summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
path: root/547-h/547-h.htm
blob: e07e76d0429cad28087f58051e78b1f35c99e7de (plain) 
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
8651
8652
8653
8654
8655
8656
8657
8658
8659
8660
8661
8662
8663
8664
8665
8666
8667
8668
8669
8670
8671
8672
8673
8674
8675
8676
8677
8678
8679
8680
8681
8682
8683
8684
8685
8686
8687
8688
8689
8690
8691
8692
8693
8694
8695
8696
8697
8698
8699
8700
8701
8702
8703
8704
8705
8706
8707
8708
8709
8710
8711
8712
8713
8714
8715
8716
8717
8718
8719
8720
8721
8722
8723
8724
8725
8726
8727
8728
8729
8730
8731
8732
8733
8734
8735
8736
8737
8738
8739
8740
8741
8742
8743
8744
8745
8746
8747
8748
8749
8750
8751
8752
8753
8754
8755
8756
8757
8758
8759
8760
8761
8762
8763
8764
8765
8766
8767
8768
8769
8770
8771
8772
8773
8774
8775
8776
8777
8778
8779
8780
8781
8782
8783
8784
8785
8786
8787
8788
8789
8790
8791
8792
8793
8794
8795
8796
8797
8798
8799
8800
8801
8802
8803
8804
8805
8806
8807
8808
8809
8810
8811
8812
8813
8814
8815
8816
8817
8818
8819
8820
8821
8822
8823
8824
8825
8826
8827
8828
8829
8830
8831
8832
8833
8834
8835
8836
8837
8838
8839
8840
8841
8842
8843
8844
8845
8846
8847
8848
8849
8850
8851
8852
8853
8854
8855
8856
8857
8858
8859
8860
8861
8862
8863
8864
8865
8866
8867
8868
8869
8870
8871
8872
8873
8874
8875
8876
8877
8878
8879
8880
8881
8882
8883
8884
8885
8886
8887
8888
8889
8890
8891
8892
8893
8894
8895
8896
8897
8898
8899
8900
8901
8902
8903
8904
8905
8906
8907
8908
8909
8910
8911
8912
8913
8914
8915
8916
8917
8918
8919
8920
8921
8922
8923
8924
8925
8926
8927
8928
8929
8930
8931
8932
8933
8934
8935
8936
8937
8938
8939
8940
8941
8942
8943
8944
8945
8946
8947
8948
8949
8950
8951
8952
8953
8954
8955
8956
8957
8958
8959
8960
8961
8962
8963
8964
8965
8966
8967
8968
8969
8970
8971
8972
8973
8974
8975
8976
8977
8978
8979
8980
8981
8982
8983
8984
8985
8986
8987
8988
8989
8990
8991
8992
8993
8994
8995
8996
8997
8998
8999
9000
9001
9002
9003
9004
9005
9006
9007
9008
9009
9010
9011
9012
9013
9014
9015
9016
9017
9018
9019
9020
9021
9022
9023
9024
9025
9026
9027
9028
9029
9030
9031
9032
9033
9034
9035
9036
9037
9038
9039
9040
9041
9042
9043
9044
9045
9046
9047
9048
9049
9050
9051
9052
9053
9054
9055
9056
9057
9058
9059
9060
9061
9062
9063
9064
9065
9066
9067
9068
9069
9070
9071
9072
9073
9074
9075
9076
9077
9078
9079
9080
9081
9082
9083
9084
9085
9086
9087
9088
9089
9090
9091
9092
9093
9094
9095
9096
9097
9098
9099
9100
9101
9102
9103
9104
9105
9106
9107
9108
9109
9110
9111
9112
9113
9114
9115
9116
9117
9118
9119
9120
9121
9122
9123
9124
9125
9126
9127
9128
9129
9130
9131
9132
9133
9134
9135
9136
9137
9138
9139
9140
9141
9142
9143
9144
9145
9146
9147
9148
9149
9150
9151
9152
9153
9154
9155
9156
9157
9158
9159
9160
9161
9162
9163
9164
9165
9166
9167
9168
9169
9170
9171
9172
9173
9174
9175
9176
9177
9178
9179
9180
9181
9182
9183
9184
9185
9186
9187
9188
9189
9190
9191
9192
9193
9194
9195
9196
9197
9198
9199
9200
9201
9202
9203
9204
9205
9206
9207
9208
9209
9210
9211
9212
9213
9214
9215
9216
9217
9218
9219
9220
9221
9222
9223
9224
9225
9226
9227
9228
9229
9230
9231
9232
9233
9234
9235
9236
9237
9238
9239
9240
9241
9242
9243
9244
9245
9246
9247
9248
9249
9250
9251
9252
9253
9254
9255
9256
9257
9258
9259
9260
9261
9262
9263
9264
9265
9266
9267
9268
9269
9270
9271
9272
9273
9274
9275
9276
9277
9278
9279
9280
9281
9282
9283
9284
9285
9286
9287
9288
9289
9290
9291
9292
9293
9294
9295
9296
9297
9298
9299
9300
9301
9302
9303
9304
9305
9306
9307
9308
9309
9310
9311
9312
9313
9314
9315
9316
9317
9318
9319
9320
9321
9322
9323
9324
9325
9326
9327
9328
9329
9330
9331
9332
9333
9334
9335
9336
9337
9338
9339
9340
9341
9342
9343
9344
9345
9346
9347
9348
9349
9350
9351
9352
9353
9354
9355
9356
9357
9358
9359
9360
9361
9362
9363
9364
9365
9366
9367
9368
9369
9370
9371
9372
9373
9374
9375
9376
9377
9378
9379
9380
9381
9382
9383
9384
9385
9386
9387
9388
9389
9390
9391
9392
9393
9394
9395
9396
9397
9398
9399
9400
9401
9402
9403
9404
9405
9406
9407
9408
9409
9410
9411
9412
9413
9414
9415
9416
9417
9418
9419
9420
9421
9422
9423
9424
9425
9426
9427
9428
9429
9430
9431
9432
9433
9434
9435
9436
9437
9438
9439
9440
9441
9442
9443
9444
9445
9446
9447
9448
9449
9450
9451
9452
9453
9454
9455
9456
9457
9458
9459
9460
9461
9462
9463
9464
9465
9466
9467
9468
9469
9470
9471
9472
9473
9474
9475
9476
9477
9478
9479
9480
9481
9482
9483
9484
9485
9486
9487
9488
9489
9490
9491
9492
9493
9494
9495
9496
9497
9498
9499
9500
9501
9502
9503
9504
9505
9506
9507
9508
9509
9510
9511
9512
9513
9514
9515
9516
9517
9518
9519
9520
9521
9522
9523
9524
9525
9526
9527
9528
9529
9530
9531
9532
9533
9534
9535
9536
9537
9538
9539
9540
9541
9542
9543
9544
9545
9546
9547
9548
9549
9550
9551
9552
9553
9554
9555
9556
9557
9558
9559
9560
9561
9562
9563
9564
9565
9566
9567
9568
9569
9570
9571
9572
9573
9574
9575
9576
9577
9578
9579
9580
9581
9582
9583
9584
9585
9586
9587
9588
9589
9590
9591
9592
9593
9594
9595
9596
9597
9598
9599
9600
9601
9602
9603
9604
9605
9606
9607
9608
9609
9610
9611
9612
9613
9614
9615
9616
9617
9618
9619
9620
9621
9622
9623
9624
9625
9626
9627
9628
9629
9630
9631
9632
9633
9634
9635
9636
9637
9638
9639
9640
9641
9642
9643
9644
9645
9646
9647
9648
9649
9650
9651
9652
9653
9654
9655
9656
9657
9658
9659
9660
9661
9662
9663
9664
9665
9666
9667
9668
9669
9670
9671
9672
9673
9674
9675
9676
9677
9678
9679
9680
9681
9682
9683
9684
9685
9686
9687
9688
9689
9690
9691
9692
9693
9694
9695
9696
9697
9698
9699
9700
9701
9702
9703
9704
9705
9706
9707
9708
9709
9710
9711
9712
9713
9714
9715
9716
9717
9718
9719
9720
9721
9722
9723
9724
9725
9726
9727
9728
9729
9730
9731
9732
9733
9734
9735
9736
9737
9738
9739
9740
9741
9742
9743
9744
9745
9746
9747
9748
9749
9750
9751
9752
9753
9754
9755
9756
9757
9758
9759
9760
9761
9762
9763
9764
9765
9766
9767
9768
9769
9770
9771
9772
9773
9774
9775
9776
9777
9778
9779
9780
9781
9782
9783
9784
9785
9786
9787
9788
9789
9790
9791
9792
9793
9794
9795
9796
9797
9798
9799
9800
9801
9802
9803
9804
9805
9806
9807
9808
9809
9810
9811
9812
9813
9814
9815
9816
9817
9818
9819
9820
9821
9822
9823
9824
9825
9826
9827
9828
9829
9830
9831
9832
9833
9834
9835
9836
9837
9838
9839
9840
9841
9842
9843
9844
9845
9846
9847
9848
9849
9850
9851
9852
9853
9854
9855
9856
9857
9858
9859
9860
9861
9862
9863
9864
9865
9866
9867
9868
9869
9870
9871
9872
9873
9874
9875
9876
9877
9878
9879
9880
9881
9882
9883
9884
9885
9886
9887
9888
9889
9890
9891
9892
9893
9894
9895
9896
9897
9898
9899
9900
9901
9902
9903
9904
9905
9906
9907
9908
9909
9910
9911
9912
9913
9914
9915
9916
9917
9918
9919
9920
9921
9922
9923
9924
9925
9926
9927
9928
9929
9930
9931
9932
9933
9934
9935
9936
9937
9938
9939
9940
9941
9942
9943
9944
9945
9946
9947
9948
9949
9950
9951
9952
9953
9954
9955
9956
9957
9958
9959
9960
9961
9962
9963
9964
9965
9966
9967
9968
9969
9970
9971
9972
9973
9974
9975
9976
9977
9978
9979
9980
9981
9982
9983
9984
9985
9986
9987
9988
9989
9990
9991
9992
9993
9994
9995
9996
9997
9998
9999
10000
10001
10002
10003
10004
10005
10006
10007
10008
10009
10010
10011
10012
10013
10014
10015
10016
10017
10018
10019
10020
10021
10022
10023
10024
10025
10026
10027
10028
10029
10030
10031
10032
10033
10034
10035
10036
10037
10038
10039
10040
10041
10042
10043
10044
10045
10046
10047
10048
10049
10050
10051
10052
10053
10054
10055
10056
10057
10058
10059
10060
10061
10062
10063
10064
10065
10066
10067
10068
10069
10070
10071
10072
10073
10074
10075
10076
10077
10078
10079
10080
10081
10082
10083
10084
10085
10086
10087
10088
10089
10090
10091
10092
10093
10094
10095
10096
10097
10098
10099
10100
10101
10102
10103
10104
10105
10106
10107
10108
10109
10110
10111
10112
10113
10114
10115
10116
10117
10118
10119
10120
10121
10122
10123
10124
10125
10126
10127
10128
10129
10130
10131
10132
10133
10134
10135
10136
10137
10138
10139
10140
10141
10142
10143
10144
10145
10146
10147
10148
10149
10150
10151
10152
10153
10154
10155
10156
10157
10158
10159
10160
10161
10162
10163
10164
10165
10166
10167
10168
10169
10170
10171
10172
10173
10174
10175
10176
10177
10178
10179
10180
10181
10182
10183
10184
10185
10186
10187
10188
10189
10190
10191
10192
10193
10194
10195
10196
10197
10198
10199
10200
10201
10202
10203
10204
10205
10206
10207
10208
10209
10210
10211
10212
10213
10214
10215
10216
10217
10218
10219
10220
10221
10222
10223
10224
10225
10226
10227
10228
10229
10230
10231
10232
10233
10234
10235
10236
10237
10238
10239
10240
10241
10242
10243
10244
10245
10246
10247
10248
10249
10250
10251
10252
10253
10254
10255
10256
10257
10258
10259
10260
10261
10262
10263
10264
10265
10266
10267
10268
10269
10270
10271
10272
10273
10274
10275
10276
10277
10278
10279
10280
10281
10282
10283
10284
10285
10286
10287
10288
10289
10290
10291
10292
10293
10294
10295
10296
10297
10298
10299
10300
10301
10302
10303
10304
10305
10306
10307
10308
10309
10310
10311
10312
10313
10314
10315
10316
10317
10318
10319
10320
10321
10322
10323
10324
10325
10326
10327
10328
10329
10330
10331
10332
10333
10334
10335
10336
10337
10338
10339
10340
10341
10342
10343
10344
10345
10346
10347
10348
10349
10350
10351
10352
10353
10354
10355
10356
10357
10358
10359
10360
10361
10362
10363
10364
10365
10366
10367
10368
10369
10370
10371
10372
10373
10374
10375
10376
10377
10378
10379
10380
10381
10382
10383
10384
10385
10386
10387
10388
10389
10390
10391
10392
10393
10394
10395
10396
10397
10398
10399
10400
10401
10402
10403
10404
10405
10406
10407
10408
10409
10410
10411
10412
10413
10414
10415
10416
10417
10418
10419
10420
10421
10422
10423
10424
10425
10426
10427
10428
10429
10430
10431
10432
10433
10434
10435
10436
10437
10438
10439
10440
10441
10442
10443
10444
10445
10446
10447
10448
10449
10450
10451
10452
10453
10454
10455
10456
10457
10458
10459
10460
10461
10462
10463
10464
10465
10466
10467
10468
10469
10470
10471
10472
10473
10474
10475
10476
10477
10478
10479
10480
10481
10482
10483
10484
10485
10486
10487
10488
10489
10490
10491
10492
10493
10494
10495
10496
10497
10498
10499
10500
10501
10502
10503
10504
10505
10506
10507
10508
10509
10510
10511
10512
10513
10514
10515
10516
10517
10518
10519
10520
10521
10522
10523
10524
10525
10526
10527
10528
10529
10530
10531
10532
10533
10534
10535
10536
10537
10538
10539
10540
10541
10542
10543
10544
10545
10546
10547
10548
10549
10550
10551
10552
10553
10554
10555
10556
10557
10558
10559
10560
10561
10562
10563
10564
10565
10566
10567
10568
10569
10570
10571
10572
10573
10574
10575
10576
10577
10578
10579
10580
10581
10582
10583
10584
10585
10586
10587
10588
10589
10590
10591
10592
10593
10594
10595
10596
10597
10598
10599
10600
10601
10602
10603
10604
10605
10606
10607
10608
10609
10610
10611
10612
10613
10614
10615
10616
10617
10618
10619
10620
10621
10622
10623
10624
10625
10626
10627
10628
10629
10630
10631
10632
10633
10634
10635
10636
10637
10638
10639
10640
10641
10642
10643
10644
10645
10646
10647
10648
10649
10650
10651
10652
10653
10654
10655
10656
10657
10658
10659
10660
10661
10662
10663
10664
10665
10666
10667
10668
10669
10670
10671
10672
10673
10674
10675
10676
10677
10678
10679
10680
10681
10682
10683
10684
10685
10686
10687
10688
10689
10690
10691
10692
10693
10694
10695
10696
10697
10698
10699
10700
10701
10702
10703
10704
10705
10706
10707
10708
10709
10710
10711
10712
10713
10714
10715
10716
10717
10718
10719
10720
10721
10722
10723
10724
10725
10726
10727
10728
10729
10730
10731
10732
10733
10734
10735
10736
10737
10738
10739
10740
10741
10742
10743
10744
10745
10746
10747
10748
10749
10750
10751
10752
10753
10754
10755
10756
10757
10758
10759
10760
10761
10762
10763
10764
10765
10766
10767
10768
10769
10770
10771
10772
10773
10774
10775
10776
10777
10778
10779
10780
10781
10782
10783
10784
10785
10786
10787
10788
10789
10790
10791
10792
10793
10794
10795
10796
10797
10798
10799
10800
10801
10802
10803
10804
10805
10806
10807
10808
10809
10810
10811
10812
10813
10814
10815
10816
10817
10818
10819
10820
10821
10822
10823
10824
10825
10826
10827
10828
10829
10830
10831
10832
10833
10834
10835
10836
10837
10838
10839
10840
10841
10842
10843
10844
10845
10846
10847
10848
10849
10850
10851
10852
10853
10854
10855
10856
10857
10858
10859
10860
10861
10862
10863
10864
10865
10866
10867
10868
10869
10870
10871
10872
10873
10874
10875
10876
10877
10878
10879
10880
10881
10882
10883
10884
10885
10886
10887
10888
10889
10890
10891
10892
10893
10894
10895
10896
10897
10898
10899
10900
10901
10902
10903
10904
10905
10906
10907
10908
10909
10910
10911
10912
10913
10914
10915
10916
10917
10918
10919
10920
10921
10922
10923
10924
10925
10926
10927
10928
10929
10930
10931
10932
10933
10934
10935
10936
10937
10938
10939
10940
10941
10942
10943
10944
10945
10946
10947
10948
10949
10950
10951
10952
10953
10954
10955
10956
10957
10958
10959
10960
10961
10962
10963
10964
10965
10966
10967
10968
10969
10970
10971
10972
10973
10974
10975
10976
10977
10978
10979
10980
10981
10982
10983
10984
10985
10986
10987
10988
10989
10990
10991
10992
10993
10994
10995
10996
10997
10998
10999
11000
11001
11002
11003
11004
11005
11006
11007
11008
11009
11010
11011
11012
11013
11014
11015
11016
11017
11018
11019
11020
11021
11022
11023
11024
11025
11026
11027
11028
11029
11030
11031
11032
11033
11034
11035
11036
11037
11038
11039
11040
11041
11042
11043
11044
11045
11046
11047
11048
11049
11050
11051
11052
11053
11054
11055
11056
11057
11058
11059
11060
11061
11062
11063
11064
11065
11066
11067
11068
11069
11070
11071
11072
11073
11074
11075
11076
11077
11078
11079
11080
11081
11082
11083
11084
11085
11086
11087
11088
11089
11090
11091
11092
11093
11094
11095
11096
11097
11098
11099
11100
11101
11102
11103
11104
11105
11106
11107
11108
11109
11110
11111
11112
11113
11114
11115
11116
11117
11118
11119
11120
11121
11122
11123
11124
11125
11126
11127
11128
11129
11130
11131
11132
11133
11134
11135
11136
11137
11138
11139
11140
11141
11142
11143
11144
11145
11146
11147
11148
11149
11150
11151
11152
11153
11154
11155
11156
11157
11158
11159
11160
11161
11162
11163
11164
11165
11166
11167
11168
11169
11170
11171
11172
11173
11174
11175
11176
11177
11178
11179
11180
11181
11182
11183
11184
11185
11186
11187
11188
11189
11190
11191
11192
11193
11194
11195
11196
11197
11198
11199
11200
11201
11202
11203
11204
11205
11206
11207
11208
11209
11210
11211
11212
11213
11214
11215
11216
11217
11218
11219
11220
11221
11222
11223
11224
11225
11226
11227
11228
11229
11230
11231
11232
11233
11234
11235
11236
11237
11238
11239
11240
11241
11242
11243
11244
11245
11246
11247
11248
11249
11250
11251
11252
11253
11254
11255
11256
11257
11258
11259
11260
11261
11262
11263
11264
11265
11266
11267
11268
11269
11270
11271
11272
11273
11274
11275
11276
11277
11278
11279
11280
11281
11282
11283
11284
11285
11286
11287
11288
11289
11290
11291
11292
11293
11294
11295
11296
11297
11298
11299
11300
11301
11302
11303
11304
11305
11306
11307
11308
11309
11310
11311
11312
11313
11314
11315
11316
11317
11318
11319
11320
11321
11322
11323
11324
11325
11326
11327
11328
11329
11330
11331
11332
11333
11334
11335
11336
11337
11338
11339
11340
11341
11342
11343
11344
11345
11346
11347
11348
11349
11350
11351
11352
11353
11354
11355
11356
11357
11358
11359
11360
11361
11362
11363
11364
11365
11366
11367
11368
11369
11370
11371
11372
11373
11374
11375
11376
11377
11378
11379
11380
11381
11382
11383
11384
11385
11386
11387
11388
11389
11390
11391
11392
11393
11394
11395
11396
11397
11398
11399
11400
11401
11402
11403
11404
11405
11406
11407
11408
11409
11410
11411
11412
11413
11414
11415
11416
11417
11418
11419
11420
11421
11422
11423
11424
11425
11426
11427
11428
11429
11430
11431
11432
11433
11434
11435
11436
11437
11438
11439
11440
11441
11442
11443
11444
11445
11446
11447
11448
11449
11450
11451
11452
11453
11454
11455
11456
11457
11458
11459
11460
11461
11462
11463
11464
11465
11466
11467
11468
11469
11470
11471
11472
11473
11474
11475
11476
11477
11478
11479
11480
11481
11482
11483
11484
11485
11486
11487
11488
11489
11490
11491
11492
11493
11494
11495
11496
11497
11498
11499
11500
11501
11502
11503
11504
11505
11506
11507
11508
11509
11510
11511
11512
11513
11514
11515
11516
11517
11518
11519
11520
11521
11522
11523
11524
11525
11526
11527
11528
11529
11530
11531
11532
11533
11534
11535
11536
11537
11538
11539
11540
11541
11542
11543
11544
11545
11546
11547
11548
11549
11550
11551
11552
11553
11554
11555
11556
11557
11558
11559
11560
11561
11562
11563
11564
11565
11566
11567
11568
11569
11570
11571
11572
11573
11574
11575
11576
11577
11578
11579
11580
11581
11582
11583
11584
11585
11586
11587
11588
11589
11590
11591
11592
11593
11594
11595
11596
11597
11598
11599
11600
11601
11602
11603
11604
11605
11606
11607
11608
11609
11610
11611
11612
11613
11614
11615
11616
11617
11618
11619
11620
11621
11622
11623
11624
11625
11626
11627
11628
11629
11630
11631
11632
11633
11634
11635
11636
11637
11638
11639
11640
11641
11642
11643
11644
11645
11646
11647
11648
11649
11650
11651
11652
11653
11654
11655
11656
11657
11658
11659
11660
11661
11662
11663
11664
11665
11666
11667
11668
11669
11670
11671
11672
11673
11674
11675
11676
11677
11678
11679
11680
11681
11682
11683
11684
11685
11686
11687
11688
11689
11690
11691
11692
11693
11694
11695
11696
11697
11698
11699
11700
11701
11702
11703
11704
11705
11706
11707
11708
11709
11710
11711
11712
11713
11714
11715
11716
11717
11718
11719
11720
11721
11722
11723
11724
11725
11726
11727
11728
11729
11730
11731
11732
11733
11734
11735
11736
11737
11738
11739
11740
11741
11742
11743
11744
11745
11746
11747
11748
11749
11750
11751
11752
11753
11754
11755
11756
11757
11758
11759
11760
11761
11762
11763
11764
11765
11766
11767
11768
11769
11770
11771
11772
11773
11774
11775
11776
11777
11778
11779
11780
11781
11782
11783
11784
11785
11786
11787
11788
11789
11790
11791
11792
11793
11794
11795
11796
11797
11798
11799
11800
11801
11802
11803
11804
11805
11806
11807
11808
11809
11810
11811
11812
11813
11814
11815
11816
11817
11818
11819
11820
11821
11822
11823
11824
11825
11826
11827
11828
11829
11830
11831
11832
11833
11834
11835
11836
11837
11838
11839
11840
11841
11842
11843
11844
11845
11846
11847
11848
11849
11850
11851
11852
11853
11854
11855
11856
11857
11858
11859
11860
11861
11862
11863
11864
11865
11866
11867
11868
11869
11870
11871
11872
11873
11874
11875
11876
11877
11878
11879
11880
11881
11882
11883
11884
11885
11886
11887
11888
11889
11890
11891
11892
11893
11894
11895
11896
11897
11898
11899
11900
11901
11902
11903
11904
11905
11906
11907
11908
11909
11910
11911
11912
11913
11914
11915
11916
11917
11918
11919
11920
11921
11922
11923
11924
11925
11926
11927
11928
11929
11930
11931
11932
11933
11934
11935
11936
11937
11938
11939
11940
11941
11942
11943
11944
11945
11946
11947
11948
11949
11950
11951
11952
11953
11954
11955
11956
11957
11958
11959
11960
11961
11962
11963
11964
11965
11966
11967
11968
11969
11970
11971
11972
11973
11974
11975
11976
11977
11978
11979
11980
11981
11982
11983
11984
11985
11986
11987
11988
11989
11990
11991
11992
11993
11994
11995
11996
11997
11998
11999
12000
12001
12002
12003
12004
12005
12006
12007
12008
12009
12010
12011
12012
12013
12014
12015
12016
12017
12018
12019
12020
12021
12022
12023
12024
12025
12026
12027
12028
12029
12030
12031
12032
12033
12034
12035
12036
12037
12038
12039
12040
12041
12042
12043
12044
12045
12046
12047
12048
12049
12050
12051
12052
12053
12054
12055
12056
12057
12058
12059
12060
12061
12062
12063
12064
12065
12066
12067
12068
12069
12070
12071
12072
12073
12074
12075
12076
12077
12078
12079
12080
12081
12082
12083
12084
12085
12086
12087
12088
12089
12090
12091
12092
12093
12094
12095
12096
12097
12098
12099
12100
12101
12102
12103
12104
12105
12106
12107
12108
12109
12110
12111
12112
12113
12114
12115
12116
12117
12118
12119
12120
12121
12122
12123
12124
12125
12126
12127
12128
12129
12130
12131
12132
12133
12134
12135
12136
12137
12138
12139
12140
12141
12142
12143
12144
12145
12146
12147
12148
12149
12150
12151
12152
12153
12154
12155
12156
12157
12158
12159
12160
12161
12162
12163
12164
12165
12166
12167
12168
12169
12170
12171
12172
12173
12174
12175
12176
12177
12178
12179
12180
12181
12182
12183
12184
12185
12186
12187
12188
12189
12190
12191
12192
12193
12194
12195
12196
12197
12198
12199
12200
12201
12202
12203
12204
12205
12206
12207
12208
12209
12210
12211
12212
12213
12214
12215
12216
12217
12218
12219
12220
12221
12222
12223
12224
12225
12226
12227
12228
12229
12230
12231
12232
12233
12234
12235
12236
12237
12238
12239
12240
12241
12242
12243
12244
12245
12246
12247
12248
12249
12250
12251
12252
12253
12254
12255
12256
12257
12258
12259
12260
12261
12262
12263
12264
12265
12266
12267
12268
12269
12270
12271
12272
12273
12274
12275
12276
12277
12278
12279
12280
12281
12282
12283
12284
12285
12286
12287
12288
12289
12290
12291
12292
12293
12294
12295
12296
12297
12298
12299
12300
12301
12302
12303
12304
12305
12306
12307
12308
12309
12310
12311
12312
12313
12314
12315
12316
12317
12318
12319
12320
12321
12322
12323
12324
12325
12326
12327
12328
12329
12330
12331
12332
12333
12334
12335
12336
12337
12338
12339
12340
12341
12342
12343
12344
12345
12346
12347
12348
12349
12350
12351
12352
12353
12354
12355
12356
12357
12358
12359
12360
12361
12362
12363
12364
12365
12366
12367
12368
12369
12370
12371
12372
12373
12374
12375
12376
12377
12378
12379
12380
12381
12382
12383
12384
12385
12386
12387
12388
12389
12390
12391
12392
12393
12394
12395
12396
12397
12398
12399
12400
12401
12402
12403
12404
12405
12406
12407
12408
12409
12410
12411
12412
12413
12414
12415
12416
12417
12418
12419
12420
12421
12422
12423
12424
12425
12426
12427
12428
12429
12430
12431
12432
12433
12434
12435
12436
12437
12438
12439
12440
12441
12442
12443
12444
12445
12446
12447
12448
12449
12450
12451
12452
12453
12454
12455
12456
12457
12458
12459
12460
12461
12462
12463
12464
12465
12466
12467
12468
12469
12470
12471
12472
12473
12474
12475
12476
12477
12478
12479
12480
12481
12482
12483
12484
12485
12486
12487
12488
12489
12490
12491
12492
12493
12494
12495
12496
12497
12498
12499
12500
12501
12502
12503
12504
12505
12506
12507
12508
12509
12510
12511
12512
12513
12514
12515
12516
12517
12518
12519
12520
12521
12522
12523
12524
12525
12526
12527
12528
12529
12530
12531
12532
12533
12534
12535
12536
12537
12538
12539
12540
12541
12542
12543
12544
12545
12546
12547
12548
12549
12550
12551
12552
12553
12554
12555
12556
12557
12558
12559
12560
12561
12562
12563
12564
12565
12566
12567
12568
12569
12570
12571
12572
12573
12574
12575
12576
12577
12578
12579
12580
12581
12582
12583
12584
12585
12586
12587
12588
12589
12590
12591
12592
12593
12594
12595
12596
12597
12598
12599
12600
12601
12602
12603
12604
12605
12606
12607
12608
12609
12610
12611
12612
12613
12614
12615
12616
12617
12618
12619
12620
12621
12622
12623
12624
12625
12626
12627
12628
12629
12630
12631
12632
12633
12634
12635
12636
12637
12638
12639
12640
12641
12642
12643
12644
12645
12646
12647
12648
12649
12650
12651
12652
12653
12654
12655
12656
12657
12658
12659
12660
12661
12662
12663
12664
12665
12666
12667
12668
12669
12670
12671
12672
12673
12674
12675
12676
12677
12678
12679
12680
12681
12682
12683
12684
12685
12686
12687
12688
12689
12690
12691
12692
12693
12694
12695
12696
12697
12698
12699
12700
12701
12702
12703
12704
12705
12706
12707
12708
12709
12710
12711
12712
12713
12714
12715
12716
12717
12718
12719
12720
12721
12722
12723
12724
12725
12726
12727
12728
12729
12730
12731
12732
12733
12734
12735
12736
12737
12738
12739
12740
12741
12742
12743
12744
12745
12746
12747
12748
12749
12750
12751
12752
12753
12754
12755
12756
12757
12758
12759
12760
12761
12762
12763
12764
12765
12766
12767
12768
12769
12770
12771
12772
12773
12774
12775
12776
12777
12778
12779
12780
12781
12782
12783
12784
12785
12786
12787
12788
12789
12790
12791
12792
12793
12794
12795
12796
12797
12798
12799
12800
12801
12802
12803
12804
12805
12806
12807
12808
12809
12810
12811
12812
12813
12814
12815
12816
12817
12818
12819
12820
12821
12822
12823
12824
12825
12826
12827
12828
12829
12830
12831
12832
12833
12834
12835
12836
12837
12838
12839
12840
12841
12842
12843
12844
12845
12846
12847
12848
12849
12850
12851
12852
12853
12854
12855
12856
12857
12858
12859
12860
12861
12862
12863
12864
12865
12866
12867
12868
12869
12870
12871
12872
12873
12874
12875
12876
12877
12878
12879
12880
12881
12882
12883
12884
12885
12886
12887
12888
12889
12890
12891
12892
12893
12894
12895
12896
12897
12898
12899
12900
12901
12902
12903
12904
12905
12906
12907
12908
12909
12910
12911
12912
12913
12914
12915
12916
12917
12918
12919
12920
12921
12922
12923
12924
12925
12926
12927
12928
12929
12930
12931
12932
12933
12934
12935
12936
12937
12938
12939
12940
12941
12942
12943
12944
12945
12946
12947
12948
12949
12950
12951
12952
12953
12954
12955
12956
12957
12958
12959
12960
12961
12962
12963
12964
12965
12966
12967
12968
12969
12970
12971
12972
12973
12974
12975
12976
12977
12978
12979
12980
12981
12982
12983
12984
12985
12986
12987
12988
12989
12990
12991
12992
12993
12994
12995
12996
12997
12998
12999
13000
13001
13002
13003
13004
13005
13006
13007
13008
13009
13010
13011
13012
13013
13014
13015
13016
13017
13018
13019
13020
13021
13022
13023
13024
13025
13026
13027
13028
13029
13030
13031
13032
13033
13034
13035
13036
13037
13038
13039
13040
13041
13042
13043
13044
13045
13046
13047
13048
13049
13050
13051
13052
13053
13054
13055
13056
13057
13058
13059
13060
13061
13062
13063
13064
13065
13066
13067
13068
13069
13070
13071
13072
13073
13074
13075
13076
13077
13078
13079
13080
13081
13082
13083
13084
13085
13086
13087
13088
13089
13090
13091
13092
13093
13094
13095
13096
13097
13098
13099
13100
13101
13102
13103
13104
13105
13106
13107
13108
13109
13110
13111
13112
13113
13114
13115
13116
13117
13118
13119
13120
13121
13122
13123
13124
13125
13126
13127
13128
13129
13130
13131
13132
13133
13134
13135
13136
13137
13138
13139
13140
13141
13142
13143
13144
13145
13146
13147
13148
13149
13150
13151
13152
13153
13154
13155
13156
13157
13158
13159
13160
13161
13162
13163
13164
13165
13166
13167
13168
13169
13170
13171
13172
13173
13174
13175
13176
13177
13178
13179
13180
13181
13182
13183
13184
13185
13186
13187
13188
13189
13190
13191
13192
13193
13194
13195
13196
13197
13198
13199
13200
13201
13202
13203
13204
13205
13206
13207
13208
13209
13210
13211
13212
13213
13214
13215
13216
13217
13218
13219
13220
13221
13222
13223
13224
13225
13226
13227
13228
13229
13230
13231
13232
13233
13234
13235
13236
13237
13238
13239
13240
13241
13242
13243
13244
13245
13246
13247
13248
13249
13250
13251
13252
13253
13254
13255
13256
13257
13258
13259
13260
13261
13262
13263
13264
13265
13266
13267
13268
13269
13270
13271
13272
13273
13274
13275
13276
13277
13278
13279
13280
13281
13282
13283
13284
13285
13286
13287
13288
13289
13290
13291
13292
13293
13294
13295
13296
13297
13298
13299
13300
13301
13302
13303
13304
13305
13306
13307
13308
13309
13310
13311
13312
13313
13314
13315
13316
13317
13318
13319
13320
13321
13322
13323
13324
13325
13326
13327
13328
13329
13330
13331
13332
13333
13334
13335
13336
13337
