"But why?"

The elder woman looked up. "Because--I was just getting to know him,"
she returned slowly, "and--he was very wild."

Brigit nodded sympathetically. "Poor you," she said in English.

"Yes. The music made him half-mad, and then he had friends who taught
him to gamble. There were other things, too. Women. He was so handsome
and so fascinating, and his success was just beginning, they all ran
after him, and he enjoyed it. I," she added, "didn't. Then we went to
Paris. That was bad, too, only Theo was on the way, which made things
better. He was good to me during my illness--ah, very good; and
beautiful it was to see the big strong man, mad with his music and his
success, washing the little baby and dressing him. When Theo was
two--Victor had been working with his violin since he was fourteen--we
went to Berlin, and then began his craze for work. He used to work four
and five hours at a time for months. Once his health gave way, and we
were very poor, so he went to some place for a cure, and the little one
and I stayed at home. Then he met a great Prince,--I can never remember
his name,--and he invited us to stay with him. It was in a big castle
near Munich. Victor loved it, but I was very miserable. I never went
anywhere with him again."

"Why were you miserable, _petite mere_?" Brigit's voice was very gentle;
she seemed to see the young violinist, handsome and, as his wife put it,
driven half-mad by his music, the centre of attraction at the German
castle, and his little plain wife sitting forlorn by herself, looking
on.

"It was a Lady Crefinne Cranewitz,"--this name at least, she remembered!
"This Crefinne (it means countess) was very beautiful, but too big;
large all over like a statue, and blond. She used to wear one flower in
her bosom at dinner, and then give it to him afterwards. Also she gave
him a lock of her hair."

"And what did he give her?"

Felicite smiled placidly. "He gave her--his love. Ah, yes, he loved her,
his Crefinne Gigantesque."

"But----"

The teller of the tale drew a blue silk sock over her hand and poked at
the hole in its heel with a thoughtful needle. "He always loves
them--for the time, my dear. He is of a sincerity, my man!"

Since the evening of the dragon-skin frock Brigit had done nothing to
charm Joyselle; he saw her through his own eyes now, and she, knowing
that the game was in her own hands, could afford to wait; when the day
came when she wanted to hurt hi