The Old Wives' Tale by Arnold Bennett (thriller books to read .TXT) 📖

not to exist. The relations between the two women were altered irretrievably in a moment.

“It must have been her fault!” said Laurence. “With men she is insupportable. I have never understood how that poor woman has made her way. With women she is charming. But she seems to be incapable of not treating men like dogs. Some men adore that, but they are few. Is it not?”

Sophia smiled.

“I have told her! How many times have I told her! But it is useless. It is stronger than she is, and if she finishes on straw one will be able to say that it was because of that. But truly she ought not to have asked him here! Truly that was too much! If he knew …!”

“Why not?” asked Sophia, awkwardly. The answer startled her.

“Because her room has not been disinfected.”

“But I thought all the flat had been disinfected?”

“All except her room.”

“But why not her room?”

Laurence shrugged her shoulders. “She did not want to disturb her things! Is it that I know, I? She is like that. She takes an idea- -and then, there you are!”

“She told me every room had been disinfected.”

“She told the same to the police and the doctor.”

“Then all the disinfection is useless?”

“Perfectly! But she is like that. This flat might be very remunerative; but with her, never! She has not even paid for the furniture—after two years!”

“But what will become of her?” Sophia asked.

“Ah—that!” Another shrug of the shoulders. “All that I know is that it will be necessary for me to leave here. The last time I brought Monsieur Cerf here, she was excessively rude to him. She has doubtless told you about Monsieur Cerf?”

“No. Who is Monsieur Cerf?”

“Ah! She has not told you? That astonishes me. Monsieur Cerf, that is my friend, you know.”

“Oh!” murmured Sophia.

“Yes,” Laurence proceeded, impelled by a desire to impress Sophia and to gossip at large. “That is my friend. I knew him at the hospital. It was to please him that I left the hospital. After that we quarrelled for two years; but at the end he gave me right. I did not budge. Two years! It is long. And I had left the hospital. I could have gone back. But I would not. That is not a life, to be nurse in a Paris hospital! No, I drew myself out as well as I could … He is the most charming boy you can imagine! And rich now; that is to say, relatively. He has a cousin infinitely more rich than he. I dined with them both tonight at the Maison Doree. For a luxurious boy, he is a luxurious boy—the cousin I mean. It appears that he has made a fortune in Canada.”

“Truly!” said Sophia, with politeness. Laurence’s hand was playing on the edge of the bed, and Sophia observed for the first time that it bore a wedding-ring.

“You remark my ring?” Laurence laughed. “That is he—the cousin. ‘What!’ he said, ‘you do not wear an alliance? An alliance is more proper. We are going to arrange that after dinner.’ I said that all the jewellers’ shops would be closed. ‘That is all the same to me,’ he said. ‘We will open one.’ And in effect … it passed like that. He succeeded! Is it not beautiful?” She held forth her hand.

“Yes,” said Sophia. “It is very beautiful.”

“Yours also is beautiful,” said Laurence, with an extremely puzzling intonation.

“It is just the ordinary English wedding-ring,” said Sophia. In spite of herself she blushed.

“Now I have married you. It is I, the cure, said he—the cousin— when he put the ring on my finger. Oh, he is excessively amusing! He pleases me much. And he is all alone. He asked me whether I knew among my friends a sympathetic, pretty girl, to make four with us three for a picnic. I said I was not sure, but I thought not. Whom do I know? Nobody. I’m not a woman like the rest. I am always discreet. I do not like casual relations. … But he is very well, the cousin. Brown eyes. … It is an idea—will you come, one day? He speaks English. He loves the English. He is all that is most correct, the perfect gentleman. He would arrange a dazzling fete. I am sure he would be enchanted to make your acquaintance. Enchanted! … As for my Charles, happily he is completely mad about me—otherwise I should have fear.”

She smiled, and in her smile was a genuine respect for Sophia’s face.

“I fear I cannot come,” said Sophia. She honestly endeavoured to keep out of her reply any accent of moral superiority, but she did not quite succeed. She was not at all horrified by Laurence’s suggestion. She meant simply to refuse it; but she could not do so in a natural voice.

“It is true you are not yet strong enough,” said the imperturbable Laurence, quickly, and with a perfect imitation of naturalness. “But soon you must make a little promenade.” She stared at her ring. “After all, it is more proper,” she observed judicially. “With a wedding-ring one is less likely to be annoyed. What is curious is that the idea never before came to me. Yet …”

“You like jewellery?” said Sophia.

“If I like jewellery!” with a gesture of the hands.

“Will you pass me that bracelet?”

Laurence obeyed, and Sophia clasped it round the girl’s wrist.

“Keep it,” Sophia said.

“For me?” Laurence exclaimed, ravished. “It is too much.”

“It is not enough,” said Sophia. “And when you look at it, you must remember how kind you were to me, and how grateful I am.”

“How nicely you say that!” Laurence said ecstatically.

And Sophia felt that she had indeed said it rather nicely. This giving of the bracelet, souvenir of one of the few capricious follies that Gerald had committed for her and not for himself, pleased Sophia very much.

