She had suddenly turned very pale, as though under the stress of a sudden emotion. She covered her face with her fluttering fan and her fingers trembled violently; her whole body shuddered.

“That is well thought on your part,” said Mrs. Holt. “I am glad to have met you. I always find a certain charm in Dutch people: that vagueness, which we are unable to seize, and then all at once a light that flashes out of a cloud.... I hope to see you again. I am at home on Tuesdays, at five o’clock. Will you come one day with Mrs. Uxeley?”

Mrs. Holt pressed her hand and disappeared among the other guests. CornÉlie had risen from her chair, while her knees seemed to give way beneath her. She remained standing, half-turned towards the room, looking in the glass; and her fingers played with the orchids in a Venetian vase on the console-table. She was still rather pale, but controlled herself, though her heart was beating loudly and her breast heaving. And she looked in the glass. She saw first her own figure, her beautiful, slender outline, in her dress of white and black Chantilly, with the white-lace train, foaming with flounces, the black-lace tunic with the scalloped border and sprinkled with steel spangles and blue stones, a spray of orchids in the sleeveless corsage, which left her neck and arms and shoulders bare. Her hair was bound with three Greek fillets of pearls; and her fan of white feathers—a present from Urania—was like foam against her throat. She saw herself first and then, in the mirror, she saw him. He was coming nearer to her. She did not move, only her fingers played with the flowers in the vase. She felt as though she wished to take flight, but her knees gave way and her feet were paralysed. She stood rooted to the floor, hypnotized. She was unable to stir. And she saw him come nearer and nearer, while her back remained half-turned to the room. He approached; and his appearance seemed to fling out a net in which she was caught. He was close by her now, close behind her. Mechanically she raised her eyes and looked in the glass and met his eyes in the mirror. She thought that she would faint. She felt squeezed between him and the glass. In the mirror the room went round and round, the candles whirled giddily, like a reeling firmament. He did not say anything yet. She only saw his eyes gazing and his mouth smiling under his moustache. And he still said nothing. Then, in that unendurable lack of space between him and the mirror, which did not even give shelter as a wall would have done, but which reflected him so that he held her twice imprisoned, behind and before, she turned round slowly and looked him in the eyes. But she did not speak either. They looked at each other without a word.

“You never expected this: that you would see me here one day,” he said, at last.

It was more than a year since she had heard his voice. But she felt his voice inside her.

“No,” she answered, at last, haughtily, coldly, distantly. “Though I saw you once or twice, in the street, on the JetÉe.”

“Yes,” he said. “Should I have bowed to you, do you think?”

She shrugged her bare shoulders; and he looked at them. She felt for the first time that she was half-naked that evening.

“No,” she replied, still coldly and distantly. “Any more than you need have spoken to me now.”

He smiled at her. He stood before her as a wall. He stood before her as a man. His head, his shoulders, his chest, his legs, his whole stature rose before her as incarnate manhood.

“Of course I needn’t have done so,” he said; and she felt his voice inside her: she felt his voice sinking in her like molten bronze into a mould. “If I had met you somewhere in Holland, I would only have taken off my hat and not spoken to you. But we are in a foreign country....”

“What difference does that make?”

“I felt I should like to speak to you.... I wanted to have a talk with you. Can’t we do that as strangers?”

“As strangers?” she echoed.

“Oh, well, we’re not strangers: we even know each other uncommonly intimately, eh?... Come and sit down and tell me about yourself. Did you like Rome?”

“Yes,” she said.

He had led her as though with his will to a couch behind a half-damask, half-glass, Louis-XV. screen; and she dropped down upon it in a rosy twilight of candles, with bunches of pink roses around her in all sorts of Venetian glasses. He sat on an ottoman, bending towards her slightly, with his arms on his knees and his hands folded together:

“They’ve been gossiping about you finely at the Hague. First about your pamphlet ... and then about your painter.”

Her eyes pierced him like needles. He laughed:

“You can look just as angry as ever.... Tell me, do you ever hear from the old people? They’re in a bad way.”

“Now and then. I was able to send them some money lately.”

“That’s damned good of you. They don’t deserve it. They said that you no longer existed for them.”

“Mamma wrote that they were so pushed for money. Then I sent them a hundred guilders. It was the most that I could do.”

