Part 12

“She knew René better than he knew himself. That is to say, she knew men--or rather divined their natures, by her sixth sense of intuition.

“She might have married him. He wanted to marry her. But she knew what the result would be.

“Oh, René was not a brute,” he exclaimed in answer to his companion’s sudden movement. “Far from it. Except for his genius, he was the average kindly natured man. But Anne very wisely took his genius into account. He was not the man to marry, and she knew it. She is proud, as only a woman of her type can be proud. And then--here felt the artist in life--this was her first and last passion, the only vital emotion she had ever experienced in an existence otherwise incredibly grey, incredibly monotonous. She wanted to make it a perfect memory for herself, as well as for him.”

He paused a moment, throwing back his head against the padded chair, while he watched the rings of smoke he was blowing.

“And so,” he went on presently, “she made a resolve which few women would have found the courage either to make, or what is more important--to keep. She determined to stay with him only while his first passion lasted. She made up her mind to go even before the first cloud was in the sky,--at any rate before it was visible to _him_. Women have keener eyes than men for rising clouds.”

The doctor was silent. “Rightly or wrongly,” he went on, “she felt that only in this way, only by running no risk of injuring either him or his career, she was justified in taking her little measure of happiness. She knew him very well,” he added meditatively. “René was as weak as most of us, weaker than some perhaps, where women are concerned. He would have been unfaithful, but he could never take his unfaithfulness callously. He would have been torn perpetually between his desires, and his dread of hurting her. And his work would have suffered terribly. Anne was right to go.”

“You speak as an artist,” remarked the doctor drily.

“I can speak in no other way,” returned François. “René Dampierre was a great man with a definite work to do.”

“But Dampierre,--René Dampierre?” The doctor uttered the name with respect. “He must have died soon afterwards, surely?”

“Eighteen months afterwards. But not, I regret to tell you, of a broken heart.”

François placed the end of his cigarette in the ash-tray before him, and ground it to powder. His smile was a curious blend of sadness and irony.

“It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. The result of a fall from his horse. He was riding at Chantilly.”

“And you mean that----?”

“That Anne was right to go. She knew the woman before René himself guessed the truth. She suffered I know, or perhaps as I _don’t_ know. But not so horribly, I think, as they would both have suffered if she had stayed. And she made her exit with dignity.” He smiled again. “I am a Frenchman, doctor, and I suppose the love of _le beau geste_ is in my blood. I take off my hat to Anne Page.”

When Dr. Dakin spoke, it was in a voice from which he could not banish indignation.

“It seems incredible! That he could forget a woman like that, I mean.”

His own faithful nature rose up in revolt at the outrage to all his sentiments of enduring love.

“He didn’t,” returned François quickly. “Anne had no real rival. She may rest in peace. Fate was kind to her--and perhaps to him,” he added. “Their love while it lasted, was perfect, and death settled the future. You are thinking that if any woman was worthy of fidelity it was Anne Page? I agree with you. But when a woman late in life falls in love with a genius----” he made a gesture with his hand, and left the sentence unfinished.

“Tragic, doctor, I admit. But it’s life,--and Anne knew and accepted it.”

The faint irony which he could seldom keep out of his voice, was almost submerged by something that sounded like real emotion.

“You knew them both very well, of course?” asked Dr. Dakin, after quite a long silence. “When they were together, I mean.”

“I was with them nearly every evening, when they entertained all the men best worth knowing, in Paris. It must have struck you that Anne is a woman of unusual mental distinction?”

“She is a very brilliant woman.”

“That is easily discernible when, as with you, she has a chance of real conversation. She has naturally a keen quick mind, and she learnt to talk in a very admirable school.

“The evenings at the flat in the Rue de Fleurus are still remembered in Paris.”

He smiled to himself, as though in thought he had gone back to those evenings.

“I wish I could put before you doctor, the charm of their home life. There has been nothing like it since. That sounds terribly middle-aged, doesn’t it? I realize that I’m growing old, when I think of the society of twenty years ago, as incredibly brilliant and fascinating.

“At any rate it was composed of the men and women who have since made their mark on our age. They are well known names, at any rate to a man like you who interests himself in our countrymen as well as in your own.

“Among the painters there were Giroux, and Bussières, and Deslon. All men associated with the Impressionist movement. Thouret the novelist, and Dacier the poet, were intimate friends. They met Anne first at Fairholme Court, with me, and they were always devoted to her. Then there was Matignon the critic, a fine old man, who adored her. And Bellet, and Courtois--I could go on quoting indefinitely. They had a flat in the Rue de Fleurus, beautiful as only Anne knows how to make a home beautiful. It overlooked the Luxembourg gardens, and was close to my present studio. I remember it always full of sunshine, and I can see Anne arranging the flowers, (every room was full of flowers), and looking up from them to laugh.

