Chapter 2

As it was, he had let her go to her destination
totally unprepared. Well, it was too late now.…

Meanwhile, at breakneck speed the taxi hurtled along crowded
thoroughfares. Lights twinkled through the violet dusk, cars flashed
past, the air was heavy with the distinctive scent of French petrol,
so oddly thrilling because of its associations. Intoxicated by the
well-remembered odour, by the hurrying people and the gay shop
windows, Catherine sat upon the edge of her seat, keyed up with
anticipation of all that Paris was going to mean.

Presently she glanced at the card in her hand. “Mr. Geoffrey Blair
Macadam,” she read, with the address in the corner, 59, rue d’Assas.
She recalled the rue d’Assas. It was across the river, by the
Luxembourg Gardens, a delightful place to live. How thoughtful he had
been! She wondered if she was likely to see him again.

With a lightning swerve the taxi rounded a corner, and behold, the
Champs Élysées, broad and darkly glistening like a ballroom floor.
Far ahead, in the evening gloom, rose the shadowy Arc of the Étoile,
grandly beautiful, the climax to a perfectly planned vista. Beyond it
spread the Bois de Boulogne, full of mystery, with its young bare
trees, and over the Seine to the left lay the heights of St. Cloud
forest. The thought of the myriad slim poplars, pale green even to the
mossy stems, pierced her heart with a joy that hurt.

Ah, here was the Avenue Kléber! Two minutes more and she would reach
Mme. Bender’s magnificent apartment, where four years ago she had
spent a few pleasant days. At the thought sudden stage-fright chilled
her exultation. She was quite forgetting the possible state of her
hostess, and a qualm of self-reproach assailed her. Still, in spite of
last year, she felt almost a stranger to her cousin’s widow, that
intangible creature, so extremely difficult to know. One pitied rather
than loved her, but that was inevitable. Ardently Catherine hoped that
these rumours about her mental condition were exaggerated. Until she
had actually seen her she would feel a bit nervous.

She recalled her first, childish impression of Mme. Bender, long years
ago. Always there had been something unreal, a clinging, orchidaceous
quality, suggesting that she was constitutionally incapable of
existing alone. In the positive personality of her American husband
she had taken root, but recently, torn from that support and
sustenance, her entire character had wilted and sagged, a fact
pathetically apparent a year ago. What would she be like now? With age
creeping pitilessly upon her, it was hopeless to expect her to build
for herself an independent life.

They turned into the Avenue Henri Martin, a spacious street with a
double row of chestnuts down the central parkway. The handsome
building on the left contained the Benders’ two-floored apartment.
There, just round the corner in the side-street, was a private door,
through which one might go without passing the concierge’s loge; but
naturally now she would use the main entrance.

Queer for that telegram, properly addressed, to go astray. Would her
arrival take them by surprise?

The driver descended, unstrapped her trunk, and dumped it
unceremoniously within the flagged court. Catherine got out, paid the
fare, and started to enter the archway.

Then an incident occurred which in itself meant nothing at all, and
which would have been speedily erased from her memory if subsequent
happenings had not served to emphasize it. As she crossed the pavement
she collided forcibly with a lounger who, idling along, head upturned
towards the windows above, had not observed her approach. She recoiled
with the impact, straightening her disarranged hat, as a muttered
apology met her ears.

“_Pardon, mademoiselle!_”

“_Pas de quoi, monsieur_,” she replied mechanically, still tingling
with the blow, which had all but knocked the breath from her body.

He drew back to let her pass, and to her slight discomfiture favoured
her with a long, penetrating stare. How like a Frenchman, she
reflected indignantly. She lowered her eyes, but her brief glance had
shown her a slight, meagrely-built person, execrably dressed in black,
with a wide-brimmed hat upon his head. Above an old-fashioned winged
collar with a cravat rose a small, pasty-white face, the skin
recalling the unwholesome pallor of a fish-belly, while pale,
red-rimmed eyes, one of them marked with a black triangular blemish,
gazed forth with an unwinking fixity.

He was still standing there behind her on the pavement when she
reached the high glass doors of the concierge’s loge, the official
occupant of which came forth to greet her, grudgingly, after the
manner of her class. A dried, spare little woman with a nut-cracker
countenance and a black crocheted shawl about her shoulders, she bent
on the new-comer a vulture-eyed look of mingled curiosity and
suspicion.

