“It is because I am honest that I do not tell you my name. I might give you one easily, but it would not be my own.”
“Then go away!” cried the woman. “No doubt you have been turned away from some farmhouse for drunkenness, theft, or something of that sort. Be off with you!” and she slammed the door.
Vivienne had on the simplest and coarsest dress that belonged to her. Her brother Pascal had thoughtfully sent some of her clothing in the carriage, and although he had not made the selections his sister would have wished, yet he could not have done better, for Vivienne had determined, from the first, to escape from the asylum, and the unpretending costume which she wore served her purpose much better than the one in which she had looked so beautiful at her birthday party would have done.
Vivienne turned away from the door sick at heart. “Oh, Pascal, I could wish you no greater punishment for your sin against your wretched sister than for you to have heard those terrible words.”
Her head was aching and she pressed both hands upon her forehead:
“No, I must not sink down here in the street; they would shut me up in the jail. I will—I must obtain food. Even a morsel would give me strength to reach him. Why should I die with the cool fresh air about me, and the sun giving me light, while he is shrouded in darkness and dying from hunger and thirst in a living tomb? Oh, Vandemar, Vandemar, I will not die! There is a kind soul in this house, for I hear the laughter of children. A mother’s heart is always open to pity.”
A man servant appeared at the door. “What is your business here, my good woman?”
“Oh, sir, I am very hungry. Give me some food and Heaven will bless you!”
“My mistress is sick,” said the man, “but I will send the housekeeper to you.”
“Thank you; you are very kind.” Vivienne leaned against the door-post. “I—I cannot stand; my strength is deserting me.” As she sank on the doorstep, a woman appeared.