In ten years'—twelve years'—time she would bring out her daughter and marry her, probably to some prince or another—and afterwards?—well, afterwards it would be the same thing, always the same thing; what else could it be? She would not be able, like Lubow Gregorievna, to solace herself for lost loves with church images.
She was tired, the day had dragged, she had been unable to put off from her the sense of loss and of bitterness which had come to her for the first time in all her life. She had not seen her husband since the hour, three days before, when he had left her, insulted beyond words, outraged, and stung to the quick by the dishonour of her contemptuous disbelief.
In a day or two more there would be the fêtes for Easter at Amyôt; royal guests were bidden to them; he would of necessity appear and play his part in his own house; he and she would meet with the world around them. Was not this the supreme use of the world?—to cover discord, to compel dissimulation, to efface the traces of feud, to bring in its train those obligations of surface-courtesies and outward amities which restrain all violent expression of emotion?
One of her women with hesitation approached her, and with apology ventured to say that some one was waiting who entreated to see her; a young girl, Damaris Bérarde. Was she to be permitted to come in? or should she be dismissed?
'Damaris Bérarde!' she repeated with amazement.
The women were astonished to see that this plebeian name, unknown to them, had an effect on their mistress for which they were wholly unprepared.
'To see me!' she echoed, 'to see me!'
She half rose from her reclining attitude, and a look of extreme surprise was on her face, which so seldom showed any strong expression of any kind.
'To see me!' she echoed aloud.
So might Cleopatra have said the words if the Nubian slave from the market-place had approached the purple of her bed and Anthony's.