Chapter NINETEEN

Catherine’s first feeling was one of relief that Jeanne had not seen her leaving the Macadam offices. Next she asked herself what errand had brought the woman to consult the solicitors--for there could be no doubt as to her destination. The look of concentration on the tight-lipped face suggested fresh mischief afoot.

Then her thoughts turned to Mme. Bender, and her eyes filled with tears over the memory of the recent scene. Never in her life had she felt so helpless to combat injustice. Her cousin’s mind was poisoned against her, yet she could do nothing to put things right.

Worse, the talk with the old Scotchman had clearly shown her the weakness of her position. Thanks to his uncompromising logic she realized to what extent her suspicion against the servants rested upon isolated incidents, each capable of a dual construction. She began to wonder if she had magnified trifles till they pointed to conclusions wholly false.

Even Mr. Macadam’s promise to investigate the question of theft gave her little comfort, for during the long and tedious inquiry Jeanne would remain firmly entrenched, working her will upon her mistress’s susceptible imagination.

“What can I do? It’s now almost impossible for me to stay there. Soon it may be quite so, if Jeanne persists. She’ll end by driving me away.”

It was true. Her self-appointed guardianship was being thrust aside; Germaine herself did not desire her presence. It would certainly be more dignified to withdraw. Her income was sufficient to enable her to live comfortably in some small hotel, where she would be free from indignities.

“Yet God knows it’s not my own pleasure I’m considering!” she argued sincerely.

It was terribly difficult to help a person who did not want to be helped.

Pride drew her in one direction, conscientious scruples another, but now the latter’s voice was obscured by doubt. Suppose she was altogether wrong about Jeanne? The mouse incident, even last night’s scene, might have no guilty significance. The woman had been in her post for fifteen years, implicitly trusted long before Mme. Bender’s judgment became impaired. Hysterical and crabbed she might be, but as yet there was no positive proof against her.

Thinking all this over, she wandered along the Avenue de l’Opéra and sat for some time in the little garden of the Palais Royale. The fountain plashed, pigeons strutted about, occasionally a lounger looked at her, but she noticed nothing. Unable to bear the thought of going back to the apartment, she decided to lunch out; but although there were several friends she knew would be glad to welcome her, she was averse to company. She must be alone to wrestle with her problem.

At last she made up her mind on one point, driven thither all but against her will. She would spend the afternoon looking at hotels and _pensions_, not with the idea of definitely engaging a room, but in order to have a place ready to go to if during the next day or two she decided to leave. In her little book were a number of recommended addresses. She would take them in turn.

This settled, she glanced at her watch, and saw with surprise that it was past her usual hour of _déjeuner_. She was tired, too, possibly because of her inward struggle. Then she recalled a tiny restaurant close at hand in the rue d’Argenteuil, a simple, homely _auberge_, where the cooking was excellent. In five minutes she had reached it, chosen a table against the wall, and was studying the big purple-scrawled sheet of the menu.

It was late and only a few tables were occupied, mostly by quiet-looking men she imagined to be journalists. The cook, an immense man with a snowy apron round his Gargantuan paunch, crisp curly hair and sparkling black eyes, approached with a friendly welcome and with his hands upon his hips offered advice on the subject of dishes.

“If mademoiselle would care to try the _plat de jour_,” he suggested, pointing a fat red finger at the menu, “I can specially recommend it. Veal with mushrooms and little peas. Also the chateaubriand garnished is good to-day. With it I should like to serve some _pommes soufflées_.”

She chose the chateaubriand which when it appeared was so appetizing in its bed of fresh watercress and flanked by mounds of potatoes fried to a feathery lightness that she realized suddenly how hungry she was. She followed the course by spinach, piping hot and foaming up brilliant emerald green in a red copper pannikin, finishing the repast by a _tarte de la maison_. When at length she lit a cigarette and leaned back with a cup of coffee before her, she felt inclined to take a more cheerful view of things, letting her taut mind relax and drift where it would.

On the seat near by lay a paper _feuilleton_ in a gaudy cover, left there by some departed luncher. She picked it up idly, then seeing that it was a collection of four or five short stories of de Maupassant, opened it at a tale entitled _Le Diable_ and began to read. In a few seconds she was engrossed, fascinated.

It was a story of a peasant who hires an old woman of the village to remain beside his dying mother while he gets his hay in from the fields. The mercenary crone, paid for the entire job, becomes exasperated by the poor creature’s slowness in dying and, loath to waste time over her, resolves to hasten the event by strategy. She describes with gruesome details what she declares to be a common experience with sufferers about to breathe their last, affirming that at the crucial moment the devil appears to them with horns and a pitchfork. Then, when she had worked the patient up to a suitable state of terror, she hides in a cupboard and steps forth suddenly, armed with a huge fork and wearing a three-legged saucepan on her head. The ruse succeeds, the peasant’s mother drops dead of shock.

