The two had lunch together; war bread, and very small portions of sugar, but anything else you could pay for. It was a special occasion, and Lanny wanted to spend all he had. He liked to be seen with this handsome young officer; his pacifist impulses weakened when put to such a test. He talked about Kurt, wishing he might be with them, instead of being on the other side of no man's land — or perhaps up in the air, fighting Rick! “I know he's in the army, but I've no idea where,” said Lanny.
“We wouldn't get 'along so well,” said the Englishman. “I always had the idea that German culture was a lot of wind and bluff.” Rick went on like that at some length, saying that the reputation of Goethe was due to the fact of the Germans' wanting so badly to have a world poet; Goethe wasn't really so much. Lanny listened, thinking his own thoughts. If Kurt were here, would he say that Shakespeare was a barbarian, or something like that? It was going to take a long time to wipe the bitterness of this war out of the hearts of men. If America came in, what would happen to Lanny's own heart?
There is a saying: “Speak of angels and they flap their wings.” The two friends came back from their stroll, and there was a letter for Lanny with a Swiss stamp on it, forwarded from Juan. “Kurt!” he exclaimed, and opened it quickly. His eyes ran over it. “He's been wounded!” Then he read aloud:
“Dear Lanny: It has been a long time since I have written. I have been very busy, and circumstances do not permit me to unbosom myself. Please believe that our friendship is not going to be ended, even by the news which I now read from abroad. I am now in hospital. It is not serious and I hope soon to be well again. It may not be possible for me to write for some time, so this is just to say Hello, and hope that you will not let anything interrupt your musical studies and the reading of the world's great poets. Ever your friend, Kurt.”
The envelope showed that it had been opened by the censor. It was always a gamble whether any particular sentence might cause a letter to be destroyed. You had to read between the lines. The “news from abroad” of course meant America's coming into the war — which seemed certain, President Wilson having summoned a special session of Congress to meet in a few days. Kurt was telling Lanny that he hoped he wouldn't take part in fighting Germany.
“We mustn't let ourselves hate him, Rick,” said the American.
The other answered: “The fighting men don't hate one another — not very often. What we hate is the damnable Kultur which has produced all these atrocities; also the rulers who impose it upon a credulous people.”
Lanny could accept that; but would Kurt accept it? That was going to be a problem!
IV
Robbie was in the midst of conferences with the representatives of a half a dozen armaments concerns; but he found an hour to go with the pair to the exposition at the Petit Palais. It was a matter of amour propre with the French that not even a world war should stop the development of genius in their country; art lovers would come to see what was new in taste and culture even though bombs might be raining upon them from the sky. The younger painters of France were most of them putting camouflage on guns and ships; but they had found time for sketches of war scenes. The older ones had gone on with their work, like Archimedes making scientific discoveries during the siege of Syracuse.
Battle pictures, of course, had always been found in every salon. Painters loved to portray thrilling conflicts: horses trampling men, sabers flashing, carbines spitting flame. Now there was a new kind of war, hard to know how to deal with. So much of it was fought at long distances, and with great machines — and how were you to make them dramatic? How were you to keep a picture of an airplane or a machine gun from looking like a photograph in L'Illustration? A general on horseback was an established figure of la gloire; but what could you do with a man in a tank or a submarine?
The answer of Marcel Detaze had been to go off in solitude and paint the figure of a woman in sorrow. Whether men were mutilated by sabers or by shrapnel made little difference to the wives and sweethearts of France; so said this young painter, and apparently the art lovers agreed with him. “Sister of Mercy” had been hung in an excellent position, and there were always people standing in front of it, and their faces showed that Marcel had conveyed something to their souls. Lanny listened to their comments, and little thrills crept up and down his spine. Even Robbie was moved; yes, the fellow had talent, you didn't have to be a “highbrow” to be sure of it.
Too bad that Beauty couldn't be on hand to share the sensation. She would have taken her friends, and stood and listened to what the crowds were saying; presently somebody would have glanced at her, and then at the picture, and then back at her again, in excitement and a little awe, and the blood would have started climbing to Beauty's cheeks, and even to her forehead; it would have been one of life's great moments. Call it vanity, but she was like that; “professional beauties” were amateur actresses, performing upon a larger stage with the help of newspapers and illustrated magazines. “I'll send her a ticket and tell her to come,” said Robbie, who found her foibles diverting.
A further idea occurred to him, and he said to his son: “Do you remember what Beauty once told you about a painting that made my father angry?” Yes, that was one of the things Lanny wasn't going to forget — not in this incarnation! He said so, and Robbie inquired: “Would you be interested to see it?”
The youth was staggered. Somehow the idea seemed rather horrible. And with Rick along too! But he told himself that this was an old-fashioned attitude, unworthy of a connoisseur of art. Surely Rick would feel that way about it. So Lanny replied: “I would, of course.”
“I've been told where it was. If it's been sold, maybe you can find out where it's gone.” Robbie gave the name of one of the fashionable dealers on the Rue de la Paix, and told him to ask for the “Lady with a Blue Veil,” by Oscar Deroulé. “You don't have to say that you know anything about it,” added the father.
The two fellows set out. Lanny had to make some explanation, for of course Rick would recognize the portrait. Lanny couldn't say that he was an illegitimate son, and that this painting was to blame for it — no, that would be too much for even the coldest-blooded connoisseur! He said: “My mother posed for several painters when she was young, and I guess my father thinks I'm old enough to know about it now.”
“Well, you surely can't blame the painters,” was Rick's consoling reply.
V
The decorous and black-clad picture dealer found nothing out of the way in the fact that two young gentlemen wanted to see the “Lady with a Blue Veil” by Oscar Deroule. It was his business to show pictures; a clerk went down some stairs and brought it up, and set it on a stand for them to look at, and then went to attend to another customer. So they had it to themselves, and no need to repress their feelings. “Oh, my God!” exclaimed Rick; and Lanny's heart hit him several blows underneath his throat.
There was Mabel Blackless, as she was in those days, just ripened into womanhood, a creature of such loveliness as made men catch their breath. The painter who had done her was a lover of the flesh, and had set himself to exploiting its lusciousness; the creams and whites and pinks, the velvety texture, the soft curves, the delicately changing shadows. Beauty was seated upon a silk-covered couch, half supported by one arm. There was a light blue veil across her hips, and the shower of her hair fell over one shoulder, half hiding a breast; she was in bright sunlight, and the fine strands gleamed like gold — not such an easy thing for a painter to get.