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<h1>Chapter XIX</h1> Soon afterwards I met Horatio Bakkus. With his white hair, ascetic, clean-shaved face and deep dark eyes he looked like an Italian ecclesiastic. One's glance instinctively sought the tonsure. He would come forward on to the open-air platform beneath the thick foliage of the park with the detached mien of a hierophant; and there he would sing like an angel, one of those who quire to the youngest-eyed cherubim so as not to wake them. When I made him my modest compliment he said: "Trick, my dear sir. Trick and laziness. I might have had the bel canto, if I had toiled interminably; but, thank God, I've managed to carry through on self-indulgent sloth." As he lived at Royat I saw much of him alone, Royat being such a wee place that if two sojourners venture simultaneously abroad they must of necessity meet. I found him as Lackaday had described him, a widely read scholar and an amiable and cynical companion. But in addition to these casual encounters, I was thrown daily into his society with Lackaday and Elodie. We arranged always to lunch together, Lackaday, Bakkus and myself taking it in turns to be hosts at our respective hotels. Now and then Elodie insisted on breaking the routine and acting as hostess at a restaurant in Clermont-Ferrand. It was all very pleasant. The only woman to three men, Elodie preened herself with amusing obviousness and set out to make herself agreeable. She did it with a Frenchwoman's natural grace. But as soon as the talk drifted into anything allusive to war or books or art or politics, she manifested an ignorance abysmal in its profundity. I was amazed that a woman should have been for years the intimate companion of two men like Lackaday and Bakkus without picking up some superficial knowledge of the matters they discussed. And I was interested, even to the pitch of my amazement, to behold the deference of both men, when her polite and vacant smile proclaimed her inability to follow the conversation. Invariably one of them would leave me to the other and turn to Elodie. It was Bakkus more often who thus broke away. He had the quick impish faculty, one of the rarest of social gifts, of suddenly arresting a woman's attention by a phrase, apparently irrelevant, yet to her woman's jumping mind relevant to the matter under dispute and of carrying it off into a pleasant feminine sphere. It was impish, and I believe deliberately so, for on such occasions one could catch the ironic gleam in his eyes. The man's sincere devotion to both of them was obvious. "Madame Patou..." I began one day, at lunch--we were talking of the tyranny of fashion, even in the idyllic lands where ladies are fully dressed in teeth necklaces and yellow ochre--"Madame Patou..." She threw up her hands. We were lunching very well--the petit vin of Auvergne is delicious--"Mais voyons donc--why all this ceremony among friends? Here we are, we three, and it is André, Horace, Elodie--and here we are, we four, and it is Monsieur Bakkus, and Lackaday--never will I be able to pronounce that word--and Madame Patou and Monsieur le Capitaine Hylton. Look. To my friends I am Elodie tout court--and you?" It was an embarrassing moment. Andrew's mug of a face was as expressionless as that of a sphinx. He would no more have dreamed of addressing me by my Christian name than of hailing Field-Marshal Haig as Douglas. White-haired, thin-lipped Bakkus smiled sardonically. But there was no help for it. "My very intimate friends call me Tony," said I. "To-ny," she echoed. "But it is charming, To-ny. A votre santé, To-ny." She held put her glass--I was sitting next to her. I clinked mine politely. "To the health of the charming Elodie." She was delighted. Made us all clink glasses. Bakkus said, in English: "To the abolition of Misters, in obedience to the Lady." "And now," cried Elodie, "what were you going to say about fashions in necklaces made of dogs' teeth?" We pursued our frivolous talk. Bakkus said: "The whole of the Fall of Man arose from Eve pestering Adam for a russet-brown fig-leaf in spring time." "It was after the fall that they made themselves aprons," said Lackaday. "She had her eye on those fig-leaves long before," retorted Bakkus. We laughed. There was no great provocation to mirth. But we were attuned to gaiety. My three friends were lunching with me on the terrace of the Royat Palace Hotel. It is a long, wide terrace, reaching the whole width of the façade of the building, and doors lead on to it from all the public rooms. Only half of it, directly accessible from the salle à manger is given over to restaurant tables. Ours was on the outskirts. I like to be free, to have plenty of room and air; especially on a broiling August day. We were in cool shade. A few feet below us stretched a lower terrace, with grass-plots and flowers and a fountain and gaily awned garden seats and umbrella-shaded chairs. And there over the parapet the vine-clad hill quivered in the sunshine against the