Chapter 32

"At the court of the Tuileries," Sillerton Jackson said, "people openly accepted such things."

His smile showed pleasure in an old memory. The Tuileries was the home of the French royal court in Paris.

They sat in the van der Luydens' dining room on Madison Avenue. Its walls and furniture used black walnut, a dark brown wood. This dinner came one night after Archer's museum visit.

Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden were in town for several days. They quickly escaped to Skuytercliff after Beaufort's failure. Now their friends called them back.

Beaufort's fall threw New York society into disorder. People said the van der Luydens were needed more than ever. Mrs. Archer said they owed their presence to society.

They must appear at the Opera. They must even open their own doors.

"Dear Louisa, we cannot let Mrs. Lemuel Struthers take Regina's place," Mrs. Archer said. "New people always push inside during such times."

Then she recalled Mrs. Struthers's first winter. Chicken-pox spread across New York. Chicken-pox was an illness that covered the skin with red spots.

Married women stayed upstairs and cared for their sick children. Their husbands quietly escaped to Mrs. Struthers's house.

"You and dear Henry must guard the open door," Mrs. Archer said. "You have always done it."

Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden could not refuse that call. They came to town with brave but unwilling hearts. Servants removed every cover from their closed house.

Then they sent invitations for two dinners and one evening party.

On this night, they invited four guests. Sillerton Jackson and Mrs. Archer came. Newland and May joined them.

After dinner, everyone would go to the Opera. Faust was being sung for the first time that winter.

Nothing happened without ceremony in the van der Luyden home. Dinner began at exactly seven, though only four guests came. Each dish needed its proper time.

Afterward, the gentlemen also needed time for cigars. No one should hurry before the Opera.

Archer had not seen May since the night before. He left home early and threw himself into office work. None of the work truly mattered.

That afternoon, an older business partner unexpectedly kept him busy. Archer reached home very late. May already went to the van der Luydens' and sent back the carriage.

Now she sat across the table. Red flowers and heavy silver dishes stood between them. May looked pale and tired.

Yet her eyes shone. She spoke with too much bright energy.

Mrs. van der Luyden carefully led the talk toward Ellen. Archer thought she chose the subject on purpose. The guests first examined every part of Beaufort's failure.

More exactly, they judged his behavior after the failure. It offered endless food for people who taught others about right and wrong.

When they fully blamed Beaufort, Louisa turned to May. Her careful eyes seemed almost worried.

"My dear, can this story be true? Someone saw your grandmother's carriage outside Mrs. Beaufort's house."

Louisa no longer called Regina by her first name. That small change showed that Regina now stood outside their circle.

Red color entered May's face. Mrs. Archer answered quickly.

"If the carriage was there, Mrs. Mingott knew nothing about it. I am sure of that."

"Oh, you think so?" Louisa stopped and looked at her husband. Then she gave a sad breath.

Mr. van der Luyden spoke. "I fear Madame Olenska's kind heart led her into a foolish visit."

"Or perhaps she likes strange people," Mrs. Archer said dryly. Her innocent eyes rested on her son.

"I am sorry to hear this about Madame Olenska," Louisa said.

Mrs. Archer lowered her voice. "My dear, you even received her twice at Skuytercliff."

At this point, Sillerton Jackson offered his favorite French story.

"At the Tuileries," he repeated, "people allowed a great deal. Ask where Morny's money came from. Ask who paid certain beautiful women's debts."

Everyone looked at him and waited for more.

"Dear Sillerton," Mrs. Archer said, "you cannot want us to follow those rules."

"I never tell anyone what to do," Jackson answered calmly. "But Madame Olenska grew up abroad. Perhaps she is less careful."

The two older ladies gave sad little sounds together.

"Still, she left her grandmother's carriage outside a failed man's house," Henry said.

Archer knew Henry remembered the flowers sent to Ellen's little house. He once sent many baskets of red flowers there. Now he felt that Ellen threw aside his public support.

"I always said that Ellen sees things differently," Mrs. Archer decided.

May's forehead became red. She looked across the table at Archer. Then her words came out very quickly.

"I am sure Ellen meant to be kind."

"Foolish people are often kind," Mrs. Archer answered. To her, kindness did not excuse the mistake.

"If only Ellen asked someone first," Louisa said.

"Oh, she never asks," Mrs. Archer replied.

