Catherine was aghast. Her eyes dilated with horror, while an inner
voice whispered that rumour had not lied. Poor Mme. Bender was
certainly deranged.
“When--how did it happen?” she gasped.
“It was last evening. Madame tried to drink a glass of strong
disinfectant. I only managed to summon the doctor in time to save her
life.”
For a few seconds the girl remained speechless, her eyes fixed on the
maid’s worn face.
“What a terrible thing!” she exclaimed at last. “I had no idea it was
as bad as this. But”--with a faint glimmer of hope--“are you quite
sure she meant to do it? Couldn’t it have been accidental?”
Jeanne shook her head slowly and with decision.
“That is what she wishes us to believe,” she replied with a shrug and
in a leaden manner, as though fatigue had dulled her faculties. “By
good luck she had only drunk a little of the liquid when I discovered
what she was doing. I seized her arm and dragged it away. To-day, of
course, she is ashamed, and pretends she took it in mistake for her
sleeping-draught, which I need hardly tell you is extremely unlikely.”
“Ashamed, Jeanne? What do you mean?”
“Only that madame in her sane moments suspects that we are watching
her, as indeed we are. Invalids with her complaint become cunning.”
“Oh, Jeanne, is it true then, about madame’s mental condition?”
A shade of reproach almost scornful passed over the other’s face.
“In my opinion madame has never been normal since the death of
monsieur. Surely you must have realized that last year in Boston,
when, ill as she was, she suggested your coming to visit her.”
Catherine flushed a little.
“No, Jeanne, she seemed to me perfectly sane at the time. Indeed, I
should never have dreamed anything was wrong if I had not heard…” Here
she checked herself, not sure that it was wise to divulge her
informant’s confidences.
A look of shrewd intelligence came into the heavy eyes.
“Oh, I see! It was Mademoiselle Cushing who told you,” remarked Jeanne
rather coldly. “I am not surprised that you have heard from her.”
Catherine felt curiously ill at ease, as though she were being accused
of some wrongdoing.
“As a matter of fact, Miss Cushing did write to me,” she admitted.
“But I may as well tell you she doesn’t think Mme. Bender is
insane--only very nervous and depressed.”
A long silence greeted her statement. Then the woman spread her hands
outward with an expressive gesture.
“_Eh bien_,” she commented with singular emphasis, as though she had
expected this. “There is another who believes what it suits her to
believe.”
Although Catherine did not grasp the meaning of this cryptic
utterance, she felt vaguely disturbed at the undercurrent of
hostility, directed, it seemed, at her as much as at Miss Cushing.
What had either of them done to incur the maid’s displeasure? Still
one must not judge a person who so clearly had just passed through a
painful ordeal and had not yet recovered her poise.
“Never mind, Jeanne,” she ventured soothingly. “The point is, how is
madame now? Is she quite out of danger?”
“Ah, yes! She is sleeping. The doctor ordered her a sedative, and she
is not to be disturbed.”
“That is good. What a mercy she has you to look after her!”
The Frenchwoman turned on her suddenly with a hint of suppressed
passion.
“Ah, mademoiselle, you may well say that!” she whispered, her voice
shaking. “Little do you know what I have been through these past
weeks. It has been one crisis after another. I live in terror! I dare
not leave poor madame, day or night, for fear she will do harm to
herself!”
The girl was forcibly impressed by the devotion, almost fanatical,
which blazed forth from the sunken dark eyes. Not knowing what to say,
she laid her hand upon the arm nearest her with impulsive sympathy.
At her touch a change came over the woman. Pulling herself together
she spoke in a business-like tone, almost cheerful:
“And now, mademoiselle, we must think what is to be done about you.
Naturally you could not know the situation here, or else----”
Catherine interrupted her reassuringly:
“Don’t think of me, Jeanne, I shall be all right. Just show me my room
and I’ll give you no trouble whatever. You must go to bed and get some
sleep.”
Her remark was met by a blank stare. She saw the maid’s body stiffen
slightly.
“Your room? But surely, mademoiselle, you cannot have any idea of
remaining here!”
Catherine was taken aback by the almost irritable incredulity of the
exclamation. For the second time she felt the blood mount to her
cheeks. This was a Jeanne she had not encountered before.
“Why not? I shan’t bother anyone. And, of course, I mean to do all I
can to help you.”
“I do not require help,” retorted the maid quickly. “But--visitors, at
a time like this! Really, mademoiselle, it is not to be thought of!
The apartment is like a _maison de santé_! No, assuredly, it would
never do. Eduardo will assist you at once in finding an hotel. There
are many small, quite comfortable ones in the quarter.”
