Chapter 3

In him she recognized the lounger she had
encountered on entering the building. Still there! What did he want,
hanging about like that for almost an hour? He had the appearance of
waiting for something.

A moment later the mystery was solved. Below, a few yards to the left,
she saw the private door of the apartment open, and a woman issue from
it, dressed in a dark cloth coat and a plain pull-on hat. On the
threshold she glanced rapidly about, then made straight for the
corner, where she joined the black-clad lounger.

In the full glare of the lamp her identity was revealed. It was
Jeanne.

Catherine experienced a mild astonishment. After what the maid had
said only three minutes ago about not daring to leave her charge
alone, it was a little surprising to find her going out, cloaked and
hatted. She must be bent on some urgent errand. Hardly unforeseen,
though, for the gesture with which she greeted the loiterer--brusquely
familiar and charged, it seemed with irritation--showed plainly she
expected to find him there. The two exchanged a few words, then
hurried away together, down the avenue, out of sight.

It occurred to Catherine that this man, whose rude stare she had not
forgotten, must be a relation of Jeanne’s, or perhaps an admirer. Of
course the woman must have some personal life, difficult as it was to
imagine such a thing. For that matter, Catherine had sometimes
wondered if there were not some sort of attachment between Jeanne and
Eduardo, who for so many years had travelled about together in their
service to the Benders. Not that she had ever seen any sign in either
remotely suggesting the tender passion.

As she mused thus idly there sounded on the door a sharp rat-tat. She
turned with a start.

“_Entrez!_” she called.

CHAPTER FIVE

A servant entered with a tray upon which a meal was set, with
silver-covered dishes.

She was none other than the blowsy woman Catherine had seen in the
hall, and though she had put on a small, rather absurd apron, she
still wore the satin blouse, and her bulging legs, encased in
flesh-coloured stockings, ended with patent leather shoes run over at
the sides. The mop of bleached hair stuck out unrestrainedly from a
vapid, rouged face.

“_Bonsoir, mademoiselle!_ As it is so very late, and as mademoiselle
no doubt wishes to go early to bed, Jeanne thought it best that I
should bring mademoiselle her dinner to her room.”

“Oh, thank you! Put it here, on the little table.”

The woman set down the tray, and as she bent over Catherine caught an
overpowering blast of the same scent already permeating the
atmosphere. The creature reeked of it. Instinctively the girl moved
away, hoping the abominable odour might not cling to her own person.

Realizing that this extraordinary female was actually attached to the
household, she inquired her name, whereupon the blonde vision beamed
with a fatuous smile, placed her red hands on her hips, and
volunteered a considerable amount of information regarding herself.

She was called Berthe, she was the _cuisinière_, and she had been in
her present situation barely two months. The place was not too bad,
for although there were only three domestics kept, there was the
advantage of no entertaining, and she had all her evenings to herself.
She was not much interested in cooking now, since she was going to be
married before long, and in company with her prospective husband was
planning to start a business of letting rooms in Paris Plage.

“But do you mean to say there are only three servants here now?”
Catherine could not help inquiring in amazement.

The creature opened her china-blue eyes wide.

“_Mais si, mademoiselle, il n’y a que trois--Eduardo, Jeanne, et moi.
Mais c’est suffisant, puis ce qu’il n’y a pas beaucoup à faire_,” she
returned with a friendly yawn.

She added that she had only once seen madame, who kept strictly to her
room and issued orders through Jeanne, if indeed she issued them at
all. Since the housekeeper left Jeanne was in command. Poor madame
dreaded strangers and saw no one, not even her friends when they
called, but that was not remarkable as, _bien entendu_, madame was a
little odd. Here Berthe touched her forehead with meaning. The poor
lady, she went on, had to be constantly guarded, for fear she should
do away with herself. Several times she had given them a fright, and
last night, _vraiment!_ there had been a _scène affreuse_. No one had
closed an eye, and she herself had not been able to get out to see her
fiancé.

Left alone, Catherine sat down to her solitary repast. It was decently
served and not unpalatable, though the cold chicken and galantine
suggested a hasty visit to a pastry-cook’s, while the soup had most
certainly come out of a tin. However, she was not disposed to be
critical, especially as she felt sure the cook had received no
notification of her arrival. Indeed, the woman had assured her that
Jeanne was in a state of stupefaction at the idea of anyone choosing
to remain here at a time like this.

