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Updated: May 26, 2025
One evening, about three weeks after their arrival in Paris, Madelon was standing at a window at the end of the long corridor into which M. Linders' apartment opened; the moon was shining brightly, and she had a book in her hand, which she was reading by its clear light, stopping, however, every minute to gaze down into the front courtyard of the hotel, which lay beneath the window, quiet, almost deserted after the bustle of the day, and full of white moonlight and black shadows.
They were always good-natured and kind to the little girl who sat so still and close to her father's side, watching the game with her quick, intelligent eyes; though some of them, foolish smooth-faced lads, perhaps, would go away cursing the fate that had ever led them across M. Linders' path, and carrying an undying hatred in their hearts for the handsome courteous man who had enticed them on to ruin.
Something rare in the style of her beauty something in her foreign air and appearance, distinguished her at once in the crowd of girls; she was sought after from the moment she entered the room, and the biggest personages present begged for an introduction to Miss Linders. The girl was not insensible to her triumphs; her cheeks flushed, her eyes brightened with excitement and pleasure.
"I am afraid, in any case, you must look forward to a long illness, and, on her account, is there no friend, no relation you would wish to send for?" "I have no friends no relations," said M. Linders, impatiently. "A long illness? Bah! M. le Docteur, I know, and you know that I am going to die to-day, to-morrow, who knows? and she will be left alone.
"You are right, Monsieur," he said, breaking the silence abruptly, and speaking in a clear, though feeble voice, "Madelon must go her aunt. Did I understand you to say you would take charge of her to Liége?" "I will certainly," said Graham; "if " "I am exceedingly indebted to you," said M. Linders, "but I am afraid such a journey may interfere with your own plans."
"You had better keep quiet, and take this," giving him a cordial, as M. Linders sank back exhausted. "That is better," he said, after a few minutes of struggling breathing. "So I am a good deal hurt? Am I am I going to die by chance, M. le Docteur?"
He paused between each sentence, and M. Linders' eyes, which were fixed upon him as he spoke, gradually acquired an expression of intelligence as memory returned to him. He closed them again and turned away his head. "Yes, I remember something about it," he said, "but que diable I cannot move a limb; am I much hurt?" "A good deal," said Graham, helping him to raise himself a little.
"Yes, Madame," says Madelon, rather shyly, and glancing up at the beautiful face, which, with blue eyes and golden hair still undimmed, might have been that of some fair saint or Madonna, but for a certain chilling expression of cold sadness. "I knew something of a Monsieur Linders once," said Mrs. Treherne, "and I think he must have been your father, my dear. Your mother was English, was she not?
Like Madelon, Soeur Lucie had been brought, a little ten-year- old orphan to the convent, to be under the care of one of the nuns who was her aunt; and it was, perhaps, on this account, that she was chosen by Mademoiselle Linders as a sort of gouvernante for her niece.
"Well, let Miss Linders come by all means," repeated the Doctor. "Isn't it nearly dinner-time? I am starving. I have been twenty miles round the country to-day, and when I come in I find that long-legged fellow Morris philandering away, and have to listen to his vacuous nonsense for an hour. Whatever brings him here so often?
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