Several days passed. Every day she met the Marquis at dinner, and each time she met him his manner seemed to change. Whenever he shook hands he gave her fingers a slight pressure; sometimes his eyes, after diligently trying to meet hers, would fix upon her face a look full of strange inquiry, which she, not comprehending, could not reply to. Ere long his easy freshness wore off--his manner grew nervous and changeful, his cheeks pale and haggard; he seemed to become the slave of Belleisle, and at times glanced with almost terror-stricken eyes at Madeline. What could it all mean? Every day Madeline grew more troubled, more sick at heart. She had resolved to elicit an explanation from the nobleman, but she soon found that to be impossible. Now that she watched for an opportunity she saw that she had none. Although apparently a free agent, she was, in reality, a prisoner--guarded and carefully watched either by her husband or Madame de Fontenay. What was to be done? Speak to him she must and would; stratagem must be employed--but how? After long pondering and much thought, Madeline hit upon a plan which she thought might possibly succeed. Having got dressed for dinner one night, she dismissed her maid, and, before the widow could come for her, hurriedly wrote down the following lines:-- _Monsieur,--I would like to see you and speak with you alone. Please meet me to-morrow night at nine o’clock in the lobby of the Hôtel Bellevue._ _Madeline de Fontenay._ That evening when dinner was over and Madeline rose to follow Madame de Fontenay from the room, she deliberately shook hands with the Marquis. ‘Good-night, Monsieur,’ she said softly; then her hand was timidly withdrawn, and the Marquis, with a bow, let his arm drop by his side. Madeline retired early that night; the next morning she went her usual drive with her companion. The air was bitterly cold, for winter had set in, and Madeline, wrapped in furs, lay back in the carriage with flushed cheeks and feverishly sparkling eyes, and inhaled the chilly air with quick and feverish sigh*. ‘God only knows,’ she was thinking, ‘what trouble this evening may bring; a few hours hence and I shall meet the Marquis, and, having met him, what can I say or do? I will throw myself upon his mercy--I will tell him the truth, and, in return, demand it of him.’ To her amazement the Marquis did not appear at dinner that night. She saw that Monsieur Belleisle was worried by his absence, and that Madame de Fontenay, too, seemed strangely ill at ease. Dinner was hurried over quickly, and the ladies retired. Having reached the drawing-room, Madeline threw herself into an easy chair and closed her eyes. ‘I have a headache,’ she said, in answer to Madame de Fontenay’s anxious inquiries. ‘I am feverish to-night, Madame, and I think I shall soon retire.’ And the widow, secretly glad of the opportunity of being alone that evening, kissed the girl on both her cheeks, and soon withdrew.