“I am afraid your nursing of me forced you to neglect Monsieur Cerf,” she added.

“Yes, a little!” said Laurence, impartially, with a small pout of haughtiness. “It is true that he used to complain. But I soon put him straight. What an idea! He knows there are things upon which I do not joke. It is not he who will quarrel a second time! Believe me!”

Laurence’s absolute conviction of her power was what impressed Sophia. To Sophia she seemed to be a vulgar little piece of goods, with dubious charm and a glance that was far too brazen. Her movements were vulgar. And Sophia wondered how she had established her empire and upon what it rested.

“I shall not show this to Aimee,” whispered Laurence, indicating the bracelet.

“As you wish,” said Sophia.

“By the way, have I told you that war is declared?” Laurence casually remarked.

“No,” said Sophia. “What war?”

“The scene with Aimee made me forget it … With Germany. The city is quite excited. An immense crowd in front of the new Opera. They say we shall be at Berlin in a month—or at most two months.”

“Oh!” Sophia muttered. “Why is there a war?”

“Ah! It is I who asked that. Nobody knows. It is those Prussians.”

“Don’t you think we ought to begin again with the disinfecting?” Sophia asked anxiously. “I must speak to Madame Foucault.”

Laurence told her not to worry, and went off to show the bracelet to Madame Foucault. She had privately decided that this was a pleasure which, after all, she could not deny herself.

IV

About a fortnight later—it was a fine Saturday in early August— Sophia, with a large pinafore over her dress, was finishing the portentous preparations for disinfecting the flat. Part of the affair was already accomplished, her own room and the corridor having been fumigated on the previous day, in spite of the opposition of Madame Foucault, who had taken amiss Laurence’s tale-bearing to Sophia. Laurence had left the flat—under exactly what circumstances Sophia knew not, but she guessed that it must have been in consequence of a scene elaborating the tiff caused by Madame Foucault’s resentment against Laurence. The brief, factitious friendliness between Laurence and Sophia had gone like a dream, and Laurence had gone like a dream. The servant had been dismissed; in her place Madame Foucault employed a charwoman each morning for two hours. Finally, Madame Foucault had been suddenly called away that morning by a letter to her sick father at St. Mammes-sur-Seine. Sophia was delighted at the chance. The disinfecting of the flat had become an obsession with Sophia—the obsession of a convalescent whose perspective unconsciously twists things to the most wry shapes. She had had trouble on the day before with Madame Foucault, and she was expecting more serious trouble when the moment arrived for ejecting Madame Foucault as well as all her movable belongings from Madame Foucault’s own room. Nevertheless, Sophia had been determined, whatever should happen, to complete an honest fumigation of the entire flat. Hence the eagerness with which, urging Madame Foucault to go to her father, Sophia had protested that she was perfectly strong and could manage by herself for a couple of days. Owing to the partial suppression of the ordinary railway services in favour of military needs, Madame Foucault could not hope to go and return on the same day. Sophia had lent her a louis.

Pans of sulphur were mysteriously burning in each of the three front rooms, and two pairs of doors had been pasted over with paper, to prevent the fumes from escaping. The charwoman had departed. Sophia, with brush, scissors, flour-paste, and news-sheets, was sealing the third pair of doors, when there was a ring at the front door.

She had only to cross the corridor in order to open.

It was Chirac. She was not surprised to see him. The outbreak of the war had induced even Sophia and her landlady to look through at least one newspaper during the day, and she had in this way learnt, from an article signed by Chirac, that he had returned to Paris after a mission into the Vosges country for his paper.

He started on seeing her. “Ah!” He breathed out the exclamation slowly. And then smiled, seized her hand, and kissed it.

The sight of his obvious extreme pleasure in meeting her again was the sweetest experience that had fallen to Sophia for years.

“Then you are cured?”

“Quite.”

He sighed. “You know, this is an enormous relief to me, to know, veritably, that you are no longer in danger. You gave me a fright … but a fright, my dear madame!”

She smiled in silence.

As he glanced inquiringly up and down the corridor, she said—

“I’m all alone in the flat. I’m disinfecting it.”

“Then that is sulphur that I smell?”

She nodded. “Excuse me while I finish this door,” she said.

He closed the frontdoor. “But you seem to be quite at home here!” he observed.

“I ought to be,” said she.

He glanced again inquiringly up and down the corridor. “And you are really all alone now?” he asked, as though to be doubly sure.

She explained the circumstances.

“I owe you my most sincere excuses for bringing you here,” he said confidentially.

“But why?” she replied, looking intently at her door. “They have been most kind to me. Nobody could have been kinder. And Madame Laurence being such a good nurse–-”

“It is true,” said he. “That was a reason. In effect they are both very good-natured little women. … You comprehend, as journalist it arrives to me to know all kinds of people …” He snapped his fingers … “And as we were opposite the house. In fine, I pray you to excuse me.”

“Hold me this paper,” she said. “It is necessary that every crack