He obeyed her without a word.  No wonder Madame la Vicomtesse had had an influence at court.

“There!” she said.  “If any reference I am about to make gives you pain, I am sorry.”  She paused briefly.  “After Mr. Ritchie took your mother from here to New Orleans, some five years ago, she rented a little house in the Rue Bourbon with a screen of yellow and red tiles at the edge of the roof.  It is on the south side, next to the corner of the Rue St. Philippe.  There she lives absolutely alone, except for a servant.  Mr. Clark, who has charge of her affairs, was the only person she allowed to visit her.  For her pride, however misplaced, and for her spirit we must all admire her.  The friend who discovered where she was, who went to her and implored Mrs. Temple to let her stay, she refused.”

“The friend?” he repeated in a low tone.  I scarcely dared to glance at the Vicomtesse.

“Yes, it was Antoinette,” she answered.  He did not reply, but his eyes fell.  “Antoinette went to her, would have comforted her, would have cared for her, but your mother sent her away.  For five years she has lived there, Mr. Temple, alone with her past, alone with her sorrow and remorse.  You must draw the picture for yourself.  If the world has a more terrible punishment, I have not heard of it.  And when, some months ago, I came, and Antoinette sent me to her—­”

“Sent you to her!” he said, raising his head quickly.

“Under another name than my own,” Helene continued, apparently taking no notice of his interruption.  She leaned toward him and her voice faltered.  “I found your mother dying.”

He said nothing, but got to his feet and walked slowly to the door, where he stood looking out again.  I felt for him, I would have gone to him then had it not been for the sense in me that Helene did not wish it.  As for Helene, she sat waiting for him to turn back to her, and at length he did.

“Yes?” he said.

“It is her heart, Mr. Temple, that we fear the most.  Last night I thought the end had come.  It cannot be very far away now.  Sorrow and remorse have killed her, Monsieur.  The one thing that she has prayed for through the long nights is that she might see you once again and obtain your forgiveness.  God Himself does not withhold forgiveness, Mr. Temple,” said the Vicomtesse, gently.  “Shall any of us presume to?”

A spasm of pain crossed his face, and then his expression hardened.

“I might have been a useful man,” he said; “she ruined my life—­”

“And you will allow her to ruin the rest of it?” asked the Vicomtesse.

He stared at her.

“If you do not go to her and forgive her, you will remember it until you die,” she said.

He sank down on the chair opposite to her, his head bowed into his hands, his elbows on the table among the cards.  At length I went and laid my hands upon his shoulder, and at my touch he started.  Then he did a singular thing, an impulsive thing, characteristic of the old Nick I had known.  He reached across the table and seized the hand of Madame la Vicomtesse.  She did not resist, and her smile I shall always remember.  It was the smile of a woman who has suffered, and understands.