My father, on learning the facts, bade me at once have everything ready by nine this evening, in time to drive to the train that meets the night steam-boat.  This I have done, and there being an hour to spare before we start, I relieve the suspense of waiting by taking up my pen.  He says overtake her we must, and calls Charles the hardest of names.  He believes, of course, that she is merely an infatuated girl rushing off to meet her lover; and how can the wretched I tell him that she is more, and in a sense better than that—­yet not sufficiently more and better to make this flight to Charles anything but a still greater danger to her than a mere lover’s impulse.  We shall go by way of Paris, and we think we may overtake her there.  I hear my father walking restlessly up and down the hall, and can write no more.

CHAPTER VIII.—­SHE TRAVELS IN PURSUIT

April 16.  Evening, Paris, Hotel —–.—­There is no overtaking her at this place; but she has been here, as I thought, no other hotel in Paris being known to her.  We go on to-morrow morning.

April 18.  Venice.—­A morning of adventures and emotions which leave me sick and weary, and yet unable to sleep, though I have lain down on the sofa of my room for more than an hour in the attempt.  I therefore make up my diary to date in a hurried fashion, for the sake of the riddance it affords to ideas which otherwise remain suspended hotly in the brain.

We arrived here this morning in broad sunlight, which lit up the sea-girt buildings as we approached so that they seemed like a city of cork floating raft-like on the smooth, blue deep.  But I only glanced from the carriage window at the lovely scene, and we were soon across the intervening water and inside the railway station.  When we got to the front steps the row of black gondolas and the shouts of the gondoliers so bewildered my father that he was understood to require two gondolas instead of one with two oars, and so I found him in one and myself in another.  We got this righted after a while, and were rowed at once to the hotel on the Riva degli Schiavoni where M. de la Feste had been staying when we last heard from him, the way being down the Grand Canal for some distance, under the Rialto, and then by narrow canals which eventually brought us under the Bridge of Sighs—­harmonious to our moods!—­and out again into open water.  The scene was purity itself as to colour, but it was cruel that I should behold it for the first time under such circumstances.

As soon as I entered the hotel, which is an old-fashioned place, like most places here, where people are taken en pension as well as the ordinary way, I rushed to the framed list of visitors hanging in the hall, and in a moment I saw Charles’s name upon it among the rest.  But she was our chief thought.  I turned to the hall porter, and—­knowing that she would have travelled as ’Madame de la Feste’—­I asked for her under that name, without my father hearing. (He, poor soul, was making confused inquiries outside the door about ‘an English lady,’ as if there were not a score of English ladies at hand.)