Philip had lately been several times to Paris without taking Dora, as he had always done formerly. He had not confided to her the object of these journeys, but had contented himself with telling her that he was going on business. He was always back again on the second or third day.

Without entering into details, he had mentioned some visits to the Russian Emba.s.sy. He had even confided to her that, in consequence of a rather lengthy correspondence between the Russian amba.s.sador in Paris and General Ivan Sabaroff, War Minister in St. Petersburg, it was not impossible that the Czar might make overtures to him for the purchase of the sh.e.l.l he had invented. The French Government, he said, would not be opposed to his accepting such overtures from an ally of France.

There would be nothing very extraordinary in such a proceeding, of course. The young Czar of all the Russias and the worthy President of the Republic had given each other the kiss of brotherhood in public; Monsieur Felix Faure had returned the visit which the young Sovereign had paid him; and there had been signed at St. Petersburg that gigantic joke, that t.i.tanic hoax which is called the Franco-Russian alliance, an alliance between the Phrygian cap and the Cossack cap, between the sons of the great Revolution and the scourgers of women, an alliance by the terms of which the blind Gallic cook undertook to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for the wily bear of the Caucasians, and gave to the rest of Europe a grotesque and amusing spectacle. The French _badaud_ rarely misses an opportunity of making France the laughing-stock of the whole world. It is much to be regretted that the French do not read the two or three columns that are devoted to them every day by the newspapers of London, New York, and Berlin. Their follies supply these great dailies with more material for comment than they can hope to get out of all that goes on in their respective countries, and that, I say it to their credit and to be just, without bitterness, without prejudice, for France counts among her sincerest friends and admirers, in England and America, all that is most intelligent and enlightened in these two countries of light and leading. It is a cosmopolitan traveller, French-born and still French at heart, who ventures to speak thus in parenthesis. Alexis de Tocqueville might have written in the year of grace 1899 the following lines, which were penned by him in 1849: "France, the most brilliant and most dangerous nation of Europe, is destined ever to be, in turn, an object of admiration, of hatred, of terror and of pity, but of indifference, never."

VIII

THE HOUSE-WARMING

Philip decided to give a house-warming party in the month of November, and to ask to a large _soiree musicale_ all the society notabilities, in fact all London and his wife. Cards of invitation were sent to amba.s.sadors, cabinet ministers, aristocracy, and City princes. He invited a few literary friends, but not many artists, being afraid of pa.s.sing for a man who was trying to dazzle his less fortunate brothers in art by his wealth. Perhaps he also rather feared meeting them--the studio world has not a very developed b.u.mp of admiration for painters who make a rapid fortune and settle in Belgravia. Those who believed that he still painted had nicknamed him _le Grantham des Salons_, a not very brilliant pun upon his name which sounded rather like the two French words _grand homme_. Between four and five hundred people accepted invitations. The artists for the most part refused, "having a previous engagement which prevented them from accepting Mrs. Philip Grantham's kind invitation." Poor Dora seemed to see the artistic world slipping away from her, since Art itself had deserted the house. Lorimer had accepted. Thank Heaven, she would at least have one real friend at her reception. She set about doing her best to ensure the success of her party. She had a long list of the people who were coming, all well-known names. She gave _carte blanche_ to the best impresario of London, who was entrusted with the arrangement of the musical programme. She ordered her supper from Benoist, and flowers and palms in profusion for the decoration of the house, and went to the best dressmaker in London for a gown which, when it came home, Philip p.r.o.nounced simply beyond compet.i.tion. Dora was a born _grande dame_. True, she preferred the simple intellectual life that she had led hitherto, but she was fitted to shine in the gay world. If she had been the wife of the President of the French Republic, all the Faubourg St. Germain would willingly have rendered her homage at the Elysee, and would probably have said, on returning home, "A _Republicaine_ can be as beautiful, witty, and distinguished-looking as the most high-born _Marquise_, were she as n.o.ble as Charlemagne or Louis XIV."

Dora felt sure of herself, certain of doing honour to Philip, and, notwithstanding the profound sadness that reigned in her heart, she was still woman enough to rejoice in advance over the success which she antic.i.p.ated. She accordingly made all her preparations to that end, and took pains to put her beauty and intelligence at her husband's service.

