"Mon Dieu!" said Mme de Labédoyère with a sob. She released the child and sat down by the wall, leaning against it, her eyes wide with fear.
"You asked to see the future, Madame," said the old man impassively.
"Can you show the past?" asked Mme de Vieuxmesnil, half hesitatingly.
"Assuredly. You must touch the child, and think of what you wish to see."
She came forward and put out her hand, but drew it quickly back again.
"No," she murmured; "it is perhaps a sin. I am too near the end for that, and when one cannot even confess."
"As you will," said the old man.
"And you, Madame," he turned to Aline, "is there nothing you would know; no one for whose welfare you are anxious?"
She started, for he had read her thoughts, which were full of Dangeau. It was months now since any word had come from him, and she longed inexpressibly for tidings. Lawful or unlawful, she would try this way, since there was no other. She laid her hand lightly on the little girl's head, and once more the child looked into the dark pool.
"There are so many people," she said at last. "They run to and fro, and wave their arms. That makes one's head ache."