"I see him; he is gazing her out of countenance," said de Lussac.

"Out of countenance? Out of corset, you mean. Sabaroff has a way of staring at a woman; it makes her quite nervous to be near him if she has on evening dress."

"My dear Mimi, I did not know you were so easily shocked."

"Oh! when I say a woman I don't mean myself--that sort of thing doesn't affect me, you may imagine. I am quite at his disposition--and yours too, yours especially--you are perfectly mashing to-night. After all these Englishmen, dear boy, it is a treat to look at a Frenchman; to be looked at by one--dessert after dinner."

Dora had heard it all. Her indignation was at boiling point.

"I am going to turn that creature out," she said to Lorimer.

"Oh, don't, I beg of you, Dora," replied Lorimer. "It might make a scandal--that woman would not hesitate to insult you."

But Dora was determined to get rid of Mimi, and, addressing her, said, "I will not trouble you to sing any more, mademoiselle; I will send you your cheque to-morrow." So saying, she turned her back on Mimi.

"Much obliged," said the latter. And, turning to de Lussac, she added, "Well, I never! She wants to dismiss me. Did you ever hear such cheek?

Much obliged, but I'm starving hungry. I'm off to the buffet--your arm, Georges."

She went down with de Lussac.

Lorimer began to be seriously concerned about Dora. She was pale as death, and seemed every now and then on the point of fainting. She had been going through tortures, but the thing which had dealt her a terrible blow was a sc.r.a.p of conversation, which she had just heard as she pa.s.sed through the drawing-room.

"It happens every day, and in the best society," said a man whom she did not recognise. "One constantly sees a man making use of his wife's attractions to further his own ends. It is called diplomacy."

"In such cases the wife is often an innocent agent."

"That is true, but the husband is none the less reprehensible for that,"

added a third voice.

Of whom had they been speaking? There was a singing in her ears. Great Heaven! was it of her? She closed her eyes and thought she was going to lose consciousness.

Lorimer took it upon him to go to Philip and tell him that Dora was tired and unwell, and that it would perhaps be unwise to expose her to any more fatigue that evening.

"Thanks, dear old fellow," said Philip, "it will be all over in an hour or less; we are going to supper in a moment."

Lorimer had found Philip engaged in describing his sh.e.l.l to Sabaroff.

Philip went at once to Dora; her pallor frightened him. Taking her hands in his own, he said--

"Well, darling, how do you feel? You look tired; keep up your courage, we are going to supper now. In an hour's time you will be free to rest--you must not get up to-morrow; the next day you will feel nothing more of it. Everything has gone beautifully, everybody is delighted with the evening they have pa.s.sed. The General is interested in my sh.e.l.l--I am convinced that Russia will offer me a fortune for it; but why do you look at me in that way?"

"I am tired to death; I don't feel well; I cannot go on any longer."

"Have courage, dear; it is nearly over. The hour has come when you can do great things for me; a wife can be of such help to her husband--with a little diplomacy."

Dora shuddered--it was the phrase which she had just heard. The room seemed to swim round as she heard Philip repeat the words.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Why, nothing very difficult for you,--help me with a few smiles; invite the General to come and see us sometimes. Why do you look at me in that strange fashion?"

"You want me to ask that man to come and see me as a friend, after what I have told you?"

"Why not?" said Philip. "Come, be a good girl; when I have sold my invention, I will never think of anything but you and my painting. I shall install myself in the most sumptuous studio that ever inspired an artist. Forgive me my thirst for a little more wealth. I shall soon have quenched it for ever. You will help me, won't you?"

"Once more, what is it you would have me to do?"

"We are going to supper--you will take General Sabaroff's arm."

"No, no, not that," said Dora, with an imploring look at Philip.

"Yes, yes, you cannot refuse. You are the hostess and he the princ.i.p.al guest. I expect you to go down with him."

Sabaroff had drawn near to them; Dora could refuse no longer. She bent her head and said to Philip--

"Very well."

"Will your Excellency offer your arm to my wife?"

Dora mastered her emotion, her weakness, and her indignation. Many eyes were upon her; not a moment's hesitation was possible. She lifted her head proudly, took the proffered arm, and went down to supper.