Henry looked at Louisa. Louisa gave a small movement toward Mrs. Archer. At once, the three women rose.

Their shining skirts moved out through the door. The men settled down with their cigars. On Opera nights, Henry gave them short ones.

The cigars were so good that his guests hated his strict sense of time.

After Faust's first part, Archer left the others. He found a place behind the club's private box. Chivers, Mingott, and Rushworth shoulders filled the rows before him.

Beyond them lay the same scene from two years earlier. That was the night he first saw Ellen Olenska.

He half expected Ellen to appear in Catherine's box again. But the box remained dark and empty. Archer watched it without moving.

Then Christine Nilsson's pure high voice broke through the theater. She sang, "M'ama, non m'ama."

Archer turned toward the stage. Giant roses and great purple flowers filled it. They looked like the flowers on a writer's little cloth tool.

The same large fair woman suffered there. The same small dark man drew her toward ruin. Nothing in the old scene changed.

Archer's eyes moved around the great curve of boxes. May sat between two older women. On that first night, she sat the same way.

Then Mrs. Lovell Mingott sat on one side. Her newly returned foreign cousin sat on the other.

May wore white again. Archer did not notice her dress at dinner. Now he knew its blue-white satin and old lace.

It was her wedding dress.

In old New York, brides wore this costly dress again. They used it for one or two years after marriage. No fine cloth should serve for only one day.

Archer's mother still kept her own wedding dress in soft paper. She hoped Janey might wear it one day. But poor Janey was growing older.

Soon people would expect a quiet wedding for her. They would choose pearl-gray poplin. They might also think bridesmaids were no longer right.

Archer rarely saw May in her wedding satin after Europe. Its return made him study her. He compared her with the girl from two years before.

Her body had become a little fuller. Her tall, goddesslike shape always promised that change. Yet she still sat straight like a strong young rider.

Her face kept its clear, young look. Only the recent tiredness made her different. Without that, she was the same girl from their engagement night.

He could almost see the white lilies in her hands again.

Her complete innocence asked for his pity. It moved him like the trusting hand of a child. Then he remembered the strong kindness hidden under her calm.

At the Beaufort ball, she understood his need at once. He asked to announce their engagement there. Her eyes gave him their support.

He also heard her voice in the Mission garden. She refused happiness built from another person's pain.

A great need to tell her the truth took hold of him. He would trust her kindness. He would ask for the freedom that she once offered.

At that time, he refused it.

Newland Archer was usually quiet and controlled. His small society trained him from birth. Following its rules felt like a second nature.

He hated any loud display of private feeling. Mr. van der Luyden would dislike it too. The club box would call it bad form.

Suddenly, Archer forgot all of them. He no longer felt the warm walls of habit. He walked around the theater's curved passage.

Then he opened Mrs. van der Luyden's box. It felt like a gate into an unknown land.

"M'ama!" Marguerite sang in victory.

Everyone in the box looked up. Archer broke one of their clear rules. No one entered a box while one singer held the stage alone.

He moved between Henry van der Luyden and Sillerton Jackson. Then he bent close to May.

"I have a terrible headache," he whispered. "Please tell no one. Will you come home?"

May gave him a look of understanding. She whispered to Mrs. Archer. His mother answered with a kind movement of her head.

Then May quietly explained to Louisa. She rose as Marguerite fell into Faust's arms.

Archer helped May put on her Opera cloak. He saw the two older women share a knowing smile.

Inside the carriage, May placed her hand softly on his. "I am sorry that you feel ill. The office must be working you too hard again."

"No, it is not the office." Archer's words came without order. "Do you mind if I open the window?"

He lowered the glass on his side. Then he watched the passing houses. May sat beside him like a quiet question.

He kept his eyes fixed on the street.

At their door, May's skirt caught in the carriage step. She fell against Archer. He held her steady with one arm.

"Did you hurt yourself?" he asked.

"No, but look at my poor dress. I tore it."

May bent and lifted a wide fold of cloth. The blue-white satin was torn and marked with street mud. She carried it up the steps.

The servants did not expect them so early. Only a weak gas light burned above the stairs.

Archer climbed up and made the light brighter. In the library, he lit the two wall lamps beside the fireplace. The curtains were already closed.

The room looked warm and friendly. Its familiar face struck him with pain. It greeted him during a secret and shameful act.

May looked very pale. Archer offered her brandy, a strong drink made from wine.

