"Calmness is very fine, M. Mauperin, very fine, very fine," repeated Madame Bourjot. And her low, hissing voice seemed to stifle her.
Clouds were scudding across the sky, and passed over the moon looking like huge bats' wings. Madame Bourjot gazed fixedly into the darkness, straight in front of her. Her elbows resting on her knees, her weight thrown on to her heels, she was beating with the points of her satin shoes the gravel of the path. After a few minutes she sat upright, stretched out her arms two or three times wildly and as though but half awake; then, hastily and with jerks, she pushed her hand down between her gown and her waistband, pressing her hand against the ribbon as though she would break it. Then she rose and began to walk. Henry followed her.
"I intend, sir, that we shall never see each other again," she said to him, without turning round.
As they passed near the basin, she handed him her handkerchief:—
"Wet that for me."
Henry put one knee on the margin and gave her back the lace, which he had moistened. She laid it on her forehead and on her eyes. "Now let us go in," she said; "give me your arm."
"Oh, dear madame, what courage!" said Madame Mauperin, going to meet Madame Bourjot as she entered; "but it is unwise of you. Let me order your carriage."
"On no account," answered Madame Bourjot hastily: "I thank you. I promised that I would sing for you, I think. I am going to sing."
And Madame Bourjot advanced to the piano, graceful and valiant, with the heroic smile on her face wherewith the actors of society hide from the public the tears that they shed within themselves, and the wounds which are only known to their own hearts.