"Aunt
Therese was the Superior, but she is dead. I walked to
Chaudfontaine in the night--and--oh, Madame Bertrand, don't let
them come and take me back!" She gave a terrified glance round
the room, and caught hold of Madame Bertrand.
"No one shall take you away; don't be afraid, _chere petite_;
but tell us all bout it. Walked to Chaudfontaine in the night!
Why, you must be half dead, poor little one! And what have you
come to Spa for--have you any friends here?"
"No," said Madelon, "I thought you would help me, and let me
stay here for a little while."
"And so you shall--for as long as you like," said Madame; "but
what have you come here for? Have you no friends to go to?"
"Yes--I--I--ah, I forgot!" cried Madelon, burying her face in her
hands. All of a sudden she remembered how she had intended
writing to Monsieur Horace, all that she had meant to say to
him, and how she would have asked him to come and help her--and
now all that was at an end. As to telling Madame Bertrand or
any one else of her cherished plans--never; that was her own
secret, which she would never, never part with, except to
Monsieur Horace himself.
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