Chapter XV. The Evidence Of The Ladylove And The Landlady
‘You are an adept in these chamber-passions,
And have a heart that’s Cupid’s, arrow-cushion
Worn out with use.’
— Death’s Jest-Book
‘What’s this? Did you not see a white convulsion
Run through his cheek and fling his eyelids up?
There’s mischief in the paper.’
— Fragment
Tuesday, 23 June
IN THE meantime, Harriet’s novel was not getting along very well. Not only was there the tiresomeness about the town-clock — or ought it to be called the Tolbooth clock? — but also she had arrived at the point where, according to the serial editor who was paying for the first rights, the heroine and the detective’s friend were expected to indulge in a spot of love-making. Now, a person whose previous experience of love has been disappointing, and who has just been through a harassing scene with another suitor and is, further, busily engaged in investigating the rather sordid love-affairs of a third party who has been brought to a violent and blood-boltered end, is in no mood to sit down and deal competently with the raptures of two innocents holding hands in a rosegarden. Harriet shook her head impatiently, and plunged into her distasteful task.
‘I say, Betty, I’m afraid you must think I’m a pretty average sort of idiot’
‘But I don’t think you’re an idiot at all, you idiot.’
Would even the readers of the Daily Message think that amusing?? Harriet feared not. Well, better get on with it. The girl would’ have to say something encouraging now, or the stammering young imbecile would never: come to the, point.
‘I think it’s perfectly wonderful that you should be doing all this to help me.’
Here she was, remorselessly binding this hideous load of gratitude on the unfortunate girl But Betty and Jack were a pair of hypocrites, anyway, because they both knew perfectly well that Robert Templeton was doing all the work. However.
‘As if there was anything in the world I wouldn’t try and do for you — Betty!’
‘Well, Jack?’
‘Betty darling I suppose you couldn’t possibly—’
Harriet came to the conclusion that she couldn’t — not possibly. She picked up the telephone, got put through to Telegrams, and dictated a brief, snappy message to her longsuffering agent, ‘Tell Bootle I absolutely refuse induce love interest Vane.’
After that she felt better, but the novel was perfectly impossible. Wasn’t there anything else she could — do? Yes. She again seized the telephone and put an inquiry through to the office. Was it possible to get into touch with M. Antoine?
The management seemed quite used to putting clients in touch with M. Antoine. They had a telephone number which ought to find him. It did: Could M. Antoine put Miss Vane in touch with Miss Leila Garland and Mr da Soto? Certainly. Nothing was more simple. Mr da Soto was
playing at the. Winter Gardens, and the morning concert would be just finishing. Miss Garland would probably be joining him for lunch. In any case, Antoine would charge, himself with all that and would, if Miss Vane desired it, call for her and accompany her to the Winter Gardens: It was most good of M. Antoine. On the contrary, it was a pleasure, in a quarter of an hour’s time. then? Parfaitement.
‘Tell; me, M Antoine,’’ said Harriet, as their taxi rolled along the Esplanade. ‘You who are a person of great experience, is love, in your opinion, a matter of the first importance?’
‘It is, alas! of a great importance, mademoiselle, but of the first, importance, no!’
‘What is of the first importance?’
‘Mademoiselle, I tell you frankly that to have a healthy mind in a healthy body is the greatest, gift of le bon Dieu, and when I see so many people who have clean blood and strong bodies spoiling themselves and distorting their brains with drugs; and drink and foolishness, it makes me angry. They should leave that to the people who cannot help themselves because to them life is without hope.’
Harriet hardly knew what to reply; the words were spoken with such personal and tragic significance. Rather fortunately, Antoine did not wait.
‘L’amour! These ladies come and dance and excite themselves and: want love and think it is, happiness, And they tell me about their, sorrows — me, — and they have no sorrows at all, only that they are silly and selfish and lazy. Their husbands are unfaithful and their lovers run away and what do they say? Do they say, I have two hands, two feet, all my faculties, I will make a life for myself? No. They say, Give me cocaine, give me the cocktail, give me the thrill, give me my gigolo, give me l’amo-o-ur! Like, a mouton bleating in a field. If they knew!
Harriet laughed.
‘You’re right, M. Antoine. I don’t believe l’amour matters so terribly, after all.’
‘But understand me,’ said Antoine who, like most Frenchmen, was fundamentally serious and domestic, ‘I do not say that love is not important. It is no doubt agreeable to — love, and to marry an amiable person who will give you fine, healthy children. This Lord Peter Wimsey, par example, who is obviously a gentleman of the most perfect integrity—’
‘Oh, never mind him!’ broke in Harriet, hastily. ‘I wasn’t thinking about, him. I was thinking about Paul Alexis and these people we are going to see..’
‘Ah! c’est different. Mademoiselle, — I think you know very well the difference between love which is important and love which is not important. But you must remember that one may have an important love for an unimportant person. And you must remember also that where people are sick in their minds or their bodies it does not need even love to make them do foolish things. When I, kill myself, for example, it may be out of boredom, or disgust, or because I have the headache or the stomach-ache or because I am no longer able to take a first-class position and do not want to be third-rate.’
‘I hope you’re not thinking of anything of the sort.’
‘Oh, I shall kill myself one of these days,’ said Antoine, cheerfully. ‘But it will not be for love. No. I am not so detraque as all that.’