13338
13339
13340
13341
13342
13343
13344
13345
13346
13347
13348
13349
13350
13351
13352
13353
13354
13355
13356
13357
13358
13359
13360
13361
13362
13363
13364
13365
13366
13367
13368
13369
13370
13371
13372
13373
13374
13375
13376
13377
13378
13379
13380
13381
13382
13383
13384
13385
13386
13387
13388
13389
13390
13391
13392
13393
13394
13395
13396
13397
13398
13399
13400
13401
13402
13403
13404
13405
13406
13407
13408
13409
13410
13411
13412
13413
13414
13415
13416
13417
13418
13419
13420
13421
13422
13423
13424
13425
13426
13427
13428
13429
13430
13431
13432
13433
13434
13435
13436
13437
13438
13439
13440
13441
13442
13443
13444
13445
13446
13447
13448
13449
13450
13451
13452
13453
13454
13455
13456
13457
13458
13459
13460
13461
13462
13463
13464
13465
13466
13467
13468
13469
13470
13471
13472
13473
13474
13475
13476
13477
13478
13479
13480
13481
13482
13483
13484
13485
13486
13487
13488
13489
13490
13491
13492
13493
13494
13495
13496
13497
13498
13499
13500
13501
13502
13503
13504
13505
13506
13507
13508
13509
13510
13511
13512
13513
13514
13515
13516
13517
13518
13519
13520
13521
13522
13523
13524
13525
13526
13527
13528
13529
13530
13531
13532
13533
13534
13535
13536
13537
13538
13539
13540
13541
13542
13543
13544
13545
13546
13547
13548
13549
13550
13551
13552
13553
13554
13555
13556
13557
13558
13559
13560
13561
13562
13563
13564
13565
13566
13567
13568
13569
13570
13571
13572
13573
13574
13575
13576
13577
13578
13579
13580
13581
13582
13583
13584
13585
13586
13587
13588
13589
13590
13591
13592
13593
13594
13595
13596
13597
13598
13599
13600
13601
13602
13603
13604
13605
13606
13607
13608
13609
13610
13611
13612
13613
13614
13615
13616
13617
13618
13619
13620
13621
13622
13623
13624
13625
13626
13627
13628
13629
13630
13631
13632
13633
13634
13635
13636
13637
13638
13639
13640
13641
13642
13643
13644
13645
13646
13647
13648
13649
13650
13651
13652
13653
13654
13655
13656
13657
13658
13659
13660
13661
13662
13663
13664
13665
13666
13667
13668
13669
13670
13671
13672
13673
13674
13675
13676
13677
13678
13679
13680
13681
13682
13683
13684
13685
13686
13687
13688
13689
13690
13691
13692
13693
13694
13695
13696
13697
13698
13699
13700
13701
13702
13703
13704
13705
13706
13707
13708
13709
13710
13711
13712
13713
13714
13715
13716
13717
13718
13719
13720
13721
13722
13723
13724
13725
13726
13727
13728
13729
13730
13731
13732
13733
13734
13735
13736
13737
13738
13739
13740
13741
13742
13743
13744
13745
13746
13747
13748
13749
13750
13751
13752
13753
13754
13755
13756
13757
13758
13759
13760
13761
13762
13763
13764
13765
13766
13767
13768
13769
13770
13771
13772
13773
13774
13775
13776
13777
13778
13779
13780
13781
13782
13783
13784
13785
13786
13787
13788
13789
13790
13791
13792
13793
13794
13795
13796
13797
13798
13799
13800
13801
13802
13803
13804
13805
13806
13807
13808
13809
13810
13811
13812
13813
13814
13815
13816
13817
13818
13819
13820
13821
13822
13823
13824
13825
13826
13827
13828
13829
13830
13831
13832
13833
13834
13835
13836
13837
13838
13839
13840
13841
13842
13843
13844
13845
13846
13847
13848
13849
13850
13851
13852
13853
13854
13855
13856
13857
13858
13859
13860
13861
13862
13863
13864
13865
13866
13867
13868
13869
13870
13871
13872
13873
13874
13875
13876
13877
13878
13879
13880
13881
13882
13883
13884
13885
13886
13887
13888
13889
13890
13891
13892
13893
13894
13895
13896
13897
13898
13899
13900
13901
13902
13903
13904
13905
13906
13907
13908
13909
13910
13911
13912
13913
13914
13915
13916
13917
13918
13919
13920
13921
13922
13923
13924
13925
13926
13927
13928
13929
13930
13931
13932
13933
13934
13935
13936
13937
13938
13939
13940
13941
13942
13943
13944
13945
13946
13947
13948
13949
13950
13951
13952
13953
13954
13955
13956
13957
13958
13959
13960
13961
13962
13963
13964
13965
13966
13967
13968
13969
13970
13971
13972
13973
13974
13975
13976
13977
13978
13979
13980
13981
13982
13983
13984
13985
13986
13987
13988
13989
13990
13991
13992
13993
13994
13995
13996
13997
13998
13999
14000
14001
14002
14003
14004
14005
14006
14007
14008
14009
14010
14011
14012
14013
14014
14015
14016
14017
14018
14019
14020
14021
14022
14023
14024
14025
14026
14027
14028
14029
14030
14031
14032
14033
14034
14035
14036
14037
14038
14039
14040
14041
14042
14043
14044
14045
14046
14047
14048
14049
14050
14051
14052
14053
14054
14055
14056
14057
14058
14059
14060
14061
14062
14063
14064
14065
14066
14067
14068
14069
14070
14071
14072
14073
14074
14075
14076
14077
14078
14079
14080
14081
14082
14083
14084
14085
14086
14087
14088
14089
14090
14091
14092
14093
14094
14095
14096
14097
14098
14099
14100
14101
14102
14103
14104
14105
14106
14107
14108
14109
14110
14111
14112
14113
14114
14115
14116
14117
14118
14119
14120
14121
14122
14123
14124
14125
14126
14127
14128
14129
14130
14131
14132
14133
14134
14135
14136
14137
14138
14139
14140
14141
14142
14143
14144
14145
14146
14147
14148
14149
14150
14151
14152
14153
14154
14155
14156
14157
14158
14159
14160
14161
14162
14163
14164
14165
14166
14167
14168
14169
14170
14171
14172
14173
14174
14175
14176
14177
14178
14179
14180
14181
14182
14183
14184
14185
14186
14187
14188
14189
14190
14191
14192
14193
14194
14195
14196
14197
14198
14199
14200
14201
14202
14203
14204
14205
14206
14207
14208
14209
14210
14211
14212
14213
14214
14215
14216
14217
14218
14219
14220
14221
14222
14223
14224
14225
14226
14227
14228
14229
14230
14231
14232
14233
14234
14235
14236
14237
14238
14239
14240
14241
14242
14243
14244
14245
14246
14247
14248
14249
14250
14251
14252
14253
14254
14255
14256
14257
14258
14259
14260
14261
14262
14263
14264
14265
14266
14267
14268
14269
14270
14271
14272
14273
14274
14275
14276
14277
14278
14279
14280
14281
14282
14283
14284
14285
14286
14287
14288
14289
14290
14291
14292
14293
14294
14295
14296
14297
14298
14299
14300
14301
14302
14303
14304
14305
14306
14307
14308
14309
14310
14311
14312
14313
14314
14315
14316
14317
14318
14319
14320
14321
14322
14323
14324
14325
14326
14327
14328
14329
14330
14331
14332
14333
14334
14335
14336
14337
14338
14339
14340
14341
14342
14343
14344
14345
14346
14347
14348
14349
14350
14351
14352
14353
14354
14355
14356
14357
14358
14359
14360
14361
14362
14363
14364
14365
14366
14367
14368
14369
14370
14371
14372
14373
14374
14375
14376
14377
14378
14379
14380
14381
14382
14383
14384
14385
14386
14387
14388
14389
14390
14391
14392
14393
14394
14395
14396
14397
14398
14399
14400
14401
14402
14403
14404
14405
14406
14407
14408
14409
14410
14411
14412
14413
14414
14415
14416
14417
14418
14419
14420
14421
14422
14423
14424
14425
14426
14427
14428
14429
14430
14431
14432
14433
14434
14435
14436
14437
14438
14439
14440
14441
14442
14443
14444
14445
14446
14447
14448
14449
14450
14451
14452
14453
14454
14455
14456
14457
14458
14459
14460
14461
14462
14463
14464
14465
14466
14467
14468
14469
14470
14471
14472
14473
14474
14475
14476
14477
14478
14479
14480
14481
14482
14483
14484
14485
14486
14487
14488
14489
14490
14491
14492
14493
14494
14495
14496
14497
14498
14499
14500
14501
14502
14503
14504
14505
14506
14507
14508
14509
14510
14511
14512
14513
14514
14515
14516
14517
14518
14519
14520
14521
14522
14523
14524
14525
14526
14527
14528
14529
14530
14531
14532
14533
14534
14535
14536
14537
14538
14539
14540
14541
14542
14543
14544
14545
14546
14547
14548
14549
14550
14551
14552
14553
14554
14555
14556
14557
14558
14559
14560
14561
14562
14563
14564
14565
14566
14567
14568
14569
14570
14571
14572
14573
14574
14575
14576
14577
14578
14579
14580
14581
14582
14583
14584
14585
14586
14587
14588
14589
14590
14591
14592
14593
14594
14595
14596
14597
14598
14599
14600
14601
14602
14603
14604
14605
14606
14607
14608
14609
14610
14611
14612
14613
14614
14615
14616
14617
14618
14619
14620
14621
14622
14623
14624
14625
14626
14627
14628
14629
14630
14631
14632
14633
14634
14635
14636
14637
14638
14639
14640
14641
14642
14643
14644
14645
14646
14647
14648
14649
14650
14651
14652
14653
14654
14655
14656
14657
14658
14659
14660
14661
14662
14663
14664
14665
14666
14667
14668
14669
14670
14671
14672
14673
14674
14675
14676
14677
14678
14679
14680
14681
14682
14683
14684
14685
14686
14687
14688
14689
14690
14691
14692
14693
14694
14695
14696
14697
14698
14699
14700
14701
14702
14703
14704
14705
14706
14707
14708
14709
14710
14711
14712
14713
14714
14715
14716
14717
14718
14719
14720
14721
14722
14723
14724
14725
14726
14727
14728
14729
14730
14731
14732
14733
14734
14735
14736
14737
14738
14739
14740

<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>

<!DOCTYPE html
   PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
   "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" >

<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en">
  <head>
    <title>
      Baron Trigault's Vengeance, by Emile Gaboriau
    </title>
    <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve">

    body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify}
    P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; }
    H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
    hr  { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
    .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; }
    blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;}
    .mynote    {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;}
    .toc       { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
    .toc2      { margin-left: 20%;}
    div.fig    { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; }
    div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; }
    .figleft   {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;}
    .figright  {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;}
    .pagenum   {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal;
               margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%;
               text-align: right;}
    pre        { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;}

</style>
  </head>
  <body>
<pre xml:space="preserve">

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Baron Trigault's Vengeance, by Emile Gaboriau

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Baron Trigault's Vengeance
       Volume 2 (of 2)

Author: Emile Gaboriau

Release Date: July 1, 2008 [EBook #547]
Last Updated: September 24, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BARON TRIGAULT'S VENGEANCE ***


Produced by David Widger







</pre>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      BARON TRIGAULT&rsquo;S VENGEANCE
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      by Emile Gaboriau
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h4>
      A Sequel to<br /> <a
      href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/305/305-h/305-h.htm">"The Count&rsquo;s
      Millions"</a>
    </h4>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#linkveng"><b>BARON TRIGAULT&rsquo;S VENGEANCE</b></a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> IX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> X. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> XI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XIV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XVI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XVII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XVIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XIX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XX. </a>
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /><a name="linkveng" id="linkveng"></a> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      BARON TRIGAULT&rsquo;S VENGEANCE
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <h2>
      I
    </h2>
    <p>
      Vengeance! that is the first, the only thought, when a man finds himself
      victimized, when his honor and fortune, his present and future, are
      wrecked by a vile conspiracy! The torment he endures under such
      circumstances can only be alleviated by the prospect of inflicting them a
      hundredfold upon his persecutors. And nothing seems impossible at the
      first moment, when hatred surges in the brain, and the foam of anger rises
      to the lips; no obstacle seems insurmountable, or, rather, none are
      perceived. But later, when the faculties have regained their equilibrium,
      one can measure the distance which separates the dream from reality, the
      project from execution. And on setting to work, how many discouragements
      arise! The fever of revolt passes by, and the victim wavers. He still
      breathes bitter vengeance, but he does not act. He despairs, and asks
      himself what would be the good of it? And in this way the success of
      villainy is once more assured.
    </p>
    <p>
      Similar despondency attacked Pascal Ferailleur when he awoke for the first
      time in the abode where he had hidden himself under the name of Maumejan.
      A frightful slander had crushed him to the earth&mdash;he could kill his
      slanderer, but afterward&mdash;? How was he to reach and stifle the
      slander itself? As well try to hold a handful of water; as well try to
      stay with extended arms the progress of the poisonous breeze which wafts
      an epidemic on its wings. So the hope that had momentarily lightened his
      heart faded away again. Since he had received that fatal letter from
      Madame Leon the evening before, he believed that Marguerite was lost to
      him forever, and in this case, it was useless to struggle against fate.
      What would be the use of victory even if he conquered? Marguerite lost to
      him&mdash;what did the rest matter? Ah! if he had been alone in the world.
      But he had his mother to think of;&mdash;he belonged to this brave-hearted
      woman, who had saved him from suicide already. &ldquo;I will not yield, then; I
      will struggle on for her sake,&rdquo; he muttered, like a man who foresees the
      futility of his efforts.
    </p>
    <p>
      He rose, and had nearly finished dressing, when he heard a rap at his
      chamber door. &ldquo;It is I, my son,&rdquo; said Madame Ferailleur outside.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pascal hastened to admit her. &ldquo;I have come for you because the woman you
      spoke about last evening is already here, and before employing her, I want
      your advice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then the woman doesn&rsquo;t please you, mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want you to see her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On entering the little parlor with his mother, Pascal found himself in the
      presence of a portly, pale-faced woman, with thin lips and restless eyes,
      who bowed obsequiously. It was indeed Madame Vantrasson, the landlady of
      the model lodging-house, who was seeking employment for the three or four
      hours which were at her disposal in the morning, she said. It certainly
      was not for pleasure that she had decided to go out to service again; her
      dignity suffered terribly by this fall&mdash;but then the stomach has to
      be cared for. Tenants were not numerous at the model lodging-house, in
      spite of its seductive title; and those who slept there occasionally,
      almost invariably succeeded in stealing something. Nor did the grocery
      store pay; the few half-pence which were left there occasionally in
      exchange for a glass of liquor were pocketed by Vantrasson, who spent them
      at some neighboring establishment; for it is a well-known fact that the
      wine a man drinks in his own shop is always bitter in flavor. So, having
      no credit at the butcher&rsquo;s or the baker&rsquo;s, Madame Vantrasson was sometimes
      reduced to living for days together upon the contents of the shop&mdash;mouldy
      figs or dry raisins&mdash;which she washed down with torrents of ratafia,
      her only consolation here below.
    </p>
    <p>
      But this was not a satisfying diet, as she was forced to confess; so she
      decided to find some work, that would furnish her with food and a little
      money, which she vowed she would never allow her worthy husband to see.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What would you charge per month?&rdquo; inquired Pascal.
    </p>
    <p>
      She seemed to reflect, and after a great deal of counting on her fingers,
      she finally declared that she would be content with breakfast and fifteen
      francs a month, on condition she was allowed to do the marketing. The
      first question of French cooks, on presenting themselves for a situation,
      is almost invariably, &ldquo;Shall I do the marketing?&rdquo; which of course means,
      &ldquo;Shall I have any opportunities for stealing?&rdquo; Everybody knows this, and
      nobody is astonished at it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall do the marketing myself,&rdquo; declared Madame Ferailleur, boldly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I shall want thirty francs a month,&rdquo; replied Madame Vantrasson,
      promptly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pascal and his mother exchanged glances. They were both unfavorably
      impressed by this woman, and were equally determined to rid themselves of
      her, which it was easy enough to do. &ldquo;Too dear!&rdquo; said Madame Ferailleur;
      &ldquo;I have never given over fifteen francs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Madame Vantrasson was not the woman to be easily discouraged,
      especially as she knew that if she failed to obtain this situation, she
      might have considerable difficulty in finding another one. She could only
      hope to obtain employment from strangers and newcomers, who were ignorant
      of the reputation of the model lodging-house. So in view of softening the
      hearts of Pascal and his mother, she began to relate the history of her
      life, skilfully mingling the false with the true, and representing herself
      as an unfortunate victim of circumstances, and the inhuman cruelty of
      relatives. For she belonged, like her husband, to a very respectable
      family, as the Maumejans might easily ascertain by inquiry. Vantrasson&rsquo;s
      sister was the wife of a man named Greloux, who had once been a bookbinder
      in the Rue Saint-Denis, but who had now retired from business with a
      competency. &ldquo;Why had this Greloux refused to save them from bankruptcy?
      Because one could never hope for a favor from relatives,&rdquo; she groaned;
      &ldquo;they are jealous if you succeed; and if you are unfortunate, they cast
      you off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      However, these doleful complaints, far from rendering Madame Vantrasson
      interesting, imparted a deceitful and most disagreeable expression to her
      countenance. &ldquo;I told you that I could only give fifteen francs,&rdquo;
       interrupted Madame Ferailleur&mdash;&ldquo;take it or leave it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Vantrasson protested. She expressed her willingness to deduct five
      francs from the sum she had named, but more&mdash;it was impossible! Would
      they haggle over ten francs to secure such a treasure as herself, an
      honest, settled woman, who was entirely devoted to her employers?
      &ldquo;Besides, I have been a grand cook in my time,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;and I have not
      lost all my skill. Monsieur and madame would be delighted with my cooking,
      for I have seen more than one fine gentleman smack his lips over my sauces
      when was in the employment of the Count de Chalusse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal and his mother could not repress a start on hearing this name; but
      it was in a tone of well-assumed indifference that Madame Ferailleur
      repeated, &ldquo;M. de Chalusse?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, madame&mdash;a count&mdash;and so rich that he didn&rsquo;t know how much
      he was worth. If he were still alive I shouldn&rsquo;t be compelled to go out to
      service again. But he&rsquo;s dead and he&rsquo;s to be buried this very day.&rdquo; And
      with an air of profound secrecy, she added: &ldquo;On going yesterday to the
      Hotel de Chalusse to ask for a little help, I heard of the great
      misfortune. Vantrasson, my husband, accompanied me, and while we were
      talking with the concierge, a young woman passed through the hall, and he
      recognized her as a person who some time ago was&mdash;well&mdash;no
      better than she should be. Now, however, she&rsquo;s a young lady as lofty as
      the clouds, and the deceased count has been passing her off as his
      daughter. Ah! this is a strange world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal had become whiter than the ceiling. His eyes blazed; and Madame
      Ferailleur trembled. &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I will give you twenty-five
      francs&mdash;but on condition you come without complaining if I sometimes
      require your services of an evening. On these occasions I will give you
      your dinner.&rdquo; And taking five francs from her pocket she placed them in
      Madame Vantrasson&rsquo;s hand, adding: &ldquo;Here is your earnest money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other quickly pocketed the coin, not a little surprised by this sudden
      decision which she had scarcely hoped for, and which she by no means
      understood. Still she was so delighted with this denouement that she
      expressed her willingness to enter upon her duties at once; and to get rid
      of her Madame Ferailleur was obliged to send her out to purchase the
      necessary supplies for breakfast. Then, as soon as she was alone with her
      son, she turned to him and asked: &ldquo;Well, Pascal?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the wretched man seemed turned to stone, and seeing that he neither
      spoke nor moved, she continued in a severe tone: &ldquo;Is this the way you keep
      your resolutions and your oaths! You express your intention of
      accomplishing a task which requires inexhaustible patience and
      dissimulation, and at the very first unforeseen circumstance your coolness
      deserts you, and you lose your head completely. If it had not been for me
      you would have betrayed yourself in that woman&rsquo;s presence. You must
      renounce your revenge, and tamely submit to be conquered by the Marquis de
      Valorsay if your face is to be an open book in which any one may read your
      secret plans and thoughts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal shook his head dejectedly. &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t you hear, mother?&rdquo; he faltered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hear what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What that vile woman said? This young lady whom she spoke of, whom her
      husband recognized, can be none other than Marguerite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He recoiled in horror. &ldquo;You are sure of it!&rdquo; he repeated; &ldquo;and you can
      tell me this unmoved&mdash;coldly, as if it were a natural, a possible
      thing. Didn&rsquo;t you understand the shameful meaning of her insinuations?
      Didn&rsquo;t you see her hypocritical smile and the malice gleaming in her
      eyes?&rdquo; He pressed his hands to his burning brow, and groaned &ldquo;And I did
      not crush the infamous wretch! I did not fell her to the ground!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ah! if she had obeyed the impulse of her heart. Madame Ferailleur would
      have thrown her arms round her son&rsquo;s neck, and have mingled her tears with
      his, but reason prevailed. The worthy woman&rsquo;s heart was pervaded with that
      lofty sentiment of duty which sustains the humble heroines of the
      fireside, and lends them even more courage than the reckless adventurers
      whose names are recorded by history could boast of. She felt that Pascal
      must not be consoled, but spurred on to fresh efforts; and so mustering
      all her courage, she said: &ldquo;Are you acquainted with Mademoiselle
      Marguerite&rsquo;s past life? No. You only know that hers has been a life of
      great vicissitudes&mdash;and so it is not strange that she should be
      slandered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that case, mother,&rdquo; said Pascal, &ldquo;you were wrong to interrupt Madame
      Vantrasson. She would probably have told us many things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I interrupted her, it is true, and sent her away&mdash;and you know why.
      But she is in our service now; and when you are calm, when you have
      regained your senses, nothing will prevent you from questioning her. It
      may be useful for you to know who this man Vantrasson is, and how and
      where he met Mademoiselle Marguerite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Shame, sorrow, and rage, brought tears to Pascal&rsquo;s eyes. &ldquo;My God!&rdquo; he
      exclaimed, &ldquo;to be reduced to the unspeakable misery of hearing my mother
      doubt Marguerite!&rdquo; He did not doubt her. HE could have listened to the
      most infamous accusations against her without feeling a single doubt.
      However, Madame Ferailleur had sufficient self-control to shrug her
      shoulders. &ldquo;Ah, well! silence this slander,&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;I wish for
      nothing better; but don&rsquo;t forget that we have ourselves to rehabilitate.
      To crush your enemies will be far more profitable to Mademoiselle
      Marguerite than vain threats and weak lamentations. It seemed to me that
      you had sworn to act, not to complain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This ironical thrust touched Pascal&rsquo;s sensitive mind to the quick; he rose
      at once to his feet, and coldly said, &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true. I thank you for having
      recalled me to myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She made no rejoinder, but mentally thanked God. She had read her son&rsquo;s
      heart, and perceiving his hesitation and weakness she had supplied the
      stimulus he needed. Now she saw him as she wished to see him. Now he was
      ready to reproach himself for his lack of courage and his weakness in
      displaying his feelings. And as a test of his powers of endurance, he
      decided not to question Madame Vantrasson till four or five days had
      elapsed. If her suspicions had been aroused, this delay would suffice to
      dispel them.
