to gain some information even from the exterior aspect of the house; for it seemed to him that if Sabine were dying, the very stones in the street would utter sounds of woe and lamentation; but the fog had closely enwrapped the house, and he could hardly see which of the windows were lighted.  His reasoning faculties told him that there was no use in waiting, but an inner voice warned him to stay.  Would Modeste, who had written to him, divine, by some means that he was there, in an agony of suspense, and come out to give him information and solace?  All at once a thought darted across his mind, vivid as a flash of lightning.

“M. de Breulh will help me,” cried he; “for though I cannot go to the house, he will have no difficulty in doing so.”

By good luck, he had M. de Breulh’s card in his pocket, and hurried off to his address.  M. de Breulh had a fine house in the Avenue de l’Imperatrice, which he had taken more for the commodiousness of the stables than for his own convenience.

“I wish to see M. de Breulh,” said Andre, as he stopped breathless at the door, where a couple of footmen were chatting.

The men looked at him with supreme contempt.  “He is out,” one of them at last condescended to reply.

Andre had by this time recovered his coolness, and taking out De Breulh’s card, wrote these words on it in pencil:  “One moment’s interview.  ANDRE.”

“Give this to your master as soon as he comes in,” said he.

Then he descended the steps slowly.  He was certain that M. de Breulh was in the house, and that he would send out after the person who had left the card almost at once.  His conclusion proved right; in five minutes he was overtaken by the panting lackey, who, conducting him back to the house, showed him into a magnificently furnished library.  De Breulh feared that some terrible event had taken place.

“What has happened?” said he.

“Sabine is dying;” and Andre at once proceeded to inform De Breulh of what had happened since his departure.

“But how can I help you?”

“You can go and make inquiries at the house.”

“Reflect; yesterday I wrote to the Count, and broke off a marriage, the preliminaries of which had been completely settled; and within twenty-four hours to send and inquire after his daughter’s health would be to be guilty of an act of inexcusable insolence; for it would look as if I fancied that Mademoiselle de Mussidan had been struck down by my rupture of the engagement.”

“You are right,” murmured Andre dejectedly.

“But,” continued De Breulh, after a moment’s reflection, “I have a distant relative, a lady who is also a connection of the Mussidan family, the Viscountess de Bois Arden, and she will be glad to be of service to me.  She is young and giddy, but as true as steel.  Come with me to her; my carriage is ready.”

The footman were surprised at seeing their master on such terms of intimacy with the shabbily dressed young man, but ventured, of course, on no remarks.