"Your judgment strikes me as kind, rather than acute," says Monsieur de Hauterive. "Will you kindly tell me the name of the friend lodging in Number ----?" he adds, with a sneer.
Edgar is silent.
"I thought so!" exclaims de Hauterive. "And you would debar me from mentioning what any unprejudiced person must admit, that----" But before he can utter another word his cheek burns from a blow from Edgar's open palm.
The next moment Rohritz leaves the smoking-room, and goes out into the vestibule, longing for solitude and fresh air.
There, among the antique hangings, the Australian ferns, and the Italian magnolias, among the bronze, white-toothed negroes that bear aloft lamps with ground-glass shades shaped like huge flower-cups, he stands, the little bracelet in his hand. He feels stunned; red and blue sparks dance before his eyes, and his throat seems choked. He would fain groan aloud, or dash his head against the wall, so great is his distress. He cannot believe it; and yet all a lover's jealous distrust assails him. He is perfectly aware that his defence of Stella was pitiably weak, his invention of a female friend lodging in Number ---- clumsy enough; he knows that everything combines to accuse her.
Has he been deceived for the second time in his life? Whom can he ever trust, if those grave, dark, child-like eyes have been false? And suddenly in the midst of his torment he is possessed by overwhelming pity.
"Poor child! poor child!" he says to himself. "Neglected, dragged about the world, without any one to care for her, fatherless, and the same as motherless!" Should he judge her? No, he will defend her, hide her fault, protect her from the whole world. But a stern voice within asks, "What protection do you mean? Will you--dare you offer her the only thing that can save her from the world,--your hand?" He is tortured. No, he cannot. And yet how desperately he loves her! Why did he not take her in his arms when she lay at his feet in the little skiff, and shield her next his heart forever? He must see her; an irresistible longing seizes him; yes, he must see her,--insult her, mistreat her, it may be,--but clasp her in his arms though he should kill her.
"Why are you standing here, like Othello with Desdemona's handkerchief?" he suddenly hears his brother ask, close beside him.
He starts, closes his fingers over the bracelet, and tries to assume an indifferent air.
"Where is Stella?" inquires Thérèse, who is with her husband.