Cosmopolis -- Volume 4

, face to face with her thoughts, a greater distress seized her. The pity which her companion in misery had shown for her-was it not one more proof that she was right in mistrusting

hat dull complexion which no emotion, it seemed, had ever tinged. The failure of her first attempt had exasperated her hatred against her husband and against the Countess to the verge of fury, but a concentrated fury, which was waiting for another

g them. No doubt the wife could provoke a scandal and obtain a divorce, thanks to proofs as indisputable as those with which she had overwhelmed Maud. It would be sufficient to carry to a lawyer the correspondence in the Spanish escritoire. But of what use? She would not be avenged on her husband, to whom a divorce would be a matter of in

the blow must be

n the execution. She assured herself that it was unnecessary to seek any other stage than the studio for the scene she meditated. She knew too well the fury of passion by which Madame Steno was possessed to doubt that, as soon as she was alone with Lincoln, she did not refuse him those kisses of which their correspondence spoke. The snare to be laid was very simple. It required that Alba and Lydia should be in some post of observation while the lovers believed themselves alone, were it only for a moment. The position of the places f

herself who kindled the last spark of humanity with which that dark conscience was lighted up, and that by the most innocent of conversations. It was the very evening of the afternoon on which she had exchanged that sad adieu with Fanny Hafner. She was more unnerved than

he subject of their conv

who was pr

his brother-in-law? Yes. It is very beautiful, very touching; but it does not touch me. It is a devotion which is not human. It is

he pretext of taking from her her fan, in reality to

farther on. Lydia Ma

tally glanced, while his too-sensible interlocutor no longer watched her! But as th

either Florent's nor hers, if there is a little negro blood in their veins, so much the more so as it is connected by the blood of a hero, and they are both perfectly educ

er could have heard those words, they would not have sufficed to heal the wound

d she to herself, "I t

sted at part of the sitting, left the room, leaning upon the crutch, which he still used. His withdrawal seemed so propitious to Lydia that she resolved immediately not to allow such an opportunity to escape, and as if fatality interfered to render her wo

f an old mistress, "you must rest. For two hours you have not ceased

t, continuing, with a proud smile: "We have only that one superiority, we Americans, but we have it-it is a power to apply o

e so long that she is pale. She must have a change. Come with me, dear, I will show you the costume they

replied with the sublime words: "Friend, why hast thou betrayed me by a kiss?" Alas! She believed in it, in the sincerity of that proof of affection, and she returned her false friend's kiss with a gratitude which did not soften that heart saturated with hatred, for five minu

he said: "Probably some servant who has wished to eavesdrop.-But what for? You, who are tall, look and see how it

oln. She entwined around the young man's neck her arms, which gleamed through the transparent sleeves of her summer gown, and she kissed with greedy lips his eyes and mouth. Lydia, who had retained one of the girl's hands in hers, felt

you? How yo

derstand the danger of that mother whom she had surprised thus, clasping in the arms of a guilty mistress-whom?-the husband of the very woman speaking to her, who asked her why she trembled with fear, who would look through that same hole to see that same tableau!.... In order t

claimed,

rl, you did t

hese words, rushed toward the large

udio, looking toward the broken window, while the

appened to my daughter?

ia, with atrocious sarcasm. "Alba br

hurt?" aske

hs of that dark soul, suddenly exposed. She had not time to precisely define her feelings, for already her mother was beside her, pressing her in her arms-in those very arms which Alba had just seen twined around the neck of a lover-while that same mouth showered kisses upon him. The moral shock was so great that the young girl fainted. She regained consciousness and almost at once. She saw her mother as m

," said she, "and I believe it is only a small

ed in the cuts, the Countess felt so reassured that her gayety returned. Never had she

of that other person and her serenity in her fault. Poor Alba, felt overwhelmed by a sadness greater, more depressing still, and which became material

would like to try to arrange all.... I will send back the carriage if you wish to go

st time that Alba was possessed by suspicion on certain mysterious disappearances of her mother. That mother did not mistrust that poor Alba-her Alba, the child so tenderly loved in spite of all-was suffering at that very moment and on her account the most terrible of temptations.... When the carriage had disappeared the fixed gaze of the young girl was turned upon the pavement, and then she felt arise in her a sudden, instinctive, almost irresistible idea to end the moral suffering by which she was devoured. It was so simple!.... It was sufficient to end life. One movement which she could make, one single movement-she

o tell him that if M. Dorsenne asked for her, he should be shown into Ma

byss by that last tremor of animal repugnance, which is found even in suicide of the most ardent kind. Do not madmen

t is the only solution. I will find out i

ersation did not end as she desired, the tragical and simple means remained at her ser

s last tete-a-tete with his pretty and interesting little friend. For he had at length decided to go away, and, to be more sure of not failing, he had engaged his sleeping-berth for tha

