I.
The following morning, towards twelve o'clock, a note from Madeleinewas handed to Maurice. In it, she begged him to account to Schwarz forher absence from the rehearsal of a trio, which was to have taken placeat two.
GO AND EXPLAIN THAT IT IS QUITE IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME TO COME, she wrote.LOUISE IS VERY ILL; THE DOCTOR IS AFRAID OF BRAIN FEVER. I AM RUSHING,OFF THIS MOMENT TO SEE ABOUT A NURSE--AND SHALL STAY TILL ONE COMES.
He read the words mechanically, without taking in their meaning. Fromthe paper, his eyes roved round the room; he saw the tumbled, unopenedbed, from which he had just risen, the traces of his boots on thecoverings. He could not remember how he had come there; his lastrecollection was of being turned out of Krafft's room, in what seemedto be still the middle of the night. Since getting home, he must haveslept a dead sleep.
"Ill? Brain fever?" he repeated to himself, and his mind strove topierce the significance of the words. What had happened? Why should shebe ill? A racking uneasiness seized him and would not let him rest. Hisinclination was to lay his aching head on the pillow again; but thiswas out of the question; and so, though he seldom braved Frau Krause,he now boldly went to her with a request to warm up his coffee.
When he had drunk it, and bathed his head, he felt considerably better.But he still could not call to mind what had occurred. The previousevening was blurred in its details; he only had a sense of oppressionwhen he thought of it, as of something that had threatened, and stilldid. He was glad to have a definite task before him, and went out atonce, in order to catch Schwarz before he left the Conservatorium; butit was too late; the master's door was locked. It was a bright, coldday with strong sunlight; Maurice's eyes ached, and he shrank from thewind at every corner. Instead of going home, he went to Madeleine'sroom and sat down to wait for her. She had evidently been away sinceearly morning; the piano was dusty and unopened; the blind at the headof it had not been drawn up. It was a pleasant dusk; he put his arms onthe table, his head on his arms, and, in spite of his anxiety, fellinto a sound sleep.
He was wakened by Madeleine's entrance. It was three o'clock. She camebustling in, took off her hat, laid it on the piano, and at once drewup the blind. She was not surprised to find him there, but exclaimed athis appearance.
"Good gracious, Maurice, how dreadful you look! Are you ill?"
He hastened to reassure her, and she was a little put out at her wastedsympathy.
"Well, no wonder, I'm sure, after the doings there were last night. Apretty way to behave! And that you should have mixed yourself up in itas you did!--I wouldn't have believed it of you. How I know? My dearboy, it's the talk of the place."
Her words called up to him a more lucid remembrance of the past eveningthan he had yet been capable of. In his eagerness to recollecteverything, he changed colour and looked away. Madeleine put hisconfusion down to another cause.
"Never mind, it's over now, and we won't say any more about it. Sitstill, and I'll make you some tea. That will do your head good--for youhave a splitting headache, haven't you? I shall be glad of some myself,too, after all the running about I've had this morning. I'm quite wornout."
When she heard that he had had no dinner, she sent for bread andsausage, and was so busy and unsettled that only when she sat down,with her cup before her, did he get a chance to say: "What is it,Madeleine? Is she very ill?"
Madeleine shrugged her shoulders. "Yes, she is ill enough. It's noteasy to say what the matter is, though. The doctor is to see her againthis evening. And I found a nurse."
"Then she is not going away?" He did not mean to say the words aloud;they escaped him against his will.
His companion raised her eyebrows, filling her forehead with wrinkles."Going away?" she echoed. "I should say not. My dear Maurice, what ismore, it turns out she hadn't an idea he was going either. What do yousay to that?" She flushed with sincere indignation. "Not an idea--untilyesterday. My lord had the intention of sneaking off without a word,and of leaving her to find it out for herself. Oh, it's an abominableaffair altogether!--and has been from beginning to end. There's muchabout Louise, as you know, that I don't approve of, and I think she hasbehaved weakly--not to call it by a harder name--all through. But now,she has my entire sympathy. The poor girl is in a pitiable state."
