Part 22

“Quite that,” said she, and I saw her making a mental note of the comparison for future use--one of her best tricks. “Really, I prefer the business men to them. But one cannot get the business men. What a country, where everyone who has any brains is at work!”

“If you are unhappy here, why not go abroad?” said I amiably. “Margot is always waiting for you.”

“But how _can_ I go abroad?” railed she. “There’ll be another outbreak of scandal. Was ever a woman so wretchedly placed! What _shall_ I do! If I had some one to advise me!”

It was interesting to hear her, determined, self-reliant character though she was, thus confess to the universal weakness of the female sex. Women, not trained to act for themselves, can hardly overcome this fundamental defect. That is why you so often see an apparently, and probably, superior woman weaken and yield where a distinctly ordinary man would be strong and would march ahead. The trouble with Edna was that she had no definite man behind her, spurring her on to action. In all she had done from the beginning of our married life she had felt that she had me to fall back on, should emergency arise--an unconscious dependence, one she would have scornfully denied, but none the less real. In this affair there was no man to fall back on.

I saw this. Yet I refrained from giving her the support she needed and all but asked. Her cry, “If I had some one to advise me,” meant, “If I had some one to give me the courage to act.” I knew what it meant. But eager though I was to be quit of her, I would not give her the thrust toward divorce that would have put into her the courage of anger and of the feeling that she was a martyr to my brutality. Why did I hold myself in check? Candidly, I do not know. I distrust the suggestion that it may have been due to essential goodness of heart. At any rate, I did restrain myself. She--naturally enough--misunderstood; and she proceeded to explain it to the gratifying of her vanity. I saw in her eyes, in her way of treating me, that she thought me her secret adorer, convinced of my unworthiness, of her god-to-mortal superiority; not daring openly to resist her desire to be free from me, but opposing it humbly, silently. I saw that she pitied me. Did this add to my anger? Not in the least. I have a perhaps queer sense of humor. I rather welcomed the chance to get a little amusement out of a situation otherwise dreary and infuriating.

Curiously enough, it was Armitage who came to her rescue--and to mine.

Bob had been in retirement several weeks, having himself rejuvenated by a beauty doctor. You are astonished, gentle reader, perhaps incredulous, that a man of his position--high both socially and financially--should stoop to such triviality--not a woman but a man. And the serious, masculine sort of man he was, I assure you. But you, being a confirmed accepter of the trash written and talked about human nature, do not appreciate what a power physical vanity is in the world. Of course, if you are a man, you know about your own carefully hid physical vanity. But you think it in yourself a virtue, quite natural, not a vanity at all. Bob Armitage was not vain enough to fail to see the beginning of the ravages of time and dissipation. Another man would have looked in the glass and would have seen a reflection ever handsomer as the years went by, would have discovered in the creases and crow’s-feet and lengthening wattles a superb beauty of manly strength of character showing at last in the face. Bob was not that sort of fool. He wished to fascinate the ladies; so, he strove to retain the fair insignia of youth as long as he possibly could. He knew as well as the next man that his wealth had value with the women far beyond any degree of beauty or charm. But like most men he wished to feel that he was at least not a “winner” in spite of his personal self; and his young good looks even helped toward the pleasantest of delusions--that he was loved for himself chiefly.

The beauty doctor did well by him, I must say. He looked ten years younger, would have passed in artificial light for a youth of thirty or thereabouts. He reappeared in his haunts, freshened up mentally, too; for physical content reacts powerfully upon the mind, and while it is true that feeling young helps one to look young, it is truer that looking young compels one to feel young.

With him came a Prince Frascatoni, head of one of the great families of Italy, one of the few that have retained German titles and estates from the days of the Holy Roman Empire. Frascatoni was sufficiently rich for all ordinary purposes, and could therefore pose as a traveler for pleasure with no matrimonial designs. He was, in fact, poor for a _grand seigneur_ and was on the same business in America that has attracted here every other visiting foreigner of rank--except those who come for political purposes, and those who come to shoot in the West. And those classes give our fashionable society as wide a berth as they would its middle-class prototype in their home countries.

