They went more quickly through the sombre streets.
Far away over the hills of the Ardennes the great May moon arose. As soon as Louise caught sight of the house she saw that the gate to the courtyard was open. Could any one have entered during her absence? She glanced up at the windows. They were open, but dark. The sense of panic that was never far from her heart since their return to Belgium clutched at her like a cold hand. Could anything have happened? Why had Chérie not lit the lights? Who had left the gate unclosed?
Then the thought of Mireille, the hope, the wild prescience of her recovery which had suddenly grown into a delirious certainty flamed up in her heart again, and all else was forgotten. She and Mireille were alone in the world.
She and Mireille were alone.
She kept her eyes fixed on the small vacant face as she led her past the gate—that gate through which the child's dancing feet had twinkled throughout the care-free seasons of her infancy.
But not a quiver rippled over the childish countenance, not a gleam of light flickered in the dreamy eyes, and with a low sob Louise grasped the small passive hand more tightly and drew her across the courtyard to the hall-door.
That door also was ajar, as if some one had hurriedly left it so, regardless of the invader's orders that at sunset all doors should be locked. One moment Louise thought of calling to Chérie to make sure that she was in the house; but again the need to be alone, face to face with Mireille's awakening soul, restrained her. She drew Mireille into the hall and turned on the light.
"Mireille … Mireille...." she whispered breathlessly. "Look, darling … don't you remember? Don't you remember?"
The girl's pale eyes roved from the tapestried archway to the panelled doors, from the ornamental panoply to the Van de Welde winter landscapes hanging on the wall before her. No ray of recognition lit the unmoved face, which was fair and still as a closed flower. With beating heart Louise placed her arm around the girl's narrow shoulders and guided her light, uncertain footsteps up the stairs. The door to the sitting-room was open; Louise stretched out her hand, and the brilliancy of the electric light lit up the room.
With a gasp Louise felt Mireille falter on the threshold … she stood breathless and watched her. Surely, surely she must recognize this scene: there to the right, the large Flemish fireplace; there beyond it the old-fashioned oak settee; and there the shallow flight of stairs, with the wrought-iron banisters running right down into the room, facing the door with the red-tapestried curtains.... Surely, with this scene of her martyrdom brought suddenly before her, the veil of unconsciousness would be rent from her soul. Louise felt it. Louise knew it. Already she could almost hear the cry with which her child would turn to her and fall into her arms....
Nothing. Nothing happened.
For an instant a vague expression, a pale light as of dread, had flickered over the tranquil countenance. She had faltered, and stood still, with her eyes fixed on the red drapery of the closed door. Then the pale flicker of emotion had faded from her face as if blown out by a gust of wind.
Nothing more. With limp, pendant hands and vacant eyes she stood before Louise in her usual drooping posture—pale, ethereal and unreal, like a little weary seraph walking in its dreams.
The flaming torch of hope in the mother's heart was dashed to the ground.
And all was dark.
CHAPTER XXVII
Chérie, kneeling beside her child's cradle, had heard them enter the adjoining room. She rose slowly. She must go and meet them; she must greet Mireille and tell Louise that Florian had come; had come … and gone!
The profound silence in the adjoining room struck her. She wondered, as she hesitated at the door, why Louise did not speak. For did she not always talk to Mireille in that low, tender voice of hers, as if the child could understand? Now there was not a sound. It was if the room were empty.
Suddenly she understood. Louise was waiting, hoping that the miracle might be accomplished—that Mireille might speak. Then Chérie also stood motionless with clasped hands, and waited, waited for a sound, a word, a cry.
But the silence remained unbroken.
At last she heard the sound of Louise's weeping; and, soon after, their soft, retreating footsteps on the carpeted stairs. Then utter silence.
And Chérie still stood at the closed door, leaning her forehead against its panels.
They had gone. Louise was taking Mireille to bed. She had not called Chérie. She had not said good-night, nor asked her to come and see Mireille. No. Chérie was not needed. Louise, even in her great sorrow, did not think of coming to Chérie. She had gone with Mireille to her room, and she would stay there and weep all alone, and sleep at last, never knowing that Florian had been, never knowing that he had gone away for ever, never knowing that Chérie's heart was broken!… With a rush of passionate grief Chérie drew back from the door and fell on her knees beside the cradle.
And there the great May moon, rising like a golden disc over the hills of the Ardennes, found her and shone down through the round window, upon her and her sleeping babe.
Louise, lying awake in the dark, heard the church clock strike eleven. She lay quite still in the silent room, listening to Mireille's soft breathing. Then she thought of Claude, and prayed for his safety; but not for his return.
At last, exhausted, she slept.
But Mireille, though her soft breathing never varied, was not asleep. She lay motionless in the dark, with her eyes wide open. She was listening to something that had awakened within her—Memory!…
The church clock struck half-past eleven. Louise still slept, with the occasional catch in her breath of those who have cried themselves to sleep.
Mireille sat up. The room was quite dark, the shutters closed and the curtains drawn. But Mireille slipped from her bed, a slim, white-robed spectre, and her bare feet crossed the room without a sound. She found the door and opened it noiselessly; she crossed the landing, and her small feet trod the carpeted staircase as lightly and silently as the falling petals of a flower.
Where was she going to? What drew her through the dark and silent house?
Terror—and the memory of a red-draped door. Nothing else did her haunted eyes perceive, nothing else did her stricken soul realize, but that red curtain draped over a door. She remembered it with a vague, horrible sense of fear. She must see it again.... Had she not once stood before that draped door for hours and years and eternities?… Yes. She must see it again. And if that door were to open—she must die!…
She went on, drawn by her terror as by an unseen force, until she reached the last shallow flight of stairs—three steps skirted by a wrought-iron banister—and there she stopped suddenly, as if fettered to the spot. For though the room was plunged in darkness she knew that there, opposite her, was the door with the red curtain....
And thus she stood, in the self-same attitude of her past martyrdom, feeling that she was pinioned there, feeling that she must stand for ever with her eyes fixed in the darkness on that part of the room where she knew was the door—the door with the red curtain....
Chérie heard the clock strike eleven; then the quarter; then the half-hour. And still she lay on the floor with her face hidden in her arms.
For her all was at an end. Her resolve was taken. Her mind was clear. Now she had seen Florian there was nothing left to wait for. What good would she or the child ever do in the world? Nobody wanted them. Nobody ever wanted to see them or speak to them. They were outcasts. Not even Louise could look without loathing at the hapless little child. Not even Louise could invoke a benediction upon him. He was ill-omened, hated and accursed.