MAGDALEN
Floriot did not recognize her as he entered. She was rising and her
head was bowed. He turned slowly with hand still on the knob of the
door and their eyes met! Every muscle in his body grew rigid and the
pallor of his face, born of his long nights in the chair by his boy's
bed, changed slowly to a pasty, sickly white. The woman gazed at him
with heaving bosom and hope and dread in her eyes.
"You----!" he choked. Jacqueline timidly took a half step toward him,
and clasped her hands.
"Yes--I. I----," she began fearfully, but the sound of her voice
galvanized the statue at the door.
"Leave this house!" he commanded sternly and he advanced firmly into
the room.
"Louis! I----"
"Leave this house at once!" he interrupted, his voice rising with his
anger.
"Listen, Louis, please! I----"
"Go! Do you hear me!" he cried furiously as he stalked past her, opened
the door into the hall, and held it for her to pass out. Jacqueline
crept toward him looking up with frightened, tear-stained face.
"Yes, yes! I will go, I will go!" she panted hurriedly. "I--I promise I
will go right away! But, please, Louis, listen--one moment, _please_!"
He looked at the crouching, pleading figure and the anger in his face
gave way to an expression as indescribable as unforgettable, and he
sharply turned away.
"Well, what is it then? Be quick! What do you want?" he demanded
roughly.
She sank to her knees and raised her hands to him in piteous appeal.
"Louis, forgive me! For----"
"What!" His voice startled her like a pistol shot. But she stammered on:
"Forgive me, Louis, so----"
He slammed the door and in two strides was standing over with clenched
fists. She could not meet his furious eyes and her head bowed almost to
his feet.
"Forgive you! Forgive you!" and he laughed a short, bitter laugh that
was more terrible and hope-destroying than curses would have been to
the crouching woman. "For two years I have lived day and night with the
thought of you in another man's arms and your kisses on his lips! And
you ask me to forgive you! You----"
"Louis! Louis!" she moaned. "In our child's name----"
"Stop!" he broke in sternly. "Don't dare to mention him! He is nothing
to you and you are nothing to him! He is mine--mine only! Did you think
of him when you left us?"
"Louis, for God's sake! I was mad! I was----"
"Oh, of course!" his harsh laugh grated in again. "That is about what I
expected." Then his face hardened and he lashed her with his scorn.
"I was false to my husband. I deserted my child--I was mad! I stole out
of my home like a thief and took all of its happiness with me--I was
mad! I went away with my lover to what I believed would be a life of
pleasure--I was mad!"
I trampled on every "Louis! Louis!" she sobbed, and writhed at his
feet. "It's the truth! I was mad! I----"
"The truth! Hah! Would you like to hear the truth? You were tired
of being an honorable woman--a pure mother! You were tired of me and
loved--him! That's the truth! You loved him, didn't you? You loved him!"
"He loved me! He said he would kill himself for me! And I----"
"And you believed him! You never thought of me and I"--for a moment
grief conquered anger and his voice broke--"I worshipped you! And
ours was a love match," he went on bitterly, "for you told me once a
thousand years ago that you loved me!"
His face worked, in a spasm of anguish, and he tried to move away, but
the woman clutched a leg of his trousers with both hands and lifted her
head suddenly.
"And it was--it is true, Louis!" she cried desperately.
His look was more than answer enough.
"It is! It is, Louis!" she pleaded feverishly. "We didn't understand
each other, that's all! It was my fault, my fault! You loved me
passionately but I did not know it! I could not see it! And you made
me only part of your home--never part of your life! I was never your
friend--you were gentle with me, but you never took me into your
life--you never really knew my heart, and with you I always felt alone.
I loved you but"--she fought for breath and coherence--"but I was
always afraid of you--you were so serious and severe! I wanted to laugh
and have a good time! You never noticed it--you had your work, your
ambitions, your legal friends and I--had nothing! Nothing!" she sobbed.
"And I was so young--twenty! Hardly twenty! Oh, Louis, forgive me!
Forgive me!"
Floriot half staggered to a chair and sank into it. The unexpectedness
of the soul-wracking scene coming on top of the strain of his two
weeks' vigil in the sick-room was almost too much for even his iron
nerve. Jacqueline, huddled on the floor, was sobbing convulsively. He
buried his face in his hands and groaned. At the sound she struggled
to her feet and took a step toward him, gasping to control her heaving
bosom. He waved a hand toward the door without raising his head.
"Louis!" she cried passionately, desperately, "you would not condemn
the lowest criminal if there were any defense for him, and I am the
mother of your boy! It is all my fault, but you could have helped me
if you would! You swore to love, honor and protect me, and did you do
it? You loved me but you never honored me! You did not think I was
worthy to be the companion to you that a wife should be! You looked for
companionship to your friends. I might as well have been your mistress!
Did you protect me? You brought _him_ to the house the first time?
You said he was your friend and you encouraged me to be kind to him.
You permitted him to be my escort wherever I wanted to go, because my
pleasure would not then interfere with your work or your plans!"
She choked. Floriot did not stir.
"He grew to be everything to me that you should have been. He
sympathized with me in everything! He anticipated every thought and
desire! You would not even make an effort to please me if my request
interfered with your work--always your work!"
"Life of pleasure!" she quoted bitterly. "Louis, I never loved him!
