Through the Wall Part 24

But the lady pressed on as if she had some serious purpose before her, round and round past an endless ascending surface of gloomy gray stone, scarred everywhere with names and initials of foolish sightseers, past narrow slips of fortress windows through the ma.s.sive walls, round and round in narrowing circles until finally, with sighs of relief, they came out into the first gallery and stood looking down on Paris laughing under the yellow sun.

"Ouf!" panted the lady, "it _is_ a climb."

They were standing on the graceful stone pa.s.sageway that joins the two towers at the height of the bells and were looking to the west over the columned bal.u.s.trade, over the Place Notre-Dame, dotted with queer little people, tinkling with bells of cab horses, clanging with gongs of yonder trolley cars curving from the Pont Neuf past old Charlemagne astride of his great bronze horse. Then on along the tree-lined river, on with widening view of towers and domes until their eyes rested on the green spreading _bois_ and the distant heights of Saint Cloud.

And straightway Alice began to point out familiar monuments, the spire of the Sainte Chapelle, the square of the Louvre, the gilded dome of Napoleon's tomb, the crumbling Tour Saint Jacques, disfigured now with scaffolding for repairs, and the Sacre Cour, shining resplendent on the Montmartre hill.

To all of which the lady listened indifferently. She was plainly thinking of something else, and, furtively, she was watching the girl.

"Tell me," she asked abruptly, "is your name Alice?"

"Yes," answered the other in surprise.

The lady hesitated. "I thought that was what the old woman called you."

Then, looking restlessly over the panorama: "Where is the _conciergerie?_"

Alice started at the word. Among all the points in Paris this was the one toward which her thoughts were tending, the _conciergerie_, the grim prison where her lover was!

"It is there," she replied, struggling with her emotion, "behind that cupola of the Chamber of Commerce. Do you see those short pointed towers?

That is it."

"Is it still used as a prison?" continued the visitor with a strange insistence.

"Why, yes," stammered the girl, "I think so--that is, the depot is part of the _conciergerie_ or just adjoins it."

"What is the depot?" questioned the other, eying Alice steadily.

The girl flushed. "Why do you ask me that? Why do you look at me so?"

The lady stepped closer, and speaking low: "Because I know who you are, I know _why_ you are thinking about that prison."

Alice stared at her with widening eyes and heaving bosom. The woman's tone was kind, her look almost appealing, yet the girl drew back, guided by an instinct of danger.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"Don't you _know_ who I am?" answered the other, and now her emotion broke through the mask of calm. "I am the lady who--who called for M. Kittredge last night."

"Oh!" burst out Alice scornfully. "A lady! You call yourself a _lady!_"

"Call me anything you like but----"

"I don't wish to speak to you; it's an outrage your coming here; I--I'm going down." And she started for the stairs.

"Wait!" cried the visitor. "You _shall_ hear me. I have come to help the man you love."

"The man _you_ love," blazed the girl. "The man whose life you have ruined."

"It's true I--I loved him," murmured the other.

"What _right_ had you to love him, you a married woman?"

The lady caught her breath with a little gasp and her hands shut tight.

"He told you that?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'I know _why_ you are thinking about that prison.'"]

"Yes, because he was forced to--the thing was known. Don't be afraid, he didn't tell your name, he _never_ would tell it. But I know enough, I know that you tortured him and--when he got free from you, after struggling and--starving and----"

"Starving?"

"Yes, starving. After all that, when he was just getting a little happy, _you_ had to come again, and--and now he's _there_."

She looked fixedly at the prison, then with angry fires flashing in her dark eyes: "I hate you, I _hate_ you," she cried.

In spite of her growing emotion the lady forced herself to speak calmly: "Hate me if you will, but _hear_ me."

"No," went on Alice fiercely, "_you_ shall hear _me_. You have done this wicked, shameless thing, and now you come to me, think of that, _to me!_ You must be mad. Anyhow, you are here and you shall tell me what I want to know."

"What do you want to know?" trembled the woman.

"I want to know, first, who you are. I want your name and address."

"Certainly; I am--er--Madam Marius, and I live at--er--6 Avenue Martignon."

"Ah! May I have one of your cards?"

"I--er--I'm afraid I have no card here," evaded the other, pretending to search in a gold bag. Her face was very pale.

The girl made no reply, but walked quickly to a turn of the gallery.

"Valentine," she called.

"Yes," answered a voice.

"Ah, you are there. I may need you in a minute."

"_Bien!_"

Then, returning, she said quietly: "Valentine is a friend of mine. She sells postal cards up here. Unless you tell me the truth, I shall ask her to go down and call the sacristan. Now then, _who are you?_"

"Don't ask who I am," pleaded the lady.

"I ask what I want to know."

"Anything but that!"

"Then you are _not_ Madam Marius?"