by Ouida
“I told my husband not long ago that you honoured me,” she added in a low voice. “Do not let me think that I deceived myself and him.”
Corrèze bent his head.
“I will never deceive you,” he said simply, “and at any cost I will obey you.”
He looked at her once; her eyes were still gazing away from him at the sea. He lingered an instant, then he laid on her knee some forget-me-nots he had gathered in the brooks above, and left her; across the wet sands and the disordered detritus of the beach his light swift step bore him quickly to the edge of the murmuring sea. There was a boat there, an old brown rowing boat, and its owner was mending nets on its bench.
In another few moments the old boat was pushed in the water, the fisherman willingly bent to his oars — Corrèze also was rowing — with the helm set for Honfleur. When he was far away on the water he looked back, but then only: Vere sat motionless.
He had been beside her, he whom an hour earlier she had longed for as an avenger, and she had driven him away.
She had been true to the false, to the unfaithful faithful.
The man whose genius had been the one solace and pleasure of her life, whose beauty and whose sympathy and whose chivalry were as a sorcery to her, who would have put his whole fate in her hands as he had put the myosotis, had been there beside her to do with as she chose, and she had sent him from her.
Her husband had said, “women are true till they are tempted.” she had been tempted and had been strong, strong enough not even to say to him, “Avenge me.”
The sun had sunk low, the late day grew grey, the dusky sea ran swiftly and smoothly, soon the terraces and towers of Félicité rose in sight through the twilight mists. The little children, tired and sleeping, lay curled quietly on their cushions at her feet: she felt weak and weary as if from some long combat, and her heart ached — ached for the pain she caused, the pain she bore. She stretched her hand over the rails and dropped the forget-me-nots in the fast running sea.
She would not keep a flower of his now that she knew —
She saw the blue blossoms tossed for a moment on the water and then engulfed. “I do not want them,” she thought, “I shall never forget; it will be he who will forget.”
For she thought so, with that humility of a lonely soul which is deemed so proud only because it is so sad.
He would go into the world, be the worlds idol, and forget. But she would remember till she died. And even at this consciousness a sense of guilt came over her, a sense of shame burned in her. She loved this man who was not her husband — she, a wife. To her conscience and her honour, both unworn and undulled, even so much as this seemed a treachery to her word and an uncleanliness. “Do I grow like the others?” she mused, with a sort of horror at herself; the others, the women of her world, who made intrigues their daily bread. “O my angel Raphael, you shall not fall nor I!” she murmured half aloud, as the sea swept on its foam the little blue blossoms, and her eyes grew blind and her heart grew faint.
Fall into the slough of abandoned passions, into the dishonesty of hidden loves, into the common coarse cowardice of an impure secrecy? ah, never, never! She felt cold, sick, weary, as she left the little road under the shadow of the walls of Félicité, and ascended the stone steps that mounted from the sea to the garden. But she moved firmly and with her head erect.
Honour is an old-world thing; but it smells sweet to those in whose hand it is strong.
It was nearly nine; the shadows were dark, a low pale yellow line where the sun had gone down was all that was left of day. The little girls, sound asleep, were carried away from the boat by their women. The first gong was sounding that summoned the guests of the house to dinner. She was dressed quickly, and went down to the drawingrooms; there was a shade like a bruise under her eyes, and her lips were pale; otherwise she looked as usual.
Jeanne de Sonnaz, greeting her with effusion, kissed her and thanked her for the children’s happy day.
Vere sat opposite her husband through the dinner, which was always a banquet. Her eyes were tired, but there was a steady light in them; something heroic and invincible, that made the grave beauty of her face like that of a young warriors. No one saw it. They only thought that she was tired, and so more silent than usual.
The evening wore on its way; to her it seemed endless; there were many people staying in the house; it was such an evening as the first that she passed at Félicité, when she had watched society with wondering gaze, as a bright comedy. Jeanne de Sonnaz, with a dress of red and gold, and some of her grand rubies on, sparkled like a jewel, till her ugly face seemed radiant and handsome. She sang songs of Theo and of Judic; she played impromptu a scene of Celine Chaumont’s; she was brilliant and various as her manner was, and she sent a shower of mirth on the air that was to others as contagious as a laughing gas. “What a pity she tires herself so much by the sea or on it,” she said of Vere to Sergius Zouroff. “It makes her so silent and so morne in the evening.”
He muttered something like a suppressed oath, and went to his wife.
“You look like a statue; you leave others to do all your duties for you; you sweep through the rooms like a ghost. Why cannot you rouse yourself, and laugh and dance?”
Vere made him no answer.
Laugh and dance in public, and in stealth betray him? To do that would have made him content, herself popular.
The night wore itself away in time; she never well knew how; it closed somewhat earlier than usual, for the morrow was the first day of shooting, and Madame Jeanne had bade them rise with the lark. Vere, instead of going to her room, went out into the gardens. The night was cool, fragrant, soundless, except for the murmur of the sea.
