Title: The Inevitable
Author: Couperus, Louis, 1863-1923
Language: English
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                             THE INEVITABLE

                                   BY
                             LOUIS COUPERUS



                             Translated by

                      ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS



                                New York
                         Dodd, Mead and Company
                                  1920



THE INEVITABLE


CHAPTER I


The Marchesa Belloni's boarding-house was situated in one of the
healthiest, if not one of the most romantic quarters of Rome. One
half of the house had formed part of a villino of the old Ludovisi
Gardens, those beautiful old gardens regretted by everybody who knew
them before the new barrack-quarters were built on the site of the old
Roman park, with its border of villas. The entrance to the pension
was in the Via Lombardia. The older or villino portion of the house
retained a certain antique charm for the marchesa's boarders, while
the new premises built on to it offered the advantages of spacious
rooms, modern sanitation and electric light. The pension boasted a
certain reputation for comfort, cheapness and a pleasant situation:
it stood at a few minutes' walk from the Pincio, on high ground, and
there was no need to fear malaria; and the price charged for a long
stay, amounting to hardly more than eight lire, was exceptionally
low for Rome, which was known to be more expensive than any other
town in Italy. The boarding-house therefore was generally full. The
visitors began to arrive as soon as October: those who came earliest
in the season paid least; and, with the exception of a few hurrying
tourists, they nearly all remained until Easter, going southward to
Naples after the great church festivals.

Some English travelling-acquaintances had strongly recommended the
pension to Cornélie de Retz van Loo, who was travelling in Italy by
herself; and she had written to the Marchesa Belloni from Florence. It
was her first visit to Italy; it was the first time that she had
alighted at the great cavernous station near the Baths of Diocletian;
and, standing in the square, in the golden Roman sunlight, while
the great fountain of the Acqua Marcia gushed and rippled and the
cab-drivers clicked with their whips and their tongues to attract
her attention, she was conscious of her "nice Italian sensation,"
as she called it, and felt glad to be in Rome.

She saw a little old man limping towards her with the instinct of
a veteran porter who recognizes his travellers at once; and she read
"Hotel Belloni" on his cap and beckoned to him with a smile. He saluted
her with respectful familiarity, as though she were an old acquaintance
and he glad to see her; asked if she had had a pleasant journey,
if she was not over-tired; led her to the victoria; put in her rug
and her hand-bag; asked for the tickets of her trunks; and said that
she had better go on ahead: he would follow in ten minutes with the
luggage. She received an impression of cosiness, of being well cared
for by the little old lame man; and she gave him a friendly nod as
the coachman drove away. She felt happy and careless, though she had
just the faintest foreboding of something unhappy and unknown that
was going to happen to her; and she looked to right and left to take
in the streets of Rome. But she saw only houses upon houses, like so
many barracks; then a great white palace, the new Palazzo Piombino,
which she knew to contain the Juno Ludovisi; and then the vettura
stopped and a boy in buttons came out to meet her. He showed her into
the drawing-room, a gloomy apartment, in the middle of which was a
table covered with periodicals, arranged in a regular and unbroken
circle. Two ladies, obviously English and of the æsthetic type, with
loose-fitting blouses and grimy hair, sat in a corner studying their
Baedekers before going out. Cornélie bowed slightly, but received
no bow in return; she did not take offence, being familiar with the
manners of the travelling Briton. She sat down at the table and took
up the Roman Herald, the paper which appears once a fortnight and
tells you what there is to do in Rome during the next two weeks.

Thereupon one of the ladies asked her, from the corner, in an
aggressive tone:

"I beg your pardon, but would you please not take the Herald to
your room?"

Cornélie raised her head very haughtily and languidly in the direction
where the ladies were sitting, looked vaguely above their grimy heads,
said nothing and glanced down at the Herald again; and she thought
herself a very experienced traveller and smiled inwardly because she
knew how to deal with that type of Englishwoman.

The marchesa entered and welcomed Cornélie in Italian and in
French. She was a large, fat matron, vulgarly fat; her ample bosom
was contained in a silk cuirass or spencer, shiny at the seams
and bursting under the arms; her grey frizzled hair gave her a
somewhat leonine appearance; her great yellow and blue eyes, with
bistre shadows beneath them, wore a strained expression, the pupils
unnaturally dilated by belladonna; a pair of immense crystals sparkled
in her ears; and her fat, greasy fingers were covered with nameless
jewels. She talked very fast; and Cornélie thought her sentences as
pleasant and homely as the welcome of the lame porter in the square
outside the station. The marchesa led her to the lift and stepped in
with her; the hydraulic lift, a railed-in cage, running up the well
of the staircase, rose solemnly and suddenly stopped, motionless,
between the second and the third floor.

"Third floor!" cried the marchesa to some one below.

"Non c'e acqua!" the boy in buttons calmly called back, meaning thereby
to convey that--as seemed natural--there was not enough water to move
the lift.

The marchesa screamed out some orders in a shrill voice; two facchini
came running up and hung on to the cable of the lift, together with the
ostensibly zealous boy in buttons; and by fits and starts the cage rose
higher and higher, until at last it almost reached the third storey.

"A little higher!" ordered the marchesa.

But the facchini strained their muscles in vain: the lift refused
to stir.

"We can manage!" said the marchesa. "Wait a bit."

Taking a great stride, which revealed the enormous white-stockinged
calf of her leg, she stepped on to the floor, smiled and gave her
hand to Cornélie, who imitated her gymnastics.

"Here we are!" sighed the marchesa, with a smile of satisfaction. "This
is your room."

She opened a door and showed Cornélie a room. Though the sun was
shining brightly out of doors, the room was as damp and chilly as
a cellar.

"Marchesa," Cornélie said, without hesitation, "I wrote to you for
two rooms facing south."

"Did you?" asked the marchesa, plausibly and ingenuously. "I really
didn't remember. Yes, that is one of those foreigners' ideas: rooms
facing south.... This is really a beautiful room."

"I'm sorry, but I can't accept this room, marchesa."

La Belloni grumbled a bit, went down the corridor and opened the door
of another room:

"And this one, signora?... How do you like this?"

"Is it south?"

"Almost"

"I want it full south."

"This looks west: you see the most splendid sunsets from your window."

"I absolutely must have a south room, marchesa."

"I also have the most charming little apartments looking east: you
get the most picturesque sunrises there."

"No, marchesa."

"Don't you appreciate the beauties of nature?"

"Just a little, but I put my health first."

"I sleep in a north room myself."

"You are an Italian, marchesa, and you're used to it."

"I'm very sorry, but I have no rooms facing south."

"Then I'm sorry too, marchesa, but I must look out somewhere else."

Cornélie turned as though to go away. The choice of a room sometimes
means the choice of a life.

The marchesa caught hold of her hand and smiled. She had abandoned
her cool tone and her voice was all honey:

"Davvero, that's one of those foreigners' ideas: rooms facing
south! But I have two little kennels left. Here...."

And she quickly opened two doors, two snug little cupboards of rooms,
which showed through the open windows a lofty and spacious view of
the sky, outspread above the streets and roofs below, with the blue
dome of St. Peter's in the distance.

"These are the only rooms I have left facing south," said the marchesa,
plaintively.

"I shall be glad to have these, marchesa."

"Sixteen lire," smiled la Belloni.

"Ten, as you wrote."

"I could put two persons in here."

"I shall stay all the winter, if I am satisfied."

"You must have your way!" the marchesa exclaimed, suddenly, in her
sweetest voice, a voice of graceful surrender. "You shall have the
rooms for twelve lire. Don't let us discuss it any more. The rooms
are yours. You are Dutch, are you not? We have a Dutch family staying
here: a mother with two daughters and a son. Would you like to sit
next to them at table?"

"No, I'd rather you put me somewhere else; I don't care for my
fellow-countrymen when travelling."

The marchesa left Cornélie to herself. She looked out of the window,
absent-mindedly, glad to be in Rome, yet faintly conscious of the
something unhappy and unknown that was going to happen. There was a tap
at her door; the men carried in her luggage. She saw that it was eleven
o'clock and began to unpack. One of her rooms was a small sitting-room,
like a bird-cage in the air, looking out over Rome. She altered the
position of the furniture, draped the faded sofa with a shawl from the
Abruzzi and fixed a few portraits and photographs with drawing-pins to
the wall, whose white-washed surface was broken up by rudely-painted
arabesques. And she smiled at the border of purple hearts transfixed
by arrows, which surrounded the decorated panels of the wall.

After an hour's work her sitting-room was settled: she had a home
of her own, with a few of her own shawls and rugs, a screen here,
a little table there, cushions on the sofa, books within easy
reach. When she had finished and had sat down and looked around her,
she suddenly felt very lonely. She began to think of the Hague and
of what she had left behind her. But she did not want to think and
picked up her Baedeker and read about the Vatican. She was unable to
concentrate her thoughts and turned to Hare's Walks in Rome. A bell
sounded. She was tired and her nerves were on edge. She looked in the
glass, saw that her hair was out of curl, her blouse soiled with coal
and dust, unlocked a second trunk and changed her things. She cried
and sobbed while she was curling her hair. The second bell rang; and,
after powdering her face, she went downstairs.

She expected to be late, but there was no one in the dining-room and
she had to wait before she was served. She resolved not to come down
so very punctually in future. A few boarders looked in through the
open door, saw that there was no one sitting at table yet, except a
new lady, and disappeared again.

Cornélie looked around her and waited.

The dining-room was the original dining-room of the old villa, with a
ceiling by Guercina. The waiters loitered about. An old grey major-domo
cast a distant glance over the table, to see if everything was in
order. He grew impatient when nobody came and told them to serve the
macaroni to Cornélie. It struck Cornélie that he too limped with one
leg, like the porter. But the waiters were very young, hardly more than
sixteen to eighteen, and lacked the waiter's usual self-possession.

A stout gentleman, vivacious, consequential, pock-marked, ill-shaven,
in a shabby black coat which showed but little linen, entered,
rubbing his hands, and took his seat, opposite Cornélie.

He bowed politely and began to eat his macaroni.

And this seemed to be the signal for the others to begin eating,
for a number of boarders, mostly ladies, now came in, sat down
and helped themselves to the macaroni, which was handed round
by the youthful waiters under the watchful eye of the grey-haired
major-domo. Cornélie smiled at the oddity of these travelling types;
and, when she involuntarily glanced at the pock-marked gentleman
opposite, she saw that he too was smiling.

He hurriedly mopped up his tomato-sauce with his bread, bent a little
way across the table and almost whispered, in French:

"It's amusing, isn't it?"

Cornélie raised her eyebrows:

"What do you mean?"

"A cosmopolitan company like this."

"Oh, yes!"

"You are Dutch?"

"How do you know?"

"I saw your name in the visitors' book, with 'la Haye' after it."

"I am Dutch, yes."

"There are some more Dutch ladies here, sitting over there: they
are charming."

Cornélie asked the major-domo for some vin ordinaire.

"That wine is no good," said the stout gentleman, vivaciously. "This
is Genzano," pointing to his fiasco. "I pay a small corkage and drink
my own wine."

The major-domo put a pint bottle in front of Cornélie: it was included
in her pension without extra charge.

"If you like, I will give you the address where I get my wine. Via
della Croce, 61."

Cornélie thanked him. The pock-marked gentleman's uncommon ease and
vivacity diverted her.

"You're looking at the major-domo?" he asked.

"You are a keen observer," she smiled in reply.

"He's a type, our major-domo, Giuseppe. He used to be major-domo in
the palace of an Austrian archduke. He did I don't know what. Stole
something, perhaps. Or was impertinent. Or dropped a spoon on the
floor. He has come down in the world. Now you behold him in the
Pension Belloni. But the dignity of the man!"

He leant forward:

"The marchesa is economical. All the servants here are either old or
very young. It's cheaper."

He bowed to two German ladies, a mother and daughter, who had come
in and sat down beside him:

"I have the permit which I promised you, to see the Palazzo Rospigliosi
and Guido Reni's Aurora" he said, speaking in German.

"Is the prince back then?"

"No, the prince is in Paris. The palace is not open to visitors,
except yourselves."

This was said with a gallant bow.

The German ladies exclaimed how kind he was, how he was able to do
anything, to find a way out of every difficulty. They had taken endless
trouble to bribe the Rospigliosi porter and they had not succeeded.

A little thin Englishwoman had taken her seat beside Cornélie.

"And for you, Miss Taylor, I have a card for a low mass in His
Holiness' private chapel."

Miss Taylor was radiant with delight.

"Have you been sight-seeing again?" the pock-marked gentleman
continued.

"Yes, Museo Kircheriano," said Miss Taylor. "But I am tired out. It
was most exquisite."

"My prescription, Miss Taylor, is that you stay at home this afternoon
and rest."

"I have an engagement to go to the Aventino...."

"You mustn't. You're tired. You look worse every day and you're losing
flesh. You must rest, or you sha'n't have the card for the low mass."

The German ladies laughed. Miss Taylor, flattered, in an ecstasy of
delight, gave her promise. She looked at the pock-marked gentleman
as though she expected to hear the judgement of Solomon fall from
his lips.

Lunch was over: the rump-steak, the pudding, the dried figs. Cornélie
rose:

"May I give you a glass out of my bottle?" asked the stout
gentleman. "Do taste my wine and tell me if you like it. If so,
I'll order a fiasco for you in the Via della Croce."

Cornélie did not like to refuse. She sipped the wine. It was
deliciously pure. She thought that it would be a good thing to drink
a pure wine in Rome; and, as she reflected, the stout gentleman seemed
to read her quick thought:

"It is a good thing," he said, "to drink a strengthening wine while
you are in Rome, where life is so tiring."

Cornélie agreed.

"This is Genzano, at two lire seventy-five the fiasco. It will last
you a long time: the wine keeps. So I'll order you a fiasco."

He bowed to the ladies around and left the room.

The German ladies bowed to Cornélie.

"Such an amiable man, that Mr. Rudyard."

"What can he be?" Cornélie wondered. "French, German, English,
American?"



CHAPTER II


She had hired a victoria after lunch and had driven through Rome, to
make her first acquaintance with the city for which she had longed
so eagerly. This first impression was a great disappointment. Her
unspoiled imagination, her reading, even the photographs which she had
bought in Florence and studied with the affection of an inexperienced
tourist had given her the illusion of a city of an ideal antiquity,
an ideal Renascence; and she had forgotten that, especially in Rome,
life has progressed pitilessly and that the ages are not visible,
in buildings and ruins, as distinct periods, but that each period is
closely connected with the next by the passing days and years.

Thus she had thought the dome of St. Peter's small, the Corso narrow
and Trajan's Column a column like any other; she had not noticed the
Forum as she drove past it; and she had been unable to think of a
single emperor when she was at the Palatine.

Now she was home again, tired, and was resting a little and meditating;
she felt depressed, yet she enjoyed her vague reflections and the
silence about her in the big house, to which most of the boarders had
not yet returned. She thought of the Hague, of her big family, her
father, mother, brothers and sisters, to whom she had said good-bye
for a long time to go abroad. Her father, a retired colonel of hussars
living on his pension, with no great private means, had been unable to
contribute anything to the fulfilment of her caprice, as he called it;
and she would not have been able to satisfy that caprice, of beginning
a new life, but for a small legacy which she had inherited some years
ago from a godmother. She was glad to be more or less independent,
though she felt the selfishness of her independence.

But what could she have done for her family-circle, after the scandal
of her divorce? She was weak and selfish, she knew it; but she had
received a blow under which she had at first expected to succumb. And,
when she found herself surviving it, she had mustered such energy as
she possessed and said to herself that she could not go on existing in
that same narrow circle of her sisters and her girl friends; and she
had forced her life into a different path. She had always had the knack
of creating an apparently new frock out of an old dress, transforming
a last year's hat into one of the latest fashion. Even so she had
now done with her distraught and wretched life, all battered and
broken as it was: she had gathered together, as in a fit of economy,
all that was left, all that was still serviceable; and out of those
remnants she had made herself a new existence. But this new life was
unable to breathe in the old atmosphere: it felt aimless in it and
estranged; and she had managed to force it into a different path,
in spite of all the opposition of her family and friends. Perhaps she
would not have succeeded so readily if she had not been so completely
shattered. Perhaps she would not have felt this energy if she had
suffered only a little. She had her strength and she had her weakness;
she was very simple and yet she was very various; and it was perhaps
just this complexity that had been the saving of her youth.

Besides, she was actually very young, only twenty-three; and in youth
one possesses an unconscious vitality, notwithstanding any apparent
weakness. And her contradictory qualities gave her equilibrium and
saved her from falling over into the abyss....

All this passed vaguely through her mind as clouds pass before
the eyes, not with the conciseness of words but with the misty
indefiniteness of a dreamy fatigue. As she lay there, she did not
look as if she had ever exerted the strength to give a new path to
her life: a pale, delicate woman, slender, with drooping movements,
lying on a sofa in her not very fresh dressing-gown, with its faded
pink and its rumpled lace. And yet there was a certain poetical
fragrance about her personality, despite her weary eyes and the
limp outlines of her attire, despite the boarding-house room, with
its air of quickly improvised comfort, a comfort which was a matter
of tact rather than reality and could be packed away in a single
trunk. Her frail figure, her pale and delicate rather than beautiful
features were surrounded, as by an aura, by that atmosphere of personal
poetry which she unconsciously radiated, which she shed from her eyes
upon the things which she beheld, from her fingers upon the things
which she touched. To those who did not like her, this peculiar
atmosphere, this unusualness, this eccentricity, this unlikeness to
the typical young woman of the Hague, was the very thing with which
they reproached her. To those who liked her, it was partly talent,
partly soul; something peculiar to her which seemed almost genius;
yet it was perturbing. It invested her with a great charm; it gave
pause for thought and it promised much: more, perhaps, than could
be realized. And this woman was the child of her time but especially
of her environment and therefore so unfinished, revealing disparity
against disparity, in an equilibrium of opposing forces, which might
be her undoing or her salvation, but were in either case her fate.

She felt lonely in Italy. She had stayed for weeks at Florence, where
she tried to lead a full life, enriched by art and history. There,
it was true, she forgot herself to a great extent, but she still felt
lonely. She had spent a fortnight at Siena, but Siena had depressed
her, with its sombre streets, its dead palaces; and she had yearned
for Rome. But she had not found Rome yet that afternoon. And, though
she felt tired, she felt above all things lonely, terribly lonely
and useless in a great world, in a great town, a town in which one
feels the greatness, uselessness and vast antiquity of things more
perhaps than anywhere else. She felt like a little atom of suffering,
like an insect, an ant, half-trodden, half-crushed, among the immense
domes of Rome, of whose presence out of doors she was subtly conscious.

And her hand wandered vacantly over her books, which she had stacked
punctiliously and conscientiously on a little table: some translations
of the classics, Ovid, Tacitus, together with Dante, Petrach, Tasso. It
was growing dusk in her room, there was no light to read by, she
was too much enervated to ring for a lamp; a chilliness hovered in
her little room, now that the sun had quite gone down, and she had
forgotten to ask for a fire on that first day. Loneliness was all
about her, her suffering pained her; her soul craved for a fellow-soul,
but her mouth craved for a kiss, her arms for him, once her husband;
and, turning on her cushions and wringing her hands, she prayed deep
down in herself:

"O God, tell me what to do!"



CHAPTER III


At dinner there was a buzz of voices; the three or four long tables
were all full; the marchesa sat at the head of the centre table. Now
and then she beckoned impatiently to Giuseppe, the old major-domo,
who had dropped a spoon at an archducal court; and the unfledged
little waiters rushed about breathlessly. Cornélie found the obliging
stout gentleman, whom the German ladies called Mr. Rudyard, sitting
opposite her and her fiasco of Genzano beside her plate. She thanked
Mr. Rudyard with a smile and made the usual remarks: how she had been
for a drive that afternoon and had made her first acquaintance with
Rome, the Forum, the Pincio. She talked to the German ladies and
to the English one, who was always so tired with her sight-seeing;
and the Germans, a Baronin and the Baronesse her daughter, laughed
with her at the two æsthetes whom Cornélie had come upon that morning
in the drawing-room. The two were sitting some distance away, lank
and angular, grimy-haired, in curiously cut evening-dress, which
showed the breast and arms warmly covered with a Jaeger undervest,
on which, in their turn, lay strings of large blue beads. Their eyes
browsed over the long table, as though they were pitying everybody
who had come to Rome to learn about art, because they two alone knew
what art was. While eating, which they did unpleasantly, almost with
their fingers, they read æsthetic books, wrinkling their brows and
now and then looking up angrily, because the people about them were
talking. With their self-conceit, their impossible manners, their
worse than tasteless dress and their great air of superiority, they
represented types of travelling Englishwomen that are never met except
in Italy. They were unanimously criticized at the table. They came to
the Pension Belloni every winter and made drawings in water-colours
in the Forum or the Via Appia. And they were so remarkable in
their unprecedented originality, in their grimy angularity, with
their evening-dresses, their Jaegers, their strings of blue beads,
their æsthetic books and their meat-picking fingers, that all eyes
were constantly wandering in their direction, as though under the
influence of a Medusa spell.

The young baroness, a type out of the Fliegende Blätter, witty and
quick, with her little round, German face and arched, pencilled
eyebrows, was laughing with Cornélie and showing her a thumb-nail
caricature which she had made of the two æsthetic ladies in her
sketch-book, when Giuseppe conducted a young lady to the end of the
table where Cornélie and Rudyard sat opposite each other. She had
evidently just arrived, said "Evening" to everybody near her and sat
down with a great rustling. It was at once apparent that she was an
American, almost too good-looking, too young, to be travelling alone
like that, with a smiling self-possession, as if she were at home:
a very white complexion, very fine dark eyes, teeth like a dentist's
advertisement, her full breast moulded in mauve cloth plentifully
decorated with silver braid, on her heavily-waved hair a large mauve
hat with a cascade of black ostrich-feathers, fastened by an over-large
paste buckle. At every movement the silk of her petticoat rustled,
the feathers nodded, the paste buckle gleamed. And, notwithstanding all
this showiness, she was child-like: she was perhaps just twenty, with
an ingenuous expression in her eyes. She at once spoke to Cornélie,
to Rudyard; said that she was tired, that she had come from Naples,
that she had been dancing last night at Prince Cibo's, that her name
was Miss Urania Hope, that her father lived in Chicago, that she had
two brothers who, in spite of her father's money, were working on a
farm in the Far West, but that she had been brought up as a spoilt
child by her father, who, however, wanted her to be able to stand on
her own feet and was therefore making her travel by herself in the
Old World, in dear old Italy. She was delighted to hear that Cornélie
was also travelling alone; and Rudyard chaffed the ladies about their
modern views, but the Baronin and the Baronesse applauded them. Miss
Hope at once took a liking to her Dutch fellow-traveller and wanted
to arrange joint excursions; but Cornélie, withdrawing into herself,
made a tactful excuse, said that her time was fully engaged, that
she wanted to study in the museums.

"So serious?" asked Miss Hope, respectfully.

And the petticoat rustled, the plumes nodded, the paste buckle gleamed.

She made on Cornélie the impression of a gaudy butterfly, which,
sportive and unthinking, might easily one day dash itself to pieces
against the hot-house windows of our cabined existence. She felt no
attraction towards this strange, pretty little creature, who looked
like a child and a cocotte in one; but she felt sorry for her, she
did not know why.

After dinner, Rudyard proposed to take the two German ladies for
a little walk. The younger baroness came to Cornélie and asked if
she would come too, to see Rome by moonlight, quite close, from the
Villa Medici. She felt grateful for the kindly suggestion and was
just going to put on her hat, when Miss Hope ran after her:

"Stay and sit with me in the drawing-room."

"I am going for a walk with the Baronin," Cornélie replied.

"That German lady?"

"Yes."

"Is she a noblewoman?"

"I presume so."

"Are there many titled people in the house?" asked Miss Hope, eagerly.

Cornélie laughed:

"I don't know. I only arrived this morning."

"I believe there are. I heard that there were many titled people
here. Are you one?"

"I was!" Cornélie laughed. "But I had to give up my title."

"What a shame!" Miss Hope exclaimed. "I love titles. Do you know what
I've got? An album with the coats of arms of all sorts of families
and another album with patterns of silk and brocade from each of the
Queen of Italy's ball-dresses. Would you care to see it?"

"Very much indeed!" Cornélie laughed. "But I must put on my hat now."

She went and returned in a hat and cloak; the German ladies and
Rudyard were waiting in the hall and asked what she was laughing
at. She caused great merriment by telling them about the album with
the patterns of the queen's ball-dresses.

"Who is he?" she asked the Baronin, as she walked in front with her,
along the Via Sistina, while the Baronesse and Rudyard followed.

She thought the Baronin a charming person, but she was surprised to
find, in this German woman, who belonged to the titled military-class,
a coldly cynical view of life which was not exactly that of her
Berlin environment.

"I don't know," the Baronin answered, with an air of indifference. "We
travel a great deal. We have no house in Berlin at present. We want
to make the most of our stay abroad. Mr. Rudyard is very pleasant. He
helps us in all sorts of ways: tickets for a papal mass, introductions
here, invitations there. He seems to have plenty of influence. What
do I care who or what he is! Else agrees with me. I accept what he
gives us and for the rest I don't try to fathom him."

They walked on. The Baronin took Cornélie's arm:

"My dear child, don't think us more cynical than we are. I hardly know
you, but I've felt somehow drawn towards you. Strange, isn't it, when
one's abroad like this and has one's first talk at a table-d'hôte,
over a skinny chicken? Don't think us shabby or cynical. Oh, dear,
perhaps we are! Our cosmopolitan, irresponsible, unsettled life makes
us ungenerous, cynical and selfish. Very selfish. Rudyard shows us
many kindnesses. Why should I not accept them? I don't care who or
what he is. I am not committing myself in any way."

Cornélie looked round involuntarily. In the nearly dark street she saw
Rudyard and the young Baronesse, almost whispering and mysteriously
intimate.

"And does your daughter think so too?"

"Oh, yes! We are not committing ourselves in any way. We do not
even particularly like him, with his pock-marked face and his dirty
finger-nails. We merely accept his introductions. Do as we do. Or
... don't. Perhaps it will be better form if you don't. I ... I have
become a great egoist, through travelling. What do I care?..."

The dark street seemed to invite confidences; and Cornélie to some
extent understood this cynical indifference, particularly in a woman
reared in narrow principles of duty and morality. It was certainly
not good form; but was it not weariness brought about by the wear
and tear of life? In any case she vaguely understood it: that tone
of indifference, that careless shrugging of the shoulders....

They turned the corner of the Hotel Massier and approached the Villa
Medici. The full moon was pouring down its flood of white radiance
and Rome lay in the flawless blue glamour of the night. Overflowing
the brimming basin of the fountain, beneath the black ilexes, whose
leafage held the picture of Rome in an ebony frame, the waste water
splashed and clattered.

"Rome must be very beautiful," said Cornélie, softly.

Rudyard and the Baronesse had come nearer and heard what she said:

"Rome is beautiful," he said, earnestly. "And Rome is more. Rome is
a great consolation to many people."

His words, spoken in the blue moonlit night, impressed her. The city
seemed to lie in mystical billows at her feet. She looked at him,
as he stood before her in his black coat, showing but little linen,
the same stout, civil gentleman. His voice was very penetrating, with
a rich note of conviction in it. She looked at him long, uncertain
of herself and vaguely conscious of an approaching intimation, but
still antipathetic.

Then he added, as though he did not wish her to meditate too deeply
the words which he had uttered:

"A great consolation to many ... because beauty consoles."

And she thought his last words an æsthetic commonplace; but he had
meant her to think so.



CHAPTER IV


Those first days in Rome tired Cornélie greatly. She did too much, as
every one does who has just arrived in Rome; she wanted to take in the
whole city at once; and the distances, although covered in a carriage,
and the endless galleries in the museums resulted in producing physical
exhaustion. Moreover she was constantly experiencing disappointments,
in respect of pictures, statues or buildings. At first she dared not
own to these disappointments; but one afternoon, feeling dead-tired,
after she had been painfully disappointed in the Sistine Chapel, she
owned up to herself. Everything that she saw that was already known
to her from her previous studies disappointed her. Then she resolved
to give sight-seeing a rest. And, after those fatiguing days, when
every morning and every afternoon was spent out of doors, it was
a luxury to surrender herself to the unconscious current of daily
life. She remained at home in the mornings, wrapped in a tea-gown,
in her cosy little bird-cage of a sitting-room, writing letters,
dreaming a little, with her arms folded behind her head; she read
Ovid and Petrarch, or listened to a couple of street-musicians, who,
with their quavering tenors, to the shrill whining of their guitars,
filled the silent street with a sobbing passion of music. At lunch
she considered that she had been lucky in her pension, in her little
corner at the table. She was interested in Baronin von Rothkirch, with
her indifferent, aristocratic condescension towards Rudyard, because
she saw how residence abroad can draw a person out of the narrow ring
of caste principles. The young Baronesse, who cared nothing about
life and merely sketched and painted, interested her because of her
whispering intimacy with Rudyard, which she failed to understand. Miss
Hope was so ingenious, so childishly irrational, that Cornélie could
not imagine how old Hope, the rich stockinet-manufacturer over in
Chicago, allowed this child to travel about alone, with her far too
generous monthly allowance and her total ignorance of the world and
people; and Rudyard himself, though she sometimes felt an aversion
for him, attracted her in spite of that aversion. Although she had
so far formed no deeper friendship with any of her fellow-boarders,
at any rate they were people to whom she was able to talk; and the
conversation at table was a diversion amid the solitude of the rest
of the day.

For in the afternoons, during this period of fatigue and
disappointment, she would merely go for a short walk by herself down
the Corso or on the Pincio and then return home, make her own tea in
her little silver tea-pot and sit dreaming by the log fire, in the
dusk, until it was time to dress for dinner.

And the brightly-lit dining-room with the Guercino ceiling was gay
and cheerful. The pension was crammed: the marchesa had given up
her own room and was sleeping in the bath-room. A hum of voices
buzzed around the tables; the waiters rushed to and fro; spoons
and forks clattered. There was none of the melancholy spirit of so
many tables-d'hôte. The people knew one another; and the excitement
of Roman life, the oxygen in the Roman air seemed to lend an added
vivacity to the gestures and conversation. Amidst this vivacity the
two grimy æsthetic ladies attracted attention by their unvarying pose,
with their eternal evening-dress, their Jaegers, their beads, the fat
books which they read, their angry looks because people were talking.

After dinner they sat in the drawing-room or in the hall, made
friends here and there and talked about Rome, Rome, Rome. There
was always a great fuss about the music in the different churches:
they consulted the Herald; they asked Rudyard, who knew everything,
and gathered round him; and he, fat and polite as ever, smiled and
distributed tickets and named the day and hour at which an important
service would be held in this church or in that. To English ladies,
who were not fully informed, he would now and then, as it were
casually, impart details about the complexities of Catholic ritual
and the Catholic hierarchy; he explained the nationalities denoted
by the various colours of the seminarists whom you met in shoals of
an afternoon on the Pincio, staring at St. Peter's, in ecstasy over
St. Peter's, the mighty symbol of their mighty religion; he set forth
the distinction between a church and a basilica; he related anecdotes
of the private life of Leo XIII. His manner of speaking of all these
things possessed an insinuating charm: the English ladies, greedy
for information, hung on his lips, thought him too awfully nice,
asked him for a thousand particulars.

These days were a great rest for Cornélie. She recovered from her
fatigue and felt indifferent towards Rome. But she did not think of
leaving any the sooner. Whether she was here or elsewhere was all
the same to her: she had to be somewhere. Besides, the pension was
good, her fellow-boarders pleasant and cheerful. She no longer read
Hare's Walks in Rome or Ovid's Metamorphoses, but she read Ouida's
Ariadne over again. She did not care for the book as much as she
had done three years before, at the Hague; and after that she read
nothing. But she amused herself with the von Rothkirch ladies for a
whole evening, looking over Miss Hope's album of seals and collection
of patterns. How mad those Americans were on titles and royalties! The
Baronin good-naturedly contributed an impression of her own arms to
the album. And the patterns were greatly admired: gold brocades; silks
heavily interwoven with silver; spangled tulles. Miss Hope related how
she had come by them: she knew one of the queen's waiting-women, who
had formerly been in service with an American; and this waiting-woman
was now able to procure the patterns for her at a high price: a
precious bit of material picked up while the queen was trying on,
or sometimes even cut out of a broad seam. The child was prouder of
her collection of patterns than an Italian prince of his paintings,
said Baronin von Rothkirch. But, notwithstanding this absurdity, this
vanity, Cornélie came to like the pretty American girl because of her
candid and unsophisticated nature. She looked most attractive in the
evening, in a black low-cut dress, or in a rose chiffon blouse. For
that matter, it was a different frock every night. She possessed a
kaleidoscopic collection of dresses, blouses and jewels. She would walk
through the ruins of the Forum in a tailor-made suit of cream cloth,
lined with orange silk; and her white lace petticoat flitted airily
over the foundations of the Basilica Julia or the Temple of Vesta. Her
gaily-trimmed hats introduced patches of colour from Regent Street or
the Avenue de l'Opéra into the tragic seriousness of the Colosseum or
the ruined palace of the Palatine. The young Baronesse teased her about
her orange silk lining, so in harmony with the Forum, about her hats,
so in keeping with the seriousness of a place of Christian martyrdom,
but she was never angry:

"It's a nice hat anyway!" she would say, in her Yankee drawl, which
always afforded a good view of her pretty teeth but made her strain
her mouth as though she were cracking filberts.

And the child enjoyed everything, enjoyed the Baronin and the
Baronesse, enjoyed being at a pension kept by a decayed Italian
marchioness. And, as soon as she caught sight of the Marchesa
Belloni's grey, leonine head, she would make a rush for her--because a
marchioness is higher than a baroness, said Madame von Rothkirch--drag
her into a corner and if possible monopolize her throughout the
evening. Rudyard would then join them; and Cornélie, seeing this,
wondered what Rudyard was, who he was and what he was about. But this
did not interest the Baronin, who had just received a card for a mass
in the papal chapel; and the young Baronesse merely said that he told
legends of the saints so nicely, when explaining the pictures to her
in the Doria and the Corsini.



CHAPTER V


One evening Cornélie made the acquaintance of the Dutch family beside
whom the Marchesa had first wished to place her at table: Mrs. van der
Staal and her two daughters. They too were spending the whole winter in
Rome: they had friends there and went out visiting. The conversation
flowed smoothly; and mevrouw invited Cornélie to come and have a chat
in her sitting-room. Next day she accompanied her new acquaintances
to the Vatican and heard that mevrouw was expecting her son, who was
coming to Rome from Florence to continue his archæological studies.

Cornélie was glad to meet at the hotel a Dutch element that was
not antipathetic. She thought it pleasant to talk Dutch again and
she confessed as much. In a day or two she had become intimate with
Mrs. van der Staal and the two girls; and on the evening when young
Van der Staal arrived she opened her heart more than she had ever
thought that she could do to strangers whom she had known for barely
a few days.

They were sitting in the Van der Staal's sitting-room, Cornélie in a
low chair by the blazing log-fire, for the evening was chilly. They
had been talking about the Hague, about her divorce; and she was now
speaking of Italy, of herself:

"I no longer see anything," she confessed. "Rome has quite bewildered
me. I can't distinguish a colour, an outline. I don't recognize
people. They all seem to whirl round me. Sometimes I feel a need to sit
alone for hours in my bird-cage upstairs, to recollect myself. This
morning, in the Vatican, I don't know: I remember nothing. It is all
grey and fuzzy around me. Then the people in the boarding-house:
the same faces every day. I see them and yet I don't see them. I
see ... I see Madame von Rothkirch and her daughter, I see the fair
Urania ... and Rudyard ... and the little Englishwoman, Miss Taylor,
who is always so tired with sight-seeing and who thinks everything
most exquisite. But my memory is so bad that, when I am alone, I have
to think to myself: Madame von Rothkirch is tall and stately, with
the smile of the German Empress--she is rather like her--talking fast
and yet with indifference, as though the words just fell indifferently
from her lips...."

