Part 19 (2/2)
”Oh, but can't I see her? Can't I kiss her good-by? How long will she be away?” cried Marise wildly, starting from the fascinated immobility in which she had gazed at the nun's face.
Soeur Ste. Lucie laid a quieting hand on her shoulder, her kind old face yearning over the child. ”Dear little Marise, I think it will be better for your mother not to see you, or any one just now. She needs quiet, perfect quiet.”
Marise looked at her hard. She had no idea whether she was being told the truth, or only some kind invention which they thought suitable for her to hear. ”Can't I go to see her at the Convent?” she asked in a whisper, giving up the first point.
”Oh, yes, yes, my darling, _any_ time ... only a little later, when your mother is calmer.” Soeur Ste. Lucie's face shone suddenly, radiantly, ”G.o.d uses all means to His great ends,” she said fervently. ”This may be the means of giving your dear mother in the end, the holy peace of faith.”
She looked so serenely trusting and hopeful that Marise felt comforted, ”I'll do just as you say, dear Soeur,” she said in a trembling voice.
Soeur Ste. Lucie drew a long breath, as though she had been steering a difficult course. She kissed Marise again, told her to stay in her room for the time being, to say her prayers, not to worry, her Maman would soon be all right, and probably happier than she had ever been in her life. All this might open the door to salvation for her.
She left Marise standing in the middle of the floor, and closed the door carefully behind her. But not so carefully that Marise could not, a moment later, hear Maman crying and crying and crying as she went down the hall and out of the door. Marise began to tremble and cry at the sound. She ran to her window, and saw down below, Maman, her hands over her face, with Soeur Ste. Lucie's arm around her, the tall old monk on the other side, cross the sidewalk and get into the carriage.
As the carriage rolled away the weeping child at the window remembered that Soeur Ste. Lucie had not mentioned who the person from Bayonne was who had been killed. Well, what did Marise care who it was!
CHAPTER XX
It occurred to Marise, and the idea of a responsibility dried her tears with a start, that she ought to get word somehow to Papa. Her heart sprang up to think that perhaps if he knew Maman was so upset he would come back at once. She did _want_ somebody so much, beside Jeanne and Isabelle.
But she never knew Papa's address when he was away on business. Perhaps there was something on Maman's writing-desk. She went quickly into the salon, drew aside the curtains which shut off the writing-desk's alcove from the salon, and began rather helplessly to fumble among Maman's papers and novels. There were very few letters of any sort. Maman didn't keep up her correspondence with America very much. Jeanne had heard Marise moving and through the alcove curtains Marise saw her now come into the salon with a basin of water in her hand, pretending that she needed to water a plant. Marise remembered that she must as usual arrange something to present to Jeanne that would not reflect on Maman's fancifulness. But perhaps Soeur Ste. Lucie had told her something. She inquired cautiously but Jeanne said stiffly, still outraged at having been shut out of the room, that she knew nothing. Everything about her except her words, said forcibly that she cared less, and that all this foolishness was a part of the usual nonsense.
”Oh, Jeanne, a terrible thing has happened to poor Maman--she saw somebody swept away in the Gavarnie and killed right before her eyes, and it's upset her fearfully.”
Jeanne's sulkiness vanished in the delight of her kind at having any inside information about a violent death or a scandal. Marise remembered how absorbed and excited Jeanne had been when somebody in the apartment overhead had taken an over-dose of morphine and how proud she had been to have everybody in the market stop to ask her details.
”Killed?” said Jeanne with a greedy eagerness, her eyes s.h.i.+ning, ”how killed? Drowned? or knocked against the rocks? Man? or woman? Have they got the body out?”
Marise did not, as a rule, enjoy Jeanne's interest in murders and deaths and kidnappings, but this time she welcomed it and pa.s.sed on to the old woman all she could remember of what Soeur Ste. Lucie had told her.
Jeanne was much disappointed that Marise had not heard the name of the dead person, but Marise promised to tell her as soon as the paper was out, the next morning, since it would probably be printed. And with the mention, there came back to her, with one of those sickening lurches, the recollection of the girls putting their heads together over the newspaper at school, and then looking at her so oddly and hiding it away. ”It was probably in this morning's paper,” she said to Jeanne. ”If you'll get it, I'll read it to you.”
But Jeanne came back in a moment with an astonished face, saying that Isabelle reported that, of all queer things, Mlle. Hasparren, the music-teacher had stopped in that morning and asked to borrow the paper.
Jeanne's astonishment never on any occasion remained more than an instant untinged with suspicion, and Marise, who knew the old face so well, saw the suspicious expression begin slowly to color the surprise.
”What in the name of G.o.d did the Hasparren want with our newspaper?” she asked herself aloud, obviously snuffing around a new scent. Marise hated Jeanne's face when it looked like that,--crafty and zestful, as though she were licking her chops over a nasty smell.
They were still standing in the alcove, beside the writing-desk when the door-bell rang. Jeanne turned to go, heard Isabelle open, and standing between the half-open curtains turned her head to listen. Marise heard nothing but a man's voice, and Isabelle answering, ”Oui Monsieur, oui Monsieur, oui Monsieur.” But Jeanne started, stiffened, and darting on tip-toe to the door, looked around the corner. The door shut, steps were heard at the other end of the long hallway. Isabelle was evidently bringing the visitor to the salon. Jeanne looked around wildly at Marise, her face suddenly the color of lead, her eyes panic-struck. The steps were nearer, there seemed to be more than one man. Jeanne ran back, pushed Marise into the chair in the corner of the alcove, motioning her violently but without a sound, to keep perfect silence, and noiselessly drew the curtains together before the alcove. Marise heard her step quickly back to the stand where the plant stood and the click of her tin basin against the earthen-ware of the pot. And then she heard her say in exactly her usual voice, only with a little surprise, ”Good-day, Messieurs, what can I do for you?”
”We have been sent,” said a man's deep voice and not a ”monsieur” but a common sort of man, Marise could tell by his accent and intonation, ”to see and question Madame Allen.” Jeanne evidently went through some pantomime of astonishment for he explained, ”a part of the inquest over the death of M. Jean-Pierre Garnier, but the maid tells me she is already not here.”
Jeanne answered, and if she caught her breath or flinched, there was not the smallest external sign of it, ”No, M. l'Inspecteur, our poor lady was so terribly upset over seeing such an awful thing, that the doctor has just sent her for a few quiet days' retreat at the Holy Ghost Convent. What a terrible thing, to be sure, M. l'Inspecteur.”
The man answered wearily, ”Eh bien, we shall have to see her, retreat or no retreat. We have the blanks to fill out by all witnesses, and she is the only witness. This is the inspecteur from St. Sauveur.”
”Oh, the poor lady is in no state to be questioned,” said Jeanne with an affectionate warmth in her voice. ”She is as tender-hearted as a child, and besides had been a great invalid. She took the whole course of baths at Saint Sauveur last season, and was starting in again.”
”Oh,” said the man as if surprised, ”she had been at Saint Sauveur before? For the baths?” and then as if speaking to some one else, ”it would be harder then, to establish that she was there to meet the young Garnier.”
<script>