Blanche commenced her ascent, but when she reached the topmost stair of the fifth flight, and saw before her the narrow, winding, dirty steps that led to the last story, she paused, and began to wonder whither she was going. How strange that M. de Candolles should live in such a place! M. de Candolles, who was “one of her set,” and whom she had pictured to herself surrounded by the same elegancies of life which, to the small number of individuals she called _every body_ were indispensable!—what could it mean, and where was she going? She mounted the flight of stairs, and found herself in a long, winding corridor, lighted by skylights placed at stated distances. Doors were on either hand, and they were numbered. Blanche de Vouvray drew her silk dress and her cachemire shawl closely around her, to avoid the contact of the greasy looking wall. She was hesitating whether she would not return at once, when a low moan, followed by a short, hollow cough, struck her ear—all the woman’s pitying sympathy was instantaneously re-awakened, and she advanced, her hand raised in order to knock. But, reader, let us in a few words depict to you the scene that is yet hidden by that closed door. On a miserable bed stretched upon a _paillasse_ of straw, lies the invalid, upon whose pallid features a ray of light falls mournfully after having filtered through a ragged piece of green calico hung up before the dim pane of the roof-window. The walls are dingy and bare; in one corner only hangs something in the form of clothing, covered by an old square of ticking. On a broken-backed straw chair at the bed-head, rests a broken tea-pot, apparently filled with _tisane_; whilst upon a small table near the door are crowded together papers and perfume-bottles, inkstands and soiled gloves, a wash-hand basin and a candlestick, a hair-brush and two or three books—the heterogeneous symbols of all the wretched inmate’s wants, vanities and toil! The night had been a bad one, and the morning sun brought but small alleviation to Ferdinand’s sufferings, whilst the malady itself held him prisoner in its clutches; the want of proper sustenance so weakened his frame that it could oppose no resistance to disease. The brain, without as yet precisely wandering, still from time to time created for itself fair illusions, gentle dreams. _One_ form ever floated before Ferdinand’s mental vision—far, far off, as in another sphere—and he would stretch forth his arms toward the image, and longing, cry to it for a look, a sign of recognition. A knock came at his door, uncertain, timid, loud; why did they disturb him?—Another knock!—He groaned forth the word to enter, and a hand was laid upon the key. “Come in,” he again peevishly repeated. The door opened!