"Is she ... dangerously ill?"
"Well, I don't think she'll die of it, exactly--though it might bebetter for her if she did. NA!... let me fill up your cup. And eatsomething more. Oh, he is ... no words are bad enough for him; thoughhonestly speaking, I think we might have been prepared for something ofthis kind, all along. It seems he made his arrangements for going onthe quiet. Frau Schaefele advanced him the money; for of course he hasnothing of his own. But what condition do you think the old wretchmade? That he should break with Louise. Furst has told me all about it.I went to him at once this morning. She was always jealous ofLouise--though to him she only talked of the holiness of art and theartist's calling, and the danger of letting domestic ties entangle you,and rubbish of that kind. I believe she was at the bottom of it that hedidn't marry Louise long ago. Well, however that may be, he now lethimself be persuaded easily enough. He was hearing on all sides that hehad been here too long; and candidly, I think he was beginning to feelLouise a drag on him. I know of late they were not getting on welltogether. But to be such a coward and a weakling! To slink off in thisfashion! Of course, when it came to the last, he was simply afraid ofher, and of the scene she would make him. Bravery has as little room inhis soul as honesty or manliness. He would always prefer a back-doorexit. Such things excite a man, don't you know?--and ruffle thenecessary artistic composure." She laughed scornfully. "However, I'mglad to say, he didn't escape scot-free after all. Everything went welltill yesterday afternoon, when Louise, who was as unsuspecting as achild, heard of it from some one--they say it was Krafft. Withoutthinking twice--you know her ... or rather you don't--she went straightto Schilsky and confronted him. I can't tell you what took placebetween them, but I can imagine something of it, for when Louise letsherself go, she knows no bounds, and this was a matter of life anddeath to her."
Madeleine rose, blew out the flame of the spirit-lamp, and refilled theteapot.
"Fraulein Grunhut, her landlady, heard her go out yesterday afternoon,but didn't hear her come in, so it must have been late in the evening.Louise hates to be pried on, and the old woman is lazy, so she didn'tgo to her room till about half-past eight this morning, when she tookin the hot water. Then she found Louise stretched on the floor, just asshe had come in last night, her hat lying beside her. She wasconscious, and her eyes were open, but she was stiff and cold, andwouldn't speak or move. Grunhut couldn't do anything with her, and wasmortally afraid. She sent for me; and between us we got her to bed, andI went for a doctor. That was at nine, and I have been on my feet eversince."
"It's awfully good of you."
"No, she won't die," continued Madeleine meditatively, stirring hertea. "She's too robust a nature for that. But I shouldn't wonder if itaffected her mind. As I say, she knows no bounds, and has never learntself-restraint. It has always been all or nothing with her. And this Imust say: however foolish and wrong the whole thing was, she wasdevoted to Schilsky, and sacrificed everything--work, money andfriends--to her infatuation. She lived only for him, and this is amoral judgment on her. Excess of any kind brings its own punishmentwith it."
She rose and smoothed her hair before the mirror.
"And now I really must get to work, and make up for the lost morning. Ihaven't touched a note to-day. As for you, Maurice, if you take myadvice, you'll go home and go to bed. A good sleep is what you'reneeding. Come to-morrow, if you like, for further news. I shall go backafter supper, and hear what the doctor says. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Madeleine. You're a brick."
Having returned to his room, he lay face downwards on the sofa. He wassick at heart. Viewed in the light of the story he had heard fromMadeleine, life seemed too unjust to be endured. It propounded riddlesno one could ans
wer; the vast output of energy that composed it, wasmisdirected; on every side was cruelty and suffering. Only theheartless and selfish--those who deserved to suffer--went free.
He pressed the back of his hand to his tired eyes; and, despite hergood deeds, he felt a sudden antipathy to Madeleine, who, on a day likethis, could take up her ordinary occupation.
