CHAPTER VI.
A Hint of Something Serious
CCURRENCES such as this induce in a man of imagination a sense of sudden shy intimacy. The physical encounter seems to typify and foreshadow some intermingling of destiny. This occurs with peculiar force when the lady is as beautiful as was the girl I saw before me.
“I beg your pardon, madame,” said I, with a whirl of my hat.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the lady, with an inclination of her head.
“One is so careless in entering rooms hurriedly,” I observed.
“Oh, but it is stupid to stand just by the door!” insisted the lady.
Conscious that she was scanning my appearance, I could but return the compliment. She was very tall, almost as tall as I was myself; you would choose to call her stately, rather than slender. She was very fair, with large lazy blue eyes and a lazy smile to match. In all respects she was the greatest contrast to the Duchess of Saint-Maclou.
“You were about to pass out?” said I, holding the door.
She bowed; but at the moment another lady—elderly, rather stout, and, to speak it plainly, of homely and unattractive aspect—whom I had not hitherto perceived, called from a table at the other end of the room where she was sitting:
“We ought to start early to-morrow.”
The younger lady turned her head slowly toward the speaker.
“My dear mother,” said she, “I never start early. Besides, this town is interesting—the landlord says so.”
“But he wishes us to arrive for déjeuner.”
“We will take it here. Perhaps we will drive over in the afternoon—perhaps the next day.”
And the young lady gazed at her mother with an air of indifference—or rather it seemed to me strangely like one of aversion and defiance.
“My dear!” cried the elder in consternation. “My dearest Marie!”
“It is just as I thought,” said I to myself complacently.
Marie Delhasse—for beyond doubt it was she—walked slowly across the room and sat down by her mother. I took a table nearer the door; the waiter appeared, and I ordered a light supper. Marie poured out a glass of wine from a bottle on the table; apparently they had been supping. They began to converse together in low tones. My repast arriving, I fell to. A few moments later, I heard Marie say, in her composed indolent tones:
“I’m not sure I shall go at all. Entre nous, he bores me.”
I stole a glance at Mme. Delhasse. Consternation was writ large on her face, and suspicion besides. She gave her daughter a quick sidelong glance, and a frown gathered on her brow. So far as I heard, however, she attempted no remonstrance. She rose, wrapping a shawl round her, and made for the door. I sprang up and opened it; she walked out. Marie drew a chair to the fire and sat down with her back to me, toasting her feet—for the summer night had turned chilly. I finished my supper. The clock struck half-past eleven. I stifled a yawn; one smoke and then to the bed was my programme.
Marie Delhasse turned her head half-round.
“You must not,” said she, “let me prevent you having your cigarette. I should set you at ease by going to bed, but I can’t sleep so early, and upstairs the fire is not lighted.”
I thanked her and approached the fire. She was gazing into it meditatively. Presently she looked up.
“Smoke, sir,” she said imperiously but languidly.
I obeyed her, and stood looking down at her, admiring her stately beauty.
“You have passed the day here?” she asked, gazing again into the fire.
“In this neighborhood,” said I, with discreet vagueness.
“You have been able to pass the time?”
“Oh, certainly!” That had not been my difficulty.
“There is, of course,” she said wearily, “Mont St. Michel. But can you imagine anyone living in such a country?”
“Unless Fate set one here——” I began.
“I suppose that’s it,” she interrupted.
“You are going to make a stay here?”
“I am,” she answered slowly, “on my way to—I don’t know where.”
I was scrutinizing her closely now, for her manner seemed to witness more than indolence; irresolution, vacillation, discomfort, asserted their presence. I could not make her out, but her languid indifference appeared more assumed than real.
With another upward glance, she said:
“My name is Marie Delhasse.”
“It is a well-known name,” said I with a bow.
“You have heard of me?”
“Yes.”
“What?” she asked quickly, wheeling half-round and facing me.
“That you are a great singer,” I answered simply.
“Ah, I’m not all voice! What about me? A woman is more than an organ pipe. What about me?”
Her excitement contrasted with the langour she had displayed before.
“Nothing,” said I, wondering that she should ask a stranger such a question. She glanced at me for an instant. I threw my eyes up to the ceiling.
