Countess Erika's Apprenticeship Part 47

Here Lucrezia opened the door, and announced that lunch was served in the garden. Lozoncyi had firmly resolved never again to sit down to a meal with this woman. But, before he could say so, she began, "It would be well if you could give them something to talk of again in Paris.

When did you leave in the autumn? In October? You have no idea what a relief your departure was to the artists there. You ought to see the crazy carnival of colour held in this year's Salon! Bouchard exhibited a nymph with a faun, quite in your style, only yours is flesh and his is putty,--a poor thing; but the critics exalted it, and gave it a _medaille d'honneur_. You had begun to make the artists very uncomfortable: they are praising up mere daubers, to belittle you, doing what they can to knock away the floor from under you. But you need only show yourself to recover your ground. Becard told me lately that he had got hold of quite a new way of looking at things: his picture in the Salon----"

Talking thus, she had gone slowly towards the door; now she was outside. Unconsciously he had followed her.

"What has Becard in the Salon?"

"A woman on a balcony, after dinner, between two different lights,--on one side candle-light, and on the other moonlight; half of her is sulphur-yellow, the other half sea-green; _c'est d'un drole!_"

"I saw the sketch for that monstrosity in his atelier," cried Lozoncyi, excited. "Did they accept it?"

She had taken her seat at the tempting table, upon which smoked a golden omelette; she did not answer instantly.

"Did they accept it?" Lozoncyi repeated.

"Accept it----! Why, my dear, they laud him to the skies: they hail him as _le Messie_!"

Lozoncyi had now seated himself opposite her. He brought his fist down upon the table. "Confound it!" he muttered between his teeth.

"You are wrong to be vexed," she said: "he is a good fellow, and your friend. He told me awhile ago with reference to his success, 'It is envy of Lozoncyi that is now standing me in stead.' Let me give you some omelette: it is growing cold."

He allowed her to fill his plate.

Two hours later he was pacing his atelier to and fro in gloomy mood.

He had enjoyed his breakfast, and had been entertained by his wife's chatter. With infinite skill she lured his fancy back to the old, careless, good-humoured Bohemian life in Paris. He questioned her with increasing curiosity as to the works of his fellows there, and she told him stories,--highly spiced but very amusing stories; she peeled his orange for him, and when the sun began to shine full upon the table at which they were sitting they drank their coffee in the studio. A sensation of intense comfort stole over him; but in the midst of it he was conscious of physical uneasiness. She looked at him, and disappeared with a laugh, returning with a pair of easy slippers. It was warm; his boots were tight; he took them off and slipped his feet into the easy shoes she had brought him. He felt as if relieved for the first time for a long while of a certain restraint. He yawned and stretched himself. Suddenly he shivered.

The question suggested itself, Could he ever allow himself such license in Erika's presence?

He started up. The momentarily-restored harmony between himself and his wife was interrupted. In the sudden change of mood to which in the course of years she had become accustomed, he repulsed her,--actually turned her out of the room, rudely, angrily.

Again his every pulse throbbed. He felt as if he should go mad. His revulsion of feeling with regard to Erika clothed itself in a new dress. It was odious, unprincipled, criminal, to take advantage of the enthusiasm of this inexperienced young creature, to drag her down to probable--nay, to certain--misery. He went to his writing-table; he would write to her that for her sake he withdrew from their agreement.

But scarcely had he written the first word when a wave of pa.s.sion swept over his soul, benumbing his energies: he knew that he was as powerless to renounce her as he was to carry out any other resolve. What did he really want? He sprang up, crushed in his hand the sheet of paper which his pen had scarcely touched, and threw it away. Once again he stood before the portrait.

At last, with bowed head, he went into the next room. Erika had left there by accident one or two articles belonging to her,--a lace handkerchief, a glove. He pressed them to his lips.

CHAPTER XXV.

