"You see I am a woman _pot-au-feu_," said Cosette, not without satisfaction, in response to his praises of the meal. He did not exactly know what a woman _pot-au-feu_ might be, but he agreed enthusiastically that she was that sort of woman.
At the stage of coffee--Mimisse had a piece of sugar steeped in coffee--she produced cigarettes, and made him light his cigarette at hers, and put her elbows on the table and looked at his ears. She was still wearing the ap.r.o.n, which appeared to Henry to be an ap.r.o.n of ineffable grace.
"So you are _fiance, mon pet.i.t_? Eh?" she said.
"Who told you?" Henry asked quickly. "Tom?"
She nodded; then sighed. He was instructed to describe Geraldine in detail. Cosette sighed once more.
"Why do you sigh?" he demanded.
"Who knows?" she answered. "_Dites!_ English ladies are cold? Like that?" She affected the supercilious gestures of Englishwomen whom she had seen in the streets and elsewhere. "No?"
"Perhaps," Henry said.
"Frenchwomen are better? Yes? _Dites-moi franchement._ You think?"
"In some ways," Henry agreed.
"You like Frenchwomen more than those cold Englishwomen who have no _chic_?"
"When I"m in Paris I do," said Henry.
"_Ah! Comme tous les Anglais!_"
She rose, and just grazed his ear with her little finger. "_Va!_" she said.
He felt that she was beyond anything in his previous experience.
A little later she told him she had to go to the Scala to sign her contract, and she issued an order that he was to take Mimisse out for a little exercise, and return for her in half an hour, when she would be dressed. So Henry went forth with Mimisse at the end of a strap.
In the Boulevard de Clichy who should accost him but Tom, whom he had left asleep as usual at the hotel!
"What dog is that?" Tom asked.
"Cosette"s," said Henry, unsuccessfully trying to a.s.sume a demeanour at once natural and tranquil.
"My young friend," said Tom, "I perceive that it will be necessary to look after you. I was just going to my studio, but I will accompany you in your divagations."
They returned to the Rue de Bruxelles together. Cosette was dressed in all her afternoon splendour, for the undoing of theatrical managers.
The role of woman _pot-au-feu_ was finished for that day.
"I"m off to Monte Carlo to-morrow," said Tom to her. "I"m going to paint a portrait there. And Henry will come with me."
"To Monte Carlo?" Henry gasped.
"To Monte Carlo."
"But----"
"Do you suppose I"m going to leave you here?" Tom inquired. "And you can"t return to London yet."
"No," said Cosette thoughtfully, "not London."
They left her in the Boulevard de Strasbourg, and then Tom suggested a visit to the Luxembourg Gallery. It was true: a life-sized statue of Sappho, signed "Dolbiac," did in feet occupy a prominent place in the sculpture-room. Henry was impressed; so also was Tom, who explained to his young cousin all the beauties of the work.
"What else is there to see here?" Henry asked, when the stream of explanations had slackened.
"Oh, there"s nothing much else," said Tom dejectedly.
They came away. This was the beginning and the end of Henry"s studies in the monuments of Paris.
At the hotel he found opportunity to be alone.
He wished to know exactly where he stood, and which way he was looking.
It was certain that the day had been unlike any other day in his career.
"I suppose that"s what they call Bohemia," he exclaimed wistfully, solitary in his bedroom.
And then later:
"Jove! I"ve never written to Geraldine to-day!"
CHAPTER XXV
THE RAKE"S PROGRESS
"_Faites vos jeux, messieurs_," said the chief croupier of the table.
Henry"s fingers touched a solitary five-franc piece in his pocket, large, ma.s.sive, seductive.
Yes, he was at Monte Carlo. He could scarcely believe it, but it was so.
Tom had brought him. The curious thing about Tom was that, though he lied frequently and casually, just as some men hitch their collars, his wildest statements had a way of being truthful. Thus, a work of his had in fact been purchased by the French Government and placed on exhibition in the Luxembourg. And thus he had in fact come to Monte Carlo to paint a portrait--the portrait of a Sicilian Countess, he said, and Henry believed, without actually having seen the alleged Countess--at a high price. There were more complexities in Tom"s character than Henry could unravel. Henry had paid the entire bill at the Grand Hotel, had lent Tom a sovereign, another sovereign, and a five-pound note, and would certainly have been mulcted in Tom"s fare on the expensive _train de luxe_ had he not sagaciously demanded money from Tom before entering the ticket-office. Without being told, Henry knew that money lent to Tom was money dropped down a grating in the street. During the long journey southwards Tom had confessed, with a fine appreciation of the fun, that he lived in Paris until his creditors made Paris disagreeable, and then went elsewhere, Rome or London, until other creditors made Rome or London disagreeable, and then he returned to Paris.
Henry had received this remark in silence.
As the train neared Monte Carlo--the hour was roseate and matutinal--Henry had observed Tom staring at the scenery through the window, his coffee untasted, and tears in his rapt eyes. "What"s up?"
Henry had innocently inquired. Tom turned on him fiercely. "Silly a.s.s!"
Tom growled with scathing contempt. "Can"t you feel how beautiful it all is?"
And this remark, too, Henry had received in silence.
"Do you reckon yourself a great artist?" Tom had asked, and Henry had laughed. "No, I"m not joking," Tom had insisted. "Do you honestly reckon yourself a great artist? I reckon myself one. There"s candour for you.
Now tell me, frankly." There was a wonderful and rare charm in Tom"s manner as he uttered these words. "I don"t know," Henry had replied.