They were very economical; they had a little money; and all through the scorching Roman summer the months passed as in a dream. They went on living their lonely, happy life, without seeing any one except Urania, who came to Rome now and again, looked them up, lunched with them at the studio and went back again in the evening. Then Urania wrote to them that Gilio could stand it no longer at San Stefano and that they were going abroad, first to Switzerland and then to Ostend. She came once more to say good-bye; and after that they saw nobody.
In the old days Duco had known an artist here and there, a fellow-countryman painting in Rome; now he knew nobody, saw nobody. And their life in the cool studio was like life in a lonely oasis amid the torrid desert of Rome in August. For economy's sake, they did not go into the mountains, to a cooler spot. They spent no more than was absolutely necessary; and none the less this bohemian poverty, in its coloured setting of triptych and chasuble, spelt happiness.
Money, however, remained scarce. Duco sold a water-colour once in a way, but at times they had to resort to the sale of a curio. And it always went to Duco's heart to part with anything that he had collected. They had few needs, but the time would come when the rent of the studio fell due. Cornélie sometimes wrote an article or a sketch and bought out of the proceeds what she needed for her wardrobe. She possessed a certain knack of putting on her clothes, a talent for looking smart in an old, worn blouse. She was fastidious about her hair, her skin, her teeth, her nails. With a new veil she would wear an old hat, with an old walking dress a pair of fresh gloves; and she wore everything with a certain air of smartness. At home, in her pink tea-gown, which had lost its colour, the lines of her figure were so charming that Duco was constantly sketching her. They hardly ever went to a restaurant now. Cornélie cooked something at home, invented easy recipes, fetched afiascoof wine from the nearestolio e vino, where the cab-drivers sat drinking at little tables; and they dined better and more cheaply than at theosteria. And Duco, now that he no longer bought things from the dealer in antiques on the Tiber, spent nothing at all. But money remained scarce. Once, when they had sold a silver crucifix for far less than it was worth, Cornélie was so dejected that she sobbed on Duco's breast. He consoled her, caressed her and declared that he didn't care much about the crucifix. But she knew that the crucifix was a very fine piece of work by an unknown sixteenth-century artist and that he was very unhappy at losing it. And she said to him seriously that it could not go on like this, that she could not be a burden to him and that they had better part; that she would look about for something to do, that she would go back to Holland. He was alarmed by her despair and said that it was not necessary, that he was well able to look after her as his wife, but that unfortunately he was such an unpractical fellow, who could do nothing but splash about a bit with water-colours and even that not well enough to live on. But she said that he must not talk like that; he was a great artist. It was just that he did not possess a facile, money-making fertility, but he ranked higher on that account. She said that she would not live on his money, that she wanted to keep herself. And she collected the scattered remnants of her feminist ideas. Once again he begged her to consent to their marriage; they would become reconciled with his mother; and Mrs. Van der Staal would give him what she used to give him when he used to live with her at Belloni's. But she refused to hear either of marriage or of an allowance from his mother, even as he refused to take money from Urania. How often had Urania not offered to help them! He had never consented; he was even angry when Urania had given Cornélie a blouse which Cornélie accepted with a kiss.
No, it couldn't go on like this: they had better part: she must go back to Holland and seek employment. It was easier in Holland than abroad. But he was so desperate, because of their happiness, which tottered before his eyes, that he held her tightly pressed to his breast; and she sobbed, with her arms round his neck. Why should they part, he asked. They would be stronger together. He could no longer do without her; his life, if she left him, would be no life. He used to live in his dreams; he now lived in the reality of their happiness.
And things remained as they were: theycouldnot alter anything; they lived as thriftily as possible, in order to keep together, He finished his landscapes and always sold them at once, much too cheaply, so as not to have to wait for the money. But then poverty threatened once more; and she thought of writing to Holland. As it happened, however, she received a letter from her mother, followed by one from one of her sisters. And they asked her in those letters if it was true, what people were saying at the Hague, that she was living with Van der Staal. She had always looked upon herself as so far from the Hague and from Hague people that it had never occurred to her that her way of life might become known. She met nobody, she knew nobody with Dutch connections. Anyhow, her independent attitude was now known. And she answered the letters in a feminist tone, declared her dislike of marriage and admitted that she was living with Van der Staal. She wrote coldly and succinctly, so as to give those people at the Hague the impression that she was a free and independent woman. They knew her pamphlet there, of course. But she understood that she could now no longer think of Holland. She gave up her family as hopeless. Still it tore something in her, the unconscious family-tie. But that tie was already greatly loosened, through lack of sympathy, especially at the time of her divorce. And she felt all alone: she had only her happiness, her lover, Duco. Oh, it was enough, it was enough for all her life! If only she could make a little money! But how? She went to the Dutch Consul, asked his advice; the visit led to nothing. She was not suited for a nurse: she wanted to earn money at once and had no time for training. She could serve in a shop, of course. And she applied, without saying anything to Duco; but, notwithstanding her worn cloak, they thought her too much of a lady wherever she went and she thought the salary too small for a whole day's work. And, when she felt that she hadn't it in her blood to work for her bread, despite all her ideas and all her logic, despite her pamphlet and her independent womanhood, she felt hopeless to the point of despair and, as she went home, weary, exhausted by climbing stairs and by useless conversations and appeals, the old plaint rose to her lips:
"O God, tell me what to do!"
She wrote regularly to Urania, in Switzerland, at Ostend; and Urania always wrote back very kindly and offered her assistance. But Cornélie always declined, afraid of hurting Duco. She, for herself, felt no such scruples, especially now that it was being borne in upon her that she would not be able to work. But she understood those scruples in Duco and respected them. For her own part, however, she would have accepted help, now that her pride was wavering, now that her ideas were falling to pieces, too weak to withstand the steady pressure of life's hardships. It was like a great finger that just passed along a house of cards: though built up with care and pride, everything fell flat at the least touch. The only things that stood firm and unshakable amid the ruins were her love and her happiness. Oh, how she loved him, how simple was their happiness! How dear he was to her for his gentleness, his calmness, his lack of irritability, as though his nerves were strung only to the finer sensibilities of the artist. She felt so deliciously that it was all imperturbable, that it was all settled for good. Without that happiness they could never have dragged their difficult life along from day to day. Now she did not feel that burden every day, as though they were dragging the load along from one day to the next. She now felt it only sometimes, when the future was quite dark and they did not know whither they were dragging the burden of their lives, in the dusk of that future. But they always triumphed again: they loved each other too well to sink under the load. They always found a little more courage; smiling, they supported each other's strength.
September came and October; and Urania wrote that they were coming back to San Stefano, to spend a couple of months there before going for the winter to Nice. And one morning Urania arrived unexpectedly in the studio. She found Cornélie alone: Duco had gone to an art-dealer's. They exchanged affectionate greetings:
"I am so glad to see you again!" Urania prattled, gaily. "I am glad to be back in Italy and to put in a little more time at San Stefano. And is everything as it used to be, in your cosy studio? Are you happy? Oh, I need not ask!"
