you are there. I may need you in a minute."
"Bien!"
Then, returning, she said quietly: "Valentine is a friend of mine. She sells postal cards up here. Unless you tell me the truth, I shall ask her to go down and call the sacristan. Now then, who are you?"
"Don't ask who I am," pleaded the lady.
"I ask what I want to know."
"Anything but that!"
"Then you are not Madam Marius?"
"No."
"You lied to me?"
"Yes."
"Valentine!" called Alice, and promptly a girl of about sixteen, bare-headed, appeared at the end of the gallery. "Go down and ask Papa Bonneton to come here at once. Say it's important. Hurry!"
With an understanding nod Valentine disappeared inside the tower and the quick clatter of her wooden shoes echoed up from below.
"But—what will you tell him?" gasped the lady.
"I shall tell him you were concerned in that crime last night. I don't know what it was, I haven't read the papers, but he has."
"Do you want to ruin me?" cried the woman; then, with a supplicating gesture: "Spare me this shame; I will give you money, a large sum. See here!" and, opening her gold bag, she drew out some folded notes. "I'll give you a thousand francs—five thousand. Don't turn away! I'll give you more—my jewels, my pearls, my rings. Look at them." She held out her hands, flashing with precious stones.
Suddenly she felt the girl's eyes on her in utter scorn. "You are not even intelligent," Alice flung back; "you were a fool to come here; now you are stupid enough to think you can buy my silence. Mon Dieu, what a base soul!"
"Forgive me, I don't know what I am saying," begged the other. "Don't be angry. Listen; you say I was a fool to come here, but it isn't true. I realized my danger, I knew what I was risking, and yet I came, because I had to come. I felt I could trust you. I came in my desperation because there was no other person in Paris I dared go to."
"Is that true?" asked the girl, more gently.
"Indeed it is," implored the lady, her eyes swimming with tears. "I beg your pardon sincerely for offering you money. I know you are loyal and kind and—I'm ashamed of myself. I have suffered so much since last night that—as you say, I must be mad."
It was a strange picture—this brilliant beauty, forgetful of pride and station, humbling herself to a poor candle seller. Alice looked at her in wonder.
"I don't understand yet why you came to me," she said.
"I want to make amends for the harm I have done, I want to save M. Kittredge—not for myself. Don't think that! He has gone out of my life and will never come into it again. I want to save him because it's right that I should, because he has been accused of this crime through me and I know he is innocent."
"Ah," murmured Alice joyfully, "you know he is innocent."
"Yes; and, if necessary, I will give evidence to clear him. I will tell exactly what happened."
"What happened where?"
"In the room where this man was—was shot. Ugh!" She pressed her hands over her eyes as if to drive away some horrid vision.
"You were—there?" asked the girl.
The woman nodded with a wild, frightened look. "Don't ask me about it. There isn't time now and—I told him everything."
"You mean Lloyd? You told Lloyd everything?"
"Yes, in the carriage. He realizes that I acted for the best, but—don't you see, if I come forward now and tell the truth, I shall be disgraced, ruined."
"And if you don't come forward, Lloyd will remain in prison," flashed the girl.
"You don't understand. There is no case against Lloyd. He is bound to be released for want of evidence against him. I only ask you to be patient a few days and let me help him without destroying myself."
"How can you help him unless you speak out?"
"I can help with money for a good lawyer. That is why I brought these bank notes." Again she offered the notes. "You won't refuse them—for him?"
But Alice pushed the money from her. "A lawyer's efforts might free him in the future, your testimony will free him now."
"Then you will betray me?" demanded the woman fiercely.
"Betray?" answered the girl. "That's a fine-sounding word, but what does it mean? I shall do the best I can for the man I love."
"Ha! The best you can! And what is that? To make him ashamed of you! To make him suffer!"
"Suffer?"
"Why not? Don't you suppose he will suffer to find that you have no sympathy with his wishes?"
"What do you mean?"
"You threaten to do the very thing that he went to prison to prevent. You're going to denounce me, aren't you?"
"To save him—yes."
"When it isn't necessary, when it will cause a dreadful calamity. If he wanted to be saved that way, wouldn't he denounce me himself? He knows my name, he knows the whole story. Wouldn't he tell it himself if he wanted it told?"
The girl hesitated, taken aback at this new view. "I suppose he thinks it a matter of honor."
"Exactly. And you who pretend to love him have so little heart, so little delicacy, that you care nothing for what he thinks a matter of honor. A pretty thing your sense of honor must be!"
"Oh!" shrank Alice, and the woman, seeing her advantage, pursued it relentlessly. "Did you ever hear of a debt of honor? How do you know that your lover doesn't owe me such a debt and isn't paying it now down there?"
So biting were the words, so fierce the scorn, that Alice found herself wavering. After all, she knew nothing of what had happened, nor could she be sure of Lloyd's wishes. He had certainly spoken of things in his life that he regretted. Could it be that he was bound in honor to save this woman at any cost? As she stood irresolute, there came up from below the sound of steps on the stairs, ascending steps, nearer and nearer, then distinctly the clatter of Valentine's wooden shoes, then another and a heavier tread. The sacristan was coming.
"Here is your chance," taunted the lady; "give me up, denounce me, and then remember what Lloyd will remember always, that when a distressed and helpless sister woman came to you and trusted you, you showed her no pity, but deliberately wrecked her life."
Half sorry, half triumphant, but without a word, Alice watched the torture of this former rival; and now the loud breathing of the sacristan was plainly heard on the stairs.
"Remember," flung out the other in a final defiance that was also a final appeal, "remember that nothing brought me here but the sacredness of a love that is gone, a sacredness that I respect and he respects but that you trample on."
As she said this Valentine emerged from the tower door followed wearily by Papa Bonneton, in full regalia, his mild face expressing all that it could of severity.
"What has happened?" he said sharply to Alice. Then, with a habit of deference, he lifted his three-cornered hat to the lady: "Madam will understand that it was difficult for me to leave my duties."
Madam stood silent, ghastly white, hands clinched so hard that the gems cut into her flesh, eyes fixed on the girl in a last anguished supplication.
Then Alice said to the sacristan: "Madam wants to hear the sound of the great bell. She asked me to strike it with the hammer, but I told her that is forbidden during high mass. Madam offered ten francs—twenty francs—she is going away and is very anxious to hear the bell; she has read about its beautiful tone. When madam offered twenty francs, I thought it my duty to let you know." All