'Why not? ' she answered.
A secret look came into his eyes and went again, and he bent below the counter, pretending to search for string. But she thought, smiling to herself, this is exciting to him, his hands are trembling; and for the same reason her heart beat faster than before.
'Very well, Madame la Marquise,' he said, 'I will come to the hotel at whatever time is convenient to you.'
'The morning, perhaps, is best,' she said, 'at eleven o'clock.'
Casually she strolled away. She did not even say goodbye.
She walked across the street, and looking for nothing in the window of a shop opposite she saw, through the glass, that he had come to the door of his own shop and was watching her. He had taken off his jacket and his shirt. The shop would be closed again, the siesta was not yet over. Then she noticed, for the first time, that he too was crippled, like his sister. His right foot was encased in a high fitted boot. Yet, curiously, the sight of this did not repel her, nor bring her to nervous laughter, as it had done before when she had seen the sister. His high boot had a fascination, strange, unknown.
The Marquise walked back to the hotel along the dusty road.
At eleven o'clock the next morning the concierge of the hotel sent up word that Monsieur Paul, the photographer, was below in the hall, and awaited the instructions of Madame la Marquise. The instructions were sent back that Madame la Marquise would be pleased if Monsieur Paul would go upstairs to the suite. Presently she heard the knock on the door, hesitant, timid.
'Entrez,' she called, and standing, as she did, on the balcony, her arms around the two children, she made a tableau, ready set, for him to gaze upon.
Today she was dressed in silk shantung the colour of chartreuse, and her hair was not the little girl hair of yesterday, with the ribbon, but parted in the centre and drawn back to show her ears, with the gold clips upon them.
He stood in the entrance of the doorway, he did not move. The children, shy, gazed with wonder at the high boot, but they said nothing. Their mother had warned them not to mention it.
'These are my babies,' said the Marquise. 'And now you must tell us how to pose, and where you want us placed.'
The children did not make their usual curtsey, as they did to guests. Their mother had told them it would not be necessary. Monsieur Paul was a photographer, from the shop in the little town.
'If it would be possible, Madame la Marquise,' he said, 'to have one pose just as you are standing now. It is quite beautiful. So very natural, so full of grace.'
'Why, yes, if you like. Stand still, Helene.'
'Pardon. It will take a few moments to fix the camera.'
His nervousness had gone. He was busy with the mechanical tricks of his trade. And as she watched him set up the tripod, fix the velvet cloth, make the adjustments to his camera, she noticed his hands, deft and efficient, and they were not the hands of an artisan, of a shop-keeper, but the hands of an artist.
Her eyes fell to the boot. His limp was not so pronounced as the sister's, he did not walk with that lurching, jerky step that produced stifled hysteria in the watcher. His step was slow, more dragging, and the Marquise felt a kind of compassion for his deformity, for surely the misshapen foot beneath the boot must pain him constantly, and the high boot, especially in hot weather, crush and sear his flesh.
'Now, Madame la Marquise,' he said, and guiltily she raised her eyes from the boot and struck her pose, smiling gracefully, her arms embracing the children.
'Yes,' he said, 'just so. It is very lovely.'
The dumb brown eyes held hers. His voice was low, gentle. The sense of pleasure came upon her just as it had done in the shop the day before. He pressed the bulb. There was a little clicking sound.
'Once more,' he said.
She went on posing, the smile on her lips; and she knew that the reason he paused this time before pressing the bulb was not from professional necessity, because she or the children had moved, but because it delighted him to gaze upon her.
'There,' she said, and breaking the pose, and the spell, she moved towards the balcony, humming a little song.
After half an hour the children became tired, restless.
The Marquise apologised. 'It's so very hot,' she said, 'you must excuse them. Celeste, Helene, get your toys and play on the other corner of the balcony.'
They ran chattering to their own room. The Marquise turned her back upon the photographer. He was putting fresh plates into his camera.
'You know what it is with children,' she said. 'For a few minutes it is a novelty, then they are sick of it, they want something else. You have been very patient, Monsieur Paul.'
She broke off a rose from the balcony, and cupping it in her hands bent her lips to it.
'Please,' he said with urgency, 'if you would permit me, I scarcely like to ask you…'
'What?' she said.
'Would it be possible for me to take one or two photographs of you alone, without the children?'
She laughed. She tossed the rose over the balcony to the terrace below.
'But of course,' she said, 'I am at your disposal. I have nothing else to do.'
She sat down on the edge of the chaise longue, and leaning back against the cushion rested her head against her arm.
'Like this?' she said.
He disappeared behind the velvet cloth, and then, after an adjustment to the camera, came limping forward.
'If you will permit me,' he' said, 'the hand should be raised a little, so… And the head, just slightly on one side.'
He took her hand and placed it to his liking; and then gently, with hesitation, put his hand under her chin, lifting it. She closed her eyes. He did not take his hand away. Almost imperceptibly his thumb moved, lingering, over the long line of her neck, and his fingers followed the movement of the thumb. The sensation was feather-weight, like the brushing of a bird's wing against her skin.
'Just so,' he said, 'that is perfection.'
She opened her eyes. He limped back to his camera.
The Marquise did not tire as the children had done. She permitted Monsieur Paul to take one photograph, then another, then another. The children returned, as she had bidden them, and played together at the far end of the balcony, and their chatter made a background to the business of the photography, so that, both smiling at the prattle of the children, a kind of adult intimacy developed between the Marquise and the photographer, and the atmosphere was not so tense as it had been.
He became bolder, more confident of himself. He suggested poses and she acquiesced, and once or twice she placed herself badly and he told her of it.
'No, Madame la Marquise. Not like that. Like this,'
Then he would come over to the chair, kneel beside her, move her foot perhaps, or turn her shoulder, and each time he did so his touch became more certain, became stronger. Yet when she forced him to meet her eyes he looked away, humble and diffident, as though he was ashamed of what he did, and his gentle eyes, mirroring his nature, would deny the impulse of his hands. She sensed a struggle within him, and it gave her pleasure.
At last, after he had rearranged her dress the second time, she noticed that he had gone quite white and there was perspiration on his forehead.
'It is very hot,' she said, 'perhaps we have done enough for today.'
'If you please, Madame la Marquise,' he answered, 'it is indeed very warm. I think it is best that we should stop now.'
She rose from the chair, cool and at her ease. She was not tired, nor was she troubled. Rather was she invigorated, full of a new energy. When he had gone she would walk down to the sea and swim. It was very
