Chapter XVI

Livered footmen were toiling, serving the crowd of socialites as they manoeuvred themselves with platters floating in their hands. Rounds of wine imbued the guests. The dining room was alive with laughter and small talk, mingling with casual introductions forgotten once the next acquaintance met their eyes.

The Brodeurs had only recently come into a bit of money. And naturally, with all the gusto of people unaccustomed to handling considerable amounts of money, they had decided on celebrating their success with a ball that blew at least a tenth of their capital. Which was, all things considered, somewhat impressive. The sofas had swags and the swags had tassels; and the tassels had tassels. Anything not actually gold was red, and the dais might have made the most flamboyant personas want to tone it down. The great gems which were set obesely in all sorts of furnishments, envied the wings on the door handles.

They were seated for dinner. Elaine Aldouin stroked a casual conversation with the lady on her right as Mathilda eyed her plate. James dedicated himself to the very palatable mutton that was soon to be served, and the gentleman seated opposite them enquired with an attendant whether there were mushrooms in the soup. There were not.

The room was well-filled. The majority wore evening dress and were occupied in one way or other with the abundance of food.

"Stop that." Mathilda said.

"Stop what?" Elaine said, roughing her cheek.

"Stop scratching, you'll ruin it."

"It's itchy."

"You're itchy." Mathilda decided. A whine escaped her sister.

"I got eaten last night. It was dreadful!" She could not endure bites. Elaine never opened a window, and carefully kept every door shut — but was consistently beleaguered. James shrugged. He had never known the horror that were persistent bugs; it failed to evoke his sympathy.

The lights were turned up as the sky donned its nightly gown. The orchestra was playing soft, pleasing music that was barely perceivable above the constant chatter. Voices pitched higher and higher as spirits were lifted.

Not too far from his seat, Mrs Moreau and Mr Lachaud were absorbed in a conversation regarding his person; and while James was unsure whether they were unjustly convinced of their own subtlety or whether they meant to be showy, he was unable to ignore their chatter— for who is able to maintain their dispassion when they hear their own person being discussed?

A great sympathetic sigh rose from Mrs Moreau. "Poor boy. Never smiles much, does he," she told Mr Lachaud, "works a lot— that he does. He's always occupied with some thing or other. Oh, yes, never stops working, my husband says. Drinks heavily, they say; but then most do. Mrs Deslys's boy is not that better. Idle boy. Idle, I say. But she herself's delightful."

"Father went mad, they say." Mr Lachaud said.

"Oh yes, poor soul. But Mr Deslys was never a nice man, was he? Always shouting — bad thing for a man, to be always shouting. And so overbearing! Nobody but likes an overbearing man— only the callow do— Mrs Deslys must have been relieved when they removed him to Le Havre. I knew Mr Deslys when he was still a young man. Not very promising, he was — very self-important. For all I know he's still there. My husband's got a nephew there, you know. Mind you— he was a morbid fellow. An inspiring actor; never a good one. Dreadful place. Dreadful place. Even my husband never visits him."

Mr Lachaud nodded thoughtfully. James thought himself extremely awkward.

"My mother-in-law lost her wits. Some things in life are just like that."

"Well said, Mr Lachaud. Well said," Mrs Moreau turned to her plate with a well-meaning smile. "But Mr Guilory's a worker. Yes, he is. Much alike his father, you know— before. My husband assures me so often."

"We ought to find him a wife." Mr Lachaud said. James shifted fretfully, hands in his lap as the comment gave rise to many a laugh on Mrs Moreau's part. The desire to curl up into a ball and block out the world and protect all exposed things of himself became an intense and shockingly feral reaction, one James combated by chewing into the meat of his cheek.

"Well, he is a bit young, isn't he," Mr Lachaud confessed. "A man ought to have the means before he marries. He's got prospects, surely, and promising ones at that. The family's quite well off. But I deem him not older than twenty."

"He's twenty-two, I believe. And his mother was such a beauty at that age. Oh,— yes, I remember," Mrs Moreau chuckled as she leant back and wafted away the approaching sommelier. "A proper lady, she is. But it's too bad any beauty she had has left her. It's no wonder you know, with such a husband. I wonder how long it's been since they left us."

James's jaw clenched. His knuckles cramped white in his serviette, hard enough to leave the wrung imprint of the hoop in his palm. James had been angry before but now there was a cold, sickening air in his chest, clawing its way up his throat; elevated by sleep deprivation and sheer impatience. James Guillory instantly withdrew his eyes from the duo as Mrs Moreau took a brief look in his direction; and he sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient to compose himself and tell himself not to be provoked. Although it did not show much propriety towards his parents— or himself, James settled for it, as they so readily wished for him to cause a scene. And so he settled for silent frustration.

James remained silent throughout the rest of the meal but if Mathi and Elaine marked it, they did not mention it. Mr Lachaud had began telling a long story of his daughter's second marriage to an young Italian man of titled family who had been disowned by his Florence family for marrying a woman who had been once married.

