“You must think of me sometimes when you are grown up,” he went on in his feeble voice, harping still on the same subject.  “You will have no money, my poor little one—­if it had not been for that devil Legros—­but it is too late to think of that now.  Well, I think you will have beauty, and that will go far even if you have no dot, and I should like you to marry well.  But when you have a husband, and are rich, perhaps, you must still think sometimes of the days when you were a little girl, and had a papa who loved no one in the world so much as his little Madelon.”

“Papa, I want no money, nor husband, nor anything else,” cried Madelon, in a burst of tears, and throwing both her arms round his neck.  “I want nobody but you, and I love you, and always shall love you better than any one else in the world.  Papa, are you going to die and leave me?”

“So it seems,” he said bitterly.  “It is not my choice, Madelon, but one cannot arrange these little matters for oneself, you see.  Now listen, my child; I am not going to leave you quite alone.  I have a sister, who is your aunt Therese; I have never spoken to you about her before, for she became a nun, and we have not always been very good friends, but I think she will give you a home.  She is the Superior of a convent near Liege, and that English gentleman—­the doctor, you know—­will take you to her; do you understand?”

“Yes, papa.”

“Well, you must stay with her for the present.  It is not just what I could have wished for you, ma petite, but I have no choice, as it happens; and if ever you are dull or unhappy there, you will not blame me, or think I was unkind in sending you, will you, my child? for indeed I could not help it, and you will be a good little girl, I know.  By-and-by, as I said, perhaps you will marry—­I cannot arrange all these matters beforehand.  I used to think sometimes that perhaps you might have come out on the stage a few years hence.  Would you have liked that, Madelon?”

“Yes—­no—­oh, I don’t know, papa—­I want you—­I want you!”

“Yes—­you will want me, pauvre petite.  Good Heavens! that a child so small, so young should be left without me to take care of her!  Bah, I must not think of it.  Madelon, there is one thing more you must promise me—­never to become a nun.”

“A nun, papa?”

“Yes, a nun,” he repeated, in his feeble vehement way, “a nun like your aunt Therese.  Do you know what it means?  To grow pious, and narrow-minded, and sour, to live for ever shut up between four walls from which there is no escape, to think yourself better than all the world.  Madelon, promise me never to become a nun; if I thought that were the future in store for you—­promise me, I say.”

“I promise, papa,” she said, quite solemnly, putting her hands together with a quaint little gesture; “indeed I should not like it at all.”