For seven years they lived the same existence, separated sometimes for
three months, occasionally for six, and once because of a trip taken to
South America for nearly a year.
The first time that he joined her, after five months of longing, he
remained a week without crying out the words that were heavy on his
heart. One day she said to him:
"What is there--back of your eyes, hidden away, that you are stifling?"
"You know," he blurted out.
"What?"
"Ah, I have tried not to say it, to live it down. I can't--it's beyond
me. I shall have no peace until it is said."
"Then say it."
He took her face in his two hands and looked into her eyes.
"Since I have been away," he said brutally, "there has been no one else
in your heart? You have been true to me, to our love?"
"I have been true," she answered with a little smile.
He held his eyes on hers a long while, hesitating whether to be silent
or to continue, and then, all at once, convinced, burst into tears and
begged her pardon.
"Oh, I shouldn't have asked it--forgive me."
"Do whatever is easiest for you, my love," she answered. "There is
nothing to forgive. I understand all. I love you for it."
Only she never asked him any questions, and that alarmed him.
The second time report had coupled her name with a Gabriel Lombardi, a
great baritone with whom she was appearing. When he arrived, as soon as
they were alone, he swung her about in his arms and cried in a strangled
voice:
"Swear to me that you have been faithful."
"I swear."
"Gabriel Lombardi"?
"I can't abide him".
"Ah, if I had never told you to lie to me--fool that I was."
Then she said calmly, with that deep conviction which always moved him:
"Ben, when you asked me that, I told you I would never lie. I have told
you the truth. No man has ever had the pressure of my fingers, and no
man ever will."
So intense had been his emotion that he had almost a paroxysm. When he
opened his eyes he found her face wet with tears.
"Ah, Madeleine," he said, "I am brutal with you. I cannot help it."
"I would not have you love me differently," she said gently, and through
her tears he seemed to see a faint, elusive smile, that was gone quickly
if it was ever there at all.
Another time, he said to himself: "No, I will say nothing. She will come
to me herself, put her arms around me, and tell me with a smile that no
other thought has been in her heart all this while. That's it. If I wait
she will make the move, she will make the move each time--and that will
be much better."
He waited three days, but she made no allusion. He waited another, and
then he said lightly:
"You see, I am reforming."
"How so?"
"Why, I don't ask foolish questions any more."
"That's so."
"Still--"
"Well?" she said, looking up.
"Still, you might have guessed what I wanted," he answered, a little
hurt.
She rose quickly and came lightly to him, putting her hand on his
shoulder.
"Is that what you wish?" she said.
"Yes."
She repeated slowly her protestations and when she had ended, said,
"Take me in your arms--hurt me."
"Now she will understand," he thought; "the next time she will not
wait."
But each time, though he martyrized his soul in patience, he was forced
to bring up the question that would not let him rest.
He could not understand why she did not save him this useless agony.
Sometimes when he wanted to find an excuse he said to himself it was
because she felt humiliated that he should still doubt. At other times,
he stumbled on explanations that terrified him. Then he remembered with
bitterness the promise that he had exacted from her, a promise that,
instead of bringing him peace, had left only an endless torment, and
forgetting all his protestations he would cry to himself, in a cold
perspiration:
"Ah, if she is really lying, how can I ever be sure?"