So Berthe, with her satin blouse and flagrant make-up, was the cook!
It was a violent change from the days when Harry Bender’s table had
been noted, and his chef, in a tall white cap, had on occasions of
ceremony been invited into the dining-room to receive congratulations
and to partake of a glass of _fine champagne_. She sighed, not because
she had expected to find anything approaching the former standard, but
simply over things in general--her genial cousin gone, his widow
mentally unbalanced and confined to her room, the home in which he had
taken so much pride given over to domestics who neglected, if not
abused, his cherished possessions. Already her eye had detected small
evidences of slipshod management. The best of servants, she reflected,
grow careless when left to their own devices.

Oh well, of what importance was it, so long as the invalid herself was
properly attended? She had seen a good deal of Jeanne, and felt sure
that, however imperfect she might be as an administrative, she would
never fail in devotion to her mistress.

Except for the breezy cook, who returned to bring coffee, no one came
near her that evening. She might as well have been in an hotel. In
half an hour’s time she heard Jeanne re-enter the apartment, but saw
nothing of her. Somewhere close by she assumed that Mme. Bender was
sleeping, prostrated from shock and stupefied by a sedative. She
wondered when she would see her, if at all, and the uncertainty as to
what to expect filled her with vague discomfort. Easy to picture the
clinging woman as rudderless, dependent, her grip of life shaken, but
the idea of recurring mania was difficult to grasp. One could not
associate the gentle Germaine with any violent action.

She set about unpacking and arranging her belongings, and in so doing
made several minor discoveries of a disagreeable nature. First, the
enamelled basket on the mantel contained cigarette stumps and ashes;
in the dressing-table drawer was a little cheap, red comb, the teeth
of which held a wisp of fair hair; the paper at the bottom of the
drawer was smeared with grease-paint and powder, at the same time
sending forth a wave of the now familiar perfume.

Last she noticed with disgust that the bright pink soap on the
wash-stand was partly used and still moist.

The conclusion was unavoidable. The room until this evening had been
used by Berthe herself, who, in her haste to turn out of it, had
neglected to remove all traces of her occupancy.

Really this was too much! In an apartment of this size, was there no
other room available? How poor Germaine would suffer if she knew! She
could not help resenting the advantage taken of a helpless invalid,
and most of all she held Jeanne responsible, excellent though she was.
For a moment she was conscious of a personal affront, and in order to
calm herself had to bring to mind the maid’s long and faithful care of
her mistress, the undeniable fact that the woman had proved herself
both kind and trustworthy.

The hot bath soothed her ruffled temper, and eventually she fell
asleep between soft, monogrammed sheets, with the sound of pattering
raindrops in her ears. Just before dozing off she thought of the young
solicitor she had met in the train. What attentive, serious eyes he
had, lighting up now and again with a most agreeable flash of humour!
At the beginning there had been a sort of barrier between them,
probably because he was English and did not quite know what to make of
Americans, but at the last, on the station platform, she had felt
suddenly as though he were a real friend. She longed to tell him what
had happened here, but she did not know if she would have the courage
to ring him up as he had begged her to do. Once more she asked herself
if he had known anything about her cousin’s condition which he had not
seen fit to disclose; but even as the question crossed her mind it was
eclipsed by the vision, wholly inconsequent, of his strong, big hands
as they had grasped the sill of the taxi.…

Morning broke brilliant and windy. It promised well that Berthe,
bringing her breakfast, should have had the grace to make herself
almost presentable, appearing in a clean print frock, even though her
hair was adorned with tiny combs to achieve a “water-wave” and secured
in place by a purple veil. The coffee was capital, the croissants
crisp and delicious.

Eagerly Catherine inquired news of her hostess, and learned that she
had passed a peaceful night and, according to Jeanne, was in a fairly
calm state of nerves. Perhaps, after the doctor had paid his call,
mademoiselle might be permitted to see her. It all depended on the
physician’s verdict.

