She lifts the glass, which still holds a little wine, and offers it to Madeline, but the girl, with a deprecating movement, turns away.
‘I cannot take any more of that wine, Madame,’ she says; ‘it is very strong; I think it has made me feel quite stupid.’
Madame de Fontenay gives a little laugh, and holding her hand still tighter on her companion’s arm, and leading her to a seat in the window, places herself by her side.
‘Ah, my child,’ she says, ‘it is not the effect of the wine; it is the result of the trouble, the excitement, the fatigue, through which you have passed this day. You will get to bed, and rise in the morning refreshed for your journey back.’
Madeline assents. She sits in the window allowing the widow to stroke her feverishly burning hand; but as that strange drowsiness oppresses her more and more, she goes to bed and falls into a heavy slumber.
When she awakens it is broad day; a figure dressed in black is bending above her, holding a tray. Madeline rubs her eyes—then, looking through a mist which seems to obscure her sight, she recognises the pale, bloodless features of Madame de Fontenay; she looks round the room, everything is misted; she rises in bed, and finds she can scarcely sit up. Her temples throb, her head burns—she seems to have been seized with fever.
Then in one flash the reality of her situation comes upon her, and she gazes at the window with wild frightened eyes.
‘The morning train to Rouen is gone?’ she asks.
Madame de Fontenay bends above her with a kind, reassuring smile. She has placed the tray on a table which she has drawn up beside the bed; and now she presses her cold white hands to Madeline’s throbbing brow. As she does so a strange light comes into her eyes, a curious smile contracts her mouth; but her voice is quite melodious when she speaks again.
‘The morning train is gone—yes, that is so,’ she says.