“Good God!”

The booklet fell from her hand, she sat quite still staring ahead of her at the opposite wall. One by one the tables had been cleared, she was the last customer to remain. The big chef untied his apron, struggled into a short, tight-fitting jacket which, when buttoned, strained across his abdomen like a bursting pod, stuck a small Trilby hat jauntily upon his head and a cigar in his mouth, then sallied forth for a stroll, pausing near Catherine to bid her a courteous adieu. She scarcely saw him or the questioning glances cast at her by the waiters.

All she could think of was the curious parallel between the tale just read and what was going on in her cousin’s home. She had seen only too well the power of suggestion at work on the credulous victim. What if Germaine, left alone with the woman whose word she implicitly believed, should succumb to a like fate? In her present condition, how easy to administer a fright sufficient to kill her? The idea paralysed her with horror.…

At last she came to, as from a dreadful dream. What was she telling herself? Jeanne could not, by the remotest stretch of the imagination, wish her mistress to die. Geoffrey had pointed that out to her plainly. No, the more mercenary her motives, the more reason she must have for keeping Mme. Bender alive. All this had been thrashed out before to her entire satisfaction. With a shiver she shook herself free from the stupid obsession, motioned to the _garçon_, and paid her bill. She must not give way to these absurd fancies.

Yet oddly enough in those few minutes all her recent decisions had reversed themselves. She would go and look at hotels, since it was a way of killing time till evening, but she was resolutely determined not to abandon the field to Jeanne. However innocent the latter’s intentions might be, her influence represented a force capable of being used with evil result. No, even if things were made still more difficult for her, she would stick it out, at least till something occurred to alter the position.

“If anything should happen,” she whispered, “I should never forgive myself!”

Besides, she was forgetting the doctor’s promise. Even now he might have seen Jeanne and persuaded her to go away. What an enormous relief if that were so!

Entering the apartment at six o’clock, she heard Dr. Girard’s deep voice in the distance, and reflected with thanksgiving that the good man had not disappointed her. At the turn of the hall she stood trying to catch what he was saying, but although she listened hard she could make out nothing. Presently the front door closed.

Had he been successful? A thrill of anticipation shot through her as she told herself she would soon know the result.

On the table in the entrance hall several letters were awaiting her, one bearing an English stamp and writing she recognized as Claire Hardwicke’s. Going into the study, she curled herself up in the big chair and was speedily engrossed in her correspondence.

Claire was upbraiding her for her deflection. What was all this nonsense about a sense of responsibility towards Mme. Bender? The latter was little more than a stranger, and till recently had got on very well indeed without her supervision. Florence would be lovely in May. Jim meant to buy a little cheap car and they were going to tour about among the adjacent villages, working their way south.

The picture was an alluring one. Catherine put down the closely written pages and gave herself up to dreams of what she was going to miss. Then she realized that she was not quite so regretful as she had expected to be. Was it because Paris held someone whose companionship had grown steadily more agreeable than she cared to admit? She blushed at the thought. Geoffrey Macadam had never given her a single look which she could construe in terms other than those of impersonal friendship. Possibly he was beginning to regard her as a bit of a nuisance, what with her continued worries, real or imagined. He was wonderfully good about it all, but really she was making a great deal of trouble for him.…

Padded footsteps, probably those of Eduardo, passed by the door, lingered a moment, then receded again. She listened mechanically, but thought little of the circumstance till, on issuing from the study, she spied on the table a solitary white envelope, addressed to herself. That was odd--there was no post at this hour, nor had she heard the concierge’s customary knock. She wondered still more when she saw in the corner of the printed heading of Macadam and Langtree. The round yet crabbed writing was unfamiliar. Glancing quickly at the signature, she learned that the communication was from the senior solicitor.

So the old man had lost no time in writing to her! She felt a sudden qualm of misgiving.

In the seclusion of her own room she ran through the contents twice. Tactfully worded, it gave no hint that its author had anything other than her own interests at heart, yet the meaning was plain. When she had finished the second reading, she drew a deep breath and sat rigidly regarding the sheet with a smile that was lightly grim.

Here was an unexpected turn of events, not a pleasant one, either. Sensibly, convincingly and in no uncertain terms, Mr. Macadam was urging her to go away. What was this he said about unintentionally promoting discord? The phrase puzzled her. Then all at once she understood! Jeanne had been to him with her own version of things. This letter was composed after his talk with her.

