I slept badly and woke early. My room was scarcely light. The sun was not yet up, or was obscured by a dismal sky. I listened apprehensively to the moaning restless morning. I listened intently for something—a sound, I didn’t know what. Then I heard it. The telephone downstairs was ringing. I knew in an instant what that meant, and flew down the corridor, my heart pounding in my ribs. A clock somewhere was striking six, seven, I did not know which. A man’s voice spoke over the phone,—“La Gare de La Roche—La Princesse Ivanoff prie La Marquise de Joigny de venir la chercher en auto—La Princesse l’attendra à la Gare—La Princesse s’est trouvée malade dans la nuit et a manqué son train.” I did not wait to hear any more. I was on my way in half an hour. The drive seemed terribly long, interminably long. Fan all night in the station of La Roche—what did it mean?
I found her sitting on a packing case on the station platform, her head against the wall. Her face was bluish, her lips were a pale mauve, her hands, wet, like lumps of ice.
“I’ve been sitting here all night,” she said in a dull voice. “I’m cold.” The station master helped me get her into the car. He seemed troubled and ashamed. He explained that they had not noticed her during the night. After the passing of the express he always went home to bed. The station was deserted during the middle of the night, and the waiting room locked. No passenger trains stopped between twelve and five in the morning. At five the Princess had been discovered by an employé but she had refused to move. They had tried to get her to drink some coffee from the buffet. She had asked him to telephone which he had done. The Princess had told him that she had felt faint during the evening while waiting and had thus missed the train.
On the way home she did not speak. Her body was as heavy against me as a corpse. Her head kept slipping from my arm. I held her across my knees and gave her a sip of brandy now and then. Half way home she began to shiver. Her body shook, her teeth chattered, grating against each other. By the time we reached home, she was in a burning fever.
That night Philibert entertained his guests alone. I sat with Fan in her room. About ten o’clock she stopped for a moment her terrible exhausting tossing from one side of the bed to the other and said—
“I heard her laugh. She put her head out of the car window and laughed.”
“Who laughed, dear?”
“Bianca—she was with Micky in the train. They wouldn’t let me get on. I had no ticket—”
She lay on her back now staring at the ceiling. Some one downstairs was playing a waltz on the piano. The wind had fallen. Out of doors the night was soft and still. Fan’s voice came from her dried lips, distinct and harsh.
“I tried to get onto the steps of the train. The guard stopped me. Bianca must have fixed him beforehand. Micky was drunk. She had fixed him too, by making him drunk. He wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t been drunk. The railway carriage was very high, but I could see into the lighted corridor. I saw Micky. His face was red and stupid. I called ‘Micky—Micky, my ticket—quick; they won’t let me on without it.’ But he didn’t seem to hear me. Some one was behind him in the compartment.