She was now alone in the train. By tipping the guard lavishly, they had
travelled by themselves through the night and had been left undisturbed
in their compartment. Oh, the melancholy journey, the last silent
journey of the end! They had not spoken but had sat close together,
hand in hand, with eyes gazing into the distance before them, as though
staring at the approaching point of separation. The dreary thought
of that separation never left them, rushed onward in unison with the
rattling train. Sometimes she thought of a railway-accident and that it
would be welcome to her if she could die with him. But the lights of
Genoa had gleamed up inexorably. Then the train had stopped. And he had
flung out his arms and they had kissed for the last time. Pressed to
his breast, she had felt all his grief within him. Then he had released
her and rushed back without looking round. She followed him with her
eyes, but he did not look back and she saw him disappear in the morning
mist, pierced with little lights, that hung about the station. She had
seen him disappear among other people, swallowed up in the hovering
mist. Then the silent and despairing surrender of her life had become
so great that she was not even able to weep. Her head dropped limply,
her arms hung lax. Like an inert thing she let the train bear her
onward with its rending rattle.
A white morning twilight had risen on the left over the brightening
sea; and the dawning daylight tinted the water blue and defined the
horizon. For hours and hours she travelled, sitting motionless, gazing
at the sea; and she felt almost painless with her impassive surrender
of life. She would now let things happen as life willed, as her
husband willed, as the train willed. As in a tired dream she thought
of the inevitability of everything and all the unconscious life within
herself, of her first rebellion against her husband's tyranny, of
the illusion of her independence, the arrogance of her pride and all
the happiness of her gentle ecstasy, all her gladness because of the
harmony which she had achieved.... Now it was past; now all self-will
was vain. The train was carrying her to where Rudolph called her; and
life hemmed her in on every side, not roughly, but with a soft pressure
of phantom hands, which pushed and led and guided....
And she ceased to think. The tired dream became clouded in the deeper
blue of the day; and she felt that she was approaching Nice. She
returned to the petty realities of Life. She felt that she was looking
a little travel-worn: and, thinking that it would be better if Rudolph
did not see her for the first time in so unattractive a light, she
slowly opened her bag, washed her face with her handkerchief dipped in
eau-de-Cologne, combed her hair, powdered her face, brushed herself
down, put on a transparent white veil and took out a pair of new
gloves. She bought a couple of yellow roses at a station and put them
in her waistband. She did all this unconsciously, without thinking
about it, feeling that it was best, that it was sensible to do it,
best that Rudolph should see her like that, with that bloom of a
beautiful woman about her. She felt that henceforth she must be above
all beautiful and that nothing else mattered. And when the train droned
into the station, when she recognized Nice, she was resigned, because
she had ceased to struggle and had yielded to all the stronger forces.
The door was flung open and, in the station, which at that early hour
was comparatively empty, she saw him at once: tall, robust, easy, in
his light summer suit, straw hat and brown shoes. He gave an impression
of health and strength and above all of broad-shouldered virility;
and, notwithstanding his broadness, he was still quite thoroughbred,
thoroughly well-groomed without the least touch of foppishness; and the
ironical smile beneath his moustache and the steady glance of his fine
grey eyes, the eyes of a woman-hunter, gave him an air of strength,
of the certainty of doing as he wished, of the power to subdue if he
thought fit. An ironic pride in his handsome strength, with a tinge
of contempt for the others who were less handsome and strong, less of
the healthy animal and yet the aristocrat, and above all a mocking,
supercilious sarcasm directed against all women, because he knew women
and knew how much they were really worth: all this was expressed by his
glance, his attitude, his movements. It was thus that she knew him. It
had often roused her to rebellion in the old days, but now she felt
resigned and also a little frightened.
He had come to her; he helped her to alight. She saw that he was angry,
that he intended to receive her rudely; then, that his moustache was
curling ironically, as though in mockery because he was the stronger.
She said nothing, however, took his hand calmly and alighted. He led
her outside; and in the carriage they waited a moment for her trunk.
