The suffering passed, but she was distressingly ill for three whole
days, during which she was ably cared for by Jeanne, who proved an
efficient nurse. Berthe, too, bestirred herself to prepare the simple
dishes ordered by the doctor, and hung about, much concerned as to the
patient’s progress. From her Catherine learned that Geoffrey had
telephoned several times daily, a fact which brought solace even while
she felt too weak to see him.
Also he had sent flowers--more lilies-of-the-valley and great bunches
of golden daffodils, filling the room with colour. She lay feasting
her eyes on them, now and then slipping the accompanying notes from
beneath her pillow to read again his ardent messages.
The fourth afternoon Dr. Girard himself arrived, hobbling with a
stick. He had been fully informed of her alarming symptoms, which he
agreed were those of acute ptomaine poisoning, occasioned by the
oysters eaten on Sunday evening. Oysters at this season were a bit of
a risk. She might think herself fortunate to have got off so lightly.
“But fortunate or not, mademoiselle,” he added with pompous
kindliness, “you have had a bad time which has left you extremely
weak. You must go slow, and as soon as possible get away from Paris
into the country, for a change of air.”
She stared at him in slight annoyance. This was not the right tack at
all--for her to go away. It was the last thing she had thought of.
“But I’d rather not leave Paris just now,” she said. “And I shall be
all right in a few days.”
“Not so soon as you think,” he contradicted with a shake of his head.
“I should really like to insist on your getting out of town. It is
what you need to put you on your feet.”
Why was he so determined? In spite of his amiable face suspicion
assailed her that Jeanne had been getting at him. This might mean a
fresh manœuvre on her part.
“Tell me, doctor,” she said, looking him straight in the eye, “has
anyone suggested this to you?”
He wavered a little.
“Well, yes, I admit it. Someone has, only yesterday.”
Ah! She knew it! What an exasperating irony!
“Does it occur to you that this person is being rather officious on my
behalf?” she inquired sarcastically.
“I would hesitate to call it that,” replied the old man in a
conciliatory tone. “As a matter of fact, it was a young man, who
appears to take a very warm interest in your welfare.”
So! It was not Jeanne but Geoffrey who had stolen a march on her. She
was relieved, yet could not repress a rueful smile at the doctor’s
insinuating repetition of the words, “_Un jeune monsieur, très
distingué--un Anglais_.” What a reversal of the situation! Here she
had lain, praying for Girard to order the maid away, and now it was
herself he was virtually commanding to go!
“But, monsieur, have you forgotten our conversation last Friday?” she
asked, ready to cry with disappointment.
“Ah, no, mademoiselle, assuredly not! I had meant to speak of it this
afternoon. I broached the subject to the person in question the last
time I was here, and I am happy to report that I met with almost no
opposition. The affair is arranged most satisfactorily.”
“Arranged?” she exclaimed, electrified with astonishment. “You mean
she is willing to go?”
“But certainly--quite willing, even pleased at the prospect. She
desires only a little time to make her plans. She was to write to her
brother to prepare him for her visit and make sure he has room for
her. That is all. You can put your mind at rest.”
Catherine sank back, overcome by the unexpected good news. How simple
it all was! If only she had known, she might have spared herself
endless anxiety. She began to laugh softly, while tears of weakness
came into her eyes. She wiped them away hurriedly, aware that Girard
was watching her with concern.
“There, mademoiselle, you see? It is you who are unnerved now. Your
friend the Englishman was right, you must get away from this
atmosphere for a little in order to recover your strength. Yes, the
woman was most reasonable. She only stipulates that madame should be
gradually accustomed to her leaving, and that she should not be left
entirely alone with a strange nurse during her absence. In short, she
wishes that you yourself should be here while she is away.”
“I?” echoed Catherine, hardly able to believe her ears.
Either Jeanne had experienced a change of heart, or else her own
suspicions were hopelessly false. It was difficult to take it in.
“Yes, you, mademoiselle. As she says, Mme. Bender is attached to you
and will be less likely to feel the change if you are with her. It is
for that very reason that I urge you to get your own holiday first, so
you will be perfectly strong and equal to the responsibility.”
She looked at him searchingly, wondering if he knew what a clever
method he had hit upon for gaining her consent. His heavy features
gave no hint of duplicity, showing merely complacence at his
management of the situation.
“_Eh bien!_ We may regard the matter as settled. Naturally you must
stay in bed for a few days longer, while we watch the diet and give
you a tonic to put some strength into you. Towards the end of the week
we might think of getting you to the country. What do you say to
Fontainebleau?” he added, with a look of arch cunning.
She was silent. Much as she wanted to go to Fontainebleau the idea
that wires were being pulled to make her do so was distasteful.
