The willing hostage Read online

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ROSALIE did not see either the Condesa nor her son again. Both were shut away in dieir rooms when die hired car arrived to take her to Cordoba. From Madrid she flew to Paris and Philip met her at the airport. 'Your wire came as a bit of a surprise,' he told her. 'We thought you were dug in for the rest of the summer.' Rosalie offered some vague excuse, the hot climate had been too much for her, and noting her pale face and ringed eyes, her brother asked no questions. Intuitively he guessed mere was a lot more which she did not wish to mention and passed on to his own affairs. Con, he said, would be delighted to welcome her and she must make a long stay with them. Uncle George had been most co-operative. At first deploring Philip's marriage to a Peruvian, whom he half expected to be a sort of gipsy barbarian, he succumbed completely to Consuelo's beauty and feminine charm when he met her. Moreover, her nationality was more than compensated for by her fortune. The apartment block was a way of investing some of the money he held in trust for his nephew, and was in his opinion quite a legitimate transaction. Philip Was leased the best flat widiin it, for which he paid a nominal rent until the whole building would become his as part of his inheritance. Rosalie resolutely sought to put Rafael out of her mind, for she had too much to do to spend time repining for a lost idyll. She went to see her modier, and Ma Pas greeted her without much endiusiasm. She was a pretty faded woman 137 who had come to care for little except her own comfort. She had been entirely dominated by her forceful husband, and had meekly submitted to his decrees, including his plans for her children. Like a Spanish wife, Rosalie thought, and like a Spanish widow, she had never discarded her mourning black. What little initiative she had possessed had been crushed by Philip Alexander, and now he had gone she merely drifted. Should I have become like that, Rosalie wondered, if I had married Rafael? But she had much more character than her mother, who admired her independent spirit but was secretly a little afraid of her. She was too much like her father. What affection Mrs Smith was capable of she lavished on her son. Senor Nunez still lingered in Paris, for Consuelo was expecting and he did not want to return home until after the birth of his grandchild. Inevitably Rosalie met him at Consuelo's home, but though he looked at her rather oddly, he never mentioned the Santaellas. Though regretful of the Smiths' lack of pedigree@a supermarket was not as distinguished as a castillo@he appreciated Philip's prospects and was moved by his daughter's radiant happiness. Since Uncle George still held the purse strings he saw to it that diere was no lack of money in the Parisian household, and Philip was able to give time to his desire to write. Both insisted that Rosalie should make her home with mem, but she was unwilling to intrude upon their bliss. There was an attic at the top of the block and she asked if she might rent it and do for herself. It had a north light and would make an excellent studio. 'It is not necessary that you should do diat,' Consuelo demurred, having all the Latin's regard for family. 'You are my Felipe's twin sister and all that we have is yours to share.' 138 Rosalie thanked her, but insisted upon having separate quarters.'You'll see more than enough of me,' she told her sisterin-law. 'I'll be dropping in whenever I feel lonely, and when the baby comes I'll be glad to help in any way I can.' She had come back from Spain no longer an impulsive girl who had taken the job at die Hotel Marques de Valpenza as an adventure and means of escape from an uncongenial life at Pas. She was a woman, who intended to control her own destiny and direct it in the way she wished to go. She had finished with love and romance and meant to concentrate all her energies upon her art. She was accepted as a student in a famous atelier. The maestro, a well-known artist, took one look at her Spanish sketches and enrolled her among his pupils on the spot. But before she could settle down to work, she had to go to London and tackle Uncle George. As she walked through the familiar streets and passed the glittering facade of a Pas store with its garish labels advertising reductions and 'good buys' she felt as though a whole century of experience lay between her and the girl who had worked there at a cash desk, instead of little more dian six months. As she looked up at it she formed another resolution. The love of money was the root of all evil; money had deprived her of true happiness. She did not want the fortune that was coming to her; it should be bestowed elsewhere. She watched the busy shoppers pouring in and out of the glass doors. This was Philip Alexander's legacy to posterity, but hers should be something very different. He had found fulfilment in the erection of these monstrosities of glass and steel, but hers lay in a totally different direction, and she had as much right to fulfil herself as 139 her father had. So she told Uncle George. 