Part 25 (1/2)
Again, as on a former occasion, the admirable _sang-froid_ of my kinsman carried things smoothly along. I felt quite calmed when I looked up at him.
”We won't try sitting on that sofa to-night,” I laughed. ”This is a fairly comfortable arm-chair. You are an invalid. You must sit in it. See, I shall sit here,” and I drew a low seat of a dreadfully distorted Louis XV. and early Victorian mixed style that the upholsterer, when bringing the things, had described to me as a ”sweet, pretty lady's-chair.”
Antony sat down. The light from the lily electric branches made the gray in his hair s.h.i.+ne silver. He looked tired and not so mocking as usual.
”I have settled with your husband when you are to come to Dane Mount.
He says the 4th of November will suit him.”
”We shall drive over, I suppose?”
”Yes.”
After that we neither of us spoke for a few moments.
”Did you read La Rochefoucauld last night?” I asked, presently.
”No.”
”Well, why did you ask for it, then?”
”I had a very good reason.”
One could never describe the expression of Antony's face. If one goes on saying ”mocking,” or ”cynical,” or ”ironical,” or ”quizzical,” it gives no impression of what it is. It is a mixture of all four, and yet laughing, and--and--tender, and _insouciant_, and gay. He is himself, and there could never be any one like him. One feels as if all common things must vanish and shrivel up before his style of wit.
One could think of him as finis.h.i.+ng his game of chess calmly while the officers of the Terror waited to conduct him to the guillotine. He is exactly--oh, but exactly!--grandmamma's idea of a gentleman. I wish she had seen more of him.
There is nothing _poseur_ or dramatic about him. He is quite simple, although he laughs at things all the time. I seem to have learned more of the world, and the tone of everything, just talking to him, than from all the books I have read lately. What would it be like if he were interested in anything intensely, if something moved him deeply, if he really cared?
As I sat there I thought of many things. An atmosphere of home had suddenly come into the room. I could almost believe I could hear grandmamma's voice.
”What are you thinking of so seriously, Comtesse?” he asked, lazily.
”I was wondering--”
”Well?”
”I was wondering if anything really mattered in life; if one could grow old and remain numb all the time; if things are real; if--oh, does anything matter? Tell me, you who know.”
”Not many things. Later, you will regret some things you have not done--very few you have.”
”I have been reading metaphysics lately, and, it seems, one could reason one's self into believing nothing is real. One of my books said the ancient Cynic philosophers doubted for the sake of investigation and the moderns investigate for the sake of doubting. What does it all mean?”
He began stroking Roy's ears. He had put his dear black-and-tan head on Antony's knee.
”It means a great many words. Do not trouble your wise head about it.
The world is a pleasant enough place if you can pay your bills and have a fair digestion--eh, Roy? Bones are good things, aren't they, old fellow?”
”You, at all events, are never serious,” and I laughed.