THE THIRD SORT OF WOMAN
"It was quite true what I told the detective. So I suppose you've finished
with me for evermore!" Audrey burst out recklessly, as soon as she and
Madame Piriac were alone together. The supreme moment had come, and she
tried to grasp it like a nettle. Her adventurous rashness was, she
admitted, undeniable. She had spoken the truth to the police officer about
her identity and her spinsterhood because with unusual wisdom she judged
that fibs or even prevarication on such a subject to such an audience might
entangle her in far more serious difficulties later on. Moreover, with
Inspector Keeble present, she could not successfully have gone very far
from the truth. It was a pity that Madame Piriac had witnessed the scene,
for really, when Audrey came to face it, the deception which she had
practised upon Madame Piriac was of a monstrous and inexcusable kind. And
now that Madame Piriac knew the facts, many other people would have to know
the facts--including probably Mr. Gilman. The prospect of explanations was
terrible. In vain Audrey said to herself that the thing was naught, that
she had acted within her rights, and that anyhow she had long ago ceased to
be diffident and shy!... She was intimidated by her own enormities. And she
also thought: "How could I have been silly enough to tell that silly tale
about the Spatts? More complications. And poor dear Inspector Keeble will
be so shocked."
After a short pause Madame Piriac replied, in a grave but kind tone:
"Why would you that I should have finished with you for ever? You had the
right to call yourself by any name you wished, and to wear any ring-that
pleased your caprice. It is the affair of nobody but yourself."
"Oh! I'm so glad you take it like that," said Audrey with eager relief.
"That's just what _I_ thought all along!"
"But it _is_ your affair!" Madame Piriac finished, with a peculiar
inflection of her well-controlled voice. "I mean," she added, "you cannot
afford to neglect it."
"No--of course not," Audrey agreed, rather dashed, and with a vague new
apprehension. "Naturally I shall tell you everything, darling. I had my
reasons. I----"
"The principal question is, darling," Madame Piriac stopped her. "What are
you going to do now? Ought we not to return to the yacht?"
"But I must look after Jane Foley!" cried Audrey. "I can't leave her here."
"And why not? She has Miss Ingate."
"Yes, worse luck for her! Winnie would make the most dreadful mess of
things if she wasn't stopped. If Winnie was right out of it, and Jane Foley
had only herself and Aguilar to count on, there might be a chance. But not
else."
"It is by pure hazard that you are here. Nobody expected you. What would
this young girl Mees Foley have done if you had not been here?"
"It's no good wasting time about that, darling, because I _am_ here, don't
you see?" Audrey straightened her shoulders and put her hands behind her
back.
"My little one," said Madame Piriac with a certain solemnity. "You remember
our conversation in my boudoir. I then told you that you would find
yourself in a riot within a month, if you continued your course. Was I
right? Happily you have escaped from that horrible complication. Go no
farther. Listen to me. You were not created for these adventures. It is
impossible that you should be happy in them."
"But look at Jane Foley," said Audrey eagerly. "Is she not happy? Did you
ever see anybody as happy as Jane? I never did."
"That is not happiness," replied Madame Piriac. "That is exaltation. It is
morbid. I do not say that it is not right for her. I do not say that she is
not justified, and that that which she represents is not justified. But I
say that a rôle such as hers is not your rôle. To commence, she does not
interest herself in men. For her there are no men in the world--there are
only political enemies. Do you think I do not know the type? We have it,
_chez nous_. It is full of admirable qualities--but it is not your type.
For you, darling, the world is inhabited principally by men, and the time
will come--perhaps soon--when for you it will be inhabited principally by
one man. If you remain obdurate, there must inevitably arrive a quarrel
between that man and these--these riotous adventures."
"No man that I could possibly care for," Audrey retorted, "would ever
object to me having an active interest in--er--politics."
"I agree, darling," said Madame Piriac. "He would not object. It is you who
would object. The quarrel would occur within your own heart. There are two
sorts of women--individualists and fanatics. It was always so. I am a
woman, and I know what I'm saying. So do you. Well, you belong to the first
sort of woman."
"I don't," Audrey protested. Nevertheless she recollected her thoughts on
the previous night, near the binnacle and Mr. Gilman, about the
indispensability of a man and about the futility of the state of not owning
and possessing a man. The memory of these thoughts only rendered her more
obstinate.
"But you will not have the courage to tell me that you are a fanatic?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"There is a third sort of woman."
"Darling, believe me, there is not."
"There's going to be, anyhow!" said Audrey with decision, and in English.
"And I won't leave Jane Foley in the lurch, either!... Now I'll just run up
and have a talk with her, if you don't mind waiting a minute or two."
"But what are you going to do?" Madame Piriac demanded.
"Well," said Audrey. "It is obvious that there is only one safe thing to
do. I shall take Jane on board the yacht. We shall sail off, and she'll be
safe."
"On the yacht!" repeated Madame Piriac, truly astounded. "But my poor oncle
will never agree. You do not know him. You do not know how peculiar he is.
Never will he agree! Besides----"
"Darling," said Audrey quietly and confidently. "If he does not agree, I
undertake to go into a convent for the rest of my days."
Madame Piriac was silent.
Just as she was opening the door to go upstairs, Audrey suddenly turned
back into the room.
"Darling," she said, kissing Madame Piriac. "How calmly you've taken it!"
"Taken what?"
"About me not being Mrs. Moncreiff nor a widow nor anything of that kind."
"But, darling," answered Madame Piriac with exquisite tranquillity. "Of
course I knew it before."
"You knew it before!"
"Certainly. I knew it the first time I saw you, in the studio of
Mademoiselle Nickall. You were the image of your father! The image, I
repeat--except perhaps the nose. Recollect that as a child I saw your
father. I was left with my mother's relatives, until matters should be
arranged; but he came to Paris. Then before matters could be arranged my
mother died, and I never saw him again. But I could never forget him....
Then also, in my boudoir that night, you blushed--it was very amusing--when
I mentioned Essex and Audrey Moze. And there were other things."
"For instance?"
"Darling, you were never quite convincing as a widow--at any rate to a
Frenchwoman. You may have deceived American and English women. But not
myself. You did not say the convincing things when the conversation took
certain turns. That is all."
"You knew who I was, and you never told me!" Audrey pouted.
"Had I the right, darling? You had decided upon your identity. It would
have been inexcusable on my part to inform you that you were mistaken in so
essential a detail."
Madame Piriac gently returned Audrey's kiss.
"So that was why you insisted on me coming with you to-day!" murmured
Audrey, crestfallen. "You are a marvellous actress, darling."
"I have several times been told so," Madame Piriac admitted simply.
"What on earth did you expect would happen?"
"Not that which has happened," said Madame Piriac.
"Well, if you ask me," said Audrey with gaiety and a renewal of
self-confidence. "I think it's all happened splendidly."