John chuckled. "Why, yes. I saw them in her room. Do you know she went
down to the museum last night and took those boots? It _was_ a light I
saw in the museum. It was her light. Suzanne has ideas. Wants to wear
the boots just once, she says, to lay the ghost of this
what's-her-name--Maria Modena. Suzanne says she couldn't sleep much
last night. Got up early and tried on those boots. Well, I think I'll
destroy 'em tomorrow. Uncle's wish, so I'll do it."
"Tried them on, did she? Well, if you should ask me, I'd say that
history of the boots was a bit too exciting for Suzanne. It _was_ a
haunting story. Uncle must have swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker,
eh?"
"Of course. His letter showed that. But Suzanne lives in the present,
not the past, as Uncle did. I suppose Suzanne will wear those boots,
or she won't feel satisfied. I don't exactly like the idea, I must
confess."
Something like an electric shock passed through Eric. He said,
somewhat breathlessly, "I don't think Suzanne ought to have the Medici
boots."
John looked at him curiously and laughed. "I never knew you were
superstitious, Eric. But do you really think----"
"I don't know what I think, John. But if she were my wife, I'd take
those boots away from her. Uncle may have known what he was talking
about."
"Well, I think she's intending to wear them at dinner, so prepare to
be dazzled. Here she is, now. Greetings, sweet-heart!"
Suzanne swept across the terrace, her gown goldly shimmering, pearls
bound about her head, as Eric had seen her in the dim hour before
dawn. Again the rows of bracelets were weighting her slim arms. And
she wore the Medici boots, the amethyst tips peeping beneath her
shining dress.
John, ever ready for gay clowning, arose and bowed low. "Hail,
Empress! A-ah, the dress you got in Florence on our honeymoon, isn't
it? And those darned Medici boots!"
Suzanne unsmilingly extended her hand for him to kiss.
John arched an eyebrow, comically. "What's the matter, honey? Going
regal on me?" And retaining her hand, he kissed each of her fingers.
Suzanne snatched away her hand, and the glance she gave her husband
was one of venomous hauteur. To Eric she turned a look that was an
open caress, leaning toward him, putting a hand on his arm, as he
stood beside his chair, stern-lipped, with eyes that would not look at
John's hurt bewilderment.
The three sat down then, in the low wicker chairs, and waited for
dinner--three people with oddly different emotions. John was hurt,
slightly impatient with his bride; Eric was furious with Suzanne,
though there was in his heart the almost certain knowledge that the
Suzanne beside them on the terrace was not the Suzanne they knew, but
a cruelly strange woman, the product of a sinister force, unknown and
compelling.
No one, looking on Suzanne's red-lipped and heavy-lidded beauty, could
miss the knowledge that here was a woman dangerously subtle, carrying
a power more devastating than the darting lightning that now and then
showed itself over the tree-tops of the garden. Eric began to feel
something of this, and there shaped in his mind a wariness, a defense
against this woman who was not Suzanne.
"No _al fresco_ dining tonight," said John, as the darkening sky was
veined by a sudden spray of blue-green light. "Rain on the way. Pretty
good storm, I'd say."
"I like it," replied Suzanne, drawing in a deep breath of the sultry
air.
John laughed. "Since when, sweet-heart? You usually shake and shiver
through a thunderstorm."
Suzanne ignored him. She smiled at Eric and said in a low tone, "And
if I should lose my bravery, you would take care of me, wouldn't you,
Eric?"
Before Eric could reply, dinner was announced, and he felt a relief
and also a dread. This dinner was going to be difficult.
John offered his arm to his wife, smiling at her, hoping for a smile
in return, but Suzanne shrugged and said in a caressing voice, "Eric?"
* * * * *
Eric could only bow stiffly and offer his arm, while John walked
slowly beside them, his face thoughtful, his gay spirits gone. During
dinner, however, he tried to revive the lagging conversation. Suzanne
spoke in a staccato voice and her choice of words seemed strange to
Eric, almost as though she were translating her own thoughts from a
foreign tongue.
And finally Suzanne's promised dessert came, cool and tempting in its
silver dishes. Eric saw a chance to make the talk more natural. He
said, gayly, "Johnny, your wife's a chef, a famous pastry chef. Behold
the work of her hands! What did you say it was, Suzanne?"
"This? Oh--I do not know what it is called."
"But this afternoon as you were leaving the kitchen--didn't you say it
was almond something or other?"