"At St. Cloud say you?" said the somnambule, in a low, dreamy voice. "Wait one moment Ah! now I see him. He is in a large garden. There are workmen round him who ask him questions respecting the labor next to be taken in hand. Now they leave him, each proceeding to his appointed task. M. Folitton goes into his house. He takes a billet from his breast and reads it. I can see the signature: it is _Marie Colonne_." Julienne started. The old man looked toward her wistfully, and then, as if interpreting her thoughts, asked the somnambule, "Can you read the contents of the billet?" "It is not very distinct," was the reply; "apparently written in haste. The words are--_'Your fears, Andrè, are needless. What matters it that Fate would seem to demand our eternal separation? Can we not be superior to Fate? Have we not proved it? Do not fail to-night; but this I need not tell you, for since you first discovered the grand mistake of your life, you have not wavered.'_ Monsieur Folitton reads it again and again, and replaces it in his breast. He opens his desk and examines something. I see it now: it is the miniature of a lady. She is young: her hair is very long, her eyes dark and bright." "It is enough," said Julienne, rising quickly. "Be it true or false, I will hear no more." She moved hurriedly toward the door, as if to escape as quickly as possible from a cruel torment. The old man followed her. "I forgot," exclaimed the agitated girl, as she paused and drew from her little glove the stipulated fee. That very evening Madame Margot repeated her visit, and requested to see Julienne alone. She found her alone, but, as if she had something too weighty to be said in the salle-à-manger, she insisted that they should shut themselves up in Julienne's bedroom, while she relieved her loaded mind. "Ah, poor Julienne!" said she, "I never come to see her of an evening but I find her alone! Poor child! so innocent and unsuspecting too! Well, we all have our trials; but to see one whom I love as if she were my own child so treated, is enough to drive me mad!" "What do you mean?" asked Julienne, nervously, for her adventure with the clairvoyante had given her a shock. "My dear, do you mean still to say that you don't know where your husband spends his evenings?" "It is true; I do not know," said Julienne, blushing deeply; then adding, in a tone which, though meant to be firm and resolute, was painfully faint and timid--"nor do I wish to--"