Even in that
she would no doubt seek the consolation of notoriety. It would be in
all the papers. If she had the nerve to carry on people would crowd to
see her, as in the Roman days they had crowded to the circus (gloating
and stroking themselves secretly, thinking: "It is not I who am
dying"). Or she would seek dramatic refuge in her absurd palace and
surround herself with tragic glamour, making use of her own death as
she had used the death of that infatuated and unhappy prince.
And yet he was sick at heart. In flashes he saw his own attitude as
something hideous and abnormal. Then again he justified it, as he had
always justified it. He found himself arguing the whole matter out
with Francey Wilmot--a cool and reasoned exposition such as he had been
incapable of at the crisis of their relationship. ("This woman is a
malignant growth. Nature destroys her. Do you pretend to feel regret
or pity?") But though he imagined the whole scene--saw himself as
authoritative and convincing--he could not re-create Francey Wilmot.
She remained herself. Her eyes, fixed on him with that remembered look
of candid and questioning tenderness, blazed up into an anger as
unexpectedly fierce and uncompromising. And he was not so strong. He
had overworked all his life. Starved too often. The ground slipped
from under his feet.
It was a poor, vulgar show--a pantomime jerry-built to accommodate her
particular talent. She walked through it--the dumb but irresistible
model of a French atelier, who made fools of all her lovers, cheated
them, sucked them dry and tossed them off with a merry cynicism.
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