    </p>
    <p>
      He said but little during breakfast; for he was now eager to commence the
      struggle. He longed to act, and yet he scarcely knew how to begin the
      campaign. First of all, he must study the enemy&rsquo;s position&mdash;gain some
      knowledge of the men he had to deal with, find out exactly who the Marquis
      de Valorsay and the Viscount de Coralth were. Where could he obtain
      information respecting these two men? Should he be compelled to follow
      them and to gather up here and there such scraps of intelligence as came
      in his way? This method of proceeding would be slow and inconvenient in
      the extreme. He was revolving the subject in his mind when he suddenly
      remembered the man who, on the morning that followed the scene at Madame
      d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s house, had come to him in the Rue d&rsquo;Ulm to give him a proof of
      his confidence. He remembered that this strange man had said: &ldquo;If you ever
      need a helping hand, come to me.&rdquo; And at the recollection he made up his
      mind. &ldquo;I am going to Baron Trigault&rsquo;s,&rdquo; he remarked to his mother; &ldquo;if my
      presentiments don&rsquo;t deceive me, he will be of service to us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In less than half an hour he was on his way. He had dressed himself in the
      oldest clothes he possessed; and this, with the change he had made by
      cutting off his hair and beard, had so altered his appearance that it was
      necessary to look at him several times, and most attentively, to recognize
      him. The visiting cards which he carried in his pocket bore the
      inscription: &ldquo;P. Maumejan, Business Agent, Route de la Revolte.&rdquo; His
      knowledge of Parisian life had induced him to choose the same profession
      as M. Fortunat followed&mdash;a profession which opens almost every door.
      &ldquo;I will enter the nearest cafe and ask for a directory,&rdquo; he said to
      himself. &ldquo;I shall certainly find Baron Trigault&rsquo;s address in it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron lived in the Rue de la Ville-l&rsquo;Eveque. His mansion was one of
      the largest and most magnificent in the opulent district of the Madeleine,
      and its aspect was perfectly in keeping with its owner&rsquo;s character as an
      expert financier, and a shrewd manufacturer, the possessor of valuable
      mines. The marvellous luxury so surprised Pascal, that he asked himself
      how the owner of this princely abode could find any pleasure at the gaming
      table of the Hotel d&rsquo;Argeles. Five or six footmen were lounging about the
      courtyard when he entered it. He walked straight up to one of them, and
      with his hat in his hand, asked: &ldquo;Baron Trigault, if you please?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If he had asked for the Grand Turk the valet would not have looked at him
      with greater astonishment. His surprise, indeed, seemed so profound that
      Pascal feared he had made some mistake and added: &ldquo;Doesn&rsquo;t he live here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The servant laughed heartily. &ldquo;This is certainly his house,&rdquo; he replied,
      &ldquo;and strange to say, by some fortunate chance, he&rsquo;s here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish to speak with him on business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The servant called one of his colleagues. &ldquo;Eh! Florestan&mdash;is the
      baron receiving?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The baroness hasn&rsquo;t forbidden it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This seemed to satisfy the footman; for, turning to Pascal he said: &ldquo;In
      that case, you can follow me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      II.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The sumptuous interior of the Trigault mansion was on a par with its
      external magnificence. Even the entrance bespoke the lavish millionaire,
      eager to conquer difficulties, jealous of achieving the impossible, and
      never haggling when his fancies were concerned. The spacious hall, paved
      with costly mosaics, had been transformed into a conservatory full of
      flowers, which were renewed every morning. Rare plants climbed the walls
      up gilded trellis work, or hung from the ceiling in vases of rare old
      china, while from among the depths of verdure peered forth exquisite
      statues, the work of sculptors of renown. On a rustic bench sat a couple
      of tall footmen, as bright in their gorgeous liveries as gold coins fresh
      from the mint; still, despite their splendor, they were stretching and
      yawning to such a degree, that it seemed as if they would ultimately
      dislocate their jaws and arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me,&rdquo; inquired the servant who was escorting Pascal, &ldquo;can any one
      speak to the baron?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This gentleman has something to say to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The two valets eyed the unknown visitor, plainly considering him to be one
      of those persons who have no existence for the menials of fashionable
      establishments, and finally burst into a hearty laugh. &ldquo;Upon my word!&rdquo;
       exclaimed the eldest, &ldquo;he&rsquo;s just in time. Announce him, and madame will be
      greatly obliged to you. She and monsieur have been quarrelling for a good
      half-hour. And, heavenly powers, isn&rsquo;t he tantalizing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The most intense curiosity gleamed in the eyes of Pascal&rsquo;s conductor, and
      with an airy of secrecy, he asked: &ldquo;What is the cause of the rumpus? That
      Fernand, no doubt&mdash;or some one else?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; this morning it&rsquo;s about M. Van Klopen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame&rsquo;s dressmaker?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The same. Monsieur and madame were breakfasting together&mdash;a most
      unusual thing&mdash;when M. Van Klopen made his appearance. I thought to
      myself, when I admitted him: &lsquo;Look out for storms!&rsquo; I scented one in the
      air, and in fact the dressmaker hadn&rsquo;t been in the room five minutes
      before we heard the baron&rsquo;s voice rising higher and higher. I said to
      myself: &lsquo;Whew! the mantua-maker is presenting his bill!&rsquo; Madame cried and
      went on like mad; but, pshaw! when the master really begins, there&rsquo;s no
      one like him. There isn&rsquo;t a cab-driver in Paris who&rsquo;s his equal for
      swearing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And M. Van Klopen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, he&rsquo;s used to such scenes! When gentlemen abuse him he does the same
      as dogs do when they come up out of the water; he just shakes his head and
      troubles himself no more about it. He has decidedly the best of the row.
      He has furnished the goods, and he&rsquo;ll have to be paid sooner or later&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! hasn&rsquo;t he been paid then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know; he&rsquo;s still here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A terrible crash of breaking china interrupted this edifying conversation.
      &ldquo;There!&rdquo; exclaimed one of the footmen, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s monsieur; he has smashed
      two or three hundred francs&rsquo; worth of dishes. He MUST be rich to pay such
      a price for his angry fits.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; observed the other, &ldquo;if I were in monsieur&rsquo;s place I should be
      angry too. Would you let your wife have her dresses fitted on by a man? I
      says that it&rsquo;s indecent. I&rsquo;m only a servant, but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense, it&rsquo;s the fashion. Besides, monsieur does not care about that. A
      man who&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped short; in fact, the others had motioned him to be silent. The
      baron was surrounded by exceptional servants, and the presence of a
      stranger acted as a restraint upon them. For this reason, one of them,
      after asking Pascal for his card, opened a door and ushered him into a
      small room, saying: &ldquo;I will go and inform the baron. Please wait here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here,&rdquo; as he called it, was a sort of smoking-room hung with cashmere of
      fantastic design and gorgeous hues, and encircled by a low, cushioned
      divan, covered with the same material. A profusion of rare and costly
      objects was to be seen on all sides, armor, statuary, pictures, and richly
      ornamented weapons. But Pascal, already amazed by the conversation of the
      servants, did not think of examining these objects of virtu. Through a
      partially open doorway, directly opposite the one he had entered by, came
      the sound of loud voices in excited conversation. Baron Trigault, the
      baroness, and the famous Van Klopen were evidently in the adjoining room.
      It was a woman, the baroness, who was speaking, and the quivering of her
      clear and somewhat shrill voice betrayed a violent irritation, which was
      only restrained with the greatest difficulty. &ldquo;It is hard for the wife of
      one of the richest men in Paris to see a bill for absolute necessities
      disputed in this style,&rdquo; she was saying.
    </p>
    <p>
      A man&rsquo;s voice, with a strong Teutonic accent, the voice of Van Klopen, the
      Hollander, caught up the refrain. &ldquo;Yes, strict necessities, one can swear
      to that. And if, before flying into a passion, Monsieur le Baron had taken
      the trouble to glance over my little bill, he would have seen&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No more! You bore me to death. Besides I haven&rsquo;t time to listen to your
      nonsense; they are waiting for me to play a game of whist at the club.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This time it was the master of the house, Baron Trigault, who spoke, and
      Pascal recognized his voice instantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If monsieur would only allow me to read the items. It will take but a
      moment,&rdquo; rejoined Van Klopen. And as if he had construed the oath that
      answered him as an exclamation of assent, he began: &ldquo;In June, a Hungarian
      costume with jacket and sash, two train dresses with upper skirts and
      trimmings of lace, a Medicis polonaise, a jockey costume, a walking
      costume, a riding-habit, two morning-dresses, a Velleda costume, an
      evening dress.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was obliged to attend the races very frequently during the month of
      June,&rdquo; remarked the baroness.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the illustrious adorner of female loveliness had already resumed his
      reading. &ldquo;In July we have: two morning-jackets, one promenade costume, one
      sailor suit, one Watteau shepherdess costume, one ordinary bathing-suit,
      with material for parasol and shoes to match, one Pompadour bathing-suit,
      one dressing-gown, one close-fitting Medicis mantle, two opera cloaks&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I was certainly not the most elegantly attired of the ladies at
      Trouville, where I spent the month of July,&rdquo; interrupted the baroness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are but few entries in the month of August,&rdquo; continued Van Klopen.
      &ldquo;We have: a morning-dress, a travelling-dress, with trimmings&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
       And he went on and on, gasping for breath, rattling off the ridiculous
      names which he gave to his &ldquo;creations,&rdquo; and interrupted every now and then
      by the blow of a clinched fist on the table, or by a savage oath.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pascal stood in the smoking-room, motionless with astonishment. He did not
      know what surprised him the most, Van Klopen&rsquo;s impudence in daring to read
      such a bill, the foolishness of the woman who had ordered all these
      things, or the patience of the husband who was undoubtedly going to pay
      for them. At last, after what seemed an interminable enumeration, Van
      Klopen exclaimed: &ldquo;And that&rsquo;s all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that&rsquo;s all,&rdquo; repeated the baroness, like an echo.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all!&rdquo; exclaimed the baron&mdash;&ldquo;that&rsquo;s all! That is to say, in
      four months, at least seven hundred yards of silk, velvet, satin, and
      muslin, have been put on this woman&rsquo;s back!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The dresses of the present day require a great deal of material. Monsieur
      le Baron will understand that flounces, puffs, and ruches&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Naturally! Total, twenty-seven thousand francs!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me! Twenty-seven thousand nine hundred and thirty-three francs,
      ninety centimes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Call it twenty-eight thousand francs then. Ah, well, M. Van Klopen, if
      you are ever paid for this rubbish it won&rsquo;t be by me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If Van Klopen was expecting this denouement, Pascal wasn&rsquo;t; in fact, he
      was so startled, that an exclamation escaped him which would have betrayed
      his presence under almost any other circumstances. What amazed him most
      was the baron&rsquo;s perfect calmness, following, as it did, such a fit of
      furious passion, violent enough even to be heard in the vestibule. &ldquo;Either
      he has extraordinary control over himself or this scene conceals some
      mystery,&rdquo; thought Pascal.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, the man-milliner continued to urge his claims&mdash;but the
      baron, instead of replying, only whistled; and wounded by this breach of
      good manners, Van Klopen at last exclaimed: &ldquo;I have had dealings with all
      the distinguished men in Europe, and never before did one of them refuse
      to pay me for his wife&rsquo;s toilettes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well&mdash;I don&rsquo;t pay for them&mdash;there&rsquo;s the difference. Do you
      suppose that I, Baron Trigault, that I&rsquo;ve worked like a negro for twenty
      years merely for the purpose of aiding your charming and useful branch of
      industry? Gather up your papers, Mr. Ladies&rsquo; Tailor. There may be husbands
      who believe themselves responsible for their wives&rsquo; follies&mdash;it&rsquo;s
      quite possible there are&mdash;but I&rsquo;m not made of that kind of stuff. I
      allow Madame Trigault eight thousand francs a month for her toilette&mdash;that
      is sufficient&mdash;and it is a matter for you and her to arrange
      together. What did I tell you last year when I paid a bill of forty
      thousand francs? That I would not be responsible for any more of my wife&rsquo;s
      debts. And I not only said it, I formally notified you through my private
      secretary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I remember, indeed&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why do you come to me with your bill? It is with my wife that you
      have opened an account. Apply to her, and leave me in peace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame promised me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Teach her to keep her promises.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It costs a great deal to retain one&rsquo;s position as a leader of fashion;
      and many of the most distinguished ladies are obliged to run into debt,&rdquo;
       urged Van Klopen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s their business. But my wife is not a fine lady. She is simply
      Madame Trigault, a baroness, thanks to her husband&rsquo;s gold and the
      condescension of a worthy German prince, who was in want of money. SHE is
      not a person of consequence&mdash;she has no rank to keep up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baroness must have attached immense importance to the satisfying of
      Van Klopen&rsquo;s demands, for concealing the anger this humiliating scene
      undoubtedly caused her, she condescended to try and explain, and even to
      entreat. &ldquo;I have been a little extravagant, perhaps,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;but I
      will be more prudent in future. Pay, monsieur&mdash;pay just once more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If not for my sake, for your own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a farthing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By the baron&rsquo;s tone, Pascal realized that his wife would never shake his
      fixed determination. Such must also have been the opinion of the
      illustrious ruler of fashion, for he returned to the charge with an
      argument he had held in reserve. &ldquo;If this is the case, I shall, to my
      great regret, be obliged to fail in the respect I owe to Monsieur le
      Baron, and to place this bill in the hands of a solicitor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Send him along&mdash;send him along.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot believe that monsieur wishes a law-suit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that you are greatly mistaken. Nothing would please me better. It
      would at last give me an opportunity to say what I think about your
      dealings. Do you think that wives are to turn their husbands into machines
      for supplying money? You draw the bow-string too tightly, my dear fellow&mdash;it
      will break. I&rsquo;ll proclaim on the house-top what others dare not say, and
      we&rsquo;ll see if I don&rsquo;t succeed in organizing a little crusade against you.&rdquo;
       And animated by the sound of his own words, his anger came back to him,
      and in a louder and ever louder voice he continued: &ldquo;Ah! you prate of the
      scandal that would be created by my resistance to your demands. That&rsquo;s
      your system; but, with me, it won&rsquo;t succeed. You threaten me with a
      law-suit; very good. I&rsquo;ll take it upon myself to enlighten Paris, for I
      know your secrets, Mr. Dressmaker. I know the goings on in your
      establishment. It isn&rsquo;t always to talk about dress that ladies stop at
      your place on returning from the Bois. You sell silks and satins no doubt;
      but you sell Madeira, and excellent cigarettes as well, and there are some
      who don&rsquo;t walk very straight on leaving your establishment, but smell
      suspiciously of tobacco and absinthe. Oh, yes, let us go to law, by all
      means! I shall have an advocate who will know how to explain the parts
      your customers pay, and who will reveal how, with your assistance, they
      obtain money from other sources than their husband&rsquo;s cash-box.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When M. Van Klopen was addressed in this style, he was not at all pleased.
      &ldquo;And I!&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;I will tell people that Baron Trigault, after
      losing all his money at play, repays his creditors with curses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The noise of an overturned chair told Pascal that the baron had sprung up
      in a furious passion &ldquo;You may say what you like, you rascally fool! but
      not in my house,&rdquo; he shouted. &ldquo;Leave&mdash;leave, or I will ring&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave, leave, I tell you, or I sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t have the patience to wait for a
      servant!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He must have joined action to word, and have seized Van Klopen by the
      collar to thrust him into the hall, for Pascal heard a sound of scuffling,
      a series of oaths worthy of a coal-heaver, two or three frightened cries
      from the baroness, and several guttural exclamations in German. Then a
      door closed with such violence that the whole house shook, and a
      magnificent clock, fixed to the wall of the smoking-room, fell on to the
      floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      If Pascal had not heard this scene, he would have deemed it incredible.
      How could one suppose that a creditor would leave this princely mansion
      with his bill unpaid? But more and more clearly he understood that there
      must be some greater cause of difference between husband and wife than
      this bill of twenty-eight thousand francs. For what was this amount to a
      confirmed gambler who, without as much as a frown, gained or lost a
      fortune every evening of his life. Evidently there was some skeleton in
      this household&mdash;one of those terrible secrets which make a man and
      his wife enemies, and all the more bitter enemies as they are bound
      together by a chain which it is impossible to break. And undoubtedly, a
      good many of the insults which the baron had heaped upon Van Klopen must
      have been intended for the baroness. These thoughts darted through
      Pascal&rsquo;s mind with the rapidity of lightning, and showed him the horrible
      position in which he was placed. The baron, who had been so favorably
      disposed toward him, and from whom he was expecting a great service, would
      undoubtedly hate him, undoubtedly become his enemy, when he learned that
      he had been a listener, although an involuntary one, to this conversation
      with Van Klopen. How did it happen that he had been placed in this
      dangerous position? What had become of the footman who had taken his card?
      These were questions which he was unable to answer. And what was he to do?
      If he could have retired noiselessly, if he could have reached the
      courtyard and have made his escape without being observed he would not
      have hesitated. But was this plan practicable? And would not his card
      betray him? Would it not be discovered sooner or later that he had been in
      the smoking-room while M. Van Klopen was in the dining-room? In any case,
      delicacy of feeling as well as his own interest forbade him to remain any
      longer a listener to the private conversation of the baron and his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      He therefore noisily moved a chair, and coughed in that affected style
      which means in every country: &ldquo;Take care&mdash;I&rsquo;m here!&rdquo; But he did not
      succeed in attracting attention. And yet the silence was profound; he
      could distinctly hear the creaking of the baron&rsquo;s boots, as he paced to
      and fro, and the sound of fingers nervously beating a tattoo on the table.
      If he desired to avoid hearing the confidential conversation, which would
      no doubt ensue between the baron and his wife, there was but one course
      for him to pursue, and that was to reveal his presence at once. He was
      about to do so, when some one opened a door which must have led from the
      hall into the dining-room. He listened attentively, but only heard a few
      confused words, to which the baron replied: &ldquo;Very well. That&rsquo;s sufficient.
      I will see him in a moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal breathed freely once more. &ldquo;They have just given him my card,&rdquo; he
      thought. &ldquo;I can remain now; he will come here in a moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron must really have started to leave the room, for his wife
      exclaimed: &ldquo;One word more: have you quite decided?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, fully!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are resolved to leave me exposed to the persecutions of my
      dressmaker?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Van Klopen is too charming and polite to cause you the least worry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will brave the disgrace of a law-suit?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense! You know very well that he won&rsquo;t bring any action against me&mdash;unfortunately.
      And, besides, pray tell me where the disgrace would be? I have a foolish
      wife&mdash;is that my fault? I oppose her absurd extravagance&mdash;haven&rsquo;t
      I a right to do so? If all husbands were as courageous, we should soon
      close the establishments of these artful men, who minister to your vanity,
      and use you ladies as puppets, or living advertisements, to display the
      absurd fashions which enrich them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron took two or three more steps forward, as if about to leave the
      room, but his wife interposed: &ldquo;The Baroness Trigault, whose husband has
      an income of seven or eight hundred thousand francs a year, can&rsquo;t go about
      clad like a simple woman of the middle classes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should see nothing so very improper in that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I know. Only your ideas don&rsquo;t coincide with mine. I shall never
      consent to make myself ridiculous among the ladies of my set&mdash;among
      my friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would indeed be a pity to arouse the disapproval of your friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This sneering remark certainly irritated the baroness, for it was with the
      greatest vehemence that she replied: &ldquo;All my friends are ladies of the
      highest rank in society&mdash;noble ladies!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron no doubt shrugged his shoulders, for in a tone of crushing irony
      and scorn, he exclaimed: &ldquo;Noble ladies! whom do you call noble ladies,
      pray? The brainless fools who only think of displaying themselves and
      making themselves notorious?&mdash;the senseless idiots who pique
      themselves on surpassing lewd women in audacity, extravagance, and
      effrontery, who fleece their husbands as cleverly as courtesans fleece
      their lovers? Noble ladies! who drink, and smoke, and carouse, who attend
      masked balls, and talk slang! Noble ladies! the idiots who long for the
      applause of the crowd, and consider notoriety to be desirable and
      flattering. A woman is only noble by her virtues&mdash;and the chief of
      all virtues, modesty, is entirely wanting in your illustrious friends&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur,&rdquo; interrupted the baroness, in a voice husky with anger, &ldquo;you
      forget yourself&mdash;you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the baron was well under way. &ldquo;If it is scandal that crowns one a
      great lady, you ARE one&mdash;and one of the greatest; for you are
      notorious&mdash;almost as notorious as Jenny Fancy. Can&rsquo;t I learn from the
      newspapers all your sayings and gestures, your amusements, your
      occupations, and the toilettes you wear? It is impossible to read of a
      first performance at a theatre, or of a horse-race, without finding your
      name coupled with that of Jenny Fancy, or Cora Pearl, or Ninette Simplon.
      I should be a very strange husband indeed, if I wasn&rsquo;t proud and
      delighted. Ah! you are a treasure to the reporters. On the day before
      yesterday the Baroness Trigault skated in the Bois. Yesterday she was
      driving in her pony-carriage. To-day she distinguished herself by her
      skill at pigeon-shooting. To-morrow she will display herself half nude in
      some tableaux vivants. On the day after to-morrow she will inaugurate a
      new style of hair-dressing, and take part in a comedy. It is always the
      Baroness Trigault who is the observed of all observers at Vincennes. The
      Baroness Trigault has lost five hundred louis in betting. The Baroness
      Trigault uses her lorgnette with charming impertinence. It is she who has
      declared it proper form to take a &lsquo;drop&rsquo; on returning from the Bois. No
      one is so famed for &lsquo;form,&rsquo; as the baroness&mdash;and silk merchants have
      bestowed her name upon a color. People rave of the Trigault blue&mdash;what
      glory! There are also costumes Trigault, for the witty, elegant baroness
      has a host of admirers who follow her everywhere, and loudly sing her
      praises. This is what I, a plain, honest man, read every day in the
      newspapers. The whole world not only knows how my wife dresses, but how
      she looks en dishabille, and how she is formed; folks are aware that she
      has an exquisite foot, a divinely-shaped leg, and a perfect hand. No one
      is ignorant of the fact that my wife&rsquo;s shoulders are of dazzling
      whiteness, and that high on the left shoulder there is a most enticing
      little mole. I had the satisfaction of reading this particular last
      evening. It is charming, upon my word! and I am truly a fortunate man!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the smoking-room, Pascal could hear the baroness angrily stamp her
      foot, as she exclaimed: &ldquo;It is an outrageous insult&mdash;your journalists
      are most impertinent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why? Do they ever trouble honest women?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They wouldn&rsquo;t trouble me if I had a husband who knew how to make them
      treat me with respect!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron laughed a strident, nervous laugh, which it was not pleasant to
      hear, and which revealed the fact that intense suffering was hidden
      beneath all this banter. &ldquo;Would you like me to fight a duel then? After
      twenty years has the idea of ridding yourself of me occurred to you again?
      I can scarcely believe it. You know too well that you would receive none
      of my money, that I have guarded against that. Besides, you would be
      inconsolable if the newspapers ceased talking about you for a single day.
      Respect yourself, and you will be respected. The publicity you complain of
      is the last anchor which prevents society from drifting one knows not
      where. Those who would not listen to the warning voice of honor and
      conscience are restrained by the fear of a little paragraph which might
      disclose their shame. Now that a woman no longer has a conscience, the
      newspapers act in place of it. And I think it quite right, for it is our
      only hope of salvation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By the stir in the adjoining room, Pascal felt sure that the baroness had
      stationed herself before the door to prevent her husband from leaving her.
      &ldquo;Ah! well, monsieur,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;I declare to you that I must have
      Van Klopen&rsquo;s twenty-eight thousand francs before this evening. I will have
      them, too; I am resolved to have them, and you will give them to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; thundered the baron, &ldquo;you WILL have them&mdash;you will&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
       He paused, and then, after a moment&rsquo;s reflection, he said: &ldquo;Very well. So
      be it! I will give you this amount, but not just now. Still if, as you
      say, it is absolutely necessary that you should have it to-day, there is a
      means of procuring it. Pawn your diamonds for thirty thousand francs&mdash;I
      authorize you to do so; and I give you my word of honor that I will redeem
      them within a week. Say, will you do this?&rdquo; And, as the baroness made no
      reply, he continued: &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t answer! shall I tell you why? It is
      because your diamonds were long since sold and replaced by imitation ones;
      it is because you are head over heels in debt; it is because you have
      stooped so low as to borrow your maid&rsquo;s savings; it is because you already
      owe three thousand francs to one of my coachmen; it is because our steward
      lends you money at the rate of thirty or forty per cent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is false!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron sneered. &ldquo;You certainly must think me a much greater fool than I
      really am!&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not often at home, it&rsquo;s true&mdash;the sight
      of you exasperates me; but I know what&rsquo;s going on. You believe me your
      dupe, but you are altogether mistaken. It is not twenty-seven thousand
      francs you owe Van Klopen, but fifty or sixty thousand. However, he is
      careful not to demand payment. If he brought me a bill this morning, it
      was only because you had begged him to do so, and because it had been
      agreed he should give you the money back if I paid him. In short, if you
      require twenty-eight thousand francs before to-night, it is because M.
      Fernand de Coralth has demanded that sum, and because you have promised to
      give it to him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Leaning against the wall of the smoking-room, speechless and motionless,
      holding his breath, with his hands pressed upon his heart, as if to stop
      its throbbings, Pascal Ferailleur listened. He no longer thought of
      flying; he no longer thought of reproaching himself for his enforced
      indiscretion. He had lost all consciousness of his position. The name of
      the Viscount de Coralth, thus mentioned in the course of this frightful
      scene, came as a revelation to him. He now understood the meaning of the
      baron&rsquo;s conduct. His visit to the Rue d&rsquo;Ulm, and his promises of help were
      all explained. &ldquo;My mother was right,&rdquo; he thought; &ldquo;the baron hates that
      miserable viscount mortally. He will do all in his power to assist me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, the baroness energetically denied her husband&rsquo;s charges. She
      swore that she did not know what he meant. What had M. de Coralth to do
      with all this? She commanded her husband to speak more plainly&mdash;to
      explain his odious insinuations.
    </p>
    <p>
      He allowed her to speak for a moment, and then suddenly, in a harsh,
      sarcastic voice, he interrupted her by saying: &ldquo;Oh! enough! No more
      hypocrisy! Why do you try to defend yourself? What matters one crime more?
      I know only too well that what I say is true; and if you desire proofs,
      they shall be in your hands in less than half an hour. It is a long time
      since I was blind&mdash;full twenty years! Nothing concerning you has
      escaped my knowledge and observation since the cursed day when I
      discovered the depths of your disgrace and infamy&mdash;since the terrible
      evening when I heard you plan to murder me in cold blood. You had grown
      accustomed to freedom of action; while I, who had gone off with the first
      gold-seekers, was braving a thousand dangers in California, so as to win
      wealth and luxury for you more quickly. Fool that I was! No task seemed
      too hard or too distasteful when I thought of you&mdash;and I was always
      thinking of you. My mind was at peace&mdash;I had perfect faith in you. We
      had a daughter; and if a fear or a doubt entered my mind, I told myself
      that the sight of her cradle would drive all evil thoughts from your
      heart. The adultery of a childless wife may be forgiven or explained; but
      that of a mother, never! Fool! idiot! that I was! With what joyous pride,
      on my return after an absence of eighteen months, I showed you the
      treasures I had brought back with me! I had two hundred thousand francs! I
      said to you as I embraced you: &lsquo;It is yours, my well-beloved, the source
      of all my happiness!&rsquo; But you did not care for me&mdash;I wearied you! You
      loved another! And while you were deceiving me with your caresses, you
      were, with fiendish skill, preparing a conspiracy which, if it had
      succeeded, would have resulted in my death! I should consider myself amply
      revenged if I could make you suffer for a single day all the torments that
      I endured for long months. For this was not all! You had not even the
      excuse, if excuse it be, of a powerful, all-absorbing passion. Convinced
      of your treachery, I resolved to ascertain everything, and I discovered
      that in my absence you had become a mother. Why didn&rsquo;t I kill you? How did
      I have the courage to remain silent and conceal what I knew? Ah! it was
      because, by watching you, I hoped to discover the cursed bastard and your
      accomplice. It was because I dreamed of a vengeance as terrible as the
      offence. I said to myself that the day would come when, at any risk, you
      would try to see your child again, to embrace her, and provide for her
      future. Fool! fool that I was! You had already forgotten her! When you
      received news of my intended return, she was sent to some foundling
      asylum, or left to die upon some door-step. Have you ever thought of her?
