Silence fell on the small hot room. Ange Desaix rocked softly with the sleeping child. She was the only one who never even glanced at the astrologer and his pupil. Presently Marie said: "Monsieur, there is a picture." "What then, say?" "A boy, with a broom, sweeping." He nodded gravely. "Yes, yes. Watch well; the pictures come." "He has made a clean place," said the child, "and on the clean place there is a shadow. Ah, now it turns into a lady—into this lady whose hand is on my head. She stands and looks at me, and a man comes and catches her by the neck and cuts off her hair. That is a pity, for her hair is very long and fine. Why does he cut it?" "Mon Dieu!" said Mme de Labédoyère with a sob. She released the child and sat down by the wall, leaning against it, her eyes wide with fear. "You asked to see the future, Madame," said the old man impassively. "Can you show the past?" asked Mme de Vieuxmesnil, half hesitatingly. "Assuredly. You must touch the child, and think of what you wish to see." She came forward and put out her hand, but drew it quickly back again. "No," she murmured; "it is perhaps a sin. I am too near the end for that, and when one cannot even confess." "As you will," said the old man. "And you, Madame," he turned to Aline, "is there nothing you would know; no one for whose welfare you are anxious?" She started, for he had read her thoughts, which were full of Dangeau. It was months now since any word had come from him, and she longed inexpressibly for tidings. Lawful or unlawful, she would try this way, since there was no other. She laid her hand lightly on the little girl’s head, and once more the child looked into the dark pool. "There are so many people," she said at last. "They run to and fro, and wave their arms. That makes one’s head ache." "Go on looking," said Aristide. "There is a lady there now. It is this lady. She looks very frightened. Some one has put a red cap on her head. Ah—now a gentleman comes. He takes her hand and puts a ring on it. Now he kisses her." Aline drew away. The clamour and the crowd, the hasty wedding, the cold first kiss, all swam together in her mind. "That is the past," she said in a low, strained voice. "Tell me where he is now. Is he alive? Where is he? Shall I see him again?" She had forgotten her surroundings, the listeners, Mme de Breteuil’s sharp eyes. She only looked eagerly at Aristide, and he nodded once or twice, and laid her hand again on the child’s head. "She shall look," he said, but Marie lifted weary eyes. "Monsieur, I am tired," she said. "Just this once more, little one. Then you shall sleep," and she turned obediently and bent again over his hand. "I do not like this picture," she said fretfully. "What is it?"