“I will set out,” said she, “the day after to-morrow, at the hour agreed on.”  And thereupon, I having promised to come to the house the day after her departure, as if I knew nothing about it, and to let her know what passed, we embraced each other tenderly, and I left her.

I was troubled in thinking about her fate.  She had wit and courage, but when experience is wanting wit often leads men to commit acts of great folly.

The day after the morrow I took a coach, and posted myself in a corner of the street by which she had to pass.  I saw her come, get out of the coach, pay the coachman, go down a narrow street, and a few minutes after reappear again, veiled and hooded, carrying a small parcel in her hand.  She then took another conveyance which went off in the direction we had agreed upon.

The day following being Low Sunday, I felt that I must present myself at the “Hotel de Bretagne,” for as I went there every day before the daughter’s flight I could not stop going there without strengthening any suspicions which might be entertained about me.  But it was a painful task.  I had to appear at my ease and cheerful in a place where I was quite sure all would be sadness and confusion.  I must say that it was an affair requiring higher powers of impudence than fall to the lot of most men.

I chose a time when all the family would be together at table, and I walked straight into the dining-room.  I entered with my usual cheerful manner, and sat down by madame, a little behind her, pretending not to see her surprise, which, however, was plainly to be seen, her whole face being flushed with rage and astonishment.  I had not been long in the room before I asked where her daughter was.  She turned round, looked me through and through, and said not a word.

“Is she ill?” said I.

“I know nothing about her.”

This remark, which was pronounced in a dry manner, put me at my ease, as I now felt at liberty to look concerned.  I sat there for a quarter of an hour, playing the part of grave and astonished silence, and then, rising, I asked if I could do anything, for which all my reward was a cold expression of thanks.  I then left the room and went to Mdlle.  X. C. V.’s chamber as if I had thought she was there, but found only Madelaine.  I asked her with a meaning look where her mistress was.  She replied by begging me to tell her, if I knew.

“Has she gone by herself?”

“I know nothing at all about it, sir, but they say you know all.  I beg of you to leave me.”

Pretending to be in the greatest astonishment, I slowly walked away and took a coach, glad to have accomplished this painful duty.  After the reception I had met with I could without affectation pose as offended, and visit the family no more, for whether I were guilty or innocent, Madame X. C. V. must see that her manner had been plain enough for me to know what it meant.