Note : thank you for your kind support with your reviews. I have been so much motivated by them that I hurried writing chapter 27 - Also because I was dying to know myself how I would handle the "day or week after" the famous Charleston's festivities...
Atlanta, Friday, June 4, 1876, 2 p.m.
The front of "The Robillard's Boutique" looked really good! "Dapper and elegant, like Scarlett," he laughed. He had no trouble finding it. The location was ideal on Atlanta's busiest shopping street.
He had come close, enough to see through the large display windows, but placed sideways so that he could not be guessed from the inside.
He was struck by the distinction of the place: the immense Corinthian columns separating the different exhibition spaces, the classicism of the mahogany furniture, the large chandeliers... Obviously, his wife's decorative talents had improved. In the foreground was the impressive portrait of the beautiful Solange Robillard, Scarlett's intriguing grandmother. Ah, it was a far cry from the first Kennedy store!
The place was an ode to femininity. Dresses, lace, hats, fans... A simple glance through the huge windows made the shoppers want to stop there.
On four articulated wooden mannequins, strategically scattered around the large exhibition hall, he noticed extravagant dresses, so original that he would have liked to buy them for his wife.
There were people in the store. Elegant ladies, saleswomen assisting them.
Then he saw her. Splendid in a green dress strewn with flowers which resembled, from what he could guess, magnolias. Her forms were magnified. Her hairstyle was different from the buns she liked. "She definitely decided to change everything, in her appearance as in her heart!"
A man stood next to her. With one hand, she pointed to a specific spot in the exhibition space. The style of that customer was ostentatious, a scarf around his neck. Nothing of the classical gentleman's features. He looked more like the artists Rhett had met in Paris. He envied this stranger who was rewarding with Scarlett's attention.
He would not be the one entitled to it today.
As soon as he had arrived this morning, he headed to the National Hotel. After resting from the fatigue of the journey, he chose a comfortable outfit. His two horses had remained in the stable of the house on Peachtree Street. There was no question of using the services of a hired carriage. He lacked physical exercise. He had seen it again at the famous Vayton party. Today's walk through the various places of planned visits would be beneficial to him.
After a frugal lunch at the hotel, he had lingered in the smoking room to make sure Scarlett had returned to the store after her lunch break.
He stopped at the florist, and bought two bouquets, intending to leave one temporarily at the hotel.
Just as he was leaving the store, he came across the one he wanted to avoid.
Belle Watling stood still when she saw him, but soon found her natural ease, and did not hide the joy of seeing her lover. They were in the middle of a busy street. Therefore, it was out of the question - she understood - to show the slightest familiarity. But her eyes were eloquent enough to let him know that she was delighted to see him.
Rhett glanced around. "Of course!" he grumbled. "What a bore to run into them both, and at the same time!" Across the street, coming out of the bookstore, stood Wilkes. At first bewildered to see him in Atlanta, he did not hide his disgust when he noted the presence of Rhett Butler's mistress at his side.
"What a despicable person," Ashley revolted. "He appears in town after years of absence and takes the opportunity to parade around the streets with his whore. My poor Scarlett - he spoke to her in thought - he will have spared you nothing!"
Belle had also recognized Ashley Wilkes. She relished this unexpected encounter, which she was sure would be reported within a week to that bitch Scarlett.
As for Rhett, a cold shiver ran down his spine. He had sworn to himself, on his way to Atlanta, that he would never set foot in Belle's house. Now, not only did he run into her by chance, but more importantly, that damned Wilkes was a witness. Of course, this one would hasten to distort and amplify what he had seen with Scarlett.
Belle pretended to be interested in the bouquets of flowers set up on the stalls of the store. This way, she could talk to him without attracting attention. Well, almost...
"How nice to see you, Rhett! I've missed you - missed you a lot. I'll have your room ready for tonight. Would you like me to arrange a poker night with your friends?" Her tone was suave, enveloping.
Rhett, still with his two bouquets in hand, inspected some roses, then, in a low voice, replied, "Thank you, Belle. I have a room reserved at the hotel. And I'm too tired to face a night of poker. It was nice to see you again." With that, he left in the direction of the address the concierge had given him, without his former mistress having had time to answer.
