"For me? But can't you see I loathe the life I lead? For me? When the thirst for wealth gets hold of a man, he has always the same excuse--it is not for himself. It is even the eternal parrot-cry of the miser; if he holds fast to his money, it is for the children; and under this pretext he renders his wife, his children, and everyone around him as miserable as he is himself."

"Night and day," said Philip, "I have worked, and G.o.d is my witness that in working all my thoughts were for you. Now that I am almost at the goal, you turn against me--you refuse to give a smile to the man who can realise all my hopes."

"Ah, why do you choose that one?" said Dora, frowning.

"What a funny remark!" said Philip. "Just as if he was my choice."

Then, looking at Dora, who seemed agitated, he added--

"What do you mean?"

"I have been told that General Sabaroff is a libertine, a roue of the worst type, and you know what a detestation I have of such men."

"Let him be what he likes; what on earth does it matter to me?"

exclaimed Philip. "Really, Dora, you can help me with a few smiles; ask him to come and see you on one of your Thursdays, without compromising yourself, and without your virtue running any danger. It ought to be easy enough for a woman to protect her virtue against a man--in a drawing-room," added Philip, with a slightly mocking air which intensely displeased Dora.

"Yes, much easier than protecting one's reputation against women. I hope you will not insist. I shall receive the General politely, that goes without saying, but I shall certainly not ask him to come and see me on the days I receive or the days on which I do not receive."

Philip and Dora looked at each other for a few seconds. They seemed both very determined.

"And suppose I insist," said Philip, who was the first to break the silence, "and, what is more, suppose I expect you to do what I wish?"

"In that case," said Dora, "since there is no other way of obtaining your indulgence, stay a moment and listen to me."

Philip looked at the clock.

"There is plenty of time," continued Dora, "we have nearly half an hour before anyone will come. My dear Philip, I have every reason to believe that this General Sabaroff is no stranger to me. Perhaps I should have told you this before, but when I have been on the point of doing so, I always said to myself, 'What is the use?' and I really did not see the need of it. This is the incident in two words. When I was nineteen, just out of the schoolroom, my aunt took me to winter in the Riviera. Among the many people we met there was a Colonel Sabaroff, a man of about thirty-five. From the first he paid me marked attention, and at the end of two months he made me an offer of marriage. He was handsome, clever, say fascinating if you like, had the reputation of being a brilliant officer, and was much sought after in society. I, a mere child, could not but feel flattered at his choice of me. What my answer might have been--I had asked for a week to consider it--I can scarcely tell, although my heart, I can say in all sincerity, was not touched. A _bal masque_ was to be held that week and my aunt had subscribed to it, but she disliked public b.a.l.l.s, and it had been decided that we were not to go, especially as she thought it hardly proper for two women alone to be present at such a ball. You know, my aunt was then still young and pretty. However, my uncle, arriving from England on the day of the ball, persuaded her to let him take me, for he guessed at my eagerness to go, and he a.s.sured her that if he came with me, the strictest British propriety would be satisfied. When we reached the ball, it was already late. After making a tour of the rooms, we sat down in a dimly lit conservatory, and I was just going to tell him of the offer of marriage I had received, when I started at hearing Colonel Sabaroff's voice in low but fierce altercation with that of a woman. Both were masked, and the language they spoke in was French, which was unintelligible to my uncle. Signing to him to keep silence, I listened intently. My own future was decided in those few minutes. But what need I tell you more except that I, a girl ignorant of all the world's falseness and ugly coa.r.s.eness, sat dumfounded, petrified, as the history of a vulgar liaison was unfolded to my young ears, and the man who had asked for my hand and heart flung off a wretched woman who, to her own undoing, had given herself to him a year before."

"What did you do?" asked Philip.

"I sat spellbound as long as their conversation lasted; but when they rose and pa.s.sed in front of us, I removed my mask, looked the man straight in the face, and, in as steady a voice as I could command, asked my uncle to take me home."

"Did you see any more of him after that?"

"No--the next day, at my request, we left Monte Carlo. During several months I received letters from him, all of which I tore up without reading, and soon, thank G.o.d, I ceased to know whether he existed or not."

"Perhaps it is he who sends the pansies," said Philip.

"Don't talk nonsense," replied Dora.

"But General Sabaroff may not be the man at all."

"I feel sure he must be," said Dora. "The description I have been giving of him corresponds perfectly. Philip, if it should be so, you won't throw me into the society of this man, will you? You won't ask me to make him welcome here?"

A servant came into the room to say that the decorations in the dining-room were finished, and to ask whether Dora would go and give a look to them before the florist left the house.

"Very well," said she to the servant, "I will go."

