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Spears of gold were thrust forth. "Flames," the doctor whispered to himself. "Flames! The will, the soul of God in nature." Valentine and Julian sat together in the tentroom at night, as they sat together many months ago, when Julian confessed his secret and Valentine expressed his strange desire to have a different soul. Now it was deep winter. The year was old. In three days it must die.
And so, now, as they sat smoking, he expressed his mood without fear or hesitation. The room in which they were was small. It was named the tentroom, being hung with dull-green draperies, which hid the ceiling and fell loosely to the floor on every side. A heavy curtain shrouded the one door. On the hearth flickered a fire, before which lay Valentine's fox-terrier, Rip.
Cuckoo was exhausted by the sleepless night of her vigil over Julian, and by the severe joy, almost like pain, that had burst upon her with his avowal and with his savage embrace. When she entered the tentroom followed by Julian, she looked like a shadow gliding wearily through twilight. The doctor was there with Valentine. Valentine's face was gay. His manner was ardent, almost tempestuous.
But when Valentine was alone, or when he expected one or two men to smoke, he invariably sat in the tentroom, where the long lounges and the shaded electric light were suggestive of desultory conversation, and seemed tacitly to forbid all things that savour of a hind-leg attitude. To-night, however, some whim, no doubt, had prompted him to forsake his usual haunt.
"He said, 'You made a great mistake in changing your venue to that room, a great mistake. Then I explained how we moved back to the tentroom in the middle of the sitting, and all about Rip." "Did he make any remark?" "One that struck me as very quaint, 'You are en route." "Enigmatic again. He was playing the wizard." "He spoke very gravely." "Of course. Great gravity is part of the business."
It lay in the snow, like some abandoned beggar waiting for the inevitable end. Some, who were happy, would fain have succoured it and kept it with them. Others, who were sad, said: "Let it go this beggar. Already it has taken too many alms from us." But neither the happy nor the sad could affect its fate. So it lay in the snow and in the wind, upon its deathbed. The tentroom had not been altered.
On my arrival at Malmaison I was ushered into the tentroom leading to the library. How I was astonished at the good-natured familiarity with which he received me! This extraordinary man displayed, if I may employ the term, a coquetry towards me which surprised me, notwithstanding my past knowledge of his character.
No more? Really? Nor you, Julian?" Julian made no reply. He simply pushed his glass a little away from him. "Then shall we accompany Miss Bright into the tentroom? I thought we would have coffee there. You have never seen the tentroom," he added to Cuckoo, getting up from his seat as he spoke. "I usually sit in it when I am alone or with Julian. You will not mind our cigarettes, I know."
"Rip," he cried; "Rip!" The little dog sprang from its lonely sleep and accompanied Julian energetically to the tentroom. Observing Valentine's attitude, it sprang upon the couch beside him, licked his white face eagerly, then, gaining no response, showed hesitation, alarm. It began to investigate the body eagerly with its sharp nose, snuffing at head, shoulders, legs, feet.
Put Rip into your bedroom, as he advised. Besides, I can't stand his barking." Valentine carried the little dog away. When he came back he shut the tentroom door and was about to draw the curtain over it. But Julian stopped him. "No, don't," Julian said. "Why not?" "I would rather you didn't. I hate that curtain. If I were you I would have it taken down altogether."
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