How Madelon kept her Promise.
Madelon was standing in a little upper bedroom of the Hôtel de
Madrid, a room so high up that from the window one looked over
the tops of the trees in the Place Royale below, to the
opposite hills. It was already dusk, but there was sufficient
light to enable her to count over the little piles of gold
that lay on the table before her, and which, as she counted,
she put into a small canvas bag. It was the third evening
after her arrival in Spa; she was preparing for her third
visit to the Redoute, and this was what her capital of thirty
francs had already produced.
The last ten-franc piece disappeared within the bag, and
Madelon, taking her hat and cloak, began to put them on
slowly, pausing as she did so to reflect.
"If I have the same luck this evening," she thinks, "to-morrow
I shall be able to write to Monsieur Horace--if only I have--and
why not? I have scarcely lost once these last two nights.
Certainly it is better to play in the evening than in the
daytime. I remember now that papa once said so, and to-night I
feel certain--yes, I feel certain that I shall win--and then to-
morrow----"
She clasped her hands in ecstasy; she looked up at the evening
sky. It was a raw, grey September evening, with gusts of wind
and showers of rain at intervals. But Madelon cared nothing
for the weather; her heart was all glowing with hope, and joy,
and exultation. She put on her hat and veil, took up her
money, and locking her door after her, ran downstairs. She
hung the key up in Madame Bertrand's room, but Madame Bertrand
was not there. On Madelon's arrival at the hotel she had found
the excellent old woman ill, and unable to leave her room, and
it was in her bed that she had given the child the warmest of
welcomes, and from thence that she had issued various orders
for her comfort and welfare. Her attack still kept her
confined to her room, and thus it happened that our Madelon,
quite independent, found herself at liberty to come and go
just as she pleased.
She hung up her key, in the deserted little parlour, and,
unchallenged, left the hotel, and went out into the tree-
planted Place, where the band was playing, and people walking
up and down under the chill grey skies. She felt very hopeful
and joyous, so different from the first time she had started
on the same errand, and the fact inspired her with ever-
increasing confidence. She had failed then, and yet here she
was, successful in her last attempts, ready to make another
crowning trial, and with how many more chances in her favour!
Surely she could not fail now!--and yet if she should! She was
turning towards the Redoute, when an idea suddenly occurred to
her--an idea most natural, arising, as it did, from that
instinctive cry for more than human help, that awakes in every
heart on great emergencies, and appealing, moreover, to that
particular class of religious sentiment which in our little
orphaned Madelon had most readily responded to convent
teaching. What if it had been the Holy Virgin Mother who had
been her protector in all these troubles, who had raised her
up friends, and had brought her from death, as it were, to
life again, to fulfil her promise? And if it were so,--which
seemed most probable to Madelon,--would it not be well to
invite her further protection, and even by some small offering
to give emphasis to her prayers? Madelon's notions, it will be
perceived, were not in strict accordance with convent
orthodoxy, which would scarcely have been willing to recognize
the Virgin's help in a successful escape from the convent
itself; but orthodox notions were the last things with which
it was to be expected our Madelon would trouble herself.
Without other thought than that here might be another and sure
way of furthering her one object, she made her way into a
church, and expending two sous in a lighted taper, carried it
to a little side chapel, where, above a flower-decorated
altar, a beneficent Madonna seemed to welcome all sad orphans
in the world to her all-protecting embrace.
To me there is something infinitely touching in these shrines
to the Virgin, with all their associations of suffering and
prayer, in their little ex-voto pictures, and flowers, and
lighted tapers. I do not envy those who can see in them
nothing but the expression of a pitiable superstition; to my
mind they appeal to far wider sympathies, as one thinks of the
sick and weary hearts who have come there to seek consolation
and help. Everywhere one comes across these shrines--in the
gloom of some great Cathedral, in some homely village church,
in some humble wayside chapel, where, amidst sunny fields and
pastures, amidst mountains, streams, and lakes, one reads the
little heart-broken scrawls affixed to the grating, praying an
Ave-Maria or Paternoster from the passer-by, for a sick
person, for a mother watching beside her dying child, for a
woman forsaken of the world. A whole atmosphere of consecrated
suffering seems to float round these spots sacred to sorrow,
the sorrow that humbly appeals, as it best knows how, to the
love, wide enough to embrace and comfort all desolate, and
yearning, and heavy-laden souls.
One can fancy Madelon as she walks along the dim church; one
or two lights twinkle here and there in the darkness, the
taper she holds shines on her little pale face, and her brown
eyes are lighted up with a sudden glow of enthusiasm,
devotion, supplication, as she kneels for a moment before the
Virgin's altar, with an Ave-Maria on her lips, and an unspoken
prayer in her heart.