“Oh, now that they find you sending them money, you’ll begin to exist for them again!”

She shrugged her shoulders:

“I don’t mind that. I was sorry for them ... and sorry I couldn’t send more.”

“Ah, when you look so thundering smart....”

“I don’t pay for my clothes.”

“I’m only stating a fact. I’m not venturing to criticize. I think it damned handsome of you to send them money. But you do look thundering smart.... Look here, let me tell you something: you’ve become a damned handsome girl.”

He stared at her, with his smile, which compelled her to look at him.

Then she replied, very calmly, waving her fan lightly in front of her bare neck, sheltering in the foam of her fan:

“I’m damned glad to hear it!”

He gave a loud, throaty laugh:

“There, I like that! You’ve still got your witty sense of repartee. Always to the point. Damned clever of you!”

She stood up strained and nervous:

“I must leave you. I must go to Mrs. Uxeley.”

He spread out his arms:

“Stay and sit with me a little longer. It does me good to talk to you.”

“Then restrain yourself a bit and don’t ‘damn’ quite so much. I’ve not been used to it lately.”

“I’ll do my best. Sit down.”

She fell back and hid herself behind her fan.

“Let me tell you that you have positively become a very ... a very beautiful woman. Now is that like a compliment?”

“It sounds more like one.”

“Well, it’s the best I can do, you know. So you must make the most of it. And now tell me about Rome. How were you living there?”

“Why should I tell you about it?”

“Because I’m interested.”

“You have no need to be interested.”

“I dare say, but I happen to be. I’ve never quite forgotten you. And I should be surprised if you had me.”

“I have, quite,” she said, coolly.

He looked at her with his smile. He said nothing, but she felt that he knew better. She was afraid to convince him further.

“Is it true, what they say at the Hague? About Van der Staal?”

She looked at him haughtily.

“Come, out with it!”

“Yes.”

“You are a cheeky baggage! Do you no longer care a straw for the whole boiling of them?”

“No.”

“And how do you manage here, with this old hag?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do they just accept you here, at Nice?”

“I don’t brag about my independence; and no one is able to comment on my conduct here.”

“Where is Van der Staal?”

“At Florence.”

“Why isn’t he here?”

“I’m not going to answer any more questions. You are indiscreet. It has nothing to do with you and I won’t be cross-examined.”

She was very nervous again and once more rose to her feet. He spread out his arms.

“Really, Rudolph, you must let me go,” she entreated. “I have to go to Mrs. Uxeley. They are to dance a pavane in the ball-room and I have to ask for instructions and hand them on. Let me pass.”

“Then I’ll take you there. Let me offer you my arm.”

“Rudolph, do go away! Don’t you see how you’re upsetting me? This meeting has been so unexpected. Do let me go, or I sha’n’t be able to control myself. I’m going to cry.... Why did you speak to me, why did you speak to me, why did you come here, where you knew that you would meet me?”

“Because I wanted to see one of Mrs. Uxeley’s parties and because I wanted to meet you.”

“You must understand that it upsets me to see you again. What good does it do you? We are dead to each other. Why should you want to pester me like this?”

“That’s just what I wanted to know, whether we are dead to each other....”

“Dead, dead, quite dead!” she cried, vehemently.

He laughed:

“Come, don’t be so theatrical. You can understand that I was curious to see you again and talk to you. I used to see you in the street, in your carriage, on the JetÉe; and I was pleased to find you looking so well, so smart, so happy and so handsome. You know that good-looking women are my great hobby. You are much better-looking than you used to be when you were my wife. If you had been then what you are now, I should never have allowed you to divorce me.... Come, don’t be a child. No one knows here. I think it damned jolly to meet you here, to have a good old yarn with you and to have you leaning on my arm. Take my arm. Don’t make a fuss and I’ll take you where you want to go. Where shall we find Mrs. Uxeley? Introduce me ... as a friend from Holland....”

“Rudolph....”

“Oh, I insist: don’t bother! There’s nothing in it! It amuses me and it’s no end of a lark to walk about with one’s divorced wife at a ball at Nice. A delightful town, isn’t it? I go to Monte Carlo every day and I’ve been damned lucky. Won three thousand francs yesterday. Will you come with me one day?”

“You’re mad!”

