Olive in Italy Part 31

Tor di Rocca had had time to think. "Nothing," he said sweetly.

Silence was again ensuing but Gontrand flung himself into the breach.

"The d.u.c.h.ess said she wanted her daughter's portrait painted."

"She said the same to me."

"Are you going to do it?"

Camille suppressed a yawn. "I don't know. _Qui vivra verra._"

He was glad when they were all gone, Gontrand and Tor di Rocca and the rest, and he could stretch himself and sigh, and sing at the top of his voice:

"'Nicholas, je vais me pendre Qu'est-ce que tu vas dire de cela?

Si vous vous pendez ou v'vous pendez pas ca m'est ben egal, Mam'zelle.

Si vous vous pendez ou v'vous pendez pas Oh, laissez moi planter mes chous!'"

When Olive came out of the inner room presently he told her that he had sold the "Jeune Fille." "The d.u.c.h.ess has nearly commissioned me to paint her Melanie. It went off well, don't you think so? Come at nine to-morrow."

"Yes, if you want me. Good-night, M'sieur Camille," she said. "Are you coming, Rosina?"

"Why do you wait for her?" he asked curiously. "I should not have thought you had much in common."

"She is my friend. She knows I do not care to be alone."

CHAPTER VI

When Olive came to the _atelier_ on the following morning Camille was not there, but the door was open and he had left a note on the table for her.

"I have had a letter from the d.u.c.h.ess. She is leaving Rome to-day but she wants to see me before she goes. It must be about her daughter's portrait. I must go to her hotel, but I shall drive both ways and be back in half an hour. Wait for me.--C. M."

Olive took off her hat and coat as usual behind the screen. She was choosing a book from the tattered row of old favourites on the shelf when she heard a step outside. She listened, thinking that it was Camille, and fearing that the commission had not been given him. It was not like him to be so silent.

"I thought you would be singing--" she stopped short.

Filippo came on into the room.

"M'sieur Michelin is out," she said.

"So the porter told me. You do not think I want to see him. Will you come with me to Albano to-day?"

She shook her head.

"To-morrow, then. Why not?"

"I have my work."

"Your work! I see you believe you can do without me now. How long do you think you will be able to earn money in this way? All these men will be leaving Rome soon. The schools will be closed until next October. You will have to choose between the devil and the deep sea--"

"What is the good of talking about it?" she said wearily. "I know I have nothing to look forward to. I know that. Please go away."

"Do you know that you have cost me more than any other woman I have ever met? You injured me; will you make no amends?"

She laughed. "So you are the victim."

"Yes," he said pa.s.sionately, "I told you before that I suffered, and you believed me then. Is it my fault that I am made like this? Since that night in Florence when I held you in my arms I have had no peace."

"You behaved very badly. I can't think why I let myself be sorry for you."

"Badly! Some men would, but I loved you even then."

She looked wistfully towards the door. "I wish you would go. There are so many other women."

"I love you, I want you," he answered, and he caught her in his arms and held her in spite of her struggles. "I have you!" He forced her head down upon his breast and kissed her mouth. She thought the hateful pressure of his lips, the hateful fire of his eyes would kill her, and when, at last, she wrenched herself away she screamed with the despairing violence of some trapped, wild thing.

"Camille! Camille!"

It seemed to her that if he did not hear her this must be the end of all, and she suffered an agony of terror. She thanked G.o.d as the door below was flung to and he came running up the stairs.

The Prince let her go and half turned to meet him, but Camille was not inclined to parley. He struck, and struck hard. Filippo slipped on the polished floor, tried to recover himself, and fell heavily at the girl's feet.

He got up at once, and the two men stood glaring at each other. Olive looked from one to the other. "It was nothing. I am sorry," she said breathlessly. "He was trying to--I was frightened. It was nothing, really, but--but I am glad you came."

"So am I," the Frenchman said grimly. His blue eyes were grown grey as steel. "I am waiting, Prince."

A little blood had sprung from Filippo's cut lip and run down his chin. He wiped it with his handkerchief and looked thoughtfully at the stain on the white linen before he spoke.

"Who is your friend?"

"Rene Gontrand."

"No, no!" cried the girl. "Filippo, it was your fault. Can't you be sorry and forget? Camille!"

"Hush, child," he said, "you do not understand."

Tor di Rocca was looking at her now with the old insolent smile in his red-brown eyes. "Ah, you said 'Never!' but presently you will come."

So he left them.

Olive expected to be "poored," but Camille, as it seemed, deliberately took no notice of her. She watched him picking a stick of charcoal from the acc.u.mulation of odd brushes, pens and pencils on the table.

"What a handsome devil it is. Lean, lithe and brown. He should go naked as a faun; such things roamed about the primeval woods seeking what they might devour. I wish I had asked him to sit for me."

He went to his easel and began to sketch a head on the canvas he had prepared for the Rosamund. "He has the short Neronic upper lip," he murmured.