Half an hour later, Madelon, in the midst of the blaze of
light in the big gambling salon of the Redoute, is thinking of
nothing in the world but rouge-et-noir and the chances of the
game before her. For the first time she has ventured to push
her way through the crowd and take a seat at the table; and
for the moment she has forgotten her object, forgotten why she
is there even, in the excitement of watching whether black or
red will win. It matters little, it seems; whatever she stakes
on, comes up; her small capital is being doubled an trebled.
She had taken off her veil, which hitherto she had carefully
kept down, and the little flushed face, with the eager eyes
that sparkle with impatience at every pause in the game, is
noticed by several people round the table. Her invariable
luck, too, is remarked upon. "Stake for me, _mon enfant_,"
whispered a voice in her ear, and a little pile of five-franc
pieces was put in front of her. Madelon, hardly thinking of
what she did, staked the stranger's money along with her own
on the red. It won. "Thank you, my child; it is the first time
I have won to-night," said the voice again, as a long hand
covered with rings swept up the money. Madelon turned round
quickly: behind her stood a woman with rouged cheeks, a low
evening dress half concealed by a black lace shawl, beads and
bracelets on her neck and arms--a common figure enough--there
were half-a-dozen more such in the room--and she took no more
notice of Madelon, but went on pricking her card without
speaking to her again. But to the child there came a quick
revulsion of feeling, that she could not have explained, as
she shrank away from her gaudily-attired neighbour. All at
once the game seemed somehow to have lost its interest and
excitement; the crowds, the heat, the light, suddenly
oppressed her; for the first time her heart gave way. She felt
scared, friendless, lonely. There came to her mind a thought
of the peaceful faces of the black-robed sisters, a sound as
of the tinkling bell ringing above the old cabbage-ground, a
breath sweet with the scent of fresh roses in Jeanne-Marie's
little garden; she had a momentary impulse to go, to fly
somewhere, anywhere--ah! but whither? Whither in all the wide
world could she go? Back to the convent to be made a nun? Back
to Jeanne-Marie with her promise unfulfilled? "I will keep my
promise, I will not be frightened," thinks the poor child,
bravely; "I will fancy that papa is in the room, and that he
will take care of me." And all these thoughts pass through he
head while the croupier is crying, "_Faites votre jeu,
Messieurs, faites votre jeu!_" and in, and on she goes again.
And while she is intent on making Monsieur Horace's fortune,
Monsieur Horace himself, not five hundred yards off, is
walking up and down the Place Royale, listening to the band,
and troubling his head not at all about fortune-making, but
very much about Madelon. On his recovery from his illness, he
had come to Spa to drink the waters, and had been there nearly
a month, during which time he had twice been over to Liége to
make inquiries about Madelon. His dismay had been great, when,
on his first visit to the convent, he had learnt that
Mademoiselle Linders was dead, that her little niece had
disappeared three or four months before, and that nothing had
been heard of her since, with the exception of the vague,
anonymous letter from Paris. He wrote off at once to Madame
Lavaux, the only person with whom he could imagine Madeleine
to have taken refuge; but, as we know, Madame Lavaux had
neither seen her nor heard anything about her. He had then, in
his perplexity, written to her old friends in Florence,
thinking it just possible they might be able to give him some
information, but with no more success. He received an answer
from the American artist, in which he mentioned the death of
the old violinist, lamented Madelon's disappearance, but, as
may be supposed, gave no news of her.
Graham was greatly annoyed and perplexed. What could have
become of the child? To whom could she have gone? She had had
no friend but himself when he had last parted from her, and
she could hardly, he imagined, have made any outside the
convent walls. And why had she run away? Had she been unkindly
treated? Why had she not written to him if she were in
trouble? These and a hundred other questions he asked himself,
reproaching himself the while for not having kept up some kind
of communication with her, or with Mademoiselle Linders. He
had a real interest in, and affection for, the child, whom he
had befriended in her hour of need; and held himself besides
in some sort responsible for her welfare, after the promise he
had made to her father on his death-bed. What was he to do if
all traces of her were indeed lost? This very day he had again
been over to Liége, had paid a second visit to the convent,
and had made inquiries of every person who probably or
improbably might have had news of her, but with no more result
than before; and now, as he walked up and down the Place
Royale, he was debating in his own mind whether he could take
any further steps in the matter, or whether it must not rather
now be left to time and chance to discover her hiding-place.
A shower of rain came on, dispersing the few people who had
cared to linger in the open air in this raw, chilly evening;
and Horace, leaving the Place, went up the street, which, with
its lights and shops, looked cheerfully by comparison, and,
like the rest of the world, turned into the Redoute, more than
usually full, for it was the race-week, and numbers of
strangers had come into the town. The ball-room, where dancing
was going on, was crowded; and Graham, who, attracted by the
music, had looked in, had soon had enough of the heat and
noise. In a few minutes he had made his way into the gambling
salon, and had joined one of the silent groups standing round
the tables.