“She was so radiantly happy it was a joy to see her. And she grew so beautiful. She learnt to dress, of course. Beautiful dress is one of her instincts, as you see even now. What a hostess she was! She became the fashion in our set,--René’s and mine. The men raved about her. They found _piquante_, that touch of English shyness and modesty which she combines so oddly with dignity. She held a real salon, and a very brilliant one too, in the Rue de Fleurus. Those were her _beaux jours_.”

“I can imagine it,” said the doctor.

“That sort of _ménage_ is only possible in Paris,” observed François. “Even there, it’s not without its difficulties. But she surmounted them by her very unconsciousness and simplicity. Some of the women even, were won over. One or two of the wives of men in René’s circle were her intimate friends. They went to her as we all did, for advice and sympathy.”

“Just as we all go now to be consoled,” put in Dr. Dakin.

“Precisely. And one of the secrets of her power of drawing confidence, is that Anne is by nature a maternal woman--a mother.”

“That’s the pity of it.”

“I agree. Life hasn’t given her everything. But at least it gave her three unforgetable years, and a memory which has kept her sweet and fresh and young as in her girlhood she could never have been.”

“And she went away,” said the doctor gently, “in the midst of her happiness?”

“She went away quietly, simply, with no fuss, as she does everything. With no farewell scene, or anything of that sort. She left him a letter, and with me, a message. The hardest I ever had to deliver in my life.”

Fontenelle got up, and threw the end of his cigarette into the fire.

“And then she travelled?”

“For years. When they were together, she and Dampierre went to Italy every spring. I believe she has gone over all the old ground since then. She seems to have gone half over Europe as well. I used to get letters from Athens, from Constantinople, from Naples, Rome, Florence. Fortunately she was a rich woman, able to work off her restlessness.”

He laughed a little. “That was one of her adorable simplicities. It never occurred to her that the possession of a fortune made any difference to the situation. She only looked upon it as a means of independence and freedom when her happiness should come to an end. And she was right. René never thought of it either. In some ways he was as childlike and as unworldly a creature as she. He had inherited a fairly good income from his father. He would not have known what to do with more. That’s Anne Page’s story, doctor. I don’t know how it strikes an Englishman, but to me it seems rather a wonderful one because of the type of woman to whom it belongs.”

“Yes,” returned Dr. Dakin meditatively. “One would have thought that convention, or religious prejudice----”

Fontenelle laughed. “She is untouched by either. _C’est un vrai caractère, cette chère Anne Page!_ Until she came to Paris, she hadn’t mixed enough with the world even to _know_ its conventions. Religion? Well, ‘by their fruits ye shall know them,’ and if the fruits of the Spirit are faith and hope, and the charity which suffers long and is kind, there never was a woman who has more absolutely attained the results of religion. It’s not a satisfactory result for the moralist, I admit,” he added.

“But in this very interesting and amazing world, the moralists don’t have it all their own way,” observed the doctor.

“So far as creeds and dogmas are concerned, Anne is a born pagan. It is not that she has examined and rejected them. They simply don’t appeal to her nature. When as young men we first met her, we called her _Flora_, amongst ourselves. She struck us even then as a curious blend of Madonna and goddess. And the physical appearance has a mental and moral parallel. I remember once when I wanted to tease her, I asked what had become of her religion.

“She looked at me with those childlike eyes of hers and said:

“‘I never had any,--in the sense you mean. By being with René I’m not hurting any one. And it’s only by hurting people one does wrong.’

“Then--I admit it was cruel of me, but I was curious--I said that some people had refrained from doing what she had done, for the sake of example to humanity. Her reply was ‘But apart from religion, people haven’t yet decided what _is_ the right way to arrange their lives.’”

Dr. Dakin smiled. “In view of the modern ferment of opinion, she was right there.”

François pushed his chair back, with a movement of impatience.

“Well now what’s to be done? The tale of her incredibly evil past will spread I suppose, and Dymfield will become impossible.”

He laughed rather savagely.

“It’s quite an amusing notion that scandal should attack a gentle woman of Anne’s age. Yet I imagine that few of the natives of a village possess a sense of humour.”

“I don’t think the story will spread. The vicar as I told you is absolutely incredulous, and no one else has heard it.”

“Except Madame?” hinted François. “I don’t wish to suggest an unkindness. But women, you understand? A whisper to a dear friend--_hein_?”

“My wife is devoted to Miss Page,” said the doctor shortly. “I shall warn her; but she will be indignant at the mere suggestion of betrayal.”

“_Parfaitement!_” returned François with a bow. “Pardon me. You will probably find Miss Page in Paris,” he added. “She was expected to-day.”

“So much the better. It will be a great pleasure.”

