"Urania, I beseech you, help me!"
"What is it?"
"Come with me...."
She had seized Urania by the hand and dragged her away from De Breuil into one of the deserted rooms. The suite of rooms was almost entirely deserted; the dense throng of guests stood packed along the sides of the great ball-room to watch the pavane.
"What is it, Cornélie?"
Cornélie was trembling in every limb and clutching Urania's arm. She drew her to the farthest comer of the room. There was no one there.
"Urania," she entreated, in a supreme crisis of nervousness, "help me! What am I to do? I have met him unexpectedly. Don't you know whom I mean? My husband. My divorced husband. I had seen him once or twice before, in the street and on the Jetée. The time when I was so startled, you know, when I almost fainted: that was because of him. And he has been talking to me now, here, a moment ago. And I'm afraid of him. He spoke quite nicely, said he wanted to talk to me. It was so strange. Everything was finished between us. We were divorced. And suddenly I meet him and he speaks to me and asks me what sort of time I have had, tells me that I am looking well, that I have grown beautiful. Tell me, Urania, what I am to do. I'm frightened. I'm ill with anxiety. I want to get away. I should like best to go away at once, to Florence, to Duco. I am so frightened, Urania I want to go to my room. Tell Mrs. Uxeley that I want to go to my room."
She hardly knew what she was saying. The words fell incoherently from her lips, as in a fever. Men's voices approached. They were those of Gilio, De Breuil, the Duke of Luca and the young journalists, the two who were pushing their way into society.
"What is the Signora de Retz doing?" asked the duke. "We are missing her everywhere."
And the young journalists, standing in the shadow of these eminent noblemen, confirmed the statement: they had been missing her everywhere.
"Fetch Mrs. Uxeley here," Urania whispered to Gilio. "Cornélie is ill, I think. I can't leave her here alone. She wants to go to her room. It's better that Mrs. Uxeley should know, else she might be angry."
Cornélie was jesting nervously, in feverish gaiety, with the duke and with De Breuil and the journalists.
"Would you rather I took you straight to Mrs. Uxeley?" Gilio whispered.
"I want to go to my room!" she whispered, in a voice of entreaty, behind her fan.
The pavane appeared to be over. The buzz of voices reached them, as though the guests were scattering about the rooms again.
"I see Mrs. Uxeley," said Gilio.
He went up to her, spoke to her. She simpered at first, leaning on the gold knob of her cane. Then her wrinkles became angrily contracted. She crossed the room. Cornélie went on jesting with the duke; the journalists thought every word witty.
"Aren't you well?" whispered Mrs. Uxeley, going up to her, ruffled. "What about the cotillon?"
"I will see to everything, Mrs. Uxeley," said Urania.
"Impossible, dear princess; and I shouldn't dream of letting you either."
"Introduce me to your friend, Cornélie," said a deep voice behind Cornélie.
She felt that voice like bronze inside her body. She turned round automatically. It was he. She seemed unable to escape him. And, under his glance, as though hypnotized, she appeared, very strangely, to recover her strength. It seemed as though he were willing her not to be ill. She murmured:
"Urania, may I introduce ... a fellow-country-man?... Baron Brox ... Principessa di Forte-Braccio...."
Urania knew his name, knew who he was:
"Darling," she whispered to Cornélie, "let me take you to your room. I'll see to everything."
"It's no longer necessary," she said. "I'm much better. I only want a glass of champagne. I am much better, Mrs. Uxeley."
"Why did you run away from me?" asked Rudolph
Brox, with his smile and his eyes in Cornélie's eyes. She smiled and said the first thing that came into her head.
"The dancing has begun," said Mrs. Uxeley. "But who's going to lead my cotillon presently?"
"If I can be of any service, Mrs. Uxeley," said Brox, "I have some little talent as a cotillon-leader."
Mrs. Uxeley was delighted. It was arranged that De Breuil and Urania, Gilio and Countess Costi and Brox and Cornélie should lead the figures in turns.
"You poor darling!" Urania said in Cornélie's ear. "Can you manage it?"
Cornélie smiled:
"Yes, yes, I'm all right again," she whispered. And she moved towards the ball-room on Brox' arm. Urania stared after her in amazement.
It was twelve o'clock when Cornélie woke that morning. The sun was piercing the golden slit in the half-parted curtains with tiny eddying atoms. She felt dog-tired. She remembered that Mrs. Uxeley, on the morning after one of these parties, left her free to rest: the old lady herself stayed in bed, although she did not sleep. And Cornélie lacked the smallest capacity to rise. She remained lying where she was, heavy with fatigue. Her eyes wandered through the untidy room her handsome ball-dress, hanging listlessly, limply over a chair, at once reminded her of yesterday. For that matter, everything in her was thinking of yesterday, everything in her was thinking of her husband, with a tense, hypnotized consciousness. She felt as if she were recovering from a nightmare, a bout of drunkenness, a swoon. It was only by drinking glass after glass of champagne that she had been able to keep going, had been able to dance with Brox, had been able to lead the figure when their turn came. But it was not only the champagne. His eyes also had held her up, had prevented her from fainting, from bursting into sobs, from screaming and waving her arms like a madwoman. When he had taken his leave, when everybody had gone, she had collapsed in a heap and been taken to bed. The moment she was no longer under his eyes, she had felt her misery and her weakness; and the champagne had as it were suddenly clouded her brain.
Now she lay thinking of him in the dejected slackness of her overwhelming morning fatigue. And it seemed to her as if her whole Italian year had been an interlude, a dream. She saw herself at the Hague again, with her pretty little face and her little flirting ways and her phrases always to the point. She saw their first meetings and how she had at once fallen under his influence and been unable to flirt with him, because he laughed at her little feminine defences. He had been too strong for her from the first. Then came their engagement. He laid down the law and she rebelled, angrily, with violent scenes, not wishing to be controlled, injured in her pride as a girl who had always been spoiled and made much of. And then he subdued her as though with the rude strength of his fist—and always with a laugh on his handsome mouth—until they were married, until she created a scandal and ran away. He had refused to be divorced at first, but had consented later, because of the scandal. She had freed herself, she had fled!...
The feminist movement, Italy, Duco.... Was it a dream? Was the great happiness, the delightful harmony, a dream, and was she waking after a year of dreams? Was she divorced or was she not? She had to make an effort to remember the formalities: yes, they were legally divorced. Butwasshe divorced, was everything over between them? Andwasshe really no longer his wife?
Why had he done it, why had he pursued her after seeing her once at Nice? Oh, he had told her, during that cotillon, that endless cotillon! He had become proud of her when he saw how beautiful she was and how smart, how happy she looked driving in Mrs. Uxeley's or the princess' elegant victoria; it was then that he had seen her, beautiful, smart and happy; and he had grown jealous. She, a beautiful woman, had been his wife! He felt that he had a right to her, notwithstanding the law. What was the law? Had the law taught her womanhood or had he? And he had made her feel his right, together with the irrevocable past. It was all irrevocable and indelible....
