"Alas! there has been an accident, m'sieur le maire! A terrible
accident! One of the submarines--they don't yet know which it is--has
been struck by a big private yacht and has sunk in the fairway of the
Channel, about two miles out!"
The Mayor of Falaise uttered an involuntary exclamation of horror. "When
did it happen?" he asked quickly.
"About half an hour ago more or less. _I_ said that m'sieur le maire
ought to be informed at once of such a calamity. But I was told to wait
till the marriages were over."
Looking furtively at the mayor's pale face, the young man regretted that
he had not taken more on himself, for m'sieur le maire looked seriously
displeased.
There was an old feud between the municipal and the naval authorities of
Falaise--there often is in a naval port--and the mayor ought certainly
to have been among the very first to hear the news of the disaster.
The bearer of ill news hoped m'sieur le maire would not blame him for
the delay, or cause the fact to postpone his advancement to a higher
grade--that advancement which is the perpetual dream of every French
Government official.
"The admiral has only just driven by," he observed insinuatingly, "not
five minutes ago----"
But still Jacques de Wissant did not move. He was listening to the
increasing stir and tumult going on outside in the market place. The
sounds had acquired a sinister significance; he knew now that the
tramping of feet, the loud murmur of voices, meant that the whole
population belonging to the seafaring portion of the town was emptying
itself out and hurrying towards the harbour and the shore.
Shaking off the bearer of ill news with a curt word of thanks, the Mayor
of Falaise strode out of the town hall into the street and joined the
eager crowd, mostly consisting of fisher folk, which grew denser as it
swept down the tortuous narrow streets leading to the sea.
The people parted with a sort of rough respect to make way for their
mayor; many of them, nay the majority, were known by name to Jacques de
Wissant, and the older men and women among them could remember him as a
child.
Rising to the tragic occasion, he walked forward with his head held
high, and a look of deep concern on his pale, set face. The men who
manned the Northern Submarine Flotilla were almost all men born and bred
at Falaise--Falaise famed for the gallant sailors she has ever given to
France.
The hurrying crowd--strangely silent in its haste--poured out on to the
great stone-paved quays in which is set the harbour so finely encircled
on two sides by the cliffs which give the town its name.
Beyond the harbour--crowded with shipping, and now alive with eager
little craft and fishing-boats making ready to start for the scene of
the calamity--lay a vast expanse of glistening sea, and on that
sun-flecked blue pall every eye was fixed.
The end of the harbour jetty was already roped off, only those
officially privileged being allowed through to the platform where now
stood Admiral de Saint Vilquier impatiently waiting for the tug which
was to take him out to the spot where the disaster had taken place. The
Admiral was a naval officer of the old school--of the school who called
their men "my children"--and who detested the Republican form of
government as being subversive of discipline.
As Jacques de Wissant hurried up to him, he turned and stiffly saluted
the Mayor of Falaise. Admiral de Saint Vilquier had no liking for M. de
Wissant--a cold prig of a fellow, and yet married to such a beautiful,
such a charming young woman, the daughter, too, of one of the Admiral's
oldest friends, of that Admiral de Kergouët with whom he had first gone
to sea a matter of fifty years ago! The lovely Claire de Kergouët had
been worthy of a better fate than to be wife to this plain, cold-blooded
landsman.
"Do they yet know, Admiral, which of the submarines has gone down?"
asked Jacques de Wissant in a low tone. He was full of a burning
curiosity edged with a longing and a suspense into whose secret sources
he had no wish to thrust a probe.
The Admiral's weather-beaten face was a shade less red than usual; the
bright blue eyes he turned on the younger man were veiled with a film of
moisture. "Yes, the news has just come in, but it isn't to be made
public for awhile. It's the submarine _Neptune_ which was struck, with
Commander Dupré, Lieutenant Paritot, and ten men on board. The craft is
lying eighteen fathoms deep----"
Jacques de Wissant uttered an inarticulate cry--was it of horror or only
of surprise? And yet, gifted for that once and that once only with a
kind of second sight, he had known that it was the _Neptune_ and
Commander Dupré which lay eighteen fathoms deep on the floor of the sea.
