Chapter XVII

Sometime after diner, steering away from the ballroom as Mathilda had heard disconcerted but intriguing sounds coming from the long, many-windowed room bordering the hall, she ventured inside. Eluding Auguste Vale, whom she encountered on the way, and was now engaged in a provocative conversation with two girls, and who implored Mathilda to join them in all the ribaldry one expected from him. Her acquaintance with the young man was a very new one, but Mathilda did not wish for it to become a very long one. She ought to ask Richard how long his childhood friend would be staying. His manners did not please Mathilda at all; but he was Richard's friend.

The music-room was full of people. One woman was playing the piano and a bevy of spectators expressed their approval by thoughtful nodding; noting to their neighbours that she played 'quite well' and 'had talent' and all other observations people make to feign themselves informed when they have no knowledge of the subject at hand. As she made her way through the throng, one seized her arm, and Mathi, at first in fright of the sharp gesture, was met with the smiling face of Mrs Deslys. Next to the woman, on a settee by the flowery, sat Mrs Moreau.

"Ah, here you are at last, my dear! It seems ages since I last saw you!"

Mathilda recalled dinner, for one, but exalted a smile. "So it seems indeed, Mrs Deslys."

"Sit down, sit, I beg you! The air is far more pleasant here than in there," she threw a disapproving look towards the ballroom, and continued in her habitual good humour: "how delightful. You look splendid," to Mrs Moreau, "doesn't she look splendid, Claudia?"

Mrs Moreau nodded gravely.

In loss of better company, Mathilda sat down amid them, and as greetings were exchanged, she reasoned it was quite possibly one of the most boring events of the season.

"Where's young Guillory? Is he not here tonight?" Mrs Deslys enquired.

"He is, Mrs Deslys. He's with my sister."

"Ah— I do so love her. An exceedingly likeable young woman. It is as if she is unaffected by this world," taking her hand with affection, "and she seems very fond of you."

Mathilda agreed. So very idle and unreflecting was Elaine, that the world could have gone mad and she would not have cared for it. Elaine was loved, surely. As much as she loved others; and of love as a spectacle Elaine had a fair knowledge; but of love subjectively she knew nothing. And what of me? Mathi chastised herself. What of me? As if I am experienced where it concerns the world. I keep pulling Elaine down for her nature as if I revel in it. I am no wiser than my sister.

"As I am of her," Mathi replied. "And I'm delighted to find that you like her too."

"Yes, very much indeed, I fancy; my son told me he thought her the prettiest woman in Paris."

Mathi sighed at the mention of him. "I dare say he does; and I do not know any man who is a more persistent judge of beauty than your son." She hoped her acrimony was not too evident. And if Mrs Deslys marked it, she gave no notice of it.

A round of applause filled the music-room as the lady finished her last piece and left the instrument so that others might use it. By the time she turned back, Mrs Moreau and Mrs Deslys had continued upon an entirely different subject. Mathi held her comment, and tried to look cheerfully unconcerned, but was feeling uncomfortable and wanting to be very much gone. She started playing with the pearl buttons on her sleeve.

"Oh— no," Mrs Deslys said. "Youth nowadays requires a modern husband."

Mrs Moreau gasped. "How depraved! I dread the day my other half were to listen to me. I'd rather have him not understand a word I say, he agrees and does my bidding, anyway."

Mrs Deslys frowned. "I really dislike you talking that way. You act as if you'd rather have a dog than your husband, while I know you are quite happily married."

"I am happy, for he does my bidding, and he is so for the same."

"You sound like Mr Martin when making his address."

"I quite like him. When he said— what was that thing— that he serves humanity, not himself. Well, I quite liked that. It testifies of his benignant side. I like that."

"And how much does humanity pay him?" Mathi said, not too kind, but feeling quite pleased with herself. Mrs Moreau tutted. Mathi realized that she had tensed, and that the pearls between her fingers were loosening. She was so very bored. She wanted to be back at the hall, by herself or with either James or Elaine.