"You're a good observer," said Van der Staal.

"Oh, don't say that!" said Cornélie, almost vexed. "I see nothing and
I can't remember. I receive no impressions. Everything around me is
colourless. I really don't know why I have come abroad.... When I am
alone, I think of the people whom I meet. I know Madame von Rothkirch
now and I know Else. Such a round, merry face, with arched eyebrows,
and always a joke or a witticism: I find it tiring sometimes, she makes
me laugh so. Still they are very nice. And the fair Urania. She tells
me everything. She is as communicative ... as I am at this moment. And
Rudyard: I see him before me too."

"Rudyard!" smiled mevrouw and the girls.

"What is he?" Cornélie asked, inquisitively. "He is so civil, he
ordered my wine for me, he can always get one all sorts of cards."

"Don't you know what Rudyard is?" asked Mrs. van der Staal.

"No; and Mrs. von Rothkirch doesn't know either."

"Then you had better be careful," laughed the girls.

"Are you a Catholic?" asked mevrouw.

"No."

"Nor the fair Urania either? Nor Mrs. von Rothkirch?"

"No."

"Well, that is why la Belloni put Rudyard at your table. Rudyard is
a Jesuit. Every pension in Rome has a Jesuit who lives there free
of charge, if the proprietor is a good friend of the Church, and who
tries to win souls by making himself especially agreeable."

Cornélie refused to believe it.

"You can take my word for it," mevrouw continued, "that in a pension
like this, a first-class pension, a pension with a reputation,
a great deal of intrigue goes on."

"La Belloni?" Cornélie enquired.

"Our marchesa is a thorough-paced intrigante. Last winter, three
English sisters were converted here."

"By Rudyard?"

"No, by another priest. Rudyard is here for the first time this
winter."

"Rudyard walked quite a long way with me in the street this morning,"
said young Van der Staal. "I let him talk, I heard all he had to say."

Cornélie fell back in her chair:

"I am tired of people," she said, with the strange sincerity which
was hers. "I should like to sleep for a month, without seeing anybody."

And, after a short pause, she got up, said goodnight and went to bed,
while everything swam before her eyes.



CHAPTER VI


She remained indoors for a day or two and had her meals served in her
room. One morning, however, she was going for a stroll in the Villa
Borghese, when she met young Van der Staal, on his bicycle.

"Don't you ride?" he asked, jumping off.

"No."

"Why not?"

"It is an exercise which doesn't suit my style," Cornélie replied,
vexed at meeting any one who disturbed the solitude of her stroll.

"May I walk with you?"

"Certainly."

He gave his machine into the charge of the porter at the gate and
walked on with her, quite naturally, without saying very much:

"It's beautiful here," he remarked.

His words seemed to convey a simple meaning. She looked at him,
for the first time, attentively.

"You're an archæologist?" she asked.

"No," he said, deprecatingly.

"What are you, then?"

"Nothing. Mamma says that, just to excuse me. I am nothing and a very
useless member of society at that. And I am not even well off."

"But you are studying, aren't you?"

"No. I do a little casual reading. My sisters call it studying."

"Do you like going about, as your sisters do?"

"No, I hate it. I never go with them."

"Don't you like meeting and studying people?"

"No. I like pictures, statues and trees."

"A poet?"

"No. Nothing. I am nothing, really."

She looked at him, with increased attention. He was walking very simply
by her side, a tall, thin fellow of perhaps twenty-six, more of a boy
than a man in face and figure, but endowed with a certain assurance
and restfulness that made him seem older than his years. He was pale;
he had dark, cool, almost reproachful eyes; and his long, lean figure,
in his badly-kept cycling-suit, betrayed a slight indifference,
as though he did not care what his arms and legs looked like.

He said nothing but walked on pleasantly, unembarrassed, without
finding it necessary to talk. Cornélie, however, grew fidgety and
sought for words:

"It is beautiful here," she stammered.

"Oh, it's very beautiful!" he replied, calmly, without seeing that
she was constrained. "So green, so spacious, so peaceful: those
long avenues, those vistas of avenues, like an antique arch, over
yonder; and, far away in the distance, look, St. Peter's, always
St. Peter's. It's a pity about those queer things lower down: that
restaurant, that milk-tent. People spoil everything nowadays.... Let
us sit down here: it is so lovely here."

They sat down on a bench.

"It is such a joy when a thing is beautiful," he continued. "People
are never beautiful. Things are beautiful: statues and paintings. And
then trees and clouds!"

"Do you paint?"

"Sometimes," he confessed, grudgingly. "A little. But really everything
has been painted already; and I can't really say that I paint."

"Perhaps you write too?"

"There has been even more written than painted, much more. Perhaps
everything has not yet been painted, but everything has certainly been
written. Every new book that is not of absolute scientific importance
is superfluous. All the poetry has been written and every novel too."

"Do you read much?"

"Hardly at all. I sometimes dip into an old author."

"But what do you do then?" she asked, suddenly, querulously.

"Nothing," he answered, calmly, with a glance of humility. "I do
nothing, I exist."

"Do you think that a good mode of existence?"

"No."

"Then why don't you adopt another?"

"As I might buy a new coat or a new bicycle?"

"You're not speaking seriously," she said, crossly.

"Why are you so vexed with me?"

"Because you annoy me," she said, irritably.

He rose, bowed civilly and said:

"Then I had better go for a turn on my bicycle."

And he walked slowly away.

"What a stupid fellow!" she thought, peevishly.

But she thought it tiresome that she had wrangled with him, because
of his mother and his sisters.



CHAPTER VII


At the hotel, however, he spoke to Cornélie politely, as though
there had been no embarrassment, no wrangling interchange of words
between them, and he even asked her quite simply--because his mother
and sisters had some calls to pay that afternoon--whether they should
go to the Palatine together.

"I passed it the other day," she said, indifferently.

"And don't you intend to see the ruins?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"They don't interest me. I can't see the past in them. I merely
see ruins."

"But then why did you come to Rome?" he asked, irritably.

She looked at him and could have burst into sobs:

"I don't know," she said, meekly. "I could just as well have gone
somewhere else. But I had formed a great idea of Rome; and Rome
disappoints me."

"How so?"

"I find it hard and inexorable and devoid of feeling. I don't know
why, but that's the impression it makes upon me. And I am in a mood
at present which somehow makes me want something less insensible
and imperturbable."

He smiled:

"Come along," he said. "Come with me to the Palatine. I must show
you Rome. It is so beautiful."

She felt too much depressed to remain alone; and so she put on
her things and left the hotel with him. The cabmen outside cracked
their whips:

"Vole? Vole?" they shouted.

He picked out one:

"This is Gaetano," he said. "I always take him. He knows me, don't
you, Gaetano?"

"Si, signorino. Cavallo di sangue, signorina!" said Gaetano, pointing
to his horse.

They drove away.

"I am always frightened of these cabmen," said Cornélie.

"You don't know them," he answered, smiling. "I like them. I like
the people. They're nice people."

"You approve of everything in Rome."

"And you submit without reserve to a mistaken impression."

"Why mistaken?"

"Because that first impression of Rome, as hard and unfeeling, is
always the same and always mistaken."

"Yes, it's that. Look, we are driving by the Forum. Whenever I see
the Forum, I think of Miss Hope and her orange lining."

He felt annoyed and did not answer.

"This is the Palatine."

They alighted and passed through the entrance.

"This wooden staircase takes us to the Palace of Tiberius. Above the
palace, on the top of the arches, is a garden from which we look down
on the Forum."

"Tell me about Tiberius. I know that there were good and bad
emperors. We were taught that at school. Tiberius was a bad emperor,
wasn't he?"

"He was a dismal brute. But why do you want me to tell you about him?"

"Because otherwise I can take no interest in those arches and
chambers."

"Then let us go up to the top and sit in the garden."

They did so.

"Don't you feel Rome here?" he asked.

"I feel the same everywhere," she replied.

But he seemed not to hear her:

"It's the atmosphere around you," he continued. "You should try to
forget our hotel, to forget Belloni and all our fellow-visitors and
yourself. When anybody first arrives here, he has all the usual trouble
about the hotel, his rooms, the table-d'hôte, the vaguely likable or
dislikable people. You've got over that now. Clear your mind of it. And
try to feel only the atmosphere of Rome. It's as if the atmosphere had
remained the same, notwithstanding that the centuries lie piled up
one above the other. First the middle ages covered the antiquity of
the Forum and now it is hidden everywhere by our nineteenth-century
craze for travel. There you have Miss Hope's orange lining. But the
atmosphere has always remained the same. Unless I imagine it...."

She was silent.

"Perhaps I do," he continued. "But what does that matter to me? Our
whole life is imagination; and imagination is a beautiful thing. The
beauty of our imagination is the consolation of our lives, to those of
us who are not men of action. The past is beauty. The present is not,
does not exist. And the future does not interest me."

"Do you never think about modern problems?" she asked.

"The woman question? Socialism? Peace?"

"Well, yes, for instance."

"No," he smiled. "I think of them sometimes, but not about them."

"How do you mean?"

"I get no further. That is my nature. I am a dreamer by nature;
and my dream is the past."

"Don't you dream of yourself?"

"No. Of my soul, my inner self? No. It interests me very little."

"Have you ever suffered?"

"Suffered? Yes, no. I don't know. I feel sorry for my utter uselessness
as a human being, as a son, as a man; but, when I dream, I am happy."

"How do you come to speak to me so openly?"

He looked at her in surprise:

"Why should I be reticent about myself?" he asked. "I either don't
talk or I talk as I am doing now. Perhaps it is a little odd."

"Do you talk to every one so intimately?"

"No, hardly to anybody. I once had a friend ... but he's dead. Tell
me, I suppose you consider me morbid?"

"No, I don't think so."

"I shouldn't mind if you did. Oh, how beautiful it is here! Are you
drinking Rome in with your very breath?"

"Which Rome?"

"The Rome of antiquity. Under where we are sitting is the Palace of
Tiberius. I see him walking about there, with his tall, strong figure,
with his large, searching eyes: he was very strong, he was very dismal
and he was a brute. He had no ideals. Farther down, over there, is the
Palace of Caligula, a madman of genius. He built a bridge across the
Forum to speak to Jupiter in the Capitol. That's a thing one couldn't
do nowadays. He was a genius and a madman. When a man's like that,
there's a good deal about him to admire."

"How can you admire an age of emperors who were brutes and mad?"

"Because I see their age before my eyes, in the past, like a dream."

"How is it possible that you don't see the present before you, with the
problems of our own time, especially the eternal problem of poverty?"

He looked at her:

"Yes," he said, "I know. That is my sin, my wickedness. The eternal
problem of poverty doesn't affect me."

She looked at him contemptuously:

"You don't belong to your period," she said, coldly.

"No."

"Have you ever felt hungry?"

He laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"Have you ever pictured yourself leading the life of a labourer, of
a factory-girl who works until she's worn out and old and half-dead
for a bare crust of bread?"

"Oh, those things are so horrible and so ugly: don't talk about
them!" he entreated.

The expression of her eyes was cold; the corners of her lips were
depressed as though by a feeling of distaste; and she rose from
her seat.

"Are you angry?" he asked, humbly.

"No," she said, gently, "I am not angry."

"But you despise me, because you consider me a useless creature,
an æsthete and a dreamer?"

"No. What am I myself, that I should reproach you with your
uselessness?"

"Oh, if we could only find something!" he exclaimed, almost in ecstasy.

"What?"

"An aim. But mine would always remain beauty. And the past."

"And, if I had the strength of mind to devote myself to an aim,
it would above all be this: bread for the future."

"How abominable that sounds!" he said, rudely but sincerely. "Why
didn't you go to London, or Manchester, or one of those black
manufacturing towns?"

"Because I hadn't the strength of mind and because I think too much
of myself and of a sorrow that I have had lately. And I expected to
find distraction in Italy."

"And that is where your disappointment lies. But perhaps you will
gradually acquire greater strength and then devote yourself to your
aim: bread for the future. I sha'n't envy you, however: bread for
the Future!..."

She was silent.

Then she said, coldly:

"It is getting late. Let us go home...."



CHAPTER VIII


Duco van der Staal had taken a large, vault-like studio, with a chilly
north light, up three flights of stairs in the Via del Babuino. Here he
painted, modelled and studied and here he dragged all the beautiful and
antique objects that he succeeded in picking up in the little shops
along the Tiber or in the Mercato dei Fiori. That was his passion:
to hunt through Rome for a panel of an old triptych or a fragment of
ancient sculpture. In this way his studio had not remained the large,
chilly, vault-like workroom bearing witness to zealous and serious
study, but had become a refuge for dim-coloured remnants of antiquity
and ancient art, a museum for his dreaming spirit. Already as a child,
as a boy, he had felt that passion for antiquity developing; he learnt
how to rummage through the stocks of old Jewish dealers; he taught
himself to haggle when his purse was not full; and he collected
first rubbish and afterwards, gradually, objects of artistic and
financial value. And it was his great hobby, his one vice: he spent
all his pocket-money on it and, later, without reserve, the little
that he was able to earn. For sometimes, very seldom, he would finish
something and sell it. But generally he was too ill-satisfied with
himself to finish anything; and his modest notion was that everything
had already been created and that his art was useless.

This idea sometimes paralysed him for months together, without making
him unhappy. When he had the money to keep himself going--and his
personal needs were very small--he felt rich and was content in his
studio or would wander, perfectly content, through the streets of
Rome. His long, careless, lean, slender body was at such times clad
in his oldest suit, which afforded an unostentatious glimpse of an
untidy shirt with a soft collar and a bit of string instead of a tie;
and his favourite headgear was a faded hat, battered out of shape by
the rain. His mother and sisters as a rule found him unpresentable,
but had given up trying to transform him into the well-groomed son
and brother whom they would have liked to take to the drawing-rooms
of their Roman friends. Happy to breathe the atmosphere of Rome, he
would wander for hours through the ruins and see, in a dazzling vision
of phantom columns, ethereal temples and translucent marble palaces
looming up in a shimmering sunlit twilight; and the tourists going
by with their Baedekers, who passed this long lean young man seated
carelessly on the foundations of the Temple of Saturn, would never
have believed in his architectural illusions of harmonious ascending
lines, crowned by an array of statues in noble and god-like attitudes,
high in the blue sky.

But he saw them before him. He raised the shafts of the pillars,
he fluted the severe Doric columns, he bent and curved the cushioned
Ionic capitals and unfurled the leaves of the Corinthian acanthuses;
the temples rose in the twinkling of an eye, the basilicas shot up as
by magic, the graven images stood white against the elusive depths
of the sky and the Via Sacra became alive. He, in his admiration,
lived his dream, his past. It was as though he had known preexistence
in ancient Rome; and the modern houses, the modern Capitol and all
that stood around the tomb of his Forum were invisible to his eyes.

He would sit like this for hours, or wander about and sit down again
and be happy. In the intensity of his imagination, he conjured
up history from the clouds of the past, first of all as a mist,
a miraculous haze, whence the figures stepped out against the
marble background of ancient Rome. The gigantic dramas were enacted
before his dreaming eyes as on an ideal stage which stretched from
the Forum to the hazy, sun-shot azure of the Campagna, with slips
that lost themselves in the depths of the sky. Roman life came into
being, with a toga'd gesture, a line of Horace, a sudden vision of
an emperor's murder or a contest of gladiators in the arena. And
suddenly also the vision paled and he saw the ruins, the ruins only,
as the tangible shadow of his unreal illusion: he saw the ruins as
they were, brown and grey, eaten up with age, crumbled, martyred,
mutilated with hammers, till only a few occasional pillars lifted
and bore a trembling architrave, that threatened to come crashing to
the ground. And the browns and greys were so richly and nobly gilded
by splashes of sunlight, the ruins were so exquisitely beautiful in
decay, so melancholy in their unwitting fortuitousness of broken lines,
of shattered arches and mutilated sculpture, that it was as though
he himself, after his airy vision of radiant dream-architecture, had
tortured and mutilated them with an artist's hand and caused them to
burst asunder and shake and tremble, for the sake of their wistful
aftermath of beauty. Then his eyes grew moist, his heart became more
full than he could bear and he went away, through the Arch of Titus
by the Colosseum, through the Arch of Constantine, on and on, and
hurried past the Lateran to the Via Appia and the Campagna, where
his smarting eyes drank in the blue of the distant Alban Hills, as
though that would cure them of their excessive gazing and dreaming....

Neither in his mother nor in his sisters did he find a strain that
sympathized with his eccentric tendencies; and, since that one friend
who died, he had never found another and had always been lonely within
and without, as though the victim of a predestination which would not
allow him to meet with sympathy. But he had peopled his loneliness so
densely with his dreams that he had never felt unhappy because of it;
and, even as he loved roaming alone among the ruins and along the
country-roads, so he cherished the privacy of his lonely studio,
with the many silent figures on an old panel of some triptych, on
a tapestry, or on the many closely hung sketches, all around him,
all with the charm of their lines and colours, all with the silent
gesture of their movement and emotion and all blending together
in twilit corners or a shadowy antique cabinet. And in between all
this lived his china and bronze and old silver, while the faded gold
embroidery of an ecclesiastical vestment gleamed faintly and the
old leather bindings of his books stood in comfortable brown rows,
ready to give forth, when his hands opened them, images which mistily
drifted upwards, living their loves and their sorrows in the tempered
browns and reds and golds of the soundless atmosphere of the studio.

Such was his simple life, without much inward doubting, because he
made no great demands upon himself, and without the modern artist's
melancholy, because he was happy in his dreams. He had never, despite
his hotel life with his mother and sisters--he slept and took his meals
at Belloni's--met many people or concerned himself with strangers,
being by nature a little shy of Baedekered tourists, of short-skirted
English ladies, with their persistent little exclamations of uniform
admiration, and feeling entirely impossible in the half-Italian,
half-cosmopolitan set of his rather worldly mother and smart little
sisters, who spent their time dancing and cycling with young Italian
princes and dukes.

And, now that he had met Cornélie de Retz, he had to confess to himself
that he possessed but little knowledge of human nature and that he
had never learnt to believe in the reality of such a woman, who might
have existed in books, but not in actual life. Her very appearance--her
pallor, her drooping charm, her weariness--had astonished him; and her
conversation astonished him even more: her positiveness mingled with
hesitation; her artistic feeling modified by the endeavour to take part
in her period, a period which he failed to appreciate as artistic,
enamoured as he was of Rome and of the past. And her conversation
astonished him, attractive though the sound of it was and offended
as he often was by a recurrent bitterness and irony, followed again
by depression and discouragement, until he thought it over again and
again, until in his musing he seemed to hear it once more on her own
lips, until she joined the busts and torsos in his studio and appeared
before him in the lily-like frailness of her visible actuality,
against the preraphaelite stiffness of line and the Byzantine gold
and colour of the angels and madonnas on canvas and tapestry.

His soul had never known love; and he had always looked on love as
imagination and poetry. His life had never known more than the natural
virile impulse and the ordinary little love-affair with a model. And
his ideas on love swayed in a too wide and unreal balance between
a woman who showed herself in the nude for a few lire and Petrarch's
Laura; between the desire roused by a beautiful body and the exaltation
inspired by Dante's Beatrice; between the flesh and the dream. He had
never contemplated an encounter of kindred souls, never longed for
sympathy, for love in the full and pregnant sense of the word. And,
when he began to think and to think long and often of Cornélie de Retz,
he could not understand it. He had pondered and dreamed for days,
for a week about a woman in a poem; on a woman in real life never.

And that he, irritated by some of her sayings, had nevertheless seen
her stand with her lily-like outline against his Byzantine triptych,
like a wraith in his lonely dreams, almost frightened him, because
it had made him lose his peace of mind.



CHAPTER IX


It was Christmas Day, on which occasion the Marchesa Belloni
entertained her boarders with a Christmas-tree in the drawing-room,
followed by a dance in the old Guercino dining-room. To give a ball and
a Christmas-tree was a custom with many hotel-keepers; and the pensions
that gave no dance or Christmas-tree were known and numbered and were
greatly blamed by the foreigners for this breach of tradition. There
were instances of very excellent pensions to which many travellers,
especially ladies, never went, because there was neither a dance nor
a Christmas-tree at Christmas.

The marchesa realized that her tree was expensive and that her
dance cost money too and she would gladly have found an excuse for
avoiding both, but she dared not: the reputation of her pension,
as it happened, depended on its worldliness and smartness, on the
table-d'hôte in the handsome dining-room, where people dressed for
dinner, and also on the brilliant party given at Christmas. And it
was amusing to see how keen all the ladies were to receive gratis in
their bill for a whole winter's stay a trashy Christmas present and the
opportunity of dancing without having to pay for a glass of orgeade
and a bit of pastry, a sandwich and a cup of soup. Giuseppe, the old
nodding major-domo, looked down contemptuously on this festivity:
he remembered the gala pomp of his archducal evenings and considered
the dance inferior and the tree paltry. Antonio, the limping porter,
accustomed to his comparatively quiet life--fetching a visitor or
taking him to the station; sorting the post twice a day at his ease;
and for the rest pottering around his lodge and the lift--hated the
dance, because of all the guests of the boarders, each of whom was
entitled to invite two or three friends, and because of all that tiring
fuss about carriages, when a good many of the visitors skipped into
their vettura without tipping him. Round about Christmas, therefore,
relations between the marchesa and her two principal dignitaries
became far from harmonious; and a hail of orders and abuse would
patter down on the backs of the old cameriere, crawling wearily up
and downstairs with their hot-water-cans in their trembling hands,
and of the young greenhorns of waiters, colliding with one another
in their undisciplined zeal and smashing the plates. And it was only
now, when the whole staff was put to work that people saw how old the
cameriere were and how young the waiters and qualified as disgraceful
and shocking the thrifty method of the marchesa in employing none but
wrecks and infants in her service. The one muscular facchino, who was
essential for hauling the luggage, cut an unexpected figure of virile
maturity and robustness. But above everything the visitors detested the
marchesa because of the great number of her servants, reflecting that
now, at Christmas-time, they would have to tip every one of them. No,
they never imagined that the staff was so large! Quite unnecessarily
large too! Why couldn't the marchesa engage a couple of strong young
maids and waiters instead of all those old women and little boys? And
there was much hushed plotting and confabulating in the corners of the
passages and at meals, to decide on the tips to be given: they didn't
want to spoil the servants, but still they were staying all the winter;
and therefore one lira was hardly enough and they hesitated between
one lira twenty-five and one lira fifty. But, when they counted on
their fingers that there were fully five-and-twenty servants and
that therefore they were close on forty lire out of pocket, they
thought it an awful lot and they got up subscription-lists. Two
lists went round, one of one lira and one of twelve lire a visitor,
the latter subscription covering the whole staff. On this second list
some, who had arrived a month before and who had arranged to leave,
entered their names for ten lire and some for six lire. Five lire
was by general consent considered too little; and, when it became
known that the grimy æsthetic ladies intended to give five lire,
they were regarded with the greatest contempt.

It all meant a lot of trouble and excitement. As Christmas drew nearer,
people streamed to the presepii set up by painters in the Palazzo
Borghese: a panorama of Jerusalem and the shepherds, the angels,
the Magi and Mary and the Child in the manger with the ox and the
ass. They listened in the Ara Coeli to the preaching of little boys
and girls, who by turns climbed the platform and told the story of the
Nativity, some shyly reciting a little poem, prompted by an anxious
mother; others, girls especially, declaiming and rolling their eyes
with the dramatic fervour of little Italian actresses and ending up
with a religious moral. The people and countless tourists stood and
listened to the preaching; a pleasant spirit prevailed in the church,
where the shrill young children's voices were lifted up in oratory;
there was laughter at a gesture or a point driven home; and the
priests strolling round the church wore an unctuous smile because it
was all so pretty and so satisfactory. And in the chapel of the Santo
Bambino the miraculous wooden doll was bright with gold and jewels;
and the close-packed multitude thronged to gaze at it.

All the visitors at Belloni's bought bunches of holly in the Piazza
di Spagna to adorn their rooms with; and some, such as the Baronin
van Rothkirch, set up a private Christmas-tree in their own rooms. On
the evening before the great party one and all went to admire these
private trees, going in and out of one another's rooms; and all the
boarders wore a kind, festive smile and welcomed everybody, however
much at other times they might quarrel and intrigue against one
another. It was universally agreed that the Baronin had taken great
pains and that her tree was magnificent. Her bedroom had been cleverly
metamorphosed into a boudoir, the beds draped to look like divans,
the wash-hand-stands concealed; and the tree was radiant with candles
and tinsel. And the Baronin, a little sentimentally inclined, for the
season reminded her of Berlin and her lost domesticity, opened her
doors wide to everybody and was even offering the two æsthetic ladies
sweets, when the marchesa, also smiling, appeared at the door, with
her bosom moulded in sky-blue satin and with even larger crystals than
usual in her ears. The room was full: there were the Van der Staals,
Cornélie, Rudyard, Urania Hope and other guests going in and out,
so that it became impossible to move and they stood packed together
or sat on the draped beds of the mother and daughter. The marchesa
led in beside her an unknown young man, short, slender, with a pale
olive complexion and with dark, bright, witty, lively eyes. He wore
dress-clothes and displayed the vague good manners of a beloved and
careless viveur, distinguished and yet conceited. And she proudly
went up to the Baronin, who kept prettily wiping her moist eyes,
and with a certain arrogance presented:

"My nephew, Duca di San Stefano, Principe di Forte-Braccio...."

The well-known Italian name sounded from her lips in the small,
crowded room with deliberate distinctness; and all eyes went to the
young man, who bowed low before the Baronin and then looked round
the room with a vague, ironical glance. The marchesa's nephew had not
yet been seen at the hotel that winter, but everybody knew that the
young Duke of San Stefano, Prince of Forte-Braccio, was a nephew of
the marchesa's and one of the advertisements for her pension. And,
while the prince talked to the Baronin and her daughter, Urania Hope
stared at him as a miraculous being from another world. She clung
tight to Cornélie's arm, as though she were in danger of fainting at
the sight of so much Italian nobility and greatness. She thought him
very good-looking, very imposing, short and slender and pale, with
his carbuncle eyes and his weary distinction and the white orchid
in his button-hole. She would have loved to ask the marchioness to
introduce her to her chic nephew, but she dared not, for she thought
of her father's stockinet-factory at Chicago.

The Christmas-tree party and the dance took place the following
night. It became known that the marchesa's nephew was coming that
evening too; and a great excitement reigned throughout the day. The
prince arrived after the presents had been taken down from the tree
and distributed and made a sort of state entry by the side of his
aunt, the marchesa, into the drawing-room, where the dancing had not
yet begun, though the guests were sitting about the room, all fixing
their eyes on the ducal and princely apparition.

Cornélie was strolling with Duco van der Staal, who to his mother's
and sisters' great surprise had fished out his dress-clothes and
appeared in the big hall; and they both observed the triumphant entry
of la Belloni and her nephew and laughed at the fanatically upturned
eyes of the English and American ladies. They, Cornélie and Duco,
sat down in the hall on two chairs, in front of a clump of palms,
which concealed one of the doors of the drawing-room, while the dance
began inside. They were talking about the statues in the Vatican,
which they had been to see two days before, when they heard, as though
close to their ears, a voice which they recognized as the marchesa's
commanding organ, vainly striving to sink into a whisper. They looked
round in surprise and perceived the hidden door, which was partly open,
and through the open space they faintly distinguished the slim hand and
black sleeve of the prince and a piece of the blue bosom of la Belloni,
both seated on a sofa in the drawing-room. They were therefore back to
back, separated by the half-open door. They listened for fun to the
marchesa's Italian; the prince's answers were lisped so softly that
they could scarcely catch them. And of what the marchesa said they
heard only a few words and scraps of sentences. They were listening
quite involuntarily, when they heard Rudyard's name clearly pronounced
by the marchesa.

"And who besides?" asked the prince, softly.

"An English miss," said the marchesa. "Miss Taylor: she's sitting
over there, by herself in the corner. A simple little soul.... The
Baronin and her daughter.... The Dutchwoman: a divorcée.... And the
pretty American."

"And those two very attractive Dutch girls?" asked the prince.

The music boom-boomed louder; and Cornélie and Duco did not catch
the reply.

"And the divorced Dutchwoman?" the prince asked next.

"No money," the marchesa answered, curtly.

"And the young baroness?"

"No money," la Belloni repeated.

"So there's no one except the stocking-merchant?" asked the prince,
wearily.

La Belloni became cross, but Cornélie and Duco could not understand the
sentences which she rattled out through the boom-booming music. Then,
during a lull, they heard the marchesa say:

"She is very pretty. She has tons and tons of money. She could have
gone to a first-class hotel but preferred to come here because, as a
young girl travelling by herself, she was recommended to me and finds
it pleasanter here. She has the big sitting-room to herself and pays
fifty lire a day for her two rooms. She does not care about money. She
pays three times as much as the others for her wood; and I also charge
her for the wine."

"She sells stockings," muttered the prince, obstinately.

"Nonsense!" said the marchesa. "Remember that there's nobody at
the moment. Last winter we had rich English titled people, with a
daughter, but you thought her too tall. You're always discovering
some objection. You mustn't be so difficult."

"I think those two little Dutch dolls attractive."

"They have no money. You're always thinking what you have no business
to think."

"How much did Papa promise you if you...."

The music boomed louder.

" ... makes no difference.... If Rudyard talks to her.... Miss Taylor
is easy.... Miss Hope...."

"I don't want so many stockings as all that."

" ... very witty, I dare say.... If you don't care to...."

"No."

" ... then I retire.... I'll tell Rudyard so.... How much?"

"Sixty or seventy thousand: I don't know exactly."

"Are they urgent?"

"Debts are never urgent!"

"Do you agree?"

"Very well. But mind, I won't sell myself for less than ten
millions.... And then you get...."

They both laughed; and again the names of Rudyard and Urania were
pronounced.

"Urania?" he asked.

"Yes, Urania," replied la Belloni. "Those little Americans are
very tactful. Look at the Comtesse de Castellane and the Duchess of
Marlborough: how well they bear their husbands' honours! They cut
an excellent figure. They are mentioned in every society column and
always with respect."

" ... All right then. I am tired of these wasted winters. But not
less than ten millions."

"Five."

"No, ten."

The prince and the marchesa had stood up to go. Cornélie looked at
Duco. He laughed:

"I don't quite understand them," he said. "It's a joke, of course."

Cornélie was startled:

"A joke, you think, Mr. van der Staal?"

"Yes, they're humbugging."

"I don't believe it."

"I do."

"Have you any knowledge of human nature?"

"Oh, no, none at all!"

"I'm getting it, gradually. I believe that Rome can be dangerous and
that an hotel-keeping marchesa, a prince and a Jesuit...."

"What about them?"

"Can be dangerous, if not to your sisters, because they have no money,
but at any rate to Urania Hope."

"I don't believe it for a moment. It was all chaff. And it doesn't
interest me. What do you think of Praxiteles' Eros? I think it the most
divine statue that I ever saw. Oh, the Eros, the Eros! That is love,
the real love, the predestined, fatal love, begging forgiveness for
the suffering which it causes."

"Have you ever been in love?"

"No. I have no knowledge of human nature and I have never been in
love. You are always so definite. Dreams are beautiful, statues
are delightful and poetry is everything. The Eros expresses love
completely. The love of the Eros is so beautiful! I could never love
so beautifully as that.... No, it does not interest me to understand
human nature; and a dream of Praxiteles, lingering in a mutilated
marble torso, is nobler than anything that the world calls love."

She knitted her brows; her eyes were sombre.

"Let us go to the dancers," she said. "We are so out of it all here."



CHAPTER X


The day after the dance, at table, Cornélie received a strange
impression: suddenly, as she sipped her delicious Genzano, ordered
for her by Rudyard, she became aware that it was not by accident that
she was sitting with the Baronin and her daughter, with Urania and
Miss Taylor; she saw that the marchesa had an intention behind this
arrangement. Rudyard, always civil, polite, thoughtful, always full
of attentions, his pockets always filled with cards of introduction
very difficult to obtain--or so at least he contended--talked
without ceasing, lately more particularly to Miss Taylor, who went
faithfully to hear all the best church music and always returned
home in ecstasy. The pale, simple, thin little Englishwoman, who at
first used to go into raptures over museums, ruins and the sunsets
on the Aventine or the Monte Mario and who was always tired by her
rambles through Rome, now devoted herself exclusively to the hundreds
of churches, visited and studied them all and above all faithfully
attended the musical services and spoke ecstatically of the choir in
the Sistine Chapel and the quavering Glorias of the male soprani.

Cornélie spoke to Mrs. van der Staal and the Baronin von Rothkirch
of the conversation between the marchesa and her nephew which
she had heard through the half-open door; but neither of them,
though interested and curious, took the marchesa's words seriously,
regarding them only as so much thoughtless talk between a foolish,
match-making aunt and an unwilling nephew. Cornélie was struck by
seeing how unable people are to take things seriously; but the Baronin
was quite indifferent, saying that Rudyard could do her no harm and
was still supplying her with tickets; and Mrs. van der Staal, who had
been in Rome a long time and was accustomed to little boarding-house
conspiracies, considered that Cornélie was making herself too uneasy
about the fair Urania's fate.

Suddenly, however, Miss Taylor disappeared from the table. They thought
that she was ill, until it came to light that she had left the Pension
Belloni. Rudyard said nothing; but, a few days later, the whole pension
knew that Miss Taylor had been converted to the Catholic faith and
had moved to a pension recommended by Rudyard, a pension frequented
by monsignori and noted for its religious tone. Her disappearance
produced a certain constraint in the conversation between Rudyard,
the German ladies and Cornélie; and the latter, in the course of a
week which the Baronin was spending at Naples, changed her seat and
joined her fellow-countrywomen the Van der Staals. The Von Rothkirches
also changed, because of the draught, said the Baronin; their seats
were taken by new arrivals; and Urania was left alone with Rudyard
at lunch and dinner, amid those foreign elements.

Cornélie reproached herself and one day spoke seriously to the American
girl and warned her. But she dared not repeat what she had overheard
at the dance; and her warning made no impression on Urania. And,
when Rudyard had obtained for Miss Hope the privilege of a private
audience of the Pope, Urania would not hear a word against Rudyard
and considered him the kindest man whom she had ever met, Jesuit or
no Jesuit.

But Rudyard continued to appear through a haze of mystery; and people
were not agreed as to whether he was a priest or a layman.



CHAPTER XI


"What do those strangers matter to you?" asked Duco.

They were sitting in his studio: Mrs. van der Staal, Cornélie and the
girls, Annie and Emilie. Annie was pouring out the tea; and they were
discussing Miss Taylor and Urania.

"I am a stranger to you too!" said Cornélie.

"You are not a stranger to me, to us. But Miss Taylor and Urania don't
matter. Hundreds of shadows pass through our lives: I don't see them
and don't feel for them."

"And am I not a shadow?"

"I have talked to you too much in the Borghese and on the Palatine
to look upon you as a shadow."

"Rudyard is a dangerous shadow," said Annie.

"He has no hold over us," Duco replied.

Mrs. van der Staal looked at Cornélie. She understood the enquiring
glance and said, laughing:

"No, he has no hold over me either. Still, if I felt the need of
a religion, I mean an ecclesiastical religion, I would rather be a
Roman Catholic than a Protestant. But, as things are ..."

