Madame Merle’s Return

Chapter VX

Isabel Osmond and her stepdaughter Pansy were seated in the lobby of the Hotel de Londres waiting for Isabel’s friend Henrietta Stackpole Bantling. Mrs. Bantling had been detained by a telegram from her paper, The Interviewer on her latest submission. The paper wanted a more extensive coverage of a museum theft that had taken place in the last week. It tied in with Mrs. Bantling’s feature on small out-of-the-way art museums of Italy. The theft of an important Titian was big news, a sign that art was no longer of interest to a few well-traveled highbrows and bluestockings and was gaining not only in viewers but in that most exalted of entities, the American dollar.

While the two women waited, seated on a lounge in the front of the lobby, not at all impatient, Isabel surveyed the lively atmosphere and was startled to see leaving the dining room the personage of Madame Merle, an unexpected sight though not completely a surprise. Isabel knew that Madame Merle was back in Italy though she had not heard she was at this particular hotel in Rome and wondered if Henrietta knew and why she hadn’t mentioned it. The two women had never got on in any significant way: Henrietta thought Madame Merle affected and Madame Merle did not think of Henrietta in any way at all but if she were forced to make an assessment, would say the lady journalist could do with a bit more subtlety, a little more seasoning but that if she remained in Europe for any time, these things would come. She would lose some of her American brashness and all to the better would be the lady of high culture’s opinion.

Isabel was thankful Pansy was in the enthrall of a Mr. Harold Ludlow, her nephew, who was touring Italy with group of fellow-medical students from Oxford, residing in a small pension nearby. Pansy was oblivious to Madame Merle’s presence. Mr. Ludlow was busy paying the utmost attention to Miss Osmond - a young woman whose likeness he had heretofore never encountered. This was the fourth meeting with Miss Osmond - they had by chance met up in St. Peter’s Square where the students were sightseeing and happened upon Pansy and Mrs. Osmond, Mr. and Mrs. Bantling and an elderly Italian by the name of Signore Cellini whose business was in art restoration and authentication though his opinion could not be taken directly to the bank - it did not carry the weight of a professional curator or scholar but for many, would hold a certain primitive acumen - he who had been studying Italian art for his lifetime and intuited a thing or two beyond an educated opinion.

To say Harold Ludlow was enthralled would not do him justice: He was a man of thoughtful disposition, not subject to whimsical notions or unattainable ideals. What he saw in Pansy Osmond was not a flight of fancy or a romantic interlude pressed upon him that lacked grounding. Without making the young man sound obtuse, what he saw in this young lady was his future wife, a helpmate, a partner with whom he could live his life, in his chosen occupation with as little turmoil or dalliance as his nature required though to say that he was impervious to the young lady’s charm was to do him another injustice. He was as susceptible to grace as any other man of nearing twenty, to what the Romantics call inspiration. He was likewise not immune to Italy’s golden thrall.

On this fourth meeting, not altogether unplanned by Mr. Ludlow, with his attention solely placed on Miss Osmond, Isabel was quick to note that Madame Merle had been observing the young couple from a distance, in fact was quite enthralled herself by the spectacle of her daughter and the young man though she dared not prolong her viewing. She wished not to be noticed by Isabel Osmond or Pansy herself at this time. But she saw what she saw and there was no mistaking what it was she saw: Her daughter and a young, good-looking, polite American were absorbed completely in each other in a way that precluded any other deduction than that the two young people could only be described as wholly in a state of adoration. Madame Merle recognized that exalted state when it was presented in its naked form and she drew into the shadow of a hallway and out of sight, unable to add anything to this tableau that could in any way beautify it. She would have to find out who the young man’s antecedents were but despite his background, she suspected Pansy would not be talked out of this relationship so easily by her father. She could only conclude that Isabel, who seemed unruffled by this scene of easy compatibility, had her hand in it.

Madame Merle thought she may have to write Gilbert Osmond but then decided against it. She would wait and see what transpired. She could do nothing else and entered her suite with a renewed sense of purpose though what that purpose was, she wasn’t sure. What she was sure of was that her daughter had grown into a remarkable woman and this realization made her heart sing for the first time since the girl’s unlikely birth twenty years ago and many lifetimes, or so it seemed to the grand signora in the most lavish suite in a hotel catering to the English, and more recently, the Americans. She had never looked or felt better. Her spirit was a marvel of grand inspiration and capability. One could not argue with wealth, she thought, it outweighs just about everything and she spent her days grateful to a Schubert sonata that melted the heart of an American businessman and allowed fate to intervene in a life that had grown very wearisome indeed.

