When Mrs. Wilbur returned after the death of her child to the world of clubs and visits, she learned that Erard had been invited to Minneapolis and Omaha to deliver lectures. She heard rumours that he was considering “taking up a permanent residence” in America as curator for a museum of art in some western city. The idea struck her as so ideally humorous that she felt it must have emanated from Erard. In the early spring he appeared in Chicago, this time visiting Mrs. Stevans and “getting acquainted” quite thoroughly. When he attended the opera in Mrs. Stevans’s box, the vast hall of knowing neighbours remarked: “There’s Mrs. Wilbur’s Erard.”
Public opinion over Erard was divided. He did not create such a sensation as his advent before the Fair might have excited. Chicago had become cloyed with real celebrities that came and stayed and dined for long weeks. When the men met him at dinners and receptions, they treated him well enough, but without cordiality. They thought him a kind of adventurer who dealt in the frills of life. Therefore, he was consigned to the women as an emasculated specimen.
Mrs. Wilbur’s mind came back to Erard frequently. She envied his air of detachment, and she scrutinized minutely all his enigmatic talk to her in half-phrases of tantalizing irony. He was identified with the other life of the mind and spirit, the craving for which was getting hold of her again. He was a repository of elusive sensations towards which she looked and hungered.
She met him at this period, inadvertently, on an occasion that gave emphasis to his power. She had driven to a distant point on the North Side, and on the return her carriage was stopped as the coachman attempted to turn into Michigan Avenue. It was well past noon, yet the streets were thronged with people. Soon the strains of a military band could be heard from the north. Then she remembered that her husband had said something about a monument to be dedicated on the Lake front, and she recalled the fact that tickets had been sent them for the ceremonies. These she had handed over to Molly Parker, not caring to broil for an hour in the sun for the sake of hearing the windy eloquence of war oratory. That she should have forgotten the event, which had been talked about for months, showed how little interest her neighbours’ affairs had for her. It was too late to turn back now; the street had packed in close behind with vehicles and spectators. She settled herself to the delay with a languid curiosity. Fortunately her carriage had been intercepted at the verge of the avenue where the procession was to pass, and through the lowered window she could easily survey the whole scene.
The high buildings about were black with people. At her right the large casements of the Metropolis Club were swung open, and she caught sight of a number of gentlemen smoking comfortably in armchairs. On the street the people jammed up to the wheels of the carriage—a motley crowd of business men, clerks, boys, and women. They stared into her brougham with frank curiosity and exchanged remarks about the equipage. Mrs. Wilbur felt as if she ought to alight and stand with the others; somehow in this city and at this ceremony the luxury of her horses and carriage was misplaced. But her eyes were held by the soft blue sky, and the lake-water freshening in the gentle wind. Between her and the lake, off a little to one side, was the scaffolding for ticket-holders, already black with people, and in the centre the canvas tent surrounding the new statue of the warrior.
The music came nearer; the banks of spectators on the avenue surged back before the platoon of police. In the jam that resulted she caught sight of Erard’s thin figure, swayed back into a doorway near her carriage. He soon detected her, and edging his way into the press, he succeeded in gaining the carriage, where he stood by the open window, resting his body against the wheel. By this time the police had passed, and the first band; next came a few irregular lines of veterans who were cheered enthusiastically.
“I wonder how they’ll do it,” Erard shouted into the carriage. “Mrs. Stevans gave me a ticket, but I was too late to secure my seat.”
Mrs. Wilbur nodded. The veterans had been succeeded by the barouches in which the officials of the occasion were driven. Then came the governors of the neighbouring states, surrounded by their suites,—civilians who sat awkwardly on their horses. Each state was cheered, by the boisterous crowd, as its representative passed. Suddenly the cheers changed to derisive howls, laughter, and hoots.
“What is the matter?” Mrs. Wilbur leaned out of her carriage as far as possible to see what had disturbed the decorum of the occasion.
“They’ve got a kind of buffoon,” Erard answered. “The gentleman hasn’t a good seat.”