"You are a good sister," he said ironically, "to take Claire"s distress so much to heart. Identifying yourself as entirely as you seem to do with her, I am surprised that you did not accompany her into Falaise: it was most wrong of you to let her go alone."
"Claire is not in Falaise," muttered Madeleine. She was grasping the back of one of the cane chairs with her hand as if glad of even that slight support, staring at him with a dazed look of abject misery which increased his anger, his disgust.
"Not in Falaise?" he echoed sharply. "Then where, in G.o.d"s name, is she?"
A most disagreeable possibility had flashed into his mind. Was it conceivable that his wife had had herself rowed to the scene of the disaster? If she had done that, if her sister had allowed her to go alone, or accompanied maybe by one or other of the officers belonging to the submarine flotilla, then he told himself with jealous rage that he would find it very difficult ever to forgive Claire. There are things a woman with any self-respect, especially a woman who is the mother of daughters, refrains from doing.
"Well?" he said contemptuously. "Well, Madeleine? I am waiting to hear the truth. I desire no explanations--no excuses. I cannot, however, withhold myself from telling you that you ought to have accompanied your sister, even if you found it impossible to control her."
"I was there yesterday," said Madeleine Baudoin, with a pinched, white face, "for over two hours."
"What do you mean?" he asked suspiciously. "Where were you yesterday for over two hours?"
"In the _Neptune_."
She gazed at him, past him, with widely open eyes, as if she were staring, fascinated, at some scene of unutterable horror--and there crept into Jacques de Wissant"s mind a thought so full of shameful dread that he thrust it violently from him.
"You were in the _Neptune_," he said slowly, "knowing well that it is absolutely forbidden for any officer to take a friend on board a submarine without a special permit from the Minister of Marine?"
"It is sometimes done," she said listlessly.
Madame Baudoin had now sat down on a low chair, and she was plucking at the front of her white serge skirt with a curious mechanical movement of the fingers.
"Did the submarine actually put out to sea with you on board?"
She nodded her head, and then very deliberately added, "Yes, I have told you that I was out for two hours. They all knew it--the men and officers of the flotilla. I was horribly frightened, but--but now I am glad indeed that I went. Yes, I am indeed glad!"
"Why are you glad?" he asked roughly--and again a hateful suspicion thrust itself insistently upon him.
"I am glad I went, because it will make what Claire has done to-day seem natural, a--a simple escapade."
There was a moment of terrible silence between them.
"Then do all the officers and men belonging to the flotilla know that my wife is out there--in the _Neptune_?" Jacques de Wissant asked in a low, still voice.
"No," said Madeleine, and there was now a look of shame, as well as of terror, on her face. "They none of them know--only those who are on board." She hesitated a moment--"That is why I sent the servants away this morning. We--I mean Commander Dupre and I--did not think it necessary that anyone should know."
"Then no one--that is, only a hare-brained young officer and ten men belonging to the town of Falaise--were to be aware of the fact that my wife had accompanied her lover on this life-risking expedition? You and Dupre were indeed tender of her honour--and mine."
"Jacques!" She took her hand off the chair, and faced her brother-in-law proudly. "What infamous thing is this that you are harbouring in your mind? My sister is an honest woman, aye, as honest, as high-minded as was your own mother----"
He stopped her with a violent gesture. "Do not mention Claire and my mother in the same breath!" he cried.
"Ah, but I will--I must! You want the truth--you said just now you wanted only the truth. Then you shall hear the truth! Yes, it is as you have evidently suspected. Louis Dupre loves Claire, and she"--her voice faltered, then grew firmer--"she may have had for him a little sentiment. Who can tell? You have not been at much pains to make her happy. But what is true, what is certain, is that she rejected his love.
To-day they were to part--for ever."
Her voice failed again, then once more it strengthened and hardened.
"That is why he in a moment of folly--I admit it was in a moment of folly--asked her to come out on his last cruise in the _Neptune_. When you came I was expecting them back any moment. But, Jacques, do not be afraid. I swear to you that no one shall ever know. Admiral de Saint Vilquier will do anything for us Kergouets; I myself will go to him, and--and explain."