This was slightly reassuring, yet to tell the truth she was nervous at
the thought of conversing with a woman who two days ago had tried to
take her own life. One never knew when another crisis might occur, or
what might cause it. Still, she could ascertain whether or not her
visit was welcome, and act accordingly.

As soon as she was dressed she ventured forth, in search of some place
to sit and read till the doctor had come and gone. The formal salon
oppressed her, especially in its present state of dustiness, but she
recalled a small, cheerful room next it, used by her cousin as his
study. The door stood ajar, she pushed it wide to enter.

The next instant she gave a faint gasp.

In a big leather chair sprawled Eduardo, legs upon the writing-table,
face hidden by a copy of _Le Petit Parisien_. Around him hung wreaths
of cigarette smoke, while ashes lay thick on the brown carpet.

Catherine drew back as though struck, but before she could escape the
butler had muttered something hardly to be construed as an apology and
shuffled out. As he passed her his eyes, muddy like those of an angry
bull, surveyed her with abashed but scornful defiance.

Her colour rose, her heart pounded uncontrollably. What insufferable
insolence! The man was disgracefully untidy, too, his usually sleek
hair bristling rough above the narrow strip of forehead, his chin blue
from lack of shaving, carpet slippers on his feet.

After a few seconds she forced herself to treat the matter as a joke.
Why work herself up over what did not concern her? Eduardo had simply
fallen back to what must have been his original state, a reversion not
to be wondered at in the circumstances. After opening the window to
rid the room of smoke, she made herself comfortable on the sofa and
picked up her book.

However, it was hard to fix her attention. Everything here, from the
big mahogany desk to the painting of a favourite race-horse over the
mantel, recalled insistently her late relative’s presence. Shutting
her eyes she could plainly see the tall, blond New Englander leaning
back in the chair the butler had just vacated, his silvered hair
smooth above keen boyish eyes, his fresh, unlined face so oddly
suggesting that of a handsome schoolmaster.

She had always liked Cousin Harry. Her mother’s first cousin, the sole
heir to a wealthy Boston banker, he had come to France in his youth,
married a French wife, and from thence on had pursued a care-free,
generous existence, travelling widely, collecting _objets d’art_, and
breeding race-horses. In spite of his pleasure-loving instincts he had
somehow preserved the backbone of his Puritan ancestry, and had
remained singularly unspoiled, never drinking too much, never running
after women. His attachment to Germaine had been well known, and for
all his popularity he had been happiest in her company. Probably he
alone had understood the shy, elusive woman now so shipwrecked by his
death.

Thinking of these things Catherine heard a ring at the bell and soon
afterwards saw through the crack of the door a heavily-built man with
a spade-shaped black beard lumber past, escorted by Jeanne. In the
distance a door closed. Then there was silence again, presently broken
by subdued whistling which the listener attributed to the cook.

Twenty minutes elapsed, after which the doctor, still accompanied by
Jeanne, returned along the hall. Close to the study the two halted for
a conference, and Catherine heard a deep bass rumble alternating with
the staccato utterance of the maid, whispered and mysterious.

At first there was only a confused babble but eventually after a
pregnant pause a few sentences emerged clear. The physician inquired
in booming accents oddly puzzled.

“_Vous êtes sûre, entendu, qu’il n’y a pas de souris là bas?_”

To which the reply came, positive and a little impatient:

“_Mais, voyons, monsieur! Un souris, dans cet apartement, parfaitement
soigné, tout propre? Elle rêve, la pauvre--c’est évident!_”

“_Ah, la malheureuse! Je crains que vous avez raison._”

The two moved away.

Catherine knit her brows, perplexed. A mouse? What had a mouse to do
with madame, and why should Jeanne make so indignant a denial? She
could think of no explanation.

It seemed an age before she caught Jeanne’s voice, brisk and
business-like, inquiring as to the whereabouts of Mademoiselle West.
Without waiting for a reply, Catherine jumped up and ran into the
hall.

“I am here, Jeanne. What did the doctor say?”

She fancied the maid looked a little annoyed at finding her at her
elbow, but her countenance quickly cleared, resuming its old
expression of suavity.

“Ah, there you are, mademoiselle! Madame is much better to-day. The
doctor thinks you may be allowed to see her for a quarter of an
hour--no longer, for it would not be wise. You will, of course, be
careful not to excite her in any way, as she is still in a very
nervous state.”

