Part 55 (2/2)
Josephine knew everything there was to know about toilet-preparations, and about how to use them. She adored her profession and adored Mlle.
Mills for being such a beautiful subject. There were times, when she had pinned the last s.h.i.+ning curl in place, put the last breath of invisible powder on the rounded young white neck, fastened the last hook in the exquisitely fitting gown, and got down on her knees to straighten the gleaming silk of the fine silk stockings, when she wondered what she had done to deserve such good fortune.
She often watched Eugenia out of the door, as tenderly, impersonally proud of her as a painter of his canvas, as a patissier of his tart; and then feeling somewhat worn with activity and emotion, stepped back, took off her corsets, got into the rumpled untidy wrapper which was her personal favorite, put carpet slippers on her tired feet, and sat down with a novel of high-life to rest.
Eugenia occasionally thought seeing her thus, that _she_ never was allowed to relax in unpicturesque ease. It seemed to her that Mlle.
Vallet and Josephine were the ones who were _really_ enjoying Rome! She worked so hard, she had paid the full price--and somehow the coin was of no value in this new country to which she was now transported, where she had not wanted to come, from which she would give anything to get away.
She did not _like_ Mr. Crittenden--she never had liked him--oh, why wouldn't he just once look at her and see what was there, instead of talking over her head that queer talk of his? She put on her loveliest toilettes, things that made Josephine almost weep for pleasure, while Marise wore that same old gray dress day after day--she ruined her bronze shoes for him, stumbling around on foot over those horrible old ruins--how she loathed ruins! Why on earth did any one want to _pretend_ to like to look at them!
History! That was what he was always talking about--history that she had always hated. Here it was again to plague her! How could she have guessed that he would care about history? She sat up now till all hours reading it, till Mlle. Vallet was afraid for her eyes, and yet he didn't seem to notice when she said something about it. He just took it for granted, as if she were a man.
What did Marise _want_ of him anyhow? She couldn't possibly expect to _marry_ him ... neither of them had a cent of money. She ought to think of that, to think what was best for him. It was selfish, self-centered of Marise. A man like Neale ought of course to marry money. When she thought what _she_ could do for him! Married to her he could have exactly the life he was meant for--travel, leisure, ease--! What was it about Marise that he liked? She could do everything better than Marise now, except play the piano, and it evidently wasn't _that_ he cared for in her, because the afternoon they had all gone to the Visconti recital, he had listened just as intently to the men students and the other girls as to Marise. And when Marise asked him afterwards what music he liked best he told her bluntly the Bach that Professor Visconti himself had played, and Marise had said she did too. She hadn't seemed to realize what an affront to her that was. _Why_ did Marise care so much about him? Why did anybody? Eugenia couldn't understand. She couldn't understand. Her throat had a hard aching lump in it because she couldn't understand.
”A loose soft coiffure for to-night,” murmured Josephine dreamily to herself, happily twisting together the beautiful golden strands, ”and the pale-blue mousseline de soie--not the evening-dress!” she was shocked at the idea, though n.o.body had suggested it, ”the high-necked one with the little myosotis embroidered on the ruffles.” Josephine wors.h.i.+pped that dress.
Her strong dark flexible fingers hovered around the golden head as though she were calling down blessings on it. As a matter of fact she was. She slipped off the silk peignoir, washed with almond-scented water the white arms and neck, and the white tired feet. She dried them with a fine linen towel by gentle pattings, not to coa.r.s.en the skin. She put on the white silk stockings and white high-heeled slippers, and a white satin underslip. She stood a moment to be sure she had thought of everything. Then carefully, carefully she slipped on the pale blue mousseline-de-soie. ”A-ah!” it _was_ as sweet as she remembered it!
Eugenia had submitted to all this with a forlorn patience. That was all the good it would do. He would look at her as if she were dressed in a meal-sack, never even notice that she had changed her dress. What _else_ could she do, could any one do? What more did he want? She was betrayed; somehow life had played her false, a callous heartless dishonest trick!
Why _should_ she care so much? She didn't want to care. Why did she long to have him look kindly at her, till her heart ached? Why every day, every day, should the disappointment _hurt_ her so? She hadn't done anything wrong to deserve to be hurt so. If she could only stop caring.
If only Marise would go away.
Eugenia sat very still, while Josephine set a jeweled comb at exactly the right angle in the golden hair. One lovely little hand was at her heart as if by pressing hard on it she could stop the ache, the other held the fresh, scented handkerchief clutched tightly, in case this time she could not keep back the tears. She mustn't cry. She mustn't cry, because Josephine would have to do her face all over.
CHAPTER L
One night Marise woke up with a start, staring into the darkness, feeling very cold and sick. She knew what had happened. She had come to her senses in time. She had almost slipped into the trap, the trap set for her by life, which she had so mortally feared. She had been playing a foolish, reckless game of hide-and-seek with herself, pretending that she did not know what was happening. She knew perfectly well what was happening. Neale Crittenden was in love with her. And she was falling in love with him. She wanted him.
Oh, this was the way it must always happen. This was the way all women were caught in the trap ... these dizzying moments of joy, this causeless singing of your heart, this blind, rapturous rus.h.i.+ng forward with outstretched arms to clasp all life to your heart ... treacherous deadly life that only sought to debase you.
She had always wondered how women could go on, go on to the fatal moment from which there was no drawing back. Now she knew. You were poisoned, you were made mad till you longed for that moment with all your being.
But she had come to her senses in time to draw back. She would save herself, defend herself, since there was no one to help her, now more than ever. First of all, she knew pa.s.sionately, she must not think of him for a moment or she would not draw back. She must not remember how he looked or spoke or moved, not even the sound of his voice. She must concentrate her thoughts on the one fact that she had almost been caught in that great dreadful trap, that she, Marise, who knew so much better, had almost fallen in love ... love!
She drew the covers about her, as she sat bolt-upright in the dark, her teeth chattering. Love! She sickened at the sound. The gray cat ...
Jeanne ... Isabelle ... the pictures in one of the hidden books at school ... the pa.s.sages in her mother's novels ... her mother ...
Madame Vallery ... Madame de la Cueva ... they were all of them looking at her out of the dark, pointing at her, shaming her, exulting over her.... ”You too ... you have come to it.”
The gray cat! She was like the gray cat! She began to sob hysterically and thrust the covers into her mouth to smother the sound.
What could she do? What could she do? She had no strength left. She did not know how to defend herself! She did not want to defend herself!
She could run away. Even poor defenseless things could run away. She stopped sobbing, and sprang out of bed, lighting her candle with trembling fingers. Her watch showed three in the morning. There was a railroad time-table down in the dining room. She huddled on her wrapper, thrust her feet into slippers and, shading her candle-flame, crept downstairs.
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