The first time I saw Frascatoni--when he and Armitage strolled into the reading room of the Federal Club together--I thought him about the handsomest and, in a certain way, the most distinguished-looking man I had ever seen. He was a black Italian--dark olive skin, coal-black hair, dark-gray eyes that seemed black or brown at a glance. They were weary-looking eyes; they gazed at you with the ineffable dreamy satiric repose of a sphinx who has seen the futile human procession march into the grave for countless centuries. He had a slow sweet smile, a manner made superior by the effacement of every trace of superiority. He had the quiet, leisurely voice of one used to being listened to attentively.

“Loring--the Prince Frascatoni. Prince, I particularly wish you to know my friend Godfrey Loring. Don’t be deceived by his look of the honest simple youth into thinking him either young or unsophisticated.”

The prince gave me his hand. As it had also been my habit ever since I learned the valuable trick merely to give my hand, the gesture was a draw. Neither had trapped the other into making an advance. We talked commonplaces of New York sky line, American energy and business enthusiasm for perhaps half an hour. Then we three and some one else, a professional cultivator of millionaires named Chassory, I believe, played bridge and afterwards dined together. It came out sometime during the evening that Frascatoni had met my wife in Rome and in Paris, and that he knew my son-in-law--not surprising, as the fashionable set is international, and is small enough to be acquainted all round.

Armitage must have told him that my wife and I were not altogether inconsolable if we did not see too much of each other. For, the prince, taking Edna in to dinner a few nights later, laid siege at once. I recall noting how he would talk to her in his quiet, leisurely way until she looked at him; then, how his weary eyes would suddenly light up with interest--not with ardor--nothing so banal as that--but a fleeting gleam of interest that was more flattering than the ardor of another man would have been. As Frascatoni, an unusual type, attracted me, I saved myself from boredom by observing him all evening. And it was highly instructive in the art of winning--whether women or men--to see how he led her on to try to make that fascinating fugitive gleam reappear in his eyes. I afterwards discovered that he accompanied the gleam with a peculiar veiled caress of inflection in his calm, even voice--a trick that doubly reënforced the flattery of the gleam.

“What a charming man Prince Frascatoni is,” said my wife, when our guests were gone.

“Very,” said I. “If I were writing a novel I’d make him the hero--or the villain.”

“He is one of the greatest nobles in Europe.”

“He looks it and acts it,” said I.

“Why, I thought him very simple and natural,” protested she.

“Exactly,” said I. “So many of the nobles I’ve met looked and acted like frauds. They seemed afraid it wouldn’t be known that they were of the aristocracy.”

“You are prejudiced,” said Edna.

“Then why do I size up Frascatoni so well?”

“You happen to like him.”

“But I don’t,” replied I.

“Of course not,” said Edna with sarcasm. “He isn’t in business.”

“Precisely,” I answered. “He couldn’t do anything--build a railroad, run a factory, write a book, paint a picture. He and his kind are simply amateurs at life, and their pretense that they could be professionals if they chose ought to deceive nobody. He probably could ride a horse a little worse than a professional jockey, or handle a foil almost as well as a fencing master, or play on the piano or the violin passably. I don’t admire that sort of people, and I can’t like where I don’t admire.”

Edna yawned and prepared to go up to her own rooms. “I hope he’ll stay a while,” said she. “And I hope he’ll let me see something of him. He’s the first ray of interest I’ve had this winter.”

“You will see something of him,” said I. “He liked you.”

“You think so?” said she, seating herself on the arm of a chair.

“I know it. Unless he finds what he’s looking for, he’ll attach himself to you.”

“What is he looking for?”

“A very rich wife,” said I. “But she must be attractive as well as rich, Armitage tells me. Frascatoni doesn’t need money badly enough to annex a frump. And Armitage says that while Englishmen and Germans and the heiress-hunting sort of French don’t care a rap what the lady looks like, the Italians--of the old families--are rather particular--not exacting, but particular. Unless, of course, the fortune is huge.”

