XXXVI
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Urania’s chambermaid was leading Cornélie outside through a warren of galleries to where they were to have breakfast, when she met Gilio on the stairs. The maid turned back.
“I still need guidance to find my way around,” laughed Cornélie.
He grunted something.
“How did you sleep, prince?”
He grunted again.
“Really, prince, that bad temper has to change. Do you hear? It has to. I insist, I don’t want to see any more sulking today, and hope you will resume as soon as possible your merry, witty tone of conversation, which I appreciate in you.”
He muttered.
“Goodbye, prince,” said Cornélie abruptly.
And she retraced her steps.
“Where are you going?” he asked
“To my room. I shall take breakfast in my room.”
“But why?”
“Because I don’t like you as a host.”
“You don’t?”
“No I don’t. Yesterday you insult me, I defend myself, you persist in being coarse, I am immediately as agreeable as usual, give you my hand and even a kiss. At dinner you sulk with me in the rudest possible way. You go to your room without wishing me good night. This morning you meet me without saying hello. You grunt and sulk like a naughty child. There is an angry look in your eyes, you look bilious. Indeed, you look awful. It’s very unflattering. You are most unpleasant, rough, impolite, and small-minded. I have no wish to breakfast with you in such a mood … And I’m going to my room.”
“No,” he begged.
“Oh yes,”
“No, no.”
“Well then, change your attitude. Force yourself, stop thinking about your defeat, and be nice to me. You are acting like the injured party, whereas I’m the injured party. But I can’t sulk and I’m not petty. I can’t act in a petty way. I forgive you, forgive me too. Say something affectionate, say something nice.”
“I’m mad about you.”
“I haven’t noticed. If you are mad about me, be friendly, polite, cheerful and witty. I demand it from you as my host.”
“I shan’t sulk any more … but I love you so much! And you hit me.”
“Can you never forgive that act of self-defence?”
“No, never!”
“Farewell, then.”
She turned on her heel.
“No, no, don’t go back. Come with me to the pergola, where we are having breakfast. I ask your forgiveness. I shall no longer be rude or petty. You, you are not petty. You are the most remarkable woman I know. I worship you.”
“Worship me in silence then, and amuse me.”
His eyes, his black carbuncle eyes, began to revive, to fill with laughter; his face lost its wrinkles and brightened.
“I am too unhappy to be amusing.”
“I don’t believe a word of it.”
“Really, I’m unhappy, I’m suffering …”
“Poor prince!”
“You won’t believe me. You never take me seriously. I simply have to be your clown, your jester. And I love you, and must not hope? Tell me, must I never hope?”
“Not much.”
“You are merciless, and so severe.”
“I have to be severe with you, you’re just like a naughty boy … Oh, I see the pergola. So you promise me you will mend your ways?”
“I’ll be good.”
“And amusing.”
He sighed.
“Povero Gilio!” he sighed. “Poor clown!”
She laughed. Urania and Robert Hope were in the pergola. The pergola, overgrown with a grapevine and a pink baby’s breath with pendant bunches of pink flowers, was supported by a line of caryatids and hermes — nymphs, satyrs and fauns — whose upper bodies ended in a slim sculptured pedestal and who with raised hands supported the flat canopy of leaves and flowers; while in the middle there was an open rotunda like an outdoor temple, the circular balustrade of which was also borne by caryatids and where an ancient sarcophagus had been converted into a cistern. In the pergola a table had been laid for breakfast; they were having breakfast without old Prince Ercole and the marchesa was breakfasting in her room. It was eight o’clock, a morning freshness was still wafting up from the lake, a haze of blue velvet was still covering the hills like down, among which the lake sank as if in gently curving channels like an oval dish.
“Oh, how beautiful it is here!” cried Cornélie delightedly.
Breakfast was a sunny and cheerful meal, after yesterday’s black and gloomy dinner. Urania was very excited about her albergo, which she was shortly to visit with Cornélie. Gilio was his old amiable self and Bob ate heartily. And afterwards when Bob went cycling, Gilio actually came to town with the ladies. They drove down the road from the castle in a landau at walking pace. The sun grew hotter and the old town loomed up white, creamy white and grey white with houses like stone mirrors in which the sun was reflected; the squares like wells into which the sun poured its glowing heat. The coachman stopped at the works for the albergo, they got out and the builder approached dutifully, while the sweating masons looked at the prince and princess. It was sweltering hot. Gilio constantly wiped his forehead, and took refuge behind Cornélie’s parasol. But Urania was a bundle of vitality and interest, quick and energetic in her white piqué suit, with her white matelot hat under her white parasol, she tripped across beams past piles of bricks and cement with her builder, listened to explanations and gave advice, did not always agree, pulled a knowing face; said that she did not like such and such dimensions, did not believe what the builder was assuring her, that as the building progressed she would come to terms with the dimensions, shook her head, impressed this and impressed that on him, all in rapid, not entirely correct and staccato Italian, which she chewed between her teeth. But Cornélie found her adorable, charming; Cornélie found her the Princess di Forte-Braccio. There was no doubt about it. While Gilio, frightened of dirtying his light flannel suit and yellow shoes on the plaster, stayed under the shade of the parasol, puffing with the warmth, uninterested, his wife was indefatigable, did not worry about her white skirt acquiring a dirty hem, and she talked to the builder with such sureness of touch, lively but dignified that it commanded respect. Where had the child learned this? From where had she got her ability to assimilate? And from where did she get that love for San Stefano, that love for the poor? How had this American girl acquired the talent to fulfil her exalted new position so well? Ammirabile! was Gilio’s verdict and he whispered it to Cornélie. He was not blind to her qualities. He thought Urania was wonderful, outstanding; she never ceased to surprise him. No Italian woman from his circles would have behaved in that way. And they loved her. The servants at the castle loved her, Giuseppe would go through fire for her, the builder admired her, the masons watched her go with respect, because she was so clever and knew so much and was so good to them in their misery. Ammirabile! said Gilio. But he was puffing. He knew nothing about stones, beams and dimensions and did not know from where Urania had got her technical eye. She was tireless. She went right round the site, while he looked up imploringly at Cornélie. And finally, in English, he asked his wife in heaven’s name to call it a day. They got in, the builder said goodbye, and the workmen followed suit with a show of gratitude and affection.
And they drove to the cathedral, which Cornélie wanted to see, and where Gilio, while Urania kindly showed her round, asked his ladies for mercy, and sat down on the altar steps, arms hanging over his knees, in order to cool off.