“He?—Oh, I’m making use of him.”
“To inherit the earth?” I asked ironically, and she answered gravely:
“To inherit the earth.”
She was leaning against the window, playing with the strings of the blinds, and silhouetted against the leaden light. She seemed to be, physically, a little tired; and the lines of her figure to interlace almost tenderly—to “compose” well, after the ideas of a certain school. I knew so little of her—only just enough to be in love with her—that this struck me as the herald of a new phase, not so much in her attitude to me as in mine to her; she had even then a sort of gravity, the gravity of a person on whom things were beginning to weigh.
“But,” I said, irresolutely. I could not speak to her; to this new conception of her, in the way I had planned; in the way one would talk to a brilliant, limpid—oh, to a woman of sorts. But I had to take something of my old line. “How would flirting with that man help you?”
“It’s quite simple,” she answered, “he’s to show Callan all Greenland, and Callan is to write … Callan has immense influence over a great class, and he will have some of the prestige of—of a Commissioner.”
“Oh, I know about Callan,” I said.
“And,” she went on, “this man had orders to hide things from Callan; you know what it is they have to hide. But he won’t now; that is what I was arranging. It’s partly by bribery and partly because he has a belief in his beaux yeux—so Callan will be upset and will write an … exposure; the sort of thing Callan would write if he were well upset. And he will be, by what this man will let him see. You know what a little man like Callan will feel … he will be made ill. He would faint at the sight of a drop of blood, you know, and he will see—oh, the very worst, worse than what Radet saw. And he will write a frightful article, and it will be a thunderclap for de Mersch. … And de Mersch will be getting very shaky by then. And your friend Churchill will try to carry de Mersch’s railway bill through in the face of the scandal. Churchill’s motives will be excellent, but everyone will say … You know what people say … That is what I and Gurnard want. We want people to talk; we want them to believe. …”
I don’t know whether there really was a hesitation in her voice, or whether I read that into it. She stood there, playing with the knots of the window-cords and speaking in a low monotone. The whole thing, the sad twilight of the place, her tone of voice, seemed tinged with unavailing regret. I had almost forgotten the Dimensionist story, and I had never believed in it. But now, for the first time I began to have my doubts. I was certain that she had been plotting something with one of the Duc de Mersch’s lieutenants. The man’s manner vouched for that; he had not been able to look me in the face. But, more than anything, his voice and manner made me feel that we had passed out of a realm of farcical allegory. I knew enough to see that she might be speaking the truth. And, if she were, her calm avowal of such treachery proved that she was what she had said the Dimensionists were; cold, with no scruples, clear-sighted and admirably courageous, and indubitably enemies of society.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “But de Mersch then?”
She made a little gesture; one of those movements that I best remember of her; the smallest, the least noticeable. It reduced de Mersch to nothing; he no longer even counted.
“Oh, as for him,” she said, “he is only a detail.” I had still the idea that she spoke with a pitying intonation—as if she were speaking to a dog in pain. “He doesn’t really count; not really. He will crumble up and disappear, very soon. You won’t even remember him.”
“But,” I said, “you go about with him, as if you. … You are getting yourself talked about. … Everyone thinks—” … The accusation that I had come to make seemed impossible, now I was facing her. “I believe,” I added, with the suddenness of inspiration. “I’m certain even, that he thinks that you …”
“Well, they think that sort of thing. But it is only part of the game. Oh, I assure you it is no more than that.”
I was silent. I felt that, for one reason or another, she wished me to believe.
“Yes,” she said, “I want you to believe. It will save you a good deal of pain.”
“If you wanted to save me pain,” I maintained, “you would have done with de Mersch … for good.” I had an idea that the solution was beyond me. It was as if the controlling powers were flitting, invisible, just above my head, just beyond my grasp. There was obviously something vibrating; some cord, somewhere, stretched very taut and quivering. But I could think of no better solution than: “You must have done with him.” It seemed obvious, too, that that was impossible, was outside the range of things that could be done—but I had to do my best. “It’s a—it’s vile,” I added, “vile.”
“Oh, I know, I know,” she said, “for you. … And I’m even sorry. But it has to be gone on with. De Mersch has to go under in just this way. It can’t be any other.”
“Why not?” I asked, because she had paused. I hadn’t any desire for enlightenment.
“It isn’t even only Churchill,” she said, “not even only that