'I can't afford to wait until I come into my money,' she said, 'to waste another two years. I need training now. You got round die will in Philip's favour by calling his home an investment, now you can fork out to invest in my talent.' 'Much too risky,' he said, shaking his grey head. 'You'd much better go back to your cashier's cage, my dear, and in two years' time you may have forgotten this nonsense. I know somediing about the vie de boheme. Artist is anodier name for layabout.' 'Don't show your ignorance,' she snapped. 'A famous artist has assessed my work and is ready to teach me. He's choosey about his pupils, I can tell you. You're correct when you speak of a cashier's cage, but you'll never cage me again.' George was secretly a litde overawed by this cool determined young woman. She had changed very much since he had last seen her, and she had improved. The gaucherie of youdi had been ironed away, her face showed more character and she was beautiful. He realised the last fact with surprise. Rosalie had always been a pretty girl, but he had not appreciated the symmetry of her clear-cut features, the loveliness of her large grey eyes. Her hair had grown longer and she wore it swathed round her head, showing the graceful curve of her neck. Old Philip's daughter had turned out a beauty@well, well, she would be wasted in a store. 'Your father left his money as he did because he didn't want it thrown away upon senseless extravagancies,' he pointed out. 'Which is just what you want to do.' 'I shan't be extravagant. Uncle, and I shall have to work very hard to make up for lost time. I only require a small allowance to keep me until I can earn for myself. If I can't make a go of it, I'll do somediing else, but I'm confident I 140 shall. I'll never go back to Pas. If you scruple to use the trust money, you could quite well afford to make me a loan, and charge me interest. I'll repay you when I'm twentyfive. And that's another diing@I don't want all that wealth. I shall give it to charity.' Uncle George threw up his hands. 'Now surely you're mad!' 'Not at all. A lot of money can be a curse. Even the prospect of it has caused me great unhappiness. The possession would only make me miserable,' she said bitterly. 'At least if I'm poor, I shall know what friends I make are genuine and not seeking to sponge on my bounty.' And lovers who wooed her for her fortune. In the end she had her way, her uncle becoming convinced of her sincerity, the more so because the sum she requested was so modest. She only needed food and the minimum of clodiing, and, more expensive, her materials. Philip's attic rent was merely nominal. The other matter was more difficult of accomplishment, the return of the diamond bracelet. Passing through Madrid on her way home she had called at the jewellers and ascertained that it was still unsold. Its purchase too was to come out of her money, but she could not pretend it was an investment, since she had set her heart upon its return to the Conde. 'To sell it was dishonest,' she insisted. 'Of course Philip needed the money. Father's will was not a good one. Uncle, it paved the way for such temptations. But it's a slur upon our good name. The Conde is not well off and can't afford such a loss.' The argument continued during the dinner to which George invited her. He was not too old to like being seen out with a beautiful woman and his niece had the advantage 141 of being a perfectly legitimate exhibit. Mellowed by his wine and good food, gratified by die admiring glances thrown in Rosalie's direction, he at length capitulated. 'Since you seem to regard the restoration of this trinket of such importance, I'll see it's done, if you tell me where to send it,' he promised, 'though Philip's peccadilloes are no liability of yours or mine. Still, he has made a good marriage and I'v
e no wish that he should be under an obligation to this dago type, who may feel he has a grudge against him, as Connie was once engaged to him. Funny custom, giving a girl a bracelet instead of a nice half hoop of jewels in a ring. Your aunt's was emeralds set in brilliants, we chose it together.' He began to wax sentimental over his after-dinner brandy. 'Yes, I should be very indignant if she put it in pawn.' The illustration was hardly appropriate as her aunt had not jilted him, but Rosalie felt elated by her victory. Ever since she had learned of her brother's action she had been determined to return the betrothal bracelet to Don Rafael, though Philip had no qualms about it at all. Now perhaps the Conde would not think so badly of die Smidi family. She pictured his astonishment when he opened the packet, but diat recalled his dark aristocratic features too vividly for her comfort and she dismissed the mental picture. Her uncle noticed her pensive look. 'I hope you didn't form any attachment while you were in foreign parts,' he enquired. 'Connie's all right, and very nice to look at, but one foreigner in me family's quite enough. It's different when it's the other way round. These Latin types look very romantic, but they're devils to live with.' 'I'm sure you're quite right. Uncle,' she agreed demurely. 'But when I was in Spain I was too busy to bother with 142 |romance.' (God forgive me for that lie, she thought, but it Urould never do if she wanted die bracelet returned to let (iJnde George discover that she had a personal interest in tee .recipient.) 