Chapter XII: Progress of the Chase

Two days after the dinner at James’, Mr. Polteed provided Soames
with food for thought.

“A gentleman,” he said, consulting the key concealed in his left
hand, “47 as we say, has been paying marked attention to 17
during the last month in Paris. But at present there seems to
have been nothing very conclusive. The meetings have all been in
public places, without concealment—restaurants, the Opera, the
Comique, the Louvre, Luxembourg Gardens, lounge of the hotel, and
so forth. She has not yet been traced to his rooms, nor _vice
versa_. They went to Fontainebleau—but nothing of value. In
short, the situation is promising, but requires patience.” And,
looking up suddenly, he added:

“One rather curious point—47 has the same name as—er—31!”

“The fellow knows I’m her husband,” thought Soames.

“Christian name—an odd one—Jolyon,” continued Mr. Polteed. “We
know his address in Paris and his residence here. We don’t wish,
of course, to be running a wrong hare.”

“Go on with it, but be careful,” said Soames doggedly.

Instinctive certainty that this detective fellow had fathomed his
secret made him all the more reticent.

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Polteed, “I’ll just see if there’s anything
fresh in.”

He returned with some letters. Relocking the door, he glanced at
the envelopes.

“Yes, here’s a personal one from 19 to myself.”

“Well?” said Soames.

“Um!” said Mr. Polteed, “she says: ‘47 left for England to-day.
Address on his baggage: Robin Hill. Parted from 17 in Louvre
Gallery at 3.30; nothing very striking. Thought it best to stay
and continue observation of 17. You will deal with 47 in England
if you think desirable, no doubt.’” And Mr. Polteed lifted an
unprofessional glance on Soames, as though he might be storing
material for a book on human nature after he had gone out of
business. “Very intelligent woman, 19, and a wonderful make-up.
Not cheap, but earns her money well. There’s no suspicion of
being shadowed so far. But after a time, as you know, sensitive
people are liable to get the feeling of it, without anything
definite to go on. I should rather advise letting-up on 17, and
keeping an eye on 47. We can’t get at correspondence without
great risk. I hardly advise that at this stage. But you can tell
your client that it’s looking up very well.” And again his
narrowed eyes gleamed at his taciturn customer.

“No,” said Soames suddenly, “I prefer that you should keep the
watch going discreetly in Paris, and not concern yourself with
this end.”

“Very well,” replied Mr. Polteed, “we can do it.”

“What—what is the manner between them?”

“I’ll read you what she says,” said Mr. Polteed, unlocking a
bureau drawer and taking out a file of papers; “she sums it up
somewhere confidentially. Yes, here it is! ‘17 very
attractive—conclude 47, longer in the tooth’ (slang for age, you
know)—‘distinctly gone—waiting his time—17 perhaps holding off
for terms, impossible to say without knowing more. But inclined
to think on the whole—doesn’t know her mind—likely to act on
impulse some day. Both have style.’”

“What does that mean?” said Soames between close lips.

“Well,” murmured Mr. Polteed with a smile, showing many white
teeth, “an expression we use. In other words, it’s not likely to
be a weekend business—they’ll come together seriously or not at
all.”

“H’m!” muttered Soames, “that’s all, is it?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Polteed, “but quite promising.”

“Spider!” thought Soames. “Good-day!”

He walked into the Green Park that he might cross to Victoria
Station and take the Underground into the City. For so late in
January it was warm; sunlight, through the haze, sparkled on the
frosty grass—an illumined cobweb of a day.

Little spiders—and great spiders! And the greatest spinner of
all, his own tenacity, for ever wrapping its cocoon of threads
round any clear way out. What was that fellow hanging round Irene
for? Was it really as Polteed suggested? Or was Jolyon but taking
compassion on her loneliness, as he would call it—sentimental
radical chap that he had always been? If it were, indeed, as
Polteed hinted! Soames stood still. It could not be! The fellow
was seven years older than himself, no better looking! No richer!
What attraction had he?

“Besides, he’s come back,” he thought; “that doesn’t look—I’ll go
and see him!” and, taking out a card, he wrote:

“If you can spare half an hour some afternoon this week, I shall
be at the Connoisseurs any day between 5.30 and 6, or I could
come to the Hotch Potch if you prefer it. I want to see you.—S.
F.”

He walked up St. James’s Street and confided it to the porter at
the Hotch Potch.

“Give Mr. Jolyon Forsyte this as soon as he comes in,” he said,
and took one of the new motor cabs into the City....

Jolyon received that card the same afternoon, and turned his face
towards the Connoisseurs. What did Soames want now? Had he got
wind of Paris? And stepping across St. James’s Street, he
determined to make no secret of his visit. “But it won’t do,” he
thought, “to let him know _she’s_ there, unless he knows
already.” In this complicated state of mind he was conducted to
where Soames was drinking tea in a small bay-window.

