The Inevitable. Louis Couperus

when the marchesa, also smiling, appeared at the door, with her bosom moulded in sky-blue satin and with even larger crystals than usual in her ears. The room was full: there were the Van der Staals, Cornélie, Rudyard, Urania Hope and other guests going in and out, so that it became impossible to move and they stood packed together or sat on the draped beds of the mother and daughter. The marchesa led in beside her an unknown young man, short, slender, with a pale olive complexion and with dark, bright, witty, lively eyes. He wore dress-clothes and displayed the vague good manners of a beloved and careless viveur, distinguished and yet conceited. And she proudly went up to the Baronin, who kept prettily wiping her moist eyes, and with a certain arrogance presented:

      “My nephew, Duca di San Stefano, Principe di Forte-Braccio....”

      The well-known Italian name sounded from her lips in the small, crowded room with deliberate distinctness; and all eyes went to the young man, who bowed low before the Baronin and then looked round the room with a vague, ironical glance. The marchesa’s nephew had not yet been seen at the hotel that winter, but everybody knew that the young Duke of San Stefano, Prince of Forte-Braccio, was a nephew of the marchesa’s and one of the advertisements for her pension. And, while the prince talked to the Baronin and her daughter, Urania Hope stared at him as a miraculous being from another world. She clung tight to Cornélie’s arm, as though she were in danger of fainting at the sight of so much Italian nobility and greatness. She thought him very good-looking, very imposing, short and slender and pale, with his carbuncle eyes and his weary distinction and the white orchid in his button-hole. She would have loved to ask the marchioness to introduce her to her chic nephew, but she dared not, for she thought of her father’s stockinet-factory at Chicago.

      The Christmas-tree party and the dance took place the following night. It became known that the marchesa’s nephew was coming that evening too; and a great excitement reigned throughout the day. The prince arrived after the presents had been taken down from the tree and distributed and made a sort of state entry by the side of his aunt, the marchesa, into the drawing-room, where the dancing had not yet begun, though the guests were sitting about the room, all fixing their eyes on the ducal and princely apparition.

      Cornélie was strolling with Duco van der Staal, who to his mother’s and sisters’ great surprise had fished out his dress-clothes and appeared in the big hall; and they both observed the triumphant entry of la Belloni and her nephew and laughed at the fanatically upturned eyes of the English and American ladies. They, Cornélie and Duco, sat down in the hall on two chairs, in front of a clump of palms, which concealed one of the doors of the drawing-room, while the dance began inside. They were talking about the statues in the Vatican, which they had been to see two days before, when they heard, as though close to their ears, a voice which they recognized as the marchesa’s commanding organ, vainly striving to sink into a whisper. They looked round in surprise and perceived the hidden door, which was partly open, and through the open space they faintly distinguished the slim hand and black sleeve of the prince and a piece of the blue bosom of la Belloni, both seated on a sofa in the drawing-room. They were therefore back to back, separated by the half-open door. They listened for fun to the marchesa’s Italian; the prince’s answers were lisped so softly that they could scarcely catch them. And of what the marchesa said they heard only a few words and scraps of sentences. They were listening quite involuntarily, when they heard Rudyard’s name clearly pronounced by the marchesa.

      “And who besides?” asked the prince, softly.

      “An English miss,” said the marchesa. “Miss Taylor: she’s sitting over there, by herself in the corner. A simple little soul.... The Baronin and her daughter.... The Dutchwoman: a divorcée.... And the pretty American.”

      “And those two very attractive Dutch girls?” asked the prince.

      The music boom-boomed louder; and Cornélie and Duco did not catch the reply.

      “And the divorced Dutchwoman?” the prince asked next.

      “No money,” the marchesa answered, curtly.

      “And the young baroness?”

      “No money,” la Belloni repeated.

      “So there’s no one except the stocking-merchant?” asked the prince, wearily.

      La Belloni became cross, but Cornélie and Duco could not understand the sentences which she rattled out through the boom-booming music. Then, during a lull, they heard the marchesa say:

      “She is very pretty. She has tons and tons of money. She could have gone to a first-class hotel but preferred to come here because, as a young girl travelling by herself, she was recommended to me and finds it pleasanter here. She has the big sitting-room to herself and pays fifty lire a day for her two rooms. She does not care about money. She pays three times as much as the others for her wood; and I also charge her for the wine.”

      “She sells stockings,” muttered the prince, obstinately.

      “Nonsense!” said the marchesa. “Remember that there’s nobody at the moment. Last winter we had rich English titled people, with a daughter, but you thought her too tall. You’re always discovering some objection. You mustn’t be so difficult.”

      “I think those two little Dutch dolls attractive.”

      “They have no money. You’re always thinking what you have no business to think.”

      “How much did Papa promise you if you....”

      The music boomed louder.

      “ ... makes no difference.... If Rudyard talks to her.... Miss Taylor is easy.... Miss Hope....”

      “I don’t want so many stockings as all that.”

      “ ... very witty, I dare say.... If you don’t care to....”

      “No.”

      “ ... then I retire.... I’ll tell Rudyard so.... How much?”

      “Sixty or seventy thousand: I don’t know exactly.”

      “Are they urgent?”

      “Debts are never urgent!”

      “Do you agree?”

      “Very well. But mind, I won’t sell myself for less than ten millions.... And then you get....”

      They both laughed; and again the names of Rudyard and Urania were pronounced.

      “Urania?” he asked.

      “Yes, Urania,” replied la Belloni. “Those little Americans are very tactful. Look at the Comtesse de Castellane and the Duchess of Marlborough: how well they bear their husbands’ honours! They cut an excellent figure. They are mentioned in every society column and always with respect.”

      “ ... All right then. I am tired of these wasted winters. But not less than ten millions.”

      “Five.”

      “No, ten.”

      The prince and the marchesa had stood up to go. Cornélie looked at Duco. He laughed:

      “I don’t quite understand them,” he said. “It’s a joke, of course.”

      Cornélie was startled:

      “A joke, you think, Mr. van der Staal?”

      “Yes, they’re humbugging.”

      “I don’t believe it.”

      “I do.”

      “Have you any knowledge of human nature?”

      “Oh, no, none at all!”

      “I’m getting it, gradually. I believe that Rome can be dangerous and that an hotel-keeping marchesa, a prince and a Jesuit....”

      “What about them?”

      “Can be dangerous, if not to your sisters, because they have no money, but at any rate to Urania Hope.”

      “I