She looked about her, at her wits' end what to do. And she began to weep, to sob. Then she felt something gaining strength within her, the instinctive rebellion that leapt up within her like a spring which had at length recovered its resilience, now that she was resting and no longer under his eyes. She would not. She would not. She refused to feel him in her blood. Should she meet him once more, she would speak to him calmly, very curtly, and order him to leave her, show him the door, have him put out of the door.... She clenched her fists with rage. She hated him. She thought of Duco.... And she thought of writing to him, telling him everything. And she thought of going back to him as quickly as possible. He was not a dream, he existed, even though he was living so far away, at Florence. She had saved a little money, they would find their happiness again in the studio in Rome. She would write to him; and she wanted to get away as quickly as possible. With Duco she would be safe. Oh, how she longed for him, to lie so softly and quietly and blissfully in his arms, against his breast, as in the embrace of a miraculous happiness! Was it all true, their happiness, their love and harmony? Yes, it had existed, it was not a dream. There was his photograph; there, on the wall, were two of his water-colours—the sea at Sorrento and the skies over Amalfi—done in those days which had been like poems. She would be safer with him. When she was with Duco, she would not feel Rudolph, her husband, in her blood. For she felt Duco in her soul; and her soul would be the stronger! She would feel Duco in her soul, in her heart, in all the most fervent part of her life and gather from him her uppermost strength, like a sheaf of gleaming swordblades! Already now, when she thought of him with such longing, she felt herself growing stronger. She could have spoken to Brox now. Yesterday he had taken her by surprise, had squeezed her between himself and that looking-glass, till she had seen him double and lost her wits and been defeated. That would never happen again. That was only due to the surprise. If she spoke to him again now,shewould triumph, thanks to what she had learnt as a woman who stood on her own feet.
And she got up and opened the windows and put on her dressing-gown. She looked at the blue sea, at the motley traffic on the Promenade. And she sat down and wrote to Duco. She told him everything: her first startled meeting, her surprise and defeat at the ball. Her pen flew over the paper. She did not hear the knock at the door, did not hear Urania come carefully, fearing lest she should still be asleep and anxious to know how she felt. Excitedly she read out part of her letter and said that she was ashamed of her weakness of yesterday. How she could have behaved like that she herself was unable to understand.
No, she herself could not understand it. Now that she felt somewhat rested and was speaking to Urania, who reminded her of Rome, and holding her long letter to Duco in her hand ... now she herself did not understand it all and wondered which had been a dream: her Italian year of happiness or that nightmare of yesterday....
She stayed at home for a day, feeling tired and, deep down within herself, almost unconsciously, afraid, in spite of all, of meeting him. But Mrs. Uxeley, who would never hear of illness or fatigue, was so much put out that Cornélie accompanied her next day to the Promenade des Anglais. Friends came up to talk to them and gathered round their chairs, with Rudolph Brox among them. But Cornélie avoided any confidential conversation.
Some days later, however, he called on Mrs. Uxeley's at-home day; and, amid the crowd of visitors paying duty-calls after the party, he was able to speak to her for a moment alone. He came up to her with that laugh of his, as though his eyes were laughing, as though his moustache were laughing. And she collected all her thoughts, so that she might be firm with him:
"Rudolph," she said, loftily, "it is simply ridiculous. If you don't think it indelicate, you might at least try to think it ridiculous. It tickles your sense of humour, but imagine what people would say about it in Holland!... The other evening, at the party, you took me by surprise and somehow—I really don't know how it happened—I yielded to your strange wish to dance with me and to lead the cotillon. I frankly confess, I was confused. I now see everything clearly and plainly and I tell you this: I refuse to meet you again. I refuse to speak to you again. I refuse to turn the solemn earnest of our divorce into a farce."
"If you look back," he said, "you will recollect that you never got anything out of me with that lofty tone and those dignified airs, but that, on the contrary, you just stimulate me to do what you don't want...."
"If that is so, I shall simply tell Mrs. Uxeley in what relation I stand to you and ask her to forbid you her house."
He laughed. She lost her temper:
"Do you intend to behave like a gentleman or like a cad?"
He turned red and clenched his fists:
"Curse you!" he hissed, in his moustache.
"Perhaps you would like to hit me and knock me about?" she continued, scornfully.
He mastered himself.
"We are in a room full of people," she sneered, defiantly. "What if we were alone? You've already clenched your fists! You would thrash me as you did before. You brute! You brute!"
"And you are very brave in this room full of people!" he laughed, with his laugh which incited her to rage, when it did not subdue her. "No, I shouldn't thrash you," he continued. "I should kiss you."
"This is the last time you're going to speak to me!" she hissed, furiously. "Go away! Go away! Or I don't know what I shall do, I shall make a scene."
He sat down calmly:
"As you please," he said, quietly.
She stood trembling before him, impotent. Some one spoke to her; the footman handed her some tea. She was now in the midst of a circle of men; and, mastering herself, she jested, with loud, nervous gaiety, flirted more coquettishly than ever. There was a little court around her, with the Duke of Luca as its ringleader. Close by, Rudolph Brox sat drinking his tea, with apparent calmness, as though waiting. But his strong, masterful blood was boiling madly within him. He could have murdered her and he was seeing red with jealousy. That woman was his, despite the law. He was not going to be afraid of any more scandal. She was beautiful, she was as he wished her to be and he wanted her, his wife. He knew how he would win her back; and this time he would not lose her, this time she should be his, for as long as he wished.
As soon as he was able to speak to her unheard, he came up to her again. She was just going to Urania whom she saw sitting with Mrs. Uxeley, when he said in her ear, sternly and abruptly:
"Cornélie...."
She turned round mechanically, but with her haughty glance. She would rather have gone on, but could not: something held her back, a secret strength, a secret superiority, which sounded in his voice and flowed into her with a weight as of bronze that weakened and paralysed her energy.
"What is it?" she asked.
"I want to speak to you alone."
"No."
"Yes. Listen to me calmly for a moment, if you can. I am calm too, as you see. You needn't be afraid of me. I promise not to ill-treat you or even to swear at you. But I must speak to you, alone. After our meeting, after the ball last week, we can't part like this. You are not even entitled to show me the door, after talking to me and dancing with me so recently. There's no reason and no logic in it. You lost your temper. But let us both keep our tempers now. I want to speak to you...."
"I can't: Mrs. Uxeley doesn't like me to leave the drawing-room when there are people here. I am dependent on her."
He laughed:
"You are almost even more dependent on her than you used to be on me! But you can give me just a second, in the next room."
