Part 20 (1/2)
He looked up with a curious air of surprise and mock penitence.
”Pardon! But there is no badinage at all about the very serious position in which I find myself,” he said, ”You, mademoiselle, as a woman, have not the slightest idea of the anxiety and trouble your charming s.e.x gives to ours. That is, of course, when you are charming--which is not always. Now Sylvie, your friend Sylvie--is so distinctly charming that she becomes provoking and irritating. I am sure she has told you I am a terrible villain . . .”
”She has never said so,--never spoken one word against you!” interposed Angela.
”No? That is curious--very curious! But then Sylvie is curious. You see the position is this;--I wish to give her all I am worth in the world, but she will not have it,--I wish to love her, but she will not be loved--”
”Perhaps,” said Angela, gaining courage to speak plainly, ”Perhaps your love is not linked with honour?”
”Honour?” echoed the Marquis, lifting his finely arched eyebrows, ”You mean marriage? No--I confess I am not guilty of so much impudence. For why should the brilliant Sylvie become the Marquise Fontenelle? It would be a most unhappy fate for her, because if there WERE a Marquise Fontenelle, my principles would oblige me to detest her!”
”You would detest your own wife!” said Angela surprised.
”Naturally! It is the fas.h.i.+on. To love one's wife would be pet.i.te bourgoisie--nothing more absurd! It is the height of good form to neglect one's wife and adore one's mistress,--the arrangement works perfectly and keeps a man well balanced,--perpetual complaint on one side, perpetual delight on the other.”
He laughed, and his eyes twinkled satirically.
”Are you serious?” asked Angela.
”I never was more serious in my life,” declared the Marquis emphatically, ”With all my heart I wish to make the delicious pink and white Sylvie happy,--I am sure I could succeed in my way. If I should ever allow myself to do such a dull thing as to marry,--imagine it!--such a dull and altogether prosy thing!--my gardener did it yesterday;--I should of course choose a person with a knowledge of housekeeping and small details,--her happiness it would be quite unnecessary to consider. The maintenance of the establishment, the servants, and the ever increasing train of milliners and dressmakers would be enough to satisfy Madame la Marquise's ambitions. But for Sylvie,--half-fairy, half-angel as she is,--there must be poetry and moonlight, flowers, and romance, and music, and tender nothings,--marriage does not consort with these delights. If you were a little school-girl, dear Donna Sovrani, I should not talk to you in this way,--it would not be proper,--it would savour of Lord Byron, and Maeterlinck, and Heinrich Heine, and various other wicked persons. It would give you what the dear governesses would call 'les idees folles', but being an artist, a great artist, you will understand me. Now, you yourself--you will not marry?”
”I am to be married next year if all is well, to Florian Varillo,” said Angela, ”Surely you know that?”
”I have heard it, but I will not believe it,” said the Marquis airily, ”No, no, you will never marry this Florian! Do not tell me of it! You yourself will regret it. It is impossible! You could not submit to matrimonial bondage. If you were plain and awkward I should say to you, marry, and marry quickly, it is the only thing for you!--but being what you are, charming and gifted, why should you be married? For protection? Every man who has once had the honour of meeting you will const.i.tute himself your defender by natural instinct. For respectability? Ah, but marriage is no longer respectable,--the whole estate of matrimony is as full of bribery and corruption as the French War Office.”
He threw himself back in his chair and laughed, running one hand through his hair with a provoking manner of indifferent ease and incorrigible lightheartedness.
”I cannot argue with you on the matter,” said Angela, rather vexedly, ”Your ideas of life never will be mine,--women look at these things differently . . .”
”Poor dear women! Yes!--they do,” said the Marquis, ”And that is such a pity,--they spoil all the pleasure of their lives. Now, just think for a moment what your friend Sylvie is losing! A devoted, ardent and pa.s.sionate lover who would spare no pains to make her happy,--who would cherish her tenderly, and make her days a dream of romance! I had planned in my mind such a charming boudoir for Sylvie, all ivory and white satin,--flowers, and a soft warm light falling through the windows,--imagine Sylvie, with that delicate face of hers and white rose skin, a sylph clad in floating lace and drapery, seen in a faint pink hue as of a late sunset! You are an artist, mademoiselle, and you can picture the fairy-like effect! I certainly am not ashamed to say that this exquisite vision occupies my thoughts,--it is a suggestion of beauty and deliciousness in a particularly ugly and irksome world,--but to ask such a dainty creature as Sylvie to be my housekeeeper, and make up the tradesmen's books, I could not,--it would be sheer insolence on my part,--it would be like asking an angel just out of heaven to cut off her wings and go downstairs and cook my dinner!”
”You please yourself and your own fanciful temperament by those arguments,” said Angela,--”but they are totally without principle. Oh, why,” and raising her eyes, she fixed them on him with an earnest look, ”Why will you not understand? Sylvie is good and pure,--why would you persuade her to be otherwise?”
Fontenelle rose and took one or two turns up and down the room before replying.
”I expect you will never comprehend me,” he said at last, stopping before Angela, ”In fact, I confess sometimes I do not comprehend myself. Of course Sylvie is good and pure--I know that;--I should not be so violently in love with her if she were not--but I do not see that her acceptance of me as a lover would make her anything else than good and pure. Because I know that she would be faithful to me.”
”Faithful to you--yes!--while you were faithless to her!” said Angela, with a generous indignation in her voice, ”You would expect her to be true while you amused yourself with other women. A one-sided arrangement truly!”
The Marquis seemed unmoved.
”Every relation between the s.e.xes is one-sided,” he declared, ”It is not my fault! The woman gives all to one,--the man gives a little to many. I really am not to blame for falling in with this general course of things. You look very angry with me, Donna Sovrani, and your eyes positively abash me;--you are very loyal to your friend and I admire you for it; but after all, why should you be so hard upon me? I am no worse than Varillo.”
Angela started, and her cheeks crimsoned.
”Than Varillo? What do you mean?”
”Well, Varillo has Pon-Pon,--of course she is useful--what he would do without her I am sure I cannot imagine,--still she IS Pon-Pon.”
He paused, checked by Angela's expression.