More,
she was in his power in a sense she had never been before, for she had
herself broken down the fragile barrier with which she had hitherto
known how to keep him at bay. But he felt rather than saw that it was
herself she would despise if now, at the eleventh hour, he took
advantage of that tremulous kiss of renunciation, of those hot tears of
anguished parting--and so--"Then at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning?" he said, and he felt as if it was some other man, not he himself, who
was saying the words. He took her hand in farewell--so much he could
allow himself--and all unknowing crushed her fingers in his strong,
convulsive grasp. "Yes," she said, "at eleven to-morrow morning Madeleine and I will be
waiting out on the end of the jetty." He thought he detected a certain hesitancy in her voice. "Are you sure you still wish to come?" he said gravely. "I would not
wish you to do anything that would cause you any fear--or any
discomfort. Your sister evidently found it a very trying experience
to-day----"

Claire smiled. Her hand no longer hurt her; her fingers had become quite
numb. "Afraid?" she said, and there was a little scorn in her voice. And then,
"Ah me! I only wish that there were far more risk than there is about
that which we are going to do together to-morrow." She was in a
dangerous mood, poor soul--the mood that raises a devil in men. But
perhaps her good angel came to help her, for suddenly, "Forgive me," she
said humbly. "You know I did not mean that! Only cowards wish for
death." And then, looking at him, she averted her eyes, for they showed her
that, if that were so, Dupré was indeed a craven. "_Au revoir_," she whispered; "_au revoir_ till to-morrow morning." When half-way through the door, leading on to the lonely stretch of
down, she turned round suddenly. "I do not want you to bring any ices
for me to-morrow." "I never thought of doing so," he said simply. And the words pleased
Claire as much as anything just then could pleasure her, for they proved
that her friend did not class her in his mind with those women who fear
discomfort more than danger. It had been her own wish to go out with Commander Dupré for his last
cruise in northern waters. She had not had the courage to deny herself
this final glimpse of him--they were never to meet again after
to-morrow--in his daily habit as he lived. II

At nine o'clock the next morning Jacques de Wissant stood in his wife's
boudoir. It was a strange and beautiful room, likely to linger in the memory of
those who knew its strange and beautiful mistress. The walls were draped with old Persian shawls, the furniture was of red
Chinese lacquer, a set acquired in the East by some Norman sailing man
unnumbered years ago, and bought by Claire de Wissant out of her own
slender income not long after her marriage. Pale blue and faded yellow silk cushions softened the formal angularity
of the wide cane-seated couch and low, square chairs. There was a deep
crystal bowl of midsummer flowering roses on the table, laden with
books, by which Claire often sat long hours reading poetry and volumes
written by modern poets and authors of whom her husband had only
vaguely heard and of whom he definitely disapproved. The window was wide open, and there floated in from the garden, which
sloped away to the edge and indeed over the crumbling cliff, fragrant,
salt-laden odours, dominated by the clean, sharp scent thrown from huge
shrubs of red and white geraniums. The balls of blossom set against the
belt of blue sea, formed a band of waving tricolor. But Jacques de Wissant was unconscious, uncaring of the beauty round
him, either in the room or without, and when at last he walked forward
to the window, his face hardened as his eyes instinctively sought out
the spot where, if hidden from his sight, he knew there lay the deep
transparent waters of the little bay which had been selected as
providing ideal quarters for the submarine flotilla. He had eagerly assented to the sacrifice of his land, and, what meant
far more to him, of his privacy; but now he would have given much--and
he was a careful man--to have had the submarine station swept away,
transferred to the other side of Falaise. Down there, out of sight of the Pavillon, and yet but a few minutes away
(if one used the dangerous cliff-stairway), dwelt Jacques de Wissant's
secret foe, for the man of whom he was acutely, miserably jealous was
Commander Dupré, of whose coming departure he as yet knew nothing. The owner of the Pavillon de Wissant seldom entered the room where he
now stood impatiently waiting for his wife, and he never did so without
looking round him with distaste, and remembering with an odd, wistful
feeling what it had been like in his mother's time. Then "le boudoir de
madame" had reflected the tastes and simple interests of an
old-fashioned provincial lady born in the year that Louis Philippe came
to the throne. Greatly did the man now standing there prefer the room as
it had been to what it was now! The heavy, ugly furniture which had been there in the days of his lonely
youth, for he had been an only child, was now in the schoolroom where
the twin daughters of the house, Clairette and Jacqueline, did their
lessons with Miss Doughty, their English governess. Clairette and Jacqueline? Jacques de Wissant's lantern-jawed,
expressionless face quickened into feeling as he thought of his two
little girls. They were the pride, as well as the only vivid pleasure,
of his life. All that he dispassionately admired in his wife was, so he
sometimes told himself with satisfaction, repeated in his daughters. Clairette and Jacqueline had inherited their mother's look of race, her
fastidiousness and refinement of bearing, while fortunately lacking
Claire's dangerous personal beauty, her touch of eccentricity, and her
discontent with life--or rather with the life which Jacques de Wissant,
in spite of a gnawing ache and longing that nothing could still or
assuage, yet found good. The Mayor of Falaise looked strangely out of keeping with his present
surroundings, at least so he would have seemed to the eye of any
foreigner, especially of any Englishman, who had seen him standing
there. He was a narrowly built man, forty-three years of age, and his
clean-shaven, rather fleshy face was very pale. On this hot August
morning he was dressed in a light grey frock-coat, under which he wore a
yellow waistcoat, and on his wife's writing-table lay his tall hat and
lemon-coloured gloves. As mayor of his native town--a position he owed to an historic name and
to his wealth, and not to his very moderate Republican opinions--his
duties included the celebration of civil marriages, and to-day, it being
the 14th of August, the eve of the Assumption, and still a French
national fête, there were to be a great many weddings celebrated in the
Hôtel de Ville. Jacques de Wissant considered that he owed it to himself, as well as to
his fellow-citizens, to appear "correctly" attired on such occasions.