CHAPTER XII
THE DÉNOUEMENT
The Archduke's threat was uttered in a way that betrayed an inflexible resolution. It did not cause the young woman to flinch or to lower her gaze. She did not remember anything of this scene, one, nevertheless, that was momentous for her, since it called down upon her the hatred of the most vindictive and unjust of men. She did not remember anything that had passed when she regained her room save one thing, and that was quite foreign to herself. As she had listened to the Archduke's passionate cry, wrung from him by wounded friendship, she saw, as though in a flash of blinding revelation, what had been the strength of the bonds uniting Olivier and Pierre. She realized keenly the sentiment that linked them in their revolt against her—the revolt of suffering Man against Woman and against Love. She understood at last the impulse that had made them take refuge in a virile fraternal affection, the one fortress which the fatal passion cannot subdue. She had seen the passions of Love and Friendship in conflict.
In Verdier's heart love had conquered. He had for the Prince only the affection of a pupil for his master, of a debtor for his benefactor. It was a sentiment made up of deference and gratitude. Besides, Verdier esteemed the woman he loved. How different would have been his attitude had he returned his protector's friendship with a similar sentiment, had he felt for the Prince the affection that Olivier had for Pierre, that Pierre had for Olivier! And, above all, what a change there would have been in him had he had to condemn Miss Marsh as Pierre had been forced to condemn his mistress!
This analogy and its contrast forced themselves upon Ely's notice, when she left the laboratory, with an intensity that completely exhausted all the physical strength that was left in her. She was no longer supported by the necessity of working for the sake of others. She was now alone, face to face with her grief. And, as often happens after any violent emotion that has been followed by too energetic efforts, she succumbed under the shock. Hardly had she reached her room than she was overpowered by an agonizing nervous headache. Such a crisis is really the shattering of the nervous system, whose strength has been exhausted by the force of will, and which has finally to surrender.
Ely did not try to struggle any longer. She lay down on her bed like some one in death agony, at one o'clock, after having sent off a despatch to the one woman whose presence she felt she could support, the one woman upon whom she could rely—to Louise Brion, whose devotion she had almost forgotten during the past weeks.
"She is my friend," she thought, "and our friendship is better than theirs, for the friendship of those men is made up of hate!"
In the extremity of her distress she, therefore, also had recourse to the sentiment of friendship. She was mistaken in thinking that Louise was more devoted to her than was Pierre to Olivier, or than was the Archduke to Verdier. But she was not mistaken in thinking the devotion of her friend was of a different character. In reality, feminine friendship and masculine friendship have a striking difference. The latter is almost always the mortal foe of love, while the former is most often only love's complacent ally. It is rare that a man can regard with any indulgence the mistress of his friend, while a woman, of even the most upright character, has almost always a natural sympathy for her friend's lover so long as he makes her friend happy; it is because the majority of women have a tender feeling for love, for all love, for that of others as well as for that which concerns them more closely. Men, on the contrary, have an instinct which remains in them, a relic of the savage despotism of an earlier barbarism. They do not sympathize with any love that they do not feel, that they do not inspire.
Louise Brion had felt a pity for Hautefeuille at the very moment when she had received Ely's confession in the garden of her villa, at the very moment she had implored her friend to give up the dangerous passion she had inspired in the young Frenchman. From that evening she had felt an interest in the young man, in his sentiments, in his movements, even though at the time she was using all the eloquence that her trembling affection could suggest to persuade Ely to see him no more. When Ely gave herself up entirely to her passion later, Louise had withdrawn, had effaced herself, on account of her scruples, and in order that she might not be a witness of an intrigue which her conscience considered a great crime. She had gone away through discretion, so as to not impose an inopportune friendship on the two lovers, and delicacy had also had its share in her retirement, for she had felt all the shrinking of the pure woman from forbidden ecstasy. But she had not felt the least hostility to Pierre in her retirement and self-effacement. Her tender woman's imagination had not ceased to link him, in spite of herself, with the romantic passion of her friend. The singular displacement of her personality, which had always made her lead, in imagination, the life Ely was living, rather than her own individual existence, had continued, had been even accentuated.
Since Olivier's return this identification of her feelings with those of her dear friend had been more and more complete. The dinner at Monte Carlo with the Du Prats in such close proximity had made her feverish with anxiety. She had expected an appeal from her friend from that moment. She had lived in expectancy of this summons to help Ely to bear her terrors, to fight with her friend, to share the sufferings of a love whose happiness she had vainly striven to ignore.
She was thus neither surprised nor deceived by Ely's despatch, which simply spoke of a little indisposition. She divined the catastrophe that had happened at once, and before the end of the afternoon she was sitting at the bedside of the poor woman, receiving, accepting, provoking all her confidences, without any further inclination to condemn her. She was ready to do anything to dry the tears that flowed down the beloved face, to calm the fever that burned in the little hand she held. She was ready for anything, weak enough for anything, with indulgence for all and in the secret of all!