Still hiding next to the front of "The Boutique Robillard," Rhett inwardly swore at this twist of fate: "When Scarlett finds out I was seen in the middle of town with Belle, she's going to figure that... And then not! It doesn't matter to her what I'm doing, and with whom... Her mind is busy enough with her billionaire in Charleston and the love of her life in Atlanta."
He gazed at her one last time through the window, greedily memorizing every detail of her toilette, her finely fitted waist, the sway of her hips as she moved, the movement of her lips as they spoke to another man. He would then get his fill of this vision, for days, weeks, months. It had been eight days since he had seen her, and already his body was dying from the lack of her...
Finally he decided to leave his observation post. He had an appointment.
"I'm glad you were able to get away this afternoon, Mr. Tersène, because I wanted you to soak up the atmosphere of the store in full swing."
The man took a large sketchbook and a leather case out of his bag. With a broad smile, he replied to the shopkeeper: "I do so with great pleasure. Your approach is interesting, and I am happy to add my touch. I'll make myself scarce, as I see how busy you are."
Scarlett agreed and let him take out pencils and eraser.
Her chance meeting with Aimé Tersène, on the day of the housewarming of The Boutique Robillard ", had triggered the formulation of an idea that had been in gestation since her return from the visit to the workshops of " La Mode Duncan ". Her project was missing a touch of originality. She found it in the person of this "bohemian" artist, as he claimed himself.
Piqued by this character, she asked Ashley what this expression meant. Always eager to dazzle her with his knowledge, he launched into a long dissertation on the Romantic movement in Europe and the rejection of bourgeois domination. She soon lost interest in the conversation, but only retained the one element she was going to be able to take advantage of: an artist living from day to day, carefree, and content with poverty. And that was exactly what she needed, talent that she would not have to pay too much for!
She took one last appreciative look at the figure of this Frenchman, freshly arrived in America, having established a temporary base in this bustling, rebuilding Southern town.
His mustache was full, the tips rounded up defiantly. His pointed goatee was partially hidden by a carved meerschaum pipe. He bravely wore a beret, totally incongruous in good society. He only took it off to greet a lady. It was now resting against the back of the chair. His pants with big stripes, his shirt with embroidered lapels, whose collar was decorated by a purple scarf, had what to make turn over men and women. Because the man, in addition to having talent, had charm, certainly.
Satisfied that she had found the perfect match, Scarlett left him to work on her clients, and specifically on one of them, whose husband's meager fortune would make the finances of "The Boutique Robillard" a success.
It's been several times since Taisy Benett left her beautiful colonial-style home, with its impressive white columns, at the top of Peachtree Street, to marvel at the exclusive ready-to-wear collection of the famous designer Duncan Vayton.
However, she was not in need of expensive clothes. Her husband took great pleasure in spoiling her, and he never hesitated to take her to New York to shower her with gifts, "within reason," he would always tell her with a smile. Of course, their favorite shopping neighborhood was the Ladies Mile, where the big stores for the bourgeoisie were concentrated. This is how they became regular customers of the Iron Palace.
Having read about the great annual fashion show organized by billionaire Alexander Stewart, owner of the famous department store, Taisy begged her husband Harry to be in New York on March 6. With dazzled eyes, she was able to attend the first Haute Couture show on the American continent, given by a great couturier and friend of the famous Charles Worth.
Taisy was amazed by the originality of the cut of the dresses presented by "La Mode Duncan". Moreover, what finesse of execution to handle fine pearls, metallic thread embroidery and exotic bird feathers! Unfortunately, when her husband asked about the price range of these outfits, he quickly realized that they were only available to the wealthiest Americans. Moreover, he was told, wealth did not even guarantee that the privileged millionaire would be approved by the great designer to create a unique piece for her. Only the designer's good pleasure gave the lucky woman the right to this favor. Taisy was frustrated by this, as were most of the admirers of the collection.
What was her surprise, when she was invited to the opening of the new luxury clothing store in Atlanta, to discover a dozen - yes! A dozen designs by Duncan Vayton! That was the only day the entire line was on display. Since then, Scarlett has shown these beauties sparingly to protect them from unwanted handling and, above all, to accentuate the feeling of rarity, and therefore desire.
The young owner with jade eyes told her that it was the ready-to-wear collection that the great designer had designed as an experiment, and that there would probably be no restocking possible. This explained the outrageously high price of these jewels.
