I had been for a saunter through the town. Several times I had returned before I found Fiesole beneath the fig-tree in the courtyard, seated at the table with a paper spread out in front of her. She looked up swiftly at sound of my footstep and threw me a smile, gathering herself in to make room for me beside her. When I stood over her, she lifted up her face with childish eagerness as though we had not kissed already more than once that morning. “Shall I order dÉjeuner out here?”

She nodded. “Where else, but in the sunshine?” When I came back from giving the order, her red-gold head was bent again above the paper.

“Something interesting?”

“Rather.” She raised her green eyes mischievously. “It’s all up. We’ll be collared within the hour.”

“What’s all up? Who’s got the right to collar us?”

“Paris thinks it has, the whole of France thinks it has, but most particularly Monsieur Georges thinks he has, and so does the theatre-management.”

“Let ’em try. We don’t care.”

“But, old boy, I do care a little. You see, I shouldn’t have been here now if it hadn’t been for Monsieur Georges, Paris, and the rest of them. They gave me my chance; going off like this has left them in the lurch. It isn’t playing the game, as I understand it.”

“If it’s damages for a broken contract they’re after, I’ll settle that for you.”

She smiled mysteriously and, bowing her head above the paper, read me extracts, throwing in, now and then, her own vivacious comments.

It appeared that up to the last moment the theatre-management had expected her and had allowed the audience to assemble. They had delayed matters for half an hour while they sent out messengers to search for her. When the crowd grew restless, they had commenced the performance with an under-study. But the people would have none of her; they rose up in their places stamping and threatening, shouting for La Fiesole. The curtain had been rung down and Monsieur Georges had come forward, weeping and wringing his hands, saying that La Fiesole had been kidnaped by an admirer that morning. Pandemonium broke loose. The theatre for a time was in danger of being wrecked; but the police were summoned and got the audience out, and the money refunded.

The journalist’s story followed of the unknown Englishman who, a few nights before, had stood up in his box applauding when everyone else had grown silent; and how the same Englishman, one night previously, had created a scene between himself and La Fiesole at a cafÉ in the Champs ElysÉes—a scene which had terminated by them going away together.

“Make you out quite a desperate character, don’t they, old darling?” she drawled, looking up into my eyes, laughing.

I did my best to share her levity, but I was secretly annoyed at so much publicity. Taking the paper from her, I patted her on the shoulder. “Come, drink up your coffee, little woman; it’s getting cold. Why waste time over all this nonsense? You’re out of it. It’s all ended.”

“But it isn’t. Paris won’t let it be ended. They’re making more row about me than they did about La Gioconda. They’ve offered a reward of five thousand francs for my recovery.”

“And if they did find us, they couldn’t do anything. Discovery won’t be easy.”

“Won’t it? We were seen yesterday going together towards St. Cloud; they’ve got the number of my car and particulars of my dress from Marie.”

“But didn’t you warn Marie?”

“Silly fellow, how should I? Didn’t know myself what I was going to do when we started—at least I didn’t know positively.”

“Humph!”

“Ripping, isn’t it, for a chap like you as ’as allaws lived decent and ’oped to die respected? Dannie, Dannie, you’re a regular Robert the Devil—only I stole you, and nobody’ll ever believe it.”

“It doesn’t matter what they say about me; it’s your good name that matters.—I promised yesterday never to speak another word about marriage. May I break my promise?”

“You’ve done it. Go on, John Bunyan.”

“Well, here’s my plan: that we motor through to Cherbourg and skip over to Southampton.”

“And then?”

“Get a special license in the shortest time possible. When we’re discovered, you’ll be Lady Cardover.”

“But it isn’t necessary that I should be Lady Cardover. I’m not ashamed of anything. Are you?”

“Perhaps not; but there’s nothing to be gained by dodging the conventions. I ought to know; I’ve been dodging ’em ever since I can remember. I’ve come to see that there’s something grand about conventions; they’re a sort of wall to protect someone you love dearly from attack. We’re man and wife already by everything that’s sacred; but we shall never be securely happy unless we’re married.”

Our meal was finished. We wandered off into the orchard at the back. When we were safe from watching eyes, Fiesole gave me her hand. We came to a place where trees grew closer together; here we rested. She leant against me, her face wistful and troubled; the sun through the branches scattered gold and the blossoms snowflakes in her hair.

