It was past ten o’clock when she awoke; and upon entering, fully dressed, into the sitting-room, Mrs. Bertolle greeted her with the exclamation:—­

“At this moment my brother reaches Marseilles!”

“Ah! then it will not be long before we shall have news,” replied Henrietta.

But there are moments in which we think electricity the slowest of messengers.  At two o’clock nothing had come; and the poor women began to accuse the old dealer of having forgotten them, when, at last, the bell was rung.

It was really the telegraph messenger, with his black leather pouch.  The old lady signed her receipt with marvellous promptness; and, tearing the envelope hastily open, she read,—­

Marseilles, 12.40 a.m.

“Saint Louis” signalled by telegraph this morning.  Will be in to-night.  I hire boat to go and meet her, provided Champcey is on board.  This evening telegram.

Ravinet.

“But this does not tell us any thing,” said Henrietta, terribly disappointed.  “Just see, madam, your brother is not even sure whether M. Champcey is on board ‘The Saint Louis.’”

Perhaps Mrs. Bertolle, also, was a little disappointed; but she was not the person to let it be seen.

“But what did you expect, dear child?  Anthony has not been an hour in Marseilles; how do you think he can know?  We must wait till the evening.  It is only a matter of a few hours.”

She said this very quietly; but all who have ever undergone the anguish of expectation will know how it becomes more and more intolerable as the moment approaches that is to bring the decision.  However the old lady endeavored to control her excitement, the calm and dignified woman could not long conceal the nervous fever that was raging within her.  Ten times during the afternoon she opened the window, to look for—­what?  She could not have told it herself, as she well knew nothing could come as yet.  At night she could not stay in any one place.  She tried in vain to work on her embroidery; her fingers refused their service.

At last, at ten minutes past nine, the telegraph man appeared, as impassive as ever.

This time it was Henrietta who had taken the despatch; and, before opening it, she had half a minute’s fearful suspense, as if the paper had contained the secret of her fate.  Then, by a sudden impulse, tearing the envelope, she read, almost at a glance,—­

Marseilles, 6.45 p.m.

I have seen Champcey.  All well; devoted to Henrietta.  Return this evening.  Will be in Paris tomorrow evening at seven o’clock.  Prepare your trunks as if you were to start on a month’s journey immediately after my return.  All is going well.

Pale as death, and trembling like a leaf, but with open lips and bright eyes, Henrietta had sunk into a chair.  Up to this moment she had doubted every thing.  Up to this hour, until she held the proof in her hand, she had not allowed herself to hope.  Such great happiness does not seem to the unhappy to be intended for them.  But now she stammered out,—­