Her determined manner brooked no contradiction. Catherine was silent
for a moment, dashed and puzzled. Then a rush of obstinacy overtook
her, and she made up her mind not to be dealt with in so peremptory a
fashion. After all, she was not suggesting anything unreasonable.
“Listen to me, Jeanne,” she replied, kindly but firmly. “Madame
invited me to stay here, and I do not intend to go to an hotel. Show
me where I am to sleep, and I will look after myself. Which room is
it?”
For a long moment the two regarded one another. The girl felt herself
in conflict with a will of steel, but she did not waver. At length she
saw that she had won.
“I am not sure that any bedroom is ready,” muttered the maid rather
sullenly. “But if you are determined to stay, mademoiselle, I must see
what can be done.”
She turned and left the salon, irate protest in every muscle of her
rigid back.
It was a chilling reception. Easy to understand that in the recent
crisis no thought could be spared for the coming guest, yet for all
that Catherine could not help feeling that Jeanne was assuming an
unjustifiable amount of authority. Besides, in an apartment full of
servants a single extra person could hardly prove a serious
inconvenience.
She felt damped and depressed. What an idiot she had been not to make
sure of the situation before plunging into it! Her own fault, too, for
she had received a sort of warning. Yet perhaps, after all, she had
not done wrong to come; perhaps in some small way she might be able to
assist her unhappy relative. It was selfish to think only of her own
comfort, which really did not matter very much. She would not have
done so but for the fact that she was tired after her journey. Once
she could wash and change and have some food, she would take a
brighter view of things. A glance at her watch told her it was past
eight o’clock. She had eaten nothing since lunch.
All at once a disconcerting thought occurred to her. What if her
coming had precipitated this action on Mme. Bender’s part? Suppose the
poor, tormented woman had brooded upon the prospect of her arrival,
yet had not had the courage to put her off? There was no saying what
vagaries and exaggerations neurasthenia might attain. For an instant
she was half inclined to run after Jeanne and tell her she had changed
her mind about remaining. She even went as far as the entrance hall,
but before she could carry out her intention common sense pulled her
up.
No, it was hardly possible Germaine could feel like that about her. At
all events it was better to do nothing till she had seen and spoken
with the invalid. It could not possibly matter if she spent the night
here. Her cousin would not even be aware of the fact.
She stood looking round the formal hall with its carved chairs and big
Sèvres vases, the latter bare and a little dusty. Always before there
had been a profusion of flowers, frequently renewed--Madonna lilies,
delphiniums, roses. The wide fireplace used to be banked with azaleas,
in and out of season, but now it gaped empty, with an unsightly wad of
paper thrown carelessly upon the hearth.
Paper? The crumpled fragment, of a pale blue colour, stirred a chord
in her memory. She picked it up and straightened it out. Could it
possibly be----?
Yes, here it was--the telegram sent from Havre this very afternoon. It
had come, then, and been tossed aside as of no account. Queer, that.
She studied it abstractedly, and again saw before her the butler’s
unfriendly stare, the hard, resentful face of Jeanne seen just now in
the mirror. Why, it had not looked like Jeanne at all! She still
recalled her sense of shock at finding the baleful glare fixed on her.
She shook herself free of disturbing fancies. Why make a mountain out
of a molehill? These servants had had twenty-four hours of tension
calculated to upset the evenest dispositions. Now things had calmed
down, they would come to their senses. They could not bear her any
personal ill will.
In the passage which cut across the main hall a whispered colloquy was
going on between Jeanne and another maid. She could distinguish no
words, but the voices sounded irritable, breaking now and again into
smothered exclamations of annoyance. Finally a sentence uttered by
Jeanne reached her ears:
“_Alors, la chambre Empire, c’est tout ce qu’on peut faire! Changez
les draps, tout de suite!_”
Evidently they were holding a hurried debate as to where they were
going to put her. Oh, well, one room was as good as another, if only
they would be quick about it.
She caught sight of a blowsy female crossing the archway with an
armful of linen. This person, who had a mop of straw-coloured hair and
was unsuitably attired in a short black pleated skirt and a blue satin
jumper very open at the neck, stared at her curiously. Catherine also
stared. Never could she have imagined anyone here going about domestic
duties clad in so incongruous a fashion. Even a _femme de ménage_
would not be allowed to wear such clothes.
A quarter of an hour elapsed, then Jeanne came to inform her that her
room was prepared.
“If you will come with me, mademoiselle, I will show it to you.”
She was composed now, still not altogether friendly, but much her
usual self. Catherine began to feel more comfortable.
“Thanks, Jeanne, I shall be glad to get off my things.”
“You will understand our being a little confused, what with last
night’s excitement. None of us has slept since the night before last,
and it never occurred to me to give orders for you, as I felt so sure
you would not wish to stay.”
