CHAPTER IX
I MUST admit that, at first, I thought I should have but to rejoice, for as the worthy doctor had led me to anticipate, Cordélia displayed, after his departure, a perfectly free and normal mind.
It was as though nothing out of the way had happened. When she came downstairs clad in a gossamer robe, and clung to my arm with a grace and trustfulness which enchanted me, old Surdon and Mathilde complimented her on her appearance, and conveyed to me by certain signs that all was as well as well could be.
Surdon wanted to saddle Thunder and Monarch, or to get out the gig so that we might go for a long drive before lunch, but Cordélia would not hear of it. She expressed a wish to stroll through the fields, to wander on my arm along the country lanes.
“We don’t want to ride or drive to-day,” she said, leading me away and gently pressing my hand. “We don’t need anything or anybody. Let us think only of ourselves. I have so many things to say to you now that I am your wife.”
These last words were spoken in a serious and intense voice which I failed to recognize; and I could not help giving a start when I looked at her.
As she uttered them, she lifted her eyes to me and they seemed to contain an expression which, like her voice, was new to me. I read in them, beyond the shadow of a doubt, an emotional tenderness and gratitude which startled me without my knowing exactly why. At all events, I could not at the moment analyze what was passing within me. But one thing was certain: I felt distinctly uneasy. I fully expected, indeed, to see a look in my dear Cordélia’s eyes like that one day; to see this impulse, this quivering emotion of thankfulness towards the man who had become everything to her, but I did not expect to see that look after the dreadful time through which we had just passed.
In a word, I was unspeakably surprised. Our walk, our conversation at lunch, the sweet surrender with which, leaning upon my shoulder, she confided to me her plans for the future—all this did nothing to remove from my mind the curious impression that I was confronted with a new Cordélia who was no longer the young girl of the day before. I turned pale at the thought of it.
She noticed it and in her turn betrayed a certain anxiety at my agitation.
“But dearest what is the matter? Are you not feeling well? You don’t say anything.”
I kissed her hair and whispered tritely:
“I love you.”
My heart was pounding as though it would burst. She could hear it.
“I really believe that you do love me,” she said, “and, besides, your heart tells me so. Listen to my heart which will tell you, too, how it loves you.”
She took my head between her two little hands, and placed it on her young, heaving bosom with the quiet gesture of a woman who is giving herself up to the husband to whom she belongs.
I was speechless.
She went on as she stroked my hair:
“What a night! What a beautiful night! Oh how well you understand me! You are wonderful, my Hector.”
I am unable to say whether I really seemed wonderful to her, but I drew myself up roughly. My face underwent a fierce contortion. She looked at me with disquiet.
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.... Nothing. It’s over—a slight attack of neuralgia.”
“Ah my love, you are tired. You had no sleep.”
“Yes, you’re right. I had no sleep.”
“You ought to have gone to bed. I told you so when we came back from our walk in the park.”
“Ah yes.... Our walk in the park.... Of course, of course.”
“But what is the matter with you?”
“Nothing I tell you.... A slight headache.”
“Well, be sensible. You must go to bed, dearest.”
I had to give way. She came with me to the door of my room. I let myself be led by her little hands. Strange to say I made no effort to keep her. She left the room, and I threw myself on the bed as an animal lies down. And soon, in order to cease thinking about things which seemed either appalling or ridiculous, I fell asleep.
The light was waning when I woke up feeling greatly refreshed. I have always been able to sleep soundly. A shower bath helped to restore my self-possession. My uncle had returned during my nap. He had come from Caen, and was leaving that same evening for Paris. I discovered from his first words that he knew nothing of the incidents of the previous night. Surdon and Mathilde, perceiving that “all was well as well could be,” had not considered it necessary to enlighten him. I could not but approve of their discretion.
My uncle had been for a short walk with Cordélia, and when she returned her face was beaming with happiness.
“Have you had a good sleep, dearest?” she asked as she threw herself into my arms. “Has that awful headache gone?”
I kissed her ardently in return.
My uncle wore a smile as he contemplated the pleasant spectacle. He endeavored to take me aside to express his gratification.
“Well, what did I say? There you are, the happiest of men and she is the happiest of women. She told me so. I congratulate you—you rascal!”
I could have struck him. I could have struck him. He gave me no opportunity. He embraced us and went off muttering repeatedly:
“What a handsome couple they make!”