Mad with his terrible forebodings, Andre hurried through the streets in the
direction of the Hotel de Mussidan, caring little for the attention that his excited
looks and gestures caused. He had no fixed plan as to what to do when he
arrived there, and it was only on reaching the Rue de Matignon that he recovered
sufficient coolness to deliberate and reflect.
He had arrived at the desired spot; how should he set to work to obtain the
information that he required? The evening was a dark one, and the gas-lamps
showed a feeble light through the dull February fog. There were no signs of life in
the Rue de Matignon, and the silence was only broken by the continuous surge
of carriage wheels in the Faubourg Saint Honore. This gloom, and the
inclemency of the weather, added to the young painter's depression. He saw his
utter helplessness, and felt that he could not move a step without compromising
the woman he so madly adored. He walked to the gate of the house, hoping to
gain some information even from the exterior aspect of the house; for it seemed
to him that if Sabine were dying, the very stones in the street would utter sounds
of woe and lamentation; but the fog had closely enwrapped the house, and he
could hardly see which of the windows were lighted. His reasoning faculties told
him that there was no use in waiting, but an inner voice warned him to stay.
Would Modeste, who had written to him, divine, by some means that he was
there, in an agony of suspense, and come out to give him information and
solace? All at once a thought darted across his mind, vivid as a flash of lightning.
"M. de Breulh will help me," cried he; "for though I cannot go to the house, he will
have no difficulty in doing so."
By good luck, he had M. de Breulh's card in his pocket, and hurried off to his
address. M. de Breulh had a fine house in the Avenue de l'Imperatrice, which he
had taken more for the commodiousness of the stables than for his own
convenience.
"I wish to see M. de Breulh," said Andre, as he stopped breathless at the door,
where a couple of footmen were chatting.
The men looked at him with supreme contempt. "He is out," one of them at last
condescended to reply.
Andre had by this time recovered his coolness, and taking out De Breulh's card,
wrote these words on it in pencil: "One moment's interview. ANDRE."
"Give this to your master as soon as he comes in," said he.
Then he descended the steps slowly. He was certain that M. de Breulh was in
the house, and that he would send out after the person who had left the card
almost at once. His conclusion proved right; in five minutes he was overtaken by
the panting lackey, who, conducting him back to the house, showed him into a
magnificently furnished library. De Breulh feared that some terrible event had
taken place.
"What has happened?" said he.
