A Strange Compact.
The morning was oppressive and sultry. Valérie, coming from her room, thrust open the window of the sitting-room, with an impatient exclamation, and sat with her elbows upon the window ledge inhaling what little air there was to be had. She lolled there, looking down upon the quaint street in an abstracted mood, for the men had gone for their matutinal walk after the glass or two of water at the Pouhon.
She was glad to be alone. To herself sometimes she appeared extraordinary and of an exceptional disposition, of the temperament of animals that are rendered faithful by brutal treatment. There were days on which she no longer knew herself, and on which she asked herself whether she were really the same woman. In reviewing all the baseness to which she had been bent, she could not believe that it was she who had undergone it all. She strove to imagine a degree of degradation to which her nature would refuse to descend.
As she sat, silent and thoughtful, the door opened softly, and a tall, dark, well-dressed man entered noiselessly. He was good-looking, with a carriage that was unmistakably military, and a carefully trained moustache. Glancing quickly round with eyes that had a rather fierce look in them, he walked over to where mademoiselle sat, and halted behind her chair.
“So I’ve found you at last, madame,” he exclaimed harshly in English, placing a heavy hand upon her shoulder.
The unexpected voice startled her.
“You!” she gasped, jumping to her feet and turning pale.
“Yes,” he replied, leaning against the edge of the table and thrusting his hands into his pockets with an easy, nonchalant air. “You scarcely expected this meeting,—did you, eh? Well, although it is a long time ago since you took it into your head to leave me, you see I haven’t quite lost sight of you. And, after all, it is but natural that I should be solicitous of your welfare since you are my wife,” he added grimly.
“Wretch! Why have you come here?” she asked in ill-concealed alarm.
“To see you, pretty one,” he answered. “Three years is rather a long period to be absent from one’s wife, you’ll admit.”