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Simon the Jester

<h2> CHAPTER IV </h2> My first impression of Lola Brandt in the dimness of the room was that of a lithe panther in petticoats rising lazily from the depths of an easy chair. A sinuous action of the arm, as she extended her hand to welcome me, was accompanied by a curiously flexible turn of the body. Her hand as it enveloped, rather than grasped, mine seemed boneless but exceedingly powerful. An indoor dress of brown and gold striped Indian silk clung to her figure, which, largely built, had an appearance of great strength. Dark bronze hair and dark eyes, that in the soft light of the room glowed with deep gold reflections, completed the pantherine suggestion. She seemed to be on the verge of thirty. A most dangerous woman, I decided—one to be shut up in a cage with thick iron bars. “It's charming of you to come. I've heard so much of you from Mr. Kynnersley. Do sit down.” Her voice was lazy and languorous and caressing like the purr of a great cat; and there was something exotic in her accent, something seductive, something that ought to be prohibited by the police. She sank into her low chair by the fire, indicating one for me square with the hearthrug. Dale, so as to leave me a fair conversational field with the lady, established himself on the sofa some distance off, and began to talk with a Chow dog, with whom he was obviously on terms of familiarity. Madame Brandt make a remark about the Chow dog's virtues, to which I politely replied. She put him through several tricks. I admired his talent. She declared her affections to be divided between Adolphus (that was the Chow dog's name) and an ouistiti, who was confined to bed for the present owing to the evil qualities of the November air. For the first time I blessed the English climate. I hate little monkeys. I also felt a queer disappointment. A woman like that ought to have caught an ourang-outang. She guessed my thought in an uncanny manner, and smiled, showing strong, white, even teeth—the most marvellous teeth I have ever beheld—so even as to constitute almost a deformity. “I'm fonder of bigger animals,” she said. “I was born among them. My father was a lion tamer, so I know all the ways of beasts. I love bears—I once trained one to drive a cart—but”—with a sigh—“you can't keep bears in Cadogan Gardens.” “You may get hold of a human one now and then,” said Dale. “I've no doubt Madame Brandt could train him to dance to whatever tune she played,” said I. She turned her dark golden eyes lazily, slumberously on me. “Why do you say that, Mr. de Gex?” This was disconcerting. Why had I said it? For no particular reason, save to keep up a commonplace conversation in which I took no absorbing interest. It was a direct challenge. Young Dale stopped playing with the Chow dog and grinned. It behooved me to say something. I said it with a bow and a wave of my hand: “Because, though your father was a lion-tamer, your mother was a woman.” She appeared to reflect for a moment; then addressing Dale: “The answer doesn't amount to a ha'porth of cats'-meat, but you couldn't have got out of it like that.” I was again disconcerted, but I remarked that he would learn in time when my mentorship was over and I handed him, a finished product, to society. “How long will that be?” she asked. “I don't know. Are you anxious for his immediate perfecting?” Her shoulders gave what in ordinary women would have been a shrug: with her it was a slow ripple. I vow if her neck had been bare one could have seen it undulate beneath the skin. “What is perfection?” “Can you ask?” laughed Dale. “Behold!” And he pointed to me. “That's cheap,” said the lady. “I've heard Auguste say cleverer things.” “Who's Auguste?” asked Dale. “Auguste,” said I, “is the generic name of the clown in the French Hippodrome.” “Oh, the Circus!” cried Dale. “I'll be glad if you'll teach him to call it the Hippodrome, Mr. de Gex,” she remarked, with another of her slumberous glances. “That will be one step nearer perfection,” said I. The short November twilight had deepened into darkness; the fire, which was blazing when we entered, had settled into a glow, and the room was lit by one shaded lamp. To me the dimness was restful, but Dale, who, with the crude instincts of youth, loves glare, began to fidget, and presently asked whether he might turn on the electric light. Permission was given. My hostess invited me to smoke and, to hand her a box of cigarettes which lay on the mantelpiece, I rose, bent over her while she lit her cigarette from my match, and resuming an upright position, became rooted to the hearthrug. With the flood of illumination, disclosing everything that hitherto had been wrapped in shadow and mystery, came a shock. It was a most extraordinary, perplexing room. The cheap and the costly, the rare and the common, the exquisite and the tawdry jostled one another on walls and floor. At one end of the Louis XVI sofa on which Dale had been sitting lay