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Inevitable

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<h2 class="main">CHAPTER LIV</h2> She was now alone in the train. By tipping the guard lavishly, they had travelled by themselves through the night and been left undisturbed in their compartment. Oh, the melancholy journey, the last silent journey of the end! They had not spoken but had sat close together, hand in hand, with eyes gazing into the distance before them, as though staring at the approaching point of separation. The dreary thought of that separation never left them, rushed onward in unison with the rattling train. Sometimes she thought of a railway-accident and that it would be welcome to her if she could die with him. But the lights of Genoa had gleamed up inexorably. Then the train had stopped. And he had flung out his arms and they had kissed for the last time. Pressed to his breast, she had felt all his grief within him. Then he had released her and rushed away, without looking round. She followed him with her eyes, but he did not look back and she saw him disappear in the morning mist, pierced with little lights, that hung about the station. She had seen him disappear among other people, swallowed up in the hovering mist. Then the silent and despairing surrender of her life had become so great that she was not even able to weep. Her head dropped limply, her arms hung lax. Like an inert thing she let the train bear her onward with its rending rattle. A white morning twilight had risen on the left over the brightening sea; and the dawning daylight tinted the water blue and defined the horizon. For hours and hours she travelled on, motionlessly, gazing out at the sea; and she felt almost painless with her impassive surrender of life. She would now let things happen as life willed, as her husband willed, as the train willed. As in a tired dream she thought of the inevitability of everything and all the unconscious life within herself, of her first rebellion against her husband’s tyranny, of the illusion of her independence, the arrogance of her pride and all the happiness of her gentle ecstasy, all her gladness because of the harmony which she had achieved.... Now it was past; now all self-will was vain. The train was carrying her to where Rudolph called her; and life hemmed her in on every side, not roughly, but with a soft pressure of phantom hands, which pushed and led and guided.... And she ceased to think. The tired dream became clouded in the deeper blue of the day; and she felt that she was approaching Nice. She returned to the petty realities of life. She felt that she was looking a little travel-worn: and, feeling that it would be better if Rudolph did not see her for the first time in so unattractive a light, she slowly opened her bag, washed her face with her handkerchief dipped in eau-de-Cologne, combed her hair, powdered her face, brushed herself down, put on a transparent white veil and took out a pair of new gloves. She bought a couple of yellow roses at a station and put them in her waistband. She did all this unconsciously, without thinking about it, feeling that it was best, that it was sensible to do it, best that Rudolph should see her like that, with that bloom of a beautiful woman about her. She felt that henceforth she must be above all beautiful and that nothing else mattered. And when the train droned into the station, when she recognized Nice, she was resigned, because she had ceased to struggle and had yielded to all the stronger forces. The door was flung open and, in the station, which at that early hour was comparatively empty, she saw him at once: tall, robust, easy, in his light summer suit, straw hat and brown shoes. He gave an impression of health and strength and above all of broad-shouldered virility; and, notwithstanding his broadness, he was still quite thoroughbred, thoroughly well-groomed without the least touch of toppishness; and the ironical smile beneath his moustache and the steady glance of his fine grey eyes, the eyes of a woman-hunter, gave him an air of strength, of the certainty of doing as he wished, of the power to subdue if he thought fit. An ironic pride in his handsome strength, with a tinge of contempt for the others who were less handsome and strong, less of the healthy animal and yet the aristocrat, and above all a mocking, supercilious sarcasm directed against all women, because he knew women and knew how much they were really worth: all this was expressed by his glance, his attitude, his movements. It was thus that she knew him. It had often roused her to rebellion in the old days, but she now felt resigned and also a little frightened. He had come to her; he helped her to alight. She saw that he was angry, that he intended to receive her rudely; then, that his moustache was curling ironically, as though in mockery because he was the stronger. She said nothing, however, took his hand calmly and alighted. He led her outside; and in the carriage they waited a moment for the trunk. His eyes took her in at a glance. She was wearing an old blue-serge skirt and a little blue-serge cape; but, notwithstanding her old clothes and her weary resignation, she looked a handsome and smartly-dressed woman. “I am glad to see that you thought it advisable at last to carry out my wishes,” he said, in the end. “I thought it would be best,” she answered, softly. Her tone struck him; and he watched her attentively, out of the corner of his eyes. He did not understand her, but he was pleased that she had come. She was tired now, from excitement and travelling; but he thought that she looked most charming, even though she was not so brilliant as on that night, at Mrs. Uxeley’s ball, when he had first spoken to his divorced wife. “Are you tired?” he asked. “I have been a bit feverish for a day or two; and of course I had no sleep last night,” she said, as though in apology. The trunk was brought and they drove away, to the Hôtel Continental. She did not speak again in the carriage. They were also silent as they entered the hotel and in the lift. He took her to his room. It was an ordinary hotel-bedroom; but she thought it strange to see his brushes lying on the dressing-table, his coats and trousers hanging on the pegs: familiar things with whose outlines and folds she was well-acquainted. She recognized his trunk in a corner. He opened the windows wide. She had sat down on a chair, in an expectant attitude. She felt a little faint and closed her eyes, which were blinded by the stream of sunlight. “You must be hungry,” he said. “What shall I order for you?” “I should like some tea and bread-and-butter.” Her trunk arrived; and he ordered her breakfast. Then he said: “Take off your hat.” She stood up. She took off her cape. Her cotton blouse was rumpled; and this annoyed her. She removed the pins from her hat before the glass and quite naturally did her hair with his comb, which she saw lying there. And she settled the silk bow around her collar. He had lit a cigar and was smoking quietly, standing. A waiter came in with the breakfast. She ate a mouthful without speaking and