“But mine is the best and quickest way,” said Madelon, unconvinced; “it was what papa always did.”

“Yes, but you know everybody does not set to work the same way, and I think I like mine best for myself.”

“Do you?” she said, looking at him wistfully; “and may I not go and try again, then?”

“No, no,” he answered kindly; “that would not do at all, Madelon; it does not do for little girls to run about the world making fortunes.  Your father used to take you to those rooms, but he would not have liked to have seen you there alone last night, and you must never go again.”

He tried to speak lightly, but the words aroused some new consciousness in the child, and she coloured scarlet.

“I—­I did not know—­” she began; and then stopped suddenly, and never again spoke of making Monsieur Horace’s fortune.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Partings.

So it was something like the end of a fairy tale after all; for a carriage stopped before the restaurant at Le Trooz, and out of it came a gentleman, and a lady beautiful enough to be a fairy godmother, and the little wandering Princess herself, no other than our Madelon, who ran up to Jeanne-Marie as she came to the door, and clasping her round the neck, clung to her more tightly than she had ever clung before, till the woman, disengaging herself, turned to speak to her other visitors.  Mrs. Treherne came into the little public room, which happened to be empty just then, and siting down on one of the wooden chairs, began to talk to Jeanne-Marie; whilst Madelon, escaping, made her way to the garden at the back, where she had spent so many peaceful hours.  It was not a week since she had been there and it looked all unchanged; the sun was shining again after the last few days, and filling the air with summer heat and radiance; the grapes were ripening on the wall; the bees humming among the flowers; Jeanne-Marie’s pots and pans stood in the kitchen window.  How quiet, and sunny, and familiar it looked!  Madelon half expected to find her chair set in the old shady corner, to see Jeanne-Marie’s face appearing through the screen of vine-leaves at the open window, to hear her voice calling to her to leave her work, and come and help her make the soup!  Ah no, it was not all unchanged; was there indeed anything the same as in the old days that already seemed such ages distant, the old time gone for ever?  With a sudden pang, Madelon turned away, and went quickly up the outside staircase, all overgrown with unpruned sprays and tendrils, into the room she had occupied for so many weeks.  How happy she had been there! what dreams she had dreamed! what hopes she had cherished! what visions she had indulged in!  Where were they all now?  Where was that golden future to which she had so confidently looked forward, for which she had worked, and striven, and ventured all?  She knelt down by the bed, flinging her arms out over the coarse blue counterpane.  Ah, if she had but died there, died while she was all unconscious, before this cruel grief and disappointment had come upon her!