She put aside her napkin.
"Would you like me to open the window a bit?" he said.
"Yes please."
"I'd much rather go to Borchard's; but Borchard's have no cabinets particuliers."
"Jules," said Caroline. "I cannot go through with this."
She felt him go stiff, as a dog goes stiff in mid-run.
After a moment he said, "I always knew it was too good to be true."
She gave him a look. "I did not mean it like this, I'm not trying to jilt you. Is this how they do it? I was not thinking of you."
He waited.
"I cannot go through—all this. The nuptial mills—Berlin Cathedral— That is one aisle I do not wish to walk up. And I will not." She took fire. "I can do many things. There're things that are impossible for me to do. And I'm perfectly clear as to those!"
Jules said, slowly, gently, "Is it because of the previous attachment?"
She gave him another swift look; then she allowed a silence. "Jules, you are the most extraordinary man. Yes. At least partly. I don't know. I've taken an independent dislikes of aisles."
He said gravely, "One is not happy at these ceremonies."
"Jules." She held his eyes. "I'm going to ask something of you. Do not say no too quickly. I am asking you to go away with me, now, soon, at once—before this ghastly date."
Jules listened.
"Let's get on the train to Spain and clear out. Get me out of here before I lose my mind."
"How can I?" said Jules. Then, "Yes—I could, I can." His voice changed to a high, reciting tone and he went on, "I can take you away, I shall get you away. Tomorrow?"
"You are wonderful," she said. "You've given me confidence in myself, I was more right about you than I knew. And Jules—I shall never forget this— you will be able to count on me too."
"I only want to be with you," he said.
He poured her a glass of the wine and she drank it, and she also ate some of the bread and butter.
"And now that's settled, we might as well do some thinking. We had better get married all the same, don't you agree? Rather an unnecessary act of folly if I were to run off with you at this point."
"Whatever you prefer," Jules said. "Unmarried lasts longer."
"Give me some more bread and butter. Like poor Jeanne. Has it with you? I always heard you were so flighty."
"Over twenty years," he said. "Of course with interruptions."
"And never a thought of wedlock?"
"It would not have been suitable earlier on. And when one might have, there were obstacles. It would have been very comfortable. Now I'm glad."
"Sarah says you almost married a French widow."
"Not a widow," said Jules.
"My pet, I must tell Sarah myself. You will have to explain or fail to explain to everybody else. I'm leaving it all to you. I suppose then a quick job at a registry office? There must be such a thing. We have three days. At least you know the language."
"Clara?"
"She'll have to lump it. J shall have to telegraph my uncle. He ought to be grateful for being saved from Bernin. Poor Uncle John has such a boyish nature; I feel at last I'm standing guard over his career."
"Clara would mind our believing we were married when we are not."
"Of course! civil marriage doesn't count in your—in our —church. Oh dear. I don't think we can do that to her. . . . Well, we must find some friar in a village in Spain soon and send her a post card or the certificate."
"Two marriages. . . ."
"Darling."
He got up, and found the bell.
"Yes, do order some lunch," she said.
"The oysters have got warm," said Jules. "I ate mine."
They were married by a priest in the anteroom at Voss Strasse in the presence of Clara and Gottlieb. The Merzes had been persuaded not to appear. They sent a hamper to the train.
There had been one more hitch: Caroline had pensioned off her Brown at the time of her engagement, and the new woman suddenly refused to travel. "I shall have to sleep in my clothes," she told Sarah. "It won't be easy to find someone here," Sarah said. Finally, Grandmama offered to lend her own maid Marie, and Marie said she did not mind if she saw Spain again before she died.
After it was over, Caroline said, "This room looks strange? Oh, it's Jules's cats."
"I asked them to remove those idols," said Clara.
Caroline shook hands with the priest and with Gottlieb. Clara kissed her. Then Clara and the priest left. Jules drew his watch.
"Do go up to Henrietta," said Caroline.
In the carriage, they looked out of their windows.
"In Rome one throws a coin into that fountain," said Jules.
"I am cold."
Halfway to the station, Jules said, "Sarah asked me to give you a message. It's about your present. She's giving you one of her pictures."
