 Book III. CHAPTER II of THE OLD WIFESTAYLE by Arnold Bennett. Book III. SOFIRE. CHAPTER II. SUPPER. 1. They had been to Versailles and had dined there. A tram had sufficed to take them out, but for the return, Gerald, who had been drinking champagne, would not be content with less than a carriage. Further, he insisted on entering Paris by way of the boire and the Arc de Triomphe. Thoroughly to appease his conceit, it would have been necessary to swing open the gates of honour in the Arc and allow his fiaca to pass through. To be forced to drive round the monument, instead of under it, hurt the sense of fitness which champagne engenders. Gerald was all in his pride that day. He had been displaying the wonders to Sofire, and he could not escape the Ciceroni's secret feeling that he himself was somehow responsible for the wonders. Moreover, he was exceedingly satisfied with the effect produced by Sofire. Sofire, on arriving in Paris with the ring on her triumphant finger, had timidly mentioned the subject of frocks. Non would have guessed from her tone that she was possessed by the desire for French clothes as by a devil. She had been surprised and delighted by the eagerness of Gerald's response. Gerald, too, was possessed by a devil. He thirsted to see her in French clothes. He knew some of the shops and ateliers in the Rue de la Paix, the Rue de la Chosse d'Antin and the Palais Royale. He was much more skilled in the law of frocks than she, for his previous business in Paris had brought him into relations with the great firms. And Sofire suffered a brief humiliation in the discovery that his private opinion of her dresses was that they were not dresses at all. She had been aware that they were not Parisian, nor even of London, but she had thought them pretty good. It healed her wound, however, to reflect that Gerald had so marvelously kept his own counsel in order to spare her self-love. Gerald had taken her to an establishment in the Chosse d'Antin. It was not one of what Gerald called Le Grand Maison, but it was on the very fringe of them, and the real haute couture was practiced therein, and Gerald was remembered there by name. Sofire had gone in trembling and ashamed. Yet in her heart courageously determined to emerge uncompromisingly French, but the models frightened her. They surpassed even the most fantastic things that she had seen in the streets. She recoiled before them, and seemed to hide for refuge in Gerald, as it were appealing to him for moral protection, and answering to him instead of the saleswoman when the saleswoman offered remarks in stiff English. The prices also frightened her. The simplest trifle here cost sixteen pounds, and her mother's historic silk, whose elaborateness had cost twelve pounds, was supposed to have approached the inexpressible. Gerald said that she was not to think about prices. She was, however, forced by some instinct to think about prices. She who at home had scorned the narrowness of life in the square. In the square she was understood to be quite without common sense, hopelessly imprudent. Yet here a spring of sagacity seemed to be welling up in her all the time, a continual antidote against the general madness in which she found herself. With extraordinary rapidity she had formed the habit of preaching moderation to Gerald. She hated to see money thrown away, and her notion of the boundary line between throwing money away and judiciously spending it was still the notion of the square. Gerald would laugh, but she would say, peaked and blushing, but self-sure, you can laugh. It was all deliciously agreeable. On this evening she wore the first of the new costumes. She had worn it all day. Characteristically she had chosen something which was not too special for either afternoon or evening, for either warm or cold weather. It was of pale blue taffeters, striped in a darker blue, with the corsage cut in basks, and the underskirt of a similar taffeters, but unstriped. The effect of the ornate overskirt falling on the plain underskirt with its small double volant was, she thought, and Gerald too, adorable. The waist was higher than any she had had before, and the crinoline, expansive. Tide round her head, with a large bow and flying blue ribbons under the chin, was a fragile flat cupboard, like a baby's bonnet, which allowed her hair to escape in front and her great chignon behind. A large spotted veil flew out from the capote over the chignon. Her doubled skirts waved amply over Gerald's knees in the carriage, and she lent back against the hard cushions, and put an arrogant look into her face, and thought of nothing but the intense throbbing joy of life, longing with painful ardour for more and more pleasure then and for ever. As the carriage slipped downwards through the wide empty gloom of the Champs Elysees, into the brilliant Paris that was waiting for them, another carriage, drawn by two white horses, flashed upwards and was gone in dust. Its only occupant, except the coachman and footman, was a woman. Gerald stared after it. "'By Joe,' he exclaimed, "'that's Hortense!' It might have been Hortense, or it might not, but he instantly convinced himself that it was. Not every evening did one meet Hortense, driving alone in the Champs Elysees, and in August, too.' "'Hortense?' Sophia asked simply. "'Yes, Hortense Schneider. Who is she?' "'You've never heard of Hortense Schneider?' "'No.' "'Well, have you ever heard of Offenbach?' "'I don't know. I don't think so.' He had the mean of utter incredulity. "'You don't mean to say you've never heard of Bluebeard?' "'I've heard of Bluebeard, of course,' said she. "'Who hasn't?' "'I mean the opera, Offenbach.' She shook her head, scarce knowing even what an opera was. "'Well, well, what next?' He implied that such ignorance stood alone in his experience. Really, he was delighted at the cleanness of the slate on which he had to write. And Sophia was not a bit alarmed. She relished instruction from his lips. It was a pleasure to her to learn from that exhaustless store of worldly knowledge. To the world she would do her best to assume omniscience in its ways. But to him, in her present mood, she liked to play the ignorant, uninitiated little thing. "'Why?' he said. "'The Schneider has been the rage since last year, but one. Absolutely the rage. "'I do wish I'd noticed her,' said Sophia. As soon as the varieties reopened we'll go and see her,' he replied, and then gave his detailed version of the career of Hortens Schneider. More joys for her in the near future. She had yet scarcely penetrated the crust of her bliss. She exalted in the dazzling destiny which comprised freedom, fortune, eternal gaiety, and the exquisite Gerald. As they crossed the Place de la Concorde, she inquired, "'Are we going back to the hotel?' "'No,' he said. "'I thought we'd go and have supper somewhere, if it isn't too early. "'After all that dinner?' "'All what dinner? You ate about five times as much as me anyhow.' "'Oh, I'm ready,' she said. She was. This day, because it was the first day of her French rock, she regarded as her debut in the dizzy life of capitals. She existed in a rapture of bliss, an ecstasy which could feel no fatigue. Either of body or spirit.' II It was after midnight when they went into the restaurant Sylvain. Gerald, having decided not to go to the hotel, had changed his mind and called there, and having called there had remained a long time. This, of course. Sophia was already accustomed herself to the idea that, with Gerald, it was impossible to predict accurately more than five minutes of the future. As the chasseur held open the door for them to enter, and Sophia passed modestly into the glowing yellow interior of the restaurant, followed by Gerald in his character of Man of the World, they drew the attention of Sylvain's numerous and glittering guests. No face could have made a more provocative contrast to the women's faces in those screened rooms than the face of Sophia, so childlike between the baby's bonnet and the huge bow of ribbon, so candid, so charmingly conscious of its own pure beauty, and of the fact that she was no longer a virgin, but the equal in knowledge of any woman alive. She saw around her clustered about the white table's multitudes of violently red lips, powdered cheeks, cold hard eyes, self-possessed arrogant faces, and insolent bosoms. What had impressed her more than anything else in Paris, more even than the three-horsed omnibuses, was the extraordinary self-assurance of all the women. They're unashamed posing their calm acceptance for the public gaze. They seem to say, We are the renowned Parisians. They frightened her. They appeared to her so corrupt and so proud in their corruption. She had already seen a dozen women in various situations of conspicuousness apply powder to their complexions with no more ado than if they had been giving a pat to their hair. She could not understand such boldness. As for them, they marveled at the phenomena presented in Sophia's person. They admired. They admitted the style of the gown. But they envied neither her innocence nor her beauty. They envied nothing but her youth and the fresh