VII
Now, beyond the Alemeda, in the modish faubourg of Farananka, there lived a lady of both influence and wealth—the widow of the Inventor of Sunflower Piquant. Arbitress absolute of Cunan society, and owner, moreover, of a considerable portion of the town, the veto of Madame Ruiz, had caused the suicide indeed of more than one social climber. Unhappy, nostalgic, disdainful, selfish, ever about to abandon Cuna-Cuna to return to it no more, yet never budging, adoring her fairy villa far too well, Madame Ruiz while craving for the International-world, consoled herself by watching from afar European Society going speedily to the dogs. Art loving, and considerably musical (many a dizzy venture at the Opera-house had owed its audition to her), she had, despite the self-centeredness of her nature, done not a little to render more brilliant the charming city it amused her with such vehemence to abuse.
One softly gloomy morning, preceding Madame Ruiz’s first cotillon of the Season, the lodge-keeper of the Villa Alba, a negress, like some great, violet bug, was surprised, while tending the brightly-hanging Grape-Fruit in the drive, by an imperative knocking on the gate. At such a matutinal hour only trashy errand-boys shouldering baskets might be expected to call, and giving the summons no heed, the mulatress continued her work.
The Villa Alba, half-buried in spreading awnings, and surrounded by many noble trees, stood but a short distance off the main road, its pleasaunces enclosed by flower-enshrouded walls, all a-zig-zag, like the folds of a screen. Beloved of lizards, and velvet-backed humming-birds, the shaded gardens led on one side to the sea.
“To make such a noise at dis hour,” the negress murmured, going grumblingly at length to the gate, disclosing, upon opening, a gentleman in middle-life, with a toothbrush moustache and a sapphire ring.
“De mist’ess still in bed, sah.”
“In bed?”
“She out bery late, sah, but you find Miss Edwards up.”
And with a nod of thanks, the visitor directed his footsteps discreetly towards the house.
Although not, precisely, in her bed when the caller, shortly afterwards, was announced, Madame Ruiz was nevertheless as yet in deshabille.
“Tiresome man, what does he want to see me about?” she exclaimed, gathering around her a brocaded-wrap formed of a priestly cope.
“He referred to a lease, ma’am,” the maid replied.
“A lease!” Madame Ruiz raised eyes dark with spleen.
The visit of her agent, or man of affairs, was apt to ruffle her composure for the day: “Tell him to leave it, and go,” she commanded, selecting a nectarine from a basket of iced-fruits beside her.
Removing reflectively the sensitive skin, her mind evoked, in ironic review, the chief salient events of society, scheduled to take place on the face of the map in the course of the day.
The marriage of the Count de Nozhel, in Touraine, to Mrs. Exelmans of Cincinnati, the divorce of poor Lady Luckcock in London (it seemed quite certain that one of the five co-respondents was the little carrot-haired Lord Dubelly again), the last “pomps,” at Vienna, of Princess de Seeyohl née Mitchening-Meyong (Peace to her soul! She had led her life).... The christening in Madrid of the girl-twins of the Queen of Spain....
“At her time, I really don’t understand it,” Madame Ruiz murmured to herself aloud, glancing, as though for an explanation, about the room.
Through the flowing folds of the mosquito curtains of the bed, that swept a cool, flagged-floor, spread with skins, showed the oratory, with its waxen flowers, and pendant flickering lights, that burned, night and day, before a Leonardo saint with a treacherous smile. Beyond the little recess came a lacquer commode, bearing a masterly marble group, depicting a pair of amorous hermaphrodites amusing themselves, while above, against the spacious wainscoting of the wall, a painting of a man, elegantly corseted, with a Violet in his moustache, “Study of a Parisian,” was suspended, and which, with its pendant “Portrait of a Lady,” signed Van Dongen, were the chief outstanding objects that the room contained.
“One would have thought that at forty she would have given up having babies,” Madame Ruiz mused, choosing a glossy cherry from the basket at her side.
Through the open window a sound of distant music caught her ear.
“Ah! If only he were less weak,” she sighed, her thoughts turning towards the player, who seemed to be enamoured of the opening movement (rapturously repeated) of L’Après midi d’un Faune.
The venetorial habits of Vittorio Ruiz had been from his earliest years the source of his mother’s constant chagrin and despair. At the age of five he had assaulted his Nurse, and, steadily onward, his passions had grown and grown....
“It’s the fault of the wicked climate,” Madame Ruiz reflected, as her companion, Miss Edwards, came in with the post.
“Thanks, Eurydice,” she murmured, smilingly exchanging a butterfly kiss.
“It’s going to be oh so hot, to-day!”
“Is it, dear?”
“Intense,” Miss Edwards predicted, fluttering a gay-daubed paper fan.
Sprite-like, with a little strained ghost-face beneath a silver shock of hair, it seemed as if her long blue eyes had absorbed the Cunan sea.
“Do you remember the giant with the beard?” she asked, “at the Presidency fête?”
“Do I?”
“And we wondered who he could be!”
“Well?”
“He’s the painter of Women’s Backs, my dear!”
“The painter of women’s what?”
“An artist.”
“Oh.”
“I wanted to know if you’d advise me to sit.”
“Your back is charming, dear, c’est un dos d’élite.”
“I doubt, though, it’s classic,” Miss Edwards murmured, pirouetting slowly before the glass.
But Madame Ruiz was perusing her correspondence, and seemed to be absorbed.
“They’re to be married, in Munich, on the fifth,” she chirruped.
“Who?”
“Elsie and Baron Sitmar.”
“Ah, Ta-ra, dear! In those far worlds....” Miss Edwards impatiently exclaimed, opening wide a window and leaning out.
Beneath the flame-trees, with their spreading tops, one mass of crimson flower, coolly, white-garbed gardeners, with naked feet and big bell-shaped hats of straw, were sweeping slowly, as in some rhythmic dance, the flamboyant blossoms that had fallen to the ground.
“Wasn’t little Madame Haase, dear, born Kattie von Guggenheim?”
“I really don’t know,” Miss Edwards returned, flapping away a fly with her fan.
“This villainous climate! My memory’s going....”
“I wish I cared for Cuna less, that’s all!” Miss Edwards said, her glance following a humming-bird, poised in air, above the sparkling turquoise of a fountain.
“Captain Moonlight ... duty ... (tedious word) ... can’t come!”
“Oh?”
“Such a dull post,” Madame Ruiz murmured, pausing to listen to the persuasive tenor-voice of her son.
“Little mauve nigger boy,
I t’ink you break my heart!”
“My poor Vitti! Bless him.”
“He was out last night with some Chinese she.”
“I understood him to be going to Pelléas and Mélisande.”
“He came to the Opera-house, but only for a minute.”
“Dios!”
“And, oh, dearest,” Miss Edwards dropped her cheek to her hand.
“Was Hatso as ever delicious?” Madame Ruiz asked, changing the topic as her woman returned, followed by a pomeranian of parts, “Snob”; a dog beautiful as a child.
“We had Gebhardt instead.”
“In Mélisande she’s so huge,” Madame Ruiz commented, eyeing severely the legal-looking packet which her maid had brought her.
“Business, Camilla; how I pity you!”
Madame Ruiz sighed.
“It seems,” she said, “that for the next nine-and-ninety years, I have let a Villa to a Mr. and Mrs. Ahmadou Mouth.”