Scarlett later told her that the dresses were a draw for her to attract a select clientele who would be happy to buy her attractive "Johnson Ready-to-Wear" collection at more affordable prices. Taisy was the first to fall in love and bought several pieces from The Boutique Robillard on the first day it opened. But she still wanted to buy one of the famous "Vayton Ready-to-Wear" dresses. To do so, she had to convince her husband to spend more than usual. This was done at the beginning of this week. Taisy was ecstatic. She had returned today to take possession of her precious dress, after the seamstress had rectified the height of the skirt.
While her first saleswoman, Emma Whising, was telling a lady about the qualities of the fabrics available to make them into a cape, the second saleswoman was dealing with a couple who wanted to give their daughter a silver hair brushing kit as a gift.
Scarlett was satisfied. The expansion of her business was encouraging. The sale of the first dress Duncan had put on consignment - to please her, she'd understood from day one - had made her a confortable profit. She had been quick to pay back the purchase price by transferring the funds to the Duncan Fashion account.
"Of course, Duncan took the opportunity to write me a long letter of thanks split among tender remarks. She sighed. "I'll think about it later." She left the painter to talk with Taisy.
It had been so long since Scarlett had any friends! That's why she was enjoying the discussions with Taisy Bennett, and the topics were becoming more and more personal. They were about the same age, with the same slightly transgressive taste in entertainment and socializing. The couple was originally from New Orleans, which brought back fond memories for Scarlett. "Married for ten years, and they still look in love. How did they do it?" the divorced woman thought enviously.
As she approached, Taisy excitedly waved a newspaper. "Scarlett! Check it out! You're in this week's Atlanta Gazette! It's an article written by a reporter from New York, and reprinted in our local paper. He came to Charleston especially to cover the event. Would you like me to read it to you?"
Without waiting for a response from the owner of "The Boutique Robillard", Mrs. Benett continued: "Here is the title: "The Prince of Haute Couture Fashion and his show in Charleston".
"Scarlett, you'll never guess what the article's subtitle is: "The Thunder of Georgia struck Charleston!"
Upon hearing this, Scarlett burst out laughing, and checked to see if this unlikely mention had been printed. "She exclaimed, "My god !
Taisy laughed at her excitement, "I'll continue reading:
"Charleston, Sunday, May 28, 1876: If it is fashionable to assert that the greatest artists need to live in their bubble to create, one may conclude, after the most prestigious festive reception in South Carolina which took place, this Saturday, May 27, that the Prince of American Fashion, Duncan Vayton, irrefutably contradicted this premise."
"On March 6th, I had the chance to tell you about the first Haute Couture fashion show on the American continent. During its annual fashion show, the famous "Iron Palace" had highlighted the young and brilliant Couture artist, Duncan Vayton, whose fame had long been established on the prestigious Avenue de la Paix, in Paris, competing with that of his friend, the famous Charles Worth. In my column, I shared with you my amazement at the inventiveness and unique style of this artist, heir to one of the oldest and richest families in the United States of America. With his return from France, a revolution in the world of women's clothing took place. There is no question of him satisfying the demands of the ladies. It is Mr. Duncan Vayton who imposes his creative ideas, imagining the exclusive outfit that will best enhance the beauty and elegance of his privileged customers. With him was born the American Haute Couture."
Scarlett interrupted Taisy. "I had no idea, when I first asked to meet him, of the stature of the character. If I had," she added wryly, "I would have lost my nerve!"
Taisy laughed, "Now that I'm getting to know you better, I doubt very much that this revelation would have moved you in the least to divert you from your goal!"
Scarlett gave her friend's hand a friendly pat as she thanked her, "How nice it is to be able to chat with someone again in all honesty, without the need to smooth out my temper. I haven't had that since..." She paused.
Taisy, curious, asked her to clarify, "Since then?"
Scarlett continued, changing her tone: "Since my third husband. Before we were married."
Feeling that her mood had darkened, Taisy preferred to return to lighter conversation, promising herself to find out more about this mysterious man who had the audacity to divorce the captivating Scarlett O'Hara. She resumed her reading:
"With the artist profile out of the way, it's time to tell you what I witnessed the other night in Charleston, South Carolina. Duncan Vayton succeeded in his challenge to continue to amaze us. His New York fashion show was a symbol of innovation, even projection into the future through his unique style, free of the pompous trimmings that weigh down a woman's figure, rather than having to embellish it. His show in his hometown of Charleston again shook up the fashion canon, combining his avant-garde concepts of American Haute Couture with an immersion in the deepest roots of the Old South."
