"Who is she?" asked
one or two of the bystanders of each other. "She has been
winning all the evening." They shrugged their shoulders;
nobody knew. As for Madelon, she heard none of their remarks--
she had won, she might go now, go and find Monsieur Horace;
and as this thought crossed her mind, she gathered up her
winnings, thrust them into her bag, and rose to depart. As she
turned round, she faced Monsieur Horace himself, who had been
standing behind her chair, little dreaming whose play it was
he had been watching.
She recognised him in a moment, though he had grown thinner
and browner since she had last seen him. "Monsieur Horace!--
Monsieur Horace!" she cried.
He was still watching the game, but turned at the sound of her
voice, and looked down on the excited little face before him.
"Madelon!" he exclaimed--"Madelon here!--no, impossible!
Madelon!"
"Yes, yes," she said, half laughing, half crying at the same
time, "I am Madelon. Ah! come this way--let me show you. I have
something to show you this time--you will see, you will see!"
She seized both his hands as she spoke, and pulled him through
the crowd into the adjoining reading-room.
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