tint of her cheeks. Encore, disongue, said some of them, as if that explained it all. Gerald had a very curt way with waiters, and the more obsequious they were, the haughtier he became, and the head later was no more to him than a scullion. He gave loud-voiced orders in French, of which both he and Sophia were proud, and a table was laid for them in a corner near one of the large windows. Sophia settled herself on the bench of green velvet, and began to ply the ivory fan which Gerald had given her. It was very hot. All the windows were wide open, and the sounds of the street mingled clearly with the tinkle of the supper room. Applied against a sky of deepest purple, Sophia could discern the black skeleton of a gigantic building. It was the new opera house. "'All sorts here,' said Gerald, contentedly, after he had ordered iced soup and sparkling mozelle. Sophia did not know what mozelle was, but she imagined that anything would be better than champagne. Sylvains was then typical of the Second Empire, and particularly famous as a supper-room. Expensive and gay, it provided with its discreet decorations a sumptuous scene, where lurettes, actresses, respectable women, and an occasional grisette in luck, could satisfy their curiosity as to each other. In its catholicity it was highly correct as a resort. Not many other restaurants in the centre could have successfully fought against the rival attractions of the Bois, and the dim groves of the Champs Elysees on a night in August. The complicated richness of the dresses, the yards and yards of fine stitchery, the endless rushing, the hints, more or less in cautious of nether treasures of embroidered linen, and leaping over all this to the eye, the vivid colourings of silks and muslins, veils, plumes and flowers, piled as it were, pell-mell in heaps on the universal green cushions to the furthest vista of the restaurant, and all multiplied in gilt mirrors. Her spectacle intoxicated Sophia, her eyes gleamed. She drank the soup with eagerness, and tasted the wine, though no desire on her part to like wine could make her like it, and then, seeing pineapples on the large table covered with fruits, she told Gerald that she would like some pineapple, and Gerald ordered one. She gathered her self-esteem and her wits together, and began to give Gerald her views on the costumes. She could do so with impunity, because her own was indubitably beyond criticism. Some she wholly condemned, and there was not one which earned her unreserved approval. All the absurd fastidiousness of her school-girlish provinciality emerged in that eager, affected torrent of remarks. However, she was clever enough to read, after a time, in Gerald's tone and features, that she was making a tedious fool of herself. When she had droidly shifted her criticism from the taste to the work, she put a strong accent on the word, and pronounced that to be miraculous beyond description. She reckoned that she knew what dressmaking and millinery were, and her little fund of expert knowledge caused her to picture a whole necessary cityful of girls stitching, stitching, and stitching day and night. She had wondered, during the few odd days that they had spent in Paris, between visits to Chantilly and other places, at the massed luxury of the shops. She had wondered, starting with St. Luke's Square as a standard, how they could all thrive. But now, in her first real glimpse of the banal and licentious profusion of one among a hundred restaurants, she wondered that the shops were so few. She thought how splendid was all this expensiveness for trade. Indeed the notions chasing each other within that lovely and foolish head were a surprising medley. Well, what do you think of Sylvain's? Gerald asked, impatient to be assured that his Sylvain's had duly overwhelmed her. Oh, Gerald! she murmured, indicating that speech was inadequate, and she just furtively touched his hand with hers. The ennui due to her critical disquisition on the shortcomings of Parisian costume cleared away from Gerald's face. What do you suppose those people there are talking about? He said, with the jerk of the head, towards a chattering group of three gorgeous laurets and two middle-aged men at the next table but one. What are they talking about? They are talking about the execution of the murderer, Rivain, that takes place at Oxer the day after to-morrow. They are arranging to make up a party to go and see it. Oh, what a horrid idea! said Sophia. Guillotine, you know, said Gerald. But can people see it? Yes, of course. Well, I think it's horrible. Yes, that's why people like to go and see it. Besides, the man isn't an ordinary sort of criminal at all. He's very young and good-looking and well-connected. And he killed the celebrated Claudine. Claudine? Claudine Jacquineau. Of course, you wouldn't know. She was a tremendous rongan here in the 40s, made a lot of money, and retired to her native town. Sophia, in spite of her efforts to maintain the role of a woman who has nothing to learn, blushed. Then she was older than he is, thirty-five years older if a day. What did he kill her for? She wouldn't give him enough money. She was his mistress, or rather one of them. He wanted money for a young lady friend, you see. He killed her and took all the jewels she was wearing. Whenever he went to see her, she always wore all her best jewels. And you may bet a woman like that had a few. It seemed she had been afraid for a long time that he meant to do for her. Then why did she see him? And why did she wear her jewels? Because she LIKED being afraid, goose. Some women only enjoy themselves when they're terrified. Queer, isn't it? Gerald insisted on meeting his wife's gaze as he finished these revelations. He pretended that such stories were the commonest things on earth, that to be scandalised by them was infantile. Sophia thrust suddenly into a strange civilisation, perfectly frank in its sensuality and its sensuousness, under the guidance of a young man to whom her half-formed intelligence was a most diverting toy. Sophia felt mysteriously uncomfortable, disturbed by sinister flitting phantoms of ideas which she only dimly apprehended. Her eyes fell. Gerald laughed self-consciously. She would not eat any more pineapple. Immediately afterwards there came into the restaurant an apparition which momentarily stopped every conversation in the room. It was a tall and mature woman who wore, over a dress of purplish black silk, a vast flowing sortie de berle of vermilion velvet, looped and tassled with gold. No other costume could live by the side of that garment. In shape, Russian in colour, and Parisian in style it blazed. The woman's heavy coiffure was bound with fillets of gold braid and crimson rosettes. She was followed by a young Englishman in evening-dress and whiskers with the most exact correctness. The woman sailed a little breathlessly to a table next to Gerald's and took possession of it with an air of use, almost of tedium. She sat down through the cloak from her majestic bosom and expanded her chest. Being to ignore the Englishman, who superciliously assumed the seat opposite to her, she let her large, scornful eyes travel round the restaurant, slowly and imperiously meeting the curiosity which she had evoked. Her beauty had undoubtedly been dazzling. It was still effulgent, but the blossom was about to fall. She was admirably rougeed and powdered. Her arms were glorious, her lashes were long, though was little fault, save the excessive ripeness of a blonde who fights in vain against obesity. And her clothes combined audacity with the propriety of fashion. She kelled atly deposed costly trinkets on the table, and then, having intimidated the whole company, she accepted the menu from the head-waiter and began to study it. That's one of them! Gerald whispered to Sophia. One of what? Sophia whispered. Gerald raised his eyebrows spawningly and winked. The Englishman had overheard, and a look of frigid displeasure passed across his proud face. Evidently he belonged to a rank much higher than Gerald's, and Gerald, though he could always comfort himself by the thought that he had been to a university with the best, felt his own inferiority and could not hide that he felt it. Gerald was wealthy. He came of a wealthy family, but he had not the habit of wealth. When he spent money furiously, he did it with bravado, too conscious of grandeur, and too conscious of the difficulties of acquiring that which he threw away. For Gerald had earned money. This whiskered Englishman had never earned money, never known the value of it, never imagined himself without as much of it as he might happen to want. He had the face of one accustomed to give orders, and to look down upon inferiors. He was absolutely sure of himself. Yet his companion chiefly ignored him, did not appear to incommode him in the least. She spoke to him in French. He replied in English, very briefly. And then in English he commanded the supper. As soon as the champagne was served, he began to drink. In the intervals of drinking he gently stroked his whiskers. The woman spoke no more. Gerald talked more loudly. With that aristocratic Englishman observing him, he could not remain at ease. And not only did he talk more loudly, he brought into conversation references to money, travels and worldly experiences. While seeking to impress the Englishman, he was merely becoming ridiculous to the Englishman. And obscurely he was aware of this. Sophia noticed and regretted it. Still, feeling very unimportant herself, she was reconciled to the superiority of the whiskered Englishman as to a natural fact. His behaviour slightly lowered him in her esteem. Then she looked at him, at his well-shaped neatness, his vivacious face, his excellent clothes, and decided that he was much to be preferred to any heavy jawed, long-nosed aristocrat alive. The woman, whose vermilion cloak lay around her like a fortification, spoke to her escort. He did not understand. He tried to express himself in French, and failed. Then the woman recommenced, talking at length. When she had done, he shook his head. His acquaintance with French was limited to the vocabulary of food. —Guillotine?