In the morning, on awakening from a heavy sleep, he was seized by afear lest Louise should have died in the night. Through brooding on it,the fear became a certainty, and he went early to Madeleine, making adetour through the BRUDERSTRASSE, where his suspicions were confirmedby the lowered blinds. He had almost two hours to wait; it was eleveno'clock before Madeleine returned. Her face was so grave that his heartseemed to stop beating. But there was no change in the sick girl'scondition; the doctor was perplexed, and spoke of a consultation.Madeleine was returning at two o'clock to relieve the nurse.
"You are foolishly letting it upset you altogether," she reprovedMaurice. "And it won't mend matters in the least. Go home and settledown to work, like a sensible fellow."
He tried to follow Madeleine's advice. But it was of no use; when hehad struggled on for half an hour, he sprang up, realising howmonstrous it was that he should be sitting there, drilling his fingers,getting the right notes of a turn, the specific shade of a crescendo,when, not very far away, Louise perhaps lay dying. Again he felt keenlythe contrariness of life; and all the labour which those around himwere expending on the cult of hand and voice and car, seemed of aludicrous vanity compared with the grim little tragedy that touched himso nearly; and in this mood he remained, throughout the days ofsuspense that now ensued.
He went regularly every afternoon to Madeleine, and, if she were not athome, waited till she returned, an hour, two hours, as the case mightbe. This was the vital moment of the day--when he read her tidings fromher face.
At first they were always the same: there was no change. Fever did notset in, but, day and night, Louise lay with wide, strained eyes; sherefused nourishment, and the strongest sleeping-draught had no effect.Then, early one morning, for some trifling cause which, afterwards, noone could recall, she broke into a convulsive fit of weeping, went ontill she was exhausted, and subsequently fell asleep.
On the day Maurice learnt that she was out of danger, he walked deepinto the woods. The news had lifted such a load from his mind that hefelt almost happy. But before he reached home again, his brain hadbegun to work at matters which, during the period of anxiety, it hadleft untouched. At first, in desperation, he had been selfless enoughto hope that Schilsky would return, on learning what had happened. Now,however, that he had not done so, and Louise had passed safely throughthe ordeal, Maurice was ready to tremble lest anything should occur tosoil the robe of saintly suffering, in which he draped her.
He began to take up the steady routine of his life again. Furstreceived him with open arms, and no allusion was made to the night inthe BRUHL. With the cessation of his anxiety, a feeling of benevolencetowards other people awakened in him, and when, one afternoon, Schwarzasked the assembled class if no one knew what had become of Krafft,whether he was ill, or anything of the kind, it was Maurice whovolunteered to find out. He remembered now that he had not seen Krafftat the Conservatorium for a week or more.
Frau Schulz looked astonished to see him, and, holding the door in herhand, made no mien to let him enter. Herr Krafft was away, she saidgruffly, had been gone for about a week, she did not know where or why.He had left suddenly one morning, without her knowledge, and thefollowing day a postcard had come from him, stating that all his thingswere to lie untouched till his return.
"He was so queer lately that I'd be just as pleased if he stayed awayaltogether," she said. "That's all I can tell you. Maybe you'd getsomething more out of her. She knows more than she says, anyhow," andshe pointed with her thumb at the door of the adjoining PENSION.
Maurice rang there, and a dirty maid-servant showed him Avery's room.At his knock, she opened the door herself, and first looked surprised,then alarmed at seeing him.
"What's the matter? Has anything happened?" she stammered, like one onthe look-out for bad news.
"Then what do you want?" she asked in her short, unpleasant way, whenhe had reassured her.
"I came up to see Heinz. And they tell me he is not here; and FrauSchulz sent me to you. Schwarz was asking for him. Is it true that hehas gone away?"
"Yes, it's true."
"Where to? Will he be away long?"
