) "will sail prosperously." No such remark fell; neither the
_Antigua_, nor her course, nor her passenger were named.

Perhaps the light chat scarcely interested old Madame Walravens more
than it did me; she appeared restless, turning her head now to this
side, now that, looking through the trees, and among the crowd, as if
expectant of an arrival and impatient of delay. "Ou sont-ils? Pourquoi
ne viennent-ils?" I heard her mutter more than once; and at last, as if
determined to have an answer to her question--which hitherto none
seemed to mind, she spoke aloud this phrase--a phrase brief enough,
simple enough, but it sent a shock through me--"Messieurs et mesdames,"
said she, "ou donc est Justine Marie?"

"Justine Marie!" What was this? Justine Marie--the dead nun--where was
she? Why, in her grave, Madame Walravens--what can you want with her?
You shall go to her, but she shall not come to you.

Thus _I_ should have answered, had the response lain with me, but
nobody seemed to be of my mind; nobody seemed surprised, startled, or
at a loss. The quietest commonplace answer met the strange, the
dead-disturbing, the Witch-of-Endor query of the hunchback.

"Justine Marie," said one, "is coming; she is in the kiosk; she will be
here presently."

Out of this question and reply sprang a change in the chat--chat it
still remained, easy, desultory, familiar gossip. Hint, allusion,
comment, went round the circle, but all so broken, so dependent on
references to persons not named, or circumstances not defined, that
listen as intently as I would--and I _did_ listen _now_ with a fated
interest--I could make out no more than that some scheme was on foot,
in which this ghostly Justine Marie--dead or alive--was concerned. This
family-junta seemed grasping at her somehow, for some reason; there
seemed question of a marriage, of a fortune--for whom I could not quite
make out-perhaps for Victor Kint, perhaps for Josef Emanuel--both were
bachelors. Once I thought the hints and jests rained upon a young
fair-haired foreigner of the party, whom they called Heinrich Muehler.
Amidst all the badinage, Madame Walravens still obtruded from time to
time, hoarse, cross-grained speeches; her impatience being diverted
only by an implacable surveillance of Desiree, who could not stir but
the old woman menaced her with her staff.

"La voila!" suddenly cried one of the gentlemen, "voila Justine Marie
qui arrive!"

This moment was for me peculiar.