"No."
"Yes, you can."
"What do you want to speak to me about?"
"I can't tell you here."
"I can't speak to you alone."
"I'll tell you what it is: you're afraid to."
"No."
"Yes, you are: you're afraid of me. With all your airs and your dignity, you're afraid to be alone with me for a moment."
"I'm not afraid."
"Youareafraid. You're shaking in your shoes with fear. You received me with a fine speech which you rehearsed in advance. Now that you've delivered your speech ... it's over and you're frightened."
"I am not frightened."
"Then come with me, my plucky authoress ofThe Social Position of the What's-her-name! I promise, I swear that I shall be calm and tell you calmly what I have to say to you; and I give you my word of honour not to hit you ... Which room shall we go to?... Do you refuse? Listen to me: if you don't come with me, it's not finished yet. If you do, perhaps it will be finished ... and you will never see me again."
"What can you have to say to me?"
"Come."
She yielded because of his voice, not because of his words:
"But only for three minutes."
"Very well, three minutes."
She took him into the passage and into an empty room:
"Well what is it?" she asked, frightened.
"Don't be frightened," he said, laughing under his moustache. "Don't be frightened. I only wanted to tell you ...that you are my wife. Do you understand that? Don't try to deny it. I felt it at the ball the other night, when I had my arm round you, waltzing with you. Don't try to deny that you pressed yourself against me for a moment.You're my wife. I felt it then and I feel it now. And you feel it too, though you would like to deny it. But that won't help you. What has been can't be altered; and what has been ... always remains part of you. There, you can't say that I am not speaking prettily and delicately. Not an oath, not an improper word has escaped my lips. For I don't want to make you angry. I only want to make you confess that what I say is trueand that you are still my wife. That law doesn't signify. It's another law that rules us. It's a law that rules you especially; a law which, without our ever suspecting it, brings us together again, even though it does so by a very strange, roundabout path, along which you, especially, have strayed. That law rules you especially. I am convinced that you still love me, or at least that you are still in love with me. I feel it, I know it as a fact: don't try to deny it. It'sno use, Cornélie. And I'll tell you something besides: I am in love with you too and more so than ever. I feel it when you're flirting with those fellows. I could wring your neck then, I could break every bone in their bodies.... Don't be afraid: I'm not going to; I'm not in a temper. I just wanted to talk to you calmly and make you see the truth. Do you see it before you? It is in-con-tro-ver-tible. You see, you have nothing to say in reply. Facts are facts.... Will you show me the door now? Do you still propose to speak to Mrs. Uxeley? I shouldn't, if I were you. Your friend, the princess, knows who I am: leave it at that. Had the old woman never heard my name, or has she forgotten it? Forgotten it, I expect. Well, then, don't trouble to refresh her ancient memory. Leave things as they are. It's better to say nothing. No, the position is not ridiculous and it's not humorous either. It has become very serious: the truth is always serious. It is strange, I admit: I should never have expected it. It's a revelation to me as well.... And now I've said what I had to say. Less than five minutes by my watch. They will hardly have noticed your absence in the drawing-room. And now I'm going; but first give your husband a kiss, for I am your husband ... and always shall be."
She stood trembling before him. It was his voice, which fell like molten bronze into her soul, into her body, and lamed and paralysed her. It was his voice of persuasion, persuasive charm, the voice which she knew of old, the voice that compelled her to do everything that he wanted. Under the influence of that voice she became a thing, a chattel, something that belonged to him, once he had branded her for ever as his mate. She was powerless to cast him out of herself, to shake him from herself, to erase from herself the stamp of his possession and the brand which marked her as his property. She was his; and anything that otherwise was herself had left her. There was no longer in her brain either memory or thought..
She saw him come up to her and put his arm around her. He took her to his breast slowly but so firmly that he seemed to be taking possession of her entirely. She felt herself melting away in his arms as in a scorching flame. On her lips she felt his mouth, his moustache, pressing, pressing, pressing, until she closed her eyes, half-fainting. He said something more in her ear, with that voice under which she seemed not to count, as though she were nothing, as though she existed only through him. When he released her, she staggered on her feet.
"Come, pull yourself together," she heard him say, calmly, authoritatively, omnipotently. "And accept the position. Things are as they are. There's no altering them. Thank you for letting me speak to you. Everything is all right between us now: I'm sure of it. And nowau revoir. Au revoir...."
He kissed her again:
"Give me a kiss too," he said, with that voice of his. She flung her arm round his body and kissed him on the lips.
"Au revoir," he said, once more.
She saw him laugh under his moustache; his eyes laughed at her with flames of gold; and he went away. She heard his feet going down the stairs and ringing on the marble of the hall, with the strength of his firm tread.... She remained standing as though bereft of life. In the drawing-room, next to the room in which she was, the hum of laughing voices sounded loudly. She saw Rome before her, saw Duco, in a short flash of lightning.... It was gone.... And, collapsing into a chair, she uttered a suppressed cry of despair, put her hands before her face and sobbed, restraining her despair before all those people, dully, as from a stifling throat.
She had but one thought: to take to flight. To fly from his mastery, to fly from the emanation of that dominion which, mysteriously but irrevocably, wiped away with his caress all that was in her of will, energy and self. She remembered having felt the same thing in the old days: rebellion and anger when he became angry and coarse, but an eclipse of self when he caressed her; an inability to think when he merely laid his hand upon her head; a swooning away into a vast nothingness when he took her in his arms and kissed her. She had felt it from the first time of seeing him, when he stood before her and looked down upon her with that light irony in the smile of his eyes and his moustache, as though he took pleasure in her resistance—at that time prompted by flirting and fun, soon by petulance, later by anger and fury—as though he took pleasure in her futile feminine attempts to escape his power. He had at once realized that he ruled this woman. And she had found in him her master, her sole master. For no other man pressed down upon her with that empire which was of the blood, of the flesh. On the contrary, she was usually the superior. She had about her a cool indifference which was always provoking her to destructive criticism. She had a need for fun, for cheerful conversation, for coquetry, for flirtation; and, always a mistress of quick repartee, she invited the occasion for repartee; but, apart from this, men meant little to her and she always saw the absurd side of each of them, thinking this one too short, that one too tall, a third clumsy, a fourth stupid, finding something in every one of them to rouse her laughter, her mockery or her criticism. She would never be a woman to give herself to many. She had met Duco and given herself to him with her love, wholly, as one great, inseparable, golden gift; and, after him, she would never fall in love again. But, before Duco, she had met Rudolph Brox. Perhaps, if she had met him after Duco, his mastery would not have swayed her. She did not know. And what was the good of thinking about it? The thing was as it was. In her blood she was not a woman for many; in her blood she was the wife, the spouse, the consort. Of the man who had been her husband she was in her flesh and in her blood the wife; but she was his wife even without love. For she could not call this love: she gave the name of love only to that other passion, that proud, tender and intense completion of life's harmony, that journey along one golden line, the marriage of two gleaming lines.... But the phantom hands had risen all about them in a cloud, the hands had mysteriously and inevitably divided their golden line; and hers, a winding curve, had leapt back, like a quivering spring, crossing a darker line of former days, a sombre line of the past, a dark track full of unconscious action and fatal bondage. Oh, the strangeness, the most mysterious strangeness of those lines of life! Why should they curl back, forcing her backwards to her original starting-point? Why had it all been necessary?
