Inevitable (11 page)

A
T FIRST
Duco had been unwilling to accept the prince’s invitation, but Cornélie told him she would enjoy it more if he came. And it had been an excellent dinner in the restaurant of the Grand-Hôtel, and Cornélie had thoroughly enjoyed herself and had looked utterly charming in an old yellow ball gown, a relic from the first days of her marriage, which she had quickly altered a little and draped with the prince’s antique lace. Urania had looked very beautiful, white, fresh, sparkling eyes, sparkling teeth, in a very modern, close-fitting outfit of blue-black sequins on black tulle, as if she were in chain mail; the prince’s verdict was: a siren with a scaly tail. And there had been much peering from other tables at their table, since everyone knew Virgilio di Forte-Braccio; everyone was aware he was to marry a rich American heiress, and everyone had thought that he was being extremely gallant towards the slim, blond woman whom no one knew … She had been married—it was thought; she was chaperoning the princess-to-be; and she was on very close terms with that young man, a Dutch painter, who was studying in Rome. People soon knew the whole story …

Cornélie had enjoyed people looking at her and had flirted so ostentatiously with the prince that Urania had become angry. And early the next morning, while Cornélie was still in bed, no longer thinking of the
previous evening but pondering a phrase in her pamphlet, there was a knock and the maid brought in her breakfast and letters and said that Miss Hope wished to speak to her. Cornélie had Urania shown in, while she remained in bed and drank her hot chocolate. And she looked up in surprise when Urania immediately bombarded her with accusations, burst into sobs, called her names, and made an emotional scene, and said that she now saw through her, admitted that the
marchesa
had warned her to be wary of Cornélie and called her a dangerous woman. Cornélie allowed her to let off steam and replied coolly that she was not aware of any harm having been done, and that on the contrary she had saved Urania; that on the contrary she, as a married woman, had served Urania as a chaperone, not saying that the prince had wanted to dine alone with her, Cornélie … But Urania refused to listen and went on … Cornélie looked at her and found her vulgar in her rage, speaking her American English as if she were chewing hazelnuts, and finally answered coolly:

“Dear girl, you’re getting all worked up about nothing. But if you prefer, I shall write to the prince to ask him to stop his attentions …”

“No, no, don’t do that: Gilio will think I’m jealous …”

“And what are you then?”

“Why are you monopolising Gilio? Why are you flirting with him? Why do you flaunt yourself with him, like yesterday, in a crowded restaurant?”

“Well, if you don’t like it …I won’t flirt with Gilio any more and won’t flaunt myself with him … I don’t give two hoots about that prince of yours …”

“All the more reason.”

“It’s agreed, dear child.”

Her coolness calmed Urania, who asked,

“And we will stay good friends, won’t we?”

“But of course, dear girl. Is there any reason for us to fall out? I can’t see any …”

The pair of them, the prince and Urania, didn’t matter two hoots to her. True, she had preached at Urania at first, but about a general idea: later, when she realised Urania’s insignificance, she lost her interest in the girl. And if a little fun and innocent flirting upset her, well, that would be the end of it … Her mind was more on the proofs of her article that had come in the post … She got up, stretched …

“Go into the sitting-room, Urania my dear, and let me have my bath …”

After a while she rejoined Urania in the sitting-room, fresh and smiling. Urania was crying.

“My dear girl, what are you getting so upset about? Your dream has almost come true. Your marriage is a virtual certainty. Are you waiting for a reply from Chicago? Are you impatient? Send a telegram. I would have telegraphed to start with. You surely don’t think your father has an objection to your becoming duchess of San Stefano?”

“I don’t know if I do myself,” cried Urania. “I don’t know, I don’t know …”

Cornélie shrugged her shoulders.

“You’re cleverer than I thought …”

“Are you really a good friend? Can I trust you? Can I trust your advice?”

“I don’t want to give you any more advice. I gave you advice. Now you must make up your own mind.”

Urania took her hand.

“What do you prefer: that I take Gilio … or … not?”

Cornélie looked her deep in the eyes.

“You’re making yourself unhappy for nothing. You think, and the
marchesa
probably thinks with you, that I am trying to take Gilio away from you? No, darling, I would not want to marry Gilio, even if he were king and emperor. I have a bit of the Socialist in me: I won’t marry a title …”

“Neither will I …”

“Of course you won’t, darling. I would never dare
maintain
that you were doing it … But you’re asking me what I would like to see? Well, I give you a straight answer: I wouldn’t like to see anything. It leaves me completely cold.”

“And you call yourself my friend …”

“Oh, dear child, and I want to remain your friend. But don’t bombard me with so many reproaches, on an empty stomach …”

“You’re a flirt …”

“Naturally, sometimes. I promise I won’t be any more with Gilio.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, of course. What do I care? I find him amusing, but if it upsets you, I shall gladly sacrifice my amusement. It doesn’t matter that much.”