And, smiling at Philip, she said to him--

"It is understood, then,--you will not insist any more, Philip."

"Curious tricks Fate plays us all!" exclaimed Philip when Dora had gone.

"One would think the devil had a hand in it."

It was half-past nine; n.o.body was likely to come before ten o'clock. He went downstairs to the library and asked for a gla.s.s of fine champagne and seltzer water. He was pained to see Dora lose her gaiety. To give him his due, his one hope was to soon see his ambitious dreams realised, to consecrate anew his whole existence to his wife. He hated himself for being unable to do so at once. But he had gone too far to retrace his steps. He seemed to be carried along by an irresistible current. In his heart of hearts he felt poignantly how much he was in the wrong, but he could not bring himself to break off yet and give up his darling hopes.

His behaviour had a.s.sumed a disgraceful aspect to his eyes, although he dared not own it to himself. Often and often he longed to go and throw himself at Dora's feet. He had not the moral courage necessary to take a decision on which the whole happiness of his wife depended. Every feeling of delicacy and generosity in his composition revolted within him, for he adored her. He fought hard, but each time he returned to the attack he was vanquished.

Philip was unhappy, in spite of the gaiety he forced himself to a.s.sume; within him was a mortal sadness.

He swallowed his drink, sat down, and began to think over what Dora had said to him.

"Suppose," thought he, "that General Sabaroff should turn out to be Dora's old admirer. Well, what then? He must have forgotten her long ago--she never had any love for him--not even a school-girl's love.

Where is the danger? She has a painful recollection of him; but she is no longer a child, she is a woman of the world. Why should she not conquer her antipathy for him and make use of a little diplomacy to render me a service? I must absolutely get General Sabaroff's approval.

Everything depends on that. But, what if he should not have forgotten her, if he still loves her? He would not feel disposed to place a fortune in my hands. Stay, though, perhaps he would, on the contrary, to please Dora. Another reason why she should be amiable to him" ...

His evil genius urged him on.

"It's decided," said he; "whatever it may cost, I must have the man's approbation of my sh.e.l.l--and I must have that money to be rich--really rich. Yes, my dear father, I shall be wealthy, and I will prove to you that it is possible to make a fortune without being your slave."

His spirits brightened considerably, and, rubbing his hands cheerfully, he strode up and down the room exultantly, perfectly convinced that he had formed a resolution which would turn out to his advantage.

"Suppose I should succeed! Well, of course I shall succeed. I must, something tells me I shall, I will. Yes, this man Sabre-off or Sabre-on must be made much of. As to Dora,--with some wives it might be a risky experiment, but with her,--why, I should as soon think of doubting my own existence as of doubting her! 'Oh, my darling!'" said he aloud, taking up a photograph of Dora and kissing it, "'forgive me for having had such a thought, and still more for having expressed it.' Yes, she must receive this man smilingly whether he turns out to be a Sir Galahad or not. I have gone too far to draw back now. It's annoying all the same--pity there is so much sentimental nonsense in even the best of women, and Dora is one out of ten thousand."

The final chords of a pianoforte solo reached his ears, followed by loud applause.

"By Jove," said he, "I was nearly forgetting all about the party."

He hurriedly left the library and went upstairs to the drawing-room.

X

BELGRAVIA

Dora was receiving her guests at the top of the staircase, at the entrance of the large drawing-room. Philip found about thirty people already arrived, and he proceeded to shake hands and distribute words of welcome. At half-past ten it had become difficult to circulate in the rooms; the staircase and hall were crowded, but a stream of carriages still flowed up.

At eleven o'clock the fete was at its height, veritably dazzling. The lights, the flowers, made it a fairy scene. It was a phantasmagoria of heads, bare shoulders, black coats, diamonds, shimmering satins, and priceless lace; and, permeating the whole, a perfume as of hot-house flowers.

All the types of society were to be recognised in the throng--the diplomatists, with their eternal smile and irreproachably cut clothes; the aristocracy, with its frigid bored look, occasionally smiling, as if by mechanism; the City by its biblical noses; the Stock Exchange by those cold, metallic, careworn men, aged before their time by the wrinkles that money preoccupations plough on their foreheads; literature by men bright and interested in everything around them, cheerily provoking ripples of laughter among the women, and recounting their best anecdotes among the men. The fine arts were represented by a few n.o.ble-looking heads rising out of Shakespeare collars.

On all sides were exquisite toilettes, setting off forms of dazzling fairness and admirable poise--a complete representative crowd of that calm, proud, haughty British nation, full of dignity, robust health, and self-confidence; a nation that holds in its hands the destinies of half the earth.

Lorimer and de Lussac met in a corner of the drawing-room.