It seemed like an extraordinary fate that that night her mother kept her downstairs at needlework later than usual. It was in truth a slight mark of returning favour. Madame de Sainfoy was in a better temper, and realised that it might be unwise to treat a tall girl of nineteen quite like a disobedient child. So Hélène sat there stitching beside Mademoiselle Moineau, who was sometimes called upon to take a hand at cards. To-night this did not seem likely, for Urbain de la Marinière came in after dinner, and the snuffy, sharp-faced little Curé of Lancilly was there too. Madame de Sainfoy had asked him to dine that day, partly to show herself superior to family prejudices; for this little man, unlike the venerable Curé of La Marinière, was one of the Constitutional priests of the Republic. Flushing crimson, and feeling, as she well might, like a heroine of romance, Hélène heard the new Paris clock strike nine. Its measured, silvery tones had not died away, when she was by her mother's side at the card-table, timidly asking leave to go to her room. Madame de Sainfoy had just glanced at her hand and found it an excellent one. "Yes, my child, certainly," she said absently, and gave Hélène her free hand. The girl touched it with her lips, and then her mother's fingers lightly patted her cheek. "How feverish you are!" Adélaïde murmured, but took no further notice, absorbed in her game. "Like a little flame! but it is a hot night," said Hervé as his daughter kissed him. Mademoiselle Moineau was following Hélène from the room, when she was called back. "No, mademoiselle, you must stay; we cannot do without you. Monsieur le Curé has to be home before ten o'clock." The governess went back obediently to her corner. Hélène glanced back from the door at the group round the table, deep in their calculations, careless of what might be going on outside their circle of shaded candle-light. Only her father lifted his head and looked after her for an instant; her presence or absence was totally indifferent to the other men, though the square-headed cousin Urbain was Angelot's father; and her mother had forgotten her already. Carrying her light, Hélène went with quick and trembling steps through the house to the north wing. As she entered the last passage, she met the maid who had been waiting on Sophie and Lucie, and who slept in the room next her own. "Mademoiselle wants me?" said Jeanne, a little disappointed; she had hoped for half-an-hour's freedom. "No, no, I do not want you," Hélène answered quickly. "I have things to do--you can stay till Mademoiselle Moineau comes up." Jeanne went on her way rejoicing.