There were the two letters.  On the first he read,—­

Count Ville-Handry, Rue de Varennest 115.  And, on the other,—­

M. Maxime de Brevan, 62 Rue Laffitte.

A sudden light seemed to brighten up the small yellowish eye of the dealer in old clothes; a wicked smile played on his lips; and he uttered a very peculiar, “Ah!”

But all this passed away in a moment.

His brow grew as dark as ever; and he looked around anxiously and suspiciously to see if anybody had caught the impression produced upon him by the letters.

No, nobody had noticed him, nobody was thinking of him; for everybody was occupied with Miss Henrietta.

Thereupon he slipped the paper and the two letters into the vast pocket of his huge frock-coat with a dexterity and a rapidity which would have excited the envy of an accomplished pickpocket.  It was high time; for the women who were bending over the bed of the young girl were exhibiting signs of intense excitement.  One of them said she was sure the body had trembled under her hand, and the others insisted upon it that she was mistaken.  The matter was soon to be decided, however.

After, perhaps, twenty seconds of unspeakable anguish, during which all held their breath, and solemn stillness reigned in the room, a cry of hope and joy broke forth suddenly.

“She has trembled, she has moved!”

This time there was no doubt, no denial possible.  The unfortunate girl had certainly moved, very faintly and feebly; but still she had stirred.

A slight color returned to her pallid cheeks; her bosom rose painfully, and sank again; her teeth, closely shut, opened; and with parted lips she stretched forth her neck as if to draw in the fresh air instinctively.

“She is alive!” exclaimed the women, almost frightened, and as if they had seen a miracle performed,—­“she is alive!”

In an instant, M. Ravinet was by her side.

One of the women, the wife of the gentleman in the first story, held the head of the girl on her arm, and the poor child looked around with that blank, unmeaning eye which we see in mad-houses.  They spoke to her; but she did not answer; evidently she did not hear.

“Never mind!” said the merchant, “she is saved; and, when the doctor comes, he will have little else to do.  But she must be attended to, the poor child, and we cannot leave her here alone.”

The bystanders knew very well what that meant; and yet hardly any one ventured timidly to assent, and say, “Oh, of course!”

This reluctance did not deter the good man.

“We must put her to bed,” he went on; “and, of course, she must have a mattress, bedclothes and blankets.  We want wood also (for it is terribly cold here), and sugar for her tea, and a candle.”