'I shall never marry,' she went on. 'I'm dedicated to my career.' 11 'I've heard that one before,' he told her. 'But if men have |any eyes in their heads they won't let you be dedicated l-'long. I wish your father could see you now, he'd be proud fc of you.' 'Thank you, Uncle, but I doubt it. He took no interest in anything that wasn't direcdy connected with Pas, and diat I don't intend to be any longer.' 'You'll change your mind when you're due to get your cut. You won't really give it all away?' 'Oh, but I shall.' 'We'll see.' He raised his glass. 'Here's to my pretty niece who's managed to bamboozle her old uncle very cleverly, and to her success in the mode of life she has chosen.' She again thanked him, smiling at him. She had never liked him so well until diat moment, but her heart was aching under her smart silk blouse which Consuelo had given her. Consuelo was always giving her presents, and she would have to curb her generosity, she did not want to sponge on it. There would have been no need for dedication if her connection with a certain Spanish Conde had not been broken. For the hundredth time she pondered over his last words. 'It is possible you know that you may have misjudged me.' Over die money? About his feelings for her? He had given her no chance to ask for an explanation, shutting his door behind her, dismissing her without attempting to de143 fend himself, accepting her departure without protest or ,g question. He could not have loved her at all to have acted ;|| so, or had he taken refuge behind his facade of insolent '?| pride, which would not allow him to stoop to bandy words 3 with her? She would never know. She was as completely '! severed from him as if he were dead. So Rosalie went to live under the pantiles of her brother's apartment house and absorbed herself in her work. Her days were spent between the classes at die atelier and her own studio. Occasionally she joined her fellow students in cheap cafes and drank coffee or vin ordinaire, for she found their discussions stimulating. But when they started on politics, she went home. Politics had nothing to do widi art. She had to resist Philip and Consuelo's many invitations .; to go out with them and her sister-in-law's desire to make her attic quarters luxurious. 'Talent thrives on self-denial,' she told her. 'Many of die world's masterpieces were created near the breadline. If I grew fat and sleek I couldn't paint.' Words incomprehensible to Consuelo, who had never . gone' short of anything in her life. Philip told her: 'Ros is a bit mad, but she's a genius. All geniuses are mad. Fame is the spur and all that. She'll be famous one day and then perhaps she'll let you coddle her. I only wish I'd got half her talent.' " For Philip was finding that die road of die would-be author is strewn with rejection slips. In due course Consuelo's baby was born, a fine healdly : boy. They named him after his grandsire, Felipe Alex-, ander, the Spanish spelling being a concession to his ' mother, but Alex, as they called him, was all Smidi. ', 'He looks more like your child than mine,' Consuelo told @ 144 Rosalie, with faint jealousy. 'He takes after his dad,' Rosalie pointed out. 'Bien, I cannot have too much of my two Felipes,' Consuelo declared. Rosalie looked down at the fair-skinned baby widi his odd look, not of her brother but Philip Alexander. If she had had a son he would have been dark, that she was certain. The Santaella blood would have predominated with such a virile father. The Condesa had been so anxious that Rafael should produce an heir. By now he had possibly done so. Who had superseded her? she wondered. Eloisa Carvelio? She would have been at hand, eager to console the Conde for his second disappointment. Most likely he had wedded her, Rosalie thought disconsolately, and the proud father would bestow what love he was capable of upon his children, love that he could not give to a woman. Rosalie sighed and went back to her painting. Time passed quickly, the chestnuts in die Champs Elysees budded, bloomed, bore fruit and shed their leaves, until another spring woke them to new life. Alex throve, learned to sit up, to crawl, and began to cut his teeth. Rosalie drew and painted him, to his mother's gratification. He remained fair, much more like his aunt than Consuelo, but she was so like her brother. Double events appeared on the horizon, the coming of age of the Pas twins and Rosalie's first exhibition. For die former Philip was planning an enormous party, in which Rosalie showed no more than a polite interest. She remained steadfast in her determination to dispose of her share of die money, and instructed Uncle George to select those charities which he considered were most worthy of her behests, a task he did not appreciate. Her exhibition which came before her birthday was an event of much 145 greater significance to her. It opened on a bright spring day. Rosalie stood in a corner of the small gallery watching the people pass, and noting dieir reactions to what they saw. Her finest picture was called, 'The Dispossessed'. It had been acclaimed an original