“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 powers, yet with a kindness and sympathy of tone which few women of the world possess.  The Vicomtesse began to speak again, evenly, gently.

“Mr. Temple,” said she, “I am merely going to tell you some things which I am sure you do not know, and when I have finished I shall not appeal to you.  It would be useless for me to try to influence you, and from what Mr. Ritchie and others have told me of your character I am sure that no influence will be necessary.  And,” she added, with a smile, “it would be much more comfortable for us both if you sat down.”