“I thought of giving myself a holiday, and staying at home with you, dearest, as we are so soon to be separated.”
“Impossible,” cried Aurélie, alarmed. “My God, what a proposition! You must stay away more than ever, I have to practise, and to think of my dresses: I must absolutely be alone” Adrian took up his hat dejectedly. “My soul and my life, how I tear thy heart!” she added fondly, taking his face between her hands and kissing him. He went out pained, humiliated, and ecstatically happy.
Aurélie was busy all the morning. Early in the afternoon she placed Schumann’s concerto in A minor on the desk of the pianoforte, arranged her seat before it, and left the room. When she returned, she had changed her dress and was habited in silk. She bore her slender and upright figure more proudly before her imaginary audience than she usually ventured to do before a real one, and when had taken her place at the instrument, she played the concerto as she was not always fortunate to play it in public. Before she had finished the door was thrown open, and a servant announced “Mrs Herbert.” Aurélie started up frowning, and had but just time to regain her thoughtful expression and native distinction of manner when her motherin-law entered, looking as imposing as a wellbred Englishwoman can without making herself ridiculous.
“I fear I disturbed you,” she said, advancing graciously.
“Not at all. I am very honored, madame. Please to sit down.”
Mrs Herbert had intended to greet her son’s wife with a kiss. But Aurélie, giving her hand with dignified courtesy, was not approachable enough for that. She was not distant; but neither was she cordial. Mrs Herbert sat down, a little impressed.
Is it a long time, madame, that you are in London?”
I only arrived the day before yesterday,” replied Mrs. Herbert in French, which, like Adrian, she spoke fluently. “I am always compelled to pass the winter in Scotland, because of my health.”
“The climate of Scotland, then, is softer than that of England. Is it so?”
“It is perhaps not softer; but it suits me better,” said Mrs. Herbert, looking hard at Aurélie, who was gazing pensively at the fireplace.
“Your health is, I hope, perfectly re-established?”
“Perfectly, thank you. Are you quite sure I have not interrupted you? I heard you playing as I came in; and I know how annoying a visit is when it interferes with serious employment.”
“I am very content to be entertained by you, madame, instead of studying solitarily.”
“You still study?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“You are very fond of playing, then?
“It is my profession.”
“Since I am Adrian’s mother,” said Mrs. Herbert with some emphasis, as if she thought that fact was being overlooked, “will you allow me to ask you a question?”
Aurélie bowed.
“Do you study with a view to resuming your public career at some future time?”
“Surely. I am going to play next week at Vienna.”
Mrs Herbert bent her head in surprised assent to this intelligence. *I thought Adrian contemplated your retirement into private life,” she said. “However, let me hasten to add that I think you have shewn wisdom in overruling him. Will he accompany you abroad?”
“It is not necessary that he should. I shall travel, as usual, with my mother.”
“Your mother is quite well, I hope?”
“Quite well, thank you, madame.”
Then there was a gap in the conversation. Mrs Herbert felt that she was being treated as a distinguished stranger in her son’s home; but she was uncertain whether this was the effect of timidity, or the execution of a deliberate design on Aurelie’s part. Inclining to the former opinion, she resolved to make an advance.
“My dear,” she said, may I ask how your friends usually call you?”
“Since my marriage, my friends usually call me Madame Sczympliça”
“I could not call you that,” interposed Mrs Herbert, smiling. “I could not pronounce it.”
“It is incorrect, of course” continued Aurélie, without responding to the smile; “but it is customary for artists to retain, after marriage, the name by which they have been known. I intend to do so. My English acquaintances call me Mrs Herbert.”
“But what is your Christian name?”
Aurélie. But that is only used by my husband and my mother — and by a few others who are dear to me.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Herbert, with some impatience, “as it is quite impossible for me to address you as Mrs Herbert, I must really ask you to let me call you Aurélie.”
“Whatever is customary, madame,” said Aurélie, bending her head submissively. “You know far better than I.”
Mrs. Herbert watched her in silence after this, wondering whether she was a knave or fool — whether to attack or encourage her.
“You enjoyed your voyage in Scotland, I hope.” said Aurélie, dutifully making conversation for her guest.
“Very much indeed. But I grew a little tired of it, and shall probably remain in London now until August. When may I expect to see you at my house?”
“You are very good, madame: I am very sensible of your kindness. But — Mrs Herbert looked up quickly — I set out immediately for Vienna, whence I go to Leipzig and many other cities. I shall not be at my own disposal again for a long time.”
Mrs. Herbert reflected for a moment, and then rose. Aurélie rose also.
“Adieu,” said Mrs. Herbert suavely, offering her hand.
“Adieu, madame,” said Aurélie, saluting her with earnest courtesy. Then Mrs. Herbert withdrew. On reaching the street she hailed a hansom, and drove to her son’s studio in the Fulham Road. She found him at his easel, working more rapidly and less attentively than in the old days.
“How d’ye do, mother,” he said, “Sit down on the throne.” The throne was a chair elevated on a platform for the accommodation of live models. “We should have gone to see you; but Aurélie is going abroad. She has not a moment to spare.”
“No, Adrian, that is precisely what you should not have done, though you might have done it. It was my duty to call on your wife first; and I have accordingly just come from your house.”
“Indeed?” said Adrian eagerly, and a little anxiously. “Did you see Aurélie?”
“I saw Aurélie.”
“Well? What did you think of her?”
“I think her manners perfect, and her dress and appearance above criticism.”
“And was there — did you get on well together?”
“Your wife is a lady, Adrian, and I am a lady. Under such circumstances there is no room for unpleasantness of any kind. It is quite understood, though not expressed, that I shall not present myself at your house again, and that your wife’s engagements will prevent her from returning my visit.”
“Mother, are you serious?”
“Quite serious, Adrian. I have come here to ask you whether your wife merely carries out your wishes, or whether she prefers for herself not to cultivate acquaintances in your family.”
“Pshaw! You must have taken some imaginary offence.”
“Is that the most direct and sensible answer you can think of?”
“There