“It must be done, Madeleine; I must manage to speak to him before ten o’clock to-morrow morning, for my bride is coming.”

“The Parisienne?  She coming here!”

“Yes, with her father, by the train which gets in at six minutes past nine to-morrow.”

“Good God! is it possible?”

“To see you, Madeleine; to see my uncle, to make my peace with him.  Isn’t it kind of her?”

“Kind?  Monsieur Fabien!  I tremble to think of what will happen.  All the same, I shall be glad to have a sight of your young lady, of course.”

And so we settled that Madeleine was not to say a word to my uncle about my being in Bourges, within a few feet of him.  If she perceived any break in the gloom which enveloped M. Mouillard, she was to let me know; if I were obliged to put off my interview to the morrow, and to pass the night on the sofa-bed in the library, she was to bring me something to eat, a rug, and “the pillow you used in your holidays when you were a boy.”

I was installed then in the big library on the first-floor, adjoining the drawing-room, its other door opening on the passage opposite M. Mouillard’s door, and its two large windows on the garden.  What a look of good antique middle-class comfort there was about it, from the floor of bees’-waxed oak, with its inequalities of level, to the four bookcases with glass doors, surmounted by four bronzed busts of Herodotus, Homer, Socrates, and Marmontel!  Nothing had been moved; the books were still in the places where I had known them for twenty years; Voltaire beside Rousseau, the Dictionary of Useful Knowledge, and Rollin’s Ancient History, the slim, well bound octavos of the Meditations of St. Ignatius, side by side with an enormous quarto on veterinary surgery.

The savage arrows, said to be poisoned, which always used to frighten me so much, were still arranged like a peacock’s tail over the mantel-shelf, each end of which was adorned by the same familiar lumps of white coral.  The musical-box, which I was not allowed to touch till I was eighteen, still stood in the left-hand corner, and on the writing-table, near the little blotting-book that held the note-paper, rose, still majestic, still turning obedient to the touch within its graduated belts, the terrestrial globe “on which are marked the three voyages of Captain Cook, both outward and homeward.”  Ah, captain, how often have we sailed those voyages together!  What grand headway we made as we scoured the tropics in the heel of the trade-wind, our ship threading archipelagoes whose virgin forests stared at us in wonder, all their strange flowers opening toward us, seeking to allure us and put us to sleep with their dangerous perfumes.  But we always guessed the snare, we saw the points of the assegais gleaming amid the tall grasses; you gave the word in your full, deep voice, and our way lay infinite before us; we followed it, always on the track of new lands, new discoveries, until we reached the fatal isle of Owhyhee, the spot where this terrestrial globe is spotted with a tear—­for I wept over you, my captain, at the age when tears unlock themselves and flow easily from a heart filled with enchantment!