Her hair, which is brushed very smooth beneath her widow’s bonnet, is white as snow, and her whole face bears the unmistakable stamp of care. Madeline is glad; the widow’s mourning, the white hair and wrinkled face, seem to shed all over her the halo of respectability. With a childish faith in the sex of the new-comer, she steps forward impulsively, holding out her hand.
Monsieur introduces the lady as his ‘very good friend,
Madame de Fontenay;’ then after a word or two, he takes a respectful farewell of Madeline and goes. He will not even remain in the same hotel which holds the girl that night, so careful is he of her good name—but five minutes after he has left the salle à manger, Madeline, who is looking from the window, sees him enter the post-chaise lately occupied by Madame de Fontenay, and drive rapidly from the door.
Madeline, stricken with remorse, has asked his plans, but he has told her nothing. When she hinted that she might wish to communicate with him, he replied that any communication for him can be sent through Madame de Fontenay.
And now, while the carriage which contains Monsieur Belleisle is rolling away through the thickening darkness, Madeline turns to discuss her tutor with her new friend. She has waxed eloquent in her praise of him, and is just in the middle of a fresh eulogium, when the waiter brings in the supper, and Madame de Fontenay retires to prepare for the meal. When she returns, divested of her bonnet and her cloak, and takes her seat at the head of the table, she says—
‘When I ordered supper, ma chère Mam’selle Hazlemere,
I took the liberty of ordering it for two, for look you, ever since the days of my childhood I could never bear to eat alone. You will join me? Non? Well, you will at least break a biscuit and drink with me a glass of wine.’
Whereupon Madeline, who has turned from the supper, takes her seat at the table to crumble her biscuit and sip the wine which Madame de Fontenay has poured; but at this juncture Madeline grows thoughtful, and Madame de Fontenay, who has hitherto been rather reticent, grows very talkative indeed, sips her wine with a relish, disposes of the various courses, pausing now and again to glance with piercing eyes at the girl.
Supper being over, Madame rises and slips her hand through Madeline’s arm.
‘Come to the window, Mademoiselle,’ she says, ‘and take a breath of air while the waiter prepares the coffee. But first—see, you have not finished your wine.’