She did not complete her sentence. She felt safe in this studio,
in this soft, many-coloured profusion of beautiful things, in the
affection of her friends; she felt in harmony with them all: with the
worldly charm of that somewhat superficial mother and her two pretty
girls, a little doll-like and vaguely cosmopolitan and a trifle vain
of the little marquises with whom they danced and bicycled; and with
that son, that brother so very different from the three of them and
yet obviously related to them, as a movement, a gesture, a single
word would show. It also struck Cornélie that they accepted each
other affectionately as they were: Duco, his mother and sisters,
with their stories about the Princesses Colonna and Odescalchi;
mevrouw and the girls and him, with his worn jacket and his unkempt
hair. And, when he began to speak, especially about Rome, when he
put his dream into words, in almost bookish sentences, which however
flowed easily and naturally from his lips, Cornélie felt in harmony
with her surroundings, secure and interested and to some extent
lost that longing to contradict him which his artistic indolence
sometimes aroused in her. And, besides, his indolence suddenly seemed
to her merely apparent and perhaps an affection, for he showed her
sketches and water-colour drawings, not one of them finished, but
every water-colour alive with light before all things, alive with
all that light of Italy: the pearl sunsets over the molten emerald of
Venice; the campanili of Florence drawn vaguely and dreamily against
tender tea-rose skies; Siena fortress-like, blue-black in the bluish
moonlight; the blazing sunshine behind St. Peter's; and, above all,
the ruins, in every kind of light: the Forum in the bright sunlight,
the Palatine by twilight, the Colosseum mysterious in the night;
and then the Campagna: all the dream-like skies and luminous haze of
the glad and sad Campagna, with pale-pink mauves, dewy blues, dusky
violets or the swaggering ochres of pyrotechnical sunsets and clouds
flaring like the crimson pinions of the phoenix. And, when Cornélie
asked him why nothing was finished off, he answered that nothing was
right. He saw the skies as dreams, visions and apotheoses; and on
his paper they became water and paint; and paint was not a thing to
be finished off. Besides, he lacked the self-confidence. And then he
laid his skies aside, he said, and sat down to copy Byzantine madonnas.

When he saw that his water-colours interested her nevertheless, he
went on talking about himself: how he had at first raved over the
noble and ingenuous Primitives, Giotto and especially Lippo Memmi;
how, after that, spending a year in Paris, he had found nothing that
excelled Forain: cold, dry satire in two or three lines; how, next,
in the Louvre, Rubens had become revealed to him, Rubens whose own
talent and whose own brush he used to trace amid all the prentice-work
and imitations of his pupils, until he was able to tell which cherub
was by Rubens himself in a sky full of cherubs painted by four or
five disciples.

And then, he said, he would pass weeks without giving a thought to
painting or taking up a brush and would go daily to the Vatican,
lost in contemplation of the magnificent marbles.

Once he had sat dreaming a whole morning in front of the Eros; once
he had dreamt a poem there, to a very gentle, melodious, monotonous
accompaniment, like an inward incantation. On coming home he had
tried to put both poem and music on paper, but he had failed. Now he
could no longer look at Forain, thought Rubens coarse and disgusting,
but remained faithful to the Primitives:

"And suppose for a moment that I painted a lot and sent a lot of
pictures to exhibitions? Should I be any the happier? Should I feel
satisfied in having done something? I doubt it. Sometimes I do finish
a water-colour and sell it; and then I can go on living for a month
without troubling Mamma. Money I don't care about. Ambition is quite
foreign to my nature.... But don't let us talk about myself. Do you
still think of the future and ... bread?"

"Perhaps," she said, with a melancholy laugh, while the studio around
her grew dusk and dim and the figures of his mother and sisters,
sitting silent, languid and uninterested in their easy-chairs,
gradually faded away and every colour slowly paled. "But I am so
weak-minded. You say that you are not an artist; and I ... I am not
an apostle."

"To give one's life a course: that is the difficulty. Every life
has a line, an appointed course, a road, a path: life has to flow
along that line to death and what comes after death; and that line
is difficult to find. I shall never find my line."

"I don't see my line before me either."

"Do you know, a restlessness has come over me. Mamma, listen, a
restlessness has come over me. I used to dream in the Forum, I was
happy and didn't think about my line, my appointed course. Mamma,
do you think about your line? Do you, girls?"

His sisters giggled in the dark, sunk in their low chairs, like two
pussy-cats. Mamma got up:

"Duco dear, you know I can't follow you. I admire Cornélie for liking
your water-colours and understanding what you mean by that line. My
line is to go home at once, for it's very late."

"That's the line of the next two seconds. But there is a restlessness
about my line that affects it for days and weeks to come. I am not
leading the right life. The past is very beautiful and so peaceful,
because it has been. But I have lost that peace. The present is very
small. But the future! ... Oh, if we could only find an aim ... for
the future!"

They no longer listened; they went down the dark stairs, groping
their way.

"Bread?" he asked himself, wonderingly.



CHAPTER XII


One morning when Cornélie stayed indoors she went through the books
that lay scattered about her room. And she found that it was useless
for her to read Ovid, in order to study something of Roman manners,
some of which had alarmed and shocked her; she found that Dante and
Petrarch were too difficult to learn Italian from, whereas she had
only to pick up a word or two in order to make herself understood in a
shop or by the servants; she found Hare's Walks a too wearisome guide,
because every cobble-stone in Rome did not inspire her with the same
interest that Hare evidently derived from it. Then she confessed to
herself that she could never see Italy and Rome as Duco van der Staal
did. She never saw the light of the skies or the drifting of the clouds
as he had seen them in his unfinished water-colour sketches. She had
never seen the ruins transfigured in glory as he did in his hours of
dreaming on the Palatine or in the Forum. She saw a picture merely
with a layman's eye; a Byzantine madonna made no appeal to her. She
was very fond of statues; but to fall head over ears in love with
a mutilated marble torso, in the spirit in which he loved the Eros,
seemed to her sickly ... and yet it seemed to be the right spirit in
which to see the Eros. Well, not sickly, she admitted ... but morbid:
the word, though she herself smiled at it expressed her opinion better;
not sickly, but morbid. And she looked upon an olive as a tree rather
like a willow, whereas Duco had told her that an olive was the most
beautiful tree in the world.

She did not agree with him, either about the olive or about the
Eros; and yet she felt that he was right from a certain mysterious
standpoint on which there was no room for her, because it was like
a mystic eminence amid impassable sensitive spheres which were not
hers, even as the eminence was to her an unknown vantage-point of
sensitiveness and vision. She did not agree with him and yet she
was convinced of his greater rightness, his truer view, his nobler
insight, his deeper feeling; and she was certain that her way of
seeing Italy, in the disappointment of her disillusion, in the
grey light of a growing indifference, was neither noble nor good;
and she knew that the beauty of Italy escaped her, whereas to him
it was like a tangible and comprehensible vision. And she cleared
away Ovid and Petrarch and Hare's guidebook and locked them up in
her trunk and took out the novels and pamphlets which had appeared
that year about the woman movement in Holland. She took an interest
in the problem and thought that it made her more modern than Duco,
who suddenly seemed to her to belong to a bygone age, not modern,
not modern. She repeated the words with enjoyment and suddenly felt
herself stronger. To be modern: that should be her strength. One
phrase of Duco's had struck her immensely, that exclamation:

"Oh, if we could only find an aim! Our life has a line, a path,
which it must follow...."

To be modern: was that not a line? To find the solution of a modern
problem: was that not an aim in life? He was quite right, from his
point of view, from which he saw Italy; but was not the whole of
Italy a past, a dream, at least that Italy which Duco saw, a dreamy
paradise of nothing but art? It could not be right to stand like
that, see like that a dream like that. The present was here: on
the grey horizon muttered an approaching storm; and the latter-day
problems flashed like lightning. Was that not what she had to live
for? She felt for the woman, she felt for the girl: she herself
had been the girl, brought up only as a social ornament, to shine,
to be pretty and attractive and then of course to get married; she
had shone and she had married; and now she was three-and-twenty,
divorced from the husband who at one time had been her only aim and,
for her sake, the aim of her parents; now she was alone, astray,
desperate and utterly disconsolate: she had nothing to cling to and
she suffered. She still loved him, cad and scoundrel though he was;
and she had thought that she was doing something very clever, when she
went abroad, to Italy, to study art. But she did not understand art,
she did not feel Italy. Oh, how clearly she saw it, after those talks
with Duco, that she would never understand art, even though she used
to sketch a bit, even though she used to have a biscuit-group after
Canova in her boudoir, Cupid and Psyche: so nice for a young girl! And
with what certainty she now knew that she would never grasp Italy,
because she did not think an olive-tree so very beautiful and had
never seen the sky of the Campagna as a fluttering phoenix-wing! No,
Italy would never be the consolation of her life....

But what then? She had been through much, but she was alive and very
young. And once again, at the sight of those pamphlets, at the sight
of that novel, the desire arose in her soul: to be modern, to be
modern! And to take part in the problem of to-day! To live for the
future! To live for her fellow-women, married or unmarried!...

She dared not look deep down into herself, lest she should waver. To
live for the future!... It separated her a little more from Duco,
that new ideal. Did she mind? Was she in love with him? No, she
thought not. She had been in love with her husband and did not want
to fall in love at once with the first agreeable young man whom she
chanced to meet in Rome....

And she read the pamphlets, about the feminine problem and love. Then
she thought of her husband, then of Duco. And wearily she dropped the
pamphlets and reflected how sad it all was: people, women, girls. She,
a woman, a young woman, an aimless woman: how sad her life was! And
Duco: he was happy. And yet he was seeking the line of his life,
yet he was looking out for his aim. A new restlessness had entered
into him. And she wept a little and anxiously twisted herself on her
cushions and clasped her hands and prayed, unconsciously, without
knowing to whom she was praying:

"O God, tell me what to do!"



CHAPTER XIII


It was then, after a few days, that Cornélie conceived the idea
of leaving the boarding-house and going to live in rooms. The
hotel-life disturbed her budding thoughts, like a wind of vanity
that was constantly blighting very vague and fragile blossoms;
and, despite a torrent of abuse from the marchesa, who reproached
her with having engaged to stay the whole winter, she moved into
the rooms which she had found with Duco van der Staal, after much
hunting and stair-climbing. They were in the Via dei Serpenti, up any
number of stairs: a set of two roomy, but almost entirely unfurnished
apartments, containing only the absolute essentials; and, though the
view extended far and wide above the house-tops of Rome to the circular
ruin of the Colosseum, the rooms were rough and uncomfortable, bare
and uninviting. Duco had not approved of them and said that they made
him shiver, although they faced the sun; but there was something about
the ruggedness of the place that harmonized with Cornélie's new mood.

When they parted that day, he thought how inartistic she was and
she how unmodern he was. They did not meet again for several days;
and Cornélie was very lonely, but did not feel her loneliness,
because she was writing a pamphlet on the social position of divorced
women. The idea was suggested to her by a few sentences in a tract
on the feminist problem; and at once, without wasting much time in
thought, she flung off her sentences in a succession of impulses and
intuitions, rough-hewn, cold and clear; she wrote in an epistolary
style, without literary art, as though to warn girls against cherishing
too many illusions about marriage.

She had not made her rooms comfortable; she sat there, high up over
Rome, with her view across the house-tops to the Colosseum, writing,
writing and writing, absorbed in her sorrow, uttering herself in
her stubborn sentences, feeling intensely bitter, but pouring the
wormwood of her soul into her pamphlet. Mrs. van der Staal and the
girls, who came to see her, were surprised by her untidy appearance,
her rough-looking rooms, with a dying fire in the little grate and
with no flowers, no books, no tea and no cushions; and, when they went
away after fifteen minutes, pleading urgent errands, they looked at
each other, tripping down the endless stairs, with eyes of amazement,
utterly at a loss to understand this transformation of an interesting,
elegant little woman, surrounded by an aura of poetry and a tragic
past, into an "independent woman," working furiously at a pamphlet full
of bitter invective against society. And, when Duco looked her up again
in a week's time and came to sit with her a little, he remained silent,
stiff and upright in his chair, without speaking, while Cornélie read
the beginning of her pamphlet to him. He was touched by the glimpses
which it revealed to him of personal suffering and experience, but he
was irritated by a certain discord between that slender, lily-like
woman, with her drooping movements, and the surroundings in which
she now felt at her ease, entirely absorbed in her hatred for the
society--Hague society--which had become hostile to her because she
refused to go on living with a cad who ill-treated her. And while
she was reading, Duco thought:

"She would not write like that if she were not writing it all down from
her own suffering. Why doesn't she make a novel of it? Why generalize
from one's personal sorrows and why that admonishing voice?..."

He did not like it. He thought the sound of that voice was hard,
those truths so personal, that bitterness unattractive and that
hatred of convention so small. And, when she put a question to him,
he did not say much, nodded his head in vague approval and remained
sitting in his stiff, uncomfortable attitude. He did not know what to
answer, he was unable to admire, he thought her inartistic. And yet a
great compassion welled up within him when he saw, in spite of it all,
how charming she would be and what charm and womanly dignity would be
hers could she find the line of her life and moved harmoniously along
that line with the music of her own movement. He now saw her taking a
wrong road, a path pointed out to her by the fingers of others and not
entered upon from the impulse of her own soul. And he felt the deepest
pity for her. He, an artist, but above all a dreamer, sometimes saw
vividly, despite his dreaming, despite his sometimes all-embracing
love of line and colour and atmosphere; he, the artist and dreamer,
sometimes very clearly saw the emotion looming through the outward
actions of his fellow-creatures, saw it like light shining through
alabaster; and he suddenly saw her lost, seeking, straying: seeking
she herself knew not what, straying she herself knew not through what
labyrinth, far from her line, the line of her life and the course of
her soul's journey, which she had never yet found.

She sat before him excitedly. She had read her last pages with a
flushed face, in a resonant voice, her whole being in a fever. She
looked as if she would have liked to fling those bitter pages
at the feet of her Dutch sisters, at the feet of all women. He,
absorbed in his speculations, melancholy in his pity for her,
had scarcely listened, nodding his head in vague approval. And
suddenly she began to speak of herself, revealed herself wholly,
told him her life: her existence as a young girl at the Hague, her
education with a view to shining a little and being attractive and
pretty, with not one serious glance at her future, only waiting for
a good match, with a flirtation here and a little love-affair there,
until she was married: a good match, in her own circle; her husband
a first lieutenant of hussars, a fine, handsome fellow, of a good,
distinguished family, with a little money. She had fallen in love with
him for his handsome face and his fine figure, which his uniform showed
to advantage, and he with her as he might have done with any other
girl who had a pretty face. Then came the revelation of those very
early days: the discord between their characters manifesting itself
luridly at once. She, spoilt at home, dainty, delicate, fastidious,
but selfishly fastidious and flying out against any offence to her
own spoilt little ego; he no longer the lover but immediately and
brutally the man with rights to this and rights to that, with an oath
here and a roar there; she with neither the tact nor the patience
to make of their foundering lives what could still be made of them,
nervous, quick-tempered, quick to resent coarseness, which made his
savagery flare up so violently that he ill-treated her, swore at her,
struck her, shook her and banged her against the wall.

The divorce followed. He had not consented at first, content, in
spite of all, to have a house and in that house a wife, female to
him, the male, and declining to return to the discomfort of life in
chambers, until she simply ran away, first to her parents, then to
friends in the country, protesting loudly against the law, which was
so unjust to women. He had yielded at last and allowed himself to
be accused of infidelity, which was not beside the truth. She was
now free, but stood as it were alone, looked at askance by all her
acquaintances, refusing to yield to their conventional demand for that
sort of half-mourning which, according to their conventional ideas,
should surround a divorced woman and at once returning to her former
life, the gay life of an unmarried girl. But she had felt that this
could not go on, both because of her acquaintances and because of
herself: her acquaintances looking at her askance and she loathing
her acquaintances, loathing their parties and dinners, until she felt
profoundly unhappy, lonely and forlorn, without anything or anybody
to cling to, and had felt all the depression that weighs down on the
divorced woman. Sometimes, in her heart of hearts, she reflected that
by dint of great patience and great tact she might have managed that
man, that he was not wicked, only coarse, that she was still fond of
him, or at least of his handsome face and his sturdy figure. Love, no,
it was not love; but had she ever thought of love as she now sometimes
pictured it? And did not nearly everybody live more or less so-so,
with a good deal of give and take?

But this regret she hardly confessed to herself, did not now confess
to Duco; and what she did confess was her bitterness, her hatred of
her husband, of marriage, of convention, of people, of the world,
of all the great generalities, generalizing her own feelings into
one great curse against life. He listened to her, with pity. He
felt that there was something noble in her, which, however, had been
stifled from the beginning. He forgave her for not being artistic,
but he was sorry that she had never found herself, that she did
not know what she was, who she was, what her life should be, or
where the line of her life wound, the only path which she ought to
tread, as every life follows one path. Oh, how often, if a person
would but let herself go, like a flower, like a bird, like a cloud,
like a star which so obediently ran its course, she would find her
happiness and her life, even as the flower or the bird finds them,
even as the cloud drifts before the sun, even as the star follows its
course through the heavens. But he told her nothing of his thoughts,
knowing that, especially in her present mood of bitterness, she would
not understand them and could derive no comfort from them, because they
would be too vague for her and too far removed from her own manner of
thinking. She thought of herself, but imagined that she was thinking
of women and girls and their movement towards the future. The lines
of the women ... but had not every woman a line of her own? Only,
how few of them knew it: their direction, their path, their line of
life, their wavering course in the twilight of the future. And perhaps,
because they did not know it for themselves, they were now all seeking
together a broad path, a main road, along which they would march in
troops, in a threatening multitude of women, in regiments of women,
with banners and mottoes and war-cries, a broad path, parallel with
the movement of the men, until the two paths would melt into one,
until the troops of women would mingle with the troops of men, with
equal rights and equal fullness of life....

He said nothing to her. She noticed his silence and did not see how
much was going on within him, how earnestly he was thinking of her,
how profoundly he pitied her. She thought that she had bored him. And
suddenly, around her, she saw the dim, barren room, saw that the fire
was out; and her zeal subsided, her fever cooled and she thought her
pamphlet bad, lacking strength and conviction. What would she not
have given for a word from him! But he sat silent, seemed to take no
interest, probably did not admire her style of writing. And she felt
sad, deserted, lonely, estranged from him and bitter because of the
estrangement; she felt ready to weep, to sob; and, strange to say, in
her bitterness she thought of him, of her husband, with his handsome
face. She could not restrain herself, she wept. Duco came up to her,
put his hand on her shoulder. Then she felt something of what was
going on within him and that his silence was not due to coldness. She
told him that she could not remain alone that evening: she was too
wretched, too wretched. He comforted her, said that there was much
that was good, much that was true in her pamphlet; that he was not
a good judge of these modern questions; that he was never clever
except when he talked about Italy; that he felt so little for people
and so much for statues, so little for what was newly building for
a coming century and so much for what lay in ruins and remained over
from earlier centuries. He said it as though apologizing. She smiled
through her tears but repeated that she could not stay alone that
evening and that she was coming with him to Belloni's, to his mother
and sisters. And they went together, they walked round together; and,
to divert her mind, he spoke to her of his own thoughts, told her
anecdotes of the Renascence masters. She did not hear what he said,
but his voice was sweet to her ears. There was something so gentle
about his indifference to the modern things that interested her, he had
so much calmness, healing as balsam, in the restfulness of his soul,
which allowed itself to move along the golden thread of his dreams,
as though that thread was the line of his life, so much calmness and
gentleness that she too grew calmer and gentler and looked up to him
with a smile.

And, however far removed they might be from each other--he going along
a dreamy path, she lost in an obscure maze--they nevertheless felt each
other approaching, felt their souls drawing nearer to each other, while
their bodies moved beside each other in the actual street, through
Rome, in the evening. He put his arm through hers to guide her steps.

And, when they came in sight of Belloni's, she thanked him, she did
not know exactly for what: for the look in his eyes, for his voice, for
the walk, for the consolation which she felt inexplicably yet clearly
radiating from him; and she was glad to have come with him this evening
and to feel the distraction of the Belloni table-d'hôte around her.

But at night, alone, alone in her bare rooms, she was overcome by
her wretchedness as by a sea of blackness; and, looking out at the
Colosseum, which showed faintly as a black arc in the black night,
she sobbed until she felt herself sinking to the point of death,
derelict, lonely and forlorn, high up above Rome, above the roofs,
above the pale lights of Rome by night, under the clouds of the
black night, sinking and derelict, as though she were drifting,
a shipwrecked waif on an ocean which drowned the world and roared
its plaints to the inexorable heavens.



CHAPTER XIV


Nevertheless Cornélie recovered her calmness when her pamphlet
was finished. She unpacked her trunks, arranged her rooms a little
more snugly and, now more at her ease, rewrote the pamphlet and,
in the revision, improved her style and even her ideas. When she had
done working in the morning, she usually lunched at a small osteria,
where she nearly always met Duco van der Staal and had her meal with
him at a little table. As a rule she dined at Belloni's, beside the
Van der Staals, in order to obtain a little diversion. The marchesa
had not bowed to her at first, though she suffered her to attend her
table-d'hôte, at three lire an evening; but after a time she bowed to
Cornélie again, with a bitter-sweet little smile, for she had relet
her two rooms at a higher price. And Cornélie, in her calmer mood,
found it pleasant to change in the evening, to see Mrs. van der Staal
and the girls, to listen to their little stories about the Roman
salons and to cast a glance over the long tables. And they saw that
the guests were ever again different, as in a kaleidoscope of fleeting
personalities. Rudyard had disappeared, owing money to the marchesa,
no one knew whither; the Von Rothkirches had gone to Greece; but Urania
Hope was still there and sat next to the Marchesa Belloni. On her other
side was the nephew, the Prince of Forte-Braccio, Duke of San Stefano,
who dined at Belloni's every night. And Cornélie saw that a sort of
conspiracy was in progress, the marchesa and the prince laying siege
to the vain little American from either side. And next day she saw two
monsignori seated in eager conversation with Urania at the marchesa's
table, while the marchesa and the prince nodded their heads. All the
visitors commented on it, every eye was turned in that direction,
everybody watched the manoeuvres and delighted in the romance.

Cornélie was the only one who was not amused. She would have liked to
warn Urania against the marchesa, the prince and the monsignori who had
taken Rudyard's place, but especially against marriage, even marriage
with a prince and duke. And, growing excited, she spoke to Mrs. van
der Staal and the girls, repeated phrases out of her pamphlet, glowing
with her red young hatred against society and people and the world.

Dinner was over; and, still eagerly talking, she went with the Van
der Staals--mevrouw and the girls and Duco--to the drawing-room,
sat down in a corner, resumed her conversation, flew out at mevrouw,
who had contradicted her, and then suddenly saw a fat lady--the girls
had already nick-named her the Satin Frigate--come towards her with
a smile and say, while still at some distance:

"I beg your pardon, but there's something I want to say. Look here, I
have been to Belloni's regularly every winter for the last ten years,
from November to Easter; and every evening after dinner--but only
after dinner--I sit in this corner, at this table, on this sofa. I
hope you won't mind, but I should be glad to have my own seat now."

And the Satin Frigate smiled amiably; but, when the Van der Staals and
Cornélie rose in mute amazement, she dumped herself down with a rustle
on the sofa, bobbed up and down for a moment on the springs, laid her
crochet-work on the table with a gesture as though she were planting
the Union Jack in a new colony and said, with her most amiable smile:

"Very much obliged. So many thanks."

Duco roared, the girls giggled, but the Satin Frigate merely nodded to
them good-humouredly. And, not even yet realizing what had happened,
astounded but gay, they sat down in another corner, the girls still
seized with an irrepressible giggle. The two æsthetic ladies, with
the evening-dress and the Jaegers, who sat reading at the table in
the middle of the room, closed their two books with one slam, rose
and indignantly went away, because people were laughing and talking
in the drawing-room:

"It's a shame!" they said, aloud.

And, angular, arrogant and grimy, they stalked out through the door.

"What strange people!" thought Duco, smiling. "Shadows of
people!... Their lines curl like arabesque through ours. Why do they
cross our lines with their petty movements and why are ours never
crossed by those which perhaps would be dearest to our souls?..."

He always took Cornélie back to the Via dei Serpenti. They walked
slowly through the silent, deserted streets. Sometimes it was late in
the evening, but sometimes it was immediately after dinner and then
they would go through the Corso and he would generally ask her to
come and sit at Aragno's for a little. She agreed and they drank their
coffee amid the gaiety of the brightly-lit café, watching the bustle
on the pavement outside. They exchanged few words, distracted by the
passers-by and the visitors to the café; but they both enjoyed this
moment and felt at one with each other. Duco evidently did not give
a thought to the unconventionality of their behaviour; but Cornélie
thought of Mrs. van der Staal and that she would not approve of it or
consent to it in one of her daughters, to sit alone with a gentleman
in a café in the evening. And Cornélie also remembered the Hague and
smiled at the thought of her Hague friends. And she looked at Duco,
who sat quietly, pleased to be sitting with her, and drank his coffee
and spoke a word now and again or pointed to a queer type or a pretty
woman passing....

One evening, after dinner, he suggested that they should all go to
the ruins. It was full moon, a wonderful sight. But mevrouw was
afraid of malaria, the girls of foot-pads; and Duco and Cornélie
went by themselves. The streets were quite empty, the Colosseum rose
menacingly like a fortress in the night; but they went in and the
moonlight blue of the night shone through the open arches: the round
pit of the arena was black on one side with shadow, while the stream
of moonlight poured in on the other side, like a white flood, like
a cascade; and it was as though the night were haunted, as though
the Colosseum were haunted by all the dead past of Rome, emperors,
gladiators and martyrs; shadows prowled like lurking wild animals,
a patch of light suggested a naked woman and the galleries seemed to
rustle with the sound of the multitude. And yet there was nothing and
Duco and Cornélie were alone, in the depths of the huge, colossal ruin,
half in shadow and half in light; and, though she was not afraid, she
was obsessed by that awful haunting of the past and pushed closer to
him and clutched his arm and felt very, very small. He just pressed
her hand, with his simple ease of manner, to reassure her. And the
night oppressed her, the ghostliness of it all suffocated her, the
moon seemed to whirl giddily in the sky and to expand to a gigantic
size and spin round like a silver wheel. He said nothing, he was in
one of his dreams, seeing the past before him. And silently they went
away and he led her through the Arch of Titus into the Forum. On
the left rose the ruins of the imperial palaces; and all around
them stood the black fragments, with a few pillars soaring on high
and the white moonlight pouring down like a ghostly sea out of the
night. They met no one, but she was frightened and clung tighter to his
arm. When they sat down for a moment on a fragment of the foundation
of some ancient building, she shivered with cold. He started up,
said that she must be careful not to catch a chill; and they walked
on and left the Forum. He took her home and she went upstairs alone,
striking a match to see her way up the dark staircase. Once in her
room, she perceived that it was dangerous to wander about the ruins
at night. She reflected how little Duco had spoken, not thinking
of danger, lost in his nocturnal dream, peering into the awful
ghostliness. Why ... why had he not gone alone? Why had he asked her
to go with him? She fell asleep after a chaos of whirling thoughts:
the prince and Urania, the fat satin lady, the Colosseum and the
martyrs and Duco and Mrs. van der Staal. His mother was so ordinary,
his sisters charming but commonplace and he ... so strange! So simple,
so unaffected, so unreserved; and for that very reason so strange. He
would be impossible at the Hague, among her friends. And she smiled
as she thought of what he had said and how he had said it and how he
could sit quietly silent, for minutes on end, with a smile about his
lips, as though thinking of something beautiful....

But she must warn Urania....

And she wearily fell asleep.



CHAPTER XV


Cornélie's premonition regarding Mrs. van der Staal's opinion of her
intercourse with Duco was confirmed: mevrouw spoke to her seriously,
saying that she would compromise herself if she went on like that and
adding that she had spoken to Duco in the same sense. But Cornélie
answered rather haughtily and nonchalantly, declared that, after
always minding the conventions and becoming very unhappy in spite of
it, she had resolved to mind them no longer, that she valued Duco's
conversation and that she was not going to be deprived of it because
of what people thought or said. And then, she asked Mrs. van der Staal,
who were "people?" Their three or four acquaintances at Belloni's? Who
knew her besides? Where else did she go? Why should she care about
the Hague? And she gave a scornful laugh, loftily parrying Mrs. van
der Staal's arguments.

The conversation caused a coolness between them. Wounded in her
touchy over-sensitiveness, she did not come to dinner at Belloni's
that evening. Next day, meeting Duco at their little table in the
osteria, she asked him what he thought of his mother's rebuke. He
smiled vaguely, raising his eyebrows, obviously not realizing the
commonplace truth of his mother's words, saying that those were just
Mamma's ideas, which of course were all very well and current in
the set in which Mamma and his sisters lived, but which he didn't
enter into or bother about, unless Cornélie thought that Mamma was
right. And Cornélie blazed out contemptuously, shrugged her shoulders,
asked who or what there was for whose sake she should allow herself
to break off their friendly intercourse. They ordered a mezzo-fiasco
between them and had a long, chatty lunch like two comrades, like
two students. He said that he had been thinking over her pamphlet;
he talked, to please her, about the modern woman, modern marriage,
the modern girl. She condemned the way in which Mrs. van der Staal
was bringing up her daughters, that light, frivolous education and
that endless going about, on the look for a husband. She said that
she spoke from experience.

They walked along the Via Appia that afternoon and went to the
Catacombs, where a Trappist showed them round. When Cornélie returned
home she felt pleasantly light and cheerful. She did not go out again;
she piled up the logs on her fire against the evening, which was
turning chilly, and supped off a little bread and jelly, so as not
to go out for her dinner. Sitting in her tea-gown, with her hands
folded over her head, she stared into the briskly burning logs and
let the evening speed past her. She was satisfied with her life,
so free, independent of everything and everybody. She had a little
money, she could go on living like this. She had no great needs. Her
life in rooms, in little restaurants was not expensive. She wanted
no clothes. She felt satisfied. Duco was an agreeable friend: how
lonely she would be without him! Only her life must acquire some
aim. What aim? The feminist movement? But how, abroad? It was such
a different movement to work at.... She would send her pamphlet now
to a newly founded women's paper. But then? She wasn't in Holland
and she didn't want to go to Holland; and yet there would certainly
be more scope there for her activity, for exchanging views with
others. Whereas here, in Rome.... An indolence overcame her, in
the drowsiness of her cosy room. For Duco had helped her to arrange
her sitting-room. He certainly was a cultivated fellow, even though
he was not modern. What a lot he knew about history, about Italy;
and how cleverly he told it all! The way he explained Italy to her,
she was interested in the country after all.

Only, he wasn't modern. He had no insight into Italian politics,
into the struggle between the Quirinal and the Vatican, into
anarchism, which was showing its head at Milan, into the riots in
Sicily.... An aim in life: what a difficult thing it was! And, in
her evening drowsiness after a pleasant day, she did not feel the
absence of an aim and enjoyed the soft luxury of letting her thoughts
glide on in unison with the drowsy evening hours, in a voluptuous
self-indulgence. She looked at the sheets of her pamphlet, scattered
over her big writing-table, a real table to work at: they lay yellow
under the light of her reading-lamp; they had not all been recopied,
but she was not in the mood now; she threw a log into the little grate
and the fire smoked and blazed. So pleasant, that foreign habit of
burning wood instead of coal....

And she thought of her husband. She missed him sometimes. Could she
not have managed him, with a little tact and patience? After all,
he was very nice during the period of their engagement. He was rough,
but not bad. He might have sworn at her sometimes, but perhaps he did
not mean any great harm. He waltzed divinely, he swung you round so
firmly.... He was good-looking and, she had to confess, she was in love
with him, if only for his handsome face, his handsome figure. There
was something about his eyes and mouth that she was never able to
resist. When he spoke, she had to look at his mouth. However, that
was all over and done with....

After all, perhaps the life at the Hague was too monotonous for her
temperament. She liked travelling, seeing new people, developing
new ideas; and she had never been able to settle down in her little
set. And now she was free, independent of all ties, of all people. If
Mrs. van der Staal was angry, she didn't care.... And, all the same,
Duco was rather modern, in his indifference to convention. Or was
it merely the artistic side in him? Or was he, as a man who was not
modern, indifferent to it even as she, a modern woman, was? A man
could allow himself more. A man was not so easily compromised.... A
modern woman. She repeated the words proudly. Her drowsiness acquired
a certain arrogance. She drew herself up, stretching out her arms,
looked at herself in the glass: her slender figure, her delicate
little face, a trifle pale, with the eyes big and grey and bright
under their remarkably long lashes, her light-brown hair in a loose,
tangled coil, the lines of her figure, like those of a drooping lily,
very winsome in the creased folds of her old tea-gown, pale-pink and
faded.... What was her path in life? She felt herself to be something
more than a worker and fighter, to be very complex, felt that she was
a woman too, felt a great womanliness inside her, like a weakness
which would hamper her energy. And she wandered through the room,
unable to decide to go to bed, and, staring into the gloomy ashes
of the expiring fire, she thought of her future, of what she would
become and how, of how she would go and whither, along which curve
of life, wandering through what forests, winding through what alleys,
crossing which other curves of which other, seeking souls....



CHAPTER XVI


The idea had long fixed itself in Cornélie's mind that she must speak
to Urania Hope; and one morning she sent her a note asking for an
appointment that afternoon. Miss Hope wrote back assenting; and at
five o'clock Cornélie found her at home in her handsome and expensive
sitting-room at Belloni's: many lights, many flowers; Urania hammering
on the piano in an indoor gown of Venetian lace; the table decked with
a rich tea, with cut bread-and-butter, cakes and sweets. Cornélie had
said that she wanted to see Miss Hope alone, on a matter of importance,
and at once asked if she would be alone, feeling a doubt of it, now
that Urania was receiving her so formally. But Urania reassured her:
she had said that she was at home to no one but Mrs. de Retz and was
very curious to know what Cornélie had come to talk about. Cornélie
reminded Urania of her former warning and, when Urania laughed, she
took her hand and looked at her with such serious eyes that she made an
impression of the American girl's frivolous nature and Urania became
puzzled. Urania now suddenly thought it very momentous--a secret,
an intrigue, a danger, in Rome!--and they whispered together. And
Cornélie, no longer feeling anxious amid this increasing intimacy,
confessed to Urania what she had heard through the half-open door: the
marchesa's machinations with her nephew, whom she was absolutely bent
on marrying to a rich heiress at the behest of the prince's father, who
seemed to have promised her so much for putting the match through. Then
she spoke of Miss Taylor's conversion, effected by Rudyard: Rudyard,
who did not seem able to achieve his purpose with Urania, failing to
obtain a hold on her confiding, but frivolous, butterfly nature, and
who, as Cornélie suspected, had for that reason incurred the disfavour
of his ecclesiastical superiors and vanished without settling his
debt to the marchesa. His place appeared to have been taken by the two
monsignori, who looked more dignified and worldly and displayed great
unctuousness, were more lavish in smiles. And Urania, staring at this
danger, at these pit-falls under her feet which Cornélie had suddenly
revealed to her, now became really frightened, turned pale and promised
to be on her guard. Really she would have liked to tell her maid to
pack up at once, so that they might leave Rome as soon as possible,
for another town, another pension, one with lots of titled people: she
adored titles! And Cornélie, seeing that she had made an impression,
continued, spoke of herself, spoke of marriage in general, said that
she had written a pamphlet against marriage and on The Social Position
of Divorced Women. And she spoke of the suffering which she had been
through and of the feminist movement in Holland. And, once in the vein,
she abandoned all restraint and talked more and more emphatically,
until Urania thought her exceedingly clever, a very clever girl,
to be able to argue and write like that on a ques-tion brû-lante,
laying a fine stress on the first syllables of the French words. She
admitted that she would like to have the vote and, as she said this,
spread out the long train of her lace tea-gown. Cornélie spoke of the
injustice of the law which leaves the wife nothing, takes everything
from her and forces her entirely into the husband's power; and Urania
agreed with her and passed the little dish of chocolate-creams. And
to the accompaniment of a second cup of tea they talked excitedly,
both speaking at once, neither listening to what the other was saying;
and Urania said that it was a shame. From the general discussion they
relapsed to the consideration of their particular interests: Cornélie
depicted the character of her husband, unable, in the coarseness of
his nature, to understand a woman or to consent that a woman should
stand beside him and not beneath him. And she once more returned to
the Jesuits, to the danger of Rome for rich girls travelling alone,
to that virago of a marchesa and to the prince, that titled bait
which the Jesuits flung to win a soul and to improve the finances
of an impoverished Italian house which had remained faithful to the
Pope and refused to serve the king. And both of them were so vehement
and excited that they did not hear the knock and looked up only when
the door slowly opened. They started, glanced round and both turned
pale when they saw the Prince of Forte-Braccio enter the room. He
apologized with a smile, said that he had seen a light in Miss
Urania's sitting-room, that the porter had told him she was engaged,
but that he had ventured to disobey her orders. And he sat down;
and, in spite of all that they had been saying, Urania thought it
delightful to have the prince sitting there and accepting a cup of
tea at her hands and graciously consenting to eat a piece of cake.

