"But can you not remember in what direction the diligence was going?" I asked, again and again. "No, M'sieur--not in the least," "Nor the name of the town to which her place was taken?" "I don't know that I ever heard it, M'sieur." "But at least you must have seen the address on the portmanteau?" "Not I, M'sieur--I never thought of looking at it." "Did she say nothing to account for the suddenness of her departure?" "Nothing at all." "Nor about her return either. Madame Bouïsse? Just think a moment--surely she said something about when you might expect her back again?" "Nothing, M'sieur, except, by the way--" "Except what?" "_Dame_! only this--as she was just going to step into the diligence, she turned back and shook hands with me--Mam'selle Hortense, proud as she is, is never above shaking hands with me, I can tell you, M'sieur." "No, no--I can well believe it. Pray, go on!" "Well, M'sieur," she shakes hands with me, and she says, "Thank you, good Madame Bouïsse, for all your kindness to me.... Hear that, M'sieur, 'good Madame Bouïsse,'--the dear child!" "And then--?" "Bah! how impatient you are! Well, then, she says (after thanking me, you observe)--'I have paid you my rent, Madame Bouïsse, up to the end of the present month, and if, when the time has expired, I have neither written nor returned, consider me still as your tenant. If, however, I do not come back at all, I will let you know further respecting the care of my books and other property." If she did not come back at all! Oh, Heaven! I had never contemplated such a possibility. I left Madame Bouïsse without another word, and going up to my own rooms, flung myself upon my bed, as if I were stupefied. All that night, all the next day, those words haunted me. They seemed to have burned themselves into my brain in letters of fire. Dreaming, I woke up with them upon my lips; reading, they started out upon me from the page. "If I never come back at all!" At last, when the fifth day came round--the fifth day of the third week of her absence--I became so languid and desponding that I lost all power of application. Even Dr. Chéron noticed it, and calling me in the afternoon to his private room, said:-- "Basil Arbuthnot, you look ill. Are you working too hard?" "I don't think so, sir." "Humph! Are you out much at night?" "Out, sir?" "Yes--don't echo my words--do you go into society: frequent balls, theatres, and so forth?" "I have not done so, sir, for several months past." "What is it, then? Do you read late?" "Really, sir, I hardly know--up to about one or two o'clock; on the average, I believe." "Let me feel your pulse." I put out my wrist, and he held it for some seconds, looking keenly at me all the time. "Got anything on your mind?" he asked, after he had dropped it again. "Want money, eh?" "No, sir, thank you." "Home-sick?" "Not in the least."