“What troubles me most, Margot,” Jean went on, “is that I took from you your part at the Odéon. She might have done anything else. I did not grudge her pleasure in destroying my chances if she had left you your part. That,” said Jean, staring hard at his boot, “was not generous of Liane.” He had never spoken her name to Margot before.
Margot drew a quick breath and laid her small brown hand on Jean’s arm.
“Don’t throw your life away, Jean,” she pleaded in a low tone. “You look so thin and you can’t eat, and at night I hear you walking about, walking about—till dawn sometimes. Is that the way to forget?” She looked up at him suddenly, her brown eyes filled with gentleness and love. “Is there no other way?” she said.
Jean glanced at her for a moment and then looked away. He knew well enough what other way there was; he was not by nature a vain man; he was more dangerous to women than that, he was intuitively perceptive. Margot’s secret had long ago slipped into Jean’s heart, and he had turned the key on it in silence. Was he always to keep it locked up? he asked himself. He wanted to kneel beside her and press his tired head against her tender breast. Surely to feel her arms about him, and to drink close and deep of the light in her eyes would help to heal the hideous ache Liane had left behind! And did he not owe Margot something? Was she always to love without reward? He hesitated, but still he did not look at her.
Margot’s whole soul was in her eyes fixed on him wondering and worshipping; she could have drawn him to her that night if she had known how; but she did not know how. She was not thinking of herself, which would have taught her—she was thinking of him; and all that that taught her was to wait upon his wishes; so she sat there, poor little Margot, praying God to help Jean; and it is possible that God heard.
“It is late, Margot,” Jean said at last, in a low tone. “Doesn’t your mother want you?”
“Mamma is asleep,” said Margot.
“I won’t play any more to-night then,” said Jean.
“And there is something else too, Jean, that I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t like to come in and interrupt you before. It’s rather good news this time.”
“Let’s have it, then,” said Jean, laughing, a short, hard laugh. “Let’s have all the good news we can get, Margot. Perhaps it will make up—the good news—for all the things we can’t get—or are fools enough,” he added half to himself, “not to take.”