what joy, what happiness!  Should she venture?  Surely it would be very rash to risk all that at once—­and yet if she were to win—­and she has been so lucky this evening—­ her heart leaps up again—­she hesitates a moment, then pushes the whole on to the black, reserving only one ten-franc piece, and sits pale, breathless, incapable of moving, during what seemed to her the longest minute in her life.  It was only a minute—­the croupier dealt the cards—­“Rouge perd, et couleur,” he cried, paid the smaller stakes, and then, counting out gold and notes, pushed over to her what was, in fact, a sufficiently large sum, and which, to her inexperienced eyes, seemed enormous.  “Who is she?” asked one or two of the bystanders of each other.  “She has been winning all the evening.”  They shrugged their shoulders; nobody knew.  As for Madelon, she heard none of their remarks—­ she had won, she might go now, go and find Monsieur Horace; and as this thought crossed her mind, she gathered up her winnings, thrust them into her bag, and rose to depart.  As she turned round, she faced Monsieur Horace himself, who had been standing behind her chair, little dreaming whose play it was he had been watching.

She recognised him in a moment, though he had grown thinner and browner since she had last seen him.  “Monsieur Horace!—­ Monsieur Horace!” she cried.

He was still watching the game, but turned at the sound of her voice, and looked down on the excited little face before him.  “Madelon!” he exclaimed—­“Madelon here!—­no, impossible!  Madelon!”

“Yes, yes,” she said, half laughing, half crying at the same time, “I am Madelon.  Ah! come this way—­let me show you.  I have something to show you this time—­you will see, you will see!”

She seized both his hands as she spoke, and pulled him through the crowd into the adjoining reading-room.  It was all lighted up, the table strewn with books and papers; but no one was there.  Madelon was in a state of wild excitement and triumph.

“Look here,” she cried; “I promised to make your fortune, did I not, Monsieur Horace?—­and I have done it!  Ah! you will be rich now—­see here!” she poured the contents of her bag on the table before him.  “Are you glad?” she said.

“Glad!—­what on earth are you talking about?  Where did you get this money, Madelon?”

“Where?—­why, there, at the tables, to be sure—­where else?” she answered, getting frightened at his manner.

“But—­gracious powers! are you out of your senses, child?” cried Graham.  “Whatever possessed you to come here?  What business have you in a place like this?  Are you alone?”

“Yes, I am alone.  I came to make your fortune,” answered Madelon, dismayed.

“My fortune!” he repeated.  “What can have put such a notion into your head?  As for that money, the sooner you get rid of it the better.  What the devil—­good heavens! a baby like you!—­ here, give it to me!”