Passing rapidly his hat and his cane from the right hand into the left, and then the right hand upon his heart, his eyes raised to the ceiling, and with all the depth of expression of which he was capable, “It is in times of adversity that we know our real friends, mademoiselle,” he uttered. “Those upon whom we thought we could rely the most, often, at the first reverse, take flight forever!” She felt a shiver pass over her. Was this an allusion to Marius? The other, changing his tone, went on, “It’s only last night that I heard of poor Favoral’s discomfiture, at the bourse where I had gone for news. It was the general topic of conversation. Twelve millions! That’s pretty hard. The Mutual Credit Society might not be able to stand it. From 580, at which it was selling before the news, it dropped at once to 300. At nine o’clock, there were no takers at 180. And yet, if there is nothing beyond what they say, at 180, I am in.” Was he forgetting himself, or pretending to? “But please excuse me, mademoiselle,” he resumed: “that’s not what I came to tell you. I came to ask if you had any news of our poor Favoral.” “We have none, sir.” “Then it is true: he succeeded in getting away through this window?” “Yes.” “And he did not tell you where he meant to take refuge?” Observing M. Costeclar with all her power of penetration, Mlle. Gilberte fancied she discovered in him something like a certain surprise mingled with joy. “Then Favoral must have left without a sou!” “They accuse him of having carried away millions, sir; but I would swear that it is not so.” M. Costeclar approved with a nod. “I am of the same opinion,” he declared, “unless--but no, he was not the man to try such a game. And yet--but again no, he was too closely watched. Besides, he was carrying a very heavy load, a load that exhausted all his resources.” Mlle. Gilberte, hoping that she was going to learn something, made an effort to preserve her indifference. “What do you mean?” she inquired. He looked at her, smiled, and, in a light tone, “Nothing,” he answered, “only some conjectures of my own.” And throwing himself upon a chair, his head leaning upon its back, “That is not the object of my visit either,” he uttered. “Favoral is overboard: don’t let us say any thing more about him. Whether he has got ‘the bag’ or not, you’ll never see him again: he is as good as dead. Let us, therefore, talk of the living, of yourself. What’s going to become of you?” “I do not understand your question, sir.” “It is perfectly limpid, nevertheless. I am asking myself how you are going to live, your mother and yourself?” “Providence will not abandon us, sir.” M. Costeclar had crossed his legs, and with the end of his cane he was negligently tapping his immaculate boot.