“You like Mr Van de Staal?”

“Very much …”

“Are you going to marry him, Cornélie?”

“Oh no, my child. I shan’t marry again. I know what marriage is like. Will you come for a walk with me? It’s nice weather and you’ve overwhelmed me with so many
grievances that I shan’t be able to work this morning anyway. It’s wonderful weather: come on: let’s go and buy flowers in Piazza di Spagna …”

They went, they bought the flowers, and Cornélie saw her back home to Belloni. As she walked on, on her way to the
osteria
for lunch, she heard someone catching her up. It was the prince.

“I saw you from the start of Via Aurora. Urania was just going home?”

“Prince,” she said at once, “this has got to stop.”

“What?”

“No more visits, no jokes, no gifts, no dinners in the Grand-Hôtel and no champagne.”

“Why not?”

“The princess-to-be does not want it.”

“Is she jealous?” Cornélie told him about the scene.

“And you can’t even walk beside me.”

“Yes I can.”

“No, no.”

“I’m going to anyway.”

“So male rights, might is right?”

“Exactly.”

“My vocation is to fight against them. But for today I’m being unfaithful to my vocation.”

“You are utterly charming … as always.”

“You mustn’t say that any more.”

“She’s a nuisance, Urania … Tell me, what do you advise me? Should I marry her?”

Cornélie burst out laughing.

“You’re both asking
my
advice!” 

“Yes, yes, what do you think?”

“Of course, marry her!”

He failed to see her contempt.

“Exchange your coat-of-arms for her purse,” she went on, amid gales of laughter.

Now he glimpsed it.

“You despise me, both of us perhaps.”

“Oh no …”

“Tell me you do not despise me.”

“You want to know my opinion. Urania is the sweetest, nicest girl, but should not travel alone. And you …”

“And I?”

“You are a charming fellow. Buy those violets for me, will you …”

“At once, at once.”

He bought the bouquet.

“You love violets, don’t you …”

“Yes. This must be your second … and last gift. This is the parting of the ways.”

“No, I’ll see you home.”

“I’m not going home.”

“Where then?”

“I’m going to the
osteria
. Mr Van der Staal is waiting for me there.”

“Lucky man!”

“You really think so?”

“How could it be otherwise?”

“I don’t know. Goodbye, your Highness.”

“Invite me,” he begged. “Let me have lunch with you.”

“No,” she said seriously. “Definitely not. It’s better if you don’t. I think …”

“What …”

“That Duco is just like Urania …”

“Jealous? …When will I see you again then?”

“Really, it’s better if you don’t … Goodbye, your Highness.
Merci
… for the violets.”

He bent over her hand. She made her way to the
osteria
and saw that Duco had seen their farewell through the window.

D
UCO WAS SILENT
and nervous at table. He played with his bread and his fingers were trembling. She felt that something was troubling him.

“What is it?” she asked sweetly.

“Cornélie,” he said, full of emotion. “I have to speak to you.”

“What about?”

“It’s not right.”

“In what way?”

“With the prince. You’ve seen through him, and yet … yet you go on tolerating him, you keep meeting him … Let me finish,” he said, looking around: there were only two Italians in the restaurant, at the table furthest from them, and he could speak without fear of eavesdropping. “I want to finish,” he repeated, as she was about to interrupt him. “Of course you’re free to do as you please. But I’m your friend and I want to advise you. What you’re doing isn’t right. The prince is a blackguard. Ignoble, base … How can you accept gifts and invitations from him? Why did you force me to go with you yesterday evening? That whole dinner was torture for me. You know how much I love you—why shouldn’t I admit it. You know how highly I value you. I can’t bear to see you demeaning yourself with him like that. Let me speak. Demean, I said. He’s not worthy to tie your shoelaces. And you play with him, you banter
with him, you flirt … Let me speak: you flirt with him. What do you care about him, that conceited twit. What is he in your life. Let him marry Miss Hope, what do you care about either of them? What do you care about those inferior people, Cornélie? I despise them and so do you. I know. So why do you cross their path? Let them live in their vain world of tides and money, what do you care? I don’t understand you. Oh, I know: you can’t be understood, you are everything that is woman. And I love everything of you that I see: I love you in everything … It doesn’t matter if I don’t understand. Yet I feel that
this
isn’t right. I’m asking you not to see the prince again. Have nothing more to do with him. Cut him dead … That dinner yesterday was torture …”

“You poor thing,” she said softly and filled his glass from their flask. “But why?”

“Why? Why? You’re demeaning yourself.”

