“This, I believe is Mademoiselle Diane Dorian?”
Diane bowed, and her quick eye took in the appearance of her guest. She was a woman of thirty, and had once been pretty and even now was interesting, but sallow and thin like a person recovering from an illness. The little girl, too, who was about six years old, was as pale as a snowdrop, and sank rather than sat upon a little stool, leaning her head against her mother’s knee, who sat down at once.
“Pray excuse me,” said the newcomer, “but I am very tired with travelling, and I am not strong.”
“Can I do anything for you?” asked Diane with ready sympathy, and advancing as if to take the child’s hand.
The visitor held up one hand and put the other around the child as if to ward off Diane.
“Wait,” she said, “let me tell you who I am. I am the wife of the Marquis Egmont de St. Angel, and this is his child. Here is my wedding ring.”
She drew off a small and shabby glove, and handed a plain gold ring to Diane. Inside of it was clearly legible, “F. E. de St. A. and E. F” with a date seven years back. Then the wife of the Marquis de St. Angel took from her breast a large locket containing three miniatures painted on the same piece of ivory. One face was her own, another was that of Egmont de St. Angel, and the third was the baby face of the little child. On the back were engraved their names.
Diane handed both the ring and the locket back to the wife of the man she loved, and stood motionless for a moment. Then she reeled and fell upon the bed. The silence in the room was unbroken for five minutes except for the coughing of the pale little child. But Diane had not a drop of coward’s blood in her body. At the end of five minutes she rose, and, drawing up a chair, said:
“Tell me all about it, please.”
“We were married,” said the wife of Egmont, “seven years ago in Algeria, where my husband was stationed. We disagreed as a husband and wife will disagree when the husband learns to hate the wife and forgets his child. I was willing to remain in Algeria in a very quiet, small place suited to my limited means, and the climate was good for my child, Claire. The Marquis, you know, is head over ears in debt, so it was easier for me in my position to be poor in Algeria than in France. I called myself Madame Egmont. He often proposed a divorce, and I as often refused and offered to return to France, although I did not wish to come, because it suited me in every way to remain in Algeria. Some weeks ago I heard that he professed to have got a divorce from me, and would marry a music-hall singer. I came home at once. But I was ill on the way and could not travel for a few days after landing. I found out, no matter how, that you were the woman he proposed to marry. I found out, also, that his conduct in other ways has been such that he will soon be dismissed from the army, so that I suppose he was willing to take desperate chances, for he is a desperate man, you may believe.”