“You may trust me, Jeanne.”

Keyed up with expectancy, she followed the maid along the transverse
passage which communicated with the rooms opening on the court. At the
third door Jeanne paused, listened a moment, then grasped the girl’s
arm and whispered in her ear.

“Another thing, mademoiselle, which the doctor told me to caution you
about. Whatever you do, try not to contradict madame. She is apt to
get strange ideas into her head, to imagine things which are not true.
It is part of her illness, and to oppose her may bring on a _crise_.
You will be very careful about this?”

Catherine nodded, and the next instant the maid had slipped quietly
into the room, motioning to her to wait. From the other side of the
door came a plaintive voice which she well knew. It filled her with
surprise to find it so little altered.

“She is there? Tell her to come in--at once, at once! I am longing to
see her.”

“Yes, yes, madame. I only wished to make sure that madame is ready to
receive mademoiselle.”

“But of course I am ready! I am waiting! Catherine, my dear child,
come in, come in!”

With inward trepidation Catherine opened the door and entered.

CHAPTER SIX

She found herself in a room unexpectedly small and narrow, furnished
with sparse simplicity. Nearly everything was white, walls, covers,
the bed-hangings, pendent from a sort of crown. The only colour was
contained in the dull mauve-grey carpet and in the dark wood of the
severely beautiful Directoire furniture. The curtains were drawn, so
that although it was nearly midday there was a clear, luminous
twilight. On the panel beside the bed, facing the entrance, hung a
silver crucifix, under which were wax candles in brackets.

All this was but a general impression. What the girl chiefly saw was
the fragile figure in the bed, the grey eyes staring out of the drawn
and pallid face, the thin arms outstretched to greet her.

“Catherine! You have come, then! I did not know till a moment ago. My
dear--my dear!”

There was strained pathos in the quivering features, a catch in the
voice which poured forth its words in a rapid torrent. Tears dimmed
the invalid’s eyes, the veins stood out on her waxen temples as with
feverish intensity she kissed the young girl on both cheeks, then
clung to the warm hands with her own transparent ones.

“My darling Germaine!”

Now the first shock was over Catherine felt easier. Until this moment
she had nurtured a cankering doubt as to whether or not Mme. Bender
would recognize her.

“Madame! madame! Calm yourself! You will suffer for this.”

It was Jeanne who spoke, solicitous and reproving, hovering near by as
though in readiness to interpose at the slightest warning symptom.
Catherine had a fleeting impression of watchful eyes regarding them
anxiously.

“No, no, Jeanne, I am quite myself. You need have no fear. Only I am
so very, very glad to see this dear child, who has come all the way
across the ocean to be with me. Leave us for a little. I promise I
shall not become excited.”

“Very well, madame, I will go, but I shall not be far away. If madame
wants me, she has only to call.”

She withdrew into the adjoining room, not without a backward glance
full of doubt, and, it seemed to the girl, distrust. Through the
half-open door she could be heard moving about, as if reluctant to
remove herself from earshot. Evidently, although the patient appeared
quite normal, she was not satisfied. Probably experience had taught
her not to rely upon these fortunate phases too implicitly.

The Frenchwoman still detained Catherine’s hands, stroking them with
trembling, quick movements. Her eyes devoured the vivid young face.

“Sit there, my child, in the big chair, quite close to me. Now, tell
me everything about yourself. Did you have a good crossing, and was
Eduardo in time at the station? You were well looked after?”

“Everything was perfect, Germaine dear! Quite, quite perfect.”

On no account must Mme. Bender know what had actually happened.
Clearly she had not the least suspicion that her orders were
neglected.

“And your room? Do you like it? I told Jeanne to give you my own old
one, at the corner. I have lain here thinking how charming you would
look against the green and gold. Are you happy there?”

“It is a beautiful room, Germaine. It is like you to think of it.”

“No, no. I have nothing pleasanter to think of, here alone. I have
always marvelled how, out of that dull, cold New England, where no one
has any eyebrows, you could have got that colouring of a Tintoretto.
It warms one, like the sun.”

