She stayed at home for a day, feeling tired and, deep down within herself, almost unconsciously, afraid, in spite of all, of meeting him. But Mrs. Uxeley, who would never hear of illness or fatigue, was so much put out that CornÉlie accompanied her next day to the Promenade des Anglais. Friends came up to talk to them and gathered round their chairs, with Rudolph Brox among them. But CornÉlie avoided any confidential conversation.

Some days later, however, he called on Mrs. Uxeley’s at-home day; and, amid the crowd of visitors paying duty-calls after the party, he was able to speak to her for a moment alone. He came up to her with that laugh of his, as though his eyes were laughing, as though his moustache were laughing. And she collected all her thoughts, so that she might be firm with him:

“Rudolph,” she said, loftily, “it is simply ridiculous. If you don’t think it indelicate, you might at least try to think it ridiculous. It tickles your sense of humour, but imagine what people would say about it in Holland!... The other evening, at the party, you took me by surprise and somehow—I really don’t know how it happened—I yielded to your strange wish to dance with me and to lead the cotillon. I frankly confess, I was confused. I now see everything clearly and plainly and I tell you this: I refuse to meet you again. I refuse to speak to you again. I refuse to turn the solemn earnest of our divorce into a farce.”

“If you look back,” he said, “you will recollect that you never got anything out of me with that lofty tone and those dignified airs, but that, on the contrary, you just stimulate me to do what you don’t want....”

“If that is so, I shall simply tell Mrs. Uxeley in what relation I stand to you and ask her to forbid you her house.”

He laughed. She lost her temper:

“Do you intend to behave like a gentleman or like a cad?”

He turned red and clenched his fists:

“Curse you!” he hissed, in his moustache.

“Perhaps you would like to hit me and knock me about?” she continued, scornfully.

He mastered himself.

“We are in a room full of people,” she sneered, defiantly. “What if we were alone? You’ve already clenched your fists! You would thrash me as you did before. You brute! You brute!”

“And you are very brave in this room full of people!” he laughed, with his laugh which incited her to rage, when it did not subdue her. “No, I shouldn’t thrash you,” he continued. “I should kiss you.”

“This is the last time you’re going to speak to me!” she hissed furiously. “Go away! Go away! Or I don’t know what I shall do, I shall make a scene.”

He sat down calmly:

“As you please,” he said, quietly.

She stood trembling before him, impotent. Some one spoke to her; the footman handed her some tea. She was now in the midst of a circle of men; and, mastering herself, she jested, with loud, nervous gaiety, flirted more coquettishly than ever. There was a little court around her, with the Duke di Luca as its ring-leader. Close by, Rudolph Brox sat drinking his tea, with apparent calmness, as though waiting. But his strong, masterful blood was boiling madly within him. He could have murdered her and he was seeing red with jealousy. That woman was his, despite the law. He was not going to be afraid of any more scandal. She was beautiful, she was as he wished her to be and he wanted her, his wife. He knew how he would win her back; and this time he would not lose her, this time she should be his, for as long as he wished.

As soon as he was able to speak to her unheard, he came up to her again. She was just going to Urania, whom she saw sitting with Mrs. Uxeley, when he said in her ear, sternly and abruptly:

“CornÉlie....”

She turned round mechanically, but with her haughty glance. She would rather have gone on, but could not: something held her back, a secret strength, a secret superiority, which sounded in his voice and flowed into her with a weight as of bronze that weakened and paralysed her energy.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I want to speak to you alone.”

“No.”

“Yes. Listen to me calmly for a moment, if you can. I am calm too, as you see. You needn’t be afraid of me. I promise not to ill-treat you or even to swear at you. But I must speak to you, alone. After our meeting, after the ball last week, we can’t part like this. You are not even entitled to show me the door, after talking to me and dancing with me so recently. There’s no reason and no logic in it. You lost your temper. But let us both keep our tempers now. I want to speak to you....”

“I can’t: Mrs. Uxeley doesn’t like me to leave the drawing-room when there are people here. I am dependent on her.”

He laughed:

“You are almost even more dependent on her than you used to be on me! But you can give me just a second, in the next room.”

“No.”

“Yes, you can.”

“What do you want to speak to me about?”

“I can’t tell you here.”

“I can’t speak to you alone.”

“I’ll tell you what it is: you’re afraid to.”

“No.”

“Yes, you are: you’re afraid of me. With all your airs and your dignity, you’re afraid to be alone with me for a moment.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“You are afraid. You’re shaking in your shoes with fear. You received me with a fine speech which you rehearsed in advance. Now that you’ve delivered your speech ... it’s over and you’re frightened.”

