“Ah, yes, Louise, I daresay I shall be tired presently,” said Marguerite, kindly; “but you are very tired now, so go to bed at once. I’ll get into bed alone.”
“But, my lady . . .”
“Now, don’t argue, Louise, but go to bed. Give me a wrap, and leave me alone.”
Louise was only too glad to obey. She took off her mistress’s gorgeous ball-dress, and wrapped her up in a soft billowy gown.
“Does your ladyship wish for anything else?” she asked, when that was done.
“No, nothing more. Put out the lights as you go out.”
“Yes, my lady. Good-night, my lady.”
“Good-night, Louise.”
When the maid was gone, Marguerite drew aside the curtains and threw open the windows. The garden and the river beyond were flooded with rosy light. Far away to the east, the rays of the rising sun had changed the rose into vivid gold. The lawn was deserted now, and Marguerite looked down upon the terrace where she had stood a few moments ago trying vainly to win back a man’s love, which once had been so wholly hers.
It was strange that through all her troubles, all her anxiety for Armand, she was mostly conscious at the present moment of a keen and bitter heartache.