He got up hastily, grunting a bit--though his headache was no longer so acute; or else he was growing accustomed to it--and ringing for the valet-de-chambre ordered his petit déjeuner. Before this was served he spent several thrilling minutes under an icy shower and emerged feeling more on terms with himself and the world.
The valet-de-chambre brought with his tray the announcement that Madame de Montalais presented her compliments and would be glad to see monsieur at his convenience in the grand salon. So Duchemin made short work of his dressing, his café-au-lait and half a roll, and hurried down to the drawing-room.
Seated in an easy chair, in the tempered light of an awninged window which stood open on the terrasse, nothing in her pose--she was waiting quietly, hands folded in her lap--and nothing in her countenance, in the un-lined brow, the grave, serene eyes, lent any colour to his apprehensions. And yet in his heart he had known that he would find her thus, and alone, no matter what had happened....
Her profound reverie disturbed by his approach, she rose quickly, advancing to meet Duchemin with both hands offered in sympathy.
"My dear friend! You are suffering--?"
He met this with a smiling denial. "Not now; at first, yes; but since my bath and coffee, I'm as right as a trivet. And you, madame?"
"A little weary, monsieur, otherwise quite well."
She resumed her chair, signing to Duchemin to take one nearby. He drew it closer before sitting down.
"But madame is not dressed for her journey!"
"No, monsieur. I have postponed it--" a slight pause prefaced one more word--"indefinitely."