Caroline waited.
"The large one you know. The two women on the bench."
She went white.
"I was to tell you: as she did not know where you would be, she left it in Paris for you; it is in a strong room in a bank in your name."
"She shouldn't have done that. No —**
"You like that picture, do you not?" said Jules.
She shut her eyes. "What it must be like to be able to give something like that. . . . Scaring." "Now it belongs to you."
Caroline burst into tears. "Sarah has given me her Monet—the beautiful Monet—" She wept loudly, more like a boy sobbing over a dead rat than a lady driving in the morning through the streets. "I've been beastly to Sarah, beastly— And now I can't even tell her. I've behaved like a monster— Oh Jules." She took the handkerchief from him. "Clara is right. She says I am wilful."
When they had been in Spain for six months Jules bought a horse for Caroline.
"Do you think it will please her? It is a surprise."
"I am sure it is a very fine animal."
"You see, the weather is getting cooler. Shall I have him brought round to the patio?"
"Frau Baronin is resting. Frau Baronin said she was not to be disturbed."
"Oh of course not," said Jules.
Marie moved to go.
"Did the English books arrive today?"
"No sir."
"Do you think they could be lost?*'
"It would not be surprising, sir."
"What can we do?" said Jules.
"If there is nothing else, sir?"
"Send me Pedro, will you?"
"Pedro's gone into town with Frau Baronin's letters."
"Oh, yes. Perhaps if we sent someone to Gibraltar?"
"Gibraltar, sir?"
"There must be English books at Gibraltar."
"I am sure I don't know, sir."
The distance of humped hills lay drained ivory at that hour. Caroline was standing in her room. Tu reclamais le soir; il descend; le void. "And then," she said. "And then . . ." "Oh, is that you?" She did not turn. "What time is it?" "Getting on for half past five, ma'am."
"It can't be; the sun's down."
"Well, the days are drawing in."
"We seem to be dining just as late," said Caroline.
"Herr Baron has been in some time."
"I think I'll have my bath now. How's the water?"
"Herr Baron has had the second cistern filled today."
"No; it's too soon. I shall wait for a bit later. I'll ring."
"Very good ma'am."
"Marie—do you ever have headaches?"
"Oh no, ma'am."
"I have been lying down."
"Ma'am ought to be lying down."
"What is it?"
"It's me, ma'am. Herr Baron is in the east loggia. Herr Baron wishes to know if Frau Baronin will join him in a game of dominoes and a glass of wine before dinner?"
"Oh, all right; I'll be down presently. What are you fussing about?"
"I'm putting out ma'am's clothes."
"Oh I'm not going to change."
The carriage was in the drive. Jules had been ready this half hour. "We shall be late," he said.
"For the fireworks," said Pedro.
"There'll be fireworks three days," said the coachman.
"The Procession," said Jules. "The Procession is always so beautiful."
Pedro sprang to open the front door.
"Frau Baronin is not coming. Frau Baronin has changed her mind."
"Not coming to the fiesta?" Jules said. "Perhaps it was tiring the last time." He turned to the house.
"What is it?"
"The horses are getting restless."
"Why?"
"The horses in the carriage, sir." "Oh, tell them to unharness. I am not going.'*
"What is it?"
"It's Marie. I've made you a cup of chocolate, sir. Pedro has shown me the way Herr Baron likes it."
"We have been asked to Alcantarra again. For the shoot."
"So we have."
"Will you go?"
"And sit in a drawing room with forty women and their cream-puffs with the shutters down."
"You could be more with the men."
"The men. Oh I suppose the men are all right. As long as one doesn't have to talk to them."
"Then you will go?"
"No, Jules."
At the end of the autumn Jules asked Caroline if she would prefer to spend some time in Madrid. Caroline said, what for?
"Perhaps you would rather go somewhere else?"
"I didn't know we were to move. You organized it all so well here." He said nothing. "Haven't you?"
"I thought you might like to," said Jules.
"Oh, I."
"Robert and Tzara used to be like that."
"Robert and Tzara?"
"When we stayed in Paris too long."
"So you took them to the country?"
"Yes," said Jules.
"How very unselfish."
He said nothing.
