Except one thing,—that this unexpected wealth stood between her and what an honest young woman dreads most in this world!
The tears slowly trickled down the pale cheeks,—tears for which it is to be feared only the angels in heaven gave Mlle. Fouchette due credit.
Suddenly she started up in alarm. But it was only some belated lodger, staggering on the stairs. She examined the lock on her door and resolved to get a new one. Then she looked behind the curtains of her bed.
The fear which accompanies possession was new to her.
Having satisfied herself of its safety, she cautiously spread out the bank-note on the table, smoothed out the wrinkles, read everything printed on it, and kissed it again and again.
One of the not least poignant regrets in her mind was that she could tell no one of her good fortune. Not that Mlle. Fouchette was bavarde, but happiness unshared is only half happiness.
She went to the thin place in the wall and listened. Jean was snoring.
She could look him in the face now.
It was a lot of money to have at one time,—with what she had already more than she had ever possessed at once in her life.
Freedom and fortune!