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 out stretched 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 head-ache. 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 woke, 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, stern 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 would calculate, etc.,
which--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 ... run away somewhere
with him and tell nobody where they were going.... But supposing he
discovered where 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 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, although 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....