At last, towards five o’clock, when nothing had come, she said,—
“It is not to be to-day, provided, O God! that poor Mechinet has not been caught.”
And, perhaps in order to escape for a time the anguish of her fears, she agreed to accompany Jacques’s mother, who wanted to pay some visits.
Ah, if she had but known! She had not left the house ten minutes, when one of those street-boys, who abound at all hours of the day on the great Square, appeared, bringing a letter to her address. They took it to M. de Chandore, who, while waiting for dinner, was walking in the garden with M. Folgat.
“A letter for Dionysia!” exclaimed the old gentleman, as soon as the servant had disappeared. “Here is the answer we have been waiting for!”
He boldly tore it open. Alas! It was useless. The note within the envelope ran thus,—
“31:9, 17, 19, 23, 25, 28, 32, 101, 102, 129, 137, 504, 515—37:2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10, 11, 13, 14, 24, 27, 52, 54, 118, 119, 120, 200, 201—41:7, 9, 17, 21, 22, 44, 45, 46”—
And so on, for two pages.
“Look at this, and try to make it out,” said M. de Chandore, handing the letter to M. Folgat.
The young man actually tried it; but, after five minutes’ useless efforts, he said,—