She smiled, showing her very good, white teeth, but her agreeable air
did not quite hide the reproach of her last words. Catherine felt
unaccountably small and guilty, but she said nothing and followed the
brisk figure along the passage which led to the far side of the
apartment. Here, turning a corner, she saw ahead of her the stairway
which communicated with the ground floor, and just beyond it an open
door, in front of which her guide halted.
“I thought it best to put you as far from madame as possible,”
remarked the maid, signing to her to enter. “Madame sleeps badly, and
is apt to be disturbed by the slightest noise.”
“Quite right, Jeanne. This will do splendidly.”
A glance assured her that her luggage had been brought up, the
cabin-trunk placed on a stand at the foot of the bed.
“I hope you will not object to unpacking for yourself,” continued her
companion with a tentative manner. “The truth is I dare not leave
madame for more than a few minutes in case she wakes. Just now is a
critical time.”
She seemed indeed rather preoccupied and a little restless, as though
anxious to get away.
“Certainly, Jeanne--don’t let me keep you. I shan’t need anything.”
A dozen questions regarding last night’s affair crowded to her lips,
but she decided to postpone them till to-morrow. She saw the maid bow
her head in an absent, detached fashion.
“Thank you, mademoiselle. I will wish you good night.”
The door was quickly shut, and Catherine was alone.
With a sigh of relief she removed her hat and looked about her. At
once she realized that the room, although decent and comfortable, was
one of the poorest in the apartment. It was furnished in Empire style,
good mahogany with mountings of gilded bronze, the sort of thing now
highly prized but twenty years ago picked up for little money. Walls,
curtains and covers were alike of a cheap printed _toile_ in Empire
design, bees and lyres in medallions of rose and yellow. Upon the
marble mantelpiece were candlesticks made of gun-metal with crystal
drops, while the centre was occupied by a pierced basket of the kind
of enamelled iron-work known as _tôle_.
The atmosphere was close, laden with a pungent, cloying odour,
suggesting inferior scent. She could not think what it came from, but
as she hated the smell she crossed to the curtained window and threw
open the casement, letting in the damp night air.
Below lay the narrow side-street, lit by an arc-light at the corner.
An occasional motor-car whizzed along the avenue, a section of which
was visible. She remained for a few minutes looking out, still shaken
by the news lately received. How near this had come to being a house
of death! If it had not been for Jeanne’s timely intervention, poor
Mme. Bender would have breathed her last, no doubt in agony. Yet she
found it difficult to grasp the fact of her cousin’s suicidal
impulses, so cheerful had been the letter written only a few weeks
ago. It was frightening to know that a period of gloom could follow so
quickly upon apparently tranquil spirits. The thought made her tremble
with apprehension. Still she meant to stay. After all, it was only for
two months, for she had promised to join some American friends later
on and go with them to Italy. These people, a young Harvard professor
and his wife, were enjoying a Sabbatical year in Europe, and were to
pick her up in May or June, after they had completed the work they
were doing at the British Museum.
Gazing absently down, she noticed a small man in a wide-brimmed black
hat detach himself from the shadow of the chestnuts and stroll into
the circle of light. In him she recognized the lounger she had
encountered on entering the building. Still there! What did he want,
hanging about like that for almost an hour? He had the appearance of
waiting for something.
A moment later the mystery was solved. Below, a few yards to the left,
she saw the private door of the apartment open, and a woman issue from
it, dressed in a dark cloth coat and a plain pull-on hat. On the
threshold she glanced rapidly about, then made straight for the
corner, where she joined the black-clad lounger.
In the full glare of the lamp her identity was revealed. It was
Jeanne.
Catherine experienced a mild astonishment. After what the maid had
said only three minutes ago about not daring to leave her charge
alone, it was a little surprising to find her going out, cloaked and
hatted. She must be bent on some urgent errand. Hardly unforeseen,
though, for the gesture with which she greeted the loiterer--brusquely
familiar and charged, it seemed with irritation--showed plainly she
expected to find him there. The two exchanged a few words, then
hurried away together, down the avenue, out of sight.
It occurred to Catherine that this man, whose rude stare she had not
forgotten, must be a relation of Jeanne’s, or perhaps an admirer. Of
course the woman must have some personal life, difficult as it was to
imagine such a thing. For that matter, Catherine had sometimes
wondered if there were not some sort of attachment between Jeanne and
Eduardo, who for so many years had travelled about together in their
service to the Benders. Not that she had ever seen any sign in either
remotely suggesting the tender passion.
As she mused thus idly there sounded on the door a sharp rat-tat. She
turned with a start.
“_Entrez!_” she called.