The Madonna of the Sleeping Cars Read Online Free Page B

American Beauty roses fell casually from a crystal vase. On the walls I caught a glimpse of some ancient engravings by Nanteuil, an original by Felician Rops, a picture by Alma-Tadema, absurdly childish in its character, and a tremendous portrait of Milady herself, seated before her dressing-table.
    Lady Diana made me admire her white marble bathroom—worthy of a Roman Empress—and her dressing-room, done in Nile green silk, where bottles of perfume alternated with vials of cosmetics, a complete laboratory for the upkeep of the epidermis.
    The next day I embarked on my new career. I kept my little apartment in Kensington because I felt that it was more correct to live there, and I consecrated all my waking hours to this charming, although difficult, aristocrat. Every day she found some means of introducing me to her friends. They were astonished to learn that the Prince Séliman was in the employ of the beautiful widow from Berkeley Square. Some even insinuated that I was concerned less in defending her interests than in attacking her virtue. But let the gossips spread their poisonous remarks through the smoking-rooms of clubs, and the most exclusive drawing-rooms. In spite of any desires I may have had, I confined myself to kissing Lady Diana’s proffered hand but twice a day.
    The morning after the consultation with Professor Traurig I penetrated into the confines of her boudoir at about eleven o’clock. Ordinarily she was dressed—sparsely, I admit—and helped me with the business of reading her mail, but this time her maid, a French girl called Juliette, told me:
    “Oh, Monsieur—I can’t understand what Milady can have done last night! She went out after dinner in the simplest of tailor-made suits and she never returned until five o’clock this morning! I asked her if I could do anything for her, but she only said, ‘No, you may have the evening to yourself.’ ”
    A voice called to me through the closed door:
    “Gerard! Come in, please. I want to talk to you.”
    I went into the sanctuary. Lady Diana was still in bed. She made me sit down beside her; straightened out her pillow with a vicious little fist, and looked at me—her arms forming a right angle behind her head.
    “Gerard—please don’t scold me. I did a bit of slumming on my own last night—but it’s a little your fault, or, if you don’t admit that—it’s on account of that idiot Traurig with his questionnaire. Only an old bounder would ask such things.”
    “Lady Diana!”
    “But really, Gerard, I’ll never do it again.”
    Her angelic blue eyes gazed at me. There was no question as to their sincerity. She asked me in a gentle voice, so gentle, “Gerard, do you really think I’m a bad woman?”
    Is a woman really bad when she tries to hide her shortcomings the way Circe did, and when she is dressed by the best
couturiére
in the world? How can one distinguish between good and bad in anybody? People’s minds are like beehives. If the “rainbow” is an intoxicating drink of which the various ingredients form a liquid prism, why, then, should not Lady Diana’s ego be a rainbow of virtues and vices which can triumph over the most fastidious morals?
    “My dear,” I said, affectionately caressing her little wrist, “you are not a bad woman. You’re a philanthropist.”
    “A philanthropist! Gerard, don’t exaggerate things. Remember that Lord Wynham is watching us from the soft spotin heaven where he is expiating his immoderate love for roast beef and thick puddings. Lord Wynham would probably take exception to your last remark.”
    “I thought you understood that I was speaking figuratively.”
    “Oh, well, if that’s the case—I suppose you’ve given me a back-handed rebuke. So much the better. Anyway, Gerard, you may as well know the whole truth. One day, perhaps, I shall be forced to live—to earn my pocket money—by permitting unwelcome kisses.”
    “Lady Diana, your language astonishes me. I can’t imagine your