me; and it seemed
to me that she had at one time driven a kind of trade, no doubt profitable
enough, in escorting young ladies to establishments on the Continent; and
although I did not then quite understand the tone in which she spoke to me,
I often thought afterwards that Madame had represented me as a young person
destined for the holy vocation of the veil.

When she was gone, I sat listlessly looking out of the window, and saw some
chance equipages drive by, and now and then a fashionable pedestrian; and
wondered if this quiet thoroughfare could really be one of the arteries so
near the heart of the tumultuous capital.

I think my nervous vitality must have burnt very low just then, for I felt
perfectly indifferent about all the novelty and world of wonders beyond,
and should have hated to leave the dull tranquillity of my window for an
excursion through the splendours of the unseen streets and palaces that
surrounded me.

It was one o'clock before Madame joined me; and finding me in this dull
mood, she did not press me to accompany her in her drive, no doubt well
pleased to be rid of me.

After tea that evening, as we sat alone in our room, she entertained me
with some very odd conversation--at the time unintelligible--but which
acquired a tolerably distinct meaning from the events that followed.

Two or three times that day Madame appeared to me on the point of saying
something of grave import, as she scanned me with her bleak wicked stare.

It was a peculiarity of hers, that whenever she was pressed upon by an
anxiety that really troubled her, her countenance did not look sad or
solicitous, as other people's would, but simply wicked. Her great gaunt
mouth was compressed and drawn down firmly at the corners, and her eyes
glared with a dismal scowl.

At last she said suddenly--

'Are you ever grateful, Maud?'

'I hope so, Madame,' I answered.

'And how do you show your gratitude? For instance, would a you do great
deal for a person who would run _risque_ for your sake?'

It struck me all at once that she was sounding me about poor Meg Hawkes,
whose fidelity, notwithstanding the treason or cowardice of her lover, Tom
Brice, I never doubted; and I grew at once wary and reserved.

'I know of no opportunity, thank Heaven, for any such service, Madame. How
can anyone serve me at present, by themselves incurring danger? What do you
mean?'

'Do you like, for example, to go to that French Pension? Would you