le obstacle between Marius and
herself.

For two weeks past, the communications had been completely restored;
and there was as yet no sign of M. de Tregars. It was with the most
violent palpitations of her heart that she awaited each day the hour
of the Signor Gismondo Pulei's lesson: and more painful each time
became her anguish when she heard him exclaim,

"Nothing, not a line, not a word. The pupil has forgotten his old
master!"

But Mlle. Gilberte knew well that Marius did not forget. Her blood
froze in her veins when she read in the papers the interminable
list of those poor soldiers who had succumbed during the invasion,
--the more fortunate ones under Prussian bullets; the others along
the roads, in the mud or in the snow, of cold, of fatigue, of
suffering and of want.

She could not drive from her mind the memory of that lugubrious
vision which had so much frightened her; and she was asking herself
whether it was not one of those inexplicable presentiments, of
which there are examples, which announce the death of a beloved
person.

Alone at night in her little room, Mlle. Gilberte withdrew from the
hiding-place, where she kept it preciously, that package which
Marius had confided to her, recommending her not to open it until
she was sure that he would not return. It was very voluminous,
enclosed in an envelope of thick paper, sealed with red wax, bearing
the arms of Tregars; and she had often wondered what it could
possibly contain. And now she shuddered at the thought that she
had perhaps the right to open it.

And she had no one of whom she could ask for a word of hope. She
was compelled to hide her tears, and to put on a smile. She was
compelled to invent pretexts for those who expressed their wonder
at seeing her exquisite beauty withering in the bud,--for her
mother, whose anxiety was without limit, when she saw her thus pale,
her eyes inflamed, and undermined by a continuous fever.

True, Marius, on leaving, had left her a friend, the Count de
Villegre; and, if any one knew any thing, he certainly did. But
she could see no way of hearing from him without risking her secret.
Write to him? Nothing was easier, since she had his address,--Rue
Turenne. But where could she ask him to direct his answer? Rue St.
Gilles? Impossible! True, she might go to him, or make an
appointment in the neighborhood. But how could she escape, even
for an hour, without exciting Mme. Favoral's suspicions?