Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  Diana smiled, but said nothing.

  “It is a strange place!” reiterated the Professor, with more emphasis. “It is a place of violent contrasts without any intermediate tones. Stupidity and good sense, moral cowardice and physical courage, petty grudging and large generosity, jostle each other in couples all through English society, yet after, and with these drawbacks, it is very attractive!”

  “I’m so glad you like it,” said Diana, cheerfully. “I expect the same faults can be found in all countries and with all nations. We English are not the worst people in the world!”

  “By no means!” conceded the Professor, inclining his head courteously. “You might almost claim to be the best — if it were not for France, — and Italy — and Russia!” The Baroness Rousillon smiled.

  “How clever, of you, Professor!” she said. “You are careful to include all nationalities here present in your implied compliment, and so you avoid argument!”

  “Madame, I never argue with a lady!” he replied.

  “First, because it is bad manners, and second, because it is always useless!”

  They all laughed, with the gentle tolerance of persons who know an old saying by heart. Just then Dr. Dimitrius entered and severally greeted his guests. Despite her efforts to seem otherwise entertained, Diana found herself watching his every movement and trying to hear every word he said. Only very few men look well in evening dress, and he was one of those few. A singular distinction marked his bearing and manner; in any assemblage of notable people he would have been assuredly selected as one of the most attractive and remarkable. Once he caught her eyes steadfastly regarding him, and smiled encouragingly. Whereat she coloured deeply and felt ashamed of her close observation of him. He took the Baroness Rousillon in to dinner, the Baron following with Madame Dimitrius, and Diana was left with a choice between two men as her escort. She looked in smiling inquiry at both. Professor Chauvet settled the point.

  “Marchese, you had better take Miss May,” he said, addressing the dark Italian. “I never allow myself to go in to dinner with any woman — it’s my habit always to go alone.”

  “How social and independent of you!” said Diana, gaily, accepting the Marchese’s instantly proffered arm. “You like to be original? — or is it only to attract attention to yourself?”

  The Professor opened his eyes to their fullest extent under their half-shut lids. Here was an Englishwoman daring to quiz him! — or, as the English themselves would say, “chaff” him! He coughed, glared, and tried to look dignified, but failed — and was fain to trot, or rather shuffle, in to the dining-room somewhat meekly at the trailing end of Diana’s rose and lilac chiffon train. When they were all seated at table, he looked at her with what was, for him, unusual curiosity, realizing that she was not quite an “ordinary” sort of woman. He began to wonder about her, and where she came from, — it was all very well to say “from England” — but up to now, all conversation had been carried on in French, and her French had no trace whatever of the British accent. She sat opposite to him, and he had good opportunity to observe her attentively, though furtively. She was talking with much animation to the Marchese Farnese, — her voice had the most enchanting modulation of tone, — and, straining his ears to hear what she was saying, he found she was speaking Italian. At this he was fairly nonplussed and somewhat annoyed — he did not speak Italian himself. All his theories respecting the British female were upset. No British female — he said this inwardly — no single one of the species in his knowledge, talked the French of France, or the Italian of Tuscany. He watched her with an almost grudging interest. She was not young, — she was not old.

  “Some man has had the making or the marring of her!” he thought, crossly. “No woman ever turned herself out with such aplomb and savoir faire!”

  Meanwhile Diana was enjoying her dinner. She was cleverly “drawing out” her partner at table, young Farnese, who proved to be passionately keen on all scientific research, and particularly so on the mysterious doings of Feodor Dimitrius. Happy to find himself next to a woman who spoke his native tongue with charm and fluency, he “let himself go” freely.

  “I suppose you have known Dr. Dimitrius for some time?” he asked.

  Diana thought for a second, — then replied promptly:

  “Oh, yes!”

  “He’s a wonderful man!” said Farnese. “Wonderful! I have myself witnessed his cures of cases given up by all other doctors as hopeless. I have asked him to accept me as a student under him, but he will not. He has some mystery which he will allow no one but himself to penetrate.”

