XVII
“I’mgoing to tell you the story of Anne Page as I know it,” said Fontenelle, as they sat in a corner of the almost deserted smoking-room. “You may hear all sorts of versions, and I should like you to listen now to the true one.”
He smiled, as he lighted a cigarette.
“You,also, are a student of psychology, doctor, and it has always seemed to me that Anne Page is a singularly interesting study.
“Nowadays in this age of modern thought, perhaps I should rather say in this age of fads and cranks, through which men and women are groping towards a different conception of life, her conduct would not have been so amazing.
“If she had been a modern woman, filled with the latest ideas of the sanctity of passion, whatever that may mean; the duty of leading her own life, and so forth, one might class her with a number of earnest feminine enthusiasts whose brains, like the old bottles of Scripture,are unequal to the strain of the new wine of recent ideas.”
“She doesn’t fit inthere,” returned the doctor, smiling.
“Think of it!” exclaimed François with sudden animation. “A simple gentle woman of twenty years ago. A woman who had led the narrowest of lives; ignorant of men; ignorant of passion—till at the age of thirty-seven she falls in love, and is loved by a man ten years younger than herself. And that man, René Dampierre.”
The doctor started. “You mean the painter?”
François nodded. “She was his mistress for three years.”
Both men smoked in silence for a few moments.
“One might have guessed,” said the doctor quietly, “that she would choose a lover worthy of her.”
“Anne is an unconscious artist,” returned Fontenelle. “It was the most beautiful love affair I have ever known. The only perfect one—thanks to her courage and self-sacrifice.
“Anne is a simple woman in the sense that all her emotions are unsophisticated, original, generous. But she is also the wisest woman I ever met.
“She knew René better than he knew himself. That is to say, she knew men—or rather divined their natures, by her sixth sense of intuition.
“She might have married him. He wanted to marry her. But she knew what the result would be.
“Oh, René was not a brute,” he exclaimed in answer to his companion’s sudden movement. “Far from it. Except for his genius, he was the average kindly natured man. But Anne very wisely took his genius into account. He was not the man to marry, and she knew it. She is proud, as only a woman of her type can be proud. And then—here felt the artist in life—this was her first and last passion, the only vital emotion she had ever experienced in an existence otherwise incredibly grey, incredibly monotonous. She wanted to make it a perfect memory for herself, as well as for him.”
He paused a moment, throwing back his head against the padded chair, while he watched the rings of smoke he was blowing.
“And so,” he went on presently, “she made a resolve which few women would have found the courage either to make, or what is more important—to keep. She determined to stay with him only while his first passion lasted.She made up her mind to go even before the first cloud was in the sky,—at any rate before it was visible tohim. Women have keener eyes than men for rising clouds.”
The doctor was silent. “Rightly or wrongly,” he went on, “she felt that only in this way, only by running no risk of injuring either him or his career, she was justified in taking her little measure of happiness. She knew him very well,” he added meditatively. “René was as weak as most of us, weaker than some perhaps, where women are concerned. He would have been unfaithful, but he could never take his unfaithfulness callously. He would have been torn perpetually between his desires, and his dread of hurting her. And his work would have suffered terribly. Anne was right to go.”
“You speak as an artist,” remarked the doctor drily.
“I can speak in no other way,” returned François. “René Dampierre was a great man with a definite work to do.”
“But Dampierre,—René Dampierre?” The doctor uttered the name with respect. “He must have died soon afterwards, surely?”
“Eighteen months afterwards. But not, I regret to tell you, of a broken heart.”
François placed the end of his cigarettein the ash-tray before him, and ground it to powder. His smile was a curious blend of sadness and irony.
“It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. The result of a fall from his horse. He was riding at Chantilly.”
“And you mean that——?”
“That Anne was right to go. She knew the woman before René himself guessed the truth. She suffered I know, or perhaps as Idon’tknow. But not so horribly, I think, as they would both have suffered if she had stayed. And she made her exit with dignity.” He smiled again. “I am a Frenchman, doctor, and I suppose the love ofle beau gesteis in my blood. I take off my hat to Anne Page.”
