Lucille approached her with some trepidation, and to avoid coming upon her wholly by surprise she made a little detour, and thus had an opportunity of seeing the features of the stranger, as well as of permitting her to become aware of her approach. Her appearance, upon a nearer approach, was not such as to reassure Lucille. She was tall, deadly pale, and marked with the smallpox. She had particularly black eyebrows, and awaited the young lady's approach with that ominous smile which ascends no higher than the lips, and leaves the eyes and forehead dark, threatening, and uncertain. Altogether, there was a character, it might be of insanity, it might be of guilt, in the face, which was formidable. Lucille wished herself at home, but there was that in the blood of the Charrebourgs which never turned away from danger, real or imaginary, when once confronted. "So you are Lucille de Charrebourg?" said the figure, looking at her with that expression of malice, which is all the more fearful that it appears causeless. "Yea, Madame, that is my name; will you be so good as to tell me, beside, the name of the lady who has been kind enough to desire an interview with me?" "For a name; my dear, suit yourself; call me Sycorax, Jezebel, or what you please, and I will answer to it." "But what are you?" "There again I give you a _carte blanche_; say I am a benevolent fairy; you don't seem to like that? or your guardian-angel? nor that neither! Well, a witch if you please, or a ghost, or a fortune-teller--ay, that will do, a fortune-teller--so that is settled." "Well, Madame, if I may not know either your name or occupation, will you be good enough at least to let me hear your business." "Surely, my charming demoiselle; you should have heard it immediately had you not pestered me with so many childish questions. Well, then, about this Monsieur Le Prun?" "Well, Madame?" said Lucille, not a little surprised. "Well, my dear, I'm not going to tell you whether this Monsieur Le Prun is an angel, for angels they say _have_ married women; or whether he is a Bluebeard--you have heard the story of Bluebeard, my little dear--but this I say, be he which he may, _you_ must not marry him." "And pray, who constrains my will?" exclaimed the girl, scornfully, but at the same time inwardly frightened. "_I_ do, my pretty pigeon; if you marry him, you do so forewarned, and if he don't punish you _I_ will." "How dare you speak in that tone to me?" said Lucille, to whose cheek the insolent threat of the stranger called a momentary flush of red; "_you_ punish me, indeed, if _he_ does not! I'll not permit you to address me so; besides I have help close by, if I please to call for it." All this time the woman was laughing inwardly, and fumbling under her white robe, as if in search of something.