“_Bonsoir, mademoiselle!_” she accosted Catherine with metallic
precision. “_On desire----?_”

“Madame Bender,” announced Catherine briefly.

A quick change came over the hard old features. Eyebrows and shoulders
hoisted themselves with one movement, and the sharp eyes narrowed for
a closer inspection of the young girl’s face.

“Ah!” breathed the concierge with an upward, insinuating inflection.
“Madame Bender! I was not informed that madame was expecting a
visitor. However, that is no affair of mine.” She made a curt gesture
with her gnarled hand, at the same time jerking her head towards the
octagonal court beyond the covered way. “_Montez, mademoiselle.
L’ascenseur est à droit._”

Catherine thought her manner definitely unpleasant. In some annoyance
she motioned to her luggage asking to have it sent up as soon as
possible, then turned towards the shallow steps at the right side of
the court. She had not gone two paces, however, before the hard voice
called out with what sounded like malicious enjoyment:

“Mademoiselle has chosen an unfortunate moment for her visit. If she
expects madame to receive her in person, she must prepare for a
disappointment.”

Catherine looked around.

“What do you mean?” she demanded quickly. “Is anything wrong?”

There was a second meaning shrug.

“I cannot tell you. I know nothing, I! All I can say is that the
doctor was summoned for madame last night at nine o’clock, and that he
has only this instant gone out of these doors. Almost twenty-four
hours he remained there, but everyone has been in too fine a state of
excitement to tell me what has happened. Mademoiselle will soon know
the truth, though. She has only to inquire.”

She turned her back and thrusting her scrawny neck in through the
glass doors, screamed “_Gaston!_” in a strident voice.

Her heart pounding, Catherine ran across the court, past the group of
trimly clipped box trees, to the big double-doors. A final glance over
her shoulder showed her a fat, sluggish old man lumbering out to join
the woman under the archway. There the pair stood, planted beside the
little pile of luggage and stared after her with a concentration which
had something ominous about it. Why should they look at her like that?
She was filled at once with antagonism and dread.

A second later she had shut herself into the bronze cage of the lift
and was juggling with the automatic buttons. Up rose the _ascenseur_
and halted at the _entresol_. She sprang out and with rapid steps
crossed the thickly carpeted floor to the imposing mahogany door on
the left.

She rang and rang again, but there was no response. Within was
complete silence, as though the big flat were untenanted. Really it
was incredible that no one should answer the bell! Impatiently, she
pressed her finger once more to the bronze button and kept it there.

All at once, without warning, the door opened to reveal the thick,
squat figure of a man in conventional butler’s attire.

It was Eduardo.

Out of the broad, swarthy face his smallish black eyes stared at her
without a trace of recognition. The wide mouth tightened with an
expression unfriendly, faintly contemptuous. Was this the suave
manservant she knew, this uncompromising person who barred the
entrance with his body, making no attempt to admit her? She felt
curiously dashed, as though cold water had been thrown in her face.

“Eduardo!” she cried, to jog his memory. “Surely you recall me? I am
Miss West, madame’s cousin. Madame is expecting me, you know.”

Only then did he stand aside, an unwilling smile breaking over his
features.

“Oh--Miss West,” he mumbled indistinctly. “Sorry, miss, I didn’t
recognize you.”

Then with something approaching his former manner he removed himself
from her path and by an after-thought took from her the umbrella and
small dressing-bag she was carrying.

Catherine was less annoyed by the nature of her reception than alarmed
at what it might indicate. The thought struck her that something had
occurred to upset the whole _morale_ of the household.

“Didn’t madame get my telegram? She was going to send you to meet me.
However, that’s of no consequence,” she added quickly. “The point is,
what has happened? Is madame ill?”

In spite of his command of many languages, Eduardo was a man of few
words. He muttered something unintelligible in which she could only
make out “accident” and “very bad,” then after an awkward hesitation
he showed her towards the wide doors of the salon.

“Perhaps you’d better go in there, miss,” he said, with a jerk of his
head. “I’ll fetch Jeanne to talk to you----” and without further
explanation he vanished, his tread making no sound on the padded
carpet.

