"
Mademoiselle Marguerite spent a restless and uncomfortable night.
In spite of her reason, in spite of the convincing proofs she had
seen, the most disturbing doubts returned. Might she not have
judged the situation with a prejudiced mind? Had the Fondeges
really been as reduced in circumstances as she supposed? Like
every one who has been unfortunate, she feared illusions, and was
extremely distrustful of everything that seemed to favor her hopes
and wishes. The only thing that really encouraged her was the
thought that she could consult the old magistrate, and that M. de
Chalusse's former agent might succeed in finding Pascal
Ferailleur. M. Fortunat must have received her letter by this
time: he would undoubtedly expect her on Tuesday, and it only
remained for her to invent some excuse which would give her a
couple of hours' liberty without awakening suspicion.
She rose early the next morning, and had almost completed her
toilette, when she heard some one in the passage outside rapping
at the door of Madame Leon's room. "Who's there?" inquired that
worthy lady.
It was Justine, Madame de Fondege's maid, who answered in a pert
voice, "Here is a letter, madame, which has just been sent up by
the concierge. It is addressed to Madame Leon. That is your
name, is it not?"
Marguerite staggered as if she had received a heavy blow.
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