My Little Lady Part 24

Madelon's heart sank with a sudden pang, and then it beat faster, and her cheeks flushed, as, with a quick impulse, without a moment's hesitation, she threw her remaining ten francs on to the same spot. Another pause--another deal. "_Rouge perd et la couleur!_" She had lost again, and her last chance was gone.

Surely at the gambling-tables of Spa that day there was no more pitiful little tragedy played out than that represented by these two warm little gold coins, raked away by an indifferent croupier into a great careless heap, and carrying with them how many hopes, and ambitions, and longings--all crushed and scattered in one brief moment. Madelon half uttered a stifled cry, half made an involuntary movement forward; then, recollecting herself, shrank back, disengaging herself from the crowd. The gap was immediately filled up; no one remarked, or cared for, the poor, despairing child. The brave little spirit almost gave way, as Madelon, with a sudden sick feeling of faintness and giddiness, was obliged to sit down on the nearest sofa--but not quite even then. All was lost--nothing now remained for her to do in those _salons_, and she must not stay there, she knew; so in a minute she got up again, and made her way out of the room and down the staircase, clinging to the bal.u.s.trade, blindly groping her way, as it were, till she was once more in the street.

Here the fresh air revived her a little, and she was able to consider what she should do next. Ah! what, indeed, was she to do, with a programme so rudely disarranged, with all her little plans and projects so shattered to fragments, that to restore them to anything like their former shape seemed hopeless? Madelon could think of nothing better to do than to go back to the hotel from which she had come. She had left all her small possessions there, and perhaps Madame Bertrand would have come in, and would be able to help her. In all the world our despairing Madelon could turn her thoughts nowhere at this crisis but to the good, unconscious Madame Bertrand, the one friend to whom she could apply, and who might perhaps be willing to a.s.sist her.

It seemed a long time before she found herself at the hotel again, and yet, in fact, it was scarcely more than half an hour since she had left it. Through the open door to the left she might have seen the waiter still busy over his plates and gla.s.ses, while the gentleman who had been breakfasting had only just finished his newspaper. But Madelon never thought of them, nor looked in that direction, indeed; with dazed eyes she was making her way along the semi-darkness of the pa.s.sage to the parlour at the end, when she ran right up against some one who was coming towards her--a stout old lady, with grey hair, and a little grey moustache, a very gay shawl, and a large bonnet, with primrose-coloured ribbons. Madelon recognised her in an instant. "Oh! Madame Bertrand!" she cried, flinging her arms round her, "don't you know me? I am Madeleine Linders."

Madame Bertrand stepped back, a little overwhelmed by this vehement salutation, and then,--

"Madeleine Linders?" she cried. "What! little Mademoiselle Madelon, who used to come here so often with her papa?"

"Yes, I am little Madelon," she answered; and indeed the sight of the kind old face, the sound of the cheery, familiar voice, made her feel quite a small Madelon again. "You have not forgotten me, have you, Madame Bertrand?"

"Indeed I have not, though you have grown into such a tall young lady. But why have you not been here for such a long time? Where is your papa?"

"Ah! Madame," says Madelon, her sense of utter discouragement gaining ground again, as the first flush of pleasure at the sight of her old friend died away, "I am very unhappy. Papa died nearly three years ago, and I have been in a convent ever since, with Aunt Therese; but Aunt Therese is dead too; and they said that I was to be a nun, so I ran away."

"To be a nun!--a child like you? How could they think of such a thing?" cried the good old woman. "And you look tired out.

Come in here and tell me all about it."

She drew her into the little parlour as she spoke.

Mademoiselle Henriette was sitting at the high desk in the window looking on the garden, and some one else was there too, fanning herself in one of the worsted-work chairs. It was Madame la Comtesse, who had come there to settle her husband's business with Madame Bertrand. Both looked up as the landlady came into the room, half carrying, half dragging Madelon.

"_Pauvre pet.i.te! pauvre pet.i.te!_" she kept on saying, shaking and nodding her kind old head the while.

She made the child lie down on the sofa, pulled a cus.h.i.+on under her head, and then introduced her generally with "They wanted to make her a nun, and so she has run away from the convent."

"Run away!" cried Mademoiselle Henriette, turning quite round.

"Well, I thought there was something very queer----"

"Run away!" cried the Countess. "Dear me, but that is very naughty!"

These little speeches, coming in the midst of Madame Bertrand's effusive benevolence, seemed quite irrelevant to the matter in hand, but nevertheless imparted a sudden chill.

"Not at all naughty," said Madame, at last, rallying, and still busy about the sofa, where Madelon had pa.s.sively and wearily laid back her aching little head. "It was the very best thing she could do. Nun, indeed! I have no great opinion of convents, nor nuns either, myself; an idle pack--the best of them only say more prayers than their neighbours, and there is nothing very clever in that. I could do it myself, if I had the time."