She ran on flutteringly in her pure and lovely French, and as the
sentences followed one another with rapid irrelevance the girl scanned
her features for some sign of aberration. After a few minutes he began
to feel less uneasy. Germaine was much as she had always been--aged,
of course, and tremulous from weakness, but otherwise little changed.
In the haggard features it was still possible to trace remnants of the
beauty which had first captivated Harry Bender. The luxuriant hair was
streaked with grey, but it retained its natural wave, and was worn as
she had always worn it, drawn back from a central parting to show her
delicate ears. On the right temple it revealed the end of the ugly
scar which marked the injury of last year.

Above all else it was the eyes which held Catherine’s attention. Wide,
strained and wistful, the eyes of a neurasthenic, they now riveted
their gaze eagerly on the girl’s face, now darted this way and that
with frequent watchful glances towards the open door. They expressed
timidity, lack of assurance, and some other less easily defined
emotion baffling to the onlooker; yet in them Catherine could detect
nothing to indicate loss of reason.

Nor in the rather childish prattle, skipping like a dragonfly from
topic to topic, was there anything unusual. At no time had Mme. Bender
possessed a keen or logical brain, though fineness of taste and an
evasive charm had in a great measure made up for lack of
understanding. Always she had given the impression of being withdrawn
in an inner fantastic world, and when it came to practical affairs she
had accepted the dictates of her husband without question. Now it
struck Catherine that these characteristics had assumed exaggerated
form. She had definitely reverted to a child-like state, trusting and
fearing without reason, shrinking from reality and claiming
protection. Just how far this retirement might extend it was
impossible to say.

All was now silent in the next room, though the girl did not remark
the fact until upon her companion’s face she caught an expression of
acute listening. Then she knew that Germaine wished to tell her
something, and had been waiting for the maid to go away.

“Catherine, my dear!”

She whispered the words, meantime clutching Catherine’s arm in a
nervous grasp.

“What is it, Germaine?”

“Yesterday--or was it the day before?--I had a dreadful experience.
Something so stupid happened. Have they told you?”

“A little, Germaine. You drank something by mistake. Wasn’t that it?”
returned the girl, embarrassed to find a suitable reply.

The grey eyes took on an eager glitter.

“A mistake--yes, yes! Just that. So foolish of me--I cannot yet think
how it came about.” She paused, again listening, then continued
earnestly: “I want you to believe me when I say it was an accident. I
had here on my table my sleeping-draught in a little glass, and in
another glass a solution of carbolic in which at night I put a little
dental plate. You understand?” she demanded urgently, her eyes
searching Catherine’s face.

“Of course. What happened then?”

“You see, one of the glasses is green. That is the one that contains
the sleeping-draught. Well, while Jeanne was out of the room getting
me a hot-water bottle, I took up the green glass and drank a little.
Only a very little, for at once I knew I had taken the wrong thing.
Ah!” with a convulsive shudder, her eyes closing, “it was strong, so
strong! It burnt my throat. My throat is still raw, though Jeanne
declares that is my imagination. You know sometimes my imagination is
very vivid.… Yet I cannot see how…” Her voice trailed off and she
pressed her fingers to her throat with a distracted gesture. “Anyhow I
screamed. ‘Jeanne, Jeanne, come at once!’ I called, ‘I have taken
poison!’ But she was at the back of the apartment, she could not hear
me. Meantime the drop I had swallowed burnt like fire all the way
down. I was in agony. It was a long time before I could make her
hear--poor Jeanne! She was terribly upset.”

Spent by the recollection, she lay back upon her pillows, while
perspiration broke out and lay in heavy drops on the waxen skin.
Catherine eyed her in keen distress.

“There, dear, it is all over now. Try to forget about it.”

Suddenly the prone figure stiffened, sat bolt upright, staring with a
look of terror. At the quick change Catherine realized the fact that
she was alone with a patient who a short time ago had suffered an
alarming attack. Ought she to summon Jeanne? Yet a second before she
had been impressed by the lucidity, the poignant underlying
conviction, of the invalid’s recital. She watched, uncertain what to
do.

