the
gas-lamps showed a feeble light through the dull February fog. There
were no signs of life in the Rue de Matignon, and the silence was only
broken by the continuous surge of carriage wheels in the Faubourg Saint
Honore. This gloom, and the inclemency of the weather, added to the
young painter's depression. He saw his utter helplessness, and felt
that he could not move a step without compromising the woman he so
madly adored. He walked to the gate of the house, hoping to gain some
information even from the exterior aspect of the house; for it seemed to
him that if Sabine were dying, the very stones in the street would utter
sounds of woe and lamentation; but the fog had closely enwrapped the
house, and he could hardly see which of the windows were lighted. His
reasoning faculties told him that there was no use in waiting, but an
inner voice warned him to stay. Would Modeste, who had written to him,
divine, by some means that he was there, in an agony of suspense, and
come out to give him information and solace? All at once a thought
darted across his mind, vivid as a flash of lightning.

"M. de Breulh will help me," cried he; "for though I cannot go to the
house, he will have no difficulty in doing so."

By good luck, he had M. de Breulh's card in his pocket, and hurried
off to his address. M. de Breulh had a fine house in the Avenue de
l'Imperatrice, which he had taken more for the commodiousness of the
stables than for his own convenience.

"I wish to see M. de Breulh," said Andre, as he stopped breathless at
the door, where a couple of footmen were chatting.

The men looked at him with supreme contempt. "He is out," one of them at
last condescended to reply.

Andre had by this time recovered his coolness, and taking out De
Breulh's card, wrote these words on it in pencil: "One moment's
interview. ANDRE."

"Give this to your master as soon as he comes in," said he.

Then he descended the steps slowly. He was certain that M. de Breulh was
in the house, and that he would send out after the person who had left
the card almost at once. His conclusion proved right; in five minutes
he was overtaken by the panting lackey, who, conducting him back to
the house, showed him into a magnificently furnished library. De Breulh
feared that some terrible event had taken place.

"What has happened?" said he.

"Sabine is dying;" and Andre at once proceeded to inform De Breulh of
what had happened since his departure.