would
remain for a few days till he was recovered enough to be moved. He
replied that he would leave as soon as his horses were ready, and
refused to take food or drink from their hands. His servant was brought
from the Louis Quinze Hotel, and through him he got what was needed for
refreshment, and requested that no one of the household should come near
him. At night, in the darkness, he took his departure, no servant of the
household in attendance. But as he got into the carriage, Madelinette
came quickly to him, and said:

"I would give ten years of my life to undo to-day's work."

"I have no quarrel with you, Madame," he said gloomily, raised his hat,
and was driven away.

CHAPTER IV. MADELINETTE MAKES A DISCOVERY

The national fete of the summer was over. The day had been successful,
more successful indeed than any within the memory of the inhabitants;
for the English and French soldiers joined in the festivities without
any intrusion of racial spirit, but in the very essence and soul of
good-fellowship. The General had called at the Manor, and paid his
respects to the Seigneur, who received him abstractedly if not coolly,
but Madelinette had captured his imagination and his sympathies. He was
fond of music for an Englishman, and with a ravishing charm she sang
for him a bergerette of the eighteenth century and then a ballad of
Shakespeare's set to her own music. She was so anxious that the great
holiday should pass off without one untoward incident, that she would
have resorted to any fair device to attain the desired end. The
General could help her by his influence and instructions, and if the
soldiers--regulars and militia--joined in the celebrations harmoniously,
and with goodwill, a long step would be made towards undoing the harm
that Louis had done, and maybe influencing him towards a saner, wiser
view of things. He had changed much since the fateful day when he had
forced George Fournel to fight him; had grown more silent, and had
turned grey. His eyes had become by turns watchful and suspicious,
gloomy and abstracted; and his speech knew the same variations; now
bitter and cynical, now sad and distant, and all the time his eyes
seemed to grow darker and his face paler. But however moody and variable
and irascible he might be with others, however unappeasable, with
Madelinette he struggled to be gentle, and his petulance gave way under
the intangible persuasiveness of her words and will, which had