" And all these thoughts pass through he
head while the croupier is crying, "_Faites votre jeu,
Messieurs, faites votre jeu!_" and in, and on she goes again.
And while she is intent on making Monsieur Horace's fortune,
Monsieur Horace himself, not five hundred yards off, is
walking up and down the Place Royale, listening to the band,
and troubling his head not at all about fortune-making, but
very much about Madelon. On his recovery from his illness, he
had come to Spa to drink the waters, and had been there nearly
a month, during which time he had twice been over to Liege to
make inquiries about Madelon. His dismay had been great, when,
on his first visit to the convent, he had learnt that
Mademoiselle Linders was dead, that her little niece had
disappeared three or four months before, and that nothing had
been heard of her since, with the exception of the vague,
anonymous letter from Paris. He wrote off at once to Madame
Lavaux, the only person with whom he could imagine Madeleine
to have taken refuge; but, as we know, Madame Lavaux had
neither seen her nor heard anything about her.
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