      Have you ever asked what has become of her? ever asked yourself if she had
      needed bread while you have been living in almost regal luxury? ever asked
      yourself into what depths of vice she may have fallen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Always the same ridiculous accusation!&rdquo; exclaimed the baroness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, always!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must know, however, that this story of a child is only a vile
      slander. I told you so when you spoke of it to me a dozen years afterward.
      I have repeated it a thousand times since.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron uttered a sigh that was very like a sob, and without paying any
      heed to his wife&rsquo;s words, he continued: &ldquo;If I consented to allow you to
      remain under my roof, it was only for the sake of our daughter. I trembled
      lest the scandal of a separation should fall upon her. But it was useless
      suffering on my part. She was as surely lost as you yourself were; and it
      was your work, too!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! you blame me for that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whom ought I to blame, then? Who took her to balls, and theatres and
      races&mdash;to every place where a young girl ought NOT to be taken? Who
      initiated her into what you call high life? and who used her as a discreet
      and easy chaperon? Who married her to a wretch who is a disgrace to the
      title he bears, and who has completed the work of demoralization you
      began? And what is your daughter to-day? Her extravagance has made her
      notorious even among the shameless women who pretend to be leaders of
      society. She is scarcely twenty-two, and there is not a single prejudice
      left for her to brave! Her husband is the companion of actresses and
      courtesans; her own companions are no better&mdash;and in less than two
      years the million of francs which I bestowed on her as a dowry has been
      squandered, recklessly squandered&mdash;for there isn&rsquo;t a penny of it
      left. And, at this very hour, my daughter and my son-in-law are plotting
      to extort money from me. On the day before yesterday&mdash;listen
      carefully to this&mdash;my son-in-law came to ask me for a hundred
      thousand francs, and when I refused them, he threatened if I did not give
      them to him that he would publish some letters written by my daughter&mdash;by
      his wife&mdash;to some low scoundrel. I was horrified and gave him what he
      asked. But that same evening I learned that the husband and wife, my
      daughter and my son-in-law, had concocted this vile conspiracy together.
      Yes, I have positive proofs of it. Leaving here, and not wishing to return
      home that day, he telegraphed the good news to his wife. But in his
      delight he made a mistake in the address, and the telegram was brought
      here. I opened it, and read: &lsquo;Papa has fallen into the trap, my darling. I
      beat my drum, and he surrendered at once.&rsquo; Yes, that is what he dared to
      write, and sign with his own name, and then send to his wife&mdash;my
      daughter!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal was absolutely terrified. He wondered if he were not the victim of
      some absurd nightmare&mdash;if his senses were not playing him false. He
      had little conception of the terrible dramas which are constantly enacted
      in these superb mansions, so admired and envied by the passing crowd. He
      thought that the baroness would be crushed&mdash;that she would fall on
      her knees before her husband. What a mistake! The tone of her voice told
      him that, instead of yielding, she was only bent on retaliation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does your son-in-law do anything worse than you?&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;How
      dare you censure him&mdash;you who drag your name through all the gambling
      dens of Europe?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wretch!&rdquo; interrupted the baron, &ldquo;wretch!&rdquo; But quickly mastering himself,
      he remarked: &ldquo;Yes, it&rsquo;s true that I gamble. People say, &lsquo;That great Baron
      Trigault is never without cards in his hands!&rsquo; But you know very well that
      I really hold gambling in horror&mdash;that I loathe it. But when I play,
      I sometimes forget&mdash;for I must forget. I tried drink, but it wouldn&rsquo;t
      drown thought, so I had recourse to cards; and when the stakes are large,
      and my fortune is imperilled, I sometimes lose consciousness of my
      misery!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baroness gave vent to a cold, sneering laugh, and, in a tone of
      mocking commiseration, she said: &ldquo;Poor baron! It is no doubt in the hope
      of forgetting your sorrows that you spend all your time&mdash;when you are
      not gambling&mdash;with a woman named Lia d&rsquo;Argeles. She&rsquo;s rather pretty.
      I have seen her several times in the Bois&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be silent!&rdquo; exclaimed the baron, &ldquo;be silent! Don&rsquo;t insult an unfortunate
      woman who is a thousand times better than yourself.&rdquo; And, feeling that he
      could endure no more&mdash;that he could no longer restrain his passion,
      he cried: &ldquo;Out of my sight! Go! or I sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t be responsible for my acts!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal heard a chair move, the floor creak, and a moment afterward a lady
      passed quickly through the smoking-room. How was it that she did not
      perceive him? No doubt, because she was greatly agitated, in spite of her
      bravado. And, besides, he was standing a little back in the shade. But he
      saw her, and his brain reeled. &ldquo;Good Lord! what a likeness!&rdquo; he murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      III.
    </h2>
    <p>
      It was as if he had seen an apparition, and he was vainly striving to
      drive away a terrible, mysterious fear, when a heavy footfall made the
      floor of the dining-room creak anew. The noise restored him to
      consciousness of his position. &ldquo;It is the baron!&rdquo; he thought; &ldquo;he is
      coming this way! If he finds me here I am lost; he will never consent to
      help me. A man would never forgive another man for hearing what I have
      just heard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Why should he not try to make his escape? The card, bearing the name of
      Maumejan, would be no proof of his visit. He could see the baron somewhere
      else some other day&mdash;elsewhere than at his own house, so that he need
      not fear the recognition of the servants. These thoughts flashed through
      his mind, and he was about to fly, when a harsh cry held him spell-bound.
      Baron Trigault was standing on the threshold. His emotion, as is almost
      always the case with corpulent people, was evinced by a frightful
      distortion of his features. His face was transformed, his lips had become
      perfectly white, and his eyes seemed to be starting from their sockets.
      &ldquo;How came you here?&rdquo; he asked, in a husky voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your servants ushered me into this room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who are you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! monsieur, don&rsquo;t you recognize me?&rdquo; rejoined Pascal, who in his
      agitation forgot that the baron had seen him only twice before. He forgot
      the absence of his beard, his almost ragged clothing, and all the
      precautions he had taken to render recognition impossible.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have never met any person named Maumejan,&rdquo; said the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! monsieur, that&rsquo;s not my name. Have you forgotten the innocent man who
      was caught in that infamous snare set for him by the Viscount de Coralth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; replied the baron, &ldquo;I remember you now.&rdquo; And then recollecting
      the terrible scene that had just taken place in the adjoining room: &ldquo;How
      long have you been here?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Should Pascal tell a falsehood, or confess the truth? He hesitated, but
      his hesitation lasted scarcely the tenth part of a second. &ldquo;I have been
      here about half an hour,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      The baron&rsquo;s livid cheeks suddenly became purple, his eyes glittered, and
      it seemed by his threatening gesture as if he were strongly tempted to
      murder this man, who had discovered the terrible, disgraceful secrets of
      his domestic life. But it was a mere flash of energy. The terrible ordeal
      which he had just passed through had exhausted him mentally and
      physically, and it was in a faltering voice that he resumed: &ldquo;Then you
      have not lost a word&mdash;a word of what was said in the other room?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron sank on to the divan. &ldquo;So the knowledge of my disgrace is no
      longer confined to myself!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;A stranger&rsquo;s eye has penetrated
      the depths of misery I have fallen into! The secret of my wretchedness and
      shame is mine no longer!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, monsieur, monsieur!&rdquo; interrupted Pascal. &ldquo;Before I recross the
      threshold of your home, all shall have been forgotten. I swear it by all
      that is most sacred!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had raised his hand as if to take a solemn oath, when the baron caught
      hold of it, and, pressing it with sorrowful gratitude, exclaimed: &ldquo;I
      believe you! You are a man of honor&mdash;I only needed to see your home
      to be convinced of that. You will not laugh at my misfortunes or my
      misery!&rdquo; He must have been suffering frightfully, for big tears rolled
      slowly down his cheeks. &ldquo;What have I done, my God! that I should be so
      cruelly punished?&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;I have always been generous and
      charitable, and ready to help all who applied to me. I am utterly alone! I
      have a wife and a daughter&mdash;but they hate me. They long for my death,
      which would give them possession of my wealth. What torture! For months
      together I dared not eat a morsel of food, either in my own house, or in
      the house of my son-in-law. I feared poison; and I never partook of a dish
      until I had seen my daughter or my wife do so. To prevent a crime, I was
      obliged to resort to the strangest expedients. I made a will, and left my
      property in such a way that if I die, my family will not receive one
      penny. So, they now have an interest in prolonging my life.&rdquo; As he spoke
      he sprang up with an almost frenzied air, and, seizing Pascal by the arm,
      again continued. &ldquo;Nor is this all! This woman&mdash;my wife&mdash;you know&mdash;you
      have heard the extent of her shame and degradation. Ah, well! I&mdash;love
      her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal recoiled with an exclamation of mingled horror and consternation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This amazes you, eh?&rdquo; rejoined the baron. &ldquo;It is indeed incomprehensible,
      monstrous&mdash;but it is the truth. It is to gratify her desire for
      luxury that I have toiled to amass millions. If I purchased a title, which
      is absurd and ridiculous, it was only because I wished to satisfy her
      vanity. Do what she may, I can only see in her the chaste and beautiful
      wife of our early married life. It is cowardly, absurd, ridiculous&mdash;I
      realize it; but my love is stronger than my reason or my will. I love her
      madly, passionately; I cannot tear her from my heart!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So speaking, he sank sobbing on to the divan again. Was this, indeed, the
      frivolous and jovial Baron Trigault whom Pascal had seen at Madame
      d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s house&mdash;the man of self-satisfied mien and superb
      assurance, the good-natured cynic, the frequenter of gambling-dens? Alas,
      yes! But the baron whom the world knew was only a comedian; this was the
      real man.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a little while he succeeded in controlling his emotion, and in a
      comparatively calm voice he exclaimed: &ldquo;But it is useless to distract
      one&rsquo;s mind with an incurable evil. Let us speak of yourself, M.
      Ferailleur. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To your own kind offer, monsieur, and the hope that you will help me in
      refuting this slander, and wreaking vengeance upon those who have ruined
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! yes, I will help you in that to the full extent of my power,&rdquo;
       exclaimed the baron. But experience reminded him that confidential
      disclosures ought not to be made with the doors open, so he rose, shut
      them, and returning to Pascal, said: &ldquo;Explain in what way I can be of
      service to you, monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was not without many misgivings that Pascal had presented himself at
      the baron&rsquo;s house, but after what he had heard he felt no further
      hesitation; he could speak with perfect freedom. &ldquo;It is quite unnecessary
      for me to tell you, Monsieur le Baron,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;that the cards which
      made me win were inserted in the pack by M. de Coralth&mdash;that is
      proven beyond question, and whatever the consequences may be, I shall have
      my revenge. But before striking him, I wish to reach the man whose
      instrument he was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! you suppose&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t suppose&mdash;I am sure that M. de Coralth acted in obedience to
      the instructions of some other scoundrel whose courage does not equal his
      meanness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps so! I think he would shrink from nothing in the way of rascality.
      But who could have employed him in this vile work of dishonoring an honest
      man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Marquis de Valorsay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this name, the baron bounded to his feet. &ldquo;Impossible!&rdquo; he
      exclaimed; &ldquo;absolutely impossible! M. de Valorsay is incapable of the
      villainy you ascribe to him. What do I say?&mdash;he is even above
      suspicion. I have known him for years, and I have never met a more loyal,
      more honorable, or more courageous man. He is one of my few trusted
      friends; we see each other almost every day. I am expecting a visit from
      him even now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Still it was he who incited M. de Coralth to do the deed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why? What could have been his object?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To win a young girl whom I love. She&mdash;loved me, and he saw that I
      was an obstacle. He put me out of the way more surely than if he had
      murdered me. If I died, she might mourn for me&mdash;dishonored, she would
      spurn me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is Valorsay so madly in love with the girl, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think he cares but very little for her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is the heiress of several millions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was evident that this explanation did not shake Baron Trigault&rsquo;s faith
      in his friend. &ldquo;But the marquis has an income of a hundred and fifty or
      two hundred thousand francs,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;that is an all-sufficient
      justification. With his fortune and his name, he is in a position to
      choose his wife from among all the heiresses of France. Why should he
      address his attentions in particular to the woman you love? Ah! if he were
      poor&mdash;if his fortune were impaired&mdash;if he felt the need of
      regilding his escutcheon, like my son-in-law&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused; there was a rap at the door. The baron called out: &ldquo;Come in,&rdquo;
       and a valet appeared, and informed his master that the Marquis de Valorsay
      wished to speak with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the enemy! Pascal&rsquo;s features were distorted with rage; but he did
      not stir&mdash;he did not utter a word. &ldquo;Ask the marquis into the next
      room,&rdquo; said the baron. &ldquo;I will join him there at once.&rdquo; Then as the
      servant retired, the baron turned to Pascal and said: &ldquo;Well, M.
      Ferailleur, do you divine my intentions?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think so, monsieur. You probably intend me to hear the conversation you
      are going to have with M. de Valorsay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exactly. I shall leave the door open, and you can listen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This word, &ldquo;listen,&rdquo; was uttered without bitterness, or even reproach; and
      yet Pascal could not help blushing and hanging his head. &ldquo;I wish to prove
      to you that your suspicions are without foundation,&rdquo; pursued the baron.
      &ldquo;Rest assured that I shall prove this conclusively. I will conduct the
      conversation in the form of a cross-examination, and after the marquis&rsquo;s
      departure, you will be obliged to confess that you were wrong.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or you, that I am right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So be it. Any one is liable to be mistaken, and I am not obstinate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was about to leave the room, when Pascal detained him. &ldquo;I scarcely know
      how to testify my gratitude even now, monsieur, and yet&mdash;if I dared&mdash;if
      I did not fear to abuse your kindness, I should ask one more favor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak, Monsieur Ferailleur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is this, I do not know the Marquis de Valorsay; and if, instead of
      leaving the door wide open, you would partially close it, I should hear as
      distinctly, and I could also see him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Agreed,&rdquo; replied the baron. And, opening the door, he passed into the
      dining-room, with his right hand cordially extended, and saying, in his
      most genial tones: &ldquo;Excuse me, my dear friend, for keeping you waiting. I
      received your letter this morning, and I was expecting you, but some
      unexpected business required my attention just now. Are you quite well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As the baron entered the room, the marquis had stepped quickly forward to
      meet him. Either he was inspired with fresh hope, or else he had wonderful
      powers of self-control, for never had he looked more calm&mdash;never had
      his face evinced haughtier indifference, more complete satisfaction with
      himself, and greater contempt for others. He was dressed with even more
      than usual care, and in perfect taste as well; moreover, his valet had
      surpassed himself in dressing his hair&mdash;for one would have sworn that
      his locks were still luxuriant. If he experienced any secret anxiety, it
      only showed itself in a slightly increased stiffness of his right leg&mdash;the
      limb broken in hunting. &ldquo;I ought rather to inquire concerning your own
      health,&rdquo; he remarked. &ldquo;You seem greatly disturbed; your cravat is untied.&rdquo;
       And, pointing to the broken china scattered about the floor, he added: &ldquo;On
      seeing this, I asked myself if an accident had not happened.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The baroness was taken suddenly ill at the breakfast table. Her fainting
      fit startled me a little. But it was a mere trifle. She has quite
      recovered already, and you may rely upon her applauding your victory at
      Vincennes to-day. She has I don&rsquo;t know how many hundred louis staked upon
      your horses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The marquis&rsquo;s countenance assumed an expression of cordial regret. &ldquo;I am
      very sorry, upon my word!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;But I sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t take part in the
      races at Vincennes. I have withdrawn my horses. And, in future, I shall
      have nothing to do with racing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the truth, however. I have been led to this determination by the
      infamous slander which has been circulated respecting me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This answer was a mere trifle, but it somewhat shook Baron Trigault&rsquo;s
      confidence. &ldquo;You have been slandered!&rdquo; he muttered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Abominably. Last Sunday the best horse in my stables, Domingo, came in
      third. He was the favorite in the ring. You can understand the rest. I
      have been accused of manoeuvering to have my own horse beaten. People have
      declared that it was my interest he should be beaten, and that I had an
      understanding with my jockey to that effect. This is an every-day
      occurrence, I know very well; but, as regards myself, it is none the less
      an infamous lie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who has dared to circulate such a report?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, how can I tell? It is a fact, however, that the story has been
      circulated everywhere, but in such a cautious manner that there is no way
      of calling the authors to account. They have even gone so far as to say
      that this piece of knavery brought me in an enormous sum, and that I used
      Rochecotte&rsquo;s, Kervaulieu&rsquo;s, and Coralth&rsquo;s names in betting against my own
      horse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron&rsquo;s agitation was so great that M. de Valorsay observed it, though
      he did not understand the cause. Living in the same society with the
      Baroness Trigault, and knowing her story, he thought that Coralth&rsquo;s name
      might, perhaps, have irritated the baron. &ldquo;And so,&rdquo; he quickly continued,
      &ldquo;don&rsquo;t be surprised if, during the coming week, you see the sale of my
      horses announced.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! you are going to sell&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All my horses&mdash;yes, baron. I have nineteen; and it will be very
      strange if I don&rsquo;t get eight or ten thousand louis for the lot. Domingo
      alone is worth more than forty thousand francs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To talk of selling&mdash;of realizing something you possess&mdash;rings
      ominously in people&rsquo;s ears. The person who talks of selling proclaims his
      need of money&mdash;and often his approaching ruin. &ldquo;It will save you at
      least a hundred and fifty or sixty thousand francs a year,&rdquo; observed the
      baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Double it and you won&rsquo;t come up to the mark. Ah! my dear baron, you have
      yet to learn that there is nothing so ruinous as a racing stable. It&rsquo;s
      worse than gambling; and women, in comparison, are a real economy. Ninette
      costs me less than Domingo, with his jockey, his trainer, and his grooms.
      My manager declares that the twenty-three thousand francs I won last year,
      cost me at least fifty thousand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Was he boasting, or was he speaking the truth? The baron was engaged in a
      rapid calculation. &ldquo;What does Valorsay spend a year?&rdquo; he was saying to
      himself. &ldquo;Let us say two hundred and fifty thousand francs for his stable;
      forty thousand francs for Ninette Simplon; eighty thousand for his
      household expenses, and at least thirty thousand for personal matters,
      travelling, and play. All this amounts to something like four hundred and
      thirty thousand francs a year. Does his income equal that sum? Certainly
      not. Then he must have been living on the principal&mdash;he is ruined.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile the marquis gayly continued: &ldquo;You see, I&rsquo;m going to make a
      change in my mode of life. Ah! it surprises you! But one must make an end
      of it, sooner or later. I begin to find a bachelor life not so very
      pleasant after all; there is rheumatism in prospect, and my digestion is
      becoming impaired&mdash;in short, I feel that it is time for marriage,
      baron; and&mdash;I am about to marry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I. What, haven&rsquo;t you heard of it, yet? It has been talked of at the
      club for three days or more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, this is the first intimation I have received of it. It is true,
      however, that I have not been to the club for three days. I have made a
      wager with Kami-Bey, you know&mdash;that rich Turk&mdash;and as our
      sittings are eight or ten hours long, we play in his apartments at the
      Grand Hotel. And so you are to be married,&rdquo; the baron continued, after a
      slight pause. &ldquo;Ah, well! I know one person who won&rsquo;t be pleased.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who, pray?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ninette Simplon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Valorsay laughed heartily. &ldquo;As if that would make any difference to
      me!&rdquo; he exclaimed. And then in a most confidential manner he resumed: &ldquo;She
      will soon be consoled. Ninette Simplon is a shrewd girl&mdash;a girl whom
      I have always suspected of having an account book in place of a heart. I
      know she has at least three hundred thousand francs safely invested; her
      furniture and diamonds are worth as much more. Why should she regret me?
      Add to this that I have promised her fifty thousand francs to dry her
      tears with on my wedding-day, and you will understand that she really
      longs to see me married.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand,&rdquo; replied the baron; &ldquo;Ninette Simplon won&rsquo;t trouble you. But
      I can&rsquo;t understand why you should talk of economy on the eve of a marriage
      which will no doubt double your fortune; for I&rsquo;m sure you won&rsquo;t surrender
      your liberty without good and substantial reasons.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are mistaken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How mistaken?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I won&rsquo;t hesitate to confess to you, my dear baron, that the girl I
      am about to marry hasn&rsquo;t a penny of her own. My future wife has no dowry
      save her black eyes&mdash;but they are certainly superb ones.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This assertion seemed to disprove Pascal&rsquo;s statements. &ldquo;Can it really be
      you who are talking in this strain?&rdquo; cried the baron. &ldquo;You, a practical,
      worldly man, give way to such a burst of sentiment?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron opened his eyes in astonishment. &ldquo;Ah! then you adore your future
      bride!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Adore only feebly expresses my feelings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must be dreaming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Valorsay shrugged his shoulders with the air of a man who has made up his
      mind to accept the banter of his friends; and in a tone of mingled
      sentimentality and irony, he said: &ldquo;I know that it&rsquo;s absurd, and that I
      shall be the laughing-stock of my acquaintances. Still it doesn&rsquo;t matter;
      I have never been coward enough to hide my feelings. I&rsquo;m in love, my dear
      baron, as madly in love as a young collegian&mdash;sufficiently in love to
      watch my lady&rsquo;s house at night even when I have no possible hope of seeing
      her. I thought myself blase, I boasted of being invulnerable. Well, one
      fine morning I woke up with the heart of a youth of twenty beating in my
      breast&mdash;a heart which trembled at the slightest glance from the girl
      I love, and sent purple flushes to my face. Naturally I tried to reason
      with myself. I was ashamed of my weakness; but the more clearly I showed
      myself my folly, the more obstinate my heart became. And perhaps my folly
      is not such a great one after all. Such perfect beauty united with such
      modesty, grace, and nobility of soul, such passion, candor and talent,
      cannot be met twice in a lifetime. I intend to leave Paris. We shall first
      of all go to Italy, my wife and I. After a while we shall return and
      install ourselves at Valorsay, like two turtle-doves. Upon my word, my
      imagination paints a charming picture of the calm and happy life we shall
      lead there! I don&rsquo;t deserve such good fortune. I must have been born under
      a lucky star!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Had he been less engrossed in his narrative, he would have heard the sound
      of a stifled oath in the adjoining room; and had he been less absorbed in
      the part he was playing, he would have observed a cloud on his companion&rsquo;s
      brow. The baron was a keen observer, and he had detected a false ring in
      this apparently vehement outburst of passion. &ldquo;I understand it now, my
      dear marquis,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;you have met the descendant of some illustrious
      but impoverished family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are wrong. My future bride has no other name than her Christian name
      of Marguerite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a regular romance then!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are quite right; it is a romance. Were you acquainted with the Count
      de Chalusse, who died a few days ago?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; but I have often heard him spoken of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it is his daughter whom I am about to marry&mdash;his illegitimate
      daughter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron started. &ldquo;Excuse me,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;M. de Chalusse was immensely
      rich, and he was a bachelor. How does it happen then that his daughter,
      even though she be his illegitimate child, should find herself penniless?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A mere chance&mdash;a fatality. M. de Chalusse died very suddenly; he had
      no time to make a will or to acknowledge his daughter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why had he not taken some precautions?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A formal recognition of his daughter was attended by too many
      difficulties, and even dangers. Mademoiselle Marguerite had been abandoned
      by her mother when only five or six months old; it is only a few years
      since M. de Chalusse, after a thousand vain attempts, at last succeeded in
      finding her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was no longer on Pascal&rsquo;s account, but on his own, that Baron Trigault
      listened with breathless attention. &ldquo;How very strange,&rdquo; he exclaimed, in
      default of something better to say. &ldquo;How very strange!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it? It is as good as a novel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would it be&mdash;indiscreet&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To inquire? Certainly not. The count told me the whole story, without
      entering into particulars&mdash;you understand. When he was quite young,
      M. de Chalusse became enamoured of a charming young lady, whose husband
      had gone to tempt fortune in America. Being an honest woman, she resisted
      the count&rsquo;s advances for awhile&mdash;a very little while; but in less
      than a year after her husband&rsquo;s departure, she gave birth to a pretty
      little daughter, Mademoiselle Marguerite. But then why had the husband
      gone to America?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; faltered the baron; &ldquo;why&mdash;why, indeed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everything was progressing finely, when M. de Chalusse was in his turn
      obliged to start for Germany, having been informed that a sister of his,
      who had fled from the paternal roof with nobody knows who, had been seen
      there. He had been absent some four months or so, when one morning the
      post brought him a letter from his pretty mistress, who wrote: &lsquo;We are
      lost! My husband is at Marseilles: he will be here to-morrow. Never
      attempt to see me again. Fear everything from him. Farewell.&rsquo; On receiving
      this letter, M. de Chalusse flung himself into a postchaise, and returned
      to Paris. He was determined, absolutely determined, to have his daughter.
      But he arrived too late. On hearing of her husband&rsquo;s return, the young
      wife had lost her head. She had but one thought&mdash;to conceal her
      fault, at any cost; and one night, being completely disguised, she left
      her child on a doorstep in the vicinity of the central markets&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The marquis suddenly paused in his story to exclaim: &ldquo;Why, what is the
      matter with you, my dear baron? What is the matter? Are you ill? Shall I
      ring?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron was as pale as if the last drop of blood had been drawn from his
      veins, and there were dark purple circles about his eyes. Still, on being
      questioned, he managed to answer in a choked voice, but not without a
      terrible effort: &ldquo;Nothing! It is nothing. A mere trifle! It will be over
      in a moment. It IS over!&rdquo; Still his limbs trembled so much that he could
      not stand, and he sank on to a chair, murmuring: &ldquo;I entreat you, marquis&mdash;continue.
      It is very interesting&mdash;very interesting indeed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Valorsay resumed his narrative. &ldquo;The husband was incontestably an
      artless fellow: but he was also, it appears, a man of remarkable energy
      and determination. Having somehow ascertained that his wife had given
      birth to a child in his absence, he moved heaven and earth not only to
      discover the child, but its father also. He had sworn to kill them both;
      and he was a man to keep his vow unmoved by a thought of the guillotine.
