The day had changed within the last hour, the sunshine was
gone, and in its place was a grey, lowering sky. Madelon
shivered as she walked along; her head ached more and more;
she wondered what it was that made her feel so tired and weak,
and then she remembered that she had been ill for a long time,
and that she had been up all night. "I will ask Madame
Bertrand to let me lie down and go to sleep," she thought,
"before I go to the Redoute, and then I shall be all right."
She walked on as fast as she could, so as to arrive sooner at
the hotel; she remembered its situation perfectly, in the
Place Royale, not far from the stand where the band used to
play every evening; and there its was at last, all unchanged
since she had last seen it three years ago, and with "Hôtel de
Madrid" shining in big gold letters above the door.

Every one who knows Spa, knows the Place Royale, with its
broad walks and rows of trees, leading from the shady avenues
of the Promenade à Sept Heures at the one end, to the winding
street with its gay shops at the other. The Hôtel de Madrid
was situated about half-way down the Place, and, as compared
with the great hotels of Spa, it was small, mean, and third-
rate, little frequented therefore by the better class of
visitors, and with no particular recommendation beyond its
situation on the Place Royale, its cheap terms, and its
excellent landlady. M. Linders, whose means did not always
admit of reckless expenditure, and whose credit was not wholly
unlimited, had gone there two or three times, when visiting
Spa to retrieve fallen fortunes; and the first time he had
taken Madelon with him, she and Madame Bertrand had become
such fast friends, that, for his child's sake, he never