“No, Aunt, I don’t; not, that is, in the way you mean.”
“Rubbish; don’t look so virtuous, child. If you haven’t already, you soon will. We all do. It’s a law of nature. My husband was the dullest man on earth, I couldn’t abide him. If he hadn’t been the first Duke of France no one would ever have asked him to dinner. How do you think I put up with him for twenty years? You find me an ugly old woman, very fat, very fond of good cooking. My child, there are only two kinds of pleasure worth having in this world, and one of them has to do with the stomach. I’ve enjoyed both. I now only enjoy one. That’s enough. What a face you make at me! If you go against the laws of nature you’ll get into trouble.”
“But, Aunt, seriously, these clever friends of Blaise—are they disreputable?”
“Child, child, how boring you are, you Americans have such literal minds. All I mean is that they’ve no moral sense. They’ve something else though in its place, something better, perhaps, or worse, anyhow more discriminating.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t, but it doesn’t matter. You’ve a moral sense that bothers the life out of you. Now go along with you. I must get up. I’ll come to your party. Your mother-in-law won’t approve. She’s a superior person. As for you, God knows what you’ll be in ten years time with such a husband and such a conscience. I had better keep an eye on you. In the choice of a lover you can ask my advice. I know men. They’re not worth much, but you don’t take or refuse one for that reason. You’ve found that out for yourself by now.”
She dismissed me, waving again her little fat hand from under the immense canopy of her bed.
I left her, amused and rather exhilarated. A wicked old woman and a very great lady. It didn’t occur to me to take her seriously, but I liked her. All the same, the last thing I wanted was a lover. The mere thought filled me with disgust.
Your dinner was awfully nice, Blaise dear. I remember the evening well. A few snowflakes softly floated down in your little courtyard as old Albert, your manservant, in his ancient green coat, opened the door. He had cooked the dinner and arranged the table and made the fire in the living room and put the champagne on ice; I knew that, but his manner was of a fine, calm formality as he ushered Aunt Clo and myself into your presence. A group of men who somehow impressed one as not at all ordinary, and a bright little lady dressed like a parrot, in a tiny, shabby, candle-lit room, filling the place comfortably with their easy good-humour, that was my first impression, followed quickly by others, pleasant, special impressions, aspects sharp and neat in an atmosphere that gave one a feeling of tasting a fine subtle flavour. Each person in the room was an individual unlike any one else. With no beauty to speak of, several were old men in oddly cut clothes, they were more interesting to watch than any lovely creature. Their faces were worn and lined and gentle, thin masks through which one saw the fine play of intelligence. Some were already known to the great world of thought and public affairs, others have since become so, but all were simple, homely men that night, with a certain childlike gaiety that was very appealing.
Albert’s food was excellent; succulent, substantial food that suggested the provinces. The wine was very old. For a moment as I watched your convives inhaling the bouquet from lifted glasses, I imagined myself far away in Balzac’s country, a snowy street of silent houses stretching out between high poplars to a great river, a carriage at the door, with a postillion in a three-cornered hat, waiting to drive me to some romantic rendezvous. But the talk swept me along with its merry-go-round of the present.