The Son of Clemenceau Part 20

But Rebecca's was an ethereal spirit eternal. Thinking of her he could believe himself young and comely again and loving forever in another sphere. This was the being whom he would eternally adore, whether he or she were the first to quit the earth.

Here lay the consolation. Cesarine, like all evil, was transient; Rebecca, like all good, everlasting.

"Let her come," said he at last, lifting his head slowly and no longer troubled. "She need not fear. I shall bear in mind the Oriental proverb Daniels quoted: 'Do not beat a woman, even with roses!'"

Hardly were the words formed in his mind than his wife appeared as though by that mind reading, frequent in married couples--she had waited for this a.s.surance of her personal safety to be mentally formed.

In the short time given her toilet, she had performed wonders. Perhaps, with a surprising effort of her will, she had s.n.a.t.c.hed some rest, for her eyes wore the fresh, pellucid gleam after prolonged slumber. Her cheeks were smooth and by artifice, seemed to wear the virginal down.

Easy and graceful as ever, she affected a slight constraint, which agreed with a pretence of avoiding his glances.

"You must be astonished to see me!" she exclaimed, for he did not say a word of greeting.

No man could have looked less astonished, and, with the greatest evenness of tone, he answered:

"You ought to know that nothing you do astonishes me."

"But I remember--I wrote you a long letter explaining my absence and the necessity of my sudden departure--the despatch from my poor uncle's secretary--I ordered it to be given you--it explained my sudden departure--"

"Hedwig gave me the paper," he said shortly.

"But my letter, saying I had nursed him to convalescence and had fallen ill myself? You had time to reply but you did not do so."

"I received no letter," he said, like a speaking machine.

"Dear, dear, how could that be!" she muttered, tapping her foot on the head of the tiger-skin rug.

"Perhaps it arises from your never writing me any," he said, but without bitterness.

"Oh, I could swear--"

"It is of no consequence either way."

"Since you did not reply, I came to you although it was at a great risk.

I would not tell you that I was leaving a sickroom for fear it would fill you with too great pain or too great hope."

"How witty you are!"

"Would you not be happy if I died?"

"If you were in a dying state, somebody might have written for you--Madame Lesperon or your uncle," speaking as if the persons were fabulous creatures.

"Oh, my granduncle is well known at the Russian Emba.s.sy, and Madame and M. Lesperon remember your lamented father distinctly."

He bit his lip as if he detested hearing his father spoken of by her.

"Madame wanted to write to you--she expected you to come for me, like any other husband, but I knew you were not like other husbands, and would not come."

She was sincere; women always speak out when boldness is an excuse.

"You mistake," he interrupted, "I would have come, under the belief that on your death bed, you would have confession to make or desires to express which a husband alone should hear."

"What do you suppose?" cried Cesarine, trying to forget that the speaker must have seen the death of her lover--whether he connived at it or not--and her flight, whether he facilitated it or not.

"I do not suppose anything, but I remember and I forsee."

"Do you mean to say that you do not feel ill-will because I have come back?"

"Madame Clemenceau, this house is ours--as much yours as mine. That is why I asked you to come down here, for it is necessary to sell it."

"Why am I charged with the business?"

"Because you have an interest in it. Half of all I own is yours."

"But you long ago repaid my share, and generously!"

"Not in the eyes of the law, and it pleases me that you should do this."

"But I do not need anything. My uncle was pleased at my nursing him back to health; his children have been unkind to him, and he has transferred to me some property in France, a handsome income! Grant to me a great pleasure--of which I am not worthy," she went on tearfully, "but you will have the more merit, then! Let me lend you any sum of which you have need."

"I thank you, but I have already refused a thousand times the amount from an unsullied hand!" returned Clemenceau, emphatically.

"That Jewess'!" she exclaimed, with a great change in her bearing.

"Hush! strangers present!" and in uttering this talismanic cue between married people, he pointed to the shadow on the curtains.

Rebecca had concluded her pilotage of M. Cantagnac and it was he whom Clemenceau soon after presented to his wife.

"Let me add, M. Cantagnac, that you must be my guest as long as you stay at Montmorency, for the hotels are conducted solely for the excursionists who come out of Paris and their accommodations would not please you. You are expected to sit down to dinner with us at one o'clock, country fashion and I will order a bedroom ready also."

"Gracious heavens! you are really too good!" exclaimed Cantagnac, lifting his hands almost devoutly.

CHAPTER XVII.

DEMON AND ARCH-DEMON.

After one sharp slighting look at the visitor, Madame Clemenceau had withdrawn her senses within herself, so to say, to come to a conclusion on the singular conduct of her husband. His cold scorn daunted her, and filled her with dread. Had not the Jewess been on the spot, whom she believed to be a rival once more, however high was her character and Hedwig's eulogy, she would have prudently fled again without fighting.

She had the less reason to stay, as the house was to be sold, in a manner of speaking, from under her feet.

Yet the Ma.r.s.eillais was worth more than a pa.s.sing glance. When alone with the lady, whom he regarded steadfastly, a radical change took place in his carriage, and he who had been so easy and oily became stiff, stern and rigid. It was the att.i.tude no longer of a secret agent, wearing the mien and mask of his profession, but of a military spy, who stands before a subordinate when disguise is superfluous.

"Truly, she is more bewitching than when I first knew her," he muttered between his close teeth, as if he admired with awe and suppressed breath. "What a pretty monster she is!"

Feeling that his view was weighing upon her, Madame Clemenceau suddenly looked up. It seemed to her that something in the altered and insolent bearing was not unknown to her but the recollection was hazy, and the black whiskers perplexed.

"Did you speak, monsieur?" she said, to give herself countenance.