The arrival of her relative and the summons to his sick-bed made her pause in her movements suddenly altered by the death of the viscount.  She was almost happy in her foresight by which she had defrauded him and his associates.  Now, the loss of him stood by itself; she was free to use the money as she pleased.  She feared Von Sendlingen but little, since she would have a good start of him if he pursued.

Should she keep on or see her uncle?  Pity for him, a stranger, perhaps dying in a hotel, most inhospitable shelter to an invalid, did not enter her heart.  She had seen her lover murdered without a spark of communication, and was now glad that he could never call her to account for the theft.  But a vague expectation of benefiting by the pretense of affection—­the desire to have some support in case of Von Sendlingen attacking—­the excuse and cover her ministration at the sick-bed would afford, all these reasons united to guide her to the Hotel de l’Aigle aux deux Becs, in the rue Caumartin.

Her uncle was no longer there.  His stroke of paralysis had frightened the proprietor who suggested his removal to a private hospital, but M. Dobronowska had preferred to be attended to in the house, a little out of St. Denis, of an acquaintance.  It was Mr. Lesperon’s, the abode of a once noted poetess, whose husband had enjoyed Dobronowska’s hospitality in Finland and who had tried to repay the obligation.

Cesarine recalled the name; this lady had been a friend of her aunt’s and she felt she would not be intruding.  After playing the nurse, by which means she could ascertain whether she would be remembered generously in the patient’s will, she could continue her flight or retrace her steps.

Under cover of Hedwig, she could learn, secretly if she preferred it, all that occurred at Montmorency.  She found her grand-uncle broken with age and serious attack; he was delighted by her beauty and to hear that she was so happy in her married life!  Evidently he was rich, and she had not acted foolishly in going to see him.

Madame Lesperon and her husband recalled her grandmother—­whose death she did not describe—­and her aunt, over whose fate they politely blurred the rather lurid tints.  Madame Lesperon, as became a poetess, saw the loveliness of Clemenceau’s idea of separation in marrying his cousin and expressed a wish to compliment him face-to-face.  Cesarine was not so sure that he would come to town to escort her home, he was so engrossed in an important project.

She let three days pass without writing a line, alleging that she had not the heart while her dear uncle was in danger and that her husband knew, of course, where she was piously engaged.

The next morning, Madame Lesperon, a regular reader of the newspapers in expectation of the announcement of her poems having at last been commended by the Academie, came up to the sick-room with the Debats.

“Ah, sly puss,” said she, with a smile, “let me congratulate you.  One can know now why you were so close about your husband’s mysterious project.  Rejoice, dear, for all France rejoices with you.”