The hour drew near when Urbain could recompense himself for the day's absence.
"Only one day more," said he, as he approached the barber's house, "and she will be mine." He hurried, his heart palpitating with love, but on looking up at Blanche's window he saw no light, and this slight circumstance astonished him and rendered him uneasy; or rather a secret presentiment warned him of his misfortune, for, in love, presentiments are not chimeras.
Urbain knocked and Marguerite appeared, but the grief depicted on her face, her eyes filled with tears, announced that something had happened.
"Where is Blanche?" cried Urbain, looking fearfully at Marguerite.
The old woman could only sigh deeply, but Urbain was no longer near her, he ran, he flew to the room of his beloved, but that room was deserted, its charming occupant was gone. Marguerite slowly followed the young man.
"In mercy tell me," cried Urbain, "where is she? Hide nothing from me."
"My poor boy, collect all your courage. Last night somebody carried off our dear child."
Urbain remained motionless and overwhelmed, while Marguerite told him all that she knew. He listened without interrupting her, and seemed as if he could hardly yet realize his misfortune, but presently, dropping on Blanche's favorite seat, he yielded to the profoundest despair. The tears rolled down his face; at nineteen years of age one sheds them still in the troubles of life; one has not then that strength of mind which is later acquired in the school of misfortune.
Marguerite tried to calm Urbain by saying to him,—
"You will recover her, that dear child, for you are not capable of forgetting her, and coldly consoling yourself for her loss."