And Urania showed her album of coats of arms--the prince had already
contributed an impression of his--and next the album with patterns
of the queen's ball-dresses. Then the prince laughed and felt in his
pocket for an envelope; he opened it and carefully produced a cutting
of blue brocade embroidered with silver and seed-pearls.

"What is it?" asked Urania, in ecstasy.

And he said that he had brought her a pattern of her majesty's last
dress; his cousin--not a Black, like himself, but a White, belonging
not to the papal but to the court party and a lady-in-waiting to the
queen--had procured this cutting for him for Urania's album. Urania
would see it herself: the queen would wear the dress at next week's
court ball. He was not going, he did not even go to his cousin's
officially, not to her parties; but he saw her sometimes, because
of the family relationship, out of friendship. And he begged Urania
not to give him away: it might injure him in his career--"What
career?" Cornélie wondered to herself--if people knew that he saw
much of his cousin; but he had called on her pretty often lately,
for Urania's sake, to get her that pattern.

And Urania was so grateful that she forgot all about the social
position of girls and women, married or unmarried, and would gladly
have sacrificed her right to the franchise for such a charming Italian
prince. Cornélie became vexed, rose, bowed coldly to the prince and
drew Urania with her to the door:

"Don't forget what we have been saying," she warned her. "Be on
your guard."

And she saw the prince look at her sarcastically, as they whispered
together, suspecting that she was talking about him, but proud of
the power of his personality and his title and his attentions over
the daughter of an American stockinet-manufacturer.



CHAPTER XVII


A coolness had arisen between Mrs. van der Staal and Cornélie; and
Cornélie no longer went to dine at Belloni's. She did not see mevrouw
and the girls again for weeks; but she saw Duco daily. Notwithstanding
the essential differences in their characters, they had grown so
accustomed to being together that they missed each other if a day
passed without their meeting; and so they had gradually come to
lunch and dine together every day, almost as a matter of course:
in the morning at the osteria and in the evening at some small
restaurant or other, usually very simply. To avoid dividing the bill,
Duco would pay one time and Cornélie the next. Generally they had
much to talk about: he taught her Rome, took her after lunch to all
manner of churches and museums; and under his guidance she began
to understand, appreciate and admire. By unconscious suggestion he
inspired her with some of his ideas. She found painting very difficult,
but understood sculpture much more readily. And she began to look upon
him as not merely morbid; she looked up to him, he spoke quite simply
to her, as from his exalted standpoint of feeling and knowledge and
understanding, of very exalted matters which she, as a girl and later
as a young married woman, had never seen in the glorious apotheosis
which he caused to rise before her like the first gleam of a dawn,
of a new day in which she beheld new types of life, created of all
that was noblest in the artist's soul. He regretted that he could not
show her Giotto in the Santa Croce at Florence and the Primitives in
the Uffizi and that he had to teach her Rome straight away; but he
introduced her to all the exuberant art-life of the Papal Renascence,
until, under the influence of his speech, she shared that life for a
single intense second and until Michael Angelo and Raphael stood out
before her, also living. After a day like that, he would think that
after all she was not so hopelessly inartistic; and she thought of
him with respect, even after the suggestion was interrupted and when
she reflected on what she had seen and heard and really, deep down in
herself, no longer understood things so well as she had that morning,
because she was lacking in love for them. But so much glamour of colour
and the past remained whirling before her eyes in the evening that
it made her pamphlet seem drab and dull; and the feminist movement
ceased to interest her and she did not care about Urania Hope.

He admitted to himself that he had quite lost his peace of mind,
that Cornélie stood before him in his thoughts, between him and his
old triptychs, that his lonely, friendless, ingenuous, simple life,
content with wandering through and outside Rome, with reading,
dreaming and now and then painting a little, had changed entirely
in habit and in line, now that the line of his life had crossed that
of hers and they both seemed to be going one way, he did not really
know why. Love was not exactly the word for the feeling that drew
him towards her. And just very vaguely, inwardly and unconsciously
he suspected, though he never actually said or even thought as much,
that it was the line of her figure, which was marked by something
almost Byzantine, the slenderness of the frame, the long arms, the
drooping lily-line of the woman who suffered, with the melancholy in
her grey eyes, overshadowed by their almost too-long lashes; that it
was the noble shape of her hand, small and pretty for a tall woman;
that it was a movement of her neck, as of a swaying stalk, or a tired
swan trying to glance backwards. He had never met many women and those
whom he had met had always seemed very ordinary; but she was unreal
to him, in the contradictions of her character, in its vagueness
and intangibility, in all the half-tints which escaped his eye,
accustomed to half-tints though it was.... What was she like? What he
had always seen in her character was a woman in a novel, a heroine in
a poem. What was she as a living woman of flesh and blood? She was
not artistic and she was not inartistic; she had no energy and yet
she did not lack energy; she was not precisely cultivated; and yet,
obeying her impulse and her intuition, she wrote a pamphlet on one of
the most modern questions and worked at it and revised and copied it,
till it became a piece of writing no worse than another. She had a
spacious way of thinking, loathing all the pettiness of the cliques,
no longer feeling at home, after her suffering, in her little Hague
set; and here, in Rome, at a dance she listened behind a door to
a nonsensical conspiracy, hardly worthy of the name, he thought,
and had gone to Urania Hope to mingle with the confused curves of
smaller lives, curves without importance, of people whom he despised
for their lack of line, of colour, of vision, of haze, of everything
that was dear as life to him and made up life for him.... What was
she like? He did not understand her. But her curve was of importance
to him. She was not without a line: a line of art and line of life;
she moved in the dream of her own indefiniteness before his gazing
eyes; and she loomed up out of the haze, as out of the twilight of
his studio atmosphere, and stood before him like a phantom. He would
not call that love; but she was dear to him like a revelation that
constantly veiled itself in secrecy. And his life as a lonely wanderer
was, it was true, changed; but she had introduced no inharmonious
habit into his life: he enjoyed taking his meals in a little café or
osteria; and she took them with him easily and simply, not squalidly
but pleasantly and harmoniously, with an adaptability and with just
as much natural grace as when she used to dine of an evening at the
table-d'hôte at Belloni's. All this--that contradictory admixture of
unreality, of inconsistency; that living vision of indefiniteness;
that intangibility of her individual essence; that self-concealment of
the soul; that blending of her essential characteristics--had become
a charm to him: a restlessness, a need, a nervous want in his life,
otherwise so restful, so easily contented and calm, but above all a
charm, an indispensable every-day charm.

And, without troubling about what people might think, about what
Mrs. van der Staal thought, they would one day go to Tivoli together,
or another day walk from Castel Gandolfo to Albano and drive to the
Lago di Nemi and picnic at the Villa Sforza-Cesarini, with the broken
capital of a classic pillar for a table. They rested side by side in
the shadow of the trees, admired the camellias, silently contemplated
the glassy clearness of the lake, Diana's looking-glass, and drove
back over Frascati. They were silent in the carriage; and he smiled
as he reflected how they had been taken everywhere that day for man
and wife. She also thought of their increasing intimacy and at the
same time thought that she would never marry again. And she thought
of her husband and compared him with Duco, so young in the face but
with eyes full of depth and soul, a voice so calm and even, with
everything that he said much to the point, so accurately informed;
and then his calmness, his simplicity, his lack of passion, as though
his nerves had schooled themselves only to feel the calmness of art
in the dreamy mist of his life. And she confessed to herself, there,
in the carriage beside him, amid the softly shelving hills, purpling
away in the evening, while before her faded the rose-mallow of a pale
gold sunset, that he was dear to her because of that cleverness, that
absence of passion, that simplicity and that accuracy of information--a
clear voice sounding up out of the dreamy twilight--and that she was
happy to be sitting beside him, to hear that voice and by chance
to feel his hand, happy in that her line of life had crossed his,
in that their two lines seemed to form a path towards the increasing
brightness, the gradual daily elucidation of their immediate future....



CHAPTER XVIII


Cornélie now saw no one except Duco. Mrs. van der Staal had broken
with her and would not allow her daughters to have any further
intercourse with her. A coolness had arisen even between the mother
and the son. Cornélie saw no one now except Duco and, at times,
Urania Hope. The American girl came to her pretty often and told
her about Belloni's, where the people talked about Cornélie and Duco
and commented on their relations. Urania was glad to think herself
above that hotel gossip, but still she wanted to warn Cornélie. Her
words displayed a simple spontaneity of friendship that appealed to
Cornélie. When Cornélie, however, asked after the prince, she became
silent and confused and evidently did not wish to say much. Then,
after the court ball, at which the queen had really worn the dress
embroidered with seed-pearls, Urania came and looked Cornélie up again
and admitted, over a cup of tea, that she had that morning promised to
go and see the prince at his own place. She said this quite simply,
as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Cornélie was
horrified and asked her how she could have promised such a thing.

"Why not?" Urania replied. "What is there in it? I receive his
visits. If he asks me to come and see his rooms--he lives in the
Palazzo Ruspoli and wants to show me his pictures and miniatures and
old lace--why should I refuse to go? Why should I make a fuss about
it? I am above any such narrow-mindedness. We American girls go about
freely with our men friends. And what about yourself? You go for walks
with Mr. van der Staal, you lunch with him, you go for trips with him,
you go to his studio...."

"I have been married," said Cornélie. "I am responsible to no one. You
have your parents. What you are thinking of doing is imprudent and
high-handed. Tell me, does the prince think of ... marrying you?"

"If I become a Catholic."

"And ...?"

"I think ... I shall. I have written to Chicago," she said,
hesitatingly.

She closed her beautiful eyes for a second and went pale, because
the title of princess and duchess flashed before her sight.

"Only ..." she began.

"Only what?"

"I sha'n't have a cheerful life. The prince belongs to the Blacks. They
are always in mourning because of the Pope. They have hardly anything
in their set: no dances, no parties. If we got married, I should like
him to come to America with me. Their home in the Abruzzi is a lonely,
tumbledown castle. His father is a very proud, stand-offish, silent
person. I have been told so by ever so many people. What am I to do,
Cornélie? I'm very fond of Gilio: his name is Virgilio. And then, you
know, the title is an old Italian title: Principe di Forte-Braccio,
Duca di San Stefano.... But then, you see, that's all there is
to it. San Stefano is a hole. That's where his papa lives. They
sell wine and live on that. And olive-oil; but they don't make any
money. My father manufactures stockinet; but he has grown rich on
it. They haven't many family-jewels. I have made enquiries.... His
cousin, the Contessa di Rosavilla, the lady in waiting to the queen,
is nice ... but we shouldn't see her officially. I shouldn't be able
to go anywhere. It does strike me as rather boring."

Cornélie spoke vehemently, blazed out and repeated her phrases: against
marriage in general and now against this marriage in particular, merely
for the sake of a title. Urania assented: it was merely for the title;
but then there was Gilio too, of course: he was so nice and she was
fond of him. But Cornélie didn't believe a word of it and told her
so straight out. Urania began to cry: she did not know what to do.

"And when were you to go to the prince?"

"This evening."

"Don't go."

"No, no, you're right, I sha'n't go."

"Do you promise me?"

"Yes, yes."

"Don't go, Urania."

"No, I sha'n't go. You're a dear girl. You're quite right: I won't
go. I swear to you I won't."



CHAPTER XIX


The undertaking which Urania had given was so vague, however,
that Cornélie felt uneasy and spoke of it to Duco that evening,
when she met him at the restaurant. But he was not interested
in Urania, in what she did or didn't do; and he shrugged his
shoulders indifferently. Cornélie, on the other hand, was silent
and absent-minded and did not listen to what he was talking about:
a side-panel of a triptych, undoubtedly by Lippo Memmi, which
he had discovered in a little shop by the Tiber; the angel of the
Annunciation, almost as beautiful as the one in the Uffizi, kneeling
with the stir of his last flight yet about him, with the lily-stem
in his hands. But the dealer asked two hundred lire for it and he
did not want to give more than fifty. And yet the dealer had not
mentioned Memmi's name, did not suspect that the angel was by Memmi.

Cornélie was not listening; and suddenly she said:

"I am going to the Palazzo Ruspoli."

He looked up in surprise:

"What for?"

"To ask for Miss Hope."

He was dumb with amazement and continued to look at her open-mouthed.

"If she's not there," Cornélie went on, "it's all right. If she is, if
she has gone after all, I'll ask to speak to her on urgent business."

He did not know what to say, thinking her sudden idea so strange,
so eccentric, thinking it so unnecessary that her curve should cross
the curves of insignificant, indifferent people, that he did not know
how to choose his words. Cornélie glanced at her watch:

"It's past half-past nine. If she does go, she will go about this
time."

She called the waiter and paid the bill. And she buttoned her coat
and stood up. He followed after her:

"Cornélie," he began, "isn't what you are doing rather strange? It'll
mean all sorts of worries for you."

"If one always objected to being worried, one would never do a good
action."

They walked on in silence, he moving irritably by her side. They did
not speak: he thought her intention simply crazy; she thought him
wanting in chivalry, not to wish to protect Urania. She was thinking
of her pamphlet, of her fellow-women; and she wanted to protect Urania
from marriage, from that prince. And they walked through the Corso
to the Palazzo Ruspoli. He became nervous, made another attempt to
restrain her; but she had already asked the porter:

"Is il signore principe at home?"

The man looked at her suspiciously:

"No," he said, curtly.

"I believe he is. If so, ask if Miss Hope is with his excellency. Miss
Hope was not at home; I believe that she was coming to see the prince
this evening; and I want to speak to her urgently ... on a matter
which will not brook delay. Here: la Signora de Retz...."

She handed him her card. She spoke with the greatest self-possession
and referred to Urania's visit calmly and simply, as though it were
an every-day occurrence for American girls to call on Italian princes
in the evening and as though she were persuaded that the porter knew
of this custom. The man was disconcerted by her attitude, bowed,
took the card and went away. Cornélie and Duco waited in the portico.

He admired her calmness. He considered her behaviour eccentric; but
she carried out her eccentricity with a self-assurance which once
more showed her in a new light. Would he never understand her, would
he never grasp anything or know anything for certain of that changeful
and intangible vagueness of hers? He could never have spoken those few
words to that porter in just that tone! Where had she got that tact
from, that dignified, serious attitude towards that imposing janitor,
with his long cane and his cocked hat? She did it all as easily as
she ordered their simple dinner, with a pleasant familiarity, of the
waiter at their little restaurant.

The porter returned:

"Miss Hope and his excellency beg that you will come upstairs."

She looked at Duco with a triumphant smile, amused at his confusion:

"Will you come too?"

"Why, no," he stammered. "I can wait for you here."

She followed the footman up the stairs. The wide corridor was hung
with family-portraits. The drawing-room door was open and the prince
came out to meet her.

"Please forgive me, prince," she said, calmly, putting out her hand.

His eyes were small and pinched and gleamed like carbuncles; he was
white with rage; but he controlled himself and pressed his lips to
the hand which she gave him.

"Forgive me," she went on. "I want to speak to Miss Hope on an
urgent matter."

She entered the drawing-room; Urania was there, blushing and
embarrassed.

"You understand," Cornélie said, with a smile, "that I would not have
disturbed you if it had not been important. A question between women
... and still important!" she continued, jestingly; and the prince
made an insipid, gallant reply. "May I speak to Miss Hope alone for
a moment?"

The prince looked at her. He suspected unfriendliness in her and more,
hostility. But he bowed, with his insipid smile, and said that he
would leave the ladies to themselves. He went to another room.

"What is it, Cornélie?" asked Urania, in agitation.

She took Cornélie's two hands and looked at her anxiously.

"Nothing," said Cornélie, severely. "I have nothing to say to you. Only
I had my suspicions and felt sure that you would not keep your
promise. I wanted to make certain if you were here. Why did you come?"

Urania began to weep.

"Don't cry!" whispered Cornélie, mercilessly. "For God's sake don't
start crying. You've done the most thoughtless thing imaginable...."

"I know I have!" Urania confessed, nervously, drying her tears.

"Then why did you do it?"

"I couldn't help it."

"Alone, with him, in the evening! A man well-known to be a bad lot."

"I know."

"What do you see in him?"

"I'm fond of him."

"You only want to marry him for his title. For the sake of his title
you're compromising yourself. What if he doesn't respect you this
evening as his future wife? What if he compels you to be his mistress?"

"Cornélie! Don't!"

"You're a child, a thoughtless child. And your father lets you travel
by yourself ... to see 'dear old Italy!' You're an American and
broad-minded: that's all right; to travel through the world pluckily
on your own is all right; but you're not a woman, you're a baby!"

"Cornélie...."

"Come away with me; say that you're going with me ... for an urgent
reason. Or no ... better say nothing. Stay. But I'll stay too."

"Yes, you stay too."

"We'll send for him now."

"Yes."

Cornélie rang the bell. A footman appeared.

"Tell his excellency that we are ready."

The man went away. In a little while the prince entered. He had never
been treated like that in his own house. He was seething with rage,
but he remained very polite and outwardly calm:

"Is the important matter settled?" he asked, with his small eyes and
his hypocritical smile.

"Yes; thank you very much for your discretion in leaving us to
ourselves," said Cornélie. "Now that I have spoken to Miss Hope,
I am greatly relieved by what she has told me. Aha, you would like
to know what we were talking about!"

The prince raised his eyebrows. Cornélie had spoken archly, holding
up her finger as though in threat, smiling; and the prince looked at
her and saw that she was handsome. Not with the striking beauty and
freshness of Urania Hope, but with a more complex attractiveness, that
of a married woman, divorced, but very young; that of a fin-de-siècle
woman, with a faintly perverse expression in her deep grey eyes,
moving under very long lashes; that of a woman of peculiar grace
in the drooping lines of her tired, lax, morbid charm: a woman who
knew life; a woman who saw through him: he was certain of it; a woman
who, though disliking him, nevertheless spoke to him coquettishly in
order to attract him, to win him, unconsciously, from sheer womanly
perversity. And he saw her, in her perverse beauty, and admired her,
sensitive as he was to various types of women. He suddenly thought her
handsomer and less commonplace than Urania and much more distinguished
and not so ingenuously susceptible to his title, a thing which he
thought so silly in Urania. He was suddenly at his ease with her,
his anger subsided: he thought it fun to have two good-looking women
with him instead of one; and he jested in return, saying that he was
consumed with curiosity, that he had been listening at the door but
had been unable to catch a word, alas!

Cornélie laughed with coquettish gaiety and looked at her watch. She
said something about going, but sat down at the same time, unbuttoned
her coat and said to the prince:

"I have heard so much about your miniatures. Now that I have the
chance, may I see them?"

The prince was willing, charmed by the look in her eyes, by her voice;
he was all fire and flame in a second.

"But," said Cornélie, "my escort is waiting outside in the portico. He
would not come up: he doesn't know you. It is Mr. van der Staal."

The prince laughed as he glanced at her. He knew of the gossip at
Belloni's. He did not for a moment doubt the existence of a liaison
between Van der Staal and Signora de Retz. He knew that they did not
care for the proprieties. And he began to like Cornélie very much.

"But I will send to Mr. van der Staal at once to ask him to come up."

"He is waiting in the portico," said Cornélie. "He won't like to...."

"I'll go myself," said the prince, with obliging vivacity.

He left the room. The ladies stayed behind. Cornélie took off her
coat, but kept on her hat, because her hair was sure to be untidy. She
looked into the glass:

"Have you your powder on you?" she asked Urania.

Urania took her little ivory powder-box from her bag and handed it
to Cornélie. And, while Cornélie powdered her face, Urania looked at
her friend and did not understand. She remembered the impression of
seriousness which Cornélie had made on her at their first meeting:
studying Rome; afterwards, writing a pamphlet on the woman question
and the position of divorced women. Then her warnings against marriage
and the prince. And now she suddenly saw her as a most attractive,
frivolous woman, irresistibly charming, even more bewitching than
actually beautiful, full of coquetry in the depths of her grey eyes,
which glanced up and down under the curling lashes, simply dressed in
a dark-silk blouse and a cloth skirt, but with so much distinction
and so much coquetry, with so much dignity and yet with a touch of
yielding winsomeness, that she hardly knew her.

But the prince had returned, bringing Duco with him. Duco was nervously
reluctant, not knowing what had happened, not grasping how Cornélie had
acted. He saw her sitting quietly, smiling; and she at once explained
that the prince was going to show her his miniatures.

Duco declared flatly that he did not care for miniatures. The prince
suspected from his irritable tone that he was jealous. And this
suspicion incited the prince to pay attentions to Cornélie. And
he behaved as though he were showing his miniatures only to her,
as though he were showing her his old lace. She admired the lace
in particular and rolled it between her delicate fingers. She asked
him to tell her about his grandmothers, who used to wear the lace:
had they had any adventures? He told her one, which made her laugh
very much; then he told an anecdote or two, vivaciously, flaming
up under her glance, and she laughed. Amid the atmosphere of that
big drawing-room, his study--it contained his writing-table--with
the candles lighted and flowers everywhere for Urania, a certain
perverse gaiety began to reign, an airy joie de vivre. But only
between Cornélie and the prince. Urania had fallen silent; and Duco
did not speak a word. Cornélie was a revelation to him also. He had
never seen her like that: not at the dance on Christmas Day, nor at
the table-d'hôte, nor in his studio, nor on their excursions, nor in
their restaurant. Was she a woman, or was she ten women?

And he confessed to himself that he loved her, that he loved her
more at each revelation, more with each woman that he saw in her,
like a new facet which she made to gleam and glitter. But he could
not speak, could not join in their pleasantry, feeling strange in
that atmosphere, strange in that atmosphere of buoyant animal spirits,
caused by nothing but aimless words, as though the French and Italian
which they mixed up together were dropping so many pearls, as though
their jests shone like so much tinsel, as though their equivocal
playing upon words had the iridescence of a rainbow....

The prince regretted that his tea was no longer fit to drink, but
he rang for some champagne. He thought that his plans had partly
failed that evening, for, fearing to lose Urania, he had intended
to compel her; seeing her hesitation, he had resolved to force the
irreparable. But his nature was so devoid of seriousness--he was
marrying to please his father and the Marchesa Belloni rather than
himself; he enjoyed his life quite as well with a load of debts and no
wife as he could hope to do with a wife and millions of money--that
he began to consider the failure of his plans highly amusing and had
to laugh within himself when he thought of his father, of his aunt,
the marchesa, and of their machinations, which had no effect on Urania,
because a pretty, flirtatious woman had objected.

"Why did she object?" he wondered, as he poured out the foaming
Monopole, spilling it over the glasses. "Why does she put herself
between me and the American stocking-seller? Is she herself in Italy
hunting for a title?"

But he did not care: he thought the intruder charming, pretty, very
pretty, coquettish, seductive, bewitching. He fussed around her,
neglecting Urania, almost forgetting to fill her glass. And, when
it grew late and Cornélie at last rose to go and drew Urania's arm
through hers and looked at the prince with a glance of triumph which
they mutually understood, he whispered in her ear:

"I am ever so grateful to you for visiting me in my humble abode. You
have defeated me: I acknowledge myself defeated."

The words appeared to be merely an allusion to their jesting discussion
about nothing; but, uttered between him and her, between the prince
and Cornélie, they sounded full of meaning; and he saw the smile of
victory in her eyes....

He remained behind in his room and poured himself out what remained of
the champagne. And, as he raised the glass to his lips, he said, aloud:

"O, che occhi! Che belli occhi!... Che belli occhi!..."



CHAPTER XX


Next day, when Duco met Cornélie at the osteria, she was very cheerful
and excited. She told him that she had already received a reply from
the woman's paper to which she had sent her pamphlet the week before
and that her work was not only accepted but would be paid for. She
was so proud at earning money for the first time that she was as
merry as a little child. She did not speak of the previous evening,
seemed to have forgotten Urania, but felt an exuberant need to talk.

She formed all sorts of great plans: to travel about as a journalist,
to fling herself into the movement of the great cities, to pursue every
reality, to have herself sent by some paper as a delegate to congresses
and festivals. The few guilders which she was earning already made
her intoxicated with zeal; and she would like to make a lot of money
and do a great deal and consider no fatigue. He thought her simply
adorable: in the half light of the osteria, as she sat at the little
table eating her gnocchi, with in front of her the mezzofiasco of
pale-yellow wine of the country, her usual languor acquired a new
vivacity which astonished him; her outline, half-dark on the left,
lighted on the right by the sunshine in the street, acquired a modern
grace of drawing which reminded him of the French draughtsmen: the
rather pale face with the delicate features, lit up by her smile,
faintly indicated under the sailor hat, which slanted over her eyes;
the hair, touched with gold, or a dark light-brown; the white veil
raised into a rumpled mist above; her figure, slender and gracious
in the simple, unbuttoned coat, with a bunch of violets in her blouse.

The manner in which she helped herself to wine, in which she addressed
the cameriere--the only one, who knew them well, from seeing them
daily--with a pleasant familiarity; the vivacity replacing her languor;
her great plans, her gay phrases: all this seemed to shine upon him,
unconstrained and yet distinguished, free and yet womanly and, above
all, easy, as she was at her ease everywhere, with an assimilative
tact which for him constituted a peculiar harmony. He thought of
the evening before, but she did not speak of it. He thought of that
revelation of her coquetry, but she was not thinking of coquetry. She
was never coquettish with him. She looked up to him, regarded him as
clever and exceptional, though not belonging to his time; she respected
him for the things which he said and thought; and she was as matter of
fact towards him as one chum towards another, who happened to be older
and cleverer. She felt for him a sincere friendship, an indescribable
something that implied the need of being together, of living together,
as though the lines of their two lives should form one line. It was
not a sisterly feeling and it was not passion and to her mind it
was not love; but it was a great sense of respectful tenderness, of
longing admiration and of affectionate delight at having met him. If
she never saw him again, she would miss him as she would never miss
any one in her life. And that he took no interest in modern questions
did not lower him in the eyes of this young modern Amazon, who was
about to wave her first banner. It might vex her for an instant,
but it did not carry weight in her estimation of him. And he saw
that, with him, she was simply affectionate, without coquetry. Yet
he would never forget what she had been like yesterday, with the
prince. He had felt jealousy and noticed it in Urania also. But she
herself had acted so spontaneously in harmony with her nature that
she no longer thought of that evening, of the prince, of Urania,
of her own coquettishness or of any possible jealousy on their side.

He paid the bill--it was his turn--and she gaily took his arm and
said that she had a surprise in store for him, with which he would
be very pleased. She wanted to give him something, a handsome, a very
handsome keepsake. She wanted to spend on it the money she was going
to receive for her article. But she hadn't got it yet ... as though
that mattered! It would come in due time. And she wanted to give him
his present now.

He laughed and asked what it could be. She hailed a carriage and
whispered an address to the driver. Duco did not hear. What could it
be? But she refused to tell him yet.

The vetturino drove them through the Borgo to the Tiber and stopped
outside a dark little old-curiosity-shop, where the wares lay heaped
up right out into the street.

"Cornélie!" Duco exclaimed, guessing.

"Your Lippo Memmi angel. I'm getting it for you. Not a word!"

The tears came to his eyes. They entered the shop.

"Ask him how much he wants for it."

He was too much moved to speak; and Cornélie had to ask the price
and bargain. She did not bargain long: she bought the panel for a
hundred and twenty lire. She herself carried it to the victoria.

And they drove back to his studio. They carried the angel up the
stairs together, as though they were bearing an unsullied happiness
into his home. In the studio they placed the angel on a chair. Of a
noble aspect, of a somewhat Mongolian type, with long, almond-shaped
eyes, the angel had just knelt down in the last stir of his flight;
and the gold scarf of his gold-and-purple cloak fluttered in the
air while his long wings quivered straight above him. Duco stared at
his Memmi, filled with a two-fold emotion, because of the angel and
because of her.

And with a natural gesture he spread out his arms:

"May I thank you, Cornélie?"

And he embraced her; and she returned his kiss.



CHAPTER XXI


When she came home she found the prince's card. It was an ordinary
civility after yesterday evening, her unexpected visit to the
Palazzo Ruspoli, and she did not give it a second thought. She was
in a pleasant frame of mind, pleased with herself, glad that her work
would appear first as an article in Het Recht der Vrouw [1]--she would
publish it as a pamphlet afterwards--and glad that she had made Duco
happy with the Memmi. She changed into her tea-gown and sat down by the
fire in her musing attitude and thought of how she could carry out her
great plans. To whom ought she to apply? There was an International
Women's Congress sitting in London; and Het Recht der Vrouw had sent
her a prospectus. She turned over the pages. Different feminist leaders
were to speak; there would be numbers of social questions discussed:
the psychology of the child; the responsibility of the parents; the
influence on domestic life of women's admission to all the professions;
women in art, women in medicine; the fashionable woman; the woman at
home, on the stage; marriage- and divorce-laws.

In addition the prospectus gave concise biographies of the speakers,
with their portraits. There were American, Russian, English, Swedish,
Danish women; nearly every nationality was represented. There were
old women and young women; some pretty, some ugly; some masculine,
some womanly; some hard and energetic, with sexless boys' faces; one
or two only were elegant, with low-cut dresses and waved hair. It was
not easy to divide them into groups. What impulse in their lives had
prompted them to join in the struggle for women's rights? In some,
no doubt, inclination, nature; in an occasional case, vocation;
in another, the desire to be in the fashion. And, in her own case,
what was the impulse?... She dropped the prospectus in her lap and
stared into the fire and reflected. Her drawing-room education passed
before her once more, followed by her marriage, by her divorce....

What was the impulse? What was the inducement?... She had come to it
gradually, to go abroad, to extend her sphere of vision, to reflect,
to learn about art, about the modern life of women. She had glided
gradually along the line of her life, with no great effort of will
or striving, without even thinking much or feeling much.... She
glanced into herself, as though she were reading a modern novel,
the psychology of a woman. Sometimes she seemed to will things, to
wish to strive, as just now, to pursue her great plans. Sometimes
she would sit thinking, as she often did in these days, beside her
cosy fire. Sometimes she felt, as she now did, for Duco. But mostly
her life had been a gradual gliding along the line which she had to
follow, urged by the gentle pressure of the finger of fate.... For
a moment she saw it clearly. There was a great sincerity in her: she
never posed either to herself or to others. There were contradictions
in her, but she recognized them all, in so far as she could see
herself. But the open landscape of her soul became clear to her at
that moment. She saw the complexity of her being gleam with its many
facets.... She had taken to writing, out of impulse and intuition;
but was her writing any good? A doubt rose in her mind. A copy of
the code lay on her table, a survival of the days of her divorce; but
had she understood the law correctly? Her article was accepted; but
was the judgement of the editress to be trusted? As her eyes wandered
once again over those women's portraits and biographies, she became
afraid that her work would not be good, would be too superficial,
and that her ideas were not directed by study and knowledge. But she
could also imagine her own photograph appearing in that prospectus,
with her name under it and a brief comment: writer of The Social
Position of Divorced Women, with the name of the paper, the date and
so on. And she smiled: how highly convincing it sounded!

But how difficult it was to study, to work and understand and act and
move in the modern movement of life! She was now in Rome: she would
have liked to be in London. But it did not suit her at the moment
to make the journey. She had felt rich when she bought Duco's Memmi,
thinking of the payment for her article; and now she felt poor. She
would much have liked to go to London. But then she would have missed
Duco. And the congress lasted only a week. She was pretty well at home
here now, was beginning to love Rome, her rooms, the Colosseum lying
yonder like a dark oval, like a sombre wing at the end of the city,
with the hazy-blue mountains behind it.

Then the prince came into her mind and for the first time she thought
of yesterday, saw that evening again, an evening of jesting and
champagne: Duco silent and sulky, Urania depressed and the prince
small, lively, slender, roused from his slackness as an aristocratic
man-about-town and with his narrow carbuncle eyes. She thought him
really pleasant; once in a way she liked that atmosphere of coquetry
and flirtation; and the prince had understood her. She had saved
Urania, she was sure of that; and she felt the content of her good
action....

She was too lazy to dress and go to the restaurant. She was not very
hungry and would stay at home and sup on what was in her cupboard:
a couple of eggs, bread, some fruit. But she remembered Duco and that
he would certainly be waiting for her at their little table and she
wrote him a note and sent it by the hall-porter's boy....

Duco was just coming down, on his way out to the restaurant, when
he met the little fellow on the stairs. He read the note and felt
as if he was suffering a grievous disappointment. He felt small and
unhappy, like a child. And he went back to his studio, lit a single
lamp, threw himself on a broad couch and lay staring in the dusk at
Memmi's angel, who, still standing on the chair, glimmered vaguely
gold in the middle of the room, sweet as comfort, with his gesture
of annunciation, as though he sought to announce all the mystery that
was about to be fulfilled....



CHAPTER XXII


A few days later, Cornélie was expecting a visit from the prince, who
had asked her for an appointment. She was sitting at her writing-table,
correcting proofs of her article. A lamp on the writing-table cast
a soft glow over her through a yellow silk shade; and she wore
her tea-gown of white crêpe de Chine, with a bunch of violets at
her breast. Another lamp, on a pedestal, cast a second gleam from a
corner; and the room flickered in cosy intimacy with the third light
from the log-fire, falling over water-colours by Duco, sketches and
photographs, white anenomes in vases, violets everywhere and one tall
palm. The writing-table was littered with books and printed sheets,
bearing witness to her work.

There was a knock at the door; and, at her "Come in," the prince
entered. She remained seated for a moment, laid down her pen and
rose. She went up to him with a smile and held out her hand. He
kissed it. He was very smartly dressed in a frock-coat, with a silk
hat and pale-grey gloves; he wore a pearl pin in his tie. They sat
down by the fire and he paid her compliments in quick succession, on
her sitting-room, her dress and her eyes. She made a jesting reply;
and he asked if he was disturbing her:

"Perhaps you were writing an interesting letter to some one near
your heart?"

"No, I was revising some proofs."

"Proofs?"

"Yes."

"Do you write?"

"I have just begun to."

"A story?"

"No, an article."

"An article? What about?"

She gave him the long title. He looked at her open-mouthed. She
laughed gaily:

"You would never have believed it, would you?"

"Santa Maria!" he murmured in surprise, unaccustomed in his own world
to "modern" women, taking part in a feminist movement. "Dutch?"

"Yes, Dutch."

"Write in French next time: then I can read it."

She laughed and gave her promise, poured him out a cup of tea, handed
the chocolates. He nibbled at them:

"Are you so serious? Have you always been? You were not serious the
other day."

"Sometimes I am very serious."

"So am I."

"I gathered that. If I had not come that time, you might have become
very serious."

He gave a fatuous laugh and looked at her knowingly:

"You are a wonderful woman!" he said. "Very interesting and very
clever. What you want to happen happens."

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes what I want also. Sometimes I also am very clever. When
I want a thing. But generally I don't want it."

"You did the other day."

He laughed:

"Yes! You were cleverer than I then. To-morrow perhaps I shall be
cleverer than you."

"Who knows!"

They both laughed. He nibbled the chocolates in the dish, one after
the other, and asked if he might have a glass of port instead of
tea. She poured him out a glass.

"May I give you something?"

"What?"

"A souvenir of our first acquaintance."

"It is very charming of you. What is it to be?"