Presently she disentangled herself from my arms, and jumped to her feet, smiling gently. “I’ve a surprise for you, my virgin man. I want you to stop here for half an hour and promise not to follow.”

“A long time to be without you.”

“But promise.”

“All right. Very well.”

She stooped over me quietly before she went. I watched her pass swaying across the dappled turf, under the dancing shadows and rain of petals. Just before she entered the courtyard, she turned and waved her hand.

Something in Fiesole’s distant aspect, something of seeming maidenly daintiness, brought to mind another woman—gold and ivory, with poppies for her lips, were the words which had described her. While I had walked Falaise that morning I had striven to banish her from my thoughts. And now Fiesole, from whom I had hoped to obtain forgetfulness, Fiesole herself had unconsciously reminded me.

In the stillness I confronted myself: I was being faithless to the loyalty of years—I had done and was about to do a thing which was traitorous to all my past. Vi’s memory, though in itself sinful, had demanded chastity from me.

Yet my present conduct was not incompatible with my past: it was the result of it. Puppy passions of thought had grown into hounds of action—that was all.

From the first my pagan imagination, at war with my puritan conscience, had lured me on. All my life I had been breaking bounds imaginatively: innocently for Ruthita in my childhood; in appearance for Fiesole at Venice; dangerously for Vi; and at last in fact for Fiesole. Narrower affections I had passed by, not perceiving that their narrowness made for safety and kindness. The unwalled garden of masterless desire had proved a wilderness; its fruit was loneliness.

Last night, sitting in the courtyard, I had told myself that in remaining constant to Vi, I had gambled for the impossible. Was it true? In any case, to have followed up the risk strongly was my only excuse for having gambled at all. By turning back I abandoned the prize, and made the sin of loving a forbidden woman paltry.—Might she not have been waiting for me all these years, as I had been waiting! What an irony if now, when I was destroying both the hope and reward of our sacrifice, she were free and preparing to come to me!

And Fiesole! I had used her to drug my unsatisfied longing. Should I not do her more grievous wrong in marrying her while I loved another woman?—I had been mad. I was appalled.

Could I ever be at peace with her—ever make her happy? Fiesole was so flippant, so casual of all that makes for wifehood. And she was almost right in saying that I had made her what she was—first by my virtue, now by my lack of it. All we could give one another would be passion, swift and self-consuming. Soon would come satiety, the fruit of my doings; after that regret, the fruit of my thoughts. And if we did not marry, I should eat the same fruit, made more bitter by self-scorn.

Marry Fiesole! In marriage lay escape from the penalty of my lifelong lawless curiosity. Walls of children might grow up, responsibilities of domestic affection, giving shelter and security.

This was treachery. Fiesole should never guess I had faltered. The door should be closed on the past——

I had been waiting for, perhaps, half-an-hour, when I heard the chugging of a motor newly started. There were no other travelers staying at the inn; I thought that I recognized the beat of the engine. As I listened, I felt sure that the car was being backed into the road. I expected to hear it stop, and to see Fiesole come from under the archway and signal for me. It did not stop. It began to gather speed. The sound droned fainter and fainter.

Promise or no promise, I could not resist my excited curiosity. I ran across the orchard, through the courtyard, into the sunlit street. Far up the road, I saw a cloud of dust growing smaller, disappearing in the direction of Paris. I watched, confused and dumbfounded, as it dwindled.

The old proprietress approached me shyly and touched me on the arm. “For Monsieur from Madame.”

Snatching the note from her hand, I tore it open with trembling fingers. The writing was hasty and agitated. I read and re-read it, trying to twist its words into another meaning.

The note ran:

My poor Dante, as you said to me, I have a woman’s memory; you’ll remember Potiphar’s wife and Joseph. I have tried to hate you intensely. You see, I’m what you made me: Lucrezia—your handiwork. For years I have promised myself that, if ever I had the chance, I would punish you. It was with this intention that I left Paris yesterday—you know the rest. So now, without me in the years that are to come, you will suffer all that you once made me suffer. And I’m almost sorry; for here, at Falaise, you nearly made me.... It can’t be done.

Raising my eyes, I stood alone, gazing along the gleaming road to Paris. The cloud of dust had vanished.

THE END