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A sudden idea had come to her, an idea that stirred within her a great happiness, that made a flame of joy spring up in her heart. "Maurice, you you " "What is it?" he asked. "You aren't vexed at my staying away so long? You aren't vexed at my bringing Emile back with me?" "No, of course not," he said. "But but I wish you hadn't gone away."
The doctor?" "No, it was Emile." Vardri nodded towards the communicating door of the bedroom. "Poleski is here then?" "No, and he doesn't know I'm here. He has gone to Sária and will not be back till late. I was horribly irritable this morning, so he thinks I'm all right now." A ripple of amusement broke her voice as their eyes met.
And as her eyes became accustomed to their environment she perceived that the pallor without was impinged upon by two shadowy darknesses. Very faint they were, scarcely relieved against the night, very still and dumb two shadowy darknesses, Emile and Vere sitting together in silence. When Hermione understood this she remained where she was, trying to subdue even her breathing.
"Very often," Beauvisage put in his word, "it is with articles that are not toys at all that children like best to play. My nephew Émile, a little chap of seven, a very intelligent child, amuses himself all day long with little wooden bricks with which he builds houses.... Do you snuff, citoyens?" and Beauvisage held out his open snuff-box to the two delegates.
"Mars' Emile," said a low voice, as the unknown figure approached close to him, "Mars' Emile Le Grande, don't you know me? I am here as I promised." Affrighted at this seeming apparition, Emile shrank back, saying, "Stand back, man or devil, whatever you may be! Who are you? What do you want?" he continued, as the unknown figure essayed to lay hold of his arm. "Hush! hush! We may be overheard.
Emile heard me with attention not unmixed with anxiety. After such a startling preface he feared some gloomy conclusion.
"I think I hear you asking, 'What of Emile? and in a few brief words I can reply. I still see him occasionally, and he still professes his unchanging love for me. Forgive me, Lizzie; pardon what may seem in me a weakness, but I must confess it, I believe I love Emile.
But they acquire the habit of observing faults in others, and of enjoying such discoveries. This source of evil evidently does not exist in Émile. Having no interest to serve by discovering my faults, he will not look for them in me, and will have little temptation to seek them in other people.
But with the removal of Vere a protection and safety-valve seemed to be removed, and neither Hermione nor Emile could for a moment continue the conversation. Again a sense of humiliation, of being mindless, nothing in the eyes of Artois came to Hermione, diminishing all her powers. She was never a conceited, but she had often been a self-reliant woman.
She was expecting a visit from the writer of the letters, Emile Artois, who had wired to her on the previous day that he was coming over from Paris by the night train and boat. Miss Lester was a woman of thirty-four, five feet ten in height, flat, thin, but strongly built, with a large waist and limbs which, though vigorous, were rather unwieldy.
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