“If I were unhappy, I could look after myself. But I’m not, I’m not—I tell you I’m not! I’m happy. I never knew what happiness was till now. I’m so happy that I can stand here and not insult you, though you’ve insulted me.”
“I meant no insult, Elise. I want to help you; that is all. I know how hard it is to confide in one’s kinsfolk, and I wish with all my heart I might be your friend, if you ever need me.”
Elise met her sympathetic look clearly and steadily. “Speak plain to me, madame,” she said.
“Elise, I saw some one climb out of your bedroom window,” was the slow reply.
“Oh, my God!” said the girl; “oh, my God!” and she stared blankly for a moment at Madame Chalice. Then, trembling greatly, she reached to the table for a cup of water.
Madame Chalice was at once by her side. “You are ill, poor girl,” she said anxiously, and put her arm around her.
Elise drew away.
“I will tell you all, madame, all; and you must believe it, for, as God is my judge, it is the truth.” Then she told the whole story, exactly as it happened, save mention of the kisses that Valmond had given her. Her eyes now and again filled with tears, and she tried, in her poor untutored way, to set him right. She spoke for him altogether, not for herself; and her listener saw that the bond which held the girl to the man might be proclaimed in the streets, with no dishonour.
“That’s the story, and that’s the truth,” said Elise at last. “He’s a gentleman, a great man, and I’m a poor girl, and there can be nothing between us; but I’d die for him.”
She no longer resented Madame Chalice’s solicitude: she was passive, and showed that she wished to be alone.