Her room adjoined that of M. Lepage, and more than once during her grief and tears she had heard his restless foot approach the door of communication, as though he were about to call her to him. But he did not; she was so quiet he evidently thought she was asleep, and finally all became as still in his room as it was deathlike in hers. And Elise wept on.
Suddenly there came a tap, not on the door she had been so fearful of seeing open, but on the one which led into the hall. Astonished, frightened almost, she crept to it and faintly asked who was there. A woman’s voice answered. It was the concierge, who handed her a small note. Hurriedly lighting her candle, Elise unfolded it and read:
“Mademoiselle—It is indispensable that I should have a few minutes’ conversation with you to-night. It is 10 o’clock, therefore your father has retired and your little sitting-room will be free. I shall not come alone.
“Respectfully, Jean Picard.”
A whirl of thoughts swept through Elise’s brain. She felt dizzy, almost sick, but she did not hesitate. Opening the door into her father’s room, she glided in. All was quiet. The good man was evidently asleep. Hastily crossing the floor, she gained the little sitting-room beyond, and, closing the door behind her, struck a light. Then, stopping but a moment to regain breath and still the nervous beatings of her heart, she approached the hall door and softly opened it. A low cry escaped her as she did so, the two men standing on the threshold bore in their countenances such signs of subdued agitation.
“What is it?” she faintly breathed, falling back with a slow step as they entered. “Why are you here so late? And together?” she could not help adding, as her eyes roamed from the one face to the other, both so white, both so drawn, both so filled with that strange look which a woman only sees on the countenance of the man who loves her.
As Camille did not answer, Jean replied:
“Mademoiselle,” said he, “I have come here on a very disagreeable duty. I have come to hear my brother tell you the truth. Camille, speak.”
Camille, thus abjured, cast one glance of burning anguish at his brother, then in a voice so unnatural Elise could scarcely believe it his own, exclaimed bitterly:
“He wishes me to tell you I am a villain. It is not a pleasant thing to say of one’s self, Mademoiselle, but it is true. I am a villain, and—and I advise you to forget me.”