“It is terribly exhausting,” he said, with a faint smile.
When Pierre next came it was raining quietly through a silver haze; the little maid opened the door; a moment later Eloise came into the room. When she spoke her voice sounded restrained; and to Pierre she seemed completely different.
“I have deceived you,” she commenced, without prelude, “there is no furniture to sell.” To all his questions or remonstrances she gave him this answer, as if she were afraid to trust herself to other words, standing with her eyes cast to the floor, and an expressionless face. But when she seemed the most distant, as if she could not recede further, she burst into tears. Pierre hurried toward her—“Mademoiselle, I cannot address you by name; you cannot deceive me; you are in great distress. I beg you not to think of the furniture; it is not necessary that these things of wood should trouble you further; to-day I did not come to see it, I came to see you.”
“Oh, Monsieur,” she sobbed, “you must never come here again, never—never!”
“Make no mistake, I will come, at least until I can help you, until I know your story.” He gained her hand.
“Monsieur, I cannot accept your assistance; but your kindness demands my story.”
She told it. She was a lovely girl caught in a net of circumstances. She was an orphan. Her parents had left her and her brother a little money—too little to live on—they existed. Her brother was a cripple—how often had she wished she was dead—he was wicked. She hinted at unkindness, at tyranny. It was necessary to sell these heir-looms. (Here Pierre pressed her hand, “You could not deceive me,” he said.) But he would not hear of it. Her life was intolerable—but she must live it to the end—to the end. “If I could have deceived you, Monsieur, I would have done so.” A smile shimmered through her tears. Pierre pressed her hand; she softly drew it away. Suddenly there was a crash in the room above; a light shower of dry white-wash was thrown down around them; the sound of an inhuman voice came feebly down the stairs. “I must go, do not detain me,” she cried, as Pierre tried to intercept her. He endeavored to hold her at the foot of the stairs. “Do not go, I beg of you.” She turned sweetly toward him. “I must go; it is my duty; you do yours.” The tears were not yet dry on her eyelids. Pierre watched her flutter upstairs like a dove flying into a hawk’s nest. His pulses were pounding at his wrists. “I wish I knew what my duty was,” he said to himself. As he left the house he glanced up at the window, a handkerchief dropped down; he pressed it to his lips and thrust it into his bosom. When he was out of sight he examined it. It was a dainty thing of the most delicate fabric; in one corner were the words, “Eloise Ruelle.”
Eloise found Maurice almost fainting with his exertion. When he recovered, he said—
“Is the game worth the candle?”
“Well, we will see.”