“You discontented fellow! We have only just come.”
“And how long are we to remain?”
“There, I see you are upset, and, as I can’t expect to make you an ambassador if I don’t humour you a little, I’ll take you back to Athens at once,” said Eméraude, rising good-naturedly.
Rudolph flashed her a look of boyish gratitude, and pressed her hand as he helped her into the train. He was a little boisterous and intractable on his way to town, laughed and talked wildly and, when they got into a carriage at Athens to drive to the Hôtel de la Grande Bretagne, a reaction came, and he sat back, the picture of moody discontent. Verily, Mademoiselle Veritassi has not chosen an easy life, but we can see that she understands her task, and that, in spite of ill-tempers and storms, the whip-hand will be hers.
Turning the corner of Hermes Street, Rudolph’s unhappy glance fell upon another picture, and one that struck a heavier blow upon his bruised heart. Two persons on a balcony of the Hôtel d’Angleterre, which faces Constitution Square, opposite the Palace, were enjoying the sunset, and the soft, departing daylight. A man was leaning with his back to the railing, smoking and looking down upon a seated woman in front of him. Rudolph’s pulses stood still. It was impossible not to recognise the owner of the supple brown hand that grasped the edge of the railing, and upon a slight movement of the smoker, who seemed to be speaking with playful earnestness to his companion, Rudolph saw Reineke’s delicate, clear profile. A hungry pain sprang into Rudolph’s eyes as he sat forward, and looked back through the railings, while the carriage drove across the Square. He saw Inarime distinctly, with her eyes lifted to her husband, and a happy smile stirring her grave lips. And as he watched, Reineke went over and sat beside her.
The carriage stopped in front of the Hôtel de la Grande Bretagne, and Rudolph helped his wife out. Instead of following her in, he hurried down the path to stare again at the rival hotel. Inarime now was standing with her hand upon Gustav’s shoulder, and the spectator might divine that the husband was protesting laughingly against some decision of hers. Then with her tender, grave smile she passed from him and went inside. Gustav remained seated on the balcony, smoking.
“They are not contented—they are happy,” said Rudolph, as he turned to join his wife. “Nobody is miserable but myself. Photini is dead, and I’m alive. I don’t know that it is I who have the best of it, either. She was right. She told me from the first I never should be happy. Andromache! Inarime! and poor Photini! I wonder why I have missed the gladness of life. It seems to exist, and some people catch it. I am only twenty-five. Heaven help me, what shall I be ten years hence, when I feel so bitter on my wedding tour?”
He knocked at his wife’s door, and entering, threw himself on a sofa.
“How long do you propose staying in this wretched hole?” he asked.
“A week or so,” said his wife, surprised. “Why?”