Next day, when Cornélie walked with Duco through Florence, when they
entered the courtyard of the Palazzo Vecchio, saw the Loggia dei Lanzi
and looked in at the Uffizi to see Memmi's _Annunciation_, she felt
something like her former sensations irresistibly unfolding within
her. They seemed to have taken their lines which had burst asunder and
with human force to have bent them together again into one path, along
which the white daisies and white lilies shot up with a tenderness of
soft, mystic recognition that was almost like a dream. And yet it was
not quite the same as before. An oppression as of a grey cloud hung
between her and the deep-blue sky, which hung outstretched like strips
of æther, like paths of lofty, quivering atmosphere, above the narrow
streets, above the domes and towers and turrets. She no longer felt the
former apprehension; there was a remembrance in her, a heavy pondering
weighed upon her brain, an anxiety for what was about to happen. She
had a presentiment as of a coming storm; and when, after their walk,
they had had something to eat and went home, she dragged herself up the
stairs to Duco's room more wearily than she had ever done in Rome. And
she at once saw a letter lying on the table, a letter addressed to her.
But how addressed! It gave her so violent a start that she began to
tremble in every limb and managed to thrust the letter away even before
Duco had followed her into the room. She took off her hat and told Duco
that she wanted to get something out of her trunk, which was standing
in the passage. He asked if he could help her; but she said no and
left the room and went into the narrow passage. Here, standing by the
little window overlooking the Arno, she took out the letter. It was the
only place where she could read for a moment undisturbed. And she read
that address again, written in his hand, which she knew so well, with
its great thick heavy characters. The name which she bore abroad was
her maiden name; she called herself Madame de Retz van Loo. But on the
envelope she read, briefly:
"BARONNE BROX,
"37, Lung' Arno Torrigiani,
FLORENCE."
A deep crimson flush mantled over her face. She had borne that name
for a year. Why did he call her by it now? Where was the logic in that
title which, by the law, was hers no longer? What did he mean by it,
what did he want?... And, standing by the little window, she read his
short but imperious letter. He wrote that he took her flight very much
amiss, especially after their last conversation. He wrote that, at this
last interview, she had granted him every right over her, that she had
not denied it and that, by kissing him and putting her arms around
him, she had shown that she regarded herself as his wife, just as he
regarded her as his wife. He wrote that he would not now resent her
independent life of a year in Rome, because she was then still free,
but that he was offended at her still looking upon herself as free and
that he would not accept the insult of her flight. He called upon her
to return. He said that he had no legal right to do so, but that he did
it because he nevertheless had a right, a right which she could not
dispute, which indeed she had not disputed, which on the contrary she
had acknowledged by her kiss. He had learnt her address from the porter
of the Villa Uxeley. And he ended by repeating that she was to return
to Nice, to him, at the Hôtel Continental, and telling her that, if she
did not do this, he would come to Florence and she would be responsible
for the consequences of her refusal.
Her knees shook; she was hardly able to stand upright. Should she show
Duco the letter or keep it from him? She had to make up her mind then
and there. He was calling to her from the room, asking what she was
doing so long in the passage. She went in and was too weak to refrain
from throwing herself on his breast. She showed him the letter. Leaning
against him, sobbing violently, she heard him fume and rage, saw the
veins on his temples swell, saw him clench his fists and roll the
letter into a ball and dash it to the floor. He told her not to be
frightened, said that he would protect her. He too regarded her as his
wife. It all depended upon the light in which she henceforth regarded
herself. She did not speak, merely sobbed, broken with fatigue, with
fright, with headache. She undressed and went to bed, her teeth
chattering with fever. He drew her curtains to darken the room and told
her to go to sleep. His voice sounded angry and she thought that he was
angry at her lack of resolution. She sobbed and cried herself to sleep.
But in her sleep she felt the terror within herself and again felt the
irresistible pressure. While sleeping she dreamt of what she could
reply and wrote to Brox, but it was not clear what she wrote: it was
all a vague, impotent pleading for mercy.
