wakes
from his uneasy slumber, asks himself, "Am I to die to-day?"

Clameran did not come; he wrote, or rather, as he was too prudent to
furnish arms which could be used against him, he had a note written,
which Mme. Fauvel alone might understand, in which he said that he was
quite ill, and unable to call upon her; and hoped she would be so good
as to come to his room the next day; she had only to ask for 317, Hotel
du Louvre.

The letter was almost a relief for Mme. Fauvel. Anything was preferable
to suspense. She was ready to consent to everything.

She burned the letter, and said, "I shall go."

The next day at the appointed hour, she dressed herself in a plain black
silk, a large bonnet which concealed her face, and, putting a thick veil
in her pocket to be used if she found it necessary, started forth.

After hurriedly walking several squares, she thought she might, without
fear of being recognized, call a coach. In a few minutes she was set
down at the Hotel du Louvre. Here her uneasiness increased. Her circle
of acquaintances being large, she was in terror of being recognized.
What would her friends think if they saw her at the Hotel du Louvre
disguised in this old dress?

Anyone would naturally suspect an intrigue, a rendezvous; and her
character would be ruined forever.

This was the first time since her marriage that she had had occasion for
mystery; and her efforts to escape notice were in every way calculated
to attract attention.

The porter said that the Marquis of Clameran's rooms were on the third
floor.

She hurried up the stairs, glad to escape the scrutinizing glances of
several men standing near; but, in spite of the minute directions given
by the porter, she lost her way in one of the long corridors of the
hotel.

Finally, after wandering about for some time, she found a door bearing
the number sought--317.

She stood leaning against the wall with her hand pressed to her
throbbing heart, which seemed bursting.

Now, at the moment of risking this decisive step, she felt paralyzed
with fright. She would have given all she possessed to find herself safe
in her own home.

The sight of a stranger entering the corridor ended her hesitation.

With a trembling hand she knocked at the door.

"Come in," said a voice from within.

She entered the room.

It was not the Marquis of Clameran who stood in the middle of the
room, but a young man, almost a youth, who bowed to Mme. Fauvel with