He regarded her with quick black eyes that both confided and besought.  Avery’s heart was beating in great throbs, she felt strangely breathless and uncertain of herself.

“Where do you come from?” she said.  “Who are you?”

But she knew the answer before it came.  “I am Victor, madame,—­Victor Lagarde.  I am the valet of Monsieur Pierre almost since he was born.  He calls me his bonne!” A brief smile touched his worried countenance and was gone.  “And now I am come to you, madame,—­not by his desire. Mais non, he does not know even that I am here.  But because he is in great, great misery, and I cannot console him.  I have not the power.  And he is all alone—­all alone.  And I fear—­I fear—­” He broke off with eloquent hands outspread.  Avery saw the tears standing in his eyes.

She closed the door softly.  “What is it?” she said.  “Tell me what you fear!”

He looked at her, mastering his emotion with difficulty. “Madame, Monsieur Pierre has sentiments the most profound.  He feel—­passionnement.  He try to hide his sentiments from me.  But me—­I know.  He sit alone in the great hall and look—­and look.  He sleep—­never at all.  He will not even go to bed.  And in the great hall is an escritoire, and in it a drawer.”  Victor’s voice sank mysteriously.  “To-night—­when he think he is alone—­he open that drawer, and I see inside.  It hold a revolver, madame.  And he look at it, touch it, and then shake his head.  But I am so afraid—­so afraid.  So—­enfin—­in my trouble I come to you.  You have the influence with him, is it not so?  You have—­the power to console. Madame—­chere madame—­will you not come and speak with him for five little minutes?  Just to encourage him, madame, in his sadness; for he is all alone!”

The tears ran down Victor’s troubled face as he made his earnest appeal.  He mopped them openly, making no secret of his distress which was too pathetic to be ludicrous.

Avery looked at him in dismay.  She knew not what to say or do; and even as she stood irresolute the hall-clock struck eleven through the silence of the house.

Victor watched her anxiously. “Madame is married,” he insinuated.  “She can please herself, no?  And Monsieur Pierre—­”

“Wait a minute, please!” she interrupted gently.  “I want to think.”

She went to the unlatched door and stood with her face to the night.  She felt as if a call had come to her, but somehow—­for no selfish reason—­she hesitated to answer.  Some unknown influence held her back.

Victor came softly up and stood close to her. “Madame,” he said in a whisper, “I tell you a secret—­I, Victor, who have known Monsieur Pierre from his infancy.  He loves you, madame.  He loves you much. C’est la grande passion which comes only once in a life—­only once.”

The low words went through her, seeming to sink into her very heart.  She made a slight, involuntary gesture as of wincing.  There was something in them that was almost more than she could bear.