In the lobby he took a seat, pale and shivering; for a while he thought he was going to be nauseated. Then he saw the bewhiskered baron bringing the magazine which had been left behind. Lanny jumped up and kept backing away; he wouldn't let the Russian get near him. The man was agitated too, and tried to plead; it was all a misunderstanding, he had meant no harm, he had little boys of his own whom he loved, and Lanny reminded him of them.
Such was the situation when Beauty appeared. She saw that something had happened, and the baron tried to explain; the dear little boy had misunderstood him, it was a cruel accident, most embarrassing. Lanny wouldn't speak of it, he just wanted to get out of there. “Please, Beauty, please!” he said, so they went out to the street.
“Have you been hurt?” asked the frightened mother.
But Lanny said: “No, I got away from him.” He wouldn't talk about it on the street, and then he wouldn't talk in the car, because Pierre, the chauffeur, could hear them. “Let's go home,” he said, and sat holding his mother's hand as tightly as he could.
III
By the time they reached Bienvenu, Lanny had got over some or his agitation, and was wondering whether he could have been making a mistake. But when he told his mother about it she said, no, he had been in real danger; she would like to go and shoot that Russian beast. But she wouldn't tell the youngster what it was about; a kind of fog of embarrassment settled over them, and all Lanny got out of it was anxious monitions never to let any man touch him again, never to go anywhere with any man again — it appeared that he couldn't safely have anything to do with anybody except a few of his mother's intimates.
Beauty had to talk to somebody, and called in her friend Sophie, Baroness de la Tourette. Oh, yes, said that experienced woman of the world, everybody knew about Livens; but what could you do? Have him arrested? It would make a journalist's holiday, he would fight back and blacken you with scandals. Shoot him? Yes, but the French laws were rather strict; the jury would have to be made to weep, and lawyers who can do that charge a fortune. The thing to do was to make the child understand, so that it couldn't happen again.
“But what on earth can I say to him?” exclaimed Beauty.
“Do you mean you haven't given him a straight talk?” demanded her friend.
“I just can't bring myself to it, Sophie. He is so innocent —”
“Innocent, hell!” retorted Sophie Timmons, that henna blonde with the henna laugh; the daughter of a hardware manufacturer who was a piece of hardware herself. “He plays around with these peasant children — don't you suppose they watch the animals and talk about it?. If you heard them you would pass out.”
“Oh, my God!” lamented Beauty. “I wish there was no such thing as sex in the world!”
“Well, there's plenty of it on this 'Coast of Pleasure,' and your little one will soon be ready for his share. You'd better wake, up.”
“His father is the one who ought to tell him, Sophie.”
“All right then, send a cablegram, 'Robbie come at once and tell Lanny the facts of life.'” They both laughed, but it didn't solve the problem. “Couldn't the tutor do it?” suggested the baroness finally.
“I haven't the faintest notion what his ideas are.”
“Well, at the worst I should think they'd be better than Livens',” responded the other, dryly.
The Baroness de la Tourette of course told the story all over the place, and Baron Livens-Mazursky found himself cut off from a number of calling lists; he suddenly decided to spend the rest of the winter at Gapri, a place which was not so puritanical as Cannes. Lanny's mother repeated her warnings to the boy, with such solemnity that he began to acquire the psychology of a wild deer in the forest; he looked before he ventured into any dark places, and if he saw anyone, male or female, getting close to him he moved.
IV
But even the wild deer in the forest enjoys life, and Lanny couldn't be kept from wanting to talk to people and find out about them. Soon afterward came the Adventure of the Gigolo, which was the last straw, so Beauty declared. The story of Lanny's gigolo spread among the smart crowd up and down the Riviera, and every now and then someone would ask: “Well, Lanny, how's your gigolo getting along?” He knew they were making fun, but it didn't worry him, for his mind was firmly made up that his gigolo was really a very kind man, much more so than some of the persons who tried to win money from his mother at bridge.
It was another of those occasions when Beauty was having herself made more so. This time it was a ravishing evening gown of pale blue chiffon over cloth of silver, which was being “created” by M. Claire, the couturier in Nice, at a specially moderate price because of the advertising he would get. It meant long sessions of fitting in which Beauty got a bit dizzy, and Lanny preferred to sit out under the plane trees and watch the traffic go by, the fashionable people strolling, and the bonnes with the pretty children.
He sat on a bench, and along came a gentleman of thirty or so, wearing correct afternoon attire in the morning, and a neatly trimmed little black mustache and a cane with a ball of polished agate for a handle. He had an amiable expression, and perhaps recognized a similar one on the face of the boy. Certainly he could see that the boy was fashionably attired. It was now the height of the season, and the town was full of tall slender youths from England and America, wearing sports shirts, linen trousers, and tennis shoes or sandals.
The gentleman took a seat on the bench, and after a while stole a glance at the book in Lanny's lap. “J'ai lou cela” he remarked.
Which told Lanny right away that he was a countryman, a native of Provence. These people do not pronounce the è as do the French; the name of Lanny's town was not spoken in French fashion, or in Spanish, but “Jou-an.” Lanny answered in Provencal, and the stranger's face lighted up. “Oh, you are not a foreigner?” Lanny explained that he was born in Switzerland and had lived most of his life in “Jou-an.” The stranger said that he came from the mountain village of Charaze, where his parents were peasants.
That called for explanation; for the sons of peasants do not as a rule spend their mornings strolling under the plane trees of the Avenue de la Victoire, dressed in frock coat and striped trousers trimmed with black braid. M. Pinjon — that was his name — explained that he had risen in the world by becoming a professional dancer. Lanny said that he too was a dancer of a sort, and wished to learn all he could about that agreeable art. M. Pinjon said that what counted was that one had the spirit, the inner fire. Yes, assented Lanny; so few had that fire, which was the soul of every art. Kurt had said that, and Lanny remembered it and used it to excellent effect.
So you see the acquaintance started upon the very highest plane. Lanny was moved to tell about Hellerau, and the tall white temple loomed as a place of magic to which M. Pinjon might some day make a pilgrimage. Lanny described the technique of Eurythmics; a little bit more and he would have been giving a demonstration on the sidewalk of the avenue.
V
Out of the fervor of his nature as an artist and a son of the warm South, M. Pinjon told the story of his life. He was a child of a large family, and the little plot of earth in Charaze was too small to sustain them all. So he, the youngest, had fared forth to make his fortune in the world, and for a while had not found it easy. He had lived in a wretched lodging — there was a “cabbage patch” also in Nice, and much refuse was dumped into the streets, and the smells were painful to a countryman who was used to thyme and lavender on the hillsides.