a boating cushion covered with a Union Jack, at the other a cushion covered with old Moorish embroidery. The chair I had vacated I discovered to be of old Spanish oak and stamped Cordova leather bearing traces of a coat-of-arms in gold. My hostess lounged in a low characterless seat amid a mass of heterogeneous cushions. There were many flowers in the room—some in Cloisonne vases, others in gimcrack vessels such as are bought at country fairs. On the mantelpiece and on tables were mingled precious ivories from Japan, trumpery chalets from the Tyrol, choice bits of Sevres and Venetian glass, bottles with ladders and little men inside them, vulgar china fowls sitting on eggs, and a thousand restless little objects screeching in dumb agony at one another. The more one looked the more confounded became confusion. Lengths of beautifully embroidered Chinese silk formed curtains for the doors and windows; but they were tied back with cords ending in horrible little plush monkeys in lieu of tassels. A Second Empire gilt mirror hung over the Louis XVI sofa, and was flanked on the one side by a villainous German print of “The Huntsman's Return” and on the other by a dainty water-colour. Myriads of photographs, some in frames, met the eye everywhere—on the grand piano, on the occasional tables, on the mantelpiece, stuck obliquely all round the Queen Anne mirror above it, on the walls. Many of them represented animals—bears and lions and pawing horses. Dale's photograph I noticed in a silver frame on the piano. There was not a book in the place. But in the corner of the room by a further window gleamed a large marble Venus of Milo, charmingly executed, who stood regarding the welter with eyes calm and unconcerned. I was aroused from the momentary shock caused by the revelation of this eccentric apartment by an unknown nauseous flavour in my mouth. I realised it was the cigarette to which I had helped myself from the beautifully chased silver casket I had taken from the mantelpiece. I eyed the thing and concluded it was made of the very cheapest tobacco, and was what the street urchin calls a “fag.” I learned afterwards that I was right. She purchased them at the rate of six for a penny, and smoked them in enormous quantities. For politeness' sake I continued to puff at the unclean thing until I nearly made myself sick. Then, simulating absentmindedness, I threw it into the fire. Why, in the sacred name of Nicotine, does a luxurious lady like Lola Brandt smoke such unutterable garbage? On the other hand, the tea which she offered us a few minutes later, and begged us to drink without milk, was the most exquisite I have tasted outside Russia. She informed us that she got it direct from Moscow. “I can't stand your black Ceylon tea,” she remarked, with a grimace. And yet she could smoke “fags.” I wondered what other contradictious tastes she possessed. No doubt she could eat blood puddings with relish and had a discriminating palate for claret. Truly, a perplexing lady. “You must find leisure in London a great change after your adventurous career,” said I, by way of polite conversation. “I just love it. I'm as lazy as a cat,” she said, settling with her pantherine grace among the cushions. “Do you know what has been my ambition ever since I was a kid?” “Whatever of woman's ambitions you had you must have attained,” said I, with a bow. “Pooh!” she said. “You mean that I can have crowds of men falling in love with me. That's rubbish.” She was certainly frank. “I meant something quite different. I wonder whether you can understand. The world used to seem to me divided into two classes that never met—we performing people and the public, the thousand white faces that looked at us and went away and talked to other white faces and forgot all about performing animals till they came next time. Now I've got what I wanted. See? I'm one of the public.” “And you love Philistia better than Bohemia?” I asked. She knitted her brows and looked at me puzzled. “If you want to talk to me,” she said, “you must talk straight. I've had no more education than a tinker's dog.” She made this peculiar announcement, not defiantly, not rudely, but appealingly, graciously. It was not a rebuke for priggishness; it was the unpresentable statement of a fact. I apologized for a lunatic habit of speech and paraphrased my question. “In a word,” cried Dale, coming in on my heels with an elucidation of my periphrasis, “what de Gex is driving at is—Do you prefer respectability to ramping round?” She turned slowly to him. “My dear boy, when do you think I was not respectable?” He jumped from the sofa as if the Chow dog had bitten him. “Good Heavens, I never meant you to take it that way!” She laughed, stretched up a lazy arm to him, and looked at him somewhat quizzically in the face as he kissed her finger-tips. Although I could have boxed the silly fellow's ears, I vow he did it in a very pretty fashion. The young man of the day, as a general rule, has no more notion how to kiss