she cares nothing for all these! Art and beauty,
those she does care for, she lives for, as I always
have; and those also surrounded her. Pictures,
priceless furniture, music, brilliant conversation—ah,
that, my dear young man, if you’ll excuse me,
is what you’ve no conception of here!
And she had it all; and the homage of the greatest.
She tells me she is not thought handsome in New York—good
heavens! Her portrait has been painted nine
times; the greatest artists in Europe have begged
for the privilege. Are these things nothing?
And the remorse of an adoring husband?”
As the Marchioness Manson rose to her climax her
face assumed an expression of ecstatic retrospection
which would have moved Archer’s mirth had he
not been numb with amazement.
He would have laughed if any one had foretold to
him that his first sight of poor Medora Manson would
have been in the guise of a messenger of Satan; but
he was in no mood for laughing now, and she seemed
to him to come straight out of the hell from which
Ellen Olenska had just escaped.
“She knows nothing yet—of all this?”
he asked abruptly.
Mrs. Manson laid a purple finger on her lips.
“Nothing directly—but does she suspect?
Who can tell? The truth is, Mr. Archer, I have
been waiting to see you. From the moment I heard
of the firm stand you had taken, and of your influence
over her, I hoped it might be possible to count on
your support—to convince you . . .”
“That she ought to go back? I would rather
see her dead!” cried the young man violently.
“Ah,” the Marchioness murmured, without
visible resentment. For a while she sat in her
arm-chair, opening and shutting the absurd ivory fan
between her mittened fingers; but suddenly she lifted
her head and listened.
“Here she comes,” she said in a rapid
whisper; and then, pointing to the bouquet on the
sofa: “Am I to understand that you prefer
that, Mr. Archer? After all, marriage is
marriage . . . and my niece is still a wife. . .”
“What are you two plotting together, aunt Medora?”
Madame Olenska cried as she came into the room.
She was dressed as if for a ball. Everything
about her shimmered and glimmered softly, as if her
dress had been woven out of candle-beams; and she
carried her head high, like a pretty woman challenging
a roomful of rivals.
“We were saying, my dear, that here was something
beautiful to surprise you with,” Mrs. Manson
rejoined, rising to her feet and pointing archly to
the flowers.
Madame Olenska stopped short and looked at the bouquet.
Her colour did not change, but a sort of white radiance
of anger ran over her like summer lightning.
“Ah,” she exclaimed, in a shrill voice
that the young man had never heard, “who is
ridiculous enough to send me a bouquet? Why
a bouquet? And why tonight of all nights?
I am not going to a ball; I am not a girl engaged
to be married. But some people are always ridiculous.”
