“My aunt is—ill,” said Reine. “I don’t think she is able to see you. Will you come into another room and rest? and I will speak to Giovanna. You must want to rest—a little—and—something to eat—”
So far Reine’s hospitable instincts carried her; but when Stevens entered with a request from the driver of the cab which had brought the strangers hither, to know what he was to do, she could not make any reply to the look that M. Guillaume gave her. That look plainly implied a right to remain in the house, which made Reine tremble, and she pretended not to see that she was referred to. Then the old shopkeeper took it upon himself to send away the man. “Madame Suzanne would be uncontent, certainly uncontent, if I went away without to see her,” he said; “dismiss him then, mon ami. I will give you to pay—” and he pulled out a purse from his pocket. What could Reine do or say? She stood trembling, wondering how it was all to be arranged, what she could do; for though she was quite unaware of the withdrawal of Miss Susan, she felt that in this case it was her duty to act for her brother and herself. She went up to Giovanna softly, and touched her on the arm.
“What are you going to do?” she said in a whisper. “Oh, Giovanna, have some pity upon us! Get them to go away. My Aunt Susan has been kind to you, and how could she see these people? Oh, get them to go away!”
Giovanna looked down upon Reine, too, with the same triumphant smile. “You come also,” she said, “Mademoiselle Reine, you, too! to poor Giovanna, who was not good for anything. Bien! It cannot be for to-night, but perhaps for to-morrow, for they are fatigued—that sees itself. Gertrude, to cry will do nothing; it will frighten the child more, who is, as you perceive, to me, not to thee. Smile, then—that will be more well—and come with me, petite sotte. Though thou wert not good to Giovanna, Giovanna will be more noble, and take care of thee.”
She took hold of her sister-in-law as she spoke, half dragged her off her chair, and leading her with her disengaged hand, walked out of the room with the child on her shoulder. Reine heard the sound of an impatient sigh, and hurried to her brother’s side. But Herbert had his eyes firmly fixed upon the book, and when she came up to him waved her off.
“Let me alone,” he said in his querulous tones, “cannot you let me alone!” Even the touch of tenderness was more than he could bear.
Then it was Everard’s turn to exert himself, who had met M. Guillaume before, and with a little trouble got him to follow the others as far as the small dining-room, in which Reine had given orders for a hasty meal. M. Guillaume was not unwilling to enter into explanations. His poor wife, he said, had been ill for weeks past.
“It was some mysterious attack of the nerves; no one could tell what it was,” the old man said. “I called doctor after doctor, if you will believe me, monsieur. I spared no expense. At last it was said to me, ‘It is a priest that is wanted, not a doctor.’ I am Protestant, monsieur,” said the old shopkeeper seriously. “I replied with disdain, ‘According to my faith, it is the husband, it is the father who is priest.’ I go to Madame Austin’s chamber. I say to her, ‘My wife, speak!’ Brief, monsieur, she spoke, that suffering angel, that martyr! She told us of the wickedness which Madame Suzanne and cette méchante planned, and how she was drawn to be one with them, pauvre chérie. Ah, monsieur, how women are weak! or when not weak, wicked. She told us all, monsieur, how she has been unhappy! and as soon as we could leave her, we came, Gertrude and I—for my part, I was not pressé—I said, ‘Thou hast many children, my Gertrude; leave then this one to be at the expense of those who have acted so vilely.’ And my poor angel said also from her sick-bed; but the young they are obstinate, they have no reason, and—behold us! We had a bad, very bad traversée; and it appears that la jeune-là, whom I know not, would willingly send us back without the repose of an hour.”
“You must pardon her,” said Everard. “We have been in great trouble, and she did not know even who you were.”
“It seems to me,” said the old man, opening his coat with a flourish of offended dignity, “that in this house, which may soon be mine, all should know me. When I say I am Guillaume Austin of Bruges, what more rests to say?”