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diff --git a/old/51487-8.txt b/old/51487-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7f2daa8..0000000 --- a/old/51487-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,20942 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Othmar, by Ouida - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Othmar - -Author: Ouida - -Release Date: March 17, 2016 [EBook #51487] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OTHMAR *** - - - - -Produced by MWS, Christopher Wright and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - OTHMAR - - BY - - OUIDA - - '_I fear Life's many changes; not Death's changelessness_' - - LYTTON - - [Illustration] - - _A NEW EDITION_ - - London - - CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY - - 1886 - - - - - PRINTED BY - SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE - LONDON - - - - - TABLE OF CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER I. 1 - CHAPTER II. 13 - CHAPTER III. 19 - CHAPTER IV. 29 - CHAPTER V. 32 - CHAPTER VI. 36 - CHAPTER VII. 51 - CHAPTER VIII. 59 - CHAPTER IX. 70 - CHAPTER X. 77 - CHAPTER XI. 86 - CHAPTER XII. 96 - CHAPTER XIII. 105 - CHAPTER XIV. 108 - CHAPTER XV. 111 - CHAPTER XVI. 117 - CHAPTER XVII. 119 - CHAPTER XVIII. 131 - CHAPTER XIX. 142 - CHAPTER XX. 148 - CHAPTER XXI. 156 - CHAPTER XXII. 160 - CHAPTER XXIII. 168 - CHAPTER XXIV. 172 - CHAPTER XXV. 183 - CHAPTER XXVI. 193 - CHAPTER XXVII. 202 - CHAPTER XXVIII. 207 - CHAPTER XXIX. 215 - CHAPTER XXX. 223 - CHAPTER XXXI. 230 - CHAPTER XXXII. 238 - CHAPTER XXXIII. 249 - CHAPTER XXXIV. 253 - CHAPTER XXXV. 261 - CHAPTER XXXVI. 274 - CHAPTER XXXVII. 285 - CHAPTER XXXVIII. 285 - CHAPTER XXXIX. 300 - CHAPTER XL. 302 - CHAPTER XLI. 306 - CHAPTER XLII. 312 - CHAPTER XLIII. 321 - CHAPTER XLIV. 335 - CHAPTER XLV. 337 - CHAPTER XLVI. 339 - CHAPTER XLVII. 341 - CHAPTER XLVIII. 346 - CHAPTER XLIX. 354 - CHAPTER L. 362 - CHAPTER LI. 367 - CHAPTER LII. 377 - CHAPTER LIII. 382 - CHAPTER LIV. 391 - - - - -OTHMAR. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -Under the forest-trees of a stately place there was held a Court -of Love, in imitation and revival of those pretty pageantries and -tournaments of tongues which were the chief social and royal diversion -of the Italy of Lucrezia Borgia and the France of Marguerite de Valois. - -It was a golden August afternoon, towards the close of a day which -had been hot, fragrant, full of lovely lights and shadows. Throned -on a hill a mighty castle rose, aerial, fantastic, stately, with its -colonnades of stone rose-garlanded, and its stone staircases descending -into bowers of foliage and foam of flowers. Its steep roofs were as -sheets of silver in the sun, its many windows caught the red glow from -the west, and its bastions shelved downward to meet smooth-shaven lawns -and thickets of oleanders luxuriant with blossom, crimson, white, or -blush-colour. In the woods around, the oaks and beeches were heavy with -their densest leafage; the deer couched under high canopies of bracken -and osmunda; and the wild boars, sunk deep in tangles of wild clematis -and beds of meadow-sweet, were too drowsy in the mellow warmth to hear -the sounds of human laughter which were wafted to them on the windless -air. In the silent sunshiny vine-clad country which stretched around -those forests, in '_le pays de rire et de ne rien faire_,' from many a -steep church-steeple and many a little white chapel on the edge of the -great rivers or in the midst of the vast wheat-fields, the vesper-bell -was sounding to small townships and tiny hamlets. - -It was seven o'clock, and the Court of Love was still open; the chamber -of council, or throne-room, being a grassy oval, with grassy seats -raised around it, like the seats of an amphitheatre; an open space -where the forest joined the gardens, with walls, first of clipped bay, -and then of dense oak foliage, around it; the turf had been always -kept shorn and rolled, and the evergreens always clipped, and a marble -fountain in the centre of the grass, of fauns playing with naiads, -bore an inscription testifying that, in the summer of the year of -grace 1530, the Marguerite des Marguerites had held a Court of Love -just there, using those same seats of turf, shadowed by those same -oak-boughs. - -'Why should we not hold one also? If we have advanced in anything, -since the Valois time, it is in the art of intellectual hair-splitting. -We ought to be able to argue as many days together as they did. Only, -I presume, their advantage was that they meant what they said, and we -never or seldom do. They laughed or they sighed, and were sincere in -both; but we do neither, we are _gouailleurs_ always, which is not a -happy temperament, nor an intellectually productive one.' - -So had spoken the mistress of that stately place; and so, her word -being law, had it been in the sunset hours before the nine o'clock -dinner; and it was a pastime well suited to the luminous evenings of -late summer in - - The hush of old warm woods that lie - Low in the lap of evening, bright - And bathed in vast tranquillity. - -She, herself, was seated on an ivory chair, carved with Hindoo steel, -and shaped like a curule chair of old Rome. Two little pages, in -costumes of the Valois time, stood behind her, holding large fans of -peacock's plumes. - -'They are anachronisms,' she had said with a passing frown at the fans, -'but they may remain, though quite certainly the Valois did not know -anything of them any more than they knew of blue china and yellow tea.' - -But the gorgeous green and gold and purple-eyed plumes looked pretty, -so she had let them stay. - -'We shall have so many jarring notes of "modernity" in our -discussions,' she had said, 'that one note the more in decoration does -not matter;' and, backed by them, she sat now upon her ivory throne, -an exquisite figure, poetic and delicate, with her cream-white skirts -of the same hue as her throne, and her strings of great pearls at her -throat. Next her was seated an ecclesiastic of high eminence, who had -in vain protested that he was wholly out of place in such a diversion. -'Was Cardinal Bembo out of place at Ferrara and Urbino?' she had -objected; and had so successfully, in the end, vanquished his scruples, -that the late sunbeams, slanting through the oak-leaves and on to that -gay assemblage, had found out in it his handsome head and his crimson -sash, and his blue eyes full of their and keen witty observation, and -his white hands folded together on his knee. - -In a semicircle whose wings stretched right and left were ranged -the gentlemen and ladies who formed momentarily the house party of -the château; great people all; all the women young and all the men -brilliant, no dull person amongst them, dulness being the one vice -condemned there without any chance of pardon. They were charming -people, distinguished people, handsome people also, and they made a gay -and gracious picture, reclining or sitting in any attitudes they chose -on these grassy slopes, which had seen the court of Francis and of both -Marguerites: - -Above their heads floated a silken banner, on which, in letters of -gold, were embroidered the wise words, '_Qu'on m'aime, mais avec de -l'esprit!_' - -'To return to our original demand--what is the definition of Love?' -asked their queen and president, turning her lovely eyes on to the -great ecclesiastic, who replied with becoming gravity: - -'Madame, what can a humble priest possibly know of the theme?' - -She smiled a little. 'You know as much as Bembo knew,' she made answer. - -'Ah no, Madame! The times are changed.' - -'The times, perhaps; not human nature. However, this is the question -which must be first decided by the Court at large: How is the nature of -Love to be defined?' - -A gentleman on her left murmured: - -'No one can tell us so as well you, Madame, who have torn the poor -butterfly in pieces so often _sans merci_.' - -'You have broken the first rule of all,' said the sovereign, with -severity. 'The discussion is to be kept wholly free from all -personalities.' - -'A wise rule, or the Court would probably end, like an Italian village -_festa_, in a free use of the knife all round.' - -'If you be not quiet you will be exiled for contempt of court, and shut -up in the library to write out Ovid's "Ars Amatoria." Once more, I -inquire, how are we to define Love?' - -'It was never intended to be defined, but to be enjoyed.' - -'That is merely begging the question,' said their Queen. 'One enjoys -music, flowers, a delicate wine, a fine sunset, a noble sonnet; but all -these things are nevertheless capable of analysis and of reduction to -known laws. So is Love. I ask once more: How is it to be defined? Does -no one seem to know? What curious ignorance!' - -'In woman, Love may be defined to be the desire of annexation; and -to consist chiefly in a passionate clinging to a sense of personal -property in the creature loved.' - -'That is cynical, and may be true. But it is not general enough. You -must not separate the love of man and the love of woman. We speak of -Love general, human, concrete.' - -'With all deference I would observe that, if we did not separate the -two, we should never arrive at any real definition at all, for Love -differs according to sex as much as the physiognomy or the costume.' - -'Real Love is devotion!' said a beautiful blonde with blue eyes that -gazed from under black lashes with pathetic tenderness. - -'Euh! euh!' murmured one impertinent. - -'Oh, oh!' murmured another. - -'_Ouiche!_' said a third under his breath. - -The sovereign smiled ironically: - -'Ah, my dear Duchesse! all _that_ died out with the poets of 1830. It -belongs to the time when women wore muslin gowns, looked at the moon, -and played the harp.' - -'If I might venture on a definition in the _langue verte_,' suggested a -handsome man, seated at the feet of the queen, 'though I fear I should -be turned out of Court as Rabelais and Scarron are turned out of the -drawing-room----' - -'We can imagine what it would be, and will not give you the trouble to -say any more. If the definition of Love be, on the contrary, left to -me, I shall include it all in one word--Illusion.' - -'That is a cruel statement!' - -'It is a fact. We have our own ideal, which we temporarily place in the -person, and clothe with the likeness, of whoever is fortunate enough -to resemble it superficially enough to delude us, unconsciously, into -doing so. You remember the hackneyed saying of the philosopher about -the real John--the John as he thinks himself to be, and the John as -others imagine him: it is never the real John that is loved; always an -imaginary one built up out of the fancies of those in love with him.' - -'That is fancy, your Majesty; it is not love.' - -'And what is love but fancy?--the fancy of attraction, the fancy of -selection; the same sort of fancy as allures the bird to the brightest -plumaged mate?' - -'I do not think any love is likely to last which is not based on -intellectual sympathy. When the mind is interested and contented, it -does not tire half so fast as the eyes or the passions. In any very -great love there is at the commencement a delighted sense of meeting -something long sought, some supplement of ourselves long desired in -vain. When this pleasure is based on the charm of some mind wholly akin -to our own, and filled for us with ever-renewing well-springs of the -intellect, there is really hardly any reason why this mutual delight -should ever change, especially if circumstances conspire to free it -from those more oppressive and irritating forms of contact which the -prose of life entails.' - -'You mean marriage, only you put it with a great deal of unnecessary -euphuism. Tastes differ. Giovanni Dupré's ideal of bliss was to see -his wife ironing linen, while his mother-in-law looked on.' - -'Dupré was a simple soul, and a true artist, but intellect was not his -strong point. If he had chanced to be educated, the good creature with -her irons would have become very tiresome to him.' - -'What an argument in favour of ignorance!' - -'Is it? The savage is content with roots and an earth-baked bird; -but it does not follow, therefore, that delicate food does not merit -the preference we give to it. I grant, however, that a high culture -of taste and intelligence does not result in the adoration of the -primitive virtues any more than of the earth-baked bird.' - -'Is this a discussion on Love?' - -'It is a discussion which grows out of it, like the mistletoe out -of the oak. The ideal of Dupré was that of a simple, uneducated, -emotional and unimpassioned creature; it was what we call essentially -a _bourgeois_ ideal. It would have been suffocation and starvation, -torture and death, to Raffaelle, to Phidias, to Shelley, to Goethe. -There are men, born peasants, who soar into angels; who hate, -loathe, and spurn the _bourgeois_ ideal from their earliest times of -wretchedness; but there are others who always remain peasants. Millet -did, Dupré did, Wordsworth did.' - -The queen tinkled her golden handbell and raised her ivory sceptre. - -'These digressions are admirable in their way, but I must recall the -Court to the subject before them. Someone is bringing in allusions to -cookery, flat-irons, and the _bourgeois_ ideal which I have always -understood was M. Thiers. They are certainly, however interesting, -wholly irrelevant to the theme which we are met here to discuss. Let us -pass on to the question next upon the list. If no one can define Love -except as devotion, that definition suits so few cases that we must -accept its existence without definition, and proceed to inquire what -are its characteristics and its results.' - -'The first is exigence and the second is _ennui_.' - -'No, the first is sympathy and the second is happiness.' - -'That is very commonplace. Its chief characteristic appears to me to be -an extremely rapid transition from a state of imbecile adoration to a -state of irritable fatigue. I speak from the masculine point of view.' - -'And I, from the feminine, classify it rather as a transition -(regretted but inevitable) from amiable illusions and generous -concessions to a wounded sense of offence at ingratitude.' - -'We are coming to the Italian _coltellate_! You both only mean that in -love, as in everything else which is human, people who expect too much -are disappointed; disappointment is always irritation; it may even -become malignity if it take a very severe form.' - -'You seem all of you to have glided into an apology for inconstancy. Is -that inevitable to love?' - -'It looks as if it were; or, at all events, its forerunner, fatigue, is -so.' - -'You treat love as you would treat a man who asked you to paint his -portrait, whilst you persisted in painting that of his shadow instead. -The shadow which dogs his footsteps is not himself.' - -'It is cast by himself, so it is a part of him.' - -'No, it is an accompanying ghost sent by Nature which he cannot escape -or dismiss.' - -'My good people,' said their sovereign impatiently, 'you wander too -far afield. You are like the group of physicians who let the patient -die while they disputed over the Greek root from which the name of -his malady was derived. Love, like all other great monarchs, is ill -sometimes; but let us consider him in health, not sickness.' - -'For Love in a state of health there is no better definition than one -given just now--sympathy.' - -'The highest kind of love springs from the highest kind of sympathy. -Of that there is no doubt. But then that is only to be found in the -highest natures. They are not numerous.' - -'No; and even they require to possess a great reserve-fund of interest, -and a bottomless deposit of inexhaustible comprehension. Such -reserve-funds are rare in human nature, which is usually a mere fretful -and foolish chatterbox, _tout en dehors_, and self-absorbed.' - -'We are wandering far from the single-minded passion of Ronsard and -Petrarca.' - -'And we have arrived at no definition. Were I to give one, I should be -tempted to say that Love is, in health and perfection, the sense that -another life is absolutely necessary to our own, is lovely despite its -faults, and even in its follies is delightful and precious to us, we -cannot probably say why, and is to us as the earth to the moon, as the -moon to the tides, as the lodestone to the steel, as the dew of night -to the flower.' - -'Very well said, and applicable to both men and women, as descriptive -of their emotions at certain periods of their lives. But----' - -'For all their lives, until the ice of age glides into their veins.' - -'You are poetical enough for Ronsard. Well, let us pass to another -question. Does Love die sooner of starvation or of repletion?' - -'Of repletion, unquestionably. Of a fit of indigestion he perishes -never to rise again. Starved, he will linger on sometimes for a very -long while indeed, and at the first glance of pity revives in full -vigour.' - -'Why, then, do women usually commit the error of surfeiting him? For I -agree with you that a surfeit is fatal.' - -'Because most women cannot be brought to understand that too much of -themselves may bring about a wayward wish to have none of them. They -call this natural and inevitable reaction ingratitude and inconstancy, -but it is nothing of the kind; it is only human nature.' - -'Male human nature. The wish for pastures new, characteristic of -cattle, sheep and man.' - -'"_La femme est si souvent trompée parce qu'elle prend le désir pour -l'amour._" Someone wrote that; I forget who did, but it is entirely -true. _Une bouffée de désir_, an hour's caprice, a swift flaming of -mere animal passion which flares up and dies down like any shooting -star, seems to a woman to be the ideal love of romance and of tragedy. -She dreams of Othello, of Anthony, of Stradella, and all the while -it is Sir Harry Wildair, or Joseph Surface, or at the best of things -Almaviva. She is ready for the tomb in Verona, but he is only ready for -the _chambre meublée_, or at most for the _saison aux eaux_.' - -'Is she always ready for the tomb in Verona?' asked a sceptical voice. -'Does she not sometimes, even very often, marry Paris, and "carry on" -with Romeo? If I may be allowed to say so, there are a few impassioned -and profound temperaments in the world to many light ones; the bread -and the sack are, as usual, unevenly apportioned, but these graver and -deeper natures are not all necessarily feminine. It is when you have -two great and ardent natures involved (and then alone) that you get -passion, high devotion, tragedy; but this conjunction is as rare as the -passing of Venus across the sun. Usually Romeo throws himself away on -some Lady Frivolous, and Juliet breaks her heart for some fop or some -fool.' - -'That is only because all human life is a game of cross purposes; one -only wonders who first set the game going, to amuse the gods or make -them weep.' - -'That question will scarcely come under the head of amatory analysis. -Besides, the world has been wondering about that ever since the -beginning of time, and has never received any answer to its queries.' - -'If a quotation be allowed,' suggested the ecclesiastic, 'in lieu of -an original opinion, I would beg leave to recall the Prince de Ligne's -"_Dans l'amour il n'y a que les commencements qui sont charmants_." In -the middle of the romance I see you all yawn, at the end you usually -quarrel. Some wise man--I forget who--has said that it requires much -more talent and much more feeling to break off an attachment amiably -than to begin it.' - -'Because we all feel so amiable at the beginning that it is easy to be -so.' - -'Admit also that there are very few characters which will stand the -test of intimacy; very few minds of sufficient charm and originality to -be able to bear the strain of long and familiar intercourse.' - -'What has the mind to do with it?' - -'That question is flippant and even coarse. The mind has something to -do with it, even in animals; or why should the lion prefer one lioness -to another? When d'Aubiac went to the gallows kissing a tiny velvet -muff of Margaret de Valois, or when young Calixte de Montmorin knelt on -the scaffold pressing to his lips a little bow of blue ribbon which had -belonged to Madame de Vintimille, the muff and the ribbon represented a -love with which certainly the soul had far more to do than the senses.' - -'It was a sentiment.' - -'A sentiment if you will, but strong enough to overcome all fear of -death or personal regret. The muff, the ribbon, were symbols of an -imperishable and spiritual devotion; these trifles, like Psyche's -butterfly, were representative of an immortal element in mortal life -and mortal feeling.' - -'M. de Béthune would go to the scaffold like that himself,' said the -sovereign lady with a smile of approval and of indulgent derision. - -'And our lady,' hinted the Duc de Béthune, 'forgets her own rule, that -all personalities are forbidden.' - -'It is of no use to have the power to make laws if one have not also -the power to transgress them. Well, if immortality is to enter into -love, let wit also enter there. One is not beheaded every day, but -every day one is liable to be bored. _J'aime qu'on m'aime, mais avec -de l'esprit._ Every intellectual person must exact that. To worship -my ribbon is nothing if you also fatigue my patience and my ear. The -majority of people divorce love and wit. They are very wrong. It is -only wit which can tell love when he has gone too far, or is losing -ground, has repeated himself _ad nauseam_, or requires absence to -restore his charm.' - -'_Ah, Majesté!_ by the time he has become such a philosopher has he not -ceased to be love at all?' - -'Oh no. That motto was chosen as the legend of this Court expressly for -the truth it contains. Why does most love end so drearily in a sudden -death by quarrelling or in a lingering death by tedium? Because it -has had no wit, no judgment, no reserve, no skill. By way of showing -itself to be eternal, it has hammered itself into pieces on the rock -of repetition. _Qu'on m'aime, mais avec de l'esprit!_ What a world of -endured _ennui_ sighs forth in that appeal!' - -'No woman upon earth has had so much love given her as the châtelaine -of Amyôt, and no woman on earth ever viewed love with such unkind and -airy contempt.' - -She smiled. She neither denied nor affirmed the accusation. - -'She has a crystal throne of her own from which she looks down on the -weaknesses of mortals and cannot be touched by them,' said the Duc de -Béthune. - -She replied again, '_Qu'on m'aime, mais avec de l'esprit._' - -'It is the motto of one who sets much greater store upon amusement than -upon affection. Who can say, moreover, what may have the good fortune -to be considered "_esprit_" by her? I fear she finds us all very dull -to-day.' - -'Dull, no. Sentimental perhaps.' - -'Your heaviest word of censure!' - -'To return to our theme: do you not punish inconstancy?' - -'Certainly not. In the first place, inconstancy is a wholly -involuntary, and therefore innocent, inclination. In the second, if any -one be so stupid that he or she cannot keep the affections they have -once won, they deserve to lose them, and can claim no pity.' - -'Surely they may be the victims of a sad and unmerited fate?' - -'Unmerited--no. They have not known how to keep what they had got. -Probably they have worried it till it escaped in desperation, as a -child teases a bird in a cage till the bird pushes itself through -the bars, preferring the chance of losing itself on the road to the -certainty of being strangled in prison.' - -'Who would not prefer it?' - -'The difficulty in most cases is that, in all loves, the scales of -proportion are weighted unevenly: there is generally one lighter than -the other. Say it is a poor nature and a great nature; say it is a -strong passion and a passing caprice; say it is a profound temperament -and a shallow one; in some way or other the scales are almost always -imperfectly adjusted. When they are quite even--which happens once -out of a million times--then there is a great and felicitous love; an -exquisite and imperishable sympathy.' - -'But who holds these magical scales? It is the holder who is -responsible.' - -'The holder is Fate.' - -'Chance.' - -'Opportunity.' - -'Destiny.' - -'Predestination.' - -'Circumstance.' - -'Affinity.' - -'Affinity can only hold them on that millionth occasion when a perfect -love is the result.' - -'Usually Chance and Circumstance fill the scales, and they are two -roguish boys who like to make mischief. Affinity is the angel; perhaps -the only angel by which poor humanity is ever led into an earthly -paradise.' - -'That is worthy of Philip Sydney.' - -'Or of the Earl of Lytton.' - -'And is so charming that we will not risk having anything coarse or -commonplace said after it. Let us adjourn the debate till to-morrow.' - -'Nay, _Majesté_; let us pass to another question: What is the greatest -dilemma of Love?' - -'To have to galvanise itself into an imitation of life when it is dead.' - -'Is it worse to be the last to love, or the first to grow tired?' - -'In the former case one's self-esteem is hurt; in the latter one's -conscience.' - -'The wounds of conscience are sooner cured than those of vanity.' - -'Whoever loves most loves longest.' - -'No, whoever is least loved loves longest.' - -'How is that to be explained?' - -'The contradictions of human nature will usually suffice to explain -everything.' - -'But there may be another explanation also; the one who is least loved -is the least cloyed, and the most apprehensive of alteration.' - -'Love is best worked with egotism, as gold is worked with alloy.' - -'Surely the essential loveliness of love is self-sacrifice?' - -'That is a theory. In fact, the only satisfactory love is one which -gives and receives mutual pleasure. When there is self-sacrifice on one -side the pleasure also is one-sided.' - -'Then the revellers of the Decamerone knew more of love than Dante?' - -'That is approaching a theme too full of dangers to be discussed--the -difference between physical and spiritual love. I do not consider that -you have satisfactorily answered the previous question: What is the -greatest dilemma of Love?' - -'When, in the open doorway of its house of life, one passion, grown -old and grey, passes out limping, and meets another passion newly come -thither, and laughing, with the blossoms of April in its sunny hair.' - -'What a sonnet in a sentence! What is Love to do in such a case? Shall -he detain the grey-haired crippled guest?' - -'He cannot. For the more he shall endeavour to retain him the thinner -and paler and more impalpable will the withered and lame passion grow.' - -'And the newly-come one?' - -'Oh, he will enter, smiling and strong, and will fill the house with -the music of his pipe and the odour of his hyacinths for awhile, until -he too shall in turn pass outwards, when his music is silent and his -flowers are dead.' - -'Is Love then always to be mourned like Lycidas?' - -'He is in no sense like Lycidas; Lycidas died, a perfect youth. Love, -with time, grows pale and wan and feeble, and a very shadow of itself, -before it dies.' - -'There are some who say, if he have not immortality he is not Love -at all; but only Caprice, Vanity, Wantonness, or faithless Fancy, -masquerading in his dress.' - -'How can that be immortal which has no existence without mortal forms?' - -'Here is one of the notes of modernity! The sad note of -self-consciousness; the consciousness of mortality and of -insignificance; the _memento mori_ which is always with us. And yet -we do not respect death, we only hate it and fear it; because it will -make of us a dreary, ugly, putrid thing. That is all we know. And the -knowledge dulls even our diversions. We can be _gouailleur_, but we -cannot be gay if we would.' - -'There is too great a tendency here to use _gros mots_--devotion, -death, immortality, &c. They are a mistake in a disquisition which -wishes to be witty. They are like the use of cannon in an opera. But I -think, even in France, the secret of lightness of wit is lost. We have -all read too much German philosophy.' - -'We will endeavour to be gayer to-morrow. We will wake all the shades -of Brantôme.' - -'Well,' their sovereign declared, as she rose, 'we have held our Court -to little avail; some pretty things have been said, and some stupid -ones, but we have arrived at no definite conclusion, unless it be this: -that love is only respectable when it is unhappy, and ceases to exist -the moment it is contented.' - -'A cruel sentence, Madame!' - -'Human nature is cruel; so is Time.' - -When the sun had wholly set, and only a warm yellow glow through all -the west told that its glory had passed, the Court broke up for that -day, and strolled in picturesque groups towards the house as the chimes -of the clock tower told the hour of dinner. - -'How very characteristic of our time and of our world,' said the queen, -as she drew her ivory-hued, violet-laden skirts over the smooth turf. -'We have talked for three whole hours of Love, and nobody has ever -thought of mentioning Marriage as his kinsman!' - -'He who has had the honour to marry you might well have done so, had he -been here to-day,' murmured a courtier on her right. - -She laughed, looking up into the deep-blue evening sky through the -network of green leaves: - -'But he was not here, so he was saved the difficulty of choice between -an insincerity and a rudeness, always a very serious dilemma to him. -Marriage is the grave of love, my dear friend, even if he be buried -with roses for his pillow and lilies for his shroud.' - -'But Love may be stronger than Death. Solomon has said so.' - -'What is stronger than Death? Death is stronger than all of us. _Tout -cela pourrira._ It is the despair of the lover and the poet, and the -consolation of the beggar when the rich and the beautiful go past him.' - -She spoke with a certain melancholy, and absently struck the tall heads -of seeding grasses with her ivory sceptre. - -'We have only wearied you, I fear,' said her companion, with contrition -and mortification. - -'That is the fault of Love,' she answered, with a smile. - -As they left the shadow of the trees, crossing the grassland was a herd -of cows and calves already passing away in the distance, going to their -byres; far behind them, lingering willingly, were the herdsman and his -love; he a comely lad in a blue blouse and a peaked cap, she a smiling -buxom maiden with dusky tresses under a linen coif, and cheeks glowing -like a 'Catherine pear, the side that's next the sun.' - -'Lubin and Lisette,' said Béthune with a smile, 'practically -illustrating what we have been spoiling with the too fine wire-drawing -of analysis. I am sure that they come much nearer than we to the -story-tellers of the Heptameron.' - -The châtelaine of Amyôt looked at the two rustic lovers with a little -wistfulness and a good-natured contempt. - -They had passed out of the shade of the woods, and the rose-glow of -evening illumined their interlaced figures as they followed their cows. - -'"To know is much, yet to enjoy is more,"' she quoted. 'I suppose -that is what you mean. Yet I rather incline to think that love as a -sentiment is the product of education. The cows know almost as much of -it as your Lubin and Lisette.' - -'Brandès says,' observed one of her party, 'that love as a sentiment -was always unknown in a state of nature, and was only created with the -first petticoat. Petticoats have invariably been responsible for a -great deal. They ruined France, according to the Great Frederic; but -if they have raised us from the level of the cattle they have redeemed -their repute.' - -'Poor cattle! They have as much poetry in their eyes as there is in the -Penseroso. Lubin and Lisette are _Naturkinder_; but when both a cow -and Lisette become the property of Lubin, he will assign the higher -place to the first, both in life and in death.' - -'Well, he shall have both of them, for having met us at so apropos an -instant,' she answered with, a little smile. 'Perhaps the only word of -truth that has been said in the whole discussion was the quotation: -"_Il n'y a que les commencements qui sont charmants!_"' - -The great woodland which they traversed as she spoke opened into -an avenue of beeches, long and straight, the branches meeting and -interlacing overhead until the opening at the farther end looked like -an arched doorway closing a cathedral aisle. The archway was filled -with dim golden suffused light, and within that archway of twilight and -golden haze there rose the snowy column of a high-reaching fountain; -it was the first of the _grandes eaux_ of the garden of Amyôt. And the -sovereign of the Court of Love was she who had once been the Princess -Napraxine. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -As they entered on the smoother sward of the stately gardens a figure -came out of the deep shadow of clipped walls of bay and approached them. - -'Is the Court over? At what decision has it arrived?' said the master -of Amyôt as he saluted the party and kissed the hand of his wife with a -graceful formality of greeting. - -'It will have to sit for half a century if it be compelled to come to -any,' returned the châtelaine. 'We have said many pretty things about -love, Béthune in especial; but we met Lubin with Lisette loitering -behind their cows, and I fear the living commentary was truer to nature -than all our doctrines.' - -'The only issue of its resolutions is that you are to give away a cow -and a maiden to the admirable lover,' said M. de Béthune. 'He crossed -our path just in time to point a moral for us: we were all sadly in -want of one.' - -'Could you not agree then? Surely you chose a very simple subject?' - -'It might be simple in the days of Philemon and Baucis. It is -sufficiently complicated now. Is the sentiment which sent d'Aubiac to -the scaffold, pressing a little blue velvet muff to his lips, the same -thing as the unpoetic impulse which makes the _femelle de l'homme_ -sought by Tom, Dick, and Harry? You will admit that a vast field of the -most various emotions separates the two kinds of passion?' - -'Certainly: there is a great difference between Montrose's Farewell and -Sir John Suckling's verses.' - -'Precisely: so we came to no decision. We have all too much of the -terrible modern tendency to hesitation and melancholy. I do not know -why; unless it come from the conviction of all of us that love is -always melancholy when it is not absurd.' - -'What a cruel sentiment!' - -'A perfectly true assertion. The only loves respectable in tradition -are those which have ended wretchedly. Suppose Romeo had been happy; -or Stradella; what do you think the poets could have made of them? -Love must end somehow: if it end in tragedy its dignity is saved like -Cæsar's.' - -'But why need it end? You, at least, have seen that through all -disappointments it can endure,' murmured he who had cited the love of -d'Aubiac for Marguerite. - -She looked at him and shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly. - -'Love is, so unhappily, like a comet. It mounts to its perihelion, -increasing in splendour as it goes, and then slowly, little by -little, the glory departs, the sovereign of the skies grows less -and less, until at last there is no more sign of it anywhere, and -all is darkness. But the comet is not really gone; it has only -gone--elsewhere.' - -Her slight delicate laugh robbed the speech of the melancholy which it -would otherwise have possessed. - -'My wife believes in no constancy,' said Othmar. - -She looked at him with her mysterious smile: - -'I believe in Romeo's, I believe in Stradella's, because the kindness -of death saved them from the ridicule of forswearing themselves. What -a pity you did not come home a little sooner. You would have been -an invaluable ally to the sentimentalists headed by Béthune. He was -eloquent, but his cause was weak.' - -'My cause was strong,' said the Duc de Béthune; 'it was my tongue which -lacked persuasiveness.' - -'No, you were very poetical; you were only not convincing. My dear -friend, we are too scientific in these days for sentiment to have any -abiding place in us; we are pessimists, it is true, but we mourn for -ourselves, not for others. We are neither gay enough nor sad enough to -do justice to such discussions as this which we have tried to revive; -we are only bored. We do not take our fooling joyously or our sorrows -deeply. We are uneasily conscious that we are childish and unreal in -both. Then there is the incurable modern tendency to end everything -with a laugh _en gouailleur_, yet with tears in our eyes. We are always -ridiculing ourselves, yet we are always vexed that, ridiculous as we -are, we must still die.' - -'At the present moment we must still eat,' said Othmar, as the boom of -a silver-toned gong came over the gardens in deep waves of sound. - -It was nine o'clock, and that repast which had been used to be called -in the Valois Amyôt _arrière-grand-souper_, and was now called -'dinner,' awaited them. - -There were some twenty-five guests then staying there; she did not -approve of immense house parties, and she restricted her house list to -the very choicest of her favourites and associates; she always asked -double the number of men to that of women, but she was proportionately -careful that the latter should be those whom men most liked and -admired; she was wholly above the petty envies and jealousies of her -sex. Her vanity rather consisted in having it said that she feared no -rivals. - -As the deep boom of the gong sounded from the house, she and her -guests passed onward, and in their Valois dresses were soon seated in -the summer banqueting-room: a modern addition to the château, an open -loggia in the Italian style, with marble floor and marble columns, one -side open to the air, the other sides rich in white marble bas-reliefs -by French sculptors; the ceiling had been painted by Puvis de Chavannes -with the story of Europa. In each corner there were tall palms in large -square cases of white porcelain; the white columns were garlanded -by passion-flowers, which grew without; at either end there was a -fountain, their basins filled with gold fish and water-lilies; through -the columns the whole enchanting view of the west gardens was seen -stretching far away to where the Loire waters spread wide as a lake and -mirroring the newly-risen moon. - -'I had it built,' she said, in answer to some one who complimented her -upon it. 'There is a great dining-hall and a small dining-room indoors, -but neither are fitted for summer evenings. It is a barbarism to be -shut up within four walls just as the moon rises and the nightingales -sing. The matter of food is always a distressingly coarse question; -nothing can really spiritualise or redeem it, but at least it may be -divested of some of its brute aspects. A delicate cuisine does that -for us in some measure, and the scene we have around us may do more. -The London and Paris habit of sitting in mere boxes, more or less well -decorated, is horrible. Perfect ease, vast space, and soft shadowy -distances are absolutely necessary to preserve illusions as we dine.' - -And to that end she had caused to be built the loggia of Amyôt, with -as much celerity and breathless obedience to her commands as the -architects of the East showed a sultan of Bagdad or Benares when he -bade a palace of marble uprise from the sand. Her fine taste would -not have allowed her to hurt the architecture of Amyôt with any -incongruity, however much her caprices might have desired it; but the -marble loggia accorded in exterior with the Renaissance outline of the -château, and the tone of Primaticcio and the epoch of Jean Goujon had -been faithfully followed in its internal decoration. - -'What a perfect place it is!' said one of her guests to her after -dinner. - -She smiled. - -'In August, yes. When the terraces are hung with ice, and the forests -black with winter storm, it is not so perfect. All places have their -season, like all lives.' - -'There are some places, like some lives, which can never lose their -beauty.' - -'Do you think so? I have never found them. When one knows every leaf, -every stone, every fence, the beauty of the place fades for us as it -does when one knows every impulse, every prejudice, every fault, and -every virtue of the life.' - -'A melancholy truth--if it be a truth. Perhaps it is only half a one. -There are people who love their homes.' - -'There are prisoners who have loved their cells! Amyôt is delightful -in many ways, but I have no more sense of home in it than a swallow -has in the eaves it builds under for one summer. You must go to the -vinedresser's wife in the cliff cabin on the river for _that_.' - -'Then the vinedresser's wife has a jewel which the great châtelaine's -crown is without?' - -'A jewel? Are you sure it is a jewel? I think there is much to be said -in favour of the restlessness of our world, it saves us from rust and -reflection; it makes us unprejudiced and cosmopolitan; it annihilates -nationalities and antipathies. I imagine, if Horace had lived now, -he would never have been still; he would have seen the farm in its -pleasantest season, and that only. He would have carried with him the -undying lamp of his enchanting temperament, and he would have been -happy anywhere.' - -'But is it really incomprehensible to you, the love of home?' - -'I think so. I have lived in too many places. We are a few months -here, a few months in Paris, a few weeks in the Riviera, a few weeks -in Russia, or Vienna, or London. It is impossible to carry about the -sense of home peripatetically with you as the snail carries his shell. -The sparrow feels it, the swallow does not. I have always had a number -of houses in which I spend a number of months, of weeks, of days. I -like each of them to be perfect in its own way, and I like each to have -copies of my favourite books in it: the sight of Goethe, of Molière, of -Horace makes one feel _chez soi_. That is as near "home" as I approach. -I imagine all happiness is much more a matter of temperament than of -place or of circumstance.' - -'I do not believe you are happy even now!' - -It was a personal speech, and too bold a one to be justified even by -intimate and privileged friendship. But she was moved to it by that -ever ready and pitiless self-analysis which made her as severe a critic -of herself as of others. - -'Happy? Oh, I must be,' she said with a smile. 'Who on earth should -be happy if I am not? I have all the vulgar attributes of happiness -in profusion and all the more delicate ones too. If I am not so, -it can only be because my temperament is the very opposite of a -_porte-bonheur_ like Horace's. I have always expected too much of -everything and of everybody, and yet I am not at all what you would -call an imaginative person. I ought to be prosaically contented with -the world as it is. But I am not.' - -It was a sultry and lovely August night. The sky was radiant and the -white lustre of the full moon shone over all the scene, making the -gardens, the terraces, the fountains, the parterres of flowers light as -day, and leaving the masses of the great forest which surrounded them -in deepest shadow. It was haunted ground, this stately and royal place -where both Marguerites had passed in turn summers dead three centuries -ago; where the one, witty, wise and faithful, had read the tales of her -Heptameron beneath its spreading oaks; and the other, lovely, perilous -and faithless, had gathered its roses and ruffled them, murmuring -the '_un peu--beaucoup--passionnément_,' as one passion hotly chased -another from her fickle breast, each scarce living the life of the -gathered rose. - -The present châtelaine of Amyôt, leaning against one of the marble -columns of her summer dining-hall, and listening to the words of a -friend who dared tell her truths, looked out into the wide white -moonlight, on to the trellised rose walks, the turf smooth as velvet, -bordered with ground ivy; the marble statues standing against the high -walls of close-clipped evergreens; the deep and sombre forests which -held the heart of so many secrets, the story of so many lives and of -so many deaths, safe shut away for ever, dumb and dead in the eternal -mystery of its vernal solitudes. If she were not happy who should be? - -But happiness--what an immense word!--or what a little one! A poet's -dream of paradise, or the peasant's contentment in the chimney-corner -and the pot of soup! Which you will--but never both at once. - -She was as happy as a very analytical and fastidious nature can -possibly be, but at times her old enemy dissatisfaction looked in over -the flowers and through the golden air. She was pursued by her old -consciousness that the human race was after all exceedingly limited in -its capabilities, and the lives of men on the whole very wearisome. -There was with her that vague disappointment and dissatisfaction which -come to most of us when we have done what we wished to do. There is -a monotony even in what is most agreeable, which makes all happiness -dull after awhile. Priests tells us that this unpleasant weariness -is intended to detach us from the joys of earth, and philosophers -are content to find its solution in the physiology of the senses. -But whether explained sentimentally or scientifically, the result -is the same: that expectation makes up so large a component part of -pleasure that, when there is nothing new to expect, pleasure becomes so -attenuated as to be scarcely visible. - -All loves which have been constant and become famous have been those -to which immense difficulties arose, where perils supplied the element -of an unending interest. It is when they can only behold each other in -the stolen hours of the moonlight, that Romeo and Giulietta are to each -other divinely fair. Were they condemned to face each other at dinner -every night for ten years, what divinity would be left for either in -the eyes of the other? - -Habit and love cannot dwell together. As well ask the rose to flower -beneath a slab of stone. - -'Happiness is not of this world,' she said, with a little dreamy -lingering smile. 'Is not that what your brethren are always telling us?' - -Melville answered with a sigh: - -'May this not prove that we may at least hope for it in some other?' - -'Yes, I think,' she replied, rather to herself than to him, 'I think -with you; the strongest argument (if any are strong) in favour of the -future development of the soul, is the absolute impossibility for -anybody with any average mind to be content with what he or she finds -in human existence. Life is a pretty enough picture for people like -ourselves; it is sometimes a pageant, it is sometimes even a poem, but -it is all wonderfully unproductive and circumscribed. Except in a few -hours of passion or exultation, we are sensible of the flatness and -insufficiency of it all. We have ideals which may be only remembrance, -but if not must surely be prevision; ideals which, at any rate, are -larger and of another atmosphere than anything which belongs to earth.' - -Her voice grew soft and dreamy, and had a tone in it of wistful regret. -It was not the mere dissatisfaction of the _ennuyée_ which moved her. -She had had her own way in life, and the success of it had become -monotonous. - -'Yes,' she repeated with a little laugh, which was not very gay; 'I -suppose it must be the soul in us; that odd, unquiet, dissatisfied, -nameless thing inside us, which is always crying, "Give, give, give!" -and never gets what it wants. Our discontent must be the proof -of something in us meant for better things, just as the eternal -revolutions of Paris are the proof of its people's genius. What a -night it is! It wants Lorenzo and Jessica, but they are not here. There -are flirtations and intrigues enough indoors, but Lorenzo and Jessica -are not of our world. It is a pity. The moon seems to look for them.' - -Then she left the marble loggia and went amongst her guests, who -were gathering together in the silver drawing-room, as the sounds of -music, in the ever-youthful 'Invitation à la Valse,' called them, with -midnight, to the ball-room. Gervase Melville strayed away by himself -through the moonlit aisles of roses. - -'Always the pebble of _ennui_ in the golden slipper of pleasure,' -he thought. 'Perhaps life is, after all, more evenly balanced than -the wooden shoe and the ragged stocking will ever believe. Perhaps -in life, as they said to-day that it is in love, hunger is a happier -state than satiety. Perhaps, if Lorenzo had never married Jessica, he -would have written sonnets to her all his life, as Petrarca wrote them -to Laura! The Lady of Amyôt is the most interesting woman I have ever -known, but she is the one person on earth capable of making me doubt -the faith that I have lived and hope to die for; when I am amongst the -green savages of Formosa or the drunken Indians of Ottawa, I can still -believe in the human soul; but when I am with her I doubt--I doubt--I -doubt! She is as exquisitely organised as this gloxinia which is full -of dew and of moonbeams; but she believes that she will have only her -one brief passage on earth like the gloxinia--the glory of a day--and -alas! who shall prove that she is wrong? When she holds my creed in the -hollow of her white hand and smiles, it grows small and shrunken as a -daisy that is dead!' - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -'Bulwer has said that none preserve imagination after forty; does -anyone preserve illusions after thirty?' said a very pretty woman on -her thirty-second birthday. - -Her husband chivalrously replied, 'Any one who lives beside you will -preserve them until he is a hundred.' - -She looked at him dubiously, curiously, with a slight smile which was a -little cynical and a little pensive. - -'I was never famous for the culture of them,' she said, a little -regretfully. 'I do not know why you should have found me so favourable -to yours--if you have found me favourable,' she added, after a pause. - -As the most eloquent and comprehensive answer he could give, he kissed -her hands. - -She glanced at her face in the mirror; she was certainly thirty-two -years old on this last day of February. She did not like it; no woman -likes it. The way is not actually longer because the traveller reads on -a milestone the cipher which tells him how many thousands of yards he -has traversed and has still to traverse, but the milestone suddenly and -distastefully testifies to distance, and increases the sense of fatigue -which the road has given. - -'If women had all a happy Euthanasia,' she said dreamily, 'when they -reach the age I am now, what a good thing it would be for the world. -On her thirtieth birthday every woman ought to be put to death; -mercifully, poetically, as the girl dies in the "Faute de l'Abbé -Mouret," stifled in flowers, but securely put to death.' - -'The world,' said Othmar, smiling, 'would certainly be rid of its most -perilous enchantresses if your proposal became law.' - -'And how much prettier our drawing-rooms would look, and how much -effort and heartburning would be spared, if every woman died before she -began to "make up!" Do you know last night, in the mirror figure of -the cotillion, as the men looked over my shoulder one by one, I forgot -all about them. I only looked at my own face; it seemed to me that -there was a sort of dimness in it, as there is on a photograph which -has been some years done; not age exactly, but the shadow of age which -was coming up behind me as the men were coming, and was looking over -my shoulder as they looked. Why do you laugh? It was not agreeable to -me. I was startled when the voice of Hugo de Rochefort came behind my -ear, "Ah, Madame, is it possible? Do you reject us all?" I had quite -forgotten where I was, and why they were all waiting. Perhaps Age only -meant to say to me, "Do not stay for the cotillions any more!"' - -'If Age did, it certainly found no man living to agree with it,' said -her companion. 'If you will allow me to say so, I do not recognise you -in this unusual phase of self-depreciation. What bee has stung you -to-day?' - -'Self-knowledge, I suppose. Whatever philosophers may declare to the -contrary, it is a very uncomfortable companion.' - -'Surely that depends on one's mood?' - -'Everything in life depends on one's mood. When I am in another mood -I shall say to myself that I have ten years left in which I shall be -agreeable to myself and other people; that the young girls do not -understand men and do not influence them; that a woman is always young -so long as she retains her power to please and to be pleased. There are -five hundred sophisms with which I can console myself, but just now I -am not in a humour to be consoled by them. I am only sensible of what -is very frightful to think of--that a woman is allotted threescore -and ten years as well as a man, but that he may enjoy himself to the -end of them, if only he keep his health; she comes to the close of -her pleasures before her life is half lived. With her, the preface -is exquisite, the poem is delightful, but the colophon is of such -preposterous and odious length and dulness, that it is out of all -proportion to the brevity of the romance.' - -He smiled. 'I know that it is always hopeless to convince you when you -are in a pessimistic humour.' - -'Oh yes; into one's character, as into the characters of others, one -gets little flashes of real light here and there, now and then; the -moments are not agreeable; they are the flashes of a policeman's -lanthorn; while they are shining disguise is not possible.' - -'What do you see when they flash upon me?' - -'Not very much that I would have changed except your sentimentalities.' - -'I am grateful.' - -She looked at him curiously. 'Did you doubt it?' - -He answered, 'Well, no; not precisely. But with such a character as -yours one never knows.' - -'Is not that the charm of my character?' - -'I think it is the secret of your ascendancy. No one can be wholly, -absolutely sure of what you are thinking far down in the recesses of -your immense thoughts.' - -'That was what people use to say of Louis Napoleon, and there never was -a shallower creature. I think I have more profundity than he; but I -have not so much as I had. Happiness is not intellectual; it tends to -make one content, and content is stupidity; that is why Age looked into -the cotillion mirror to-night to remind me that I was getting stupid. -No, you are not to pay me any compliments, my dear; after ten years of -them they have a certain _fadeur_, though I am sure you are sincere -when you make them.' - -She smiled and rose. - -This was her thirty-second birthday. That unpleasant and unpoetic fact -shadowed life to her for the moment. She was still young enough, and -had potent charm enough, of which she was fully conscious, to own it -frankly. The world was still at her feet. She could afford to confess -that she foresaw the time when it would not be so. True, in a way she -would have a certain empire always. She would never altogether lose -her power over the minds of men when she should lose it over their -passions. But it would be a pale-grey kingdom, a sad shore, with -sea-lavender blowing above silvery sand instead of her own Ogygia, with -its world of roses and its smiling suns. - -Face it with what courage and charm she may, the thought of age must -always appal a woman. It takes so much; it offers nothing. True, some -of the greatest passions the world has seen have been born after youth -had long passed, and have burned on till death with deeper fires of -sunset than ever dawn has seen. But a woman is not consoled by that -possibility as morning slides past her and the shadows grow long. - -Othmar, without other reply, opened the door of her dressing-room, and -there entered two small children, a boy and a girl with faces like -flowers, and sweet rosy mouths, carrying a large gilded basket between -them, filled with white lilac and gardenia. They came up to her hand in -hand, not very certain upon their feet or in their speech, and bowed -their little golden heads with pretty reverence, and stammered together -with birdlike voices, '_Bonne fête, maman_.' - -'Here are your eternal courtiers,' said their father. 'Time will make -no difference in their worship of you.' - -She smiled again, and took them together on her lap, and kissed them -with tenderness, her hand playing with their soft, light curls. - -But she said perversely, and a little sadly: 'My dear, how can one -tell? That is only a phrase also. One never knows what children may -become. In fifteen or twenty years' time Otho may send me a _sommation -respectueuse_, because he wants to marry a circus-rider, and Xenia -may hate me because I make her accept a grand-duke whilst she is in -love with an attaché. One never can tell. They are fond of me now, -certainly.' - -'They will as certainly love you always.' - -'What an optimist you have grown! It is flattering to me,' she -answered, as she caressed the children and gave them some crystals of -sugar. 'I cannot help seeing things as they are; you know I never could -help it; and the relations of parents with their children, which are -pretty and idyllic to begin with, are often apt to alter to very grim -prose as time goes on, and separate interests arise to part them. Why -does no sovereign who ever lived like his or her immediate heir? Why is -the crown prince always arrayed against the crown?' - -'I am very fond of my crown prince,' said Othmar, as he drew his young -son to him. - -'He is not a crown prince yet; he is a baby. Wait until he does want -to marry that circus-rider, or until you see him take an opposite side -in European politics to yourself. It is when the distinct Ego asserts -itself in your child, in opposition to your own entity, that the -separation begins and the antagonism rises.' - -'You will always analyse so mercilessly!' - -'I can never be content with the world's commonplaces and sophisms, -if you mean that. And on this day, when I am thirty-two years old, no -persuasion on earth would convince me that, when the time should come -which will make me twice that age, I shall be anything but an unhappy -woman. It will not console me in the least that my grandchildren may -wish me _bonne fête_.' - -'I wonder if you are serious?' - -'I was never more so, I assure you. Life is a series of losses; but a -woman's losses outweigh a man's by a million. From the first little -line she sees between her eyebrows or about her mouth, existence is -nothing but a _dégringolade_ for her. To say that she is compensated -for the loss of her empire by becoming a grandmother is wholly absurd.' - -'You always allot such a small space to the affections!' - -'Madame de Sévigné allotted the largest that any clever woman ever did -or could. Do you think the chill philosophies of Madame de Grignan -rewarded her? Myself, _je n'ai pas cette bosse là_. You know it very -well. I am fond of these children, because they are yours; but I do not -think them in the least a compensation for growing old!' - -'As if years mattered to a woman of your wit!' - -She smiled. - -'That is so like a man's clumsy idea of consolation. True, wit, in -theory, is very much admired, but, practically, nobody cares much -about it, unless it comes out of a handsome mouth. Men prefer white -shoulders. And----' - -'And your shoulders?' said Othmar, with a smile. 'Are they not of snow, -and fit for Venus' self?' - -'Oh, they are white as yet,' she cried indifferently. - -'For myself,' he added, 'I shall be delighted when the faces of no -aspirants are reflected in your cotillion mirror. I detest all those -men----' - -'Oh no, you do not,' she said tranquilly. 'If there were none of them -you would say to yourself, "Really, she is very much aged." A man's -love is always so made up of pride and prejudice that if no one envy -him what he has he soon ceases to value it. On the whole, men go much -more by the opinion of the world than women do. A woman, if she take -a fancy to a cripple, or a hunchback, or a _crétin_, makes herself -ridiculous over him, without any regard to how she may be laughed at; -but a man is always thinking of what they say at the clubs. In his -most headlong follies he is always nervous about the opinion of the -_galerie_.' - -'You always think us such fools,' said Othmar, with some ill humour. - -'Oh, no,' she said again with a smile, 'only I think you are, in a -way, more conscientious than we are, and in another way more nervous. -A woman, when she has a fancy for a thing, would burn down half the -world to get at it; a man would hesitate to sacrifice so many cities -and people, and would also be preoccupied with the idea that he would -be badly placed in history for his exploit.' - -'Then he is no true lover.' - -'Are there any true lovers?' - -'I think you should be the last woman who could doubt it.' - -'You want a compliment, but I shall not give it you. Or if you mean -the others--well, perhaps they have been, or they are, true enough; -but then that is only because a passion for me has always been thought -_d'un chic incroyable_. I should believe in the love of a man if I were -a milkmaid, but when to be in love with one is a mere fashion like the -height of your wheels or the shape of your mail, one may question its -single-mindedness. I have never, either, observed that the most devoted -of them eat their dinner less regularly, or smoke less often when they -were unhappy. Even you, yourself, when you were wasting with despair, -did not refuse to dine or smoke.' - -'Do not speak of that time,' said Othmar, with a look of distress. 'As -for your complaint against us, we are mere machines in a great deal; -the machine goes on mechanically in its daily exercise for its daily -necessities; that movement of mechanism has nothing to do with the -suffering of the soul. Nothing can be more unjust than to confuse the -one with the other. You say a man cannot be a poet or a lover because -he eats a truffled beefsteak. I say it is the mechanical part of him -which eats the beefsteak, and eating it impairs neither his sensitive -nerves nor his passions. As for smoking, it is a consolation because it -is a sedative.' - -'Admirably reasoned,' said Nadine, 'but you do not convince me. I -am certain that the conventionalities and habits of modern life do -diminish the forces of passion. When Tityæus was forsaken by Musidora, -and had only the primæval woods, the _fons sylvæ_, the mountain -solitudes, and the silent sheep, his grief could reign over him -undivided; but nowadays, when he dines out every evening, is made to -laugh whether he will or no, finds a hundred engagements waiting for -every hour, and has the babble of the world eternally in his ear, his -remembrance is of a very attenuated sort. I do not say that he suffers -nothing, but I do say that he often forgets that he suffers.' - -'I am not at all sure of that,' said Othmar, 'and what is more, I am -almost disposed to think that the effort to affect indifference which -Society compels, is much more suffering than the delightful permission -which Nature gave your shepherd to be as miserable as he pleased, -unchecked and unremarked. The world may cause the most excruciating -torture to a man who is compelled to be in it and of it, while some -great preoccupation makes every thought except one alien and hateful.' - -'If the man have a great nature, perhaps. But how many have?' - -'As many, or as few, as in the days of the shepherds. The ordinary -Tityæus, I imagine, did not weep long for the ordinary Musidora, but -soon tuned his pipe afresh and put new ribbons on his crook.' - -'I do not quite think that; I think all feelings were stronger, warmer, -deeper, more concentrated in the earlier ages of the world. Nowadays we -contrive to make everything absurd--our heroes, our poets, our sorrows, -our loves, all are dwarfed by our treatment of them. Even death itself -we have managed to make ridiculous, and strip of all its majesty. -Ulysses' self would have looked grotesque if buried with the civil -rites which attended Gambetta to his tomb, or the religious rites which -mocked the prince of mockers, Disraeli. Whenever I die, I hope you will -let me be carried by young children clad in white to some green grave -in your own woods, where only a stag will come or a pretty hare. Will -you be unconventional enough for that? Or will you be afraid of the -French municipalities and the Russian popes? I should have courage to -execute your last wishes so, but whether you will have the courage to -execute mine----Men are so much more timid than women!' - -'Do not talk of death!' said Othmar, with a passing shudder. - -'Did I not say that men are cowards?' - -'Not for ourselves; for those we love we are.' - -She smiled a little contemptuously, a little sadly. - -'Ah, my dear! who knows! Death would not be so dreadful to me as -if I lived to incur Horace's reproach to Lyce. What is it? "_Fis -anus, et tamen_," &c., &c., though that reproach perhaps belongs to -a more unsophisticated age than our own. Nowadays the _perruquiers_ -let nobody get grey, and there are a great many grandmothers, even -great-grandmothers, who are entirely charming--more charming than the -girls who are just out.' - -'I do not think you will ever go to the _perruquiers_, but you will -always be charming, and you will never be old.' - -'One would think you were my lover!' - -'Why will you never believe that I am still so?' - -'Because I do not believe in any miracles; I go to no Loretto. Love is -a volatile precipitate, and marriage a solvent in which it disappears. -If we are exceptions to that rule of chemistry and life, we are -so extraordinarily exceptional that fate must have some dreadful -punishment in store for us.' - -'Or some exceptional reward.' - -'Is not virtue always punished!' she said, with her enigmatical smile. -'You are a very handsome man, and have been the most poetic of lovers. -But in the nature of things I grow used to your good looks, and in -the nature of things you do not make love to me any longer. Love may -be the most delightful thing in the world, but it cannot resist the -pressure of daily intercourse. It is doomed when it has to look over -a common visiting list, and scold the same house-steward about the -weekly expenditure. "_Ah--ouiche_, Madame!" said one of the peasants -at Amyôt to me once, "where is love when you dip two spoons in one -soup-pot?--you only quarrel about the onions." That is always the -fault of marriage. It is always putting two spoons in one pot. Whether -it is an earthen pitcher or a Cellini vase does not make the least -difference. Poor love runs away from the clash of the spoons.' - -Othmar laughed, but he was irritated. 'I should be miserable if I -believed you were in earnest,' he said impatiently. 'But I know you -would sacrifice your own life to an epigram.' - -'I am entirely in earnest,' she replied. 'But if you do not believe me -that shows that you are a less changeable man than most, or I a wiser -woman. Ah, my dear,' she added, with a smile and a sigh, 'when men do -not admire me any longer then you will not admire me either, I imagine; -I wonder you do as it is--you see so much of me!' - -'I shall adore you all my life,' said Othmar, with almost as much -fervour as when he had been the most impassioned and the most hopeless -of her lovers. - -'You fancy so; and that is very pretty in you, after so many years; -but it does not follow that you will think so still in twelve months' -time,' said his wife, with the smile of her incurable scepticism upon -her lips. 'And do not insist on it too much. Things which are insisted -on too much have a knack of making themselves tiresome, and you know of -old that repetition has no great charm for me, and say what you will -you cannot prevent me from feeling that very soon I shall grow old!' - -She rose and looked over her shoulder at the silver-framed mirror with -its three glasses, showing her profile to her as she turned. - -'I could not brave the sunrise after a ball _now_,' she thought, with a -little pang. - -'Has not a poet said,' she added aloud: - - I fear - Life's many changes; not Death's changelessness?' - -There was a touch of graver sadness in the tone with which she quoted -the line of verse, which forbade reply either by persiflage or -compliment. - -Othmar kissed her hand with almost the same emotion as when he had -declared to her a passion hopeless, and therefore for the time -changeless; and he remained mute. - -'The same poet says: - - Love's words are weak, but not Love's silences,' - -she added, with a smile. 'Well, I will believe you----as yet.' - -She had in nowise resigned the power of, and the diversion afforded her -by, what in a lesser person would have been called endless flirtation. -She amused herself constantly with the follies of men and their -subjugation. - -'If you do not make yourself attractive to others, the man to whom you -care to be attractive will soon not find you so,' she was wont to say. -'Those women who make themselves a statue of fidelity, like the Queen -in the "Winter's Tale," will soon be left alone on their pedestals. Be -as faithful as you please, but show him that you have every temptation -and opportunity to be unfaithful if you did please.' - -It was on those lines that she had traced her conduct, and whilst her -world knew that she was unaltered in coquetry, if coquetry her languid -charm and domination could be called, it also saw that she was equally -unaltered in profound and universal indifference to all those whom she -subjugated. Othmar, as he said, would have preferred that she should -subjugate none. But she frankly told him that it was of no use to wish -for subversion of the laws of nature. 'I am as nature made me,' she -said once to him. 'If you did not like the way I was made, why did -you not leave me alone? You had plenty of time to study me. I am like -Disraeli, I like power. Now the only power possible to a woman is that -which she possesses over men. If men were more interesting, the power -would be more interesting too. But then it is not our fault. It is -perhaps the fault of the millions of stupid women who swallow up the -occasional originality of men as sand swallows up the bits of agate and -cornelian on the shore. It is the fashion to say that it is the wicked, -clever women who hurt men. That is not the case; it is the good silly -ones who make of life the sahara of commonplaces and of blunders which -it is. Talent will at least always understand; blameless stupidity -understands nothing.' - -She was somewhat more, rather than less, of a _charmeuse_ than she had -been. It was so natural to her to charm the lives of men that she could -have as soon ceased to breathe as to cease to use her power over them. -There were times when Othmar grew irritated and jealous, but she was -unmoved by his anger. - -'It is a much greater compliment to you that men should admire me,' -she said to him, 'and it would look supremely absurd if I lapsed into -a _bonne bourgeoise_, and always went everywhere arm-in-arm with you. -I should not know myself. You would not know me. Be content. You are -aware that I think very little about any one of them; they are none of -them so interesting as you used to be. But I must have them about me. -They are like my fans; I never scarcely use a fan or look at one, but -still a fan is indispensable; it is a part of one's toilette.' - -Othmar, who retained for her much of the imperious and perfervid -passion which he had had as a lover, resigned himself with a bad grace -to her arguments. Something of the old tyrannical feeling with which he -would once have liked to bear her out of sight and hearing of the world -for ever still moved in him at times, though he had grown diffident of -displaying it, having grown afraid of her delicate ironies. - -'It is so good for him,' she said to herself; 'that sort of irritation -and jealousy keeps his affections and his admirations alive: they are -not allowed to go to sleep, as both have a knack of going to sleep in -marriage. Anything is less dangerous than stagnant water. If a man -be not made jealous he must drift imperceptibly into indifference. -Monotony is like a calm at sea; everyone yawns, and in time even a -shark would be welcomed as a delightful interruption. To avoid sameness -is the first requisite for the endurance of love. If he love me as much -as he did nine years ago--and I think he does--it is only because at -the bottom of his heart he never feels absolutely sure of me. He has -always a faint unacknowledged sense that I may any day do something -entirely unexpected by him; may even fly away, as a bird does, off a -bough which it has tired of. I am like a book of alchemy to him, of -which he has mastered all the secrets save just one or two lines, but -in which those lines always remain in unintelligible abracadabra to -perplex and interest him. He will never tire of the book till he thinks -he can decipher those lines. It is a mistake to suppose that men are -only allured by their senses; there is an intellectual mystery which -fascinates them, and which is not so easily exhausted. All men are -amused by me, all men are more or less attracted by me. I should not -wish my husband, alone of all men, to become tired of me. Of course it -is very difficult to prevent it when he is so used to me, but I think -it is possible.' - -A feeble woman, a dull woman, a woman of that kind of self-complacency -which goes with stupidity, would not have allowed so much even in her -own thoughts; but she, who was deemed the vainest of her kind, had no -such vanity wherewith to deceive herself. Her high intelligence and her -unerring penetration were glasses forever turned upon herself no less -than upon others. Othmar was at times surprised and almost irritated -that she left him so often to go on her own visits or travels, or sent -him alone upon his. But she knew very well what she did. - -'Frequent absences are like those pauses in the music which in French -we call _silences_, and in German _Pausen_,' she said to herself. -'They make us care for the music more than we should do if it were -always on our ear. Monotony is the most terrible enemy that affection -or enjoyment ever has. Unfortunately, most women are so eternally -monotonous that they can never understand why men are not as pleased -with the defect as they are themselves. Lord Beaconsfield was not -an apostle of love, but he was a shrewd observer of mankind, and I -always think that he suggested the most admirable phase of modern love -possible, when he depicted two people who were fond of one another -as going their different ways every evening to different houses, and -meeting again to talk it all over with champagne and chicken at dawn. -If people are always together in the same places, what have they left -to tell one another in their own house? Myself, I don't like either -champagne or chicken, but that is a mere matter of detail. You can say, -Rhine wine and green oysters, or yellow tea and Russian cigarettes. It -is, no doubt, only another form of vanity; but I wish our lives not -to break down and drift away in little bits of wreck wood, as most -peoples' lives do. It is not goodness in me; it is only _amour propre_.' - -She had more sympathy for him than she would in other years have -supposed herself capable of feeling, but with her regard for him -there was mingled that habit of analysis which was so inveterate -in her, and that indulgence to his weaknesses which arose from her -condescending comprehension of them. She, as yet, made the preservation -of his admiration her study, but in her study there was blended the -sense of amusement and disdain, which always came to her before the -inconsistencies and the unwisdom of men. She loved him perhaps; but she -never failed to weigh him accurately. To Yseulte, he had been as a lord -and a god; to her he was dearer than other men, but not more imposing. -Even when the first winelike fumes of awakened passion had touched her, -she had been clear of judgment and unerring in vision. She had said to -herself: 'He looked larger than others once, through the mists of my -preference, but he is not so really.' - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -When he saw the beauty of her children, Friedrich Othmar relented in -that unsparing bitterness which he felt against her. As a woman he -still hated her intensely, unspeakably, unchangeably, but as their -mother he had respect for her, and almost pardon. - -'He will be childless all his days,' he had said with certainty and -scorn. 'That bloodless _mondaine_, that ethereal coquette will leave -the name barren; she is all brain and nerve; she will never give birth -to anything save an epigram.' - -When his words had been disproved, he had rendered her a sullen honour. -He would take no joy in the children as he would have taken joy in -Yseulte's; but they were there to bear the name he thought so precious, -and he was forced to confess that no lovelier or stronger or healthier -creatures than the young Otho and his sister Xenia ever could have -played beneath the oak-boughs of Amyôt. - -But the old man was faithful to the one innocent affection which had -ever lived in his selfish breast; with an aching heart he would often -turn from watching these children tumble amongst the daisies in the -sunshine, and find his way to a solitary tomb made in white marble in -the mausoleum of Amyôt, in memory of her whose slender crushed body lay -buried amongst the violets by the sea of the southern shore. - -'All that weight of marble!' he thought, 'and not one little sigh of -regret!' - -Not one; unless he gave it. - -'I hate this Russian woman, but I am bound to say that the children are -beautiful,' he said once to Melville. 'I am bound to say, too, that -she has made a change for the better in Otho. Since he has discovered -(doubtless) that every _grande passion_ has its perihelion and its -decline, he has become more like other men. He has interested himself -in the welfare of the House. He has condescended to be conscious that -Europe exists. He has lived the natural life of the world, and has, I -think, ceased to wish himself a wandering Wilhelm Meister, a François -Villon without a rag to his back. My poor dead child only loved him, -and could do nothing to attach him to life or to detach him from his -fantastic preoccupations and morbid demands for the impossible. This -woman has made him so in love with the actual, with the real, that he -has ceased to dream of the ideal. He has even grown aware that his -own fate is an enviable one, which for thirty years of his life he -obstinately denied.' - -'It is a questionable benefit to make a man abandon the ideal,' said -Melville. 'I think, however, that Othmar's feeling was always rather -impatience of existing facts than thirst of any impalpable perfection. -You believe that a discontented man is necessarily an imaginative man. -It does not follow. Imagination may perhaps create discontent; but -then, on the other hand, it may console it. If he had had imagination -enough, he would have found out a thousand idealised ways of using his -great wealth.' - -'Thank heaven, then, that he has so little,' said Friedrich Othmar. -'Myself, I always considered that he had a great deal too much. I -do not underrate imagination in its proper place. None of the great -events of the world would have taken place without it: every great -revolutionist, every great conqueror, every great statesman, even, -must possess it; but it is a perilous quality, singularly similar to -nitro-glycerine; you can never be certain of the hour and the sphere of -its action; it may pierce a new road for humanity to use after it, or -it may wreck nations and send humanity backward by a thousand years.' - -'I should not mind going back a thousand years,' murmured Melville. -'Basil was living, and Augustine.' - -Since the death of Yseulte these two men, so dissimilar, even so -inharmonious, had become in a manner friends. Their mutual pain had -drawn them together. The thought which was the same in the minds of -each, and which each understood in the other without speech, made a -link of union between them. Both divined the secret of her death. -Neither ever spoke of it. - -'He is a priest, but he is a man,' said Friedrich Othmar of Melville, -who in turn said of him: - -'He is encrusted all over with gold, egotism, and disbelief; but -beneath that crust there is the heart of humanity.' - -And they shook hands across the profound gulf of sentiment and opinion -which divided them. - -'I think that, for once, the wise Baron is mistaken,' reflected -Melville, without saying his thoughts aloud. 'Othmar may have grown -less imaginative, because most men do as they grow older, unless they -be truly poets. But I do not think he is a whit more contented. I -believe, if he could see into his heart, that he has found his apple of -paradise not very much richer in flavour than a common rennet!' - -But he forbore to say so. What business was it of his? Only, being the -profound student of the comedy and tragedy of humanity that he was, he -could not help feeling a keen interest in watching the issues of this -marriage of love. - -Melville, like all persons of fine penetration and quick sympathies, -was deeply interested in all characters which were out of the common -lines of human nature, and whenever his busy years had any leisure he -spent it where he could observe all those who interested him most. - -Of all these the Lady of Amyôt had the most powerful interest for him. -But for his years and his priest's frock, it might have been a more -tender and profound sentiment still with which she inspired him. For -Melville, as for all men of intellect, the very despondency she cast -over them, the very intricacy and unsatisfying changeability of her -character, possessed the most powerful charm. But whether these were -qualities which would make _bon ménage_ in the familiarity and the -triviality of daily life--of this he was not so sure. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -She, who had been so exacting as a friend, was not in any way exacting -as a wife. There were a generosity and a breadth of thought in her, -which made her accord freedom in proportion to what lesser minds would -have considered her right to deny it. She held the whole ordinary -mass of womanhood in too absolute a disdain for her ever to stoop to -the same ways and weaknesses as theirs. She might have been the most -despotic of mistresses: she was the most lenient of wives. Tyranny, -which would have seemed, did still seem, to her natural and amusing -when used over lives which in no way belonged to her, would have -appeared to her _bourgeois_ and ridiculous exercised over her husband: -that sort of thing was only fit for two shopkeepers of Belleville. She -had too supreme a scorn for the Penelopes of the world, whose jealousy -was as impotent as their charms, not to let the reins which she drew so -tightly over others lie loose and unfelt on the shoulders of Othmar. - -'Penelope thinks that no object in all created nature is more lovely -and important than her distaff; naturally Ulysses gets sick of the -sight of it,' she said once. 'Why are all women, in love with their -husbands, much more miserable than those who detest them? Only because -they insist upon giving so much of themselves, that the men grow to -view them with absolute terror, as the Strasbourg goose views the -balls of maize paste. Love is an art, and ought to be dealt with -artistically; in marriage, it has to contend with such insuperable -difficulties that it needs to be most delicate, most sagacious, most -forbearing, most intelligent, to surmount them. Instead of which, -women, usually, who have any love for their husbands at all, look on -them as so much property inalienably assigned to them, and treat them -as Cosmo dei Medici treated Florence: "_Mi piace più distruggerla che -perderla!_"' - -Othmar himself had changed little; men at his years do not alter -physically, though great changes, moral and mental, may in brief time -transform their feelings and their ambitions. - -Women looked at him inquisitively many a day, to try and see whether -that great wonder-flower of romantic passion, which had astonished his -world in a generation in which such passions are rare, had brought -forth contentment or disenchantment. But they could not be sure. No -one had ever succeeded in making him unfaithful to this great love, -which had been merged in marriage, but no one had ever penetrated his -confidence sufficiently to satisfy themselves whether any disillusion -had followed on the fulfilment of those dreams and desires, to which -he had been willing to sacrifice his life, his honour, and his soul. -All that society in general, or his most familiar friends could see, -was the outward pageantry of a life in the great world; that life which -leaves so little space for thought, so little time for regret, so -little leisure for conscience to speak or memory to waken. If he were -not entirely content he allowed no one to suspect so; and he did not -even like to admit it to his own reflections: yet there were times when -life did not seem to him much more complete than it had done before he -had attained the supreme desire of his heart; there were times when the -old vague indefinite dissatisfaction came back to him--the sense of -emptiness which moved the Cæsars of Rome with the world at their feet. - -'I suppose it is inevitable,' he said to himself. 'I suppose she is -right; nothing on earth is content except a sucking child and an -oyster.' - -It irritated him that he should be pursued by this foolish and -shapeless sense of still missing something, still desiring something, -still seeking something unknown and unknowable; but it was there at the -bottom of most of his thoughts, at the core of most of his feelings. - -'You have had a great misfortune all your life,' Friedrich Othmar said -once to him. 'You have always had all your wishes granted you. When -a child is indulged in that way he kicks his nurse, when a man is -indulged in that way he sulks at destiny. It is human nature.' - -'Human nature,' said Othmar, 'according to you and Nadège, is such a -consummate fool that it is scarcely worth the bread it eats, much less -the elaborate analysis which philosophers have expended on it from -Solomon to Renan.' - -Friedrich Othmar shrugged his shoulders. - -'It is not always a fool,' he made answer; 'but it is, I think, always -an ingrate.' - -Was he himself an ingrate? Or did he only suffer from that inevitable -law of recoil and rebound which governs human life; that cessation -of tension which makes a great passion, once satisfied and become -familiar, like a bow unstrung? - -There is always a pathetic reaction, a curious sense of loss in the -midst of possession, which follows on the attainment of every great -desire. If anyone had told him that he was not perfectly happy, he -would have indignantly denied the accuracy of their assertion. Whenever -any misgiving that he was not so arose in his own mind, he repulsed it -with contempt as the mere ungrateful rebelliousness of human nature. -Yet now and then a vague sense that his life was not much more perfect -than it had been before the desires of his heart had been given to him, -occasionally came over him, though he always thrust it away. - -She herself felt sometimes an almost irresistible inclination to say -to him; 'And you, you who set your soul on marriage with me, have you -found the lasting joys that you expected, or have you learned that the -fulfilment of a dream is never quite the dream itself--has always some -glory wanting?' - -But she refrained. Women are always so unwise when they ask those -questions, she reflected; so like children who pull up the plants in -their garden to see what growth or what roots they have. - -'We are just like anybody else, after all!' she did say once, with a -mingling of despondency and of humour. 'I suppose we cannot escape -from the age we live in, which is neither original nor imaginative, -nor anything that I know of, except feverish and unhappy. Mr. Lawrence -Oliphant, certainly, is gone to live in Syria, and we might do the -same, but would it be any better? Do you think life is any larger -there? I should be afraid there are only more mosquitoes.' - -'I imagine we should only find in Syria what we took there, as Madame -de Swetchine said of Rome,' replied Othmar, with some discontent. 'Life -is an incomplete thing; unsatisfactory because its passions are finite, -its years few, and its time of slow development and of slow decline -wholly disproportionate, as you said just now, to its short moment of -attainment and maturity; and also because habit, routine, prejudice, -human stupidity, have all contrived to weight it with unnecessary -burdens, to bind it with needless and intolerable laws, to take all -the glow and spontaneity and rebound out of it. Conventionality is its -curse.' - -'And marriage!' said his wife. 'Oh, my dear, I do not mean to be -unpleasant, but you know it is indisputably true that I should have -been much fonder of you, and you of me, if we had never married each -other. There is something stifling in marriage; it confounds love with -property. I often wonder how the human race ever contrived to make such -a mistake popular or universal.' - -'It is not I who say that,' said Othmar with a touch of embarrassment. - -'Oh no; but you think it. Every man thinks it,' she replied tranquilly. -'I often wonder,' she continued more dreamily, 'how it will be when you -love some other woman. You will some day--of course you will. I wonder -what will happen----' - -'How can you do such injustice to me and to yourself? I shall never -care for any other living thing.' - -She looked at him through the shadow of her drooped lids. - -'Oh yes, you will,' she repeated. 'It is inevitable. The only thing I -am not sure about is how I shall take it. It will all depend, I think, -on whether you confide in me, or hide it from me.' - -'It would be a strange thing to confide in you!' - -'Not at all. That is a conventional idea, and the idea of a stupid -man. You are not stupid. I should certainly be the person most -interested in knowing such a fact, and if you did tell me frankly, I -think--I think I should be unconventional and clever enough not to -quarrel with you. I think I should understand. But if you hid it from -me, then----' - -The look passed over her face which the dead Napraxine had used to fear -as a hound fears the whip, and which Othmar had never seen. - -'Then, I give you leave to deal me any death you like with your own -hand,' he said with a laugh, which was a little forced because a -certain chill had passed over him. - -She laughed also. - -'Well, be wise,' she said as she rose; 'you are warned in time. Oh, my -dear Otho, you grant yourself that every passion is finite. I think it -is; but I think also that the wise people, when it fades, make it leave -friendship and sympathy behind it, as the beautiful blowing yellow corn -when it is cut leaves the wheat. The foolish people let it leave all -kinds of rancour, envy, and uncharitableness, as the brambles and weeds -when they are burnt only leave behind them a foul smoke. But it is so -easy to be philosophic in theory!' - -'Your philosophy far exceeds mine,' said Othmar with a little -impatience. 'I have not yet reached the period at which I can calmly -contemplate my green April fields laid sear to give corn to the -millstones; they are all in flower with the poppy and the campion.' - -'Very prettily said,' replied his wife. 'You really are a poet at -heart.' - -Othmar went out from her presence that day with a vague sense of -depression and of apprehension. - -He had never wavered in his great love for her; the great passion -with which she had inspired him still remained with him ardent and -profound in much; the charm she had for his intelligence sustained -the seduction for his senses; he loved her, only her, as much and as -exclusively as in the early days of his acquaintance with her; she -still remained the one woman upon earth for him. He could not hear her -calmly speak of any future in which she would be less than then to him -without a sense of irritation and offence. It seemed to him that such -deliberate and unsparing analysis as hers could not exist side by side -with any very intense feeling. Certainly he was used to it in her; he -was accustomed to her delicate and critical dissection of every human -motive and impulse, his, her own, or those of others; but it touched -him now with a sense of pain, as though the scalpel had penetrated to -some open nerve. His consciousness of his own devotion to her made -him indignantly repulse the suggestion that he could ever change; yet -his own knowledge of the nature of humanity and of the work of time -told him that she had had truth on her side when she had said that -such a change might come, would come; and he thrust the consciousness -of that truth away as an insult and affront. Was there nothing which -would endure and resist the cruel slow sapping of the waves of time? -Was there no union, passion, or fidelity, strong enough to stand the -dull fallings of the years like drops of grey rain which beat down the -drooping rose and change it from a flower of paradise to a poor, pale, -scentless wreck of itself? - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -On this the unwelcome anniversary of her birth, she was at St. -Pharamond, which had been connected with the grounds of La -Jacquemerille by the purchase, at great cost, of all the intervening -flower-fields and olive-woods. It had been her whim to do so, and -Othmar had not opposed it, though he would have preferred never again -to see those shores; but, although she never spoke to him on that -subject, she herself chose to go there with most winters, for the -very reason that the world would sooner have expected her to shun the -scenes of Yseulte's early and tragic death. She invariably did whatever -her society expected her not to do, and the vague sense of self-blame -with which her conscience was moved, whenever she remembered the dead -girl, was sting enough to make her display an absolute oblivion and -indifference which, for once, she did not feel. - -She never remained long upon the Riviera; she seldom stayed long -anywhere, except it were at Amyôt; but she went thither always when -the violets were thick in the valleys, and the yellow blossoms of -the butterwort were flung like so many golden guineas over the brown -furrows of the fields. The children spent the whole winter there. This -day, when they had wished her _bonne fête_, and brought her their -great baskets of white lilac and gardenias, she was indulgent to them, -and took them with her in her carriage for a drive after her noonday -breakfast. She was not a woman to whom the babble and play of children -could ever be very long interesting; her mind was too speculative, too -highly cultured, too exacting to give much response to the simplicity, -the ignorance, and the imperfect thoughts of childhood. But in her -own way she loved them. In her own way she took great care of their -education, physical and mental. She wished her son to become a man whom -the world would honour; and she wished her daughter to be wholly unlike -herself. - -As yet they were hardly more than babies; lovely, happy, gay, and -gentle. 'Let them be young as long as they can,' she said to those -entrusted with their training. 'I was never young. It is a great loss. -One never wholly recovers it in any after years.' - -It was a fine day, mild, sunny, with light winds shaking the odour from -the orange buds; such a day as that on which Platon Napraxine had died. -She did not think of him. - -Several years had gone away since then; the whole world seemed changed; -the dead past had buried its dead; there were the two golden-haired -laughing children in symbol and witness of the present. - -'Decidedly, however philosophic we may be, we are all governed at -heart by sentiment,' she thought, as the carriage rolled through the -delicate green of the blossoming woods. 'And by beauty,' she added, -as her eyes dwelt on the faces of Otho and Xenia, who were the very -flower and perfection of childish loveliness; ideal children also, who -were always happy, always caressing, always devoted to each other, and -whose little lives were as pretty as those of two harebells in a sunny -wood. Why were they dear to her, and sweet and charming? Why had the -physical pain of their birth been forgotten in the mental joys of their -possession? Why did her eyes delight to follow their movements, and her -ear delight to listen to their laughter? - -The other children had been as much hers, and she had always disliked -them; she disliked them still, such time as she went to their Russian -home to receive their annual homage, and that of all her dependents. - -Othmar was devoted to the interests of Napraxine's two little sons; an -uneasy consciousness, often recurrent to him, that he had not merited -the frank and steady friendship of the dead man, perpetually impelled -him to the greatest care of their fortunes and education. They were -kindly, stupid, vigorous little lads, likely to grow into the image -of their dead father; but all that could be done for them in mind -and body, for their present and their future, he took heed should be -done; and placing them under wise and gentle teachers, endeavoured to -counteract the fatal instincts to vanity and overbearing self-esteem -which the adulation and submission they received everywhere on their -estates had implanted in them long before they could spell. He -never saw them come into his presence without painful memories and -involuntary repugnance; but he repressed all signs of either, and the -children, if they feared him, liked him. Of their mother they saw but -very little: a lovely delicate vision, in an atmosphere scented like a -tea rose, with a little sound in her voice which made them feel they -must tread softly and speak low, looked at them with an expression -which they did not understand, and touched them with cool fragrant lips -lightly and distantly, and they knew she was their mother because they -had always heard so: but Othmar seemed nearer to them than she did, -and when they wished for anything, it was to him that they addressed -their little rude scrawled notes. For the rest, they were always -in Russia: it was the only stipulation with which their father had -hampered their mother's guardianship of them. - -'Let them be Russians always,' he had said in his last letter to -her. 'Let them love no soil but Russia. The curse of Russians is the -foreign life, the foreign tongue, the foreign ways, which draw them -away from their people, make their lands unknown and indifferent to -them, and lead them to squander on foreign cities and on foreign -wantons the roubles wrung by their stewards in their absence from their -dependents. Paris is the _succursale_ of Petersburg, and it is also -its hell. When the Russian nobles shall live in their own homes, the -Nihilist will have little justification, and the Jew will be unable -to drain the peasantry as a cancer drains the blood. I preach what I -have not practised. But if I could live my life again, I would spend my -strength, and my gold, and my years amongst my own people.' - -'Poor Platon!' she had thought, more than once remembering those -words. 'He thinks he would have done so, but he would not. The first -_drôlesse_ who should have crossed the frontier would have taken him -back with her in triumph. It is quite true what he says; an absent -nobility leaves an open door behind them, through which Sedition creeps -in to jump upon their vacant chairs. But so long as ever they have the -power, men will go where they are amused, and the Russian _tchin_ will -not stay in the provinces, in the snow, with the wolves, and the Jews, -and the drunken villagers all around his house, when he can live in the -Avenue Joséphine, and never hear or see anything but what pleases him. -Absenteeism ruined Ireland, and will ruin Russia; but, _tant que le -monde est monde_, the man who has only one little short life of his own -will like to enjoy it.' - -Nevertheless, she and Othmar both respected his wishes, and his boys -were brought up in the midst of the vast lands of their heritage, with -everything done that could be done by tuition to amend their naturally -slow intelligence and outweigh the stubbornness and arrogance begotten -by centuries of absolute dominion in the race they sprang from. She -herself only saw them very rarely, when, in midsummer weather, the -flowering seas of grass and the scent of the violets in the larch -woods brought life and warmth even to North-eastern Russia. They -were unpleasant to her: always unpleasant. They were the living and -intrusive records of years she would willingly have effaced. They were -involuntary but irresistible reproaches spoken, as it were, by lips -long dumb in death. - -Living, their father had never had power to do otherwise than offend, -irritate, and disgust her: the least active sentiment against himself -that he had ever roused in her had been a contemptuous pity. But -dead, there were moments when Platon Napraxine acquired both dignity -and strength in her eyes: the silence of his death and its cause -had commanded her respect: he had been wearisome, stupid, absurd, -troublesome, in all his life; but in his death he had gained a certain -grandeur, as features quite coarse and commonplace will look solemn and -white on their bier. - -He had died to defend her name, and she could not remember ever once -having given him one kind word! There had been a greatness in his -loyalty and in his sacrifice to its demands which outweighed the -clumsiness of his passion and the grotesqueness of his ignorance. 'If -he were living again, I should be as intolerant of him as I ever was,' -she thought at times; 'he would annoy me as much as ever, he would be -as ridiculous, he would be as odious; and yet I should like for once -to be able to say to him "_Pauvre ours! vous êtes mal léché, mais vous -avez bon c[oe]ur!_"' - -It was a vague remorse, but a sincere one; yet in her nature it -irritated and did not alter her. It was an intrusive thought, and -unwelcome as had been his presence. She thrust it away as she had used -to bid her women lock the doors of her chamber; and the poor ghost went -away obediently, timid, wistful, not daring to insist, as the living -man had used to do from the street door. - -Remorse is a vast persistent shadow in the poet's metrical romance and -the dramatist's tragic story; but in the great world, in the pleasant -world, in the world of movement, of distraction, of society, it is but -a very faint mist, which at very distant intervals clouds some tiny -space in a luminous sky, and hurries away before a breath of fashion, -a whisper of news, a puff of novelty, as though conscious of its own -incongruity and want of tact. - -When their drive was over this day she dismissed the young Otho and his -sister to their nurses and teachers, and remained on the sea-terrace -of St. Pharamond with some friends about her. It was the last day in -February, a day of warm winds and full sunshine and fragrant warmth. -The air was penetrated with the sweet breath of primroses and the -scented narcissus which were blossoming by millions under the woods -of St. Pharamond. The place had been beautiful before, and under her -directions had become as perfect a sea palace as the south coast of -Europe could show anywhere. She had had a terrace made; a long line -of rose-coloured marble overhanging the sea, backed by palms and -araucarias, with sheltered seats that no angry breeze could find -out, and wide staircases descending to the smooth sands below. Here, -lying on the cushions and white bearskins, and leaning one elbow on -the balustrade, she could watch all the width of the waters as they -stretched eastward and westward, and see the man[oe]uvres in the -cupraces of her friends' vessels without moving from her own garden. -To the sea-terrace, when it was known that she would receive them, -came, on such sunny afternoons as this, all those whom she deigned to -encourage of the pleasure-seekers on the coast. - -To see the sun set from that rose-marble terrace, and to take a Russian -cigarette or a cup of caravan tea beneath those araucaria branches, was -the most coveted distinction and one of the surest brevets of fashion -in the world. She refused so many; she received so few; she was so -inexorable in her social laws; mere rank alone had no weight with her; -ambassadors could pass people to courts, but not up those rose-coloured -stairs; princes and princesses, if they were dull, had no chance to be -made welcome; and, in fine, to become an _habitué_ there required so -many perfections that the majority of the great world never passed the -gates at all. - -'The first qualification for admittance is that they must find -something new to say every day,' she said to the Duc de Béthune, who -was in an informal way her first chamberlain. 'The second is, that they -must always amuse me.' - -'The first clause a few might perhaps fulfil; but who shall attain to -fulfilment of the second?' - -'That will remain to be seen,' she said with a little yawn, while she -reclined on the white furs and the Eastern tissues, her feet on a -silver globe of hot water and her hands clasped idly on a tortoiseshell -field-glass. It was five o'clock; the western sky was a burning vault -of rose and gold; the zenith had the deep divine blue that is like -nothing else in all creation; the sea was radiant, purple here, azure -there, opal elsewhere, as the light fell on it; delicate winds blew -across it violet-scented from the land; the afternoon sun was warm, and -as its light deepened made the pale rose of the marbles glow like the -flowers of a pomegranate tree. She forgot her companions; she leaned -her head against her cushions and dreamily thought of many things; of -the day she had first come thither most of all. It had been nine years -before. - -Nine years!--what an eternity! She remembered the bouquet which -Othmar had given her on the head of the sea-stairs. What a lover he -had been!--a lover out of a romance--Lelio, Ruy Blas, Romeo--anything -you would. What a pity to have married him! It had been commonplace, -_banal_, stupid--anybody would have done it. There had been a complete -absence of originality in such a conclusion to their story. - -If Laura had married Petrarca, who would have cared for the sonnets? - -She laughed a little as she thought so. Her companions hoped they had -succeeded in amusing her. She had not heard a word they were saying. -She gazed dreamily at the sea through her eyelids, which looked shut, -and pursued her own reflections. - -Her companions of the moment were all men; the most notable of them -were Melville, the Duc de Béthune, and a Russian, Loris Loswa. - -Melville, on the wing between Rome and Paris, loitered a week or two in -Nice, doing his best to shake alms for good works out of the sinners -there, and lifting up the silver clarion of his voice against the curse -of the _tripot_ with unsparing denunciation. - -The Duc de Béthune was there because for twelve years of his still -young life he had been uneasy whenever many miles were between him and -the face of his lady, whom he adored with the hopeless and chivalrous -passion of which he had sustained the defence at the Court of Love at -Amyôt. He would have carried her muff or her ribbon to the scaffold, -like d'Aubiac and Montmorin, whom he had cited there. He had been -almost the only one of her lovers whom she had deigned to take the -trouble to preserve as a friend. He had been inspired at first sight -with an intense passion for her, which had coloured and embittered some -of the best years of his life. On the death of Napraxine he had been -amongst the first to lay the offer of his life at her feet. She had -rejected him, but without her customary mockery, even with a certain -regret; and she had employed all the infinite power of her charms and -tact of her intelligence to retain him as a companion whilst rejecting -him as a suitor. Such a position had seemed at first impossible to him, -and had been long painful; but at last he chose rather to see her on -those distant terms than never, and gradually, as time passed on, he -grew familiarised to the sight of her as the wife of Othmar, and the -love he bore to her softened into regard, and lost its sting and its -torment. - -In person he was handsome and distinguished-looking to a great degree; -he resembled the portrait of Henri Quatre, and bore himself like -the fine soldier he was; he had a grave temperament and a romantic -fancy; the cradle of his race was a vast dark fortress overhanging the -iron-bound rocks of Finisterre, and his early manhood had been ushered -in by the terrible tragedies of the _année terrible_. As volunteer with -the Army of the North, Gui de Béthune had seen the darkest side of war -and life; he had been but a mere youth then, but the misfortunes of his -country had added to the natural seriousness of his northern temper. -The most elegant of gentlemen in the great world of Paris, he yet had -never abandoned himself as utterly as most men of his age and rank to -the empire of pleasure; there was a certain reserve and dignity in him -which became the cast of his features and the gravity and sweetness of -his voice. - -But he never loved any other woman. And unconsciously to herself -she was so used to consider that implicit and exclusive devotion to -her as one of her rights, that she would have been astonished, even -perhaps annoyed, had she seen that he took his worship elsewhere. Her -remembrance had spoiled twelve years of the promise of his manhood, -but if anyone had reproached her with that, she would have said -sincerely enough, 'I cannot help his adoring me.' She would have even -taken credit to herself for the unusual kindliness with which she had -endeavoured to turn the sirocco of love into the mild and harmless -breeze of friendly sympathy. - -The Duc de Béthune was one of those conquests which flattered even -her sated and fastidious vanity; and she had been touched to unwonted -feeling by the delicate, chivalrous, and lofty character of the loyalty -he gave her so long. - -She jested at him often, but she respected him always; occasionally she -irritated Othmar by saying to him, half in joke and half in earnest: - -'Sometimes I almost wish that I had married Béthune!' - -That he remained unmarried for her sake was always agreeable to her. - -Loris Loswa was, on the contrary, one of the gayest of her many -servitors. By birth noble and poor, he had been early compromised in -a students' revolt at Kieff, and through family influence had been -allowed self-exile instead of deportation to Tobolsk. He had turned his -steps to Paris, and, possessing great facility for art, had pursued the -study seriously and so successfully, that before he was thirty he had -become one of the most noted artists in France. - -He had a wonderful talent for the portraiture of women. No one rendered -with so much grace, so much charm, so much delicate flattery, running -deftly in the lines of truth, the peculiar beauties of the _mondaine_, -in which, however much nude nature may have done, art always does -still more. All that subtle, indescribable loveliness of the woman of -society, which is made up of so many details of tint and costume, and -manner and style, and a thousand other subtle indescribable things, -was caught and fixed by the brush or by the crayon of Loris Loswa with -a power all his own, and a fidelity which became the most charming of -compliments. Ruder artists, truer perhaps to art than he, grumbled -at his method and despised his renown. '_Faiseur de chiffons_' some -students wrote once upon his door; and there were many of his brethren -who pretended that his creations were nothing more than audacious, and -unreally brilliant, trickeries. - -But detraction did not lock the wheels of his triumphal chariot; it -glided along with inconceivable rapidity through the pleasant avenues -of popular admiration. And his art pleased too many connoisseurs -of elegant taste and cultured sight not to have in it some higher -and finer qualities than his enemies allowed to it. He had magical -colouring, and as magical a touch; a woman's portrait, under his -treatment, became gorgeous as a sunbird, delicate as an orchid, -ethereal as a butterfly floating down a sunbeam. Then he was at times -arrogant in his pretensions, fastidious in his selections of sitters; -he was given to call himself an amateur, which at once disarmed his -critics and increased his vogue; he was an aristocrat, and very -good-looking, which did not diminish his popularity with any class of -women; and what increased it still more was, that he refused many more -sitters than he accepted. Not to have been painted in water colours, -or drawn in pastel by Count Loris Loswa, was to any _élégante_ to be a -step behindhand in fashion; to have a pearl missing from her crown of -distinction. - -'If anyone could paint dew on a cobweb it would be Loswa,' a great -critic had said one day. 'Have you never seen dew on a cobweb? It -is the most beautiful thing in the world, especially when a sunbeam -trembles through it.' - -His present hostess had a high opinion of his powers, mingled with -a certain depreciation of them. 'Perhaps it is only a trick,' she -admitted; 'but it is a divine trick--a trick of Hermes.' - -He leaned now over the balustrade of the terrace of St. Pharamond, -the warmth of the western sun shining on his fair curls and straight -profile. - -'A coxcomb can never be a genius,' murmured the Duc de Béthune, -glancing towards him with sovereign contempt and dislike. - -'You are always very _porté_ against poor Loris,' returned his hostess -with a smile. 'Yes, he has genius in a way, the same sort of genius -that Watteau had, and Coustou and Boucher; he should have been born -under Louis Quinze; that is his only mistake.' - -'He is a coxcomb,' repeated Béthune. - -'He seems so to you, because all your life has been filled with grave -thoughts and strong actions. All artists are apt to seem mere triflers -to all soldiers. Who is that girl he is looking at?--what a handsome -face!' - -She raised herself a little on her elbow, and looked down over the -balustrade; a small boat with a single red sail and two women under it -were passing under the terrace; one of them was old, brown and ugly, -the other was young, fair, and with golden-brown hair curling under a -red woollen fisher's cap. The water was shallow under the marble walls -of St. Pharamond; the boat was drifting very slowly; there was a pile -of oranges and lemons in it as its cargo; the elder woman, with one -oar in the water, was with her other hand counting copper coins into a -leathern bag in her lap; the younger, who steered with a string tied -to her foot, was managing the sail with a practised skill which showed -that all maritime exercises were familiar to her. When she sat down -again she looked up at the terrace above her. - -She had a beautiful and uncommon countenance, full of light; the light -of youth, of health, of enjoyment; she wore a gown of rough dark-blue -sea-stuff much stained with salt water, and the sleeves of it were -rolled up high, showing the whole of her bare and admirably moulded -arms. The memories of Melville and of his hostess both went back to the -day when they had seen another boat upon those waters with the happy -loveliness of youth within it. - -Loris Loswa, full of outspoken admiration, exhausted all his epithets -of praise as he watched the little vessel drift by them, slowly, very -slowly, for there was no wind to aid it, and the oar was motionless in -the water. - -'Stay, oh stay!' he cried to the boat, and began to murmur the 'Enfant, -si j'étais roi----' - -'If you were a king you could hardly do better than what, I am quite -sure, you will do as it is,' said Nadine. 'Find out where she lives, -and make her portrait for next year's Salon. She is very handsome, and -that old scarlet cap is charming. Let us recompense her for passing, -and astonish her.' - -As she spoke she drew a massive gold bracelet off her own arm, and -leaning farther down over the marble parapet, threw it towards the -girl. Her aim was good; the boat was almost motionless, the bracelet -was very weighty; it fell with admirable precision where it was -intended to fall--on the knees of the girl as she sat in the prow -behind the pile of golden fruit. - -'How astonished and pleased she will be!' said Loswa. 'It is only you, -Madame, who have such apropos inspirations.' - -Even as he spoke the maiden in the boat had taken up the bracelet, -looked at it a moment with a frown upon her face, then without a -second's pause had sprung to her feet to obtain a better attitude for -her effort, and with a magnificent sweep of her bare arm upward and -backward cast the thing back again on high on to the balustrade, where -it rolled to the feet of its mistress. - -Without waiting an instant, she plucked the oars up, one from the -hand of the old woman the other from the bottom of the boat, and with -vigorous strokes drove her sluggish old vessel past the terrace wall, -never once looking up, and not heeding the cries of her companion. In -a few moments, under her fierce swift movements, the boat was several -yards away, leaving the shallow water for the deeper, and hidden -altogether from the gaze of her admirers by the red sail flaked with -amber and bistre stains, where wind, and sun, and storm had marked it -for their own. - -'What has happened?' said Melville, who had not understood the episode -of the bracelet, rising and coming towards them. - -'We are in Arcadia, Monsignor!' cried Nadine. 'A peasant girl rejects a -jewel!' - -'Is she a peasant? I should doubt it,' said Béthune. - -Melville looked through one of the spy-glasses. - -'No, no! It is Damaris Bérarde,' he said as he laid it aside. 'She is -by no means a peasant. She is a great heiress in her own little way, -and as proud as if she were dauphine of France.' - -'Damaris! What a pretty name!' said Loswa. 'It makes one think of -damask roses, and she is rather like one. Where does she live, -Monsignor?' - -'She lives with her grandfather on a little island which belongs to -him. He is a very well-to-do man, but a great brute in many ways; he -is not cruel to the girl, but were she to cross his will I imagine he -would be. Krapotkine is his hero and Karl Marx his prophet; he is the -most ferocious anarchist. You know the sort of man. It is a sort very -common in France, and especially so in the South. Did you give her a -jewel, Madame Nadège? Ah, that was a very great offence! She must have -been mortally offended. When that child is en fête she has a row of -pearls as big as any in your jewel-cases.' - -'She looked a poor girl, and I thought I should please her,' said -Nadine, with impatience. 'Who was to tell that the owner of pearls -as big as sparrows' eggs was rowing in a fruit-boat, bare-armed and -bare-headed?' - -'Where did you say that she lived?' asked Loswa, curious and interested. - -'Oh, on an island a long way off from here,' said Melville, regretting -that he had spoken of this source of dissension. - -'Take me to that island, Monsignor,' murmured Loris Loswa in his ear. - -'Oh, indeed no,' said the priest hastily. 'You are a "cursed -aristocrat;" the old man would receive you with a thrust of a pike.' - -'I would take my chance of the pike,' said Loswa, 'and I would assure -him that the future lies with the Anarchists, for I believe it, and -I would not add that I also think that their millennium will be most -highly uncomfortable.' - -'Will you take _me_ to that island, Monsignor?' said Nadine. 'It will -not be favourable to fashionable impressionists like Loris.' - -Loswa coloured a little with irritation; he had not thought she would -overhear his request. He was, besides, despite his vanity, always -vaguely sensible that her admiration of his powers was tinged with -contempt. - -'You, Madame!' cried Melville, cordially wishing that the island of -Damaris Bérarde was far away in the Pacific in lieu of a score of -leagues off the shores of Savoy. 'Would I take the world incarnate, the -most seductive and irresistible of all its votaries, into a convent of -Oblates to torture all the good Sisters condemned to eternal seclusion? -That poor little girl is a little recluse, a little barbarian, but she -is happy in her solitude, in her _sauvagerie_. Were she once to see the -Countess Othmar she would know peace no more.' - -'She must see many very like me if she live a mile or so off these -shores,' said Nadine, dismissing the subject with indifference. 'I am -sure it is she who is to be envied if she can find any entertainment -in rowing about in a boat full of oranges. I would do it this moment -if it would amuse me, but it would not. That is the penalty of having -sophisticated and corrupted tastes. How old is your paragon?' - -'Did I say she was a paragon? She is a good little girl. Her age? I -should think fifteen, sixteen; certainly not more. Her birth is rather -curious. Her mother was an actress, and her father the master of a -fruit-carrying brig; dissimilar enough progenitors. Her father was -drowned, and her mother died of nostalgia for the stage; and Damaris -was left to the care of her grandfather, the fierce old Communist I -have described to you. However, he is not so terrible a bigot after -all, for he allowed her to be taught by the Sisters at the Villefranche -Convent, as a concession to me when I knew him first, in return for a -little service I had done him. He thinks it does not much matter what -women do; to him they are only beasts of burden; he likes to see his -hung with pearls only as he puts tassels and ribbons on his cows when -they are taken to market.' - -'And what service did you render him?' - -'Oh, nothing worth mentioning; a trifle,' said Melville, who never -spoke of his own deeds of heroism, which were many. The old man's -younger and only remaining son had lain dying of Asiatic cholera, -brought to the coast in some infected load of Eastern rags, with which -they had manured the olives one hot August day. Not a soul had dared to -approach the plague-stricken bed, except the courtly churchman whose -smile was so sought by great ladies and whose wit was so prized at -dinner-parties. He had not abandoned it until all was over, and with -his own hands had aided Jean Bérarde to lay the body of his boy in -mother-earth. When the grave was filled up, the old socialist, to whom -priests had been as loathliest vermin, gave his knotted work-worn hand -to the slender white hand of Melville: - -'The only one that had the courage!' he muttered. 'Do not try to do -anything with me, it would be no use; but do what you like about the -child. I will say nothing. You alone stayed by me to see her uncle die.' - -So the girl Damaris had been allowed to go in her boat to learn of the -Sisters on the mainland, and had been allowed to go also to Mass on -high days and holy days. But Melville saw no necessity to say all this -to his worldly friends upon the sea-terrace of St. Pharamond. Nay, he -even reproached himself that, in a momentary unconsidered impulse, -he had given the name of the girl to Loswa. Loswa was not perhaps a -man to go in cold blood on a seducer's errand, but he was conceited, -sensual, egotistic, and accustomed to take his own way without much -consideration for its consequences, whether to himself or to others. -And the worldly wisdom of Melville told him he had committed an -imprudence. - -'Jean Bérarde,' he continued, 'of course, abhors priests, and would -have a general massacre of the Church. But I chanced to do him a -service, as I said, some time ago, and so he allows me now and then -to go and sit under his big olives and talk to the child, and even, -grudgingly, lets her go to Mass now and then. His past is written -clearly enough in the history of Savoy, but he either does not know -or does not care anything about his descent. All he does care about -are his profits from olives and oranges, and also, I suspect, from -smuggling. What is infinitely droll is, that the principles which slew -his forefathers and destroyed the cradle of his race have become his -own. Perhaps the fury of the _Ça ira_ got into him, being begotten, as -he was, in that time of blood and flame through which his progenitors -passed. Anyhow he is the fiercest of socialists now. - -'The Counts de la Bérarde were very mighty people; almost as great as -their suzerains and neighbours, the Counts of Dauphiné. The cradle -of their race, of which you may see one tower standing now, was set -amongst the glaciers and gorges of the Val St. Christophe; it stood -above the Romanche on a great slope of gneiss, with the snow mountains -at its back. Up to the time of Richelieu the Bérardes were omnipotent, -and they had sway as far down as the sea coast, and it is said that sea -piracy, as well as stoppage of land travellers going on their horses -and sumpter mules through the passes, swelled their wealth and their -power not a little. All these mountain lords were robbers in those -days. If you have never been up as far as the St. Christophe valley, -you should go as soon as the weather opens and the roads are passable; -all the _cols_ and the _combes_ are fine, well worth a little Alpine -climbing; and the Pointe des Écrins may hold its own with the peaks of -the Engadine. - -'Well, to revert to the Counts de Bérarde: Richelieu broke the back -of their power--it is odd that a Churchman, doing all he could to -strengthen the hands of a king, did in truth lay the first stone of -what became centuries after the Revolution!--their chiefs were beheaded -on the ramparts of Briançon, their castle in the Alps was razed, -and only two or three of their younger scions survived the general -destruction of the race. From one of these distant branches, Jean de -la Bérarde, who had a small stronghold on the sea, and who became, by -all these executions, the head of the family, this old man who owns -Bonaventure, and is the rudest and roughest of cruisers and farmers, -is lineally descended. I have been at pains to make out his genealogy. -These matters always have interest for me, and it is curious to trace -how the old patrician strain comes out in the girl, his grand-daughter, -though he himself is nothing more than a boor. The Bérardes never -recovered the massacres and confiscations of the reign of Louis XIII., -though they were small suzerains on the sea-coast up to the days of -Louis XV. They then fell into poverty, and lost their hold over their -neighbours; the Terror extinguished them entirely; they were swallowed -up in the night of anarchy. But Jean Bérarde of Bonaventure is legally -heir of the Count Alain de la Bérarde, who was taken to Toulon, and -shot there by the Maratists of Freron and Barras. His only son, being a -lad at the time, was saved by disguising himself as a fisherman, and, -being utterly beggared by the Jacobins, took to the coasting trade, -and in time saved money, married a peasant, and bought the island: my -socialist friend was _his_ son. - -'That is the story of these people, who in two generations have dropped -the very memory of the fierce nobles they sprang from so entirely that -the old man on Bonaventure is as rabid a Communist as any man can be -who has property and clings to it. There--I have been terribly prosy, -and Madame will say that all this genealogy is of no earthly interest -to her; and, indeed, it cannot be to any of you, only that to a student -of human nature it is always, in a measure, interesting to see how old -races look under new hoods.' - -'In this instance,' said Nadine smiling, 'the old race looks very -pretty under the Phrygian cap. The girl is unusually handsome. You -would be wild to paint her, Loswa, if only she were a duchess!' - -'I would ask no better fate as it is,' he replied. 'But perhaps it -might not be so easy. The grandfather Bérarde is sure to be a Cerberus.' - -'You must air your destructive doctrines before him; he will be -fascinated; he will not know that you live with the duchesses, and -would not trouble yourself actually to walk the length of a boulevard -to save All The Russias.' - -'I am not a political hypocrite, Madame, though you are pleased to -ridicule me as an artistic impostor,' said Loswa, with an angry flush -on his face. - -She cast the end of her cigarette into the sea. - -'Oh no; you are not a hypocrite; you would very much like to see the -destruction of the whole world, provided only that your own armchair -should withstand the shock. There are so many anarchists of that type; -and, indeed, why should you die for politics or creed when you can -live and paint such charming pictures? For your pictures are very -charming, though they are all pearl-powder and point-lace, all satins -and brocades, and we are all going to Court in every one of them.' - -'Vandyke did not paint beggars,' said Loswa, who would have lost his -temper had he dared. - -She looked at him with amusement. - -'But you are not Vandyke, my dear Loris; you are, at most, Lely or -Boucher, and the pearl-powder has got into your brushes a little more -than it should have done. You have only one defect as an artist, but -it is a capital offence, and you will not outgrow it--you are _never -natural_!' - -He was silent from vexation. - -He had an exaggerated opinion of his own genius, and saw in himself a -mingling of Clouet and Boucher, Leonardo and Largillière, and was often -restless and nervous under his sense of her depreciative criticism; but -he was very proud of the intimacy he was allowed to enjoy with her, and -usually bore her chastisement with a spaniel's humility; a quality rare -in him, spoilt and courted darling of high dames as he was. - -'If you do take a portrait of that child,' she pursued, pointing to -the distant boat, 'you will be utterly unable to portray her as she -is; you will never give the sea-stains on her gown, the sea-tan on her -face, the rough dull red of that old worn sea-cap. You will idealise -her, which with you means that you will make her utterly artificial. -She will become a goddess of liberty, and she will look like a maid of -honour frisking under a republican disguise to amuse a frisky Court. -The simple sea-born creature yonder, rowing through blue water, and -thinking of the sale of her oranges or the capture of her fish, will -be altogether and forever beyond you. It is always beyond the Lelys -and the Bouchers, though it would not have been beyond Vandyke. Do you -think you could paint a forest-tree or a field-flower? Not you; your -daisy would become a gardenia, and your larch would be a lime on the -boulevards.' - -'Am I to understand, Madame, that you have suddenly become a patroness -of nature? Then surely even I, poor creature of the boulevards though I -be, need not despair of becoming _natürlich_?' - -'You mistake,' said Nadine with a little sadness. 'I have lived in a -hothouse, but I have always envied those who lived in the open air. -Besides, I am not an artist; I am a mere _mondaine_. I was born in the -world as an oyster is in its shallows. But an artist, if he be worthy -the name, should abhor the world. He should live and work and think and -dream in the open air, and in full contact with nature. Do you suppose -Millet could have breathed an hour in your studio with its velvets -and tapestries and lacquer work, with its draperies and screens and -rugs, and carefully shaded windows? He would have been stifled. Why is -nearly all modern work so valueless? Because it is nearly all of it -studio-work; work done at high pressure and in an artificial light. Do -you think that Michel Angelo could have endured to dwell in Cromwell -Road? Or do you think that Murillo or Domenichino would have built -themselves an hotel in the Avenue Villiers? Why is Basil Vereschaguin, -with all his faults and deformities, original and in a way sublime? -Because he works in the open air; in no light tempered otherwise than -by the clouds as they pass, or by the leaves as they move.' - -'For heaven's sake!' cried Loswa with a gesture of appeal. - -She laughed a little. - -'Ah, my poor Court poodle, with your pretty tricks and graces!