As the carriage rattled up, Celia came out of the shadow. She spoke excellent French, and the Parisienne might have thought her a fellow-countrywoman. “What is the matter?” she said, quietly. “Do you feel sick?”
“No—no—but my money is gone. I gave my purse to my friend, and now I want to go back.”
“But he’ll be here again in a minute.”
“That’s just it—in a minute. And I must go before he comes back, and I have no money.”
“You can always pay the cocher at the house.”
“Not now—not to-night.”
She was far past a regard for the ordinary reticences of every-day life, but the humiliation of her admission was in her face. “My husband—he’s there, with only one old servant. He thinks I’m in the country with my mother. So I was till this afternoon. If I come home unexpectedly with no money to pay the cocher, he will be surprised. He will be angry. He will want to know all about it—I can’t explain it or tell more lies. I was mad when I said I’d go. I didn’t realize—Oh, good heavens!” with a sudden burst of agonized incoherence, “here he is! He’s coming and that will be the end of me.”
Celia turned. Against the bright background of the depot entrance she saw the Frenchman’s thick-set figure coming rapidly down the steps. He had got rid of the valises, and was almost running.
“Quick,” she said, and turning to the waiting carriage wrenched open the door.
“Get in,” she commanded. The terrified creature did so. She was ready to be dominated by any imperious will. Celia stretched her arm through the window, and into the little gloved hand pressed the two-franc piece, then cried: