“Linders!” cried the Countess—­“M.  Linders—­yes, certainly I remember him perfectly, and the little girl too.  M. Linders?—­ of course, every one knew him.”

“Ah!  Madame, did you know my father?” said Madelon, raising her head at these last words, and clasping her hands imploringly; “be good to me then, I entreat of you; do not speak of sending me back to the convent.  I cannot go!”

There was something pitiful in the child’s voice and gesture, something pathetic in the little appeal to her father’s memory, that might have touched any one less animated by a stern sense of duty than the Countess.  As it was, she was not in the least affected.

“On the contrary, mon enfant,” she answered, “I shall be doing you the greatest kindness, and no more than my duty, in taking you back there; and we have agreed that you shall return with me at once.”

“I will not go!” cried Madelon, wildly; “I cannot, I will not!—­I will not!  Do you hear?  What right have you to take me?  I am not your child!—­I will not go with you!”

She got up as she spoke, confronting the Countess, and trying to throw all the energy of which she was capable into her vehement words.  But even in her own ears her voice sounded shrill and weak, and seemed to die away as if she were talking in her sleep; the very strength of her emotion appeared unreal, and failing her when she most needed it:  her words seemed to have no meaning, and as she finished speaking, she dropped down on her seat again with a little sob, feeling that she was conquered, for she had no power of resistance left in her.

So she lay upon the sofa in a sot of doze, while a tribunal of three sat upon, condemned, and sentenced this poor little criminal, who knew nothing of what they were saying after she had made her own ineffectual little protest.  Madame Bertrand, indeed, good old soul, with the softest and kindest of hearts, would not at first hear of her being sent away; she was fond of the child, she said; she had known her for years, and felt sure there was something in her story that they did not yet understand.  But Madame Bertrand was old—­moreover, she was not a little in awe of the niece whom she had called in to assist her failing powers; moreover, she had perhaps a lurking idea that they might after all be right, and that there was something exceptionally heinous in running away from a convent; so she was soon overruled by the other two, who settled the matter in a very summary way—­Madelon must return to the convent with Madame la Comtesse that very day.

She was roused up presently, and made to drink some wine by Madame Bertrand, who was in despair because she could eat none of the good things she had provided, and felt nothing but and old traitress, as Madelon stood up at last, looking about her with dazed eyes; and then, without further opposition, submissively put on her hat, took up her bundle, and prepared to follow the Countess.  Indeed, had Madame Bertrand