“But may I do no more for you?”

“Nothing—­unless you will have the goodness to bid Madame Bouisse to come up-stairs, and finish packing my portmanteau for me.”

“At what hour do you start?”

“At eight.”

“May I not go with you to the station, and see that you get a comfortable seat?”

“Many thanks,” she replied, coldly; “but I do not go by rail, and my seat in the diligence is already taken.”

“You will want some one to see to your luggage—­to carry your cloaks.”

“Madame Bouisse has promised to go with me to the Messageries.”

Silenced, and perhaps a little hurt, I rose to take my leave.

“I wish you a safe journey, mademoiselle,” I said, “and a safe return,”

“And think me, at the same time, an ungrateful patient.”

“I did not say that.”

“No—­but you thought so.  After all, it is possible that I seem so.  I am undemonstrative—­unused to the amenities of life—­in short, I am only half-civilized.  Pray, forgive me.”

“Mademoiselle,” I said, “your apology pains me.  I have nothing to forgive.  I will send Madame Bouisse to you immediately.”

And with this I had almost left the room, but paused upon the threshold.

“Shall you be long away?” I asked, with assumed indifference.

“Shall I be long away?” she repeated, dreamily.  “How can I tell?” Then, correcting herself, “Oh, not long,” she added.  “Not long.  Perhaps a fortnight—­perhaps a week.”

“Once more, then, good-night.”

“Good-night,” she answered, absently; and I withdrew.

I then went down, sent Madame Bouisse to wait upon her, and sat up anxiously listening more than half the night.  Next morning, at seven, I heard Madame Bouisse go in again.  I dared not even go to her door to inquire how she had slept, lest I should seem too persistent; but when they left the room and went downstairs together, I flew to my window.

I saw her cross the street in the gray morning.  She walked feebly, and wore a large cloak, that hid the disabled arm and covered her to the feet.  Madame Bouisse trotted beside her with a bundle of cloaks and umbrellas; a porter followed with her little portmanteau on his shoulder.

And so they passed under the archway across the trampled snow, and vanished out of sight.

CHAPTER XLIV.

A PRESCRIPTION.

A week went by—­a fortnight went by—­and still Hortense prolonged her mysterious absence.  Where could she be gone?  Was she ill?  Had any accident befallen her on the road?  What if the wounded hand had failed to heal?  What if inflammation had set in, and she were lying, even now, sick and helpless, among strangers?  These terrors came back upon me at every moment, and drove me almost to despair.  In vain I interrogated Madame Bouisse.  The good-natured concierge knew no more than myself, and the little she had to tell only increased my uneasiness.