“It is false!” she said quietly; but the trembling of her hands belied her composure.
The tawdry gilt clock on the mantelpiece by me ticked through a long silence. The last act of the day’s comedy seemed set for a more serious scene.
“Why do you ask a stranger a question like that?” I said at last, giving utterance to the thought that puzzled me.
“Whom should I ask? And I like your face—no, not because it is handsome. You are English, sir?”
“Yes, I am English. My name is Gilbert Aycon.”
“Aycon—Aycon! It is a little difficult to say it as you say it.”
Her thoughts claimed her again. I threw my cigarette into the fire, and stood waiting her pleasure. But she seemed to have no more to say, for she rose from the seat and held out her hand to me.
“Will you ‘shake hands?’” she said, the last two words in English; and she smiled again.
I hastened to do as she asked me, and she moved toward the door.
“Perhaps,” she said, “I shall see you to-morrow morning.”
“I shall be here.” Then I added: “I could not help hearing you talk of moving elsewhere.”
She stood still in the middle of the room; she opened her lips to speak, shut them again, and ended by saying nothing more than:
“Yes, we talked of it. My mother wishes it. Good-night, Mr. Aycon.”
I bade her good-night, and she passed slowly through the door, which I closed behind her. I turned again to the fire, saying:
“What would the duchess think of that?”
I did not even know what I thought of it myself; of one thing only I felt sure—that what I had heard of Marie Delhasse was not all that there was to learn about her.
I was lodged in a large room on the third floor, and when I awoke the bright sun beamed on the convent where, as I presume, Mme. de Saint-Maclou lay, and on the great Mount beyond it in the distance. I have never risen with a more lively sense of unknown possibilities in the day before me. These two women who had suddenly crossed my path, and their relations to the pale puffy-cheeked man at the little château, might well produce results more startling than had seemed to be offered even by such a freak as the original expedition undertaken by Gustave de Berensac and me. And now Gustave had fallen away and I was left to face the thing alone. For face it I must. My promise to the duchess bound me: had it not I doubt whether I should have gone; for my interest was not only in the duchess.
I had my coffee upstairs, and then, putting on my hat, went down for a stroll. So long as the duke did not come to Avranches, I could show my face boldly—and was not he busy preparing for his guests? I crossed the threshold of the hotel.
Just at the entrance stood Marie Delhasse; opposite her was a thickset fellow, neatly dressed and wearing mutton-chop whiskers. As I came out I raised my hat. The man appeared not to notice me, though his eyes fell on me for a moment. I passed quickly by—in fact, as quickly as I could—for it struck me at once that this man must be Lafleur, and I did not want him to give the duke a description of the unknown gentleman who was staying at Avranches. Yet, as I went, I had time to hear Marie’s slow musical voice say:
“I’m not coming at all to-day.”
I was very glad of it, and pursued my round of the town with a lighter heart. Presently, after half an hour’s walk, I found myself opposite the church, and thus nearly back at the hotel: and in front of the church stood Marie Delhasse, looking at the façade.
Raising my hat I went up to her, her friendliness of the evening before encouraging me.
“I hope you are going to stay to-day?” said I.
“I don’t know.” Then she smiled, but not mirthfully. “I expect to be very much pressed to go this afternoon,” she said.
I made a shot—apparently at a venture.
“Someone will come and carry you off?” I asked jestingly.
“It’s very likely. My presence here will be known.”
“But need you go?”
She looked on the ground and made no answer.
“Perhaps though,” I continued, “he—or she—will not come. He may be too much occupied.”
“To come for me?” she said, with the first touch of coquetry which I had seen in her lighting up her eyes.
“Even for that, it is possible,” I rejoined.
We began to walk together toward the edge of the open place in front of the church. The convent came in sight as we reached the fall of the hill.
“How peaceful that looks!” she said; “I wonder if it would be pleasant there!”
I was myself just wondering how the Duchess of Saint-Maclou found it, when a loud cry of warning startled us. We had been standing on the edge of the road, and a horse, going at a quick trot, was within five yards of us. As it reached us, it was sharply reined in. To my amazement, old Jean, the duchess’ servant, sat upon it. When he saw me, a smile spread over his weather-beaten face.