Florent Chapron prevented you from sleeping, that you are here with the

es of glass cut my fingers somewhat," replied the yo

riendly scolding. "Do you know that you might have severed an art

d Alba, shaking her pretty head with an expression so bitt

," said he, "or I shall th

ng girl. "Purposely? Why shou

ble against which he had struggled for several days with all the energy of an independent artist, and which for some time systematized his celibacy, again oppressed him. He thought it time to put betwee

oking at me with the glance of our hours of dispute

hing different and indefinable. It must have been that she loved him still more than she herself

uble? You are suff

are going by, and not only the minutes. There is an old and

va, le temps

Non. Mais nous

o doubt the last conversation we shall have together this seas

king, half-sentimental, always served him to prepare phrases more grave, and against the emotion of which her fear of appearing a d

he poltroons who cast themselves into the water. My ticket is bought, and I shall no longer hold th

you any more!.... And if I ask you not to go yet? You have spoken to me of our friendship.... If I pray you, if I beseech you, in the name of that friendship, not to deprive me of it at this instant, when I

tion with Fanny Hafner! First, it is altogether impossible for me to defer my departure. You force me to give you coarse, almost commercial reasons. But my book is about to appear, and I must be there

you not comprehend that if I speak to you as I do, it is because I have need of you in order to live?" Then in a low voice, choked by emotion: "It is because I love you!" All the modesty natural to a child of twenty mounted to her pale face in a flood of purple, when she had uttered that avowal. "Yes, I love you!" she repeated, in an accent as deep, but more firm. "It is not, however, so common a t

er eyes which implored Julien, on her lips which trembled at having spoken thus, on her brow around which floated, like an aureole, the fair hair stirred by the breeze which entered the open window. She had found the means of daring that prodi

ich trembled a distress so tender and each word of which later on made him weep with regret, produced upon him at that moment an impression of fear rather than love o

n the heart of that man, and that heart, toward which she turne

o not know what a writer of my order is, and that to unite your destiny to mine would be for you martyrdom more severe than your moral solitude of to-day. You see, I came to your home with so much joy, because I was free, because each time I could say to myself that I need not return again. Such a confession is not romantic. But it is thus. If that relation became a bond, an obligation, a fixed framework in which to move, a circle of habits in which to imprison me, I should only have one thought-flight

I do not want you. I am grateful

know you do not love me. I have been mad, do not punish me by remaining longer. Af

h he had placed upon a table at the beginning of that visit, so rapidly

e inclined her fair

ttraction of death. Life appeared to her once more as something too vile, too useless, too insupportable to be borne. The carriage was at her disposal. By way of the Portese gate and along the Tiber, with the Countess's horses, it would take an hour and a half to reach the Lake di Porto. She had, too, this pretext, to avoid the curiosity of the servants: one of the Roman noblewo

leads from Transtevere runs along the river, which rolls through a plain strewn with ruins and i

e vegetation which met Alba Steno's eye. But the scene accorded so well with the moral devast

rden of Villa Torlonia, she found herself facing the small lake, so grandiose in its smallness by the wildness of its surroundings, and motionless, surprised in even th

autiful

fatal at that season and at that hour of all that dangerous coast-until she shuddered in her light summer gown. Her shoulders contracted, her teeth chattered, and that feeling of discomfort was to her as a signal for action. She took anothe

umbrella and her gloves on one of the transversal boards of the boat. She had made effort to move the heavy oars, so that she was perspiring. A second shudder seized her as she was arranging the trifling objects, so keen, so chilly, so that time that she paused. Sh

nough. Would the Countess know that she had killed herself? Would she know the cause of that desperate end? The terrible face of Lydia Maitland appeared to the young girl. She comprehended that the woman hated her enemy too much not to enlighten her with regard to the circum

of the Bonapartes living in Rome, who came thither to hunt when overheated. If she were to try to catch that same disease?.... And she took up the oars. When she felt her brow moist with the second effort, she opened her bodice and her chemise, she exposed her neck, her breast, her throat, and she lay down in the boat, allowing the damp air to envelop, to caress, to chill her, inviting the entrance into her blood of the fatal germs. How long did she remain

Mademoiselle, and this

nothing. Let us return quickly. Above all, do not say t