She had but one thought: to take to flight. She did not see the inevitability of those lines and the fatality of those paths and she did not wish to feel the pressure of the phantom hands that rose about her. To fly, to turn up the dusky path, back to the point of separation, back to Duco, and with him to rebraid and twist the two lost directions into one pure movement, one line of happiness! ...
To fly, to fly! She told Urania that she was going. She begged Urania to forgive her, because it was she who had recommended her to the old woman whom she was now suddenly leaving. And she told Mrs. Uxeley, without caring for her anger, her temper or her words of abuse. She admitted that she was ungrateful. But there was a vital necessity which compelled her suddenly to leave Nice. She swore that it existed. She swore that it would mean unhappiness, even ruin, were she to stay. She explained it to Urania in a single sentence. But she did not explain it to the old woman and left her in an impotent fury which made her writhe with rheumatic aches and pains. She left behind her everything that she had received from Mrs. Uxeley, all the superfluous wardrobe of her dependence. She put on an old frock. She went to the station like a criminal, trembling lest she should meet him. But she knew that at this hour he was always at Monte Carlo. Nevertheless she went in a closed cab and she took a second-class ticket for Florence. She telegraphed to Duco. And she fled.
She had nothing left but him. She could never again count upon Mrs. Uxeley; and Urania had behaved coolly, not understanding that singular flight, because she did not understand the simple truth, Rudolph Brox' power. She thought that Cornélie was making things difficult for herself. In the circle in which Urania lived, her sense of social morality had wavered since herliaisonwith the Chevalier de Breuil. Hearing the Italian law of love whispered all around her, the law that love is as simple as an opening rose, she did not understand Cornélie's struggle. She no longer resented anything that Gilio did; and he in his turn left her free. What was happening to Cornélie? Surely it was all very simple, if she was still fond of her divorced husband! Why should she run away to Duco and make herself ridiculous in the eyes of all their acquaintances? And so she had parted coolly from Cornélie; but still she missed her friend. She was the Princess of Forte-Braccio; and lately, on her birthday, Prince Ercole had sent her a great emerald, out of the carefully kept family-jewels, as though she were becoming worthy of them gradually, stone by stone! But she missed Cornélie and she felt lonely, deadly lonely, notwithstanding her emerald and her lover....
Cornélie fled: she had nothing in the world but Duco. But in him she would have everything. And, when she saw him at Florence, at the Santa Maria Novella Station, she flung herself on his breast and clung to him as to a cross of redemption, a saviour. He led her sobbing to a cab; and they drove to his room. There she looked round her nervously, done up with the overstrain of her long journey, thinking every minute that Rudolph would come after her. She told Duco everything, opened her heart to him entirely, as though he were her conscience, as though he were her soul, her god. She nestled up against him, she told him that he must help her. It was as though she were praying to him; her anguish went up to him like a prayer. He kissed her; and she knew that manner of comforting, she knew that tender caressing. She suddenly fell against him, utterly relaxed; and so she continued to lie, with closed eyes. It was as though she were sinking in a lake, in a blue sacred lake, mystic as the Lake of San Stefano in the sleeping night, powdered with stars. And she heard him say that he would help her; that there was nothing in her fears; that that man had no power over her; that he would never have any power over her, if she became his, Duco's, wife. She looked at him and did not understand what he was saying. She looked at him feverishly, as though he had awakened her suddenly while she lay sleeping for a second in the blue calmness of the mystic lake. She did not understand, but, dead-tired, she hid her face against his arm again and fell asleep.
She was dead-tired. She slept for two hours immovably, breathing deeply, upon his breast. When he shifted his arm, she just moved her head heavily, like a flower on a weary stalk, but she slept on. He stroked her forehead, her hair; and she slept on, with her hands in his. She slept as if she had not slept for days, for weeks.
"There is nothing to be afraid of, Cornélie," he said, convincingly. "That man has no power over you if you refuse, if you refuse with a firm will. I do not see what he could do. You are quite free, absolutely released from him. That you ran away so precipitately was certainly not wise: it will look to him like a flight. Why did you not tell him calmly that he can't claim any rights in you? Why did you not say that you loved me? If need were, you could have said that we were engaged. How can you have been so weak and so terrified? It's not like you But, now that you are here, all is well. We are together now. Shall we go back to Rome to-morrow, or shall we remain here a little first? I have always longed to show you Florence. Look, there, in front of us, is the Arno; there is the Ponto Vecchio; there is the Uffizi. You've been here before, but you didn't know Italy then. You'll enjoy it more now. Oh, it is so lovely here! Let us stay a week or two first. I have a little money; you need have no fear. And life is cheaper here than in Rome. Living in this room, we shall spend hardly anything. I have light enough through this window to sketch by, now and again. Or else I go and work in the San Marco, or in San Lorenzo, or up on San Miniato. It is delightfully quiet in the cloisters. There are a few excursionists at times; but I don't mind that. And you can go with me, with a book, a book about Florence; I'll tell you what to read. You must learn to know Donatello, Brunelleschi, Ghiberti, but, above all, Donatello. We shall see him in the Bargello. And Lippo Memmi'sAnnunciation, the goldenAnnunciation! You shall see how like our angel is to it, our beautiful angel of happiness, the one you gave me! It is so rich here; we shall not feel that we are poor. We need so little. Or have you been spoilt by your luxury at Nice? But I know you so well: you will forget that at once; and we shall win through together. And presently we shall go back to Rome. But this time ... married, my darling, and you belonging to me entirely, legally. It must be so now; you must not refuse me again. We'll go to the consul tomorrow and ask what papers we want from Holland and what will be the quickest way of getting married. And meanwhile you must look upon yourself as my wife. Until now we have been very, very happy ... but you were not my wife. Once youfeelyourself to be my wife—even though we wait another fortnight for those papers to sign—you will feel safe and peaceful. There is nobody and nothing that has any power over you. You're not well, if you really think there is. And then I'll bet you, when we are married, my mother will make it up with us. Everything will come right, my darling, my angel.... But you must not refuse: we must get married with all possible speed."