And she hugged and kissed Cornélie, like a child, still lacking the strength of mind to condemn her friend's too free existence, especially now, after her own summer at Ostend. They sat beside each other on the couch, Cornélie in her old tea-gown, which she wore with her own peculiar grace, and the young princess in her pale-grey tailor-made, which clung to her figure in a very up-to-date manner and rustled with heavy silk lining, and a hat with black feathers and silver spangles. Her jewelled fingers toyed with a very long watch-chain which she wore round her neck: the latest freak of fashion. Cornélie was able to admire without feeling envious and made Urania stand up and turn round in front of her, approved of the cut of her skirt, said that the hat looked sweet on her and examined the watch-chain attentively. And she plunged into these matters ofchiffons: Urania described the dresses at Ostend; Urania admired Cornélie's old tea-gown; Cornélie smiled:
"Especially after Ostend, eh?" she laughed, merrily.
But Urania meant it seriously: Cornélie wore it with suchchic! And, changing the topic, she said that she wanted to speak very seriously, that perhaps she knew of something for Cornélie, now that Cornélie would never accept her, Urania's, assistance. At Ostend she had made the acquaintance of an old American lady, Mrs. Uxeley, a regular type. She was ninety years of age and lived at Nice in the winter. She was fabulously rich: an oil-queen's fortune. She was ninety, but still behaved as if she were forty-five. She dined out, went into society, flirted. People laughed at her but accepted her because of her money and her splendid entertainments. All the cosmopolitan colony visited her at Nice. Urania produced an Ostend casino-paper and read out a journalistic account of a ball at Ostend, in which Mrs. Uxeley was calledla femme la plus élégante d'Ostende. The journalist had been paid so much for it; everybody laughed and was amused by it. Mrs. Uxeley was a caricature, but with enough tact to get herself taken seriously. Well, Mrs. Uxeley was looking for somebody. She always had a lady companion with her, a girl, a young woman; and already numberless ladies had succeeded one another in her employ. She had had cousins living with her, distant cousins, very distant cousins and total strangers. She was tiresome, capricious, impossible; everybody knew that. Would Cornélie care to try it? Urania had already discussed it with Mrs. Uxeley and recommended her friend. Cornélie did not feel greatly attracted, but thought it worth thinking over. Mrs. Uxeley's companion was staying till November, when the old thing was returning through Paris to Nice. And at Nice they would see so much of each other, Cornélie and Urania. But Cornélie thought it terrible to leave Duco. She did not think that it would ever work. They were so greatly attached to each other, so much used to each other. From the money point of view it would be excellent—an easy life which attracted her, after that blow to her moral pride—but she could not think of leaving Duco. And what would Duco do at Nice! No, she couldn't, she simply couldn't: she must stay with him....
She felt a reluctance to go, like a hand that withheld her. She told Urania to put the old lady off, to let her look out for somebody else. She could not do it. What use to her was such a life—socially dependent, though financially independent—without Duco?
And, when Urania was gone—she was going on to San Stefano—Cornélie was glad that she had at once declined that stupid, easy life of dependence as companion to a rich old dotard. She glanced round the studio. She loved it with its precious colours, its noble antiques and, behind that curtain, her bed, behind that screen, her oil-stove, making the space look like a little kitchen; with the bohemianism of its preciousbibelotsand very primitive comforts, it had become indispensable to her, had become her home. And, when Duco came in, she kissed him and told him about Urania and Mrs. Uxeley. She was glad to be able to nestle in his arms. He had sold a couple of water-colours. There was no reason whatever to leave him. He didn't wish it either, he never would wish it. And they held each other tightly embraced, as though they were conscious of something that would be able to part them, an ineluctable necessity, as if hands hovered around them, pushing them, guiding them, opposing and inhibiting them, a contest of hands, like a cloud around them both: hands that strove by main force to sunder their radiant path of life, their coalescent line of life, as if it were too narrow for the feet of the two of them and the hands were trying to wrench it asunder, in order to let the broad track wind apart in two curves. They said nothing: clasped in each other's arms, they gazed at life, shuddered at the hands, felt the approaching constraint which already was clouding more closely around them. But they felt warm in each other's company; they locked up their little happiness tightly in their embrace and hid it between them, so that the hands might not point to it, touch it and thrust it aside....
And under their fixed gaze life softly receded, the cloud dispersed, the hands faded away and disappeared and their breasts heaved a sigh of relief, while she still remained lying against him and closed her eyes, as though in sleep....
But the life of constraint returned, the hovering hands reappeared, like a gentle mysterious force. Cornélie wept bitterly and admitted to herself and admitted to Duco: it could not go on any longer. At one moment they had not enough to pay the rent of the studio and had to apply to Urania. Gaps showed in the studio, colours vanished, owing to the sale of things which Duco had collected with love and sacrifice. But Lippo Memmi's angel, whom he refused to sell, still shone as of old, still holding forth the lily, in his gown of gold brocade. Around him on every side yawned melancholy spaces, with bare nails showing in the walls. At first they tried to hang other things in the place of those which had gone but they soon lost the inclination. And, as they sat side by side, in each other's arms, conscious of their little happiness but also of the constraint of life with its pushing hands, they closed their eyes, that they might no longer see the studio which seemed to be crumbling about them, while in the first cooler days a sunless chill descended shivering from the ceiling, which seemed higher and farther away. The easel stood waiting, empty. And they both closed their eyes and thus remained, feeling that, despite the strength of their happiness and love, they were being gradually conquered by life, which persisted in its tyranny and day by day took something from them. Once, while they were sitting thus, their arms relaxed and their embrace fell away, as though hands were drawing them apart. They remained sitting for a long time, side by side, without touching each other. Then she sobbed aloud and flung herself with her face on his knees. There was no more to be done life was too strong for them, speechless life, the life of the soft, persistent constraint, which surrounded them with so many hands. Their little happiness seemed to be escaping them, like an angelic child that was dying and sinking out of their embrace.
She said that she would write to Urania: the Forte-Braccios were at Nice. He listlessly assented. And, as soon as she received a reply, she mechanically packed her trunk, packed up her old clothes. For Urania wrote and told her to come, said that Mrs. Uxeley wanted to see her. Mrs. Uxeley sent her the money for her journey. She was in a desperate state of constant nervous sobbing and she felt as if she were being torn from him, torn from that home which was dear to her and which was crumbling about her, all through her fault. When she received the registered letter with the money, she had a nervous attack, complaining to him like a child that she couldn't leave him, that she wouldn't leave him, that she could not live without him, that she loved him for ever, for ever, that she would die, so far away from him. She lay on the sofa, her arms stiff, her legs stiff, crying out with a mouth distorted as though by physical pain. He took her in his arms and soothed her, bathed her forehead, gave her ether to drink, comforted her, said that everything would be all right again later.... Later? She looked at him vacantly. She was half mad with grief. She tossed everything out of the trunk again, all about the room—underclothing, blouses—and laughed and laughed. He conjured her to control herself. When she saw his frightened face, when he too began to sob on her breast, she drew him tightly to her, kissed him and comforted him in her turn. And everything in her became dulness and lethargy. Together they packed the trunk again. Then she looked round and, in a gust of energy, arranged the studio for him, had her bed taken away, pinned his own sketches to the walls, tried to build up something of what had gone to pieces around them, rearranged everything, did her best. She cooked their last meal; she made up the fire. But a desperate threat of loneliness and desertion reigned over everything. It was all wrong, it was all wrong.... Sobbing, they fell asleep, in each other's arms, close against each other.
