Then she turned again to look for Louis. Near the door she saw him, and with so strange a face, so wild a look, that, unheeding eager requests to sing again, she responded to the gesture he made, made her way through the crowd to the hall-way, and followed him up the stairs, and to the little boudoir beside her bedroom. As she entered and shut the door, a low sound like a moan broke from him. She went quickly to lay a hand upon his arm, but he waved her back. “What is it, Louis?” she asked, in a bewildered voice. “Where is the will?” he said.
“Where is the will, Louis,” she repeated after him mechanically, staring at his face, ghostly in the moonlight.
“The will you found behind the picture in the library.”
“O Louis!” she cried, and made a gesture of despair. “O Louis!”
“You found it, and Tardif stole it and took it to Quebec.”
“Yes, Louis, but Louis—ah, what is the matter, dear! I cannot bear that look in your face. What is the matter, Louis?”
“Tardif took it to Fournel, and you followed. And I have been living in another man’s house, on another’s bread—”
“O Louis, no—no—no! Our money has paid for all.”
“Your money, Madelinette!” His voice rose.
“Ah, don’t speak like that! See, Louis. It can make no difference. How you have found out I do not know, but it can make no difference. I did not want you to know—you loved the Seigneury so. I concealed the will; Tardif found it, as you say. But, Louis, dear, it is all right. Monsieur Fournel would not take the place, and—and I have bought it.”