om her bed,
her face wet with tears. She lighted a candle and began to write. Note
after note she altered and destroyed. When at length she had written one
to her liking, she sealed it up. Then she put on her cloak and went down
towards the Rue Louise.

IX.

Outside, the rain pattered against the window; within Jacques and his
wife sat at supper. Someone tapped at the door and Madame went to open
it: "Ciel!" she cried. "But you are wet!"

Mademoiselle Elise spoke with quickened breath as if she had been
hurrying.

"I only come to see Jacques--Jacques do you know where Monsieur Raoul is
staying at Rouen? I have a message for him."

Jacques looked at his wife. It was she who answered: "Monsieur returned
unexpectedly this afternoon, Mademoiselle; he is upstairs now."

The muscles of Mademoiselle's face twitched as with a sudden pain. A
look of terror came into her bright eyes. She rested her hand on the
chair beside her, as if she were faint.

"Take off your cloak," said Madame, "and Jacques will tell Monsieur that
you are here."

Jacques rose, but Mademoiselle stopped him. "No," she said; "I will go
to him, if I may. I have a message for him."

Mademoiselle Elise went up. Raoul opened the door.

"Did you wonder what had become of me?" he stammered. The unexpectedness
of her coming unnerved him. He forgot his planned excuse.

"I thought you were at Rouen," she said mechanically, and without
raising her eyes, "or I should not have come. I have a message for you."

"You are wet," he said. "Give me your cloak, and rest until Madame
Martin has dried it."

He gave the cloak to Julie and closed the door.

The small room was lighted by a single candle. Opposite the door the
wall was covered with books from floor to ceiling. In a corner an open
bureau was strewed with papers. The violin was laid carelessly on an old
harpsichord.

Mademoiselle saw these things as she walked over and stood by the
fireplace. Her dark hair, disordered by the hood of the cloak, hung
loosely over her forehead and heightened the worn expression on her
white face. She drew back her black dress slightly and rested one foot
on the edge of the fender, and watched the steam that rose from the damp
shoe.

Jacques brought up a cup of coffee, with a message that Mademoiselle was
to drink it at once, lest she should catch a cold. She smiled sadly,
took the cup, raised it, touched it with her parched lips, and set it
aside.

Raoul came an