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It was a languid summer afternoon, the air thick with the scent of blooming magnolias and the gentle hum of cicadas, as the congenial group settled into their accustomed seats on the gallery of the McPherson household. Madame Rogers, a paragon of Creole beauty, sat with her perfect hands moving deftly as she sewed, often pausing to relate a story or incident with expressive gestures that left her listeners entranced. Taylor and Mrs. McPherson sat idle, exchanging occasional words, glances, or smiles that indicated a certain advanced stage of intimacy and camaraderie.
Taylor had lived in Mrs. McPherson’s shadow for the past month, and no one thought anything of it. It was a well-known fact that Taylor had a penchant for devoting himself to a fair dame or damsel each summer at Grand Isle. Since the age of fifteen, he had constituted himself the devoted attendant of some lovely lady, sometimes a young girl, again a widow, but as often as not, it was some interesting married woman. The summer before, he had lived in the sunlight of Mademoiselle Duvigne’s presence, but her untimely passing had left him inconsolable. He had then posed as a heartbroken suitor at the feet of Madame Rogers, seeking whatever crumbs of sympathy and comfort she might be pleased to vouchsafe.
Mrs. McPherson liked to sit and gaze at her fair companion as she might look upon a faultless Madonna, her porcelain skin glistening with a subtle sheen of perspiration. “Could any one fathom the cruelty beneath that fair exterior?” Taylor murmured, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. “She knew that I adored her once, and she let me adore her. It was ‘Taylor, come; go; stand up; sit down; do this; do that; see if the baby sleeps; my thimble, please, that I left God knows where. Come and read Daudet to me while I sew.’”
Madame Rogers laughed, a throaty, musical sound, as she interjected, “Par exemple! I never had to ask. You were always there under my feet, like a troublesome cat.” Taylor’s eyes twinkled as he retorted, “You mean like an adoring dog. And just as soon as Rogers appeared on the scene, then it was like a dog. ‘Passez! Adieu! Allez vous-en!’” The group erupted into laughter at the jest, and Madame Rogers continued, “Perhaps I feared to make Alphonse jealous,” her voice dripping with excessive naïveté. The very idea of Alphonse, her husband, being jealous was laughable, for the Creole husband was never jealous; with him, the gangrene passion was one that had become dwarfed by disuse.
Meanwhile, Taylor, addressing Mrs. McPherson, continued to regale her with tales of his one-time hopeless passion for Madame Rogers; of sleepless nights, of consuming flames that had left him breathless, till the very sea sizzled when he took his daily plunge. Madame Rogers kept up a little running, contemptuous comment, “Blagueur—farceur—gros bête, va!” but Taylor never assumed this seriocomic tone when alone with Mrs. McPherson. She never knew precisely what to make of it; at that moment, it was impossible for her to guess how much of it was jest and what proportion was earnest.
It was understood that Taylor had often spoken words of love to Madame Rogers, without any thought of being taken seriously. Mrs. McPherson was glad he had not assumed a similar role toward herself. It would have been unacceptable and annoying. She had brought her sketching materials, which she sometimes dabbled with in an unprofessional way. She liked the dabbling, feeling in it a satisfaction of a kind that no other employment afforded her.
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Mrs. McPherson had long wished to try her hand at capturing Madame Rogers’s beauty on canvas. She had brought her sketching materials, which she handled with a certain ease and freedom, not from long and close acquaintance, but from a natural aptitude. Taylor, ever the charming companion, crossed over and seated himself upon the step below Mrs. McPherson, his eyes fixed on her work as she brought Madame Rogers to life on paper.
Taylor followed her work with close attention, interjecting little ejaculatory expressions of appreciation in French, which he addressed to Madame Rogers. “Mais ce n’est pas mal! Elle s’y connait, elle a de la force, oui.” As he gazed at the sketch, he once quietly rested his head against Mrs. McPherson’s arm, a gentle, thoughtless gesture that she repulsed with a gentle but firm hand. He repeated the offense, and again she quietly but firmly pushed him away. She could not but believe it to be thoughtlessness on his part, yet that was no reason she should submit to it.
The picture, when completed, bore no resemblance to Madame Rogers. Mrs. McPherson was greatly disappointed to find that it did not capture the essence of her beauty. But it was a fair enough piece of work, and in many respects satisfying. Madame Rogers, however, was not convinced, and her face fell as she gazed upon the sketch.
Mrs. McPherson, sensing her friend’s disappointment, drew a broad smudge of paint across the surface of the paper, and crumpled it between her hands. The youngsters, who had been watching with wide eyes, came tumbling up the steps, the quadroon following at a respectful distance. Mrs. McPherson made them carry her paints and things into the house, seeking to detain them for a little talk and some pleasantry. But they were greatly in earnest, their eyes fixed on the bonbon box, and they accepted without murmuring what she chose to give them, each holding out two chubby hands scoop-like, in the vain hope that they might be filled.
As the sun dipped low in the west, the breeze soft and languorous, Madame Rogers folded her sewing, placing thimble, scissors, and thread all neatly together in the roll, which she pinned securely. She complained of faintness, and Mrs. McPherson flew to her side, bathing her face with cologne water and plied the fan with gentle vigor. Taylor, ever the charming companion, stood by, watching with a mixture of concern and amusement.
The spell was soon over, and Mrs. McPherson could not help wondering if there were not a little imagination responsible for its origin, for the rose tint had never faded from her friend’s face. She stood watching the fair woman walk down the long line of galleries with the grace and majesty which queens are sometimes supposed to possess. Her little ones ran to meet her, two of them clinging about her white skirts, the third she took from its nurse and with a thousand endearments bore it along in her own fond, encircling arms.
As the evening drew to a close, Taylor asked Mrs. McPherson if she would join him for a bath in the Gulf. She hesitated, her glance wandering from his face away toward the sea, whose sonorous murmur reached her like a loving but imperative entreaty. “Oh, come!” he insisted. “You mustn’t miss your bath. Come on. The water must be delicious; it will not hurt you. Come.”
He reached up for her big, rough straw hat that hung on a peg outside the door, and put it on her head. They descended the steps, and walked away together toward the beach. The sun was low in the west and the breeze was soft and warm.