He had spoken lightly with the photographer--Jones--and young Miss Predoviciu, but only to calm his own nerves. Whatever he'd seen, whatever it had meant, he wanted not to think about it, and yet could only think about it. He forced himself to pay attention to his clothes, not the whirring of his mind.
He put away his evening cape and undressed, brushing his clothes carefully before putting away his evening jacket and pants. He examined his boiled shirtfront and decided a new one was in order and tossed it in the waste can with his collar. he put his sapphire shirt studs and cufflinks as well as his pocket watch and chain away in his jewel case and locked it. After pulling a robe on over his undergarments he went downstairs into the shop and put his jewel case in the safe.
Henri paced for a time once he was back upstairs and at last decided he'd worked off enough nervous energy to sleep. But he was wrong. He lay in the dark and dozed and woke over and over. Fragments of dreams came and went, unsettling in their vagueness, yet also strangely specific.
Every dream was full of singing, but not singing, but rather chanting, like some religious ritual. There was a nurse who was more than she seemed in both volume and number but he couldn't explain even to himself what that meant, as though he had understood it but forgotten it at the same moment. And there was the chanting. There was a room, a destination, like a church but not a church, a place of making, a place he had been trying to reach. And there was the chanting. There was a woman, a beautiful woman, a terrible woman, a helpless woman of great power. Did he love her? Surely not. Did she love him? He didn't think so. Yet she was his somehow, like a gift, like an animal, like a meal, or was he the meal? And there was the chanting. There were kings, like the wise men, come to see him, come to belong to him. A multitude of people to be his, in this place that was like a church--the same room as before?--that was also his. And there was the chanting. And he was chanting too but he could not hear the sound of his own voice.
Henri woke up with the muscles of his throat taut, as though he were trying to cry out but could not. He lay panting in sheets damp with his sweat. When he finally could, he sat up and pushed his hair out of his face. He felt exhausted physically and mentally, as if he had not slept at all.
He stood and went to the bathroom and stared at his reflection. He hadn't looked like this since he'd been living on army food. His skin looked grey, his blond hair lank. He brushed his teeth and took a shower.
"That's what I get," he thought, "for going to creepy shows after already drinking champagne. Nightmares."
He ate some toast for breakfast. Then came the all important ritual of dressing Today a pale grey suit, sky blue shirt and a tie of the most perfect orchid-colored silk. He chose a turquoise handkerchief for his breast pocket and went downstairs to the shop.
Henri got his plain gold cufflinks and his favorite wrist-watch from his jewel case and then went to his appointment book.
Martha V. this morning. Another nightmare! Charming girl, but with such an unfashionable figure. Nothing and no one could make Martha look svelte and boyish. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He would get the daffodil peau de soie and the apple green charmeuse and see how each of those would look on her. If neither suited he would have to design something specially.
M. Henri was pleasantly surprised at how easily his appointment with Martha V. went. Despite her very feminine figure, both dresses suited her admirably and she purchased them both. Each would only require moderate alterations from him to hang properly over her unfashionable bosom. She also ordered an evening dress and left it to Henri's discretion as to style and color. He loved when his ladies trusted him so well. Best of all, she mentioned that everyone was saying Anita S. was probably having an affair with her doctor.
M. Henri was mulling over this last bit of news when the door of the shop opened.
