“If I could only foresee—­if I could only arrange,” he said piteously.  “God knows I have done what I think is best for you, my child, and yet—­who knows what may come of it?  Madelon,” he went on in a faint, pleading, broken voice, “you will not let them make you think ill of me, and blame and despise me when I am dead?  They will try perhaps, but you must always love me, my darling, as you do now; it must not be all in vain—­all that I have been striving for—­ah, don’t cry—­there—­ we won’t talk any more now—­another time.”

There was a minute’s silence in the darkening twilight; Madelon’s face was hidden in her father’s shoulder, as he lay there with his arm still round her and his eyes closed, faint and exhausted.  All of a sudden he roused himself with a start.

“Ah, I am dying!” he cried, with a hoarse voice, “and it is all dark!  Light the candles, Madelon—­light them quickly, I must see you once more before I die!”

Startled, awe-struck, only half realizing the meaning of his words, Madelon slid off the bed and prepared to obey.  At that moment there came a tremendous knocking at the door of the room, and a voice half chanting, half shouting,—­

“Are you here, my friend?  Are you within to-night?  Can one enter?  Open quick; it is I, it is your friend!  Are you ready for your little revenge?  I am ready, for my part; I will give it to you—­yes, with pleasure—­yes, with an open heart!”

“It is Legros!” cried M. Linders from his bed, in a sudden spasm of rage, “it is that villain, that miserable! Yes, yes, come in; Madelon, light the candles quickly; where are the cards?  Ah—­I will have my revenge yet!”

The door burst open, and Legros entered, just as Madelon had succeeded in lighting the candles.  He stopped short in his uproarious entrance, suddenly sobered by the appearance of M. Linders, as he lay propped up with pillows, his white face and bandaged head, and eyes gleaming with fever and rage.

“Papa is very ill,” says Madelon.  “Monsieur, do not stay to-night, I beg of you!”

“What are you saying, Madelon?” cried her father; “I forbid you to say that again; bring me the cards.  Legros, I am ready for you; ah, there is then one more chance in life!”

“You are not fit to play, Monsieur,” said the young man, stepping back; “I will come again to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” answered M. Linders, with a sort of laugh, “have you then so many to-morrows that you can talk of them recklessly?  Well, then, I will tell you—­I have not—­not one; but I have to-night, and that I will not lose.  Ah! you think to cheat me in that way? you will put me off till to-morrow? you will say then—­Ah, this M. Linders can never have his revenge now, he is quiet enough, I can keep his money in my pocket?  You shall not say that, Monsieur; Madelon, bring the cards, and the lights, close to me, here, I cannot see well, it is so dark.”