work of great promise, and had excited controversy and criticism in the Press, but also some praise. It therefore rated a visit, but the uninitiated among the visitors did not know what to make of it. They paused, stared and moved away, some of them with puzzled expressions. It had taken Rosalie some months to paint, but its inspiration had been born in Andalusia. She was sharing the gallery with a fellow artist. Jean Duprez was established, but he admired the girl's work to die extent of offering her to show her pictures alongside his. She had been pleased and flattered, though it had occurred to her that he could not regard her as a serious rival if he were so complacent. But once the pictures were hung, she saw that her stark forceful style complemented his futurist impressions, the heterogeneous splashes of vivid colour in peculiar shapes which was his form of expression contrasting with die sombre blacks, browns and yellows, relieved by occasional vivid scarlet, that distinguished her own efforts. 'At least Ros's pictures have some form,' Philip had remarked when he came to the preview. 'You can see what they're meant to be, but I'm darned if I know what Duprez is getting at.' 'Expressions of moods,' Rosalie explained, grinning mischievously. 'That purple and emerald study portrays his emotion when confronted with die beautiful nude which you can just discern in die top left-hand comer, though why he sees her with all her anatomy distorted I couldn't tell you. But he sells.' She sighed. 146 'And so will you when you're better known,' Philip assured her. 'You have a haunting power.' He stared at "The Dispossessed.' 'I see Spain in that picture of yours and the figure is reminiscent of our mutual pal at Las Aguilas. You didn't waste your time, Ros, while you were there.' The Dispossessed' did in fact portray Don Rafael's features against a background of crumbling towers and | murky sky. The man's face was arresting in its sad resigna|tion, the acceptance diat a golden age had passed and he ;was faced widi ruin and desolation. His garb was nondescript, fading into shadow, but his head and-face were clear .against a break in the heavy clouds, old ivory with ebon hair and hopeless eyes. Melancholy was the keynote of die painting, a nostalgia for
what had been and would never come again. Consuelo had said: 'I do not like it, it is too sad, and it reminds me of what I want to forget.' She was delighted that some of Rosalie's baby studies were shown. 'Nothing can ever be really forgotten,' Rosalie had told her, 'and the artist creates from his or her experiences.' . Don Rafael's image was still as vivid in her mind as when she had parted from him. She had thought diat when she had painted 'The Dispossessed' she would get him out of her system, but she had only perpetuated his memory. Her other canvases were also of Spain, enlargements of me sketches which she had done at the Casa, and diough die public was dubious, the critics were kind. She had a long way to go, but she showed immense promise. As might be expected, die more conventional studies she had made of Baby Alex were more popular. In them her vigorous drawing was muted. The one of him, wide-eyed, staring into space, held the essence of a baby's wonder as he 147 becomes aware of the incredible world surrounding him. While Rosalie effaced herself in her corner, Duprez was doing the honours, a flamboyant figure, red-bearded in an artist's beret and smock. He was a bit of a poseur, but Paris loved him. He was such a character, that incroyable Jean,, so rude and audacious, but such fun. His fans flooded die exhibition to gape at his incredible pictures, but they saw Rosalie's as well. Duprez had worked in die same atelier widi Rosalie, and he had bullied and patronised her. She never minded his outspoken, often cruel criticisms and fenced gaily with his outrageous suggestions, for Jean Duprez was also very amorous. 'You are the only woman who has resisted me,' he told her once. 'About time one did,' she retorted. 'It's no use, Jean, I like you immensely, but I will never sleep with you.' 'You are hard-hearted, an icicle, too, too cruel.' 'Cruel to be kind. Come off it, Jean. You know it would be a mistake. You and I get on much better on a platonic basis.' He laughed and admitted that she was possibly right. 'But one day you will love,' he prophesied. 'And it will be devastating. Me, I shall be amused to watch the deluge.' 'You'll wait a long time to see diat spectacle,' she told him. 'I have no heart.' She had loved, but that part of her was dead and would never be resurrected. Rosalie was inconspicuous in her corner, in wide-bottomed black slacks and black sweater, dimly embroidered in gold. Slight and boyish, she looked litde more than a teenager until the observer met her eyes. Clear and candid, they held knowledge of suffering and resolution to conquer 148 pain. The eyes of a woman who had lived. As she idly watched die fluctuating crowd, she suddenly caught her breath and stiffened, A man was sauntering through the medley, his uncovered dark head held proudly on arrogant shoulders, a little supercilious smile twisting his thin satirical mouth. Dressed in a dark suit, he looked distinguished@and foreign. It did not need the slight stir beside her to tell her who he was. A smart woman whispered: 'The Conde de las Aguilas. I met him in Madrid. Who would ever have thought to encounter him here?' She moved as if she meant to make herself known to him, but her companion, a man, restrained her. 