Catherine was bewildered. Why, he had addressed her with the
inarticulate but casual manner he might have used towards one of his
own station! Certainly Harry Bender, easy-going though he had been in
many ways, would never have tolerated this rude familiarity. Yet she
knew that this man had for years been almost indispensable, something
approaching a major-domo. Had the accident to which he referred
overthrown his customary balance? She hoped it was only that.

She pushed open the salon doors and entered; then, too perturbed to
sit down, gazed round her at the rich furnishings. The immense
double-room, built on two levels, was divided through the middle by
graceful gates of wrought iron and gilded bronze, placed at the head
of broad shallow steps. Both portions were filled with exquisite
examples of the Louis Quinze period, genuine pieces, fit for a museum,
the upholstery of delicate _petit point_. On the left wall hung a
large tapestry, and here and there stood vitrines containing
collections of miniatures and snuff-boxes. The whole effect was much
as she recalled it, yet there was a subtle difference which she was
now too preoccupied to define. Probably it was due to the general air
of neglect and complete absence of flowers, which, together with a
stuffy atmosphere, gave the impression that no one had used the
apartment for a very long period.

Minutes went by. She wandered restlessly about, longing for the maid
to come and put an end to her suspense. Whatever had occurred, she had
perfect confidence in Jeanne, whom she remembered as capable and full
of good sense. Sometimes she fancied her a bit too ingratiating, but
that was merely a manner.

Why didn’t Jeanne come? The prolonged wait intensified her fears.
Again and again her eyes strayed towards the doors, but there was
neither sight nor sound of anyone approaching.

She walked to the end of the room, where two long windows gave upon a
narrow balcony. The curtains of old-gold brocade had not been drawn,
and through the opening she could see the trees and glimmering lights
of the avenue. Between the windows was a wide fireplace, over which
hung an eighteenth-century mirror with a painting in the Watteau style
let in at the top. Facing her, flanked by twin lustres with
pear-shaped drops, stood a columned _pendule_ of white marble with
ormolu mounts. Mechanically she compared the time with that of her
wrist-watch, then saw that the clock was not going. At the same
instant she discovered a thin coating of dust on the delicate surface.
Odd! She touched the crystal pendants of the lustres, ran a light
finger over the strip of brocade beneath. Dust again.…

Suddenly she felt her eyes gravitate upward towards a reflection in
the glass. Through the iron tracery of the gates a strange face
appeared, sallow and lined, a woman’s face, out of which, with a fixed
and hostile expression, two opaque eyes stared straight into her own.
She gave a little gasp. Who was this person? For a second she gazed
back, unpleasantly fascinated. Those black bars between gave her a
curious sensation.

It wasn’t--it couldn’t be----

She wheeled about with a nervous laugh of relief and made an eager
movement towards the steps, pushing the gates wide.

“Jeanne!” she exclaimed, “I didn’t recognize you! Oh, thank goodness
you’re here at last!”

She extended an impulsive hand, and the woman took it, after a brief
hesitation, and with little answering pressure.

“It is you, mademoiselle. Pardon me for keeping you so long.”

Catherine saw that she was indeed altered, her strong features haggard
and drawn with fatigue, discoloured semi-circles like bruises under
her eyes, the brow deeply furrowed. A year ago she had thought the
maid almost handsome with her good white teeth always showing in a
cheerful smile, but now, sapped and strangely preoccupied, she
appeared actually ugly.

“Jeanne, I am frightened! What has happened to madame?”

The vertical cleft deepened where bristling hairs met over the snub
nose.

“How did you know anything had happened to madame?” the woman parried
in accents resentful, almost suspicious.

“Why, I heard it from the concierge. She told me the doctor had been
here since last night.”

A stubborn look settled over the close-lipped face. An appreciable
pause elapsed before the reply came, cautious, deliberate.

“Madame is very ill,” she said shortly.

A doubt swept into the girl’s mind.

“Oh, Jeanne--you don’t mean she’s--dead?” she whispered, her voice
shaking.

“No, no! Certainly not!”

This time she spoke with quick impatience, as though for some reason
she were vexed by the suggestion.

“Well, then, tell me what is wrong. I insist on being told.”

The idea came to her that there was some mystery in all this. Why
couldn’t the woman come straight out and tell her?

