A tremor that shook their frames, a long look which they exchanged, betrayed alone the feelings of Marius and Mlle. Gilberte.  They had of life a too cruel experience not to mistrust their joy.

Returning to Mme. Favoral,

“You do not understand, madame,” he went on, “why I should have selected for such a step the very moment when an irreparable calamity befalls you.  One word will explain all.  Being in a position to serve you, I wished to acquire the right of doing so.”

Fixing upon him a look in which the gloomiest despair could be read,

“Alas!” stammered the poor woman, “what can you do for me, sir?  My life is ended.  I have but one wish left,—­that of knowing where my husband is hid.  It is not for me to judge him.  He has not given me the happiness which I had, perhaps, the right to expect; but he is my husband, he is unhappy:  my duty is to join him wherever he may be, and to share his sufferings.”

She was interrupted by the servant, who was calling her at the parlor-door, “Madame, madame!”

“What is the matter?” inquired Maxence.

“I must speak to madame at once.”

Making an effort to rise and walk, Mme. Favoral went out.  She was gone but a minute; and, when she returned, her agitation had further increased.  “It is the hand of Providence, perhaps,” she said.  The others were all looking at her anxiously.  She took a seat, and, addressing herself more especially to M. de Tregars,

“This is what happens,” she said in a feeble voice.  “M.  Favoral was in the habit of always changing his coat as soon as he came home.  As usual, he did so last evening.  When they came to arrest him, he forgot to change again, and went off with the coat he had on.  The other remained hanging in the room, where the girl took it just now to brush it, and put it away; and this portfolio, which my husband always carries with him, fell from its pocket.”

It was an old Russia leather portfolio, which had once been red, but which time and use had turned black.  It was full of papers.

“Perhaps, indeed,” exclaimed Maxence, “we may find some information there.”

He opened it, and had already taken out three-fourths of its contents without finding any thing of any consequence, when suddenly he uttered an exclamation.  He had just opened an anonymous note, evidently written in a disguised hand, and at one glance had read,

“I cannot understand your negligence.  You should get through that Van Klopen matter.  There is the danger.”

“What is that note?” inquired M. de Tregars.

Maxence handed it to him.

“See!” said he, “but you will not understand the immense interest it has for me.”

But having read it,

“You are mistaken,” said Marius.  “I understand perfectly; and I’ll prove it to you.”

The next moment, Maxence took out of the portfolio, and read aloud, the following bill, dated two days before.