The Madonna of the Sleeping Cars (3 page)

“I stumbled painfully through the carmine dust in the road and every time I wanted to stop a pin prick in the calf of my leg forced me to continue my painful journey. All of a sudden
a miniature crystal palace, like a doll’s house, rose up ahead of me. A transparent palace with tiny towers and doors like pigeonholes. Some people whom I couldn’t see were chattering in a strange language within the glass walls and this babble of sharp voices reminded me of the gibbering of twenty cockatoos in a grilled cage. The little red man ordered me to enter the palace. But how could I get through that narrow door? I slipped my hand in, then my wrist and, finally, my arm up to the shoulder. I struggled desperately to go further; I wept in despair while the little red man prodded me with the pin.

“Suddenly, my left hand—the one which was inside the palace—was seized by innumerable, birdlike hands, which nearly pulled my fingers from their sockets. At last—and this is a detail I shall not forget for a long time—I felt them placing a plain round ring on my wedding finger. Simultaneously burning lips kissed my hand. I still tremble when I think of that invisible kiss, so greedy, so peremptory. It was a kiss which both repulsed and thrilled me.

“It must have been at that instant that I screamed, for I awoke with a start and was surprised to see my maid standing beside the bed. I asked her what she was doing. It seems that I had cried so loudly that she had rushed into the room. I sent her away, went back to sleep and dreamed no more that night.

“There, Doctor, is the nightmare which disturbs me. I’m rather superstitious. This worries me. What do you think about it?”

Professor Traurig had listened most attentively to his patient. He spoke:

“Lady Wynham, ever since Aristotle began the study of the psychology of dreams, countless wise men have imitated him. Some have found only vegetative reactions; others have attributed them to more or less plausible psychopathic causes. For
my part, I content myself with trying to determine whether a given dream is the result of excitement or merely the realization of a suppressed desire.

“Now, let us consider our case. I find in your nightmare an alternation of the sense of sight since you saw things red which are normally green. That might occur from a purely accidental cause, such as the irritation produced by the rubbing of your eyelids on the lace of your pillow.”

“I never sleep on pillows, Doctor. When I wake up I invariably find them on the floor under the bed or behind the dressing-table.”

“Your dream also presents deformation of normal dimensions. This diminution of the exterior world may be due to your having slept in a nightgown too small for you.”

“Doctor,” observed Lady Diana, with an almost imperceptible smile, “I never wear a nightgown at night. In the winter time I wear pajama coats. In the summer, nothing at all.”

Lady Diana’s remark seemed in no way to upset the methodical serenity of the illustrious Professor. He continued, “I also see in your erotic hallucination—I mean that invisible, troublesome kiss—an extreme excitement, doubtless caused by the memory of some former pleasure.”

Professor Traurig had explained everything, but Lady Diana did not appear to be satisfied, for, with an impatient gesture, she asked, “What I want to know, Doctor, is the significance of my dream. I thank you for having tried to unearth the scientific causes, but what interests me is to know what all this may have to do with my future—”

Professor Traurig’s silence was threatening, ominous. He had arisen. His imperious regard rested on his patient. His long hands were shoved into his trousers pockets and, supremely sarcastic, in a brief, cutting voice, he said:

“You have entered the wrong door, Lady Wynham. If you want to know what your dream portends, go to any of the countless imposters who provide the heights of happiness for jealous dressmakers and romantic country girls.”

Professor Traurig rang a bell and added, with an obsequious bow, “My respects, Lady Wynham. Dr. Funkelwitz will show you out and will give you your spectral analysis.”

Lady Diana and I went into the parlor.

“He’s a great savant,” I said. “You mistook him for an ultra-lucid somnambulist.”

“Stuff and nonsense, Gerard! Will you pay the little old man for the consultation?”

“Of course.”

I made out a check. I had a book of blank checks signed by Lady Diana. Two minutes later, seated beside my companion in her lemon cabriolet, I opened the envelope and looked curiously at the analysis of our fugitive thrill. Leaning over my shoulder, she glanced at the striped shadows on the photographic spectrum and exclaimed laughingly:

“There is your kiss, Gerard!”

I pointed out the dark lines between the clear zones.

“Here, Lady Diana, you flinched—your voluptuous propensity promised better things. What a character, that Professor Traurig! Just show me your spectrum and I’ll tell you if you love me!”

I joked in an effort to dispel from my mind the delightful memory which lingered from Lady Diana’s kiss. But I had counted without her intuition.

