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. 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.