Despite her protestations, the post-chaise still continues its wild career. It is dark at last, and the darkness is deepened by long avenues of spectral fir-trees which line the road on either side. A diligence passes swiftly by, with murmur of voices and jingling of bells.
As night comes on the girl grows frightened, shrinks away from her companion, and sobs bitterly. He tries to comfort her with embraces and loving words, but she avoids his touch, and rejects all his consolations.
If there were enough light to show his face, it would reveal an aspect almost Mephistophelean in its cat-like expression. His long fingers close and unclose nervously; he would like to use force, but he lacks the courage.
At last he wins her to comparative quiescence by proving to her that return is impossible before the morrow, and by promising that when the morrow comes he will, if she still wishes it, see her safely back to school. With this poor comfort she is obliged to be content; for the house she left at daybreak lies thirty miles behind, and it would be useless to turn thither now.
Presently the lights of a town gleam before them, and, after rattling through some dark suburbs, they draw up before the threshold of an inn—the Lion d’Or. It is a large dreary place, with little or no custom. A ghostly waiter shows them to a great salle à manger, which is totally deserted.
‘While dinner is preparing, perhaps Madame would like to make her toilette?’
He lays emphasis on the ‘Madame’; and then demands, respectfully, how many chambers will be required.
Madeline does not hear, but her companion explains that two chambers will be wanted—one for the young lady, one for himself. The waiter bows and withdraws. An elderly chambermaid soon appears, and shows Madeline up to a great bedroom, grim and lonely as an empty barn, with one little chilly bed in the corner. There are no curtains to the window, and the moonlight is creeping in with a ghastly gleam.
Left alone, Madeline resigns herself to remorse and despair, and sobs as if her heart would break. An hour passes thus. Then the chambermaid appears with the intimation that Monsieur is waiting dinner, and is impatient. After a moment’s hesitation Madeline descends.
They are alone in the salle à manger, and the first course is served, when there enters a muscular young man in a shooting coat, a shirt very loose about the collar, and a loose necktie. ‘Englishman’ is written in every lineament of his brown, sun-tanned countenance. In the manner of many of his nation, he scowls at his fellow-guests, and then, without a word, falls upon the soup.