Her terror infected him.
“Madre came back. She had been to Mergellina all alone. She was away such a long time. When she came back I was in my room. I didn’t know. I didn’t hear the boat. But my door was open, and presently I heard some one come up-stairs and go into the boudoir. It was Madre. I know her step. I know it was Madre!”
She reiterated her assertion, as if she anticipated that he was going to dispute it.
“She stayed in the boudoir only a very little while—only a few minutes. Oh, Monsieur Emile, but—”
“Vere. What do you mean? Did—what happened there—in the boudoir?”
He was reading from her face.
“She went—Madre went in there to—”
She stopped and swallowed.
“Madre took father’s photograph—the one on the writing-table—and tore it to pieces. And the frame—that was all bent and nearly broken. Father’s photograph, that she loves so much!”
Artois said nothing. At that moment it was as if he entered suddenly into Hermione’s heart, and knew every feeling there.