The men turned at her call, and she saw that one was the night porter, while the other a stranger, was in full evening dress. He lifted his hat respectfully, and stooped over Roger, shaking him vigorously.
“Arouse yourself,” he said in French.
“Speak United States,” muttered Roger, “I don’t unstan’ beastly la’guage. United States only la’guage in whole world, whole world, do you hear? An’ I’ll fight er’body who says taint.”
Both men laughed, while Mary wrung her hands, crying, “Oh, what has happened him?” Then remembering that perhaps neither of these men could understand English, she turned to the porter and said in French: “Tell me what has happened to Monsieur Willing. Has he become suddenly insane?”
The porter looked at the stranger and smiled. “He knows,” he answered.
Mary turned inquiringly to the stranger, who again bowed profoundly. “Monsieur is not ill, Madame. Only a little indisposed. He has been spending the night among a jolly lot of fellows. He lost rather heavily at cards, and naturally took a few glasses too much. He will be all right by morning.”
“A few glasses too much,” echoed Mary, starting back. “Do you mean to infer that he is drunk?”
The stranger bowed his head, saying softly: “That word might be applied to his condition outside polite society. We seldom use so harsh an appelation.”
“Oh!” said Mary, looking with disgust at the form at her feet, “thank you for being so considerate of my feelings. It seems I have much to learn in regard to polite French society. We English call things by their proper names. Take him inside and then go.”
When Mary was left alone with her husband who had fallen into a drunken slumber, she sat and gazed at him long and earnestly. Her thoughts were far from being pleasant ones. “So this is the end of my happy marriage which I foolishly thought could never be anything but happy. A sweet dream rudely broken in one short week. What have I done that I should be so harshly punished? Tenderly cherished by a fond, adoring father, and taught by him to abhor vice in any form; and after his death surrounded by the protecting love of my dear grandfather, how can I cope with this horror which has so suddenly been thrust upon me. Can I go to grandfather with my trouble? Ah, no. He is old, and the knowledge of my unhappiness might send him to his grave. I must adopt some severe plan by which to cure my husband of this evil which will so soon wreck his life, and my own, if he continues. Yes, that is the better plan, but how shall I begin? Is not my woman’s wit equal to this emergency? It should be.”