It was the third evening
after her arrival in Spa; she was preparing for her third
visit to the Redoute, and this was what her capital of thirty
francs had already produced.
The last ten-franc piece disappeared within the bag, and
Madelon, taking her hat and cloak, began to put them on
slowly, pausing as she did so to reflect.
"If I have the same luck this evening," she thinks, "to-morrow
I shall be able to write to Monsieur Horace--if only I have--and
why not? I have scarcely lost once these last two nights.
Certainly it is better to play in the evening than in the
daytime. I remember now that papa once said so, and to-night I
feel certain--yes, I feel certain that I shall win--and then to-
morrow----"
She clasped her hands in ecstasy; she looked up at the evening
sky. It was a raw, grey September evening, with gusts of wind
and showers of rain at intervals. But Madelon cared nothing
for the weather; her heart was all glowing with hope, and joy,
and exultation. She put on her hat and veil, took up her
money, and locking her door after her, ran downstairs.
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