Before they had been led to the dining room, Richard had introduced James and Mathi to a friend of his, who, allegedly, was passing through Paris on his way to Vienna. He went by the name of Auguste Vale, and was now seated by Richard. They were not too far off, but to strike a conversation. The young Englishmen seemed absorbed in a topic that gave rise to many a laugh.

Elaine regarded them, dabbing the corners of her mouth. "Who do you think he's ought to be?"

"I don't know — don't care, honestly." Mathi said.

Mathilda had told James she deemed Auguste Vale a persistent man given to violent innuendo. And while James normally would not have the inclination to form an opinion on the character of a man after five minutes of polite conversation — as he deemed it unfair to judge anybody without knowledge of their situation — James did confess that the Englishman seemed under the impression that, sooner or later, one of the women here tonight was going to yield him their person. The man breathed vulgarity. Mathilda, for once, had declared it a pity Jacques Deslys wasn't there tonight. Mr Vale would undeniably find in him a kindred heart.

Elaine was making some comments on a lady' dress.

"—but it certainly helps to be pretty, doesn't it?" She said. "Certainly when you're dull. Pulchritudo vincit gratiam."

"You don't even know what that means." Mathilda scoffed. Elaine pursed her lips:

"Neither do you. But it sounds clever."

"It sounds like a sad attempt to impress."

"Well, yes—," Elaine tilted her head and smiled, "but it sounds clever." Then Mrs Deslys, opposite her, remarked loudly on the splendidness of the soup and the tablecloth, so that they were required to cease their conversation; and the agreeableness of the tablecloth was discussed.

It was after diner that they proceeded towards the ballroom. Mathilda excused herself and ventured off, in search of calmer pastures, and James found himself alone with Elaine. Mr Vale, soon recognising him, employed himself in their company. His collar was ajar, James noted. He introduced Vale to Elaine, who seemed oddly flattered with Mr Vale, and her judgment was further bought off by Vale assuring her he thought her to be the most charming girl present. And, as most know, where youth and ingeniousness are joined, it requires great steadiness of reason to resist the attraction of being called charming.

Elaine thanked him with a mixture of joy and embarrassment which might have informed James, had he been such an expert in the assertion of other people's feelings as Mathi was, and less engrossed in his own at that moment, that Elaine thought Vale quite as charming as he thought her. But James did not. And as both youngsters engaged in conversation, James spend his time daydreaming of his bed and contemplating the possibility of laying himself down on those ridiculous sofas. Whose stupid tassels had tassels. They looked excruciatingly uncomfortable, James reasoned, but oh— how they called to him. If he could just, rest his head... two seconds. No longer... and James felt himself growing giddy, feeling light. He nigh swayed on his feet. Every time he raised his head his eyebrows went accordingly, as if attempting to pull his head upright. By the time James returned to the present, Vale and Elaine stood close enough for it to be considered improper.

Their eyes met, smiling and bright. Elaine murmured in a soft tone: "in that case, to beauty, sir!" and Vale gaily repeated her words.

"Where's Richard?" James enquired, not ready to interpret the situation, but ready enough to engage in casual conversation. Elaine coughed and took a step back, not meeting James's eyes.

Vale grinned at the mention of their friend: "ah—" he turned towards the room, "I believe he was occupied in a passionate discussion with a certain Mr Magloire when I left him. Opinionated, aren't they—" a chuckle, "both of them."

"They make a habit out of it." James admitted.

Vale regarded him, unsure whether James was joking. "It's extravagant, isn't it?" He said, eying the expanse. "It aligns with the politics in this country."

"What on earth could you mean?"

"Ah!" Vale let out an embarrassed laugh, "don't take me wrong— I have great respect for your government," a pause, "truly," he waved a hand about, "I simply find them amusing— as I find my own." He assured a disgruntled James.

Who said, steadfast: "They are not."

Confusion took over Vale's countenance. Perhaps he thought James instant defensive nature uncalled for, but the young man readily smiled. He adverted his eyes: "that is not what the newspapers tell me."

James opened his mouth—

"—I never enjoyed newspapers." Elaine interrupted. The subject of James's amazement passed from Vale to Elaine. He regarded her, aghast.

"Heavens! Why not?"

"They bore me." A languid smile graced her countenance. James felt himself ready to outrage himself into an anxiety attack.

"How can it bore you? it's the news!"

"It's reality— or at least a version of it. It bores me."

"But you ought to remain informed. You'll be ignorant otherwise."

"I'll be happier ignorant than I'll ever be educated." She swayed happily. James knew Elaine was provoking him on purpose, but her outrageous assertions annoyed him beyond his capacity of forbearance. He breathed deliberately slow.

"That's your philosophy?" He asked Elaine. He made a mocking gesture, "'Ignorance is bliss'— it's revolting."

"It's relaxing, really."

"It's benighted! Idle—! Worse: ignorant!" James cried. Raising his head, Vale regarded Elaine:

"Why do you choose not to take such matters seriously?"