“Very well, mademoiselle, since you must know, but I warn you it will
give you a shock.” She came a step closer, glanced over her shoulder,
and lowered her voice: “The fact is, last evening madame attempted to
commit suicide. There--now you have the truth!”

CHAPTER FOUR

Catherine was aghast. Her eyes dilated with horror, while an inner
voice whispered that rumour had not lied. Poor Mme. Bender was
certainly deranged.

“When--how did it happen?” she gasped.

“It was last evening. Madame tried to drink a glass of strong
disinfectant. I only managed to summon the doctor in time to save her
life.”

For a few seconds the girl remained speechless, her eyes fixed on the
maid’s worn face.

“What a terrible thing!” she exclaimed at last. “I had no idea it was
as bad as this. But”--with a faint glimmer of hope--“are you quite
sure she meant to do it? Couldn’t it have been accidental?”

Jeanne shook her head slowly and with decision.

“That is what she wishes us to believe,” she replied with a shrug and
in a leaden manner, as though fatigue had dulled her faculties. “By
good luck she had only drunk a little of the liquid when I discovered
what she was doing. I seized her arm and dragged it away. To-day, of
course, she is ashamed, and pretends she took it in mistake for her
sleeping-draught, which I need hardly tell you is extremely unlikely.”

“Ashamed, Jeanne? What do you mean?”

“Only that madame in her sane moments suspects that we are watching
her, as indeed we are. Invalids with her complaint become cunning.”

“Oh, Jeanne, is it true then, about madame’s mental condition?”

A shade of reproach almost scornful passed over the other’s face.

“In my opinion madame has never been normal since the death of
monsieur. Surely you must have realized that last year in Boston,
when, ill as she was, she suggested your coming to visit her.”

Catherine flushed a little.

“No, Jeanne, she seemed to me perfectly sane at the time. Indeed, I
should never have dreamed anything was wrong if I had not heard…” Here
she checked herself, not sure that it was wise to divulge her
informant’s confidences.

A look of shrewd intelligence came into the heavy eyes.

“Oh, I see! It was Mademoiselle Cushing who told you,” remarked Jeanne
rather coldly. “I am not surprised that you have heard from her.”

Catherine felt curiously ill at ease, as though she were being accused
of some wrongdoing.

“As a matter of fact, Miss Cushing did write to me,” she admitted.
“But I may as well tell you she doesn’t think Mme. Bender is
insane--only very nervous and depressed.”

A long silence greeted her statement. Then the woman spread her hands
outward with an expressive gesture.

“_Eh bien_,” she commented with singular emphasis, as though she had
expected this. “There is another who believes what it suits her to
believe.”

Although Catherine did not grasp the meaning of this cryptic
utterance, she felt vaguely disturbed at the undercurrent of
hostility, directed, it seemed, at her as much as at Miss Cushing.
What had either of them done to incur the maid’s displeasure? Still
one must not judge a person who so clearly had just passed through a
painful ordeal and had not yet recovered her poise.

“Never mind, Jeanne,” she ventured soothingly. “The point is, how is
madame now? Is she quite out of danger?”

“Ah, yes! She is sleeping. The doctor ordered her a sedative, and she
is not to be disturbed.”

“That is good. What a mercy she has you to look after her!”

The Frenchwoman turned on her suddenly with a hint of suppressed
passion.

“Ah, mademoiselle, you may well say that!” she whispered, her voice
shaking. “Little do you know what I have been through these past
weeks. It has been one crisis after another. I live in terror! I dare
not leave poor madame, day or night, for fear she will do harm to
herself!”

The girl was forcibly impressed by the devotion, almost fanatical,
which blazed forth from the sunken dark eyes. Not knowing what to say,
she laid her hand upon the arm nearest her with impulsive sympathy.

At her touch a change came over the woman. Pulling herself together
she spoke in a business-like tone, almost cheerful:

“And now, mademoiselle, we must think what is to be done about you.
Naturally you could not know the situation here, or else----”

Catherine interrupted her reassuringly:

“Don’t think of me, Jeanne, I shall be all right. Just show me my room
and I’ll give you no trouble whatever. You must go to bed and get some
sleep.”

Her remark was met by a blank stare. She saw the maid’s body stiffen
slightly.

“Your room? But surely, mademoiselle, you cannot have any idea of
remaining here!”

