10
The house in Park Avenue was the very last word; Floyd had to confess that. The walls tinted a cold gray, the light coming from invisible corners, telephones, a radio-cabinet, china closets hidden behind panels; the entire floor could be made into a dancing hall by pushing the doors into the wall; no fireplace, very little furniture, meals rolled in ready to serve by the “haughty” Swede hired with the house, everything cooked “à la mode” by a chef, also hired with the house.
Julie was hysterical with joy; she had been all her life the victim of antiques; this was all so exquisitely modern. Floyd thought with intense longing of his little home; he vowed to himself he would not desert it; he’d go there every day and read his evening paper.
The house-warming was to be a brilliant affair. Maud with her restless activity schemed various plans for a sensational success. Tom sampled the cellar; it was perfection. Floyd was dispatched here, there, and everywhere; Julie sat back and gave the others carte blanche.
“Don’t consult me,” she said; “you three will do it all right.”
On the day of the dinner, Julie had been the entire afternoon in the hands of Hippolyte’s skilled lieutenants. He himself was to come later and give her hair the last touches.
True to his resolve, Floyd had spent his afternoons in the little house, reading his paper; but he was beginning to feel a superstitious dread when he put the key in the door. That day the room seemed unbearably chilly; he lit the fire with great difficulty. The wood piled up in a basket was damp, it sputtered awhile, gave out sighs as if it were in pain. Soon the fretful flame died out. He couldn’t read, looked at his watch, and went home.
The perfume from his wife’s room pervaded the house. His room was on the floor above—they had become fashionable. He saw less and less of Julie, she had no time for him; she was wrapped up in herself, her looks, her gowns; vanity had developed in her to such an extent it staggered him; she sought admiration, was a slave to style, adopting the daily change no matter how extreme; a night at home was unbearable to her; he dragged himself along; he wasn’t jealous of the crowd of men always around her; but it wouldn’t look well for the husband to be absent.
He hadn’t seen Martin for a very long time. He was sure Julie had forgotten him, she couldn’t love anyone but herself; he pulled himself up; he mustn’t think that way. He remembered her as a girl, so yielding, so sweet. Illness changes the character of people sometimes. He must be patient with her; but life had become very hard; the nights were spent in carousing. He didn’t know what to do with his days until Julie woke up—and he was only thirty.
He dressed and went down to his wife’s door—his Mecca; it was open. Hippolyte, with a strand of her hair over his shoulder, was bending down talking confidentially. Floyd abominated him; a man who could make a fortune out of the vanity of women was despicable; but most fortunes are directly or indirectly made out of the vanity of women.
“Floyd, come in, I’ve such news for you. I’ve sold our house.”
“What house?”
“Our little house, to Hippolyte.”
“You’re mad.”
Julie gave him a quick surprised look, and got rid of Hippolyte.
“Floyd, you shouldn’t speak to me like that before Hippolyte; he’ll tell the next customer we quarrel.” There was a suspicion of tears.
“Julie! you’re mad! quite mad! What the devil can he do with our house?”
“He’ll make a fortune out of it, if he follows my advice; the first floor will be a fine Colonial tea room; the old furniture and our kitchen coppers will be just the thing; the second floor, a beauty parlor; and above, in your father’s workshop, a Turkish bath.”
And she could sit there calmly and say such things.
The Colonel came in early, poured out a volley of compliments which put her in good humor. She whispered to him.
“I’ve won; he’s getting used to it.”
The dinner was delayed until past ten, waiting for Maud and Tom who arrived with profuse apologies. Tom had been running all day from one shop to another trying to find a string of beads for Maud.
“Costly things, those glass beads,” said Tom. “Reminds me of the squaws up in the Reservation, when I was travelling with whiskey; they had them around the waist, neck, legs, through the ears and nose, and by God! they thought they were in full dress.”
When the dancing commenced, Julie was surrounded; she was the prettiest woman in the room, and a wonderful dancer. Floyd, in the next room among some loose fellows, was drinking heavily. The sedans were not ordered back; chauffeurs gossip among themselves, and after twelve, the guests were going “slumming.” Taxis were engaged—Masks and dominos were put on in the hall, one not knowing who the other was; Maud had done the pairing—she saw to it that husband and wife did not meet. Tom was to have Julie, Maud selected Floyd; he wouldn’t make love to her.
The masked figures in dominos slipped past the sentinel at the door; he was the devil who was sending souls to Hell that night.
Floyd wanted to fight everybody, then broke down and blubbered; Tom had a fellow feeling, put him in a chair, and told the haughty Swede to look after him. At the door he got mixed up in the crowd, found himself with someone in a taxi. A pair of soft lips met his, he shouted for joy.
“Maudy! where’s Julie?”
She laughed. “Oh, she’s in very good company.” She nestled up to him. “Don’t think of her, only ourselves. Let’s make believe we’re not married.”
The taxis were speeding downtown. Julie took off her mask, leaned back; she was excited, warm from dancing. Her companion bent over her. She looked into flaming eyes.
“Julie!”
That hour in Martin’s arms, she forgot her husband, her child, herself; promised him everything. This time, he swore, she should keep her word.