"I tell you, Mr. Donald," continued Madame René, earnestly, though she had laughed with him, "I listened then for every word that man might say. I longed to ask questions, but I did not dare. I heard enough, though, to know they were looking for me, and it frightened me dreadfully.
"Well, as soon as we were married—Edouard and I—we went to my old home, and I made my peace with my poor old parents—Heaven be praised!—and comforted their last days. Then we went about through French, Swiss, and German towns, taking pictures. I helped Edouard with the work, and my English and French served us in many ways. But we found it hard getting a living, and at last my poor man sickened. I felt that nothing would help him but the baths at Aix-la-Chapelle; and so did he. We managed to work our way there, and once safe at Aix, I found employment as a doucheuse in the baths."
"What is that, please?" asked Don.
"The doucheuse is the bath-woman who attends specially to ladies. My earnings enabled my poor husband to stay and take the waters; and when he grow better, as he did, he got a situation with a photographer in the town. But it was only for a while. He sickened again—Heaven rest and bless his precious soul!—and soon passed away like a little child. I couldn't bear Aix then, and so I went with a family to Paris, and finally became a visiting dressmaker. My poor husband always called me Elise; and so Madame Elise René could go where she pleased without any fear of the detectives finding her. At last, only the other day, I picked up a French newspaper, and there I chanced to see your notice about Ellen Lee, and I answered it."
"Bless you for that!" said Donald, heartily. "But had you never seen any other? We advertised often for Ellen Lee in the London and Liverpool papers."
"No, I never saw one, sir; and, to tell the truth, I hated to remember that I had ever been called Ellen Lee, for it brought back the thought of that awful night—and the poor little babes that I thought I had killed. If the notice in the paper had not said that I saved their lives, you never would have heard from me, Mr. Donald. That made me happier than I ever had been in all my life—mostly for the babies' sake, though it seemed to lift a load of trouble off my mind."
Several times during the long interview with Elise René, Donald found himself wondering how he could manage, without hurting her pride, to give her the money which she evidently needed. For she was no pauper, and her bright, dark eyes showed that time and trouble had not by any means quenched her spirit. The idea of receiving charity would shock her, he knew; but an inspiration came to him. He would not reward her himself, but he would act for Dorothy.
"Madame René," he said, with some hesitation, "if my sister had known I was coming here to talk face to face with the friend who had saved her life, I know what she would have done: she would have sent you her grateful love and—and something to remember her by; something as she would say, 'perfectly lovely.' I know she would."
Madame had already begun to frown, on principle, but the thought of Dorry softened her, as Donald went on: "I know she would, but I don't know what to do about it. I'd buy exactly the wrong article, if I were trying to select. The fact is, you'll have to buy it yourself."
With these words, Donald handed Elise René a roll of bank-notes.