Somerset maughan

maison 
meublée
, and heavy hangings, the solid furniture of that sort of house 
in Paris, was unexpected in connexion with him. The surroundings 
were so commonplace that they seemed to emphasise his 
singularity. There was a peculiar lack of comfort, which suggested 
that he was indifferent to material things. The room was large, but 
so cumbered that it gave a cramped impression. Haddo dwelt there 
as if he were apart from any habitation that might be his. He moved 
cautiously among the heavy furniture, and his great obesity was 
somehow more remarkable. There was the acrid perfume which 
Margaret remembered a few days before in her vision of an Eastern 
city. 
Asking her to sit down, he began to talk as if they were old 
acquaintances between whom nothing of moment had occurred. At 
last she took her courage in both hands. 

---

'Why did you make me come here?' she asked suddenly, 
'You give me credit now for very marvellous powers,' he smiled. 
'You knew I should come.' 
'I knew.' 
'What have I done to you that you should make me so unhappy? I 
want you to leave me alone.' 
'I shall not prevent you from going out if you choose to go. No harm 
has come to you. The door is open.' 
Her heart beat quickly, painfully almost, and she remained silent. 
She knew that she did not want to go. There was something that 
drew her strangely to him, and she was ceasing to resist. A strange 
feeling began to take hold of her, creeping stealthily through her 
limbs; and she was terrified, but unaccountably elated. 
He began to talk with that low voice of his that thrilled her with a 
curious magic. He spoke not of pictures now, nor of books, but of 
life. He told her of strange Eastern places where no infidel had been, 
and her sensitive fancy was aflame with the honeyed fervour of his 
phrase. He spoke of the dawn upon sleeping desolate cities, and the 
moonlit nights of the desert, of the sunsets with their splendour, and 
of the crowded streets at noon. The beauty of the East rose before 
her. He told her of many-coloured webs and of silken carpets, the 
glittering steel of armour damascened, and of barbaric, priceless 
gems. The splendour of the East blinded her eyes. He spoke of 
frankincense and myrrh and aloes, of heavy perfumes of the scent-
merchants, and drowsy odours of the Syrian gardens. The fragrance 
of the East filled her nostrils. And all these things were transformed 
by the power of his words till life itself seemed offered to her, a life 
of infinite vivacity, a life of freedom, a life of supernatural 
knowledge. It seemed to her that a comparison was drawn for her 
attention between the narrow round which awaited her as Arthur's 
wife and this fair, full existence. She shuddered to think of the dull 
house in Harley Street and the insignificance of its humdrum duties. 
But it was possible for her also to enjoy the wonder of the world. 
Her soul yearned for a beauty that the commonalty of men did not 

---

know. And what devil suggested, a warp as it were in the woof of 
Oliver's speech, that her exquisite loveliness gave her the right to 
devote herself to the great art of living? She felt a sudden desire for 
perilous adventures. As though fire passed through her, she sprang 
to her feet and stood with panting bosom, her flashing eyes bright 
with the multi-coloured pictures that his magic presented. 
Oliver Haddo stood too, and they faced one another. Then, on a 
sudden, she knew what the passion was that consumed her. With a 
quick movement, his eyes more than ever strangely staring, he took 
her in his arms, and he kissed her lips. She surrendered herself to 
him voluptuously. Her whole body burned with the ecstasy of his 
embrace. 
'I think I love you,' she said, hoarsely. 
She looked at him. She did not feel ashamed. 
'Now you must go,' he said. 
He opened the door, and, without another word, she went. She 
walked through the streets as if nothing at all had happened. She 
felt neither remorse nor revulsion. 
Then Margaret felt every day that uncontrollable desire to go to him; 
and, though she tried to persuade herself not to yield, she knew that 
her effort was only a pretence: she did not want anything to prevent 
her. When it seemed that some accident would do so, she could 
scarcely control her irritation. There was always that violent hunger 
of the soul which called her to him, and the only happy hours she 
had were those spent in his company. Day after day she felt that 
complete ecstasy when he took her in his huge arms, and kissed her 
with his heavy, sensual lips. But the ecstasy was extraordinarily 
mingled with loathing, and her physical attraction was allied with 
physical abhorrence. 
Yet when he looked at her with those pale blue eyes, and threw into 
his voice those troubling accents, she forgot everything. He spoke of 
unhallowed things. Sometimes, as it were, he lifted a corner of the 
veil, and she caught a glimpse of terrible secrets. She understood 
how men had bartered their souls for infinite knowledge. She 

