Mademoiselle explained: “A big dark Monsieur ‘belhomme’ gave it to Joseph.” He said he was his Uncle Martin. He taught him to float and sink it. She couldn’t get the child away, that’s why they were so late. The boy took the boat to pieces and put it together again, with great dexterity. He was uncommonly intelligent.
“See, Mamma, this is the cabin.”
He pressed a spring which opened a little door in the bottom of the boat; within lay a neatly folded paper; the handwriting was Martin’s. Mademoiselle took the boy away, looking back furtively with her French comprehension at Madame. A few lines, begging, commanding her to come with the boy the following day.
She knew she would go; she couldn’t stay away. He would hold Joseph in his arms; she would take his kisses from the boy’s lips; her eyes gleamed. She would go; it would end as it must. She was lost! Hopelessly lost! She went to the Park every day for a week, leaving the maid at home; the boy was always there sailing his boat.
One day Martin took him up suddenly, pressed him in his arms, kissed him again and again. Julie looked on, the blood leaping into her face. They were her kisses. Then the boy put his arms around Martin, whispering, “I love you, Uncle Martin,” and fell asleep. Martin carried him to the car, motioned Julie to get in first, laid the child beside her, covered him up with the rug, then spoke in low tones of suppressed pain.
“You committed a crime against me, Julie. That boy should have been mine!”
All night and the next day, Julie had one of those terrible headaches; Floyd couldn’t bear her moans of pain....
Dr. McClaren took off his coat and goloshes, stopping on the spiral staircase to admire the beautiful colored glass windows. He found Julie crouching in a chair, her hands icy, her eyes roving restlessly.
“My dear Madame, I’m sorry to see you in this nervous state. What is it, tell me? I can’t help you unless I know! Is it your husband?”
“No, he is too good.”