Ah, yes, Madeleine acknowledged. He used to rave about it in the little flat in the rue de Lisbonne. Once Madeleine heard him talking in his sleep about the circus and the wonderful dive; he always slept with his door wide-open, and she often heard him talking away like one wide-awake. He had told her that it was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen, and no other woman in the world would have dared to do it. Madeleine was always delighted to have a chance to talk about Jules, and she babbled on, never suspecting that her words were making Blanche suffer.
"Do you think," Blanche said at last, "do you think he would have loved me if I hadn't done that—if I hadn't done that plunge, I mean—in the Circus?"
Madeleine glanced at her quickly; she was unable to grasp the significance of the question. "But he did see you in the Circus," she replied. "If he hadn't seen you there, chérie, he wouldn't have seen you at all."
"Yes, yes, that's true." Blanche realized that it would be useless to try to explain what she meant. Then, after a moment, she added, "And now that I've given up the dive,—perhaps I shall never be able to do it again; the Doctor said I might not,—now that I've given it up, do you think he'll love me just the same?"
Madeleine's faded eyes turned to Blanche and examined her closely. "If he'll love you just the same?" she repeated. "What has put such a strange idea into your head, child? Of course he'll love you just the same."
Then Madeleine was launched on a flood of eulogy. Jules was so good, so faithful, so affectionate. There was not another like him. He had always been so tender with his mother; and oh, how his poor mother had worshipped him! Madeleine's praises had the effect of soothing Blanche for a time; they also made her ashamed of the half-conscious suspicion which had arisen in her mind, and which she would not have dared to formulate even to herself. She only permitted herself to acknowledge that his present manner toward her was different from his old one. She was also disturbed by his refusal for the past three Sundays to go to church with her.
The next afternoon Jules came home in a rage. "I've been down to see Marshall," he said. "What do you suppose the old fool's gone and done? He had the door of your dressing-room opened this morning and all your things turned out into Miss Van Pelt's old room,—the little hole next door, you know. It's hardly big enough to breathe in. He said you weren't the star any longer, and he must give the room to Miss King. It seems she's a kicker and he's afraid of a row."
Blanche had nothing to say in reply; this seemed to her only another indignity added to those she had already suffered. The worst was to come in the evening, when her rival would share the applause that used to be hers. A few moments later she asked,—
"Was she there—that woman?"
"No; she hasn't appeared yet, and Marshall was a little nervous. She was to come up from Manchester in a train that got in during the afternoon."