Catherine was taken aback by the almost irritable incredulity of the
exclamation. For the second time she felt the blood mount to her
cheeks. This was a Jeanne she had not encountered before.

“Why not? I shan’t bother anyone. And, of course, I mean to do all I
can to help you.”

“I do not require help,” retorted the maid quickly. “But--visitors, at
a time like this! Really, mademoiselle, it is not to be thought of!
The apartment is like a _maison de santé_! No, assuredly, it would
never do. Eduardo will assist you at once in finding an hotel. There
are many small, quite comfortable ones in the quarter.”

Her determined manner brooked no contradiction. Catherine was silent
for a moment, dashed and puzzled. Then a rush of obstinacy overtook
her, and she made up her mind not to be dealt with in so peremptory a
fashion. After all, she was not suggesting anything unreasonable.

“Listen to me, Jeanne,” she replied, kindly but firmly. “Madame
invited me to stay here, and I do not intend to go to an hotel. Show
me where I am to sleep, and I will look after myself. Which room is
it?”

For a long moment the two regarded one another. The girl felt herself
in conflict with a will of steel, but she did not waver. At length she
saw that she had won.

“I am not sure that any bedroom is ready,” muttered the maid rather
sullenly. “But if you are determined to stay, mademoiselle, I must see
what can be done.”

She turned and left the salon, irate protest in every muscle of her
rigid back.

It was a chilling reception. Easy to understand that in the recent
crisis no thought could be spared for the coming guest, yet for all
that Catherine could not help feeling that Jeanne was assuming an
unjustifiable amount of authority. Besides, in an apartment full of
servants a single extra person could hardly prove a serious
inconvenience.

She felt damped and depressed. What an idiot she had been not to make
sure of the situation before plunging into it! Her own fault, too, for
she had received a sort of warning. Yet perhaps, after all, she had
not done wrong to come; perhaps in some small way she might be able to
assist her unhappy relative. It was selfish to think only of her own
comfort, which really did not matter very much. She would not have
done so but for the fact that she was tired after her journey. Once
she could wash and change and have some food, she would take a
brighter view of things. A glance at her watch told her it was past
eight o’clock. She had eaten nothing since lunch.

All at once a disconcerting thought occurred to her. What if her
coming had precipitated this action on Mme. Bender’s part? Suppose the
poor, tormented woman had brooded upon the prospect of her arrival,
yet had not had the courage to put her off? There was no saying what
vagaries and exaggerations neurasthenia might attain. For an instant
she was half inclined to run after Jeanne and tell her she had changed
her mind about remaining. She even went as far as the entrance hall,
but before she could carry out her intention common sense pulled her
up.

No, it was hardly possible Germaine could feel like that about her. At
all events it was better to do nothing till she had seen and spoken
with the invalid. It could not possibly matter if she spent the night
here. Her cousin would not even be aware of the fact.

She stood looking round the formal hall with its carved chairs and big
Sèvres vases, the latter bare and a little dusty. Always before there
had been a profusion of flowers, frequently renewed--Madonna lilies,
delphiniums, roses. The wide fireplace used to be banked with azaleas,
in and out of season, but now it gaped empty, with an unsightly wad of
paper thrown carelessly upon the hearth.

Paper? The crumpled fragment, of a pale blue colour, stirred a chord
in her memory. She picked it up and straightened it out. Could it
possibly be----?

Yes, here it was--the telegram sent from Havre this very afternoon. It
had come, then, and been tossed aside as of no account. Queer, that.
She studied it abstractedly, and again saw before her the butler’s
unfriendly stare, the hard, resentful face of Jeanne seen just now in
the mirror. Why, it had not looked like Jeanne at all! She still
recalled her sense of shock at finding the baleful glare fixed on her.

She shook herself free of disturbing fancies. Why make a mountain out
of a molehill? These servants had had twenty-four hours of tension
calculated to upset the evenest dispositions. Now things had calmed
down, they would come to their senses. They could not bear her any
personal ill will.

