Edith Wharton - Novel 14 by A Son at the Front (v2.1) Page B

remain with him. But, after all, at such a
time a son could not refuse to go to his mother. Campton pictured the little
party of three grouped about the luncheon-table in the high cool dining-room of
the Avenue Marigny, with the famous Hubert Robert panels, and the Louis XV silver
and Sevres; while he, the father, George’s father, sat alone at the soiled
table of a frowsy wine-shop.
                 Well—it
was he who had so willed it. Life was too crazy a muddle—and who could have
foreseen that he might have been repaid for twenty-six years with such a wife
by keeping an undivided claim on such a son?
                 His
meal over, he hastened back to the studio, hoping to find the dancer there.
Fortin-Lescluze had sworn to bring her at two, and Campton was known to exact
absolute punctuality. He had put the final touch to his fame by refusing to
paint the mad young Duchesse de la Tour Crenelee—who was exceptionally
paintable—because she had kept him waiting three-quarters of an hour. But now,
though it was nearly three, and the dancer and her friend had not come, Campton
dared not move, lest he should miss Fortin-Lescluze.
                 “Sent
for by a rich patient in a war-funk; or else hanging about in the girl’s
dressing-room while she polishes her toe-nails,” Campton reflected; and sulkily
sat down to wait.
                 He
had never been willing to have a telephone. To him it was a live thing, a kind
of Laocoon-serpent that caught one in its coils and dragged one struggling to
the receiver. His friends had spent all their logic in trying to argue away
this belief; but he answered obstinately: “Every one would be sure to call me
up when Mariette was out.” Even the Russian lady, during her brief reign, had
pleaded in vain on this point.
                 He
would have given a good deal now if he had listened to her. The terror of
having to cope with small material difficulties, always strongest in him in
moments of artistic inspiration—when the hushed universe seemed hardly big
enough to hold him and his model—this dread anchored him to his seat while he
tried to make up his mind to send Mme. Lebel to the nearest telephone-station.
                 If
he called to her, she would instantly begin: “And the war, sir?” And he would
have to settle that first. Besides, if he did not telephone himself he could
not make sure of another appointment with Fortin-Lescluze. But the idea of
battling alone with the telephone in a public place covered his large body with
a damp distress. If only George had been in reach!
                 He
waited till four, and then, furious, locked the studio and went down. Mme.
Lebel still sat in her spidery den. She looked at him gravely, their eyes met,
they exchanged a bow, but she did not move or speak. She was busy as usual with
some rusty sewing—he thought it odd that she should not rush out to waylay him.
Everything that day was odd.
                 He
found all the telephone-booths besieged. The people waiting were certainly bad
cases of war-funk, to judge from their looks; after scrutinizing them for a
while he decided to return to his hotel, and try to communicate with
Fortin-Lescluze from there.
                 To
his annoyance there was not a taxi to be seen. He limped down the slope of Montmartre to the nearest métro -station, and just as he was preparing to force his lame bulk
into a crowded train, caught sight of a solitary horse-cab: a vehicle he had
not risked himself in for years.
                 The
cab-driver, for gastronomic reasons, declined to take him farther than the
Madeleine; and getting out there, Campton walked along the rue Royale.
Everything still looked wonderfully as usual; and the fountains in the Place
sparkled gloriously.
                 Comparatively
few people were about: he was surprised to see how few. A small group of them,
he noticed,