WHOM THE GODS DESTROY AND A FEW OTHERS
Some time passed before Fitzgerald became aware of Maurice's departure.When he saw that he and Madame were alone, he said nothing, but pulled all the quicker at his clay.He wondered at the desire which suddenly manifested itself.Fly? Why should he fly? The beat of his pulse answered him....What a fine thing it was to feel the presence of a woman--a woman like this! What a fine thing always to experience the content derived from her nearness!
He looked into his heart; there was no animosity; there was nothing at all but a sense of gratefulness.In the dreary picture of his life there was now an illumined corner.He had ceased to blame her; she was doing for her country what he, did necessity so will, would do for his.And after all, he could not war against a woman--a woman like this.His innate chivalry was too deep-rooted.
How soft her voice was! The color of her hair and eyes followed him night and day.Once he had been on the verge of sounding Maurice in regard to Madame, Maurice was so learned in femininities; but this would have been an acknowledgment of his ignorance, and pride closed his mouth.It was all impossible, but then, why should he return to his loneliness without attempting to find some one to share it with him? The king was safe; his duty was as good as done; his conscience was at ease in that direction.He needed not love, he thought, so much as sympathy....Sympathy.He turned over the word in his mind as a gem merchant turns over in his hand a precious jewel.Sympathy;it was the key to all he desired --woman's sympathy.There was nothing but ash in the bowl of his pipe, but he continued to puff.
Madame was seated at the piano again, idly thrumming soft minor chords.She was waiting for him to speak; she wanted to test his voice, to know and measure its emotion.At times she turned her head and shot a sly glance at him as he sat there musing.There was a wrinkle of contempt and amusement lurking at the corners of her eyes.Had Maurice been there he would have seen it.
Fitzgerald might have gazed into those eyes until doomsday, and never have seen else than their gray fathoms.Minute after minute passed, still he did not speak; and Madame was forced to break the monotony.She was not sure that the countess could hold Maurice very long.
"Of what are you thinking, Monsieur?" she asked, in a soft key.
He started, looked up and laid the pipe on the sill."Frankly, Iwas thinking that nothing can be gained by keeping us prisoners here." He told the lie rather diffidently.
"Not even forgiveness?" The lids of the gray eyes drooped and the music ceased.
"Forgiveness? O, there is nothing to forgive you; it is only your mistress I can not forgive.On the contrary, there is much to thank you for.""Still, whatever I do or have done is merely in accordance with her Highness's wishes."He moved uneasily."It is her will, not yours.""Yes; the heart of Madame Amerbach is supine to the brain of Madame the duchess." She rose and moved silently to the window and peered out.He thought her to be star-gazing; but she was not.
She was endeavoring to see where Maurice and the countess were.
"Madame, shall I tell you a secret?"
"A secret? Tell me," sitting in the chair next to his.
"This has been the pleasantest week I have known in thirteen years.""Then you forgive me!" Madame was not only mistress of music but of tones.
"Yes."
And then, out of the fullness of his lonely heart, he told her all about his life, its emptiness, its deserts, its longings.
Each sentence was a knife placed in her hands; and as she contemplated his honest face which could conceal nothing, his earnest eyes which could hide nothing, Madame was conscious of a vague distrust of herself.If only he had offered to fight, she thought.But he had not; instead, he was giving to her all his weapons of defense.
"Ah, Monsieur, you do wrong to forgive me!" impulsively.
He smiled.
"Why should you be friendly to me when I represent all that is antagonistic to you?""To me you represent only a beautiful woman.""Ah; you have been taking lessons of your friend.""He is a good teacher.He is one of those men whom I admire.
Women have never mastered him.He knows so much about them.""Yes?" a flicker in her eyes.
"Beneath all his banter there is a brave heart.He is a rare man who, having brain and heart to guide, follows the heart." He picked up the pipe and began to play a tattoo on the sill."As for me, I know nothing of women, save what I have read in books, and save that I have been too long without them.""And you have gone all these years without knowing what it is to love?" To a man less guileless, this question would not have been in good taste.
Fitzgerald was silent; he dared not venture another lie.
"What! you are silent? Is there, after all, a woman somewhere in your life?""Yes." He continued to tap the pipe.His gaze wandered to the candles, strayed back to the window, then met hers steadfastly, so steadfastly, that she could not resist.She was annoyed.
"Tell me about her."
"My vocabulary is too limited.You would laugh at me.""I? No; love is sacred." She had boasted to Maurice that she was without conscience; she had only smothered it."Come; is she beautiful?""Yes." These questions disturbed him.
"Certainly she must be worthy or you would not love her.She is rich?""That does not matter; I am." He was wishing that Maurice would hurry back; the desire to fly was returning.
"And she rejected you and sent you to the army?""She has not rejected me, though I dare say she would, had I the presumption to ask her.""A faint heart, they say--"
"My heart is not faint; it is my tongue." He rose and wandered about the room.Her breath was like orris, and went to his head like wine.
