Herbert breakfasted alone. When his appetite was appeased, he sat trying to read, and looking repeatedly at his watch. He had resolved not to seek his wife until ten o’clock; but he had miscalculated his patience; and he soon convinced himself that half past nine, or even nine, would be more convenient. Eventually he arrived at ten minutes to nine, and found Madame Szczympliça alone at table in an old crimson bed gown, with her hair as her pillow had left it.
“Monsieur Adrian!” she exclaimed, much discomposed. “Ah, you take us by surprise. I had but just stepped in to make coffee for the little one. She will be enchanted to see you. And I also.”
“Do not let me disturb you. I have breakfasted already. Is Aurélie up?”
“She will be here immediately. How delighted she will be! Are you quite well?”
Not badly, madame. And you?” I have suffered frightfully with my face. Last night I was unable to go to the concert with Aurélie. It is a great misfortune for me, this neuralgia.”
“I am very sorry. It is indeed a terrible affliction. Are you quite sure that Aurélie is not fast asleep?”
“I have made her coffee, mon cher; and I know her too well to do that before she is afoot. Trust me, she will be here in a moment. I hope it is nothing wrong that has brought you to Paris.”
“Oh no. I wanted a little change; and when you came so near, I determined to run over and meet you. You have been all round Europe since I last saw you.”
“Ah, what successes, Monsieur Adrian! You cannot figure to yourself how she was received at Budapesth. And at Leipzig too! It was — behold her!”
Aurélie stopped on the threshold and regarded Adrian with successive expressions of surprise, protest and resignation. He advanced and kissed her cheek gently, longing to clasp her in his arms, but restrained by the presence of her mother. Aurélie paused on her way to the table just long enough to suffer this greeting, and then sat down, exclaiming:
“I knew it! I knew it from that last letter! Oh thou silly one! Could not Mrs. Hoskyn console thee for yet another week?”
“How Indifferent she is,” said Madame Sczympliça. “She is glad at heart to see you, Mr. Adrian.” Now, this interference of his motherin law, though made with amiable intention, irritated Herbert. He smiled politely, and turned a little away from her and towards Aurélie”.
“And SO you have had nothing but triumphs since we parted,” he said, looking fondly at her.
“What do you know of my triumphs!” she said, raising her head. “You only care for the tunes that one whistles in the streets’ At Prague I turned the world upside down with Monsieur Jacques fantasia. How long do you intend to stay here’”
“Until you can return with me, of course.”
“A whole week. You will be tired of your life, unless you go to the Louvre or some such stupidity, and paint.”
“I shall be content, Aurélie, never fear. Perhaps you will grow a little tired of me.”
“Oh no, I shall be too busy for that. I have to practise, and to attend rehearsals, and concerts, and private engagements. Oh, I shall not have time to think of you.”
“Private engagements. Do you mean playing at private houses?”
“Yes. This afternoon I play at the reception of the Princess — what is she called, mamma?”
“It does not matter what she is called,” said Herbert. “Surely you are not paid for playing on such occasions?”
“What! You do not suppose that I play for nothing for people whom I do not know — whose very names I forget. No, I play willingly for my friends, or for the poor; but if the great world wishes to hear me, it must pay. Why do you look so shocked? Would you, then, decorate the saloon of the Princess with pictures for nothing, if she asked you?”
“It is not exactly the same thing — at least the world does not think so, Aurélie. I do not like the thought of you going into society as a hired entertainer.”
Aurélie shrugged herself. “I must go for some reason,” she said. “If they did not pay me I should not go at all. It is an artist’s business to do such things.”
“My dear Mr. Adrian,” said Madame Szczympliça, “she is always the most honored guest. The most distinguished persons crowd about her; and the most beautiful women are deserted for her. It is always a veritable little court that she holds.”
“It is as I thought,” said Aurélie. “You came across the Channel only to quarrel with me.” Herbert attempted to protest; but she went on without heeding him. “Mamma: have you finished your breakfast?”
“Yes, my child.”
“Then go; and put off that terrible robe of thine. Leave us to ourselves: if we must quarrel, there is no reason why you should be distressed by our bickerings”
“I hope you are not really running away from me,” said Herbert, politely accompanying Madame Sczympliça to the door, and opening it for her.
“No, no, mon cher,” she replied with a Sigh. “I must do as I am bidden. I grow old; and she becomes a greater tyrant daily to all about her.”
“Now, malcontent,” said Aurélie, when the door was closed, “proceed with thy reproaches. How many thousand things hast thou to complain of? Let us hear how sad it has made thee to think that I have been happy and successful, and that thou hast not once been able to cast my happiness back in my — Heaven wouldst th eat me, Adrian?” He was straining her to his breast and kissing her vehemently.
“You are rightt,” he said breathlessly. “Love is altogether selfish. Every fresh account of your triumphs only redoubled my longing to have you back with me again. You do not know what I Buffered during all these weary weeks. I lived in my studio, and tried to paint you out of my head; but I could not paint your out of my heart. My work, which once seemed a wifer thing than my mind could contain, was only a wearisome trade to me. I rehearsed imaginary versions of our next meeting” for hours together, whilst my picture hung forgotten before me. I made a hundred sketches of you, and, in my rage at their badness, destroyed them as fast as I made them. In the evenings, I either wandered about the streets thinking of you”
“Or went to see Mrs. Hoskyn?”
“Who told you that?” said Herbert, discomfited.
“Ah!” cried Aurélie, laughing — almost crowing with delight, “I guessed it. Oh, that poor Monsieur Hoskyn! And me also! Is this thy fidelity — this the end of all thy thoughts of me?”
“I wish your jealousy were real,” said Herbert, with a sort of desperation. “I believe you would not care if I had gone to Mrs. Hoskyn as her lover. Why did I go to her? Simply because she was the only friend I had who would listen patiently whilst I spoke endlessly of you — she, whose esteem I risked, and whose respect I fear I lost, for your sake. But I have ceased to respect myself now, Aurélie. It is my misfortune to love you so much that you make light of me for being so infatuated.”
“Well,” said Aurélie soothingly, “you must try and not love me so much. I will help you as much as I can by making myself very disagreeable. I am far too indulgent to you, Adrian.”
“You hurt me sometimes very keenly, Aurélie, though you do not intend it. But I have never loved you less for that. I fear your plan would make me worse.”
“Ah, I see. You want to be made love to, and cured in that way.”
“I am afraid I should go mad then, Aurélie.”
“I will not try. I think you