"How should I know?" she cried rudely. "Am I his keeper? Find out foryourself, if you must know," and the door slammed to in his face.
He mentioned the incident to Madeleine that evening. She lookedstrangely at him, he thought, and abruptly changed the subject. A dayor two later, on the strength of a rumour that reached his ears, hetackled Furst, and the latter, who, up to this time, had been of apraiseworthy reticence, let fall a hint which made Maurice look blankwith amazement. Nevertheless, he could not now avoid seeing certainincidents in his friendship with Krafft, under a different aspect.
About a fortnight had elapsed since the beginning of Louise's illness;she was still obliged to keep her bed. More than once, of late,Madeleine had returned from her daily visit, decidedly out of temper.
"Louise rubs me up the wrong way," she complained to Maurice. "And sheisn't in the least grateful for all I've done for her. I really thinkshe prefers having the nurse about her to me."
"Sick people often have such fancies," he consoled her.
"Louise shows hers a little too plainly. Besides, we have never got onwell for long together."
But one afternoon, on coming in, she unpinned her hat and threw it onthe piano, with a decisive haste that was characteristic of her inanger.
"That's the end; I don't go back again. I'm not paid for my services,and am under no obligation to listen to such things as Louise said tome to-day. Enough is enough. She is well on the mend, and must get onnow as best she can. I wash my hands of the whole affair."
"But you're surely not going to take what a sick person saysseriously?" Maurice exclaimed in dismay. "How can she possibly get onwith only those strangers about her?"
"She's not so ill now. She'll be all right," answered Madeleine; shehad opened a letter that was on the table, and did not look up as shespoke. "There's a limit to everything--even to my patience with herrudeness."
And on returning the following day, he found, sure enough, that, trueto her word, Madeleine had not gone back. She maintained an obstinatesilence about what had happened, and requested that he would now letthe matter drop.
The truth was that Madeleine's conscience was by no means easy.
She had gone to see Louise on that particular afternoon, with even moreinconvenience to herself than usual. On admitting her, Fraulein Grunhuthad endeavoured to detain her in the passage, mumbling andgesticulating in the mystery-mongering way with which Madeleine had nopatience. It incited her to answer the old woman in a loud, clearvoice; then, brusquely putting her aside, she opened the door of thesick girl's room.
As she did so, she uttered an exclamation of surprise. Louise, in aflannel dressing-gown, was standing at the high tiled stove behind thedoor. Both her arms were upraised and held to it, and she leant herforehead against the tiles.
"Good Heavens, what are you doing out of bed?" cried Madeleine; and, asshe looked round the room: "And where is Sister Martha?"
Louise moved her head, so that another spot of forehead came in contactwith the tiles, and looked up at Madeleine from under her heavy lids,without replying.
Madeleine laid one by one on the table some small purchases she hadmade on the way there.
"Well, are you not going to speak to me to-day?" she said in a pleasantvoice, as she unbuttoned her jacket. "Or tell me what I ask about theSister?" There was not a shade of umbrage in her tone.
Louise moved her head again, and looked away from Madeleine to the wallof the room. "I have got up," she answered, in such a low voice thatMadeleine had to pause
in what she was doing, to hear her; "because Icould not bear to lie in bed any longer. And I've sent the Sisteraway--because ... oh, because I couldn't endure having her about me."
"You have sent Sister Martha away?" echoed Madeleine. "On your ownresponsibility? Louise!--how absurd! Well, I suppose I must put on myhat again and fetch her back. How can you get on alone, I should liketo know? Really, I have no time to come oftener than I do."
"I'm quite well now. I don't need anyone."
"Come, get back into bed, like a good girl, and I will make you sometea," said Madeleine, in the gently superior tone that one uses to asick person, to a young child, to anyone with whom it is not fitting todispute.
Instead, Louise left the stove, and sat down in a low Americanrocking-chair, where she crouched despondently.
"I wish I had died," she said in a toneless voice.