She was sitting beside him on a sofa and staring out of doors, where, in the square frame of the tall window, the slendercampanilerose like a marble lily between the dome-crowned harmonies of the Cathedral and the Battisterio, while on one side the Palazzio Vecchio lay, a massive, battlemented fortress, amid the welter of the streets and roofs, and lifted its tower, suddenly expanding into the machicolated summit, with Fiesole and the hills shimmering behind it in the purple of the evening. The noble city of eternal grace gleamed a golden bronze in the last reflection of the setting sun.
"Wemustget married at once?" she repeated, with a doubting interrogation.
"Yes, as soon as ever we can, darling."
"But Duco, dearest Duco, it's less possible now than ever. Don't you see that it can't be done? It's impossible, impossible. It might have been possible before, some months ago, a year ago ... perhaps, perhaps not even then. Perhaps it was never possible. It is so difficult to say. But now it can.'t be done, really not...."
"Don't you love me well enough?"
"How can you ask me such a question? How can you ask me, darling? But it's not that. It is ... it is ... it can't be, because I am not free."
"Not free?"
"I amnotfree. I may feel free later ... or perhaps not, perhaps never.... My dearest Duco, it is impossible. I wrote to you, you know: that first meeting at the ball; it was so strange; I felt that...."
"That what?"
She took his hand and stroked it; her eyes were vague, her words were vague:
"You see ... he has been my husband."
"But you're divorced from him: not merely separated, but divorced—"
"Yes, I'm divorced; but it's not that."
"What then, dearest?"
She shook her head and hid her face against him:
"I can't tell you, Duco."
"Why not?"
"I'm ashamed."
"Tell me; do you still love him?"
"No, it's not love. I love you."
"But what then, my darling? Why are you ashamed?"
She began to cry on his shoulder:
"I feel...."
"What?"
"That I am not free, although ... although I am divorced. I feel ... that I am his wife all the same."
She whispered the words almost inaudibly.
"But then you do love him and more than you love me."
"No, no, I swear I don't!"
"But, darling, you're not talking sense!"
"Yes, indeed I am."
"No, you're not. It's impossible!"
"It isn't. It's quite possible. And he told me so ... and I felt it.
"But the fellow's hypnotizing you!"
"No, it's not hypnotism. It's not a delusion: it's a reality, deep, deep down within myself. Look here, you know me: you know how I feel. I love you and you only. That alone is love. I have never loved any one else. I am not a woman who is susceptible to.... I'm not hysterical. But with him.... No other man, no man whom I have ever met, rouses that feeling in me ... that feeling that I am not myself. That I belong to him, that I am his property, his chattel."
She threw her arms about him, she hid herself like a child in his breast:
"It's so strange.... You know me, don't you? I can be plucky and I am independent and I am never at a loss for an answer. But with him I am no longer sure of myself, I no longer have a life of my own and I do what he tells me to."
"But that is hypnotism: you can escape that, if you seriously wish to. I will help you."
"It is not hypnotism. It is a truth, deep down inside me. It exists inside me. I know that it is so, that it has to be so.... Duco, it is impossible. I can't become your wife. Imustn'tbecome your wife ... less now than ever. Perhaps...."
"Perhaps what?"
"Perhaps I always felt like that, without knowing it, that it must not be. Both for you and for me ... and for him too ... Perhaps that was what I felt, without knowing it, when I talked as I used to, about my antipathy for marriage."
"But that antipathy arose from your marriage with him!"
"Yes, that's the strange part of it. I dislike him ... and yet...."
"Yet you're in love with him!"
"Yet I belong to him."
"And you tell me that you love me!"
She took his head in her two hands:
"Try to understand. It tires me so, trying to make you understand. I love you ... but I am his wife...."
"Are you forgetting what you were to me in Rome?..."
"I was everything to you: love, happiness, intense happiness.... There was the most intense harmony between us: I shall never forget it.... But I was not your wife."
"Not my wife!"
"No, I was your mistress.... I was unfaithful to him.... Oh, don't repulse me! Pity me, pity me!"
He had unconsciously made a gesture that frightened her.
"Let me stay like this, leaning against you. May I? I am so tired and I feel restful, leaning against you like this, my darling. My darling, my darling ... things will never be as they were. What are we to do?"
"I don't know," he said, in despair. "I want to marry you as soon as may be. You won't consent."
"I can't. I mustn't."
"Then I don't know what to do or say."
"Don't be angry. Don't leave me. Help me, do, do! I love you, I love you, I love you!"
She drew him into her arms, in a close, sudden embrace, as though in perplexity and despair. He kissed her passionately in response.
"O God, tell me what to do!" she prayed, as she lay hopelessly perplexed in his embrace.
Next day, when Cornélie walked with Duco through Florence, when they entered the courtyard of the Palazzo Vecchio, saw the Loggia dei Lanzi and looked in at the Uffizi to see Memmi'sAnnunciation, she felt something like her former sensations irresistibly unfolding within her. They seemed to have taken their lines which had burst asunder and with human force to have bent them together again into one path, along which the white daisies and white lilies shot up with a tenderness of soft, mystic recognition that was almost like a dream. And yet it was not quite the same as before. An oppression as of a grey cloud hung between her and the deep-blue sky, which hung outstretched like strips of æther, like paths of lofty, quivering atmosphere, above the narrow streets, above the domes and towers and turrets. She no longer felt the former apprehension; there was a remembrance in her, a heavy pondering weighed upon her brain, an anxiety for what was about to happen. She had a presentiment as of a coming storm; and when, after their walk, they had had something to eat and went home, she dragged herself up the stairs to Duco's room more wearily than she had ever done in Rome. And she at once saw a letter lying on the table, a letter addressed to her. But how addressed! It gave her so violent a start that she began to tremble in every limb and managed to thrust the letter away even before Duco had followed her into the room. She took off her hat and told Duco that she wanted to get something out of her trunk, which was standing in the passage. He asked if he could help her; but she said no and left the room and went into the narrow passage. Here, standing by the little window overlooking the Arno, she took out the letter. It was the only place where she could read for a moment undisturbed. And she read that address again, written in his hand, which she knew so well, with its great thick heavy characters. The name which she bore abroad was her maiden name; she called herself Madame de Retz van Loo. But on the envelope she read, briefly:
"BARONNE BROX,"37, Lung' Arno Torrigiani,FLORENCE."
A deep crimson flush mantled over her face. She had borne that name for a year. Why did he call her by it now? Where was the logic in that title which, by the law, was hers no longer? What did he mean by it, what did he want?... And, standing by the little window, she read his short but imperious letter. He wrote that he took her flight very much amiss, especially after their last conversation. He wrote that, at this last interview, she had granted him every right over her, that she had not denied it and that, by kissing him and putting her arms around him, she had shown that she regarded herself as his wife, just as he regarded her as his wife. He wrote that he would not now resent her independent life of a year in Rome, because she was then still free, but that he was offended at her still looking upon herself as free and that he would not accept the insult of her flight. He called upon her to return. He said that he had no legal right to do so, but that he did it because he nevertheless had a right, a right which she could not dispute, which indeed she had not disputed, which on the contrary she had acknowledged by her kiss. He had learnt her address from the porter of the Villa Uxeley. And he ended by repeating that she was to return to Nice, to him, at the Hôtel Continental, and telling her that, if she did not do this, he would come to Florence and she would be responsible for the consequences of her refusal.