  “Really!” and Diana lifted her eyebrows in an arch of surprise. “He has never given me that impression.”

  “Ah, no!” and Farnese smiled rather darkly. “He would not appear in that light to one of your sex. He does not care for women. His own mother is not really aware of the nature of his studies or the object of his work. Nobody has his confidence. As you are a friend of his you must know this quite well?”

  “Oh, yes! — yes, of course!” murmured Diana, absently. “But nobody expects a very, clever man to explain himself to his friends — or to the public. He must always do his work more or less alone.”

  “I agree!” said the Marchese. “And this is why I cannot understand the action of Dimitrius in advertising for an assistant—”

  “Oh, has he done so?” inquired Diana, indifferently.

  “Yes, — for the last couple of months he has put a most eccentric advertisement in many of the journals, seeking the services of an elderly woman as assistant or secretary — I don’t know which. It’s some odd new notion of his, and, I venture to think, rather a mistaken one — for if he will not trust a man student, how much less can he rely on an old woman!”

  “Eccellenza, you are talking to a woman now,” said Diana, calmly. “But never mind! Go on — and don’t apologize!”

  Farnese’s dark olive skin flushed red.

  “But I must!” he stammered, awkwardly. “I ask a thousand pardons!”

  She glanced at him sideways with a laughing look.

  “You are forgiven!” she said, “Women — are quite hardened to the ironies and satires of your sex upon us, — and if we have any cleverness at all we are more amused by them than offered. For we know you cannot do without us! But certainly it is very odd that Dr. Dimitrius should advertise for an old woman! I never heard anything quite so funny!”

  “He does not, I think, advertise for an actually old woman,” said Farnese, relieved to find that she had taken his clumsy remark so lightly. “The advertisement when I saw it mentioned a woman of mature years.”

  “Oh, well, that’s a polite way of saying an old woman, isn’t it?” smiled Diana. “And — do tell me! — has he got her?”

  “Why no! — not yet. Probably he will not get her at all. Even let us suppose a woman offered herself who admitted that she was ‘of mature years,’ that very fact would be sufficient proof of her incapacity.”

  “Indeed!” and Diana lilted her eyebrows again. “Why?”

  The Marchese smiled a superior smile.

  “Perhaps I had better not explain!” he said. “But for a woman to arrive at ‘mature years’ without any interests in life expect to offer her probably untrained services to a man she knows nothing of except through the medium of an advertisement is plain evidence that any such woman must be a fool!”

  Diana laughed merrily — and her laughter was the prettiest ripple of music.

  “Oh, yes! — of course! I see your meaning!” she said. “You are quite right! But after all perhaps the elderly female is only wanted to add up accounts, or write down measurements or something of that kind — just ordinary routine work. Some lonely old spinster with no claims upon her might be glad of such a chance—”

  “Are you discussing my advertisement?” interrupted Dimitrius suddenly, sending a glance and smile at Diana from the head of the table. “I have withdrawn it.”

  “Have you really?” said th
e Marchese. “That is not to say you are suited?”

  “Suited? Oh, no! I shall never be suited! It was a foolish quest, — and I ought to have known better!” His dark eyes sparkled mirthfully. “You see I had rather forgotten the fact that no woman cares to admit she is ‘of mature years,’ — I had also forgotten the well-known male formula that ‘no woman can be trusted.’ However, I have only lost a few hundred francs in my advertising — so I have nothing to regret except my own folly.”

  “Had you many applications?” inquired Professor Chauvet.

  Dimitrius laughed.

  “Only one!” he answered, gaily. “And she was a poor lone lady who had lost all she thought worth living for. Of course she was — impossible!”

  “Naturally!” and the Professor nodded sagaciously—” She would be!”

  “What was she like?” asked Diana, with an amused look.

