ted her as she went through the corridors and entered her sister's
box with a face that was outwardly serene and calm!

"Well?" she said, as soon as they were alone.

Eugenie's face was an answer; it was bright with a joy which some
persons might have attributed to the satisfaction of vanity.

"He can be saved, dear; but for three months only; during which time we
must plan some other means of doing it permanently. Madame de Nucingen
wants four notes of hand, each for ten thousand francs, endorsed by any
one, no matter who, so as not to compromise you. She explained to me how
they were made, but I couldn't understand her. Monsieur Nathan, however,
can make them for us. I thought of Schmucke, our old master. I am sure
he could be very useful in this emergency; he will endorse the notes.
You must add to the four notes a letter in which you guarantee
their payment to Madame de Nucingen, and she will give you the money
to-morrow. Do the whole thing yourself; don't trust it to any one. I
feel sure that Schmucke will make no objection. To divert all suspicion
I told Madame de Nucingen you wanted to oblige our old music-master who
was in distress, and I asked her to keep the matter secret."

"You have the sense of angels! I only hope Madame de Nucingen won't tell
of it until after she gives me the money," said the countess.

"Schmucke lives in the rue de Nevers on the quai Conti; don't forget the
address, and go yourself."

"Thanks!" said the countess, pressing her sister's hand. "Ah! I'd give
ten years of life--"

"Out of your old age--"

"If I could put an end to these anxieties," said the countess, smiling
at the interruption.

The persons who were at that moment levelling their opera-glasses at the
two sisters might well have supposed them engaged in some light-hearted
talk; but any observer who had come to the Opera more for the pleasure
of watching faces than for mere idle amusement might have guessed them
in trouble, from the anxious look which followed the momentary smiles
on their charming faces. Raoul, who did not fear the bailiffs at night,
appeared, pale and ashy, with anxious eye and gloomy brow, on the step
of the staircase where he regularly took his stand. He looked for the
Countess in her box and, finding it empty, buried his face in his hands,
leaning his elbows on the balustrade.

"Can she be here!" he thought.

"Look up, unhappy hero," whispered Mme. du Tillet.

As for Marie, at all risks she