—he murmured, the sole word of her discourse that he had understood. —Aouilly, guillotine, affer!—cried the woman excitedly. Encouraged by her success in conveying even one word for her remarks, she began a third time. —Excuse me, said Gerald, madam is talking about the execution at Occea the day after to-morrow. N'est-ce pas, madame, qu'aup'à l'aide d'eux-vain?— The Englishman glared angrily at Gerald's officious interruption. But the woman smiled benevolently on Gerald, and insisted on talking to her friend through him, and the Englishman had to make the best of the situation. —There isn't a restaurant in Paris to-night where they aren't talking about that execution, said Gerald, on his own account. —Indeed!—observed the Englishman. Wine affected them in different ways. Now, a fragile, short Frenchman, with an extremely pale face sending in a thin black imperial, appeared at the entrance. He looked about, and recognizing the woman of the scarlet cloak, very discreetly saluted her. Then he saw Gerald, and his worn, fatigued features showed a sudden startled smile. He came rapidly forward, hat in hand, seized Gerald's palm, and greeted him effusively. —My wife—said Gerald, with the solemn care of a man who is determined to prove that he is entirely sober. The young man became grave, and excessively ceremonious. He bowed low over Sophia's hand and kissed it. Her impulse was to laugh, but the gravity of the young man's deference stopped her. She glanced at Gerald, blushing, as if to say, This comedy is not my fault. Gerald said something. The young man turned to him, and his face resumed its welcoming smile. —This is Monsieur Chirac. Gerald at length completed the introduction. A friend of mine, when I lived in Paris. He was proud to have met by accident an acquaintance in a restaurant. It demonstrated that he was a Parisian, and improved his standing with the whiskered Englishman and the vermillion cloak. —It is the first time you come to Paris, madame. Chirac addressed himself to Sophia in limping, timorous English. —Yes, she giggled. He bowed again. Chirac, with his best compliments, felicitated Gerald upon his marriage. —Don't mention it, said the humorous Gerald in English, amused at his own wit, and then what about this execution? —Ah! —replied Chirac, breathing out a long breath and smiling at Sophia. —Rivain! Rivain! He made a large, important gesture with his hand. It was at once to be seen that Gerald had touched the topic which secretly ravaged the supper-world as a subterranean fire ravages a mine. —I'd go, said Chirac, with pride, glancing at Sophia, who smiled self-consciously. Chirac entered upon a conversation with Gerald in French. Sophia comprehended that Gerald was surprised and impressed by what Chirac told him, and that Chirac, in turn, was surprised. Then Gerald laboriously found his pocket-book, and after some fumbling with it, handed it to Chirac, so that the latter might write in it. —Madame! murmured Chirac, resuming his ceremonious stiffness in order to take leave. —Alors, c'est entendu, mon cher ami! —He said to Gerald, who nodded fleumatically. And Chirac went away to the next table but one. Where were the three laurets and the two middle-aged men? He was received there with enthusiasm. Sophia began to be teased by a little fear that Gerald was not quite his usual self. She did not think of him as tipsy. The idea of his being tipsy would have shocked her. She did not think clearly at all. She was lost and dazed in the labyrinth of new and vivid impressions into which Gerald had led her. But her prudence was awake. —I think I'm tired, she said, in a low voice. —You don't want to go, do you? —he asked, hurt. —Well—oh, wait a bit! The owner of the Vermillion Cloak spoke again to Gerald, who showed that he was flattered. While talking to her, he ordered a brandy and soda, and then he could not refrain from displaying to her his familiarity with Parisian life, and he related how he had met Hortens Schneider behind the pair of white horses. The Vermillion Cloak grew even more sociable at the mention of this resounding name, and chattered with the most agreeable vivacity. Her friends stared inimically. —Do you hear that? Gerald explained to Sophia, who was sitting silent, about Hortens Schneider. —You know, we met her to-night. It seemed she made a bet of a Louis with some fellow, and when he lost he sent her the Louis set in diamonds worth a hundred thousand francs. That's how they go on here. —Oh! cried Sophia, further than ever in the labyrinth. —Scuse me! The Englishman put in heavily. He had heard the words Hortens Schneider, Hortens Schneider, repeating themselves in the conversation, and at last it had occurred to him that the conversation was about Hortens Schneider. —Scuse me! He began again. —Oh! you! Do you mean Hortens Schneider? —Yes! said Gerald. We met her to-night. —She's in Truville, said the Englishman, flatly. Gerald shook his head positively. —I gave a supper to her in Truville last night, said the Englishman, and she plays at the Casino Theatre to-night. Gerald was repulsed, but not defeated. —What is she playing to-night? Tell me that, he sneered. —I don't see why I should tell you. —Hmm, Gerald retorted. If what you say is true, it's a very strange thing I should have seen her in the Champs Elysees to-night, isn't it? The Englishman drank more wine. —If you'll want to insult me, sir, he began coldly. —Gerald! Sophia urged in a whisper. —Be quiet, Gerald snapped. A fiddler, in fancy costume, plunged into the restaurant at that moment, and began to play wildly. The shock of his strange advent momentarily silenced the quarrel, but it soon leapt up again, under the shelter of the noisy music, the common, tedious, tippler's quarrel. It rose higher and higher. The fiddler looked a-scan-sat it over his fiddle. Cherac cautiously observed it. Instead of attending to the music, the festival company attended to the quarrel. Every waiter's in a group watched it, with an impartial sporting interest. The English voices grew more menacing. Then suddenly the whiskered Englishman, jerking his head towards the door, said more quietly, —Honour, we better settle this aside. —At your service! said Gerald Rising. The owner of the Vermillion Cloak lifted her eyebrows to Cherac in fatigue disgust, but she said nothing. Nor did Sophia say anything. Sophia was overcome by terror. The swaying of the cloak, dragging his coat after him across the floor, left the restaurant without offering any apology or explanation to his lady. —Wait here for me! said Gerald, defiantly to Sophia. I shall be back in a minute. —But Gerald! she put her hand on his sleeve. He snatched his arm away. —Wait here for me, I tell you! he repeated. The doorkeeper obsequiously opened the door to the two unsteady carousers, for whom the fiddler drew back, still playing. Thus Sophia was left side by side with the Vermillion Cloak. She was quite helpless. All the pride of a married woman had abandoned her. She stood transfixed by intense shame, staring painfully at a pillar to avoid the universal assault of eyes. She felt like an indiscreet little girl, and she looked like one. No youthful radiant beauty of features, no grace and style of a Parisian dress, no certificate of a ring, no premature initiation into the mysteries could save her from the appearance of a raw fool whose foolishness had been her undoing. Her face changed to its reddest, and remained at that, and all the fundamental innocence of her nature, which had been overlaid by the violent experiences of her brief companionship with Gerald, rose again to the surface with that blush. Her situation drew pity from a few hearts, and a careless contempt from the rest. But since once more it was a question of ses anglais, nobody could be astonished. Without moving her head, she twisted her eyes to the clock, half past two. The fiddler ceased his dance, and made a collection in his tassled cap. The Vermillion Cloak threw a coin into the cap. Sophia stared at it, moveless, until the fiddler, tired of waiting, pressed to the next table, and relieved her agony. She had