---

seemed to stand upon a pinnacle of the temple, and spiritual 
kingdoms of darkness, principalities of the unknown, were spread 
before her eyes to lure her to destruction. But of Haddo himself she 
learned nothing. She did not know if he loved her. She did not know 
if he had ever loved. He appeared to stand apart from human kind. 
Margaret discovered by chance that his mother lived, but he would 
not speak of her. 
'Some day you shall see her,' he said. 
'When?' 
'Very soon.' 
Meanwhile her life proceeded with all outward regularity. She 
found it easy to deceive her friends, because it occurred to neither 
that her frequent absence was not due to the plausible reasons she 
gave. The lies which at first seemed intolerable now tripped glibly 
off her tongue. But though they were so natural, she was seized 
often with a panic of fear lest they should be discovered; and 
sometimes, suffering agonies of remorse, she would lie in bed at 
night and think with utter shame of the way she was using Arthur. 
But things had gone too far now, and she must let them take their 
course. She scarcely knew why her feelings towards him had so 
completely changed. Oliver Haddo had scarcely mentioned his 
name and yet had poisoned her mind. The comparison between the 
two was to Arthur's disadvantage. She thought him a little dull now, 
and his commonplace way of looking at life contrasted with 
Haddo's fascinating boldness. She reproached Arthur in her heart 
because he had never understood what was in her. He narrowed her 
mind. And gradually she began to hate him because her debt of 
gratitude was so great. It seemed unfair that he should have done so 
much for her. He forced her to marry him by his beneficence. Yet 
Margaret continued to discuss with him the arrangement of their 
house in Harley Street. It had been her wish to furnish the drawing-
room in the style of Louis XV; and together they made long 
excursions to buy chairs or old pieces of silk with which to cover 
them. Everything should be perfect in its kind. The date of their 
marriage was fixed, and all the details were settled. Arthur was 
ridiculously happy. Margaret made no sign. She did not think of the 
future, and she spoke of it only to ward off suspicion. She was 

---

inwardly convinced now that the marriage would never take place, 
but what was to prevent it she did not know. She watched Susie and 
Arthur cunningly. But though she watched in order to conceal her 
own secret, it was another's that she discovered. Suddenly Margaret 
became aware that Susie was deeply in love with Arthur Burdon. 
The discovery was so astounding that at first it seemed absurd. 
'You've never done that caricature of Arthur for me that you 
promised,' she said, suddenly. 
'I've tried, but he doesn't lend himself to it,' laughed Susie. 
'With that long nose and the gaunt figure I should have thought you 
could make something screamingly funny.' 
'How oddly you talk of him! Somehow I can only see his beautiful, 
kind eyes and his tender mouth. I would as soon do a caricature of 
him as write a parody on a poem I loved.' 
Margaret took the portfolio in which Susie kept her sketches. She 
caught the look of alarm that crossed her friend's face, but Susie had 
not the courage to prevent her from looking. She turned the 
drawings carelessly and presently came to a sheet upon which, in a 
more or less finished state, were half a dozen heads of Arthur. 
Pretending not to see it, she went on to the end. When she closed the 
portfolio Susie gave a sigh of relief. 
'I wish you worked harder,' said Margaret, as she put the sketches 
down. 
'I wonder you don't do a head of Arthur as you can't do a 
caricature.' 
'My dear, you mustn't expect everyone to take such an 
overpowering interest in that young man as you do.' 
The answer added a last certainty to Margaret's suspicion. She told 
herself bitterly that Susie was no less a liar than she. Next day, when 
the other was out, Margaret looked through the portfolio once more, 
but the sketches of Arthur had disappeared. She was seized on a 
sudden with anger because Susie dared to love the man who loved 
her. 

---

The web in which Oliver Haddo enmeshed her was woven with 
skilful intricacy. He took each part of her character separately and 
fortified with consummate art his influence over her. There was 
something satanic in his deliberation, yet in actual time it was 
almost incredible that he could have changed the old abhorrence 
with which she regarded him into that hungry passion. Margaret 
could not now realize her life apart from his. At length he thought 
the time was ripe for the final step. 
'It may interest you to know that I'm leaving Paris on Thursday,' he 
said casually, one afternoon. 
She started to her feet and stared at him with bewildered eyes. 
'But what is to become of me?' 
'You will marry the excellent Mr Burdon.' 
'You know I cannot live without you. How can you be so cruel?' 
'Then the only alternative is that you should accompany me.' 
Her blood ran cold, and her heart seemed pressed in an iron vice. 
'What do you mean?' 
'There is no need to be agitated. I am making you an eminently 
desirable offer of marriage.' 
She sank helplessly into her chair. Because she had refused to think 
of the future, it had never struck her that the time must come when 
it would be necessary to leave Haddo or to throw in her lot with his 
definitely. She was seized with revulsion. Margaret realized that, 
though an odious attraction bound her to the man, she loathed and 
feared him. The scales fell from her eyes. She remembered on a 
sudden Arthur's great love and all that he had done for her sake. 
She hated herself. Like a bird at its last gasp beating frantically 
against the bars of a cage, Margaret made a desperate effort to 
regain her freedom. She sprang up. 
'Let me go from here. I wish I'd never seen you. I don't know what 
you've done with me.' 

