The Vicomte raised his eyebrows. He was I think, frankly puzzled. He saw my meaning--that I cared for Eloise as a child or a sister. His profound experience of life had never, perhaps, brought a similar case to the bar of his reason; his profound knowledge of men and women told him of the danger of the thing. "How has Mademoiselle Feliciani been living since the death of her mother?" asked he. "She has been a model at Cardillac's studio," I replied. "Indeed? Poor girl! And now, may I ask, what do you propose to do with this protégée of yours?" "I? Just give her a home and what money she requires." "In fact," said the Vicomte, "you, a young man of nineteen, are going to adopt a beautiful young girl of the same age, or younger, out of pure charity, give her a house to live in, pay her expenses----" "Yes," I replied. "God has given me money; and I thank God that He has given me the means of rescuing the sweetest and the purest woman living from a life that could lead her nowhere but to the morgue. Monsieur, what is the matter?" The Vicomte was crimson, and making movements with his hands as though to wave away a gauzy veil. At least, that was the impression the outspread fingers gave me. Then he laughed out aloud, the first time I had ever heard him laugh so. "Forgive me," he said. "I am not, indeed, laughing at you. I am amused at no thing or person: it is the imbroglio. What you have told me is interesting, and I take it as a profound secret. Say nothing of it to anyone; for if it were known----" "Yes?" "Why, the whole of Paris would be laughing!" I arose, very much affronted and huffed. And I was a fool, for what my guardian said was perfectly correct. The situation to a French mind was as amusing as a Palais Royal farce. But I knew little of the world, and, as I say, I arose very much affronted and huffed. "Good-night, sir." My guardian rose up and bowed kindly and courteously, but with the faintest film of ice veiling his manner. "Good-night." CHAPTER XXIII FÊTE CHAMPÊTRE "Good-morning." "Ah! there you are. Toto--see!" Eloise, without a hat, working in the little garden of the Pavilion, held up a huge spade for my inspection. The moat divided us, and I had my foot on the drawbridge, preparing to cross. Up at six, I had come to Evry by an early train, and walked from the station. It was now after ten, and great was the beauty of the morning. "I have dug up quite a lot," said Eloise. "Look!--all that. Madame Ancelot says I will make a gardener by and by--by and by--by and by," she sang, tossing the spade amidst some weeds; and then, hanging on my arm, she drew me into the house. A perfume of violets filled the sitting-room. The place was changed. The subtle hand of a woman had rearranged the chairs, looped back the curtains and arranged them in folds of grace, peopled with violets empty bowls, wrought wonders with a touch. On the sofa lay a heap of white material, which she swept away.