      And if you require a proof of his strength of character, here it is: He
      said nothing to his wife on the subject, he did not utter a single
      reproach; he treated her exactly as he had done before his absence. But he
      watched her, or employed others to watch her, both day and night,
      convinced that she would finally commit some act of imprudence which would
      give him the clue he wanted. Fortunately, she was very shrewd. She soon
      discovered that her husband knew everything, and she warned M. de
      Chalusse, thus saving his life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It is not at all remarkable that the Marquis de Valorsay should have
      failed to see any connection between his narrative and the baron&rsquo;s
      agitation. What possible connection could there be between opulent Baron
      Trigault and the poor devil who went to seek his fortune in America? What
      imaginable connection could there be between the confirmed gambler, who
      was Kami-Bey&rsquo;s companion, Lia d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s friend, and the husband who for
      ten long years had pursued the man who, by seducing his wife, had robbed
      him of all the happiness of life? Another point that would have dispelled
      any suspicions on the marquis&rsquo;s part was that he had found the baron
      greatly agitated on arriving, and that he now seemed to be gradually
      regaining his composure. So he continued his story in his customary light,
      mocking tone. It is the perfection of good taste and high breeding&mdash;&ldquo;proper
      form,&rdquo; indeed, not to be astonished or moved by anything, in fact to sneer
      at everything, and hold one&rsquo;s self quite above the emotions which disturb
      the minds of plebeians.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus the marquis continued: &ldquo;I am necessarily compelled to omit many
      particulars, my dear baron. The count was not very explicit when he
      reached this part of his story; but, in spite of his reticence, I learned
      that he had been tricked in his turn, that certain papers had been stolen
      from him, and that he had been defrauded in many ways by his inamorata. I
      also know that M. de Chalusse&rsquo;s whole life was haunted by the thought of
      the husband he had wronged. He felt a presentiment that he would die by
      this man&rsquo;s hand. He saw danger on every side. If he went out alone in the
      evening, which was an exceedingly rare occurrence, he turned the street
      corners with infinite caution; it seemed to him that he could always see
      the gleam of a poniard or a pistol in the shade. I should never have
      believed in this constant terror on the part of a really brave man, if he
      had not confessed it to me with his own lips. Ten or twelve years passed
      before he dared to make the slightest attempt to find his daughter, so
      much did he fear to arouse his enemy&rsquo;s attention. It was not until he had
      discovered that the husband had become discouraged and had discontinued
      his search, that the count began his. It was a long and arduous one, but
      at last it succeeded, thanks to the assistance of a clever scoundrel named
      Fortunat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron with difficulty repressed a movement of eager curiosity, and
      remarked: &ldquo;What a peculiar name!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And his first name is Isidore. Ah! he&rsquo;s a smooth-tongued scoundrel, a
      rascal of the most dangerous kind, who richly deserves to be in jail. How
      it is that he is allowed to prosecute his dishonorable calling I can&rsquo;t
      understand; but it is none the less true that he does follow it, and
      without the slightest attempt at concealment, at an office he has on the
      Place de la Bourse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This name and address were engraved upon the baron&rsquo;s memory, never to be
      effaced.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;However,&rdquo; resumed M. de Valorsay, &ldquo;the poor count was fated to have no
      peace. The husband had scarcely ceased to torment him, he had scarcely
      begun to breathe freely, when the wife attacked him in her turn. She must
      have been one of those vile and despicable women who make a man hate the
      entire sex. Pretending that the count had turned her from the path of
      duty, and destroyed her life and happiness, she lost no opportunity of
      tormenting him. She would not allow M. de Chalusse to keep the child with
      him, nor would she consent to his adopting the girl. She declared it an
      act of imprudence, which would surely set her husband upon the track,
      sooner or later. And when the count announced his intention of legally
      adopting the child, in spite of her protests, she declared that, rather
      than allow it, she would confess everything to her husband.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The count was a patient man,&rdquo; sneered the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so patient as you may suppose. His submission was due to some secret
      cause which he never confided to me. There must have been some great crime
      under all this. In any case, the poor count found it impossible to escape
      this terrible woman. He took refuge at Cannes; but she followed him. He
      travelled through Italy, for I don&rsquo;t know how many months under an assumed
      name, but all in vain. He was at last compelled to conceal his daughter in
      some provincial convent. During the last few months of his life he
      obtained peace&mdash;that is to say, he bought it. This lady&rsquo;s husband
      must either be very poor or exceedingly stingy; and as she was exceedingly
      fond of luxury, M. de Chalusse effected a compromise by giving her a large
      sum monthly, and also by paying her dress-maker&rsquo;s bills.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron sprang to his feet with a passionate exclamation. &ldquo;The vile
      wretch!&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      But he quickly reseated himself, and the exclamation astonished M. de
      Valorsay so little that he quietly concluded by saying: &ldquo;And this is the
      reason, baron, why my beloved Marguerite, the future Marquise de Valorsay,
      has no dowry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron cast a look of positive anguish at the door of the smoking-room.
      He had heard a slight movement there; and he trembled with fear lest
      Pascal, maddened with anger and jealousy, should rush in and throw himself
      upon the marquis. Plainly enough, this perilous situation could not last
      much longer. The baron&rsquo;s own powers of self-control and dissimulation were
      almost exhausted, and so postponing until another time the many questions
      he still wished to ask M. de Valorsay, he made haste to check these
      confidential disclosures. &ldquo;Upon my word,&rdquo; he exclaimed, with a forced
      laugh, &ldquo;I was expecting something quite different. This affair begins like
      a genuine romance, and ends, as everything ends nowadays, in money!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      IV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      As a millionaire and a gambler, Baron Trigault enjoyed all sorts of
      privileges. He assumed the right to be brutal, ill-bred, cynical and bold;
      to be one of those persons who declare that folks must take them as they
      find them. But his rudeness now was so thoroughly offensive that under any
      other circumstances the marquis would have resented it. However, he had
      special reasons for preserving his temper, so he decided to laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, these stories always end in the same way, baron,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;You
      haven&rsquo;t touched a card this morning, and I know your hands are itching.
      Excuse me for making you waste precious time, as you say; but what you
      have just heard was only a necessary preface.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only a preface?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; but don&rsquo;t be discouraged. I have arrived at the object of my visit
      now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As Baron Trigault was supposed to enjoy an income of at least eight
      hundred thousand francs a year, he received in the course of a twelvemonth
      at least a million applications for money or help, and for this reason he
      had not an equal for detecting a coming appeal. &ldquo;Good heavens!&rdquo; he
      thought, &ldquo;Valorsay is going to ask me for money.&rdquo; In fact, he felt certain
      that the marquis&rsquo;s pretended carelessness concealed real embarrassment,
      and that it was difficult for him to find the words he wanted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I am about to marry,&rdquo; M. de Valorsay resumed&mdash;&ldquo;I wish to break
      off my former life, to turn over a new leaf. And now the wedding gifts,
      the two fetes that I propose giving, the repairs at Valorsay, and the
      honeymoon with my wife&mdash;all these things will cost a nice little
      sum.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A nice little sum, indeed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, well! as I&rsquo;m not going to wed an heiress, I fear I shall run a trifle
      short. The matter was worrying me a little, when I thought of you. I said
      to myself: &lsquo;The baron, who always has money at his disposal, will no doubt
      let me have the use of five thousand louis for a year.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron&rsquo;s eyes were fixed upon his companion&rsquo;s face. &ldquo;Zounds!&rdquo; he
      exclaimed in a half-grieved, half-petulant tone; &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t the amount!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was not disappointment that showed itself on the marquis&rsquo;s face; it was
      absolute despair, quickly concealed.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the baron had detected it; and he realized his applicant&rsquo;s urgent
      need. He felt certain that M. de Valorsay was financially ruined&mdash;and
      yet, as it did not suit his plans to refuse, he hastily added: &ldquo;When I say
      I haven&rsquo;t that amount, I mean that I haven&rsquo;t got it on hand just at this
      moment. But I shall have it within forty-eight hours; and if you are at
      home at this time on the day after to-morrow, I will send you one of my
      agents, who will arrange the matter with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A moment before, the marquis had allowed his consternation to show itself;
      but this time he knew how to conceal the joy that filled his soul. So it
      was in the most indifferent manner, as if the affair were one of trivial
      importance, that he thanked the baron for being so obliging. Plainly
      enough, he now longed to make his escape, and indeed, after rattling off a
      few commonplace remarks, he rose to his feet and took his leave,
      exclaiming: &ldquo;Till the day after to-morrow, then!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron sank into an arm-chair, completely overcome. A martyr to a
      passion that was stronger than reason itself, the victim of a fatal love
      which he had not been able to drive from his heart, Baron Trigault had
      passed many terrible hours, but never had he been so completely crushed as
      at this moment when chance revealed the secret which he had vainly pursued
      for years. The old wounds in his heart opened afresh, and his sufferings
      were poignant beyond description. All his efforts to save this woman whom
      he at once loved and hated from the depths of degradation, had proved
      unavailing. &ldquo;And she has extorted money from the Count de Chalusse,&rdquo; he
      thought; &ldquo;she sold him the right to adopt their own daughter.&rdquo; And so
      strange are the workings of the human heart, that this circumstance,
      trivial in comparison with many others, drove the unfortunate baron almost
      frantic with rage. What did it avail him that he had become one of the
      richest men in Paris? He allowed his wife eight thousand francs a month,
      almost one hundred thousand francs a year, merely for her dresses and
      fancies. Not a quarter-day passed, but what he paid her debts to a large
      amount, and in spite of all this, she had sunk so low as to extort money
      from a man who had once loved her. &ldquo;What can she do with it all?&rdquo; muttered
      the baron, overcome with sorrow and indignation. &ldquo;How can she succeed in
      spending the income of several millions?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A name, the name of Ferdinand de Coralth, rose to his lips; but he did not
      pronounce it. He saw Pascal emerging from the smoking-room; and though he
      had forgotten the young advocate&rsquo;s very existence, his appearance now
      restored him to a consciousness of reality. &ldquo;Ah, well! M. Ferailleur?&rdquo; he
      said, like a man suddenly aroused from some terrible nightmare. Pascal
      tried to make some reply, but he was unable to do so&mdash;such a flood of
      incoherent thoughts was seething and foaming in his brain. &ldquo;Did you hear,
      M. de Valorsay?&rdquo; continued the baron. &ldquo;Now we know, beyond the possibility
      of doubt, who Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s mother is. What is to be done?
      What would you do in my place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, monsieur! how can I tell?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wouldn&rsquo;t your first thought be of vengeance! It is mine. But upon whom
      can I wreak my vengeance? Upon the Count de Chalusse? He is dead. Upon my
      wife? Yes, I might do so; but I lack the courage&mdash;Mademoiselle
      Marguerite remains.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But she is innocent, monsieur; she has never wronged you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron did not seem to hear this exclamation. &ldquo;And to make Mademoiselle
      Marguerite&rsquo;s life one long misery,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I need only favor her
      marriage with the marquis. Ah, he would make her cruelly expiate the crime
      of her birth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you won&rsquo;t do so!&rdquo; cried Pascal, in a transport, &ldquo;it would be
      shameful; I won&rsquo;t allow it. Never, I swear before high Heaven! never,
      while I live, shall Valorsay marry Marguerite. He may perhaps vanquish me
      in the coming struggle; he may lead her to the threshold of the church,
      but there he will find me&mdash;armed&mdash;and I will have justice&mdash;human
      justice in default of legal satisfaction. And, afterward, the law may take
      its course!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron looked at him with deep emotion. &ldquo;Ah, you know what it is to
      love!&rdquo; he exclaimed; and in a hollow voice, he added: &ldquo;and thus it was
      that I loved Marguerite&rsquo;s mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The breakfast-table had not been cleared, and a large decanter of water
      was still standing on it. The baron poured out two large glasses, which he
      drained with feverish avidity, and then he began to walk aimlessly about
      the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pascal held his peace. It seemed to him that his own destiny was being
      decided in this man&rsquo;s mind, that his whole future depended upon the
      determination he arrived at. A prisoner awaiting the verdict of the jury
      could not have suffered more intense anxiety. At last, when a minute,
      which seemed a century, had elapsed, the baron paused. &ldquo;Now as before, M.
      Ferailleur,&rdquo; he said, roughly, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m for you and with you. Give me your
      hand&mdash;that&rsquo;s right. Honest people ought to protect and assist one
      another when scoundrels assail them. We will reinstate you in public
      esteem, monsieur. We will unmask Coralth, and we will crush Valorsay if we
      find that he is really the instigator of the infamous plot that ruined
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, monsieur! Can you doubt it after your conversation with him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron shook his head. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve no doubt but what Valorsay is ruined
      financially,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I am certain that my hundred thousand francs will
      be lost forever if I lend them to him. I would be willing to swear that he
      bet against his own horse and prevented the animal from winning, as he is
      accused of doing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must see, then&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me&mdash;all this does NOT explain the great discrepancy between
      your allegations and his story. You assure me that he cares nothing
      whatever for Mademoiselle Marguerite; he pretends that he adores her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, monsieur, yes&mdash;the scoundrel dared to say so. Ah! if I had not
      been deterred by a fear of losing my revenge!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand; but allow me to conclude. According to you, Mademoiselle
      Marguerite possesses several millions. According to him, she hasn&rsquo;t a
      penny of her own. Which is right? I believe he is. His desire to borrow a
      hundred thousand francs of me proves it; and, besides, he wouldn&rsquo;t have
      come this morning to tell me a falsehood, which would be discovered
      to-morrow. Still, if he is telling the truth, it is impossible to explain
      the foul conspiracy you have suffered by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This objection had previously presented itself to Pascal&rsquo;s mind, and he
      had found an explanation which seemed to him a plausible one. &ldquo;M. de
      Chalusse was not dead,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;when M. de Coralth and M. de Valorsay
      decided on this plan of ridding themselves of me. Consequently,
      Mademoiselle Marguerite was still an heiress.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true; but the very day after the commission of the crime, the
      accomplices must have discovered that it could do them no good; so, why
      have they still persisted in their scheme?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal tried to find a satisfactory answer, but failed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There must be some iniquitous mystery in this affair, which neither you
      nor I suspect,&rdquo; remarked the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is exactly what my mother told me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! that&rsquo;s Madame Ferailleur&rsquo;s opinion? Then it is a good one. Come, let
      us reason a little. Mademoiselle Marguerite loved you, you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she has suddenly broken off the engagement?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She wrote to me that the Count de Chalusse extorted from her a promise on
      his death-bed, that she would marry the Marquis de Valorsay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron sprang to his feet. &ldquo;Stop,&rdquo; he cried&mdash;&ldquo;stop! We now have a
      clue to the truth, perhaps. Ah! so Mademoiselle Marguerite has written to
      you that M. de Chalusse commanded her to marry the marquis! Then the count
      must have been fully restored to consciousness before he breathed his
      last. On the other hand, Valorsay pretends that Mademoiselle Marguerite is
      left without resources, simply because the count died too suddenly to be
      able to write or to sign a couple of lines. Can you reconcile these two
      versions of the affair, M. Ferailleur? Certainly not. Then which version
      is false? We must ascertain that point. When shall you see Mademoiselle
      Marguerite again?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has requested me NEVER to try to see her again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well! She must be disobeyed. You must discover some way of seeing
      her without anyone&rsquo;s knowledge. She is undoubtedly watched, so don&rsquo;t write
      on any account.&rdquo; He reflected for a moment, and then added: &ldquo;We shall,
      perhaps, become morally certain of Valorsay&rsquo;s and Coralth&rsquo;s guilt, but
      there&rsquo;s a wide difference between this and the establishment of their
      guilt by material proofs. Two scoundrels who league to ruin an honest man
      don&rsquo;t sign a contract to that effect before a notary. Proofs! Ah! where
      shall we find them? We must gain an intimate knowledge of Valorsay&rsquo;s
      private life. The best plan would be to find some man devoted to our
      interests who would watch him, and insinuate himself into his confidence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal interrupted the baron with an eager gesture. Hope glittered in his
      eyes. &ldquo;Yes!&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;yes; it is necessary that M. de Valorsay
      should be watched by a man of quick perception&mdash;a man clever enough
      to make himself useful to the marquis, and capable of rendering him an
      important service in case of need. I will be the man, monsieur, if you
      will allow me. The thought occurred to me just now while I was listening
      to you. You promised to send some one to Valorsay&rsquo;s house with money. I
      entreat you to allow me to take the place of the man you intended to send.
      The marquis doesn&rsquo;t know me, and I am sufficiently sure of myself to
      promise you that I will not betray my identity. I will present myself as
      your agent; he will give me his confidence. I shall take him money or fair
      promises, I shall be well received, and I have a plan&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was interrupted by a rap at the door. The next moment a footman
      entered, and informed his master that a messenger wished to speak to him
      on urgent business. &ldquo;Let him come in,&rdquo; said the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Job, Madame Lia d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s confidential servant, who entered the
      room. He bowed respectfully, and, with an air of profound mystery
      exclaimed: &ldquo;I have been looking for the baron everywhere. I was ordered by
      madame not to return without him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; said M. Trigault. &ldquo;I will go with you at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      V.
    </h2>
    <p>
      How was it that a clever man like M. Fortunat made such a blunder as to
      choose a Sunday, and a racing Sunday too, to call on M. Wilkie. His
      anxiety might explain the mistake, but it did not justify it. He felt
      certain, that under any other circumstances he would not have been
      dismissed so cavalierly. He would at least have been allowed to develop
      his proposals, and then who knows what might have happened?
    </p>
    <p>
      But the races had interfered with his plans. M. Wilkie had been compelled
      to attend to Pompier de Nanterre, that famous steeplechaser, of which he
      owned one-third part, and he had, moreover, to give orders to the jockey,
      whose lord and master he was to an equal extent. These were sacred duties,
      since Wilkie&rsquo;s share in a race-horse constituted his only claim to a
      footing in fashionable society. But it was a strong claim&mdash;a claim
      that justified the display of whips and spurs that decorated his
      apartments in the Rue du Helder, and allowed him to aspire to the
      character of a sporting man. Wilkie really imagined that folks were
      waiting for him at Vincennes; and that the fete would not be complete
      without his presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still, when he presented himself inside the enclosure, a cigar in his
      mouth, and his racing card dangling from his button-hole, he was obliged
      to confess that his entrance did not create much of a sensation. An
      astonishing bit of news had imparted unusual excitement to the ring.
      People were eagerly discussing the Marquis de Valorsay&rsquo;s sudden
      determination to pay forfeit and withdraw his horses from the contest; and
      the best informed declared that in the betting-rooms the evening before he
      had openly announced his intention of selling his racing stable. If the
      marquis had hoped that by adopting this course he would silence the
      suspicions which had been aroused, he was doomed to grievous
      disappointment. The rumor that he had secretly bet against his own horse,
      Domingo, on the previous Sunday, and that he had given orders not to let
      the animal win the race, was steadily gaining credence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Large sums had been staked on Domingo&rsquo;s success. He had been the favorite
      in the betting ring and the losers were by no means pleased. Some declared
      that they had seen the jockey hold Domingo back; and they insisted that it
      was necessary to make an example, and disqualify both the marquis and his
      jockey. Still one weighty circumstance pleaded in M. de Valorsay&rsquo;s favor&mdash;his
      fortune, or, at least, the fortune he was supposed to possess. &ldquo;Why should
      such a rich man stoop to cheat?&rdquo; asked his defenders. &ldquo;To put money into
      one&rsquo;s pocket in this way is even worse than to cheat at cards! Besides,
      it&rsquo;s impossible! Valorsay is above such contemptible charges. He is a
      perfect gentleman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps so,&rdquo; replied the skeptical bystanders. &ldquo;But people said exactly
      the same of Croisenois, of the Duc de H., and Baron P., who were finally
      convicted of the same rascality that Valorsay is accused of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s an infamous slander! If he had been inclined to cheat, he could have
      easily diverted suspicion. He would have let Domingo come in second, not
      third!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he were not guilty, and afraid of detection, he wouldn&rsquo;t pay forfeit
      to-day nor sell his horses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He only retires from the turf because he&rsquo;s going to marry&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense! That&rsquo;s no reason whatever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Like all gamblers, the frequenters of the turf are distrustful and
      inclined to be quarrelsome. No one is above their suspicions when they
      lose nor above their wrath when they are duped. And this Domingo affair
      united all the losers against Valorsay; they formed a little battalion of
      enemies who were no doubt powerless for the time being, but who were ready
      to take a startling revenge whenever a good opportunity presented itself.
      Naturally enough, M. Wilkie sided with the marquis, whom he had heard his
      friend, M. de Coralth, speak of on several occasions. &ldquo;Accuse the dear
      marquis!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s contemptible, outrageous. Why, only last
      evening he said to me, &lsquo;My good friend, Domingo&rsquo;s defeat cost me two
      thousand louis!&rsquo;&rdquo; M. de Valorsay had said nothing of the kind, for the
      very good reason that he did not even know Wilkie by sight; still, no one
      paid much heed to the assertion, whereat Wilkie felt vexed, and resolved
      to turn his attention to his jockey.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter was a lazy, worthless fellow, who had been dismissed from every
      stable he had previously served in, and who swindled and robbed the young
      gentlemen who employed him without either limit or shame. Although he made
      them pay him a very high salary&mdash;something like eight thousand francs
      a year&mdash;on the plea that it was most repugnant to his feelings to act
      as a groom, trainer, and jockey at the same time, he regularly every month
      presented them with fabulous bills from the grain merchant, the veterinary
      surgeon, and the harness-maker. In addition, he regularly sold Pompier&rsquo;s
      oats in order to obtain liquor, and in fact the poor animal was so nearly
      starved that he could scarcely stand on his legs. The jockey ascribed the
      horse&rsquo;s extreme thinness to a system of rigorous training; and the owners
      did not question the statement in the least. He had made them believe, and
      they in turn had made many others believe, that Pompier de Nanterre would
      certainly win such and such a race; and, trusting in this fallacious
      promise, they risked their money on the poor animal&mdash;and lost it.
    </p>
    <p>
      In point of fact, this jockey would have been the happiest mortal in the
      world if such things as steeple-chases had never existed. In the first
      place, he judged, with no little reason, that it was dangerous to leap
      hurdles on such an animal as Pompier; and, secondly, nothing irritated him
      so much as to be obliged to promenade with his three employers in turn.
      But how could he refuse, since he knew that if these young men hired him,
      it was chiefly, or only in view of, displaying themselves in his company.
      It afforded them untold satisfaction to walk to and fro along the course
      in front of the grand stand, with their jockey in his orange jacket with
      green sleeves. They were firmly convinced that he reflected enormous
      credit upon them, and their hearts swelled with joy at the thought of the
      envy they no doubt inspired. This conviction gave rise indeed to terrible
      quarrels, in which each of the three owners was wont to accuse the others
      of monopolizing the jockey.
    </p>
    <p>
      On this occasion, M. Wilkie&mdash;being fortunate enough to arrive the
      first&mdash;immediately repaired to Pompier de Nanterre&rsquo;s stall. Never had
      circumstances been more favorable for a display of the animal&rsquo;s speed. The
      day was magnificent; the stands were crowded, and thousands of eager
      spectators were pushing and jostling one another beyond the ropes which
      limited the course. M. Wilkie seemed to be everywhere; he showed himself
      in a dozen different places at once, always followed by his jockey, whom
      he ordered about in a loud voice, with many excited gesticulations. And
      how great his delight was when, as he passed through the crowd, he heard
      people exclaim: &ldquo;That gentleman has a racing stable. His horses are going
      to compete!&rdquo; What bliss thrilled his heart when he overheard the admiring
      exclamation of some worthy shopkeeper who was greatly impressed by the gay
      silk jacket and the top-boots!
    </p>
    <p>
      But, unfortunately, this happiness could not last forever. His partners
      arrived, and claimed the jockey in their turn. So M. Wilkie left the
      course and strolled about among the carriages, until at last he found an
      equipage which was occupied by the young ladies who had accepted his
      invitation to supper the evening before, and who were now making a profuse
      display of the very yellowest hair they possessed. This afforded him
      another opportunity of attracting public attention, and to giving proofs
      of his &ldquo;form,&rdquo; for he had not filled the box of his carriage with
      champagne for nothing. At last the decisive moment came, and he made
      himself conspicuous by shouting. &ldquo;Now! Now! Here he is! Look! Bravo,
      Pompier! One hundred on Pompier!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But, alas! poor Pompier de Nanterre fell exhausted before half the
      distance was accomplished; and that evening Wilkie described his defeat,
      with a profusion of technical terms that inspired the uninitiated with the
      deepest awe. &ldquo;What a disaster, my friends,&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Pompier de
      Nanterre, an incomparable steeplechaser, to break down in such a fashion!
      And beaten by whom? My Mustapha, an outsider, without any record whatever!
      The ring was intensely excited&mdash;and I was simply crazed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      However, his defeat did not affect him very deeply. It was forgotten at
      thought of the inheritance which his friend Coralth had spoken to him
      about. And to-morrow M. de Coralth would tell him the secret. He had only
      twenty hours longer to wait! &ldquo;To-morrow! to-morrow!&rdquo; he said to himself
      again and again, with a thrill of mingled joy and impatience. And what
      bright visions of future glory haunted him! He saw himself the possessor
      of a magnificent stud, of sufficient wealth to gratify every fancy; he
      would splash mud upon all the passers-by, and especially upon his former
      acquaintances, as he dashed past them in his superb equipage; the best
      tailor should invent astonishing garments for him; he would make himself
      conspicuous at all the first performances in a stage-box, with the most
      notorious women in Paris; his fetes would be described in the papers; he
      would be the continual subject of comment; he would be credited with
      splendid, perfect &ldquo;form.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It is true that M. de Coralth had promised him all this, without a word of
      explanation; but what did that matter? Should he doubt his friend&rsquo;s word?
      Never! The viscount was not merely his model, but his oracle as well. By
      the way in which he spoke of him, it might have been supposed that they
      had been friends from their childhood, or, at least, that they had known
      each other for years. Such was not the case, however. Their acquaintance
      dated only seven or eight months back, and their first meeting had
      apparently been the result of chance; though it is needless to say,
      perhaps, that this chance had been carefully prepared by M. de Coralth.
      Having discovered Madame Lia d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s secret, the viscount watched
      Wilkie, ascertained where he spent his evenings, contrived a way of
      introducing himself into his society, and on their third meeting was
      skilful enough to render him a service&mdash;in other words, to lend him
      some money. From that moment the conquest was assured; for M. de Coralth
      possessed in an eminent degree all the attributes that were likely to
      dazzle and charm the gifted owner of Pompier de Nanterre. First of all,
      there was his title, then his impudent assurance and his apparent wealth,
      and last, but by no means least, his numerous and fashionable
      acquaintances. He was not long in discovering his advantage, and in
      profiting by it. And without giving M. Wilkie an inkling of the truth, he
      succeeded in obtaining from him as accurate a knowledge of his past career
      as the young fellow himself possessed.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie did not know much concerning his origin or his early life; and
      his history, so far as he was acquainted with it, could be told in a few
      words. His earliest recollection was of the ocean. He was sure, perfectly
      sure, that he had made a very long sea voyage when only a little child,
      and he looked upon America as his birthplace. The French language was
      certainly not the first he had learned, for he still remembered a limited
      number of English phrases. The English word &ldquo;father&rdquo; was among those that
      lingered in his memory; and now, after a lapse of twenty years, he
      pronounced it without the least foreign accent. But while he remembered
      the word perfectly well, no recollection remained to him of the person he
      had called by that name. His first sensations were those of hunger,
      weariness, and cold. He recollected, and very distinctly too, how on one
      long winter night, a woman had dragged him after her through the streets
      of Paris, in an icy rain. He could still see himself as he wandered on,
      crying with weariness, and begging for something to eat. And then the poor
      woman who held him by the hand lifted him in her arms and carried him on&mdash;on,
      until her own strength failed, and she was obliged to set him on the
      ground again. A vague portrait of this woman, who was most probably his
      mother, still lingered in his memory. According to his description, she
      was extremely handsome, tall, and very fair. He had been particularly
      impressed with the pale tint and profusion of her beautiful hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Their poverty had not lasted long. He remembered being installed with his
      mother in a very handsome suite of rooms. A man, who was still young, and
      whom he called &ldquo;Monsieur Jacques,&rdquo; came every day, and brought him
      sweetmeats and playthings. He thought he must have been about four years
      old at that time. However, he had enjoyed this comfortable state of things
      scarcely a month, when one morning a stranger presented himself. The
      visitor held a long conference with his mother, or, at least, with the
      person whom he called by that name. He did not understand what they were
      talking about, but he was none the less very uneasy. The result of the
      interview must have justified his instinctive fear, for his mother took
      him on her lap, and embraced him with convulsive tenderness. She sobbed
      violently, and repeated again and again in a faltering voice: &ldquo;Poor child!
      my beloved Wilkie! I shall never kiss you again&mdash;never, never! &lsquo;Alas!
      It must be so! Give me courage, my God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Those were the exact words; Wilkie was sure on that point. It seemed to
      him he could still hear that despairing farewell. For it was indeed a
      farewell. The stranger took him in his arms and carried him away, in spite
      of his cries and struggles to escape. This person to whose care he was
      confined was the master of a small boarding-school, and his wife was the
      kindest and most patient of women. However, this did not prevent Wilkie
      from crying and begging for his mother at first; but gradually he forgot
      her. He was not unhappy, for he was petted and indulged more than any of
      the other pupils, and he spent most of his time playing on the terrace or
      wandering about the garden. But this charming life could not last for
      ever. According to his calculation, he was just ten years old when, one
      Sunday, toward the end of October, a grave-looking, red-whiskered
      gentleman, clad in solemn black with a white necktie, presented himself at
      the school, and declared that he had been instructed by Wilkie&rsquo;s relatives
      to place him in a college to continue his education.
    </p>
    <p>
      Young Wilkie&rsquo;s lamentations were long and loud; but they did not prevent
      M. Patterson&mdash;for that was the gentleman&rsquo;s name&mdash;from taking him
      to the college of Louis-the-Great, where he was entered as a boarder. As
      he did not study, and as he was only endowed with a small amount of
      intelligence, he learned scarcely anything during the years he remained
      there. Every Sunday and every fete day, M. Patterson made his appearance
      at ten o&rsquo;clock precisely, took Wilkie for a walk in Paris or the environs,
      gave him his breakfast and dinner at some of the best restaurants, bought
      everything he expressed a desire to have, and at nine o&rsquo;clock precisely
      took him back to the college again. During the holidays M. Patterson kept
      the boy with him, refusing him nothing in the way of pleasure, granting
      all his wishes, but never losing sight of him for a moment. And if Wilkie
      complained of this constant watchfulness, M. Patterson always replied, &ldquo;I
      must obey orders;&rdquo; and this answer invariably put an end to the
      discussion.
