Chapter ELEVEN

She did not know why she should attach so much importance to the incident just related, nor why, during the next few days, she should keep seeing in her mind’s eye the white, dull skin and pale, staring eyes of the little man in the rue d’Amsterdam. Again and again the vision recurred to her, always with a sense of distrust and vague repulsion, akin to the antipathy with which one regards certain specimens of the saurian kingdom.

As a matter of fact she was now acquainted with his name and occupation, for on the way out from the milliner’s she had read upon his door the words, “_A. Blom, Notaire_.” A _notaire_ was probably a humble sort of lawyer, which offered a reasonable explanation for the man’s connection with Jeanne. In France upper-class servants invariably have their legal advisers who help them with the investment of their savings. Jeanne, the soul of thrift, was undoubtedly putting aside every available sou against her old age, so that it was quite natural for her to consult an expert on the subject of stocks and bonds.

As Catherine turned this over in her mind a sudden thought struck her. Very likely Eduardo put the bolt on the door the other night to prevent her walking in and finding the _notaire_ there. Then as the visitor had gone out by the private entrance the precaution was forgotten till the knocker woke the sleeping occupants.

Her position in the household was now less positively unpleasant, and while she felt that she was still regarded as a thorn in the flesh, she fancied the servants had accepted her presence as inevitable and were making the best of things. She even noticed an improvement in their attitude towards her. Eduardo was not actually insolent, and Jeanne, though distant, was for the most part as suave as in former days. Occasionally she betrayed a slight gleam of resentment, but for this the girl was ready to make allowances.

“Poor, warped creature!” she mused, full of compassion. “It’s not that she dislikes me personally. It’s only that she doesn’t want to share her mistress’s affection with anyone. What a starved life she must have lived, to be so completely centred on one object!”

It did, indeed, seem that the woman had but a single passion, her devoted attachment to Mme. Bender. Impossible not to admire the indefatigable care with which she surrounded her charge, her quickness to forestall the invalid’s slightest wish. Steadfastly she refused Catherine’s offers of assistance, and remained hour after hour on duty, scarcely ever quitting the apartment. If in the evening she slipped out for an hour, Eduardo took up his post in the converted dressing-room adjoining Mme. Bender’s bed-chamber, and remained there until she returned.

Daily Catherine spent an hour or two with her cousin, trying to cheer her and at the same time to study her condition, but after a week she was as far as ever from coming to any definite conclusion. She was chiefly struck by the invalid’s total lack of confidence in herself, her unwillingness to affirm anything positively, cunningly waiting to take her cue from the opinions of those about her. It suggested that she was distressingly aware of blank patches in her memory, which she was anxious to conceal.

Mme. Bender’s spirits varied startlingly, passing from a childish, hectic gaiety to periods of moodiness impossible to lighten. At times she chattered volubly, jumping from topic to topic with utter inconsequence; then again she would sit for hours without opening her lips. It was on the latter occasions that Catherine noticed the look of terror before mentioned, but every effort to fathom the cause of it met with failure. All she succeeded in rousing was a hint of something very like suspicion towards herself.

Another thing puzzled the girl. This was neither more nor less the extreme readiness of Mme. Bender to agree with her maid on every subject, complaisance carried to the point where it seemed as though she were actually trying to curry favour in Jeanne’s eyes. Absurd, of course! Yet so it appeared when again and again the weak personality bolstered itself up by leaning upon the strong one. Sometimes Catherine told herself that if Jeanne had declared black to be white her mistress would have hastened to say that it was so. Reluctantly she began to see that there were some grounds for Miss Cushing’s view of affairs, and that for good or for bad her cousin was, to an alarming extent, under the maid’s influence.

“I suppose it’s only to be expected in the circumstances,” she reflected. “So long as there’s no harm in it, one oughtn’t to care.”

