“Je m’ètais évanoui.”
“How? Ah, I understand, But why? What brought thee to such a pass?”
“N’ímporte. Cést pas convenable pour une juene femme d’entendre pareilles choses. That ought to fetch you if you can understand it.
“Ah, thou mockst me. Knowest thou, profligate, that thou art in my apartment, and that I have the right to throw you through the door if I please? Eh?”
“Votre discours se fait trés penible, ma mere. Voulez-vous avoir la bonté de shut up?”
“What does that mean?” said the woman, checked by the unknown verb.
‘Oh, you are talking too much,” said Aurélie, returning with some soda water. “You must not encourage him to speak, madame.”
“He needs little encouragement,” said the old woman. “You are far too good for him, mademoiselle.”
“How do you feel now, monsieur? Better, I hope.”
“Thanks very much: I feel quite happy. I have something to shew you. Just wait a—” Here he twisted himself round upon his elbow, and after some struggling with the rug and his coat, pulled from his breast pocket some old letters, which presently slipped from his hand and were scattered on the floor.
“Sot,” cried the old woman, darting at them, and angrily pushing back the hand with which he was groping for them. “Here — put them up again. What has madame to do with thy letters, thinkst thou?”
“Don’t you be in a hurry, Mrs. Jones,” he retorted confidently, beginning to fumble at the letters. “Where the — I’ll take my oath I had it this mor — oh, here it is. Did you ever see him before?” he asked triumphantly, handing a photograph to Aurélie.
“Tiens! it is Adrian,” she exclaimed. “My husband,” she added, to the old woman, who received the explanation sardonically. “Are you then a friend of Monsieur Herbert?”
“I have known him since I was a boy, “ said the youth. Aurélie smiled: she thought him a boy still. “But this was only taken last week,” she said. “I have only just received a copy for myself. Did he send it to you?”
“My sister sent it to me. I suppose you know who I am now.”
“No, truly, monsieur. I have seen you certainly; but I cannot recall your name.”
“You’ve seen me at Phipson’s, talking to Mr. Jack. Can’t you guess?”
Aurélie shook her head. The old woman, curious, but unable to follow a conversation carried on by one party in French and by the other in English, muttered impatiently, “What gibberish! It is a horror.”
The youth looked shyly at Aurélie. “Then, as if struck by a new thought, he said, “My name is — Beatty.”
Aurélie bowed. “Yes,” she said, “I have assuredly heard my husband speak of that name. I am greatly troubled to think that your misfortune should have been brought about by my carriage. Madame: Monsieur Beatty will need a pillow. Will you do me the kindness to bring one from my room?”
Monsieur Beatty began to protest that he would prefer to remain as he was, but he was checked by a gesture from the woman, who silently pointed to a pillow which was on a chair.
“Ah, true. Thank you,” said Aurélie, “Now, let me see. Yes, he had better have my little gong,in case he should become worse in the night, and need to summon help. It is on my table, I believe.
The old woman looked hard at Aurélie for a moment, and withdrew slowly.
“Now that that lady is gone,” said the patient, blushing, “I want to tell you how grateful I am for the way you have helped me. If you knew what I felt when I opened my eyes as I lay there on the stones, and saw your face looking down at me, you would feel sure, without being told, that I am ready to do anything to prove my gratitude. I wish I could die for you. Not that that would be much; for my life is not worth a straw to me or anyone else. I am old enough to be tired of it.”
“Young enough to be tired of it, you mean,” said Aurélie, laughing, but pleased by his earnestness. “Well, I do not doubt that you are very grateful. How did you come under my carriage? Were you really knocked down; or did you only dream it?”
“I was really knocked down. I can’t tell you how it came about. It served me right; for I was where I had no business to be — in bad company.”
“Ah,” said Aurélie gravely, approaching him with the pillow. “You must not do so any more, if we are to remain friends.”
“I will never do so again, so help me God!” he protested. “You have cured me of all taste for that sort of thing.”
“Raise yourself for one moment — so,” said Aurélie, stooping over him and placing the pillow beneath his head. His color rose as he looked up at her. Then, as she was in the act of withdrawing, he uttered, a stifled exclamation; threw his arm about her; and pressing his lips to her cheek, was about to kiss her, when he fell back with a sharp groan, and lay bathed in perspiration, and flinching from the pain of his wounded face. Aurélie, astonished and outraged, stood erect and regarded him indignantly.
“Ah,” she said. “That was an unworthy act. You, whom I have succored — my husband’s friend! My God, is it possible that an English gentleman can be so base!”
“Curse the fellow!” cried the young man, writhing and shedding tears of pain. “Give me something to stop this agony — some chloroform or something. Send for a doctor. I shall go mad. Oh, Lord !”
“You deserve it well,” said Aurélie, “Come, monsieur, control yourself. This is childish.” As he subsided, exhausted, and only fetching a deep sigh at intervals, she relented and called the old woman who seemed to have been waiting outside for she came at once.
“He has hurt his wound,” said Aurélie in an undertone. “What can we do for him?”
The woman shrugged herself, and had nothing to suggest. “Let him make the best of it,” she said, “I can do nothing for him.”
They stood by the sofa and watched him for some time in silence. At last he opened his eyes, and began to appear more at ease.
“Would you like to drink something?” said Aurélie coldly.
“Yes.”
“Give him some soda water,” she said to the old woman.
“Never mind,” he said, speaking indistinctly in his effort to avoid stirring his upper lip. “I don’t want anything. The cartilage of my nose is frightfully tender, but the pain is going off.
“It is now very late, and I must retire, monsieur. Can we do anything further to ensure your comfort?”
“Nothing, thank you.” Aurélie turned to go.
“Mrs, Herbert.” She paused. “I suppose no one could behave worse than I have. Never mind my speaking before the old lady: she doesn’t understand me. I wish you would forgive me. I have been severely punished. You cannot even imagine the torture I have undergone in the last ten minutes.”
“If you regret your conduct as you ought,” began Aurélie severely.
“I am ashamed of it and of myself; and I will try hard to be sorry — in fact, I am very sorry I was disappointed. I should be more than mortal if I felt otherwise. But I will never do such a thing again.”
“Adieu, monsieur,” said Aurélie coldly. “I shall not see you again, as you will be gone before I am abroad tomorrow.” And she left the room with a gravity that quelled him.
“What hast thou been doing now, rogue?” said the old woman, preparing to follow Aurélie. “What is it thou shouldst regret?”