to
bertram pace
{237}
marriage seemed to katya a much jollier game than she had anticipated. she liked her house, her garden, her servants; as for guy, he was too utterly adorable for words. most of all, she liked patronizing those of her friends and acquaintances who were less fortunate than herself: she enjoyed giving them little dinners during which she would speak a few barbed, malicious words that made her listeners wince.
one afternoon, sitting among her roses in the silent garden, she began to think of captain pierre lacroix, her brussels lover, in whose arms she had nestled so often the previous year. he had really been quite perfect, and since she had returned home to greece she had frequently, when lying awake at night, reproached herself for not having yielded to his wild solicitations. never in the years that remained to her was she likely to meet so fine an animal, so fierce a lover, so fascinating a personality.
her husband, guy fallon, was adorable, but he was not pierre lacroix. god had made only one pierre. and he was thousands of miles away in brussels. still, she could write to him; if she could not throw herself into love’s furnace, she could at least play with love’s fire....
so she left her roses and went into her cool house with its tiled floors, it great entrance-hall where a white fountain so cleverly made a mist of water, its great walls on to which hung, like butterflies, so many segantinis, and its wide passages that somehow made her feel like a princess of ancient rome.{238}
her boudoir, however, was rather small. its furniture was of inlaid rosewood. there were many full-length mirrors sunk deeply into frames of unusual shape, and the stove was made of porcelain, painted green. sitting down near the open window, she began to write.
“my dear pierre,—do not be grieved. i always promised you i would never marry any one but you, but i have been unable to keep my word. what fool was it who years ago said the flesh is weak? my flesh is not like that. it is too strong. it has overwhelmed me. i am married. yes: it is the end. one is finished when marriage comes. there is nothing left but to sit down and wait until the children arrive.
“when we meet, we must not kiss each other as we used to. you may kiss me like a brother; i, in return will, like a sister, kiss you. that will be all, but even that will be nice. do you think you will ever be able to come to salonika to be my brother? no?
“it is strange that, though i have been married so short a time, i should still be thinking of the boulevards, the avenue louise and the bois de la cambre—that i should still be thinking of you, and you, and still you. this is naughty of me, i know, but sometimes i wish that in those days i had not been quite so ... what is the word?... timid?—proud?—cruel?
“never mind: do not be angry th{239}at i was married six weeks ago. you will soon recover from your disappointment, your love-hunger.
“as for me, i am happy. my husband is rich: he adores me. i have many friends. i play the piano better than any one in the whole city of salonika. and, dear pierre, i have you to dream of in my idle hours.... take my advice and marry a nice simple girl and settle down; but she must not be so clever as i am, nor so beautiful, nor so mysterious. and you must not love her as much as you once loved (and perhaps now love?) me.
“do not forget: when we meet we must kiss as sister and brother.
“from your katya.”
she read her letter over and liked it.
“if he can leave, he will surely come!” she told herself.
and, rising from her chair, she walked to a large oval mirror and gazed at herself smilingly. then a thought struck her: she was tired: she would go to bed and rest.
her bedroom was very long and rather narrow; at each end was a large window. in this room also were many full-length mirrors. several of them were on movable stands furnished with castors. three of these she so arranged that they formed a kind of triangle, the mirrors facing inwards. stripping herself nude, she stepped within the triangle, and placed herself in such a position that she could see the reflection of every part of her body. for a little while she gazed at herself critically, anxiously, a small frown crinkling her forehead; but the frown gradually disappeared, and in a minute or two criticism had{240} changed to whole-hearted admiration.
“why, i do believe i am more beautiful than ever,” she said as she slipped her warm body between the cool sheets.
placing under the pillow the letter she had written to pierre lacroix, she was soon slumbering.
* * * * *
a fortnight later there came for her a letter with the brussels postmark. she pushed it under her plate, for she and her husband were at breakfast, but as soon as the meal was over she sought her rose-garden, tore open the envelope and read what follows.
“madame,—what is it you mean by writing to my husband of kisses? it is shameful, incredible! for three days he was strange to me. i knew not why. but now i do know, for this morning i found your letter in a secret pocket of his coat. i do not know you; i do not want to know you. if you write to him again, your letter will be returned to your husband. i have been married to pierre a year: already i have a baby and another is on the way. kisses, indeed!
“jeanne lacroix.”
katya was both angry and amused.
it amused her to know that her letter had lain close to pierre’s body for three days, but she was very angry that he had married. why, he must have sought a bride within a few weeks of her leaving brussels for salonika. it was evident he had married a fool, a breeder of children, a jealous woman who could not write a clever let{241}ter. it was good that he should have married a fool. but it was an evil thing that he should so soon have forgotten her for whom he had vowed he would remain single for ever....
her thoughts wandered from her to her husband, and she felt a sudden passionate desire. having torn mrs. lacroix’s letter into tiny pieces, she made a hole in the flower-bed with a broken stick, thrust in the bits of paper, and covered up the hole with the heel of her shoe.
then she called to her husband who, at her summons, came from the house to meet her.
“hello!” he said.
she put an arm round his neck and drew his face down to hers.
he smiled and began to tease her.
“is our honeymoon going to last for ever?” he asked, holding his head back so that his lips did not quite touch hers.
“very well, then,” she said; “i don’t want to kiss you.”
he looked up the garden to the field where the thick weeds grew profusely many feet high.
“shall we hide ourselves in the grass?” he asked.
she pretended to draw away from him. so he put his arm about her waist and compelled her to walk by his side. they passed through the flowers and reached the edge of the field. when they stepped into the luxuriant weeds, the grasses almost touched their shoulders. at the field’s centre they stopped.{242}
“i love you much better than pierre,” she whispered.
“who is pierre?” he asked indifferently, taking his lips from her neck in order to speak.
“i don’t know,” she answered, “i have forgotten.”