Next morning he took her to the station. And, when she had stepped into her compartment, they both of them lost all their self-control. They embraced each other sobbing, while the guard was waiting to lock the door. And she saw Duco run away like a madman, pushing his way through the crowd; and, broken with misery, she threw herself back in her seat. She was so ill and distressed, so near to fainting, that a lady beside her came to her aid and bathed her face in eau-de-Cologne....
She thanked the lady, apologized for the trouble she had given and, seeing the other passengers staring at her with compassionate eyes, she mastered herself, sat huddled in her corner and gazed vacantly through the window. She went on, stopping nowhere, only alighting to change trains. Though hungry, she had not the energy to order food at the stations. She ate nothing and drank nothing. She travelled a day and a night and arrived at Nice late the following evening. Urania was at the station and was startled to see Cornélie look grey and sallow, dead-tired, with hollow eyes. And she was most charming: she took Cornélie home with her, looked after her for some days, made her stay in bed and went herself to tell Mrs. Uxeley that her friend was too unwell to report herself. Gilio came for a moment to pay Cornélie his respects; and she could not do other than thank him for these days of hospitality and care under his roof. And the young princess was like a sister, was like a mother and fed Cornélie up with milk and eggs and strengthening medicines. Cornélie let her do as she liked, remained limp and indifferent and ate to please Urania. After a few days, Urania said that Mrs. Uxeley was coming to call that afternoon, being anxious to see her new companion. Mrs. Uxeley was alone now, but could wait until Cornélie's recovery. Cornélie dressed herself as well as she could and with Urania awaited the old lady's arrival. She entered gushingly, with a torrent of words; and, in the dim light of Urania's drawing-room, Cornélie was unable to realize that she was ninety years old. Urania winked at Cornélie, who only smiled faintly in return: she was afraid of this first interview. But Mrs. Uxeley, no doubt because Cornélie was a friend of the Princess of Forte-Braccio, was very easy-mannered, very pleasant and free of all condescension towards her future companion; she enquired after Cornélie's health in a wearisome profusion of little exclamations and sentences and bits of advice. Cornélie, in the twilight of the lace-shaded standard-lamps, took her in with a glance and saw a woman of fifty, with the little wrinkles carefully powdered over, in a mauve-velvet gown embroidered with dull gold and spangles and beads. On the brown, waved chignon was a hat with a white aigrette. Her jewels kept on sparkling, because she was very fussy, very restless in her movements. She now took Cornélie's hands and began to talk more confidentially. So Cornélie would come the day after to-morrow. Very well. She was accustomed to pay a hundred dollars a month or five hundred francs, never less, but also never more. But she could understand that Cornélie would want something now, for new clothes: would she order what she wanted at this address and have it put down to Mrs. Uxeley's account? A couple of ball-dresses, two or three less dressy evening-frocks: in short, everything. The Princess Urania would tell her all about it and would go with her. And she rose, affecting the young woman, simpering through her long-handled lorgnette, but meanwhile leaning hard on her sunshade, working herself with a muscular effort along the stick of her sunshade, with a sudden twitch of rheumatism which uncovered all sorts of wrinkles. Urania saw her to the hall and came back shrieking with laughter; and Cornélie also laughed, but only listlessly. She really didn't care: she was more amazed at Mrs. Uxeley than amused. Ninety years old! What an energy, worthy of a better object, to remain elegant:la femme la plus élégante d'Ostende!
Ninety years old! How the woman must suffer, during the hours of her long toilet, while she was being made up into that caricature! Urania said that it was all false: the hair, the bust. And Cornélie felt a loathing at having to live for the future beside this woman, as though beside an ignominy. In the happiness of her love, a great part of her energy had become relaxed, as though their dual happiness—Duco's and hers—had unfitted her for any further struggle for life and diminished her zest for life; but it had refined and purified something in her soul and she loathed the sight of so much show for so vain and petty an object. And it was only necessity itself—the inevitability of the things of life, which urged and pushed her with a guiding finger along a line of life now winding solitary before her—that gave her the strength to hide within herself her sorrow, her longing, her nostalgia for everything that she had left behind. She did not talk about it to Urania. Urania was so glad to see her, looked upon her as a good friend, in the loneliness of her stately life, in her isolation among her aristocratic acquaintances. Urania accompanied her enthusiastically to dressmakers' establishments and shops and helped her to choose her new outfit. She did not care about it all. She, an elegant woman, a woman of innate elegance, who in her outward appearance had always fought against poverty and who, in the days of her happiness, was able, with the aid of a fresh ribbon, to wear an old blouse gracefully, was utterly indifferent to everything that she was now buying on Mrs. Uxeley's account. To her it was as though these things were not for her. She let Urania ask and choose; she approved of everything. She allowed herself to be fitted as though she had been a doll. She greatly disliked having to spend money at a stranger's expense. She felt lowered and humiliated: all her haughty pride of life was gone. She was afraid of what they would say of her in the circle of Mrs. Uxeley's friends, afraid lest they knew of her independent ideas, of her cohabitation with Duco, afraid of Mrs. Uxeley's opinion. For Urania had had to be honest and tell everything. It was only on Urania's eager recommendation that she had been taken by Mrs. Uxeley. She felt out of place, now that she would once more dare to play her part among all those people; and she was afraid of giving herself away. She would have to make believe, to conceal her ideas, to pick her words; and she was no longer accustomed to doing so. And all for that money. All because she had not had the energy, living with Duco, to earn her own bread and, gaily, independently, to cheer him in his work, in his art. Oh, if she could only have managed to do that, how happy she would have been! If only she had not allowed the wretched languor that was in her blood to increase within her like a morbid growth: the languor of her upbringing, her superficial, showy, drawing-room education, which had unfitted her for everything whatsoever! By temperament she was a creature of love as well as a woman of sensuousness and luxury, but there was more of love in her than of luxury: she would be happy under the simplest conditions if only she was able to love. And now life had torn her away from him, gradually but inexorably. And now her sensuous, luxurious nature was gratified, but in dependence; yet it no longer satisfied her cravings, because she could not satisfy her soul. In that lonely soul a miserable dissatisfaction sprang up like a riotous growth. Her only happiness was his letters, letters of longing but also letters of comfort. He wrote expressing his longing, but he also wrote enjoining courage and hope. He wrote to her every day. He was now at Florence, seeking his consolation in the Uffizi, in the Pitti Palace. He had found it impossible to stay in Rome; the studio was now locked up. At Florence he was a little nearer to her. And his letters were to her a love-story, the only novel that she read; and it was as though she saw his landscapes in his style, the same dim blending of colour and emotion, the pearly white, misty, dreamy distances filled with light, the horizon of his longing, as though his eyes were ever gazing at the vista in which she, on the night of departure, had vanished as in a mauve-grey sunset, a sky of the dreary Campagna. In those letters they still lived together. But she could not write to him in this strain. Though she wrote to him daily, she wrote briefly, telling him ever the same things in other words: her longing, her weary indifference. But she wrote of the happiness which she derived from his letters, which were her daily bread.
