“Why should I sleep in your room when this one is ready for me—my night dress—even the hot water?”
“My dear,” said I, “that hot water was put for you a year ago. It must be cold now.”
“And my red slippers—and my dressing-gown!” she cried, quaveringly.
Then sinking in a heap on the floor beside the dusty bed, she burst into a passion of tears.
I stole away and sent Antoinette to minister to her.
A year before I had raved and ranted, deeming life intolerable and cursing the high gods; I suffered then, it is true; but I hope I may never again go through the suffering of that first night of Carlotta’s return. Even now I can close my eyes and feel the icy grip on my heart.
She came down to dinner about an hour later, dressed in a pink wrapper, one of the last things she had bought, which Antoinette (as she explained to excuse her delay) had been airing before the fire. She sat opposite me, in her old place, penitent, subdued, yet not shy or ill at ease. Stenson waited on us, grave and imperturbable as if we had put back the clock of time a twelvemonth. The only covert reference he made to the event was to murmur discreetly in my ear:
“I have brought up a bottle of the Pommery, Sir Marcus, in the hope you would drink some.”
I was touched, for the good fellow had no other way of showing his solicitude.
Carlotta allowed him to fill her glass. She sipped the wine, and declared that it did her good. She was no longer a teetotaller, she explained. Once she drank too much, and the next day had a headache.