Every one who knows Spa, knows the Place Royale, with its broad walks and rows of trees, leading from the shady avenues of the Promenade a Sept Heures at the one end, to the winding street with its gay shops at the other.  The Hotel de Madrid was situated about half-way down the Place, and, as compared with the great hotels of Spa, it was small, mean, and third-rate, little frequented therefore by the better class of visitors, and with no particular recommendation beyond its situation on the Place Royale, its cheap terms, and its excellent landlady.  M. Linders, whose means did not always admit of reckless expenditure, and whose credit was not wholly unlimited, had gone there two or three times, when visiting Spa to retrieve fallen fortunes; and the first time he had taken Madelon with him, she and Madame Bertrand had become such fast friends, that, for his child’s sake, he never afterwards went anywhere else.  Madelon had the most lively, pleasant recollections of the stout motherly landlady, whose store of bonbons and confitures had been absolutely endless.  Of all her friends in this class, Madame Bertrand had been the one to whom she had most attached herself, and now it was almost with the feeling of finding herself at home that she saw the hotel before her.

The door stood open, and she went into the small hall, or rather passage, which ran through the house, ending in another door, which, also open, afforded a green view of many currant and gooseberry bushes in Madame Bertrand’s garden.  To the right was the staircase, to the left the salle-a-manger, a low room with two windows looking on to the Place, and furnished with half-a-dozen small round tables, for the hotel was of too unpretentious a nature to aspire to a table d’hote; the floor lacked polish, and the furniture was shabby, yet the room had a friendly look to our homeless Madelon, as a frequent resting-place in such wanderings to and fro as had been hers in former years.  She went in.  A man was sitting at one of the tables, a tall bottle of red wine at his side, and a dish of cutlets before him, eating his late dejeuner, and reading a newspaper; whilst a waiter moved about, arranging knives and forks, table-napkins, and pistolets, with occasional pauses for such glimpses of the outer world as could be obtained through the muslin curtains hanging before the somewhat dingy windows.

“Is Madame Bertrand at home?” asked Madelon, coming up to him.

The man stared down at the shabbily dressed little figure before him, glanced at the bundle hanging on her arm, and then answered civilly enough that Madame Bertrand was not at home.  Did Mademoiselle want anything?

“I wanted to speak to Madame Bertrand,” answered Madelon rather piteously; “will she be back soon, do you think?  When can I see her?”

“Eh, je n’en sais rien,” said the man.  “If Mademoiselle wants to see her, she had better call again—­or she can leave a message,” and he went on laying the tables.