The Arrow of Gold: A Story Between Two Notes

by Joseph Conrad

  CHAPTER VIII

  Directly I had shut the door after the doctor I started shouting forTherese. "Come down at once, you wretched hypocrite," I yelled at thefoot of the stairs in a sort of frenzy as though I had been a secondOrtega. Not even an echo answered me; but all of a sudden a small flameflickered descending from the upper darkness and Therese appeared on thefirst floor landing carrying a lighted candle in front of a livid, hardface, closed against remorse, compassion, or mercy by the meanness of herrighteousness and of her rapacious instincts. She was fully dressed inthat abominable brown stuff with motionless folds, and as I watched hercoming down step by step she might have been made of wood. I steppedback and pointed my finger at the darkness of the passage leading to thestudio. She passed within a foot of me, her pale eyes staring straightahead, her face still with disappointment and fury. Yet it is only mysurmise. She might have been made thus inhuman by the force of aninvisible purpose. I waited a moment, then, stealthily, with extremecaution, I opened the door of the so-called Captain Blunt's room.

  The glow of embers was all but out. It was cold and dark in there; butbefore I closed the door behind me the dim light from the hall showed meDona Rita standing on the very same spot where I had left her, statuesquein her night-dress. Even after I shut the door she loomed up enormous,indistinctly rigid and inanimate. I picked up the candelabra, groped fora candle all over the carpet, found one, and lighted it. All that timeDona Rita didn't stir. When I turned towards her she seemed to be slowlyawakening from a trance. She was deathly pale and by contrast themelted, sapphire-blue of her eyes looked black as coal. They moved alittle in my direction, incurious, recognizing me slowly. But when theyhad recognized me completely she raised her hands and hid her face inthem. A whole minute or more passed. Then I said in a low tone: "Lookat me," and she let them fall slowly as if accepting the inevitable.

  "Shall I make up the fire?" . . . I waited. "Do you hear me?" She madeno sound and with the tip of my finger I touched her bare shoulder. Butfor its elasticity it might have been frozen. At once I looked round forthe fur coat; it seemed to me that there was not a moment to lose if shewas to be saved, as though we had been lost on an Arctic plain. I had toput her arms into the sleeves, myself, one after another. They werecold, lifeless, but flexible. Then I moved in front of her and buttonedthe thing close round her throat. To do that I had actually to raise herchin with my finger, and it sank slowly down again. I buttoned all theother buttons right down to the ground. It was a very long and splendidfur. Before rising from my kneeling position I felt her feet. Mere ice.The intimacy of this sort of attendance helped the growth of myauthority. "Lie down," I murmured, "I shall pile on you every blanket Ican find here," but she only shook her head.

  Not even in the days when she ran "shrill as a cicada and thin as amatch" through the chill mists of her native mountains could she everhave felt so cold, so wretched, and so desolate. Her very soul, hergrave, indignant, and fantastic soul, seemed to drowse like an exhaustedtraveller surrendering himself to the sleep of death. But when I askedher again to lie down she managed to answer me, "Not in this room." Thedumb spell was broken. She turned her head from side to side, but oh!how cold she was! It seemed to come out of her, numbing me, too; and thevery diamonds on the arrow of gold sparkled like hoar frost in the lightof the one candle.

  "Not in this room; not here," she protested, with that peculiar suavityof tone which made her voice unforgettable, irresistible, no matter whatshe said. "Not after all this! I couldn't close my eyes in this place.It's full of corruption and ugliness all round, in me, too, everywhereexcept in your heart, which has nothing to do where I breathe. And hereyou may leave me. But wherever you go remember that I am not evil, I amnot evil."

  I said: "I don't intend to leave you here. There is my room upstairs.You have been in it before."

  "Oh, you have heard of that," she whispered. The beginning of a wansmile vanished from her lips.

  "I also think you can't stay in this room; and, surely, you needn'thesitate . . ."

  "No. It doesn't matter now. He has killed me. Rita is dead."

  While we exchanged these words I had retrieved the quilted, blue slippersand had put them on her feet. She was very tractable. Then taking herby the arm I led her towards the door.

  "He has killed me," she repeated in a sigh. "The little joy that was inme."

  "He has tried to kill himself out there in the hall," I said. She putback like a frightened child but she couldn't be dragged on as a childcan be.

