"Ah! you touch me in the sorest spot. He is ignorant of them, as he is of all the base realities of life. It is by his innocence, his simplicity of heart, of which his friend so often spoke—his youth, in short—that this boy, against whom I began so cruel a plot, has won me completely. Never has a doubt or a suspicion entered that heart, so young and so innocent of evil, for which evil does not even exist. I had not spoken with him three times before I understood all that Olivier had said in our conversations at Rome, which left me incredulous and irritated. That respect, that veneration almost, which he professed for this candor and goodness, I felt also in my turn. All the expressions he had used in speaking of his friend came back to me, and at every new encounter I perceived how just they were, how fine, and how true. In my surprise I relinquished my plan of vengeance at the contact of this nature so young and delicate, whose perfume I inhaled as I do that of this flower."
And she lifted to her face the rose with its half-nibbled petals.
"If you only knew how the life I lead wearies and oppresses me! How tired I am of hearing about nothing but the breakfasts that Dickie Marsh gives on his yacht to the grand dukes, of Navagero's bezique with the Prince of Wales, of Chésy's speculations at the Bourse, and the half-dozen titled fools that follow his advice! If you only knew how even the best of this artificial society tires me! What does it matter to me whether Andryana Bonnacorsi decides to marry the Sire de Corancez, or any of the countless subjects of gossip at the five o'clock teas in Cannes? And I need not speak of the inferno my house has become since my husband suspects me of favoring the marriage of Flossie Marsh with his assistant. To meet in this artificial atmosphere, made up of ennui and vanity, folly and stupidity, a being who is at the same time profound and simple, genuine and romantic, in fact archaic, as I like to call him, was a delight. And then the moment came when I realized that I loved this young man and that he loved me. I learned it through no incident, no scene, no word—just by a look from him which I accidentally caught. That is why I have taken refuge here for the last eight days, I was afraid. I am still afraid—afraid for myself a little. I know myself too well, and I know that once started on that road of passion I would go to the end, I would stake my whole life upon it, and if I lost, if—"
She did not finish, but her friend understood her terrible forebodings as she continued: "And I am afraid for him, too, ah, much afraid! He is so young, so inexperienced! He believes so implicitly in me. I cannot better show you how I have changed than by saying this: six weeks ago, when Hautefeuille was presented to me, I had but one desire,—that Olivier should learn of my acquaintance with his friend. To-day, if I could prevent these two men from ever meeting, or from ever speaking of me to each other, I would give ten years of my life. Now do you understand why the tears came to my eyes when you told me what he did this evening, and how, without speaking to me, he had seen the way I spend my time away from him? I am ashamed, terribly ashamed. Think what it would be if he knew the rest!"
"And what are you going to do?" Madame Brion mournfully exclaimed. "These men will meet again. They will talk about you. And if Olivier loves his friend as you say he does, he will tell him all. Listen," she continued, clasping her hands, "listen to what the tenderest and most devoted affection advises you to do. I do not speak of your duty, of the opinion of the world, or the vengeance of your husband. I know you would brave all that, as you did before, to win your happiness. But you will not win it. You could not be happy in this love with that secret on your heart. You will be tortured by it, and if you speak—I know you, you must have thought of it—if you speak—"
"If I told him, I would never see him again," said Madame de Carlsberg. "Ah! without that certitude—"
"Well! Have the courage to do it," interrupted the other. "You had the strength to leave Cannes for a week. You should have enough to leave for good. You will not be alone. I will go with you. You will suffer. But what is that, when you think of what otherwise would happen,—that you would be everything to this young man, and he everything to you, and he would know that you had been the mistress of his friend!"
"Yes, I have thought of all that," replied the Baroness, "and then I remember I might have had six months, a year, and perhaps more. And that is to have lived, to have been in this hard world for a year one's self, one's true self, the being that one is in one's innermost and deepest reality."
And as she spoke she gazed at the sky with the same look that she had had at the beginning of the walk. She seemed once more to bathe her face in the moonlight, and to absorb the impassive serenity of the mountains and the stars, as though to gather force to go to the end of her desire. And as they resumed again in silence their promenade among the obscure palms, by the fragrant rose-beds, and beneath the sombre shadow of the orange trees, the faithful friend murmured:—
"I will save her in spite of herself."