Moreover, Jeanne’s complete veering round provided food for
conjecture. Not once had the woman mentioned the flowers she must
surely have discovered in Mme. Bender’s room, or hinted at the
possibility of a reconciliation. True, all this week she had been
extraordinarily assiduous and kind, a gesture one might construe as a
desire to bury the hatchet.
Catherine pondered the matter, languidly puzzled.
“Perhaps she has some reason for wanting to placate me,” she
reflected. “Or is it that I’ve been mistaken about her all along?”
At the moment she felt thoroughly confused.
Still her main purpose was accomplished. Soon Germaine would be under
competent care, free from adverse influence. A month was not long, to
be sure, but before it was over one might reasonably hope to find
means to prevent Jeanne’s return to power. Eduardo, too, must be dealt
with, but alone he presented no formidable difficulties.
A knock sounded and Berthe’s voice was heard saying that a gentleman
had called. Might he be permitted to come in?
For the first time in days Catherine’s heart leaped with glad
expectancy, while a flush crept into her cheeks.
“One minute, Berthe. Fetch me my mirror and powder-puff, please.”
Vanity had revived--a healthy sign. Hastily, with Berthe’s aid, she
made herself presentable, smoothing the dark mass of her hair and
rebraiding the twin, short pigtails which fell over her shoulders. The
thinness of her face shocked her. She had not looked in a glass since
early Monday morning.
“_Un peu de parfum, n’est-ce pas?_” whispered her attendant with the
air of a sympathetic conspirator.
She assented, laughing, and the thick finger of Berthe planted a spot
of scent behind each of her ears.
When Geoffrey entered he found her propped up against pillows, her
eyes shining in their wells of dark shadow. He took her hand in his
warm clasp and stood looking down on her with intensity.
“Catherine--my dear! What is the meaning of this?”
She shook her head with a grimace.
“Oysters, I suppose. Anyhow, that’s what they tell me.”
“It’s my fault. I was a fool to suggest the damned things in this
weather. I ought to be kicked!”
“What rubbish! Besides, I’m well now. In a few days I shall be up.”
“In a few days,” he retorted grimly, “I mean to have you out of this.
Whether you like it or not, you’re going to leave this place.”
Her eyes opened wide with amazement.
“Aren’t you a bit premature with your airs of authority?” she demanded
with severity. “For that matter, what do you mean by plotting with the
doctor behind my back?”
He looked slightly abashed.
“Maybe I’d no right to,” he muttered doggedly. “But someone has got to
take you in hand. It was bad enough knowing you were ill, but much
worse to think of you at the mercy of these slovenly servants. I very
nearly had the American Hospital at Neuilly send an ambulance to fetch
you away.”
“You needn’t have bothered. I’ve had nothing to complain of, except
feeling absolutely rotten.”
He sat down, still retaining her hand, which she could not bring
herself to withdraw. She was battling with a sudden absurd desire to
cling to him and weep upon his shoulder; instead of which she assumed
a bantering smile and tried to turn the conversation away from her
illness.
“Elspeth wrote you,” he said presently. “What are you going to do
about it?”
“Oh, that! I haven’t felt up to making plans.”
“You needn’t make plans. Decide now when you think you can go, and
I’ll send her a telegram.”
His new assurance astonished her. Had those brief moments on Sunday
night been to him like the tiger’s first taste of blood? The idea
amused her, at the same time causing a faint thrill. Clearly it was
impossible for them to resume their former friendly relations.
Yet his very urgency roused in her a perverse desire to object.
“I’m not sure I want to go just yet, Geoffrey. You see the unexpected
has happened. Jeanne has consented to take a holiday.”
“The devil she has!” His thick brows shot up in rueful consternation.
“By George, that alters things, doesn’t it? I mean if she’s really a
bad hat, would she be willing to walk out and give us a free hand at
investigation? Either she’s extremely sure of herself, or else…”
Their eyes met guiltily.
“I know,” replied Catherine, nodding. “I’ve been thinking that, too.
Perhaps we--or rather I--have been misjudging her all along. It makes
me feel so ashamed. Oh, Geoffrey, do you think me an utter lunatic to
have stirred up this hornet’s nest?”
“Your suspicions were quite natural.”
“Yes, they were, weren’t they?” she whispered. “However innocent she
may be in the main, her conduct has been open to reproach in many
ways. In any case I am positive about one point--her really bad effect
on Mme. Bender. That is what actually matters.”