blue summer sky, and around us were cheerful folk at lunch forgetful of hearts and blood-pressure in the warm beauty of the day. Perhaps now and then a stern and elderly French couple--he stolid, strongly bearded and decorated, she thin and brown, over-coiffured and over-ringed--with an elderly angular daughter, hard to marry, regarded us with eyes of disapproval. Elodie in happy mood threw off restraint, as, in more private and intimate surroundings, she would have thrown off her corset. But we cared not for the disapproval of the correct French profiteers.... "If they tried to smile," said Elodie, incidentally, "they would burst and all the gold would drop out." Lackaday threw back his head and laughed--the first real, hearty laugh I had seen him exhibit since I had met him in France. You see the day, the food, the wine, the silly talk, the dancing wit of Bakkus, the delightful comradeship, had brought the four of us into a little atmosphere of joyousness. There was nothing very intellectual about it. In the hideous realm of pure intellectuality there could not exist even the hardiest ghost of a smile. Laughter, like love, is an expression of man's vehement revolt against reason. So Andrew Lackaday threw himself back in his chair and laughed at Elodie's quip. But suddenly, as if some blasting hand had smitten him, his laughter ceased. His jaw dropped for a second and then snapped like a vice. He was sitting on my left hand, his back to the balustrade, and facing the dining-room. At the sight of him we all instinctively sobered and bent forward in questioning astonishment. He recovered himself quickly and tried to smile as if nothing had happened--but, seeing his eyes had been fixed on something behind me, I turned round. And there, calmly walking up the long terrace towards us, was Lady Auriol Dayne. I sprang from my chair and strode swiftly to meet her. From a grating sound behind me I knew that Lackaday had also risen. I stretched out my hand mechanically and, regardless of manners, I said: "What the devil are you doing here?" She withdrew the hand that she too had put forward. "That's a nice sort of welcome." "I'm sorry," said I. "Please consider the question put more politely." "Well, I'm here," she replied, "because it happens to be my good pleasure." "Then I hope you'll find lots of pleasure, my dear Auriol." She laughed, standing as cool as you please, very grateful to the eye in tussore coat and skirt, with open-necked blouse, and some kind of rakish hat displaying her thick auburn hair in defiance of the fashion which decreed concealment even of eyebrows with flower-pot head gear. She laughed easily, mockingly, although she saw plainly the pikestaff of a Lackaday upright a few yards away from her, in a rigid attitude of parade. "Anyhow," she said, "I must go and say how d'ye do to the General." I gave way to her. We walked side by side to the table. She advanced to him in the most unconcerned manner. Bakkus rose politely. "My dear General, fancy seeing you here! How delightful." I have never seen a man's eyes devour a woman with such idiotic obviousness. "Lady Auriol," said he, "you are the last person I ever thought of meeting." He paused for a second. Then, "May I have the pleasure of introducing--Madame Patou--Lady Auriol Dayne--Mr. Bakkus--" "Do sit down, please, everybody," said Auriol, after the introductions. "I feel like a common nuisance. But I came by the night train and went to sleep and only woke up to find myself just in time for the fag-end of lunch." "I am host," said I. "Won't you join us?" What else was there to do? She glanced at me with smiling inscrutability. "You're awfully kind, Tony. But I'm disturbing you." The maitre d'hôtel and waiter with a twist of legerdemain set her place between myself and Lackaday. "This is a charming spot, isn't it, Madame Patou?" she remarked. Elodie, who had regarded her wonderingly as though she had bean a creature of another world, bowed and smiled. "We all talk French, my dear Auriol," said I, "because Madame Patou knows no English." "Ah!" said Lady Auriol. "I never thought of it." She translated her remark. "I'm afraid my French is that of the British Army, where I learned most of it. But if people are kind and patient I can make myself understood." "Mademoiselle speaks French very well," replied Elodie politely. "You are very good to say so, Madame." I caught questioning, challenging glances flashing across the table, each woman hostilely striving to place the other. You see, we originally sat: Elodie on my right hand, then Bakkus facing straight down the terrace, then Lackaday, then myself. It occurred to me at once that, with her knowledge of my convention-trained habits, she would argue that, at a luncheon party, either I would not have placed the lady next the man to whom she belonged, or that she was a perfectly independent guest, belonging, so to speak, to nobody. But on the latter hypothesis, what was she doing in this galley? I swear I saw the wrinkle on Lady Auriol's brow