LILIAN TO JACKY.
(No date or place.) Received April 28, 1898.
Beloved little Papa,
Your note has poured some balm into my heart, although it caused me to shed two big tears. Yes, I must confess that the death of Sally Brass made me weep, when I think she was neglected during your illness! If I had had the care of her, how different it would have been. Happily, my big darling Smike is well, but then you look after him yourself.
The reproach you make to me about my last letter from Monaco is unmerited. If you had read it properly you would have seen that on the contrary it was full of allusions to your health. The only thing that might have wounded your feelings was the demand I made, for naturally you have now classed me in the ranks of mercenary females.
And yet if you knew me well you would never have dreamt of such a thing. I was in a fix and worried. I supposed that I could tell you my troubles and even ask you to help me. I see that I made a mistake; let us say no more about it!
One of my letters has gone astray. I wrote to you immediately on my return home.
My health is good. I am slightly unwell at present, but that is nothing.
I can only see you in some little time from now. At present, I have no customers in Paris. I must therefore find a plausible excuse. But you will lose nothing by waiting.
I send you my best caresses, grumbling Papa!
LILIAN.
This letter was useful to me, as by reason of the mention of her slight indisposition, which I took to be her menstrual derangement, it fixed for me certain monthly dates.
It is impossible for me to remember how I answered her, as I have no copy or recollection, but it could not have pleased her very much, as the next communication is from her stepfather, nearly a month later.
ERIC ARVEL TO JACKY.
My dear Jacky,
We have had a rare time here since you came down to see us last. We have been successively turned out of every room and even now we are reduced to the kitchen. We want to see you and show you what we have done up to the present, but it is only fair to say that we are still living in the kitchen, reviving old times, and all the upstairs rooms are encumbered with those odds and ends a housewife likes to collect around her.
Do you mind taking pot-luck in the kitchen on Wednesday next? I have a day free, and we can go over to the garden without wooden shoes, unless it rains; but at all events come down in your heaviest of shooting-boots, or you will get your feet wet. If you are better engaged than visiting in the kitchen, let me know. I hope we shall see you fit and well and with a forty-horsepower-appetite. The ladies send their kindest regards and hope to see you.
With best and kindest regards to all your family,
Believe me to remain, yours very truly,
ERIC ARVEL.
May 25, 1898.
I think I was but a sorry sight as I dragged my aching limbs up the gravel path that led through the pretty garden of the Villa Lilian to the house, where my sweetheart and her mother greeted me warmly, thanked me for the usual peace-offerings I brought them, and soon put me at my ease, while the father, in the best of humors, did all he could to make me as comfortable as possible. While on the subject of their hospitality, I must render them justice once, for all by saying that no one could be received more cordially or better treated than I was at Sonis-sur-Marne. Nothing was too good for me. My advice was asked on all sorts of subjects and I believe that they all had a kind of respect for me. I speak calmly and without vanity, but I really fancy that at one time they all liked me and looked up to me.
The house was greatly improved. The garden was double the original size, through the acquisition of the adjacent property, and there was a small house, with a little garden, to be sold exactly next door. Mr. Arvel begged me to buy it, but it was impossible for obvious reasons, despite Lilian seconding his proposition with meaning looks.
The dark passage near the kitchen where I had enjoyed Lilian's first kiss was gone, and in its place was a brand new dining-room, as yet unfinished, so the meals were served in the kitchen. I had lunch, and then they made me stop for dinner. This was, I think, the first time I had ever spent the whole day with them. It was my first outing after sunset since my illness.
Arch Lilian begged me to help her to lay the cloth for lunch and we were alone. Can my readers understand that I was so delighted at once more being near my love that I have now no recollection of what I said to her about her neglect of me since November, her request for money, and the missing (!) letter? I shrewdly suspect that in my convalescent condition, boiling over with lust for her, I said nothing at all. I was in the seventh heaven of delight. Whenever she touched me, purposely or by accident, the voluptuous effect made itself felt at once, and her influence over my sexual organs never failed all the time I knew her, until a certain moment which shall be described in due course.
She was sweetness itself all day long, and nothing could equal the grace and girlish abandon of her manner. Her caresses were frequent. Whenever we could get behind a door or on a staircase, no matter where, her lips were joined to mine, and she would shudder with delight as my hands wandered freely all over her lithe frame.
The great trouble in my mind was that I knew I did not see her often enough. I was certain that after a few times that she might have been with me, I could have done anything with her and bent her to my will.
I am not boastful and do not think much of myself-if I did, how could I write these cynical confessions? — but I could see that when I talked to her, her whole soul was mine, that she experienced the greatest pleasure a woman could have in being with me, in feeling me near her.
She made me sit next to her at meals and took care to keep my plate and glass replenished. Pa and Ma were beaming with joy. I knew instinctively that I was looked upon as an admirer of Lilian. The position was an enviable one, and I resolved to let things go on without recrimination, nor trouble at present about the future.
Ma's attack of influenza was alluded to. Lilian had had it too. I told the tale of my illness, but without mentioning the cause. I never spoke of my mistress, nor did they. It was well-known in Paris that my handsome Lily was always with me and what I may call my “conjugal" address was engraved on all my dogs' collars. But they never alluded to her, nor did Lilian Arvel.
With regard to Mamma's sickness at Monte-Carlo, Lilian, being alone with me for a few moments in the afternoon, casually let drop how she had been miserable down in the South. She never meant to travel again with her parents if she could help it. Papa always wanted to go to bed early. Mamma had to obey him, so there was no fun for her at night. I chaffed her about the German officer, but she said it was only a flirtation of the hotel-corridor type, and the epidemic had spoilt the whole trip. She had nursed her mother with the help of Papa. They had two bedrooms, one for her and one for her parents, but one night when Ma was very bad, Pa had come and slept in her bed with her.
I purposely refrained from taking any notice of this slip of her tongue, but I should have been as a blind man, if I had not noticed the visible desire of Mr. Arvel for my Lilian, the daughter of his mistress. And instead of feeling disgust or jealousy, I am bound to confess the truth: it excited my lust in the most terrible manner to think he loved her, and I seemed to breathe an atmosphere of incest that aroused my passions to the utmost extent.
Lilian was not well. She drank milk with her meals and had no appetite. Her mother tried to tempt her to eat, but she would refuse the heaped-up plateful and ask for smaller morsels, saying: “Tiny! Tiny!” This expression of hers became a catchword at the villa.