CHAPTER III

MAGDALEN

Floriot did not recognize her as he entered. She was rising and her head was bowed. He turned slowly with hand still on the knob of the door and their eyes met! Every muscle in his body grew rigid and the pallor of his face, born of his long nights in the chair by his boy's bed, changed slowly to a pasty, sickly white. The woman gazed at him with heaving bosom and hope and dread in her eyes.

"You----!" he choked. Jacqueline timidly took a half step toward him, and clasped her hands.

"Yes--I. I----," she began fearfully, but the sound of her voice galvanized the statue at the door.

"Leave this house!" he commanded sternly and he advanced firmly into the room.

"Louis! I----"

"Leave this house at once!" he interrupted, his voice rising with his anger.

"Listen, Louis, please! I----"

"Go! Do you hear me!" he cried furiously as he stalked past her, opened the door into the hall, and held it for her to pass out. Jacqueline crept toward him looking up with frightened, tear-stained face.

"Yes, yes! I will go, I will go!" she panted hurriedly. "I--I promise I will go right away! But, please, Louis, listen--one moment, _please_!"

He looked at the crouching, pleading figure and the anger in his face gave way to an expression as indescribable as unforgettable, and he sharply turned away.

"Well, what is it then? Be quick! What do you want?" he demanded roughly.

She sank to her knees and raised her hands to him in piteous appeal.

"Louis, forgive me! For----"

"What!" His voice startled her like a pistol shot. But she stammered on:

"Forgive me, Louis, so----"

He slammed the door and in two strides was standing over with clenched fists. She could not meet his furious eyes and her head bowed almost to his feet.

"Forgive you! Forgive you!" and he laughed a short, bitter laugh that was more terrible and hope-destroying than curses would have been to the crouching woman. "For two years I have lived day and night with the thought of you in another man's arms and your kisses on his lips! And you ask me to forgive you! You----"

"Louis! Louis!" she moaned. "In our child's name----"

"Stop!" he broke in sternly. "Don't dare to mention him! He is nothing to you and you are nothing to him! He is mine--mine only! Did you think of him when you left us?"

"Louis, for God's sake! I was mad! I was----"

"Oh, of course!" his harsh laugh grated in again. "That is about what I expected." Then his face hardened and he lashed her with his scorn.

"I was false to my husband. I deserted my child--I was mad! I stole out of my home like a thief and took all of its happiness with me--I was mad! I went away with my lover to what I believed would be a life of pleasure--I was mad!"

I trampled on every "Louis! Louis!" she sobbed, and writhed at his feet. "It's the truth! I was mad! I----"

"The truth! Hah! Would you like to hear the truth? You were tired of being an honorable woman--a pure mother! You were tired of me and loved--him! That's the truth! You loved him, didn't you? You loved him!"

"He loved me! He said he would kill himself for me! And I----"

"And you believed him! You never thought of me and I"--for a moment grief conquered anger and his voice broke--"I worshipped you! And ours was a love match," he went on bitterly, "for you told me once a thousand years ago that you loved me!"

His face worked, in a spasm of anguish, and he tried to move away, but the woman clutched a leg of his trousers with both hands and lifted her head suddenly.

"And it was--it is true, Louis!" she cried desperately.

His look was more than answer enough.

"It is! It is, Louis!" she pleaded feverishly. "We didn't understand each other, that's all! It was my fault, my fault! You loved me passionately but I did not know it! I could not see it! And you made me only part of your home--never part of your life! I was never your friend--you were gentle with me, but you never took me into your life--you never really knew my heart, and with you I always felt alone. I loved you but"--she fought for breath and coherence--"but I was always afraid of you--you were so serious and severe! I wanted to laugh and have a good time! You never noticed it--you had your work, your ambitions, your legal friends and I--had nothing! Nothing!" she sobbed. "And I was so young--twenty! Hardly twenty! Oh, Louis, forgive me! Forgive me!"

Floriot half staggered to a chair and sank into it. The unexpectedness of the soul-wracking scene coming on top of the strain of his two weeks' vigil in the sick-room was almost too much for even his iron nerve. Jacqueline, huddled on the floor, was sobbing convulsively. He buried his face in his hands and groaned. At the sound she struggled to her feet and took a step toward him, gasping to control her heaving bosom. He waved a hand toward the door without raising his head.

"Louis!" she cried passionately, desperately, "you would not condemn the lowest criminal if there were any defense for him, and I am the mother of your boy! It is all my fault, but you could have helped me if you would! You swore to love, honor and protect me, and did you do it? You loved me but you never honored me! You did not think I was worthy to be the companion to you that a wife should be! You looked for companionship to your friends. I might as well have been your mistress! Did you protect me? You brought _him_ to the house the first time? You said he was your friend and you encouraged me to be kind to him. You permitted him to be my escort wherever I wanted to go, because my pleasure would not then interfere with your work or your plans!"

She choked. Floriot did not stir.

"He grew to be everything to me that you should have been. He sympathized with me in everything! He anticipated every thought and desire! You would not even make an effort to please me if my request interfered with your work--always your work!"

