CHAPTER XXI.
Night had long gathered in when Helene returned. From her umbrella the water dripped on step after step, whilst clinging to the balusters she ascended the staircase. She stood for a few seconds outside her door to regain her breath; the deafening rush of the rain still sounded in her ears; she still seemed to feel the jostling of hurrying foot-passengers, and to see the reflections from the street-lamps dancing in the puddles. She was walking in a dream, filled with the surprise of the kisses that had been showered upon her; and as she fumbled for her key she believed that her bosom felt neither remorse nor joy. Circumstances had compassed it all; she could have done naught to prevent it. But the key was not to be found; it was doubtless inside, in the pocket of her other gown. At this discovery her vexation was intense; it seemed as though she were denied admission to her own home. It became necessary that she should ring the bell.
'Oh! it's madame!' exclaimed Rosalie as she opened the door. 'I was beginning to feel uneasy.'
She took the umbrella, intending to place it in the kitchen sink, and then rattled on:
'Good gracious! what torrents! Zephyrin, who has just come, was drenched to the skin. I took the liberty, madame, of keeping him to dinner. He has leave till ten o'clock.'
Helene followed her mechanically. She felt a desire to look once more on everything in her home before removing her bonnet.
'You have done quite right, my girl,' she answered.
For a moment she lingered on the kitchen threshold, gazing at the bright fire. Then she instinctively opened the door of a cupboard, and promptly shut it again. Everything was in its place, chairs and tables alike; she found them all again, and their presence gave her pleasure. Zephyrin had, in the meantime, struggled respectfully to his feet. She nodded to him, smiling.
'I didn't know whether to put the roast on,' began the maid.
'Why, what time is it?' asked Helene.
'Oh, it's close on seven o'clock, madame.'
'What! seven o'clock!'
Astonishment riveted her to the floor; she had lost all consciousness of time, and seemed to awaken from a dream.
'And where's Jeanne?' she asked.
'Oh! she has been very good, madame. I even think she must have fallen asleep, for I haven't heard her for some time.'
'Haven't you given her a light?'
Embarrassment closed Rosalie's lips; she was unwilling to relate that Zephyrin had brought her some pictures which had engrossed her attention. Mademoiselle had never made the least stir, so she could scarcely have wanted anything. Helene, however, paid no further heed to her, but ran into the room, where a dreadful chill fell upon her.
'Jeanne! Jeanne!' she called.
No answer broke the stillness. She stumbled against an arm-chair. From the dining-room, the door of which she had left ajar, some light streamed across a corner of the carpet. She felt a shiver come over her, and she could have declared that the rain was falling in the room, with its moist breath and continuous streaming. Then, on turning her head, she at once saw the pale square formed by the open window and the gloomy grey of the sky.
'Who can have opened this window?' she cried. 'Jeanne! Jeanne!'
Still no answering word. A mortal terror fell on Helene's heart. She must look out of this window; but as she felt her way towards it, her hands lighted on a head of hair-it was Jeanne's. And then, as Rosalie entered with a lamp, the child appeared with blanched face, sleeping with her cheek upon her crossed arms, while the big raindrops from the roof splashed upon her. Her breathing was scarcely perceptible, so overcome she was with despair and fatigue. Among the lashes of her large, bluey eyelids there were still two heavy tears.
'The unhappy child!' stammered Helene. 'Oh, heavens! she's icy cold! To fall asleep there, at such a time, when she had been expressly forbidden to touch the window! Jeanne, Jeanne, speak to me; wake up, Jeanne!'
Rosalie had prudently vanished. The child, on being raised in her mother's embrace, let her head drop as though she were unable to shake off the leaden slumber that had seized upon her. At last, however, she raised her eyelids; but the glare of the lamp dazzled her, and she remained benumbed and stupid.
'Jeanne, it's I! What's wrong with you? See, I've just come back,' said Helene.
But the child seemingly failed to understand her; in her stupefaction she could only murmur: 'Oh! Ah!'
She gazed inquiringly at her mother, as though she failed to recognize her. And suddenly she shivered, growing conscious of the cold air of the room. Her memory was awakening, and the tears rolled from her eyelids to her cheeks. Then she commenced to struggle, in the evident desire to be left alone.
'It's you, it's you! Oh, leave me; you hold me too tight! I was so comfortable.'
She slipped from her mother's arms with affright in her face. Her uneasy looks wandered from Helene's hands to her shoulders; one of those hands was ungloved, and she started back from the touch of the moist palm and warm fingers with a fierce resentment, as though fleeing from some stranger's caress. The old perfume of vervain had died away; Helene's fingers had surely become greatly attenuated, and her hand was unusually soft. This skin was no longer hers, and its touch exasperated Jeanne.
'Come, I'm not angry with you,' pleaded Helene. 'But, indeed, have you behaved well? Come and kiss me.'
Jeanne, however, still recoiled from her. She had no remembrance of having seen her mother dressed in that gown or cloak. Besides, she looked so wet and muddy. Where had she come from dressed in that dowdy style.
'Kiss me, Jeanne,' repeated Helene.
But her voice also seemed strange; in Jeanne's ears it sounded louder. Her old heartache came upon her once more, as when an injury had been done her; and unnerved by the presence of what was unknown and horrible to her, divining, however, that she was breathing an atmosphere of falsehood, she burst into sobs.
'No, no, I entreat you! You left me all alone; and oh! I've been so miserable!'
'But I'm back again, my darling. Don't weep any more; I've come home!'
'Oh no, no! it's all over now! I don't wish for you any more! Oh, I waited and waited, and have been so wretched!'
Helene took hold of the child again, and gently sought to draw her to her bosom; but she resisted stubbornly, plaintively exclaiming:
'No, no; it will never be the same! You are not the same!'
'What! What are you talking of, child?'
'I don't know; you are not the same.'
'Do you mean to say that I don't love you any more?'
'I don't know; you are no longer the same! Don't say no. You don't feel the same! It's all over, over, over. I wish to die!'
With blanching face Helene again clasped her in her arms. Did her looks, then, reveal her secret? She kissed her, but a shudder ran through the child's frame, and an expression of such misery crept into her face that Helene forbore to print a second kiss upon her brow. She still kept hold of her, but neither of them uttered a word. Jeanne's sobbing fell to a whisper, a nervous revolt stiffening her limbs the while. Helene's first thought was that much notice ought not to be paid to a child's whims; but to her heart there stole a feeling of secret shame, and the weight of her daughter's body on her shoulder brought a blush to her cheeks. She hastened to put Jeanne down, and each felt relieved.
'Now, be good, and wipe your eyes,' said Helene. 'We'll make everything all right.'
The child acquiesced in all gentleness, but seemed somewhat afraid and glanced covertly at her mother. All at once her frame was shaken by a fit of coughing.
'Good heavens! why, you've made yourself ill now! I cannot stay away from you a moment. Did you feel cold?
'Yes, mamma; in the back.'
'See here; put on this shawl. The dining-room stove is lighted, and you'll soon feel warm. Are you hungry?'
