They sat on a terrace overlooking the most beautiful view in the world.
They did not look at it, nor did they look at each other. They were
beautifully dressed, they lived in the same world and spoke the same
tongue; they would have laughed at, if they would not have made, the
same jokes. The materials for happiness were heaped before them; but
neither of them stretched out a hand to take them. They were both like
creatures under an invisible ban.
It could not be said that Léon had any cause for a grievance. Madame
Gérard had given him what she had offered him, but he had fatally
under-estimated how far this gift would fall short of what he wanted.
From the moment of their departure from Capri it had come over him that
Elise was not beautiful, that she had no particular charm of person nor
of mind; she neither touched nor soothed him. There was a fatal
alteration in her. She was accessible.
Léon could not tell what had caused this change in his feelings--he had
been covered so lightly by a rare and perfect tenderness that he had not
realized how it warmed and nourished him, until he found himself sharply
deprived of it.
He felt like some one suddenly pushed into the dark. He fumbled and
knocked himself against obstacles, possessed by an intolerable fear, a
fear that he shouldn’t get out, shouldn’t ever get back into his light
again. He knew now what the light was, he had been in relation to
perfect purity, and it was not until the relation ceased that he
realized it had not left him as it found him.
He no longer wanted anything less. He wanted only his flawless jewel,
the deep and incorruptible heart of Rose. And as for the first time he
knew the hunger of a real desire, he knew also that he shrank from
returning to her after so light and base a sin.
He had thought this three days could be nothing, an episode, a chance
wayside plucking of a flower, something that he could quite easily put
away from him and forget on his return to Rose.
He now discovered that it would burn into his heart like a corrosive
fluid, and make him fear to seek her presence. It was not that he
doubted Rose would forgive him; but he came up against something in
himself which would not yield forgiveness. He had too easily gone wrong.
He kept his eyes carefully away from Madame Gérard. He hated her with a
cold antagonism; he could not make love to her. He fell back on a
sharpened irony of attention. She should have all that she wanted and he
waited upon her with an exaggerated courtesy; but she was as oblivious
of his coldness as she had been of his warmth.
Léon had never known so strange a woman.
As for Madame Gérard, she had effected her purpose. Last night at the
Opera, seated in the front of a box with Léon beside her, she had caught
and held the eyes of her enraged husband. That was what she had come to
Naples for.
Léon had not seen him. Monsieur Gérard sufficiently accompanied to feel
that a scene would have been out of place, had swiftly withdrawn.
But before he had withdrawn, his eyes had crossed swords with his
wife’s.
After that there seemed very little to do. She was conscious that the
rest of her life lay before her, and that her husband would never
forgive her. The prospect once accepted, ceased to stimulate.
From time to time she was conscious of Léon, but never as a
consideration requiring much effort. She had fulfilled her bargain and
nothing more seemed to be asked of her. She felt with relief that rather
less was required of her than might have been expected, and she was
vaguely grateful to Léon for leaving her so much alone.
He was a man of tact and could be trusted to look out her trains for her
and see her eventually back to France. She supposed she would have
sooner or later to rejoin her parents; but she wished she could forget
what she had done to Rose.
Now that her purpose was accomplished this fact became more and more
troublesome to her. Léon she had no qualms about, for she realized
neither his unhappiness nor what she had cost him, but she did realize
Rose.
It made her a little sharp with Léon when she thought of him at all; but
it was quite easy not to think of him.
Madame Gérard wanted to ask him if he had succeeded in keeping Rose
unaware, but she shrank from speaking of Rose. Neither of them spoke of
her, and neither of them thought of anything else. It made the silence
heavy between them.
“You would like something to eat or drink, perhaps?” Léon at length
roused himself to ask her. “No,” she said, “thank you.”
He lit a cigarette and smoked it through, then he said, “It is, I
believe, considered very beautiful to drive to Posilippo in the
sunset--to dine out there and return. Shall I order a carriage?”
She turned her head for a brief moment and glanced at him. She wished he
would go away now--drive to Posilippo by himself, for instance. “Do as
you like,” she said without stirring, “I stay here--” “Then, of course,”
he said gravely, “I shall not leave you.” It was like being in
prison--and not being quite sure whether you were the prisoner or the
jailer.
It was a relief to know that some one else was advancing along the
terrace. Léon sprang to his feet; he was not a clumsy man, but he very
nearly upset the table by which they sat.
Rose was walking slowly towards them. She held a Baedeker in one hand
and a parasol in the other. She was very tall, and she looked taller
than usual. Her wide blue eyes rested on the wonderful sea beyond--but
she had seen Léon and Madame Gérard. She walked towards them without
speaking or smiling.
When she came up to them she smiled a little nervously, but in a very
friendly way, as if she was glad to see them both, but didn’t want, of
course, to make a fuss about it.
“They told me,” she said, “that I should find you out here.”
Madame Gérard could not rise. Her lips moved as if she tried to speak,
but she dared not speak. This was her judgment. She was the cleverest of
women, but she no longer knew what to say.
Léon stood there with his eyes on the ground, white as a sheet and
trembling. He could not look at Rose at all. He felt as if her eyes were
fire from Heaven.
Rose spoke again. “Léon,” she said, “do you think I might have some
tea?”
“_Mon Dieu_--Rose--” he whispered under his breath. “_Mon Dieu_--what
must you think--”
“If I could have some roll and butter, too,” she went on, ignoring his
murmur, “it would be very nice. I am rather hungry.” Léon turned and
without speaking passed quickly into the house. Rose sat down opposite
Madame and put the Baedeker on the table. Madame Gérard lifted her heavy
eyelids and looked at Rose.