"Indeed, the reception, organized by the Vayton family, was placed under the hospices of homage: homage, first of all, to the recently deceased patriarch, the respected businessman Aymeric Vayton; homage to feminine elegance, of course, thanks to the creations of the couturier; homage also to the Old South, its traditions, the richness of nature and its history; homage, finally, to culture through a musical wandering between the popular hymns of the Civil War and the most famous romantic ballads of the past twenty years. »
Taisy paused for a moment to catch her breath. The other customers of the store and the saleswomen were also listening to the story of that event. Even Aimé Tersène had temporarily abandoned his pencil.
"From the delicacy of the food served, to the elegance of the staging, everything was in keeping with the famous Southern way of life for the privileged few invited, hand-picked from among the most venerable and wealthy families of South Carolina. The curiosity, even fever, that preceded the festive event, was amply rewarded when the first notes announced the beginning of the parade of "La Mode Duncan" creations specially dedicated to Southern roots.
"To say that I was enchanted by the show given by the fifteen young women serving as living models to wear the designer's dresses, is a weak word. I was blown away by the fairy tale ballet featuring the artwork imagined by artist Duncan Vayton, the "American Charles Worth" who - and I quote him - has crafted a poetic ode to our beloved Old South, transforming our flora and fauna into animated textile tableaux."
Scarlett listened with interest, pleased that Duncan's work was being recognized. Taisy continued, transported in spirit to that magical evening in which her new friend had not only participated, but had been the recognized actress:
"What a sophisticated choreography, between dances and rounds, plays of shadows and lights of the fourteen young women appearing and disappearing in light circonvolutions, to the rhythm of the music of the orchestra! Each textile creation, which equaled the quality of the pictorial works of the great painters, represented a flower or a bird of the former Confederate States, such as "The Yellow Jasmine of South Carolina" or "The Cherokee Rose of Georgia". Indigo blue and Charleston green marked their dominance in this orgy of the most refined embroidery I have ever seen."
Taisy, who had already read the article twice since this morning, first when she discovered it and then when she talked to her husband about it, warned Scarlett: "Listen carefully! Here's the most interesting part:"
"When, to everyone's surprise, the fifteenth mannequin appeared, taking on the charming appearance of a young child, the spectators were pleased that this ode to beauty ended on an angelic note, with the starry creation of the "Princess of Atlanta" accompanied by her twin doll, gracefully embodied by Miss Ella Lorena Kennedy, of Atlanta."
Scarlett could not help but applaud briefly. How happy her daughter was going to be thus put forward, with panache, she who had suffered so much from the vexations of her comrades due to the joint lack of respectability of her parents!
"The best is yet to come!" said the customer of "The Boutique Robillard" with a mischievous look:
"We were all amazed when the models gathered in the loggia. To the stirring music of "Lorena", the masterpiece of "La Mode Duncan" collection stunned the guests. The master of ceremonies announced "Thunder of Georgia". And indeed, we were all struck by the lightning bolt, or rather hundreds of luminous flashes of gold, silver and emeralds, ignited by the enchanting Mrs. Scarlett O'Hara, from Atlanta, mother of the "Princess of Atlanta".
Taisy stopped to watch Scarlett's reaction. When she only caught her raised eyelids in surprise, she continued reading the litany of compliments:
"I was able to speak with the great couturier afterwards. He confided in me that the pearl of his collection dedicated to the Old South, "Thunder of Georgia", had been created exclusively for Mrs. O'Hara. Explaining his creative process, the artist surprised me by saying that he had tried to imitate the sparkling emerald eyes of his muse. "I only partially succeeded because the fire that inhabits them is inimitable," the great couturier humbly confided to me. For my part, and in the general opinion of the conquered audience, it is the first time, during my long experience as a cultural journalist, that I was able to witness such an aesthetic symbiosis between the work and its incarnation, between the artist and his source of inspiration. To complete the picture, the ball, animated by the orchestra singing "Lorena", was opened by the Prince of American Fashion, Duncan Vayton, dragging his muse, Mrs. Scarlett O'Hara, on the dance floor. I will add only one word: "Hats off! The artist! Bravo!"
