"Oh, do go in again, please," said Mme. Bourjot to the people who were
standing round her in the garden, to which she had been carried for air.
"It's all over; there's nothing the matter with me now; it was the
heat." She was very pale, but she smiled as she spoke. "I shall be quite
right again when I have had a little more air. M. Henri will perhaps
stay with me."
Every one returned to the house, and the sound of the footsteps had
scarcely died away, when Mme. Bourjot seized Henri's arm in a firm grip
with her feverish fingers.
"You love her!" she exclaimed. "You love her!"
"Madame," said Henri.
"Be quiet; you won't tell me the truth!" she exclaimed, pushing his arm
away.
Henri merely bowed without attempting to speak.
"I know all. I saw everything. Look at me!" she went on, and she gazed
into his eyes. He kept his head bent and was silent. "Say something,
anyhow--speak. Ah, you can only act comedy with her!"
"The fact is I have nothing to say, Laure," replied Henri, speaking in
his gentlest and clearest voice. Mme. Bourjot drew back when he called
her Laure as if he had touched her. "I have been struggling against it
for the last year, madame," he continued. "I will not attempt to make
any excuse; but everything has drawn me to her. We have known each other
from childhood, and the fascination has increased lately day by day. I
am very sorry, madame, to have to tell you the truth; but it is quite
true that I love your daughter."
"But you never can have talked to her, surely? Why, I blush for her when
we are out--you surely have not even looked at her. What in the world
possesses you men, tell me! Do you think she is beautiful? What
nonsense! why, I am better looking than she is. You are so foolish, all
of you. And then, I have spoiled you. You'll see whether she will pamper
your pride, let you revel in your vanity, and flatter and help you in
your ambitions. Oh, I know you thoroughly. Ah, M. Mauperin, all this is
only met with once in a lifetime. And women of my age--old women, you
understand--are the only ones who care about the future of those they
love. You were not my lover; you were like a dear son to me!" As she
said this, Mme. Bourjot's voice changed and she spoke with the deepest
feeling. "That's enough, though; we won't talk about that," she
continued in a different tone. "I tell you that you don't love my
daughter--it is not true--but she is rich----"
"Oh, madame!"
"Well, there are men like that--I have had them pointed out to me.
Sometimes it succeeds to begin with the mother in order to finish with
the dowry. And for the sake of a million, you know, one can put up with
being bored."
"Speak more quietly, I beg you--for your own sake. They have just opened
one of the windows."
"It's very fine to be so calm and collected, M. Mauperin, very
fine--very fine indeed," said Mme. Bourjot, and her low, hissing voice
sounded choked.
Some clouds that were moving quickly along in the sky passed like the
wings of night-birds over the moon, and Mme. Bourjot gazed blankly into
the darkness in front of her. With her elbows resting on her knees and
supported by her high heels, she remained silent, tapping the gravel
path with her satin slippers. After a few minutes she sat up, moved her
arms about in an unconscious way as though she were scarcely awake, then
quickly, and in a jerky way, she put her hand between her dress and
waistband, pressing the back of her hand against the ribbon as though
she were going to burst it. Finally she rose and began to walk, followed
by Henri.
"I count on our never seeing each other again, monsieur," she said,
without turning round.
As she passed by the fountain she handed him her handkerchief, saying,
"Will you dip that in the water for me?"
Henri obeyed, kneeling down on the curbstone. He handed her the damp
handkerchief, and she pressed it to her forehead and her eyes.
"We will go in now," she said; "give me your arm."
"Oh, madame, how courageous you are!" said Mme. Mauperin, advancing to
meet Mme. Bourjot when she entered the room. "It is not wise of you,
though, at all. I will have your carriage ordered."
"No, please don't, thank you," replied Mme. Bourjot quickly. "I think I
promised you that I would sing; I am quite ready now," and she went
across to the piano, gracious and valiant once more, with that heroic
smile beneath which society actors conceal from the public the tears
they are weeping within themselves, and the wounds which discharge
themselves into their hearts.