When she awoke, she saw Duco beside her bed. She took his hand; she was
calmer. But she had no hope. She had no faith in the days that were
coming. She looked at him and saw him gloomy, stem and self-contained,
as she had never seen him before. Oh, their happiness was past! On that
fatal day when he had seen her to the train in Rome, they had taken
leave of their happiness. It was gone, it was gone! Gone the dear walks
through ruins and museums, the trips to Frascati, Naples, Amalfi! Gone
the dear, fond life of poverty in the big studio, among the gleaming
colours of the old brocades and chasubles, of the old bronzes and
silver! Gone the gazing together at his water-colour of _The Banners_,
she with her head on his shoulder, within his arm, living his art with
him, enjoying his work with him! Gone the ecstasy of the night in the
pergola, in the star-spangled night, with the sacred lake at their
feet! Life was not to be repeated. They had tried in vain to repeat it
here, in this room, at Florence, in the Palazzo Vecchio, tried in vain
to repeat it even in the presence of Memmi's angel emitting his beam of
light! They tried in vain to repeat their life, their happiness, their
love; it was in vain that they had forced together the lines which had
burst asunder. These had merely twined round each other for a moment,
in a despairing curve. It was gone, it was gone!... Gloomy and stern
he sat beside her bed; and she knew it, he felt that he was powerless
because she did not feel herself to be his wife. His mistress!...
Oh, she had felt that involuntary repulsion when she had uttered the
word! Had he not always wanted to marry her? But she had always felt
unconsciously that it could not be, that it must not be. Under all
the exuberance of her acrid feministic phrases, that had been the
unconscious truth. She, railing against marriage, had always, inwardly,
felt herself to be married ... not by a signature, in accordance with
the law, but according to an age-old law, a primeval right of man over
woman, a law and a right of flesh and blood and the very marrow of the
bones. Oh, above that immovable physical truth her soul had blossomed
its blossom of white daisies and lilies; and that blossom also was the
intense truth, the lofty truth of happiness and love! But the daisies
and lilies blossomed and faded: the soul blossoms for but a single
summer. The soul does not blossom for a lifetime. It blossoms perhaps
before life, it blossoms perhaps after it; but in life itself the soul
blossoms for but a single summer. It had blossomed, it was over! And
in her body, which lived, in her being, which survived, she felt the
truth in her very marrow! He was sitting beside her bed, but he had
no rights, now that the lilies had blossomed.... She was broken with
pity for him. She took his hand and kissed it fervently and sobbed over
it. He said nothing. He did not know how to say anything. It would all
have been very simple for him, if she had consented to be his wife.
As things were, he could not help her. As things were, he saw his
happiness foundering while he looked on: there was nothing to be done.
It was slowly falling to pieces, like a crumbling ruin. It was gone! It
was gone!...
She stayed in bed these days; she slept, she dreamt, she awoke again;
and the dread waiting never left her. She had a slight temperature now
and again; and it was better for her to stay in bed. As a rule, he
remained by her side. But one day, when Duco had gone to the chemist's
for something, there was a knock at the door. She leapt out of bed,
terrified, terrified lest she should see the man of whom she was always
thinking. Half-fainting with fright, she opened the door ajar. It was
only the postman, with a registered letter ... from him! Even more
curtly than last time, he wrote that, immediately on the receipt of his
letter, she was to telegraph, stating the day when she would come. He
said that, if on such and such a day he did not receive her telegram,
he would leave for Florence and shoot her lover like a dog at her feet.
He would not take a moment to reflect He did not care what happened....
In this short letter, his anger, his fury, raged like a red storm that
lashed her across the face. She knew him; and she knew that he would
do what he said. She saw, as in a flash, the terrible scene, with Duco
dropping, murdered, weltering in his blood. And she was no longer her
own mistress. The red fury of that letter, dispatched from afar, made
her his chattel, his thing. She had torn the letter open hastily,
before signing the postman's book. The man was waiting in the passage.