She was now with Mrs. Uxeley and occupied in the gigantic villa two charming rooms overlooking the sea and the Promenade des Anglais. Urania had helped her to arrange them. And she lived in an unreal dream of strangeness, of non-existence alone with her soul, of unlived actions and gestures, performed according to the will of others. In the mornings she went to Mrs. Uxeley in her boudoir and read her the French and American papers and sometimes a few pages of a French novel. She humbly did her best. Mrs. Uxeley thought that she read very nicely, only she said that Cornélie must cheer up a bit, that her melancholy days were over now. Duco was never mentioned and Mrs. Uxeley behaved as though she knew nothing. The great boudoir looked through the open balcony windows over the sea, where, on the Promenade, the morning stroll was already beginning, with the gaudy colours of the parasols striking a shrill note against the deep-blue sea, an expensive sea, a costly tide, waves that seemed to exact a mint of money before they would consent to roll up prettily. The old lady, already painted, bedizened and bewigged, with a white lace wrap over her wig against the draught, lay in the black and white lace of her white silk tea-gown on the piled-up cushions of her sofa. In her wrinkled hand she held the lorgnette, with her initials in diamonds, through which it amused her to peer at the shrill patches of the parasols outside. Now and then, when her rheumatism gave a twinge, she suddenly distorted her face into one great crease of wrinkles, under which the smooth enamel of her make-up almost cracked, like crackle-china. In the daylight she seemed hardly alive, looked like an automatic, jointed, stiff-limbed doll, which spoke and moved mechanically. She was always a trifle tired in the mornings, from never sleeping at night; after eleven she took a little nap. She observed a strictrégime; and her doctor, who called daily, seemed to revive her a little every day, to enable her to hold out until the evening. In the afternoon she drove out, alighted at the Jetée, paid her visits. But in the evening she revived with a trace of real life, dressed, put on her jewels and recovered her exuberance, her little exclamations and simpers. Then came the dances, the parties, the theatre. Then she was no more than fifty.
But these were her good days. Sometimes, after a night of insufferable pain, she remained in her bedroom, with yesterday's enamelling untouched, her bald head wrapped in black lace, a black satin bed-jacket hanging loosely around her like a sack; and she moaned and cried and shrieked and seemed to be begging for release from her torments. This lasted for a couple of days and occurred regularly every three weeks, after which she gradually revived again.
Her fussy conversation was limited to a constantly recurrent discussion of all sorts of family-matters, with appropriate annotations. She explained to Cornélie all the family-connections of her friends, American and European, but she enlarged more particularly upon the great European families which she numbered among her acquaintances. Cornélie could never listen to what she was saying and forgot the pedigrees again at once. It was sometimes unendurably tedious to have to listen for so long; and only for this reason, as though she were forced to it, Cornélie found the energy to talk a little herself, to relate an anecdote, to tell a story. When she saw that the old woman was very fond of anecdotes, riddles, and puns, she collected as many as she could from theVie parisienneand theJournal pour rireand kept them ready to hand. And Mrs. Uxeley thought her very entertaining. Once, as she noticed Duco's daily letter, she referred to it; and Cornélie suddenly discovered that the old lady was devoured with curiosity. Then she quietly told her the truth: her marriage, her divorce, her independent ideas, her meeting and her life with Duco. The old woman was a little disappointed because Cornélie spoke so simply about it all. She merely advised her to live discreetly and correctly now. What people said about former incidents did not matter so very much. But there must be no occasion for gossip now. Cornélie promised meekly. And Mrs. Uxeley showed her her albums, with her own photographs, dating back to her young days, and the photographs of all sorts of men. And she told her about this friend and that friend and, vain-gloriously, allowed the suggestion of a very lurid past to peep through. But she had always lived discreetly and correctly. That was her pride. And what Cornélie had done was wrong....
The hour or so from eleven to half-past twelve was a relief. Then the old woman regularly went to sleep—her only sleep in the twenty-four hours—and Urania came to fetch Cornélie for a drive or a walk along the Promenade or to sit in the Jardin Public. And it was the only moment when Cornélie more or less appreciated her new-found luxury and took pleasure in the gratification of her vanity. The passers-by turned round to stare at the two young and pretty women in their exquisite serge frocks, with their fashionable head-gear withdrawn in the twilight of their sunshades, and admired the Princess of Forte-Braccio's glossy victoria, irreproachable liveries and spanking greys.
Gilio maintained a reserved and respectful attitude towards Cornélie. He was polite but kept a courteous distance when he joined the two ladies for a moment in the gardens or on the Jetée. After the night in the pergola, after the sudden flash of his angry knife, she was afraid of him, afraid also because she had lost much of her courage and haughtiness. But she could not answer him more coldly than she did, because she was grateful to him as well as to Urania for the care shown her during the first few days, for their tact in not at once surrendering her to Mrs. Uxeley and in keeping her with them until she had recovered some of her strength.
In the freedom of those mornings, when she felt herself released from the old woman—vain, selfish, insignificant, ridiculous—who was as the caricature of her life, she felt that in Urania's friendship she was finding herself again, she became conscious of being at Nice, she contemplated the garish bustle around her with clearer eyes and she lost the unreality of the first days. At such times it was as though she saw herself again for the first time, in her light serge walking-dress, sitting in the garden, her gloved fingers playing with the tassels of her sunshade. She could hardly believe in herself, but she saw herself. Deep down within herself, hidden even from Urania, she concealed her longing, her home-sickness, her stifling discontent. She sometimes felt ready to burst into sobs. But she listened to Urania and joined in her laughter and talk and looked up with a smile at Gilio, who stood in front of her, mincing to and fro on the tips of his shoes and swinging his walking-stick behind his back. Sometimes, suddenly—as a vision whirling through the crowd—she saw Duco, the studio, the happiness of the past fading away for one brief moment. Then with her finger-tips she felt his letter of that morning, between the strips of gathered lace in front of her bolero, and just crushed the hard envelope against her breast, as something belonging to him that was caressing her.
And it was not to be denied: she saw herself and Nice around her; she became sensible of new life: it was not unreal, even though it was not actual to her soul; it was a sorrowful comedy, in which she—dismally, feebly, listlessly—played her part.
It was all severely regulated, as by rule, and there was no possibility of the least alteration: everything was done in accordance with a fixed law. The reading of the newspaper; her hour and a half to herself; then lunch. After lunch, the drive, the Jetée, the visits; every day, those visits and afternoon teas. Once in a way, a dinner-party; and in the evening generally a dance, a reception or a theatre. She made new acquaintances by the score and forgot them again at once and no longer remembered, when she saw them again, whether she knew them or not. As a rule people were fairly pleasant to her in that cosmopolitan set, because they knew that she was an intimate friend of the Princess Urania's. But, like Urania herself, she was sometimes conscious, from the feminine bearers of the old Italian names and titles which sometimes glittered in that set, of an overwhelming pride and contempt. The men always asked to be introduced to her; but, whenever she asked to be introduced to their ladies, her only reward was a nod of vague surprise. She herself minded very little, but she felt sorry for Urania. For she saw at once, at Urania's own parties, that they hardly looked upon her as the hostess, that they surrounded and made much of Gilio, but accorded to his wife no more than the civility which was her due as Princess of Forte-Braccio, without ever forgetting that she was once Miss Hope. And for Urania this contempt was more difficult to put up with than for herself. For she accepted herrôleas the companion. She always kept an eye on Mrs. Uxeley, constantly joined her for a minute in the course of the evening, fetched a fan which Mrs. Uxeley had left in the next room or did her this or that trifling service. Then she would sit down, against the wall, alone in the busily humming drawing-room, and gaze indifferently before her. She sat, always very smartly dressed, in an attitude of graceful indifference and weary boredom, tapping her little foot or unfolding her fan. She took no notice of anybody. Sometimes a couple of men would come up to her and she spoke to them, or danced with one of them, indifferently, as though conferring a favour. Once, when Gilio was talking to her, she sitting and he standing, and the Duchess of Luca and Countess Costi both came up to him and, standing, began to chaff him profusely, without honouring her with a word or a glance, she first stared at the ladies between her mocking lids, eyeing them from head to foot, and then rose slowly, took Gilio's arm and, with a glance which darted sharp as a needle from her narrowed eyes, said:
"I beg your pardon, but you must excuse me if I rob you of the Prince of Forte-Braccio, because I have to finish a private conversation."
