Now let us go back to Esperance. Three days have elapsed since Jane was borne into the hÔtel on the Champs-ElysÉes.

We find Madame Caraman deep in a conference with the person on whom she has more reliance than on any one else in the world, none other than herself! The good woman was lying on a sofa, listening to every sound which came from the room where Jane lay utterly prostrated.

"I don't know," said the old lady half aloud, "whether I am doing right or not. The Count begged me to look out for his son, and I have tried to do this. I have now accepted a new duty from the Vicomte, and for three days and nights I have been watching over this poor young girl. This is all very well. The Vicomte has requested me to keep the affair secret, even from his father, and I have consented. Here I am not sure that I have done wisely. The Count said: 'If you have any especial communication to make to me, you may go to Monsieur Fanfar.' That is clear enough. But if I obey the father I disobey the son!"

All these arguments failed to satisfy the good woman of the excellence of her cause, for she shook her head several times. She heard a long sigh, and ran to Jane's bed. The girl's face looked like wax, her eyelids had a brownish tinge. Her lips were parted with the sigh that her nurse had heard.

Poor Jane! Was she on the road to recovery? Alas! the physicians did not yet answer for her life. Goutran had, at the request of Esperance, brought two men of great science, but they agreed that the girl was in great danger.

When Madame leaned over her to give her the medicine, Jane seemed to be terribly frightened. The color rushed to her cheeks, and she panted for breath.

Suddenly her eyes opened wide, and she cried aloud:

"Ah! let me die—let me die!"

"My poor, dear child!" said Madame Caraman, kissing her tenderly on her brow, "you must not say that! Try to be calm and good."

But Jane did not listen to her. She seemed to be haunted by some terrible spectre. Delirium has some astonishing resurrections. She struggled so fiercely in the arms of her nurse that Madame, who had been told to summon Esperance at any moment, leaned forward and touched a bell.

In a moment the Vicomte appeared. Oh! how pale and hollow-eyed he was! As he entered, Jane fell back among her pillows, covering her face with her hands.

"What is it?" asked Esperance.

"Only a little more fever, sir, but I feared an accident, and called you."

"You did right, and I thank you."

He took the girl's hands gently in his. At his touch tears sprang to Jane's closed eyes, and a little shiver passed over her whole body.

"She is calmer now," said Madame, "and I am almost sorry that I have disturbed you."

"No—I am very glad you did. You must be very weary. Lie down, and I will stay here until dawn."

"No—I am old, I do not require much sleep, while you——"

Esperance sat on the foot of the bed, holding Jane's slender hands.

"Do you think," he said gently, "that I can sleep while she is suffering? Go, I beg of you—I will call you soon."

Madame still resisted a little, perhaps for form's sake, but finally obeyed his wishes. The young man then sank on his knees, still holding Jane's hands.

They remained thus, silent and motionless. From the touch of the Vicomte's hand Jane seemed to experience profound relief. Is it not certain that between two persons a certain magnetic communication may take place—an electric fluid may pass from one to the other, making the two momentarily one?

Esperance bowed his head and pressed his lips on Jane's hand. Then the young girl opened her eyes. The fever was gone. Her glorious eyes had regained all their softness, and her pulse beat more regularly.

"Jane! Jane!" whispered the young man. It seemed to him that he felt a gentle pressure of her fingers. "You hear me?" he said. "Will you allow me to remain near you? If you only knew how much I suffer in seeing your sufferings, and how gladly I would spare you a pang!" Again the little quivering pressure.

"When I saw you the other night it did not seem to me that it was the first time. I felt as if I had seen you in my dreams. Jane, why did you wish to die?"

Was she listening? Did she hear him? A delicious torpor had taken possession of the girl. She thought she was dreaming, and was afraid to move lest she should awaken. The past seemed far away.

He continued:

"Jane, before I saw you I did not live. I was always sad. What did it matter to me the luxury with which I was surrounded? I have always felt singularly alone, my life was incomplete. But now I feel as if it were well rounded. You have suffered, but now all that is over. You will tell me all, because we are to have no secrets from each other. We will leave Paris, and find some quiet retreat together."

She did not speak, but from under her half-closed eyes a tear stole down her cheek. Esperance kissed the tear away. She smiled faintly, and then fell into a sweet sleep. Seeing this, Esperance rose and softly left the room.

In the ante-room Madame Caraman lay asleep on the sofa. Esperance smiled, but as he knew that Jane was safe, he did not arouse her nurse.

He went to his room. Hardly had the sound of his footsteps died away than the portiÈre is lifted in yonder corner, and a dark form appears. It was a man. His face was hidden by a black vail. In his hand was a white handkerchief and a glass bottle. He stole to the bed so softly that not a sound was heard.

Who is this man? It was thus that Monte-Cristo once entered the room of Valentine de Villefort. But this was not Monte-Cristo. As he reached the bed he extended his arm and held to the girl's face the handkerchief, from which exhaled a blue vapor.

Jane was breathing naturally. Suddenly her whole form quivered, then came immobility. Her limbs straighten, the rose fades from her cheek, her brow becomes like marble. The man lifted the inert form in his arms, and slowly, with infinite precautions, he moved toward the portiÈre, which he pushes aside and disappears.

Ah! Madame Caraman, ah! Esperance, you little know what is going on!

This man is Benedetto. His revenge has begun!

And in that empty room there is now no other sound than the ticking of the clock.