Philip, for that matter, did things in lordly style; he had given Dora an unlimited credit, _carte blanche_, that is to say a blank cheque.

Philip wished to have a great social success.

Without saying anything to his wife, he had sent invitations to all the princ.i.p.al papers, thinking that if the editors did not come they would not fail to send reporters who would write accounts of the party, the publication of which would make them known, he and Dora, in the society in which he had taken a firm resolution to shine.

The concert alone caused Dora some anxiety. She almost regretted having had _music_ printed on her cards. Her artistic temperament had often caused her to pity from the bottom of her heart those pianists and singers, whom n.o.body listens to at parties, and whose first notes invariably give the signal for general conversation. She thought this unmannerly, even offensive, not only to the hosts, but to the artistes.

The shopkeeper demands only the price of the goods that he sells you, and it is a matter of indifference to him whether you have your hat in your hand or on your head in his shop. The artiste is more difficult to please. He asks for the appreciation of those who pay him, and more than one celebrated star has consented to sing in drawing-rooms for hundreds of pounds, but only on the formal condition that silence would be enforced. It must be said that at these gatherings many people, who are too busy to pay one another frequent calls, are pleased to have the opportunity of meeting, the men to talk of politics and business, the women of dress, theatres, gossip, or scandals. They can so well dispense with music that many Englishwomen have the words _no music_ printed on their invitation cards. I know one who, in order to persuade me to accept her invitation, put a postscript thus: "I shall have a Hungarian orchestra, but you won't hear it."

Dora was rea.s.sured, however, as the impresario, who was to arrange the music, knew his public. He had guaranteed her "complete satisfaction."

She thought no more about it, and awaited the day with all the serenity of a society stager who had done nothing else all her life.

IX

THE CONFESSION

Like the great Conde, on the eve of the battle of Rocroy, Dora slept peacefully and profoundly on the eve of the day that was to see her play the role of hostess for the first time in her new house in Belgravia.

She was careful not to tire herself during the day, in order to feel fresh and alert at half-past nine, the hour at which the guests would begin to arrive.

For a mistress of a house, for a novice especially, a reception of this kind is a severe trial. She stands four mortal hours at the entrance of the drawing-room, all the while on the _qui-vive_. She would like to possess a hundred pairs of eyes instead of one, to a.s.sure herself that everything is going as smoothly as she could wish, for the least little _contretemps_ will spoil the party. Out of four hundred people who accept an invitation, two hundred come to criticise--some the music, others the supper, others the wines, others the dresses. If there is the slightest hitch in the proceedings, there are whispered comments on it.

If the music is bad, people drown it with their voices; if the supper is of doubtful quality, they go early; if the servants do not number the hats carefully, the men, on leaving, choose the best that come to their notice; if the hostess is embarra.s.sed, they smile. If the women meet people whom they have ceased to know, they look bored. The most thankless task in the world is giving a large "At home." I know many women who, after giving such parties, have to go to bed for a couple of days.

Dora dined lightly at seven o'clock, and, after giving her last instructions, went to dress. At nine o'clock she was ready. Her white dress of exquisite material, trimmed with old lace and silver embroidery, suited her to perfection, and set off every line of her supple figure. She seemed to be moulded in it. She wore a _riviere_ of diamonds and emeralds, and three magnificent diamond stars were fastened on her bodice. Philip had given her these diamonds, to console her for the portrait that he had not had the courage to finish. She would have infinitely preferred the portrait, but she accepted the jewels willingly, and, thanking her husband prettily, she said to herself, "When the sh.e.l.l bursts, its pieces will be useful. I shall at any rate have a couple of thousand pounds with which to face the situation." She wore no ornament in her hair, which seemed to be proud of being entrusted alone with the task of showing off her beautiful pure Madonna-like face. Never had a lovelier head, framed in luxuriant tresses, been placed more proudly on cla.s.sical shoulders. Her beauty was dazzling.

She went into the drawing-room to give a last glance at the decorations.

Everything looked perfect.

Notwithstanding the air of calm and simple dignity that she wore, like all who have the knowledge of their own worth and who know their triumph is a.s.sured, those who had examined Dora's expression attentively would have discovered a new anxiety depicted on her countenance, perhaps nothing very important, but nevertheless an annoyance at the least.

