Having read the telegram, which came to his lodgings, he folded it, put it in his pocket, and walked up to the house where Madeline still lay. Good news awaited him there. The maid’s face was very bright, and the cause of that brightness was that Mademoiselle had awakened, taken some nourishment, and fallen into a natural sleep. The fever had abated, and the doctor said that the crisis was now past.
‘Would Monsieur like to see Mademoiselle?*
He shook his head.
‘You must not mention to her that I have been here at all. But there will be an English gentleman here to-morrow, whom she will be glad to see.’
Having arranged everything to his satisfaction, he returned to his lodgings, sat down before a roaring wood fire, lit a cigar, and began to think.
His watching was at an end; his long, sad looks at Madeline were over; and, to his own surprise, he felt a sort of regret. During the last few days he had never been free from self-reproach. He had met her at a time when his help might have saved her—yet, because she repulsed him, he had quietly stood aloof and let her drift to her ruin. Yes, although his reason told him he was not to blame, in his own mind he felt culpable.
Well, it was all over now; self-accusation and recrimination would never obliterate that dark past from the girl’s life—she must live and suffer—but he vowed to himself that it should be his endeavour to make that suffering easy for her to bear.
During that night he slept little, but when he did sleep he dreamed of Madeline. Now he clasped her in his arms and plunged with her into wild waters—again he drew her from some darkly surging river, or with uplifted knife stood waiting to plunge it into the heart of the grinning Frenchman. He was glad when daylight relieved him from such dreams.
His first care was to ascertain how his charge was thriving. The report was favourable again; she had passed a peaceful night, and in the morning she had lain for half an hour talking rationally to her maid. She heard with perfect equanimity of the departure and continued absence of Madame de Fontenay and Monsieur Belleisle. She opened and read the letter which Monsieur had left for her, then quietly burned it in the candle which stood beside her bed. She thanked her maid for her kindness, said she must be removed from that place, and then dropped into an exhausted sleep again.
Well satisfied with the account, the young man again returned home to await the arrival of Mr. White. In the afternoon White came. ’Twas no other, of course, than our old acquaintance, but so changed that his nearest friend would hardly know him. His cheeks were ghastly, his eyes sunken, his hair and beard unkempt, and his clothes in a deplorable condition with the long and tedious travel. Despite his disreputable appearance, however, the young man’s heart went out to him at once. He gave him a cordial welcome, and tenderly told him all that he knew about his ward. In return, White gave his confidence, and then the two men walked together to the house where Madeline lay. White’s hands trembled, his cheeks turned very pale, when the maid came to conduct him to Madeline’s room. He went up alone.