“To-morrow, then.” Mrs. Sassenay, meanwhile, making her way toward her daughter, was stopped by a group of people in animated conversation. The group was growing larger every minute. “Are you sure?” asked Mr. Vallerois of a young officer whose uniform bore the epaulettes of the general staff. “Quite sure,” said the officer. “The news reached our division at six o’clock. The general went in person to call on Mr. Roquevillard.” “In person,” corroborated Mr. Coulanges, who had been astonished and impressed by this official step toward one who was down and out like Mr. Roquevillard. Mrs. Sassenay turned to her neighbour, Mr. Latache, for information. “What news are they talking about?” she inquired. “Of the death of Lieutenant Roquevillard,” was the reply. “He died of yellow fever in the Soudan.” “How unfortunate that family is!” murmured Mrs. Sassenay, moved with pity. “Are they not, indeed!” said Mr. Latache. So cruel a grief centred all the women’s sympathy on the Roquevillards, and removed the hostility of the men, though people had been complacent witnesses of the family’s material and moral decadence. They had merely wanted to take the Roquevillards down a peg or two, but fate was crushing them with no compassion or reprieve. The partisans of Mr. Frasne and his clever operation were silent, the district attorney expressing the sentiment of them all in the phrase: “Poor things!” Shortly after this colloquy Jeanne Sassenay disappeared. In vain her mother searched for her through the rooms. In the vestibule she perceived Raymond Bercy hastily getting into his overcoat. “Are you going already?” she asked. “Yes, Mrs. Sassenay,” he replied, with no further explanation of his precipitate departure. She thought she guessed the young man’s trouble, and connected the circumstances with her daughter’s disappearance, beginning to be seriously worried. “Have you seen Jeanne?” she asked of her husband, whom she met at the entrance to the drawing-room. “No. Are you looking for her?” Mr. Sassenay was a frankly active and loyal man, but quite destitute of psychology; he could overcome the greatest material obstacles, but was incapable of stopping to analyse sentiments. His wife judged it useless to tell him of her fears, and contented herself with enjoining him to look after their guests. For her own part she went straight to her daughter’s room. She entered, and the moment she turned the switch of the electric light she discovered Jeanne there--all crumpled up and shrunken in an armchair, weeping regardless of her rumpled frock. “Jeanne, what’s the matter?” she asked at once, beginning to pet her. “Oh, mamma,” wailed the girl. It was the cry of a little child that is soon quieted. “Why are you crying, Jeanne?” asked her mother. “I keep thinking of Margaret’s troubles while I’m dancing,” she explained.