"Oh! sir, thank you; give—give me quickly," said Madame de Fermont, pushing back the table and half opening the door.
"It is twenty sous, madame," said the fence, showing the letter so impatiently desired.
"I am going to pay you, sir."
"Oh! madame, there is no hurry. I am going to the roof; in ten minutes I will descend, and take the money as I pass." Micou handed the letter to Madame de Fermont, and disappeared.
"The letter is from Normandy. On the stamp is Aubiers; it is from M. d'Orbigny!" cried Madame de Fermont examining the address.
"Well, mamma, was I right?"
"Oh, how my heart beats! Our good or bad fortune is, however, here," said Madame de Ferment, in a faltering voice, showing the letter.
Twice her trembling hand approached the seal to break it. She had not the courage. Can one hope to paint the terrible anguish suffered by those who, like Madame de Fermont, await from a letter hope or despair?
The burning and feverish emotion of a player whose last pieces of gold are staked on a single card, and who, breathless, the eye inflamed, awaits the decisive throw which saves or ruins him forever: this emotion, so violent, would hardly give an idea of the terrible anguish of which we speak. In an instant the soul is lifted up with the most radiant hopes, or plunged into the blackest despair. The unfortunate being passes in turn through the most contrary emotions; ineffable feelings of happiness and gratitude toward the generous heart which had pity on his sorrows—a sad and bitter resentment against the selfish or indifferent.
"What weakness!" said Madame de Fermont, with a sad smile, seating herself on the bed of her daughter: "once more, my poor Claire, our fate is there. I burn to know it, and I dare not. If it is a refusal, alas! it will be always soon enough."