Catherine tingled with sudden anger, then gave a little laugh at the irony of the affair.

“It really is rather funny! Here am I working hard to oust her, while she is equally determined to oust me. Mr. Macadam is the referee, and at the present stage of the game he’s inclined to take her side. Which of us is going to win?”

She picked up the envelope and fingered it curiously. The flap had come open with surprising readiness, and now she noticed that the gum on it was slightly moist. Did that mean that it had been secretly opened? If so, that fact would explain why the letter had not been with the others when she came in. Eduardo understood English. No doubt he and Jeanne had been anxious to find out how matters stood. Once more she recalled her telephone conversation of the morning, and her impression that someone was listening. Wheels within wheels.… What was it all about?

“Yet they can’t have any suspicion that I was spying on them last night. Why all this scheming to get rid of me? What have I done to make them afraid?”

For that they were afraid of her she had now little doubt. They must be apprehensive about those missing pictures, dreading lest she bring an accusation against them. She could think of no other reason for their actions.

Pondering this she changed slowly into another frock, still annoyed and a little resentful over the old lawyer’s attitude towards her, and was in the act of brushing her hair before the glass when a tap on the door jarred on her reflections. In answer to her “_Entrez!_” Jeanne came in.

“_Pardon, mademoiselle, si je vous dérange…_”

The maid’s manner was quietly respectful. She paused a second in the doorway, then crossing, laid a package wrapped in white paper upon the bed.

“The laundry has just brought mademoiselle’s linen. Perhaps mademoiselle will glance through the list to see that everything has been returned.”

“Thank you, Jeanne.”

Putting down the brush, Catherine undid the parcel and ran over the neat pile of clothing inside it--a _combinaison_ and a _crêpe de Chine_ night-gown, both beautifully pleated, a lace bodice, a sheaf of handkerchiefs. As she examined the articles she was uncomfortably aware of the woman’s lingering gaze. There was a tentative quality about it as though the owner had something on her mind.

“Do you want anything, Jeanne?”

“Only this, mademoiselle. I trust you were not wounded by what occurred this morning. I am afraid it is the sort of thing one has to be prepared for. Madame is apt to be like that,” she added with an air faintly conciliatory.

“You need not bother, Jeanne, I quite understand,” replied the girl evenly, masking her surprise.

Still the maid was not satisfied. She hung about, smoothing the creases from the bed-cover and folding up the paper in which the laundry had come.

“Madame takes notions into her head, and while they last it is wisest not to cross her. Does mademoiselle grasp my meaning?”

Catherine faced her squarely. “What exactly is it you wish to say, Jeanne? You may as well be frank about it.”

“Well, mademoiselle, I have been thinking it might be safer if you did not attempt to see madame for a little. No doubt madame’s dislike of you will pass in time, but while it continues is it best to annoy her?”

She finished with a significant glance which brought the blood into Catherine’s cheeks. Still one could not afford to get angry, thinking which, the girl replied with composure: “You may be right. At all events I shall not force myself upon madame.”

“Ah, I see that you understand, mademoiselle! Naturally it is painful for me to mention this, but after all it cannot inconvenience you long, since in all probability your stay is nearly at an end. No doubt you will soon be proceeding with your tour?”

So it was this the woman wanted to find out! Not a word of what Girard must surely have said to her half an hour ago, only the scarcely veiled suggestion that the visitor was to take her departure.

Rapidly it dawned on Catherine that here was the turning-point. She must decide once and for all whether she was to stick to her guns or leave her cousin to this jealous guardian who brooked no interference with her rule. Was she making a foolish mistake? Perhaps she was wrong to meddle in things which did not concern her. If so, now was the moment to withdraw.

For a moment Catherine wavered, meanwhile putting her _lingerie_ into a drawer, laying the crisp pleats in place with fingers which shook. Then as she straightened up she caught sight in the mirror of Jeanne’s close-set brown eyes watching her every movement with an attention all too acute. In a flash her spirit rose to arms. Turning, she met the steadfast gaze with a fixed determination to fight the affair to a finish.

“I am not going to Italy, Jeanne,” she declared shortly. “In fact, I do not intend to leave for some time. I shall not trouble madame, but I expect to remain in this apartment perhaps for months.”

She saw the ragged brows shoot up, the nostrils widen with displeasure. A brief pause ensued while, like two fencers, the two eyed each other, wary and watchful. When the delayed reply came it was uttered in a tone of studied indifference, cold and calm.

“_Ah? Ça m’étonne… Bien--c’est entendu, alors._”

That was all. The door closed, leaving Catherine with racing pulses, her heart pounding hard.