She found Duco lying listlessly on the sofa. He had a bad headache and
she sat down beside him.
"Well?" he asked.
"The man offered me eighty lire for the Memmo," she said, "but he
declared that the panel was not by Gentile da Fabriano: he remembered
having seen it here."
"The man's crazy," he replied. "Or else he is trying to get my Gentile
for nothing.... Cornélie, I really can't sell it."
"Well, Duco, then we'll think of something else," said she, laying her
hand on his aching forehead.
"Perhaps one or two smaller things, a knick-knack or two," he moaned.
"Perhaps. Shall I go back to him this afternoon?"
"No, no, I'll go. But, really, it is easier to buy that sort of thing
than to sell it."
"That is so, Duco," she agreed, laughing. "But I asked yesterday what I
should get for a pair of bracelets; and I'll dispose of those to-day.
And that will keep us going for quite a month. But I have some news for
you. Do you know whom I met?"
"No."
"The prince."
He gave a scowl:
"I don't like that cad," he said.
"I've told you before, Duco. I don't consider him a cad. And I don't
believe he is one either. He asked us to dine with him this evening,
quite quietly."
"No, I don't care about it."
She said nothing. She stood up, boiled some water on a spirit-stand and
made tea:
"Duco dear, I've been careless about lunch. A cup of tea and some
bread-and-butter is all I can give you. Are you very hungry?"
"No," he said, evasively.
She hummed a tune while she poured out the tea into an antique cup. She
cut the bread-and-butter and brought it to him on the sofa. Then she
sat down beside him, with her own cup in her hand.
"Cornélie, hadn't we better lunch at the _osteria_?"
She laughed and showed him her empty purse:
"Here are the stamps," she said.
Disheartened, he flung himself back on the cushions.
"My dear boy," she continued, "don't be so down. I shall have some
money this afternoon, for the bracelets. I ought to have sold them
sooner. Really, Duco, it's not of any importance. Why haven't you been
working? It would have cheered you up."
"I didn't feel inclined and I had a headache."
She waited a moment and then said:
"The prince was angry that we didn't write and ask him to help us. He
wanted to give me two hundred lire...."
"You refused, surely?" he asked, fiercely.
"Well, of course," she answered, calmly. "He invited us to stay at San
Stefano, where they will be spending the summer. I refused that too."
"Why?"
"I haven't the clothes.... But you wouldn't care to go, would you?"
"No," he said, dully.
She drew his head to her and stroked his forehead. A wide patch of
reflected afternoon light fell through the studio-window from the
blue sky outside; and the studio was like a confused swirl of dusty
colour, in which the outlines stood forth with their arrested action
and changeless emotion. The raised embroideries of the chasubles and
stoles, the purples and sky-blues of Gentile's panel, the mystic
luxury of Memmi's angel in his cloak of heavily-pleated brocade, with
the golden lily-stem between his fingers, were like a hoard of colour
and flashed in that reflected light like so many handfuls of jewels.
On the easel stood the water-colour of _The Banners_, with its noble
refinement. And, as they sat on the sofa, he leaning his head against
her, both drinking their tea, they harmonized in their happiness with
that background of art. And it seemed incredible that they should be
worried about a couple of hundred lire, for they were surrounded by
colour as of precious stones and her smile was still radiant. But his
eyes were dejected and his hand hung limply by his side.
She went out again that afternoon for a little while, but soon returned
again, saying that she had sold the bracelets and that he need not
worry any longer. And she sang and moved gaily about the studio. She
had made a few purchases: an almond-tart, biscuits and a small bottle
of port. She had carried the things home herself, in a little basket,
and she sang as she unpacked them. Her liveliness cheered him; he stood
up and suddenly sat down to _The Banners_. He looked at the light and
thought that he would be able to work for an hour longer. He was filled
with transport as he contemplated the drawing: he saw a great deal that
was good in it, a great deal that was beautiful. It was both spacious
and delicate; it was modern and yet free of any modern _trucs_; there
was thought in it and yet purity of line and grouping. And the colours
were restful and dignified: purple and grey and white; violet and
pale-grey and bright white; dusk, twilight, light; night, dawn, day.
The day especially, the day dawning high up yonder, was a day of white,
self-conscious sunlight: a bright certitude, in which the future became
clear. But as a cloud were the streamers, pennants, flags, banners,
waving in heraldic beauty above the heads of the militant women
uplifted in ecstasy.... He selected his colours, chose his brushes,
worked zealously, until there was no light left. Then he sat down
beside her, happy and contented. In the falling dusk they drank some
of the port, ate some of the tart. He felt like it, he said; he was
hungry....
At seven o'clock there was a knock. He started up and opened the door;
the prince entered. Duco's forehead clouded over; but the prince did
not perceive it, in the twilit studio. Cornélie lit a lamp:
"Scusi, prince," she said. "I am positively distressed: Duco does not
care to go out--he has been working and is tired--and I had no one to
send and tell you that we could not accept your invitation."
"But you don't mean that, surely! I had reckoned so absolutely on
having you both to dinner! What shall I do with my evening if you don't
come!"
And, bursting into a flow of language, the complaints of a spoiled
child, the entreaties of an indulged boy, he began to persuade Duco,
who remained unwilling and sullen. At last Duco rose, shrugged his
shoulders, but, with a compassionate, almost insulting smile, yielded.
But he was unable to suppress his sense of unwillingness; his jealousy
because of the quick repartees of Cornélie and the prince remained
unassuaged, like an inward pain. At the restaurant he was silent at
first. Then he made an effort to join in the conversation, remembering
what Cornélie had said to him on that momentous day at the _osteria_:
that she loved him, Duco; that she did not even compare the prince
with him; but ... that he was not cheerful or witty. And, conscious
of his superiority because of that recollection, he displayed a
smiling superciliousness towards the prince, for all his jealousy,
condescending slightly and suffering his pleasantry and his flirtation,
because it amused Cornélie, that clashing interplay of swift words and
short, parrying phrases, like the dialogue in a French comedy.