This was the departure of Fernand--of Fernand, whose crime she did not know, and whom she regarded as her brother.

Fernand went, and Mercedes remained alone.

Three months passed and still she wept--no news of Edmond, no news of Fernand, no companionship save that of an old man who was dying with despair.

One evening, after a day of accustomed vigil at the angle of two roads leading to Marseilles from the Catalans, she returned to her home more depressed than ever.

Suddenly she heard a step she knew, turned anxiously around, the door opened, and Fernand, dressed in the uniform of a sub-lieutenant, stood before her.