"I cannot be so ungallant as to die now," Artois replied, with a feeble
but not sad smile. "Were I to do so, madame would think me ungrateful.
No, I shall live. I feel now that I am going to live."
And, in fact, from the night of Maurice's visit with Gaspare to the house
of the sirens he began to get better. The inflammation abated, the
temperature fell till it was normal, the agony died away gradually from
the tormented body, and slowly, very slowly, the strength that had ebbed
began to return. One day, when the doctor said that there was no more
danger of any relapse, Artois called Hermione and told her that now she
must think no more of him, but of herself; that she must pack up her
trunk and go back to her husband.
"You have saved me, and I have killed your honeymoon," he said, rather
sadly. "That will always be a regret in my life. But, now go, my dear
friend, and try to assuage your husband's wrath against me. How he must
hate me!"
"Why, Emile?"
"Are you really a woman? Yes, I know that. No man could have tended me as
you have. Yet, being a woman, how can you ask that question?"
"Maurice understands. He is blessedly understanding."
"Don't try his blessed comprehension of you and of me too far. You must
go, indeed."
"I will go."
A shadow that he tried to keep back flitted across Artois's pale face,
over which the unkempt beard straggled in a way that would have appalled
his Parisian barber. Hermione saw it.
"I will go," she repeated, quietly, "when I can take you with me."
"But--"
"Hush! You are not to argue. Haven't you an utter contempt for those who
do things by halves? Well, I have. When you can travel we'll go
together."
"Where?"
"To Sicily. It will be hot there, but after this it will seem cool as the
Garden of Eden under those trees where--but you remember! And there is
always the breeze from the sea. And then from there, very soon, you can
get a ship from Messina and go back to France, to Marseilles. Don't talk,
Emile. I am writing to-night to tell Maurice."
And she left the room with quick softness.
Artois did not protest. He told himself that he had not the strength to
struggle against the tenderness that surrounded him, that made it sweet
to return to life. But he wondered silently how Maurice would receive
him, how the dancing faun was bearing, would bear, this interference with
his new happiness.