Marguerite, after having conducted David to the garden gate, came to get the lamp that she had left on the threshold of the door, sheltered by the rustic porch. As she stooped to take up the lamp she saw, half hidden by the snow, a neckerchief of orange silk belonging to Madame Bastien, and almost in the same spot she found a little slipper of red morocco encrusted, so to speak, in the snow hardened by the ice. More and more surprised, and wondering how these articles, which evidently belonged to her mistress, came to be there, Marguerite, struck with a sudden idea, picked up the neckerchief and the slipper, then, with the aid of her lamp, she examined attentively the pavement of the corridor. There she recognised the recent imprint of snow-covered feet, so that in following this trace of Madame Bastien's little feet she noticed the last tracks at the door of her mistress. Suddenly Marguerite recollected that when she had assisted her mistress, overcome by the cold, to get in bed, it had not been unmade; other circumstances corroborated these observations, and the servant, terrified at the discovery she had just made, entered Madame Bastien's chamber, where Frederick was sitting near his mother. * * * * * An hour and a quarter after David's departure a cabriolet with two horses white with foam and marked with the postilion's whip stopped at the door of the farm. David and Doctor Dufour descended from this carriage. CHAPTER XXXIX. About three hours had passed since the doctor had arrived at the farm. David, discreetly withdrawn into the library, waited with mortal anxiety the news of Madame Bastien, with whom the doctor and Frederick remained. Once only, David, standing in the door of the library, and seeing Marguerite rapidly passing, as she came from the chamber of her mistress, called, in a low voice: "Ah, well, Marguerite?" "Ah, M. David!" was the only reply of the weeping woman, who passed on without stopping. "She is dying," said David, returning to the library. And pale, his features distorted, his heart broken, he threw himself in an armchair, hid his face in his hands, and burst into tears, vainly trying to suppress his sobs. "I have realised the despair of this restrained, hidden, impossible love," murmured he. "I thought I had suffered cruelly,--what is it to suffer derision compared to the fear of losing Marie? To lose her,--she to die--no, no! oh, but I will at least see her!" And almost crazed with grief, David rushed across the room, but he stopped at the door. "She is dying, perhaps, and I have no right to assist at her agony. What am I here? A stranger. Let me listen--nothing--nothing--the silence of the tomb. My God! in this chamber, where she perhaps is in the agony of death, what is happening? Ah, some one is coming out. It is Pierre." And David, taking one step into the corridor, saw in the twilight of the dark passage, the doctor coming out of Marie's chamber.