“Aurélie,” cried Herbert, who had been staring during most of her speech: “you are most unjust. Have I ever failed in courtesy towards your mother? Did I ever utter a word expressive of dislike to her?”
“You were towards her as you were towards all the world. You were very kind: I do not say otherwise.”
“In what way can my mother have insulted you? You have never spoken to her; and since a month before our wedding she has been in Scotland.”
“Where she went lest I should speak to her, no doubt. Why did she not speak to me when I last met her? She knew well that I was betrothed to you. She is proud, perhaps. Well, be it so. I also am proud. I am an artist; and queens have given me their hands frankly. Your mother holds that an English lady is above all queens. I hold that an artist is above all ladies. We can live without one another, as we have done hitherto. I do not seek to hinder you from going to her; but I will not go.”
“You mistake my mother’s motive altogether. She is not proud — in that way. She was angry because I did not allow her to choose a wife for me.”
“Well, she is angry still, no doubt. Of what use is it to anger her further?”
“She has too much sense to persist in protesting against what is irrevocable. You need not fear a cold welcome, Aurélie. I will make sure, before I allow you to go, that you shall be properly received.”
“I pray you, Adrian, annoy me no more about your mother. I do not know her: I will not know her. It is her own choice; and she must abide by it. Can you not go to her without me?”
“Why should I go to her without you”’ said Adrian, distressed. “Your love is far more precious to me than hers. You know how little tenderness there is between her and me. But family feuds are very objectionable. They are always in bad taste, and often lead to serious consequences. I wish you would for this once sacrifice your personal inclination, and help me to avert a permanent estrangement.”
“Ah yes,” exclaimed Aurélie,” rising indignantly. “You will sacrifice my honor to the conventions of your world.”
“It is an exaggeration to speak of such a trifle as affecting your honor. However, I will say no more. I would do much greater things for you than this that you will not do for me, Aurélie. But then I love you.”
“I do not want you to love me,” said Aurélie, turning towards the door with a shrug. “Go and love somebody else. Love Madame Hoskyn; and tell her how badly your wife uses you.”
Herbert made a step after her. “Aurélie,” he said: “if I submit to this treatment from you, I shall be the most infatuated slave in England.”
“I cannot help that. And I do not like you when you are a slave. It grows late.”
“Are you going to bed already?”
“Already! My God, it is half an hour after midnight! You are going mad, I think.”
“I think I am. Aurélie: tell me the truth honestly now: I cannot bear to discover it by the slow torture of watching you grow colder to me. Do you no longer love me?”
“Perhaps,” she said, indifferently. “I do not love you tonight, that is certain. You have been very tiresome.” And she left the room without looking at him. For some moments after her departure he remained motionless. Then he set his lips together; went to a bureau and took some money from it; put on his hat and overcoat; and took a sheet of paper from his desk. But after dipping a pen in the ink several times, he cast it aside without writing anything. As he did so, he saw on the mantelpiece a little brooch which Aurélie often wore at her throat. He took this up, and was about to put it into his pocket, when, giving way to a sudden impulse, he dashed it violently on the hearthstone. He then extinguished the light, and went out. When he had descended one stair, he heard a door above open, and a light foot fall on the landing above. He stopped and held his breath.
“Adrian, my dear, art thou there?”
“What is it?”
“When thou comest, bring me the little volume which lies on the piano. It is red; and my handkerchief is between the pages for a mark.”
He hesitated a moment. Then, saying, “Yes, my darling,” me he stole back into the drawing room; undid his preparations for flight; got the red book, and went upstairs, where he found his wife in bed, placidly unconscious of his recent proceedings, with the reading lamp casting a halo on her pillow.
It was Adrian’s habit to rise promptly when the servant knocked at his door at eight o’clock every morning. Aurélie, on the the contrary, was lazy, and often left her husband to breakfast by himself. On the morning after the concert he rose as usual, and made as much noise as possible in order to wake her. Not succeeding, he retired to his dressing room and, after a great splashing and rubbing, returned clad in a dressing gown.
“Aurélie.” A pause during which her regular breathing was audible. Then, more loudly “Aurélie.” She replied with a murmur. He added very loudly and distinctly, “It is twenty minutes past eight.”
She moved a little and uttered a strange sound, which he did not understand, but recognized as Polish. Then she said, drowsily in French, “Presently.”
“At once, if you please.” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Must I shake you?”
“No, no,” she rousing herself a little more. “Don’t shake me, I implore you.” Then, petulantly, “I will not be shaken. I am going to get up. Are there any letters?”
“I have not been downstairs yet.”
“Go and see.”
“You will be sure not to sleep again.”
“Yes, yes. I shall be down almost as soon as you. Bring me up the letters, if there are any.”
He returned to his dressing room; finished his toilet; and went downstairs. There were some letters. He looked at them, and went back to Aurélie. She was fast asleep.
“Oh, Anrelie! Aurélie! Really it is too bad. You are asleep again.”
“How you disturb me!” she said, opening her eyes, and sighing impatiently. “What hour is it?”
“You may well ask. It is twenty-five minutes to nine.”
“Is that all?”
“All! Come, Aurélie, there are three letters for you. Two are from Vienna.”
Aurélie sat up, awake and excited. “Quick,” she said. “Give them to me.”
“I left them downstairs.”
“Oh,” said Aurélie, disgusted. Adrian hurried from the room lest she should prevail upon him to bring up the letters. He occupied himself with the newspaper for the next fifteen minutes, at the end of which she appeared and addressed herself to her correspondence, leaving him to pour out tea for himself and for her. Nothing was said for some time. Then she exclaimed with emphasis, as though in contradiction of what she read:
“But it is certain that I will go.”
“Go where?” said Adrian, turning pale.
“To Vienna — to Prague — to Budapesth, my beloved Budapesth.”
“To Vienna!”
“They are going to give a Schumann concert in Vienna. They want me; and they shall have me. I have a specialty for the music of Schumann: no one in the world can play it as I can. And I long to see my Viennese friends. It is so stupid here.”
“But, Aurélie, I have my work to do. I cannot go abroad at this season of the year.”
“It