“Marguerite, chérie, what is it? You frighten me. . . .”
“It is nothing, child, I tell you . . . nothing. . . . I must be alone a minute—and—dear one . . . I may have to curtail our time together to-day. . . . I may have to go away—you’ll understand?”
“I understand that something has happened, chérie, and that you want to be alone. I won’t be a hindrance to you. Don’t think of me. My maid, Lucile, has not yet gone . . . we will go back together . . . don’t think of me.”
She threw her arms impulsively round Marguerite. Child as she was, she felt the poignancy of her friend’s grief, and with the infinite tact of her girlish tenderness, she did not try to pry into it, but was ready to efface herself.
She kissed Marguerite again and again, then walked sadly back across the lawn. Marguerite did not move, she remained there, thinking . . . wondering what was to be done.
Just as little Suzanne was about to mount the terrace steps, a groom came running round the house towards his mistress. He carried a sealed letter in his hand. Suzanne instinctively turned back; her heart told her that here perhaps was further ill news for her friend, and she felt that her poor Margot was not in a fit state to bear any more.
The groom stood respectfully beside his mistress, then he handed her the sealed letter.
“What is that?” asked Marguerite.
“Just come by runner, my lady.”
Marguerite took the letter mechanically, and turned it over in her trembling fingers.