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this was going to be,'' she said very low. ``But I was taken by surprise.''
``Oh, you knew it was going to be,'' he repeated faintly.
``Yes! I had prayed for it. Have you ever been prayed for, Eugene?'' she
asked, lingering on his name.
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``Not since I was a child,'' answered Real in a sombre tone.
``Oh yes! You have been prayed for today. I went down to the church. . . .''
Real could hardly believe his ears. . . . The abbe let me in by the sacristy
door. He told me to renounce the world. I was ready to renounce anything for
you.'' Real, turning his face to the darkest part of the room, seemed to see
the spectre of fatality awaiting its time to move forward and crush that calm,
confident joy. He shook off the dreadful illusion, raised her hand to his lips
for a lingering kiss, and then asked:
``So you knew that it was going to be? Everything? Yes! And of me, what did
you think?''
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 Real'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
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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 Real, 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, tonight while you were awaywhy did you go
away?I caught those two in the kitchen, saying nothing to each other. That
Peyrolhe 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.
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``He will say nothing, he will listen to nothing. He can do what he likes.''
``Can he?'' muttered Real.
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 Real 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 sameonly his hair was not so whitebig, 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 Real 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 cheri, mon cheri, don't you listen to Peyrol don't let him . .
.''
With only a slight touch on his knee she sprang to her feet. Real 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 Real 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 goldembroidered 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.
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``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, Eugene. . .
. 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, Eugene? But it's
all changed now.''
``Yes, it is all changed,'' said Real 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
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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, Eugene, 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
Real 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
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