“We are going in here,” he said to Prosper; “come.”

They went up the steps, and stopped on the second floor, before a door over which was a large sign, “Fashionable Dressmaker.”

A handsome bell-rope hung on the wall, but M. Verduret did not touch it.  He tapped with the ends of his fingers in a peculiar way, and the door instantly opened as if someone had been watching for his signal on the other side.

The door was opened by a neatly dressed woman of about forty.  She quietly ushered M. Verduret and Prosper into a neat dining-room with several doors opening into it.

This woman bowed humbly to M. Verduret, as if he were some superior being.

He scarcely noticed her salutation, but questioned her with a look.  His look said: 

“Well?”

She bowed affirmatively: 

“Yes.”

“In there?” asked M. Verduret in a low tone, pointing to one of the doors.

“No,” said the woman in the same tone, “over there, in the little parlor.”

M. Verduret opened the door pointed out, and pushed Prosper into the little parlor, whispering, as he did so: 

“Go in, and keep your presence of mind.”

But his injunction was useless.  The instant he cast his eyes around the room into which he had so unceremoniously been pushed without any warning, Prosper exclaimed, in a startled voice: 

“Madeleine!”

It was indeed M. Fauvel’s niece, looking more beautiful than ever.  Hers was that calm, dignified beauty which imposes admiration and respect.

Standing in the middle of the room, near a table covered with silks and satins, she was arranging a skirt of red velvet embroidered in gold; probably the dress she was to wear as maid of honor to Catherine de Medicis.

At sight of Prosper, all the blood rushed to her face, and her beautiful eyes half closed, as if she were about to faint; she clung to the table to prevent herself from falling.

Prosper well knew that Madeleine was not one of those cold-hearted women whom nothing could disturb, and who feel sensations, but never a true sentiment.

Of a tender, dreamy nature, she betrayed in the minute details of her life the most exquisite delicacy.  But she was also proud, and incapable of in any way violating her conscience.  When duty spoke, she obeyed.

She recovered from her momentary weakness, and the soft expression of her eyes changed to one of haughty resentment.  In an offended tone she said: 

“What has emboldened you, monsieur, to be watching my movements?  Who gave you permission to follow me, to enter this house?”

Prosper was certainly innocent.  He would have given worlds to explain what had just happened, but he was powerless, and could only remain silent.

“You promised me upon your honor, monsieur,” continued Madeleine, “that you would never again seek my presence.  Is this the way you keep your word?”