XII

THE HUSBAND, THE WIFE, AND THE OTHER

After going through the unaccustomed and fatiguing function, which we have tried to describe in the two preceding chapters, Dora took a day or two's rest in the house. During this time of repose, which her husband had specially enjoined her to indulge in, she resolved to limit her social relations, and consecrate most of her time to her child, who was beginning to cause her some anxiety. Eva was not strong, and it became more and more evident from her frequent complaints that a delicacy of the throat was const.i.tutional in the child. She, who up to this time pa.s.sed her days playing in the open air, had now to be content with a sedate walk in the Park, which she could only take hatted, gloved, and accompanied by a servant. Good-bye to the romps and scampers on the lawn and the merry hours of delicious freedom she used to enjoy so much with her little friends. Children are only happy and gay where there is no atmosphere of restraint.

Dora continued to take an interest in household matters, kept her house with scrupulous care and with economy, so as to avoid or, at any rate, r.e.t.a.r.d the financial wreck which she believed to be ahead. She put into requisition all her house-wifely arts, learnt in the happy school of their early married life, and all the ingenious tastefulness of the artistic woman she was, in order that Philip should not discover that she had conceived a complete distaste for the existence which she was forced to lead, nor accuse her of trying to keep aloof from the life of fashionable society.

The unhappy woman was wearied and worn by her secret struggles, and almost crazy at the thought that her husband's heart had ceased to beat for her. The more she thought of that which was going on, the wider the chasm which separated her from Philip appeared to grow.

She had reached a point at which the question arose in her mind, whether Philip, in his craving for the success of his new plans, did not seek to push her into the arms of General Sabaroff.

That revolting thought filled her with such horror that she dared not entertain it long. "No," she said to herself, "a man does not change so suddenly as that; he does not take six years to reveal himself, and then, at a day's notice, become transformed from an affectionate husband, an honourable, upright, and devoted man, into a nameless scoundrel." When she argued with herself, she arrived at the conclusion that she must be mad to have allowed such an idea to enter her brain, and yet, drive it away as she would, the horrible thought a.s.sailed her more and more persistently.

Dora was above all things a woman of sound intelligence. After mature reflection she traced for herself a line of conduct that seemed to her the only wise one. First, she took a firm resolution never to address any more reproaches to Philip. Things had gone too far for recriminations to have any effect upon him. She was clear-sighted enough to know that a husband's vagrant affection is not won back by reprimands and reproaches, but only by sweetness, persuasion, and diplomacy. Her greatest fear was that her temper might sour, and against this possibility she set herself to watch most rigorously. She did her best to be attractive, and cultivated a gaiety that should help her to break down the cold barrier that seemed to have fixed itself between her and this man who had so detached himself from her. She took more care than ever of her appearance, and called all her taste into play to help her set off her beauty to best advantage.

One evening, when she was dressing for dinner, she remembered that Philip had said to her, before the arrival of their guests at their memorable evening party, "How beautiful you are! How I should love to have you all to myself this evening!" Women seldom forget a remark of that sort. She put on the same dress that had charmed Philip so much, and went downstairs looking her loveliest. After dinner they pa.s.sed the evening in Dora's boudoir, where she allowed her husband to smoke his cigarette, and smoked one herself when the temptation took her. Philip took no notice of his wife's attire; no remark, no compliment pa.s.sed his lips. Tired of the tete-a-tete, he took up a book and yawned over it for a while, and about eleven o'clock went out for a breath of air. "It is hopeless; I am done for," said Dora, when Philip had left her, and she burst into tears.

What had come over this man who thus caused such suffering to a wife--young, beautiful, dowered with all the gifts that nature can lavish upon a woman, and for whom he would certainly have been ready to lay down his life, if necessary?

Lorimer was right; it was a special case, and he, as a psychologist, watched its development with interest. The specialist declares that a man absorbed in speculations is, naturally, fatally indifferent to all the other affairs of life. Philip had been attacked with what we will call mental absorption, a sort of bewitchment from which nothing could exorcise him, so to speak, but some great shock, powerful and unforeseen.

All the ideas which Dora had taken into her head were false. Philip adored his wife. He was blinded by a thick veil, which he had not the courage to tear from his eyes. He was so sure of attaining his aim in a few days that he said to himself, "I shall soon be able to repair all my faults. A little while and everything will go smoothly again. I shall be free, master of myself once more, and there will be half a century in front of me, in which to compensate Dora for the anxiety I am causing her now." He was honest, and had only feelings of profound love and respect for his wife; but to a looker-on, to Dora above all, the fact was difficult to believe in, it must be confessed.