nged, and it would have been difficult to
form any idea of his feelings.

"I have been at work," he said. "Excuse me, I need the fresh air."

"You are right," said Charlotte; "go out for a walk;" and the poor
woman, who usually detained her poet in the house lest the high-born
ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain should entrap him, is this evening
delighted to see him leave her, that she may weep in peace--that she may
yield to all the wild terror and mournful presentiments that assail her.
This is why even the presence of the servant annoys her, and she sends
her to her attic.

"Madame wishes to be alone! Is not madame afraid? The noise of the wind
is very dismal on the balcony."

"No, I am not afraid; leave me."

At last she was alone. She could think at her ease, without the voice of
her tyrant saying, "What are you thinking about?" Ever since she had
read in the Journal the brief words, "There is no intelligence of the
Cydnus," the image of her child had pursued her. Her nights had been
sleepless, and she listened to the wind with singular terror. It seemed
to blow from all quarters, rattling the windows and wailing through the
chimneys. But whether it whispered or shrieked, it spoke to her, and
said what it always says to the mothers and wives of sailors, who turn
pale as they listen. The wind comes from afar, but it comes quickly and
has met with many adventures. With one gust it has torn away the sails
of a vessel, set fire to a quiet home, and carried death and destruction
on its wings. This it is that gives to its voice such melancholy
intonations.

This night it was dreary enough: it rattles the windows and whistles
under the doors; it wishes to come in, for it bears a message to this
poor mother, and it sounds like an appeal or a warning. The ticking
of the clock, the distant noise of a locomotive, all take the same
plaintive tone and beseeching accent. Charlotte knows only too well
what the wind wishes to tell her. It is a story of a ship rolling on the
broad ocean, without sails or rudder--of a maddened crowd on the deck,
of cries and shrieks, curses and prayers. Her hallucination is so strong
that she even hears from the ship a beseeching cry of "Mamma!" She
starts to her feet; she bears it again. To escape it, she walks about
the room, opens the door and looks down the corridor. She sees nothing,
but she hears a sigh, and, raising her lamp higher, discovers a dark
shadow crouched in the corner.

"W