a woman's hand than how to take snuff or dance a pavane. Indeed, lots of them don't know how to kiss a girl at all. “My dear,” she said. “I was much more respectable sitting on the stage at tea with my horse, Sultan, than supping with you at the Savoy. You don't know the deadly respectability of most people in the profession, and the worst of it is that while we're being utterly dull and dowdy, the public think we're having a devil of a time. So we don't even get the credit of our virtues. I prefer the Savoy—and this.” She turned to me. “It is nice having decent people to tea. Do you know what I should love? I should love to have an At Home day—and receive ladies, real ladies. And I have such a sweet place, haven't I?” “You have many beautiful things around you,” said I truthfully. She sighed. “I should like more people to see them.” “In fact,” said I, “you have social ambitions, Madame Brandt?” She looked at me for a moment out of the corner of her eye. “Are you skinning me?” she asked. Where she had picked up this eccentric metaphor I know not. She had many odd turns of language as yet not current among the fashionable classes. I gravely assured her that I was not sarcastic. I commended her praiseworthy aspirations. “But,” said I innocently, “don't you miss the hard training, the physical exercise, the delight of motion, the excitement, the——?”—my vocabulary failing me, I sketched with a gesture the equestrienne's classical encouragement to her steed. She looked at me uncomprehendingly. “The what?” she asked. “What are you playing at?” inquired Dale. “I was referring to the ring,” said I. They both burst out laughing, to my discomfiture. “What do you take me for? A circus rider? Performing in a tent and living in a caravan? You think I jump through a hoop in tights?” “All I can say,” I murmured, by way of apology, “is that it's a mendacious world. I'm deeply sorry.” Why had I been misled in this shameful manner? Madame Brandt with lazy good nature accepted my excuses. “I'm what is professionally known as a dompteuse,” she explained. “Of course, when I was a kid I was trained as an acrobat, for my father was poor; but when he grew rich and the owner of animals, which he did when I was fourteen, I joined him and worked with him all over the world until I went on my own. Do you mean to say you never heard of me?” “Madame Brandt,” said I, “the last thing to be astonished at is human ignorance. Do you know that 30 per cent of the French army at the present day have never heard of the Franco-Prussian War?” “My dear Simon,” cried Dale, “the two things don't hang together. The Franco-Prussian War is not advertised all over France like Beecham's Pills, whereas six years ago you couldn't move two steps in London without seeing posters of Lola Brandt and her horse Sultan.” “Ah, the horse!” said I. “That's how the wicked circus story got about.” “It was the last act I ever did,” said Madame Brandt. “I taught Sultan—oh, he was a dear, beautiful thing—to count and add up and guess articles taken from the audience. I was at the Hippodrome. Then at the Nouveau Cirque at Paris; I was at St. Petersburg, Vienna, Berlin—all over Europe with Sultan.” “And where is Sultan now?” I asked. “He is dead. Somebody poisoned him,” she replied, looking into the fire. After a pause she continued in a low voice, singularly like the growl of a wrathful animal, “If ever I meet that man alive it will go hard with him.” At that moment the door opened and the servant announced: “Professor Anastasius Papadopoulos!” Whereupon the shortest creature that ever bore so lengthy a name, a dwarf not more than four feet high, wearing a frock coat and bright yellow gloves, entered the room, and crossing it at a sort of trot fell on his knees by the side of Madame Brandt's chair. “Ah! Carissima, je vous vois enfin, Ach liebes Herz! Que j'ai envie de pleurer!” Madame Brandt smiled, took the creature's head between her hands and kissed his forehead. She also caressed his shoulders. “My dear Anastasius, how good it is to see you. Where have you been this long time? Why didn't you write and let me know you were in England? But, see, Anastasius, I have visitors. Let me introduce you.” She spoke in French fluently, but with a frank British accent, which grated on a fastidious ear. The dwarf rose, made two solemn bows, and declared himself enchanted. Although his head was too large for his body, he was neither ill-made nor repulsive. He looked about thirty-five. A high forehead, dark, mournful eyes, and a black moustache and imperial gave him an odd resemblance to Napoleon the Third. “I arrived from New York this morning, with my cats. Oh, a mad success. I have one called Phoebus, because he drives a chariot drawn by six rats. Phoebus Apollo was the god of the sun. I must show him to you, Madonna. You would love him as I love you. And I also have an angora, my beautiful Santa Bianca. And you, gentlemen”—he turned to Dale and myself and addressed us in his peculiar jargon of