"Go to bed, Jean Jacques," she said, "and
I'll bring you a sleeping posset. I know those headaches. You had one
when the ash-factory was burned."
He nodded without looking at her, and closed the door behind him.
When she came to the bedroom a half-hour later, his face was turned to
the wall. She spoke, but he did not answer. She thought he was asleep.
He was not asleep. He was only thinking how to do the thing which was
not obvious, which was also safe for himself. That should be his
triumph, if he could but achieve it.
When she came to bed he did not stir, and he did not answer her when she
spoke.
"The poor Jean Jacques!" he heard her say, and if there had not been
on him the same courage that possessed him the night when the Antoine
was wrecked, he would have sobbed.
He did not stir. He kept thinking; and all the time her words, "The poor
Jean Jacques!" kept weaving themselves through his vague designs. Why
had she said that--she who had deceived, betrayed him? Had he then seen
what he had seen?
She did not sleep for a long time, and when she did it was uneasily. But
the bed was an immense one, and she was not near him.
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