General Ivan Sabaroff, Russian War Minister, was in London. Philip had invited him to Dora's party, and he had accepted. Philip told his wife this at dinner.

Dora sat down in the drawing-room with a cloud on her brow.

"Sabaroff!" she said to herself, "General Sabaroff! What if it be the Colonel Sabaroff that I met eight years ago at Monte Carlo? He was already much talked about. To-day he is the Russian Minister of War--it is quite possible, even probable; but then? See the man again! Oh no, never! And yet, I shall be obliged to receive him--I shall warn Philip that he had a detestable reputation with women, and if that does not suffice, well--I will tell Philip everything. And why shouldn't I? The confession will not be very painful, and I have often been on the point of making it. I have made up my mind--I will not, and I cannot meet this man. I will be polite to him to-night, but very distant; of course, I know what is expected of me as hostess. After that I hope there will be an end of it."

This resolution seemed to clear away the clouds from her face. She smiled eagerly at her husband when he came gaily into the drawing-room.

"Everything is ready and admirably arranged," said Philip. "The drawing-room is decorated with such taste! Ah, my dearest, it is easy to see you have had a hand in the arrangements. I recognise your touch in a thousand little details. Your party will be a huge success--the rooms will look splendid, the music will be excellent, the supper first-rate, and we shall have a regular crowd of celebrities and pretty women--it will be a triumph! And you, darling--how beautiful you look to-night!

that gown suits you to perfection. I wish I was going to have you all to myself."

"How absurd! nothing would have been easier, if you had only expressed the wish," said she, a little piqued.

There are many men who are on the point of falling in love with their wives when they see them near to making the conquest of a crowd of outsiders.

"And those diamonds," continued he, "how splendid they look on you! You were built to wear a diadem, that's your style. At last you are playing your proper role, and I am proud to see you doing the honours of a house that is worthy of you. When I come to think of it, fortune has been very kind to me."

On seeing Dora quite unmoved, he added--

"Really, one would think, to look at you, that all this does not stir you to the least enthusiasm: it's curious! sometimes I can't quite make you out. I am nearly beside myself with delight. Now, listen a moment,"

said he, taking her hand. "I am negotiating with Russia. If they take my invention, as I have every hope that they will, my ambition will be satisfied, my wildest dreams realised. I shall be rich. You know we are not really rich. It costs a perfect fortune to keep this house going.

Ah, but only let General Sabaroff approve of my sh.e.l.l, and, dearest,--we are all right."

He rubbed his hands with joy.

"Philip," said Dora, "I want to speak to you about this General Sabaroff."

"Yes, yes," said Philip, without heeding her; "I want you to charm him.

You must make a conquest of him. Bring all your diplomacy to bear. He has an immense influence at the Russian Court, and is, I hear, the favourite Minister of the Czar. Being Minister of War, he is the master, the autocrat of his department. And, darling, I count on you to help me.

I repeat to you, everything depends on him."

"Money again, Philip, always money," replied Dora. "Are you not rich enough yet? If we have not the income to keep a house like this, why do we live in it? Why should we live beyond our means? I don't think it is right, Philip. What has become of those happy days when we loved each other so much, and when you thought only of your art? Ah, give me back my dear studio."

"I am not rich enough yet," said Philip, "but I am perhaps on the road that leads to fortune."

"You were rich before, and on the road to fame. I loved an artist and I adored his art."

"Oh, deuce take art and artists," cried Philip, getting angry.

"Philip, how can you? If you only knew how it pains me to hear you speak like that."

"Well, my dear Dora," said Philip, "there are times at which I can scarcely keep my patience with you--you don't interest yourself in me as you used to do."

"Is it really you who dare speak to me in that way?" exclaimed Dora indignantly. "Is it you who accuse me of not being the same, you who consecrated your life to art and to my happiness, and who to-day think of nothing but making money, like the first City man in the street?

There are times when I long to go and earn my own living with my brush.

The only thing that holds me back is Eva--you too, perhaps, for I am certain that one of these days you will cry 'Help!' and I shall have to rescue you from drowning."

"You are ungrateful, Dora. It is for you that I work."