“Shall the nurse bring the child?”
“No,” she answered.
It had been the custom to bring the baby into the room in the morning. Clarinda always took it in her arms and would place it so it might play among the covers. It amused her. She always looked upon it as a phenomenon. She could not conceive this vital thing that scrabbled about, crawling from here to there was part of her flesh and blood, that she had brought it into the world. When she looked at it, she could not imagine it would grow into a man’s estate and be a power for good or evil, as the fates might carve out for it, that it should be a force. It was called Peter.
“Will Madame dress?” asked the maid.
“What time is it?”
“Nine o’clock, Madame.” The maid watched Clarinda carefully, as if she feared something. “Will you have your coffee now?”
“No,” answered Clarinda.
She rose from the bed and the maid threw a garment of light filmy stuff about her. Clarinda advanced to the middle of the floor. The maid thought she wavered as she stood, as if she were uncertain of herself. She walked quickly towards her but Clarinda felt her approach and sank into a chair.
“I must talk,” Clarinda said quickly. “Say something! Do something! Don’t walk about the place so aimlessly. It doesn’t matter what you say—say something!”
“You suffer, Madame,” the maid said quickly. “You have not slept. Have you some terrible trouble?” said the maid stopping as if at a loss. Clarinda turned her burning eyes upon her. “I don’t know what to say. I know nothing, but I pity you, Madame, your eyes are so bright they scare me.” The maid trembled. “You suffer.”