  I assured her that the man was no longer there but she only repeated, "Ican't get through the hall. I can't walk. I can't . . ."

  "Well," I said, flinging the door open and seizing her suddenly in myarms, "if you can't walk then you shall be carried," and I lifted herfrom the ground so abruptly that she could not help catching me round theneck as any child almost will do instinctively when you pick it up.

  I ought really to have put those blue slippers in my pocket. One droppedoff at the bottom of the stairs as I was stepping over anunpleasant-looking mess on the marble pavement, and the other was lost alittle way up the flight when, for some reason (perhaps from a sense ofinsecurity), she began to struggle. Though I had an odd sense of beingengaged in a sort of nursery adventure she was no child to carry. Icould just do it. But not if she chose to struggle. I set her downhastily and only supported her round the waist for the rest of the way.My room, of course, was perfectly dark but I led her straight to the sofaat once and let her fall on it. Then as if I had in sober truth rescuedher from an Alpine height or an Arctic floe, I busied myself with nothingbut lighting the gas and starting the fire. I didn't even pause to lockmy door. All the time I was aware of her presence behind me, nay, ofsomething deeper and more my own--of her existence itself--of a smallblue flame, blue like her eyes, flickering and clear within her frozenbody. When I turned to her she was sitting very stiff and upright, withher feet posed hieratically on the carpet and her head emerging out ofthe ample fur collar, such as a gem-like flower above the rim of a darkvase. I tore the blankets and the pillows off my bed and piled them upin readiness in a great heap on the floor near the couch. My reason forthis was that the room was large, too large for the fireplace, and thecouch was nearest to the fire. She gave no sign but one of her wistfulattempts at a smile. In a most business-like way I took the arrow out ofher hair and laid it on the centre table. The tawny mass fell loose atonce about her shoulders and made her look even more desolate thanbefore. But there was an invincible need of gaiety in her heart. Shesaid funnily, looking at the arrow sparkling in the gas light:

  "Ah! That poor philistinish ornament!"

  An echo of our early days, not more innocent but so much more youthful,was in her tone; and we both, as if touched with poignant regret, lookedat each other with enlightened eyes.

  "Yes," I said, "how far away all this is. And you wouldn't leave eventhat object behind when you came last in here. Perhaps it is for thatreason it haunted me--mostly at night. I dreamed of you sometimes as ahuntress nymph gleaming white through the foliage and throwing this arrowlike a dart straight at my heart. But it never reached it. It alwaysfell at my feet as I woke up. The huntress never meant to strike downthat particular quarry."

  "The huntress was wild but she was not evil. And she was no nymph, butonly a goatherd girl. Dream of her no more, my dear."

  I had the strength of mind to make a sign of assent and busied myselfarranging a couple of pillows at one end of the sofa. "Upon my soul,goatherd, you are not responsible," I said. "You are not! Lay down thatuneasy head," I continued, forcing a half-playful note into my immensesadness, "that has even dreamed of a crown--but not for itself."

  She lay down quietly. I covered her up, looked once into her eyes andfelt the restlessness of fatigue over-power me so that I wanted tostagger out, walk straight before me, stagger on and on till I dropped.In the end I lost myself in thought. I woke with a start to her v
oicesaying positively:

  "No. Not even in this room. I can't close my eyes. Impossible. I havea horror of myself. That voice in my ears. All true. All true."

  She was sitting up, two masses of tawny hair fell on each side of hertense face. I threw away the pillows from which she had risen and satdown behind her on the couch. "Perhaps like this," I suggested, drawingher head gently on my breast. She didn't resist, she didn't even sigh,she didn't look at me or attempt to settle herself in any way. It was Iwho settled her after taking up a position which I thought I should beable to keep for hours--for ages. After a time I grew composed enough tobecome aware of the ticking of the clock, even to take pleasure in it.The beat recorded the moments of her rest, while I sat, keeping as stillas if my life depended upon it with my eyes fixed idly on the arrow ofgold gleaming and glittering dimly on the table under the loweredgas-jet. And presently my breathing fell into the quiet rhythm of thesleep which descended on her at last. My thought was that now nothingmattered in the world because I had the world safe resting in my arms--orwas it in my heart?