---

'Go by all means if you choose,' he answered. 
He opened the door, so that she might see he used no compulsion, 
and stood lazily at the threshold, with a hateful smile on his face. 
There was something terrible in his excessive bulk. Rolls of fat 
descended from his chin and concealed his neck. His cheeks were 
huge, and the lack of beard added to the hideous nakedness of his 
face. Margaret stopped as she passed him, horribly repelled yet 
horribly fascinated. She had an immense desire that he should take 
her again in his arms and press her lips with that red voluptuous 
mouth. It was as though fiends of hell were taking revenge upon her 
loveliness by inspiring in her a passion for this monstrous creature. 
She trembled with the intensity of her desire. His eyes were hard 
and cruel. 
'Go,' he said. 
She bent her head and fled from before him. To get home she passed 
through the gardens of the Luxembourg, but her legs failed her, and 
in exhaustion she sank upon a bench. The day was sultry. She tried 
to collect herself. Margaret knew well the part in which she sat, for 
in the enthusiastic days that seemed so long gone by she was 
accustomed to come there for the sake of a certain tree upon which 
her eyes now rested. It had all the slim delicacy of a Japanese print. 
The leaves were slender and fragile, half gold with autumn, half 
green, but so tenuous that the dark branches made a pattern of 
subtle beauty against the sky. The hand of a draughtsman could not 
have fashioned it with a more excellent skill. But now Margaret 
could take no pleasure in its grace. She felt a heartrending pang to 
think that thenceforward the consummate things of art would have 
no meaning for her. She had seen Arthur the evening before, and 
remembered with an agony of shame the lies to which she had been 
forced in order to explain why she could not see him till late that 
day. He had proposed that they should go to Versailles, and was 
bitterly disappointed when she told him they could not, as usual on 
Sundays, spend the whole day together. He accepted her excuse that 
she had to visit a sick friend. It would not have been so intolerable if 
he had suspected her of deceit, and his reproaches would have 
hardened her heart. It was his entire confidence which was so 
difficult to bear. 

---

'Oh, if I could only make a clean breast of it all,' she cried. 
The bell of Saint Sulpice was ringing for vespers. Margaret walked 
slowly to the church, and sat down in the seats reserved in the 
transept for the needy. She hoped that the music she must hear there 
would rest her soul, and perhaps she might be able to pray. Of late 
she had not dared. There was a pleasant darkness in the place, and 
its large simplicity was soothing. In her exhaustion, she watched 
listlessly the people go to and fro. Behind her was a priest in the 
confessional. A little peasant girl, in a Breton 
coiffe
, perhaps a maid-
servant lately come from her native village to the great capital, 
passed in and knelt down. Margaret could hear her muttered words, 
and at intervals the deep voice of the priest. In three minutes she 
tripped neatly away. She looked so fresh in her plain black dress, so 
healthy and innocent, that Margaret could not restrain a sob of envy. 
The child had so little to confess, a few puny errors which must 
excite a smile on the lips of the gentle priest, and her candid spirit 
was like snow. Margaret would have given anything to kneel down 
and whisper in those passionless ears all that she suffered, but the 
priest's faith and hers were not the same. They spoke a different 
tongue, not of the lips only but of the soul, and he would not listen 
to the words of an heretic. 
A long procession of seminarists came in from the college which is 
under the shadow of that great church, two by two, in black 
cassocks and short white surplices. Many were tonsured already. 
Some were quite young. Margaret watched their faces, wondering if 
they were tormented by such agony as she. But they had a living 
faith to sustain them, and if some, as was plain, were narrow and 
obtuse, they had at least a fixed rule which prevented them from 
swerving into treacherous byways. One of two had a wan ascetic 
look, such as the saints may have had when the terror of life was 
known to them only in the imaginings of the cloister. The canons of 
the church followed in their more gorgeous vestments, and finally 
the officiating clergy. 
The music was beautiful. There was about it a staid, sad dignity; and 
it seemed to Margaret fit thus to adore God. But it did not move her. 
She could not understand the words that the priests chanted; their 
gestures, their movements to and fro, were strange to her. For her 

