We were sitting at luncheon one day about the end of the summer.
Suddenly the Countess arose from her seat, erect, pale with fury,
pointing at Suzanne.
"Leave the table, wretched vicious girl! Go to your room! And you,
Sir"--to Monsieur de Fouquier--"will leave my house without delay."
There was a moment's intense silence. No one moved. All stared.
"Madame--" began de Fouquier suavely.
"Not a syllable! It is not required. Business can be wound up in a few
hours; and I do not doubt I shall find a successor who will serve me
_not less well_ than you. Gentlemanly conduct indeed!--handling and
embracing my daughter--"
"Mother"--it was Elise who spoke--"are you _quite_ demented?" For one
who was not a principal she was inexplicably white and hard.
"Quite, I think," rejoined her sister, not at all as though the chief
person concerned, but relieved to have a word to echo.
"Wretched girl. You dare deny--?" Here Mademoiselle Gros nudged and
whispered. The Countess walked swiftly round the table to her daughter,
and snatched at her left arm. "Deny now, will you? Ha! Ha! Look at your
wrists; deny if you can."
We all stared. The white finger-pressure of another hand was
unmistakable.
"Deny?" cried Suzanne scornfully, "of course I do. He holding my hand
under the table! What an idiotic idea, just the sort of idea you would
have. Dear me, how horrible if he had! That's what your filthy little
spy thinks she saw through her filthy smoked glasses. The liar!"
"Those marks, then, Mademoiselle, if you please"--her mother sneered
confidently--"Be so very kind as to explain."
"Those marks, then, Madame, if you please! I suppose you're not my
mother, Madame, if you please, and know nothing of the little habit
I've always had of sitting with my hands in my lap, with my left wrist
clasped in my right hand, my own amorous right hand? I had finished my
dessert, and--yes, I admit it--was sitting in that wicked position. And
I will again. And, what is more, I won't have you and your accusations.
I'm not a baby in long clothes, and I won't be spied on and shrieked at
in that mad way. And I'll squeeze my wrist till it bleeds if I choose
to."
Too confident, too explanatory. Lying was not in her line. But de
Fouquier preserved an unruffled silence. I was not sure. The Countess
too was wavering.
Ferret whispered again. "Not true." We all heard.
"Listen, Madame," said Elise, very hard and pale, "there is one person
who will leave this house without delay: that little spy. Order her to
go at once: _Now!_", savagely.
"I won't," piped the Countess, "I am mistress in my own house."
"Then I will," and turning to Mademoiselle Gros, "You have just two
minutes to leave this table of your own free will, and till tomorrow to
relieve the Château of your presence. If not, I'll drag you from the
room myself, or ring for the servants to help me." They all cowered
(except de Fouquier) before Elise.
"Yes, go I will, my poor Countess," squeaked the creature, trying to
make valour appear the better part of discretion. "I can hear your
daughters' insults no longer." Out she skedaddled, tap-tap-tapping
across the wooden floor in the midst of a momentous silence.
Then Elise turned sharply to her mother. "All you have to do is to
apologize humbly to Suzanne and Emile. The whole thing is a mare's
nest. Have you ever seen anything before to make you suspect anything
of the sort? No, and you know you have not. It is utterly unlike my
sister. As to Emile, I know him a good deal better than you do--"
"Evidently"; sneering feebly.
"There's a stupid muddle-headed sneer. You can't have it both ways. If
it is me you suspect of love-making with our cousin, say so openly and
withdraw it about Suzanne. Is it proofs you want? Oh, I can produce
authentic marks of loving pressure soon enough." She clutched savagely
at her own wrist, scratching it with her nails. "There, mother, dear,
there is a spot of blood: now you are convinced. I admit all, all.
You may shriek 'Wretched, vicious girl' at me till your voice fails
you. But one thing you may not, shall not, do. You shall not talk to
my sister like that, not if you were my mother ten times over. That
is an order. And for a piece of advice only, don't talk quite so
preposterously to Emile."
"You are grown very fond of our cousin all of a sudden; with your
'Emile' this and your 'Emile' that. It is rather sudden."
"Oh, no, my dear mamma: it has been a very gradual affair on the
contrary: a passion that has been eating my heart out month by month,
day by day, hour by hour. Oh Love, Love. I live in it, it is my joy,
my life! Oh God, it is cruel!" With a laugh (or sob) she ran from the
table, and hurriedly left the room.
Four of us were left. There was a new unpleasant pause. No sign or look
passed between Suzanne and de Fouquier. I was moved by the display of
raging hate in this peaceful family, and bewildered to know what it
might all mean. The Countess was sniffing tearfully, mopping her eyes
with a tiny cambric handkerchief.
"No need for that," cried Suzanne sharply. "You have not yet apologized
to Emile."
He broke his discreet silence at last, suavely, full of forgiveness.
"No, my dear cousin, pray do not talk to your mother like that. 'Tis
I who am sorry. It is not Madame's own fault; I have always felt that
Mademoiselle Gros was putting false ideas into her mind, poisoning her
outlook, playing treacherously on her maternal fears, slandering each
one of us. Now she is going, and we shall breathe a purer atmosphere."
Madame continued to sniffle.
"Don't-know-what-to-believe."
Neither Suzanne nor Monsieur de Fouquier gave her any enlightenment,
though she looked furtively up first at one and then the other. Then
with an appealing "Help me" glance she turned in my direction. So,
instantly, did the others. "Remember, dear Mademoiselle, that we're
friends," was the burden of one look: "Beware, young lady, or we'll be
enemies" of the other.
"I think it must all be an unfortunate misunderstanding, Madame," I
said. "Personally, I noticed nothing." (Judicial, judicious.)
Here François entered; bald-headed, Punch-faced, beaky-eyed. He
looked completely incognizant of the storm that had been raging:
exactly as though he had been listening outside the whole time. The
united-front-before-servants which we hastened to display would have
failed to deceive the dullard which François certainly was not.
Both Suzanne and her mother began eye-signalling "See you after" to me,
the more emphatically when each perceived the other. Suzanne first, I
decided: she was my friend, and with her I should get nearer the truth
of it all. But as we rose from the table, the Countess laid her hand
affectionately on my shoulder, and led me, unavoidably, to her boudoir.