no money at all. She set herself to watch the clock, but its fingers would not stir. With an exclamation the lady of the Cloak got up and peered out of the window, chatted with waiters, and then removed herself and her Cloak to the next table, where she was received with amiable sympathy by the three Laurets, Chirac, and the other two men. The party surreptitiously examined Sophia from time to time. Then Chirac went outside with the head-waiter, returned, consulted with his friends, and finally approached Sophia. It was twenty minutes past three. He renewed his magnificent bow. Oh, madame! he said carefully, will you allow me to bring you to your hotel? He made no reference to Gerald, partly doubtless, because his English was treacherous on difficult ground. Sophia had not sufficient presence of mind to thank her saviour. But the bill, she stammered, the bill is not paid. He did not instantly understand her, but one of the waiters had caught the sound of a familiar word, and sprang forward with a slip of paper on a plate. I have no money, said Sophia, with a feeble smile. Je vous arrangerai-t-as? he said. Retenez-moi sur l'hôtel, m'uricez-z'est-ce-not? Hôtel m'urice, said Sophia, yes. She spoke to the head-waiter about the bill, which was carried away like something obscene, and on his arm, which he punctiliously offered and she could not refuse, Sophia left the scene of her ignominy. She was so distraught that she could not manage her crinoline in the doorway. No sign anywhere outside of Gerald or his foe. He put her into an open carriage, and in five minutes they had clattered down the brilliant silence of the Rue de La Paix, through the Place Vendôme into the Rue de Rivoli, and the night-porter of the hotel was at the carriage-step. I tell Zemartre restaurant where you're gone, said Sheuac, bare-headed under the long colonnade of the street. If your husband is there, I tell him, till tomorrow. His manners were more wonderful than any that Sophia had ever imagined. He might have been in the dark twillery on the opposite side of the street, saluting an empress, instead of taking leave of a raw little girl, who was still too disturbed even to thank him. She fled, candle in hand up the wide, many-cornered stairs. Gerald might be already in the bedroom, drunk. There was a chance. But the guilt-fringed bedroom was empty. She sat down at the velvet-covered table, amid the shadows cast by the candle, that wavered in the draught from the open window. And she set her teeth, and a cold fury possessed her in the hot and languorous night. And it was an imbecile that he should have allowed himself to get tipsy was bad enough. But that he should have exposed her to the horrible situation from which Sheuac had extricated her was unspeakably disgraceful. He was an imbecile. He had no common sense. With all his captivating charm he could not be relied upon not to make himself and her ridiculous, tragically ridiculous, compare him with Mr. Sheuac. She lent despairingly on the table. She would not undress. She would not move. She had to realize her position. She had to see it. Folly, folly! Offensively a commercial traveller throwing a compromising piece of paper to the daughter of his customer in the shop itself. That was the incredible folly with which their relations had begun. And his mad gesture at the pitch-shaft. And his scheme for bringing her to Paris unmarried. And then to-night, monstrous folly! Alone in the bedroom she was a wise and a disillusioned woman wiser than any of those dolls in the restaurant. And had she not gone to Gerald, as it were over the dead body of her father, through lies and lies and again lies, that was how she phrased it to herself, over the dead body of her father. How could such a venture succeed? How could she ever hope that it would succeed? In that moment she saw her acts with the terrible vision of a Hebrew prophet. She thought of the square and of her life there with her mother and Constance. Never would her pride allow her to return to that life, not even if the worst happened to her that could happen. She was one of those who are prepared to pay without grumbling for what they have had. There was a sound outside. She noticed that the door had begun. The door opened and disclosed Gerald. They exchanged a searching glance, and Gerald shut the door. Gerald affected the air. But she perceived at once that he was sobered. His lip was bleeding. Mr. Shearac brought me home. She said, So it seems, said Gerald curtly, I asked you to wait for me. Didn't I say I should come back? He was adopting the injured, magisterial tone of the man who is ridiculously trying to conceal from himself and others that he has recently behaved like an ass. She resented the injustice. I don't think you need talk like that, she said. Like what? He bullied her, determined that she should be in the wrong, and what a hard look on his pretty face. Her prudence bathed her except the injustice. She was his, wrapped away from her own world. She was utterly dependent on his good nature. I knocked my chin against the damn balustrade, coming upstairs, said Gerald gloomily. She knew that that was a lie. Did you?" She replied kindly. Let me bathe it. End of Chapter 2. VIII. CHAPTER III. OF THE OLD WIFE STALE. By Arnold Bennett. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information, or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. Reading by Andy Minter. The Old Wives Tale. By Arnold Bennett. VIII. SOFIA. CHAPTER III. AN AMBITION SATISFIED. ONE. She went to sleep in misery. All the glory of her new life had been eclipsed. But when she woke up a few hours later in the large velvety statelessness of the bedroom for which Gerald was paying so fantastic a price per day, she was in a brighter mood, and very willing to reconsider her verdicts. Her pride induced her to put Gerald in the right and herself in the wrong, for she was too proud to admit that she had married a charming and irresponsible fool. And indeed, ought she not to put herself in the wrong? Gerald had told her to wait, and she had not waited. He had said that he should return to the restaurant. And he had returned. Why had she not waited? She had not waited because she had behaved like a simpleton. She had been terrified about nothing. Had she not been frequenting restaurants now for a month past, ought not a married woman to be capable of waiting an hour in a restaurant for her lawful husband without looking a niny? And as for Gerald's behaviour, how could he have acted differently? The other Englishman was obviously a brute and had sought a quarrel. His contradiction of Gerald's statements was extremely offensive. When being invited by the brute to go outside, what could Gerald do but comply? Not to have complied might have meant a fight in the restaurant, as the brute was certainly drunk. Compared to the brute, Gerald was not at all drunk, merely a little gay and talkative. Then Gerald's fear about his chin was natural. He simply wished to minimise the fuss and to spare her feelings. It was, in fact, just like Gerald to keep perfect silence as to what had passed between himself and the brute. However, she was convinced that Gerald, so lithe and quick, had given that great brute with his supercilious ways, as good as he received, if not better. And if she were a man and had asked her wife to wait in a restaurant, and the wife had gone home under the escort of another man, she would most assuredly be much more angry than Gerald had been. She was very glad that she had controlled herself and exercised a meek diplomacy. A quarrel had thus been avoided. Yes, the finish of the evening could not be called a quarrel. After her nursing of his chin, nothing but a slight coolness on his part had persisted. She arose silently and began to dress, full of a determination to treat Gerald as a good wife ought to treat her husband. Gerald did not stir. He was an excellent sleeper. One of those organisms that never want to go to bed and never want to get up. When her toilet was complete, save for her bodice, there was a knock at the door. She started. Gerald! She approached the bed and then her nude bosom over her husband and put her arms round his neck. This method of being brought back to consciousness did not displease him. The knock was repeated. He gave a grunt. Someone's knocking at the door! She whispered. Then why don't you open it? He said, dreamily. I'm not dressed, darling. He looked at her. Stick something on your shoulder's girl, said he. What does it matter? There she was, being a simpleton again, despite her resolution. She obeyed and cautiously opened the door, standing behind it. A middle-aged, whiskered servant in a long white apron announced matters in French, which passed her understanding. But Gerald had heard from the bed, and he replied, Janus, you! The servant departed, with a bow down the obscure corridor. It's Chirac. Gerald explained when she had shut the door. I was forgetting. I asked him to come and have lunch with us early. He's waiting in the drawing-room. Just put your bodice on and go and talk to him till I come. He jumped out of bed, and then, standing