“You have a troubled look, Gerard. What’s the matter?”

“Ah, my dear lady, have you ever tasted a delicacy only to have it snatched away too quickly by some facetious head waiter?”

“If I understand you, Gerard, you would have preferred to have my analysis about six hundred feet long.”

“That is a low estimate!”

“Then what prevents you from adding to it?”

“My self-respect.”

Lady Diana looked at me in silence. Suddenly she declared, “You may be a gentleman, but you are an exceptionally stupid one.”

BROUGHT INTO THIS WORLD AS PLAIN GERARD Dextrier, promoted to the rank of Prince Séliman because of my love for a beautiful American woman, I was now the secretary of a British Peeress, not because I expected to make any monetary gain, but because I didn’t know what to do with myself.

My marriage with Griselda Turner, my dramatic adventure with her stepdaughter, my wife’s refusal to forgive an infidelity which was never consummated—all those things had shattered my moral equilibrium. I had left New York, heartbroken, my soul beaten, with a parchment in my pocket which gave me the legal right to an indisputable crown and $5,000 which constituted my personal fortune.

When one has $5,000 one can win a million at baccarat, set up a lady in the dressmaking business, or buy specimens for the art museums, but I was so tired that I couldn’t even get a thrill out of wasting my money for Beauty’s sake. Griselda’s memory haunted me. I was, at the same time, happy to escape from such a cruel woman and miserable because I could no longer taste the savor of her kisses.

I arrived in London toward the middle of October. It was one of those dry autumns, and the trees gilded their last leaves with the dying fires of a sun which had no warmth. Lonely and bored, I wandered about in Kensington Gardens, casting my colorless look on the yellowish grass. Sometimes I passed an hour or two in Hyde Park, and sometimes I forgot the ugly things of life by gazing at the splendor of the chrysanthemums in Kew Gardens.

The atmosphere of London is a strange thing. It encourages benign neurasthenia, drives one to drink, and makes one remember theosophy. But blue crosses had no more attraction for me than Sir John Dewar’s whisky. I simply existed for two months, floating around in the fog like a buoy cast loose from its moorings. An irresistible craving for action made me drag my irresolute feet from Whitechapel to Shepherd’s Bush. I contemplated vaguely the alluring shops where they sell traveling equipment in the Strand. I loitered about the stalls in the Charing Cross Road which are filled with wormy volumes and archaic papers.

I purposely avoided my friends of days gone by. I considered myself, in my solitude, like a monk in his cell. I had a little furnished apartment in Kensington—two rooms and a bath—service thrown in. Two beef-colored leather armchairs flanked the huge fireplace, on which stood some massive candlesticks and some pewter vases. The drab wallpaper was adorned with multi-colored engravings of hunting scenes, along with a sketch of the winner of the Derby in 1851—a thoroughbred with a head like a sea horse and with feet like a spider.

One morning the servant who always brought my breakfast made the great error of leaving a copy of the
Times
between
the jam-pot and the rack of toast. It was not my habit to peruse that daily from Fleet Street. On this particular morning, for some odd reason, I decided to take a look at the first page where I found that amusing column entitled
Personal
which contains little paragraphs of so extraordinary a character. I read the sibylline message of a masked lover who was telling “Forget-me-not” that the decision would be made in Sloane Square at four o’clock on Tuesday; the appeal of a ruined lady who offered a Pekinese in exchange for three months in the country; the promise of a large reward to the person who would return a wrist watch lost in a private dining-room at Peacock’s.

Then the following lines attracted my attention:

Wanted a private secretary for a prominent member of the British Peerage. Must be handsome, refined, highly educated, well acquainted with the
I
NTERNATIONAL
S
MART
S
ET
,
and speak perfect English, French, and German. Foreigner not excluded. Send full particulars, testimonials, photo, etc., to Box 720, care Times, London
.

I smiled mechanically as I filled the pores of my toast with fresh butter, and I asked myself if Destiny was sending me a new social position. I didn’t think any more about it on that particular day. But the next morning I found the same paper on my desk and it reminded me of the advertisement. I hesitated for a minute, then, with a snap of my fingers I took out one of the few remaining sheets of my engraved stationery and wrote to Box 720.

Three days later, to my great surprise, a messenger brought me a tremendous envelope of robin’s egg blue, covered with delicate handwriting.

