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Page 10
Anyhow, if we were mortified that she should have preferred such a one
to us, we were relieved to think that she hadn't fallen into the
clutches of a blackguard, as we had feared she would. That Coco was a
blackguard we never guessed. We made the best of him, because we had
to choose between doing that and seeing less of Nina: in time, I am
afraid--such is the influence of habit--we rather got to like him, as
one gets to like any innocuous, customary thing. And if we did not
like the situation--for none of us, whatever might have been our
practice, shared Nina's hereditary theories anent the sexual
conventions--we recognised that we couldn't alter it, and we shrugged
our shoulders resignedly, trusting it might be no worse.
And then, one day, she announced, 'Ernest and I are going to be
married.' And when we cried out why, she explained that--despite her
own conviction that marriage was a barbarous institution--she felt, in
the present state of public opinion, people owed legitimacy to their
children. So Ernest, who, according to both French and Brazilian law,
could not, at his age, marry without his parents' consent, was going
home to procure it. He would sail next week; he would be back before
three months. Ernest sailed from Lisbon; and the post, a day or two
after he was safe at sea, brought Nina a letter from him. It was a
wild, hysterical, remorseful letter, in which he called himself every
sort of name. He said his parents would never dream of letting him
marry her. They were Catholics, they were very devout, they had
prejudices, they had old-fashioned notions. Besides, he had been as
good as affianced to a lady of their election ever since he was born.
He was going home to marry his second cousin.
XI.
Shortly after the birth of Camille I had to go to London, and it was
nearly a year before I came back to Paris. Nina was looking better
than when I had left, but still in nowise like her old self--pale and
worn and worried, with a smile that was the ghost of her former one.
She had been waiting for my return, she said, to have a long talk with
me. 'I have made a little plan. I want you to advise me. Of course you
must advise me to stick to it.'
And when we had reached her lodgings, and were alone in the salon, 'It
is about Camille, it is about her bringing-up,' she explained. 'The
Latin Quarter? It is all very well for you, for me; but for a growing
child? Oh, my case was different; I had my father. But Camille?
Restaurants, caf�s, studios, the Boul' Miche, and this little
garret--do they form a wholesome environment? Oh, no, no--I am not a
renegade. I am a Bohemian; I shall always be; it is bred in the bone.
But my daughter--ought she not to have the opportunity, at least, of
being different, of being like other girls? You see, I had my father;
she will have only me. And I distrust myself; I have no "system."
Shall I not do better, then, to adopt the system of the world? To give
her the conventional education, the conventional "advantages"? A home,
what they call home influences. Then, when she has grown up, she can
choose for herself. Besides, there is the question of francs and
centimes. I have been able to earn a living for myself, it is true.
But even that is more difficult now; I can give less time to work; I
am in debt. And we are two; and our expenses must naturally increase
from year to year. And I should like to be able to put something
aside. Hand-to-mouth is a bad principle when you have a growing
child.'
After a little pause she went on, 'So my problem is, first, how to earn
our livelihood, and secondly, how to make something like a home for
Camille, something better than this tobacco-smoky, absinthe-scented
atmosphere of the Latin Quarter. And I can see only one way of
accomplishing the two things. You will smile--but I have considered it
from every point of view. I have examined myself, my own capabilities.
I have weighed all the chances. I wish to take a flat, in another
quarter of the town, near the Etoile or the Parc Monceau, and--open a
_pension_. There is my plan.'
I had a much simpler and pleasanter plan of my own, but of that, as I
knew, she would hear nothing. I did not smile at hers, however; though
I confess it was not easy to imagine madcap Nina in the r�le of a
landlady, regulating the accounts and presiding at the table of a
boarding-house. I can't pretend that I believed there was the
slightest likelihood of her filling it with success. But I said
nothing to discourage her; and the fact that she is rich to-day proves
how little I divined the resources of her character. For the
boarding-house she kept was an exceedingly good boarding-house; she
showed herself the most practical of mistresses; and she prospered
amazingly. Jeanselme, whose father had recently died, leaving him a
fortune, lent her what money she needed to begin with; she took and
furnished a flat in the Avenue de l'Alma; and I--I feel quite like an
historical personage when I remember that I was her first boarder.
Others soon followed me, though, for she had friends amongst all the
peoples of the earth--English and Americans, Russians, Italians,
Austrians, even Roumanians and Servians, as well as French; and each
did what he could to help. At the end of a year she overflowed into
the flat above; then into that below; then she acquired the lease of
the entire house. She worked tremendously, she was at it early and
late, her eyes were everywhere; she set an excellent table; she
employed admirable servants; and if her prices were a bit stiff, she
gave you your money's worth, and there were no 'surprises.' It was
comfortable and quiet; the street was bright; the neighbourhood
convenient. You could dine in the common salle-�-manger if you liked,
or in your private sitting-room. And you never saw your landlady
except for purposes of business. She lived apart, in the entresol,
alone with Camille and her body-servant Jeanne. There was the 'home'
she had set out to make.
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