  Suddenly my heart seemed torn in two within my breast and half of mybreath knocked out of me. It was a tumultuous awakening. The day hadcome. Dona Rita had opened her eyes, found herself in my arms, andinstantly had flung herself out of them with one sudden effort. I sawher already standing in the filtered sunshine of the closed shutters,with all the childlike horror and shame of that night vibrating afresh inthe awakened body of the woman.

  "Daylight," she whispered in an appalled voice. "Don't look at me,George. I can't face daylight. No--not with you. Before we set eyes oneach other all that past was like nothing. I had crushed it all in mynew pride. Nothing could touch the Rita whose hand was kissed by you.But now! Never in daylight."

  I sat there stupid with surprise and grief. This was no longer theadventure of venturesome children in a nursery-book. A grown man'sbitterness, informed, suspicious, resembling hatred, welled out of myheart.

  "All this means that you are going to desert me again?" I said withcontempt. "All right. I won't throw stones after you . . . Are yougoing, then?"

  She lowered her head slowly with a backward gesture of her arm as if tokeep me off, for I had sprung to my feet all at once as if mad.

  "Then go quickly," I said. "You are afraid of living flesh and blood.What are you running after? Honesty, as you say, or some distinguishedcarcass to feed your vanity on? I know how cold you can be--and yetlive. What have I done to you? You go to sleep in my arms, wake up andgo away. Is it to impress me? Charlatanism of character, my dear."

  She stepped forward on her bare feet as firm on that floor which seemedto heave up and down before my eyes as she had ever been--goatherd childleaping on the rocks of her native hills which she was never to seeagain. I snatched the arrow of gold from the table and threw it afterher.

  "Don't forget this thing," I cried, "you would never forgive yourself forleaving it behind."

  It struck the back of the fur coat and fell on the floor behind her. Shenever looked round. She walked to the door, opened it without haste, andon the landing in the diffused light from the ground-glass skylight thereappeared, rigid, like an implacable and obscure fate, the awfulTherese--waiting for her sister. The heavy ends of a big black shawlthrown over her head hung massively in biblical folds. With a faint cryof dismay Dona Rita stopped just within my room.

  The two women faced each other for a few moments silently. Therese spokefirst. There was no austerity in her tone. Her voice was as usual,pertinacious, unfeeling, with a slight plaint in it; terrible in itsunchanged purpose.

  "I have been standing here before this door all night," she said. "Idon't know how I lived through it. I thought I would die a hundred timesfor shame. So that's how you are spending your time? You are worse thanshameless. But God may still forgive you. You have a soul. You are mysister. I will never abandon you--till you die."

  "What is it?" Dona Rita was heard wistfully, "my soul or this house thatyou won't abandon."

  "Come out and bow your head in humiliation. I am your sister and I shallhelp you to pray to God and all the Saints. Come away from that pooryoung gentleman who like all the others can have nothing but contempt anddisgust for you in his heart. Come and hide your head where no one willreproach you--but I, your sister. Come out and beat your breast: come,poor Sinner, and let me kiss you, for you are my sister!"

  While Therese was speaking Dona Rita stepped back a pace and as the othermoved forward still extending the hand of sisterly love, she slammed thedoor in Therese's face. "You abominable girl!" she cried fiercely. Thenshe turned about and walked towards me who had not moved. I felt hardlyalive but for the cruel pain that possessed my whole being. On the wayshe stooped to pick up the arrow of gold and then moved on quicker,holding it out to me in her open palm.

  "You thought I wouldn't give it to you. _Amigo_, I wanted nothing somuch as to give it to you. And now, perhaps--you will take it."

  "Not without the woman," I said sombrely.

  "Take it," she said. "I haven't the courage to deliver myself up toTherese. No. Not even for your sake. Don't you think I have beenmiserable enough yet?"

  I snatched the arrow out of her hand then and ridiculously pressed it tomy breast; but as I opened my lips she who knew what was struggling forutterance in my heart cried in a ringing tone:

  "Speak no words of love, George! Not yet. Not in this house of ill-luckand falsehood. Not within a hundred miles of this house, where they cameclinging to me all profaned from the mouth of that man. Haven't youheard them--the horrible things? And what can words have to do betweenyou and me?"

  Her hands were stretched out imploringly, I said, childishlydisconcerted:

  "But, Rita, how can I help using words of love to you? They come ofthemselves on my lips!"

