When by a long and roundabout way he at last reached his home on foot,
and walked through the stone-paved, whitewashed corridor, looking
absently before him, he perceived sitting beneath a mulberry-tree, the
lower boughs of which were covered with the blossoms of a climbing
rose, an attractive female figure, whose golden hair gleamed in the
sunlight. She was sitting in a basket chair, and was engaged upon a
piece of delicate crochet-work. She wore a gown of some white woollen
stuff, very simply made, and confined at the waist by a belt of russet
leather; the sleeves, which were rather short, left exposed not only
the wrists, but part of a plump arm, white and smooth as polished
marble, and the finely-formed throat rose as white and polished from
the turn-down sailor collar, beneath which a dark-blue cravat was
loosely knotted. How deft and skilful, as she worked, was every
movement of her rather large but faultlessly-shaped hands!
She was somewhat stout, but there was a certain charm in that. The
broad full shoulders gave an impression of vigour that nothing could
subdue. Lozoncyi could not but admire them. He was amazed. Yesterday
there had been shrieks and screams, torn clothes and broken furniture,
while to-day, after a scene that would have made any other woman ill,
there was not a trace of fatigue, no dark shade beneath the steel-blue
eyes, not a wrinkle about the rather large mouth. What a fund of
inexhaustible vitality the woman possessed! what triumphant, healthy
vigour! Not a sign of nervousness, of useless agitation; no breath of
exaggeration.
Ah, she had her good side,--there was no denying it. He sighed, and,
hearing himself sigh, was startled by the turn his thoughts were
taking. Was it possible that after a forced companionship of scarcely
two days--a companionship of which, when he could not avoid it, he had
taken advantage to hurl in the woman's face his hatred and contempt for
her--old habits were asserting their rights?
She went on crocheting. The sunlight crept down from among the climbing
roses and glittered upon her crochet-needle. At last it shone in her
eyes: she moved her chair to avoid the dazzling glare, and, looking up,
saw him. Instead of the dark looks she had given him yesterday, she
smiled slowly, blinking her strange cat-like eyes in the sunshine, and
by her smile disclosing a row of pearly teeth. He passed her sullenly,
as if she had taken an unjustifiable liberty with him, and went into
the studio, wishing to persuade himself that he had a horror of her,
that she repelled him. He hoped to feel that disgust for her with which
the thought of her had inspired him since love for Erika had filled his
heart; but he did not feel the disgust.
He lingered for less time than usual before Erika's portrait, which
occupied a large easel in the most conspicuous place in the studio, and
went to his writing-table. Several business letters awaited him there;
he opened them with an impatient sigh. They were for the most part
requests for answers to letters received by him weeks previously. Since
he had been in Venice his business correspondence--in fact, his
business affairs generally--had fallen into terrible disorder.
He opened the latest letter: it contained columns of figures. It was
the account from his picture-dealer. He snapped his fingers, and,
sitting down, tried to comprehend it. In vain! The figures danced
before his eyes. Involuntarily he looked up. Through the glass door of
the studio a pair of greenish eyes were gazing at him with an
expression of good-humoured raillery. His heart began to beat fast.
Formerly she had conducted his entire correspondence for him,--with
what perfect regularity and skill! Before she had taken up the trade of
model in consequence of a love-affair with an artist, she had been a
_dame de comptoir_; she was as skilled in accounts as a bank-clerk. He
needed but to speak the word, and she would reduce all these provoking
affairs to perfect order; but he would ask no favour of her. Then she
opened the studio door, and, entering softly, laid a warm strong hand
upon his shoulder. He tried to persuade himself that he disliked the
touch of this hand. But he did not dislike it: it had a soothing effect
upon his excited nerves. Nevertheless he forced himself to shake it
off.
The woman laughed, a low, gentle laugh,--the laugh of a cynic. She
lighted a cigarette and handed it to him, saying, "_Pauvre bebe_, try
to rest instead of settling those accounts: I will do it all for you in
the twinkling of an eye, while it would take you until next week."
This time she did not lay her hand upon his shoulder, but stroked his
head gently. "_Voyons, Seraphine!_" he said, crossly, shaking her off.
She laughed again, good-humouredly, carelessly, with unconscious
cynicism. Before three minutes had passed, she was seated in his stead
at the writing-table, and he, with the cigarette which she had offered
him between his lips, was standing lost in thought before Erika's
portrait.
How long he had been standing thus he could not have told, when he
heard a deep voice beside him say, "_C'est rudement fort, tu sais.