--of -course, the very name of our wolf of the forests is terrible to you. -But I suppose the Court has made the poodle what he is; I suppose it is -as much your duchesses' fault as your own.' - -Then she turned away and left this favourite of fortune and great -ladies to his own reflections. They were irritated and mortified; -bitter with that bitterest of all earthly things, wounded vanity. - -Good heavens! he thought, with a sharp stinging sense of a woman's -base ingratitude, was it for this that he had painted her portrait -in such wise that season after season each succeeding one had been -the centre of all eyes in the Paris Salon? Was it for this that he -had immortalised her face looking out from a cloud of shadow like -a narcissus in the mists of March?--that he had drawn her in every -attitude and every costume, from the loose white draperies of her hours -of langour to the golden tissues and crowding jewels of her court-dress -at imperial palaces? Was it for this that he had composed that divinest -portrait of them all, in which, with a knot of stephanotis at her -breast and a collar of pearls at her throat, she seemed to smile at -all who looked on her that slight, amused, disdainful smile which had -killed men as surely as any silver-hilted dagger lying in an ivory -case, which once was steeped in _aqua Tofana_ for Lucrezia or Bianca? -Was it for this!--to be called opprobrious, derisive names, and have -Basil Vereschaguin, the painter of death, of carnage, of horror, of -brown Hindoos and hideous Tartars, vaunted before him as his master! - -He hated Vereschaguin as a Sèvres vase, had it a mind and soul to hate, -might hate the bronze statue of a gladiator; and his tormentor, in a -moment of mercilessness and candour, had wounded him with a weapon -whose use he never forgave. - -'He is a coxcomb! Béthune is quite right,' she said of him when -Melville hinted that she had been too cruel. 'He has marvellous talent -and _technique_, but he dares to think that these two are genius. If he -had not likened himself to Vandyke I might perhaps never have told him -what I think of his place in art. He is a pretty painter, a very pretty -painter, and his portraits of me are charming; but if they be looked at -at all in the twentieth century they will hardly rank higher than we -rank now the pastels of Rosalba; certainly not higher than we rank the -portraits of Greuze.' - -'If I were a painter I would be content to be Greuze,' said Melville -with a smile. - -'No you would not,' said Nadine; 'you would not be content to be a -d'Estrées in your own profession, nor any other mere Court cardinal.' - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -The following morning Loris Loswa rose much earlier than his wont, -and went out of the gilded gate of the pretty little villa which he -had taken for the season at St. Raphael; a coquettish place with -large gardens and trellised paths overhung with creepers; and down -below, a small cutter ready for use in a nook of the bay where the -aloes and the mimosa grew thickest. It all belonged to a friend of -his, who was away in distant lands to escape his creditors, and by -whose misfortunes Loswa had profited with that easy egotism which had -been so advantageous to him throughout his life, and which looked so -good-natured that no one resented it. He descended this morning to the -shore by the winding cactus-lined path which led down to it, and asked -the sailors if they knew of an island called Bonaventure. They knew -nothing about it; they, however, consulted the admiralty maps and found -it: a tiny dot some leagues to the south-westward. - -A fisherman who was on the beach at the time told him more. He knew -the island, everybody knew it; but nobody ever was allowed to land -there; its owner was an odd man, morose and suspicious; the demoiselle -was good and kind; the islet belonged to Jean Bérarde, who owned every -inch of it. He would leave it to the girl of course. It was small, -but of very considerable profit. Loswa listened with impatience, -and told his skipper to make for the isle as fast as he could. He -himself knew nothing of the sea, and hated it; but he was _piqué au -jeu_. Melville had almost forbidden him to go thither, and the great -lady who had ridiculed him had doubted his power to paint the picture -of a peasant-girl. The irritation of antagonism had aroused all the -obstinacy and all the capricious self-will of an undisciplined and vain -nature. - -'To Bonaventure!' he said with triumph, as in the glad and cloudless -morning air his little vessel danced over the waves, the great seagulls -wheeling and screaming in her wake. There were a buoyant sea and a -favouring breeze. - -Loswa detested both sea and country, and was never at heart content off -the asphalte of the boulevards. But since it would have looked very -vulgar to spend his whole winter in Paris, he selected the south coast -usually for the colder months, because the world went with him there, -because he saw so many faces that were familiar, and because on this -shore so thickly set with châlets and villas, so artificially adorned, -so trimmed, and trained, and levelled, and planted by architect and -landscape gardener, it was possible for him to forget that he was not -in Paris; the very sea itself, so blue, so tranquil, so idly basking in -broad light and luminous horizons, seemed like the painted sea of an -operetta by Lecocq. - -Besides, though he had no pleasure in rural or maritime things, found -no joy in solitude and no consolation in nature for the loss of the -movement of the world, he could not have been the fine colourist he was -without possessing a fine sense of colour, and the power to appreciate -beautiful lines, and all the changeful effects of light and shade. He -did not see Nature as Millet or Corot saw it, but as Lancret or Coypel -saw it. It was only a background for a nymph or a goddess to him as -to them; but he was not insensible to the forms which made up that -background: the sunlit vapour, the blue mountain, the golden woodland, -or the shadowy lake. - -The sea was full of life: market-boats, fishing-boats, skiffs of all -kinds, with striped curved lateen sails, were crossing each other on -it. There were a few yachts, French, English, American, at anchor -in the bays, in waiting for the cup-races; there were some merchant -ships afar off, brown-canvased brigs bearing in from Genoa or Ajaccio, -and the ugly black smoke of a big steamer here and there defaced the -marvellous blue and rose of the air at the birth of day. The sea was -buoyant but not rough, his light cutter few airily as a curlew over the -azure plain. There were mists to the southward, lovely white mists, -airy and suggestive as the veil of a bride, but they floated away -before the sun, so rapidly as the day grew on, that the bold indented -lines of Corsica became visible, bathed in a rosy and golden warmth. -He had enough soul in him to feel the beauty of the morning though he -had been playing baccarat at the club till an hour or two previously; -to be conscious of the charm of this full clear sunrise which bathed -the world of waters in its radiance, of the silver-shining wings of the -white gulls dipping in the hollow of the wave, of the grandeur of the -land as he looked back at it with its semicircles of snow-capped hills -towering to the skies. But he would not have cared for them had there -been no human interest beside them. - -After sailing steadily some two hours or so they sighted, and in -another two hours neared, a little island which was certainly the -one marked on the French chart as Bonaventure, lying all alone far -out to the south-west. Loswa did not need the positive assertion of -his crew to tell him that he had arrived at his desired goal. It was -small, conical-shaped, high, and steep, with a broad reef of sand to -the northward. It rose aloft in the air, grey with olives, green with -orange-trees. No habitation was visible upon it; but on the sand there -was drawn up high and dry an old boat with a sail of Venetian red -stained brown by wear and tear. - -The island had evidently been made fruitful at the cost of many -centuries of labour; the natural rock of it was terraced with many -ridges rising one above another, each planted with productive trees; -the soil had no doubt been carried up load by load with infinite -trouble; but the effect of the whole was luxuriant and picturesque, as -the conelike mass of verdure, here silver-grey and there emerald green, -towered upward in the thin sun-pierced vapours of the early day. - -The soundings showed deep water almost up to the rock itself. - -'I am going to sketch,' said Loswa to his skipper as he pointed to the -level strip of sand. 'Let me land there.' - -Their assertions that no one ever did land there he disregarded. A -small boat was rowed up to the strip of beach, and he got out, bidding -his sailors wait round the edge of a jutting rock, which would give -them shade as the day should advance. - -He glanced at the old red coble drawn up on the shore. It was the same -he had seen three days before; he felt sure of it by its colour and its -build. - -He looked about him and around him for a means of ascent, and saw -a zigzag path that wound up through the hanging orchards of olive, -of lemon, and of orange, and higher still the rope-ladder called -_passerelle_, so often used in the Riviera to climb steep rocks. The -air was full of the intense perfume of the trees, which were starred -all over with their white blossoms. He thought of Sicily, where you -have to shut your door against the fragrance of the fields in spring, -lest you should faint and sleep for ever from their fragrance. - -The path and the _passerelle_ would certainly, he reasoned, lead up -to any house there might be at the summit. He slung his sketching -things over his shoulder and began to mount the crooked rocky road -of moss-grown stone with cyclamen growing in its crevices, and the -rose-hued flowers of the leafless cereus springing up here and there. - -But he was not allowed to ascend unchallenged; high above him there -was a rustling sound, then a deep angry growl, and in a moment or two -a great white Pyrenean dog showed himself, stared down at him with -frank hostility, and bounded headlong from ridge to ridge underneath -the boughs, with full intent to reach him and devour him. But a voice -called aloud: 'Tò, tò, Clovis!' and Loswa smiled. He knew he had -succeeded. - -Through the labyrinth of branches, springing after the dog, came the -girl who had thrown back the gold bracelet to the lady of St. Pharamond. - -'The dog will not hurt you whilst I am here,' she called out to him. -'But he might kill you if I were not. Do you want my grandfather? Why -have you landed here? It is private ground. He has gone to Grasse for -two days to see an oil merchant.' - -Loswa felt that he could not have timed his visit more felicitously. - -'Good heavens! what a handsome child,' he thought, as he bowed to her -with his easy grace and that eloquent glance which had power to stir -the most languid pulses of his patrician sitters. - -'I landed in hopes that I might be allowed to paint the view from this -exquisite little spot,' he said with well-acted hesitation in his -manner. 'A friend of mine, who is, I think, a friend of yours too, a -priest of the name of Melville, has spoken to me so often of the beauty -of your island.' - -Standing above him, holding the big dog by the collar, she smiled at -the name of Melville, and came a few steps nearer with more confidence. -She never for a moment doubted the entire truth of what he said. - -Her blue-and-brown-striped linen gown was but a wisp; it had been -drenched through in its time with sea-water, and had the stains of -grasses, and dews, and sands, and fruits upon it; it was bound round -her waist by a leathern belt, and its short sleeves were pulled up to -the shoulder, as they had been the day before. But no artist would -have wished for a better dress, and even a sculptor would not have -desired to remove it from the limbs that it clung to so closely that -it hid nothing of their perfect shape and the curves of the throat -and breast that had the indecision and softness of childhood with the -fulness of feminine growth. Her hair was tucked away under a red fisher -cap, a veritable _bonnet rouge_; and her large brilliant eyes, of an -indescribable colour, were shining, as if the sun was imprisoned in -them, under level, dark delicate eyebrows. Her skin was fair, her hair -auburn. He thought he had seen nothing so perfectly lovely in all his -life: it was a living Titian, a virgin Giorgione. - -'Anyone who knows Monsignor Melville is welcome to Bonaventure,' she -said frankly. 'It is a pity my grandfather is away. He does not like -strangers, but a friend of Monsignor's would not seem so to him. No one -has ever been here to paint anything before. What is it you want to -paint--the house?' - -Loswa knew that he had done a dishonourable thing, and a mean one, in -using Melville's name as a passport to a place where Melville would -never have allowed him to go had he known it; but, like everyone else, -having begun on a wrong course he went on in it. He had succeeded so -well at the commencement that he would not listen to that delicacy of -good breeding which represented conscience to him. - -'Do not be afraid of Clovis. He will not hurt you now he sees that I -speak to you; he is so sensible. Will you come now or another day?' she -asked him with the frankness of a boy. - -'We have a Latin poet who tells us that to-day alone is our own,' said -Loswa with a smile. 'I will come now at once, and most gladly. Clovis -is a grand dog and a good guard for his young mistress,' he added; -thinking to himself, 'how lovely she is, and she knows it no more than -if she were a sea anemone on the shore; and she looks at me and speaks -to me with no more embarrassment than if I were but the wooden figure -of a ship!' - -'I will come up most gladly,' he said again, with more ardour than he -showed in a duchess's drawing-rooms. 'It is so very kind of you. I am -sure the view from the summit must be magnificent. I fear though,' he -added, with hypocritical modesty, 'that it will be beyond my powers.' - -'I hope not. I shall like to see anyone paint,' she said with -cordiality; and added, a little ashamed, 'I have never seen anyone -paint; I have heard of such a thing of course, and there are the -pictures in the churches and chapels which one knows were painted by -men; but I have no idea of how it is done.' - -'You should have been shown by Raphael himself,' said Loswa. - -'Raphael?' she echoed. 'Oh no, he is our fruit-packer; he would not -know how to do it any better than I do,' she said as she turned and -began to ascend to show him the way. - -'Can you climb?' she added, looking at him doubtfully. 'I mean climb -where it is like a stone wall?' - -She had taken him under her protection and into her favour, but he -felt that he would have preferred to this frank innocent friendliness -a certain hesitation and embarrassment such as would have indicated a -different kind of sentiment as possible. She was as kind to him, as -simple and frank and candid with him, as if he were any old fisherman -that she had known from her birth. It was not what he desired, yet it -had a certain charm; it was so childlike, so honest, so free from all -affectation or self-consciousness, or lurking suspicion or intention of -any sort. - -'Clovis is so good,' she pursued, all unconscious of his reflections. -'His wife (she is called Brunehildt) had four puppies yesterday. Two -were drowned; it was such a pity! I am going to give one of the two -left to Monsignor; he is always fond of dogs. Take care how you come -up, it is very steep; for me I am used to it. I run up and down a dozen -times a day; but a person not used to it may slip.' - -It was, indeed, steep, and often there were ledges of rock in the way -which had to be jumped over or scrambled over in any handiest fashion, -whilst on others the perpendicular face of the cliff could only be -ascended by the rope-ladder so often in use in the Riviera; but Loswa, -in an indolent way, was athletic; he had in his youth been skilled in -gymnastic exercises, and though now enervated by his life in cities, -he kept apace with her, and soon had gained the level summit of the -island, a broad green tableland planted with olives and oranges, with -here and there a great stone pine, relic of the wild pine woods which, -before the _petite culture_ had stepped thither with axe and spade, had -clothed doubtless the whole of Bonaventure down to the water's edge. - -There was some ground planted with cabbages and artichokes, some place -where maize would be planted later in the season, but the chief of the -land was orchard; and in the midst of it stood a long, low whitewashed -house, with pink shutters and a tiled roof. - -'Now look!' she said, with a little pride in her voice as she stretched -her hand out to the northward view. - -Everywhere far below them, stretching out to infinite indefinite -horizons, was the blue sea studded with various sails; and the -beautiful coast stretched likewise away into endless realms of -sparkling light; the range of the mountains rose blue and snow-crowned -behind that fairy shore; and this enchanted paradise was always there -to call men's thoughts to nature, and they in it only thought of the -hell of the punters, the caress of the _cocotte_, the shining gold -rolling in under the croupier's rake! - -Familiar as he was with this sea and land, he could not restrain an -exclamation of wondering admiration. - -'No wonder you have become the beautiful thing you are, looking on -all that beauty from your birth!' he said in an impulse of frank -admiration, mingled with his habitual language of flattery. - -The girl laughed. - -'Do you think I am beautiful? Everybody always says that. But -grandfather grumbles; he says it is the devil's gift. Myself, I do not -know; the flowers are beautiful, but I do not think that human beings -are so.' - -'And you have grown up like a flower----' - -'How did you know about me?' she interrupted him. 'Did Monsignor -Melville speak so much of me? He was with my uncle in his last illness, -you know, and whenever he is on this coast he comes to us. You like the -view?' she continued with satisfaction and a sense of possession of it. -'Yes; it is good to see, is it not? But I am happier when I am down on -the shore.' - -'Indeed! Why?' - -'Because there one only wants to swim, and here one wants to fly. Now, -one does swim; one cannot fly.' - -'To covet the impossible is the only divine thing in man,' said he with -a smile. 'It is just because we have that longing to fly that we may -hope we are made to do something more than walk.' - -'Do you mean that discontent is good?' she said with surprise. - -'In a certain measure, perhaps.' - -'Content is better,' she said sturdily. - -'I hope you will always be blessed with it. It is like a swallow, it -brings peace where it rests,' said her guest with a little sigh; and -he thought: 'My lady yonder is never content; it is the penalty of -culture. Will this child be so always in her ignorance? Will she marry -the skipper of a merchant-ship or the owner of an olive-yard, and live -happily ever afterwards, with a tribe of little brown-eyed children -that will run out into the road with flowers for the carriages? I -suppose so; why not? Melville said in her little way she was an -heiress. Of course, all the louts that own a fishing-coble or an acre -of orange-trees will be eager to annex her and her island.' - -She was walking by his side under the gnarled olives which had been -stripped a month before of their black berries. She was looking at him -frankly, curiously, with doubtful glances. - -'I am afraid you are of the _noblesse_,' she said, abruptly stopping -short within a yard of the house. - -'What makes you think that?' he said, aware that he received the -prettiest of indirect compliments which a much flattered life had ever -given him. - -'You look like it,' she answered. 'You have an air about you, and your -linen is so fine, and your voice is soft and slow. It is only the noble -people who have that kind of music in their voices.' - -'I wish I were a peasant if it would please you better,' he said -gallantly. - -She answered very literally: - -'That is nonsense. You cannot wish such a thing; no one ever wishes to -go down. And, for myself, I do not mind; it is my grandfather who hates -the aristocrats.' - -'So I have heard,' said Loswa. 'But he is out to-day, you say. Will you -not let me sketch this superb view?' - -'Yes, if you like. I never saw anyone paint, as I told you; I shall be -glad to see it. But will you not come in and eat and drink something -first? I have heard that the nobles, when they are not dressing and -dancing, are always eating and drinking.' - -'Nothing more cruel was ever said of them by all their satirists,' -answered Loswa. 'It will be very kind indeed if you will give me a -glass of water; I need nothing else.' - -'You shall have some of Catherine's cakes,' said the girl, 'and some -coffee and a fresh egg. Catherine--she is our servant--makes beautiful -cakes when she is not cross. Why are people who are old so often cross? -Is it the trouble of living so long that makes them so? If it be that, -I would rather die young. I think one ought to be like the olive-trees; -the older they are the better fruit they bear.' - -Then she called aloud, 'Catherine! Catherine! here is a stranger who -wants some breakfast,' and ran across the bit of rough grass before the -house, where cocks and hens, pigeons and rabbits, a tethered ass and a -pet kid, were enjoying the fine morning together in harmony. - -An old woman in a white cap showed herself for a moment in the doorway, -grumbled inarticulately, and disappeared. - -'She is gone to get it,' said Damaris. 'She is very cross, as I tell -you, but she is very good for all that. I have known her all my life. -Her honey is the best in the country. She always prays for the bees. My -grandfather does not know it, but when it is swarming time she says a -paternoster over each hive, and the honey comes so yellow, so smooth, -so fine; its taste is like the smell of thyme. Come through the house -to my terrace; you shall have your breakfast there.' - -He followed her through the house, an ugly whitewashed place, with -nothing of grace or colour about it, though cleaner than most such -dwellings are upon the mainland; it smelt sweetly, too, from the flood -of fragrant, orange-scented air which poured through past its open -doors, and the odour from the bales of packed oranges which were stored -in its passages and lumber-rooms, awaiting transport to the beach -below. In the guest-chamber there was some old oaken furniture of which -he recognised the age and value, and some chairs of _repoussé_ leather, -which would have fetched a high price; but it was all dreary, dull, -stiff, and the figure of the girl, with her brilliant, luminous beauty, -and her vividly-coloured clothes, looked like a pomegranate flaming in -a dusky cellar. - -'Come out here,' she said to him, and led him out on to a little -terrace. - -It was whitewashed, like all the stone of the house, but it was gay -and bright. Its gallery was covered with a Canadian vine still red; it -seemed to hang above the sea, so steeply did that side of the island -slope downward beneath it; it had some cane chairs in it and a little -marble table, a red-striped awning was stretched above it. - -'This is all mine,' she said, with pride. 'You shall eat here. Take -that long chair: it came off one of the great ships that go the voyages -to India; the mate of the ship gave it me. I made that awning myself -out of a sail. I bring my books here and read. Sometimes I sit here -half the night instead of going to bed--that is, when the nightingales -are singing in the orange-trees. My grandfather will always have the -house-door shut and bolted by eight o'clock, even in summer. So I come -here; it seems such folly to go to bed in the short nights, they are as -bright as day. The time to sleep then is noon. You rest, and I will go -and bring Catherine, and your breakfast.' - -He caught her hand as she was about to go away. - -'Pray, stay,' he murmured. 'It is to hear you talk that I care; I want -nothing else, not even that glass of water; I only made it an excuse to -come into your house.' - -She drew her hand from him and frowned a little. - -'Why should you make an excuse? If you had said you wished to come I -would have let you; if you do not want to eat there is nothing to come -for; I am never indoors except to eat, or if it rain very heavily.' - -Then she went, and he dared not detain her lest he should alarm her. -She seemed to him like a bird which alights near a stranger so long as -there is no movement, but at a single sound takes flight. Left alone he -sat still in the chair she had assigned to him, and gazed over the sea; -there was nothing except sea visible from this little terrace. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -In a little while she returned, bearing in her strong grasp an old -silver tray, with coffee, cream, and sugar in old silver pots. - -The servant followed her, cross, wrinkled and suspicious, carrying -bread and honey and oranges, and a pile of sweet flat cakes. Damaris -set down her tray on the marble table. - -'We have a few things like this,' she said, touching the old silver. -'We were noble, too, once, very, very long ago, they say; but my -grandfather does not believe it. I like to believe it. It may be -nonsense, but one likes to fancy that ever, ever so long ago one's -forefathers were fighting men, not labourers; it seems to make one -ready to fight too. It must make a difference, I think, in oneself -whether they were soldiers or slaves. Not, you know,' she added, after -a moment's pause, 'that I do not think _la petite culture_ the happiest -life in the world; but the labourer is narrow, mean, horribly fond of -money, and very rough to his women, and I suppose the poor were still -worse in that distant time.' - -She poured him out his coffee as she spoke, and filled up the cup with -foaming milk, and pressed on him the rolls, the cakes, the honey. The -china was the heavy earthenware which rustic people use, and did not -suit the old silver of the tray and of the vessels; but Loswa, for -once, was not critical; he thought he had never tasted anything more -delicious than was this island fare. - -Damaris, having served him, ate and drank herself, sitting on a wooden -stool beside the balustrade covered with the reddened creeper. She -did not want anything, but not to break bread with a guest seemed to -her bad manners. She had pulled her sleeves down and put on shoes -and stockings. She had thrown aside her woollen cap; her silky, -golden curls shone in the sun; her eyes looked at him with honest -inquisitiveness and astonishment. Suddenly she said aloud: - -'Ah! I remember now! It was you who were with that lady yesterday when -she threw me the gold bracelet over the wall.' - -Loswa assented, but he would have preferred to forget his friend at -that moment, being uneasily conscious of the contempt with which his -present position on this terrace would be regarded by her did she ever -know of it. - -'Did she take me for a beggar?' said Damaris, with anger glistening -under her long lashes. - -'Oh no, she only wished to please you--to surprise you. You see, she -could not tell who you were.' - -The girl's cheeks grew a deeper rose. - -'That is true,' she said, with her first touch of embarrassment; 'I was -rowing, and one cannot row in fine clothes. Perhaps, if she saw me at -Mass----' - -'If she saw you now!' said he, with a glance of meaning thrown away -upon her. 'Remember, she hardly saw you at all; only an old boat, a -pile of oranges, a ragged sail----' - -'My sail _is_ very shabby,' said Damaris with shame. 'I took the new -one to make this awning, and my grandfather was angry and would not let -me have another. Who is that lady? She looked very pretty. Is she your -wife?' - -'She is the Countess Othmar.' - -'The Countess Othmar!' she repeated in a little awe. Even she in her -solitude had heard that name of power. The narrative was very vague -to her; she had never known more than the bare outline of it, but she -remembered, when she was a child sitting amongst the daffodils and -plucking them on the grass before the house on Bonaventure one evening -in the springtime, hearing Catherine, who had been with a load of fruit -to the mainland, cry aloud to Raphael: - -'Holy Virgin, what think you? The _petiote_ of Nicole, the wife of -Othmar, is dead!' - -And the child, pausing with the daffodils lying in tumbled gold upon -her lap, had listened and heard all that was known of that early death, -which only the swallows had witnessed and the blind house-dog had -mourned. She had always remembered it, and often, when she had seen the -daffodils yellow in the grass of March, had thought of it again, and -her imagination had been busy with it, creating bodily forms for the -people of whom she knew naught but the names. Therefore, when the word -'Othmar' fell now upon her ear, it moved her with a certain thrill, -almost as of personal pain. - -'You have heard of her?' said Loswa. - -'Not of her,' said Damaris gravely; 'of the one who died--who killed -herself, they say, because he loved another woman.' - -'Bah!' said Loswa, with the light contempt for all such tragic follies -which the boulevardier always affects, even when he does not feel it. - -'They said so,' repeated Damaris, with her eyes very large and serious. - -'Do you like this lady very much?' she asked, after a pause. - -'She is a charming person; yes.' - -'Is she a very great lady? Does she reign over anything?' - -'Over everyone she approaches, if she can,' said he with some -impatience; 'and nearly always she can, for she is a person of very -strong will, and influences others more than she knows or they know.' - -'And what does she do when she has influenced them? Monsignor says that -to possess influence is to have the ten talents, and that we shall have -to account for the use of every one of them.' - -'That is just the chief mischief,' said Loswa, gloomily thinking of -himself, not of his auditor. 'It is the getting the influence that -amuses her; that she cares about. When once she has got it you are -nothing at all to her; no more than a glove she has worn.' - -'She must be a very cruel woman,' said Damaris. - -'Oh no,' he protested, with a sudden sense of his disloyalty, 'she is -not cruel at all, she is only indifferent.' - -'Indifferent? That is to neither like nor dislike? I do not understand -how one can be like that. One must either have good weather or bad; one -must either love or hate.' - -'She does neither,' said he with a sigh; then, with a sense that it was -altogether wrong to blame a great lady and a countrywoman of his own -to a little country girl whom he had never seen before, he changed the -subject abruptly. - -'Are you not very dull on your island? It is a long way off the -mainland.' - -'Dull? Oh, people must be very stupid who are ever dull. There is -always so much to do out among the fruit-trees or down by the beach. -The days are always too short for me.' - -'That is the charm of being fifteen. Are you always on this island? Do -you never go to Nice?' - -'I have never seen Nice. I did want to see the Carnival last year, but -my grandfather would not hear of it. It was Raphael told me about it. -It must have been very fine; but, of course, we have nothing to do with -the mainland, that is only for the rich idle people. I hear they sleep -all the day and buzz about all the night, like moths or like bats. What -a strange life it must be!' - -Loswa thought of the great gaslit glittering Salle des Jeux which was -not more than a dozen leagues off this primitive orange-island. - -'You are happier here, in the middle of your blue water, putting out -your oil lamps as the moon rises,' he replied. 'Chateaubriand might -have lived on Bonaventure. Who would have believed there was anything -so solitary and so innocent as this within a few hours' sail of the -Blanc paradise?' - -'What is that?' said Damaris, who, although she could see afar off the -palms and domes of Monte Carlo gleaming in the sun on the northward -horizon every time she sailed that way, was as profoundly ignorant of -the _tripot_ and its works as if Bonaventure had been in the Pacific. - -'I have heard,' she continued, 'that there are very strange things and -people over there, that it is a feast-day every day with them, and all -their life like a fair. My grandfather always says he would shoot them -all down as they shot the hostages in the Commune, but I do not think -that would be right. If they are silly, one should pity them.' - -'They are silly indeed, and I fear your sweet pity would not avail to -save them. The feast-day is a sorry affair at its close.' - -'Oh, I know. I have seen Raphael come home drunk and beat Jacqueline -(that is his wife) because she cried; and he is as good as gold when he -is sober, and as gentle as a sheep when there is no drink.' - -'In some way we all drink, we unfortunates,' said Loswa; then, seeing -her look of surprise, he added, 'I did not speak literally, my dear; -your Raphael's drink is a _petit vin bleu_, and ours is a costly thing -we call Pleasure, but it comes to the same result; only, I suppose, -Raphael has some five or six days in the week that he is good for work, -and we cannot say as much as that. We are all the week round at the -fair.' - -She ruffled her pretty loose short locks that hung over her forehead, -and her brilliant eyes looked at him perplexedly. - -'I am glad I live on the island,' she said as the issue of her -perplexity. - -'And I too am glad you do,' said he, with more sincerity than he -usually put into his pretty speeches. - -He felt that before he approached the great object of his voyage he -must justify his pretences and win her confidence by painting something -which would please her fancy. To his facility of touch it was easy and -rapid work to sketch on his block of paper the sea view, the terrace -wall, the interior of the sitting-room, the old chairs, and the silver -tankards. Sheet after sheet was filled and cut off and sent fluttering -into her eager hands. To her it seemed the work of magic. Just a little -water and a few pans of colour could make all the sea and sky, all the -plants and stones, all the pots and pans and household things, seem -real again on fragments of paper! She did not heed or even know that -he was a man, young and handsome, whose eyes spoke a bold and amorous -language; she was absorbed in his creations; he seemed to her the -most marvellous of sorcerers. With delighted cries of recognition she -welcomed the likeness of all the places and the objects so familiar to -her; she was filled with a rapture of childish ecstasy. She hung over -his work and watched him with a wonder which was only not awe, because -it was such frank and childish delight. - -Whilst he sketched, he let her talk at her will, in her own fashion, -putting a few careless questions now and then. She was by nature gay -and communicative; the seclusion and severity of her rearing had not -extinguished the natural buoyancy and originality of her temper, and it -was a pleasure to her to have anyone to speak to of other things than -the land labours and the household work. - -In a few brief phrases she had described to him all her short simple -life; how her mother had died at her birth, they said, and her father -when she had been eight years old; how she had never been baptised -'or anything,' until, to please Melville, her grandsire had allowed -her to enter the Church's fold like a little stray sheep; how she had -been brought up by old Catherine, and taught to read by her, and how -she had managed to read all the books her mother had left: Corneille, -Racine, Lamartine, Lamotte, Fouquet, La Fontaine, and knew them almost -all by heart, for she had no new ones; she told him all about the -culture of the olive and the various kinds of oranges, and all the -different methods of pruning, tending, packing them; the big fragrant -golden balls were much nearer to her heart than the black oily olives, -but she was learned about both; she told him also all about the poor -people she knew on the coast, of the young men whom the conscription -had taken just as they were of use to their people, of the old women -who took the flowers into the towns, of the children who could swim -and dive like little fish, and were her playmates when she had time -to play; the boat-builders, the fisherfolk, the flower-sellers, the -toilers of the working world of whom all the fashionable world that -flocks to the Riviera knows nothing, unless it throws them a few pence -in the dust of the road, or thinks they form a pretty point of colour -against the white walls and the flower-filled grass, or bids them make -a _bouillabaisse_ for a picnic in some little wooden cabin high up upon -the red rocks, amongst the cactus spikes and the sea-pinks. - -All this simple talk interested Loswa as it would never have done -had not the mouth which uttered it been as lovely to look at as a -half-opened damask rose. - -'How came Monsignor Melville to speak of me to you?' she asked once -with a persistency which was a strong trait of her character. - -'He recognised you,' he answered her. 'He told us that you were prouder -than any princess of them all, and that where we had meant but a joke -you had, very naturally, seen an affront. He is much attached to you, I -am sure, and felt quite as angry as you were. - -'I was very angry,' she said passionately, with the colour hot in her -cheeks. 'I thought the lady took me for a beggar. When one goes in -a boat one cannot be _endimanchée_. I was taking the oranges to the -Petite Afrique; there is a little old woman who keeps a little old shop -there, and has nothing but what she makes by the sale of the fruit -people give her. There are three trees here that are my own; my father -planted them when he was home from a voyage, and to all their fruit I -have a right. Grandfather lets me sell it or give it away.' - -'And I am sure you do always the latter?' - -'Oh, not quite always. Sometimes I want money for something, and then -I sell the oranges; but it is only if there be a wreck, or a boat lost -at sea, or a death or a birth. Of course I want nothing for myself; -grandfather does not let me want, but he is not fond of giving to -others, he likes to keep money locked up, and see it grow slowly bit -upon bit like the coral. Do you like that? Myself, I think there is no -pleasure at all in money except to give it away.' - -'But whom do you give it to? You are all alone on your island.' - -'There are the people who work for us; and then I know so many on the -coast. I have come and gone between this and the mainland so many many -times, ever since I was a baby. It is such a good life being on the -sea; so long as I have the water I never want anything else. Some of -them call me _la mouette._' - -'It is the best of all lives. I am much on the sea myself,' said her -companion, who hated the sea. - -'You have a boat then?' - -'I have a yacht; yes.' - -'All to yourself?' - -'Yes; to go about in as I fancy. I shall be delighted if you will sail -in it some day.' - -'Ah! it is a pleasure-ship then? I see those little ships racing often; -they are beautiful. You must be very rich to have one all to yourself, -not trading anywhere, or even dredging. How much money have you? And -how do you keep it? In boxes, in coffers? Some of my grandfather's is -down the well; he took bricks out of the side of the well, put the -money in the hole, and then put back the bricks again. He did it at -night; no one knows it but me. Do you keep your money like that?' - -'No; in our world we give it to other men to take care of for us.' - -'That seems very stupid. Why not take care of your own?' - -She was sitting on the parapet of the terrace, her feet hung down; she -leaned one hand on the stone she sat on; behind her was the broad blue -of the sky, and about her all the shining of the effulgent light. She -looked like a rhododendron flower growing up into the sunshine out of a -corner of a dusky old garden. - -'You have not told me how much money you have,' she pursued. 'If you -let other folks take care of it for you, it is no wonder that you -gentle people come to poverty so often.' - -'We have too many caretakers, no doubt,' said Loswa, 'and they feather -their own nests. But I am not a very rich man; pray do not think I am. -I am only an artist. Nobody is rich now except the Jews here, and the -rogues across the Atlantic. Would you let me make a sketch of yourself -just as you sit now? It would be charming.' - -'Will you give it to that lady?' - -'No, on my honour. I will give it to you, and make a copy for myself.' - -'Well, if you like; but would it not be better if I put on my Sunday -frock?' - -'Not for worlds. Sunday frocks have no affinity with art, my dear; -yours is, no doubt, a very pretty one, but I should prefer to make your -portrait as I have seen you first.' - -'Oh, I do not mind; only this gown is very shabby and old. I am grown -too big for it. I am always growing. Monsignor says that if I grew in -grace as I do in centimètres I should soon be a saint like our St. -Veronica.' - -'It is not for me to disparage the saints,' said Loswa, 'but I think -you will have another mission in this life than to be of their -community. Keep still a little while; I will not detain you long. -So!--that is just right. I wish I were Raffaelle and Leonardo in one, -to be worthier of the occasion.' - -'Who are they?' said Damaris, as he set his folding easel straight -before him and began to sketch in the flowerlike figure on the wall, -fresh and wholesome as the sea-lavender that grew in the sand below. He -who was all his life in a hothouse recognised the value and fragrance -of that sea-born plant, though it was too homely and simple for him; -recognised it with his mind, though not with his soul. - -The girl knew nothing of all that made up the world to him; the names -most common to him in modern literature and art were to her dead -letters that said nothing; the allusions familiar to him would have -been to her phrases without meaning; all that constitutes modern -culture was to her as an unknown country, and the only whisper she -had ever heard of all that poets and artists tell the world was what -she had felt rather than understood of the read and re-read pages of -'Athalie,' and of 'Attila,' of 'Cinna,' and of 'Sintram.' Yet there -was a certain richness, as of virgin soil, in that absolute freedom -from conventional education, and from received ideas; she expressed -herself with simplicity and vigour, and this unworn, untrained mind, -only nurtured on the high thoughts of great poets, had escaped all the -bondage of tradition and of secondhand knowledge, and remained what it -had been made by nature. - -It required a higher intelligence than Loswa's was wholly to -appreciate this charm; he was too conventional to be greatly attracted -by unconventional things; he was too used to all the artificial -attractions of artificial women, and too artificial himself to enjoy -and admire all this freshness of fancy. It would have needed a poet to -have done so, and he had nothing of the poet in him. But he was enough -of a student of human nature to understand that with which he scarcely -sympathised, and she was so handsome that her physical beauty created -in him a compassion for the solitude in which it dwelt, such compassion -as her intellectual solitude, and her half-unconscious longing for -wider worlds than her own, would have failed to awaken. - -'Is it possible that all that is to go to a _gros bourgeois_ who builds -boats?' he thought, as he looked at the beautiful lines of her features -and her form, and that fairness of her skin just warmed by sun and air -into the bloom as of a peach, which he strove in vain to reproduce to -his own satisfaction in his drawing. A face that would turn all Paris -after it like sunflowers after the sun, to be left to pass from the -glow of youth to the greyness of age on a little island in mid-sea! It -seemed impossible--it would become impossible if she once learned her -own charms. - -'Your isle is worthy of Paul and Virginia,' he said to her, speaking to -her in the phrase that she could understand, for she knew every line of -Bernardin de St. Pierre. 'But where is Paul? Is there no Paul?' - -'No, there is nobody at all like Paul,' she answered, with a little -laugh at the idea. 'The youngest man is Raphael, and he has a fat wife -and five children. They live down on the other side of the cliffs.' - -'But Paul will come,' said Loswa. 'He always comes. Would you let me -substitute myself for him?' he added with that somewhat impertinent -audacity which had made his success so great amongst women of the world. - -It did not please Damaris. Her brows drew together in that -instantaneous and tempestuous anger which her face had expressed as the -bracelet had fallen on her lap. - -'You are not at all like Paul,' she said a little contemptuously. 'You -are not young enough, and you have wrinkles about your eyes.' - -Loswa reddened with irritation. He was still young, but life in the -world ages fast, and he was conscious that to this child, in the first -flush and sunrise of her earliest girlhood, he might well seem old. - -'You are cruel,' he said humbly, 'and I am unhappy; I can only envy the -Paul of the future.' - -'Oh,' said Damaris very tranquilly, 'I know all about my future. I am -to marry my cousin, Louis Roze; he has a _chantier_ at St. Tropez; he -is quite rich; he is very ugly and stout; he builds boats and barques; -myself, I would sooner sail in them.' - -She said all the sentences in the same even voice; marriage seemed to -her to be hardly of as much interest as the boats. - -'Good heavens!' said Loswa involuntarily. 'Athene to a Satyr!' - -He could imagine the shipwright of St. Tropez without much effort of -imagination; a black-browed son of the soil, smoking a short pipe, -supping up prawn-soup noisily on feast days; a Socialist, no doubt, -and an argumentative politician when he had drunk his glass of brandy, -or he would not be to the taste of the Sieur Bérarde, her grandfather. -This her future! As well might a young nightingale, singing under -acacia flowers in spring, talk of its future when it should be roasting -on the spit to give a mouthful to a boor! - -'Do you not intend to refuse?' he said abruptly, without thinking -whither such suggestion might lead her. - -She turned quickly and looked at him with astonished eyes; her breath -came and went more quickly. - -'Refuse!' she repeated. 'Refuse! oh no; what would be the use? No one -refuses to do what my grandfather has decided for them.' - -'But you cannot be willing to make such a marriage?' - -She was astonished and troubled by the rebellious suggestion. - -'I do not think about it,' she replied at last, shaking the hair out -of her eyes. 'It is a thing which is to be, you know. What is the use -of thinking I am not to leave Bonaventure. I should not like to marry -anyone who would not live on Bonaventure; but if I stay here and live -as I always have done, it will not make any difference at all.' - -He was silent. This absolute ignorance of what she talked about seemed -to him pathetic and sacred. He did not wish to be the one to break away -the wall which stood between her and the realities of life. - -'He thinks of making a _chantier_ here,' she explained; 'the only doubt -is whether anyone will ever come such a distance to order a boat or a -brig; and whether it would really pay to bring the timber out so far as -this----' - -'Good heavens!' said Loswa again. - -'Why are you so surprised?' she said, looking at him in perplexity. - -'How can you think about timber and shipwrights?' he said, irrationally -enough he knew. 'What a life for you! I thought you loved Racine and -Corneille.' - -'But there is no one else here who loves them,' she answered -with a little sigh. 'It is only making money that they care -about--money--always money--and when it is made nobody enjoys it.' - -'But who can oblige you to marry this man of St. Tropez?' - -She ruffled her hair, not very well knowing what to reply. - -'It is decided so,' she answered at last. - -'But many things are decided for us which we do not accept. No one has -any right to dispose of our own future against our own will.' - -She looked vaguely troubled: the sense of herself as of an independent -entity had never before presented itself to her. - -'All those things are settled for one,' she said with some impatience. -'It is not worth talking about. Whether it is Gros Louis or another, it -is the same to me. They are all stupid, they all smoke, they all drink -when they can, they all say there is no God, and that there must never -be any kings. They are all just alike.' - -She was not conscious of the sombre revolt and vague contempt which -were at work in her as the heat of the distant thunder cloud dulls -slightly the sunny blue of a June sky. - -'But there is another world than theirs,' said Loswa. - -'Out of the books?' - -'Yes, beside the dreamland of the books. All the earth is not peopled -with shipwrights and skippers. There is a world----' - -He hesitated, for he was afraid of alarming her; it seemed to him that, -were she displeased, she would send him spinning down the cliff with -short ceremony. - -'There is a world where life is always _en fête_, where women are -treated not as goods and chattels and beasts of burden, but as -sovereigns and sorceresses; where you yourself----' - -'I shall never go there,' she said, abruptly interrupting him. 'Do not -talk about it. It makes me restless. I feel as I do when I look over -there.' - -She pointed northward, where the unseen shore was. - -'I see the sun shine on the mountains, and I see a dazzle of gold, a -gleam of white, a long low line under the blue of the hills, and I -know that is what they call the world, the big world; but I never land -there; it is not for me.' - -'Let me take you,' he said softly. - -'No,' she said with petulance and resolution. 'Grandfather does not -allow me ever to see the mainland without him; he says it is accursed, -that the people are all mad. And now, as you have eaten and drunk all -you will, it will be best that you should go: he may return any time, -and he does not love strangers.' - -'But I may come back and bring you your portrait?' - -Her eyes smiled, but she said carelessly, 'That can be as you like. You -are very welcome to what you have had. I will show you the way to the -shore, though I dare say you would find it again by yourself.' - -He endeavoured to linger, but she gave him no leisure to do so. She -escorted him to the edge of the steep descent, and there bade him a -decided adieu. - -Loswa, with all his grace and ease and habits of the world, felt at a -loss before this child. He would have kissed her hand in farewell, but -her arms were folded on her chest as she stood on the rock above him, -and nodded to him a good-humoured good-bye; cheerfully, indifferently, -as any boy of her years might have done. - -'It is easy to see that you come from Paris!' she called after him, -watching his descent along the _passerelle_ with a kindly little laugh -at the hesitation of his steps. - -'Let her marry Gros Louis!' he thought angrily as that clear childish -laughter echoed through the sunlit air from above his head. 'I have her -portrait--that is all that matters.' - -What a feature of the next year's Salon would be that brilliant, bold -head when it should be hung in the full light of a May day, for all -Paris to gaze upon, marked '_D'après Nature_,' and signed Loswa! - -He soon, despite his indolent limbs, which were more used to the -boulevards than the sand and the shingle, regained his boat, and pushed -it in deep water. - -Damaris Bérarde stood above on the brow of the cliff, amongst the -olive-boughs and the great leaves of the fig-trees, looking towards -that pale golden far-off shore where 'the world' was a world with other -men than Raphael and Gros Louis, with other fruits than the round -orange and the black olive, with other music than the tinkle of the -throat-bells of the goats. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -Two days later Loswa entered the drawing-rooms of St. Pharamond, -bearing with him a covered panel, which, after his ceremonious -salutation of his hostess, he uncovered and placed on an unoccupied -easel before her. - -'Ah! my charming sea-born savage!' said Nadine as she approached it. - -It still looked only a sketch, but it is a very sincere man who will -display a sketch without touching it up and embellishing it, and Loswa -was not sincere in that way, or in many others. He had copied his -original drawing done upon the island, enlarging and improving it, -and, though the portrait had the look of an impromptu creation, an -_impression_ vivid and masterly, it was in reality the product of many -hours of painstaking labour and elaborate thought. Produced however -it might be, it was one of the most brilliant studies which had ever -come from his hand. It was not idealised or made artificial; it was the -head of the girl as he had seen it in the full light of the morning on -Bonaventure. The eyes had the frank, fearless, childish regard which -hers had, and the whole face seemed speaking with courage, ardour, -health, and imagination. - -There was a chorus of admiration from all the great people who were -there; it was her _jour_, and the rooms were full. Anything drawn by -Loswa instantly elicited the homage of that world of fashion in which -his powers were deemed godlike, and this sketch had qualities so rare -and true that even his enemies and hostile critics would have been -forced to concede to it a great triumph of art. - -'You have succeeded,' said Nadine, as she put out her hand to him with -a smile. 'You were right and I was wrong. You have painted the portrait -without spoiling it by any affectations. No living painter could have -done it better, and few dead ones.' - -Loswa inclined his graceful person to the ground before her, and -murmured his undying gratitude for the condescension of her praise. - -'_Tout de même, elle me le paiera_,' he thought, remembering the words -she had spoken to him on the sea-terrace. - -'And how did Perseus find Andromeda?' she asked. 'It must be a story to -be told in verse in the old fashion. Relate it!' - -'There has been very little romance about it,' said Loswa, 'and -Andromeda, alas! is contentedly going to marry a boat-builder, stout, -ugly, and old!' - -'My dear Loris, that will be for you to prevent,' said Nadine, still -gazing at the sketch. 'I have never seen a face with more character or -more suggestion. _C'est un type_, as the novelists say. If she do marry -the boat-builder, he will have a stormy existence. There are daring and -genius in her face. Come--sit there and narrate your adventures with -her.' - -Never unwilling to be the hero of his own stories, Loswa seated himself -where she bade him, and, becoming the centre of a circle of lovely -ladies, he embellished and heightened the narrative of his expedition -to Bonaventure as he had done the sketch, making his own part in it -more romantic, and the reception of Damaris warmer than either had -been. He had a very picturesque fashion of speech, and the little -incident, under his skilful treatment, obtained the grace and the -colour of a story of Ludovic Halévy's. The portrait could not open its -lips and contradict him. Only his hostess thought to herself, with -amusement: 'I wonder how much of all that is true!' - -Whilst he was talking and drawing towards a close in his -admirably-coloured narrative, Melville and Othmar together entered the -room behind him, and the former caught the name of his favourite of the -isle. - -He listened in silence till Loswa paused to take breath at the end -of a sentence; then, with a very angry gleam in his clear eyes, he -interposed: - -'So, M. Loswa, you have found the latitude and longitude of Bonaventure -without a pilot! Your portrait on that easel is very like, but I -confess I do not recognise the same verisimilitude in your narrative.' - -Loswa, who had paused to meditate on the end of his adventure, which he -felt could not be told with the tame finale which it had had in real -life, was disconcerted, and for a moment silent. - -'I have seen your heroine this morning,' pursued Melville; 'I am -distressed to disturb your romance, but she is not the mingling of -Gretchen and Graziella you have just described. I left her busied in -feeding the pigs.' - -'I dare say Gretchen and Graziella both fed pigs,' said Loswa with some -ill-humour. 'At least, Monsignor, you will admit that I have proved -to the Countess Othmar that I was capable of making a study of the -betrothed of Gros Louis.' - -'That is feeding the pigs with pearls indeed,' said Nadine. - -'The pigs are a better destiny than many another,' said Melville. - -'You cannot seriously think so?' - -'I do, indeed. If you had seen the dark side of life, Madame, as I have -done, you would think so too.' - -'No, never. That young girl has genius, or something very like it, in -her face. I will send for her, and show her that there are other fates -possible for a young Hebe with the brows of Athene.' - -'That would be a cruel kindness if you like,' said Othmar, who had been -attentively studying the portrait. - -'And that is for once a commonplace remark, my dear Otho. Nothing which -takes the band off the eyes is really unkind.' - -'I do not know,' said Othmar. 'Great ladies like you have pets which -are not the happier fated for the petting; the dog is shaved and -frizzed, the bird is caged and killed, the marmoset is adored and -neglected; if they were all left to their natural fates they would -be less honoured but longer lived. Yonder palms are honoured too, no -doubt, by being allowed to stand in a corner of your room behind a -lacquered screen and in a gilded basket, but they have neither light -nor air, and will be dead, and when they are so, will be replaced in a -month.' - -She smiled. 'How little you know about it! and what perilous things -metaphors always are! The palms go back to their glass-houses and -thrive as well as they did before, while other palms take their -place in my rooms. You talk a little like a Socialist lecturer; -your arguments are all invectives and--what is the logician's -word?--pathetic fallacies!' - -'Which is the glass-house to which you could send any human being whom -you had taken from obscurity and contentment?' - -'The glass-house is the world, which is always ready for novelties -as the hothouses are ready for new seedlings. How can you tell that -this handsome child may not be destined to make the world her slave? -Besides, even in the interests of Gros Louis himself, it is as well -that the consciousness should come before instead of after.' - -'And certainly,' said Loswa, 'no one can say that Gros Louis is a fate -meet for this exquisite child?' - -Melville hesitated: 'Gros Louis is not a very admirable person; he -is an unbeliever, of course very avaricious, and of a rough coarse -exterior; but he is a good-tempered man and a very laborious worker. On -the whole, worse things might happen to Damaris Bérarde than to live -always on her island and rear her children there, as she now rears her -_poussins_ and her puppies.' - -'That is looked at from a very low plane, Monsignor; unusually low for -you.' - -'I can imagine so many things worse for her, that is all,' said -Melville, with an apology in his tone. 'Certainly she ought to have a -mate like a shepherd in Theocritus' pastorals, but as those shepherds -exist not, at least this side of the Alps----' - -'Why a shepherd at all?' - -'Because they are better than hunters,' said Melville curtly. - -Loswa smiled. - -'Monsignor is prejudiced to-day,' said his hostess. 'Decidedly this -Galatea must be worth seeing, and the island itself sounds idyllic. I -did not know there was anything so near us still so like Bernardin de -St. Pierre. Dear Melville, go and bring your treasure to us just as she -is; just as Loswa has sketched her, red cap, bare feet, and striped -sea-gown. The moment these people are _endimanchées_ they are horrible.' - -'She does not belong to "those people,"' said Melville, a little -impatiently. 'Her mother was an actress of Paris. I think you might -dress her how you would, she would look well. She has a patrician look -like those girls of Magna Grecia, who are as ignorant as the stones -they tread, but have the port of goddesses.' - -'I will see this especial young goddess,' said Nadine, who never -relinquished a whim when it encountered opposition. - -Melville was seriously annoyed. - -'Will you make Gros Louis more acceptable to her?' he said angrily. - -'No; we shall make him impossible.' - -'You will create one more _déclassée_, then, when there are already so -many!' - -'What? By seeing her once?' - -'Yes,' replied Melville with a certain sternness. 'Once is enough. -Discontent is born at a touch. Content is a thing which no one can -create; but discontent almost anyone can bring about with a word. -Merely to see you, Madame, would be to render this poor child wretched -and ashamed all the rest of her days. I mean no compliment; only a -fact. You float in the very empyrean of culture; you can only make this -young barbarian conscious of her barbarianism. What is the curse of our -age? That every class is wretched because it is straining forever on -tiptoe, striving to reach into the class above it.' - -'Dear Monsignor, I think they always did. Colbert stretched the -draper's yard measure till it reached the throne, and Wolsey stood on -the chopping-block till he was tall enough to touch hands with king -and pope. It is nothing new, though modern democracy thinks it is.' - -'The just ambition of the man of genius is not the restless monomania -of the _déclassée_.' - -'Who can tell what ambition may lie under this Phrygian cap?' said his -tormentor, as she looked once more at the sketch of Damaris. 'Dear -Monsignor, I am so delighted when you become a little cross! It makes -us feel that, after all, you are really human!' - -'I am exceedingly cross,' said Melville; 'or, to speak more truly, -infinitely distressed.' - -'After all, Monsignor, it is not absolutely just to this involuntary -recluse never to give her an occasion to estimate Gros Louis at his -actual worth. According to what you and Loswa say, there are the gases -of revolt already smouldering in her; surely it will be better for them -to take flame before than after.' - -'There are a great many lives,' said Melville, with a tinge of personal -bitterness, 'in which those gases are never extinct, yet in which they -are, nevertheless, not allowed to come to the surface and take fire. It -may very well be so with hers.' - -'Oh, the cruelty of a priest! Decidedly you will not let her come to us -if you can help it. Well, we will go to her. I owe her an apology.' - -Melville trusted to his usual experience of his hostess; he knew -that with her, very often, a caprice ardently desired at sunset was -forgotten by sunrise; that, in default of opposition, such a mere whim -as this would most likely expire as soon as conceived. He said nothing -more to her, and Loswa took his sketch down from the easel. - -'I fear you are angry with me, Monsignor,' he murmured to Melville, -to whom he was always courteous and deferential. 'Indeed, but for the -challenge that Madame Nadège cast at me, I should not have ventured to -find out your inviolate isle.' - -'There is no harm done,' said Melville curtly. 'You will not find there -either Gretchen or Graziella.' - -Othmar had no sympathy with this new fancy. - -'With all the world at your feet, what can you want with a -fisher-girl?' he said, when they were alone, to his wife, who replied: - -'She may be original and amuse me. There is hardly anything original -in these days. One never sees anything; and I do not think she is a -fisher-girl. She may even be a genius--an Aimée Desclée--a Rachel.' - -'And do you think it is better to be a Desclée than to live and die, a -happy wife and mother, _en bonne bourgeoise_?' - -'Oh, my dear, it is you who are _bourgeois_ if you see anything -enviable in the prose of Fate! You may be sure that, if she be a -genius, and I help to open her prison doors, I am only the instrument -of Destiny. Someone else would open them if not I.' - -'I thought you always ridiculed the idea of Destiny?' - -'For ordinary mortals-yes. But genius is accompanied by the Parcæ. -It cannot escape them. Men may kill the body of Chatterton, but they -cannot prevent the dead boy being greater than they.' - -'I think your project cruel,' said Othmar. 'If you go to this child, -or bring her here, you will interfere unwarrantably with her peace and -quietude, you will take her out of her sphere; and you can never make a -_déclassée_ happy. Melville is quite right.' - -'A _déclassée_! My dear Otho, what a very conventional reply. A -_déclassée_ is a person uprooted from her own sphere, to be placed in, -or to long to be placed in, one for which she is not the least adapted. -Genius is much more than adapted, it is armed in advance for any world -it choose to take as its own. Rachel was an unlettered and unwashed -Jewess, and Desclée was a tattered little Bohemian: but the one ruled -the world, and the other made it weep like a child!' - -'But I do not know why you should suppose this little girl on her -island is necessarily destined to possess genius?' - -'It is in her face, and it would be amusing to discover it. It would -give one a Marco Polo sort of feeling.' - -'It is a dangerous kind of exploration. You cannot tell what mischief -may not come out of it.' - -'And you do not understand that the supreme charm of a caprice lies -precisely in never knowing in the least what one may come out of it.' - -'But where your toys are human souls----' - -'There are no such things as human souls. It is an exploded expression. -There are only conglomerates of gases and tissues, moved by automatic -action, and adhering together for a few years, more or less. That is -the new creed. It is not an exhilarating one, but _il en vaut bien un -autre_.' - -'All this does not explain why you have taken a fancy to disturb the -destiny of a little girl whom you have seen once in a boat.' - -'Because, I think it may amuse me; all original creatures and -unconventional types are amusing for a little time at any rate.' - -'Oh,' said Othmar, half in jest and half in earnest, 'when you have -once taken the idea that anything is amusing, I know cities may burn -and men may die, you will not relinquish your idea till you have -exhausted it.' - -'No. I do not think I easily relinquish my ideas; it is only weak -people who do that. It is true few ideas live long; they are all -_belles du jour_, the bloom of a day.' - -Melville had for once erred in his estimate of his hostess. As -tenacious when she was opposed as she was indifferent when unopposed, -she that evening announced her intention of taking Loswa as her pilot, -and of going in person to Bonaventure. - -The opposition of Melville, and of her husband, the attraction of -something new, and that charm which always existed for her in the -discovery and examination of anything unusual in human nature, all -contributed to make her dwell on an idea which, had it not been -opposed, might probably have never taken serious shape. - -The master passion of her temperament remained the pleasure she took -in the excitation and the analysis of character. She had always -liked to bring about singular scenes, unusual situations, strange -emotions, merely for the sake of observing them with the same subtle -and intellectual pleasure, as a writer of romance feels in the -complications and characters which he creates at will, and at will -destroys. She had always brought about a perilous position when she -could do so, because to enter upon one was as agreeable to her as it -is to a good mountaineer to ascend to perilous heights. She had been -often tempted to regret her own physical coldness, which rendered -such heat of emotion and of danger as d'Aubiac's royal mistress had -known impossible to her. It was less the tragedy of passion than the -psychological intricacies of character which interested her. '_Tous -les amoureux sont bêtes_,' she had so often said, and so continually -thought. Of all things which had bored her throughout her life the love -of the male human animal had bored her the most. - -But a complicated situation, a set of emotions on an ascending scale--a -spectacle of troubled consciences and of disturbing elements--these it -had always diverted her to watch, calm and untouched by them as any -marble statue which looks from a glass window upon a storm at sea. In -the language which she used the most, she said to herself that she -would have given nearly all she possessed to be for once '_empoignée_' -by an intense emotion. - -Sometimes she would look at Othmar and think: 'It is not his fault; it -has certainly not been his fault, and yet there has never been a second -when my heart beat really any quicker for his coming.' In the highest -heights of his own exaltation and ecstasy he had always left her -irresponsive. 'You want Mignon or Juliet for all that,' she had said to -him once. - -It amused her now; this fancy of that unknown little island lying -hidden in these gay and crowded seas. She had a fancy to see it and to -divert herself with the human creature on it who she had said was '_un -type_.' In the afternoon of the following day she sailed thither. Who -could have hoped for an undiscovered isle on these crowded seas? She -was accompanied by Béthune, Loswa, and three other of her courtiers. -Othmar refused to condone what he did not approve; and Melville had -been suddenly called away to Rome. - -'To the new Desclée!' she said, as her yacht glided out of its harbour -and bore southward through smooth sparkling sapphire waters. - -'A name of melancholy omen,' said Gui de Béthune. 'Sometimes I think -Aimée Desclée is the most pathetic figure of our century.' - -'She was a sensitive, and she was a _poitrinaire_,' answered Nadine -with her sceptical little smile. 'What does physiology tell us? That -genius is only a question of brain tissue and blood-globules, and that -the _Mois de Mai_ and the _Prometheus Unbound_ are only the consequence -of a kind of disease. It is so consoling for us; who have no disease, -perhaps, but have also, alas, no genius! That is why the world is -so fond of the physiologists. They are the great consolers of all -mediocrity.' - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -Damaris was gathering oranges and carrying them to the packing-sheds. -She was bearing an empty skip upon her head, and kicking one of the -golden balls before her through the grass, when a woman, unlike any -woman that she had seen before, appeared to her astonished eyes amidst -the emerald foliage of the orange-boughs and the lilac of the hepaticas -which filled the grass. - -'I am sure you know me again?' said the sweetest and coldest of voices. -'I am come to apologise to you for my rudeness. Here is Loswa, who is -afraid to approach you; he will vouch for me.' - -Damaris stood still and mute; she put the basket off her head, and -looked in blank stupor at her visitant; her colour came and went -painfully; all in a moment she seemed to herself to grow ugly, awkward, -coarse, foolish, everything which was hideous and painful. She had no -words at her command, she might have been born dumb. No man had any -power to confuse her, but this beautiful woman paralysed her every -nerve. - -'I am come to apologise to you for my involuntary rudeness,' said -her visitant in her sweetest manner. 'Your rebuke was apt and very -deserved, but you may be sure that, had I really seen you I should not -have incurred it.' - -'It was I who was rude,' said Damaris, with her cheeks scarlet. - -Loswa had been unable to embarrass her, but a cruel confusion -possessed her before this woman, who was so unlike herself, who was so -languid, so delicate, so marvellous. - -'Not that she is so very beautiful either,' thought the child even in -her bewilderment. 'But she is--she is--wonderful! She is like those -gauze-winged dragon-flies, all silver and gossamer; she is like the -delicate white lilies of the tree datura; she is like, like----I did -not think a woman could be like that!' - -'Do you forgive me?' said her visitor with her sweetest smile. 'I did -not really see you, or I should not have made such a blunder--I who -detest such mistakes.' - -'I was rude,' stammered the girl again, with difficulty finding her -tongue, whilst her colour came and went with violence. - -'Oh no, you were justly on the defensive. You were offended, and took a -just reprisal; the only one in your power. My dear child, M. Loswa has -shown me the sketch he made of you, and told me of your hospitality to -him. Will you not be as hospitable to me? I want much to make friends -with you.' The words were spoken with all the exquisite charm and -graciousness in which she could put such magic, when she chose, that -no one living would have resisted them, and all such little courage or -such vague prejudice as might have moved Damaris against her melted -before them like little snowflakes in spring before the sun amidst the -lilac-buds. - -'If Madame will honour me,' she stammered, not even seeing the men -who were present, only thinking of her own rough gown, of her tumbled -hair, of the state of the house filled with wood smoke, as the oven was -getting ready for the baking; of the lines of washed linen that were -stretching from one wall to another. - -'How did Clovis let you pass?' she said, struck with a sudden thought. - -'Clovis knew me again,' said Loswa. 'Besides, a man was at the foot of -the _passerelle_, and brought us up to you.' - -'He did not do his duty,' said the girl with a little frown, which drew -together her pencilled eyebrows. - -'The man or the dog?' asked Nadine, amused. - -'Neither,' said Damaris. She was angered, though she did not divine how -many napoleons had passed into Raphael's hand, who had been pruning -olives, and had had much trouble to hold back the faithful Clovis, for -whom gold had no charm. - -'If Brunehildt had not been shut up with her puppies,' she added -regretfully; 'she is much more savage than Clovis.' - -'You seem very sorrowful that we did not all have the fate of -Penelope's suitors,' said Nadine, much amused. 'We are the friends of -Monsignor Melville; may not that fact protect us? Is your grandfather -at home?' - -No; he was away in the sloop; gone to St. Jean with a cargo. Damaris -did not add that he would have been much worse to pass than even -Brunehildt. - -'But I pray you come into the house, Madame,' she added, her natural -courtesy gaining the ascendancy over her embarrassment. 'It is a poor -place, but there is a fine view, and if I had only known----' - -'You would have been _endimanchée_ and hideous,' thought Nadine, as she -answered with her sweetest grace that she would go willingly to that -balcony of the beauties of which she had heard so much from Loswa. - -'All her eyes are for me,' she whispered to Béthune. 'She does not see -that any of you exist.' - -'I suppose,' rejoined Béthune, 'that we, after all, do not differ so -very much from Raphael and Gros Louis; but between a woman and a woman -of the world there is as much difference as between a raw egg and a -_soufflé_, between a hen and a peahen.' - -'You might find a more poetic comparison; say a poppy and a gardenia,' -said Nadine smiling. 'She is not at the age to think of you. Have -patience; _ça viendra_. She is really very handsome, lovelier than -Loswa's sketch.' - -Damaris, meanwhile, was thinking with agony that there were ready -no cakes, no cream, no white bread, nothing which this delicate and -ethereal visitant would be able to touch--thinking of the linen -swinging in the wind, and of the bacon grey with smoke, and of -Catherine, who, on washing-days, was in her crossest mood! - -Nadine, with that swift intuition into, the thoughts of others which -made her the most sympathetic of companions where she deigned to be -sympathetic at all, guessed what was passing through the girl's mind, -and hastened to relieve her embarrassment by asking to be permitted to -remain out of doors, alleging that the air was so soft and the scent of -the orange-blossoms so sweet, that she was reluctant to leave either. - -'Will Madame really prefer it?' said Damaris, unable to conceal her -relief. - -'There is the same view to be seen from here,' she added as she opened -a door in the wall and showed them the southern sea stretching far -away, shining blue and violet through arches of olive-boughs lying all -hushed and bright and warm in the glow of the afternoon sun. - -Then she caught a little boy by the shoulder, the son of Raphael, who -was looking on stupidly. - -'Run and bring some wine and some fruit,' she whispered to him, 'and -ask Catherine to send the old silver.' - -Her sense of the obligations of hospitality was stronger than the dread -of her great lady. - -'It is not because she is great,' she told herself, angry with her own -timidity. 'But she is so wonderful, so wonderful!' - -That supreme distinction in the wife of Othmar, which, when she walked -down a throne-room, made half the other women there look vulgar, had -its charm even for this child, who could not have given a name to the -superiority which awed and fascinated her, even whilst it made her -ready to hide her head beneath the stones like the lizards. - -Nadine, pleased with everything, or so professing herself, sat on a -stone bench within sight of the sea and quartered a mandarin orange -with her white fingers, whilst the sun played on the jewels of her -great rings. - -'Of all your many conquests, perhaps you have had none more flattering -than the adoration and amazement of this child,' whispered Béthune to -her. - -She smiled. - -'And I should not think,' she answered, 'that she was by nature easily -daunted or easily impressed. She has reigned here, the innocent Alcina -of a bucolic paradise. She has character, whether she have genius or -no. Look how coolly she puts poor Loswa aside! As he discovered Alcina, -it will be hard on him if he be not her Rinaldo!' - -'You are kinder to him than to her,' said Béthune. - -'You always think ill of him.' - -'I think of his character much as I do of his art.' - -'Surely his art is admirable?' - -'It is clever; it is not sincere.' - -'My dear Duke, is not that a little hypercritical? You mean that it is -a mannerism.' - -'And what is a mannerism but an affectation? And what is an affectation -but a want of truth?' - -'That is a wide subject. I cannot discuss it with you just now, because -I want to speak to this child.--My dear, I am a neighbour of yours; I -live on the coast which you see every day; will you come and stay a few -hours with me? We would show you things which would amuse you.' - -'Stay with you?' - -The eyes of Damaris opened to their fullest, her face flushed scarlet; -she was so amazed that she forgot her awe of the speaker. - -'Why should you want me?' she said bluntly. - -'When you are older you will know that people want many things without -knowing why they want them. But I can give you very good reasons: -Monsignor Melville has interested me in you, and I think it a pity -anyone so gifted as you are by nature should never see anything better -than your yard-dogs and--what is your _fiancé's_ name?--Gros Louis? -My poor child, how can you know what it is you do with yourself? You -cannot tell what the world is like.' - -'I am very happy,' said Damaris. - -The world was a name of magic to her. How often had she not looked -over the strip of sea which severed her from that dazzling shore where -amethystine hills and ivory snows and silvery olive woods spoke of a -world from which she was forever severed! - -'I would come to you if I were ever alone,' she said after a pause. - -'Well, come with us,' said her temptress smiling. 'It is three o'clock -only now. We will take you with us for a while and send you back by -twilight. Loris has told you who I am.' - -The name of Othmar was, even to the ears of Damaris, a spell of might -upon those shores. She was flattered, amazed, touched to intense -emotion, but she stammered out that, although she was most grateful, -yet she dared not; her grandfather would kill her if she left the -island; he was most severe; he never forgave. - -'I promise to disarm your grandfather if that is all your fear,' said -Nadine, as she thought to herself, 'These good Communists, _je les -connais_! They would string us all up to the lamp-posts, if they could, -and yet, when we speak to them, they are in heaven!' - -The more terrified and resolute in resistance Damaris grew, the more -decided was her visitant to carry her point and succeed in her caprice. - -'It is really cruel,' murmured Béthune. 'The child is happy: oh Madame! -why pluck this wild rose only to droop in your glass-house, and be good -for nothing ever afterwards? You cannot put it back upon its stem if -once you break it off----' - -'Do you think to flower for Gros Louis's buttonhole is a better -fate?' said Nadine with amusement. 'I think you all are very hard to -please. Usually I never notice anybody, and you say I am cruel; when -I do notice anybody you say that is cruel also! I am just in the mood -to play at being a benefactress, and you all oppose my charitable -inclinations. To-morrow I may not be in the humour.' - -'Precisely,' said Béthune. 'To-morrow you will wonder what you ever saw -in a hedge rose, but that will not put the rose back in bloom on the -hedge again.' - -'The rose will cease to bloom certainly anywhere, and that is nature's -fault, and not mine.' - -'I hear you love the old poets,' she said, turning to Damaris. 'Will -you recite something to me? I love them too.' - -'And you yawn before every stage in Paris!' murmured Béthune. But -Damaris did not hear him. - -'I shall say it very ill, Madame,' she murmured. She was diffident, -terrified indeed; yet her vague consciousness that she had some sort of -power in her, as the lark had, as the nightingale had, made the old -remembered poetry come thronging in her brain and trembling on her lips -as she spoke of it. - -'If, after all, I have talent?' she thought, her heart seeming to beat -up to her throat. - -'Give us something from Esther,' said her visitor; 'that is the one -play permissible to young girls.' - -Damaris smiled, as if at the name of a dear friend. Those verses, which -generation after generation of children have spoken since the young -disciples of the early years of St. Cyr first wept over the perils of -the Jewish heroine, were amongst those which most touched her heart and -pleased her imagination. Unknown to herself, she had something of the -sense of loneliness of an exile, of an alien, on this little island, -which yet she loved so well. - -'_Voyons, voyons!_' said Nadine impatiently, not accustomed to, or -tolerant of, being made to wait. 'Do not be afraid. I will tell you -frankly whether you have any artistic aptitude, or whether you had -better stay and gather oranges and never open a poem all your life. -These gentlemen will flatter you, but I shall not. _Voyons!_' - -She spoke imperatively, and with the imperial air of her most resolute -will. Damaris grew very pale, even to her lips, but she did not dare -refuse to obey. She opened her mouth once, twice, with a deep-drawn, -fluttering, frightened breath; then she began to recite, with tremulous -voice, the - - Notre ennemi cruel devant vous se déclare: - C'est lui, c'est le ministre infidèle et barbare - Qui, d'un zèle trompeur à vos yeux revêtu, - Contre notre innocence arma votre vertu. - Et quel autre, grand Dieu! qu'un Scythe impitoyable - Aurait de tant d'horreurs dicté l'ordre effroyable? - -and passed on to the passage, - - O Dieu, confonds l'audace et l'imposture! - -At first her timidity was so great that she was almost inaudible, but -at the fifth and sixth lines the charm which the words possessed for -her began to absorb her thoughts, to take her out of herself into the -region of poetic feeling, to spur and stimulate and strengthen her. -Nature had given her tones full of tenderness and power, and capable -of many varying emotions, and the dramatic instinct, which was either -inherited or innate in her, made her give wholly unconsciously the just -expression, the true emphasis, the accent which best aided the meaning -of the verse, and best shaped its harmonies and grace. - -Her first embarrassment once passed, the animation and spirit natural -to her returned; her intuitive perception made her lend the required -force and feeling to each verse; she could have recited the whole of -the play with ease, so familiar to her were the lines of all the few -volumes she possessed. Night after night, in her little balcony, when -everyone slept except herself and the nightingales, she had declaimed -the speeches _sotto voce_ for her own delight, living for the hour in -the scenes they suggested, and forgetting all the more sordid details -of the existence which surrounded her, seeing only the moon and the sea -and the orange flowers. At any other time her meridional accent, her -childish exaggeration of emphasis, and southerner's excess of gesture, -would have incurred the ridicule of her hypercritical auditor. But now -the critic was in the mood to be kind and to be easily pleased. She -closed her ears to the defects, and only noted with approbation the -much there was to praise and to approve in the untaught recitation of a -girl of fifteen, who had never seen a stage or heard a recital in the -whole of her short life. - -Damaris paused abruptly, and with a startled look, like one awakened -out of dreamland into rough reality. - -'I beg your pardon, I forgot myself,' she said stupidly, not well -knowing what she meant and hardly where she was. - -She did not hear the eager praises of the gentlemen about her; she only -heard the sweet cool voice of the woman who was her judge, and who had -listened in impassive silence: - -'My dear, you have talent,' said that voice. 'Perhaps you have even -genius. With all that music in your shut soul you must not marry Gros -Louis.' - -Damaris looked at her wistfully, with all the colour hot in her face, -and her heart beating visibly. Then, she could not have told her why, -she burst into tears. - -'_Une sensitive!_' murmured her visitant a little impatiently. -'You see, my dear Duke!--it is Aimée Desclée, not Rachel; Adrienne -Lecouvreur, not Mlle. Mars.' - -'The greater pity then to take her from her orange-groves,' answered -Béthune. 'What will Paris or the world give that will compensate for -all her loss!' - -Damaris did not hear. With shame at her own emotion, and unwillingness -that it should be pitied or observed, she had turned away, and had been -sobbing silently over the uplifted head and questioning face of Clovis, -who had come upward to inspect the strangers. - -'If Esther can move her so greatly,' said Nadine with her little -ironical smile, 'what will Dona Sol do and Marion de l'Orme?' - -'I do not think,' said Béthune, 'that it is Esther which moves her -now; it is your abrupt revelation to her of her own powers. Surely to -discover you have genius must be like discovering that you have a snake -in your breast and eternal life in your hand.' - -She laughed, and went to where Damaris stood with the dog, striving to -conquer her weakness. - -'My dear child, surely you cannot weep for Gros Louis? Nay, I -understand; I startled you because I told you that if you study and -strive you can do great things. I believe so. If you wish I will help -you to do them.' - -The girl was silent. So immense was the vision which opened before her, -and so enormous to her fancy were the perils and difficulties which -stretched between her and this promised land, that she was mute from -awe and from amazement. - -Always to dwell on Bonaventure, always to steer and sail on the sea, -always to gather the olives and oranges, always to see the sun rise -over the wild shores of Italy and set over the coast of Spain far -away in immeasurable golden distances, always to run up and down the -rocks like the goats, and swim like the dolphins, and go to bed with -the birds and get up with them--this had been the only life she had -known. For the moment she could attain no conception of any other. She -had seen the churches at Villefranche and Eza, and she had seen the -building yards of Villefranche and St. Tropez, and that was all; her -only idea of the great world was of a perpetual fête-day, with the -priests always in their broidered canonicals, and the church bells -always ringing, and the people always thronging in holiday attire, and -going up and down sunny streets noisily and laughing. - -That was all she could think of; and yet Imagination, that kindliest -of all the ministers of humanity, had told her there must be more than -this somewhere; had filled her mind with many dim, gorgeous, marvellous -pageantries which grew up for her from the black printed lines of -'Sintram' and 'The Cid.' There must be something better than the -Sundays of the mainland---- And yet to leave her island seemed to her -like leaving life itself! - -All these conflicting thoughts striving together in a mind which was -vivid in its fancies and childish in its ignorance moved her to an -emotion which she could neither have controlled nor have described; she -could find no words with which to answer this great lady, who seemed -to her to have thrown open great golden gates before her, and let in a -flood of light which dazzled her, streaming on her from unknown skies. -And at last she yielded. - -'Catherine, I am going on the sea,' she cried, as she ran indoors, -blushing to the roots of her hair at the subterfuge, for she was very -truthful. - -The old woman, invisible for the smoke as she stooped over the great -oven, with the handle of its door in her hand, grumbled some cross -words which were neither assent nor dissent. Damaris took them as the -former, and waited for no more; she passed half her life on the sea, -the old servant would find nothing strange in her absence if she were -out till sunset. - -'You are sure I shall be back by Ave Maria?' she said timidly to her -temptress. - -'Certainly,' said Nadine, who knew well that it was not possible. - -'I am sure I ought not to come,' said the girl wistfully. - -Her temptress smiled a little. - -'Oh, my dear, if you be as feminine as you look, that consideration -will only add _la pointe à la sauce_.' - -Damaris gazed at her with pathetic, impassioned eyes. She did not -understand; she said nothing; she only sighed. - -'Come,' said the enchantress. - -'I think Othmar was right. It is cruel,' murmured Béthune. - -'Men are always so timid,' said Nadine with her customary indulgent -contempt for them. 'Ignorance is not bliss, my dear friend, although -the copybooks say so.--Come, my pretty demoiselle, come and see our -enchanted coasts; we will not harm you, and we will only give you a -little spray of moly such as Ulysses gathered; and perhaps a magic ring -and a wishing-cap, nothing worse.' - -The child hesitated still; she knew that she was doing very wrong; she -knew that if what she was doing were discovered, her grandfather's -chastisement would be pitiless; but curiosity, imagination, interest, -were all enlisted on the side of disobedience, and she had a certain -turbulence and ardour of self-will in her nature which had brought -her many hard words from Catherine, and even blows from Jean Bérarde. -All these together conquered her conscience, her judgment, and her -prudence; the gates of the enchanted world stood open; she might never -pass through them, or see what was beyond them unless she went now. - -With that reasoning she sprang down the first ledges of the stone -staircase, and as lightly as a kid would have done leaped from one step -to the other till she reached the edge of the sea. - -She allowed her feet to be guided into the barge, and felt it dance -beneath them with a strange thrill; it seemed all to be as unreal -as a chapter of 'Sintram;' the lovely lady who wooed and tempted -her appeared like a being from another world; the gilded prow, the -embroidered flag, the rich awnings fringed with silver wavered before -her in the sunlight. - -Before she had known what she had actually done, the oars of the men -cleft the sunshiny water, letting it flow in streams of diamonds off -their blades, and the vessel had already glided away from her home. - -Clovis, who was accustomed never to leave the island, but never failed -to give voice to his grief when he saw her leave him for the sea, -either by swimming or sailing, stood on the strip of sand beneath the -rocky steep of Bonaventure and howled in dismal solitude. She put her -hands to her ears not to hear him; it seemed as if he reproached and -rebuked her. - -Soon he became but a little white speck beneath the red sandstone of -the cliff, and the boat had reached the side of the stately schooner -which awaited them in the midst of gay sunshine and azure water, whilst -a flute-player discoursed sweet music from some unseen retreat. - -When the island also began to recede from sight she then, and only -then, began to realise what she had done. - -'_C'est Bernardin de St.-Pierre tout pur_,' said Nadine, surveying with -diversion the amazement and the awe of her captive. - -Nothing could be more enchantingly kind than her manner, or more gentle -and encouraging in its patience with the girl's stupor and timidity. -She had gratified her caprice, she had won her wager, and she was -sweet and gracious to the object of it. Obedience had always found her -benignant if at times it had found her as quickly oblivious. This had -been a little thing indeed; a very little thing; but she would have -been irritated if it had escaped or beaten her; would almost have been -mortified. - -All her world had told her that to bring the girl thither would be a -folly if not a cruelty; and for that reason beyond all others she had -persevered. - -Damaris, seated in the prow of the barge, had the charm for her of -representing the triumph of her own will. So might some young slave, -hardly acquired, on whom her fancy had been strongly and waywardly set, -have represented hers to Cleopatra. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -Othmar was leaning over the balustrade of the sea-terrace as the vessel -returned. He looked and saw the captive from Bonaventure. A sort of -vague pity mingled with irritation as he did so. Why had Nadine brought -this hapless child from her safe sea silences and solitudes? It was a -jest, but the jest was cruel; as cruel as that which ties the little -living bird on to the bouquet that is tossed from hand to hand in jests -of Carnival. - -The poor sea-born curlew would do well enough left to its own nest upon -the rocks, but once taken prisoner its day was done. - -There were moments when the caprices of her wayward and dominant will -irritated him; when her profound indifference to the consequences of -any action which amused herself, and compromised others, repelled him -by its coldness. What could this poor little peasant be to her? A toy -for five minutes, a plaything sought out of mere contradiction, and -destined to be cast aside ere the day was done! - -He watched the graceful shape of the schooner as it bore down upon the -coast with a sense of regret as from some definite misfortune which -might have been averted by exercise of his own will. But he had never -used his will in any opposition to his wife. - -Wisely or unwisely, he had never made the slightest opposition to her -desires or even her fancies. Begun in the blind adoration of a lover, -the habit of deference to her had continued with him, not out of -feebleness or uxoriousness, but out of that gradual growth of custom -which is one of the most potent influences of life. She had power over -him to make him relinquish many a project, abandon many a desire, but -this power was not reciprocal; it seldom or never is so between two -human beings. The old proverb, that of any twain one is booted and -spurred and the other saddled and bridled, has a rough truth in it. - -Othmar knew nothing of, and cared as little for, this girl whose face -looked with so frank an audacity, so wistful an innocence, out of the -brilliant drawing of Loswa. But he was sorry that she was not let -alone. He had suffered many a bitter moment, even since his marriage, -from the uncertainty of his wife's moods, from the mutability of her -fancies. Constant in his own tastes, and very unwilling to wound -others, her rapid changes from interest to weariness, and her profound -indifference for the bruises she gave to the _amour propre_ of her -fellow-creatures, frequently troubled and distressed him. He was often -kind to persons he disliked, to compensate them for her unkindness, or -to prevent them from perceiving it. - -Nadine, he knew, would think this poor child of no more account than -the briar-rose to which he had likened her; but to him it seemed wanton -and cruel to have disturbed the peacefulness of her life, merely as a -child casts a stone at a bird, and then runs on, not even looking to -see whether the bird be bruised or has fallen. - -'Life is but a spectacle,' she had once said to him. 'When you go to -the Gymnase do you distress yourself as to whether the actors catch -cold at the wings or take a contagious disease in a cab as they go -home? Of course you do not? Then why not view life in the same manner? -People bore us or please us; that is all we are concerned with. We do -not follow them home in fact; we need not, even in imagination.' - -But Othmar did not agree with her. Life seemed to him much more often -tragedy rather than comedy; he could not divest himself of a compassion -for the players, with which much fellow-feeling mingled. - -'Since I married him he has become very amiable,' she once said -jestingly. 'It is due to the spirit of contradiction which always -exists in human nature, and which is never so strongly developed as in -marriage.' - -It was a jest; but there was a truth in the jest. Often he felt so much -irritated at his wife's indifference, that it stimulated him to more -interest or sympathy than he would otherwise have felt on many subjects -and in many persons. - -As he saw the yacht approach the sea-wall now, he turned away -impatiently and went into the house to his books. He did not choose to -assist at the festive procession which was conducting this poor little -wild goat of the cliffs to be offered upon the altars of caprice and -flattery. - -As if, he thought, a life out of the world were not such an enviable -thing that we should be as afraid to destroy it as we are afraid to -break a Tanagra statuette! - -Meanwhile, unretarded by his displeasure, the schooner approached -as nearly as the draught of water would permit, and the boat from -it landed Damaris Bérarde at the foot of the rose-marble stairs. -Béthune would have assisted her, but she sprang from the boat to the -landing-stair with the assured and graceful agility of one who passed -all her life in the open air, and was practised in the free exercise of -all her muscles. Her eyes gazed in delighted wonder at the beauty of -the place. - -'It is like Alcina's palace,' she said with a quick breath of -admiration. - -'What do you know of Alcina?' asked her hostess, amused. - -'I have read Ariosto,' she answered, and then, with her extreme care -for perfect truthfulness, added, 'I mean I have read his poems, -translated.' - -'It is rather your island which is like Alcina's,' said her hostess. - -Then they led her through the gardens, which seemed all a maze of -rose, of yellow, and of white from the innumerable thickets of azalea -which were in bloom. Here and there, out of their gorgeous glow of -colour, there rose the white form of a statue or the white column of -a fountain. The sun was still high in the west; the gardens seemed to -laugh like children in its warmth. - -It was all so beautiful, so magical, so strange; the child whose -imagination had been fed on poets' fancies, and had grown unchecked in -an almost complete solitude, expected some marvellous message, some -wondrous destiny to meet her there on this threshold of a new life. - -She found herself the centre of attention and of homage; everyone -looked at her, spoke to her, strove to gain her notice. A vague fancy -came into her mind--perhaps she was a king's daughter after all, like -the Goose Girl in Grimm's stories, of whom Melville had told her once. -Anything would have seemed possible to her, and nothing too incredible -to happen at the close of this astonishing day. - -They led her into the house, which was entered from the garden through -conservatories filled with Asiatic and South American plants and gaily -peopled by green paroquets and rose-crested cockatoos, and scarlet -cardinals, which flew at their will amongst the feathery foliage. - -They were all kind to her; full of compliment and of thoughtfulness for -her; even her hostess took trouble to interest her, to explain things -to her, to make her feel that she was welcome and admired. In her serge -frock and her thick shoes, with her rope of pearls twisted round her -throat, and her face in a rose glow of surprise and of innocent vanity -and pleasure, she sat the centre of their interest, their approval, and -their praise. She was a very picturesque figure with her short blue -rough gown and her scarlet worsted cap. She had twisted her big pearls -round her throat, and she had slipped on her Sunday shoes. She was -tall, and lithe, and erect; she looked astonished, but not intimidated. -If a smile were exchanged between them at her expense she did not -see it, and if they looked at her much as they would have done at a -ouistiti or a topaza pyra from wild woods, she was unconscious of it. - -The whole scene was enchantment to her eyes. Her natural sense of the -beauties of form and of colour was at once soothed and excited by the -beauty of these chambers, which had all the subdued glow of old jewels. -It was still daylight, but rose-shaded lamps were burning there, and -shed a mellow hue over all the brilliant colours. They brought her tea, -and ices, and bonbons, things all as strange to her as they would have -been to a savage from South Sea isles. - -Her ignorance, her simplicity, her frank surprise amused them, and the -natural shrewdness and pertinence of her replies stimulated them with -the sense of a new intellectual distraction. But when they pressed her -to recite, she grew shy and silent. She was not a machine to be set -in action by pressure of a spring; and a certain suspicion that she -had only been brought here as a plaything dawned upon her; the idea -suddenly came to her that these great people were amusing themselves -with her ignorance and astonishment, and when once that sting of -mortified doubt had come into her mind, peace fled, and pride kept her -mute and still. - -Other persons came in, pretty women, and handsome men; there was a -murmur of laughter and a confusion of voices in all the rooms. She -began to feel less at her ease, less satisfied, less sure of her own -self. Some of the new-comers stared at her and sauntered away laughing; -her one little hour of triumph was already over; she had been seen, she -had ceased to be a novelty. - -But it was too late to repent. She could not ask such strangers to -retrace their steps for her; and she felt by intuition that this lovely -sovereign, with her delicate face and her gracious smile, could have -become as chill as the north wind and as terrible as the white storms, -were she offended by caprice or ingratitude. - -Damaris had strong natural courage, and all the hardiness of a resolute -and defiant youth; but she felt a vague fear of Nadine Napraxine, which -only served to intensify the fascination by which she was subdued in -her presence. - -Her hostess still spoke kindly to her from time to time, but soon -ceased to think much about her: having once been captured and brought -thither, she had ceased to be an object of great interest. - -It was five o'clock; more people had driven over from other villas; -great ladies, with their attendant gentlemen. There were the usual -laughter and murmurs of conversation, and general buzz of voices; the -rose-shaded lamps were shining through the daylight; the sounds of a -grand piano magnificently played came from the music-room; the air -was full of the scent of roses and gardenias, of incense and perfume. -Damaris, after a few glances cast at her, a few smiles caused by her, -was forgotten and left to herself. Her head turned; her breath seemed -oppressed in this atmosphere so different to her own; she felt lonely, -ashamed, miserable; she shrank into a corner behind some palms and -gloxinias, it was the saddest fall to pride and expectation. - -Othmar and Béthune, watching her, both thought, 'She has found out -she is only a plaything, and she is resentful.' Othmar thought, in -addition, 'If only she knew how very little time she will even be as -much as that!' - -They saw without surprise, but with contempt, that Loswa, through whose -imprudence she was there, avoided her, was evidently ashamed to seem -acquainted with her, and devoted himself assiduously to two or three -of the great ladies. Loswa wished to show her that if he had sought -her for sake of his art, he had better interests and occupation than a -little peasant in knitted stockings could afford him. In himself he was -angered against her for the slightness of the impression he had made on -her, and the indifference with which she had treated him after he had -honoured her by taking her for a model. - -'She is a little sea-mouse that came up in Miladi's deepwater net -to-day,' he said with a slighting laugh to the great ladies who asked -him about her. - -Damaris overheard, and her child's heart burnt with rage and scorn -against them. - -'He broke bread with me yesterday, and he ridicules me to-day!' she -thought, with her primitive islander's notions as to the sanctity of -the rites of hospitality. She hated this soft-eyed, soft-voiced man, -who had made an effigy of her with his colours, and had brought to her -these cruel strangers, who had in a single hour made such havoc of her -peace. And they had told her that she should be back at Ave Maria, and -it was now night; deep night, she thought it; for she did not know that -though these rooms were all lit artificially, and the windows had now -been long closed, behind these thick draperies of golden plush the last -glow of daylight had scarcely then faded from the western skies. - -What would they think on the island?--and what would Catherine and -Raphael do? - -No one now noticed her since they had ceased to stare at her as a young -barbarian; no one now remembered her, sought her, or cared for her; -she seemed likely to pass the whole afternoon in a corner, undisturbed -and unremembered, like a little sea-mouse, as he called her, too -insignificant even to be expelled! - -On her island nothing could have daunted her, silenced her, troubled -her; she was mistress there of the soil and of herself; she was proud -and intrepid as any sovereign in her own tiny kingdom; but here all her -courage deserted her; she only realised how utterly she was unlike all -these people around her; she was only conscious of the rude texture of -her gown, of the rough wool of her hose, of the sea-brown on her hands -and arms, of the red on her cheeks blown there by the wind and the -weather. - -All these women were delicate and pale as the waxen bells of the -begonia, as the creamy column of the tuberose. - -She had been innocently vain, unconsciously proud of herself; everybody -had told her she was handsome, and her own sense had told her that she -was born with finer mind and higher organisation than were possessed -by those who were her daily companions. And now she felt that she was -nothing--nothing--only an ignorant and common peasant. She was well -enough at Bonaventure, but she was a poor little savage here. - -Suddenly there was a general murmur of excitation and a general -movement of personages, and from where she had been placed she saw -the mistress of the house going forward to greet a young man who had -entered as various voices had exclaimed: - -'Prince Paul is come!' - -They all surrounded this new-comer with murmurs of ardent -congratulation. He was the Rubenstein of the great world, a rare and -most sympathetic genius, and, _ce qui ne gâte rien_, he was the son -of a grand duke, though he held it as a much higher title that he had -been also the pupil of Liszt and the beloved of Wagner. He was one -of the innumerable cousins which Nadine could claim here, there, and -everywhere in the pages of the Almanach de Gotha, and he was a person -whose visits were always agreeable to her. - -This visit was unexpected, and was, therefore, all the more welcome. In -the reception of Paul of Lemberg she altogether forgot her poor little -bit of seaweed off Bonaventure, and everyone did the same. - -Othmar, coming through his rooms to welcome his new and unlooked-for -visitor, who was a great favourite with himself, caught sight of the -figure so unlike all others there, which was seated forlorn and alone -on a low couch, with a group of palms and some draperies of Ottoman -silks behind her. - -'So soon abandoned!' he thought with compassion. 'Poor child; she looks -sadly astray. She is very handsome--as handsome as Loswa's sketch,' he -thought also, with a few swift glances at her. - -When he too had greeted Prince Paul he turned to his wife and said in -an undertone: - -'Have you forgotten another guest whom you have left there all alone?' - -She looked fatigued and annoyed at the suggestion. - -'My dear Otho, go and console her; you were always a squire of -distressed damsels.' - -Othmar turned away and passed back through the apartments to the place -where he had seen Damaris. - -'Poor little _déclassée_!' he thought pitifully. 'You have no power to -amuse them for more than five minutes. It was cruel to bring you away -from your own orange and olive shadows into a world with which you have -no single pulse in common!' - -With his gentlest manner he addressed her: - -'May I present myself to you, mademoiselle? My wife, I understand, -persuaded you to favour us by leaving your solitudes. I am afraid we -have not much to offer you in return.' - -Damaris was silent. She was grateful for the kindness, but she was too -offended and pained by the position in which she had been placed to be -easily reconciled to herself. - -'You are Count Othmar?' she asked abruptly. - -She was thinking of the story told her, when she was a child, by -Catherine. - -'That is what men call me,' said he. 'Believe me, I am your friend no -less than my wife is so, and I am most happy to see you beneath my -roof. I first made your acquaintance through Loswa's sketch.' - -'He was not honest about that,' she said angrily. - -Othmar smiled. - -'No artists are honest when they are tempted by beautiful subjects. He -will make you the admiration of all the Paris art world next year.' - -She did not reply at once. Then she repeated: - -'It was not honest. I did not think he was going to show it, and bring -people to me.' - -'No; in that I think he took unfair advantage of your hospitality.' - -'That is what I mean. I shall not let him ever go back.' - -'Poor Loswa! The punishment will perhaps be greater than the offence.' - -She was again silent. She knew nothing of the light give and take of -social intercourse. To her the things of life were all very serious. - -He felt an extreme compassion for her, and with great patience, -kindness, and tact, strove to overcome her half-fierce shyness. He -talked to her in a way which she could understand and of things she -knew; of the life of the sea, of the fruits and their seasons, of dogs -and their ways, of old poets and simple writers such as she loved -and reverenced. Little by little her sullenness gave way, her face -lightened with its natural smile; she felt confidence in him and spoke -to him with that candour and directness which were as common to her -as its blue tint to the sea-water; but all the while she thought with -sinking heart: - -'I wonder if I might ask him how late the hour is? I wonder if I might -tell him how much I do want to go home?' - -But she did not dare to do so; she thought it would be rude. - -Othmar placed before her some volumes of Doré's illustrations to -beguile her time, and rejoined his wife, who was still occupied with -the Prince of Lemberg. He was at all times one of her favourites, and -he had just come from Vienna, and had many _chroniques scandaleuses_ of -that patrician court to tell. - -'What is to be done with this unhappy child?' Othmar said to her -somewhat sternly. 'She is miserable and _dépaysée_.' - -'I sent you to amuse her,' replied Nadine. 'If you did not----' - -'You must allow me to say,' returned Othmar, 'that it was not worthy -of you to bring that poor little peasant here, only to neglect her and -make her miserable. I should have thought you were too great a lady to -commit such a--will you pardon me the word?--such a vulgarity.' - -She was not as angry as he had expected; she even smiled; but she -remained as indifferent. - -'Vulgarity is indeed a terrible charge! I do not think anybody ever -brought it against me before. I thought she was very well entertained. -I supposed Loswa took care of her. He is responsible for her.' - -'No,' said Othmar, 'we are responsible. She is in our house, and she -came here by your invitation; on your insistence. There is surely the -law of hospitality----' - -'Among savages,' said his wife, amused. 'I believe it exists somewhere -still on the Red River, or amongst the Red Indians; I am not sure -which. We know nothing about it. We only invite people because we think -they will amuse us, and we usually find that they do not. I fancied -this girl would be amusing, but she is not at all so here. She is dull, -and she is frightened.' - -'What else could you expect?' - -'I expected--I do not know what I expected. Genius should not be -abashed by mere tables and chairs.' - -'Perhaps she has no genius. Even if she have any, to be stared at -and laughed at by a number of strange people may be sufficiently -embarrassing. I confess that I think you have done a very cruel thing.' - -She laughed. When men are angry they amuse immeasurably a clever woman -whose temper is serene. And it seemed such a trifle to her. - -'Pending your arrangements for her future,' said Othmar after a pause -of excessive irritation, 'where is she to be this evening? The second -gong has sounded.' - -She gave a little gesture of impatience. - -'How very tiresome you are! Can she not go to the servants?' - -'In my house? Certainly not. I will have no guests sent to the -servants' hall. This young girl is as well born as any other of your -visitors.' - -'How odd you are! You will make me insist on separate establishments -if you develop such quaint notions! I am sure she would be infinitely -happier with the maids, and she would run no risk of becoming -_déclassée_.' - -'It is the only time in my life that I have found your expressions in -bad taste,' said Othmar as he turned to leave the room. - -She laughed: 'You had better take her into dinner yourself.' - -'I shall do so if she will come.' - -The door closed on him, and she looked after him with a frown of -impatience and a smile of astonishment. - -What a fuss about a little fisher-girl! she thought. As if the -girl could not go to the maids--go to the nurseries--go to the -still-room--anywhere, anywhere. What could it matter? - -She was accustomed to see her playthings no more when once they had -passed an idle hour for her. Why could not somebody take away this one? -She would not have been here had it not been for Loswa. It was all -Loswa's fault, no one else's. And who could tell that the girl would -be such a dumb, stupid, frightened creature? On the island she had had -force and courage and talkativeness enough. - -Why would Otho always take everything _au grand sérieux_? He should -have lived on that island. - -He was quite capable of taking her in to dinner, though there were high -ladies of every degree staying in the house! And she hated the idea -of his making himself ridiculous. She would override all customs and -conventionalities herself when she chose, but she was too thoroughly -a woman of the world not to regard a social solecism, a drawing-room -blunder, with much more horror than she would have felt for greater -crimes. Anything which made an absurd story for society was to her -detestable. - -'Murder all your enemies to three generations, like a Montenegrin,' -she would say _à propos_ of such matters, 'but never make a fault in -precedence at your table.' - -Othmar meanwhile dressed very hurriedly, and hastened to the -drawing-rooms before they could fill again. The latent chivalry of his -temper was active; he would have been capable for the moment of any -eccentricity to show his honour for this forlorn child. - -'What wretched artificial creatures we all are!' he thought. 'No -wonder, when any natural life comes amongst us, it feels dazed and -astray.' - -The existence he led looked to him for the instant supremely absurd. -The instincts towards wider freedom and plainer habits, and higher -thoughts than those possible in his society, had always been in him -from his youth, though they had found no issue and no sympathy; and in -his marriage he had tightened around him the bondage of the world. - -The brilliant rooms were deserted when he re-entered them: here and -there a servant moved, attending to a lamp or carrying away a stray -teacup; there was no one else. - -In his gentlest tones he again addressed Damaris: - -'We are about to go to dinner,' he said to her kindly; 'will you do me -the honour to accompany me?' - -No hunted antelope could have looked more terrified than she. - -'Dinner,' she echoed. 'I dined at noon.' - -'But you can dine again? The sea air always gives one an appetite. You -must not starve like this in my house.' - -'I could not! I could not!' she said with tremulous lips. She glanced -in an agony of dread through the rooms where all those gay people were. -The idea of dining with them appalled her more than it would have done -to find herself on a wrecked vessel, in the midst of the winds and -waves. What would they think of her? What errors would she not make? -What could she know of their manners and fashions? - -'I could not! I could not!' she repeated, her colour changing a dozen -times a minute. - -He endeavoured to persuade her, but found that it only caused her more -pain. After all, he reflected, it was natural enough that she, who -had never been at any table save her own, should be appalled at the -prospect of dining before a score of fine ladies and gentlemen. - -He was sorry for her. He knew the rapidity with which his wife's -caprices altered and her preferences evaporated. He had seen so many -please her, for an hour, to weary her immeasurably whenever they -afterwards presumed to recall to her the fact of their existence. - -'Well, you shall do as you please in this house,' he said to her. -'Remain here, and I will tell them to bring your dinner to you.' - -'Indeed--indeed I want nothing,' she protested; 'I could not eat.' - -She was about to say to him much more than that; to say that the sun -had set, the night had come, the hours were passing fast--but she could -not find courage. After all, what was she?--a stupid, ignorant little -sea-born savage in the eyes of all these people. - -She remained where she was, silent, and miserable, yet watching with -curious eyes the pageant so new to her of the lighted _salons_, -the lovely ladies, the pretty procession that passed out of the -drawing-rooms as they went to dinner. Could these be human beings who -lived always like this? She wondered--she envied--and yet she longed -for her own free life on the waves, under the olives, climbing with the -goats, diving with the gannets, rocking in the orange-boughs with the -thrush and the greenfinch. It was beautiful here, magical, marvellous, -incredible; yet she wanted fresh air, she wanted free movement; like a -mountain-born rose shut up in a hothouse, she felt suffocated in this -sultry and perfumed air. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -As Othmar had promised, a servant brought to her, served on silver and -Japanese porcelain with damask, which she took to be satin, a repast -of which the dishes succeeded each other in bewildering rapidity, and -looked so ethereal and pretty that it seemed to her quite grievous to -break them up and eat them. The fairies themselves might have feasted -off these tempting viands, and her appetite, which was the robust one -of youth, proved to her that it is possible to dine at noon and yet be -ready to dine again at eight. She had satisfied her hunger, however, -long before the full complement of the services had been brought to -her, and the fruit and bonbons best pleased her childish tastes. She -gained courage to leave her corner and come from beyond the palms and -move timidly about the rooms, looking now at this picture, now at that -statue, and ever confronted by her own likeness in the mirrors, and -beholding it with impatience. She touched the flowers embroidered on -the plush of the chairs, astonished that the blossoms were not real. -She looked with wonder at the grand piano, marvelling that out of its -painted panels and ivory keyboard such melodies as she had heard could -have been drawn. She gazed at the figures on the Gobelin tapestries -in entranced delight, and, with the unerring selection of a nature -instinctively artistic, paused enraptured before the marble copy by -Clésinger of the Vatican Hermes. - -She who had never seen anything but Bonaventure and the fisher-people's -cabins on the mainland, and the little dusky shops where the fruit was -sold, was dazzled by the beauty of St. Pharamond within and without. -Everything around her was strange and wonderful; the very flowers were -unfamiliar; gorgeous blossoms to which she could give no names. - -But when she caught sight of her own figure in the mirrors, standing -amidst all the glow and delicacy of colour of these marvellous -chambers, she seemed to herself barbarous, incongruous, grotesque, -a blot upon the scene, a savage set amidst civilisation. All the -flatteries which had been poured out to her ear had passed by her, -making little impression. There were the mirrors, which were truer -counsellors than he; they showed her that she was not as these people -were. She did not think she had any beauty at all, she only saw that -she had none of this grace which was around her, that she was like a -bit of ribbon weed from the sea amongst lilies and lilac. - -She was so interested and so absorbed that she was startled as by a -blow when she saw the double doors at the end of the drawing-rooms -thrown open by a man with a silver chain and a white wand, and the -figure of her hostess appeared led by the Prince of Lemberg and -followed by all the ladies and gentlemen who had dined with her that -evening. - -With the swift movement of a hunted thing Damaris drew back behind a -screen of plush embroidered like the walls and chairs and couches with -silken garlands of spring flowers. - -No one was thinking of her. - -Even Othmar passed by the spot where he had left her without looking -for her. He was talking to a very tall slight blonde woman, who was the -Princesse de Laon, and had been Blanchette de Vannes. They all went by -the screen and passed on into the farthest room of all, where the Erard -stood. Damaris, like a forsaken child, crouched down on the stool she -had found there, and the big hot tears forced themselves from under her -eyelids. It was foolish, she knew; unreasonable, no doubt; but the most -piteous sense of mortification and of insignificance was upon her, like -a heavy hand crushing her down into the earth. - -At Bonaventure, despite the harshness at any disobedience with which -she was treated by her grandfather, she had been in much a spoilt -child; the few people on the island were all her ministers and -servants. On the rare occasions when she visited the mainland, everyone -treated with reverence and flattery the heiress to Jean Bérarde's -wealth and acres; even when these great people had come to her they -had praised her talent, they had suggested wild hopes to her, they had -given her honeyed words; unconsciously she had expected something very -great to happen to her when she should be seen at this house where her -presence was said to be so desired--to realise that she was nothing -here, less than the servants, who at least had their place and their -duties in it, was the most cruel of disillusions. - -Overcome by the unusual warmth and closeness of the atmosphere, which -sent her blood to her temples and filled her with a strange drowsiness, -she let her head fall back upon the cushion of her couch and fell -asleep. She dreamed strange things. There was nothing to distract her. -The servants glanced at her contemptuously and let her alone; they had -no orders about her, and in the house of Nadine no one ever dared to -act without orders. - -The perfumed air, the dry warmth from the _calorifères_, the profound -stillness, invited slumber; and she slept on as soundly as any tired -child that throws itself upon a primrose bank on an April day. - -She was roused by a sound of sweet notes like the voices of her -nightingales when they sung under the orange-leaves. - -In the farthest room of all, where the pianoforte stood, Paul of -Lemberg had begun to play; melodies of Tristan and Isolde thrilled -through the silence to her ear and awakened her in her hiding-place. -She who had never heard any such music in her life listened with a -surprised sense of delight so intense that it was also pain. The -delicate rain of harmonious notes falling one on another, the strange -mystery with which the chords of the instrument repeat and concentrate -all the sighs of passion and the woes of feeling, all the inexplicable -and marvellous humanity and sympathy with which all perfect music is -filled, were heard by her for the first time in their most exquisite -forms. She listened entranced, awed, and penetrated with an ecstasy -which was as sharp as suffering. She forgot where she was. When silence -followed she was weeping bitterly; all the wounds of her heart at once -deepened a thousandfold, yet healed by a touch divine. - -All the longing, all the dreams, all the vague desires and unsatisfied -fancies which had been in her mind and heart untold to anyone, and -misunderstood even by herself, burned to obtain utterance in this the -first music she had ever heard. She crouched in her corner unseen; a -servant, who had placed a lamp behind the screen, had been too discreet -in his office, and too contemptuous of herself, to disturb her. She sat -still on her low stool, and listened as the harmonies succeeded each -other from the distance. - -Paul of Lemberg was in the mood to recall a thousand memories and -invent a thousand fancies in music, and his companions were capable -of giving him that comprehension and appreciation which the finest -scientific knowledge of the tonic art alone can render. - -In the pauses which at times ensued, the conversation was animated and -absorbing; they spoke of music, always of music, and Othmar, whose -greatest interest had always been found in music, forgot as well as -others the guest whom his house sheltered. - -When at length Lemberg rose and drank a cup of coffee, and lit a -cigarette, and proceeded to _faire la cour_ to the Princesse de Laon, -and four violins in a quatuor of well-known artists were tuning to -fill up the blank of silence he had left, Othmar, with a pang of -compunction, recalled the hours during which the child had been neither -seen nor sought by any one of them. It had been half-past eight when -they had gone into dinner; it was now past eleven o'clock. - -He went through his drawing-rooms hastily, looking for her in every -place, and failing to find her. At length, when he was about to inquire -for her of his household, he saw a shadow behind the embroidered -screen, and moving the screen aside, discovered her in her solitude. - -'My dear child!' he exclaimed, ashamed at his own neglect of her, -'where have you been? I have not seen you for hours. What a dull -evening you have passed!' - -The tears were dry on her cheeks, but they had left her eyes humid and -heavy; her face had grown very pale. - -'I have heard all that,' she said with a little gesture towards the -distant music-room. 'I did not think there was anything as beautiful in -the world.' - -'_Une sensitive!_' thought Othmar, recalling his wife's half-unkind -and half-compassionate expression as he answered. His knowledge of -such sensitive natures induced him now to observe with an instinct -of pity the trouble visible on the young girl's face. She had an -isolated, pathetic, bewildered look which touched him, and with it -there was an expression of anger and hurt pride. No child lost at dark -in a wood where it had strayed through disobedience, was ever more -bewildered, lonely, or punished for its sin, than she was in those -radiant drawing-rooms, surrounded with the light laughter and the, to -her, unintelligible chatter in which she had no share; oppressed by -this overheated, over-perfumed air in which she felt stifled and sick, -abashed, and yet angered by the neglect and obscurity to which they had -abandoned her. - -'I fear you want to go home, my dear,' he said compassionately. 'Is it -not so?' - -She hesitated, then answered curtly: 'Yes.' - -'How long have you been asked, or have you promised, to stay with us?' - -'She said I should go back by sunset.' - -'My wife said so?' - -'Yes.' She paused, then added with a tremor of terror in her voice, 'If -I be out when he comes home my grandfather will kill me.' - -'But he will know you have been safe here with us?' - -She shook her head. 'That will make no difference, Monsieur. You do not -know him. Of course it is all my fault; I did wickedly----' - -'You did, as I understand it, a natural childlike piece of -disobedience; you ought not certainly to have been tempted by others -to do it, but as your grandsire will learn whom you have been with, I -cannot see that he can be so very greatly angered, even if you should -stay here all night.' - -'You do not know him,' said Damaris. - -She was nervous and pale; her hands played restlessly with the pearls -at her throat; her beautiful eyebrows were drawn together in anger and -distress. She did not say so, but more than once her shoulders had felt -the stroke of Jean Bérarde's heavy cudgel. - -'He must know our name very well,' added Othmar. 