Meanwhile, Madelon, once more absorbed in the game, is
meditating her grand _coup_. Hitherto she has been playing
cautiously, her capital accumulating gradually, but surely,
till she has quite a heap of gold and notes before her. It is
already a fortune in her eyes, and she thinks, if she could
only double this all at once, then indeed would the great task
be accomplished; she might go then, she might write to
Monsieur Horace, she would see him again--ah! what joy, what
happiness! Should she venture? Surely it would be very rash to
risk all that at once--and yet if she were to win--and she has
been so lucky this evening-- her heart leaps up again--she
hesitates a moment, then pushes the whole on to the black,
reserving only one ten-franc piece, and sits pale, breathless,
incapable of moving, during what seemed to her the longest
minute in her life. It was only a minute--the croupier dealt
the cards--"_Rouge perd, et couleur_," he cried, paid the smaller
stakes, and then, counting out gold and notes, pushed over to
her what was, in fact, a sufficiently large sum, and which, to
her inexperienced eyes, seemed enormous. "Who is she?" asked
one or two of the bystanders of each other. "She has been
winning all the evening." They shrugged their shoulders;
nobody knew. As for Madelon, she heard none of their remarks--
she had won, she might go now, go and find Monsieur Horace;
and as this thought crossed her mind, she gathered up her
winnings, thrust them into her bag, and rose to depart. As she
turned round, she faced Monsieur Horace himself, who had been
standing behind her chair, little dreaming whose play it was
he had been watching.
She recognised him in a moment, though he had grown thinner
and browner since she had last seen him. "Monsieur Horace!--
Monsieur Horace!" she cried.
He was still watching the game, but turned at the sound of her
voice, and looked down on the excited little face before him.
"Madelon!" he exclaimed--"Madelon here!--no, impossible!
Madelon!"
"Yes, yes," she said, half laughing, half crying at the same
time, "I am Madelon. Ah! come this way--let me show you. I have
something to show you this time--you will see, you will see!"
She seized both his hands as she spoke, and pulled him through
the crowd into the adjoining reading-room. It was all lighted
up, the table strewn with books and papers; but no one was
there. Madelon was in a state of wild excitement and triumph.
"Look here," she cried; "I promised to make your fortune, did
I not, Monsieur Horace?--and I have done it! Ah! you will be
rich now--see here!" she poured the contents of her bag on the
table before him. "Are you glad?" she said.
"Glad!--what on earth are you talking about? Where did you get
this money, Madelon?"
"Where?--why, there, at the tables, to be sure--where else?" she
answered, getting frightened at his manner.
"But--gracious powers! are you out of your senses, child?"
cried Graham. "Whatever possessed you to come here? What
business have you in a place like this? Are you alone?"
"Yes, I am alone. I came to make your fortune," answered
Madelon, dismayed.
"My fortune!" he repeated. "What can have put such a notion
into your head? As for that money, the sooner you get rid of
it the better. What the devil--good heavens! a baby like you!--
here, give it to me!"
"What are you going to do?" cried Madelon, struck with sudden
fear, as he swept it up in his hand.
"Take it back, of course," he answered, striding into the next
room.
"Ah! you shall not!" she cried passionately, running after
him, and seizing his hand; "it is mine, it is mine, you shall
not have it!"
"Hush, Madelon," he said, turning round sharply, "don't make a
disturbance here."
She made no answer, but clung with her whole weight to his arm
as he approached the table. She dragged his hand back, she
held it tight between hers; her face was quite pale, her teeth
set in her childish passion.
"Madelon, let go!" said Graham; "do you hear what I say? Let
go!"
"Give me my money back!" she cried, in a passionate whisper;
"you have no right to take it; it is my own."
"Let go," he repeated, freeing his hand as he spoke. She
seized it again, but it was too late; he had placed the money
on the table, and with the other hand pushed it into the
middle. A horrible pause, while Madelon clung tighter and
tighter, watching breathlessly till she saw the croupier rake
in the whole. All was lost, then; she flung Horace's hand
away, and rushed out of the room. "Madelon!" he cried, and
followed her. Down the lighted staircase, out into the lighted
street, he could see the swift little figure darting along the
Place Royale, where he had been walking not half an hour ago,
all quiet and dark now; the music gone, the people dispersed,
the rain falling heavily. Still she ran on, into the avenue of
the Promenade à Sept Heures. It was darker still there, only a
rare lamp slanting here and there a long gleam of light across
the wet path. Horace began to be afraid that he should lose
her altogether, but she suddenly stumbled and fell, and when
he came up to her, she was sitting all in a heap on the ground
at the foot of a tree, her face buried in her hands, her frame
shaking with sobs.
"Madelon," said Horace, stooping down, and trying to take her
hands; "my little Madelon, my poor little child!"
She jumped up when she heard his voice, and started away from
him.