  "They come! Ah! But I shall seal your lips with the thing itself," shesaid. "Like this. . . "

  SECOND NOTE

  The narrative of our man goes on for some six months more, from this, thelast night of the Carnival season up to and beyond the season of roses.The tone of it is much less of exultation than might have been expected.Love as is well known having nothing to do with reason, being insensibleto forebodings and even blind to evidence, the surrender of those twobeings to a precarious bliss has nothing very astonishing in itself; andits portrayal, as he attempts it, lacks dramatic interest. Thesentimental interest could only have a fascination for readers themselvesactually in love. The response of a reader depends on the mood of themoment, so much so that a book may seem extremely interesting when readlate at night, but might appear merely a lot of vapid verbiage in themorning. My conviction is that the mood in which the continuation of hisstory would appear sympathetic is very rare. This consideration hasinduced me to suppress it--all but the actual facts which round up theprevious events and satisfy such curiosity as might have been aroused bythe foregoing narrative.

  It is to be remarked that this period is characterized more by a deep andjoyous tenderness than by sheer passion. All fierceness of spirit seemsto have burnt itself out in their preliminary hesitations and strugglesagainst each other and themselves. Whether love in its entirety has,speaking generally, the same elementary meaning for women as for men, isvery doubtful. Civilization has been at work there. But the fact isthat those two display, in every phase of discovery and response, anexact accord. Both show themselves amazingly ingenuous in the practiceof sentiment. I believe that those who know women won't be surprised tohear me say that she was as new to love as he was. During their retreatin the region of the Maritime Alps, in a small house built of dry stonesand embowered with roses, they appear all through to be less likereleased lovers than as companions who had found out each other's fitnessin a specially intense way. Upon the whole, I think that there must besome truth in his insistence of there having always been somethingchildlike in their relation. In the unreserved and instant sharing ofall thoughts, all
impressions, all sensations, we see the naiveness of achildren's foolhardy adventure. This unreserved expressed for him thewhole truth of the situation. With her it may have been different. Itmight have been assumed; yet nobody is altogether a comedian; and evencomedians themselves have got to believe in the part they play. Of thetwo she appears much the more assured and confident. But if in this shewas a comedienne then it was but a great achievement of her ineradicablehonesty. Having once renounced her honourable scruples she took goodcare that he should taste no flavour of misgivings in the cup. Beingolder it was she who imparted its character to the situation. As to theman if he had any superiority of his own it was simply the superiority ofhim who loves with the greater self-surrender.

  This is what appears from the pages I have discreetly suppressed--partlyout of regard for the pages themselves. In every, even terrestrial,mystery there is as it were a sacred core. A sustained commentary onlove is not fit for every eye. A universal experience is exactly thesort of thing which is most difficult to appraise justly in a particularinstance.

  How this particular instance affected Rose, who was the only companion ofthe two hermits in their rose-embowered hut of stones, I regret not to beable to report; but I will venture to say that for reasons on which Ineed not enlarge, the girl could not have been very reassured by what shesaw. It seems to me that her devotion could never be appeased; for theconviction must have been growing on her that, no matter what happened,Madame could never have any friends. It may be that Dona Rita had givenher a glimpse of the unavoidable end, and that the girl's tarnished eyesmasked a certain amount of apprehensive, helpless desolation.

  What meantime was becoming of the fortune of Henry Allegre is anothercurious question. We have been told that it was too big to be tied up ina sack and thrown into the sea. That part of it represented by thefabulous collections was still being protected by the police. But forthe rest, it may be assumed that its power and significance were lost toan interested world for something like six months. What is certain isthat the late Henry Allegre's man of affairs found himself comparativelyidle. The holiday must have done much good to his harassed brain. Hehad received a note from Dona Rita saying that she had gone into retreatand that she did not mean to send him her address, not being in thehumour to be worried with letters on any subject whatever. "It's enoughfor you"--she wrote--"to know that I am alive." Later, at irregularintervals, he received scraps of paper bearing the stamps of various postoffices and containing the simple statement: "I am still alive," signedwith an enormous, flourished exuberant R. I imagine Rose had to travelsome distances by rail to post those messages. A thick veil of secrecyhad been lowered between the world and the lovers; yet even this veilturned out not altogether impenetrable.

