CHATEAU D’OR.
“It was late one September afternoon when they came at last in sight of
the chateau, and Haverleigh pointed it out to Anna, who involuntarily
exclaimed:
“‘Why, it’s more like a prison than a house: is that Chateau d’Or?’
“‘Yes, that’s Chateau d’Or,’ was the short reply, and fifteen minutes
later they stopped at the little town where they were to leave the
train.
“Two men were waiting for them, one the coachman, who touched his hat
with the utmost deference to his master, while the other seemed on more
familiar terms with Mr. Haverleigh, and stared so curiously at Anna that
she drew her veil over her face, and conceived for him on the instant an
aversion which she never overcame. He was a tall, dark man, with a
sinister expression on his face, and a look in his keen black eyes as if
he was constantly on the alert for something which it was his duty to
discover. Her husband introduced him as Monsieur Brunell, explaining to
her that he was his confidential agent, his head man, who superintended
Chateau d’Or in his absence, and whose house was close to the bridge
which crossed the river so that no one could ever leave the grounds
without his knowledge.
“Anna paid little heed to what he was saying then, though it afterward
came back to her with fearful significance. Now, however, she was too
tired and too anxious to see the inside of the chateau to think of
anything except the man’s disagreeable face, and she was glad to find
herself alone with her husband in the carriage.
“‘Why does that man stare so impudently at me? I do not like it,’ she
said, and Haverleigh replied, jestingly:
‘Oh, that’s the way with Frenchmen; he thinks you pretty, no doubt.’
“They had crossed the bridge by this time, and Anna noticed that they
passed through a heavy iron gate, which immediately swung together with
a dull thud, which involuntarily sent a shiver through her as if it
really were the gate of a prison. They were now in the park and grounds,
which were beautifully kept, and Anna forgot everything else in her
delight at what she saw about her.
“‘Oh, I shall be so happy here!’ she cried, as they rode along the broad
carriage road, and she saw everywhere signs of luxury and wealth.
“And at that moment Anna was happy. She had sighed for money, for a home
handsomer than the humble red house far away among the New England
hills, and lo, here was something more beautiful than anything of which
she had even dreamed. If there had been anything lovable about Ernest
Haverleigh, Anna might have loved him then in her great delight with the
home he was bringing her to; but there was nothing in his nature
answering to hers, and he did not seem to see how pleased she was, but
sat back in the carriage, with a dark look on his face and a darker
purpose in his heart. And still he saw her every moment, and watched the
light in her eyes and the clasping of her hands as she leaned from the
window; but it awoke no answering chord of gladness, unless it were a
gladness that he had it in his power to avenge the insult he had
received. They were close to the chateau now, directly in the shadow of
the gray old walls, which looked so dark and gloomy, so out of keeping
with the beauty of the grounds, that Anna’s spirits sank again, and
there was a tremor in her frame as she descended from the carriage in
the wide court, around which balconies ran, tier upon tier, and into
which so many long, narrow windows looked.
“At the head of a flight of steps an elderly woman was standing, her
white hair arranged in puffs about her face, which, though old and
wrinkled, was so sweet and sad in its expression that Anna felt drawn to
her at once, and the court was not half so damp and dreary, or the walls
so dark and high.
“The woman was dressed in black silk, with a tasteful lace cap upon her
head, while the bunch of keys attached to her side with a silver chain
showed her to be the housekeeper, even before Mr. Haverleigh said:
“‘This is Madame Verwest, the head of the house, just as Monsieur
Brunell is head of the grounds. You will do well to conciliate her, and
not show your dislike, if you feel it, as you did to monsieur.’
“‘Oh, I shall love her. I love her now for that sweet sorry face. Has
she had some great trouble, Ernest?’
“It was the first time Anna had ever called her husband by the familiar
name of Ernest. He had asked her to do so in the days of their
courtship, and she had answered him, playfully: ‘Oh, Mr. Haverleigh, you
are so much older than I am, and know so much more, and then—Well, to
tell the truth, I am a little bit afraid of you yet, but by and by I
mean to learn to say Ernest.’
