"Ah, mamma, can it be possible? not deign to answer us, and leave us to hope four days, eight days perhaps--for when one is unfortunate they hope always." "Alas! my child, there is sometimes so much indifference for the woes which one does not know!" "But your letter." "My letter cannot give him an idea of our troubles, of our sufferings of each moment. Can my letter picture to him our unfortunate life, our humiliations of every description, our existence in this frightful house, the alarm we have experienced even just now? Can my letter describe to him the horrible future which awaits us, if--but stop, my child, do not let us speak of this. Mon Dieu! you tremble--you are cold." "No, mamma; pay no attention to it; but tell me, suppose everything fails, that the little money which remains in that trunk is spent, can it be possible that in a rich place like Paris we should both die of hunger and misery, for want of work, and because a bad man has taken what you had?" "Hush, poor child." "But, mamma, could It be?" "Alas!" "But God, who knows all, who can do all, how could He abandon us, He whom we have not offended?" "I entreat you, my child, do not have such gloomy ideas; I would rather see you hope, even against hope. Come, rouse me up with your dear illusions; but I am but too apt to be discouraged, you know well." "Yes, yes; let us hope; it is better. The nephew of the porter will soon return from the post-office with a letter. One more errand to pay from your little treasure, and through my fault. If I had not been so feeble to-day and yesterday, we could have gone ourselves, as we did before, but you would not leave me alone here to go yourself." "Could I, my child? Judge then, just now this wretch who broke in the door, if you had been alone." "Oh! mamma, hush; only to think of it makes me shudder." At this moment some one knocked sharply at the door. "Heavens, it is he," cried Madame de Fermont, and she pushed with all her strength the table against the door. Her fears, however, ceased when she heard the voice of Micou. "Madame, my nephew, Andre, has come from the post-office. It is a letter with an X and a Z for address; it comes from a distance. There are eight sous postage and the commission--it is twenty sous." "Mamma, a letter from the country; we are saved; it is from M. de Saint Remy or M. d'Orbigny. Poor mother, you shall suffer no more, no longer be uneasy about me; you shall be happy. God is just--God is good!" cried the young girl, and a ray of hope lighted up her sweet and charming face. "Oh! sir, thank you; give--give me quickly," said Madame de Fermont, pushing back the table and half opening the door. "It is twenty sous, madame," said the fence, showing the letter so impatiently desired. "I am going to pay you, sir." "Oh! madame, there is no hurry. I am going to the roof; in ten minutes I will descend, and take the money as I pass." Micou handed the letter to Madame de Fermont, and disappeared.