"I don't like him either. Such a dodger." Mrs Deslys said, laying a hand on Mathi's arm.

"A dodger, Mrs Deslys?" Mathi said.

"Yes!" She laughed. "And no ideas of his own."

"Well— they have been rather rousy these days, haven't they?"

"We must try and keep it that way." Mrs Moreau said.

"What do you mean?" Mathi said.

"We'll get a lot more excitement that way."

A jolt of indigence went through Mathi. "It isn't the theatre! It's the government! They aren't there for drama."

Mrs Moreau threw her head back in sheer gaiety. "Where have you been living, my dear?" Shrill laughter bubbled up.

"Our government is at halt!"

"You are young and spoiled," Mrs Moreau said. "Government at halt and behind— that's the norm. It's half the trouble otherwise. You're too conscientious, my dear." She said it with the unshakable conviction of someone who speaks their truth based on faith alone. Mathi sighed. It was tiring. She felt a stab of some emotion in the bottom of her chest. Not pity, but some soft sort of sorrow.

"But what about the appointments, the pensions, the jobs? The votes!" She said. "An ailing government, and I am being called spoiled."

Mrs Moreau smiled as if indulging Mathi in a great secret. "So we have an ailing government— what of it? People of fashion will be grateful. There's too much damned government in my good opinion. This fellow they plan on putting on the seat," she turned to Mrs Deslys, "was his uncle not the prelate in Marseille?"

"His great-uncle, yes." Mrs Deslys said.

"Ah—! The great-uncle. The father was a captain, I recall. And the daughter married in Beauvais last week. Such a lovely affair it was."

Mrs Deslys got increasingly mellow and jolly, and Mathi got increasingly close-mouthed and sour. Mathi wanted to get out of the conversation. And yet she still wanted to stay and wanted Mrs Deslys and Mrs Moreau to approve of her. The moments on the sofa were more agonising than the moments in the dining room had been when she had to watch James cramp by hearing them talk of him. Several times Mathi flattened her dress and crossed and uncrossed her ankles, and when she looked into the dark window behind Mr Moreau, she saw that her eyes stood faintly sorrowful.

Mrs Deslys was rollicking on about Jacques and herself in Vienna when Jacques had been only twelve. It was not in the least interesting. Afraid her patience had worn thin, Mathilda said: "please pardon me, Mrs Deslys. Mrs Moreau. I think I should be going; I have yet some people to greet."

"Now? But I wanted to tell you— Well, never mind. Another time."

Mathi knew she should have asked, 'tell me what?' and be patient while she was told whatever it was, but she couldn't. She smiled and bid them goodbye.

Mathilda Aldouin ventured towards the ballroom in the hopes of talking to either James or Richard, knowing full well her sister would rather be dancing. Mathi found James and Elaine finishing a dance, and as Elaine went, Mathilda proffered to get James's attention. She was received with a very characteristic twinkle in his eyes as they met hers, until an eager Mr Lachaud stepped forward.

"Mr Guillory! I heard your father was offered Madrid — was there some truth to it?"

Mathilda saw James open his mouth and close it in confusion, until he hesitantly answered: "I'm afraid not, Mr Lachaud," his eyes shot to Mathi's before they returned to Mr Lachaud, "my father holds no further ambitions and he is quite happy with retirement."

Mr Lachaud frowned in consternation, holding James from taking his leave as he displayed his doubt by means of a tenacious gaze. "But I heard it from three people! So there must be some truth to it."

"I'm afraid not."

"Well— I'll be damned!" Mr Lachaud cried. A loud bark of laughter followed. "What could a man do with all the bavardage going about."

"Right you are, Mr Lachaud. Please excuse me." James attempted to leave.

"Where has he been? It seems so long since I've had the pleasure of encountering him anywhere."

"The countryside, Mr Lachaud."

"Retired to the country? How positively mundane! And here I thought he was incapable of such. Retired to the country—? In all my years— What was the year he retired? I quite forgot."

James exalted a wearisome breath. "In '02."

