She might have been a statue or a picture, so motionless
she sat.
Conscious of the wrong of gazing upon this solitary woman, Traverse
forced his looks away and passed on down-stairs, where he again met
the old doctor and Mademoiselle Angele at breakfast.
After breakfast Doctor St. Jean invited his young assistant to
accompany him on a round of visits to the patients, and they went
immediately up to the hall, at the end of which Traverse had slept.
"There are our incurables, but they are not violent; incurables
never are! Poor Mademoiselle! She has just been conveyed to this
ward," said the doctor, opening the door of the first cell on the
right at the head of the stairs and admitting Traverse at once into
the presence of the beautiful, black-haired, snow-faced woman, who
had so much interested him.
"This is my friend, Doctor Rocke, Mademoiselle; Doctor, this is my
friend, Mademoiselle Mont de St. Pierre!"
Traverse bowed profoundly, and the lady arose, curtsied and resumed
her seat, saying, coldly:
"I have told you, Monsieur, never to address me as Mademoiselle; you
persist in doing so, and I shall never notice the insult again."
"Ten thousand pardons, madame! But if madame will always look so
young, so beautiful, can I ever remember that she is a widow?"
The classic lip of the woman curled in scorn, and she disdained a
reply.
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