Chapter 12

'I know that if you are, I should like to kill your husband. Are you? Tell me. Put me out of suspense. Let me go home and open a vein.'

'Have I the air of _a jeune fille_?'

'Thank goodness, no. But there are such things as widows.'

'And what more do you know about me?'

'Tell me--_are_ you married?'

'You may suppose that I'm a widow.'

'Thank God!'

She laughed.

'Will you marry me?' he asked.

'Oh, marriage is such a bore,' she reminded him.

'Will you marry me?'

'No,' she said. 'But you may give me a cigarette.'

And for a while they smoked without speaking.

'I hope at any rate you believe me now,' he said.

'Because you've offered to make the crowning sacrifice? By the bye, what is my number?'

'Oh, don't,' he cried. 'You're the only woman I've ever cared a straw for; and I care so much for you that I'd--I'd--' He stammered, seeking for a thing to say he'd do.

'You'd go to the length of marrying me. Only fancy!'

'Oh, you may laugh. But I love you.'

'Do you love me as much as you used to love Hélène?'

'I love you as much as it's possible for a man to love a woman.'

'Do you know what I think?'

'No. What?'

'If she were to send for you, one of these days, I think you'd forget me utterly. Your old love would come back at sight of her. They say she's very good-looking.'

'Nonsense.'

'I should like to try you.'

'I shouldn't fear the trial.'

'_Il ne faut jamais dire à la fontaine, je ne boirai pas de ton eau_.'

'But when one's thirst is for wine?'

'It shows that there's some relation between psychology and geography, after all,' she said.

'What do you mean?'

'Oh, the influence of places. It is here that you and she used to play a fugue on each other's names. The spot raises ghosts. Ghosts of your old emotions. And I'm conveniently at hand.'

'If you could see yourself, you'd understand that the influence of places is superfluous. If you could look into my heart you'd recognise that my emotion is scarcely a ghost.'

'There's one thing I _should_ like to see,' she said. 'I should very much like to look into your garden at Saint-Graal.'

'Would you?' he cried eagerly. 'When will you come?'

'Whenever you like?'

'Now. At once.'

'No. To-morrow.'

'To-morrow morning?'

'Yes. You can await me at your park-gates at eleven.'

'Then you'll lunch with me?'

'No.... Perhaps.'

'You're an angel!'

And he trudged home on the air. 'If a woman will listen!' his heart sang. 'If a woman will come to see your garden!'

XIII.

That evening a servant handed him a letter.

'A footman has brought it from Granjolaye, and is waiting for an answer.'

The letter ran thus:--

'Monsieur:

'I am directed by Her Majesty the Queen Hélène to request the pleasure of your company at the Château de Granjolaye to-morrow at eleven. Her Majesty desires me to add that she has only to-day learned of your presence in the country.

'Agréez, Monsieur, l'assurance de mes sentiments distingués,

'CTSSSE. DE WOLFENBACH.'

'Oh, this is staggering,' cried Paul. 'What to do?' He walked backwards and forwards, pondering his reply. 'I believe the only excuse that will pass with Royalty is illness or death. Shall I send word that I died suddenly this morning? Ah, well, here goes for a thumping lie.'

And he wrote: 'Madame, I am unspeakably honoured by her Majesty's command, and in despair that the state of my health makes it impossible for me to obey it. I am confined to my bed by a severe attack of bronchitis. Pray express to her Majesty my most respectful thanks as well as my profound regret. I shall hope to be able to leave my room at the week's end, when, if her Majesty can be prevailed upon again to accord me an audience, I shall be infinitely grateful.'

'There!' he muttered. 'I have perjured my soul for you, and made myself appear ridiculous into the bargain. _Bronchitis_! But--_à demain_! Good--good Lord! if she shouldn't come?'

XIV.

She came, followed by a groom. She greeted Paul with a smile that made his heart leap with a wild hope. Her groom led Bézigue away to the stables.

'Thank you,' said Paul.

'For what?'

'For everything. For coming. For that smile.'

'Oh.'

They walked about the garden. 'It is lovely. The prettiest garden of the neighbourhood,' she said. 'Show me where the irises grow, by the pond.' And when they had arrived there, 'They do look like princesses, don't they? Your little friend had some perceptions. Show me where you and she used to sit down. I am tired.'

He led her into a corner of the rosery. She sank upon the turf.

'It is nice here,' she said, 'and quite shut in. One would never know there was a house so near.'

She had taken off one of her gloves. Her soft white hand lay languidly in her lap. Suddenly Paul seized it, and kissed it--furiously--again and again. She yielded it. It was sweet to smell, and warm. 'My God, how I love you, how I love you!' he murmured.

When he looked up, she was smiling. 'Oh, you are radiant! You are divine!' he cried. And then her eyes filled with tears. 'What is it? What is it? You are unhappy?'

'Oh, no,' she said. 'But to think--to think that after all these years of misery, of heartbreak, it should end like this, here.'

'Here?' he questioned.

'I am glad your bronchitis is better, but you _can_ invent the most awful fibs,' she said.

He looked at her, while the universe whirled round him.

'Hélène!'

'Paul!'

XV.

Her divorce didn't carry with it the right to marry again. But she said, 'We can go on making believe we're married. Things one does in play are always so much nicer than real things.' And when he spoke of the 'world,' she answered, 'I have nothing to fear or to hope from the world. It has done its worst by me already.'

As they walked back to the house for luncheon, Paul looked into her face, and said, 'I can't believe my eyes, you know.'

She smiled and took his arm. 'J' t'aime tant,' she whispered.

'And now I can't believe my ears!'

And this would appear to be the end, but I suppose it can't be, for everybody says nowadays that nothing ever ends happily here below.