'It will surely -be voucher enough to him that you have passed your time in safe -keeping----?' - -'You are "aristos." He hates you.' - -He smiled; he had seen many of these red Republicans who hated him -furiously in theory, yet were never averse to worshipping the golden -calf of the Maison d'Othmar. - -'Seriously,' he said, 'do you think that you will be punished cruelly -if you should be here all night? Are you sure that your grandfather -will not be open to reason?' - -'You do not know him, or you would not ask.' - -'No; I do not know him, and so I have no right to form any opinion. -But I see that what you do know of him makes you miserable at the idea -of his anger. Well, then, home you must go in some manner. Our promise -to you must in some way or other be kept. Wait a moment here, and I -will return to you.' - -Damaris looked after him with interest and gratitude. Young though she -had been when the death of Yseulte had moved the hearts of the whole -people on those shores, something of its sadness and of its tragedy had -reached her, and still remained in memory with her like the echo of -some melancholy song heard at evening in the shade of the olive-woods. -They had been mere names to her, but they had been names of pathos and -of meaning, like the names of Athalie, of Ondine, of Calypso, and of -Helen--names attached to a story, leaving a recollection, suggesting -something outside common life and ordinary fate. - -'I suppose he has forgotten her long ago,' she thought as she looked at -him as he passed through the salons. - -Othmar approached his wife, and waited impatiently until there was a -pause in the conversation buzzing around her. Then he bent towards her: - -'Nadège, did you really promise this child from Bonaventure that she -should go home at sunset?' - -'Yes, I think I did. What of it?' - -'Only that I thought you always kept your word, and I find you have not -done so.' - -There was that in his tone which irritated her extremely; she thought -he spoke to her as if she were a person at fault whom he reproved. -Those nearest her could hear every word he uttered. She turned away -from him with her coldest manner: - -'Tell the girl that she may sleep here; the women will see to it. She -can say that she has my commands.' - -Othmar did not reply; he moved aside and let her pass on to the room -where they were playing baccarat. Had they been alone he would have -said what he thought; as it was, he went out of his drawing-rooms and -across the gardens to the boathouse on the quay. - -The yacht could find no anchorage there, and was gone to Villefranche. -No sailors remained there in the night-time; even the keeper of the -boats did not sleep there. All the pretty painted toys were locked up -in the boathouse, and the keeper had the keys, he could not even get at -one of them. - -'This is the use of being master of the place!' he said to himself with -natural irritation. It had never chanced before at St. Pharamond that -anyone had ever wanted to go on the sea after twilight. - -He retraced his steps to the house and called two of his servants, and -gave them orders to break open the door of the boathouse and take out -the Una boat as the lightest and swiftest. - -Then he returned to where Damaris awaited him. - -'You are not afraid to go on the sea in an open boat?' he asked her. -'The water is like glass, and there is a full moon.' - -'Afraid--on the sea!' - -She could have laughed at the idea; the sea was her comrade and -playfellow, and had never harmed her. She was no more afraid of its -storms than of Clovis's teeth. - -'Then you shall go home,' he said briefly. 'Come with me.' - -'I can go home?' she exclaimed in ecstasy. - -'Yes, if you are not afraid of an open boat; there are no other means.' - -'Oh, I can sail it myself! I steer with my foot, and sail very well.' - -'You shall not go wholly alone,' said Othmar with a smile. 'I regret -that to speed the parting guest is the only form of old-fashioned -hospitality which it is possible for me to show you.' - -Damaris hesitated a moment. - -'Must I not say farewell to Madame?' - -'Madame is occupied,' he said as curtly. 'Come, my dear. Unless you -are sure you would not sooner stop here and return in the morning?' he -added. 'My wife bade me say she would be happy if you would so decide.' - -'Oh no!' said Damaris, with terror in her eyes. 'I could not, I dare -not! My grandfather may be home at sunrise.' - -'Come, then,' said Othmar. - -She needed no second bidding, but willingly followed him through the -gardens to the landing-place of the little harbour. The moon was -brilliant; the cedars and other evergreen trees spread their boughs -over the marble balustrades; the aloes and cacti raised their broad -spears and showed their fantastic shapes in the clear white light; -there was a marble copy of the Faun which laughed at the stars; the -waves were gently rippling over the last stair, the sea spread smooth -as a lake as far as the eye could reach; the lights of Villefranche -glittered in the darkness in the curve of the shore; the air was -fragrant with the scent of millions of violets and of the tall bay -thickets under which they bloomed. - -Othmar paused involuntarily. - -'How seldom we look at the night!' he said with an unconscious sigh. - -'It is so beautiful here!' she said with a sigh which echoed his, but -had a very different emotion for its source as she looked with timidity -at the marble Faun. She had never seen a statue before; she was not -sure what its meaning was, but the sweet laughing face whose lips -seemed to move in the moonlight bewitched her. - -'It is as beautiful on your island, no doubt,' he answered, 'and far -more natural. This place is almost wholly conventional.' - -The word said nothing to her; she had never heard it before. She was -gazing at the marble statue. - -'What does that mean?' she said with hesitation. - -'It means youth--the treasure you have,' said Othmar. 'Do not want any -other. They have tried to teach you discontent. They have been very -wrong. You have not been happy here.' - -'No--not quite,' she said, afraid to seem ungrateful, yet obliged to -tell the truth. - -'No; you have felt remorse; you have been wounded by neglect; and you -have been allured by the artificial and the insincere. Take warning: -the world would give you just what this house has given you.' - -The Una boat was at the foot of the stairs; its little sail was spread, -there were cushions and shawls inside it; the men of the household whom -Othmar had summoned had made everything ready, and waited there. - -'Tell your lady,' he continued to his men, 'that I am gone on the sea; -shall be back probably before dawn.' - -Then he waved them aside and launched his boat into deep water. - -Othmar gave his hand to Damaris; she touched it, but vaulted into -the boat without his aid. When she saw that he followed her she grew -scarlet, and her large eyes opened with that look of amaze which so -well became her. - -'You--you----' she stammered, and could utter no other word. - -'Certainly,' said Othmar. 'Since you have been deceived into coming to -my house, I will at least see you safely back to your own.' - -She was still so astonished that she could form no protest and shape no -thanks. - -'You must steer,' he said to Damaris as he handled the sail. - -She still said nothing, but she took the tiller-ropes. The little -vessel glided easily through the peaceful waves; the wind, by a -favouring chance, blew lightly from the north-west; it plunged with -the grace and swiftness of a gannet into the silvery moonlight and the -phosphorescent water. - -Othmar gave his companion a little gold compass set at the back of a -watch. - -'You must guide our course,' he said to her. 'Bonaventure is as unknown -to me as Japan to Marco Polo.' - -'I shall make no mistake,' she said, finding her voice for the first -time since she had seen him enter the boat. 'I have steered on Sundays -from Villefranche home. But--but--I cannot bear to trouble you; it is -not right.' - -'You give me a charming moonlight sail,' said Othmar; 'and you will -show me a _terra incognita_. I am immeasurably your debtor. But for you -I should still be indoors in warm rooms with artificial light and an -artificial laughter round me. One can have enough of that any evening.' - -'If I did not like it I would not have any of it,' said Damaris, with -her natural manner returning to her. - -'I am not sure that I do not like it,' said Othmar; 'and, at all -events, the person I most wish to please likes it. That must be -sufficient for me.' - -Damaris looked at him; she did not say anything. She was thinking of -that day when she had gathered the daffodils, and the swallows had -flown about her head, and the old woman Catherine had said: 'Holy -Virgin, to think she was so unhappy!' Were they all unhappy, these -great people, although they had everything on earth that they could -want or wish? - -Life outside the island seemed to be a terrible perplexity. - -'Mind how you steer,' said Othmar, as in the multiplicity and gravity -of her thoughts they drifted perilously near the troubled water -churning in the wake of a steam yacht. With prompt dexterity and -coolness she corrected her oversight in time. - -'There are few things more delightful than being at sea at night when -the moon is bright, and the vessel is small enough to make one very -near the water,' he said, as they pursued their course and he aided the -passage of the boat with the oars. 'Just like this, between the sea -and sky, with all those stars above, and all the silent night around -one--one ought to be a poet to be worthy to enjoy it, or able to put -the charm of it into fitting words.' - -'Yes.' - -She had felt herself what he said so often, and she too had never been -able to find speech for that deep delight, that nameless melancholy, -which came to her with the solitude of the sea at night. - -He looked at her as she sat at the tiller with the moonlight falling -full upon her face, and making it older and more spiritual than it had -been by day. So she would look when years had saddened her, chastened -her, etherealised her, taken from her the boylike buoyancy of her -spirit, the frank audacity of her childhood. Or rather, no;--she would -not look like that, she would have wedded Gros Louis, have had sturdy, -healthy, riotous children plucking at her skirts; have grown heavier, -stouter, coarser, duller; have ceased to care about the moonlight on -the sea; have heeded only the sea's harvest of tunny, crawfish, cod, -and haddock. Poor Galatea, whom the Polyphemus of a common marriage -would bind upon her rock with all the greedy waves of common cares -leaping at her and licking her with unkind tongues! Yet there was no -fate better for Galatea than her rock; he was persuaded of it; he -wished her to be so persuaded. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -As the boat went smoothly and fleetly over the calm water, through the -silvery night, beneath the immense vault of the starry heavens, he -talked to her with kindly gentleness, and heard from her all there was -to hear of her short life and of her great love for Bonaventure. - -The course they took was almost wholly free of vessels; some heavy -brig, fish or fruit laden, alone crossed their path, and the great -green or red lights of the steamships were always afar off. The -navigation of their little vessel did not so engross either of them -that they had not leisure to converse, and Damaris, in the dusk of -the night, in the familiar sea breeze and sea scent, in the motion -of the boat which was as welcome and soothing to her as the rocking -of its nurse's arms to a child, felt an exhilaration which restored -her spirits and loosened her power of speech. She ceased to be afraid -of the chastisement she would receive at Bonaventure, and she felt a -confidence in the kindness and the protection of her companion which -was very different to the flattered vanity and fascinated awe which his -wife had aroused in her. - -That he was a _grand seigneur_ did not affect her with any sense of -diffidence, both because the granddaughter of Jean Bérarde had been -reared in an utter indifference to such divisions of rank, and also -because in her own heart she fondly nourished the legend of her own -pure descent. The sea lords of the mountain above San Remo were as -true and near to her in her belief as Hugh Lupus to the Grosvenors, as -Hugues Capet to Don Carlos. - -It had been eleven o'clock when they had left the quay of St. -Pharamond. It was dawn when they came in sight of the island; its grey -olive-crowned side fused softly with the silvery dusk which preceded -the sunrise. There was no sail in sight, except in the offing to the -eastward some score of barques looking no larger than a flock of -sea-swallows: they were those of a coral fleet. - -'Is that your little kingdom?' asked Othmar, looking towards the -cloudlike isle which seemed to float between the sea and sky. 'Well, -it must be a charming life all alone there amidst the waters, far away -from the world and all its fret and fume. You must be happy there?' - -'Oh yes,' she answered rather doubtfully, without the spontaneous -whole-heartedness which had characterised her replies to Loswa. 'But, -you see--there is a good deal of the fret and the fume--because we -trade with the mainland, and when prices are bad my grandfather is out -of temper. It is not like Fénelon's island at all.' - -'Even if not, be sure it is happier to be on it than amidst the world,' -said Othmar, anxious to undo what his wife and her friends had done. -'The pastoral life is the best there is, and when it is joined to the -liberty of a seafaring life, it seems to me to be perfect. - -'I believe, at least I know,' he continued with some hesitation, 'that -my wife spoke to you of your talents, and of all they might do for -you in that bigger world which is to you only "the mainland." Perhaps -they might do much, perhaps they might do nothing; that world is very -capricious, and its rewards are not always just. Poets are charming -companions, but they are not infallible guides. Fate has given you a -safe home, a tranquil lot, a sure provision. Do not tempt fortune to -desert you by showing it any ingratitude. I fear my words seem very -cold and dull ones after the gorgeous flatteries you have heard, but -they at least are wise as I see wisdom for you; and, believe me, they -are well meant.' - -He spoke with earnestness as the boat approached the island, and, with -the sail lowered, drifted lightly before the wind towards the beach. - -'Will you tell your grandfather?' asked Othmar, as they neared the isle. - -'Do you think that I ought?' she said in a very low voice, in which was -an unspoken supplication. - -'I think you ought,' he answered. 'Do not begin your life with a -secret.' - -She was silent. - -'Surely,' he continued, 'he will not be very angry when he knows that -you were so much pressed by the Countess Othmar, and that I have -myself brought you home. He will be sure you have been as safe as with -himself. I will come and see you again some day.' - -The face of Damaris clouded. She was silent, occupying herself with -guiding the vessel through the surf which broke on the broad shell -beach of Bonaventure. - -The mists were white and soft, the head of the cliffs was invisible in -the tender silvery fog; she could hear the voices above her of Clovis -and Brunehildt. The boat was run ashore, and she leaped out before -Othmar could aid her. - -'You are vexed with me,' he said with a smile. 'But, indeed, my dear, -it would be a life-long regret to me if, through any suggestion or -persuasion of my wife's, you were brought into a life which failed to -answer your ideal of it, and rendered you unfitted to return to the -simplicity and quiet of this happy little place. There are neither -knights nor lions nowadays for Una. She must defend herself in a bitter -warfare in which her sex is only a weapon against her, while her -enemies are without scruple. Adieu, you will prefer to go up alone.' - -She turned quickly, and looked up at him with a contrite, timid little -smile. - -'I have no doubt you are right, only--one dreams things--sometimes. I -ought to thank you so much: you have been very good to me.' - -'Not at all. I have had a charming night upon the sea, and am your -debtor.' - -Then he begged her to keep the little gold compass in memory of that -evening, raised his hat, and left her. - -'Can you manage the boat alone?' she cried to him in anxiety. - -'Quite well,' said Othmar, as he pushed it through the surf. - -When he was some roods from the shore he looked back; he saw the figure -of Damaris still standing where he had left her, the silvery green mass -of the olive-clothed cliffs rising behind her till they were lost in -the hovering clouds of mist. The barking of the dogs came faintly over -the sea, and a bell tolled from above the daybreak call to work. - -'I have done what I can,' thought Othmar, 'but the poison is there. No -antidote, even if it succeed, can ever make the blood quite what it was -before the virus entered. And what are ambition and discontent but as -the bite of a snake when they seize on a woman--a child?' - -Then he went back over the calm blue water, while with every moment the -white light in the east spread further, and the mists lifted and the -winds dropped, and soon in all its glory rose the sun. - -To this man, whose youth had been full of high ideals, which his -manhood had found it utterly impossible for him to fulfil, there was -something which touched him profoundly in all youth which, as once his -own had done, looked forward to the world as to some field of combat, -where the fair flowers of faith and of justice would possess a magical -strength like the lilies and roses wherewith the nymphs smote Rinaldo. - -To the eyes of men, Othmar appeared the most enviable of all persons; -to the society around him, as to the multitudes to whom he was but one -of the great names which govern the destinies of nations, it seemed -that few living beings had ever enjoyed so complete a happiness and -prosperity as did he. But in the bottom of his own heart there was a -latent bitterness, which was disappointment. He could not have said -where or how precisely this sense of failure came to him, in the midst -of what was absolute success and entire fruition of all his wishes. -Yet it was there. It is the accompaniment of all power and of all -possession. Contentment looks from a narrow lattice on a tiny garden -bounded by a high box hedge. Culture has the vast horizon of the -universe and finds it small, it can measure the stars, and sighs to -wander beyond their spheres. Dissatisfaction is the shadow which goes -with all light of the intelligence. The uncultured mind can be content; -the cultured, never. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -Damaris went slowly from the cliffs through the moonlight; her heart -was heavy. She had had a great temptation, a great joy, a great -disillusion, and a great grief, each following close on the heels of -the other in the short space of a few hours. - -She came back to her poor little isle with something of that remorse, -that dejection, that sense of all the golden fruits being but ashes -at the core, with which the great ones of earth, after reaching the -highest heights of power or of fame, will come back to their lowly -village birthplace and think with a sigh, 'Could I but be as once I -was!' - -The night seemed far severed from the day which had heralded it as if -by long years: never more could she rise in the daybreak quite the same -child who had leaped to the lattice, and laughed at the sunrise on the -sea, that morning. - -She did not reason on the change in her, nor understand it, but she -felt it. - -When the little velvet-hided calf has been branded in the stock-yard -with the cruel iron, never more (though turned loose again) will it -frolic the same in the prairie grass unwitting of pain or ill. - -She took her way slowly over the head of the cliff across the breadth -of pasture where a few days before she had led Loswa. There was a dusky -crouching figure waiting in the shadow of the orange-boughs; it was -that of old Catherine the servant, who sprang towards her and gripped -her arm with both hands. - -'He is come home!' she said in a loud, terrified whisper. - -'My grandfather!' - -Bold though she was by nature, her lips and cheeks grow cold and her -heart stood still. - -'Who else!' cried the old woman roughly. 'For who else would I keep out -of my bed at such an hour to watch for you? Where have you been all the -while?' - -'I have been with the lady.' - -Her voice sounded very dull and hopeless; it melted the heart of the -peasant who loved her. - -'Well, well, you have had your will and your vanity, and have paid -for them both!' she said, less harshly. 'Poor little fool! It is your -mother's light blood working in you, I suppose; you're not to blame. -They are to blame who bred you. I have watched for you ever since I -gave him his supper. He asked where you were. I said you were asleep. -He has had a good deal of brandy. If you get in by the scullery door, -and take your shoes off, and go softly up the stairs, he will not hear, -and nobody knows you have been away save Raphael and myself. That is -why I waited outside, to stop and tell you that you might creep in -unseen.' - -Damaris stooped her tall head and kissed the woman's withered cheek: - -'That was like you, dear Catherine!' - -'More fool I, perhaps. I will punish you come morning, never fear. But -I should be loath for you to see Bérarde to-night. Get in.' - -Seeing that Damaris did not move, she pushed her by the shoulder. - -But the words which Othmar had spoken were echoing in the ear, and -sounding at the conscience, of the girl, bearing a harvest which he had -never dreamed of when he had uttered them. There was that in them which -had aroused all the courage and exaggerated sentiment of her mind and -character. - -The instincts of heroism, always strong in her, and that instinct -to martyrdom ever dear to anything of womanhood, rose in her with -irresistible force. - -'If Count Othmar ever heard that I did not tell, he would think it so -mean and so false,' she pondered, while the eager grip of the woman's -fingers closed on her and tried to pull her to the open side-entrance -of the house. - -She resisted. - -'No, no; not so, not so; not in secret,' she muttered. 'I wish to see -my grandfather. Let me pass.' - -'Are you mad?' screamed Catherine, dragging her backward by her skirts. -'He is hot with brandy, I tell you; you know what brandy makes him; -if he knows you have been off the island he will beat you. Has he not -beaten you before, that you should doubt it?' - -'I do not doubt,' said Damaris. 'But it is only just that he should be -told---- - -'I owe him everything, you know,' she added, 'and I did wrong to go -away from home in his absence.' - -'Wrong! of course you did wrong. But you would listen to nobody, you -were so taken up with those fine folks. Of course you did wrong, but -since the harm is done, and it is of no use to cry over spilt milk and -broken eggs, get you into your bed; your grandfather will never know -anything. Raphael and I, be sure, shall not tell. Get in and hold your -own counsel. In the morning it will all be as one.' - -'No, it would not be fair,' said Damaris. - -Her face was very pale, but the exaltation of a romantic devotion to -honour had come upon her, and gave her a strength not her own. She -passed the figure of Catherine in the entrance of the scullery, and -walked with firm steps through the stone passages, between the crowded -bales of oranges and lemons, straightway into the great kitchen, -where Jean Bérarde sat. The light from an oil lamp which swung from -the rafters shone on his strong, harsh, brown features, his grizzled -eyebrows, his white beard; the broad-leaved hat he had drawn over his -face threw a dark gloom over the upper part of his features, and added -to the natural hardness and fierceness of their expression. He had been -running smuggled brandies successfully in his brig, a sport very dear -to him, though prudence made him but seldom indulge in it; he had been -drinking a good deal, and though not wholly drunk his temper was in -readiness for any outbreak, like flax soaked in petroleum. He looked -up from under his heavy brows at Damaris as she entered; the light and -shadows were wavering before his sight, but he recognised her. - -'The woman said you were a-bed,' he muttered with a great oath. 'What -do you mean--up at this time of night?' - -The exaggerated scruples and the overwrought exaltation of the child -made her brave to answer him. She came up quite close to him and looked -at him with shining, steady eyes: - -'I am only now come home,' she said in a low voice. 'I have done wrong; -I have been out all day.' - -Jean Bérarde rose to his feet unsteadily, and towered above her, a -rude, savage, terrible figure; his breath, hot as the fumes of burning -spirit, scorched her cheek. - -'Out!' he echoed. 'Out!--without my leave? Out where?' - -She looked at him without flinching. Only she was very pale. - -'They came and asked me--the ladies and gentlemen--and I wished so -much to go. I have never seen at all how those people live, and when I -got there the hours went on, and I could not get back until he, Count -Othmar, was kind enough to bring me home in his own boat, and he rowed -himself all the way; and he said that it would not be right for me to -hide such a thing from you, because, though I have done no harm, yet I -have disobeyed you----' - -She paused, having made her confession; she breathed very quickly and -faintly; her eyes looked up at him with an unspoken prayer for pardon. - -In answer, he lifted his arm and struck her to the ground. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -Othmar did not see his wife on the following day until the one o'clock -breakfast, and then saw her surrounded with her friends. - -When everyone had gone to their rooms after midnight he ventured to -visit her in her own apartments. Her women were there; she did not as -usual dismiss them; she looked at him with something of that expression -which used to chill the soul of Platon Napraxine. - -'My dear friend,' she said coldly as he greeted her, 'do not speak to -me again as you spoke yesterday evening. It is not what I like.' - -'I regret it if I spoke improperly,' replied Othmar. 'I was not -conscious that I did. You had made a promise, and I reminded you of it. -I was not aware there was any grave offence in that.' - -'_C'est le ton qui fait la musique._ Your tone was offensive. You may -remember that I do not care to be reminded of anything when I forget -it.' - -'There is nothing praiseworthy in your sentiment,' said her husband -unwisely; 'and it seemed to me that a promise made to a poor child, who -could not enforce its fulfilment----' - -She laughed unkindly. - -'You kept my promise for me. I believe you accompanied her yourself. I -dare say she preferred it. Really, my dear Otho, what can this trivial -matter concern either you or me? The girl has gone back to her island. -Let her stay there and marry her cousin.' - -'I wish she may. But I doubt whether she will do so now.' - -'Because you sailed with her across the sea? It was very wrong of you, -though probably very natural, if you took the occasion to _conter -fleurettes_!' - -'I do not care for those jests from you to me. It is what you yourself -have said to her which will have probably poisoned her contentment for -the rest of her days.' - -She yawned a little behind her hand and gave him a sign of dismissal. - -'Pray let me hear no more about her,' she said coldly. 'And if you -will forgive me for saying so--I am tired--good-night.' - -'Will you not send away your women?' said Othmar in a low tone, with a -flush of irritation on his face. - -'No, thanks--good-night.' - -He hesitated a moment, mastering a great anger which rose up in him; -then he touched her hand coldly with his lips and left the room. - -'If she thinks she will be able to treat me as she did that poor humble -dead fool----' he thought with mortified impatience. - -With the waywardness of human nature he wished for that mere human -fondness which probably, he knew, had he had it, would have soon tired -and palled on him. - -As he went out from her presence now, he thought, he knew not why, of -the girl Damaris. What warmth on those untouched lips! what deep wells -of emotion in those darksome eyes! what treasures of affection in that -faithful and frank heart! Poor little soul!--and the best he could wish -her was to live in dull content beside Gros Louis. - -Nadine heard the doors close one after another, as he left her -apartments, with a little smile about her mouth. - -'How easy it is to punish them,' she thought; 'and to think there are -women who do not know how!' - -The power of punishment was always sweet to her; it seemed to her that -when a woman had lost it she had lost everything that made life worth -living. She had not heard that he had accompanied Damaris home himself -because she had not inquired about it, but she had guessed that he had -done so. It was a silly thing to have done, exaggerated, quixotic; but -then he had those _coups de tête_ at intervals; he had always had them -in great things and small; they made him poetic and picturesque, but -occasionally they made him absurd. He seemed to her to have been absurd -now; he could have sent the girl home with a gardener or a servant, -with anybody who could handle a boat, if she must have gone home at -all: she herself did not see the necessity. But a vague irritation -against Damaris came into her as she sank to sleep between her sheets -of lawn. - -_Une sensitive, une entêtée!_ If there were any two qualities wearisome -to others were they not those? No one was allowed to be either nervous -or headstrong in her world. When she came in contact with either fault -she was annoyed, as when gas escaped or a horse was restive. - -'She has talent, and I would have aided her,' she thought, 'but since -she is obstinate and thankless, let her marry Gros Louis and have a -dozen children and forget all about Esther and Hermione. The world, -on the whole, wants olives and oranges more than actresses, good or -bad. Myself, I never understand why one should wish to see a play -represented at all when one can read it; it argues great feebleness of -imagination to require optical and oral assistance.' - -The next day, however, when she saw Othmar she said to him with her -most gracious grace and that charm with which she could invest her -slightest word: - -'I think you were right, my friend, and I was wrong, about that poor -little girl on her island. I did not behave very well to her. I sought -her, and ought to have made her of more account. Shall I go and see her -again, or what shall I do to make her amends?' - -Othmar kissed her hand. - -'That is like yourself! You are too great a lady to be cruel to a -little peasant. As for amends to her, I think the kindest thing you can -do now is to let her forget you, and, with you, the ambitions which you -suggested to her.' - -She looked at him with penetration, amusement, and a little scepticism. - -'She is very handsome; do you wish her to forget _you_?' she said with -a smile. 'I am sure you must have told her you will go and see her -again.' - -Othmar was annoyed to feel himself a little embarrassed. - -'I told her I would see her again some time, but I did not say whether -this year or next.' - -His wife laughed. - -'I was sure you did! Well, then, you can go and see her at once, and -take her some present from me.' - -'If you will allow me to say so, I think a present will only painfully -emphasise the difference of cast between you and her.' - -'You have _des aperçus très fins_ sometimes! That is a very delicate -one, and perhaps correct, though a little pedantic. Well, go and see -her, and say anything in my name that you think will smooth her ruffled -feathers and restore her peace. I think we should have another Desclée -in her; but perhaps you are right, that it will be better to let her -marry her ship-builder. Wait; you may take her this book from me. That -cannot offend her.' - -She took off her table a volume of the 'Légendes des Siècles,' an -_édition de luxe_, illustrated by great artists, bound by Marius -Michel, illustrated by Hédouin, and published by Dentu, and in the -flyleaf of it she wrote, 'From Nadège Fedorevna Platoff, Countess -Othmar.' Then she gave it to her husband. - -'I am certainly not going there to-day, nor for many days,' he said as -he took it. - -She smiled as she glanced at him. - -'Are you sure you are not? Well, take it when you do go.' - -'I shall go, if at all, only as your ambassador.' - -'That is rather prudishly and puritanically put. Why should you not -say honestly that the girl is very pretty, and that you like to look at -her! I assure you it will not distress me.' - -'I could not hope that it would,' said Othmar rather bitterly, as Paul -of Lemberg entered the room. - -There were times when the serene indifference to his actions which his -wife displayed found him ungrateful; times when he almost wished for -the warmth of interest which the impatience of jealousy would have -shown. Jealousy is an odious thing, a ridiculous, an intolerable, a -foolish and fretful and fierce passion, which is as wearing to the -sufferer from it as to those who create it; and yet, unless a woman be -jealous of him, a man is always angrily certain that she is indifferent -to him. Jealousy is a flattery and a homage to him, even whilst it -is an irritation and an annoyance: it assures him that he is loved -even whilst it wears and whittles his own love away. But jealousy was -a thing at once foolish and fond, humiliating and humble, which was -altogether impossible to the serenity and the security of the proud -self-appreciation in which his wife passed her existence. - -In a week's time she had forgotten that she had ever seen Damaris -Bérarde; but in a year's time Othmar did not forget that he had done so. - -A few days later Loris Loswa was ushered into their presence; he had -the sullen perturbed expression of a child baulked in its wish, or -deprived of some toy. - -'Loswa looks as if he had had an adventure,' she said as he entered. -'He is one of the few people to whom these things still happen.' - -'I have been both shot at and nearly drowned, Madame,' replied Loswa. -'But that would not matter much if it were not that I have had also the -greatest of disappointments.' - -'Disappointment and assassination together are certainly too much in -the same day for one person. Tell me your story.' - -'I have been to Bonaventure,' said Loswa, and paused. He looked -distressed and annoyed, and had lost that airy nonchalance and that -provoking air of conscious seductiveness which so greatly irritated his -comrades of the ateliers who had not his success either in art or in -society. - -'To Bonaventure, of course,' said his hostess, as she glanced at Othmar -with a smile. 'Everyone is going to Bonaventure; it will very soon see -as many picnics as the Ile Ste. Marguerite.' - -'Not if the tourists be received as I have been,' said Loswa, in -whose tone there was an irritated regret which was not hidden by the -lightness of his manner. 'Jean Bérarde is a madman. I took a little -sailing-boat from Villefranche this morning, and bade them take me to -the island. When we reached there, I left the boatmen on the beach -and climbed the _passerelle_ as usual, but I had not got halfway up -the cliff before a bullet whistled past me, and I was warned that if I -stirred a step farther I should be shot like a dog. I could not see who -spoke, but the voice came from above. I replied that I was Loris Loswa, -a painter from Paris, and that I merely wished to be permitted to -finish a sketch which I had taken there a few days earlier. I presume -that this was the worst thing that I could have said, for I received -a second bullet, which this time passed through the crown of my hat. -The person who fired was still invisible amongst the olives above. At -the same moment some hands clutched my ankles so suddenly and forcibly -that I lost my footing and fell headlong down the ladder through the -brushwood to the beach. I was stunned for a few minutes, and when I -realised where I was, the man Raphael, mindful, I suppose, of the -napoleons he had had, begged my pardon for having made me descend in -such a summary mode, but said that, had he not done so, Jean Bérarde -would have killed me. Raphael was in a great tremor himself, and urged -me to go away on the instant, adding that "le vieux," as he called him, -was resolute to shoot all trespassers without regard to rank or right, -and had put a notice up to that effect on the rocks. "But it is against -the law," I said to him. "Eh, monsieur!" said Raphael; "he is the law -to himself here, and he is mad, quite mad--_un fou furieux_--since -the little one came back from your friends. He has sent her away, -heaven only knows where, and not a soul will be let to set foot on the -island." "Sent her away?" I cried to him. "But I have not finished her -portrait." The wretch did not care. "What does that matter?" he said. -"What matters is that the one bit of gaiety and goodness in the place -is gone. My children are crying for Damaris all the day long." I used -bad words about his children; what did they matter to me? And I asked -him how the old brute had learned that his granddaughter had been out -that night: had he come home earlier than she? "Yes," said Raphael, -"he did come home an hour before her, but he need not ever have known -anything, for we would, all of us, have kept her little secret; even -old Catherine would never have told of her. But Damaris was always -headstrong, and in some things foolish, poor child; and she would have -it that it was cowardly and wrong not to tell Bérarde herself; and so, -do what we would, she would go straight in and tell him; and he--he -had not had a good day's trade, and he had heard of a debtor who had -drowned himself, and left no goods worth a centime, and so he was in -the vilest of humours that evening; and when she related to him what -she had done, he up with his big elm staff and struck her down, and -my wife and I thought she was dead; and old Catherine was cursing, -and the children were screaming, and the dogs howling. Such a scene! -such a scene! However, she was not injured, and in the evening he took -her away by himself in the open boat, and what he did with her nobody -knows. He made Catherine pack all her clothes in a great bundle, and -so I do not think that he killed her. I suppose he took her to the -mainland, to some convent perhaps, though he does not love them. I dare -say he would have made away with Catherine too, only he wants her to -cook his dinner, and he knows there is nobody else who can manage the -bees." That was all that I could make Raphael say; he was in a great -state of terror, and urged me to go away at once. He said the old man -might come down on to the beach for aught he knew. As Damaris was gone, -there was little to be gained by remaining, so I left the island. In -returning we encountered a white squall; the boat capsized, we clung to -her for half an hour, when we were picked up by a yawl which was going -to Villefranche. That is all my story; I have been bruised and soaked, -but all that would not matter if I could only finish my picture. But -where is Damaris?' - -'It is really an adventure,' said Nadine, 'and you have told it -dramatically. As for your picture, you deserve not to complete it, for -you neglected her disgracefully when she was here.' - -'I hope this old tyrant has not hurt her; but a ruffian who fires at -one from his olive-trees as if one were a fox or a stoat----' - -'Of course he will not hurt her; he will either keep her in a convent -to punish her, or, as he does not love convents, marry her at once to -her boat-builder.' - -Othmar did not say anything; he had heard Loswa's narrative with regret. - -'Poor, brave little soul!' he thought; 'and it was I who told her that -it was her duty not to conceal what she had done.' - -'A caprice may cost something sometimes you see, Madame,' said Béthune -with a smile to his hostess. - -'She may become a second Desclée yet,' said Nadine. 'Her grandfather -will not be wise if he drive her to desperation. I am sorry he struck -her: it was brutal.' - -'Perhaps we hurt her quite as much,' said Othmar, which were the first -words he had spoken on the subject. - -His wife smiled. - -'I know that is your _idée fixe_. I do not agree with you. If she marry -the shipwright she will now do it with her eyes open. It is always well -to know what one is about.' - -'You have made it impossible for her to marry the shipwright.' - -'I really do not see why. Perhaps you mean your compliments or Paul's -music.' - -'Paul's music, and other things. You showed her the world as -Mephistopheles showed Faust youth in a mirror.' - -'Faust was, after all, Mephistopheles' debtor.' - -'About that there may be two opinions.' - -'After all, she would not have been punished if she had not spoken.' - -'You must admire that at least. Courage is the only quality which you -respect.' - -'I admire it, but it was not wise.' - -'What heroic thing ever is?' - -He went away, leaving her presence with some irritation and some -discontent. He knew that he had only said what was best for Damaris -when he had counselled her to have no concealment from her grandfather; -but the idea of the child's having suffered through his advice, -the thought of her taken from her sunny happy life amongst her -orange-groves and honey-scented air, and all the gay fresh freedom of -her seas, into some strange and unknown place--perhaps into some forced -and joyless union--hurt him with almost a personal pain. - -The wild rose had paid dearly for its one day in the hothouse. - -'Why could not Nadège let her alone?' he thought angrily as he looked -across the shining sea to the gold of the far distance, where westward -the island which had sheltered the happy childhood of Damaris lay -unseen. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -A few days later they left the coast for Amyôt and Paris. There was no -record left of their visit to Bonaventure save the rough sketch which -Loris Loswa had made, and from which he still meant some time, when he -should have leisure, to create a great picture. One day Othmar bought -the sketch of him at one of those exaggerated prices which Loswa could -command for any trifle which he had touched. - -When his wife saw it hanging in his room in Paris she laughed. - -'You are determined,' she said, 'that I shall not forget my _Desclée -manquée_.' - -'I do not think you were kind to her,' said Othmar. - -'I did not intend to be unkind, certainly. She gave me an impression of -force, of talent, of a future: the sketch suggests that. But no doubt -she has married the shipwright by this time. Little girls begin by -dreaming of Réné and Némorin, but they end in making the _pot au feu_ -for Jacques Bonhomme.' - -'I do not think she will ever marry the boat-builder. I told you that -we made it impossible for her.' - -'I know you did; but then you have always _des billevesées -romanesques_. The steward at St. Pharamond could tell you what has -become of her.' - -'I have inquired. She has not returned to the island; her grandfather -never speaks of her, and no one knows anything at all about her.' - -Nadine smiled. - -'Ah! you have inquired already? I thought she impressed you very much.' - -'Not at all,' said Othmar irritably, as he glanced at the sketch on -which the sunshine was falling. 'But I was sorry that any caprice of -yours should have cost anyone so dear.' - -'Is that all? And you are sure she has not married her cousin?' - -'They say not. He is still living at St. Tropez.' - -'Then she must be shut up in some convent.' - -'Or dead.' - -'Oh no, my dear, she had too much life in her to die. Besides, her -grandfather would have made her death known. I am sure she will live -and have a history, probably such a history as Madame Tallien's or as -Madame Favart's. She carries it in her countenance.' - -'Five fathoms of blue water were perhaps the better fate,' said Othmar. - -'You are very poetic,' said his wife with her unkindest smile. 'I -always thought you had a touch of genius yourself, only it never took -speech or shape. You are a Dante born dumb.' - -'Then you should pity me indeed,' said Othmar, with irritation. - -He kept the sketch hanging in the room which he most often used at his -house in Paris. It served to retain in his memory that night upon the -sea when he had seen the figure of Damaris disappear in the moonlight, -amidst the silver of the olive-trees, while the fragrance of the -orange-scented air and the breath of the sweet-smelling narcissus were -wafted to him from the island pastures out over the starlit waters. - -'You will end in falling in love with that picture,' said his wife to -him with much amusement. He was angered at the suggestion. His regret -for Damaris was wholly impersonal. - -'We did her a cruel kindness,' he thought sometimes when he glanced at -it. 'Wherever she be, and whatever she live to become, she will always -carry a thorn in her heart, because she will always have the sentiment -that she might have been something which she is not. It is the saddest -idea that can pursue anyone through life. Perhaps she will marry the -boat-builder and have a dozen children, but that will not prevent her -sometimes, when she sees a fine sunset, or sits in the moonlight on -the shore waiting for the sloop to come in, from being haunted by the -thought that if things had gone otherwise she might have been in the -great world. And then, just for that passing moment, while the ghost -of that "might have been" is with her, she will hate the man who comes -home in the sloop, and will not even care for the children who are -shouting on the beach.' - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -They were again at Amyôt in the golden August weather, when no place -pleased its mistress better than the cool and stately palace set upon -its shining waters and stone piles, with the deep forests of France -drawn in an impenetrable screen of verdure around its majestic gardens. -She had a constant succession of guests, and a kaleidoscopic infinitude -of pastimes. Great singers came down and warbled by moonlight to -replace the nightingales grown mute; great actors came down also and -played on the stage which had been built and ornamented by Primaticcio; -every kind of ingenuity in novelty and diversion was exercised for her -by cunning intelligences and brilliant wits. The weeks of Amyôt were -likely to become as celebrated in social history as the _grandes nuits -de Sceaux_; everyone invited to them received the highest brevet of -fashion that the world could give. Other people were immensely pleased -and amused at Amyôt and at her other houses: she alone was not. Her -intelligence asked too much; the whole world was dull and finite for -her. - -She had known the greatest triumphs, the highest heights of passion, -the most voluptuous ecstasies, the most brilliant of successes, and -they had all seemed to her rather tame, quickly exhausted. Faustina -appeared to her as absurd, and commanded her sympathies as little, as -Penelope. - -Life's little round is all too short for satisfaction in it; it is so -soon over; it is so crowded and so transient; to have children who may -do less ill or do less well than we, to pursue aims or ambitions which -have no novelty in them and little wisdom, to love, to cease to love; -to dream and die; this is the whole of it, and the sweetest of all -things in it are its childhood which is ignorant that it is happy, and -its passion which is no sooner made happy than it pales and falls. - -'If only life were like a play!' she thought. 'Any dramatist knows that -in his last act his movement must be accelerated, and his incidents -accumulated, till they culminate in a climax. But in life, on the -contrary, everything waxes slower and slower, everything grows duller -and duller, incidents become very scarce, and there is no _dénouement_ -at all--unless we call the priests with their holy oil, and the journey -to the churchyard behind the mourning-coaches, a _dénouement_. But -it cannot be called a climax: the going out of a spent lamp is not a -climax.' - -Her lamp was far from spent; and yet a sense of the dullness of life, -generally, often came to her. She had everything she had ever wished -for, and yet it left her with a vague sentiment of dissatisfaction. - -'I wonder if he is really contented,' she thought sometimes doubtfully -of Othmar. It seemed to her quite impossible he should be. Why should -he be when she was not! And yet there was no one she would have liked -better or so well. - -The sameness of human nature irritated her. Surveying history, it -seemed to her that character, like events, must have been much more -varied in other times than hers; say in the Fronde, in the Crusades, in -the time of the Italian Republics, even in the days of the Consulate, -when all Europe was drunk with war like wine. - -Nowadays people are always saying the same thing; entertainments -resemble each other like peas; wherever the world gathers it takes -its own monotony and tedium with it, and repeats itself with the dull -perseverance of a cuckoo-clock. - -She endeavoured to infuse some originality into her own society and her -own pleasures; but she did not consider that she succeeded. People were -too dull. Why was it? Nobody was dull in Charles the Second's time, or -in the days of Louis Quinze, or of Henri Quatre. At Amyôt, if anywhere, -she succeeded, but, though her invitations to the house parties there -were passionately coveted, and everyone else was so exceedingly -delighted with them, the utmost she could ever say was that she had not -been too greatly bored. Modern existence was not dramatic enough to -please her. - -'And yet if it be ever dramatic you say it is melodramatic, and -ridicule it as _vieux jeu_,' said Othmar to her once. - -'No doubt I do; one is not happily obliged to be consistent,' she -replied. 'We are too intellectual or too indifferent nowadays to have -a Guise slaughtered in our antechamber, or an Orloff assassinated by -our bedside, but the consequence is that life is dull. It is a journey -in a _wagon lit_, one is half asleep all the time; it has no longer -the picturesque incidents of a journey on horseback across moor and -mountain, with the chance of meeting Malatesta or the Balafré en route.' - -'Yet men have died for you!' - -'Oh, my dear! they never did it with any picturesqueness at all! What -picturesqueness can there be? A man falls in a duel; he is put in a cab -with a doctor! A man kills himself with a revolver; there is again a -doctor, and also, probably, a policeman!' - -'Which does not prevent the emotions which lead to those incidents from -being as genuine as they used to be.' - -'I know that is your theory. It is not mine. The passions are nowadays -all crusted with conventionality, like life. Look at ourselves, as I -have said to you before.' - -'Well? What of ourselves?' - -'You and I think ourselves very original, but in reality we are the -servants of conventionality. I told you so last winter. When we were -free and had the world before us, we could think of nothing more -original than to marry each other like Annette and Lubin, like John and -Mary. We had no imagination. We thought we should do all sorts of fine -things, but we have not done them. We have merely just dropped back -into the routine of the world like all other people.' - -'I do not see what else we could have done,' replied Othmar, somewhat -feebly as he was aware. - -'What a conventional reply!' she said impatiently. 'That is just what I -am saying. Neither of us had imagination, or perhaps courage, enough to -strike out any new path, though we thought we were so much above other -people. Both you and I have enough of originality to be dissatisfied -with the world as it is, but we have not originality enough to create -another one. People who have the perception which belongs to the poetic -temperament, as you and I have, without its creative power, are greatly -to be pitied. Both you and I have something of poetry--something of -heroism--in us, but it never comes to anything. We remain in the world, -and conform to it.' - -'I would lead any life you suggested--out of the world if you pleased.' - -'Ah, but I do not please,' she said, with a little sigh. 'That is just -the mischief. You remember when we went to your Dalmatian castle the -first year; the solitude was enchanting, the loneliness of the sea and -the shore was exquisite, the mountains seemed drawn behind us like a -curtain, shutting out all noise and commonness and only enclosing our -own dreams; but after a little time you looked at me, I looked at you, -and we both tried to hide from each other that we yawned. One morning -when there was a rough wind on the sea and the first snow on the -hills, I said to you, "What if we go to Paris?" and you were relieved -beyond expression, only you would not say so. Now, if we had been -poets--really poets, you and I--we should never have quitted Zama for -Paris. We should have let the whole world go.' - -Othmar did not well know what to reply, because he was conscious of a -certain truth in her words. - -'I am not a poet, you have often told me so,' he said with some -bitterness. 'The atmosphere I was born in was too thick and yellow with -gold for the Parnassian bees to fly to my cradle. The supreme privilege -of the poet is an imperishable youth, and I do not think that I was -ever young; they did not let me be so.' - -'You were so for a little while when you first loved me,' she said -with a smile; 'that is why I wonder we had not more imagination at -that time. Anybody could live the life we live now. It shows what a -stifling, cramping thing the world is; we who used to meditate on every -possible idealic and idyllic kind of existence have found that there is -nothing for us to do but to open our houses, surround ourselves with -a crowd, spend quantities of money in all commonplace fashions, and -be hated by envy and envied by stupidity. Do you remember our sunlit -kingdom in Persia that we were to have gone to together? Well, we are -as far off it as though we were not together.' - -'Do you mean then,' said Othmar impatiently, 'that you think our life -together a mistake?' - -'No, not quite that; because we are more intelligent than most people, -only we have been unable to rise above the commonplace; unable to keep -our iron at a white heat. Our existence looks very brilliant, no doubt, -to those outside it, but in real truth there is a poverty of invention -about it which makes me feel ashamed of my own want of originality.' - -She laughed a little; her old laugh, which always chilled the hearts of -men. - -She had always foreseen the termination of their pilgrimage of joy in -that mortuary chapel of lifeless bones and motionless dust to which the -lovers' path through the roses and raptures was so sure to lead. But -he, man like, had been so certain that the roses would never fade, that -the raptures would never diminish! - -Othmar was sensible that he had in some manner failed to fulfil her -expectations, and the sense of such a fact stings the self-love of -the least vain and least selfish of men. Her life possessed all that -any woman could in her uttermost exactness require. All the perfect -self-indulgence and continual pageantry of life which an immense -fortune can command were always hers; her children by him were -beautiful and of great promise, physical and mental; her world still -obeyed her slightest sign, and her slightest whim was gratified; men -still found the most fatal sorcery in her careless glance, and society -offered to her all that it possessed. If this sense of disappointment, -of disillusion, of dissatisfaction were really with her, it could only -be so because he himself, as the companion of her life, failed to -realise what she had expected in him--was unhappy enough to weary her, -as all others before him had done. - -A vainer man would have laid the blame on her, and have arrived, -through vanity, at the perception that it was her temperament and not -his character which was at fault. But all the flattery which every rich -and powerful man daily receives had failed to make Othmar vain. His -self-esteem was very modest in its proportions, and he attributed the -fact of his wife's apparent indifference to him humbly enough to his -own demerits. - -'I have not the talent of amusing her,' he thought. 'I have been -always too grave--have taken life too sadly to be the companion of a -woman of her wit. I have never done anything of which she can be very -proud with that sort of pride which would be the sweetest flattery to -her; the years slip away with me and bring me no occasion, at least -no capability, of the kind of distinction which she would appreciate. -I cannot be a Skobeleff or a Gortschakoff; I cannot make that renown -which might arrest her fancy and please her _amour propre_; she has -loved me possibly as much as she can love, but as she finds that I am -made of the common clay of ordinary humanity, I become not much more to -her than all those dead men whom she has tired of and forgotten.' - -But whilst his reason told him this, his heart yearned to disbelieve -it, and his pride refused a meek submission to it. There was something -in her fugitive, delicately disdainful, capriciously insecure, which -was certain to sustain the passion of man, because it constantly -stimulated it; her concessions were made to his desires not her own; -she never shared his weakness even whilst she was indulgent to it. - -'I have absolutely never known yet whether you have ever loved me!' -he said to her once, and she replied, with her little indulgent, -mysterious smile: - -'How should you know what I do not know myself?' - -It was a part, and no small part, of the ascendency she had over him; -it stimulated his affections, because it perpetually stinted them; it -made satiety impossible with her. - -Yet all which excited his passions and secured the continuance of her -influence over him, left him more and more conscious of a void at -his heart which she would never fill, because a nature cannot bestow -more than it possesses. All the intellectual charm she had for him -had a certain coldness in it; her incorrigible irony, her inveterate -analysis, her natural attitude of observation and of mockery before the -foibles and follies and affections of mankind, enchanting as they were, -were without warmth as they were without pity. It was the brilliant -play of electric light on polished steel. Sometimes, with the wayward -inconsistency of human wishes, he would have preferred the glow from -some simple fire of the hearth. - -There were times when the feeling which met his own left his heart -cold. He had never wholly ceased to feel that he was always in a -measure outside her life. He would have been ashamed to confess to her -many youthful weaknesses, many romantic impulses which often moved -him; there were many lover-like follies which would have been natural -and sweet to him, which he had early learned to control and dismiss, -unyielded to because he was afraid of that slight ironical smile, and -that contemptuous little word with which she had the power to arrest -the quick tide of any impetuous emotion. - -The excesses of passion and the force of emotion always seemed to her -slightly absurd; she had yielded to both for his sake more than she -had ever thought to do; but her intelligence always held reign over -her with much greater dominance than her feelings ever obtained. There -were moments when he felt as if he asked her for bread, and she gave -him a stone; a most polished stone of magical charm, of exquisite -transparency, of occult power, but still a stone, when he merely wished -for the plain sweet bread of simple sympathy. - -Once, in riding alone through the forests of Amyôt, his horse put its -foot in a rabbit's hole and threw him. He was unhurt, and rose and -remounted. But he thought as he rode onward: 'If I had been disfigured, -crippled, made an invalid for life, how would she have regarded me?' - -With pity, no doubt, but probably with aversion; certainly with -indifference. She would have brought her exquisite grace, her cool -nonchalant smile, her delicate fragrant presence to his bedside, and -would have come there every day, no doubt, and have been careful that -he should want for nothing; but would there have been the blinding -tears of a passionate sorrow in her eyes, would her cheek have grown -hollow and her hair white with long vigil, would her whole world have -been found within the four walls of his sick room? - -He thought not. - -He sighed as he rode through the green glades of the great woods where -she had held her Court of Love. - -Of love no one could speak with such science and surety as she. She had -known it in all its phases, studied it in all its madness, accepted -it in all its sacrifices; on no theme would her silver speech be more -eloquent; and love had been given to her as the widest of all her -kingdoms. But had she really known it ever? Had not that which her own -breast had harboured always been the mere impulse of curiosity, the -mere exercise of power, the mere chillness of analysis such as that -with which the physiologist gazes on the bared nerves of the living -organism? After all, why had men cared so much for her? Only because -she had been as unmoved as the moon. Men are children; they long for -what they cannot clasp. He himself had only loved her so long, despite -the chilling and dulling effect of marriage, because he had always felt -that he possessed so little real hold upon her that any day she might -take it into her fancy to leave him, not out of unkindness but out of -_ennui_. - -Sometimes he thought with a curious compassion of Napraxine. He thought -of him now, and for a moment his own heart grew hard against her as he -rode through the beautiful summer world of his woods; hard as had grown -the hearts of men who, dying for her sake, had felt that they had given -their life for a smile, for a jest, for a chimera, for a caprice--given -it away unthanked. - -But then, when he entered his house again and saw her, he forgave her -and loved her; he cared more still for one touch of her cool white -hand, the favour of one careless smile cast to him, than he cared for -the whole world of women--women who would willingly have seen him -forget his allegiance to her, and have consoled him for all her defects. - -'Otho is uxorious, like Belisarius, like Bismarck,' said Friedrich -Othmar, with an unpleasant smile. 'And alas! he is neither a great -soldier nor a great statesman, to make the weakness respected either by -the world or by his wife.' - -Othmar had overheard the speech, and it had made him irritated, and -afraid lest he ever looked absurd. - -'Yet,' he thought bitterly, 'if she were still the wife of Napraxine, -no one would ever see anything singular in any weakness or madness that -I might commit for her!' - -Between his uncle and himself few intimate words ever passed. After the -death of Yseulte a tacit understanding had been come to between them -that neither should ever name those causes, whether great or small, -which she had had for pain and jealous sorrow in her brief life's -space. It was a subject on which they could never have touched without -a breach irrevocable and eternal in their friendship. - -Friedrich Othmar visited at their houses, caressed their children, -preserved all outward amity with both of them, and devoted all the -energies of his last years and of his immense experience to the -interests of the house which he had honoured, served, and loved so -long, but with neither his nephew nor his nephew's wife did he ever -pass the limits of a conventional and courteous intercourse, which had -neither affection in it nor any exchange of confidence. - -Once or twice the worldly-wise and harsh old man did a thing which a -few years before, in anyone else, he would have regarded as the most -flimsy and foolish of sentimentalities. He took the little Xenia with -him into the gardens of St. Pharamond, and made her gather with her -own small hands a quantity of violets; then he led her to the tomb of -Yseulte, and bade her lay them on it. She had been buried there, though -a sepulchre sculptured by Mercier had been raised to her memory at -Amyôt. - -'Why are you not her child?' he said to her. 'Why are you not? She -would have loved you better than your own mother can.' - -The child scattered her violets, then came and leaned her arms upon his -knee and looked up at him with serious eyes. - -'You are crying!' she said, touching softly two great tears which had -fallen on his cheeks. Then she added gravely: 'I thought you were too -old!' - -'I too should have thought so,' said Friedrich Othmar bitterly. 'It is -a sign that my end is near.' - -And he envied those credulous, unintellectual, happy imbeciles who -could believe that that 'end' was only the opening of the portals of -a wider, fairer, greater life; he whose reason told him that for his -own strong keen brain and multiform knowledge and accumulated wisdom -and fierce love of life, as for the youthful limbs and the fair soul -and the pure body of the dead girl there, that end was only the 'end' -of all things: cruel corruption, hideous putridity, blank nothingness, -eternal silence. - -'What is the use of it all? What is the use?' he said to the startled -child, as he took her hand and led her from the tomb. What was the use -of any life or any death? What had been the use of Yseulte's? - -One day he found before her mausoleum at Amyôt the most _mondaine_ of -women: Blanche Princesse de Laon, who, in her childish days, had been -Blanchette de Vannes. - -'You, too, remember her?' he said in surprise. - -Blanche de Laon replied roughly: - -'I loved her;--_tout le monde est bête une fois_!' - -She stood before the marble sepulchre where Mercier had made the angels -of Pity and of Youth weeping. She was not twenty years of age, but -she knew the world like her glove. She was cruel, cold, avaricious, -sensual, steeped in frivolity and intrigue as in a bath of wine, but -underneath all that there was one little spot of memory, of regret, of -tenderness in her nature; as far as she had been capable of affection -she had loved Yseulte. - -'_Tiens!_' she said, as she stood beside the sepulchre. 'Do you think -it has succeeded--your nephew's last marriage?' - -'I believe so,' replied Friedrich Othmar with surprise. 'Yes, -certainly, I should say so; they seem quite in accord; he is devoted to -her still.' - -'_Tiens!_' she said again, and she struck the marble of the tomb -sharply with the long ivory stick of her sun umbrella. 'I watch them -like a cat a mouse. I will be even with her still; the first time -there is a little crack in what you call their happiness, I shall be -there--and I will widen it. Have you seen the drivers of Monte Carlo -make an open wound in their horses' flank on purpose? Well, this is -how they do it. A fly settles and leaves a little piece of braised -skin, the men rub that little place with sand, it widens and widens, -they rub in more sand, the sun and the flies do the rest.' - -Then she struck her ivory stick once more on the marble parapet of the -great tomb. - -'She died for them! She was so foolish always. But there was something -great in it. We are not great like that. If he only remembered, I would -forgive him for her sake. But he never remembers. He does not care. A -dog might be buried instead of her.' - -'You cannot be sure of that.' - -'Bah! I am perfectly sure. He has never even understood that she did -die for him. He thought it was an accident!' - -'Hush!' said Friedrich Othmar harshly, but with great emotion. 'She -wished that he should think it so; what right have you or have I or has -anyone in the wide world to betray her last secret if we guess it? It -has gone to the grave with her, like her dead children.' - -'I betray it no more than you!' she replied with asperity. 'I have -given no hint of it to any living soul; when Toinon said it was a -suicide I struck her, I made her hold her peace. I was a child then, -and all these years since I have never said a word; but you, you know; -you know as well as I.' - -'It was not a suicide, it was a heroism. If there were a God, a great -God, He would have honoured it.' - -'But there are only priests!' said Blanchette, with her bitterest smile. - -They turned away together from the mausoleum, where the marble figure -of Yseulte seemed to lie in the peace of a dreamless sleep beneath -the shadowing wings of the two angels. Gates of metal scroll-work let -in the sunlight to this house of death; there was no darkness in it, -no terror, no melancholy; white doves flew around its roof, and white -roses blossomed at its portals. - -'Madame la Princesse de Laon,' said Friedrich Othmar gravely, as they -passed across the turf, 'whenever the fly begins that little wound in -the skin that you talked of, forbear to widen it for the sake of your -cousin who sleeps there; do not make her sacrifice wholly useless. What -is done is done. We cannot bring her back to life, and if we could -she would not be happy in it. There are souls too delicate and too -spiritual for earth. Hers was so.' - -Blanche de Laon gave him no promise. She walked on over the smooth -sward through the labyrinths of blossom, and crossed the gardens where -her courtiers met her, with outcries of welcome and of homage. - -She was at the supreme height of coquetry and triumph and fashion. -She was not beautiful in feature, but she was dazzling fair, had a -marvellously perfect figure, _une crânerie inouie_, and the advantage -and fascination conferred by an absolute indifference to all laws, -hesitations and principles. She was hard as her own diamonds, plundered -her lovers with a greed and ruthlessness which rivalled any cocotte's, -kept her splendid position by sheer force of audacity as high above -the world as though she were the most pure of women, and before she -had completed her twenty-first year knew all that was to be known of -the refinements of vice, the exaggerations of self-indulgence, and -the eccentricities of unbridled levity. She had supreme scorn for her -sister Toinon, who had espoused the Duc de Yprès, a hunting-noble of -the Ardennes, and who spent most of her time in the provinces chasing -wolves, bears, and wild deer, and could give the death-blow with her -knife to an old tusked monarch of the woods or a king-stag of eleven -points, as surely as any huntsman in French Flanders or the Luxembourg. - -The Princesse de Laon came as a guest to Amyôt with most summers or -autumns. She knew that her host disliked her, and would willingly, had -it been possible, never have seen her face; she knew that his wife -disliked her scarcely less, but that knowledge increased her whim to -be often at their houses, and she never gave them any possible pretext -to break with or to slight her. Her name was included, as a matter of -course, in their first series of guests every season, and usually she -was accompanied by Laon himself; a man of small brains and admirable -manners, who adored her, and would no more have dared resent the -liberties she took with his honour than he would have dared to enter -her presence uninvited. - -'_J'ai étudié vos moyens de punir votre meute_,' she said once to the -châtelaine of Amyôt, with a malice equal to her own. '_Et je les ai -imités; tant bien que mal!_' - -She was the only person in whom Nadine had ever found her equal in -high-bred insolence, in merciless raillery, in unsparing allusions, -couched in the subtilties of drawing-room banter or of drawing-room -compliment. Blanche de Laon was the only one who could fence with those -slender foils of her own, which could strike so surely and wound so -profoundly. Blanche de Laon, outwardly her devoted admirer and friend, -was the sole living being who could irritate her, could annoy her, and -could make her feel that Time, to use the words of Madame de Grignan, -robbed her every day of something which she would never recover and -could ill afford to lose. - -Before this insolent youth of Blanchette she, who had been Nadège -Napraxine, felt almost old. - -She was not old; she was still at the height of her own powers to -charm. She proved it every day that she drove through the streets, -every night that she passed down a ball-room. Still Blanchette, twelve -years younger than she, reigning in her own world, repeating her own -triumphs, awarding the cotillion to her own lovers, made a certain -sense of coming age approach her. Age was not at her elbow yet, but she -saw his shadow in the doorway. She forgot that approaching shadow at -every other time, but Blanchette had the power to point it out to her -in a thousand ways imperceptible to all spectators. Hundreds of other -young beauties grew up and entered her society, and met her daily and -nightly, and she never thought once about them, except when she wanted -them for a costume quadrille at her ball in Paris or tableaux vivants -at Amyôt. But Blanchette forced her to think of her; forced her to see -in her a rival, perhaps an equal, in those kingdoms where she was wont -to reign alone. Blanchette, when she let her myosotis-coloured eyes -gaze at her, said to her with cruel pertinacity and candour: - -'You are a beautiful woman still, but you owe something to art now; you -will have to owe more and more every year; you would not dare be seen -at sunrise after the cotillion now; soon you will dance the cotillions -no longer, but your daughter will dance them instead of you. How will -you like it? You have too much _esprit_ to be Cleopatra. You will not -give and take love philtres at forty. You will have too much wit. But -when your empire passes you will be wretched.' - -All this the blue keen eyes of Blanche de Laon alone of all women said -to her, anticipating the years that were to come, asking in irony-- - - 'How wilt thou bear from pity to implore - What once thy power from rapture could command?' - -This is the question which every woman has to ask herself in the latter -half of her life. A woman is like a carriage horse; all her _beaux -jours_ are crowded into the first years of her life; afterwards every -year is a descent more or less rapid or gradual; after being made into -an idol, after living on velvet, after knowing only the gilded oats -and the rosewood stall and the days of delight, she and the horse both -drift to neglect, and hunger, and rainy weather, and the dull plodding -world between the shafts. The horse comes to the cab and the cart; -the woman comes to middle age and old age; he is ungroomed, she is -unsought; he stands in the streets dumbly wondering why his fate is so -changed; she sits in the ball-room chaperons' seat silently chafing -against the lot which has become hers. - -Men are so fortunate there. The very best of their life often comes in -its later years. If a man be a poet, a soldier, a statesman, all the -gilded laurels of fame are reserved for his later years; honours crowd -on him in his autumn as fast as the leaves can fall in the woods. Even -as a lover it is often in his later years that his greatest successes -and his happiest passions come to him. This is always what creates the -immense disparity between men and women. For men age may become an -apotheosis. For women it is only a _débâcle_. - -This will always cause disparity and discord between them. When love -has said its last word to her, it is still weaving all kinds of first -chapters to new stories for him. Nobody can help it. It is nature. The -fault lies in the ordinances of modern civilisation, which have made -their laws without any recognition of this fact, and indeed affects -altogether to ignore its existence. - -She said such things as these in jest very often; but beneath the jest -there was a sorrowful and impatient foreboding. The days of darkness -had not come to her, but they would certainly come. Having been in -her way omnipotent as any Cæsar, she would see her laurels drop, her -sceptre fall, her empire diminish. A woman holds her power to charm as -Balzac's hero held the _peau de chagrin_; little by little, at first -imperceptibly, then faster with each hour, it shrinks and shrinks until -one day there is nothing left--and life is over. - -Life is over: though the automatic joyless mechanism of living may go -on for half a century more. - -It is useless to say that the affections will compensate for this -decadence. They will do no such thing. As intelligence is more and more -highly cultured, and taste made more fastidious, the power to console -of the ties of family grows less and less; the mind becomes too subtle, -the sympathies become too exacting and refined, to accept blindly such -companionship or compensation as these ties may afford. - -Every woman who has had the power to make herself beloved has known -a height of ecstasy beside which all the rest of life must for ever -look pale and dull. You say to a woman, 'When your lovers fall away -from you, console yourself with your children.' It is as though you -said to her, 'As you can no longer have the passion-music of the great -orchestras, listen to the little airs of the chamber harmonium.' - -While your lover loves you he is all yours; you are his sun and moon, -his dawn and darkness, his idol, his lawgiver, his ecstasy--what can -compensate to you for the loss of that power? Whether time or marriage -or other women kill that for you, whenever it goes utterly, you are -more beggared than any queen driven from her kingdom naked in winter -snows, like Elizabeth of Hungary. And it always goes; always, always! -We reach the height, but we cannot stay at it. We live for a few -instants with the stars, then down we drop like stones. - -So she would think at times; and the presence of Blanche de Laon had -power to recall and emphasise such thoughts more irritatingly than had -that of any other woman. In a thousand hinted insolences, couched in -bland phrase, Blanchette again and again reminded her that '_le jour -est aux jeunes_.' - -The day was indeed still her own, but twilight was near. - -It was the Princesse de Laon's fashion of vengeance--pending any other. - -Blanchette had known very little emotion in her twenty years of -existence, hardly any pain except that of some ruffled egotism or some -denied caprice. She had been a woman of the world to her finger tips, -from the time of her infancy, when she had been curled and frizzed and -dressed in the latest mode to show her small person in the children's -balls at Deauville or at Aix; but when she had heard of the death of -her cousin, and realised that she would never hear the voice of Yseulte -again on earth, she had known a grief more violent, a regret more -sudden and sincere, than her vain and self-absorbed little life could -have been supposed capable of in its inflated frivolity and egotism. -With her intuitive knowledge of human nature, she had divined the true -cause of that death, and into her small cold soul there had entered two -sentiments which were not of self: the one an imperishable regret for -her cousin, the other an imperishable hatred of Nadine Napraxine. - -Others forgot: she did not. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -Amyôt was to the great world of the hour what Compiègne used to be to -it in the finest days of the Second Empire. More indeed, for whilst -nearly all patrician France would never pass an imperial threshold, -there was no one of such eminence in all the nobilities of Europe that -he or she did not covet, and feel flattered to obtain, their invitation -to those summer and autumnal festivities of the Château Othmar. But -enraptured as her guests all were, the châtelaine of Amyôt remained -moderately pleased by what pleased her guests so excessively, and less -and less pleased with every year. - -'After all, there is nothing really new in anything we do here,' she -said slightingly to Loris Loswa, who occupied there a half-privileged -and half-subordinate position as chief director of the various -entertainments; it was he who brought the greatest actors on the stage, -who initiated the greatest singers to direct the concerts, who invented -new figures for the cotillions, and who organised the moonlight -_fêtes_ in the gardens with the docility of a courtier and the ready -imagination of a clever artist steeped to his fingers' ends in the -traditions of the eighteenth century. - -'Vereschaguin would certainly not be one half so useful in the summer -in a French château,' said Nadine, with her contemptuous appreciation -of his merits and accomplishments. - -'Take care that your poodle does not bite one day,' Othmar answered. -'You hurt his vanity very often.' - -'He may bite me for aught I know,' she replied. 'But be very sure -he will never quarrel with Amyôt. He is very prudent in his own -self-interest.' - -'But no man likes to be merely used as you show that you use him.' - -'I pay him. I have made him the fashion. I can unmake him.' - -Othmar ventured to demur to that. - -'You can do a great deal in _faisant la pluie et le beau temps_, we -all know; but surely the fashion which Loswa has attained (for it is -fashion and not fame) is, though a great deal of it may be owing to -full artificial support, yet real enough to stand alone. For his own -generation, at any rate.' - -'My dear Otho, nothing is ever easier than to _dénigrer_: Pope has said -it before us. It costs an immense quantity of time and trouble to make -a reputation, but to unmake it is as easy as to unravel wool. A word -will do. If I were to hint that Loswa is a little loud in his colour, a -little crude or _voulu_ in his treatment, everyone would begin to find -his talent vulgar. I shall not say it, because I shall not think it; he -is an incomparable artist in his own way; but he always knows that I -can say it, and that knowledge keeps him my slave.' - -Othmar was silent: he did not like Loswa, and was impatient of his -familiarity at Amyôt, a familiarity made more offensive to him by its -mixture with flattering docility. That Loswa had a talent so masterly -that it was nearly genius he quite admitted, but the quality of the -talent was artificial, and seemed to him to represent the moral fibre -of the artist's character. - -'All Russians of a certain class are artificial,' said his wife to -him when he said this. 'We are all stove plants--children of a forced -culture and an unreal atmosphere. In our natural instincts we are -cruel, fierce, fickle, Slav _toto corde_. In our social relations we -are the most polished of all people. As children we bite like little -wolves; grown-up we know more perfectly than anyone else how to caress -our enemies. Loswa is only like us all.' - -'The future of the world is with Russia?' - -'I think so. All the science of history makes one sure of it: but -at the present instant we are the oddest union of the most absolute -barbarism and the most polished civilisation that the world holds. -Society has nothing so perfectly cultured as the Russian patrician; -Europe has nothing so barbarously ignorant and besotted as the Russian -peasant. "_Les extrêmes se touchent_" more startlingly in Russia than -in any other country, and out of those conflicting elements will come -the dominant race of the future, as you say.' - -Othmar looked at her, then said after a pause: 'I have always wondered -that you have not cared to become a great political leader; all -political questions interest you, and nothing else does.' - -'My dear Otho, I should only be a conspirator if I did; you would not -wish that; it would upset the House of Othmar.' - -'I should like whatever pleased you,' he said, weakly perhaps but -sincerely. - -'Even your own ruin?' she asked, amused. - -'Even that, perhaps!' he answered--and thought: 'if it served to draw -us more closely together.' - -She guessed what remained unspoken. - -'I do not think ruin would have an agreeable effect on my character,' -she said, still with amusement at his romantic fancies. 'I have -never at all understood why it should develop all one's virtues to -have a bad cook, or why it should render one angelic to be obliged -to draw on one's stockings oneself, or brush one's own hair before a -cracked glass. I think it would only make me exceedingly unpleasant to -everybody, yourself included.' - -'Marie Antoinette----' - -'Oh, poor Marie Antoinette! She adorns the moral of every lesson of -earthly vicissitudes! I think the very enormity of her agony served as -a stimulant. Besides, she knew she had all posterity for an audience. -In great crises it ought to be easy to behave greatly. Antigone and -Iphigenia are intelligible to me.' - -'Because you have instincts which are great in you; only----' - -'Only what? Do not pause. The one privilege of marriage which is really -valuable, is the permission to say disagreeable things.' - -'It is a privilege of which the wise do not avail themselves. I was -only going to say that I think you would become heroic, were you -in heroic circumstances. But the world is always with you and its -influences are narcotic or alcoholic, heroic never.' - -'I hope I should go to the scaffold decently, if you mean that, were I -sent there. That always seems to me a very easy thing to do. But to be -amiable or philosophic if one had no waiting-woman, or no bath, or no -change of clothes, seems to me much more difficult.' - -'Yet, even then, if you were tried----' - -'Pray do not, in your anxiety to test my character, go and ruin my -fortune! Poverty is tolerable in a novel; but in real life it can only -be sordid, tiresome, and vulgar.' - -'Not necessarily vulgar. I assure you if I could have brought the House -of Othmar down as Samson did the temple of Dagon, without slaying the -Philistines under it, as he did, I should have done it many years -ago. If poverty be vulgar, what are riches? Intolerably vulgar in my -estimation.' - -She looked at him with a certain admiration crossed by a certain -disdain. - -'I always thought your contempt for wealth very picturesque,' she -replied, 'and it is, I know, quite sincere. At the same time it is -a quixotism, and gets you laughed at by those who cannot possibly -understand all the refinements of your motives as I do; to Bleichroeder -or Soubeyran you would seem insane. And I do not think you do at all -understand one sign of your times; which is the immense preponderance -given by it to mere wealth. Every year adds to the power of the -financiers. Already it is they who, in reality, make peace or war: -ministers cannot move without them, and without them armies starve. At -present their dominion is greatly hidden, and not understood by the -people; but in a little while it is they who will be the open dictators -of the world. It will not be precisely a millennium, but, were I you, I -should see the picturesque and the ambitious side of it.' - -'I can only see the absolute corruption and decadence which will be -inevitable.' - -'Because nature meant you to be a poet, writing sonnets to a -grasshopper like Meleager, or dying early in the arms of the sea like -Shelley; you have been always out of tune with your own times. It is a -kind of anæmia, for which there is no cure.' - -'It is a malady you share----' - -'Oh no! We are as far asunder as _Jean-qui-rit_ and _Jean-qui-pleure_. -What amuses me as a comedy distresses you as a tragedy: when I see a -satire like Pope's you see a dirge like the Daphnis. The two attitudes -are as different as a horse chestnut and a chestnut horse.' - -'At one time we were not so very inharmonious!' said Othmar unwisely; -since it is always unwise to recall a bond of sympathy at any moment -when that bond seems strained or out-worn. It is natural to do so, but -it is unwise. - -'When people are _amourachés_ they always imagine themselves -sympathetic to each other on every point,' she said with cruel truth; -then she paused a moment, and, smiling, added a truth still more cruel. - -'I should always have sympathised with you, probably, if I had not -married you,' she repeated dreamily and amiably. - -'That I quite understand,' said Othmar, with bitterness. 'One can be a -hero to one's wife as little as to one's valet. It is not to be hoped -for in either case.' - -'I know all about you,' she said with a sigh. 'That is so very fatal! -Perhaps if you would do something I do not know, you would become -interesting again.' - -'That is a suggestion which may have its perils.' - -'Peril?' she repeated. 'My dear Otho, there is much more peril in the -monotony of undisturbed relations. I often wonder if you are really -sincere when you profess such constant admiration of me; myself, I -admit I constantly think how unwise we were not to remain delightful -illusions to each other. It is impossible to retain any illusions about -a person you live with; if you looked at Chimborazo every day it would -seem small!' - -They were alone for a few rare moments in her own apartments at Amyôt; -it was but seldom now that he ever was indulged with a conversation -_sotto quattr' occhi_. She held firmly to her theory that too much -intimacy is the grave of love, a grave so deep that love has no -resurrection. - -Those stupid women who allowed their lovers or their lords to enter -their apartments as easily as they could enter their stables!--what -could they expect? All the charm of admittance there was gone. - -His face flushed deeply as he heard her now. - -'I wonder if you have any conception of what bitterly cruel things -you say?' he exclaimed. 'Or are the subjects of your vivisection too -infinitesimally small in your eyes for you to remember their possible -pain?' - -'My dear Otho! I do not think a truth should ever be painful to any -candid mind!' she replied, with a little merciless laugh. 'If a man and -woman, who know each other as well as we do, cannot say the truth to -one another, who is ever to make any psychological studies at all?' - -'No one does that has any real feeling in him or in her,' said Othmar -impatiently. 'All those elaborate examinations under the glass are cold -as ice. They are very scientific, no doubt, but there is not a heart -throb in them.' - -'I think the greatest pleasure of strong emotion is the analysis of -it,' she replied with perfect truth. 'You are not philosophic, you are -poetic. So you do not understand what I mean.' - -'You mean,' said Othmar angrily, 'that when Hero saw Leander's dead -body washed up to her arms from the waves, she was amply compensated -for his death by the advantage of putting her own tears under the -spectrum!' - -'That is an exaggerated illustration. But I admit that the mental -intricacies of every passion is what is alone interesting in it to me.' - -'It is why you have never felt passion!' - -'Perhaps!' - -She smiled and stretched her arms indolently above her head as she lay -back amongst her cushions. - -'I have always perfectly understood,' she continued, 'that unjustly -abused lady of the legend who flung her glove into the lions' den; -she wanted emotions and she had the whole gamut of them no doubt in -those few moments--fear, hope, pride, triumph, discomfiture; she must -have known all that it is possible to know of emotion in those three -minutes.' - -'You have often thrown your glove.' - -'Do you mean that for a rebuke? Your tone is gloomy. Yes, I have thrown -it, but they have always brought it back to me like lap-dogs. There is -too much of the lap-dog in men.' - -'In me?' said Othmar with anger. - -'Yes, in you too. You would go for my glove still.' - -'Yes, I would, God help me.' - -She laughed. 'I am sure you would, at present. I suppose the time will -come when you will go for some other woman's. It is in your nature to -do that sort of thing.' - -Othmar was irritated and wounded: he was tired of this eternal jesting. -His fidelity to her was the most real and the most sensitive thing -in all his life, and yet he had the conviction that in her heart she -ridiculed him for it. - -'Still, I think you of all women would be most intolerant of -inconstancy,' he said, speaking almost unconsciously his own thoughts -aloud. - -'I hope I should forgive it with my reason, which would understand and -so excuse it, though my feminine weaknesses might perhaps resent it; -one never knows one's own foibles.' - -'It is only indifference which forgives inconstancy.' - -'Oh--h--h! I am not sure of that. There may be indulgence without -indifference.' - -'But not without contempt.' - -'I do not know that. _Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner._ I have so -very slight an opinion of human nature that I do not think I could ever -be seriously angry with any of its errors.' - -'Then that would be because none of them had power to reach your heart. -I do not believe you would care for anyone sufficiently ever to be -jealous of them.' - -She smiled and rose. 'My dear Otho, jealousy is a very ugly, useless, -and unwise passion. The world decided, as soon as ever I was presented -to it, that I had no such thing as a heart. You have always persisted -in supposing that I have, but very likely the world is more right than -you.' - -'May I not hope at least that I have a place in it?' murmured Othmar, -and he bent towards her with much of a lover's ardour. - -But she drew herself away with a touch of that dullness by which she -had used to freeze the blood in Napraxine's veins. - -'My dear Otho,' she said, with her unkind little smile, 'really that is -a twice-told tale! Do you think after so many years it is worth while -to _chanter des madrigaux_? You know I was at no time ever very fond of -them. "Laurel is green for a season, and love is sweet for a day!" Let -us be friends, the most charming friends in the world; that is far more -agreeable.' - -Othmar rose from where he had been half kneeling at her feet; his face -was very flushed, and his eyes grew angry; he was irritably sensible of -having made himself absurd in her eyes. - -'You will not awe _me_ as you used to do that poor humble dead fool,' -he said bitterly. 'But if you be tired of me I will summon my fortitude -to bear dismissal as best I may.' - -'Oh!--tired--no!' she said, with a deprecating accent which was -marred on his ear by a certain latent thrill beneath it of suppressed -laughter. 'Only I think we have done with all that. If Mary Stuart -had married Chastelard, I am sure he would not have gone on writing -sonnets and songs; at least not writing them to her. We have a quantity -of all kinds of interests and objects common to us. Let us be content -with those. Believe me, if you will leave off the madrigals it will be -very much better. You have been the most admirable lover in the world, -but as you cannot be a lover now, suppose you leave off the language -and--and--the nonsense? Regard me as your best friend: I shall ever be -that.' - -Othmar coloured with a confused mingling of emotions. - -'Friendship!' he echoed. 'I did not marry you to be relegated to -friendship!' - -'Then you were not clairvoyant,' she said, with her unkindest laugh. -'There are only two results possible to any marriage: they are -friendship or separation, the door to the left or the door to the -right.' - -Then with her prettiest, chilliest laugh she left him, amused by the -vexation, offence, and embarrassment which his features expressed. - -'"_Il faut en finir avec les madrigaux_,"' she said, as she looked at -him over her shoulder and passed down the staircase. - -Othmar was deeply pained and hotly angered. He had at all times, even -in the earliest hours of their union, been conscious that his caresses -were rather permitted than enjoyed, his tenderness was rather accepted -indulgently than ardently returned. There was a total absence of -physical passion in her, which had served to heighten his intellectual -admiration of her, if at times it had held his emotions in check, and -made him feel that his ardour was boyish, absurd, sensual, romantic. -But he had never been prepared to accept the position into which -Napraxine had been driven by the indifference of her temperament. He -had never anticipated that the time might come when he also might be -allowed no more than a touch of her cool white fingers, and a careless -smile of morning greeting. - -Sooner an open quarrel than such mockery of friendship!--so he thought. - -He remained where she had left him, sunk in meditation, which retraced -one by one the passages of his love for her. It had been love so great, -so entire, so intense, that it could never change--unless she or her -own will killed it. It had been one of those mighty incantations of -which no hand but the sorcerer's own can ever lift off the spell. - -As her lover he had always imagined that she, marble to all others, -would be wax to him; he had always believed that he would light the -flame of fervour behind the alabaster-like ice of her temperament. -But he had learned his error. He had found that possession is not -necessarily empire. He had discovered that he pleased her intelligence -and her vanity rather than awakened her senses or her emotions. She had -made him mortifyingly conscious that she found him of no higher stature -than other men, and had unsparingly reminded him that there was no more -fatal foe of love than familiarity. - -She had wounded him more than she had meant more than once, and this -time the wound penetrated both his pride and his affections, and left -with him an acrid sense of undeserved humiliation. - -'No man can have been truer to her than I have been,' he thought, with -that pathetic wonder that fidelity does not beget gratitude which is -common to all lovers, be they man or woman. - -Was it true that she would not care if his fancy wandered elsewhere? -Would she not feel any anger were he, like all his friends, to spend -his passions and his substance in the arms of cocottes, and in -providing the splendours of their palaces? Would she indeed feel no -pang if any other woman, whether duchess or _drôlesse_, were to obtain -empire over him? - -If not, then truly she had never loved him. He felt no impulse to put -her to the test: he only felt a weary and dreary sense of loneliness, -of discomfiture, of chagrin, of humiliation. - -He had always doubted whether she had ever realised the depth and the -extent of the passion he had spent on her. He had always fancied that -she classed it only with the hot desires and romantic sentiments of -men, of which she had seen so much; there might be even many of those -men who appeared to her to have been truer lovers than he. He had -married her: would Helen have ever believed that Menelaus could love -like Paris? Surely not. There had been many men whose blood had been -spilled like water on the ground for her sake, or from her caprice. It -was inevitable that there should seem truer lovers than he who dwelt -under the same roof as herself, and led the even tenour of his daily -life beside her. - -She had been too early saturated and satiated with the spectacle of -strong and forbidden passions for the repetition of a well-known and -often-laughed-at love to have any power to excite her interest in the -tame sameness of a permitted and undisturbed intimacy. He felt that -she had spoken the entire truth when she had said that she would have -cared for him much more had she never married him. She required endless -novelty, incessant renewal of excitation, continual stimulant to her -love of mystery, of peril, and of power. There was no food for these -in the calm certainty of possession which is the accompaniment and -enemy of all conjugal life, in the tranquil succession of years which -resembled one another monotonous as peace. - -Perhaps she had loved him most of all on that day when she had written -to him that their paths in life must wend for ever apart. It had been a -_bon moment_, a moment of exaltation, of intensity, of strong interest, -stimulated by a sense of self-sacrifice; a moment in which she had put -him voluntarily away from her; and, so doing, had seen him in a light -which had never before or after shone upon him in her eyes. - -The mockery of her slight laughter remained now in jarring echo on -his ears. What a fool he must seem to her! What a poor, romantic, -sensitive, unwise stringer of unwritten madrigals! - -To endeavour to arouse her jealousy never passed across his thoughts. -It seemed to him that she must know so well that she had taken his -own heart out of his breast never to return it to him. Othmar was not -more chaste than other men of the world; but his passion for Nadine -Napraxine had been of such length of endurance, of such intensity -of feeling, had been so environed with the ennobling solemnities of -death, and had been so fed on long denial and severance, that it always -seemed to him his very life itself. His temperament was too grave for -the light loves of the world, and his character too constant and too -sincere for those intrigues which form a mere pleasant pastime without -engaging either the affection or the memory. He was like the Greek -who hung his spear, his shield, his sandals, and his flute before the -shrine of Aphrodite's self; and could worship no lesser divinities than -she. - -He went out of the house and into the gardens of Amyôt, where they -were most shadowy and solitary. The late summer roses were filling the -air with their fragrance, and the stately peacocks were drawing their -trains of purple and gold over the shaded grass. A flock of wild doves -sailed overhead; near at hand a fountain sent its silvery column -towering in the light, to fall in clouds of spray into the marble -basin, where laughing loves rode their white dolphins through green -fleets of water-lily leaves. In the distance, beyond the clipped walls -of bay, his children with some dogs were playing on a lawn under one -of the terraces. Their laughter came faintly on the wind; he could see -their shining hair glisten in the sunshine. He did not go to them. - -The kiss of a child could not soothe the irritated bitterness which was -at his heart, the wound which the hand he loved best had given him. - -It was a warm golden day; the heat lay heavy on all the country of the -Orléannais; and the Loire water, low and still, was broken by wide -stretches of sandy soil where the river bed was laid bare. He, with a -vague depression for which he could not have accounted, felt restless -and disposed to solitude. With that kind of impulse towards the relief -of melancholy things which that sort of motiveless sadness usually -brings with it, he, for the first time for years, turned his steps -towards the chambers once occupied by his first wife. Nothing had ever -been touched in them since the last day that she had been at Amyôt: -save to keep away the cobwebs and the dust, no servant ever entered -there; the doors were locked, and he himself kept the master key. - -An instinct of remembrance, for which he could not have accounted, -moved him to enter there this hot and silent noon. He trod the floors -with a noiseless step, as men move in the chamber where some dead thing -lies, and with a noiseless hand undid the fastenings of one of the -great windows and let in the light. All things were as they had been -left that day when she had last gone away from Amyôt to her death. The -golden sunbeams strayed in on to the white satin coverlet of the bed, -the ivory crucifix which hung above it, the _prie-dieu_ with the Book -of Hours open, the roses a mere brown heap of ugliness, withered where -she had set them in their bowl. - -He sat down in the midst of the lonely things and felt a sense of -regret, of remorse, of wistful compunction and self-reproach. Ever and -again at intervals such an emotion had passed over him whenever he -had thought of her, but never sharply enough to cause him such pain -as it caused him now, remembering her youth plucked by death like a -snowdrop in its bud. The big dog which had belonged to her had entered -unperceived after him, and was looking upward in his face, as if it -likewise were moved by sudden and sorrowful remembrances. - -Poor child! so little missed, so utterly unmourned! - - 'Et rose, elle a vécu ce que vivent les roses: - L'espace d'un matin.' - -Friedrich Othmar had had these two lines carved upon her tomb; they -told of all the brevity of her life, but not of all its sadness. Had -any living creature ever guessed all that? - -A chill passed over Othmar as the doubts came to him. Had she suffered -much more than he had ever thought? He had been caught then on the -strong cyclone of a great passion, and been blinded by its rush and -force. - -The silence of the large chamber seemed filled with one long sigh. - -The dog looked at him always, as though saying: 'I have not forgotten: -once she lived; where is she now?' - -Ah, where! - -He rose oppressed by new and painful thoughts, and moved from one -object to another in the room, as though each of them would tell him -something he had yet to learn. He touched with a reverent hand this -thing and that which had belonged to her, and which survived unharmed, -unworn, and would so last for centuries if his descendants spared them; -frail toys and trifles, yet dowered with a power of endurance denied to -the human life, which there had passed away like a cloud of the morning. - -He took up her ivory tablets with the engagements of the day still -written in pencil on them; he touched her long thin gloves, her tall -tortoiseshell-tipped garden cane, her writing-case with its monogram in -silver. The things moved his heart strongly for the first time in seven -years: it had been no fault of hers that she had been powerless to gain -love from him. - -One by one he drew open the drawers of the buhl-table on which these, -her writing things, had all been left unmoved: in one he saw a little -book covered with vellum, and closed with a silver pencil as a gate is -closed with a staple. He hesitated a moment; then he drew the pencil -out and opened the book. It was half filled with those poor timid -little verses of which Nadine Napraxine had once by a chance jest -suggested the existence, and for which the child had blushed as for -a sin. They were faint, blurred, often half effaced, purposelessly, -as by a shy uncertain hand afraid of its own creations, but some were -legible. He read them, and all the soul left in them spoke to his. - -All the thoughts and fears and sorrows, all the longing and the doubt -and the hesitation which she had been too timid and too proud to ever -show in life, were spoken to him in those tender and imperfect poems. -They were simple as a daisy, spontaneous as a wood-lark's song; they -were ignorant of all laws of science or rules of spondee and of dactyl; -but, all halting and shy though they were, they had all the truth of a -human heart in them. They were deep and wide enough to hold the secret -which she had shut in them. - -As he read them a mist came before his eyes, and a sigh escaped him. He -understood all that she had suffered here beneath this roof where he -had promised her a life of joy. He saw all that she had hidden from him -so carefully, through pride and shyness and the cruel humiliation of -a love which knew itself powerless to awake response, of a soul which -suffered in its innocence all the tortures of the damned. He had lived -beside her seeing naught of that piteous conflict; parted from her by -the wall built up out of his own indifference and coldness. - -Had he even then been able to discern it, it would not have touched -him, because of all chill things on earth the dullest is the heart of -a man towards a love which he does not desire, which he cannot return. -But it reached and touched him now. - -The voice from the grave could not fret him as the voice of the -living might have done, had he heard it in that pitiful cry of utter -loneliness. - -Poor timid little verses like nestling birds shivering in the chill -winds and pallid sunshine of an unkind spring--across the years they -brought her heart to his. - -And though he had never loved her, yet in that moment of remorse he -would have given all that he possessed, all the lives around him, and -all the peace of his own soul, to be able, once to call her back to -earth, and once to say to her, 'Child, forgive me.' - -But she was dead. - -He sat there long in solitude, the dog lying mute at his feet. - -He had read the broken, unfinished, humble little verses till their -words were in his ear and before his eyes, and in all the sunbeams -straying through the golden dust of the air around. - -When he rose he laid them gently back where they had been left, with -such a touch as a man gives to flowers which he lays on the dead limbs -of some dear lost creature. Then he closed the window and went out of -the chamber, the dog following him, with slow unwilling footsteps. - -There went with him a remorse which would never leave him. For the -first time the sense had come upon him that her death had been -self-sought, in that sunset hour of the month of hyacinths, when her -body had dropped as a stone drops down through the bird-haunted air. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -He felt an irresistible impulse to seek out the woman he loved, to -unburden his heart to her of this new thought which seemed to him like -a crime. He had left her in anger and mortification, but it was to her -that he turned instinctively under the pain of a discovery which had -filled him with a sense of intolerable remorse. - -Alas! they were not alone; the great house was full of guests. With -the slanting of the afternoon shadows across the hoary face of the old -sun-dial, on which were the monogram of François de Valois and his -sister, these indolent people had all left their chambers and were now -scattered in quest of diversion all over the house, the gardens, or the -woods, riding, driving, making music, or making love, carrying on their -banter, their friendships, their rivalries, their intrigues. To see her -as he wished, alone, was impossible for many hours. After sunset there -was the long and ceremonious dinner; after dinner there was the usual -evening pastime, some chamber music by great artists, some dancing for -those who wished it, whist and baccarat in the card-room, flirtation in -the drawing-rooms, constant demands, which he could not resist, made -upon his own courtesy and social powers. - -'What a stupid life!' he thought impatiently, being out of tune with -its lightness and gaiety. 'What a stupid bondage! The vine-dressers -sound asleep in their cave-cabins above the Loire water are a thousand -times wiser than we are!' - -He looked at his wife often. She had professed to think her world -tiresome and its monotony of pleasure tedious; she had professed to -find its conventional routine mere treadmill work which no one had the -courage to refuse to pursue, but which every one of its toilers hated; -and yet she never spent a day otherwise than in this conventional -world!--she never ceased for an hour to surround herself with its -artificialities and its pageantries. If she had really wished to escape -from it how easy to have done so!--how easy to have chosen instead some -solitary and tranquil spot with him and with her children! - -But they were all as the very breath of her existence, this air -of the great world, this perpetual movement and excitation, these -elegant crowds, these honey-tongued courtiers, this Babel of news, and -novelties, and fashion, and _ennui_, and endless effort to be amused! -Were she alone with him at Amyôt, would she not yawn with _ennui_ every -hour of the twenty-four? She had said that she would. - -He left the brilliant rooms as soon as his duties as a host permitted -him to escape, and wandered through the dusky aisles and avenues of his -gardens. - -The night was still and sultry; the sounds of music and the reflection -of the lights within came from the many open casements of the great -castle on to the terraces and lawns beneath. There was no moon: the -steep roof, the pointed towers, the frowning keep of Amyôt stood up -black and massive against the starry sky. Restless, and tormented by -his thoughts, its master paced the dark grass alleys of its gardens; -all the simple verses of the little manuscript poems seemed whispered -from their leaves and murmured by the fountains. - -'She loved me!' he thought again and again. And to that warm and tender -heart his own had been so cold! - -It had been no fault of his; no man can love because he will; and -still---- - -He stayed out in the gardens until the lights had ceased to shine in -the great windows, and in the distant country lying beyond the forest -belt of Amyôt the call to vespers was ringing through the darkling -daybreak from village tower and spire, waking the slumbering peasants -to their toil amidst the vines or on the river. - -Then he entered the house and went to his wife's apartments. - -When her woman asked if she would receive him she smiled a little. -He was like a repentant child, she thought, sorry that he had been -ill-treated and tired of pouting! - -'I am half asleep!' she said as he entered. 'Why do you come and -disturb me? Where have you been all the evening? You look as if you had -seen the ghosts of all the tellers of the tales of the Heptameron!' - -She laughed a little as she spoke; she had put on a loose gown of soft -white tissues, her hair was unbound; her feet were bare and slipped in -Persian shoes sewn thick with pearls. She was lying back amongst the -pale rose-coloured cushions of her couch in the hot night; her arms -were uncovered to the shoulders; the light was mellow and tempered; the -window stood open; a slight breeze stirred the air and the gauze of her -gown; her eyes surveyed him with a smile of languid amusement. - -'_Pauvre enfant! a-t-il assez boudé!_' she thought with an indulgent -derision. - -Othmar, for the first time in his life, was insensible of the seduction -of her presence. She observed his preoccupation with some offence. It -was a slight to herself. - -'What is the matter?' she said impatiently. 'When I am dying to be -alone and asleep, do you come to tell me that the Rothschilds will -not join you in some loan, or that war is going to begin before the -financiers wish for it? Surely, your bad news would have kept till -to-morrow morning? _Qu'avez-vous donc?_' - -Othmar winced under the irritability and lightness of the words. - -'Nadège,' he said very low, 'did ever you think that it was possible -that--that--she sought her own death?' - -His voice faltered, and had a sound of repressed tears in it. - -She looked at him in astonishment and silence. She did not ask him whom -he meant. - -'Sometimes,' she answered at length in a hushed voice, with a certain -sense of awe. 'Sometimes--yes--I have thought so. Yes, since you ask -me.' - -His head drooped upon his chest; he sighed heavily. She looked at him -with compassion and surprise. - -'Is it possible,' she thought, 'that he never had any suspicion of it? -Men are moles!' - -Aloud, she said gently: - -'What makes you think of it now? What can have happened?' - -He did not reply for some moments. Then he answered unsteadily: - -'I went into those locked rooms; there were some verses in a -drawer--some little poems. I do not know why; all at once the -impression came to me; I had never dreamed of it before.' - -'Men are always so blind!' she thought, as she replied aloud: - -'My dear Otho, we cannot know; why let us imagine the worst? It might -very well be a mere accident. The woman Nicolle has said how often -she had warned her of the dangers of that ruined roof. Do not take -that burden of great useless remorse upon your life. It will make you -wretched.' - -'Not more wretched than she was. Not more than I deserve. I was a brute -to her.' - -'That is nonsense; you could not be brutal to anybody if you tried. You -were indifferent, but that was not your fault. She did not know how to -make you otherwise. There are women who never know----' - -'But she deserved so happy a fate!' - -'Are there any happy fates? It is a mere expression. The happy people -are the conventional _terre à terre_ unemotional creatures who pass -their lives between two bolsters, one Custom and the other Prejudice. -These two bolsters save them from all shocks, and they slumber and grow -fat. That poor child might have been happiest in the cloisters, because -she would not have known all she missed. But in the world she would -certainly have been unhappy, whether with you or any other, because she -demanded impossibilities, and because she had no knowledge of human -nature.' - -Othmar did not hear what she said. - -'I shall always feel that I have been her murderer,' he said in a -hushed voice. Those poor little verses haunted him like the memory of -dead children long unmourned and suddenly remembered. - -She looked at him with some impatience rising in her. - -'How like a man!' she thought. 'How exactly like a man--to have -killed a woman with his indifference and never to have perceived that -he killed her, and then suddenly, six or seven years afterwards, -to become alive to it as a fact, and then to suffer indescribable -tortures! A woman would have known at once, but probably would never -have blamed herself for it. We have so much more intuition and so much -less conscience.' - -She was sorry for the pain she saw in him, but she was impatient at -once of his slowness of perception and of the strength of his tardy -emotions. - -'Will she be like Banquo's Ghost between us?' she thought, with a vague -jealousy of those memories suddenly arisen. - -'My dear Otho,' she said aloud, with a little disdain in her sympathy, -'I understand all that you feel, because this cruel fancy has presented -itself quite suddenly to you. But I do not think that you ought to -dwell on it, since you can know nothing for certain. You have been -always too much in love with imaginary sorrows; you have always been -too apt to make for yourself calamities which destiny was willing to -spare you. Do not make such a mistake now. Be man enough to face the -truth as it stands, which is, that had that poor child lived, she would -have grown more and more intolerable to you with every breath she drew. -Men enjoy sophisms, and they hate looking at their own motives in all -their nakedness. If she had lived you would have made her utterly -miserable, through no fault either of yours or hers, but simply from -the fault of marriage, which yokes two uncongenial lives together, and -refuses to release them for mental and moral disparities which inflict -a million times more misery than do the mere gross offences for which -the law does grant release.' - -'I have no doubt you are quite right, but I cannot follow your -reasoning,' said Othmar with some bitterness. 'I can only feel that I -have slain a better life than my own.' - -'You were always so exaggerated in your expressions,' she said with the -tone which he himself had so seldom heard from her. 'You have always, -as I say, been like the German poets of the last century, perpetually -in love with sorrow; I suppose because you can fashion her at your -pleasure. Those to whom she comes uninvited dislike the look of her, -and would shut her out if they could.' - -Othmar rose impatient and wounded. - -'I should have hoped you would have had more sympathy,' he said as he -left the room. - -She gave a little gesture of wrath as the door closed behind him. - -'Do men ever know what they wish?' she said to herself. 'If he could -bring that poor child to life again he would do it, for the moment, and -spend the remainder of his life in repenting that he had ever done so. -If the powers of men were equal in force to the momentary flashes of -their consciences, what strange things the world would see!' - -She herself was conscious that she had answered him with less feeling, -with less sympathy than he might well have looked for from her, but -the momentary sense of offence with which she had heard him speak had -been too strong to allow her gentler instincts to prevail with her. She -was irritated, amazed, profoundly offended, and amazed with such grand -vanity of amazement as Cleopatra might have felt had some memory of -poor pale Octavia risen up betwixt her lover and herself. - -He meanwhile went through the hushed dim corridors of the house with -a pang the more at his heart. He had spoken in a moment of strong -feeling, of freshly-awakened pain, and the coldness with which his -confidence had been received, left its own frost upon his soul. He did -not remember that which every man finds; that no sorrow for one woman -will ever awaken sympathy in the breast of another. Shame, suffering, -wounds of the world's scorn or fortune's cruelties will make all women -compassionate and tender; but when a man sighs for a woman lost, he -will meet with no pity from those women whom he loves. He did not think -of that; he only felt a bruised and baffled sense of utter loneliness; -a momentary weakness like that of a child who, being hurt, creeps up -to arms it loves only to be repulsed from them. That weary sense of -hopelessness which her lovers had so often felt before her came to -him; such hopelessness as may come over the soul of one who, standing -shipwrecked on some barren shore, is fronted by some steep, straight, -inaccessible wall of marble cliff, upon whose smooth white breast there -is no place for any aching foot to rest or any hand to close: a white -wall shining in the sun which sees men drown and die. - -Some lines of Swinburne's earliest and greatest years came back in -vaguely remembered fragments to his mind. - - - * * * * * - - Yea, though we sung as angels in her ear, - She would not hear. - Let us rise up and part; she will not know, - Let us go seaward as the great winds go, - Full of blown sand and foam: what help is here? - There is no help, for all these things are so, - And all the world as bitter as a tear, - And how these things are, though I strove to show, - She would not know. - - * * * * * - - And though she saw all heaven in flower above, - She would not love. - - * * * * * - - Let us give up, go down; she will not care, - Though all the stars made gold of all the air, - Though all these waves went over us and drove - Deep down the stifling lips and glowing hair, - She would not care. - - Let us go home and hence; she will not weep, - We gave love many dreams and days to keep, - - * * * * * - - All is reaped now, no grass is left to mow, - And we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep, - She would not weep. - -The verses came back to his memory as he went away from her chamber -to his lonely couch; and he found in them that curious solace which -poetry gives to pain when it echoes pain closely; that consolation of -sympathy, which makes of poets the ministers and the angels of life. -The dull, resigned abandonment which was in these lines was in his own -soul. It was no more fierce grief or wild despair, or the delirious -rebellion of the lover against his mistress's indifference; it was the -apathetic acquiescence of a nature powerless to awake and sway another, -the weary and resigned acceptance of a thing unchangeable. - - Nay, and though all men living had pity on me, - She would not see! - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -It was a warm and beautiful night a year later, in full midsummer in -Paris. - -Othmar was alone there, being detained there by the illness of his -uncle, who had been stricken three weeks before with hemiplegia, as he -had sat at dinner in his own house in the Rue du Traktir, and had ever -since lain insensible and paralysed, in a semblance of that death which -in all its verity and tyranny of annihilation might come to him at any -hour. - -It was a dreary and melancholy waiting for an end which was inevitable, -which no science or effort could avert. He had come out in the coolness -of the night, glad, after the closeness of a sick-room, of a little -air, a little exercise. His wife was making a series of visits at -various great houses throughout the north-east of Europe; the children -were on the shores of the Norman coast with their separate household; -Paris was a desert, though both men and women were found there who -seized the occasion to press on him their presence and their friendship -with that assiduity which the world always shows to its very rich men. -But he had felt no taste at such a moment for the society of either, -and had repulsed both with impatience and scant courtesy. - -The world of pleasure never found Othmar pliant to it; he disliked -and despised it; he was intolerant alike of its frivolity and of -its coarseness; its enormous expenditure seemed to him grotesquely -disproportioned to its poor results in amusement; and the mere jargon -of its habitual speech was unpleasant to him. He was rarely seen at a -club, never at a racecourse, and the laughter of a supper-table left -him unmoved to mirth, as the limbs of a dancer left him untouched by -admiration. - -Crossing the bridge of Solferino now, he paused to look at the river -in the moonlight. There was neither wind nor cloud, and the sky was -brilliant with stars; the Seine seemed a sheet of silver. It was past -midnight; the city on the _rive gauche_ was dusky and silent, the -other city was studded with a million points of artificial light; the -ceaseless hum of movement had not ceased there. The air was warm; the -water looked cool and full of repose; the rays of the full moon, which -shone down from the zenith, played in the ripples of it, and its mute -highway seemed for the moment a silver path into some magic land. - -He leaned against the parapet, and looked down its westward course: -he knew every inch of its way; he knew all the quiet poplar-shadowed -hamlets, all the flowering-grass meadows, all the sleepy quiet ancient -little towns which were on either side of the historic stream; he knew -how the apple and the cherry orchards sloped to the water, how the -lilies and flags grew about the washing-places and the landing-stairs, -how the white-capped children, knee-deep in cowslips, stood still to -see the boats go by, how the water flowed through the _plaisant pays -de France_ until it grew black and sullied in the smoke of Rouen, and -washed itself white again plunging joyously into the snow-flecked sea -by Honfleur. - -It was all hidden now, nothing of any of it seen except a broad band -of silver spreading away into the darkness; but the eyes of his mind -followed it and illumined its way, and in fancy his nostrils smelt the -fragrance of the sweet dew-wet fields, and the breath of the sleeping -cows, and the scent of the wild flowers growing where Corneille and -Flaubert had died. By day it was but a busy water highway, crowded with -sail and dulled with steam, serving to bind city and seaport together; -but by night it was transfigured, and all the sighing sounds which came -up from it seemed only like the peaceful breathing of the slumbering -children in the many little wooded hamlets down its shores. - -'And Flaubert lived above that water,' thought Othmar dreamily, 'and -from his great window saw through his green poplar boughs on to it at -sunrise and at sunset, and in the light of the moon like this, and -yet he could get nothing of its serenity, and could hear none of its -songs, but must vex his soul over the sordid troubles of "Bouvard et -Pécuchet." The Seine ought to have been to him a Muse with hands full -of meadow-sweet and lips vocal with tender folk-songs. If he had had -more genius it would have been so. The village has its Mme. Bovary, no -doubt, under its low red roof covered up with apple-boughs; but the -village has also its Dorothea--if one be Goethe and not Flaubert.' - -The idle thoughts passed dreamily through his brain as he leaned over -the coping of the bridge. He had stood there so long and so aimlessly -that one of the street-guards came up to him with suspicion, but -recognising him, went onward, leaving him undisturbed. - -'If I were that _archimillionnaire_,' thought the man, 'it would be the -inside of Bignon's that would have me at this hour, and not the outside -of a bridge.' - -That the man who can command all indulgence of the appetites may not -care to so indulge them, always seems to the man who cannot command -such indulgence the most inexplicable of mysteries. The poor man drinks -all day long when he has a chance; he wonders why does the rich man -only take a few glasses of claret when he could be drunk the whole year -if he chose? - -Othmar, unwitting of the guard's commentary, continued to gaze down -the river, repeating in his thoughts the Greek of Bion's sonnet to -Hesperus. He was wishing vaguely that he had had the gift of poetical -expression; he knew that he thought as poets think, but nature had -denied him the power of giving metrical utterance to them. He would -sooner, he believed, on such moonlit nights as these, have been able -to express what he felt, to portray what he fancied, than have had all -the millions which fate had allotted to him. Even a second-rate poet -can have such happiness in the fancies he plays with and the figures -in which he shapes them on the empty paper. Othmar, from his earliest -boyhood, had been haunted with all those imaginings which make the -heaven of those who can lose themselves in them, and find complete -clothing of eloquence for them. But they remained mute within him; they -were rather painful than consoling to him; when he recalled passages of -Shelley, of Musset, of Heine, of Leopardi, it seemed to him that the -tongue in which they spoke was so familiar to him that it should have -been his own, and yet he had forgotten it or could not learn it, in -some way could never make it his. - -'You are a _poète manqué_. What a misfortune!' his wife had said to him -very often with good-humoured derision. But he himself knew that if he -had had the poet's faculty of rhythmical expression there would have -been no force of circumstances which could have killed it in him. Why -he loved music with so strong a passion was, that in it all he would -fain have said was said for him. - -'If I were going home now,' he thought, 'to some dark old garret in some -crowded _cité des pauvres_, and yet could write a ballad of the Seine -on a summer night, so that all the world should listen----' - -It seemed to him that it would be infinitely more like happiness than -to lend to kings, and baffle ministers, and strengthen cabinets, and -give the sinews of war to nations, as he was able to do in that great -white pile over in the town on the right, which was known to all Paris -as the Maison d'Othmar. And yet what beautiful poems the world already -possessed, and how seldom it cared to think of one of them! - -Some bright-eyed scholar, some dreaming maiden, some sighing lover: was -not this the sole public of the great singers, whose songs, bound in -pomp and pride, lay unopened on the shelves of so many libraries? - -'And a second-rate singer,' thought Othmar. 'No, I would never have -been that. The world, as it is, is cursed and suffocated with teeming -mediocrity. If one cannot do greatly, let one do nothing.' - -He turned with a sigh from the spectacle of the cloudless shining skies -and of the windless shining waters, and went on his way over the bridge -to return to his house in the Faubourg St. Germain. The clocks of Paris -were striking the half-hour after twelve. - -As he took out his cigar-case and lighted a fusee, a woman, held by the -same guard who had lately passed him, was dragged by. She was silent -and white with terror, but as she went she put out her hand to him in -supplication. It seemed to him that he heard some faint bewildered -words of appeal too low to be distinct. He threw his cigar aside, and -followed and overtook them in three steps. - -'What are you doing?' he asked the guardian of the streets. 'What is -she guilty of? Touch her more gently at the least.' - -To a man of his habits and temperaments, roughness to any woman seemed -a horrible unmanliness and offence. At the sound of his voice the -face of the captive was turned to him quickly, and the light of one -of the bridge lamps fell full upon it. Her lips parted to speak, but -her breathing was fast and oppressed, and her voice failed her. Yet he -recognised her in unspeakable amaze. - -'Damaris Bérarde!' he exclaimed involuntarily. 