"Madelon!" he cried, and
followed her. Down the lighted staircase, out into the lighted
street, he could see the swift little figure darting along the
Place Royale, where he had been walking not half an hour ago,
all quiet and dark now; the music gone, the people dispersed,
the rain falling heavily. Still she ran on, into the avenue of
the Promenade a Sept Heures. It was darker still there, only a
rare lamp slanting here and there a long gleam of light across
the wet path. Horace began to be afraid that he should lose
her altogether, but she suddenly stumbled and fell, and when
he came up to her, she was sitting all in a heap on the ground
at the foot of a tree, her face buried in her hands, her frame
shaking with sobs.
"Madelon," said Horace, stooping down, and trying to take her
hands; "my little Madelon, my poor little child!"
She jumped up when she heard his voice, and started away from
him.
"_Ne me touchez pas, je vous le defends_," she cried, "_ne me
touchez pas, je vous deteste--vous etes un cruel--un perfide!_"
She began to sob again, and dropped down once more upon the
ground, crouched upon the damp earth, strewn with dead fallen
leaves.
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