Chapter XXIV

As a rule, Jacob Chardin, both porter and coachman of the Aldouin household, contented himself by trying to amuse Mathilda and Elaine by telling them stories of his latest adventures, and he would have a fresh story for them on every occasion. These stories certainly used to make them laugh, but Mathi could never tell whether that was on account of the absurd parts which the coachman invariably made himself play in the adventures, or the wit that he shewed in telling them. It was not often that he failed to tell them such a story, but nowadays the times did not call for it. Mathi had ushered a tired and despondent Elaine out of the house that morning, knowing full well her sister needed the distraction as much as Mathi did herself.

Jacob had dropped them off half an hour ago at Avenue des Champs-Élysées. Shopping with Elaine was, if anything, a very pleasant but likewise very tiresome pastime; tempted by everything and swayed by anyone, her sister needed a considerable time to purchase anything; and while Elaine made up her mind over muslin and satin, Mathi went to tell the shopkeeper to have their purchases delivered.

Outside, the drum of passing carriages was near deafening. The street was bustling and cheerful, and as strong as Mathilda Aldouin felt weak herself: the roofs of the shops shining in the rays of the mid-noon sun, the sharp outlines of fences, the figures of passers-by, the carriages that rattled with shaking bells, the green of the trees and the slanting shadows that fell from their trunks— everything was bright and lively and in stark contrast with her own state of mind.

They crossed the street.

On the next corner, a man stood smiling. His bushy eyebrows were risen high and a faint hint of sweat was visible on his forehead and in the armpits of his shirt as he rang a copper bell while distributing flyers for a performance or some event of the same kind. Excited children passed by, pointing with wilful fervour, pulling their governesses' sleeves whom, in turn, did their best to assure them they did not need whatever ingenuity had caught their attention.

Mathilda and Elaine would always take care to remark on strangers on the street. Whispers and gossip insinuated behind a white-gloved hand while Mathi, on her part, did her best to appear uninterested. She wasn't; indecently so. Mathilda was convinced that the secret of successful living in a large city was to know — to the minute — what was being done behind ones back. Her sister was the kind of person anyone would be glad to encounter when in need of such particulars: she was never uninformed. No matter how readily she enjoyed telling people she was.

In that regard, Elaine Aldouin differed greatly from her elder sister. Where Mathilda revelled in people thinking her abreast of the facts, Elaine veiled herself and her intellect in a shroud of innocence and faux-ignorance. And with such pretence and facades on either side, the conversation naturally flowed to whatever or whoever had caught Elaine's eye that week.

"I always thought Couperus's description of the gardens to greatly resemble des Tuileries." Elaine said, in an attempt at gaiety. "Surely it served as an inspiration."

Mathi felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. "Couperus never lived here. And you can't read Dutch, you fraud."

"Neither can you. But Mrs Boisse is a fine translator."

Mathi sighed, regarded the busy avenue, and decided that she very well should be, taking their governess's pay in consideration. She had started playing with a tassel on her coat and could almost sense her sister rolling her eyes at her. But the nervous tremor in Elaine's hands did not escaped Mathi's notice. Her sister was forcing herself, and Mathilda reasoned it was perhaps not herself, but Elaine, that was making an attempt at distracting her from the heavy atmosphere at home; the faux positivity of their mother in front of her daughters; and their own helplessness in handling the current situation.

She looked up from her contemplations as Elaine sought her attention by briefly pressing her arm: "That's Mrs Calvet."

Mathi made an affirming noise. Elaine wrinkled her nose, saying: "What did you think of her last publication in La Vie?"

"I admired it."

"I thought it very wrong. They shouldn't have allowed it to be published."

Mathi, convinced Elaine was merely repeating an opinion she had heard somewhere, said: "I think you very wrong. In my opinion, literature is not to be censored. People should learn to exempt literature of the charge of obscenity."

Elaine scowled and tipped her chin in the air. "An opinion that bids to be proven wrong. What if a child were to read her works?"

"People have been branded criminals in the past, Elaine, it would be wrong if this country, in this age, allowed censure."

"Mathi, don't be naive! There will always be a need for some form of censorship— otherwise what wouldn't people dare to bring into print!"

Mathilda shook her head. "It's high time for a change."

"But Mrs Calvet's work is of such a vulgar nature! It's distasteful!" It was not her investment on the subject that caused Elaine to be so emotional, Mathi knew, but she was nevertheless glad her sister had a way to exhaust her nervous energy in any other way than worrying. Surely after the sequestered attitude Elaine had practiced the past few days.

"And Mrs Calvet's publication in La Vie is a blow for the censors," Mathi said. "Writers shouldn't seek refuge in euphemisms. They should have the freedom to describe basic human functions as they wish it."

"But it's so—"

"It's just sex, Elaine."

Her sister blushed. "It's not just about that. Things could go very wrong; there ought to be a better alternative. And you have hung out to long with James. You sound more and more like him," Elaine loured, sniffed and refused to meet her eye, "but he knows to phrase it more politely. As does Mr Magloire."

"I'm not sure whether I'd trust Mr Magloire on the subject of censorship. Literature's not really his area, is it?"

"Well, he's got a picture in the papers. With a cigar, he obviously knew what he's talking about."

"Really?"

"People wouldn't say it if it weren't true."

"People believed that the world was flat for that same argument."

"Mr Vale agreed with me." Elaine blushed.

Mathi, who had certainly taken an early dislike to Auguste Vale, was only growing to dislike him more. If she disregarded his questionable past and philandering, which she had on good account from Richard, Mathi began to suspect Vale of some double dealing in his pursuit of her sister. That Elaine was his object appeared indisputable. Everything declared it; his own attentions and hints, his guarded silence on the subject towards Richard and Mathi; it was all in unison; words, conduct, discretion, and indiscretion, told the same story. The fact that she saw the same symptoms in Elaine did not surprise her, but she had nevertheless fostered some hope that Elaine might have outgrown such ready infantilism.

But for now she admired the scheme of sunlight the clouds painted in the shopwindows. And revelled in their conversation as much as she could.

It was after their luncheon, at half past one, that Jacob, decisively distressed and thoroughly apologetic, informed them they were to return home. Mathilda's stomach fell. She halted for a moment and her sister passed her in her way towards the carriage, parked haphazardly on the next street-corner. Mathi felt the constrains surrounding her heart tighten, and all thoughts were disbanded. She let out a shivering breath. Elaine had turned, in the middle of the street, and was looking back at her with such abandonment that Mathilda recompensed herself if only for her sister's sake. Attempting, and failing, to push down the sickening dread that threatened to crawl up from her stomach every further step she took, Mathilda willed herself to continue.

She would go home to a poor scene, she knew.