Chapter 30

When Olive came to the _atelier_ on the following morning Camille was not there, but the door was open and he had left a note on the table for her.

"I have had a letter from the Duchess. She is leaving Rome to-day but she wants to see me before she goes. It must be about her daughter's portrait. I must go to her hotel, but I shall drive both ways and be back in half an hour. Wait for me.--C. M."

Olive took off her hat and coat as usual behind the screen. She was choosing a book from the tattered row of old favourites on the shelf when she heard a step outside. She listened, thinking that it was Camille, and fearing that the commission had not been given him. It was not like him to be so silent.

"I thought you would be singing--" she stopped short.

Filippo came on into the room.

"M'sieur Michelin is out," she said.

"So the porter told me. You do not think I want to see him. Will you come with me to Albano to-day?"

She shook her head.

"To-morrow, then. Why not?"

"I have my work."

"Your work! I see you believe you can do without me now. How long do you think you will be able to earn money in this way? All these men will be leaving Rome soon. The schools will be closed until next October. You will have to choose between the devil and the deep sea--"

"What is the good of talking about it?" she said wearily. "I know I have nothing to look forward to. I know that. Please go away."

"Do you know that you have cost me more than any other woman I have ever met? You injured me; will you make no amends?"

She laughed. "So you are the victim."

"Yes," he said passionately, "I told you before that I suffered, and you believed me then. Is it my fault that I am made like this? Since that night in Florence when I held you in my arms I have had no peace."

"You behaved very badly. I can't think why I let myself be sorry for you."

"Badly! Some men would, but I loved you even then."

She looked wistfully towards the door. "I wish you would go. There are so many other women."

"I love you, I want you," he answered, and he caught her in his arms and held her in spite of her struggles. "I have you!" He forced her head down upon his breast and kissed her mouth. She thought the hateful pressure of his lips, the hateful fire of his eyes would kill her, and when, at last, she wrenched herself away she screamed with the despairing violence of some trapped, wild thing.

"Camille! Camille!"

It seemed to her that if he did not hear her this must be the end of all, and she suffered an agony of terror. She thanked God as the door below was flung to and he came running up the stairs.

The Prince let her go and half turned to meet him, but Camille was not inclined to parley. He struck, and struck hard. Filippo slipped on the polished floor, tried to recover himself, and fell heavily at the girl's feet.

He got up at once, and the two men stood glaring at each other. Olive looked from one to the other. "It was nothing. I am sorry," she said breathlessly. "He was trying to--I was frightened. It was nothing, really, but--but I am glad you came."

"So am I," the Frenchman said grimly. His blue eyes were grown grey as steel. "I am waiting, Prince."

A little blood had sprung from Filippo's cut lip and run down his chin. He wiped it with his handkerchief and looked thoughtfully at the stain on the white linen before he spoke.

"Who is your friend?"

"René Gontrand."

"No, no!" cried the girl. "Filippo, it was your fault. Can't you be sorry and forget? Camille!"

"Hush, child," he said, "you do not understand."

Tor di Rocca was looking at her now with the old insolent smile in his red-brown eyes. "Ah, you said 'Never!' but presently you will come."

So he left them.

Olive expected to be "poored," but Camille, as it seemed, deliberately took no notice of her. She watched him picking a stick of charcoal from the accumulation of odd brushes, pens and pencils on the table.

"What a handsome devil it is. Lean, lithe and brown. He should go naked as a faun; such things roamed about the primeval woods seeking what they might devour. I wish I had asked him to sit for me."

He went to his easel and began to sketch a head on the canvas he had prepared for the Rosamund. "He has the short Neronic upper lip," he murmured.

Olive lost patience. "I wonder you had the heart to risk spoiling its contour," she said resentfully.

"With my fist, you mean?"

"I--I am very sorry--" she began. He saw that she was crying, and he was perplexed, not quite understanding what she wanted of him.

"What am I to say to you?" He came over and sat down beside her, and she let him hold her hand. "I know so little--not even your name. I have asked no questions, but of course I saw-- Why do you not go back to your friends?"

She dried her eyes. "I have cousins in Milan, but I have lost their address, and they would not be able to help me. I have burnt my boats. I used to give lessons, but it was not easy to find pupils, and then I met Rosina. I cannot go back to being a governess after being a model. I have done no wrong, but no one would have me if they knew. You see one has to go on--"

"Have you known Tor di Rocca long? He was here last winter. He has a villa somewhere outside Rome. I think it belonged to his mother. She was an Orsini."

"You are not going to fight him?"

Outside, in the ilex wood, birds were calling to one another. The sun gilded the green of the gnarled old trees; it had rained in the night, and the garden was sweet with the scent of moist earth. The young man sighed. He had meant to take his "little brother" into the Campagna this April day to see the spring pageant of the skies, to hear the singing of larks high up at heaven's gate, the tinkling of sheep bells, the gurgling of water springs half hidden in the green lush grass that grows in the shadow of the ruined Claudian aqueducts.

"Camille, answer me."

He got up and went back to his easel. "You must run away now," he said. "I can't work this morning. I think I shall go to Naples for a few days, but I will let you know when I return. We must get on with the 'Rosamund.'"

She went obediently to put on her hat, but the face she saw reflected in the little hanging mirror was pale and troubled. He came with her to the door, and when she gave him her hand he bent to kiss it. Her eyes filled again with tears. He will be killed, she thought, and for me.

"Don't fight! For my sake, don't. I shall begin to think that I am a creature of ill-omen. They say some women are like that; they have the _mal occhio_; they give sorrow--"

"That is absurd," he said roughly, and then, in a changed voice, "Good-bye, child."