The old seaman, moved by the mayor's emotion, relaxed into a
confidential undertone. "Poor Dupré! I had forgotten that you knew him.
He is indeed pursued by a malignant fate. As of course you are aware, he
applied a short time ago to be transferred to Toulon, and his
appointment is in to-day's _Gazette_. In fact he was actually leaving
Falaise this very evening in order to spend a week with his family
before taking up his new command!"
The Mayor of Falaise stared at the Admiral. "Dupré going away?--leaving
Falaise?" he repeated incredulously.
The other nodded.
Jacques de Wissant drew a long, deep breath. God! How mistaken he had
been! Mistaken as no man, no husband, had ever been mistaken before. He
felt overwhelmed, shaken with conflicting emotions in which shame and
intense relief predominated.
The fact that Commander Dupré had applied for promotion was to his mind
absolute proof that there had been nothing--nothing and less than
nothing--between the naval officer and Claire. The Admiral's words now
made it clear that he, Jacques de Wissant, had built up a huge
superstructure of jealousy and base thoughts on the fact that poor Dupré
and Claire had innocently enjoyed certain tastes in common. True, such
friendships--friendships between unmarried men and attractive young
married women--are generally speaking to be deprecated. Still, Claire
had always been "correct;" of that there could now be no doubt.
As he stood there on the pier, staring out, as all those about him and
behind him were doing, at the expanse of dark blue sun-flecked sea,
there came over Jacques de Wissant a great lightening of the spirit....
But all too soon his mind, his memory, swung back to the tragic business
of the moment.
Suddenly the Admiral burst into speech, addressing himself, rather than
the silent man by his side.
"The devil of it is," he exclaimed, "that the nearest salvage appliances
are at Cherbourg! Thank God, the Ministry of Marine are alone
responsible for that blunder. Dupré and his comrades have, it seems,
thirty-six hours' supply of oxygen--if, indeed, they are still living,
which I feel tempted to hope they are not. You see, Monsieur de Wissant,
I was at Bizerta when the _Lutin_ sank. A man doesn't want to remember
two such incidents in his career. One is quite bad enough!"
"I suppose it isn't yet known how far the _Neptune_ is injured?"
inquired the Mayor of Falaise.
But he spoke mechanically; he was not really thinking of what he was
saying. His inner and real self were still steeped in that strange
mingled feeling of shame and relief--shame that he should have suspected
his wife, exultant relief that his jealousy should have been so entirely
unfounded.
"No, as usual no one knows exactly what did happen. But we shall learn
something of that presently. The divers are on their way. But--but even
if the craft did sustain no injury, what can they do? Ants might as well
attempt to pierce a cannon-ball"--he shrugged his shoulders, oppressed
by the vision his homely simile had conjured up.
And then--for no particular reason, save that his wife Claire was very
present to him--Jacques de Wissant bethought himself that it was most
unlikely that any tidings of the accident could yet have reached the
Châlet des Dunes, the lonely villa on the shore where Claire was now
lunching with her sister. But at any moment some casual visitor from the
town might come out there with the sad news. He told himself uneasily
that it would be well, if possible, to save his wife from such a shock.
After all, Claire and that excellent Commander Dupré had been good
friends--so much must be admitted, nay, now he was eager to admit it.
Jacques de Wissant touched the older man on the arm.
"I should be most grateful, Admiral, for the loan of your motor-car. I
have just remembered that I ought to go home for an hour. This terrible
affair made me forget it; but I shall not be long--indeed, I must soon
be back, for there will be all sorts of arrangements to be made at the
town hall. Of course we shall be besieged with inquiries, with messages
from Paris, with telegrams----"
"My car, monsieur, is entirely at your disposal."
