The boy Mahmoud, with the letter in his vest, took his way by the
inland paths towards S. Pharamond; it was not more than three miles,
following the tracks the peasants used. Mahmoud was almost always dumb,
but he was ceaselessly watchful; he adored his mistress, but he was
morbidly jealous of her. In the gay households of La Jacquemerille, of
Zaraizoff, of the Hôtel Napraxine, his precocity had become familiar
with all the corruptions of the world of white faces. Speaking little
he was supposed to understand as little; but, in truth, the small
listening dusky boy understood every word which went past him. He had
heard them in Paris speak of Othmar; he had comprehended that Othmar
was the lover of his mistress; he had heard Paul say to his friends,
'If it have ever been anyone, it is that one.' He had understood, and
he had taken a hatred of Othmar into his silent, savage, volcanic
child's heart.
When Mahmoud had been very ill with the cruel north winds which blew
so bitterly on his lungs, made only to breathe the torrid air of the
Soudan, his lady had come to see him, had spoken sweet words to him in
his own tongue, had touched his dusky paw with her soft snowy hand.
Mahmoud would have died a hundred deaths for her if he had had the
chance; but he was jealous, like a little black sulking dachshund, of
the mistress who sheltered him. Whenever he walked behind her, bearing
her shawls or her sunshade, he could have kissed her shadow as it fell,
but he could have plunged his dagger into the throats of the great
gentlemen who sauntered by her side. He was furiously, blindly jealous,
with the jealousy of a child and of a little wild beast blent in one.
To his naturally evil passions the life of Paris had united a monkeyish
malice and a precocious comprehension of vice. As he went now under the
red blossoms of the pepper trees and the yellow flowers of the mimosas
which fringed the route, a devilish fancy came into his head.
If, instead of giving the letter which he bore to Othmar, he took it
to Othmar's wife? His faculties had been educated enough in all the
scandals and jests of Paris to surmise that so he might bring about
with impunity a complication not easy to unravel, a storm not easy to
allay. If his mistake were ever brought against him, it would seem
only a mistake; he would take refuge behind his stolid childish mask
of affected stupidity, which had served him well more than once. He
had the cunning of the African, and he knew that the first condition
for his own safety in effecting such a treason would be that no one
should observe him on his errand. He entered the grounds of the château
cautiously. The gates usually stood open in the daytime, and the boy's
gaily-clad figure glided in amongst the shrubs unperceived.
It was about five o'clock in the afternoon. Yseulte was seated out of
doors, in a part of the gardens which was not in sight of the house.
There was a large Judas tree there covered with its crimson blossoms;
beneath it were some rustic chairs. She was reading, or affecting to
read; the book was open on her lap. The crimson flowers every now and
then, shaken by a south wind, fell down upon the unturned page.
Mahmoud had crept noiselessly about amongst the trees and plants, until
he saw her, with that feline skill and silence which were natural
to him, and had been developed by his life in the households of the
Napraxines. He knew her well by sight; he had seen her constantly in
Paris. He knew nothing of her otherwise, but he was French enough
by education to be sure that for her to receive and read a letter
addressed to her husband would bring about some dire disturbance.
So he approached her, bowing low as he had been taught to do, and
tendered the letter to her.
'From Madame la Princesse Napraxine,' he said, repeating his salaam.
Yseulte took the letter with a strange tumult at her heart: she did
not look at the superscription; she broke open the envelope with
agitation and haste. It might be only a conventional sentence or two,
an invitation or a farewell, or it might be some message of greater
meaning. It seemed strange to her that Nadine Napraxine should address
even the most formal words to her. She sat down under the boughs of the
roseate Judas tree and read what was written, read it all with that
instantaneous comprehension which comes to the brain in moments of
intense excitement.
There were but a few sentences in all in it, but those had been written
to Othmar, not to herself:
* * * * *
'I have read your letter. I believe all that is said in it. I doubt
most things, but I have never doubted your love for me. If there be any
consolation to you in knowing this, you may believe it to the full. I
am certain that you would do all you say if I would accept the gift of
your life. But I will not; for it is not yours to give, and I do not
rob the innocent. My dear Othmar, I have seen your wife a few hours
ago; I sought her, she did not seek me; and from my soul I pity her,
though I am not too easily moved to pity. I pity her because she loves
you so greatly, and yet in your life she counts for nothing. She would
die for you, yet she will never be able to quicken a single beat of
your pulse. The fault is not hers--you admitted that the last evening
I spoke to you in Paris--but she only irritates when she would please
you, she only wearies you when she should stimulate you. You will
never care for her; she is a young angel, yet she will go unloved by
you all her life. But if you cannot do more, you can spare her some
pain, some dishonour; and I desire you to spare her that. Yours is the
fault that she is now beside you; you were in haste and blind, and
adventured a rash experiment; but it would be ungenerous in us both if
we made her pay all the penalty of my indifference and your error. You
have a strange madness for me because I am far removed from you; but
I--who am not mad--I can see that honour says to you, and generosity
says to me the same thing. I do not use the stale word duty, because
neither you nor I believe much in it; but honour and generosity call
upon us to protect a child who cannot protect herself, and perhaps even
a little also to remember a dead man who cannot avenge himself. I do
not speak to you as moralists would speak; I only mean that you must
remember those obligations which, as they were taken up unasked, must
be fulfilled out of sheer sense of common honour. You cannot force
yourself to care for her, but you can force yourself to conceal from
her that you do not. She is one of those women who easily and willingly
believe. For myself, I would sooner hesitate to dishonour a dead man
than a living one; so, I think, would you, if you only pause and think
of it. If I listened to you now when I have repulsed you before, it
would always seem to me as if I had not been brave enough whilst he
was living, whilst he could have killed me or you, or done anything he
chose. This is mere sentimental superstition, no doubt, but so it is
with me. We will not meet again, not yet, at least. You will not be
happy, of course, nor will you love your wife; neither happiness nor
love is to be had at command. But you are just by nature; be just now;
do not let all the weight of a mistake, which was wholly of your own
seeking and making, lie upon a creature altogether innocent. She is
not wise as we are wise, but she has a beautiful nature; she is purity
itself; be grateful. I do not say forget me, for that you will not do;
but live so that I may admire you and not esteem you a coward. We have
both always lived for ourselves, let us endeavour for a change to live
a little for others.'
* * * * *
The letter was signed in full 'Nadège Fedorowna Princess Napraxine.'
Yseulte had read it once unconsciously, all its words seeming to smite
her brain together like the blows of many hands upon an unresisting
creature. She read it once again consciously, deliberately, word for
word; then she rose and put it out towards the bearer of it.
'It is not mine,' she said, in a suffocated voice. 'Take it to Count
Othmar.'
But the African boy had disappeared. There was no sound near her except
the sound of the sea breaking on the marble steps of the landing stairs
far down below.
'Take it, take it!' she said, mechanically holding the letter out to
the empty air. Then she staggered a little; her eyes grew blind; she
groped with her hand to feel for the trunk of the tree, and crept to it
and sank down on the bench beneath it, insensible.
How long she remained there she never knew. Gardeners were near,
trimming the banksia roses of a covered arcade, and below, on the edge
of the sea, there were boatmen and fishermen, and not fifty mètres
away, in the house, in his library, Othmar was sitting, awaiting the
reply to his letter. But no one knew what had befallen her. After
awhile she was awakened by the touch of a sea breeze which rising
rustled in the boughs and fanned her face.
When she was aroused and raised herself from her stupor, she saw the
note lying before her on the ground.