awakening into activity--shutters being thrown back, windows
opened, the sunny courtyard swept out. Madelon stood still for
a moment looking on. She wondered whether her old friend,
Mademoiselle Cécile, was still there; she thought it would be
very pleasant to go in and see her, and have some breakfast in
the big _salle-à-manger_, with the pink and yellow paper roses,
and long rows of windows looking out into the courtyard and
garden. But then, she further reflected, breakfasting at an
hotel might probably cost a great deal of money, and she had
so little money to spare; so that on the whole it might be
better to see what she could find in a shop, and she walked
quickly up the village street. Chaudfontaine contains none of
the luxuries, and as few as possible of the necessaries of
life, which are for the most part supplied from Liége; but
sour bread is not unknown there, and Madelon having procured a
great, dark tough hunch for her sous, turned back towards the
hotel. She stood outside the iron railing, eating her bread,
and watching what was going on inside; the stir and small
bustle had a positive fascination for her, after her months of
seclusion in the convent. It brought back her old life with
the strangest vividness, joining on the present with the past
which had been so happy; it was as if she had been suddenly
brought back into air and light after long years of darkness
and silence. Through the open door of the hotel she could see
the shadowy green of the garden beyond. Was the swing in which
she had so often sat for hours still there? The windows of the
salon were open too, and there were the old pictures on the
wall, the piano just where it used to stand, and a short,
stout figure, in skirt and camisole, moving about, who might
be Mademoiselle Cécile herself. Presently some children came