What Madelon did at the Redoute.
And so more than half Madelon's troubles are over, and she is
really approaching the moment so looked and longed for, for
which so much has been dared and risked! Ah, is it so that our
dearest hopes get fulfilled? In after years Madelon always
looked back upon the remainder of that day, as upon the
previous night, as a sort of horrible nightmare, through which
she struggled more and more painfully--to what awakening we
shall presently see. The golden morning had faded into a grey
drizzle; the mist hung upon the hills, hiding their tops, and
there were low heavy clouds, presaging an afternoon of more
decided rain. The golden hope, too, that had so sustained and
cheered our Madelon, seemed to have suddenly faded also; and
in its place was that ever-increasing sense of utter weariness
and aching limbs, which seemed as if it would overpower her
before she had gone a dozen yards from the house. She went on
bravely, however, trying to brace herself with the
consciousness of a great purpose, very near its fulfilment
now; but somehow she seemed almost to have forgotten what it
was, or why she had ever formed it. Her keenest feeling at
that moment was, perhaps, that expressed by the quick, furtive
glance with which she looked round from time to time, as some
following footstep made itself heard behind her. The sudden
alarm at Chaudfontaine had given rise to a haunting dread,
which she was unable to shake off, though even that was rather
a vague sensation than a well-defined, reasonable fear.
Still she kept on her way, strong in the strength of a
resolution that had so taken possession of all the deepest
feelings and affections of a most ardent little nature, that
nothing but absolute physical inability could have held her
back from keeping to it now. It was perhaps well for her,
however, that with her childish pleasure in planning every
detail, she had arranged everything beforehand with such
minuteness, that she had no need to reflect now as to what she
had to do. She had only to go on mechanically, and indeed she
seemed to have no power of reflection left in her at all, as
she walked slowly up the street, past the gay shops, where, a
happy, chattering little girl, she had so often lingered with
her father, to choose some pretty trifle. Almost without
thinking, so familiar was the road, did she enter the Redoute,
and ascend the wide staircase; and then at last she feels a
thrill as she sees before her the big salons that she has so
often re-visited in her dreams, with their gilding, and
mirrors, and velvet, that she loves so well, and with which
some of her happiest hours are associated--sees, too, the long
green tables, where Monsieur Horace's fortune is to be made,
and Madelon's promise redeemed at last.
Nothing seemed so strange to our inexperienced Madelon, as
that everything should be unchanged; only yesterday she had
been sitting quietly in the convent garden, with long years
separating her from the old life--and now it seemed but
yesterday that she had been here. She went straight up to the
_rouge-et-noir_ table. She was familiar with both it and
roulette, but of the two games _rouge-et-noir_ was that which M.
Linders had always most affected; and without thinking much
about it, Madelon had fixed upon it as the one at which she
would try her fortune. It was still early, and the tables had
not long been opened, yet there was already a crowd two or
three deep round them; and Madelon, hovering on the outside,
had to wait some time for an opening that would enable her to
approach near enough to lay down her money. It seemed so
natural to be standing there watching the play--the expectant
silence, the clink of the coin, the monotonous drone of the
croupier, were all so familiar, that for a minute she quite
forgot that she had any special object in view; and then, with
one of those starts of realization with which from time to
time she seemed to waken up out of some confused dream, she
remembered why she was there, and what she had to do. It was
only then, that on taking out her purse with its cherished
contents, so as to be ready when her turn should come, it
flashed across her mind that she had intended to ask Madame
Bertrand to change the two ten-franc pieces that formed her
capital, into pieces of five francs, which would have given
her two chances more. Well--it could not be helped now, and,
after all, had she not more than enough? "_Dix francs, et je
ferai fortune--dix francs, et je ferai fortune_--" The old words
seemed to set themselves to a tune in Madelon's head, chiming
in with the croupier's perpetual "_Rouge gagne et la couleur_,"
"_Rouge perd et la couleur_," whilst the two precious coins grew
warm in the little hand that was clasped so tightly over them.
She had half relapsed into her dreamy state, when a woman who
had been standing in front of her came pushing through the
crowd. Madelon instinctively stepped forward to take her
place, and roused up on finding that she was near enough to
the table to lay down her money. The croupier was counting out
the cards for the next stakes. Madelon waited till that turn
was over, and then, leaning across the back of the chair
before her, threw one of her little gold pieces on the table.
It was on the red she had staked. There was a pause as the
other players made their game; Madelon's languid pulses began
to flutter with a sudden interest, increasing to breathless
excitement as the croupier began to deal out the cards. "_Rouge
perd et la couleur_," and the poor little piece was swept away.
Madelon's heart sank with a sudden pang, and then it beat
faster, and her cheeks flushed, as, with a quick impulse,
without a moment's hesitation, she threw her remaining ten
francs on to the same spot. Another pause--another deal. "_Rouge
perd et la couleur!_" She had lost again, and her last chance
was gone.
