The Yellow Poppy

by D. K. Broster

“Monsieur, sit down again—you are unwell!” cried Mme de la Vergne sharply. Whatever the subject of disagreement between him and M. de Trélan—and it must have been very acute—she did not want to have him fainting in her hall. “Marthe, go and order something to be brought at once—and pray give yourself the trouble to come to the fire, Monsieur; you must be frozen.”

M. de Brencourt obeyed, but with difficulty, and sank into a great chair that she pushed forward. “You do not object to my being in your house a little? The treachery—you heard that?—is not what you probably think. O, my God, my God, why did I come myself? He might have listened to someone else!”

But he found himself alone. He put his cold hand over his eyes and groaned aloud. Yes, the desperate fight he had had with himself to do this thing in person, after his failure to find a trustworthy messenger—and the result, the reward! Surely, in the few minutes that had passed, he had paid to the full. But he had paid in vain. . . .

His head was swimming; his body frozen. A tray appeared beside him, brought by that scornful girl herself. She vanished again. He seized and drained the glass of wine upon it, and a little warmth stole into him. He heard a footstep, the flow of a robe; the lady of the house back again, no doubt. But, when he looked round, there, gazing at him in astonishment, was the Duchesse de Trélan.

He got up and flung himself towards her.

“I did it for your sake,” he cried, hardly knowing what he said, “—and he repulsed me like a dog. I was told I should live to do you a service . . . and I thought the day had come. But he . . . he affected to think it was . . . false . . . and he has gone, despite my warning.”

“Warning!” stammered Valentine, blanching. “Warning of what? I was above—I did not know that you were here.”

“I imagine so,” he retorted bitterly. But she had no room in her mind for any emotion but one.

“You came to warn M. de Trélan?” she said, and he saw that she was twisting her fingers together. “That was . . . I thank you. But—what is the danger? . . . because he is gone!” The last four words came out with little less than terror behind them.

He could do her the immense, deliberate, though defeated wrong that he had done, but, face to face with her again, after all he had sinned and suffered, he shrank from dealing her the blow his undiluted knowledge must deal. And it was too late now for any benefit to come of it, for, as she had said, the Duc was gone.