Identifying yourself as entirely as you seem to do
with her, I am surprised that you did not accompany her into Falaise: it
was most wrong of you to let her go alone." "Claire is not in Falaise," muttered Madeleine. She was grasping the
back of one of the cane chairs with her hand as if glad of even that
slight support, staring at him with a dazed look of abject misery which
increased his anger, his disgust. "Not in Falaise?" he echoed sharply. "Then where, in God's name, is
she?" A most disagreeable possibility had flashed into his mind. Was it
conceivable that his wife had had herself rowed to the scene of the
disaster? If she had done that, if her sister had allowed her to go
alone, or accompanied maybe by one or other of the officers belonging to
the submarine flotilla, then he told himself with jealous rage that he
would find it very difficult ever to forgive Claire. There are things a
woman with any self-respect, especially a woman who is the mother of
daughters, refrains from doing. "Well?" he said contemptuously. "Well, Madeleine? I am waiting to hear
the truth. I desire no explanations--no excuses. I cannot, however,
withhold myself from telling you that you ought to have accompanied your
sister, even if you found it impossible to control her." "I was there yesterday," said Madeleine Baudoin, with a pinched, white
face, "for over two hours." "What do you mean?" he asked suspiciously. "Where were you yesterday for
over two hours?" "In the _Neptune_." She gazed at him, past him, with widely open eyes, as if she were
staring, fascinated, at some scene of unutterable horror--and there
crept into Jacques de Wissant's mind a thought so full of shameful dread
that he thrust it violently from him. "You were in the _Neptune_," he said slowly, "knowing well that it is
absolutely forbidden for any officer to take a friend on board a
submarine without a special permit from the Minister of Marine?" "It is sometimes done," she said listlessly. Madame Baudoin had now sat down on a low chair, and she was plucking at
the front of her white serge skirt with a curious mechanical movement of
the fingers. "Did the submarine actually put out to sea with you on board?" She nodded her head, and then very deliberately added, "Yes, I have told
you that I was out for two hours. They all knew it--the men and officers
of the flotilla. I was horribly frightened, but--but now I am glad
indeed that I went. Yes, I am indeed glad!" "Why are you glad?" he asked roughly--and again a hateful suspicion
thrust itself insistently upon him. "I am glad I went, because it will make what Claire has done to-day
seem natural, a--a simple escapade." There was a moment of terrible silence between them. "Then do all the officers and men belonging to the flotilla know that my
wife is out there--in the _Neptune_?" Jacques de Wissant asked in a low,
still voice. "No," said Madeleine, and there was now a look of shame, as well as of
terror, on her face. "They none of them know--only those who are on
board." She hesitated a moment--"That is why I sent the servants away
this morning. We--I mean Commander Dupré and I--did not think it
necessary that anyone should know." "Then no one--that is, only a hare-brained young officer and ten men
belonging to the town of Falaise--were to be aware of the fact that my
wife had accompanied her lover on this life-risking expedition? You and
Dupré were indeed tender of her honour--and mine." "Jacques!" She took her hand off the chair, and faced her brother-in-law
proudly. "What infamous thing is this that you are harbouring in your
mind? My sister is an honest woman, aye, as honest, as high-minded as
was your own mother----"

He stopped her with a violent gesture. "Do not mention Claire and my
mother in the same breath!" he cried. "Ah, but I will--I must! You want the truth--you said just now you
wanted only the truth. Then you shall hear the truth! Yes, it is as you
have evidently suspected. Louis Dupré loves Claire, and she"--her voice
faltered, then grew firmer--"she may have had for him a little
sentiment. Who can tell? You have not been at much pains to make her
happy. But what is true, what is certain, is that she rejected his love. To-day they were to part--for ever." Her voice failed again, then once more it strengthened and hardened. "That is why he in a moment of folly--I admit it was in a moment of
folly--asked her to come out on his last cruise in the _Neptune_. When
you came I was expecting them back any moment. But, Jacques, do not be
afraid. I swear to you that no one shall ever know. Admiral de Saint
Vilquier will do anything for us Kergouëts; I myself will go to him,
and--and explain." But Jacques de Wissant scarcely heard the eager, pitiful words. He had thrust his wife from his mind, and her place had been taken by
his honour--his honour and that of his children, of happy,
light-hearted Clairette and Jacqueline. For what seemed a long while he
said nothing; then, with all the anger gone from his voice, he spoke,
uttered a fiat. "No," he said quietly. "You must leave the Admiral to me, Madeleine. You
were going to Italy to-night, were you not? That, I take it, _is_ true." She nodded impatiently. What did her proposed journey to Italy matter
compared with her beloved Claire's present peril? "Well, you must carry out your plan, my poor Madeleine. You must go away
to-night." She stared at him, her face at last blotched with tears, and a look of
bewildered anguish in her eyes. "You must do this," Jacques de Wissant went on deliberately, "for
Claire's sake, and for the sake of Claire's children. You haven't
sufficient self-control to endure suspense calmly, secretly. You need
not go farther than Paris, but those whom it concerns will be told that
Claire has gone with you to Italy. There will always be time to tell the
truth. Meanwhile, the Admiral and I will devise a plan. And perhaps"--he
waited a moment--"the truth will never be known, or only known to a very
few people--people who, as you say, will understand." He had spoken very slowly, as if weighing each of his words, but it was
quickly, with a queer catch in his voice, that he added--"I ask you to
do this, my sister"--he had never before called Madeleine Baudoin "my
sister"--"because of Claire's children, of Clairette and Jacqueline. Their mother would not wish a slur to rest upon them." She looked at him with piteous, hunted eyes. But she knew that she must
do what he asked. IV

Jacques de Wissant sat at his desk in the fine old room which is set
aside for the mayor's sole use in the town hall of Falaise. He was waiting for Admiral de Saint Vilquier, whom he had summoned on
the plea of a matter both private and urgent. In his note, of which he
had written more than one draft, he had omitted none of the punctilio
usual in French official correspondence, and he had asked pardon, in the
most formal language, for asking the Admiral to come to him, instead of
proposing to go to the Admiral.