“I’m not mad at all. I want to enjoy myself. And I’m proud to have you on my arm.”

She withdrew her arm:

“Well, you needn’t be.”

“Now don’t get spiteful. That’s all rot: let’s enjoy ourselves. There is the old girl: she’s looking at you.”

She had passed through some of the rooms on his arm; and they saw, near a tombola, round which people were crowding to draw presents and surprises, Mrs. Uxeley, Gilio and the Rosavilla, Costi and Luca ladies. They were all very gay round the pyramid of knickknacks, behaving like children when the number of one of them turned up on the roulette-wheel.

“Mrs. Uxeley,” CornÉlie began, in a trembling voice, “may I introduce a fellow-countryman of mine? Baron Brox.”

Mrs. Uxeley simpered, uttered a few amiable words and asked if he wouldn’t draw a number.

The roulette-wheel spun round and round.

“A fellow-countryman, CornÉlie?”

“Yes, Mrs. Uxeley.”

“What do you say his name is?”

“Baron Brox.”

“A splendid fellow! A handsome fellow! An astonishingly handsome fellow!... What is he? What does he do?”

“He’s in the army, a first lieutenant....”

“In which regiment?”

“In the hussars.”

“At the Hague?”

“Yes.”

“An amazingly good-looking fellow! I like those tall, fine men.”

“Mrs. Uxeley, is everything going as it should?”

“Yes, darling.”

“Do you feel all right?”

“I have a little pain, but nothing to speak about.”

“Won’t it soon be time for the pavane?”

“Yes, see that the girls go and get dressed. Has the hairdresser brought the wigs for the young men?”

“Yes.”

“Then go and collect them and tell them to hurry up. They must be ready within half an hour....”

Rudolph Brox returned from the tombola, where he had drawn a silver match-box. He thanked Mrs. Uxeley, who simpered, and, when he saw that CornÉlie was moving away, he went after her:

“CornÉlie ...”

“Please, Rudolph, let me be. I have to collect the girls and the men for the pavane. I have a lot to do....”

“I’ll help you....”

She beckoned to a girl or two and sent a couple of footmen to hunt through the room for the young men and to ask them to go to the dressing-room. He saw that she was pale and trembling all over her body:

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m tired.”

“Then let’s go and get something to drink.”

She was numb with nervousness. The music of the invisible band boom-boomed fiercely against her brain; and at times the innumerable candles whirled before her eyes like a reeling firmament. The rooms were choked with people. They crowded and laughed aloud and showed one another their presents; the men trod on the ladies’ trains. An intoxicating, suffocating fragrance of flowers, the atmosphere peculiar to crowded functions and the warm, perfumed odour of women’s flesh hung in the rooms like a cloud. CornÉlie hunted hither and thither and at last collected all the girls. The ballet-master came to ask her something. A butler came to ask her something. And Brox did not budge from her side.

“Let’s go now and get something to drink,” he said.

She mechanically took his arm; and her hand trembled on the sleeve of his dress-coat. He pushed his way with her through the crowd; they passed Urania and De Breuil. Urania said something which CornÉlie did not catch. The refreshment-room also was chock-full and buzzed with loud, laughing voices. Behind the long tables stood the butler, like a minister, supervising the whole service. There was no crowding, no fighting for a glass of wine or a sandwich. People waited until a footman brought it on a tray.

“It’s very well managed,” said Brox. “Do you do all this?”

“No, it’s been done like this for years....”

She dropped into a chair, looking very pale.

“What will you have?”

“A glass of champagne.”

“I’m hungry. I had a bad dinner at my hotel. I must have something to eat.”

He ordered the champagne for her. He ate first a patty, then another, then a chÂteaubriant and peas. He drank two glasses of claret, followed by a glass of champagne. The footman brought him everything, dish by dish, on a silver tray. His handsome, virile face was brick-red in colour with health and animal strength. The stiff hair on his round, heavy skull was cropped quite close. His large grey eyes were bright and laughing, with a straight, impudent glance. A heavy, well-tended moustache curled over his mouth, in which the white teeth gleamed. He stood with his legs slightly astraddle, firm and soldierly in his dress-coat, which he wore with an easy correctness. He ate slowly and with relish, enjoying his good glass of fine wine.

