It was evening. Elspeth was bidding her children good night, Clement
Baxter, her husband, was rummaging in search of some etchings, in the
adjacent studio. Four candles in silver candelabra flickered upon the
bare waxed refectory table, their yellow flames casting deep wells of
shadow. The curtains were yet undrawn, and through the long windows,
square-paned and arched at the top, could be seen the walled garden,
fresh and still in the gathering dusk. At the back stood a row of
lime-trees with clusters of snowy blossom, whose fragrance stole into
the room, penetratingly sweet.
Catherine gave a deep sigh, and nestled further back into the pale
cushioned _bergère_. It was with a little start that she discovered
Geoffrey beside her, holding out his cigarette-case.
“Not too tired, I hope?” he inquired in an undertone.
She shook her head, smiling.
“Only blissfully comatose. I don’t want to move so much as a finger.
It is heavenly just being here.”
She glanced about the agreeable room with appreciation. Everything
about it pleased her. The colours, the space, the very perfection with
which the pictures were hung brought balm to her troubled spirit, so
that she felt content to lie without thinking and drink in the beauty
and tranquillity.
“You’re not sorry you came, then?”
“Sorry?” She shook her head. “I’m glad. It’s good to be away from--all
that.”
He hung about anxiously.
“And the drive here wasn’t too much for you? It’s been a bit of a day
for anyone just out of bed.”
“I’m all right. I expect to have ten full hours’ sleep to-night.
That’s what an idiot requires, isn’t it?” she added, laughing.
She was still very pale, but her attitude showed that her nerves were
beginning to relax. To-morrow he meant to keep her outdoors as much as
possible so that the air might bring her colour back.
“That’s right, Philomène--put the coffee on the hearth. Madame will
be here in a moment.”
The maid set the coffee, foaming in a copper pot, upon a tripod close
to the log fire. The tray, bearing majolica cups of blue, green and
orange, she placed on an oak stool, then she moved away to close the
curtains. When her back was turned Geoffrey laid his brown hand
lightly upon Catherine’s white one, where it rested listlessly on the
arm of the chair. She let it remain for a second, feeling her own
tingle with the warmth of his touch, then as Elspeth’s step approached
she drew it gently away.
“Coffee, you two?”
Elspeth bent over the hearth and lifted the copper pot. Her bronze
head shone in the firelight, her blue frock made a pleasant splash of
colour. She had the fresh complexion of her brother as well as his
heavy brows, slightly modified, and her grey eyes, honest and candid,
held a sparkle of humour.
“Not for me, thanks,” replied Catherine. “I’ve been sleeping rather
badly for the first time in my life, and I don’t want anything to
spoil the marvellous rest I mean to have.” Elspeth surveyed her
critically as she handed a cup to her brother.
“Then you’d better have a cup of my _tilleul_. See, I’ve got some
here. I always take it after dinner. It’s supposed to be soothing for
the nerves.”
As she spoke she took up a little teapot from the tray and held it
poised above a cup. Catherine shook her head.
“_Tilleul_? Oh, no, if you don’t mind, I won’t take any. I’ve only
tasted it once--last Monday when I was feeling so rotten--and I’m
afraid I rather hated it.”
“Did you? I think it’s good stuff.”
“It seemed to me bitter and--queer,” explained Catherine
apologetically.
Her hostess looked surprised.
“Bitter? It couldn’t have been _tilleul_, then. Why, it’s only
lime-flowers, you know. We make our own. Can’t you smell the lime now,
from the trees in the garden?”
Catherine hesitated. The taste of the drink Jeanne had given her came
disagreeably before her, mingled with memories of racking pain. She
could not associate it with the honeyed odour of the blossoms outside.
“Let me try some of yours,” she said. “It may seem different now.”
She took the cup of pale amber liquid, upon whose surface floated a
few tiny petals. A pleasant aroma rose as she sipped.
“Why--it’s delicious!” she exclaimed, astonished.
“I think so. Anyhow, it won’t keep you awake.”
Catherine drank it slowly, then leaned back among the cushions,
slightly puzzled. This concoction seemed totally unlike the other. She
could almost swear it was not the same thing at all. Had her illness
made such a difference? It was true that on the wretched morning in
question nothing had tasted as it should. Even her coffee had not been
quite as usual, though she had supposed the berries to have been
scorched.…
Oh, well, that was all over. Nothing mattered now. She was very tired,
more so then she wished Geoffrey to know, and the thought of bed was
pleasant to her.
The past few days had been rather nerve-racking. She had had the task
of re-establishing Mme. Bender and Hermione upon terms of friendship,
at the same time avoiding friction with Jeanne, so that she now felt
as though she had been steering a frail barque between Scylla and
Charybdis. Jeanne, she was forced to admit, had proved unexpectedly
amenable, but the strain had proved severe up till the moment of
departure.
Jeanne! She still marvelled at the improvement in her. Why, the woman
had actually offered to pack her bags, had smiled on her from the
doorway this afternoon and called out, “_Bon voyage, mademoiselle!
Soignez-vous bien!_” with the utmost good-nature. A wave of shamed
compunction swept over the girl as she thought of what she planned to
do on her return to the apartment. If her late enemy even faintly
guessed her intentions she could not have borne herself with such
cheerful composure.
Meantime it was delightful to lie here in the candlelight, to listen
to the conversation without taking an active part in it, and watch
drowsily the three people in the glow of the fire--Elspeth cool and
steady-eyed, Clement Baxter sandy and thin, sucking an old briar and
recounting droll incidents of Paris life in a drawling voice, and
Geoffrey at her elbow, his face shadowed but turned, she knew, towards
her own with a steadiness which soothed her vanity and made her feel
as a cat does when its fur is stroked by a firm hand. She was wrapped
in a sense of extraordinary peace.