“I am not frightened.”

“Then come with me, my plucky authoress of The Social Position of the What’s-her-name! I promise, I swear that I shall be calm and tell you calmly what I have to say to you; and I give you my word of honour not to hit you.... Which room shall we go to?... Do you refuse? Listen to me: if you don’t come with me, it’s not finished yet. If you do, perhaps it will be finished ... and you will never see me again.”

“What can you have to say to me?”

“Come.”

She yielded because of his voice, not because of his words:

“But only for three minutes.”

“Very well, three minutes.”

She took him into the passage and into an empty room:

“Well what is it?” she asked, frightened.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said, laughing under his moustache. “Don’t be frightened. I only wanted to tell you ... that you are my wife. Do you understand that? Don’t try to deny it. I felt it at the ball the other night, when I had my arm round you, waltzing with you. Don’t try to deny that you pressed yourself against me for a moment. You’re my wife. I felt it then and I feel it now. And you feel it too, though you would like to deny it. But that won’t help you. What has been can’t be altered; and what has been ... always remains part of you. There, you can’t say that I am not speaking prettily and delicately. Not an oath, not an improper word has escaped my lips. For I don’t want to make you angry. I only want to make you confess that what I say is true and that you are still my wife. That law doesn’t signify. It’s another law that rules us. It’s a law that rules you especially; a law which, without our ever suspecting it, brings us together again, even though it does so by a very strange, roundabout path, along which you, especially, have strayed. That law rules you especially. I am convinced that you still love me, or at least that you are still in love with me. I feel it, I know it as a fact: don’t try to deny it. It’s no use, CornÉlie. And I’ll tell you something besides: I am in love with you too and more so than ever. I feel it when you’re flirting with those fellows. I could wring your neck then, I could break every bone in their bodies.... Don’t be afraid: I’m not going to; I’m not in a temper. I just wanted to talk to you calmly and make you see the truth. Do you see it before you? It is in-con-tro-ver-tible. You see, you have nothing to say in reply. Facts are facts.... Will you show me the door now? Do you still propose to speak to Mrs. Uxeley? I shouldn’t, if I were you. Your friend, the princess, knows who I am: leave it at that. Had the old woman never heard my name, or has she forgotten it? Forgotten it, I expect. Well, then, don’t trouble to refresh her ancient memory. Leave things as they are. It’s better to say nothing. No, the position is not ridiculous and it’s not humorous either. It has become very serious: the truth is always serious. It is strange, I admit: I should never have expected it. It’s a revelation to me as well.... And now I’ve said what I had to say. Less than five minutes by my watch. They will hardly have noticed your absence in the drawing-room. And now I’m going; but first give your husband a kiss, for I am your husband ... and always shall be.”

She stood trembling before him. It was his voice, which fell like molten bronze into her soul, into her body, and lamed and paralysed her. It was his voice of persuasion, of persuasive charm, the voice which she knew of old, the voice that compelled her to do everything that he wanted. Under the influence of that voice she became a thing, a chattel, something that belonged to him, once he had branded her for ever as his mate. She was powerless to cast him out of herself, to shake him from herself, to erase from herself the stamp of his possession and the brand which marked her as his property. She was his; and anything that otherwise was herself had left her. There was no longer in her brain either memory or thought....

She saw him come up to her and put his arm around her. He took her to his breast slowly but so firmly that he seemed to be taking possession of her entirely. She felt herself melting away in his arms as in a scorching flame. On her lips she felt his mouth, his moustache, pressing, pressing, pressing, until she closed her eyes, half-fainting. He said something more in her ear, with that voice under which she seemed not to count, as though she were nothing, as though she existed only through him. When he released her, she staggered on her feet.

“Come, pull yourself together,” she heard him say, calmly, authoritatively, omnipotently. “And accept the position. Things are as they are. There’s no altering them. Thank you for letting me speak to you. Everything is all right between us now: I’m sure of it. And now au revoir. Au revoir....”

He kissed her again:

“Give me a kiss too,” he said, with that voice of his.

She flung her arm round his body and kissed him on the lips.

“Au revoir,” he said, once more.

She saw him laugh under his moustache; his eyes laughed at her with flames of gold; and he went away. She heard his feet going down the stairs and ringing on the marble of the hall, with the strength of his firm tread.... She remained standing as though bereft of life. In the drawing-room, next to the room in which she was, the hum of laughing voices sounded loudly. She saw Rome before her, saw Duco, in a short flash of lightning.... It was gone.... And, collapsing into a chair, she uttered a suppressed cry of despair, put her hands before her face and sobbed, restraining her despair before all those people, dully, as from a stifling throat.