When Dr. Dakin spoke, it was in a voice from which he could not banish indignation.
“It seems incredible! That he could forget a woman like that, I mean.”
His own faithful nature rose up in revolt at the outrage to all his sentiments of enduring love.
“He didn’t,” returned François quickly. “Anne had no real rival. She may rest in peace. Fate was kind to her—and perhaps to him,” he added. “Their love while it lasted, was perfect, and death settled the future. You are thinking that if any womanwas worthy of fidelity it was Anne Page? I agree with you. But when a woman late in life falls in love with a genius——” he made a gesture with his hand, and left the sentence unfinished.
“Tragic, doctor, I admit. But it’s life,—and Anne knew and accepted it.”
The faint irony which he could seldom keep out of his voice, was almost submerged by something that sounded like real emotion.
“You knew them both very well, of course?” asked Dr. Dakin, after quite a long silence. “When they were together, I mean.”
“I was with them nearly every evening, when they entertained all the men best worth knowing, in Paris.It must have struck you that Anne is a woman of unusual mental distinction?”
“She is a very brilliant woman.”
“That is easily discernible when, as with you, she has a chance of real conversation. She has naturally a keen quick mind, and she learnt to talk in a very admirable school.
“The evenings at the flat in the Rue de Fleurus are still remembered in Paris.”
He smiled to himself, as though in thought he had gone back to those evenings.
“I wish I could put before you doctor, the charm of their home life. There has beennothing like it since. That sounds terribly middle-aged, doesn’t it? I realize that I’m growing old, when I think of the society of twenty years ago, as incredibly brilliant and fascinating.
“At any rate it was composed of the men and women who have since made their mark on our age. They are well known names, at any rate to a man like you who interests himself in our countrymen as well as in your own.
“Among the painters there were Giroux, and Bussières, and Deslon. All men associated with the Impressionist movement. Thouret the novelist, and Dacier the poet, were intimate friends. They met Anne first at Fairholme Court, with me, and they were always devoted to her. Then there was Matignon the critic, a fine old man, who adored her. And Bellet, and Courtois—I could go on quoting indefinitely. They had a flat in the Rue de Fleurus, beautiful as only Anne knows how to make a home beautiful. It overlooked the Luxembourg gardens, and was close to my present studio. I remember it always full of sunshine, and I can see Anne arranging the flowers, (every room was full of flowers), and looking up from them to laugh.
“She was so radiantly happy it was a joy tosee her. And she grew so beautiful. She learnt to dress, of course. Beautiful dress is one of her instincts, as you see even now. What a hostess she was! She became the fashion in our set,—René’s and mine. The men raved about her. They foundpiquante, that touch of English shyness and modesty which she combines so oddly with dignity. She held a real salon, and a very brilliant one too, in the Rue de Fleurus. Those were herbeaux jours.”
“I can imagine it,” said the doctor.
“That sort ofménageis only possible in Paris,” observed François. “Even there, it’s not without its difficulties. But she surmounted them by her very unconsciousness and simplicity. Some of the women even, were won over. One or two of the wives of men in René’s circle were her intimate friends. They went to her as we all did, for advice and sympathy.”
“Just as we all go now to be consoled,” put in Dr. Dakin.
“Precisely. And one of the secrets of her power of drawing confidence, is that Anne is by nature a maternal woman—a mother.”
“That’s the pity of it.”
“I agree. Life hasn’t given her everything. But at least it gave her threeunforgetable years, and a memory which has kept her sweet and fresh and young as in her girlhood she could never have been.”
“And she went away,” said the doctor gently, “in the midst of her happiness?”
“She went away quietly, simply, with no fuss, as she does everything. With no farewell scene, or anything of that sort. She left him a letter, and with me, a message. The hardest I ever had to deliver in my life.”
Fontenelle got up, and threw the end of his cigarette into the fire.
“And then she travelled?”
“For years. When they were together, she and Dampierre went to Italy every spring. I believe she has gone over all the old ground since then. She seems to have gone half over Europe as well. I used to get letters from Athens, from Constantinople, from Naples, Rome, Florence. Fortunately she was a rich woman, able to work off her restlessness.”
