“Elizabeth!” he said, “what do you wish?  Why do you come downstairs?  And that impossible dress!  Why do you wear it again?  It is not suitable.”

“Uncle Bertrand,” said the child, clasping her hands still more tightly, her eyes growing larger in her excitement and terror under his displeasure, “it is that I want money—­a great deal.  I beg your pardon if I derange you.  It is for the poor.  Moreover, the cure has written the people of the village are ill—­the vineyards did not yield well.  They must have money.  I must send them some.”

Uncle Bertrand shrugged his shoulders.

“That is the message of monsieur le cure, is it?” he said.  “He wants money!  My dear Elizabeth, I must inquire further.  You have a fortune, but I cannot permit you to throw it away.  You are a child, and do not understand—­”

[Illustration:  “UNCLE BERTRAND,” SAID THE CHILD, CLASPING HER HANDS.]

“But,” cried Elizabeth, trembling with agitation, “they are so poor when one does not help them:  their vineyards are so little, and if the year is bad they must starve.  Aunt Clotilde gave to them every year—­even in the good years.  She said they must be cared for like children.”

“That was your Aunt Clotilde’s charity,” replied her uncle.  “Sometimes she was not so wise as she was devout.  I must know more of this.  I have no time at present, I am going out of town.  In a few days I will reflect upon it.  Tell your maid to give that hideous garment away.  Go out to drive—­amuse yourself—­you are too pale.”

Elizabeth looked at his handsome, careless face in utter helplessness.  This was a matter of life and death to her; to him it meant nothing.

“But it is winter,” she panted, breathlessly; “there is snow.  Soon it will be Christmas, and they will have nothing—­no candles for the church, no little manger for the holy child, nothing for the poorest ones.  And the children—­”

“It shall be thought of later,” said Uncle Bertrand.  “I am too busy now.  Be reasonable, my child, and run away.  You detain me.”

He left her with a slight impatient shrug of his shoulders and the slight amused smile on his lips.  She heard him speak to his friend.

“She was brought up by one who had renounced the world,” he said, “and she has already renounced it herself—­pauvre petite enfant!  At eleven years she wishes to devote her fortune to the poor and herself to the Church.”

Elizabeth sank back into the shadow of the portieres.  Great burning tears filled her eyes and slipped down her cheeks, falling upon her breast.

“He does not care,” she said; “he does not know.  And I do no one good—­no one.”  And she covered her face with her hands and stood sobbing all alone.

When she returned to her room she was so pale that her maid looked at her anxiously, and spoke of it afterwards to the other servants.  They were all fond of Mademoiselle Elizabeth.  She was always kind and gentle to everybody.