in his night-garb, stretched himself and terrifically yawned. Me! So far a question. Who else? said Gerald, with that curious satiric dryness which he would sometimes import into his tone. But I can't speak French, she protested. I didn't suppose you could, said Gerald, with an increase of dryness, but you know, as well as I do, that he can speak English. Oh! Very well, then, she murmured, with agreeable alacrity. Evidently Gerald had not yet quite recovered from his legitimate displeasure of the night. He minutely examined his mouth in the glass of the Louis-Philippe wardrobe. He showed scarcely a trace of battle. I say, he stopped her, as, nervous at the prospect before her, she was leaving the room. I was thinking of going to Auxerre today. Auxerre? she repeated, wondering under what circumstances she had recently heard that name. Then she remembered it was the place of execution of the murderer Rivain. Yes, he said, Chirac has to go, he's on a newspaper now. He was an architect when I knew him. He's got to go, and he thinks himself jolly lucky, so I thought I'd go with him. The truth was that he had definitely arranged to go. Not to see the execution, she stammered. Why not? I've always wanted to see an execution, especially with the guillotine. An execution's a public in France. It's quite the proper thing to go to them. But why do you want to see an execution? It just happens that I do want to see an execution. It's a fancy of mine, that's all. I don't know that any reason is necessary, he said, pouring out water into the diminutive ewer. She was aghast. And shall you leave me here alone? Well, said he, I don't see why my being marriage should prevent me from doing something that I've always wanted to do. Are you? Oh, no! She eagerly concurred. That's all right, he said. You can do exactly as you like. Either stay here, or come with me. If you go to Auxaire, there's no need at all for you to see the execution. It's an interesting old town, cathedral, and so on. But of course, if you can't bear to be in the same town as a guillotine, I'll go alone. I shall come back to-morrow. It was plain where his wish lay. She stopped the phrases that came to her lips, and did her best to dismiss the thoughts which prompted them. Of course I'll go, she said quietly. She hesitated, and then went up to the wash-stand and kissed a part of his cheek that was not soapy. That kiss, which comforted and somehow reassured her, was the expression of a surrender whose monstrousness she would not admit to herself. In the rich and dusty drawing-room, Chirac and Chirac's exquisite formalities awaited her. Nobody else was there. My husband, she began smiling and blushing, she liked Chirac. It was the first time she had had the opportunity of using that word to other than a servant. It soothed her, and gave her confidence. She perceived after a few moments that Chirac did genuinely admire her, more that she inspired him with something that resembled awe. Speaking very slowly and distinctly, she said that she should travel with her husband to Oxair, as he saw no objection to that course, implying that if he saw no objection she was perfectly satisfied. Chirac was concurrence itself. In five minutes it seemed to be the most natural and proper thing in the world that, on her honeymoon, she should soon be going with her husband to a particular town, because a notorious murderer was about to be decapitated there in public. My husband has always wanted to see an execution, she said later. It would be a pity to, as per psychological expérience, replied Chirac, pronouncing the P of the adjective, it would be very interesting to observe one's self in such circumstances. He smiled enthusiastically. She thought how strange even nice Frenchmen were. Even going to an execution in order to observe yourself. Two. What continually impressed Sophia as strange in the behavior not only of Gerald but of Chirac and other people with whom she came into contact, was its quality of casualness. She had all her life been accustomed to see enterprises, even minor ones, well pondered and then carefully schemed beforehand. In St. Luke's Square there was always, in every head, a sort of timetable of existence, prepared at least one week in advance. But in Gerald's world nothing was pre-arranged, elaborate affairs were decided in a moment and undertaken with extraordinary lightness, thus the excursion to Occea. During lunch, scarcely a word was said as to it, the conversation, in English, for Sophia's advantage, turning as usual under such circumstances upon the difficulty of languages and the differences between countries. She would have guessed that any member of the party had any preoccupation whatever for the rest of the day. The meal was delightful to Sophia. Not merely did she find Chirac comfortably kind and sincere, but Gerald was restored to the perfection of his charm and his good humour. Then suddenly, in the midst of coffee, the question of trains loomed up like a swift crisis. In five minutes Chirac had departed. Whether to his office or his home Sophia did not understand, and within a quarter of an hour she and Gerald were driving rapidly to the gare de Lyon, Gerald stuffing into his pocket a large envelope full of papers which he had received by registered post. They caught the train by about a minute, and Chirac by a few seconds. Yet neither he nor Gerald seemed to envisage the risk of inconvenience and annoyance which they had incurred and escaped. Chirac chatted through the window with another journalist in the next compartment. When she had leisure to examine him, Sophia saw that he must have called at his home to put on old clothes. Everybody except herself and Gerald seemed to travel in his oldest clothes. The train was hot, noisy and dusty, but one after another all three of them fell asleep, and slept heavily, calmly, like healthy and exhausted young animals. Nothing could disturb them for more than a moment. To Sophia it appeared to be by simple chance that Chirac aroused himself and them at La Roche, and sleepily seized her valleys and got them all out on the platform when they yawned and smiled, full of the deep half-realised satisfaction of repose. They drank nectar from a wheeled buffet, drank it eagerly in thirsty gulps and sighed with pleasure and relief, and Gerald threw down a coin, refusing change with the Lord's gesture. The local train to Oxair was full and with a varied and sinister cargo. At length they were in the zone of the waiting guillotine. The rumour ran that the executioner was on the train. No one had seen him. No one was sure of recognising him, but everyone hugged the belief that he was on the train. Although the sun was sinking, the heat seemed not to abate. Attitudes grew more limp, more abandoned. Soot and prickly dust flew in unceasingly at the open windows. The train stopped at Bonnard, Chemilly, and Monito, each time before a waiting crowd that invaded it. Then at last, in the great station at Oxair, it poured out an incredible mass of befouled humanity that spread over everything like an inundation. Sophia was frightened. Gerald left the initiative to Chirac, and Chirac took her arm and led her forward, looking behind him to see that Gerald followed with the valise. Friendsy seemed to reign in Oxair. The driver of a cab demanded ten francs for transporting them to the Hotel de l'Épée. Bah! Scornfully exclaimed Chirac, in his quality of experience Parisian who is not to be exploited by heavy-witted provincials. But the driver of the next cab demanded twelve francs. Jump in, said Gerald Sophia. Chirac lifted his eyebrows. At the same moment a tall, stout man with the hard face of a flourishing scoundrel and a young, pallid girl on his arm pushed aside both Gerald and Chirac and got into the cab with his companion. Chirac protested, telling him that the cab was already engaged. The usurper scowled and swore, and the young girl laughed boldly. Sophia, shrinking, expected her escort to execute justice heroic and final, but she was disappointed. Brut! murmured Chirac, and shrugged his shoulders as the carriage drove off, leaving them foolish on the curb. By this time all the other cabs had been seized. They walked to the hotel de l'épée, jostled by the crowd, Sophia and Chirac in front, and Gerald following with the valise whose weight caused him to lean over to his right and his left arm to rise. The avenue was long, straight, and misty with a floating dust. Sophia had a vivid sense of the romantic. They saw towers and spires, and Chirac talked to her slowly and carefully of the cathedral and the famous churches. He said that the stained glass was marvellous, and with much care he cataloged for her all the things she must visit. They crossed a river. She felt as though she was stepping into the middle age. At intervals Gerald changed the valise from hand to hand. Obstinately he would not let Chirac touch it. They struggled upwards through narrow, curving streets. Voila! said Chirac. They were in front of the Hotel de l'épée. Across the street was a café crammed with people. Several carriages stood in front. The Hotel de l'épée had a