One alone, her mother’s, showed a light. And suddenly two shadows appeared on the luminous square, two shadows side by side. Then they drew closer and made only one; another flash of lightning flung a swift and dazzling jet of light upon the house-front, and she saw them embracing, their arms about one another’s necks.
At that she was stunned; without thinking, without knowing what she did, she cried out with all her strength, in a piercing voice: “Mother!” as one cries to warn another creature of deadly peril.
Her desperate cry was lost in the clatter of the rain, but the engrossed pair started uneasily apart. One of the shadows disappeared, while the other tried to distinguish something in the darkness of the garden.
Fearing to be taken unawares and found by her mother, Yvette ran to the house, hurried upstairs, leaving a trail of water dripping from step to step, and locked herself in her room, determined to open to no one. Without taking off the soaking clothes which clung to her body, she fell upon her knees with clasped hands, imploring in her distress some superhuman protection, the mysterious help of heaven, that unknown aid we pray for in our hours of weeping and despair. Every instant the great flashes threw their livid light into the room, and she saw herself fitfully reflected in her wardrobe-mirror, with her wet hair streaming down her back, so strange a figure that she could not recognise herself.
She remained in this strait for a long time, so long that the storm passed without her noticing its departure. The rain ceased to fall, light flowed into the sky, though it was still dark with clouds, and a warm, fragrant, delicious freshness, the freshness of wet leaves and grass, drifted in at the open window. Yvette rose from her knees, took off her cold sodden clothes, without thinking at all of what she did, and got into bed. She fixed her eyes on the growing daylight, then wept again, then tried to think.
Her mother! With a lover! The shame of it! But she had read so many books in which women, even mothers, abandoned themselves in like fashion, only to rise once more to honour in the last few pages, that she was not utterly dumbfounded to find herself involved in a drama like all the dramas in the stories she read. The violence of her first misery, her first cruel bewilderment, was already slightly lessened by her confused recollections of similar situations. Her thoughts had roamed among so many tragic adventures, gracefully woven into their stories by the authors of romances, that gradually her horrible discovery began to seem the natural continuation of a novelette begun the night before.
“I will save my mother,” she said to herself.
Almost calmed by this heroic resolution, she felt herself strong, great, ready upon the instant for sacrifice and combat. She thought over the means she must employ. Only one seemed good to her, and accorded with her romantic nature. And she rehearsed, like an actress before the performance, the interview she would have with her mother.
The sun had risen and the servants were up and about. The maid came with her chocolate. Yvette had the tray set down on the table, and said:
“Tell my mother that I’m not well, that I shall stay in bed till the gentlemen leave; tell her I did not sleep last night and that I wish not to be disturbed, because I must try to sleep.”
The astonished maid caught sight of the soaked dress, thrown like a rag on the carpet.
“Mademoiselle has been out, then?” she said.
“Yes, I went for a walk in the rain to clear my head.”
The servant picked up the petticoats, stockings, and muddy shoes, and went out carrying them gingerly on her arm with an expression of disgust; they were dripping like the clothes of a drowned women.
Yvette waited, knowing well that her mother would come.
The Marquise entered, having leapt out of bed at the first words of the maid, for she had endured a vague uneasiness ever since that cry of “Mother!” pierced the darkness.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
Yvette looked at her and faltered.
“I’ve … I’ve …”
Then, overcome by violent and sudden emotion, she began to sob.
The astonished Marquise asked again:
“What’s the matter with you?”
Then, forgetting all her schemes and the phrases so carefully prepared, the young girl hid her face in her hands and sobbed:
“Oh, mother! Oh, mother!”
Madame Obardi remained standing by the bed, too excited to understand fully, but guessing with that subtle instinct wherein her strength lay, almost everything there was to know.
Yvette, choked with sobs, could not speak, and her mother, exasperated at last and feeling the approach of a formidable revelation, asked sharply:
“Come, what’s the matter with you? Tell me.”
With difficulty Yvette stammered:
“Oh! Last night … I saw … your window.”
“Well, what then?” asked the Marquise, very pale.
Her daughter repeated, still sobbing:
“Oh, mother! Oh, mother!”
Madame Obardi, whose fear and embarrassment were changing to anger, shrugged her shoulders and turned to go.
“I really think you must be mad. When it’s all over, let me know.”
But suddenly the young girl parted her hands and disclosed her tear-stained face.
“No. … Listen. … I must speak to you. … Listen. Promise me … we’ll both go away, far away, into the country, and we’ll live like peasants and no one will know what’s become of us. Will you, mother? Please, please, I beg you, mother, I implore you!”
The Marquise, abashed, remained in the middle of the room. She had the hot blood of the people in her veins. Then shame, the shame of a mother, mingled with her vague sensation of fear and the exasperation of a passionate woman whose love is menaced. She shivered, equally ready to implore forgiveness or to fly into a rage.
“I don’t understand you,” she said.
“I saw you, mother,” continued Yvette, “last night. … You must never again … Oh, if you knew … we’ll both go away. …