The Admiral could not help feeling, even at so sad and solemn a moment
as this, a little satirical amusement. Arrangements at the town hall,
forsooth! If the end of the world were in sight, the claims of the
municipality of Falaise would not be neglected or forgotten; in as far
as Jacques de Wissant could arrange it, everything in such a case would
be ready at the town hall, if not on the quarter-deck, for the Great
Assize!
What had a naval disaster to do with the Mayor of Falaise, after all?
But in this matter the old Admiral allowed prejudice to get the better
of him; the men now immured in the submarine were, with two
exceptions--their commander and his junior officer--all citizens of the
town. It was their mothers, wives, children, sweethearts, who were now
pressing with wild, agonized faces against the barriers drawn across the
end of the pier....
As Jacques de Wissant made his way through the crowd, his grey
frock-coat was pulled by many a horny hand, and imploring faces gazed
with piteous questioning into his. But he could give them no comfort.
Not till he found himself actually in the Admiral's car did he give his
instructions to the chauffeur.
"Take me to the Châlet des Dunes as quickly as you can drive without
danger," he said briefly. "You probably know where it is?"
The man nodded and looked round consideringly. He had never driven so
elegantly attired a gentleman before. Why, M. de Wissant looked like a
bridegroom! The Mayor of Falaise should be good for a handsome tip.
The chauffeur did not need to be told that on such a day time was of
importance, and once they were out of the narrow, tortuous streets of
the town, the Admiral's car flew.
And then, for the first time that day, Jacques de Wissant began to feel
pleasantly cool, nay, there even came over him a certain exhilaration.
He had been foolish to hold out against motor-cars. There was a great
deal to be said for them, after all. He owed his wife reparation for his
evil thoughts of her. He resolved that he would get Claire the best
automobile money could buy. It is always a mistake to economize in such
matters....
His mind took a sudden turn--he felt ashamed of his egoism, and the
sensation disturbed him, for the Mayor of Falaise very seldom had
occasion to feel ashamed, either of his thoughts or of his actions. How
could he have allowed his attention to stray from the subject which
should just now be absorbing his whole mind?
Thirty-six hours' supply of oxygen? Well, it might have been worse, for
a great deal can be done in thirty-six hours.
True, all the salvage appliances, so the Admiral had said, were at
Cherbourg. What a shameful lack of forethought on someone's part! Still,
there was little doubt but that the _Neptune_ would be raised in--in
time. The British Navy would send her salvage appliances. Jacques de
Wissant had a traditional distrust of the English, but at such moments
all men are brothers, and just now the French and the English happened
to be allies. He himself felt far more kindly to his little girls'
governess, Miss Doughty, than he would have done five years ago.
Yes, without doubt the gallant English Navy would send salvage
appliances....
There would be some hours of suspense--terrible hours for the wives and
mothers of the men, but those poor women would be upheld by the
universal sympathy shown them. He himself as mayor of the town would do
all he could. He would seek these poor women out, say consoling, hopeful
things, and Claire would help him. She had, as he knew, a very tender
heart, especially where seamen were concerned.
Indeed, it was a terrible thought--that of those brave fellows down
there beneath the surface of the waters. Terrible, that is, if they were
alive--alive in the same measure as he, Jacques de Wissant, was now
alive in the keen, rushing air. Alive, and waiting for a deliverance
that might never come. The idea made him feel a queer, interior tremor.
Then his mind, in spite of himself, swung back to its old moorings. How
strange that he had not been told that Commander Dupré had applied for
a change of command! Doubtless the Mediterranean was better suited,
being a tideless sea, for submarine experiments. Keen, clever Dupré,
absorbed as he was in his profession, had doubtless thought of that.
But, again, how odd of Claire not to have mentioned that Dupré was
leaving Falaise! Of course it was possible that she also had been
ignorant of the fact. She very seldom spoke of other people's affairs,
and lately she had been so dreadfully worried about her sister's,
Marie-Anne's, illness.
