And behind her, too, already separated from her by
a distance more impassable than that which can be counted by
leagues, lies Madelon's old life, to which many and many a
time, with passionate outcries, perhaps, with tender
unspeakable yearnings, she will look back across an ever-
widening space, only to see it recede more hopelessly into a
remoter past.
She does not understand all this yet, however, with the new
life scarcely a week old. She is thinking of Monsieur Horace,
as she stands there looking out at the sunset sky; they have
just dined, and behind her a deft waiter is removing the
cloth; and in a minute she turns round gladly, as Monsieur
Horace himself comes into the room.
"Shall we take a walk, Madelon?" he says, "or are you too
tired?"
"I am not at all tired," Madelon answered. "I should like to
have a walk; may we go and look at the convent where Aunt
Therese lives? I should like to see it."
"That is a good idea," said Horace. "I will inquire
whereabouts it is, and we will go and have a look at it."
The convent, they were told, stood on the outskirts of Liege,
about a quarter of a mile outside the town, and a little off
the great highroad leading through Chaudfontaine and its
adjacent villages to Pepinster and Spa.
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