She pressed strongly the hand to which she had been clinging all the time. "I thought this."
"But what did you think of my conduct at times? You see, I did not know what was going to be. I . . . I was afraid," he added under his breath.
"Conduct? What conduct? You came, you went. When you were not here I thought of you, and when you were here I could look my fill at you. I tell you I knew how it was going to be. I was not afraid then."
"You went about with a little smile," he whispered, as one would mention an inconceivable marvel.
"I was warm and quiet," murmured Arlette, as if on the borders of dreamland. Tender murmurs flowed from her lips describing a state of blissful tranquillity in phrases that sounded like the veriest nonsense, incredible, convincing and soothing to Réal's conscience.
"You were perfect," it went on. "Whenever you came near me everything seemed different."
"What do you mean? How different?"
"Altogether. The light, the very stones of the house, the hills, the little flowers amongst the rocks! Even Nanette was different."
Nanette was a white Angora with long silken hair, a pet that lived mostly in the yard.
"Oh, Nanette was different too," said Réal, whom delight in the modulations of that voice had cut off from all reality, and even from a consciousness of himself, while he sat stooping over that head resting against his knee, the soft grip of her hand being his only contact with the world.
"Yes. Prettier. It's only the people. . . . She ceased on an uncertain note. The crested wave of enchantment seemed to have passed over his head ebbing out faster than the sea, leaving the dreary expanses of the sand. He felt a chill at the roots of his hair.
"What people?" he asked.
"They are so changed. Listen, to-night while you were away – why did you go away? – I caught those two in the kitchen, saying nothing to each other. That Peyrol – he is terrible."
He was struck by the tone of awe, by its profound conviction. He could not know that Peyrol, unforeseen, unexpected, inexplicable, had given by his mere appearance at Escampobar a moral and even a physical jolt to all her being, that he was to her an immense figure, like a messenger from the unknown entering the solitude of Escampobar; something immensely strong, with inexhaustible power, unaffected by familiarity and remaining invincible.
"He will say nothing, he will listen to nothing. He can do what he likes."
"Can he?" muttered Réal.
She sat up on the floor, moved her head up and down several times as if to say that there could be no doubt about that.
"Is he, too, thirsting for my blood?" asked Réal bitterly.
"No, no. It isn't that. You could defend yourself. I could watch over you. I have been watching over you. Only two nights ago I thought I heard noises outside and I went downstairs, fearing for you; your window was open but I could see nobody, and yet I felt. . . . No, it isn't that! It's worse. I don't know what he wants to do. I can't help being fond of him, but I begin to fear him now. When he first came here and I saw him he was just the same – only his hair was not so white – big, quiet. It seemed to me that something moved in my head. He was gentle, you know. I had to smile at him. It was as if I had recognized him. I said to myself. 'That's he, the man himself.' "
"And when I came?" asked Réal with a feeling of dismay.
"You! You were expected," she said in a low tone with a slight tinge of surprise at the question, but still evidently thinking of the Peyrol mystery. "Yes, I caught them at it last evening, he and Catherine in the kitchen, looking at each other and as quiet as mice. I told him he couldn't order me about. Oh, mon chéri, mon chéri, don't you listen to Peyrol – don't let him . . ."
With only a slight touch on his knee she sprang to her feet. Réal stood up too.
"He can do nothing to me," he mumbled.
'Don't tell him anything. Nobody can guess what he thinks, and now even I cannot tell what he means when he speaks. It was as if he knew a secret." She put an accent into those words which made Réal feel moved almost to tears. He repeated that Peyrol could have no influence over him, and he felt that he was speaking the truth. He was in the power of his own word. Ever since he had left the Admiral in a gold-embroidered uniform, impatient to return to his guests, he was on a service for which he had volunteered. For a moment he had the sensation of an iron hoop very tight round his chest. She peered at his face closely, and it was more than he could bear.
"All right. I'll be careful," he said. "And Catherine, is she also dangerous?"
In the sheen of the moonlight Arlette, her neck and head above the gleams of the fichu, visible and elusive, smiled at him and moved a step closer.
"Poor Aunt Catherine," she said. . . . "Put your arm round me, Eugéne. . . . She can do nothing. She used to follow me with her eyes always. She thought I didn't notice, but I did. And now she seems unable to look me in the face. Peyrol too, for that matter. He used to follow me with his eyes. Often I wondered what made them look at me like that. Can you tell, Eugéne? But it's all changed now."
"Yes, it is all changed," said Réal in a tone which he tried to make as light as possible. "Does Catherine know you are here?"
"When we went upstairs this evening I lay down all dressed on my bed and she sat on hers. The candle was out, but in the moonlight I could see her quite plainly with her hands on her lap. When I could lie still no longer I simply got up and went out of the room. She was still sitting at the foot of her bed. All I did was to put my finger on my lips and then she dropped her head. I don't think I quite closed the door. . . . Hold me tighter, Eugène, I am tired. . . . Strange, you know! Formerly, a long time ago, before I ever saw you, I never rested and never felt tired." She stopped her murmur suddenly and lifted a finger recommending silence. She listened and Réal listened too, he did not know for what; and in this sudden concentration on a point, all that had happened since he had entered the room seemed to him a dream in its improbability and in the more than life-like force dreams have in their inconsequence. Even the woman letting herself go on his arm seemed to have no weight as it might have happened in a dream.
"She is there," breathed Arlette suddenly, rising on tiptoe to reach up to his ear. "She must have heard you go past."
"Where is she?" asked Réal with the same intense secrecy.
"Outside the door. She must have been listening to the murmur of our voices. . . ." Arlette breathed into his ear as if relating an enormity. "She told me one day that I was one of those who are fit for no man's arms."
At this he flung his other arm round her and looked into her enlarged as if frightened eyes, while she clasped him with all her strength and they stood like that a long time, lips pressed on lips without a kiss, and breathless in the closeness of their contact. To him the stillness seemed to extend to the limits of the universe. The thought "Am I going to die?" flashed through that stillness and lost itself in it like a spark flying in an everlasting night. The only result of it was the tightening of his hold on Arlette.
An aged and uncertain voice was heard uttering the word "Arlette." Catherine, who had been listening to their murmurs, could not bear the long silence. They heard her trembling tones as distinctly as though she had been in the room. Réal felt as if it had saved his life. They separated silently.
"Go away," called out Arlette.
"Arl—— . . ."
"Be quiet," she cried louder. "You can do nothing."
"Arlette," came through the door, tremulous and commanding.
"She will wake up Scevola," remarked Arlette to Réal in a conversational tone. And they both waited for sounds that did not come. Arlette pointed her finger at the wall. "He is there, you know."