Then she murmured softly in his ear: “Keep me here, with you.”
He paused, reflected, and with his blunt good-sense saw at once the dangers of such an arrangement. But he had to argue for a long time, combating her scared, terror-stricken insistence.
“Only for to-night,” she said. “Only for to-night. And to-morrow morning you can send word to Roland that I was taken ill.”
“That is out of the question, as Pierre left you here. Come, take courage. I will arrange everything, I promise you, to-morrow; I will be with you by nine o’clock. Come, put on your bonnet. I will take you home.”
“I will do just what you desire,” she said with a childlike impulse of timidity and gratitude.
She tried to rise, but the shock had been too much for her; she could not stand.
He made her drink some sugared water and smell at some salts, while he bathed her temples with vinegar. She let him do what he would, exhausted, but comforted, as after the pains of child-birth. At last she could walk and she took his arm. The town hall struck three as they went past.
Outside their own door Jean kissed her, saying:
“Good-night, mother, keep up your courage.”
She stealthily crept up the silent stairs, and into her room, undressed quickly, and slipped into bed with a reawakened sense of that long-forgotten sin. Roland was snoring. In all the house Pierre alone was awake, and had heard her come in.