But her hot anger, a little like a child’s, for all her self-control downstairs, began to sink, and in its place came the child’s instinctive desire to turn to some one for comfort. If that frail and beautiful mother, who had served to the girl as an object of admiration rather than of love, had still been in life, she would not, probably, have had her daughter’s confidence. But dead, dead a little more than a year, she was invested with qualities which had never been hers. And Lucienne wanted her more consciously than she had ever done before.
She had little craving for Madame Elisabeth. It was true that the incident which had caused the explosion had but a slight obvious connection with the hard trial through which the Princess had supported her, but in Lucienne’s mind it had merged into that source of her general unhappiness, from which in truth it was not deeply separated. And the Princess stood for that renunciation which she had never been able really and fully to make. Though in act she had done so, she had never been strong enough to renounce her lover in thought; these last months she had been farther than ever from such a consummation. She knew it, and she perhaps a little realised that it was Madame Elisabeth who, in elevating the matter to higher spheres, had caused her love for Louis to become not merely a conventional, but a moral and spiritual burden as well. So, in soul, she turned her face from her; the atmosphere her mistress breathed was too rarefied for consolation.
Yes, it was Louis himself that she wanted; Louis, whom she could have least of all—not because by her own will she had once kept him at bay, nor because the sea now tossed between them, but because, to her, that old Louis, with all his wilful charm, was gone, and in his place stood quite another person, dearer still, even more desirable, but infinitely above her—her lover once, her hero now, whom, were all that separated them to vanish, she could never have, for she was not worthy. . . . Yet, as she cast herself down by the bed in a passion of abasement, she called on his name with endearments, she evoked an echo of his voice, gay and caressing, saw the way he smiled at one with his eyes. . . . Lost—lost for ever, for he could not love her now!
Where was she to turn? She felt herself so desperate, so friendless. If Gilbert were here at this moment she felt that, in her extremity, she would tell even him. Why “even” indeed? He was like a rock. And though he were wild with anger he would be just, he would help her. . . . What folly! But . . . but there was some one else who gave that sensation of just dealing and stability. . . . Why had she not thought of him before? Would it be possible?
Slowly she got off her knees, poured out water and bathed her eyes, possessed by this new idea and reflecting on it. Then she went as slowly to her escritoire, unlocked it, sat down, and pulled out a bundle of new quills and several sheets of paper. At these she sat staring a long time. Suddenly she leant forward, and plunging her hand into a recess at the back of the escritoire, drew out a red morocco letter-case stamped with little gold pomegranates up the back, with tiny gold pinks at the corners. Several years ago—and quite without arrière pensée—Louis had given her this receptacle, which was divided within into compartments for the months. She opened it; but there was nothing there save, in the division consecrated to January, a few flattened, withered, and brittle dark objects, not very reminiscent of a handful of violets.
Lucienne put away the case, selected a quill, drew a sheet of paper towards her, and began.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE CUP BRIMS OVER
“He was first always. Fortune
Shone bright in his face.
I fought for years; with no effort