“Oh, don’t ask me, I beg you,” said Yvonne shivering. “It is all so painful. Tell me about yourself--your voice--Is it still in good condition?”
“Never better. I am singing here this afternoon.”
“Why, yes. That’s why I am here. Oh, _ca marche--pas encore paralysée, celle-là_. Come and hear me. _Et ton petit organe à toi?_”
“I am out of practice. I have given up the profession.”
“Ah, it’s a pity. You had such an exquisite little voice. I regretted it after we parted. Two or three times it nearly brought me back to you--_foi d’artiste!_”
“I think I must go,” said Yvonne after a little. “I am leaving Ostend to-morrow and I shall not see you again. You don’t think I am treating you unkindly, Amédée?”
He laughed in his bantering way and lit a cigarette.
“On the contrary, _cher ange_. It is very good of you to talk to a poor ghost. And you look so pathetic, like a poor little saint with its harp out of tune.”
She rose, anxious to leave him and escape into solitude, where she could think. She still trembled with agitation. In the little cool park, on the other side of the square below, she could be by herself. She dreaded meeting the Canon yet awhile.
“Do give up that vile absinthe,” she said, as a parting softness.
“It is the only consoler that remains to me--sad widower.”
“Ah--not yet. Since you are the wife of somebody else, I am dying to make love to you.”
He held her by the wrist, laughing at her. But at that moment Yvonne caught sight of the Canon and Mrs. Winstanley, entering upon the terrace. She wrenched her arm away.
“_Nom de Dieu!_” cried Bazouge, stifling a guffaw before the austere decorum of the English churchman. “_Ça?_ Oh, my poor Yvonne!” She shook hands rapidly with him and turned away. He bowed gracefully, including the new-comers in his salute. The Canon responded severely. Mrs. Winstanley stared at him through her tortoise-shell lorgnette.
“We have been looking all over the place for you,” said the Canon, as they passed through the window into the _salle des jeux_, leaving Bazouge in the corner of the verandah.
“And who was that rakish-looking little Frenchman you were talking to?”
“An old friend--I used to know him,” said Yvonne, struggling with her agitation. “A friend of my first husband--I had to speak to him--we went there to be quiet. I could n’t help it, Everard, really I could n’t.”