Surely at the gambling-tables of Spa that day there was no
more pitiful little tragedy played out than that represented
by these two warm little gold coins, raked away by an
indifferent croupier into a great careless heap, and carrying
with them how many hopes, and ambitions, and longings--all
crushed and scattered in one brief moment. Madelon half
uttered a stifled cry, half made an involuntary movement
forward; then, recollecting herself, shrank back, disengaging
herself from the crowd. The gap was immediately filled up; no
one remarked, or cared for, the poor, despairing child. The
brave little spirit almost gave way, as Madelon, with a sudden
sick feeling of faintness and giddiness, was obliged to sit
down on the nearest sofa--but not quite even then. All was
lost--nothing now remained for her to do in those _salons_, and
she must not stay there, she knew; so in a minute she got up
again, and made her way out of the room and down the
staircase, clinging to the balustrade, blindly groping her
way, as it were, till she was once more in the street.
Here the fresh air revived her a little, and she was able to
consider what she should do next. Ah! what, indeed, was she to
do, with a programme so rudely disarranged, with all her
little plans and projects so shattered to fragments, that to
restore them to anything like their former shape seemed
hopeless? Madelon could think of nothing better to do than to
go back to the hotel from which she had come. She had left all
her small possessions there, and perhaps Madame Bertrand would
have come in, and would be able to help her. In all the world
our despairing Madelon could turn her thoughts nowhere at this
crisis but to the good, unconscious Madame Bertrand, the one
friend to whom she could apply, and who might perhaps be
willing to assist her.
It seemed a long time before she found herself at the hotel
again, and yet, in fact, it was scarcely more than half an
hour since she had left it. Through the open door to the left
she might have seen the waiter still busy over his plates and
glasses, while the gentleman who had been breakfasting had
only just finished his newspaper. But Madelon never thought of
them, nor looked in that direction, indeed; with dazed eyes
she was making her way along the semi-darkness of the passage
to the parlour at the end, when she ran right up against some
one who was coming towards her--a stout old lady, with grey
hair, and a little grey moustache, a very gay shawl, and a
large bonnet, with primrose-coloured ribbons. Madelon
recognised her in an instant. "Oh! Madame Bertrand!" she
cried, flinging her arms round her, "don't you know me? I am
Madeleine Linders."
Madame Bertrand stepped back, a little overwhelmed by this
vehement salutation, and then,--
"Madeleine Linders?" she cried. "What! little Mademoiselle
Madelon, who used to come here so often with her papa?"
"Yes, I am little Madelon," she answered; and indeed the sight
of the kind old face, the sound of the cheery, familiar voice,
made her feel quite a small Madelon again. "You have not
forgotten me, have you, Madame Bertrand?"
"Indeed I have not, though you have grown into such a tall
young lady. But why have you not been here for such a long
time? Where is your papa?"
"Ah! Madame," says Madelon, her sense of utter discouragement
gaining ground again, as the first flush of pleasure at the
sight of her old friend died away, "I am very unhappy. Papa
died nearly three years ago, and I have been in a convent ever
since, with Aunt Thérèse; but Aunt Thérèse is dead too; and
they said that I was to be a nun, so I ran away."
"To be a nun!--a child like you? How could they think of such a
thing?" cried the good old woman. "And you look tired out.
Come in here and tell me all about it."
She drew her into the little parlour as she spoke.
Mademoiselle Henriette was sitting at the high desk in the
window looking on the garden, and some one else was there too,
fanning herself in one of the worsted-work chairs. It was
Madame la Comtesse, who had come there to settle her husband's
business with Madame Bertrand. Both looked up as the landlady
came into the room, half carrying, half dragging Madelon.
"_Pauvre petite! pauvre petite!_" she kept on saying, shaking
and nodding her kind old head the while.
She made the child lie down on the sofa, pulled a cushion
under her head, and then introduced her generally with "They
wanted to make her a nun, and so she has run away from the
convent."
"Run away!" cried Mademoiselle Henriette, turning quite round.
"Well, I thought there was something very queer----"
"Run away!" cried the Countess. "Dear me, but that is very
naughty!"
These little speeches, coming in the midst of Madame
Bertrand's effusive benevolence, seemed quite irrelevant to
the matter in hand, but nevertheless imparted a sudden chill.
"Not at all naughty," said Madame, at last, rallying, and
still busy about the sofa, where Madelon had passively and
wearily laid back her aching little head. "It was the very
best thing she could do. Nun, indeed! I have no great opinion
of convents, nor nuns either, myself; an idle pack--the best of
them only say more prayers than their neighbours, and there is
nothing very clever in that. I could do it myself, if I had
the time."
"But it is very singular," said the Countess, getting up.
