The letter was almost a relief for Mme. Fauvel.  Anything was preferable to suspense.  She was ready to consent to everything.

She burned the letter, and said, “I shall go.”

The next day at the appointed hour, she dressed herself in a plain black silk, a large bonnet which concealed her face, and, putting a thick veil in her pocket to be used if she found it necessary, started forth.

After hurriedly walking several squares, she thought she might, without fear of being recognized, call a coach.  In a few minutes she was set down at the Hotel du Louvre.  Here her uneasiness increased.  Her circle of acquaintances being large, she was in terror of being recognized.  What would her friends think if they saw her at the Hotel du Louvre disguised in this old dress?

Anyone would naturally suspect an intrigue, a rendezvous; and her character would be ruined forever.

This was the first time since her marriage that she had had occasion for mystery; and her efforts to escape notice were in every way calculated to attract attention.

The porter said that the Marquis of Clameran’s rooms were on the third floor.

She hurried up the stairs, glad to escape the scrutinizing glances of several men standing near; but, in spite of the minute directions given by the porter, she lost her way in one of the long corridors of the hotel.

Finally, after wandering about for some time, she found a door bearing the number sought—­317.

She stood leaning against the wall with her hand pressed to her throbbing heart, which seemed bursting.

Now, at the moment of risking this decisive step, she felt paralyzed with fright.  She would have given all she possessed to find herself safe in her own home.

The sight of a stranger entering the corridor ended her hesitation.

With a trembling hand she knocked at the door.

“Come in,” said a voice from within.

She entered the room.

It was not the Marquis of Clameran who stood in the middle of the room, but a young man, almost a youth, who bowed to Mme. Fauvel with a singular expression on his handsome face.

Mme. Fauvel thought that she had mistaken the room.

“Excuse me, monsieur,” she said, blushing deeply.  “I thought that this was the Marquis of Clameran’s room.”

“It is his room, madame,” replied the young man; then, seeing she was silent and about to leave, he added: 

“I presume I have the honor of addressing Mme. Fauvel?”

She bowed affirmatively, shuddering at the sound of her own name, frightened at this proof of Clameran’s betrayal of her secret to a stranger.

With visible anxiety she awaited an explanation.

“Reassure yourself, madame,” said the young man:  “you are as safe here as if you were in your own house.  M. de Clameran desired me to make his excuses; he will not have the honor of seeing you to-day.”