She stayed at home for a day, feeling tired and, deep down within
herself, almost unconsciously, afraid, in spite of all, of meeting him.
But Mrs. Uxeley, who would never hear of illness or fatigue, was so
much put out that Cornélie accompanied her next day to the Promenade
des Anglais. Friends came up to talk to them and gathered round
their chairs, with Rudolph Brox among them. But Cornélie avoided any
confidential conversation.
Some days later, however, he called on Mrs. Uxeley's at-home day; and,
amid the crowd of visitors paying duty-calls after the party, he was
able to speak to her for a moment alone. He came up to her with that
laugh of his, as though his eyes were laughing, as though his moustache
were laughing. And she collected all her thoughts, so that she might be
firm with him:
"Rudolph," she said, loftily, "it is simply ridiculous. If you don't
think it indelicate, you might at least try to think it ridiculous. It
tickles your sense of humour, but imagine what people would say about
it in Holland!... The other evening, at the party, you took me by
surprise and somehow--I really don't know how it happened--I yielded to
your strange wish to dance with me and to lead the cotillon. I frankly
confess, I was confused. I now see everything clearly and plainly and
I tell you this: I refuse to meet you again. I refuse to speak to you
again. I refuse to turn the solemn earnest of our divorce into a farce."
"If you look back," he said, "you will recollect that you never got
anything out of me with that lofty tone and those dignified airs,
but that, on the contrary, you just stimulate me to do what you don't
want...."
"If that is so, I shall simply tell Mrs. Uxeley in what relation I
stand to you and ask her to forbid you her house."
He laughed. She lost her temper:
"Do you intend to behave like a gentleman or like a cad?"
He turned red and clenched his fists:
"Curse you!" he hissed, in his moustache.
"Perhaps you would like to hit me and knock me about?" she continued,
scornfully.
He mastered himself.
"We are in a room full of people," she sneered, defiantly. "What if we
were alone? You've already clenched your fists! You would thrash me as
you did before. You brute! You brute!"
"And you are very brave in this room full of people!" he laughed, with
his laugh which incited her to rage, when it did not subdue her. "No, I
shouldn't thrash you," he continued. "I should kiss you."
"This is the last time you're going to speak to me!" she hissed,
furiously. "Go away! Go away! Or I don't know what I shall do, I shall
make a scene."
He sat down calmly:
"As you please," he said, quietly.
She stood trembling before him, impotent. Some one spoke to her; the
footman handed her some tea. She was now in the midst of a circle of
men; and, mastering herself, she jested, with loud, nervous gaiety,
flirted more coquettishly than ever. There was a little court around
her, with the Duke of Luca as its ringleader. Close by, Rudolph Brox
sat drinking his tea, with apparent calmness, as though waiting. But
his strong, masterful blood was boiling madly within him. He could
have murdered her and he was seeing red with jealousy. That woman
was his, despite the law. He was not going to be afraid of any more
scandal. She was beautiful, she was as he wished her to be and he
wanted her, his wife. He knew how he would win her back; and this time
he would not lose her, this time she should be his, for as long as he
wished.
As soon as he was able to speak to her unheard, he came up to her
again. She was just going to Urania whom she saw sitting with Mrs.
Uxeley, when he said in her ear, sternly and abruptly:
"Cornélie...."
She turned round mechanically, but with her haughty glance. She would
rather have gone on, but could not: something held her back, a secret
strength, a secret superiority, which sounded in his voice and flowed
into her with a weight as of bronze that weakened and paralysed her
energy.
"What is it?" she asked.
"I want to speak to you alone."
"No."
"Yes. Listen to me calmly for a moment, if you can. I am calm too, as
you see. You needn't be afraid of me. I promise not to ill-treat you
or even to swear at you. But I must speak to you, alone. After our
meeting, after the ball last week, we can't part like this. You are
not even entitled to show me the door, after talking to me and dancing
with me so recently. There's no reason and no logic in it. You lost
your temper. But let us both keep our tempers now. I want to speak to
you...."
"I can't: Mrs. Uxeley doesn't like me to leave the drawing-room when
there are people here. I am dependent on her."
He laughed:
"You are almost even more dependent on her than you used to be on me!
But you can give me just a second, in the next room."
"No."
"Yes, you can."
"What do you want to speak to me about?"
"I can't tell you here."
"I can't speak to you alone."
"I'll tell you what it is: you're afraid to."
"No."
"Yes, you are: you're afraid of me. With all your airs and your
dignity, you're afraid to be alone with me for a moment."
"I'm not afraid."
"You _are_ afraid. You're shaking in your shoes with fear. You received
me with a fine speech which you rehearsed in advance. Now that you've
delivered your speech ... it's over and you're frightened."
"I am not frightened."
