The Red Lily | Page 3

to herself that she would not go, that she
must remain in Paris. But the idea of seeing Miss Bell in Italy was not
indifferent to her. And turning the leaves of the book, she stopped by
chance at this line:
Love and gentle heart are one.
And she asked herself, with gentle irony, whether Miss Bell had ever
been in love, and what manner of man could be the ideal of Miss Bell.
The poetess had at Fiesole an escort, Prince Albertinelli. He was very
handsome, but rather coarse and vulgar; too much so to please an
aesthete who blended with the desire for love the mysticism of an
Annunciation.
"Good-evening, Therese. I am positively worn out."
The Princess Seniavine had entered, supple in her furs, which almost
seemed to form a part of her dark beauty. She seated herself brusquely,
and, in a voice at once harsh yet caressing, said:
"This morning I walked through the park with General Lariviere. I met
him in an alley and made him go with me to the bridge, where he
wished to buy from the guardian a learned magpie which performs the
manual of arms with a gun. Oh! I am so tired!"
"But why did you drag the General to the bridge?"
"Because he had gout in his toe."
Therese shrugged her shoulders, smiling:
"You squander your wickedness. You spoil things."
"And you wish me, dear, to save my kindness and my wickedness for a
serious investment?"
Therese made her drink some Tokay.

Preceded by the sound of his powerful breathing, General Lariviere
approached with heavy state and sat between the two women, looking
stubborn and self-satisfied, laughing in every wrinkle of his face.
"How is Monsieur Martin-Belleme? Always busy?"
Therese thought he was at the Chamber, and even that he was making a
speech there.
Princess Seniavine, who was eating caviare sandwiches, asked Madame
Martin why she had not gone to Madame Meillan's the day before.
They had played a comedy there.
"A Scandinavian play? Was it a success?"
"Yes--I don't know. I was in the little green room, under the portrait of
the Duc d'Orleans. Monsieur Le Menil came to me and did me one of
those good turns that one never forgets. He saved me from Monsieur
Garain."
The General, who knew the Annual Register, and stored away all useful
information, pricked up his ears.
"Garain," he asked, "the minister who was in the Cabinet when the
princes were exiled?"
"Himself. I was excessively agreeable to him. He talked to me of the
yearnings of his heart and he looked at me with alarming tenderness.
And from time to time he gazed, with sighs, at the portrait of the Duc
d'Orleans. I said to him: 'Monsieur Garain, you are making a mistake. It
is my sister-in-law who is an Orleanist. I am not.' At this moment
Monsieur Le Menil came to escort me to the buffet. He paid great
compliments--to my horses! He said, also, there was nothing so
beautiful as the forest in winter. He talked about wolves. That refreshed
me."
The General, who did not like young men, said he had met Le Menil
the day before in the forest, galloping, with vast space between himself

and his saddle.
He declared that old cavaliers alone retained the traditions of good
horsemanship; that people in society now rode like jockeys.
"It is the same with fencing," he added. "Formerly--"
Princess Seniavine interrupted him:
"General, look and see how charming Madame Martin is. She is always
charming, but at this moment she is prettier than ever. It is because she
is bored. Nothing becomes her better than to be bored. Since we have
been here, we have bored her terribly. Look at her: her forehead
clouded, her glance vague, her mouth dolorous. Behold a victim!"
She arose, kissed Therese tumultuously, and fled, leaving the General
astonished.
Madame Martin-Belleme prayed him not to listen to what the Princess
had said.
He collected himself and asked:
"And how are your poets, Madame?"
It was difficult for him to forgive Madame Martin her preference for
people who lived by writing and were not of his circle.
"Yes, your poets. What has become of that Monsieur Choulette, who
visits you wrapped in a red muffler?"
"My poets? They forget me, they abandon me. One should not rely on
anybody. Men and women--nothing is sure. Life is a continual betrayal.
Only that poor Miss Bell does not forget me. She has written to me
from Florence and sent her book."
"Miss Bell? Isn't she that young person who looks, with her yellow
waving hair, like a little lapdog?"

He reflected, and expressed the opinion that she must be at least thirty.
An old lady, wearing with modest dignity her crown of white hair, and
a