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Updated: June 2, 2025
The bed stood in the old place; the vines clustered round the window. Madelon's heart was full of sorrow; she had loved Jeanne-Marie so much, and more and more perhaps, as years went on, and she had learnt to understand better all that the woman had done for her and she had died alone she who had saved her life.
The children tumbled joyfully over into Uncle Horace's arms, and were at once ready with a hundred plans for profiting by the unwonted pleasure of having him for a companion in their walk; but he distinctly declined all their propositions, and sending them on in front with Madge, walked along at Madelon's side.
She did not for a moment think he had forgotten her; she had too much confidence in him for that; but by degrees a notion, vague at first, but gradually becoming a fixed idea destined to have results, established itself in foolish little Madelon's head, that he was waiting till he should hear from her that his fortune was made before he would come back to her.
It was on Madelon's account above all that he felt uneasy; what was to become of her if her father died and Graham had little doubt that he was dying all friendless and alone in the world as she would apparently be? Had any arrangements for the future been made, any provision left for her?
It was soon after this, when the delicious promise of an early spring was brightening the streets and gardens of Florence, filling them with sunshine and flowers, that another shadow fell upon the brightness of Madelon's life, and one so dark and real, as to make all others seem faint and illusory by comparison. Her father had a serious illness.
Madelon's fixed idea had returned to her with redoubled force since her illness. Her one failure had only added intensity to her purpose since her first sense of discouragement had passed away; there was something in the child's nature that refused to acknowledge defeat as such, and she was only eager to begin again.
It was as if he had visions of endless twistings and complexities which might give it the lie, and rob it, at all events, of its direct force. Indeed, Madelon strengthened this doubt by crying out passionately all at once, as they went on: "Father, you must believe me! I tell you I did it! I don't let them hang him! Father!" All Madelon's proud fierceness was gone for a moment.
The cold was so intense that the ice did not melt in the noonday sun, and there were no soft droppings and gurglings to modify this rigor of white light and sound. Occasionally a rabbit crossed Madelon's path, silent as a little gray scudding shadow, and so swiftly that he did not reach one's consciousness until he was out of sight. There was seldom a winter bird, even, in sight.
"Well?" she murmured, trembling. "I want to know if look here, won't you lilt for the dancing to-night, Madelon?" Madelon's face changed. "That's all he came for," she thought. She turned away from him. "You'd better get Luke Corliss to fiddle," she said, coldly. "We can't.
"The knife how came your knife there instead of Richard's?" Burr smiled. Bluish shadows came around Madelon's dark eyes and her mouth. She gasped for breath as she spoke. "I have killed you, then," said she. Suddenly she put up her white, stiffly quivering lips to Burr's. "Kiss me!" she cried out. "I beg you to give me the kiss that I might have killed you for last night!"
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