Edna yawned again. That sort of talk either irritated or bored her.

Frascatoni was constantly with her thenceforth--not pointedly or scandalously so; there are discreet ways of doing those things, and of discretion in all its forms the Italian was a supreme master. The game of man and woman had been his especial game from precocious and maddeningly handsome boyhood. He had learned both by being conquered and by conquering. They say--and I believe it--that of all the foreigners a clean Italian nobleman is the most fascinating.

The Hungarian or Russian is a wild, barbaric love-maker, the German a wordy sentimentalist, the Englishman dominates and absorbs, the Frenchman knows how to flatter the most subtly, how to make the woman feel that life with him would be full of interest and charm. But the right sort of Italian combines the best of all these qualities, and adds to them the allure of the unfathomably mysterious. He constantly satisfies yet always baffles. He reveals himself, only to disclose in the inner wall of what seemed to be his innermost self a strangely carved door ajar.

My first intimation of what Frascatoni was about came from my wife. Not words, of course, but actions. She abruptly ceased quarreling, rebuking, reproaching, scoffing. She soothed, sympathized, agreed. She became as sweet as she had formerly been. I was puzzled, and waited for light. It came with her next move. She began to talk of going back to Europe, to deplore that scandalmongers would not let her. She began to chaff me on my love of a bachelor’s life, on my dislike of married life. She said with reproachful, yet smiling gentleness, that I made her feel ashamed to stay on.

“Admit,” said she, “that you’d be better pleased if I were in Guinea.”

“You oughtn’t have given me so many years of freedom,” said I.

“You’d have been glad if I had gone on and gotten a divorce,” pursued she.

My drowsing soul startled and listened. “I was willing that you should do as you liked,” said I. “Divorce is a matter of more importance to the woman than to the man--just as marriage is.”

“And it’s a sensible thing, too--isn’t it?”

“Very,” said I.

“Godfrey, would you honestly be willing?”

“I’d not lay a straw in your way.”

“What nonsense we’re talking!” cried she, with a nervous laugh. “And yet there’s no denying that we don’t get on together. I see how trying it is to you to have me about.”

“And you want to be free and living abroad.”

“I wonder how much I’d really mind the scandal,” pursued she. “I don’t care especially about these New York people. And at the worst what harm could they do _me_?”

“None,” said I.

“They could only talk. How they’d blame me!”

“Behind your back, perhaps,” said I. “Unless they thought I was to blame--which is more likely.”

“You talk of divorce as if it were nothing.”

“It’s merely a means to an end,” said I. “You’ve got only the one life, you know.”

“And I’m no longer so _dreadfully_ young. Though, I heard that Armitage said the other day he would never dream I was over twenty-eight if he didn’t know.”

She laughed with the pleasure we all take in a compliment that is genuine; for she knew as well as did Armitage that she could pass for twenty-eight--and a radiant twenty-eight--even in her least lovely hour.

“No one has youth to waste,” observed I. “In your heart you wish to be free--don’t you?”

“We are not suited to each other, Godfrey,” said she with gentle friendliness.

“There’s not a doubt of that,” said I.

“Why should we spoil each other’s lives? I conceal it from you, but I am so unhappy here.”

“You can’t blame _me_,” said I. “I’m not detaining you.”

A long silence, then she said: “Suppose I were to consent--” I laughed, she reddened, corrected herself: “Suppose we were to decide to do it--what then?”

“Why--a divorce,” said I.

“Can’t those things be done quietly?”

“Certainly. No publicity until the decree is entered and the papers sealed.”

“Does that mean no scandal beyond just the fact?”

“No scandal at all. Just the fact, and some newspaper comment.”

“And we needn’t be here.”

“Not then.”

“Would it take long?”

I reflected. “Let me see--if you begin action say within a month, the divorce would take-- I could have it pushed through in another month or so, and then--by next fall you’d be free.”

“But doesn’t one have to have grounds for divorce, beside not wanting to be married?”

“All that easily arranges itself,” said I.

