In morbid moments she had often heard a whisper to which she had never permitted herself to listen. She heard the whisper now, louder and more insistent than ever before. To-day she could not choose but listen to it.
Her ‘roman’ had to follow the pattern of her father’s. Her father’s ‘roman,’ as slowly it unfolded, was nothing but a magical pre-doing of her own future, more potent than her dances. And God had deputed the making of it to—Jacques. He was the playwright, or the engraver, or the moulder of wax—it mattered little in what medium he wrought his sinister art.
There was still time to act. ‘She would do, she would do, she would do.’ Action is the only relief for a hag-ridden brain. An action that was ruthless and final—that would break his power and rid her of him for ever. That action should be consummated.
All the while that this train of fears and memories had been coursing through her brain, she had chattered to Jacques with hectic gaiety.
When they got home she ran to the kitchen to find Berthe.
‘Berthe, were you ever of opinion I would wed with Monsieur Jacques?’
Berthe leered and winked. ‘Well, Mademoiselle,’ she said, ‘Love is one thing—marriage is another. Monsieur Jacques could not give Mademoiselle a coach and a fine hôtel in the Rue de Richelieu. I understand Mademoiselle exceeding well, in that we are not unlike in some matters,’ and she gave her grotesque grin. ‘As for me, I would never wed with a man except he could raise me to a better condition than mine own—else what would it profit one? But if some plump little tradesman were to come along——’
‘But did you hold that I would wed with Monsieur Jacques?’ Madeleine persisted.
‘Well, if Mademoiselle did wed with him, she would doubtless be setting too low a price on herself, though he is a fine young gentleman and malin comme un singe; he is like Albert, nothing escapes him.’
‘Do you think the Saints like us to use each other unkindly?’