The doctor rose. “Good-night,” he said, extending his hand cordially. “And thank you for this talk. Perhaps if you decide not to go to Egypt, you will do us the honour of staying with us a little later, when my wife comes back? Our friendship for Miss Page makes a bond between us,” he added, in his pleasant sincere voice.

François met his eyes for an instant. They were full of the kindliness and instinctive liking he felt for the man he was addressing.

“A thousand thanks. But I think I am almost certain to go to Egypt.”

“Another time then. I shall only say _au revoir_.”

François followed him into the hall, and watched him step into a hansom, and give the address of his hotel to the driver.

When he turned away, there was a curious expression about his lips, which presently deepened into a smile that was partly cynicism, partly something else.

He was reflecting on the curious encounters liable to befall a man like himself. He thought of the evening’s conversation, and smiled again to think how completely till this moment he had failed to realize the humour of its friendly nature.

“_C’est un honnête homme. Il ne méritait pas ça----_”

François dismissed the subject of Dr. Dakin’s deserts with a mental shrug, as he went upstairs to his room, in which a bright fire was burning.

XVIII

François drew up an armchair close to the blaze, and lighted his pipe.

His thoughts at first dwelt upon the man with whom he had just parted--a loyal straight, good fellow if ever there was one, he decided. The verdict was accompanied by a greater sense of self-dissatisfaction, a sensation nearer to shame and regret that he had for years experienced.

It was an uncomfortable attitude of mind, and with characteristic love of ease, he hastened to obliterate it, by turning his attention elsewhere.

His conversation with the doctor had conjured up so many mental pictures of the past, that he scarcely knew which of them to examine first.

The salon in Anne Page’s flat, rose before him. With the retentive memory of a painter, François recalled minutely every detail of the charming room.

He saw the deep-red curtains drawn across the three windows, the rose-coloured carpet, the lights shining like stars between the flowers. He saw Anne standing near the table at which coffee was served, receiving her guests with her lovely smile, and eager words of welcome.

He remembered to the smallest detail of lace and trimming, a dress she often wore in the evening, a gown of purple silk which suited so admirably, her hair and the soft whiteness of her neck.

Giroux and Bussières were talking to her, and he watched with amusement their excited faces, and vehement gestures.

It was the evening after René had shown his new pictures.

There had been a crowd of his friends in the studio all the afternoon; a crowd of eager interested men and women, standing before the canvases now so well known, so greatly prized.

Bussières and Giroux he knew were talking of the latest picture, his masterpiece--the famous picture of the lady in the green dress, leaning back upon the sofa.

François looked round the room already filled with people.

He saw the white head of Matignon the critic, towering above the rest. He saw the dark alert face of Thouret bent towards Madame Valory, the painter of pastels delicate and fragile as herself. He saw Courtois the sculptor, in animated discussion with Bellet the new poet of audacities in rhythm. He heard René’s sudden amused laugh, and turned to look at him, as he moved from one group to the other, a little flushed and excited, his fair hair ruffled, his slim yet athletic figure suggesting the Englishman of sport and open-air pastimes, rather than the brilliant French painter he had even then become.

Conspicuous among the crowd was the lady whose portrait he had recently painted.

Blanche Aubriot was the wife of an elderly _roué_, who regarded her very pronounced flirtations with an indifference equal to that which she on her side extended towards his infidelities.

She was a beautiful young woman of two or three and twenty, childless, soulless, and much admired.

To-night she wore the green dress of the picture, and held her court with her usual piquante vivacity.

François regarding the scene with critical and observant eyes, noticed how frequently her glance wandered in René’s direction, and with amusement, her oft-repeated efforts to attract his attention.

His own eyes turned again to Anne, where she stood surrounded by friends, laughing and talking.

He watched her to-night with peculiar admiration.

Curiously enough Dampierre had never painted her.

Once soon after they had settled in their apartment, François had spoken of it as a foregone conclusion.

“She’s just your type--the essentially feminine type of woman.”

Greatly to his surprise, René shook his head.

“_C’est impossible_,” he said conclusively.

François wondered, but the conversation turned immediately upon other matters, and it was only just before he took leave, when Anne was out of the room, that his friend took a book from one of the shelves, and turning over the leaves, handed it to him at an open page.

“That’s why I can’t paint her,” he said.

The poem he touched with his forefinger was Browning’s song beginning--

“_Nay, but you who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress?_”

François read it aloud, and came to the last few lines--

“_Then why not witness, calmly gazing, If earth holds aught--speak truth--above her? Above this tress, and this, I touch But cannot praise, I love so much!_”

“For _praise_, read _paint_,” said René, taking the book and closing it. “It’s the same thing. You’re the man to paint her. Ask her to sit for you.”

François had always delayed to avail himself of the suggestion.

