"I became a model--" She paused, but he said nothing and she went on.

"I sat for one man only after the first week, and he was always good and kind to me, always. He painted a picture of me--I think you would like it--and the day before yesterday he had a show of his work. A lot of people came. I did not see Prince Tor di Rocca, but he was there, and after a while he spoke to me. I had met him before and I understood from what he said that Mamie Whittaker had broken her engagement with him.

"The next morning M'sieur Camille had to go out, and I was alone in the studio when the Prince came in and tried to make love to me. I was frightened, and I screamed, and just then Camille returned, and he knocked him down. He got up again at once. Nothing much was said, and he went away, but I understood that they were going to fight. I went home and thought about it, and when I realised that one or other of them might be killed I felt I could not bear it.

"I am so afraid of death, Jean. I try to believe in a future life, but that will be different, and I want the people I love in this one; just human, looking tired sometimes and shabby, or happy and pleased about things. I remember my mother had a blue hat that suited her, and I can't think of it now without tears, because I long to see her pinning it on before the gla.s.s and asking me if it is straight, and I suppose I shall never see or hear that again, even if we do meet in heaven. Death is so absolutely the end. If only people are alive distance and absence don't really matter; there is always hope. And then, you know, Camille is so brilliant; it would be a loss to France, to the whole world, if he was killed."

"What did you say his name was?"

"Camille Michelin."

"I know him then. He came to me once in Paris, after a concert, and fell on my neck without an introduction. Afterwards he painted my portrait."

"He is nice, isn't he?" she said eagerly.

He a.s.sented. "Well, go on. You could not let them fight--"

"I went to see the Prince at his hotel, and I persuaded him to write a sort of apology."

"You persuaded him. How?"

"Jean, that man is the exact opposite of the centurion's servant; say 'go' and he stays, 'don't do it' and he does it. And I once made the fatal mistake of telling him I could never love him. He did not want me to before, but now-- He is a spoilt boy who only cares for the fruit that is forbidden or withheld. It is the scaling of the orchard wall that he enjoys; if he could walk in by the gate in broad daylight I am sure he never would, or, at any rate, he would soon walk out again. I promised to come here alone to meet him, and not to tell Camille, and I have kept my promise. If you knew how frightened I was.... I thought you might be away, and that Hilaire perhaps could not come in your stead, though I knew he would if it were possible."

The man left her then and went to the window, where he stood looking out upon the driving mist and rain that made the troubled waters of the lake seem grey, and shrouded all the wooded hills beyond.

"Suppose I had not come," he said presently. "What would you have done?"

"You ask that?"

He turned upon her. "Yes," he said hardly, "just that."

She took a small pistol from the pocket of her loose sac coat and gave it to him.

"So you were going to shoot him? I thought--"

She tried to still the quivering of her lips. "No, myself. Oh, I am not really inconsistent. I told you I was afraid of death. I will say all now and have done; I am afraid of life too, with its long slow pains, and most of all of what men call love. I don't want to go on,"

she cried hysterically. "I am sick. I don't want to see, or hear, or feel anything any more. I have had enough. All this year I have struggled, and people have been kind; but friendship is a poor, weak thing, and love--love is hateful."

She hid her face in her hands.

"Rubbish!" he said, and then, in a changed voice, "My darling, you will be better soon. I must get you away from here."

Gently he drew her hands away from her face and lifted them to his lips; the soft palms were wet with tears.

They were standing on the threshold of an inner room. "You can go in here until I have done with Tor di Rocca," he said. "But first I must tell you that Gertrude has written to me asking me to get a divorce.

There is a man, of course, and the case will not be defended. Olive, will you marry me when I am free?"

"Oh, Jean, I--I am so glad."

"You will marry me then?" he insisted.

"How thin you are, my dear. Just a very nice bag of bones. Were--were you sorry when I came away?"

"You little torment," he said. "Answer me."

"Ask again. I want to hear."

"Will you marry me?"

"Yes, of course."

A nightingale began to sing in the garden; broken notes, a mere echo of what the stars heard at night, but infinitely sweet as the soul of a rose made audible; and as he sang a sudden ray of sunshine shot the grey rain with silver. It seemed to Jean that rose-sweetness was all about him in this his short triumph of love; that a flower's heart beat against his own, that a flower's lips caressed the lean darkness of his cheek. There were threads of gold in the soft brown tangle of hair--gold unalloyed as was the hard-won happiness that made him feel himself invincible, panoplied in an armour of joy that should defend them from all slings and arrows. He was happy, and so the world seemed full of music; there was harmony in the swaying of tall dark cypresses, moved by winds that strewed the gra.s.s with torn petals of orange blossoms from the trees by the lake side, in the clouds'

processional, in the patter of rain on the green shining laurel leaves.

Laurels--his laurels had been woven in with rue, and latterly with rosemary for dear remembrance; he had never cared greatly for his fame and it seemed worthless to him now that he had realised his dream and gathered his rose.

He was impatient to be gone, to take the woman he loved out of this house of sad memories, of empty echoes, of dust and rust and decay.

Already he seemed to feel the rush of the cold night air, to hear the roar of Arno, hurrying to the sea, above the steady throbbing of the car; to see the welcoming lights of home shining out of the dark at the steep edge of the hills above Settignano.

"About the Prince," he said presently. "Am I to fight him?"

She started. "Oh, no! That would be worse than ever. I thought you were too English for that," she said navely.

He smiled. "Well, perhaps I am, but I suppose there may be a bit of a scuffle. You won't mind that?"

"I don't know," she said helplessly.

A moment later they heard the gate creak as it swung on its hinges.

"He is coming."

They kissed hurriedly, with, on her side, a pa.s.sion of farewell, and he would have made her go into the room beyond, but she clung to him, crying incoherently. "No ... no ... together ..."

Tor di Rocca stopped short by the door; the smile that had been in his hot eyes as they met Olive's faded, and the short, Neronic upper lip lifted in a sort of snarl.

"I don't quite understand," he said. "How did you come here? This is my house, Avenel."

"I know it, and I do not wish to trespa.s.s on your hospitality. You will excuse us?"

But the Prince stood in the way. "I am not a child to be played with.

I'll not let her go. You may leave us, however," he added, and he stood aside as though to let him pa.s.s.

Jean met his angry eyes. "The lady is unwilling. Let that be the end,"

he said quietly.

Olive watched the Italian fearfully; his face was writhen, and all semblance of beauty had gone out of it; its gnawing, tearing, animal ferocity was appalling. When he called to her she moved instinctively nearer to Jean, and then with the swift prescience of love threw herself on his breast, tried to shelter him, as the other drew his revolver and fired.

Jean had his arm about her, but he let her slip now and fall in a huddled heap at his feet. She was safer there, and out of the way. The two men exchanged several shots, but Jean's went wide; he was hampered by his heavy motor coat, and the second bullet had scored its way through his flesh before he could get at his weapon; there were four in his body when he dropped.

Tor di Rocca leant against the wall; he was unhurt, but he felt a little faint and sick for the moment. Hurriedly he rehea.r.s.ed what he should say to the _Questore_ presently. He had met the girl in this house of his; Avenel, her lover, had broken in upon them; he had shot her and fired at the Prince himself, but without effect, and he had killed him in self-defence.