A few dead leaves whirled across the terrace. He finished his dinner, an excellent terrine of lobster, and his bottle of wine, a delicious Montrachet, and left the table. As he crossed the dining room, he spoke politely to a trio of Swiss, bankers who ate there regularly and had grown aware of him as a regular, too.
They often speculated about the American. They knew he was very rich. They knew he lived without companions, except for servants, in a vast, rather forbidding villa that had a splendid view of the hilly town from the Jorat heights. They wondered among themselves what had marked him.
What they saw was a stout, short man, middle-aged — George had observed his forty-third birthday — with wide streaks of white in his neat dark beard. His posture was very correct, yet he seemed somehow defeated. He smoked a great many strong cigars, with nervous movements; he left most of them half finished. He seemed to possess everything and to have suffered in spite of it. He was, unlike most of his countrymen who visited Lausanne, unapproachable. The tourists prattled endlessly; his warmest greeting was a word or two.
Had his wife left him? Was there some other scandal? Ah, perhaps that was it. He bore a certain resemblance to engraved portraits of the new American President, the general, Grant. Could he be a disgraced relative, exiled?
It would remain his secret. Gentlemen did not pry.
At the dining room door, George said a few words to the headwaiter in French, tipped him, collected his stick, hat, and fur overcoat, and crossed the lobby. An heiress from Athens, a striking olive-skinned woman, expensively dressed, took note of him and caught her breath; she was recently widowed. While a porter sorted her luggage, she tried to catch the eye of the imposing stranger. Nothing forward; merely a recognition. He saw her but strode on. She had the sensation of gazing into a snowbound pool in the heart of a winter wood. Dark waters, and cold.
George walked down a sloping street toward the estate agent's, located just beyond the splendid Gothic cathedral of Notre Dame. There, he found the week's mail delivery, a leather pouch which he tucked under his arm. He walked briskly back up the hills. It took more than an hour to reach the villa, but it was his only activity these days, and he forced himself to do it.
The villa also had a terrace, and a handsomely appointed study overlooking it. A fire was already going in the marble hearth. He pulled a chair close to a bust of Voltaire — Lausanne had been a favorite city of his — and examined the contents of the pouch, starting with the two recent numbers of the Nation, the weekly Republican journal started in '65 by Edwin Lawrence Godkin. The publication favored such party causes as honest government and bureaucratic reform. George marked an article for reading later. It dealt with resumption, a return to the gold standard as an antidote to all the inflated paper currency circulated during the war. Hard versus soft money was a passionate issue in his homeland.
Next he unfolded a three-page report from Christopher Wotherspoon. The profits of Hazard's ironworks were up once again. His superintendent recommended substantial political donations to those congressmen and senators who favored strong protective tariffs for the iron and steel industry. He requested approval from George.
There was a rather sad letter from Patricia, written in September, asking what he wanted for Christmas. He could think of nothing. His children had sailed to Europe in the summer, but their visit during the month of July had seemed interminable to him, and, he supposed, to them, since he was uninterested in sightseeing. They had done that for a week, then spent the remainder of the visit playing lawn tennis for hours every day.
Jupiter Smith, who packed the weekly mail pouch, had included three copies of Mr. Greeley's New York Tribune, with items of financial news marked. There was also an elaborately inscribed invitation to a Republican fete celebrating Grant's inaugural in March, and another to the inauguration itself. George threw both into the fire.
He clipped one of his Cuban cigars, which cost him nearly seven dollars each to import, though he no longer kept track of such things. He wasn't an extravagant man in most respects, and if money for small creature comforts ever ran out, he would shrug and then decide what to do.
He lit the cigar and stood by the window. Below the charmingly tiered city he saw another steamer, returning in the late afternoon. From the heights of Jorat it was a mere speck, like himself.
He thought of Orry's widow, a handsome and intelligent woman. He hoped Madeline was weathering the political turmoil in the South. He was not moved to write and inquire. He thought of his son, and of William's decision to read law; George continued to have no strong reaction one way or another. He thought of Sam Grant, an acquaintance from cadet days, and wondered whether he would be a good president, since he had no practical experience. He would probably try to run the government like a military headquarters. Could that be done? With a twinge of shame, he realized that when questions arose about the future of his country, he really didn't care about the answers.
On the lake, the steamer was gone. George remained by the window for some time, smoking and staring at the bright water. He had found there was great comfort in saying nothing, doing nothing, reacting to nothing. Or, as little of each as was possible in order to live. That way, though one became a creature of monotony, one never got hurt.
Mr. Lee from Savannah brought the final plans. There is now enough money again. Work will begin after New Year's. Orry, how it breaks my heart that you are not here to see. ...
... Theo back again, out of uniform. There is something nervously distracted about him. About M-L, too. ...
The lovers embraced in the sharp evening air, safe from observation in the heavy underbrush that had grown up where the formal garden once stood. Marie-Louise almost swooned when Theo's tongue slipped into her mouth. She was frightened but didn't pull away. She locked her hands behind his neck and swayed backward, so that the weight of his heavy wool coat and his body pressed her in a deliciously sinful way. Theo's lips moved over her cheek, her throat. His hand rode up and down on the side of her skirt.
"Marie-Louise, I can't wait any longer. I love you."
"I love you too, Theo. I'm as impatient as you."
"I've found the means. Let's tell her."
"Tonight?"
"Why not? She'll help us."
"I don't know. It's such a big step."
Earnestly, with great affection, he took her right hand between his. "I've cast my lot in South Carolina. And with you. If you're just as sure, there's no reason to wait."
"I'm sure. I'm frightened, though."
"I'll speak for both of us. All you need do is hold fast to my hand."
Marie-Louise felt as if she were dropping through a great dark space toward — what? Something she could only imagine. It would be bliss, or it would be disaster. She swayed and Theo caught her with one hand, a little amused by her girlish romanticism, yet in love with it, too. She whispered, "All right, let's tell her."
He whooped and whirled her around by the waist. A moment later they were hurrying up the dark lawn toward the lighted whitewashed house.
"Resign your commission?" Madeline said, astonished.
"Yes. I notified my superiors yesterday that it was my intention."
While Theo spoke, Marie-Louise stayed half hidden behind him. She held his left hand as though it were a lifeline. The young couple had burst into the house while Madeline was spreading the architect's drawings on the floor to point out details of the new great house to Prudence. In the corner lay some fresh-cut pine boughs intended for Christmas decoration.