He took something wrapped in tissue-paper from his pocket and handed
it to her. She opened the little parcel and saw a strip of old Venetian
lace, worked in the shape of a flounce, for a low bodice.

"Do accept it," he besought her. "It is a lovely piece. It is such
a pleasure to me to give it to you."

She looked at him with all her coquetry in her eyes, as though she
were trying to see through him.

"You must wear it like this."

He stood up, took the lace and draped it over her white tea-gown from
shoulder to shoulder. His fingers fumbled with the folds, his lips
just touched her hair.

She thanked him for his gift. He sat down again:

"I am glad that you will accept it."

"Have you given Miss Hope something too?"

He laughed, with his little laugh of conquest:

"Patterns are all she wants, patterns of the queen's ball-dresses. I
wouldn't dare to give you patterns. To you I give old lace."

"But you nearly ruined your career for the sake of that pattern?"

"Oh, well!" he laughed.

"Which career?"

"Oh, don't!" he said, evasively. "Tell me, what do you advise me
to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"Shall I marry her?"

"I am against all marriage, between cultivated people."

She wanted to repeat some of her phrases, but thought to herself,
why? He would not understand them. He looked at her profoundly,
with his carbuncle eyes:

"So you are in favour of free love?"

"Sometimes. Not always. Between cultivated people."

He was certain now, had any doubt still lingered in his mind, that
a liaison existed between her and Van der Staal.

"And do you think me ... cultivated?"

She laughed provocatively, with a touch of scorn in her voice:

"Listen. Shall I speak to you seriously?"

"I wish you would."

"I consider neither you nor Miss Hope suited for free love."

"So I am not cultivated?"

"I don't mean it in the sense of being civilized. I mean modern
culture."

"So I am not modern."

"No," she said, slightly irritated.

"Teach me to be modern."

She gave a nervous laugh:

"Oh, don't let us talk like this! You want to know my advice. I advise
you not to marry Urania."

"Why not?"

"Because you would both of you have a wretched life. She is a dear
little American parvenue...."

"I am offering her what I possess; she is offering me what she
possesses...."

He nibbled at the chocolates. She shrugged her shoulders:

"Then marry her," she said, with indifference.

"Tell me that you don't want me to and I won't."

"And your father? And the marchesa?"

"What do you know about them?"

"Oh ... everything and nothing!"

"You are a demon!" he exclaimed. "An angel and a demon! Tell me,
what do you know about my father and the marchesa?"

"For how much are you selling yourself to Urania? For not less than
ten millions?"

He looked at her in bewilderment.

"But the marchesa thinks five enough. And a very handsome sum it is:
five millions. Which is it, dollars or lire?"

He clapped his hands together:

"You are a devil!" he cried. "You are an angel and a devil! How do
you know? How do you know? Do you know everything?"

She flung herself back in her chair and laughed:

"Everything."

"But how?"

She looked at him and shook her head tantalizingly.

"Tell me."

"No. It's my secret."

"And you think that I ought not to sell myself?"

"I dare not advise you as regards your own interest."

"And as regards Urania?"

"I advise her not to do it."

"Have you done so already?"

"Once in a way."

"So you are my enemy?" he exclaimed, angrily.

"No," she said, gently, wishing to conciliate him. "I am a friend."

"A friend? To what length?"

"To the length to which I wish to go."

"Not the length to which I wish?"

"Oh, no, never!"

"But perhaps we both wish to go to the same length?"

He had stood up, with his blood on fire. She remained seated calmly,
almost languidly, with her head thrown back. She did not reply. He
fell on his knees, seized her hand and was kissing it before she
could prevent him:

"Oh, angel, angel. Oh, demon!" he muttered, between his kisses.

She now withdrew her hand, pushed him away from her gently and said:

"How quick an Italian is with his kisses!"

She laughed at him. He rose from his knees:

"Teach me what Dutchwomen are like, though they are slower than we."

She pointed to his chair, with an imperious gesture:

"Sit down," she said. "I am not a typical Dutchwoman. If I
were, I should not have come to Rome. I pride myself on being a
cosmopolitan. But we were not discussing that, we were speaking of
Urania. Are you thinking seriously of marrying her?"

"What can I do, if you thwart me? Why not be on my side, like a
dear friend?"

She hesitated. Neither of these two, Urania or he, was ripe for
her ideas. She despised them both. Very well, let them get married:
he in order to be rich; she to become a princess and duchess.

"Listen to me," she said, bending towards him. "You want to marry her
for the sake of her millions. But your marriage will be unhappy from
the beginning. She is a frivolous little thing; she will want to cut
a dash ... and you belong to the Blacks."

"We can live at Nice: then she can do as she pleases. We will come
to Rome now and again, go to San Stefano now and again. And, as for
unhappiness," he continued, pulling a tragic face, "what do I care? I
am not happy as it is. I shall try to make Urania happy. But my heart
... will be elsewhere."

"Where?"

"With the feminist movement."

She laughed:

"Well, shall I be nice to you?"

"Yes."

"And promise to help you?"

What did she care, when all was said?

"Oh, angel, demon!" he cried. He nibbled at a chocolate. "And what
does Mr. van der Staal think of it?" he asked, mischievously.

She raised her eyebrows:

"He doesn't think about it. He thinks only of his art."

"And of you."

She looked at him and bowed her head in queenly assent:

"And of me."

"You often dine with him."

"Yes."

"Come and dine with me one day."

"I shall be delighted."

"To-morrow evening? And where?"

"Wherever you like."

"In the Grand-Hôtel?"

"Ask Urania to come too."

"Why not you and I alone?"

"I think it better that you should invite your future wife. I will
chaperon her."

"You are right. You are quite right. And will you ask Mr. van der
Staal also to give me the pleasure of his company?"

"I will."

"Until to-morrow then, at half-past eight?"

"Until half-past eight to-morrow."

He rose to take his leave:

"Propriety demands that I should go," he said. "Really I should prefer
to stay."

"Well, then stay ... or stay another time, if you have to go now."

"You are so cold."

"And you don't think enough of Urania."

"I think of the feminist movement."

He sat down.

"I'm afraid you must go," she said, laughing with her eyes. "I have
to dress ... to go and dine with Mr. van der Staal."

He kissed her hand:

"You are an angel and a demon. You know everything. You can do
anything. You are the most interesting woman I ever met."

"Because I correct proofs."

"Because you are what you are."

And, very seriously, still holding her hand he said, almost
threateningly:

"I shall never be able to forget you."

And he went away. As soon as she was alone, she opened all her
windows. She realized, it was true, that she was something of a
coquette, but that lay in her nature: she was like that of herself, to
some men. Certainly not to all. Never to Duco. Never to men whom she
respected. Whereas she despised that little prince, with his blazing
eyes and his habit of kissing people.... But he served to amuse her....

And she dressed and went out and reached the restaurant long after
the appointed hour, found Duco waiting for her at their little table,
with his head in his hands, and at once told him that the prince had
detained her.



CHAPTER XXIII


Duco had at first wished to decline the invitation, but Cornélie
said that she would think it pleasanter if he came. And it was an
exquisite dinner in the restaurant of the Grand-Hôtel and Cornélie
had enjoyed herself exceedingly and looked most charming in an old
yellow ball-dress, dating back to the first days of her marriage,
which she had altered quickly here and there and draped with the
prince's old lace. Urania had looked very handsome, with her clear,
fresh complexion, her shining eyes and gleaming teeth, clad in a
close-fitting frock in the latest fashion, blue-black spangles on
black tulle, as though she were moulded in a cuirass: the prince said,
a siren with a mermaid's tail. And the people at the other tables had
stared across at theirs, for everybody knew Virgilio di Forte-Braccio;
everybody knew that he was going to marry a rich American heiress;
and everybody had noticed that he was paying great attention to the
slender, fair-haired woman whom nobody knew. She had been married,
they thought; she was chaperoning the future princess; and she was
very intimate with that young man, a Dutch painter, who was studying
art in Italy. They had soon found out all that there was to know.

Cornélie had thought it pleasant that they all looked at her; and
she had flirted so obviously with the prince that Urania had become
angry. And early next morning, while Cornélie was still in bed, no
longer thinking of last night but pondering over a sentence in her
pamphlet, the maid knocked, brought in her breakfast and letters and
said that Miss Hope was asking to speak to her. Cornélie had Urania
shown in, while she remained in bed and drank her chocolate. And
she looked up in surprise when Urania at once overwhelmed her with
reproaches, burst into sobs, scolded and raved, made a violent scene,
said that she now saw through her and admitted that the marchesa had
urged her to be careful of Cornélie, whom she described as a dangerous
woman. Cornélie waited until she had had her say and replied coolly
that she had nothing on her conscience, that on the contrary she had
saved Urania and been of service to her as a chaperon, though she did
not tell her that the prince had wanted her, Cornélie, to dine with
him alone. But Urania refused to listen and went on ranting. Cornélie
looked at her and thought her vulgar in that rage of hers, talking
her American English, as though she were chewing filberts; and at
last she answered, calmly:

"My dear girl, you're upsetting yourself about nothing. But, if
you like, I will write to the prince that he must pay me no more
attentions."

"No, no, don't do that: it'll make Gilio think I'm jealous!"

"And aren't you?"

"Why do you monopolize Gilio? Why do you flirt with him? Why do
you make yourself conspicuous with him, as you did yesterday, in a
restaurant full of people?"

"Well, if you dislike it, I won't flirt with Gilio again or make myself
conspicuous with him again. I don't care twopence about your prince."

"That's an extra reason."

"Very well, dear, that's settled."

Her coolness calmed Urania, who asked:

"And do we remain good friends?"

"Why, of course, my dear girl. Is there any occasion for us to
quarrel? I don't see it."

Both of them, the prince and Urania, were quite indifferent to
her. True, she had preached to Urania in the beginning, but about a
general idea: when afterwards she perceived Urania's insignificance,
she withdrew the interest which she took in her. And, if the girl
was offended by a little gaiety and innocent flirtation, very well,
there should be no more of it. Her thoughts were more with the proofs
which the post had brought her.

She got out of bed and stretched herself:

"Go into the sitting-room, Urania dear, and just let me have my bath."

Presently, all fresh and smiling, she joined Urania in the
sitting-room. Urania was crying.

"My dear child, why are you upsetting yourself like this? You've
achieved your ideal. Your marriage is as good as certain. You're
waiting for an answer from Chicago? You're impatient? Then cable
out. I should have cabled at once in your place. You don't imagine,
do you, that your father has any objection to your becoming Duchess
di San Stefano?"

"I don't know yet what I myself want," said Urania, weeping. "I don't
know, I don't know."

Cornélie shrugged her shoulders:

"You're more sensible than I thought," she said.

"Are you really my friend? Can I trust you? Can I trust your advice?"

"I won't advise you again. I have advised you. You must know your
own mind."

Urania took her hand:

"Which would you prefer, that I accepted Gilio ... or not?"

Cornélie looked her straight in the eyes:

"You're making yourself unhappy about nothing. You think--and
the marchesa probably thinks with you--that I want to take Gilio
from you? No, darling, I wouldn't marry Gilio if he were king and
emperor. I have a bit of the socialist in me: I don't marry for the
sake of a title."

"No more would I."

"Of course, darling, no more would you. I never dreamt of suggesting
that you would. But you ask me which I should prefer. Well, I tell
you in all sincerity: I don't prefer either. The whole business leaves
me cold."

"And you call yourself my friend!"

"So I am, dear, and I will remain your friend. Only don't come
overwhelming me with reproaches on an empty stomach!"

"You're a flirt."

"Sometimes. It comes natural to me. But, honestly, I won't be so
again with Gilio."

"Do you mean it?"

"Yes, of course. What do I care? He amuses me; but, if it offends you,
I'll gladly sacrifice my amusement for your sake. I don't value it
so much."

"Are you fond of Mr. van der Staal?"

"Very."

"Are you going to marry him, Cornélie?"

"No, dear. I sha'n't marry again. I know what marriage means. Are
you coming for a little walk with me? It's a fine day; and you have
upset me so with your little troubles that I can't do any work this
morning. It's lovely weather: come along and buy some flowers in the
Piazza di Spagna."

They went and bought the flowers. Cornélie took Urania back to
Belloni's. As she walked away, on the road to the osteria for lunch,
she heard somebody following her. It was the prince.

"I caught sight of you from the corner of the Via Aurora," he
said. "Urania was just going home."

"Prince," she said at once, "there must be no more of it."

"Of what?"

"No more visits, no more joking, no more presents, no more dinners
at the Grand-Hôtel, no more champagne."

"Why not?"

"The future princess won't have it."

"Is she jealous?"

Cornélie described the scene to him:

"And you mayn't even walk with me."

"Yes, I may."

"No, no."

"I shall, for all that."

"By the right of the man, of the strongest?"

"Exactly."

"My vocation is to fight against it. But to-day I am untrue to my
vocation."

"You are charming ... as always."

"You mustn't say that any more."

"Urania's a bore.... Tell me, what do you advise me to do? Shall I
marry her?"

Cornélie gave a peal of laughter:

"You both of you keep asking my advice!"

"Yes, yes, what do you think?"

"Marry her by all means!"

He did not observe her contempt.

"Exchange your escutcheon for her purse," she continued and laughed
and laughed.

He now perceived it:

"You despise me, perhaps both of us."

"Oh, no!"

"Tell me that you don't despise me."

"You ask me my opinion. Urania is a very sweet, dear child, but she
ought not to travel by herself. And you ..."

"And I?"

"You are a delightful boy. Buy me those violets, will you?"

"Subito, subito!"

He bought her the bunch of violets:

"You're crazy over violets, aren't you?"

"Yes. This must be your second ... and your last present. And here
we say good-bye."

"No, I shall take you home."

"I'm not going home."

"Where are you going?"

"To the osteria. Mr. van der Staal is waiting for me."

"He's a lucky man!"

"Why?"

"He needs must be!"

"I don't see why. Good-bye, prince."

"Ask me to come too," he entreated. "Let me lunch with you."

"No," she said, seriously. "Really not. It's better not. I believe...."

"What?"

"That Duco is just like Urania."

"Jealous?... When shall I see you again?"

"Really, believe me, it's better not.... Good-bye, prince. And thank
you ... for the violets."

He bent over her hand. She went into the osteria and saw that Duco
had witnessed their leave-taking through the window.



CHAPTER XXIV


Duco was silent and nervous at table. He played with his bread;
and his fingers trembled. She felt that he had something on his mind:

"What is it?" she asked, kindly.

"Cornélie," he said, excitedly, "I want to speak to you."

"What about?"

"You're not behaving properly."

"In what respect?"

"With the prince. You've seen through him and yet ... yet you go on
putting up with him, yet you're always meeting him. Let me finish,"
he said, looking around him: there was no one in the restaurant save
two Italians, sitting at the far table, and they could speak without
being overheard. "Let me finish," he repeated, when she tried to
interrupt him. "Let me say what I have to say. You of course are
free to act as you please. But I am your friend and I want to advise
you. What you are doing is not right. The prince is a cad, a low,
common cad. How can you accept presents from him and invitations? Why
did you compel me to come yesterday? The dinner was one long torture
to me. You know how fond I am of you: why shouldn't I confess it? You
know how high I hold you. I can't bear to see you lowering yourself
with him. Let me speak. Lowering, I say. He is not worthy to tie your
shoe-strings. And you play with him, you jest with him, you flirt--let
me speak--you flirt with him. What can he be to you, a coxcomb like
that? What part can he play in your life? Let him marry Miss Hope:
what do you care about either of them? What do inferior people matter
to you, Cornélie? I despise them and so do you. I know you do. Then
why do you cross their lives? Let them live in the vanity of their
titles and money: what is it all to you? I don't understand you. Oh,
I know, you're not to be understood, all the woman part of you! And I
love everything that I see of you: I love you in everything. It doesn't
matter whether I understand you. But I do feel that this isn't right. I
ask you not to see the prince any more. Have nothing more to do with
him. Cut him.... That dinner, last night, was a torture to me...."

"My poor boy," she said, gently, filling his glass from their fiasco,
"but why?"

"Why? Why? Because you're lowering yourself."

"I do not stand so high. No, let me speak now. I do not stand
high. Because I have a few modern ideas and a few others which are
broader-minded than those of most women? Apart from that I am an
ordinary woman. When a man is cheerful and witty, it amuses me. No,
Duco, I'm speaking now. I don't consider the prince a cad. I may think
him a coxcomb, but I think him cheerful and witty. You know that I
too am very fond of you, but you are neither cheerful nor witty. Now
don't get angry. You are much more than that. I'm not even comparing
il nostro Gilio with you. I won't say anything more about you, or
you will become conceited, but cheerful and witty you are not. And
my poor nature sometimes feels a need for these qualities. What have
I in my life? Nothing but you, you alone. I am very glad to possess
your friendship, very happy in having met you. But why may I not
sometimes be cheerful? Really, there is a little light-heartedness
in me, a little frivolity even. Am I bound to fight against it? Duco,
am I wicked?"

He smiled sadly; there was a moist light in his eyes; and he did
not answer.

"I can fight, if necessary," she resumed. "But is this a thing to fight
against? It is a passing bubble, nothing more. I forget it the next
minute. I forget the prince the next minute. And you I do not forget."

He was looking at her radiantly.

"Do you understand that? Do you understand that I don't flirt and
fence with you? Shake hands and stop being angry."

She gave him her hand across the table and he pressed her fingers:

"Cornélie," he said, softly. "Yes, I feel that you are loyal. Cornélie,
will you be my wife?"

She looked straight in front of her and drooped her head a little
and stared before her earnestly. They were no longer eating. The two
Italians stood up, bowed and went away. They were alone. The waiter
set some fruit before them and withdrew.

They both sat silent for a moment. Then she spoke in a gentle voice;
and her whole being displayed so tender a melancholy that he could
have burst into sobs and worshipped her where she sat.

"I knew of course that you would ask me that some day. It was in the
nature of things. A great friendship like ours was bound to lead to
that question. But it can't be, dearest Duco. It can't be, my dear,
dear boy. I have my own ideas ... but it's not that. I am against
marriage ... but it's not that. In some cases a woman is unfaithful
to all her ideas in a single second.... Then what is it?..."

She stared wide-eyed and passed her hand over her forehead, as though
she did not see clearly. Then she continued:

"It is this, that I am afraid of marriage. I have been through it,
I know what it means.... I see my husband before me now. I see
that habit, that groove before me, in which the subtler individual
characteristics are effaced. That is what marriage is: a habit,
a groove. And I tell you candidly: I think marriage loathsome. I
think passion beautiful, but marriage is not passion. Passion can
be noble and superhuman, but marriage is a human institution based
upon our petty human morality and calculation. And I have become
frightened of those prudent moral ties. I promised myself--and I
believe that I shall keep my promise--never to marry again. My whole
nature has become unfitted for it. I am no longer the Hague girl
going to parties and dinners and looking out for a husband, together
with her parents.... My love for him was passion. And in my marriage
he wanted to restrict that passion to a groove and a custom. Then I
rebelled.... I'd rather not talk about it. Passion lasts too short a
time to fill a married life.... Mutual esteem to follow, etcetera? One
needn't marry for that. I can feel esteem just as well without being
married. Of course there is the question of the children, there are
many difficulties. I can't think it all out now. I merely feel now,
very seriously and calmly, that I am not fit to marry and that I
never will marry again. I should not make you happy.... Don't be sad,
Duco. I am fond of you, I love you. And perhaps ... had I met you
at the right moment. Had I met you before, in my Hague life ... you
would certainly have stood too high for me. I could not have grown
fond of you. Now I can understand you, respect you and look up to
you. I tell you this quite simply, that I love you and look up to you,
look up to you, in spite of all your gentleness, as I never looked up
to my husband, however much he made his manly privilege prevail. And
you are to believe that, very firmly and with great certainty, and
you must believe that I am true. I am coquettish ... only with Gilio."

He looked at her through his silent tears. He stood up, called the
waiter, paid the bill absent-mindedly, while everything swam and
flashed before his eyes. They went out of the door and she hailed a
carriage and told the man to drive to the Villa Doria-Pamphili. She
remembered that the gardens were open. They drove there in silence,
steeped in their thoughts of the future that was opening tremulously
before them. Sometimes he heaved a deep breath and quivered all over
his body. Once she fervently squeezed his hand. At the gate of the
villa they alighted and walked up the majestic avenues. Rome lay in
the depths below; and they suddenly saw St. Peter's. But they did
not speak; and she suddenly sat down on an ancient bench and began
to weep softly and feebly. He put his arm round her and comforted
her. She dried her tears, smiled and embraced him and returned his
kiss.... Twilight fell; and they went back. He gave the address of
his studio. She accompanied him. And she gave herself to him, in all
her truthful sincerity and with a love so violent and so great that
she thought she would swoon in his arms.



CHAPTER XXV


They did not alter their mode of life. Duco, however, after a
scene with his mother, no longer slept at Belloni's but in a
little room adjoining his studio and at first filled with trunks
and lumber. Cornélie was sorry about the scene: she had always had
a liking for Mrs. van der Staal and the girls. But a certain pride
arose in her; and Cornélie despised Mrs. van der Staal because she
was unable to understand either her or Duco. Still, she would have
been pleased to prevent this coolness. At her advice Duco went to see
his mother again, but she remained cool and sent him away. Thereupon
Cornélie and Duco went to Naples. They did not do this by way of
an elopement, they did it quite simply: Cornélie told Urania and
the prince that she was going to Naples for a little while and that
Van der Staal would probably follow her. She did not know Naples and
would appreciate it greatly if Van der Staal showed her over the town
and the surrounding country. Cornélie kept on her rooms in Rome. And
they spent a fortnight of sheer, careless and immense happiness. Their
love grew spacious and blossoming in the golden sunlight of Naples,
on the blue gulfs of Amalfi, Sorrento, Capri and Castellamare, simply,
irresistibly and restfully. They glided gradually along the purple
thread of their lives, they walked hand in hand down their lines now
fused into one path, heedless of the laws and ideas of men; and their
attitude was so lofty, their action so serene and so certain of their
happiness, that their relations did not degenerate into insolence,
although within themselves they despised the world. But this happiness
softened all that pride in their soaring souls, as if their happiness
were strewing blossoms all around it. They lived in a dream, first
among the marbles in the museum, then on the flower-strewn cliffs
of Amalfi, on the beach of Capri or on the terrace of the hotel at
Sorrento, with the sea roaring at their feet and, in a pearly haze,
yonder, vaguely white, as though drawn in white chalk, Castellamare
and Naples and the ghost of Vesuvius, with its hazy plume of smoke.

They held aloof from everybody, from all the people and excursionists;
they had their meals at a small table; and it was generally thought
that they were newly married. If others looked up their names in the
visitors' book, they read two names and made whispered comments. But
the lovers did not hear, did not see; they lived their dream, looking
into each other's eyes or at the opal sky, the pearly sea and the hazy,
white mountain-vistas, studded with towns like little specks of chalk.

When their money was almost exhausted, they smiled and went back to
Rome and resumed their former lives: she in her rooms and he, now,
in his studio; and they took their meals together. But they pursued
their dream among the ruins in the Via Appia, around and near Frascati,
beyond the Ponte Molle, on the slopes of the Monte Mario and in the
gardens of the villas, among the statues and paintings, mingling their
happiness with the Roman atmosphere: he interweaving his new-found
love with his love for Rome; she growing to love Rome because of
him. And because of that charm they were surrounded by a sort of aura,
through which they did not see ordinary life or meet ordinary people.

At last, one afternoon, Urania found them both at home, in Cornélie's
room, the fire lighted, she smiling and gazing into the fire, he
sitting at her feet and she with her arm round his neck. And they
were evidently thinking of so little besides their own love that
neither of them heard her knock and both suddenly saw her standing
before them, like an unexpected reality. Their dream was over for that
day. Urania laughed, Cornélie laughed and Duco pushed an easy-chair
closer. And Urania, blithe, beautiful and brilliant, told them that
she was engaged. Where on earth had they been hiding, she asked,
inquisitively. She was engaged. She had been to San Stefano, she had
seen the old prince. And everything was lovely and good and dear:
the old castle a dear old house, the old man a dear old man. She saw
everything through the glitter of her future princess' title. Princess
and duchess! The wedding-day was fixed: immediately after Easter, in
a little more than three months therefore. It was to be celebrated at
San Carlo, with all the splendour of a great wedding. Her father was
coming over for it with her youngest brother. She was obviously not
looking forward to their arrival. And she never finished talking:
she gave a thousand details about her bridal outfit, with which
the marchesa was helping her. They were going to live at Nice, in
a large flat. She raved about Nice: that was a first-rate idea of
Gilio's. And incidentally she remembered and told them that she had
become a Catholic. That was a great nuisance! But the monsignori saw
to everything and she allowed herself to be guided by them. And the
Pope was to receive her in private audience, together with Gilio. The
difficulty was what to wear at the audience: black, of course, but
... velvet, satin? What did Cornélie advise her? She had such excellent
taste. And a black-lace veil on her head, with brilliants. She was
going to Nice next day, with the marchesa and Gilio, to see their flat.

When she was gone, after begging Cornélie to come and admire her
trousseau, Cornélie said, with a smile:

"She is happy. After all, happiness is something different for
everybody. A trousseau and a title would not make me happy."

"These are the small people," he said, "who cross our lives now and
again. I prefer to get out of their way."

And they did not say so, but they both thought--with their fingers
interlaced, her eyes gazing into his--that they also were happy, but
with a loftier, better and nobler happiness; and pride arose within
them; and they beheld as in a vision the line of their life winding up
a steep hill. But happiness snowed blossoms down upon it; and amid the
snowing blossoms, holding high their proud heads, with smiles and eyes
of love, they walked on in their dream remote from mankind and reality.



CHAPTER XXVI


The months dreamed past. And their happiness caused such a summer to
bloom in them that she ripened in beauty and he in talent; the pride in
them broke into expression: in her it was the blossoming of her being,
in him it was energy; her languid charm became transformed into a proud
slenderness; her contour increased in fullness; a light illumined
her eyes, a gladness shone about her mouth. His hands quivered with
nervous emotion when he took up his brushes; and the skies of Italy
arched firmaments before his eyes like a canopy of love and fervid
colour. He drew and completed a series of water-colours: hazes of
dreamy atmosphere which suggested Turner's noblest creations; natural
monuments of sheer haze; all the milky blue and pearly mistiness of the
Bay of Naples, like a goblet filled with light in which a turquoise
is melted into water; and he sent them to Holland, to London, found
that he had suddenly discovered his vocation, his work and his fame:
courage, strength, aim and conquest.

She too achieved a certain success with her article: it was discussed,
contested; her name was mentioned. But she felt a certain indifference
when she read her name in connection with the feminist movement. She
preferred to live with him his life of observation and emotion; and
she often imparted to all the haze of his vision, to the excessive
haziness of his colour-dream a lustre of light, a definite horizon,
a streak of actuality which gave realism to the mist of his ideal. She
learnt with him to distinguish and to feel nature, art, all Rome; and,
when a symbolic impulse overmastered him, she surrendered herself
to it entirely. He planned a large sketch of a procession of women,
mounting along a line of life that wound up a hill: they seemed
to be moving out of a crumbling city of antiquity, whose pillars,
joined by a single architrave, quivered on high in a violet haze
of evening dusk; they seemed to be releasing themselves from the
shadow of the ruins fading away on the horizon into the void of
night; and they thronged upwards, calling to one another aloud,
beckoning to one another with great waving gestures of their hands,
under a mighty fluttering of streamers and pennants; they grasped
hammer and pick-axe with sinewy arms; and the throng of them moved
up and up, along the line, where the light grew whiter and whiter,
until in the hazy air there dimly showed the distant vista of a new
city, whose iron buildings, like central stations and Eiffel towers
in the white glimmer of the distance, gleamed up very faintly with
a reflection of glass arches and glass roofs and, high in the air,
the musical staves of the threads of sound and accompaniment....

And to so great an extent did their influences work upon each other's
souls that she learnt to see and he learnt to think: she saw beauty,
art, nature, haze and emotion and no longer imagined them but felt
them; he, as in his sketch, a very vague, modern city of glass and
iron, saw a modern city rising out of his dream-haze and thought of a
modern question, in accordance with his own nature and aptitudes. She
learnt above all to see and feel like a woman in love, with the
eyes and heart of the man she loves; he thought out the question
plastically. But whatever the imperfection in the absoluteness of
their new spheres of feeling and thought, the reciprocal influence,
through their love, gave them a happiness so great, so united,
that at that moment they could not contemplate it or apprehend it:
it was almost ecstasy, a faint unreality, in which they dreamed,
whereas it was all pure truth and tangible actuality. Their manner
of thinking, feeling and living was an ideal of reality, an ideal
entered and attained, along the gradual line of their life, along
the golden thread of their love; and they scarcely apprehended or
contemplated it, because the every-day life still clung to them. But
only to the smallest, inevitable extent. They lived apart; but in
the morning she went to him and found him working at his sketch; and
she sat down beside him and leant her head on his shoulder; and they
thought it out together. He sketched each figure in his procession
of women separately and sought for the features and the modelling of
the figures: some had the Mongolian aspect of Memmi's angel of the
Annunciation, others Cornélie's slenderness and her later, fuller
wholesomeness; he sought for the folds of the costumes: the women
escaped from the violet dusk of the ruined city in pleated pepli;
and farther on their garments altered as in a masquerade of the ages:
the long trains of the medieval ladies, the veils of the sultanas, the
homespun of the workwomen, the caps of the nursing sisters, the attire
becoming more modern as the wearer personified a more modern age. And
in this grouping the draughtsmanship was so unsubstantial and sober,
the transition from drooping folds to practical stiffness so careful
and so gradual, that Cornélie hardly perceived the transition, that
she appeared to be contemplating one style, one fashion in dress,
whereas each figure nevertheless was clad in a different stuff, of
different cut, falling into different lines.... The drawing displayed
an old-mastery purity, a simplicity of outline, which was nevertheless
modern, nervous and morbid, but without the conventional ideal of
symbolical human forms; the grouping showed a Raphaelite harmony,
the water-colour tints of the first studies the haze of Italy: the
ruined city loomed in the dusk as he saw the Forum looming; the city
of iron and glass gleamed up with its architecture of light, such as
he had seen from Sorrento shining around Naples. She felt that he was
creating a great work and had never taken so lively an interest in
anything as she now did in his idea and his sketches. She sat behind
him silent and still and followed his drawing of the waving banners
and fluttering pennants; and she did not breathe when she saw him,
with a few dabs of white and touches of light--as though light were
one of the colours on his palette--make the glass city emerge as
from a dream on the horizon. Then he would ask her something about
one of the figures and put his arm around her and draw her to him;
and they would long sit scrutinizing and thinking out lines and ideas,
until evening fell and the evening chill shuddered through the studio
and they rose slowly from their seats. Then they went out and in
the Corso they returned to real life: silently, sitting at Aragno's,
they watched the bustle outside; and in their little restaurant, with
their eyes absorbing each other's glance, they ate their simple dinner
and looked so obviously and harmoniously happy, that the Italians,
the two who also always sat at the far table, at that same hour,
smiled as they bowed to them on entering....



CHAPTER XXVII


At the same time Duco developed great powers of work: so much thought
dimly took shape before him that he was constantly discovering another
motive and symbolizing it in another figure. He sketched a life-size
woman walking, with that admixture of child, woman and goddess which
characterized his figures, and she walked slowly down a descending
line towards a sombre depth, without seeing or understanding; her eyes
towards the abyss in magnetic attraction; vague hands hovered around
her like a cloud and softly pushed and guided her; on the hill-top,
on high rocks, in the bright light, other figures, holding harps,
called to her; but she went towards the depth, pushed by hands;
in the abyss blossomed strange purple orchids, like mouths of love....

When Cornélie came to his studio one morning, he had suddenly sketched
this idea. It came upon her as a surprise, for he had not mentioned
it to her: the idea had sprung up suddenly; the quick, spontaneous
execution had not taken him an hour. He was almost apologizing to her
when he saw her surprise. She certainly admired it, but shuddered at
it and preferred The Banners, the great water-colour, the procession
of the women marching to the battle of life.

And to please her he put the straying woman aside and worked on
solely at the striving women. But constantly a fresh thought came and
disturbed him in his work; and in her absence he would sketch some
new symbol, until the sketches accumulated and lay spread on every
side. She put them away in portfolios; she removed them from easel
and board; she saved him from wandering too far from The Banners;
and this was the one thing that he completed.

Thus smoothly did their life seem willing to run, along a gracious
line, in one golden direction, while his symbols blossomed like flowers
on either side, while the azure of their love seemed to form the sky
overhead; but she plucked away the superfluous flowers and only The
Banners waved above their path, in the firmament of their ecstasy,
even as they waved above the militant women.

They had but one distraction, the wedding of the prince and Urania:
a dinner, a ball and the ceremony at San Carlo, attended by all
the Roman aristocracy, who however welcomed the wealthy American
bride with a certain reserve. But, when the Prince and Princess
di Forte-Braccio left for Nice, all distraction was at an end; and
the days once more glided along the same gracious golden line. And
Cornélie retained only one unpleasant recollection: her meeting during
those festive days with Mrs. van der Staal, who cut her persistently,
turned her back on her and succeeded in conveying to her that the
friendship was over. She had accepted the position; she had realized
how difficult it was--even if Mrs. van der Staal had been willing to
speak to her--to explain to a woman like this, rooted in her social
and worldly conventions, her own proud ideas of freedom, independence
and happiness. And she had avoided the girls also, understanding
that Mrs. van der Staal wished it. She was not angry at all this
nor hurt; she could understand it in Duco's mother: she was only a
little sad about it, because she liked Mrs. van der Staal and liked
the two girls. But she quite understood: it had to be so; Mrs. van
der Staal knew or suspected everything. Duco's mother could not act
differently, though the prince and Urania, for friendship's sake,
overlooked any liaison between Duco and Cornélie; though the Roman
world during the wedding-festivities accepted them simply as friends,
as acquaintances, as fellow-countrymen, whatever they might whisper,
smiling, behind their fans. But now those festivities were over, now
they had passed that point of contact with the world and people, now
their golden line once more sloped gently and evenly before them....

Then Cornélie, not thinking of the Hague at all, received a letter
from the Hague. The letter was from her father and consisted of
several sheets, which surprised her, for he never wrote. What she read
startled her greatly, but did not at first dishearten her altogether,
perhaps because she did not realize the full import of her father's
news. He implored her forgiveness. He had long been in financial
difficulties. He had lost a great deal of money. They would have to
move into a smaller house. The atmosphere at home was unpleasant: Mamma
cried all day; the sisters quarrelled; the family proffered advice; the
acquaintances were disagreeable. And he implored her forgiveness. He
had speculated and lost. And he had also lost her own little capital,
which he managed for her, her godmother's legacy. He asked her not to
think too hardly of him. Things might have turned out differently;
and then she would have been three times as well off. He admitted
it, he had done wrong; but still he was her father and he asked her,
his child, to forgive him and requested her to come home.

She was at first greatly startled, but soon recovered her calmness. She
was in too happy a mood of vital harmony to be depressed by the
news. She received the letter in bed, did not get up at once, reflected
a little, then dressed, breakfasted as usual and went to Duco. He
received her with enthusiasm and showed her three new sketches. She
reproached him gently for allowing himself to be distracted from his
main idea, said that these distractions would exhaust his activity, his
perseverance. She urged him to keep on working at The Banners. And she
inspected the great water-colour intently, with the ancient, crumbling
Forum-like city and the procession of the women towards the metropolis
of the future, standing high in the dawn. And suddenly it was borne
in upon her that her future also had fallen into ruins and that its
crumbling arches hung menacingly over her head. Then she gave him her
father's letter to read. He read it twice, looked at her aghast and
asked what she proposed to do. She said that she had already thought it
over, but so far decided only upon the most immediate thing to be done:
to give up her rooms and come to him in his studio. She had just enough
left to pay the rent of her rooms. But, after that, she had no money,
no money at all. She had never consented to accept alimony from her
husband. All that was still due to her was the payment for her article.

