‘How do you suppose,’ said he, ‘that we are to live, my dear?’
Still Madeline was dumb—what could he mean by asking her such a question?
‘You will write,’ continued Monsieur Belleisle—‘write at once, for enough time has been wasted, to your English guardian—M’sieur White, I think you have called him—and ask him to send you two hundred pounds.’
Still Madeline stared in silence. She was not thinking of the Frenchman now. All her present surroundings faded away, and she saw only the pleasant little studio in St. John’s Wood, with the dearly beloved figure of White standing amidst his brushes, canvas, and paints. But he was not looking genially about him, as she had so often seen him do; his eyes were fixed with a look of sad reproach upon the painted face of a gipsy-like girl of ten, and his voice cried out with a ring of terrible sorrow—
‘Madeline—my little Madeline!’
The girl saw and heard, and in her anguish she dropped her face in her hands and burst into a passionate flood of tears.
They were the first tears she had shed since her marriage. The storm had been long in bursting; but now its violence was intense. For a time she remained utterly prostrated by her sorrow; when she raised her head she saw that the Frenchman was calmly looking on..
‘Is it over?’ he asked.
Madeline did not answer him; she stifled her sobs, dried her eyes, and walked over to the window. The Frenchman followed her with his eyes.
‘You are longing for your morning walk, my wife,’ he said; ‘eh bien, write the letter and you shall go.’