Chapter V

It was late in the morning when Richard awoke. The hotel retainer charged with rousing him entered the room with a cup of tea and the morning newspapers on a small tray, drawing back the green-velour curtains that hung in front of the tall windows and the acid-etched glass door leading to the balcony.

"Good morning Mr Crawford," the man said. "It's ten o'clock."

"There been any calls for me downstairs?" Richard said, still half asleep and lethargic. He sat up, and, having sampled his tea, took up the first from the stack of papers.

"Your usual call. But Mr William Crawford was informed that you had not yet awakened."

Richard grinned in his teacup, half in misery and half in a sort of brave defiance. How did the old man like that?

"There was a man enquiring after you at the desk, around ten past nine. He left a message."

Richard hesitated for a moment but then put aside his tea and paper, reaching for the folded notice that was being handed to him. Richard did not have to read it to remind himself of his engagement. "That'll be all for now. I won't require any breakfast."

"As you wish. Have a nice day, Mr Crawford."

"Likewise, Michael."

Richard Crawford had been long planning to visit his aunt; several days had passed since their last encounter, and, having dressed and hailed a hansom towards Chaillot, he regarded the streets in a contemplative mood.

Since his arrival in Paris, Richard had settled into a pattern that could almost be called domestication. This did not change, however, the apprehension in which the parting between him and his parents had taken place. And while he was eager on establishing his own place in the world — much to the delight of both his mother and father — something about it made that he had considered their parting to be a farewell. Debilitation embraced him by the thought of it, and its trailing fingers left their wear on his mind.

He would stop thinking about it, Richard decided. It was mere homesickness, a sentiment he had, to be fair, not expected.

This was his home now— or at least for now. Perhaps he might go to Vienna next year. Amsterdam. Rome. The world lay at his feet.

Sliding his pocket watch from his waistcoat, he noted it to quite late already. Punctuality wasn't and never had been a priority to him — and knowing that his aunt would forgive him for his tardiness, he didn't cramp in consternation at the thought of the late hour.

His aunt, Gabrielle Rousseau, was an elder nonetheless astute woman who made it her duty in life to see that the youth had their fair share of liaisons and adventures. Strictly spoken, Mrs Rousseau was his mother's aunt, which made Richard her great-nephew. She owned three houses; a BeRliet Demi Limousine she never used; a phonogram; and an admirable collection of art among which Fragonard and Le Brun. She was a hero to Richard, whom she spoiled, and a considerable terror to most of her relations, whom she tormented. The general public deemed her self-absorbed, owning to the fact that they didn't profit from her, but she was regarded as generous and hospitable by good society as she welcomed the people she and her husband considered amusing.

The hansom stilled.

In the huge gilt chandelier that hung from the ceiling of the extensive oak hallway of the entrance, lights were fading. Sumptuous Rococo paintings adorned the walls. Handing his hat and coat to the freckled young man closing the door — who informed him that he had missed brunch — Richard passed through the hall.

He found his aunt and her flock of guests in the Oudry salon. A high ceiling and lacquered fauteuils greeted him. Ferns were abundant and the verdure reappeared in the hunting scene above the mantle. A pianoforte stood poised opposite the long, narrow windows and the ceramic parqueted floor was hidden beneath an olefine carpet. To Richard's left, festooned over a vacant birdcage, lay a thin sheet.

Seated next to Mrs Rousseau was Mr Joseph Magloire, a genial if a somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor whom his aunt proclaimed to be one of the finest writers she had ever encountered. Mr Magloire wrote for 'Le Temps' and managed the economical section of the paper.

Mr Rousseau was nowhere to be seen.

"Richard. How kind of you to join us." Mrs Rousseau said as he entered. Richard bowed, taking a seat upon invitation, and accepted a drink of his own.

"Tell me, Mr Crawford," said the old gentleman whilst having his cup refilled, "I was convinced young people never left their beds before the clubs opened in the evening. What brings you here so early?"

A prickle went up Richard's skull. But what else had he expected, really? Nothing that fashionable society cherished more than the shortcomings of others. And if they could convert the image of it to an entire generation? — all the better.

"Family affection, I suppose."

"Ah! Of course, what would one be without it."

"Indeed," Richard exalted a smile.

By the time he had finished his second cup, his mood had excruciatingly worsened on account of tolerating the constant malicious comments Mr Magloire felt obligated to make on his conduct. At last, his aunt took pity on him, and, hushing away Mr Magloire with a disapproving frown, she went round the room with her nephew.

