Chapter TWELVE

For the next few days Catherine was tormented by her suspicion. In justice she could not give it a stronger name, though from the first she was instinctively certain of the servants’ guilt. Certain--but cold reason told her the thing would be difficult to prove. To breathe a word to the invalid might shatter the very foundations of her being, and, except for Mme. Bender, there was no one at all likely to be acquainted with the facts. Hermione could not help, since at the time Jeanne declared the pictures to have been sold she had been absent from Paris. Indeed, it was probable that for the past year no outside person had entered the gallery.

After the upsetting discovery she shut herself in the salon and painstakingly examined its contents. For some time she could find nothing missing, though she fancied the vitrines contained rather less than their former store of _bibelots_; but at last she gave a gasp of triumph. A blue enamelled patch-box and a miniature set with pearls, both of which she had admired the day after her arrival, had disappeared. The final shred of doubt was brushed away.

She burned now to explore the locked bedrooms, but that meant demanding the keys.

What ought she to do? The question haunted her. Useless to assure herself that dishonesty was one thing, unkindness to an ill woman another, that she could put her finger on no instance of neglect or lack of consideration towards Germaine. The ugly fact stared her in the face that her cousin, helpless and ignorant of harm, was being hourly ministered to by an unscrupulous thief. Nor was this all. Over and above the tangle of moral values one idea stood out clear. _If Jeanne could lie about one thing, she could lie about another._ The thought was alarming, though she did not draw any direct conclusion from it.

She resolved to consult Geoffrey. After all, he was not only a real friend, but he and his father were Mme. Bender’s solicitors, so that no one could be better able to advise her. She was going to see him on Sunday, having been invited to his flat to meet his sister, up from Fontainebleau for the day. If she could get a moment alone with him, she would tell him the whole affair.

Till then she was forced to go on as though nothing had happened, though to do so was increasingly difficult. Her sensitive eye detected a hard defiance in the servant’s manner towards her, saw in their grudging politeness the mark of an armed neutrality. They distrusted her now, regarded her presence as a menace to their safety. Well, let them--they would not dare to go ahead with their systematic thieving. That, at least, was a consoling thought.…

All this time she was assuming that not only was Jeanne almost indispensable to Mme. Bender, but that her firm, managing hand exerted an influence for the invalid’s good. Now, however, she was to receive a second shock which ship-wrecked all her previous beliefs.

About the middle of the week, after lunching at the Ritz with some American friends, she came back to find her cousin, in one of her moods of apathetic depression. Usually at this hour she was sitting up in the bergère, a rug about her knees, but to-day she was in bed, her face pinched and wan, with purple patches beneath her eyes, an ivory rosary held loosely between her emaciated fingers. In the grey dusk of the room she looked like some poor, fear-haunted ghost.

“Is it you, Catherine? Come in--I have been waiting for you.”

The girl bent to kiss her, holding out the bowl of violets she had brought.

“Look, aren’t they lovely and fresh? All along the Madeleine the flower-sellers’ stalls are so marvellous, a blaze of colour. I do so wish you could see them.”

“And you brought me these? My dear, I am touched!”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I’ll put them here on the little table where you can smell them. It is warm to-day, such gorgeous sunshine, and the chestnuts are actually budding. Oh, Germaine dear, if only you could bring yourself to go outdoors, I can’t help thinking it would do you good!”

She spoke impulsively, then was distressed to see the result of her words. The ill woman shut her eyes shudderingly, her features contracted with a spasm of pain.

“Ah, no! Not that!” she murmured in positive alarm. “It is impossible! You do not know what you are saying.”

Hermione’s story about the ill-fated motor drive flashed into Catherine’s mind. Yet almost against her will she found herself saying persuasively:

“But, darling, it must be bad for you to stay shut up in this little room. It’s unnatural to want to, you know!”

The shrinking gaze turned suspiciously on her, eyeing her with a sort of pained distrust.

“You too!” muttered the invalid. “First Lili, and now you… Jeanne was right. She is always right,” and she shook her head with a hint of fatalism.

Catherine was mystified, both by the words themselves and by the air of hurt reproach which accompanied them; but before she could muster a reply the maid entered with a tray bearing tea and a little pot of chocolate for her mistress.

“I will pour out, Jeanne,” cried the young girl, welcoming a diversion. “Put it here on the table.”

The woman complied, removing the violets, upon which she cast a brief, contemptuous glance, then hung about, needlessly officious, settling Mme. Bender’s pillows and arranging the cups and saucers. It seemed to Catherine that she was unwilling to leave her alone with the patient, but presently she straightened up and stood as though waiting for orders.

“You may leave us, Jeanne,” suggested the invalid timidly. “Perhaps as it is a fine day you might care to go out for a little.”

Somewhat to Catherine’s surprise the woman assented.

“As madame wishes. Since mademoiselle is going to remain, I will take this opportunity to get a breath of air.”

For a second her eyes rested full on Catherine’s face, with a look which the recipient read as a mixture of speculation and defiance. Then she withdrew, and presently a brisk step along the passage outside told the two listeners she had departed.

