"Oh God! What are necklaces? ... what is money? ... what is anything against that pain?" she cried in her heart, and held Bran so tightly that he gave a yelp. Haidee, as always now, sat wrapt in a sullen reserve. Neither by look nor word did she exhibit the faintest sympathy for any troubles but her own. The only thing that seemed to interest her was the prospect of getting away from Val and Bran to her new life at school. It chilled Val's heart to have one who had been so close turn away from her thus. Even worse it was to see Bran's dear little efforts to be kind and friendly, snubbed. Every rebuff to him was like a blow in the face to Val. But she would not blame Haidee: the child was dear to Westenra. Besides she was only a child, and had suffered through Sacha's death. The shock of it coming on top of her wounded pride and little lost love-dream was enough to embitter her, thought Val, and blamed herself for ever having interfered.
"Such things are safe in God's hands! He takes care of children and drunkards. Who am I to have arrogated His rights?"
But Haidee's attitude acutely added to the misery and uncertainty of life at this time, and in the dusky shadows of the cab as it rumbled over to the Latin Quarter, Val held her boy's head against her breast and slow tears stole down her face and were drawn in between her lips, drying her throat with their salty flavour. Life too tasted salt and acrid. It seemed to her that in everything she had put her hand to she had failed and fallen short.
At rue Campaigne première the concierge almost embraced them, so delighted was she to see them again.
"Many people have been looking for Madame and wishing her back," she announced. "Not only artists but persons very chic also have been to call."
"Locusts!" said Val to herself. "Locusts and devourers all!" She knew those chic ones well. People who would not work themselves and could not bear to see others achieving. All artists have this class to contend with.
"I told every one you would be back this week. I know you owe no one money, and are not afraid, like some artists, of visitors," said the concierge cheerfully, and Val gave a groan. She resolved to be up early the next day and take Haidee off to school before there was a chance of meeting any early-fliers.
Before she went to bed, however, she unpacked her papers and found a little old parchment letter which dealt with the gift to her mother of the comfort necklace. It was written in Russian and neither she nor her mother had ever had the curiosity to have it translated, but Iolita had always been careful to preserve it, and it had marvellously survived all Val's many packings and wanderings. She now sealed it up and forwarded it to Bernstein on the vague chance of its being of use in the valuation of the necklace.
At seven in the morning she received a petit bleu from him, evidently sent off the night before, but posted after tea, asking her to call without fail at three o'clock that afternoon. Immediately she sent out her femme de ménage to see if Bran's old governess, the young American girl, could take charge of him for the day, giving him lunch and tea at her mother's home. That matter satisfactorily settled, she started for the Gare Montparnasse with Haidee, en route for Versailles. It took the whole morning to settle Haidee in, pay her bills, and talk over with the Directrice her future course of study. Asked to lunch with the girls at the Lycée she would not stay. It was no pleasure to be with Haidee while she preserved that sullen, resentful manner. Life was grim enough! So Val took lunch in a little crémerie in the avenue de Paris, and returned to Paris by tram to the Pont Royal, where she dismounted and took a bus to Bernstein's number in the Rue de Bach.
He received her with a manner full of some suppressed excitement which quickly communicated itself to her.