"It is past five o'clock."
"Ah, yes, Louise, I daresay I shall be tired presently," said
Marguerite, kindly; "but you are very tired now, so go to bed at once.
I'll get into bed alone."
"But, my lady. . ."
"Now, don't argue, Louise, but go to bed. Give me a wrap, and
leave me alone."
Louise was only too glad to obey. She took off her mistress's
gorgeous ball-dress, and wrapped her up in a soft billowy gown.
"Does your ladyship wish for anything else?" she asked, when
that was done.
"No, nothing more. Put out the lights as you go out."
"Yes, my lady. Good-night, my lady."
"Good-night, Louise."
When the maid was gone, Marguerite drew aside the curtains and
threw open the windows. The garden and the river beyond were flooded
with rosy light. Far away to the east, the rays of the rising sun had
changed the rose into vivid gold. The lawn was deserted now, and
Marguerite looked down upon the terrace where she had stood a few
moments ago trying in vain to win back a man's love, which once had
been so wholly hers.
It was strange that through all her troubles, all her anxiety
for Armand, she was mostly conscious at the present moment of a keen
and bitter heartache.
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