half the night.  Had he any relations or friends?  That she did not know, she had never seen or heard of any, but she did not wonder at that—­they did well to keep clear of him, a bad man, who had broken more hearts than his wife’s, she would answer for it.  For the rest, she knew little about him, she added, with a sudden fit of professional reticence, induced by the recollection that it might be as well not to gossip too much about the affairs of her clientele; he came and went, paid his bill regularly enough, generally seemed to have money at his command, and of course it was not for her to inquire how he got it, though she might have her suspicions.  What was to become of his little girl in case of his death?  Madame had never thought of that:  did Monsieur think he was going to die?  In that case how much better to have taken him to the hospital; a death in the house was always so inconvenient and disagreeable—­not that she had grudged it to that pauvre Madame Linders, but this was a different thing altogether; would he certainly die?  Monsieur said he did not know, one must always hope, but the case was a grave one, and seeing that Madame could give him no help he left her.

He had questioned Madeleine in the hope that she would be able to tell him of some one for whom he could send, or to whom he could at least write, but here again he was baffled, and he could only wait now for the moment when M. Linders should recover consciousness.

The hotel was all astir by this time with life and movement, doors opening and shutting, footsteps up and down the staircases and corridors, voices talking, calling, grumbling, downstairs eating and drinking going on with much clattering of plates and dishes, fiacres and omnibuses driving up, tourists setting off in gay parties for their day’s sight-seeing, luggage being moved, travellers coming, travellers going, to England, to the north, to the south, to the ends of the earth—­all the busy restless hotel life going on except in this one silent room, where two people sat very quietly watching a third, who, as one of them foresaw sadly enough, would never take part in all this stir and bustle of life again.  Outside was broad sunny daylight now, but within it was all dim and cool, for the night had been hot, and the window stood wide open, and now the morning air blew freshly through the Venetian shutters, that were closed to darken the room and shut out the sun, which later would shine full upon them.  The morning hours slipped away; there was nothing to be done while M. Linders remained in this state, and Madelon, by Horace’s advice, took a book, and seated herself on a low stool by the window to read.  Now and then she would stand looking at her father with a most pitiful yearning in her great brown eyes; once or twice, M. Linders, in his dull slumber, half torpor, half sleep, seemed in some sort conscious of her presence; he moved his head uneasily, said “Madeleine,” and then some low muttered words which she could not catch, but he never quite roused up, and after each throb of expectation and hope, she could only return to her book, and her silent watching.