Madeleine smiled with exaggerated cheerfulness, and rattled thetea-cups. "Nonsense! You mustn't talk about dying--now that you arenearly well again. Besides, you know, such things are easily said. Onedoesn't mean them."
"I wish I had died. Why didn't you let me die?" repeated Louise in thesame apathetic way.
Madeleine did not reply; she was cogitating whether it would be moreconvenient to go after the nurse at once, and what she ought to do ifshe could not get her to come back. For Louise would certainly havedespatched her in tragedy-fashion.
Meanwhile the latter had laid her arms along the low arms of the chair,and now sat gazing from one to the other of her hands. In their way,these hands of hers had acquired a kind of fame, which she had oncebeen vain of. They had been photographed; a sculptor had modelled themfor a statue of Antigone--long, slim and strong, with closely knitfingers, and pale, deep-set nails: hands like those of an adoringVirgin; hands which had an eloquent language all their own, but littleor no agility, and which were out of place on the keys of a piano.Louise sat looking at them, and her face was so changed--the hollowsetting of the eyes reminded perpetually of the bones beneath; thelines were hammered black below the eyes; nostrils and lips werepinched and thinned--that Madeleine, secretly observing her, remarkedto herself that Louise looked at least ten years older than before. Heryouth, and, with it, such freshness as she had once had, were gone fromher.
"Here is your tea."
The girl drank it slowly, as if swallowing were an effort, whileMadeleine went round the room, touching and ordering, and opening awindow. This done, she looked at her watch.
"I will go now," she said, "and see if I can persuade Sister Martha tocome back. If you haven't mortally offended her, that is."
Louise started up from her chair, and put her cup, only half emptied,on the table.
"Madeleine!--please--please, don't! I can't have her back again. I amquite well now. There was nothing more she could do for me. I shallsleep a thousand times better at night if she is not here. Oh, don'tbring her back again! Her voice cut like a knife, and her hands were sohard."
She trembled with excitement, and was on the brink of tears.
"Hush!--don't excite yourself like that," said Madeleine, and tried tosoothe her. "There's no need for it. If you are really determined notto have her, then she shall not come and that's the end of it. Not butwhat I think it foolish of you all the same," she could not refrainfrom adding. "You are still weak. However, if you prefer it, I'll do mybest to run up this evening to see that you have everything for thenight."
"I don't want you either."
Madeleine shrugged her shoulders, and her pity became tinged withimpatience.
"The doctor says you must go away somewhere, for a change," she said asshe beat up the pillows and smoothed out the crumpled sheets,preparatory to coaxing her patient back to bed.
Louise shook her head, but did not speak.
"A few weeks' change of air is what you need to set you up again."
"I cannot go away."
"Nonsense! Of course you can. You don't want to be ill all the winter?"
"I don't want to be well."
Madeleine sniffed audibly. "There's no reasoning with you. When youhear on all sides that it's for your own good----"
"Oh, stop tormenting me!" cried Louise, raising a drawn face withdisordered hair. "I won't go away! Nothing will make me. I shall stayhere--though I never get well again."
"But why? Give me one sensible reason for not going.--You can't!"
"Yes ... if ... if Eugen should come back."
The words could only just be caught. Madeleine stood, holding a sheetwith both hands, as though she could not believe her ears.
"Louise!" she said at last, in a tone which meant many things.
Louise began to cry, and was shaken by hard, dry sobs. Madeleine didnot look at her again, but went severely on with her bedmaking. Whenshe had finished, she crossed to the washstand, and poured out a glassof water.
Louise took it, humbled and submissive, and gradually her sobs abated.But now Madeleine, in place of getting ready to leave, as she hadintended, sat down at the centre table, and revolved what she felt itto be her duty to say. When all sound of crying had ceased, she beganto speak, persuasively, in a quiet voice.
