Part 26 (2/2)

”Which is an impossibility,” another said.

The Contessa distributed her smiles with gracious impartiality to all, but she kept a little watch upon young Montjoie, who was eager amid the ring of her wors.h.i.+ppers. ”Nevertheless, it is more than a successor,”

she said, playing with them, with a strange pleasure. To be thus surrounded, flattered more openly than men ever venture to flatter a woman whom they respect, addressed with exaggerated admiration, contemplated with bold and unwavering eyes, had come by many descents to be delightful to the Contessa. It reminded her of her old triumphs--of the days when men of a different sort brought homage perhaps not much more real but far more delicate, to her feet. A long career of baths and watering-places, of Baden and Homburg, and every other conceivable resort of temporary gaiety and fas.h.i.+on, had brought her to this. Sir Tom, who was not taking much share in the conversation, stood with his arm on the mantelpiece, and watched her and her little court with compa.s.sionate eyes. He had laughed often before; but he did not laugh now. Perhaps the fact that he was himself no longer her first object helped to change the aspect of affairs. He had consented to invite these men as old acquaintances; but it was intolerable to him to see this scene going on in the room in which his wife was; and the Contessa's radiant satisfaction seemed almost horrible to him in Lucy's presence.

Lucy was seated at some distance from the group, her face turned away, her head bent, to all appearance very intent upon the book she was reading. He looked at her with a sort of reverential impatience. She was not capable of understanding the degradation which her own pure and simple presence made apparent. He could not endure her to be there sanctioning the indecorum;--and yet the tenacity with which she held her place, and did what she thought her duty to her guest, filled him with a wondering pride. No other scene, perhaps, he thought, in all England, could have presented a contrast so curious.

”The Contessa speaks in riddles,” said one of the circle. ”We want an OEdipus.”

”Oh, come, Countess,” said young Montjoie, ”don't hang us up like this.

We are all of us on pins and needles, don't you know? It all began about you singing. Why don't you sing? All the fellows say it's as good as Grisi. I never heard Grisi, but I know every note Patti's got in her voice; and I want to compare, don't you know?”

The Contessa contemplated the young man with a sort of indulgent smile like a mother who withholds a toy.

”When are you going away?” she said. ”You will soon go back to your dear London, to your clubs and all your delights.”

”Oh, come, Countess,” repeated Montjoie, ”that isn't kind. You talk as if you wanted to get rid of a fellow. I'm due at the Duke's on Friday, don't you know?”

”Then it shall be on Thursday,” said the Contessa, with a laugh.

”What shall be on Thursday?”

The others all came round her with eager questions.

”I am going on Wednesday,” said one. ”What is this that is going to happen?”

”And why am I to be excluded?”

”And I? If there is to be anything new, tell us what it is.”

”Inquisitors! and they say that curiosity belongs to women,” said the Contessa. ”Messieurs, if I were to tell you what it was, it would be no longer new.”

”Well, but hang it all,” cried young Montjoie, who was excited and had forgotten his manners, ”do tell us what it is. Don't you see we don't even know what kind of thing you mean? If it's music----”

Madame di Forno-Populo laughed once more. She loved to mystify and raise expectations. ”It is not music,” she said. ”It is my reason for withdrawing. When you see that, you will understand. You will all say the Contessa is wise. She has foreseen exactly the right moment to retire.”

And with this she rose from the sofa with a sudden movement which took her attendants by surprise. She was not given to shaking hands. She withdrew quickly from Montjoie's effort to seize her delicate fingers, which she waved to the company in general. ”My Lucy,” she said, ”I have kept you waiting! to this extent does one forget one's self in your delightful house. But, my angel, you should not permit me to do it. You should hold up your finger, and I would obey.”

”Bravo,” said Montjoie's voice behind their backs in a murmur of delight. ”Oh, by Jove, isn't that good? Fancy, a woman like her, and that simple----”

One of the elder men gave Montjoie something like a kick, inappropriate as the scene was for such a demonstration. ”You little----think what you are saying,” he cried.

But Sir Tom was opening the door for the ladies, and did not hear. Lucy was tired and pale. She looked like a child beside the stately Contessa.

She had taken no notice of Madame di Forno-Populo's profession of submission. In her heart she was longing to run to the nursery, to see her boy asleep, and make sure that all was well; and she was not only tired with her vigil, but uneasy, disapproving. She divined what the Contessa meant, though not even Sir Tom had made it out. Perhaps it was feminine instinct that instructed her on this point. Perhaps the strong repugnance she had, and sense of opposition to what was about to be done, quickened her powers of divination. She who had never suspected anybody in all her life fathomed the Contessa's intentions at a glance.

”That boy!” she said to herself as she followed up the great staircase.

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