I
It was Jonathan Brockett who had recommended the little hotel in the Rue St. Roch, and when Stephen and Puddle arrived one evening that June, feeling rather tired and dejected, they found their sitting-room bright with roses—roses for Puddle—and on the table two boxes of Turkish cigarettes for Stephen. Brockett, they learnt, had ordered these things by writing specially from London.
Barely had they been in Paris a week, when Jonathan Brockett turned up in person: “Hallo, my dears, I’ve come over to see you. Everything all right? Are you being looked after?” He sat down in the only comfortable chair and proceeded to make himself charming to Puddle. It seemed that his flat in Paris being let, he had tried to get rooms at their hotel but had failed, so had gone instead to the Meurice. “But I’m not going to take you to lunch there,” he told them, “the weather’s too fine, we’ll go to Versailles. Stephen, ring up and order your car, there’s a darling! By the way, how is Burton getting on? Does he remember to keep to the right and to pass on the left?” His voice sounded anxious. Stephen reassured him good-humouredly, she knew that he was apt to be nervous in motors.
They lunched at the Hotel des Reservoirs, Brockett taking great pains to order special dishes. The waiters were zealous, they evidently knew him: “Oui, monsieur, tout de suite—à l’instant, monsieur!” Other clients were kept waiting while Brockett was served, and Stephen could see that this pleased him. All through the meal he talked about Paris with ardour, as a lover might talk of a mistress.
“Stephen, I’m not going back for ages. I’m going to make you simply adore her. You’ll see, I’ll make you adore her so much that you’ll find yourself writing like a heaven-born genius. There’s nothing so stimulating as love—you’ve got to have an affair with Paris!” Then looking at Stephen rather intently, “I suppose you’re capable of falling in love?”
She shrugged her shoulders, ignoring his question, but she thought: “He’s putting his eye to the keyhole. His curiosity’s positively childish at times,” for she saw that his face had fallen.
“Oh, well, if you don’t want to tell me—” he grumbled.
“Don’t be silly! There’s nothing to tell,” smiled Stephen. But she made a mental note to be careful. Brockett’s curiosity was always most dangerous when apparently merely childish.
With quick tact he dropped the personal note. No good trying to force her to confide, he decided, she was too damn clever to give herself away, especially before the watchful old Puddle. He sent for the bill and when it arrived, went over it item by item, frowning.
“Maître d’hotel!”
“Oui monsieur?”
“You’ve made a mistake; only one liqueur brandy—and here’s another mistake, I ordered two portions of potatoes, not three; I do wish to God you’d be careful!” When Brockett felt cross he always felt mean. “Correct this at once, it’s disgusting!” he said rudely. Stephen sighed, and hearing her Brockett looked up unabashed: “Well, why pay for what we’ve not ordered?” Then he suddenly found his temper again and left a very large tip for the waiter.