‘Madeline, dearest, you did not tell me this morning whether or not you would do me the favour I asked of you?’ said Belleisle again that day after her drive was over.
Madeline looked at him quietly.
‘You wish me to look well to-night?’
‘My charming little one, you do always look well,’ retorted the polite Frenchman. ‘I wish you to look second to no lady in Paris.’
‘Very well, Monsieur. I will try.’
A new guest to dress for; some new flatteries to listen to. The announcement was not novel, and yet Madeline felt that night as she had never felt before. She had a pleasure in dressing, a delight in watching herself grow more beautiful under the busy hands of her maid, and, when at length her toilet was complete, she sat with beating heart and heightened colour, as if awaiting the consummation of some great event.
She entered the dining-room, as she had done hundreds of times before, by Madame de Fontenay’s side. She bowed, and shook hands with all she knew, and then was introduced to the stranger.
‘Monsieur le Marquis de Vaux—Mademoiselle de Fontenay.’
Madeline inclined her head for a moment, then raising her eyes she saw that she was receiving a low bow and a deep blush from the stranger.
A tall fair young fellow, of some two- or three-and-twenty, looking more like an English lad than a French Marquis. Perhaps it was this English look which touched Madeline’s heart and made her feel that glow of sympathy which she had waited for so long and thought would never come.