"But it is very singular," said the Countess, getting up.

"That is certainly the same little girl I travelled with from Chaudfontaine this morning. I thought there was something odd about her; she would not answer any of my questions. But there is no convent at Chaudfontaine. Are you sure she is telling you the truth?"

"Of course she is, Madame--I have known her since--since she was that high," replied Madame Bertrand, with some indignation; a reply so conclusive to herself, that its want of apparent logic may be pardoned. "Tell me, _mon enfant_, where is your convent that you speak of."

"At Liege," said Madelon, rousing and trying to sit up. "Aunt Therese was the Superior, but she is dead. I walked to Chaudfontaine in the night--and--oh, Madame Bertrand, don't let them come and take me back!" She gave a terrified glance round the room, and caught hold of Madame Bertrand.

"No one shall take you away; don't be afraid, _chere pet.i.te_; but tell us all bout it. Walked to Chaudfontaine in the night!

Why, you must be half dead, poor little one! And what have you come to Spa for--have you any friends here?"

"No," said Madelon, "I thought you would help me, and let me stay here for a little while."

"And so you shall--for as long as you like," said Madame; "but what have you come here for? Have you no friends to go to?"

"Yes--I--I--ah, I forgot!" cried Madelon, burying her face in her hands. All of a sudden she remembered how she had intended writing to Monsieur Horace, all that she had meant to say to him, and how she would have asked him to come and help her--and now all that was at an end. As to telling Madame Bertrand or any one else of her cherished plans--never; that was her own secret, which she would never, never part with, except to Monsieur Horace himself. "I forgot," she cried, "I have no one--ah? what shall I do, what shall I do?"

"Do!" said the Countess, interposing with much prompt energy, "it is not difficult to know what you must do; you must go back to the convent, of course. I never heard of anything so improper as your running away."

"No, no, no," cried Madelon; "I cannot go back there--never; they would kill me." She flung herself down on the sofa again, while old Madame Bertrand tried to comfort her. No one should make her go back; she was her _chere pet.i.te_, she would take care of her--and was she not very hungry? would she like some soup, or some cakes, or some bread and _confiture?_

Meanwhile the Countess was saying to Mademoiselle Henriette, "This is a most extraordinary affair. If we do not take care, your excellent aunt will be imposed upon; but I am going back to Liege in an hour, and can perfectly well take the little girl with me, and leave her at the convent."

"Indeed, Madame, we should be much indebted to you," said mademoiselle Henriette, briskly; "it is evident that she has no friends, and has come to my aunt simply because she was in some way acquainted with her formerly. As you say, if we do not take care we shall certainly have her on our hands; my aunt is quite capable of it."

"Then that is easily settled," said the Countess; "I will take charge of her. No thanks, Mademoiselle, I am only doing my duty. I really do not know what young people of the present day will come to. Does any one know what her name is, or anything about her?"

Madame Bertrand, who had been vainly endeavouring to extract from our desponding little Madelon any decided expression of opinion on the subject of cakes or confitures, overheard this last question. "Poor little one, I know her very well," she said, lowering her voice confidentially, "her name is Linders; her father was Monsieur Linders, a famous gambler--it was long before you came here, Henriette, and Madame will not have heard of him probably; but here in Spa he was well known, and he used often to come to our hotel."

"Linders!" cried the Countess--"M. Linders--yes, certainly I remember him perfectly, and the little girl too. M. Linders?-- of course, every one knew him."

"Ah! Madame, did you know my father?" said Madelon, raising her head at these last words, and clasping her hands imploringly; "be good to me then, I entreat of you; do not speak of sending me back to the convent. I cannot go!"

There was something pitiful in the child's voice and gesture, something pathetic in the little appeal to her father's memory, that might have touched any one less animated by a stern sense of duty than the Countess. As it was, she was not in the least affected.

"On the contrary, _mon enfant_," she answered, "I shall be doing you the greatest kindness, and no more than my duty, in taking you back there; and we have agreed that you shall return with me at once."

"I will not go!" cried Madelon, wildly; "I cannot, I will not!--I will not! Do you hear? What right have you to take me?

I am not your child!--I will not go with you!"

She got up as she spoke, confronting the Countess, and trying to throw all the energy of which she was capable into her vehement words. But even in her own ears her voice sounded shrill and weak, and seemed to die away as if she were talking in her sleep; the very strength of her emotion appeared unreal, and failing her when she most needed it: her words seemed to have no meaning, and as she finished speaking, she dropped down on her seat again with a little sob, feeling that she was conquered, for she had no power of resistance left in her.