reassuring air of mellow respectability, such as Chirac had claimed for it. He had suggested this hotel for Madame Scales because it was not near the place of execution. Gerald had said, of course, of course. Chirac, who did not mean to go to bed, required no room for himself. The Hotel de l'épée had one room to offer, at the price of twenty-five francs. Gerald revolted at the attempted imposition. A nice thing, he grumbled, that ordinary travellers can't get a decent room at a decent price just because someone's going to be guillotine to-morrow. We'll try elsewhere. His features expressed disgust, but Sophia fancied that he was secretly pleased. They swaggered out of the busy stir of the Hotel, as those must, who, having declined to be swindled, wished to preserve their importance in the face of the world. In the street a cabman solicited them, and filled them with hope by saying that he knew of a hotel that might suit them, and would drive them there for five francs. He furiously lashed his horse, the mere fact of being in a swiftly moving carriage, which wayfarers had to avoid nimbly, maintained their spirits. They had a near glimpse of the cathedral. The cab halted, with a bump in a small square in front of a repellent building which bore the sign, Hotel de Vésilée. The horse was bleeding. Gerald instructed Sophia to remain where she was, and he and Chirac went up four stone steps into the hotel. Sophia stared up by loose crowds that were promenading, gazed about her, and saw that all the windows of the square were open, and most of them occupied by people who laughed and chattered. Then there was a shout, Gerald's voice. He had appeared at a window on the second floor of the hotel, with Chirac and a very fat woman. Chirac saluted, and Gerald laughed carelessly and nodded. "'It's all right,' said Gerald, having descended. "'How much do they ask?' Sophia inquired indiscreetly. Gerald hesitated and looked self-conscious. "'Thirty-five francs,' he said, but I've had enough of driving it about. It seems we're lucky to get it even at that.' And Chirac shrugged his shoulders, as if to indicate that the situation and the price ought to be accepted philosophically. Gerald gave the driver five francs. He examined the piece, and demanded a bourbois. "'Oh, damn!' said Gerald, and because he had no smaller change, parted with another two francs. "'Is any one coming out for this dambolese?' Gerald demanded, like a tyrant whose wroth would presently fall if the populace did not instantly set about minding their peas and queues. But nobody emerged, and he was compelled to carry the bag himself. The hotel was dark and malodorous, and every room seemed to be crowded with giggling groups of drinkers. "'We can't both sleep in this bed, surely,' said Sophia, then, Chirac, having remained downstairs, she faced Gerald in a small, mean bedroom. "'You don't suppose I shall go to bed, do you?' said Gerald, rather brusquely. "'It's for you. We're going to eat now. Look sharp!' Three It was night. She lay in the narrow, crimson drape bed. The heavy crimson curtains had been drawn across the dirty lace curtains of the window, for the lights of the little square faintly penetrated through chinks into the room. The sounds of the square also penetrated, extraordinarily loud and clear, for the unabated heat had compelled her to leave the window open. She could not sleep. Exhausted though she was, there was no hope of her being able to sleep. Once again she was profoundly depressed. She remembered the dinner with horror, the long, crowded table with semicircular ends in the oppressive and reeking dining-room, lighted by oil lamps. There must have been at least forty people at that table. Most of them ate disgustingly, as noisily as pigs, with the end of large coarse napkins tucked in at their necks. All the service was done by the fat woman whom she had seen at the window with Gerald, and a young girl whose demeanour was candidly brazen. Both these creatures were slatterns. Everything was dirty, but the food was good. Shirak and Gerald were agreed that the food was good, as well as the wine. Oy, marquard, Shirak had said, of the wine. Sophia, however, could neither eat nor drink with relish. She was afraid. The company shocked her by its gestures alone. It was very heterogeneous in appearance. Some of the diners being well-dressed, approaching elegance, and others shabby. But all the faces, the youngest, were brutalised, corrupt and shameless. The juxtaposition of old men and young women was odious to her, especially when those pairs kissed as they did frequently towards the end of the meal. Happily, she was placed between Shirak and Gerald. That situation seemed to shelter her even from the conversation. She would have comprehended nothing of the conversation had it not been for the presence of a middle-aged Englishman who sat at the opposite end of the table with the youngish, stylish French woman whom she had seen at Sylvain's on the previous night. The Englishman was evidently under a promise to teach English to the French woman. He kept translating for her into English, slowly and distinctly, and she would repeat the phrases after him, with strange contortions of the mouth. Thus, a fire gathered that the talk was exclusively about assassinations, executions, criminals and executioners. Some of the people there made a practice of attending every execution. They were fountains of interesting gossip and the lions of the meal. There was a woman who could recall the dying words of all the victims of justice for twenty years past. The table roared with hysteric laughter at one of this woman's anecdotes. Sophia learned that she had related how a criminal had said to the priest, who was good-naturedly trying to screen the sight of the guillotine from him with his body, Stand away now, parson, haven't I paid to see it? Such was the Englishman's rendering. The wages of the executioners and their assistants were discussed, and differences of opinion led to ferocious arguments. A young and dandiacal fellow told as a fact which he was ready to vouch for with a pistol, how Cora Pearl, the renowned English courtesan, had, through her influence over a prefect of police, succeeded in visiting a criminal alone in his cell during the night preceding his execution, and had only quitted him an hour before the final summons. The tale won the honours of the dinner. Which was regarded as truly impressive, and inevitably it led to the general inquiry, what could the highest personages in the Empire see to admire in that red-haired Englishwoman, and of course Reveyn himself, the handsome homicide, the centre and hero of the fate, was never long out of the conversation. Several of the diners had seen him, one or two knew him, and could give amazing details of his prowess as a man of pleasure. Despite his crime he seemed to be the object of sincere idolatry. It was said positively that a niece of his victim had been promised a front place at the execution. Apropos of this, Zafar gathered to her intense astonishment and alarm that the prison was close by, and that the execution would take place at the corner of the square itself in which the hotel was situated. Gerald must have known. He had hidden it from her. She regarded him sideways with distrust. As the dinner finished, Gerald's pose of a calm, disinterested scientific observer of humanity gradually broke down. He could not maintain it in front of the increasing license of the scene round the table. He was at length somewhat ashamed of having exposed his wife to the view of such an orgy. His restless glance carefully avoided both Zafar and Shirak. The latter, whose unaffected simplicity of interest in the affair had more than anything helped to keep Zafar in countenance, observed the change in Gerald, and Zafar's excessive discomfort, and suggested that they should leave the table without waiting for the coffee. Gerald agreed quickly. Thus had Zafar been released from the horror of the dinner. She did not understand how a man so thoughtful and kindly as Shirak, he had bidden her good night with the most distinguished courtesy, could tolerate, much less pleasurably savour, the gluttonous, drunken, and salacious debauchery of the hotel de Vesela, but his theory was, so far as she could judge from his imperfect English, that whatever existed might be admitted and examined by serious persons interested in the study of human nature. His face seemed to say, why not? His face seemed to say to Gerald and to herself, if this incomodes you, what did you come for? Gerald had left her at the bedroom door with a self-conscious nod. She had partly undressed and laid down, and instantly the hotel had transformed itself into a kind of sounding-box. It was as if, beneath and within, all the noises of the square, every movement of the hotel reached her ears through cardboard walls. Distant shoutings and laughter below, rattlings of crockery below, stampings up and down stairs, stealthy creepings up and down stairs, bruce calls, fragments of song, whisperings, long sighs suddenly stifled, mysterious groans as of torture, broken by a giggle, quarrels