You angered me and hurt me because you would not let me come close to
your real life. And I--I--Louis, I was mad! But you could have saved
me! A little attention--if I could have felt that I was anything more
than a plaything--something to amuse you in the few minutes that you
ever took for amusement--Louis.. you will never know how I fought
with myself--the torture of those days--and when I came to you for
help----!" The words died away in a sob. There was no sound from the
husband but the labor of his breathing.
"Do you remember a few days before--before--I--the night I--left--I
wanted you to go to Fontainebleau with me and you wouldn't? And I went
with--him! That day in the park he--kissed my hands--and the lace of
my dress--and said he would kill himself at my feet if I didn't love
him----!" She stopped with a gasp and went on, bringing the words out
in broken phrases.
"I made him take me home--I was running from him--from myself--to you!
I found you in your study and begged you--to go out with me! I wanted
to--show myself--that I loved you only! Do you remember what you said?
'I'm too busy. Run along--and get Lescelles to take you!'"
"Oh, Louis, Louis!" she cried, throwing herself at his feet, while the
storm of weeping shook her again, "you could have saved me then!"
Still the bowed figure in the chair did not stir. He was so numbed that
his consciousness seemed to be that of another--watching, listening and
judging. He was the type of man whom Duty, once embraced, grips with
hug like the Iron Maiden's, and even gains a monstrous pleasure as life
itself or all that makes life worth while is slowly crushed out. Had
she come a month before this scene would have left him unshaken, but
now----!
His boy--their boy--lay up-stairs, saved from death by a miracle. Her
clasped hands rested on one of his knees and her head touched his
arms. His eyes were closed, but he nearly swooned when he breathed the
perfume of her hair that brought back the picture of a dark head on the
white pillow in the dim moonlight or the gray of dawn.
Then came the terrible thought that for two years that picture had
been the joy of another.... Fragments of his talk with Madame Varenne
flashed through his mind. Was there a little fault on his side?... He
need not speak a word. He had but to open his eyes and look forgiveness
and her warm body would be pressed again to his breast, her soft arms
would be around his neck and her soft lips would shower kisses on his
face. ... He drew a sharp breath and rose slowly and uncertainly.
"Jacqueline!" he said in an unsteady voice, not daring to let his
wavering eyes look down. "Jacqueline, you must go!"
A long, convulsive sob and:
"Ah, why did I go at all? Why did I ever go?" she moaned. "You would
have killed me and that would have been the end of it! Louis, forgive
me! Forgive me!" And she clasped his limp hand in both of hers and
looked up piteously.
"No! No!" he cried, fighting desperately with an impulse to stoop and
crush the slender body in his arms and kiss the tears from the upturned
face. "Surely, you see that I----"
"What will become of me?" she pleaded, as her instinct told her that he
was weakening.
"Go back to him! Go back to the man who would have killed himself for
you!" he cried in a voice that he tried in vain to make as bitter as
the words. And he made no effort to free his hand. The answer was a
barely audible whisper:
"He is dead!"
Floriot jerked his hand away with an exclamation of horror and sprang
back, his eyes flashing with anger.
"So that is why you've come back!" he blazed furiously.
"No! No!" she protested, frightened, struggling to her feet with
arms outstretched. "I came to see our boy--our Raymond! To beg
you--to----"
[Illustration: "_Leave the house_"]
The flaming scorn in his eyes stopped her.
"And I was on the point of yielding!" His laugh made the woman wince.
"What a fool I was! I actually believed you! So he is dead, is he?"
She bowed her head in utter despair.
"I wrote--to tell you."
"And now that he is dead you thought of me again--of me, of your idiot
of a husband"--his voice rose with fury--"the simple-minded fool who
would be only too glad to take you back again!"
"Louis, I love you--I wanted to see you, to see our child again! Can't
you see I've changed?" she pleaded. She threw open her arms and tears
ran unheeded down her face.
"Changed! Hah!--Leave the house!" and he pointed imperiously to the
door.
"Louis, it's true! Let me see our boy again!"--
"He has forgotten you!"
"Let me kiss him--just once!" she begged.
"He believes you to be dead!" he said, with cold cruelty. The mother
rushed to him with half-stifled shriek and terror in her face.
"Louis! No! No!" she screamed, "No! No! No!"
"He does!"
"Louis, no! Don't say that!" Horror was driving her to hysteria. "It
can't be true! You wouldn't tell him that! Louis, you loved me once!
You loved me! It's not possible! I am your wife--his mother! His
mother!"
Floriot eyed her, cold and unmoved.
"You have gone out of his life and mine," he replied calmly. Jacqueline
moaning, sank to the floor.
"Oh, my God!" she prayed. "Help me! Help me! Louis, be kind to me! A
life of repentance----"
He pulled her roughly to her feet and half-carried her toward the door.
"Don't take my child away from me!" she panted, struggling.
"Go! Leave the house!"
"Oh! Let me see him! I won't--speak! Let me kiss him! I won't--say a
word!" she gasped as they reached the door and he pushed her violently
through into the hall.
"Louis! Pity--! Raymond! My child, my----"
The slam of the door cut off the sound of the pleading voice from
his ears. He held the knob to prevent her from reopening it. For a
few moments there was silence. Then Floriot heard through the door
something between a choke and a sob and the quickly receding rustle of
skirts. The bang of the outside door echoed through the silent house.