His eyes took her in at a glance. She was wearing an old blue serge
skirt and a little blue serge cape; but, notwithstanding her old
clothes and her weary resignation, she looked a handsome and smartly
dressed woman.
"I am glad to see that you thought it advisable at last to carry out my
wishes," he said, in the end.
"I thought it would be best," she answered, softly.
Her tone struck him; and he watched her attentively, out of the comer
of his eyes. He did not understand her, but he was pleased that she had
come. She was tired now, from excitement and travelling; but he thought
that she looked most charming, even though she was not so brilliant as
on that night, at Mrs. Uxeley's ball, when he had first spoken to his
divorced wife.
"Are you tired?" he asked.
"I have been a bit feverish for a day or two; and, of course I had no
sleep last night," she said, as though in apology.
The trunk was brought and they drove away, to the Hôtel Continental.
She did not speak again in the carriage. They were also silent as
they entered the hotel and in the lift. He took her to his room. It
was an ordinary hotel-bedroom; but she thought it strange to see his
brushes lying on the dressing-table, his coats and trousers hanging
on the pegs: familiar things with whose outlines and folds she was
well-acquainted. She recognised his kit-bag in a corner.
He opened the windows wide. She had sat down on a chair, in an
expectant attitude. She felt a little faint and closed her eyes, which
were blinded by the stream of sunlight.
"You must be hungry," he said. "What shall I order for you?"
"I should like some tea and bread-and-butter."
Her trunk arrived; and he ordered her breakfast. Then he said:
"Take off your hat."
She stood up. She took off her cape. Her cotton blouse was rumpled; and
this annoyed her. She removed the pins from her hat before the glass
and quite naturally did her hair with his comb, which she saw lying
there. And she settled the silk bow around her collar.
He had lit a cigar and was smoking quietly, standing. A waiter came in
with the breakfast. She ate a mouthful without speaking and drank a cup
of tea.
"Have you breakfasted?" she asked.
"Yes."
They were silent again and she went on eating.
"And shall we have a talk now?" he asked, still standing up, smoking.
"Very well."
"I won't speak about your running off as you did," he said. "My first
intention was to give you a regular flaying, for it was a damned silly
trick...."
She said nothing. She merely looked up at him; and her beautiful eyes
were filled with a new expression, one of gentle resignation. He fell
silent again, evidently restraining himself and seeking his words. Then
he resumed:
"As I say, I won't speak about that any more. For the moment you didn't
know what you were doing and you weren't accountable for your actions.
But there must be an end of that now, for I wish it. Of course I know
that according to the law I have not the least right over you. But
we've discussed all this; and I told it you in writing. And you have
been my wife; and, now that I am seeing you again, I feel very plainly
that, in spite of everything, I regard you as my wife and that you
are my wife. And you must have retained the same impression from our
meeting here, at Nice."
"Yes," she said calmly.
"You admit that?"
"Yes," she repeated.
"Then that's all right. It's the only thing I wanted of you.
So we won't think any more now of what happened, of our former
unpleasantness, of our divorce and of what you have done since. From
now on we will put all that behind us. I look upon you as my wife and
you shall be my wife again. According to the law we can't get married
again. But that makes no difference. Our divorce in law I regard as
an intervening formality and we will counter it as far as we can. If
we have children, we shall get them legitimatized. I will consult a
lawyer about all that; and I shall take all the necessary measures,
financial included. In this way our divorce will be nothing more
than a formality, of no meaning to us and of as little significance
as possible to the world and to the law. And then I shall leave the
service. I shouldn't in any case care to stay in it for good, so I may
as well leave it earlier than I intended. For you wouldn't find it
pleasant to live in Holland; and it doesn't appeal to me either."
"No," she murmured.
"Where would you like to live?"
"I don't know...."
"In Italy?"
"No," she begged, in a tone of entreaty.
"Care to stay here?"
"I'd rather not ... to begin with."
"I was thinking of Paris. Would you like to live in Paris?"
