But the tones of the voice were sharp and yet
piteous, as if she were in constant pain; and
the glance of her eye hurried and fearful,
as if she dared not let it rest on any
object.

"In a week we heard of Clément's safe
arrival on the French coast, He sent a letter
to this effect by the captain of the smuggler,
when the latter returned. We hoped to hear
again; but week after week elapsed, and
there was no news of Clément. I had told
Lord Ludlow, in Madame de Créquy's
presence, as he and I had arranged, of the note I
had received from her son, informing us of
his landing in France. She heard, but she
took no notice. Yet now, evidently, she began
to wonder that we did not mention any
further intelligence of him in the same
manner before her; and daily I began to fear
that her pride would give way, and that she
would supplicate for news before I had any
to give her.

"One morning, on my awakening, my maid
told me that Madame de Créquy had passed
a wretched night, and had bidden Medlicott
(whom as understanding French, and
speaking it pretty well, though with that
horrid German accent, I had put about
her) request that I would go to madame's
room as soon as I was dressed.

"I knew what was coming, and I trembled
all the time they were doing my hair,
and otherwise arranging me. I was not
encouraged by my lord's speeches. He had heard
the message, and kept declaring that he
would rather be shot than have to tell her
that there was no news of her son; and yet
he said every now and then, when I was at
the lowest pitch of uneasiness, that he
never expected to hear again: that some
day soon we should see him walking in,
and introducing Mademoiselle de Créquy to us.

"However at last I was ready, and go I must.

"Her eyes were fixed on the door by
which I entered. I went up to the bedside.
She was not rouged,—she had left it off now
for several days,—she no longer attempted to
keep up the vain show of not feeling, and
loving, and fearing.

"For a moment or two she did not speak,
and I was glad of the respite.

"'Clément?' she said at length, covering
her mouth with a handkerchief the minute
she had spoken, that I might not see it
quiver.

"'There has been no news since the first
letter, saying how well the voyage was
performed, and how safely he had landed,—near
Dieppe, you know,' I replied as cheerfully
as possible. 'My lord does not expect that
we shall have another letter; he thinks that
we shall see him soon.'

"There was no answer. As I looked,
uncertain whether to do or say more, she slowly
turned herself in bed, and lay with her face
to the wall; and, as if that did not shut out
the light of day and the busy, happy world
enough, she put out her trembling hands,
and covered her face with her handkerchief.
There was no violence: hardly any sound.

"I told her what my lord had said about
Clément's corning in some day and taking us
all by surprise. I did not believe it myself,
but it was just possible,—and I had nothing
else to say. Pity, to one who was striving so
hard to conceal her feelings, would have been
impertinent. She let me talk; but she did
not reply. She knew that my words were
vain and idle, and had no root in my belief,
as well as I did myself.

"I was very thankful when Medlicott
came in with Madame's breakfast, and gave
me an excuse for leaving.

"But I think that conversation made me
feel more anxious and impatient than ever.
I felt almost pledged to Madame de Créquy
for the fulfilment of the vision I had held
out. She had taken entirely to her bed by
this time; not from illness, but because she
had no hope within her to stir her up to
the effort of dressing. In the same way she
hardly cared for food. She had no appetite,
—why eat to prolong a life of despair? But
she let Medlicott feed her, sooner than take
the trouble of resisting.

"And so it went on,— for weeks, months,—
I could hardly count the time, it seemed so
long. Medlicott told me she noticed a
preternatural sensitiveness of ear in Madame de
Créquy, induced by the habit of listening
silently for the slightest unusual sound in
the house. Medlicott was always a minute
watcher of any one whom she cared about;
and, one day, she made me notice by a sign
madame's acuteness of hearing, although the
quick expectation was but evinced for a
moment in the turn of the eye, the hushed
breath; and then, when the unusual footstep
turned into my lord's apartments, the soft,
quivering sigh, and the closed eyelids.

"At length the intendant of the De Créquy
estates,—the old man, you will remember,
whose information respecting Virginie de
Créquy first gave Clément the desire to
return to Paris,—came to St. James's Square,
and begged to speak to me. I made haste
to go down to him in the housekeeper's room,
sooner than that he should be ushered into
mine, for fear of madame hearing any sound.

"The old man stood—I see him now—with
his hat held before him in both his hands;
he slowly bowed till his face touched it when
I came in. Such long excess of courtesy
augured ill. He waited for me to speak.

"'Have you any intelligence?' I inquired.
He had been often to the house before, to ask
if we had received any news; and once or
twice I had seen him, but this was the first
time he had begged to see me.

"'Yes, madame,' he replied, still standing
with his head bent down, like a child in
disgrace.