I felt sure that the love of the kitchen and the pantry was unknown to Queen Margot. She knew something different, a higher joy, a different kind of love.
But one day, late in the afternoon, on going into her drawing-room, I heard from the bedroom the ringing laugh of the lady of my heart. A masculine voice said:
"Wait a minute! Good Lord! I can't believe—"
I ought to have gone away. I knew that, but I could not.
"Who is that?" she asked. "You? Come in!"
The bedroom was heavy with the odor of flowers. It was darkened, for the curtains were drawn. Queen Margot lay in bed, with the bedclothes drawn up to her chin, and beside her, against the wall, sat, clad only in his shirt, with his chest bared, the officer violinist. On his breast was a scar which lay like a red streak from the right shoulder to the nipple and was so vivid that even in the half-light I could see it distinctly. The hair of the officer was ruffled comically, and for the first time I saw a smile on his sad, furrowed countenance. He was smiling strangely. His large, feminine eyes looked at the "queen" as if it were the first time he had gazed upon her beauty.
"This is my friend," said Queen Margot. I did not know whether she were referring to me or to him.
"What are you looking so frightened about?" I heard her voice as if from a distance. "Come here."
When I went to her she placed her hands on my bare neck and said:
"You will grow up and you will be happy. Go along!"