    </p>
    <p>
      So things went on until it became time for Wilkie to take his degree. He
      presented himself for examination; and, of course, he failed. Fortunately,
      however, M. Patterson was not at a loss for an expedient. He placed his
      charge in a private school; and the following year, at a cost of five
      thousand francs, he beguiled a poor devil into running the risk of three
      years&rsquo; imprisonment, by assuming M. Wilkie&rsquo;s name, and passing the
      examination in his place. In possession of the precious diploma which
      opens the door of every career, M. Wilkie now hoped that his pockets would
      be filled, and that he would then be set at liberty. But the hope was
      vain! M. Patterson placed him in the hands of an old tutor who had been
      engaged to travel with him through Europe; and as this tutor held the
      purse-strings, Wilkie was obliged to follow him through Germany, England,
      and Italy.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he returned to Paris he was just twenty years old, and the very next
      day M. Patterson conducted him to the suite of rooms which he still
      occupied in the Rue du Helder. &ldquo;You are now in your own home, M. Wilkie,&rdquo;
       said M. Patterson in his most impressive manner. &ldquo;You are now old enough
      to be responsible for your own actions, and I hope you will conduct
      yourself like an honest man. From this moment you are your own master.
      Those who gave you your education desire you to study law. If I were in
      your place, I should obey them. If you wish to be somebody, and to acquire
      a fortune, work, for you have no property, nor anything to expect from any
      one. The allowance which is granted you, a far too liberal one in my
      opinion, may be cut off at any moment. I don&rsquo;t think it right to conceal
      this fact from you. But at all events until then. I am instructed to pay
      you five thousand francs quarterly. Here is the amount for the first
      quarter, and in three months&rsquo; time I shall send you a similar amount. I
      say &lsquo;shall SEND,&rsquo; because my business compels me to return to England, and
      take up my abode there. Here is my London address; and if any serious
      trouble befalls you, write to me. Now, my duty being fulfilled, farewell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to the devil, you old preacher!&rdquo; growled Wilkie, as he saw the door
      close on the retreating figure of M. Patterson, who had acted as his
      guardian for ten years. None of M. Patterson&rsquo;s wise advice lingered in the
      young fellow&rsquo;s mind. To use a familiar expression, &ldquo;It went in through one
      ear and came out through the other.&rdquo; Only two facts had made an impression
      upon him: that he was to be his own master henceforth, and that he had a
      fortune at his command. There it lay upon the table, five thousand francs
      in glittering gold.
    </p>
    <p>
      If M. Wilkie had taken the trouble to attentively examine the rooms which
      had suddenly become his own, he would perhaps have recognized the fact
      that a loving hand had prepared them for his reception. Countless details
      revealed the delicate taste of a woman, and the thoughtful tenderness of a
      mother. None of those little superfluities which delight a young man had
      been forgotten. There was a box of choice cigars upon the table, and a jar
      of tobacco on the mantel-shelf. But Wilkie did not take time to discover
      this. He hastily slipped five hundred francs into his pocket, locked the
      rest of his money in a drawer, and went out with as lofty an air as if all
      Paris belonged to him, or as if he had enough money to purchase it.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had resolved to give a fete in honor of his deliverance, and so he
      hurried off in search of some of his old college chums. He found two of
      them; and, although it was very wounding to his self-love, M. Wilkie was
      obliged to confess to them that this was his first taste of liberty, and
      that he scarcely knew what to do with himself. Of course his friends
      assured him that they could quickly make him acquainted with the only life
      that it was worth while living; and, to prove it, they accepted the
      invitation to dinner which he immediately offered them. It was a
      remarkable repast. Other acquaintances dropped in, the wine flowed in
      rivers; and after dinner they danced. And at day-break, having served his
      apprenticeship at baccarat, M. Wilkie found himself without a penny in his
      pocket, and face to face with a bill of four hundred francs, for which
      amount he was obliged to go to his rooms, under the escort of one of the
      waiters. This first experiment ought to have disgusted him, or at least
      have made him reflect. But no. He felt quite in his element in the society
      of dissipated young men and enamelled women. He swore that he would win a
      place in their midst, and an influential place too. But it was easier to
      form this plan than to carry it into execution, as he discovered when, at
      the end of the month, he counted his money to see what remained of the
      five thousand francs that had been given him for his quarterly allowance.
      He had just three hundred francs left.
    </p>
    <p>
      Twenty thousand francs a year is what one chooses to make it&mdash;wealth
      or poverty. Twenty thousand francs a year represents about sixty francs a
      day; but what are sixty francs to a high liver, who breakfasts and dines
      at the best restaurants, whose clothes are designed by an illustrious
      tailor, who declines to make a pair of trousers for less than a hundred
      francs? What are three louis a day to a man who hires a box for first
      performances at the opera, to a man who gambles and gives expensive
      suppers, to a man who drives out with yellow-haired demoiselles, and who
      owns a race-horse? Measuring his purse and his ambition, M. Wilkie
      discovered that he should never succeed in making both ends meet. &ldquo;How do
      other people manage?&rdquo; he wondered. A puzzling question! Every evening a
      thousand gorgeously apparelled gentlemen, with a cigar in their mouth and
      a flower in their button-hole, may be seen promenading between the
      Chaussee d&rsquo;Antin and the Faubourg Montmartre. Everybody knows them, and
      they know everybody, but how they exist is a problem which it is
      impossible to solve. How do they live, and what do they live on? Everybody
      knows that they have no property; they do nothing, and yet they are
      reckless in their expenditures, and rail at work and jeer at economy. What
      source do they derive their money from? What vile business are they
      engaged in?
    </p>
    <p>
      However, M. Wilkie did not devote much time to solving this question. &ldquo;My
      relatives must wish me to starve,&rdquo; he said to himself. &ldquo;Not I&mdash;I&rsquo;m
      not that sort of a person, as I&rsquo;ll soon let them know.&rdquo; And thereupon he
      wrote to M. Patterson. By return of post that gentleman sent him a cheque
      for one thousand francs&mdash;a mere drop in the bucket. M. Wilkie felt
      indignant and so he wrote again. This time he was obliged to wait for a
      reply. Still at last it came. M. Patterson sent him two thousand francs,
      and an interminable epistle full of reproaches. The interesting young man
      threw the letter into the fire, and went out to hire a carriage by the
      month and a servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      From that day forward, his life was spent in demanding money and waiting
      for it. He employed in quick succession every pretext that could soften
      the hearts of obdurate relatives, or find the way to the most closely
      guarded cash-box. He was ill&mdash;he had contracted a debt of honor&mdash;he
      had imprudently lent money to an unscrupulous friend&mdash;he was about to
      be arrested for debt. And in accordance with the favorable or unfavorable
      character of the replies his manner became humble or impertinent, so that
      his friends soon learned to judge very accurately of the condition of his
      purse by the way he wore his mustaches. He became wise with experience,
      however; and on adding all the sums he had received together, he decided
      that his family must be very rich to allow him so much money. And this
      thought made him anxious to fathom the mystery of his birth and his
      infancy. He finally persuaded himself that he was the son of a great
      English nobleman&mdash;a member of the House of Lords, who was twenty
      times a millionaire. And he more than half believed it when he told his
      creditors that his lordship, his father, would some day or other come to
      Paris and pay all his debts. Unfortunately it was not M. Wilkie&rsquo;s noble
      father that arrived, but a letter from M. Patterson, which was couched as
      follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;MY DEAR SIR, a considerable sum was placed in my hands to meet your
      unexpected requirements; and in compliance with your repeated appeals, I
      have remitted the entire amount to you. Not a penny remains in my
      possession&mdash;so that my instructions have been fulfilled. Spare
      yourself the trouble of making any fresh demands; they will meet with no
      reply. In future you will not receive a penny above your allowance, which
      in my opinion is already too large a one for a young man of your age.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This letter proved a terrible blow to Wilkie. What should he do? He felt
      that M. Patterson would not revoke his decision; and indeed he wrote him
      several imploring letters, in vain. Yet never had his need of money been
      so urgent. His creditors were becoming uneasy; bills actually rained in
      upon his concierge; his next quarterly allowance was not due for some time
      to come, and it was only through the pawnbroker that he could obtain money
      for his more pressing requirements. He had begun to consider himself
      ruined. He saw himself reduced to dismissing his carriage, to selling his
      third share of Pompier de Nanterre and losing the esteem of all his witty
      friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was in the depths of despair, when one morning his servant woke him up
      with the announcement that the Viscount de Coralth was in the sitting-room
      and wished to speak with him on very important business. It was not
      usually an easy task to entice M. Wilkie from his bed, but the name his
      servant mentioned seemed to have a prodigious effect upon him. He bounded
      on to the floor, and as he hastily dressed himself, he muttered: &ldquo;The
      viscount here, at this hour! It&rsquo;s astonishing! What if he&rsquo;s going to fight
      a duel and wishes me to be his second? That would be a piece of grand good
      luck and no mistake. It would assure my position at once. Certainly
      something must have happened!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This last remark was by no means a proof of any remarkable perspicuity on
      M. Wilkie&rsquo;s part. As M. de Coralth never went to bed until two or three
      o&rsquo;clock in the morning, he was by no means an early riser, and only some
      very powerful reason could explain the presence of his blue-lined brougham
      in the street before nine o&rsquo;clock A.M. And the influence that had made him
      rise betimes in the present case had indeed been extremely powerful.
      Although the brilliant viscount had discovered Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s secret,
      several months previously, he had so far disclosed it to no one. It was
      certainly not from any delicacy of feeling that he had held his peace; but
      only because it had not been for his interest to speak. Now, however, the
      sudden death of the Count de Chalusse changed the situation. He heard of
      the catastrophe at his club on the evening after the count&rsquo;s death, and
      his emotion was so great that he actually declined to take part in a game
      of baccarat that was just beginning. &ldquo;The devil!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Let me
      think a moment. Madame d&rsquo;Argeles is the heiress of all these millions&mdash;will
      she come forward and claim them? From what I know of her, I am inclined to
      think that she won&rsquo;t. Will she ever go to Wilkie and confess that she, Lia
      d&rsquo;Argeles, is a Chalusse, and that he is her illegitimate son? Never! She
      would rather relinquish her millions, both for herself and for him, than
      take such a step. She is so ridiculously antiquated in her notions.&rdquo; And
      then he began to study what advantages he might derive from his knowledge
      of the situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. de Coralth, like all persons whose present is more or less uncertain,
      had great misgivings concerning his future. Just now he was cunning enough
      to find a means of procuring the thirty or forty thousand francs a year
      that were indispensable to his comfort; but he had not a farthing laid by,
      and the vein of silver he was now working might fail him at any moment.
      The slightest indiscretion, the least blunder, might hurl him from his
      splendor into the mire. The perspiration started out on his forehead when
      he thought of his peril. He passionately longed for a more assured
      position&mdash;for a little capital that would insure him his bread until
      the end of his days, and rid him of the grim phantom of poverty forever.
      And it was this desire which inspired him with the same plan that M.
      Fortunat had formed. &ldquo;Why shouldn&rsquo;t I inform Wilkie?&rdquo; he said to himself.
      &ldquo;If I present him with a fortune, the simpleton ought certainly to give me
      some reward.&rdquo; But to carry this plan into execution it would be necessary
      to brave Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s anger; and that was attended by no little
      danger. If he knew something about her, she on her side knew everything
      connected with his past life. She had only to speak to ruin him forever.
      Still, after weighing all the advantages and all the dangers, he decided
      to act, convinced that Madame d&rsquo;Argeles might be kept ignorant of his
      treason, providing he only played his cards skilfully. And his matutinal
      visit to M. Wilkie was caused by a fear that he might not be the only
      person knowing the truth, and that some one else might forestall him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You here, at sunrise, my friend!&rdquo; exclaimed Wilkie, as he entered the
      room where the viscount was seated. &ldquo;What has happened?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To me?&mdash;nothing,&rdquo; replied the viscount. &ldquo;It was solely on your
      account that I deviated from my usual habits.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it? You frighten me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! don&rsquo;t be alarmed. I have only some good news to communicate,&rdquo; and in
      a careless tone which cleverly concealed his anxiety, the viscount added:
      &ldquo;I have come, my dear Wilkie, to ask you what you would be willing to give
      the man who put you in possession of a fortune of several millions?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie&rsquo;s face turned from white to purple at least three times in ten
      seconds; and it was in a strangely altered voice that he replied: &ldquo;Ah!
      that&rsquo;s good&mdash;very good&mdash;excellent!&rdquo; He tried his best to laugh,
      but he was completely overcome; and, in fact, he had cherished so many
      extravagant hopes that nothing seemed impossible to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never in all my life have I spoken more seriously,&rdquo; insisted the
      viscount.
    </p>
    <p>
      His companion at first made no reply. It was easy to divine the conflict
      that was raging in his mind, between the hope that the news was true and
      the fear of being made the victim of a practical joke. &ldquo;Come, my friend,&rdquo;
       he said at last, &ldquo;do you want to poke fun at me? That wouldn&rsquo;t be polite.
      A debtor is always sacred, and I owe you twenty-five louis. This is
      scarcely the time to talk of millions. My relatives have cut off my
      supplies; and my creditors are overwhelming me with their bills&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But M. de Coralth checked him, saying gravely: &ldquo;Upon my honor, I am not
      jesting. What would you give a man who&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would give him half of the fortune he gave me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s too much!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was in earnest, certainly. What wouldn&rsquo;t a man promise in all sincerity
      of soul to a fellow mortal who gave him money when he had none&mdash;when
      he needed it urgently and must have it to save himself from ruin?
    </p>
    <p>
      At such a moment no commission, however large, seems exorbitant. It is
      afterward, when the day of settlement comes, that people begin to find
      fault with the rate of interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I tell you that one-half is too much, it is because such is really the
      case. And I am the best judge of the matter, since I am the man who can
      put you in possession of this enormous fortune.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie started back in speechless amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This astonishes you!&rdquo; said the viscount; &ldquo;and why, pray? Is it because I
      ask for a commission?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! not at all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not perhaps a very gentlemanly proceeding, but it is a sensible
      one. Business is business. In the afternoon, when I am in a restaurant, at
      the club, or in a lady&rsquo;s boudoir, I am merely the viscount and the grand
      seigneur. All money questions sicken me. I am careless, liberal, and
      obliging to a fault. But in the morning I am simply Coralth, a man of the
      middle classes who doesn&rsquo;t pay his bills without examining them, and who
      watches his money, because he doesn&rsquo;t wish to be ruined and end his
      brilliant career as a common soldier in some foreign legion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie did not allow him to continue. He believed, and his joy was wild&mdash;delirious.
      &ldquo;Enough, enough!&rdquo; he interrupted. &ldquo;A difficulty between us! Never! I am
      yours without reserve! Do you understand me? How much must you have? Do
      you wish for it all?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the viscount was unmoved. &ldquo;It is not fitting that I should fix upon
      the indemnity which is due to me. I will consult a man of business; and I
      will decide upon this point on the day after to-morrow, when I shall
      explain everything to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the day after to-morrow! You won&rsquo;t leave me in suspense for
      forty-eight hours?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is unavoidable. I have still some important information to procure. I
      lost no time in coming to you, so that I might put you on your guard. If
      any scoundrel comes to you with proposals, be extremely careful. Some
      agents, when they obtain a hold on an estate, leave nothing for the
      rightful owner. So don&rsquo;t treat with any one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no! You may rest assured I won&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should be quieter in mind if I had your promise in writing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Without a word, Wilkie darted to a table, and wrote a short contract by
      which he bound himself to give M. Ferdinand de Coralth one-half of the
      inheritance which the aforesaid Coralth might prove him to be entitled to.
      The viscount read the document, placed it in his pocket, and then said, as
      he took up his hat:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well. I will see you again on Monday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But M. Wilkie&rsquo;s doubts were beginning to return. &ldquo;Monday, so be it!&rdquo; said
      he; &ldquo;but swear that you are not deceiving me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, do you still doubt me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie reflected for a moment; and suddenly a brilliant inspiration
      darted through his brain. &ldquo;If you are speaking the truth, I shall soon be
      rich,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;But, in the meantime, life is hard. I haven&rsquo;t a penny,
      and it isn&rsquo;t a pleasant situation. I have a horse entered for the race
      to-morrow, Pompier de Nanterre. You know the animal very well. The chances
      are enormously in his favor. So, if it wouldn&rsquo;t inconvenience you to lend
      me fifty louis.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; interrupted the viscount, cordially. &ldquo;Certainly; with the
      greatest pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And drawing a beautiful little notebook from his pocket he took from it
      not one, but two bank-notes of a thousand francs, and handed them to M.
      Wilkie, saying: &ldquo;Monsieur believes me now, does he not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As will be readily believed, it was not for his own pleasure that M. de
      Coralth postponed his confidential disclosures for a couple of days. He
      knew Wilkie perfectly well, and felt that it was dangerous to let him roam
      about Paris with half of an important secret. Postponement generally
      furnishes fate with weapons against oneself. But it was impossible for the
      viscount to act otherwise. He had not seen the Marquis de Valorsay since
      the Count de Chalusse&rsquo;s death and he dared not conclude the contract with
      Wilkie before he had conferred with him, for he was completely in the
      marquis&rsquo;s power. At the least suspicion of treason, M. de Valorsay would
      close his hand, and he, Coralth, would be crushed like an egg-shell. It
      was to the house of his formidable associate that he repaired on leaving
      M. Wilkie; and in a single breath he told the marquis all that he knew,
      and the plans that he had formed.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. de Valorsay&rsquo;s astonishment must have been intense when he heard that
      Lia d&rsquo;Argeles was a Chalusse, but he knew how to maintain his composure.
      He listened quietly, and when the viscount had completed his story, he
      asked: &ldquo;Why did you wait so long before telling me all this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t see how it could interest you in the least.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The marquis looked at him keenly, and then calmly said: &ldquo;In other words,
      you were waiting to see whether it would be most advantageous to you to be
      with me or against me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can you think&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think, I&rsquo;m sure of it. As long as I was strong support for you,
      you were devoted to me. But now I am tottering, and you are ready to
      betray me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me! The step I am about to take&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, haven&rsquo;t you taken it already?&rdquo; interrupted the marquis, quickly.
      And shrugging his shoulders, he added: &ldquo;Observe that I don&rsquo;t reproach you
      in the least. Only remember this: we survive or we perish together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By the angry gleam in M. de Coralth&rsquo;s eyes, the marquis must have realized
      that his companion was disposed to rebel; still this knowledge did not
      seem to disquiet him, for it was in the same icy tone that he continued:
      &ldquo;Besides, your plans, far from conflicting with mine, will be of service
      to me. Yes, Madame d&rsquo;Argeles must lay claim to the count&rsquo;s estate. If she
      hesitates, her son will compel her to urge her claims, will he not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you may rest assured of that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And when he becomes rich, will you be able to retain your influence over
      him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rich or poor, I can mould him like wax.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good. Marguerite was escaping me, but I shall soon have her in my
      power. I have a plan. The Fondeges think they can outwit me, but we shall
      soon see about that.&rdquo; The viscount was watching his companion stealthily;
      as the latter perceived, and so in a tone of brusque cordiality, he
      resumed: &ldquo;Excuse me for not keeping you to breakfast, but I must go out
      immediately&mdash;Baron Trigault is waiting for me at his house. Let us
      part friends&mdash;au revoir&mdash;and, above all, keep me well posted
      about matters in general.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Coralth&rsquo;s temper was already somewhat ruffled when he entered
      Valorsay&rsquo;s house; and he was in a furious passion when he left it. &ldquo;So we
      are to survive or perish together,&rdquo; he growled. &ldquo;Thanks for the preference
      you display for my society. Is it my fault that the fool has squandered
      his fortune? I fancy I&rsquo;ve had enough of his threats and airs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Still his wrath was not so violent as to make him forget his own
      interests. He at once went to inquire if the agreement which M. Wilkie had
      just signed would be binding. The lawyer whom he consulted replied that,
      at all events, a reasonable compensation would most probably be granted by
      the courts, in case of any difficulty; and he suggested a little plan
      which was a chef d&rsquo;oeuvre in its way, at the same time advising his client
      to strike the iron while it was hot.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not yet noon, and the viscount determined to act upon the
      suggestion at once; he now bitterly regretted the delay he had specified.
      &ldquo;I must find Wilkie at once,&rdquo; he said to himself. But he did not succeed
      in meeting him until the evening, when he found him at the Cafe Riche&mdash;and
      in what a condition too! The two bottles of wine which the young fool had
      drank at dinner had gone to his head, and he was enumerating, in a loud
      voice, the desires he meant to gratify as soon as he came into possession
      of his millions. &ldquo;What a brute!&rdquo; thought the enraged viscount. &ldquo;If I leave
      him to himself, no one knows what foolish thing he may do or say. I must
      remain with him until he becomes sober again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So he followed him to the theatre, and thence to Brebant&rsquo;s, where he was
      sitting feeling terribly bored, when M. Wilkie conceived the unfortunate
      idea of inviting Victor Chupin to come up and take some refreshment. The
      scene which followed greatly alarmed the viscount. Who could this young
      man be? He did not remember having ever seen him before, and yet the young
      scamp was evidently well acquainted with his past life, for he had cast
      the name of Paul in his face, as a deadly insult. Surely this was enough
      to make the viscount shudder! How did it happen that this young man had
      been just on the spot ready to pick up Wilkie&rsquo;s hat? Was it mere chance?
      Certainly not. He could not believe it. Then why was the fellow there?
      Evidently to watch somebody. And whom? Why, him&mdash;Coralth&mdash;undoubtedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      In going through life as he had done, a man makes enemies at every step;
      and he had an imposing number of foes, whom he only held in check by his
      unbounded impudence and his renown as a duellist. Thus it was not strange
      if some one had set a snare for him; it was rather a miracle that he had
      not fallen into one before. The dangers that threatened him were so
      formidable that he was almost tempted to relinquish his attack on Madame
      d&rsquo;Argeles. Was it prudent to incur the risk of making this woman an enemy?
      All Sunday he hesitated. It would be very easy to get out of the scrape.
      He could concoct some story for Wilkie&rsquo;s benefit, and that would be the
      end of it. But on the other hand, there was the prospect of netting at
      least five hundred thousand francs&mdash;a fortune&mdash;a competency, and
      the idea was too tempting to be relinquished.
    </p>
    <p>
      So on Monday morning, at about ten o&rsquo;clock, he presented himself at
      Wilkie&rsquo;s house, looking pale with anxiety, and far more solemn in manner
      than usual. &ldquo;Let us say but little, and that to the point,&rdquo; he remarked on
      entering. &ldquo;The secret I am about to reveal to you will make you rich; but
      it might ruin me if it were known that you obtained this information
      through me. You will therefore swear, upon your honor as a gentleman,
      never to betray me, under any circumstances, or for any reason.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie extended his hand and solemnly exclaimed: &ldquo;I swear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, then. Now my mind is at rest. It is scarcely necessary for me
      to add that if you break your faith you are a dead man. You know me. You
      know how I handle a sword; and don&rsquo;t forget it.&rdquo; His manner was so
      threatening that Wilkie shuddered. &ldquo;You will certainly be questioned,&rdquo;
       continued M. de Coralth; &ldquo;but you must reply that you received the
      information through one of Mr. Patterson&rsquo;s friends. Now let us sign our
      formal contract in lieu of the temporary one you gave me the other day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It is needless to say that Wilkie signed it eagerly. Not so the viscount;
      he read the document through carefully, before appending his signature,
      and then exclaimed: &ldquo;The estate that belongs to you is that of the Count
      de Chalusse, your uncle. He leaves, I am informed, at least eight or ten
      millions of property.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By M. Wilkie&rsquo;s excited gestures, by the glitter in his eyes, it might have
      been supposed that this wonderful good fortune was too much for him, and
      that he was going mad. &ldquo;I knew that I belonged to a noble family,&rdquo; he
      began. &ldquo;The Count de Chalusse my uncle! I shall have a coronet on the
      corner of my visiting cards.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But with a gesture M. de Coralth silenced him. &ldquo;Wait a little before you
      rejoice,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Yes, your mother is the sister of the Count de
      Chalusse, and it is through her that you are an heir to the estate. But&mdash;don&rsquo;t
      grieve too much&mdash;there are similar misfortunes in many of our most
      distinguished families&mdash;circumstances&mdash;the obstinacy of parents&mdash;a
      love more powerful than reason&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; The viscount paused,
      certainly he had no prejudices; but at the moment of telling this
      interesting young man who his mother really was, he hesitated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go on,&rdquo; insisted M. Wilkie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;when your mother was a young girl, about twenty, she fled from
      her paternal home with a man she loved. Forsaken afterward, she found
      herself in the depths of poverty. She was obliged to live. You were
      starving. So she changed her name, and now she is known as Lia d&rsquo;Argeles.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie sprang to his feet. &ldquo;Lia d&rsquo;Argeles!&rdquo; he exclaimed. Then, with a
      burst of laughter, he added: &ldquo;Nevertheless, I think it a piece of grand
      good luck!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      VI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This man carries away your secret; you are lost.&rdquo; A sinister voice
      whispered these words in Madame Lia d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s heart when M. Isidore
      Fortunat, after being rudely dismissed, closed the door of her
      drawing-room behind him. This man had addressed her by the ancient and
      illustrious name of Chalusse which she had not heard for twenty years, and
      which she had forbidden her own lips to pronounce. This man knew that she,
      Lia d&rsquo;Argeles, was really a Durtal de Chalusse.
    </p>
    <p>
      This frightful certainty overwhelmed her. It is true this man Fortunat had
      declared that his visit was entirely disinterested. He had pretended that
      his regard for the Chalusse family, and the compassion aroused in his
      heart by the unfortunate plight of Mademoiselle Marguerite, were the only
      motives that has influenced him in taking this step. However, Madame
      d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s experience in life had left her but limited faith in apparent
      or pretended disinterestedness. This is a practical age; chivalrous
      sentiments are expensive&mdash;as she had learned conclusively. &ldquo;If the
      man came here,&rdquo; she murmured, &ldquo;it was only because he thought he might
      derive some benefit from the prosecution of my claim to my poor brother&rsquo;s
      estate. In refusing to listen to his entreaties, I have deprived him of
      this expected profit and so I have made him my enemy. Ah! I was foolish to
      send him away like that! I ought to have pretended to listen&mdash;I ought
      to have bound him by all sorts of promises.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She suddenly paused. It occurred to her that M. Fortunat could not have
      gone very far; so that, if she sent for him to come back, she might
      perhaps be able to repair her blunder. Without losing a second, she rushed
      downstairs, and ordered her concierge and a servant to run after the
      gentleman who had just left the house, and ask him to return; to tell him
      that she had reflected, and wished to speak to him again. They rushed out
      in pursuit, and she remained in the courtyard, her heart heavy with
      anxiety. Too late! About a quarter of an hour afterward her emissaries
      returned. They had made all possible haste in contrary directions, but
      they had seen no one in the street who at all resembled the person they
      were looking for. They had questioned the shopkeepers, but no one had seen
      him pass. &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t matter,&rdquo; faltered Madame d&rsquo;Argeles, in a tone that
      belied her words. And, anxious to escape the evident curiosity of her
      servants, she hastened back to the little boudoir where she usually spent
      her mornings.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Fortunat had left his card&mdash;that is to say, his address&mdash;and
      it would have been an easy matter to send a servant to his house. She was
      strongly tempted to do so; but she ultimately decided that it would be
      better to wait&mdash;that an hour more or less would make but little
      difference. She had sent her trusty servant, Job, for Baron Trigault; he
      would probably return with the baron at any moment; and the baron would
      advise her. He would know at once what was the best course for her to
      pursue. And so she waited for his coming in breathless anxiety; and the
      more she reflected, the more imminent her peril seemed, for she realized
      that M. Fortunat must be a very dangerous and cunning man. He had set a
      trap for her, and she had allowed herself to be caught. Perhaps he had
      only suspected the truth when he presented himself at the house. He had
      suddenly announced the death of the Count de Chalusse; she had betrayed
      herself; and any doubts he might have entertained were dispelled. &ldquo;If I
      had only had sufficient presence of mind to deny it,&rdquo; she murmured. &ldquo;If I
      had only been courageous enough to reply that I knew absolutely nothing
      about the person he spoke of. Ah! then he would have gone away convinced
      that he was mistaken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But would the smooth-spoken visitor have declared that he knew everything,
      if he had not really penetrated the mystery of her life? It was scarcely
      probable. He had implored her to accept the property, if not for her own
      sake at least for the sake of another. And when she asked him whom he
      meant he had answered, &ldquo;Mademoiselle Marguerite,&rdquo; but he was undoubtedly
      thinking of Wilkie. So this man, this Isidore Fortunat, knew that she had
      a son. Perhaps he was even acquainted with him personally. In his anger he
      would very likely hasten to Wilkie&rsquo;s rooms and tell him everything. This
      thought filled the wretched woman&rsquo;s heart with despair. What! Had she not
      yet expiated her fault? Must she suffer again?