"Very well."
"That's all right then. So we will go to Paris as soon as possible and
look out for a flat and settle in. It'll soon be spring now; and that
is a good time to start life in Paris."
"Very well."
He flung himself into an easy-chair; it creaked under him. Then he
asked:
"Tell me, what do you really think, inside yourself?"
"How do you mean?"
"I want to know what you thought of your husband. Did you think him
absurd?"
"No."
"Come over here and sit on my knee."
She stood up and went to him. She did as he wished, sat down on his
knee; and he drew her to him. He laid his hand on her head, with that
gesture which prevented her thinking. She closed her eyes and laid her
head against his cheek.
"You haven't forgotten me altogether?"
She shook her head.
"We ought never to have got divorced, ought we?" She shook her head
again.
"But we used to be very bad-tempered then, both of us. You must never
be bad-tempered in future. It makes you look spiteful and ugly. As you
are now, you're much nicer and prettier."
She smiled faintly.
"I am glad to have you back with me," he whispered, with a long kiss on
her lips.
She closed her eyes under his kiss, while his moustache curled against
her skin and his mouth pressed hers.
"Are you still tired?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "I should like to get my things off."
"You'd better lie down for a bit," he said. "Oh, by the way, I forgot
to tell you: your friend, the princess, is coming here this evening!"
"Isn't Urania angry?"
"No, I have told her everything and she knows about it all."
She was pleased to know that Urania was not angry and that she still
had a friend left.
"And I have seen Mrs. Uxeley also."
"She must be angry with me, isn't she?"
He laughed:
"That old hag! No, not angry. She's in the dumps because she has no
one with her. She set great store by you. She likes to have pretty
people about her, she said. She can't stand an ugly companion, with no
_chic_.... There, I'll leave you and go and sit downstairs somewhere."
They stood up. His eyes had a golden glimmer in them; his moustache was
lifted by his ironic smile. And he caught her fiercely in his arms:
"Cornélie," he said, hoarsely, "I think it's wonderful to have you back
again. Do you belong to me, tell me, do you belong to me?"
He pressed her to him till he almost stifled her with the pressure of
his arms:
"Tell me, do you belong to me?"
"Yes."
"What used you to say to me in the old days, when you were in love with
me?"
She hesitated.
"What used you to say?" he insisted, holding her still more tightly.
Pushing her hands against his shoulders, she fought to catch her breath:
"My Rud!" she murmured. "My beautiful, glorious Rud!"
Automatically she now wound her arms around his head. He released her
as with an effort of will:
"Take off your things," he said, "and try to get some sleep. I'll come
back later."
He went away. She undressed and brushed her hair with his brushes,
washed her face and dripped into the basin some of the toilet-water
which he used. She drew the curtains, behind which the noonday sun
shone; and a soft crimson twilight filled the room. And she lay down
and waited for him, trembling. There was no thought in her. There was
in her no grief and no recollection. She was filled only with a great
expectancy, a waiting for the inevitability of life. She felt herself
to be solely and wholly a bride, but not an innocent bride; and, deep
in her blood, in the marrow of her bones, she felt herself to be the
wife, the very blood and marrow, of him whom she awaited. Before her,
as she lay half-dreaming, she saw little figures of children. For,
if she was to be his wife in truth and sincerity, she wanted to be
not only his lover but also the woman who gave him his children. She
knew that, despite his roughness, he loved the softness of children;
and she herself would long for them, in her second married life, as a
sweet comfort for the days when she would be no longer beautiful and
no longer young. Before her, half-dreaming, she saw the figures of
children.... And she lay waiting for him, she listened for his step,
she longed for his coming, her flesh quivered towards him.... And, when
he entered and came to her, her arms closed round him in profound and
conscious certainty and she felt, beyond a doubt, on his breast, in
his arms, the knowledge of his virile, overmastering dominion, while
before her eyes, in a dizzy, melancholy obscurity, the dream of her
life--Rome, Duco, the studio--sank away...?
THE END