If his wife had known nothing of Commander Dupré's plans, it proved as
hardly anything else could have done how little real intimacy there
could have been between them. A man never leaves the woman he loves
unless he has grown tired of her--then, as all the world knows, except
perchance the poor soul herself, no place is too far for him to make
for.
Such was Jacques de Wissant's simple, cynical philosophy concerning a
subject to which he had never given much thought. The tender passion had
always appeared to him in one of two shapes--the one was a grotesque and
slightly improper shape, which makes men do silly, absurd things; the
other came in the semblance of a sinister demon which wrecks the honour
and devastates, as nothing else can do, the happiness of respectable
families. It was this second and more hateful form which had haunted him
these last few weeks.
He recalled with a sick feeling of distaste the state of mind and body
he had been in that very morning. Why, he had then been in the mood to
kill Dupré, or, at any rate, to welcome the news of his death with
fierce joy! And then, simultaneously with his discovery of how
groundless had been his jealousy, he had learnt the awful fact that the
man whom he had wrongly accused lay out there, buried and yet alive,
beneath the glistening sea, which was stretched out, like a great blue
pall, on his left.
Still, it was only proper that his wife should be spared the shock of
hearing in some casual way of this awful accident. Claire had always
been sensitive, curiously so, to everything that concerned the Navy.
Admiral de Saint Vilquier had recalled the horrible submarine disaster
of Bizerta harbour; Jacques de Wissant now remembered uncomfortably how
very unhappy that sad affair had made Claire. Why, one day he had found
her in a passion of tears, mourning over the tragic fate of those poor
sailor men, the crew of the _Lutin_, of whose very names she was
ignorant! At the time he had thought her betrayal of feeling very
unreasonable, but now he understood, and even shared to a certain
extent, the pain she had shown; but then he knew Dupré, knew and liked
him, and the men immured in the _Neptune_ were men of Falaise.
These were the thoughts which jostled each other in Jacques de Wissant's
brain as he sat back in the Admiral's car.
They were now rushing past the Pavilion de Wissant. What a pity it was
that Claire had not remained quietly at home to-day! It would have been
so much pleasanter--if one could think of anything being pleasant in
such a connection--to have gone in and told her the sad news at home.
Her sister, Madeleine Baudoin, though older than Claire, was foolishly
emotional and unrestrained in the expression of her feelings. Madeleine
was sure to make a scene when she heard of Commander Dupré's peril, and
Jacques de Wissant hated scenes.
He now asked himself whether there was any real necessity for his
telling his wife before her sister. All he need do was to send Claire a
message by the servant who opened the door to him. He would say that she
was wanted at home; she would think something had happened to one of the
children, and this would be a good thing, for it would prepare her in a
measure for ill tidings.
From what Jacques knew of his wife he believed she would receive the
news quietly, and he, her husband, would show her every consideration;
again he reminded himself that it would be ridiculous to deny the fact
that Claire had made a friend, almost an intimate, of Commander Dupré.
It would be natural, nay "correct," for her to be greatly distressed
when she heard of the accident.
* * * * *
There came a familiar cutting in the road, and again the sea lay spread
out, an opaque, glistening sheet of steel, before him. He gazed across,
with a feeling of melancholy and fearful curiosity, to the swarm of
craft great and small collected round the place where the _Neptune_ lay,
eighteen fathoms deep....
He hoped Claire would not ask to go back into the town with him in order
to hear the latest news. But if she did so ask, then he would raise no
objection. Every Falaise woman, whatever her rank in life, was now full
of suspense and anxiety, and as the mayor's wife Claire had a right to
share that anxious suspense.
The car was now slowing on the sharp decline leading to the shore, and
Jacques de Wissant got up and touched the chauffeur on the shoulder.
