A cheerless-looking place was Mlle. Lucienne’s room, without any furniture but a narrow iron bedstead, a dilapidated bureau, four straw-bottomed chairs, and a small table. Over the bed, and at the windows, were white muslin curtains, with an edging that had once been blue, but had become yellow from repeated washings. Often Maxence had begged his friend to take a more comfortable lodging, and always she had refused. “We must economize,” she would say. “This room does well enough for me; and, besides, I am accustomed to it.” When M. de Tregars and the commissary walked in, the estimable hostess of the Hotel des Folies was kneeling in front of the fire, preparing some medicine. Hearing the footsteps, she got up, and, with a finger upon her lips, “Hush!” she said. “Take care not to wake her up!” The precaution was useless. “I am not asleep,” said Mlle. Lucienne in a feeble voice. “Who is there?” “I,” replied Maxence, advancing towards the bed. It was only necessary to see the poor girl in order to understand Maxence’s frightful anxiety. She was whiter than the sheet; and fever, that horrible fever which follows severe wounds, gave to her eyes a sinister lustre. “But you are not alone,” she said again. “I am with him, my child,” replied the commissary. “I come to beg your pardon for having so badly protected you.” She shook her head with a sad and gentle motion. “It was myself who lacked prudence,” she said; “for to-day, while out, I thought I noticed something wrong; but it looked so foolish to be afraid! If it had not happened to-day, it would have happened some other day. The villains who have been pursuing me for years must be satisfied now. They will soon be rid of me.” “Lucienne,” said Maxence in a sorrowful tone. M. de Tregars now stepped forward. “You shall live, mademoiselle,” he uttered in a grave voice. “You shall live to learn to love life.” And, as she was looking at him in surprise, “You do not know me,” he added. Timidly, and as if doubting the reality, “You,” she said, “the Marquis de Tregars!” “Yes, mademoiselle, your brother.” Had he had the control of events, Marius de Tregars would probably not have been in such haste to reveal this fact. But how could he control himself in presence of that bed where a poor girl was, perhaps, about to die, sacrificed to the terrors and to the cravings of the miserable woman who was her mother,--to die at twenty, victim of the basest and most odious of crimes? How could he help feeling an intense pity at the sight of this unfortunate young woman who had endured every thing that a human being can suffer, whose life had been but a long and painful struggle, whose courage had risen above all the woes of adversity, and who had been able to pass without a stain through the mud and mire of Paris.