Her knees shook; she was hardly able to stand upright. Should she show Duco the letter or keep it from him? She had to make up her mind then and there. He was calling to her from the room, asking what she was doing so long in the passage. She went in and was too weak to refrain from throwing herself on his breast. She showed him the letter. Leaning against him, sobbing violently, she heard him fume and rage, saw the veins on his temples swell, saw him clench his fists and roll the letter into a ball and dash it to the floor. He told her not to be frightened, said that he would protect her. He too regarded her as his wife. It all depended upon the light in which she henceforth regarded herself. She did not speak, merely sobbed, broken with fatigue, with fright, with headache. She undressed and went to bed, her teeth chattering with fever. He drew her curtains to darken the room and told her to go to sleep. His voice sounded angry and she thought that he was angry at her lack of resolution. She sobbed and cried herself to sleep. But in her sleep she felt the terror within herself and again felt the irresistible pressure. While sleeping she dreamt of what she could reply and wrote to Brox, but it was not clear what she wrote: it was all a vague, impotent pleading for mercy.
When she awoke, she saw Duco beside her bed. She took his hand; she was calmer. But she had no hope. She had no faith in the days that were coming. She looked at him and saw him gloomy, stem and self-contained, as she had never seen him before. Oh, their happiness was past! On that fatal day when he had seen her to the train in Rome, they had taken leave of their happiness. It was gone, it was gone! Gone the dear walks through ruins and museums, the trips to Frascati, Naples, Amalfi! Gone the dear, fond life of poverty in the big studio, among the gleaming colours of the old brocades and chasubles, of the old bronzes and silver! Gone the gazing together at his water-colour ofThe Banners, she with her head on his shoulder, within his arm, living his art with him, enjoying his work with him! Gone the ecstasy of the night in the pergola, in the star-spangled night, with the sacred lake at their feet! Life was not to be repeated. They had tried in vain to repeat it here, in this room, at Florence, in the Palazzo Vecchio, tried in vain to repeat it even in the presence of Memmi's angel emitting his beam of light! They tried in vain to repeat their life, their happiness, their love; it was in vain that they had forced together the lines which had burst asunder. These had merely twined round each other for a moment, in a despairing curve. It was gone, it was gone!... Gloomy and stern he sat beside her bed; and she knew it, he felt that he was powerless because she did not feel herself to be his wife. His mistress!... Oh, she had felt that involuntary repulsion when she had uttered the word! Had he not always wanted to marry her? But she had always felt unconsciously that it could not be, that it must not be. Under all the exuberance of her acrid feministic phrases, that had been the unconscious truth. She, railing against marriage, had always, inwardly, felt herself to be married ... not by a signature, in accordance with the law, but according to an age-old law, a primeval right of man over woman, a law and a right of flesh and blood and the very marrow of the bones. Oh, above that immovable physical truth her soul had blossomed its blossom of white daisies and lilies; and that blossom also was the intense truth, the lofty truth of happiness and love! But the daisies and lilies blossomed and faded: the soul blossoms for but a single summer. The soul does not blossom for a lifetime. It blossoms perhaps before life, it blossoms perhaps after it; but in life itself the soul blossoms for but a single summer. It had blossomed, it was over! And in her body, which lived, in her being, which survived, she felt the truth in her very marrow! He was sitting beside her bed, but he had no rights, now that the lilies had blossomed.... She was broken with pity for him. She took his hand and kissed it fervently and sobbed over it. He said nothing. He did not know how to say anything. It would all have been very simple for him, if she had consented to be his wife. As things were, he could not help her. As things were, he saw his happiness foundering while he looked on: there was nothing to be done. It was slowly falling to pieces, like a crumbling ruin. It was gone! It was gone!...
She stayed in bed these days; she slept, she dreamt, she awoke again; and the dread waiting never left her. She had a slight temperature now and again; and it was better for her to stay in bed. As a rule, he remained by her side. But one day, when Duco had gone to the chemist's for something, there was a knock at the door. She leapt out of bed, terrified, terrified lest she should see the man of whom she was always thinking. Half-fainting with fright, she opened the door ajar. It was only the postman, with a registered letter ... from him! Even more curtly than last time, he wrote that, immediately on the receipt of his letter, she was to telegraph, stating the day when she would come. He said that, if on such and such a day he did not receive her telegram, he would leave for Florence and shoot her lover like a dog at her feet. He would not take a moment to reflect He did not care what happened.... In this short letter, his anger, his fury, raged like a red storm that lashed her across the face. She knew him; and she knew that he would do what he said. She saw, as in a flash, the terrible scene, with Duco dropping, murdered, weltering in his blood. And she was no longer her own mistress. The red fury of that letter, dispatched from afar, made her his chattel, his thing. She had torn the letter open hastily, before signing the postman's book. The man was waiting in the passage. Her brain whirled, the room spun before her eyes. If she paused to reflect, it would be too late, too late to reflect. And she asked the postman, nervously:
"Can you send off a telegram for me at once?"
No, he couldn't: it wasn't on his road.
But she implored him to do it. She said that she was ill and that she must telegraph at once. And she found a gold ten-franc piece in her purse and gave it to him as a tip over and above the money for the telegram. And she wrote the telegram:
"Leaving to-morrow express train."
It was a vague telegram. She did not know by what express; she had not been able to look it up. Would it be in the evening or quite early in the morning? She had no idea. How would she be able to get away? She had no idea. But she thought that the telegram would calm him. And she meant to go. She had no choice. Now that she had fled in despair, she saw it: if he wanted to have her back, back as his wife, she must go. If he had not wanted it, she could have remained, wherever she might be, despite her feeling that she belonged to him. But, now that he wanted it, she must go back. But oh, how was she to tell Duco? She was not thinking of herself, she was thinking of Duco. She saw him lying before her in his blood. She forgot that she had no money left. Was she to ask him for it? O God, what was she to do? She could not go next day, notwithstanding her telegram! She could not tell Duco that she was going.... She had meant to slip quietly to the station, when he was out.... Or had she better tell him?... Which would be the least painful?... Or should ... should she tell everything to Duco and ... and run away somewhere with him, anywhere, and tell nobody where they were going But supposinghediscovered they had gone! And he would find them!... And then ... then he would murder ... Duco!...