betokening the dilemma. She had known me from childhood's days of lapsed memory. I had always been. Romantically she knew Lackaday. Horatio Bakkus, with his sacerdotal air and well-bred speech and manner, evidently belonged to our own social class. But Madame Patou, who mopped up the sauce on her plate with a bit of bread, and made broad use of a toothpick, and leaned back and fanned herself with her napkin and breathed a "Mon Dieu, qu'ilfait chaud" and contributed nothing intelligent to the conversation, she could not accept as the detached lady invited by me to charm my two male guests. She was then driven to the former hypothesis. Madame Patou belonged in some way to the man by whose side she was not seated. Of course, there was another alternative. I might have been responsible for the poor lady. But she was as artless as a poor lady could be. Addressing my two friends it was always André and Horace, and instinctively she used the familiar "tu." Addressing me she had affrightedly forgotten the pact of Christian names, and it was "Monsieur le Capitaine" and, of course, the "vous" which she had never dreamed of changing. Even so poor a French scholar as Lady Auriol could not be misled into such absurd paths of conjecture. She belonged therefore, in some sort of fashion, to General Lackaday. An elderly man of the world, with his nerves on edge, has no need of wizardry to divine the psychology of such a situation. Mistress of social forms, Lady Auriol, after sweeping Elodie into her net, caught Horatio Bakkus and through reference to her own hospital experiences during the war, wrung from him the avowal of his concerts for the wounded in Paris. "How splendid of you! By the way, how do you spell your name? It's an uncommon one." "With two k's." "I wonder if you have anything to do with an old friend of my fattier, Archdeacon Bakkus?" "My eldest brother." "No, really? One of my earliest recollections is his buying a prize boar from my father." "Just like the dear fellow's prodigality," said Bakkus. "He had a whole Archdeaconry to his hand for nothing. I've lately spent a couple of months with him in Westmorland, so I know." "How small the world is," said Lady Auriol to Lackaday. "Too small," said he. "Oh," said Auriol blankly. "Have you seen our good friends, the Verity-Stewarts lately?" She had. They were in perfect health. They were wondering what had become of him. "And indeed, General," she flashed, "what has become of you?" "It is not good," said Elodie, in quick anticipation, "that the General should neglect his English friends." There sounded the note of proprietorship, audible to anybody. Auriol's eyes dwelt for a second on Elodie; then she turned to Lackaday. "Madame Patou is quite right." Said he, with one of his rare flights into imagery, "I was but a shooting star across the English firmament." <blockquote> "Encore une étoile qui file, File, file et disparait!"</blockquote> "Oh no, my dear friend," laughed Bakkus. "He can't persuade us, Lady Auriol, that he is afflicted with the morbidezza of 1830." "Qu'est-ce que c'est que cela?" asked Elodie, sharply. "It was a fashion long ago, my dear, for poets to assume the gaiety of a funeral. Even Béranger who wrote Le Roi d'Yvetot--you know it--" "Naturally, 'Il était un roi d'Yvetot!'"--cried Elodie, who had learned it at school. "Well--of course. Even Béranger could not escape the malady of his generation. Do you remember"--his swift glance embraced us all--"Longfellow's criticism of European poets of that epoch, in his prose masterpiece, Hyperion? He refers to Salis and Matthisson, but Lamartine and people of his kidney come in--'Melancholy gentlemen' pardon, my dear Elodie, if I quote it in English--'Melancholy gentlemen to whom life was only a dismal swamp, upon whose margin they walked with cambric handkerchiefs in their hands, sobbing and sighing and making signals to Death to come and ferry them over the lake.' Cela veut dire," he made a marvellous French paraphrase for Elodie's benefit. "Comprends pas," she shrugged at the boredom of literary allusion. "I don't see what all that has to do with André. I shall see, Mademoiselle, that he writes to his friends." "You will be doing them a great service, Madame," replied Auriol. There was a stiff silence. If Bakkus had stuck to his intention of driving the conversation away from embarrassing personal questions, instead of being polite to Elodie, we should have been spared this freezing moment of self-consciousness. I asked Auriol whether she had had a pleasant journey, and we discussed the discomfort of trains. From then to the end of the meal the conversation halted. It was a relief to rise and fall into groups as we strolled down the terrace to coffee. I manoeuvred Elodie and Bakkus to the front leaving Auriol and Lackaday to follow. I sought a table at the far end, for coffee; but when I turned round, I discovered that the pair had descended by the mid-way flight of three or four steps to the grass-plotted and fountained terrace