II

by Robert W. Chambers

Around this time, I was busy working on the decorations for Geneviève’s boudoir, which kept me at the charming little hotel on Rue Sainte-Cécile. Boris and I were putting in long hours, though we did so at our own pace, which was often erratic. Along with Jack Scott, we spent a lot of time idling together.

One quiet afternoon, I found myself wandering through the hotel, exploring its curiosities, peeking into odd corners, and uncovering hidden treats and cigars. Eventually, I ended up in the bathing room, where Boris was busy washing clay off his hands.

The room was a stunning display of rose-colored marble, except for the floor, which was a beautiful mix of rose and gray tiles. In the center, a square pool was set below the floor level, with steps leading down into it, and sculpted pillars held up a frescoed ceiling. A charming marble Cupid seemed to have just landed on his pedestal at the far end of the room. This entire space was a collaboration between Boris and me. Dressed in his white canvas work clothes, Boris scrubbed the remnants of clay and red modeling wax from his handsome hands, casting a playful glance at the Cupid.

“I see you,” he insisted. “Don’t pretend you’re not looking. You know who created you, you little rascal!”

It was my role to voice Cupid’s thoughts in these playful exchanges. When it was my turn, I responded in a way that made Boris grab my arm and pull me toward the pool, declaring he would dunk me. Just as quickly, he released my arm and turned pale. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “I forgot the pool is filled with the solution!”

I shivered slightly and dryly reminded him to keep better track of where he stored that precious liquid.

“For heaven’s sake, why do you have a small lake of that creepy stuff here of all places?” I asked.

“I want to experiment on something larger,” he replied.

“Like me, for instance?”

“Now that was too close for a joke; but I do want to observe how that solution interacts with a more complex living body. There’s that big white rabbit,” he said, following me into the studio.

Jack Scott, wearing a paint-stained jacket, wandered in, grabbed as many Oriental sweets as he could find, raided the cigarette case, and then he and Boris headed off to the Luxembourg Gallery, where a new silver bronze by Rodin and a Monet landscape were captivating the attention of the art world. I returned to the studio to continue my work. I was painting a Renaissance screen that Boris wanted for Geneviève’s boudoir. However, the young boy who was reluctantly posing for me today refused all bribes to behave. He couldn’t stay still for even a moment, and in just five minutes, I had sketched five different outlines of the little rascal.

“Are you posing, or are you putting on a song and dance, my friend?” I asked.

“Whichever you prefer, sir,” he replied with an angelic smile.

Of course, I dismissed him for the day, and naturally, I paid him for the full time, as that was how we spoiled our models.

After the little imp left, I made a few half-hearted attempts at my work, but my frustration grew, and it took me the rest of the afternoon to fix the mess I had created. Finally, I scraped my palette, washed my brushes in a bowl of black soap, and wandered into the smoking room. I truly believed that, aside from Geneviève’s rooms, no other space in the hotel was as free from the scent of tobacco as this one. It was a curious jumble of odds and ends, adorned with worn tapestries. A beautifully maintained old spinet stood by the window, and there were racks of weapons—some old and dull, others bright and modern—along with draped Indian and Turkish armor over the mantel, a few good paintings, and a pipe rack. This was where we came to explore new smoking experiences. I doubted there was any type of pipe that wasn’t represented in that rack. Once we picked one, we would usually take it somewhere else to smoke, as the room itself was generally more gloomy and less inviting than any other in the hotel.

But that afternoon, the twilight felt soothing. The rugs and skins on the floor appeared warm and inviting, and the large couch was piled high with cushions. I found my pipe, settled in, and enjoyed an unusual smoke in the smoking room. I had chosen one with a long, flexible stem, and as I lit it, I drifted into a daydream. Eventually, the pipe went out, but I didn’t move. I continued to dream and soon fell asleep.

I woke up to the saddest music I had ever heard. The room was completely dark, and I had no idea what time it was. A sliver of moonlight illuminated one edge of the old spinet, and the polished wood seemed to resonate with the sounds like perfume wafting from a box of sandalwood. Someone rose from the darkness and quietly walked away, weeping, and I was foolish enough to call out, “Geneviève!”

She flinched at the sound of my voice, and as I hurried to light a lamp and help her up from the floor, I cursed myself for startling her. She recoiled slightly, a soft murmur of pain escaping her lips. There was a stillness in the room, and she asked for Boris. I lifted her gently to the divan and went to search for him, but the house was empty, and the servants had already gone to bed.

Feeling anxious and confused, I rushed back to Geneviève. She was still lying where I had left her, her face pale and drawn.

“I can’t find Boris or any of the staff,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I know,” she replied softly, “Boris went to Ept with Mr. Scott. I didn’t remember that when I asked you to find him.”

“But he won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon, and—are you hurt? Did I scare you into falling? I’m such an idiot; I was only half awake.”

“Boris thought you had gone home before dinner. I’m so sorry for keeping you here all this time.”

“I took a long nap,” I chuckled, “so deep that I wasn’t sure if I was still dreaming when I saw a figure moving toward me and called out your name. Have you been playing the old spinet? You must have been very quiet.”

I would have told a thousand more lies if it meant seeing the relief wash over her face. She smiled sweetly and said in her usual tone, “Alec, I tripped on that wolf’s head, and I think I’ve sprained my ankle. Please call Marie, and then go home.”

I did as she asked, leaving her in the care of the maid when she arrived.