"That is certainly the same little girl I travelled with from
Chaudfontaine this morning. I thought there was something odd
about her; she would not answer any of my questions. But there
is no convent at Chaudfontaine. Are you sure she is telling
you the truth?"
"Of course she is, Madame--I have known her since--since she was
that high," replied Madame Bertrand, with some indignation; a
reply so conclusive to herself, that its want of apparent
logic may be pardoned. "Tell me, _mon enfant_, where is your
convent that you speak of."
"At Liége," said Madelon, rousing and trying to sit up. "Aunt
Thérèse was the Superior, but she is dead. I walked to
Chaudfontaine in the night--and--oh, Madame Bertrand, don't let
them come and take me back!" She gave a terrified glance round
the room, and caught hold of Madame Bertrand.
"No one shall take you away; don't be afraid, _chère petite_;
but tell us all bout it. Walked to Chaudfontaine in the night!
Why, you must be half dead, poor little one! And what have you
come to Spa for--have you any friends here?"
"No," said Madelon, "I thought you would help me, and let me
stay here for a little while."
"And so you shall--for as long as you like," said Madame; "but
what have you come here for? Have you no friends to go to?"
"Yes--I--I--ah, I forgot!" cried Madelon, burying her face in her
hands. All of a sudden she remembered how she had intended
writing to Monsieur Horace, all that she had meant to say to
him, and how she would have asked him to come and help her--and
now all that was at an end. As to telling Madame Bertrand or
any one else of her cherished plans--never; that was her own
secret, which she would never, never part with, except to
Monsieur Horace himself. "I forgot," she cried, "I have no
one--ah? what shall I do, what shall I do?"
"Do!" said the Countess, interposing with much prompt energy,
"it is not difficult to know what you must do; you must go
back to the convent, of course. I never heard of anything so
improper as your running away."
"No, no, no," cried Madelon; "I cannot go back there--never;
they would kill me." She flung herself down on the sofa again,
while old Madame Bertrand tried to comfort her. No one should
make her go back; she was her _chère petite_, she would take
care of her--and was she not very hungry? would she like some
soup, or some cakes, or some bread and _confiture?_
Meanwhile the Countess was saying to Mademoiselle Henriette,
"This is a most extraordinary affair. If we do not take care,
your excellent aunt will be imposed upon; but I am going back
to Liége in an hour, and can perfectly well take the little
girl with me, and leave her at the convent."
"Indeed, Madame, we should be much indebted to you," said
mademoiselle Henriette, briskly; "it is evident that she has
no friends, and has come to my aunt simply because she was in
some way acquainted with her formerly. As you say, if we do
not take care we shall certainly have her on our hands; my
aunt is quite capable of it."
"Then that is easily settled," said the Countess; "I will take
charge of her. No thanks, Mademoiselle, I am only doing my
duty. I really do not know what young people of the present
day will come to. Does any one know what her name is, or
anything about her?"
Madame Bertrand, who had been vainly endeavouring to extract
from our desponding little Madelon any decided expression of
opinion on the subject of cakes or confitures, overheard this
last question. "Poor little one, I know her very well," she
said, lowering her voice confidentially, "her name is Linders;
her father was Monsieur Linders, a famous gambler--it was long
before you came here, Henriette, and Madame will not have
heard of him probably; but here in Spa he was well known, and
he used often to come to our hotel."
"Linders!" cried the Countess--"M. Linders--yes, certainly I
remember him perfectly, and the little girl too. M. Linders?--
of course, every one knew him."
"Ah! Madame, did you know my father?" said Madelon, raising
her head at these last words, and clasping her hands
imploringly; "be good to me then, I entreat of you; do not
speak of sending me back to the convent. I cannot go!"
There was something pitiful in the child's voice and gesture,
something pathetic in the little appeal to her father's
memory, that might have touched any one less animated by a
stern sense of duty than the Countess. As it was, she was not
in the least affected.
"On the contrary, _mon enfant_," she answered, "I shall be doing
you the greatest kindness, and no more than my duty, in taking
you back there; and we have agreed that you shall return with
me at once."
"I will not go!" cried Madelon, wildly; "I cannot, I will
not!--I will not! Do you hear? What right have you to take me?
I am not your child!--I will not go with you!"
She got up as she spoke, confronting the Countess, and trying
to throw all the energy of which she was capable into her
vehement words. But even in her own ears her voice sounded
shrill and weak, and seemed to die away as if she were talking
in her sleep; the very strength of her emotion appeared
unreal, and failing her when she most needed it: her words
seemed to have no meaning, and as she finished speaking, she
dropped down on her seat again with a little sob, feeling that
she was conquered, for she had no power of resistance left in
her.