“Forget it! Ah, that is what I must not do!” breathed the hoarse voice
fearfully. “I must remember it, so I cannot commit so frightful an
error again. The great trouble is my memory. I forget things so
easily--so easily! I must have forgotten which glass was which,
otherwise how could I have done what I did? You see? It shakes one’s
confidence. It----”

She checked herself with a gasp, eyes dilating. Following the
direction of their gaze, Catherine saw that Jeanne had come back, was
standing just inside the door. So engrossed had she been by her
cousin’s excitement she had not heard the light footfall.

The maid approached, anxious and disapproving.

“Madame! madame!” she declared with authority, “this will not do! I
implore you not to speak of that affair. Mademoiselle, you see? She is
getting into a panic again. Did I not warn you?” she ended accusingly.

Catherine thought it better not to reply. Besides, her attention was
transfixed by the instant alteration which had taken place with the
patient. Mme. Bender’s wan features assumed a timid, conciliatory
smile as she relaxed and lay back, breathing hard.

“It is nothing, Jeanne! I was only telling mademoiselle how imbecile
it was of me to mistake the plain glass for the green. Never in my
life have I done such a thing. It makes me feel quite, quite odd!” She
finished with an hysterical laugh of apology infinitely pathetic.

The maid, now on the other side of the bed, nodded at Catherine with
grim significance.

“One makes these mistakes sometimes when one is not quite oneself,”
she remarked soothingly yet with emphasis. “One imagines all sorts of
things. Madame knows now that she was wrong, because I showed her the
plain glass with the disinfectant still in it. Is it not so, madame?”

“Ah, yes, that is so. You were right, of course,” agreed the invalid
with eager alacrity. Then she caught the maid’s unresponsive hand in
hers and pressed it affectionately. “What should I do, where should I
be, without my dear, good Jeanne? No one, Catherine, would do for me
what she does,” she added, as though longing to assure the other of
her appreciation.

“You had better go now, mademoiselle,” suggested the woman firmly.
“This has been quite enough for one day.”

The girl rose, but a lightning clutch at her sleeve pulled her back
again.

“No, Jeanne, let her stay! I will not excite myself, really I will
not!”

With unmoved face the maid bent and loosed the fragile fingers.

“No, madame,” she said quietly, then stooping so that her lips were
close to the other’s ear she whispered in a low, distinct tone:
“Madame must try to behave reasonably, if she wishes to be permitted
company at all.”

At once Mme. Bender gave in with complete docility.

“Very well, then, I will do as you say. But she is to come again soon?
Catherine, my dear, you will sit with me often, will you not? I am
alone so much, and I think and think--such strange, disturbing
thoughts…”

“But of course, dear, I mean to be with you every day. As long as you
will have me.”

She kissed the thin cheek and withdrew, gravely nonplussed by the
recent scene. Jeanne followed her out, closing the door softly, and
when they had reached the bend in the passage spoke in an undertone.

“You see?” she said, and her tone though sorrowful held a touch of
triumph--almost, thought Catherine, as if she believed her word had
been doubted.

“I don’t know what to say, Jeanne,” faltered the girl. “Madame was
much more rational than I expected. In fact, if I had not been told
about this insanity, I doubt if I should have noticed anything. It was
only when she mentioned the poison----”

A quick gleam came into the other’s eyes.

“Ah, yes, I heard a little of what madame was saying. It is as I told
you, she is trying to justify her action and make us think it was
unintentional.”

“You are quite certain it wasn’t accidental?” suggested Catherine
doubtfully. “It seemed to me----”

The maid raised her eyebrows.

“Who can say?” she returned after a pause. “But it is strange, is it
not, how the mention of it throws her into a fever? No, I am afraid
she has lain there making up this story, which she now believes to be
true. She is often like that.”

“Do you mean, Jeanne,” whispered Catherine, recalling the marked
discrepancy between the invalid’s statement and the maid’s, “that what
she says about calling you and your not hearing her is an invention?”

A pitying smile broke over the sallow face.

“I am sorry to say, mademoiselle, there is not one word of truth in
it,” she replied positively. “I was upon the threshold at the time,
and snatched the glass from her lips. She did not know, of course,
that I was watching. Eduardo, Berthe, both heard me cry out, and ran
to see what was the matter.”

There seemed no doubt about it.