The Greatest Works of Marie Belloc Lowndes. Marie Belloc Lowndes
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both come to supper to-morrow?"
Sylvia shook her head.
"I am going into Paris for the day," she said, "and I shall feel tired when I get back. But many thanks, all the same."
"Then you must come"—Madame Wachner addressed Anna Wolsky. "We also will have a rest from the Casino."
"Very well! I accept gratefully your kind invitation."
"Come early. Come at six, and we can 'ave a cosy chat first."
"Yes, I will!"
After giving directions that they were to be told when the carriage had come back from the Châlet des Muguets, the two friends went up to Anna Wolsky's bed-room.
Sylvia sat down by the open window.
"You need not light a candle, Anna," she said. "It's so pleasant just now, so quiet and cool, and the light would only attract those horrid midges. They seem to me the only things I have to find fault with in Lacville!"
Anna Wolsky came and sat down in the darkness close to the younger woman.
"Sylvia," she said, "dear little Sylvia! Sometimes I feel uneasy at having brought you to Lacville." She spoke in a thoughtful and very serious tone.
"Indeed, you need feel nothing of the kind."
Sylvia Bailey put out her hand and took the other woman's hand in her own. She knew in her heart what Anna meant, but she wilfully pretended to misunderstand her.
"You need never think that I run the slightest risk of becoming a gambler," she went on, a little breathlessly. "I was looking at my account-book to-day, and I find that since I have been here I have lost seventy francs. Two days ago I had won a hundred and ten francs. So you see it is not a very serious matter, is it? Just think of all the fun I've had! It's well worth the money I've lost. Besides, I shall probably win it all back—"
"I was not thinking of the money," said Anna Wolsky slowly.
Sylvia made a restless movement, and took her hand out of Anna's affectionate clasp.
"I'm afraid that you are becoming very fond of the Comte de Virieu," went on Anna, in a low voice but very deliberately. "You must forgive me, Sylvia, but I am older than you are. Have you thought of the consequences of this friendship of yours? I confess that at the beginning I credited that man with the worst of motives, but now I feel afraid that he is in love—in fact I feel sure that he is madly in love with you. Do you know that he never takes his eyes off you in the Club? Often he forgets to pick up his winnings...."
Sylvia's heart began to beat. She wondered if Anna was indeed telling the truth. She almost bent forward and kissed her friend in her gratitude—but all she said was, and that defiantly,
"You can believe me when I say that he has never said a word of love to me. He has never even flirted with me. I give you my word that that is so!"
"Ah, but it is just that fact that makes me believe that he cares. Flirtation is an English art, not a French art, my dear Sylvia. A Frenchman either loves—and when he loves he adores on his knees—or else he has no use, no use at all, for what English people mean by flirtation—the make-believe of love! I should feel much more at ease if the Count had insulted you—"
"Anna!"
"Yes, indeed! I am quite serious. I fear he loves you."
And as Sylvia gave a long, involuntary, happy sigh, Anna went on: "Of course, I do not regard him with trust or with liking. How could I? On the other hand, I do not go as far as the Wachners; they, it is quite clear, evidently know something very much to the Count's discredit."
"I don't believe they do!" cried Sylvia, hotly. "It is mere prejudice on their part! He does not like them, and they know it. He thinks them vulgar sort of people, and he suspects that Monsieur Wachner is German—that is quite enough for him."
"But, after all, it does not really matter what the Wachners think of the Comte de Virieu, or what he thinks of them," said Anna. "What matters is what you think of him, and what he thinks of you."
Sylvia was glad that the darkness hid her deep, burning blushes from Anna Wolsky.
"You do not realise," said the Polish lady, gravely, "what your life would be if you were married to a man whose only interest in life is play. Mind you, I do not say that a gambler does not make a kind husband. We have an example"—she smiled a little—"in this Monsieur Wachner. He is certainly very fond of his wife, and she is very fond of him. But would you like your husband always to prefer his vice to you?"
Sylvia made no answer.
"But why am I talking like that?" Anna Wolsky started up suddenly. "It is absurd of me to think it possible that you would dream of marrying the Comte de Virieu! No, no, my dear child, this poor Frenchman is one of those men who, even if personally charming, no wise woman would think of marrying. He is absolutely ruined. I do not suppose he has a penny left of his own in the world. He would not have the money to buy you a wedding ring. You would have to provide even that! It would be madness—absolute madness!"
"I do not think," said Sylvia, in a low tone, "that there is the slightest likelihood of my ever marrying the Comte de Virieu. You forget that I have known him only a short time, and that he has never said a word of love to me. As you say, all he cares about is play."
"Surely you must be as well aware as I am that lately he has played a great deal less," said Anna, "and the time that he would have spent at the Club—well, you and I know very well where he has spent the time, Sylvia. He has spent it with you."
"And isn't that a good thing?" asked Sylvia, eagerly. "Isn't it far better that he should spend his time talking to me about ordinary things than in the Casino? Let me assure you again, and most solemnly, Anna, that he never makes love to me—"
"Of course it is a good thing for him that he plays less"—Anna spoke impatiently—"but is it best for you? That is what I ask myself. You have not looked well lately, Sylvia. You have looked very sad sometimes. Oh, do not be afraid, you are quite as pretty as ever you were!"
The tears were running down Sylvia's face. She felt that she ought to be very angry with her friend for speaking thus plainly to her, and yet she could not be angry. Anna spoke so tenderly, so kindly, so delicately.
"Shall we go away from Lacville?" asked Madame Wolsky, suddenly. "There are a hundred places where you and I could go together. Let us leave Lacville! I am sure you feel just as I do—I am sure you realise that the Comte de Virieu would never make you happy."
Sylvia shook her head.
"I do not want to go away," she whispered.
And then Madame Wolsky uttered a short exclamation.
"Ah!" she cried, "I understand. He is the friend you are to meet to-morrow—that is why you are going into Paris!"
Sylvia remained silent.
"I understand it all now," went on Anna. "That is the reason why he was not there to-night. He has gone into Paris so as not to compromise you at Lacville. That is the sort of gallantry that means so little! As if Lacville matters—but tell me this, Sylvia? Has he ever spoken to you as if he desired to introduce his family to you? That is the test, remember—that is the test of a Frenchman's regard for a woman."
There came a knock at the door. "The carriage for Madame has arrived."
They went downstairs, Sylvia having left her friend's last question unanswered.
Madame Wolsky, though generally so undemonstrative, took Sylvia in her arms and kissed her.
"God bless you, my dear little friend!" she whispered, "and forgive all I have said to you to-night! Still, think the matter over. I have lived a great deal of my life in this country. I am almost a Frenchwoman. It is no use marrying a Frenchman unless his family marry you too—and I understand that the Comte de Virieu's family have cast him off."
Sylvia got into the carriage and looked back, her eyes blinded with