as if I had thought she was there, but found only Madelaine. I
asked her with a meaning look where her mistress was. She replied by
begging me to tell her, if I knew.

"Has she gone by herself?"

"I know nothing at all about it, sir, but they say you know all. I beg of
you to leave me."

Pretending to be in the greatest astonishment, I slowly walked away and
took a coach, glad to have accomplished this painful duty. After the
reception I had met with I could without affectation pose as offended,
and visit the family no more, for whether I were guilty or innocent,
Madame X. C. V. must see that her manner had been plain enough for me to
know what it meant.

I was looking out of my window at an early hour two or three days
afterwards, when a coach stopped before my door, and Madame X C V-,
escorted by M. Farsetti got out. I made haste to meet them on the stair,
and welcomed them, saying I was glad they had done me the honour to come
and take breakfast with me, pretending not to know of any other reason. I
asked them to sit down before the fire, and enquired after the lady's
health; but without noticing my question she said that she had not come
to take breakfast, but to have some serious conversation.

"Madam," said I, "I am your humble servant; but first of all pray be
seated."

She sat down, while Farsetti continued standing. I did not press him, but
turning towards the lady begged her to command me.

"I am come here," she said, "to ask you to give me my daughter if she be
in your power, or to tell me where she is."

"Your daughter, madam? I know nothing about her! Do you think me capable
of a crime?"

"I do not accuse you of abducting her; I have not come here to reproach
you nor to utter threats, I have only come to ask you to shew yourself my
friend. Help me to get my daughter again this very day; you will give me
my life. I am certain that you know all. You were her only confidant and
her only friend; you passed hours with her every day; she must have told
you of her secret. Pity a bereaved mother! So far no one knows of the
facts; give her back to me and all shall be forgotten, and her honour
saved."

"Madam, I feel for you acutely, but I repeat that I know nothing of your
daughter."

The poor woman, whose grief touched me, fell at my feet and burst into
tears. I was going to lift her from the ground, when Farsetti told her,
in a voice full of indignation, that she should blush to humble herself
in s