Ermentrude did not pretend to follow the
words of her aunt and Madame Keroulan as they stopped before a bed of
June roses. Nor did she remember how she reached the pair. The one vivid
reality of her life was the cruel act of her idol. She was not conscious
of blushing, nor did she feel that she had grown pale. His wife treated
her with impartial indifference, at times a smile crossing her face,
with its implication--to Ermentrude--of selfish reserves. But this
hateful smile cut her to the soul--one more prisoner at his chariot
wheels, it proclaimed! Keroulan was as unconcerned as if he had written
a poetic line. He had expected more of an outburst, more of a rebuff;
the absolute snapping of the web he had spun surprised him. His choicest
music had been spread for the eternal banquet, but the invited one
tarried. Very well! If not to-day, to-morrow! He repeated a verse of
Verlaine, and with his wife dutifully at his side bowed to the two
Americans and told them of the pleasure experienced. Ermentrude, her
candid eyes now reproachful and suspicious, did not flinch as she took
his hand--it seemed to melt in hers--but her farewell was conventional.
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