'Tais-toi. Monsieur Ie Comte has brought his own diversion.' Beside Rafael tripped a fair woman, wearing a model dress. She looked a mere girl except for her blase air, which betrayed experience. She was pretty and petulant. Jean hurried to greet them, evidently he knew the woman and she introduced him to her escort. Both men bowed. The girl became engaged in lively banter with the artist. Rafael gave them a bored smile and with a faint shrug of his shoulders left diem to it, continuing his progress through the room. He stopped before 'The Dispossessed.' Then he looked round and saw Rosalie. Almost imperceptibly he beckoned to her and as if drawn by a magnetic force which she could not resist, Rosalie went to stand beside him. The years seemed to roll away, they were back in the Casa Blanca and he was looking at her sketches. 'However did you find your way here?' she asked. 'I came because I saw your name advertised,' he said simply. 'My congratulations, Rosa. You are a great artist.' 'Thank you very much, senor,' she said stiltedly. 149 It was all over, what had once been between diem. He had come out of idle curiosity with the woman of die moment to see what she had done widi her talent. Now. she could meet him upon neutral ground without emotional complications. She felt very sure of herself and ready to accept his challenge. She wondered what he made of her picture, for which he had been the inspiration. Together they looked at the proud, defeated face so like his own, and he told her: 'That is a very wonderful picture, Rosa. It expresses so much with so little@the passing of an era, an era that was gracious and elegant and when men respected their traditions. Oh, you need not tell me that we have created a much better world, where the poor and oppressed have come into their own, but we have also lost our ideals, our values are changed and our sights are lowered. It is a very remarkable picture for a woman to have painted, so strong and stark, but then you are an uncompromising individual, are you not, Rosa mia, with a backbone of steel.' 'That's hardly complimentary,' she said, laughing, for though he was praising her as an artist, he was diminishing her as a woman. Spanish women were essentially feminine, . and he was telling her she had a masculine talent. 'It was meant to be,' he said gravely. 'You have become very beautiful, Rosa, does that please you better?' She shook her head. 'I never cared for compliments on my looks. They're so unimportant.' 'What an odd thing to say. I see you are still a prickly pear. Do you remember the prickly pear hedges in Andalusia?' Rosalie bit her lip and turned her head away. Remember? She could never forget. 'Will you dine with me?' he went on. 'Or are you so full of engagements you have no time to spare for an old friend?' 150 The invitation surprised and delighted her. She discovered diat she very much wanted to see more of him, if only to show him how indifferent she had become. 'I don't go out much, Don Rafael,' she told him. 'But I'd be pleased to accept your invitation. But what about the lady you are escorting? Hasn't she first claim on your time?' A foolish question, even an impertinent one, for obviously if he had asked her out he could not be engaged with die other woman. He smiled. 'I see you are still feminine at heart,' he observed, and glanced carelessly at the golden head visible across the room. 'She is a mere casual acquaintance.' He sighed and added: 'Man was not intended to live alone, Rosa.' 'You're not married, then?' A shadow crossed his face. 'My efforts in that direction have not been very successful.' He glanced at her hands. 'You are not married either?' : 'No. As I once told you, I'm wedded to my paintbrush. To have achieved all this in under three years has left no time for other interests.' 'You must have worked very hard.' She said succincdy: 'I have.' 'And you have won success.' 'Barely, this is only die beginning. I've a long way to go, Don Rafael, and a great deal more to learn before I consider myself an artist.' 'Hm, still dedicated.' He looked at her keenly. 'Does it satisfy you, or is it second best?' His perspicacity disconcerted her. Her art had been second best, but now it had become predominant. 'It satisfies me,' she said coolly, and fleetingly thought of 151 Consuelo's baby. She added: 'Any woman can marry and have a child.' 'But only Rosa Smeeth could paint "The Dispossessed",' he agreed. 'And that gives you fulfilment?' She shied away from the implication. 'I really don't see how it concerns you,' she murmured. 'Don't be prickly. I am merely interested in what makes you tick. You see, I am unfamiliar with the career woman, she is a new phenomenon in my experience.' 'It is fulfilment of a very early ambition,' she told him. 'I always had an urge to paint, but it was suppressed. In a sense you are responsible for its release.' He raised his brows, and she went on hurriedly. 