“To laugh and wear a false or a foolish face — that is all he asks of me!” she thought bitterly. If her husband could have seen her heart as it ached that night, if he could have known that only out of loyalty to him she had cast the myosotis from her hand into the sea, would he not only have told her she was an imbecile, and was too fond of tragedy, and he was no Othello to be jealous of a humble handkerchief!
Would he not have said, “Look around, and do like others.”
It was between one and two o’clock; the stars were all at their brightest, except where clouds hung over the sea to the north, and obscured them; the chateau was quiet behind her; an irregular yet picturesque pile that grew sombre and fantastic in the shadows, while in its casements a few lights only gleamed here and there through the ivy.
Vere stood and looked at the waves of the channel without seeing them. The world seemed empty and silent. Never again would she hear the voice that had first come to her ear on those shores — never again — except in some crowded salon or across some public theatre.
She shuddered, and went within. The silence and the solitude were too like her destiny not to hurt her more than even the “vain laughter of fools.” It was the first time that the peace of nature and of night seemed a reproach to her. For though innocent of any act unworthy or disloyal to herself, she felt guilty, she felt as if some poison had fallen in that golden cup which she strove to keep pure. To her a thought, a desire, a regret, were forbidden things, since she was the wife of Sergius Zouroff.
One glass door was open, and some lamps were burning, for the servants had seen that she remained on the terrace, and two or three of them, yawning and sleepy, stood in the antechambers awaiting her entrance.
She went up the staircase, past those bronze negroes, with their golden torches, which had lighted her childish steps on her first night at Félicité.
There were two ways to her own chamber. One way, the usual and shortest one, was encumbered by some pictures and statues that were being moved to another corridor. She took the longer way, which led through the body of the house to the left wing of it, in which her own rooms were, by her choice, for sake of the view down the sea-coast and northward.
Going this way she passed the stately guest-chambers which had been allotted to the Duches
se de Sonnaz.
The lamps in the long gallery burned low; her footfall made no sound on the carpet; she passed on as silently as the ghost to which her husband impatiently likened her. She was thinking neither of him nor of her guests; she was thinking how long her life in all likelihood would be since she was young, and how lonely. She was thinking, “he bade me keep myself unspotted from the world; it shall never be he who lowers me.”
Suddenly a strong ray of light shone across her feet. She was passing a half-opened door — a door that had been shut with a careless hand, and had reopened. The curtains within were parted a little; as she passed, she could not tell why, her eyes were drawn to the mellow light shining between the tapestries.
It was the door of Jeanne de Sonnaz. Through the space Vera saw into the room, and saw her husband.
For a moment she made a step forward to enter and front them. The blood leaped into her face; all the pride in her, outraged and disgusted, sprang up in arms under that last and worst of insults. Then with a strong effort she thrust the door to, that others should not see what she had seen; that she should screen his dishonour, if he would not; and passed on unseen and unheard by those within to her own room. When she reached it she trembled from head to foot, but it was with rage.
She came of a bold race, who had never lightly brooked insult, though she had long borne its burden patiently, because duty was stronger with her than pride. She sat down and drew paper and pens to her, and wrote three lines:
“Either I or the Duchesse de Sonnaz leave Félicité to-morrow before noon.
(Signed)— “VERA, Princess ZOUROFF.”
She sealed the note, and gave it to her woman for the Prince.
“You will give it to Ivan; he will give it to his master in the morning,” she said, as they were leaving the room. She was still careful of his dignity, as he was not. That night she did not sleep.
At sunrise they brought her a letter from her husband. It said only, “Do what you please. You cannot suppose I shall insult my friend for you. — ZOUROFF.”
“His friend!” said Vere with a bitter smile. She recalled memories of her life in Paris and at Svir; recalled so many hints, so many glances, so many things that she had attached no meaning to, which now were quite clear as day. She remembered the warning of Corrèze.
“He too must have known!” she thought; and her face burned to think that the man who loved her should be aware of all the outrage passed on her by the man who owned her.
“The Prince asks an answer,” they said, at her door.
“There is no answer,” said Vere, and added, to her women, “bring me a little tea, and then leave me.”
They thought she wished to sleep, and suspected nothing else. Left to herself she gathered up some needful things with her own hands, the first thing she had ever done for herself since the old simple days at Bulmer. She put together the jewels her own family had given her; shut the shattered necklace of the moth and the star up with them in a casket, and put on the plainest clothes she had. She was ready to leave his house now and for ever. She would take nothing with her that was his or that had been hers by his gift. Of the future she had no clear thought; all that she was resolute was, that no other night should find herself and Jeanne de Sonnaz under the same roof.
All the house was quiet. No one had risen except herself. She waited, because she did not choose to go out like one in hiding, or ashamed, from her own home. She intended to leave the place in full daylight and publicity. The world could say what it liked, but it could not then say she had left secretly, and the shame would be for those who merited it. Without and within all was still. The sea had scarce a sound, no breeze stirred in the trees, the silvery haze that heralded a hot day was over land and water. She stood at the window and looked out, and a quiet tranquility came over her. She was about to leave it all for ever, all the pomp and the splendour, all the monotony and the feverishness, all the burden of rank and the weariness of pleasure. She would soon be alone, and poor. She was not afraid. She would go into the dim, green German country, and live in some man-forgotten place, and get her bread in some way. She was not afraid. Only all the world should know where she went, and why. All the world should know she was alone.