'Good heavens! What has -happened to you? My poor child----' - -'I do not know why the guard has taken me,' she said feebly. She put -her hand to her forehead and staggered a little, as if from faintness. - -She did not understand why they had arrested her, and of what she was -suspected. It was the old story which meets all hapless, lone young -creatures who are in the streets after dark. The man had thought that -he did his duty; she belonged to a sad sisterhood, and had no legal -warrant, so he had believed. To her the charge had been unintelligible; -she had only known that they were taking her to the nearest commissary -of police, accused of some unknown crime. - -'Let her go at once,' said Othmar to the guard. 'I know her: I will be -responsible for her. Good God, do you not see that she is ill?' - -'If Count Othmar know her----' said the man with a dubious smile, -unwillingly taking his hand from his victim. Losing that support she -wavered a moment like a young tree that is cut to the root, and then -fell in a heap upon the stones of the bridge. - -'You have killed her!' said Othmar as he stooped to her. 'A country -child in the brutality of Paris!' - -'She is not ill: she wants food; that is all,' replied the police -officer, assisting him with the respect which he felt for his riches. - -'They always fall like stones in that way when they are hungry,' he -added. 'I am sorry, sir, but how was I to know? She was a stranger, and -she had no permit.' - -'Call a _fiacre_,' said Othmar. - -Although past midnight, a little crowd had gathered, and was fast -assembling with that passion for novelty which is as strong in Paris as -it was in Alkibiades' Athens. Most of them knew Othmar by sight. - -'To the hospital?' asked the driver of the cab which approached. - -'No, to my house,' answered Othmar, 'the Boulevard St. Germain.' - -He lifted her in himself, threw his card to the guard, and drove over -the bridge with the girl's inanimate form beside him. - -The crowd laughed a little, cut some coarse jokes, and dispersed. It -was a tame ending to its expectations. It would have preferred an -assassination, or at least a suicide. The guard, sullen and aggrieved, -carried Othmar's card and his own deposition to the nearest commissary. -He knew that he would be censured, but whether for taking her up, or -for letting her go, he was not certain. - -Meantime, the vehicle rocked and jolted on over the asphalte till it -reached the patrician quarter. Damaris remained insensible, but her -heart beat, though slowly and faintly. - -He looked at her with curiosity and compassion. It was certainly -she; the granddaughter of Jean Bérarde, the betrothed of Gros Louis; -the same child that he himself had taken over the moonlit sea to her -fragrant island. White as she was, and thin, and altered by evident -suffering, she was still too young to be much changed. Her features -were the same, though they were pallid and drawn, and in place of the -brilliant colours born from the sea winds and the southerly suns, they -had the dull pallor which comes from want of food and want of air. Her -clothes were the same dark serge that she had worn at Bonaventure, but -they were discoloured and ragged. Her hair had lost its lustre, and was -rough and tangled; her hands were scarce more than bone; her bosom was -scarce more than skin; all the lovely rounded contours and curves of a -rich and well-nourished youth were gone. He saw that the guard had been -right: she had no doubt fainted from hunger. - -But how had she come adrift in Paris? she, the heiress of Bonaventure, -so safe and so sheltered under the orange-boughs of her island? - -Had that single drop of the wine of 'the world' which his wife had -poured into her innocent breast been so developed in remembrance and -solitude that its consuming fever had left her no peace until she had -plunged into the furnace and sunk beneath its flames? Heavens! how easy -it was to influence to evil, how hard to sway to any better thing! - -He looked at her with a compassion so tender and solemn that it left -no place in him for any other feeling. She had no sex for him; she was -only one of the world's innumerable victims, swallowed up in the vast -self-made shell which men call a city. To him, always surrounded by -every luxury and comfort, there was something frightful in the thought -that a young female thing could actually want bread in the very heart -of crowded thoroughfares and human multitudes. - -'The very wolves are better than men and women,' he thought. 'The -wolves at least always suffer together, and make their hunger a bond of -closer union.' - -He did not touch her; he shrank as far away from her as the space -of the hired vehicle allowed him to do. It seemed to him a sort of -violation to gaze at her thus in her helplessness, her poverty, her -unconsciousness. She was as sacred to him as though she had been dead. - -When the cab passed before the great gilded gates of his own residence, -and the night porter opened them with wonder, Othmar descended, and -paused, hesitating for a moment. He was in doubt what it would be best -for her that he should do. Then he lifted her out of the _fiacre_ -himself, and crossed the court, bearing her in his arms. - -'Send for a doctor and awake some of the women,' he said to the -concierge as he paused at the foot of the staircase. - -The lights were burning low. All such of the household as remained in -Paris were in bed or out; the only person up, beside the porter, was -his own body-servant, who, hearing his master's step, came down the -stairs to meet him. With a few words of explanation to this man Othmar, -assisted by him, carried the girl into his own library, and laid her -down on one of the broad leather couches. Then he took some cognac -from a liqueur-case which was in one of the cabinets, and forced a few -drops of it through her teeth. - -In a few minutes the head women of the house, hastily roused, had -hurried to his summons. He gave them a few directions, and left her to -their care. - -'When she is sensible, you will tell me,' he said to them, and went -into an inner room. He was still pursued by that sense as of doing -her some wrong, some dishonour, if he looked long at her in her -unconsciousness. - -The servants obeyed him without venturing on any question or comment, -even among themselves. They were accustomed to strange things which -their master did, and knew that human misery was title enough to his -pity. When the physician joined them, he said at once what the guard of -the streets had said: she was senseless from want of food. - -'By my examination of her' he added to Othmar, 'I am inclined to -believe that no food has entered her body for twenty-four hours or -more.' - -'Good God! How hideous!' said Othmar. - -It seemed to him as if it were some crime of his own. Not a crust of -bread in all Paris to nourish this child? In Paris, where epicures -spent a thousand francs on a single dish of Chinese soup, or Russian -fish, or honey-fed Sicilian ortolans! - -The sharp contrast of wealth and of want jarred on him with a dissonant -harsh clangour. A child could die from want of a mouthful of food in a -city teeming with human life--and Christianity had been the professed -creed of Europe well-nigh two thousand years! - -'It is hideous!' he repeated; while a profound emotion consumed him and -oppressed his utterance. - -The physician looked at him in surprise at his agitation. - -'You know her?' he asked. - -Othmar hesitated; then he told the little that he did know. - -'A year and a half ago,' he added, 'she was the boldest, brightest, -happiest of young girls; the only heiress of a rich old man.' - -'Many things may happen in a year and a half,' said the physician. -'Were I you, I would send her now to the Ladies of Calvary; their -refuge is open day and night to any such case as hers.' - -'So is my house,' said Othmar coldly. Turn her out at such an hour as -this! He would not have turned out a dog that had trusted and followed -him. - -'He is always eccentric,' thought the man of medicine, 'and I dare say -he goes for something in her misfortunes; he is confused and agitated.' - -Aloud he said that he placed himself wholly at the disposition of Count -Othmar. There was no immediate danger for the young girl; she had -recovered consciousness in a measure, but she was dull and not clear -of mind. He feared that, later on, fever or lung disease might be -developed. He spoke long and learnedly with many scientific terms; his -auditor heard him impatiently. - -'Shall I see her?' he asked. - -The other answered that this could be as he pleased. - -Othmar hesitated a little while, then re-entered his library. - -The electric light which illumined it bathed in its effulgence the poor -dusky ill-clad form of Damaris, where it was stretched on the couch -almost under the great statue of Andromache, sculptured by Mercier. -Her clothes were rough, even ragged; her feet were clad in coarsest -stockings of hemp; her whole figure was expressive of extreme poverty, -that ugly and cruel thing which would blanch the cheeks of Aphrodite -or Helen; and yet on her face, as the light fell on her where her -head rested on the purple leather of the cushions, there was a great -loveliness, though wan and dulled and fevered. The features had a -sculpture-like repose, and the tumbled hair, though lustreless, was -rich and of fine colour; her eyelids were closed; her mouth was half -open, as if with pain or thirst. - -Hung by a little piece of shabby ribbon from her throat he saw a small -gold object. He was touched to the heart when he recognised in it the -little maritime compass which he had begged her to keep in memory of -their moonlit sail together. - -She had nearly lost her life from hunger, yet she had not sold this -little jewel! Why? Because she had always regarded it as his, or -because the memory of that moonlit voyage in the open boat was pleasant -to her. A flush of feeling passed over his face as he thought so; and -remembered his wife. What two romantic simpletons both he and this poor -child would seem to her, could she know the fidelity with which the -little gift had been kept, and the emotion with which he regarded it! - -'_Une sensitive_, indeed!' he thought with emotion, recalling that -epithet which his wife had contemptuously bestowed on her. A soul how -little fitted for the rude realities and cruel egotisms of the world! - -As he drew near, her eyes slowly opened and looked at him with a -dreamy, heavy, half-conscious look. - -'Do you know me?' he said gently. - -She made a sign of assent. - -Othmar took one of her hands in his. A great emotion stirred in him; he -had always the vision of the child beside whom he had sailed across the -moonlit sea, with the sweet fragrance of the orange-groves coming to -them through the shadows and the stillness of the night. - -'Lie still and rest, my dear,' he said to her. 'You are safe, and I am -your friend. Can you understand me? Good-night. To-morrow we will talk -together.' - -She looked at him with comprehension and with gratitude; two large -tears gathered in her eyes and fell slowly down her cheeks. She had no -power to speak. - -When the morrow came she was lying insensible on a bed in one of the -largest chambers of the house, a room of which the window's looked -out upon the green sward and tall fountains and stately trees of the -gardens, and where scarcely any sound from the streets around could -penetrate. Exposure and hunger had brought on pleurisy; Sisters of -Charity had been sent for to attend her, and all the resources of -modern science were called to her assistance. Had she been a young -sovereign of a great country she could not have been better ministered -to or more carefully assisted through the darkness and peril of -sickness. - -'Spare nothing,' said Othmar to his physicians, careless of what evil -construction might be placed upon his generosity. - -He was obeyed with that complete and eager obedience which is one of -the treasures rich men can command, and which may somewhat atone to -them for the subserviency and fulsomeness of mankind. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -Othmar went from her chamber to that of his uncle, lying dumb, -unconscious, almost inanimate in his little hotel in the Rue de -Traktir, all the innumerable wires which connected that little house -with the Bourses of many nations only serving now to bear north, south, -east, west, the words so momentous to the ear of financial Europe: - -'_Le Baron Friedrich se meurt._' - -Many there were who trembled at these few words; more who rejoiced -to know that the keen eyes were closed, the subtle brain paralysed, -the powerful mind swamped in a flood of darkness. He had millions of -enemies, thousands of sycophants, few friends; crowds came about his -door to know how near he was to death, but it was of the share list -and the money market that they thought: how would his loss affect this -scheme, those actions, these banks, that syndicate? - -'Heaven and earth!' thought his nephew, 'all this excitement, this -outcry, this anxiety, and amongst it all not one single honest thought -of regret for the _man_ who lies dying!' - -If in love we only give what we possess and can do no more, so in -life we receive that which we desire. Friedrich Othmar had wished for -success, for power, for the means to paralyse nations, inspire wars, -control governments, purchase and influence humanity. He had had his -wish; but now that he lay dying these thing left him poor. - -Men who had eaten his admirable dinners through a score of seasons, -said in their clubs: '_Le vieux farceur! est-ce vrai qu'il crève?_' and -women who had fitted up their costly villas and adorned their worthless -persons at his cost hurried to his rooms and took away these jewels, -those enamels, that aquarelle, this medallion, whatever they could lay -their hands on, screaming '_C'est à moi! c'est à moi! c'est à moi!_' - -Othmar when he had arrived there, on the first intelligence of his -uncle's attack of hemiplegia, had found the house already sacked as -though an invading army had passed through the apartments; '_ces dames -ont pincé par ci et par là_,' said the servants, not confessing their -own collusion, with apology. Hardly anything of value that was portable -had been left in it; they had all robbed this poor, senseless, fallen -monarch as they would. - -Othmar was filled with an invincible melancholy as he stood beside the -bedside of this man, whose vast intellect had been suddenly beaten down -into nothingness as a bull is brained by the slaughterer. There had -been no great affection between them; their views had been too opposed, -their characters too utterly different for sympathy, or even for much -mutual comprehension, but he had always done full justice to the -unerring intelligence, the stubborn courage, and the devoted loyalty -to the interests of his house, which were so conspicuous in Friedrich -Othmar, and he knew that his loss would leave a place in his own life, -public and private, which would never be filled up again. No one not -bound to him by ties of blood and of family honour would ever care for -his interests, work for his welfare, guard his repute, and consolidate -his fortunes as Friedrich Othmar had done from the days of his boyhood. -They had often been sharply opposed in opinion and in action, and -more than once the elder man had learned that the younger man deemed -him well-nigh a knave, whilst the elder held the younger in complete -derision as a dreaming fool. But despite all this there had been that -bond between them of community of interest and kinship of descent which -no hireling service and no friendship of aliens could ever replace. - -Othmar knew that, this man dead, he himself would stand utterly alone -in many ways and in many difficulties with which no other would ever -have power or title to advise or to assist him. There were engagements, -obligations, secret treaties, and concealed alliances in his house -of which he would bear the burden alone, Friedrich Othmar being once -gathered to his fathers. And, selfishness apart, there was a keen pang -to him in the sight of his old friend lying prone like any fallen tree, -in the knowledge that the quick wit would never more play about those -silent lips, and the clear flame of reason and of scorn would never -more flash from those closed eyes. - -He was dying: soon he would be dead: and Friedrich Othmar was one -of those who make the dream of immortality seem as grotesque as the -child's hope to meet her doll in heaven. Who could think of him without -his slow, satiric smile, his fine intricate speculations, his genius at -whist, his perfect burgundies, his firm white hand which, touching a -button in the wall, could speed an assent or a refusal which served to -convulse Europe? - -'Immortal?--what _ennui_!' he would have said, with his most -good-humoured contempt for the dull and grotesque shapes in which human -illusions, ideas, hopes, and creeds have so oddly shaped themselves. - -'You will find everything in order,' he had said more than once to -Othmar. 'I shall die suddenly one day, in all probability. I leave -everything in perfect order every day. You will only have to wind up -the watch after I am gone. But will you take the trouble to wind it?' - -That was his doubt, the doubt which had tormented him in many an hour. - -Othmar now, leaving the warm golden light of the streets and the summer -air, sweet-scented even in Paris from passing over the hay-fields and -the flower gardens of the country round, and the blossoms of the limes -upon the boulevards, entered the hushed, close, darkened room with a -sense of coming loss and of impending calamity. There was no sound but -of the heavy, laboured breathing of the dying man. - -'There is no change?' he asked of the attendants, but he knew their -answer beforehand; there could be no change but one--the last. - -Life mechanical, painful, sustained and prolonged by artificial means, -was there still, but all else was over--over the manifold combinations, -the daring projects, the cool unerring ambitions, the pitiless study -and usage of men, the traffic in war and want, the wisdom which knew -when to stoop and when to command, the skill which could gather and -hold so safely all the cross threads of a million intrigues, the -intellect which found its fullest pleasure in the problems of finance -and the great needs of nations. All these were over, and the quick, -cautious, wise and well-stored brain was shattered and ruined like a -mere piece of clock-work that a child stamps in pieces with an angry -foot. - -Of course he had long known that what had come now might come any day; -that at the age of his uncle the marvel was rather his perfect health, -his clear brain, his strong volition, than any mortal stroke which -might befall him. - -The afternoon was growing to a close; without, there were the sounds -of traffic and of pleasure; through the closed venetian blinds the air -came into the room, which was hot, dark, filled with the soporific -odours of stimulants and medicines. Great physicians waited by the -death-bed, though they could do nothing to avert the sure coming of -death. Othmar sat there and watched with them. Now and then someone -spoke in a whisper, that was all. The end was near at hand. The sun -sank and the evening came. There was always the same slow, stertorous -breathing so painful on the ear of the listener, so expressive of -effort and of suffering still existent in that inert unconscious mass -which lay motionless upon the bed. - -As the hours passed on, Othmar went downstairs and broke a little -bread, took a little wine, then returned to the chamber of death and -waited there. They told him that as the night wore away the last -struggle must come. Death loves the hour before dawn. - -Many thoughts came to the watcher as he sat there; they were melancholy -and tired thoughts. Life seemed to him, as to Heine, like a child -lost in the dark. What was the use of all the energy and effort, all -the desire and regret, all the grief and hope, all the knowledge and -ambition? The issue of them all at their best was a few years of -success and of renown, then a brain which refused to do its work any -more, a body which was but as the carcass of a slaughtered beast. - -The hours stole on, the strokes of the clocks echoed through the silent -house, the wheels of the passing carriages made low and muffled sounds -upon the tan laid down on the street beneath in needless precaution -for ears deaf for ever, for a brain for ever numb and senseless. The -evening became night and night brightened towards morning; a little -bird sang at the closed shutter. Othmar rose and opened one of the -windows and looked out; it was daybreak. There was a soft mist over the -masses of verdure of the Bois, and in the sky a pale, dim light. - -'Shall I die like this?' he thought; 'and will my son sorrow no more -for me than I sorrow now?--who can tell?' - -He stood gazing out at the shadowy houses and the dim outlines of -the avenues. When he turned back from the window he saw that the -hand of the dying man feebly beckoned him. In the supreme moment of -severance from earth, the stunned mind recovered one momentary gleam -of consciousness, the mute lips one momentary spasm of thickened, -struggling speech; once more and once more only the tongue obeyed the -order of its master--the brain. - -Friedrich Othmar looked at him with eyes that for an instant saw. - -'Do not make that loan--do not make that loan,' he said with his -paralysed lips. 'Wait--wait; there will be war.' - -His master passion ruled him in his death. - -Then he made a movement of his right hand as though he wrote his -signature to some deed. - -'The house--the house--tell them the house will not----' he muttered -thickly, then a spasm choked his voice, the agony began; in less than -an hour he was dead. - -'God save me from such a death as this!' thought Othmar as the full day -broke. 'Rather let me die a beggar in the high road, but with some love -about me, some hope within my heart!' - -And the mouth of the dead man seemed to smile, as though the dead brain -knew his thoughts, as though the dead lips said to him: - -'Oh, dreamer!--Oh, fool!' - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -The death of Friedrich Othmar brought increased occupation and cares -upon him, and the first few days after the obsequies were too full for -him to give more than a passing thought once or twice in twenty-four -hours to the sick girl lying under his roof. He asked each day after -her health, and they each day answered him that the progress made in -it was now all that could be wished; youth and strength had reasserted -their rights. He was importuned by a thousand claimants on his -uncle's properties, fatigued by a thousand attempts at imposition and -extortion; all the wearisome details which harass the living and add a -millionfold to the horrors of every death, encompassed him all day long. - -All that the old man had possessed he had bequeathed unconditionally to -his nephew, and there were many companions of his late pleasures who -clamoured incessantly to his heir for recognition of their unlawful -demands. All these matters detained him in Paris until midsummer had -waned, and a weary sense of irreparable loss and of harassed irritation -was with him, through all these long summer days, which found him for -the first time in his life in the stone walls of a city when fruits -were ripe and roses were blooming in shady, fragrant, country places. - -The whole temperament of Othmar was one to which business was -antagonistic and oppressive in the greatest degree; nature had made -him a student and a dreamer, and all the dull, fretting cares which -accompany the administration of all great fortunes and houses of -finance were to him the most irksome and distasteful of all bondage. -But they were fastened in their golden fetters on his life as the -burden of the ivory and silver howdah lies heavy as lead upon the back -of an elephant in a state procession. And now there was no longer -beside him the astute wisdom, the ready invention, the untiring -capacity of Friedrich Othmar, to take off his shoulders this mass of -affairs, of projects, of public demands, of state necessities supplied -or denied, of all the throngs of supplicants, of sycophants, of enemies -or of allies, who day after day besieged the Maison d'Othmar. - -In these hot summer days in Paris, in the empty chambers of his uncle's -house, all the old weariness and disgust at fate came back upon him. He -would willingly have cast aside all the power which men envied him, to -be free to spend his time as he would, and shut the door of his room on -these buyers and sellers of gold, these traffickers in war and want, -these speculators in the folly or greed of mankind who call themselves -the princes of finance. - -'Les délicats ne sont pas vêtus pour le voyage de la vie; ils n'ont pas -la botte grossière qui résiste aux cailloux et ne craint pas la fange.' - -Othmar was a _délicat_, and most of the ambitions and all the prizes of -life seemed to him supremely vulgar. It was a temperament which shut -him out from the sympathies of men and made him appear eccentric, when -he was only made of finer and more sensitive moral and mental fibre -than were those around him. - -Meanwhile the child he had rescued was passing through the weary -stages of pleuro-pneumonia, succoured by all that science and care -could do for her, and slowly recovered to find herself with amaze -lying on a soft bed, a canopy of pale-blue silk above her, and around -her white panelled walls painted with groups of field-flowers, whilst -from a wide bay window there came, tempered by pale-blue blinds, the -ardent sunbeams and the hot air of July. It was only one of the many -bed-chambers of the Hôtel d'Othmar, but to her in her first moments of -convalescence, as the fragrance from the garden below came through the -room, and the distant music of some passing regiment was wafted on the -warm south wind, it seemed a very part of paradise itself. - -She did not remember very much; her mind was hazy and indolent through -great weakness, but she remembered that she had seen Othmar. She knew -that he had said to her, 'I am your friend.' Her attendants, the nuns, -were astonished and annoyed that she asked them no questions; her -taciturnity was irritating to their own loquacity and inquisitiveness. -But she was silent from neither shame nor obstinacy; she was silent -because she was utterly bewildered, and shrank willingly into the -shelter of this knowledge of her safety under his roof, as a hunted -hare shrinks under fern and bough. She never saw him after that first -night in his library; but she heard his name often spoken, and she -understood that every good thing came to her from him. - -The fresh flowers in the china bowls, the books when she was well -enough to read, the volumes of drawings and engravings which amused -her feeble tired mind, the grapes, and the nectarines, and the pines, -piled in pyramids of beautiful colour on their porcelain dishes--all -these things came, no doubt, from him; indeed, whenever she asked any -questions, she was always answered by his name. - -A great unconquerable lassitude and melancholy lay upon her; yet, -under it, she was soothed and lulled by the sense of this invisible -but absolute protection. It was as a shield between her and the misery -which she had undergone; it filled her with a vague, grateful sense of -safety and of sympathy. As far as she could be sensible of much in the -feebleness of illness, she was dully conscious that Othmar had stood -between her and some crowning wretchedness, some unutterable horror. - -He never asked to see her. - -It seemed to him that to thrust himself upon her would be brutally to -recall and emphasise the fact of all she owed to him: it would seem to -cry out to her her own helplessness and his services. Extreme and even -exaggerated delicacy had always marked the charities he had shown to -those he befriended; and in this instance it seemed to him that only -entire effacement of himself could make endurable to her her sojourn -under his roof. To reconcile her to it at all appeared to him almost -impossible. As far as he could learn she was quite friendless and -alone: what would he be able to do for her in the present and in the -future? - -He was more anxious than he knew to hear her story from her own lips, -but he would not have any request to her made to receive him. A guest -in his own house, above all when she was poor and homeless, must send -for him as a queen would send before he could enter her chamber. It was -one of those exaggerations of delicate sentiment which had always made -him at once so absurd and so incomprehensible to Friedrich Othmar, and -to mankind in general. For the majority of the world does not err on -the side of delicacy, and is colour-blind before the more subtle shades -of feeling. - -During these later weeks, which were filled for him with dull and -distasteful cares, Damaris was recovering more fully and more rapidly -health and strength than she had done at first in the atmosphere of -luxury and service by which she was surrounded; it was the first -illness that she had ever known, and she could not understand her -own weakness, the languor which lay so heavily on her, the sense -of dreaming instead of living which the lassitude and beatitude of -convalescence brought to her. - -She had grown; she had lost all the warm sea bloom upon her face and -arms; she was very thin, and her eyes looked too large for her other -features: but she was nearly well again, and only a little pain in -her breathing, a sense of feebleness in her limbs, remained from the -dangerous malady which had threatened to cut her life short in its -earliest blossom. When she could think coherently, and understand -clearly, her shame at the beggar's position to which she had sunk was -shared and outweighed by her passionate gratitude to her deliverer. -The figure of Othmar was always before her eyes, god-like, angel-like, -stooping to deliver her from the mire and horror of the streets of -Paris. - -'Could I see him?' she said at last to her attendants; the question had -been upon her lips many days, but she had not had courage to put it -into words. They promised her to tell him that she wished it, and they -did so. - -'I will see her, certainly, in the forenoon to-morrow,' said Othmar, -moved by the request to a sudden sense of the strangeness and -responsibility of his own position towards her. What would Nadège see -in it? Something supremely ridiculous, no doubt. Something of the 'lac -et nacelle' school worthy of the romanticists of the year '30? - -As yet he had not even informed her of the bare fact that this child of -the island was in his house in Paris. - -He looked often at the portrait by Loswa of the child with the red -fishing-cap on her auburn curls, and he always heard the mocking of his -wife's voice saying with her careless amused raillery: '_Si vous en -devenez amoureux?_' - -And each time that he was about to tell her as he wrote to her that -the girl for whom she had predicted the destiny of Aimée Desclée was -lying mortally sick and apparently wholly friendless beneath his roof, -the recollection of that raillery made him unwilling to provoke it -anew. She might share his compassion and appreciate his motives: it was -possible that she might do so if--_if!_----the narrative reached her -in one of what she called her _bons moments_. He knew that there were -emotions both of generosity and of pity in her nature, but he knew also -that they were fitful and uncertain in their action. He had never known -her stirred twice to interest in the same object; her caprices were, -as she had said, like a convolvulus flower, and only blossomed for a -day; when a thing or a person had ceased to interest her, sooner could -a mummy have been awaked to consciousness under its swathings of linen -than her attention be recalled and attracted to it any more. - -'_Quand l'amour est mort, il est bien mort_,' says a cruel truism; and -as it is with love so was it with her fancies and enthusiasms. Once -dead and forgotten there was no resurrection for them. - -He knew that with her everything depended on her mood. A great tragedy -or a great heroism would seem to her admirable or absurd, precisely -according to the humour of the hour; a pathetic history or a terrible -calamity would find her disposed either to turn it into ridicule, or -receive it with sympathy, merely as her day had been agreeable or -tiresome, as her companions had interested or wearied her, as her -toilette had pleased or displeased her. - -'My dear Otho,' she had said once to him, when he had ventured on -some courteously-worded reproof of this extreme uncertainty of -her temperament, 'if I did not get a little variety out of my own -sensations, I should never find any at all anywhere. I cannot be like -the editor of a newspaper, who, whatever may happen, always has his joy -or his woe already in stereotype and large capitals. If one gets up -in the morning to find a grey sky when one wants a blue one, to find -a dull post-bag instead of an amusing one, to be disappointed in the -effect of a costume, to be prevented from riding by getting a chill, -what can one care if all Europe were in flames? Whereas, if everything -is pleasant when one wakes, one remains quite amiable enough all the -morning to be sorry even for Gavroche and Cossette in the street! -Caprice? No, it is not precisely caprice. It is rather something in -one's temperament which is acted on by one's surroundings, as the -barometer is by the weather. If I have ever done any very generous or -great things, as you are flattering enough to tell me that I have, it -must have been at some exceptional moment when Worth had especially -pleased me. All the finer inspirations of women come from satisfaction -with themselves or their gowns!' - -At the present moment she was carrying her graceful person and her -unchangeable _ennui_ to the various great houses which she deigned -to honour; imperial hunting châlets, royal riverain castles, noble -summer palaces set on mountain side, in forest shadows, or on broad -historic streams. She did not deem it necessary to go into retreat -because her old enemy was dead. She telegraphed her condolence to -Othmar, and thought that enough; she had some exquisite costumes made -_en demi-deuil_, wore no jewels except pearls, and had no bouquets save -white ones. So much was concession enough to the usages of the world at -such moments; Friedrich Othmar himself would not have expected more. - -Yet a vague regret, which was sincere, had touched her on receiving the -telegram which announced his death. She had respected his intellect -and his wit; she had even rather liked him for his stubborn and -uncompromising hatred of herself. - -When the world was so flat and so tame, and human nature so monotonous, -anyone with character enough to hate unchangeably was to her -interesting. - -And her own intelligence had enabled her to measure and appreciate all -the worth of his counsels and of his presence in the Maison d'Othmar. -She had an idea that her husband, now that he would be uncontrolled, -would drive the chariot of his fortunes in some such disastrous manner -as Phaeton, only not from Phaeton's ambition, but from contempt and -discontent. 'Only there is the child, happily there is the child,' she -thought; a little fair-haired, happy boy then playing on the sands -of the northern seas, scarcely more than a baby; but, possibly, link -enough with the future of the world to make a sentimentalist like his -father refrain from ruining his heritage. '_A quelque chose faiblesse -est bonne_,' she reflected with a compassionate smile. - -She was at that time at Tsarkoë Selo. - -She did not love the Imperial Court, nor did the Imperial Court love -her; but they made _bonne mine_ to one another for many potent reasons, -and as matter of wise diplomacy on both sides. She was a woman whom -even sovereigns cared not to offend, for her delicate and merciless -raillery could pierce through robes of ermine and cuirass of gold, -whilst she could sway her husband as she chose in any question of -politics or public life. On her side she, for the sake of Napraxine's -sons, desired always to retain her influence with and to remain a -_persona grata_ to the rulers of her country. She was not given -to moods of remorse or of penitence, but sometimes her conscience -smote her for her treatment throughout their life together of Platon -Napraxine, and as a kind of atonement to him she studied the social -advantages and future welfare of his children with a care which was -perhaps of more real use to them than the effusions of maternal -sentiment would ever have been. She disliked their personal presence at -all times, but she never neglected their material interests. - -There was something also in Russia which pleased her temperament, -something which no other land could quite afford her. The vassalage -and submission of the people gave her a sense of absolute dominion, -more entire than any she could feel elsewhere. The intense and sharp -contrasts of life which were there, the supreme culture beside the -dense ignorance, the hothouse beside the isba, the orchid beside -the icicle, stimulated her surfeited taste and moved her languid -imagination. Though belief was not her weakness usually, yet she -believed in the future of Russia. She would have liked to be herself -upon the throne of Catherine, and to stretch her sceptre till it -touched the Indian Ocean and the Yellow Sea. - -She did not offer to return to him when Othmar notified the death of -his uncle, and his own detention by various affairs in Paris. She -wrote to him to join her wherever she might be whenever he should -have leisure, and did not display any impatience that this should be -soon. She liked his companionship--when he did not weary her by any -'madrigals,' or irritate her by any sentimental enthusiasms with which -she could feel no agreement. She was never disposed to wish him away -when he was beside her, or failed to admit that the resources of his -intellect, and the sympathetic quality of his character, made him -always agreeable. But as she had said to him, with her usual candour, -she knew all about him; his character was a volume she had read -through, he had ceased to possess that charm of novelty which goes for -so much in the power which one life possesses to interest another; -he would never again make her pulse beat a throb the quicker, if -indeed he had ever done so. She bore his absence with an equanimity so -philosophic that to him it appeared indistinguishable from indifference. - -More than once when he was on the point of taking up his pen and -writing to her of the circumstances which had brought her future -Desclée beneath his roof, he was stopped by the sheer nervous -apprehension of ridicule which paralyses delicate minds, and that sense -that his communication would be supremely uninteresting to her, which -is sufficient to make a proud and sensitive temperament refrain from -any confidence. She would inevitably laugh at him as a Bayard of the -boulevards, as a Sir Galahad of the asphalte, even if she took the -trouble to read the narrative to its end--which was most doubtful. -He decided to wait to tell it to her till he saw her: till he found -her some day in a gentle and sympathetic mood. Besides, with whatever -indifference and raillery she might view it, his knowledge of women -told him that, nevertheless, his protection of Damaris Bérarde might -not seem to her the mere inevitable and innocent thing that it really -was. - -At all times he wrote but rarely to her. He had too often seen her -throw aside hastily, or only half read, perhaps not read at all, the -letters of the cleverest and most preferred of her friends, for him to -believe that his own letters would be likely to be rewarded with much -closer attention. The delighted welcome which a woman gives to the -writing of one she cares for, the eagerness and frequency with which -it is studied and searched for all its expressions of tenderness, and -all its more hidden meaning, was altogether impossible to the Lady of -Amyôt. Spoken love interested her so slightly that written love could -not possibly hope to charm her. People were tiresome enough in speech; -what could be expected of them when they wrote? He would have read -anything she might have written with keenest interest, with warmest -reception, but he did not dare to suppose that she would have much -patience if he wearied her on paper. When they were apart, therefore, -they telegraphed often to one another, but they wrote to each other -seldom. Telegrams were to her agreeable, because they were as little of -an _ennui_ as any communication can possibly be. - -In an early time Othmar, absent from her, had been given to pour out -his feelings in ardent expression, and even offer her those delicate -flowers of sentiment which always dwell shyly hidden in every deep and -affectionate temperament. But one day she had written back to him a -cruel little word. She had said: 'You are Obermann and Amiel; do you -really think life is either long enough or interesting enough to be -worth so very much sentimental speculation?' - -It was only her irresistible and incurable poco-curantism which -dictated the lines, but they mortified and chilled him. He dreaded, -with something that was actually apprehension, her ridicule or her -irony. He knew well that to weary her was to lose her favour. From -that day he had never written to her a syllable of the feelings and -reflections of his inmost thoughts. - -'She has never really loved me,' he had said to himself bitterly, of -the woman on whom he had spent the great passion of his life. - -Therefore it became easy to him to say nothing of the presence of -Damaris in his house in Paris. - -'I shall tell her when I meet her, and she will not even listen to it, -most probably,' he said to himself. It would entirely depend upon the -mood in which he might find her, whether the part which he had himself -played would seem to her utterly absurd or partly worthy of sympathy. - -'If only Melville were in Europe!' he thought very often. But Melville -was in China, using his persuasive eloquence and Churchman's tact to -obtain Celestial concessions and protection to the Jesuit missions in -the Flowery Land. Melville had written to him: 'I walk amongst the -ruined palaces and desolated gardens which the Allies defiled in 1860, -and endeavour to believe that it is we who are the civilised and the -Chinese who are the barbaric people, but I fail. Shall we ever be -apostles of light whilst our coming is proclaimed with musketry, and -our path strewn before us with charred ruins? It was a strange way of -teaching enlightenment to destroy in a day treasures of beauty and of -art which all the world together could not reproduce again.' - -Melville was taking his scholarly thought and his courtly smile -through the flowering ways and over the marble bridges of the Summer -Palace, believing, if he thought of her at all, that the child he had -baptized and taught was safe in her island home amongst the flowering -orange-trees, steering through the blue water at her will, and going in -peace and quietude to the churches on the shore. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -In the morning he was detained by many matters of importance, and it -was towards evening when he at length found leisure to visit his guest. -He felt a certain hesitation and delicacy in entering her presence. He -was conscious that he had done so much for her that, on her side, she -could not meet him without some embarrassment, some pain. - -He had seen her but twice; he was no more to her than a name. Yet he -had known her in her island life: he thought that tie of memory would -make him seem to her less of a stranger than any of these white-coifed -pious women who changed places in vigil at her bedside. And a wonder -which was warmer and wider than mere curiosity made him anxious to -learn how she could have become alone and adrift in Paris, she whose -life had been so safe and so sweet and so simple in the midst of the -blue water and the flashing sunbeams, and free from spot or stain as -the white narcissus growing in the orchard grass, as the white wings of -the pigeons cleaving the azure air. - -When he entered her chamber she was lying on a couch beside the open -window; one of the Sisters was sitting near her doing some needlework. -She flushed over all her face as she saw him, and she put out her hand -timidly. Othmar bent over it and touched it with his lips in silence. -Emotion held them both mute. The nun looked inquisitively at them. - -Damaris was still weak, and pale, and changed, but there was the look -of fast returning health about her. She was thin still, but no longer -emaciated; her lips had regained a little of their damask-rose colour, -her hair which had been cut short was bright and shining; she wore a -loose plain linen gown which the women had made for her, and her arms -were bare to the elbow; the afternoon was close and sultry, and she -seemed to breathe with effort. - -'I am so glad to see you so nearly well, my dear, and my wife will be -no less glad to hear of your recovery,' said Othmar, as he recovered -his self-possession. It was a subterfuge, in a way an untruth; but he -used his wife's name almost involuntarily, as the only possible way of -reconciling this child to her presence in his house. - -'You have been very good,' said Damaris simply. Her words seemed poor -and thankless, but she could think of no better ones. She was still -bewildered at her own position, and wounded in her tenderest pride by -the charity she had received. She was not ungrateful, but now that she -saw him face to face, she would have given her soul that he had let her -die on the stones of Paris. - -'Where did you find me?' she added, 'I cannot remember--at least not -everything.' - -'You were taken unwell on the Solferino bridge,' said Othmar evasively. -'Do not think about that. You are safe here, and all my house is at -your service; it is yours whilst you are in it, as the Spaniards say.' - -He spoke a little hurriedly; he felt the embarrassment which every -generous nature feels before one whom it has benefited. - -The red blood came quickly and painfully over her face and throat. - -'I do remember now,' she said. 'They were going to take me to prison. -Can they do that when one has done no harm?' - -'The guard thought you looked ill, and were too young to be alone at -night,' Othmar answered, evasively still. He wished to learn something -of her position, but he would not even hint any question to her. She -should say what she chose in her own time and way. - -'I do not mind being alone,' she replied, with something of the old -pride and independence which Loswa had admired in her. 'I was weak -because I had not eaten.' - -She stopped abruptly, and grew scarlet. - -It seemed very shameful to her to have been without food. She had -always despised the poor crawling beggars whom she had seen on the -mainland, even whilst she had given them all the loose coin in her -pocket. 'Only the lazy and the idle ever starve,' her grandfather had -often said to her, in the hardness of heart of a man full of energies -and riches; and she had believed him. And now she had starved, she -herself, and it seemed to her pitiful, miserable, hateful, a very brand -for ever of disgrace. - -'Do not think of it,' said Othmar kindly, as he took her hand in his. - -'I shall think of it all my life!' she said bitterly, whilst the -intensity of the tone told him that it was no mere empty phrase. She -turned her face from him and looked steadfastly out into the green -spaces and pleasant shadows of the gardens below, whilst her young -features grew cold and stern, and full of repressed pain. Then all at -once her head drooped on her breast, and she burst into a passion of -tears. - -'Oh, why did you not let me die!' she cried in reproach to him. 'Why -did you not let me die when I was dying? I should have known nothing -now!' - -'That is thankless and sinful,' muttered the nun. 'Thankless and sinful -to heaven and to earth.' - -'Hush!' said Othmar to the Sister with a frown; he was troubled and -distressed by the child's passionate rebuke. He hated at all times to -see the sorrow of a woman, and he was too ignorant of her circumstances -to know how to console her. He could not have told why, but a memory -of Yseulte passed over his mind; a memory which rarely ever rose at -any time before his thoughts. Nothing could be more unlike her than -this sea-born, impetuous, daring child; yet he remembered her as he saw -Damaris weep. How many tears had the dead girl wept for him! how often -had her young eyes looked wistful and sorrowful out on these green -gardens, on these towering trees, on these distant and gilded domes of -Paris! - -The nun cast angry glances at him, and began to tell her beads. - -Othmar remained silent till the first force of grief had a little spent -itself. Then he said the first consoling words which occurred to him, -without remembering all to which they might commit him in the future. - -'My dear child, do not talk of death. Death and youth are horrible -in the same phrase. Your life is scarcely begun, why should you wish -it away? If you have no other friends than ourselves, do not deem -yourself friendless. We will supply the place of others to you. You -will remember the interest which my wife took in you at St. Pharamond. -Believe me, it will be only strengthened by any sorrow or misfortune -you may have had since we saw you then.' - -She looked at him, strongly grateful, yet hurt and ashamed. - -'It is charity,' she said, in a low tone. All the pride of her -indomitable childhood was in the word. - -'I do not like the expression,' he replied. 'You will pain me if you -use it. I should be a cur if I had not done the little that I have -done, for you would certainly,' he added more gaily, 'have done as much -for me if I had been wrecked off Bonaventure.' - -She sighed wearily. No kindness of speech could reconcile her to -the burden of debt which she felt laid on her. She knew she was all -alone in the world and homeless, except so far as this stranger's -home was momentarily hers, and she shrank with horror from the memory -of all she must have owed to him during these weeks of sickness and -semi-consciousness. - -He saw the pain and humiliation there were in her, and rose to leave -her in peace. - -'I will return whenever you wish me, my dear,' he said, as he laid his -hand on hers. 'For the rest, look on my house as yours.' - -She hesitated. - -'Wait,' she said faintly, 'I have so much I ought to tell you.' - -'You can tell me in your own time. I shall not leave Paris, at least -only for a day or so at a time. My uncle died a few weeks ago, and many -affairs in consequence keep me here. Adieu, my dear: rest and recover. -That is all you have to do now.' - -'But I have no right to be in your house, and you know that the lady -despised me!' she murmured with a painful agitation, which said, -without more words, how cruel a dilemma it seemed to her in which her -weakness and her helplessness had placed her. - -'You have every right,' said Othmar. 'And she would be the first to say -so. Do not hurt me by taking this kindly chance which made us meet as a -burden or an injury. I have often thought of you since we parted that -night upon your island beach, and always with a deep regret that my -wife had so fatally influenced your life. Will you not believe how glad -I am to be able to do you any little service to help efface that wrong?' - -He kissed in grave farewell her wasted hand, once so plump and brown -with youth and health, and the bronze from the sun and the sea, and now -so pale and fleshless. - -She looked at him and stopped him with something of her old pride and -spirit in her face, as she said a little abruptly: - -'You remember you told me it would be mean not to tell him where I had -been that day?' - -'Yes, my poor child. I remember.' - -'I did tell him.' - -'That was very brave of you and very noble. I fear my advice cost you -dear.' - -A smile that was almost happy at his praise parted her lips and showed -her small white teeth. - -'You told me what was right,' she said. 'It would have been cowardly to -say nothing.' - -'It was very brave to say the truth. You shall tell me all that -happened from it on another day. I can never forgive myself for all the -misery which my wife's thoughtless invitation has entailed on you. Let -me do my best to atone for it.' - -Then he bowed low with unfeigned reverence, and left her. What was so -worthy of reverence as so much innocence, as so much courage? - -She drew a long sigh, and her eyes closed. She was tired with the -exhausted sense of failing powers which the feebleness of illness -causes after every slight exertion. But his visit had left on her a -deep, sweet sense of serenity and safety. - -'How good and great he is!' she said dreamily to the nun, as the door -closed on him. - -The pious woman did not reply. Othmar was not her idea of human -excellence. He went to no church, and he supported no religious -institutions. Besides, as she thought to herself, who could tell what -motives he had in taking this handsome child off the streets? It was -not her business to speak; her superiors had sent her there, and had -said to her: 'Nurse the girl, and say nothing.' But the Sister had -not gone on her many errands of mercy for a score of years in all -the quarters of Paris, good and bad, rich and poor, without knowing -the meaning of human vices. She began to convey vague warnings, and -cite praiseworthy examples of temptation resisted and overcome to her -patient. Her voice went on and on unanswered, like the flowing of a -slothful brook, and when at last she looked up from her embroidery, -Damaris was asleep upon her couch, the last red reflection from the -sun, which had set beyond the trees of the gardens, tinging her face -with its warmth, and her hair with its light. For the first time since -she had been brought there her expression, as she slept, was one of -peace. - -But soon she woke again, startled and distressed. The tears sprang to -her eyes; she pressed her hands together in passionate agitation. - -'I spoke so badly!' she said, in great contrition. 'I said such poor -weak words! He will never know all I feel. He will only think me -ungrateful!' - -'Tut, tut!' said the nun roughly. 'Take your gratitude to God, not man!' - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -The following day he sent to ask if she would receive him again; it -seemed to him that not to do so would be to appear to neglect her. He -did not misconstrue her few embarrassed words or deem her thankless; -he had that intuition into the minds of others which minds sensitive -themselves possess; he understood all the conflicting emotions which -had agitated her, all the vast weight of gratitude which held her dumb -and made her almost mute, almost awkward in his presence. He paid her -a brief visit four or five times in that week, then was absent himself -at Amyôt for a few days. On his return he saw her again, and she seemed -to have gained greatly in strength. She could sit erect; her face had -the hues of returned health, and her eyes met his with the candour and -brightness which were natural to her regard. She was a child still, -and she had so much trust in him that it supplied to her the place of -friends and home. - -If the memory of the great lady who had tempted her and ridiculed her, -and who was his wife, had not been too constantly before her, she would -have been almost happy again. But for her she had a sombre antagonism, -a curious sentiment, half defiance, half fear. Othmar never pressed her -to tell him more or sooner than she wished of all the circumstances -which had led to his discovery of her on the bridge; but one day when -he found her nearly well, standing by the open windows with the -breeze lifting the short thick waves of her hair, and her eyes looking -wistfully across the trees at the domes and roofs of Paris, she turned -and caught his hand in hers and laid her lips on it. - -'What can I do? How can I thank you? A very dog could do something to -show you his gratitude, and I--I can do nothing.' - -'You have rewarded me by getting well,' said Othmar kindly and lightly, -to avoid the expression of any stronger emotions, 'and you can reward -me more greatly if you will tell me everything that has befallen you -since I took you home that night. Will you?' - -'It will not tire you?' - -'It will interest me greatly.' - -She sat down, the full afternoon sun falling on her face as it was -upraised to him, her hands locked in her lap, her face pensive and -grave with many memories. - -'When I told him the truth that night,' she began, 'he hurt me a -good deal, but more in my heart than in my body. I suppose he did -not believe that I had done nothing wrong; anyhow, in going to your -house I had disobeyed him. In the morning he took me to the mainland -and my clothes with me, and without speaking ever a word, drove me in -different vehicles up, up, up into the interior where the hills were, -and placed me in a convent of Benedictine nuns up in the mountains -above Val de Nieve. There he left me without saying a word to me, -though I suppose he explained things to the Sisters. Perhaps he told -them I was wicked, for they were very harsh to me, and their discipline -was very severe. It was exceedingly cold there after the island, which -you know is so warm, and for months there was snow all around, nothing -but snow. I felt like a chained dog, and I fretted and raged, and they -punished me. It was very miserable. Twice I tried to run away, but they -prevented me. Then the better weather came and the very mountains grew -green and bore flowers. This gave me a kind of hopefulness, and there -were a number of little children in the convent, and I played with them -and became less wretched, and I learned many things, for the Sisters -were instructed women and taught well, and I had always been fond of -books and eager to read them. But how I longed for the sea, and to -feel a boat bound under me, and go as I chose it to go! You see I had -always been in the open air and on the open sea at my fancy, and that -is no doubt why I felt like a chained dog in these stone chambers, with -their iron bars and their windows so high that one could only see a -hand's-breadth of sky. Why do people live so when there is the air and -the earth and the water? I was there half a year, or rather more. Then -in the month of October my grandfather came, just before the passes in -the mountains were closed with snow, and took me back to Bonaventure.' - -Her eyes closed a moment as if to keep in unshed tears. Then she -resumed her story. - -'He never addressed me except just about things which he could not -help, and we crossed the sea and landed at the dear island, and I -thought the dogs would have gone mad with joy. Catherine had died -whilst I was at the convent, and he had never allowed me to be told. -That she should have died in my absence was a great pain to me, because -I had known her all my life, and she had been often kind and good -though her temper was cross, above all on washing and baking days. But -now she was gone, poor soul! Everything else, however, was as I had -always known it, and I was so happy to be home I could have kissed all -the inanimate things! The goats knew me, too, and one of the hens flew -to my shoulder directly. My grandfather let me do whatever I liked all -that day, but he never spoke once except to bid me eat and drink. When -it was night and I was about to go to bed, for I felt tired, he took -me out under the orange-trees; it was a fine night and the air very -light and clear, and there was a moon then coming up above the edge of -the sea. There he said to me that if I would marry my cousin he would -give me the whole island all for my own, and to my cousin the brig and -all the money that was saved, and he himself would only keep a room or -two and enough for his wants, and my cousin was to take the name of -Bérarde. I thanked him, but I said I would not marry my cousin. I might -have done if your Lady had never come to me that day, perhaps; I do not -know. I said a score of times that I would not; each time I was more -resolved than before. Then my grandfather grew like a madman and cursed -me horribly, and told me that I had no claim on him; that my father had -never married my mother, that the law would allot me nothing. I do not -very well understand how, but it seems that I had no legal right there, -and that all he had done for me he had done to please my uncle Jules, -the one who died of cholera, who had loved my father and so loved me. -Now, perhaps, as all my life had been a burden to him and a debt, I -ought to have obeyed him and married Louis Roze. Do you think so?' - -'No,' said Othmar, with some vehemence. 'No; such a marriage would have -been a blasphemy!' - -'I did not stay to think, I did not want to think. I said no--no--no--a -thousand times no! And then I thought he would have beaten me as he -beat me the night you took me home.' - -'Beat you? Good God!' - -'He had beaten me before when he was in drink, never at any other -time. This night he had not drunk. He was quite sober, but he became -mad with rage; it was always so with him at any opposition, and he -had thought that I should be dull and tame, having been so long in -the convent. But I was not. I told him that I would obey him and work -for him as long as he lived, because I owed him everything I had ever -owned or enjoyed; that I would be his servant, and till the ground, -and sail the boat, and fish in the sea, and cut wood, and do all that -Raphael did; but that I would never marry my cousin or anyone else. -Never--never. So I told him as we stood under the moon together.' - -'But, before we saw you, you were willing to make this marriage?' - -Damaris coloured more. - -'I had never thought about it before then. My grandfather said it was -to be. It was to me as when he said so many thousand oranges were to be -packed, or so many barrels of oil sent to the mainland. I never thought -about it. But after--after I had seen your wife, and your house, and -your friends, then, I do not know why, but everything seemed different.' - -If his wife had not gone to the island in that hour of caprice, -this child would no doubt have accepted the fate prepared for her, -and passed her life as so many other women did, mated to a boor but -reconciled by habit to uncongenial companionship, putting aside her -dreams with the orange-flowers of her bridal clothes, and learning -to think only of the gold pieces in the bank, the yield of the -oil-presses, the price of fish and of fruit, the growth of the children -that with each year came to birth. Would it not have been better? -Common sense and vulgar prudence would say yes, he knew, but in his -inmost soul he could not say it. Besides, revolt might have come, -disgust, the desire for wider worlds and higher thoughts and warmer -passions. - -With her luminous eyes and her poet's thoughts she would have never -been contented long with the narrow, coarse, dull ways of such a life -as would have been hers had she yielded. - -'Poor child!' thought Othmar, with a pang of almost personal repentance. - -Nadège had done many things which were as so much mere thistle-down -on the wind in her own eyes, but which had sown dragon's teeth in the -paths of others. But it seemed to him that she had never done a more -unkind or a more wanton act than when, on the spur of an idle moment's -caprice, she had tempted this innocent Alcina from her happy island of -content. - -Damaris did not say so, but he himself had haunted her dreams ever -since that night's sail over the moonlit sea. - -This man, with his gentle courtesies, his low soft voice, his tender -care and compassion for her, his high romantic sense of honour which -had made him counsel her to tell the truth, cost what it would, seemed -to her a being of another world than that to which her grandfather and -her affianced lord belonged. - -She had thought of little else but Othmar ever since he had left her -on that shore in the soft-tinted shadow, where the light of daybreak -crossed the last rays of the moon. It was not love which she felt; he -was too far away from her, too impersonal, too great for her to think -of him with any personal thoughts; but it was an idealised admiration, -a keenly grateful remembrance, a vague, unconscious sympathy, which -had filled her mind with his image in the many lonely hours she had -passed since that night, and the remembrance of him had made her shrink -from the possible contact, from the mere thought of her cousin, with a -disgust and a revolt which had made her as unmoved as the rocks of her -island itself, before the rage of her tyrant and the threats of his -blind passion. - -A thousand times better death, she had said to herself--death under -the blue waters on the deep sea bottom of her native gulf; death and -peace and silence amongst the broad green weed and the jewelled fishes -and the white coral branches which she had seen so often, fathoms down -below her, as she had leaned over the boat's side and gazed through the -pellucid water clear as a mirror to her eyes. - -Startled, she was recalled to the present by the voice of Othmar, as he -asked her to continue her narrative. - -'I thought I was on the island!' she said with a sigh. - -'Would you like to go back there?' he asked. A vague, wild fancy came -to him of buying back her lost paradise for her at any cost. She -hesitated. - -'It would not be the same,' she said at last. 'I should not be the -same, you know. But sometimes I want the sea so much! I want the sight -of it, the scent of it, the feel of the wind from it blowing on my -face! He was very cruel, but, I suppose, he could not help it. He was -disappointed in me, and that made him very hard. When he found that he -could not force me to marry my cousin he became quite mad. He took me -down to the water, and put me in one of the small boats, and he told -me to go, just as I was, with nothing but the clothes I had on and the -gold cross Monsignor gave me at my first communion, which I always wore -at my throat, and a few trinkets which had belonged to my mother. He -ordered me to row away or he would fire upon me.' - -'Good God, what a brute!' cried Othmar. - -'I am sure he did not intend to really hurt me,' she said earnestly. -'I am sure he only meant to frighten me, and thought I should go back -to him and do what he wished me to do. He never supposed, I dare say, -that I should take him at his word and go.' - -'Few of your age and sex would have had the courage to do so.' - -A look of contempt passed over her face. - -'I would have given myself to the sharks sooner than return and give -in. One must be a very weak creature to be driven like that.' - -'Why did you not come to us?' - -'I could not have done that.' - -'Why? We were absent, but if you had gone to the house there and -written to me--or to my wife.' - -'No. I could not have done that. When I was there I was a burden to -her. Besides, you had no right to do anything for me. You were a -stranger.' - -'I had the right I have now--that of a friend. You were ill treated in -my house, that I know, but it was no fault of mine.' - -'It was no one's fault. Only my own, for being foolish enough to go -there. But let me tell you the rest as quickly as I can, or you will be -tired----' - -The colour rose over her face, and her voice grew lower, and her words -more rapid as she hastened on the course of her narrative. - -'I knew he would do as he said, for he stood above with his musket -levelled downward at me. I took up the oars and I rowed away from the -island, steering with my foot. I felt quite stunned; I did not think of -resisting: when once he said I was nothing to him, and ought not really -to bear his name, I did not feel as if I had any business there ever -any more. Only I could not understand it, because after all he said -that I was his son's child; and I have been all the days of my life on -the island, and I thought my heart would break. Well--I got into the -boat. It was quite light because the moon was now at the full. The sea -was still. I did not feel in any way afraid. Yet I had never felt the -sea so solitary as it seemed that night. Far away there were the lights -of steamers moving steadily. I could smell the smell from the orange -trees for a long, long while, and the last sound I heard from home was -the cry of Clovis. He was howling because I was gone----' - -Tears choked her voice; but she only paused a moment. - -'Of course,' she continued, 'I had never been alone at sea in the -night time before. One feels so small, so weak, so very lonely, all -by oneself between the water and the sky. I was afraid, but I was not -frightened. Do you know what I mean? I mean that I was not a coward, -but I felt very near death. The boat was so small, and the sea was so -large. It had never seemed so large to me before. Well, I could steer -by this compass you gave me, which I had never let anyone see lest -they should take it; and the wind was southerly and drove me northward. - -'After many hours, and when my arms were very tired, and the day was -breaking, I came to the coast. - -'I landed at St. Jean; no one saw me land, and I avoided the -fisher-people whom I knew there, because I could not bear to tell them -how my grandfather had dealt with me. There were a few of them on the -beach, getting their cobles ready to go out, but it was only dawn, and -I did not let the few there were astir see me. I left the boat tied to -some piles and went inland. I have never seen the sea since!----' - -There was a great regret and longing in her voice. - -'I did not like to stop anywhere on the coast, for there were many -people there who knew me; and I was sure they would ask me so many -questions. I drank some water at a well; I was not hungry. I dare say -you will wonder that I did not feel afraid, but I did not. I went out -of the town on the northern road; I wished to get to Grasse and so to -Paris. - -'I had not gone very far before I met a Brigasque woman mounted on a -mule. I knew her as a friend of Catherine's. She was well-to-do, and -owned a flower-farm not far from St. Dalmas de Tende; she grew common -plants for the perfume distillers of Grasse. She thought I had run -away from the island, and I let her think so; and as she hated my -grandfather, because he had outbidden her years before at the sale by -auction of some acres of land in the Roya valley, she offered me to go -home with her and work for her amongst the flowers. As I did not know -what to do or where to sleep I accepted her offer, and she hired a mule -for me at the next inn we came to, and so I rode with her into the -Brigasque country, which I did not know at all, but which I found was -very pretty and had more trees in it than usual. I stayed with her all -the winter, helping her in what ways that I could. - -'I passed the winter there, for I knew I must not go to Paris without -some little money at least. One day in the new year there came by a -pedlar whom I knew; we had bought little objects of him once or twice, -when Catherine and I had been at St. Jean at the same time as he. He -recognised me at once and roughly called me a fool, for he said that my -grandfather had died of apoplexy straining at the oil-press one day, in -place of a bullock which had dropped at the work. He called me a fool, -because he said if I had not run away I should have now inherited the -island and all he had, whereas it was now left unconditionally to Louis -Roze. I did not tell him that I had not run away.' - -'In what little things,' thought Othmar as he listened, 'a high -and generous nature shows itself, quite unwitting how it innocently -displays its own fine instincts!' - -'Did you not tell him of your wrongs then?' he asked aloud. - -'Oh no: not when my grandfather was dead and could not defend himself! -To me it was the end of all hope. I had hoped that one day I should go -home. I had always thought he would relent and seek me out; it made -me miserable to think that he should have said such cruel words to me -for the last words, and he had certainly been good to me, very good in -his way. He could not be very gentle, it was not in him; but he had -been generous to me, and sometimes kind and quite proud of me too. -I was very sorry, because when a person is dead, you know, one only -remembers what was good in them, and one wants so much to say so many, -many things to them; but now I knew that this could never be, and I -was very wretched. The pedlar had said that everything was given to -my cousin, but the people I was with would not believe it. They got a -letter written to my cousin, and asked for my share (unknown to me; I -would not have let them do it had I known). Louis Roze wrote back to -them that I inherited nothing under the will, and had no legal claim to -insist on any division of the property; he said he was about to marry -a young woman of St. Tropez, and he sent me a bank note for a thousand -francs. I sealed it up and sent it back to him. You know he knew that -all the island would have been mine. I care nothing for the money, but -I love the island; I love every stick and stone upon it, every shell on -its sand, every wave that breaks on its rocks!' - -'You shall have your island again, if money can buy it!' thought -Othmar, with one of those heedless impulses of generosity which had -more than once cost him dear. - -'I was so unhappy to think my grandfather was dead, and dead with -rage in his heart against me, that for weeks I could do nothing,' she -pursued, while the tears rolled off her lashes. 'But then I felt that -there was no one on earth to do anything for me if I did not do it -for myself, and I worked hard to get together money enough to take me -to Paris, and keep me there a little while. They all said that life -there was very dear, and money ran like water. You see I was always -thinking of what your Lady had said, about my having some talent in me. -I thought of it all day long as I worked in the rose-fields and among -the great thickets of jessamine. Your Lady had said that I might be -great some day, and it is always to Paris that people go who wish to be -great, at least all the books say so. Watteau went, and Molière, and -Rousseau, and Napoleon, and ever so many others----' - -'Ah, poison of the world!' thought Othmar. 'What cruelty we did! She -would have stayed on her island and been the mother of little brown -children, and known nothing of the world but its fresh honest sea and -its frank, bold winds! What a pity! What a pity! The rattlesnake is -kinder than such dreams of fame!' - -He was sorry and troubled, and angered against his wife, who had cast -the stone of worldly desire into the limpid, calm waters of this young -child's thoughts. - -He was unspeakably saddened by the vision of her, coming northward over -the sandy roads of Provence, with so much hope and fancy in her heart, -only to drop sick with hunger upon the stones of Paris--Paris, so fair -a mistress to the rich, so hard a stepmother to the poor. Gilbert, and -Hégésippe Moreau, and Meryon, and how many others, had traversed that -path before her, only to perish in the hospital or the garret, mad or -famished, clutching at the bough of laurel, obtaining only the hemlock -of death! - -'So I determined to leave St. Dalmas,' she continued, 'and walk all the -way to Grasse when the March weather came. On the roads I assure you I -did quite well. People were very kind whilst I was in my own country, -as it were. At the bastides and the cottages they let me sleep well -and gave me food, and let me do work in return. I know how to do many -things that are of use on the farms, but of no use at all in Paris. -So little by little I did get to Grasse, and there one of the women -who knew my Brigasque friends gave me welcome, because some of them -had given me a letter to her asking her to be kind. But I shall weary -you; I will try to tell the rest shortly. I could have stayed on at -Grasse as long as I would, but I wanted to get to Paris; above all, now -that my grandfather was dead, there was nothing to keep me in my own -country; no one wanted me or sought for me. They had paid me a little -for what I did in the Brigasque country, and I saved up all of it, and -when I had enough to pay for the railway to take me there (it is very -dear indeed), I bade them farewell and took the train to Paris. I had -never travelled by land before, only on the dear sea. It is horrible -to have all that fire in that great iron pot swinging one to and fro, -while it yells and bellows through the heat and the air that is not -like air at all but only so much smoke. How Fénelon would have hated -it; it would have seemed to him like hell! Why do men travel in such -a way when there are the tree-shadowed roads and the rivers? I had -taken my passage (do they call it so?) straightway to Paris, and there -were many changes and many pauses and great confusion, and the noise -and the heat and the strangeness made me feel unwell. I had never felt -ill before, that I remember. It was a very great many hours, even days -I think, before we reached Paris; it was night, and it was raining; -nothing was at all like what I had pictured it. There were crowds and -crowds of people, but no one noticed me. I felt lonely, and I missed -the sea and the sweet fresh smell that is anywhere where the country -is. Here the air felt so thick and so greasy, and the rain had no -pleasantness in it; it was not clean and fragrant, as it is when it -scours over the fields or patters through the orange-leaves at home. -As I came out of the station a young man looked into my face and was -insolent. I struck him a blow on his cheek with all my might; I hurt -him; the people wanted to seize me, but I was quicker than they, and -I ran, and ran, and ran until I outstripped them, and then I was in a -narrow, dark street, and sat down on a doorstep and wondered where I -ought to go. I had only three gold pieces with me in a belt round my -waist, and I knew they would not last long. I had spent almost as much -as that for the train and in food at the places the train waited at; -the food was very dear and very bad, even the bread. - -'Some women went by and spoke to me, but I did not like their words, -and I answered nothing, but got up and looked about me for a place -to sleep in. I was wet through, for it rained a great deal. I saw a -little place which seemed like a restaurant, and I went in and asked -if I could have a room there. They gave me one, a very little one, and -not clean, and I went to bed without eating, being afraid to spend the -little I had. - -'When I got up in the morning and went to pay for my chamber and -supper, I found that I had no money at all. My belt was gone. I suppose -I had been so sound asleep that I never heard them come into my room -and take it. I always think it was the woman of the house who stole it, -because I had shown her the napoleons. She raved and abused me when I -told her my money had been stolen, and said her house had always been -honest. She denied that she had ever seen the belt, and swore that I -should pay for all I had or go to prison. I told her that it was she -was the thief, not I. I threw her my little gold cross to pay her, and -went out of her house into the streets. I think she was a wicked woman.' - -'Wicked, indeed,' said Othmar, whilst he thought, 'it is heaven's mercy -that she did not do worse to you.' - -He, by whom all the hideous vice of the great city was known, all its -grasping greed, its hunger for gold, its remorseless seizure of all -ignorance, and innocence, and pleasant rural things, and virgin beauty -of the body and the mind, knew that by a miracle scarce less than -that which in legend bears the royal saint of Alsace unharmed through -the flames had this child escaped pollution in the heart of Paris. -Corruption had been all around her, and the morass of iniquity upon -every side; her own sex were for ever on the watch for such as she, to -sell their youth into the slavery of the brothel, and she had known no -more the peril which she ran than the wild dove does when its flying -shadow passes over the trap hung below it in the oak-boughs. - -'I asked in a great many places for such work as I knew how to do, -but nobody wanted any of it done. There seemed such numbers of people -everywhere clutching at every little bit of work. Many laughed at me: I -saw my clothes were different to what they wore in Paris, and my accent -was different too to theirs. But they were cruel to laugh. I went to -the theatres and tried to see the directors, but no one of them would -even see me. All these days I lived on the little money I had gained -by selling my great cloak: it was such warm weather I did not want it. -I had made acquaintance with a good woman who was very poor herself, -but she told me what to do and where to go, and let me sleep in her one -little attic; she had three children, quite little ones, and she worked -in a match factory. She lives in a little passage up at Montmartre. -Of course I had to make her think I ate all I wanted out of doors or -she would have robbed herself for me, poor though she was. I had a -friend in her, but when I had been with her three weeks, there was a -noisy mob which assembled near, and screamed for bread, and broke open -the bakers' shops and stole the loaves. She was coming home from the -factory, and was arrested as one of the rioters, though I am sure she -had been merely passing down the street, and the little children had no -one but me for a little while. I did what I could for them until their -grandmother came up from some village outside the barrier and took them -away, and I missed them very much. - -'I would rather not talk about the days that came after that dreadful -morning,' she pursued, the wavering colour fading wholly from her face, -for the recollection of them was unbearable to her. 'It is only three -months ago since I came to Paris, but it seems as if it were years. -I saw and heard things that I could never tell anyone, they were so -horrible. I sold all I had of clothes, it was very little. I lived as -I could, I was very hungry all the time, but I did not mind that so -much as I minded the squalor, the noise, the crowds, the filthy smells, -the horrible language. I tried to get work, but I could not. I went to -the theatre doors, but the porters would not let me in. I did not know -what to do; even my linen was sold. I sold even my shoes, and people -give you so little when they know that you want much. I could not get -any work of any kind. I was of use on my island, but not here; and the -men jeered at me and were rude--and--and--there is nothing more to tell -that I know. I could make no money at all, and so of late I could get -no food, and the night I fell down on the bridge I was faint and very -unhappy, for they had turned me out of the woman's room because she -did not come back, and I had no money to pay for keeping it. But that -is enough about me. I met you on the bridge. You know the rest. I had -not eaten anything all the day, I suppose that was why I fainted. I -never fainted in my life before. It is only three months since I left -Grasse, but it seems so many years--so many years! Is this the world -indeed that the Comtesse Othmar spoke of? Surely it cannot be--it is -cruel, it is hideous, it is hateful--if I could only see the sea or the -country once more! You have been very good to me. I pray you to help me -to gain my own living somehow, only not in this city--pray not here! I -am stifled in it. I want the air. Pray help me!' - -Othmar was silent from emotion. It seemed unutterably cruel to him -that this child should have been led into such perils, such pain, such -want, by one careless word of his wife's, and he, who all his life long -had had about him everything that luxury can invent and comfort demand -shuddered at the thought of her suffering and her exposure, as though -he had seen his own little daughter naked and shivering in the snows -and the winds of a winter's night. - -When he left her presence that day he could think of nothing but -her piteous story. The heroic courage of the young girl, the noble -qualities she had all unconsciously revealed in the course of its -narration, the utter friendlessness of her position, and the fearless -frankness of her confidence in himself, all touched his heart closely. -It seemed horrible to him that any woman-child should suffer so much -and be surrounded with such cruel perils. Those days in Paris had done -the work of years upon this innocent creature, who had before only -known the freshness of sea and shore, the safety of a sheltered youth, -the dauntless gaiety of a buoyant and unchecked spirit; but he saw that -all through it, through all its miseries and all its temptations, she -had kept her soul unhurt. He dared not ask her how she had done so, but -he knew that she had defended herself safely from all foul contact, and -again it seemed to him a miracle great as that which guides the swallow -over desert and ocean back to its last year's nest. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - -Othmar was naturally of a tender and even enthusiastic nature. His -sympathies were warm and spontaneous, his imagination was strong and -governed his reason very often. There was much in the circumstances -of this poor child which appealed both to tenderness and imagination, -and he was haunted by her swift mellow voice, with its meridional -intonations, her great dark luminous eyes filling with sudden tears as -she remembered her island home. - -He felt that they owed her a debt. They had robbed her of her -birthright of simple joys and honest, obscure, healthful ways of life. -They could never again make her what they had found her. Who can put -back the gathered rosebud on the rose-bough? - -They had a right to give her what they could give in lieu of all which -she had lost, indirectly but indisputably, through their means. His -conscience, as well as his common sense, told him that as his wife had -been the chief offender against the child's peace, so she had the first -right to know the results of her interference, and amend them. But he -had the moral timidity of proud, reticent, and sensitive natures: he -dreaded her irony and her indifference. He could not tell what she -would say or do; possibly in the end something which he would approve; -but he knew that first of all she would ridicule him: with her lips -certainly, very likely even in her thoughts. Even when he had been her -lover she had always laughed at him for taking life so seriously, for -being Ruy Blas and Rolla rather than Sir Harry Wildair. And even if -she were moved to any kindness, how likely would her languid, haughty -footsteps tread hurtfully, without knowing or heeding it, on the -storm-tossed wild flower? She could be exquisitely kind, magnificently -generous; none more so: but was it not, alas! only while her mood to be -so lasted? - -'I will tell her--later,' he said, with that temporising before -difficulty which many a man, bold and even rash in his dealings with -his fellow-men, is apt to adopt when he deals with women. - -Meanwhile, something had to be done at once, he knew, to reconcile -Damaris to her dependence upon himself. He knew she was of the temper -which would break loose from the safest shelter and rush to the direst -danger if she deemed herself humiliated by assistance. In all her grace -of youth and helplessness of circumstance, there was still something -warm, strong, untameable in her, which he felt as the hand which holds -a bird will feel its wings stir and tremble ready to fly. It would, he -knew, be hard to aid her. It would have to be done in her own despite. - -A thought occurred to him; one of those spontaneous ideas which come -to us like very angels, and which, in after years, seem rather born of -hell than heaven. On it he spoke to her the next day. - -'Tell me, my dear--your grandfather died after you had left the island -some months? Well, did you never hear any details of his death or of -his will? You know only what the pedlar said?' - -'Only that.' - -'Then I think you should know more. He may have repented him of his -cruelty, or he may have made some sort of bequest to you, even if the -bulk of what he had has gone to your cousin. My people there could -soon inquire. Will you allow me to do that?' - -'If you wish. But I am certain he left me nothing--never thought of me. -You did not know him: once he had put any person out of his heart, it -was to him as if they never had lived at all. He was very hard, and he -never by any chance forgave. Beside--he told me--I had no claim on him, -was nothing to him.' - -'Legally. But sixteen years of life spent beside him could scarcely -pass utterly out of his memory. If he had left you anything, it is -possible your cousin was not honest enough to say so. I will inquire -at any rate. It will be more satisfaction to you to know more definite -tidings than the hawker could possibly give you.' - -'I am sure he left me nothing. But I should be glad to hear of Raphael -and the dogs.' - -'You shall hear. Raphael, I have no doubt, will be as glad to hear of -you. Meanwhile be sure that both my wife and I should be unhappy if -you fled away from our roof out into the world again. The world is not -a kind place or a safe place, my dear, for those who are young and -motherless.' - -'But I must do something,' she repeated feverishly. 'I must do -something. I cannot live on your charity. I would die sooner!' - -'I tell you I do not like the word of "charity,"' said Othmar. 'When -people have all a common misfortune, they have as it were a common tie. -We have all the misfortune, the supreme misfortune, of human life.' - -Even absorbed as she was in her own great straits and needs, Damaris -was astonished at such words from one who, it seemed to her, was at the -very summit of all earthly happiness. - -'If he be not content, who can be?' she thought. - -'It is a tie,' continued he, unconscious of her surprise, 'which binds -us all together. No one is so fortunate that he may not live to want -aid and pity. It is not so very many years ago, as the lives of nations -count, that here in Paris a king and queen became so friendless that -none dare say a kind adieu to them as they went to their deaths upon -the scaffold. Compared to Marie Antoinette, how rich you are! You have -youth, talents, friends, and all your future.' - -'I have no friends,' said Damaris, with a gloomy rejection of all -solace. - -'You have one at least,' said Othmar. 'You are a little in love with -sorrow, my dear; all imaginative youth is so. When we have really had -its actuality with us for awhile, we get to hate it bitterly, and do -all we can to forget its presence.' - -She looked at him with wonder. - -'Have you ever been unhappy?' she said incredulously; 'with all these -beautiful places? with that beautiful lady? with all the world?' - -'One is never happy for more than a day,' said Othmar with some -impatience. 'One wants, one wishes, one desires, one obtains, one -regrets--there is the whole gamut of all human notes. The scale no -sooner ascends than it descends. There is nothing happy except youth, -which does not know that it is so, and so goes through all the glories -of its time ignorant, purblind, longing to cease to be youth.' - -'I was quite happy on the island,' said Damaris wistfully. - -'Then you were wiser than I ever was,' said Othmar, as he thought with -a sort of remorse of how this innocent animal happiness, born of the -waves, and the winds, and the sun, and the blossoms, and the radiant -joy of mere living, had been destroyed by one breath and glimpse of -the world, as a flower withers up in a flame, as a bird drops dead in -carbonised air. Had they only let her alone, she would have been happy -still. - -'Yes,' Damaris sighed, and her eyes had a weary, troubled, -introspective look. They saw the blue sea washing the face of the -cliffs, the white dogs barking on the strip of yellow sand, the steep -path going up and up and up under the olive trees, the old woman in her -blue kirtle and a grey hood coming from out the groves of orange and of -lemon, a saucepan freshly scoured or linen freshly washed in her horny -hands--had all those familiar pictures faded for ever from her sight? - -Béthune had said truly that to gather the rosebud is the act of an -instant, but what power in heaven or on earth shall put the rosebud, -once broken off, back again upon the mother plant? If by any force of -will or of wealth they were to buy back her island again for her, it -would never be possible to give her back with the solid soil, and the -old house-roof, and the fruitful trees of it, the old, sweet, happy -ignorance and peace of her childhood there. - -'She is not here?' she asked suddenly, as she roused herself from her -dream of her old home. - -'My wife?' he asked in some surprise. 'No; she is in Russia.' - -'She will despise me,' said Damaris, a dull red glow of shame mounting -over her forehead. 'Will you tell her that I was found in the streets?' - -'Not if it pain you. But you mistake if you think----' - -'I should hate her to know it,' said the girl under her breath. 'I -wanted to become something very great; something that she would hear -of and come to see; and then I should have said to her: "Yes, it is I, -madame, and you will not laugh at me any more now."' - -'She never laughed at you. She admired you, and predicted a great -future for you,' said Othmar with a little embarrassment, not knowing -very well how to speak of one so near to him to this child, whose -memory was so tenacious alike of benefits and affronts. - -'Is this house hers?' asked Damaris. - -'Surely, my dear: what is mine is hers.' - -Her face darkened. - -'I am well now,' she said abruptly. 'May I not go away? I could get -work, I think, in the gardens or on the river; there would be things I -could do. I learnt something, too, at the convent in the mountains; not -much, but something. Pray try and get me work.' - -'Do not be in such haste,' said Othmar. 'It sounds like a reproach to -me. You are most fully welcome, my child. I shall always feel that we -can never atone to you for being the cause, however unconsciously, of -the breaking up of your happy life. Wait, at least, until I have made -some inquiries into your grandfather's death and testament. It may very -well be that your cousin took the occasion of your absence to help -himself to more than was his due.' - -'I do not think so. Louis was an honest man.' - -'If he be honest, inquiry will not hurt him.' - -He had resolved to go himself upon an errand which he had resolved not -to entrust to any of his agents, trustworthy though many of them were. - -In the warm August night he took the express train for the south, -and went across the country, golden with ripe corn and green with -vine-leaves, straightway to the sultry shores of the south, deserted by -their hosts of guests, and sweltering, baked and white with dust, in -the intense suns of the late summer weather. - -He went first to the seaport of St. Tropez, and made inquiries in its -dockyard and shipyard as to Louis Roze. He found that the man had -really inherited the possessions of his uncle Bérarde, had married -a young woman of the town, and was now living on the island of -Bonaventure. So far the tale told by the pedlar to Damaris had been -true. An old man, an owner of a coasting brig, who had done business -with the Bérardes all his life, told him also of the manner of Jean -Bérarde's death, and added, with regret, that the curmudgeon had left -not a penny to his granddaughter because she had refused to marry her -cousin; and added, further, that the poor child had gone no one knew -whither. It was a pity, the old man said regretfully, for she had had -a face and a voice that it did good to the souls of men to see and to -hear, and had been as active on the sea as any curlew, and so handy -with a boat, even in wild weather, that it had been a pleasure to sail -with her anywhere. - -Asked as to whether she had truly no legal claim upon her grandsire, -the old skipper affirmed that everybody had always known she was a -bastard, except herself; but nobody had ever supposed it would make -any difference in her succession to Bonaventure. Louis Roze had always -known it, but had been willing to marry her to prevent any division -of the property. So much he learned, sitting on the sea-wall of St. -Tropez, and letting the old master of the brig _Paul Mousse_ ramble on -at will with the sunbaked land behind them, and before them a sea, tame -as a plain, and oil-like in the drowsy drought. - -He knew who Othmar was, as did most people on those shores, and readily -told him all he knew, though silently wondering why he was asked these -questions. - -Othmar slept that night at his own house, and on the morrow, almost -before the sun was up, took one of his own sailing-boats, and, attended -only by one man, crossed the well-nigh motionless sea in the direction -of Bonaventure. When the isle rose in sight, lifting its green cone out -of the waves in the hot blue air, it was still early in the morning. As -he went over the smooth surface of the summer sea, skimmed by thousands -of gulls and fanned by languid fruit-scented breezes from the land, his -heart ached for the sea-born child shut away under the zinc roofs and -gilded vanes of Paris. Even if he could buy back her island, who could -make her quite what she had been? He was angered against his wife, who, -for sake of an absurd caprice, which had had no more duration in it -than the light of a wax match, had brought about so sad an exile, so -utter an uprooting and alteration of a simple and a happy life. - -He, like many men of high position, deemed a lowly fate by far the -happiest; he would have agreed with Cowley and George Herbert, and -would have chidden Herrick for not being content amidst his Devon moors -and streams, his cherry trees and roses. - -Health, peace, and fresh air seemed to him three treasures which were -ill exchanged for the feverish struggle and the artificial joys of life -in the cities of the world. - -When they neared the island they saw no one. The boat was easily run up -on to the smooth strip of beach, and he ascended the _passerelle_ and -the steps cut in the rock, as Loris Loswa had done before him once and -Damaris a thousand times. - -Things were all changed upon the little isle. Catherine, dead, had -left no successor so thrifty and sturdy as herself; the man Raphael -had gone with all his family to live at Vallauris; Louis Roze and his -wife had new faces, new ways, new things about them. The dogs were -chained up; the old coble was newly painted; the little balcony had a -dab of gilding, tricolour paint, and some smoking chairs; the great -white rose had been cut down, the new owners had thought it harboured -caterpillars and slugs. Nature had made the place lovely, and even -man, the universal deformer and destroyer, could not make it wholly -otherwise. But it had lost its look of freshness and luxuriance, and -all its deep charm of solitude; it was choked up with vulgar furniture -and gewgaws that the bride thought fine and rare. Modern china stood -upon the shelves, and in the old solid silver pots artificial flowers -were stuck. Some maidens, with many colours in their gowns and great -ear-rings in their ears, cackled and giggled behind the orange trees. -It had been an idyl of George Sand's; it was now a rustic scene for an -operetta of Offenbach's. - -All that could not be vulgarised was the pure air, rich with the odour -of millions of orange-blossoms, and the serene far-stretching sea, blue -as the mouse-ear growing by a woodland brook. - -Louis Roze in his shirt-sleeves, smoking beside the door, was a -big, burly, red-faced man, with ear-rings also in his ears, and the -broad roll of the southern accent in his thick voice; his wife was a -buxom, brown, stout, and vulgar woman of four- or five-and-twenty. -They did not know Othmar by sight, and he did not make himself known -to them. He gave them an order for a boat in the name of one of his -own yacht-builders; an order large enough to open the heart of the -boat-builder of St. Tropez. Then by casual questions, and by letting -the owner of Bonaventure talk on and boast of his possessions, he -learned what he wanted to know: the facts of the elder Bérarde's death, -and of the amount which had been bequeathed to his nephew. - -'He left everything he had on earth to me; he knew in whose hands it -would prosper and increase,' said in conclusion the big, oily-tongued, -boastful Provençal. - -'Had he no other heirs at all?' asked Othmar, 'or was it your uncle's -very natural preference for yourself?' - -'None on earth,' said the man hastily, with a little added red on his -red cheeks, and a quick glance of his eye. - -'Who was the girl, then,' asked his guest, 'who used to live with him, -and go out in his brig?' - -'She was nothing at all to Bérarde,' said Louis Roze sullenly, -beginning to perceive that he had been interrogated with a purpose. - -'A bastard!' he added. 'The law does not recognise bastards.' - -'The law, like proverbs, is the distilled wisdom of mankind,' said -Othmar. 'Like proverbs also, it occasionally may be caught tripping in -its wisdom.' - -The man eyed him uneasily. - -'She was a bastard,' he said again. 'I did generously by her, because -after all blood is blood. I sent her a handsome dowry; big enough to -get her a good spouse amongst better men than she had any right to look -for:--' - -He felt angry and baffled, and would have been quarrelsome and have -told his visitant to mind his own business, only that he saw the -unbidden guest was a gentleman, and the order for the craft had made -him patient and obsequious. - -Othmar looked at him with some disgust, changed his tone, and addressed -him with more severity. - -'M. Louis Roze, it is no concern of mine you will say, but I am here -to tell you one thing, and you must listen to me. Legally, maybe, your -cousin Damaris had no claim on this estate, but you know that she was -brought up from infancy as her grandfather's heiress, that she was -always encouraged to believe the island would be her own, and that -only because of her refusal to marry you was she omitted from her -grandfather's will, to your benefit--perhaps from an old man's perverse -tyranny and rage, perhaps a little also from your suggestion and your -intrigues. Be that as it will, you are morally bound, unless you are -a cur indeed, to share your inheritance with one who has every moral -right, and right of usage, to the whole of it. The dower you boast of -having sent was returned to you. Your cousin is poor, but not so poor -as to take as your alms what is her right. She is with those who can -protect her, and is out of the danger to which you allowed her to drift -without stretching out a hand to save her. If you consent to divide -in equity your inheritance with her, I will tell you who I am, and -give you all proofs and explanations that you may reasonably require. -If you refuse I shall bid you good-morning, and rest content with the -satisfaction, not a rare one in this world, of having seen an unjust -and dishonest man.' - -Louis Roze stared at him, perplexed by his tone, purple with rage and -astonishment, made a coward not by conscience but by fear of losing -a lucrative order, and so bewildered at the sudden attack that, -southerner though he was, he had no good lie ready. All he felt for the -moment sensible of was that not a bronze bit of the money, not a rood -of the soil, not a rotten bough off one of the trees, should go away -from himself to that girl, who had so grossly outraged him in refusing -his hand. In a boorish, dumb-animal fashion he had been in love with -the handsome child, who had always laughed at him and flouted him, and -had never even let him kiss her cheeks in cousinly manner. As she had -made her bed so she might lie in it. Not a sou should she get out of -him, that he swore; the will was a good will, attested and duly proved; -no one could gainsay it, and the young woman falsely called Bérarde was -without any possible claim whatever; there had been no legal adoption -of her. So he declared, with many an oath to keep his courage up before -this stranger, whose manner daunted him; and his wife overhearing that -it was a question of the inheritance which was under discussion, thrust -herself into the balcony and vociferated with shrill iteration and the -fury of a woman menaced in her dearest possessions, that whilst she -lived not a centime should ever go away from her lawful lord. - -Othmar turned away before their clamour was half done. - -'That is enough,' he said to them, 'keep all you have and may it -prosper with you. Your cousin has no need of it, but I thought it right -to give you a chance to do your duty.' - -Louis Roze eyed him with perplexity, and grew silent. - -Othmar asked him nothing more and took his leave; the bride and -her sisters watching his departure through the intricacy of the -orange-boughs, giggling and criticising him in audible phrase, their -black eyes and their gold hair-pins flashing in the sunshine amongst -the glossy leaves. - -'That brute will do nothing for her,' he thought, as he descended to -his boat. 'And even if he were inclined ever to do so, his wife would -never let him follow his inclination. There is nothing on earth so -avaricious as peasants who have grown rich.' - -He took his way back to the mainland, and left behind him much -uneasiness, wonder, and speculation amongst the inhabitants of -Bonaventure. - -The will was a good will, and his position was as sound as sound law -could make it, yet Louis Roze was not quiet in his mind. He was not a -bad man, though greedy, and he felt that this stranger was right; that -something of all he had gained by this inheritance ought to go to the -child who for so many years had been allowed to look upon herself as -the future owner of Bonaventure. He was pursued by his recollections -of her leaping like a young kid up the rocks, steering through the sea -foam and the sunshine, gathering the oranges or the olives, carrying -the linen down to the beach to dry, running gaily with the white dogs -before her, swimming like a fish with her beautiful arms flung out on -the water, and her eyes smiling up at the sky; _la mouette_ as the -people had called her, because she was so at home in the waves and the -winds. - -Truly she ought to have had something; she was of the old man's blood, -whether or no the law recognised her or not; and where was she and what -would become of her? His thoughts were painful and perplexed as he -smoked his pipe under the orange trees. - -But he was not ready to part with any portion of what had been -bequeathed to him. He was well off certainly, still no one has ever -enough; and his wife was with child, and might in time give him a score -of children. It was better to keep what he had got, and, after all, -Damaris had insulted him after being affianced to him from the time she -was twelve, and his heart hardened utterly against her at that memory. -If she had not been an obstinate, insolent, wayward fool she would have -been here now, instead of the young woman from St. Tropez, who had a -shrew's tongue, which Louis Roze heard oftener than he cared to hear it. - -So he thrust the matter from his mind and counted the oranges on the -tree nearest him with complacent sense of ownership. This stranger -had said that Damaris was with friends, let them look after her; his -conscience was clear. - -When in the course of the day he learned from some deep-sea fishers -trawling near the island who his visitor had been--for the fishermen -had recognised Othmar as he had passed in his boat--Louis Roze felt -yet less sure that he had done wisely. To have pleased such a rich man -might have been worth more than an acre of land, than a handful of -gold. He hated aristocrats with all the savage hatred of a socialist -of the south, but he respected rich men with all the admiring esteem -which those who love money feel for those who possess it in unusual -abundance. The good-will of this _archimillionnaire_ might have been -more valuable to him than a little piece of the land, had he offered it -frankly as his cousin's share. - -When, in a week's time, some persons came to him to seek to buy the -island, he was certain that they came from his late visitor, although -they came only in the name and by the commission of a well-known lawyer -of Aix. - -He was himself dazzled by the great sums they were willing to propose, -was half-disposed to treat with them; but his bride was shrewder, or -thought herself so, than he. - -'Would you barter your coming child's property?' she hissed in his ear. -'If rich men seek after the place, be sure it is because it has some -value we are not aware of; it has some buried treasure that they know -of, or some silver in the rocks, or some other ore or another. If you -sell it you will never forgive yourself. Keep it, and send them about -their business, and begin to bore in the ground and see what you can -find.' - -The suggestion heated the fancy and the cupidity of her husband. Of -course, he reflected, no one offered three or four times the apparent -value of a place unless they knew that it would become worth what they -were anxious to pay for it; and he sternly refused to hearken to any -terms of sale for the rock of Bonaventure. - -'What is mine is mine, and all the kings of the earth cannot buy it of -me,' he said, with a petty mind's delight in power and in the occasion -of baffling and thwarting his superiors. - -'I believe he is in love with the girl,' he added to his wife, 'and -wants to get the island for her. We might make a rare bargain if it -were so; but those men of Aix are too cautious to let out who is behind -them.' - -'Roze,' the wife said, 'you are a simpleton. There is no love in the -business. They know of some value in the island that we do not; that -is why they want to buy. Because you are for ever hankering yourself -after that great-eyed, long-limbed child, you think every other man is -just a fool the same.' - -And Louis Roze, whose temper was cowed by the fiercer sharper temper of -his bride, gave in to her argument, and remained so stubborn that the -agents from Aix could come to no terms with him. - -Inspired by the idea of buried treasures or possible ore in the rocks, -he began to neglect his own affairs at St. Tropez and elsewhere, and -dig and delve himself in the soil, and hack at the stone face of the -cliffs with a pickaxe. The chimera of a fantastic hope entered into him -and gave him no peace; he was ready to ruin all the fair fruits of the -surface, and all the artificial soil brought there at such labour in -the previous century, for the sake of this imaginary wealth, hidden in -the bowels of the isle. - -Meantime the men of Aix informed Othmar that it was not possible to -induce the proprietor to part with Bonaventure, and ventured to hint -that the property was not worth one-half or one-quarter of what he had -been willing to spend on its purchase. - -'That may be,' he said; 'but it is a caprice of mine. If the island -ever comes into the market, obtain it for me on any terms. The owner -may need money some day, or may change his mind.' - -His experience of men was that they always sold things in the long run, -if they could do so with advantage, and that they seldom remained in -the same mind when it turned to their profit to change it. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - - -When he returned from the south he paused at Amyôt before going on -to Paris. He wanted a day or two to reflect on the future of Damaris -before he saw her again. It was a problem which did not very easily -admit of solution, without oppressing her with a sense of debt and -servitude. - -The certainty that her cousin would do nothing to help her brought home -to himself the gravity of his position towards her. He had taken her -from the streets as a kind man will take a stray dog; he had as much -actual right to turn her out to them again as the man would have to -turn out the dog, but his compassion and his chivalry forbade him to -think of such desertion of her. There was that in the loneliness of her -circumstances which touched all the warmest and most pitiful fibres of -his nature, whilst the fact that more or less directly the caprice of -his wife had been the beginning of all her misfortunes, made him feel -that he owed a duty and a debt to her which could only be discharged by -the most honest and sedulous endeavour to do well by her and secure her -future from shipwreck. - -But what was that future to be? To seek any counsel from his wife -seemed to him useless. He had seen her more than once moved to strong -interest and expectation by some nascent talent which she had fostered -and sheltered in the sunshine of her favour, in the hothouse of her -world; and he had also seen her intolerant impatience and her profound -oblivion when her anticipations had been unrealised, and that which she -had honoured had proved incapable of rising to the heights of great -achievement. He knew the changes of her temperament too well to be -willing to subject to their fluctuations a proud and sensitive child. -Even if she deigned to notice her again, Damaris could never be more -to her than a mere plaything, and she had a terrible habit of tiring -of her toys in ten minutes. She had had a fanciful idea that the girl -had talents of a high order, and he knew that if her fancy proved at -fault she would become intolerant of the person who had disappointed -her expectations. Mediocrity had always seemed to her the worst of -all offences. The flowers which might unclose at sunrise might never -reach, or never bear if they did reach, the glare of noon. The world is -pitiless, that he knew, and to its wedding feast of fame many crowd, -but few are chosen. And Nadège, he knew too, would be as intolerant as -the world if where she had deigned to believe that genius existed, she -should only find a mere facile and fragile talent, without power to -ascend where she bade it soar, or force to justify her protection of it. - -He had not, either, forgotten her suggestion before Loswa's sketch, -that some day he would fall in love with the subject of it. The jest -had annoyed him and offended him. - -Some time, no doubt, she would know everything: circumstances would -bring it before her if the world and Damaris ever became acquainted; -and if not, if obscurity became the child's lot, and failure the issue -of her dreams, then it would be better that Nadine, who had no pity for -the one or sympathy with the other, should hear nought of her. He did -not care to dwell himself on the possibilities of the future of one who -seemed to him so ill fitted for the prosaic brutalities of a struggle -for fame: he had temporised with her destiny, and vaguely trusted to -some sequence of fair chances to drift the barque of her life into some -safe haven. Of the pure and chivalrous tenderness for her which he -felt, he would have been ashamed to speak to any living soul: for who -would have believed him? - -'How difficult it is to do a little good!' he thought, as he drove -through the deep glades of his own woods, through the cool, dewy, -windless air of a summer evening towards the great castle which had -once known the Valois kings. 'Now, if I wished to do the most brutal, -selfish, hellish thing on earth, how easy it would be! I should find -the whole world conspiring to help me, and should buy souls as easily -as if they were oysters!' - -Since his son had been born there, an affection for Amyôt had come -to him. It was his residence of preference; if it had been possible -he would have liked never to leave its vast woods, its sunny shining -courts, its majestic and historic solitudes. The feeling that he was -a new comer there had been soothed away as years had passed; he had -ceased to be haunted by the memories of his fathers' evil deeds; he had -begun to look forward to a race springing from himself which should -ennoble and justify the riches of the Othmars. It had become to him -less an ill-acquired and eternal monument of his ancestors' iniquities -than the cherished birthplace of children who would transmit to the far -future his own conscience and his own honour. But as he came to it now -in its stillness and loneliness, the earlier feeling stole back on him, -as a bitter taste will survive and return when a sweet one has passed -away. - -It towered before him in the warm ethereal rose of the sunrise on the -morning of his arrival, one of the greatest of the historical palaces -of a chivalrous and immemorial land; and as the first beams of the -eastern sun caught the glittering vanes of the towers, the gilded -salamanders of the first Francis, he once more recalled with sudden -sharpness and disgust the memory that the Othmars had entered these -mighty stone portals only through the usurer's right-of-way; had -climbed these lofty sculptured towers only by the money-lender's ladder -of gold. - -The world of men had forgotten it, or, if they ever remembered it, -did so only with respect and envy as they always jealously and -admiringly chronicle what they call self-made success. But to him it -was humiliating and hateful. Sometimes it seemed to him that, had -he done what his conscience and his manhood required, he would have -refused utterly and always to use this wealth of theirs in any luxury, -would have stripped it off him like a plague-stricken garment, he would -have gone to any personal toil, with hands empty but clean--dreams, -fanatical and foolish dreams, all men would have said, yet dreams -which, followed out, would have had in them a certain nobility, a -certain reality, a certain fulfilment of the ideals of his youth. - -As he paced its terraces in the balmy stillness, the gardens -outstretched beneath him in all their beauty, which bloomed and faded -unseen by any eyes save those of the hirelings who tended them, the -remembrance of the dead girl who once had dwelt there beside him in a -summer such as this came back upon him as it did often now since he had -found and read those pathetic records of her short life. A repentant -consciousness whispered that to her those dreams would not have seemed -absurd: with her they would not have been impossible. Yseulte would -have obeyed him had he chosen to change Amyôt to a La Garaye. - -He would have seemed to her no more unwise or mad had he stripped -her of all wealth and luxury than Claude of La Garaye seemed to the -woman whose bones lie beside his beneath the weeds and grasses of -the graveyard of Taden. Had he said but one word to her of such a -dedication of their lives, all her unworldly simplicity and courage, -all her childlike optimism and faith, all her heroism, fervour and -superstition, would have made her whole soul kindle at his invitation -as spirit leaps to flame at the first touch of fire. With her it would -have been possible; a life wholly unlike the life of the world, led in -open contradiction of all its opinions, demands and estimates; spent in -entire imaginative atonement for the greeds and the crimes of dead men. - -'No, it would not have been possible,' he thought, as these memories -floated through his brain. 'No; for the life of La Garaye two things -are essential, Love and Faith. I had none of the first for her; I have -none of the second either for man or God.' - -La Garaye was the outcome of blind unquestioning belief in humanity -and heaven, such belief as can only come over narrow horizons and to -uncultured minds. 'Have Augustine's faith,' says a modern teacher to -a faithless world. But the teacher forgets that the world can no more -return to its abandoned faiths than a man can return to the toys and -the joys of his infancy. - -There is a profound melancholy in the solitary musings of every man -or woman whose youth has harboured all the high ideals of a lofty -and pensive enthusiasm, and whose maturity is held down by all the -innumerable habits and demands, usages and necessities of life in the -great world. Society is imperious and irresistible. Out of its beaten -track none of its subjects can wander far or long. Its atmosphere -is pregnant at once with sloth and excitement, and its bonds are -liliputian but indestructible. Society has neither imagination nor -ideality, and when either of these comes into it, it destroys it -unmercifully. There is a potent attraction in it even for those who -believe themselves the least susceptible of such seduction, and the -network of its usages and habits becomes a prison which even the most -unwilling captives learn to prefer to liberty. - -It might have been possible once, possible to have given back all those -ill-gotten millions to the hungry multitudes of humanity; possible to -have stripped himself of all pomp and possession and been nothing on -earth save such as his own brain might have had power to make him. It -might have been possible once, but it was now and for ever impossible. - -Such thoughts drifted through his mind as he paced the beautiful -rose-colonnades and magnolia-groves of these gardens which had in them -the sadness inseparable from all places which have a history and have -once been peopled by a historic race. - -Neither power nor place had any fascination for him, and the meannesses -of mankind wearied him and left his heart barren. When the world -grudges the rich man his 'unearned increment,' it forgets how much -base coin it gives him in revenge for his possessions; it is for -ever seeking to cheat or, at best, to use him; the parasite and the -sycophant are always licking the dust from his path, that, unseen, they -may steal the gold from his pocket; the meanest side of all humanity is -exposed to him; even friendship becomes scarcely distinguishable from -flattery, and the greed, the envy, and the low foibles of his fellows, -though the base toys with which the cynic plays, leave his soul sick -when it is not covered with the cynic's buckler. - -Othmar was no cynic, and his knowledge of his fellows had saddened -and oppressed him. This knowledge had not made him serve them less -faithfully, but it had taught him that all such service was utterly -vain, either to secure gratitude or to ennoble society. The world rolls -on, soaked in dulness, in bestiality, in cruelty, in a hideous monotony -of vulgar inventions and crafty crimes and imbecile conventionalities; -it has America instead of Athens, a machine instead of an art, a -Krapotkine instead of a Socrates--and it prates of progress! - -Governed by money as men are, things were possible to Othmar which -would have been impossible, or most difficult at least, to many. His -position made a vast number and variety of persons of all classes -known to him; his large liberalities had endeared him to many people -of all kinds, who would have done anything he desired in return -for his benefits; he had always dealt with his fellows with great -kindliness and indulgence, but with perspicuity and intelligence; he -was well served by those who laboured for him, and was seldom betrayed. -Ingratitude and treachery he met with sometimes, but less often than -his own slight estimate of human nature led him to expect, and when -he needed assistance or service he could always find on the instant -instruments adapted to his end. If he had had the instincts of a bad -nature he could have contributed endlessly to the demoralisation of -his fellow-men; with the temperament he possessed he never asked -any return for his benefits or expected any thankfulness for them. -Nevertheless the world was set thick with his debtors, if he believed -that he numbered few friends, and whenever he wanted anything done it -was as easy for him to discover doers of it as it was for the Borgia to -find the hand that would fill the cup, the fingers that would use the -dagger. - -One half-hour's thought, as he wandered through the lonely gardens of -his château, sufficed him to dispose of the problem of Damaris's fate. -She must be made to believe, he decided, that her grandfather had left -her enough to keep her from want, and she must be placed somewhere in -safety. As for her genius, if genius she had, it would find its way to -culture as surely as a plant to the light. But meantime she must live: -and live without imagining that she lived on charity. The only way to -make it possible for her to do so would be to induce her to think that -she had not been wholly forgotten by Jean Bérarde. So he reasoned, and -acted on his conclusions without weighing their possible consequences -to himself or her. - -He was a man much more truthful than life in the world makes men -usually. A falsehood was contemptible and cowardly in his sight. One of -his most continual contentions with Friedrich Othmar had always been -his refusal to admit that lying was needful in politics and finance; -and in private life his wife laughed at him frequently for his distaste -to those mere social untruths which have become the small change of -society's currency. He disliked all subterfuge, all sophism, all -distortion of fact, and even the harmless falsehood of compliment. - -But this single untruth to be told to Damaris seemed so necessary, so -harmless, that it carried with it no odour of dishonesty to him. In no -other way could she be kept from want and danger. Without some such -simple ruse she could never be saved from herself, and from all that -impetuosity and ignorance which would destroy her as surely as a like -enthusiasm destroyed the virgin of Domrémy. - -Rich people, who have many connections and dependents, can arrange -circumstances to their liking in many small ways, with a facility which -is sometimes in pathetic contrast with their powerlessness to command -personal happiness and health, human gratitude or human contentment. -To Othmar it was easy to arrange circumstances for those in whom he -was interested, though it was out of his power to make his own life -the thing he would have liked it to be. His wide command of money, -and his great knowledge of men and women, enabled him sometimes to -play the part of _deus ex machinâ_ successfully. He tried to play it -for Damaris: tried, with an honest wish to serve her, and a boyish -disregard of consequences, which would have made his wife, had she -known of them, call him a _berger de Florian_ in pitiless ridicule. - -Amongst the many persons who owed him more than a common debt, there -was an old woman whose only remaining grandson, a young student at the -time, had been compromised in the days of the Commune, and would have -been numbered amongst those who were to be shot without mercy, had not -Othmar, who was at Versailles at the time, interceded for and saved -him, being touched by the youth's fine countenance and his entreaty -to be allowed to see his grandmother ere he died. On inquiry and -further knowledge of the lad he had been more and more interested in -him, perceiving that mistaken creeds and distorted ideals had brought -him amongst this sorry company of pillagers and _pétroleuses_. He had -influence enough with M. Thiers to get a free pardon for the youth, on -condition of his leaving France at once. He sent him at his own expense -out of the country, gave him a clerkship in his house at Vienna, and -had the satisfaction of seeing him become in a few years a peaceable -and happy citizen, a diligent and devoted servant. - -The old grandmother, by name Reine Chabot, owned and farmed a few -acres of good land near Les Hameaux, in the rich vale of Chevreuse. To -Othmar, who had saved her boy in body and soul, she would have given -body and soul herself. She was a hale and strong woman, of simple -habits and of noble mind. She was a recluse, but not a morbid one, -and her ways and manner of life were similar to those which Damaris -had been used to on the island of Bonaventure. To her he resolved to -confide the girl's charge during her convalescence, or for so long as -she might need a home. He went himself down to the farm, and, almost -before he had spoken, his request was granted and received as an honour. - -The dark, stern eyes of the aged woman were soft with moisture as she -joined her brown hands on his, and said with fervour: - -'All that I have is yours to command. Did you not do for me and mine -that which was beyond all praise or price?' - -'I have found two people who accept my motives as honest ones,' thought -Othmar. 'I shall surely find no more. To expect belief in any action -that has no personal object at the bottom of it is a folly that nobody -but a boy should commit. The child believes in me because she is at the -age of faith and of innocence; and the woman believes me because she -adores me and does not look any further; but nobody else will be so -quick in faith.' - -The farmhouse, called the Croix Blanche, was a stout -seventeenth-century building, which had escaped injury during the great -war by some miracle, and was as lonely in its situation as though it -had been five hundred instead of fifteen miles from Paris. In such a -retreat he thought this checked and bruised sea-bird might find as -safe a nest for a season of rest as the lark found there in the long -grass of its meadows. Rural quietude, pure air, good care, and the balm -which lies for poetic temperaments in the mere sense that the country -silences are around them, would do all that was needed, he fancied, to -restore the natural buoyancy and strength of her constitution, and -thither he directed the nuns to take her one afternoon when the shadows -grew long over the grass pastures and quiet woods of that smiling and -pastoral country which stretches around the ruins of what was once -Port-Royal des Champs. - -She was in that state of weakness blended with the delicious sense -of returning health which makes life seem like a dream, and all its -scenes pass like dream-pictures. She was filled with a vague sense -of perfect faith and peace, and all that he did for her she accepted -unquestioningly as undoubted good. - -When she saw the low grey-stone farmhouse covered with its climbing -roses, its wooden outhouses buried under elder and poplar trees, its -grass lands lying warm in the glow of the afternoon sun, she stretched -out her thin hands to it all as to a friend, and tears of pleasure swam -in her eyes. - -'It is the country,' she said under her breath with delight. - -All the sweet pungent smell of the turned earth where a labourer dug -in it, all the fresh glad scent of growing leaves and ripening fruits -and grasses browning in the sun, all the familiar sounds, a watch-dog's -bark, a blackbird's song, the hum of bees in the rose bloom, the -distant call of a corncrake in the meadows--they were all dear and -welcome like the voices of friends long unheard. It was the country: -all the strength and the warmth and the force of her youth seemed to -rush back into her veins with the sight and the sounds of it. - -For the first time since she had left the island she laughed. - -'That is well,' thought the old woman, her hostess, regarding her. -'Those who love the country have clean souls.' - -She had not asked or wished to ask any questions concerning her guest. - -In her eyes Othmar could do no wrong, and to her gratitude his will was -law. But she had kept her own soul clean all her days, dwelling here -always in these same green peaceful places; and as she looked on the -face of Damaris she was glad, for she saw there three things which are -as beautiful as flowers--innocence, and youth, and ignorance of all -fear and guile. - -Damaris slept very soundly that night in a little white room that smelt -of lavender and pressed rose-leaves, and when she awoke in the morning -heard the pleasant sound of mowing scythes, of rippling water, of a -thrush's singing in a blossoming elder bough; and all the young life -in her seemed to arise and grow anew, and become once more as glad to -greet the sun as any bird which wakes at dawn as the first white light -gleams through its house of leaves. - -Many quiet and almost happy summer days followed for her, in which she -recovered all her normal strength. The ways and the work of the farm -were familiar and welcome to her, and she scarcely waited to be well -before taking to herself a share of its labours. - -The widow Chabot asked her no questions, but she, having no secrets, -soon related the few incidents of her short existence, and heard in -return the narrative of Othmar's actions during the Commune. Taciturn -by temperament, and grave and reserved by habit as the old woman was, -she grew eloquent whenever she spoke of the saviour of the last of her -race, and Damaris, when the day's work was done, and they sat together -in the rose-coloured porch while the spinning-wheels flew round, -never wearied of hearing that tale, and said in her own heart as she -listened, 'How good he is!