The short message was constructed as follows:

This name, so well known in the society world, had not escaped my attention. And I was not in the least annoyed to find that Box 720 was the pseudonym of so beautiful a woman. I could hardly wait to see how things would develop.

On the dot of three, I found myself beneath the portico of 114 Berkeley Square—a portico which protected visitors against inclement weather—and I was ushered by a lackey in silk breeches—a symphony in a black coat with steel-gray trousers—into a hall spotted with the skins of wild beasts. Two palms, protruding from turquoise pots, waved their green hands above the banisters of a staircase. Four Greek goddesses made a futile attempt to hide their ancient shame in the depths of rose and gray marble niches.

I waited a few minutes in a boudoir which was saturated with chypre and Turkish tobacco. Then Lady Diana Wynham appeared. Her extremely blond hair made a fascinating contrast to a gold and purple tea-gown beneath which one could see a frail veil of white silk against her skin.

This heavy material seemed to press dangerously against her delicate form. Her arms were bare; her feet were encased in Moroccan leather. Her complexion was without a blemish. She offered me a tiny nervous hand which extended from a
wrist chained by a platinum wire with a large diamond sparkling in the center.

I was about to embark on the usual banalities of an attorney beguiling a prospective client, when Lady Diana cut me short:

“And so it’s all off with Griselda?”

My astonishment seemed to amuse her. She went on, waving me into an armchair: “Look here, my dear Prince, you don’t suppose, do you, that the London gentry is in ignorance of your adventures in New York? Your escapade at Palm Beach was followed in every exclusive drawing-room. They were even giving three to one that the Princess would divorce you immediately. The world is small. And I can’t help telling you that I am delighted to see that my little advertisement brought to me the sentimental lesser half of the beautiful Mrs. Griselda Turner.”

My hostess offered me a cunning scarlet trunk, full of cigarettes. “So, it’s all off?”

“Yes, and no, Lady Diana. I am a King Lear, wandering aimlessly about, far away from the kingdom from which the Princess has exiled me.”

“Is the divorce well under way?”

“That’s not the point. I must tell you that I still love Griselda, but that all my letters are returned unopened. Therefore, a husband, resigned to an inflexible wife, I live from day to day, watching the clouds drift by. Your little announcement, Lady Wynham, tempted me. I answered it, not so much because I needed money as to find something to do, and I wouldn’t mind if you would outline precisely just what my obligations will be; always provided, of course, that I am fortunate enough to enter your employ.”

“You speak well, my dear Prince. But, after all, Frenchmen
are a trifle wordy. You ask me what I expect of my secretary? Everything and nothing. I didn’t advertise with the idea of trying to get myself a lover. You may be sure of that. I don’t need the
Times
when I want to float about in the astral plane. I am a widow. Undoubtedly you know that my husband, Lord Wynham, like Wenceslaus, died from over-eating and drinking. That’s a prosaic but a rapid finish. He left me this house, three automobiles, a yacht which is gradually sinking from lack of repair, a beautiful collection of erotic photographs and the Bible which was read by Anne Boleyn; a Box in Covent Garden, a healthy boy, who is a caddie at a Golf Club in Brighton, and fifty pounds a year which I have to dole out quarterly to a little maid in a hotel at Dinard. All that is very complicated.
If I add that my banker cheats me, that each year I have seven hundred and thirty invitations to dinner, all of which I couldn’t accept unless I cut myself in half at eight o’clock every evening; if I go on to say that I have, on the average, six admirers a year, without counting casual acquaintances and some exploded gasoline which sticks to the carburetor; that I keep an exact account of my poker debts, that I always help every charitable undertaking, that I am the honorary captain of a squad of police women and I was a candidate in the elections for North Croydon; if I finally admit that I have a very poor memory, that I love champagne and that I have never known how to add, then, perhaps, you will be able to understand why I need a private secretary. As far as you are concerned I may as well tell you that I like you; I know you both by name and reputation. You’re not one of those insufferable Frenchmen who are always running around a woman’s skirts like a hunting-dog chasing a pheasant. I warn you undue familiarity always breeds contempt. I am a woman to whom you’ll be rather more a companion than a secretary, or, I might say,
you’ll have to play the part of a husband—up to the point of coming into my bedroom. You understand that! You’re going to take care of my interests. You’re going to give me a lot of useful advice. You’re going to prevent me from doing stupid things whenever possible, because they tell me that that is the favorite pastime of women of my class. Lastly, I hope you won’t hesitate to throw out any questionable admirers, who may try to profit by my feminine caprices.”