She lapsed into a deep study, I furtively watching her. I saw an expression of fright, at the daring of her thoughts, gather--fright, yet fascination, too. Said she in a low voice: “Godfrey, are you _serious_?”

“Entirely so,” was my careless reply. “Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know whether I am or not.... I am _wretched_ here!”

“All you have to do is to say the word. We don’t in the least need each other, and mutual need is the only respectable excuse for marriage. And I must tell you, I’ll not stand for any more of this social nonsense that compels me to participate. I’m done.”

She looked at me pityingly. Our season had been a brilliant success, yet I remained unconverted, coarsely unsympathetic. “If I should decide to--to do it--what then?”

“Nothing. I’d go away. The rest would be for the lawyers.”

She looked at me dazedly. “I’ll see--I’ll see,” she said, and went to her own part of the house.

A week passed. Frascatoni sailed for home, sending by her his polite regrets at not having seen me before his departure. I waited, confident. I knew she had a definite goal at last, and, therefore, a definite purpose. Aside from the danger of frightening her back by showing my own eagerness there was the matter of property. I was willing to pay a good round price for freedom. I have always hated money wrangles; I had never had one with her, and I did not purpose to have. On the other hand, that is, on her side, she would have given me short shrift had it not been that she wished a slice of my fortune--and a generous slice--to add to her own. I’ve not a doubt that the fierce social campaign she put me through that winter was not so much for her own pleasure, though she delighted in it, as for goading me to demand a divorce, and, so, enable her to ease her conscience and to drive a better bargain.

My seeming indifference, combined with her now trembling eagerness to be free and away, soon forced her hand. The break came on a Sunday afternoon. Life is so inartistic--that is, from the standpoint of the cheap novelists and playwrights with their dramatic claptrap. Here is how the grand crash was precipitated:

Said I: “Well, I’m off for a few weeks’ fishing.”

“You’re not starting now?” said she.

“Day after to-morrow,” said I.

“But I’ve made several engagements for you.”

“Get a substitute,” said I. “No one will miss me.”

“How inconsiderate you are!”

“That’s pretty good--after all I’ve borne this winter.”

“You are insufferable!” cried she.

“Then--why suffer me?” said I coolly.

“If you torture me much further, I won’t,” retorted she.

“I think I’ll clear out to-night,” said I.

“With people coming to dinner to-morrow! A big dinner!”

“Yes--to-night,” said I. “I had forgotten to-morrow’s horrors.”

“If I were free!”

“That’s easy.”

“Yes--I _will_ be free!”

“I’ll send you a lawyer at eleven to-morrow morning.”

She was pale and trembling. The quarrel was a mere pretense--a pretext so flimsy that each knew the other was not deceived by it. Her tones of anger, my tones of abrupt and contemptuous indifference were obviously false and forced. As I left the room I cast a furtive glance at her, saw that her daring was so terrifying her that she could hardly keep a plausible front of haughty anger.

It was several hours before I could get away from the house, though I made all haste. Every moment I expected some word from her. But none came. I sent the lawyer the following morning. I was surprised when later in the day, by the necessary roundabout way, I learned that she had actually consented.

She showed that she had made an exhaustive study of the subject, like the wise campaigner she was. She thoroughly understood how to proceed; for, she told her lawyer--the one of my lawyers whom I assigned to her--that my coldness to her had filled her with suspicion and that she wished detectives employed. She needed no coaching whatever; he found her prepared on every point.

How far had matters gone between her and Frascatoni? Not so far as you imagine; but perhaps farther than I think. Both the husband and the world are poor judges in those affairs.

* * * * *

I shall pass over the suit. It was commonplace throughout. There has been much speculation as to the person named by my wife in the sealed papers. I can truthfully say that I know as little about that person as does the public. It is usually so, I believe, in these arranged suits. I did not appear at any of the hearings, all of them held secretly. Nor did Edna appear, though I believe that, to comply with the forms of law, she made some sort of deposition in the presence of the lawyers for both sides. It so happened that the first and only public step--the judge’s ordering of the decree of divorce--was published on the same day with the news of a big prize fight, a sensational murder, and a terrific earthquake. So, we got off with little public attention. At the time the law provided that a decree should not become valid for six months. We were nominally free; but actually neither could marry again for six months and meanwhile either of us could reopen the case--and she could by merely requesting put an end to it and restore her status as my wife. So, I was free--unless Edna should change her mind sometime within the six months.

