"There are our incurables, but they are not violent; incurables never are! Poor Mademoiselle! She has just been conveyed to this ward," said the doctor, opening the door of the first cell on the right at the head of the stairs and admitting Traverse at once into the presence of the beautiful, black-haired, snow-faced woman, who had so much interested him.
"This is my friend, Doctor Rocke, Mademoiselle; Doctor, this is my friend, Mademoiselle Mont de St. Pierre!"
Traverse bowed profoundly, and the lady arose, curtsied and resumed her seat, saying, coldly:
"I have told you, Monsieur, never to address me as Mademoiselle; you persist in doing so, and I shall never notice the insult again."
"Ten thousand pardons, madame! But if madame will always look so young, so beautiful, can I ever remember that she is a widow?"
The classic lip of the woman curled in scorn, and she disdained a reply.
"I take an appeal to Monsieur Le Docteur—is not madame young and beautiful?" asked the Frenchman, turning to Traverse, while the splendid, black eyes of the stranger passed from the one to the other.
Traverse caught the glance of the lady and bowed gravely. It was the most delicate and proper reply.
She smiled almost as gravely, and with a much kinder expression than any she had bestowed upon the Frenchman.
"And how has madame fared during my absence so long? The servants—have they been respectful? Have they been observant? Have they been obedient to the will of madame? Madame has but to speak!" said the doctor, bowing politely.