“I’m not that exalted … No, now I want to speak. I’m not on a pedestal. Just because I have a few modern ideas, and a few others that are more liberal than those of the mass of women? Apart from that I’m an ordinary woman. If a man is jovial and witty, it amuses me. No, Duco, I’m speaking. I don’t find the prince a blackguard, I think maybe he’s conceited, but I think he’s jovial and witty. You know that I’m very fond of you too, but you’re neither cheerful nor witty. You’re much more. I won’t even compare
il nostro Gilio
with you … I don’t want to say anything more about you, otherwise you’ll get pedantic. But you’re not cheerful or witty. And my poor nature sometimes needs those things. What is there in my life? Nothing but you, only you. I am very happy to have
your friendship, I am happy to have met you. But why can’t I be cheerful occasionally. Really, there’s a
light-hearted
side to me, frivolous even … Must I fight against it? Is it bad? Tell me, Duco, am I bad?”

He gave a melancholy smile, a moist sheen lay across his eyes and he did not answer.

“I can fight, if I have to,” she continued. “But is this something to fight against? It’s a moment’s froth. Nothing more. I’ve forgotten about it instantly. I’ve forgotten about the prince instantly. And you I don’t forget.”

He looked at her and beamed.

“Do you understand? Do you feel that I don’t flirt and play the coquette with you? Hold my hand, don’t be angry any more …”

She stretched out her hand to him across the table and he squeezed her fingers.

“Cornélie,” he continued softly. “Yes, I feel that you are genuine. Cornélie, marry me.”

She looked earnestly straight ahead, dropped her head a little and stared straight in front of her. They were no longer eating. The two Italians got up, said goodbye and left. They were alone. The waiter had put out some fruit for them and withdrawn.

They were both silent for a moment. Then she spoke in a very soft voice and with such an air of tender melancholy that he could have burst into sobs of adoration.

“Of course I knew you would ask me that one day. It was in the nature of things. A great friendship like ours led naturally to that question. But it’s impossible, my dear Duco … It’s impossible, my dear boy … I have my ideas … but it’s not that. I’m against marriage …but it’s
not that. In some cases a woman betrays all her ideals in a single instant … What is it then …?”

She stared wide-eyed, brushed her forehead, as if she could not see clearly … Still, she continued:

“The thing is … that I’m afraid of marriage. I’ve known it, I know what it is … I can see my husband clearly in front of me right now. I can see that habit, that drudgery in front of me, in which all nuance is erased. That’s what marriage is: habit, drudgery. And now I’ll tell you frankly: I think marriage is disgusting. I think that habit is disgusting. I think passion is beautiful, but marriage isn’t passion. Passion can be noble, and superhuman, but marriage is a human institution of petty human morality and calculation … And I’ve become afraid of such wise moral bonds. I have promised myself—and I think I shall keep that promise—never to marry again. My whole nature has become unsuitable. I am no longer the young girl from The Hague with her soirées and dinners, on the look-out for a husband, together with her parents … My love for
him
was passion! And in my marriage he wanted to bridle that passion till it became drudgery and habit. I rose up … Don’t let me talk about it. Passion is too short-lived to fill a marriage … Respect afterwards, etcetera? There’s no need to get married for that. I can respect, even unmarried. Of course, there is the question of children, there
are
all kinds of difficulties …I can’t think that through now. I just feel now, very seriously and calmly, that
I
am unsuited to marriage, and never want to marry again. I wouldn’t make you happy … Don’t be sad, Duco. I love you, you are dear to me. And perhaps … I’ve met you at the right moment. If I had met you earlier 
in my Hague days … you would certainly have been too high for me to aspire to. I wouldn’t have come to love you. Now I can understand you, respect you and look up to you. I’m saying this to you quite simply, that I love you and look up to you, look up to you, for all your softness, in a way that I never looked up to my husband, however much he asserted his masculine rights. And you must believe, with great firmness, that I am telling the truth. Flirting … is something I do only with Gilio …”

He looked at her through his silent tears. He got up, called the waiter, paid absent-mindedly, while his eyes were swimming and gleaming. They went out and she hailed a carriage and gave the address of Villa Doria-Pamphili. She remembered that the gardens were open. They drove there in silence, overwhelmed by their thoughts of the future, which opened trembling before them. Sometimes he took deep breaths and shivered all over. Once she squeezed his hand with great emotion. They got out at the gate of the villa, and walked together along its majestic avenues. Down below lay Rome, and they suddenly saw St Peter’s. But they did not talk, and she suddenly sat down on an antique bench and in her weakness began softly weeping. He put his arm round her and consoled her. She dried her tears, smiled and embraced him, returned his kiss … Dusk started to fall and they went back. He gave the address of his studio. She followed him there. And she gave herself to him, in the fullness of her honesty and truth, and with a love so powerful and overwhelming that she thought she would faint in his arms.