Around this time, I was working on the decorations for Geneviève’s boudoir, so I spent a great deal of time at the charming little hotel on Rue Sainte-Cécile.
Boris and I worked hard when the mood took us, though our working habits were anything but regular.
The three of us—and Jack Scott as well—spent just as much time lounging around together as we did working.
One quiet afternoon, I was wandering through the house alone, looking at the antiques and poking into all sorts of strange corners.
I found hidden supplies of sweets and cigars along the way.
Eventually, I wandered into the bathing room.
Boris was standing there, covered in clay, washing his hands.
The room was made almost entirely of rose-colored marble.
Only the floor was different, with a pattern of rose and gray tiles.
In the middle of the room was a square pool sunk below floor level.
A flight of steps led down into it, while carved pillars supported a ceiling covered with frescoes.
At the far end stood a beautiful marble Cupid, looking as if he had just landed on his pedestal.
The entire room was the work of Boris and me.
Boris was wearing his usual white canvas work clothes.
As he scraped bits of clay and red modeling wax from his handsome hands, he glanced over his shoulder at the statue of Cupid.
“I see you,” he said.
“Don’t look away and pretend you can’t see me.”
“You know who made you, you little fraud.”
It was always my job to speak for Cupid during these imaginary conversations.
So I answered for him in my usual fashion.
Boris immediately grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the pool.
“I’ll throw you in,” he threatened.
Then, suddenly, he released me.
His face went white.
“Good God!”
“I forgot the pool is full of the solution!”
I shuddered.
Then I dryly suggested that perhaps he should remember where he kept his precious chemicals.
“For heaven’s sake, why do you keep a little lake of that horrible stuff in here?” I asked.
“I want to experiment on something large.”
“Me, perhaps?”
“That was a little too close to the truth to be a joke.”
He paused.
“But I really do want to see what the solution will do to a more highly organized living creature.”
“There’s that big white rabbit,” he added.
He followed me into the studio.
A little later, Jack Scott wandered in wearing a paint-splattered jacket.
He helped himself to every Oriental sweet he could reach, then raided the cigarette case.
Finally, he and Boris left together for the Luxembourg Gallery.
A new silver-bronze sculpture by Rodin and a landscape by Monet were apparently attracting the full attention of the artistic world in Paris.
I returned to my work.
It was a Renaissance-style screen that Boris had asked me to paint for Geneviève’s boudoir.
Unfortunately, the small boy who was supposed to pose for it had decided that day to be impossible.
No amount of bribery could make him behave.
He never stayed in one position for more than a second.
Within five minutes, I had drawn a dozen completely different outlines of the little rascal.
“Are you posing,” I asked, “or are you performing a song and dance?”
“Whatever monsieur prefers,” he replied with an angelic smile.
Naturally, I sent him home for the day.
Naturally, I still paid him for the entire session.
That is how artists spoil their models.
Once the boy had gone, I tried to continue painting.
But I was so thoroughly irritated that I spent the rest of the afternoon repairing the damage I had caused.
Finally, I scraped my palette clean, put my brushes into a bowl of black soap, and wandered into the smoking room.
Strangely enough, apart from Geneviève’s rooms, there was no other room in the house that smelled less of tobacco.
It was a strange collection of odds and ends, with faded tapestries hanging on the walls.
An old spinet stood beside the window.
It was beautifully maintained and had a wonderfully sweet tone.
There were weapon stands everywhere.
Some held old, dull weapons, while others displayed bright modern ones.
Indian and Turkish armor hung above the mantelpiece.
A few good paintings decorated the walls, and a large pipe rack stood nearby.
We often came there whenever we wanted to try some new kind of tobacco pipe.
I doubt there was a style of pipe ever made that wasn’t represented on that rack.
But once we chose one, we always took it somewhere else to smoke.
The smoking room itself was rather dark and gloomy and not particularly inviting.
That afternoon, however, the fading light was wonderfully peaceful.
The rugs and animal skins covering the floor looked warm, soft, and sleepy.
The large couch was buried beneath cushions.
I found my pipe, settled myself there, and decided to enjoy the room for once.
I had chosen a pipe with a long, flexible stem.
After lighting it, I began to drift into thought.
Eventually the pipe went out.
I didn’t bother relighting it.
I simply lay there dreaming.
Before long, I fell asleep.
I woke to the saddest music I had ever heard.
The room was completely dark.
I had no idea how long I had been asleep.
A narrow beam of moonlight touched one edge of the old spinet.
Its polished wooden surface seemed almost to breathe out the music, the way perfume rises from a box of sandalwood.
Someone stood up in the darkness.
Then I heard her quietly crying as she walked away.
Half asleep and completely foolish, I called out:
“Geneviève!”
She suddenly collapsed.
I cursed myself as I hurried to light a lamp and tried to help her up.
She pulled away with a small cry of pain.
She was strangely quiet.
“Where is Boris?” she asked.
I carried her to the divan and went to find him.
But Boris wasn’t in the house.
The servants had already gone to bed.
Confused and worried, I hurried back to Geneviève.
She was lying exactly where I had left her.
Her face was very pale.
“I can’t find Boris or any of the servants,” I told her.
“I know,” she replied weakly.
“Boris has gone to Ept with Mr. Scott.”
“I forgot when I sent you to find him.”
“But then he can’t possibly get back until tomorrow afternoon.”
I looked at her anxiously.
“Are you hurt?”
“Did I frighten you so badly that you fell?”
“What a complete fool I am. I was barely awake.”
“Boris thought you had gone home before dinner,” she said.
“Please forgive us for allowing you to remain here so long.”
“I’ve had quite a nap,” I said with a laugh.
“It was such a deep sleep that I couldn’t even tell whether I was still dreaming when I saw someone moving toward me.”
“So I called your name.”
I looked toward the spinet.
“Were you playing it?”
“You must have played very softly.”
I would have told a thousand lies worse than that one if it meant seeing the relief that suddenly appeared on her face.
She gave me a lovely smile.
Then, in her normal voice, she said:
“Alec, I tripped over that wolf’s head.”
“I think I’ve sprained my ankle.”
“Please call Marie.”
“And then go home.”
I did exactly as she asked.
When the maid arrived, I left Geneviève in her care.