---

that stately service had no meaning. And with a great cry in her 
heart she said that God had forsaken her. She was alone in an alien 
land. Evil was all about her, and in those ceremonies she could find 
no comfort. What could she expect when the God of her fathers left 
her to her fate? So that she might not weep in front of all those 
people, Margaret with down-turned face walked to the door. She 
felt utterly lost. As she walked along the interminable street that led 
to her own house, she was shaken with sobs. 
'God has forsaken me,' she repeated. 'God has foresaken me.' 
Next day, her eyes red with weeping, she dragged herself to 
Haddo's door. When he opened it, she went in without a word. She 
sat down, and he watched her in silence. 
'I am willing to marry you whenever you choose,' she said at last. 
'I have made all the necessary arrangements.' 
'You have spoken to me of your mother. Will you take me to her at 
once.' 
The shadow of a smile crossed his lips. 
'If you wish it.' 
Haddo told her that they could be married before the Consul early 
enough on the Thursday morning to catch a train for England. She 
left everything in his hands. 
'I'm desperately unhappy,' she said dully. 
Oliver laid his hands upon her shoulders and looked into her eyes. 
'Go home, and you will forget your tears. I command you to be 
happy.' 
Then it seemed that the bitter struggle between the good and the 
evil in her was done, and the evil had conquered. She felt on a 
sudden curiously elated. It seemed no longer to matter that she 
deceived her faithful friends. She gave a bitter laugh, as she thought 
how easy it was to hoodwink them. 

---

* * * * * 
Wednesday happened to be Arthur's birthday, and he asked her to 
dine with him alone. 
'We'll do ourselves proud, and hang the expense,' he said. 
They had arranged to eat at a fashionable restaurant on the other 
side of the river, and soon after seven he fetched her. Margaret was 
dressed with exceeding care. She stood in the middle of the room, 
waiting for Arthur's arrival, and surveyed herself in the glass. Susie 
thought she had never been more beautiful. 
'I think you've grown more pleasing to look upon than you ever 
were,' she said. 'I don't know what it is that has come over you of 
late, but there's a depth in your eyes that is quite new. It gives you 
an odd mysteriousness which is very attractive.' 
Knowing Susie's love for Arthur, she wondered whether her friend 
was not heartbroken as she compared her own plainness with the 
radiant beauty that was before her. Arthur came in, and Margaret 
did not move. He stopped at the door to look at her. Their eyes met. 
His heart beat quickly, and yet he was seized with awe. His good 
fortune was too great to bear, when he thought that this priceless 
treasure was his. He could have knelt down and worshipped as 
though a goddess of old Greece stood before him. And to him also 
her eyes had changed. They had acquired a burning passion which 
disturbed and yet enchanted him. It seemed that the lovely girl was 
changed already into a lovely woman. An enigmatic smile came to 
her lips. 
'Are you pleased?' she asked. 
Arthur came forward and Margaret put her hands on his shoulders. 
'You have scent on,' he said. 
He was surprised, for she had never used it before. It was a faint, 
almost acrid perfume that he did not know. It reminded him 
vaguely of those odours which he remembered in his childhood in 
the East. It was remote and strange. It gave Margaret a new and 
troubling charm. There had ever been something cold in her 

---

statuesque beauty, but this touch somehow curiously emphasized 
her sex. Arthur's lips twitched, and his gaunt face grew pale with 
passion. His emotion was so great that it was nearly pain. He was 
puzzled, for her eyes expressed things that he had never seen in 
them before. 
'Why don't you kiss me?' she said. 
She did not see Susie, but knew that a quick look of anguish crossed 
her face. Margaret drew Arthur towards her. His hands began to 
tremble. He had never ventured to express the passion that 
consumed him, and when he kissed her it was with a restraint that 
was almost brotherly. Now their lips met. Forgetting that anyone 
else was in the room, he flung his arms around Margaret. She had 
never kissed him in that way before, and the rapture was 
intolerable. Her lips were like living fire. He could not take his own 
away. He forgot everything. All his strength, all his self-control, 
deserted him. It crossed his mind that at this moment he would 
willingly die. But the delight of it was so great that he could scarcely 
withhold a cry of agony. At length Susie's voice reminded him of 
the world. 
'You'd far better go out to dinner instead of behaving like a pair of 
complete idiots.' 
She tried to make her tone as flippant as the words, but her voice 
was cut by a pang of agony. With a little laugh, Margaret withdrew 
from Arthur's embrace and lightly looked at her friend. Susie's 
brave smile died away as she caught this glance, for there was in it a 
malicious hatred that startled her. It was so unexpected that she was 
terrified. What had she done? She was afraid, dreadfully afraid, that 
Margaret had guessed her secret. Arthur stood as if his senses had 
left him, quivering still with the extremity of passion. 
'Susie says we must go,' smiled Margaret. 
He could not speak. He could not regain the conventional manner of 
polite society. Very pale, like a man suddenly awaked from deep 
sleep, he went out at Margaret's side. They walked along the 
passage. Though the door was closed behind them and they were 
out of earshot, Margaret seemed not withstanding to hear Susie's 