She was almost delirious with fear, with terror, with not knowing what to do, how to act.... She now heard Duco's steps on the stairs.... He came in, bringing her the pills.... And, as usual, she told him everything, too weak, too tired, to keep anything hidden, and showed him the letter. He blazed out, furiously, with hatred but she fell on her knees before him and took his hands. She said that she had already sent the answer. He suddenly became cool, as though overcome by the inevitable. He said that he had no money to pay for her long journey. Then, once more, he took her in his arms, kissed her, begged her to be his wife, said that he would kill her husband, even as her husband had threatened to kill him. But she did nothing but sob and refuse, though she continued to cling to him convulsively. Then he yielded to the fatal omnipotence of life's silent tyranny. He felt death in his soul. But he wished to keep calm for her sake. He said that he forgave her. He held her, all sobbing, in his arms, because his touch calmed her. And he said that, if she wanted to go back—she despondently nodded yes—it was better to telegraph to Brox again, asking for money for the journey and for clear instructions as to the day and time. He would do this for her. She looked at him, through her tears, in surprise. He himself drew up the telegram and went out.
"My darling, my darling!" she thought, as he went, as she felt the pain in his torn soul.
She flung herself on the bed. He found her in hysterics when he returned. When he had tended her and tucked her up in bed, he sat down beside her. And he said, in a dead voice:
"My dearest, be calm now. The day after to-morrow I shall take you to Genoa. Then we shall take leave of each other, for ever. If it can't be otherwise, it must be like that. If you feel that it has to be, then it must be. Be calm now, be calm now. If you feel like that, that you must go back to your husband, then perhaps you will not be unhappy with him. Be calm, dear, be calm."
"Will you take me?"
"I shall take you as far as Genoa. I have borrowed the money from a friend. But, above all, try to be calm. Your husband wants you back; he can't want you back only to beat you. He must feel something for you if he wants you so. And, if it has to be... then perhaps it will be the best thing ... for you.... Even though I can't see it in that light!..."
He covered his face with his hands and, no longer master of himself, burst into sobs. She drew him to her breast. She was now calmer than he. And, as he sobbed with his head on her beating heart, she quietly stroked his forehead, while her eyes roamed distantly round the walls of the room....
She was now alone in the train. By tipping the guard lavishly, they had travelled by themselves through the night and had been left undisturbed in their compartment. Oh, the melancholy journey, the last silent journey of the end! They had not spoken but had sat close together, hand in hand, with eyes gazing into the distance before them, as though staring at the approaching point of separation. The dreary thought of that separation never left them, rushed onward in unison with the rattling train. Sometimes she thought of a railway-accident and that it would be welcome to her if she could die with him. But the lights of Genoa had gleamed up inexorably. Then the train had stopped. And he had flung out his arms and they had kissed for the last time. Pressed to his breast, she had felt all his grief within him. Then he had released her and rushed back without looking round. She followed him with her eyes, but he did not look back and she saw him disappear in the morning mist, pierced with little lights, that hung about the station. She had seen him disappear among other people, swallowed up in the hovering mist. Then the silent and despairing surrender of her life had become so great that she was not even able to weep. Her head dropped limply, her arms hung lax. Like an inert thing she let the train bear her onward with its rending rattle.
A white morning twilight had risen on the left over the brightening sea; and the dawning daylight tinted the water blue and defined the horizon. For hours and hours she travelled, sitting motionless, gazing at the sea; and she felt almost painless with her impassive surrender of life. She would now let things happen as life willed, as her husband willed, as the train willed. As in a tired dream she thought of the inevitability of everything and all the unconscious life within herself, of her first rebellion against her husband's tyranny, of the illusion of her independence, the arrogance of her pride and all the happiness of her gentle ecstasy, all her gladness because of the harmony which she had achieved.... Now it was past; now all self-will was vain. The train was carrying her to where Rudolph called her; and life hemmed her in on every side, not roughly, but with a soft pressure of phantom hands, which pushed and led and guided....
And she ceased to think. The tired dream became clouded in the deeper blue of the day; and she felt that she was approaching Nice. She returned to the petty realities of Life. She felt that she was looking a little travel-worn: and, thinking that it would be better if Rudolph did not see her for the first time in so unattractive a light, she slowly opened her bag, washed her face with her handkerchief dipped in eau-de-Cologne, combed her hair, powdered her face, brushed herself down, put on a transparent white veil and took out a pair of new gloves. She bought a couple of yellow roses at a station and put them in her waistband. She did all this unconsciously, without thinking about it, feeling that it was best, that it was sensible to do it, best that Rudolph should see her like that, with that bloom of a beautiful woman about her. She felt that henceforth she must be above all beautiful and that nothing else mattered. And when the train droned into the station, when she recognized Nice, she was resigned, because she had ceased to struggle and had yielded to all the stronger forces. The door was flung open and, in the station, which at that early hour was comparatively empty, she saw him at once: tall, robust, easy, in his light summer suit, straw hat and brown shoes. He gave an impression of health and strength and above all of broad-shouldered virility; and, notwithstanding his broadness, he was still quite thoroughbred, thoroughly well-groomed without the least touch of foppishness; and the ironical smile beneath his moustache and the steady glance of his fine grey eyes, the eyes of a woman-hunter, gave him an air of strength, of the certainty of doing as he wished, of the power to subdue if he thought fit. An ironic pride in his handsome strength, with a tinge of contempt for the others who were less handsome and strong, less of the healthy animal and yet the aristocrat, and above all a mocking, supercilious sarcasm directed against all women, because he knew women and knew how much they were really worth: all this was expressed by his glance, his attitude, his movements. It was thus that she knew him. It had often roused her to rebellion in the old days, but now she felt resigned and also a little frightened.
He had come to her; he helped her to alight. She saw that he was angry, that he intended to receive her rudely; then, that his moustache was curling ironically, as though in mockery because he was the stronger. She said nothing, however, took his hand calmly and alighted. He led her outside; and in the carriage they waited a moment for her trunk. His eyes took her in at a glance. She was wearing an old blue serge skirt and a little blue serge cape; but, notwithstanding her old clothes and her weary resignation, she looked a handsome and smartly dressed woman.
"I am glad to see that you thought it advisable at last to carry out my wishes," he said, in the end.
"I thought it would be best," she answered, softly.
Her tone struck him; and he watched her attentively, out of the comer of his eyes. He did not understand her, but he was pleased that she had come. She was tired now, from excitement and travelling; but he thought that she looked most charming, even though she was not so brilliant as on that night, at Mrs. Uxeley's ball, when he had first spoken to his divorced wife.
"Are you tired?" he asked.
"I have been a bit feverish for a day or two; and, of course I had no sleep last night," she said, as though in apology.
