Cloudless May by Storm Jameson

Author:Storm Jameson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2013-09-27T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 42

The courtyard of M. de Thiviers’s house in Seuilly had a charming fountain attributed to Jean Goujon; the sculptured frieze running above the ground-floor windows was said to be . . . the niches and bust of the first floor were credibly supposed . . . the clock—but why go on with a list which is unjust to an admirable Louis XVI house, of decent proportions, and mature simple charm? In restoring it, Thiviers had only given way to the mania for authorities which made his books a trickle of text in a desert of footnotes drawn from the most respectable sources. He imagined he had proved his point when he could quote a similar opinion from another writer, and until he had thought of attaching Jean Goujon’s name to his fountain he was not convinced that it was fine and delicate.

He had collected for his library the busts—all, he believed, even the head of Socrates as a young man with a superb youthful beard, authentic—of famous writers and philosophers: sitting among them, himself almost authentic, dictating long falsely exact phrases to his secretary, he pursued these famous shades with his eloquence and cloudy abstractions, so certain of their approval that when a ray of sun touched Bossuet’s lips he smiled back at him.

Before Mme de Freppel came in, he had just succeeded in putting together two sentences without joining them by a quotation. He looked at her gravely. His afternoons were slightly sacred to writing. Besides, her finger resting on it threw a doubt on the bust of Ronsard, attributed to . . . He dismissed his secretary, and took both her hands in a friendly grasp.

She freed one hand and tapped him lightly on the cheek. Was she surprised to find it warm? She drew back.

“My dear, I’m interrupting you.”

She was amused. Behind his dignity—almost real, in any case not a wilful fake—he was nervous. The thought: I still disturb him, gave her confidence. Resting her arms on his desk, she faced him across a corner of it, and began with her air of simplicity to talk about Colonel Rienne. He was—surely?—dangerous. And his influence made Émile so reckless. . . .

“Can’t you get rid of him, my dear Robert? Have him sent to the front? Such a fire-eater——”

“In any emergency—don’t be anxious—Colonel Rienne will be watched,” Thiviers said, with a smile.

He patted her arm. Mme de Freppel seized his hand in both hers and leaned forward so that he found himself looking in her eyes, at the gleam of animal brightness under their soft black. She knew the effect she had on him. She was using her body to subdue him, without shame—you use, or defend, what you have: one woman is quicker to use, another to defend. There were things Mme de Freppel was passionate to defend, but her body was not one of them.

“Tell me what to do,” she said with energy. “I’m distracted. You needn’t tell me we’re going to lose the war. I know.

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