Yes--Burton says she will see me and will send me one of her Red Cross
cars to fetch me, then I can keep my leg up.
I rather incline to a treatise upon altruism and the philosophical
subjects. I fear if I wrote a novel it would be saturated by my ugly
spirit, and I should hate people to read it. I must get that part of me
off in my journal, but a book about--Altruism?
I must have a stenographer of course, a short-hand typist, if I do begin
this thing. There are some English ones here no doubt. I do not wish to
write in French--Maurice must find me a suitable one.--I won't have
anything young and attractive. In my idiotic state she might get the
better of me! The idea of some steady employment quite bucks me up.
* * * * *
I felt rather jarred when I arrived at the Hotel Courville--the paving
across the river is bad; but I found my way to the Duchesse's own
sitting room on the first floor--the only room apparently left not a
ward--and somehow the smell of carbolic had not penetrated here. It was
too hot, and only a little window was open.
How wonderfully beautiful these eighteenth century rooms are! What grace
and charm in the panelling--what dignity in the proportions! This one,
like all rooms of women of the Duchesse's age, is too full--crammed
almost, with gems of art, and then among them, here and there, a
shocking black satin stuffed and buttoned armchair, with a bit of
woolwork down its centre, and some fringe! And her writing table!--the
famous one given by Louis XV to the ancestress, who refused his
favours--A mass of letters and papers, and reports, a bottle of creosote
and a feather! A servant in black, verging upon ninety, brought in the
tea, and said Madame la Duchesse would be there immediately--and she
came.
Her twinkling eyes kindly as ever "Good day Nicholas," she said and
kissed me on both cheeks, "Thou art thy mother's child--Va!--And I
thank thee for the fifty thousand francs for my blessés--I say no
more--Va!--."
Her scissors got caught in her pocket, not the purple jersey this time,
and she played with them for a minute.
"Thou art come for something--out with it!"
"Shall I write a book?, that's it. Maurice thinks it might divert
me--What do you think?"
"One must consider," and she began pouring out the tea, "paper is
scarce--I doubt, my son, if what you would inscribe upon it would
justify the waste--but still--as a soulagement--an asperine so to
speak--perhaps--yes. On what subject?"