“Then you must carry me there as I am,” she said in a tone of defiance; “for I shall certainly not get up.” For the first time since his marriage, M. Favoral met in his own house a more inflexible will than his own, and a more unyielding obstinacy. He was baffled. He threatened his daughter with his clinched fists, but could discover no means of making her obey. He was compelled to surrender, to yield. “This will be settled with the rest,” he growled, as he went out. “I fear nothing in the world, father,” said the girl. It was almost true, so much did the thought of Marius de Tregars inflame her courage. Twice already she had heard from him through the Signor Gismondo Pulei, who never tired talking of this new pupil, to whom he had already given two lessons. “He is the most gallant man in the world,” he said, his eye sparkling with enthusiasm, “and the bravest, and the most generous, and the best; and no quality that can adorn one of God’s creatures shall be wanting in him when I have taught him the divine art. It is not with a little contemptible gold that he means to reward my zeal. To him I am as a second father; and it is with the confidence of a son that he explains to me his labors and his hopes.” Thus Mlle. Gilberte learned through the old maestro, that the newspaper article she had read was almost exactly true, and that M. de Tregars and M. Marcolet had become associated for the purpose of working, in joint account, certain recent discoveries, which bid fair to yield large profits in a near future. “And yet it is for my sake alone that he has thus thrown himself into the turmoil of business, and has become as eager for gain as that M. Marcolet himself.” And, at the height of her father’s persecutions, she felt glad of what she had done, and of her boldness in placing her destiny in the hands of a stranger. The memory of Marius had become her refuge, the element of all her dreams and of all her hopes; in a word, her life. It was of Marius she was thinking, when her mother, surprising her gazing into vacancy, would ask her, “What are you thinking of?” And, at every new vexation she had to endure, her imagination decked him with a new quality, and she clung to him with a more desperate grasp. “How much he would grieve,” thought she, “if he knew of what persecution I am the object!” And very careful was she not to allow the Signor Gismondo Pulei to suspect any thing of it, affecting, on the contrary, in his presence, the most cheerful serenity. And yet she was a prey to the most cruel anxiety, since she observed a new and most incredible transformation in her father.