Happy with this conclusion, Taisy pointed to the bottom of the page, "Admire yourself without embarrassment, Scarlett. Look!" Underneath the article, the newspaper's illustrator had drawn the broad strokes of "Thunder of Georgia," the stylized glitter of the embroidery, the bristling filaments of the forearms. Scarlett's distinctive face, edged with her black hair, was easily recognizable.
Still stunned, Scarlett needed a few seconds to digest the reporter's flattering words and Duncan's thinly veiled statement. Then she squared her shoulders with pride and said in a low voice to her confidante, "This is going to make a lot of people in Atlanta and Charleston cringe with envy. My ears will be ringing all week to say that the Old Guard in Atlanta and my Aunts in Charleston are outraged at the sacredness of their scandalous Scarlett!" she added, her eyes laughing.
Taisy still couldn't believe the chance that brought her into contact with Scarlett O'Hara, the designer's muse who made her dream. She confided to her: "I would have liked so much to be present at this unforgettable evening, and to see you wearing the mysterious "Thunder of Georgia".
With a wave of her hand, Scarlett reassured her, "My dear Taisy, your wish will be easily granted. I'll invite you to the house. You can admire "Thunder of Georgia" at your leisure. Despite my objections, Duncan Vayton insisted that I take the dress with me, as well as my daughter's."
Admiringly, Taisy opened her hazel eyes wide: "What luck! Scarlett. I'm so glad. Tell me, I can't help but be curious. What does Duncan Vayton look like? With such talent, he must have some flaw, some infirmity, for him not to be so perfect..."
Scarlett's irises took on the look of a shady lake, "Can I tell you a secret? You won't tell, will you?" Scarlett amused herself with this confidence: "He is young and attractive, blue eyes, blond curls and a mouth..." Her clear laughter was taken up in cascades, followed by Taisy's.
After a few minutes of discussion, the two new friends parted ways. Mrs. Bennett took her precious "Vayton Ready-to-Wear" purchase with her.
Scarlett contemplated her store more calmly. Two more customers had entered, perfectly taken care of by the two saleswomen. She was satisfied with her selective choice of staff. She thought to herself, "It's reassuring to know that I can safely entrust the store to them when I need to go away again for a few days. She didn't name the destination, but "Charleston" popped into a corner of her brain.
The tiredness and the tension accumulated this last week were not yet digested. Scarlett judged that she could exceptionally afford to go home earlier, to rest quietly in her boudoir. She gave some instructions to her saleswomen, took leave of Aimé Tersène, who continued to draw the showroom animated by busy customers and saleswomen, and fixed an appointment with him for the next morning.
Then she steered her buggy towards Peachtree Street.
Atlanta, Friday, June 4, 1876, 3:30 pm
"I promise it won't take me that long to come see you again, my Bonnie. How could I wait two and a half years without visiting you? I am ashamed that I abandoned you. Like I abandoned your brother and sister."
He had been standing in front of the stele for an hour. From time to time, he caressed the stone where a name had been engraved: "Eugenia Victoria, Bonnie Blue Butler". With this mechanical gesture, which reassured him during each visit, he wanted to keep a physical contact, quite illusory, but which he needed after all this time spent away from her.
On his first return to the grave, he had a statue carved according to his instructions, made in Italy of turquin marble from Carrara, a vein with blue-gray streaks that had the particularity of changing color in hot weather. And Atlanta's summer weather conditions were conducive to this chameleon-like marble. The sculpture represented the silhouette of a little girl, seen from behind, her head buried in the wings of an angel in pristine white Carrara marble. The battered father hoped, with all his atheist heart, that the angel had taken Bonnie's soul with him to the safety of her Aunt Melly.
On the base of the statue was engraved: "To My beloved little girl". Without a name. It was useless.
On that first visit, he signed a contract with Atlanta's most renowned florist to have a bouquet of flowers or perennial plants with blue petals placed at the grave each week. No matter what the season, even if it meant importing plants from other states to meet his demand. He had also made a well-paid agreement with the cemetery janitor that there would never be any sign of weeds or accumulated dirt. Obviously, his instructions had been followed to the letter. A large bouquet of blue irises lined the large marble vase of the same Italian Carrare turquin vein, placed next to the statue.
Rhett noticed two other bouquets, their stems freshly cut, too: large lily flowers with big white corollas, and a small assemblage of field flowers set in a pot. "Scarlett and the children came to the grave yesterday or the day before."