    </p>
    <p>
      For the first time a terrible doubt came over her. What she had formerly
      regarded as a most sublime effort of maternal love, was, perhaps, even a
      greater crime than the first she had committed. She had given her honor as
      the price of her son&rsquo;s happiness and prosperity. Had she a right to do so?
      Did not the money she had lavished upon him contain every germ of
      corruption, misfortune, and shame? How terrible Wilkie&rsquo;s grief and rage
      would be if he chanced to hear the truth!
    </p>
    <p>
      Alas! he would certainly pay no heed to the extenuating circumstances; he
      would close his ears to all attempts at justification. He would be
      pitiless. He would have naught but hatred and scorn to bestow upon a
      mother who had fallen from the highest rank in society down to everlasting
      infamy. She fancied she heard him saying in an indignant voice, &ldquo;It would
      have been better to have allowed me to die of starvation than to have
      given me bread purchased at such a price! Why have you dishonored me by
      your ill-gotten wealth? Fallen, you might have raised yourself by honest
      toil. You ought to have made me a laborer, and not a spoiled idler,
      incapable of earning an honest livelihood. As the son of a poor, betrayed,
      and deserted woman, with whom I could have shared my scanty earnings, I
      might have looked the world proudly in the face. But where can the son of
      Lia d&rsquo;Argeles hide his disgrace after playing the gentleman for twenty
      years with Lia d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s money?&rdquo; Yes, Wilkie would certainly say this if
      he ever learned the truth; and he would learn it&mdash;she felt sure of
      it. How could she hope to keep a secret which was known to Baron Trigault,
      M. Patterson, the Viscount de Coralth, and M. Fortunat&mdash;four persons!
      She had confidence in the first two; she believed she had a hold on the
      third, but the fourth&mdash;Fortunat!
    </p>
    <p>
      The hours went by; and still Job did not return. What was the meaning of
      this delay? Had he failed to find the baron? At last the sound of
      carriage-wheels in the courtyard made her start. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s Job!&rdquo; she said to
      herself. &ldquo;He brings the baron.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alas! no. Job returned alone. And yet the honest fellow had spared neither
      pains nor horseflesh. He had visited every place where there was the least
      probability of finding the baron, and he was everywhere told that Baron
      Trigault had not been seen for several days. &ldquo;In that case, you ought to
      have gone to his house. Perhaps he is there,&rdquo; remarked Madame d&rsquo;Argeles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame knows that the baron is never at home. I did go there, however,
      but in vain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This chanced to be one of three consecutive days which Baron Trigault had
      spent with Kami-Bey, the Turkish ambassador. It had been agreed between
      them that they should play until one or the other had lost five hundred
      thousand francs; and, in order to prevent any waste of &ldquo;precious time,&rdquo; as
      the baron was wont to remark, they neither of them stirred from the Grand
      Hotel, where Kami-Bey had a suite of rooms. They ate and slept there. By
      some strange chance, Madame d&rsquo;Argeles had not heard of this duel with
      bank-notes, although nothing else was talked of at the clubs; indeed, the
      Figaro had already published a minute description of the apartment where
      the contest was going on; and every evening it gave the results. According
      to the latest accounts, the baron had the advantage; he had won about two
      hundred and eighty thousand francs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only returned to inform madame that I had so far been unsuccessful,&rdquo;
       said Job. &ldquo;But I will recommence the search at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is unnecessary,&rdquo; replied Madame d&rsquo;Argeles. &ldquo;The baron will
      undoubtedly drop in this evening, after dinner, as usual.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She said this, and tried her best to believe it; but in her secret heart
      she felt that she could no longer depend upon the baron&rsquo;s assistance. &ldquo;I
      wounded him this morning,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;He went away more angry than I
      had ever seen him before. He is incensed with me; and who knows how long
      it will be before he comes again?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Still she waited, with feverish anxiety, listening breathlessly to every
      sound in the street, and trembling each time she heard or fancied she
      heard a carriage stop at the door. However, at two o&rsquo;clock in the morning
      the baron had not made his appearance. &ldquo;It is too late&mdash;he won&rsquo;t
      come!&rdquo; she murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      But now her sufferings were less intolerable, for excess of wretchedness
      had deadened her sensibility. Utter prostration paralyzed her energies and
      benumbed her mind. Ruin seemed so inevitable that she no longer thought of
      avoiding it; she awaited it with that blind resignation displayed by
      Spanish women, who, when they hear the roll of thunder, fall upon their
      knees, convinced that lightning is about to strike their defenceless
      heads. She tottered to her room, flung herself on the bed, and instantly
      fell asleep. Yes, she slept the heavy, leaden slumber which always follows
      a great mental crisis, and which falls like God&rsquo;s blessing upon a tortured
      mind. On waking up, her first act was to ring for her maid, in order to
      send a message to Job, to go out again in search of the baron. But the
      faithful servant had divined his mistress&rsquo;s wishes, and had already
      started off of his own accord. It was past mid-day when he returned, but
      his face was radiant; and it was in a triumphant voice that he announced:
      &ldquo;Monsieur le Baron Trigault.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles sprang up, and greeted the baron with a joyful
      exclamation. &ldquo;Ah! how kind of you to come!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;You are most
      welcome. If you knew how anxiously I have been waiting for you!&rdquo; He made
      no reply. &ldquo;If you knew,&rdquo; continued Madame d&rsquo;Argeles, &ldquo;if you only knew.&rdquo;
       But she paused, for in spite of her own agitation, she was suddenly struck
      by the peculiar expression on her visitor&rsquo;s face. He was standing silent
      and motionless in the centre of the room, and his eyes were fixed upon her
      with a strange, persistent stare in which she could read all the
      contradictory feelings which were battling for mastery in his mind&mdash;anger,
      hatred, pity, and forgiveness. Madame d&rsquo;Argeles shuddered. So her cup of
      sorrow was not yet full. A new misfortune was about to fall upon her. She
      had hoped that the baron would be able to alleviate her wretchedness, but
      it seemed as if he were fated to increase it. &ldquo;Why do you look at me like
      that?&rdquo; she asked, anxiously. &ldquo;What have I done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You, my poor Lia&mdash;nothing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then&mdash;what is it? Oh, my God! you frighten me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it? Well, I am going to tell you,&rdquo; he said, as he stepped forward
      and took her hand in his own. &ldquo;You know that I have been infamously duped
      and deceived, that the happiness of my life has been destroyed by a
      scoundrel who tempted the wife I so fondly loved to forget her duty, and
      trample her honor under foot. You have heard my vows of vengeance if I
      ever succeeded in discovering him. Ah, well, Lia, I have discovered him.
      The man who stole my share of earthly happiness was the Count de Chalusse,
      your brother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a sudden gesture Madame d&rsquo;Argeles freed her hand from the baron&rsquo;s
      grasp, and recoiled as terrified as if she had seen a spectre rise up
      before her. Then with her hands extended as if to ward off the horrible
      apparition, she exclaimed: &ldquo;O, my God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A bitter smile curved the baron&rsquo;s lips. &ldquo;What do you fear?&rdquo; he asked.
      &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t your brother dead? He has defrauded me alike of happiness and
      vengeance!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If her son&rsquo;s life had depended on a single word, Madame d&rsquo;Argeles could
      not have uttered it. She knew what mental agony had urged the baron to a
      sort of moral suicide, and led him to contract the vice in which he wasted
      his life and squandered, or, at least risk, his millions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor is this all,&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;Listen. As I have often told you, I was
      sure that my wife became a mother in my absence. I sought the child for
      years, hoping that through the offspring I might discover the father. Ah,
      well! I&rsquo;ve found what I sought, at last. The child is now a beautiful
      young girl. She lives at the Hotel de Chalusse as your brother&rsquo;s daughter.
      She is known as Mademoiselle Marguerite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles listened, leaning against the wall for support, and
      trembling like a leaf. Her reason was shaken by so many repeated blows,
      and her son, her brother, Marguerite, Pascal Ferailleur, Coralth, Valorsay&mdash;all
      those whom she loved or feared, or hated&mdash;rose like spectres before
      her troubled brain. The horror of the truth exceeded her most frightful
      apprehensions. The strangeness of the reality surpassed every flight of
      fancy. And, moreover, the baron&rsquo;s calmness increased her stupor. She so
      often had heard him give vent to his rage and despair in terrible threats,
      that she could not believe he would be thus resigned. But was his calmness
      real? Was it not a mask, would not his fury suddenly break forth?
    </p>
    <p>
      However, he continued, &ldquo;It is thus that destiny makes us its sport&mdash;it
      is thus that it laughs at our plans. Do you remember, Lia, the day when I
      met you wandering through the streets of Paris&mdash;with your child in
      your arms&mdash;pale and half dead with fatigue, faint for want of food,
      homeless and penniless? You saw no refuge but in death, as you have since
      told me. How could I imagine when I rescued you that I was saving my
      greatest enemy&rsquo;s sister from suicide&mdash;the sister of the man whom I
      was vainly pursuing? And yet this might not be the end, if I chose to have
      it otherwise. The count is dead, but I can still return him disgrace for
      disgrace. He dishonored me. What prevents me from casting ineffaceable
      opprobrium upon the great name of Chalusse, of which he was so proud? He
      seduced my wife. To-day I can tell all Paris what his sister has been and
      what she is to-day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ah! it was this&mdash;yes, it was this that Madame d&rsquo;Argeles had dreaded.
      She fell upon her knees, and, with clasped hands she entreated: &ldquo;Pity!&mdash;oh!
      have pity&mdash;forgive me! Have mercy! Have I not always been a faithful
      and devoted friend to you? Think of the past you have just invoked! Who
      helped you then to bear your intolerable sufferings? Don&rsquo;t you remember
      the day when you, yourself, had determined to die by your own hand? There
      was a woman who persuaded you to abandon the thought of suicide. It was
      I!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her for a moment with a softer expression, tears came to his
      eyes, and rolled down his cheeks. Then suddenly he raised her, and placed
      her in an arm-chair, exclaiming: &ldquo;Ah! you know very well that I shall not
      do what I said. Don&rsquo;t you know me better than that? Are you not sure of my
      affection, are you not aware that you are sacred in my eyes?&rdquo; He was
      evidently striving hard to master his emotion. &ldquo;Besides,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;I had
      already pardoned before coming here. It was foolish on my part, perhaps,
      and for nothing in the world would I confess it to my acquaintances, but
      it is none the less true. I shall have my revenge in a certain fashion,
      however. I need only hold my peace, and the daughter of M. de Chalusse and
      Madame Trigault would become a lost woman. Is this not so? Very well, I
      shall offer her my assistance. It may, or may not, be another absurd and
      ridiculous fancy added to the many I have been guilty of. But no matter. I
      have promised. And why, indeed, should this poor girl be held responsible
      for the sins of her parents? I&mdash;I declare myself on her side against
      the world!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles rose, her face radiant with joy and hope. &ldquo;Then perhaps
      we are saved!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;Ah! I knew when I sent for you that I
      should not appeal to your heart in vain!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She took hold of his hand as if to raise it to her lips; but he gently
      withdrew it, and inquired, with an air of astonishment: &ldquo;What do you
      mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I have been cruelly punished for not wishing you to assist that
      unfortunate man who was dishonored here the other evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pascal Ferailleur?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, he is innocent. The Viscount de Coralth is a scoundrel. It was he
      who slipped the cards which made M. Ferailleur win, into the pack, and he
      did it at the Marquis de Valorsay&rsquo;s instigation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron looked at Madame d&rsquo;Argeles with pro-found amazement. &ldquo;What!&rdquo;
       said he; &ldquo;you knew this and you allowed it? You were cruel enough to
      remain silent when that innocent man entreated you to testify on his
      behalf! You allowed this atrocious crime to be executed under your own
      roof, and under your very eyes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was then ignorant of Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s existence. I did not
      know that the young man was beloved by my brother&rsquo;s daughter&mdash;I did
      not know&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron interrupted her, and exclaimed, indignantly: &ldquo;Ah! what does that
      matter? It was none the less an abominable action.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She hung her head, and in a scarcely audible voice replied: &ldquo;I was not
      free. I submitted to a will that was stronger than my own. If you had
      heard M. de Coralth&rsquo;s threats you would not censure me so severely. He has
      discovered my secret; he knows Wilkie&mdash;I am in his power. Don&rsquo;t frown&mdash;I
      make no attempt to excuse myself&mdash;I am only explaining the position
      in which I was placed. My peril is imminent; I have only confidence in you&mdash;you
      alone can aid me; listen!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thereupon she hastily explained M. de Coralth&rsquo;s position respecting
      herself, what she had been able to ascertain concerning the Marquis de
      Valorsay&rsquo;s plans, the alarming visit she had received from M. Fortunat,
      his advice and insinuations, the dangers she apprehended, and her firm
      determination to deliver Mademoiselle Marguerite from the machinations of
      her enemies. Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s disclosures formed, as it were, a sequel
      to the confidential revelations of Pascal Ferailleur, and the involuntary
      confession of the Marquis de Valorsay; and the baron could no longer doubt
      the existence of the shameful intrigue which had been planned in view of
      obtaining possession of the count&rsquo;s millions. And if he did not, at first,
      understand the motives, he at least began to discern what means had been
      employed. He now understood why Valorsay persisted in his plan of marrying
      Mademoiselle Marguerite, even without a fortune. &ldquo;The wretch knows through
      Coralth that Madame d&rsquo;Argeles is a Chalusse,&rdquo; he said to himself; &ldquo;and
      when Mademoiselle Marguerite has become his wife, he intends to oblige
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles to accept her brother&rsquo;s estate and share it with him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At that same moment Madame d&rsquo;Argeles finished her narrative. &ldquo;And now,
      what shall I do?&rdquo; she added.
    </p>
    <p>
      The baron was stroking his chin, as was his usual habit when his mind was
      deeply exercised. &ldquo;The first thing to be done,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;is to show
      Coralth in his real colors, and prove M. Ferailleur&rsquo;s innocence. It will
      probably cost me a hundred thousand francs to do so, but I shall not
      grudge the money. I should probably spend as much or even more in play
      next summer; and the amount had better be spent in a good cause than in
      swelling the dividends of my friend Blanc, at Baden.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But M. de Coralth will speak out as soon as he finds that I have revealed
      his shameful past.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let him speak.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles shuddered. &ldquo;Then the name of Chalusse will be disgraced,&rdquo;
       said she; &ldquo;and Wilkie will know who his mother is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! allow me to finish, my dear friend. I have my plan, and it is as
      plain as daylight. This evening you will write to your London
      correspondent. Request M. Patterson to summon your son to England, under
      any pretext whatever; let him pretend that he wishes to give him some
      money, for instance. He will go there, of course, and then we will keep
      him there. Coralth certainly won&rsquo;t run after him, and we shall have
      nothing more to fear on that score.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great heavens!&rdquo; murmured Madame d&rsquo;Argeles, &ldquo;why did this idea never occur
      to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron had now completely recovered his composure. &ldquo;As regards
      yourself,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;the plan you ought to adopt is still more simple.
      What is your furniture worth? About a hundred thousand francs, isn&rsquo;t it?
      Very well, then. You will sign me notes, dated some time back, to the
      amount of a hundred thousand francs. On the day these notes fall due, on
      Monday, for instance, they will be presented for payment. You will refuse
      to pay them. A writ will be served, and an attachment placed upon your
      furniture; but you will offer no resistance. I don&rsquo;t know if I explain my
      meaning very clearly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, very clearly!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So your property is seized. You make no opposition, and next week we
      shall have flaming posters on all the walls, telling Paris that the
      furniture, wardrobe, cashmeres, laces, and diamonds of Madame Lia
      d&rsquo;Argeles will be sold without reserve, at public auction, in the Rue
      Drouot, with the view of satisfying the claims of her creditors. You can
      imagine the sensation this announcement will create. I can see your
      friends and the frequenters of your drawing-room meeting one another in
      the street, and saying: &lsquo;Ah, well! what&rsquo;s this about poor d&rsquo;Argeles?&rsquo; 
      &lsquo;Pshaw!&mdash;no doubt it&rsquo;s a voluntary sale.&rsquo; &lsquo;Not at all; she&rsquo;s really
      ruined. Everything is mortgaged above its value.&rsquo; &lsquo;Indeed, I&rsquo;m very sorry
      to hear it. She was a good creature.&rsquo; &lsquo;Oh, excellent; a deal of amusement
      could be found at her house,&mdash;only between you and me&mdash;&mdash;&rsquo; 
      &lsquo;Well?&rsquo; &lsquo;Well, she was no longer young.&rsquo; &lsquo;That&rsquo;s true. However, I shall
      attend the sale, and I think I shall bid.&rsquo; And, in fact, your
      acquaintances won&rsquo;t fail to repair to the Hotel Drouot, and maybe your
      most intimate friends will yield to their generous impulses sufficiently
      to offer twenty sous for one of the dainty trifles on your etageres.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Overcome with shame, Madame d&rsquo;Argeles hung her head. She had never before
      so keenly felt the disgrace of her situation. She had never so clearly
      realized what a deep abyss she had fallen into. And this crushing
      humiliation came from whom? From the only friend she possessed&mdash;from
      the man who was her only hope, Baron Trigault.
    </p>
    <p>
      And what made it all the more frightful was, that he did not seem to be in
      the least degree conscious of the cruelty of his words. Indeed, he
      continued, in a tone of bitter irony: &ldquo;Of course, you will have an
      exhibition before the sale, and you will see all the dolls that
      hairdressers, milliners and fools call great ladies, come running to the
      show. They will come to see how a notorious woman lives, and to ascertain
      if there are any good bargains to be had. This is the right form. These
      great ladies would be delighted to display diamonds purchased at the sale
      of a woman of the demi monde. Oh! don&rsquo;t fear&mdash;your exhibition will be
      visited by my wife and daughter, by the Viscountess de Bois d&rsquo;Ardon, by
      Madame de Rochecote, her five daughters, and a great many more. Then the
      papers will take up the refrain; they will give an account of your
      financial difficulties, and tell the public what you paid for your
      pictures.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was with a sort of terror-stricken curiosity that Madame d&rsquo;Argeles
      watched the baron. It had been many years since she had seen him in such a
      frame of mind&mdash;since she had heard him talk in such a cynical
      fashion. &ldquo;I am ready to follow your advice,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;but afterward?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, don&rsquo;t you understand the object I have in view? Afterward you will
      disappear. I know five or six journalists; and it would be very strange if
      I could not convince one of them that you had died upon an hospital
      pallet. It will furnish the subject of a touching, and what is better, a
      moral article. The papers will say, &lsquo;Another star has disappeared. This is
      the miserable end of all the poor wretches whose passing luxury
      scandalizes honest women.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what will become of me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A respected woman, Lia. You will go to England, install yourself in some
      pretty cottage near London, and create a new identity for yourself. The
      proceeds of your sale will supply your wants and Wilkie&rsquo;s for more than a
      year. Before that time has elapsed you will have succeeded in accumulating
      the necessary proofs of your identity, and then you can assert your claims
      and take possession of your brother&rsquo;s estate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles sprang to her feet. &ldquo;Never never!&rdquo; she exclaimed,
      vehemently.
    </p>
    <p>
      The baron evidently thought he must have misunderstood her. &ldquo;What!&rdquo; he
      stammered; &ldquo;you will relinquish the millions that are legally yours, to
      the government?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;I am resolved&mdash;it must be so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you sacrifice your son&rsquo;s future in this style?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it isn&rsquo;t in my power to do that; but Wilkie will do so, later, on,
      I&rsquo;m sure of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But this is simply folly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A feverish agitation had now succeeded Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s torpor; there
      was an expression of scorn and anger on her rigid features, and her eyes,
      usually so dull and lifeless, fairly blazed. &ldquo;It is not folly,&rdquo; she
      exclaimed, &ldquo;but vengeance!&rdquo; And as the astonished baron opened his lips to
      question her: &ldquo;Let me finish,&rdquo; she said imperiously, &ldquo;and then you shall
      judge me. I have told you with perfect frankness everything concerning my
      past life, save this&mdash;this&mdash;that I am married, Monsieur le
      Baron, legally married. I am bound by a chain that nothing can break, and
      my husband is a scoundrel. You would be frightened if you knew half the
      extent of his villainy. Oh! do not shake your head. I ought not to be
      suspected of exaggeration when I speak in this style of a man whom I once
      loved so devotedly. For I loved him, alas!&mdash;even to madness&mdash;loved
      him so much that I forgot self, family, honor, and all the most sacred
      duties. I loved him so madly that I was willing to follow him, while his
      hands were still wet with my brother&rsquo;s blood. Ah! chastisement could not
      fail to come, and it was terrible, like the sin. This man for whom I had
      abandoned everything&mdash;whom I had made my idol&mdash;do you know what
      he said to me the third day after my flight from home? &lsquo;You must be more
      stupid than an owl to have forgotten to take your jewels.&rsquo; Yes, those were
      the very words he said to me, with a furious air. And then I could measure
      the depths of the abyss into which I had plunged. This man, with whom I
      had been so infatuated, did not love me at all, he had never loved me. It
      had only been cold calculation on his part. He had devoted months to the
      task of winning my heart, just as he would have devoted them to some
      business transaction. He only saw in me the fortune that I was to inherit.
      Oh! he didn&rsquo;t conceal it from me. &lsquo;If your parents are not monsters,&rsquo; he
      was always saying, &lsquo;they will finally become reconciled to our marriage.
      They will give you a handsome fortune and we will divide it. I will give
      you back your liberty, and then we can each of us be happy in our own
      way.&rsquo; It was for this reason that he wished to marry me. I consented on
      account of my unborn child. My father and mother had died, and he hoped to
      prevail upon me to claim my share of the paternal fortune. As for claiming
      it himself, he dared not. He was a coward, and he was afraid of my
      brother. But I took a solemn oath that he should never have a farthing of
      the wealth he coveted, and neither threats nor BLOWS could compel me to
      assert my claim. God only knows how much I had suffered from his brutality
      when I at last succeeded in making my escape with Wilkie. He has sought us
      everywhere for fifteen years, but he has not yet succeeded in finding a
      trace of us. Still he has not ceased to watch my brother. I am sure of
      that, my presentiments never deceive me. So, if I followed your advice&mdash;if
      I claimed possession of my brother&rsquo;s fortune&mdash;my husband would
      instantly appear with our marriage contract in his hands, and demand
      everything. Shall I enrich him? No, never, never! I would rather die of
      want! I would rather see Wilkie die of starvation before my very eyes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles spoke in that tone of concentrated rage which betrays
      years of repressed passion and unflinching resolution. One could scarcely
      hope to modify her views even by the wisest and most practical advice. The
      baron did not even think of attempting to do so. He had known Madame
      d&rsquo;Argeles for years; he had seen so many proofs of her invincible energy
      and determination. She possessed the distinguishing characteristic of her
      family in a remarkable degree&mdash;that proverbial Chalusse obstinacy
      which Madame Vantrasson had alluded to in her conversation with M.
      Fortunat.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was silent for a moment, and then, in a firm tone she said: &ldquo;Still, I
      will follow your advice in part, baron. This evening I will write to M.
      Patterson and request him to send for Wilkie. In less than a fortnight I
      shall have sold my furniture and disappeared. I shall remain poor. My
      fortune is not so large as people suppose. No matter. My son is a man; he
      must learn to earn his own living.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My banking account is always at your disposal, Lia.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks, my friend, thanks a thousand times; but it will not be necessary
      for me to accept your kind offer. When Wilkie was a child I did not
      refuse. But now I would dig the ground with my own hands, rather than give
      him a louis that came from you. You think me full of contradictions!
      Perhaps I am. It is certain that I am no longer what I was yesterday. This
      trouble has torn away the bandage that covered my eyes. I can see my
      conduct clearly now, and I condemn it. I sinned for my son&rsquo;s sake, more
      than for my own. But I might have rehabilitated myself through him, and
      now he will perhaps be dishonored through me.&rdquo; Her breathing came short
      and hard, and it was in a choked voice that she continued: &ldquo;Wilkie shall
      work for me and for himself. If he is strong, he will save us. If he is
      weak&mdash;ah, well! we shall perish. But there has been cowardice and
      shame enough! It shall never be said that I sacrificed the honor of a
      noble name and the happiness of my brother&rsquo;s child to my son. I see what
      my duty is, and I shall do it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron nodded approvingly. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s no doubt right,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Only
      allow me to tell you that all is not lost yet. The code has a weapon for
      every just cause. Perhaps there will be a way for you to obtain and hold
      your fortune independent of your husband.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! I made inquiries on the subject years ago, and I was told that it
      would be impossible. Still, you might investigate the matter. I have
      confidence in you. I know that you would not advise me rashly;&mdash;but
      don&rsquo;t delay. The worst misfortune would be less intolerable than this
      suspense.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will lose no time. M. Ferailleur is a very clever lawyer, I am told. I
      will consult him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what shall I do about this man Fortunat, who called upon me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron reflected for a moment. &ldquo;The safest thing would be to take no
      action whatever at present,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;If he has any evil designs, a
      visit or a letter from you would only hasten them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By the way Madame d&rsquo;Argeles shook her head, it was easy to see that she
      had very little hope. &ldquo;All this will end badly,&rdquo; she murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      The baron shared her opinion, but he did not think it wise or kind to
      discourage her. &ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo; he said lightly, &ldquo;luck is going to change; it
      is always changing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then as he heard the clock strike, he sprang from his arm-chair in dismay.
      &ldquo;Two o&rsquo;clock,&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;and Kami-Bey is waiting for me. I certainly
      haven&rsquo;t been wasting time here, but I ought to have been at the Grand
      Hotel at noon. Kami is quite capable of suspecting a man of any knavery.
      These Turks are strange creatures. It&rsquo;s true that I am now a winner to the
      tune of two hundred and eighty thousand francs.&rdquo; He settled his hat firmly
      on his head, and opening the door, he added: &ldquo;Good-by, my dear madame, I
      will soon see you again, and in the meantime don&rsquo;t deviate in the least
      from your usual habits. Our success depends, in a great measure, upon the
      fancied security of our enemies!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles considered this advice so sensible that half an hour
      later she went out for her daily drive in the Bois, little suspecting that
      M. Fortunat&rsquo;s spy, Victor Chupin, was dogging her carriage. It was most
      imprudent on her part to have gone to Wilkie&rsquo;s house on her return. She
      incurred such a risk of awakening suspicion by wandering about near her
      son&rsquo;s home that she seldom allowed herself that pleasure, but sometimes
      her anxiety overpowered her reason. So, on this occasion, she ordered the
      coachman to stop near the Rue du Helder, and she reached the street just
      in time to betray her secret to Victor Chupin, and receive a foul insult
      from M. Wilkie. The latter&rsquo;s cruel words stabbed her to the heart, and yet
      she tried to construe them as mere proofs of her son&rsquo;s honesty of feeling&mdash;as
      proof of his scorn for the depraved creatures who haunt the boulevards
      each evening. But though her energy was indomitable, her physical strength
      was not equal to her will. On returning home, she felt so ill that she was
      obliged to go to bed. She shivered with cold, and yet the blood that
      flowed in her veins seemed to her like molten lead. The physician who was
      summoned declared that her illness was a mere trifle, but prescribed rest
      and quiet. And as he was a very discerning man, he added, not without a
      malicious smile, that any excess is injurious&mdash;excess of pleasure as
      well as any other. As it was Sunday, Madame d&rsquo;Argeles was able to obey the
      physician, and so she closed her doors against every one, the baron
      excepted. Still, fearing that this seclusion might seem a little strange,
      she ordered her concierge to tell any visitors that she had gone into the
      country, and would not return until her usual reception-day. She would
      then be compelled to open her doors as usual. For what would the habitues
      of the house, who had played there every Monday for years, say if they
      found the doors closed? She was less her own mistress than an actress&mdash;she
      had no right to weep or suffer in solitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      So, at about seven o&rsquo;clock on Monday evening, although still grievously
      suffering both in mind and body, she arranged herself to receive her
      guests. From among all her dresses, she chose the same dark robe she had
      worn on the night when Pascal Ferailleur was ruined at her house; and as
      she was even paler than usual, she tried to conceal the fact by a prodigal
      use of rouge. At ten o&rsquo;clock, when the first arrivals entered the
      brilliantly lighted rooms, they found her seated as usual on the sofa,
      near the fire, with the same eternal, unchangeable smile upon her lips.