“But the by and by had never come until now. Anna was the creature of
impulse, and while driving through the handsome grounds she had felt
elated and proud, that she, little Anna Strong, who once sewed shoes in
New England, and planned how to get an extra pair of gloves, should be
riding in her carriage, the mistress of so much wealth, and her heart
had thrilled a little for the man through whom this good fortune had
come to her. But the gloomy chateau, and the still more gloomy court,
had driven this all away, and a wave of genuine homesickness was
sweeping over her when the serene face of Madame Verwest looked so
kindly down upon her and brought the better feeling back. She _was_
happy. She was glad she was there, Mr. Haverleigh’s wife, and she called
him Ernest purposely, and looked up in his face as she did so. Did he
soften toward her at all? Possibly, for a red flush crept up to his
hair; but he raised his hand as if to brush it away, and then he was
himself again—the man who never forgave, and who could break a young
girl’s heart even while seeming to caress her. If he heard Anna’s
question with regard to Madam Verwest, he did not notice it or make her
any answer. He merely took her arm in his, and, leading her up the broad
stone steps, presented her to the lady as Madam Haverleigh, his wife.
“Instantly there came a change over the placid features, which kindled
with a strange light, and the dim eyes, which looked so accustomed to
tears, fastened themselves eagerly upon the fair face of the young girl,
and then were raised questioningly to the dark face of the man whose
lips curled with a sneering smile, as he said, in French:
“‘She does not understand a word. Ask me what you please.’
“‘Your wife truly!’ was the quick question of the woman, and Haverleigh
replied:
“‘Yes, truly. What do you take me for?’
“To this there was no answer, but the woman’s arms were stretched toward
Anna with a quick, sudden motion, as if they fain would hold her a
moment in their embrace; but a look from Mr. Haverleigh checked the
impulse, and only madame’s hand was offered to Anna, who, nevertheless,
felt the warm welcome in the way the fingers tightened round her own,
and was sure she had found a friend.
“‘Madame is very welcome, and I hope she will be happy here,’ the woman
said; but she might as well have talked in Greek to Anna, who could only
guess from her manner what she meant to say, and who smiled brightly
back upon her, as she followed on up one narrow staircase after another,
until they reached a lofty room, which she first thought a hall such as
the New Englanders call a ball-room, but which she soon discovered to be
the apartment intended for herself.
“The floor was inlaid and waxed, and so slippery that, she came near
falling as she first crossed the threshold. A few Persian rugs were
thrown down here and there, and at the further end, near to a deep
alcove, was a massive rosewood bed with lace and silken hangings, and
heavy tassels with knotted fringe. On the bed was a light blue satin
spread, covered with real Valenciennes lace of a most exquisite pattern,
and Anna stood a moment in wonder to look at and marvel at its richness.
Then her eyes went on to the alcove, across which lace curtains were
stretched, and which was daintily fitted up with the appliances of the
toilet, with the bath-room just beyond. All this was at the far end of
the room, the remainder of which might have served as a boudoir for the
empress herself, it was so exquisitely furnished with everything which
the ingenuity of Paris could devise in the way of fauteuil, ottoman,
easy-chair, and lounge, with mosaic tables from Florence, inlaid
cabinets from Rome, lovely porcelains from Munich and full-length
mirrors from Marseilles.
“‘This is your room; how do you like it?’ Mr. Haverleigh asked: and
Annie replied:
“‘I wish mother and Mary knew. I wish they could be here too. Only the
windows are kind of prison-like, they are so long and narrow, and so
deep in the wall.’
“As she said this she entered one of the arched recesses and tried to
look from the window, but it was almost too high for her, and by
standing on tip-toe she could just look over the ledge and get a view of
the tree-tops in the grounds, of rocky hills beyond, and in the far
distance a bit of the blue Mediterranean, which brought back to her mind
a day at the seaside, where she had gone with a picnic party and bathed
in the Atlantic. That day seemed so very, very far back in the past, and
the ocean waves she had watched as they broke upon the beach was so far,
far away that again that throb of homesickness swept over her, and there
were tears in her eyes when she turned from the window and came back
into the salon. It was empty, for both her husband and Madame Verwest
had left it, and she was free to look about her as much as she liked,
and to examine the many beautiful things with which the salon was
filled. But they did not quite satisfy her now, for that pang of pain
was still in her heart cutting like a knife, and her thoughts went back
to the day when she and Mary had fitted the cheap ingrain carpet and
white curtains to the little parlor at home, and thought it, when done,
the finest room in Millfield. The carpet and curtains were there still,
but oh, how many miles and miles of land and sea lay between her and the
humble surroundings she had once so fretted against, longing for
something better! She had the something better, but it did not satisfy,
and it was so dreadful to be in a strange land where she could not
understand a word the people said, and it would be still more dreadful
without Mr. Haverleigh there as interpreter, she thought; and there
began to grow in her a sense of nearness to her husband, a feeling of
dependence upon and protection in him such as she had not experienced
before.
