The Mischief Maker | Page 2

others.
"We will not talk of death, dear," she said. "Doctors are so wonderful, nowadays. There are so few diseases which they cannot cure. They seem to snatch one back even from the grave. Besides, you are so young. One does not die at nineteen. Tell me about this man--Eug��ne, you called him. He has never once been to see you--not even when you were in the hospital?"
The girl began to tremble.
"Not once," she murmured.
"You are sure that he had your letters? He knows that you are out here and alone?"
"Yes, he knows!"
There was a short silence. The woman found it hard to know what to say. Somewhere down along the white, dusty road a man was grinding the music of a threadbare waltz from an ancient barrel-organ. The girl closed her eyes.
"We used to hear that sometimes," she whispered, "at the caf��s. At one where we went often they used to know that I liked it and they always played it when we came. It is queer to hear it again--like this.... Oh, when I close my eyes," she muttered, "I am afraid! It is like shutting out life for always."
The woman by her side got up. Lucie caught at her skirt.
"Madame, you are not going yet?" she pleaded. "Am I selfish? Yet you have not stayed with me so long as yesterday, and I am so lonely."
The woman's face had hardened a little.
"I am going to find that man," she replied. "I have his address. I want to bring him to you."
The girl's hold upon her skirt tightened.
"Sit down," she begged. "Do not leave me. Indeed it is useless. He knows. He does not choose to come. Men are like that. Oh! madame, I have learned my lesson. I know now that love is a vain thing. Men do not often really feel it. They come to us when we please them, but afterwards that does not count. I suppose we were meant to be sacrificed. I have given up thinking of Eug��ne. He is afraid, perhaps, of the infection. I think that I would sooner go out of life as I lie here, cold and unloved, than have him come to me unwillingly."
The woman could not hide her tears any longer. There was something so exquisitely fragile, so strangely pathetic, in that prostrate figure by her side.
"But, my dear," she faltered,--
"Madame," the girl interrupted, "hold my hand for a moment. That is the doctor coming. I hear his footstep. I think that I must sleep."
Madame Christophor--she had another name, but there were few occasions on which she cared to use it--was driven back to Paris, in accordance with her murmured word of instruction, at a pace which took little heed of police regulations or even of safety. Through the peaceful lanes, across the hills into the suburbs, and into the city itself she passed, at a speed which was scarcely slackened even when she turned into the Boulevard which was her destination. Glancing at the slip of paper which she held in her hand, she pulled the checkstring before a tall block of buildings. She hurried inside, ascended two flights of stairs, and rang the bell of a door immediately opposite her. A very German-looking manservant opened it after the briefest of delays--a man with fair moustache, fat, stolid face and inquisitive eyes.
"Is your master in," she demanded, "Monsieur Estermen?"
The man stared at her, then bowed. The appearance of Madame Christophor was, without doubt, impressive.
"I will inquire, madame," he replied.
"I am in a hurry," she said curtly. "Be so good as to let your master know that."
A moment later she was ushered into a sitting-room--a man's apartment, untidy, reeking of cigarette smoke and stale air. There were photographs and souvenirs of women everywhere. The windows were fast-closed and the curtains half-drawn. The man who stood upon the hearthrug was of medium height, dark, with close-cropped hair and a black, drooping moustache. His first glance at his visitor, as the door opened, was one of impertinent curiosity.
"Madame?" he inquired.
"You are Monsieur Estermen?"
He bowed. He was very much impressed and he endeavored to assume a manner.
"That is my name. Pray be seated."
She waved away the chair he offered.
"My automobile is in the street below," she said. "I wish you to come with me at once to see a poor girl who is dying."
He looked at her in amazement.
"Are you serious, madame?"
"I am very serious indeed," she replied. "The girl's name is Lucie R��nault."
For the moment he seemed perplexed. Then his eyebrows were slowly raised.
"Lucie R��nault," he repeated. "What do you know about her?"
"Only that she is a poor child who has suffered at your hands and who is dying in a private hospital," Madame Christophor answered. "She has been taken there out of charity. She has no friends, she is