It turned out that writing Osmond was not necessary. Serena Merle Halpern, two days later, entered a palatial drawing room of an old friend with much of the Eternal City’s slightly displaced nobility in attendance. Mrs. Halpern as Madame Merle, was well-known in this tight circle and was frequently invited but she had been away, in America, and as she’d only recently arrived back in Rome unexpectedly early, where she found a surprising invitation, thinking not a soul knew of her recent reoccupation of the city she calls home although as a world traveler, home is not an apt description except to say that it is the city where she holds the lease on a small apartment filled with her collection of lace and porcelain, much of it quite valuable, samples of her watercolour attempts, including a pleasing one of Gardencourt, two sketches by Gilbert Osmond - of herself seated on a chair in the garden in his Florentine villa when she was younger and one of the Roman Campagna.

Her gown was a deep burgundy velvet recently purchased in Paris and over it was an ivory lace mantel with the smallest of filigree beading to enhance its sheen. As a rule, she wore no jewelry but tonight there could be seen on her left hand a band of gold with two small flawless diamonds flanking a deep blue sapphire in a bezel setting, a gift from her husband of ten weeks, also purchased in Paris where the couple spent a month, a honeymoon, if you will.

As Mrs. Halpern adjusted her eyes to the ornate décor of the splendid room it took her only the briefest moment to note that her old lover and co-conspirator, Gilbert Osmond, was seated in the far west corner beside the fireplace. He was talking to Prince Viticonti, a nephew of the Marchesa Viticonti who could be seen at the other end of the settee the prince was seated on. Slightly taken aback, Mrs. Halpern registered only the smallest reaction before she regained her composure enough to greet several acquaintances, accept congratulations on her marriage and explain just why her husband was not with her that evening. She said that Mr. Halpern left for Milan on business to return in one week. That she stayed in Rome to oversee the packing up of her apartment for their move into more spacious accommodations in the Palazzo Michelangeli on the via Conditti. Though the newlyweds would be only a year at most in Italy, it was to be a luxurious year and she planned to reciprocate all the many invitations she’d received over the years; with her spacious new palazzo she and her husband would host open house each Saturday. Madame Merle was not above wanting to show her success to the world that had written her off as not quite up to the entertaining standards Roman society generally favored. Unlike Osmond, she was not seeking envy, she was not egotistical in that way, but she did want respect and having money, a lot of it, would garner her that. She swelled inside thinking of it - as she had ever since her precipitant and unforeseen marriage to an American manufacturer. How could she have known when boarding the ship in Liverpool last winter, in heavy-hearted exile, that she would return shortly thereafter a rich woman with a generous husband. It made her dizzy thinking of it still, so very unlikely a prospect at her age. She’d given up that ambition; marriage to a man of substance, battered by the forces that had played out in her life. That she had played all the wrong cards did not escape the mind this introspective woman of an indefinite age but late forties would be an accurate assessment. It is said that America is the land of opportunity and that is just what happened upon Madame Merle as she played a resonate trio of piano pieces from Schubert, Mendelssohn and Mozart for a party of placid though exceedingly well-to-do denizens of New York.

Mr. Gerald Halpern was of the audience and found himself stimulated by the music in a way he had never been before. It was something quite unexpected and opened a place in his mind or was it his heart, he wasn’t quite sure but it left him feeling strangely uplifted. Before leaving, he made a point of thanking the lady recently arrived from Europe for her playing, intent on telling her how much it moved him though he felt shy admitting to such an unmanly reaction. That she was almost diffident to his compliment stirred something else in him. Were all Europeans so casual about their superior attributes? Was it a commonplace to be able to so skillfully play what, Halpern thought, surely complicated scores? More complex than anything he’d ever heard played in Chicago or even here in New York. What Madame Merle did for our manufacturer of wheels was to increase his awareness and bring to light a world he had heretofore been too busy to take part in, a world he thought might hold some interest for him after all. He left the party in a state of a mind quite mysterious to him - one of expansion. He called on the stunning European lady the next day. He wasn’t sure, but he thought she might hold the key to his future. In any case, he made it so, being a man of intention.

