What did she see in the red light? Her shipwrecked soul? The ruins of her hopes? The ghost of her dead happiness? The image of a long and dreary future, in which the love on whose foundation she had built a bright and peaceful life to come could have no part? What did she see? A warning arm stretched out to save her from the commission of a dreadful deed, which, once committed, must shut her out from all earthly sympathy, though not perhaps from heavenly forgiveness; or a stern finger pointing to the dark end to which she hastens with a purpose in her heart so strange and fearful to her she scarcely can believe it is her own, or that she is herself?
With her left hand still upon the dark hair—which even now she could not touch without a tenderness, that, having no part in her nature of to-day, seemed like some relic of the wreck of the past—she stretched out her right arm towards a table near her, on which there were some decanters and glasses that clashed with a silvery sound under her touch.
"I must try and cure you of your fancies, Gaston. My physician insists on my taking every day at luncheon a glass of that old Madeira of which my uncle is so fond. They have not removed the wine—you shall take some; pour it out yourself. See, here is the decanter. I will hold the glass for you."
She held the antique diamond-cut glass with a steady hand while Gaston poured the wine into it. The light from the wood fire flickered, and he spilt some of the Madeira over her dress. They both laughed at this, and her laugh rang out the clearer of the two.
There was a third person who laughed; but his was a silent laugh. This third person was Monsieur Marolles, who stood within the half-open door that led into Valerie's dressing-room.
"So," he says to himself, "this is even better than I had hoped. I feared his handsome face would shake her resolution. The light in those dark eyes is very beautiful, no doubt, but it has not long to burn."
As the firelight flashed upon the glass, Gaston held it for a moment between his eyes and the blaze.
"Your uncle's wine is not very clear," he said; "but I would drink the vilest vinegar from the worst tavern in Paris, if you poured it out for me, Valerie."
As he emptied the glass the little time-piece struck six.
"I must go, Valerie. I play Gennaro in Lucretia Borgia, and the King is to be at the theatre to-night. You will come? I shall not sing well if you are not there."
"Yes, yes, Gaston." She laid her hand upon her head as she spoke.