'When I came back from Spain I was determined that family opposition should no longer stop me. The work I did in your country convinced a great teacher of my potentialities. So I had my way.' Her voice became flat, she had won a victory over Uncle George, but she had also suffered a defeat. Her unrequited love for the man beside her had contributed to her development, but die process had been painful. 'So now you have all you can desire@success, fulfilment, and you are about to receive your share of die great Pas fortune. You are a fortunate woman, Rosa.' Sudden suspicion darted into her mind. His coming was well timed. Had he meant to sound her, discover if she still cherished any tender feelings towards him and make another effort to secure her thousands? 'You've a good hea
d for dates,' she told him scornfully. 'Nobody in Paris could fail to learn of the great preparations for the Pas twins' coming of age,' he returned. 'It's the main topic of the city's gossip.' 'Then it may interest you to know that I've renounced my share. It's to go to charity.' 152 She watched him closely for any sign of disappointment, but all she could discern was a faint surprise and a gleam, it looked almost like triumph, in his eyes. 'Now why did you do that?' he asked. 'I don't need it. Others do.' 'I never suspected you were a philanthropist.' 'It isn't that at all. That beastly money has poisoned every human contact I've tried to make,' she cried passionately. People hi the crowd were looking at them curiously, and lowering her voice, she asked: 'Does our dinner date still stand?' For a second her implication did not reach him, and then his eyes blazed. ' 'That was damnable, Rosa, but then your assumptions regarding myself have always been ill-judged.' 'Then it's off?' she asked, aware of an acute, sense of deprivation. 'By no means.' He glanced towards his blonde, who was making her way towards them. 'I am feeling a need for more astringent company than pretty kittens. I am sure you will provide it, if you will so honour me.' 'I shall endeavour to do so.' He arranged to call for her on the following evening. 'But I would prefer not to meet your brodier and his wife, for obvious reasons,' he told her. 'You live with them, do you not?' He seemed to have checked up upon her very thoroughly. She explained that she had her own premises. 'Oh, can't you forget the past?' she added impatiendy. 'No, diat is impossible,' he returned ambiguously. Implacable Spaniard, she thought widi irritation, as the blonde reached them. She was introduced as Mademoiselle Lucille Lenoir, and was, she told them, a cabaret per153 former at the Cafe Royale, and that, Rosalie thought, explained her. Fifty years ago Rafael would not have dared to introduce her, but times changed, and after all, he probably thought there was little to choose between a painter and a dancer. She had no evidence that Rafael's relations with her were odier than diey should be, but she was in a mood to decry him, to counteract the upsurge of her old feeling for him which was beginning to destroy her detachment. Jean came to join them. 'You are from Spain, monsieur,' he said to Rafael, 'and diat no doubt is why you are so interested in Rosa's work. MOM ange,' he turned to her, 'you are neglecting me entirely.' 'On the contrary, you have been absorbed in entertaining your V.I.P.s,' she returned, wondering why he had had to butt in at such an inopportune moment. Rafael was eyeing him with suspicion and distrust. She told him: 'Monsieur Duprez is a good friend and a fellow artist, but that is all.' 'Had I my way there would be a great deal more,' Jean announced, leering at her. 'He doesn't mean anything,' Rosalie sought to assure Rafael. 'He's an incorrigible flirt.' 'Cherie, must you seek to deflate me in front of ce monsieur-lay Jean enquired reproachfully. 'They do not understand I'amour in Spain as we do in Paris.' 'I hope I have not misunderstood you,' Rafael told him coldly. 'Adios, monsieur.' He made a slight bow and turned to Rosalie, giving her his brilliant smile. 'Hasta la vista, Rosa.' He walked away with Lucille in tow towards the exit. Jean watched him go, his red beard bristling. 'The arrogant Spaniard!' he muttered. Then he laughed. 154 'Give him a cloak, guitar and a rose behind his ear, and that one could make a nun forget her vows. Ever heard of Don Juan, ma mieY 'I believe I have heard him mentioned,' Rosalie returned lightly. 'What's die connection?' 'Alors, that one is another of the same breed, so be warned, cherie.' Then he left her, to mingle with his admirers. Rosalie remained alone standing in front of 'The Dispossessed.' She studied anew die so familiar features. It had taken only one brief encounter to show her that her indifference was a mere pretence and her love for Rafael was far from dead. One glance from those velvet eyes, one glimpse of his charming smile, and it had risen up to submerge her. As for him, he had shown no resentment of the past, and had asked her to dine with him, without appearing to be unduly put out when she had told him she had renounced her fortune. New hope was struggling to be born, and it would be too bad if that blundering ass Jean Duprez had spoilt her chances. 155