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?

Sometimes it occurred to her to confide in Maxence, who was laboring with admirable constancy to redeem his past.

But what! must she, then, confess the truth,—­confess that she, Gilberte, had lent her ears to the words of a stranger, met by chance in the street, and that she looked forward to no happiness in life save through him?  She dared not.  She could not take upon herself to overcome the shame of such a situation.

She was on the verge of despair, the day when the Signor Pulei arrived radiant, exclaiming from the very threshold, “I have news!”

And at once, without surprise at the awful emotion of the girl, which he attributed solely to the interest she felt for him,—­him Gismondo Pulei, he went on,—­“I did not get them direct, but through a respectable signor with long mustaches, and a red ribbon at his buttonhole, who, having received a letter from my dear pupil, has deigned to come to my room, and read it to me.”

The worthy maestro had not forgotten a single word of that letter; and it was almost literally that he repeated it.

Six weeks after having enlisted, his pupil had been promoted corporal, then sergeant, then lieutenant.  He had fought in all the battles of the army of the Loire without receiving a scratch.  But at the battle of the Maus, whilst leading back his men, who were giving way, he had been shot twice, full in the breast.  Carried dying into an ambulance, he had lingered three weeks between life and death, having lost all consciousness of self.  Twenty-four hours after, he had recovered his senses; and he took the first opportunity to recall himself to the affection of his friends.  All danger was over, he suffered scarcely any more; and they promised him, that, within a month, he would be up, and able to return to Paris.

For the first time in many weeks Mlle. Gilberte breathed freely.  But she would have been greatly surprised, had she been told that a day was drawing near when she would bless those wounds which detained Marius upon a hospital cot.  And yet it was so.

Mme. Favoral and her daughter were alone, one evening, at the house, when loud clamors arose from the street, in the midst of which could be heard drunken voices yelling the refrains of revolutionary songs, accompanied by continuous rumbling sounds.  They ran to the window.  The National Guards had just taken possession of the cannon deposited in the Place Royale.  The reign of the Commune was commencing.