"Then come with me, my plucky authoress of _The Social Position of the
What's-her-name_! I promise, I swear that I shall be calm and tell you
calmly what I have to say to you; and I give you my word of honour not
to hit you ... Which room shall we go to?... Do you refuse? Listen
to me: if you don't come with me, it's not finished yet. If you do,
perhaps it will be finished ... and you will never see me again."
"What can you have to say to me?"
"Come."
She yielded because of his voice, not because of his words:
"But only for three minutes."
"Very well, three minutes."
She took him into the passage and into an empty room:
"Well what is it?" she asked, frightened.
"Don't be frightened," he said, laughing under his moustache. "Don't be
frightened. I only wanted to tell you ... _that you are my wife_. Do
you understand that? Don't try to deny it. I felt it at the ball the
other night, when I had my arm round you, waltzing with you. Don't try
to deny that you pressed yourself against me for a moment. _You're my
wife_. I felt it then and I feel it now. And you feel it too, though
you would like to deny it. But that won't help you. What has been can't
be altered; and what has been ... always remains part of you. There,
you can't say that I am not speaking prettily and delicately. Not an
oath, not an improper word has escaped my lips. For I don't want to
make you angry. I only want to make you confess that what I say is
true _and that you are still my wife_. That law doesn't signify. It's
another law that rules us. It's a law that rules you especially; a
law which, without our ever suspecting it, brings us together again,
even though it does so by a very strange, roundabout path, along which
you, especially, have strayed. That law rules you especially. I am
convinced that you still love me, or at least that you are still in
love with me. I feel it, I know it as a fact: don't try to deny it.
It's _no use_, Cornélie. And I'll tell you something besides: I am in
love with you too and more so than ever. I feel it when you're flirting
with those fellows. I could wring your neck then, I could break every
bone in their bodies.... Don't be afraid: I'm not going to; I'm not
in a temper. I just wanted to talk to you calmly and make you see the
truth. Do you see it before you? It is in-con-tro-ver-tible. You see,
you have nothing to say in reply. Facts are facts.... Will you show
me the door now? Do you still propose to speak to Mrs. Uxeley? I
shouldn't, if I were you. Your friend, the princess, knows who I am:
leave it at that. Had the old woman never heard my name, or has she
forgotten it? Forgotten it, I expect. Well, then, don't trouble to
refresh her ancient memory. Leave things as they are. It's better to
say nothing. No, the position is not ridiculous and it's not humorous
either. It has become very serious: the truth is always serious. It is
strange, I admit: I should never have expected it. It's a revelation
to me as well.... And now I've said what I had to say. Less than five
minutes by my watch. They will hardly have noticed your absence in the
drawing-room. And now I'm going; but first give your husband a kiss,
for I am your husband ... and always shall be."
She stood trembling before him. It was his voice, which fell like
molten bronze into her soul, into her body, and lamed and paralysed
her. It was his voice of persuasion, persuasive charm, the voice
which she knew of old, the voice that compelled her to do everything
that he wanted. Under the influence of that voice she became a thing,
a chattel, something that belonged to him, once he had branded her
for ever as his mate. She was powerless to cast him out of herself,
to shake him from herself, to erase from herself the stamp of his
possession and the brand which marked her as his property. She was his;
and anything that otherwise was herself had left her. There was no
longer in her brain either memory or thought..
She saw him come up to her and put his arm around her. He took her to
his breast slowly but so firmly that he seemed to be taking possession
of her entirely. She felt herself melting away in his arms as in a
scorching flame. On her lips she felt his mouth, his moustache,
pressing, pressing, pressing, until she closed her eyes, half-fainting.
He said something more in her ear, with that voice under which she
seemed not to count, as though she were nothing, as though she existed
only through him. When he released her, she staggered on her feet.
"Come, pull yourself together," she heard him say, calmly,
authoritatively, omnipotently. "And accept the position. Things are as
they are. There's no altering them. Thank you for letting me speak to
you. Everything is all right between us now: I'm sure of it. And now
_au revoir. Au revoir_...."
He kissed her again:
"Give me a kiss too," he said, with that voice of his. She flung her
arm round his body and kissed him on the lips.
"Au revoir," he said, once more.
She saw him laugh under his moustache; his eyes laughed at her with
flames of gold; and he went away. She heard his feet going down the
stairs and ringing on the marble of the hall, with the strength of his
firm tread.... She remained standing as though bereft of life. In the
drawing-room, next to the room in which she was, the hum of laughing
voices sounded loudly. She saw Rome before her, saw Duco, in a short
flash of lightning.... It was gone.... And, collapsing into a chair,
she uttered a suppressed cry of despair, put her hands before her face
and sobbed, restraining her despair before all those people, dully, as
from a stifling throat.