Mademoiselle Blanche: A Novel

by John D. Barry

"Yes, and now she's jealous of her success."

"Oh, professional jealousy," he said, throwing back his head. A moment later he added: "There are worse kinds of jealousy than that in the world."

Mrs. Tate looked at him closely, but his eyes were fixed on his plate. For a few moments they did not speak; she was pondering his last remark. They understood each other so well that they often divined each other's thoughts. Now she saw that he did not care to discuss the subject, and she let it drop. She continued to think about it so much, however, that she determined to go to the Hippodrome alone some day, to a matinée, and see for herself what Blanche's successor as a star performer was like.

She returned home with a sickly feeling of regret and torturing anticipation; she had not only seen Lottie King, but she had also studied the face of Jules Le Baron, who, unconscious of her gaze, stood within a few yards of her seat. What she had observed in his expression, however, she did not communicate to her husband.

Her visit at the Hippodrome made her resolve to be even kinder to Blanche than she had been; she would take her and the child to drive in the Park two or three times a week,—oftener if she could. Mrs. Tate tried to shake off her forebodings, but for the rest of the day they clung to her, and the next morning she woke with them fresh in mind. So she resolved to drive at once to Albemarle Street. The weather was too dull to take the child out, and she would pass the morning with Blanche and try to cheer her up.

When she reached the hotel she felt relieved to find Blanche in a much better frame of mind than she had been on the occasion of her last call. The pain had left her for a few days, Blanche explained, and she had been greatly encouraged; even Jules had spoken of her improvement; he had been so patient with her, and now she felt ashamed of having been so dispirited. Mrs. Tate went away with a feeling that she had been a fool, that her forebodings were ridiculous.

One night at the end of the week, Tate returned home with the announcement that he was to start for Berlin the next day, to confer with the heads of a banking-house there with regard to the floating of a great loan. He gave her the choice of staying at home or of starting with him after only a few hours of preparation. She chose to start, and for two months she did not see London again; for, once away from the routine of his work, Tate took advantage of the opportunity to run for a holiday from Berlin down to Dresden, and thence over to Paris. During this time Mrs. Tate forgot her self-imposed cares, and gave herself up to the pleasures of travelling.

When she returned home, she was surprised to hear that Madame Le Baron had called several times, and had left word that she was anxious to see her as soon as she came back. This news sent her with a throbbing heart to Albemarle Street; she felt sure that something terrible had happened, something she might have prevented by staying in London. She was always assuming responsibilities and then dropping them! How often her husband had told her that! She had been more than culpable, she kept saying to herself, in going away without even bidding Blanche good-bye, without even leaving an address.

When she arrived at the hotel, at the close of a cold, foggy afternoon, she was surprised to be told by the garçon that Madame Le Baron had left, and had gone to an apartment in Upper Bedford Place. "It was too expensive for them here," the garçon explained with a contemptuous grin. "So they went to a private house."

Mrs. Tate drove at once to the number the boy gave her, and a few moments later she was climbing the stairs to Blanche's apartment. She was out of breath when she rapped on the door, and still breathing hard when Madeleine admitted her into the shabby drawing-room. A moment later, as Blanche appeared from the next room, she uttered an exclamation.