In the morning she was roused by the twitter of children and the voice
of their nurse trying vainly to keep them silent. It was not yet time
for her breakfast to arrive, but she was rested and refreshed, all the
faculties which last evening had lain dormant now vividly alert.
All at once she began to think over her recent illness and to wonder
about it. Strange that she had slept peacefully the night before, that
nothing had happened till after she had got up. Did that mean the
poison from the oysters took all that time to make itself felt, or was
it that… Oh, of course, it couldn’t have been the coffee! How
impossible! And yet, there certainly had been a bitter tang about it,
which curiously enough had some quality in common with the hot drink
she had taken later on. Or was she imagining things?
Her mind went back to the young doctor’s insistent questions, his
accusing manner, and again it occurred to her that perhaps Jeanne had
purposely given him a wrong idea.
But why on earth should she do such a thing? Why should she want him
to believe what was not true, that is, unless----
Suddenly it struck her that there was a possible reason. Jeanne might
conceivably have taken this attitude if she herself was aware of the
real cause of the attack, and was eager to put the doctor off the
scent. It sounded wild, but was it altogether out of the range of
possibility?
Arrested by this new view of the case, she set herself to recall in
detail everything which had occurred on Monday morning, from the time
she waked up. Berthe, she remembered, had been very late, had the look
of having hurried into her clothes. At the time she had even wondered
that the woman had been up in time to make the coffee. Perhaps, for
that matter, Berthe had not made it. It might have been Jeanne.
A shiver ran through her. Yes, the pains had come on a little while
after she had drunk the coffee, and had increased in violence
following the cup of supposed _tilleul_--which since last night she
knew was either not _tilleul_ at all, or else had some strong
substance mingled with it to alter its flavour. Could all this mean
that Jeanne had deliberately introduced something into the two cups of
liquid with the purpose of making her ill? Not poison--no, the doctor
had laughed at the suggestion. Medicine, a drug of some sort.…
She shook herself angrily. “What absolute nonsense! What a fool I am
to invent such an improbable story!”
Granting it were true, she could not imagine any motive for such an
act. Easy to call it pure malevolence, but people did not go about
doing things like that for the fun of it.
She pondered deeply, feeling her heart beat as it had done so many
times since the attack, whenever she became a little agitated. Slowly
and uneasily the conviction stole upon her that she was a pawn in a
game, moved about against her will and made to do things she had had
no intention of doing. Was it possible that in coming away she had
simply been following out a course of action designed by Jeanne
herself? Was her illness a preliminary step towards it?
She saw again how the way had been smoothed, her objections removed
one by one. Jeanne’s good nature and reasonableness, the armistice
between her and Hermione, the whole new air of complaisance which had
transformed the household during the last few days--oh, surely it was
too good to be true! In fact, during the entire week the maid’s
attitude towards her had been altered, beginning with--when exactly
did it begin?--yes, _from the time when she had found the flowers in
Mme. Bender’s room_.
She became so nervous that it was all she could do to keep from
springing out of bed.
“Yes, I am sure of it! She wanted to get me away from Germaine. She’s
afraid of me, that’s what it is! She knows I have made it up with the
poor thing, and she’s terrified of the consequences. Is that because
she thinks I may expose her? Or because Germaine may get too fond of
me? Is it jealousy again?”
It must be partly that, she concluded. Yet it could mean only a petty
triumph to the schemer, a small result for so much plotting. A
week--there was comfort in the thought. Nothing was likely to go far
wrong in so short a time. Besides, Hermione would be there daily, glad
to watch over her friend. Not much would escape her suspicious eye.
Her _petit déjeuner_ arrived, deliciously appetizing, with a plate of
huge strawberries and a little jug of cream. Philomène, a genial
soul, beamed upon her.
“_Mademoiselle a une meilleure mine ce matin_,” she declared, eyeing
Catherine with interest, adding that the air at Fontainebleau was very
bracing and would bring her an appetite. Madame had sent a message to
say mademoiselle was to rest as long as she liked, that no one
expected her to appear before _déjeuner_. Perhaps she would care to
lie in a deck-chair in the garden. The sun was beautiful now, the
birds singing.
However, Catherine did not want to rest. The idea had come to her that
she would feel more comfortable if she could telephone through to
Paris and inquire after Mme. Bender, just to see that everything was
as it should be. Foolish, perhaps, but there could be no harm in
making sure.
As soon as she had bathed and put on a pale grey jumper-suit with a
band of green about the hips--a dress she somehow felt Geoffrey would
like--she slipped into the living-room to negotiate a trunk-call,
feeling just a trifle guilty, and glad that the room was deserted.
“_Elysée zére zéro deux dix.…_”
She was lucky in not having to wait long for the connection. In only a
few minutes the bell summoned her, and picking up the receiver she
heard a man’s gruff voice saying, “_Allô, allô!_” It was Eduardo.
“Eduardo, this is Miss West speaking. I wanted to know how madame is
this morning. Can you tell me?”
She caught an indistinct mumble, then there was silence. He had
departed, no doubt to fetch Jeanne. She pressed the receiver to her
ear in slight suspense, waiting. Presently a faint, gentle voice spoke
over the wire:
“_Allô, allô… qui est là?_”
Catherine started so that she nearly dropped the receiver. _The voice
which addressed her was Germaine’s._