fortune, which she was pledged
in her poor little foolish idea to obtain, would be made in no
time at all. She could perfectly figure to herself the piles
of notes and gold that would flow in upon her; and how she
would then write to Monsieur Horace at the address he had
given her; and then Madelon had in her own mind a distinct
little picture of herself, pouring out a bag of gold at
Monsieur Horace's feet, with a little discourse, which there
was still time enough to compose!

But it could not be denied that there were two formidable
obstacles standing between her and this so brilliant
consummation; first, that she was not yet out of the convent,
and that there was no perfectly obvious means of getting out;
secondly, that she had no money. The former of these
objections did not, however, appear absolutely insurmountable.
Just beneath her window the wall was covered with a tangle of
vines, and jessamine, and climbing roses; to a slim active
child, with an unalterable purpose, the descent of even twenty
feet of wall with so much friendly assistance might have
seemed not unfeasible; but, in fact, Madelon's window was
raised hardly ten feet above the flower-bed below. Once in the
garden, there was, as in most old garden walls, a corner where
certain displaced bricks would afford a sufficient footing,
aided by the wide-spreading branches of the great westeria,
and the tough shoots of clinging ivy. The wall was not high;
what might be its aspect on the other side she was not
certain, though she had an unpleasant haunting memory of a
smooth, white-washed surface; but once on the top, it would be
hard indeed if she could not get down; and then, as she knew,
there was only a field to be crossed, and she would find
herself in the highroad leading from Liege to Chaudfontaine,
and so through Pepinster to Spa. No, getting out of the
convent was not the difficulty. It would be easier, certainly,
if one could walk out at the front door; but this being a
possibility not to be calculated upon, two walls should not
stand in the way. The real problem, of which even Madelon's
sanguine mind saw no present solution, was how to get on
without money, or rather how to procure any. She had none, not
even a centime, and she was well aware that her fortune could
in no wise be procured without some small invested capital:
and besides, how was she to get to Spa at all without money?
Could she walk there? Her ideas of the actual distance were