The Branding Iron - Page 47/142

On that evening Prosper began to talk. The unnatural self-repression

he had practiced gave way before the flood of his sociability. It was

Joan's amazing beauty as she stumbled wretchedly into the circle of

his firelight, her neck drawn up to its full length, her head crowned

high with soft, black masses, her lids dropped under the weight of

shyness, vivid fright in her distended pupils, scarlet in her

cheeks,--Joan's beauty of long, strong lines draped to advantage for

the first time in soft and clinging fabrics,--that touched the spring

of Prosper's delighted egotism. There it was again, the ideal

audience, the necessary atmosphere, the beautiful, gracious,

intelligent listener. He forgot her ignorance, her utter simplicity,

the unplumbed emptiness of her experience, and he spread out his

colorful thoughts before her in colorful words, the mental plumage of

civilized courtship.

After dinner, now sipping from the small coffee cup in his hand, now

setting it down to move excitedly about the room, he talked of his

life, his book, his plans. He told anecdotes, strange adventures; he

drew his own inverted morals; he sketched his fantastic opinions; he

was in truth fascinating, a speaking face, a lithe, brilliant presence,

a voice of edged persuasion. He turned witty phrases. Poor Joan! One

sentence in ten she understood and answered with her slow smile and her

quaint, murmured, "Well!" His eloquence did her at least the service of

making her forget herself. She was rather crestfallen because he had

not complimented her; his veiled look of appreciation, this coming to

of his real self was too subtle a flattery for her perception.

Nevertheless, his talk pleased her. She did not want to disappoint him,

so she drew herself up straight in the big red-lacquered chair, sipped

her coffee, in dainty imitation of him, gave him the full, deep tribute

of her gaze, asked for no explanations and let the astounding

statements he made, the amazing pictures he drew, cut their way

indelibly into her most sensitive and preserving memory.

Afterwards, at night, for the first time she did not weep for Pierre,

the old lost Pierre who had so changed into a torturer, but, wakeful,

her brain on fire, she pondered over and over the things she had just

heard, feeling after their meaning, laying aside for future

enlightenment what was utterly incomprehensible, arguing with herself

as to the truth of half-comprehended speeches--an ignorant child

wrestling with a modern philosophy, tricked out in motley by a ready

wit.

There were more personal memories that gave her a flush of pleasure,

for after midnight, as she was leaving him, he came near to her, took

her hand with a grateful "Joan, you've done so much for me to-night,

you've made me happy," and the request, "You won't put your hair back

to the old way, will you? You will wear pretty things, if I give them

to you, won't you?" in a beseeching spoiled-boy's voice, very amusing

and endearing to her.