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Inevitable

<h2 class="main">CHAPTER LIII</h2> Next day, when Cornélie walked with Duco through Florence, when they entered the courtyard of the Palazzo Vecchio, saw the Loggia dei Lanzi and looked in at the Uffizi to see Memmi’s Annunciation, she felt something like her former sensations irresistibly unfolding within her. They seemed to have taken their lines which had burst asunder and with human force to have bent them together again into one path, along which the white daisies and white lilies shot up with a tenderness of soft, mystic recognition that was almost like a dream. And yet it was not quite the same as before. An oppression as of a grey cloud hung between her and the deep-blue sky, which hung out stretched like strips of æther, like paths of lofty, quivering atmosphere, above the narrow streets, above the domes and towers and turrets. She no longer felt the former apprehension; there was a remembrance in her, a heavy pondering weighed upon her brain, an anxiety for what was about to happen. She had a presentiment as of a coming storm; and when, after their walk, they had had something to eat and went home, she dragged herself up the stairs to Duco’s room more wearily than she had ever done in Rome. And she at once saw a letter lying on the table, a letter addressed to her. But how addressed! It gave her so violent a start that she began to tremble in every limb and managed to thrust the letter away even before Duco had followed her into the room. She took off her hat and told Duco that she wanted to get something out of her trunk, which was standing in the passage. He asked if he could help her; but she said no and left the room and went into the narrow passage. Here, standing by the little window overlooking the Arno, she took out the letter. It was the only place where she could read for a moment undisturbed. And she read that address again, written in his hand, which she knew so well, with its great thick, heavy characters. The name which she bore abroad was her maiden name; she called herself Madame de Retz van Loo. But on the envelope she read, briefly: <div class="blockquote"> “Baronne Brox, 37, Lung’ Arno Torrigiani, Florence.” </div> A deep crimson flush mantled over her face. She had borne that name for a year. Why did he call her by it now? Where was the logic in that title which, by the law, was hers no longer? What did he mean by it, what did he want?... And, standing by the little window, she read his short but imperious letter. He wrote that he took her flight very much amiss, especially after their last conversation. He wrote that, at this last interview, she had granted him every right over her, that she had not denied it and that, by kissing him and putting her arms around him, she had shown that she regarded herself as his wife, just as he regarded her as his wife. He wrote that he would not now resent her independent life of a year in Rome, because she was then still free, but that he was offended at her still looking upon herself as free and that he would not accept the insult of her flight. He called upon her to return. He said that he had no legal right to do so, but that he did it because he nevertheless had a right, a right which she could not dispute, which indeed she had not disputed, which on the contrary she had acknowledged by her kiss. He had learnt her address from the porter of the Villa Uxeley. And he ended by repeating that she was to return to Nice, to him, at the Hôtel Continental, and telling her that, if she did not do this, he would come to Florence and she would be responsible for the consequences of her refusal. Her knees shook; she was hardly able to stand upright. Should she show Duco the letter or keep it from him? She had to make up her mind then and there. He was calling to her from the room, asking what she was doing so long in the passage. She went in and was too weak to refrain from throwing herself on his breast. She showed him the letter. Leaning against him, sobbing violently, she heard him fume and rage, saw the veins on his temples swell, saw him clench his fists and roll the letter into a ball and dash it to the floor. He told her not to be frightened, said that he would protect her. He too regarded her as his wife. It all depended upon the light in which she henceforth regarded herself. She did not speak, merely sobbed, broken with fatigue, with fright, with head-ache. She undressed and went to bed, her teeth chattering with fever. He drew her curtains to darken the room and told her to go to sleep. His voice sounded angry and she thought that he was angry at her lack of resolution. She sobbed and cried herself to sleep. But in her sleep she felt the terror within herself and again felt the irresistible pressure. While sleeping she dreamt of what she could reply and wrote to Brox, but it was not clear what she wrote: it was all a vague, impotent pleading for mercy. When she woke, she saw Duco beside her bed. She took his hand; she was calmer. But she had no hope. She had no faith in the days that were coming. She looked at him and saw him gloomy, stern and self-contained, as she had never seen him before. Oh, their happiness was past! On that fatal day when he had seen her to the train in Rome, they had taken leave of their happiness. It was gone, it was gone! Gone the dear walks through ruins and museums, the trips to Frascati, Naples, Amalfi! Gone the dear, fond life of poverty in the big studio, among the gleaming colours of the old brocades and chasubles, of the old bronzes and silver! Gone the gazing together at his water-colour of The Banners, she with her head on his shoulder, within his arm, living his art with him, enjoying his work with him! Gone the ecstasy of the night in the pergola, in the star-spangled night, with the sacred lake at their feet! Life was not to be repeated. They had tried in vain to repeat it here, in this room, at Florence, in the Palazzo Vecchio, tried in vain to repeat it even in the presence of Memmi’s angel emitting his beam of light! They tried in vain to repeat their life, their happiness, their love; it was in vain that they had forced together the lines which had burst asunder. These had merely twined round each other for a moment, in a despairing curve. It was gone, it was gone!... Gloomy and stern he sat beside her bed; and she knew it, he felt that he was powerless because she did not feel herself to be his wife. His mistress!... Oh, she had felt that involuntary repulsion when she had uttered the word! Had he not always wanted to marry her? But she had always felt unconsciously that it could not be, that it must not be. Under all the exuberance of her acrid feministic phrases, that had been the unconscious truth. She, railing against marriage, had always, inwardly, felt herself to be married ... not by a signature, in accordance with the law, but according to an age-old law, a primeval right of man over woman, a law and a right of flesh and blood and the very marrow of the bones. Oh, above that immovable physical truth her soul had blossomed its