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 knickknack 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.