‘I believe I could love him after all; anyway, I mean to try, and will
begin to-night,’ she thought, just as there came a knock upon the door,
and in answer to her ‘_Entrez_,’ the one French word besides oui which
she knew, a smart-looking young woman entered, followed by a man, who
was bringing in her trunks.
“With a low courtesy, the girl managed to make Anna understand that her
name was Celine, and that she was to be her waiting-maid, and had come
to dress her for dinner.
“‘_Voyez les clefs_,’ she said, holding up the keys which her master had
given her, one of which she proceeded to fit to a certain trunk, as if
she knew its contents, and that it contained what she wanted.
“Anna had not before had the luxury of a maid, but she accepted it
naturally as she did everything else, and gave herself at once into the
deft hands of Celine, who brushed and arranged her beautiful hair with
many expressions of delight, not one of which Anna understood. But she
knew she was being complimented, and when her toilet was completed, and
she saw herself in one of the long mirrors arrayed in a soft, light gray
silk, with trimmings of blue and lace, with flowers in her hair, and
pearls on her arms and neck, she felt that Celine’s praises were just,
and laughed back at the vision of her own loveliness.
“‘Oh, if the folks at home could see me now they would say it paid,’ she
thought, as she walked up and down the apartment, trailing her silken
robe after her, and catching frequent flashes of her beauty in the
mirrors as she passed.
“And still there was a little of the old homesickness left, a yearning
for companionship, for somebody to see her, somebody to talk to, and
then she remembered her resolution to try to love her husband, and she
said again: ‘I’ll do it, and I’ll begin to-night.’
“But where was he that he left her thus alone, walking up and down,
until, too tired to walk longer, she seated herself upon a satin couch
to await his coming, little dreaming as she sat there of the scene which
had taken place between him and Madame Verwest, who had invited him to
her own room, and then turning fiercely upon him, demanded: ‘Tell me, is
she your wife, or another Agatha, brought here to beat her wings against
her prison bars until death gives her release? She is too young for
that, too beautiful, too innocent, with those childish eyes of blue.
Tell me you mean well by her, or——’
“She did not finish her threat, save by a stamp of her foot and an angry
flash of the eyes, which had looked so pityingly at Anna, for Haverleigh
interrupted her with a coarse laugh, and said: ‘Spare yourself all
uneasiness and puny threats which can avail nothing. You are as much in
my power as she. Honestly, though, this girl is as lawfully my wife as a
New England parson could make her.’
“‘New England,’ and the woman started as if stung. ‘Is she an American?
Is she from New England? You wrote me she was English born.’
“‘Did I? I had forgotten it. Well, then, she is an American and a New
Englander, and her name was Anna Strong, and she worked in a shoe-shop
in Millfield, where I stopped for a few months on account of the scenery
first, and her pretty face afterward. I married her for love, and
because I fancied she loved me a little; but I have found she does not,
and so she shall pay the penalty, but have her price all the same,
diamonds and pearls, with satins and laces and a dress for every day of
the month.’
“He spoke bitterly, and in his eyes there was a look which boded no good
to Anna, but Madame Verwest scarcely heard him. At the mention of Anna’s
name and Millfield she had laid her hand suddenly over her heart, which
beat so loudly that she could hear it herself, while her eyes had in
them a concentrated, far-off look, and she evidently was not thinking of
the objects around her, the old chateau and the dreadful man who brought
her back to the present by saying:
“‘I shall leave her here with you for a time, and it is my wish that she
has everything she wants except, of course, her freedom; you
understand?’
“She did understand; she had been through the same thing once before,
and she shuddered as she remembered the dark-haired, white-faced girl,
who had died in that gloomy house, with wild snatches of song upon her
lips, songs of ‘Ma Normandie,’ and the home where she had once been pure
and innocent. ‘_Je vais re voir, ma Normandie_’ poor Agatha had sung as
the breath was leaving her quivering lips, and the sad, sweet refrain
had seemed to Madame Verwest to haunt the old chateau ever since, and
now was she destined to hear another death-song or moaning cry for New
England instead of Normandy? ‘Never!’ was her mental reply, and to
herself she vowed that the fate of Anna Strong should not be like that
of Agatha Wynde. But she could do nothing then except to bow in
acquiescence as she listened to Haverleigh’s instructions, and from them
gathered what his intentions were. Not to desert Anna absolutely; he
could not bring himself to do that, for the love he had felt for her was
not yet extinct; but she had offended him deeply, and had hurt his
pride, and for the present she was a prisoner in Chateau d’Or, till such
time as he chose to set her free, or ‘till she recovers her reason, you
know,’ he said to Madame Verwest, who made no sign that she heard him,
but whose face was white as ashes as she went out from his presence, and
gave orders that dinner was to be served at once in the grand
_salle-a-manger_, which was all ablaze with wax candles and tapers when
Haverleigh led his bride thither, and gave her a place at the head of
his table.