and bickering. She was spared nothing in the strangely resonant darkness. Then there came out of the little square a great uproar and commotion, with shrieks, and under the shrieks a confused din. In vain she pressed her face into the pillow, and listened to the irregular, prodigious noise of her eyelashes as they scraped the rough linen. The thought had somehow introduced itself into her head, that she must arise and go to the window, and see all that was to be seen. She resisted. She said to herself that the idea was absurd, that she did not wish to go to the window. Nevertheless, while arguing with herself, she well knew that resistance to the thought was useless, and that ultimately her legs would obey its command. When ultimately she yielded to the fascination and went to the window and pulled aside one of the curtains, she had a feeling of relief. The cool gray beginnings of dawn were in the sky, and every detail of the square was visible. Without exception all the windows were wide open and filled with sightseers. In the background of many windows were burning candles or lamps, that the far distant approach of the sun was already killing. In front of these, on the frontier of two mingling lights, the attentive figures of the watchers were curiously silhouetted. On the red-tiled roofs, too, was a squatted population. Below, a troop of gendarmes, mounted on caracoling horses, stretched in line across the square, was gradually sweeping the entire square of a packed, gesticulating, cursing crowd. The operation of this immense bosom was very slow. As the spaces of the square were cleared, they began to be dotted by privileged persons, journalists or law officers or their friends, who walked to and fro in conscious pride. Among them Sophia described Gerald and Chirac, strolling arm in arm, and talking to two elaborately clad girls, who were also arm in arm. Then she saw a red reflection coming from one of the side streets, of which she had a vista. It was the swinging lantern of a wagon, drawn by a gaunt gray horse. The vehicle stopped at the end of the square from which the bosom had started, and it was immediately surrounded by the privileged, who, however, were soon persuaded to stand away. The crowd amassed now at the principal inlets of the square, gave her formidable cry, and burst into the refrain, La Voileur, Nicolas, ah, ah, ah, ah. The clamour became furious, as a group of workmen in blue blouses drew piece by piece all the components of the guillotine from the wagon, and laid them carefully on the ground, under the superintendence of a man in a black frock coat and a silk hat with broad, flat brims, a little fussy man of nervous gestures. And presently the red columns had risen upright from the ground, and were joined at the top by an acrobatic climber. As each part was bolted and screwed to the growing machine, the man in the high hat carefully tested it. In a short time, that seemed very long, the guillotine was finished, save for the triangular steel blade which lay shining on the ground, assign us your. The executioner pointed to it, and two men picked it up, and slipped it into its groove, and hoisted it to the summit of the machine. The executioner peered at it interminably, amid a universal silence. Then he actuated the mechanism, and the mass of metal fell, with a muffled, reverberating thud. There were a few faint shrieks blended together, and then an overpowering racket of cheers, shouts, hootings, and fragments of song. The blade was again lifted, instantly reproducing silence, and again it fell, liberating a new bedlam. The executioner made a movement of satisfaction. Many women at the windows clapped enthusiastically, and the gendarmes had to fight brutally against the fierce pressure of the crowd. The workmen doffed their blouses and put on coats, and so fire was disturbed to see them coming in single file towards the hotel, followed by the executioner in the silk hat. Four. There was a tremendous opening of doors in the hotel de Veselae, and much whispering on thresholds, as the executioner and his band entered solemnly. Sophia heard them tramp upstairs. They seemed to hesitate, and then apparently went into a room on the same landing as hers. The door banged, but Sophia could hear the regular sound of new voices talking, and then the rattling of glasses on a tray. The conversation which came to her from the windows of the hotel now showed a great increase of excitement. She could not see the people at these neighbouring windows without showing her own head, and this she would not do. The boom of a heavy bell striking the hour vibrated over the roofs of the square. She supposed that it might be the cathedral clock. In a corner of the square she saw Gerald talking vivaciously alone with one of the two girls who had been together. She wondered vaguely how such a girl had been brought up, and what her parents thought, or knew, and she was conscious of an intense pride in herself of a measureless, haughty feeling of superiority. Her eye caught the guillotine again, and was held by it. Guarded by gendarmes, that tall and simple object did most menacingly dominate the square with its crude red columns. Tools and a large open box lay on the ground beside it. The enfeebled horse in the wagon had an air of dosing on his twisted legs. Then the first rays of the sun shot lengthwise across the square at the level of the chimneys, and Sophia noticed that nearly all the lamps and candles had been extinguished. Many people at the windows were yawning. They laughed foolishly after they had yawned. Some were eating and drinking. Some were shouting conversations from one house to another. The mounted gendarmes were still pressing back the feverish crowds that growled at all the inlets to the square. She saw Shirak walking to and fro alone. But she could not find Gerald. He would not have left the square. Perhaps he had returned to the hotel, and would come up to see if she was comfortable, or if she needed anything. Guiltily, she sprang back into bed. When last she had surveyed the room it had been dark. Now it was bright, and every detail stood clear. Yet she had the sensation of having been at the window only a few minutes. She waited, but Gerald did not come. She could hear chiefly the steady hum of the voices of the executioner and his aides. She reflected that the room in which they were must be at the back. The other sounds in the hotel grew less noticeable. Then, after an age, she heard a door open, and a low voice say something commandingly in French. And then a we monsieur, and a general dissent of the stairs. The executioner and his aides were leaving. "'You!' cried the drunken English voice from an upper floor. It was the middle-aged Englishman translating what the executioner had said. "'You! You will take the head!' Then a rough laugh, and the repeating voice of the Englishman's girl, still pursuing her studies in English. "'You will take the head, yes, sir!' And another laugh. At length, quiet, reigned in the hotel. Sophia Fire said to herself, I won't stir from this bed till it's all over, and Gerald comes back. She dozed under the sheet, and was awakened by a tremendous shrieking, growling, and yelling, a phenomenon of human bestiality that far surpassed Sophia's narrow experiences. Shut up, though she was in a room, perfectly secure. The mad fury of that crowd, balked at the inlets to the square, thrilled, and intimidated her. It sounded as if they would be capable of tearing the very horses to pieces. "'I must stay where I am,' she murmured. And even while saying it, she rose and went to the window again and peeped out. The torture involved was extreme, but she had not sufficient force within her to resist the fascination. She stared greedily into the bright square. The first thing she saw was Gerald, coming out of a house opposite, followed after a few seconds by the girl with whom he had previously been talking. Gerald glanced hastily up at the facade of the hotel, and then approached as near as he could to the red columns, in front of which were now drawn a line of John Downs with naked swords, a second and larger wagon, with two horses, weighted by the side of the other one. The racket beyond the square continued, and even grew louder. But the couple of hundred persons within the gardens, and all the inhabitants of the windows, drunk and sober, gazed in a fixed and sinister enchantment at the region of the guillotine, as Sophia gazed. "'I cannot stand this,' she told herself in horror, but she could not move. She could not move even her eyes.' At intervals the crowd would burst out in a violent staccato. Le voilà, nicola, ah, ah, ah, and the final ah was devilish. Then a gigantic, passionate roar, the culmination of the mob's fierce savagery, crashed against the skies. The line of maddened horses swerved and reared, and seemed to fall on the furious multitude, while a statue like John Downs rocked over them. It was a last effort to break the cordon, and it failed. From the little street at the rear of the guillotine appeared a priest walking backwards, and holding a crucifix high in his right