Madeline cannot see his face—his head is hung too much forward, but his body bends in all humility before her.
‘My Madeline is cruel,’ he says in a strangely insinuating tone, ‘but I confess to myself that she is right. I confess I have been to blame, but I am an honourable man, and I will make all amends.5
‘By marrying me, I suppose you mean, M’sieur?’
The Frenchman smiles.
‘That is what I would wish to do, but since it is not your wish, I will talk about it no more. I will do what you desire, Mam’selle!’
‘You know what I wish. It is to return to Madame Collemache!’
The Frenchman shrugs his shoulders and spreads out both his hands.
‘Even so,’ he says; ‘but you know, Mam’selle, you cannot leave till daybreak, for you have troubled yourself to enquire. Well, in order to screen yourself from scandal’—he lays peculiar stress on the word—‘I will introduce you to a lady who I know will be philanthropist enough to give you the shelter of her presence to-night, and take you back to Madame Collemache on the morrow.’
His manner is obsequious—far too obsequious to be genuine—but this Madeline does not observe. She only feels a soft sense of relief steal over her, and in her gratitude she impulsively takes the Frenchman’s hand.
‘You are too good, M’sieur,’ she says, ‘and I shall never rest until I have repaid you. I will intercede with Madame Collemache—I will write to Mr. White, my guardian—I will get you your reward!’