Read Online The Dark Lady by Louis Auchincloss, Thomas Auchincloss - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louis Auchincloss, Thomas Auchincloss
Tags: General Fiction
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Judge's conservatism. He took them to dine at a restaurant and then to hear Flagstad as Isolde. He took them to a private viewing of Leonardo drawings, to a Lunt-Fontanne matinee, to a lecture at the Bar Association by Justice Cardozo. On these occasions he devoted his attention exclusively to Elesina, treating Ivy with the perfunctory courtesy that is accorded by the tenor in Italian opera to the duenna contralto. But it was interesting to both women that he made no effort to drop the chaperone.
"Maybe he's afraid to be alone with me," Elesina suggested. "Maybe he thinks
I'm
the schemer."
"No, he has a plan. I've known Irving a long time. He's a very deliberating man."
"What does the divine Clara think of our excursions? Surely, she must be back from Florida."
"Oh, she's long back. She's just being her Sphinx-like self. You're not, after all, my dear, Irving's first illicit passion. Even if it does happen to be my theory that you'll be his last. Clara gives him a lot of rein."
At last came the invitation for Elesina alone. It was formal, by letter, and entirely proper. Could she lunch with Irving at the 21 Club and discuss a business matter? When she arrived, strictly on the hour as became the nature of such an engagement, she found him, regal at a corner table, discussing wines with the proprietor. He had already ordered for her. They discussed no business over the soup or fish. Irving was in an expansive mood: he held forth on the economic inequities of the modern world and of the warnings to public figures that he had issued in vain. He had said this to Franklin Roosevelt, that to Alfred Landon. He was a bit pompous, to be sure, but there was a touch of majestic gravity, of senatorial dignity in his measured tones and gesticulating hands, in the great nodding head, the plump, rigid figure. Irving was at least the portrait of a statesman.
When he turned at last to business, the change was marked by a pause, a muffled cough. "Have you ever read
Les Corbeaux,
or
The Vultures,
by Henry Becque?"
"No."
"Well, you must do so now. I am planning to underwrite its revival by the Columbus Circle Repertory. On condition that you play the part of Marie Vigneron."
"Are you aware that I have blotted my copybook with that company?"
"Oh, yes, we've discussed all that. They are quite ready to forget those missed rehearsals. I told them it had been a difficult period in your life."
She might have been an erring student before an amiable, omnipotent headmaster, but there was sympathy and even humor in the reddish pupils of his solemn gray eyes.
"Tell me about the play."
"The scene is laid in Paris, in eighteen eighty-one. We are in the happy domestic interior of Monsieur and Madame Vigneron, prosperous burghers. They have three daughters and a little boy. All is love and good will. One daughter is engaged to a young noble, a big social step forward. But at the end of the first act the father suddenly collapses and dies. Instant ruin. His lawyer, his architect, his business partner, all combine to cheat and destroy the widow and children. These are the major vultures; the minor ones are tradesmen who dun the poor women for already paid bills. The young count withdraws from his engagement, and his fiancee goes mad. You see, there was no way for untrained women in that time to earn any effective income; they were perfectly helpless. At last Marie Vigneron decides to accept the offer of marriage of Teissier, her father's old business partner and the worst vulture of all."
"And that's all?"
"That's all. The family are saved. Teissier is strong enough to drive off the other vultures."
"So Marie really likes him?"
"Oh, no, not at all."
"Not even a tiny bit?"
"He absolutely repels her. That's the point. She does the only thing she
can
so. It's a terrific play."
Elesina reflected. "Because it's true? Or because it was true back then? But is it true today? Would a girl like Marie have to marry a vulture?"
"Hardly. Today a girl
"Maybe he's afraid to be alone with me," Elesina suggested. "Maybe he thinks
I'm
the schemer."
"No, he has a plan. I've known Irving a long time. He's a very deliberating man."
"What does the divine Clara think of our excursions? Surely, she must be back from Florida."
"Oh, she's long back. She's just being her Sphinx-like self. You're not, after all, my dear, Irving's first illicit passion. Even if it does happen to be my theory that you'll be his last. Clara gives him a lot of rein."
At last came the invitation for Elesina alone. It was formal, by letter, and entirely proper. Could she lunch with Irving at the 21 Club and discuss a business matter? When she arrived, strictly on the hour as became the nature of such an engagement, she found him, regal at a corner table, discussing wines with the proprietor. He had already ordered for her. They discussed no business over the soup or fish. Irving was in an expansive mood: he held forth on the economic inequities of the modern world and of the warnings to public figures that he had issued in vain. He had said this to Franklin Roosevelt, that to Alfred Landon. He was a bit pompous, to be sure, but there was a touch of majestic gravity, of senatorial dignity in his measured tones and gesticulating hands, in the great nodding head, the plump, rigid figure. Irving was at least the portrait of a statesman.
When he turned at last to business, the change was marked by a pause, a muffled cough. "Have you ever read
Les Corbeaux,
or
The Vultures,
by Henry Becque?"
"No."
"Well, you must do so now. I am planning to underwrite its revival by the Columbus Circle Repertory. On condition that you play the part of Marie Vigneron."
"Are you aware that I have blotted my copybook with that company?"
"Oh, yes, we've discussed all that. They are quite ready to forget those missed rehearsals. I told them it had been a difficult period in your life."
She might have been an erring student before an amiable, omnipotent headmaster, but there was sympathy and even humor in the reddish pupils of his solemn gray eyes.
"Tell me about the play."
"The scene is laid in Paris, in eighteen eighty-one. We are in the happy domestic interior of Monsieur and Madame Vigneron, prosperous burghers. They have three daughters and a little boy. All is love and good will. One daughter is engaged to a young noble, a big social step forward. But at the end of the first act the father suddenly collapses and dies. Instant ruin. His lawyer, his architect, his business partner, all combine to cheat and destroy the widow and children. These are the major vultures; the minor ones are tradesmen who dun the poor women for already paid bills. The young count withdraws from his engagement, and his fiancee goes mad. You see, there was no way for untrained women in that time to earn any effective income; they were perfectly helpless. At last Marie Vigneron decides to accept the offer of marriage of Teissier, her father's old business partner and the worst vulture of all."
"And that's all?"
"That's all. The family are saved. Teissier is strong enough to drive off the other vultures."
"So Marie really likes him?"
"Oh, no, not at all."
"Not even a tiny bit?"
"He absolutely repels her. That's the point. She does the only thing she
can
so. It's a terrific play."
Elesina reflected. "Because it's true? Or because it was true back then? But is it true today? Would a girl like Marie have to marry a vulture?"
"Hardly. Today a girl
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