"Madame Bouïsse has promised to go with me to the Messageries." Silenced, and perhaps a little hurt, I rose to take my leave. "I wish you a safe journey, mademoiselle," I said, "and a safe return," "And think me, at the same time, an ungrateful patient." "I did not say that." "No--but you thought so. After all, it is possible that I seem so. I am undemonstrative--unused to the amenities of life--in short, I am only half-civilized. Pray, forgive me." "Mademoiselle," I said, "your apology pains me. I have nothing to forgive. I will send Madame Bouïsse to you immediately." And with this I had almost left the room, but paused upon the threshold. "Shall you be long away?" I asked, with assumed indifference. "Shall I be long away?" she repeated, dreamily. "How can I tell?" Then, correcting herself, "Oh, not long," she added. "Not long. Perhaps a fortnight--perhaps a week." "Once more, then, good-night." "Good-night," she answered, absently; and I withdrew. I then went down, sent Madame Bouïsse to wait upon her, and sat up anxiously listening more than half the night. Next morning, at seven, I heard Madame Bouïsse go in again. I dared not even go to her door to inquire how she had slept, lest I should seem too persistent; but when they left the room and went downstairs together, I flew to my window. I saw her cross the street in the gray morning. She walked feebly, and wore a large cloak, that hid the disabled arm and covered her to the feet. Madame Bouïsse trotted beside her with a bundle of cloaks and umbrellas; a porter followed with her little portmanteau on his shoulder. And so they passed under the archway across the trampled snow, and vanished out of sight. CHAPTER XLIV. A PRESCRIPTION. A week went by--a fortnight went by--and still Hortense prolonged her mysterious absence. Where could she be gone? Was she ill? Had any accident befallen her on the road? What if the wounded hand had failed to heal? What if inflammation had set in, and she were lying, even now, sick and helpless, among strangers? These terrors came back upon me at every moment, and drove me almost to despair. In vain I interrogated Madame Bouïsse. The good-natured _concierge_ knew no more than myself, and the little she had to tell only increased my uneasiness. Hortense, it appeared, had taken two such journeys before, and had, on both occasions, started apparently at a moment's notice, and with every indication of anxiety and haste. From the first she returned after an interval of more than three weeks; from the second after about four or five days. Each absence had been followed by a long season of despondency and lassitude, during which, said the _concierge_, Mademoiselle scarcely spoke, or ate, or slept, but, silent and pale as a ghost, sat up later than ever with her books and papers. As for this last journey, all she knew about it was that Mam'selle had had her passport regulated for foreign parts the afternoon of the day before she started.