Theodore Dreiser - The Stoic

“He’ll turn this town upside down, Mrs. Cowperwood,” Sippens had said, “if his interest holds out. I just hope he doesn’t work too hard”—which was really not at all what he hoped. “He’s not as young as he used to be, although he seems shrewder and quicker than ever.”

“I know, I know,” Aileen had replied at the time. “There isn’t anything about Frank that you can tell me. He’ll keep on working until he dies, I suppose.”

And she had left Sippens, feeling that this was true, yet suspecting that there must be a woman somewhere . . . possibly Berenice Fleming. However, she was Mrs. Frank Cowperwood. She had the consolation of knowing that wherever her name was mentioned, people would turn and look: in the shops, hotels, restaurants. And then there was this Bruce Tollifer. Here he was, on her arrival, as handsome as ever, and saying as he entered her hotel suite:

“Well, you did take my advice! And now that you’re here, I’m going to make myself responsible for you. If you’re in the mood, you must dress immediately for dinner. I’ve arranged a little party for you. Some friends of mine from home are here. I don’t know whether you know the Sidney Brainerds, of New York?”

“Oh, yes,” said Aileen, her brain a whirl of emotion. She knew by hearsay that the Brainerds were wealthy and socially significant. Mrs. Brainerd, as she remembered, had been Marigold Shoemaker, of Philadelphia.

“Mrs. Brainerd is here in Paris,” continued Tollifer. “She and several of her friends are coming on to dinner with us at Maxim’s, and afterward we’re going to an Argentinian’s place. He’ll amuse you, I know. Do you think you can be ready in an hour?” He turned toward the door with the air of one who was anticipating a very gay evening.

“Oh, I think so,” said Aileen, laughing. “But you’ll have to leave now if I’m to start.”

“That fits in perfectly for me. Wear white, if you have it, and dark red roses. You’ll look stunning!”

Aileen flushed a little at this familiarity. A high-handed caballero, to say the least!

“I’ll wear just that,” she said, giving him a vivid smile, “if I can find the dress.”

“Great! I’ll be back for you in an hour. Until then . . .” and he bowed and left.

As she dressed, she found herself more than ever at a loss to understand this sudden, assured invasion of Tollifer’s. It was obvious he was not without money. Yet, with these superior connections of his, why should he bother with her? Why should this Mrs. Brainerd join a dinner party of which she was not to be the principal guest? Pursued as she was by contradictory thoughts, this easy friendship of Tollifer, pretense though it might be, was still fascinating. If he were an adventurer, coldly seeking money, like so many, most certainly he was a clever one. And with diversions at his beck and call, such as all those who had approached her in the past few years had lacked. Their methods had all too often been dull, their manners irritating.

“Ready?” exclaimed Tollifer breezily as he came in an hour or so later, eyeing her white dress and the red roses at her waist. “We’ll be just in time if we go now. Mrs. Brainerd is bringing a young Greek banker, and her friend, Mrs. Judith Thorne, no acquaintance of mine, is bringing an Arab sheik, Ibrihim Abbas Bey, who is up to God knows what here in Paris! But, anyway, he speaks English, and so does the Greek.”

Tollifer was a little flushed and, if anything, even more assured. He paced the room with an easy stride, drunkenly elevated by the knowledge that he was once more in good form. To Aileen’s amusement he railed against the furnishings of her suite.

“Look at those hangings! God, what they get away with! As I came up in the elevator just now, it squeaked. Imagine that in New York! And it’s just such people as you who let them do it!”

Aileen was flattered. “Is it so bad?” she asked. “I haven’t even thought about it. After all, where else can we go here?”

He poked his finger at the tasseled silk shade of a floor lamp. “This has a wine stain on it. And somebody’s been burning this fake tapestry with cigarettes. I don’t blame them!”

Aileen laughed at him, amused by his swaggering maleness. “Oh, come on,” she said, “we could be in worse places than this. Besides, you’re keeping your guests waiting.”

“That’s right. I wonder if that sheik knows anything about American whiskey. Let’s go find out!”

Maxim’s of 1900. Glossily waxed black floors, reflecting Pompeian red walls, a gilded ceiling, and the lights of three enormous prismed electroliers. Except for front and rear exits, the walls lined with russet-red leather seats, and before them small and intimate supper tables: a Gallic atmosphere calculated to effect that mental as well as emotional release which the world of that day sought in one place, and one place only—Paris! Merely to enter was to lapse into a happy delirium. Types and costumes and varying temperaments of all the nations of the world. And all at the topmost toss of wealth, title, position, fame, and all tethered by the steel cords of convention in conduct and dress, yet all seeking freedom from convention, drawn to convention’s showplace of unconventionally.

Aileen was gloriously thrilled to see and be seen here. As Tollifer rather anticipated, his friends were late.

“The sheik,” he explained, “sometimes goes astray.”

But a few minutes later came Mrs. Brainerd and her Greek, and Mrs. Thorne with her Arab cavalier. The sheik in particular caused a slight stir and buzz. At once, in his grandest manner, Tollifer took over the business of ordering, delighting in the half-dozen waiters who hovered like flies about the table. The sheik, he was delighted to discover, was instantly attracted to Aileen. Her rounded form, her bright hair and high coloring suggested more delight to him than the slim and less flamboyant charms of either Mrs. Brainerd or Mrs. Thorne. At once he devoted himself to her, bombarding her with polite inquiries. From where did she come? Was her husband, like all these Americans, a millionaire? Might he have one of her roses? He liked their dark color. Had she ever been to Arabia? She would enjoy the life of a roving Bedouin tribe. It was very beautiful in Arabia.

Aileen, fixed by his blazing black eyes above his smartly clipped beard, his long hooked nose and swarthy complexion, was at once thrilled and dubious. What would intimate contact with this man be like? Suppose one went to Arabia—what would become of one in the clutches of such a creature? Although she smiled and gave all the required information, she was pleased to feel that Tollifer and his friends were near at hand, even though their amused attention was not exactly to her liking.

Ibrihim, learning that she was to be in Paris for a few days, asked to be allowed to see more of her. He had entered a horse for the Grand Prix. She must go with him to see the horse. Later, they would dine together. She was at the Ritz? Ah . . . he was occupying an apartment in the Rue Said, near the Bois.

During this scene, Tollifer, in high spirits, was doing his best to ingratiate himself with Marigold, who twitted him as to this latest affair of his, the nature of which she quite well understood.

“Tell me, Bruce,” she teased, at one point, “what are you going to do with all the rest of us, now that you are so amply provided for?”

“If you mean yourself, you can tell me that. I haven’t so many bothering me.”

“No? Is the poor darling as lonely as that?”

“Just as lonely as that, and more so, if you only knew,” he said soberly. “But what about your husband? Isn’t he likely to resent interference?”

“Nothing to worry about there!” she said, smilingly and encouragingly. “I just ran into him before I met you. Besides, how many years has it been since I last saw you?”