the circling ripples, and watch them glitter like gems. She knelt down
by the brink, and played there like a child, dabbling her long tresses
in the water, and flinging them loose again to see the water drip from
the ends, like a string of pearls in the sunless light.

"She is mad!" cried the Councillor.

A hoarse cry rang through the air; it came from Genevieve, and seemed
to be meant for the mysterious woman. She rose to her feet in a
moment, flinging back the hair from her face, and then the Colonel and
d'Albon could see her features distinctly. As soon as she saw the two
friends she bounded to the railings with the swiftness of a fawn.

"_Farewell_!" she said in low, musical tones, but they could not
discover the least trace of feeling, the least idea in the sweet
sounds that they had awaited impatiently.

M. d'Albon admired the long lashes, the thick, dark eyebrows, the
dazzling fairness of skin untinged by any trace of red. Only the
delicate blue veins contrasted with that uniform whiteness.

But when the Marquis turned to communicate his surprise at the sight
of so strange an apparition, he saw the Colonel stretched on the grass
like one dead. M. d'Albon fired his gun into the air, shouted for
help, and tried to raise his friend. At the sound of the shot, the
strange lady, who had stood motionless by the gate, fled away, crying
out like a wounded wild creature, circling round and round in the
meadow, with every sign of unspeakable terror.

M. d'Albon heard a carriage rolling along the road to l'Isle-Adam, and