All this in an impetuous stream, half soliloquy, half entreaty. In her passion and excitement the girl looks very lovely, and the Frenchman gazes at her in growing admiration. Then a thought seems to strike him, and he looks at her slyly and smiles. ‘Why are you laughing, Monsieur?’ she cries. ‘I was thinking, _mignonne_, how ridiculous you would look if you returned. Ah, Dieu, how they would _laugh!_’ This is a move in the right direction. The young lady cannot bear ridicule, and she frowns at the very thought of it. For some minutes she seems plunged in bitter reflection; then she speaks again. ‘No, I am not afraid,’ she cries; ‘I do not fear any but Madame, and when I have apologised she will take my part. Oh, why did I come with you? why did I think of running away?’ ‘Because you love me, _mon ange!_’ ‘Love you, Monsieur Belleisle? I like you better than Herr Bunsen, because he is always cross and stupid and you are good-tempered. And I thought you handsome. Well, I did not know my mind. I will not marry you--the thought is ridiculous. You are thirty years old, and I do not like Frenchmen.’ Despite her protestations, the post-chaise still continues its wild career. It is dark at last, and the darkness is deepened by long avenues of spectral fir-trees which line the road on either side. A diligence passes swiftly by, with murmur of voices and jingling of bells. As night comes on the girl grows frightened, shrinks away from her companion, and sobs bitterly. He tries to comfort her with embraces and loving words, but she avoids his touch, and rejects all his consolations. If there were enough light to show his face, it would reveal an aspect almost Mephistophelean in its cat-like expression. His long fingers close and unclose nervously; he would like to use force, but he lacks the courage. At last he wins her to comparative quiescence by proving to her that return is impossible before the morrow, and by promising that when the morrow comes he will, if she still wishes it, see her safely back to school. With this poor comfort she is obliged to be content; for the house she left at daybreak lies thirty miles behind, and it would be useless to turn thither now. Presently the lights of a town gleam before them, and, after rattling through some dark suburbs, they draw up before the threshold of an inn--the _Lion d’Or_. It is a large dreary place, with little or no custom. A ghostly waiter shows them to a great _salle à manger_, which is totally deserted. ‘While dinner is preparing, perhaps Madame would like to make her toilette?’ He lays emphasis on the ‘Madame’; and then demands, respectfully, how many chambers will be required.