“Ah, not to-night, Soeur Lucie, please,” she said, in a faltering voice; “I—­I am tired—­I have been in the garden all the afternoon;—­that is, I am not tired; but I don’t want to come down to-night.”

“Well, I will let you off this one evening,” said Soeur Lucie, good-naturedly; “though you used to be fond of coming to vespers, and certainly I don’t think you can be very tired with sitting in the garden.  However, we must begin work regularly to-morrow; so you had better go to bed at once, and get well rested.  Good night, ma petite.”

“Good-night,” said Madelon; and then, as Soeur Lucie turned to leave the room, she felt a sudden pang of self-reproach.  She was deceiving the good-humoured, simple little sister, who had been kind to her after her own fashion; and she was going away, and would never see her any more.  She thought she would like to have one more kind word from her, as she could not wish her good-bye.

“Do you love me, Soeur Lucie?” she said, flinging her arms round her neck.

“To be sure, mon enfant,” answers Soeur Lucie, with some astonishment; then, hastening to add the qualifying clause by which so many worthy people take care to proclaim that their love is human, and not divine, “that is, when you are good, you know, and do what you are told.”

“Ah,” said Madeleine, relaxing her hold, “then if I were to do something you thought very naughty, you would not love me any more?”

“Indeed, I don’t know.  You are not going to be naughty, I hope?” answered the nun; “but I can’t wait any longer now.  Make haste, and go to bed quietly.”

She hurried out of the room as she spoke.  Madelon listened till the sound of her footsteps died away; and then, without a moment’s further pause or hesitation, began pulling together a few things into a small bundle.  She had no time to waste in vain regrets:  what she had to do must be done quickly, or not at all.  A dozen windows overlooked the garden, and presently the nuns would be returning to their cells, and her chances would be over.  Even now it was possible that one or another might have been detained from the chapel, but that she must risk; better that, she thought, than to wait till later, when a prolonged vigil or a wakeful sister might be the cause of frustrating all her hopes and plans.  She had no fear of her flight being discovered before the morning.  Since her illness she had always gone to bed early, and Soeur Lucie never did anything more than put her head in at the door, on her way to her own room, which was in a different part of the building, to see that all was dark and quiet; and if Madelon did not speak, would go away at once, satisfied that she was asleep.