She nodded. She felt intimate with him. Like all secretive persons, she could be suddenly expansive at times.
"It is serious?" he questioned.
"All that is most serious," she replied.
"And you ill! Ah, the wretch! Ah, the wretch! That, for example!" He waved his hat about.
"What is it you want, Chirac?" she demanded, in a confidential tone.
"Eh, well," said Chirac. "You do not know where he has gone?"
"No. What do you want?" she insisted.
He was nervous. He fidgetted. She guessed that, though warm with sympathy for her plight, he was preoccupied by interests and apprehensions of his own. He did not refuse her request temporarily to leave the astonishing matter of her situation in order to discuss the matter of his visit.
"Eh, well! He came to me yesterday afternoon in the Rue Croissant to borrow some money."
She understood then the object of Gerald"s stroll on the previous afternoon.
"I hope you didn"t lend him any," she said.
"Eh, well! It was like this. He said he ought to have received five thousand francs yesterday morning, but that he had had a telegram that it would not arrive till to-day. And he had need of five hundred francs at once. I had not five hundred francs"--he smiled sadly, as if to insinuate that he did not handle such sums--"but I borrowed it from the cashbox of the journal. It is necessary, absolutely, that I should return it this morning." He spoke with increased seriousness. "Your husband said he would take a cab and bring me the money immediately on the arrival of the post this morning--about nine o"clock. Pardon me for deranging you with such a----"
He stopped. She could see that he really was grieved to "derange" her, but that circ.u.mstances pressed.
"At my paper," he murmured, "it is not so easy as that to--in fine----!"
Gerald had genuinely been at his last francs. He had not lied when she thought he had lied. The nakedness of his character showed now.
Instantly upon the final and definite cessation of the lawful supply of money, he had set his wits to obtain money unlawfully. He had, in fact, simply stolen it from Chirac, with the ornamental addition of endangering Chirac"s reputation and situation--as a sort of reward to Chirac for the kindness! And, further, no sooner had he got hold of the money than it had intoxicated him, and he had yielded to the first fatuous temptation. He had no sense of responsibility, no scruple. And as for common prudence--had he not risked permanent disgrace and even prison for a paltry sum which he would certainly squander in two or three days? Yes, it was indubitable that he would stop at nothing, at nothing whatever.
"You did not know that he was coming to me?" asked Chirac, pulling his short, silky brown beard.
"No," Sophia answered.
"But he said that you had charged him with your friendlinesses to me!"
He nodded his head once or twice, sadly but candidly accepting, in his quality of a Latin, the plain facts of human nature--reconciling himself to them at once.
Sophia revolted at this crowning detail of the structure of Gerald"s rascality.
"It is fortunate that I can pay you," she said.
"But----" he tried to protest.
"I have quite enough money."
She did not say this to screen Gerald, but merely from amour-propre.
She would not let Chirac think that she was the wife of a man bereft of all honour. And so she clothed Gerald with the rag of having, at any rate, not left her in dest.i.tution as well as in sickness. Her a.s.sertion seemed a strange one, in view of the fact that he had abandoned her on the previous evening--that is to say, immediately after the borrowing from Chirac. But Chirac did not examine the statement.
"Perhaps he has the intention to send me the money. Perhaps, after all, he is now at the offices----"
"No," said Sophia. "He is gone. Will you go downstairs and wait for me.
We will go together to Cook"s office. It is English money I have."
"Cook"s?" he repeated. The word now so potent had then little significance. "But you are ill. You cannot----"
"I feel better."
She did. Or rather, she felt nothing except the power of her resolve to remove the painful anxiety from that wistful brow. The shame of the trick played on Chirac awakened new forces in her. She dressed in a physical torment which, however, had no more reality than a nightmare.
She searched in a place where even an inquisitive husband would not think of looking, and then, painfully, she descended the long stairs, holding to the rail, which swam round and round her, carrying the whole staircase with it. "After all," she thought, "I can"t be seriously ill, or I shouldn"t have been able to get up and go out like this. I never guessed early this morning that I could do it! I can"t possibly be as ill as I thought I was!"
And in the vestibule she encountered Chirac"s face, lightening at the sight of her, which proved to him that his deliverance was really to be accomplished.
"Permit me----"
"I"m all right," she smiled, tottering. "Get a cab." It suddenly occurred to her that she might quite as easily have given him the money in English notes; he could have changed them. But she had not thought.
Her brain would not operate. She was dreaming and waking together.
He helped her into the cab.
V
In the bureau de change there was a little knot of English, people, with naive, romantic, and honest faces, quite different from the faces outside in the street. No corruption in those faces, but a sort of wondering and infantile sincerity, rather out of its element and lost in a land too unsophisticated, seeming to belong to an earlier age!
Sophia liked their tourist stare, and their plain and ugly clothes. She longed to be back in England, longed for a moment with violence, drowning in that desire.
The English clerk behind his bra.s.s bars took her notes, and carefully examined them one by one. She watched him, not entirely convinced of his reality, and thought vaguely of the detestable morning when she had abstracted the notes from Gerald"s pocket. She was filled with pity for the simple, ignorant Sophia of those days, the Sophia who still had a few ridiculous illusions concerning Gerald"s character. Often, since, she had been tempted to break into the money, but she had always withstood the temptation, saying to herself that an hour of more urgent need would come. It had come. She was proud of her firmness, of the force of will which had enabled her to reserve the fund intact. The clerk gave her a keen look, and then asked her how she would take the French money. And she saw the notes falling down one after another on to the counter as the clerk separated them with a snapping sound of the paper.
Chirac was beside her.
"Does that make the count?" she said, having pushed towards him five hundred-franc notes.
"I should not know how to thank you," he said, accepting the notes.
"Truly--"
His joy was unmistakably eager. He had had a shock and a fright, and he now saw the danger past. He could return to the cashier of his newspaper, and fling down the money with a lordly and careless air, as if to say: "When it is a question of these English, one can always be sure!" But first he would escort her to the hotel. She declined--she did not know why, for he was her sole point of moral support in all France. He insisted. She yielded. So she turned her back, with regret, on that little English oasis in the Sahara of Paris, and staggered to the fiacre.
And now that she had done what she had to do, she lost control of her body, and reclined flaccid and inert. Chirac was evidently alarmed. He did not speak, but glanced at her from time to time with eyes full of fear. The carriage appeared to her to be swimming amid waves over great depths. Then she was aware of a heavy weight against her shoulder; she had slipped down upon Chirac, unconscious.
CHAPTER V
FEVER
I
Then she was lying in bed in a small room, obscure because it was heavily curtained; the light came through the inner pair of curtains of ecru lace, with a beautiful soft silvery quality. A man was standing by the side of the bed--not Chirac.