CHAPTER XXIX.—GAVROLLES.

When Madeline came down to breakfast next morning she looked very ill. There was a wild light in her eyes and a feverish flush upon her face. Quite unsuspicious of the real cause of the change in her, Forster attributed it to the indisposition of the night before, and began to wonder if the sudden change in her habits was going to tell upon her health.

It certainly was a great change to be transported from the wild excitement of public life to the monotonous existence of a quiet house like his; but when he had asked her to give up the stage, he had thought he was lifting from her shoulders a load of which she would gladly be free. He had wished his wife to take her ease and enjoy her days, not to toil wearily as if for her daily bread. But now he began to think that he had been totally wrong. While he had been working away with unconscious happiness in the City, his beautiful wild bird had been beating her breast against the bars of her gilded cage, and pining for that freedom which to all gifted beings is so dear. These thoughts and many more of the same strain passed through Forster’s mind, while he made his way to the City. Long before he reached his office he had decided how to act.

‘I will speak to Madeline to-night,’ he said to himself, and hear her views. Something must be done to make her contented.’

Meanwhile Madeline, left with Miss Forster, walked about the room in new restlessness. She looked out of the window; it was a damp, dark day; she looked at her watch, it was past ten o’clock. In an hour she had promised to meet the man, and by this time she had settled in her mind that she must go.

What he could want with her she could not tell, and she had not paused to inquire. That he meant her no good she knew, but it was useless to anticipate the evil, till she knew its nature.

She went upstairs with a heavy heart, and returned, greatly to Miss Forster’s surprise, in walking costume.

The little boy, confident of his reception, came bounding in and clung affectionately to her skirts. She kissed him fondly, but told him he could not go with her that morning.

‘Not at all? May I not go a little way, mamma?’

‘Not even a little way, darling; I must go alone to-day.’

There was such a strange ring in her voice that Miss Forster looked up in some amazement, while the child clung closer to Madeline, and ardently kissed the cold, pale cheek.

‘Mamma is going to see a doctor,’ he said; ‘is it not so, mamma?’

“No, dear.’

‘Then where are you going alone, on such a cold wet day?’

Madeline flushed uneasily, and impatiently put the child from her.

‘You should not ask so many questions,’ she said; ‘it is rude!’ Then, noting the little crestfallen face, she hurriedly caught him up again and kissed him, while her own eyes filled with tears.

‘Hush, do not mind, I was wrong; but I did not mean to pain you, darling—no, no—not you!’

During the enacting of this scene Miss Forster had still remained in the room. Up to this moment she had said nothing; but her eyes had followed all her sister-in-law’s movements, and watched her face with peculiar interest. When Madeline had put down the boy, and was about to leave the room, she spoke.

‘The carriage has not come round,’ she said.

Madeline started, and turned. She had ignored the presence of her sister-in-law; and that lady noticed that the sudden recollection of it brought another uncomfortable flush to the pale cheek, and caused another anxious look about the room.

‘I—I have not ordered the carriage,’ she said.

‘Indeed?’

No question had been asked, therefore Madeline was not bound to reply; but feeling that she must say something, she stammered rather awkwardly—

‘I am going to walk. I prefer it to-day, as my head is bad, but I shall not be long away.’ Then, as if in dread of further questioning, she hurried from the room.

It was certainly a most inclement morning, but Madeline, being suitably clad, did not heed the weather. After walking a short distance, she hailed a passing hansom and drove to the park gate, close to the Albert Memorial; here she alighted, and crossing to the footpath sank wearily upon one of the seats to watch for the Frenchman’s arrival.

She had not sat long when she saw him.

Previous to her coming, Gavrolles, as we must continue to call him, had been parading theatrically round the memorial for a quarter of an hour, to the great admiration of several idle nursemaids. He did not at first see Madeline. He was smoking a cigar, glancing with careless interest at the somewhat tawdry designs, and keeping a cat-like eye on the figures which were moving about the park.

Another turn round the monument; then his eye fell upon Madeline, who still retained her seat close by. In a moment the whole man seemed to change. He smiled, tossed away his cigar, and advanced gallantly towards her. He raised his hat, then cordially extended his right hand.

‘Good morning,’ he exclaimed in French; ‘charmed to see you abroad so early! May I so far presume upon your friendship as to walk with you a very little way around the park?’

Madeline rose in silence, took no notice of his extended hand, and walked along by his side. She looked cold, haughty, and defiant; but in truth her heart was sinking terribly. As for Gavrolles, if he was a little disconcerted at first, he quickly regained his composure. As he drew back his rejected hand he smiled, and the smile seemed to say: ‘It is your turn now, Madame! Eh bien, enjoy your pride to the full; my time is at hand, and I mean to take advantage of it.’

‘Parbleu! he exclaimed, ‘how the place is deserted; and yet to my mind the morning is the pleasantest time of the day. See how fresh the flowers and the grass!—and the breeze is still sweet and cool with last night’s dew! It seems to bring new life to a man. Ah, yes; it is charming!’

He expanded his chest, he raised his hat to let the breeze play with his flowing locks of hair, then he gave a sidelong glance at Madeline, and met her eyes. She paused, and for the first time that day addressed him—

‘I cannot stay,’ she said quietly. ‘Why have you forced me to meet you here to-day?’

He shrugged his shoulders, he raised his hand in polite protestation.

‘Forced you!’ he exclaimed. ‘Ah, but you use hard words, my dear Madeline. I employ force to no one; certainly not to one so esteemed. If your memory is good, you must know that I merely asked an interview. You were gracious enough not only to grant it, but to name also our place of meeting.’

She looked him steadily in the face, and her lip curled contemptuously.

‘Will you oblige me by answering my question?’ Again he smiled, but while he did so his face was by no means pleasant to see.

‘I will make my best endeavours, madame.’

‘First, tell me this: when you went to that house last night were you certain of meeting me there?’

‘I most certainly hoped to have the pleasure of meeting you. I have lived in this strange world long enough to know that nothing is certain.’

‘Did you know that I had married an honourable man?’

‘I knew that; yes.’

‘And yet you made up your mind to thrust yourself upon me?’

He bowed profoundly. ‘My dear Madeline, your penetration is wonderful. I perceive you are one of the few beings in this stupid world fully capable of understanding me.’

‘Unfortunately for myself,’ Madeline continued, ‘I understand you sufficiently to know that you would not plan this meeting if there was no purpose to be obtained by it. What new injury do you wish to do me now?’

He gazed at her flushed face and muttered, ‘Ma foi, but she is charming!’ Then he added, aloud—

‘I merely wished to tell you, Madeline, something that you do not know.’

‘And that is——’

‘Only this—that although you have married an honourable man, as you say, you are nevertheless still my wife.’