So she lay upon the sofa in a sot of doze, while a tribunal of
three sat upon, condemned, and sentenced this poor little
criminal, who knew nothing of what they were saying after she
had made her own ineffectual little protest. Madame Bertrand,
indeed, good old soul, with the softest and kindest of hearts,
would not at first hear of her being sent away; she was fond
of the child, she said; she had known her for years, and felt
sure there was something in her story that they did not yet
understand. But Madame Bertrand was old--moreover, she was not
a little in awe of the niece whom she had called in to assist
her failing powers; moreover, she had perhaps a lurking idea
that they might after all be right, and that there was
something exceptionally heinous in running away from a
convent; so she was soon overruled by the other two, who
settled the matter in a very summary way--Madelon must return
to the convent with Madame la Comtesse that very day.
She was roused up presently, and made to drink some wine by
Madame Bertrand, who was in despair because she could eat none
of the good things she had provided, and felt nothing but and
old traitress, as Madelon stood up at last, looking about her
with dazed eyes; and then, without further opposition,
submissively put on her hat, took up her bundle, and prepared
to follow the Countess. Indeed, had Madame Bertrand known how
recently the child had recovered from a long illness, nothing,
I think, would have induced her to let her go; but she only
supposed she was over-tired with her strange night journey;
and, in fact, the wine and the rest together had so far
revived Madelon that she appeared quite capable of walking
down to the station with the Countess. Madame Bertrand gave
her great hug as she wished her good-bye, and was perhaps a
little aggrieved at the passive way in which Madelon received
it.
"If ever you want help, come back to me--will you not, _mon
enfant?_--and I will help you, if I can."
"Yes," said Madelon; "but they will not let me run away again;
will they?"
"Let you run away, _ma petite?_"
"Yes--Aunt Thérèse, you know. She won't let me do it again."
"Your aunt? You told me she was dead;" cried Madame.
"Yes, so she is," said Madelon. "I was forgetting, I think.
Good-bye, Madame Bertrand. You will let me stay next time,
will you not? But I must go now?" And she followed the
Countess out of the house without another word.
Madame la Comtesse, having got her own way, was kind enough to
the child who had so unwittingly strayed across her path. When
they reached the station she gave her her ticket, made her sit
down in the waiting-room, and even offered her refreshment in
the interval before the train started. Indeed, we should err
if we attributed to the Countess, whom this little episode in
our Madelon's history has brought for the second, and we may
trust for the last, time before us--we should err, I say, in
attributing to her any feeling of ill-will towards Madelon, or
any special interest in her conduct or fate. Neither need it
be imagined that she was actuated by any large views of duty
towards the world in general: she was not at all benevolent,
but neither was she particularly ill-natured; she was merely a
shallow-minded, frivolous woman, who, having long since
lowered her standard of perfection to suit her own
attainments, saw fit to measure every one else by her own
narrow ideal, and to set them right where they proved
themselves wanting--a convenient process, which enabled her to
satisfy her vague sense of duty, and right and wrong, without
any reference to her own possible shortcomings. In capturing
our little stray Madelon, and taking her back to the convent,
she felt she was doing a deed that would afford her matter for
self-congratulation for days to come; and she was gracious and
affable accordingly, speaking to Madelon in a tone of
condescending good-nature, which was quite lost upon the
child, who was beyond caring for kindness or unkindness just
then. She was only conscious of some terrible burden, which
she could not define nor reason upon, but which seemed to
oppress and weigh her down, making her incapable of thought,
or speech, or motion. When they got into the railway-carriage
she could only lean back in the corner, with a general sense
that something dreadful had happened, or was going to happen;
but that her head ached too much, and felt too confused, for
her to remember what it was all about.
They changed carriages at Pepinster, and, still in the same
dream of misery, Madelon followed the Countess from one train
to another. They set off again, but presently, as the
slackening speed showed that they were approaching another
station, she suddenly woke up to the keenest perception of her
situation, with a quickening of her numbed senses to the most
vivid realization of all she had lost, of all she might have
to endure. Ah! it was all true, and no dream--she had run away
from the convent to make Monsieur Horace's fortune; and she
had not done it, and now all was over, and she was being taken
back to the convent--and there would be no more chance of
escape for her--never more. In the agony of this thought she
turned towards the Countess, with a half-formed intention of
throwing herself at her feet, and imploring, in such voice and
accents as should admit of no refusal, to be allowed to go
away--anyhow, anywhere, only as far as possible from Liége. But
she checked herself as she saw that the Countess, with a
handkerchief thrown over her face, had comfortably composed
herself to sleep in one corner, and a new idea suggested
itself as the train stopped at a little village station. The
child glanced towards the woman; she still slept, or appeared
to do so, and the next moment Madelon had opened the door,
and, taking up her bundle, had slid swiftly and silently out
of the carriage.
The train moved on, and a drowsy Countess might presently
awake to find with astonishment that she was alone in the
compartment; but our little Madelon, left standing on the
platform, had slipped out of her sight and knowledge for ever.