The question remained unanswered in Bertram’s mind, as he wandered about Paris, disconsolate and lonely—enormously lonely now that he had failed to meet Joyce—until it was time to join Kenneth’s party at the Griffon.
XLII
He was the last to arrive, and Kenneth presented him to a young husband and wife whose names and portraits,—the Baron and Madame de Montauban—he had seen in many illustrated journals devoted to “Society” news.
De Montauban was a well-known amateur tennis player, he remembered, and he seemed to be an amiable, vivacious fellow, with easy manners. His wife was one of the prettiest women Bertram had seen in Paris where there is no dearth of beauty—fresher, more “English,” as he was pleased to think, than the typical Parisienne. Her complexion was almost as Nature had made it, and she had soft brown eyes, with a very charming way with them, but frank and unaffected.
Kenneth’s other guests were the Vicomte and Madame Armand St. Pierre de Vaux, both of whom attracted Bertram with peculiar interest. The husband had lost his left arm and part of his left leg at the first battle of the Marne, but crippled as he was, he showed an astonishing gaiety of spirit, and his lean face, with a little black moustache, and dark, luminous eyes, seemed to Bertram like that of D’Artagnan, the adored hero of his boyhood. His wife was a “belle laide,” plain but elegant, and with adoring eyes for her crippled man whom she treated half as a lover and half as a baby, fondling his hand, cutting up his meat, laughing at his anecdotes as though she heard them for the first time, and rebuking him for raising his voice too loud in a public restaurant. To these attentions her husband responded with whimsical affection, like a small boy with his mother, whom he adores though she tries his patience.
Kenneth was a good host, speaking French perfectly, with a Parisian accent which Bertram found a little hard to follow—as he had learnt French colloquially among the peasants and bourgeoisie of Picardy—and leading the conversation as easily and gracefully as in a London drawing-room. Now and then, Bertram was aware of Kenneth’s glance upon him, once or twice met his eyes and saw in them a kind of embarrassment, like that startled look which he had given for just a second at their meeting that morning in the Faubourg St. Honoré. But it was only the faintest hint of uneasiness for some unknown cause, and was no more than a shadow which left no trace in the sparkle of his conversation.
The table was laid for six, with Kenneth at one end and Armand de Vaux at the other. Bertram had the privilege of sitting on the left of Mme. de Montauban, who was next to Kenneth. Opposite were the Vicomte de Montauban, and Mme. de Vaux—admirably arranged according to the convention that husbands and wives must be kept as far apart as possible when they eat in public.
There was a little general discussion as to the impossibility of getting good food in Paris after the war, even at outrageous prices, due mainly to the profiteering of Parisian middlemen. Presently Mme. de Montauban turned to Bertram and speaking English with pretty accent, “felicitated” him on the possession of so beautiful a wife, whom she had had the pleasure of meeting several times.
Bertram’s mind winced a little at that word “possession,” but he merely asked where Mme. de Montauban had happened to meet Joyce.
She seemed a little surprised at that question, and her glance flickered for a moment in the direction of Kenneth.