“Good Lord!” murmured the abbé under his breath, “there’s stubbornness for you!” and, picking up the delighted child, he started on his equine course at a brisk amble, his soutane blown by the wind against his splendid form, his sash flying behind him in the gayest way possible, although his heart felt sore indeed.
Marguerite descended from her high perch, not at a jump as she was wont to do, but very wearily. She felt tired—something new to her—and very sad; but her brave eyes were clouded by no tears, and her lips were absolutely steady. Her lesson in self-repression had been learned long ago; besides, not one thought of her own future, after the tragedy that had changed everything, had as yet entered her head, which she held just as straight as ever.
Tatiana had marveled at the “Gamin’s” tact and courage—this motherless little creature, whose high-bred self-respect and extreme delicacy of feeling were sufficient to make her avoid the slightest faux-pas in speech or look under crushing difficulties. Even to Tatiana she had not said a word that could betray the least curiosity. She had not alluded to the extraordinary presence of Preston Wynne on Laurence’s yacht, and had indeed hardly alluded to the catastrophe at all. But now, as she walked slowly along the parapet, she wondered within herself whether it was really true that Basil was on his way to Salvières. Something told her that Piotr had spoken sooth, and the abbé’s evident desire to nip the story, so to speak, in the bud, gave her much food for reflection, in spite of her ignorance of what had happened before.
In a few minutes Piotr came back to her, leaving the abbé to return to his affairs, and the game of ball was resumed. The boy was dressed in white without any trace of mourning, and (by Tatiana’s express advice) so was Marguerite herself, for word had been passed that Piotr was not to be told about his loss, and the servants at Salvières were far too loyal to let a sign escape them that might betray the truth.
The predicament of Tatiana and her husband was really a trying one, for until Preston’s departure they dreaded the possible arrival of Basil, which might occur at any moment. She had continued to look after Preston Wynne devotedly, and her unremitting care touched him to the heart.
“You will be absolutely comfortable on the Sarcelle,” she said to him that evening. “Jean has had the main saloon arranged so that it will be, at one and the same time, a sleeping and living apartment for you—a library it always is, more or less, well provided with bewilderingly mixed-up literature: funny, serious, instructive, scientific, beatific, and sportive, un peu pour tous les gouts. And, by the way, how do you like your two attendants, the orderly and the carabin?”
Preston, lying motionless upon his bed, turned toward her eyes brimming over with gratitude.
“Your kindness to me, Madame de Salvières, has been something well-nigh incredible. A lifetime of real long length would hardly be enough to prove to you how profoundly touched I am by it—but,” he murmured beneath his breath, “there will be no long life to do it in.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” she said, quickly. “It does not look like you to despair.”
“I know,” he replied, smiling dubiously, “but what I just said is no sign of despair. Indeed, to linger for years as a totally useless lump, a burden to everybody, would require much more courage than to take a polite and immediate leave of this world. Besides, there is another bitterness added to the rest—I hardly like to speak of that, but you have spoiled me to the extent of making me look upon you as a confessor of all my thoughts.”