El Dorado · Part II · Chapter 32 (2/2)

In a moment Marguerite had forgotten; the dark and shapeless phantom that had knocked at the gate of her soul was relegated back into chaos. It ceased to be, it was made to shrivel and to burn in the great seething cauldron of womanly sympathy. What part this child had played in the vast cataclysm of misery which had dragged a noble-hearted enthusiast into the dark torture-chamber, whence the only outlet led to the guillotine, she⁠—Marguerite Blakeney⁠—did not know; what part Armand, her brother, had played in it, that she would not dare to guess; all that she knew was that here was a loving heart that was filled with pain⁠—a young, inexperienced soul that was having its first tussle with the grim realities of life⁠—and every motherly instinct in Marguerite was aroused.

She rose and gently drew the young girl up from her knees, and then closer to her; she pillowed the grief-stricken head against her shoulder, and murmured gentle, comforting words into the tiny ear.

“I have news for Armand,” she whispered, “that will comfort him, a message⁠—a letter from his friend. You will see, dear, that when Armand reads it he will become a changed man; you see, Armand acted a little foolishly a few days ago. His chief had given him orders which he disregarded⁠—he was so anxious about you⁠—he should have obeyed; and now, mayhap, he feels that his disobedience may have been the⁠—the innocent cause of much misery to others; that is, no doubt, the reason why he is so sad. The letter from his friend will cheer him, you will see.”

“Do you really think so, madame?” murmured Jeanne, in whose tear-stained eyes the indomitable hopefulness of youth was already striving to shine.

“I am sure of it,” assented Marguerite.

And for the moment she was absolutely sincere. The phantom had entirely vanished. She would even, had he dared to reappear, have mocked and derided him for his futile attempt at turning the sorrow in her heart to a veritable hell of bitterness.