“No one shall take you away; don’t be afraid, chere petite; but tell us all bout it.  Walked to Chaudfontaine in the night!  Why, you must be half dead, poor little one!  And what have you come to Spa for—­have you any friends here?”

“No,” said Madelon, “I thought you would help me, and let me stay here for a little while.”

“And so you shall—­for as long as you like,” said Madame; “but what have you come here for?  Have you no friends to go to?”

“Yes—­I—­I—­ah, I forgot!” cried Madelon, burying her face in her hands.  All of a sudden she remembered how she had intended writing to Monsieur Horace, all that she had meant to say to him, and how she would have asked him to come and help her—­and now all that was at an end.  As to telling Madame Bertrand or any one else of her cherished plans—­never; that was her own secret, which she would never, never part with, except to Monsieur Horace himself.  “I forgot,” she cried, “I have no one—­ah? what shall I do, what shall I do?”

“Do!” said the Countess, interposing with much prompt energy, “it is not difficult to know what you must do; you must go back to the convent, of course.  I never heard of anything so improper as your running away.”

“No, no, no,” cried Madelon; “I cannot go back there—­never; they would kill me.”  She flung herself down on the sofa again, while old Madame Bertrand tried to comfort her.  No one should make her go back; she was her chere petite, she would take care of her—­and was she not very hungry? would she like some soup, or some cakes, or some bread and confiture?

Meanwhile the Countess was saying to Mademoiselle Henriette, “This is a most extraordinary affair.  If we do not take care, your excellent aunt will be imposed upon; but I am going back to Liege in an hour, and can perfectly well take the little girl with me, and leave her at the convent.”

“Indeed, Madame, we should be much indebted to you,” said mademoiselle Henriette, briskly; “it is evident that she has no friends, and has come to my aunt simply because she was in some way acquainted with her formerly.  As you say, if we do not take care we shall certainly have her on our hands; my aunt is quite capable of it.”

“Then that is easily settled,” said the Countess; “I will take charge of her.  No thanks, Mademoiselle, I am only doing my duty.  I really do not know what young people of the present day will come to.  Does any one know what her name is, or anything about her?”

Madame Bertrand, who had been vainly endeavouring to extract from our desponding little Madelon any decided expression of opinion on the subject of cakes or confitures, overheard this last question.  “Poor little one, I know her very well,” she said, lowering her voice confidentially, “her name is Linders; her father was Monsieur Linders, a famous gambler—­it was long before you came here, Henriette, and Madame will not have heard of him probably; but here in Spa he was well known, and he used often to come to our hotel.”