Olympe looks dissatisfied, but not Rogier nor she, after a glance from the priest, which seems to say “Wait.” He himself intends waiting till the drink has done its work.
Taking the hint she remains silent, her countenance showing calm, as with the content of innocence, while in her heart is the guilt of hell, and the deceit of the devil.
She preserves her composure all through, and soon as the last course is ended, with a show of dessert placed upon the table—poor and pro forma—obedient to a look from Rogier, with a slight nod in the direction of the door, she makes her congé, and retires.
Murdock lights his meerschaum, the priest one of his paper cigarettes—of which he carries a case—and for some time they sit smoking and drinking; talking, too, but upon matters with no relation to that uppermost in their minds. They seem to fear touching it, as though it were a thing to contaminate. It is only after repeatedly emptying their glasses, their courage comes up to the standard required; that of the Frenchman first; who, nevertheless, approaches the delicate subject with cautious circumlocution.
“By the way, M’sieu,” he says, “we’ve forgotten what we were conversing about, when summoned to dinner—a meal I’ve greatly enjoyed—notwithstanding your depreciation of the menu. Indeed, a very bonne bouche your English bacon, and the greens excellent, as also the pommes de terre. You were speaking of some event, or circumstance, to be conditional on your death. What is it? Not the deluge, I hope! True, your Wye is subject to sudden floods; might it have ought to do with them?”
“Why should it?” asks Murdock, not comprehending the drift.
“Because people sometimes get drowned in these inundations; indeed, often. Scarce a week passes without some one falling into the river, and there remaining, at least till life is extinct. What with its whirls and rapids, it’s a very dangerous stream. I wonder at Mademoiselle Wynne venturing so courageously—so carelessly upon it.”
The peculiar intonation of the last speech, with emphasis on the word carelessly, gives Murdock a glimpse of what it is intended to point to.
“She’s got courage enough,” he rejoins, without appearing to comprehend. “About her carelessness, I don’t know.”
“But the young lady certainly is careless—recklessly so. That affair of her going out alone is proof of it. What followed may make her more cautious; still, boating is a perilous occupation, and boats, whether for pleasure or otherwise, are awkward things to manage—fickle and capricious as women themselves. Suppose hers should some day go to the bottom she being in it?”