“He had found her asleep on the couch, where she had thrown herself from
sheer fatigue, and for a moment had stood looking down upon her
childish, beautiful face, while something like pity did for an instant
stir his stony heart. But only for an instant, for when he remembered
her words, ‘I do not love him, and never expect to,’ he hardened against
her at once, and the gleam in his eye was the gleam of a mad man as he
touched her arm and bade her rouse herself.
“It is not necessary to describe in detail that elaborate dinner of ten
courses, which was served from solid silver, with two or three servants
in attendance. Haverleigh was very rich and very purse-proud, and it
suited him to live like a prince wherever he was; besides, he wished to
impress the simple New England girl with a sense of his greatness and
wealth, and he enjoyed her evident embarrassment, or rather
bewilderment, at so much glitter and display for just themselves and no
one else. Anna had not forgotten her resolution to try to love him, and
after their return to the salon, where a bright wood fire had been
kindled, as the autumn night was chilly, she stole up behind him as he
lounged in his easy-chair, and laying her white arms about his neck,
drew his head back until her lips touched his forehead. Then she said,
softly and timidly:
“‘Ernest, this is our first coming home, and I want to thank you for all
the beautiful things with which you have surrounded me, and to tell you
that I mean to be the best and most faithful of little wives to you.’
“It was quite a speech for Anna, who stood in great fear of the man she
could not understand, and who seemed to her to be possessed of two
spirits, one good and one bad, and should she rouse the latter she knew
it would not be in her power to cope with it. But she had no fear of
rousing it now, and she felt as if turning into stone when, for reply to
her caress, he sprang to his feet and placing a hand on either of her
shoulders, stood looking at her with an expression in his eyes she could
not meet and before which she cowered at last, and with quivering lip
said to him:
“‘Please take your hands from my shoulders; you hurt me, you press so
hard. And why do you look so terribly at me? You make me afraid of you,
and I wanted to love you to-night. What have I done?’
“Then he released her, and flinging her from him left the salon without
a word, and she saw him no more that night. At eleven o’clock Celine
came in to undress her, and when Anna managed to make her understand
that she wished to know where Monsieur Haverleigh was, she only received
for answer a meaning shrug and a peculiar lifting of the eyelids, which
she could construe as she liked. It was not so pleasant a home-coming
after all, and Anna’s first night at the chateau was passed with
watching, and waiting, and tears, and that intense listening which tells
so upon the brain. Once she thought to leave the room, but the door was
bolted on the other side, and so at last, when wearied with walking up
and down the long apartment, she threw herself upon the rosewood bed and
fell into a disturbed and unrestful sleep.
“Meanwhile the master—Haverleigh—was fighting a fiercer battle with
himself than he had ever fought before. He had said that his mind was
made up, and he was one who boasted that when once this was so nothing
could turn him from his purpose; his yea was yea, his nay, nay, but
those white arms around his neck, and the touch of those fresh lips upon
his forehead had not been without their effect, though the effect was
like the pouring of molten lead into his veins, and had made him what,
at times, he was, a mad man. When he rushed from Anna’s presence, with
that wild look in his eye and the raging fire in his heart, he went
straight to the dark, dreary room where Agatha had died with the sweet
refrain ‘_Je vais revoir, ma Normandie_,’ upon her lips, and there amid
the gloom and haunting memories of the place walked up and down the
livelong night, now thinking, thinking, with head bent down, and now
gesticulating in empty air with clinched fist, and again talking to
himself, or rather to the spirits, good and bad, which seemed to have
possession of him.
“‘Was she in earnest? Did she mean it? Is it possible that she might
learn to love me through these baubles she prizes so much?’ he
questioned of his better nature, which replied:
“‘Try her, and see. Don’t leave her here in this dreary place Don’t shut
out all the gladness and sunshine from her young life. Give her a
chance. Remember Agatha.’
“Just then, through the casement he had thrown open, there came a gust
of the night-wind, which lifted the muslin drapery of the tall bed in
the corner and swept it toward him, making him start, it was so like the
white, tossing, billowy figure he had seen there once, begging him for
the love of God to set her free, and let her go back to ‘_la belle
Normandie_,’ where the father was watching for her, and would welcome
her home again.
