“You should never write letters. Never confess, never write, and never reply. Such are the instructions of an old lawyer, a friend of mine.”
And so we fenced for a quarter of an hour, Lilian chaffing me to please her Pa, I supposed. She admired his clean-shaven chin and cheeks, and coolly told me that she hated men with hair on their faces. I wore my entire natural beard.
Then I was alone with her for a few moments just before we sat down to dinner. I took her in my arms. She struggled and got away. I slapped her face smartly, but she did not take it as usual, and complained I hurt her and was too brutal.
“Look how you have brought the blood into my cheeks, everybody will see.”
She was very pale and my slap had caused a patch of crimson to overspread one cheek. This was a sure sign of poverty of the blood and deficient circulation. I asked her if she was cold. She shivered and said she was always chilly. I told her she ought to wear woolen stockings. She showed me her feet. She wore worsted socks under her black thread stockings. Here was every sign of anemia and I inwardly thought that she must also suffer from that disagreeable affliction, vulgarly called the “whites.” That would account for her occasional coyness with me, and also for her lack of sensual excitement the winter before. Anemic girls are no use in winter; the circulation of the blood is deficient, and there is a discharge from the vagina generally accompanying the menses. At that time, if any attempt is made to worship at the altar of Venus or practice masturbation, there are ovarian pains and stomach cramps, such as Lilian complained about.
I need not say that I kept all these remarks to myself and, being very much in love, I no doubt looked and behaved like a spoony swain, although I tried as I always did to be very gay and make everybody laugh, even if the joke was at my expense.
During the meal, Lilian thawed a little and slipped her foot under mine, letting it remain there all the time.
The Dreyfus affair came on the tapis. As was his wont, Arvel stuck up boldly for the heads of the French army. I ventured to say that whatever had occurred, there was no doubt that the alleged traitor had been illegally condemned, as pressure had been brought to bear on his judges in the council chamber by showing them secret documents, of which the prisoner and his lawyer ignored the existence, against all ideas of justice and fair play.
“But suppose they could not show them?” said Arvel.
At this answer, which I leave to my readers to appreciate, I could do no more than give up talking about the matter and I dropped the subject.
Raoul joined in, saying that he had only read English newspapers and knew very little about the case, and Adèle called across the table to me:
“Is he innocent?”
“Yes,” I retorted.
“Then why don't they deliberate (sic) him?”
“They will in time,” I answered, and Arvel shrugged his shoulders and talked a lot of nonsense about the luck of Dreyfus in being judged by his brother-officers and what more could any man want? — he added.
I did not reply. I amused myself looking at Lilian, who gazed on her Pa with undisguised admiration. Her eyes were fixed on his and her half-open mouth drank in every word he let fall. Once during the dinner, she touched my hand with hers. Usually when I dined at Sonis she never forgot to peel and prepare some fruit for me. This night I was neglected. I remember, too, that the conversation turned-as it always did at Sonis-on some indecency, either in a Parisian newspaper or at a theatre, and Papa denounced the immorality of the Parisians.
“Londoners are no better!” blurted out Lilian, in a passion, “How about the massage establishments?”
I noted this peculiar remark and saw Papa drop his beak into his plate. When Lilian was flooding, Lilian's temper was bad.
Mamma was at the head of the table. On her right, was Papa alone. On her left, Raoul was seated, and next to him Lilian. I was at the bottom of the table, facing Mamma, but luckily there was a big lamp in the middle and I could hardly see her.
I suppose Papa was thinking whether Lilian's “tootsies” were on mine or not, as there was a slight scuffle under the hospitable board and Papa called out to his daughter:
“Hullo! Scraggy longshanks, where have your feet got to? Can't you tuck 'em under your chair?”
“Oh! It's no use you trying to faire le pied with me, you know!”
This is a slang expression, and may be translated as “playing the foot game,” i.e., lovers' wireless telegraphy by means of sly mutual pressures of the lower extremities.
Still more indications for me of the emancipation of my sweetheart. But I was too much concerned with my own troubles to bother about Lilian and her mother's old lover just then.
Having silenced her amorous Papa, she rose and said she was going to take the dogs out with her brother. To my surprise, she turned to me, and asked if I would accompany them and smoke, and digest my dinner. Of course I accepted, and all three, without counting the canine pets, we went out along the road. It was a fine night with a bright moon. Raoul was not troublesome. He knew the part he had to play, and walked on in front teasing Blackamoor, leaving Lilian and me practically alone together.
I broke out at once:
“What is the matter with you?”
“I am very vexed. You left me in the lurch, and so I resolved to try and forget you. That is why I did not write from London as I had promised, nor did I go to see your friends. I asked you to do me a slight favor and you abandoned me entirely in the hour of need.”
“But, my darling, I sent you a note purporting to come from Madame Muller, containing fifty francs.”
“I never received that letter!”
“Good God! It's true I never registered it! This is horrible. In spite of all I may say, you will always have an afterthought that I have invented this lie to save fifty francs! How could it have been lost? Letters rarely go astray like this.”
“Oh! The postmen are such thieves down here!”
“I sent it. I forget what day it was, but I'll look up my diary when I get home. I am stunned. What fearful ill luck! Why should just this very letter be lost when so many others I have written have always reached you safely?”
I could not say very much more; I had not much time, as we were due to get back to the house for my train and I was all abroad. I must have looked as stupid as I felt. It was a hard case for me and incidentally for my friends, Lord Fontarcy and Clara. I was very unlucky, that was certain.
Resuming my talk, I said to Lilian:
“As you did not get the fifty francs, how did you manage?”
“My mother went to Normandy with Pa to do some photography and write about some châteaux, and I told her in a letter that I had received some money from Madame Muller.”
“But when she came back, did she not ask to see the cash? You say she sees and knows everything?”
“Yes, but I told her I had used it to pay a bill that was due.”
If I had recovered from this crushing blow, I might have continued by wanting to know whether she had seen the bill and if I could be allowed to see it too, but I frankly confess that I could not reason properly at that moment. I could only keep thinking how unfortunate I was. Nevertheless, it slowly dawned upon me that Lilian was awfully mercenary, and I think my love for her began to shrink a trifle. She went on to complain that Papa had found a post-card in one of the books I had lent him. It was from my mistress's dressmaker, speaking about a price to be paid for embroidering a jacket. Mademoiselle was evidently jealous of her or pretended to be so, and she plainly said that a man who could spend such sums on fashionable attire, and holding the great position I did in Paris, should have been more liberal with her, who had done all I asked her, and she thought I was rather tightfisted and a scurvy fellow (pignouf).
I must have been looking very miserable up to this and I lifted up my face to hers in the moonlight.