"But that is almost two years ago! How on earth! Has it been that long!?"

"Yes, Mr Lachaud."

"Ah, yes! Most splendid!" Cried Mr Lachaud. "You must come to diner on Tuesday."

"Delighted." James said. He turned to Mathi, mouthing 'help me'. She obliged. Declaring in an overbearing high voice that James had yet to fulfil on his promise to dance with her, she led him away in favour of the terrace.

The light fell from a venetian lantern above. Critters ruled the dim garden. James relaxed in physical terms, but the crinkles of concern at the corners of his eyes were still visible. He leaned his weight gingerly against the balustrade, hands in his pockets, and regarded her.

"You know what I did yesterday?" He said. "After work and my lectures?"

"I do not."

"I sat down at a café and just watched the people." James stared of into the darkness and smiled at the memory.

"Is that not what people usually do?"

"I never do that."

"How did you like it?"

"It varied," he pursed his lips and swayed, tilting his head as his fingers peeled the paint from the off-white balustrade, "I also wrote a little."

"Like an eighteenth-century poet? Quit that, they just had it painted."

He grunted but gave notice, shoving his hand back in his pocket. "I like a bit of background noise when I work. And it's so dreadfully quiet around the house."

James was staring blankly out into the garden. He had this look about him that people get when they're drunk or considering something very carefully, like he might walk off into the night and never be heard from again.

"My neighbour screamed last night," Mathi said.

James turned back to look at her and pulled a face. "What happened to them?"

"I don't know. Nobody really marked it."

"What if they were under attack?"

"I don't think he was. I think it was more like a— a liberating thing."

James snorted. "Really? And is it?"

"Is it what?"

"Liberating."

"I never tried it."

"You want to? I think I'd like to."

"You feel the urge to scream?"

James regarded her pensively. "You don't?"

"I don't care for it," she went to lean her palms on the balustrade, looking back at him laughingly over her shoulder, "and I don't go about screaming, really."

"We should try it," James decided.

"What— now—?"

"No— not now. Just sometime," he said. Richard appeared in the passage; his blond hairs tousled. Mathilda smiled:

"Richard, pray tell," he took her offered hands, "do they scream a lot back in England?"

Richard frowned, slightly taken aback. "Depends on the neighbourhood, I suppose. I'd advise you not to go near a mad house. Or a prison. But you ought to know not to go visit a madhouse. It's basic reason."

"I always found that a peculiar expression," James mused. "Basic reason, that is."

"They plan on finding you more prospects, you know." Mathilda told James. She passed Richard.

"Who?" James said.

"Mrs Deslys and Mrs Moreau. And from what I understood her husband as well, but he wasn't there," she regarded Richard: "where's your friend?"

Richard shrugged and looked inside over his shoulder. "I wouldn't know," he regarded her, "what's wrong? You don't like him?"

"I don't. He's vulgar."

"Mathi..." James said. Richard laughed.

"Don't, James. You find it as well," she said, "I don't like him."

"You sister does." Richard said. Mathi stilled.

"They were dancing," James remarked. "When we left."

"What—?"

Mathi regarded him, wondering whether he had gone insane. James made a calming gesture, his lips in a tight smile, "don't worry. Let her have some fun."

She clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

"Oh—!" Richard said, clearly bashful. "How is your father? I heard from my aunt that he was very ill?"

"No more than usual."

"But—?"

"I know his maladies very well: they never occur but for his own convenience."

Richard appeared lost for words. For a moment he looked between the two of them, then his chin jutted out and an affronted air came over him. "You as his daughter? How can you talk like that?"

She regarded him plainly: "as his daughter, I put up with his conveniences."

"But—! What if he is very ill?"

Mathi tensed. A cold fright ran through her stomach. She knew, that from his unwillingness to give her any worry, her father had the habit of not thinking of himself. But she did not heed the thought. Not allowing herself to feel any alarm. And so, reprimanding Richard with a fowl look, she said:

"It's of no matter," and ignored the appalled look Richard threw her as she passed him to return inside in search of her sister.