THE day after the wedding, when the bridal pair had left Paris by one
train and the bride’s mother and younger sisters by another, when Harold
had gone off to attend to some business which formed one part of the
reason of his coming to Paris, Martha, having now full use of the
carriage, ordered it to wait outside the atelier while she went in to
see if the princess was there. It confirmed a suspicion which had
somehow got into her head when she found that her friend was absent.
With scarcely a glance at the model and the busy students, she withdrew,
and, reëntering her carriage, ordered her coachman to drive her to the
Rue Presbourg.
Upon going at once to her friend’s private rooms, she found her lying on
the lounge in semi-darkness, as she had seen her once before; but now
there were no tears, nor any trace of them.
“I have a real headache this time,” she said, as she stretched out her
hand, with a smile. “It’s better than it was, though, and I am glad to
see you.”
“Were you at the wedding?” was Martha’s first eager question, when she
had kissed her friend and taken the seat beside her.
“Yes, I was there,” said the other promptly. “How charming you looked in
your bridesmaid’s dress, and how handsome your Alice really is!”
She wondered what Martha would think if she knew the truth--that she had
seen Alice and herself scarcely more than if they had not been present!
“And you saw Harold?” was the next question.
“Yes; I saw your paragon of paragons,” was the answer, spoken in light
and well-guarded tones.
Martha’s face fell. Still, she was too earnest to be lightly rebuffed,
so she went on:
“And what did you think of him? Now, Sonia, don’t tease me! You know how
important it is to me--what you think of Harold. Do tell me, dear, and
don’t laugh.”
In response to this earnest appeal the princess’s face grew grave. She
did not look at Martha, however, but occupied herself with twisting up
her loosened hair as she answered:
“I thought him handsome, dear. I thought his face both strong and
clever. I could understand you loving him so much. I could see nothing
in his face, or figure, or expression, that looked in the least degree
unworthy of the great ideal that you have of him. There! Does that
satisfy you?”
She caught Martha’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, and for a
second she met her gaze full. Then she got up hastily, and walked across
the room.
When she presently came back, she had the air of a person thoroughly on
guard, and conscious of her ability to cope with circumstances. She did
not return to the lounge, but sat upright on a stiff sofa which admitted
of no lounging. Martha, glowing with pleasure at her heroine’s praise of
her hero, was determined to follow up her advantage.
“Oh, you will take back what you said, and let me bring him to see
you--won’t you, Sonia?” she said ardently. “We are going to have the
apartment to ourselves for weeks, Harold and I; and we three could have
such ideal times--such little dinners and jaunts to the play! As things
are with you both, I think there is all the more reason for you to know
each other. You could be such friends! I should think a real man friend
would be such a comfort to you. You seem made for that sort of
_camaraderie_, as well as for love. And what a comfort the friendship of
such a woman as you would be to Harold! I feel myself at times so
inadequate to him, and I have the very same feeling, sometimes, with
you. I will confess to you, Sonia, that I did have a hope once, even
though you are a princess and he just a simple American gentleman, that
you and Harold might some time, after years, come to be something to
each other; but I have given that up. I see that it is impossible to
either of you. I had a talk with Harold yesterday, and he is as much
protected by his past as you are by yours. So there could be no danger
to either in such an intercourse. Oh, Sonia, _won’t_ you consent to it?”
There was great gravity and deliberation in the tones of the princess as
she answered impressively:
“Now, Martha, listen to me. I want you to put that idea out of your head
at once and forever. You will do this, I am sure, when I tell you how
it distresses me and embarrasses our whole intercourse. You are quite
mistaken in supposing that I have either a need or a desire for the
friendship of any man alive. You really must believe me when I tell you
that I am sick of men. One reason that I have so entirely given up
society is that they fret me so with their offers of what you and they
call friendship. I did have men friends once, and I know what they
amount to. While I was married, my--I mean the man I married--was my
friend. Since I lost him I have never had another.”
As she ended, she rose and walked across the room. Her tone was so
decided that Martha felt that she could say nothing more, and so, with a
sigh, she gave up this dream too.
In a moment the princess returned, bringing two photographs, which she
had taken from a drawer.
“I have been looking at some old pictures this morning,” she said. “This
one was taken when, as a girl, I was presented at the English court.”
She was silent while Martha was uttering her glowing words of praise,
as she looked at the photograph of the beautiful young girl in her white
court-dress with plumes and veil; and then she put the other into her
hand, saying quietly:
“This was taken in my wedding-dress, a few days after my marriage.”
Her manner indicated a controlled excitement, but she was quite
unprepared for the effect that this photograph had upon Martha. The girl
fixed her eyes upon it with a sort of greedy delight, and while she drew
in her breath with thick, short respirations, the hand that held the
picture trembled.
“I can see it all!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Sonia, were you ever really as
happy as that? What were you looking at, with your head turned in that
eager way?”
“Yes, I was a Happy Princess once, my dear. But you are a wonderful
creature, Martha! No one but you ever thought to ask that question, so I
have been saved the embarrassment of explaining. Since you have asked
me, I will tell you that I was looking at my husband. While the
photographer was posing me in various ways, my husband was waiting for
me. He was supposed to be out
[Illustration: “‘OH, SONIA, WERE YOU EVER REALLY AS HAPPY AS THAT?’”]
of sight, but I heard a newspaper rustle, and looked quickly around, and
caught a glimpse of him, between two screens, seated quietly and
unconsciously reading the paper. One of those great rushes of passionate
tenderness which the sight of the man she loves can sometimes bring to a
woman’s heart came over me. At that moment the photographer got the
instantaneous impression. I don’t know why I should tell you all this,
except that you saw it all there. To other people there never seemed any
special significance in the picture.”
She reached out her hand to take back the photographs, but Martha handed
her only the first.
“Oh, Sonia, _let_ me keep this!” she begged. “It is such delight to me
to look at it!”
“No, dear; I couldn’t. No one but myself should ever see that picture. I
ought not perhaps to have shown it to you. It was just an impulse.
Promise never to speak of either of these pictures--not even to me. You
never will?”
“Never,” said Martha, sadly, as she gave the picture up. Her friend took
it, and, without glancing at it, locked it away in a drawer.
When she came back her whole manner had changed. She began at once to
talk about her work at the atelier, and told Martha that Étienne wished
her to enter a picture for the Salon. The wedding preparations had kept
Martha at home a good deal lately, and the princess had some interesting
bits of news to give her. She was very graphic in her account of some of
Étienne’s last criticisms, and got into high spirits, in which Martha,
somehow, could not entirely take part.
The girl went away at last rather heavy-hearted. This conversation had
deprived her of her last hope of bringing the princess and her brother
together. She had an engagement with Harold for the afternoon, so she
could not go to the atelier; but she promised to meet the princess there
in good time next morning.
That afternoon she indulged herself in giving her brother a brief
account of her romantic friendship. She did not, however, mention the
name by which the princess was known to her, or any but the external
facts in the case.
As she had foreseen, her brother made no objection to the intercourse,
and told her she had been very wise to keep the whole thing to herself.
He did not seem in the least surprised that the princess refused to make
his acquaintance, and explained it to Martha by saying that she was
probably an independent and self-willed young woman, who was disposed to
suit only herself in the matter of friends; but that this was not
inconsistent with a certain regard for conventionalities, and it was
probable that she did not care to bother with her family, or even to
take the trouble to find out anything about them. Martha felt that her
brother was moderately interested in the matter because of its relation
to herself; but in spite of all her enthusiasm she could not feel that
she had inspired him with any special interest in the princess, or any
appreciably greater desire to make her acquaintance than she had shown
to make his.