  He--it would be convenient to call him Monsieur George to the end--sharedwith Dona Rita her perfect detachment from all mundane affairs; but hehad to make two short visits to Marseilles. The first was prompted byhis loyal affection for Dominic. He wanted to discover what had happenedor was happening to Dominic and to find out whether he could do somethingfor that man. But Dominic was not the sort of person for whom one can domuch. Monsieur George did not even see him. It looked uncommonly as ifDominic's heart were broken. Monsieur George remained concealed fortwenty-four hours in the very house in which Madame Leonore had her cafe.He spent most of that time in conversing with Madame Leonore aboutDominic. She was distressed, but her mind was made up. Thatbright-eyed, nonchalant, and passionate woman was making arrangements todispose of her cafe before departing to join Dominic. She would not saywhere. Having ascertained that his assistance was not required MonsieurGeorge, in his own words, "managed to sneak out of the town without beingseen by a single soul that mattered."

  The second occasion was very prosaic and shockingly incongruous with thesuper-mundane colouring of these days. He had neither the fortune ofHenry Allegre nor a man of affairs of his own. But some rent had to bepaid to somebody for the stone hut and Rose could not go marketing in thetiny hamlet at the foot of the hill without a little money. There came atime when Monsieur George had to descend from the heights of his love inorder, in his own words, "to get a supply of cash." As he haddisappeared very suddenly and completely for a time from the eyes ofmankind it was necessary that he should show himself and sign somepapers. That business was transacted in the office of the bankermentioned in the story. Monsieur George wished to avoid seeing the manhimself but in this he did not succeed. The interview was short. Thebanker naturally asked no questions, made no allusions to persons andevents, and didn't even mention the great Legitimist Principle whichpresented to him now no interest whatever. But for the moment all theworld was talking of the Carlist enterprise. It had collapsed utterly,leaving behind, as usual, a large crop of recriminations, charges ofincompetency and treachery, and a certain amount of scandalous gossip.The banker (his wife's salon had been very Carlist indeed) declared thathe had never believed in the success of the cause. "You are well out ofit," he remarked with a chilly smile to Monsieur George. The lattermerely observed that he had been very little "in it" as a matter of fact,and that he was quite indifferent to the whole affair.

  "You left a few of your feathers in it, nevertheless," the bankerconcluded with a wooden face and with the curtness of a man who knows.

  Monsieur George ought to have taken the very next train out of the townbut he yielded to the temptation to discover what had happened to thehouse in the street of the Consuls after he and Dona Rita had stolen outof it like two scared yet jubilant children. All he discovered was astrange, fat woman, a sort of virago, who had, apparently, been put in asa caretaker by the man of affairs. She made some difficulties to admitthat she had been in charge for the last four months; ever since theperson who was there before had eloped with some Spaniard who had beenlying in the house ill with fever for more than six weeks. No, she neversaw the person. Neither had she seen the Spaniard. She had only heardthe talk of the street. Of course she didn't know where these people hadgone. She manifested some impatience to get rid of Monsieur George andeven attempted to push him towards the door. It was, he says, a veryfunny experience. He noticed the feeble flame of the gas-jet in the hallstill waiting for extinction in the general collapse of the world.

  Then he decided to have a bit of dinner at the Restaurant de la Garewhere he felt pretty certain he would not meet any of his friends. Hecould not have asked Madame Leonore for hospitality because MadameLeonore had gone away already. His acquaintances were not the sort ofpeople likely to happen casually into a restaurant of that kind andmoreover he took the precaution to seat himself at a small table so as toface the wall. Yet before long he felt a hand laid gently on hisshoulder, and, looking up, saw one of his acquaintances, a member of theRoyalist club, a young man of a very cheerful disposition but whose facelooked down at him with a grave and anxious expression.

  Monsieur George was far from delighted. His surprise was extreme when inthe course of the first phrases exchanged with him he learned that thisacquaintance had come to the station with the hope of finding him there.

  "You haven't been seen for some time," he said. "You were perhapssomewhere where the news from the world couldn't reach you? There havebeen many changes amongst our friends and amongst people one used to hearof so much. There is Madame de Lastaola for instance, who seems to havevanished from the world which was so much interested in her. You have noidea where she may be now?"

  Monsieur George remarked grumpily that he couldn't say.

