re?" asked M. Verduret in a low tone, pointing to one of the
doors.

"No," said the woman in the same tone, "over there, in the little
parlor."

M. Verduret opened the door pointed out, and pushed Prosper into the
little parlor, whispering, as he did so:

"Go in, and keep your presence of mind."

But his injunction was useless. The instant he cast his eyes around
the room into which he had so unceremoniously been pushed without any
warning, Prosper exclaimed, in a startled voice:

"Madeleine!"

It was indeed M. Fauvel's niece, looking more beautiful than ever. Hers
was that calm, dignified beauty which imposes admiration and respect.

Standing in the middle of the room, near a table covered with silks and
satins, she was arranging a skirt of red velvet embroidered in gold;
probably the dress she was to wear as maid of honor to Catherine de
Medicis.

At sight of Prosper, all the blood rushed to her face, and her beautiful
eyes half closed, as if she were about to faint; she clung to the table
to prevent herself from falling.

Prosper well knew that Madeleine was not one of those cold-hearted women
whom nothing could disturb, and who feel sensations, but never a true
sentiment.

Of a tender, dreamy nature, she betrayed in the minute details of her
life the most exquisite delicacy. But she was also proud, and incapable
of in any way violating her conscience. When duty spoke, she obeyed.

She recovered from her momentary weakness, and the soft expression of
her eyes changed to one of haughty resentment. In an offended tone she
said:

"What has emboldened you, monsieur, to be watching my movements? Who
gave you permission to follow me, to enter this house?"

Prosper was certainly innocent. He would have given worlds to explain
what had just happened, but he was powerless, and could only remain
silent.

"You promised me upon your honor, monsieur," continued Madeleine, "that
you would never again seek my presence. Is this the way you keep your
word?"

"I did promise, mademoiselle, but----"

He stopped.

"Oh, speak!"

"So many things have happened since that terrible day, that I think I am
excusable in forgetting, for one hour, an oath torn from me in a moment
of blind weakness. It is to chance, at least to another will than my
own, that I am indebted for the happiness of once more finding myself
near you. Alas! the instant I saw you my heart bounded with joy. I did
not think, no I could not think, tha