Olivier had too much delicacy not to feel this shade of sentiment. He gave himself up to the peculiar impression which a man feels who suffers through a woman, when he receives from another the caresses of which his unhappy love has taught him the value. He smiled at Berthe as he had never previously smiled, and Pierre was even deceived by this semi-cheerfulness of his friend. Was it not in a certain sense his own work? Was it not the price of the sacrifice he had made when he had renewed his vow? It was one of those moments which often appear just before the event of some great crisis of which the deceitful calmness impresses our mind later, which astonishes us and makes us tremble when we look back. Nothing bears a more eloquent witness that life is but a dream, that we are simply the playthings of a superior power which urges us along the road we have to take, in which we can never see to-day what to-morrow will bring forth. Danger approaches and stands face to face with us. The masters of our destiny are by our side. They live and breathe without seeming to realize the work which is reserved for them. Is it hazard, fatality, providence? What lot does Fate reserve for us? Corancez called on Friday. The friends were to leave Cannes on Sunday. On Saturday morning, about eleven o'clock, Hautefeuille was in his room packing some of his clothes, when a knock at the door startled him. Although he was firmly resolved to keep his word, he could not help hoping. Hoping for what? He could not have told himself. But an unconscious, irresistible intuition warned him that Ely would not let him go without trying to see him again. And yet she had not given any sign of life since he had returned her letter. She had not sent any one to see him, for Corancez had come without her knowledge. But the young man was in the state of nervous anxiety which presages and precedes any great event close at hand. And his voice trembled as he called out "Come in" to the unknown visitor who knocked at his door. He knew that this visitor, no matter who it was, came from Ely. It was simply one of the hotel servants. He brought a letter. It had been delivered by a messenger who had gone away without waiting for a reply. Hautefeuille looked at the envelope without opening it. Was he going to read this letter? He knew it had been sent him by Madame de Carlsberg. The address was not written in her handwriting. Pierre cast about in his memory to find out where he had seen this nervous, uneven, almost timid-looking writing. All at once he remembered the anonymous note he had received after the evening spent at Monte Carlo. He had shown it to Ely, who had said, "It is from Louise." The letter he held in his hand also came from Madame Brion.