  The other tried to appear at ease. Tongues were wagging about it inParis. There was a sort of international financier, a fellow with anItalian name, a shady personality, who had been looking for her all overEurope and talked in clubs--astonishing how such fellows get into thebest clubs--oh! Azzolati was his name. But perhaps what a fellow likethat said did not matter. The funniest thing was that there was no manof any position in the world who had disappeared at the same time. Afriend in Paris wrote t
o him that a certain well-known journalist hadrushed South to investigate the mystery but had returned no wiser than hewent.

  Monsieur George remarked more unamiably than before that he really couldnot help all that.

  "No," said the other with extreme gentleness, "only of all the peoplemore or less connected with the Carlist affair you are the only one thathad also disappeared before the final collapse."

  "What!" cried Monsieur George.

  "Just so," said the other meaningly. "You know that all my people likeyou very much, though they hold various opinions as to your discretion.Only the other day Jane, you know my married sister, and I were talkingabout you. She was extremely distressed. I assured her that you must bevery far away or very deeply buried somewhere not to have given a sign oflife under this provocation."

  Naturally Monsieur George wanted to know what it was all about; and theother appeared greatly relieved.

  "I was sure you couldn't have heard. I don't want to be indiscreet, Idon't want to ask you where you were. It came to my ears that you hadbeen seen at the bank to-day and I made a special effort to lay hold ofyou before you vanished again; for, after all, we have been always goodfriends and all our lot here liked you very much. Listen. You know acertain Captain Blunt, don't you?"

  Monsieur George owned to knowing Captain Blunt but only very slightly.His friend then informed him that this Captain Blunt was apparently wellacquainted with Madame de Lastaola, or, at any rate, pretended to be. Hewas an honourable man, a member of a good club, he was very Parisian in away, and all this, he continued, made all the worse that of which he wasunder the painful necessity of warning Monsieur George. This Blunt onthree distinct occasions when the name of Madame de Lastaola came up inconversation in a mixed company of men had expressed his regret that sheshould have become the prey of a young adventurer who was exploiting hershamelessly. He talked like a man certain of his facts and as hementioned names . . .

  "In fact," the young man burst out excitedly, "it is your name that hementions. And in order to fix the exact personality he always takes careto add that you are that young fellow who was known as Monsieur Georgeall over the South amongst the initiated Carlists."

  How Blunt had got enough information to base that atrocious calumny upon,Monsieur George couldn't imagine. But there it was. He kept silent inhis indignation till his friend murmured, "I expect you will want him toknow that you are here."

  "Yes," said Monsieur George, "and I hope you will consent to act for mealtogether. First of all, pray, let him know by wire that I am waitingfor him. This will be enough to fetch him down here, I can assure you.You may ask him also to bring two friends with him. I don't intend thisto be an affair for Parisian journalists to write paragraphs about."

  "Yes. That sort of thing must be stopped at once," the other admitted.He assented to Monsieur George's request that the meeting should bearranged for at his elder brother's country place where the family stayedvery seldom. There was a most convenient walled garden there. And thenMonsieur George caught his train promising to be back on the fourth dayand leaving all further arrangements to his friend. He prided himself onhis impenetrability before Dona Rita; on the happiness without a shadowof those four days. However, Dona Rita must have had the intuition ofthere being something in the wind, because on the evening of the verysame day on which he left her again on some pretence or other, she wasalready ensconced in the house in the street of the Consuls, with thetrustworthy Rose scouting all over the town to gain information.

  Of the proceedings in the walled garden there is no need to speak indetail. They were conventionally correct, but an earnestness of purposewhich could be felt in the very air lifted the business above the commonrun of affairs of honour. One bit of byplay unnoticed by the seconds,very busy for the moment with their arrangements, must be mentioned.Disregarding the severe rules of conduct in such cases Monsieur Georgeapproached his adversary and addressed him directly.

  "Captain Blunt," he said, "the result of this meeting may go against me.In that case you will recognize publicly that you were wrong. For youare wrong and you know it. May I trust your honour?"

