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 this with a self-possession that the daughters of Eve have acquired through centuries of practice.
"Twenty francs!" muttered the guileless Bonneton. "You were right, my child, perfectly right. That rule was made for ordinary visitors, but with madam it is different. I myself will strike the bell for madam." And with all dispatch he entered the Southern tower, where the great bourdon hangs, whispering: "Twenty francs! It's a miracle."
No sooner was he gone than the lady caught the girl's two hands in hers, and with her whole soul in her eyes she cried: "God bless you! God bless you!"
Alice tried to speak, but the words choked her, and, leaning over the balustrade, she looked yearningly toward the prison, her lips moving in silence: "Lloyd! Lloyd!" Then the great bell struck and she turned with a start, brushing away the tears that dimmed her eyes.
A moment later Papa Bonneton reappeared, scarcely believing that already he had earned his louis and insisting on telling madam various things about the bell—that it was presented by Louis XIV, and weighed over seventeen tons; that eight men were required to ring it, two poised at each corner of the rocking framework; that the note it sounded was fa diese—did madam understand that? Do, re, mi, fa? And more of the sort until madam assured him that she was fully satisfied and would not keep him longer from his duties. Whereupon, with a torrent of thanks, the old man disappeared in the tower, looking unbelievingly at the gold piece in his hand.
"And now what?" asked Alice with feverish eagerness when they were alone again.
"Let me tell you, first, what you have saved me from," said the lady, leaning weakly against the balustrade. A feeling of faintness had come over her in the reaction from her violent emotion.
"No, no," replied the girl, "this is the time for action, not sentiment. You have promised to save him, now do it."
"I will," declared the other, and the light of a fine purpose gave a dignity to her rather selfish beauty. "Or, rather, we will save him together. First, I want you to take this money—you will take it now for him? That's right, put it in your dress. Ah," she smiled as Alice obeyed her. "That is for a lawyer. He must have a good lawyer at once."
"Yes, of course," agreed Alice, "but how shall I get a lawyer?"
The lady frowned. "Ah, if I could only send you to my lawyer! But that would involve explanations. We need a man to advise us, some one who knows about these things."
"I have it," exclaimed Alice joyfully. "The very person!"
"Who is that?"
"M. Coquenil."
"What?" The other stared. "You mean Paul Coquenil, the detective?"
"Yes," said the girl confidently. "He would help us; I'm sure of it."
"He is on the case already. Didn't you know that? The papers are full of it."
Alice shook her head. "That doesn't matter, does it? He would tell us exactly what to do. I saw him in Notre-Dame only yesterday and—and he spoke to me so kindly. You know, M. Coquenil is a friend of Papa Bonneton's; he lends him his dog Cæsar to guard the church."
"It seems like providence," murmured the lady. "Yes, that is the thing to do, you must go to M. Coquenil at once. Tell the old sacristan I have sent you on an errand—for another twenty francs."
Alice smiled faintly. "I can manage that. But what shall I say to M. Paul?"
"Speak to him about the lawyer and the money; I will send more if necessary. Tell him what has happened between us and then put yourself in his hands. Do whatever he thinks best. There is one thing I want M. Kittredge to be told—I wish you would write it down so as to make no mistake. Here is a pencil and here is a piece of paper." With nervous haste she tore a page from a little memorandum book. "Now, then," and she dictated the following statement which Alice took down carefully: "Tell M. Kittredge that the lady who called for him in the carriage knows now that the person she thought guilty last night is NOT guilty. She knows this absolutely, so she will be able to appear and testify in favor of M. Kittredge if it becomes necessary. But she hopes it will not be necessary. She begs M. Kittredge to use this money for a good lawyer."
Chapter XII.
By Special Order
It was not until after vespers that Alice was able to leave Notre-Dame and start for the Villa Montmorency—in fact, it was nearly five when, with mingled feelings of confidence and shrinking, she opened the iron gate in the ivy-covered wall of Coquenil's house and advanced down the neat walk between the double hedges to the solid gray mass of the villa, at once dignified and cheerful. Melanie came to the door and showed, by a jealous glance, that she did not approve of her master receiving visits from young and good-looking females.
"M. Paul is resting," she grumbled; "he worked all last night and he's worked this whole blessed day until half an hour ago."
"I'm sorry, but it's a matter of great importance," urged the girl.
"Good, good," snapped Melanie. "What name?"
"He wouldn't know my name. Please say it's the girl who sells candles in Notre-Dame."
"Huh! I'll tell him. Wait here," and with scant courtesy the old servant left Alice standing in the blue-tiled hallway, near a long diamond-paned window. A moment later Melanie reappeared with mollified countenance. "M. Paul says will you please take a seat in here." She opened the study door and pointed to one of the big red-leather chairs. "He'll be down in a moment."
Left alone, Alice glanced in surprise about this strange room. She saw a photograph of Cæsar and his master on the wall and went nearer to look at it. Then she noticed the collection of plaster hands and was just bending over it when Coquenil entered, wearing a loosely cut house garment of pale yellow with dark-green braid around the jacket and down the legs of the trousers. He looked pale, almost haggard, but his face lighted in welcome as he came forward.
"Glad to see you," he said.
She had not heard his step and turned with a start of surprise.
"I—I beg your pardon," she murmured in embarrassment.
"Are you interested in my plaster casts?" he asked pleasantly.
"I was looking at this hand," replied the girl. "I have seen one like it."
Coquenil shook his head good-naturedly. "That is very improbable."
Alice looked closer. "Oh, but I have," she insisted.
"You mean in a museum?"
"No, no, in life—I am positive I have."
M. Paul listened with increasing interest. "You have seen a hand with a little finger as long as this one?"
"Yes;