"Good heavens!" I said. "No. I care for her only—only—that is to say, I only care for herself."
A confused statement apparently, yet an unconscious and profound criticism on Love.
The Vicomte raised his eyebrows. He was I think, frankly puzzled. He saw my meaning—that I cared for Eloise as a child or a sister. His profound experience of life had never, perhaps, brought a similar case to the bar of his reason; his profound knowledge of men and women told him of the danger of the thing.
"How has Mademoiselle Feliciani been living since the death of her mother?" asked he.
"She has been a model at Cardillac's studio," I replied.
"Indeed? Poor girl! And now, may I ask, what do you propose to do with this protégée of yours?"
"I? Just give her a home and what money she requires."
"In fact," said the Vicomte, "you, a young man of nineteen, are going to adopt a beautiful young girl of the same age, or younger, out of pure charity, give her a house to live in, pay her expenses——"
"Yes," I replied. "God has given me money; and I thank God that He has given me the means of rescuing the sweetest and the purest woman living from a life that could lead her nowhere but to the morgue. Monsieur, what is the matter?"
The Vicomte was crimson, and making movements with his hands as though to wave away a gauzy veil. At least, that was the impression the outspread fingers gave me.