“Was Agatha, the wild rose of Normandy, pleading for Anna, the singing
bird from New England? Possibly; and if so, she pleaded well, and might
have gained her cause if the wicked spirit had not interposed, and
sneeringly repeated: ‘Do not love him—shrink from his caresses—can’t
endure to have him touch me—married him for money—can wind him round my
little finger.’ And that last turned the scale. No man likes to be wound
round any finger, however small it may be, and Ernest Haverleigh was not
an exception.
“‘She shall pay for that,’ he said—‘shall suffer until the demon within
me is satisfied, and I rather think I am possessed of the devil. Eugenie
says I am, in her last interesting document,’ and he laughed bitterly,
as he took from his pocket a dainty little epistle, bearing the London
post-mark, and stepping to the window, through which the early morning
light was streaming, glanced again at the letter which had been
forwarded to him from Paris, and a part of which had reference to Anna.
“‘Who was the doll-faced little girl I saw with you in the carriage, and
why didn’t you call upon me after that day? Were you afraid to meet me,
and what new fancy is this so soon after that other affair? Ernest
Haverleigh, I believe you are possessed with a demon, which makes you at
times a maniac.’
‘Yes, I believe I am mad. I wonder if it is in the family far back,
working itself out in me?’ Haverleigh said, as he stood with his eyes
riveted upon the last two lines. ‘Curse this woman with that spell she
holds over me. If it were not for her Agatha might have been living, and
I might forgive Anna, for I do believe I am nearer loving her than any
woman I ever saw, and that is why I feel so bitter, so unrelenting, so
determined upon revenge.’
“There were signs of waking life in and around the chateau now. The
servants were astir, and so Haverleigh left the room where he had passed
the night, and which since Agatha’s death had borne the cognomen of ‘the
haunted chamber.’ On the stairs he met with Madame Verwest, who stood
with hands folded and eyes bent down, her usual attitude while receiving
his orders.
“Anna was to have breakfast in her own room, he said, and be waited on
by Celine, and then about ten o’clock he would see her alone, for he
must be off that night for Paris.
“It was a very dainty breakfast of chocolate, and fruits, and French
rolls, and limpid honey and eggs which Celine took to her mistress, whom
she had dressed becomingly in a white cashmere wrapper, with broad blue
sash, knotted at the side, and a blue silk, sleeveless jacket. In spite
of the weary night, Anna was very beautiful that morning, though a
little pale and worn, with a shadow about the eyes, which were lifted so
timidly and questioningly to Haverleigh when at last he entered the
salon and closed the door behind him.
“‘Oh, Ernest, husband!’ she began; but she never called him by either of
those names again, and half an hour later she lay on her face among the
silken cushions of the couch, a terrified, bewildered, half-crazed
creature, to whom death would have been a welcome relief just then.
“He had succeeded in making her comprehend her position fully, and in
some degree to comprehend him. He was a man who never forgot and who
never forgave. He had loved her, he believed; at least, he had conferred
upon her the great honor of becoming his wife—had raised her from
nothing to a high and dazzling position, because he liked her face and
fancied she liked him. She had certainly made him think so, and he, whom
many a high-born damsel of both Scotland and England had tried to
captivate, had made a little Yankee shoe-stitcher Mrs. Haverleigh, and
then had heard from her own lips that she loathed him, that she shrank
from his touch, that she married him for money, for fine dresses, and
jewelry, and furniture, and horses, and carriages, and servants—and he
added with an oath: ‘You shall have all this. You shall have everything
you married me for, except your freedom, and that you never shall have
until I change my purpose;’ then, without giving her a chance to speak
in her own defense, he went on to unfold his plan formed on the instant
when he stood by the door in New York and heard her foolish speech to
Mrs. Fleming. She was to remain at Chateau d’Or, where every possible
luxury was to be hers, and where the servants were to yield her perfect
obedience, except in one particular. She was never to go unattended
outside the grounds, or off the little island on which the chateau
stood. Monsieur Brunell, who kept the gate, would see this law enforced,
as he would see to everything else. All letters which she wished to send
to him or her friends would be given to Brunell’s care. No other person
would dare touch them, and it would be useless for her to try to
persuade or bribe them, as they all feared him and would obey his
orders. For society she would have Madame Verwest, and plenty of books
in the library, and a splendid piano, which she would find in the same
room, with a small cabinet organ for Sunday use, ‘as you New Englanders
are all so pious,’ he added, with a sneer. Then pausing a moment, as if
to rally his forces for a last blow, he said, slowly and distinctly:
“Brunell and Madame Verwest know you are my wife, but I have told them
you are crazy, and that rather than send you to a lunatic asylum, I
shall keep you in close confinement here for a while, unless you become
furious, in which case there are plenty of places for you, not so good
as this, or as much to your taste. To the other servants I make no
explanations, except that you are crazy, and that it is a fancy of yours
that you are not. This fancy they will humor to a certain extent, but
you cannot bribe them. They will give you every possible attention.
