She must get out of the convent--that was
evidently the first thing to be done; and this safely
accomplished, the path of action seemed tolerably clear. She
would make her way to Spa, which, as she well knew, was not
far off, and go to an hotel there, which her father had
frequented a good deal, and where there was a good-natured
landlady, who had always petted and made much of the little
lonely child, once at Spa-- but here Madelon's plans assumed a
bright and dazzling aspect, which, undimmed by any prophetic
mist, unshaded by any foreboding cloud, almost deprived them
of that distinctness so requisite for their calm and impartial
consideration. All the difficulties seemed to lie on the road
between the convent and the Redoute at Spa; once there, there
could be no doubt but that this fortune, which she was pledged
in her poor little foolish idea to obtain, would be made in no
time at all. She could perfectly figure to herself the piles
of notes and gold that would flow in upon her; and how she
would then write to Monsieur Horace at the address he had
given her; and then Madelon had in her own mind a distinct
little picture of herself, pouring out a bag of gold at
Monsieur Horace's feet, with a little discourse, which there
was still time enough to compose!
But it could not be denied that there were two formidable
obstacles standing between her and this so brilliant
consummation; first, that she was not yet out of the convent,
and that there was no perfectly obvious means of getting out;
secondly, that she had no money.
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