She shook her head, encircled with a kerchief, accepted the two-franc piece Uncle Graff slipped into her hand, and walked slowly away, in the direction of the town, dragging her faggot along the road. Marcel had already entered the villa. On the threshold his heart seemed almost to stop beating. The door remained open, as though, in the hurry of flight, they had not had time to close it, or rather, as though she had left nothing behind worth keeping. Crossing the garden, he entered the hall, and called— “Milona! Anetta!” No reply came; nothing but silence and darkness. Entering the salon, he saw a letter lying on the table. Tearing it open, he rapidly ran over the contents, sat down to read it once more, finally understood it, and sat there, with bowed head and throbbing brow, as though in the presence of a terrible disaster. There Uncle Graff found him. He had gone over the whole house, and acquired the certainty that it was abandoned. Baudoin was seated in the garden. Seeing his nephew’s anguish and the pallor of his countenance, the old man’s heart melted; he placed his hand affectionately on the young man’s head, softly stroked his hair, and seeing the letter pressed between his passive fingers, asked— “Has she written to you?” At these words, simple though they were, his fugitive love seemed almost reinstated in his eyes, as he felt that she had not forgotten him, and Marcel burst into sobs as he silently held out the paper and hid his face in his hands. Uncle Graff drew near the window and read the letter, after which he stood there in a reverie. Marcel, regaining possession of himself to defend the one he loved, finally rose from his seat, and said in supplicating accents— “Uncle Graff, is this the letter of a woman who lies? Do not her protests appear sincere to you? Has she the faintest complicity in the crimes committed? Do you accuse her of having deceived me? Is she not rather a victim undergoing a rigorous tyranny at the hands of the very monsters who threaten us? This letter, Uncle Graff, this letter—does it not breathe despair in every line? Is it not a confirmation of her love for me?” “The letter appears to be sincere,” said the old man, calmly. “I cannot but recognize that grief is evident in every word, and that the one who wrote it was evidently acting under compulsion when she left the house. That is a proof that she loves you, and regrets your absence. But is that a proof that she is not guilty, and the accomplice of the rest?” “Oh, Uncle Graff, do you think it possible?” “I do, and I am afraid it is so, my dear Marcel, and that would be more serious than anything else, for, if this woman loves you—and how could she help loving you, my dear child, once she knows you—ah, if this woman loves you, my anxiety will become greater than ever. For she might try to see you again, and then—” A light of hope illumined Marcel’s face. “Ah, if only that could be!”