Sapristi!_ Shall you exhibit it?"
"I have not made up my mind," he replied, absently, and then he was
vexed with himself for answering her.
"She is pretty, there's no denying it," Seraphine confessed. "I am
really sorry to have interfered with your amusement, but nothing could
have come of it. If I am not mistaken, you had gone as far as was
possible. She is one of those who give nothing for nothing, and who
never invest their capital except in good securities. I am sorry I
cannot resign these securities to her; _je suis bon garcon, moi_, but,
_mon Dieu, lorsqu'il y a un homme dans la question--sapristi, chaque
femme pour elle!_"
Here Lucrezia opened the door, and announced that lunch was served in
the garden. Lozoncyi had firmly resolved never again to sit down to a
meal with this woman. But, before he could say so, she began, "It would
be well if you could give them something to talk of again in Paris.
When did you leave in the autumn? In October? You have no idea what a
relief your departure was to the artists there. You ought to see the
crazy carnival of colour held in this year's Salon! Bouchard exhibited
a nymph with a faun, quite in your style, only yours is flesh and his
is putty,--a poor thing; but the critics exalted it, and gave it a
_medaille d'honneur_. You had begun to make the artists very
uncomfortable: they are praising up mere daubers, to belittle you,
doing what they can to knock away the floor from under you. But you
need only show yourself to recover your ground. Becard told me lately
that he had got hold of quite a new way of looking at things: his
picture in the Salon----"
Talking thus, she had gone slowly towards the door; now she was
outside. Unconsciously he had followed her.
"What has Becard in the Salon?"
"A woman on a balcony, after dinner, between two different lights,--on
one side candle-light, and on the other moonlight; half of her is
sulphur-yellow, the other half sea-green; _c'est d'un drole!_"
"I saw the sketch for that monstrosity in his atelier," cried Lozoncyi,
excited. "Did they accept it?"
She had taken her seat at the tempting table, upon which smoked a
golden omelette; she did not answer instantly.
"Did they accept it?" Lozoncyi repeated.
"Accept it----! Why, my dear, they laud him to the skies: they hail him
as _le Messie_!"
Lozoncyi had now seated himself opposite her. He brought his fist down
upon the table. "Confound it!" he muttered between his teeth.
"You are wrong to be vexed," she said: "he is a good fellow, and your
friend. He told me awhile ago with reference to his success, 'It is
envy of Lozoncyi that is now standing me in stead.' Let me give you
some omelette: it is growing cold."
He allowed her to fill his plate.
Two hours later he was pacing his atelier to and fro in gloomy mood.
He had enjoyed his breakfast, and had been entertained by his wife's
chatter. With infinite skill she lured his fancy back to the old,
careless, good-humoured Bohemian life in Paris. He questioned her with
increasing curiosity as to the works of his fellows there, and she told
him stories,--highly spiced but very amusing stories; she peeled his
orange for him, and when the sun began to shine full upon the table at
which they were sitting they drank their coffee in the studio. A
sensation of intense comfort stole over him; but in the midst of it he
was conscious of physical uneasiness. She looked at him, and
disappeared with a laugh, returning with a pair of easy slippers. It
was warm; his boots were tight; he took them off and slipped his feet
into the easy shoes she had brought him. He felt as if relieved for the
first time for a long while of a certain restraint. He yawned and
stretched himself. Suddenly he shivered.
The question suggested itself, Could he ever allow himself such license
in Erika's presence?
He started up. The momentarily-restored harmony between himself and his
wife was interrupted. In the sudden change of mood to which in the
course of years she had become accustomed, he repulsed her,--actually
turned her out of the room, rudely, angrily.
Again his every pulse throbbed. He felt as if he should go mad. His
revulsion of feeling with regard to Erika clothed itself in a new
dress. It was odious, unprincipled, criminal, to take advantage of the
enthusiasm of this inexperienced young creature, to drag her down to
probable--nay, to certain--misery. He went to his writing-table; he
would write to her that for her sake he withdrew from their agreement.
But scarcely had he written the first word when a wave of passion swept
over his soul, benumbing his energies: he knew that he was as powerless
to renounce her as he was to carry out any other resolve. What did he
really want? He sprang up, crushed in his hand the sheet of paper which
his pen had scarcely touched, and threw it away. Once again he stood
before the portrait.
At last, with bowed head, he went into the next room. Erika had left
there by accident one or two articles belonging to her,--a lace
handkerchief, a glove. He pressed them to his lips.