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If you have time, if you can listen for half an hour to a miserable being, it would be a consolation to me. I should die with ease if I thought that Lady Madeleine could believe me innocent of that first great offence." "Your Excellency may address anything to me, if it be your wish, even at this hour of the night.
"Yes, with her father, by the train which gets in at six minutes past nine to-morrow." "Good God! is it possible?" "To see you, Madeleine; to see my uncle, to make my peace with him. Isn't it kind of her?" "Kind? Monsieur Fabien! I tremble to think of what will happen. All the same, I shall be glad to have a sight of your young lady, of course."
He belongs to a class of men whom I hold in supreme contempt; a blasé idler, whose chief occupation in life is to kill time. Madeleine, forgive me! What a brute I am to speak so harshly when I come to thank you! But the sight of that senseless roué in your boudoir, and apparently upon a familiar footing, has made an idiot of me.
Madeleine was occupied in a different part of the house when Maurice, finding Gaston and Bertha in the boudoir, told them the result of his interview with Madame de Gramont. By and by Gaston lured Bertha into the garden. They made one or two turns in silence; Bertha looked up wistfully into her lover's face, and said, in a tone of reproach, "How silent you seem to-day!"
On the eve of his departure, which had been announced by a press that now followed his movements with the attention accorded to a man of importance in State affairs, he obeyed a summons from Madeleine Presson. She put a letter into his hands. It was addressed to Clare Kavanagh. "You will find her, Harlan," she said, comfortingly. "Love will search her out.
He understood the message, and with a joyful heart, slipped the telegram into his pocket. During dinner he repeated the words to himself; as he interpreted them, they meant, "I yield I am yours where and when you will." He laughed. Madeleine asked: "What is it?" "Nothing much. I was thinking of a comical old priest I met a short while since."
On bright days they left the carriage, and wandered into the woods to gather wild flowers, and rest beneath the trees. On one of these occasions, Madeleine was sitting upon a fallen tree, her lap filled with the flowers she had culled, and which she was weaving into a wreath. Bertha aided her work by selecting and handing the requisite flowers.
On this particular day, whether he had looked too long, or whether the unrest of the weather, the sense of something impending, the dusty dryness that craved rain, had got into his blood and disquieted him: whatever it was, he felt restless and sick for news of her, and, at this very moment, was on his way to Madeleine, in the foolish hope of hearing her name.
He now understood that Madeleine Coburn had refused him because she loved him, and he vowed he would rest neither day nor night till he had seen her and obtained a reversal of her decision. But for the moment his energy had departed, and he spent his time smoking in the Jardin and brooding over his troubles.
Behind the counter stood a low-browed clerk with a large diamond in his shirt front, who scrutinized them keenly. "You get the room," said the lady, coyly. "I'm bashful and don't like to go in there where are all those smoking men. You may take it in my name if you wish, Madeleine Montmorency."
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