Mechanically she now watched him, from her chair. She had drunk a glass of champagne and asked for another; and the stimulant revived her. Her cheeks recovered some of their colour; her eyes sparkled.

“They do you damn well here,” he said, coming up to her with his glass in his hand.

And he emptied his glass.

“They are going to dance the pavane almost at once,” she murmured.

And they passed through the crowded rooms, to a big corridor outside, which looked like an avenue of camellia-shrubs. They were alone for a moment.

“This is where the dancers are to meet.”

“Then let’s wait for them. It’s nice and cool out here.”

They sat down on a bench.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked. “You were so queer in the ball-room.”

“Yes, I’m better.”

“Don’t you think it’s fun to meet your old husband again?”

“Rudolph, I don’t understand how you can talk to me like that and persecute me and tease me ... after everything that has happened....”

“Oh, well, all that has happened and is done with!”

“Do you think it’s discreet on your part ... or delicate?”

“No, neither discreet nor delicate. Those, you know, are things I’ve never been: you used to fling that in my face often enough, in the old days. But, if it’s not delicate, it’s amusing. Have you lost your sense of humour? It’s damn jolly humorous, our meeting here.... And now listen to me. You and I are divorced. All right. That’s so in the eyes of the law. But a legal divorce is a matter of law and form, for the benefit of society. As regards money affairs and so on. We’ve been too much husband and wife not to feel something for each other at a later meeting, such as this. Yes, yes, I know what you want to say. It’s simply untrue. You have been too much in love with me and I with you for everything between us to be dead. I remember everything still. And you must do the same. Do you remember when...?”

He laughed, pushed nearer to her and whispered close in her ear. She felt his breath thrilling on her flesh like a warm breeze. She flushed crimson with nervous distress. And she felt with her whole body that he had been her husband and that he had entered into her very blood. His voice ran like molten bronze, along her nerves of hearing, deep down within her. She knew him through and through. She knew his eyes, his mouth. She knew his broad, well-kept hands, with the large round nails and the dark signet-ring, as they lay on his knees, which showed square and powerful under the crease in his dress-trousers. And she felt, like a sudden despair, that she knew and felt him in her whole body. However rough he might have been to her in the old days, however much he had ill-treated her, striking her with his clenched fist, banging her against the wall ... she had been his wife. She, a virgin, had become his wife, had been initiated into womanhood by him. And she felt that he had branded her as his own, she felt it in her blood and in the marrow of her bones. She confessed to herself that she had never forgotten him. During the first lonely days in Rome, she had longed for his kisses, she had thought of him, had conjured up his virile image before her mind, had persuaded herself to believe that, by exercising tact and patience and a little management, she could have remained his wife....

Then the great happiness had come, the gentle happiness of perfect harmony!...

It all flashed through her like lightning.

Oh, in that great, gentle happiness she had been able to forget everything, she had not felt the past within her! But she now felt that the past always remained, irrevocably and indelibly. She had been his wife and she held him still in her blood. She felt it now with every breath that she drew. She was indignant because he dared to whisper about the old days, in her ear; but it had all been as he said, irrevocably, indelibly.

“Rudolph!” she entreated, clasping her hands together. “Spare me!”

She almost screamed it, in a cry of fear and despair. But he laughed and with one hand seized both hers, clasped in entreaty:

“If you go on like that, if you look at me so beseechingly with those beautiful eyes, I won’t spare you even here and I’ll kiss you until ...”

His words swept over her like a scorching wind. But laughing voices approached; and two girls and two young men, dressed up, for the pavane, as Henri IV. and Marguerite de Valois, came running down the stairs:

“What’s become of the others?” they cried, looking round in the staircase.

And they came dancing up to CornÉlie. The ballet-master also approached. She did not understand what he said:

“Where are the others?” she repeated, mechanically, in a hoarse voice.

“Here they come.... Now we’re all there....”

They were all talking and laughing and glittering and buzzing about her. She summoned up all her poor strength and issued a few instructions. The guests streamed into the great ball-room, sat down in the front chairs, crowded together in the corners. The pavane was danced in the middle of the room, to an old trailing melody: a long, winding curve of graceful steps, deep bows and satin gleaming with sudden lustre like that of porcelain ... with the occasional flutter of a cape ... and a flash of light on a rapier....