“Why did you not tell me?”
“Because I never write a word more than is necessary; you know how lazy I am. And also because, I may as well confess, it might have scared you off, you are so sensitive.”
“Then you meant to take me by surprise?” said Jacqueline, in the same tone.
“Oh! my dear, why do you try to quarrel with me?” replied Madame Strahlberg, stopping suddenly and looking at her through her eyeglass. “We may as well understand what you mean by a free and independent life.”
And thereupon ensued an address to which Jacqueline listened, leaning one hand on a balustrade of that enchanted garden, while the voice of the serpent, as she thought, was ringing in her ears. Her limbs shook under her—her brain reeled. All her hopes of success as a singer on the stage Madame Strahlberg swept away, as not worth a thought. She told her that, in her position, had she meant to be too scrupulous, she should have stayed in the convent. Everything to Jacqueline seemed to dance before her eyes. The evening closed around them, the light died out, the landscape, like her life, had lost its glow. She uttered a brief prayer for help, such a prayer as she had prayed in infancy. She whispered it in terror, like a cry in extreme danger. She was more frightened by Wanda’s wicked words than she had been by M. de Talbrun or by M. de Cymier. She ceased to know what she was saying till the last words, “You have good sense and you will think about it,” met her ear.
Jacqueline said not a word.
Wanda took her arm. “You may be sure,” she said, “that I am thinking only of your good. Come! Would you like to go into the Casino and look at the pictures? No, you are tired? You can see them some evening. The ballroom holds a thousand persons. Yes, if you prefer, we will go home. You can take a nap till dinner-time. We shall dine at eight o’clock.”
Conversation languished till they reached the Villa Rosa. Notwithstanding Jacqueline’s efforts to appear natural, her own voice rang in her ears in tones quite new to her, a laugh that she uttered without any occasion, and which came near resulting in hysterics. Yet she had power enough over her nerves to notice the surroundings as she entered the house. At the door of the room in which she was to sleep, and which was on the first story, Madame Strahlberg kissed her with one of those equivocal smiles which so long had imposed on her simplicity.
“Till eight o’clock, then.”
“Till eight o’clock,” repeated Jacqueline, passively.