"Oh, no," she cried. Color crossed her face for one moment. She removed her cloak.

"Should you not go straight to bed?" she asked. Archer opened a silver box and took out a cigarette.

Then he threw it down. He walked to his usual place near the fire.

"My head is not that bad," he said. He stopped before the next words. "I must tell you something important. I must tell you now."

May sank into a chair and raised her head. "Yes, dear?"

Her gentle answer held no surprise. Archer stood a few feet away. Yet the small distance seemed like an abyss between them.

His own voice sounded strange in the quiet room.

"May," he began. "There is something I must tell you about myself."

She sat perfectly still. Even her lashes did not shake. Her face stayed very pale.

Yet it held a strange peace. The calm seemed to rise from some secret place inside her.

Archer pushed aside every easy excuse. He would not blame her or defend himself. He would say the plain truth.

"Madame Olenska," he began.

At Ellen's name, May raised one hand. The movement asked him to stop. Gaslight shone on her gold wedding ring.

"Why should we talk about Ellen tonight?" she asked. A little impatience touched her mouth.

"Because I should have spoken before."

May's face remained calm. "Is there any purpose now, dear? I know that I was sometimes unfair to her. Perhaps we all were."

Archer understood Ellen better than they did. May said he was always kind to her.

"But why does that matter now? It is all over."

Archer stared without understanding. He felt trapped inside a false world. Did May feel the same strange false world?

"All over? What do you mean?" His voice was weak and broken.

May's clear eyes stayed on him. "Ellen will return to Europe very soon. Granny understands and agrees. She will give Ellen money apart from her husband."

May stopped. Archer caught the corner of the fireplace with one shaking hand. He needed it to remain on his feet.

His thoughts turned and fell inside him. He could not bring them under control.

May's even voice continued. She thought office business kept Archer late that evening. She believed he helped arrange Ellen's money.

"I think they settled it this morning," she said.

Her eyes lowered under his terrible stare. Another quick line of red crossed her pale face.

Archer knew his look must hurt her. He turned away. Both arms rested on the shelf above the fire.

Then he covered his face.

Something beat and rang inside his ears. It might be the blood in his body. It might be the clock above the fire.

May waited without a movement. The clock slowly measured five full minutes.

Then one piece of coal fell forward in the fire. May rose and pushed it back. At last, Archer turned toward her.

"It is impossible," he said.

"Impossible?"

"How do you know this?"

"I saw Ellen yesterday. I told you about our meeting at Granny's."

"Did she tell you then?"

"No. Her note came this afternoon. Do you want to see it?"

Archer could not speak. May left the library and returned almost at once.

"I thought you knew," she said simply.

She placed one sheet of paper on the table. Archer reached out and took it. The letter held only a few lines.

"Dear May,

"At last, Granny understands that I can only make a short visit. She is as kind and giving as ever. She now sees that I must live alone in Europe.

"Poor Aunt Medora will come with me, so I will not truly be alone. I am returning quickly to Washington to pack. We will sail next week.

"Please care for Granny after I leave. Be as good to her as you have always been to me.

"Ellen

"My friends may try to change my mind. Please tell them that no words will change it."

Archer read the letter two or three times. Then he threw it onto the table and began to laugh.

His own laughter frightened him. It carried him back to another night. Janey found him laughing alone after midnight.

That time, May sent a telegram about their wedding. She moved its date forward. His wild laughter made no sense to Janey.

"Why did Ellen write this?" Archer asked. He used all his strength to stop laughing.

May met his question with open, steady eyes. "I suppose it was because of our talk yesterday."

"What did you discuss?"

"I told her that I may have treated her unfairly. I did not understand how hard New York was for her."

Ellen stood alone among many family members. They were her relations, but they were also strangers. They believed they could judge her.

Yet they did not always know the facts.

May stopped for a moment. Then she continued.

"I knew you were the one friend she could always trust. I wanted her to know that you and I felt the same way. In all things."

May waited as if Archer might answer. He said nothing.

"She understood why I wanted to tell her," May said slowly. "I think Ellen understands everything."

She crossed the room and stood before Archer. She took one of his cold hands. Then she quickly pressed it against her cheek.

"My head hurts too. Good night, dear," she said.

May turned toward the door. The torn wedding dress followed her across the room. Its muddy blue-white cloth dragged heavily behind her.