“It was Herbert’s madness that put it into her head. How could he be such a fool! but it is curious, you know, what set both of them on it at the same time, that horrible old woman at Bruges, and her here. It looks like what they call a brain-wave,” said Everard, “though that throws a deal of light on the matter; don’t it? Queenie, you are as white as the China rose on the porch. I hope Julie is there to look after you. My poor little queen! I wonder why all this trouble should fall upon you.”
“Oh, what is it to me in comparison?” said the girl, almost indignant; but he was so sorry for her, and his tender pity was in itself so sweet, that I think before they separated—her head still aching, though her heart was less sore—Reine, out of sympathy for him, had begun also to entertain a little pity for herself.
The morning rose strangely on the disturbed household—rose impudently, without the least compassion for them, in a blaze of futile, too early sunshine, which faded after the first half of the day. The light seemed to look in mocking at the empty rooms in which Susan and Augustine had lived all their lives. Reine was early astir, unable to rest; and she had not been downstairs ten minutes when all sorts of references were made to her.
“I should like to know, miss, if you please, who is to give the orders, if so be as Miss Susan have gone for good,” said Stevens; and Cook came up immediately after with her arms wrapped in her apron. “I won’t keep you not five minutes, miss; but if Miss Susan’s gone for good, I don’t know as I can find it convenient to stay. Where there’s gentlemen and a deal of company isn’t like a lady’s place, where there’s a quiet life,” said Cook. “Oh,” said Reine, driven to her wits’ end, “please, please, like good people, wait a little! How can I tell what we must do?” The old servants granted Reine the “little time” she begged, but they did it ungraciously and with a sure sense of supremacy over her. Happily she found a variety of trays with coffee going up to the strangers’ rooms, and found, to her great relief, that she would escape the misery of a breakfast with them; and François brought a message from Herbert to the effect that he was quite well, but meant to stay in his room till ces gens-là were out of the house. “May I not go to him?” cried Reine. “Monsieur is quite well,” François replied; “Mademoiselle may trust me. But it will be well to leave him till ce monsieur and ces dames have gone away.” And François too, though he was very kind to Mademoiselle Reine, gave her to understand that she should take precautions, and that Monsieur should not be exposed to scenes so trying; so that the household, with very good intentions, was hard upon Reine. And it was nearly noon before she saw anything of the other party, about whose departure she was so anxious. At last about twelve o’clock, perilously near the time of the train, she met Giovanna on the stairs. The young woman was pale, with the gayety and the triumph gone out of her. “I go to ask that the carriage may be ready,” said Giovanna. “They will go at midi, if Mademoiselle will send the carriage.”
“Yes, yes,” said Reine, eagerly; “but you are ill, Giovanna; you are pale.” She added half timidly, after a moment, “What are you going to do?”
Giovanna smiled with something of the bravado of the previous day. “I will derange no one,” she said; “Mademoiselle need not fear. I will not seek again those who have deserted me. C’est petit, ça!” she cried with a momentary outburst, waving her hand toward the door of Herbert’s room. Then controlling herself, “That they should go is best, n’est ce pas? I work for that. If Mademoiselle will give the orders for the carriage—”
“Yes, yes,” said Reine, and then in her pity she laid her hand on Giovanna’s arm. “Giovanna, I am very sorry for you. I do not think you are the most to blame,” she said.
“Blame!” said Giovanna, with a shrug of her shoulders, “I did as I was told.” Then two big tears came into her eyes. She put her white, large, shapely hands on Reine’s shoulders, and kissed her suddenly on both her cheeks. “You, you are good, you have a heart!” she said; “but to abandon the friends when they are in trouble, c’est petit, ça!” and with that she turned hastily and went back to her room. Reine, breathless, ran downstairs to order the carriage. She went to the door with her heart beating, and stood waiting to see what would happen, not knowing whether Giovanna’s kiss was to be taken as a farewell. Presently voices were heard approaching, and the whole party came downstairs; the old man in his big coat, with his cache-nez about his neck, Gertrude pale but happy, and last of all Giovanna, in her usual household dress, with the boy on her shoulder. Gertrude carried in her hand a large packet of bon-bons, and got hastily into the carriage, while her father stood bowing and making his little farewell speeches to Reine and Everard. Giovanna coming after them with her strong light step, her head erect, and the child, in his little velvet coat with his cap and feather, seated on her shoulder, his hand twisted in her hair, interested them more than all M. Guillaume’s speeches. Giovanna went past them to the carriage door; she had a flush upon her cheek which had been so pale. She put the child down upon Gertrude’s lap, and kissed him. “Mamma will come to Jean presently, in a moment,” she said. “Regarde donc! how much of bon-bons are in Mama Gertrude’s lap. Thou wilt eat them all, petit gourmand, and save none for me.”
Then with a laugh and mocking menace she stepped back into a corner, where she was invisible to the child, and stood there motionless till the old man got in beside his daughter, and the carriage drove away. A little cry, wondering and wistful, “Mamma! mamma!” was the last sound audible as the wheels crashed over the gravel. Reine turned round, holding out her hands to the forlorn creature behind her, her heart full of pity. The tears were raining down in a storm from Giovanna’s eyes, but she laughed and shook them away. “Mon Dieu!” she cried, “I do not know why is this. Why should I love him? I am not his mother. But it is an attack of the nerfs—I cannot bear any more,” and drawing her hands out of Reine’s she fled with a strange shame and passion, through the dim passages. They heard her go upstairs, and, listening in some anxiety, after a few minutes’ interval, heard her moving about her room with brisk, active steps.
“That is all right,” said Everard, with a sigh of relief. “Poor Giovanna! some one must be kind to her; but come in here and rest, my queen. All this is too much for you.”