--how good!' - -These summer weeks in Chevreuse were full of rest and solace to her. It -was but a pause, a halt before the heat and stress of life, she knew; -an '_étape_' such as she had seen the dust-covered conscripts on the -march enjoy, resting by the wayside under the trees, where some little -water-spring bubbled up amongst the cistus bushes and the euphorbia -of a Riviera road. But she was at peace in it, and, childlike, hardly -thought of the morrow. - -Sometimes she looked far away, when the sun rose, to the east where -Paris was, and wondered if ever there the world would hear of her, -know her, care for her. But it was all vague. Her future was bathed in -golden light, like the green landscape when the sun came out from the -mists of dawn; but it had no distinctness to her, no definite shape or -end. It was mere radiant nebulæ, like the rosy and amber-tinted clouds -which the peasants looking eastward said was Paris, though no roof, or -dome, or spire was visible when the morning broke. - -Othmar came to see her rarely, and his visits were brief; but as she -had no vanity and had much gratitude, she was wholly content with such -slight remembrance. He sent her many books and other things which -amused her, and her mind was eager for all kinds of knowledge. She had -great natural intelligence and quickness of perception, and she read -the fine prose and the stately alexandrines of the old French authors -with avidity and delight. Something of the intellectual life of Port -Royal seemed to her fancy still to linger in the air, and make classic -all the rustic paths of this quiet valley. - -When she walked over the daisied grass that grew about the ruined -dovecot, Pascal seemed to pace beside her, and as she leaned over the -little brook which finds its way amongst the cresses and the mouse-ear, -she fancied she saw the face of her great master Racine reflected in -its shallow waters. - -Her hostess, though a woman of no great culture, yet was learned -enough in the literature of earlier days, and in the associations of -her birthplace, to know every legend and name that are attached to the -stones and the meadows of Les Hameaux. She was no uncongenial companion -to an imaginative girl, for though taciturn, she could have a certain -rude eloquence when strongly moved, and to her reverent and unworldly -mind 'les Messieurs de Port-Royal' were ever present memories, both -saintly and heroic. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - - -He had apportioned the sum needed at a lower figure than his own wishes -would have dictated, that it might seem to her more natural as the -legacy of Jean Bérarde; it was enough to keep her in such simple ways -of life as she had been used to, no more. He told her of it, as of a -legacy, the first day that he saw her at Les Hameaux: told it in few -words, for all equivocation was painful to him. She never for a moment -doubted the truth of the story, and he was touched to see that her -first emotion was not relief at the material safety insured to her, but -joy that the old man dying had forgiven her. - -'If I had only known,' she said through her tears, 'I would have gone -back to him! I would have gone back just to have heard him say one kind -word for the last!' - -The thought that her grandsire had pardoned and remembered her was -a philtre of health and strength to her. It brought back all the -warmth to her cheeks, all the depth of colour to her eyes; she wept -passionately, but from a sweet not harsh sorrow, from gratitude to his -memory, from thankfulness that his last thought of her had been one of -kindness. - -Othmar watched and heard her with an embarrassment which she was too -absorbed in her own emotions to notice. - -'All the money I shall give her would not suffice to buy one of -Nadine's rows of pearls,' he thought. 'Yet what rapture it affords her! -A lie! of course it is a lie; and all my Jesuit tutors could never make -me credit that a lie could be a good thing, however good its motive. -But this lie is innocent if ever there were one innocent, and even if -it were a crime the crime would be worth the doing, to set this poor -lost sea-bird safe from storm upon a ledge of rock. She would be beaten -to death by the waves without some shelter.' - -Yet his conscience was not wholly easy as he responded to her warm -words of gratitude to himself for having discovered this bequest for -her, and answered her many questions as to the island that she loved, -the children of Raphael, the dogs, the trees, the boat; all things on -Bonaventure were living things to her. However long her life might -last, always the clearest and the dearest of her memories would be -those sunny childish years in the little isle of fruit and flowers, -where for sixteen years the sun had shone and the sea wind blown on -her, and the fish and the birds and the beasts been her schoolfellows. - -She had something of meridional heedlessness, and much of meridional -imagination, which made the fiction of her grandsire's legacy more -easily believed by her than it would have been by more prosaic and -cautious tempers. To her it seemed so natural that he should have -relented towards her and provided for her. All her memories were of -wants provided for by him; he had been her providence, if a harsh one, -for so long that it seemed a natural part of his character and of her -destiny that he should continue to be her providence even in his grave. - -'If I could only be sure that he is happy in heaven,' she said to -Othmar, with a certain appeal and doubt in her accent. Even to her, -though she had respected him, it was difficult to think of Jean Bérarde -of Bonaventure in any celestial life. 'Do you not think,' she added -wistfully, 'that God would remember that he was a very good man in many -ways, and always honest and upright in all his dealings with rich and -poor? He loved money, but he was not mean--not to me, never to me--and -if _laborare est orare_, as the Sisters used to say, surely he must be -in peace?' - -Othmar heard the tormenting fear which was expressed in her tone, and -refrained from adding one grain of doubt to it. - -'Be sure he is at peace, my dear,' he answered; while he thought, 'more -peace than such a brute deserves--the peace of utter extinction; the -peace of dissolution and absorption into the earth which holds him, -into the grass which covers him; peace which he shares with kings and -poets and heroes!' - -'He believed nothing, you know,' said Damaris wistfully, 'nothing of -any creed, I mean. But then, if he could not, was it any more his fault -than it is a deaf man's fault that he cannot hear? I think not. Do you -remember that poem of Victor Hugo's? I forget its name, but the one in -which a great wicked king of the east, all black with crime, is saved -from hell because he has a moment of pity for a pig that is sick and -tormented with flies and lies helpless in the sun? The king drew the -pig aside out of the sun and drove the flies away. It is beautifully -told in the poem; I tell it ill. But what I mean is, that I think if -they are angered in heaven with my grandfather because he led a hard, -selfish, crooked, cramped life, they will yet let him into paradise -because he was so good to me.' - -Othmar assented, with a sense of infinite compassion for her. All her -dream was as baseless as the golden city which an evening sun builds -out of clouds for a moment in the western sky. But he let it be. Life -would soon enough wake her from such dreams with the rough hand of a -stepmother, who grudges motherless children sleep. - -'Let us speak of present things,' he said, to distract her thoughts. -'This is very little money, though you think so much of it, which -is left to stand between you and all kinds of want. Will you let -me place it out for you where it will bring you most? You may have -heard, my dear, that I am one of those hapless persons who are doomed -by circumstance to have much to do with gold. I hate it, but that is -no matter. It is my fate. Will you trust me to try and multiply your -little fortune? I will be very careful of it, but something more it -shall make for you in my hands than if it were lying in a kitchen -chimney or under an orchard wall, which you are too true to your nation -not to think the safest kind of investment. I may? Then be it so. No, -do not thank me, there is no need for that. But you are very young and -you are not very prudent, I should say, and in these matters you will -need advice. Remember always to command mine.' - -She looked at him with grateful but questioning eyes. - -'Why should you do so much for me?' she said with wonder. - -'I do very little,' returned Othmar. 'And were it far more, you have -a direct claim on me--on us. If my wife had not tempted you away that -memorable day, you would have been dwelling contented on your island -still, and probably for ever.' - -'No: not there,' she said slowly, as if she reasoned with herself. 'I -do not think I should ever have stayed there very long. I loved it, -but I wanted something else. When I used to sit, as so often I sat, -all alone on the balcony that hangs over the sea, when it was late at -night, and everyone else was asleep, and the nightingales were shouting -in the orange-boughs underneath, I used to think that some other world -there must be where some one cared for Ondine and Athalie, where some -one had cried as I cried for Triboulet and Hernani; where they did not -all talk all day long of the price of oil, and the cost of cargoes, -and the disease in the lemons, and the worm in the olive wood. I knew -that all these great and beautiful things could not have been written -unless men and women were, somewhere, great and beautiful also; and -very often--oh, often! long before your Lady spoke to me--I had thought -that whenever my grandfather should die I would go and find that world -for myself. And now----' - -He waited some moments, but her sentence remained incomplete. - -'And now?' he repeated at last. 'Now do you think still that there is -such a world, or do you not see that no one does care for Ondine or -Athalie? that the price of oil and the worm in the olive (or their -equivalents) are the sole carking cares of the great world, just as -much as of your peasant-proprietors? Did you not dream of Hernani, and -did you not only meet the _sergent de ville_?' - -'I met you!' she said gently, with a tinge of reproach in her voice. - -'My dear child!' said Othmar, touched and a little embarrassed. 'I -am far from heroic. Ask the person who knows me best, and she will -tell you so. I only rake the world's gold to and fro as if I were a -croupier, and I assure you the olives and the lemons are much worthier -subjects of thought.' - -She made a little involuntary gesture of her hand, as if she pushed -away some unworthy suggestion which it was not needful to refute in -words. Her face had grown serious and resolute; she had the look of a -young Pallas Athene. Innumerable thoughts were crowding on her which -she could ill express. - -Ever since a possible fate had been suggested to her in which fame -might attend on her, ever since a vague immeasurable ideal had been -suggested to her in the music of Paul of Lemberg, it had become -impossible for her ever to remain content with the homely aims and -the prosaic thoughts of the people amongst whom she had been born. -Heredity and accident had alike combined to divorce her from her -natural fate. Of those thus severed from their original source, thus -rebellious against their native air, two or three in a generation -become great, famous, victorious; the larger number fall back from -the summits which they aspire to reach, and fill the restless, -dissatisfied, tarnished ranks which are comprised in the all-expressive -word _déclassés_. But the word seemed unfitted to her; there were -that simplicity, that originality, that force in the child which mark -the higher natures of humanity, whether they be found in peasants or -in princes; there were in her also that natural high breeding and -absolute self-unconsciousness which render all vulgarity and assumption -impossible; those marks of race which are wholly independent of all -circumstance. Jeanne d'Arc greeted her king as her brother, and -Christine Nilsson meets sovereigns as her sisters. - -He had seen this child also bear herself with inborn grace and natural -dignity in the first dazzling scene and unkind embarrassment of -circumstance which she had ever known. It seemed to him that she would -go thus through life. - -'I think I could _make_ the world care,' she said, with a curious -mingling of dreaminess and decision, of ardour and of doubt in her -tone. 'Even your wife said I might do so--it is something outside -myself, beyond myself. I do not mean any vanity or folly. It is -something one _has_, as the nightingale has its song, and the lemon -flower its odour. If they would hear me--as your Lady heard? How could -I make them hear me?' - -Othmar was silent. - -Then he added almost cruelly, but cruelty seemed to him kindness: - -'My wife forgot that she had heard you five minutes afterwards: so -perhaps would the world. And if so, what then?' - -'At least I should have tried.' - -The divine obstinacy of genius spoke in the words. Better failure and -oblivion than oblivion without effort. - -'If only I could try?' she repeated with imploring prayer: to her he -seemed the master of the world, as utterly as Agrippa or Augustus -seemed so to the Roman girls who saw them pass from palace to temple, -'I know it would be only interpretation; but I feel their words say so -much to me that I surely could interpret them, aloud, so that I could -move some to feel them as I do.' - -He knew she meant the words of those poets which had taken so strong -and firm a hold upon her imagination, read as she had read them in the -glory of the southern light, between the sea and sky. - -'Perhaps you could,' he answered reluctantly. 'But if you did, what -would be your fate? You would die like Aimée Desclée. My wife likened -you to her.' - -'Who was she?' - -He told her, with the pathetic force of a profound sympathy; for poor -Frou-frou had been well known to him in her brief career, and all the -feverish yearning, the tumult of unsatisfied desires, the conflict of -genius and malady in that tender and hapless soul had been sacred to -him. He passed in silence over the passions of that life, but he dwelt -long and earnestly on its storm-tossed youth, and its premature and -tragic close. - -Damaris listened; her whole countenance reflecting the narrative she -heard. - -'I think she was happy,' she said at length. 'You do not, but I do. She -broke her heart singing, like the nightingales in the poem. I read once -of a sword which wore out its scabbard. Who would not sooner be that -than the sword which rusts unused?' - -Othmar did not reply. To him the life and the death of Aimée Desclée -were the saddest of his generation; but he could not tell this child -why he thought them so, and even if he could have done it would have -been of no avail. He knew that he argued with that thing which no -example appals, no warning affects, no prescience intimidates; the -thing at once so strong and so feeble, at once blind as the bat and -far-sighted as the eagle--the instinct of genius. - -When he quitted her that day he left her with disquietude and -uncertainty. It seemed to him as if he held her fate, like a bird, in -his hand, and could either close the cage-door on it in safety, or toss -it upward free to roam through fields of air or to sink under showers -of stones as chance might choose. - -He believed that she did not deceive herself when she thought that -she could move others by the electric forces within herself. He -recognised a certain volition in her which resembled that of genius. -Her imagination, which could console her for so much, her quick -assimilation of high thoughts and poetic fancies, her power of feeling -impersonal interest, her very ignorance of real life, and imprudence in -its circumstances, were all those of genius. Reared in prosaic habits, -she had forced her own way to a subjective and idealistic mental life, -even amidst the most opposing influences. She had heard the nightingale -in the orange-boughs, though all those around her had been only busied -counting the oranges to pack the crates. She had watched the shoal -of fishes spread its silver over the waves beneath the moon, though -all those around her at such a sight had only thought of the deep sea -seine, the casks for market, and the curing brine. Surely this power -of withdrawing from all familiar association, and escaping from all -compelling forces of habit, could only exist where genius begat it? - -But then he knew that even with the wedding-garment of genius on, yet -to the wedding-feast of fame many are called but few are chosen. And -it might be only a breath, a flash, a touch of inspiration, _un brin -de génie_, as his wife had said, enough to have impelled her to push -open the doors of her narrow destiny, and look thence with longing -eyes, but not enough to force her with untired feet and unconquerable -courage across that desert of effort which parts effort from triumph, -poetic faculty from mere dreamy indolence. He who had always from his -boyhood honoured and assisted talent, wherever he had found it, with a -patience and a liberality very rare in this world, had suffered much -disappointment from many ordinary and pretentious lives which he had -been led to believe had had the hall-mark of intellectual superiority. -He had too often found what deemed itself genius was mere facility; -originality, mere eccentricity; ambition mere instinct of imitation; -the 'coal from the altar' only the momentary blaze of a match. Many and -many a time he might have said of the immature Muses who sought him, in -the words of Victor Hugo, '_Que de jeunes filles j'ai vues mourir!_' - -Damaris Bérarde appeared to him, as to his wife, a beautiful child with -an uncommon nature, and with possibly uncommon gifts; but between the -mere promise of the dawn of youth and the full heat of the meridian of -genius what a difference there was! - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - - -In lieu of driving homeward to Paris that day, he turned his horses' -heads in the direction of Asnières, where a once famous artist, David -Rosselin, lived. - -'I will ask Rosselin,' he thought. 'Rosselin can judge as I have no -power to do; and if he decide that she has genius she had better make -a career so for herself. I have no business to stand between her and -any future she may be able to create.' - -He disliked the idea of his wife's careless predictions being -fulfilled. It seemed to him barbarous to let this white-souled sea-bird -soar to the electric-flame life in Paris, fancying its light the sun. -But who could tell? - -It was a doubt which troubled and oppressed him as he drove back to -Paris through the pastoral country, consecrated by the memory of -Port-Royal. He felt that he had no right to make himself the arbiter of -her destinies; he would be no more to her in her future than the dead -thinkers whose brains had once been quick with philosophic and poetic -creation amidst these quiet green meadows. - -So he opened the little green trellis-work gate which was set in the -acacia hedge of the cottage at Asnières, and found the once great -impersonator of Alceste, of Tartuffe, of Sganarelle sitting beside his -beehives and behind his rose-beds, with a white sun umbrella shading -his comely and silvered head, and in his hand a miniature Aldine -Plautus. His old servant was close by carefully dusting the cobwebs off -the branches of an espaliered nectarine. - -It was a small suburban villa which sheltered the last years of the -great actor; a square white house set in a garden, over whose trim -hedges of clipped acacia Rosselin could see the groups of students -and work-girls going down to the landing-stairs of the Seine, and -farther yet could see the grey-green shine of the river itself with its -pleasure craft going to and fro in the midsummer sunshine. - -David Rosselin in his prime had made many millions of francs, but -they had gone as fast as they were gained, and in his old age he was -poor: he had only this little square white box, so gay in summer -with its roses and wistaria, and within it some few remnants of -those magnificent gifts which nations and sovereigns and women and -artists had all alike showered upon him in those far-off years of his -greatness; and some souvenir from Othmar of an Aldine classic, or a -volume bound by Clovis, which had lain on his table some New Year -morning. - -Othmar, who was quickly wearied by men in general, appreciated the -intelligence and the character of this true _philosophe sans le -savoir_, and would have made Rosselin free of all his libraries and -welcome at all his houses if the old man would have left for them his -white-walled and rose-covered cottage at Asnières. - -'No one who is old,' said Rosselin, 'should ever go out, though he -may receive, because he knows that those whom he receives care to see -him, or they would not come to him; but how can he be ever sure that -those who invite him do not do so out of charity, out of pity, out of -complacency?' - -And save those of the theatres, of the Conservatoire, and of the public -librairie, he crossed no threshold save his own. - -'If I had only been a grocer,' he used to say with his mellow laugh, 'a -good plump grocer, as my poor father wished, who knows? I might have -even been mayor of my native town by this, and had a son a vice-préfet!' - -He was a man now nigh on eighty years, erect, vivacious, combating age -with all the eternal youthfulness of genius, his black eyes had still a -flash of those fires which had once scorched up the souls of women, and -his handsome mouth had still the smile of fine irony which had adorned -and accentuated his Alceste and his Mascarille. He dwelt alone with a -servant nearly as old as himself; he had a great natural contempt for -all domestic ties. - -'Had I become a grocer I would have married,' he was wont to say. 'If -you are in trade, respectability is as necessary to you as dishonesty; -but to the artist the nightcap of marriage is like the biretta which -they draw over a man's head in Spain before they garotte him. When once -you put it on, _adieu les rêves!_' - -And in his celibate old age, if he had no longer dreams, he had -recollections and interests which kept him mentally young. His Paris -was his one mistress, of whom he never tired. - -He had left the stage five-and-twenty years and more, in his own -person, but he still took the keenest interest, possessed the highest -influence, in all higher dramatic art and life. The silence of David -Rosselin on a first night condemned a play as an irrevocable failure, -whilst his smile of approval was assurance to an author that he had -successfully _empoigné_ his public. He was the most accurate of judges, -the most penetrating of critics; he would occasionally make little -epigrammatic speeches which remained like little barbed steel darts, -but he was indulgent to youth and encouraging to modesty. When Rosselin -said that a pupil of the Conservatoire had a future, the future, when -it became the present, never belied his judgment. For the rest, he was -in a small way a bibliophile, delighted in rare copies and delicate -bindings, and was an unerring authority on all centuries of costume and -custom. - -'Incessantly acting all your life, when did you find all the time to -acquire so much knowledge?' Paul Jacob had said once to him. - -David Rosselin had replied with his genial laugh: - -'Ah, _mon cher_, I have had all the time that I should have spent in -quarrelling with my wife if I had had one!' - -This love of books had been a bond of sympathy between him and Othmar -ever since one night in the green-room of the Français, when they had -spoken of fifteenth-century Virgils; and to him the thoughts of Othmar -had turned more than once since the problem of Damaris and her destiny -had come before him. There was no one in all Europe who could discern -the gold from the pinchbeck in human talent with such precision; no -one who could more unerringly discriminate between the aspirations of -genius and its capabilities, between the mere audacities of youth and -the staying powers of true strength. - -An absurd reluctance to speak of her, of which he was ashamed, and -for which he would have assigned no definite reason even to himself, -had made him indisposed to seek his old friend on such a subject; but -it seemed to him, now that her soul was apparently set on the career -which his wife's careless praise had suggested to her, no other way -of life was so possible for her, or so likely to afford her interest, -occupation and independence. - -He had seen the life of the stage near enough to loathe it. The -woman whom he had adored with all a boy's belief and passion, and -who had been hired by his father's gold to do him the cruel service -of destroying all belief in him, had been an actress, famous for the -brief day of splendour which beauty without genius can gain in the -cities of the world. He hated to imagine that the time might come -when this child, full now of ideals of heroisms, of innocence and of -faithfulness, might grow to be such a woman as Sara Vernon had been! -Sara Vernon, who had now turned saint and dwelt in the odour of good -works on her estates in Franche-Comté: the estates which had been his -father's purchase-money of her. - -But it seemed to him that he had no right to let his personal -prejudices, his personal sentiments or sentimentality, stand between -Damaris and any possibility of future independence, of future -happiness which might open out before her through her natural gifts. -He felt nothing for her except a great compassion and a passionless -admiration, and he had a sense of indefinite self-blame and of infinite -embarrassment for the position towards her into which circumstances -had drifted him. It was not possible to retreat from it: he had become -her only friend, her sole support; but the sense that to the world, -and perhaps even to his wife, his too impulsive actions would bear a -very different aspect, haunted him with a feeling which was foreboding -rather than regret. - -'Ah! my friend!' said Rosselin in some surprise, as he passed through -the gate. 'Is it possible you are in Paris while Sirius reigns over the -asphalte? It is charming and gracious of you to remember a decrepit -old gardener. Come and sit by me in the shade here, and Pierre shall -bring you the biggest of the nectarines. If Virgil could have tasted a -nectarine! There may be doubts about every other form of progress, but -there can be no manner of doubt that we have improved fruits since the -Georgics, and wines.' - -Othmar answered a little at random, and accepted the nectarine. The -quick regard of Rosselin read easily that there was something in the -air graver than their usual talk of rare editions and coming book-sales -which his visitor desired to say to him, and with a sign dismissed the -old servant to the strip of kitchen garden on the other side of the -house. - -Othmar made his narrative as brief, his own share in it as small, and -the facts as prosaic as he could; but he could not divest them of a -tinge of romance which he was ill-pleased to discover to the shrewd -comprehension of the great artist who listened to him. - -'Do what I will, tell it all how I may,' he thought angrily, 'how -ridiculous I shall look to him, playing knight-errant like this!' - -And as he related the story of Damaris to Rosselin he seemed in fancy -to hear the voice of his wife behind him commenting in her delicate -suggestive tones on his own exaggerated share in it. What she would -say, and what the world would say, seemed to him to be said for both in -the momentary smile which passed over Rosselin's face. - -'Of course he does not believe me,' he thought. 'Nobody will ever -believe me. They will always suppose that I have base reasons which -have never even approached me; they will always accredit me with the -coarsest of motives.' - -Rosselin, with his power of divining the thoughts of others, guessed -what was thus passing through his mind. - -'Yes, they will certainly never accredit you with a good motive,' he -said, answering the unspoken thoughts of his visitor. 'For that you -must be prepared. But if you think that I shall do so, you mistake. -You are a man, my dear Count Othmar, who is much more likely to -be fascinated by a disinterested action than by a vulgar amour. I -understand you, but I warn you that nobody else will.' - -'I suppose not,' said Othmar. 'That must be as it may. How did you -divine so well what I was thinking of?' - -'Divination of that kind is easy after experiences as long as mine -are,' answered Rosselin, gathering one of his carnations and fastening -it in his linen coat. 'If we do not acquire that much from life we -live to be old to little purpose. You have done a generous thing, and -probably the world will punish you for it; it always does. The position -your chivalry has led you into is of course certain to be explained in -one way, and one only, by people in general. The world is not delicate, -and it never appreciates delicacy.' - -'Of that I am well aware,' returned Othmar. 'It is on account of the -coarseness of all hasty and ordinary judgments that I wish to keep my -own name and personality hidden as much as possible in relation to this -child. If her own talents could secure independence for her, it would -be very much to be desired that they should do so. Will you do me the -favour to judge of them?' - -Rosselin hesitated. - -'You can command me in all ways,' he added. 'But I think it only fair -to warn you that, even if she have very great talent, as you seem -to believe, neither technique nor culture come by nature. Training, -long, arduous, severe, and to the young most odious, is the treadmill -on which everyone must work for years before being admitted into -the kingdom of art. Has she enough to live on during these years of -probation?' - -'Yes,' answered Othmar; he did not feel called upon to confess his -device for supplying this necessity. 'All I would ask of you is your -judgment of her talents. Of course she is only a child; she has seen -and heard nothing; even the poorest stage she has never seen. She has -not had any of those indirect lessons which the very poverty and misery -of their surroundings gave Rachel and Desclée. They were always in the -road of their art, even though they went to it through mire. She knows -nothing, absolutely nothing; I tell you she has not been even inside -the booth of strolling players at a fair. Yet she gave to my wife and -to me the impression of latent genius. Will you see her and hear her, -and then give me your opinion?' - -'I would do much more for you, my dear friend,' replied Rosselin -with a vague sense of reluctance. 'But I have seen so many of these -maidens who dream of the stage--little, quiet, good girls, with mended -stockings and holes in their umbrellas, thronging to the Conservatoire -to pipe out "O sire! je vais mourir" or "Infame! croyez-vous," going -away with their mothers like chickens under the hen's wing when a big -dog is in the poultry-yard; falling in love with the student who gives -them the _réplique_, keeping chocolate in their pockets to nibble at -like little mice between the scenes; little good girls, some pretty, -some ugly, some saucy, some shy, all of them as poor as church rats, -all of them with hair-pins tumbling out of their braids--_j'en ai vu -tant!_ And hardly a spark of genius amongst them! When they have fine -shoulders and big eyes, then their career is certain--in a way; when -they have no figure at all and no complexion, then they go into the -provinces and one hears no more of them; or, perhaps, they leave their -illusions altogether at the Conservatoire, and take a place behind a -counter. It is the prudent ones who do that: "_elles commencent où les -autres finissent_." Some clever woman has said so before me. Is it not -better to begin so? Why not get a little snug shop for Mademoiselle -Bérarde from the first?' - -Othmar moved impatiently. - -'And the two or three who are better than the rest,' he asked; 'those -whose lips the bees of Hymettus have really kissed?' - -'My dear friend, you know how it is with these also,' sighed Rosselin: -'immense success, immense _insouciance_, immense enjoyment for the -first few years; lovers like the leaves on the trees in midsummer; -debts as numerous as the leaves; enormous sums thrown away like waste -paper; beauty, health, power, all spent like a rouleau of gold in a -fool's hand at Monte Carlo; and then the _dégringolade_, the apathy -of the public, the indifference of the lovers, the persecution of the -creditors whose ardour grows as hotly as that of the others cools, the -infinite mortifications, humiliations, chagrins, disappointments; then -the death from anæmia or from consumption, or the still worse end, -which is a fifty-year-long obscurity: Sophie Arnould sweeping out her -garret with a two-sous broom! Ah bah! Marry Mlle. Bérarde to one of -your cashiers, and buy her a cottage at Neuilly.' - -'Do you suppose Desclée or Rachel would have married a clerk, and lived -in a little house in the suburbs?' said Othmar with some impatience. - -'Ah, who can say? Neither would have stayed with the clerk certainly,' -replied Rosselin, lifting up the drooped stalk of one of his picotees -and fastening it to its deserted stick. 'It is all a matter of chance -and circumstance. Temperament goes for much, but accident counts for -more, and opportunity for most. You say yourself, for instance, that -Mlle. Bérarde might have lived and died on her island but for some -careless words of Madame Nadine and an invitation to St. Pharamond. -While we are young life is always inviting us somewhere, and we accept -the invitations, without thinking whether they will lead us to Bicêtre -or to a quiet cottage garden in our old age. _Allons donc!_ Let us do -our best to secure the garden and the sunshine for your little friend -from the South. I need not assure you that you shall have my perfect -honesty of opinion and my absolute discretion concerning her. Will you -come into the house a moment? I picked up yesterday, at a bookstall, a -precious little _bouquin_; nothing less than a copy of the "Terentii -Com[oe]diæ" of 1552 by Roger Payne.' - -Othmar went in and admired the _bouquin_, and stayed a few moments -longer, while the evening grew duskier and the scent of the carnations -and stocks and great cabbage-roses came richer and sweeter through the -open windows into the small rooms, clean and cosy, and raised from -the commonplace by the rare volumes which were gathered in them, and -the fine pieces of porcelain standing here and there on their wooden -shelves. - -Then, promising to return on the morrow, he took his leave. Rosselin -walked beside him down the little path to the gate. The sun had set and -the skies were growing quite dark. The ripple of the Seine water under -the sculls of a passing boat was audible in the stillness. From the -distance there came the sounds of a violin, and some voices singing -the postillions and travellers' chorus from the 'Manon Lescaut' of -Massenet. - -Rosselin, left alone, leaned over his wooden gate between his acacia -hedges, and listened to the voices dying away in the distance, and -looked through the soft dusk to where his Paris lay. - -'I wonder if he has told his wife?' he thought. 'If not--well, if not, -perhaps Madame may not care. She has never cared, why should she care -now?' - -The interrogation had been on his lips more than once whilst Othmar had -been with him, but his worldly wisdom had kept it back unspoken. - -'_Entre l'arbre et l'écorce ne mettez pas le doigt_,' was an axiom of -which he, so often the exponent of Sganarelle, knew the profound truth. - -Aloud he added: - -'Of course I will see her, and with the greatest pleasure. When and -where?' - -'I will take you to-morrow. I shall remain in Paris two days.' - -'Then to-morrow I will await you. Do not think me a cynical and -indifferent old hermit. If I dread to see youth throw itself into the -river of fire which leads to fame, it is only because I have seen so -many burned up in its course. I always advocate obscurity for women. -Penelope is a much happier woman than Circe, though the latter is a -goddess and a sorceress. Your protégée may become great only to die -like Desclée, like Rachel. You would do her a greater service if you -married her to one of your clerks, gave them a modest little house in -the _banlieue_, and became sponsor to their first child. Though I have -been a graceless artist all my life, I confess I hesitate at being the -person to assist such a friendless creature as you describe to enter -on a dramatic career. I have seen so many failures! By-the-bye, is she -handsome?' - -'She has beauty,' said Othmar a little coldly, because the question -slightly confused and irritated him. - -'It was a needless interrogation,' said Rosselin to himself. Even the -chivalry of Othmar would have deemed it necessary to do so much for a -plain woman. - -When he went to Les Hameaux on the following day he saw her, heard her, -studied her, stayed some two hours near her, now and then reciting to -her himself, half a scene from 'Le Joueur,' a single speech from the -'Misanthrope,' a few lines of Feuillet, a few stanzas from the 'Odes et -Ballades.' - -'Oh, who are you?' she asked in transport, the tears of delight and -admiration rising to her eyes. - -'My dear,' answered Rosselin with a smile, which for once was sad, 'I -am that most melancholy of all things--an artist who was once great and -now is old?' - -She took his hand with reverence and kissed it. - -'_Va!_' said the man whom the world had adored, with a little laugh -which had emotion it. '_Va!_ Life is always worth living. The flowers -always smell sweet and the sunshine is always warm. And so you, too, -would be an artist, would you? Well, well! every spring there are young -birds to fill the old nests.' - -When he left her he was long silent. When he at last spoke, he said -briefly to Othmar: '_Elle a de l'avenir_.' - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - - -The day after Othmar went alone to the green shadows of the vale of -Port-Royal. It was five o'clock in the afternoon when he reached -there: he saw Damaris before she saw him; all her rural habits and -associations had come to her in this leafy and rustic place; she rose -with the sun and went to bed with it; she had recovered her colour and -her strength; she assisted in the out-of-door work and rejoiced in it. -As he drew near he saw her mowing a swath of the autumnal aftermath -of the little field, the two watch dogs of Bonaventure, which he had -bought and restored to her, lying near and watching her with loving -eyes. Her arms, vigorous as a youth's and white as a swan's neck, were -seen bare to the shoulder in the swaying sweep of the scythe; her hair -was bound closely round her head, and its dark gold glistened in the -sun. The veins in her throat stood out in the effort of the movement; -the linen of her bodice heaved and fell. It was an attitude which Rude -or Clésinger would have given ten years of their lives to reproduce in -marble; it was the perfection of full and youthful female strength and -health, teeming with all the promise of a perfect organisation, all the -vitality which makes strong mothers of strong men. - -It was womanhood; not the womanhood of the _mondaines_, delicate and -fragile as a hothouse flower, pale from late hours or faintly tinted -with the resources of art, serene and harmonious in tone, in charm, in -manner, the most perfect of all the products of artificial culture; but -womanhood as it was when the earth was young, and when life was simple -and straight as a rod of hazel; womanhood buoyant, healthful, forceful, -fearless; with limbs uncramped by fashion and beauty ignorant of art, -living in the wind, in the water, in the grass, in the sun, like the -dappled cattle and the strong-winged bird. - -He watched her awhile, himself unseen. With what grace, yet with -what vigour, she moved the scythe, sweeping round her in its wide -semicircle, the long grass falling about her in green billows, with -trails of bindweed and tall red heads of clover in it; beyond her, -the blue sky and the pastoral horizon of the vast wheat-fields of La -Beauce. - -What would the hot, close, fevered pressure of life in the world give -her that was half so good as that? How much better to dwell so, between -the green grass and the wide sky, than to court the fickle homage and -the fleeting loves of men! How much better if all her years could -pass so on the peaceful breast of the kindly earth, living to lead -her children out amongst the swaths of hay and teach them to love the -lark's song and the face of the fields as she loved them! How much -better to be Baucis than Aspasia! - -Perhaps! but where was Philemon? - -As the thoughts drifted through his mind she paused to whet her scythe, -looked up, and saw him. With a smile that was as glad as sunshine in -May weather she came towards him, leaping lightly over the hillocks of -mown grass. She was happy to see him there. She felt no embarrassment -for her bare arms and her kilted skirt; she had not been taught the -immodesty of prudes. - -'No, we will not go in the house,' he said to her when he had greeted -her. 'Let us stay in your sweet-smelling meadow. Why are you mowing? -Are there no mowers to do it?' - -'I like doing it,' she answered; 'and it spares Madame Chabot the day's -pay of a man. I can mow very well,' she added, with that pride in her -pastoral skill which she had been imbued with on Bonaventure. - -She walked on by his side through the little narrow spaces of mown -ground which ran between the waves of the fallen grasses. She had -pulled down her sleeves and taken the pins out of her skirt, and passed -with her firm light tread and her uncovered head over the rough soil, -with the afternoon sun in her eyes and on the rich tints of her face. -It intensified the radiance of her colouring, as it did that of the -scarlet poppies which were blowing here and there where the grass still -stood uncut. - -'What did he say of me?' she asked anxiously and wistfully, as Othmar -walked on in silence beside her. - -'He says you have not deceived yourself.' - -'Ah!'--she drew a deep breath of relief--'I pleased him, then? And yet, -when I heard him recite, it seemed to me that I could do nothing more -than stutter and gabble foolishly; his voice was music----' - -'He has been a very great artist, and speech is to him as the flute to -the flute-player: an instrument with which he does what he will. Yes, -you pleased him, my dear. He thinks that you have in you the soul of an -artist, the future of one if you choose.' - -'Ah!' she laughed aloud for sheer happiness and triumph, in the joy and -the pride of a child. It seemed to her the most exquisite glad tidings, -the most superb success. - -'He will even help you; he will train you himself; and whoever is -trained by David Rosselin is in a certain sense secure of the public -ear,' said Othmar with a reluctance which he felt was unjust to her, -for if she possessed this power why should she be denied the knowledge -of it? 'But,' he added slowly, 'I must warn you that even he, great -artist as he has been, thinks as I think--that it is better to mow -grass in the fresh air than to seek the suffrage of crowds in the -gaslight. He thinks as I think, that, for a woman, the more secluded -and sheltered be the path of life the happier and the better is it for -her. This sounds very cold and cautious to you, no doubt; but it would -be what every man of the world would tell you, who was honest with you, -and had your welfare at heart.' - -Her face changed and clouded as she heard him. - -'Why?' she said abruptly. - -He was silent. It was impossible to tell this child, who was as -innocent as any one of the poppies blowing in the grass, all the -reasons which made the future she coveted look to him like the open -mouth of a furnace into which a white sea-bird was flying in its -ignorance. - -'Private life is the best life,' he said as she repeated, a little -imperiously, her 'why?' 'It is the calmest, the simplest, the most -screened from envy and hatred. I suppose tranquillity does not seem to -you the one inestimable blessing which it really is. You are full of -ardours and enthusiasms and longings, as the vines are full of sap in -the springtime. You want the wine of life, because you do not know that -the intoxication of it is always coupled with nausea, and fever, and -unspeakable disgust. It is of no use saying this to you, because you -are so young; but it is true. If I could compel your future, I would -have it pass yonder, where, far away, we see that golden haze. There -are the great wheat-lands of La Beauce, and the thrift and the peace -and the abundance of a rich pastoral life. If you spent your little -fortune on a farm there, with your love of country sights and sounds -and ways, you would be happy; and you could take your choice from the -many gallant youths who reap the harvests of those plains. You would -be a rich demoiselle in La Beauce, but in the world of art you may be -poor, my dear, for all your gifts from nature. We are poor, very poor, -forever, when once we have failed.' - -His own words sounded in his ears unkind, unsympathetic, harsh, and -almost coarse; but he spoke as, it seemed to him, both experience and -conscience made it duty to do. Damaris looked down on the shorn grass -at her feet, and he saw her face and throat grow red. - -'If I had wished to marry I would have married my cousin,' she said -with a sound of anger and offence in her voice. 'Peasant life is good, -very good. Perhaps, if I had never seen anything different, it might -have seemed always the best. But not now--not now----' - -'But you do not know----.' He left his reply unfinished. - -Standing in the green warm meadow, with the light of afternoon shed -on it, and the golden haze of a late summer day on its horizon, his -thoughts were full of all the many things in life of which she could -imagine nothing. All the passions and pleasures and disgusts, all the -desires and satisfactions and satieties, all the tumult and vanity and -nausea and giddy haste of life in the world--what could she tell of -these? She would be handsome and young and alone; what would that world -not teach her in a year, a month, an hour? Self-consciousness first; -then, with that knowledge, all else. - -As, to her, having never known anything but the close limits of peasant -life, the world which she did not know assumed the colours and the -rejoicing of a vast borealis pageantry, so to him, by whom the world -was known like an oft-read Virgil, it seemed that the safety, the -quietude, the daily round of simple duties, undisturbed by ambition -within or by contention from without, which the life of the peasant -afforded, was a kind of happiness, a positive security from which any -safe within it were ill-advised to wander. - -Of all wretched creatures the _déclassée_ seemed to him to be the most -wretched. He had reproached his wife with the effort to make this child -one of those pitiful anomalies, and he now reproached himself with -doing the same unkindness. - -Damaris was a _déclassée_; she could never more return to the order of -life whence she had come. Ever since some indistinct glory for herself -had been suggested to her by the thoughtless words of the great lady -who had represented Fate to her, she had been haunted by the desire -for an existence wholly unlike that to which she had been born and by -which she had been surrounded. It had been only a very few hours which -she had passed under the roof of St. Pharamond, but that short space -had been long enough to make her conceive a world wholly inconceivable -to her before, a world in which art and luxury were things of daily -habit, in which leisure and loveliness and gaiety and ease were matters -of course, like the coming and going of time, in which personal graces -and personal charm were all cultured as the flowers were cultured -under glass; in which even for her there might become possible the -fruition of all manner of gorgeous indefinite visions, born out of the -suggestions of poets and the phantasmagoria of romantic books--a world -in which all she had humbly longed for, as she had listened to the -nightingales in the orange thickets, would become visible to her and -possessed. - -She was a _déclassée_: not in the vulgar sense, but in the sadder -meaning of a young life uprooted from its natural soil and filled -with desires, aspirations, dreams, which made all that was actually -within her grasp valueless to her. That one night, in which she had -seen around her the destinies which appeared to her like a tale of -fairy-land, had impressed her imagination with indelible memories and -her heart with ineffaceable wishes. He, who only saw in the life of -his own world tedium, inanity, stupidity, extravagance, monotonous -repetition, could not guess what enchantment its externals had worn to -her. He, who was tired of the unvaried paths of that garden of pleasure -whose habitués only see that in it 'grove nods to grove, each alley has -its fellow,' could not divine what a paradise it had looked to this -young waif and stray, who had been only able to catch one glimpse of -its beauties through the golden bars of its shut gates. To him her wish -for the world appeared the most pathetic of errors, the most pitiable -of blunders, a very madness of unwise choice. Had not the world been -with him always, and what had it given him? Possibly it had in reality -given him much more than he remembered: it had given him culture with -all its charms, and courtesy with all its graces; it had given him the -great powers which lie in wealth, and the great light which shines -from knowledge. But then he was so used to these he counted them not, -and the world only wore to him the aspect of a monster devouring all -leisure, all simplicity, all repose, driving all mankind before it in -a breathless chase of swiftly escaping hours; and to her this monster -would be ravenous as a wolf, cruel as it could never be to any man! It -would take everything from her, and only give her in return worthless -gifts of ruinous passions, of consuming fevers, of poisoned fruits, of -fierce desires. - -It seemed to him as if he saw some young child coming gaily through -the grasses, clasping all unconscious to its breast a mass of smoking -dynamite, and deeming it a kindly playfellow. - -And it was impossible to warn her in words brutal enough to scare -her from her purpose. He could not say to her, 'Men are beasts, and -women are worse: there are hideous pleasures, hateful appetites, cruel -temptations, of which you know nothing, but which will all crowd on -your knowledge and grow to your taste, once you are in the midst -of them. The world will embrace you, but as the bull embraced the -Christian maiden forced to appear as Pasiphaë in the circus of Nero. -Be wise while there is time. Stay in the clean, clear daylight of a -country life. Its paths are narrow and few, they only lead from the -hearth to the door, from the door to the brook or the mill; but you may -walk in them safe and content, and teach your children to follow your -steps. Peace of mind is the sweetest thing upon earth; but it is like -the wood-sorrel, it only grows in shady, quiet, homely places. No one -has it in the world.' - -But he thought these thoughts, and did not say them. He looked at -her standing with dew-wet feet amongst the seeding grasses, the warm -fresh air about her, the blue sky above, and he thought of her in -the atmosphere of a supper-room in Paris, with the smoke, and the -perfumes, and the odours of the wines, and beside her men with swimming -lascivious eyes, and _drôlesses_ with flushed faces and indecent -gestures. He would not take her there, but others would. - -She raised her head suddenly and looked at him. - -'What are you afraid of for me?' she said suddenly. 'There is nothing -to be afraid of. If I fail I fail; I have enough always to live on, you -say; and if I succeed----' - -'Failure will not hurt you,' he said coldly; 'success may.' - -'How can success hurt one unless one be very vain or very weak? I do -not think I am vain, and I know I am strong.' - -'My dear--you can go from the meadows to the world if you will, but -remember you cannot come back from the world to the meadows.' - -'Why? Did not many come from the world to Port-Royal when it stood -yonder?' - -'Yes; they came with sick hearts, with defeated hopes, with aching -wounds, with disappointed passions; but they never stood in the green -pastures, in the morning of life, again.' - -There was a sigh in the words which brought them home to her heart with -a sudden sense of all their meaning. - -She was mute while the little crickets in the stalks of the hay grass -sung their last little song of one note, which would soon end with the -end of their tiny lives. - -'You are not happy yourself?' she said after awhile. Astonishment and -regret were in the question. - -Othmar hesitated. His sincerity combated the negative, which a vague -sense of loyalty to one absent made him desirous to utter. - -'No one after a certain age is happy, my dear,' he answered evasively. -'Illusions are happiness; and in the world which you think must be a -fairy tale, we lose them very quickly.' - -'I should have thought you were happy,' she said regretfully; that -splendid pageantry of life of which she had seen a glimpse seemed to -her magical, marvellous, inexhaustible. - -'I did not think _she_ was,' she added, with that directness and -candour which made her great unlikeness to all of her sex whom he had -ever known. - -'Why?' he asked abruptly; the supposition annoyed him. - -'She looked tired, and as if she were looking for something she did not -find.' - -The accuracy and divination in the words surprised him. How had this -child, who had never before seen any woman of the world, guessed so -accurately the perpetual vague desire and as vague dissatisfaction -which had always gone with the soul of his wife as a shadow goes -through brilliant light? - -All her life long Nadège had found the old saw true, familiarity had -bred contempt in her; custom had made wisdom seem foolishness, wit seem -prose, amusement become tedium, and interest change to apathy. Intimate -knowledge of anything, of anyone, had always altered each for her, as -the fairy gold changed in mortal hands to withered leaves. - -It was no fault of hers; it was not even mere inconstancy of temper; it -was rather due to the infinitude of her inexhaustible expectations and -the microscopic penetration of her intelligence. The world was small to -her as to Alexander. - -He knew that neither to her nor to himself had their life together been -that poem, that passion, that harmony which they--or he at least--had -imagined that it would be. But was not this due only to that doom of -human nature which they shared in common with all the rest of mankind? -Was it not merely the effect of that lassitude and vague disappointment -which must follow on the indulgence of every great passion, simply -because in its supreme hours it reaches heights of rapture at which -nothing human can remain? - -Yet, however his philosophy may explain it, to have any other imagine -that he does not render a woman who belongs to him perfectly contented -with him always irritates and offends every man. It is a suspicion cast -on his powers, his loyalty, and his good sense: it indirectly accuses -him of deficiency in attraction or of feebleness of character. Othmar -had but little vanity; no more than human nature naturally possesses -in its unconscious forms of self-love; but the little he had was -mortified by this child's observation. She, ignorant of all the fine -intricacies of emotion which are the traits of such highly-cultured and -over-refined temperaments as were theirs, could only say, in her simple -and inadequate language, that they seemed to her 'not happy.' It was -not the phrase which expressed what they lacked; it was too homely, -too crude, too direct, to describe the complicated world-weariness of -which they both suffered the penalties, the innumerable and conflicting -sentiments and desires which made of their lives a continual vague -expectation and as vague and continual a regret. But her young eyes, -unused as they were to read anything less clear than the open language -of sea and sky, and ignorant of the whole meaning of psychological -analysis, had yet been able to perceive the shadow of this which she -had had no power of understanding. - -He was surprised at her penetration, whilst he wondered uneasily if the -world in general, so much keener of sight and more bitter of tongue -than she, saw as much as she saw. The idea that it might be so was -unwelcome to him. The supposition was horrible to him that the great -passion of his life had gone the way of most great passions which -are exposed to that most cruel of all slow destroyers--familiarity; -familiarity which is as the mildew to the wheat, as the sirdax to the -fir-tree, as the calandra to the sugar-cane. He loathed to realise the -fact, or think of it in any way; and when it was placed before him by -another's observation, he saw his own soul, as it were in a mirror, and -detested what he saw. - -He answered with some constraint: 'I have told you, my dear, that -happiness is the fruit of illusions; it cannot exist without them any -more than we could have that beautiful haze yonder without water in the -atmosphere. Besides, in the world, people are only content so long as -they are of completely frivolous characters. My wife has cultivated her -intelligence and her wit too exquisitely to be capable of that sort of -coarse and common satisfaction with things as they are which is so easy -to mediocre minds.' - -'Yet you advise _me_ to be content?' - -'My dear child, you are young, you are accustomed to an out-of-door -life, you have the felicity of belonging to country things and country -thoughts which give you a storehouse full of sunny memories. My wife is -a _mondaine_ (if you have ever heard that word) who is also a pessimist -and a metaphysician. Life presents many intricate problems to her mind -which will, I hope, never trouble your joyous acceptance of it as it -is. Fénelon, I assure you, was a happier man than Lamennais.' - -'Because he was a stupider one.' - -'Stupid? No, but simpler, cast in a different mould, naturally inclined -to faith, averse to speculation, taking things as he found them without -question. That is the cast of mind of all men and women who are made to -be happy.' - -She was silent; wishfully thinking of those immense fields of knowledge -shut out from her own eyes like the aerial spheres of unseen suns and -planets which the unassisted sight can never behold. She felt childish, -ignorant, made of dull and common clay. - -The bells of a little distant spire sounded for Vespers. The sun was -sinking beyond the edge of the wide green plain. A deeper stillness -was stealing over the meadow and the low coppices which made its -boundaries. Birds, looking grey in the shadows, flew low, to and fro, -restlessly, in that uncertain flight with which, near nightfall, they -always seek a resting-place for the dark hours. - -Othmar looked at his watch. 'I must leave you or I shall miss the train -to Paris, and I go to-night to Russia.' - -She changed colour. - -'To Russia! That is very far away!' - -'It does not seem so in these days. One sleeps and wakes and sleeps -again, and one is there. If you want me in any way, write to me at the -Paris house and they will forward your letter. Rosselin will come to -see you to-morrow. He will tell you, as no one else can, all you will -have to prepare for and encounter if you choose the life of an artist. -Do not decide too hastily. There is no hurry. I like best to think of -you in these safe pastures.' - -'But the winter will come to them and--some time--to me?' - -'It is far enough off you, at least, to be forgotten. Well, listen to -Rosselin and be guided by your own impulses; they are the only safe -guides in such a choice as this. I dare say the world will win you; the -world always does. It is only in fable that Herakles goes with Pallas. -Adieu.' - -She grew very pale, and the light had gone out of her face as it had -now gone off the landscape. - -'You will come back soon?' she asked. - -Othmar resisted a wave of tenderness and pity which passed over him. - -'Not very soon,' he answered. 'You know I have many occupations, and -the world I warn you against is always with me, alas! I shall never -be able to see you often, my dear, for--for--very many reasons; but -whenever you really need me, write to me without hesitation, and always -depend upon the sincerity of my regard.' - -She did not reply. She stood motionless. With the coming of the evening -shadows there had came a great chillness, a sense of loss upon her, -as if she had been suddenly brought from the warm green meadows of -the vale of Chevreuse into the awful silence and whiteness and frozen -solitude of a winter's night in Siberia. - -'Write to me,' said Othmar again. With a gentle movement he stooped and -kissed her on the soft thick waves of hair which fell over her forehead. - -Then he left her. - -She remained standing in the same place and the same attitude, her feet -in the mown grass growing wet with dew, her head bent like a statue -of meditation. The caress had been gentle, slight, passionless, like -a kiss to a child; but her face and bosom had grown hot with blushes -which the evening shadows veiled, and a strange vague joy and pain -strove together in her. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - - -It was eight o'clock in the evening on the plains of Russia, and warm -with that Asiatic heat which comes with the reign of the dog-star even -to the provinces that lie between the Baltic waters and the Ural snows. -In the vast gardens and white wide courts of the house at Zaraïla the -evening was sultry, and Nadège, spending a few dull days in her annual -visit to her elder children and their estates, was lying half asleep -upon a couch, listening to the monotonous drip of the lion-fountain -in the central court, and thinking of nothing in especial. This visit -had always represented to her supreme and unmitigated tedium. It was -a duty to come there no doubt; her duties were docile courtiers as a -rule and seldom troubled her; but it was tiresome, infinitely tiresome, -it was so much time lost out of the sum of her life. Why is duty never -agreeable? - -The Napraxine children were in their own apartments; the clear sunny -evening, whose light would stretch almost to dawn, illumined the -gardens and terraces. She reclined motionless upon her broad low couch, -with a little cigarette between her lips, now and then sending into -the air around her delicate rings of rose-scented smoke. The mother of -Platon Napraxine, a woman old and austere, with the terrible austerity -of women who have loved pleasure and passion, and only turned to -devotion when both have deserted them, sat near and watched her with -dark, brooding, sunken eyes, full of a hate which the object of it was -too indifferent and too careless to care for or to measure. - -The Princess Lobow Gregorievna, born a Princess Miliutine, was a woman -who had been handsome, but had now lost nearly all trace of past -beauty. She was spare, colourless, and attenuated, and her severe, -straight profile, and her expression of ascetic rigidity, gave her -a curious likeness to those Byzantine portraits of St. Anne and of -St. Elizabeth which were surrounded with jewels and relics on the -altars of her private chapel. Her piety in old age was as complete and -absorbing as her licentious amours had been in her earlier womanhood. -Superstition had taken the same empire over her in age which her -passions had possessed previously; and she was as extravagant in her -donations to church and convent as she had once been to the impecunious -officers of the guard and princely gamblers, who had been in turn -favoured with her fantastic and short-lived preference. Her religious -and most orthodox fervour was neither a mask nor an hypocrisy. It was -the most genuine of all religions--that which is founded on personal -fear. But it intensified the hardness of her temper, and never -whispered to her that mercy might be holier than long prayers. - -In all Europe Othmar and his wife had no enemy colder, harder, more -implacable than this holy woman, whose name meant Love, and whose -good works were seen in endowed convents, jewelled reliques, mighty -treasures bestowed all over her province, and ceremonials, fasts, and -penances of the orthodox most rigidly observed in her person. Nadège -never tried to conciliate or propitiate her grim foe; she was at once -too careless and too courageous. With her delicate and unsparing -raillery she had stung this enmity with many a barbed word, subtle -and negligent and penetrating, accentuated with the cruel sweet music -of her laughter, until the hatred with which the Princess Lobow hated -her was deep as the Volga, though hidden like the Volga's bottomless -holes so long as Platon Napraxine had lived. His death had given it -justification, and intensified it a thousandfold. - -'If she were a good woman she would be compelled to hate me,' thought -the object of her hate. 'And being what she is, if she could poison me -secretly she would do it, even in the blessed bread itself.' - -When they had first met after her marriage with Othmar, there had been -said between them such words as are ineffaceable on the memory like -vitriol flung on the face. - -'For the first time in my life I have allowed myself to be in a rage; -_je me suis encanaillée!_' she had said to herself, penitent not for -the anger into which she had been driven, but for the force with which -she had uttered it, which was an offence against her canons of good -taste. - -The earlier years of the Princess Lobow had been dedicated to all those -refined ingenuities of depravity in which the nineteenth century can -rival the Rome of Vitellius and the Constantinople of the Byzantine -emperors. There were terrible facts in her past, ready, like so many -knives, to the use of her opponent, allusions which could pierce like -steel, and could scar like flame. Nadège had spared none of them. With -all the pitiless disdain of a woman in whom the senses have but very -faint power, she had poured out her scorn on the other, whose senses -had been her tyrants until, virtuous perforce through the chills of -age, she had taken her worthless withered soul to God. - -Since that time the bitterest enmity had been open and avowed between -them. Concession to the world, and regard to the dead man's memory, -caused them to still keep up a show and aspect of conventional -politeness before others. But the polished surface covered the most -bitter feud. They were studiously ceremonious and courteous one to -the other; but beneath the few phrases they exchanged, often trivial -and apparently amiable as these might be, there were a hint, a tone, -a meaning which told to each of the other's undying animosity. To -the younger woman it was a matter of pure indifference, of careless -amusement; her nature was too capricious and too disdainful to cherish -deep enmities; she despised rather than she disliked; but to the elder -this hatred she cherished was the last flickering flame of the many -hot passions which had governed her in earlier years. For her only -son she had had a concentrated intensity of affection, into which all -the ambition, cupidity, and love of dominion in her character had -been united. His marriage had been hateful to her, and when Nadine, -in her sixteenth year, as fragile as an orchid and as impertinent -as Cherubino, petulantly detesting the husband they had given her, -and in the bitterness of her disillusions at war with all the world, -was brought in the first months of her marriage to the great house of -Zaraïla, the Princess Lobow had seen in her not only the despoiler of -her own power, but the ruin of her son. - -Many and violent had been the scenes between Platon Napraxine and -herself, of which his wife was the object and the cause. - -'She is a crystal of ice, you say,' she told him a hundred times. -'Well, she will so chill your heart one day that it will be numb for -ever. Remember that; I warn you.' - -He did remember when he went out to his death in the dawn of the April -morning at Versailles. - -Whilst he lived his mother's hatred for his wife was impotent and -perforce mute; but all the many slights, the constant indifference, the -frequent ridicule of which he was the object, though unperceived or -forgiven by him, were written on his mother's memory indelibly as on -tablets of stone. All the coquetries and scandals which were associated -with his wife's name, all the tragedies for which the breath of her -world made her responsible, all the cruel words and strange caprices -which were attributed to her, were gathered up and treasured by the -Princess Lobow. Seldom leaving her solitudes in the provinces, and -seldom seen even in Petersburg, she yet was as accurately informed of -all the gossip of Europe concerning her daughter-in-law as though she -had lived perpetually beside her. None of the minutiæ of the vaguest -rumours about her escaped the vigilance of her enemy. Saint though she -was, she prayed passionately that some imprudence greater than usual, -some coquetry which would pass beyond the patience of her husband and -her world, would deliver Nadège Federowna into her hands, but she -waited in vain. The indulgence of both the world and the husband was -inexhaustible for one to whom they were both of the most absolute -insignificance. - -Then one day, as falls a bolt from a clear sky, a single line by the -electric wires told her that her son was dead. - -In her eyes he was murdered by his wife, as surely as though she had -touched his lips with poison. - -Her grief and her rage were terrible: the more terrible because the -hatred which might have assuaged it had no outlet in action, could -scarce have any in speech. - -For Platon Napraxine had left his young sons wholly in the hands of -their mother, and she could take them whither she would, and do with -them whatever she chose; and the elder woman, who had transferred to -them all that jealous and violent attachment which she had given their -father, concealed all she felt that she might retain them near her, -whilst the secretiveness and ruses of the Slav temperament made it -possible for her to continue in apparent friendship before the world -with one whom she looked on as his destroyer. - -She sat now erect on an antique chair of gilded and painted leather, -and through her dropped eyelids watched the indolent attitude, the -profound idleness, the outstretched limbs, like those of a reposing -Diana, of the woman she loathed. In all the attitude, from the _sans -gêne_ and complete ease of it to the little rose-scented puffs of -smoke which ever and again came from her parted lips, there was that -'note of modernity' which beyond all other things the Princess Lobow -detested. The women of her time had been as licentious as the great -Catharine herself, but they had been different to the _cocodettes_ -in manner, in mind, in opinion, in everything. They had been like -fierce Oriental empresses, often barbarous, uncleanly, gross, but they -had had a stateliness which all their excesses could not impair. The -modern woman of the world, with her careless attitudes, her mockery of -all ceremonial, her disrespect for tradition and etiquette, her airy -scepticism, and her vague dissatisfaction, was, wherever she was met -with, an enigma and an affront to the elder woman, whose own life had -been divided between strong vices and strong faiths, and whose bigotry -and whose sensuality had been of equal force. They had neither senses -nor souls, these poor modern _anémiques_, thought this woman of seventy -years, who had been a Messalina and who had become a St. Katherine. - -'Ah, you despise us, madame; how right you are!' Nadège had said to -her once. 'We never know what we wish, and when we get what we ask -for, we are as irritated as when it is denied to us. It is the fault -of all culture--it creates discontent and fastidiousness as surely -as civilisation brings all kinds of new diseases. I only wish that -we could be like our granddames and godmothers, who had no earthly -ideals beyond a constant succession of big officers of cuirassiers, -and no mental doubt whatever as to the existence of a "bon Dieu." It -must have simplified life so much to have been able to balance the -little weakness for the succession of cuirassiers with such a perfect -confidence in Heaven!' - -At this moment in the summer evening at Zaraïla neither of them were -speaking. They had exchanged many cruel, courteous innuendoes in the -course of the day, but with the evening there had come a tacit truce. -The little boys were wholly under the power of their mother as their -guardian, and their grandmother feared that if she were too much -irritated she might remove them from Zaraïla or request her to leave -it. Nadine, on her side, had thought, with a sense of compassion and -that disdainful but candid justice which was seldom wanting in her: -'After all, as she loved that poor, big, clumsy fellow so well, and -he was her only son--the only thing she had--it is pardonable, it is -natural, that she should hate me for ever.' - -It grew late, but it was still light with the long and radiant evening -of the north in summer. She, in the drowsy heat of the eventide, looked -with still dreamy eyes out on to the sultry gardens beneath, where -golden evening light was poured on endless aisles and fields of roses, -and groves of feathery bananas and plumed palms; the vegetation of the -vales of Kashmere made by art to blossom there for the brief season of -a Russian summer. - -'How very foolish women are to fear absence,' she thought. 'Absence -is the only possible avenue which can lead us to find the _fontaine -de jouvence_ of renewed interest. Familiarity is so fatal--so fatal! -Helen's self would be unable to hold her own against it. Those silly -women who let the man they love enter their chamber as easily as he -can go into his racing stables, set a great grey ghost of indifference -at the threshold. Most women are afraid of not being near what they -love. If they only knew how distance helps them; how constant proximity -hurts them! If Love cannot keep a few surprises in his pocket, he is as -tiresome as a newspaper a week old.' - -She laughed a little, watching the leaves of a full-blown rose fall -under the touch of an alighting bird. - -'When it has once been full-blown,' she thought, 'any touch--even a -bird's, even a butterfly's--will serve to finish it for ever.' - -Love was so like that great crimson rose, which a moment before had -been a cup of ruby-coloured fragrance, and now was a mere litter of -dropped leaves upon the grass. Love lives by its emotions, its desires, -its illusions: so long as these can be excited and sustained it is -Love; when they cannot be so, it is as the Spanish poet said centuries -ago, habit, friendship, what you will, but not Love any more. - -She had studied the natures of men too profoundly not to know this. - -There was the sound of wheels in the central court, and various doors -opened and shut in the apartments leading to the grand salon where -they were. Then the groom of the chambers, in his black uniform, only -relieved by his silver chain of office and the key embroidered on his -collar, preceded and announced Othmar. - -Nadine half rose, leaning on one arm on the cushion. - -'My dear Otho, this is charming of you! I did not expect you until -to-morrow,' she said, with a smile of welcome, as she put out her left -hand to him. Othmar kissed her fingers with warmth and deference, then -saluted with ceremony the Princess Lobow. - -'I came from Moscow more quickly than I could have hoped to do,' he -said, as he seated himself beside his wife. 'An Imperial train was -leaving for the north, and the Grand Duke Alexis offered me a place in -it. Are you well? It is three months and more since we met.' - -'I am as well as it is ever permitted one to be in a century in which -the nerves play the most prominent rôle. And the children?' - -'Perfectly well, and perfectly happy. They are not yet at the age of -nerves. But I have telegraphed all news to you; there is nothing left -to say, except that absence----' - -'Oh, do not make me compliments like a _berger d'éventail_! We will -take all that for granted.' - -The reproof to him was the same sort of mockery with which she had been -always wont to repress the attempts at tenderness of Napraxine; but his -mother, listening, heard the difference in the accent, and watching, -saw the difference in the smile with which they were spoken. - -'The wanton!' she thought bitterly; 'she expected him to-night, though -she said not till to-morrow. It was for him, that attitude like a -_Diane endormie_, that coquette's disarray, that studied disorder of -laces and gauzes, that little bouquet of heliotrope fastened just above -the left breast! Oh, the beast, the beast! All that belonged to my -son--every atom of it, from her little ear to her slender foot, and -should have been burnt with him, like the Indian women, if I could have -had my way--should have been buried with him, like his stars and his -crosses. Oh, the beast, the beast! if I could only wring her neck!' - -Then she rose, and murmuring some words inaudible and indifferent to -her companions, she left the apartment. Othmar, alone beside his wife -in the aromatic warmth of the summer evening, bent over her couch and -kissed her little bouquet of heliotrope. - -'_Allons, berger!_' she cried, with a little resistance which was not -displeasure. - -It pleased her that she had the power to make her husband her lover; -that she could still see him moved to the _folies des bergers_. It -was a point of vanity with her, as well as an impulse of the heart, -to retain something of that empire over him which had once been so -absolute. When she should wholly cease to be able to do so, it seemed -to her that she would be grown old indeed. She had never put more -coquetry, more sorcery, more art concealed by art into her efforts to -blind and enslave her lovers, than she had done that evening when she -was awaiting Othmar after three months' absence. It might not be the -highest form of love, but it was the ablest. It was of a piece with -that magic by which Cleopatra defied time, and changed the ravages of -habit into philtres of fresh charm. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - - -Othmar did not tell her that night of Damaris. - -With daylight he remembered uneasily that it was a story which should -be told. A certain nervousness came over him whenever he thought of her -possible, her probable, laughter, the incredulity as to his motives -which she would be sure, out of mirth, to affect if she were too unlike -other women to in seriousness entertain it. He recalled the tone with -which she had spoken of his escort of the girl to her island, and he -shrank from hearing the same tone again. He felt that, if heard, it -would anger him unreasonably, perhaps move him to the utterance of that -kind of words which are most fatal to friendship, harmony, or love. - -The lovely _Diane endormie_, who had received him with so sweet a -smile, could, when aroused, select and speed arrows from her quiver -which could pierce deep and rankle long. - -It seemed to him impossible to tell her that for weeks his house had -been the home of Damaris Bérarde without awaking all those ironies and -all that disdain which were always so very near the surface in her -nature that they were displayed upon the slightest provocation. He -would certainly seem to her to have behaved with needless exaggeration, -with uncalled-for chivalry. Paris was wide enough to furnish other -asylums than his own house; his means were large enough and powerful -enough to have obtained friends for a desolate girl without becoming -her chief friend himself. Away from the pathos and charm of Damaris's -fate, of her perfect trust in himself, and of her childish courage and -candour of character, what he had done seemed even to him, himself, -unnecessarily personal in its care of her. He did not regret it; he -would not have done less if he had had to do it again; yet he was -conscious that to induce his wife to see his actions in the light in -which he honestly saw them would be difficult, probably impossible. - -This day drifted by, and another, and another; and the name of Damaris -did not pass his lips. - -She had for him the sanctity of innocence, of youth, and of supreme -misfortune; he felt that he could not trust himself to have her made -the target for the silver arrows of his wife's wit. True, there might -be moments in which she would be so compassionate and generous, -that the calamities of the child whom she had tempted from her safe -solitudes would find in her a frank and generous friend. But Othmar -knew women too well not to know that she would only have been so had he -himself had nothing to do with the fate of this waif and stray; if she, -and not himself, had found her adrift in the streets of Paris. - -'She would doubt my motives and ridicule my endeavours,' he thought, -and the fear of her slight, chill laughter was strong upon him. He -knew that she would be unsparing in her sarcasms upon himself, even if -she should chance to feel any remnant of her momentary interest in the -future Desclée of her prophecies. - -He could not forget the coldness and scorn with which she had treated -his regret and remorse at Amyôt; he could not forget the aching sense -of loneliness and loss with which she had allowed him to leave her -presence on the night when he had told her of the little verses which -he had found in the closed chambers of Yseulte. He almost resented with -a sense of weakness and unworthiness in himself, the empire which she -possessed over his senses, the self-oblivion into which she had the -power to draw him when she chose. - -He was sensible that he lost all dignity in her eyes, because he was -so willing to forgive, so easy to be recalled, so spaniel-like in his -too meek acceptance of her slights, and too eager gratitude for her -capricious tenderness. - -The first hours passed of that dominion which she could always exercise -over him at will, the sense of his own weakness returned to him with -humiliation. He was conscious that he must appear unmanly and feeble -to her, since he allowed her to play with him thus at her whim and -pleasure. At Amyôt she had been unkind, disdainful, contemptuous; if he -condoned her cruelty, and accepted her commands, did he not seem to her -no higher than the Siberian greyhound which it was her fancy one moment -to adorn and caress, and which the next was abandoned and forgotten? - -He knew that a lover may obey the varying shades of his mistress's -temper without unmanliness, but that in marriage such humility and -obedience on the man's side are fatal to his peace and self-respect. -If he had had the strength of character from the first to resist her -influence, and enforce his own, he might have had empire over her; now -he felt that he would never gain it, that on her side alone was all -that immense power of command, and of superiority, which in human love -always remains with the one who loves least. He had too long allowed -her to treat him as she treated her hawk in the falconry-parties at -Amyôt, whistling the bird to her wrist and casting it off down the wind -with wanton unstable fancies, for him now to take that place in her -esteem, and that dignity in her sight, which he had lost through his -too fond and too submissive idolatry of her. He had only of late grown -conscious of this, and the sudden perception of his own error was full -of bitterness and useless regret. - -'He resents the power I have over him,' she thought, 'and he is -thinking of something which he does not say.' - -She had never expected him to vary with her varying moods. When she -was cold, she had always seen him unhappy; when she had chided his -warmth, he had always remained her adorer. That any shadow from her own -indifference which had fallen like night across the paths of others -should ever touch herself, seemed to her impossible, intolerable, -almost grotesque; that she could ever cease to be his sun and moon, his -planet, and his fixed star, seemed to her as improbable as that the -earth would cease to revolve. - -Her philosophic wit had indeed predicted the time when the fate which -overtakes all passion would overtake his, and end it, but in her -inmost soul that time had seemed to her remote as death itself. From -the time when his eyes had first met hers, she had had complete and -undisputed mastery over his life; she had dominated his fancy, filled -his imagination, ruled over his destiny, and held empire over his -senses. More than once she had told herself, as she had told him, that -in the common course of human life and human nature this would change -and cease some day, but in her own heart she had never realised what -her lips had said. - -Men had seldom changed to her. They had met tragic ends for her sake -or through her name, or they had given up their lives to celibate -indifference to all other women, as Gui de Béthune had done; but they -had seldom or never, having once loved her, loved others; seldom or -never learned to meet her tranquilly in the world as one who had become -naught to them. The philtre poured out by her cool white hand had been -of that rare flavour which makes all other beverages tasteless. Even -Platon Napraxine, although her husband, had yet retained for her such -utter devotion in his slow, rude, mute nature, that he had hungered for -a rose from her bosom the night before he had gone out to be shot like -a dog for her sake. - -Of the mortification of waning ardour, of the slow sad change from -fervour to apathy, of the great _débâcle_ of all passion which so many -women watch with hopeless and sinking hearts, as poor peasants of -Alpine valleys watch the melting snow and stealing floods sweep away -their homesteads--of these she had known nothing; known no more than -the reigning and honoured sovereign knows of exile and dethronement. -Now she was conscious of it, of the first slight imperceptible -chillness of feeling, even as she had been conscious of what no other -eyes than hers saw; the first faint change in her own beauty like the -film of breath on a mirror. It was very slight, rather negative than -positive, rather told by what was lacking than by what was present; -a shadow of fatigue, an absence of eagerness, a forced attention, -an accent of constraint, slender, vague, intangible things all; yet -apparent and eloquent to her quick intelligence, to her supreme -knowledge of human nature. - -They affected her with a strange sense of offence, of astonishment, of -irritation. She had a sudden impression of loss, as of one who, having -carelessly swung in his hand, without remembering it, a jewel of value, -discovers with a shock of surprise that his hand is empty, and his -treasure dropped in some crowded street, its fall unheard, its loss -only told by its absence. - -Always, hitherto, after any separation he had returned to her with -the impassioned enthusiasm of a lover; the hours had been long to him -without her near presence, and all the warmth of early passion had -accompanied his return to or his welcome of her. She had often chilled -him, checked him, laughed at him, left him vexed, dissatisfied, and -chafing, but the ardour on his side had never been less. Men had called -him uxorious, and he had been careless of their ridicule; he had only -lived for her. Now, for the first time, a chill had come, as sometimes -in a summer night, in those still grass plains of Russia, there would -steal through the hot, fragrant air a breath of ice-cold wind, and then -those skilled to read the forecast of the weather would say to one -another: 'Lo! the frost is near.' - -She was as skilled in the weather of the human heart as the peasants -were in that of the earth and skies; and she failed not to read its -presage aright. With all her arrogance she had always had that kind of -humility which comes from great intelligence and self-comprehension; -part of her contempt for her many lovers had arisen from her candid -estimate of herself, as not worth so much covetousness, despair, -and dispute. All the flatteries she had been saturated with all her -life had left her brain cool, and had never warped her estimate of -herself. She would see coldness take the place of idolatry with the -same philosophic consciousness of its inevitability with which she -contemplated the certainty of age overtaking her upon the road of life -if she continued to live. Long before their approach she had reasoned -out the surety of the arrival of both, sure as the surety of winter -to the Russian plains. But still, nature shrinks and withers before -winter. Who can welcome it as they welcome summer? - -With the inherent instinct of contradiction common to all human nature -she, who had nine times out of ten evaded his caresses and repulsed -his affections, was angered and felt defrauded of her own because for -once her power over him in a measure failed in the exercise of its -magnetism. To find thoughts which occupied his mind to her exclusion -was something so strange, so new, that it disturbed all her philosophic -serenity, and with that quick divination of the motives of men with -which her experience and her penetration supplied her, she wondered -if it were in truth only the memory of that poor dead woman which had -changed his manner and chilled his caresses, or if it were some fresh -and living influence? - -A certain cold contempt succeeded her anger as this possibility -suggested itself. - -If he were like other men, after all? Well--why not? Would she care -greatly? She did not know. All she was conscious of at the moment was -that sense of astonishment, of affront, of loss, with which a woman -feels for the first time that her power over any man has had its -fullest sway, and has begun to decline and waste. - -It was a sensation she had never experienced before, and it displeased -her that she should be capable of feeling it. - -'As if I were Jeannette and he were Jeanôt!' she thought with disdain -for so _bourgeois_ an emotion. - -But it recalled to her sharply, painfully, what the world never had -recalled to her hitherto; that the time must come to her, no less than -to others, when her empire over all men would cease, when its sceptre -would pass to other hands. It is a knowledge which hurts with the -humiliation of dethronement every woman who has ever reigned. - -There was nothing said by either which had the least actual coldness -or offence in it: yet the sense of offence and coldness was between -them, and many times he smarted under some such touch of ridicule or -of reproof from her as had used to make Platon Napraxine stand like a -chidden schoolboy before her. He was neither so blunt of nerve nor so -dull of comprehension as Napraxine had been; and he had an impatient -revolt of compromised dignity when he became the target for his wife's -delicate and cruel ironies. True, he knew they were a part of her -temper; as natural to her as its talon to the falcon, as its pungent -odour to the calycanthus. He did not attribute too serious a meaning -to them, knowing that her lips were often merciless when her heart was -kind. Yet they irritated and estranged him. No man likes to feel that -his character is lessened or his opinions regarded with indifference -by the woman before whom he most desires to stand in a fair if not an -heroic light. - -'My dear Otho,' she said a little irritably one day when he had -answered her with wandering attention, 'you are very pensive and -_distrait_ since you came to Russia. What have you been doing in the -solitudes of a Parisian summer? You look as if you had been writing an -epic and had failed in it.' - -'Death is never gay or agreeable,' said Othmar; 'and I have been in its -company.' - -'My dear, when death does not come until our friends are over eighty, -surely we can see his approach without surprise or any very great -regret. Besides, I never knew that Baron Friederich was remarkably -sympathetic to you. You used to quarrel with him about most things. But -you have such a curious waywardness in always regretting, when they are -dead, the absence of the very persons you most wished away from you -when they were living.' - -Othmar shrank a little from the words, as though they hurt him -physically. They were true enough to be painful. - -'Perhaps one knows their value too late,' he said, controlling with -effort a strong impatience of her want of sympathy and her unkind and -careless amusement at his expense. - -'Or perhaps we imagine a value in them they never possessed,' she -replied. 'That is far more probable. Distance lends enchantment to the -view of them--at least it does with such temperaments as yours, which -are always self-tormenting and given to idealising both things and -people. When the persons are living, to ruffle and weary and contradict -you, you only think what bores they are; but when they are dead you -begin to idealise them, and sacrifice yourself to their manes in all -kinds of self-censure. It is a very morbid way of taking life. I hope -your son will not resemble you in that particular.' - -'It is to be hoped, for his comfort, that he will rather resemble his -mother in the art of immediate and complete oblivion of both the dead -and the living,' said Othmar, with an irritation which was almost -ill-temper, and a retort which passed the limits of courtesy. - -He had never felt so strong an annoyance as he felt now at her ironical -and slighting treatment of his thoughts and feelings; so great an -impatience of that tranquil and contemptuous method of regarding life -which never varied in her, and which would never vary, it seemed to -him, even before his own dead body. Before it he felt that fatigue -which human eyes feel when long in the radiance of electric light. He -longed for simple sympathy, simple consolation, simple affection, as -the tired eyes long for rest in cool shadows of dusky dewy eves in -summer woods, and he was ill at ease with himself for what he concealed -from her. - -Yet, he thought, of what use would it be to tell her of that poor -child at Les Hameaux? She would have no pity certainly, probably no -patience, with what would seem to her the most absurdly romantic course -of adventures. She would ridicule him as she ridiculed him now--if she -believed him; and very likely she would not even do that. - -She looked at him under the languid lids of her dreamy eyes: eyes so -calm, so indifferent, so mysterious, so satirical in their survey of -him as of all mankind. - -'My dear friend,' she said, with a little contempt and a little rebuke -in her tone, 'it seems to me that we are very nearly--quarrelling! -Nothing is so vulgar as to quarrel. I have never done it in my life. It -is a great waste of time; and nothing can be more _bourgeois_. I have -never understood why people should quarrel; it is so very easy to walk -away!' - -Therewith she rose and walked towards the open doors, with that -undulating movement of the hips and beautiful ease and grace of -step for which she was renowned through Europe; no woman's walk was -comparable to hers. - -Othmar remained standing where he was, and looked after her with -a sombre and regretful glance, in which some of the old worship -and passion lingered, united to a new-born anger and offence. The -mortification which lies for any man of intelligence and feeling in the -sense that he has never really touched and held the soul of the woman -of whose physical possession he has been master, was upon him in a -strong and cruel sense of moral failure and of intellectual impotence. -Was it his fault or hers? Was it true, as he had said once to her, that -you cannot obtain more from any nature than it possesses, and that all -the forces of created life cannot draw fire from the smooth marble or -make the pale pearl blush like the opal? Was it that she had it not in -her to give any man more than that mingling of momentary aphrodisiacal -indulgence and of eternal immutable derision; and that whilst her power -to create a heaven of physical passion was so great, her power of -satisfying the exactions of the heart and soul was slight? - -Or was it, as the self-depreciation of his temperament led him to -think, that he himself had not moral and mental force or intellectual -greatness strong enough to obtain empire over her mind--a mind so -cultured, so refined, so exacting, so satiated, that hardly any human -companionship could succeed in awaking in it any lasting interest? - -He had humility enough to believe the last. - -The Princess Lobow Gregorievna, sitting mute and chill as a statue of -Nemesis, heard and watched, and in the depths of her narrow darksome -soul, filled with harsh creeds and as harsh hatreds, said to herself -that perchance, after all, her dead son might yet be avenged by the -mere results of time--that foe of love, that friend of all disunion. - -Their marriage had been abhorrent to her. It had seemed to her eyes -like a blow on the cheek given to her son's corpse. Any laugh or smile -of either of them seemed an affront to him. Every glance of sympathy -exchanged between them seemed a mockery of his death, suffered for -their sakes. She who had never doubted that Othmar had betrayed her son -in his lifetime, only cherished one hope in her chill breast--to see -him suffer the same fate. She had always felt that she would kiss on -both cheeks any lover of Nadine's who should make Othmar feel the shame -of a dishonoured name, the pangs of a betrayed trust. But for that -lover she had looked in vain. She had always said to the hungry hate in -her heart: 'Patience; time will bring all things; and the serpent may -cast its skin but keeps its nature.' - -But of late years she had feared that nothing would ever divide them. - -Their lives seemed to her to pass on like a smooth full river, without -shoal or rapid, or any spate from storm. There was many an hour when -she lay stretched in semblance of devoutest prayer before the holy -eikon of the chamber altar, when all that her soul uttered and her lips -murmured were curses low and long upon them both. - -Year after year went on and brought her no gratification of her desires -and her hate. All things went well with them. They had health and -pleasure; happiness too, so far as happiness comes to mortals. Their -offspring throve in loveliness and grace, and the world honoured and -caressed them both. Sometimes, in the stern yet frantic hatred which -she cherished, she would pray that disease or pestilence might at least -take the woman's beauty from her; but her prayer passed ungranted. -Nadine had ever that serene immunity from all serious maladies of the -flesh which so often accompanies the fragile appearance and sensitive -nerves of women who, like her, declare themselves made unwell by a -discordant noise, an unpleasant odour, a wearisome day, or any other -trifle which displeases them. Even the pains and perils of maternity -her good fortune had made unusually light to her, and except from that -cause she had hardly had a day's real suffering in her whole existence. -To the sullen eyes of Napraxine's mother she always seemed to bear a -charmed life. - -Therefore with fierce dumb joy Lobow Gregorievna, with her vigilant ear -and eye, saw the one little rift within the lute, heard the one jarring -chord on the music. It was so slight that no anxiety less keen than her -own would have detected it; but it was there. - -He remained in Russia a fortnight, but during that time he did not find -any occasion which seemed to him propitious enough for him to speak -of Damaris, with any chance of obtaining sympathy for her position or -understanding of his own actions. With that ignorance of what most -concerns us, which is one of the saddest things of life, he never -dreamed that any change in himself had made his wife as he found her to -be, in one of her most captious, most capricious, most unsympathetic -moods. He was not unused to these; he attributed them now to the -weariness she felt at existence in the plains of Ural and impatience at -the companionship of the Princess Napraxine which he knew was at all -times irksome to her. He was not aware that he was himself more absent -of mind, less tender in manner, less frankly and fully confidential in -speech; he was not aware that this one thing untold, this one thought -unrevealed, had caused an alteration in him, slight and vague indeed, -yet plainly perceptible to her, skilled reader of manner and of mind as -she was. - -A delicate nature shrinks from the imputation of unworthy motives, and -a fastidious temper shrinks from any possibility of ridicule; it was -the dread of both which kept him silent as to the friendship he had -shown to the child from Bonaventure. The apprehension of his wife's -scepticism and ironies hung like a grey mist over the generous impulses -of his manhood, as in his earliest youth the certainty of his father's -brutal cynicism had lain like a stone on the poetic aspirations of his -boyhood. - -Even in those rare instants when she was moved to sympathy with any -unselfishness or any unworldliness, there was always in her eyes some -faint gleam of derision, there was always in her voice some lingering -accent of doubt and of raillery. She would have been capable of many -great things in great emergencies herself, but she would have been -wholly incapable of refraining from making a jest of them afterwards. -It is the temper of all wit; it is the temper of much philosophy; but -it is not the temper which invites the confidence or soothes the doubts -of another. - -Confidence, like a swallow coming over seas in the storm and sunshine -of spring weather, will only nest where it is sure of a safe shelter. - -The higher, better, subtler emotions of the human heart will not -venture to come forth into the wintry air of mockery or scorn; they are -shy blossoms which want the warm wind of a sure sympathy to enable them -to expand. - -'If I told her, she would only think me either an imbecile or a -libertine,' he thought, and the tale went untold. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - - -Amyôt was still quite solitary when he returned from Russia. The -children were on the north coast by the sea; its châtelaine was still -taking her desired presence with rare condescension and alternative -moods of ennui and irony to those royal hunting castles and imperial -pleasure places she deigned to honour; the wide avenues, the great -terraces, the blossoming gardens, the sunlit colonnades of the modern -summer dining-hall were only tenanted by the last lingering butterflies -which skimmed the air with white wings, blue wings, scarlet wings, -and the balmy aromatic scent of the millions of roses which seemed to -wander through the empty places like a visible presence. - -Usually whenever he came thither he was surrounded by that society -which was a necessity to his wife, even whilst it failed to satisfy -her, by that movement, gaiety, and _entrain_, which even if they fail -to amuse, yet can always in a manner distract thought and fill up -time. There seemed to him a strange silence, a melancholy which was -oppressive, in these stately places, usually so full of colour and -pleasure, now so quiet and so lonely, with only some noiseless servant -passing with swift step across its floors or down its staircases. - -There was not even the song of a bird to break the stillness; it was -early in autumn, and their sweet throats were mute. - -He saw in remembrance the grace of his wife's movements as she had -passed down these great stairs, he saw the smile in her eyes indulgent -as to a child's weakness, ironical as of a man's folly; he heard her -voice saying, with that little sound in it of some exquisite disdain -falling from on high on mortal thoughts as silvery fountain-water falls -from marble heights on creeping mosses: - -'It is scarcely worth while to _faire des madrigaux_.' - -Had that speaker ever loved him even for five minutes of her life? - -Had she ever known what love was? He thought of the Court of Love which -she had held under those oak trees yonder, above whose rounded masses -a white moon now sailed. With what ingenuity, what subtlety, what -philosophy, what absolute knowledge of all love's minutest weaknesses -and utmost madness, she had been able to discourse of it. But was it -not such knowledge as the physiologist's knowledge of pain in the -creature on which he experiments? Of knowledge there is abundance, -of the chill and analytical knowledge of science, of the name and -structure of every torn tissue, of every bleeding fibre, of every -tortured nerve; but knowledge such as is born of fellow feeling, of -sensitive sympathy, of comprehending pity, there is none. Was it not so -with her? - -Had not love been always to her as the living organisation which he -tortures is to the physiologist? Had she not, like him, watched, -studied, tabulated the agonies of the wretched creature before her, -whilst also, like him, she had never felt in her own nerves one single -thrill of pain? - -As her lover it had allured him with the intense attraction of an -impenetrable mystery, this attitude of her mind, this indifference, -both sensual and spiritual, before the demands of love. But as the -companion of her life it left him with a sense of dissatisfaction, and -of unsatisfied desire. For years it had served to excite and to sustain -his passion, but as time wore on it almost communicated its coldness -to himself; he began to feel with a sense of terror, as before some -disloyalty which he could not escape, that the apathy, the fatigue, the -absence of emotion, which are the certain attendants on all satisfied -passion, were not far distant from himself. - -The very air of Amyôt seemed melancholy to him in these late summer -heats, without the usual gaiety and movement which were there at most -other seasons when he came to it. Solitude had always, in his youth, -been welcome to him, and had fatigued him less than the routine of -society; but solitude requires the charm of accompanying dreams, it -needs the visions of youth, the vague but glorious hopes of opening -life; and Othmar had a vague sense that he would never dream any more, -that he grew old, that his fate was fixed, that never would any very -welcome or sweet response come to his wishes from the voices of the -future. He had had the poet's temperament without the poet's power of -expression; he could not take the poet's consolation, 'Sing to the -Muses, and let the world go by.' His destiny imprisoned him, and there -was little sympathy between himself and it. - -As he walked in the moonlight, under the roofs of late roses which shed -their petals, white, crimson, and blush-coloured, on him, dewy cool -and sweet as the touch of his wife's cheek, a servant brought him a -pencilled note. - -It said briefly: - -'There has been an accident. We are not hurt, but the train cannot take -us on. Send your carriages for us. I saw in the journals this morning -that you were at Amyôt.' - -The paper had been sent from the town of Beaugency, whilst it was -signed 'Blanche de Laon:' the last person on earth whose presence he -would have wished for in his solitude. Irritating, distasteful, and -even painful to him as her society was, yet he could do no less than -attend to such a request. He must have complied with it had it come -from a stranger. He at once sent his brake and two other carriages, -with fast horses, to do her bidding, and returned indoors to give such -orders as were needful for this unexpected invasion of an unknown -number of guests. - -It was late, and he himself had dined two hours before; but he ordered -a supper to be got ready for the new comers, who might not have dined -at Orleans. He concluded that she was passing from Paris to one of -her châteaux near Saumur, where in late summer and early autumn she -often assembled the very distinguished, but somewhat noisy, society -which regarded her as its queen. His musings and his solitude had -been roughly dispelled; and, though both had been somewhat joyless, -he regretted them as an hour later he heard the roll of the returning -wheels and the stamping of impatient horses' hoofs in the great central -court of honour, and went perforce to meet and greet his uninvited -guests. - -The Princess Blanche, having herself driven the four horses of the -brake through the moonlit cross-roads which led from Beaugency to -Amyôt, was in the highest spirits as she descended from the box seat, -and gaily greeted him in her shrill, swift voice and her fashionable -_langue verte_. There had been a severe accident; a goods train had -been met by the express; the usual story, as she said contemptuously. -The line was strewn with wrecked waggons and overturned engines; there -had been no possibility of proceeding to Blois. Had there been people -killed? Oh, yes; she believed so. '_On braillait là-bas, n'est-ce pas, -Gontran?_' she said indifferently to one of her companions, and added, -with fervour, '_Tiens! J'ai une faim de loup!_' - -'But you said that no one was hurt?' said Othmar, regretting that he -had not gone in person to the scene of trouble. - -'None of us were,' she replied. 'We were in the centre of the train. -We felt the shock; that was all. We were playing the American "poker." -The collision threw down the cards. I should have come to Amyôt if you -had not been here. No one could pass the night at a country station. -Besides, Amyôt is always ready for a hundred people.' - -'Amyôt is always at the service of all my friends,' replied Othmar with -sincerity, but with a certain stiffness. He disliked her familiarity -with him at all times, and was conscious that, despite it, she bore no -good will to himself or to his wife. - -She wasted no more words on him, but led the way into the house, -scarcely deigning to present to him those of her companions with whom -he was not already acquainted. There was some dozen of them, all, both -men and women, notabilities of that _haute gomme_ which was the only -world she recognised. They had been travelling with her from Paris, -being bidden for a shooting party to her castle in Touraine. - -Othmar conducted her to the great hall; then he said to her: - -'Everything is at your disposition, and all the household at your -command. You will excuse me if myself I leave you for awhile to go and -see if I can be of any use to those less happily fated persons--_qui -braillaient là-bas_.' - -She laughed. - -'Ah! you were always a Don Quixote. Even Madame Nadège has not cured -you.' - -'Your servants may have been hurt, or worse still, your _fourgons_ -damaged. I will bring you news of them,' said Othmar, with an irony -which affronted whilst it amused her. - -She went to her own apartments _pour se débarbouiller_; and a little -later, surrounded by her fellow-travellers, sat down to supper in the -summer dining-hall, which shed its dazzling light far out on to the -dusky lawns and the pale aisle of the white roses; there was a banquet -fit for the gods, though prepared at such short notice; the delicate -wines circulated quickly; the adventure was amusing; the whole thing -unexpected. Blanche de Laon and all her companions were in the highest -spirits, in a more vulgar world they might even have been thought a -little intoxicated; their laughter rang frequent and shrill and long -over the quiet gardens and the royal woods. - -Meanwhile their host went to the scene of the late disaster, and found -a sight of frightful destruction and of many deaths, while scores of -poor horned cattle, mutilated and moaning, lay in pitiful heaps of -bruised and bleeding misery upon the iron way. - -It was noon in the following day when he returned to Amyôt, where all -his unbidden guests were slumbering soundly and late after their alarm -and their fatigues. - -He, tired out himself, went to his own rooms and rested as well as -he could rest for the sights and sounds of suffering which haunted -him in his sleep. He had done what he could to alleviate it; but that -all seemed so little and so inefficacious. At sunset he met all his -undesired visitors at dinner. - -'Your wife is still in Russia?' asked Blanchette that evening. - -Othmar assented. - -'Does it amuse her, Russia? If it did not, however, she would not stay -there.' - -'It is her country, and her court.' - -'Of course. But that would not make her stay there if she were bored. -Why did not you stay too?' - -'I had business in France; the death of my uncle has doubled my -obligations and occupations.' - -'And some of your business lies at Chevreuse?' - -'At Chevreuse?' - -He was astonished and was annoyed to feel himself also embarrassed. -The blue cold eyes of Blanche de Laon were looking at him with their -penetrating supercilious malice over the feathers of her great fan. - -She smiled, amused and unmerciful. - -'Did Baron Fritz leave you that legacy at Chevreuse? It is a very -handsome one!' - -'I do not understand to what you allude,' said Othmar, with coldness -and irritation. - -She laughed; a little short incredulous laugh. - -'My cousin! If you do not want people to talk about it, why do you -stand in the middle of a hay-field with your uncle's legacy?--if it be -your uncle's.' - -Othmar was irritated and more embarrassed than he showed. Blanchette -was the last person on earth whom he would have chosen to know anything -of the more intimate details of his life. He knew her unsparing -tongue, the exaggerated colour she could give to the slightest story, -the smallest incident; the malicious pleasure in mischief-making and -in scandal which she took at all times from mere natural malice and -love of caustic words. Whatever she saw, or knew, or guessed, she -dressed up in colours of her own invention, and made into comedies, to -divert herself and her world. Was it possible that she had recognised -Damaris? He thought not. Many months had gone by since the evening at -St. Pharamond, and it was scarcely probable that so great a lady, with -her multiform interests, excitement, and intrigues, had ever remembered -the peasant girl of Bonaventure. - -He was silent because he was for the moment too amazed to trust -himself to speak, and Blanchette gazed at him over her fan, with cruel -satisfaction and entertainment at his visible irritation. - -'The open air is always so dangerous,' she said, maliciously. 'Even if -you be sure there is nobody near, how can you be sure there is not a -balloon somewhere above you? or a field-glass half a mile off? I had a -field-glass; I was driving from Versailles. If the Baron left you many -legacies like that one, your affairs must be more agreeable than legal -successions often are.' - -Then she laughed again, and rose and took her elegant person, her -shrill, cruel, little laugh, her pale, keen, penetrating eyes into an -adjoining room, where she gathered her adorers about her to play at -_chemin de fer_, and win or lose, in breathless alternations, gold -enough to dower fifty dowerless maidens, or stock a score of farms, -whilst without the still, cool, dewy night lay soft as a blessing -on the gardens and the woods and the great distant river, with the -shadowy vessels gliding to and fro, and the little villages, dusky and -noiseless, hidden away under the vineyards and the pear trees. - -She cared in nothing what he did; he was profoundly indifferent to -her when she did not remember her dead cousin, and then she hated -him. She had not seen the features of his companion in the fields of -Les Hameaux, nor would she have recognised them had she done so. The -evening at St. Pharamond was blotted and blurred into oblivion under -the heaps of forgotten things of a past year which could have no place -in a mind engrossed in its own vanities and excitations, and living -wholly in the present. But she had recognised Othmar himself as her -carriage had passed yards off, and she had put up her field-glass -at the towers of the château of Dampierre; and it had amused her to -find that he was just like other men, though he affected such absurd, -undivided devotion to one. - -No doubt it was only an _amourette_; but it pleased her to have -something with which she could tease him when she felt so disposed; and -it pleased her more strongly still to reflect that his wife was losing -her power over him, which she probably was, she reasoned, if another -woman were gaining any. Pure malice was an integral part of her nature; -to irritate, torment, and dominate people through their various little -secrets seemed to her the best part of the comedy of life. She had -nothing of the supreme indolent disdain of the woman she hated, or of -her absolute indifference. She loved to _fourrer son nez_ in all holes -and corners. Her theory was that all knowledge was useful, especially -when it was knowledge to your friends' detriment; and a lively and -insatiable curiosity was her strongest guarantee against ennui. - -She thought complacently of the trouble she had cast into his mind as -she sat and played her game of hazard, the light flashing on her rings -and the gold she handled. No doubt the thing was only an _amour en -village_, an absurdity, a caprice, some rosy-limbed, coarsely-built -nymph of La Beauce, who pleased him for the hour because of her utter -unlikeness to the great ladies he lived amongst. - -'_Je les connais!_' thought Blanchette, with something of Nadine's -contempt for the sex. 'When they can drink out of a hundred silver -goblets they are always crazy for a brown cottage pipkin. They are -always like that.' - -She attached no importance to the discovery that he walked not -unaccompanied in the fields of the vale of Chevreuse; but the knowledge -that he did so had embarrassed him; that was enough to make it -delightful to her. - -It amused her to be at Amyôt when its mistress was absent. '_Nous -sommes très bien installés_,' she said carelessly to Othmar, not even -going through the form of inquiring as to his wishes, and she and -her party stayed on for the rest of the week. He was displeased, but -he could not tell them to go. His wife could do that sort of thing; -he could not. It seemed to him impossible to make even self-invited -guests realise that they were not welcome. Blanche de Laon thought his -compliance argued fear of her, and was more diverted than before. - -'Perhaps he is dying to get back to Chevreuse!' she thought with much -amusement. 'But he is too courteous to turn us out; he belongs to the -last century.' - -She was not grateful for his courtesy; she, rather, despised him for it. - -One morning she took a fancy to wander over the house by herself; it -was an immense building, and to visit it thoroughly would have taken -more hours than she gave it minutes; but even in her rapid and cursory -fashion, she covered a good deal of ground. - -'It is really a royal place,' she thought. 'We have nothing like it. La -Finance gets everything.' - -She disliked Othmar; he was everything that she detested in man: he -was reserved, punctilious, prejudiced; he had a distant manner of cold -courtesy, which was not at all of her own generation; he was grave, -often preoccupied, and always blind to her own attractions: yet as she -went over she wished that she had married him. - -'_Quel diable de vie je lui aurais donné!_' she thought with -complacency, and how amusing it would have been! - -Bertrand de Laon was not rich; at least not rich enough for the -enormous expenditure at which they lived; and then he was so stupid, so -amiable, so devoted, that there was no kind of pleasure in doing him -every sort of wrong that a woman can do a man! He never knew anything -about it, or, if he did know, never resented anything. She grew tired -of kicking this poor spaniel, who, beat him as she would, always came -humbly and caressingly to her feet. - -As she wandered about the house she came on the doors which led to the -apartments of Yseulte. They were locked. She sent one of her companions -to fetch the major-domo. - -'Open these doors,' she said imperiously to the official, who timidly -answered that he dared not; except by his master's orders they could -never be unlocked. 'I have his orders, open them,' said Blanchette, -with such authority in her tone that the man never dreamed she was not -speaking the truth; besides it seemed to him to be natural enough; she -had been, he knew, the cousin german of the dead Countess Othmar. He -fetched the duplicate keys he possessed, and opened the doors: great -doors of cedar-wood like all those at Amyôt, with intricate locks of -old Florentine work of steel and silver. Then he went in and opened -also some of the shutters of the apartments, letting in the warm summer -light from without on some portions of the rooms, whilst other parts of -them were left in darkness. - -Blanchette shut out her companions with her usual unceremonious manner. - -'It is not for you,' she said curtly, and banged the doors in their -faces with that insolence which was considered by others as by herself -_d'un chic suprême_. - -She had never been able to come there before, for she had never before -been at Amyôt in the absence of its mistress. She was not sure why she -came now; partly because she thought it would annoy Othmar, partly -from a movement of that remembered affection for the companion of her -childhood, which was the only thing of any tenderness which had ever -sprung up in the breast of Blanchette: one tiny flower of sentiment -blossoming on a granite soil. The sentiment had been rooted in -selfishness; 'she used to give me so many things!' she thought always, -whenever she remembered her. - -The little volume of manuscript poems was in its place; Othmar had -hesitated to remove it; everything was in the rooms as when Yseulte -had lived, and no eyes but his own had ever beheld them. He had -returned more than once to read again those poor fragments, so simple -in language, so immeasurable in devotion: read them with a mist before -his sight and the sense of some base ingratitude in himself which had -come to him on his first discovery of them. He had always replaced -them with a lingering and reverent touch in the drawer, whence he had -first taken them, where they lay now with a crumpled glove, two or -three faded roses, and some notepaper with her initials in silver on -it. The restless penetrating agile glance and fingers of Blanchette, -touching, seeing, alighting on all things, and skimming over each with -the lightness of swallows, brought her to that drawer amongst other -places, and showed her the little volume lying with the dead roses. -She took it up, and turned over the pages rapidly; looking on it here, -there, everywhere; scanning a hundred lines in the space of time that -would have served to others to see only half a score. The familiar -handwriting, the pathetic words, the mixture of ignorance and of -intensity, the force of strong emotions striving to express themselves -in an unwonted manner, and half observed, half revealed by the -unaccustomed livery of language, had a certain effect upon her as she -stood in the empty rooms before one of the great casements, and turned -over the leaves of the little book, half contemptuous, half reverential. - -If she had read such lines in a printed volume, she would have tossed -it away with her most terrible sneer. '_Pleurnicheuse!_' she would -have said, with a grin of her white small teeth; but read in the -handwriting of her dead cousin, they affected her differently; they -did not seem ridiculous; they brought home to her the fact that this -world, which was but a masked ball, a mad _fête_, a continual comedy -to herself, might be to others, who yet were not wholly fools, a place -of martyrdom, endured in silence. Her shrewd and quick intelligence -supplying the place of sympathy, could read between the lines; could -make her understand as Othmar had understood, all that was unuttered, -or only half uttered, in those halting, timid, tender, wistful verses. - -'_Dame! Comme c'est drôle!_' she murmured to herself: it was droll that -anyone with youth, with fortune, with beauty, with all the pleasures, -and pastime, and pomps of existence at her call, should have wasted her -time and her tears in useless lament, because the heart of one man was -cold to her. It was droll; it was absurd; it was contemptible; and yet -she closed the little velvet book, and laid it down by the worn glove, -and the dead roses with a vague admiration, with a certain respect. - -But her heart grew harder than before against the man who had been thus -loved, and had given no throb of love in answer. - -She remembered the words of Friederich Othmar at the mausoleum in the -grounds yonder: 'She would wish you to spare him.' Yes, no doubt, poor, -generous, heroic, saintly, foolish soul!--if she could know, if she -could speak, if she could interpose, she would always come from her -grave to save or to serve the husband who had never had one impulse -of love for her. But the dead know nothing; the dead never stir; -'_quand on est mort c'est pour longtemps_,' thought Blanchette, with -grim realism, as she closed the drawer which held the little poem: and -meanwhile, if ever she herself had the chance, she would do as she had -said: she would rub the sand into the gall, she would widen any wound -that she saw. - -She thought to herself, 'If she had lived, perhaps----' perhaps she -would have kept alive some little green place in her own soul; perhaps -she would have kept her own steps aloof from some vices which were not -all sweetness; perhaps she would have had something in her own life -besides insolent audacity, merciless intrigue, and insatiable curiosity -of unattainable excitations: it was a consciousness of her own loss, -in the loss of the one purer influence which her life had ever known, -which made the arid and frivolous nature of Blanche de Laon cherish her -hatred for those who seemed to her as the murderers of Yseulte with -a ferocity and tenacity of remembrance which was the only impersonal -emotion she had ever known. - -Avarice, expenditure, vanity, corruption, every ingenuity of -self-indulgence and of physical licence, filled up her own days, and -left no space for any memory which was not selfish, any desire which -was not base; she had copied and exaggerated the egotism of Nadine -Napraxine until it had become a monstrosity, and she had replaced -the physical indifference of her model by appetites and curiosities -which were both morbid and insatiable. Yet her life at times failed -to satisfy her, and at such time the recollection of Yseulte came -to her as a cool breeze will touch the hot forehead of a drunkard. -Things which had been odious and ridiculous to her in all others, -had looked worth something when mirrored to her in the clear soul of -her childhood's companion; when Yseulte had passed out of her life -she, little greedy, callous cynic of a child though she had been, had -vaguely felt that something had gone away from her which would never be -replaced. - -'Poor little saint! Poor little fool!' she thought now, with as near -an approach to tenderness and reverence as her temperament could -approach, as she cast a lingering glance over the lonely rooms, with -the dead flowers in the vases, the dust of years on the walls, the -stray sunbeams slanting on to the empty bed, the scent of late roses -and autumn fruits coming in through the dusky shadows and close odours -within. - -'Poor little saint! Poor little fool!' - -As she stood thus, Othmar, passing through the gardens, saw the windows -open which were by his command always closed. He was immediately -beneath them, and he called aloud in tones of exceeding anger: 'Who has -ventured to enter there?' - -Blanche de Laon heard, and her insolent, fair, small face looked out -from one of the open places in the old painted casements, guarded with -their scrolls of iron. - -'It is I,' she said, with the usual impertinence of her accent hushed -into quietude, almost into sadness. Then she leaned her elbows on the -stonework of the sill, and put her face close to his. He was almost on -a level with her, for those rooms were raised but a mètre or two from -the ground. - -He grew pale with indignation. - -'Madame de Laon,' he said in a low tone, through which all his anger -thrilled, 'when I put all my house at your disposition there were some -things in it which I did not suppose it necessary to enjoin you to -respect.' - -'Pooh!' said Blanchette, resting her elbows on the stone and her chin -on her hands. 'I have more title in her rooms than you; I have not -forgotten her.' - -His face flushed; he hesitated a moment. - -'What means did you take to induce my servants to disobey me?' he -asked, avoiding her later words. - -'I told them I had your authority,' said Blanchette carelessly. 'What -can it matter to you? _You_ never come here. You never go to her grave. -Your uncle did. Even I do. But you--never.' - -Othmar was silent. He hated this woman with her impudent pale face, her -high satirical tones, her overbearing effrontery, and he hated to see -her there in the rooms which had been the bridal chambers of Yseulte in -the one brief summer of happiness which she had known. - -Blanchette looked down at him with hard cold eyes; she, on her side, -hated him no less at that moment. There was no one within hearing; the -western garden on which these rooms looked was the loneliest though the -loveliest place in Amyôt; and since the death of Yseulte it had been so -unfrequented, that hares would come and nibble at the moss-roses under -the windows, and once a stag from the herds of red deer cast loose in -the park had dared to enter and drink his fill at the fountain. - -'_Tiens!_' said Blanchette, leaning from the window, her artificial -pale blonde beauty looking akin there. 'She broke her heart for -you: one laughs at those things in the world; they are good for the -"Traviata," not out of it; it was absurd--grotesquely absurd; and yet -in her one knows it was true. When I was a child, and she married -you, I wanted her to think of the fine clothes, the fine jewels, the -fine houses, all the rest of it--all the things _we_ give ourselves -for--but she never cared. She said once, "If he were a beggar I should -be happier, because then he would be sure that it is for himself that -I care." Oh yes, she would have gone barefoot in the dust after you if -you had held out your hand. And you--you did not see it or know it, or -thank her for it; all you cared for was Nadine Napraxine. It is always -so. It is always the other--the other that we cannot have. And now "the -other" is your wife; and so you go to the meadows in Chevreuse. How -like a man! And to think that such a woman as Yseulte should have died -for you! _Pouah!