She did not know what was coming, but she meant whatever came--scorn,
anger or contempt--to take it.
She was not sure what Rose wanted--she waited to be sure.
Rose met her eyes with a grave and infinitely kindly look. “I am so
sorry,” she said slowly in her hesitating French. “We meant to help you,
but I’m afraid we didn’t.”
Madame drew a quick breath, she had not expected this. It had not
occurred to her that Rose would be sorry; that hard, stubborn substance
that was in her breast melted once and for all towards Rose. The tears
filled her eyes and fell slowly into her lap.
“My dear,” she said, “no one could help me, and I have not even--helped
myself.”
“I was stupid,” Rose went on gently, “and I didn’t understand; but I do
understand now. What I wanted to say before Léon comes back was, that I
_know_ he meant not to make things worse. You _will_ forgive him, won’t
you, because it was my fault really. If I had understood, you see, I
should have known he couldn’t help you--not in that way--and I think I
could have stopped him.”
Madame Gérard nodded. “I have nothing to forgive your husband,” she
said, choosing her words carefully. “He has done me no great wrong;
always I knew where his heart was--it is still there, Madame--it is in
your hands. I--” said Madame Gérard, looking away from Rose’s pitying,
tender eyes--“have what I deserve. I have nothing.”
The waiter came with the tea. Léon returned at the same time. He could
not keep away, and yet it seemed to him as if there had never been less
of him anywhere--his self-respect, his manhood had left him.
Rose turned to him, and with a little gesture of perfect tenderness and
trust she slipped her hand over his. It was as if she gave him back his
soul. He drew himself up--strength passed into him. She had come back,
she was his--somehow or other she was there to save him, and at least he
could be generous--he could let himself be saved. He no longer cared
that he must be a poor figure in her sight, and he forgot that there was
any other sight but hers.
She withdrew her hand again and went on very slowly, still in French,
including him in the conversation with a little wave of the hand.
“I have just,” she said to Madame Gérard, “been talking to Monsieur
Gérard. He thinks I have improved very much in my French.”
“My husband!” Madame cried, starting forward, then she sank back,
white-lipped and trembling.
“Yes,” said Rose, “I went to see him. I found him in the Baedeker. He
was in the sixth hotel I called at.”
“But why,” began Madame Gérard, “why did you seek him--Madame, what did
you say to him? Forgive me, I do not understand?”
“I thought perhaps I had better see him first,” Rose explained. “I saw
him in the hall. I think he was in a kind of rage--he said he had seen
you last night at a theater with Léon, and I said, yes--that I never
went to theaters in Italy because I didn’t understand the language, and
then he asked me if I had been with you all the time.”
Madame Gérard held her breath. Her eyes seemed like a prayer.
Rose turned to Léon. “I’m afraid I didn’t tell him the truth,” she said
hesitatingly. “I hope it wasn’t very dreadful--I said, yes, of course I
had.”
“You lied to him!” gasped Léon. “Then--then--” for the first time he
looked at Madame Gérard. She covered her face with her hands. Rose
looked a little perturbed. “I didn’t know,” she said, “what else there
was to be done. Of course I know it was very wrong. I never have been
untruthful before. I--I don’t like telling lies, but I thought--I’d
better. So I said we were all together. I was a little afraid he
mightn’t believe me or that he might ask me where we were, but he
didn’t. He quite believed me. He only asked me what I wanted to see him
for.”
“_Par exemple_,” muttered Léon; “he asked you that?”
Rose poured herself out a second cup of tea. “I said,” she went on, “I
came because I thought you might be sorry for leaving your wife all
alone--just because she tried to turn over your music for you--and that
I thought perhaps you might be wanting to tell her so--and not know
where she was.”
Madame’s eyes fell from her face. “But yes--” she whispered, “and what
did he say, Raoul, when you asked him that?”
There was a new look in her eyes now, and a little color in her pale
cheeks.
“He said he _was_ sorry,” said Rose, gently. “He said he never would
have behaved like that, and never meant to--it was only the music, he
said, he often lost his head over music, and that that afternoon he had
felt how great a success his marriage was--so that it was doubly
unfortunate. He said he wanted to come back to you very much.”
There was a moment’s pause. Madame Gérard’s voice was quite different
when she spoke now, there was hope in it. “And what answer did you give
him, Madame?” she said. “I think I can see by your eyes that you gave
him an answer.”
Rose nodded. “I told him--I had a feeling that you would forgive
him--and that I would ask you, if you did, to send him a line
to-night--saying if you would see him, and where, of course! You see I
didn’t know where you were at the time--but I found you quite easily,
because I had remembered something that Léon had said to me about this
special view.”
Léon buried his head in his hands and laughed wildly. He laughed to save
himself from tears. Madame Gérard said nothing at all; but she stretched
out her hand for the tea Rose had poured out for her and began to drink
it.
Rose ate two rolls and a half. “I’m afraid you’ll think I’m dreadfully
greedy,” she explained, “but I haven’t had any lunch, or any breakfast
either, properly.”
“But I,” said Léon, coming from behind his hands, “I cannot meet
Monsieur Gérard to-morrow?”
“No,” said Rose, “but I left my luggage on the Quay. There is a boat
that goes to Venice to-night, and I thought,” she murmured with a
diffident, disarming smile, “that perhaps you wouldn’t mind if we just
went to Venice, Léon. It would be more gay.”
THE END
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
A few obvious punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected
without note. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been
employed.
A cover has been created for this ebook and is placed in the public
domain.
[End of _Helen of Troy and Rose_ by Phyllis Bottome]