blossom of white daisies and lilies; and that blossom also was the intense truth, the lofty truth of happiness and love! But the daisies and lilies blossomed and faded: the soul blossoms for but a single summer. The soul does not blossom for a lifetime. It blossoms perhaps before life, it blossoms perhaps after it; but in life itself the soul blossoms for but a single summer. It had blossomed, it was over! And in her body, which lived, in her being, which survived, she felt the truth in her very marrow! He was sitting beside her bed, but he had no rights, now that the lilies had blossomed.... She was broken with pity for him. She took his hand and kissed it fervently and sobbed over it. He said nothing. He did not know how to say anything. It would all have been very simple for him, if she had consented to be his wife. As things were, he could not help her. As things were, he saw his happiness foundering while he looked on: there was nothing to be done. It was slowly falling to pieces, like a crumbling ruin. It was gone! It was gone!... She stayed in bed these days; she slept, she dreamt, she awoke again; and the dread waiting never left her. She had a slight temperature now and again; and it was better for her to stay in bed. As a rule, he remained by her side. But one day, when Duco had gone to the chemist’s for something, there was a knock at the door. She leapt out of bed, terrified, terrified lest she should see the man of whom she was always thinking. Half-fainting with fright, she opened the door ajar. It was only the postman, with a registered letter ... from him! Even more curtly than last time, he wrote that, immediately on the receipt of his letter, she was to telegraph, stating the day when she would come. He said that, if on such and such a day—he would calculate, etc., which—he did not receive her telegram, he would leave for Florence and shoot her lover like a dog at her feet. He would not take a moment to reflect. He did not care what happened.... In this short letter, his anger, his fury, raged like a red storm that lashed her across the face. She knew him; and she knew that he would do what he said. She saw, as in a flash, the terrible scene, with Duco dropping, murdered, weltering in his blood. And she was no longer her own mistress. The red fury of that letter, dispatched from afar, made her his chattel, his thing. She had torn the letter open hastily, before signing the postman’s book. The man was waiting in the passage. Her brain whirled, the room spun before her eyes. If she paused to reflect, it would be too late, too late to reflect. And she asked the postman, nervously: “Can you send off a telegram for me at once?” No, he couldn’t: it wasn’t on his road. But she implored him to do it. She said that she was ill and that she must telegraph at once. And she found a gold ten-franc piece in her purse and gave it to him as a tip over and above the money for the telegram. And she wrote the telegram: <div class="blockquote"> “Leaving to-morrow express train.” </div> It was a vague telegram. She did not know by what express; she had not been able to look it up. Would it be in the evening or quite early in the morning? She had no idea. How would she be able to get away? She had no idea. But she thought that the telegram would calm him. And she meant to go. She had no choice. Now that she had fled in despair, she saw it: if he wanted to have her back, back as his wife, she must go. If he had not wanted it, she could have remained, wherever she might be, despite her feeling that she belonged to him. But now that he wanted it, she must go back. But oh, how was she to tell Duco? She was not thinking of herself, she was thinking of Duco. She saw him lying before her in his blood. She forgot that she had no money left. Was she to ask him for it? O God, what was she to do? She could not go next day, notwithstanding her telegram! She could not tell Duco that she was going.... She had meant to slip quietly to the station, when he was out.... Or had she better tell him?... Which would be the least painful?... Or should ... should she tell everything to Duco and ... and run away ... run away somewhere with him and tell nobody where they were going.... But supposing he discovered where they had gone! And he would find them!... And then ... then he would murder ... Duco!... She was almost delirious with fear, with terror, with not knowing what to do, how to act.... She now heard Duco’s steps on the stairs.... He came in, bringing her the pills.... And, as usual, she told him everything, too weak, too tired, to keep anything hidden, and showed him the letter. He blazed out, furiously, with hatred; but she fell on her knees before him and took his hands. She said that she had already sent the answer. He suddenly became cool, as though overcome by the inevitable. He said that he had no money to pay for her journey. Then, once more, he took her in his arms, kissed her, begged her to be his wife, said that he would kill her husband, even as her husband had threatened to kill him. But she did nothing but sob and refuse, although she continued to cling to him convulsively. Then he yielded to the fatal omnipotence of life’s silent tyranny. He felt death in his soul. But he wished to keep calm for her sake. He said that he forgave her. He held her, all sobbing, in his arms, because his touch calmed her. And he said that, if she wanted to go back—she despondently nodded yes—it was better to telegraph to Brox again, asking for money for the journey and for clear instructions as to the day and time. He would do this for her. She looked at him, through her tears, in surprise. He himself drew up the telegram and went out. “My darling, my darling!” she thought, as he went, as she felt the pain in his torn soul. She flung herself on the bed. He found her in hysterics when he returned. When he had tended her and tucked her up in bed, he sat down beside her. And he said, in a dead voice: “My dearest, be calm now. The day after to-morrow I shall take you to Genoa. Then we shall take leave of each other, for ever. If it can’t be otherwise, it must be like that. If you feel that it has to be, then it must be. Be calm now, be calm now. If you feel like that, that you must go back to your husband, then perhaps you will not be unhappy with him. Be calm, dear, be calm.” “Will you take me?” “I shall take you as far as Genoa. I have borrowed the money from a friend. But above all try to be calm. Your husband wants you back; he can’t want you back only to beat you. He must feel something for you if he wants you so. And, if it has to be ... then perhaps it will be the best thing ... for you.... Even though I can’t see it in that light!...” He covered his face with his hands and, no longer master of himself burst into sobs. She drew him to her breast. She was now calmer than he. And, as he sobbed with his head on her beating heart, she quietly stroked his forehead, while her eyes roamed distantly round the walls of the room.... <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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