"Life of pleasure!" she quoted bitterly. "Louis, I never loved him! You angered me and hurt me because you would not let me come close to your real life. And I--I--Louis, I was mad! But you could have saved me! A little attention--if I could have felt that I was anything more than a plaything--something to amuse you in the few minutes that you ever took for amusement--Louis.. you will never know how I fought with myself--the torture of those days--and when I came to you for help----!" The words died away in a sob. There was no sound from the husband but the labor of his breathing.

"Do you remember a few days before--before--I--the night I--left--I wanted you to go to Fontainebleau with me and you wouldn't? And I went with--him! That day in the park he--kissed my hands--and the lace of my dress--and said he would kill himself at my feet if I didn't love him----!" She stopped with a gasp and went on, bringing the words out in broken phrases.

"I made him take me home--I was running from him--from myself--to you! I found you in your study and begged you--to go out with me! I wanted to--show myself--that I loved you only! Do you remember what you said? 'I'm too busy. Run along--and get Lescelles to take you!'"

"Oh, Louis, Louis!" she cried, throwing herself at his feet, while the storm of weeping shook her again, "you could have saved me then!"

Still the bowed figure in the chair did not stir. He was so numbed that his consciousness seemed to be that of another--watching, listening and judging. He was the type of man whom Duty, once embraced, grips with hug like the Iron Maiden's, and even gains a monstrous pleasure as life itself or all that makes life worth while is slowly crushed out. Had she come a month before this scene would have left him unshaken, but now----!

His boy--their boy--lay up-stairs, saved from death by a miracle. Her clasped hands rested on one of his knees and her head touched his arms. His eyes were closed, but he nearly swooned when he breathed the perfume of her hair that brought back the picture of a dark head on the white pillow in the dim moonlight or the gray of dawn.

Then came the terrible thought that for two years that picture had been the joy of another.... Fragments of his talk with Madame Varenne flashed through his mind. Was there a little fault on his side?... He need not speak a word. He had but to open his eyes and look forgiveness and her warm body would be pressed again to his breast, her soft arms would be around his neck and her soft lips would shower kisses on his face. ... He drew a sharp breath and rose slowly and uncertainly.

"Jacqueline!" he said in an unsteady voice, not daring to let his wavering eyes look down. "Jacqueline, you must go!"

A long, convulsive sob and:

"Ah, why did I go at all? Why did I ever go?" she moaned. "You would have killed me and that would have been the end of it! Louis, forgive me! Forgive me!" And she clasped his limp hand in both of hers and looked up piteously.

"No! No!" he cried, fighting desperately with an impulse to stoop and crush the slender body in his arms and kiss the tears from the upturned face. "Surely, you see that I----"

"What will become of me?" she pleaded, as her instinct told her that he was weakening.

"Go back to him! Go back to the man who would have killed himself for you!" he cried in a voice that he tried in vain to make as bitter as the words. And he made no effort to free his hand. The answer was a barely audible whisper:

"He is dead!"

Floriot jerked his hand away with an exclamation of horror and sprang back, his eyes flashing with anger.

"So that is why you've come back!" he blazed furiously.

"No! No!" she protested, frightened, struggling to her feet with arms outstretched. "I came to see our boy--our Raymond! To beg you--to----"

The flaming scorn in his eyes stopped her.

"And I was on the point of yielding!" His laugh made the woman wince. "What a fool I was! I actually believed you! So he is dead, is he?"

She bowed her head in utter despair.

"I wrote--to tell you."

"And now that he is dead you thought of me again--of me, of your idiot of a husband"--his voice rose with fury--"the simple-minded fool who would be only too glad to take you back again!"

"Louis, I love you--I wanted to see you, to see our child again! Can't you see I've changed?" she pleaded. She threw open her arms and tears ran unheeded down her face.

"Changed! Hah!--Leave the house!" and he pointed imperiously to the door.

"Louis, it's true! Let me see our boy again!"--

"He has forgotten you!"

"Let me kiss him--just once!" she begged.

"He believes you to be dead!" he said, with cold cruelty. The mother rushed to him with half-stifled shriek and terror in her face.

"Louis! No! No!" she screamed, "No! No! No!"

"He does!"

"Louis, no! Don't say that!" Horror was driving her to hysteria. "It can't be true! You wouldn't tell him that! Louis, you loved me once! You loved me! It's not possible! I am your wife--his mother! His mother!"

Floriot eyed her, cold and unmoved.

"You have gone out of his life and mine," he replied calmly. Jacqueline moaning, sank to the floor.

"Oh, my God!" she prayed. "Help me! Help me! Louis, be kind to me! A life of repentance----"

He pulled her roughly to her feet and half-carried her toward the door.

"Don't take my child away from me!" she panted, struggling.

"Go! Leave the house!"

"Oh! Let me see him! I won't--speak! Let me kiss him! I won't--say a word!" she gasped as they reached the door and he pushed her violently through into the hall.

"Louis! Pity--! Raymond! My child, my----"

The slam of the door cut off the sound of the pleading voice from his ears. He held the knob to prevent her from reopening it. For a few moments there was silence. Then Floriot heard through the door something between a choke and a sob and the quickly receding rustle of skirts. The bang of the outside door echoed through the silent house.