And with the pressure of her arm she made Gilio move on a few steps, then at once sat down again, made him sit down beside her and began to whisper with him very confidentially, while she left the duchess and countess standing two yards away, open-mouthed with stupefaction at her rudeness, and furthermore spread her train wide between herself and the two ladies and waved her fan to and fro, as though to preserve a distance. She could do this sort of thing so calmly, so tactfully and haughtily, that Gilio was tickled to death and sat and giggled with delight:
"I wish Urania knew how to behave like that!" he said, pleased as a child at the diversion which she had afforded him.
"Urania is too nice to do anything so odious," she replied.
She did not make herself liked, but people became afraid of her, afraid of her quiet malice, and avoided offending her in future. Moreover, the men thought her pretty and agreeable and were also attracted by her haughty indifference. And, without really intending it, she achieved a position, apparently by using the greatest diplomacy, but in reality quite naturally and easily. While Mrs. Uxeley's egoism was flattered by her little attentions—always dutifully remembered and paid with a charming air of maternal solicitude, in contrast with which Mrs. Uxeley thought it delightful to simper like a young girl—Cornélie gradually gathered a court of men around her in the evenings; and the women became insipidly civil. Urania often told her how clever she thought her, how much tact she displayed. Cornélie shrugged her shoulders; it all happened of itself; and really she did not care. But still, gradually, she recovered some of her cheerfulness. When she saw herself standing in the glass, she had to confess to herself that she was better-looking than she had ever been, either as a girl or as a newly-married woman. Her tall, slender figure had a languorous line of pride that gave her a special grace; her throat was statelier, her bosom fuller; her waist was slimmer in these new dresses; her hips had become heavier, her arms more rounded; and, though her features no longer wore the look of radiant happiness which they had worn in Rome, her mocking smile and her negligent irony gave her a certain attraction for those unknown men, something more alluring and provoking than the greatest coquetry would have been. And Cornélie had not wished for this; but, now that it came of itself, she accepted it. It was foreign to her nature to refuse it. And, besides, Mrs. Uxeley was pleased with her. Cornélie had such a pretty way of whispering to her:
"Dear lady, you were in such pain yesterday. Don't you think you ought to go home a little earlier to-night?"
And then Mrs. Uxeley would simper like a girl who was being admonished by her mother not to dance too much that evening. She loved these little ways of Cornélie's; and Cornélie, with careless indifference, gave her what she wanted. And those evenings amused her more than they did at first; only, the amusement was combined with self-reproach as soon as she thought of Duco, of their separation, of Rome, of the studio, of the happiness of those past days, which she had lost through her lack of fortitude.
Two months had passed like this. It was January; and these were busy days for Cornélie, because Mrs. Uxeley was soon to give one of her celebrated evenings and Cornélie's free hours in the morning were now taken up with running all sorts of errands. Urania generally drove with her; and she came to rely upon Urania. They had to go to upholsterers, to pastry-cooks, to florists and to jewellers, where Cornélie and Urania selected presents for the cotillon. Mrs. Uxeley never went out for this, but occupied herself with every trifling indoor detail; and there were endless discussions, followed by more drives to the shops, for the old lady was anything but easy to please, vain as she was of her fame as a hostess and afraid of losing it through the least omission.
During one of these drives, as the victoria was turning into the Avenue de la Gare, Cornélie started so violently that she clutched Urania's arm and could not restrain an exclamation. Urania asked her what she had seen, but she was unable to speak and Urania made her get out at a confectioner's to drink a glass of water. She was very nearly fainting and looked deathly pale. She was not able to continue her errands; and they drove back to Mrs. Uxeley's villa. The old lady was displeased at this sudden fainting-fit and grumbled so that Urania went off alone to complete the errands. After lunch, however, Cornélie felt better, made her apologies and accompanied Mrs. Uxeley to an afternoon tea.
Next day, when she was sitting with Mrs. Uxeley and a couple of friends on the Jetée, she seemed to see the same thing again. She turned as white as a sheet, but retained her composure and laughed and talked merrily.
These were the days of the preparations. The date of the entertainment drew nearer; and at last the evening arrived. Mrs. Uxeley was trembling with nervousness like a young girl and found the necessary strength to walk through the whole villa, which was all light and flowers. And with a sigh of satisfaction she sat down for a moment. She was dressed. Her face was smooth as porcelain, her hair was waved and glittered with diamond pins. Her gown of pale-blue brocade was cut very low; and she gleamed like a reliquary. A triple rope of priceless pearls hung down to her waist. In her hand—she was not yet gloved—she held a gold-knobbed cane, which was indispensable when she wanted to rise. And it was only when she rose that she showed her age, when she worked herself erect by muscular efforts, with that look of pain in her face, with that twinge of rheumatism which shot through her. Cornélie, not yet dressed, after a last glance through the villa, blazing with light, swooning with flowers, hurried to her room and, already feeling tired, dropped into the chair in front of her dressing-table, to have her hair done quickly. She was just ready when the first guests arrived and she hastened to join Mrs. Uxeley. And the carriages rolled up. Cornélie, at the top of the monumental staircase, looked down into the hall, where the people were streaming in, the ladies in their long evening-wraps—almost more expensive even than their dresses—which they carefully gave up in the crowded, buzzing cloakroom. And the first arrivals came up the stairs, waiting so as not to be the very first, and were beamed upon by Mrs. Uxeley. The drawing-rooms soon filled. In addition to the reception-rooms, the hostess' own rooms were thrown open, forming in all a suite of twelve apartments. Whereas the corridors and stairs were adorned only with clumps of red and white and pink camellias, in the rooms the floral decorations were contained in hundreds of vases and bowls and dishes, which stood about on every hand and, with the light of the shaded candles, gave an intimate charm to the entertainment. That was the speciality of Mrs. Uxeley's decorations on great occasions: the electric light not used; instead, on every hand candles with little shades, on every hand glasses and bowls full of flowers, giving the effect of a fairy garden. Though perhaps the main outlines were broken, a most charming effect of cosiness was gained. Small groups and couples could find a place everywhere: behind a screen, in a loggia; you constantly found a spot for privacy; and this perhaps explained thevogueof Mrs. Uxeley's parties. The villa, suitable for giving a court ball, was used only for giving entertainments of a luxurious intimate character to hundreds of people who were quite unknown to one another. Each little set chose itself a little corner, where it made itself at home. A very tiny boudoir, all in Japanese lacquer and Japanese silk, was aimed at generally, but was at once captured by Gilio, the Contessa di Rosavilla, the Duchessa di Luca and Contessa Costi. They did not even go to the music-room, where a concert formed the first item. Paderewski was playing, Sigrid Arnoldson was to sing. The music-room also was lighted by shaded candles; and everybody whispered that, in this soft light, Airs. Uxeley did not look a day over forty. During the interval she simpered to two very young journalists who were to describe her party Urania, sitting beside Cornélie, was addressed by a Frenchman whom she introduced to her friend: the Chevalier de Breuil. Cornélie knew that Urania had met him at Ostend and that his name was coupled with the Princess of Forte-Braccio's. Urania had never mentioned De Breuil to her, but Cornélie now saw, by her smile, her blush and the sparkle in her eyes, that people were right. She left them to themselves, feeling sad when she thought of Urania. She understood that the little princess was consoling herself for her husband's neglect; and she suddenly thought this whole life of make-believe disgusting. She longed for Rome, for the studio, for Duco, for independence, love and happiness. She had had it all; but it had been fated not to endure. Everything around her was like one great lie, more brilliant than at the Hague, but even more false, brutal and depraved. People no longer even pretended to believe the lie: here they showed a brutal sincerity. The lie was respected, but nobody believed in it, nobody put forward the lie as a truth; the lie was nothing more than a form.
