and told her about the hot water, and a bat had flown past the window.
There had been the scent of climbing white roses, and the night noises had come in clearly through the open window. There still was the scent of white roses, and one of them was tapping gently against a pane of glass, and even as she stood there an owl hooted derisively in one of the great trees pressing close to the house. But other things were not the same—her big four-poster bed, with its carved columns, the cupids that looked at her from amidst the flowers and the grapes that were a part of the ornamentation of the shining tester supports, was not the same welcoming four-poster bed on to which Robert—no; Armand!—had so lightly deposited her after carrying her all the way upstairs on that first night. Then everything around her had seemed peaceful and promising, the bed had offered her a tranquil night, and Robert—Armand!— had spent the night on the terrace guarding her! Or so he had said, but it was probably an exaggeration of speech, and he had really felt disinclined to leave her alone because he had been a bit anxious about her.
A young woman left alone in his own house who ought not to be left alone!
Tears rose, like the rising of a spring, to her eyes, and she caught back a little moan of self-pity because a bubble had been pricked, and everything was ended.
Oh, Robert, Robert... !
She dragged herself across the room and sat down on the side of the bed, clutching at one of the bedposts and resting her head against it.
Robert with his bookshop in the Rue de Rivoli... his bookshop that didn’t pay...! His flat at the top of one of the tallest buildings in Paris, his offer of poverty—and love... ! Robert must surely have loved her when he held her in his arms that afternoon and kissed her, and promised that she should do all the things a woman longs to do for the man she loves... cook for him, and sew on his buttons, and mend his socks! But that was Robert...! Armand was the Comte de Marsac, whom matrons in Paris chased after determinedly because he was wealthy and titled and a successful playwright, and morals didn’t matter when you were looking for a suitable son-in-law. A highly suitable son-in-law...! Armand probably had a most expensive flat, and no woman—certainly not a woman he married!—would ever find it necessary to cook for him, or perform the menial tasks. Instead she would be expected to share his social life, get used to the idea of possessing a “lion” for a husband, probably see very little of him when he was working, hear things about him that would pain her horribly at times.... Unless she was someone like Diane Montauban, who was so eminently fitted—judging by the little Caroline had seen of her so far—to be the Contesse de Marsac, with a chateau which she might visit occasionally, unless she persuaded her husband to sell it...!
Or someone like Helen Mansfield, who exuded an aura of possessions that would probably far outstrip anything owned by
Diane—probably a rich American heiress!— who was crazy about old French chateauxand might do much for the place!
Caroline felt that the hard wood of the bedpost was like the hard
wall of reality against which she had been flung, and the tears started to well over her eyes and roll down her cheeks, and they rolled so fast and so miserably at last that she didn’t trouble to check them.
She didn’t even hear the knock when it came on the door, so sunk was she in her misery, and so certain that she had been made rather worst than a fool of. A trusting, simple fool who had provided a diversion when it was needed!
CHAPTER VIII
AND since no one called out to him to enter, Armand— who had knocked very softly on the door—turned the handle and walked in.
Caroline sprang up from the foot of the bed as if a coiled spring had been released and the movement was purely defensive. He could see the marks of tears on her face, and her whole appearance was so
There had been the scent of climbing white roses, and the night noises had come in clearly through the open window. There still was the scent of white roses, and one of them was tapping gently against a pane of glass, and even as she stood there an owl hooted derisively in one of the great trees pressing close to the house. But other things were not the same—her big four-poster bed, with its carved columns, the cupids that looked at her from amidst the flowers and the grapes that were a part of the ornamentation of the shining tester supports, was not the same welcoming four-poster bed on to which Robert—no; Armand!—had so lightly deposited her after carrying her all the way upstairs on that first night. Then everything around her had seemed peaceful and promising, the bed had offered her a tranquil night, and Robert—Armand!— had spent the night on the terrace guarding her! Or so he had said, but it was probably an exaggeration of speech, and he had really felt disinclined to leave her alone because he had been a bit anxious about her.
A young woman left alone in his own house who ought not to be left alone!
Tears rose, like the rising of a spring, to her eyes, and she caught back a little moan of self-pity because a bubble had been pricked, and everything was ended.
Oh, Robert, Robert... !
She dragged herself across the room and sat down on the side of the bed, clutching at one of the bedposts and resting her head against it.
Robert with his bookshop in the Rue de Rivoli... his bookshop that didn’t pay...! His flat at the top of one of the tallest buildings in Paris, his offer of poverty—and love... ! Robert must surely have loved her when he held her in his arms that afternoon and kissed her, and promised that she should do all the things a woman longs to do for the man she loves... cook for him, and sew on his buttons, and mend his socks! But that was Robert...! Armand was the Comte de Marsac, whom matrons in Paris chased after determinedly because he was wealthy and titled and a successful playwright, and morals didn’t matter when you were looking for a suitable son-in-law. A highly suitable son-in-law...! Armand probably had a most expensive flat, and no woman—certainly not a woman he married!—would ever find it necessary to cook for him, or perform the menial tasks. Instead she would be expected to share his social life, get used to the idea of possessing a “lion” for a husband, probably see very little of him when he was working, hear things about him that would pain her horribly at times.... Unless she was someone like Diane Montauban, who was so eminently fitted—judging by the little Caroline had seen of her so far—to be the Contesse de Marsac, with a chateau which she might visit occasionally, unless she persuaded her husband to sell it...!
Or someone like Helen Mansfield, who exuded an aura of possessions that would probably far outstrip anything owned by
Diane—probably a rich American heiress!— who was crazy about old French chateauxand might do much for the place!
Caroline felt that the hard wood of the bedpost was like the hard
wall of reality against which she had been flung, and the tears started to well over her eyes and roll down her cheeks, and they rolled so fast and so miserably at last that she didn’t trouble to check them.
She didn’t even hear the knock when it came on the door, so sunk was she in her misery, and so certain that she had been made rather worst than a fool of. A trusting, simple fool who had provided a diversion when it was needed!
CHAPTER VIII
AND since no one called out to him to enter, Armand— who had knocked very softly on the door—turned the handle and walked in.
Caroline sprang up from the foot of the bed as if a coiled spring had been released and the movement was purely defensive. He could see the marks of tears on her face, and her whole appearance was so
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