"You have brought the matter up yourself, Louise," she said, "and, nowthe ice is broken, there are one or two things I should like to say toyou. First then, you have been very ill, far worse than you know--theimmediate danger is over now, so I can speak of it. But who can tellwhat may happen if you persist in remaining on here by yourself, in thestate you are in?"
Louise did not stir; her face was hidden.
"The reason you give for staying is not a serious one, I hope,"Madeleine proceeded cautiously choosing her words. "After all the ...the precautions that were taken to ensure the ... break, it is not alllikely ... he would think of returning. And Louise," she added withwarmth, "even though he did--suppose he did--after the way he hasbehaved, and his disgraceful treatment of you----"
Louise looked up for an instant. "That is not true," she said.
"Not true?" echoed Madeleine. "Well, if you are able to admire hisbehaviour--if you don't consider it disgraceful--no, more thanthat--infamous----" She stopped, not being able to find a strongerepithet.
"It is not true," said Louise in the same expressionless voice. But nowshe lifted her head, and pressed the palms of her hands together.
Madeleine pushed back her chair, as if she were about to rise. "Then Ihave nothing more to say," she said; and went on: "If you are ready todefend a man who has acted towards you as he has--in a way that makes arespectable person's blood boil--there is indeed nothing more to besaid." She reddened with indignation. "As if it were not bad enough forhim to go, after all you have done for him, but that he must do it insuch a mean, underhand way--it's enough to make one sick. The onlything to compare with it is his conduct on the night before he left. Doyou know, pray, that on the last evening, at a KNEIPE in the GOLDENEHIRSCH, he boasted of what you had done for him--boasted abouteverything that had happened between you--to a rowdy, tipsy crew? Morethan that, he gave shameless details, about you going to his room thatafternoon----"
"It's not true, it's not true," repeated Louise, as if she had gotthese few words by heart. She rose from her chair, and leaned on it,half turning her back to Madeleine, and holding her handkerchief to herlips.
Madeleine shrugged her shoulders. "Do you think I should say it, if itweren't?" she asked. "I don't invent scandal. And you are bound to hearit when you go out again. He did this, and worse than I choose to tellyou, and if you felt as you ought to about it, you would never give himanother thought. He's not worth it. He's not worth any respectableperson's----"
"Respectable!" burst in Louise, and raised two blazing eyes to hercompanion's face. "That's the second time. Why do you come here,Madeleine, and talk like that to me? He did what he was obligedto--that's all: for I should never have let him go. Can't you see howpreposterous it is to think that by talking of respectability, andunworthiness, you can make me leave off caring for him?--when formonths I have lived fo
r nothing else? Do you think one can change one'sfeelings so easily? Don't you understand that to love a person once isto love him always and altogether?--his faults as well--everything hedoes, good or bad, no matter what other people think of it? Oh, youhave never really cared for anyone yourself, or you would know it."
"It's not preposterous at all," retorted Madeleine. "Yes--if he haddeserved all the affection you wasted on him, or if unhappycircumstances had separated you. But that's not the case. He hasbehaved scandalously, without the least attempt at shielding you. Hehas made you the talk of the place. And you may consider me narrow andprejudiced, but this I must say--I am boundlessly astonished at you.When he has shown you as plainly as he can that he's tired of you, thatyou should still be ready to defend him, and have so little properpride that you even say you would take him back!----"
Louise turned on her. "You would never do that, Madeleine, wouldyou?--never so far forget yourself as to crawl to a man's feet andask--ask?--no, implore forgiveness, for faults you were not consciousof having committed. You would never beg him to go on loving you, afterhe had ceased to care, or think nothing on earth worth having if hewould not--or could not. As I would; as I have done." But chancing tolook at Madeleine, she grew quieter. "You would never do that, wouldyou?" she repeated. "And do you know why?" Her words came quicklyagain; her voice shook with excitement. "Because you will never carefor anyone more than yourself--it isn't in you to do it. You will gothrough life, tight on to the end, without knowing what it is to carefor some one--oh, but I mean absolutely, unthinkingly----"
She broke down, and hid her face again. Madeleine had carried the cupsand saucers to a side-table, and now put on her hat.
