The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne | Page 4

on the north side of the
Regent's Park, so that my drawing-room, on the first floor, has a
southern aspect. It has been warm and sunny for the past few days, and
the elms and plane-trees across the road are beginning to riot in their
green bravery, as if intoxicated with the golden wine of spring. My
French window is flung wide open, and on the balcony a triangular bit
of sunlight creeps round as the morning advances. My work-table is
drawn up to the window. I am busy over the first section of my
"History of Renaissance Morals," for which I think my notes are
completed. I have a delicious sense of isolation from the world. Away
over those tree-tops is a faint purpurine pall, and below it lies London,
with its strife and its misery, its wickedness and its vanity. Twenty
minutes would take me into the heart of it. And if I chose I could be as
struggling, as wretched, as much imbued with wickedness and vanity as
anybody. I could gamble on the stock exchange, or play the muddy
game of politics, or hawk my precious title for sale among the young
women of London society. My Aunt Jessica once told me that London
was at my feet. I am quite content that it should stay there. I have much
the same nervous dread of it as I have of an angry sea breaking in surf
on the shingle. If I ventured out in it I should be tossed hither and

thither and broken on the rocks, and I should perish. I prefer to stand
aloof and watch. If I had a little more of daring in my nature I might
achieve something. I am afraid I am but a waster in the world's factory;
but kind Fate, instead of pitching me on the rubbish-heap, has
preserved me, perhaps has set me under a glass case, in her own
museum, as a curiosity. Well, I am happy in my shelter.
I was interrupted in my writing by the entrance of my cook and
housekeeper, Antoinette. She was sorry to disturb me, but did Monsieur
like sorrel? She was preparing some _veau a l'oseille_ for lunch, and
Stenson (my man) had informed her that it was disgusting stuff and that
Monsieur would not eat it.
"Antoinette," said I, "go and inform Stenson that as he looks after my
outside so do you look after my inside, and that I have implicit
confidence in both of you in your respective spheres of action."
"But does Monsieur like sorrel?" Antoinette inquired, anxiously.
"I adore it even," said I, and Antoinette made her exit in triumph.
What a reverential care French women have for the insides of their
masters! At times it is pathetic. Before now, I have thrown dainty
morsels which I could not eat into the fire, so as to avoid hurting
Antoinette's feelings.
I came across her three years ago in a tiny hostelry in a tiny town in the
Loire district. She cooked the dinner and conversed about it afterwards
so touchingly that we soon became united in bonds of the closest
affection. Suddenly some money was stolen; Antoinette, accused, was
dismissed without notice. I had a shrewd suspicion of the thief--a
suspicion which was afterwards completely justified--and indignantly
championed Antoinette's cause.
But Antoinette, coming from a village some eighty miles away, was a
stranger and an alien. I was her only friend. It ended in my inviting her
to come to England, the land of the free and the refuge of the
downtrodden and oppressed, and become my housekeeper. She

accepted, with smiles and tears. And they were great big smiles, that
went into creases all over her fat red face, forming runnels for the great
big tears which dropped off at unexpected angles. She was alone in the
world. Her only son had died during his military service in Madagascar.
Although her man was dead, the law would not regard her as a widow
because she had never been married, and therefore refused to exempt
her only son. "_On ne peut-etre Jeune qu'une fois, n'est-ce pas,
Monsieur?_" she said, in extenuation of her early fault.
"And Jean-Marie," she added, "was as brave a fellow and as devoted a
son as if I had been married by the Saint-Pere himself."
I waved my hand in deprecation and told her it did not matter in the
least. The della Scalas, supreme lords of Verona for many generations,
were every man jack of them so parented. Even William the
Conqueror--
"Tiens cried Antoinette, consoled, "and he became Emperor of
Germany--he and Bismarck!"
Antoinette's historical sense is rudimentary. I have not tried since to
develop it.
When I brought my victim of foreign tyranny to Lingfield Terrace,
Stenson, I believe,