The eternal visualizing was the one habit of old days which I could not completely shake off. My Napoleonizing was one outlet; for the rest, the intrigues and excitements that the next few months were to furnish brusquely stemmed the tide. Stage-manager of a real drama, I had less need to act imaginary ones.
I had soon divined, beneath the lightness, an odd constraint around me. At table there were unpleasant silences, when I could feel that my companions were hostile to each other. I noticed that the Countess, Elise and Suzanne only spoke to me on intimate or serious topics when we were alone. Every talk worth remembering had been à deux; they were not, I thought, ashamed of me but of themselves, not shy of me but of each other. Of love as I, who had not known it, felt it should be between mother and daughter and sister and sister, the great house held little. Elise alone, I was beginning to discover, had a jealous and passionate regard for her sister, inadequately returned. The Countess' feeling for her daughters, worldly solicitude or whatever it was, contained I believe no particle of real love; she mistrusted them, feared them, and avoided close contact with them, especially with Elise. In return Suzanne ignored while Elise almost despised the mother. Monsieur de Fouquier's position puzzled me. He seemed to be valued as a steward, honoured as a relation, and disliked as a man. Elise mistrusted him. The Countess was frightened of him. Suzanne—I did not know. He was excessively polite to me, but spoke little. At table Ferret-Blue-goggles was silence itself, though alone with the Countess I think she had a good deal to say. All the family showed me uniform kindness, genuine and spontaneous, though after a time I detected method in it too. I felt that each one of them separately—Elise over books, Suzanne during our walks and talks, the Countess in her "as one woman to another" confidences—was bidding for the chief place in my affections; seeking me, as the Countess had put it, as an ally.
I was a valuable piece on the Villebecq chessboard. A hand was stretched forth, and played the opening move.
CHAPTER XXVIII: LAYING-ON OF HANDS
We were sitting at luncheon one day about the end of the summer.
Suddenly the Countess arose from her seat, erect, pale with fury, pointing at Suzanne.
"Leave the table, wretched vicious girl! Go to your room! And you, Sir"—to Monsieur de Fouquier—"will leave my house without delay."
There was a moment's intense silence. No one moved. All stared.