"Yes; but whether she wrote to him Éloise could not say."
"Why should she write to him? She dislikes him—dislikes him almost as much—" he was about to pronounce his own name. She caught him up.
"Yes, that is the singular part of this singular affair. She felt slighted because you painted my portrait before hers. I confess I have had my misgivings. You should have been more considerate of her feelings, Hubert, my friend." She paused and sighed. For him the sigh was a spark that blew up the magazine of his firmest resolves. He had been touching her hands fraternally. His arm embraced her so that she could not escape, as this middle-aged man told his passion with the ardour of an enamoured youth.
"You dare not tell me you do not care for me! Elaine—let us reason. I loved you since the first moment I met you. It is folly to talk of Mineur and my friendship for him. I dislike, I despise him. It is folly to talk of Berenice and her childish pranks. What if she did cruelly spoil my work, our work! She will get over it. Girls always do get over these things. Let us accept conditions as they are. Say you love me—a little bit—and I'll be content to remain at your side, a friend, always that. I'll paint you again—much more beautifully than before." He was hoarse from the intensity of his feelings. The moon had risen and tipped with its silver brush the tops of the trees.
"And—my husband? And Berenice?"
"Let things remain as they are." He pressed her to him. A crackling in the underbrush and a faint plash in the lake startled them asunder. They listened with ears that seemed like beating hearts. There was no movement; only a night bird plaintively piped in the distance and a clock struck the quarter.
Elaine, now thoroughly frightened, tried to get down from the wall. Hubert restrained her, and as they stood thus, a moaning like the wind in autumnal leaves reached them. The moon-rays began to touch the water, and suddenly a nimbus of light formed about a floating face in the pool. The luminous path broadened, and to their horror they saw Berenice, her hair outspread, her arms crossed on her young bosom, lying in the little lake. Elaine screamed:—
"My God! My God! It is Berenice!—Berenice, I am punished for my wickedness to you!" Hubert, stunned by the vision, did not stir, as the almost fainting mother gripped his neck.
And then the eyes of the whimsical girl opened. A malicious smile distorted her pretty face. Slowly she arose, a dripping ghost in white, and pointing her long, thin fingers in the direction of the Ecouen road she mockingly cried:—
"There is some one to see your portrait at last, dear Master Painter." And saying this she vanished in the gloom, instantly followed by her agitated mother.