On the latter point she could not quite make up her mind. She continued to hold a high opinion of Jeanne, but as the days went by little doubts crept across her mental sky like clouds, each leaving its shadow beneath. Perfect as the woman showed herself in her devotion to the invalid, in other respects she was not so flawless. It became more and more evident that the establishment was badly run, that the maid did not trouble in the least what happened outside the patient’s own room. The second week passed, and the sheets on Catherine’s bed had not been changed. The windows wanted cleaning, not only in her bedroom but all over the apartment. The food served to her was carelessly cooked and all but insufficient. This neglect in a rich woman’s dwelling was inexcusable. In spite of herself, Catherine could not help thinking of the singer’s declaration that Jeanne was pinching and saving in order to put money into her own pocket. It must be so, for what other reason could there be for so niggardly an economy? Petty pilfering, for which one must not use too harsh a term, yet for all that it was distasteful to find the quality prompting it linked in the same character with motives of sterling excellence.

Meanwhile she was enjoying Paris. She presented introductions, made many acquaintances, and went about shopping and visiting picture-galleries to her heart’s content. Each day brought a fresh invitation, so that soon she was caught up in a gay and active life. More and more often she saw Geoffrey Macadam, and it was somehow gratifying to note the frequence with which he sought her society, yet, although she was getting to know him extremely well, he continued to preserve towards her an unbroken attitude of matter-of-factness, as impersonal as that of a brother. Sometimes the feminine part of her was piqued by this unexciting behaviour, but presently she came to regard him as one of those beings preordained for bachelordom, and having settled this to her satisfaction felt even more than before that she could confide in him with freedom. Undoubtedly there was something solid and worth while about him which counted higher than the facile attractions of the other men she had met, and though he seldom paid her a compliment and had never once tried to hold her hand, she began to look forward eagerly to her meetings with him, sure of mental stimulation and sympathetic accord.

Existence flowed on, outwardly serene, yet there was a sub-current to affairs which rendered Catherine ill at ease. Was she imagining things, or was it perhaps true that Jeanne, under cover of her unremitting labours, was conducting some secret game for her own advancement? She could not be sure.

Take the single instance of Mme. Bender’s car. Not once had she set eyes upon it, although her cousin appeared to assume that it was always at her disposal. What had become of it? No effort, she was sure, was being made to engage another chauffeur. Naturally she did not broach the subject to Jeanne, for at all cost she was anxious to avoid friction. At best her presence here was merely tolerated, and to stir up latent antagonism against herself would make life unbearable.

For the same reason she kept silent when, with a shock of surprise, she found that several of the best rooms in the apartment were under lock and key. Why was this so? Lying in bed at night she puzzled over the circumstance, unable to come to any conclusion. With one exception she had no desire beyond that of curiosity to penetrate the closed portions of the flat. Their contents did not concern her, but it was true she would have liked to go into the picture-gallery on the ground floor. Here were hung all the best of Harry Bender’s collection, which included many interesting examples of the modern French school--a number of the Barbizon group, a couple of Claude Monets, a fine Cézanne, and three or four Renoirs. In particular she recalled with a thrill of pleasure a small still-life of apples and pears, executed by Manet during his sojourn at Boulogne--a gem of a painting, highly treasured by her dead cousin.

Several times she was on the point of asking Jeanne for the key, but always something--instinct or premonition--held her back. In the end an incident occurred to render the request unnecessary.

Returning home one afternoon, she saw in the street outside the private entrance a luxurious Rolls-Royce standing by the kerb. For a moment she wondered if someone were calling upon Mme. Bender, but that could hardly be, for there was no sign of a chauffeur. Then she noticed that the car was black, inside as well as out, and the knowledge flashed on her that it was her hostess’ own. What was it doing here, and who was going to drive it?

As she fumbled for her key the question was answered. Eduardo came hurriedly out carrying a long cylindrical parcel wrapped in brown paper, took one startled look at her, and headed straight for the driver’s seat.

So the car was being used, but only for the servants’ convenience! The knowledge angered her, but hardly had she taken it in when she saw in front of her the door of the gallery standing wide open.

