The Oyster Part 13

Denise was looking through a door of life which she had never tried to open, that of love and trust. She was too shallow to regret the use of the false key which she had forced it open with. She was safe; Cyril would never bring up the past to the boy's mother.

"Come then, and see a sleeping bundle of flannels," she said.

The boy had just gone to sleep. Sir Cyril's first view of him was with Esme stooping over the cot, looking wistfully down at the tiny face.

"Mrs Carteret has quite a way with a child," said the nurse, graciously. "He's a splendid boy, Sir Cyril."

Sir Cyril had had shy ideas of a something whispered across the new hope in his life, of a promise for the future or regrets for the past.

As it was, he could only stand almost awkwardly, afraid that a clumsy movement might wake the child.

"Great fellow, isn't he?" he said sheepishly.

"A splendid boy, Sir Cyril--really splendid; fair, sir, as you are; he has a curious mark, a regular small plum, on his shoulder."

Esme started. Just on her shoulder she had a round, purple mark, shaped as a plum; she had never dreamt of the baby inheriting it.

A true Blakeney, big and strong, cleanly made, Sir Cyril stood by the cot, with the pride of this heir to his big in him.

"He's just wonderful, Den," he said simply. "I thought that, coming too soon, he might be puny, delicate--but he's fine."

Esme turned away. It was her boy they praised, and she knew the bitterness of jealousy.

If gold could have been fried for dinner, and diamonds used for sauce, Sir Cyril would have ordered them that night. He was too big and quiet to be openly hilarious, but its very quiet made it more marked. He ordered a special dinner, special wines, fruit, boxes of sweets. The table was littered as if it were one at Maxim's. To-morrow they would search Paris for a memento, for something to mark this meeting.

Esme, listening, felt as some mortal who, standing in the cold, looks through clear gla.s.s at a blazing fire yet cannot warm himself. They shut a door on her; she had no boy lying upstairs; no husband to rejoice in his heir.

The cold stung bitterly; it loosed dull pangs of envy, of futile wrath.

For what had brought these two together was hers, and she had sold it.

Sometimes they turned to her vaguely, bringing her into their plans.

Esme would come shopping in the morning, of course, help to choose jewels; Esme had been such a friend--so devoted.

"I'll never forget it, Mrs Carteret," Sir Cyril said once. "You lost half a year to keep my wife company. Lord! you're a real friend!"

"Yes." Esme crunched a silvered bonbon, a cunning mixture of almonds and fruit and sugar. She picked another up, looking at it. Had she not looked on life as a bonbon, to crunch prettily and enjoy, a painted, flavoured piece of sugar?

She had money; she could go to the hidden shops on the second storeys, and buy the dainty fripperies that Paris knows how to produce; she wanted a fur coat, new frocks, hats, a dozen things.

Sir Cyril was bending close to his wife, holding her out a gla.s.s of Chartreuse, clinking it against hers.

"Den," his voice was stirred by deep emotion, "some day we'll go, you and I, and take that villa for a month, and I can see where my boy was born."

The gla.s.sful of amber syrup fell on the table, the gla.s.s splinters dulled by the oily liquid.

"Oh, some day," said Denise, trembling. "How stupid of me! But it was a dull spot, Cyrrie. It was only fancy, nerves, which took me there.

Wasn't it dull, Den"--she stopped--"Esme?"

"I never hated any place so much in my life," said Esme, dully.

That night she crept along the corridor, stood listening at a door.

Primitive instinct was stronger than the power of money. Her boy lay sleeping in that quiet room.

"Oh, Esme!"--Denise called her into her room next day--"Esme! Come here! You can go, Summers."

Her new maid, sent from England with the nurse, went quietly out.

"Esme!" Denise lowered her voice. "About that money. I owe you some now. I can't write cheques, you see, every half-year; but this time I can explain." She threw a slip of paper across to Esme.

"Thank you. And the boy?" said Esme.

"Oh! he's all right. I saw Mrs Stanson. He slept well. Don't mess about him, Esme! It would only look silly--better not. Will you meet us at the Ritz for _dejeuner_?"

Esme excused herself. She might be late. She would come back to the hotel.

She went out into the crisp, stinging cold of early February. Touch of frost on Paris, drift of hot air from shop doors, clear sunlight overhead, people hurrying along the dry pavements. Furs everywhere, outlining piquant French faces; from solid sombre imitation to the sheen of Russian sable and the coa.r.s.e richness of silver fox.

A fur coat--Esme wanted one--went restlessly into a shop, tried on, priced, gloried in their soft richness, their linings of mauve and white; saw her fair beauty framed by dark sable, by light-hued mink, by rich fox skin, and knew again disappointment.

The three coats she wanted were splendid things; each one would take almost all her money, leave nothing for frocks and hats.

Impatiently, almost angrily, she stood frowning at the gla.s.s.

"Oh! yes, the coat was lovely; but the price! Four hundred pounds of English money; and this other was five!" There was the little coat of mink priced at a mere bagatelle.

"Yes, but Madame must see that it was coa.r.s.e beside the others."

Cunningly the shopman put the two together; showed the rare sheen of the sable, the cravat of real lace, the exquisite tinting of the blue and silver brocade lining, and laid against it a coat which would have looked rich alone, but here, against this, was a mere outcast.

"Madame sees; the coat is cheap--a bargain. We sold one to-day, almost like it. Ah! here it is!"

"I must take the cheap one," Esme muttered. "I--"

"See, this one was sold to Milady Blakeney. And this which we wish Madame to have is almost as good. Milady's has remained for slight alteration."

Truly a gorgeous garment this--sables black in their splendour; clasps of jade and silver and paste; lining such as fairy princesses might wear. A ruffle of old Mechlin.

"This is of English money nine hundred pounds. Unique, exquisite. And this other looks as well."

Sudden bitter resentment choked Esme. Denise could have this coat and go on to other shops to buy jewels, laces, unneeded follies. What was five hundred pounds? Denise might easily have taken her out to-day, bought her furs or given her twice the stipulated money; this time might have been generous.

"Oh! I'll take this one." Esme touched the sable coat. After all, she had money in the bank; she had lived free for six months. "Yes, I'll pay for it now."

She had to wait while they went to the bank; then she went out in the rich mantle. It was heavy, a little difficult to walk in, but she could see her fair face against the dark furs as she peered into mirrors.

At the dressmaker's she grew irritable again. Why again should all she wanted be so dear? That soft wisp of satin and chiffon and lace, a mere rag in the hand, but on a model cunningly outlining rounded limbs, setting off a soft throat, billowing about one's feet; that tea-gown of opal velvet; that severe coat and skirt of blue, were all beyond her now that the coat was hers. Yet Esme bought recklessly, a sullen anger driving her. Madame Arielle would copy and create others, these three she must have. And this--and this blouse; another dress and scarf.

Esme had ordered there before, but never in this style. Madame looked dubious.

"I'll pay you fifty now on account." And so only fifty left of a half-yearly price. "That brown--you'll copy it at once?"