“You do me too much honour, Madame,” he said. “I had not the intention of kissing you!”
In a moment he was ashamed of himself; the colour rushed into his face, he would have given anything to recall his words.
Liane had looked so bewildered and so hurt: her eyes fell on the innumerable little silver boxes before the looking-glass; they wandered listlessly, as if she were looking for something she had forgotten. She drew her breath painfully, it fought in her throat like a wild thing imprisoned. Jean had hurt her cruelly, and Liane was not easily hurt; only the sight of her own face in the glass behind Jean saved her from hysterics. It was magnificent, she had never equalled it on the stage. The relief was immense: the dresser entered, bringing back to her the full sense of her own importance.
“But Madame is a wonder to-night—she has veritably the look of a great queen, has she not, Monsieur?” exclaimed the quick little dresser, who saw at once that something was wrong, and guessed that flattery could put it right. “Never have I seen Madame in such form; I think these pearls suit her—here is the cloak of Madame, and the scarlet slippers. Yes, and if Monsieur will just hand me the powder-puff on the floor—a million thanks, Monsieur! Madame has just a little—a little too much colour. Voilà, Madame, c’est tout, vous y êtes!”
It was quite impossible that this obscure young man should cease to care for Liane. Her fears had been absurd, it was only a momentary madness of the estranged senses; she had spoken very roughly to him, she remembered. She looked at him gravely for a moment, his head was bent, he was frowning, and he looked young and awkward—a mere shaken boy.
“We will not part like this to-night, mon petit,” she murmured with caressing gentleness. “Wait for me as usual, only this I think I have the right to ask you; do not again speak to that silly little nobody, the daughter of a washerwoman, who sings out of tune,” and Liane laughed contemptuously. That, after all, was the right way to treat the situation.
It was perhaps the right way, but Liane had lost sight of the fact that the right way used too late has much the same effect as the wrong way. Her eyes held Jean’s for a moment; she did not quite understand the look in his, but she had no time left for explanation.
He bowed, and went straight back to Margot.
CHAPTER XI
MARGOT woke next morning to a premonition of disaster. She had foreseen that she might lose her job last night; but this morning she realized it, which is quite a different affair. The evening before, life had seemed very large and golden, with plenty of opportunity for heroism on a grand scale, and without the practical peril of misfortune. She had felt the keen thrill of danger before it had lasted long enough to attack the nerves. But the hour of sleep had robbed her of her gaiety of heart. Even the treasures of which it was her wont to take stock every morning ceased to-day to give her any moral reassurance.