She wheeled about with a nervous laugh of relief and made an eager
movement towards the steps, pushing the gates wide.
“Jeanne!” she exclaimed, “I didn’t recognize you! Oh, thank goodness
you’re here at last!”
She extended an impulsive hand, and the woman took it, after a brief
hesitation, and with little answering pressure.
“It is you, mademoiselle. Pardon me for keeping you so long.”
Catherine saw that she was indeed altered, her strong features haggard
and drawn with fatigue, discoloured semi-circles like bruises under
her eyes, the brow deeply furrowed. A year ago she had thought the
maid almost handsome with her good white teeth always showing in a
cheerful smile, but now, sapped and strangely preoccupied, she
appeared actually ugly.
“Jeanne, I am frightened! What has happened to madame?”
The vertical cleft deepened where bristling hairs met over the snub
nose.
“How did you know anything had happened to madame?” the woman parried
in accents resentful, almost suspicious.
“Why, I heard it from the concierge. She told me the doctor had been
here since last night.”
A stubborn look settled over the close-lipped face. An appreciable
pause elapsed before the reply came, cautious, deliberate.
“Madame is very ill,” she said shortly.
A doubt swept into the girl’s mind.
“Oh, Jeanne--you don’t mean she’s--dead?” she whispered, her voice
shaking.
“No, no! Certainly not!”
This time she spoke with quick impatience, as though for some reason
she were vexed by the suggestion.
“Well, then, tell me what is wrong. I insist on being told.”
The idea came to her that there was some mystery in all this. Why
couldn’t the woman come straight out and tell her?
“Very well, mademoiselle, since you must know, but I warn you it will
give you a shock.” She came a step closer, glanced over her shoulder,
and lowered her voice: “The fact is, last evening madame attempted to
commit suicide. There--now you have the truth!”