Cornélie wandered through the rooms by herself, went up to Mrs. Uxeley for a moment, in accordance with her habit, whispered to ask how she felt, whether she wanted anything, if everything was going well, then continued on her way through the rooms. She was standing by a vase, rearranging some orchids, when a woman in black velvet, fair-haired, with a full throat and bosom, spoke to her in English:
"I am Mrs. Holt. I dare say you don't know my name, but I know yours. I very much want to make your acquaintance. I have often been to Holland and I read Dutch a little. I read your pamphlet onThe Social Position of Divorced Womenand I thought a good deal of what you wrote most interesting."
"You are very kind. Shall we sit down? I remember your name too. You were one of the leaders of the Women's Congress in London, were you not?"
"Yes, I spoke about the training of children. Weren't you able to come to London?"
"No, I did think about it, but I was in Rome at the time and I couldn't manage it."
"That was a pity. The congress was a great step forward. If your pamphlet had been translated then and distributed, you would have had a great success."
"I care very little for success of that kind."
"Of course, I can understand that. But the success of your book is also for the good of the great cause."
"Do you really mean that? Is there any merit in my little book?"
"Do you doubt it?"
"Very often."
"How is that possible? It is written with such a sure touch."
"Perhaps just for that reason."
"I don't understand you. There's a vagueness sometimes about Dutch people which we English don't understand, something like a reflection of your beautiful skies in your character."
"Do you never doubt? Do you feel sure of your ideas on the training of children?"
"I have studied children in schools, incrèchesand in their homes and I have acquired very decided ideas. And I work in accordance with these ideas for the people of the future. I will send you my pamphlet, containing the gist of my speeches at the congress. Are you working on another pamphlet now?"
"No, I regret to say."
"Why not? We must all fight shoulder to shoulder, if we are to conquer."
"I believe I have said all that I had to say. I wrote what I did on impulse, from personal experience. And then...."
"Yes?"
"Then things changed. All women are different and I never approved of generalizing. And do you believe that there aremanywomen who can work for a universal object with a man's thoroughness, when they have found a lesser object for themselves, a small happiness, such as a love to satisfy their ownego, in which they can be happy? Don't you think that every woman has slumbering inside her a selfish craving for her own love and happiness and that, when she has found this, the outside world and the future cease to interest her?"
"Possibly. But so few women find it."
"I believe there are not many. But that is another question. And I do believe that an interest in universal questions is apis-allerwith most women."
"You have become an apostate. You speak quite differently from what you wrote a year ago."
"Yes, I have become very humble, because I am more sincere. Of course I believe in certain women, in certain choice spirits. But would the majority not always remain feminine, just women and weak?"
"Not with a sensible training."
"Yes, I believe that it lies in that, in the training...."
"Of the child, of the girl."
"I believe that I have never been educated and that this constitutes my weakness."
"Our girls should be told when still very young of the struggle that lies before them."
"You are right. We—my friends, my sisters and I—had the 'safety' of marriage impressed upon us at the earliest possible moment. Do you know whom I think the most to be pitied? Our parents! They honestly believed that they were having us taught all that was necessary. And now, at this moment, they must see that they did not divine the future correctly and that their training, their education, was no education at all, because they failed to inform their children of the struggle which was being waged right before their eyes. It is our parents that are to be pitied. They can mend nothing now. They see us—girls, young women of twenty to thirty—overwhelmed by life; and they have not given us the strength for it. They kept us sheltered as long as possible under the paternal wing; and then they began to think of our marriage, not in order to get rid of us, but with a view to our happiness, our safety and our future. We are indeed unfortunate, we girls and women who were not, like our younger sisters, told of the struggle that lay just before us; but I believe that we may still have hope in our youth and that our parents are unhappier and more to be pitied than we, because they have nothing more to hope for and because theymustsecretly confess that they went astray in their love for their children. They were still educating us according to the past, while the future was already so near at hand. I pity our parents and I could almost love them better for that reason than I ever did before."
She had suddenly turned very pale, as though under the stress of a sudden emotion. She covered her face with her fluttering fan and her fingers trembled violently; her whole body shuddered.
"That is well thought on your part," said Mrs. Holt. "I am glad to have met you. I always find a certain charm in Dutch people: that vagueness, which we are unable to seize, and then all at once a light that flashes out of a cloud ... I hope to see you again. I am at home on Tuesdays, at five o'clock. Will you come one day with Mrs. Uxeley?"
Mrs. Holt pressed her hand and disappeared among the other guests. Cornélie had risen from her chair, while her knees seemed to give way beneath her. She remained standing, half-turned towards the room, looking in the glass; and her fingers played with the orchids in a Venetian vase on the console-table. She was still rather pale, but controlled herself, though her heart was beating loudly and her breast heaving. And she looked in the glass. She saw first her own figure, her beautiful slender outline, in her dress of white and black Chantilly, with the white-lace train, foaming with flounces, the black-lace tunic with the scalloped border and sprinkled with steel spangles and blue stones, a spray of orchids in the sleevelesscorsage, which left her neck and arms and shoulders bare. Her hair was bound with three Greek fillets of pearls; and her fan of white feathers—a present from Urania—was like froth against her throat. She saw herself first and then, in the mirror, she sawhim. He was coming nearer to her. She did not move, only her fingers played with the flowers in the vase. She felt as though she wished to take flight, but her knees gave way and her feet were paralysed. She stood rooted to the floor, hypnotized. She was unable to stir. And she saw him come nearer and nearer, while her back remained half-turned to the room. He approached; and his appearance seemed to fling out a net in which she was caught. He was close by her now, close behind her. Mechanically she raised her eyes and looked in the glass and met his eyes in the mirror. She thought that she would faint. She felt squeezed between him and the glass. In the mirror the room went round and round, the candles whirled giddily like a reeling firmament. He did not say anything yet. She only saw his eyes gazing and his mouth smiling under his moustache. And he still said nothing. Then, in that unendurable lack of space between him and the mirror, which did not even give shelter as a wall would have done, but which reflected him so that he held her twice imprisoned, behind and before, she turned round slowly and looked him in the eyes. But she did not speak either. They stared at each other without a word.