_ If she had known you as I know men she would not have -wasted a hair of her head on you. _Pouah----!_' - -Then she banged the casement close, and left him standing there. He -might rage in his heart as he chose, what did she care for his wrath or -for his amours or for his whole existence? What she had cared for was -the dead girl who had died for him. That she had insulted him in return -for his hospitality and his courtesy was delightful to her. In that -moment she would have liked to insult him before the whole world. - -Othmar paused a moment, looking blankly up at this window of his own -house thus shut in his face; then, with slow step, and with his head -down, he pursued his way through the western garden. His guest had -insulted him, but the worst sting of the insult lay in its truth. -It was true, most true; he owned to himself that he had been wholly -unworthy the sacrifice of such a life as Yseulte's. - -Yet, he thought, in the words which had been quoted under the oaks of -Amyôt in the Court of Love, 'How is it under our control to love or not -to love?' - -Love is not to be commanded, and naught less than a great and -undivided love could ever have given happiness and faith in itself to -so delicate, to so sensitive, to so perfectly and sincerely humble a -nature as that of the dead girl whose bridal hours had been passed in -those closed chambers, around whose casements the ivy climbed and the -swallows nested undisturbed as the seasons passed. The rough, sharp, -upbraiding words of Blanche de Laon smarted in his memory, as the cut -of a knife smarts in the flesh. They only repeated in coarse emphasis -what his own conscience had said to him ever since he had found the -little manuscript poems in the drawer with the faded roses. Before -then, with the blindness of a man whose whole soul is centred on -another passion than the one which claims his sympathy, he had never -once dreamed that the death of Yseulte had been self sought. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - - -Damaris, meanwhile, was altogether at ease as to her own circumstances. -No doubt ever entered her mind as to the legacy bequeathed by her -grandfather; it was more than enough for all her wants, and she -understood that she could live at Les Hameaux easily, all her lifetime, -if she chose. But without any apprehension for her future, she was not -without that unrest which is the inseparable companion of all ambition. -The remembrance of the wife of Othmar was like a thorn in her side: -she had an eager, passionate, thirsty desire to justify herself in -the sight of that great lady, to become something which could not be -derided or denied or set aside with contempt. The memory of that day -under the roof of St. Pharamond was continually with her, in all its -humiliation and its disappointment, and its sharp cruel sense of being -a barbarian amongst the highest grace and culture that were possible -to human life and manners. It had been a glimpse into an unknown land -never to be forgotten; the gates to it had been shut in her face, -almost as soon as opened; but the dreams which had come to her through -them remained with her, and pursued her sleeping and waking. - -She threw herself into the resources of study with a kind of passion. -In books, she thought, lay all the secrets of the spells of power. - -When he had bidden her wed a farmer of La Beauce he had wounded her -in a way that she could not forget; not because she despised that -homelier life of the husbandman, but because she thought that he -deemed her incapable of the higher life of the intellect or the soul. -She had been violently uprooted from all her childish associations, -and severed from all the habits, thoughts, and attachments which had -been hers from birth. The shock of that separation had intensified and -deepened the sensitive side of her nature, and subdued the sanguine -_insouciance_ of it. She was not happy at Les Hameaux as she had been -happy on Bonaventure; but she was still companioned by many dreams, and -still full of high courage, though the dreams had lost something of -their splendid phantasy, and the courage had lost something of its rash -undoubting faith. - -At times she longed for her old playmate, the sea, with a curious -painful yearning--the yearning of the home-sickness of the exile. - -'How well I can understand,' she said once to Rosselin, 'that Napoleon -longed all his life for the smell of the earth of Corsica. All my life -I am sure I shall smell the smell of the fresh sea water leaping up in -the wind under the orange boughs and the bay leaves; there is nothing -like it here, though the pastures smell sweet in the dew.' - -In a short time she had changed much. She had become still taller, and -the peachlike bloom of her face had paled. She had the look in her eyes -of one who studies assiduously the great thoughts of great writers; she -had a less childlike and boylike beauty, and one more intellectual and -spiritual. Months count as years at her age, and the southern blood of -the Bérardes matured early. - -Rosselin watched her growth with pride. Her softened accent, her -subdued gesture, her intelligent comprehension of intellectual things, -her simple but picturesque clothing, were all due to his training or -his suggestion. He had taken her to great libraries, famous galleries, -historic palaces, and had taught her to understand the true and the -false in art; he had taken her to recitals of the Conservatoire, -and even to rehearsals at the great theatres, where, secured from -observation, she could herself observe, and realised, as she listened, -all the many traits and the many efforts which go together to make up -admirable dramatic representation. He never allowed anyone to speak to -her, scarcely to see her, but he gave her thus that training of the eye -and of the ear without which no great artist can be created. - -'Nature does much,' he said to her. 'Yes. But art is a different thing -to nature. Art is three parts divine, but it is one part human, and -that human part requires the most unwearied and elaborate training. The -sculptor may bring a god out of the clay in the fire and the fever of -his inspiration, but if he have not studied the laws of anatomy, the -limbs of his god will be out of proportion, and one leg will be shorter -than the other.' - -In the artistic circles there went a whisper about that Rosselin had -some paragon whom he was educating, and would produce some day; but -every one feared the sarcastic power of the great artist's tongue too -much to meddle, unasked, with his concerns, and Damaris, under his -guidance, passed unmolested, almost unobserved, through the intricate -mazes of that art-world, which she touched without entering it. - -One day, when she had been taken to a recital at the Conservatoire, -he had left her alone for a few moments; the recital was over, the -pupils had left the stage; the professors were conversing together; -from the floor there rose a cloud of dust, and from the hot, pent air a -strong noisome odour. Her eyes ached, her temples throbbed; she, whose -whole life had been passed in the fragrance of the open air, in the -freshness of buoyant sea winds, felt stifled, stunned, nauseated. Fame -itself seemed hateful, approached through this vitiated atmosphere. -To pass your years in boxes of brick and stone, in cages of wood and -iron, rather than in the glad freedom of glancing waters and unchecked -movement over golden sands and flowering meadows, was it not madness -indeed? - -She remembered the words of Othmar, bidding her live the life that was -led on the wide cornlands of La Beauce. All that was strong in her, -and born to freedom, and filled with the love of the sea, and the joys -of untrammelled movement through sunlit air, and against fruit-scented -breezes, rose in nausea and revolt against the pent-up life of the -artist in cities. - -Where, oh where, was the open-air theatre of the Greeks, with no dome -but the blue sky, and the voices of the chorus echoed by the sounds of -the sea-waves breaking to surf upon the marble stairs? - -'What are you thinking of? Your eyes look wild,' said Rosselin, -rejoining her. - -'I was thinking that I could never speak upon a covered stage: the air -would choke me!' - -Rosselin looked at her in silence. He himself was thinking of Aimée -Desclée, of the _bohémienne_ who had always wanted the fresh air, the -free sunlight, the unpaid laughter, the unbought love. - -Aimée Desclée seemed to rise before him, and cry to him: - -'Why tempt another on my path?' - -He said to her solemnly and tenderly, while his voice sounded very -grave in the silence of the emptied theatre: - -'My dear, we cannot call back the Athens of Pindar for you, nor yet -give you the ideal world of your fancy. If you want to be great in our -world as it is, you must breathe its air, which is dust and chokes -sensitive lungs. When the air is gold dust it is not much lighter to -breathe, though people fancy it light as the air of the planet Venus. -If you decide that it will be too weighty for yours, I do not say -that you will not decide wisely. Your friend Othmar has told you that -obscurity and liberty are the happier choice. He is a man who knows by -experience how painful a thraldom are eminence and wealth. You yourself -may attain eminence, and wealth too, possibly, probably, but you cannot -do so and remain free to be all day long under the blue sky. You must -dwell in the air that is full of dust, and poisoned by being shared by -a million mouths. That air killed Aimée Desclée.' - -Damaris was silent. - -She went out beside him through the sordid ways and shabby passages -of this temple of the acolytes of fame, and thence into the crowded -streets, which were grey with a leaden-coloured slow rain. - -Oh, how sweet the rain was in the country, scudding over the green -fields, brimming in the grass holes, hanging from the orchard boughs, -shining in the window lattices, lying in the great dock leaves! How -the snails came out in the glistening roads, and the birds drank it -from off the ground, and the ducks went about in the little shallows it -left, and how merry and glad the whole land was! - -'You love the country,' said Rosselin, when they had walked the length -of some streets in silence. 'You love the country, my dear. Stay in it; -you have enough to live on; let fame go by, unsought, unmourned.' - -Damaris sighed: - -'But if I do not do something great she will always say that I could -not. She will always despise me.' - -'Who?' - -'His wife.' - -'Othmar's?' - -'Yes.' - -'Ah!' said Rosselin; he understood the motives which moved her more -completely than she understood them herself. 'Do not think of that -capricious woman,' he said with irritation. 'Be sure that the day after -she saw you she had forgotten that you existed.' - -The colour rose to the face of Damaris. - -'I wish to make her remember,' she said under her breath. - -'Ah!' said Rosselin once more. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - - -One evening in October Rosselin walked beside his pupil amongst the -fields of Les Hameaux. She had had her lesson in elocution in the -afternoon; a lesson in which he was inexorably hard to please, a very -tyrant over all the minutiæ of accent and of expression; and now in the -walks at sunset he had relaxed into all that benignity and bonhomie -which were most natural to him in the company of women and of children. - -'I am afraid I do not please you,' she had said with some dejection. - -'If you did not, my dear, do you think I would come thrice a week to -Chevreuse to train you?' he answered. 'It is because you have exceeding -natural talent, because you have uncommon gifts, a flexible and -beautiful voice, quick perceptions, and that intuitive comprehension -which is the innermost soul of art, that I deal with you harshly to -compel you to acquire all that artificial treatment of your own powers -which is absolutely indispensable to success. If I had not seen genius -in you it would not have been merely to please Othmar that I would have -told you to give yourself to art; I should have said to you, on the -contrary: "Go and marry a farmer of La Beauce, spin and sew, and wear a -silk gown on Sundays; have any number of children; be an ordinary woman -in a word."' - -'Marry a farmer of La Beauce!' - -She coloured with indignation. Was it not what Othmar himself had said -to her? - -'It is not a life to be despised,' continued Rosselin. 'They live in -corn as the crickets do. You, who are so fond of country things, would -be happy enough if--if--you had never read Racine and Hugo, if you had -not that fermentation of the fancy in you which seethes and stirs and -smokes until out of it comes the wine of genius. The swallows cannot -stay in the fields as the linnets do. There is something in them that -makes them go when the hour is come. They do not know what it is; they -obey an imperious instinct. They cannot stay if they would. They go -blindly, and very often they drop down dead in mid-ocean, and never see -the rose fields of Persia or the magnolia woods of Hindostan, as they -meant to do; yet they go.' - -Unknown to herself, a strong impulse moved her to prove to the wife -of Othmar that the _brin de génie_ was hers; a true bough of laurel, -not a spurious weed. The indifference and the oblivion of this, the -first great lady she had ever seen, still remained in her memory with -the sting of an affront which nothing could efface. The world was -represented to her eyes by that one delicate, smiling, negligent, -cruel critic, whom she passionately admired, whom she unconsciously -challenged. The child had no vanity, but she had great pride; the pride -of the aristocrat and the pride of the republican had been inherited by -her, each stubborn as the other. Her pride had been wounded, and her -ambition and her dreams excited. She knew that she might drop, like -the tired swallow that crosses the sea, into the deep abyss of failure -and oblivion; but, like the swallow, the instinct which moved her was -irresistible. - -Rosselin saw that it was so, and he was too utterly an artist in every -fibre of his being to be able to prevail on himself to discourage her -wholly. He believed that she would become the glory of the French -stage; that very union of the strength of the peasant and the delicacy -of the patrician, which was so marked in her physically and mentally, -seemed to him to possess that rare originality which all those destined -to be great in any art are stamped with from their birth. He did not -admit to her how much he admired her, but when she recited to him at -one lesson those passages which had been set to her at a previous -one, he was secretly amazed at the justness of her reading of them, -the accuracy of her rendering, and he marvelled where in her simple -life, set between sea and sky as it had been, she had reached such -understanding of the greatest utterances of great minds. - -'Yet what a fool I am to wonder,' he thought a moment later. 'As if it -were not always so with genius, or as if anything less than that ever -could be genius.' - -But he took care not to utter that word often to her. All he ever -granted to her was that she might arrive at something, perhaps, if she -studied hard; if she were resolute and yet humble; if she accepted -all his corrections and instructions, and did her best to lose that -southern accent which would send all Paris into Homeric laughter if it -were ever heard upon any stage. - -'It could only be permitted,' he added, 'if you were reciting Mireille.' - -She did not know what he meant, but she listened to his pure and -exquisite pronunciation, and did her uttermost docilely to acquire it, -as to obey and execute all his teachings. - -Then, when their lesson was over, not seldom he would unbend utterly, -and strolling with her through the meadows, or sitting beneath the -trelliswork of the porch with the rose leaves falling on his white -hair, he would tell her the most wonderful and enchanting of stories, -merely drawing all of them from the innumerable treasures of that -wonder-horn, his own manifold experiences. He said not a word that -would hurt her. All that would be learnt soon enough. - -'_J'en ai vu tant!_' he would think often as he left the Croix Blanche -in the warm evenings. He had seen the world devour so many, like the -dragons that were fed on white flesh. But he fancied she would be one -of those who bind the dragon, like St. Marguerite, and make it follow -them slavishly. - -She had strength in her, the strength of the old mountain race of -Bérarde. He knew nothing of those dead people who had ruled land -and sea in the dark ages, and perished finally under the axe on the -scaffold; but there were a vitality and a force in her which seemed to -him destined to conquer where weaker natures gave way and failed. - -Provided only, he thought, provided only that she would have as many -passions as there were grains of sand on her own sea-shores, but -amongst them all no real love. - -Passion is the most useful of teachers to any artist; that he knew; but -love is the destruction of all art. Mademoiselle Mars lived through a -blaze of glory; Adrienne Lecouvreur died in her youth. Rosselin did not -trouble himself about conventional morality. He took the world as he -had found it. He respected this child's supreme innocence, and would -not have sullied it by a breath; but, casting her horoscope, he would -have given her the heart of Rachel, not that of Desclée, if he had had -the power. It is better to be the tigress which preys than the hind -which bleeds. - -He was no cynic; he only knew the world well, and well knew what the -world makes of women. - -_On est broyé, ou on broie les autres._ There is no middle path for -those who once have left the cool secluded ways of privacy and joined -the crowd which pushes at the brazen gates of fame. - -But still, to Rosselin, to have passed these gates seemed the -perfection of human triumph. - -'What all who are not artists underrate,' he said to Damaris, as they -passed beside the round tower of the dovecote, 'is the artist's joy -in the mere power of expression. It is a mistake to suppose that it -is the _ignis fatuus_ of celebrity which allures the young poet, the -young musician, the young painter; that is very secondary with him. -What overmasters him is the longing for the opportunity of expression; -the _besoin de se faire sentir_, which is as powerful and imperious as -the _besoin d'aimer_. I first played in a barn to villagers; I had a -grand part, Robert Macaire; I was as perfectly happy as when I later on -played at the Français to emperors and their courtiers. It is the same -delight as the lark feels in singing, as the swan feels in swimming, -as the heron feels in slowly sailing through the air: the ecstasy in -the expansion of natural powers. But the majority of men know nothing -of that. The custom-house officer would not believe that Berlioz was -composing music as he sat on a rock above the sea. They laughed in his -face and said: "Where is your piano?" This is as far as the world goes; -it understands the piano, but not the music which is mute in the soul.' - -He rested as he spoke on a stone of what had once been the great 'abbey -of the fields:' the fields were there unchanged, it was only the great -thinkers whose brains were dust. - -'I had no such romantic cradle as you possessed in your island of -orange groves,' he continued. 'I was born in a little dusky, close, -noisome shop in a back street of Vierzon, that dreary town of our -dreary district of the Sologne. My grandfather had been born in that -shop before me. Everything in it was poverty-stricken, ugly, vulgar, -sordid; and vulgarity is so much worse than any ugliness, and sordid -small aims and hopes are so much worse than any poverty! Of course no -one need be ignoble in a shop, even in a shop where they sell tallow. -I suppose Garibaldi was not, but my people were. Well, in that little -stuffy plebeian den, only frequented by the lowest of the ironworkers -and the canal bargemen, beautiful fancies thronged on me and noble -visions haunted me, as they did you in your sea-girt orange thickets, -and I used to sit in my hideous attic and recite verse to the one star -which was all I could see through a chink in the wall, as you did, you -tell me, to the whole of the southern skies glowing above your balcony. -It was not fame that I wanted; I never thought of it; I longed to -hear my own voice in the glory of the words; I longed to leap up and -shout to all the sleeping town; I longed to cry out to the Immortals, -wherever they were, "I have understood you, I am not unworthy!" Ah, -those beautiful impersonal enthusiasms of youth! Fame! It is of nothing -so narrow or so selfish that we think!' - -The tears rose to his eyes: half a century and more had rolled away -from him; he was a boy again, dreaming his dreams as he wandered over -the sandy wastes of the Sologne. - -'Ah, my dear,' he said with a sigh, 'how miserable I thought I was in -that little ugly house, with the sluggish canal water slipping past its -walls, and the black-faced iron puddlers quarrelling over my father's -short weight! It stifled me; it cramped me; it killed me! so I thought. -But I got away from it, nevertheless. Pegasus came for me in the shape -of a towing-horse, which carried me away to Issoudun first, and to a -new life afterwards. I had the seven lean years as a strolling player; -a jack at a pinch, a _Jean-qui-rit_ or a _Jean-qui-pleure_, as it was -wanted; and then I had more than thrice over the seven fat years, and -all that men call success. I have had all the best things that there -are in life, and I do not think I should have had as many of them if I -had remained in the dingy little shop all my days, as my father wished -me to do. Poor old father! he came to see me once in Paris--once, -when I was thirty years old, and in the height of my best triumphs; -and he was dazzled and dazed, and did not very well understand, but -he found out that my servants charged me four times too much a pound -for candles. "_Un grand homme toi!_" he said, with a sneer at me, "_et -tu n' sais pas le prix d'une bougie!_" The world admired me: he never -did. I was always to him a fool who burned wax instead of tallow. There -is always something to be said for the _bourgeois_ point of view; but -it is narrow--narrow. After all, the storms and sunshine on Parnassus -are better than the worry over a lost centime in the back parlour. I -have been a successful artist in my day, but I should have been a very -indifferent shopkeeper, because I never could bring myself to care for -that lost centime--though I have lost many!' - -He rose with a laugh, remembering the grand _gaspillage_ of his -generous and careless manhood. It had not been wise, perhaps, but it -had been delightful; and, after all, he had as much as he wanted now -in his little river-side house, his good wall fruits, and his first -editions of Molière and of Marivaux. He would not have been a whit -happier had he been a millionaire. - -As the frank mellow sound of his laughter echoed on the air, and the -shadow of the doves' tower lengthened behind them on the grass, the -notes of a horn in the fanfare which is called La Brisée, blew loud and -full over the fields to their ears. - -'What is that?' cried Damaris, startled at the sound which she had -never heard before. - -'I forgot; it is the first day for hunting,' said Rosselin, listening. -'It is the _ouverture de la chasse_.' - -As he spoke some equestrians rode out from a thicket across the field -in which they were. They were members of the hunt of Dampierre, clad in -a picturesque costume and looking like a picture of the time of Louis -Quinze as the warm sunset light fell across them. They rode on quickly -towards the west whence came the notes of the hunting fanfare. - -They did not look towards herself or Rosselin; but a few seconds later -another huntsman, whose hunter was lame, came by in their wake more -slowly, leading his horse. He turned his head, paused a moment or two, -then rode straight towards them. - -It was the Duc de Béthune. He doffed his tricornered gold-laced hat and -bade Rosselin, whom he knew well, good-evening; then glanced at Damaris. - -'Mademoiselle Bérarde!' he said, hesitatingly. 'Surely I do not -mistake?' - -She looked at him with recognition. - -'You came to the island with her,' she said, rather to herself than to -him. The colour grew hot in her face; all the unforgettable shame of -that day was with her in bitter recollection. - -'I am honoured by so much remembrance, and grateful to the hole in the -turf which lamed my horse.' - -'That is language for the château of Dampierre,' said Rosselin. 'M. le -Duc has lost his way, I think?' - -'No; I know my road,' said Béthune, who understood the old man's -meaning. 'And I never speak any language, Rosselin, but that which best -conveys my real thoughts. You, who are so perfect an artist in speech, -must be aware that I am a very clumsy one. Is there any smith here who -could look to my poor beast?' - -'You can put him up at the house where I live,' said Damaris. 'It is a -very little way off; we can show you.' - -'That will be sweetest charity,' said Béthune. - -Rosselin did not see his way to prevent what annoyed him. The Duke, -with the bridle over his arm, walked beside her over the pasture; the -notes of the Brisée had ceased; the hunt had passed onward westward, -where Dampierre was. - -Béthune spoke to her with deference and interest, but she answered him -briefly and absently. Rosselin kept up the conversation. Suddenly she -said in a low tone: - -'You have seen her--lately?' - -Béthune was surprised. - -'You mean the Countess Othmar, your hostess of St. Pharamond? Yes; I -saw her a week ago. We stayed together at the same country house in -Austria, and I shall soon see her again at Amyôt. That is her castle, -as I dare say you know, on the Loire.' - -Damaris said nothing. She paced onward, a little in advance of him and -of Rosselin; her head was drooped, her face was thoughtful. - -'She was not as kind to you in appearance that day as, I assure you, -that she was in feeling,' said Béthune, not knowing well what to say. -'She is capricious and negligent, but she has a mind that is very -generous and true in its instincts, and those instincts were all your -friends and admirers.' - -Damaris remained silent. - -'The chief instinct of the lady you speak of is to provide herself with -amusement,' said Rosselin curtly. 'She usually fails, because the world -is so small.' - -'You are unjust to her,' said Béthune, her loyal servant and courtier. -'I am sure that she felt the truest interest in Mademoiselle Bérarde. -We were all of us distressed when we learned that that magic isle was -tenantless.' - -'The new Virginie has left her isle,' said Rosselin, 'and I am -endeavouring that she shall not make shipwreck on these stonily seas of -art and life. My dear duke, great ladies like your châtelaine of Amyôt -let fall idle words, never thinking what they may bring forth. It is -so easy to destroy content and to suggest ambition. But to efface a -suggestion is very hard when once it has taken root in a young mind.' - -Béthune guessed at his meaning. 'The world will be the gainer,' he -said, as they entered the courtyard of the Croix Blanche. - -Damaris called a man to his horse, then, without even looking at him, -she crossed the court and went indoors, and he saw her no more. - -'She is very much changed,' said Béthune in surprise as he looked at -the dusky archway of the door through whose shadows she had passed from -his sight. 'What is her story since I saw her on that happy island; -I shall never forget it; its blue sea, its radiant air, its scent of -orange-flowers, its handsome child reciting to us from Esther--it was -a poem. Are you going to make a great artist of her? Tell me her story -since that day I saw her on her isle.' - -'I do not know it,' said Rosselin. 'All I have to do with is the Muse -in her. My dear Duke, I repeat, your gracious Lady of Amyôt, for her -own diversion, poured into a childish breast a little drop of that -divine curiosity which men call ambition: it was only a drop but it -burned its way into the soul, and will eat up the life before it has -done, I dare say. Madame Nadège did not care what mischief she did: oh -no: she only wanted to while away an empty hour for herself.' - -Béthune reddened indignant for his absent sovereign. - -'As you are so great an artist yourself you should think that she did -well in waking any soul to art.' - -'No,' said Rosselin angrily. 'No one does well who meddles with fate or -displaces peaceful ignorance and honest content by unrest and desire. -This child was happy on her island. The world may perchance make her -famous some day, but happy it will never make her again, for happiness -is not amongst its gifts!' - -'That is quite true,' said Béthune with a sigh. He asked many more -questions, but obtained little information. He waited in vain for -Damaris to re-appear. The sun sank, the shadows deepened into dusk over -all the vale, the swallows circled in their last flight round the high -house roofs. With reluctance he was forced to bid adieu to Rosselin and -take his way to the distant château of Dampierre, where he was a guest. - -'Salute her for me,' he said at parting. 'Say that I shall return to -thank her to-morrow.' - -'If you wish to do her any service in return for the help to your -horse, do not speak of her at Dampierre or in Paris,' said Rosselin. - -'I will not speak of her to anyone,' returned Béthune, 'unless it be to -the Countess Othmar. But you will allow me to return.' - -'I have no power to forbid you. Yet it is to her that perhaps it would -be desirable you should say nothing,' answered Rosselin after a moment -of hesitation. 'I merely mean that the Lady of Amyôt did, I believe, -prophesy a great career for my pupil, and first of all suggest to -her the possible possession of talents the world might recognise. -For that reason I think Damaris Bérarde would prefer that she should -hear nothing more of her, unless some day the world itself may have -justified her predictions.' - -'You think it probable, or you would not waste your hours on her?' - -'I think she has infinite feeling and a poetic temperament. Whether -these are enough remains to be seen. There are so many other qualities -required, all those humbler qualities which are the prose of genius, -the plain bread of character.' - -'She has one requisite, beauty. She is exceedingly handsome. What -brought her here?' - -'I cannot say: I am only her teacher.' - -'And who is her lover?' mused Béthune, as he walked slowly out of the -grey courtyard in the gloaming. His suspicions drifted to Loswa. - -Rosselin went within and mounted a low wooden staircase which led to -the door of Damaris's chamber. - -'Come out and bid me good-night, my dear. If I loiter I shall lose the -last train to Paris.' - -She obeyed him and came outside her door. - -'Why did you avoid Béthune?' he asked her. 'He is a gentleman and a -soldier; he is a man you may respect and who will respect you; though -he is a great noble he is an honest fellow. He is one of the few lovers -who have worshipped Othmar's wife without losing dignity or honour.' - -Damaris did not answer. She could not well have defined why she had -come within doors. There was a certain pain to her in the presence of -Béthune because he was associated with that one day so big, for her, -with fate. - -Rosselin looked at her as she stood in the twilight at the head of the -stairs. There was an open window behind her, a hand's breadth of blue -sky, a bough of pear heavy with fruit. - -'Why did you not mention Othmar to him?' he said abruptly; 'you -mentioned her.' - -'I do not know.' said Damaris. She spoke the truth. She did not know -why she was always reluctant to speak of him. - -'Good-night, my child,' said Rosselin, with a tenderness in his voice -that was new to her ear. He sighed as he too went on his way through -the dusky dewy fields, sweet with the breath of browsing cattle and -murmurous with the whispers of the leaves. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - - -When Othmar returned to Paris he paid Rosselin a visit. - -'You have been to Chevreuse?' asked Rosselin. 'No?' - -'No,' said Othmar with sincerity and some annoyance, 'I am still -at Amyôt. I only come to Paris occasionally. Is she well? Are you -satisfied?' - -'She is quite well,' replied Rosselin. 'The answer to the other -question is less simple. I am satisfied with her talent, not with her -character.' - -'What do you mean?' - -'Oh, nothing that is her fault. I merely meant that she is, as Madame -la Comtesse once said, "_une sensitive_." Such people have no business -in public careers. You do not make street-posts out of the stems of -a sensitive plant. The Latins gave the statues that were destined to -stand in thoroughfares brass discs to protect them. If you have not the -brass disc you must not stand even in the peristyle of a theatre.' - -'I do not think she is weak. Had she been weak she would not have left -the island as she did.' - -'Who is talking of weakness?--I mean that she is not of a temper for -the coarse career of the stage, which is always passed in the press -and glare of a stormy crowd. She would play Dona Sol divinely to an -audience of poets on your terraces at Amyôt under a midsummer moon. -But it is unfortunately not a question of playing it so, but on the -stages of public theatres, where very often the coarse applause of -the friendly ignorant is still more offensive than the envenomed -vituperation of the hostile critic. I dare say we can make her fit for -this. We can give her the brass disc, but it will spoil the fine white -marble when we fasten it to it. My dear Count Othmar, you know what the -life of a great actress in Paris is; you know what it will be for her. -We need not spend words on details. Is it a good action that we do when -we encourage her to qualify herself for it, or is it a bad one?' - -Othmar heard him with distress. He was always haunted by the memory -that his wife, by a few careless words, had broken up for ever that -simple, peaceful, healthful, flower-like life which Damaris Bérarde had -led in Bonaventure. The power of all the kings of the earth could not -have replaced her in it. - -'It is her choice,' he said, after a silence of some moments. - -'Is fate ever wholly choice?' said Rosselin. 'And when a child says -he will be a soldier, what does he know of war, of wounds, of the -sickening stench of the rotting dead, of the maladies which kill men -in hundreds like murrained cattle? Nothing: he thinks it all _tambour -et trompette_ and _Væ Victis_! Your friend at Chevreuse knows no more -of what the life of the theatre is than the child knows of war, and I -for one have not the courage to enlighten her. Have you? She dreams of -all kinds of glories; she does not see the rouge-pot, the white powder, -the claque, the press, the lovers, the diamonds, the ugliness, the -vulgarity, the money bags, the whole _ronde du diable_. She thinks she -will be Dona Sol, be Esther, be Rosalind, off the stage as well as on -it. Who is to tell her the mistake she makes?' - -'Surely you can, if anyone?' - -'No, I cannot. You cannot make a mind conceive a thing wholly -inconceivable to it. I can say a certain number of words certainly -to her; produce a certain effect; suggest some images to her which -will be painful and revolting. But when I have done that I shall not -have done much; I shall not have produced any real impression on her, -because the advice which I mean will not in itself be intelligible -to her. I may talk as I will of war to the child; but I shall never -be able to make him see what I have seen in the days of the siege of -Paris, which sometimes still turns me sick when I awake at night and -think of it. Perhaps it is because I grow old, and, so, sentimental -that I am troubled with those scruples which I do not suppose would -have suggested themselves to me twenty, or even ten years ago; but I -certainly do feel that I have not done what contents me in preparing -Damaris Bérarde for the art of the stage. She will be a great artist, I -believe, but she will be a miserable woman.' - -Othmar heard him with anxiety and pain. The vision of her was always -before him as he had left her in the red brown grass with the evening -skies behind her. Country peace, woodland silences, fresh air of early -autumn, simple pleasures of youth--these would find no place in life -into which she had been led to enter. Some, losing them early, long -for them all their lives. - -'I suppose,' continued Rosselin, 'that the imagination in me is dying -out; as one grows old one drops illusions, as old trees drop branch -after branch on the ground, till there is nothing left but the trunk, -and perhaps a woodpecker in it, perhaps nothing except dust. Certainly -twenty years ago I should have said, and should have thoroughly -believed, that art--any art--was worth any sacrifice. But now I do not -think so. One pays too heavily for any kind of fame. To be famous at -all is to have all the doors and windows of your house standing wide -open, and a mob, all eyes and ears, for ever staring in and watching -you as you eat, as you drink, as you sleep, as you play, aye, even as -you weep by your child's coffin or draw the shroud over the breast of -your dead mistress. Once famous, you never can laugh or can cry in -solitude ever again. Either to throw laurel crowns at you or to pelt -you with stones, the mob is always pushing in over your threshold. When -boys and girls dream of fame they do not know what it is--the eternal -adieu to privacy, the eternal self-surrender to the crowd. Alkibiades -loved the crowd; there are many like him in all centuries; but _les -sensitives_ hate it, shrink from it, try to bar it out with their bare -arm, which gets broken in the struggle, like the Scottish maiden's in -history. The price paid is too heavy. All the shade and the freshness -and the quiet leafy by-paths of life are denied us for ever. There is -only the great high-road, the crude hard light, the gaping multitude -that stare and grin till we give up the ghost! The price is too heavy. -It is the same curse as the curse which lies on kings, never to be -alone.' - -He sighed as he turned and walked up the little path of his cottage -garden. Looking back upon his life he seemed to have thrown his years -to the mob as offal is thrown to a pack of hounds. - -It was only a mood, a passing mood, but there was a great truth in it. - -'One needs not to be famous to suffer that curse,' said Othmar. -'Whoever is in the world has it. Private life is a thing of the past; -we are all expected to dine and to sup, and to spread our bridal-beds -and our death-beds, in public, like the monarchs of old. An age which -has invented the electric light has abolished solitude and respects no -privacy; it will end in forcing all _âmes d'élite_ to find and form a -new Thebaïd.' - -'If they can anywhere find a square mile without a tramway and a -telephone!' said Rosselin, tenderly touching a tea-rose which blossomed -in the cold wet weather against the low white wall of his house. - -Then he said abruptly: - -'What does your wife say now of her second Desclée?' - -Othmar was angered to feel that the natural interrogation embarrassed -him. - -'My wife has forgotten both her prophecies and the subject of them,' he -said with a certain impatience and bitterness in the accent with which -the words were spoken. - -'And you have not refreshed her memory?' - -'I think it would be useless.' - -Rosselin was silent: he was not pleased. He angrily thought of Béthune, -and wondered if he would speak of his encounter with Damaris. - -'Some one will tell her if you do not,' he said with some significance. -'Pardon me if I say too much, but I dislike concealments; they are -usually unwise and seldom profitable. Chevreuse is not a vale in Venus -or Polaris, that we can be sure no one will ever see your _protégée_!' - -'Anyone may see her,' said Othmar, with annoyance and hauteur. 'But -to recall to my wife a subject she has forgotten demands a courage of -which I frankly confess myself not the possessor.' - -'Humph!' said Rosselin with dubious accent: he was not satisfied. It -seemed to him that embarrassing complications would of necessity grow -up out of so much needless reticence. Othmar, he thought, was most -probably not aware himself of all the various and confused motives -which disposed him to silence on the name of Damaris. - -'She is not of a facile character,' he thought, recalling all he had -ever heard of the caprices and cruelties of Nadine Napraxine in her -youth. 'But when there is a nettle in question it is always best to -grasp it boldly. Besides, if she be so indifferent as they say, the -whole thing would be of infinitesimal insignificance to her, unless -concealment were to lend it an importance not its own, as some shadows -can be thrown on a white wall so as to make a beetle loom large as an -ox.' - -'Chevreuse, moreover,' continued Othmar, 'is a place that no one -ever sees in winter. Unless it be in the few weeks when Dampierre is -occupied, not a soul of our world ever goes there. If she mean or -hope to become famous with the fame you decry, she is best there in -solitude; if, on the contrary, she fail it will be still well that none -should know her efforts who would not pity them. My wife is like the -Latins, she has no altar to pity; she despises it. If the world ever -applaud Damaris Bérarde, then and then only shall I venture to recall -to her the prophecy she made at St. Pharamond.' - -'If with her nothing succeeds like success she only follows the world,' -said Rosselin. 'I thought she led it?' - -'She does lead it: but she has great contempt for those who fail in it. -When a lamb falls from fatigue on the Australian plains the shepherd -walks on and leaves it to its fate. Those who fail seem to my wife as -the fallen lambs do to the shepherd: that is all.' - -'Damaris Bérarde will not fail,' said Rosselin, with a sense of anger -and of triumph in her. - -'Aimée Desclée did not fail--but she died.' - -'Damaris will not die; she is too strong; but she may break her heart -over broken illusions, as a thorough-bred horse breaks his over bad -roads. Good God, what a beautiful world it would be if it were like the -world these youths and maidens see in their dreams!' - -'She may break her heart over broken illusions.' - -The words haunted Othmar's memory as he left the cottage at Asnières. -Yes, that was often the death of the strongest, death mental and moral -if not death physical. - -What he had done for her had secured her future from want, had given -her a safe home for so long as she would be content with it; but how -much more was there for which no prescience could provide, from which -no friendship could secure her! With her ardent temperament, her -ignorance of life, her poetic and unwise impulses, how much would her -heart ask and her imagination demand! She would not, could not, lead -the passionless life of passionless natures. Whom would she love? Would -love only be for her the Charon who took her through a river of hell to -the shores of death, as he had been to Aimée Desclée? - -Or would she leave behind her all those beautiful faiths and fancies, -all those innocent ardours and tender thoughts, as the year leaves -behind it the blossoms of spring, the young green of April: and would -she become famous and flattered, leading the world in a leash, and -putting her foot on the necks of her lovers? - -He liked one vision as little as the other. - -Either way the sea-bird of Bonaventure would be no more; either way -the child who had gone away from him in the moonlight under the silver -shadows of the olive-trees and of the mists of dawn would be as dead as -though she were in her grave. Would the time ever come when she would -say to him, 'Why did you not let me die on the stones of Paris instead -of keeping life in me for this?' Or would time give her that brazen -disk of which Rosselin had spoken, and with it the heart of bronze -which all must have instead of a heart of flesh and blood if they would -go triumphant through the heat and pressure of the world? Rosselin had -said aright, that the disk of brass would spoil the fair white statue, -and the heart of bronze, the heart of the mockers of men, the heart of -Venus Lubetina, would it ever be hers? - -He went home to his own house, where he was expecting his wife's -return that evening. He went into his own rooms and looked at the -sketch made by Loris Loswa. The sight of it troubled and disturbed him. -He had a sense of wrong doing upon him of which, when he searched his -own conscience, he could with honesty declare himself blameless. He -had put her as much out of his own hands as it had been possible to -do, and the simple _ruse_ by which he had been able to provide for her -maintenance seemed as innocent as any pretence by which the motherless -lamb can be persuaded to eat or the unfledged bird to let itself be -befriended by gentle hands. Still it had been a subterfuge; it had -been an untruth; and he hated the merest shadow of falsehood. His -detestation of it had been the constant subject of Friederich Othmar's -ridicule and sarcasm, and the elder man had in vain argued with him a -thousand times, to endeavour to prove to him that it is, in the hands -of a skilled casuist, at once the most forcible and the most delicate -of weapons. He had always refused to admit its virtues; it seemed to -him a craven and contemptible thing, however dressed up with wit and -wisdom. - -That Blanchette de Laon had seen him at Chevreuse had kept him from -returning thither, and it also made him feel the absolute necessity of -acquainting his wife with all he had done for Damaris before Rumour, -with her hundred tongues, and women, with their devilish ingenuity in -exaggeration and suggestion, should have bruited the tale abroad in -some guise wholly unlike the truth of it. If he could by good fortune -place the story before her in such a light that it would move her finer -and more generous impulses, then all would be well. But this was so -doubtful; the quixotism of his own conduct would be the first thing -which would strike her, and she would probably be unsparing in her -ridicule of it. Besides, the reception of his narrative would wholly -depend on her mood, on the trifles of the moment, on the facts of -whether or no she were in a sympathetic and kindly humour. Any trifle -would do to determine that: if the rooms were not heated enough, if the -flowers in them were not those she liked, if the costumes of the coming -season seemed ugly to her, or if she had caught a slight chill on her -journey--any one of these things, or anything similar to them, would -make any appeal to her generosity and sympathy worse than useless. - -He had been so long accustomed to study the barometer of her caprices -that he dreaded its mutability. He knew that there were in her -instincts and elements of nobility, even of greatness, which, could -she have been cast on troublous times and dire disasters, would -have made her rise to sacrifice, even to heroism. As it was, in her -perpetual self-gratification, her unlimited power of command, her bed -of unruffled roses, and her atmosphere of incessant adulation, all the -capriciousness and egotism of her nature were encouraged and nursed to -overweening growth. - -In the depths of her nature were those finer qualities which will -always respond to the appeal of higher emotions in moments of extremity -or the hours of great calamity or of great peril. She would have had -the dignity of Marie Antoinette before the Convention, the courage -of Anne de Montfort before Philippe de Valois, the strength of Maria -Theresa before Europe. But nothing less than the inspiration of such -supreme hours of life could have penetrated the indifference of her -temperament, and the trivialities and the frivolities of modern -existence could never do so for an instant. - -Had he sought her pardon for some great crime, sought her fidelity -through some great ruin, he might, he probably would have aroused the -latent forces and sympathies dormant in her character; she would not -have given him a stone when he had asked for bread. But in the things -of daily life he had found her too often without mercy to have in her -mercies much trust. - -The conviction that she would never give him the comprehension which he -wished made him withhold all other utterances of his deeper emotions -and more tender thoughts. He had gone to her in one supreme moment of -pain, and he had received a rebuff such as repels for long, if not for -ever, a sensitive nature. - -She did not realise that her infinite comprehension of the moods -and minds of others was marred to them by the chill raillery which -accompanied her acute perceptions. She did not remember that though to -herself the dilemmas and the weaknesses, even the passions which she -studied were objects of amused ridicule, they were to those on whom she -studied them subjects of great moment, and often of as great suffering. - -Even the men who most blindly loved her were afraid to confide in her, -because of the inevitable irony with which their confidence was certain -to be met. Many a time Othmar himself had longed to lean his head on -her knees, and lay bare to her all the contradictions, and longings, -and regrets of his soul; but he had never dared to do so, because -he had always shrunk from the certain mockery which would, he knew, -point through all her sympathy, if sympathy she would ever give. Her -comprehension of human nature made her in one sense the most lenient of -auditors; but in another sense she was the most unsparing: she could -pardon easily, but she could never promise not to ridicule. That one -fact held sensitive natures aloof from her with all the force of a -scourge. - -'She will deem me such a fool,' he thought often: and then he kept -silence. - -He went this evening down to the Gare du Nord to receive her, and -almost before the train had paused he had entered the saloon carriage -in which she had travelled undisturbed since she had left Berlin. There -was always in him something of the eagerness after absence of a lover; -her mere presence always exercised over him a magnetism and a charm. - -She raised herself on her elbow from the mass of sable furs and of -wadded satin on which she had been lying; she had been rudely awakened -by the cessation of the train's movement; the blaze of a lamp was in -her eyes; she was impatient, and she yawned. - -'Otho! my dear Otho!' she said with petulance, 'why will you always -come to meet one at a railway station? Of all the many absurd customs -of our generation that is the most absurd. Nobody's emotions are so -poignant that they cannot wait till one comes into the house. I was -asleep. What a cold night! Why cannot they devise something which would -carry the train straight to one's bedside? All their inventions are -very clumsy after all.' - -She was slowly raising herself from her heap of furs and red satin; -her eyes were languid with arrested sleep; her tone was irritable and -irritating: she scarcely seemed to perceive his presence; the sweet -delicate odour as of tea-roses with which all her clothes were always -impregnated came to him well known as the accents of her voice. A -curious passion of conflicting feeling passed over him; he could have -seized her in his arms and cried aloud to her, 'I have given you all my -life, do you give me no more than this?' Yet he felt chilled, angered, -alienated, silenced for the moment; a feeling which was almost dislike -came over him; it seemed to him as if he had poured out all the love -of his life upon her and received in return a mere handful of ice -and snow. But the inexorable haste and vulgar trivialities of modern -exigencies left him no moment for thought or for the expression of it. -He could only offer her his hand in silence to assist her to alight, -and give her his arm and lead her through the throngs of the Northern -Terminus to her own carriage. - -He drove with her through the streets to their own house and escorted -her to the apartments which were especially hers. - -'I dare not disturb you longer to-night,' he said with a certain -bitterness of tone which he could not control. 'The children wished to -remain up to welcome you, but I did not allow them to do so; I know how -you despise undisciplined feeling.' - -She laughed a little languidly, letting her women remove her fur -wrappings, whilst she stood in the delicious warmth and light of the -rooms where thousands of hothouse roses were gathered together in -welcome of her return, filling the hot air with their fragrance. - -'Do you mean that for satire?' she said with a little yawn. 'Do not -try to be sardonic, it does not suit you. The children are certainly -much better in bed. I will go and look at them after I have had a bath. -I am very tired. Goodnight.' - -She gave him a sleepy sign of dismissal, then chid her women for being -slow. Had they her pine-bath ready?--there was no bath so good after -fatigue and cold. - -He left her presence with pain and anger, despite the coldness which -came over him towards her: coldness born from her own as the frosts -of the earth come from the cold of the atmosphere. His adoration of -her had been too integral a part of his life for her touch, her voice, -her glance, not to have a certain empire over him which no other woman -would ever obtain. - -In the forenoon, quite late, he was again admitted to her presence. -She had recovered her fatigue, she was serene and almost kind, but -the children were there: they were not alone five minutes. Later, she -gave audience to all the great _faiseurs_, whose intelligence had been -busied inventing marvels of costume for her for the winter season. -Later yet, there came some of her intimate friends and some of her most -devoted courtiers. - -It was raining heavily in the streets, but in her apartments there were -hothouse heat and hothouse fragrance, in the sultry air and amidst the -innumerable roses it was hard to believe that it was the thirtieth -of November. People came and went, laughed and chattered; she wrote -notes, sent messages, telegraphed many contradictory orders to her -tradespeople; the day was crowded and entertaining; there was a certain -stimulant, even for her, in the sense that she was in Paris. - -Othmar did not see her again until they met at dinner. Béthune dined -there, and four or five other persons, who had called and been invited -that afternoon. The day was a type of all other days of her life. - -Othmar thought with impatience and bitterness of the dreams he had -dreamed. She despised the world and ridiculed it; yet who was more -absorbed by it? Who was less able to live without it? She always spoke -with her lips of the fatigue of society, but, as he thought angrily, -she was not so weary that she was ever willing to forsake it. All the -year round it was about her. Every season saw her where its fashion, -its pastimes, its flatteries, were most largely to be found. Without -that atmosphere of adulation, of luxury, and of excitement she would -have been lost. The world was a poor affair, no doubt, not anything -like what if might be were people more inventive and more courageous. -She had said so a hundred times; but still there was nothing better -than its movement. To read Plato all day under an oak-tree, or to sit -alone by a library fire with a volume of Sully Prudhomme, would not be -any improvement on it, though it might be more philosophic. - -To his fancy, life together was poor and meaningless, unless it implied -mutual sympathy and communion of feeling. He was a romanticist, as -she had always told him. To his views it was not in any way an ideal -of either love or happiness to be for ever surrounded by the fever -of the great world, to be for ever separated by its demands and its -excitements, to meet only on the common ground of mutual interests, -to dwell under the same roof with little more intimacy than two -strangers met there at a house-party. It appeared that this was what -she now expected, what she now preferred. His pride prevented him from -struggling against her decrees; but he felt, and loathed to feel, that -he was insensibly approaching a position towards her scarcely higher -than that which Napraxine had occupied. True, she still had moments of -exquisite charm, of irresistible sorcery, in which she occasionally -deigned to remember that he had been the lover of her choice; and in -these she bent his will and turned his brain almost as much as in the -earlier years of his idolatry. But these moments were rare, and when -they came appealed to the senses in him, and not to the heart; they -left him unnerved, they did not satisfy his affections. - -The world had so many claims upon her: his were forgotten or ignored. -Where were the visions he had had of a life out of the world, poetic, -unworldly, tuned to another key than the brazen clangour of society? -They were gone for ever like last year's roses. - -The so-called pleasures of life had never had attraction for him; they -were a mere routine; he was tired of crowds, of flattery, of splendour, -of movement; he was tired of the women who tried to beguile, and the -men who endeavoured to use, him; the whole thing seemed to him witless, -tedious, tame. She, who had always declared that it was so, yet could -find her diversion in dazzling it and stimulating its envy; though most -things failed to please her, yet, like all women, her own power pleased -her always; but he had no such resource, for the power which he had -(that of wealth) he despised. - -A sense of failure came wearily upon him during this evening which -followed on her return. If this were all the issue of great passion and -great love, what use were either? - -The world was a pageant to her, and he might stand by and see her -pass in it. The _rôle_ did not please him. He fancied--no doubt he -told himself it was but fancy--that the world ridiculed him in that -subordinate place, that half-effaced position, that too indulgent -acceptance of her continual caprices, tyrannies, and slights. - -He did not remember, did not know, that he himself in Russia had -seemed cold to her. He was only sensible of the barrier which had -grown up between them, of the indifference with which his presence -or his absence was regarded by her. Gradually, as the fine mist of -approaching rain steals over a sunny country, dimming the colours and -effacing the lines of it little by little, until nothing is seen but -the colourless blur of the wide white rain itself, so the sensation -of dissatisfaction, of disappointment, of disunion had come over the -tenor of their lives together. The consciousness of it brought to him -a profound and passionate sense of irreparable loss. A word from her -would have dispelled it, an hour of full belief that she had ever loved -him as he had once loved her would have sufficed to sweep it away; but -the word was never spoken, the hour never came. Time only strengthened -his conviction that, were he dead before her, she would not greatly -care. - -The sense of the incompleteness of his own life came upon him with -a strong consciousness as he stood in his brilliant rooms with the -laughter of his wife and her guests borne to his ear, and the sounds -of some gay music coming to him from another salon. He might have ten, -twenty, thirty, forty years more of this existence, and its years, its -days, its hours would always be precisely like this year, this day, -this hour. The future seemed to rise up like a phantom and say to him, -'The past gave you the fulfilment of your greatest desire. I shall give -you nothing but the fruit of that fulfilment. If that fruit do not -content you, whose fault is that?' - -Men whose wishes are thwarted can throw the blame on fate if their -lives prove barren; but he had passionately wished for one thing, and -all the forces of life and of death had joined together to give it him. -He had no one to reproach, no unkind destiny to upbraid, if the gift -left his heart cold, his soul cheerless; if he felt at times a mortal -loneliness, and at times a weariness of vague regret. - -The cruelty of all great passions is that, after their fruition, there -must come this inevitable regret. They are altogether beyond the pale -of daily life; they can never fraternise with the demands of social -existence. She had once said truly that death is the kindest friend to -love, because it saves it from being made ridiculous by daily habit and -worn away by daily friction. - -The world is wrong when it pities Romeo, when it weeps for Stradella. - -The great love he had borne her had survived all those trials of -familiarity and of habit which are crueller enemies to love than -absence or than death. It had been the romantic passion of Romeo united -to that depth and unity of devotion which Friederich Othmar had been -wont slightingly to call the knight's love for his lady. It had been so -essentially interwoven with his life that it had always seemed to him -it could only go away from him with life itself. - -The idea that a love so great should yet have the same fate as have all -the little passions of a frivolous hour was still intolerable to him. -With him it had been of those passions which ennoble and enlarge human -nature, because, though interwoven with the senses, they yet embrace -the soul, and are drawn by their very idolatry to that longing for -immortality which is the only possible approach to faith in it. - -But he knew that he had never moved her thus; he knew that, if he had -ever given utterance to all he felt, she would have listened with a -derisive compassion as to the exaggeration of a mind distraught. The -crystal clearness, the acute penetration, the ingrained scepticism -of her intellect made impossible to her those illusions and those -hopes which are so dear to minds more imaginative than critical, to -temperaments more impassioned than logical, as was his. - -He had given his whole life away to her, and she did not even care -for the gift; scarcely deigned to accept it, except in conventional -shape. He was unreasonable, no doubt, as she would have told him had -he said so to her. He had asked of life and passion what neither can -give--immortality. All which serve to console the great majority of -mankind did not avail to console him for that loss. - -Most men grow content with the crowd which is constantly about them, -with the host of petty interests which claim them, with the repetition -of pleasures and pursuits which is enforced on them; their days are -dull, but they are full; they are consumed by monotony, but they are -unconscious of its tedium, because they have no imagination and often -no passion. - -Othmar could not be thus reconciled to the disappointments and the -sameness of existence. He required life to be a poem, and he was not -consoled because it proved a mere diary. - -The new year brought him without break that increase of occupation -which makes it a season of such weariness to all who are of any -importance in the world, and have a crowd of supplicants and -petitioners always looking to them for support. Himself he would have -liked to pass the winter season at Amyôt, but to her it was useless -even to suggest it. - -'You cannot ask the world to bury itself in a frozen wood by a river in -flood,' she had said when once he had wished to do so. - -'But is the world absolutely necessary?' - -'If it were not there what should we do? You would read Plato perhaps -for the thousandth time; I could not promise to read Goethe for the -hundredth. The country in winter is like a man of eighty repeating a -poem on spring.' - -'It is just possible that the man of eighty might feel the meaning of -the poem more thoroughly than the boy of eighteen.' - -'His feelings would not prevent him from looking absurd.' - -'I suppose, you at least would never pity him?' - -'Most surely not.' - -'What would you pity?' he said bitterly. - -She smiled. 'I should not pity people who could shut themselves up -in damp forests on the Loire water in midwinter. A Russian winter is -quite a different thing; the air is like champagne, the frost is like -diamonds, the plains are like marble; it is charming to have one's -roses and palms in a temperature of 30° Réaumur, and by merely going -out of doors plunge _en pleine Sibérie_. That is why I am a very -patriotic Russian. I love the intensity of its contrasts.' - -'As Marie Stuart loved Chastelard and Bothwell!' said Othmar with a -certain significance. - -'Should you think she loved either of them? I should doubt it. They -loved her, and being stupid as men only are, they compromised her.' - -'I dare say she thought of all men as you do!--as a little higher than -the horse, a little lower than the dog! No more!' said Othmar with some -impatience. - -She smiled: 'Perhaps! I am not sure that it is a bad compliment. Where -should we put you in the seat of creation--Mary Stuart and I--who -cannot adore you as Penelope and Hermione can?' - -'I never hoped to be adored!' said Othmar with some bitterness. - -'Oh, yes; you did, one day. All men hope for it, only they do not get -it,--except from Griseldis whom they beat, and from Gretchen whom they -forsake.' - -They were alone in their drawing-room in the vacant five minutes before -a great dinner party. He looked at her wistfully. What woman was ever -comparable to her, he thought; where else were that exquisite grace, -that entrancing languor, that supreme distinction in every movement -and in every attitude? The very tones of her voice, sweet as the sound -of any silver bell, and cold as the breath of frost, had a charm in -it that no other's had. With a sudden impulse of reviving ardour he -stooped and pushed the loose glove from her arm, and kissed the white -soft skin beneath it. But she, remembering and resentful of the weeks -in Russia, drew it from his caress with her chilliest rebuke: - -'My dear Otho! we are neither children nor lovers!' - -He was repulsed and silent. - -At that moment their groom of the chambers announced that some of their -coming guests, who were of imperial name and place, were entering the -gates. - -He and she together descended the grand staircase between the lines of -their servants in state liveries. - -'Together like this!' thought Othmar. 'Together in these pageantries, -these conventionalities, these mummeries; but never in any other hours, -in any other way!' - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - - -The days slipped one after another away, and he had still said nothing -to her of Damaris. He seldom saw her alone; when he did so, no opening -had presented itself which seemed to him propitious. The length of -time which he had unwisely allowed to elapse now created an additional -difficulty. She might, if he told her now, naturally ask why he had -been silent so long. He had made no intentional concealment; anyone -of the household knew that the girl had been there in the summer and -throughout her illness. But no one, not even her most confidential -attendants, would ever have ventured to tell their mistress anything -unasked. She held them at a distance, which the boldest of them never -dared to pass. The only servant she had treated with more familiarity -had been the little African boy Mahmoud; and Mahmoud had died, in his -fifteenth year, from the cruel north winds of Northern Europe, babbling -in his delirium to the last, in Arabic, words of his lady and his love -for her, poor little tropical beast! killed as men kill the antelope -kid of the desert when they drag it from its groves of palm and its -warm golden sands, to shiver and perish behind the bars of a cage in a -northern menagerie. - -Not one of the household spoke, or would ever speak, of anything which -ever took place unknown to their mistress; but they knew, doubtless--as -servants in great cities know all the affairs of their employers--that -the young girl who had been ill there, brought in from the streets in -the bygone summer, was dwelling at Les Hameaux, and was occasionally -visited by their master. Partly from their gossiping when outside his -walls, and partly from other causes, the name of Damaris Bérarde began -to be bruited about in Paris. A secret is very like a subtle odour; it -escapes by unseen crevices and passes to the outer air, though every -egress may be barred. A certain vague rumour arose that not only had -Rosselin discovered some new and great talent which he was training for -the public stage, but that with this hidden life which was so carefully -concealed the name of Othmar was connected. - -Had Blanche de Laon been accused of first setting afloat that breath of -calumny, she would have declared, and truthfully, '_Moi? Je n'ai jamais -soufflé mot!_' - -Yet she had conveyed a hint into the air, and it was sufficient. One -thistle-seed is enough to choke a field with thistles. - -In vain do we think we walk in private paths unseen; some eyes are -forever there to peer through the thickest hedge; some lips are forever -ready to say what they do not know, and magnify the harmless mouse-ear -to a wonder-flower with a poisoned root. Those of whom rumour thus -discourses with bated breath and comprehensive gesture are seldom or -never aware that they are the subject of such whispers; they are always -the last to imagine that their acts are put under the magnifying-lenses -of public speculation. - -Even Rosselin, with his intimate knowledge of the inquisitiveness and -the loquacity of human nature, did not dream that the mere fact of -his going twice or thrice a week to Les Hameaux and taking a neophyte -to the temples of his own art, to quiet morning recitations, could -be a fact of any import to the world at large. He had had so many -pupils, and he never remembered that the world had had any concern with -them unless they had become ultimately great enough to challenge and -compel its languid attention; and even then its notice had been very -hard to obtain, Why should it break its rule of universal apathy and -indifference towards those who are obscure because a young girl lived -on a farm in the pastoral solitudes which had once sheltered Racine? - -Both he and Othmar, in very different ways, had a reserve and hauteur -of manner which always kept at arm's length rash intruders and trivial -questioners. Therefore they were the last persons on earth to hear -anything of what rumour murmured of either of them. Damaris, in her -simple home under the ashes and elms of the Croix Blanche, was not more -isolated from the gossip of the world than they both were by choice and -temperament. But the world gossiped not the less but the more for the -immunity which their ignorance permitted to it, and because it knew -little invented much. - -The world to whom Othmar's was so familiar and conspicuous a name built -for him a tall edifice of lies down in those innocent pastures of Les -Hameaux. But he was unconscious of that house of fable in which they -made him dwell. He believed that his own abstention from any visits -there made Damaris as safe from notice as though she were still beneath -the orange leaves and olive shadows of her isle. If she wanted anything -or any counsel, Rosselin would tell him he felt sure. At times the -memory of her, as he had left her standing in the evening dusk amongst -the red-brown seeding grasses, made him desire to see her with a wish -he restrained. Sometimes the recollection of her flushed, bowed face, -as he had touched her forehead with his lips, came over him with an -emotion which was too gentle for desire, too kind for passion; but he -resisted it. - -'To see me can do her no good' he said to himself; 'and it may make -others do her harm. If she be left alone she may learn to live for art: -it is a safe and kindly friend.' - -One day, when he was at work in his little _cabinet du travail_, his -wife came to him there for a moment on her way to her carriage. It was -his favourite room; it opened on one side into the library, on the -other into the gardens; the peacocks would walk in from without when -the doors stood open, and the green gloom of an avenue of coniferæ -stretched away immediately in front of its steps. It was here that the -sketch made by Loswa hung betwixt a woodland glade painted by Corot, -and a sloop becalmed in the Sound painted by Aivanoffsky. - -It was rarely that Nadine deigned to enter there; she paused there now -for a moment with an open note in her hand, which she had received that -instant from Prince Hohenlohe, requesting her intercession with Othmar -concerning some matter of German interest which did not brook delay. - -It was soon disposed of. He wrote a line and gave it to her to do as -she pleased with it, and looked at her with wistfulness. It was the -first time he had seen her that day; it was four o'clock, she was -about to attend a musical gathering at the Prince of Lemberg's hotel -in the Boulevard Joséphine, convened to hear the first execution by -illustrious amateurs of a pastoral cantata of his own composition on -the theme of Ruth. - -'You are going to the Ruth?' asked Othmar. - -'Yes; I wonder you are not. Music used always to draw you out of your -hole like a lizard.' - -'I have a great deal to do,' he replied; 'and, besides, how many times -have you not enforced on me the _bourgeois_ absurdity of accompanying -you anywhere?' - -'You need not accompany me. You can come by yourself. Certainly I think -it does look absurd to see two people always together like two dogs in -a coupling-chain.' - -Othmar sighed a little impatiently. - -'Lemberg has chosen a very _bourgeois_ theme; surely very archaic and -ill adapted for his audience. The emotions of Ruth will seem to your -world something as ridiculous as a gown of the time of Marie Amélie!' - -'They are only in a pastoral,' she said with a smile. 'They are very -well there. We are not required to share them. You would share them, -perhaps; nobody else would.' - -'You mean I should share those of Boaz!' - -'Boaz or any other _vrai berger_. You should inhabit one of the happy -valleys of Florian and Mademoiselle Scudéry. There is always something -in your ideas which is quite of the last century, and seems to suggest -a flock of sheep with ribbons and a crook, like those in the Saxes -statuettes. If I were to die, you would like to lie on a bank of -violets and mourn me in alexandrines.' - -He smiled, but the raillery was not welcome to him. It seemed to him -that, if she had any love for him, she would never laugh at him, -never see in him that weaker, absurder side, which may be found in -every human character if eyes without sympathy look for it. And the -imputation of sentimentality irritated him as it irritates all those -whose feelings are strong and whose temperament is incapable of any -affectation or of any shallowness. - -Let a man have as little vanity as he may, yet in his secret heart he -likes the woman he loves to find him a little more than man. He had -been long conscious that he would for ever look in vain for this kind -of admiration from her. There was a certain depreciation even in her -indulgence; there was an invariable criticism in her mental attitude, -however favourable; she could be no more deceived as to the weaknesses -of character than a great surgeon can be as to the weaknesses of body. -True, her wit and her intellect served to retain her power over him, -but then he was nervously sensible that these made him less in her -eyes than he would willingly have been. He was aware that the very -fineness of her penetration, the very brilliancy of her mind, made her -infinitely more hard to please for any length of time than women of -smaller brain and of less highly-trained powers. To a woman of rare -intellect and of critical wit it is difficult for any man to remain -long a hero. - -'Our minds are all finite, alas! and you want the infinite,' he said -once to her with some petulance, conscious that his own mind did not -content hers any more than any other man's. - -She assented. - -'I have no doubt it was always the same everywhere,' she conceded. -'Probably Marcus Aurelius was very dull and fussy if one knew the -truth; and I dare say even Horace is livelier on paper than he was in -person!' - -As she spoke now, her eyes had wandered at the paintings which were -hung on the wall behind him. He saw that they rested on Loswa's sketch. -He took the occasion which seemed to present itself. - -'Have you ever thought of her?' he asked, turning to look himself at -the portrait. - -'Thought of whom? I was thinking that Loswa has lost something of his -originality, of his singularity: what he has produced this year is all -_banal_.' - -'Or seems so. That is always the Nemesis which overtakes a mere trick -of manner; when once it ceases to startle it becomes commonplace. -That sketch is so admirable because it is no trick: it was a genuine -inspiration of the moment. Loswa was never so natural before or since.' - -He spoke indifferently, but he was looking at her with concealed -anxiety. Perchance it was a propitious hour in which to tell her of the -fate of Damaris. - -'Do you ever think of that child?' he said abruptly. - -'Of what child?' she asked. - -'Of the one for whom you predicted the future of Desclée?' he answered -with a movement of his hand towards the picture. - -She looked at the portrait with an effort at recollection. She had -really forgotten the whole matter; it had been such a trivial incident -to her, though so momentous to the other actor in it. He saw that her -forgetfulness was quite unfeigned. She went up to the sketch and looked -closely at it, drawing on one of her long gloves as she did so. - -'Ah, yes; I remember now. A little fisher-girl who interested you, and -whom you took home one night over the sea in a most romantic fashion. -What of her? Has she married her shipwright? Was it a shipwright? Do -you want me to give her some nuptial present, or a baptismal cup? All -the idyls end in one's having to buy something ugly at a silversmith's!' - -'I told you once before she did not marry the boat-builder--the -shipwright, as you call him. You made it impossible for her to do so.' - -'I did?' she repeated with amusement. 'You mean Loswa did; or you, -perhaps----' - -He grew red with anger. - -'I do not like such jests.' - -'Oh, my dear, you like no jests! You are a knight of doleful -countenance and take everything _au pied de la lettre_. If you had had -a little amourette with a fisher-girl it would argue bad taste perhaps, -but it would not surprise me, except as a fault in taste.' - -'Nor would it matter to you,' he said bitterly; 'you have given me my -liberty so very often that, with the usual obstinate ingratitude of -human nature, I could have wished you less kind--and less indifferent.' - -'All the same, are you sure you have never taken advantage of my -kindness?' she said with amusement. 'If not, you must be the ideal -husband of that _bourgeois par excellence_, Dumas fils. But it is a -quarter-past four. _Au revoir._' - -He opened the door for her in silence, and in silence escorted her -through the house to her carriage, and bowed low as it rolled away. - -His heart was bitter against her. He had been at once disappointed -and relieved at the failure of his effort. Damaris was not even a -recollection to her; she had caused the uprooting of the child's whole -life, but she thought no more about it than a person strolling through -green fields thinks of some field flower which he has plucked up, -carried a moment in listless fingers, then flung away. Her own life was -humbly touched by so many supplicants whom she passed, not seeing them, -so many whose eyes were fastened on her in envy and in wonder, that -a poor little barbarian who had been under her roof one brief evening -could occupy no cell of her memory. If he told her the whole story -she would only laugh; call him probably Scipio or Galahad. She would -be sure to say something which would wound him; she would be sure to -receive his narrative with a cruel smile of doubt if not of derision. - -'Time will tell her as much as she will ever care to know,' he thought -with the procrastination natural to a hesitating temper. Time would -tell her, if ever her forgotten Desclée should become one of those on -whom the fierce light of the world's fame beat; whilst if the life of -Damaris should pass away in failure, in obscurity, in the paths of -privacy, what would it ever be to her? No more than the rain which -fell, or the dust which blew, in some dreary by-street which her own -graceful steps never approached. She had no pity for failure, no -sympathy with impotence; the unsuccessful were to her eyes the born -_crétins_ of the world. - -He paused on the terrace of the house as her carriage rolled on its -noiseless tires through the courtyard and out of the great gilded gates. - -His heart was heavy, and a personal offence was in him against her as -he remembered her words. - -What plainer hint could she have given him to pass his time and take -his caresses elsewhere? - -All alone though he was, his cheek grew red with anger and -mortification. - -'What does it matter to her what I do?' he thought bitterly, with a -sense of mortification. 'I must be the vainest fool if I can flatter -myself that, had I a hundred mistresses she would be ever jealous of -any one of them. Men are feeble creatures, and coarse, and what they -do matters nothing to her. So long as I do not cross her threshold -unbidden, or ruffle a rose-leaf beneath her, what does she care what I -do?' - -As she herself passed behind her black Ukraine horses through the -streets, a certain vague annoyance came over her, remembering his -manner and his words. - -He had never before been irritable as he was now. The evenness of his -temper had been perfect, and had allowed her so great a latitude in the -indulgence of her satire upon him, that she had been led to think him -weaker than he was. It was only of late that he had answered her with a -touch of bitterness, had hinted his impatience of her criticisms, and -had shown that fatigue before their manner of life which he did not now -affect to conceal. - -'If we go on like this,' she thought, 'we shall become like everybody -else; we shall not subside into friendship, but only into dissension, -and the world will end in observing our dissensions, which will annoy -me, his whole temper is so utterly unphilosophic. He cannot understand -and accept the inevitable. He would have liked me to go and live in the -centre of Asia Minor and adore him: I refused to do it when it would -have been interesting to do. Good heavens! Why should I do it now, when -I know every line of his face and every turn of his character as one -knows the very stones on a road one takes daily?' - -She had been wearied by his romantic ideas and by his unpractical -aspirations, which suggested to her only more _ennui_ than the world, -stupid as it was, afforded her already. Yet she was irritated by her -own latent consciousness that she should not care to know that his -dreams went elsewhere. - -'_Comme cette fille lui trotte dans la tête!_' she said, half aloud, -with surprise and irritation. Her knowledge of men told her that -remembrance with them usually means attraction, that irritation usually -means some secret consciousness, some unspoken interest. - -Languidly she recalled from the depths of her own memory the trivial, -long-forgotten incident of Damaris Bérarde, whose features the sketch -by Loswa had preserved from oblivion. She remembered how absurdly -chivalrous Othmar had been that evening, how coldly and sharply he had -rebuked herself for her negligence towards the child. - -Pshaw! how like a man it would be, she thought; if he had been -attracted by a little peasant with brown hands and bare feet! - -If, after all, he were just like other men, she thought; if he had -a villa on the Seine, a cottage at Meudon, where he passed his time -when he was supposed to be closeted with the Rothschild, or gone to -a conference with Bleichr[oe]der? Would she care much? She thought -not. She would feel that half good-natured disdain which a woman, -passionless herself, always feels for the riotous passions of men; but -she did not think that it would affect her peace of mind in any way. - -If it were a woman in her own world, yes; she would have resented -that. She would have felt it an offence and an outrage. She would -have disliked the comments of her own world on it; she would have -been impatient of the ridicule or the compassion which it might have -entailed on herself from others; and she would have been angered at -the possible ascendency over his intellect, and the possession of his -confidence, which such a rival would perchance have acquired to her own -despite. - -But of what she would have called a mere vulgar _liaison_ she would -have felt no jealousy, not even much surprise, for she considered that -men were slaves of their appetites, even when they were masters of -their intelligence. - -For the whole ways of life of a man she had that contempt which -a woman who reads their hearts and knows their follies is apt -lo entertain when to herself the senses say little, and their -gratification is indifferent. But if it were a question of the -possession of his mind and thoughts by a new passion, if anyone had -passed before her and taken that pre-eminence in his imagination which -she had held so long, she became irritably conscious that this would -be unwelcome to her. A love which reigned over his fancy, occupied his -memory in absence, and had empire over his will, would be an assumption -of her own place, would be a seizure of all that more spiritual and -subtle dominion which had been peculiarly her own. - -She had had unbounded influence over him for ten years; she had been so -certain of her influence that she had been for once absurdly credulous -of its duration. Though she knew that passions wane like moons, yet -she had never doubted in her soul (whatever scepticism her lips might -have declared in jest) that his for her would never become less. She -had never truly realised that the time would come when her surpassing -seductions might leave him cold as one who hears a twice-told tale, -when his immortal passion for her might lie dead like last year's -leaves. - -She had always piqued herself upon the wisdom with which she had looked -at all accidents and sentiments of life. She had always believed that -no weakness or instability of human nature could ever take her by -surprise. And yet to find that at last she had lost her sorcery for his -senses and her exclusive reign over his thoughts astonished her with a -shock of humiliated surprise. - -During the pause between the two parts into which 'Ruth' was divided, -the guests of the Prince of Lemberg left the music-room and strayed -at their will through the other apartments of his beautiful little -house, which was modestly called a pavilion, and stood withdrawn behind -gardens and high walls of clipped evergreens. It was four o'clock in -the winter's day, and the whole of the rooms were lighted as at night; -the hundred or so of people who were there represented all that was -greatest in fashion, with a few of those who were greatest in art. -Belonging, as he deemed, to both categories, Loris Loswa was amongst -those present. - -'Bring me some tea,' she said to him when she had seated herself in -a little alcove filled with bananas and palms, whose green branches -drooped against a background of Florentine tapestries, and threw up -in high relief the dead gold and dusky furs of her costume. When he -brought it she signed to him to seat himself on a stool at her feet. He -obeyed, flattered and charmed. - -'Loris,' she said in a low tone to him, 'what became of the subject of -that sketch you made two years ago on that island in the seas beyond -Monaco?' - -Loswa reflected a moment, then he answered with perfect candour: - -'I have never thought of her from that day to this. I meant to have -made a great picture from that little study, but I lost sight of it; I -sold it.' - -'You sold it to us: yes. It is there in Otho's room. I have often -wondered what became of the original. Do you mean that you have never -had the curiosity to inquire?' - -'I really never have. She was certainly a provincial beauty, but they -are not the beauties which dwell longest in my mind. I intended to make -something _très empoignant_ of that sketch, but I forgot it, once it -was sold.' - -'How like a modern painter!' she said with amusement, and changed the -subject. - -Lemberg approached and Loswa rose. - -'What is your verdict on my work?' asked the composer of 'Ruth.' 'I am -very nervous till you have spoken. When they are all praising me and -you are mute, I think of those lines of Robert Browning's, which tell -us how the musician heard all the theatre applaud, but himself looked -only to the place where "Rossini sat silent in his stall."' - -'If I were silent in my stall,' she replied, 'it must have been because -silence seemed the fittest tribute to your exquisite pastoral. One -seemed to hear the corn bend, the wind sigh, the poppies blow. For one -half hour you made me in love with the country! And then the farewell -to Naomi----I only wish that Gluck were alive to hear.' - -She passed on to a discriminating criticism of the musical structure -of the composition, with all that profound and scientific knowledge of -the tonic art which were united in her to the most subtle appreciation -of its phases. The 'Ruth' had charmed her ear, and her mind could -distinguish why it did so. - -Béthune, who was near, had heard the conversation, and wondered if -Loswa were speaking falsely. He thought not; he felt an impulse to -speak of what he had seen at Les Hameaux on the day his horse was -lamed, but he refrained. Rosselin had invited his silence, and Rosselin -was not a man of idle words, nor likely to give a caution without some -good motive. - -Yet he felt a sense of guilt and of complicity. He had gone back twice -or thrice out of a sense of courtesy, as well as of interest, and he -had learned easily, from the people of the hamlet, how and through whom -she had been brought thither. The knowledge that it was Othmar who had -placed her there had struck him first with amazement, then with anger. - -He knew none of the circumstances which had brought Damaris Bérarde to -Paris. She preserved an obstinate silence in regard to herself, and -his good breeding would not allow him to put direct questions to her -which were evidently unwelcome ones. It was only in the village that -he heard the name of Othmar, and the chivalrous laws which governed -his actions at all times did not allow him to try and learn what was -withheld from him. The hostility to Othmar which had for so many years -been so powerful a factor in his life was the strongest of all reasons -with him to compel him to abstain from all investigation, to avoid -the least semblance of inquisitiveness as to his conduct. But in the -absence of knowledge he placed the natural construction of a man of the -world on the little he knew, and the facts of her altered abode and -manner of life, and he was angered against the man who could, as he -thought, change for new amours the passion which he had given to his -wife. - -Of the faults of that temperament which left Othmar's unsatisfied -and repelled, Béthune was too loyal a lover to see anything. Her -very defects had always seemed beauties in his eyes. To desert such -a woman as she was for even so lovely a child as Damaris seemed to -him intolerably unworthy; and the secret conduct of such a connection -seemed to him at once commonplace and coarse. He had always done -justice to the rarity and delicacy of many qualities in his successful -rival, and the discovery of what he supposed to be a mere intrigue in -his daily life surprised and disgusted him. When he heard Nadège now -speak of Damaris Bérarde he felt indignantly grieved for her deception, -as men are always inclined to grieve for a woman who interests them -before an infidelity which is not their own. - -'Who would have believed that even she would fail to secure constancy?' -he thought as he watched the light play upon the rings upon her hand as -she gave back her cup to Loswa. - -'You look interested in my inquiries,' said Nadine, observing his -countenance with amusement. 'Is it possible that _you_ followed up that -idyl on an island of which I let you read the first chapter?' - -'No, indeed,' said Béthune in haste, with a certain embarrassment which -did not escape her observation. - -'My dear friend, it would not be a crime if you did,' she said with a -smile. 'Considering how many men saw that handsome child in my rooms, I -know very little of human nature if some one at least of them did not -return to the isle to write an epilogue to 'Esther.' Loris denies that -he has done so. To be sure, men always deny that sort of accusation. -But for once he looks innocent.' - -'You never heard anything of her?' asked Béthune, conscious that he did -not speak wholly at his ease. - -'What should one hear? I dare say she has shut up her play-books and -eaten her bridal bonbons by this. I remember she was quite stupid when -one saw her close; she kept blinking in the light of my dancing-rooms -like a little owl out at noonday. If she had had any real talent mere -upholstery would not have had any power to strike her dumb.' - -'Probably it was not the upholstery. You have struck dumb greater -persons than she.' - -'When I have desired to do so. But with her I do not remember that I -desired it. I desired only to be kind to her. I have always wished to -discover genius in some obscure creature.' - -'They say Rosselin has discovered one,' said Paul of Lemberg. 'Then you -will say, it is his trade.' - -'Who is it?' - -'Ah, that I know not. Some woman or child who is to revive all the -last glories of the French stage. Some one kept in perfect obscurity -hitherto, as bird-trainers keep their piping bullfinches in the dark -all day long.' - -He spoke with no second thought, knowing nothing more than that which -he said. But Béthune, silently listening, felt again an uneasy sense as -of some guilty complicity in what he withheld from the person whom it -most nearly concerned. - -Yet it was not for him to give up to her what Othmar had concealed from -her. Unwillingly and perforce, his honour and his delicacy made him the -reluctant keeper of a secret which he disapproved. 'I have always been -his enemy, so I must be now his friend,' he thought with that loyalty -which was the strength of his character, though a quality so little -known to his generation that it seemed to it to be a weakness. - -'Am I an imbecile,' she thought as she drove away from the house, 'am I -an imbecile, that this girl I had utterly forgotten haunts me all day -long like a phrase of the 'Ruth?' Is it just because I looked at her -picture? Or is it because that song of Paul's, "O, reine des champs," -made me remember her as I saw her going through the hepaticas under -the orange leaves on her strange little island? All these men know -something of her, I think, and Otho perhaps knows most.' - -As she drove through the streets, lying almost at full length in -her carriage, wrapped in furs and with a great bouquet of gardenia -idly clasped in her hands, her eyes were closed, but her thoughts -were awake. A little contemptuous smile was on her lips, but a great -slowly-arousing and amazed suspicion was in her heart. - -She had bidden him take his liberty, true. So great sovereigns bid -their courtiers take theirs; but evil betides the courtier who is rash -enough to construe the bidding literally. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII. - - -There lived in Paris an old man who had once been a freed serf, and -then a confidential private secretary of her father's. He had received -a pension from her family for his faithful and intelligent services, -and the devotion which he had given to her father he had continued to -give to her. He was a man of great humility, though of great sagacity. -He had the patience and submissive temper of the Muscovite peasant -joined to the subtlety and the adroitness of the educated Slav. -Whenever she needed any errand executed in which prudence and ability -were needed, she always sent for this person, whom she had known from -infancy, and who loved and revered her with an almost abject devotion. -Rather than fail to execute the wishes of Nadège Federowna, or fail to -keep the secret of them when fulfilled, he would have died a hundred -times over with that serenity under torture which the Russian of the -Baltic shares with the Asiatic of the Indus. - -Of the very existence of this man Othmar knew scarcely anything. It had -always seemed to her well to have some few instruments of which the -position and the species were known only to herself. One is never sure -of the future. It was her manner of keeping '_une poire pour la soif_,' -after the wise injunction of the provincial proverb. - -She had never hitherto used the services of Michel Obrenovitch for any -wrongful cause; but she knew that, to whatever purpose she chose to -dedicate him, to that purpose he would be bound. - -When she rose in the following forenoon she sent for him, and gave him -the name of Damaris Bérarde and the name of the island of Bonaventure. - -'Whatever there can be learnt of this person and this place learn for -me,' she said to him. - -He asked no more instructions. He kissed the hem of her gown in sign of -humblest loyalty and good faith, and withdrew. - -'He has the grip of a ferret,' she thought, 'and the heart of a dog.' - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII. - - -It was now towards the close of carnival. Othmar's time, always largely -occupied, and doubly burdened since the death of his uncle, left him -but little leisure for the studies and the thoughts most natural to -his mind. His temperament led him to the love of leisure, of privacy, -of meditation. To read Plato under an oak-tree all day, as she -suggested, however insufficient it might have seemed to her, would have -been to him the most congenial of occupations. He would have chosen -Vaucluse, like Petrarca, could he have done so. - -Amidst all the variety of affairs which came before him he was often -tired with that fatigue of the mind which is more painful than the -fatigue of the body. Study, even over-study, does not produce that -fatigue; what produces it is the constant pressure of uncongenial -and constantly-recurrent demands upon mental attention. Since the -death of Friederich Othmar such demands upon him had been multiplied -a hundredfold; and whilst all Paris looked on him as one of the most -enviable of its great personages, he himself would willingly have given -all his millions to be free to pass his years in the intellectual -leisure and repose which were to him the chief excellence of life. - -'He has remained Wilhelm Meister and Werter, though an unkind fate has -made him a rival of the Rothschilds,' his wife had said once. And a -student at heart he did remain, and a dreamer also whenever the thunder -of the brazen chariots of the world around him left him any peaceful -moment in which to enjoy silence and remember the dreams of his youth. - -The moments grew rarer and wider apart every year. He was like the king -on Burne-Jones's wheel of fortune: he was crowned, but bound on the -wheel. - -Therefore, in the press of great interests and of public matters, which -despite himself absorbed so much of his thoughts and of his time, the -remembrance of Damaris was no dominant thing, but a tender and fugitive -memory which came to him ever and again, as the song of a bird on a -bough outside his windows may bring the gentle thoughts of other days -to the hearer of it who sits shut up in a close room under a zinc roof -in a city. Whenever he remembered her it was with infinite pity, with -great anxiety, with little of those more selfish impulses which tinge a -man's thoughts of a woman, always with an almost passionate desire to -undo the wrong which had been done her by his wife. - -'What can I do for her? Command me in all ways,' he had said more than -once to Rosselin, who had always answered: 'Perhaps the best thing you -can do is to let her alone.' - -He had many thoughts of her which troubled him, and vague projects -which he was forced to abandon as impracticable. He wished to give her -back the island, set her there in simple sovereignty over the orange -trees and the sea-waves, restore to her her beautiful free open-air -existence amongst the sea-swallows and the olive-haunting thrushes. He -would have striven to do it at all cost; but the isle was not to be -bought. The owner believed it to be a mountain of treasure, since it -was sought for, and would not part with it at any price. There was no -possibility for him to give her back her little realm, to make her life -anything he would have liked to make it. He could only leave her alone, -as Rosselin had bluntly told him to do; and that cold kindness did not -satisfy the generosity of his temper, or seem suited to the softness -and helplessness of her years. - -This day when he had watched his wife's carriage roll through the gates -of the courtyard, his conscience smote him especially for what seemed -to him neglect and unkindness to one who had no other friend than -himself. - -On an impulse of compassion and repentance he went out of the house and -took the train which goes west on its way to the sea-shores of Brétagne. - -'Poor child,' he thought. 'Fear of them makes me a coward to her. She -must have deemed me unkind and neglectful; all these weeks and months I -have never been near her. Time goes so fast----' - -He alighted at the little station of Trappes, and took his way on foot -across the fields towards the Croix Blanche. - -The weather, though dull and grey, had been rainless as the train -passed through the market-gardens and shabby suburbs of the north-west, -but when he reached Magny the valley in its silvery fog looked poetic, -and wore a charm all its own after the dreary bricks and mortar of the -outer-boulevards. The leafless woods wore lovely hues of bronze and -ashen-grey; the bare fields were of the red-brown of a stag's hind; far -away the plains of La Beauce were veiled in a mist which promised snow; -a man went by him carrying cut wood with the bowed back, the bent head, -the heavy step, the downcast face which Millet has made immortal in art. - -'How have we managed to make a toil and a burden of that outdoor life -which was so blessed to the Greeks'?' he mused. 'We must have blundered -horribly. Or is it the weather which is more at fault than we? In the -south, pastoral life is still enjoyable and still graceful.' - -He spoke to the woodman and got only sullen monosyllables in return. He -gave him some money, and saw the slow dull eye lit up with surprise and -greed. - -'I should be as sullen and as covetous myself, I daresay,' he thought, -'if I had to cut faggots for a living.' - -Then he went on over the fields along the cross-road which led to the -home of Damaris. - -He had not yet reached it, when he perceived her at a little distance, -walking quickly, with the white dogs running before her. She had on a -long dark cloak, and the hood of it, lined with crimson, was drawn over -her head; her head was a little thrown backward; her eyes were looking -upward at the steel-grey sky, across whose sad-coloured vault a flock -of the farm pigeons flew. Her hands held an open book; her lips were -moving, but he was too far off from her to hear the sound of her voice. -Her feet came quickly over the brown bare pasture so that she almost -touched him ere she saw him. When she did so she dropped the book; the -colour in her face changed instantly from white to red, from red to -white. She gave an inarticulate cry of pleasure and amaze. - -'You! you!--at last!' she said, holding out to him both her hands, warm -with the warmth of youth, though gloveless, in the winter weather. - -Othmar took them in his own with a tender gesture and touched them with -his lips. - -He could not doubt the great joy which his presence brought to her. -Her eyes were shining through suddenly starting tears of gladness; her -mouth was tremulous with smiles; her cheeks had flushed scarlet; her -whole face and form were eloquent of a happiness which needed no words -for its expression. - -He thought of a languid, amused, disdainful voice which had said to him -awhile before, 'Surely anyone's emotions can restrain themselves until -one gets into the house!' - -The welcome of Damaris affected him profoundly, touched him to a vivid -gratitude. He was so used to the repression of his warmer feelings, so -accustomed to irony and languor, and the ridicule of all ardour and -enthusiasm, that this delight which his presence caused was to him at -once infinitely pathetic and deliciously responsive. He was thankful to -be paid in such unwonted coin, and the beautiful sincerity of it was -clear and radiant as the sunrise of a summer morning. - -'I should have come before if I had known----,' he said, and paused -with a pang of conscience. Was it not a reason rather to compel his -absence? - -Damaris was not sensible of any double meaning in either his words or -his silence. She was abandoned to the pure and frank rapture with which -she saw the living man of whom the memory abode with her sleeping and -waking. There was so much youth in her, and so perfect a candour, that -no thought of concealment entered her mind for an instant. He had been -everything to her; he had stood between her and sickness and misery and -death; he had made life bloom again for her when it had seemed engulfed -in the blackness of poverty and solitude. To her he had been truly a -ministering angel. She could have wept and laughed for joy at the touch -of his hand, at the sound of his voice. - -Othmar was embarrassed: she was not. He was conscious of the meaning of -her happiness; she was not. He let go her hands, and moved beside her -under the leafless trees. - -'May we go into the house?' he asked. He remembered Blanche de Laon. - -'Yes,' she answered; her voice was tremulous with emotion, and had the -thrill of an exquisite happiness in it. - -'You see, it is quite near,' she added. 'It is so long since you came! -Why have you been so long?' - -Othmar did not look at her as he replied: - -'My dear, I have so many occupations, so few moments that I may call my -own. And I had told you to write to me if you needed me.' - -'I do not write very well,' she said, with a blush of shame at the -confession. 'And I thought you would come when you wished.' - -'When I could, would be more nearly the truth. I am not my own master -in many ways.' - -'No?' - -To her it sounded very strange; to her he seemed the master of the -world. - -'No, indeed,' said Othmar bitterly. - -He walked silently beside her a few moments. His dejection of tone, his -weariness of manner communicated something of their sadness to her, and -threw their shade over the shadowless and innocent joys of her soul. He -roused himself with an effort. - -'And you--I have heard of you often from Rosselin. Believe me, I did -not forget you, if I seemed neglectful. You love the open air still, I -see, though it is the chill grey air of the Seine-et-Oise instead of -your own warm winter sunshine. What were you reading or reciting?--Dona -Sol?' - -'Yes.' - -She had ceased to look up at him with candid luminous eyes; her face -was downcast and her cheeks burned. A vague sense stole on her of the -utter difference between himself and her; of the fact that, though he -was all the earth held for her, she to him could only be a mere passing -thought, a mere occasional interest, a mere waif to be pitied and aided -and forgotten. His life was so crowded, so absorbed, so full of the -world's gifts and the world's honours, she could expect nothing in it -but here and there an instant of remembrance. She led the way into the -dwelling-house in silence. The recollection of his wife had come to -her: of that great lady who had tempted her, ridiculed her, forgotten -her, and been her fate. - -Where was she? - -What did she know of herself? - -She did not ask him; her joyous face grew dark under the shadow of the -crimson hood drawn above her shining curls. If the mother of Napraxine -could have seen into her heart at that moment her aged lips would have -given the kiss of peace to these young ones for sake of the hatred her -young soul felt. - -'They are all away at work,' she said aloud; 'will you come into my -room? I think the fire is not out.' - -'I do not care about the fire,' replied Othmar. 'I wish I could bring -you the sunshine of your own seas and shores--or take you to them.' - -She did not answer; he asked again: - -'Why would you not write to me?' - -'I do not write very well, I told you,' she said, with the colour still -hot in her cheeks; 'and I have no right to trouble you--in that way. It -is cold here. Will you come to my room?' - -She went up a few wooden stairs and opened the door of the little -chamber, of which she had made her study. It had an open fireplace, and -wood was burning on the hearth; its lattice window showed the wintry -landscape. It was simple, but looked like the room of an artist: the -books, the engravings, the water-colour sketches, the little statuettes -he had sent there to make it habitable and picturesque, gave it that -air of culture without which a palace is no better than a barn; a -copper bowl was filled with ivy and bay and holly, there were some -snowdrops in a glass which stood before a small bronze he had sent -there, in the summer, of a Greek shepherd playing on a reed. What -there was of art and decoration there was of his providing; but still -a certain grace of arrangement and harmony of tones were due to her -and to the same instincts in her which had made of her sea balcony -on Bonaventure a little hermitage dedicated to the few nightingales -and the many sea-swallows, and, amidst the sordid cares and the harsh -accents which were around her, had enabled her to hear the voice of Ruy -Blas or of Fortunio, as, hid in the orange-grove, she had read through -drowsy noons in - - A dim house of happy leaves, with shadows populous. - -As he looked around this chamber with its union of elegance and -rusticity, there passed over his mind the consciousness of how utterly -his wife would mistake the motive which had brought him there, the -feeling which had prompted him to have this child surrounded, as far -as it was possible, with such simple pleasures as art and nature can -bestow on poetic temperaments. The world was always with her; its -influences had saturated her mind and coloured her judgments too deeply -for her ever to judge otherwise than as the world would do. To her as -to the world, if ever either became aware of this home which he had -made for another woman under the ash-trees of Les Hameaux, he could -only seem the protector of Damaris in a very different sense to that in -which he actually was so. The certainty of such inevitable judgment -oppressed him, and obscured to him the beauty of the girl's face, the -lovely freshness and fervour of her welcome. - -The one great love of his life had been so long his only preoccupation, -his only idolatry, that it hurt him with a sense of loss and of insult -to think that to others it would seem as though he had been faithless -to it. Even the sense which was present to his own heart and mind, that -such infidelity might perchance become possible to him, humiliated him -in his own eyes and made him feel a weak, irresolute, mutable fool. - -'Perhaps she is right enough to disdain me!' he thought with impatience -of himself. - -His thoughts were far more with her than with Damaris; and yet the poor -child's welcome of him sunk into his heart with a sense of warmth and -of sympathy, to which he had long been a stranger. Her very personal -beauty, too, seemed to retain in it the glow of her own suns, and to -give to those who looked on it a vivifying warmth and radiance. He felt -as though, in leaving the presence of his wife for hers, he had come -out of the cool pale luminance of moonlight, shining on the classic -limbs of a marble goddess, into a sunlit and fragrant garden, with -birds at play amongst wild boughs of roses. - -Absorbed in his own meditations, his words were dreamy and spoken with -effort, his abstraction affected the sensitive nerves of his companion -and cast a chill upon her buoyant and ardent nature. She grew silent, -and watched him with eyes passionate with gratitude and dim with tears. -She saw in him the saviour of her life, the lord of all her thoughts, -her only friend; she longed to throw herself at his feet and strive -to tell him all she felt. But she could not, she dared not; there was -something in his voice, in his gaze, in the mere fact of his presence, -which daunted and held her dumb. In his absence she had repeated to -herself a thousand times the eloquent words with which she would -tell him all she felt; but now that he was there before her, she was -mute. The colour came and went in her expressive face, the veins in -her throat swelled with emotion; she could find nothing to say which -was worth saying; when she spoke in the words of the poets she was -eloquent, but when she could only look in her own heart and long to -speak, how poor she seemed to herself, how dull and dumb! - -The intensity of the happiness his presence brought with it, in itself -bewildered and alarmed her with a vague fear to which she could have -given no name had she tried. She had been happy in her childhood upon -Bonaventure, with the happiness of youth and health and vigour; the -happiness of the fawn in the fernbrake, of the swallow on the wing; -unconscious, delightful, instinctive happiness in the mere sense of -sentient life. But this happiness which she felt now was new to her, -and closely allied to pain, and nervous as its twin-sister, sorrow; she -was afraid of it and mute. - -At last she broke the silence timidly: - -'There was something I thought I would write to tell you because he is -one of your friends, but then I thought it did not matter. It was only -that M. de Béthune has been here twice or three times.' - -'Béthune!' echoed Othmar with astonishment and some displeasure. 'How -came he here?' - -She told him, and added 'He has come back on different days. He brought -me a jewel once; it was very handsome. It was because I attended to his -horse's sprain; I asked him to take it back again and he did so. Since -that he has brought me flowers. Those flowers are some of his.' - -He looked where she looked and saw a group of hothouse blossoms of -value and rarity. He felt an annoyance which he did not dissimulate. -'Do he and his flowers please you?' he asked, not wisely as he knew. - -But the perfect candour of her eyes remained unclouded. - -'I do not think about him,' she replied in that tone which was an echo -of her free and fearless life upon the island. 'He is kind, and M. -Rosselin says he is good. He is a great friend of hers, is he not?' - -'Of my wife's?' said Othmar, with irritation. 'Yes. She likes him, he -is often with her; he is one of those persons whom great ladies care to -chain to their thrones.' - -He had himself always had a vague jealousy of Gui de Béthune; the -intimacy which his wife allowed him, although only, he knew, in -accordance with the habits and usages of a woman of the world, yet was -always more intimate than he cared to see. He knew the solidity and -nobility of Béthune's character and the hopeless devotion which had so -long absorbed his heart, but sometimes he thought that his wife might -have found better ways of rewarding the one and of curing the other -than the constant attendance on her which she permitted to a man who -had adored her before the death of Napraxine, and had offered her his -hand after it. He had said little against it, because he had known how -absurd and vulgar a passion jealousy had always seemed in her sight, -but there had never been any cordiality of intercourse between himself -and Béthune, and it irritated him to hear that Béthune of all men -should, by an accident of sport, have found his way to Les Hameaux. - -The idea had caused him uneasiness, and associated with the remembrance -of Blanche de Laon, made him conscious that the secret of the vale of -Chevreuse had been very rashly and consciously kept by him from his -wife. The Duc was a man of chivalrous honour and fastidious delicacy; -he would in all likelihood feel bound to respect a secret which he had -accidentally suppressed, but the influence of Nadège was unbounded with -him, and if by any chance through the malice of Blanchette, or any -other means, her suspicions should be in any way aroused, she would -turn the mind of Béthune inside out as easily as a child can empty -a bird's nest. He knew her great power over men, and the tenacity -with which she would at times follow out an idea if it were one which -appeared to elude her, or which others sought to conceal from her. - -'Does he know your story?' he asked, with some embarrassment. 'Have you -mentioned me to him?' - -'Oh no!'--the colour flushed into her face, there was indignation in -her denial. 'Do you think that I would talk of--of--of that time and of -you?' - -Her voice trembled a little over the last word; she added after a -moment, - -'He speaks of her sometimes--of you never.' - -'Ah!' - -Othmar understood the meaning of that, though his companion did not. - -The admiration and loyalty with which her visitor had spoken of a lady -who was nothing to him, had seemed even to her unworldly ignorance -something which Othmar would not like. She, who had only seen the -homely lives of the toilers of the sea and soil, with their primitive -passions and their single-minded ideas, did not dream of the easy -relations and the elastic opinions which exist in the great world, of -the friendships which have all the grace of love without its fatigue -and its bondage, of the influence which brilliant women can exercise -over the minds and lives of men, without giving in return one iota -of their own freedom or feeling one pulse of tenderness. All those -intricate motives, and half-dissolute, half-delicate, liberties which -prevail in society, were to her unknown, unimaginable. She could -understand that a woman or a man should die for love, or should in -an hour of hatred slay what they were jealous of, or what had robbed -them of their love. All the simple deep undivided emotions of life -were intelligible to her and aroused response in her nature, but the -refinements of caprice and of fancy, the subtleties of cultured minds -playing with passions which they were too languid and too hypocritical -to share, these were altogether unintelligible to her. - -In her short life she had not lived with the rude labouring folk -who had been her sole companions, without knowing that men could be -faithless and women also. But in the only people she had ever known, -fidelity had had a rude and literal interpretation, and infidelity had -often been roughly chastised by a blow of the knife, or the scourge of -a rope's end. All the refined gradations of inconstancy in the great -world were wholly unimaginable by her. - -'You will have to live ten years more before you can play in Sardou's -pieces,' Rosselin had said one day to her; 'as yet you must remain with -the poets, with the eternal children, with the eternal _Naturkinder_.' - -'Perhaps,' Rosselin had added to himself, 'she will never be able to -play Dora, or Froufrou, only Adrienne Lecouvreur, or Marie Stuart. She -has a character cast on broad bold antique lines; simple and profound -feelings alone are natural to her. The intricacies of complex emotion, -and the contempt born of analysis, are not intelligible to her. She -would understand why the Duchesse de Septmonts throws the cup down so -violently in "L'Etrangère," but she would not understand why Froufrou -vacillates so helplessly between her family and her lover.' - -She looked wistfully now at Othmar, afraid that she had displeased him, -yet urged on by the unconquerable attraction which the character of his -wife exercised over her: - -'Why has she so much power over people?' she asked in a low voice. - -'My wife?' asked Othmar, who was absorbed in his own thoughts. 'How can -I tell you, my dear? Perhaps she has it because she does not care about -it; perhaps because all men seem to her to be fools; perhaps because -nature has made her cleverer than we are: how can I tell you? There are -persons born into this world with a magnetic power over the minds of -others: she is one of them. You have seen it yourself; she was an utter -stranger to you, yet she said but two words to you, and you followed -her, and all your peaceful, and innocent, and happy life went to pieces -like a child's sand-city before the tide of the sea. She can always do -that. She has done it a million times. She has done it with this man -you speak of; she looked at him once years and years ago, and he has -never been free any more. Other women hardly exist for him. He would -prefer to be wretched following her shadow, than to be happy where she -was not. There are others like him----' - -The face of Damaris grew troubled and embarrassed, there was a sound of -indignation in her voice as she said: 'But since she is your wife?' - -Othmar laughed a little bitterly. - -'Ah, my dear child!--you belong to another world than ours. You have -seen amongst your fisher-folk and your fruit-sellers a kind of union of -labour, which is called marriage, and which makes the woman toil all -day for her children and her house, and grow grey on one hearthstone, -and live out her life with the sun shining on one narrow field. You do -not understand that when a great lady does a man the honour to accept -his hand in marriage, she retains her own complete immunity from -all obligations whatever; she only remains beside him on the tacit -condition that he shall submit to all her terms; she makes his houses -brilliant, she amuses herself, and he can do the same if nature have -not made him too dull; she has a number of friendships and interests -with which he has nothing to do; and if his heart remain unsatisfied, -that is nothing to her--he can take it elsewhere.' - -There was the bitterness of personal feeling in the words spoken, as -if in impersonal generalisation. His hearer did not penetrate all -their meanings, but she felt the personal offence and dissatisfaction -which were in them, and they filled her with a wistful and sympathetic -sorrow. She did not understand. How could people be so rich, so -great, so beautiful, have so much power in their hands, and so much -love at their command, and yet be for ever so restless, so weary, so -dissatisfied? Her heart hardened itself more utterly than ever against -this woman who had such empire, and used it with such cruelty; who was -so beloved, and so contemptuous of love; who bore his name, dwelt in -his houses, could see him when she would, and yet seemed to give him no -more rest or kindness than she gave a stranger passing in the street. -The reasons of it were all too intricate and too subtle for her mind to -be able to guess one half of them. In her own simplicity of phrase she -would have said only that he was unhappy, which would not have covered -one half, or one tithe of the truth; but that scanty knowledge was -enough to make all her own intensity of gratitude and devotion to him -yearn with longing to console him, and sink heartsick before its own -impotency to do so. - -All through the months in which he had been absent, she had thought of -him with wistful memories, vague troubled thoughts, of which he was the -centre and ideal. The remembrance of his light grave kiss upon her brow -had thrilled through her with a magical force, banishing childhood. All -her warm and passionate heart, rich as the fruits of her native land, -was given to him unasked, unconscious of all it gave. Never in any -hour of her empire over him had the woman to whom he had given up all -he possessed, his past, his present, and his future, known one single -pulse of such love for him as filled the whole nerve and soul and -nature of Damaris Bérarde. - -She would have gone blindfold wherever he had led. She would have died -happy if gathered one moment to his breast. - -But as yet she knew it not. As yet her own heart was a sealed book to -her. To him it was open; he could read on it what he would; but he was -unwilling to read. - -'Have we not done her harm enough,' he asked himself, 'that I should -do her this last, this greatest? Shall I bind her to me in her youth -and her ignorance when I can but give her, what?--an hour of my time, -a fragment of my thoughts, the cold hospitality of a heart which has -been swept empty by another woman?' - -He looked at her where she stood, with the grey light of the pale day -powerless to dull or take away the warmth and depth of colour, the -strength and grace of outline from the form and face. The shining -curls, the luminous eyes, the mouth like the bud of the pomegranate, -the warm soft cheeks with the bright blood pulsing in them, they were -just what they had been in the sea-wind, and the sun of the south; the -pallor and cold of the north had had no dominion over them. - -She had the triple beauty of youth, of health, of genius. There was -the lavish glory of the springtime in her, as in the April fields -when nature flings down flowers at every step. She should have been -Heliodora to be crowned with white violets and blue hyacinths by the -singer of Gadara, and he--if he had loved her, he might have opened his -arms to her; but he looked in his own soul and no love of any kind was -there. - -Should he dare to offer her pale pity, mere tenderness, the fatigue -of passions tired and chilled by another? What more unfair than for -one weary and world-worn to lay his head upon the warm white breast of -youth when he no more could dream there any of the dreams youth loves -and love begets? - -Damaris was perplexed and pained because he stayed so brief a time with -her, for the low winter sun, already when he came so near to its last -hour above the grey and purple of the plains, was still sinking red -and dim in a western sky of smoke-like vapour, when he rose to leave -her and return to Paris. She vaguely felt that there was some reserve -between them, that all he thought was not expressed, that all he -desired was not said. - -In her ignorance of the waywardness and contradictions of the hearts -of men, she could only think that he was angered with her for her -persistency in a career which he had told her was not a happy or a wise -one. To her it seemed that he had every right over her life, since -without him she must have perished miserably amongst the unnoticed -misery of the great city in which he had found her. - -'You are not vexed that I was reciting the speeches of Dona Sol?' she -asked him timidly, trying to find out what he wished. - -'Vexed? Surely not,' he answered her. 'I understand that you still -cling to this one thought, and since the ambition of it is so strong in -you, it is no doubt best that you should give it an undivided devotion. -We do nothing well that we do half-heartedly.' - -'Does he tell you what he thinks of me?' she asked, still timidly. - -'Rosselin?' said Othmar. 'Yes; he thinks greatly of your natural -gifts; you content him, which is a rare thing, for he is hard to -please; he believes you may move that dull, stupid, imitative mass -which calls itself the world. I have never heard him say otherwise or -say less. But neither Rosselin or I are gods, my child; we can push -open the gates for you, but we cannot control what you may find beyond -the gates.' - -'You mean----?' - -'I mean that his experience and influence will enable you to face the -world with every advantage, will enable you to begin where others only -arrive after long years of toil and of probation: but when he has done -that he will have done all that he can do. The rest will lie with all -the blind forces which govern human fates.' - -There was something in the words, gently as they were spoken, which -chilled her eager faiths and sanguine hopes, and brought back to her -that fear of the future, that dread of the imprisonment of the art -world, which had moved her after the recital of the Conservatoire. - -'I begin to understand!' she said, with an impetuous sigh. 'It will be -a slavery where I thought it a conquest. But--but--could not I have -_one_ triumph and then come back to the country and the quiet of it -if I wished? Could I not make Paris crown me once, even if I gave the -crown back to them? Why not?----' - -'Because, drinking once, every one drinks as long as a drop is left -of that _amari aliquid_ called Fame. If you once taste triumph you -will never return to obscurity. Did I not tell you so in the summer? -Besides, why should you wish to triumph at all unless it be to give -over your life to Art? I do not understand----' - -The face of Damaris grew red and overcast. - -'I want her to know that I need not be despised,' she said in a very -low voice, through which there ran the thrill of a deep and sombre -meaning. Othmar started and himself coloured at the menace which there -was in the sound of her voice. - -'You mean Nadège?' he said abruptly. - -Damaris gave a gesture of assent. - -She was ashamed of what she had said, but it had escaped her almost -involuntarily. He was silent. He was uncertain what to say. There -was a sense of reluctance in him to speak at all of his wife to her. -Commonplace words could have been said in plenty; but these he did -not choose to employ. He understood that the whole strong and ardent -soul of this child was on her lips; it was not a time for trivial -platitudes, for empty phrases, which in moments of great emotions seem -more unkind than blows. - -'If I be your friend, my dear, you must not think of her as your -enemy,' he said at length. 