第15章 VILLA RUBEIN(13)

Herr Paul muttered: "Who knows?"

"What is B--- going to do?" said Dawney.

"Ah!" said Herr Paul."He is fond of her.He is a chap of resolution, he will get her back.He told me: 'Well, you know, Ishall follow her wherever she goes till she comes back.' He will do it, he is a determined chap; he will follow her wherever she goes."Mr.Treffry drank his wine off at a gulp, and sucked his moustache in sharply.

"She was a fool to marry him," said Dawney; "they haven't a point in common; she hates him like poison, and she's the better of the two.

But it doesn't pay a woman to run off like that.B--- had better hurry up, though.What do you think, sir?" he said to Mr.Treffry.

"Eh?" said Mr.Treffry; "how should I know? Ask Paul there, he's one of your moral men, or Count Sarelli."The latter said impassively: "If I cared for her I should very likely kill her--if not--" he shrugged his shoulders.

Harz, who was watching, was reminded of his other words at dinner, "wild beasts whom I would tear to pieces." He looked with interest at this quiet man who said these extremely ferocious things, and thought: 'I should like to paint that fellow.'

Herr Paul twirled his wine-glass in his fingers."There are family ties," he said, "there is society, there is decency; a wife should be with her husband.B--- will do quite right.He must go after her;she will not perhaps come back at first; he will follow her; she will begin to think, 'I am helpless--I am ridiculous!' A woman is soon beaten.They will return.She is once more with her husband--Society will forgive, it will be all right.""By Jove, Paul," growled Mr.Treffry, "wonderful power of argument!""A wife is a wife," pursued Herr Paul; "a man has a right to her society.""What do you say to that, sir?" asked Dawney.

Mr.Treffry tugged at his beard: "Make a woman live with you, if she don't want to? I call it low.""But, my dear," exclaimed Herr Paul, "how should you know? You have not been married.""No, thank the Lord!" Mr.Treffry replied.

"But looking at the question broadly, sir," said Dawney; "if a husband always lets his wife do as she likes, how would the thing work out? What becomes of the marriage tie?""The marriage tie," growled Mr.Treffry, "is the biggest thing there is! But, by Jove, Doctor, I'm a Dutchman if hunting women ever helped the marriage tie!""I am not thinking of myself," Herr Paul cried out, "I think of the community.There are rights.""A decent community never yet asked a man to tread on his self-respect.If I get my fingers skinned over my marriage, which Iundertake at my own risk, what's the community to do with it? D'you think I'm going to whine to it to put the plaster on? As to rights, it'd be a deuced sight better for us all if there wasn't such a fuss about 'em.Leave that to women! I don't give a tinker's damn for men who talk about their rights in such matters."Sarelli rose."But your honour," he said, "there is your honour!"Mr.Treffry stared at him.

"Honour! If huntin' women's your idea of honour, well--it isn't mine.""Then you'd forgive her, sir, whatever happened," Dawney said.

"Forgiveness is another thing.I leave that to your sanctimonious beggars.But, hunt a woman! Hang it, sir, I'm not a cad!" and bringing his hand down with a rattle, he added: "This is a subject that don't bear talking of."Sarelli fell back in his seat, twirling his moustaches fiercely.

Harz, who had risen, looked at Christian's empty place.

'If I were married!' he thought suddenly.

Herr Paul, with a somewhat vinous glare, still muttered, "But your duty to the family!"Harz slipped through the window.The moon was like a wonderful white lantern in the purple sky; there was but a smoulder of stars.

Beneath the softness of the air was the iciness of the snow; it made him want to run and leap.A sleepy beetle dropped on its back; he turned it over and watched it scurry across the grass.

Someone was playing Schumann's Kinderscenen.Harz stood still to listen.The notes came twining, weaving round his thoughts; the whole night seemed full of girlish voices, of hopes and fancies, soaring away to mountain heights--invisible, yet present.Between the stems of the acacia-trees he could see the flicker of white dresses, where Christian and Greta were walking arm in arm.He went towards them; the blood flushed up in his face, he felt almost surfeited by some sweet emotion.Then, in sudden horror, he stood still.He was in love! With nothing done with everything before him! He was going to bow down to a face! The flicker of the dresses was no longer visible.He would not be fettered, he would stamp it out! He turned away; but with each step, something seemed to jab at his heart.

Round the corner of the house, in the shadow of the wall, Dominique, the Luganese, in embroidered slippers, was smoking a long cherry-wood pipe, leaning against a tree--Mephistopheles in evening clothes.

Harz went up to him.

"Lend me a pencil, Dominique."

"Bien, M'sieu."

Resting a card against the tree Harz wrote to Mrs.Decie: "Forgive me, I am obliged to go away.In a few days I shall hope to return, and finish the picture of your nieces."He sent Dominique for his hat.During the man's absence he was on the point of tearing up the card and going back into the house.

When the Luganese returned he thrust the card into his hand, and walked out between the tall poplars, waiting, like ragged ghosts, silver with moonlight.

VIII

Harz walked away along the road.A dog was howling.The sound seemed too appropriate.He put his fingers to his ears, but the lugubrious noise passed those barriers, and made its way into his heart.Was there nothing that would put an end to this emotion? It was no better in the old house on the wall; he spent the night tramping up and down.

Just before daybreak he slipped out with a knapsack, taking the road towards Meran.

He had not quite passed through Gries when he overtook a man walking in the middle of the road and leaving a trail of cigar smoke behind him.