"You never expected this: that you would see me here one day," he said, at last.
It was more than a year since she had heard his voice. But she felt his voice inside her.
"No," she answered, at last, haughtily, coldly, distantly. "Though I saw you once or twice, in the street, on the Jetée."
"Yes," he said. "Should I have bowed to you, do you think?"
She shrugged her bare shoulders; and he looked at them. She felt for the first time that she was half-naked that evening.
"No," she replied, still coldly and distantly. "Any more than you need have spoken to me now."
He smiled at her. He stood before her as a wall. He stood before her as a man. His head, his shoulders, his chest, his legs, his whole stature rose before her as manhood incarnate.
"Of course I needn't have done so," he said; and she felt his voice inside her: she felt his voice sinking in her like molten bronze into a mould. "If I had met you somewhere in Holland, I would only have taken off my hat and not spoken to you. But we are in a foreign country...."
"What difference does that make?"
"I felt I should like to speak to you.... I wanted to have a talk with you. Can't we do that as strangers?"
"As strangers?" she echoed.
"Oh, well, we're not strangers: we even know each other uncommonly intimately, eh?... Come and sit down and tell me about yourself. Did you like Rome?"
"Yes," she said.
He had led her as though with his will to a couch behind a half-damask, half-glass, Louis-XV screen; and she dropped down upon it in a rosy twilight of candles, with bunches of pink roses around her in all sorts of Venetian glasses. He sat on an ottoman, bending towards her slightly, with his arms on his knees and his hands folded together:
"They've been gossiping about you finely at the Hague. First about your pamphlet ... and then about your painter."
Her eyes pierced him like needles. He laughed:
"You can look just as angry as ever.... Tell me, do you ever hear from the old people? They're in a bad way."
"Now and then. I was able to send them some money lately."
"That's damned good of you. They don't deserve it. They said that you no loiter existed for them."
"Mamma wrote that they were so pushed for money. Then I sent them a hundred guilders. It was the most that I could do."
"Oh, now that they find you sending them money, you'll begin to exist for them again!"
She shrugged her shoulders:
"I don't mind that. I was sorry for them ... and sorry I couldn't send more."
"Ah, when you look so thundering smart...."
"I don't pay for my clothes."
"I'm only stating a fact. I'm not venturing to criticize. I think it damned handsome of you to send them money. But you do look thundering smart. ... Look here, let me tell you something: you've become a damned handsome girl."
He stared at her, with his smile, which compelled her to look at him.
Then she replied, very calmly, waving her fan lightly in front of her bare neck, sheltering in the foam of her fan:
"I'm damned glad to hear it!"
He gave a loud, throaty laugh:
"There, I like that! You've still got your witty sense of repartee. Always to the point. Damned clever of you!"
She stood up strained and nervous
"I must leave you. I must go to Mrs. Uxeley."
He spread out his arms:
"Stay and sit with me a little longer. It does me good to talk to you."
"Then restrain yourself a bit and don't 'damn' quite so much. I've not been used to it lately."
"I'll do my best. Sit down."
She fell back and hid herself behind her fan.
"Let me tell you that you have positively become a very ... a very beautiful woman. Now isthatlike a compliment?"
"It sounds more like one."
"Well, it's the best I can do, you know. So you must make the most of it. And now tell me about Rome. How were you living there?"
"Why should I tell you about it?"
"Because I'm interested."
"You have no need to be interested."
"I dare say, but I happen to be. I've never quite forgotten you. And I should be surprised if you had me."
"I have, quite," she said, coolly.
He looked at her, with his smile. He said nothing, but she felt that he knew better. She was afraid to convince him further.
"Is it true, what they say at the Hague? About Van der Staal?"
She looked at him haughtily.
"Come, out with it!"
"Yes."
"Youarea cheeky baggage! Do you no longer care a straw for the whole boiling of them?"
"No."
"And how do you manage here, with this old hag?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do they just accept you here, at Nice?"
"I don't brag about my independence; and no one is able to comment on my conduct here."
"Where is Van der Staal?"
"At Florence."
"Why isn't he here?"
"I'm not going to answer any more questions. You are indiscreet. It has nothing to do with you and I won't be cross-examined."
She was very nervous again and once more rose to her feet. He spread out his arms.
"Really, Rudolph, you must let me go," she entreated. "I have to go to Mrs. Uxeley. They are to dance a pavane in the ball-room and I have to ask for instructions and hand them on. Let me pass."
"Then I'll take you there. Let me offer you my arm."
"Rudolph, do go away! Don't you see how you're upsetting me? This meeting has been so unexpected. Do let me go, or I sha'n't be able to control myself. I'm going to cry.... Why did you speak to me, why did you speak to me, why did you come here, where you knew that you would meet me?"
"Because I wanted to see one of Mrs. Uxeley's parties and because I wanted to meet you."
"You must understand that it upsets me to see you again. What good does it do you? We are dead to each other. Why should you want to pester me like this?"
"That's just what I wanted to know, whether we are dead to each other...."
"Dead, dead, quite dead!" she cried, vehemently.
He laughed:
"Come, don't be so theatrical. You can understand that I was curious to sec you again and talk to you. I used to see you in the street, in your carriage, on the Jetée; and I was pleased to find you looking so well, so smart, so happy and so handsome. You know that good-looking women are my great hobby. You are much better-looking than you used to be when you were my wife. If you had been then what you are now, I should never have allowed you to divorce me.... Come, don't be a child. No one knows here. I think it damned jolly to meet you here, to have a good old yarn with you and to have you leaning on my arm. Take my arm. Don't make a fuss and I'll take you where you want to go. Where shall we find Mrs. Uxeley? Introduce me ... as a friend from Holland...."
"Rudolph...."
"Oh, I insist: don't bother! There's nothing in it! It amuses me and it's no end of a lark to walk about with one's divorced wife at a ball at Nice. A delightful town, isn't it? I go to Monte Carlo every day and I've been damned lucky. Won three thousand francs yesterday. Will you come with me one day?"
"You're mad?"
"I'm not mad at all. I want to enjoy myself. And I'm proud to have you on my arm."
She withdrew her arm:
"Well, you needn't be."
"Now don't get spiteful. That's all rot: let's enjoy ourselves. There is the old girl: she's looking at you."
She had passed through some of the rooms on his arm; and they saw, near a tombola, round which people were crowding to draw presents and surprises, Mrs. Uxeley, Gilio and the Rosavilla, Costi and Luca ladies. They were all very gay round the pyramid of knick-knacks, behaving like children when the number of one of them turned up on the roulette-wheel.
"Mrs. Uxeley," Cornélie began, in a trembling voice, "may I introduce a fellow-countryman of mine? Baron Brox."
Mrs. Uxeley simpered, uttered a few amiable words and asked if he wouldn't draw a number.
The roulette-wheel spun round and round.
"A fellow-countryman, Cornélie?"
"Yes, Mrs. Uxeley."
"What do you say his name is?"
"Baron Brox."
"A splendid fellow! A handsome fellow! An astonishingly handsome fellow!... What is he? What does he do?"
