Duco said frankly that he was not interested in miniatures. His angry tone led the prince to suspect he was jealous. And this suspicion spurred the prince on to woo Cornélie. And he acted as if he were showing the miniatures only to her, as if he were showing her his antique lace. She particularly admired the lace, and rubbed it with her delicate fingers. She asked him to tell them about his grandmothers, who had worn the lace. Had they had adventures? He told her of one that made her laugh heartily: he repeated a few anecdotes, spirited, catching fire under her gaze, and she laughed. In the atmosphere of that large drawing-room, the prince’s study — his desk stood there — with the candles lit, flowers arranged for Urania, a tingle of perverse merriment and airy joie de vivre was born. But only between Cornélie and the prince. Urania had fallen silent, and Duco did not say a word. Cornélie was a revelation to him too. He had never seen her like this — not at the Christmas ball, not at dinner, not in his studio, not on their excursions, or in their restaurant. Was she one woman, or ten?
And he admitted to himself that he loved her, loved her more with each revelation, more with every woman he saw in her, as another facet that she made gleam. But he could not speak, he could not join in the repartee, alien in that atmosphere, alien in that element of so much airy joie de vivre, about nothing but aimless words, as if French and Italian were sparkling, as they mixed them at will, as if their humour glittered like fools’ gold, and their ambivalent puns shone like rainbows … The prince regretted that his tea was no longer drinkable, but had champagne brought in. He considered his evening partly a failure for his plans — since afraid of losing Urania, he had planned to force the issue; since seeing her hesitation, he had determined on taking the irrevocable step — but his nature was so lacking in seriousness — he would marry more for the sake of his father and the Marchesa Belloni than for himself; he lived just as pleasantly with debts and without a wife as he would do with a wife and millions in the bank, so that he began to find the failed evening exceedingly amusing, and he had to laugh to himself about it when he thought of his aunt the marchesa, his father: of their machinations, which had no hold over Urania because an attractive coquettish woman did not want them to. Why did she not want them to, he thought, pouring the foaming champagne, which spilled over the sides of the glasses; why is she placing herself between me and that American stocking-seller? Is she looking for an Italian title herself? But he could not really care less: he found the intruder attractive, beautiful, very beautiful, coquettish, seductive, enchanting. He focused on her. He neglected Urania. He scarcely filled her glass. And when it finally got late and Cornélie got up and put her arm in Urania’s and gave the prince a triumphant look, which they both understood, he whispered in her ear “I thank you most sincerely for your visit to my humble abode: you have conquered me: I surrender …”
The words seemed to be just an allusion to their joking, to their banter about nothing, but between the two of them — the prince and Cornélie — they were heavy with significance and in her eye he saw a smile of victory …
He remained in his room alone and poured himself the last of the champagne. And putting the glass to his lips, he said aloud,
“O, che occhi! Che belli occhi …! Che belli occhi…!!”
XX
THE NEXT DAY, when Duco met Cornélie in the osteria she was very excited and merry: she announced that she had already had a reply from the women’s magazine to which she had sent her pamphlet a week ago, and that her work had been accepted and she would even be paid a fee. She was so proud at the prospect of earning her first money, and she was as bubbly as a child. She did not talk about the previous evening, seemed to have forgotten about the prince and Urania, but had a need to talk exuberantly.
She had all kinds of ambitious plans: travelling as a journalist, immersing herself in the ebb and flow of city life, chasing up every new item of news, having herself sent to conferences and festivities by a magazine. The mere thought of the few guilders she would be earning made her drunk with industriousness, and she would want to earn a great deal and do a great deal and pay no attention to weariness. He found her simply adorable: in the half-light of the osteria, eating her gnocchi at the small table, the half flask in front of her, full of pale country wine, her usual languor gained a new vitality that surprised him; her outline, on the right semi-dark and on the left lit by the light from the street, acquired a new grace as if in a drawing, which reminded him of French draughtsmen: the pale, even-coloured face with the delicate features, illuminated by her smile, sketchily visible under her matelot, which was deep over her eyes; her hair with golden highlights, or dark dusky blond; the white veil lifted and crinkling hazily on top of her head; her figure, slim and graceful in the simple coat — unbuttoned — and a corsage of violets tucked into her blouse.
The way she poured her wine, asked the waiter, the only one — who knew them both well, as regular customers — for something in a familiar, agreeable tone; the vivacity that alternated with her languor. Her grand plans, her happy words — it dazzled him, student-like yet distinguished, free yet feminine, and especially with the same ease of manner that she had everywhere; with a tactful assimilation that struck him as especially harmonious. He thought about the previous evening, but did not talk about it. He thought about that revelation of her coquetry but she was not thinking of any such thing. She was never coquettish with him. She looked up to him, she found him particularly clever, although not of his time; she respected what he said and thought, and she was so natural with him, like one comrade with another, an older, cleverer comrade. She felt deep friendship for him, an indescribable feeling of having to be together, having to live together; as if their lines formed a single line. It was not a sisterly feeling and it was not passion, and she did not picture it to herself as love, but it was a great sensation of respectful tenderness, of awed longing and of affectionate joy at having met him. If she were never to see him again, she would miss him like no one else in her life. The fact that he was not interested in modern questions did not lower him in her estimation as a young modern militant, about to wave her first banner. It might irritate her for a moment, but it was never decisive in her appreciation.
And he saw that she was so simply affectionate with him, without coquettishness. Yet he would never forget how she had been with the prince yesterday. He had felt jealousy and had noticed it in Urania too. But she herself must have acted so spontaneously in accordance with her nature that she was not thinking of that evening now, of the prince, of Urania, of coquetry, or of possible jealousy on his part. He paid — it was his turn — and they got up and she took his arm merrily and said that she wanted to give him a surprise. She wanted to give him something nice. She wanted to give him something, a nice, a very nice souvenir. She would like to spend her fee on the souvenir. But she didn’t have it yet … what did that matter! She would be getting it after all … And she wanted to spend it on him. Laughing, he asked what it could be … She hailed a carriage and whispered an address to the coachman; he did not hear what she said … What could it be? But she refused to say yet … The vetturino drove down the Borgo towards the Tiber. There he stopped in front of a dark shop full of junk that was piled up into the street.