had been raised to such
affluence that they must have asked themselves if it were possible they
had ever known the agonies of that life of false appearances and sham
luxury which is a thousand times worse than an existence of abject
poverty. "Is it possible that I am deceived?" Marguerite said to
herself, on retiring to her room that evening. For it surprised her that
a keen-sighted person like Madame Leon should not have remarked this
revolution; but the worthy companion merely declared the General and his
wife to be charming people, and did not cease to congratulate her dear
young lady upon having accepted their hospitality. "I feel quite at home
here," said she; "and though my room is a trifle small, I shall have
nothing to wish for when it has been refurnished."

Mademoiselle Marguerite spent a restless and uncomfortable night. In
spite of her reason, in spite of the convincing proofs she had seen, the
most disturbing doubts returned. Might she not have judged the situation
with a prejudiced mind? Had the Fondeges really been as reduced in
circumstances as she supposed? Like every one who has been unfortunate,
she feared illusions, and was extremely distrustful of everything
that seemed to favor her hopes and wishes. The only thing that
really encouraged her was the thought that she could consult the old
magistrate, and that M. de Chalusse's former agent might succeed in
finding Pascal Ferailleur. M. Fortunat must have received her letter
by this time: he would undoubtedly expect her on Tuesday, and it only
remained for her to invent some excuse which would give her a couple of
hours' liberty without awakening suspicion.

She rose early the next morning, and had almost completed her toilette,
when she heard some one in the passage outside rapping at the door of
Madame Leon's room. "Who's there?" inquired that worthy lady.

It was Justine, Madame de Fondege's maid, who answered in a pert voice,
"Here is a letter, madame, which has just been sent up by the concierge.
It is addressed to Madame Leon. That is your name, is it not?"

Marguerite staggered as if she had received a heavy blow. "My God! a
letter from the Marquis de Valorsay!" she thought.

It was evident that the estimable lady was expecting this missive by
the eagerness with which she sprang out of bed and opened the door.
And Marguerite heard her say to the servant in her sweetest voice: "A
thousand thanks, my child! Ah! this is a great relief, I have