The small room was lighted by a single candle.  Opposite the door the wall was covered with books from floor to ceiling.  In a corner an open bureau was strewed with papers.  The violin was laid carelessly on an old harpsichord.

Mademoiselle saw these things as she walked over and stood by the fireplace.  Her dark hair, disordered by the hood of the cloak, hung loosely over her forehead and heightened the worn expression on her white face.  She drew back her black dress slightly and rested one foot on the edge of the fender, and watched the steam that rose from the damp shoe.

Jacques brought up a cup of coffee, with a message that Mademoiselle was to drink it at once, lest she should catch a cold.  She smiled sadly, took the cup, raised it, touched it with her parched lips, and set it aside.

Raoul came and stood facing her.  Though she did not look up she felt his gaze upon her and became uneasy, and pressed her clasped hands nervously together.

“I came to get your address from Jacques,” she said.  “I thought you were at Rouen.”  She paused and caught her breath.  “I am going away to-morrow.”

As he listened and watched her, he found himself noticing how like a little child she seemed.

“Sit down,” he said, speaking with effort.  “You are not well.”

“I have scarcely slept,” she answered.  “I have been thinking all night—­and all day—.”  Her bosom heaved.  The tears sprang to her eyes.  She covered her face with her hands.

Raoul paled, and trembled from head to foot.  He clenched his teeth.  His hand that rested on the edge of the mantel-shelf grasped it as if it would have crushed it.

“Why did you go away?” she said, with plaintive vehemence.  “Why did you not come to me?”

Then, as if her strength failed her, she sat down.

He knelt beside her.  “You have been too kind to me—­Elise,” he said unsteadily.  “I went away from you because I feared lest I should lose command of myself; lest I should forget that I was—­what I am.”

At the sound of his voice pronouncing her name a strange, sudden happiness shone in her eyes.  She looked at him.  He read the truth, but could only believe in his happiness when, the next moment, she was clasped in his arms.

* * * * *

It was eleven o’clock when Madame Martin knocked at the door.

“I thought you would like to know, Monsieur,” she said, “that the rain has stopped, that it grows late, and that Mademoiselle’s cloak is quite dry.”

X.

I subjoin the following extract for the information of those who may be sufficiently interested:—­

     “LA LANTERNE (Journal Conservateur de Rocheville, Jeudi,
     5 Fevrier).—­Mariage—­M.  Berhault, Raoul Joseph Victor, 30 ans, et
     Mlle. Lanfrey, Elise Marie, 25 ans.”