"_Ne me touchez pas, je vous le défends_," she cried, "_ne me
touchez pas, je vous déteste--vous êtes un cruel--un perfide!_"
She began to sob again, and dropped down once more upon the
ground, crouched upon the damp earth, strewn with dead fallen
leaves. Her hat had fallen off, and the rain came down upon
her uncovered head, wetting the short hair as it was blown
about by the wind, drenching her thin little cloak and old
black silk frock. A very pitiful sight as she sat there, a
desolate, homeless child, on this dark, wet autumn night, deaf
in her excess of childish rage to Horace's words, shaking him
off with wilful, passionate gestures whenever he touched her--a
very perplexing sight to the young man, who stood and watched
her, uncertain what to say or do next.
At last she grew a little quieter, and then he spoke to her in
a tone of authority:--
"You must get up, Madelon; you will get quite wet if you stay
here."
He took hold of her hand, and held it firmly when she tried to
loosen it, and at last she got up slowly. As she rose, she
became conscious of the wet and cold, and was completely
sobered as she stood shivering at Horace's side.
"My poor little Madelon!" he said, in the kind voice she
remembered from old times. "You are quite wet and so cold, we
must not stay here; tell me where you are going?"
"I don't know," said Madelon, beginning to cry again. Only an
hour ago she had been so full of joy and hope, with such a
bright future before her; and now the rain and wind were
beating in her face, above her the black sky, darkness all
around; where indeed was she going?
"But you have some friends here?" said Horace--"you are not
staying here all alone?"
"Yes, I am all alone," said Madelon, sobbing. "Oh! what shall
I do?--what shall I do?"
"Don't cry so, Madelon," said Graham, "my poor child, don't be
frightened. I will take care of you, but I want you to tell me
all about this. Do you mean you are all alone in Spa?"
"Yes, I am all alone; I came here three days ago. I had been
ill at Le Trooz, and a woman there--Jeanne-Marie--took care of
me; but as soon as I was well and had money enough, I came to
Spa, and went to the Hôtel de Madrid. Papa and I used to go
there, and I knew Madame Bertrand who keeps it."
"So you slept there last night," said Horace, not a little
mystified at the story, but trying to elucidate some fact
sufficiently plain to act upon.
"Yes, last light, and before. I left my things there, and
meant to have gone back to-night, but I have no money now.
What is to be done?" That grand question of money, so
incomprehensible to children to whom all things seem to come
by nature, had long ago been faced by Madelon, but had never
before, perhaps, presented itself as a problem so incapable of
solution--as a question to be asked of such a very dreary,
black, voiceless world, from which no answer could reasonably
be expected. But, in truth, the answer was not far off.
"I will take care of all that," said Horace; "so now, come
with me. Stay, here is your hat; we must not go without that."
He arranged her disordered hair and crushed hat, and then,
taking her hand, led her back towards the town, Madelon very
subdued, and miserable, and cold, Horace greatly perplexed as
to the meaning of it all, but quite resolved not to lose sight
of his charge any more.
Arrived at the Hôtel de Madrid, he left Madelon for a moment
in the shabby little coffee-room, while he asked to speak to
Madame Bertrand. Madame Bertrand, as we know, was ill and in
bed, but the maid brought down Madelon's bundle of things.
Graham asked her a few questions, but the girl evidently knew
nothing about the child. "Madame knew--she had dined in
Madame's private room the last two days," but she could not
tell anything more about her, and did not even know her name.
When Graham came back to the room, he found Madelon standing
listlessly as he had left her; she had not moved. "Well," he
said cheerily, "that is settled; now you are my property for
the present; you shall sleep at my hotel to-night."
"At your hotel?" she said, looking up at him.
"Yes, where I am staying. Your friend here is not well. I
think I shall look after you better. You do not mind coming
with me?"
"No, no!" she cried, beginning to cling to him in her old way--
"I will go anywhere with you. Indeed I did not mean what I
said, but I am very unhappy."
"You are tired and wet," answered Graham, "but we will soon
set that to rights; you will see to-morrow, you will not be
unhappy at all. Old friends like you and me, Madelon, should
not cry at seeing each other again; should they?"
Talking to her in his kind, cheerful way, they walked briskly
along till they arrived at the hotel. Madelon was tired out,
and he at once ordered a room, fire, and supper for her, and
handed her over to the care of a good-natured chambermaid.
"Good night, Madelon. I will come and see after you to-morrow
morning," he said smiling, as he left her.
She looked up at him for a moment with a most pitiful, eager
longing in her eyes; then suddenly seizing his hands in her
wild excited way--"Oh, Monsieur Horace, Monsieur Horace, if I
could only tell you!" she cried; and then, as he left the
room, and closed the door, she flung herself upon the floor in
quite another passion of tears than that she had given way to
in the Promenade à Sept Heures.