He at once put out his hands to her, kissed her and said that this
had been also his idea at once, that she should come to him and live
with him. He had enough: a tiny patrimony; he made a little money
in addition: there would be enough for the two of them. And they
laughed and kissed and glanced round the studio. Duco slept in a
small adjoining den, a sort of long wall-cupboard. And they glanced
round to see what they could do. Cornélie knew: here, a curtain
draped over a cord, with her wash-hand-stand behind it. That was
all she needed, only that little corner: otherwise Duco would not
have a good light. They were very merry and thought it a jolly, a
capital idea. They went out at once, bought a little iron bedstead
and a dressing-table and themselves hung up the curtain. Then they
both went to pack the trunks in the Via di Serpenti ... and dined
at the osteria. Cornélie suggested that they should dine at home now
and then: it was cheaper. When they returned home, she was enchanted
that her installation took up so little room, hardly six feet by six,
with that little bed behind the curtain. They were very cheerful
that evening. The bohemianism of it all amused them. They were in
Italy, the land of sunshine, of beauty, of lazzaroni, of beggars who
slept on the steps of a cathedral; and they felt akin to that sunny
poverty. They were happy, they wanted for nothing. They would live
on nothing, or at any rate on very little. And they saw the future
bright, smiling. They were closer together now, they would live more
closely linked together. They loved each other and were happy in a
land of beauty, in an ideal of noble symbolism and life-embracing art.

Next morning he worked zealously, without a word, absorbed in his
dream, in his work; and she, likewise, silent, contented, happy,
examined her blouses and skirts attentively and reflected that she
would need nothing more for quite another year and that her old clothes
were amply sufficient for their life of happiness and simplicity.

And she answered her father's letter very briefly, saying that she
forgave him, that she was sorry for all of them, but that she was not
coming back to the Hague. She would provide for her own maintenance,
by writing. Italy was cheap. That was all she wrote. She did not
mention Duco. She cut herself off from her family, in thought and
in fact. She had met with no sympathy from any of them during her
unhappy marriage, during the painful days of her divorce; and now,
in her turn, she felt no affection for them. And her happiness made
her partial and selfish. She wanted nothing but Duco, nothing but
their harmonious life in common. He sat working, laughing to her
now and then as she lay on the couch and reflected. She looked at
the women marching to battle; she too could not remain lying on a
couch, she too would have to sally forth and fight. She foresaw that
she would have to fight ... for him. He was at present in the first
fine frenzy of his art; but, if this slackened, momentarily, after
a result of some kind, after a success for himself and the world,
that would be commonplace and logical; and then she would have to
fight. He was the noble element in their two lives; his art could
never become her bread-winner. His little fortune amounted to hardly
anything. She would have liked to work and make money for both of them,
so that he need not depart from the pure principle of his art. But
how was she to strive, how to work, how to work for their lives and
their bread? What could she do? Write? It brought in so little. What
else? She was overcome by a slight melancholy, because she could
do so little. She possessed minor talents and accomplishments: she
wrote a good style, she sang, she played the piano, she could make a
blouse and she knew something about cooking. She would herself do the
cooking now and then and would make her own clothes. But that was all
so small, so little. Strive? Work? In what way? However, she would do
what she could. And suddenly she took up a Baedeker, turned over the
pages and sat down to write at Duco's writing-table. She thought for a
moment and began a casual article, a travel-picture for a newspaper,
about the environs of Naples: that was easier than at once beginning
about Rome. And in the studio, filled with a faint warmth of the fire,
because the room faced north and was chilly, everything became still
and silent, save for the occasional scratching of her pen or the noise
made by him when fumbling among his chalks and paint-brushes. She
wrote a few pages but could not hit upon an ending. Then she got up; he
turned round and smiled at her, with his smile of friendly happiness.

And she read to him what she had written. It was not in the style of
her pamphlet. It contained no invective; it was a pleasant traveller's
sketch.

He thought it very nice, but nothing out of the way. But that wasn't
necessary, she said, defending herself. And he kissed her, for her
industry and her pluck. It was raining that day and they did not go out
for their lunch; there were eggs and tomatoes and she made an omelette
on an oil-stove. They drank water, ate quantities of bread. And, while
the rain outside lashed the great curtain-less window of the studio,
they enjoyed their repast, sitting like two birds that huddle side
by side, against each other, so as not to get wet.



CHAPTER XXVIII


It was a couple of months after Easter, in the spring days of May. The
flood of tourists had ebbed away immediately after the great church
festivities; and Rome was already very hot and growing very quiet. One
morning, when Cornélie was crossing the Piazza di Spagna, where the
sunshine streamed along the cream-coloured front of the Trinita de'
Monti and down the monumental staircase, where only a few beggars
and the very last flower-boy sat dreaming with blinking eye-lids in
a shady corner, she saw the prince coming towards her. He bowed to
her with a smile of gladness and hastened up to speak to her:

"How glad I am to meet you! I am in Rome for a day or two, on my way
to San Stefano, to see my father on business. Business is always a
bore; and this is more so than usual. Urania is at Nice. But it is
too hot there and we are going away. We have just returned from a
trip on the Mediterranean. Four weeks on board a friend's yacht. It
was delightful! Why did you never come to see us at Nice, as Urania
asked you to?"

"I really wasn't able to come."

"I went to call on you yesterday in the Via dei Serpenti. They told
me you had moved."

He looked at her with a touch of mocking laughter in his small,
glittering eyes. She did not speak.

"After that I did not like to commit a further indiscretion," he said,
meaningly. "Where are you going?"

"To the post-office."

"May I come with you? Isn't it too hot for walking?"

"Oh, no, I love the heat! Come by all means, if you like. How is
Urania?"

"Very well, capital. She's capital. She's splendid, simply splendid. I
should never have thought it. I should never have dared to think
it. She plays her part to perfection. So far as she is concerned,
I don't regret my marriage. But, for the rest, Gesu mio, what a
disappointment, what a disillusion!"

"Why?"

"You knew, did you not--I even now don't know how--you knew for how
many millions I sold myself? Not five millions but ten millions. Ah,
signora mia, what a take in! You saw my father-in-law at the time
of our wedding. What a Yankee, what a stocking-merchant and what a
tradesman! We're no match for him: I, Papa, or the marchesa. First
promises, contracts: oh, rather! But then haggling here, haggling
there. We're no good at that: neither Papa nor I. Aunt alone was
able to haggle. But she was no match for the stocking-merchant. She
had not learnt that, in all the years during which she kept a
boarding-house. Ten millions? Five millions? Not three millions! Or
yes, perhaps we did get something like that, plus a heap of promises,
for our children's children, when everybody's dead. Ah, signora,
signora, I was better off before I was married! True, I had debts then
and not now. But Urania is so economical, so practical! I should never
have thought it of her. It has been a disappointment to everybody:
Papa, my aunt, the monsignori. You should have seen them together. They
could have scratched one another's eyes out. Papa almost had a
stroke, my aunt nearly came to blows with the monsignori.... Ah,
signora, signora, I don't like it! I am a victim. Winter after
winter, they angled with me. But I didn't want to be the bait,
I struggled, I wouldn't let the fish bite. And then this came of
it. Not three millions. Lire, not dollars. I was so stupid, I thought
at first it would be dollars. And Urania's economy! She allows me my
pocket-money. She controls everything, does everything. She knows
exactly how much I lose at the club. Yes, you may laugh, but it's
sad. Don't you see that I sometimes feel as if I could cry? And she has
such queer notions. For instance, we have our flat at Nice and we keep
on my rooms in the Palazzo Ruspoli, as a pied-à-terre in Rome. That's
enough: we don't come often to Rome, because we are 'black' and
Urania thinks it dull. In the summer, we were to go here or there,
to some watering-place. That was all right, that was settled. But now
Urania suddenly conceives the notion of selecting San Stefano as a
summer residence. San Stefano! I ask you! I shall never be able to
stand it. True, it's high up, it's cool: it's a pleasant climate,
good, fresh mountain air. But I need more in my life than mountain
air. I can't live on mountain air. Oh, you wouldn't know Urania! She
can be so awfully obstinate. It's settled now, beyond recall: in the
summer, San Stefano. And the worst of it is that she has won Papa's
heart by it. I have to suffer. They're two to one against me. And the
worst of it is that Urania says we shall have to be very economical,
in order to do San Stefano up a bit. It's a famous historical place,
but fallen into grisly disrepair. It's not our fault: we never had
any luck. There was once a Forte-Braccio pope; after that our star
declined and we never had another stroke of luck again. San Stefano is
the type of ruined greatness. You ought to see the place. To economize,
to renovate San Stefano! That's Urania's ideal. She has taken it into
her head to do that honour to our ancestral abode. However, she has
won Papa's heart by it and he has recovered from his stroke. But can
you understand now that il povero Gilio is poorer than he was before
he acquired shares in a Chicago stocking-factory?"

There was no checking his flow of words. He felt profoundly unhappy,
small, beaten, tamed, conquered, destroyed; and he had a need to ease
his heart. They had passed the post-office and now retraced their
steps. He looked for sympathy from Cornélie and found it in the smiling
attention with which she listened to his grievances. She replied that,
after all, it showed that Urania had a real feeling for San Stefano.

"Oh, yes!" he admitted, humbly. "She is very good. I should never
have thought it. She is every inch a princess and duchess. It's
splendid. But the ten millions: gone, an illusion!... But tell me:
how well you're looking! Each time I see you, you've grown lovelier
and lovelier. Do you know that you're a very lovely woman? You must
be very happy, I'm certain! You're an exceptional woman, I always
said so. I don't understand you.... May I speak frankly? Are we good
friends, you and I? I don't understand. I think what you have done such
a terrible thing. I have never heard of anything like it in our world."

"I don't live in your world, prince."

"Very well, but all the same your world must have much the same ideas
about it. And the calmness, the pride, the happiness with which you
do, just quietly, as you please! I think it perfectly awful. I stand
aghast at it.... And yet ... it's a pity. People in my world are very
easy-going. But that sort of thing is not allowed!"

"Prince, once more, I have no world. My world is my own sphere."

"I don't understand that. Tell me, how am I to tell Urania? For
I should think it delightful if you would come and stay at San
Stefano. Oh, do come, do: come to keep us company. I entreat you. Be
charitable, do a good work.... But first tell me, how shall I tell
Urania?"

She laughed:

"What?"

"What they told me in the Via dei Serpenti, that your address was
now Signor van der Staal's studio, Via del Babuino."

Laughing, she looked at him almost pityingly:

"It is too difficult for you to tell her," she replied, a little
condescendingly. "I will myself write to Urania and explain my
conduct."

He was evidently relieved:

"That's delightful, capital! And ... will you come to San Stefano?"

"No, I can't really."

"Why not?"

"I can no longer move in the circle in which you live, after my change
of address," she said, half laughing, half seriously.

He shrugged his shoulders:

"Listen," he said. "You know our Roman society. So long as certain
conventions are observed ... everything's permitted."

"Exactly; but it's just those conventions which I don't observe."

"And that's where you are wrong. Believe me, I am saying it as your
friend."

"I live according to my own laws and I don't want to move in your
world."

He folded his hands in entreaty:

"Yes, yes, I know. You are a 'new woman.' You have your own laws. But
I beseech you, take pity on me. Be an angel of mercy and come to
San Stefano."

She seemed to hear a note of seduction in his voice and therefore said:

"Prince, even if it agreed with the conventions of your world ... even
then I shouldn't wish to. For I will not leave Van der Staal."

"You come first and let him come a little later. Urania will be
glad to have his advice on some artistic questions, concerning the
'doing up' of San Stefano. We have a lot of pictures there. And old
things generally. Do let's arrange that. I am going to San Stefano
to-morrow. Urania will follow me in a week. I will suggest to her to
ask you down soon."

"Really, prince ... it can't happen just yet."

"Why not?"

She looked at him for some time before answering:

"Shall I be candid with you?"

"But of course!"

They had already passed the post-office twice. The street was quite
silent and deserted. He looked at her enquiringly.

"Well, then," she said, "we are in great financial difficulties. We
have no money at present. I have lost my little capital; and the
small sum which I earned by writing an article is spent. Duco is
working hard, but he is engaged on a big work and making nothing
in the meantime. He expects to receive a bit of money in a month or
so. But at the moment we have nothing, nothing at all. That is why
I went to a shop by the Tiber this morning to ask how much a dealer
would give for a couple of old pictures which Duco wants to sell. He
doesn't like parting with them, but there's no help for it. So you
see that I can't come. I should not care to leave him; besides,
I should not have the money for the journey or a decent wardrobe."

He looked at her. The first thing that he had noticed was her new and
blooming loveliness; now he noticed that her skirt was a little worn
and her blouse none too fresh, though she wore a couple of roses in
the waist-band.

"Gesu mio!" he exclaimed. "And you tell me that so calmly, so quietly!"

She smiled and shrugged her shoulders:

"What would you have me do? Moan and groan about it?"

"But you are a woman ... a woman to revere and respect!" he cried. "How
does Van der Staal take it?"

"He is a bit depressed, of course. He has never known money
trouble. And it hinders him from employing his full talent. But I
hope to help him bear up during this difficult time. So you see,
prince, that I can't come to San Stefano."

"But why didn't you write to us? Why not ask us for money?"

"It is very nice of you to say that, but the idea never even occurred
to us."

"Too proud?"

"Yes, too proud."

"But what a position to be in! What can I do for you? May I give
you two hundred lire? I have two hundred lire on me. And I will tell
Urania that I gave it to you."

"No, thank you, prince. I am very grateful to you, but I can't
accept it."

"Not from me?"

"No."

"Not from Urania?"

"Not from her either."

"Why not?"

"I want to earn my money and I can't accept alms."

"A fine principle. But for the moment ..."

"I remain true to it."

"Will you allow me to tell you something?"

"What?"

"I admire you. More than that: I love you."

She made a gesture with her hand and wrinkled her brows.

"Why mayn't I tell you so? An Italian does not keep his love
concealed. I love you. You are more beautiful and nobler and superior
to anything that I could ever imagine any woman to be.... Don't
be angry with me: I am not asking anything of you. I am a bad lot,
but at this moment I really feel the sort of thing that you see in
our old family-portraits, an atom of chivalry which has survived by
accident. I ask for nothing from you. I merely tell you--and I say
it in Urania's name as well as my own--that you can always rely on
us. Urania will be angry that you haven't written to us."

They now entered the post-office and she bought a few stamps:

"There go my last soldi," she said, laughing and showing her empty
purse. "We wanted the stamps to write to the secretary of an exhibition
in London. Are you seeing me home?"

She saw suddenly that he had tears in his eyes.

"Do accept two hundred lire from me!" he entreated.

She smilingly shook her head.

"Are you dining at home?" he asked.

She gave him a quizzing look:

"Yes," she said.

He was unwilling to ask any further questions, was afraid lest he
should wound her:

"Be kind," he said, "and dine with me this evening. I'm bored. I
have no friends in Rome at the moment. Everybody is away. Not at the
Grand-Hôtel, but in a snug little restaurant, where they know me. I'll
come and fetch you at seven o'clock. Do be nice and come! For my sake!"

He could not restrain his tears.

"I shall be delighted," she said, softly, with her smile.

They were standing in the porch of the house in the Via del Babuino
where the studio was. He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a
fervent kiss upon it. Then he took off his hat and hurried away. She
went slowly up the stairs, mastering her emotion before she entered
the studio.



CHAPTER XXIX


She found Duco lying listlessly on the sofa. He had a bad headache
and she sat down beside him.

"Well?" he asked.

"The man offered me eighty lire for the Memmo," she said, "but he
declared that the panel was not by Gentile da Fabriano: he remembered
having seen it here."

"The man's crazy," he replied. "Or else he is trying to get my Gentile
for nothing.... Cornélie, I really can't sell it."

"Well, Duco, then we'll think of something else," said she, laying
her hand on his aching forehead.

"Perhaps one or two smaller things, a knickknack or two," he moaned.

"Perhaps. Shall I go back to him this afternoon?"

"No, no, I'll go. But, really it is easier to buy that sort of thing
than to sell it."

"That is so, Duco," she agreed, laughing. "But I asked yesterday
what I should get for a pair of bracelets; and I'll dispose of those
to-day. And that will keep us going for quite a month. But I have
some news for you. Do you know whom I met?"

"No."

"The prince."

He gave a scowl:

"I don't like that cad," he said.

"I've told you before, Duco. I don't consider him a cad. And I don't
believe he is one either. He asked us to dine with him this evening,
quite quietly."

"No, I don't care about it."

She said nothing. She stood up, boiled some water on a spirit-stand
and made tea:

"Duco dear, I've been careless about lunch. A cup of tea and some
bread-and-butter is all I can give you. Are you very hungry?"

"No," he said, evasively.

She hummed a tune while she poured out the tea into an antique cup. She
cut the bread-and-butter and brought it to him on the sofa. Then she
sat down beside him, with her own cup in her hand.

"Cornélie, hadn't we better lunch at the osteria?"

She laughed and showed him her empty purse:

"Here are the stamps," she said.

Disheartened, he flung himself back on the cushions.

"My dear boy," she continued, "don't be so down. I shall have some
money this afternoon, for the bracelets. I ought to have sold them
sooner. Really, Duco, it's not of any importance. Why haven't you
been working? It would have cheered you up."

"I didn't feel inclined and I had a headache."

She waited a moment and then said:

"The prince was angry that we didn't write and ask him to help us. He
wanted to give me two hundred lire...."

"You refused, surely?" he asked, fiercely.

"Well, of course," she answered, calmly. "He invited us to stay at San
Stefano, where they will be spending the summer. I refused that too."

"Why?"

"I haven't the clothes.... But you wouldn't care to go, would you?"

"No," he said, dully.

She drew his head to her and stroked his forehead. A wide patch of
reflected afternoon light fell through the studio-window from the
blue sky outside; and the studio was like a confused swirl of dusty
colour, in which the outlines stood forth with their arrested action
and changeless emotion. The raised embroideries of the chasubles and
stoles, the purples and sky-blues of Gentile's panel, the mystic
luxury of Memmi's angel in his cloak of heavily-pleated brocade,
with the golden lily-stem between his fingers, were like a hoard
of colour and flashed in that reflected light like so many handfuls
of jewels. On the easel stood the water-colour of The Banners, with
its noble refinement. And, as they sat on the sofa, he leaning his
head against her, both drinking their tea, they harmonized in their
happiness with that background of art. And it seemed incredible that
they should be worried about a couple of hundred lire, for they
were surrounded by colour as of precious stones and her smile was
still radiant. But his eyes were dejected and his hand hung limply
by his side.

She went out again that afternoon for a little while, but soon returned
again, saying that she had sold the bracelets and that he need not
worry any longer. And she sang and moved gaily about the studio. She
had made a few purchases: an almond-tart, biscuits and a small bottle
of port. She had carried the things home herself, in a little basket,
and she sang as she unpacked them. Her liveliness cheered him; he
stood up and suddenly sat down to The Banners. He looked at the light
and thought that he would be able to work for an hour longer. He was
filled with transport as he contemplated the drawing: he saw a great
deal that was good in it, a great deal that was beautiful. It was both
spacious and delicate; it was modern and yet free of any modern trucs;
there was thought in it and yet purity of line and grouping. And the
colours were restful and dignified: purple and grey and white; violet
and pale-grey and bright white; dusk, twilight, light; night, dawn,
day. The day especially, the day dawning high up yonder, was a day
of white, self-conscious sunlight: a bright certitude, in which the
future became clear. But as a cloud were the streamers, pennants,
flags, banners, waving in heraldic beauty above the heads of the
militant women uplifted in ecstasy.... He selected his colours, chose
his brushes, worked zealously, until there was no light left. Then
he sat down beside her, happy and contented. In the falling dusk
they drank some of the port, ate some of the tart. He felt like it,
he said; he was hungry....

At seven o'clock there was a knock. He started up and opened the door;
the prince entered. Duco's forehead clouded over; but the prince did
not perceive it, in the twilit studio. Cornélie lit a lamp:

"Scusi, prince," she said. "I am positively distressed: Duco does
not care to go out--he has been working and is tired--and I had no
one to send and tell you that we could not accept your invitation."

"But you don't mean that, surely! I had reckoned so absolutely on
having you both to dinner! What shall I do with my evening if you
don't come!"

And, bursting into a flow of language, the complaints of a spoiled
child, the entreaties of an indulged boy, he began to persuade Duco,
who remained unwilling and sullen. At last Duco rose, shrugged
his shoulders, but, with a compassionate, almost insulting smile,
yielded. But he was unable to suppress his sense of unwillingness;
his jealousy because of the quick repartees of Cornélie and the prince
remained unassuaged, like an inward pain. At the restaurant he was
silent at first. Then he made an effort to join in the conversation,
remembering what Cornélie had said to him on that momentous day at
the osteria: that she loved him, Duco; that she did not even compare
the prince with him; but ... that he was not cheerful or witty. And,
conscious of his superiority because of that recollection, he displayed
a smiling superciliousness towards the prince, for all his jealousy,
condescending slightly and suffering his pleasantry and his flirtation,
because it amused Cornélie, that clashing interplay of swift words
and short, parrying phrases, like the dialogue in a French comedy.



CHAPTER XXX


The prince was to leave for San Stefano next day; and early in the
morning Cornélie sent him the following letter:



"My dear Prince,


"I have a favour to ask of you. Yesterday you were so good as to offer
me help. I thought then that I was in a position to decline your
kind offer. But I hope that you will not think me very changeable
if I come to you to-day with this request: lend me what you offered
yesterday to give me.

"Lend me two hundred lire. I hope to be able to repay you as soon as
possible. Of course it need not be a secret from Urania; but don't
let Duco know. I tried to sell my bracelets yesterday, but sold only
one and received very little for it. The goldsmith offered me far too
little, but I had to let him have one at forty lire, for I had not a
soldo left! And so I am writing to appeal to your friendship and to
ask you to put the two hundred lire in an envelope and let me come
and fetch it myself from the porter. Pray receive my sincere thanks
in advance.

"What a pleasant evening you gave us yesterday! A couple of hours'
cheerful talk like that, at a well-chosen dinner, does me good. However
happy I may be, our present position of financial anxiety sometimes
depresses me, though I keep up my spirits for Duco's sake. Money
worries interfere with his work and impair his energy. So I discuss
them with him as little as I can; and I particularly beg you not to
let him into our little secret.

"Once more, my best and most sincere thanks.


"Cornélie de Retz."



When she left the house that morning, she went straight to the
Palazzo Ruspoli:

"Has his excellency gone?"

The porter bowed respectively and confidentially:

"An hour ago, signora. His excellency left a letter and a parcel for
me to give you if you should call. Permit me to fetch them."

He went away and soon returned; he handed Cornélie the parcel and
the letter.

She walked down a side-street turning out of the Corso, opened the
envelope and found a few bank-*notes and this letter:



"Most honoured Lady,


"I am so glad that you have applied to me at last; and Urania also
will approve. I feel I am acting in accordance with her wishes when
I send you not two hundred but a thousand lire, with the most humble
request that you will accept it and keep it as long as you please. For
of course I dare not ask you to take it as a present. Nevertheless
I am making so bold as to send you a keepsake. When I read that you
were compelled to sell a bracelet, I hated the idea so that, without
stopping to think, I ran round to Marchesini's and, as best I could,
picked you out a bracelet which, at your feet, I entreat you to
accept. You must not refuse your friend this. Let my bracelet be a
secret from Urania as well as from Van der Staal.

"Once more receive my sincere thanks for deigning to apply to me
for aid and be assured that I attach the highest value to this mark
of favour.


"Your most humble servant,
"Virgilio di F. B."



Cornélie opened the parcel and found a velvet case containing a
bracelet in the Etruscan style: a narrow gold band set with pearls
and sapphires.



CHAPTER XXXI


In those hot May days, the big studio facing north was cool while the
town outside was scorching. Duco and Cornélie did not go out before
nightfall, when it was time to think of dining somewhere. Rome was
quiet: Roman society had fled; the tourists had migrated. They saw
nobody and their days glided past. He worked diligently; The Banners
was finished: the two of them, with their arms around each other's
waists and her head on his shoulder, would sit in front of it, proudly
smiling, during the last days before the drawing was to be sent to the
International Exhibition in Knightsbridge. Their feeling for each other
had never contained such pure harmony, such unity of concord, as now,
when his work was done. He felt that he had never worked so nobly,
so firmly, so unhesitatingly, never with the same strength, yet never
so tenderly; and he was grateful to her for it. He confessed to her
that he could never have worked like that if she had not thought with
him and felt with him in their long hours of sitting and gazing at
the procession, the pageant of women, as it wound out of the night
of crumbling pillars to the city of sheer increasing radiance and
gleaming palaces of glass. There was rest in his soul, now that
he had worked so greatly and nobly. There was pride in them both:
pride because of their life, their independence, because of that
work of noble and stately art. In their happiness there was much
that was arbitrary; they looked down upon people, the multitude,
the world; and this was especially true of him. In her there was
more of quietude and humility, though outwardly she showed herself
as proud as he. Her article on The Social Position of Divorced Women
had been published in pamphlet form and made a success. But her own
performance did not make her proud as Duco's art made her proud,
proud of him and of their life and their happiness.

While she read in the Dutch papers and magazines the reviews of
her pamphlet--often displaying opposition but never any slight and
always acknowledging her authority to speak on the question--while
she read her pamphlet through again, a doubt arose within her of her
own conviction. She felt how difficult it was to fight with a single
mind for a cause, as those symbolic women in the drawing marched to
the fight. She felt that what she had written was inspired by her own
experience, by her own suffering and by these only; she saw that she
had generalized her own sense of life and suffering, but without deeper
insight into the essence of those things: not from pure conviction, but
from anger and resentment; not from reflection, but after melancholy
musing upon her own fate; not from her love of her fellow-women, but
from a petty hatred of society. And she remembered Duco's silence at
that time, his mute disapproval, his intuitive feeling that the source
of her excitement was not pure, but the bitter and turbid spring of
her own experience. She now respected his intuition; she now perceived
the essential purity of his character; she now felt that he--because
of his art--was high, noble, without ulterior motives in his actions,
creating beauty for its own sake. But she also felt that she had
roused him to it. That was her pride and her happiness; and she
loved him more dearly for it. But about herself she was humble. She
was conscious of her femininity, of all the complexity of her soul,
which prevented her from continuing to fight for the objects of the
feminist movement. And she thought again of her education, of her
husband, her short but sad married life ... and she thought of the
prince. She felt herself so complex and she would gladly have been
homogeneous. She swayed between contradiction and contradiction and
she confessed to herself that she did not know herself. It gave a
tinge of melancholy to her days of happiness.

The prince ... was not her pride only apparent that she had asked
him not to tell Urania that she was living with Duco, because
she would tell her so herself? In reality, she feared Urania's
opinion.... She was troubled by the dishonesty of the life: she called
the intersections of the line with the lines of other small people the
petty life. Why, so soon as she crossed one of these intersections,
did she feel, as though by instinct, that honesty was not always
wise? What became of her pride and her dignity--not apparently, but
actually--from the moment that she feared Urania's criticism, from the
moment that she feared lest this criticism might be unfavourable to
her in one respect or another? And why did she not speak of Virgilio's
bracelet to Duco? She did not speak of the thousand lire because she
knew that money matters depressed him and that he did not want to
borrow from the prince, because, if he knew about it, he would not
be able to work free from care; and her concealment had been for a
noble object. But why did she not speak of Gilio's bracelet?...

She did not know. Once or twice she had tried to say, just naturally
and casually:

"Look, I've had this from the prince, because I sold that one
bracelet."

But she was not able to say it, she did not know why. Was it because
of Duco's jealousy? She didn't know, she didn't know. She felt that
it would make for peace and tranquillity if she said nothing about
the bracelet and did not wear it. Really she would have been glad to
send it back to the prince. But she thought that unkind, after all
his readiness to assist her.

And Duco ... he thought that she had sold the bracelets for a good
sum, he knew that she had received money from the publisher, for
her pamphlet. He asked no further questions and ceased to think
about money. They lived very simply.... But still she disliked his
not knowing, even though it had been good for his work that he had
not known.

These were little things. These were little clouds in the golden
skies of their great and noble life, their life of which they were
proud. And she alone saw them. And, when she saw his eyes, radiant
with the pride of life; when she heard his voice, vibrating with his
new assured energy and pride; and when she felt his embrace, in which
she felt the thrill of his delight in the happiness which she brought
him, then she no longer saw the little clouds, then she felt her own
thrill of delight in the happiness which he had brought her and she
loved him so passionately that she could have died in his arms....



CHAPTER XXXII


Urania wrote most charmingly. She said that they were having a very
quiet time with the old prince at San Stefano, as they were not
inviting visitors because the castle was too gloomy, too shabby, too
lonely, but that she would think it most delightful if Cornélie would
come and spend a few weeks with them. She added that she would send
Mr. van der Staal an invitation as well. The letter was addressed
to the Via dei Serpenti and forwarded to Cornélie from there. She
understood from this that Gilio had not mentioned that she was living
in Duco's studio and she understood also that Urania accepted their
liaison without criticizing it....

The Banners had been dispatched to London; and, now that Duco was
no longer working, a slight indolence and a vague boredom hung about
the studio, which was still cool, while the town was scorching. And
Cornélie wrote to Urania that she was very glad to accept and promised
to come in a week's time. She was pleased that she would meet no
other guests at the castle, for she had no dresses for a country-house
visit. But with her usual tact she freshened up her wardrobe, without
spending much money. This took up all the intervening days; and she
sat sewing while Duco lay on the sofa and smoked cigarettes. He also
had accepted, because of Cornélie and because the district around the
Lake of San Stefano, which was overlooked by the castle, attracted
him. He promised Cornélie with a smile not to be so stiff. He would
do his best to make himself agreeable. He looked down rather haughtily
on the prince. He considered him a scallywag, but no longer a bounder
or a cad. He thought him childish, but not base or ignoble.

Cornélie went off. He took her to the station. In the cab she kissed
him fondly and told him how much she would miss him during those few
days. Would he come soon? In a week? She would be longing for him:
she could not do without him. She looked deep into his eyes, which
she loved. He also said that he would be terribly bored without
her. Couldn't he come earlier, she asked. No, Urania had fixed
the date.

When he helped her into a second-class compartment, she felt sad to
be going without him. The carriage was full; she occupied the last
vacant seat. She sat between a fat peasant and an old peasant-woman;
the man civilly helped her to put her little portmanteau in the rack
and asked whether she minded if he smoked his pipe. She civilly
answered no. Opposite them sat two priests in frayed cassocks. An
unimportant-looking little brown wooden box was lying between their
feet: it was the supreme unction, which they were taking to a dying
person.

The peasant entered into conversation with Cornélie, asked if she was
a foreigner: English, no doubt? The old peasant-woman offered her a
tangerine orange.

The remainder of the compartment was occupied by a middle-class family:
father, mother, a small boy and two little sisters. The slow train
shook, rattled and wound its way along, stopping constantly. The
little girls kept on humming tunes. At one station a lady stepped
out of a first-class carriage with a little girl of five, in a white
frock and a hat with white ostrich-feathers.

"Oh, che bellezza!" cried the small boy. "Mamma, mamma, look! Isn't
she beautiful? Isn't she lovely? Divinamente! Oh ... mamma!"

He closed his black eyes, lovelorn, dazzled by the little white
girl of five. The parents laughed, the priests laughed, everybody
laughed. But the boy was not at all confused:

"Era una bellezza!" he repeated once more, casting a glance of
conviction all around him.

It was very hot in the train. Outside, the mountains gleamed white on
the horizon and glittered like a fire with opal reflections. Close to
the railway stood a row of eucalyptus-trees, sickle-leaved, brewing a
heavy perfume. On the dry, sun-scorched plain, the wild cattle grazed,
lifting their black curly heads with indifference to the train. In the
stifling, stewing heat, the passengers' drowsy heads nodded up and
down, while a smell of sweat, tobacco-smoke and orange-peel mingled
with the scent of the eucalyptuses outside. The train swung round a
curve, rattling like a toy-train of tin coaches almost tumbling over
one another. And a level stretch of unruffled lazulite--metallic,
crystalline, sky-blue--came into view, spreading into an oval goblet
between slopes of mountain-land, like a very deep-set vase in which a
sacred fluid was kept very blue and pure and motionless by a wall of
rocky hills, which rose higher and higher until, as the train swung
and rattled round the clear goblet, at one lofty point a castle
stood, coloured like the rocks, broad, massive and monastic, with
the cloisters running down the slope. It rose in noble and sombre
melancholy; and from the train one could hardly distinguish what was
rock and what was building-stone, as though it were all one barbaric
growth, as though the castle had grown naturally out of the rock and,
in growing, had assumed something of the shape of a human dwelling
of the earliest times. And, as though the oval with its divine blue
water had been a sacred reservoir, the mountains hedged in the Lake
of San Stefano and the castle rose as its gloomy guardian.

The train wound along a curve by the water-side, swung round a
bend, then round another and stopped: San Stefano. It was a small,
quiet town, lying sleepily in the sun, without life or traffic, and
visited only in the winter by day-trippers, who came from Rome to
see the cathedral and the castle and tasted the wine of the country
at the osteria.

When Cornélie alighted, she at once saw the prince.

"How sweet of you to come and look us up in our eyrie!" he cried,
in rapture, eagerly pressing her two hands.

He led her through the station to his little basket-carriage, with
two little horses and a tiny groom. A porter would bring her luggage
to the castle.

"It's delightful of you to come!" he repeated. "You have never been
to San Stefano before? You know the cathedral is famous. We shall go
right through the town: the road to the castle runs behind it."

He was smiling with pleasure. He started the horses with a click of
his tongue, with a repeated shake of the reins, like a child. They
flew along the road, between the low, sleepy little houses, across
the square, where in the glowing sunlight the glorious cathedral
rose, Lombardo-Romanesque in style, begun in the eleventh and added
to in every succeeding century, with the campanile on the left and
the battisterio on the right: marvels of architecture in red, black
and white marble, one vast sculpture of angels, saints and prophets
and all as it were covered with a thick dust of ages, which had long
since tempered the colours of the marble to rose, grey and yellow and
which hovered between the groups as the one and only thing that had
been left over of all those centuries, as though they had sunk into
dust in every crevice.

The prince drove across a long bridge, whose arches were the remains of
an ancient aqueduct and now stood in the river, the bed of which was
quite dried up, with children playing in it. Then he let the little
horses climb at a foot's pace. The road led steeply, winding, barren
and rocky, up to the castle, while valleys of olives sank beneath
them, affording an ever wider view over the ever wider panorama of
blue-white mountains and opal horizons gleaming in the sun, with
suddenly a glimpse of the lake, the oval goblet, now sunk deeper and
deeper, as in a fluted brim of sun-scorched hills, its blue growing
deeper and more precipitous, a mystic blue that caught all the blue
of the sky, until the air shimmered between lake and sky as in long
spirals of light that whirled before the eyes. Until suddenly there
drifted an intoxication of orange-blossom, a heavy, sensual breath
as of panting love, as though thousands of mouths were exhaling a
perfumed breath that hung stiflingly in the windless atmosphere of
light, between the lake and the sky.

The prince, happy and vivacious, talked a great deal, pointed this
way and that with his whip, clicked at the horses, asked Cornélie
questions, asked if she did not admire the landscape. Slowly, straining
the muscles of their hind-legs, the horses drew the carriage up the
ascent. The castle lay massive, huddling close to the ground. The
lake sank lower and lower. The horizons became wider, like a world;
a fitful breeze blew away some of the orange-blossom breath. The road
became broad, easy and level. The castle lay extended like a fortress,
like a town, behind its pinnacled walls, with gate within gate. They
drove in, across a courtyard, under an archway into a second courtyard,
under a second archway with a third courtyard. And Cornélie received
a sensation of awe, a vision of pillars, arches, statues, arcades
and fountains. They alighted.