'She admires genius--it is the one thing -which commands her respect: if you show her you possess it she will be -a better friend to you than I can ever be.' - -'I do not want her friendship.' - -Damaris had grown pale; she spoke with impetuous and almost fierce -meaning; the darker instincts which were in the hot blood of the -Bérardes were aroused; she did not pause to consider her own words. - -It grew dark without: the sun had now sunk below the horizon; the red -light of the fire on the hearth reached her and shone in her auburn -curls, on her shining sombre eyes, on her lips shut close with scorn. -She looked at him from under her level brows. - -'You care for her very much?' she said suddenly. - -Othmar was silent some moments. How much or how little should he show -of his real thoughts to this child, who loved him and whom he could not -love in any way as she deserved? He thought she had merited candour at -the least from him. - -'Yes, dear; I care for her very much, to use your words. She has been -all the world to me; in a sense she will be so always. Every great -passion has a certain immortal element in it; at least I think so. She -has been the one woman for whom I would have sinned any sin, have done -any folly, have given up place and name, and honour, and all I had, if -she had wished. No one loves twice like that. Many never love so once. -I do not pretend that life with her has been all I hoped for: those -exquisite dreams are never realised; human nature does not hold the -possibility of their realisation. I disappoint her perhaps as much as -she chills me; it is inevitable, and is no one's fault that I know of; -the fault lies with human nature.' - -He paused. Damaris stood where she had been before, but the light had -died down from the wood-fire, and the shadows of the twilight were upon -her face. Her open-air, bird-like, flower-like life upon the island -had made all life seem very simple to her, a thing regulated like the -coming and going of the boats between the shores, broad and plain as -the smooth sea sand of the mainland. All suddenly she saw that it was -a thing of intricate mysteries, of cruel perplexities, of fathomless -emotions, with whose disquietude and disillusion the learned played as -with knotted threads which it amused them to disentangle, but before -whose impenetrable secret the simple broke their heart. - -Othmar continued with an effort, leaning against the side of the shut -casement grown dark with the descending gloom of coming night. - -'I cannot make you comprehend, my dear, with how great a passion I have -loved her. You may have heard of one who bore my name before her, one -who died on your own shores. She was lovely in body and soul, and had -no fault that ever I saw, and would have died for me--did die for me, -perchance--and to her I was without any love, always because my whole -soul was set upon another woman. And that other is now my wife. And -her, I tell you, I have loved in such wise that I believe no other love -worthy the name will ever arise in me again. I do not say that it is -impossible, for no man knows;--but so I think. She has disdained the -place she took, and has left it empty, but no other can fill it after -her. She has made that impossible----' - -The tears rose to his eyes as he spoke. He could not think of the woman -he had worshipped, and whose heart he thought had never had one pulse -of actual love for him, without a pain which overmastered him. He had -never spoken of all he felt for her to any living being throughout the -years in which her influence had reigned over his life. - -Damaris looked at him in the deepening shadows which hid her own face. -A passionate pain communicated itself to her as she listened. - -'Is it she who does not care, then?' she asked. Her voice was hurried -and had a tremor in it. - -'God knows!' said Othmar. 'No; I think she does not.' - -He sighed wearily; his reserve once broken through, it was a kind of -solace to him to speak out aloud the disappointment mute for so long, -for so long unconfessed even to himself. - -'It is not her fault,' he continued; 'nature made her so. We all seem -to her weak and sensual fools. Her own mind is so cultured and so -hypercritical that men far greater than I am would seem to her poor -creatures. She needed a Cæsar to share his empire with her, and she -would have laughed even at him because his laurels could not have -covered his scanty locks! She would have always seen his baldness, -never his greatness. She is made like that. She does not care; why -should she? We care for her. But that is no reason. Perhaps she would -regret it if the children she has had by me died, but if I died -to-morrow I doubt if the world would look dark to her. It certainly -would not look empty!' - -He spoke bitterly, with truth and irony so intermingled in his -unconsidered words, that it was far beyond the powers of his -inexperienced hearer to distinguish between them; all she felt was -that he was unhappy, yet that his soul was set irrevocably upon this -woman who had wedded him only to torment, to elude, to disappoint, to -humiliate him. - -She did not know enough of men and women and their passions to -understand all that he meant in all its fulness of mortification, but -she could understand that he suffered with a kind of suffering for -which it was impossible for anyone to console him, and which severed -him from herself by a vast and cruel distance of which she became -suddenly sensible as she had never been before. His presence was -sweet to her with a sweetness which was akin to anguish; the sound of -his voice thrilled through all her being, the touch of his hand was a -magnetism over her, charming her to a sense of ecstasy in which she -lost all power of will: but she was powerless to banish for an hour -the remembrance of this other woman, she had no sorcery which could -undo and replace the magic of the past; she did not think this or -feel this because her thoughts and her feelings were all confused and -inarticulate, but it was so, and an immense consciousness of loneliness -and impotency weighed like lead upon the warmth and the buoyancy of her -soul. - -She was nothing to him. - -They were alike silent, standing in the dusky windows with the cold -dark country in its wintry silences stretched without. - -'It is best she should know!' he thought with a sense of cruelty and -ingratitude. It seemed to him terrible that she should waste all the -treasures of her lovely youth, of her fresh emotions, of her original -thoughts, of her awaking passions, upon one who could not give her even -one single heart's beat of love in answer. He stooped and kissed her on -her shining curls. - -'Good-night, my child,' he said with pitying tenderness. 'Good-night. -Think of me as your friend, always your friend, and if you see me -seldom believe that it is not due to want of sympathy, but only -because--because----' - -He paused, seeking for words which could render his meaning clear to -her without wounding her by too plain and blunt a warning against her -own heart. - -'Because I meet you too late to be able to care for you,' he thought; -'because I have nothing to give you worth your dreams and your youth; -because I would give you more if I could, but I cannot; because my -heart is like a shut grave, it is too full of its own dead to be able -to let in the living!' - -But he could not say this, it would have been too harsh; so he said -nothing. He kissed her once more on her soft thick hair gently and -coldly, and left her, while the darkness of the night gathered around -her, and over the silent fields the last snow of the winter began to -fall, drifting noiselessly before a northern wind. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX. - - -That night he received a letter from Melville, written in answer to the -one in which he had told him the story of Damaris. Melville was far -away in Asia at a Jesuit mission station in the snowy mountains, and -his reply had taken many months to cross the Chinese plains and seas. - -'What you tell me,' he wrote, 'of a child whom I knew so happy on -her little island has startled and does distress me greatly. Was it -any other than yourself who were her friend, I should be not only -distressed but very apprehensive. She is of that ardent, impetuous, -imaginative temperament which can be led to any madness if misled by -its dreams or by its affections. I shall for ever blame myself that -I did not see her before my departure for Asia. But I left the South -of France for Rome very hurriedly, and thence came at once to these -strange lands to examine and report on the state of all the Catholic -missions of the far East to the Vatican. I had not a moment for any -personal memories or personal farewells. - -'I would that I were in Europe, but it will be impossible for me to -execute my errand under another year. You will do, I know, all that is -chivalrous and generous by her, but what I fear is that thus doing it -you will inevitably become the angel and ideal of her poetic fancy. -Let me urge on you to see her yourself as little as is consistent with -necessity and common kindness, and to have her as much as possible -occupied by intellectual pursuits and interests. You will not be -offended with me that I say thus much. The vulgar successes of such -easy seduction will have no attraction for you, and I am sure that -the share which your wife originally had in thus bringing about her -misfortunes will make this child altogether sacred to you. - -'The dramatic art may be the only career, as you say, which is open -to her. I remember that she was for ever reading plays and poems, and -could recite her favourite passages with pathos and with fire. It is -not what one would choose for her, but if she enter upon it, it may -occupy her and save her from herself. I have no churchman's prejudice -against that or any art. My time, when in Paris, has been largely spent -amongst great artists, and I have found in them many great qualities -of the mind and heart which might go far to balance before any judge -the freedom and the passions of their unconventional lives. I believe -the character of Damaris to be in every way that of an artist. That -resistance to all inherited destiny, and to all habitual surroundings, -always marks out the one who is born to separate himself or herself -from the common herd, and she had this very strongly. Hardy, and -loving all country things and seafaring ways, as she did, there was -yet always in her something which was unlike her destiny, something -restless, daring, and dreamful, something which, wherever it is found, -presages woe or fame. She has at all times attracted me greatly, for -from her earliest years she has had that about her which suggests the -possession of genius, and there is in her that union of the peasant and -the patrician which has before now made the most original, and most -psychologically interesting, characters on the earth. Tell me more and -at once of what you expect from her future, if she be not, indeed, as -yet too young for its horoscope to be securely cast. I will write to -her direct. Meantime receive my thanks for all that you have already -done to save this poor sea-gull astray in a city, and believe in my -respect and esteem. Of course you have told Madame Nadège: what does -she say?' - -Othmar read the letter sitting in the solitude of his library in the -small hours of the waning night; and a pang, which was almost that of -conscience, smote him as he did thus read. He had done nothing indeed -to forfeit the esteem of the writer; nothing which made him unworthy -of the writer's confidence; yet a vague sense that he had been unwise -in all which he had meant for kindness, and wrong in the reticence -which had sprung from his own selfish sensitiveness, oppressed him -with a useless self-reproach. How could he tell Melville that his wife -knew nothing of the presence of Damaris Bérarde at Chevreuse, without -appearing to him to have become that mere vulgar seducer which Melville -would have thought it the grossest of insults to suppose him? - - - - -CHAPTER XL. - - -The next day Othmar called upon Rosselin, and without preface said to -him abruptly: - -'You had better tell the Duc de Béthune all I have told you about your -pupil. I do not know whether he will believe it or not, but it is -wholly intolerable for us to allow him to suppose, as he may suppose -from appearances, that there are relations between myself and her which -have no existence in fact.' - -Rosselin listened and made no reply. - -Othmar continued with impatience. - -'I do not know what he thinks, but he probably thinks something -entirely and grossly unjust to her. He is a man of honour: he will -respect confidence if it be placed in him.' - -'Why not tell him yourself? He is, I believe, very intimate in your -houses.' - -'He is no especial friend of mine. He is often at my house, it is true, -but personally I have no intimacy with him whatever.' - -Rosselin hesitated; then he summoned his courage and said frankly: - -'Pardon me, but it is not the Duc de Béthune or any other man who has -any concern with the position which you have created for yourself and -for my pupil; the only person for whom it can have any vital interest, -or who can exercise any influence over it, is the Countess Othmar, to -whom you will not speak of it.' - -Othmar coloured; he was greatly annoyed. He was conscious also that -Rosselin was right in what he said. - -'If my wife heard of her from others, I would tell her how she came -there,' he said, with some embarrassment. 'But I can assure you that -though M. de Béthune might believe in the facts as you know them, she -would not do so. She never believes in any single motives. She would -suppose that I tried to gloss over with sentiment a mere vulgar amour.' - -'Men's natures,' he added, bitterly, 'are often as simple, and -straight, and frank as a dog's, because, like dogs, we are stupid and -trustful; but the mind of a woman of culture is far too critical in its -survey and too intricate in its own motives ever to accredit us with -the intellectual honesty we possess. It is a quality so stupid that it -seems to women as incredible as it is uninteresting.' - -Rosselin grew in his turn impatient. - -'You, too, appear to me,' he said bluntly, 'to be too fond of Pascal's -_esprit de finesse, jugement de sentiment_. Intellectual analysis is -very interesting no doubt, but I never knew it serve in the least -to solve the prosaic difficulties of active life. You cannot govern -circumstances with theories.' - -In himself he thought: - -'You create a position in the frankness of your generosity which you -perceive becomes equivocal in its aspect to others; you earnestly -desire to prevent its appearing so; yet you do not take the one measure -which would secure to it immunity from suspicion.' - -'I have an idea,' he continued aloud, 'that the best way to test her -talents and prepare the world for the appreciation of them, would be -for her to recite at some great house, to be seen and heard by some -choice audience. Why not in yours? Why not to your friends?' - -'In mine? To my acquaintances?' - -'Why not? It is, in my opinion, the easiest and most propitious way -in which a beginner can try her powers. It is less alarming than a -public stage, and the verdict given is more discriminating, and of -greater value afterwards. The majority of neophytes have no such chance -possible. They may go where they can; begin in the provinces; take -anything they can get. But when it can be done, there is no question -but that to make an entry into the world in the best society is an -immeasurable benefit to any aspirant. It is to be famous at once if -successful; whilst, if unsuccessful, the failure is passed over as the -caprice of the host in whose house the neophyte is tried. As you are -disposed to do anything for her, it seems to me that it would cost -you little to ask Madame Nadège to permit the representation of some -_saynete_, or some short piece like the "Luthier de Crémone," at one of -her great winter entertainments. She likes novelty; and I believe she -often has dramatic representations both in Paris and at Amyôt.' - -'She has them, certainly,' said Othmar with some constraint. - -Rosselin looked from under his eyelids at him. - -'Then what objection is there? You have said that Madame your wife, -first of all of us, saw something like genius in Damaris Bérarde. She -would not refuse to allow her prophecy to be proved true under her own -auspices.' - -'No; I do not suppose that she would refuse.' - -'If you would dislike that she should be asked, that is another -matter,' said Rosselin with some impatience, whilst to himself he -thought, 'You have made a secret of this thing, and you find what a -burdensome and stupid thing a secret is, especially when it is one that -circumstances are certain to take out of our hands, whether we will or -no.' - -'I have no dislike to your project,' replied Othmar with hesitation; -'but,' he added more frankly, 'I must tell you that my wife is not in -the least likely to take interest twice in the same person; and I must -also tell you, as I did some months ago, that she knows nothing of the -present existence of your pupil. If you like to tell her, do so; I give -you free permission.' - -'I?' echoed Rosselin. 'My dear friend, if such a great lady saw a -superannuated old actor enter her presence she would surely order her -lackeys to turn him out unheard. I never spoke to Madame Nadège in my -life, though rumour has made me feel well acquainted with her.' - -'She always treats genius with respect. It is, perhaps, the only thing -she does respect----' - -'Are you sure she does not think it escaped from Bicêtre? Most _grandes -dames_ do.' - -'No; she has too much intellect herself. She is a _grande dame_, but -she is much more besides. She admires talent wherever she finds it; -only she thinks that she finds very little.' - -'There she is right enough; there is any quantity of mere facility, -of mere imitativeness, in our time, but there is very little which -deserves a higher name.' - -'And you believe that Damaris Bérarde has more than mere talent?' - -'Yes, I believe it. I may be wrong, but I have never been wrong in -such judgments, though it seems pretentious to say so. It is because -I believe that she has this, that I am anxious for the world to first -hear of her in such a way that she may be spared the vulgar and -tedious novitiate which is generally unavoidable before a dramatic -career; and also I should like to command for her such an audience -as may become a title of honour to her, and a protection against -false tongues. It is inevitable that your name has been, or will be, -associated with hers. Modern life is one huge glass-house. If she be -first seen at your house, in your salons, calumny can scarcely attach -to your friendship for her. Pardon me if I speak with too intimate a -candour. If I said less, I should feel myself almost dragged into the -base collusion of a Sir Pandarus.' - -Othmar grew pale with anger; he was unaccustomed to familiarity, and -the words seemed to him wanting in delicacy and in respect. - -'You are very hopeful!' he said bitterly, 'and wonderfully trustful, -my good friend, if you imagine that in the world we live in she would -be secured from slander by being seen in my drawing-rooms. The only -thing they would say, if they were in the mood to say anything, would -be that I deceived my wife into facilitating my amours. Society is not -so easily persuaded of innocence as you appear to think, whilst it is -thoroughly persuaded of the Countess Othmar's indifference to myself!' - -In the impulse of his anger he said what he would not have said in a -cooler moment. He was greatly irritated at all which was implied in -Rosselin's latest words, and the allusion to his wife's indifference to -his actions escaped him almost involuntarily. - -'I regret if I offend you,' said Rosselin, whose keen eyes read his -feelings in his face. 'I say what it seems right to me to say. I know -the world has always _mauvaise langue_, I know it as well as you can -do, but there are limits to its impudence. I do not believe that the -lowest knave of it all would ever dare to say that you passed any -insult on your wife. It has been too well aware of your devotion to -her. However, let us abandon my idea. We can find some other way, -perhaps; the preparation I have given my pupil has been short, and -perhaps immature. She can wait awhile without injury. You have said, -I think, that she has means enough of her own to live on as she lives -now?' - -'She has means enough. Yes.' - -'Without wasting her little substance? I suppose her grandfather did -not leave her much?' - -'She has quite sufficient income for her wants; I believe they are very -simple.' - -He spoke impatiently and rose. Rosselin, whose tact was always of the -acutest kind, understood the hint and changed the subject. - - * * * * * - -Left to himself, the anger of Othmar soon grew less, and the courtesy -of his nature made him regret his impatience with a man double his -years and not his equal in station; one, moreover, who had only spoken -honestly thoughts which were blameless. - -The suggestion had annoyed him both by what it asked, which seemed to -him difficult, and by what it implied, which seemed to him offensive. -And he repented of his manner of receiving it, and of wounding a person -who had warmly answered to his own appeal, and had aided him in regard -to Damaris with a sympathy the more noteworthy because it had at first -been reluctantly given. Before night he wrote a brief note to Rosselin: - -'I regret my impatience, and apologise for it. No doubt you are right -in your views. If I can see my way to comply with them I will do so. -Meanwhile, believe in my friendship and my high esteem.' - -He signed the few lines, and sent them by a messenger to Asnières. - -When Rosselin received them he was sitting by his solitary lamp -examining the condition of a much injured copy on vellum of 'The -Birds,' which he had picked up at a bookstall on one of the quays the -day before. He put the manuscript down, and read the note with its -clear signature of Othmar at the end. - -'A graceful _amende_,' he thought. 'He has a heart of gold, but his -judgment is not so much to be trusted as his feelings are. He spoke -of his wife's indifference. What could he expect? You cannot get out -of a nature what it has not got in it. For five-and-twenty years she -had lived for herself: did he suppose that all in a moment she would -forget herself and live for him? I daresay he did. He was ready to live -for her. That sort of mistake is so often made; and it is always the -highest nature which makes it.' - -Rosselin lost interest in his Aristophanes for that night. He had a -foreboding of some evil. Imaginative minds are like the birds: they -know when storms approach. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI. - - -A week or two later he saw Othmar again enter his little parlour. -Othmar made ministers wait on him, and would keep princes in his -ante-chamber with an indifference which gained him the repute of -arrogance; but he waited himself on Rosselin, a man old, poor, and -solitary. These were his eccentricities, which the world hated as it -would never have hated any vices in which he might have chosen to -indulge. - -'I have come to speak to you of your wishes, which I perhaps dismissed -too hastily,' he said, as he seated himself. 'You really believe that -to be first seen and heard, as you proposed, would benefit your pupil?' - -'I do not doubt it,' replied Rosselin, 'for the reasons I named to you, -and also because to succeed before a choice and cultured audience is -the greatest of stimulants, the most certain of practical tests. I do -not think that a long novitiate would suit Damaris Bérarde. She is of -the south; her beauty is nearly at its height now; she is fully matured -in every way; she is of an impetuous and sensitive temperament; she is -not easily governed; she would never brook the tedium and slavery of -the theatres of the provinces; she must take the world by storm, mount -its throne at a bound, or not at all. She would easily be irrevocably -disgusted and eternally lost to art.' - -'Would that be so much a matter for regret!' - -'What fate can she have otherwise? You cannot make her a _duchesse_, -she would not consent to become a _bourgeoise_. She is a _déclassé_: -you have said it yourself. There are two asylums possible for a -_déclassé_: they are Pleasure and Art. I prefer the latter.' - -'Art is quite cruel enough. She will never be able to go back into -privacy. What a loss!--what an irreparable loss! And you speak of it as -a gain!' - -'I speak as I spoke long ago, when first you named her to me. The -publicity you lament is the price which is paid for fame. Some do not -think the price too high, some do. It is you yourself who wished me to -prepare her for an artist's career. She cannot become a great artist if -she remain in obscurity.' - -'Of course not. But it is horrible. Publicity is a kind of -violation----' - -'Recompensed like Danaë's!' - -Othmar was silent. He was conscious that a strong personal dislike to -her leaving the safe shadow of private life moved him to an exaggerated -objection to her being seen and known by others. When once the world -had beheld her, she would belong to the world. It might make her -triumphant or it might make her wretched, but she would belong to it -evermore. - -Rosselin guessed what he was feeling, and answered his unspoken -thoughts. - -'Yes; she will never go back either to Les Hameaux or to Bonaventure. -That is certain. She will belong to all men, in a sense, when once she -has sought their suffrages. But what else can be done with her? What -else? You would not hear of a conventional marriage for her and a house -in the suburbs, and I suppose she would not hear of it either. She is -half a poet, half a thing of the open air like a doe or a swallow. You -cannot send her back whence she came. If you could do it in fact, you -could not do it in spirit. The soul would never be the same--poor white -seabird of a soul, which comes across the flames of ambition and burns -in them! You might set her body down under her orange-boughs, under her -blue sky, but you could not give her the heart of her childhood. You -are a god in your way; the only god the nineteenth century knows--a -rich man--but to do that is beyond your power.' - -'If I had that power I should be a god indeed!' said Othmar bitterly, -'and the whole sick world would come to me to be cured.' - -He needed not the words of Rosselin to remind him that never would -he be able to undo the work his wife had done in one idle moment of -imperious caprice. - -Though the words were harsh and, in a great measure, unjust to him, -he did not resent them; he poignantly regretted the fate brought on -Damaris, and when he saw her he felt a reproach greater than any which -others could address to him. The breaking up of the happy simplicity -of her life had always seemed to him as wanton an act as to shoot a -seabird which falls in the sea. - -Had he said so to his wife she would have laughed, and have denied all -responsibility. She would have declared that fate, in some guise or -another, always finds out female children with handsome faces; that -Strephon always comes to them, or Faust. But he would not look at it -thus. To him it always seemed the cruellest unkindness needlessly to -have brought Damaris Bérarde and the world together. - -'Why does he dislike a public career for her so much?' thought -Rosselin. 'I do not think that he cares for her, except in kindness. I -do not think he would give her any part of his own life. Passion has -died in him, died under the coldness of his wife's nature, as flowers -die in frost. This child would give him, I daresay, all the richness -and all the heat of her own heart, but he would only give her in return -_les cendres tièdes d'un feu éteint_, and, as he is a man more generous -and more sensitive than most, he would never forgive himself for having -sacrificed her to himself. Better for her all the dangers of life in -the world than the consuming love for one who would never love her as -she loved. Had I been the confessor of Louise de la Vallière, I should -have said to her, "Remain in the crowds of Versailles if you wish to -forget: do not go into solitude." No woman forgets who has no one to -teach her forgetfulness. Solitude is the nurse of all great passions, -because in solitude there is no standard of comparison!' - -Othmar, unaware of his companion's reflections, was lost in thought -himself. He felt that he had resigned the direction of her life -into Rosselin's hands, and had no right to dispute with her guide -the course which he deemed most desirable for her. He had sought -the counsels and the assistance of a man of genius in a moment of -extremity, and he felt that he had no title to dissent from whatever -the vast experience of such a man might consider wisest on her behalf. -He knew that she could not continue to dwell at Les Hameaux, unseen -save by the dogs and the birds and the mild eyes of the cattle, if -ever those desires for art and for fame which tormented her were ever -to have any fruition. If he had had the power to close the gates of -solitude on her he would not have used it; he would have felt that he -had no right so to use it. - -He was conscious that he had no title to stand between her and any -career which might become possible for her. Since his last visit to her -he had felt that he himself occupied too large a place in her life; -that his memory coloured all her thoughts too deeply and too warmly; -that her whole existence might be his utterly in any way he chose if he -would take that gift as easily as a man may gather a half-open rose in -the freshness of morning. - -He had no vanity of any sort. The many women who had offered themselves -to him in his life for sake of the riches which were behind him had -taught him humility rather than vanity, for they had been so plainly -idolatrous, not of him but of his possessions. He had always doubted -his power to make himself beloved for himself alone, and he would -willingly have put it to the proof, like the Lord of Burleigh, had it -been possible. But even he, little self-appreciation as he had, yet -could not doubt that with the life of this child whom he had saved from -the streets he could do whatsoever he chose. Every expression of her -ingenuous nature, every glance of her innocent eyes, every impulse of -her ardent and untrained nature, told him that he could, with the first -moment he chose, render himself wholly master of her whole existence. -He was the god of her dreams and the providence of her waking thoughts. -Had he had less charm for women than he possessed, he would still -scarcely have failed to become, through circumstance, the one person -dominant over all her mind and senses. Without any self-deception, he -could not but be aware that he could become her lover when he chose. -Gratitude, imagination, all the fervour of waking passions stirring -in a southern nature as the juices of the vine stir in its tender -flowerets; all the favour of opportunity and of circumstance, which -idealised her relations with him; and all the impressionability of the -first years of a youth early matured under the heat of Mediterranean -suns; all these were combined together to make of him the adoration -and the arbiter of her life. And he--what had he to give in return for -all that glory of the daybreak of the soul? Not even, as Rosselin had -thought, _les cendres tièdes d'un feu éteint_. - -He had wider thought and bolder judgment than the timid and narrow -laws which a vast majority of mediocrities had been able to impose on -a sheepish world. Could he have rendered her such feeling as she was -ready to give to him, could he have given her the warmth of a genuine -passion, the sincerity and the undivided force of a great emotion, he -would not have considered that he sacrificed her to himself if he had -kept her in eternal isolation. - -Great natures and great affections do not need the companionship or -the suffrages of the world. Its narrow and hollow laws mean nothing to -them, and its opinions mean as little. Love is not love if it have any -remembrance of either. - -But he could not give her this, or anything like this. The great -devotion of his life for the woman who had become his wife had left -his heart empty, yet shut to any other visitant. That immeasurable -and intense passion had been to him so supreme in its dominance, so -voluptuous in its ecstasies, that all other love after it seemed pale -as dead flowers beside living ones. - -Men sometimes say to women that they have never loved but once, and -those women if they know what men's lives are laugh, as well they may. -Yet the meaning of the words is true enough, and not a mere form of -phrase. - -In the life of every man of higher soul than the vast majority there -is some one passion which stands out unrivalled in his memory amidst -a host of fleeting fancies, hot desires, dull affections, passing -pastimes, which also have in their time been called love by him -wrongly. In that one great passion he has attained, enjoyed, realised -what he can never reach again; what no woman who lives will ever be -able to make him feel again; and in this sense he is not untruthful -when he says that he has only loved but once. - -Such a love Othmar had known for the one woman who, despite the enemy -Time, and the decaying worm of custom, had still, through her very -mutability, cruelty, and negligence, retained a power to wound him and -a power to delight him which no living creature could ever rival with -him. Even when the chill of her own indifference now spread itself to -his own emotions, and he felt life, as it were, grow cold and wintry -around him, memory was there to tell him of the sorceries of the past, -and even love was still there, which watched her wistfully, and would -still have obeyed her sign had she made one. - -What then had he to give Damaris? - -Nothing which was worthy her. - -Such baser ardours as a creature who is young and beautiful can always -awaken in the breast of any man, and a pitying and gentle tenderness -which would be, offered to love, the cruellest of tortures. - -And then she owed everything on earth to him: she was his debtor for -the very bread she ate. That one fact seemed to him to stand between -her and himself like a white wall made of ivory by hands divine. That -she herself did not know the extent of her debt to him made it the more -sacred to him. - -Circumstance being then as it was between them, and powerless as he -was to feel for her anything more than the tenderness and the pity -which she had from the first aroused in him, what title had he to stand -between her and any possible triumphs and consolations which the world -might offer to her? None, he thought. None that any generosity could -allow him to claim. - -He said aloud to Rosselin: - -'Whatever you think best to do for her, do. Her career will be your -creation. If she ever attains greatness she will owe it to you. I do -not think that I have any right to interfere either one way or the -other. To interest my wife in what she has forgotten is impossible. You -might as well try to gather last year's raindrops. But it is possible -that she might be pleased if her predictions were proved to her to have -been accurate. Contrive for her to see your pupil before she hears of -her. She may perhaps recognise her with interest. I dare not say that -she will. But you can make the experiment.' - -'It will be difficult,' said Rosselin. - -'Not very. You have before now done me the honour to arrange dramatic -representations at my house. Whenever the Countess Othmar next wishes -for entertainment of that kind, which she is sure to do before long, I -will place the arrangements for it in your hands. You can then bring -forward Damaris Bérarde in any piece you choose. What you wish will so -be done. She will be seen and heard under my roof; and, if successful, -she may--possibly--reconquer a place in my wife's memory. If she fail -she will certainly never do so.' - -'She will not fail,' said Rosselin; whilst he thought to himself, 'She -will not fail, because she will have the stimulant of your wife's -presence and the memory of your wife's disdain. She will not fail if -I have left in me any of the magnetism which I used to be able to -communicate to others.' - -Rosselin was a man of warm feelings and keen sympathies, but the artist -in him dominated the friend. He was so saturated with the love of art -that, as he had surrendered all his own existence to its claims, so -he unhesitatingly surrendered that of others. The kindest of natures -wherever there was no question of art, he almost became cruel where -the interests of art were involved. To Othmar, the life of a girl -seemed too tender and poetic a thing to be given over to the imperious -exactions of any art; but to Rosselin, though he had at first been -unwilling to draw her into its sphere, he became, the moment that he -believed he saw genius in her, willing even to hurt her, if by such a -hurt such genius could be stung or scourged into any ampler evidence -of its own powers. He thought little of what she might or might not -suffer if he brought her into the presence of the women who represented -destiny to her. All he considered was, that no other spectator would be -so likely to move her, to goad her into the fullest revelations of the -resources of her talent. With the future consequences of such a meeting -he had nothing to do, all he thought of was its influence on his pupil. -He knew that the wife of Othmar had a fascination for her as strong as -hatred, and irresistible as magnetism. It was an electric force which -he could not afford to allow to lie latent in the desire he felt, a -desire which had grown stronger on him with every week that he had paid -his visits to Les Hameaux, to compel Damaris into the seizure of that -fame which had at first seemed to him a burden too great, a passion too -fierce, for this young daughter of the sun and of the sea. - -'She will ultimately be the mistress of Othmar, or of the world,' he -thought. 'I prefer the world. I will do what I can that she shall give -herself to it instead of to him. To throwaway genius on one human life -is to take a planet out of the skies and bury it like a diamond between -two human breasts.' - -It was in pursuance of the same belief in what was best for her which -had made him wish her the heart of Rachel, not the heart of Desclée. -Rosselin had surveyed human nature in all its aspects, and his survey -of it had convinced him of one fact, that all the higher and more -delicate qualities of the soul are but so much penalty-weight to -carry in the race of life. The weight is of gold without alloy; but, -nevertheless, whoso carries it loses the race. - -He with his fine penetration perceived that in her was that greater -nature which will lose itself in a great love, and throw away all -ambition and all possessions, as though they were but a dead leaf or -a broken crust. In a little while such a love, now strong in her, but -scarcely conscious of itself, would become wholly conscious, and would -take its empire over her whole existence. He wished to oppose to it the -only rival with any chance of success--the world. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII. - - -A few days later Rosselin, going to Les Hameaux for his usual -recitation with her, found Damaris feverish, restless and despondent. -She had lost, for the time at least, that buoyancy and enthusiasm which -were the most prominent qualities of her nature; she seemed to him -listless and taciturn, her eyes had a brooding pain in them, and she -took little interest in the studies of the day. - -Rosselin heard from the woman of the house that Othmar had been there -that week. - -'It will end as such things always end,' he thought impatiently. 'All -the fine sentiments on his side will not enable him to cast nature -out of him; and to her, of course, he must seem an angel from another -world. He has stood between her and all the misery of life. A dog -which he had saved in such a way would adore him. He is a man, too, -made to charm a poetic nature, because there is so much of the poet in -him, and a melancholy which is in pathetic contrast with his wealth -and power. One can always understand that women love Othmar; what one -cannot understand is that his wife cares for him so little. And yet, -why should I say so? All the world over one sees familiarity bring -indifference, security create neglect.' - -Aloud he said, with anger to her: - -'What has come to you? If you do not mean to become an artist, and a -great artist, adieu! My hours are not likely to be so many on earth -that I can afford to waste them. What ails you? Your voice is dull; -your face is no mirror for your words. You are not listening. If you -have tame moments like this, do not dream of ever moving the world. It -is a block of stone; you cannot stir it without putting out all your -strength. And even then it will roll back and roll on to you if you -relax your efforts. If you give yourself to art you may be great in it, -I think; but if you love anything--any person--better than art, do not -touch it. Go, and be an ordinary woman like the rest.' - -The words were harsh. The tears started to her eyes as she heard them, -and a hot colour rose over her face and throat. She was silent. - -'She never speaks of him. How fine that is!' thought Rosselin. 'Most -female creatures at her years babble of what fills their thoughts, as -birds chatter of the spring in April.' - -Aloud he said: - -'You will not do any good to-day. You look ill, and you are restless. -Come with me to Paris; I will show you something which will interest -you--and the weather is fine though cold. Let us walk to Magny.' - -She went with him in silence. - -The day was drawing to a close as the train sped through the dark -fields of winter and entered Paris. A city was always terrible and -hateful to her. She loved air and light and the solitude of sea and -land. Crowds hurt her, and the labyrinth of streets had never ceased to -oppress and to bewilder her. She felt amidst the walls and roofs as a -young eagle feels barred up in a cage. He talked to her of many things -with that picturesque detail with which his great knowledge of the city -and of the world filled his conversation. He endeavoured to interest -and distract her; he strove to amuse and arouse her. But he felt that -he succeeded but indifferently. Her thoughts were not with him; she was -silent and she was nervous. - -When night fell he took her with him to the Théâtre Français; not for -the first time. It was the night of a _première_ of a great dramatist. -The house was filled with the choicest critics of Paris; the most -famous actors occupied the classic stage. Behind the grating of the -hidden box to which he led her she could see without being seen. Before -this she had been only taken to rehearsals in the daytime; she had -never seen a great theatre in the full blaze of one of its gala nights. -It blinded and oppressed her. She longed for the coolness, for the -shadows, for the dewy stillness of the country. The pungent scents, -the blazing lights, the multitude of faces, the hum of voices, made -her afraid; afraid as she had not been all alone in the hours of night -adrift in her boat on the sea. - -'Watch and listen and learn,' said Rosselin. 'You may be on this stage -one day, or on none.' - -She did not reply: the new play had begun; the most famous players in -Paris acted with that exquisite grace and ease which characterise them; -the play was witty and brilliant; each scene had its separate success, -each phrase its separate charm. Rosselin himself, vividly interested -and keenly critical, gave all his attention to the stage, and for the -time forgot his companion. When the curtain fell upon the first act he -turned to speak to her; he was startled to see that her face was pale -as death, and her eyes, wide open and fascinated, were fastened on the -opposite side of the house. He looked where she was looking, and saw a -great lady with a bouquet of orchids lying on the cushion before her, -and several gentlemen in her box behind her. - -'Ah, Madame Nadine!' murmured Rosselin. 'She does not often deign to -honour a first night, even when it is Sardou's. She is going to some -great ball afterwards, I suppose, for look at her diamonds, and she has -her Russian orders on. _Voilà une véritable grande dame!_' - -Damaris gazed at her without a word; her eyes were strained, her very -lips were pale, she breathed quickly and painfully, the theatre seemed -to circle round and round her, and across its intense light of all the -many faces there she saw but this one. When the second act began she -had no ears for it and no consciousness of what was said or done in -it. She never once looked at the stage. Her eyes remained rivetted on -the wife of Othmar; the voices of the actors were a mere dull babble -to her: when the audience laughed she knew not why they laughed, when -they applauded, she had no knowledge why they did so; all she saw was -that delicate colourless beauty on the other side of the house with the -great jewels shining on it like stars. - -She looked, and looked, and looked till her eyes swam and her heart -grew sick. - -This was the woman whom he loved, this great lady leaning there with -that look of utter indifference on her face, with that slight smile as -this man or the other entered her box, with the diamonds shining in the -whiteness of her breast, with her uncovered shoulders gleaming white as -snow; a hothouse flower in all the rarity, the languor, the perfection, -which the hothouse gives. The same sense which had come to her in -the drawing-rooms of St. Pharamond came again to the child; a sense -of rudeness, of rusticity, of inferiority, of coarseness in herself -as contrasted with that patrician elegance, that pale and languid -loveliness, that marvellous charm of the world and of its highest form -of culture. - -'What can I look like to him!' she thought with humiliation. 'Beside -her I must seem to him like some rude peasant----' - -All that she had felt vaguely before the mirrors of St. Pharamond came -back upon her embittered, intensified, made conscious. She realised the -immense distance that there was between her and Othmar as she saw his -wife. She realised the grace and splendour of this life in the world -which they led. She realised the passion which she had given to her. -She realised that she herself could only stand outside his life, like a -beggar outside his gates. - -When the curtain fell again, Rosselin looked at her with impatience. - -'You looked at that woman always, never at the stage,' he said -angrily. 'She is a great lady; leagues above you, leagues beyond you; -you have nothing in common with her. But one day you may force her to -hear you in this very house if you choose. Will you choose?' - -'She will not care,' said Damaris. - -Tears were standing in her eyes; the sense of an infinite loneliness, -and of a great inferiority, were on her. What would it matter if she -ever became famous yonder on those classic boards? That great lady -would come and see her for an hour--smile or censure--then forget. -The dreams which she had nurtured of compelling the admiration of the -world, seemed to dissolve like a mirage before the mere presence of -Othmar's wife. 'She would not care,' she said wearily. - -To this patrician she would always be a half-barbarian and uncultured -creature. The heart of the child asked with longing to go back to her -old life in the sunny air by the blue water, with the homely people, -with the simple wants, with the sound of the birds in the leaves, and -the feel of the wind on the sea. But she knew that never could she go -back so any more. - -If her feet were to travel thither, her soul would not go. - -The passion of the world, the aims of ambition, the heartsickness of -jealousy and desire were all in her; where they have passed the soul is -for ever a stranger to peace, even as where fire has burnt the soil of -a green field, grass will grow no more. - -'Why did she not let me alone?' she thought. - -Between the second and the third acts, Rosselin left her to go to the -foyer, where he had been for so many years so conspicuous a figure, and -so dreaded a critic. - -'Fasten the door after me, and if a thousand people should knock, let -no one in until you hear my voice,' he said to her, drawing the door -behind him. - -Left to herself she drew back into the deepest shadow of the little den -she occupied, and gazed as she would at the woman who had been destiny -to her. She saw numerous gentlemen come and go in her box, make their -reverence to her, linger if they were permitted, or withdraw and give -place to others. Nadine had changed her position so that her profile -only was now turned towards the house. She leaned her elbow on the -cushion, and her cheek on her hand, a butterfly of emeralds sparkled -under her shoulder; sometimes her face was hidden by the fan of white -ostrich feathers, sometimes she furled the fan and let it lie unused -beside the orchids. - -Damaris watched her with the strange fascination of fear and of -wonder, of hatred and admiration, which had moved her in the salons -of St. Pharamond. All the words which Othmar had spoken a few days -before, were sounding in her ears. Her simple and candid thoughts were -beginning to gain something of the complexity, of the weariness, of the -pain of his. She understood why he had loved this woman so much that, -empty though his heart might be, it would remain untenanted. Innocent -as Mignon, she yet watched her rival with something of the passion of -Adrienne Lecouvreur. - -'She is his, he is hers--and she does not care!' thought the child, -in whom the ignorance of childhood still lingered, blent with the -awakening strength and heat of a tropical nature. - -As the curtain rose for the third act, Othmar himself entered his -wife's box. Damaris shrank farther and farther back against the wall, -though she knew well that the keenest eyes could not find her out in -her obscurity. Her breath came hard and fast like a panting hare's; the -great tears rose to her eyes; she suddenly realised what this world was -which held him so closely. She saw his wife give him the same slight -smile that she gave to others: no more. She saw him bend before her -with the same low bow the others gave; she saw him converse with the -gentlemen near him; from time to time he glanced round the house. Once -or twice his wife turned her head and spoke to him as she spoke to -the others. To this child who had the heart of Juliet, the soul of -Heloise, the conventionalities of the world seemed like the frost of -death. - -'She is his; he is hers: and she does not care!' - -That was all she could think of as she watched them across that sea of -light. The wit of the play amused him, and Othmar looked less weary and -more animated than usual. To her he appeared happy. - -Rosselin called thrice to her through the door before she heard him and -let him enter. - -'You should not dream like that when you are at the Français. You -should study. What more admirable lessons can you have?' he said -angrily. 'Poets may dream if they like. They speak best in their -trances. Those who would only interpret them must never dare to do so. -Have I not told you so a score of times? There is nothing poetic about -the stage; it is all hard, prosaic, literal. If you will dream go and -bury yourself under green leaves, under yellow corn; do not come to the -theatres of the world.' - -Damaris for once did not even hear him. He looked across the house and -saw Othmar. - -'Come,' he said to her, 'you will miss the last train that pauses at -Trappes if you do not come away now. Never will they forgive me for -leaving before the close! But that will not matter much. They know I am -old; they can think I am ill. Come, or you will be too late.' - -'Wait a little,' said Damaris, in a shamed, hushed voice; her face grew -red as she spoke. - -Rosselin glanced impatiently at the box on the other side of the house. -He said nothing; he waited, artist as he was in all the fibres of his -nature; his eyes and his ears and his art were all with Got, with the -Coquelins, with the moving and speaking persons of the stage: yet a -little corner of his heart ached still for the child. - -'What wretchedness she prepares for herself!' he thought with pity and -sorrow combined. 'She will never be a great artist, because with her -feeling will always take the mastery. You are only a great artist if -when you suffer, though you suffer horribly, you can study what you -feel, you can make your own heart strings into a lyre. If you cannot do -that, you are only a creature that loves another. Ah, my dear! No one -ever conquered the world so!' - -He let her alone until the piece was over; the box of the Countess -Othmar had been vacated some moments before the termination of the last -act. He did not speak to her whilst he hurried her through private -passages and into the frosty air of the streets. - -'Cover yourself well, it is cold,' was all he said as he took her with -gentle steps over the pavement which his feet had trodden so many -thousands of times, in the hurry of youth, in the ecstasy of triumph, -in all the alternations of a manhood tossed up and down upon the stormy -seas of public favour and of public caprice. All that network of -streets about the Français was as dear to him as the banks of Doon to -Burns, as the green wood and ways of Milly to Lamartine, as the sweet -meads and streams of Penshurst to Philip Sydney. - -Damaris walked on beside him, her head bent, her face covered. The -tears were rolling slowly down her cheeks. - -'Let me do what I would,' she thought, 'she would not care.' - -Rosselin took her home to his own little house that night, for it was -too late to return to Les Hameaux. He made her seat herself by his -fire; he dried the damp of the night on her hair and her clothes; he -would have made her eat of his preserved nectarines and drink of his -choice wines which were sent by his friends. But she would not touch -anything. She sat lost in thought. - -All she saw was that beautiful woman; all she heard was the voice of -Othmar saying, 'I have so loved her that I shall never love any other -woman ever again.' - -No doubt it was so: she could understand. Only he seemed to go away -from her, herself, utterly and for ever; to glide out of her life as -the ships she had used to watch from her balcony, as the nightingales -sang under the moon, used to pass away further and further, till the -great distance and the shadows of night swallowed them up and they were -no more seen, and all the wide sea was empty. - -Rosselin watched her sadly. - -'Poor Mignon,' he thought. 'Who shall transform her to a Mademoiselle -Mars? How does the gymnast teach his child to stand and catch the metal -ball, to tread and hold the rope in air. He works and kneads the tender -flesh till it grows hard, he strains the soft limbs till they become -like steel, he bends and twists and forces, and forges the immature -sinews and tendons till they are like cords to resist, and in every -separate muscle there almost seems a separate brain. When their nature -has been driven out and the body has become an iron machine the teacher -has succeeded. Who shall do for her mind and her heart what the gymnast -does to his son's limbs and spine? And will ever anybody do it? Will -she ever be Mars--be Rachel? Will she ever fling her soul away and keep -only her body and her brain? And if she do not do that what success -will she ever have?' - -In that kind of cruelty with which the true artist would always emulate -any living thing to art, he almost wished that Othmar were a man with -less honour and less compassion, more license and more selfishness. - -'If he would break her heart and rouse her hatred how much art would -gain,' he thought. 'She would pass through the fire like Goethe's -dancing girl, and come out of it immortal.' - -He knew the weakness of love, and he knew the strength of genius. - -'Listen to me,' he said, as the wood-fire gleamed and murmured. 'You -dream too much of Othmar. I understand he was your saviour; he is -your hero, your saint, your god: all that is inevitable; and he is -a man whom women will always love, because he has a great grace and -gentleness about him, and his discontent and sadness are in picturesque -contrast with his magnificent and enviable fortunes. But he will never -love you, my child: just because he has so loved that woman, that his -heart has grown cloyed, yet cold; great passions always leave that -kind of satiety behind them. And then the world holds him, a hundred -thousand invisible threads bind him; if he had the heart left for it, -which he has not, he would not have the time to turn back; his life -is fixed, such as it is, and he and the world are wedded together, -though it may not be the spouse he would have chosen. Do not either -live for him or die for him. What will she say if you do either? That -you are a love-sick fool. I do not talk to you as moralists would talk, -because I do not believe in conventional morality; it is an absurdity, -like all conventional things. No doubt your old friend Melville would -speak much better than I do, but I speak honestly, and according to -my lights. You have wished, and the wish has seemed to me natural, to -compel recognition of your own powers from the person who first caused -you to leave the happy obscurity of your life. You have said that you -wish her to see you can have a greatness she has not. It is a personal -motive, and art is best served by impersonal motives. Still it seems to -me natural. I can understand it. But to do this you must be strong, you -must be bold, you must be true to yourself. You must not be overcome -because you see her looking like the great lady she is. There is only -one thing which the wife of Othmar respects, it is genius; she respects -that because her intellect appreciates, and her gold cannot buy, it. -Prove to her that it is in you, and she will respect you. If you died -for her lord to-morrow, she would only say that you had forgotten you -were not upon the stage. I seem to speak harshly and roughly. Ah, my -dear, my heart is neither; but I wish to save you from your own heart -if I can. You are all alone, and you are scarcely more than a child, -and the world, the world, is a beast.' - -She did not answer; her head was bent down on her arms, and her face -was hidden; all he could see was the hot flush on the ivory of her -throat, and the curling hair which was made golden by the ruddy light -from the leaping flames. - -All her dreams and aspirations and ambitions seemed all huddled -together, bruised and colourless, like a heap of child's toys broken -and faded. - -'She would not care!' that was all she thought. If the world were to -give her fame, what would the best that she could ever reach seem to -the unreachable disdain of that other woman? No more than the gleam of -a glow-worm may seem to the planet on high. - -A rude sun-browned wench of the sea and the land, good to row through -blue water, and mow down green billows of grass: that was all she would -ever seem to Othmar's wife. - -'Tell me what you wish,' she said in a low tone. 'If I can I will do -it.' - -The voice of Rosselin shook a little as he answered, 'My child I want -you to do what she cannot. These people have all things; they have ease -and mirth, and soft beds, and minds without care, and great riches, -and great palaces, and great powers, but there are two things which -often escape them, and ofttimes the poor have the one and now and then -they are born to the other. I mean that great consoler of the humble, -content, and that great redresser of injustice, genius. You have the -latter. In your sea-gull's nest the Muses found you. Oh, child, be -grateful! You are richer than the kings who ruled here in Paris--if -only you knew your riches!' - -She looked up at him suddenly, pushing her troubled curls out of her -eyes. - -'If I spoke before her my throat would dry up--my voice would be -strangled in it. If I were to do well, she would never care. If I were -to fail, she would smile. I should see her smile in my grave. He loves -her you know, he loves her so much, but she has made his heart numb in -him with her indifference and her scorn.' - -He was awed and amazed at such intensity of dread in a nature which had -always seemed to him bold as the winds, and resolute and headstrong. - -'Yes,' he said, almost brutally. 'If you fail she will smile, she will -laugh; she knows nothing of failure. But you will not fail. Only the -weak fail. You are strong. You will not let that woman think that you -threw away your genius for love of her lord!' - -They were words which were hard and rough and brutal; but they seemed -to him the wisest words that he could speak. She was a child with a -passionate heart half broken; unless that heart were torn out and -trodden under her foot, he thought that she would never walk straight -to where the laurels, the bitter laurels, grew. - -He meant to do well; he spoke according to his light; but he was only a -man and childless, and forgot a little what easily bruised things the -hearts of some women are when they are very young, and have hot blood -in their veins, and are all alone in a world which feels to them as the -stony road of the moorland feels to the shot doe when there is many a -long mile to be covered between her and the herd. - -She turned her head from him quickly, and he saw the dark red flush -which stained her throat. - -She did not answer. The words brought no solace to her. Her heart was -empty. He saw the great tears roll slowly down her cheeks. He realised -that the hilt of this two-edged sword which he held out to her was too -cold a pillow for so young a breast. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII. - - -The weeks passed on, and Othmar returned no more to the fields of -Chevreuse. The great interests and the vast operations of his house -occupied his time, and the days of this man whom Nature had created -a dreamer and a student, went away in the consideration of financial -enterprises, in the audience of innumerable supplicants, in the -emission of national loans, and in the study of political situations. -He thought oftentimes of her, but he went to her no more. To let her -alone he knew was, as Rosselin said, all that he could do for her. - -His wife he scarcely saw at this season. - -Now and then when it was unavoidable he went with her to some great -dinner or reception; oftener they received at home themselves, and -on such evenings he saw her in all the grace and elegance which the -highest culture and the utmost fashion can lend to a woman already -patrician in every fibre of her being. Sometimes she addressed a few -words to him concerning the children, or the horses, or some matter -of mutual interest; and he saw her carriage passing in and out, -her friends and acquaintances coming and going on the stairs, her -attendants carrying her chocolate, or her bouquets, or the offerings -made her by her courtiers: that was all. In no year had she been more -absorbingly _mondaine_; in no year had she been so conspicuous as -the greatest lady in Paris; in no year had her balls, her fêtes, her -banquets, her concerts, been more wonderful in their novelty and more -exclusive in their invitations. - -'_Dame! elle a un chic incroyable!_' thought Blanchette, angrily, -watching her and conscious that her day was not done as she had hoped. - -Meantime, in the brilliant movement of which his house was the centre, -Othmar felt that he was becoming rapidly a mere cypher amidst it all, -as Platon Napraxine had been, and he perceived no way by which he could -recover his influence without her ridicule and the world's comment. -That had come to him which he had said should never come: he was -nothing in her life, not so much as one of her mere acquaintances. - -Such a position had always seemed to him the deepest humiliation that -any man could accept; he had always thought that any man might save -his dignity if he could not secure his own happiness; but now, he saw -how easy it is to theorise, how difficult it is to resist the slow -insidious influence of circumstances. We drift into positions which we -hate without being conscious of our descent, and the effect of others -upon our nature and our actions is as subtle and as unperceived as -those of climate or of time. - -He could not have said when the first coldness had come between himself -and her, when the first irritation had crept into their intercourse, -when the first frost of indifference had passed from her manner over -the warmth of his own emotions. It had been unperceived, uncounted, but -its results had grown and strengthened, until now they were like ten -thousand other men and women in the world, living under the same roof, -but wholly strangers to each other, only united by one slender thread, -their mutual interests. It was a position which wounded him, humiliated -him, oppressed him with a constant sense of weakness and of failure: -he had not the slightest power over her, though she retained much over -him; strong men, he thought, either left their wives or forced them to -keep their marriage vows; and he did neither. - -Of late she had become almost insolent in her tone to him; she seemed -to take pleasure in passing the most marked slights upon him; she -purposely withheld from him the slightest acquaintance with her -movements or intentions, and at times her eyes looked at him with a -cynical disdain. - -It was absurd, he felt, and exaggerated, and probably wholly ungrounded -in every way, but there were moments when he imagined that she wished -to remind him of his social inferiority to herself, moments when the -recollection of the origin of the Othmar fortunes spoilt for a passing -hour her pleasure in the existence of her children. Though he did -not harbour the suspicion, but threw it away from him as unworthy of -both himself and her, it yet existed and made him over-sensitive to -any slight upon her part, quick to perceive the faintest tinge of -contempt in her tone to him. He knew that she could count her great -ancestries far beyond the dim days of Rurick; whilst there were courts -of Europe where feudal etiquette still prevailed strongly enough to -make his presence in their throne-rooms impossible. These were mere -nominal differences, no doubt, and he might perchance have saved from -bankruptcy the very state in which he would have been forbidden to -pass the palace gates if he had sought to accompany her through them; -but still there were moments when the voice and the glance of his wife -recalled these conventional things to him out of the limbo of absolute -nullity in which, but for those, he let them lie. Never by any spoken -word or hint had she ever reminded him of them, yet now and then in -her colder moments he thought: 'Perhaps she remembers that two hundred -years ago if her forefathers rode over the plains of Croatia they could -ride down mine before them, and drive them with their whips like so -many acorn-eating swine!' - -He began to believe that she was in truth as cruel as the world had -always called her; and a feeling which was almost hatred at times awoke -in him and blent with the suffering she caused him. - -It seemed to him that no man on earth ever gave a woman such passion -and such worship as he had given her; these might at least, he thought, -have secured respect from her, even if they had failed to hold her -sympathy. - -He said nothing to her. Remonstrance would have been useless, -supplication unmanly. He let time drift them where it would: and in the -ever-exercising burden of his pain Damaris became almost forgotten. - -Some weeks after the performance of Lemberg's cantata, Blanche de -Laon, calling on the woman whom she hated on her 'jour,' came late, -stayed until the rooms were nearly emptied of their crowd, and then -sank down beside her hostess on a low couch in a corner palm-shadowed, -where banks of lilies of the valley gave out their fragrance under -rose-shaded lamps, and great Japanese vases were filled with the rosy -flowers of the gesneria and the philesia. She always paid great outward -deference to Nadège, was coaxing and _câline_, and for her alone -subdued the rudeness and the shrillness of her voice and manner. She -leaned now beside her on the broad low seat of the cushioned corner, -whilst the few people who remained in the rooms conversed in little -groups, and the flowers, the porcelains, the stuffs, the pictures, the -embroidered satins of the walls, the long vista of salons opening one -out of another, made up one of those pictures of harmonised colour and -of artistically arranged luxuries of which the modern world is so full. -Blanchette had all manner of confidential things to disclose, secrets -of this toilette and that, of this scandal and the other, of the true -reason of a dear friend's sudden indisposition, and the actual cause -of a coming duel; all these _secrets de Polichinelle_, which society -loves to carry about and distribute, things which are mysteries of life -and death yet whispered at every '_petit quart d'heure_' in every house -known to fashion. - -Nadine listened, leaning back amongst her cushions indifferent, -scarcely affecting attention, thinking of her own costume at a coming -ball she was about to give, in which the _règne animal_ of Cuvier -was to furnish the dresses. She had chosen a panther. All the yellow -and black would make her delicate colourless skin look so well, and -she would wear all her diamonds, and ----. She was aroused from her -meditation by the question which Blanche de Laon put suddenly to her. - -'Do tell me,' she said, leaning down amongst her cushions: 'You know I -like to be the first to hear things--when will the new genius make her -_début_ with you?' - -'What do you mean?' - -'Oh, you know what I mean; this young artist whom Rosselin is training, -in whom your husband is interested, and who is to make her first -appearance here? Who is she? Do tell me about her. I should like to -have her appear at my house if you have no proprietary rights to her -exclusive production.' - -'I have no idea of what person you speak of; I am not fond of untried -artists,' she answered, with perfect indifference, but Blanchette saw a -shade of surprise and a coldness of displeasure on her face. - -'Oh, surely you like a _débutante_?' she said carelessly. 'It always -amuses people so much, something quite new, and I believe this girl is -beautiful; does not Othmar say so?' - -But by this time her hostess was on her guard, and her expression -wholly under control. - -'I think I know whom you mean now,' she replied indifferently. 'But -as to a _début_ here--that is quite in the future. I am not fond of -untried artists as I say: one does not take out unbroken horses to -drive in a crowd. Genius is admirable, but I think like wine it wants -time and a seal set upon it before one offers it at one's table.' - -Blanche de Laon was perplexed. - -'Does she know all about her, or nothing about her?' she wondered. 'I -want to know more myself before I go on with it.' - -Some other people approached them at that moment; the conversation -turned on the _règne animal_ ball; Blanchette, disappointed, rose and -went and drank _deux doigts de liqueur_, and ate a caviare biscuit, in -another room, where Loris Loswa was drawing some caricatures of mutual -acquaintances, as the beasts of Cuvier, on his visiting cards, and -distributing them amongst some ladies of fashion. - -'Meet me on Saturday at eleven at the Rond point,' she murmured to him -as she took from him a sketch of her brother-in-law the Duc d'Yprès as -a wild boar in top boots, over which she condescended to shriek her -shrillest laughter and approval. - -When her rooms were all quite emptied, and she was left alone in them, -Nadine remained leaning back amongst the cushions motionless and with a -cold contemptuous anger on her face. - -'To think that I should accept such a part as that!' she thought. 'He -must be mad and the whole world with him!' - -Weak women, indulgent women, women who were afraid and wanted pardon -for their own secrets, these women did these things, aided their -husbands' amours, received their husbands' favourites, helped their -husbands to conventional disguises of equivocal situations, but that -_rôle_, was not hers. - -'And he came from this girl to me in Russia;' she thought with that -physical disgust which is so strong in some women, and which men never -understand. - -One forenoon on entering his study, Othmar missed from the wall the -sketch made by Loswa. There was only a blank space between the places -of the Corot and the Aivanoffsky. He rang for the major-domo. - -'Who has taken the portrait from that place?' he asked; he feared the -entrance of some thief from the gardens. - -The major-domo, astonished and alarmed, replied that he had taken it -down that morning by command of his mistress, and had sent it whither -she had directed him to do; to a certain gallery recently built on the -Trocadéro. - -'You were quite right to do so if Madame desired you,' said Othmar; and -dismissed the official without more comment. - -As soon as he could be admitted to his wife's presence, he went to her -and opened the subject with scanty preface. - -'Philippe says that you ordered him to send the sketch by Loswa out of -my study to the new gallery on the Trocadéro,' he said, when he had -made her his usual greeting. 'Is that true?' - -'Very true. One would think I had ordered him to blow up the Louvre or -the Luxembourg!' - -'May I venture to inquire your reasons?' - -'Certainly. There is an exhibition of Loswa's works about to be opened -there. You are aware that these exhibitions of a single master are very -popular now. That head is one of the best things he has done. It will -come back to you in three months. Cannot you live without it till then?' - -Othmar felt that he coloured like a boy. - -'I would, of course, have lent it,' he said with a little hesitation. - -'I have sent all his portraits of myself and of the children,' she said -with a cold glance at him. 'You do not appear to have missed those.' - -'I have probably not entered the rooms in which they hung. If you will -pardon my saying so, I do not care to know less of what you wish to do -than my servants know--and to know it first through them.' - -'If I had told you, you would have objected. When I know that people -will object, I never ask them what they wish.' - -'The method has the merit of simplicity.' - -He felt exceedingly angered; in the first place he did not care to have -the portrait seen by all Paris at a moment when the original was living -so near Paris with no friend but himself, and in the second place he -indignantly resented being treated like a cypher in his own houses; he -never permitted himself to intrude on her personal arrangements--could -she not respect his? - -Now and then, and above all of late, there had been something -high-handed and even insolent in her occasional treatment of things -which concerned him, and on which she did not consult him; something -which made him fancy that in the deepest depth of the thoughts and -feelings there was occasionally the remembrance that the great race of -princes from whom she herself descended would have deemed her alliance -with one of the princes of finance a gross mésalliance. - -This was a trifle, no doubt, and he was not a man who ever disputed -small matters. But the tone with which she had spoken had given -it something of personal offence, and he could not shake from him -the impression that she had purposely sent away the portrait. The -exhibition was about to take place, no doubt, at the new gallery on -the Trocadéro; Loswa having quarrelled violently with the committee of -the Salon, had chosen to prove that the collection of his works would -be more attractive to the public than anything which the Salon could -offer without his assistance; but the manner in which this sketch had -been removed from his study, conveyed to Othmar the impression of some -personal motive, some personal meaning in the act. - -Capricious as his wife always was, she yet was usually courteous. This -insolence of the removal of his picture was unlike her. - -She always held the very true creed that mutual politeness is the first -of obligations to render the intimacy of daily life endurable. - -He left her presence quickly, afraid of what his anger might bring -him into saying. He had never as yet wholly lost his temper with her, -though there were times when it was sorely tried. - -Her cold, nonchalant, slighting tone was that which always tried it -the most. Of all things which he most hated it was to be spoken to as -Platon Napraxine had been; like the last of her lacqueys! as he thought -bitterly now. She looked after him with some scorn. - -'Is he gone to the Trocadéro to seize back his lost treasure?' - -She had sent the sketch thither on purpose to see what he would do or -say. - -With an impulse which was as swift as thought itself and which he did -not pause to consider, he turned back as he reached the threshold of -her boudoir, and stood before her. - -'Nadège,' he began with an impetuosity which yet had a certain timidity -in it. 'There is something which I wished to tell you the other day. -There is a reason which makes me especially regret that you should have -sent that portrait for exhibition without referring the matter to me. -Are you inclined to be patient enough to hear a little tale which might -interest you perhaps if it were a sketch by Ludovic Halévy, but I fear -will not do so told in my poor words?' - -He did not observe the expression of her eyes, which surveyed him with -a cynical coldness, as she asked: - -'Do you mean that you have written a romance?--or played one?' - -There was the mockery in the words which he had dreaded so much that -he had put off this moment day after day, week after week, month after -month. - -'Neither,' he answered, curtly. 'I have not talent for the one, nor -time and inclination for the other. You may believe me,' he added a -little bitterly, 'if I had been foolish enough to tempt fate with -either, your indulgence is the last mercy for which I should hope.' - -Her eyes still looked at him coldly, steadfastly; with no revelation -in her gaze of whether she were surprised, interested, indifferent, or -already wearied. - -She was leaning back in her long low chair; there was a great deal of -lace ruffled at her bosom and on her arms; she wore a long loose satin -gown of palest _rose effeuillée_ of which the lights and shadows were -very beautiful: her hands were tightly clasped upon her lap; her great -pearls gleamed behind the lace; she looked like a woman of the time -of the Stuarts or of the Valois. At her elbow stood an immense bowl -of Louise de Savoy roses; as she looked at him she drew out one and -put it in her bosom. She did not speak or attempt to aid him in any -way to continue the conversation which he had begun. She only waited, -and as he saw her in that impassible attitude, his task grew harder to -him; that sudden sense of her cruelty, of her want of sympathy, of her -immovable indifference, which had come to him so sharply on the night -of her return from Russia, struck him once more and hardened in him -almost to dislike. - -Why should he tell her anything? She cared nothing for what he did or -what he felt. She dwelt in that serene rarefied atmosphere of her own -in which no passions or pains of his could disturb her. If she had once -seemed to him to lean from it for a little while to share his emotions, -that time was passed, long passed, never to return again. - -She was silent many minutes, but she asked no question, threw out no -conjecture, did not even by a glance assist him to begin his offered -narrative. If she would only have said something--anything--it would -have broken the ice at least. But the marble bust of herself which -stood near her, carved by Hildebrand, was not more mute than she; and -she was quite motionless, her hands clasped on another rose with which -she toyed. - -He was angered with himself to feel that his cheeks grew warm, and that -his voice was nervous as he said at last: - -'I regret that the portrait is gone to the Trocadéro, because the -original of it is living near Paris, and it may lead to comment and -conjecture which may be injurious to her; she is scarcely more than a -child, and she will be an artist; she is better without the attention -of the public until she challenges it directly.' - -He did not notice a gleam like that of such which flashed over him one -instant from the unrevealing eyes of his wife; the next moment the eyes -of the bust were not colder and more impenetrable than hers. - -'I have long meant to tell you,' he continued with rapidity, his words -now coming with eagerness and eloquence from his lips. 'But I have been -afraid of your ridicule. Long ago, in the midsummer of last year, I -found the child of Bonaventure dying in the streets. It was at the time -my uncle was on his death-bed. I did all I could for her, of course. -She was long ill; when she recovered I placed her in the country with -good simple people whom I knew. She is there now. Rosselin, the great -actor whose name you will remember, though his career was over before -your time or mine, has trained her these many months past; he believes -she has great talents; that she has a future; that when you predicted -the career of Desclée for her you showed your usual insight. She has -had little but sorrow since that day you tempted her from her island; -it has always seemed to me that we owed her a great debt, that we had -done her a great brutality; but for us her life would have gone on in -peace and prosperity, she would never have left her little kingdom; if -you realised what you did that day you would regret your caprice. There -are many more details I could tell you if you cared to hear them, but I -know your intolerance of any demand upon your patience.' - -She smiled slightly; the smile was very chill; it checked the expansion -and the confidence of his words. - -'You are pleased to ridicule my knight-errantry, no doubt,' he said, -with heightened colour in his face. 'But no man living would have done -less than I did, I think, being conscious as I was that the invitation -which you gave her without thought was the origin of all her unmerited -misfortune. I believe you were right that she has genius or something -very nearly approaching genius, in her; and it may be that the world -will in time compensate to her for all she has lost. But meantime----' - -'You do so!' - -The words were very calm and cold, but they struck Othmar like the cut -of a whip. They cast on his words the dishonour of disbelief. - -He strove to command his temper as he replied: 'I do not; no one can; -she lost what no one ever can give back to her, when you showed her -what the world was like, and taught her discontent. But for you, and -that one evening in your house, she would have lived, and married, and -spent all the even tenour of her days in her native air, on her native -soil, as ignorant of ambition as any of the sea-birds on her coast.' - -She looked at him with an expression of fatigue, and of exhausted -patience; he saw that she was perfectly incredulous, that his words -might as well have remained unspoken for any impression of their -truthfulness which they conveyed to her. - -'Is this all your story?' she asked. - -'It is the outline of it all,' he answered. 'If you care to know more -of the causes which drove her from her home----' - -'They do not interest me in the least.' - -Her voice was as chill as frost. - -'Then allow me to apologise for having intruded even so much as this on -your attention.' - -He bowed before her, and was about to leave the room; but she, without -rising a hair's breadth from the languid attitude in which she -reclined, said, 'Wait.' - -He waited, in sanguine expectation of an impulse of sympathy in which -those more generous instincts, those kinder emotions which sometimes -swayed her, would be aroused on behalf of a life she had thoughtlessly -injured. - -Still without rising she stretched out her arm, and took up a -blotting-book from her writing-cabinet, which stood near. In the -blotting-case was a tiny note-book of ivory and silver; she opened it, -and read from it in a serene voice certain dates. - -'Before you give your idyl to Halévy--or to the journalists in -general--let me renew your memory with these memoranda,' she said in -the same soft cold voice. 'Your narrative, as you tell it, is bald -and wanting, as you admit, in detail. I will supply some of those -details. On June 10 you brought Damaris Bérarde to this house, where -she remained ill for many days, even weeks. On July 20 you went -yourself to visit her cousin, the present proprietor of the island of -Bonaventure, and endeavoured to negotiate through bankers of Aix the -purchase of the island, which, however, the owner refused to sell. On -August 2 you had her taken, accompanied by her _gardes-malades_, to -the farm of the Croix Blanche, which lies between the villages of Les -Hameaux and Magny. On August 15 you visited Les Hameaux. In the last -week of July, many objects of artistic interest and value had been -already sent by you to the farmhouse. In the same week, rentes to the -amount of a hundred thousand francs, were purchased on the Bourse in -the name of Damaris Bérarde. There are many more dates than these in -my note-book, but those are enough to supply the lacunæ in your story. -_On peut broder dessus_ without any great imagination. A knowledge of -human nature will suffice. You will do me the favour never to re-open -the subject; and as a matter of good taste, to endeavour that your idyl -shall not be too largely talked about for the amusement of the world in -general.' - -Then she slid the little note-book within the leaves of blotting-paper, -and fastened the rose in the lace at her breast. - -It was impossible for him to misunderstand her meaning. - -A violent anger eclipsed for the moment all sense of astonishment at -her knowledge, or of wonder as to how she had acquired it. All he was -conscious of was the indignity, the insult, put upon him by her utter -disbelief. - -He felt it a task almost beyond his strength to forbear from some such -words as men must never say to women, and in the bewilderment of his -emotions he was silent. - -'You have engaged an actor, once great, to give her lessons in -elocution,' she continued, in the same unmoved harmonious tones. 'It -is the fashion of the day to have a mistress on the stage. I suppose I -cannot blame you for that. As it was I who first suggested the future -possibility of a dramatic success for your _protégée_, it is, perhaps, -natural that you should have remembered my suggestions, when you sought -the cover of some artistic career for her. Someone has told me that -you reserve for me the part of Mæcena to her Roscia (can one feminise -the names?), that you intend to have her talents first essayed and -pronounced on under my roof; that the world is to be invited to smile -at my credulity, or at my good nature, with whichever it may most -prefer to accredit me. Women often do such things as this, I know, -because they are weak, or because they need indulgence in return. But -it is not a _rôle_ which will suit either my temper or my taste. I -see the convenience to yourself of your project, but you must pardon -me if I do not accept the part you would assign me in it. The world -and Mlle. Bérarde will have opportunities for mutual acquaintance and -admiration without their first meeting each other in my drawing-rooms. -I should not have mentioned the matter unless you had done so first, -but I should have prevented the execution of your and of M. Rosselin's -intentions!' - -She looked at him from under her drooped eyelids, with that critical -observation which never deserted her in the most trying hour, or before -the deepest emotion. She did not hurry him or dismiss him, only he knew -by the look upon her face, that the discussion was, in her view of it, -closed irrevocably. But for the sake of the other who was involved in -her judgment, he put aside his pride, his offence, and his dignity, and -stooped to an appeal. - -'I do not know,' he said, and he was sensible that his voice vibrated -with fury, as well as with emotion, 'I do not know what steps you may -have taken to enable you to tabulate my actions so exactly. I keep no -diary, but I have no doubt your facts are correct. But as you put the -data which have been given you by some creature you have stooped to -employ, they would certainly seem to point to some selfish intrigue on -my part, some vulgar use for my own ends of this young girl's illness -and misfortunes. It may be even quite natural that you should take such -a view of it as this, though it shows that you do not, after all, much -understand my character. But I will admit that your suspicions may seem -to you just. I will admit that my own reticence has been blameable and -unwise, and I do not suppose you will believe how much your own habit -of ridicule, of irony, and of cruel scorn, has made me shrink from -provoking your malicious comments by any confidences which would seem -to you sentimental and melodramatic.' - -He paused, hoping for some word from her. But she spoke none. She -continued to listen and to wait, in unbroken silence and serenity, her -fingers touching the rose at her breast. A momentary sense of rage -passed quivering over him. He understood how men may in some moments -kill the woman they have loved best. - -He restrained his passion with great effort, and tried to keep his -words within the compass of ordinary courtesy. - -'You do not know, and if you knew you would not care for it, how many -a time this story, like many another thought and memory of mine, has -been upon my lips, and speech has been stopped in me, merely because I -was conscious you would laugh. I am a fool in your eyes, worthy to die -with Rolla, to fall with Desgrieux, or any other absurd sentimentalist. -I dare say you will even despise me the more if you be compelled to -believe that, though I might be the lover of Damaris Bérarde, I am not -so, whatever your spies may have told you.' - -Her face flushed haughtily. - -'Spies! I set no watcher on your actions until you deceived me. When -I know that I am deceived I have no mercy. Those who deceive me are -outside my pale. I hunt them down. Foolish women can bear to be -blinded. I am not foolish, and I do not consent to be so.' - -'I have never deceived you.' - -She gave a gesture of deprecation, slight but full of unuttered disdain. - -'Long ago I told you that if you had strength enough in you to tell -me when you were weak, I should not be like other women; I should -understand: to understand is always to forgive; a greater woman than -I am has said it. If you had come to me frankly, with no subterfuge, -no pretext, no empty phrases of untrue sentiments, but had said -honestly that you were no better than other men, I should have told you -that follies of that sort need never disturb our friendship nor our -confidence, but----' - -'But, my God, what had I to confess?' cried Othmar, with that -passionate protest of the tortured man who calls in vain that he is -innocent. - -Infinite contempt swept over her face. What a fool he seemed to her! -What a poor, weak coward and fool! - -'If there were any lover whom I loved, how I should hurl the truth of -it in his face!' she thought. 'Men are such cowards--so half-hearted -and so tame, and never hardly even knowing what they do love! If he -would only be truthful even now, what should I care!--a wretched child -off the streets, a creature who owes her very bread to him--what rival -could she be to me!' - -She felt for him all the superb disdain that Cleopatra might have felt -had she known that Anthony toyed with a slave from the market-place, -and dared not plead guilty to his paltry sin. - -He heard her with indignant and bewildered amaze. There is a great -simplicity in every honest man, and he, despite his knowledge of the -world, was single-minded as a boy. That she should refuse to believe -him when he told the truth seemed to him incredible. - -'Can you insinuate that I would speak such a lie--_I_?' he cried to her -in violent emotion. - -She answered coldly: - -'Oh, yes: those untruths are always counted as men's honour.' - -'They are not mine; nor my dishonour either. I never willingly spoke -an untruth yet to man or woman. If this child were my mistress I would -tell you so. You may remember that many a time you have bade me take -my liberty. You would care nothing if I did so. Why should I have -concealed what you would not have done me the honour to resent?' - -He paused, expecting her to say some word of assent or dissent, but she -remained silent. - -'Certainly,' he said, bitterly, 'had I considered myself free in -all ways I should have been justified in doing so. Few men of your -world see less of you than I. Your very lacqueys know more of your -engagements and your intentions than I do. You lend great brilliancy to -my name, you give great distinction to my houses, you allow my children -to sit by you in your carriage, and you permit me to receive kings for -you in your antechambers. But more than that you deny me. If I sought -elsewhere the tenderness I seek in vain from you, could you complain of -my infidelity?' - -'I do not complain of the infidelity; it is immaterial; I complain -of the long series of elaborate deceptions with which you have -endeavoured, with which you still endeavour, to surround it.' - -'I repeat, there has been no deception.' - -She laughed, laughed slightly that cruel laugh of a woman, which can -tell a man with impunity what a man could never dare to tell him--that -he has lied. - -'You dare to doubt me still!' he exclaimed, with that blindness and -good faith with which a man, candid and honest himself, expects -credence from others; he had never in his heart really doubted that -when he should tell the truth to her she would believe it. - -Conscious rectitude has a curious pathetic ignorance of its own -impotence to move others; it imagines that it has but to speak and -mountains will fall before it. - -Because this thing was clear as daylight to his own knowledge, to his -own conscience, he stupidly thought that it must stand out plain as the -noonday to her likewise. Those who tell the truth always fancy that the -truth must be like those trumpets before which the walls of Jericho -fell. - -'You dare to doubt my word!' he cried again passionately; she looked -him full in the face coldly and calmly. - -'Told earlier,' she said in her serenest voice, 'your comedy might have -deceived even me. Told now, I do not think it would deceive the most -credulous woman living--and I am not credulous. I am like Montaigne; I -do not accept miracles out of church.' - -His face grew white and grey with wounded pride and breathless passion -as he heard her. The same sense of hopelessness which had come over -so many of her lovers when driven to appeal to a mercy which had no -existence in her, came over him now. He felt that one might throw one's -self for ever against the smooth white marble of her soul, and never -gain from it either pity or belief. - -His patience was at an end, and his bitter sense of wrong, done to -himself and to one absent, broke down all his self-control. - -'But as God lives you shall believe!' he cried to her. 'You shall -believe it for her sake, not for mine nor yours. You can cover the -whole world with the fine scorn of your scepticism if you will, but you -shall believe this. I may have done unwisely what I have done for her. -I may have acted with that mule-like stupidity which you consider the -characteristic of men. I may even, God forgive me, have not done what -was best for the child herself; but in all that I have done, I have -been honest in it, and not a mere lecherous egotist. You have never -deigned to try and measure the feeling with which I have regarded you, -but you ought, I think, to understand enough of the common honour which -I share with all men who are not scoundrels, to believe in my word when -I give it you. The woman with whom she lives at Les Hameaux is of good -repute and blameless conduct. Rosselin, who has become her teacher, -is a man too upright to accord his assistance in any common intrigue. -The money I placed to her credit she imagines to be a legacy of her -grandfather, whose heiress she would have been if you in a moment of -unaccountable and unconsidered caprice had not tempted her to incur -the old man's anger. All these things are capable of the simplest -explanations. Still, I will concede that, without explanation, they -may have appeared singular and suspicious to you. But, however much -they may do so, I expect from you that acceptance of my bare word, that -belief in my common honour, which the merest stranger to me on earth -would not dare to refuse.' - -She preserved her perfect composure, the rose in her breast was not -ruffled by one uneven breath; she looked at him with cold, calm, unkind -eyes, which never wavered in their rejection of him. - -'You are melodramatic,' she said, with her serene contempt. 'Perhaps -_you_ will appear on the stage, too! I shall be glad if you will spare -me more words on such a subject. I shall not resent it publicly. All I -request of you is to avoid publicity in it as far as possible. That is -a mere matter of good taste.' - -'Good God!' he cried, beside himself. 'Do you credit that I should -stand here and lie to you? Do you believe that I should stoop so -low?--do you think that I come here like a comedian to repeat a -monologue of my own invention? You may think what else of me that you -will, but this you shall not think. I am not the lover of Damaris -Bérarde; I have never been so--I shall never be so.' - -'If you swore it on the lives of your own children, I would not believe -you?' - -Some reflex and heat of the flame of his rage caught her soul also -for one sudden instant, and drew it out for that one instant from its -serenity and reticence. - -There was the vibration of intensest passion in her voice; she half -rose from her seat; her bosom heaved; the rose fell in a shower of -leaves to the floor; for the moment he thought that she would strike -him. - -'You shall believe me,' he said in answer, 'or I will not live under -the same roof with you!' - -Then he looked at her with one last look, and left her presence. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV. - - -Othmar went into his great library, and shut the door upon himself. For -more than an hour he paced to and fro the length of the room, overcome -with an agitation which he could not master. He had a sense that his -life was over. He felt as though his very heart-strings had snapped and -parted for ever. A great love cannot perish without some such throb as -a strong animal life suffers when it is forcibly torn asunder. A kind -of horror seized him at the idea of the years which were to come; the -long, long years through which he would dwell in apparent amity beside -her in the sight of the world. - -His first impulse was to go out of the house, out of the city, out of -the world, to leave her everything he possessed, but never to see her -face again. - -But a brief reflection made him feel how impossible such a course as -that would be to him. Obscure people can do these things, they are -happy; they are not set in the fierce light of publicity and society, -and no one heeds it if they creep away to lay their aching heads under -some lowly roof in solitude. But to a man well known and conspicuous in -the life of the world, any such retreat into obscurity is impossible. -He is bound hand and foot by a million threads, each strong as cables -to hold him to his place. He cannot forsake his place without forsaking -a mass of interests confided to his honour. Solitude is for ever -forbidden to him, and liberty he can never more recover. Life never -gives two opposite sets of gifts to the same recipient; it never -bestows both the king's dominion and the peasant's peace. The sigh of -Henry IV. upon his sleepless couch is the sigh of all eminence whatever -be its throne. - -Othmar's momentary longing to go far away from everything and everyone -he had ever known, and never again behold the woman whom he had adored, -and who had insulted him as though she had struck him with a knout, -was the natural thirst for loneliness of all wounded creatures. But -he knew that this desire, like so many others, was hopeless; he could -never leave her or the world he lived in; there were his children, who -must not be sacrificed, and the fortunes of others which must not be -imperilled. He knew that he could no more undo the bands fastened--many -by his own hand--around him, than he could sweep ten years off the sum -of his past life. Such as his existence was now, so he had to continue -it. - -He walked to and fro the vast length of the chamber in the quiet of the -noonday. He felt as if her hand had struck him. - -It had not been even an insult of unpremeditated passion, of hot -anger, of inconsiderate haste--as such as he might have pardoned -it--but, serene and deliberate and measured, spoken in cold blood, and -matured on long consideration, it had been such an outrage as severs -the closest ties, and destroys the most profound affections, cuts at -the deepest roots of self-respect, and burns up all delicate fibres of -sympathy. He would much sooner have forgiven a dagger's thrust. - -He had been insulted by the one person for whom he had given up all his -life, all his loyalty, all his devotion, all his faith, and all his -years to come. The outrage of her insolence, of her disbelief, burned -in his heart as the shame of a blow burns on a brave man's forehead. -Never could he make her believe, though he were to swear the truth to -her as he lay dying! - -That perfect silence with which she had listened and led him on -to speak, that perfect consciousness of all his actions which had -existed beneath her apparent ignorance, that feline attitude of cold -expectation and of watchful, motionless observation with which she -had waited for the telling of a tale of which she already knew every -smallest detail: all these seemed to him horrible, hateful, unnatural -in a woman so near to him, so dear to him, to whom he had given up his -life, and whom he had never wronged, or slighted, or betrayed. And then -the espionage!--all his soul revolted at it. - -'One might have known that the weapon of a Russian woman is always a -spy!' he thought, with passionate indignation at what seemed to him -this last and lowest of affronts. - -If he had found in her any of the warm and fond, though unwise, angers -of that jealousy which loves whilst it hates, he would have forgiven -and comprehended it. But he could not hope that there was any single -pulse of it in her breast. She had viewed and measured his actions with -the accuracy and coldness of a judge of court overwhelming any prisoner -with his logic, and had treated his own asseverations with utter and -contemptuous disbelief, not deigning even to weigh as remotely possible -the chance that he might tell the truth. He himself would have taken -her word against that of the whole world, against all evidence of his -own senses, all adverse witness of circumstance. - -'I was mad to suppose she ever cared for me,' he thought bitterly, -whilst the tears rose hotly in his eyes. 'For my children she cares, -perhaps, but for me nothing: I have never been wise enough, great -enough, strong enough to compel even her respect. She looks on me as a -mere dreamer, a mere fool. All she is anxious for now is that the world -may not have a story to laugh at, because it would lessen her dignity -and offend her pride!' - -And yet he loved her still as he remembered her there sitting so -still, so fair, with the cold challenge in her eyes, and the pale roses -at her breast; and she was all his, and yet as far off him as though -she were queen in another world beyond the sun; and he loved her still, -and was filled with guilty shame at his own weakness, as men are when -they still adore the women who have defiled their name. - - - - -CHAPTER XLV. - - -For the first time in her whole existence his wife had known the -mastery of a strong and uncontrollable impulse of emotion; for the -first time since her dreamy eyes had smiled at the pains and follies of -men a wave of fierce and simple passion had passed through her as the -seismic wave moves the still earth. - -She was touched with the common infirmity of common lives. - -The women in her laundry rooms, the groom's wife who lived above her -horses' stables, might feel as she felt now. Jealousy! It could not -be jealousy. Would Cleopatra have been jealous of that slave from the -market-place, that Nubian seller of green figs, or Persian dancing girl? - -For jealousy it seemed to her there must first of all, be equality. -No--no: she was not jealous; she was only angered, bitterly angered, -because he had stooped to subterfuge and to untruth: earths in which -the fox of cowardice always hides. It was all ignoble, mean, unworthy, -there was no manliness in it and no honesty. Any common knave could -have woven such a net of falsehood and stupidity as this. - -He had thought to deceive her! She could almost have laughed aloud at -the idea!--was there any brain subtle enough, clear enough, wise enough -in all Europe to invent a lie which would have power to blind her? -Surely not; and he knew it; and yet he had thought such vulgar ordinary -devices as have served in half the vaudevilles of half the theatres of -France would serve to hoodwink and to satisfy her! - -There was a vulgarity in such miserable intrigue, which offended her -taste whilst it outraged her dignity. In all the innumerable women of -their own world could he not have found some rival in some measure her -equal? - -It might have hurt her more, but at least it would have insulted her -less. - -She remained alone and motionless, except for such feverish mechanical -action as that with which her right hand plucked the roses from the -bowl one by one and tore their hearts asunder. - -She did not know she did it. She shed the sweet, faint-smelling petals -on the floor, and her fingers had the movement of a great nervousness -as they played with the loosened leaves. No one came there to disturb -her; no one would dare to do so until she rang; the slow morning hours -crept on, the very footfall of time was muffled, and did not dare -obtrude in these still fragrant chambers where the air was heavy with -hothouse heat, and was sweet with a somnolent lily-like odour. - -She took the little written sheets from between the blotting-paper and -read what was written on them again. There was more than she had read -aloud to him. All the details of his intercourse with Damaris Bérarde -were described there with searching minuteness. She studied them again -and again. Their bare records were full of suggestion to her; they -seemed to tell so much which was not said in words, to be pregnant with -meaning and with cynical emphasis. - -She sat still as any statue of a queen dethroned; the pale rose folds -of the satin flowing about her feet, the ruin of pale rose leaves on -the floor before her. - -All her life she had laughed at the love of men and derided it, -and starved it on graceful philosophies and ethereal conceits, and -dismissed it with airy banter and disbelieved its truest words and its -hardest pains: and now a love which she had lost escaped her, and she -found no comfort either in her wit or in her scorn. - -Certain of the words which he had said to her remained in persistent -echo on her ear. Some sense that she had been cold to him and too -capricious, and too negligent of what he felt, came to her. It might -even be that he had sought the warmth of other affections because she -had left his heart empty herself. He had always been a sentimentalist! -Had she not called him Werther, Obermann, René, Rolla? He had wanted -the impossible, the immutable, the eternal. - -He had asked of love and of life what neither can give. - -He had expected a moment of divinest rapture to be prolonged through a -lifetime. - -He had expected the song of the nightingale to thrill through the year. -Senseless dreams and hopeless!--but had she been too cruel to them? - -For a moment her conscience spoke, and her heart relented towards him. -She remembered the many times when she had treated the warmth of his -passion as an absurd delirium or an exaggerated sentiment, when she -had again and again and again bidden him take his erratic rhapsodies -elsewhere than to her. - -If he had done so, was he so much to blame? - -Almost she could have pardoned him. If only he had not lied to her she -would have pardoned him. - -'Good God, why could he not be honest?' she thought, with indignant -scorn. 'Why could he not kneel at her feet, and lay his head upon her -knee and own his folly? Men were weak always, and so easily misled -whenever their senses ruled them, and such mere animals after all, even -those in whom the mind was strongest!' - - - - -CHAPTER XLVI. - - -'Send the children to me,' she said when at last she rang for her -women, and the children came. They had come in from their morning's -ride on their small ponies in the Bois. They were very pretty in their -velvet riding dresses, with their golden hair flowing over their -shoulders; they were very gentle and had admirable manners; the little -boy with his cap in his hand kissed his mother's fingers with an -old-world grace. She drew them both towards her. - -'_Mes mignons_,' she said, looking alternately at each of them, 'I want -you to tell me something quite honestly; are you afraid of me, either -of you?' - -The young Otho, a very sensitive and chivalrous child, coloured -to his hair and was silent; his sister Xenia, less timid and more -communicative, answered for him and for herself: 'We are both of us--a -little.' - -The brows of Nadine contracted with a sudden sense of pain. - -'Why?' she said imperiously. - -The children did not reply; their small faces grew serious; they were -not prepared to analyse what they felt. - -'Do you mean,' she continued, 'that if you wished for anything you -would sooner ask your father for it than you would ask me?' - -The children nodded their heads silently. They had lost their colour. -She saw that the interrogation alarmed them. - -'Why?' she repeated, in a softer tone. - -They were still silent; they could not really tell; they only knew -that a certain sense of timidity and awe was always upon them in their -mother's presence, that they never dared to laugh too loudly or ask -a question twice before her. They loved her, and had the passionate -admiration of childhood for that which is above it and incomprehensible -to it, and she seemed to them more wonderful and beautiful than any -other living creature, but there was a tinge of fear in their sense of -her presence. - -She read their unformed confused thoughts, and she felt a sharp -reproach in their tacit confession. - -Had she been so engrossed in the ice of her egotism, that she had never -taken the trouble even to stoop and draw to her these young hesitating -half-opened souls? - -Had she been cold and careless even to them? - - Enfants d'amour, nés d'une étreinte! - -she murmured as she kissed them with lips which trembled; had she been -so little kind to them that even they feared her? - -'_Maman était prête à pleurer_,' murmured Xenia to her brother in -amazed awe, as with their arms wound about each other they passed down -the corridor to their own apartments. - -Otho drew a long breath. - -'_Elle nous a embrassés, vois-tu_,' he murmured, '_comme on embrasse -les petits pauvres_!' - -'_Les petits pauvres_,' whom he had seen in the Tuileries or the -Luxembourg gardens, kissed by their ragged mothers with eager -tenderness on cold winter mornings, when perhaps the mothers had no -food to give them except such fond caresses. Watching those happy -hungry children, he had said more than once to his sister enviously, -'_Si maman nous embrassait comme ça!_' - -And then they had always kissed each other to make up for the caresses -which they did not obtain. - -And now she too had kissed them '_comme ça_!' They were not sure -whether they had done something very wrong or something very good to -move her so; one or the other they were sure it must have been. - -As the children went from her presence a note was brought her which -briefly announced that the Princess Lobow Gregorievna had arrived in -Paris from Russia to consult some famous physician. - -'As the vulture comes when there is death in the air,' she murmured -with passion, as she tore the note in two. Must this mummied saint even -change all the habits of her life and quit her country to be present -here, when for the first time a rupture open and irrevocable had come -between herself and Othmar, when in a few days' time, if it were not -doing so already, all Paris would be speaking of the cause of their -disunion! - -All the vague dormant superstition which slumbered beneath her -sceptical intelligence, made her see a fatal omen in this unlooked-for -arrival of her bitterest enemy. More than once she had said in her -heart, 'If ever I have misfortune, Lobow Gregorievna will be there to -triumph in it.' And now she was there, within a few streets, residing -in a religious house of Muscovite nuns, a dark still austere spectre, -which seemed to her like the carrion bird which waits for those who die. - -'Do I grow nervous and hysterical?' she asked herself in scorn. - -She who had meted out destiny to so many, who had thought that it -was only the timid and foolish who let life go ill with them, who -had regarded the sorrows of sentiment and emotion with an indulgent -contempt, felt with anger against herself that such a trivial thing as -the advent of a woman who hated her could affect her nerves and appear -to her a presage of ill. With her delicate scorn and her consummate -indifference she had turned aside all the efforts of others to move her -or influence her; she had never known either apprehension or regret; -it had always seemed to her that life was a comedy to be played ill -or well according as you were wise or stupid. Suddenly, for the first -time, emotions which were beyond her own control affected her, and a -sense that circumstance escaped her guidance filled her with the sharp -pain of irritated impotence. - -She knew the world too well not to know that all the women who had -vainly envied her, and many of the men who had vainly wooed her, would -take pleasure and find solace in every whisper which should tell them -of the offence to her pride; and she knew the world too well not to -know also that there is no such thing as privacy in it, that all which -she had learned through Michel Obrenowitch society would find out and -gossip exaggerate; and that the whole of the society throughout Europe -which she had dominated and influenced and been feared by for so long, -would know that she--she--Nadège Feodorowna--was deserted for a peasant -girl taken from the streets. - -All the imperious blood which was in her changed to fire as she thought -of the certain comments of the courts and drawing-rooms in which she -had been so long so arrogant a leader, so dreaded a wit; she knew that -eagerly as hounds at the _curée_ would all her flatterers, friends, and -lovers join her foes in exultantly rejoicing over her insulted dignity. - -How many and many a time she had heard society laugh over just such a -story as this! How well she knew all the cruel derision, all the gay -contempt, all the equivocal jests, all the affected pity! How well she -knew that precisely in measure to the homage which they yield us is the -pleasure of others in our pain! - - - - -CHAPTER XLVII. - - -Blanche de Laon that morning rode her English horse slowly down one of -the unfrequented roads in the Bois de Boulogne, and beside her paced -the handsome Tunisian mare of Loris Loswa. They were good friends, -although, or rather because, they went for their loves and their vices -elsewhere than to each other. He was conscious of the use it was to him -to be caressed and favoured by this pre-eminent leader of _la jeunesse -crâne_; and she found in him a suppleness, a malice, and an ingenuity, -in tormenting and in defaming, which made him an ever amusing and an -often useful companion to a lady who had no better sport than the -harassing of her friends and acquaintances. - -Loswa was acutely sensible of the necessity which exists for any artist -who would continue famous and fashionable to make his court to the -new sovereigns of the great world, as turn by turn they succeed to -their leadership. The obligations of old loyalties and the memories -of old favours did not weigh a feather with his wise and self-loving -nature; a woman's influence was the measure of her beauty in his eyes, -and had Helen's self been _sur le retour_ she would have commanded no -smile from him. He saw in the Princesse de Laon an influence which -would grow with every fear for the next decade, so entirely were her -qualities those which her generation most admires and fears. Therefore -to no one was he in semblance more devoted, and no one had he flattered -more ingeniously, and immortalised more frequently with all the most -delicate homage of his art, though in his secret thoughts he denounced -as detestable the irregular colourless impertinent features of her -_minois chiffonné_, and her myosotis-coloured insolent eyes which -stared so arrogantly and so inquisitively on all living things. - -'It is a vile type,' said Loswa in his own mind. 'It is a vile -type, all this _jeunesse du monde_. It is without grace and without -seduction; it is insolent and noisy; it is over-dressed and over-drawn; -it screams and it gambles; it wears the gowns of Goldoni's Venice with -the head-dresses of the Directoire; it empties the bazaars of Japan -into its salons of Louis Quinze; a vile type, with nothing in it of the -great lady, and nothing of the honest woman, only a _diable d'entrain_ -which carries it away as a broomstick carries a witch!' - -But, all the same, he was not willing to be left behind in the -excursions of the broomstick, and was very conscious that unless _cette -jeunesse_ made him one of them, he would cease to be the painter whom -fashion loved. It is so easy to become old-fashioned! so easy to become -one of that joyless and disregarded band--'_les vieux_!' - -Therefore to all the young beauties, even if he owned them hideous, he -was careful to pay devoted court, and to none more, since none were -so powerful as she, than to Blanchette de Laon. His last portrait of -her was then upon his easel half finished; a study of pale tints, with -her pale face seen above a necklace of opals, with a great mass of -lemon-coloured chrysanthemum around and below, one of those dexterous -and daring violations of conventional art of which he possessed -the secret; and in it he had flattered her so delicately, yet so -immoderately, that her _museau de chatte_ had become actually beautiful -in his treatment of it. - -'That is what one wants when one goes to be painted,' she had said -herself with cynical honesty. - -She and he, good friends always and better friends still of late, rode -now side by side through the solitude of a rarely-used alley of the -Bois, and spoke in confidential tones together, as her perfect figure -in its dark cloth habit seemed one with the perfect English hunter -which she rode. She was not fond of any country sports, but she rode -admirably, and knew that riding displayed all the graces of her form. - -'You are sure it is the girl of the island?' she asked. - -'Quite sure,' answered Loswa. 'Madame Nadège asked me some questions, -you gave me a hint, Lemberg spoke of some new _protégée_ of Rosselin's. -I inquired about the theatres, at the Conservatoire; I imagined this -hidden miracle was the future Desclée of Bonaventure. I found out that -she lived near Magny, and was visited by Othmar; Magny is not the North -Pole that they should deem it unvisitable; I went there unseen myself, -and a farm labourer pointed out to me "_la demoiselle_:" she was at -a distance from me, walking by the river, but I recognised her at a -glance. One might have guessed it before. When she disappeared from the -island it was Othmar who knew where she went.' - -'It is very droll!' said Blanchette, showing her white small teeth in a -grin of genuine appreciation. 'And do you suppose his wife knows?' - -'Béthune knows, by his look the other day, and he will tell her: he -will be only too glad _de lui donner une dent_ against Othmar.' - -'I have told her something,' said Blanche de Laon; 'though I did not -know who it was I knew that there was an interest at Chevreuse; I saw -him walking in the fields there: but is the girl truly a genius?' - -Loswa smiled. - -'Who shall say? But the _chère amie_ of a rich millionaire will always -find a public to swear that she is so. They already speak amongst -artists of her coming _début_, and it is easy to see the value which is -attached to the millions behind her. There is very little known about -her, but that fact is known of Othmar's interest in her, and no doubt -it will make it easy for her to appear on some great theatre.' - -'They say she is first to appear at Othmar's own house.' - -'That will be very clever, but very dangerous. Madame Nadège is not a -person with whom _on peut plaisanter_. I should doubt her condescending -to condonation of that kind.' - -Blanchette laughed. - -'He is very indulgent to her about Béthune. He may surely expect the -usual equivalent in return.' - -Loswa was irritated. - -'He knows well enough that Béthune is nothing to her; Béthune has -worshipped her for fifteen years. I admit that; but he has had his -pains for his payment; she lets him follow her about, but it is only -_pour rire_.' - -Blanchette laughed and flicked her horse's throat with her little white -switch. - -'You speak as if you were jealous! You always admired that cold woman. -To return to the coming Desclée. Paris already talks of her, you say?' - -'It is not my fault if it do not,' she thought. - -'Vaguely, yes,' answered Loswa. 'It has an expectation of some new -talent which has what all talent in our generation requires: a prop of -gold behind it.' - -'Have you discreetly whispered that it is one with the original of a -sketch of a fishing girl?' - -Loswa smiled. - -'I have caused it to be whispered, of course; we never say those things -ourselves.' - -'Where does Othmar hide her at present, do you say?' - -'At a farmhouse at Les Hameaux. He is not magnificent in his -maintenance of her; it is a very simple place, and she lives very -simply there.' - -'That is just like a very rich man. Besides, Othmar always has a taste -for black bread and bare boards. You know at one time he actually -dreamed of breaking up the whole network of the Othmar power, and -stripping himself of everything, and living like St. Vincent de Paul. -That was before those children were born; their mother would certainly -never take the vow of poverty! Well, shall you and I ride down to -Magny some morning and see this prodigy of genius and simplicity? You -can recall yourself to her, and you can present me. We will represent -ourselves as inspired by what we have heard from Rosselin.' - -Loswa hesitated. Othmar was not a man whom he cared to cross. Yet -he had a desire to see again the face which he had sketched on -Bonaventure, and he had a vague idea that by going thither he might in -some way learn something which would enable him to pay off that old -score which had so long cherished against Othmar's wife. He had had a -restless and hopeless passion for her years before; he had served and -flattered her docilely because he held at its just value the great -power of her social influence; he had been of use to her in a thousand -ways at her château parties and in her Paris entertainments; he had -always been docile and devoted, and ingenious to please, and submissive -under offence, but all the same, at the bottom of his heart there was -a bitter rancour against her for her blindness to his charms; for her -criticism of his talents; for her constant careless treatment of him -as a mere _décor de fête_, as a mere amateur; and if he could see her -pride hurt or her indifference penetrated, he felt that he would be -happier and better satisfied. A thousand slighting words which she had -spoken out of caprice, and forgotten as soon as they were uttered, -had remained written on his memory and unforgiven. He would not have -quarrelled with her openly for his life; he was too sensible of the -pleasure of her acquaintance, the charm of her presence, the value -of her goodwill; but if he could have helped unseen to put any thorns -under the rose leaves of her couch, he would have done so willingly; he -would have even chosen thorns which were poisoned. - -'Yes, we will go and see her,' said Blanchette, as their horses paced -under the boughs. 'It is always amusing to be the first to inspect a -person the world is going to be asked to admire. _On peut la dénigrer -si bien!_' - -'But,' suggested Loswa, with hesitation, 'if we _dénigrer_ here, we -shall please Madame Nadège. Is that what you wish to do? I think if -we go at all we must, on the contrary, go to befriend, to admire, to -assist the new talent.' - -Blanche de Laon gave him a little approving caress with her whip. - -'You are a clever man, Loris,' she said with appreciation. 'We will go -to-morrow--no, the day after to-morrow,' she added. 'I will meet you at -St. Cyr; the horses shall be sent there by train; I often send mine by -train to places where I wish to ride; send yours also. We will go early -because it is a long way. The day after to-morrow I know that Othmar -will be at Ferrières; there is a great breakfast; he cannot escape from -it; there will be no fear of meeting him in Chevreuse.' - -'But are you sure what we shall accomplish when we reach there?' - -'You will finish the sketch begun on the island, and I shall forestall -the dramatic criticism of Francisque Sarcey.' - -'Othmar will not like it.' - -'Othmar need not know it. My dear Loris, do you suppose that by feeding -her on buttermilk, and hiding her under a thatched roof, he secures the -primitive virtues in his idealised peasant? You may be sure she already -tells him nothing that she does not choose to tell. _On n'est pas femme -pour rien!_' - -Loswa rode on in silence awhile, then he said with a smile: - -'I have an idea, which, if we could realise it, might possibly -prove amusing. You will recollect that there are to be dramatic -representations at Amyôt next week when the Princes are there?' - -Blanchette nodded assent. - -'And Madame Nadège,' continued Loswa, 'is always very solicitous for -the success of her theatre; she spares nothing at any time on that kind -of entertainment; and the representations of next week are to be really -royal; all the greatest artists are engaged for them. I have always a -good deal to do with arranging these things for Amyôt; and I know that -it is most likely that the Reichenberg, who is to play there, will -not have recovered the chill which she caught yesterday at La Marche. -If she should not, shall we substitute Damaris Bérarde? I need not -appear in the matter; I can send the director of Amyôt to Rosselin, -and in any way we should have an entertaining scene not included in -the programme. If the new wonder succeed, the Lady of Amyôt will not -be pleased, and will undoubtedly quarrel with her husband; if, on the -contrary, the girl should turn nervous, or hysterical, or passionate, -and forget her _rôle_, it will be diverting enough, and in any case -will embarrass Othmar himself. I think in either event we should have a -droll ten minutes.' - -Blanche de Laon showed her white teeth in an approving smile. - -'You are always ingenious,' she said. 'But if Othmar be already -desirous of making the girl appear under his wife's patronage, perhaps -your scheme would only gratify him? What then?' - -'He is only desirous of that because he thinks that his wife does not -know of Les Hameaux; but we will take care that she does know; and I -think she may be trusted to resent it. She does not care a straw for -him, but she cares immeasurably for her own dignity, her own influence, -her own empire.' - -Blanchette nodded again. - -'We will see what the new star is like, first,' she answered. 'It is -not a mere handsome nobody with a turn for the stage who will excite -her jealousy: she is too proud to be easily jealous.' - -'The girl is magnificent,' said Loswa, as he thought. 'Jealousy is -always alive, even if love has been dead a century.' - - - - -CHAPTER XLVIII. - - -The day after the morrow they kept their word to each other. She -descended at the little station of St. Cyr, and found her horse and -groom and those of Loswa waiting for her. Loswa and she bade their men -stay at the station there, and rode themselves through the country -ways which lie between St. Cyr and Les Hameaux. That if anyone chanced -to see them their meeting would look like an assignation, did not -trouble the thoughts of the Princesse de Laon for an instant; there -were far too many much more weighty imputations which she incurred -daily to allow so trivial a possible charge as this would be to have -any terrors for her. She delighted in the creation of scandal, in the -risks of equivocal positions; and challenged both the admiration of her -husband and the long-suffering of her world with the most daring and -shameless of provocations. She knew that to those who dare much, much -is forgiven; she knew that the world would never quarrel with her. It -feared her tongue too greatly. - -It was scarcely noonday when they reached the quiet fields which -stretched around the Croix Blanche. There were the greenness and -freshness of very earliest spring in all the land; little birds were -flying and twittering, with thoughts of coming nests, to be hidden away -under orchard blossoms, and the sheep were cheerfully cropping the -short grass which covered the ruins of Port Royal. All these things and -the memories which went with them said nothing to Blanchette; all she -knew of spring was the dates of the various races, and all she knew of -history was that it gave you travesties for costume balls. - -They left their horses in charge of a labouring servant, who was -sitting resting under one of the ash trees to eat his noonday bread, -and then, crossing the courtyard, pushed their way without ceremony -past the dairy-wench who tried to stop them and learn their errand, and -so, without either announcement or apology, opened the door at the head -of the wooden stair and found themselves in the chamber of Damaris. - -She was sitting reading at a table, the white dogs lay at her feet; -a great volume was open on the table before her, her head leaned on -her hand, which was hidden in the masses of her close-curling hair. -As she started at the unclosing of the door and rose to her feet, and -restrained the dogs with a gesture, the intruders upon her privacy were -both astonished to see the development which her beauty had taken since -the night two years before when she had stood, bewildered and astray, -like a young night-hawk brought into a lighted house from the shadows -of night, in the drawing-rooms of St. Pharamond. She did not speak; -she remained motionless, her hand on the head of the male dog; she -recognised Loswa instantly, with a sense of pain and of regret that he -had found her there; his companion she was not conscious of ever having -seen before. - -'Here is Loris Loswa, whom you will remember, and I am Madame de Laon,' -said Blanchette, advancing towards her, with her abrupt familiarity, -her eyes roving all over the place and coming back to fasten themselves -with envy on the beautiful lines of the girl's throat and bosom. - -'We are come to see you,' she continued, 'because you will be a -celebrity very soon; Rosselin is going to bring you out at the Français -or the Odéon; you will have no trouble; everything is arranged; -Othmar's name is enough, and your story will please Paris when it is -in a romantic mood. It is romantic sometimes, despite the naturalists. -You are very handsome, my dear, very; you have an antique type, and -what blood and what health there are in you!--enough to make a million -of our _anémiques_! Why do you go on living in this hole among pigeons -and dogs? I should have thought he would have given you an hotel in the -Avenue Joséphine or the Boulevard Hausmann before now!' - -Damaris looked at her from under bent brows; she did not understand, -but she had a sense of offence in the way she was addressed; this -great lady seemed to her rudely familiar, brusquely intimate; she did -not like her tone, her face, her manner; and the use of Othmar's name -bewildered her. She was silent because she had no idea at all what she -should reply. - -Loswa tried to propitiate her. - -'I have not forgotten my day on the island,' he said to her, 'nor all -your goodness to me. Is it true that you are going to dazzle all Paris -in "Dona Sol" as you charmed us on that island with "Esther"? Why does -Rosselin delay to give the world so much pleasure, and why does he keep -you so hidden?' - -Damaris heard with impatience and anger. - -'I do not suppose I shall ever play Dona Sol,' she said abruptly; 'and -if I did, most likely Paris would laugh, and you first of all.' - -'Paris does not laugh at handsome people,' said Blanche de Laon, -cutting short the flattering protestations of Loswa. 