Of course, he knew that he was not alone in his suffering. How Ella had touched him with her tenderness, when she was so affected herself! Like Scarlett and Wade. They were a family. "And I was the one who broke it." For the thousandth time, he cursed himself for divorcing her. But it was too late.
His bouquet of blue forget-me-nots, with the predestined name, was neatly tucked into a small additional vase that had been discreetly stored behind the stele.
He said a prayer. The only exception to his anticlericalism was reserved for Bonnie's grave. Then he headed back to the hotel.
He was getting tired, after all that back and forth, but he didn't care. He would have plenty of time to rest afterwards, before taking the train again at dawn the next day.
Now it was time to drop off the birthday present for Ella. He had remembered the date, this Sunday, June 7. That's why he had decided to make his necessary visit to his beloved daughter's grave coincide with his stepdaughter's birthday.
"You saved me twice last Saturday, Ella. Without you, I would have smashed Vayton's face in, committed a huge scandal and ruined Scarlett's happiness and yours. If it weren't for you, I don't think I could have held back a tear when I heard 'Bonnie Blue Flag,' so disturbed had I already been to see you dancing, and with such joy, with the man who, perhaps, will become your new stepfather."
After picking up the small bouquet of forget-me-nots from the hotel concierge and the large wrapped package stored in his hotel room, with his arms full, he resumed his walk toward his old home on Peachtree Street, not even taking the time to drink a glass of water.
Reflexively, he hurried forward, but it was useless. He had planned his schedule perfectly so that he could deliver the gift and flowers to one of Scarlett's employees. He had calculated his schedule many times so that he would be in front of the house by four o'clock at the latest. Scarlett would never allow herself to leave her store before 6 p.m. Seven o'clock would be the most likely time for her to return home.
Unless that damned Wilkes invited her again tonight, as the Aunts Robillard had implied when talking about their niece's regular outings with her brother-in-law.
No, he didn't want to see her. He had done everything to avoid seeing her, at least at home. Because he couldn't help but sneak a peek at her in front of "The Boutique Robillard".
No, he would not allow himself to come and disturb her newfound serenity. "The next time I visit Bonnie's grave, she'll probably be remarried. To Wilkes? The impetuous and powerful Vayton would shove him aside to better make her his own. His intentions were obvious last Saturday. His "Thunder of Georgia"... What a boast! What had happened after I left them, dancing languidly to 'Beautiful Dreamer'?" A pain in his stomach forced him to react. "I must drive away this nagging jealousy that serves no purpose. Only you matter, Scarlett. I want you to be happy at last. I understand that it will be without me."
A small voice, a thin trickle of hope that he still couldn't quite dry up, remarked, "But then, why Forget-Me-Not if I want her to forget me?" Rhett dismissed any hidden meaning with a wave of his hand. It wasn't the first time, nor the last, that his actions toward his wife - "No! I've got to stop this game, it's about my 'former wife'!" - were illogical. He had always feared that he would lose his footing in front of her if he showed the slightest emotion, even to the point of losing his mind.
It was 4 p.m. He was going to ring the bell at the entrance, hand over the package and the flowers, and then leave again very quickly for the hotel, for his loneliness, for the void.
As he climbed the last step, he was passed by an impatient and rude delivery man who juggled to free one of his hands for a moment to ring the bell. The employee was carrying a huge bouquet of pink and white roses on both arms. How many were there? Probably about fifty.
Rhett quickly came to a conclusion: "This ridiculous profusion does not fit into Wilkes' budget. No need for a sender's business card. It's all Vayton.
Disgusted, he looked at his little bouquet of forget-me-nots, so modest in comparison to the luxurious roses, that he felt ashamed. Just as he threw his "Forget-Me-Not" in rage, the door opened.
Instead of Pork, it was Scarlett who appeared. She had time to realize that Rhett was there, and that he had just thrown a bouquet down the stairs in front of her.
The florist's delivery man had regained some semblance of politeness. He greeted the lady and told her that she would find a card inside for Mrs. Scarlett O'Hara.
Fortunately, Pork arrived and unloaded the bulky bouquet. He immediately noticed his former employer. "Messie Rhett, I'm so glad to see you again!"
Rhett was unable to speak, taken by surprise by this situation that he had not foreseen. He gave him a thin smile.