---

passionate sobbing. It gave her a horrible delight. The tavern to 
which they went was on the Boulevard des Italiens, and at this date 
the most frequented in Paris. It was crowded, but Arthur had 
reserved a table in the middle of the room. Her radiant loveliness 
made people stare at Margaret as she passed, and her consciousness 
of the admiration she excited increased her beauty. She was satisfied 
that amid that throng of the best-dressed women in the world she 
had cause to envy no one. The gaiety was charming. Shaded lights 
gave an opulent cosiness to the scene, and there were flowers 
everywhere. Innumerable mirrors reflected women of the world, 
admirably gowned, actresses of renown, and fashionable 
courtesans. The noise was very great. A Hungarian band played in a 
distant corner, but the music was drowned by the loud talking of 
excited men and the boisterous laughter of women. It was plain that 
people had come to spend their money with a lavish hand. The 
vivacious crowd was given over with all its heart to the pleasure of 
the fleeting moment. Everyone had put aside grave thoughts and 
sorrow. 
Margaret had never been in better spirits. The champagne went 
quickly to her head, and she talked all manner of charming 
nonsense. Arthur was enchanted. He was very proud, very pleased, 
and very happy. They talked of all the things they would do when 
they were married. They talked of the places they must go to, of 
their home and of the beautiful things with which they would fill it. 
Margaret's animation was extraordinary. Arthur was amused at her 
delight with the brightness of the place, with the good things they 
ate, and with the wine. Her laughter was like a rippling brook. 
Everything tended to take him out of his usual reserve. Life was 
very pleasing, at that moment, and he felt singularly joyful. 
'Let us drink to the happiness of our life,' he said. 
They touched glasses. He could not take his eyes away from her. 
'You're simply wonderful tonight,' he said. 'I'm almost afraid of my 
good fortune.' 
'What is there to be afraid of?' she cried. 

---

'I should like to lose something I valued in order to propitiate the 
fates. I am too happy now. Everything goes too well with me.' 
She gave a soft, low laugh and stretched out her hand on the table. 
No sculptor could have modelled its exquisite delicacy. She wore 
only one ring, a large emerald which Arthur had given her on their 
engagement. He could not resist taking her hand. 
'Would you like to go on anywhere?' he said, when they had 
finished dinner and were drinking their coffee. 
'No, let us stay here. I must go to bed early, as I have a tiring day 
before me tomorrow.' 
'What are you going to do?' he asked. 
'Nothing of any importance,' she laughed. 
Presently the diners began to go in little groups, and Margaret 
suggested that they should saunter towards the Madeleine. The 
night was fine, but rather cold, and the broad avenue was crowded. 
Margaret watched the people. It was no less amusing than a play. In 
a little while, they took a cab and drove through the streets, silent 
already, that led to the quarter of the Montparnasse. They sat in 
silence, and Margaret nestled close to Arthur. He put his arm 
around her waist. In the shut cab that faint, oriental odour rose 
again to his nostrils, and his head reeled as it had before dinner. 
'You've made me very happy, Margaret,' he whispered. 'I feel that, 
however long I live, I shall never have a happier day than this.' 
'Do you love me very much?' she asked, lightly. 
He did not answer, but took her face in his hands and kissed her 
passionately. They arrived at Margaret's house, and she tripped up 
to the door. She held out her hand to him, smiling. 
'Goodnight.' 
'It's dreadful to think that I must spend a dozen hours without 
seeing you. When may I come?' 

---

'Not in the morning, because I shall be too busy. Come at twelve.' 
She remembered that her train started exactly at that hour. The door 
was opened, and with a little wave of the hand she disappeared. 

---

10 
Susie stared without comprehension at the note that announced 
Margaret's marriage. It was a