For a few seconds she remained motionless--petrified--her eyes fixed on vacancy. A world seemed rolling down and crushing her heart. Suddenly she turned, passed with rapid steps into her boudoir; and Vautrot heard the sound of opening and shutting drawers. A moment after she reappeared with bonnet and cloak, and crossed the boudoir with the same strong and rapid step. Vautrot, greatly terrified, rushed to stop her. "Madame!" he cried, throwing himself before her. She waved him aside with an imperious gesture of her hand; he trembled and obeyed, and she left the boudoir. A moment later she was in the Avenue des Champs Elysees, going toward Paris. It was now near midnight; cold, damp April weather, with the rain falling in great drops. The few pedestrians still on the broad pavement turned to follow with their eyes this majestic young woman, whose gait seemed hastened by some errand of life or death. But in Paris nothing is surprising, for people witness all manner of things there. Therefore the strange appearance of Madame de Camors did not excite any extraordinary attention. A few men smiled and nodded; others threw a few words of raillery at her--both were unheeded alike. She traversed the Place de la Concorde with the same convulsive haste, and passed toward the bridge. Arriving on it, the sound of the swollen Seine rushing under the arches and against the pillars, caught her ear; she stopped, leaned against the parapet, and gazed into the angry water; then bowing her head she uttered a deep sigh, and resumed her rapid walk. In the Rue Vanneau she stopped before a brilliantly lighted mansion, isolated from the adjoining houses by a garden wall. It was the dwelling of the Marquise de Campvallon: Arrived there, the unfortunate child knew not what to do, nor even why she had come. She had some vague design of assuring herself palpably of her misfortune; to touch it with her finger; or perhaps to find some reason, some pretext to doubt it. She dropped down on a stone bench against the garden wall, and hid her face in both her hands, vainly striving to think. It was past midnight. The streets were deserted: a shower of rain was falling over Paris, and she was chilled to numbness. A sergent-de-ville passed, enveloped in his cape. He turned and stared at the young woman; then took her roughly by the arm. "What are you doing here?" he said, brutally. She looked up at him with wondering eyes. "I do not know myself," she answered. The man looked more closely at her, discovered through all her confusion a nameless refinement and the subtle perfume of purity. He took pity on her. "But, Madame, you can not stay here," he rejoined in a softer voice. "No?" "You must have some great sorrow?" "Very great." "What is your name?" "The Comtesse de Camors," she said, simply. The man looked bewildered. "Will you tell me where you live, Madame?"