Pork, realizing that the mood was not one of reunion, hurried into the hall to find a huge, suitable vase.
Rhett was hot. He was sweating. He was thirsty and exhausted from a day of walking in the sun. Everything was spinning around him. It was for these factual reasons that he explained to himself why his hands were shaking and his legs were threatening to give out. Everything was going wrong. He was in a hurry to leave.
He did not look Scarlett in the eye as he placed the large package at her feet. He simply said, as casually as possible, "Good afternoon, Scarlett. I came by to drop off this gift for Ella's birthday on Sunday. Could you tell her that her Uncle Rhett sends his love? Goodbye! I hope you have a great day." Then he made the gesture of turning around to go back down the steps.
Instead of answering him, Scarlett walked past him and quickly went down the stairs to pick up the bouquet that was lying carelessly in the grass.
"Forget-Me-Not"! I love them, Rhett. Why did you throw them away?"
Her former husband's sardonic laughter echoed mournfully: "Oh, please, My Dear! Don't pretend! These poor bulbs are pathetic, ridiculous in comparison to the sublimely beautiful armful of roses. My gesture was mediocre! Like everything I did for you" He was taken by a dizziness that forced him to suddenly cling to the staircase banister.
Realizing, with concern, his unsteady balance, Scarlett rushed to support his arm. She was panting. "My heart is going to explode" she said inwardly. In an abnormally high and nervous voice, she intimated to him:
"I beg you to stop your ridiculous behavior. You are not well, and are ready to collapse. Come home to cool off and rest for a while."
Not waiting for him to object, she went back inside.
"Showing physical weakness in front of her! No humiliation will be spared me!" Rhett grumbled to himself, but walked into the house he had not entered in twenty-five months.
Scarlett, a towel in hand, accompanied by Prissy who carried a small basin of water, ordered him to lie down on the couch of the parlor room.
Prissy greeted him, as naturally as if he were returning from a short absence of an hour, and then she slipped away.
The vertigo that had gripped him continued. When he saw Scarlett approaching with the towel, previously soaked in water, he snapped: "It's nothing at all. Don't bother. I'm leaving."
Scarlett didn't listen. She bent down to sponge his forehead, his cheeks, and wet his hair down to the nape of his neck.
They remained silent for a few moments. Only their combined jerky breaths disturbed the silence. It was Rhett who, fearing to be overwhelmed by emotion, wanted to put an end to their too close proximity. Pretending to want to rise, he was prevented by a hand posed on his shoulder, and a furious Scarlett.
Forcing her angry tone, she reproached him: "Since we last met, I've been playing at being your nurse. You are probably dehydrated. Your skin is scarlet and you're burning up. What happened?"
Rhett gave up. There was no point in opposing her when she had an idea in mind. He didn't have the strength. And above all, he didn't want to. He closed the eyes a short moment, to better savor the softness of her fingers applying a corner of the wet towel against his skin. He became intoxicated with her perfume combined with a slight perspiration caused by her day of work. This feral odor stimulated so much his desire that he had to sink his fingers in the upholstering of the sofa to prevent himself from embracing this too sensual young woman.
With difficulty, he came back to reality. "Is my nurse going to be satisfied if I admit I was careless?" His attempt to cheer her up was rewarded with a smile that she tried to mask.
"For the last four hours, I have been walking from one place to another, to the center of the city, to the cemetery, back to the hotel, and then... to your house. And I just realized that I didn't care to sit down for a moment, and especially not to drink."
Reassured that her experience as a nurse would confirm her diagnosis, Scarlett reproached him: "Rhett! You're totally unconscious! Walking for four hours in this heat at your age! You're dehydrated and on the verge of hypoglycemia. I'll have Dilcey cut a piece of cake. You need sugar to get you back on your feet."
Before leaving for the kitchen, she turned and advised him, "Take off that useless jacket and your lavaliere, so your skin can breathe."
Of these overheard remarks, Rhett retained only one that hurt him. "At your age!" Certainly she makes the comparison with her young and vigorous suitor," he remarked, bitterly.
He straightened up and sat down, his back straight. He had shown his weakness enough. It was necessary that he formally behave again.
But Scarlett was already back, accompanied by the cook, who greeted him with a "Welcome back, Messie Rhett!" He was happy to see all these employees again, having been part of Scarlett's world for so long.
