Could she hope to escape when he had succumbed? She could tell by
the agony that was torturing her own heart, how much he must have
suffered. Where was he now? Beyond the frontiers of France? They
had told her so, but she did not, could not believe it. Knowing
him as she knew him, it seemed to her impossible that he had
accepted his fate so quickly and without a struggle. A secret
presentiment told her that his absence was only feigned, that he
was only biding his time, and that M. Fortunat would not have far
to go in search of him. It was in M. de Chalusse's bedroom that
she thus reflected, but a few steps from the bed on which reposed
all that was mortal of the man whose weakness had made her life
one long martyrdom, whose want of foresight had ruined her future,
but whom she had not the heart to censure. She was standing in
front of the window with her burning forehead resting against the
glass. At that very moment Pascal was waiting, seated on the
curbstone opposite the mansion. At that very moment he was
watching the shadow on the window-curtain, wondering if it were
not Marguerite's. If the night had been clear she might have
discerned the motionless watcher in the street below, and divined
that it was Pascal. But how could she suspect his presence? How
could she suspect that he had hastened to the Rue de Courcelles as
she had hastened to the Rue d'Ulm?
It was almost midnight when a slight noise, a sound of stealthy
footsteps, made her turn.
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