"And monsieur also?" There was tragedy in her tone. It must mean that monsieur would give up his rooms to follow the young lady.

"I shall probably remain here for a month or more," answered Riviere somewhat stiffly: and then to salve her feelings: "You are making me wonderfully comfortable. I shall always a.s.sociate the Midi with Mme Giras."

"_Monsieur est bien amiable!_" replied the little old lady, much pleased. She hurried off to the kitchen to see that Marie was making no error of judgment in the mixing of the sauces.

Riviere felt glad that the acquaintanceship with Elaine had progressed no further. It was decidedly for the best that it had ended where it had. Both of them had their life-work to call for all their energies.

Further companionship would only divert them from it. In his innermost being he knew that, and now he acknowledged it frankly to himself. From every point of view, it was best that their acquaintanceship should end.

But late that afternoon a brief note came from Elaine. "Dear Mr Riviere," it said, "I have considered your warning. If you will be so kind as to accompany me this evening while I am sketching the Druids'

Tower, I shall be glad. I propose to leave the hotel about eight."

Riviere was at her hotel punctually at eight. He helped her into her warm travelling cloak, and taking up her campstool and easel they walked briskly, with healthy, swinging strides, out by the avenue of plane trees bordering the Roman aqueduct.

They ascended the now deserted garden on the hillside till they came to the ruined tower which was grey with age when Roman legions first swept in triumph over the country of the barbarians of Gaul. A chill wind set the pines and the olives whispering mournfully together. The windowless tower brooded over its memories of the past, like an aged seer blind with years. The moonlight touched it tentatively as though it feared to disturb its dreaming.

It was a perfect stage scene for a secret meeting of conspirators. In the daylight, the tower was ugly with its rubble of fallen stones--unkempt like a ragged tramp--but in the moonlight there was a glamour of ages in its mournful brooding. Elaine was right to make her sketch at night-time. Riviere placed the campstool for her, and watched her in silence as she plied her pencil with swift, decisive lines.

With lithe, catlike softness, the youth Crau had followed them up the hillside, padding noiselessly in the shadows of the pines and olives.

Crouching behind a tree, he felt in his breast-pocket and drew out a small package which he quietly unwrapped from its foldings. Then he waited his moment with every muscle tensed for action.

The night wind was chill. Riviere started to pace up and down a few steps away from Elaine. He approached nearer to the tree behind which Crau was crouching in shadow.

The lithe, wiry figure of the young Provencal sprang out upon him.

"Now you'll pay me what you owe!" he cried out in Provencal. "You cursed pig of an Englishman!"

Riviere did not understand the words, but the menace in the voice left no doubt as to the meaning. And the voice brought back to him the narrow _ruelle_ at Arles where he had defended Elaine from the insult of the half-drunken peasant.

He was about to step forward to grapple with him, when a warning cry from Elaine stopped him for one crucial instant.

"Look out! There's something in his hand!" she called, and rushed impetuously forward to make her warning clear.

As she came within range, Crau raised his arm to throw his vitriol into Riviere's face, but in a fraction of a second a sudden thought changed the direction of his aim.

"Your beautiful mistress! that will serve me better!" he hissed out venomously as he flung it full upon Elaine; then fled at top speed.

"My eyes! Oh G.o.d, my eyes!" she cried, as she staggered to the ground.

Riviere sprang to her side, white with alarm. "The beast!"

"My eyes! Oh G.o.d, my eyes!" she moaned. "My eyes--my livelihood!"

CHAPTER XV

WAITING THE VERDICT

Elaine lay in Riviere's room in the Villa Clementine. The doctor was injecting morphine, and a sister of mercy, grave-eyed under her spotless white coif like a Madonna of Francia, spoke soft words of comfort to soothe the agony of the blinded girl.

In the adjoining room Riviere waited the decision of the doctor--waited in tense, straining anxiety.

From that moment by the Druids' Tower when the vitriol had been flung upon Elaine, he had lived through a nightmare. Up on the hillside he was impotent to relieve her agony. No house around to take her to. Without a moment's delay he must get her into the hands of a doctor.

At first he had tried to lead her down the hillside, along the winding paths of the gardens, his hands around her shoulders. It was too slow.

Twice the moaning girl had tripped over unseen obstacles. Then he caught her up in his arms and ran with her, the shadows of the trees and the undergrowth clutching at him like mocking shapes in a Dantesque vision of the nether world.

Even when down below the hillside, by the aqueduct, they were still far from the Villa Clementine and yet farther from Elaine's hotel by the station. Some conveyance was imperative. But in a quiet country town like Nimes there are no cabs to be found wandering around at night-time.

Nor was there carriage or motor-car in sight.

A peasant's cart drawn by a tiny donkey came providentially to solve the problem. Riviere laid Elaine on the straw of the cart; s.n.a.t.c.hed the reins from the owner; drove home at frantic speed; had her put to bed in his own room by Mme Giras; 'phoned imperatively for a doctor and a nurse.

And now he waited in straining anxiety for the verdict. The waiting was more horrible than the nightmare flight through the shadows of the garden on the hillside. That at all events had been action; now he was being stretched in pa.s.sive helplessness on the rack of Time.

After an aeon of waiting, the doctor left the sick-room and closed the door noiselessly behind him. Riviere looked him square in the eye.

"I want the truth," he said in French. The words sounded as though his throat had closed in tight around them.

"We must wait until the morning before it will be possible that we may say definitely," replied the doctor.

"To say if----?"

"If we can save the right eye."

"The left?"

"I greatly fear----" A slight gesture of his two hands completed the sentence.

"It's ghastly! That _beast_----!"

"But you must not despair," continued the doctor in an endeavour to be optimistic. "Madame is strong and healthy. She has a very sound const.i.tution, and in such a case as this it is a most important factor in the recovery. You may rely on me to do my utmost. I have great hopes that we may save the right eye of madame, your wife."

"Mademoiselle," corrected Riviere mechanically.

"Mademoiselle," amended the doctor with a formal little bow.

"You will come again later to-night?"

"That would serve no useful purpose. I have injected a large dose of morphine, and mademoiselle is on the point of sleep. I have left full instructions with the Sister, and if anything unforeseen occurs, she will communicate with me by telephone."

"I have a further question to ask you, doctor. Mademoiselle Verney is alone in Nimes. She has no friends here beyond myself, and she has been staying at the Hotel de Provence while pa.s.sing through the town. Would it be better for her to be at the hotel, or at the town hospital, or here?"

"Here--decidedly!" answered the doctor. "Mme Giras is kindness itself--I know her well. I recommend that mademoiselle stay here."

Riviere could do nothing but wait the verdict of the morning, tortured by hopes and fears. The doctor had spoken of saving the right eye, but was this mere professional optimism?

Suppose Elaine were blinded for life--blinded on his account. What was she to do for her livelihood? He knew that she was an orphan; that her relations were repellant to her; and her pride could scarcely let her throw herself for long on the hospitality of her friends in Paris. Her slender means would soon be exhausted--what was she to do then?