Sealing the envelope, she placed it in full view on the table of the salon, and, after looking all around, she went out into the small garden. Cesare was walking to and fro, along the alley, where she had spent so many hours by Marcel’s side. She sighed deeply. But her mind was made up, and she was not a woman to draw back.
“Well?” asked the Italian.
“Well, you have convinced me; I will accompany you.”
“Very good. Now you are yourself again. It was only a momentary weakness which came over you.”
“Indeed, I was mad,” she said, mockingly. “Just think, I was in love with this young Baradier.”
“That I can well understand,” he conceded graciously. “He is a charming young fellow. But everything comes to an end. And since, thanks to this intrigue, you have obtained the result so ardently followed up by Hans, the only thing we can now do is to quit. And that is what you are now doing, with your usual good sense. Just now you surprised me, I must confess, by your resistance. This is the first time I have ever seen you sentimental. This fit of idyllic tenderness seemed quite incomprehensible to me. Now, can you explain to me what has taken place?”
“Oh! It is very simple. In this young Marcel I found a love and affection at once simple and disinterested, quite refreshing. It seemed as though I were in a thirsty desert, and came upon a limpid spring, at which no one had drunk previously. I stopped at the edge, looked into the crystal water, and the reflected image was so different from myself, that I stood there astonished and delighted. I thought I was about to find tranquil rest, and a delightful regeneration, and cease being the Sophia who had gone through so many adventures, to become a simple harmless woman in the eyes of a love-stricken swain. Perhaps my mouth would forget its lying, and my eyes their deceit and fascination! What a dream! And how near realization! What unexpected happiness, ruined in a moment by your reappearance. Ah! I have cursed you, Cesare, and Hans as well! But what can I do, how can I tear myself away from my destiny? It was the height of madness for me to think that a sincere love could unfold in my heart, as though a wild floweret of the open fields could spring up in a marsh! Come, let us think no more of all this. Society shall pay the price of my disillusion!”
“Now you are speaking sensibly. But all you have been telling me is most deplorably romantic. To think of your settling down in a village like the Dame aux Camelias to live on new-laid eggs with Armand Duval! How ridiculous! Ah! Here is Milona with your hat and cloak.”
“Ask the coachman to mount the luggage.”
Sophia, apparently impassive, watched her trunk and bags change position. As Cesare stood at the garden-gate calling her, she looked around for the last time, raised her hands to her lips, and to all she associated with Marcel—green trees, forms on which they had sat, birds that had sung above their heads, sky which had shone on their happiness—she sent a rapid kiss.