“No tea, thanks,” said Jolyon, “but I’ll go on smoking if I may.”

The curtains were not yet drawn, though the lamps outside were
lighted; the two cousins sat waiting on each other.

“You’ve been in Paris, I hear,” said Soames at last.

“Yes; just back.”

“Young Val told me; he and your boy are going off, then?” Jolyon
nodded.

“You didn’t happen to see Irene, I suppose. It appears she’s
abroad somewhere.”

Jolyon wreathed himself in smoke before he answered: “Yes, I saw
her.”

“How was she?”

“Very well.”

There was another silence; then Soames roused himself in his
chair.

“When I saw you last,” he said, “I was in two minds. We talked,
and you expressed your opinion. I don’t wish to reopen that
discussion. I only wanted to say this: My position with her is
extremely difficult. I don’t want you to go using your influence
against me. What happened is a very long time ago. I’m going to
ask her to let bygones be bygones.”

“You have asked her, you know,” murmured Jolyon.

“The idea was new to her then; it came as a shock. But the more
she thinks of it, the more she must see that it’s the only way
out for both of us.”

“That’s not my impression of her state of mind,” said Jolyon with
particular calm. “And, forgive my saying, you misconceive the
matter if you think reason comes into it at all.”

He saw his cousin’s pale face grow paler—he had used, without
knowing it, Irene’s own words.

“Thanks,” muttered Soames, “but I see things perhaps more plainly
than you think. I only want to be sure that you won’t try to
influence her against me.”

“I don’t know what makes you think I have any influence,” said
Jolyon; “but if I have I’m bound to use it in the direction of
what I think is her happiness. I am what they call a ‘feminist,’
I believe.”

“Feminist!” repeated Soames, as if seeking to gain time. “Does
that mean that you’re against me?”

“Bluntly,” said Jolyon, “I’m against any woman living with any
man whom she definitely dislikes. It appears to me rotten.”

“And I suppose each time you see her you put your opinions into
her mind.”

“I am not likely to be seeing her.”

“Not going back to Paris?”

“Not so far as I know,” said Jolyon, conscious of the intent
watchfulness in Soames’ face.

“Well, that’s all I had to say. Anyone who comes between man and
wife, you know, incurs heavy responsibility.”

Jolyon rose and made him a slight bow.

“Good-bye,” he said, and, without offering to shake hands, moved
away, leaving Soames staring after him. “We Forsytes,” thought
Jolyon, hailing a cab, “are very civilised. With simpler folk
that might have come to a row. If it weren’t for my boy going to
the war....” The war! A gust of his old doubt swept over him. A
precious war! Domination of peoples or of women! Attempts to
master and possess those who did not want you! The negation of
gentle decency! Possession, vested rights; and anyone ‘agin’
’em—outcast! “Thank Heaven!” he thought, “_I always_ felt ‘agin’
’em, anyway!” Yes! Even before his first disastrous marriage he
could remember fuming over the bludgeoning of Ireland, or the
matrimonial suits of women trying to be free of men they loathed.
Parsons would have it that freedom of soul and body were quite
different things! Pernicious doctrine! Body and soul could not
thus be separated. Free will was the strength of any tie, and not
its weakness. “I ought to have told Soames,” he thought, “that I
think him comic. Ah! but he’s tragic, too!” Was there anything,
indeed, more tragic in the world than a man enslaved by his own
possessive instinct, who couldn’t see the sky for it, or even
enter fully into what another person felt! “I must write and warn
her,” he thought; “he’s going to have another try.” And all the
way home to Robin Hill he rebelled at the strength of that duty
to his son which prevented him from posting back to Paris....

But Soames sat long in his chair, the prey of a no less gnawing
ache—a jealous ache, as if it had been revealed to him that this
fellow held precedence of himself, and had spun fresh threads of
resistance to his way out. “Does that mean that you’re against
me?” he had got nothing out of that disingenuous question.
Feminist! Phrasey fellow! “I mustn’t rush things,” he thought. “I
have some breathing space; he’s not going back to Paris, unless
he was lying. I’ll let the spring come!” Though how the spring
could serve him, save by adding to his ache, he could not tell.
And gazing down into the street, where figures were passing from
pool to pool of the light from the high lamps, he thought:
“Nothing seems any good—nothing seems worth while. I’m
lonely—that’s the trouble.”

He closed his eyes; and at once he seemed to see Irene, in a dark
street below a church—passing, turning her neck so that he caught
the gleam of her eyes and her white forehead under a little dark
hat, which had gold spangles on it and a veil hanging down
behind. He opened his eyes—so vividly he had seen her! A woman
_was_ passing below, but not she! Oh no, there was nothing there!