Urania ran out to meet her, embraced her, welcomed her affectionately
and took her up the stairs and through the passages to her room. The
windows were open; she looked out at the lake and the town and the
cathedral. And Urania kissed her again and made her sit down. And
Cornélie was struck by the fact that Urania had grown thin and had lost
her former brilliant beauty of an American girl, with the unconscious
look of a cocotte in her eyes, her smile and her clothes. She was
changed. She had "gone off" a little and was no longer so pretty,
as though her good looks had been a short-lived pretence, consisting
of freshness rather than line. But, if she had lost her bloom, she
had gained a certain distinction, a certain style, something that
surprised Cornélie. Her gestures were quieter, her voice was softer,
her mouth seemed smaller and was not always splitting open to display
her white teeth; her dress was exceedingly simple: a blue skirt and a
white blouse. Cornélie found it difficult to realize that the young
Princess di Forte-Braccio, Duchess di San Stefano, was Miss Urania
Hope of Chicago. A slight melancholy had come over her, which became
her, even though she was less pretty. And Cornélie reflected that
she must have some sorrow, which had smoothed her angles, but that
she was also tactfully accommodating herself to her entirely novel
environment. She asked Urania if she was happy. Urania said yes,
with her sad smile, which was so new and so surprising. And she
told her story. They had had a pleasant winter at Nice, but among
a cosmopolitan circle of friends, for, though her new relations
were very kind, they were exceedingly condescending and Virgilio's
friends, especially the ladies, kept her at arm's length in an almost
insolent fashion. Already during the honeymoon she had perceived
that the aristocracy were prepared to tolerate her, but that they
could never forget that she was the daughter of Hope the Chicago
stockinet-manufacturer. She had seen that she was not the only one who,
though she was now a princess and duchess, was accepted on sufferance
and only for her millions: there were others like herself. She had
formed no friendships. People came to her parties and dances: they
were frère et compagnon and hand and glove with Gilio; the women
called him by his Christian name, laughed and flirted with him and
seemed quite to approve of him for marrying a few millions. To Urania
they were just barely civil, especially the women: the men were not
so difficult. But the whole thing saddened her, especially with all
these women of the higher nobility--bearers of the most famous names
in Italy--who treated her with condescension and always managed to
exclude her from every intimacy, from all private gatherings, from all
cooperation in the matter of parties or charities. When everything
had been discussed, then they asked the Princess di Forte-Braccio
to take part and offered her the place to which she was entitled
and even did so with scrupulous punctiliousness. They manifestly
treated her as a princess and an equal in the eyes of the world, of
the public. But in their own set she remained Urania Hope. And the
few other, middle-class millionaire elements of course ran after her,
but she kept these at a distance; and Gilio approved. And what had
Gilio said when she once complained of her grievance to him? That she,
by displaying tactfulness, would certainly conquer her position, but
with great patience and after many, many years. She was now crying,
with her head on Cornélie's shoulder: oh, she reflected, she would
never conquer them, those haughty women! What after all was she,
a Hope, compared with all those celebrated families, which together
made up the ancient glory of Italy and which, like the Massimos,
traced back their descent to the Romans of old?

Was Gilio kind? Yes, but from the beginning he had treated her as
"his wife." All his pleasantness, all his cheerfulness was kept for
others: he never talked to her much. And the young princess wept: she
felt lonely, she sometimes longed for America. She had now invited her
brother to stay with her, a nice boy of seventeen, who had come over
for her wedding and travelled about Europe a little before returning
to his farm in the Far West. He was her darling, he consoled her;
but he would be gone in a few weeks. And then what would she have
left? Oh, how glad she was that Cornélie had come! And how well she
was looking, prettier than she had ever seen her look! Van der Staal
had accepted: he would be here in a week. She asked, in a whisper,
were they not going to get married? Cornélie answered positively no;
she was not marrying, she would never marry again. And, in a sudden
burst of candour, unable to conceal things from Urania, she told
her that she was no longer living in the Via dei Serpenti, that she
was living in Duco's studio. Urania was startled by this breach of
every convention; but she regarded her friend as a woman who could
do things which another could not. So it was only their happiness
and friendship, she whispered, as though frightened, and without
the sanction of society? Urania remembered Cornélie's imprecations
against marriage and, formerly, against the prince. But she did like
Gilio a little now, didn't she? Oh, she, Urania, would not be jealous
again! She thought it delightful that Cornélie had come; and Gilio,
who was bored, had also looked forward so to her arrival. Oh, no,
Urania was no longer jealous!

And, with her head on Cornélie's shoulder and her eyes still full
of tears, she seemed merely to ask for a little friendship, a little
affection, a few kind words and caresses, this wealthy American child
who now bore the title of an ancient Italian house. And Cornélie
felt for her because she was suffering, because she was no longer
a small insignificant person, whose line of life happened to cross
her own. She took her in her arms, comforted her, the weeping little
princess, as with a new friendship; she accepted her in her life as a
friend, no longer as a small insignificant person. And, when Urania,
staring wide-eyed, remembered Cornélie's warning, Cornélie treated that
warning lightly and said that Urania ought to show more courage. Tact,
she possessed, innate tact. But she must be courageous and face life
as it came....

They stood up and, clasped in each other's arms, looked out of the
open window. The bells of the cathedral were pealing through the air;
the cathedral rose in noble pride from out of a very low huddle of
roofs, a gigantic cathedral for so small a town, an immense symbol
of ecclesiastical dominion over the roof-tops of the little town
kneeling in reverence. And the awe which had filled Cornélie in the
courtyard, among the arcades, statues and fountains, inspired her anew,
because glory and grandeur, dying but not dead, mouldering but not
spent, seemed to loom dimly from the mystic blue of the lake, from
the age-old architecture of the cathedral, up the orange-clad hills
to the castle, where at an open window stood a young foreign woman,
discouraged, although that phantom of glory and grandeur needed her
millions in order to endure for a few more generations....

"It is beautiful and stately, all this past," thought Cornélie. "It
is great. But still it is no longer anything. It is a phantom. For
it is gone, it is all gone, it is but a memory of proud and arrogant
nobles, of narrow souls that do not look towards the future."

And the future, with a confusion of social problems, with the waving of
new banners and streamers, now whirled before her in the long spirals
of light, which, like blue notes of interrogation, shimmered before
her eyes, between the lake and the sky.



CHAPTER XXXIII


Cornélie had changed her dress and now left her room. She went down
the corridor and saw nobody. She did not know the way, but walked
on. Suddenly a wide staircase fell away before her, between two
rows of gigantic marble candelabra; and Cornélie came to an atrio
which opened over the lake. The walls, with frescoes by Mantegna,
representing feats of bygone San Stefanos, supported a cupola which,
painted with sky and clouds, appeared as though it were open to the
outer air and which was surrounded by groups of cupids and nymphs
looking down from a balustrade.

She stepped outside and saw Gilio. He was sitting on the balustrade
of the terrace, smoking a cigarette and gazing at the lake. He came
up to her:

"I was almost sure that you would come this way," he said. "Aren't
you tired? May I show you round? Have you seen our Mantegnas? They
have suffered badly. They were restored at the beginning of the
century. [2] They look rather dilapidated, don't they? Do you see
that little mythological scene up there, by Giulio Romano? Come here,
through this door. But it's locked. Wait...."

He called out an order to some one below. Presently an old serving-man
arrived with a heavy bunch of keys, which he handed to the prince.

"You can go, Egisto. I know the keys."

The man went away. The prince opened a heavy bronze door. He showed
her the bas-reliefs:

"Giovanni da Bologna," he said.

They went on, through a room hung with tapestries; the prince pointed
to a ceiling by Ghirlandajo: the apotheosis of the only pope of
the house of San Stefano. Next through a hall of mirrors, painted
by Mario de' Flori. The dusty, musty smell of an ill-kept museum,
with its atmosphere of neglect and indifference, stifled the breath;
the white-silk window-curtains were yellow with age, soiled by flies;
the red curtains of Venetian damask hung in moth-eaten rags and
tatters; the painted mirrors were dull and tarnished; the arms of
the Venetian glass chandeliers were broken. Pushed aside anyhow,
like so much rubbish in a lumber-room, stood the most precious
cabinets, inlaid with bronze, mother-of-pearl and ebony panels,
and mosaic tables of lapis-lazuli, malachite and green, yellow,
black and pink marble. In the tapestries--Saul and David, Esther,
Holofernes, Salome--the vitality of the figures had evaporated,
as though they were suffocated under the grey coat of dust that lay
thick upon their worn textures and neutralized every colour.

In the immense halls, half-dark in their curtained dusk, a sort of
sorrow lingered, like a melancholy of hopeless, conquered exasperation,
a slow decline of greatness and magnificence; between the masterpieces
of the most famous painters mournful empty spaces yawned, the witnesses
of pinching penury, spaces once occupied by pictures that had once
and even lately been sold for fortunes. Cornélie remembered something
about a law-suit some years ago, an attempt to send some Raphaels
across the frontier, in defiance of the law, and to sell them in
Berlin.... And Gilio led her hurriedly through the spectral halls,
gay as a boy, light-hearted as a child, glad to have his diversion,
mentioning without affection or interest names which he had heard in
his childhood, but making mistakes and correcting himself and at last
confessing that he had forgotten:

"And here is the camera degli sposi...."

He fumbled at the bunch of keys, read the brass labels till he found
the right one and opened the door, which grated on its hinges; and
they went in.

And suddenly there was something like an intense and exquisite
stateliness of intimacy: a huge bedroom, all gold, with the dim gold
of tenderly faded golden tissues. On the walls were gold-coloured
tapestries: Venus rising from the gilt foam of a golden ocean, Venus
and Mars, Venus and Cupid, Venus and Adonis. The pale-pink nudity of
these mythological beings stood forth very faintly against the sheer
gold of sky and atmosphere, in golden woodlands, amid golden flowers,
with golden cupids and swans and doves and wild boars; golden peacocks
drank from golden fountains; water and clouds were of elemental gold;
and all this had tenderly faded into a languorous sunset of expiring
radiance. The state bed was gold, under a canopy of gold brocade, on
which the armorial bearings of the family were embroidered in heavy
relief; the bedspread was gold; but all this gold was lifeless, had
lapsed into the melancholy of all but grey lustre: it was effaced,
erased, obliterated, as though the dusty ages had cast a shadow over
it, had woven a web across it.

"How beautiful!" said Cornélie.

"Our famous bridal chamber," said the prince, laughing. "It was a
strange idea of those old people, to spend the first night in such
a peculiar apartment. When they married, in our family, they slept
here on the bridal night. It was a sort of superstition. The young
wife remained faithful only provided it was here that she spent the
first night with her husband. Poor Urania! We did not sleep here,
signora mia, among all these indecent goddesses of love. We no longer
respect the family tradition. Urania is therefore doomed by fate to
be unfaithful to me. Unless I take that doom on my own shoulders...."

"I suppose the fidelity of the husbands is not mentioned in this
family tradition?"

"No, we attached very little importance to that ... nor do we
nowadays...."

"It's glorious," Cornélie repeated, locking around her. "Duco will
think it perfectly glorious. Oh, prince, I never saw such a room! Look
at Venus over there, with the wounded Adonis, his head in her lap,
the nymphs lamenting! It is a fairy-tale."

"There's too much gold for my taste."

"It may have been so before, too much gold...."

"Masses of gold denoted wealth and abundant love. The wealth is
gone...."

"But the gold is softened now, so beautifully toned down...."

"The abundant love has remained: the San Stefanos have always loved
much."

He went on jesting, called attention to the wantonness of the design
and risked an allusion.

She pretended not to hear. She looked at the tapestries. In the
intervals between the panels golden peacocks drank from golden
fountains and cupids played with doves.

"I am so fond of you!" he whispered in her ear, putting his arm round
her waist. "Angel! Angel!"

She pushed him away:

"Prince...."

"Call me Gilio!"

"Why can't we be just good friends?"

"Because I want something more than friendship."

She now released herself entirely:

"And I don't!" she answered, coldly.

"Do you only love one then?"

"Yes."

"That's not possible."

"Why not?"

"Because, if so, you would marry him. If you loved nobody but Van
der Staal, you would marry him."

"I am opposed to marriage."

"Nonsense! You're not marrying him, so that you may be free. And, if
you want to be free, I also am entitled to ask for my moment of love."

She gave him a strange look. He felt her scorn.

"You ... you don't understand me at all," she said, slowly and
compassionately.

"You understand me."

"Oh, yes! You are so very simple!"

"Why won't you?"

"Because I won't."

"Why not?"

"Because I haven't that feeling for you."

"Why not?" he insisted; and his hands clenched as he spoke.

"Why not?" she repeated. "Because I think you a cheerful and pleasant
companion with whom to take things lightly, but in other respects
your temperament is not in tune with mine."

"What do you know about my temperament?"

"I can see you."

"You are not a doctor."

"No, but I am a woman."

"And I a man."

"But not for me."

Furiously, with a curse, he caught her in his quivering arms. Before
she could prevent him, he had kissed her fiercely. She struggled out
of his grasp and slapped his face. He gave another curse and flung
out his arms to seize her again, but she drew herself up:

"Prince!" she cried, screaming with laughter. "You surely don't think
that you can compel me?"

"Of course I do!"

She gave a disdainful laugh:

"You can not," she said, aloud. "For I refuse and I will not be
compelled."

He saw red, he was furious. He had never before been defied and
thwarted; he had always conquered.

She saw him rushing at her, but she quietly flung back the door of
the room.

The long galleries and apartments stretched out before them, as
though endlessly. There was something in that vista of ancestral
spaciousness that restrained him. He was an impetuous rather than a
deliberate ravisher. She walked on very slowly, looking attentively
to right and left.

He came up with her:

"You struck me!" he panted, furiously. "I'll never forgive it, never!"

"I beg your pardon," she said, with her sweetened voice and smile. "I
had to defend myself, you know."

"Why?"

"Prince," she said, persuasively, "why all this anger and passion and
exasperation? You can be so nice; when I saw you last in Rome you
were so charming. We were always such good friends. I enjoyed your
conversation and your wit and your good-nature. Now it's all spoilt."

"No," he entreated.

"Yes, it is. You won't understand me. Your temperament is not in
harmony with mine. Don't you understand? You force me to speak
coarsely, because you are coarse yourself."

"I?"

"Yes. You don't believe in the sincerity of my independence."

"No, I don't!"

"Is that courteous, towards a woman?"

"I am courteous only up to a certain point."

"We have left that point behind. So be courteous again as before."

"You are playing with me. I shall never forget it; I will be revenged."

"So it's a struggle for life and death?"

"No, a struggle for victory, for me."

They had reached the atrio:

"Thanks for showing me round," she said, a little mockingly. "The
camera degli sposi, above all, was splendid. Don't let us be angry
any more."

And she offered him her hand.

"No," he said, "you struck me here, in the face. My cheek is still
burning. I won't accept your hand."

"Poor cheek!" she said, teasingly. "Poor prince! Did I hit hard?"

"Yes."

"How can I extinguish that burning?"

He looked at her, still breathing hard, and flushed, with glittering
carbuncle eyes:

"You're a bigger coquette than any Italian woman."

She laughed:

"With a kiss?" she asked.

"Demon!" he muttered, between his teeth.

"With a kiss?" she repeated.

"Yes," he said. "There, in our camera degli sposi."

"No, here."

"Demon!" he muttered, still more softly.

She kissed him quickly. Then she gave him her hand:

"And now that's over. The incident is closed."

"Angel! She-devil!" he hissed after her.

She looked over the balustrade at the lake. Evening had fallen and
the lake lay shimmering in mist. She regarded him as a young boy,
who sometimes amused her and had now been naughty. She was no longer
thinking of him; she was thinking of Duco:

"How lovely he will think it here!" she thought. "Oh, how I long
for him!..."

There was a rustle of women's skirts behind her. It was Urania and
the Marchesa Belloni.



CHAPTER XXXIV


Urania asked Cornélie to come in, because it was not healthy out of
doors now, at sunset, with the misty exhalations from the lake. The
marchesa bowed coldly and stiffly, pinched her eyes together and
pretended not to remember Cornélie very well.

"I can understand that," said Cornélie, smiling acidly. "You see
different boarders at your pension every day and I stayed for a much
shorter time than you reckoned on. I hope that you soon disposed
of my rooms again, marchesa, and that you suffered no loss through
my departure?"

The Marchesa Belloni looked at her in mute amazement. She was here,
at San Stefano, in her element as a marchioness; she, the sister-in-law
of the old prince, never spoke here of her foreigners' boarding-house;
she never met her Roman guests here: they sometimes visited the castle,
but only at fixed hours, whereas she spent the weeks of her summer
villeggiatura here. And here she laid aside her plausible manner
of singing the praises of a chilly room, her commercial habit of
asking the most that she dared. She here carried her curled, leonine
head with a lofty dignity; and, though she still wore her crystal
brilliants in her ears, she also wore a brand-new spencer around her
ample bosom. She could not help it, that she, a countess by birth,
she, the Marchesa Belloni--the late marquis was a brother of the
defunct princess--possessed no personal distinction, despite all
her quarterings; but she felt herself to be, as indeed she was, an
aristocrat. The friends, the monsignori whom she did sometimes meet
at San Stefano, promoted the Pension Belloni in their conversation
and called it the Palazzo Belloni.

"Oh, yes," she said, at last, very coolly, blinking her eyes with
an aristocratic air, "I remember you now ... although I've forgotten
your name. A friend of the Princess Urania, I believe? I am glad to
see you again, very glad.... And what do you think of your friend's
marriage?" she asked, as she went up the stairs beside Cornélie,
between Mino da Fiesole's marble candelabra.

Gilio, still angry and flushed and not at all calmed by the kiss, had
moved away. Urania had run on ahead. The marchesa knew of Cornélie's
original opposition, of her former advice to Urania; and she was
certain that Cornélie had acted in this way because she herself had had
views on Gilio. There was a note of triumphant irony in her question.

"I think it was made in Heaven," Cornélie replied, in a bantering
tone. "I believe there is a blessing on their marriage."

"The blessing of his holiness," said the marchesa, naïvely, not
understanding.

"Of course: the blessing of his holiness ... and of Heaven."

"I thought you were not religious?"

"Sometimes, when I think of their marriage, I become very
religious. What peace for the Princess Urania's soul when she became
a Catholic! What happiness in life, to marry il caro Gilio! There is
still peace and happiness left in life."

The marchesa had a vague suspicion that she was mocking and thought
her a dangerous woman.

"And you, has our religion no charm for you?"

"A great deal! I have a great feeling for beautiful churches and
pictures. But that is an artistic conception. You will not understand
it perhaps, for I don't think you are artistic, marchesa? And
marriage also has charms for me, a marriage like Urania's. Couldn't
you help me too some time, marchesa? Then I will spend a whole
winter in your pension and--who knows?--perhaps I too shall become
a Catholic. You might give Rudyard another chance, with me; and,
if that didn't succeed, the two monsignori. Then I should certainly
become converted.... And it would of course be lucrative."

The marchesa looked at her haughtily, white with rage:

"Lucrative?..."

"If you get me an Italian title, but accompanied by money, of course
it would be lucrative."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, ask the old prince, marchesa, or the two monsignori."

"What do you know about it? What are you thinking of?"

"I? Nothing!" Cornélie answered, coolly. "But I have second sight. I
sometimes suddenly see a thing. So keep on friendly terms with me and
don't pretend again to forget an old boarder.... Is this the Princess
Urania's room? You go in first, marchesa; after you...."

The marchesa entered all aquiver: she had thoughts of witchcraft. How
did that woman know anything of her transactions with the old prince
and the monsignori? How did she come to suspect that Urania's marriage
and her conversion had enriched the marchesa to the tune of a few
ten thousand lire?

She had not only had a lesson: she was shuddering, she was
frightened. Was that woman a witch? Was she the devil? Had she the
mal'occhio? And the marchesa made the sign of the jettatura with her
little finger and fore-finger in the folds of her dress and muttered:

"Vade retro, Satanas...."

In her own drawing-room, Urania poured out tea. The three pointed
windows of the room overlooked the town and the ancient cathedral,
which in the orange reflection of the last gleams of sunset shot up
for yet a moment out of its grey dust of ages with the dim huddle
of its saints, prophets and angels. The room, hung with handsome
tapestries--an allegory of Abundance: nymphs outpouring the contents
of their cornucopias--was half old, half modern, not always perfect in
taste or pure in tone, with here and there a few hideously commonplace
modern ornaments, here and there some modern comfort that clashed
with the rest, but still cosy, inhabited and Urania's home. A
young man rose from a chair and Urania introduced him to Cornélie
as her brother. Young Hope was a strongly-built, fresh-looking boy
of eighteen; he was still in his bicycling-suit: it didn't matter,
said his sister, just to drink a cup of tea. Laughing, she stroked
his close-clipped round head and, with the ladies' permission,
gave him his tea first: then he would go and change. He looked so
strange, so new and so healthy as he sat there with his fresh, pink
complexion, his broad chest, his strong hands and muscular calves,
with the youthfulness of a young Yankee farmer who, notwithstanding
the millions of "old man Hope," worked on his farm, way out in the Far
West, to make his own fortune; he looked so strange in this ancient
San Stefano, within view of that severely symbolical cathedral,
against this background of old tapestries. And suddenly Cornélie
was impressed still more strangely by the new young princess. Her
name--her American name of Urania--had a first-rate sound: "the
Princess Urania" sounded unexpectedly well. But the little young wife,
a trifle pale, a trifle sad, with her clipping American accent,
suddenly struck Cornélie as somewhat out of place amid the faded
glories of San Stefano. Cornélie was continually forgetting that
Urania was Princess di Forte-Braccio: she always thought of her
as Miss Hope. And yet Urania possessed great tact, great ease of
manner, a great power of assimilation. Gilio had entered; and the
few words which she addressed to her husband were, quite naturally,
almost dignified ... and yet carried, to Cornélie's ears, a sound
of resigned disillusionment which made her pity Urania. She had from
the beginning felt a vague liking for Urania; now she felt a fonder
affection. She was sorry for this child, the Princess Urania. Gilio
behaved to her with careless coolness, the marchesa with patronizing
condescension. And then there was that awful loneliness around her, of
all that ruined magnificence. She stroked her young brother's head. She
spoilt him, she asked him if his tea was all right and stuffed him
with sandwiches, because he was hungry after his bicycle-ride. She
had him with her now as a reminder of home, a reminder of Chicago;
she almost clung to him. But for the rest she was surrounded by the
depressing gloom of the immense castle, the neglected glory of its
ancient stateliness, the conceit of that aristocratic pride, which
could do without her but not without her millions. And for Cornélie
she had lost all her absurdity as an American parvenue and, on the
contrary, had acquired an air of tragedy, as of a young sacrificial
victim. How alien they were as they sat there, the young princess
and her brother, with his muscular calves!

Urania displayed her portfolio of drawings and designs: the ideas
of a young Roman architect for restoring the castle. And she became
excited, with a flush in her cheeks, when Cornélie asked her if
so much restoration would really be beautiful. Urania defended her
architect. Gilio smoked cigarettes with an air of indifference; he was
in a bad temper. The marchesa sat like an idol, with her leonine head
and the crystals sparkling in her ears. She was afraid of Cornélie and
promised herself to be on her guard. A major-domo came and announced
to the princess that dinner was served. And Cornélie recognized old
Giuseppe from the Pension Belloni, the old archducal major-domo, who
had once dropped a spoon, according to Rudyard's story. She looked
at Urania with a laugh and Urania blushed:

"Poor man!" she said, when Giuseppe was gone. "Yes, I took him over
from my aunt. He was so hard-worked at the Palazzo Belloni! Here
he has very little to do and he has a young butler under him. The
number of servants had to be increased in any case. He is enjoying
a pleasant old age here, poor dear old Giuseppe.... There, Bob,
now you haven't dressed!"

"She's a dear child," thought Cornélie, while they all rose and
Urania gently reproached her brother, as she would a spoiled boy,
for coming down to dinner in his knickerbockers.



CHAPTER XXXV


They were in the great sombre dining-room, with the almost black
tapestries, with the almost black panels of the ceiling, with the
almost black oak carvings, with the black, monumental chimney-piece
and, above it, the arms of the family in black marble. The light of
two tall silver candle-sticks on the table merely cast a gleam over
the damask and crystal, but left the remainder of the too large room
in a gloomy obscurity of shadow, piled in the corners into masses of
densest shadow, with a fainter shadow descending from the ceiling like
a haze of dark velvet that floated in atoms above the candlelight. The
ancestral antiquity of San Stefano hovered above them in this room
like a palpable sense of awe, blended with a melancholy of black
silence and black pride. Here their words sounded muffled. This
still remained as it always had been, retaining as it were the
sacrosanctity of their aristocratic traditions, in which Urania
would never dare to alter anything, even as she hardly ventured to
open her mouth to speak or eat. They waited for a moment. Then a
double door was opened. And there entered like a spectral shade an
old, grey man, with his arm in the arm of the priest walking beside
him. Old Prince Ercole approached with very slow and stately steps,
while the chaplain regulated his pace by that stately slowness. He
wore a long black coat of an old-fashioned, roomy cut, which hung
about him in folds, something like a cassock, and on his silvery grey
hair, which waved over his neck, a black-velvet skull-cap. And the
others approached him with the greatest respect: first the marchesa;
then Urania, whom he kissed on the forehead, very slowly, as though
he were consecrating her; then Gilio, who submissively kissed his
father's hand. The old man nodded to young Hope, who bowed, and
glanced towards Cornélie. Urania presented her. And the prince said
a few amiable words to her, as though he were granting an audience,
and asked her if she liked Italy. When Cornélie had replied, Prince
Ercole sat down and handed his skull-cap to Giuseppe, who took it with
a deep bow. Then they all sat down: the marchesa and the chaplain
opposite Prince Ercole, who sat between Cornélie and Urania; Gilio
next to Cornélie; Bob Hope next to his sister:

"My legs don't show," he whispered.

"Ssh!" said Urania.

Giuseppe, revivified in his former dignity, standing at a sideboard,
solemnly filled the plates with soup. He was back in his element; he
was obviously grateful to Urania; he wore a distinguished air, as of
one whose mind is at peace, and looked like an elderly diplomatist in
his dress-coat. He amused Cornélie, who thought of Belloni's, where
he used to become impatient when the visitors were late at meals and
to rail at the young greenhorns of waiters whom the marchesa engaged
for economy's sake. When the two footmen had handed round the soup,
the chaplain stood up and said grace. Not a word had been spoken
yet. They ate the soup in silence, while the three servants stood
motionless. The spoons clinked against the plates and the marchesa
smacked her lips. The candles flickered now and again; and the shadow
fell more oppressively, like a haze of black velvet. Then Prince Ercole
addressed the marchesa. And turn by turn he addressed them all, with a
kindly, condescending dignity, in French and Italian. The conversation
became a little more general, but the old prince continued to lead
it. And Cornélie noticed that he was very civil to Urania. But she
remembered Gilio's words:

"Papa nearly had a stroke, because old Hope haggled over Urania's
dowry. Ten millions? Five millions? Not three millions! Dollars? No,
lire!"

And the prince suddenly struck her as the grey-haired egoism of San
Stefano's glory and aristocratic pride, struck her as the living
shade of the past that loomed behind him, as she had felt it that
afternoon, when she stood gazing with Urania into the deep, blue lake:
an exacting shade; a shade demanding millions; a shade demanding a new
increment of vitality; a spectral parasite who had sold his depreciated
symbols to gratify the vanity of a new commercial house, but who, in
his distinction, had been no match for the merchant's cunning. Their
title of princess and duchess for less than three million lire! Papa
had almost had a stroke, Gilio had said. And Cornélie, during the
measured, affable stiffness of the conversation led by Prince Ercole,
looked from the old prince and duke, seventy years of age, to the
breezy young Far-Westerner, aged eighteen, and from him to Prince
Gilio, the hope of the old house, its only hope. Here, in the gloom of
this dining-room, where he was bored and moreover still out of temper,
he seemed small, insignificant, shrunken, a paltry, distinguished
little viveur; and his carbuncle eyes, which could sparkle merrily
with wit and depravity, now looked dully, from under their drooping
lids, upon his plate, at which he picked without appetite.

She felt sorry for him; and her mind went back to the golden bridal
chamber. She despised him a little. She looked upon him not so much
as a man who could not obtain what he wanted but rather as a naughty
boy. And he must feel jealous of Bob, she reflected: jealous of his
young blood, which tingled in his cheeks, of his broad shoulders and
his broad chest. But still he amused her. He could be very agreeable,
gay and witty and vivacious, when in the mood, vivacious in his words
and in his wits. She liked him, when all was said. And then he was
good-hearted. She thought of the bracelet and especially the thousand
lire, always remembered, with a certain emotion, how touched she had
been during that walk up and down past the post-office, how touched
by his letter and his generous assistance. He had no backbone, he was
not a man to her; but he was witty and he had a very good heart. She
liked him as a friend and a pleasant companion. How dejected and moody
he was! But then why would he venture on those silly enterprises?...

She spoke to him now and again, but could not succeed in rousing
him from his depression. For the rest, the conversation dragged on
stiffly and affably, always led by Prince Ercole. The dinner came to
an end; and Prince Ercole rose from his chair. Giuseppe handed him his
skull-cap; every one said good-night to him; the doors were opened
and Prince Ercole withdrew, leaning on his chaplain's arm. Gilio,
still angry, disappeared. The marchesa, still terrified of Cornélie,
also disappeared, making the jettatura at her in the folds of her
dress. And Urania took Cornélie and Bob back with her to her own
drawing-room. They all three breathed again. They all talked freely, in
English: the boy said in despair that he wasn't getting enough to eat,
that he dared not eat enough to stay his hunger; and Cornélie laughed,
thinking him jolly, because of his wholesomeness, while Urania hunted
out some biscuits for him and a piece of cake left over from tea and
promised that he should have some cold meat and bread before they
went to bed. And they relaxed their minds after the pompous, stately
meal. Urania said that the old prince never appeared except at dinner,
but that she always looked him up in the morning and sat talking to
him for an hour or playing chess with him. At other times he played
chess with the chaplain. She was very busy, Urania. The reorganizing
of the housekeeping, which used to be left to a poor relation, who
now lived at a pension in Rome, took up a lot of her time. In the
mornings, she discussed a host of details with Prince Ercole, who,
notwithstanding his secluded life, knew about everything. Then she
had consultations with her architect from Rome about the restorations
to be effected in the castle: these consultations were sometimes held
in the old prince's study. Then she was having a big hostel built in
the town, an albergo dei poveri, a hostel for old men and women, for
which old Hope had given her a separate endowment. When she first came
to San Stefano she had been struck by the ruinous, tumbledown houses
and cottages of the poorer quarters, leprous and scabby with filth,
eaten up by their own poverty, in which a whole population vegetated
like toadstools. She was now building the hostel for the old people,
finding work on the estate for the young and healthy and looking after
the neglected children; she had built a new school-house. She talked
about all this very simply, while cutting cake for her brother Bob,
who was tucking in after his formal dinner. She asked Cornélie to
come with her one morning to see how the albergo was progressing,
to see the new school, run by two priests who had been recommended
to her by the monsignori.

Through the pointed windows the town loomed faintly in the depths
below; and the lines of the cathedral rose high into the sultry,
star-spangled night. And Cornélie thought to herself:

"It was not only for a shadow and an unsubstantial shade that she came
here, the rich American who thought titles 'so nice,' the child who
used to collect patterns of the queen's ball-dresses--she hides the
album now that she is a 'black' princess--the girl who used to trip
through the Forum in her white-serge tailor-made, without understanding
either ancient Rome or the dawn of the new future."

And, as Cornélie went to her own room through the silent heavy darkness
of the Castle of San Stefano, she thought:

"I write, but she acts. I dream and think; but she teaches the
children, though it be with the aid of a priest; she feeds and houses
old men and women."

Then, in her room, looking out at the lake under the summer night
all dusted with stars, she reflected that she too would like to be
rich and to have a wide field of labour. For now she had no field,
now she had no money and now ... now she longed only for Duco; and he
must not leave her too long alone in this castle, amid all this sombre
greatness, which oppressed her as with the weight of the centuries.



CHAPTER XXXVI


Next morning Urania's maid was showing Cornélie through a maze of
galleries to the garden, where breakfast was to be served, when she
met Gilio on the stairs. The maid turned back.

"I still need a guide to find my way," Cornélie laughed.

He grunted some reply.

"How did you sleep, prince?"

He gave another grunt.

"Look here, prince, there must be an end of this ill-temper of
yours. Do you hear? It's got to finish. I insist. I won't have any
more sulking to-day; and I hope that you'll go back to your cheerful,
witty style of conversation as soon as possible, for that's what I
like in you."

He mumbled something.

"Good-bye, prince," said Cornélie, curtly.

And she turned to go away.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To my room. I shall breakfast in my room."

"But why?"

"Because I don't care for you as a host."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. Yesterday you insult me. I defend myself, you go on being
rude, I at once become as amiable as ever, I give you my hand, I
even give you a kiss. At dinner you sulk with me in the most uncivil
fashion. You go to bed without bidding me good-night. This morning you
meet me without a word of greeting. You grunt, sulk and mumble like
a naughty child. Your eyes are blazing with anger, you are yellow
with spleen. Really, you're looking very bad. It doesn't suit you
at all. You are most unpleasant, rough, rude and petty. I have no
inclination to breakfast with you in that mood. And I'm going to
my room."

"No," he implored.

"Yes, I am."

"No, no!"

"Then be different. Make an effort, don't think any more about your
defeat and be nice to me. You're behaving as the offended party,
whereas it is I who ought to take offence. But I don't know how
to sulk and I am not petty. I can't behave pettily. I forgive you;
do you forgive me too. Say something nice, say something pleasant."

"I am mad about you."

"You don't show it. If you're mad about me, be pleasant, civil,
gay and witty. I demand it of you as my host."

"I won't sulk any longer ... but I do love you so! And you struck me!"

"Will you never forget that act of self-defence?"

"No, never!"

"Then good-bye."

She turned to go.

"No, no, don't go back. Come to breakfast in the pergola. I apologize,
I beg your pardon. I won't be rude again, I won't be petty. You are
not petty. You are the most wonderful woman I ever met. I worship you."

"Then worship in silence and amuse me."

His eyes, his black carbuncle eyes, began to light up again, to laugh;
his face lost its wrinkles and cheered up.

"I am too sad to be amusing."

"I don't believe a word of it."

"Honestly, I am full of sorrow and suffering...."

"Poor prince!"

"You just won't believe me. You never take me seriously. I have to
be your clown, your buffoon. And I love you and have nothing to hope
for. Tell me, mayn't I hope?"

"Not much."

"You are inexorable ... and so severe!"

"I have to be severe with you: you are just like a naughty boy.... Oh,
I see the pergola! Do you promise to improve?"

"I shall be good."

"And amusing?"

He heaved a sigh:

"Poor Gilio!" he sighed. "Poor buffoon!"

She laughed. In the pergola were Urania and Bob Hope. The pergola,
overgrown with creeping vine and rambler roses hanging in crimson
clusters, displayed a row of marble caryatides and hermes--nymphs,
satyrs and fauns--whose torsos ended in slender, sculptured pedestals,
while their raised hands supported the flat roof of leaves and
flowers. In the middle was an open rotunda like an open temple;
the circular balustrade was also supported by caryatides; and an
ancient sarcophagus had been adapted to serve as a cistern. A table
was laid for breakfast in the pergola; and they breakfasted without
old Prince Ercole or the marchesa, who broke her fast in her room. It
was eight o'clock; a morning coolness was still wafted from the lake;
a haze of blue gossamer floated over the hills, in the heart of which,
as though surrounded by a gently fluted basin, the lake was sunk like
an oval goblet.

"Oh, how beautiful it is here!" cried Cornélie, delightedly.

