e already owe you, and I hope that
you will allow me to call myself your friend?"

M. de Breulh's noble nature enabled him to understand Andre's scruples;
his feelings, however, would not for the instant enable him to speak.
He slowly put the notes back in their receptacle, and then said in a low
voice,--

"Your conduct is that of an honorable man; and remember this, at all
times and seasons you may rely upon De Breulh-Faverlay. Farewell!"

As soon as he was alone, Andre threw himself into an armchair, and mused
over this unexpected interview, which had proved a source of such solace
to his feelings. All that he now longed for was a letter from Sabine.
At this moment the portress entered with a letter. Andre was so occupied
with his thoughts that he hardly noticed this act of condescension on
the part of the worthy woman.

"A letter!" exclaimed he; and, tearing it open, he glanced at the
signature. But Sabine's name was not there; it was signed Modeste.
What could Sabine's maid have to say to him? He felt that some great
misfortune was impending, and, trembling with excitement, he read the
letter.

"SIR,--

"I write to tell you that my mistress has succeeded in the matter she
spoke of to you; but I am sorry to say that I have bad news to give you,
for she is seriously ill."

"Ill!" exclaimed Andre, crushing up the letter in his hands, and dashing
it upon the floor. "Ill! ill!" he repeated, not heeding the presence
of the portress; "why, she may be dead;" and, snatching up his hat, he
dashed downstairs into the street.

As soon as the portress was left alone, she picked up the letter,
smoothed it out, and read it.

"And so," murmured she, "the little lady's name was Sabine--a pretty
name; and she is ill, is she? I expect that the old gent who called this
morning, and asked so many questions about M. Andre, would give a good
deal for this note; but no, that would not be fair."

CHAPTER XX.

A COUNCIL OF WAR.

Mad with his terrible forebodings, Andre hurried through the streets in
the direction of the Hotel de Mussidan, caring little for the attention
that his excited looks and gestures caused. He had no fixed plan as to
what to do when he arrived there, and it was only on reaching the Rue
de Matignon that he recovered sufficient coolness to deliberate and
reflect.

He had arrived at the desired spot; how should he set to work to obtain
the information that he required? The evening was a dark one, and