For the next few days Catherine was tormented by her suspicion. In
justice she could not give it a stronger name, though from the first
she was instinctively certain of the servants’ guilt. Certain--but
cold reason told her the thing would be difficult to prove. To breathe
a word to the invalid might shatter the very foundations of her being,
and, except for Mme. Bender, there was no one at all likely to be
acquainted with the facts. Hermione could not help, since at the time
Jeanne declared the pictures to have been sold she had been absent
from Paris. Indeed, it was probable that for the past year no outside
person had entered the gallery.
After the upsetting discovery she shut herself in the salon and
painstakingly examined its contents. For some time she could find
nothing missing, though she fancied the vitrines contained rather less
than their former store of _bibelots_; but at last she gave a gasp of
triumph. A blue enamelled patch-box and a miniature set with pearls,
both of which she had admired the day after her arrival, had
disappeared. The final shred of doubt was brushed away.
She burned now to explore the locked bedrooms, but that meant
demanding the keys.
What ought she to do? The question haunted her. Useless to assure
herself that dishonesty was one thing, unkindness to an ill woman
another, that she could put her finger on no instance of neglect or
lack of consideration towards Germaine. The ugly fact stared her in
the face that her cousin, helpless and ignorant of harm, was being
hourly ministered to by an unscrupulous thief. Nor was this all. Over
and above the tangle of moral values one idea stood out clear. _If
Jeanne could lie about one thing, she could lie about another._ The
thought was alarming, though she did not draw any direct conclusion
from it.
She resolved to consult Geoffrey. After all, he was not only a real
friend, but he and his father were Mme. Bender’s solicitors, so that
no one could be better able to advise her. She was going to see him on
Sunday, having been invited to his flat to meet his sister, up from
Fontainebleau for the day. If she could get a moment alone with him,
she would tell him the whole affair.
Till then she was forced to go on as though nothing had happened,
though to do so was increasingly difficult. Her sensitive eye detected
a hard defiance in the servant’s manner towards her, saw in their
grudging politeness the mark of an armed neutrality. They distrusted
her now, regarded her presence as a menace to their safety. Well, let
them--they would not dare to go ahead with their systematic thieving.
That, at least, was a consoling thought.…
All this time she was assuming that not only was Jeanne almost
indispensable to Mme. Bender, but that her firm, managing hand exerted
an influence for the invalid’s good. Now, however, she was to receive
a second shock which ship-wrecked all her previous beliefs.
About the middle of the week, after lunching at the Ritz with some
American friends, she came back to find her cousin, in one of her
moods of apathetic depression. Usually at this hour she was sitting up
in the bergère, a rug about her knees, but to-day she was in bed, her
face pinched and wan, with purple patches beneath her eyes, an ivory
rosary held loosely between her emaciated fingers. In the grey dusk of
the room she looked like some poor, fear-haunted ghost.
“Is it you, Catherine? Come in--I have been waiting for you.”
The girl bent to kiss her, holding out the bowl of violets she had
brought.
“Look, aren’t they lovely and fresh? All along the Madeleine the
flower-sellers’ stalls are so marvellous, a blaze of colour. I do so
wish you could see them.”
“And you brought me these? My dear, I am touched!”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I’ll put them here on the little table where you can smell them. It
is warm to-day, such gorgeous sunshine, and the chestnuts are actually
budding. Oh, Germaine dear, if only you could bring yourself to go
outdoors, I can’t help thinking it would do you good!”
She spoke impulsively, then was distressed to see the result of her
words. The ill woman shut her eyes shudderingly, her features
contracted with a spasm of pain.
“Ah, no! Not that!” she murmured in positive alarm. “It is impossible!
You do not know what you are saying.”
Hermione’s story about the ill-fated motor drive flashed into
Catherine’s mind. Yet almost against her will she found herself saying
persuasively:
“But, darling, it must be bad for you to stay shut up in this little
room. It’s unnatural to want to, you know!”
The shrinking gaze turned suspiciously on her, eyeing her with a sort
of pained distrust.
“You too!” muttered the invalid. “First Lili, and now you… Jeanne was
right. She is always right,” and she shook her head with a hint of
fatalism.
Catherine was mystified, both by the words themselves and by the air
of hurt reproach which accompanied them; but before she could muster a
reply the maid entered with a tray bearing tea and a little pot of
chocolate for her mistress.
“I will pour out, Jeanne,” cried the young girl, welcoming a
diversion. “Put it here on the table.”
The woman complied, removing the violets, upon which she cast a brief,
contemptuous glance, then hung about, needlessly officious, settling
Mme. Bender’s pillows and arranging the cups and saucers. It seemed to
Catherine that she was unwilling to leave her alone with the patient,
but presently she straightened up and stood as though waiting for
orders.
“You may leave us, Jeanne,” suggested the invalid timidly. “Perhaps as
it is a fine day you might care to go out for a little.”
Somewhat to Catherine’s surprise the woman assented.
“As madame wishes. Since mademoiselle is going to remain, I will take
this opportunity to get a breath of air.”
For a second her eyes rested full on Catherine’s face, with a look
which the recipient read as a mixture of speculation and defiance.
Then she withdrew, and presently a brisk step along the passage
outside told the two listeners she had departed.
