While Madame Cormier told at great length how she felt, and also how she did not feel, Phillis looked at Saniel, uneasy to see his face so convulsed. Surely, something very serious had happened; his visit said this. But what? Her anguish was so much the greater, because he certainly avoided looking at her. Why? She had done nothing, and could find nothing with which to reproach herself. At this moment the door opened, and a man still young, tall, with a curled beard, entered the room. “My son,” Madame Cormier said. “My brother Florentin, of whom we have spoken so often,” Phillis said. Florentin! Was he then becoming imbecile, that he had not thought the voice of the man who bid him enter was that of Phillis’s brother? Was he so profoundly overwhelmed that such a simple reasoning was impossible to him? Decidedly, it was important for him to go away as quickly as possible; the journey would calm his nerves. “They wrote to me,” Florentin said, “and since my return they have told me how good you were to my mother. Permit me to thank you from a touched and grateful heart. I hope that before long this gratitude will be something more than a vain word.” “Do not let us speak of that,” Saniel said, looking at Phillis with a frankness and an open countenance that reassured heron a certain point. “It is I who am obliged to Madame Cormier. If the word were not barbarous, I should say that her illness has been a good thing for me.” To turn the conversation, and because he wished to speak to Phillis alone, he approached her table and talked with her about her work. Saniel then gave Madame Cormier some advice, and rose to go. Phillis followed him, and Florentin was about to accompany them, but Phillis stopped him. “I wish to ask Doctor Saniel a question,” she said. When they were on the landing she closed the door. “What is the matter?” she asked in a hurried and trembling voice. “I wished to tell you that I start for Monaco at eleven o’clock.” “You are going away?” “I have received two hundred francs from a patient, and I am going to risk them at play. Two hundred francs will not pay Jardine or the others, but with them I may win several thousands of francs.” “Oh! Poor dear! How desperate you must be--you, such as you are, to have such an idea!” “Am I wrong?” “Never wrong to my eyes, to my heart, to my love. O my beloved, may fortune be with you!” “Give me your hand.” She looked around, listening. There was no one, no noise. Then, drawing him toward her, she put her lips on his: “All yours, yours!” “I will return Tuesday.” “Tuesday, at five o’clock, I shall be there.” CHAPTER XVI. THE SMILES OF FORTUNE No one knew so little about play as Saniel. He knew that people played at Monaco, and that was all. He bought his ticket for Monaco, and left the train at that place.