But Jacques de Wissant scarcely heard the eager, pitiful words.
He had thrust his wife from his mind, and her place had been taken by his honour--his honour and that of his children, of happy, light-hearted Clairette and Jacqueline. For what seemed a long while he said nothing; then, with all the anger gone from his voice, he spoke, uttered a fiat.
"No," he said quietly. "You must leave the Admiral to me, Madeleine. You were going to Italy to-night, were you not? That, I take it, _is_ true."
She nodded impatiently. What did her proposed journey to Italy matter compared with her beloved Claire"s present peril?
"Well, you must carry out your plan, my poor Madeleine. You must go away to-night."
She stared at him, her face at last blotched with tears, and a look of bewildered anguish in her eyes.
"You must do this," Jacques de Wissant went on deliberately, "for Claire"s sake, and for the sake of Claire"s children. You haven"t sufficient self-control to endure suspense calmly, secretly. You need not go farther than Paris, but those whom it concerns will be told that Claire has gone with you to Italy. There will always be time to tell the truth. Meanwhile, the Admiral and I will devise a plan. And perhaps"--he waited a moment--"the truth will never be known, or only known to a very few people--people who, as you say, will understand."
He had spoken very slowly, as if weighing each of his words, but it was quickly, with a queer catch in his voice, that he added--"I ask you to do this, my sister"--he had never before called Madeleine Baudoin "my sister"--"because of Claire"s children, of Clairette and Jacqueline.
Their mother would not wish a slur to rest upon them."
She looked at him with piteous, hunted eyes. But she knew that she must do what he asked.
IV
Jacques de Wissant sat at his desk in the fine old room which is set aside for the mayor"s sole use in the town hall of Falaise.
He was waiting for Admiral de Saint Vilquier, whom he had summoned on the plea of a matter both private and urgent. In his note, of which he had written more than one draft, he had omitted none of the punctilio usual in French official correspondence, and he had asked pardon, in the most formal language, for asking the Admiral to come to him, instead of proposing to go to the Admiral.
The time that had elapsed since he had parted from his sister-in-law had seemed like years instead of hours, and yet every moment of those hours had been filled with action.
From the Chalet des Dunes Jacques had made his way straight to the Pavillon de Wissant, and there his had been the bitter task of lying to his household.
They had accepted unquestioningly his statement that their mistress, without waiting even to go home, had left the Chalet des Dunes with her sister for Italy owing to the arrival of sudden worse news from Mantua.
While Claire"s luggage was being by his orders hurriedly prepared, he had changed his clothes; and then, overcome with mortal weariness, with sick, sombre suspense, he had returned to Falaise, taking the railway station on his way to the town hall, and from there going through the grim comedy of despatching his wife"s trunks to Paris.
Since the day war was declared by France on Germany, there had never been at the town hall of Falaise so busy an afternoon. Urgent messages of inquiry and condolence came pouring in from all over the civilized world, and the mayor had to compose suitable answers to them all.
To him there also fell the painful duty of officially announcing to the crowd surging impatiently in the market place--though room in front was always made and kept for those of the fisher folk who had relatives in the submarine service--that it was the _Neptune_ which had gone down.
He had seen the effect of that announcement painted on rough, worn, upturned faces; he had heard the cries of anger, the groans of despair of the few, and had witnessed the relief, the tears of joy of the many.
But his heart felt numb, and his cold, stern manner kept the emotions and excitement of those about him in check.
At last there had come a short respite. It was publicly announced that owing to the currents the divers had had to suspend their work awhile, but that salvage appliances from England and from Cherbourg were on their way to Falaise, and that it was hoped by seven that evening active operations would begin. With luck the _Neptune_ might be raised before midnight.
Fortunate people blessed with optimistic natures were already planning a banquet at which the crew of the _Neptune_ were to be entertained within an hour of the rescue.
Jacques de Wissant rose from the ma.s.sive First Empire table which formed part of the fine suite of furniture presented by the great Napoleon just a hundred years ago to the munic.i.p.ality of Falaise.