He agreed heartily, not thinking it necessary to tell her that,
judging by his own talk with Dr. Girard, the latter’s opinion of the
maid was not seriously shaken. It was just as well, according to the
doctor, to supplant Jeanne, or at least to supplement her services by
professional ones, but on the whole she seemed to him a devoted,
obstinate servant, a person of one idea, unwilling to admit herself in
error, as the unfortunate mouse episode proved. She had been on a
long, severe strain at a time of life when a woman’s nerves are apt to
prove uncertain; moreover, quite possibly she had a touch of the _type
hystérique_ in her make-up, which would account for many
peculiarities. This was his pronouncement, uttered sanely, without
rancour. He struck Geoffrey as an intelligent and well-meaning man,
kindly disposed towards Catherine, but withal anxious to be just.
Coming out of a brief reverie, Geoffrey again attacked the subject of
Elspeth’s invitation.
“If, as you say, Jeanne means to get off as soon as she hears from her
brother, then obviously you ought to lose no time over your own visit.
What about Saturday? Do you think you’ll be well enough by then?”
She remained quite still for a few moments, her brows knit over
troubled eyes which avoided his gaze.
“I don’t like being hurried into a thing,” she murmured presently,
trying to take a light tone.
“My dear!” he laughed, but was plainly annoyed. “Don’t you realize
you’ve been deucedly ill, and that the doctor says it’s most important
for you to have a change?”
She gave him a scornful look.
“I realize he said that before he’d seen me at all,” she retorted.
“Besides, I always pick up with amazing speed. No, that doesn’t mean
anything,” she added, as he spread her thin, olive-tinted hand out on
his palm and traced the bones with a significant finger. “I can gain
that back in a fortnight. Anyhow, I don’t intend to go, so that’s
that,” she finished, her chin stubborn.
“Why?”
She resented the fashion in which the question was shot at her. How
could she put into words the rather preposterous idea which was
wandering about in her brain, seeking confirmation? Already she had
exposed herself to sufficient ridicule.
“The same old reasons, I suppose,” she admitted reluctantly. “I don’t
want to leave Germaine till Jeanne is away.”
He exclaimed in exasperation, giving her hand a squeeze which made her
wince.
“Catherine, you’re impossible! Can’t you see it will be only for such
a short time that it can’t make any difference to anyone? That you’ll
come home feeling strong and able to cope with things? I’ve no
patience with you. You deserve a smacking.”
“Who’s going to inflict it?” she laughed at him.
He hesitated, eyeing her sternly.
“I am. I made up my mind what I should do if you took up this
unreasonable stand. I’m going to resort to pressure.”
She could not be sure whether he were joking or serious.
“That sounds like a threat,” she said lightly.
“It is. Here’s the situation in a nutshell. The doctor has definitely
ordered you to go away from Paris. If you refuse, I shall simply send
a cablegram to your family in Boston and tell them the whole story.”
She stared at him, drawing in her breath.
“You don’t mean that. You couldn’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing,” she said, laughing, “you don’t know their address.”
He smiled confidently.
“I have already got your brother-in-law’s cable address, which shows
how much you know about it. I intend to send a night-letter outlining
the position.”
He meant it, that was plain. In a flash she foresaw the appalling row
which would ensue when Barbara and John learned what was going on
here, realizing that her own silence on the subject would make a bad
matter worse. Barbara could not compel her to return to America, but
she could stir up a deal of trouble. The prospect frightened her.
Geoffrey saw her eyes smoulder with indignation, but he did not give
in an inch.
“Think it over,” he said calmly. “I’ll give you till to-morrow
morning, but no longer.”
Without rhyme or reason a quick change came over her face. Her mouth
softened into a smile wholly disarming, her eyes shone at him through
a mist as she answered with a catch in her voice.
“Very well. I’ll go. Tell Elspeth, if you like, to expect me on
Saturday.”
“Good girl!”
The abrupt capitulation took the wind out of his sails. With a laugh
he bent his head and kissed the hand he held, outside and in.
“But mind, it’s only because you’re being so horrid to me,” she warned
him reproachfully. “And remember I haven’t promised anything
about--you know what.”
With a deep breath he relinquished the imprisoned hand.
“I understand.”
Now she had made the decision her brain was working feverishly.
“I must put certain things right before I go. Germaine will have to
make it up with Hermione, so there will be someone to keep an eye on
Jeanne. I think I can manage that though. Will you ask her to come and
see me?”
“Miss Cushing? Certainly, if you think it a good idea.”
Why did he hesitate in that embarrassed manner? Had she said anything
wrong?
“Don’t, if you’d rather not. I’ll drop her a line.”
“No, no. I’ll telephone her. I was only thinking that in your present
wobbly state she might prove slightly overpowering.”
He was a bad liar, and consequently became disturbingly self-conscious
when her eyes rested on him thoughtfully. Had she guessed that he was
feeling more than a little queer about Hermione?
It was nothing serious, of course, but all the same an incident had
occurred that very afternoon to sow doubts in his mind regarding the
singer and set him once more struggling against a crop of peculiar
surmises.