  “Like no woman I have ever seen!” replied Dimitrius, smiling quizzically at her. “Mature, and fully ripened in her opinions, — fairly obstinate, and difficult to get rid of.”

  “I congratulate you on having succeeded!” said Farnese.

  “Succeeded? In what way?”

  “In having got rid of her!”

  “Oh, yes! But — I don’t think she wanted to go!”

  “No woman ever wants to go if there’s a good-looking bachelor with whom she has any chance to stay!” said the Baron Rousillon, expanding his shirt front and smiling largely all round the table. “The ‘poor lone lady’ must have taken your rejection of her services rather badly.”

  “That’s the way most men would look at it,” replied Dimitrius. “But, my dear Baron, I’m afraid we are rather narrow and primitive in our ideas of the fair sex — not to say conceited. It is quite our own notion that all women need us or find us desirable. Some women would much rather not be bored with us at all. One of the prettiest women I ever knew remained unmarried because, as she frankly said, she did not wish to be a housekeeper to any man or be bored by his perpetual company. There’s something in it you know! Every man has his own particular ‘groove’ in which he elects to run — and in his ‘groove’ he’s apt to become monotonous and tiresome. That is why, when I advertised, I asked for a woman ‘of mature years,’ — someone who had ‘settled down,’ and who would not find it wearisome to trot tamely alongside of my special ‘groove,’ but of course it was very absurd on my part to expect to find a woman or that sort who was at the same time well-educated and clever.”

  “You should marry, my dear Dimitrius! — you should marry!” said the Baroness Rousillon, with a brilliant flash of her fine eyes and an encouraging smile.” Never, my dear Baroness! — never!” he replied, with emphasis. “I am capable of many things, but not of that most arrant stupidity! Were I to marry, my work would be ruined — I should become immersed in the domesticities of the kitchen and the nursery, living my life at no higher grade than the life of the farmyard or rabbit-warren. In my opinion, marriage is a mistake, — but we must not argue such a point in the presence of a happily married couple like yourself and the Baron. Look at our excellent friend, Chauvet! He has never married.”

  “Thank God!” ejaculated the Professor, devoutly, — while everybody laughed. “Ah, you may laugh! But it is I who laugh last! When I see the unfortunate husband going out for a slow walk with his wife and three or four screaming, jumping children, who behave like savages, not knowing what they want or where they wish to go, I bless my happy fate that I can do my ten miles a day alone, revelling in the beauty of the mountains and lakes, and enjoying my own thoughts in peace. Like Amiel, I have not married because I am afraid of disillusion!”

  “But have you thought of the possible woman in the case?” asked Diana, sweetly and suddenly.” Might she not also suffer from ‘disillusion’ if you were her husband?”

  Laughter again rang round the table, — the Professor rose, glass of wine in hand, and made Diana a solemn bow.

  “Madame, I stand reproved!” he said. “And I drink to your health and to England, your native country! And in reply to your question, I am honest enough, to say that I think any woman who had been so unfortunate as to marry me, would have put herself out of her misery a month after the wedding!”

  Renewed merriment rewarded this amende honorable on the part of Chauvet, who sat down well pleased with himself — and well pleased, too, with Diana, whom he considered quick-witted and clever, and whose smile when he had made his little speech had quite won him over!

  Madame Dimitrius, chiefly intent on the hospitable cares of the table, had listened to all the conversation with an old lady’s placid enjoyment, only putting in a word, now and then, and smiling with affectionate encouragement at Diana, and dessert being presently served, and cigars and cigarettes handed round by the negro, Vasho, who was the sole attendant, she gave the signal for the ladies to retire.

  You do not smoke?” said the Marchese Farnese, as Diana moved from her place.

  “No, indeed!”

  “You dislike it?”

  “For women, — yes.”

  “Then you are old-fashioned!” he commented, playfully.

