“A few hours after monsieur’s departure--I will not be positive as to the exact time, but it must have been between one and two o’clock as the midday _table d’hôte_ was in progress--a gentleman came and asked for madame----” “Yes--be quick.” “I demanded whether I should take up his card, but he said ‘No,’ that was unnecessary, as he was perfectly well known to madame; and, in fact, a short time afterwards, without saying anything to any one, she departed with him.” “And did not return in the evening?” “No, monsieur; madame has not returned since that day.” I clench my hands in an agony of rage and grief. “So this is it! With that pure child-face, with that divine ignorance--only three weeks married--this is the trick she has played me!” I am recalled to myself by a compassionate suggestion from the garçon. “Perhaps it was the brother of madame.” Elizabeth has no brother, but the remark brings back to me the necessity of self-command. “Very probably,” I answer, speaking with infinite difficulty. “What sort of looking gentleman was he?” “He was a very tall and dark gentleman with a most peculiar nose--not quite like any nose that I ever saw before--and most singular eyes. Never have I seen a gentleman who at all resembled him.” I sink into a chair, while a cold shudder creeps over me as I think of my poor child’s dream--of her fainting fit at Wiesbaden--of her unconquerable dread of and aversion from my departure. And this happened twelve days ago! I catch up my hat, and prepare to rush like a madman in pursuit. “How did they go?” I ask incoherently; “by train?--driving?--walking?” “They went in a carriage.” “What direction did they take? Whither did they go?” He shakes his head. “It is not known.” “It _must_ be known,” I cry, driven to frenzy by every second’s delay. “Of course the driver could tell; where is he?--where can I find him?” “He did not belong to Lucerne, neither did the carriage; the gentleman brought them with him.” “But madame’s maid,” say I, a gleam of hope flashing across my mind; “did she go with her?” “No, monsieur, she is still here; she was as much surprised as monsieur at madame’s departure.” “Send her at once,” I cry eagerly; but when she comes I find that she can throw no light on the matter. She weeps noisily and says many irrelevant things, but I can obtain no information from her beyond the fact that she was unaware of her mistress’s departure until long after it had taken place, when, surprised at not being rung for at the usual time, she had gone to her room and found it empty, and on inquiring in the hotel, had heard of her sudden departure; that, expecting her to return at night, she had sat up waiting for her till two o’clock in the morning, but that, as I knew, she had not returned, neither had anything since been heard of her.