He laughed a little. “That was one of her adorable simplicities. It never occurred to her that the possession of a fortune made any difference to the situation. She only looked upon it as a means of independence and freedom when her happiness should come to an end. And she was right. René never thought of it either. In some ways he was aschildlike and as unworldly a creature as she. He had inherited a fairly good income from his father. He would not have known what to do with more. That’s Anne Page’s story, doctor. I don’t know how it strikes an Englishman, but to me it seems rather a wonderful one because of the type of woman to whom it belongs.”
“Yes,” returned Dr. Dakin meditatively. “One would have thought that convention, or religious prejudice——”
Fontenelle laughed. “She is untouched by either.C’est un vrai caractère, cette chère Anne Page!Until she came to Paris, she hadn’t mixed enough with the world even toknowits conventions. Religion? Well, ‘by their fruits ye shall know them,’ and if the fruits of the Spirit are faith and hope, and the charity which suffers long and is kind, there never was a woman who has more absolutely attained the results of religion. It’s not a satisfactory result for the moralist, I admit,” he added.
“But in this very interesting and amazing world, the moralists don’t have it all their own way,” observed the doctor.
“So far as creeds and dogmas are concerned, Anne is a born pagan. It is not that she has examined and rejected them.They simply don’t appeal to her nature. When as young men we first met her, we called herFlora, amongst ourselves. She struck us even then as a curious blend of Madonna and goddess. And the physical appearance has a mental and moral parallel. I remember once when I wanted to tease her, I asked what had become of her religion.
“She looked at me with those childlike eyes of hers and said:
“‘I never had any,—in the sense you mean. By being with René I’m not hurting any one. And it’s only by hurting people one does wrong.’
“Then—I admit it was cruel of me, but I was curious—I said that some people had refrained from doing what she had done, for the sake of example to humanity. Her reply was ‘But apart from religion, people haven’t yet decided whatisthe right way to arrange their lives.’”
Dr. Dakin smiled. “In view of the modern ferment of opinion, she was right there.”
François pushed his chair back, with a movement of impatience.
“Well now what’s to be done? The tale of her incredibly evil past will spread I suppose, and Dymfield will become impossible.”
He laughed rather savagely.
“It’s quite an amusing notion that scandal should attack a gentle woman of Anne’s age. Yet I imagine that few of the natives of a village possess a sense of humour.”
“I don’t think the story will spread. The vicar as I told you is absolutely incredulous, and no one else has heard it.”
“Except Madame?” hinted François. “I don’t wish to suggest an unkindness. But women, you understand? A whisper to a dear friend—hein?”
“My wife is devoted to Miss Page,” said the doctor shortly. “I shall warn her; but she will be indignant at the mere suggestion of betrayal.”
“Parfaitement!” returned François with a bow. “Pardon me. You will probably find Miss Page in Paris,” he added. “She was expected to-day.”
“So much the better. It will be a great pleasure.”
The doctor rose. “Good-night,” he said, extending his hand cordially. “And thank you for this talk. Perhaps if you decide not to go to Egypt, you will do us the honour of staying with us a little later, when my wife comes back? Our friendship for Miss Page makes a bond between us,” he added, in his pleasant sincere voice.
François met his eyes for an instant. They were full of the kindliness and instinctive liking he felt for the man he was addressing.
“A thousand thanks. But I think I am almost certain to go to Egypt.”
“Another time then. I shall only sayau revoir.”
François followed him into the hall, and watched him step into a hansom, and give the address of his hotel to the driver.
When he turned away, there was a curious expression about his lips, which presently deepened into a smile that was partly cynicism, partly something else.
He was reflecting on the curious encounters liable to befall a man like himself. He thought of the evening’s conversation, and smiled again to think how completely till this moment he had failed to realize the humour of its friendly nature.
“C’est un honnête homme. Il ne méritait pas ça——”
François dismissed the subject of Dr. Dakin’s deserts with a mental shrug, as he went upstairs to his room, in which a bright fire was burning.