“But what is it?” I cried, mystified. “Have you spoiled the dinner?”
I was a million miles from any anticipation of her answer.
“Monsieur-she has come back!”
I grew faint for a moment as from a blow over the heart. Antoinette raised her great tear-stained face.
“Monsieur must not drive her away.”
I pushed her gently aside and entered the little room which I had furnished once as her boudoir.
On the couch sat Carlotta, white and pinched and poorly clad. At first I was only conscious of her great brown eyes fixed upon me, the dog-like appeal of our first meeting intensified to heart-breaking piteousness. On seeing me she did not rise, but cowered as if I would strike her. I looked at her, unable to speak. Antoinette stood sobbing in the doorway.
“Well?” said I, at last.
“I have come home,” said Carlotta.
“You have been away a long time,” said I.