This was the worst she could think of, and she had been saying to herself that the worst was still to come.A man might marry a woman for her money perfectly well; the thing was often done.But at least he should let her know.She wondered whether, since he had wanted her money, her money would now satisfy him.Would he take her money and let her go? Ah, if Mr.Touchett's great charity would but help her today it would be blessed indeed! It was not slow to occur to her that if Madame Merle had wished to do Gilbert a service his recognition to her of the boon must have lost its warmth.What must be his feelings to-day in regard to his too zealous benefactress, and what expression must they have found on the part of such a master of irony?
It is a singular, but a characteristic, fact that before Isabel returned from her silent drive she had broken its silence by the soft exclamation:
"Poor, poor Madame Merle!"
Her compassion would perhaps have been justified if on this same afternoon she had been concealed behind one of the valuable curtains of time-softened damask which dressed the interesting little salon of the lady to whom it referred; the carefully-arranged apartment to which we once paid a visit in company with the discreet Mr.Rosier.In that apartment, towards six o'clock, Gilbert Osmond was seated, and his hostess stood before him as Isabel had seen her stand on an occasion commemorated in this history with an emphasis appropriate not so much to its apparent as to its real importance.
"I don't believe you're unhappy; I believe you like it," said Madame Merle.
"Did I say I was unhappy?" Osmond asked with a face grave enough to suggest that he might have been.
"No, but you don't say the contrary, as you ought in common gratitude.""Don't talk about gratitude," he returned dryly."And don't aggravate me," he added in a moment.
Madame Merle slowly seated herself, with her arms folded and her white hands arranged as a support to one of them and an ornament, as it were, to the other.She looked exquisitely calm but impressively sad."On your side, don't try to frighten me.I wonder if you guess some of my thoughts.""I trouble about them no more than I can help.I've quite enough of my own.""That's because they're so delightful."
Osmond rested his head against the back of his chair and looked at his companion with a cynical directness which seemed also partly an expression of fatigue."You do aggravate me," he remarked in a moment.
"I'm very tired."
"Eh moi donc!" cried Madame Merle.
"With you it's because you fatigue yourself.With me it's not my own fault.""When I fatigue myself it's for you.I've given you an interest.
That's a great gift."
"Do you call it an interest?" Osmond enquired with detachment.
"Certainly, since it helps you to pass your time.""The time has never seemed longer to me than this winter.""You've never looked better; you've never been so agreeable, so brilliant.""Damn my brilliancy!" he thoughtfully murmured."How little, after all, you know me!""If I don't know you I know nothing," smiled Madame Merle."You've the feeling of complete success.""No, I shall not have that till I've made you stop judging me.""I did that long ago.I speak from old knowledge.But you express yourself more too."Osmond just hung fire."I wish you'd express yourself less!""You wish to condemn me to silence? Remember that I've never been a chatterbox.At any rate there are three or four things I should like to say to you first.Your wife doesn't know what to do with herself," she went on with a change of tone.
"Pardon me; she knows perfectly.She has a line sharply drawn.She means to carry out her ideas.""Her ideas to-day must be remarkable."
"Certainly they are.She has more of them than ever.""She was unable to show me any this morning," said Madame Merle.
"She seemed in a very simple, almost in a stupid, state of mind.She was completely bewildered.""You had better say at once that she was pathetic.""Ah no, I don't want to encourage you too much."He still had his head against the cushion behind him; the ankle of one foot rested on the other knee.So he sat for a while."I should like to know what's the matter with you," he said at last.
"The matter-the matter-!" And here Madame Merle stopped.Then she went on with a sudden outbreak of passion, a burst of summer thunder in a clear sky: "The matter is that I would give my right hand to be able to weep, and that I can't!""What good would it do you to weep?"
"It would make me feel as I felt before I knew you.""If I've dried your tears, that's something.But I've seen you shed them.""Oh, I believe you'll make me cry still.I mean make me howl like a wolf.I've a great hope, I've a great need, of that.I was vile this morning; I was horrid," she said.
"If Isabel was in the stupid state of mind you mention she probably didn't perceive it," Osmond answered.
"It was precisely my deviltry that stupefied her.I couldn't help it; I was full of something bad.Perhaps it was something good; Idon't know.You've not only dried up my tears; you've dried up my soul.""It's not I then that am responsible for my wife's condition,"Osmond said."It's pleasant to think that I shall get the benefit of your influence upon her.Don't you know the soul is an immortal principle? How can it suffer alteration?""I don't believe at all that it's an immortal principle.I believe it can perfectly be destroyed.That's what has happened to mine, which was a very good one to start with; and it's you I have to thank for it.You're very bad," she added with gravity in her emphasis.
