The first day of the year 1795 had just dawned, and there was a thick
and chilling fog. The abbess and her faithful servant felt this day
more than usually depressed, for fifteen months had now elapsed since
the 1500 francs had been received for the ruby, and there now remained
provision only for a few days longer. 'I have got no answer from M.
Simon,' said the abbess; and in giving utterance to her own thought,
she was replying to what was at that moment passing through Margaret's
mind. 'I fear he has not been able to get more for the ruby than he
thinks fair interest for the money he advanced to me.'

'It is most likely,' said Margaret; and both relapsed into their
former desponding silence.

'What a dreary New-Year's Day!' resumed Madame de Vatteville, in a
melancholy tone.

'Oh, why can I not help you, dear mistress?' exclaimed Margaret,
suddenly starting from her reverie. 'Cheerfully would I lay down my
life for you!'

'And why can I not return in any way your devoted attachment, my poor
Margaret?'

At this instant, two loud and hurried knocks at the door startled them
both from their seats, and it was with a trembling hand Margaret
opened it to admit the old porter, and a servant with a letter in his
hand.

'Thank you, thank you, M. Thiebaut: this letter is for my mistress.'