The Puppet Crown [59]
not venture another lie.
"What! you are silent? Is there, after all, a woman somewhere in your life?"
"Yes." He continued to tap the pipe. His gaze wandered to the candles, strayed back to the window, then met hers steadfastly, so steadfastly, that she could not resist. She was annoyed.
"Tell me about her."
"My vocabulary is too limited. You would laugh at me."
"I? No; love is sacred." She had boasted to Maurice that she was without conscience; she had only smothered it. "Come; is she beautiful?"
"Yes." These questions disturbed him.
"Certainly she must be worthy or you would not love her. She is rich?"
"That does not matter; I am." He was wishing that Maurice would hurry back; the desire to fly was returning.
"And she rejected you and sent you to the army?"
"She has not rejected me, though I dare say she would, had I the presumption to ask her."
"A faint heart, they say--"
"My heart is not faint; it is my tongue." He rose and wandered about the room. Her breath was like orris, and went to his head like wine.
"Monsieur," she said, "is it possible that you have succumbed to the charms of Madame the countess?"
He laughed. "One may admire exquisite bric-a-brac without loving it."
"Bric-a-brac! Poor Elsa!" and Madame laughed. "If it were the countess I could aid you."
"Love is not merchandise, to traffic with."
Madame's cheeks grew warm. Sometimes the trick of fence is beaten down by a tyro's stroke.
"Eh, bien, since it is not the countess--"
He came toward her so swiftly that instinctively she rose and moved to the opposite side of her chair. Something in his face caused her to shiver. She had no time to analyze its meaning, but she knew that the shiver was not unmixed with fear.
"Madame, in God's name, do not play with me!" he cried.
"Monsieur, you forget yourself," for the moment forgetting her part.
"Yes, there is no self in my thoughts since they are all of you! You know that I love you. Who could resist you? Thirteen years? They are well wasted, in the end to love a woman like you."
Before she could withdraw her hands from the top of the chair he had seized them.
"Monsieur, release me." She struggled futilely.
"I love you." He began to draw her from behind the chair.
"Monsieur, Monsieur!" she, cried, genuinely alarmed; "do not forget that you are a gentleman."
"I am not a gentleman now; I am a man who loves."
Madame was now aware that what she had aroused could not be subdued by angry words.
"Monsieur, you say that you love me; do not degrade me by forcing me into your arms. I am a woman, and weak, and you are hurting me."
He let go her hands, and they stood there, breathing deeply and quickly. But for her it was a respite. She had been too precipitate. She brought together the subtle forces of her mind. She could gain nothing by force; she must use cunning. To hold him at arm's length, and yet to hold him, was her desire. She had reckoned on wax; a man stood before her. All at once the flutter of admiration stirred in her heart. She was a soldier's daughter, the daughter of a man who loved strong men. And this man was doubly strong because he was fearless and honest. She read in his eyes that a moment more and he had kissed her, a thing no man save her father had ever done.
"O, Monsieur," she said lightly, "you soldiers are such forward lovers! You have not even asked me if I love you." He made a move to regain her hands. "No, no!" darting behind the chair. "You must not take my hands; you do not realize how strong you are. I am not sure that my heart responds to yours."
"Tell me, what must I do?" leaning across the chair.
"You must have patience. A woman must be wooed her own way, or not at all. What a whirlwind you are!"
"I would to heaven," with a gesture indicative of despair, "that you had kept me behind bars and closed doors." He dropped his hands from the chair and sought the window, leaning his arms against the central frame.
Madame had fully recovered her composure.
"What! you are silent? Is there, after all, a woman somewhere in your life?"
"Yes." He continued to tap the pipe. His gaze wandered to the candles, strayed back to the window, then met hers steadfastly, so steadfastly, that she could not resist. She was annoyed.
"Tell me about her."
"My vocabulary is too limited. You would laugh at me."
"I? No; love is sacred." She had boasted to Maurice that she was without conscience; she had only smothered it. "Come; is she beautiful?"
"Yes." These questions disturbed him.
"Certainly she must be worthy or you would not love her. She is rich?"
"That does not matter; I am." He was wishing that Maurice would hurry back; the desire to fly was returning.
"And she rejected you and sent you to the army?"
"She has not rejected me, though I dare say she would, had I the presumption to ask her."
"A faint heart, they say--"
"My heart is not faint; it is my tongue." He rose and wandered about the room. Her breath was like orris, and went to his head like wine.
"Monsieur," she said, "is it possible that you have succumbed to the charms of Madame the countess?"
He laughed. "One may admire exquisite bric-a-brac without loving it."
"Bric-a-brac! Poor Elsa!" and Madame laughed. "If it were the countess I could aid you."
"Love is not merchandise, to traffic with."
Madame's cheeks grew warm. Sometimes the trick of fence is beaten down by a tyro's stroke.
"Eh, bien, since it is not the countess--"
He came toward her so swiftly that instinctively she rose and moved to the opposite side of her chair. Something in his face caused her to shiver. She had no time to analyze its meaning, but she knew that the shiver was not unmixed with fear.
"Madame, in God's name, do not play with me!" he cried.
"Monsieur, you forget yourself," for the moment forgetting her part.
"Yes, there is no self in my thoughts since they are all of you! You know that I love you. Who could resist you? Thirteen years? They are well wasted, in the end to love a woman like you."
Before she could withdraw her hands from the top of the chair he had seized them.
"Monsieur, release me." She struggled futilely.
"I love you." He began to draw her from behind the chair.
"Monsieur, Monsieur!" she, cried, genuinely alarmed; "do not forget that you are a gentleman."
"I am not a gentleman now; I am a man who loves."
Madame was now aware that what she had aroused could not be subdued by angry words.
"Monsieur, you say that you love me; do not degrade me by forcing me into your arms. I am a woman, and weak, and you are hurting me."
He let go her hands, and they stood there, breathing deeply and quickly. But for her it was a respite. She had been too precipitate. She brought together the subtle forces of her mind. She could gain nothing by force; she must use cunning. To hold him at arm's length, and yet to hold him, was her desire. She had reckoned on wax; a man stood before her. All at once the flutter of admiration stirred in her heart. She was a soldier's daughter, the daughter of a man who loved strong men. And this man was doubly strong because he was fearless and honest. She read in his eyes that a moment more and he had kissed her, a thing no man save her father had ever done.
"O, Monsieur," she said lightly, "you soldiers are such forward lovers! You have not even asked me if I love you." He made a move to regain her hands. "No, no!" darting behind the chair. "You must not take my hands; you do not realize how strong you are. I am not sure that my heart responds to yours."
"Tell me, what must I do?" leaning across the chair.
"You must have patience. A woman must be wooed her own way, or not at all. What a whirlwind you are!"
"I would to heaven," with a gesture indicative of despair, "that you had kept me behind bars and closed doors." He dropped his hands from the chair and sought the window, leaning his arms against the central frame.
Madame had fully recovered her composure.