  In answer to that appeal Captain Blunt, always correct, didn't open hislips but only made a little bow. For the rest he was perfectly ruthless.If he was utterly incapable of being carried away by love there wasnothing equivocal about his jealousy. Such psychology is not very rareand really from the point of view of the combat itself one cannot verywell blame him. What happened was this. Monsieur George fired on theword and, whether luck or skill, managed to hit Captain Blunt in theupper part of the arm which was holding the pistol. That gentleman's armdropped powerless by his side. But he did not drop his weapon. Therewas nothing equivocal about his determination. With the greatestdeliberation he reached with his left hand for his pistol and takingcareful aim shot Monsieur George through the left side of his breast.One may imagine the consternation of the four seconds and the activity ofthe two surgeons in the confined, drowsy heat of that walled garden. Itwas within an easy drive of the town and as Monsieur George was beingconveyed there at a walking pace a little brougham coming from theopposite direction pulled up at the side of the road. A thickly veiledwoman's head looked out of the window, took in the state of affairs at aglance, and called out in a firm voice: "Follow my carriage." Thebrougham turning round took the lead. Long before this convoy reachedthe town another carriage containing four gentlemen (of whom one wasleaning back languidly with his arm in a sling) whisked past and vanishedahead in a cloud of white, Provencal dust. And this is the lastappearance of Captain Blunt in Monsieur George's narrative. Of course hewas only told of it later. At the time he was not in a condition tonotice things. Its interest in his surroundings remained of a hazy andnightmarish kind for many days together. From time to time he had theimpression that he was in a room strangely familiar to him, that he hadunsatisfactory visions of Dona Rita, to whom he tried to speak as ifnothing had happened, but that she always put her hand on his mouth toprevent him and then spoke to him herself in a very strange voice whichsometimes resembled the voice of Rose. The face, too, sometimesresembled the face of Rose. There were also one or two men's faces whichhe seemed to know well enough though he didn't recall their names. Hecould have done so with a slight effort, but it would have been too muchtrouble. Then came a time when the hallucinations of Dona Rita and thefaithful Rose left him altogether. Next came a period, perhaps a year,or perhaps an hour, during which he seemed to dream all through his pastlife. He felt no apprehension, he didn't try to speculate as to thefuture. He felt that all possible conclusions were out of his power, andtherefore he was indifferent to everything. He was like that dream'sdisinterested spectator who doesn't know what is going to happen next.Suddenly for the first time in his life he had the soul-satisfyingconsciousness of floating off into deep slumber.

  When he woke up after an hour, or a day, or a month, there was dusk inthe room; but he recognized it perfectly. It was his apartment in DonaRita's house; those were the familiar surroundings in which he had sooften told himself that he must either die or go mad. But now he feltperfectly clear-headed and the full sensation of being alive came allover him, languidly delicious. The greatest beauty of it was that therewas no need to move. This gave him a sort of moral satisfaction. Thenthe first thought independent of personal sensations came into his head.He wondered when Therese would come in and begin talking. He saw vaguelya human figure in the room but that was a man. He was speaking in adeadened voice which had yet a preternatural distinctness.

  "This is the second case I have had in this house, and I am sure thatdirectly or indirectly it was connected with that woman. She will go onlike this leaving a track behind her and then some day there will bereally a corpse. This young fellow might have been it."

  "In this case, Doctor," said another voice, "one can't blame the womanvery much. I assure you she made a very determined fight."

  "What do you mean? That she d
idn't want to. . . "

  "Yes. A very good fight. I heard all about it. It is easy to blameher, but, as she asked me despairingly, could she go through life veiledfrom head to foot or go out of it altogether into a convent? No, sheisn't guilty. She is simply--what she is."

  "And what's that?"

  "Very much of a woman. Perhaps a little more at the mercy ofcontradictory impulses than other women. But that's not her fault. Ireally think she has been very honest."

  The voices sank suddenly to a still lower murmur and presently the shapeof the man went out of the room. Monsieur George heard distinctly thedoor open and shut. Then he spoke for the first time, discovering, witha particular pleasure, that it was quite easy to speak. He was evenunder the impression that he had shouted:

  "Who is here?"

  From the shadow of the room (he recognized at once the characteristicoutlines of the bulky shape) Mills advanced to the side of the bed. DonaRita had telegraphed to him on the day of the duel and the man of books,leaving his retreat, had come as fast as boats and trains could carry himSouth. For, as he said later to Monsieur George, he had become fullyawake to his part of responsibility. And he added: "It was not of youalone that I was thinking." But the very first question that MonsieurGeorge put to him was:

  "How long is it since I saw you last?"

  "Something like ten months," answered Mills' kindly voice.

