Why had he done it, why had he pursued her after seeing her once at Nice? Oh, he had told her, during that cotillon, that endless cotillon! He had become proud of her when he saw how beautiful she was and how smart, how happy she looked driving in Mrs. Uxeley’s or the princess’ elegant victoria; it was then that he had seen her, beautiful, smart and happy; and he had grown jealous. She, a beautiful woman, had been his wife! He felt that he had a right to her, notwithstanding the law. What was the law? Had the law taught her womanhood or had he? And he had made her feel his right, together with the irrevocable past. It was all irrevocable and indelible....
She looked about her, at her wits’ end what to do. And she began to weep, to sob. Then she felt something gaining strength within her, the instinctive rebellion that leapt up within her like a spring which had at length recovered its resilience, now that she was resting and no longer under his eyes. She would not. She would not. She refused to feel him in her blood. Should she meet him once more, she would speak to him calmly, very curtly, and order him to leave her, show him the door, have him put out of the door.... She clenched her fists with rage. She hated him. She thought of Duco.... And she thought of writing to him, telling him everything. And she thought of going back to him as quickly as possible. He was not a dream, he existed, even though he was living so far away, at Florence. She had saved a little money, they would find their happiness again in the studio in Rome. She would write to him; and she wanted to get away as quickly as possible. With Duco she would be safe. Oh, how she longed for him, to lie so softly and quietly and blissfully in his arms, against his breast, as in the embrace of a miraculous happiness! Was it all true, their happiness, their love and harmony? Yes, it had existed, it was not a dream. There was his photograph; there, on the wall, were two of his water-colours—the sea at Sorrento and the skies over Amalfi—done in those days which had been like poems. She would be safer with him. When she was with Duco, she would not feel Rudolph, her husband, in her blood. For she felt Duco in her soul; and her soul would be the stronger! She would feel Duco in her soul, in her heart, in all the most fervent part of her life and gather from him her uppermost strength, like a sheaf of gleaming sword-blades! Already now, when she thought of him with such longing, she felt herself growing stronger. She could have spoken to Brox now. Yesterday he had taken her by surprise, had squeezed her between himself and that looking-glass, till she had seen him double and lost her wits and been defeated. That would never happen again. That was only due to the surprise. If she spoke to him again now, she would triumph, thanks to what she had learnt as a woman who stood on her own feet.
And she got up and opened the windows and put on her dressing-gown. She looked at the blue sea, at the motley traffic on the Promenade. And she sat down and wrote to Duco. She told him everything: her first startled meeting, her surprise and defeat at the ball. Her pen flew over the paper. She did not hear the knock at the door, did not hear Urania come in carefully, fearing lest she should still be asleep and anxious to know how she felt. Excitedly she read out part of her letter and said that she was ashamed of her weakness of yesterday. How she could have behaved like that she herself was unable to understand.
No, she herself could not understand it. Now that she felt somewhat rested and was speaking to Urania, who reminded her of Rome, and holding her long letter to Duco in her hand ... now she herself did not understand it all and wondered which had been a dream: her Italian year of happiness or that nightmare of yesterday....
CHAPTER L
She stayed at home for a day, feeling tired and, deep down within herself, almost unconsciously, afraid, in spite of all, of meeting him. But Mrs. Uxeley, who would never hear of illness or fatigue, was so much put out that Cornélie accompanied her next day to the Promenade des Anglais. Friends came up to talk to them and gathered round their chairs, with Rudolph Brox among them. But Cornélie avoided any confidential conversation.
Some days later, however, he called on Mrs. Uxeley’s at-home day; and, amid the crowd of visitors paying duty-calls after the party, he was able to speak to her for a moment alone. He came up to her with that laugh of his, as though his eyes were laughing, as though his moustache were laughing. And she collected all her thoughts, so that she might be firm with him:
“Rudolph,” she said, loftily, “it is simply ridiculous. If you don’t think it indelicate, you might at least try to think it ridiculous. It tickles your sense of humour, but imagine what people would say about it in Holland!... The other evening, at the party, you took me by surprise and somehow—I really don’t know how it happened—I yielded to your strange wish to dance with me and to lead the cotillon. I frankly confess, I was confused. I now see everything clearly and plainly and I tell you this: I refuse to meet you again. I refuse to speak to you again. I refuse to turn the solemn earnest of our divorce into a farce.”
“If you look back,” he said, “you will recollect that you never got anything out of me with that lofty tone and those dignified airs, but that, on the contrary, you just stimulate me to do what you don’t want....”
“If that is so, I shall simply tell Mrs. Uxeley in what relation I stand to you and ask her to forbid you her house.”