"When you wrong me, Maurice, I will; but that day has yet to come. Leave me for a few moments, and I will complete what I have to do here and join you."
Maurice complied, but slowly and reluctantly, and looking back as he left the room.
Madeleine wept no more; she bathed her face and smoothed her disordered hair, and then collected all the articles scattered about, placed them carefully in the trunk, shut it and locked it, looked about to see that nothing was forgotten, ordered her carriage, and with a composed mien entered the little boudoir.
Maurice must have used some potent argument with his father which reconciled him to his change of habitation, or made him comprehend that resistance was useless, for when Robert announced that the carriage was at the door, and Madeleine brought the count's coat to exchange for his dressing-gown, he allowed her to assist him, only repeating the term of affection so often on his lips.
The count was ready, and Madeleine signed to Maurice not to linger. He gave his arm to his father, and they passed through the entry. Madeleine preceded them; she opened the street door herself; father and son passed out, but without bidding her adieu. The steps of the carriage were let down; just as Maurice was assisting his father to ascend them, the count drew back with native politeness and said,—
"Madeleine first."
Madeleine was still standing in the doorway ready to wave her handkerchief as the carriage drove off.
"Come, Madeleine, come! come! We are waiting for you!" cried the count.
Maurice expostulated in vain; his father insisted that Madeleine should go with them.