ergy of the man whom, unknown to all, she had
selected. She liked to imagine Marius de Tregars and M. Costeclar
in presence of each other,--the one as imperious and haughty as
she had seen him meek and trembling; the other more humble still
than he was arrogant with her.

"One thing is certain," she repeated to herself; "and that is, I
am saved."

And she wished the morrow to come, that she might announce her
happiness to the very involuntary and very unconscious accomplice
of Marius, the worthy Maestro Gismondo Pulei.

The next day M. Favoral seemed to have resigned himself to the
failure of his projects; and, the following Saturday, he told as a
pleasant joke, how Mlle. Gilberte had carried the day, and had
managed to dismiss her lover.

But a close observer could discover in him symptoms of devouring
cares. Deep wrinkles showed along his temples; his eyes were sunken;
a continued tension of mind contracted his features. Often during
the dinner he would remain motionless for several minutes, his
fork aloft; and then he would murmur, "How is it all going to end?"

Sometimes in the morning, before his departure for his office, M.
Jottras, of the house of Jottras and Brother, and M. Saint Pavin,
the manager of "The Financial Pilot," came to see him. They
closeted themselves together, and remained for hours in conference,
speaking so low, that not even a vague murmur could be heard
outside the door.

"Your father has grave subjects of anxiety, my children," said Mme.
Favoral: "you may believe me,--me, who for twenty years have been
trying to guess our fate upon his countenance."

But the political events were sufficient to explain any amount of
anxiety. It was the second week of July, 1870; and the destinies
of France trembled, as upon a cast of the dice, in the hands of a
few presumptuous incapables. Was it war with Prussia, or was it
peace, that was to issue from the complications of a childishly
astute policy?

The most contradictory rumors caused daily at the bourse the most
violent oscillations, which endangered the safest fortunes. A few
words uttered in a corridor by Emile Ollivier had made a dozen heavy
operators rich, but had ruined five hundred small ones. On all
hands, credit was trembling.

Until one evening when he came home,

"War is declared," said M. Favoral.

It was but too true; and no one then had any fears of the result
for France. They had so much exalted the French army, they