Catherine felt more comfortable, and fancied her companion shared her
feeling, but after a little while she was distressed to see that the
cup of chocolate remained untasted, her cousin’s eyes fixed blankly on
the window, through whose white drawn curtains showed faintly the two
iron bars Jeanne had spoken about. She asked herself what the poor
woman thought about those brutal reminders of her past folly, and if
the sight of them preyed upon her mind. She had never mentioned them,
but there they were, staring her in the face, proof, even if she had
forgotten the episode, that she was not to be trusted.
“You are very quiet to-day, Germaine,” remarked Catherine lightly. “Is
anything troubling you?”
A tremulous sigh answered her. The white hand pressed itself against
the tormented eyes as though to shut out disturbing fancies.
“I don’t know… I don’t know,” murmured the sad voice with a touch of
irritability. “Everything is so confused. My memory, you know. Things
go from me, and I never can tell what has happened and what I--I have
imagined. It frightens me. I don’t know what to believe.…”
Catherine felt a wave of intense pity sweep over her. She would have
given much to be able to help the poor, brooding creature, but what
could one do or say to reassure her?
“Your chocolate is getting cold. Let me give you some more,” she
gently urged. “As for forgetting things, if I were you I shouldn’t
give it a thought! Memory is so very much a matter of health.”
“Ah, you only say that to comfort me. I know--I know it is far more
serious than you think. There are things I could tell you of, dreadful
things, ghastly things, things like nightmares! Ah! If you knew only
half that goes on here----” and she touched her forehead with a
distraught gesture. “Sometimes I--but no,” checking herself quickly,
“I do wrong to speak of them. I am forgetting again. Jeanne says I am
not to mention them to anyone, or else…” She stopped once more,
setting her lips together with a look of frightened secrecy.
Things like nightmares! Here at last was a reference to the delusions
both Jeanne and the doctor had mentioned. It was the first time
Germaine had spoken of them, but the repressed terror in her manner
showed the acuteness of her mental suffering.
“I don’t know what you are talking about, Germaine,” declared
Catherine stoutly. “But I’m sure it is all due to disordered nerves.
Remember the shock you have had.”
“You mean my accident?” The thin hands quivered spasmodically. “Ah, if
I could only believe it was due to that! But no--what I speak of began
much later. Oh, a great deal later! That is what terrifies me so.”
Catherine caught the fluttering hands in hers with a firm pressure.
“Nonsense, dear! Everything is all right. But since you are so
worried, why not let us call in another doctor? Someone who
specializes in nervous cases. Mightn’t it be a good idea?”
At once she realized her mistake. With a violent movement the invalid
recoiled from her, hiding her face in the pillows.
“Ah, not that, not that!” she whispered in an agonized appeal. “Ah,
Catherine, if you love me, never call in a specialist! I implore you!”
There was nothing to do but soothe and coax her back into a quiet
state. At last she lay back with closed eyes, seeing which Catherine
gave up the attempt to make conversation and let her rest, thankful
that the panic of the moment was over.
The fading light was all but gone. Catherine sat on, busy with her
thoughts, believing that her cousin had fallen into a doze, although
in the shadow of the bed-curtains it was difficult to tell. There was
no sound save the faint ticking of the little tortoiseshell clock on
the dressing-table, and the occasional honk of a motor-horn from the
avenue.
Presently one of the draperies close to her side stirred slightly. She
glanced at it, thinking the movement came from a breeze through the
window, but no, the other curtains hung limp and still. The vibration
continued, then a tiny, pricking noise reached her ears. What could it
be? She sat motionless, holding her breath and watching fixedly
descried a small, dark form creeping stealthily up the white fringe of
the material from the floor. Surely she herself must be imagining
things!
She stared harder. Good Heavens, it was a mouse!
Up, up it moved in jerks, its jewelled eyes glistening, its long tail
slipping behind like a line of dark thread. It must have ventured
forth in search of a meal, attracted by the cake-crumbs. But how bold,
when there were people about! The thought came to the girl that it was
treading familiar ground.
Fascinated, she stayed her impulse to shake it off, lest the sudden
movement might alarm the sleeping woman. Now it had reached the
surface of the bed, and with twinkling feet, halting and cocking its
ears to listen, it proceeded confidently across the supine figure.
Still Catherine did nothing. Into her mind had come the scrap of
unintelligible conversation she had caught that first morning between
the doctor and Jeanne. She heard again the deep voice saying. “_Vous
êtes sûre qu’il n’y a pas de souris là bas?_”
Was Germaine asleep? Noiselessly bending forward, she stole a glance
at the shadowed face. To her amazement she saw that the eyes were wide
open, glued with horror and loathing to the darting form, while upon
the forehead great drops of sweat stood out.
Catherine sprang to her feet, jostling the tea-table. The mouse
vanished like a streak of light.
“Why, Germaine! Did you see? A mouse was actually running over your
bed! Don’t be frightened, it’s gone now.”
She ran to the wall-button and switched on the lights.
“What an impudent creature!” she exclaimed, laughing. “Were you
afraid?”
Then to her utter dismay she saw the poor invalid sitting bolt
upright, tears streaming down her cheeks, hands clasped.
“Catherine! Catherine! You saw it, too? It was real? Oh, my God, my
God! And I thought it was my fancy!”
As long as she lived Catherine never forgot the anguished relief of
the outcry, wrung from the Frenchwoman’s very soul.