The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(127)

Fleur had finished drying the eleventh baronet, and was dabbing powder over him; her eyes seemed penetrating his skin, as if to gauge the state of health behind it. He watched her take the feet and hands one by one and examine each nail, lost in her scrutiny, unselfconscious in her momentary devotion! And oppressed by the difficulty, as a Member of Parliament, of being devoted, Michael snapped his fingers at the baby and left the nursery. He went to his study and took down a volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica containing the word Poultry. He read about Leghorns, Orpingtons. White Sussex, Bramaputras, and was little the wiser. He remembered that if you drew a chalk-line to the beak of a hen, the hen thought it was tied up. He wished somebody would draw a chalk-line to his beak. Was Foggartism a chalk-line? A voice said:

‘Tell Fleur I’m going to her aunt’s.’

‘Leaving us, sir?’

‘Yes, I’m not wanted.’

What had happened?

‘You’ll see her before you go, sir?’

‘No,’ said Soames.

Had somebody rubbed out the chalk-line to Old Forsyte’s nose?

‘Is there any money in poultry-farming, sir?’

‘There’s no money in anything nowadays.’

‘And yet the Income Tax returns continue to rise.’

‘Yes,’ said Soames; ‘there’s something wrong there.’

‘You don’t think people make their incomes out more than they are?’

Soames blinked. Pessimistic though he felt at the moment, he could not take quite that low view of human nature.

‘You’d better see that Fleur doesn’t go about abusing that red-haired baggage,’ he said. ‘She was born with a silver spoon in her mouth; she thinks she can do what she likes.’ And he shut Michael in again.

Silver spoon in her mouth. How à proposl…

After putting her baby into its cot Fleur had gone to the marqueterie bureau in the little sanctuary that would have been called a boudoir in old days. She sat there brooding. How could her father have made it all glaringly public! Couldn’t he have seen that it was nothing so long as it was not public, but everything the moment it was? She longed to pour out her heart, and tell people her opinion of Marjorie Ferrar.

She wrote three letters – one to Lady Alison, and two to women in the group who had overheard it all last night. She concluded her third letter with the words: ‘A woman like that, who pretends to be a friend and sneaks into one’s house to sting one behind one’s back is a snake of the first water. How Society can stick her, I can’t think; she hasn’t a moral about her nor a decent impulse. As for her charm – Good Lord!’ Yes! And there was Francis Wilmot! She had not said all she wanted to say to him.

MY DEAR FRANCIS, she wrote:

I am so sorry you have to run away like this. I wanted to thank you for standing up for me last night. Marjorie Ferrar is just about the limit. But in London society one doesn’t pay attention to backbiting. It has been so jolly to know you. Don’t forget us; and do come and see me again when you come back from Paris.

Your very good friend,

FLEUR MONT,

In future she would have nothing but men at her evenings! But would they come if there were no women? And men like Philip Quinsey were just as snake-like. Besides, it would look as if she were really hurt. No! She would have to go on as before, just dropping people who were ‘catty’. But who wasn’t? Except Alison, and heavyweights like Mr Blythe, the minor Ambassadors, and three or four earnest politicians, she couldn’t be sure about any of them. It was the thing to be ‘catty’. They all scratched other people’s backs, and their faces too when they weren’t looking. Who in Society was exempt from scratches and who didn’t scratch? Not to scratch a little was so dreadfully dull. She could not imagine a scratchless life except perhaps in Italy. Those Fra Angelico frescoes in the San Marco monastery! There was a man who did not scratch. St Francis talking to his birds, among his little flowers, with the sun and the moon and the stars for near relations. St Claire! St Fleur – little sister of St Francis! To be unworldly and quite good! To be one who lived to make other people happy! How new! How exciting, even – for about a week; and how dull afterwards! She drew aside the curtains and looked out into the Square. Two cats were standing in the light of a lamp – narrow, marvellously graceful, with their heads turned towards each other. Suddenly they began uttering horrible noises, and became all claws. Fleur dropped the curtain.





Chapter Ten



FRANCIS WILMOT REVERSES



ABOUT that moment Francis Wilmot sat down in the lounge of the Cosmopolis Hotel, and as suddenly sat up. In the middle of the parquet floor, sliding and lunging, backing and filling, twisting and turning in the arms of a man with a face like a mask, was she, to avoid whom, out of loyalty to Fleur and Michael, he had decided to go to Paris. Fate! For he could hardly know that she came there most afternoons during the dancing hours. She and her partner were easily the show couple; and, fond of dancing, Francis Wilmot knew he was looking at something special. When they stopped, quite close to him, he said in his soft drawl: