IT was some time before Jean called Margot into his room; and when he
did there was something in his expression which made her forget her
happy news. He looked unlike himself and as if something had shocked
him.
He walked up and down for an interminable time without speaking, while
Margot fingered nervously at one of the superfluous woollen mats.
Then he came up to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Margot,”
he said, “my little comrade, you have been deceiving me. No, do not
tremble or cry! I know well enough why you have done so, you only
wanted to spare me; but there are times when to be spared takes all the
strength out of a man. Do not try to spare me any more, Margot; tell me
the truth now, how much money a week do I cost you?”
“Money, Jean,” cried Margot, her eyes grew very large and round as they
met his; she looked as innocent as only a woman bent on deception can
look. “You think, then, that I am incapable of feeding you on eight
francs a week,” she cried. “It is to complain of my housekeeping that
you have brought me in here. How unkind, Jean!” But Jean merely shook
his head at her.
“Tell me who it is that blacks my boots,” he said sternly.
“Do you suppose that I have no friends,” asked Margot, “no admirers
who are anxious to do me a little turn? Apparently you think I have no
attractions, and the son of Madame Martin does not get up at six in the
morning, and run my errands, to be repaid thankfully by half a smile
out of a shut window?”
Jean hesitated, but he felt relieved. He did not dream that Madame
Martin’s son was a fine invention of Margot’s called upon to do service
for one day only and not to be rewarded at all.
“Any man would be glad to do anything for you,” Jean said, smiling,
“but if I were the son of Madame Martin, I think I should prefer to
black your boots, and not those of the young man who is on the right
side of the shut window!”
“I do not study his preferences,” replied Margot demurely.
“No?” said Jean. “But, Margot, I am going to ask you to study mine. I
cannot stay here another day unless you will take twenty francs a week
for my board; you see I put it very low to please you. It is no use
your shaking your head; either you agree or our little scheme together
ends. It is true,” said Jean half to himself, “that I still have to
earn that twenty francs,” but even now that seemed to Jean the least
important part of any programme.
“Jean,” asked Margot, after a little pause, “you will not think me
curious or indiscreet, but did you not tell me that you sometimes
accompanied Lucien le Page and Du Buissant? Surely such great artists
would pay you!”
Jean smiled bitterly. “They would pay me if they would employ me,
_chérie_,” he answered, “but you forget that they are friends of Madame
de Brances, and lately I have not found them at home when I called.
Last week I went so far as to write to Lucien; he replied very politely
that he was not in need of an _accompagnateur_. It is the same with
them all, they will not employ me again.”
“But Cartier,” persisted Margot, “who gave you your music lessons,
surely he will not treat you like that?”
“He is away in Russia,” said Jean; “he does not return till the spring.”
The two young creatures looked at each other something passed between
them which contradicted the expectancy of youth. Their glance was
measured, anxious, guarded. It resulted in Margot’s saying, “How long
is it now, Jean, since you left the Bank?”
“It is three months,” said Jean.
“How hard it is raining,” exclaimed Margot thoughtfully. “You ought to
get a new pair of boots. Those are very smart you have on, but rain
would go through them as if they were made of silk.”
“I do not think they would take me back,” said Jean wistfully; he did
not want to think the Bank would take him back.
“Perhaps not,” agreed Margot. “After all, the hours are not so long,”
she added.
“My aunt, Miss Prenderghast, wrote to my Uncle Romain to tell him I had
left it,” said Jean. “She says I have ruined my life!”
“Bah!” exclaimed Margot, “the English are a race of wet cats! I have
heard they never even dance on Sundays. Don’t concern yourself with
anyone so ill-natured. After all, that Director of the Bank was a
friend of your uncle.”
“To-morrow, then,” said Jean, with a deep sigh, “I think I will go and
ask if they will take me on again.” But Jean never quite knew how he
had arrived at this decision. Margot sighed, too; but hers was a sigh
of relief.
“What troubles me most, Margot,” Jean went on, “is that I took from you
your part at the Odéon. She might have done anything else. I did not
grudge her pleasure in destroying my chances if she had left you your
part. That,” said Jean, staring hard at his boot, “was not generous of
Liane.” He had never spoken her name to Margot before.
Margot drew a quick breath and laid her small brown hand on Jean’s arm.
“Don’t throw your life away, Jean,” she pleaded in a low tone. “You
look so thin and you can’t eat, and at night I hear you walking about,
walking about--till dawn sometimes. Is that the way to forget?” She
looked up at him suddenly, her brown eyes filled with gentleness and
love. “Is there no other way?” she said.
Jean glanced at her for a moment and then looked away. He knew well
enough what other way there was; he was not by nature a vain man; he
was more dangerous to women than that, he was intuitively perceptive.
Margot’s secret had long ago slipped into Jean’s heart, and he had
turned the key on it in silence. Was he always to keep it locked up?
he asked himself. He wanted to kneel beside her and press his tired
head against her tender breast. Surely to feel her arms about him,
and to drink close and deep of the light in her eyes would help to
heal the hideous ache Liane had left behind! And did he not owe Margot
something? Was she always to love without reward? He hesitated, but
still he did not look at her.
Margot’s whole soul was in her eyes fixed on him wondering and
worshipping; she could have drawn him to her that night if she had
known how; but she did not know how. She was not thinking of herself,
which would have taught her--she was thinking of him; and all that that
taught her was to wait upon his wishes; so she sat there, poor little
Margot, praying God to help Jean; and it is possible that God heard.
“It is late, Margot,” Jean said at last, in a low tone. “Doesn’t your
mother want you?”
“Mamma is asleep,” said Margot.
“I won’t play any more to-night then,” said Jean.
“And there is something else too, Jean, that I wanted to tell you, but
I didn’t like to come in and interrupt you before. It’s rather good
news this time.”
“Let’s have it, then,” said Jean, laughing, a short, hard laugh. “Let’s
have all the good news we can get, Margot. Perhaps it will make up--the
good news--for all the things we can’t get--or are fools enough,” he
added half to himself, “not to take.”
“Well, it’s an engagement,” said Margot excitedly. “And the terms
are better than I’ve ever been offered; it’s every night for three
months--at twice my usual salary.”
Jean sprang forward and caught both her hands; it was months since he
had looked at her with such delight.
“Oh, but I’m glad, Margot!” he said, “and to-morrow we will celebrate
the occasion. I will take you out and you shall dine as you have never
dined before, and then we’ll go to the Opera, and hear the big women
sing, women who will one day listen to you--they will have nothing
but a little squeak then and a grand manner, and you will have all
the melody and all the strength of all the world in that little white
throat of yours.”
Margot flushed up to her eyes with pleasure; her throat was not really
white, it was rather brown, but the programme was splendid.
“How pleased you are, Jean,” she said wonderingly. “I did not know you
would be so pleased.”
“Oh, I’m not only glad,” said Jean, stopping in front of her with
shining eyes, “I’m relieved. Just think! you have got back what I
took away from you and more! Ah! if you knew how bitterly I have been
feeling all you have done for me. Couldn’t you see I was almost ashamed
to look at you?”
He put his hands on her shoulders and shook her gently. His selfishness
fell away from him; she was his comrade again, his good, kind little
comrade with whom he lived on equal terms, and whom he would die for
rather than wrong. Margot wrenched herself free from him; to Jean’s
surprise a cloud had come into her eyes.
“So that was it,” she said slowly. “I see!” She turned back to the
piano and began to pick up the music Jean’s impulsive movement had
flung to the floor; he could not see her face.
“Now you no longer owe me anything,” said Margot.
Jean gave a long sigh of relief.
“You can’t think what a beast it made me feel,” he said apologetically.
“You are quite free,” said Margot. Her back was turned to him, but Jean
heard the little note of pain in her voice.
“But aren’t you glad I’m glad, Margot?” he asked, in a puzzled way.
“Of course I’m glad you’re glad!” cried Margot vehemently.
“Good-night!” And she ran quickly past him out of the room. Jean turned
to catch her, but he was not quick enough.
He stood staring blankly at the piano. The piano, however, could have
told him nothing except that Margot dusted it very unnecessarily every
morning directly he went out, and sometimes kissed the keys. And even
that, perhaps, it was just as well it should keep to itself.
The celebration fell through entirely; nothing more was said about it,
which was strange, considering that both Jean and Margot were glad.