"He's in the army, a first lieutenant...."
"In which regiment?"
"In the hussars."
"At the Hague?"
"Yes."
"An amazingly good-looking fellow! I like those tall, fine men."
"Mrs. Uxeley, is everything going as it should?"
"Yes, darling."
"Do you feel all right?"
"I have a little pain, but nothing to speak about."
"Won't it soon be time for the pavane?"
"Yes, see that the girls go and get dressed. Has the hairdresser brought the wigs for the young men?"
"Yes."
"Then go and collect them and tell them to hurry up. They must be ready within half an hour...."
Rudolph Brox returned from the tombola, where he had drawn a silver match-box. He thanked Mrs. Uxeley, who simpered, and, when he saw that Cornélie was moving away, he went after her:
"Cornélie...."
"Please, Rudolph, let me be. I have to collect the girls and the men for the pavane. I have a lot to do...."
"I'll help you...."
She beckoned to a girl or two and sent a couple of footmen to hunt through the room for the young men and to ask them to go to the dressing-room. He saw that she was pale and trembling all over her body:
"What's the matter?"
"I'm tired."
"Then let's go and get something to drink."
She was numb with nervousness. The music of the invisible band boom-boomed fiercely against her brain; and at times the innumerable candles whirled before her eyes like a reeling firmament. The rooms were choked with people. They crowded and laughed aloud and showed one another their presents; the men trod on the ladies' trains. An intoxicating, suffocating fragrance of flowers, the atmosphere peculiar to crowded functions and the warm, perfumed odour of women's flesh hung in the rooms like a cloud. Cornélie hunted hither and thither and at last collected all the girls. The ballet-master came to ask her something. A butler came to ask her something. And Brox did not budge from her side:
"Let's go now and get something to drink," he said.
She mechanically took his arm; and her hand trembled on the sleeve of his dress-coat. He pushed his way with her through the crowd; they passed Urania and De Breuil. Urania said something which Cornélie did not catch. The refreshment-room also was chock-full and buzzed with loud, laughing voices. Behind the long tables stood the butler, like a minister, supervising the whole service. There was no crowding, no fighting for a glass of wine or a sandwich. People waited until a footman brought it on a tray.
"It's very well managed," said Brox. "Do you do all this?"
"No, it's been done like this for years...."
She dropped into a chair, looking very pale.
"What will you have?"
"A glass of champagne."
"I'm hungry. I had a bad dinner at my hotel. I must have something to eat."
He ordered the champagne for her. He ate first a patty, then another, then achâteaubriantand peas. He drank two glasses of claret, followed by a glass of champagne. The footman brought him everything, dish by dish, on a silver tray. His handsome, virile face was brick-red in colour with health and animal strength. The stiff hair on his round, heavy skull was cropped quite close. His large grey eyes were bright and laughing, with a straight, impudent glance. A heavy, well-tended moustache curled over his mouth, in which the white teeth gleamed. He stood with his legs slightly astraddle, firm and soldierly in his dress-coat, which he wore with an easy correctness. He ate slowly and with relish, enjoying his good glass of fine wine.
Mechanically she now watched him, from her chair. She had drunk a glass of champagne and asked for another; and the stimulant revived her. Her cheeks recovered some of their colour; her eyes sparkled.
"They do you damn well here," he said, coming up to her with his glass in his hand.
And he emptied his glass.
"They are going to dance the pavane almost at once," she murmured.
And they passed through the crowded rooms, to a big corridor outside, which looked like an avenue of camellia-shrubs. They were alone for a moment.
"This is where the dancers are to meet."
"Then let's wait for them. It's nice and cool out here."
They sat down on a bench.
"Are you feeling better?" he asked. "You were so queer in the ball-room."
"Yes, I'm better."
"Don't you think it's fun to meet your old husband again?"
"Rudolph, I don't understand how you can talk to me like that and persecute me and tease me ... after everything that has happened...."
"Oh, well, all that has happened and is done with!"
"Do you think it's discreet on your part ... or delicate?"
"No, neither discreet nor delicate. Those, you know, are things I've never been: you used to fling that in my face often enough, in the old days. But, if it's not delicate, it's amusing. Have you lost your sense of humour? It's damn jolly humorous, our meeting here.... And now listen to me. You and I are divorced. All right. That's so in the eyes of the law. But a legal divorce is a matter of law and form, for the benefit of society. As regards money affairs and so on. We've been too much husband and wife not to feel something for each other at a later meeting, such as this. Yes, yes, I know what you want to say. It's simply untrue. You have been too much in love with me and I with you for everything between us to be dead. I remember everything still. And you must do the same. Do you remember when...?"
He laughed, pushed nearer to her and whispered close to her ear. She felt his breath thrilling her on her flesh like a warm breeze. She flushed crimson with nervous distress. And she felt with her whole body that he had been her husband and that he had entered into her very blood. His voice ran like molten bronze along her nerves of hearing, deep down within her. She knew him, through and through. She knew his eyes, his mouth. She knew his broad, well-kept hands, with the large round nails and the dark signetring, as they lay on his knees, which showed square and powerful under the crease in his dress-trousers. And she felt, like a sudden despair, that she knew and felt him in her whole body. However rough he might have been to her in the old days, however much he had ill-treated her, striking her with his clenched fist, banging her against the wall ... she had been his wife. She, a virgin, had become his wife, had been initiated into womanhood by him. And she felt that he had branded her as his own, she felt it in her blood and in the marrow of her bones. She confessed to herself that she had never forgotten him. During the first lonely days in Rome, she had longed for his kisses, she had thought of him, had conjured up his virile image before her mind, had persuaded herself to believe that, by exercising tact and patience and a little management, she could have remained his wife....
Then the great happiness had come, the gentle happiness of perfect harmony!...
It all flashed through her like lightning.
Oh, in that great, gentle happiness she had been able to forget everything, she had not felt the past within her! But she now felt that the past always remained, irrevocably and indelibly. She had been his wife and she held him still in her blood. She felt it now with every breath that she drew. She was indignant because he dared to whisper about the old days, in her ear; but it had been all as he said, irrevocably, indelibly.
"Rudolph!" she entreated, clasping her hands together. "Spare me!"
She almost screamed it, in a cry of fear and despair. But he laughed and with one hand seized both hers, clasped in entreaty:
"If you go on like that, if you look at me so beseechingly with those beautiful eyes, I won't spare you even here and I'll kiss you until...."
His words swept over her like a scorching wind. But laughing voices approached; and two girls and two young men, dressed up, for the pavane, as Henri IV and Marguerite de Valois, came running down the stairs:
"What's become of the others?" they cried, looking round in the staircase.
And they came dancing up to Cornélie. The ballet-master also approached. She did not understand what he said:
"Where are the others?" she repeated, mechanically, in a hoarse voice.
"Here they come.... Now we're all there...."
They were all talking and laughing and glittering and buzzing about her. She summoned up all her poor strength and issued a few instructions. The guests streamed into the great ball-room, sat down in the front chairs, crowded together in the corners. The pavane was danced in the middle of the room, to an old trailing melody: a long, winding curve of graceful steps, deep bows and satin gleaming with sudden lustre like that of porcelain ... with the occasional flutter of a cape ... and a flash of light on a rapier.