“No, no. Gilio is sometimes so hot-headed …”
“But his hotheadedness, his passion and his jealousy are my fault. I am very sorry about it, Urania, for your sake. Forgive me. Come and see me in Rome, if you go there. Don’t forget me, and write to me, won’t you? Now I must pack. What time is the train?”
“Ten twenty-five,” said Duco. “We’ll go together.”
“Can I say goodbye to Prince Ercole? Have me announced.”
“What will you say to him?”
“The first thing that comes into my head: that a friend in Rome is ill, that I am going and Van der Staal is accompanying me, because I am nervous. I really don’t care what Prince Ercole thinks.”
“Cornélie …”
“Darling, I really have no more time. Give me a hug. Forgive me. And don’t forget me. Adieu, we had a precious time together: I’ve grown very fond of you …”
She struggled free of Urania, and Duco also said goodbye. They left the princess alone, sobbing. In the corridor they met Gilio.
“Where are you going?” he asked humbly.
“We’re leaving on the ten twenty-five train …”
“I am deeply sorry …”
But they went on and left him standing there, while Urania sobbed in the drawing-room.
XLI
IN THE TRAIN, in the scorching morning heat, they were silent, and they found the houses of Rome almost bursting out of their walls in the blazing sun. But in the studio it was cool, solitary and peaceful.
“Cornélie,” said Duco. “Tell me what happened between you and the prince. Why did you hit him?”
She pulled him onto the sofa, threw her arms round his neck and told him about the incident in the bridal chamber. She told him about the camera degli sposi. She told him about the thousand lire and the bracelet. She explained that she had kept quiet about this, so as not to bring up money worries, while he was finishing his watercolour for the exhibition in London.
“Duco,” she went on, “I had such a scare yesterday when I saw Gilio draw that knife. I felt as if I was going to faint, but I didn’t. I had never seen him like that, so passionate, capable of anything … Only then did I realise how much I loved you … I would have killed him if he had hurt you …”
“You shouldn’t have played with him,” he said severely. “He loves you …”
But despite his severe tone, he pulled her more firmly to him. She nuzzled against him as if in token of her sense of guilt.
“He’s just a little infatuated …” she said, defending herself weakly.
“He is passionately in love … You shouldn’t have played with him …”
She did not reply, caressing his face with her hand. She thought it was very sweet of him to reproach her like this: she liked the severe, serious tone, which he scarcely ever took with her. She knew she had that need to flirt in her, had done since she was a very young girclass="underline" for her it didn’t count, it was innocent amusement. She did not agree with Duco, but she considered it unnecessary to go on discussing it: it was as it was, she did not think about it, she did not argue about it: it was a difference of opinion, almost of taste, that did not matter. She was lying too comfortably against him, after the agitation of last night, after a sleepless night, after a hasty departure, a three-hour rail journey in the blistering heat, to make too many objections. She loved the quiet coolness of the studio, being alone together after the three weeks at San Stefano. There was such peace here, such a sense of repose, that it was wonderful. The high window was pulled full up and the warm air rushed balmily into the natural chilliness of the north-facing room. Duco’s easel, empty, stood waiting. It was their home, among all that colour and those artistic forms around her. Now she understood that colour and form: she was learning about Rome. She learned it all in the dream of her happiness. She thought little about the women’s question and scarcely glanced at the reviews of her pamphlet; they interested her very little. She thought Lippo’s angel was beautiful and the triptych panel by Gentile da Fabriano and the flickering colours of the old chasubles. It was very little after the treasures of San Stefano, but it was theirs and their home. She said nothing else, she felt content, resting on Duco’s chest, and her fingers stroked his face.
“Banners is virtually sold,” he said, “for ninety pounds. I’ll send a telegram to London this afternoon … And then we can quickly give the prince back his money.”
“It’s Urania’s money,” she said faintly.
“But I don’t want the debt any longer …”
She sensed that he was a little angry, but she wasn’t in the mood to talk about money matters, and a heavenly languor flew through as she lay on his chest …
“Are you angry, Duco?”
“No … but you shouldn’t have done it …”
He held her closer, to show her he did not want to scold her, even though he felt she had acted wrongly. She felt that she had been wise not to mention the thousand lire to him, but she did not defend herself. They would be pointless words and she felt too content to talk about money.
“Cornélie,” he said. “Let’s get married …”
She looked at him in alarm, startled out of her happiness.
“Why?”
“Not for us. We’re just as happy without being married. But for the world, other people. Yes; we’ll start to feel more and more isolated. I’ve talked to Urania about it a few times. She was very sad, but she tolerated us … She thought it was an impossible relationship. Maybe she’s right. We can’t go anywhere. At San Stefano people acted as if they didn’t know that we lived together. That’s over now …”
“What do you care about the opinion of ‘little indifferent people, who cross your path by chance’, as you say? …”
“That is no longer the case: we owe the prince money and Urania is the only friend you have …”
“I have you: I don’t need anyone.”
He kissed her.
“Cornélie, it would be better if we got married. Then no one will be able to insult us as the prince dared to do.”
“He had narrow-minded ideas: how can you want to get married for the sake of a world and people like San Stefano and the prince?”
“The whole world is like that and we are in the world. We live among other people. It’s impossible to isolate yourself completely and isolation always takes its toll later. We have to conform with other people: it’s impossible existing by yourself the whole time, without any sense of community.”
“Duco, I don’t recognise you: such social ideas.”
“I’ve been thinking more recently.”
“I on the other hand am forgetting how to think … My darling, how serious you are this morning. While I am resting against you so beautifully after all that emotion, and that hot journey.”
“Really Cornélie, let’s get married …”
She rubbed up against him rather nervously, upset that he was persisting and violently shattering her happy mood …
“You are an unpleasant fellow. Why must we get married. It would make no difference to our situation. We wouldn’t worry about other people. We have such a wonderful life here, with your art. We don’t need anything except each other, your art and Rome. I love Rome so much now: I’ve changed completely. You’ve got to find another motif — to get down to work. When you’re doing nothing, you start thinking … in a social direction … and that’s not you at all … I don’t recognise you like that. And so narrow-mindedly social too. In order to get married! For God’s sake why, Duco? You know my ideas about marriage. I know from experience: it’s better not to …” She had got up and was searching mechanically in a portfolio among half-finished sketches.
“Your experience …” he repeated. “We know each other too well to be frightened of anything.”