“Ah, yes! Don’t talk about it, Blaise,” she broke in hastily, sensing his distasteful recoil from the topic.
“I think we must a little, dear,” he responded gravely.
“You see, Nesta was not all to blame—nor even very much, as I’m sure”—with a little half-tender smile—“my mother tried hard to make you believe.”
Jean nodded vigorously.
“She did. And I expect she was perfectly right”
He shook his head.
“No,” he answered. “The fault was really mine. My initial mistake was in confusing the false fire with the true. It—was not love I had for Nesta. And I found it out when it was too late. We were poles apart in everything, and instead of trying to make it easier for her, trying to understand her and to lead her into our ways of looking at things. I only stormed at her. It roused all that was worst in me to see her trailing our name in the dust, throwing her dignity to the winds, craving for nothing other than amusement and excitement. I’m not trying to excuse myself. There was no excuse for me. In my way, I was as culpable and foolish as she. And when the crash came—when I found her deliberately entertaining in my house, against my express orders, a man who ought to have been kicked out of any decent society, why, I let go. The Tormarin temper had its way with me. I shall never forgive myself for that. I frightened her, terrified her. I think I must have been half mad. And then—well, you know what followed. She rushed away and, before anyone could find her or help her, she had killed herself—thrown herself into the Seine. Quite what happened between leaving here and her death we were never able to find out. Apparently since her marriage with me, her sister had gone to Paris, unknown to her, and had taken a situation as dame de compagnie to some Frenchwoman, and Nesta, though she followed from Italy to Paris, failed to find her there. At least that is what Margherita Valdi told me in the letter announcing Nesta’s death. Then she must have lost heart. So you see, morally I am responsible for that poor, reckless child’s death.”
“Oh, no, no, Blaise! I don’t see that”—pitifully.
“Don’t you? I do—very clearly. And that was why, when I found myself growing to care for you, I tried to keep away.”
He felt in his pocket and produced a plain gold wedding ring. On the inside were engraved the initials “B.T. and N.E.,” and a date.