Her brain whirled, the room spun before her eyes. If she paused to
reflect, it would be too late, too late to reflect. And she asked the
postman, nervously:
"Can you send off a telegram for me at once?"
No, he couldn't: it wasn't on his road.
But she implored him to do it. She said that she was ill and that she
must telegraph at once. And she found a gold ten-franc piece in her
purse and gave it to him as a tip over and above the money for the
telegram. And she wrote the telegram:
"Leaving to-morrow express train."
It was a vague telegram. She did not know by what express; she had not
been able to look it up. Would it be in the evening or quite early in
the morning? She had no idea. How would she be able to get away? She
had no idea. But she thought that the telegram would calm him. And
she meant to go. She had no choice. Now that she had fled in despair,
she saw it: if he wanted to have her back, back as his wife, she must
go. If he had not wanted it, she could have remained, wherever she
might be, despite her feeling that she belonged to him. But, now that
he wanted it, she must go back. But oh, how was she to tell Duco? She
was not thinking of herself, she was thinking of Duco. She saw him
lying before her in his blood. She forgot that she had no money left.
Was she to ask him for it? O God, what was she to do? She could not go
next day, notwithstanding her telegram! She could not tell Duco that
she was going.... She had meant to slip quietly to the station, when
he was out.... Or had she better tell him?... Which would be the least
painful?... Or should ... should she tell everything to Duco and ...
and run away somewhere with him, anywhere, and tell nobody where they
were going But supposing _he_ discovered they had gone! And he would
find them!... And then ... then he would murder ... Duco!...
She was almost delirious with fear, with terror, with not knowing what
to do, how to act.... She now heard Duco's steps on the stairs....
He came in, bringing her the pills.... And, as usual, she told him
everything, too weak, too tired, to keep anything hidden, and showed
him the letter. He blazed out, furiously, with hatred but she fell on
her knees before him and took his hands. She said that she had already
sent the answer. He suddenly became cool, as though overcome by the
inevitable. He said that he had no money to pay for her long journey.
Then, once more, he took her in his arms, kissed her, begged her to be
his wife, said that he would kill her husband, even as her husband had
threatened to kill him. But she did nothing but sob and refuse, though
she continued to cling to him convulsively. Then he yielded to the
fatal omnipotence of life's silent tyranny. He felt death in his soul.
But he wished to keep calm for her sake. He said that he forgave her.
He held her, all sobbing, in his arms, because his touch calmed her.
And he said that, if she wanted to go back--she despondently nodded
yes--it was better to telegraph to Brox again, asking for money for the
journey and for clear instructions as to the day and time. He would do
this for her. She looked at him, through her tears, in surprise. He
himself drew up the telegram and went out.
"My darling, my darling!" she thought, as he went, as she felt the pain
in his torn soul.
She flung herself on the bed. He found her in hysterics when he
returned. When he had tended her and tucked her up in bed, he sat down
beside her. And he said, in a dead voice:
"My dearest, be calm now. The day after to-morrow I shall take you to
Genoa. Then we shall take leave of each other, for ever. If it can't be
otherwise, it must be like that. If you feel that it has to be, then it
must be. Be calm now, be calm now. If you feel like that, that you must
go back to your husband, then perhaps you will not be unhappy with him.
Be calm, dear, be calm."
"Will you take me?"
"I shall take you as far as Genoa. I have borrowed the money from a
friend. But, above all, try to be calm. Your husband wants you back;
he can't want you back only to beat you. He must feel something for
you if he wants you so. And, if it has to be... then perhaps it will
be the best thing ... for you.... Even though I can't see it in that
light!..."
He covered his face with his hands and, no longer master of himself,
burst into sobs. She drew him to her breast. She was now calmer than
he. And, as he sobbed with his head on her beating heart, she quietly
stroked his forehead, while her eyes roamed distantly round the walls
of the room....