The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(25)

‘No,’ said Michael dully.

‘You can chuck my books over to some other publisher.’ Michael shrugged.

‘Good night, then,’ said Desert. ‘Sorry for being so primitive.’

Michael looked straight into his ‘best man’s’ face. There was no mistaking its expression of bitter despair. He made a half-movement with his hand, uttered half the word ‘Wilfrid,’ and, as Desert went down, he went upstairs.

Back in his place against the balustrade, he tried to realize that life was a laughing matter, and couldn’t. His position required a serpent’s cunning, a lion’s courage, a dove’s gentleness: he was not conscious of possessing such proverbial qualities. If Fleur had loved him as he loved her, he would have had for Wilfrid a real compassion. It was so natural to fall in love with Fleur! But she didn’t – oh! no, she didn’t! Michael had one virtue – if virtue it be – a moderate opinion of himself, a disposition to think highly of his friends. He had thought highly of Desert; and – odd! – he still did not think lowly of him. Here was his friend trying to do him mortal injury, to alienate the affection – more honestly, the toleration – of his wife; and yet he did not think him a cad. Such leniency, he knew, was hopeless; but the doctrines of free-will, and free contract, were not to him mere literary conceptions, they were part of his nature. To apply duress, however desirable, would not be on his cards. And something like despair ravaged the heart of him, watching Fleur’s ingratiating little tricks with the great Gerald Chalfont. If she left him for Wilfrid! But surely – no – her father, her house, her dog, her friends, her – her collection of – of – she would not – could not give them up? But suppose she kept everything, Wilfrid included! No, no! She wouldn’t! Only for a second did that possibility blur the natural loyalty of his mind.

Well, what to do? Tell her – talk the thing out? Or wait and watch? For what? Without deliberate spying, he could not watch. Desert would come to their house no more. No! Either complete frankness; or complete ignoring – and that meant living with the sword of Damocles above his head! No! Complete frankness! And not do anything that seemed like laying a trap! He passed his hand across a forehead that was wet. If only they were at home, away from that squalling and these cultivated jackanapes! Could he go in and hook her out? Impossible without some reason! Only his brain-storm for a reason! He must just bite on it. The singing ceased. Fleur was looking round. Now she would beckon! On the contrary, she came towards him. He could not help the cynical thought: ‘She’s hooked old Chalfont!’ He loved her, but he knew her little weaknesses. She came up and took hold of his sleeve.

‘I’ve had enough, Michael, let’s slip off; d’you mind?’

‘Quick!’ he said, ‘before they spot us!’

In the cold air outside he thought: ‘Now? Or in her room?’

‘I think,’ said Fleur, ‘that Mr Chalfont is overrated – he’s nothing but a mental yawn. He’s coming to lunch tomorrow week.’

Not now – in her room!

‘Whom do you think to meet him, besides Alison?’

‘Nothing jazzy.’

‘Of course not; but it must be somebody intriguing, Michael. Bother! sometimes! think it isn’t worth it.’

Michael’s heart stood still. Was that a portent – sign of ‘the primitive’ rising within his adored practitioner of social arts? An hour ago he would have said:

‘You’re right, my child; it jolly well isn’t!’ But now – any sign of change was ominous! He slipped his arm in hers.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll snare the just-right cuckoos, somehow.’

‘A Chinese Minister would be perfect,’ mused Fleur, ‘with Minho and Bart – four men – two women – cosy. I’ll talk to Bart.’

Michael had opened their front door. She passed him; he lingered to see the stars, the plane trees, a man’s figure motionless, collared to the eyes, hatted down to them. ‘Wilfrie !’ he thought: ‘Spain! Why Spain? And all poor devils who are in distress – the heart – oh! darn the heart!’ He closed the door.

But soon he had another to open, and never with less enthusiasm. Fleur was sitting on the arm of a chair, in the dim lavender pyjamas she sometimes wore just to keep in with things, staring at the fire. Michael stood, looking at her and at his own reflection beyond in one of the five mirrors – white and black, the pierrot pyjamas she had bought him. ‘Figures in a play,’ he thought, ‘figures in a play! Is it real?’ He moved forward and sat on the chair’s other arm.