To-night he determined to delay no longer. Crossing the room, he joined the little group round Anne, and presently drew her away.

“I haven’t had a word with you this evening,” he said. “And now you must give me one, or even two. About that portrait. I think the time has come. When will you sit for me?”

Even at the moment, he was struck by the curious expression which crossed her face.

When afterwards he tried to analyze it, he could only think of the face of a woman who expecting a signal of some sort, had heard, and accepted it.

“When would you like me to come?” she asked.

She was standing at the end of the room by the fire, and as she raised her eyes, François saw in them the look which did not escape him when he came to paint them.

They discussed the matter for a few moments. Various engagements on both sides postponed the first sitting for a fortnight, but a day was finally arranged.

“How long will it take?” asked Anne.

He made a gesture of ignorance. “I don’t know. A month perhaps, with luck. But this is going to be my masterpiece, Anne. I shall succeed, or perish in the attempt. Have you got that flowered gown you used to wear in the garden at Dymfield? I suppose not. Yes? _Très bien!_ Bring it, I want to try an effect.”

He was interrupted by René, who came up at the moment, and laid his hand lightly on Anne’s arm.

“I want you to go and talk to Matignon, dear,” he said in a low voice. “He’s always bad tempered if you don’t pay him enough attention. Go and make love to the old boy.”

A vague uneasiness passed from François’s mind at the sound of his friend’s voice, always gentle when he spoke to Anne. It was even gentler than usual now, and he did not fail to notice the caress of his hand on her sleeve, nor the look of happy understanding between them, as she moved away, smiling, to obey him.

“I’m arranging for her to come and pose. I’m going to begin the picture at once,” he said.

“_Bon!_” returned René, his face lighting up. “You’ve taken your time about it.”

“One hesitates to begin one’s masterpiece,” François retorted. “You who do nothing else, except finish them, ought to have compassion on the weaker brethren.”

René made a laughing gesture of menace.

“_Allons, mes amis ... mais calmez-vous donc!_” exclaimed Blanche Aubriot at his elbow.

François looked down at her white shoulders, and experienced a momentary feeling of repugnance which passed into self-ridicule, for glancing at her indolent brown eyes soft as velvet, at her full red lips, at her glossy hair, he acknowledged her beauty.

“Come and talk to me, Monsieur René,” she urged with the insistence of a spoilt child. “You’re a great man, I know, but the lion condescends to the mouse sometimes, doesn’t he?”

François followed them with his eyes as they moved away together.

“If she had said _cat_, I should have found no difficulty in reversing the parts,” was his inward reflection.

* * * * *

The fire had died down, but as he sat before the smouldering ashes, François was very far in space and time from the club bedroom in which he was dreaming.

He was passing through successive stages of satisfaction and despair, hope and baffling discouragement, while he painted Anne’s portrait. After the first fortnight, she came every day, and every day she was more silent.

He remembered this afterwards. At the time, engrossed heart and soul in his picture, he did not notice her quietude. He was only half consciously perplexed by a subtle difference in her expression which he found hard to reconcile with his previous impression of her--a difference which was at once his inspiration, and his despair.

“If only I can get that, I shall paint a great picture!” he exclaimed one day involuntarily, breaking a long silence.

“What?” asked Anne.

He started, forgetting that he had spoken aloud.

“I don’t know.”

She smiled a little. “Then I’m afraid you won’t get it.”

“But I _have_!”

He almost shouted the words, one afternoon a week afterwards, when she had stood patiently almost as long as the daylight lasted.

She looked at him with inquiring eyes, as he threw down his brush.

“I won’t touch it again! It’s there! It’s all right. _Mon Dieu!_ Anne, do you hear me? I’ve painted a great picture.”

He came towards the stand, both hands outstretched, and helped her down.

“Come and look before the light goes,” he urged. “Why Anne----” his triumphant tone changed abruptly to consternation. “You’re not ill, dear? You’re trembling so. What a brute I am! I’ve kept you posing too long. I forgot. Come and sit in this chair. Here’s a cushion. I’ll get you some water.”

She shook her head. “I’m all right,” she assured him, trying to smile. “I want to see the picture.”

He turned the easel towards her, and she looked at it a long time in silence.

“Do you like it?” asked François at last anxiously.

“It’s too good for me. It’s idealized,” she said. “But it’s the best thing you’ve ever done, François. I congratulate you. You’re right. It’s your masterpiece.”

He felt a warm glow of pleasure. Anne as he had often acknowledged was an admirable critic, instinctively a connoisseur, and her life amongst painters had trained and sharpened her natural perception. Secretly François stood in greater awe of Anne’s verdict on his work, than on that of many of his fellow-craftsmen.

“You have suggested all the Dymfield garden in those flowers,” she said after another silence.

“In you,” he returned quickly, wondering at the tone in her voice.