7
Julie gradually recovered; there was a feeling of strength in her limbs, a desire for movement she hadn’t felt since the birth of her child; it was the strength of despair. One day she took out her pretty gowns and hung them one by one on silk hangers in the room next to her bedroom. It had been Floyd’s den; he used to sit there at night during the first year of their marriage, reading. He could see his darling in her lace-trimmed bed. She complained she had no place to hang the Paris creations he bought for her; he suggested putting racks around his den, which they did; those lace, gold and silver gowns seemed to him to hang on bodies which swayed to and fro in the draught. The face was always Julie’s, in her different moods. The perfume stifled him. He had an old-fashioned idea about perfume; his mother never used it. He gave up reading there at night.
She put her hats in boxes, her slippers, stockings, lingerie, wrapped carefully in tissue paper, in an old bureau, a family relic which Floyd refused to sell; it was two hours of fatiguing work, but she wasn’t tired. She opened the door and peered out; there was no one about; she crept down the stairs, went from room to room, covered furniture and mirrors with gray linen, and crept up again. When Ellen came home with the boy, she noticed her dark shining hair. She dismissed her on the spot, and rang up for the Japanese butler to come back.
Floyd was shocked to find the house so bare and cheerless.
“Why have you had the covers put on again?”
“It’s dusty. The furniture will be ruined, and we’re not going to entertain.”
He didn’t answer. When he saw the Japanese, he asked for Ellen.
“Oh! I sent her away.”
“Why! has she done anything wrong?”
“No! but she annoys me, she’s too good-looking.”
Floyd feared his wife’s mind was unbalanced; she brooded too much over her misfortune. He was very tender, very indulgent, but sometimes his patience gave out.
Days, weeks, months passed. Winter came with snow, ice, sleet. Julie spent most of the time in her room, rarely going down to dinner. Floyd tried to get her out for a walk, but had to compromise with the automobile. She’d wear a hat pulled down over her eyes, a thick veil, a long close-fitting coat, and avoided Fifth Avenue. The house remained covered. Floyd begged her to take off those ugly, depressing gray things, but she sat silent, antagonistic; it always ended in his dashing out, and spending the day at the club. But his anger never lasted. The pathetic figure, crouching in a big chair, those weary lustreless eyes, hurt him terribly; she had lost her beauty. What is the elusive thing we call beauty? It is not form, it is not color; it is something that pervades, like the perfume of a flower in fresh earth, or a haunting magic in the woods. In a woman it is a living spark that sets us aglow; that spark was dead in Julie; he had to admit it. The Image which he called by her name was blurred; she would be an old, miserable woman; he, an old, disappointed man.
He spent much of his time at the club. He’d read his morning paper there. He detested local politics. The society column annoyed him; Mrs. C. had run off with her chauffeur, Mrs. M. was going to marry her riding master, a well-known woman was suing her millionaire husband for more alimony. It was horrible to have one’s domestic horrors made attractive reading; he resolved no one should suspect his. Then the paper would drop from his hand, the green Park grow shadowy, fade away; he’d awaken with a sense of guilt; a young man dozing in his chair, and all the unrest in the world. He would look about furtively; the others didn’t notice—they too were dozing.
One day he went home earlier than usual. Julie, with the boy in her arms, was sitting at the window watching the workingmen on the iron frame of a building opposite; they were knocking, boring, climbing in and out like monkeys; it was fascinating. She was conscious of her flannel wrapper. Floyd was always well dressed, well groomed; his glance was like a sharp whip. He took the boy from her and put him on the bed.
“The child is heavy, you must not accustom him to be carried about; he makes the house unbearable with his cries. It’s all right to be a good mother, but you are overdoing it; you forget you have a husband.”
She was on her feet facing him indignantly.
“How can you speak to me like that? You have no pity for my misfortune!”
“I’m sorry if I have offended you, but I don’t see why you should be so sensitive about your hair. You have become very neglectful; you have lost all self-respect. I’m ashamed of the servants.”
“Floyd!”
“I want to have Colonel Garland for dinner; I have business with him.”
“No, no; I won’t see him.”
“Very well. It’s not very pleasant for a married man to be obliged to invite his friends to a restaurant, because his wife will not take the trouble to make herself presentable.”
“The dinner will be served whenever you order it, but I will not come down.”
“You can do as you please about that. I’ll ask him for Wednesday.”
“Not so soon?” She was panic-stricken.
“My mother never needed to prepare. Her table was always well supplied.”
With this parting shot he went out.
Julie stood aghast; her adoring slave was turning against her. A man loves only beauty in a woman; when she loses that, she loses everything. She was so young; what was she going to do with the rest of her life? She sat despairing, trying to think herself out of the network of misery which entangled her. She couldn’t, poor thing. The present was a horror to her; the future, a blank. She went back to the past, lived it all over again and again—Martin! the joy of those secret meetings; Hippolyte—the side-door which opened only wide enough to slip into the dark corridor; there, in Martin’s arms——
The child cried; she threw herself down beside him, pressing him violently to her. He struggled. She held him tightly—muttering unconsciously, “My body, my Soul, my little Martin,” peering into his face—as if seeking something to console her. These paroxysms of despair sapped her strength. She was no longer apathetic, but groping, groping for some remedy. She’d go back always to those wonderful days with Martin. She was religious at heart, but she would have gladly given her hopes of redemption to be able to look into the mirror and see once more her young face, her soft dark hair. Hippolyte had admired her hair; she saw him again, so suave, so handsome, heard his exquisite French, caught again the laughing significance of the looks which passed between the two men—It was madly fascinating; day and night it all repeated itself in her brain, revolving like an ever-turning wheel—Martin—Hippolyte—Pierrot—the sweet, pungent odor of the place; then the suggestion worked. Hippolyte had often told them of his wonderful salves, lotions, hair restorers—he might know a way to restore the color of her hair. She looked up his address—took the receiver in her hand, a moment of fear, irresolution, then she called the number.
“I want to speak to Hippolyte.”
“Oui, Madame, I am here.”
His voice set her nerves quivering.
“It’s Mrs. Garrison speaking. You don’t know my married name, I was Julie Gonzola.”
“Madame, I knew your voice. How could I forget it?”
“Will you come and see me today at four? Thank you.”
She was terribly excited. What would he think when he saw her now? He must help her—he must! It was her last hope.
Punctually at four, the boy knocked.
“A gentleman downstairs.”
She shrunk away—she couldn’t see him.
“He says you expect him.”
With a strong effort she controlled the impulse to send the man away.
“Show him up.”
Hippolyte looked curiously at Julie, not grasping what had happened to her. She was embarrassed, didn’t know what to say; then she slipped off her cap and let her hair down. It fell to the bottom of her dress. He gasped and broke into a shower of compliments. His admiration was evidently sincere. Julie’s spirits rose; it was not all over.
“My hair turned white when I was ill. I want it restored to its natural color; I can give you the shade—”
“Mais non! Madame, it is quite le dernier cri—we are bleaching the hair now, but we couldn’t do it like this, Madame. Your hair will be the sensation; it needs a little tonic oil and massage.” Then he looked at her again. “Madame is long indisposed?”
“Yes, I have been in the house all winter.”
“Madame needs fresh air and the Swedish treatment—the beauty will come back; put yourself in my hands, and you will see!”