In the morning, the old Comte St. Juste was less feverish, but nevertheless not himself. He had, as he complained, a confused feeling. The world was full of Roses--oh, the most _charmantes_--and of Clotildes equally divine. They were coming up the avenue in automobiles, they were entering the room, they were sitting with him, they were pouring into his ear the fact that his mission was not accomplished. He had gone to the _établissement_, but he had not seen _the little wonder_. He could not rest until he saw her. In vain Margot tried to soothe him. She longed beyond words to quiet his mind by telling him the simple truth--that she was _la petite_, _she_ was the little wonder of the _établissement_ Marcelle. But when she hinted at such a proceeding to _la belle_ grand'mère, that poor woman gave a cry of bitter horror. "Thou wilt kill _mon_ Alphonse; thou _wilt_ not be so cruel, thou _canst_ not be so cruel." "Ah, but I ought, I ought," sobbed Margot. Madame la grand'mère consulted with the doctor. "M. _le docteur_ said that if anything was told at the present moment to excite the very old man, it would be his death; if Margot would not promise silence, she must keep out of the room." "It will soothe him, _ma belle_ grand'mère," cried little Margot. Nevertheless la Comtesse kept the child from the sick man's room. One hour he grew better, another hour weaker, his strength kept fluctuating; then he began to watch the door. "It will soon be time for _la petite_ Comtesse to return; I want _la petite_," he said to his wife. The distracted woman kept on telling him that she would soon appear; the Comte kept on listening; he fixed his sunken eyes on the clock. "How soon will the time fly?" he cried impatiently; "how soon will _la petite_ be in these arms?" Poor little Margot was upstairs, struggling with the great despair that had visited her. The dear old man--the dearest old man in all the world except The Desmond--why was she not with him?--how wicked of people to tell lies; she would never tell another. She resolved as soon as she returned to Desmondstown to tell The Desmond also the whole truth. Toward evening the Comte's temperature went down; it went down to normal--below normal--far below. Madame was thankful, thinking the worst was over. The old man dropped into a quiet sleep; he looked very aged in that sleep. The doctor came in. Madame exclaimed excitedly: "Ah, Monsieur _le docteur_, I have news of the best. His temperature is----" Then she suddenly stopped speaking--the doctor's face was very grave. He prepared a strong stimulant and forced the old man to swallow it in teaspoonfuls. Then he went into another room with Madame la Comtesse. "What is the matter?" he said. "Has the child betrayed you?" "_Non, non_," replied Madame. "I have put her upstairs, but he thinks she is still at school at Arles--learning, ever learning; dancing, ever dancing; making herself _très jolie_--ah, that is what he thinks, _mon_ adored one."