French, German, and Italian—“you must come and see my cats if I can get a London engagement. At present I must rest. The artist needs repose sometimes. I will sun myself in the smiles of our dear lady here, and my pupil and assistant, Quast, can look after my cats. Meanwhile the brain of the artist,” he tapped his brow, “needs to lie fallow so that he can invent fresh and daring combinations. Do such things interest you, messieurs?” “Vastly,” said I. He pulled out of his breast pocket an enormous gilt-bound pocket-book, bearing a gilt monogram of such size that it looked like a cartouche on an architectural panel, and selected therefrom three cards which he gravely distributed among us. They bore the legend: PROFESSOR ANASTASIUS PAPADOPOULOS GOLD AND SILVER MEDALLIST THE CAT KING LE ROI DES CHATS DER KATZEN KONIG London Agents: MESSRS. CONTO & BLAG, 172 Maiden Lane, W.C. “There,” said he, “I am always to be found, should you ever require my services. I have a masterpiece in my head. I come on to the scene like Bacchus drawn by my two cats. How are the cats to draw my heavy weight? I'll have a noiseless clockwork arrangement that will really propel the car. You must come and see it.” “Delighted, I'm sure,” said Dale, who stood looking down on the Liliputian egotist with polite wonder. Lola Brandt glanced at him apologetically. “You mustn't mind him, Dale. He has only two ideas in his head, his cats and myself. He's devoted to me.” “I don't think I shall be jealous,” said Dale in a low voice. “Foolish boy!” she whispered. During the love scene, which was conducted in English, a language which Mr. Papadopoulos evidently did not understand, the dwarf scowled at Dale and twirled his moustache fiercely. In order to attract Madame Brandt's attention he fetched a packet of papers from his pocket and laid them with a flourish on the tea-table. “Here are the documents,” said he. “What documents?” “A full inquiry into the circumstances attending the death of Madame Brandt's horse Sultan.” “Have you found out anything, Anastasius?” she asked, in the indulgent tone in which one addresses an eager child. “Not exactly,” said he. “But I have a conviction that by this means the murderer will be brought to justice. To this I have devoted my life—in your service.” He put his hand on the spot of his tightly buttoned frock-coat that covered his heart, and bowed profoundly. It was obvious that he resented our presence and desired to wipe us out of our hostess's consideration. I glanced ironically at Dale's disgusted face, and smiled at the imperfect development of his sense of humour. Indeed, to the young, humour is only a weapon of offence. It takes a philosopher to use it as defensive armour. Dale burned to outdo Mr. Papadopoulos. I, having no such ambition, laid my hand on his arm and went forward to take my leave. “Madame Brandt,” said I, “old friends have doubtless much to talk over. I thank you for the privilege you have afforded me of making your acquaintance.” She rose and accompanied us to the landing outside the flat door. After saying good-bye to Dale, who went down with his boyish tread, she detained me for a second or two, holding my hand, and again her clasp enveloped it like some clinging sea-plant. She looked at me very wistfully. “The next time you come, Mr. de Gex, do come as a friend and not as an enemy.” I was startled. I thought I had conducted the interview with peculiar suavity. “An enemy, dear lady?” “Yes. Can't I see it?” she said in her languorous, caressing voice. “And I should love to have you for a friend. You could be such a good one. I have so few.” “I must argue this out with you another time,” said I diplomatically. “That's a promise,” said Lola Brandt. “What's a promise?” asked Dale, when I joined him in the hall. “That I will do myself the pleasure of calling on Madame again.” The porter whistled for a cab. A hansom drove up. As my destination was the Albany, and as I knew Dale was going home to Eccleston Square, I held out my hand. “Good-bye, Dale. I'll see you to-morrow.” “But aren't you going to tell me what you think of her?” he cried in great dismay. The pavement was muddy, the evening dark, and a gusty wind blew the drizzle into our faces. It is only the preposterously young who expect a man to rhapsodise over somebody else's inamorata at such a moment. I turned up the fur collar of my coat. “She is good-looking,” said I. “Any idiot can see that!” he burst out impatiently. “I want to know what opinion you formed of her.” I reflected. If I could have labelled her as the Scarlet Woman, the Martyred Saint, the Jolly Bohemian, or the Bold Adventuress, my task would have been easy. But I had an uncomfortable feeling that Lola Brandt was not to be classified in so simple a fashion. I took refuge in a negative. “She would hardly be a success,” said I, “in serious political circles.” With that I made my escape. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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