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.