  “Yes. And I am very glad of it!” she answered, quietly, and followed Madame Dimitrius and the Baroness Rousillon out of the room. As she passed Dimitrius, who held open the door for their exit, he said a few low-toned words in Russian which owing to her own study of the language she understood. They were:

  “Excellent! You have kept your own counsel and mine, most admirably! I thank you with all my heart!”

  CHAPTER X

  THAT first evening in the Chateau Fragonard taught Diana exactly what was expected of her. It was evident that both Dimitrius and his mother chose to assume that she was a friend of theirs, staying with them on a visit, and she realized that she was not supposed to offer any other explanation of her presence. The famous advertisement had been “withdrawn,” and the Doctor had plainly announced that he was “not suited,” and that he had resigned all further quest of the person he had sought. That he had some good reason for disguising the real facts of the case Diana felt sure, and she was quite satisfied to fall in with his method of action. The more so, when she found herself an object of interest and curiosity to the Baroness Rousillon, who spared no effort to “draw her out” and gain some information as to her English home, her surroundings and ordinary associations. The Baroness had a clever and graceful way of cross-examining strangers through an assumption of friendliness, but Diana was equally clever and graceful in the art of “fence” and was not to be “drawn.” When the men left the dinner-table and came into the drawing-room she was placed as it were between two fires, — Professor Chauvet and the Marchese Farnese, both of whom were undisguisedly inquisitive, Farnese especially, — and Diana was not slow to discover that his chief aim in conversing with her was to find out something, — anything — which could throw a light on the exact nature of the work in which Dimitrius was engaged. Perceiving this, she played with him like a shuttlecock, tossing him away from his main point whenever he got near it, much to his scarcely concealed irritation. Every now and again she caught a steel-like flash in the dark eyes of Dimitrius, who, though engaged in casual talk with the Baron and Baroness Rousillon, glanced at her occasionally in fullest comprehension and approval, — and somehow it became borne in upon her mind that, if Farnese only knew the way to the scientist’s laboratory, he would have very little scruple about breaking into any part of it with the hope of solving its hidden problem.

  “Why do you imagine there is any mystery about the Doctor’s works?” she asked him. “I know of none!”

  “He would never let any woman know,” replied Farnese, with conviction.” But she might find out for herself if she were clever! There is a mystery without doubt. For instance, what is that great dome of glass which catches the sunlight on its roof and glitters in the distance, when I look towards the Château from my sailing boat an the lake — ?”

  “Oh, you have a sailing boat on th
e lake!” exclaimed Diana, clasping her hands in well-affected ecstasy.” How enchanting! Like Lord Byron, when he lived at the Villa Diodati!”

  “Ah!” put in Professor Chauvet. “So you know your Byron! Then you are not one of the ‘modems.’”

  Diana smiled.

  “No. I do not prefer Kipling to the author of ‘Childe Harold.’”

  “Then you are lost — irretrievably lost!” said the Professor. “In England, at any rate. In England, if you are a true lover of literature, you must sneer at Byron because it’s academic to do so — Oxford and Cambridge have taken to decrying genius and worshipping mediocrity. Byron is the only English poet known and honoured in other countries than England — your modern verse writers are not understood in France, Italy or Russia. Half a dozen of Byron’s stanzas would set up all the British latter-day rhymers with ideas, — only, of course, they would never admit it. I’m glad I’ve met an Englishwoman who has sense enough to appreciate Byron.”

  “Thank you!” said Diana in a small, meek voice. “You are most kind!”

  Here Farnese rushed in again upon his argument.

  “That glass dome—”

  Diana smothered a tiny yawn.

  “Oh, that’s an astronomical place!” she said, indifferently. “You know the kind of thing! Telescopes, globes, mathematical, instruments — all those sort of objects.” —

  The Marchese looked surprised, — then incredulous, “An astronomical place?” he repeated. “Are you sure? Have you seen it?”

  Why, yes, of course!” and she laughed. “Haven’t you?