Maddalena pulled his sleeve. She was looking almost alarmed.
"Matter? Nothing."
Maurice got up. He could not remain still. It was all over now. The fair
was at an end for him. Gaspare would reach the station before the train
went on, would explain matters. Hermione would get out. Already Maurice
seemed to see her coming down to the watercourse, walking with her
characteristic slow vigor. It did not occur to him at first that Hermione
might refuse to leave Artois. Something in him knew that she was coming.
Fate had interfered now imperiously. Once he had cheated fate. That was
when he came to the fair despite Hermione's letter. Now fate was going to
have her revenge upon him. He looked at Maddalena. Was fate working for
her, to protect her? Would his loss be her gain? He did not know, for he
did not know what would have been the course of his own conduct if fate
had not interfered. He had been trifling, letting the current take him.
It might have taken him far, but--now Hermione was coming. It was all
over and the sun was still up, still shining upon the sea.
"Let us go into the fair. It is cooler now."
He tried to speak lightly.
"Si, signore."
Maddalena shook out her skirt and began to smile. She was thinking of the
blue dress and the ear-rings. They went down into the watercourse.
"Signorino, what can have been the matter with Gaspare?"
"I don't know."
"He was looking at the train."
"Was he? Perhaps he saw a friend in it. Yes, that must have been it. He
saw a friend in the train."
He stared across the watercourse towards the village, seeking two
figures, and he was conscious now of two feelings that fought within him,
of two desires: a desire that Hermione should not come, and a desire that
she should come. He wanted, he even longed, to have his evening with
Maddalena. Yet he wanted Hermione to get out of the train when Gaspare
told her that he--Maurice--was at San Felice. If she did not get out she
would be putting Artois before him. The pale face at the window, the eyes
that smiled when Hermione turned familiarly round to speak, had stirred
within him the jealousy of which he had already been conscious more than
once. But now actual vision had made it fiercer. The woman who had leaned
out looking at the fair belonged to him. He felt intensely that she was
his property. Maddalena spoke to him again, two or three times. He did
not hear her. He was seeing the wrinkles that came round the eyes of
Artois when he smiled.