As he had been here for less than two weeks, Richard had yet to encounter most members of good society. His aunt proved herself most helpful in that aspect; she went and passed over most of her guests, revealing names, occupations, and, whenever Mrs Rousseau felt it was required, her personal verdict.

"Pierre Lachaud, son of the playwright of the same name," said she, pointing out a well-bred, expressionless face.

"Elegant man."

"He's thirty-four, but always says he's older. He teaches at Sorbonne and is on perfectly good terms with most of his relations. He's very fond of talking, and is of the opinion that being taken for foolish is amusing."

He pulled a face. "Charming."

"Very much so," his aunt inclined his head towards the gentleman beside Lachaud, in conversation with a woman by the name of Mrs Isabelle Deslys, an effusive damsel he had encountered on the first eve here, "her son, Jacques Deslys, a flawless petit-maître. A terrible liar. He leads an idle life, plays on horses, but somehow does it very well." She turned round, screening the room till she regarded the modish woman now engaged in conversation with Mr Magloire: "Lydia Calvet, self-proclaimed philosopher and poet. Marvellous interesting character. Twice divorced. Never play cards with her; you'll lose."

"Alright," Richard had lost interest and while he had always been successful in feigning it, he knew his aunt to look through his act. Rendering the effort unnecessary. He finished his third cup and engaged in other subjects, such as the Russo-Japanese war and the opening of the Postcard Salon — subjects on which his aunt was more than happy to share her opinion. Richard's visit did not end, however, without a turn for the worse. After they had concluded their discourse, Richard went to say his goodbyes; and as mundane comments on the weather were exchanged, Mr Magloire made a point that rather piqued his interest.

"Are you sure?" Richard asked him. "It sounds like a commonplace exchange swindle."

"If I ever were! You can never know for sure with these things, you know. And don't I know it. I'd be bankrupt already if I had not practised some caution in the past years. But, I believe it to be fairly genuine."

"That would be formidable!"

"Calm down, Richard." His aunt said, laying a hand upon his arm. She threw a disapproving look towards the gentleman on the divan opposite them, "my good man, I don't appreciate you playing your tricks on my nephew. Spare them for other naive youngsters."

"What—?" Richard looked between them.

The factuality with which she had decided on his lack of judgement did not sit well with Crawford but he was unsure how to rebuke her since he was yet to comprehend the situation — and subsequently found himself fluster when realising he had perhaps been deserving of her comment. Contrary to his own nervous state, Mr Magloire did not so much as appear apologetic for his behaviour. A world-wise look in his eyes, a smile pulling at his lips and his heavy eyebrows risen in geniality, the old gentleman said: "don't fret, young man, I would not have abused your innocence. It was merely a means to estimate your percipience."

Richard shook his head and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word "innocence." There was something so crude and demeaning about everything that it played with his sense of dignity.

"Sir!" He said. "What on God's given earth do you mean? Estimate my percipience? Why, in what way is that relevant to whatever you—!"

"Oh, young man. Your age is so easily provoked. It is most amusing. You'd do well to practice some composure."

Mrs Rousseau's attempts to calm her nephew were vain; and when he had reached such a point as this, she knew, he was imperceptive to reason.

"Mr Magloire," said he, voice and manner showing extreme displeasure, "you would do well to keep your opinion about my character till it is asked for. Why do you make it any business of yours, to wonder after my wit? — my state of mind? My composure? — I may be allowed, I hope, to use my judgment as I see fit. —I want your opinions no more than your—" He paused, struggling, wrestling with his French as his anger increased, and, growing calmer in a moment, added, with mocking humility, "if Mr Magloire can prove to me he is perfection incarnate where it regards behaviour, I will be willing to follow his advice—" his aunt threw him a warning, but somewhat amused look, "—but as I see it you are the one lacking in courtesy!"

Mrs Rousseau halted the fervid discussion with a simple gesture.

"I—!"

"I want to hear no more of it," she then sighed and continued in a calmer manner. "Will you be joining us tonight, Richard, dear?"

He threw a brief dissenting look towards the elder gentlemen before turning back towards his great aunt and confirmed his participation. Richard knew he had behaved like a child. But he wanted them to respect him.

So very much.

It didn't matter, nothing he took seriously ever worked out. He'd found that out years ago. Richard bid his aunt goodnight, bowed, took his leave in a whirl of brazenness and waving fabric and was gone.

"Ah, to be young." Mr Magloire sighed. A giggle went through the flock of socialites. Mrs Rousseau threw him an incongruous look, causing Joseph Magloire to return to subjects of a less precarious nature.