But now I said to myself that I
wished I had never spoken so lightly. Perhaps the ghost had brought me
bad luck. I felt as if the murder must have happened on just such a
still, brooding, damp night as this. Maybe it was the anniversary, if I
only knew.
I went indoors, Marianne following. Henri, very thin, very precise,
withered like a winter apple, had fallen into a doze in the hall, where
he had sat, hoping to hear the stopping of my carriage. He rose up,
bowing and blinking, just as he had done often before, and would often
again--if life were to go on for me in the old way. He regretted not
having heard Mademoiselle. Would Mademoiselle take supper?
No, Mademoiselle would not take supper. She wanted nothing, and Henri
might go to bed.
"I thank Mademoiselle. When I have closed the house."
"But I don't want the house closed," I said. "I shall sit up for awhile.
It's hot--close and stuffy. I may like to have the windows open."
"The visitor Mademoiselle expected did not arrive. Perhaps--"
"If he comes, Marianne or I will let him in. But he may not come, now it
is so late."
When Henri had gone, I told Marianne that she might go, too.
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