“I was nearly over you,” said he. “You had no ears.”
And I am sorry to say that Jean winked, insinuating that Marie Delhasse and I had been preoccupied.
The diplomacy of non-recognition had failed to strike Jean. I made the best of a bad job, and asked:
“What brings you here?”
Marie stood a few paces off, regarding us.
“I’m looking for Mme. la Duchesse,” grinned Jean.
Marie Delhasse took a step forward when she heard his reference to the duchess.
“Her absence was discovered by Suzanne at six o’clock this morning,” the old fellow went on. “And the duke—ah, take care how you come near him, sir! Oh, it’s a kettle of fish! For as I came I met that coxcomb Lafleur riding back with a message from the duke’s guests that they would not come to-day! So the duchess is gone, and the ladies are not come; and the duke—he has nothing to do but curse that whippersnapper of a Pierre who came last night.”
And Jean ended in a rapturous hoarse chuckle.
“You were riding so fast, then, because you were after the duchess?” I suggested.
“I rode fast for fear,” said Jean, with a shrewd smile, “that I should stop somewhere on the road. Well, I have looked in Avranches. She is not in Avranches. I’ll go home again.”
Marie Delhasse came close to my side.
“Ask him,” she said to me, “if he speaks of the Duchess of Saint-Maclou.”
I put the question as I was directed.
“You couldn’t have guessed better if you’d known,” said Jean; and a swift glance from Marie Delhasse told me that her suspicion as to my knowledge was aroused.
“And what will happen, Jean?” said I.
“The good God knows,” shrugged Jean. Then, remembering perhaps my five-franc pieces, he said politely, “I hope you are well, sir?”
“Up to now, thank you, Jean,” said I.
His glance traveled to Marie. I saw his shriveled lips curl; his expression was ominous of an unfortunate remark.
“Good-by!” said I significantly.
Jean had some wits. He spared me the remark, but not the sly leer that had been made to accompany it. He clapped his heels to his horse’s side and trotted off in the direction from which he had come. So that he could swear he had been to Avranches, he was satisfied!
Marie Delhasse turned to me, asking haughtily:
“What is the meaning of this? What do you know of the Duke or Duchess of Saint-Maclou?”
“I might return your question,” said I, looking her in the face.
“Will you answer it?” she said, flushing red.
“No, Mlle. Delhasse, I will not,” said I.
“What is the meaning of this ‘absence’ of the Duchess of Saint-Maclou which that man talks about so meaningly?”
Then I said, speaking low and slow:
“Who are the friends whom you are on your way to visit?”
“Who are you?” she cried. “What do you know about it? What concern is it of yours?”
There was no indolence or lack of animation in her manner now. She questioned me with imperious indignation.
“I will answer not a single word,” said I. “But—you asked me last night what I had heard of you.”
“Well?” she said, and shut her lips tightly on the word.
I held my peace; and in a moment she went on passionately:
“Who would have guessed that you would insult me? Is it your habit to insult women?”
“Not mine only, it seems,” said I, meeting her glance boldly.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Had you, then, an invitation from Mme. de Saint-Maclou?”
She drew back as if I had struck her. And I felt as though I had struck her. She looked at me for a moment with parted lips; then, without a word or a sign, she turned and walked slowly away in the direction of the hotel.
And I, glad to have something else to occupy my thoughts, started at a brisk pace along the foot-path that runs down the hill and meets the road which would lead me to the convent, for I had a thing or two to say to the duchess. And yet it was not of the duchess only that I thought as I went. There were also in my mind the indignant pride with which Marie Delhasse had questioned me, and the shrinking shame in her eyes at that counter-question of mine. The Duke of Saint-Maclou’s invitation seemed to bring as much disquiet to one of his guests as it had to his wife herself. But one thing struck me, and I found a sort of comfort in it: she had thought, it seemed, that the duchess was to be at home.
“Pah!” I cried suddenly to myself. “If she weren’t pretty, you’d say that made it worse!”
And I went on in a bad temper.