He also noticed the weakening of the exclusively Gallic character in Pierre, which he had formerly liked. The young man had been in love with Ely only three months; it was only three weeks since he had learned that she loved him; but by dint of thinking of her all his associations of ideas, all his quotations, had been modified insensibly but strikingly. His conversation was tinged with an exotic quality. He referred to Italian and Austrian matters quite naturally. He who formerly astonished Olivier by his absolute lack of curiosity, now appeared to enjoy with the pleasure of the newly initiated the stories of the cosmopolitan society to which he was attached by secret but none the less living bonds. He had now an interest in it, was accustomed to it, sympathized with it. And yet nothing in his letters had prepared his friend for this metamorphosis.
Olivier continued to seek indications disclosing the identity of the woman he loved in his conversation, in the expression on Pierre's face, in the least important words of the three speakers. Berthe, who had hardly deigned to reply to Corancez's attempts to interest her, now appeared absorbed in contemplation of the beautiful view across the sea. The afternoon was drawing to its close. The sheets of blue and violet water slumbered in the indented coast. The foam tossed about, appearing and disappearing around the big wooded promontories. And on the other side, shutting in the horizon, beyond the deep mountains, were outlined the white sierras of the snowclad peaks.
But the young woman's self-absorption was but in appearance. And if Olivier had not been too startled by the sound of a name suddenly mentioned he must have seen that the name also made a shudder run through his wife.
"Are you dining at the Villa Helmholtz to-morrow?" Madame Bonnacorsi asked Hautefeuille.
"I shall go later in the evening," he replied.
"Do you know whether the Baroness Ely is at Monte Carlo to-day?" asked Corancez.
"No," answered Hautefeuille; "she is dining with the Grand Duchess Vera."
Simple as was the sentence, his voice trembled as he spoke. It would have seemed to him both puerile and ignoble to attempt to hide anything from Olivier, and it was perfectly natural for Corancez, who knew of his relations with Madame de Carlsberg, to ask him about such a trifling matter. But the gift of second sight seems to descend upon lovers. He felt that his friend was watching him with a singular expression in his eyes. And—more extraordinary still—his friend's young wife was also observing him. The knowledge of the tender secret he carried hidden in his heart, a sanctuary of adoration, made the glances so painful to support that insensibly his face disclosed his feelings just sufficiently to enable the two people spying upon him at the moment to find food in his momentary agitation for their thoughts.
"The Baroness Ely?—Why, that is the name on the portrait!"—How was it possible for Berthe to avoid the rapid reflection? And then she thought: "Can this woman be at Cannes? How embarrassed both Olivier and Pierre look!"
As for Olivier, he thought: "He knows all about her movements.—How naturally Corancez asked him about her!—That is just the tone such people adopt in speaking with you about a woman with whom you have a liaison.—And yet, is it possible there is such a liaison?"