ry. On the contrary, when things fell
more and more heavily upon her, she drew herself yet more erect, defying
fate, buoyed up by the conviction that it would at last be forced to
prove that she was right. Thus, she remained immutable, superior to
fatigue, and ever relying on a prodigy.

Each evening, when Morange called during those twelve years, the
conversation invariably began in the same way.

"Nothing fresh since yesterday, dear madame?"

"No, my friend, nothing."

"Well, the chief thing is to enjoy good health. One can wait for better
days."

"Oh! nobody enjoys good health; still one waits all the same."

And now one evening, at the end of the twelve years, as Morange went in
to see her, he detected that the atmosphere of the little drawing-room
was changed, quivering as it were with restrained delight amid the
eternal silence.

"Nothing fresh since yesterday, dear madame?"

"Yes, my friend, there's something fresh."

"Something favorable I hope, then; something pleasant that you have been
waiting for?"

"Something that I have been waiting for--yes! What one knows how to wait
for always comes."

He looked at her in surprise, feeling almost anxious when he saw
how altered she was, with glittering eyes and quick gestures. What
fulfilment of her desires, after so many years of immutable mourning,
could have resuscitated her like that? She smiled, she breathed
vigorously, as if she were relieved of the enormous weight which had so
long crushed and immured her. But when he asked the cause of her great
happiness she said:

"I will not tell you yet, my friend. Perhaps I do wrong to rejoice; for
everything is still very vague and doubtful. Only somebody told me this
morning certain things, which I must make sure of, and think over. When
I have done so I shall confide in you, you may rely on it, for I tell
you everything; besides which, I shall no doubt need your help. So have
a little patience, some evening you shall come to dinner with me here,
and we shall have the whole evening before us to chat at our ease. But
ah! _mon Dieu_! if it were only true, if it were only the miracle at
last!"

More than three weeks elapsed before Morange heard anything further. He
saw that Constance was very thoughtful and very feverish, but he did not
even question her, absorbed as he himself was in the solitary, not
to say automatic, life which he had made for himself. He had lately
completed his sixty-ninth year; thirty