Celine will wait upon you as if you were a queen. You can dine in state
every day, with twenty courses, if you like, and wear a new dress each
time. You can drive in the grounds when it suits you, and drive alone
there; but when you go outside the gates, Madame Verwest, or Celine, or
some trusty person will accompany you, as it is not _safe_ for a
_lunatic_ to go by herself into strange quarters. At intervals, as it
suits my convenience or pleasure, I shall visit you as my wife, and
shall be the most devoted of husbands in the presence of the servants,
who will thus give me their sympathy and wholly discredit anything you
may tell them. So beat your pretty wings as you may, and break your
heart as often as you like, you cannot help yourself. I am supreme here.
I am your master, and Madame Verwest says of me sometimes that I am a
madman—ha, ha!”
“It was the laugh of a demon, and the look of the man was the look of a
madman as he pushed from him the quivering form which had thrown itself
upon the floor at his feet supplicating for pity, for pardon. He had
neither, and with a coarse laugh which echoed through the salon like the
knell of death to all poor Anna’s happiness, he left the room and she
heard his heavy footsteps as he went swiftly down the stone stairway and
out into the court.
“Was it a dream, a nightmare, or a horrible reality, she asked herself
as she tried to recall the dreadful things he had said to her and to
understand their import. ‘A prisoner, a maniac,’ she whispered. ‘Oh,
mother, oh, Mary, that I should come to this. Oh, if I could die, if I
could die;’ and in her anguish she looked about her for some means of
ending her wretched life. Her New England training, however, was too
strong for that. She dared not deliberately and suddenly die by her own
hand, but if this thing were true, if she were a prisoner here with no
means of escape, she would starve herself to death. They could not
compel her to eat, and she would never taste food again until she knew
that she was free.
“There was a murmur of voices in the court below, and a sound of wheels
crushing over the gravel. Was he really going, and without her? She must
know, and springing from her crouching attitude she started for the
door, but found it locked from the other side it would seem, and she was
a prisoner indeed, and for a time a maniac as well, if sobs and moans
and piteous cries for some one to come to her aid could be called proofs
of insanity. But no one came, and the hours dragged heavily on till she
heard the house clock strike four, and then Celine came in to dress
madame for dinner, but Anna waved her off loathing the very thought of
food—loathing the glitter and display of the day before—loathing the
elegant dresses which Celine spread out before her, hoping thus to tempt
her.
“‘Go away, go away, or let me out,’ she cried, while Celine, who could
not understand a word, kept at a safe distance, eying her young mistress
and thinking it very strange that her master should have two crazy girls
in succession—poor Agatha Wynde and this fair American, who Madame
Verwest said was his wife.
“‘Perhaps,’ Celine had thought with a shrug of her shoulders; ‘but if
the lady is his wife why leave her so quick?’
“But wife or not it was Celine’s business to attend her, and she had no
intention of shrinking from her duty.
“‘Poor girl, and so young,’ she thought, and she tried to quiet and
conciliate her, and brought out dress after dress and held up to view,
until, maddened at the sight of the finery so detestable to her now,
Anna shut her eyes, and stopping her ears shrieked aloud in the utter
abandonment of despair.
“‘_Mon Dieu_,’ Celine exclaimed, as she fled from the room in quest of
Madame Verwest, whose face was white as marble and whose eyes had in
them a look which Celine had never seen before. But she did not offer to
go near the lady whom Celine represented as being so bad, nor did she
see her during that day or the next. She, too, was acting very queerly,
the servants said to each other, as they talked in whispers of the
American who refused to touch a morsel of food, and who had not tasted a
mouthful since the master went away.
“She was in bed now, Celine said, lying with her face to the wall, and
moaning so sadly and saying things she could not understand. ‘If Madame
would only go to her and speak one word—_Anglaise_,’ she said to Madame
Verwest on the morning of the third day, and with that same white,
pinched look upon her face, madame started at last for the _salon_.