before the empty chair looking after me. ‘I pray for you every night and morning, Rita,’ she said.—‘Oh, yes. I know you are a good sister,’ I said to her. I was letting myself out when she called after me, ‘And what about this house, Rita?’ I said to her, ‘Oh, you may keep it till the day I reform and enter a convent.’ The last I saw of her she was still on her knees looking after me with her mouth open. I have seen her since several times, but our intercourse is, at any rate on her side, as of a frozen nun with some great lady. But I believe she really knows how to make men comfortable. Upon my word I think she likes to look after men. They don’t seem to be such great sinners as women are. I think you could do worse than take up your quarters at number 10. She will no doubt develop a saintly sort of affection for you, too.”
I don’t know that the prospect of becoming a favourite of Dona Rita’s peasant sister was very fascinating to me. If I went to live very willingly at No. 10 it was because everything connected with Dona Rita had for me a peculiar fascination. She had only passed through the house once as far as I knew; but it was enough. She was one of those beings that leave a trace. I am not unreasonable—I mean for those that knew her. That is, I suppose, because she was so unforgettable. Let us remember the tragedy of Azzolati the ruthless, the ridiculous financier with a criminal soul (or shall we say heart) and facile tears. No wonder, then, that for me, who may flatter myself without undue vanity with being much finer than that grotesque international intriguer, the mere knowledge that Dona Rita had passed through the very rooms in which I was going to live between the strenuous times of the sea-expeditions, was enough to fill my inner being with a great content. Her glance, her darkly brilliant blue glance, had run over the walls of that room which most likely would be mine to slumber in. Behind me, somewhere near the door, Therese, the peasant sister, said in a funnily compassionate tone and in an amazingly landlady-of-a- boarding-house spirit of false persuasiveness:
“You will be very comfortable here, Senor. It is so peaceful here in the street. Sometimes one may think oneself in a village. It’s only a hundred and twenty-five francs for the friends of the King. And I shall take such good care of you that your very heart will be able to rest.”
CHAPTER II
Dona Rita was curious to know how I got on with her peasant sister and all I could say in return for that inquiry was that the peasant sister was in her own way amiable. At this she clicked her tongue amusingly and repeated a remark she had made before: “She likes young men. The younger the better.” The mere thought of those two women being sisters aroused one’s wonder. Physically they were altogether of different design. It was also the difference between living tissue of glowing loveliness with a divine breath, and a hard hollow figure of baked clay.
Indeed Therese did somehow resemble an achievement, wonderful enough in its way, in unglazed earthenware. The only gleam perhaps that one could find on her was that of her teeth, which one used to get between her dull lips unexpectedly, startlingly, and a little inexplicably, because it was never associated with a smile. She smiled with compressed mouth. It was indeed difficult to conceive of those two birds coming from the same nest. And yet . . . Contrary to what generally happens, it was when one saw those two women together that one lost all belief in the possibility of their relationship near or far. It extended even to their common humanity. One, as it were, doubted it. If one of the two was representative, then the other was either something more or less than human. One wondered whether these two women belonged to the same scheme of creation. One was secretly amazed to see them standing together, speaking to each other, having words in common, understanding each other. And yet! . . . Our psychological sense is the crudest of all; we don’t know, we don’t perceive how superficial we are. The simplest shades escape us, the secret of changes, of relations. No, upon the whole, the only feature (and yet with enormous differences) which Therese had in common with her sister, as I told Dona Rita, was amiability.
“For, you know, you are a most amiable person yourself,” I went on. “It’s one of your characteristics, of course much more precious than in other people. You transmute the commonest traits into gold of your own; but after all there are no new names. You are amiable. You were most amiable to me when I first saw you.”
“Really. I was not aware. Not specially . . . ”
“I had never the presumption to think that it was special. Moreover, my head was in a whirl. I was lost in astonishment first of all at what I had been listening to all night. Your history, you know, a wonderful tale with a flavour of wine in it and wreathed in clouds, with that amazing decapitated, mutilated dummy of a woman lurking in a corner, and with Blunt’s smile gleaming through a fog, the fog in my eyes, from Mills’ pipe, you know. I was feeling quite inanimate as to body and frightfully stimulated as to mind all the time. I had never heard anything like that talk about you before. Of course I wasn’t sleepy, but still I am not used to do altogether without sleep like Blunt . . .”
“Kept awake all night listening to my story!” She marvelled.
“Yes. You don’t think I am complaining, do you? I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Blunt in a ragged old jacket and a white tie and that incisive polite voice of his seemed strange and weird. It seemed as though he were inventing it all rather angrily. I had doubts as to your existence.”
“Mr. Blunt is very much interested in my story.”
“Anybody would be,” I said. “I was. I didn’t sleep a wink. I was expecting to see you soon—and even then I had my doubts.”
“As to my existence?”
“It wasn’t exactly that, though of course I couldn’t tell that you weren’t a product of Captain Blunt’s sleeplessness. He seemed to dread exceedingly to be left alone and your story might have been a device to detain us . . .”
“He hasn’t enough imagination for that,” she said.
“It didn’t occur to me. But there was Mills, who apparently believed in your existence. I could trust Mills. My doubts were about the propriety. I couldn’t see any good reason for being taken to see you. Strange that it should be my connection with the sea which brought me here to the Villa.”
“Unexpected perhaps.”
“No. I mean particularly strange and significant.”
“Why?”
“Because my friends are in the habit of telling me (and each other) that the sea is my only love. They were always chaffing me because they couldn’t see or guess in my life at any woman, open or secret. . .”
“And is that really so?” she inquired negligently.
“Why, yes. I don’t mean to say that I am like an innocent shepherd in one of those interminable stories of the eighteenth century. But I don’t throw the word love about indiscriminately. It may be all true about the sea; but
