"Yes," I answered her truly, "but not to-day, possibly not for several days. I would not go away without seeing you again."
I felt my tone become warmer as I thought of all this girl had risked for me, and so blundered on uncertainly. What was I to do? What could I offer her in repayment? Not gold; she had refused that with the air of a grande marquise the night she first helped me from Bertrand's.
Heartily wishing for some of Jerome's finesse and tact, I gazed at her, stupid and silent, watching the tears gather in her eyes. I could only guess the thought which was passing in her mind, and even there I wronged her.
"Oh, Monsieur!" she spoke as from the fullness of her heart, while her voice trembled with excess of emotion, "Monsieur is going back into the great world; Monsieur has honor and fair fame; I must return to the wine shop."
The poor girl must have been wearied out with her watchings by my bed, for she burst into such an uncontrollable weeping as I fain would have prevented. I did my rough best at comfort, but had to let her sorrow run its course.
"Oh, Monsieur, think of it! I must go back to that dreadful wine shop, to the gaming tables; must continue to draw men there to be despoiled of their money, perhaps of their lives; must laugh and be gay, though my heart break at its own debasement. There have been many, ah, so many, I have lured to that place; and it came so near to costing you your life—you who were so kind to Florine."
She had sunk to the floor, and catching my hand poured out all the bitterness of her heart.
"Yet, Monsieur, what can Florine do? There is no way for a weak woman to do anything in this wretched Paris. If I do not bring players to the house my aunt beats me. See," she drew up her sleeve, and exposed the welts of cruel cuts across the bare white flesh. "She denies me food in my garret. So I must work, be merry and work—and weep all the day for the misery of the nights." My heart went out to the girl with all sympathy, but, every whit as helpless as she, I only wondered what could be done.
"Monsieur, it was not of my choosing, believe me, believe me, it really was not. My father thought his sister so well off in this fine Paris, when she offered to bring me up as her own child, and sent us presents, he made me come with her. We were so poor, so cruelly poor. My mother could not come for me, and now how can I go back? I dare not let her know how I am treated. It would break her heart, and she is so old and tottering. If I seek other employment no one will take me, no one would give me a character for service. All the world is open to you. You go where you please, do what pleases you. All the world is shut to Florine. And you, Monsieur, my only friend, I hoped when you were well again, such a rich gentleman could find me a place among his friends; find me some quiet place where I might live and be of use, not bringing evil to all I touch. What an evil life, what a wicked life I lead. Oh, Monsieur, save me from it; save me! The horrible man you defended me from that night pursues me everywhere; my aunt is jealous because of him. She hates me now and would like to drive me out upon the streets—ugh! the terror of it. But her husband won't let her; he is kinder than she. See, I am pretty, I bring custom. She can not tell her husband why she hates me. No, no. Bertrand would kill her. And I dare not tell him. They would kill me—"
Her speech rambled on now, disconnected and incoherent. Still by catching sentences here and there the whole pitiful story was clear to me. My eyes would always overflow at sight of woman's suffering, my throat choked up; I could speak no word to her. Of a truth what a horrible life it must be; what iron webs do sin and circumstance weave round their victim. The cowering girl sobbed convulsively on the floor at my feet. I laid my hand tenderly upon her head.