"Erika! Erika!" old Countess Lenzdorff calls in a joyful voice across the garden of the Hotel Britannia. "Erika!"

The old lady is sitting by the breast-work bordering on the Ca.n.a.l Grande. Erika is coming out of a side-door of the hotel. Her grandmother had sent her upstairs for her parasol. How strange the girl looks, with cheeks so white and lips so feverishly red! But that is a secondary matter: what must strike every one who looks at her to-day is the transfigured light in her eyes,--a light shining as through tears.

"Come quickly!" her grandmother calls. "I have a surprise for you." But Erika does not come quickly: she walks slowly through the blooming garden to her grandmother, who has an open letter in her hand.

The little garden is basking in the sunshine; the heavens are cloudless; the lagoon looks as if it were sprinkled with diamonds, as the black gondolas glide past, the sinewy brown throats of the gondoliers shining like bronze. In the fragrant garden can be heard, now loud, now faint, the sound of gay voices on the water mingled with the constant lapping of the waves and the jangle of church-bells.

"From whom does this letter come?" her grandmother asks Erika, with a smile.

"I--I cannot imagine," the girl murmurs. Her pale cheeks grow paler, and a fixed look comes into her shining eyes.

"Indeed? From whom should a letter come which I am so glad to receive?"

Erika starts.

"From Goswyn!" says her grandmother. "But what a face is that!"

"Am I to be as glad as you are because Goswyn at last condescends to take some notice of the kind sympathy you have shown him?" says Erika.

But the old hard intonation of her voice is gone: it sounds weary and dull.

"Never mind!" her grandmother rejoins, triumphantly. "First read the letter, and then tell me if you still have the faintest disposition to be vexed with him. Whether you have any regard for him or not, the letter will please you. He asks, among other things, whether we shall be in Venice next week, and if he may come to us here."

Erika holds the letter in her hands, but when she fixes her eyes upon it the bold distinct characters swim before them. She looks away into the dazzling sunlight above the lagoon.

Among the black gondolas with white lanterns she now perceives Prince Helmy in his yellow cutter, which usually lies at anchor in front of the Hotel Britannia. Espying the two ladies, the Prince clambers up to them over one or two gondolas, and asks, "Can you ladies not be induced to intrust yourselves to me? It would be far pleasanter to go to Chioggia in my cutter than in the steamer."

"It certainly would," the old Countess replies, with more amiability than she is wont to display towards Prince Helmy. "But," she adds, "unfortunately I cannot have that pleasure. I have promised to act as chaperon to Constance Muhlberg's party, and I cannot disappoint her."

"I'm sorry."

At this moment a merry old voice cries, "Your obedient servant, ladies!" It is Count Treurenberg, dressed in a light summer suit, all ready for the excursion to Chioggia. "You are going to Chioggia too?"

"We are."

"'Tis a pity you cannot go with us."

"I have just been telling them," observes Prince Helmy.

"Do you know whether Lozoncyi is to be of the party?" asks Treurenberg.

"I have no idea," Countess Lenzdorff replies, rather coldly.

"What do you think of the wife who has made her appearance so suddenly?

Something of a surprise, eh?"

"A surprise which does not interest me much," the Countess replies, haughtily.

"Of course not. But there are some of our Venetian beauties who could hardly say as much. 'Tis odd that the fellow should have been so close-mouthed concerning his 'indissoluble tie.' I saw him once in Paris with the individual in question, but I never dreamed that that yellow-haired dame had any legitimate claim upon him. Probably a youthful folly."

"A millstone that he has hung about his neck," Prince Helmy says, feelingly,--"a burden that will weigh him down to the earth. I am very sorry for him."

"H'm!" Count Treurenberg drawls, "my pity is not so easily excited.

Such women make an artist's life very comfortable; and she certainly has interfered but little with him hitherto." He rubs his hands with a significant glance.

"Are you ready, Count?" Prince Helmy asks, after the pause that follows Treurenberg's words.