The next day Monsieur Gérard carried out his intention of going to Naples.
Madame Gérard remained invisible. She accepted the flowers Léon called upon her to present, but she sent down a message that she was indisposed and could see nobody. She was indisposed until five o’clock the following day. By this time she had made up her mind.
It was not an easy task. She said to herself again and again that she would have accepted heartbreak--but she could not accept outrage. Her husband had not only cruelly wronged her--he had done so publicly before the eyes of a man who loved her--and before his wife. Her marriage was a false step--it had been her first adventure--but in her imagination she had only counted upon adventures as successes--now she was face to face with an adventure which had proved a failure. She could not go back--she could only go on--and yet she hesitated, for after marriage, adventures that go on are no longer innocent. Her husband had left her with a weapon lying within her reach--from the first it had occurred to her that she could strike back with Léon, but with this idea had come another one, that in striking back she must cruelly wound an innocent and happy woman. In all the horrible scene which had taken place the day before there had only been one moment less intolerable than the others, and Rose had given her that moment. She had distinctly stood by her with an offer of friendship.
Madame Gérard spent twenty-four bitter, sleepless hours considering Rose. At the end of that time--having come to the decision that she did not want to hurt her, but that she wished to do the thing that would hurt her--she made the further decision that, after all, it need not hurt Rose so very much. When she thought of her own unhappiness, a little distress on the part of other wives did not seem out of place.
She would do her best to shield Rose from the truth, but she wouldn’t do anything to prevent the truth taking place. These two decisions placed her in a better position than Léon. Léon had decided nothing.
He only knew that he must see this complex woman, that he must, out of chivalry, discover what she felt about the incredible behavior of her husband. He must find out also--in honor or common kindness--if there wasn’t in the situation some successful part for a good friend to play. He drew upon all his virtues for his reasons. Yesterday Madame had sharply wounded his amour propre; he saw that she had been playing a game with him. Well, the game had failed, and yet he was still there; there was therefore still the possibility of a new game under new conditions, with the advantage, perhaps, to him.
He went no further than that. He wanted, he assured himself, to go no further. He was full of consideration for Rose, but he distinctly wished to see how far he could go.
At five o’clock he found himself admitted. Madame was already out in the sheltered wistaria-covered balcony. She lay in a long chair draped in a soft white robe; there were pearls round her neck and a little black velvet band. She looked extraordinarily pathetic and young and very tired of grief.
There were no traces of tears on her little white face--but she was not the woman to allow traces of any kind to appear, unless they were becoming.
“It was kind of you to come,” she said gently after a long pause. “Forgive me, I had misjudged you. I thought that you were playing with me.”