I rose to my feet; and Eloise, as if moved by the same impulse, rose also.
"Mademoiselle," said I, as I offered Eloise my arm, "does not drink champagne. It is a matter of taste with her. Did she do so, however, I am very well assured that the evil spirit in it would never prompt her to talk and act like a fool!"
There was dead silence, as, with Eloise on my arm, I walked towards the trees. Then I heard the shrill laughter of the women; but I did not heed, for Eloise was weeping.
"Come," I said; "forget them."
"It is not they," replied Eloise. "I do not care about them."
I knew quite well what she meant. It was the Past.
Do not for a moment confuse that word "past" with conscience. Whatever sin might have been committed by the world against Eloise Feliciani, she, at heart, was sinless. No; it was just the Past, a blur of miasma from Paris, a breath of winter.
"Come," I said; "forget it! All that is a bad dream that you have dreamt; all those people, those women, those men, are not real: they are things in a nightmare; they have no souls, and when they die they go nowhere—they are just ugly pictures that God wipes off a slate. This is the real thing: these trees, these birds; and they are yours for ever. I give you them; they are the best gift that money can buy."
I wiped her eyes with my handkerchief. She smiled through her tears; and we pursued our way to the Pavilion, followed by the rustle of the wind in the leaves, and the song of the wood-doves—lazy, languorous, soothing—filled with the warmth and the softness of summer.
When I returned to Paris that night I sought for my guardian, and found him in the smoking-room.