An hour or two later, M. Rivals and his granddaughter were on their way to Paris. Just after they left, a man stopped before the house. He looked at the little door. “This is the place,” he said, and he rang. The servant opened the door, but seeing before her one of those dangerous pedlers that wander through the country, she attempted to close it again. “What do you want?” “The gentleman of the house.” “He is not at home.” “And the young lady?” “She is not at home, either.” “When will they be back?” “I have no idea!” And she closed the door. “Good heavens!” said Bélisaire, in a choked voice; “and must he be permitted to die without any help?” CHAPTER XXIII. A MELANCHOLY SPECTACLE. That evening there was a great literary entertainment at the editors of the Review; a fête had been arranged to celebrate Charlotte’s return, at which it was proposed that D’Argenton should read his new poem. But was there not something rather ridiculous in deploring the absence of a person who was then present? And how could he describe the sufferings of a deserted lover, he who was supposed at the moment to be at the summit of bliss, by reason of the return of the beloved object? Never had the apartments been so luxuriously arranged; flowers were there in profusion. The toilet of Charlotte was in exquisite taste, white with clusters of violets, and all the surroundings breathed an atmosphere of riches. Yet nothing could have been more deceptive. The Review was in a dying condition; the numbers appearing at longer intervals, and growing small by degrees and beautifully less. D’Argenton had swallowed up in it the half of his fortune, and now wished to sell it. It was this unfortunate situation, added to an attack skilfully managed, that had induced the foolish Charlotte to return to him. He had only to assume before her the air of a great man crushed by unmerited misfortune, for her to reply that she would serve him always.