Edna was in London and I in Paris when the news came. Curiously enough, as I stood in the doorway of the Ritz restaurant, that evening, looking about for a table where I could dine alone, in came Prince Frascatoni with another Italian whose name I cannot recall. I bowed to Frascatoni. He said:

“You are alone, sir?”

“Unluckily, yes,” replied I.

He introduced his companion and suggested that we three dine at the same table. “Why not share our dinner?” said he. “I can easily change my order. Perhaps you will go with us afterwards to some amusing little plays in a Montmartre theater?”

I accepted the courteous invitation. The situation appealed to my sense of humor. Also I knew that Edna--toward whom I now felt most kindly--would be delighted to read in the papers: “Prince Frascatoni had as his guest at dinner last night Mr. Godfrey Loring.” It would put an immediate stop to any tendency to gossip. As the prince did not speak of my former wife I assumed that he had heard the news.

When we were separating I said: “You will dine with me to-morrow night?”

“Unfortunately I’m leaving town in the morning,” said he.

I thought I could guess which way he was journeying. With perhaps a twinkle in my eyes, I said: “So soon? Well--thank you, and good-by--and good luck.”

I thought I saw a sardonic smile flit over his face. He probably imagined I was in the dark as to his maneuverings and designs and smiled to himself as he thought, “How differently this American would be treating me if he knew!” Do not fancy, because Edna had no charm for me, I thought it strange she should have charm for other men. Nothing could be further from the truth. I appreciated her attractive points perhaps more than any other man possibly could. Also, I appreciated--and still appreciate--that another man would not be so peculiarly annoyed by her lack of any sense of humor as I was. Indeed, had not circumstances forced me into the acutely critical mood toward her, I doubt not I could have continued to bear with that lack, though it made conversation with her all but impossible and precipitated quarrels without number.

Beyond question the strongest and most enduring hold a man can get upon a woman or a woman upon a man is the physical. We--even the least intellectual of us--are something more than physical; but the physical must be contented first, and must remain contented, because we are first of all physical. The physical is the fundamental; but it takes more than foundations to make a house. And a marriage such as ours was could not endure. Each of us had but the one charm for the other. It wore itself out like a fire that is not supplied with fuel.

If I had not fallen in love with another woman, there might have remained a feeling for Edna that would have made me jealous, perhaps domineering toward her. As it was, I viewed her calmly; when I said “good luck” to Frascatoni, I meant it. I hoped he would make Edna happy, for, I wished her well.

Through Armitage I had provided myself with Mary Kirkwood’s address--an apartment overlooking the Parc Monceau which she and Neva Armstrong had taken for the spring months. That very afternoon I went to leave cards. As I feared she was not at home. “But,” said Mrs. Armstrong, “you may find her walking in the park with Hartley Beechman.”

“Oh, is he here?” said I.

“Naturally,” replied she.

You may picture me as suddenly dashed down by this word whose meaning there was no mistaking. If so, you have discovered little about me in these pages. Life had made me a competent judge of the situation that is really hopeless, the situation where to struggle is folly, and that situation which seems hopeless to the small of earth, accustomed to defeat in their desires, but seems only difficult to the other sort of human beings.

“He has taken a studio over in the Latin quarter,” continued Mrs. Armstrong. “We are all going back together in July.”

Mrs. Armstrong is an attractive woman--singularly so for one who is obviously wholly absorbed in her husband. She has the sort of personality her paintings prepare you to expect. But I had difficulty in concealing my impatience to get away. I strolled several times through the park, which is not large, before I finally came upon Mary and Beechman seated in one of the less-frequented paths. As I was moving directly toward them, both saw me at the same instant. Her welcoming smile was radiant. I did not notice his, but I assume it was more reserved.