THE BITER BITTEN
When Torquato Trotto lifted the candle to guide mademoiselle and La Marmotte from the supper-room he was confident in the success of his plan, and already heard the jingle of Simon's crown-pieces in his ears. Perhaps it was the certainty that the birds were caged that made him a trifle careless, and so there was something in his air and in the glance he cast back upon his companions, whilst leading them through the gallery, that filled mademoiselle with a sudden fear, and, but for her pride, she would have run back to my side. So she nerved herself, and went on to La Marmotte's room, though it was with a quaking heart. At the door Torquato stopped, expressed a civil hope that mademoiselle would be comfortable, and, bowing politely to her as she passed in, handed the candle to La Marmotte, and was about to return when he felt his arm seized. It was La Marmotte, and she looked into his face with eager, searching eyes as she asked: "What does this mean?—more treachery?"
There was a bitter note in her voice, and the Italian looked at her steadily. "She grows old," his thoughts ran on, "old, and exacting; I must end this." Then, because there was other business on hand, he restrained himself, and answered calmly:
"I mean no harm to her, I assure you."
With this he tried to disengage himself; but La Marmotte was not satisfied. She felt he was lying. Then, too, all the vague feelings of the past that had somehow been aroused in her that night were awake and groping in her poor heart, and, perhaps, with these emotions there was jealousy—who knows?
Time had been in the gay days in Paris when La Marmotte could have counted her lovers by the score. At last fate had thrown her across the path of the Italian, and she, although knowing him evil, loved him none the less, and followed his uncertain fortune like a faithful dog; but years were going, and beauty was fading, and her heart was fearful lest she should be cast adrift.
"Trotto," she said, and her voice was husky, "I—I do not like this.
Let them go."
Torquato Trotto cursed under his breath; but time was short, and he could not afford to waste it. He bent down and kissed the woman's hand.
"Carissima! have no fear. And now let me go and see to our guest's wounds." With this he freed himself, and went back.
La Marmotte stood for a pace watching the dim figure as it slipped through the gloom of the corridor, the candle in her hand casting its light on her red lips, her white neck and arms, and on the silken black hair that hung to her waist. Then with a half-stifled sigh she followed mademoiselle, and stepped into the room. It was empty. La Marmotte's heart almost stood still, and the candlestick she held all but fell from her trembling hand, as the poor wretch thought of the wrath that would overtake her if her charge escaped. But it was impossible! It could not be! And La Marmotte made another step forward, and as she looked she saw a white-robed figure kneeling at a prie-dieu, half concealed by the valence of the bed.