CHAPTER XII
"I fear it is unlikely, Madame. I am very sorry." Dr Legrand put his capable finger-tips together, looked sympathetically at the tall, golden-haired Englishwoman who had come to consult him.
"The child died, then, Madame—that another is so important?" he asked kindly.
Esmé flushed scarlet. "It—yes—I lost it," she said bitterly, her eyes filling with tears. "I lost him. And I am not likely to have another?"
"Frankly, no, Madame. But you are young. Madame is nervous, says she cannot sleep without something. Give the something up, Madame; there is a little death, a little madness, bottled in each innocent dose. Go to the country, live in the open air. Get Madame's nerves well, then perhaps your wish may be realized."
Esmé sat silent, growing sullen, raging at fate. Why should this be? Why had she been treated so cruelly?
If—oh, if! The word which makes our sorrow into madness—that word "if." If she had known, had guessed, what the future would bring.
As she sat there fuming it did not come to her that the great scales of the world weigh and adjust; that for sinning we are punished, either by the bitterness of our own remorse, or by something withheld. Right holds its steady poundage, while wrong flies upwards, light of weight and false.
A mother had sold her child, carelessly, heartlessly, that she might enjoy her life. What did it matter? Children were easy things to find if one wanted them. And now she sat baffled, miserable, the price no use to her, spent before it came, yet did not blame herself, but cruel chance.
"Well"—Esmé got up slowly, putting the great man's fee on the table—"bon jour, Monsieur."