The Call of the Blood

"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.