Madame de Treymes | Page 8

share naturally includes yours. You know Americans are great hands at
getting over difficulties." He drew himself up confidently. "Just leave
that to me--only tell me exactly what you're afraid of."
She paused again, and then said: "The divorce, to begin with--they will
never consent to it."
He noticed that she spoke as though the interests of the whole clan,
rather than her husband's individual claim, were to be considered; and
the use of the plural pronoun shocked his free individualism like a
glimpse of some dark feudal survival.
"But you are absolutely certain of your divorce! I've consulted--of
course without mentioning names--"
She interrupted him, with a melancholy smile: "Ah, so have I. The
divorce would be easy enough to get, if they ever let it come into the
courts."
"How on earth can they prevent that?"
"I don't know; my never knowing how they will do things is one of the
secrets of their power."
"Their power? What power?" he broke in with irrepressible contempt.
"Who are these bogeys whose machinations are going to arrest the
course of justice in a--comparatively--civilized country? You've told
me yourself that Monsieur de Malrive is the least likely to give you
trouble; and the others are his uncle the abbe, his mother and sister.
That kind of a syndicate doesn't scare me much. A priest and two
women contra mundum!"
She shook her head. "Not contra mundum, but with it, their whole
world is behind them. It's that mysterious solidarity that you can't
understand. One doesn't know how far they may reach, or in how many
directions. I have never known. They have always cropped up where I
least expected them."

Before this persistency of negation Durham's buoyancy began to flag,
but his determination grew the more fixed.
"Well, then, supposing them to possess these supernatural powers; do
you think it's to people of that kind that I'll ever consent to give you
up?"
She raised a half-smiling glance of protest. "Oh, they're not wantonly
wicked. They'll leave me alone as long as--"
"As I do?" he interrupted. "Do you want me to leave you alone? Was
that what you brought me here to tell me?"
The directness of the challenge seemed to gather up the scattered
strands of her hesitation, and lifting her head she turned on him a look
in which, but for its underlying shadow, he might have recovered the
full free beam of Fanny Frisbee's gaze.
"I don't know why I brought you here," she said gently, "except from
the wish to prolong a little the illusion of being once more an American
among Americans. Just now, sitting there with your mother and Katy
and Nannie, the difficulties seemed to vanish; the problems grew as
trivial to me as they are to you. And I wanted them to remain so a little
longer; I wanted to put off going back to them. But it was of no
use--they were waiting for me here. They are over there now in that
house across the river." She indicated the grey sky-line of the Faubourg,
shining in the splintered radiance of the sunset beyond the long sweep
of the quays. "They are a part of me--I belong to them. I must go back
to them!" she sighed.
She rose slowly to her feet, as though her metaphor had expressed an
actual fact and she felt herself bodily drawn from his side by the
influences of which she spoke.
Durham had risen too. "Then I go back with you!" he exclaimed
energetically; and as she paused, wavering a little under the shock of
his resolve: "I don't mean into your house--but into your life!" he said.

She suffered him, at any rate, to accompany her to the door of the
house, and allowed their debate to prolong itself through the almost
monastic quiet of the quarter which led thither. On the way, he
succeeded in wresting from her the confession that, if it were possible
to ascertain in advance that her husband's family would not oppose her
action, she might decide to apply for a divorce. Short of a positive
assurance on this point, she made it clear that she would never move in
the matter; there must be no scandal, no retentissement, nothing which
her boy, necessarily brought up in the French tradition of scrupulously
preserved appearances, could afterward regard as the faintest blur on
his much-quartered escutcheon. But even this partial concession again
raised fresh obstacles; for there seemed to be no one to whom she could
entrust so delicate an investigation, and to apply directly to the Marquis
de Malrive or his relatives appeared, in the light of her past experience,
the last way of learning their intentions.
"But," Durham objected, beginning to suspect a morbid fixity of idea in
her