“Do not let us think of disagreeable things to-day,” she said. “God will spare you much longer than that, you depressing old wedding-guest!”
He patted her hand which rested on his arm and looked down at her with eyes softened by affection. But her fair hair, rather tumbled, which met his glance must have awakened some memory that made his face a marble mask again.
“Yes,” he said grimly, “but I am an old man and he is a young one. And I want to see him dead before I die.”
“I will not have you think such bloodthirsty thoughts on my wedding-day,” said Desiree. “See, there is Charles returning already, and he has not been absent ten minutes. He has some one with him—who is it? Papa... Mathilde, look! Who is it coming back with Charles in such a hurry?”
Mathilde, who was setting the room in order, glanced through the lace curtains.
“I do not know,” she answered indifferently. “Just an ordinary man.”
Desiree had turned away from the window as if to go downstairs and meet her husband. She paused and looked back again over her shoulder towards the street.
“Is it?” she said rather oddly. “I do not know—I—”
And she stood with the incompleted sentence on her lips waiting irresolutely for Charles to come upstairs.
In a moment he burst into the room with all his usual exuberance and high spirit.