"Stop here," he said. "You needn't drive down to the Châlet. I want you
to turn and wait for me at the Pavillon de Wissant. Ask my servants to
give you some luncheon. I may be half an hour or more, but I want to get
back to Falaise as soon as I can."
The Châlet des Dunes had been well named. It stood enclosed in rough
palings in a sandy wilderness. An attempt had been made to turn the
immediate surroundings of the villa into the semblance of a garden;
there were wind-blown flowers set in sandy flower-beds, and coarse,
luxuriant creepers flung their long, green ropes about the wooden
verandah. In front, stretching out into the sea, was a stone pier, built
by Jacques' father many a year ago.
The Châlet looked singularly quiet and deserted, for all the shutters
had been closed in order to shut out the midday heat.
Jacques de Wissant became vaguely uneasy. He reconsidered his plan of
action. If the two sisters were alone together--as he supposed them to
be--he would go in and quietly tell them of the accident. It would be
making altogether too much of the matter to send for Claire to come out
to him; she might very properly resent it. For the matter of that, it
was quite possible that Madeleine Baudoin had some little sentiment for
Dupré. That would explain so much--the officer's constant presence at
the Châlet des Dunes added to his absence from the Pavillon. It was odd
he had never thought of the possibility before.
But this new idea made Jacques grow more and more uneasy at the thought
of the task which now lay before him. With slow, hesitating steps he
walked up to the little front door of the Châlet.
He pulled the rusty bell-handle. How absurd to have ironwork in such a
place!
There followed what seemed to him a very long pause. He rang again.
There came the sound of light, swift steps; he could hear them in spite
of the rhythmical surge of the sea; and then the door was opened by his
sister-in-law, Madame Baudoin, herself.
In the midst of his own agitation and unease, Jacques de Wissant saw
that there was a look of embarrassment on the face which Madeleine tried
to make amiably welcoming.
"Jacques?" she exclaimed. "Forgive me for having made you ring twice! I
have sent the servants into Falaise to purchase a railway time-table.
Claire will doubtless have told you that I am starting for Italy
to-night. Our poor Marie-Anne is worse; and I feel that it is my duty
to go to her."
She did not step aside to allow him to come in. In fact, doubtless
without meaning to do so, she was actually blocking up the door.
No, Claire had not told Jacques that Marie-Anne was worse. That of
course was why she had looked so unhappy this morning. He felt hurt and
angered by his wife's reserve.
"I am sure you will agree, Madeleine," he said stiffly--he was not sorry
to gain a little time--"that it would not be wise for Claire to
accompany you to Italy. After all, she is still quite a young woman, and
poor Marie-Anne's disease is most infectious. I have ascertained, too,
that there is a regular epidemic raging in Mantua."
Madeleine nodded. Then she turned, with an uneasy side-look at her
brother-in-law, and began leading the way down the short passage. The
door of the dining-room was open; Jacques could not help seeing that
only one place was laid at the round table, also that Madeleine had just
finished her luncheon.
"Isn't Claire here?" he asked, surprised. "She said she was going to
lunch with you to-day. Hasn't she been here this morning?"
"No--I mean yes." Madeleine spoke confusedly. "She did not stay to
lunch. She was only here for a very little while."
"But has she gone home again?"
"Well--she may be home by now; I really don't know"--Madeleine was
opening the door of the little drawing-room.
It was an ugly, common-looking room; the walls were hung with Turkey
red, and ornamented with cheap coloured prints. There were cane and
basket chairs which Madame Baudoin had striven to make comfortable with
the help of cushions and rugs.
Jacques de Wissant told himself that it was odd that Claire should like
to spend so much of her time here, in the Châlet des Dunes, instead of
asking her sister to join her each morning or afternoon in her own
beautiful house on the cliff.
"Forgive me," he said stiffly, "but I can't stay a moment. I really came
for Claire. You say I shall find her at home?"
He held his top hat and his yellow gloves in his hand, and his
sister-in-law thought she had never seen Jacques look so plain and
unattractive, and--and tiresome as he looked to-day.
