VI
Madame de Montevesso paused, looking at the white ashes in which the sparks had not died out yet. “Yes,” she went on, “I lived near Paris through the whole time of the Empire. I had a charming house in the country. Monsieur de Montevesso had established me in a style which he considered worthy of himself if not of me. He could never forgive me for being what I am. He was tolerated by the returned emigration for my sake, but he grew weary of his own unhappiness and resolved to live by himself in his own province where he could be a great personage. Perhaps he is not altogether a bad man. He consented eagerly to my parents, who had obtained permission to return to France, joining me in the country. I tasted again some happiness in the peace of our semi-retired life and in their affection. Our world was that of old society, the world of returned nobles. They hated and despised the imperial power, but most of them were ready to cringe before it. Yes, even the best were overawed by the real might under the tinsel of that greatness. Our circle was very small and composed of convinced royalists, but I could not share their hatreds and their contempts. I felt myself a Frenchwoman. I had liberal ideas. …”
She noticed Cosmo’s eyes fixed on her with eager and friendly curiosity, and paused with a faint smile.
“You understand me, Cosmo?” she asked. The latter gave a little nod without detaching his eyes from the face which seemed to him to glow with the light of generous feelings, but already Madame de Montevesso was going on.
“I did not want to be patronized by all those returned duchesses who wanted to teach me how to feel and how to behave. Their own behaviour was a mixture of insolence and self-seeking before that government which they feared and despised. I didn’t fear it but neither could I despise it. My heart was heavy during all those years but it was not downcast. All Europe was aflame and the blaze scorched and dazzled and filled one with awe and with forebodings; but then one always heard that fire purifies all which it cannot destroy. The world would perhaps come out better from it.”
“Well, it’s all over,” said Cosmo, “and what has it done? The smoke hangs about yet and I cannot see, but how do you feel?”
Madame de Montevesso, leaning on her elbow on the mantelpiece, with one foot on the fender, looked down at the ashes in which a spark gleamed here and there.
“I feel a little cold,” she said, “and dazed perhaps. One doesn’t know where to look.”
Cosmo got up and made a step forward. His voice, however, was subdued. “Formerly there was a man.”
“A man, yes. One couldn’t help looking towards him. There was something unnatural in that uniqueness, but do you know, Cosmo, the man was nothing. You smile, you think you hear a royalist speaking, a woman full of silly aristocratic prejudice; a woman who sees only a small Corsican squire who hadn’t even the sense to catch the opportunity by the hair as it flew by and be the restorer of the Bourbon dynasty. You imagine all that of me! … Of me!”
She kept her pose, desolate, as if looking down at the ashes of a burnt-up world.
“I don’t think you could be stupid if you tried,” he said. “But if the man was nothing, then what has done it?”
Madame de Montevesso remained silent for a while before murmuring the word “Destiny,” and only then turned her head slightly towards Cosmo. “What are you staring at in that corner?” she asked, after another period of silence.
“Was I staring?” he said with a little start. “I didn’t know. Your words evoked a draped figure with an averted head.”
“Then it wasn’t that,” she said, looking at him with friendly eyes. “Whatever your fancy might have seen it was not Destiny. One must live a very long time to see even the hem of her robe. Live a very, very long time,” she repeated in a tone of such weariness, tinged by fear, that Cosmo felt impelled to step forward, take up the hand that hung by her side, and press it to his lips. When released, it fell slowly to its previous position. But Madame de Montevesso did not move.
“That’s very nice,” she said. “It was a movement of sympathy. I have had very little of that in my life. There is something in me that does not appeal to the people with whom I live. My father, of course, loves me; but that is not quite the same thing. Your father, I believe, sympathized with the child and I am touched to see that the son seems to understand something of the woman; of an almost old woman.”
Cosmo would have been amused at the tone of unaffected conviction in which she called herself an old woman had it not been for the profound trouble on that young face bent downwards, and at the melancholy grace of the whole attitude of that woman who had once been the child Adèle; a foreign, homeless child, sheltered for a moment by the old walls of his ancestral home, and the sharer of its life’s stately intimacies.
“No,” he said, marvelling that so much bitter experience should have been the