"I don't think they were so much nicer than I am."
"They could not help it."
"How I loathe patience. I wish I were a man."
"Oh, no," he said. "Why?"
"To run away to sea."
"In a tiny cabin, inside a ship? and never go anywhere by oneself—you wouldn't like that at all. Someone else I knew talked about going on a ship." He turned his look on her as if to find some sustenance. "He tried to run away."
In his boyhood Jules's imagination had been much impressed by a circus turn called the salto mortale. Now, he had the sense of his dreams of forty years ago, of being at the trigger second of the anguish and imperative to leap—through the blazing cupola into sawdust, safety, light. "He was my brother," he said. "You know, I had a brother?"
"Oh, of course," said Caroline.
"Perhaps," Jules said, "it is not so bad to die?"
"Not to be had for the asking," she said. "What am I supposed to do in Madrid?"
"Madrid?" said Jules.
"What am I supposed to do in Madrid?"
He gave her a helpless look.
"Then why suggest it?"
"It is a town," he said.
"Nothing would surprise me in this country."
In January Caroline suffered Jules to make the change. She liked nothing about it. It was bitter cold; a cutting wind from the Guadarrama blew across the squares; if beauty of walls and stone had failed to strike, urban ugliness could only swell oppression. The floor Jules had been able to take for them had mildewed hangings and was exposed to a hundred draughts, and it displayed a number of rather startling inconveniences. Again she submitted to the days within the lines of least resistance. But here, passivity meant balls, drives, theatres, tradesmen, streets; they were besieged by callers. She was chilly, generally bored, and often not too comfortable, but she did not have a moment to herself, and she was—an achievement in that
city—always a little late. One morning she woke, looked out of the window, laughed at a quarrel, ordered her horse, learnt that her saddle had vanished, and told herself that misery was a habit and like all habits can be broken. She returned at tea time.
Dona Nieve and her daughters, she was told, were in the sala.
"Seven, did I hear you say, Pedro?"
"Five, your Excellency."
"They cannot go on waiting all evening? Go slow on the refreshments." She went to find Jules.
"You look wonderful," he said.
"How can I? In these rags."
"Not the clothes," said Jules.
"My poor darling. How true. I think I will see Dona Nieve. I shall ask her advice. They will find that so placating."
"Oh I shouldn't do that."
"Placate her?"
"Go to her dressmaker."
"My dear: she looks perfectly gorgeous to me."
"Passably," said Jules.
"Where shall I go?"
"I will tell you. I shall find out exactly."
"From whom?"
"Someone you don't know."
"Well dressed?"
"Oh yes," said Jules.
She sat down and laughed. "I see such a neat joke against myself. I am so slow. I do wish I could share it with someone."
"With me?" said Jules.
"I don't think so."
"Don't come to the ball tonight—you know how you hate it."
"Someone must go with you."
"Nonsense, Cher; you forget Dona Nieve and her seven dwarfs. They eat out of my hand."
"Who will see you home?"
"You know I shall be scandalously late. Oh, Mendoza, or someone."
"That would not be suitable."
"Really, Jules. . . ."
"You do not know this country."
"I've got a pretty good idea."
"One must be very careful," he said, "in our circumstances."
"What can you mean?" said Caroline.
"Mendoza is your lover?"
"Since you ask."
"Forgive me."
"Not at all. Oh, darling." She held out a hand. "I'm so glad you're still able to surprise me. You do, you know. You must have had the most un-Victorian upbringing."
"And Zunega de Valdafuentes?"
"Is that his name? I've only heard him called Zuzu. Yes."
"All of them—" said Jules.
"Oh no, no. Not all."
"No, not all. Mr. Symington?"
"Mr. Symington and I talk. I'm very fond of Mr. Symington."
"Like me."
"I am very fond of you, Jules. Much fonder than of Mr. Symington."
"Yes," said Jules.
"My dear," she said, "I suppose I ought to say it, though the moment is really too horribly pat, you know: if you want to call it a day, and I don't see how you can want to do anything else, it's up to you of course. I shall do whatever seems least intolerable to you—separation, divorce; I need hardly tell you that it's been all my fault."