“You mean the day that you met Mathilde Stangerson?” “That is what I mean,” responded the lad in a trembling voice. (Ah, if I had known at that moment that Professor Stangerson’s daughter, as the result of her first marriage in America, had had a child, a son, who would have been, if he had lived, the same age as Rouletabille, perhaps I would have at last comprehended his emotion and grief, and the strange reluctance which he showed to pronounce the name of Mathilde Stangerson there at the school, to which, in the past, had come so often the Lady in Black!) There was a long silence, which I finally broke. “And you have never known why the Lady in Black did not return?” “Oh!” cried Rouletabille. “I am sure that she did return. It was I who was not here.” “Who took you away?” “No one: I ran away.” “Why? To look for her?” “No--no! To flee from her--to flee from her, I tell you, Sainclair. But she came back--I know that she came back.” “She may have been broken hearted at not finding you.” Rouletabille raised his arms toward the sky and shook his head. “I don’t know--how can I know? Ah, what an unhappy wretch I am! But, hush, Sainclair! Here comes Pere Simon! Now, he’s gone again. Quick--to the parlor!” We were there in three seconds. It was a commonplace room enough, rather large, with cheap white curtains in front of the shadeless windows. It was furnished with six leather chairs placed against the wall, a mantel mirror, and a clock. The whole appearance of the place was sombre. As we entered the room, Rouletabille uncovered his head with an appearance of respect and reverence which one rarely assumes except in a sacred place. His face became flushed, he advanced with short steps, rolling his travelling cap in his hands as if he were embarrassed. He turned to me and said in low tones--far lower than he used in the chapel: