“But you haven’t told me how you are getting on at the theatre?” Jean persisted. “Tell me, Margot!” There was the first note of definite suspicion in his voice.
Margot almost welcomed the postman’s rap. She sprang up and came back with a letter.
“It’s from one of your fine friends,” she said, laughing. “I can feel the thick paper—and a great crest—and I think, Monsieur Jean, it is from a lady! I shall be very discreet and go away without so much as a question. When I come back you will tell me if her hair is black or gold—that will be for a reward.”
“Don’t be gone long, Margot,” said Jean. “I miss you so when you’re away.”
He took the letter out of her hand lazily; it was the D’Ucelles crest; he wondered vaguely what it was. It was not Romain’s writing. After all it had seemed simpler to Romain to leave the matter to his wife—if he could have sent money he would have written himself. But it seemed a shabby thing to write without, and Marie would not let him send a sou. Jean wondered if perhaps his uncle had heard of his illness and sent him a cheque. What a pleasure and surprise that would be for Margot when she came back; it would pay for all the extra expense she had been put to, and if he were careful he might take her for a day in the country.
These November days were warm and mild, with a sweet fresh sunshine in them. He would like to see Margot in the country; she had been born there, and he knew that she loved it. He remembered how the first time he had heard her sing, her voice had seemed to him like the breath of the woods. He would not open the letter till she had gone. He felt very lazy still about doing things; it was so much more easy to think and plan.
When Margot had given him his broth and watched him take it to the last drop, she left him.
“But now I’m sure it’s from a lady with fair hair,” she said laughing. “Or else you would have opened it! You know well enough that I detest fair hair!”
Margot did not often make little jokes but her heart had never felt so light before. She wished that Jean could be for ever convalescent and grateful, seeking her with the clinging eyes of a child, and that she might always be hungry and happy, and tired, for his sake; but perhaps not quite so hungry! They would be sure to offer her something to eat, though, at her father’s friends, and that would last very well till to-morrow; and there was plenty of the best bedstead left for Jean.
When Margot had gone, Jean opened his letter.