"And I hope I never shall," she said, forcing herself to speak calmly."If I thought it likely, I should never look at a man again."
But Louise had not finished. Coming round to the front of therocking-chair, and leaning on the table, she gazed at Madeleine withwild eyes, while her pale lips poured forth a kind of revenge for thesuffering, real and imaginary, that she had undergone at the hands ofthis cooler nature.
"And I'll tell you why. You are doubly safe; for you will never be ableto make a man care so much that--that you are forced to love him likethis in return. It isn't in you to do it. I don't mean because you'replain. There are plenty of plainer women than you, who can make menfollow them. No, it's your nature--your cold, narrow, egotisticnature--which only lets you care for things outside yourself in a cold,narrow way. You will never know what it is to be taken out of yourself,taken and shaken, till everything you are familiar with falls away."
She laughed; but tears were near at hand. Madeleine had turned her backon her, and stood buttoning her jacket, with a red, exasperated face.
"I shall not answer you," she said. "You have worked yourself into sucha state that you don't know what you're saying. All the same, I thinkyou might try to curb your tongue. I have done nothing to you--but bekind to you."
"Kind to me? Do you call it kind to come here and try to set me againstthe man I love best in the world? And who loves me best, too. Yes; hedoes. He would never have gone, if he hadn't been forced to--if Ihadn't been a hindrance to him--a drag on him."
"It makes me ashamed of my sex to hear you say such things. That awoman can so far lose her pride as to----"
"Oh, other women do it in other ways. Do you think I haven't seen howyou have been trying to make some one here like you?--doing yourutmost, without any thoughts of pride or self-respect.--And how youhave failed? Yes, failed. And if you don't believe me, ask himyourself--ask him who it is that could bring him to her, just byraising her finger. It's to me he would come, not to you--to me whohave never given him look or thought."
Madeleine paled, then went scarlet. "That's a direct untruth. You!--andnot to egg a man on, if you see he admires you! You know every time apasser-by looks at you in the street. You feed on such looks--yes, andreturn them, too. I have seen you, my lady, looking and being lookedat, by a stranger, in a way no decent woman allows.--For the rest, I'lltrouble you to mind your own business. Whatever I do or don't do, trustme, I shall at least take care not to make myself the laughing-stock ofthe place. Yes, you have only succeeded in making yourself ridiculous.For while you were cringing before him, and aspiring to die for hissake, he was making love behind your back to another girl. For the lastsix months. Every one knew it, it seems, but you."
She had spoken with unconcealed anger, and now turned to leave theroom. But Louise was at the door before her, and spread herself acrossit.
"That's a lie, Madeleine! Of your own making. You shall prove it to mebefore you go out of this room. How dare you say such a thing!--howdare you!"
Madeleine looked at her with cold aversion, and drew back to avoidtouching her.
"Prove it?" she echoed. "Are his own words not proof enough! He toldthe whole story that night, just as he had first told all about you. Ithad been going on for months. Sometimes, you were hardly out of hisroom, before the other was in. And if you don't believe me, ask theperson you're so proud of having attracted, without raising yourfinger."
Louise moved away from the door, and went back to the table, on whichshe leaned heavily. All the blood had left her face and the dark ringsbelow her eyes stood out with alarming distinctness. Madeleine felt asudden compunction at what she had done.
"It's entirely your own fault that I told you anything whatever aboutit," she said, heartily annoyed with herself. "You had no right toprovoke me by saying what you did. I declare, Louise, to be with youmakes one just like you. If it's any consolation to you to know it, hewas drunk at the time, and there's a possibility it may not be true."
"Go away--go out of my room!" cried Louise. And Madeleine went, withoutdelay, having almost a physical sensation about her throat of theslender hands stretched so threateningly towards her.--And thisunpleasant feeling remained with her until she turned the corner of thestreet.