A little while ago, when she had longed for bracing action, she had resolved to ask Emile to meet the Marchesino. She had felt as if that meeting would clear the air, would drive out the faint mystery which seemed to be encompassing them about. The two men, formerly friends, were evidently in antagonism now. She wanted to restore things to their former footing, or to make the enmity come out into the open, to understand it thoroughly, and to know if she and Vere had any part in it. Her desire had been to throw open windows and let in light.
But now things were changed. She understood, she knew more. And she wanted to be alone with Emile and with Vere. Then, perhaps, she would understand everything.
She said this to herself quite calmly. Her mood was changed. The fire had died down in her, and she felt almost sluggish, although still restless. The monstrous idea had come to her again. She did not vehemently repel it. By nature she was no doubt an impulsive. But now she meant to be a watcher. Before she took up her book and began to read she had been, perhaps, almost hysterical, had been plunged in a welter of emotion in which reason was drowned, had not been herself.
But now she felt that she was herself.
There was something that she wished to know, something that the knowledge she had gained in her child’s room that day suggested as a possibility.
She regretted her note to Emile. Why had not she asked him to come alone, to-morrow, or even to-night—yes, to-night?
If she could only be with him and Vere for a few minutes to-night!
CHAPTER XXIII
When Artois received Hermione’s letter he asked who had brought it, and obtained from the waiter a fairly accurate description of Gaspare.