'Not, at least, -till it gets tired of their good looks. But it is quite true, is it -not, that you are being taught by Rosselin to rival Bernhardt?' - -'I do not know as to rivalry,' said Damaris, with constraint and -displeasure. 'If I ever follow art I shall endeavour to be as true to -it and as far from imitation of others as I can. M. Rosselin is very -kind and patient with me.' - -Blanchette smiled. - -'You are very grateful. Be sure he finds as much interest in training -you as you can find in being trained! I should think you might dispense -with study--with such a face as yours, and such a friend as Otho -Othmar!' - -Damaris coloured angrily. - -She resented the intrusion of this stranger, whose impertinent and -familiar manners offended her, and seemed to her a personal insolence. -At Loswa she did not look. His presence was unwelcome to her, and -brought back the memories of Bonaventure so strongly that it was with -difficulty that she kept the tears from rising to her eyes. How far -away it seemed, that sunny noonday, when she had made him welcome to -her little balcony amongst the orange boughs and the lemon leaves! And -then how basely he had repaid her and betrayed her, and brought his -friends to laugh at her, as he had brought this woman of fashion now! - -Blanchette continued to gaze at her with unsparing examination, and -Loswa continued to make to her those pretty speeches of graceful -compliment of which he was a finished master. She grew angered and -stubborn under the eye of the one and deaf and contemptuous to the -flatteries of the other. Why had they come? When would they depart? -These were the only two questions in her thoughts. - -She was troubled, too, by the abrupt mention of Othmar, and uncertain -what she ought to say, how she should reply. If only Rosselin had been -there! He would have known how to meet these insolent gay people, who -stared at her as though she were some curious strange beast; he would -have stood between her and their persistent inquisitive examination. -But the visit of Rosselin had been paid on the previous day, and he -would not return until the morrow. The woman of the house was at -the market of Versailles; she was wholly alone; and she had lost -the dauntless, careless courage with which she had treated Loswa on -the island, the courage born of childish ignorance and of childish -audacity. Life seemed now very difficult and intricate to her, and her -steps in it were shy and unsure. - - * * * * * - -'If I ever do go before the world I shall probably fail,' she said -wearily, in answer to their continued allusions to her coming career. - -'Fail!' echoed Blanche de Laon, breaking in roughly on the graceful -protestations of Loswa. 'You will not fail, you shall not fail; it -would please her too much. _Dame_! how unlike you are to us! You look -as if you were made of some other stuff than we are made of; you look -as if you had come fresh out of the sea like the Greek goddess that is -in the Salon every year. Has she seen you again? You ought to let her -see you now.' - -'Who?' said Damaris. - -'Who?' said Blanchette, and muttered in her small white teeth '_Ah! ça -fait l'innocente, ça se pose!_----' - -Aloud she said to her companion, 'My dear Loswa, go and sketch the -nymphs of the farm; there are always nymphs on a farm, are there not? I -want to be alone a moment with Mademoiselle Bérarde. _Allez-vous-en!_' - -As he obeyed her unwillingly and with a look of eloquent regret, -Blanchette scanned with all the penetration of her pale keen eyes the -poetic and classic face of Damaris; she was a skilled appraiser of -female beauty, and there were a force, a colour, an ideality here which -she had never seen before, which were as unlike the beauties of the -women of her own world, washed with _lait d'Iris_ and shadowed with -kolh, as a warm morning on southern fields, where the sun shines on -wine-hued wind flowers, is unlike a waxlit evening in a conservatory. - -'Paris has had nothing like her for ages,' she thought. 'But she is -stupid; she does not know her own power; she lives on at a farm; if she -waits for Othmar's leave she will never be seen by the world; she does -not understand; perhaps she mixes sentiment up with it; she has the -head of a Sappho; that type is always romantic.' - -'Now he is gone,' she said aloud. 'Do not be afraid and do not _pose_. -Tell me truly, has Othmar's wife seen you since you left your island?' - -'No.' Damaris coloured at the name. - -'No? What a pity! Look you, my dear,' she continued, as she leaned -familiarly towards her and poured the sharp pale rays of her -penetrating eyes into the face of Damaris. 'I will befriend you because -you hate her. She had power once, but now I have more than she had. -_Le jour est aux jeunes._ I will use my power for you. You shall -become great if my world can make you so, because she will suffer -in seeing it. You must be great, I tell you; it is all very well to -_filer le parfait amour_ with him under these trees if you like it--I -wonder you like it, it is such waste of time, and you should have had -your hotel and your major-domo, and your blood-horses by now, and men -never think much of a woman for whom they do little; it is the woman -they are ruined by whom they esteem;--but you must be great, you must -shine, you must set all Paris talking or you will not hurt her in the -least. I do not think she cares what affairs he may have, all that is -beneath her; she will only care if you can oppose her _de puissance à -puissance_, if the world admires you, adores you, and flatters him and -insults her every time that it praises you. Do you understand? I do -not think you understand. Are you stupid or do you only pose? Do not -feign with me. Why should you feign with me? All that serves nothing. -You only hurt yourself and lose influence if you let him think you are -content to be shut up like this, adoring his image. You are one of -the sentimentalists I see; you must change all that. It is not of our -time, it is not in our manners; it is silly and provincial, and you may -be sure does you no good with him. Let Rosselin bring you out on any -theatre he can, any is better than none; but with Othmar behind him -he will be able to buy all the theatres in Paris. You are magnificent -to look at; they say you have talent, and you have a lover who is a -Cr[oe]sus; it will be your own fault if you are not the admiration of -all Europe at a bound. Then she will hate you, and she will be wounded -to the soul, and she will realise that her day is done; _le jour est -aux jeunes_. And then I will kiss you on both cheeks before all Paris -if you like. Yes--I, even I--Blanche de Vannes, Princesse de Laon!----' - -Her voice had risen into a swift enthusiasm, a faint flush had come on -her pale features, she smiled with pleasure at the vision her words -conjured up; her cold narrow world-encrusted soul expanded with the -sweetness of a satisfied hatred and the honesty of a genuine sentiment. -Love she could not, but she could hate, and in all the cruelty and the -wickedness of her there was thus much of candour and of feeling; she -was true to the childish affections and the promised revenge of a day -long gone by. Even as she spoke she was thinking of the poor little -verses hidden with the dead roses in the drawer at Amyôt; even as she -spoke she was saying in her heart, 'My pure angel, I do not forget; -better people than I forget, but I do not. She shall suffer what you -suffered; she shall lose what you lost; she shall feel that she is the -laugh of the world; she shall know that she is as powerless to hold -the heart of her husband as you were, and she shall see him chained -in public to the triumphal car of this child. And I shall be by the -child's ear, and I shall tell her all the secrets of power and all the -vices that make men like sheep to be driven, and I shall make her dupe -him and deceive him, and keep other lovers on his gold, and ruin him -body and soul; and no one will know I am there behind her but myself. I -shall know, and what a jest it will be!' - -All these thoughts floated before her while her hands clasped the ivory -handled white whip and her eyes flashed their pale fires over the face -of Damaris. - -To tempt, to corrupt, to revenge: they are a triad sweeter to those who -love them than are ever all the Graces and Persuasion, or Charity and -her gentle sisters. - -Damaris still did not speak. The colour was hot in her face and her -eyebrows were drawn together; a look of intense suffering had replaced -the momentary stupor of bewilderment and surprise; she breathed loudly -and slowly with effort; the blue veins of her throat were swollen. -Little by little she had gathered up the sense of all which had been -said to her, and ravelled it out bit by bit, and comprehended it. - -The swift shrill voice of her temptress still went on in her ear. - -'Perhaps you wonder what business it is of mine, why I mix myself up -in it, why I care what your lover does. Well, I care nothing at all -for him; he may have a harem as large as Versailles for aught I care, -but I hate her; I have always hated her. She is insolent, she is -arrogant, she has that power over men still which it irritates one to -see, and she killed my cousin. You may have heard of Othmar's first -wife and of her death. I was fond of my cousin; she was of a type so -rare--so rare!--one that one never sees now; she was only a child, and -she took her own life because Othmar loved this woman who is his wife -now; she thought she would make him happy in that way--poor little -sweet generous fool! So she died by the sea there, in that country of -yours. I was sorry then; I am angry still; I have always said that I -would live to see this other woman humiliated and abandoned as she -was humiliated and abandoned. And that is why I will be your friend; -openly, freely, I cannot be so, but I will do all I can in my world -to make you great, and I can do a great deal, because great you must -be. She will not care if he only make love to you _à la derobée_ under -these ash trees. You are nothing now; you are only a little peasant -whom it has pleased him to set in a dovecot--it does not matter to her -even if she knows of it. But, if you triumph in the sight of all Paris, -then it will wound her. If you be a second Desclée as she prophesied -for you, so Loris says, then it will make her bitterly mortified if she -sees herself deserted for you.' - -She paused to take breath after the rapid, voluble, unstudied sentences -which had followed each other so fast and in so impressive a whisper -off her lips. - -Damaris made no word in reply. She listened as though she were made -of wood or stone; her full curved lips were pressed close together, -her eyes were sombre and had a dusky ominous gleam in them, the only -expression on her face was that of a vague, half-stupid bewilderment -which left her companion in the same doubt as before, as to whether she -were stupid or feigning. - -'If she have no more intelligence than this,' Blanche de Laon thought, -impatiently, 'how can they think to make her famous for all her beauty? -To be sure, great artists are sometimes great imbeciles.' - -She leaned still nearer till her eyes seemed to plunge themselves into -those of Damaris; she had drawn off her gloves, and her thin small -hands with their glittering rings were clasped on her riding whip -where it lay on the table in front of her; her voice rose swifter and -shriller as she resumed her argument. - -'You do not understand your own forces,' she said, with the impatience -of a keen intelligence baffled by a slow one. 'You do not see that -now--now--now is the moment for you to do everything you choose, to -get everything you wish; if you let time go by, Othmar will refuse you -a piece of pinchbeck where now he would give you a river of diamonds. -If you waste your best years living in obscurity to please him, he -will recompense you by leaving you to obscurity all the rest of your -days. Men never appreciate sacrifice. If he cannot do better for you -than a room or two in a farmhouse, what use is it to you that he is -worth millions of millions as he is? You are only a handsome child, -only a handsome peasant; but if you come into the world you will be a -beautiful woman. You will lead men any way you like, and he will love -you all the more because he will be afraid of his rivals.' - -Suddenly she rose and stood erect. - -'I know what you mean,' she answered, with the vibration of a great -passion in her voice 'At first I did not know. I think you cannot -understand. He saved me from the streets, as a man may a dog. He has -been as an angel to me. He does not care for me except in pity. He -loves her. I would give my body and my soul to him if he wished for -them. But he does not. He is not mine in any way, nor will he ever be. -You do not understand. If I could make him happy for one hour I would -burn in hell for all eternity with joy. But I have not the power. I am -nothing to him, nothing; no more than the world is to me. You do not -understand--go, go.' - -Her voice lost its intensity of expression, and sank exhausted at the -close; the colour faded from her face; she leaned against the wall with -a sense of sudden weakness on her. - -Blanche de Laon stared on her with hard unsympathetic sceptical eyes; -she laughed a little, coarsely, rudely. - -'_Dame_! You have a mind to show me you can act! If you were on the -boards now you would bring down the house. You are no simpleton I see. -No doubt you know the _rôle_ which pays you best. I spoke to you in -sincerity, and you answer me with a tissue of untruths. _C'est bien du -midi ça!_' - -Damaris looked at her wearily: the pain in her was too great for anger -to have any place in it. - -'You can believe what you like,' she said with effort. 'Go!' - -Blanche de Laon, who had never in her life known any impulse of -submission or any sense of fear, was vaguely awed and touched into -involuntary acquiescence. Her swift, ready, insolent, and cruel tongue -was silent. - -She was baffled and angered. She had spoken so frankly and so -cynically, because she had been certain that her words would fall on -a willing ear, and be received by a mind open and ready for them. The -possibility that Damaris might refuse to hearken to them had never -presented itself to her. She had made the usual mistake of an ignoble -mind. The possibility of a mind being noble had never suggested itself -to her. - -She was sure that Othmar was the lover of this child, and that the girl -denied it to save him from all comment of the world, and all jealousy -of his wife. - -Such a denial was stupid and exaggerated, and unwise, because the force -of all women lies in their power to make themselves feared, and in -their unblushing employment and proclamation of their triumphs: still -it was fine, even Blanche de Laon felt that. She did not for a moment -believe the answer given her, and she was bitterly incensed at the -rejection of all her overtures and the failure of all her counsels; but -she was moved despite herself to a certain unwilling admiration of so -much courage and of so much loyalty. It was a lie she felt sure; but -there were a grandeur and utter oblivion of self in such a lie which -impressed her by their utter unlikeness to herself. - -She looked at the averted face of Damaris; then gathered up her gloves -and whip, and without any other words went from the chamber. - -'May I not go back to make my adieux?' asked Loswa, who waited for her -in the courtyard of the house. - -'No,' she said sharply. 'What should you do there? You are no student -of the antique. That child is a daughter of the gods--a sister of -Phædra and of Medea--no contemporary of yours or mine. Let her alone. -She will not suit your canvas.' - -'Will she play at Amyôt?' - -'I do not think so.' - -She mounted her horse and rode in silence through the fields and -lanes. Her tireless incessant voice for once was mute, and her face -was troubled and surprised. All the malice and the vileness which had -been in her thoughts, her hopes, her suggestions, had been scared and -confounded by the sense of a great unintelligible passion, the nobility -of which was incomprehensible to her, yet affected her with a dim sense -of its strength and its strangeness. - -Once she laughed aloud and turned to Loswa. - -'Desclée! Desclée never equalled Damaris Bérarde. What an incomparable -actress the future will enjoy whether we get her to Amyôt or not!' - -'You mean----' asked Loswa perplexed. - -'My dear Loris! Almost she persuaded me that she loves Otho Othmar for -himself and not for his millions! Almost she persuaded me too that he -is not as yet her lover, though he may be when he will! You will grant -that she surpasses Desclée.' - - - - -CHAPTER XLIX. - - -When the echo of their horses' feet had ceased from the stones of the -courtyard, and the quiet air had no sound in it except the twitter of -the sparrows pecking among the food of the poultry in the yard below, -Damaris remained motionless, leaning against the wall of the chamber. -One by one all the words which had been spoken to her returned on her -memory, bringing with them a clearer meaning, a fuller comprehension, a -deeper disgust. - -Little by little she understood all which Blanche de Laon had meant, -all which she had promised, all which she had supposed. - -'They think that I live on his money, and that all I care for is that,' -she muttered with the sick sense of a loathsome imputation stealing all -the strength out of her nerves, and all the peace out of her life. - -Othmar to her was as a deity. But the very exaltation and intensity -and ideality of the passion which moved her for him, rendered all -the coarse suggestions and conclusions of this woman of fashion most -intolerable to her, most cruel, and most degrading. Because she would -have followed him to any fate with joy and with devotion, therefore was -she most tortured, most outraged, by the supposition that she could -regard him as the means to riches and to fame. Nothing on earth suffers -so intensely as a loyal and lofty passion, which sees itself classed -with venal and avaricious lusts. - -Perhaps even he himself might suspect her of some such vile hopes as -these! - -She leaned against the wall, sick at heart in her utter solitude, her -lips white, her brow red with dusky colour, her breathing slow and -loud, her limbs cold. The white dogs watched her with wistful eyes -as they had once watched her little boat go away over the moonlit -sea. The morning crept onward, the pale sunbeams strayed across the -floor, amorous pigeons cooed in their little homes under the eaves, -distant voices of labourers, calling one to another, came through the -stillness; there was the sound of the strokes of an axe in the copse. - -She was conscious of nothing. - -An hour and more passed uncounted by her, when the step of Rosselin, -still so firm and so light, mounted rapidly the wooden stairs and his -voice called gaily to her before he had reached the door of her chamber. - -'My child, where are you? I have great news for you. You had no -expectation of a visit from me to-day. I have great news for you, my -dear; it would not brook delays; the Fates have sent us the very chance -we wanted, there is always a _dea Fortuna_ for genius, the very stars -fight in their courses for it----' - -His gay and excited voice dropped suddenly, for his eyes caught sight -of her leaning against the wall of the room, where she had stood during -the last words spoken by Blanche de Laon. She turned her head and -looked at him, but without much recognition in the look, her face was -suffused with dark colour, she had an expression in her eyes, stunned, -disgusted, bewildered, and yet one of intense anger. - -'Who has been with you?' said Rosselin, abruptly. 'What have they done -to you?' - -She did not reply. - -Rosselin repeated his question impatiently. - -'Have you not trust enough in me to speak? You look as if you had seen -ghosts. Good God! what has happened to you? Child, cannot you answer -me?' - -'There is nothing to say,' she replied slowly. Not for the universe -could she have repeated what she had heard. - -'Nothing to say! and you have lost faith in me in a night! I left you -as usual yesterday. You have been graver, shyer, stiller of late it is -true, but you have never been like this. I came to tell you of a great -chance. There may be no more gods for the vulgar, for aught I know, -but there is a divine providence still for genius! Mdlle. Reichenberg -is ill from cold; she was to play in the great theatricals at Amyôt. -Louis Loswa, who directs them as he always does, has just sent to -me to suggest that you should take her place in two scenes from the -"Misanthrope." He says that Othmar suggested it; that he wishes his -wife to see you there. You are letter perfect, I say, in the part of -Célimène, you have recited it so many times with me. True you have -never played on any stage, but I am not afraid of you if you will be -courageous, if you will speak as you speak when we are alone. Child, -you have genius. What is the use of having it if you are dumb as the -stocks and stones? Why do you look so? What has happened to you since I -left you?' - -Damaris stared at him with dilated eyes. - -'Amyôt!' she repeated. - -'Yes, Amyôt,' said Rosselin angrily. 'The great country house of -Othmar. It is what I always most desired. It will be the finest _début_ -you can have, and will, perhaps, stay evil tongues. You have said that -you would be dumb if you stood before her, but that pusillanimity -is wholly unworthy of you. What is she to you! A woman who once -predicted fame for you. Show her that she predicted aright. You can -succeed if you choose. Succeed then, to do honour to me and justice to -yourself----' - -She did not reply. - -'Cannot you trust me to know what is best for you?' said Rosselin, -still with anger and upbraiding. 'I have arranged everything. You -will go down to Beaugency to-night with me; rest one day, rehearse -twice or thrice there, and on the next play the part at Amyôt. It will -be perfectly easy. You are neither weak nor nervous, though you are -impressionable and take strange loves and hatreds. All is arranged; I -have your costumes ordered; the people who will act with you are all -my friends, and will aid you in every way. God in heaven! What can -you hesitate for? What can you want? At your age had I had such an -opportunity to take my place at a bound on the highest steps of French -art I should have gone mad with joy!' - -Damaris was silent. Her face was in shadow and he could not see its -expression. - -'Does he wish it, you say?' she asked in a low voice. - -'Othmar? Yes, I believe so. He gave his permission for such a -presentation of you to his wife months ago; he will be present, and -he will certainly be glad to see your triumph. He knows well that -there is no other life possible for you. You cannot go back to the -life you left; you will not be content with the paths of obscurity; -you have touched the enchanted cup and you must go on to drink of it, -whether you will or no. There are a score of reasons, which it is not -necessary to detail, why it is much to be desired that you should be -seen first at Amyôt, beyond all other places. I think you should trust -me. I am not likely to mislead you after having passed so many months -in striving to develop the talents Nature has given you. Your natural -gifts are great; if you do not throw them away in a passion of mistaken -feelings or of childish despair you may live to reign in France as a -woman of genius can reign in no other country in the world. You make me -angry to see you so--Othmar's wife! What is Othmar's wife to you that -you should fret your soul for her? What matter to you, child, are your -own gifts, your own future, your own victory? Love Art and follow it. -It will be more faithful to you than any lover that lives!' - -She still did not reply. - -He grew impatient and indignant with her. He had the conviction which -is so sincere in a great artist, that all passions, affections, joys, -woes and desires, loves and hatreds, were of no weight whatever put in -the scale with Art and with renown. He had given up his whole existence -to Art, and now that he was old his devotion to it had remained in him -whilst he had forgotten the force and the despair of the affections and -of the passions when they govern the early years of life. - -It seemed to him intolerable, incredible, that the mere weight and sway -of Othmar's memory should stand for a moment in the same scale with her -as her destiny in the world, her place in fame. As a youth he himself -had swept away all the flowers of feeling whenever they had threatened -to choke the growing laurel of his genius: why could she not do the -same? Was it because she was weak with the weakness of women? - -After love there is nothing so cruel as the tyrannies of art, and -Rosselin was art incarnated. Moreover he believed in the magnetism -and vivifying force of unexpected events and of sudden emotions. They -were a portion of those drastic and searching medicines with which he -thought an imperfectly developed genius needs treatment. Once he had -wished and wished sincerely that Damaris Bérarde should remain in the -cool and shady paths of private life; but he had long ceased to wish -it; he was impatient for the world to crown the novitiate on which he -had bestowed so much care and labour. - -The thought of the fêtes at Amyôt captivated and stimulated his own -imagination. They seemed to him the occasion she most needed; a very -frame of Renaissance carvings, in which the portrait of Célimène as -portrayed by Damaris would show in its finest colours and its finest -lines. He dreaded for her the coarse and ugly trivialities of a -theatre with its throng of actors, its imperious direction, its hired -applause, its niggard criticisms; he feared that she would feel in -it like a hind caught in the toils, would rebel against it all and -flee. But at Amyôt it would be pure art which would claim her, refined -praise which would salute her, an atmosphere of delicacy, of culture, -of magnificence which would be about her. If such a scene and such a -stimulant would not arouse all the soul slumbering in her, then he -thought that he would be ready to confess: 'I mistake; she has no -genius; let her go and till the earth and reap its fruits; of the -fruits of art she shall have none.' - -If she failed in such an air with such an opportunity, he thought -that he could be as cruel to her as Garcia was to Malibran when her -Desdemona was too timid and too tame. - -'I want you to be seen at Amyôt,' he said once more, with irritation -at being forced to explain. 'Othmar's friendship for you is only an -injury unless you have his wife's countenance too. You can feel for -her what aversion you will, but you must be seen by the world in her -presence: then she can do you no harm. You are too ignorant and too -young to see the perils in your path, but I see them. I will save you -from them if you will be guided by me. If you are afraid to act, if -you are unwilling to be with the others, they must find some other -substitute for Reichenberg; there are many eager enough to replace her; -and you yourself shall only say some legend in verse, some monologue, -some simple poem, the "Révolte des Fleurs" or the "Vase et l'Oiseau;" -anything will do; you will be heard, you will be seen, you will be -known to have recited on the stage at Amyôt; it will suffice.' - -He did not add that he expected so much from the charm of her voice -and from the beauty of her face that the slightest cause which should -afford a reason for her being seen by the great world would, in his -anticipations, suffice to give her a place in its admiration, and rank -in its realms of Art. - -'Come,' he said imperiously, 'there is little time to lose. We must -reach Beaugency to-morrow in the forenoon. All the rest are already -there. You must rehearse with them thrice at the least, for you have -none of the habits of the stage, though I think they will come to you -easily; I have taught you all there really is to know. Come: why do -you stand like that? Have you been moon-struck or sun-struck since I -saw you the day before yesterday? You have an opportunity given you -for which you should go on your knees with thanksgiving, and you look -as though you were doomed to your death! Oh, child, what did I tell -you the other day? If the hate of this woman be in your soul, let it -spur you on to great efforts, let it move you to high endeavours, let -it force her to own that you are dowered by nature with what she has -not. Hate is an ignoble thing, and I do not think it the parent of -noble actions, but if you cannot cast it out of your breast, compel it -to inspire you nobly. You have wished for the world's applause, for -the solace of art, for the joys of moving the minds of multitudes: all -these may become yours, if you choose. But not if you consume your soul -in vain passions.' - -The face of Damaris grew duskily red. She knew his meaning. - -'I cannot play at Amyôt,' she said slowly. 'Do not ask me, I cannot. -I should disgrace you. My tongue would cleave to my mouth. You would -curse me.' - -'Great God!' cried Rosselin, furious and amazed. 'Because that one -woman has such terror for you?' - -'Not that,' said Damaris. - -She was mute some moments, the blue veins swelled in her throat, a mist -of tears gathered hastily in her eyes. - -'I was starving and he fed me, I was friendless and he befriended -me. He shall not think that I look on his kindness as a mere -stairway to climb by to fame and the ways of the world. His wife -and his friends shall not say that I am made by his gold and -sustained by his influence; a mere thing of selfish, covetous, -ambitious, mercenary greed--like so many, many women--so they say. -I did not understand; now I have thought--and I do understand. You -are angry and I must seem thankless. But I will never go upon the -stage--never--never--never--because his wife and his world, and perhaps -his own thoughts, would always tell him that all I cared for was the -help he could give me, the reflection his wealth could cast on me. I -never saw it like that before, but now that I have seen it so, once, I -cannot go back into blindness.' - -The tears rolled slowly from her eyes down the burning crimson of her -cheeks; her voice was lost in one great sob. Rosselin seized her arm -with a violent gesture. - -'Who has been with you?' he said, fiercely. 'Who has dared to spit on -you the venom of the world's lying mouth?' - -'I have thought it out all myself. Before I did not know,' she answered -briefly, and more than that he could not force from her. - -She could not have told him the temptations and the suggestions made by -Blanche de Laon to save her life. All their shamefulness had burnt into -her very soul, as vitriol burns the flesh. - -He stayed with her till night had fallen, and urged, implored, -commanded, persuaded, entreated her, with all the might of that golden -speech of which he was master. But it was all in vain. The rocks of her -own island were not more deeply rooted in their deep-sea bed, than was -her immovable purpose--never to try and force her way into the world's -publicity. - -'Do you mean to say,' he asked, with incredulity and despair, 'that you -give up all idea of a dramatic career?' - -She made a sign of assent. - -'You cannot know what you do,' he cried in amazement and indignation. -'You have gifts which are not given to many. Do you mean to say that -you will let all these lie and rust because of some sentimental -fancy which has rooted itself against all reason in your mind? Your -objections are absurd. They are the morbid, exaggerated feelings of -a child who has lived too much alone, and knows nothing of the world -except what books can tell. What has Othmar to do with it either way? -If it be a sacrifice made for him he will not care for it. He has been -kind to you; he is kind to half a million people; but your future is -nothing to him, except as he wishes you well, assuredly he wishes you -well, and the more success and happiness you gain the less remorse -will he feel that he and his broke up your life in the south. Oh, my -child, my dear, be wise while it is time. The world is all before you, -do not take a false step on its very threshold. The gods are seldom -benevolent; if we refuse the good that they would do us, they leave us -alone ever afterwards. They will never return to ingrates.' - -She was silent; but by the look upon her face he saw that he had not -altered her resolve. - -'I seem to speak harshly no doubt,' he pursued, 'for you cannot see in -my heart, and for the first time since I have known you, you refuse -to believe in my judgment. I tell you that your idea is absurd, that -Othmar will never attribute to you the motives you fancy; he is too -wise and too generous, and no one could look at you, child, and think -of you an ignoble thing. You may be a great artist if you choose. If -you are not that, you will be of all creatures the most wretched, for -you will live against all the instincts of your nature, against all -the bend of your mind. What made you, when you read your poets on your -island, dream of a life wholly unknown to you, if not the forces of -genius which made you dissatisfied where you were, and cried to you -"Go." Fate has been kind to you: it has set open the door; it has left -you free. If you are thankless and refuse what it offers, you will -deserve to perish in misery.' - -She was still quite silent. - -'But what will become of you?' he cried in his amazement and his grief. -'Child, you are so young, you cannot pass all your life living down all -the vital powers that are in you. Genius struggles like a child in the -womb to force its way out to light. You cannot go against your nature. -What will you do? What will you do? We have made you for ever unfit for -the existence to which you were born. If you do not go and sit where -Fame beckons you now, you will stay out in the cold, friendless and -homeless for life. Have I not told you so before? There is nothing on -earth so wretched as the genius which is born to speak, yet fettered -by circumstance, stands dumb.' - -She heard, but she remained unmoved. She was but a child, and she had a -great hopeless passion shut in her heart, and the vileness of the world -had touched her like the saliva of an unclean beast, and what could -the fame which such a world could give seem ever worth to her? All the -youth and the warmth, and the awaking senses and the wasted tenderness -in her all yearned for gentler, simpler, tenderer things, than the -glittering corselet of fame and the noisy applause of a crowd. Rosselin -was so used to being all alone himself so many a year, that he could -not measure the loneliness of a girl who has no mother to weep with -her, no sister to laugh with her, no lover to kiss the dewy roses of -her lips. He forgot that when he spoke to her of fame and of art, all -her young life called out in her, 'Ah--where is love?' - -He stayed until late in the evening, bringing to bear on her all the -arguments and all the persuasions of which his fertile memory and -eloquent tongue could arm him; but he failed to pierce the secret of -the change in her, and he abandoned in despair the effort to form -her steps to Amyôt. He left her in anger and in reproach in the soft -vapours of a sweet night of early spring, fragrant with the scent of -opening fruit blossoms and of violets growing under the low dark clouds -of rain. He was alarmed, afraid, and full of impotent anger and of -unsatisfied wonder. - -'Who has been with her? What has she heard?' he asked himself in vain, -as he walked through the cold shadowy sweet-scented fields. His own -heart was heavy with anxiety and disappointment. She was the last -ambition of his life. For her his own youth, his own genius had seemed -to live afresh, and ally themselves with the awaking forces of a coming -time. - -What some men feel in their children's promise he felt in hers. - -He recognised in her the existence of great gifts, of uncommon powers, -which would move the minds and the hearts of nations. That such things -should be wrecked because the mere common useless sorrow of a human -love held her soul captive and made her mouth dumb, seemed to the great -artist the cruellest irony of fate, the crowning anomaly of all gods' -grim jests. - -Was Love ever, he thought bitterly, any better thing than the satire of -success, the curse of genius, the ruin of imagination and of art? - - - - -CHAPTER L. - - -Damaris remained unmoved by the departure of her old friend--almost -unconscious of it. His words had drifted by her ear, bringing little -meaning, and no conviction. He spoke as an artist, as a man, as -experience and the world suggested to him; but his arguments could -avail nothing against the instincts of her own heart and the horror -which the charges and the offer of Blanche de Laon had left upon the -ignorance and innocence of her mind. What would have been as nothing to -one who had dwelt in the world, to which evil is familiar and disgrace -immaterial if of profit, was of an overwhelming disgust and terror to a -child whose brain was nurtured on the high unworldly chivalries of the -great poets, and who had dwelt in a solitude of imaginative meditation -amongst the solitudes of nature, amongst the simple and noble lessons -of 'the world as it is God's.' - -She passed the whole day in a kind of trance. She ate nothing; she -drank water thirstily. She scarcely replied to the questions of the -woman of the house. The night went by, bringing her no sleep, no -dreams; she was in that kind of agony which nothing except youth, -in all its exaggeration, its magnificent follies, and its pathetic -ignorance, can suffer. At daybreak she went out with her companions, -the dogs, and roamed half unconsciously and quite aimlessly over the -pastures which in the days of Port Royal had been trodden by so many -restless feet, along the margin of the little stream which had heard -the sigh of so many a world-wearied heart. - -The morning was clear and cold and very still. Far away where Paris lay -there was a dusky, heavy cloud. By noon her mind was made up. - -A great and heroic impulse came upon her, born out of the innocence of -her soul and the infinitude of her gratitude. - -With its instinct of self-negation and noble efforts moving impetuously -in her as the warm sap moves in the young vines, she took no time to -reflect, sought no word of counsel. She covered herself in her great -red-lined cloak, and took her well-known way once more across the -pastures, bidding the woman of the house keep the dogs within. - -The movement of walking, the coolness of the wind, the scent of air -full of all the promise of the spring, renewed the health and youth -in her, gave her courage and exaltation and force. Her dual nature, -with its homely rustic strength and its patrician pride, its peasant's -stubbornness and its poet's illusions, moved her by dual motives, dual -instincts, on the path she took. To do something for him, however -slight, to try and move for him that only soul which had the power -to please his own, to prove that she was not vile or mean or basely -counting on personal gains or personal glories--this seemed the only -thing that life had left her to do. - -All her innocent ambitions were dead; the career of which she had -dreamed with delight now seemed to her only loathsome. Rosselin had -said aright: she was half a child and half a poet, and with the -rude primitive faiths of a peasant she had the unworldly and unreal -imaginations of a student of imaginative things. All the stubbornness -and the simplicity of rustic life, and all the idealisation and -unwisdom of a romantic mind were blended in her; and to both of these -the accusations and the invitations of Blanche de Laon seemed as -hideous as crime. The world could hold no laurels and no treasures she -would ever care for now. Were she to reach fame what would the world -think? Only that, as that woman had said, she had loved him and had -used him to make of him a ladder of gold to a throne of power. - -He himself, even, would think so. - -He himself might come one day to believe her sorrows and her hunger, -her sickness and her loneliness, all parts of some mere drama studied -and played to touch his pity and to win his aid. - -The thought was sickening to her: sooner than let such suspicion lie -on her, she felt that she would seek death as Yseulte de Valogne had -sought it. They would believe then, she thought. - -She walked on over the fields, past the grazing sheep, and along -the stream where Pascal had mused and Racine dreamed; and with the -rapid resolute movements of a mind strung up to some great action and -committed to some course accepted past recall, she reached the station -of Trappes and took her way to Paris. - -She had gone on that road so many a time with Rosselin that it seemed -to her she could have gone blindfolded along it. - -She sat motionless and unconscious of anything around her as the -train went on to Paris; her clothes were dark, her face was covered. -She reached the Boulevard Montparnasse and mingled unnoticed with -the crowd, though twice or thrice men looked after her, attracted by -the supple elastic freedom of her walk, which had in it all the ease -and vigour of movement which had come to her in those happy days of -childhood when she had raced over the sands with the goats, and leaped -from rock to rock, and sprung into the waves with headlong joyous -greeting of the sea as her best comrade. - -She remained an open-air creature, a daughter of the winds and the -waters, of the sun and the dew; and all the exigencies of life in the -streets and the constraint of movement in a city could not take from -her that liberty of movement, as of the circling sea-gull, as of the -cloud-born swallow. - -She took her way straight to the house of Othmar, to the house which -had sheltered her in her sickness and need. Many times as she had been -in Paris she had never seen its portals since she had been carried -through them to go to Les Hameaux. It stood before her now in the -sunshine; the vast pile behind its gates and rails of gilded bronze, -which Stefan Othmar had purchased in the days of Louis Philippe from -a great noble, compromised and exiled for the Duchesse de Berri. The -Suisse in his gorgeous uniform was standing in the grand entrance; -liveried servants were going to and fro, through the archways of the -courtyard there was a glimpse of the green gardens and the shining -fountains. The sight of it all gave her a strange sense of her own -utter distance from him. - -She remembered how she had said to him, 'Is this house hers?' and how -he had answered, 'Surely, my dear, what is mine is hers,' and of how -then she had longed to rise and go out, homeless and friendless as she -was, and die in the streets rather than stay under that roof. Standing -there now, a lonely, dusty, obscure figure before that lordly palace, -she suddenly realised how utterly apart she was from him, how eternally -she would be nothing in his life. She had been sheltered there for a -few weeks in charity, that was all. He was the whole world to her, but -she was no more than a passing compassion to him. All the pomp and -pageantry and power of his material existence oppressed her, symbolised -as it was in this great palace, with its hurrying servants, its -liveried guards, its waiting equipages, its stately gardens: whilst the -knowledge she had of the thwarted affections, and emptiness of heart, -and vain desires, which haunted him, master of so much though he was, -filled her with an agony of longing to be able to give him that simple -herb of sweet content which will so rarely blossom in the gardens of -the great, in the orchid houses of the rich man. - -She stood in the sunlight which shone and glittered on the gilded -gates, a dark and lonely figure so motionless and still that the -_concierge_ spoke to her roughly, bidding her not stand so near. At -that moment through the gateways there came the Russian equipage of -the mistress of the house; the three black horses were rearing and -plunging, their silver chains glistening, their bells chiming; amongst -the cushions of the carriage Nadine reclined. Her face was very pale, -her expression very cold; she was about to pay her ceremonious visit of -welcome to the Princess Lobow Gregorievna. - -Full of the purpose which had driven her thither, and not wholly -conscious of what she did, Damaris stretched her hands out and caught -at the sable skins of the carriage rug as the wheels passed her. - -'Wait--wait!' she cried stupidly. The horses dashed onward. Nadine -threw her a silver piece, seeing only a supplicant figure between her -and the light. - -One of the men in the gateways picked up the coin and tendered it to -her. She repulsed it with a gesture. - -'When can one see her?' she asked in a low tone. - -The servant stared. 'See her? Why never, unless you know her and -she sends for you;' then, being good-natured, he added, 'what is it -for?--all petitions go to the secretaries.' - -'I want nothing of her,' said Damaris. 'I want to speak to her.' - -'Then you will wait for a century,' said the young man, and looking at -her he thought, 'I think it is the girl who was here last summer. I -heard that they had made an actress of her, and that Othmar kept her -somewhere out Versailles way. What can she be doing on the streets?' - -Then, being of a mischievous humour, and deeming that it would be -good sport to bring about any scene which would be disagreeable or -embarrassing to the master whose bread he ate and whose livery he wore, -the fellow added, as if in simple good nature, 'you could get speech -with either of them more readily at Amyôt: they go down there in a day -or two for Easter; they have some royal people.' - -Damaris did not answer him; she turned away with one long look at the -house which had sheltered her in her homelessness and misery. Was the -master of it there, she wondered? She did not ask. She did not dare. -After what Blanche de Laon had said to her, she shrank from the thought -of meeting his eyes. - -She went wearily from the gates as she had come to them; her purpose -was baffled, but not beaten. The vague impulse which had taken her -there, had been only strengthened by momentary defeat; the momentary -vision of his wife's face had made her the more passionately long -to clear herself from disgrace in those cold eyes. She remembered a -garden-door in the garden wall opening out into a bye-street: when she -had been carried out under the trees in her convalescence, she had -seen gardeners go to and fro through it, and dogs run in and out when -it stood ajar; she turned away into the quietude of this little side -street, and walked beneath the garden wall until she came to the little -entrance which had been a postern-gate in older Paris days. It was -standing open as she had so often seen it, the gay branches of budding -lilac and laburnum showing through it. She passed in unseen, and waited -under the shadow of the boughs. - -The gardens were as still as though they were the gardens of Amyôt; -the peacocks swept with stately measured tread across the lawns, the -fountains were rising and falling under the deep green shade of groves -of yew and alleys of cedar. It was three in the afternoon, the shadows -were long, the silence was complete. She sat down on a rustic bench, -and waited; for what she scarcely knew. But the purpose in her was too -deeply rooted in her heart to let her go thence with its errand undone. - -She could see the marble terrace, and the rose-coloured awnings of the -western front of the great hotel, she could see the banks of flowers -which glowed against its steps, the white statues which rose out of the -evergreen foliage around them; the massive pile of the building itself -was, from the garden-side, almost hidden in trees. - -She saw two young children come out gaily, and laughing, their shining -hair floating behind them in the light, they mounted two small ponies -and rode away with their attendants beside them, out of the great -garden gates. She watched them with a strange suffering at her heart. - -They were the children of the woman whom he had loved so much. - -She remained hidden in the little ivy-grown hut, watching the house. -No one came near her; only some birds flew near and pecked at the -ivy-berries. When several hours had gone by, she heard the carriage -roll into the courtyard; she imagined that the mistress of the house -had returned. Long suspense, long fasting, for she had taken scarcely -any food since very early in the previous day, the exaltation of a -purpose romantic to folly, but unselfish to sublimity, all these had -made her nerves strung to high tension, her mind little capable of -separating the wise from the unwise, the possible from the impossible, -in the strange act which she meditated. - -But oftentimes, in moments of irresponsible excitement, the will can -accomplish what in calm moments of reflection would seem utterly beyond -its powers. - -She waited yet awhile longer, till the gardens grew dark, then without -hesitation she crossed the lawn, and ascended the terrace steps. To the -servants waiting there she said simply: - -'I come to see the Countess Othmar. Say that I am here--Damaris -Bérarde.' - -The men hesitated; but some amongst them recognised her, and were -moved by the instinct to do mischief with impunity, which is so -characteristic of their class. - -'It is the girl from Chevreuse, the girl who was here last summer,' -said one idle lounger to another, then they laughed a little together -in low tones; and she heard one say, 'It is a pity Othmar is still at -Ferrières!' - -Then one of them indolently showed her a staircase. - -'Go up there,' he said to her. 'My lady's apartments are to the right. -You will find her women.' - -The man added in a whisper to one of his fellows: 'She came in through -the gardens, we can swear that we never saw her enter if any mischief -come of it;' and they watched her with languid curiosity as her dark -figure passed up the lighted staircase, with its blue velvet carpets, -its bronze caryatides, its great Japanese vases filled with azaleas, -its arched recesses filled with palms and statues. - -Presently she came to a wide landing place, where corridors branched -off from side to side; it was lighted also, and here also its masses of -blossom, its green fronds of ferns and palms were beautiful against the -white marble and the blue hangings of the walls. - -A servant was walking up and down awaiting orders. To him she said the -same words: 'I come to see the Countess Othmar. Tell her I am here. I -am Damaris Bérarde.' - - - - -CHAPTER LI. - - -She whom she sought was alone in her apartments within. - -She was resting, after her drive, in her bed-chamber, which was lighted -by silver lamps, and of which the furniture was all of ivory and -silver, with hangings of white plush embroidered with spring flowers in -silks of their natural colours. The bed in its alcove was watched over -by the angel of sleep; a statue in silver, modelled by modern artists -from a design of Canova's. White lilac and white jessamine filled large -silver bowls of Indian artificers' work. The portrait of her children -in the rose gardens of Amyôt, painted by Caband, stood on an easel -draped with some cloth of silver of the fifteenth century. The floor -was covered with white bearskins. It was a temple dedicated to rest -and dreams; but it had given her neither of late. She was restless, -disquieted, ill at ease, and dissatisfied with herself. - -She had the same pale rose satin gown on her; in another hour she would -dress again for a dinner at the Duchesse d'Uzès'; her hair was a little -loosened, her face was weary, she had a knot of hothouse roses at her -bosom; her women were asking instructions as to what jewels she would -wear. Her old sense of the dulness of life was strong upon her; was -it worth while to go on with it, all these days so alike, all these -dressings and undressings, all these amusements which so seldom were -amusements--_tant de frais pour si peu de chose_? - -In ten years'--twelve years'--time she would bring out her -daughter and marry her, probably to some prince or another--and -afterwards?--well, afterwards it would be the same thing, always the -same thing; what else could it be? She would not be able, like Lubow -Gregorievna, to solace herself for lost loves with church images. - -She was tired, the day had dragged, she had been unable to put off -from her the sense of loss and of bitterness which had come to her for -the first time in all her life. She had not seen her husband since the -hour, three days before, when he had left her, insulted beyond words, -outraged, and stung to the quick by the dishonour of her contemptuous -disbelief. - -In a day or two more there would be the fêtes for Easter at Amyôt; -royal guests were bidden to them; he would of necessity appear and play -his part in his own house; he and she would meet with the world around -them. Was not this the supreme use of the world?--to cover discord, to -compel dissimulation, to efface the traces of feud, to bring in its -train those obligations of surface-courtesies and outward amities which -restrain all violent expression of emotion? - -One of her women with hesitation approached her, and with apology -ventured to say that some one was waiting who entreated to see her; a -young girl, Damaris Bérarde. Was she to be permitted to come in? or -should she be dismissed? - -'Damaris Bérarde!' she repeated with amazement. - -The women were astonished to see that this plebeian name, unknown -to them, had an effect on their mistress for which they were wholly -unprepared. - -'To see me!' she echoed, 'to see _me_!' - -She half rose from her reclining attitude, and a look of extreme -surprise was on her face, which so seldom showed any strong expression -of any kind. - -'To see me!' she echoed aloud. - -So might Cleopatra have said the words if the Nubian slave from the -market-place had approached the purple of her bed and Anthony's. - -Her first impulse was to give the instant refusal for which her women -looked; but her next was to wait, to hesitate: perhaps to consent; -the strangeness of such a visit outweighed with her its insolence and -intrusion. She disliked all things which were sensational, emotional, -romantic, ridiculous; and yet the more uncommon circumstances, the -more singular situations of life, had always an attraction for her. -Curiosity to penetrate the motive of it, and to see with her own -eyes this creature whom she despised, was stronger with her than her -haughty amaze at such a request, whilst the morbid love of analysis -and of penetrating to the depths of all emotions, and of playing on -them, which is common to the century, and in her reached its extreme -indulgence and development, impelled her to allow the entrance of -Damaris into her presence, that she might see the issue of a situation -of which the peculiarity allured her. - -'If she come to assassinate me, it will at least be a new sensation,' -she thought, with her habitual irony. - -The women felt afraid: they never dared to name any visitants to her -whom they had not previously been directed to receive; they awaited her -commands in apprehension. - -'Can he have sent her?' she wondered; then she rejected the -supposition. He was too well-bred for that. What, then, could bring -this girl to her? - -Her first impulse was to have her thrust out shamefully by her -household, the next was that intellectual inquisitiveness which was the -strongest characteristic of her mind. Despised, contemned, abhorred -as this girl was by her, she yet felt a strange desire to see and to -examine what she believed possessed the power to reign, if only for -a passing season, over the thoughts and the feelings of Othmar. She -herself had no more doubt that Damaris was her husband's mistress -than she had that the roses she wore in her breast were her own. But -the disgust, the offence, the aversion which she felt, in common with -all other women, before such a rivalry were overborne in her by the -psychological interest of the moment which it offered. - -Always mindful to preserve her dignity before her inferiors, she said -to her chief woman-in-waiting: - -'It is a young girl whom I knew at St. Pharamond; yes, say that she may -come to me for ten minutes.' - -The woman obeyed, and in a moment more Damaris stood between the satin -curtains of the doorway: a dark, tall, slender figure, with the light -shining on the dusky gold of her hair, the changing painful colour of -her cheeks. - -The women, at a sign from their mistress, withdrew and closed the door -behind her. Othmar's wife made no gesture, said no syllable which could -help her. She remained seated afar off, the intense light of the room -reflected from the many mirrors in their silver frames showing her -delicate cold features, the pale rose satin of her sweeping gown, her -reclining attitude, languid, haughty, motionless. - -The girl trembled from head to foot. - -But she advanced. - -'It is I, Damaris Bérarde,' she said, in a low voice. - -She paused in the centre of the room, bewildered by the beauty -of decoration which was around her, the intensity of light, the -hot-house-like warmth and fragrance, the merciless gaze of the great -lady who gazed at her from a distance unmoved and chill as death. The -heart of the child beat thickly with terror and emotion: - -'Madame--Madame,' she stammered. - -In her ignorance she had fancied that because she was received she -would be welcomed, that because those doors had unclosed to admit her, -that behind them she might hope to find a friend. - -This silence, this coldness, this unspoken but all-eloquent disdain -made her feel herself the intruder and alien which she was, there in -the house of Othmar, in the presence of his wife. Her very soul sank -within her. - -The cold contemptuous eyes of the woman whom she dreaded swept over her -with withering scorn. - -'You have mistaken the apartments,' said Nadège, with her cruellest -intonation. 'Those of Count Othmar are on the other side of the house.' - -The intensity of emotion which possessed Damaris, the intensity of -resolve which was in her, the high-strung and overwrought feeling which -had nerved her to her present act made her deaf and callous to all that -was implied in the words and to the look with which her great rival -repulsed her. She crossed the room, and caught the shining satin folds -of the gown in her hands and hung on them. - -'Let me speak to you once, only this once,' she cried. 'I only came to -Paris for that----' - -'What can you seek from me? Surely my husband gives you all you want!' - -All the icy disdain, the cruel irony, the scorn of her as of a -creature beneath contempt, passed over Damaris almost unfelt. She had -the intense self-absorption which a strong purpose and a passionate -generosity inspire. - -'I came to Paris to see you,' she said boldly. 'I tried to stop your -carriage; you thought I was a beggar, you threw me a coin; I have come -here because I hoped that I might speak to you. Listen to me once, this -once; then I will go away for ever.' - -Her hearer looked at her with less bitterness of scorn, with a slowly -awakening wonder. What was strange, unusual, startling, had always a -fascination for her; a position which was intricate and unintelligible, -a character which was mysterious and for the hour unfathomable, always -possessed for her an attraction which nothing else could have. Had an -assassin been at her throat she would have stayed his hand only to ask -his motives. The supreme interest of the enigma of human life with -her surpassed all other more personal considerations. Psychological -analysis far outweighed with her all personal emotions. What the young -mistress of her husband could seek her for, or want of her, seemed to -her so odd that for the moment the strangeness of the supplication -outweighed her pitiless scorn of the suppliant. - -Her dignity would never have allowed her to cross the width of a -street to see this girl who had caused such division between herself -and Othmar; but the wish to see her had been strong in her for some -time. Her philosophic inquisitiveness before all mysteries of human -character, and her artistic appreciation of all human beauty combined -to make Damaris interesting to her as a study, though hateful as a -living creature. - -'I will hear you,' she said, and drew her skirts from the touch of -Damaris, and seated herself with the coldness of a sovereign who -listens but does not forgive, of a judge who examines but does not -pardon. - -'Great heaven, how handsome she is!' she thought with involuntary -admiration; and beneath her haughty calm and scorn there burned the -fires of a jealousy which scorned itself. Was this the child whom -she had brought over the sea? The peasant in blue serge and leather -shoes whom she had seen hidden from others in her drawing-rooms like a -startled stray sheep under a hedge? - -Damaris stood before her pale, infinitely troubled, passionately -pained, but so nerved with the force of her purpose that she had lost -all sense of fear and of hesitation. Her voice came from her lips quick -and low, and her hands were clasped together in earnestness as she -spoke at length to this woman who had been the terror of her dreams so -long. - -'I do not know what they have told you of me,' she said, 'but I am come -here to tell you the truth. I think there are those who believe that I -am coarse, and selfish, and base, that there are those who believe that -he who saved me out of the streets, and from death, only seems to me -the mere means to an end, and that end my own renown, my own riches, my -own gain. But that is not true. So little is it true that now that I -know they say it, the world shall never see me whilst I live. You know, -it was you yourself who first told me that I could make the world care -for me. You put that thought in my head and my heart, and it worked and -worked there, and left me no peace. He tried to dissuade me, because he -said that an obscure life was best, but I would not believe. I wished -to be great, I wished to come before you some day, and to make you say, -"After all she has done well; after all she has genius----"' - -She paused, overcome by the rush of her own memories, by the flood of -thoughts she was longing to utter. - -Nadège looked at her with her cruellest irony. - -'Why do you come to tell me this? Be great if you like--if you can! You -say quite truly: my husband can easily build you a golden bridge to the -temple of fame. But you can scarcely expect me, I think, to come and -crown you upon it!' - -The chill, sarcastic scorn cut the soul of Damaris to the quick. - -'Oh, my God, can you believe it too!' she cried, in an agony of -despair. 'Only because he took me in when I was half-dead with hunger, -as he would have taken home a starved dog! He has been good to me -with the goodness of angels. There is a tale of a beggar whom a king -befriended, and the beggar cut the gold fringe from the king's robes in -return; do you think me as vile as that beggar? I know that my debt is -great to him, so great that I cannot pay it with my life; but if you -can believe that I dream of taking of his gold--that I would use him, -or rob him, or ask his help for my own ambition----' - -Nadège looked at her with cold, impenetrable, unmerciful eyes of -unrelenting contempt and pitiless examination. - -'I am still at a loss to know why you come to me. I am not interested -in the terms that you may have made with him. Whether he give you a -cottage at Chevreuse or an hotel in the Champs Elysées, what does -it matter to me? Do you wish for my advice upon the architecture of -either?' - -She spoke with her usual languor and irony unaltered, she sat erect -with the roses at her breast, and the pale rose of the satin gown -flowing to her feet: her eyes were cold and hard as jewels, the only -trace of any anger, or of any feeling repressed was in her lips, from -which all colour had gone. - -Why did she let an interview so hateful be prolonged? Why did she not -summon her people, and have this stranger thrust in ignominy from her -chamber? Why did she not send for her husband and confront him with the -truth he had denied? She did not know why she did none of these things, -unless it were that all exposure and publicity were hateful to her, -and also because the psychological interest of the instant was strong -enough to hold in suspense both her offended dignity and her aroused -passions. What brought this girl to her? Until she knew that, she would -not send her from her presence. - -The simplicity and strength of the nature of Damaris, in which -single motives and undivided instincts reigned, meanwhile made the -complexity and the variety of sentiments in this cultured and satirical -intelligence wholly incomprehensible to her. That any woman could -see matter for jest, for derision, for amusement, in passions which -bitterly offended and mortally alienated her, was a contradiction -which was utterly beyond her comprehension. That the wife of Othmar, -believing what she evidently believed, might have struck her some -mortal blow, or bidden her servants scourge her from the house, she -could have understood; but this complex mind, which could play with its -own pain, and dally with its own injuries, she could not follow. She -only felt that such a mind scorned her herself as something too low to -be believed, too poor to be quarrelled with, too far beneath contempt -to be even accepted as a foe. - -'You think--you think--I do not know what it is you think,' she said in -a voice broken by great emotion. 'I have done whatever he told me, he -has told me nothing but good; he does not care for me--in--in in that -way which you believe. I am nothing to him. He loves you----' - -'I thank you for your assurance of it!' - -The poor child in her ignorance had spoken the very words which -could most fatally offend and arouse the dignity and the passion of -her hearer. To be assured of her husband's love by the subject of -her husband's illicit amours! Even the ironical patience and the -contemptuous tolerance of her habitual temper could not remain in -silence under such an outrage to her position and her dignity as this. - -With a gesture as though sweeping away some unclean things, she -motioned Damaris away. - -'Leave my presence; leave my house,' she said with an intense rage, -only controlled by pride still greater than itself. 'How dare you come -where I and my children dwell? Go--go at once, or I will disgrace you -before my people.' - -But Damaris, whose dread of her had been so great, did not shrink or -quail before her. - -'You cannot disgrace me for I have done no wrong,' she said in -desperation. 'I am nothing to him--nothing, nothing, except a thing -he pities. Why should you think that I am? Are not you far above me? -have not men loved you always and died for you? do not you know that -he himself is sick of heart because you care so little? You will not -believe. Oh, God, what shall I say to you! Madame, it is for this only -that I came. I wanted to tell you that my heart will break if, through -me, any pain comes to him; you think things which are not true, and -which would offend him bitterly if he knew them; and he has spoken to -me of you as the only woman whom he could ever care for. Why are you -angered that I say so? He thinks that you do not care, he thinks that -you are weary of him, he thinks that he has no power to please you any -more. And I said to myself that perhaps you did not know this, that -perhaps you would care if you did know, that perhaps you would put some -warmth in his heart, give him some kinder words. I say it ill, but this -is what I want to say. He thinks you do not care.' - -Her hearer listened with the scornful rage of her soul held in check -for an instant by her own knowledge of the likeness in the words -thus spoken to the reproach, which Othmar himself had cast against -her. In her innermost soul she acknowledged, that if Othmar loved -this creature, he was not the mere sensualist she had thought; she -recognised the spirituality and the nobility in the beauty and the -youth of her disdained visitant; she acknowledged that a man might -well lose his wisdom and break his faith for such a face as this; and -would have for his madness some excuse of higher kind than would lie -in the mere temptation of the senses. The highest quality in her own -temperament had always been her candour in her acceptance of truths -which were unwelcome to her. This truth was loathsome to her; but it -was a truth, and she confessed it as such to her own mind. Yet, even -whilst she did so, it pierced the very centre of her soul, and filled -her with a new and intolerable pain. - -Her insight into the minds of others also told her that this child's -mind was honest, innocent, and candid, and though she would not -believe what her own penetration said, she could not wholly resist its -influence, she could not wholly continue to doubt the good faith of -the speaker, even whilst her anger remained unabated at the daring and -familiarity of such a scene as this. - -Damaris took the brief instant of silence for consent, and sustained -and nerved by the pure unselfishness of her romantic purpose, she -persevered in her supplication. - -'Listen to me for one moment more. You are an aristocrat and I am -nothing; I had only some little talent and that is dead in me; you will -live beside him all the days of your life, and I shall never, perhaps, -see his face again. Believe what I say as though I were dying. You are -all that he thinks of on earth, and he is tired, and chilled, and empty -of heart because you have never cared for him as he cared. I shall go -where I shall never trouble you, and if ever he think of me it will -be only with pity just for one passing moment. Will you remember only -this, that I have come to beg of you to make him happier, to make his -dreams true--it is only you who can do it. You have his heart in your -hands; do not throw it against a stone wall, cold and hard, as they -throw a bird to kill it. You are a great lady, and the world is with -you, and you have many lovers and courtiers, they say, but what will it -profit you, all of it, if one day he looks at you and you know that he -thinks of you no more because you, yourself, have killed his soul in -him?' - -'I am flattered that Count Othmar has made me the subject of his -discourse with you!' - - * * * * * - -Damaris perceived the fault she had committed, the offence she had -excited. Resolute to follow out the purpose which had brought her -there, she drained the cup of bitterness which she had voluntarily -taken up to the last drop. - -'He hardly ever spoke of you,' she said. 'But I think he wished me to -know that all his thoughts and memories were yours, so that I should -not ever--ever--be misled to dream that they were mine. I have seen him -seldom; very seldom; only once this year; but that once he did speak of -you, and I knew that all his life was in your hands, and that he thinks -you do not care----' - -The words were simple, and not wisely chosen, and spoken out of the -fulness of her heart, but they carried a sense of their sincerity to -the sceptical ear of their auditor. Almost for the moment she believed -that they were truth. A sense of compassion touched her. - -This girl, so young, so ignorant, so hopelessly devoted to a man -who could be nothing to her, seemed to her childish, melodramatic, -plebeian, absurd; and yet had a certain nobility and force, and pathos, -and mystery in her which stirred to pity this heart which had never -known pity. She had been only a peasant, born and reared amongst the -rude toilers of the sea and of the soil; what fault was it of hers if -she had given away her life to the first man who had been kind to her, -and in whom she saw the charm of gentleness, the grace of culture? The -infinite comprehension which she herself possessed of all the frailties -and all the errors of human nature, almost supplied in her the place -of sympathy. She did not pity because she disdained so much; but she -understood, and that power of understanding made her in a manner -indulgent, though indulgent with contempt. - -But the memory of things which seemed to her damning witnesses of fact -rose to her thoughts, and checked as it arose the softer and more -intelligent impulse which for awhile had held her passive. - -She repulsed Damaris coldly, drawing once more her skirts from her -touch. - -'You are a good actress. Do not neglect your calling. Rise and go. You -have been too long maintained by Count Othmar to be able to play the -_rôle_ of disinterested innocence with any chance of duping me. Why you -come to me I cannot tell. Perhaps he sent you, teaching you your part.' - -Damaris rose to her feet, and her face grew scarlet with honest shame -and with indignant wonder. - -'I have never had anything of his except his kindness,' she said -passionately. 'I have never taken a coin from him any more than I took -yours in the street to-day. What he did for me in my illness I know was -charity--a debt I could never pay--I said so. But what I have lived on -has been my own, always my own, what my grandfather left to me when he -died.' - -For the moment even her listener believed her; her candid luminous eyes -flashing fire through their tears, her flushed indignant face, her -truthful voice, all bore their witness to her innocence and ignorance, -all told even the prejudice and arrogance of her judge, that whatever -the facts might be she herself believed the truth to be that which she -said. - -Mercy and generosity for a moment held the lips of Nadine silent; she -was a child, she was a peasant, if she were the dupe of her lover, was -hers the fault? But that jealous scorn which has no pity and no justice -in it, swept over her soul afresh, and extinguished in her all the -finer charities and nobler comprehension of her mind. - -'It is useless to tell me this,' she said with cold contempt. 'Whether -you know it or not, your grandfather left you nothing; you are living, -and you have lived, only on what my husband has given you. Leave me, -and try my patience no more. Count Othmar's amours are nothing to me, -but I do not care to have a comedy made out of them to be played for -some unknown purpose on my credulity.' - -Then she rang for her women. - -Damaris said no other word, all the light and warmth had gone out of -her face, there had come on it a pallid horror of incredulous and -stupefied doubt. - -Silently and quite feebly, as if all strength were gone out from her, -she passed across the chamber, and felt her way through the curtains -of the door. On the entrance she turned her head and looked back: her -great eyes had the look in them of a forest doe's when it is wounded -unto death. She looked back once, then went. - -Nadine smiled bitterly. - -'When she found that I knew all, she could say nothing!' she thought. -'She will be an acquisition to the French stage. Her melodrama was so -well acted that almost it deceived me. Why was it played?' - -She could not see the motive. For the first time in her life the -reasons for the actions which she watched escaped her. - -And think as she would that the scene had been a melodrama, an -invention, yet there were certain tones, certain words in it which -haunted her with a persistent sense of their truth. - -These had not been common entreaties, common reproaches, which Damaris -had addressed to her; there had been an impersonal generosity, a noble -simplicity, in them which lifted them out of the charge of sensational -and dramatic affectation. There was an enigma in them which she could -not solve. They were unselfish and founded on accurate knowledge; they -were out of keeping in the mouth of a paid companion of a man's passing -amourettes. It seemed wholly impossible to her that they could have -been spoken truthfully, and yet if they were not true there was no -sense in them. - -Some pang of self-consciousness moved her own heart as she pondered -on these passionate supplications to her to make the life which was -spent beside hers happier--'happier!'--that one simple word which was -so ill-fitted to the complex feelings, the capricious demands, and the -hypercritical exigencies of such characters as theirs. - -She had no doubt that her husband was the lover of this girl; the -denial of the one had moved her no more than the denial of the other; -all her knowledge of human nature told her that it must be so; but as -she sat in solitude a certain remorse came to her, a certain sense that -from her own unassailable height and dignity and rank she had stooped -to strike a creature not only unworthy of her wrath, but unprotected -by youth, by ignorance, and by the quixotic temerity which had made her -thus bold. - -She honoured courage. She could not refuse her respect to the courage -of this child. - -She could not class her with the common souls of earth. - -'Why did I not let her alone at the first? She was so content and so -safe on her island,' she thought, with that pang of conscience which -others had tried in vain to arouse in her. - -It had been a caprice light as the freak which makes a butterfly pause -on one flower instead of another. But the fruits of it were bitter to -her. - -When her women came she began her toilette for the dinner at the -Duchesse d'Uzès'. It was long, and nothing contented her. - -From that dinner she went to various other houses; she returned to her -own house late; she heard that Othmar had come back from Ferrières and -gone to his own apartments. The following day they would be obliged -to go to Amyôt. The great party there could by no possibility be -postponed; royal people were bidden to it. If such a gathering were -broken up at the last moment, for any less cause than death or illness, -the whole world would know that there was subject for separation and -dissension between her husband and herself. She would have given ten -years of her life to prevent the world ever knowing that. - -For the first time in her life, as her woman unrobed her and took -off her jewels, she was conscious that she had been unwise in the -management of fate. She had been desirous that the world should -see that her influence could even withstand and outlast all those -adversaries of time and custom and disillusion which saw stealthily -at the roots of every human happiness and sympathy; yet she had been -so careless and so indifferent, that she had allowed the very changes -which she wished the world never to see, to creep in upon her unawares. - -It had never occurred to her that she had been as inconsistent as one -who wishing to preserve untouched a fragile vase of crystal, should -set it and leave it in a crowded street for anyone to use or break who -chose. She had not cared to keep her crystal vase herself, and yet she -was enraged that it was broken. - - - - -CHAPTER LII. - - -Damaris went out blindly, down the staircase and across the vestibule -and halls into the open air. - -She had no knowledge of what she did; the serving-men looked at her and -then at each other, and laughed, and whispered some coarse things, but -no one attempted to arrest her steps; on the contrary, they put her -right when she mistook her way in the corridor, and almost shoved her -into the street, where the light of day was fading. - -She was strongly made in body and in mind, and in all the tumult of her -thoughts, the sickness of her shame, she did not grow faint, or forget -her road, or fall upon the stones, over which her feet were dragged so -wearily. - -She found the streets which led to the station of the West, and sat -down in the waiting-chamber, and heard the roar of Paris go on round -her like the roaring of wild beasts calling for food: that those beasts -had not devoured her was due to him; she did not reproach him or forget -her debt to him, only she wished that he had let her die that night -upon the bridge. - -The doors flew open, the bells rang, the crowds hastened; without any -conscious action on her part she was pushed with the others to the -wicket, paid the coins they asked her for, and found her way to a seat -in the crowded waggons. - -The train moved. Soon the cold country air of evening blowing through -an open window revived her, and brought her a clearer sense of where -she was, of what had happened. She saw always that cold, still, regal -figure looking down on her with such ineffable disdain; she heard -always that chill, languid, contemptuous voice, sweet as music, cruel -as the knife which severs the cord of life. - -'She does not believe,' she muttered again and again. 'She will never -believe.' - -Those who were in the carriage with her heard the broken stupid words -said over and over again, while her great eyes looked out, wide opened -and startled, into the shadows of the descending night. - -One or two of them spoke roughly to her, being afraid of her; then she -was silent, vaguely understanding that they thought her strange and odd. - -She leaned in a corner and shrank from their comments and their gaze. - -It was now quite dark; the flickering lamplight seemed to wane and -oscillate before her eyes; she had not touched food or water for many -hours; her throat was dry, her hands were hot, her head felt light; she -had done all she could and had failed. The only thing she had gained -was a knowledge which seemed to eat her very soul away with its shame -and misery. - -She was so young that she did not know that if she had patience to live -through this agony it would cease in time, and grow less terrible to -her with every year which should pass over her head. She did not know -the solace that comes with the mere passage of the seasons; to her the -shame, the torture she endured were eternal. - -She had taken his money innocently, ignorantly indeed, honestly -believing it to be her own; but she understood now why to his wife she -seemed only a wretched paid creature of hazard; she understood now why -the Princess de Laon had spoken to her as to one of whose avarice and -whose vileness there was no doubt. - -To the haughty, frank innocent soul of the child it was such -unspeakable degradation that it seemed to stop the very pulses of life -in her. - -She could have torn the clothes off her body because they had been -bought with this money she had ignorantly accepted as her own. - -Not for one moment did she do him the wrong that his wife had done -him; she never doubted his motives, or thought that any intention save -that of the kindest and most chivalrous compassion had been at the -root of his generosity to her. Her mind was too intrinsically noble, -her instincts were too pure and untainted by suspicion, for any baser -supposition to attach itself to him in her thoughts, even in the moment -of her greatest suffering. - - * * * * * - -Only she wished--ah, God! how she wished--that he had left her to die -on the bridge in that summer night. - -Intense pride had always been existent beneath her ardent and careless -temperament; the stubborn self-will of the peasant united to the finer, -more impersonal, pride derived from a great race. She had been always -taught to suffice for herself, to repel assistance as indignity, to -hold herself the equal of all living creatures; and now what was -she?--only what Jean Bérarde, had he been living, would have driven -out of his presence as a beggar, only what all the labourers in the -fields of the vale of Chevreuse would have the right to hoot after -as she passed them. Her imagination distorted and her sensitiveness -exaggerated all the debt she owed to Othmar; to herself she seemed -nothing better than any one of those wretched paupers who stretched -their hands out to him as he passed. The shame of it made all the -devotion she bore to him seem a horror, a disgrace, a thing cankered -and corrupt, which he must despise utterly if he knew aught of it. And -what should he know? What should he care? What could she be in his -sight except a friendless, lonely thing, whom he had saved from want, -as he might save any ragged, homeless, child who asked for a sou from -him in the streets. - -She loved him with the passion of Juliet, of Francesca, of Mignon, and -she found herself so disgraced in her own sight that nothing she could -ever do, it seemed to her, would make any utterance from her, even of -gratitude, worth the breath spent in speaking it. To him and to his -wife she would be for ever, all their lives long, only a peasant who -had not had strength or courage to earn her own daily bread. - -The cold scorn which had gazed at her from the eyes of his wife seemed -to pierce through and through the very core and centre of her life. -She had dreamed of being great in this woman's sight, of compelling -her admiration, her applause, even her envy!--and all the while she -had been nothing more than any dog which lived on the food thrown from -their table. - -The train went on through the descending darkness of the night, and -the scent of the wind blowing over grass-lands and wheat-fields came -to her in her trance, and filled her with a strange dumb longing to -be put away for ever in silence under the cool and kindly earth, the -budding leaves, the sprouting corn. The aged hate the thought of death, -and fear and shun it; but for the young it has no terrors, and in their -pain it always beckons, with a smile, to them to rest in the arms of -the great Madre Natura. Death seemed to her the only stream which could -wash her soul white again from the indignity it had, all unconsciously, -accepted. A passion which was hopeless and cruel, and ashamed of -its own force, burned up her young heart like fire. Dead, only, it -seemed to him that she might keep some place in his compassion and his -remembrance without indignity. - -She descended at the familiar road-side of Trappes, and passed through -the wicket, and took her way through the country paths she knew so -well. It was not yet a year since they had first brought her there, and -she had laughed with joy to see the country sights and hear the country -sounds once more. Now they only hurt her with an intolerable pain. - -The night was dark, and a fine slight rain was falling, but she was -not conscious of it. She found her way by instinct, as a blind dog -finds his; it was long, and went over fields and pastures, but she kept -straight on unerringly, going home, why she knew not, for she felt that -she would never dwell there another day: now that she knew. - -Now that she knew, she could not have touched a coin of that silver -and gold which lay in her drawer in her room at Les Hameaux; she would -not have eaten a crust of the bread which had been purchased with it. -She had no idea what she would do; she was alone once more, as utterly -alone as she had been when her solitary boat had been launched on the -world of waters, to reach a haven or to founder as it might. Her only -instinct was to go anywhere on the earth, or under the earth, where the -eyes of Othmar's wife could never find her in their merciless scorn. - -Everything had gone from her, all her dreams of a future, all her love -for art and for the poets, all her bright and buoyant courage, all her -innocent and idealised ambitions: they were all gone for evermore; -she was alone without that companionship of a fearless hope which had -sustained her strength upon the lonely seas, and in the hell of Paris. -She had no hope now of any kind; and youth can no more live without -it, than flowers can live without the air of heaven. She was weakened -from fasting, and her brain was giddy; as she walked on over the rough -ground through the chill rain, she thought she was on the island; she -thought her grandfather was calling to her not to loiter, she thought -dead Catherine was stretching out her arms to her, and crying, 'Hasten! -hasten!' She smelt the odour of the orange flowers, she heard the sound -of the sea washing up amongst the pebbles and the sand--'if I could -only die there, if I could only die there,' she thought dully, as she -stumbled through the wet grass and the fields of colza. - -Death would be so easy and so sweet, amongst the blue bright rolling -water, in the scented southerly air, under the broad white moon of her -own skies. - -She came with a shock to a knowledge that she was entering the village -of Les Hameaux as a peasant driving furiously shrieked to her to move -out of his road, and in the cabins around the lights twinkled as the -people of the house sat at their suppers of soup and bread. Burning -tears rushed to her eyes and fell down her cheeks. She knew that she -would never see the shores of Bonaventure again in life. - -She went through the village with weary steps, she was very tired, her -wet clothes clung to her, her face was white and drawn, her hands and -her throat were hot. Some people leaning against the doorposts of their -houses looked at her, and wondered to see her out so late, so wet, so -jaded, and all alone. She went through the hamlet without pausing and -without hearing any of the words called out to her. - -Outside the village and on the road to the farm of the Croix Blanche, -there stood a lonely cottage, half hidden in elder trees and built -two centuries before with the stones and rubble of the ruins of Port -Royal. A woman whom she knew dwelt there with four young children: a -widow, very poor, making what living she could from poultry and from -fruit; a laborious, patient, honest, and good soul, always at work in -all weathers, and happy because the four fair-haired laughing children -tumbled after her in the grass or in the dust. - -As she passed down the road in the grey film of rain, this woman ran -out of the house to her, weeping piteously, and catching at her clothes -to make her stop. - -'My Pierrot is dying!' she cried to her. 'He has the ball in his -throat--he will be dead by dawn--for the love of God send some one to -me. I am all alone.' - -Damaris pausing, looked at her stupidly. Indistinctly roused from her -own stupor, she was unconscious for the moment where she was or who -spoke to her. The light through the open doorway streamed out into the -road; she saw the wild eyes, the tearful cheeks, the dishevelled hair -of the wretched mother; she understood by instinct what woe had come -upon the house. Pierrot was the youngest and the prettiest of the four -little children who lived huddled together, and happy under these elder -trees like small unfledged birds in a nest. - -'Do not come in, do not come near him,' cried the woman, 'oh, my dear, -it would be death; but send some one who is old and will not mind; the -old never take this sickness--and I have been all alone till I am mad. -My pretty baby--the prettiest, the youngest!' - -Damaris looked at her with dull, blind eyes. A strange sense of -fatality came on her; here was death--not death in the clear blue water -which would never more smite her limbs with its joyous blows, and rock -her in the cradle of its waves; but death which would end all things, -which would put her away to rest under the green earth, which would -purify her from greed and from baseness in his sight. She turned and -entered through the doorway of the house. - -'I am not afraid,' she said to the woman. 'I will stay with Pierrot.' - -The woman strove to draw her back, but she would not be dissuaded from -her choice. - -'If God will it, I shall die,' she thought; 'and if I die, then perhaps -she will believe, and he remember me.' - - - - -CHAPTER LIII. - - -The great Easter fêtes at Amyôt were successful with all that -brilliancy of decoration and novelty of wit for which their mistress -was famous to all Europe. The weather was mild, the guests were -harmonious, the princes and their consorts were well amused; nothing -more agreeable or more original had been known in the entertainments of -the time; and the choicest and rarest forms of art were brought there -to lend the dignity of scholarship to the graces and frivolities of -pleasure. - -No one noticed that the host and hostess of Amyôt never once spoke a -word to each other throughout this week of ceremony and festivity, -except such phrases as their reception of and courtesy to others -compelled them to exchange. No one observed or suspected the bitter -estrangement between them, so well did each play their parts in this -pageantry and comedy of society. No one except Blanche de Laon, who -thought with contentment: '_ça marche_!' - -Othmar had not seen his wife for one moment alone since the day when -he had left her with the bitterness of her incredulity and her insult -like ashes in his soul. - -The world with its demands, its subjugations, and its perpetual -audience, was always there. - - Que de fois fermente et gronde, - Sous un air de froid nonchaloir, - Un souriant désespoir - Sous la mascarade du monde! - -He knew not whether he most loathed, or was most grateful to, this -constant crowd and pressure of society which spared him thought, -postponed decision, gave him no leisure to look into his own soul, -and sent him to his joyless couch more tired out with the fatigue of -so-called pleasure than the labourer in the vineyards or the forests by -his day of toil. - -The six days passed without any cloud upon their splendour or their -gaiety, so far as the three hundred guests gathered there could see, -or even dreamed. The sunshine of the early spring was poured on the -glittering roofs, the stately terraces, the towers and fanes, the -gardens and the waters, of this gracious place where the old French -life of other days seemed to revive with all its wit, its elegance, and -its good manners, as they had been before the shadow of the guillotine -fell over a darkened land. With the eighth day the royal guests and -most of the others took their leave. Some score of friends more -intimate alone remained there. - -A certain dread came upon him of the first hour on which he should -find himself alone before his wife. He felt that it was the supreme -crisis of his life with her; the frail cup of existence in which their -happiness, such as it was, was placed, was set in the furnace of doubt -to be graven and proved, or to be wrecked and burst into a thousand -pieces. - -'If only she would say to me that she believed me,' he thought, 'I -would, I think, forgive the rest.' - -But this she never said. - -Man-like, the very indignity he had suffered, the very sense he had of -her cruelty, her insolence, her injustice, seemed only to re-awaken in -him that passion for her which had so deeply coloured and absorbed his -nature. The very knowledge that legally and in name he was her master, -her possessor, whilst in fact he could not touch a hair of her head -or move a chord of her heart, sufficed to re-arouse in him all those -desires which die of facility and familiarity, and acquire the strength -of giants on denial. - -He had almost forgotten Damaris. The gentle and compassionate -tenderness he felt for her could have no place beside the bitter-sweet -passion which filled his memory and his soul for his wife. - -In these days, when he was constantly in her presence, constantly -within the sound of her voice, and compelled by the conventionalities -of society to address conventional phrases to her, whilst yet severed -by the world from her as much as if a river of fire were between -them, something of that delirious love which he had felt for her in -the lifetime of Napraxine returned to him, united to a passion of -regret and a poignancy of wrath which was almost hatred. He was her -husband--her lord by all the fictions of men's laws--and he would not -be permitted to touch one of the pearls about her throat or obtain five -minutes' audience of her! She was the mother of his children, and yet -she was as far aloof from him as though she were some Phidian statue -with jewelled eyes and breasts of ivory! - -Whilst he went amongst his guests outwardly calm and coldly courteous, -fulfilling all the duties of a host, his heart was in a tumult of -indignation and despair. The failure of his whole life was before him. -Without her the whole of the world was valueless to him. - -Yet of one thing he was resolved. He would not live under the same roof -with a woman who believed him guilty of a lie to her, who insulted him -as he would not have insulted the commonest of his servants. He would -sever his existence from hers, let it cost him what it would. The cost -would be great: to bring the world as a witness of their disunion; -to admit to society that his marriage had been a failure, like so -many others; to let his children, as they grew older, know that their -parents were strangers and enemies: all this would be more bitter than -death itself to him. All the reserve and the delicacy of his temper -made the idea of the world's comments on his quarrel with his wife -intolerable to him, and the rupture of his ties to her unendurably -painful in its inevitable publicity. He was lover enough still to -shrink from the thought of any future in which he would cease to hear -her voice, to see her face. True, of late their union had been but -nominal. She had passed her life in separate interests and separate -pleasures. She had allowed him to see no more of her than her merest -acquaintances saw, and to meet her only in the crowds of that great -world which separates what it unites. Yet absolute severance from -her--such severance as would be inevitable if once their existences -were led apart--was a thing without hope, would make him more powerless -to touch her hand, to approach her presence, than any stranger who had -access to her house. Once separated, her pride and his would keep them -asunder till the grave. He knew that, and all the remembered passion -which had been at once the strongest and the weakest thing in him -shrank from the vision of his lonely future. - -Yet all the manhood in him told him that to continue to live under -the same roof with a woman whose every word was insult to him, would -degrade him utterly and for ever in his eyes and in her own. And -he had loved her too passionately for it to be possible for him to -continue to dwell in that passive enmity, that alienation covered with -ostensible cordiality and external courtesy, with which so many men and -women deceive society to the end of their lives, and sustain a hollow -truce, of which the hatefulness and the untruth are only visible to -themselves and to their children. Such insincerity, such hypocrisy, as -this, were to him altogether impossible. Sooner than lead such a life, -he felt that he would end his days with his own hand, and leave mankind -to blame him as they would: they would not blame her. - -On her part, unknown to him, she watched him with a new interest, -bitter, painful, and more absorbing than any which had ever had power -upon her; a feeling of disdain, of scorn, of impatience, of regret, -of forgiveness, of tenderness, all inextricably mingled in an emotion -stronger than any she had known. When she thought of him as in any -way with however much indifference as the lover of Damaris, she was -conscious of an intense disgust, of a wondering scorn, which were not -wise or cold, or temperate with the judicial severity of her usual -judgments, but were merely and strongly human, and born of human -emotions. They humiliated her with the consciousness of their own -humanity, and the uncontrollable bitterness of the sentiments which -they aroused in her. Jealousy it could have scarce been called. For -jealousy implies a recognition of equality, a fear of usurpation, and -these to her haughty soul were impossible in face of a peasant girl, -a _déclassée_, a waif and stray, with no place in the world save such -as Othmar might choose to give her. Jealousy in this sense, jealousy -intellectual and moral it was not; but jealousy physical it was. She -thought and hated to think of the personal beauty of Damaris; she -thought and hated to think of all those summer hours in her own house -in which that beauty had been helpless and dependent before him. Like -all women who know much of the natures of men, she knew that the senses -were often beyond control, when the heart in no way went with them. -She had always thought that it would never matter to her whither such -undisciplined vagaries might lead him. She had always felt with the -disdain of a nature over which physical desires have little power, that -wherever his caprice took him there he might go for aught that she -would say to restrain him. - -She was startled to find that it did pain her, that it did revolt her, -to believe that this disloyalty had been done her, that this child had -had from him even the slightest, most soulless kind of love. - -Her world had never seen her more full of wit, and grace, and -brilliancy, than in those days when in her inmost soul she suffered -more mental pain and doubt than she had ever known. Life had become -touched with humiliation, indignation, emotion of a complex kind, -contemptuous anger, and a vague remorse; but it had thereby become to -her once more a thing of interest and of vitality, her languor had been -startled, her self-love shocked, her whole nature stirred. She gave no -sign of it that any one, either foe or friend, could read, but she was -conscious that these emotions which she had ridiculed in others could -become the dominant forces and tyrannical preoccupation even of her own -thoughts and life. - -A sensation of failure, of loss, of humiliation, was always with her; -not so much for this fact of what she believed to be his infidelity, -as for her own consciousness that she herself had been untrue to all -the theories and philosophies of her existence, that she had failed -to guide their lives into that calm haven of friendship and mutual -comprehension which had always seemed to her the only possibly decent -grave for a dead passion; and had failed also in this crisis of their -fates to preserve that wisdom, patience, and composure, which can alone -lend dignity to the woman who sees her power passed away. - -All her life long she had woven the most ingenious and elaborate -theories as to the failure of men and women to secure fidelity and -peace; she had reasoned with perfect philosophy on the causes of that -failure, and turned to ridicule that childish passion and that fretful -inaptitude with which the great majority meet those inevitable changes -of the affections and the character which time brings to all. But now, -she herself, having been met with such changes, had done no better, and -been no wiser than they all. She had suffered like them, she had made -reproaches like them, she had allowed indignation and offence to hasten -her into anger which could only gratify her enemies and all the gaping -world. - -'Any fool could have done what I have done!' she thought, with bitter -impatience against herself: any fool could have reproached him, and -denounced him, and placed him in such a position that out of sheer -manliness he had no choice left but to reiterate the untruth once told, -and go on in the path once taken. - -Yet she knew that were it to be done again, again she would do the -same. When she thought of him as the lover of this child, she was only -conscious of the mere foolish, irrational, personal, bitterness of -emotion which any other feebler woman would have felt. - -Had she not said under the oaktrees yonder in her Court of Love, that -inconstancy, being only involuntary, should be blamed by none: had -she not again and again said and thought that what a woman or a lover -cannot keep, they well deserve to lose: had she not quoted from the -poets and the philosophers of a thousand years, to prove by a thousand -lines of wisdom that it is 'not under our control to love or not to -love:' and was this not most supreme truth? - -Why then in face of the first faithlessness which she had ever -known, had she had no better or wiser impulse in her than that of -anger?--such stupid, witless, unwise anger, as Jeanne in the kitchens -would feel against Jeannot in the stables. What use were the most -subtle intellect, the most delicate and penetrating perception, the -most intimate and accurate knowledge of human nature, if all these only -resulted in producing, under trial, such primitive instincts, and such -simple emotions, as would exist in the untutored brain and the rude -breast of any peasant woman passing under the trees of the park yonder -with her herd of milch cows, or her flock of sheep? If the higher -intelligence could not reach a nirvaña of perfect tolerance, of perfect -comprehension, of perfect indifference, of what avail were its culture -and its pride? - -All men were inconstant; she knew that. It was not their fault; they -were made so. She believed that, had he told her frankly of his -frailties, she would have been perfectly indifferent and indulgent to -them. It was the long deception and concealment which had seemed to her -so contemptible. 'Such a coward--such a coward!' she thought bitterly. -Cowardice was to her the one unpardonable sin. - -As she and Béthune walked on the seventh evening before dinner through -the outer gardens, where these joined the woods, they chanced to see -in the distance the same Lubin and Lisette, whom they had seen as -lovers two years before, and who had been wedded with many gifts and -much gaiety in the August weather a week or two after the sitting of -the Court of Love. The man was walking far ahead this time; the woman -lagged behind; the cows were the same happy creatures, serene and mild, -going through the sun and shadow, pausing to crop a mouthful of sweet -grass between the beechen banks; but the lovers were only now a lout -who whistled and smoked, a scold who fumed and wept. - -'Let us ask how the idyl ends,' said the Lady of Amyôt. 'It is easy to -see that it is ended.' - -'Ah, Madame,' said the woman being interrogated, '_voilà qu'il regarde -déjà la petite Flore_!' - -Her châtelaine laughed with a certain bitter tone in her laughter. - -'"_Voilà qu'il regarde déjà la petite Flore_,"' she repeated; 'and she -is so stupid that she knows no better than to be angry!' - -Béthune glanced at her wistfully. After a moment's silence he said in a -low tone: - -'There are those who never look--elsewhere.' - -She smiled, knowing his meaning, and touched by the remembrance of his -long constancy. - -'Ah, my dear friend,' she said, with some pang of conscience, 'I have -had too much affection given me in my life, and perhaps I have given -too little.' - -As she walked back through the gardens, under the long arcades covered -with tea roses and the banksian creepers, she thought with that -ridicule of herself, as of others, which was always sure to succeed any -emotion: - -'_Nous voilà en plein mélodrame!_--the contrast of the husband's -infidelity makes the lover's fidelity touch the hard heart of the -deserted wife! We are all grouped ready for the stage of the Gymnase!' - -She seemed absurd to herself in her anger and her humiliation. She had -always been so contemptuous of life when it grew melodramatic, although -so impatient of it while it remained dull. - -Othmar watched her cross the gardens from where he stood in one of the -windows of his library. Under the excuse of many letters to dictate to -his secretaries, he had escaped for awhile from his guests. - -It was near sunset, the light so clear and cool of earliest spring was -shining on the terraces and rose walks, and clipped bay hedges of the -garden to the south which had been left unaltered from the Valois time. -The peacocks were moving up and down on the grass, the first swallows -were wheeling above the glowing colour of the azalea thickets, a light -breeze was blowing the spray of the fountains this way and that; he -watched her as she came through the dewy green foliage and under the -white and yellow tea roses; she wore a gown of white velvet, she had a -high ivory handled cane, there was a white greyhound before her, and -the graceful figure of Béthune at her side. He saw her gather one of -the Maréchal Niel roses above her head, and fasten it in the bosom of -her dress; Béthune said something to her; she gathered another and let -him take it. - -Othmar watched them with a pang. - -'If I died to-morrow I suppose she would give him her hand as she gives -him that rose!' he thought, and the thought was intolerable to him. -'She thinks me faithless to her, and she does not care; she was angered -for an instant; only that; then her days pass on the same; she has all -her courtiers and friends about her; she does not need me, or miss me -amongst them.' - -And he watched her with eyes which studied her incomparable grace, her -divine languor, her indolent movements, as though he saw them then for -the first time; so great a quickener of sleeping love is the sting of a -jealous fear. - -But his heart was very weary. She had wounded, insulted, injured him, -well nigh beyond forgiveness; she had dishonoured him with the secret -observation of his actions and the open accusation of his falsehood. -She had had him followed and tracked like a criminal, and had refused -to believe his word, which all Europe honoured as the surety of -unimpeached truth. - -Greater insult surely no woman could do to any man. - -And yet, if she would only say one word, he felt that he was ready to -forget that she had done so; he was ashamed of his own weakness, but -he knew that he would forgive everything:--and he reminded himself of -his own offences to her without extenuation, willing to find in blame -of himself excuse for herself. - -He watched her now as she came slowly and smiling under the trellis of -the roses: to look at her it seemed that she had no care, no regret, no -desire. - -'And if I went out and shot myself to-night,' he thought, as he watched -the two figures pass on under the trellised roses, 'she would have -called Béthune to console her before the year was out?' - -He believed it; but, man-like, the belief only gave her a stronger -dominion over him. - -He thought of some verses which he had read not long before, -written by that poet who, more perfectly than any other, mirrors -the dissatisfaction, the wistfulness, the intricate emotions, the -unsatisfied passions of our time. - - Que n'ai-je à te soumettre, ou bien à t'obéir? - Je te vouerais ma force ou te la ferais craindre: - Esclave ou maître, au moins je te pourrais contraindre - A me sentir ta chose, ou bien à me haïr. - - J'aurais un jour connu l'insolite plaisir, - D'allumer dans ton c[oe]ur des soifs ou d'en éteindre, - De t'être nécessaire ou terrible, et d'atteindre, - Bon gré, mal gré, le c[oe]ur jusque là sans désir. - - Esclave ou maître, au moins j'entrerais dans ta vie, - Par mes soins captivée, à mon joug réservée, - Tu ne pourrais me fuir, ni me laisser partir. - - Mais je meurs sous tes yeux, loin de ton être intime, - Sans même oser crier, car ce droit, du martyr, - Ta douceur impeccable en frustre ta victime. - -For seven years he had been always the nominal, sometimes the actual, -possessor of her life, and yet he had never once known whether this -woman whom he had possessed had ever had one moment of what could be -called love for him! Many women had loved him for whom he had felt -nothing; but by one of those strange and melancholy ironies of which -life is so full the only women he had loved--the courtezan who had -ruined his boyhood, and his wife who had ruined his manhood--had given -themselves to him, without love. - -He shut the window at which he stood, and turned away with a bitter -sigh:--without her life would be for ever valueless to him. - -Nadège and her servitor, unconscious of his observation of them, -entered the house; it was the moment when people gathered in the -conservatories for tea; the most pleasant hour of the twenty-four was -spent thus amongst the flowers; often there was music in the music-room -adjoining; the children usually came there with their pretty grace and -gaiety, their long loose hair, their bright costumes, looking like -larger butterflies under the fronds of the palms. - -As she went towards her own apartments to rest there a little while -before joining her guests and friends in the orchid-houses, one of -her confidential servants brought her a note which had been sent by -hand from Beaugency, and was marked urgent. She was about to send it -unopened to her secretary, for letters wearied her and she seldom -read them herself unless their superscription told her that they were -of some especial interest, when she saw written in the corner of the -envelope the name of Rosselin. She knew that it was the name of the -great artist who had been the teacher of Damaris Bérarde. - -She took the packet with her to her own rooms and once alone there -opened it. There were two letters inside it. One was written in a -feeble unformed hand, the words were ill-shaped, and the lines were -uneven. The fingers which had traced them had never been very skilful -in the management of the pen, being more used to guide the tiller ropes -of a boat, or the handle of a scythe. - -The characters were ill-writ and very pale, but she could read them; -she knew even without reading them, that they came from Damaris; they -were brief: - -'When you get this, Madame, I shall not be living. Then I think you -will not be angered any more, and you will believe. Do not let him -know, because it would pain him. I mean, do not let him learn that I -sought this death myself. Perhaps it was wrong, but I saw no other way; -I could not live any longer on his charity now that I know. Before, -I did not know. I could not bear to live either without seeing him -sometimes, and I should never see him. Nothing wants me except the -dogs, and they will be happy on the farm here. My master would only -be disappointed in me if I lived. The world would not care for me. I -should not have any strength in me to make it care. I used to think -that I had genius, but it is all dead in me, quite dead now;--perhaps -it was only imagination, and the wish to be something I was not, and -the mere love I had of the poets. Forgive me that I write to you; I -want to beg you to believe. I would have given my life for him, but he -never thought of me in that way. I pray you to make him happier. I wish -I could have seen him once----.' - -The ill-written words ended abruptly, as though the pen which had -written them had suddenly fallen from a hand too weak to hold it any -more. - -On an outside sheet was written in the fine clear writing of Rosselin: - -'She died last night as the moon rose. I write to you, Madame, instead -of to your husband by her desire. You will tell him as much or as -little as you choose. I had not seen her for four days. God pardon me -for it! I shall never pardon myself. I had left her in anger because -I could not persuade her to play before you at Amyôt, and in anger I -had stayed away from her. When they sent for me I found her already -dying. The woman of the house told me that she had been one day alone -to Paris, and what had been done to her there this woman did not know, -but on her return she was quite silent, and very feverish and strange. -She wandered about the village and the fields, and would scarcely come -into the house to bed. At one of the cottages a young child she had -often played with was lying ill with diphtheria. Damaris remained day -and night with him, and when he was dying kissed him on the mouth: she -never confessed it to me, but I believe that she sought death that way, -for I think life for some reason or other which I know not had become -wholly intolerable to her. She suffered very much. I brought her all -the aid that science could give her, but it was of no avail. She had no -wish to live, I think. She talked often of her island, and of the sea, -and of the boats. Latterly she could not speak at all, then she wrote -to you. It is a hideous death: heaven spare you and yours the like. -You feel no sorrow for anything they say, but I think you would have -been sorry for her. Perhaps it is best so. The world would have broken -her heart; it has no place in it for such dreams as hers were. To the -last she bade me never to let your husband know. Her last thought was -of him. He was very good to her, but a worse man would perhaps have -injured her genius less. I know not what passed between her and you. -I only know that she had seen you. Whether you said anything which -made her despair of living I cannot tell; all she said when she became -delirious, which she did become towards the end, was only this always: -"She will believe now, she will believe now." So I suppose you doubted -her. I send you the few lines which she wrote three hours before she -died when she could scarcely see. I have not read them myself. I think -she would not wish me to do so. I am over eighty years old; it is -hard to live so long only to see the last thing that one loves perish -miserably. But she had genius, and the world hates it, so perhaps after -all it is best as it is.' - -She put the letters down, one on another, and her face had a great -blankness of horror on it. Like Yseulte, this child had died for him, -through her. - -She shuddered as with cold in the warm fragrant air of her room, and -large tears sprang into her eyes. - -She could not doubt now. - -She locked her doors, and no one entered there for an hour. - - - - -CHAPTER LIV. - - -When that time had passed she descended the grand staircase and joined -her friends in the conservatories; the tea roses renewed in the white -velvet of her corsage, the great pearls lying on her white soft breast. -No one was aware of anything changed in her manner or aspect. Twice or -thrice she looked nervously at the doors; that was all; she was afraid -of seeing her husband enter. - -When he came she looked away from him, and Blanche de Laon, who was -near her, saw a certain tremor on her lips, and thought with victorious -pleasure, though uncertain of the cause: _Ça vous blesse, hein? Ça vous -blesse?_ - -At the long dinner she was somewhat silent and absorbed, but her world -was used to her caprices, and knew that she was seldom pleased long. -Men endeavoured all the more to amuse her. They thought that they -succeeded. They did not know that instead of the brilliant room, the -faces of her friends, the flowers and fruits of the table, and the -frescoes of the walls, she only saw a little low dark chamber with a -girl dying miserably in it, like a strangled dog, as the moon rose. - -She had never believed in sacrifice or in remorse, or if forced to -believe in them she had said with disdain, 'What melodrama!' But she -believed now. - -Shame and remorse approached the delicate hauteur of her life and -touched it for the first time. What she had thought so low had humbled -her. - -The dinner seemed very long to her, the evening slow to pass; the -burden of the world can be at times as heavy as the travail of the -poor; there were the usual pastimes, and wit, and gaiety; Paul of -Lemberg was there, and the ineffable sweetness of his music thrilled -through the flower-scented air; people laughed low, and played high, -and made love in shadowy corners; it was all pretty, and graceful, and -amusing. But she, amidst it all, only heard a voice which cried to her: - -'Why will you not believe?' - -She only saw a grave made in dark wet earth, and a girl's body -thrust into it in cruel haste, and sods thrown in one on another on -the lifeless limbs, the dull hair, the disfigured throat; it was -horrible--horrible! Why had she not left her alone in the gay sunshine, -under the orange trees, by the blue water? - -With all the pressure and the distraction of society upon her she was -endlessly pursued by the self-accusation which had been brought to her -by those simple lines traced by a dying child. - -A consciousness of the supreme good fortune with which fate had always -lightened her own life, came to her, for the first time, with a sense -of unworthiness and ingratitude in herself. A consciousness of the -greatness of the gifts she had received, and of the little she had -given in return, smote her heart with a vague repentance and a vague -fear. What had she done with all those lives which had been put into -her hands, with all the loyalty and the devotion which had been spent -on her oftentimes, without receiving from her even a passing pity in -recognition of it? Would not life tire one day of blessing her, when -she gave no benediction in return? - -She had always cared so little, she had been always so indifferent -and so dissatisfied. Would fate not strike her with a rough, wild -justice, if it took from her her children, her husband, her intellect, -her fortune, her beauty? Would not destiny be only fair and honest -if it forced her on her knees beside some death-bed of some creature -well-beloved, and said to her:-- - -'You have never been content in happiness; henceforward you shall dwell -with sorrow.' - -Fear touched her for the sole time in her victorious and indifferent -life; she was afraid lest one day she should stand alone with only the -graves of what had been once dear to her as her companions and her -friends: one day when youth and power and beauty and wit would all be -gone from her:----like the great sovereigns of the world, she shuddered -to remember that she was mortal. - -With all her philosophy and epigram, she had discoursed full many a -time of the only cruel certainty life holds: the certainty that _tout -lasse, tout casse, tout passe_. She had played with the dread problems -which Time, the merciless master of the highest, sets before all his -scholars with no solution to them possible to the clearest brains. And -whilst she had toyed with their subtleties, this child had had the -courage to cut the knot and pass away for ever to the eternal night of -nothingness! - -Some perception of the utter selfishness of her whole existence smote -her as she sat alone in the stillness of the after-midnight hours. - -These children dwarfed her in her own sight. They had been mere -children, both of them, foolish, romantic, unwise, exaggerated: but -they had been in a way sublime. And he had loved neither of them. He -had only loved her who had left his heart empty, his affections cold, -his life dissatisfied and solitary. - -For the first time since she had thought at all, a passionate -repentance and regret came on her; a sense of her own cruelty weighed -heavily upon her. Why had she not been more tolerant, more merciful, -more willing to acknowledge that innocence and generosity of which she -had been so unwillingly conscious all the while that Damaris Bérarde -had stood before her? Why had she not been guided by that serenity and -tolerance of judgment on which she had so long prided herself; why had -she crushed to the earth with the weight of her scorn, and her rank, -and her place as his wife, this lonely creature who had loved him so -humbly, so silently, so perfectly? - -There was a greatness in her own nature, obscured as it was by the -languors of self-love and the vanities of the world, which forced -her to recognise the greatness of the simple words sent to her. She -herself, in her anger, in her incredulity, in her cruelty, seemed to -her own eyes very poor beside them. She had judged as the common herd -always judged: coarsely, superficially, brutally. No better. - -She was humbled in her own eyes. The sentimentalists had conquered -throughout, they had been greater than she! - -Poor Mignon, with her heart breaking in a love which she dared not -avow, which no one wanted! - -A few kind words might have saved her; might have healed the bruised -child's heart and made it strong for the burden of life; and she had -not spoken those words. - -If she had read this story in a book of poems, if she had seen it -unfolded on the scene of a pastoral as of an opera, it would have -touched her; but as it had been in real life she had not cared; because -the living, throbbing, aching nerves had been alive before her she had -not cared; she had turned away, and had left them to bleed to death as -they would--as they might. - -A sense of guilt was upon her. She felt as though she had killed some -humble, wounded animal which had crept to her feet for safety. She had -always declared that genius was sacred to her; and now she had dealt -with it as a mere common noxious thing, and driven it away from her to -perish. - -'And we are such wretched shallow egotists,' she thought. 'I grieve for -her now, and I know that she has been greater than I shall ever be, and -I know that we have killed her--he and I and the world which had no -place for her; and yet how often shall I remember her, how often shall -I be gentler to others for her sake?--once or twice, whilst the memory -of her is warm perhaps--no more; one has no time.' - -Rosselin would remember every hour of all such few days as might remain -to him on earth; but no one else. - -'Oh, foolish child,' she thought, 'to die for that! Why not have lived, -and reigned over the souls of men, and put a curb on the slavering -mouth of the fawning world! It is never worth an hour of sacrifice.' - -Yet all overwrought, unwise, useless, as such sacrifice was, it had -a nobility in it which awed her, and a generosity which made her own -egotism seem poor and pale beside it. - -'Make him happier.' - -The unselfish prayer of the dead girl touched her conscience and her -heart as no rebuke would ever have done. She had the power to do so -still; that she did not doubt. He was hers in every way if she chose to -stretch her hand out to him. - -A sense of the infinite patience, and fidelity, and devotion of the -great love which he had always borne her from the first hour his -eyes had met hers came to her with the force of a reproach from the -grave itself. His submission to her caprices, his constancy under her -neglect, his instant response to the faintest kindness from her, his -unchangeable tenderness which outlived the many mortal wounds she -dealt to it; all these came to her memory with a sense of her own debt -to them, of their own sweetness and patience, and long suffering. In -him she could if she chose find a friend, whom no fault of hers would -alienate, and no passing of time make weary. She had had too much love -given to her in her life; she saw that she had been too careless of -this, the greatest gift life holds: and death had come too often where -she passed. - -The chill of its ghastly presence seemed with her as she moved through -the silent house in the still small hours. This child had had force in -her youth to seek death, but she feared it: she who had feared nothing -on earth or in heaven. - -When all the guests were gone to their chambers, and the great house -was still, she did what she had never once done in the years of their -marriage: she went to seek Othmar instead of sending her women to -summon him. She had on her pale rose satin chamber-gown, and even in -that moment, with an impulse of care for her person and its charms, -a coquetry which would never cease in her whilst she had breath, she -paused a moment before one of the mirrors, and glanced lingeringly at -her own reflection, and put some fresh roses in her bosom. Had she been -on her way to the scaffold she would have done the same: had the same -remembrance of her own power to charm. - -As she passed one of the great windows of the hall, she looked at the -night without. The moon, which rose late, being on its decline, poured -its whole light over the gardens and the forests beyond. A white owl -flew through the clear air; the shadow of the great palace fell black -over the silvered grass, distant bells for daybreak prayer were ringing -very far away over the hushed country. - -And the night before, 'as the moon rose,' Damaris Bérarde had died in -her narrow chamber, in all her beauty and strength, in all the height -of her dreams and hopes, in all the vigorous promise of life which had -been as full and as fair in her as was now the promise of spring in the -woods: and these were all gone for ever and for ever, the body laid in -the earth to perish, and the tender and valiant soul passed away like a -dew that dries up before the heats of the noonday. - -'Heaven spare such death to you and yours!' - -She remembered the words with the first sense of terror her nature had -ever known. They seemed less like a prayer for good than like a menace -of evil. She thought of the fair lives of her children: not fairer -than had been this other young life which she had first seen under the -starry orange flowers above the edge of the sea. - -Why could she not have left her alone? - -She passed through the length of the quiet building to her husband's -rooms. He was writing at a writing-table with his back turned to her, -and did not raise his head at the sound of the unclosing door. - -But as the sweet rose-scent came towards him on the air, a -consciousness of her presence came with it: he started violently and -rose to his feet. He was very pale as he bowed low before her, then -stood waiting for her to speak. She was silent some moments. - -To her temper so imperious, so arrogant, so indifferent, to praise or -blame, it was not without great effort that she could say what she had -come to say. - -A strong emotion moved her. She had never believed it possible for her -conscience to pain her, for her heart to ache with self-reproach, as -they did now. - -'Make him happier.' - -The childish words haunted her. After all, what had she ever given him -in return for the supreme devotion of his life? A few hours of physical -ecstasy; and years of indifference, mockery, and neglect. - -'Make him happier.' - -To her critical intelligence and satiated mind, happiness in such -simple reading of the word could not exist; it needed faith, it needed -ignorance, it needed youth; it is never possible to those whose -passions demand what nothing mortal can satisfy. Yet some reparation -she knew she might still give to him; some gentleness, some sympathy, -some response. These children who had loved him so well should not have -died wholly in vain. - -She leaned towards him, and the fragrance of the roses in her breast -swept with dreamy sweetness over him. - -'I came to ask your pardon,' she said in a low voice. 'I wronged you, I -insulted you----' - -He bowed low, and his lips, as they touched her hand, were very cold. - -'Pardon is no word between you and me,' he said wearily. 'How could you -doubt me? Had I ever lied to you, or to anyone?' - -'No: I was wrong.' - -Her proud mouth trembled. - -'How much or how little shall I tell him?' she thought; 'men are such -children!' - -He looked at her with hesitation; and a great and sudden joy touched -his life. - -'Do you love me at all, then?' he said with wonder and with doubt. - -She smiled a little: her old slight mysterious smile! - -'I suppose so--since I doubted you. Love is always blind!' - - * * * * * - -_Spottiswoode & Co., Printers, New-street Square, London._ - - - * * * * * - -Transcriber's Notes: - -Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. - -The oe ligature is represented in the text at [oe]. - -Table of Contents created by the transcriber and placed into the public -domain. - -Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired. - -Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as -possible, including obsolete and variant spellings and other -inconsistencies. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Othmar, by Ouida - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OTHMAR *** - -***** This file should be named 51487-8.txt or 51487-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/4/8/51487/ - -Produced by MWS, Christopher Wright and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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