  "Ah! Is Therese outside the door? She stood there all night, you know."

  "Yes, I heard of it. She is hundreds of miles away now."

  "Well, then, ask Rita to come in."

  "I can't do that, my dear boy," said Mills with affectionate gentleness.He hesitated a moment. "Dona Rita went away yesterday," he said softly.

  "Went away? Why?" asked Monsieur George.

  "Because, I am thankful to say, your life is no longer in danger. And Ihave told you that she is gone because, strange as it may seem, I believeyou can stand this news better now than later when you get stronger."

  It must be believed that Mills was right. Monsieur George fell asleepbefore he could feel any pang at that intelligence. A sort of confusedsurprise was in his mind but nothing else, and then his eyes closed. Theawakening was another matter. But that, too, Mills had foreseen. Fordays he attended the bedside patiently letting the man in the bed talk tohim of Dona Rita but saying little himself; till one day he was askedpointedly whether she had ever talked to him openly. And then he saidthat she had, on more than one occasion. "She told me amongst otherthings," Mills said, "if this is any satisfaction to you to know, thattill she met you she knew nothing of love. That you were to her in moresenses than one a complete revelation."

  "And then she went away. Ran away from the revelation," said the man inthe bed bitterly.

  "What's the good of being angry?" remonstrated Mills, gently. "You knowthat this world is not a world for lovers, not even for such lovers asyou two who have nothing to do with the world as it is. No, a world oflovers would be impossible. It would be a mere ruin of lives which seemto be meant for something else. What this something is, I don't know;and I am certain," he said with playful compassion, "that she and youwill never find out."

  A few days later they were again talking of Dona Rita Mills said:

  "Before she left the house she gave me that arrow she used to wear in herhair to hand over to you as a keepsake and also to prevent you, she said,from dreaming of her. This message sounds rather cryptic."

  "Oh, I understand perfectly," said Monsieur George. "Don't give me thething now. Leave it somewhere where I can find it some day when I amalone. But when you write to her you may tell her that now atlast--surer than Mr. Blunt's bullet--the arrow has found its mark. Therewill be no more dreaming. Tell her. She will understand."

  "I don't even know where she is," murmured Mills.

  "No, but her man of affairs knows. . . . Tell me, Mills, what will becomeof her?"

  "She will be wasted," said Mills sadly. "She is a most unfortunatecreature. Not even poverty could save her now. She cannot go back toher goats. Yet who can tell? She may find something in life. She may!It won't be love. She has sacrificed that chance to the integrity ofyour life--heroically. Do you remember telling her once that you meantto live your life integrally--oh, you lawless young pedant! Well, she isgone; but you may be sure that whatever she finds now in life it will notbe peace. You understand me? Not even in a convent."

  "She was supremely lovable," said the wounded man, speaking of her as ifshe were lying dead already on his oppressed heart.

  "And elusive," struck in Mills in a low voice. "Some of them are likethat. She will never change. Amid all the shames and shadows of thatlife there will always lie the ray of her perfect honesty. I don't knowabout your honesty, but yours will be the easier lot. You will alwayshave your . . . other love--you pig-headed enthusiast of the sea."

  "Then let me go to it," cried the enthusiast. "Let me go to it."

  He went to it as soon as he had strength enough to feel the crushingweight of his loss (or his gain) fully, and discovered that he could bearit without flinching. After this discovery he was fit to face anything.He tells his correspondent that if he had been more romantic he wouldnever have looked at any other woman. But on the contrary. No faceworthy of attention escaped him. He looked at them all; and eachreminded him of Dona Rita, either by some profound resemblance or by thestartling force of contrast.

  The faithful austerity of the sea protected him from the rumours that flyon the tongues of men. He never heard of her. Even the echoes of thesale of the great Allegre collection failed to reach him. And that eventmust have made noise enough in the world. But he never heard. He doesnot know. Then, years later, he was deprived even of the arrow. It waslost to him in a stormy catastrophe; and he confesses that next day hestood on a rocky, wind-assaulted shore, looking at the seas raging overthe very spot of his loss and thought that it was well. It was not athing that one could leave behind one for strange hands--for the coldeyes of ignorance. Like the old King of Thule with the gold goblet ofhis mistress he would have had to cast it into the sea, before he died.He says he smiled at the romantic notion. But what else could he havedone with it?