What luck! At once she stepped inside, then stood looking round her with blank disappointment.

Every painting was shrouded in ghostly muslin, not an inch of frame visible. Chairs and canapes, too, wore covers of linen, while even the carpet--a valuable Aubusson, if she remembered rightly--was hidden by an enormous dust-sheet.

“What a shame!” she murmured aloud.

She would have liked to remove the wrappers, but most of the pictures hung too high for her reach. The little Manet, though--that she might manage, for she remembered its position, lower down, at the end of the room.

“That’s it, I’m sure,” she thought, identifying a small rectangular shape. “No harm in having a peep at it--” and she loosened the muslin bag.

A cry of dismay escaped her. The gold frame, robbed of its precious canvas, stared her in the face.

What an odd thing--to part with the picture and leave the frame behind! She had never heard of such a thing. She stared at the open space, while in her brain a disagreeable suspicion began to take form.

Quickly she made the round of the other paintings, feeling the canvases through the material. There were several missing, she could not say which. Very strange, this.…

Next, her heart beating fast, she tugged at the enveloping linen upon the furniture, only to meet with a fresh shock. Every scrap of the eighteenth-century tapestry, fit for a museum, had been removed, leaving the coarse lining. Last she turned over a corner of the dust-sheet underfoot. As she expected, there was nothing between it and the perfectly laid parquet.

She remained rooted to the spot, while the blood sang in her ears. Who, she asked herself grimly, was responsible for these depredations? For that they were depredations she could not doubt. The artful concealment told its own story. Carpet and tapestries alone represented many thousands of francs, while the missing pictures might run into millions. Had they been secretly abstracted and sold?

A step ran lightly down the stairs outside. A pause, then in the doorway Jeanne appeared, a bunch of keys in her hand. Her brown eyes shot a rapid glance from Catherine to the muslin bag upon the floor and back again. In their hard gaze the girl caught the same expression she had seen in the mirror nearly three weeks ago--something alien, hostile. Now she fancied there was another emotion in them. Was it fear?

“Mademoiselle is searching for something?” inquired the crisp voice, edged with irony.

Catherine braced herself.

“Yes, Jeanne, I was looking for the little Manet. What has become of it?”

The maid raised her brows regretfully.

“Ah, the little Manet! It is sad, is it not? Monsieur parted with it, only a few weeks before his death. No wonder you are astonished to find it gone.”

Incredulity swept over the girl. Cousin Harry part with the pearl of his collection? She could not possibly believe it. She still recalled the pride with which he had shown it to her four years ago. She kept her gaze rivetted to the composed face opposite.

“Why did monsieur let the painting go without the frame? It is most extraordinary.”

A shrug answered her, indifferent, chill.

“Who knows? A whim, perhaps. I believe I heard them say that the picture was bought by some gentleman from South America. No doubt he paid a large price; but why he did not take away the frame I have no idea.”

“There are other pictures gone, also the carpet and the tapestry from the furniture. Were those sold as well?”

“At the same time, I imagine, but as I was away on my holiday I know nothing about them. We sailed immediately afterwards for America, and when we returned, madame and I, the room was as you see it now.”

“But madame? Has she never mentioned them to you?”

“Ah, poor madame? She does not occupy herself with these affairs. I doubt if she even remembers they were sold. I never dare speak of things which make her think of monsieur, as you well know!” She bestowed a cursory glance round the walls, then turned to Catherine with an air of polite dismissal. “And now, mademoiselle, if you have quite finished, I will lock up the room. It is safer, is it not?”

A plausible answer, which it was impossible to refute; yet as Catherine heard the key turn in the door instinct warned her that every glibly-uttered word was a lie. The servants themselves had disposed of those paintings, were probably planning the sale of others. She had wondered just now what the butler was carrying in that oddly-shaped parcel. Of course, it was a rolled-up canvas!

Her knees trembled as she walked up the stairs.