to. But he would soon forget her, she thought; and the future, such as
it was presented to her imagination, seemed a terrible one. However, she
was too courageous to remain for long in despair--she struggled against
her sorrow; and the thought that she might, perhaps, reach Pascal
through M. Fortunat at last occurred to her mind. This hope was her sole
chance of salvation. She clung to it as a shipwrecked mariner clings to
the plank which is his only hope of life.

When she returned to the mansion her mind was made up, and she had
regained her usual composure. For ten minutes or so she had been praying
by the count's bedside, when M. Bourigeau, the concierge, appeared and
handed her a letter which had just been brought to the house. It was
addressed to "Mademoiselle Marguerite de Durtal de Chalusse, at the
Hotel de Chalusse, Rue de Courcelles."

Mademoiselle Marguerite blushed. Who was it that addressed her by
this name which she no longer had the right to bear? She studied the
handwriting for a moment, but she did not remember ever having seen it
before. At last, however, she opened the letter and read: "My dear,
dear child." "Dear child!" indeed. What could this mean? Was there any
one in the world sufficiently interested in her welfare, or loving her
enough, to address her in this style? She quickly turned the sheet to
see the signature; and when her eyes fell on it she turned pale. "Ah!"
she exclaimed, involuntarily, "ah! ah!"

The letter was signed: "Athenais de Fondege." It had been written by
the General's wife. She resumed her perusal of it, and this is what she
read: "I this instant hear of the cruel loss you have sustained, and
also learn that, for want of testamentary provisions, the poor Count de
Chalusse leaves you, his idolized daughter, almost without resources. I
will not attempt to offer you consolation, God alone can assuage certain
sorrows. I should come and weep with you if I were not kept in bed by
illness. But to-morrow, whatever happens, I shall be with you before
breakfast. It is at such a time as this, my poor dear afflicted child,
that one can tell one's true friends; and we are yours as I hope to
prove. The General feels that he should be insulting and betraying the
memory of a man who was his dearest friend for thirty years, if he did
not take the count's place, if he did not become your second father.
He has offered you our modest home; you have refused. Why? With the
authority conferred