Madame Baudoin had a special reason for wishing him away; but she knew
the slow, sure workings of his mind. If Jacques found that his wife had
not gone back to the Pavillon de Wissant, and that there was no news of
her there, he would almost certainly come back to the Châlet des Dunes
for further information.
"No," she said reluctantly, "Claire has not gone back to the Pavillon. I
believe that she has gone into the town. She had something important
that she wished to do there."
She looked so troubled, so--so uncomfortable that Jacques de Wissant
leapt to the sudden conclusion that the tidings he had been at such
pains to bring had already been brought to the Châlet des Dunes.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, "then I am too late! Ill news travels fast."
"Ill news?" Madeleine repeated affrightedly. "Is anything the matter?
Has anything happened to one of the children? Don't keep me in suspense,
Jacques. I am not cold-blooded--like you!"
"The children are all right," he said shortly. "But there has been, as
you evidently know, an accident. The submarine _Neptune_ has met with a
serious mishap. She now lies with her crew in eighteen fathoms of water
about two miles out."
He spoke with cold acerbity. How childishly foolish of Madeleine to try
and deceive him! But all women of the type to which she belonged make
foolish mysteries about nothing.
"The submarine _Neptune_?" As she stammered out the question which had
already been answered, there came over Madame Baudoin's face a look of
measureless terror. Twice her lips opened--and twice she closed them
again.
At last she uttered a few words--words of anguished protest and revolt.
"No, no," she cried, "that can't be--it's impossible!"
"Command yourself!" he said sternly. "Remember what would be thought by
anyone who saw you in this state."
But she went on looking at him with wild, terror-stricken eyes. "My poor
Claire!" she moaned. "My little sister Claire----"
All Jacques de Wissant's jealousy leapt into eager, quivering life. Then
he had been right after all? His wife loved Dupré. Her sister's
anguished sympathy had betrayed Claire's secret as nothing Claire
herself was ever likely to say or do could have done.
"You are a good sister," he said ironically, "to take Claire's distress
so much to heart. Identifying yourself as entirely as you seem to do
with her, I am surprised that you did not accompany her into Falaise: it
was most wrong of you to let her go alone."
"Claire is not in Falaise," muttered Madeleine. She was grasping the
back of one of the cane chairs with her hand as if glad of even that
slight support, staring at him with a dazed look of abject misery which
increased his anger, his disgust.
"Not in Falaise?" he echoed sharply. "Then where, in God's name, is
she?"
A most disagreeable possibility had flashed into his mind. Was it
conceivable that his wife had had herself rowed to the scene of the
disaster? If she had done that, if her sister had allowed her to go
alone, or accompanied maybe by one or other of the officers belonging to
the submarine flotilla, then he told himself with jealous rage that he
would find it very difficult ever to forgive Claire. There are things a
woman with any self-respect, especially a woman who is the mother of
daughters, refrains from doing.
"Well?" he said contemptuously. "Well, Madeleine? I am waiting to hear
the truth. I desire no explanations--no excuses. I cannot, however,
withhold myself from telling you that you ought to have accompanied your
sister, even if you found it impossible to control her."
"I was there yesterday," said Madeleine Baudoin, with a pinched, white
face, "for over two hours."
"What do you mean?" he asked suspiciously. "Where were you yesterday for
over two hours?"
"In the _Neptune_."
She gazed at him, past him, with widely open eyes, as if she were
staring, fascinated, at some scene of unutterable horror--and there
crept into Jacques de Wissant's mind a thought so full of shameful dread
that he thrust it violently from him.
"You were in the _Neptune_," he said slowly, "knowing well that it is
absolutely forbidden for any officer to take a friend on board a
submarine without a special permit from the Minister of Marine?"
"It is sometimes done," she said listlessly.
Madame Baudoin had now sat down on a low chair, and she was plucking at
the front of her white serge skirt with a curious mechanical movement of
the fingers.
