Alone at night in her little room, Mlle. Gilberte withdrew from the hiding-place, where she kept it preciously, that package which Marius had confided to her, recommending her not to open it until she was sure that he would not return. It was very voluminous, enclosed in an envelope of thick paper, sealed with red wax, bearing the arms of Tregars; and she had often wondered what it could possibly contain. And now she shuddered at the thought that she had perhaps the right to open it. And she had no one of whom she could ask for a word of hope. She was compelled to hide her tears, and to put on a smile. She was compelled to invent pretexts for those who expressed their wonder at seeing her exquisite beauty withering in the bud,--for her mother, whose anxiety was without limit, when she saw her thus pale, her eyes inflamed, and undermined by a continuous fever. True, Marius, on leaving, had left her a friend, the Count de Villegre; and, if any one knew any thing, he certainly did. But she could see no way of hearing from him without risking her secret. Write to him? Nothing was easier, since she had his address,--Rue Turenne. But where could she ask him to direct his answer? Rue St. Gilles? Impossible! True, she might go to him, or make an appointment in the neighborhood. But how could she escape, even for an hour, without exciting Mme. Favoral’s suspicions? Sometimes it occurred to her to confide in Maxence, who was laboring with admirable constancy to redeem his past. But what! must she, then, confess the truth,--confess that she, Gilberte, had lent her ears to the words of a stranger, met by chance in the street, and that she looked forward to no happiness in life save through him? She dared not. She could not take upon herself to overcome the shame of such a situation. She was on the verge of despair, the day when the Signor Pulei arrived radiant, exclaiming from the very threshold, “I have news!” And at once, without surprise at the awful emotion of the girl, which he attributed solely to the interest she felt for him,--him Gismondo Pulei, he went on,--“I did not get them direct, but through a respectable signor with long mustaches, and a red ribbon at his buttonhole, who, having received a letter from my dear pupil, has deigned to come to my room, and read it to me.” The worthy maestro had not forgotten a single word of that letter; and it was almost literally that he repeated it.