At the tone of command, rather than the physical detention, Pierre stood still, wondering.
"This is the best thing that could possibly happen to you. Yes, be quiet. You shall listen. I've endured sufficient childish railing for one day! It is infinitely the best thing for you—for your mother—for me—for France! I have a diplomatic secret to whisper. That old man Haganè—for once in his life a fool—may be sent at any moment to review the campaign in Manchuria. He and his generals may be great, but Kuropatkin is greater. Do you know what that may mean to you? Ah, I thought so; at the hope of some personal reward you flicker back to sanity. What are the honor and glory of France to such effete sensualists as you? Bah,—it sickens me! And yet, since some day you may become men, you must be dealt with. Haganè, in his supreme self-confidence, urged on, doubtless, by Onda, dares marry this young girl, though he knows her to be in love with you! Will you destroy her love, fool, by smothering it in her contempt? Haganè goes to Manchuria. His young wife mourns,—hélas! I see her weeping in his absence. There are secrets spoken in the nuptial chamber,—documents left in charge of the pretty chatelaine. Pierre, Pierre, celestial revenge hangs like ripe fruit to your hand, let her marry Haganè,—let her love you! Do not revile or scorn her. Wait—wait!"
His eyes, twinkling like those of a snake, crawled up Pierre's face to his shrinking gaze. His fat hand still clutched with a grasp that burned. Pierre tried to draw away. Again the repulsion, the fascination in this man battled for his reason. "Wait!" whispered Ronsard once again, and turned.
Pierre felt himself released. He stood motionless. His wrist stung as if a sea nettle had lashed it. He looked helplessly around as though searching for something he could not recall. His eyes fell on Yuki's letter. He staggered toward it, snatched it from the floor, pressed it against parched lips, and then, falling on his knees beside the chair, burst into a passion of grief.
"Come," whispered Ronsard to the cat. "Come, chérie. We will leave poor Pierre awhile. It is more delicate, n'est-ce pas?"
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was inevitable that a lady of Mrs. Todd's social and confidential temperament should already have acquired an inseparable friend. Mrs. Todd had a perpetual thirst for what she called "sympathetic comprehension," by which she meant, in reality, abject flattery. Her husband sometimes treated her deepest emotions with levity. Gwendolen often turned to her complaints a bright indifference more irritating than the husband's soothing smile.
The present incumbent was a Mrs. Stunt, resident in Tsukiji, Tokio, wife of an American merchant who had lived in Japan for nearly twenty years. Naturally, Mrs. Stunt knew everything. She was a little woman, with white hair brushed high from a smooth, pink forehead. Her face was round and youthful. Although not an Englishwoman she exuded odors of pink soap. Her eyes were blue, bright, and hard as glass. Her reputation was that of a model wife and mother, a pattern housekeeper, and an exemplary member of the church. People hastened to speak well of her; they raised loud voices in her praise, yet every one knew that Mrs. Stunt, when mounted upon the perfectly kept bicycle she affected, was a wheeled and leaking reservoir of scandal.