‘I came and looked at you half an hour before the train started, and I did not wake you, since I saw you were not fit to travel. You are sickening for an illness, and I must remove you carefully. I have ordered a carriage to be at the door in half an hour. You will take this breakfast which I have brought to you, and dress yourself—après, we will start for Rouen.’
Madeline assents; half an hour later she is seated in a close carriage, resting her throbbing head on Madame de Fontenay’s shoulder.
‘How your brow burns, my dear child,’ says Madame de Fontenay, drawing off one of her gloves, and laying her cool fingers on the throbbing temples of the girl; then she produces a small gold-mounted vinaigrette and offers it to the girl.
‘Smell this occasionally, and it will relieve the feverish condition—above all, remain tranquil, and close your eyes.’
The latter part of this advice is quite unnecessary; although Madeline’s head is burning more feverishly than ever, although her temples continue to throb, her lips feel parched and dry—she feels gradually stealing over her a strange sense of languor, which compels her to shut her eyes and lean more heavily upon her companion.
The carriage, which is drawn by two horses, proceeds quickly on its way. Madame de Fontenay thrusts her head and shoulders out of the carriage window to give some directions to the coachman. What she says Madeline does not know. She can only hear a confused murmur of voices, which seem to come to her through the vapours of a dream. She hears the murmurs, she feels the lady reseat herself, then she knows that the carriage is going even faster than before; and she again relapses into a dim state of stupor.
When next she opens her eyes the carriage has stopped, and Madame de Fontenay, with some assistance, is helping her to alight. When she stands erect in the open air her head begins to swim; she reels, and is caught in somebody’s arms. She gazes vacantly about her, and as she does so she grows still more confused. She is at a railway station, and although her senses are very much dulled she possesses reason enough to know she has never been there before. She is about to speak, when Madame de Fontenay, putting an arm affectionately around her, half leads, half pushes her forward; then she is hurriedly thrust into a first-class carriage, the doors are banged to, and the train moves off. As it does so, she makes a strong effort to shake off the dreamy stupor which seems to be paralysing her whole body—she looks around the carriage. Besides herself, the only other occupant of the compartment is Madame de Fontenay, who, bending over a small wicker basket, is busily engaged in producing eatables and a little wine. There is a light burning in the carriage roof, and when Madeline looks out of the carriage window she is amazed to find that day is fast fading into night.
What a strange country they are passing through! She racks her brain, trying to remember if she has ever seen it before; but the more she tries to collect her thoughts, the more confused and clouded they become.
A light touch from her companion rouses her from her reverie; she looks round; Madame de Fontenay is offering her a sandwich—she takes it; she is growing sick and faint for want of food.
‘Where are we?’ asks Madeline; but it is evident that Madame de Fontenay does not hear. She sits composedly in one corner, eats some sandwiches, and sips some wine. Presently she rises, turns her back upon her companion for a moment, then approaching her, offers her a little wine. Madeline turns aside her head, and holds up her hands as if to push the glass away. She has grown to detest the wine, for whenever she sips it she seems to feel that strange drowsiness increase; but Madame de Fontenay, who is not quite so yielding as she has been heretofore, takes the girl’s nerveless hands in her own, and, holding the glass to her bloodless lips, forces her to drink.