.

“Not this time!” observed Jules laconically, from the dining-room beyond, where he was languidly polishing wine-glasses.

“I’m glad to see you profit by experience,” retorted Radwalader. “Come here.”

The faithful servitor came slowly across the hallway, glanced about the empty salon, helped himself liberally from the whiskey decanter, swallowed the raw spirit at a gulp, and flung himself heavily into a chair.

“Fire away!” he remarked. “I hope it’s something worth while. I don’t mind saying I’m hard up.”