"You will not leave me already?" he begged.
"Monsieur," she declared, as she threw open the door before he could reach it, "if I thought that there were many men like you in the world, if I thought—"
She never finished her sentence. The emotions which had seized her were entirely inexpressible. He shrugged his shoulders.
"My dear lady," he said, "let me assure you that there is not a man of the world in this city who, if he spoke honestly, would not feel exactly as I do. Allow me at least to see you to your automobile."
"If you dare to move," she muttered, "if you dare—"
She swept past him and down the stairs into the street. She threw herself into the corner of the automobile. The chauffeur looked around.
"Where to, madame?" he inquired.
She hesitated for a moment. She had affairs of her own, but the thought of the child's eyes came up before her.
"Back to the hospital," she ordered. "Drive quickly."
They rushed from Paris once more into the country, with its spring perfumes, its soft breezes, its restful green, but fast though they drove another messenger had outstripped them. From the little chapel, as the car rolled up the avenue, came the slow tolling of a bell. Madame Christophor stood on the corner of the lawn alone. The invalid chair was empty. The blinds of the villa were being slowly lowered. She turned around and looked toward the city. It seemed to her that she could see into the rooms of the man whom she had left a few minutes ago. A lark was singing over her head. She lifted her eyes and looked past him up to the blue sky. Her lips moved, but never a sound escaped her. Yet the man who sat in his rooms at that moment, yawning and wondering where to spend the evening, and which companion he should summon by telephone to amuse him, felt a sudden shiver in his veins.