She stretched herself to her full length under the bedclothes, her whole body tingling at the recollection, and buried her burning cheeks in the pillows. With eyes tightly shut as if she were unwilling for outward objects to break the trance of misery, she recalled every detail of Gilbert’s visit. Shame, and something like anger at her own stupidity, came over her, for now he must know, he must guess their secret. Not even Gilbert could think that she cared like that for his cousin. But the torturing anxiety for Louis came to banish her own confusion. If only he were safe, nothing mattered; the world might think what it liked. It was only Louis, Louis that she wanted! Why had she not taken him, when she might have called him to herself through all these months? Because it was against honour and right; and what were honour and right set against love and longing such as this? She had deceived herself; she had listened to Madame Elisabeth, and thought that she too could rise to heights of devotion and sacrifice. . . . Oh, it was mockery! She wanted no favours from the cold heaven of the saints! To feel Louis’ arms round her and his kisses on her hair, that were worth an age-long purgatory. But the gates of love had opened, and closed again for ever, as she believed, and a great darkness came down upon her soul. * * * * * * It was no doubt fortunate for Lucienne that the whole of that day was spent in the most engrossing preparations for departure—the final depositing of articles in chests, the final shrouding up of furniture. Dear to the heart of Madame Gaumont were such doings, and little did she intend to find, when she returned from her English visit, that her property had suffered by her absence. Although she would not allow Lucienne to lift a finger, and kept her in bed most of the day, the salutary sense of bustle pervading the house did something to distract the girl’s mind. Lucienne had another distraction also. In the morning she had said that she could not see M. de Château-Foix when he came; by the evening she was in a fever to know why he had not come. Was it because he had guessed her secret, or because he was somehow engaged in Louis’ affairs? The night of July 4th fell and she was no wiser, but filled with surmises each more agonising than the other. She rose on the morning of the start pale and heavy-eyed. Madame Gaumont repressed with difficulty the exclamation of dismay which trembled on her lips, when Lucienne appeared in her hostess’s boudoir about ten o’clock. Had she not guessed that there was something very much wrong she would have given vent to it. “Does Justine want any help, my dear, or has she quite finished your trunk? I declare,” pursued the good lady, “if she has not left out my second-best silk!” As the injured mistress rang for the erring maid Lucienne sank down into a big chair. “How long before we leave the house, Madame?” she asked listlessly.