Hats were raised, smiles and bows were exchanged, and the incident closed.
Madeleine and René Dudoy sat ready to burst into tears.
At length—
“Mon Dieu!” said René hoarsely. “Mon Dieu, it is not to be borne! I am a man, am I not? With blood in my veins? I am not a stock or a stone. I have a heart, Madeleine, a broken heart—that cries and cries and cries. All the time we are making our small talk my heart is crying. All the time——”
“René, René,” wailed Madeleine, “why do you come? Why did you come to-day? Why yesterday? Why the day before that?”
“He makes me!” cried René. “You know it. I have no choice. Besides, the hours he offers me are of pure gold. I cannot throw them away. That evening I did not come, I nearly died. I sat and drank absinthe and wept till they asked me to go. The proprietor was very kind. He understood perfectly. But it was bad for the house.”
“It was very bad for you,” said Madeleine gravely. “But listen, René. You are wrong. The hours my husband offers you are not of gold at all. They are of cold, sharp steel, that——”
“Gold or steel,” breathed René, “I do not care. They are spent in your company. There is a fence between us, I know—a hell of a fence—but we can peer through the bars. It is permitted to touch you . . . watch your mouth move . . . hear the music of your voice—and, when you are gone to embrace a memory.”
“Hush, René, hush! Mon Dieu, will you have me faint?”
“Madeleine, Madeleine, why did you marry Pierre? A-a-ah, I do not blame you! Do not think that. It was your own affair. Only . . . we could have been happy, I think, and . . . and I can draw quite good castles, such as that little one desired. . . .” His voice broke, and a bright tear rolled down Madeleine’s cheek. She swept it away swiftly. Dudoy pulled himself together. “Bah! The milk is spilled. I watched you spill it at Ruffec that autumn day. Now, alas, you go thirsty! I feared you would. And I am thirsty too, sweet; for I would have drunk of that milk. Consider, then. Since we both thirst, it is better to share our misfortune. Besides, if the past is dead, there is always the future. The good God, perhaps, will give us another pitcher.” He paused and looked down at his feet. “A steeple-jack’s work,” he muttered, “is very dangerous.” Madeleine shivered. “One day, perhaps—perhaps this very evening—he will not come back.”