below. We sat down. Elodie asked: "Who is that lady?" I explained as best I could. "She is the daughter of an English nobleman, whence her title. The way to address her is 'Lady Auriol.' She did lots of work during the war, work of hospital organization in France, and now she is still working for France. I have known her since she was three years old; so she is a very great friend of mine." Her eyes wandered to the bit of red thatched head and the gleam of the crown of a white hat just visible over the balustrade. "She appears also to be a great friend of André." "The General met many charming ladies during his stay in England," I lied cheerfully. "Which means," she said with a toss of her head and an ironical smile, "that the General behaved like a real--who was it, Horace, who loved women so much? Ah oui--like a real Don Juan." She wagged her plump forefinger. "Oh no, I know my André." "I could tell you stories--" said I. "Which would not be true." She laughed in a forced way--and her eyes again sought the tops of the couple promenading in the sunshine. She resumed her catechism. "How old is she?" "I don't know exactly." "But since you have known her since she was three years old?" "If I began to count years at my time of life," said I, "I should die of fright." "She looks about thirty. Wouldn't you say so, Horace? It is droll that she has not married. Why?" "Before the war she was a great traveller. She has been by herself all over the world in all sorts of places among wild tribes and savages. She has been far too busy to think of marriage." Elodie looked incredulous. "One has always one's moments perdus." "One doesn't marry in odd moments," said I. "You and Horace are old bachelors who know nothing at all about it. Tell me. Is she very rich?" "None of our old families are very rich nowadays," I replied, rather at a loss to account, save on the score of feminine curiosity, for this examination. If it had not been for her mother who left her a small fortune of a thousand or so a year, Auriol would have been as penniless as her two married sisters. Her brother, Lord Vintrey, once a wastrel subaltern of Household Cavalry, and, after a dashing, redeeming war record, now an expensive Lieutenant-Colonel, ate up all the ready money that Lord Mountshire could screw out of his estates. With Elodie I could not enter into these explanations. "All the same she is passably rich," Elodie persisted. "One does not buy a costume like that under five hundred francs." The crimson vested and sashed and tarbooshed Algerian negro brought the coffee, and poured out the five cups. We sipped. I noticed Elodie's hand shake. "If their coffee gets cold, so much the worse." Bakkus, who had maintained a discreet silence hitherto, remarked:-- "Unless Andrew's head is particularly thick, he'll get a sunstroke in this blazing sun." "That's true," cried Elodie and, rising with a great scraping of chair, she rushed to the balustrade and addressed him shrilly. "Mais dis donc André, tu veux attraper un coup de soleil?" We heard his voice in reply: "Nous rentrons." A few moments afterwards they mounted from the lower terrace and came towards us. Lackaday's face was set in one of its tight-lipped expressionless moods. Lady Auriol's cheek was flushed, and though she smiled conventional greeting, her eyes were very serious. "I am sorry to have put into danger the General's health, madame," said she in her clear and British French. "But when two comrades of the Great War meet for the first time, one is forgetful." She gave me a little sign rejecting the offered coffee. Lackaday took his cup and drank it off at one gulp. He looked at his wrist watch, the only remaining insignia of the British soldier. "Time for our tram, Elodie." "C'est vrai?" He held his wrist towards her. "Oui, mon Dieu! Miladi--" She funked the difficult "Lady Auriol." "Au revoir, Madame," said Auriol shaking hands. "Trop honorée," said Elodie, somewhat defiantly. "Au revoir, Miladi." She made an awkward little bow. "Et toi," she extended a careless left hand to Bakkus. "I will see you to the lift," said I. We walked down the terrace in silence to the salon door just inside which was the lift which took one down some four stories to the street. Two things were obvious: the perturbation of the simple Lackaday and the jealousy of Elodie. "Au revoir, monsieur, et merci," she said, with over emphasized politeness, as we stood at the lift gates. "Good-bye, old chap," said Lackaday and gripped my hand hard. As soon as I returned to the end of the terrace, Bakkus rose and took his leave. Auriol and I were alone. Of course other humans were clustering round tables all the length of the terrace. But we had our little end corner to ourselves. I sat down next to her. "Well?" said I. She bent forward, and her face was that of the woman whom I had met in the rain and mud and stark reality of the war. "Why didn't you tell me?" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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