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With a single word Mlle. Gilberte thought she might have enlightenedthem.

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In the unerring certainty of the blow, in the crushing promptnessof the result, she thought she could recognize the hand of Mariusde Tregars.

She recognized the hand of the man who acts, and does not talk.

And the girl's pride felt flattered by this victory, by this proofof the powerful energy of the man whom, unknown to all, she hadselected. She liked to imagine Marius de Tregars and M. Costeclarin presence of each other, - the one as imperious and haughty asshe had seen him meek and trembling; the other more humble stillthan he was arrogant with her.

"One thing is certain," she repeated to herself; "and that is, Iam saved."And she wished the morrow to come, that she might announce herhappiness to the very involuntary and very unconscious accompliceof Marius, the worthy Maestro Gismondo Pulei.

The next day M. Favoral seemed to have resigned himself to thefailure of his projects; and, the following Saturday, he told as apleasant joke, how Mlle. Gilberte had carried the day, and hadmanaged to dismiss her lover.

But a close observer could discover in him symptoms of devouringcares. Deep wrinkles showed along his temples; his eyes were sunken;a continued tension of mind contracted his features. Often duringthe dinner he would remain motionless for several minutes, hisfork aloft; and then he would murmur, "How is it all going to end?"Sometimes in the morning, before his departure for his office, M.

Jottras, of the house of Jottras and Brother, and M. Saint Pavin,the manager of "The Financial Pilot," came to see him. Theycloseted themselves together, and remained for hours in conference,speaking so low, that not even a vague murmur could be heardoutside the door.

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"Your father has grave subjects of anxiety, my children," said Mme.

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Favoral: "you may believe me, - me, who for twenty years have beentrying to guess our fate upon his countenance."But the political events were sufficient to explain any amount ofanxiety. It was the second week of July, 1870; and the destiniesof France trembled, as upon a cast of the dice, in the hands of afew presumptuous incapables. Was it war with Prussia, or was itpeace, that was to issue from the complications of a childishlyastute policy?

The most contradictory rumors caused daily at the bourse the mostviolent oscillations, which endangered the safest fortunes. A fewwords uttered in a corridor by Emile Ollivier had made a dozen heavyoperators rich, but had ruined five hundred small ones. On allhands, credit was trembling.

Until one evening when he came home,"War is declared," said M. Favoral.

It was but too true; and no one then had any fears of the resultfor France. They had so much exalted the French army, they hadso often said that it was invincible, that every one among thepublic expected a series of crushing victories.

Alas! the first telegram announced a defeat. People refused tobelieve it at first. But there was the evidence. The soldiers haddied bravely; but the chiefs had been incapable of leading them.

From that time, and with a vertiginous rapidity, from day to day,from hour to hour, the fatal news came crowding on. Like a riverthat overflows its banks, Prussia was overrunning France. Bazainewas surrounded at Metz; and the capitulation of Sedan capped theclimax of so many disasters.