The Mischief Maker | Page 2

in their sockets, to have become
dilated. Her lips trembled, but her eyes remained steadfast.
"Oh! madame," she sobbed, "is it not cruel that one should die like this!
I am so young. I have seen so little of life. It is not just, madame--it is
not just!"
The woman who sat by her side was shaking. Her heart was torn with
pity. Everywhere in the soft, sunlit air, wherever she looked, she
seemed to read in letters of fire the history of this girl, the history of so

many 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--Eugène,
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 cafés. 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 Eugène. 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