hand. And behind him came the handsome hero, his body all crossed with cords between two warders, who pressed against him and supported him on either side. He was certainly very young. He lifted his chin gallantly, but his face was incredibly white. Sophia discerned that the priest was trying to hide the sight of the guillotine from the prisoner with his body, just as in the story which he had heard at dinner. With the voice of the priest, indistinctly rising and falling in the prayer for the dying, there was no sound in the square or its environs. The windows were now occupied by groups turned to stone with distended eyes fixed on the little procession. Sophia had a tightening of the throat, and the hand trembled by which she held the curtain. The central figure did not seem to her to be alive, but rather a doll. A marionette wound up to imitate the action of a tragedy. She saw the priest off of the crucifix to the mouth of the marionette, which with a clumsy, unhuman shoving of its corded shoulders butted the thing away, and as the procession turned and stopped, she could plainly see that the marionette's nape and shoulders were bare, his shirt having been slit. It was horrible. Why do I stay here? She asked herself hysterically, but she did not stir. The victim had disappeared now in the midst of a group of men. Then she perceived him prone under the red column between the grooves. The silence was now broken only by the tinkling of the horse's bits in the corner of the square. The line of gendarmes in front of the scaffold held their swords tightly and looked over their noses, ignoring the privileged groups that peered almost between their shoulders. And Sophia waited, horror struck. She saw nothing but the gleaming triangle of metal that was suspended high above the prone attendant victim. She felt like a lost soul, torn too soon from the shelter, and exposed forever to the worst hazards of destiny. Why was she in this strange and comprehensible town, foreign and dynamical to her, watching with agonized glance this cruel, obscene spectacle? Her sensibilities were all a bleeding mass of wounds. Why? Only yesterday, and she had been an innocent, timid creature in Bursley, in Acts, a foolish creature who deemed the concealment of letters of supreme excitement. Either that day or this day was not real. Why was she imprisoned alone in that odious, indescribably odious hotel, with no one to soothe and comfort her and carry her away? The distant bell boomed once. Then the monosyllabic voice sounded, sharp, low, nervous. She recognized the voice of the executioner, whose name she had heard but could not remember. There was a clicking noise. She shrank down to the floor in terror and loathing, and hid her face and shuddered. Shriek after shriek from various windows rang on her ears in a fuselade, and then the mad yell of the penned crowd, which like herself had not seen, but had heard, extinguished all other noise. Justice was done. The great ambition of Gerald's life was at last satisfied. Later, amid the stir of the hotel, there came a knock at her door, impatient and nervous. Forgetting in her tribulation that she was without her body, she got up from the floor in a kind of miserable dream and opened. Shriek stood on the landing, and he had Gerald by the arm. Shriek looked worn out, curiously fragile and pathetic. But Gerald was the very image of death. The attainment of his ambition had utterly destroyed his equilibrium. His curiosity had proved itself stronger than his stomach. Sophia would have pitted him had she in that moment been capable of pity. Gerald staggered past her into the room and sang with a groan onto the bed. Not long since he had been proudly conversing with impudent women. Now, in a swift collapse, he was as flaccid as a sick hound and as disgusting as an aged drunkard. He is some legal sufferer, said Shriek weakly. Sophia perceived in Shriek's tone the assumption that, of course, her present duty was to devote herself to the task of restoring her shamed husband to his manly pride. And what about me, she thought bitterly. The fat woman ascended the stairs like a tottering blamange and began to gabble to Sophia, who understood nothing whatever. She wants sixty francs, Shriek said. And in answer to Sophia's startled question, he explained that Gerald had agreed to pay a hundred francs for the room, which was the landlady's own, fifty francs in advance, and the fifty after the execution. The other ten was for the dinner. The landlady, distrusting the whole of her clientele, was collecting her accounts instantly on the completion of the spectacle. Sophia made no remark as to Gerald's lie to her. Indeed Shriek had heard it. She knew Gerald for a glib lie to others, but she was naively surprised when he practised upon herself. Gerald, do you hear? She said coldly. The amoteur of severed heads only groaned. With a moment of irritation she went to him, and felt in his pockets for his purse. The acquiesce still groaning. Shriek helped her to choose and count the coins. The fat woman appeased, pursued her way. A good-bye of madame, said Shriek, with his customary courtliness, transforming the landing of the hideous hotel into some imperial anti-chamber. Are you going away? She asked in surprise. Her distress was so obvious that it tremendously flattered him. He would have stayed if he could, but he had to return to Paris to write and deliver his article. To-morrow I out for, he murmured sympathetically, kissing her hand. The gesture atoned somewhat for the sordidness of her situation, and even corrected the faults of her attire. Always afterwards it seemed to her that Shriek was an old and intimate friend. He had successfully passed through the ordeal of seeing the wrong side of the stuff of her life. She shut the door on him, with a lingering glance, and reconciled herself to her predicament. Gerald slept. Just as he was, he slept heavily. This was what he had brought her to then, the horrors of the night, of the dawn and of the morning, ineffable suffering and humiliation, anguish and torture that could never be forgotten. And after a fatuous vigil of unguessed license he had tottered back an offensive beast to sleep the day away in that filthy chamber. He did not possess even enough spirit to play the role of Roystra to the end. Then she was bound to him, far, far from any other human aid, cut off irrevocably by her pride from those who perhaps would have protected her from his dangerous folly. The deep conviction henceforward formed a permanent part of her general consciousness, that he was simply an irresponsible and thoughtless fool. He was without sense. Such was her brilliant and godlike husband, the man who had given her the right to call herself a married woman. He was a fool. With all her ignorance of the world she could see that nobody but an arant imbecile could have brought her to the present pass. Her native sagacity revolted. Gusts of feeling came over her in which she could have thrashed him into the realization of his responsibilities. Getting out of the breast pocket of his soil coat was the packet which he had received on the previous day. If he had not already lost it he could only thank his luck. She took it. There were English banknotes in it for two hundred pounds, a letter from a banker and other papers. With precautions against noise she tore the envelope and the letters and papers into small pieces, and then looked about for a place to hide them. A cupboard suggested itself. She got on a chair and pushed the fragments out of sight on the topmost shelf, where they may well be to this day. She finished dressing, and then sewed the notes into the lining of her skirt. She had no silly delicate notions about stealing. She obscurely felt that in the care of a man like Gerald she might find herself in the most monstrous, the most impossible dilemmas. Those notes, safe and secret in her skirt, gave her confidence. Reassured her against the perils of the future, and endowed her with independence. The act was characteristic of her enterprise and of her fundamental prudence. It approached the heroic, and her conscience hotly defended its righteousness. She decided that when he discovered his loss she would merely deny all knowledge of the envelope, for he had not spoken a word to her about it. He never mentioned the details of money. He had a fortune. However, the necessity for this untruth did not occur. He made no reference, whatever, to his loss. The fact was, he thought he had been careless enough to let the envelope befilched from him during the excesses of the night. All day till evening, Sophia sat on a dirty chair without food while Gerald slept. She kept repeating to herself in amazed resentment, a hundred francs for this room, a hundred francs! And he hadn't the pluck to tell me. She could not have expressed her contempt. Long before sheer ennui forced her to look out of the window again, every sign of justice had been removed from the square. Nothing whatever remained in the heavy, august sunshine save gathered heaps of filth where the horses had reared and caracalled. End of book three, chapter three