But Servigny turning around saw a letter on the table.He seized it with a rapid movement, and read the address.He understood and thought: "Perhaps it would be better if the Marquise should not know of this," and tearing open the envelope, he devoured at a glance the two lines it contained:
"I die so that I may not become a kept woman.""Yvette."
"Adieu, my dear mother, pardon."
"The devil!" he thought, "this calls for reflection." And he hid the letter in his pocket.
Then he approached the bed, and immediately the thought came to him that the young girl had regained consciousness but that she dared not show it, from shame, from humiliation, and from fear of questioning.The Marquise had fallen on her knees now, and was weeping, her head on the, foot of the bed.Suddenly she exclaimed:
"A doctor, we must have a doctor!"
But Servigny, who had just said something in a low tone to Saval, replied to her: "No, it is all over.Come, go out a minute, just a minute, and I promise you that she will kiss you when you come back." And the Baron, taking Madame Obardi by the arm, led her from the room.
Then Servigny, sitting-by the bed, took Yvette's hand and said:
"Mam'zelle, listen to me."
She did not answer.She felt so well, so soft and warm in bed, that she would have liked never to move, never to speak, and to live like that forever.An infinite comfort had encompassed her, a comfort the like of which she had never experienced.
The mild night air coming in by velvety breaths touched her temples in an exquisite almost imperceptible way.It was a caress like a kiss of the wind, like the soft and refreshing breath of a fan made of all the leaves of the trees and of all the shadows of the night, of the mist of rivers, and of all the flowers too, for the roses tossed up from below into her room and upon her bed, and the roses climbing at her balcony, mingled their heavy perfume with the healthful savor of the evening breeze.
She drank in this air which was so good, her eyes closed, her heart reposing in the yet pervading intoxication of the drug, and she had no longer at all the desire to die, but a strong, imperious wish to live, to be happy--no matter how--to be loved, yes, to be loved.
Servigny repeated: "Mam'zelle Yvette, listen to me."And she decided to open her eyes.
He continued, as he saw her reviving: "Come! Come! what does this nonsense mean?"She murmured: "My poor Muscade, I was so unhappy."He squeezed her hand: "And that led you into a pretty scrape! Come, you must promise me not to try it again."She did not reply, but nodded her head slightly with an almost imperceptible smile.He drew from his pocket the letter which he had found on the table:
"Had I better show this to your mother?"
She shook her head, no.He knew not what more to say for the situation seemed to him without an outlet.So he murmured "My dear child, everyone has hard things to bear.I understand your sorrow and I promise you--"She stammered: "You are good."
They were silent.He looked at her.She had in her glance something of tenderness, of weakness; and suddenly she raised both her arms, as if she would draw him to her; he bent over her, feeling that she called him, and their lips met.
For a long time they remained thus, their eyes closed.
But, knowing that he would lose his head, he drew away.She smiled at him now, most tenderly; and, with both her hands clinging to his shoulders, she held him.
"I am going to call your mother," he said.
She murmured: "Just a second more.I am so happy."Then after a silence, she said in a tone so low that it could scarcely be heard: "Will you love me very much? Tell me!"He kneeled beside her bed, and kissing the hand she had given him, said: "I adore you." But some one was walking near the door.He arose with a bound, and called in his ordinary voice, which seemed nevertheless a little ironical: "You may come in.It is all right now."The Marquise threw herself on her daughter, with both arms open, and clasped her frantically, covering her countenance with tears, while Servigny with radiant soul and quivering body went out upon the balcony to breathe the fresh air of the night, humming to himself the old couplet:
"A woman changeth oft her mind:
Yet fools still trust in womankind."
End