The latter grabbed the carafe to pour a glass of water and handed it to him." Drink it! And I'll get you another one. You who swallow whiskey like milk, would you be afraid to drown in a glass of water?"
Scarlett continued to alternate brusqueness, cutting voice and mockery, with thoughtful concern.
A behavior that Rhett was no longer able to decipher.
To enrage her, he pretended to test the water: "Yuck... It's bland. You are a poor hostess, My Dear!"
Having succeeded in giving him her most murderous look, he burst out laughing, and devoured the piece of cake.
He felt better. Happy to have the power to tease her again and get her off her back. "But I commend you for your role as a private nurse, which is a worth a prelacy."
It was too much! Scarlett realized he had used a word she wouldn't understand on purpose. How did he retain the power to irritate her so easily?
Before she could shoot another poisonous arrow at him, Pork announced himself with a knock. "Where shall I put the big vase with the roses, Ma'ame Scarlett? And the little bouquet?"
She told him to put the roses in the dining room, and to bring the bouquet of forget-me-nots here in the living room. A minute later, he reappeared with the Forget-Me-Nots. "Here is the envelope that was attached to the bouquet of roses."
"Pork! Could you prepare the buggy? You'll have to take Mr. Rhett back to his hotel." He nodded. Looking at his former employer, he asked, "When do you want to leave, Messie Rhett?"
Rhett watched Scarlett as she opened the envelope and read the card. A soft smile, which he had seen her express in the past only in front of Ashley, soothed her physiognomy.
He stood up abruptly and answered Pork authoritatively, "Right away. I'm leaving right now."
Surprised by this sudden decision, Scarlett snapped out of her reverie, "Are you sure this is safe, Rhett? Are you feeling better?"
Readjusting his lavaliere, and putting on his jacket, he retorted, exaggerating his drawl: "Perfectly well, Dearest. Like a young man. I thank you for giving me your care so... relaxing. " Then his voice became harder, so that no emotion would show: "I'll take my leave. I don't know when we will meet again. I wish you every success in your new venture."
He was already on his way out the door: "Would you please tell Ella and Wade that I love them? Please let them know that I will be glad to hear from them by letter or telegram."
He put his hat back on. Turning his back to her, he said, "Goodbye, Scarlett. Be happy!"
Scarlett was taken aback by his sudden change in mood. She swept her eyes from right to left, trying to answer him something, trying to calm the inexplicable panic that invaded her.
A loud bombshell rushed down the stairs from the second floor. The red-haired mane rushed to Rhett who had opened the door and hugged his waist: "Uncle Rhett! How nice to see you again! But, are you leaving already?" Ella's face, so expressive, went from joy to disappointment.
Rhett hugged her. "My little Ella, I came especially to drop off your birthday present. You will open it on Sunday. Be a good girl. Will you write and tell me how your birthday party went, because I assume your mother has one planned with your friends."
Ella began to nod. Of course she would write to him. And then an idea came to her, which she promptly told him: "Uncle Rhett, why don't you come to my birthday party? Uncle Ashley will be there and so will Uncle Henry. But my joy will only be complete if you are with us."
Rhett didn't know what to say. He was about to come up with an excuse. Maybe he should tell her that he couldn't spend three more days in Atlanta while his work took him away to Charleston. Certainly not that his mother would prefer to stay one-on-one with her Uncle Ashley, without having to endure the awkward presence of her former husband.
Then he noticed that Ella's green eyes were clouded with tears. In a small, defeated voice, she whispered: "This will be the third anniversary that you are not present. I understand..." She stopped. Understanding that his stepdaugther would never be important enough for him.
Rhett's throat tightened. He caught Scarlett's gaze.
In a reassuring tone, she addressed her daughter: "I'm sure your Uncle Rhett will be able to free himself and come to your party on Sunday."
Turning to him, she asked, "Isn't that right, Rhett? Will you agree to stay here three more days to please the 'Princess of Atlanta'?"
Without further thought, Rhett stroked Ella's cheek, "Of course, what wouldn't I do for my daughter?"
He lifted his hat to Scarlett, and left to join Pork in returning to the hotel.
Three days, three long days before he saw her again.
The waltz of contradictory feelings and hopes was resuming.
Note : I do not own the story and the character of Gone with the Wind which belong to Margaret Mitchell. I created the "world" of Duncan Vayton and Blanche Bonsart.