So she lay upon the sofa in a sot of doze, while a tribunal of three sat upon, condemned, and sentenced this poor little criminal, who knew nothing of what they were saying after she had made her own ineffectual little protest. Madame Bertrand, indeed, good old soul, with the softest and kindest of hearts, would not at first hear of her being sent away; she was fond of the child, she said; she had known her for years, and felt sure there was something in her story that they did not yet understand. But Madame Bertrand was old--moreover, she was not a little in awe of the niece whom she had called in to a.s.sist her failing powers; moreover, she had perhaps a lurking idea that they might after all be right, and that there was something exceptionally heinous in running away from a convent; so she was soon overruled by the other two, who settled the matter in a very summary way--Madelon must return to the convent with Madame la Comtesse that very day.

She was roused up presently, and made to drink some wine by Madame Bertrand, who was in despair because she could eat none of the good things she had provided, and felt nothing but and old traitress, as Madelon stood up at last, looking about her with dazed eyes; and then, without further opposition, submissively put on her hat, took up her bundle, and prepared to follow the Countess. Indeed, had Madame Bertrand known how recently the child had recovered from a long illness, nothing, I think, would have induced her to let her go; but she only supposed she was over-tired with her strange night journey; and, in fact, the wine and the rest together had so far revived Madelon that she appeared quite capable of walking down to the station with the Countess. Madame Bertrand gave her great hug as she wished her good-bye, and was perhaps a little aggrieved at the pa.s.sive way in which Madelon received it.

"If ever you want help, come back to me--will you not, _mon enfant?_--and I will help you, if I can."

"Yes," said Madelon; "but they will not let me run away again; will they?"

"Let you run away, _ma pet.i.te?_"

"Yes--Aunt Therese, you know. She won't let me do it again."

"Your aunt? You told me she was dead;" cried Madame.

"Yes, so she is," said Madelon. "I was forgetting, I think.

Good-bye, Madame Bertrand. You will let me stay next time, will you not? But I must go now?" And she followed the Countess out of the house without another word.

Madame la Comtesse, having got her own way, was kind enough to the child who had so unwittingly strayed across her path. When they reached the station she gave her her ticket, made her sit down in the waiting-room, and even offered her refreshment in the interval before the train started. Indeed, we should err if we attributed to the Countess, whom this little episode in our Madelon's history has brought for the second, and we may trust for the last, time before us--we should err, I say, in attributing to her any feeling of ill-will towards Madelon, or any special interest in her conduct or fate. Neither need it be imagined that she was actuated by any large views of duty towards the world in general: she was not at all benevolent, but neither was she particularly ill-natured; she was merely a shallow-minded, frivolous woman, who, having long since lowered her standard of perfection to suit her own attainments, saw fit to measure every one else by her own narrow ideal, and to set them right where they proved themselves wanting--a convenient process, which enabled her to satisfy her vague sense of duty, and right and wrong, without any reference to her own possible shortcomings. In capturing our little stray Madelon, and taking her back to the convent, she felt she was doing a deed that would afford her matter for self-congratulation for days to come; and she was gracious and affable accordingly, speaking to Madelon in a tone of condescending good-nature, which was quite lost upon the child, who was beyond caring for kindness or unkindness just then. She was only conscious of some terrible burden, which she could not define nor reason upon, but which seemed to oppress and weigh her down, making her incapable of thought, or speech, or motion. When they got into the railway-carriage she could only lean back in the corner, with a general sense that something dreadful had happened, or was going to happen; but that her head ached too much, and felt too confused, for her to remember what it was all about.

They changed carriages at Pepinster, and, still in the same dream of misery, Madelon followed the Countess from one train to another. They set off again, but presently, as the slackening speed showed that they were approaching another station, she suddenly woke up to the keenest perception of her situation, with a quickening of her numbed senses to the most vivid realization of all she had lost, of all she might have to endure. Ah! it was all true, and no dream--she had run away from the convent to make Monsieur Horace's fortune; and she had not done it, and now all was over, and she was being taken back to the convent--and there would be no more chance of escape for her--never more. In the agony of this thought she turned towards the Countess, with a half-formed intention of throwing herself at her feet, and imploring, in such voice and accents as should admit of no refusal, to be allowed to go away--anyhow, anywhere, only as far as possible from Liege. But she checked herself as she saw that the Countess, with a handkerchief thrown over her face, had comfortably composed herself to sleep in one corner, and a new idea suggested itself as the train stopped at a little village station. The child glanced towards the woman; she still slept, or appeared to do so, and the next moment Madelon had opened the door, and, taking up her bundle, had slid swiftly and silently out of the carriage.

The train moved on, and a drowsy Countess might presently awake to find with astonishment that she was alone in the compartment; but our little Madelon, left standing on the platform, had slipped out of her sight and knowledge for ever.