They paid for their coffee and got up to leave: “Let me come as far as the house,” he pleaded.
But she shook her head: “No, no, not now. I’ll write to you … very soon … Goodbye, Martin.”
She watched him hurrying down the street, and when he was finally lost in its shadows, she turned slowly and made her own way up the hill, past the garish lights of the Moulin de la Galette. Its pitiful sails revolved in the wind, eternally grinding out petty sins—dry chaff blown in from the gutters of Paris. And after a while, having breasted the hill, she must climb a dusty flight of stone steps, and push open a heavy, slow-moving door; the door of the mighty temple of faith that keeps its anxious but tireless vigil.
She had no idea why she was doing this thing, or what she would say to the silver Christ with one hand on His heart and the other held out in a patient gesture of supplication. The sound of praying, monotonous, low, insistent, rose up from those who prayed with extended arms, with crucified arms—like the tides of an ocean it swelled and receded and swelled again, bathing the shores of heaven.
They were calling upon the Mother of God: “Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, priez pour nous, pauvres pêcheurs, maintenant et à l’heure de notre mort.”
“Et à l’heure de notre mort,” Stephen heard herself repeating.
He looked terribly weary, the silver Christ: “But then He always looks tired,” she thought vaguely; and she stood there without finding anything to say, embarrassed as one so frequently is in the presence of somebody else’s sorrow. For herself she felt nothing, neither pity nor regret; she was curiously empty of all sensation, and after a little she left the church, to walk on through the windswept streets of Montmartre.
LVI
I
Valérie stared at Stephen in amazement: “But … it’s such an extraordinary thing you’re asking! Are you sure you’re right to take such a step? For myself I care nothing; why should I care? If you want to pretend that you’re my lover, well, my dear, to be quite frank, I wish it were true—I feel certain you’d make a most charming lover. All the same,” and now her voice sounded anxious, “this is not a thing to be done lightly, Stephen. Aren’t you being absurdly self-sacrificing? You can give the girl a very great deal.”
Stephen shook her head: “I can’t give her protection or happiness, and yet she won’t leave me. There’s only one way …”
Then Valérie Seymour, who had always shunned tragedy like the plague, flared out in something very like temper: “Protection! Protection! I’m sick of the word. Let her do without it; aren’t you enough for her? Good heavens, you’re worth twenty Mary Llewellyns! Stephen, think it over before you decide—it seems mad to me. For God’s sake keep the girl, and get what happiness you can out of life.”
“No, I can’t do that,” said Stephen dully.
Valérie got up: “Being what you are, I suppose you can’t—you were made for a martyr! Very well, I agree”; she finished abruptly, “though of all the curious situations that I’ve ever been in, this one beats the lot!”
That night Stephen wrote to Martin Hallam.
II
Two days later as she crossed the street to her house, Stephen saw Martin in the shadow of the archway. He stepped out and they faced each other on the pavement. He had kept his word; it was just ten o’clock.
He said: “I’ve come. Why did you send for me, Stephen?”
She answered heavily: “Because of Mary.”
And something in her face made him catch his breath, so that the questions died on his lips: “I’ll do whatever you want,” he murmured.
“It’s so simple,” she told him, “it’s all perfectly simple. I want you to wait just under this arch—just here where you can’t be seen from the house. I want you to wait until Mary needs you, as I think she will … it may not be long … Can I count on your being here if she needs you?”
He nodded: “Yes—yes!” He was utterly bewildered, scared too by the curious look in her eyes; but he allowed her to pass him and enter the courtyard.
III
She let herself into the house with her latchkey. The place seemed full of an articulate silence that leapt out shouting from every corner—a jibing, grimacing, vindictive silence. She brushed it aside with a sweep of her hand, as though it were some sort of physical presence.
But who was it who brushed that silence aside? Not Stephen Gordon … oh, no, surely not … Stephen Gordon was dead; she had died last night: “A l’heure de notre mort …” Many people had spoken those prophetic words quite a short time ago—perhaps they had been thinking of Stephen Gordon.
Yet now someone was slowly climbing the stairs, then pausing upon the landing to listen, then opening the door of Mary’s bedroom, then standing quite still and staring at Mary. It was someone whom David knew and loved well; he sprang forward with a sharp little bark of welcome. But Mary shrank back as though she had been struck—Mary pale and red-eyed from sleeplessness—or was it because of excessive weeping?
When she spoke her voice sounded unfamiliar: “Where were you last night?”
“With Valérie Seymour. I thought you’d know somehow … It’s better to be frank … we both hate lies …”
Came that queer voice again: “Good God—and I’ve tried so hard not to believe it! Tell me you’re lying to me now; say it, Stephen!”
Stephen—then she wasn’t dead after all; or was she? But now Mary was clinging—clinging.
“Stephen, I can’t believe this thing—Valérie! Is that why you always repulse me … why you never want to come near me these days? Stephen, answer me; are you her lover? Say something, for Christ’s sake! Don’t stand there
