He retired to a luxurious suite of rooms across the hall, to smoke a cigar and wait, with mingled eagerness and trepidation, for the interview with his stolen bride, the fair and hapless Violet. Meanwhile Suzanne was busy with her unconscious charge. She brought from the dressing-room a robe of soft, silvery white silk, with a loose front trimmed in billowy cascades of frosty white lace. Then she proceeded to undress Violet and array her lovely form in the dainty garment. Then, and not till then, did she make the least effort to restore Violet from her heavy swoon. While she bathed the pale face and hands in _eau de cologne_, she gazed in amazement and delight at the exquisite face and form, the curly golden tresses, the marvelous grace of the hapless girl. “Mon Dieu, what wealth of golden hair! What beauty! of a certainement, zis bride is ze fairest of ze fair!” she exclaimed, in rapture. Suddenly Violet’s fair breast heaved with returning life, her white lids trembled, then flared wide open, and the woman beheld her charge’s greatest charm, the splendid dark-blue eyes like violets in the spring, touched with golden sunshine. She gave a low cry of admiration, and drew those glorious eyes to her face. “I--I--oh, who are you, and where am I?” cried Violet, weakly, staring in amazement at the dark, strange face of the French maid. “Miladi, you are at home. You have arrived with your husband one little while ago, remember you not?” replied the vivacious Suzanne. Violet pressed her hand to her brow in bewilderment, and, lifting her head, gazed about the unfamiliar apartment. She saw a spacious apartment hung with draperies of white and gold--a sumptuous apartment lined with massive mirrors that reflected everywhere luxury and beauty, couches of white velvet and gold satin, exquisite statuettes, costly pictures in richly gilded frames, flowers everywhere, roses and violets predominating, and the whole scene lighted softly by wax candles burning in exquisite candlesticks fashioned like white lilies--a room fit for a queen. Mademoiselle Suzanne waited eagerly for some cry of admiration from miladi, but none came, and she exclaimed: “It is beautiful, magnifique, is it not?” The blue eyes turned back to her face. “What is your name? What are you doing here?” asked Violet. “Suzanne, miladi, your French maid. Monsieur, your husband, engage me to have care of you.” “You must not call me miladi. I am an American girl and my name is Miss Mead.” “Oh, madame, I crave pardon. You are married now. Do you forget? Your name it is Mrs. Harold Castello.” She saw the beautiful face blanch to the hue of death, heard a stifled cry of anguish cross the pale lips, and cried out, soothingly. “Be comforted. You have a rich and handsome husband. That is what all the ladies desire. Is it not so?” “Go, send that man to me. I must speak to him!” exclaimed Violet, with flashing eyes and a tone of command. CHAPTER XXVI. AT BAY.