"Did the submarine actually put out to sea with you on board?"
She nodded her head, and then very deliberately added, "Yes, I have told
you that I was out for two hours. They all knew it--the men and officers
of the flotilla. I was horribly frightened, but--but now I am glad
indeed that I went. Yes, I am indeed glad!"
"Why are you glad?" he asked roughly--and again a hateful suspicion
thrust itself insistently upon him.
"I am glad I went, because it will make what Claire has done to-day
seem natural, a--a simple escapade."
There was a moment of terrible silence between them.
"Then do all the officers and men belonging to the flotilla know that my
wife is out there--in the _Neptune_?" Jacques de Wissant asked in a low,
still voice.
"No," said Madeleine, and there was now a look of shame, as well as of
terror, on her face. "They none of them know--only those who are on
board." She hesitated a moment--"That is why I sent the servants away
this morning. We--I mean Commander Dupré and I--did not think it
necessary that anyone should know."
"Then no one--that is, only a hare-brained young officer and ten men
belonging to the town of Falaise--were to be aware of the fact that my
wife had accompanied her lover on this life-risking expedition? You and
Dupré were indeed tender of her honour--and mine."
"Jacques!" She took her hand off the chair, and faced her brother-in-law
proudly. "What infamous thing is this that you are harbouring in your
mind? My sister is an honest woman, aye, as honest, as high-minded as
was your own mother----"
He stopped her with a violent gesture. "Do not mention Claire and my
mother in the same breath!" he cried.
"Ah, but I will--I must! You want the truth--you said just now you
wanted only the truth. Then you shall hear the truth! Yes, it is as you
have evidently suspected. Louis Dupré loves Claire, and she"--her voice
faltered, then grew firmer--"she may have had for him a little
sentiment. Who can tell? You have not been at much pains to make her
happy. But what is true, what is certain, is that she rejected his love.
To-day they were to part--for ever."
Her voice failed again, then once more it strengthened and hardened.
"That is why he in a moment of folly--I admit it was in a moment of
folly--asked her to come out on his last cruise in the _Neptune_. When
you came I was expecting them back any moment. But, Jacques, do not be
afraid. I swear to you that no one shall ever know. Admiral de Saint
Vilquier will do anything for us Kergouëts; I myself will go to him,
and--and explain."
But Jacques de Wissant scarcely heard the eager, pitiful words.
He had thrust his wife from his mind, and her place had been taken by
his honour--his honour and that of his children, of happy,
light-hearted Clairette and Jacqueline. For what seemed a long while he
said nothing; then, with all the anger gone from his voice, he spoke,
uttered a fiat.
"No," he said quietly. "You must leave the Admiral to me, Madeleine. You
were going to Italy to-night, were you not? That, I take it, _is_ true."
She nodded impatiently. What did her proposed journey to Italy matter
compared with her beloved Claire's present peril?
"Well, you must carry out your plan, my poor Madeleine. You must go away
to-night."
She stared at him, her face at last blotched with tears, and a look of
bewildered anguish in her eyes.
"You must do this," Jacques de Wissant went on deliberately, "for
Claire's sake, and for the sake of Claire's children. You haven't
sufficient self-control to endure suspense calmly, secretly. You need
not go farther than Paris, but those whom it concerns will be told that
Claire has gone with you to Italy. There will always be time to tell the
truth. Meanwhile, the Admiral and I will devise a plan. And perhaps"--he
waited a moment--"the truth will never be known, or only known to a very
few people--people who, as you say, will understand."
He had spoken very slowly, as if weighing each of his words, but it was
quickly, with a queer catch in his voice, that he added--"I ask you to
do this, my sister"--he had never before called Madeleine Baudoin "my
sister"--"because of Claire's children, of Clairette and Jacqueline.
Their mother would not wish a slur to rest upon them."
She looked at him with piteous, hunted eyes. But she knew that she must
do what he asked.