Catherine felt more comfortable, and fancied her companion shared her feeling, but after a little while she was distressed to see that the cup of chocolate remained untasted, her cousin’s eyes fixed blankly on the window, through whose white drawn curtains showed faintly the two iron bars Jeanne had spoken about. She asked herself what the poor woman thought about those brutal reminders of her past folly, and if the sight of them preyed upon her mind. She had never mentioned them, but there they were, staring her in the face, proof, even if she had forgotten the episode, that she was not to be trusted.

“You are very quiet to-day, Germaine,” remarked Catherine lightly. “Is anything troubling you?”

A tremulous sigh answered her. The white hand pressed itself against the tormented eyes as though to shut out disturbing fancies.

“I don’t know… I don’t know,” murmured the sad voice with a touch of irritability. “Everything is so confused. My memory, you know. Things go from me, and I never can tell what has happened and what I--I have imagined. It frightens me. I don’t know what to believe.…”

Catherine felt a wave of intense pity sweep over her. She would have given much to be able to help the poor, brooding creature, but what could one do or say to reassure her?

“Your chocolate is getting cold. Let me give you some more,” she gently urged. “As for forgetting things, if I were you I shouldn’t give it a thought! Memory is so very much a matter of health.”

“Ah, you only say that to comfort me. I know--I know it is far more serious than you think. There are things I could tell you of, dreadful things, ghastly things, things like nightmares! Ah! If you knew only half that goes on here----” and she touched her forehead with a distraught gesture. “Sometimes I--but no,” checking herself quickly, “I do wrong to speak of them. I am forgetting again. Jeanne says I am not to mention them to anyone, or else…” She stopped once more, setting her lips together with a look of frightened secrecy.

Things like nightmares! Here at last was a reference to the delusions both Jeanne and the doctor had mentioned. It was the first time Germaine had spoken of them, but the repressed terror in her manner showed the acuteness of her mental suffering.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Germaine,” declared Catherine stoutly. “But I’m sure it is all due to disordered nerves. Remember the shock you have had.”

“You mean my accident?” The thin hands quivered spasmodically. “Ah, if I could only believe it was due to that! But no--what I speak of began much later. Oh, a great deal later! That is what terrifies me so.”

Catherine caught the fluttering hands in hers with a firm pressure.

“Nonsense, dear! Everything is all right. But since you are so worried, why not let us call in another doctor? Someone who specializes in nervous cases. Mightn’t it be a good idea?”

At once she realized her mistake. With a violent movement the invalid recoiled from her, hiding her face in the pillows.

“Ah, not that, not that!” she whispered in an agonized appeal. “Ah, Catherine, if you love me, never call in a specialist! I implore you!”

There was nothing to do but soothe and coax her back into a quiet state. At last she lay back with closed eyes, seeing which Catherine gave up the attempt to make conversation and let her rest, thankful that the panic of the moment was over.

The fading light was all but gone. Catherine sat on, busy with her thoughts, believing that her cousin had fallen into a doze, although in the shadow of the bed-curtains it was difficult to tell. There was no sound save the faint ticking of the little tortoiseshell clock on the dressing-table, and the occasional honk of a motor-horn from the avenue.

Presently one of the draperies close to her side stirred slightly. She glanced at it, thinking the movement came from a breeze through the window, but no, the other curtains hung limp and still. The vibration continued, then a tiny, pricking noise reached her ears. What could it be? She sat motionless, holding her breath and watching fixedly descried a small, dark form creeping stealthily up the white fringe of the material from the floor. Surely she herself must be imagining things!

She stared harder. Good Heavens, it was a mouse!

Up, up it moved in jerks, its jewelled eyes glistening, its long tail slipping behind like a line of dark thread. It must have ventured forth in search of a meal, attracted by the cake-crumbs. But how bold, when there were people about! The thought came to the girl that it was treading familiar ground.

Fascinated, she stayed her impulse to shake it off, lest the sudden movement might alarm the sleeping woman. Now it had reached the surface of the bed, and with twinkling feet, halting and cocking its ears to listen, it proceeded confidently across the supine figure. Still Catherine did nothing. Into her mind had come the scrap of unintelligible conversation she had caught that first morning between the doctor and Jeanne. She heard again the deep voice saying. “_Vous êtes sûre qu’il n’y a pas de souris là bas?_”

Was Germaine asleep? Noiselessly bending forward, she stole a glance at the shadowed face. To her amazement she saw that the eyes were wide open, glued with horror and loathing to the darting form, while upon the forehead great drops of sweat stood out.

Catherine sprang to her feet, jostling the tea-table. The mouse vanished like a streak of light.

“Why, Germaine! Did you see? A mouse was actually running over your bed! Don’t be frightened, it’s gone now.”

She ran to the wall-button and switched on the lights.

“What an impudent creature!” she exclaimed, laughing. “Were you afraid?”

Then to her utter dismay she saw the poor invalid sitting bolt upright, tears streaming down her cheeks, hands clasped.

“Catherine! Catherine! You saw it, too? It was real? Oh, my God, my God! And I thought it was my fancy!”

As long as she lived Catherine never forgot the anguished relief of the outcry, wrung from the Frenchwoman’s very soul.