In the passage which cut across the main hall a whispered colloquy was
going on between Jeanne and another maid. She could distinguish no
words, but the voices sounded irritable, breaking now and again into
smothered exclamations of annoyance. Finally a sentence uttered by
Jeanne reached her ears:

“_Alors, la chambre Empire, c’est tout ce qu’on peut faire! Changez
les draps, tout de suite!_”

Evidently they were holding a hurried debate as to where they were
going to put her. Oh, well, one room was as good as another, if only
they would be quick about it.

She caught sight of a blowsy female crossing the archway with an
armful of linen. This person, who had a mop of straw-coloured hair and
was unsuitably attired in a short black pleated skirt and a blue satin
jumper very open at the neck, stared at her curiously. Catherine also
stared. Never could she have imagined anyone here going about domestic
duties clad in so incongruous a fashion. Even a _femme de ménage_
would not be allowed to wear such clothes.

A quarter of an hour elapsed, then Jeanne came to inform her that her
room was prepared.

“If you will come with me, mademoiselle, I will show it to you.”

She was composed now, still not altogether friendly, but much her
usual self. Catherine began to feel more comfortable.

“Thanks, Jeanne, I shall be glad to get off my things.”

“You will understand our being a little confused, what with last
night’s excitement. None of us has slept since the night before last,
and it never occurred to me to give orders for you, as I felt so sure
you would not wish to stay.”

She smiled, showing her very good, white teeth, but her agreeable air
did not quite hide the reproach of her last words. Catherine felt
unaccountably small and guilty, but she said nothing and followed the
brisk figure along the passage which led to the far side of the
apartment. Here, turning a corner, she saw ahead of her the stairway
which communicated with the ground floor, and just beyond it an open
door, in front of which her guide halted.

“I thought it best to put you as far from madame as possible,”
remarked the maid, signing to her to enter. “Madame sleeps badly, and
is apt to be disturbed by the slightest noise.”

“Quite right, Jeanne. This will do splendidly.”

A glance assured her that her luggage had been brought up, the
cabin-trunk placed on a stand at the foot of the bed.

“I hope you will not object to unpacking for yourself,” continued her
companion with a tentative manner. “The truth is I dare not leave
madame for more than a few minutes in case she wakes. Just now is a
critical time.”

She seemed indeed rather preoccupied and a little restless, as though
anxious to get away.

“Certainly, Jeanne--don’t let me keep you. I shan’t need anything.”

A dozen questions regarding last night’s affair crowded to her lips,
but she decided to postpone them till to-morrow. She saw the maid bow
her head in an absent, detached fashion.

“Thank you, mademoiselle. I will wish you good night.”

The door was quickly shut, and Catherine was alone.

With a sigh of relief she removed her hat and looked about her. At
once she realized that the room, although decent and comfortable, was
one of the poorest in the apartment. It was furnished in Empire style,
good mahogany with mountings of gilded bronze, the sort of thing now
highly prized but twenty years ago picked up for little money. Walls,
curtains and covers were alike of a cheap printed _toile_ in Empire
design, bees and lyres in medallions of rose and yellow. Upon the
marble mantelpiece were candlesticks made of gun-metal with crystal
drops, while the centre was occupied by a pierced basket of the kind
of enamelled iron-work known as _tôle_.

The atmosphere was close, laden with a pungent, cloying odour,
suggesting inferior scent. She could not think what it came from, but
as she hated the smell she crossed to the curtained window and threw
open the casement, letting in the damp night air.

Below lay the narrow side-street, lit by an arc-light at the corner.
An occasional motor-car whizzed along the avenue, a section of which
was visible. She remained for a few minutes looking out, still shaken
by the news lately received. How near this had come to being a house
of death! If it had not been for Jeanne’s timely intervention, poor
Mme. Bender would have breathed her last, no doubt in agony. Yet she
found it difficult to grasp the fact of her cousin’s suicidal
impulses, so cheerful had been the letter written only a few weeks
ago. It was frightening to know that a period of gloom could follow so
quickly upon apparently tranquil spirits. The thought made her tremble
with apprehension. Still she meant to stay. After all, it was only for
two months, for she had promised to join some American friends later
on and go with them to Italy. These people, a young Harvard professor
and his wife, were enjoying a Sabbatical year in Europe, and were to
pick her up in May or June, after they had completed the work they
were doing at the British Museum.

Gazing absently down, she noticed a small man in a wide-brimmed black
hat detach himself from the shadow of the chestnuts and stroll into
the circle of light.