The trunk was brought and they drove away, to the Hôtel Continental. She did not speak again in the carriage. They were also silent as they entered the hotel and in the lift. He took her to his room. It was an ordinary hotel-bedroom; but she thought it strange to see his brushes lying on the dressing-table, his coats and trousers hanging on the pegs: familiar things with whose outlines and folds she was well-acquainted. She recognised his kit-bag in a corner.
He opened the windows wide. She had sat down on a chair, in an expectant attitude. She felt a little faint and closed her eyes, which were blinded by the stream of sunlight.
"You must be hungry," he said. "What shall I order for you?"
"I should like some tea and bread-and-butter."
Her trunk arrived; and he ordered her breakfast. Then he said:
"Take off your hat."
She stood up. She took off her cape. Her cotton blouse was rumpled; and this annoyed her. She removed the pins from her hat before the glass and quite naturally did her hair with his comb, which she saw lying there. And she settled the silk bow around her collar.
He had lit a cigar and was smoking quietly, standing. A waiter came in with the breakfast. She ate a mouthful without speaking and drank a cup of tea.
"Have you breakfasted?" she asked.
"Yes."
They were silent again and she went on eating.
"And shall we have a talk now?" he asked, still standing up, smoking.
"Very well."
"I won't speak about your running off as you did," he said. "My first intention was to give you a regular flaying, for it was a damned silly trick...."
She said nothing. She merely looked up at him; and her beautiful eyes were filled with a new expression, one of gentle resignation. He fell silent again, evidently restraining himself and seeking his words. Then he resumed:
"As I say, I won't speak about that any more. For the moment you didn't know what you were doing and you weren't accountable for your actions. But there must be an end of that now, for I wish it. Of course I know that according to the law I have not the least right over you. But we've discussed all this; and I told it you in writing. And you have been my wife; and, now that I am seeing you again, I feel very plainly that, in spite of everything, I regard you as my wife and that you are my wife. And you must have retained the same impression from our meeting here, at Nice."
"Yes," she said calmly.
"You admit that?"
"Yes," she repeated.
"Then that's all right. It's the only thing I wanted of you. So we won't think any more now of what happened, of our former unpleasantness, of our divorce and of what you have done since. From now on we will put all that behind us. I look upon you as my wife and you shall be my wife again. According to the law we can't get married again. But that makes no difference. Our divorce in law I regard as an intervening formality and we will counter it as far as we can. If we have children, we shall get them legitimatized. I will consult a lawyer about all that; and I shall take all the necessary measures, financial included. In this way our divorce will be nothing more than a formality, of no meaning to us and of as little significance as possible to the world and to the law. And then I shall leave the service. I shouldn't in any case care to stay in it for good, so I may as well leave it earlier than I intended. For you wouldn't find it pleasant to live in Holland; and it doesn't appeal to me either."
"No," she murmured.
"Where would you like to live?"
"I don't know...."
"In Italy?"
"No," she begged, in a tone of entreaty.
"Care to stay here?"
"I'd rather not ... to begin with."
"I was thinking of Paris. Would you like to live in Paris?"
"Very well."
"That's all right then. So we will go to Paris as soon as possible and look out for a flat and settle in. It'll soon be spring now; and that is a good time to start life in Paris."
"Very well."
He flung himself into an easy-chair; it creaked under him. Then he asked:
"Tell me, what do you really think, inside yourself?"
"How do you mean?"
"I want to know what you thought of your husband. Did you think him absurd?"
"No."
"Come over here and sit on my knee."
She stood up and went to him. She did as he wished, sat down on his knee; and he drew her to him. He laid his hand on her head, with that gesture which prevented her thinking. She closed her eyes and laid her head against his cheek.
"You haven't forgotten me altogether?"
She shook her head.
"We ought never to have got divorced, ought we?" She shook her head again.
"But we used to be very bad-tempered then, both of us. You must never be bad-tempered in future. It makes you look spiteful and ugly. As you are now, you're much nicer and prettier."
She smiled faintly.
"I am glad to have you back with me," he whispered, with a long kiss on her lips.
She closed her eyes under his kiss, while his moustache curled against her skin and his mouth pressed hers.
"Are you still tired?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "I should like to get my things off."
"You'd better lie down for a bit," he said. "Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you: your friend, the princess, is coming here this evening!"
"Isn't Urania angry?"
"No, I have told her everything and she knows about it all."
She was pleased to know that Urania was not angry and that she still had a friend left.
"And I have seen Mrs. Uxeley also."
"She must be angry with me, isn't she?"
He laughed:
"That old hag! No, not angry. She's in the dumps because she has no one with her. She set great store by you. She likes to have pretty people about her, she said. She can't stand an ugly companion, with nochic.... There, I'll leave you and go and sit downstairs somewhere."
They stood up. His eyes had a golden glimmer in them; his moustache was lifted by his ironic smile. And he caught her fiercely in his arms:
"Cornélie," he said, hoarsely, "I think it's wonderful to have you back again. Do you belong to me, tell me, do you belong to me?"
He pressed her to him till he almost stifled her with the pressure of his arms:
"Tell me, do you belong to me?"
"Yes."
"What used you to say to me in the old days, when you were in love with me?"
She hesitated.
"What used you to say?" he insisted, holding her still more tightly.
Pushing her hands against his shoulders, she fought to catch her breath:
"My Rud!" she murmured. "My beautiful, glorious Rud!"
Automatically she now wound her arms around his head. He released her as with an effort of will:
"Take off your things," he said, "and try to get some sleep. I'll come back later."
He went away. She undressed and brushed her hair with his brushes, washed her face and dripped into the basin some of the toilet-water which he used. She drew the curtains, behind which the noonday sun shone; and a soft crimson twilight filled the room. And she lay down and waited for him, trembling. There was no thought in her. There was in her no grief and no recollection. She was filled only with a great expectancy, a waiting for the inevitability of life. She felt herself to be solely and wholly a bride, but not an innocent bride; and, deep in her blood, in the marrow of her bones, she felt herself to be the wife, the very blood and marrow, of him whom she awaited. Before her, as she lay half-dreaming, she saw little figures of children. For, if she was to be his wife in truth and sincerity, she wanted to be not only his lover but also the woman who gave him his children. She knew that, despite his roughness, he loved the softness of children; and she herself would long for them, in her second married life, as a sweet comfort for the days when she would be no longer beautiful and no longer young. Before her, half-dreaming, she saw the figures of children.... And she lay waiting for him, she listened for his step, she longed for his coming, her flesh quivered towards him.... And, when he entered and came to her, her arms closed round him in profound and conscious certainty and she felt, beyond a doubt, on his breast, in his arms, the knowledge of his virile, overmastering dominion, while before her eyes, in a dizzy, melancholy obscurity, the dream of her life—Rome, Duco, the studio—sank away...?