Breakfast was a sunny and cheerful meal, after yesterday's dark and
gloomy dinner. Urania talked vivaciously about her albergo, which
she was going to visit presently with Cornélie, Gilio recovered his
amiability and Bob ate heartily. And, when Bob went off bicycling,
Gilio even accompanied the ladies to the town. They drove at a
foot-pace in a landau down the castle road. The sun grew hotter and
the little old town lit up, with whitish-grey and creamy-white houses
like stone mirrors, in which the sun reflected itself, and little open
spaces like walls, into which the sun poured its light. The coachman
pulled up outside the partly-finished albergo. They all alighted;
the contractor approached ceremoniously; the perspiring masons looked
round at the prince and princess. The heat was stifling. Gilio kept
on wiping his forehead and sheltered under Cornélie's parasol. But
Urania was all vivacity and interest; quick and full of energy
in her white-piqué costume, with her white sailor-hat under her
white sun-shade, she tripped along planks, past heaps of bricks and
cement and tubs full of mortar, accompanied by her contractor. She
made him explain things, proffered advice, disagreed with him at
times and pulled a wise face, saying that she did not like certain
measurements and refused to accept the contractor's assurance that
she would like the measurements as the building progressed; she shook
her head and impressed this and that upon him, all in a quick, none
too correct, broken Italian, which she chewed between her teeth. But
Cornélie thought her charming, attractive, every inch the Princess di
Forte-Braccio. There was not a doubt about it. While Gilio, fearful
of dirtying his light flannel suit and brown shoes with the mortar,
remained in the shadow of her parasol, puffing and blowing with the
heat and taking no interest whatever, his wife was untiring, did not
trouble to think that her white skirt was becoming soiled at the hem
and spoke to the contractor with a lively and dignified certainty
which compelled respect. Where had the child learnt that? Where
had she acquired her powers of assimilation? Where did she get this
love for San Stefano, this love for its poor? How had the American
girl picked up this talent for filling her new and exalted position
so worthily? Gilio thought her admirabile and whispered as much to
Cornélie. He was not blind to her good qualities. He thought Urania
splendid, excellent; she always astounded him. No Italian woman of his
own set would have been like that. And they liked her. The servants
at the castle loved her. Giuseppe would have gone through fire and
water for her; that contractor admired her; the masons followed her
respectfully with their eyes, because she was so clever and knew so
much and was so good to them in their poverty.

"Admirabile!" said Gilio.

But he puffed and blowed. He knew nothing about bricks, beams
and measurements and did not understand where Urania had got that
technical sense from. She was indefatigable. She went all over the
works, while he cast up his eyes to Cornélie in entreaty. And at
last, speaking in English, he begged his wife in Heaven's name to come
away. They went back to the carriage; the contractor took off his hat,
the workmen raised their caps with an air of mingled gratitude and
independence. And they drove to the cathedral, which Cornélie wanted
to see. Urania showed her round. Gilio asked to be excused and went
and sat on the steps of the altar, with his hands hanging over his
knees, to cool himself.



CHAPTER XXXVII


A week had passed. Duco had arrived. After the solemn dinner in
the gloomy dining-room, where Duco had been presented to Prince
Ercole, the summer evening, when Cornélie and Duco went outside,
was like a dream. The castle was already wrapped in heavy repose;
but Cornélie had made Giuseppe give her a key. And they went out,
to the pergola. The stars dusted the night sky with a pale radiance;
and the moon crowned the hill-tops and shimmered faintly in the mystic
depths of the lake. A breath of sleeping roses was wafted from the
flower-garden beyond the pergola; and below, in the flat-roofed town,
the cathedral, standing in its moonlit square, lifted its gigantic
fabric to the stars. And sleep hung everywhere, over the lake, over
the town and behind the windows of the castle; the caryatides and
hermes--the satyrs and nymphs--slept, as they bore the leafy roof
of the pergola, in the enchanted attitudes of the servants of the
Sleeping Beauty. A cricket chirped, but fell silent the moment that
Duco and Cornélie approached. And they sat down on an antique bench;
and she flung her arms about his body and nestled against him:

"A week!" she whispered. "A whole week since I saw you, Duco,
my darling. I cannot do so long without you. At everything that I
thought and saw and admired I thought of you, of how lovely you would
think it here. You have been here once before on an excursion. Oh,
but that is so different! It is so beautiful just to stay here,
not just to go on, but to remain. That lake, that cathedral, those
hills! The rooms indoors: neglected but so wonderful! The three
courtyards are dilapidated, the fountains are crumbling to pieces
... but the style of the atrio, the sombre gloom of the dining-room,
the poetry of this pergola!... Duco, doesn't the pergola remind you
of a classic ode? You know how we used to read Horace together: you
translated the verses so well, you improvised so delightfully. How
clever you are! You know so much, you feel things so beautifully. I
love your eyes, your voice, I love you altogether, I love everything
that is you ... I can't tell you how much, Duco. I have gradually
surrendered myself to every word of you, to every sensation of you, to
your love for Rome, to your love for museums, to your manner of seeing
the skies which you put into your drawings. You are so deliriously
calm, almost like this lake. Oh, don't laugh, don't make a jest of it:
it's a week since I saw you, I feel such a need to talk to you! Is it
exaggerated? I don't feel quite normal here either: there is something
in that sky, in that light, that makes me talk like this. It is so
beautiful that I can hardly believe that all this is ordinary life,
ordinary reality.... Do you remember, at Sorrento, on the terrace of
the hotel, when we looked out over the sea, over that pearl-grey sea,
with Naples lying white in the distance? I felt like this then; but
then I dared not speak like this: it was in the morning; there were
people about, whom we didn't see but who saw us and whom I suspected
all around me; but now we are alone and now I want to tell you, in
your arms, against your breast, how happy I am! I love you so! All my
soul, all that is finest in me is for you. You laugh, but you don't
believe me. Or do you? Do you believe me?"

"Yes, I believe you, I am not laughing at you, I am only just
laughing.... Yes, it is beautiful here.... I also feel happy. I am
so happy in you and in my art. You taught me to work, you roused me
from my dreams. I am so happy about The Banners: I have heard from
London; I will show you the letters to-morrow. I have you to thank for
everything. It is almost incredible that this is ordinary life. I have
been so quiet too in Rome. I saw nobody; I just worked a bit, not very
much; and I had my meals alone in the osteria. The two Italians--you
know the men I mean--felt sorry for me, I think. Oh, it was a terrible
week! I can no longer do without you.... Do you remember our first
walks and talks in the Borghese and on the Palatine? How strange we
were to each other then, not a bit in unison. But I believe I felt
at once that all would be well and beautiful between us...."

She was silent and lay against his breast. The cricket chirped again,
with a long quaver. But everything else slept....

"Between us," she repeated, as though in a fever; and she embraced
him passionately.

The whole night slept; and, while they breathed their life in each
other's arms, the enchanted caryatides--fauns and nymphs--lifted the
leafy roof of the pergola above their heads, between them and the
star-spangled sky.



CHAPTER XXXVIII


Gilio hated the villeggiatura at San Stefano. Every morning he had
to be up and dressed by six o'clock, with Prince Ercole, Urania
and the marchesa, to hear mass said by the chaplain in the private
chapel of the castle. After that, he did not know what to do with
his time. He had gone bicycling once or twice with Bob Hope, but the
young Far-Westerner had too much energy for him, like Bob's sister,
Urania. He flirted and argued a little with Cornélie, but secretly he
was still offended and angry with himself and her. He remembered her
first arrival that evening at the Palazzo Ruspoli, when she came and
disturbed his rendez-vous with Urania. And in the camera degli sposi
she had for the second time been too much for him! He seethed with fury
when he thought of it and he hated her and swore by all his gods to be
revenged. He cursed his own lack of resolution. He had been too weak
to use violence or force and there ought never to have been any need
to resort to force: he was accustomed to a quick surrender. And he
had to be told by her, that Dutchwoman, that his temperament did not
respond to hers! What was there about that woman? What did she mean
by it? He was so unaccustomed to thinking, he was such a thoughtless,
easy-going, Italian child of nature, so accustomed to let his life run
on according to his every whim and impulse, that he hardly understood
her--though he suspected the meaning of her words--hardly understood
that reserve of hers. Why should she behave so to him, this foreigner
with her demoniacal new ideas, who cared nothing about the world,
who would have nothing to do with marriage, who lived with a painter
as his mistress! She had no religion and no morals--he knew about
religion and morals--she belonged to the devil; demoniacal was what she
was: didn't she know all about Aunt Lucia Belloni's manoeuvres? And
hadn't Aunt Lucia warned him lately that she was a dangerous woman,
an uncanny woman, a woman of the devil? She was a witch! Why should
she refuse? Hadn't he plainly seen her figure last night going through
the courtyard in the moonlight, beside Van der Staal's figure, and
hadn't he seen them opening the door that led to the terrace by the
pergola? And hadn't he waited an hour, two hours, without sleeping,
until he saw them come back and lock the door after them? And why
did she love only him, that painter? Oh, he hated him, with all the
blazing hatred of his jealousy; he hated her, for her exclusiveness,
for her disdain, for all her jesting and flirting, as though he were
a buffoon, a clown! What was it that he asked? A favour of love, such
as she granted her lover! He was not asking for anything serious,
any oath or lifelong tie; he asked for so little: just one hour of
love. It was of no importance: he had never looked upon that as of much
importance. And she, she refused it to him! No, he did not understand
her, but what he did understand was that she disdained him; and he,
he hated the pair of them. And yet he was enamoured of her with all the
violence of his thwarted passion. In the boredom of that villeggiatura,
to which his wife forced him in her new love for their ruined eyrie,
his hatred and the thought of his revenge formed an occupation for
his empty brains. Outwardly he was the same as usual and flirted with
Cornélie, flirted even more than usual, to annoy Van der Staal. And,
when his cousin, the Countess di Rosavilla--his "white" cousin, the
lady-in-waiting to the queen--came to spend a few days with them,
he flirted with her too and tried to provoke Cornélie's jealousy. He
failed in this, however, and consoled himself with the countess,
who made up to him for his disappointment. She was no longer a young
woman, but represented the cold, sculptured Juno type, with a rather
foolish expression; she had Juno eyes, protruding from their sockets;
she was a leader of fashion at the Quirinal and in the "white"
world; and her reputation for gallantry was generally known. She
had never had a liaison with Gilio that lasted for longer than an
hour. She had very simple ideas on love, without much variety. Her
light-hearted depravity amused Gilio. And, flirting in the corners,
with his foot on hers under her skirt, Gilio told her about Cornélie,
about Duco and about the adventure in the camera degli sposi and asked
his cousin whether she understood. No, the Countess di Rosavilla did
not understand it any too well either. Temperament? Oh, yes, perhaps
she--questa Cornelia--preferred fair men to dark: there were women
who had a preference! And Gilio laughed. It was so simple, l'amore;
there wasn't very much to be said about it.

Cornélie was glad that Gilio had the countess to amuse him. She and
Duco interested themselves in Urania's plans; Duco had long talks with
the architect. And he was indignant and advised them not to rebuild
so much in that undistinguished restoration manner: it was lacking
in style, cost heaps of money and spoilt everything.

Urania was disconcerted, but Duco went on, interrupted the architect,
advised him to build up only what was actually falling to pieces, and,
so far as possible, to confine himself to underpinning, reinforcing
and preserving. And one morning Prince Ercole deigned to walk through
the long rooms with Duco, Urania and Cornélie. There was a great deal
to be done, Duco considered, by merely repairing and artistically
arranging what at present stood thoughtlessly huddled together.

"The curtains?" asked Urania.

"Let them be," Duco considered. "At the most, new window-curtains;
but the old red Venetian damask; oh, let it be, let it be!"

It was so beautiful; here and there it might be patched, very
carefully. He was horrified at Urania's notion: new curtains! And
the old prince was enraptured, because in this way the restoration of
San Stefano would cost thousands less and be much more artistic. He
regarded his daughter-in-law's money as his own and preferred it to
her. He was enraptured: he took Duco with him to his library, showed
him the old missals, the old family books and papers, charters and
deeds of gift, showed him his coins and medals. It was all out of
order and neglected, first from lack of money and then from slighting
indifference; but now Urania wanted to reorganize the family museum
with the aid of experts from Rome, Florence and Bologna. The old
prince's interest revived, now that there was money. And the experts
came and stayed at the castle and Duco spent whole mornings in their
company. He enjoyed every moment of it. He lived in his enchantment
of the past, no longer in the days of antiquity, but in the middle
ages and the Renascence. The days were too short. And his love for
San Stefano became such that one day an archivist took him for the
young prince, for Prince Virgilio. At dinner that evening Prince
Ercole told the story. And everybody laughed, but Gilio thought the
joke beyond price, whereas the archivist, who was there at dinner,
did not know how to apologize sufficiently.



CHAPTER XXXIX


Gilio had followed the advice of his cousin, the Countess di
Rosavilla. Immediately after dinner, he had stolen outside; and he
walked along the pergola to the rotunda, into which the moonlight
fell as into a white beaker. But there was shadow behind a couple
of caryatides; and here he hid. He waited for an hour. But the night
slept, the caryatides slept, standing motionless and supporting the
leafy roof. He uttered a curse and stole indoors again. He walked
down the corridors on tiptoe and listened at Van der Staal's door. He
heard nothing, but perhaps Van der Staal was asleep?...

Gilio, however, crept along another corridor and listened at Cornélie's
door. He held his breath.... Yes, there was a sound of voices. They
were together! Together! He clenched his fists and walked away. But
why did he excite himself? He knew all about their relations. Why
should they not be together here? And he went on and tapped at the
countess' door....

Next evening he again waited in the rotunda. They did not come. But,
a few evenings later, as he sat waiting, choking with annoyance,
he saw them come. He saw Duco lock the terrace-door behind him: the
rusty lock grated in the distance. Slowly he saw them walk along
and approach in the light, disappearing from view in the shadow,
reappearing in the moonlight. They sat down on the marble bench....

How happy they seemed! He was jealous of their happiness, jealous above
all of him. And how gentle and tender she was, she who considered him,
Gilio, only good enough for her amusement, to flirt with, a clown:
she, the devilish woman, was angelic to the man she loved! She bent
towards her lover with a smiling caress, with a curve of her arm,
with a proffering of her lips, with something intensely alluring,
with a velvety languor of love which he would never have suspected
in her, after her cold, jesting flirtation with him, Gilio. She was
now leaning on Duco's arms, on his breast, with her face against
his.... Oh, how her kiss filled Gilio with flame and fury! This was
no longer her icy lack of sensuous response towards him, Gilio, in the
camera degli sposi. And he could restrain himself no longer: he would
at least disturb their moment of happiness. And, quivering in every
nerve, he stepped from behind the caryatides and went towards them,
through the rotunda. Lost in each other's eyes, they did not see him
at once. But, suddenly, simultaneously, they both started; their arms
fell apart then and there; they sprang up in one movement; they saw
him approaching but evidently did not at once recognize him. Not until
he was closer did they perceive who he was; and they looked at him in
startled silence, wondering what he would say. He made a satirical bow:

"A delightful evening, isn't it? The view is lovely, like this, at
night, from the pergola. You are right to come and enjoy it. I hope
that I am not disturbing you with my unexpected company?"

His tremulous voice sounded so spiteful and aggressive that they
could not doubt the violence of his anger.

"Not at all, prince!" replied Cornélie, recovering her
composure. "Though I can't imagine what you are doing here, at
this hour."

"And what are you doing here, at this hour?"

"What am I doing? I am sitting with Van der Staal...."

"At this hour?"

"At this hour! What do you mean, prince, what are you suggesting?"

"What am I suggesting? That the pergola is closed at night."

"Prince," said Duco, "your tone is offensive."

"And you are altogether offensive."

"If you were not my host, I would strike you in the face...."

Cornélie caught Duco by the arm; the prince cursed and clenched
his fists.

"Prince," she said, "you have obviously come to pick a quarrel with
us. Why? What objection can you have to my meeting Van der Staal here
in the evening? In the first place, our relation towards each other
is no secret for you. And then I think it unworthy of you to come
spying on us."

"Unworthy? Unworthy?" He had lost all self-control. "I am unworthy,
am I, and petty and rude and not a man and my temperament doesn't suit
you? His temperament seems to suit you all right! I heard the kiss
you gave him! She-devil! Demon! Never have I been insulted as I have
by you. I have never put up with so much from anybody. I will put up
with no more. You struck me, you demon, you she-devil! And now he's
threatening to strike me! My patience is at an end. I can't bear that
in my own house you should refuse me what you give to him.... He's not
your husband! He's not your husband! I have as much right to you as
he; and, if he thinks he has a better right than I, then I hate him,
I hate him!..."

And, blind with rage, he flew at Duco's throat. The attack was so
unexpected that Duco stumbled. They both wrestled furiously. All their
hidden antipathy broke forth in fury. They did not hear Cornélie's
entreaties, they struck each other with their fists, they grappled with
arms and legs, breast to breast. Then Cornélie saw something flash. In
the moonlight she saw that the prince had drawn a knife. But the very
movement was an advantage to Duco, who gripped his wrist as in a vice,
forced him to the ground and, pressing his knee on Gilio's chest,
took him by the throat with his other hand.

"Let go!" yelled the prince.

"Let go that knife!" yelled Duco.

The prince obstinately persisted:

"Let go!" he yelled once more.

"Let go that knife."

The knife dropped from his fingers. Duco grasped it and rose to
his feet:

"Get up," he said, "we can continue this fight, if you like, to-morrow,
under less primitive conditions: not with a knife, but with swords
or pistols."

The prince stood panting, blue in the face.... When he came to himself,
he said, slowly:

"No, I will not fight a duel. Unless you want to. But I don't. I am
defeated. She has a demoniacal force which would always make you win,
whatever game we played. We've had our duel. This struggle tells
me more than a regular duel would. Only, if you want to fight me,
I have no objection. But I now know for certain that you would kill
me. She protects you."

"I don't want to fight a duel with you," said Duco.

"Then let us look on this struggle as a duel and now give me your
hand."

Duco put out his hand; Gilio pressed it:

"Forgive me," he said, bowing before Cornélie. "I have insulted you."

"No," said she, "I do not forgive you."

"We have to forgive each other. I forgive you the blow you struck me."

"I forgive you nothing. I shall never forgive you this evening's work:
not your spying, nor your lack of self-control, nor the rights which
you try to claim from me, an unmarried woman--whereas I allow you no
rights whatever--nor your attack, nor your knife."

"Are we enemies then, for good?"

"Yes, for good. I shall leave your house to-morrow."

"I have done wrong," he confessed, humbly. "Forgive me. I am
hot-blooded."

"Until now I looked upon you as a gentleman...."

"I am also an Italian."

"I do not forgive you."

"I once proved to you that I could be a good friend."

"This is not the moment to remind me of it."

"I remind you of everything that might make you more gently disposed
towards me."

"It is no use."

"Enemies then?"

"Yes. Let us go indoors. I shall leave your house to-morrow."

"I will do any penance that you inflict upon me."

"I inflict nothing. I want this conversation to end and I want to
go indoors."

"I will go ahead of you."

They walked up the pergola. He himself opened the terrace-door and
let them in before him.

They went in silence to their rooms. The castle lay asleep in
darkness. The prince struck a match to light the way. Duco was the
first to reach his room.

"I will light you to your room," said the prince, meekly.

He struck a second match and accompanied Cornélie to her door. Here
he fell on his knees:

"Forgive me," he whispered, with a sob in his throat.

"No," she said.

And without more she locked the door behind her. He remained on his
knees for another moment. Then he slowly rose to his feet. His throat
hurt him. His shoulder felt as though it were dislocated.

"It's over," he muttered. "I am defeated. She is stronger now than I,
but not because she is a devil. I have seen them together. I have seen
their embrace. She is stronger, he is stronger than I ... because of
their happiness. I feel that, because of their happiness, they will
always be stronger than I...."

He went to his room, which adjoined Urania's bedroom. His chest
heaved with sobs. Dressed as he was, he flung himself sobbing on
his bed, swallowing his sobs in the slumbering night that hung over
the castle. Then he got up and looked out of the window. He saw the
lake. He saw the pergola, where they had been fighting. The night
was sleeping there; the caryatides, sleeping, stood out white against
the shadow. And his eyes sought the exact spot of their struggle and
of his defeat. And, with his superstitious faith in their happiness,
he became convinced that there would be no fighting against it, ever.

Then he shrugged his shoulders, as if he were flinging a load off
his back:

"Fa niente!" he said to console himself. "Domani megliore...."

And he meant that to-morrow he would achieve, if not this victory,
another. Then, with eyes still moist, he fell asleep like a child.



CHAPTER XL


Urania sobbed nervously in Cornélie's arms when she told the young
princess that she was leaving that morning. She and Duco were alone
with Urania in Urania's own drawing-room.

"What has happened?" she sobbed.

Cornélie told her of the previous evening:

"Urania," she said, seriously, "I know I am a coquette. I thought it
pleasant to talk with Gilio; call it flirting, if you like. I never
made a secret of it, either to Duco or to you. I looked upon it as an
amusement, nothing more. Perhaps I did wrong; I know it annoyed you
once before. I promised not to do it again; but it seems to be beyond
my control. It's in my nature; and I shall not attempt to defend
myself. I looked upon it as a trifle, as a diversion, as fun. But
perhaps it was wrong. Do you forgive me? I have grown so fond of you:
it would hurt me if you did not forgive me."

"Make it up with Gilio and stay on."

"That's impossible, my dear girl. Gilio has insulted me, Gilio drew
his knife against Duco; and those are two things which I can never
forgive him. So it is impossible for us to remain."

"I shall be so lonely!" she sobbed. "I also am so fond of you, I am
fond of you both. Is there no way out of it? Bob is going to-morrow
too. I shall be all alone. And I have nothing here, nobody who is
fond of me...."

"You have a great deal left, Urania. You have an object in life; you
can do any amount of good in your surroundings. You are interested
in the castle, which is now your own."

"It's all so empty!" she sobbed. "It means nothing to me. I need
affection. Who is there that is fond of me? I have tried to love Gilio
and I do love him, but he doesn't care for me. Nobody cares for me."

"Your poor are devoted to you. You have a noble aim in life."

"I'm glad of it, but I am too young to live only for an aim. And I
have nothing else. Nobody cares for me."

"Prince Ercole, surely?"

"No, he despises me. Listen. I told you once before what Gilio
said ... that there were no family-jewels, that they were all sold:
you remember, don't you? Well, there are family-jewels. I gathered
that from something the Countess di Rosavilla said. There are
family-jewels. But Prince Ercole keeps them in the Banco di Roma. They
despise me; and I am not thought good enough to wear them. And to me
they pretend that there are none left. And the worst of it is that
all their friends, all their set know that the jewels are there, in
the bank, and they all say that Prince Ercole is right. My money is
good enough for them, but I am not good enough for their old jewels,
the jewels of their grandmother!"

"That's a shame!" said Cornélie.

"It's the truth!" sobbed Urania. "Oh, do make it up, stay a little
longer, for my sake!..."

"Judge for yourself, Urania: we really can't."

"I suppose you're right," she admitted, with a sigh.

"It's all my fault."

"No, no, Gilio is sometimes so impetuous...."

"But his impetuousness, his anger, his jealousy are my fault. I am
sorry about it, Urania, because of you. Forgive me. Come and look
me up in Rome when you go back. Don't forget me; and write, won't
you?... Now I must go and pack my trunk. What time is the train?"

"Ten twenty-five," said Duco. "We shall go together."

"Can I say good-bye to Prince Ercole? Send and ask if he can see me."

"What shall I tell him?"

"The first thing that comes into your head: that a friend of mine in
Rome is ill, that I am going to look after her and that Van der Staal
is taking me back because I am nervous travelling. I don't care what
Prince Ercole thinks."

"Cornélie...."

"Darling, I really haven't another moment. Kiss me and forgive me. And
think of me sometimes. Good-bye. We have had a delightful time together
and I have grown very fond of you."

She tore herself from Urania's embrace; Duco also said good-bye. They
left the princess sobbing by herself. In the passage they met Gilio.

"Where are you going?" he asked, in his humble voice.

"We are going by the ten twenty-five."

"I am very, very sorry...."

But they went on and left him standing there, while Urania sat sobbing
in the drawing-room.



CHAPTER XLI


In the train, in the scorching morning heat, they were silent; and
they found Rome as it were bursting out of its houses in the blazing
sunshine. The studio, however, was cool, solitary and peaceful.

"Cornélie," said Duco, "tell me what happened between you and the
prince. Why did you strike him?"

She pulled him down on the sofa, threw herself on his neck and told him
the incident of the camera degli sposi. She told him of the thousand
lire and the bracelet. She explained that she had said nothing about
it before, so as not to speak to him of financial worries while he
was finishing his water-colour for the exhibition in London:

"Duco," she continued, "I was so frightened when I saw Gilio draw
that knife yesterday. I felt as if I was going to faint, but I
didn't. I had never seen him like that, so violent, so ready to do
anything.... It was then that I really felt how much I loved you. I
should have murdered him if he had wounded you."

"You ought not to have played with him," he said, severely. "He
loves you."

But, in spite of his stern voice, he drew her closer to him.

Filled with a certain consciousness of guilt, she laid her head
coaxingly on his chest:

"He is only a little in love," she said, defending herself feebly.

"He is very passionately in love. You ought not to have played
with him."

She made no further reply, merely stroked his face with her hand. She
liked him all the better for reproaching her as he did; she loved that
stern, earnest voice, which he hardly ever adopted towards her. She
knew that she had that need for flirting in her, that she had had
it ever since she was a very young girl; it did not count with her,
it was only innocent fun. She did not agree with Duco, but thought
it unnecessary to go over the whole ground: it was as it was, she
didn't think about it, didn't dispute it; it was like a difference of
opinion, almost of taste, which did not count. She was lying against
him too comfortably, after the excitement of last evening, after a
sleepless night, after a precipitate departure, after a three hours'
railway-journey in the blazing heat, to argue to any extent. She liked
the silent coolness of the studio, the sense of being alone with him,
after her three weeks at San Stefano. There was a peacefulness here,
a return to herself, which filled her with bliss. The tall window
was open and the warm air poured in beneficently and was tempered by
the natural chilliness of the north room. Duco's easel stood empty,
awaiting him. This was their home, amid all that colour and form
of art which surrounded them. She now understood that colour and
form; she was learning Rome. She was learning it all in dreams of
happiness. She gave little thought to the woman question and hardly
glanced at the notices of her pamphlet, taking but a scanty interest
in them. She admired Lippo's angel, admired the panel of Gentile da
Fabriano and the resplendent colours of the old chasubles. It was
very little, after the treasures at San Stefano, but it was theirs
and it was home. She did not speak, felt happy and contented resting
on Duco's breast and passing her fingers over his face.

"The Banners is as good as sold," he said. "For ninety pounds. I
shall telegraph to London to-day. And then we shall soon be able to
pay the prince back that thousand lire."

"It's Urania's money," she said, feebly.

"But I won't have that debt hanging on."

She felt that he was a little angry, but she was in no mood to discuss
money matters and she was filled with a blissful languor as she lay
on his breast....

"Are you cross, Duco?"

"No ... but you oughtn't to have done it."

He clasped her more tightly, to make her feel that he did not want to
grumble at her, even though he thought that she had done wrong. She
thought that she had done right not to mention the thousand lire to
him, but she did not defend herself. It meant useless words; and she
felt too happy to talk about money.

"Cornélie," he said, "let us get married."

She looked at him in dismay, startled out of her blissfulness:

"Why?"

"Not because of ourselves. We are just as happy unmarried. But because
of the world, because of people."

"Because of the world? Because of people?"

"Yes. We shall be feeling more and more isolated. I discussed it
once or twice with Urania. She was very sorry about it, but she
sympathized with us and wasn't shocked. She thought it an impossible
position. Perhaps she is right. We can't go anywhere. At San Stefano
they still acted as though they did not know that we were living
together; but that is over now."

"What do you care about the opinion of 'small, insignificant people,
who chance to cross your path,' as you yourself say?"

"It's different now. We owe the prince money; and Urania is the only
friend you have."

"I have you: I don't want any one else."

He kissed her:

"Really, Cornélie, it is better that we should get married. Then
nobody can insult you again as the prince dared to do."

"He has narrow-minded notions: how can you want to get married for
the sake of a world and people like San Stefano and the prince?"

"The whole world is like that, without exception, and we are in the
world. We live in the midst of other people. It is impossible to
isolate one's self entirely; and isolation brings its own punishment
later. We have to attach ourselves to other people: it is impossible
always to lead your own existence, without any sense of community."

"Duco, how you've changed! These are the ideas of ordinary society!"

"I have been reflecting more lately."

"I am just learning how not to reflect.... My darling, how grave
you are this morning! And this while I'm lying up against you so
deliciously, to rest after all that excitement and the hot journey."

"Seriously, Cornélie, let us get married."

She snuggled against him a little nervously, displeased because he
persisted and because he was forcibly dissipating her blissful mood:

"You're a horrid boy. Why need we get married? It would alter nothing
in our position. We still shouldn't trouble about other people. We are
living so delightfully here, living for your art. We want nothing more
than each other and your art and Rome. I am so very fond of Rome now;
I am quite altered. There is something here that is always attracting
me afresh. At San Stefano I felt homesick for Rome and for our
studio. You must choose a new subject ... and get to work again. When
you're doing nothing, you sit thinking--about social ethics--and that
doesn't suit you at all. It makes you so different. And then such
petty, conventional ideas. To get married! Why, in Heaven's name,
should we, Duco? You know my views on marriage. I have had experience:
it is better not."

She had risen and was mechanically looking through some half-finished
sketches in a portfolio.

"Your experience," he repeated. "We know each other too well to be
afraid of anything."

She took the sketches from the portfolio: they were ideas which had
occurred to him and which he had jotted down while he was working at
The Banners. She examined them and scattered them abroad:

"Afraid?" she repeated, vaguely. "No," she suddenly resumed, more
firmly. "A person never knows himself or another. I don't know you,
I don't know myself."

Something deep down within herself was warning her:

"Don't marry, don't give in. It's better not, it's better not."

It was barely a whisper, a shadow of premonition. She had not thought
it out; it was unconscious and mysterious as the depths of her
soul. For she was not aware of it, she did not think it, she hardly
heard it within herself. It flitted through her; it was not a feeling;
it only left a thwarting reluctance in her, very plainly. Not until
years later would she understand that unwillingness.

"No, Duco, it is better not."

"Think it over, Cornélie."

"It is better not," she repeated, obstinately. "Please, don't let us
talk about it any more. It is better not, but I think it so horrid
to refuse you, because you want it. I never refuse you anything,
as you know. I would do anything else for you. But this time I feel
... it is better not!"

She went to him, all one caress, and kissed him:

"Don't ask it of me again. What a cloud on your face! I can see that
you mean to go on thinking of it."

She stroked his forehead as though to smooth away the wrinkles:

"Don't think of it any more. I love you, I love you! I want nothing
but you. I am happy as we are. Why shouldn't you be too? Because
Gilio was rude and Urania prim?... Come and look at your sketches:
will you be starting work soon? I love it when you're working. Then
I'll write something again: a chat about an old Italian castle. My
recollections of San Stefano. Perhaps a short story, with the pergola
for a background. Oh, that beautiful pergola!... But yesterday,
that knife!... Tell me, Duco, are you going to work again? Let's look
through them together. What a lot of ideas you had at that time! But
don't become too symbolical: I mean, don't get into habits, into
tricks; don't repeat yourself.... This woman here is very good. She
is walking so unconsciously down that shelving line ... and all
those hands pushing around her ... and those red flowers in the
abyss.... Tell me, Duco, what had you in your mind?"

"I don't know: it was not very clear to myself."

"I think it very good, but I don't like this sketch. I can't say
why. There's something dreary in it. I think the woman stupid. I
don't like those shelving lines: I like lines that go up, as in
The Banners. That all flowed out of darkness upwards, towards the
sun! How beautiful that was! What a pity that we no longer have it,
that it is being sold! If I were a painter, I should never be able
to part with anything. I shall keep the sketches, to remind me of
it. Don't you think it dreadful, that we no longer have it?"

He agreed; he also loved and missed his Banners. And he hunted
with her among the other studies and sketches. But, apart from the
unconscious woman, there was nothing that was clear enough to him to
elaborate. And Cornélie would not have him finish the unconscious
woman: no, she didn't like those shelving lines.... But after that
he found some sketches of landscape-studies, of clouds and skies over
the Campagna, Venice and Naples....

And he set to work.



CHAPTER XLII


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 a fiasco of wine from the nearest
olio e vino, where the cab-drivers sat drinking at little tables;
and they dined better and more cheaply than at the osteria. 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 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 all the
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: they could not alter anything; they
lived as thriftily as possible, in order to keep together. He finished
his landscapes and always sold them; but he 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 helpless to the point of despair and, as she went home, weary,
exhausted by climbing many stairs and by useless conversations and
appeals, the old plaint rose to her lips:

"O God, tell me what to do!"



CHAPTER XLIII


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 of chiffons: 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 such chic! 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 called la 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 on till November, when the old thing went back
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 attached
to each other, so 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 precious bibelots and 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....



CHAPTER XLIV


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 their love,
they were 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 di 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 strict régime; 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 the Vie parisienne and the
Journal pour rire and 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 headgear withdrawn in the twilight
of their sunshades, and admired the Princess di 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.



CHAPTER XLV


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 di 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
her rôle as 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 di
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
di 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 that 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 to 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.



CHAPTER XLVI


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 irritable and told the maid to hurry. She
was just ready when the first guests arrived and she was able 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 the vogue of 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 Countess di Rosavilla, the Duchess
di Luca and Countess 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, Mrs. 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
di 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 on The
Social Position of Divorced Women and 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, in crèches and 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 are many women 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 own ego, 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 a pis-aller
with 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 they must secretly 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."



CHAPTER XLVII


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 sleeveless
corsage, 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 foam against her throat. She
saw herself first and then, in the mirror, she saw him. 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 looked
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 incarnate manhood.

"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 longer 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 is that like 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."

"You are a 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 see 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 knickknacks,
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 a châteaubriant and 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 in her ear. She
felt his breath thrilling 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 signet-ring, 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 all been 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....



CHAPTER XLVIII


"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 corner 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 di 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-countryman?... Baron
Brox.... Princess 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 the 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's arm. Urania stared
after her in amazement.



CHAPTER XLIX


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 awaking
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. But was she divorced, was everything over between them? And
was she 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 sword-blades! 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, she would 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 in 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....



CHAPTER L


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 di Luca as its ring-leader. 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."

"You are afraid. 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 of The 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
true and 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's no
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, of 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
now au 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.



CHAPTER LI


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; and 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, force 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 her liaison with 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 di 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 hand in
his. She slept as if she had not slept for days, for weeks.



CHAPTER LII


"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's Annunciation, the golden Annunciation! 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 to-morrow 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 you feel yourself 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 slender campanile rose 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.

"We must get 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 am not free. 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 is 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. I mustn't become 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.



CHAPTER LIII


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's Annunciation, 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 out stretched 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 head-ache. 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 woke, 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, stern 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 of
The 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 would calculate, etc.,
which--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 ... run away somewhere
with him and tell nobody where they were going.... But supposing he
discovered where 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 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, although 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....



CHAPTER LIV


She was now alone in the train. By tipping the guard lavishly, they had
travelled by themselves through the night and 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 away, 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 on, motionlessly, gazing
out 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, feeling 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 toppishness; 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 she now 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 the 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 corner
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 recognized his trunk 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 that; 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. "Would you like to rest a little?"

"Yes," she said. "I would like to get my things off."

"You'd better go to bed 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
no chic.... There, get undressed and go to bed. 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 crept
into the great bed and lay waiting 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 very 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,
over-mastering dominion, while before her eyes, in a dizzy, melancholy
obscurity, the dream of her life--Rome, Duco, the studio--sank away....



                                THE END



NOTES


[1] Woman's Rights.

[2] The nineteenth century.





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