She stood beside the open casement with the dog beside her; he would be her sole companion in the loneliness to which she would go. Corrèze — she thought of Corrèze, but, with the sternness which is apt to exist in very pure and very proud natures, she thought only, “if he come to me when I live alone he too will be a coward!”
And as a coward she would treat him, she thought; for her heart was but half awake still, and of passion she yet knew but little, and what she knew she feared as a thing unclean.
Suddenly her door was burst open; her husband entered; his eyes were bloodshot, his face was dark with fury.
“Are you mad?” he cried to her, as he saw her travelling jewel-case and the locked valise, and casket.
She looked at him with a grand dignity upon her face, as though she saw something leprous and loathsome.
“I gave you your choice,” she said in a voice that vibrated with restrained wrath. “You took your choice.”
She pointed to his letter that lay open on the table.
“And I tell you that neither you nor she shall go out of my house!” he swore with a great oath. “You shall receive her, smile on her, sit at the same table with her, please her in all things as I do. She is the only woman that I never tire of, the only woman that contents me—”
“Tell Paul de Sonnaz so; not me.”
Her husbands face grew terrible and hideous in the convulsions of its rage.
“He! he is not a fool like you, he knows what the world is and women are. By Christ, how dare you? — how dare you speak to me of him or her? I am my own master, and I am yours. Sooner than let you insult my friends for one moment, I would fling you from this window in the sea.”
“I know that. It is I who go, she who remains.”
“As God lives, neither of you shall go. What! you think I shall allow such a scandal as my wife’s departure from under my roof?—”
“I shall not allow such an outrage as for Madame de Sonnaz to be under your roof with me.”
She spoke firmly and in a low tone and without violence. Something in her tone from its very calmness subdued and abashed him for an instant: but his hesitation scarcely lasted more than that. “Madame de Sonnaz is my guest — my honoured guest,” he said passionately. “I will not have her affronted. I will not have a breath on her name. What, you will make a scene that will ring through all Europe — you will go out of my house when my friends are in it — you will make yourself and her and me the bye-words of society! Never, by heaven! You are my wife, and as my wife you stay.”
Vere, who was very pale and as cold as though the summer morning were a winters day, remained quite calm. By great effort she restrained her bitter rage, her boundless scorn. But he changed her resolve in nothing. “I stay, if Madame de Sonnaz go,” she said between her teeth. “If she stay, I go. I told you to choose; you did choose.”
Sergius Zouroff forgot that he was a gentleman, and all that was of manliness in him perished in his frenzy. He raised his arm and struck her. She staggered and fell against the marble of the console by which she stood, but no cry escaped her; she recovered herself and stood erect, a little stunned, but with no fear upon her face.
“You have all your rights now,” he cried brutally, with a rough laugh that covered his shame at his own act. “You can divorce me, Madame, ‘sous le toit conjugal,’ and ‘violence personelle,’ and all the rest; you have all your rights. The law will be with you.”
“I shall not divorce you,” said Vere, while the great pain of the blow, which had fallen on her breast, ached and throbbed through all her body. “I shall not divorce you, I do not take my wrongs into the shame of public courts; but — I go — or — she goes.”
An exceeding faintness came over her, and she was forced to sit
down lest she should fall again, and the air around her grew dark and seemed full of noise. Zouroff rang loudly for her woman.
“The Princess fell against the marble — an accident — she has fainted,” he said hurriedly, and he escaped from the chamber. In a few moments he was with Jeanne de Sonnaz. In the utter weakness of his submission to the domination which she had obtained over him he had grown so used to seek her counsels in all things, and at all times, that he told her all now. Her rage extinguished his own as one fire swallows up another.
“Oh, imbecile!” she screamed at him. “If Paul hear — if the world know — I am lost for ever!”
He stared at her with gloomy amaze.
“Paul knows; society too — they always have known—”
“O madman!” she yelled at him, with her shining eyes all flame. “They have known certainly, but they could still seem not to know, and did so. Now if once it be a public scandal Paul will act, and the world will be with him! Good God! If your wife leave the house for me, I am ruined for ever!”
“I have given her what will keep her still.”
“You are a brute, you were always a brute. That is nothing new. But your wife you do not know. She will get up though she be dying, and go — now she once knows, now she has once said that she will not stay where I am. Wait, wait, wait! you imbecile! Let me think; your wife must not go. For her sake? no! good heavens no! — for mine.”
Sergius Zouroff stood passive and uncomplaining under the torrent of her abuse.
“A scandal, a story for the papers, a cause for the tribunals; good heavens! have you and I lived all these years only to fall into such helpless folly at the last?” she shrieked at him. “Why did you have me come here? Paul will take Berthe and Claire away, if he do no more. Oh you madman! why did you not show me your wife’s note before you went to her? She is right, she is always right, and you were a brute to strike her; but she wants her divorce, of course, why not? she loves Corrèze, and she is a woman afraid of sin. But she shall not go — she must not go; I will go sooner—”