istance,
and my uncle's heavy tread as he went up to his bedroom. The business was
over.

How slowly my uncle went upstairs! The burden of sorrow was no metaphor
in his case. He, who used to be as active as a boy, could now
hardly-support his own weight.

He crossed the landing and went into his room. I thought of following,
him; only a few feet lay between us. No doubt it was late, but his
excited state might have predisposed him in my favor. Suddenly I heard a
sigh--then a sob. He was weeping; I determined to risk all and rush to
his assistance.

But just as I was about to leave the library a skirt rustled against the
wall, though I had heard no sound of footsteps preceding it. At the same
instant a little bit of paper was slipped in under the door--a letter
from the silent Madeleine. I unfolded the paper and saw the following
words written across from one corner to the other, with a contempt for
French spelling, which was thoroughly Spanish:

"Ni allais pat ceux soire."

Very well, Madeleine, since that's your advice, I'll refrain.

I lay down to sleep on the sofa. Yet I was very sorry for the delay. I
hated to let the night go by without being reconciled to the poor old
man, or without having attempted it at least. He was evidently very
wretched to be affected to tears, for I had never known him to weep, even
on occasions when my own tears had flowed freely. Yet I followed my old
and faithful friend's advice, for I knew that she had the peace of the
household as much at heart as I; but I felt that I should seek long and
vainly before I could discover what this latest trouble was, and what
part I had in it.

CHAPTER XIX

JEANNE THE ENCHANTRESS

BOURGES, August 5th.

I woke up at seven; my first thought was for M. Mouillard. Where could he
be? I listened, but could hear no sound. I went to the window; the
office-boy was lying flat on the lawn, feeding the goldfish in the
fountain. This proved beyond a doubt that my uncle was not in.

I went downstairs to the kitchen.

"Well, Madeleine, has he gone out?"

"He went at six o'clock, Monsieur Fabien."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"How could I guess? Never, never does he go out before breakfast. I never
have seen him like this before, not even when his wife died."

"What can be the matter with him?"

"I think it's the sale of the practice. He said to me last night, at the
fool of the staircase: 'I am a brokenhearted