n French.

"Madame la Vicomtesse!" said the old man. And, with the tact of his
race, he bowed and retired. The Vicomtesse seated herself on one of the
rude chairs, and looked at Nick curiously. There was no such thing as
embarrassment in her manner, no trace of misgiving that she would not
move properly in the affair. Knowing Nick as I did, the difficulty of
the task appalled me, for no man was likelier than he to fly off at a
misplaced word.

Her beginning was so bold that I held my breath, knowing full well as I
did that she had chosen the very note.

"Sit down, Mr. Temple," she said. "I wish to speak to you about your
mother."

He stopped like a man who had been struck, straightened, and stared at
her as though he had not taken her meaning. Then he swung on me.

"Your mother is in New Orleans," I said. "I would have told you in
Louisville had you given me the chance."

"It is an interesting piece of news, David," he answered, "which you
might have spared me. Mrs. Temple did not think herself necessary to my
welfare when I was young, and now I have learned to live without her."

"Is there no such thing as expiation, Monsieur?" said the Vicomtesse.

"Madame," he said, "she made me what I am, and when I might have
redeemed myself she came between me and happiness."

"Monsieur," said the Vicomtesse, "have you ever considered her
sufferings?"

He looked at the Vicomtesse with a new interest. She was not so far
beyond his experience as mine.

"Her sufferings?" he repeated, and smiled.

"Madame la Vicomtesse should know them," I interrupted; and without
heeding her glance of protest I continued, "It is she who has cared for
Mrs. Temple."

"You, Madame!" he exclaimed.

"Do not deny your own share in it, Mr. Ritchie," she answered. "As for
me, Monsieur," she went on, turning to Nick, "I have done nothing
that was not selfish. I have been in the world, I have lived my life,
misfortunes have come upon me too. My visits to your mother have been to
me a comfort, a pleasure,--for she is a rare person."

"I have never found her so, Madame," he said briefly.

"I am sure it is your misfortune rather than your fault, Mr. Temple. It
is because you do not know her now."

Again he looked at me, puzzled, uneasy, like a man who would run if he
could. But by a kind of fascination his eyes went back to this woman
who dared a subject sore to the touch--who pressed it gently, but
with determination, never doubting her pow