“Then our business is at an end.”

Apparently it was not, though; for the conversation gradually sank down the scale to a monotonous murmur.  A second hour passed, and yet a third.  What could this interminable visit portend?

It was near eleven o’clock.  A ray from the rising moon shone between the trees in the garden.  A big black cat crept across the lawn, shaking its wet paws.  In the darkness it looked like a tiger.  In my mind’s eye I saw Madeleine sitting with her eyes fixed on her dead hearth, telling her beads, her thoughts running with mine:  “It is years since Monsieur Mouillard was up at such an hour.”  Still she waited, for never had any hand but hers shot the bolt of the street door; the house would not be shut if shut by any other than herself.

At last the dining-room door opened.  “Let me show you a light; take care of the stairs.”

Then followed the “Good-nights” of two weary voices, the squeaking of the big key turning in the lock, a light footstep dying away in the distance, and my uncle’s heavy tread as he went up to his bedroom.  The business was over.

How slowly my uncle went upstairs!  The burden of sorrow was no metaphor in his case.  He, who used to be as active as a boy, could now hardly-support his own weight.

He crossed the landing and went into his room.  I thought of following, him; only a few feet lay between us.  No doubt it was late, but his excited state might have predisposed him in my favor.  Suddenly I heard a sigh—­then a sob.  He was weeping; I determined to risk all and rush to his assistance.

But just as I was about to leave the library a skirt rustled against the wall, though I had heard no sound of footsteps preceding it.  At the same instant a little bit of paper was slipped in under the door—­a letter from the silent Madeleine.  I unfolded the paper and saw the following words written across from one corner to the other, with a contempt for French spelling, which was thoroughly Spanish: 

          “Ni allais pat ceux soire.”

Very well, Madeleine, since that’s your advice, I’ll refrain.

I lay down to sleep on the sofa.  Yet I was very sorry for the delay.  I hated to let the night go by without being reconciled to the poor old man, or without having attempted it at least.  He was evidently very wretched to be affected to tears, for I had never known him to weep, even on occasions when my own tears had flowed freely.  Yet I followed my old and faithful friend’s advice, for I knew that she had the peace of the household as much at heart as I; but I felt that I should seek long and vainly before I could discover what this latest trouble was, and what part I had in it.

CHAPTER XIX

JEANNE THE ENCHANTRESS

Bourges, August 5th.

I woke up at seven; my first thought was for M. Mouillard.  Where could he be?  I listened, but could hear no sound.  I went to the window; the office-boy was lying flat on the lawn, feeding the goldfish in the fountain.  This proved beyond a doubt that my uncle was not in.