drank a cup of tea. “Have you breakfasted?” she asked. “Yes” They were silent again and she went on eating. “And shall we have a talk now?” he asked, still standing up, smoking. “Very well.” “I won’t speak about your running off as you did,” he said. “My first intention was to give you a regular flaying, for it was a damned silly trick....” She said nothing. She merely looked up at him; and her beautiful eyes were filled with a new expression, one of gentle resignation. He fell silent again, evidently restraining himself and seeking his words. Then he resumed: “As I say, I won’t speak about that any more. For the moment you didn’t know what you were doing and you weren’t accountable for your actions. But there must be an end of that now, for I wish it. Of course I know that according to the law I have not the least right over you. But we’ve discussed all that; and I told it you in writing. And you have been my wife; and, now that I am seeing you again, I feel very plainly that, in spite of everything, I regard you as my wife and that you are my wife. And you must have retained the same impression from our meeting here, at Nice.” “Yes,” she said, calmly. “You admit that?” “Yes,” she repeated. “Then that’s all right. It’s the only thing I wanted of you. So we won’t think any more now of what happened, of our former unpleasantness, of our divorce and of what you have done since. From now on we will put all that behind us. I look upon you as my wife and you shall be my wife again. According to the law we can’t get married again. But that makes no difference. Our divorce in law I regard as an intervening formality and we will counter it as far as we can. If we have children, we shall get them legitimatized. I will consult a lawyer about all that; and I shall take all the necessary measures, financial included. In this way our divorce will be nothing more than a formality, of no meaning to us and of as little significance as possible to the world and to the law. And then I shall leave the service. I shouldn’t in any case care to stay in it for good, so I may as well leave it earlier than I intended. For you wouldn’t find it pleasant to live in Holland; and it doesn’t appeal to me either.” “No,” she murmured. “Where would you like to live?” “I don’t know....” “In Italy?” “No,” she begged, in a tone of entreaty. “Care to stay here?” “I’d rather not ... to begin with.” “I was thinking of Paris. Would you like to live in Paris?” “Very well.” “That’s all right then. So we will go to Paris as soon as possible and look out for a flat and settle in. It’ll soon be spring now; and that is a good time to start life in Paris.” “Very well.” He flung himself into an easy-chair; it creaked under him. Then he asked: “Tell me, what do you really think, inside yourself?” “How do you mean?” “I want to know what you thought of your husband. Did you think him absurd?” “No.” “Come over here and sit on my knee.” She stood up and went to him. She did as he wished, sat down on his knee; and he drew her to him. He laid his hand on her head, with that gesture which prevented her thinking. She closed her eyes and laid her head against his cheek. “You haven’t forgotten me altogether?” She shook her head. “We ought never to have got divorced, ought we?” She shook her head again. “But we used to be very bad-tempered then, both of us. You must never be bad-tempered in future. It makes you look spiteful and ugly. As you are now, you’re much nicer and prettier.” She smiled faintly. “I am glad to have you back with me,” he whispered, with a long kiss on her lips. She closed her eyes under his kiss, while his moustache curled against her skin and his mouth pressed hers. “Are you still tired?” he asked. “Would you like to rest a little?” “Yes,” she said. “I would like to get my things off.” “You’d better go to bed for a bit,” he said. “Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you: your friend, the princess, is coming here this evening!” “Isn’t Urania angry?” “No, I have told her everything and she knows about it all.” She was pleased to know that Urania was not angry and that she still had a friend left. “And I have seen Mrs. Uxeley also.” “She must be angry with me, isn’t she?” He laughed: “That old hag! No, not angry. She’s in the dumps because she has no one with her. She set great store by you. She likes to have pretty people about her, she said. She can’t stand an ugly companion, with no chic.... There, get undressed and go to bed. I’ll leave you and go and sit downstairs somewhere.” They stood up. His eyes had a golden glimmer in them; his moustache was lifted by his ironic smile. And he caught her fiercely in his arms: “Cornélie,” he said, hoarsely, “I think it’s wonderful to have you back again. Do you belong to me, tell me, do you belong to me?” He pressed her to him till he almost stifled her with the pressure of his arms: “Tell me, do you belong to me?” “Yes.” “What used you to say to me in the old days, when you were in love with me?” She hesitated. “What used you to say?” he insisted, holding her still more tightly. Pushing her hands against his shoulders, she fought to catch her breath: “My Rud!” she murmured. “My beautiful, glorious Rud!” Automatically she now wound her arms around his head. He released her as with an effort of will: “Take off your things,” he said, “and try to get some sleep. I’ll come back later.” He went away. She undressed and brushed her hair with his brushes, washed her face and dripped into the basin some of the toilet-water which he used. She drew the curtains, behind which the noonday sun shone; and a soft crimson twilight filled the room. And she crept into the great bed and lay waiting for him, trembling. There was no thought in her. There was in her no grief and no recollection. She was filled only with a great expectancy, a waiting for the inevitability of life. She felt herself to be solely and wholly a bride, but not an innocent bride; and, deep in her blood, in the very marrow of her bones, she felt herself to be the wife, the very blood and marrow, of him whom she awaited. Before her, as she lay half-dreaming, she saw little figures of children. For, if she was to be his wife in truth and sincerity, she wanted to be not only his lover but also the woman who gave him his children. She knew that, despite his roughness, he loved the softness of children; and she herself would long for them, in her second married life, as a sweet comfort for the days when she would be no longer beautiful and no longer young. Before her, half-dreaming, she saw the figures of children.... And she lay waiting for him, she listened for his step, she longed for his coming, her flesh quivered towards him.... And, when he entered and came to her, her arms closed round him in profound and conscious certainty and she felt, beyond a doubt, on his breast, in his arms, the knowledge of his virile, over-mastering dominion, while before her eyes, in a dizzy, melancholy obscurity, the dream of her life—Rome, Duco, the studio—sank away.... THE END <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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