Mrs. Halpern found herself next to Osmond as they made their way into the dining room and did not hesitate to greet him formally.
“Good evening, Mr. Osmond. You are alone tonight?” she began.
“As you can see Madame, I am distinctly not alone this evening,” he said with a gesture to indicate the array of people now waiting to be seated in the elaborate marble and mirrored dining room.
Mrs. Halpern looked directly into his eyes but said no more. She was not ready for Osmond’s glib phraseology, in fact had lost her taste for what passed as conversation in Europe, her husband being a straightforward man with little need for irony or riddles. The two stared rather gloomily at nothing in particular before he said “I haven’t congratulated you yet on your marriage. I do so now.”
Mrs. Halpern nodded but did not reply.
“I don’t believe I’ve known you to be so reticent, Madame…, what is it now, your name, I believe I haven’t heard of it.”
“Halpern. Mrs. Gerald Halpern.”
“Ah, I think I should prefer Madame Halpern. It suits you better.”
“As you wish. But as the wife of an American gentleman, I believe Mrs. Halpern is correct.”
“I stand corrected, Mrs. Halpern.”
“I see your wife is not with us, she’s not ill I hope?”
“No, my wife is not ill but she is being entertained by her friends from England and as we seemed to have conflicting invitations and I could not convince her to change hers I chose to come alone as the Marchesa Viticonti is a dear friend.”
“Is your wife with the Bantlings? We are at the same hotel I’ve discovered. I’ve actually seen Mrs. Osmond in the lobby though she did not see me and I thought it best that way.”
“Yes, she’s forever with the Bantlings. What she finds in their company I’m sure I don’t know but to each his own.”
“This is a new attitude Mr. Osmond. I remember a time when…” She stopped her sentence realizing she was taking the conversation in a direction that could not be brought to a distinct conclusion.
“Yes, well Mrs. Halpern, you see we can change, we are all capable of it sometimes, even me.”
Mrs. Halpern said nothing more. She could imagine the changes her former lover might have adopted. “And Pansy? Is she well?”
“Very much so.”
“I’d like to see her.”
“I’m afraid you can’t. She’s very tied up these days.”
“Very well. I won’t see her if you object.”
“Oh it’s not for me to object. She always with my wife, doing I’m not sure what. And when she isn’t with Isabel, she is entertaining Prince Viticonti in our home. They have struck up a friendship. We see the Prince regularly these days, he seems to find the Palazzo Roccanera quite to his taste.”
Mrs. Halpern looked hard at Osmond and then turned abruptly away, to be seated next to an ancient baron who immediately brightened at having the fascinating Madame Merle at his right, a name not likely to be replaced by another in his settled mind.

She was glad to end the conversation with her former lover. She hadn’t mentioned that she in fact, had seen Pansy in the hotel lobby with his wife. Or that she also saw a young American boy in attendance to the two ladies, related somehow to the Archers, she had already ascertained. She also distinguished the glow on Pansy’s face as she gazed at the young man.

Mrs. Halpern indeed knew much more than Mr. Osmond regarding their daughter. Nevertheless, she would have to learn what Osmond was up to with the Viticonti clan. The prince was no suitable match for Pansy and the sooner Osmond learned that the better. He hated disappointment, loathed being proved wrong, but would have to, once again, face just that.

Madame Merle left immediately after dinner, declining to play for the audience of noble breeding. Never had she the wherewithal to refuse in the past. She could thank her husband for that. She could now practice the arts when and for whom she chose. For this she would be eternally grateful to Mr. Halpern. That he could be somewhat dense on occasion, somewhat over-ebullient on others was at times vexing to a lady so fastidiously nuanced but she could recognize and welcome recompense when it had been dropped freely from the heavens.

The next day Mrs. Halpern was surprised to find a telegram from Gilbert Osmond with her mail. Meet me at the Café Greco at one, Mrs. Halpern. Madame. I will be there waiting. She shoved the missive in her handbag and made her way into the dining room. What could Osmond want? She mused to herself while coffee was being served. Had her husband been in Rome, she would have had to ignore the request, perhaps send a reply stating such. With her husband in Milan, she was free to meet her former lover. Though she could not imagine what he required of her, the history between the two was long and embedded. She would find out what he wanted; for of course, he wanted something. He would not be seeking her company unless that was the case. For a minute, as she glanced through her mail, it occurred to her that she was in a position to do Osmond a good turn. She probably would not be too much put out. Then again, she owed him nothing and could decide to give him exactly that. Wealth gave her flexibility; was that any surprise at all?