Madeline, stricken with remorse, has asked his plans, but he has told her nothing. When she hinted that she might wish to communicate with him, he replied that any communication for him can be sent through Madame de Fontenay. And now, while the carriage which contains Monsieur Belleisle is rolling away through the thickening darkness, Madeline turns to discuss her tutor with her new friend. She has waxed eloquent in her praise of him, and is just in the middle of a fresh eulogium, when the waiter brings in the supper, and Madame de Fontenay retires to prepare for the meal. When she returns, divested of her bonnet and her cloak, and takes her seat at the head of the table, she says-- ‘When I ordered supper, ma chère Mam’selle Hazlemere, I took the liberty of ordering it for two, for look you, ever since the days of my childhood I could never bear to eat alone. You will join me? Non? Well, you will at least break a biscuit and drink with me a glass of wine.’ Whereupon Madeline, who has turned from the supper, takes her seat at the table to crumble her biscuit and sip the wine which Madame de Fontenay has poured; but at this juncture Madeline grows thoughtful, and Madame de Fontenay, who has hitherto been rather reticent, grows very talkative indeed, sips her wine with a relish, disposes of the various courses, pausing now and again to glance with piercing eyes at the girl. Supper being over, Madame rises and slips her hand through Madeline’s arm. ‘Come to the window, Mademoiselle,’ she says, ‘and take a breath of air while the waiter prepares the coffee. But first--see, you have not finished your wine.’ She lifts the glass, which still holds a little wine, and offers it to Madeline, but the girl, with a deprecating movement, turns away. ‘I cannot take any more of that wine, Madame,’ she says; ‘it is very strong; I think it has made me feel quite stupid.’ Madame de Fontenay gives a little laugh, and holding her hand still tighter on her companion’s arm, and leading her to a seat in the window, places herself by her side. ‘Ah, my child,’ she says, ‘it is not the effect of the wine; it is the result of the trouble, the excitement, the fatigue, through which you have passed this day. You will get to bed, and rise in the morning refreshed for your journey back.’ Madeline assents. She sits in the window allowing the widow to stroke her feverishly burning hand; but as that strange drowsiness oppresses her more and more, she goes to bed and falls into a heavy slumber. When she awakens it is broad day; a figure dressed in black is bending above her, holding a tray. Madeline rubs her eyes--then, looking through a mist which seems to obscure her sight, she recognises the pale, bloodless features of Madame de Fontenay; she looks round the room, everything is misted; she rises in bed, and finds she can scarcely sit up. Her temples throb, her head burns--she seems to have been seized with fever.