When the cab stopped, he whispered: "Dominique ... let me come up ... for just a moment ... "
"Yes," she answered. The word was flat, impersonal, with no sound of invitation. But she had never allowed it before. He followed her, his heart pounding.
There was one fragment of a second, as she entered her apartment, when she stopped, waiting. He stared at her helplessly, bewildered, too happy. He noticed the pause only when she was moving again, walking away from him, into the drawing room. She sat down, and her hands fell limply one at each side, her arms away from her body, leaving her unprotected. Her eyes were half closed, rectangular, empty.
"Dominique ... " he whispered, "Dominique ... how lovely you are! ... "
Then he was beside her, whispering incoherently:
"Dominique ... Dominique, I love you ... Don't laugh at me, please don't laugh! ... My whole life ... anything you wish ... Don't you know how beautiful you are? ... Dominique ... I love you ... "
He stopped with his arms around her and his face over hers, to catch some hint of response or resistance; he saw nothing. He jerked her violently against him and kissed her lips.
His arms fell open. He let her body fall back against the seat, and he stared at her, aghast. It had not been a kiss; he had not held a woman in his arms; what he had held and kissed had not been alive. Her lips had not moved in answer against his; her arms had not moved to embrace him; it was not revulsion — he could have understood revulsion. It was as if he could hold her forever or drop her, kiss her again or go further to satisfy his desire — and her body would not know it, would not notice it. She was looking at him, past him. She saw a cigarette stub that had fallen off a tray on a table beside her, she moved her hand and slipped the cigarette back into the tray.
"Dominique," he whispered stupidly, "didn't you want me to kiss you?"
"Yes." She was not laughing at him; she was answering simply and helplessly.
"Haven't you ever been kissed before?"
"Yes. Many times."
"Do you always act like that?"
"Always. Just like that."
"Why did you want me to kiss you?"
"I wanted to try it."
"You're not human, Dominique."
She lifted her head, she got up and the sharp precision of the movement was her own again. He knew he would hear no simple, confessing helplessness in her voice; he knew the intimacy was ended, even though her words, when she spoke, were more intimate and revealing than anything she had said; but she spoke as if she did not care what she revealed or to whom:
"I suppose I'm one of those freaks you hear about, an utterly frigid woman. I'm sorry, Peter. You see? You have no rivals, but that includes you also. A disappointment, darling?"
"You ... you'll outgrow it ... some day ... "
"I'm really not so young, Peter. Twenty-five. It must be an interesting experience to sleep with a man. I've wanted to want it. I should think it would be exciting to become a dissolute woman. I am, you know, in everything but in fact ... Peter, you look as if you were going to blush in a moment, and that's very amusing."
"Dominique! Haven't you ever been in love at all? Not even a little?"
"I haven't. I really wanted to fall in love with you. I thought it would be convenient. I'd have no trouble with you at all. But you see? I can't feel anything. I can't feel any difference, whether it's you or Alvah Scarret or Lucius Heyer."
He got up. He did not want to look at her. He walked to a window and stood, staring out, his hands clasped behind his back. He had forgotten his desire and her beauty, but he remembered now that she was Francon's daughter.
"Dominique, will you marry me?"
He knew he had to say it now; if he let himself think of her, he would never say it; what he felt for her did not matter any longer; he could not let it stand between him and his future; and what lie felt for her was growing into hatred.
"You're not serious?" she asked.
He turned to her. He spoke rapidly, easily; he was lying now, and so he was sure of himself and it was not difficult:
"I love you, Dominique. I'm crazy about you. Give me a chance. If there's no one else, why not? You'll learn to love me — because I understand you. I'll be patient. I'll make you happy."
She shuddered suddenly, and then she laughed. She laughed simply, completely; he saw the pale form of her dress trembling; she stood straight, her head thrown back, like a string shaking with the vibrations of a blinding insult to him; an insult, because her laughter was not bitter or mocking, but quite simply gay.
Then it stopped. She stood looking at him. She said earnestly:
"Peter, if I ever want to punish myself for something terrible, if I ever want to punish myself disgustingly — I'll marry you." She added: "Consider it a promise."
"I'll wait — no matter what reason you choose for it."
Then she smiled gaily, the cold, gay smile he dreaded.
"Really, Peter, you don't have to do it, you know. You'll get that partnership anyway. And we'll always be good friends. Now its time for you to go home. Don't forget, you're taking me to the horse show Wednesday. Oh, yes, we're going to the horse show Wednesday. I adore horse shows. Good night, Peter."
He left and walked home through the warm spring night. He walked savagely. If, at that moment, someone had offered him sole ownership of the firm of Francon & Heyer at the price of marrying Dominique, he would have refused it. He knew also, hating himself, that he would not refuse, if it were offered to him on the following morning.
15.
THIS was fear. This was what one feels in nightmares, thought Peter Keating, only then one awakens when it becomes unbearable, but he could neither awaken nor bear it any longer. It had been growing, for days, for weeks, and now it had caught him: this lewd, unspeakable dread of defeat. He would lose the competition, he was certain that he would lose it, and the certainty grew as each day of waiting passed. He could not work; he jerked when people spoke to him; he had not slept for nights.
He walked toward the house of Lucius Heyer. He tried not to notice the faces of the people he passed, but he had to notice; he had always looked at people; and people looked at him, as they always did. He wanted to shout at them and tell them to turn away, to leave him alone. They were staring at him, he thought, because he was to fail and they knew it.
He was going to Heyer's house to save himself from the coming disaster in the only way he saw left to him. If he failed in that competition — and he knew he was to fail — Francon would be shocked and disillusioned; then if Heyer died, as he could die at any moment, Francon would hesitate — in the bitter aftermath of a public humiliation — to accept Keating as his partner; if Francon hesitated, the game was lost. There were others waiting for the opportunity: Bennett, whom he had been unable to get out of the office; Claude Stengel, who had been doing very well on his own, and had approached Francon with an offer to buy Heyer's place. Keating had nothing to count on, except Francon's uncertain faith in him. Once another partner replaced Heyer, it would be the end of Keating's future. He had come too close and had missed. That was never forgiven.
Through the sleepless nights the decision had become clear and hard in his mind: he had to close the issue at once; he had to take advantage of Francon's deluded hopes before the winner of the competition was announced; he had to force Heyer out and take his place; he had only a few days left.