Left alone, Mlle. Gilberte had but one thought,—­to notify M. de Tregars, and obtain word from him.  Any thing seemed preferable to the horrible anxiety which oppressed her.  She had just commenced a letter, which she intended to have taken to the Count de Villegre, when a violent ring of the bell made her start; and almost immediately the servant came in, saying,

“It is a gentleman who wishes to see you, a friend of monsieur’s, —­M.  Costeclar, you know.”

Mlle. Gilberte started to her feet, trembling with excitement.

“That’s too much impudence!” she exclaimed.  She was hesitating whether to refuse him the door, or to see him, and dismiss him shamefully herself, when she had a sudden inspiration.  “What does he want?” she thought.  “Why not see him, and try and find out what he knows?  For he certainly must know the truth.”

But it was no longer time to deliberate.  Above the servant’s shoulder M. Costeclar’s pale and impudent face showed itself.

The girl having stepped to one side, he appeared, hat in hand.  Although it was not yet nine o’clock, his morning toilet was irreproachably correct.  He had already passed through the hair-dresser’s hands; and his scanty hair was brought forward over his low fore-head with the usual elaborate care.

He wore a pair of those ridiculous trousers which grow wide from the knee down, and which were invented by Prussian tailors to hide their customers’ ugly feet.  Under his light-colored overcoat could be seen a velvet-faced jacket, with a rose in its buttonhole.

Meantime, he remained motionless on the threshold of the door, trying to smile, and muttering one of those sentences which are never intended to be finished.

“I beg you to believe, mademoiselle—­your mother’s absence—­my most respectful admiration—­”

In fact, he was taken aback by the disorder of the girl’s toilet, —­disorder which she had had no time to repair since the clamors of the creditors had started her from her bed.

She wore a long brown cashmere wrapper, fitting quite close over the hips setting off the vigorous elegance of her figure, the maidenly perfections of her waist, and the exquisite contour of her neck.  Gathered up in haste, her thick blonde hair escaped from beneath the pins, and spread over her shoulders in luminous cascades.  Never had she appeared to M. Costeclar as lovely as at this moment, when her whole frame was vibrating with suppressed indignation, her cheeks flushed, her eyes flashing.

“Please come in, sir,” she uttered.

He stepped forward, no longer bowing humbly as formerly, but with legs outstretched, chest thrown out, with an ill-concealed look of gratified vanity.  “I did not expect the honor of your visit, sir,” said the young girl.

Passing rapidly his hat and his cane from the right hand into the left, and then the right hand upon his heart, his eyes raised to the ceiling, and with all the depth of expression of which he was capable,