Certainly at the moment he seemed to take it very quietly;hardly, in fact, did he appear to understand the meaning of all she said; but what was more certain still, was that never after that could she detect the slightest sign of that love, which she once believed had been wholly hers.Now they had drifted quite apart, and Sir Percy seemed to have laid aside his love for her, as he would an ill-fitting glove.She tried to rouse him by sharpening her ready wit against his dull intellect; endeavouring to excite his jealousy, if she could not rouse his love; tried to goad him to self-assertion, but all in vain.
He remained the same, always passive, drawling, sleepy, always courteous, invariably a gentleman: she had all that the world and a wealthy husband can give to a pretty woman, yet on this beautiful summer's evening, with the white sails of the DAY DREAM finally hidden by the evening shadows, she felt more lonely than that poor tramp who plodded his way wearily along the rugged cliffs.
With another heavy sigh, Marguerite Blakeney turned her back upon the sea and cliffs, and walked slowly back towards "The Fisherman's Rest." As she drew near, the sound of revelry, of gay, jovial laughter, grew louder and more distinct.She could distinguish Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' pleasant voice, Lord Tony's boisterous guffaws, her husband's occasional, drawly, sleepy comments; then realising the loneliness of the road and the fast gathering gloom round her, she quickened her steps...the next moment she perceived a stranger coming rapidly towards her.Marguerite did not look up: she was not the least nervous, and "The Fisherman's Rest" was now well within call.
The stranger paused when he saw Marguerite coming quickly towards him, and just as she was about to slip past him, he said very quietly:
"Citoyenne St.Just."
Marguerite uttered a little cry of astonishment, at thus hearing her own familiar maiden name uttered so close to her.She looked up at the stranger, and this time, with a cry of unfeigned pleasure, she put out both her hands effusively towards him.
"Chauvelin!" she exclaimed.
"Himself, citoyenne, at your service," said the stranger, gallantly kissing the tips of her fingers.
Marguerite said nothing for a moment or two, as she surveyed with obvious delight the not very prepossessing little figure before her.Chauvelin was then nearer forty than thirty--a clever, shrewd-looking personality, with a curious fox-like expression in the deep, sunken eyes.He was the same stranger who an hour or two previously had joined Mr.Jellyband in a friendly glass of wine.
"Chauvelin...my friend..." said Marguerite, with a pretty little sigh of satisfaction."I am mightily pleased to see you."No doubt poor Marguerite St.Just, lonely in the midst of her grandeur, and of her starchy friends, was happy to see a face that brought back memories of that happy time in Paris, when she reigned--a queen--over the intellectual coterie of the Rue de Richelieu.She did not notice the sarcastic little smile, however, that hovered round the thin lips of Chauvelin.
"But tell me," she added merrily, "what in the world, or whom in the world, are you doing here in England?""I might return the subtle compliment, fair lady," he said.
"What of yourself?"
"Oh, I?" she said, with a shrug of the shoulders."Je m'ennuie, mon ami, that is all."They had reached the porch of "The Fisherman's Rest," but Marguerite seemed loth to go within.The evening air was lovely after the storm, and she had found a friend who exhaled the breath of Paris, who knew Armand well, who could talk of all the merry, brilliant friends whom she had left behind.So she lingered on under the pretty porch, while through the gaily-lighted dormer-window of the coffee-room sounds of laughter, of calls for "Sally" and for beer, of tapping of mugs, and clinking of dice, mingled with Sir Percy Blakeney's inane and mirthless laugh.Chauvelin stood beside her, his shrewd, pale, yellow eyes fixed on the pretty face, which looked so sweet and childlike in this soft English summer twilight.
"You surprise me, citoyenne," he said quietly, as he took a pinch of snuff.
"Do I now?" she retorted gaily."Faith, my little Chauvelin, I should have thought that, with your penetration, you would have guessed that an atmosphere composed of fogs and virtues would never suit Marguerite St.Just.""Dear me! is it as bad as that?" he asked, in mock consternation.
"Quite," she retorted, "and worse."
"Strange! Now, I thought that a pretty woman would have found English country life peculiarly attractive.""Yes! so did I," she said with a sigh, "Pretty women," she added meditatively, "ought to have a good time in England, since all the pleasant things are forbidden them--the very things they do every day.""Quite so!"
"You'll hardly believe it, my little Chauvelin," she said earnestly, "but I often pass a whole day--a whole day--without encountering a single temptation.""No wonder," retorted Chauvelin, gallantly, "that the cleverest woman in Europe is troubled with ENNUI."She laughed one of her melodious, rippling, childlike laughs.
"It must be pretty bad, mustn't it?" she asked archly, "or Ishould not have been so pleased to see you.""And this within a year of a romantic love match...that's just the difficulty...""Ah!...that idyllic folly," said Chauvelin, with quiet sarcasm, "did not then survive the lapse of...weeks?""Idyllic follies never last, my little Chauvelin...They come upon us like the measles...and are as easily cured."Chauvelin took another pinch of snuff: he seemed very much addicted to that pernicious habit, so prevalent in those days;perhaps, too, he found the taking of snuff a convenient veil for disguising the quick, shrewd glances with which he strove to read the very souls of those with whom he came in contact.