Elaine smiled. "I never take serious note of anything."

"Pray, why not?"

"People have a tendency to take themselves far too seriously, then."

"And that upsets you?" Vale switched his weight from one leg to another and cocked an eyebrow in silent levity.

"It amuses me. I often fail to hold my laugh, which many find insulting."

"I always found that people are terribly quick to feel offended."

Despite his earlier disquietude, a clear laugh bubbled from James's chest. The fatigue made him emotive. He jumped from one emotion to the next: "even more so: they believe that noting such to others constitutes an argument."

Vane cried: "indeed!" Then he told Elaine with a grave— and yet teasing— expression: "still, some would call you jejune and ignorant, Miss Aldouin."

"And they would be right to do so. I am jejune. I am ignorant. And I mean to stay that way. The ignorant are far happier than the informed." She was purposely rallying him, with a rippling flow of laughter, her features concentrated, her eyes sparkling, blazing with a radiant sunshine of gaiety which could be kindled only by such talk. Vale shook his head but ultimately shrugged and it seemed as if he could do nothing but smile at her gaiety, despite himself, and his belief that she was wrong:

"I agree with your objective to be happy."

"But I disagree with the means," James added. Elaine took no regard:

"If fools are carefree and happy, then I profess to become one."

"I find you very carefree already." Vale said.

"Then I must be very foolish." Elaine sought James' eyes and rolled hers heavenwards. He sampled his drink to withhold himself from laughing aloud.

"You surprise me—" before Vale might continue his remark, a lady came up to him, bright and smiling. She lay an affectionate hand on his arm.

"Ah, Mr Vale, how are you? I was so very sorry to have missed you when I was in England. Do join us for dinner on Friday."

Auguste, with perfect nonchalance, said: "I would be delighted."

The woman smiled and walked on, greeting acquaintances as she went.

"Who is she?" Elaine enquired.

"I have no idea." Auguste said.

She conjured a make-belief pout. "Don't say that. You'll break the poor woman's heart."

"She's my sister-in-law."

"I don't believe you."

"Now you're breaking my heart."

"You poor thing," Elaine turned pointedly to James. "Am I going to have to wait all night for you to ask me?— James, dear? Or is it that you only have eyes for my sister?"

"Not when you are in the room."

Elaine took his offered hand with excessive enacted delight, and it required great effort from James to physically withhold himself from laughing when Elaine turned towards a sudden flustered Auguste Vale:

"What a smooth talker, isn't he? I believe I simply cannot refuse such an invitation. You know I would much rather dance with you."

Vale made a kind of short, stiff bow. "I wish I could believe so, Miss Aldouin."

They walked off.

Dancing came to James Guillory with an ease that was natural to any motion that one has greatly practiced over the past ten years. The young man shook his head in disbelief:

"You know well enough there is nothing between me and Mathilda. Why do you insist on feeding those rumours?"

"I enjoy rumours."

James regarded a disgruntled Auguste Vale. His figure disappeared and reappeared behind the bobbing crowd of dancers. "What did he do?"

Elaine tutted her lips. "He annoyed me."

"He liked you."

"Oh, hush."

James eyes widened. "You liked him!"

"I will abandon you right in the middle of a dance, James."

He turned her round.

"I see. So my dear Elaine is all grown up. Gone are the days that you fell in love with failed artists and hopeless poets," he put on a sombre expression, "I planned on courting you for another few months or so before I asked for your hand in marriage. Now I fear I shall have to speed things up — or I shall lose you."

That finally amused her. "What a scandal that would be! I would be talked of as the foul woman who stole you from her own sister. You couldn't possibly subject me to such a fate."

"You hurt me," he sighed deeply, "I shall leave for the colonies and start a new life."

"My sister would be devastated. I would be devastated," Elaine saddened. "My father would be inconsolable. He is convinced you and Mathilda to announce your engagement any day."

An involuntary groan escaped him. "He has been convinced of that since we were fourteen."

"All the more reason to pity him. His hopes will never pass the border that separates dream from reality."

"We all have to learn to live with some form of disappointment."

"Well, I plan to live without it."

James grinned and turned. "I'd be astounded but overjoyed to see you achieve such."

"And you? When will there be a dashing gentleman to steal you away?"

"I wouldn't know. I believe he fell of his white horse on his way to me. Now, I shall never meet him," a melodramatic sigh escaped him, "so off to the colonies I go."

"Why does every one of your imaginary instances end with you starting a farm in Senegal? Am I onto a secret of yours?— do you enjoy the thought of owning a cow or two?"

"Never! I enjoy dancing far too much to separate myself from good society."

"So it is the dancing that should make up for its unpleasantness?"

"No," he bowed as the piece came to an end and nodded subtly towards a certain young Englishman who stood fretfully waiting on Elaine. "But I propose you enjoy your next dance as much as I have enjoyed this one."

She raised an elegant eyebrow. "Go and find your wife. I fear she will be quite vexed by now. My dear sister never thrived well in boorish company."