It was impossible for her to answer the letter in writing. Commonplace though it was, she could see that Olivier had written it in a singular state of agitation and decision. Ely knew his handwriting, and she could see from the few lines that the pen had been clenched, almost crushed in his hand.
"It is war!" she said to herself. "So much the better. I shall know what to expect in a few hours."
But in spite of her native energy, in spite of the power of resistance that her passion gave her, the hours seemed so long to her. Her nerves became more tense, painfully and unceasingly, as she counted the minutes. She had given orders that she was not at home to any one except her dreaded visitor. It seemed that she must regain her strength in a final solitary retirement before engaging in the duel upon which the future of her happiness depended.
For this reason she could not completely hide her disappointment when about half-past one she saw Yvonne de Chésy, who had insisted upon being admitted, enter the salon. She had only to give one glance at the face of the pretty little frivolous Parisienne to see that a tragedy was being enacted in her life also, a life that seemed created only to enjoy perpetual happiness. The childish countenance of the young woman was marked by an expression of astounded suffering. Her eyes, usually so sparkling and laughing, had in their blue depths an expression of terror, of stupefaction, as though brought suddenly face to face with some horrible vision. Her gestures betrayed a strained nervousness that was in strange contrast with her habitual gayety and butterfly frivolity.
Ely suddenly remembered Marsh's conversation on the boat. She at once guessed that Brion had begun his amorous blackmailing of the poor child. She reproached herself for her momentary impatience, and even with all her own anguish she welcomed the poor girl with all her accustomed grace. Yvonne stammered an excuse for her insistence.
"You were quite right in coming in," replied Ely; "you know that I am always at home for you.—But you are all upset. What is the matter?"
"Simply," replied Yvonne, "that I am lost unless I can find some one to help me.—Ah!" she continued, holding her face in her hands as though to shut out some dreadful nightmare, "when I think of all that has taken place since yesterday, I cannot help thinking that I am in a dream.—In the first place we are ruined, absolutely, irreparably ruined. I only heard of it twenty-four hours ago.—Poor Gontran did everything to keep me from learning the truth right to the end,—and I reproached him for gambling at Monte Carlo! Poor, dear fellow! He hoped that a lucky chance would give him a hundred or two hundred thousand francs, something of a capital with which to rebuild our fortune.—For he is going to work! He is determined to do something, no matter what.—If you only knew how good and courageous he is!—It is only on my account he feels the misfortune. It was for me, to obtain everything for me, that he entered into too risky investments. He does not know how little I care for wealth.—I can live on next to nothing, I have already told him.—All I want is a little couturière whom I can direct to make my costumes according to my ideas; a little establishment at Passy in one of those tiny English houses; a hired carriage or a coupé for my visits and for going to the theatre, and I should be the happiest woman. I would go to the market in the morning, and I am sure I should have a better table than we have now. And I know I should be happy in such a life.—As a matter of fact, I was not born to be rich—happily!"
She sketched out this little programme that she thought so modest and which would have necessitated at the least 50,000f. a year, with such a charming mixture of girlishness and courage that Madame de Carlsberg's heart ached. She took her by the hand and kissed her, saying:—
"I know your kind heart, Yvonne.—But I hope everything is not yet lost.—You have many friends, good ones, beginning with myself.—At first one is terrified, and then it is always discovered that the ruin is not as complete as was thought."
"This time it appears that the contrary is the case," said the young woman, shaking her head. "But it is precisely because I know you to be my friend," she went on, "that I have come to see you this morning. The other evening the Archduke spoke to my husband of the difficulty he experienced in finding some upright superintendent to look after his estates in Transylvania.—And as the Prince was so pleasant to us that evening we thought—"