g him as she knew him, it
seemed to her impossible that he had accepted his fate so quickly and
without a struggle. A secret presentiment told her that his absence was
only feigned, that he was only biding his time, and that M. Fortunat
would not have far to go in search of him. It was in M. de Chalusse's
bedroom that she thus reflected, but a few steps from the bed on which
reposed all that was mortal of the man whose weakness had made her life
one long martyrdom, whose want of foresight had ruined her future, but
whom she had not the heart to censure. She was standing in front of the
window with her burning forehead resting against the glass. At that very
moment Pascal was waiting, seated on the curbstone opposite the mansion.
At that very moment he was watching the shadow on the window-curtain,
wondering if it were not Marguerite's. If the night had been clear she
might have discerned the motionless watcher in the street below, and
divined that it was Pascal. But how could she suspect his presence? How
could she suspect that he had hastened to the Rue de Courcelles as she
had hastened to the Rue d'Ulm?

It was almost midnight when a slight noise, a sound of stealthy
footsteps, made her turn. Madame Leon was leaving the room, and a moment
later Marguerite heard the house-door leading into the garden open and
shut again. There was nothing extraordinary about such an occurrence,
and yet a strange misgiving assailed her. Why, she could not explain;
but many trivial circumstances, suddenly invested with a new and
alarming significance, recurred to her mind. She remembered that Madame
Leon had been restless and nervous all the evening. The housekeeper,
who was usually so inactive, who lounged in her arm-chair for hours
together, had been moving uneasily about, going up and down stairs at
least a dozen times, and continually glancing at her watch or the clock.
Twice, moreover, had the concierge come to tell her that some one
wished to see her. "Where can she be going now, at midnight?" thought
Mademoiselle Marguerite; "she who is usually so timid?"

At first, the girl resisted her desire to solve the question; her
suspicions seemed absurd to her, and, besides, it was distasteful to
her to play the spy. Still, she listened, waiting to hear Madame Leon
re-enter the house. But more than a quarter of an hour elapsed, and yet
the door did not open or close again. Either Madame Leon had not left
the house at all, or else she was