CHAPTER XXXI.

Bonnibel was completely crushed by the knowledge that Colonel Carlyle had put into execution his threat of making her a prisoner.

For a moment she ran wildly about the room, passionately[Pg 105] seeking some mode of egress, filled with the impulse of seeking and following her poor, maltreated Lucy.

But no loophole of escape presented itself.

Her suite of rooms, boudoir, dressing-room, and sleeping-apartment, all communicated with each other, but only one opened into the hall, or presented any mode of egress from her imprisonment. Of this room, the boudoir which she then occupied, Colonel Carlyle had taken the key. She was in an upper story, many feet from the ground, or she would have jumped from the window in her desperation. As it was she could do nothing. She threw herself down upon the floor, crushing her beautiful ball-dress with its grasses and lilies, and wept unrestrainedly.

The slight form heaved and shook with emotion, the tears rained from her eyes in a torrent. At length, worn out with passionate weeping, and overcome by the "dumb narcotic influence of pain," she fell asleep where she lay on the floor, her wet cheek pillowed on her little hand, her golden hair floating about her in "sad beauty."

Thus Colonel Carlyle found her when he entered, late that morning. He was honestly shocked at the sight, for he had supposed that she would yield gracefully to the inevitable, and retire to her sleeping-apartment without more ado when she found how inflexible a will he was possessed of. Instead, here she lay prostrate on the rich velvet carpet of the boudoir, still attired in her ball-dress, the traces of tears on her pale cheeks, and her restless slumber broken by sobs and moans that shook her slight form like a wind-shaken-willow.

He stood still looking down at her, while pity vainly struggled against the fierce anger and resentment burning hotly in his heart.

"She can grieve for him like this," he muttered bitterly, and lifted her, not rudely, but yet unlovingly, and laid her down upon a silken sofa.

The movement disturbed her, and for a moment she seemed about to wake; but the heavy lethargy of her troubled sleep overpowered her.

Colonel Carlyle stood silently watching her for a little while, marveling at her beauty even while he felt angry with her for the uncontrollable emotion that had touched her fairness with the penciling of grief. Then, with a deep yet unconscious sigh, he kissed her several times and went softly away. It was noon when she started up from her restless slumbers, pushing off the silken coverlet that had been carefully spread over her.

She sat up, pressing her hand upon her aching temples, and looked about the room with dazed, half-open eyes. For the moment she had forgotten her trouble of the previous night, and fully expected to see her faithful Lucy Moore keeping her patient vigil by the couch of her weary mistress. But memory returned all too swiftly. The kind, loving face of Lucy did not beam its welcome upon her as of old. Instead, the cold, hard face of a smartly-dressed, elderly Frenchwoman looked curiously at her as the owner rose and courtesied.

[Pg 106]

"I am the new maid, madam," she explained. "I hope madam feels better."

Bonnibel stared at her in bewilderment.

"Where is Lucy? I want Lucy," she said almost appealingly.

"Madam, I knows nothing of Lucy," she answered. "Monsieur le colonel, the husband of madam, engage me to attend upon madam. I will remove your ball dress, s'il vous plait."

With those words the whole bitter truth rushed over Bonnibel's mind. A low, repressed cry, and she fell back on the sofa, again hiding her convulsed face in her hands.

"Madam, you make yourself more sick by dis emotion," said the new maid in her broken English. "Allow me to bring you someding to break your fast—some chocolate, a roll, a bit of broiled bird."

"I want nothing," Bonnibel answered, bitterly at first, but the next moment she sat up and struggled to regain her composure.

"What is your name, my good woman?" she inquired.

"Dolores, madam, at your service," said the maid, with one of her low courtesies, "Dolores Dupont."

Bonnibel rose and moved slowly toward her dressing-room.

"Dolores," she said, "you may come and remove this robe. I was very tired last night, and my maid having left me, I fell asleep in my ball costume."

Dolores deftly removed the crushed and ruined robe, and substituted a dressing-gown, while she brushed and arranged the beautiful golden hair that was straying on her shoulders in wild disorder.

"It is the most beautiful hair in de world," she said. "Dere are many ladies would give a fortune to have it on deir own heads."

But Bonnibel did not heed the praise. She had no thought or care for her beauty now. She only said, listlessly:

"Never mind removing the dressing-gown, Dolores, I will lie down again. I am very tired."

"I shall bathe your head with the eau de cologne—shall I?" the maid inquired.

"No, no, only let me rest."

"You will breakfast, at least, madam?" the woman persisted.

"Not now, Dolores. I wish for nothing but rest," she said, as she passed into her boudoir and lay down again upon the sofa.

The maid followed after her.

"I should wish your keys, madam, to pack your trunks," she said, solicitously.

"To pack my trunks!" exclaimed the mistress, in surprise. "Why should you wish to do that, Dolores?"

Dolores looked back at her in surprise also.

"For your journey, of course, Madam Carlyle," she said. "Monsieur, your husband, tells me dat Paris do not agree with your health, and dat he removes you dis day to his palace in Italy on de Bay of Naples."