      There were at least forty persons in the room, and the gambling had become
      quite animated when the baron entered. Madame d&rsquo;Argeles read in his eyes
      that he was the bearer of good news. &ldquo;Everything is going on well,&rdquo; he
      whispered, as he shook hands with her. &ldquo;I have seen M. Ferailleur&mdash;I
      wouldn&rsquo;t give ten sous for Valorsay&rsquo;s and Coralth&rsquo;s chances.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This intelligence revived Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s drooping spirits, and she
      received M. de Coralth with perfect composure when he came to pay his
      respects to her soon afterward. For he had the impudence to come, in order
      to dispel any suspicions that might have been aroused anent his complicity
      in the card-cheating affair. The hostess&rsquo;s calmness amazed him. Was she
      still ignorant of her brother&rsquo;s death and the complications arising from
      it, or was she only acting a part? He was so anxious and undecided, that
      instead of mingling with the groups of talkers, he at once took a seat at
      the card-table, whence he could watch the poor woman&rsquo;s every movement.
    </p>
    <p>
      Both rooms were full, and almost everybody was engaged in play, when,
      shortly after midnight, a servant entered the room, whispered a few words
      in his mistress&rsquo;s ear, and handed her a card. She took it, glanced at it,
      and uttered so harsh, so terrible, so heart-broken a cry, that several of
      the guests sprang to their feet. &ldquo;What is it? What is it?&rdquo; they asked. She
      tried to reply, but could not. Her lips parted, she opened her mouth, but
      no sound came forth. She turned ghastly white under her rouge, and a wild,
      unnatural light gleamed in her eyes. One curious guest, without a thought
      of harm, tried to take the card, which she still held in her clinched
      hand; but she repulsed him with such an imperious gesture that he recoiled
      in terror. &ldquo;What is it? What is the matter with her?&rdquo; was the astonished
      query on every side.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last, with a terrible effort, she managed to reply, &ldquo;Nothing.&rdquo; And
      then, after clinging for a moment to the mantel-shelf, in order to steady
      herself, she tottered out of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      VII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      It was not enough to tell M. Wilkie the secret of his birth. He must be
      taught how to utilize the knowledge. The Viscount de Coralth devoted
      himself to this task, and burdened Wilkie with such a host of injunctions,
      that it was quite evident he had but a poor opinion of his pupil&rsquo;s
      sagacity. &ldquo;That woman d&rsquo;Argeles,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;is as sharp as steel. She
      will deceive this young idiot completely, if I don&rsquo;t warn him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So he did warn him; and Wilkie was instructed exactly what to do and say,
      how to answer any questions, and what position to take up according to
      circumstances. Moreover, he was especially enjoined to distrust tears, and
      not to let himself be put out of countenance by haughty airs. The Viscount
      spent at least an hour in giving explanations and advice, to the great
      disgust of M. Wilkie, who, feeling that he was being treated like a child,
      somewhat testily declared that he was no fool, and that he knew how to
      take care of himself as well as any one else. Still, this did not prevent
      M. de Coralth from persisting in his instructions until he was persuaded
      that he had prepared his pupil for all possible emergencies. He then rose
      to depart. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all, I think,&rdquo; he remarked, with a shade of uneasiness.
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve traced the plan&mdash;you must execute it, and keep cool, or the
      game&rsquo;s lost.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His companion rose proudly. &ldquo;If it fails, it won&rsquo;t be from any fault of
      mine,&rdquo; he answered with unmistakable petulance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lose no time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s no danger of that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And understand, that whatever happens, my name is not to be mentioned.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If there should be any new revelations, I will inform you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At the club?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but don&rsquo;t be uneasy; the affair is as good as concluded.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope so, indeed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Wilkie gave a sigh of relief as he saw his visitor depart. He wished to be
      alone, so as to brood over the delights that the future had in store for
      him. He was no longer to be limited to a paltry allowance of twenty
      thousand francs! No more debts, no more ungratified longings. He would
      have millions at his disposal! He seemed to see them, to hold them, to
      feel them gliding in golden waves between his fingers! What horses he
      would have! what carriages! what mistresses! And a gleam of envy that he
      had detected in M. de Coralth&rsquo;s eyes put the finishing touch to his bliss.
      To be envied by this brilliant viscount, his model and his ideal, what
      happiness it was!
    </p>
    <p>
      The reputation that Madame d&rsquo;Argeles bore had at first cast a shadow over
      his joy; but this shadow had soon vanished. He was troubled by no foolish
      prejudices, and personally he cared little or nothing for his mother&rsquo;s
      reputation. The prejudices of society must, of course, be considered. But
      nonsense! society has no prejudices nowadays when millionaires are
      concerned, and asks no questions respecting their parents. Society only
      requires passports of the indigent. Besides, no matter what Madame
      d&rsquo;Argeles might have done, she was none the less a Chalusse, the
      descendant of one of the most aristocratic families in France.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were Wilkie&rsquo;s meditations while he was engaged in dressing himself
      with more than usual care. He had been quite shocked by the suggestion
      that Madame d&rsquo;Argeles might try to deny him, and he wished to appear
      before her in the most advantageous light. His toilette was consequently a
      lengthy operation. However, shortly after twelve o&rsquo;clock he was ready. He
      cast a last admiring glance at himself in the mirror, twirled his
      mustaches, and departed on his mission. He even went on foot, which was a
      concession to what he considered M. de Coralth&rsquo;s absurd ideas. The aspect
      of the Hotel d&rsquo;Argeles, in the Rue de Berry, impressed him favorably, but,
      at the same time, it somewhat disturbed his superb assurance. &ldquo;Everything
      is very stylish here,&rdquo; he muttered.
    </p>
    <p>
      A couple of servants&mdash;the concierge and Job&mdash;were standing at
      the door engaged in conversation. M. Wilkie approached them, and in his
      most imposing manner, but not without a slight tremble in his voice,
      requested to see Madame d&rsquo;Argeles. &ldquo;Madame is in the country,&rdquo; replied the
      concierge; &ldquo;she will not return before this evening. If monsieur will
      leave his card.&rdquo; &ldquo;Oh! that&rsquo;s quite unnecessary. I shall be passing again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This, too, was in obedience to the instructions of M. de Coralth, who had
      advised him not to send in his name, but to gain admission into Madame
      d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s presence as speedily as possible, without giving her time to
      prepare herself for the interview; and Wilkie had ultimately decided that
      these precautions might not prove as superfluous as he had at first
      supposed. But this first mishap annoyed him extremely. What should he do?
      how should he kill time till the evening? A cab was passing. He hired it
      for a drive to the Bois, whence he returned to the boulevards, played a
      game of billiards with one of the co-proprietors of Pompier de Nanterre,
      and finally dined at the Cafe Riche, devoting as much time as possible to
      the operation. He was finishing his coffee when the clock struck eight. He
      caught up his hat, drew on his gloves, and hastened to the Hotel d&rsquo;Argeles
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame has not yet returned,&rdquo; said the concierge, who knew that his
      mistress had only just risen from her bed, &ldquo;but I don&rsquo;t think it will be
      long. And if monsieur wishes&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied M. Wilkie brusquely, and he was going off in a furious
      passion, when, on crossing the street, he chanced to turn his head and
      notice that the reception rooms were brilliantly lighted up. &ldquo;Ah! I think
      that a very shabby trick!&rdquo; grumbled the intelligent youth. &ldquo;They won&rsquo;t
      succeed in playing that game on me again. Why, she&rsquo;s there now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It occurred to him that Madame d&rsquo;Argeles had perhaps described him to her
      servants, and had given them strict orders not to admit him. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll find
      out if that is the case, even if I have to wait here until to-morrow
      morning,&rdquo; he thought, angrily. However, he had not been on guard very
      long, when he saw a brougham stop in front of the mansion, whereupon the
      gate opened, as if by enchantment. The vehicle entered the courtyard,
      deposited its occupants, and drove away. A second carriage soon appeared,
      then a third, and then five or six in quick succession. &ldquo;And does she
      think I&rsquo;ll wear out my shoe-leather here, while everybody else is allowed
      to enter?&rdquo; he grumbled. &ldquo;Never!&mdash;I&rsquo;ve an idea.&rdquo; And, without giving
      himself time for further deliberation, he returned to his rooms, arrayed
      himself in evening-dress, and sent for his carriage. &ldquo;You will drive to
      No.&mdash;in the Rue de Berry,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;There is a soiree there, and you
      can drive directly into the courtyard.&rdquo; The coachman obeyed, and M. Wilkie
      realized that his idea was really an excellent one.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as he alighted, the doors were thrown open, and he ascended a
      handsome staircase, heavily carpeted, and adorned with flowers. Two
      liveried footmen were standing at the door of the drawing-room, and one of
      them advanced to relieve Wilkie of his overcoat, but his services were
      declined. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t wish to go in,&rdquo; said the young man roughly. &ldquo;I wish to
      speak with Madame d&rsquo;Argeles in private. She is expecting me&mdash;inform
      her. Here is my card.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The servant was hesitating, when Job, suspecting some mystery perhaps,
      approached. &ldquo;Take in the gentleman&rsquo;s card,&rdquo; he said, with an air of
      authority; and, opening the door of a small room on the left-hand side of
      the staircase, he invited Wilkie to enter, saying, &ldquo;If monsieur will be
      kind enough to take a seat, I will summon madame at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie sank into an arm-chair, considerably overcome. The air of luxury
      that pervaded the entire establishment, the liveried servants, the lights
      and flowers, all impressed him much more deeply than he would have been
      willing to confess. And in spite of his affected arrogance, he felt that
      the superb assurance which was the dominant trait in his character was
      deserting him. In his breast, moreover, in the place where physiologists
      locate the heart, he felt certain extraordinary movements which strongly
      resembled palpitations. For the first time it occurred to him that this
      woman, whose peace he had come to destroy, was not only the heiress of the
      Count de Chalusse&rsquo;s millions, but also his mother, that is to say, the
      good fairy whose protection had followed him everywhere since he entered
      the world. The thought that he was about to commit an atrocious act
      entered his mind, but he drove it away. It was too late now to draw back,
      or even to reflect.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly a door opposite the one by which he had entered opened, and
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles appeared on the threshold. She was no longer the woman
      whose anguish and terror had alarmed her guests. During the brief moment
      of respite which fate had granted her, she had summoned all her energy and
      courage, and had mastered her despair. She felt that her salvation
      depended upon her calmness, and she had succeeded in appearing calm,
      haughty, and disdainful&mdash;as impassive as if she had been a statue.
      &ldquo;Was it you, sir, who sent me this card?&rdquo; she inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      Greatly disconcerted, M. Wilkie could only bow and stammer out an almost
      unintelligible answer. &ldquo;Excuse me! I am much grieved, upon my word! I
      disturb you, perhaps&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are Monsieur Wilkie!&rdquo; interrupted Madame d&rsquo;Argeles, in a tone of
      mingled irony and disdain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he replied, drawling out the name affectedly, &ldquo;I am M. Wilkie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you desire to speak with me?&rdquo; inquired Madame d&rsquo;Argeles, dryly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In fact&mdash;yes. I should like&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well. I will listen to you, although your visit is most inopportune,
      for I have eighty guests or more in my drawing-room. Still, speak!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was very easy to say &ldquo;speak,&rdquo; but unfortunately for M. Wilkie he could
      not articulate a syllable. His tongue was as stiff, and as dry, as if it
      had been paralyzed. He nervously passed and repassed his fingers between
      his neck and his collar, but although this gave full play to his cravat,
      his words did not leave his throat any more readily. For he had imagined
      that Madame d&rsquo;Argeles would be like other women he had known, but not at
      all. He found her to be an extremely proud and awe-inspiring creature,
      who, to use his own vocabulary, SQUELCHED him completely. &ldquo;I wished to say
      to you,&rdquo; he repeated, &ldquo;I wished to say to you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; But the words
      he was seeking would not come; and, so at last, angry with himself, he
      exclaimed: &ldquo;Ah! you know as well as I, why I have come. Do you dare to
      pretend that you don&rsquo;t know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked at him with admirably feigned astonishment, glanced
      despairingly at the ceiling, shrugged her shoulders, and replied: &ldquo;Most
      certainly I don&rsquo;t know&mdash;unless indeed it be a wager.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A wager!&rdquo; M. Wilkie wondered if he were not the victim of some practical
      joke, and if there were not a crowd of listeners hidden somewhere, who,
      after enjoying his discomfiture, would suddenly make their appearance,
      holding their sides. This fear restored his presence of mind. &ldquo;Well,
      then,&rdquo; he replied, huskily, &ldquo;this is my reason. I know nothing respecting
      my parents. This morning, a man with whom you are well acquainted, assured
      me that I was&mdash;your son. I was completely stunned at first, but after
      a while I recovered sufficiently to call here, and found that you had gone
      out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was interrupted by a nervous laugh from Madame d&rsquo;Argeles. For she was
      heroic enough to laugh, although death was in her heart, and although the
      nails of her clinched hands were embedded deep in her quivering flesh.
      &ldquo;And you believed him, monsieur?&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;Really, this is too
      absurd! I&mdash;your mother! Why, look at me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was doing nothing else, he was watching her with all the powers of
      penetration he possessed. Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s laugh had an unnatural ring
      that awakened his suspicions. All Coralth&rsquo;s recommendations buzzed
      confusedly in his ears, and he judged that the moment had come &ldquo;to do the
      sentimental,&rdquo; as he would have expressed it. So he lowered his head, and
      in an aggrieved tone, exclaimed: &ldquo;Ah! you think it very amusing, I don&rsquo;t.
      Do you realize how wretched it makes one to live as utterly alone as a
      leper, without a soul to love or care for you? Other young men have a
      mother, sisters, relatives. I have no one! Ah! if&mdash;&mdash; But I only
      have friends while my money lasts.&rdquo; He wiped his eyes, dry as they were,
      with his handkerchief, and in a still more pathetic tone, resumed: &ldquo;Not
      that I want for anything; I receive a very handsome allowance. But when my
      relatives have given me the wherewithal to keep me from starving, they
      imagine their duty is fulfilled. I think this very hard. I didn&rsquo;t come
      into the world at my own request, did I? I didn&rsquo;t ask to be born. If I was
      such an annoyance to them when I came into existence, why didn&rsquo;t they
      throw me into the river? Then they would have been well rid of me, and I
      should be out of my misery!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped short, struck dumb with amazement, for Madame d&rsquo;Argeles had
      thrown herself on her knees at his feet. &ldquo;Have mercy!&rdquo; she faltered;
      &ldquo;Wilkie; my son, forgive me!&rdquo; Alas! the unfortunate woman had failed in
      playing a part which was too difficult for a mother&rsquo;s heart. &ldquo;You have
      suffered cruelly, my son,&rdquo; she continued; &ldquo;but I&mdash;I&mdash;Ah! you
      can&rsquo;t conceive the frightful agony it costs a mother to separate from her
      child! But you were not deserted, Wilkie; don&rsquo;t say that. Have you not
      felt my love in the air around you? YOU forgotten? Know, then, that for
      years and years I have seen you every day, and that all my thoughts and
      all my hopes are centered in you alone! Wilkie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She dragged herself toward him with her hands clasped in an agony of
      supplication, while he recoiled, frightened by this outburst of passion,
      and utterly amazed by his easily won victory. The poor woman misunderstood
      this movement. &ldquo;Great God!&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;he spurns me; he loathes me.
      Ah! I knew it would be so. Oh! why did you come? What infamous wretch sent
      you here? Name him, Wilkie! Do you understand, now, why I concealed myself
      from you? I dreaded the day when I should blush before you, before my own
      son. And yet it was for your sake. Death would have been a rest, a welcome
      release for me. But your breath was ebbing away, your poor little arms no
      longer had strength to clasp me round the neck. And then I cried: &lsquo;Perish
      my soul and body, if only my child can be saved!&rsquo; I believed such a
      sacrifice permissible in a mother. I am punished for it as if it were a
      crime. I thought you would be happy, my Wilkie. I said to myself that you,
      my pride and joy, would move freely and proudly far above me and my shame.
      I accepted ignominy, so that your honor might be preserved intact. I knew
      the horrors of abject poverty, and I wished to save my son from it. I
      would have licked up the very mire in your pathway to save you from a
      stain. I renounced all hope for myself, and I consecrated all that was
      noble and generous in my nature to you. Oh! I will discover the vile
      coward who sent you here, who betrayed my secret. I will discover him and
      I will have my revenge! You were never to know this, Wilkie. In parting
      from you, I took a solemn oath never to see you again, and to die without
      the supreme consolation of feeling your lips upon my forehead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She could not continue; sobs choked her utterance. And for more than a
      minute the silence was so profound that one could hear the sound of low
      conversation in the hall outside, the exclamations of the players as they
      greeted each unexpected turn of luck, and occasionally a cry of &ldquo;Banco!&rdquo;
       or &ldquo;I stake one hundred louis!&rdquo; Standing silent and motionless near the
      window, Wilkie gazed with consternation at Madame d&rsquo;Argeles, his mother,
      who was crouching in the middle of the room with her face hidden in her
      hands, and sobbing as if her heart would break. He would willingly have
      given his third share in Pompier de Nanterre to have made his escape. The
      strangeness of the scene appalled him. It was not emotion that he felt,
      but an instinctive fear mingled with commiseration. And he was not only
      ill at ease, but he was angry with himself for what he secretly styled his
      weakness. &ldquo;Women are incomprehensible,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;It would be so easy
      to explain things quietly and properly, but they must always cry and have
      a sort of melodrama.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly the sound of footsteps near the door roused him from his stupor.
      He shuddered at the thought that some one might come in. He hated the very
      idea of ridicule. So summoning all his courage he went toward Madame
      d&rsquo;Argeles, and, raising her from the floor, he exclaimed: &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t cry so.
      You grieve me, upon my word! Pray get up. Some one is coming. Do you hear
      me? Some one is coming.&rdquo; Thereupon, as she offered no resistance, he half
      led, half carried her to an arm-chair, into which she sank heavily. &ldquo;Now
      she is going to faint!&rdquo; thought Wilkie, in despair. What should he do?
      Call for help? He dared not. However, necessity inspired him. He knelt at
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s feet, and gently said: &ldquo;Come, come, be reasonable! Why
      do you give way like this? I don&rsquo;t reproach you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Slowly, with an air of humility which was indescribably touching, she took
      her hands from her face, and for the first time raised her tear-stained
      eyes to her son&rsquo;s. &ldquo;Wilkie,&rdquo; she murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She heaved a deep sigh, and in a half-stifled voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;MADAME!&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;Will you not call me mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, of course&mdash;certainly. But&mdash;only you know it will take me
      some time to acquire the habit. I shall do so, of course; but I shall have
      to get used to it, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True, very true!&mdash;but tell me it is not mere pity that leads you to
      make this promise? If you should hate me&mdash;if you should curse me&mdash;how
      should I bear it! Ah! when a woman reaches the years of understanding one
      should never cease repeating to her: &lsquo;Take care! Your son will be twenty
      some day, and you will have to meet his searching gaze. You will have to
      render an account of your honor to him!&rsquo; My God! If women thought of this,
      they would never sin. To be reduced to such a state of abject misery that
      one dares not lift one&rsquo;s head before one&rsquo;s own son! Alas! Wilkie, I know
      only too well that you cannot help despising me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, indeed. Not at all! What an idea!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me that you forgive me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do, upon my word I do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Poor woman, her face brightened. She so longed to believe him! And her son
      was beside her, so near that she felt his breath upon her cheek. It was he
      indeed. Had they ever been separated? She almost doubted it, she had lived
      so near him in thought. It was with a sort of ecstasy that she looked at
      him. There was a world of entreaty in her eyes; they seemed to be begging
      a caress; she raised her quivering lips to his, but he did not observe it.
      For a long time she hesitated, fearing he might spurn her; but at last,
      yielding to a supreme impulse, she threw her arms around his neck, drew
      him toward her, and pressed him to her heart in a close embrace. &ldquo;My son!
      my son!&rdquo; she repeated; &ldquo;to have you with me again, after all these years!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Unfortunately, no whirlwind of passion was capable of carrying M. Wilkie
      beyond himself. His emotion was now spent and his mind had regained its
      usual indifference. He flattered himself that he was a man of mettle&mdash;and
      he remained as cold as ice beneath his mother&rsquo;s kisses. Indeed, he barely
      tolerated them; and if he did allow her to embrace him, it was only
      because he did not know how to refuse. &ldquo;Will she never have done?&rdquo; he
      thought. &ldquo;This is a pretty state of things! I must be very attractive. How
      Costard and Serpillon would laugh if they saw me now.&rdquo; Costard and
      Serpillon were his intimate friends, the co-proprietors of the famous
      steeplechaser.
    </p>
    <p>
      In her rapture, however, Madame d&rsquo;Argeles did not observe the peculiar
      expression on her son&rsquo;s face. She had compelled him to take a chair
      opposite her, and, with nervous volubility, she continued: &ldquo;If I don&rsquo;t
      deny myself the happiness of embracing you again, it is because I have not
      broken the vow I took never to make myself known to you. When I entered
      this room, I was firmly resolved to convince you, no matter how, that you
      had been deceived. God knows that it was not my fault if I did not
      succeed. There are some sacrifices that are above human strength.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie deigned to smile. &ldquo;Oh! yes, I saw your little game,&rdquo; he said,
      with a knowing air. &ldquo;But I had been well posted, and besides, it is not
      very easy to fool me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles did not even hear him. &ldquo;Perhaps destiny is weary of
      afflicting us,&rdquo; she continued; &ldquo;perhaps a new life is about to begin.
      Through you, Wilkie. I can again be happy. I, who for years have lived
      without even hope. But will you have courage to forget?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She hung her head, and in an almost inaudible voice replied, &ldquo;The past,
      Wilkie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But with an air of the greatest indifference, he snapped his fingers, and
      exclaimed: &ldquo;Nonsense! What is past is past. Such things are soon
      forgotten. Paris has known many such cases. You are my mother; I care very
      little for public opinion. I begin by pleasing myself, and I consult other
      people afterward; and when they are dissatisfied, I tell them to mind
      their own business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The poor woman listened to these words with a joy bordering on rapture.
      One might have supposed that the strangeness of her son&rsquo;s expressions
      would have surprised her&mdash;have enlightened her in regard to his true
      character&mdash;but no. She only saw and understood one thing&mdash;that
      he had no intention of casting her off, but was indeed ready to devote
      himself to her. &ldquo;My God!&rdquo; she faltered, &ldquo;is this really true? Will you
      allow me to remain with you? Oh, don&rsquo;t reply rashly! Consider well, before
      you promise to make such a sacrifice. Think how much sorrow and pain it
      will cost you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have considered. It is decided&mdash;mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sprang up, wild with hope and enthusiasm. &ldquo;Then we are saved!&rdquo; she
      cried. &ldquo;Blessed be he who betrayed my secret! And I doubted your courage,
      my Wilkie! At last I can escape from this hell! This very night we will
      fly from this house, without one backward glance. I will never set foot in
      these rooms again&mdash;the detested gamblers who are sitting here shall
      never see me again. From this moment Lia d&rsquo;Argeles is dead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie positively felt like a man who had just fallen from the clouds.
      &ldquo;What, fly?&rdquo; he stammered. &ldquo;Where shall we go, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To a country where we are unknown, Wilkie&mdash;to a land where you will
      not have to blush for your mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Trust yourself to me, my son. I know a pleasant village near London where
      we can find a refuge. My connections in England are such that you need not
      fear the obstacles one generally meets with among foreigners. M.
      Patterson, who manages a large manufacturing establishment, will, I know,
      be happy to be of service to us&mdash;but we shall not be indebted to any
      one for long, now that you have resolved to work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On hearing these words, M. Wilkie sprang up in dismay. &ldquo;Excuse me,&rdquo; he
      said, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand you. You propose to set me to work in M.
      Patterson&rsquo;s factory? Well, to tell the truth, that doesn&rsquo;t suit me at
      all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was impossible to mistake M. Wilkie&rsquo;s manner, his tone, or gesture.
      They revealed him in his true character. Madame d&rsquo;Argeles saw her terrible
      mistake at once. The bandage fell from her eyes. She had taken her dreams
      for realities, and the desires of her own heart for those of her son. She
      rose, trembling with sorrow and with indignation. &ldquo;Wilkie!&rdquo; she exclaimed,
      &ldquo;Wilkie, wretched boy! what did you dare to hope?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And, without giving him time to reply, she continued: &ldquo;Then it was only
      idle curiosity that brought you here. You wished to know the source of the
      money which you spend like water. Very well, you may see for yourself.
      This is a gambling house; one of those establishments frequented by
      distinguished personages, which the police ignore, or which they cannot
      suppress. The hubbub you hear is made by the players. Men are ruined here.
      Some poor wretches have blown their brains out on leaving the house;
      others have parted with the last vestige of honor here. And the business
      pays me well. One louis out of every hundred that change hands falls to my
      share. This is the source of your wealth, my son.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This anger, which succeeded such deep grief&mdash;this outburst of
      disdain, following such abject humility&mdash;considerably astonished M.
      Wilkie. &ldquo;Allow me to ask&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; he began.
    </p>
    <p>
      But he was not allowed a hearing. &ldquo;Fool!&rdquo; continued Madame d&rsquo;Argeles, &ldquo;did
      nothing warn you that in coming here you would deprive yourself forever of
      the income you received? Did no inward voice tell you that all would be
      changed when you compelled me, Lia d&rsquo;Argeles, to say, &lsquo;Well, yes, it is
      true; you are my son?&rsquo; So long as you did not know who and what I was, I
      had a mother&rsquo;s right to watch over you. I could help you without
      disgracing you, without despising you. But now that you know me, and know
      what I am, I can do nothing more for you&mdash;nothing! I would rather let
      you starve than succor you, for I would rather see you dead than
      dishonored by my money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! would you still consent to receive the allowance I have made you,
      even if I consented to continue it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Had a viper raised its head in M. Wilkie&rsquo;s path he would not have recoiled
      more quickly. &ldquo;Never!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Ah, no! What do you take me for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This repugnance was sincere; there could be no doubt of that, and it
      seemed to give Madame d&rsquo;Argeles a ray of hope. &ldquo;I have misjudged him,&rdquo; she
      thought. &ldquo;Poor Wilkie! Evil advice has led him astray; but he is not bad
      at heart. In that case, my poor child,&rdquo; she said aloud, &ldquo;you must see that
      a new life is about to commence for you. What do you intend to do? How
      will you gain a livelihood? People must have food, and clothes, and a roof
      to shelter them. These things cost money. And where will you obtain it&mdash;you
      who rebel at the very word work? Ah! if I had only listened to M.
      Patterson. He was not blind like myself. He was always telling me that I
      was spoiling you, and ruining your future by giving you so much money. Do
      you know that you have spent more than fifty thousand francs during the
      past two years? How have you squandered them? Have you been to the
      law-school a dozen times? No. But you can be seen at the races, at the
      opera, in the fashionable restaurants, and at every place of amusement
      where a young man can squander money. And who are your associates?
      Dissipated and heartless idlers, grooms, gamblers, and abandoned women.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A sneer from M. Wilkie interrupted her. To think that any one should dare
      to attack his friends, his tastes, and his pleasures. Such a thing was not
      to be tolerated. &ldquo;This is astonishing&mdash;astonishing, upon my word!&rdquo;
       said he. &ldquo;You moralizing! that&rsquo;s really too good! I should like a few
      minutes to laugh; it is too ridiculous!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Was he really conscious of the cruelty of his ironical words? The blow was
      so terrible that Madame d&rsquo;Argeles staggered beneath it. She was prepared
      for anything and everything except this insult from her son. Still, she
      accepted it without rebellion, although it was in a tone of heart-broken
      anguish that she replied: &ldquo;Perhaps I have no right to tell you the truth.
      I hope the future will prove that I am wrong. However, you are without
      resources, and you have no profession. Pray Heaven that you may never know
      what it is to be hungry and to have no bread.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For some time already the ingenious young man had shown unmistakable signs
      of impatience. This gloomy prediction irritated him beyond endurance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All this is empty talk,&rdquo; he interrupted. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t mean to work, for it&rsquo;s
      not at all in my line. Still, I don&rsquo;t expect to want for anything! That&rsquo;s
      plain enough, I hope.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles did not wince. &ldquo;What do you mean to do then?&rdquo; she asked,
      coldly. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He shrugged his shoulders impatiently. &ldquo;Are we to keep up this farce for
      ever?&rdquo; he petulantly exclaimed. &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t take with me. You know what I
      mean as well as I do. Why do you talk to me about dying of starvation?
      What about the fortune?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What fortune?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh? why, my uncle&rsquo;s, of course! Your brother&rsquo;s, the Count de Chalusse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Now M. Wilkie&rsquo;s visit, manner, assurance, wheedling, and contradictions
      were all explained. That maternal confidence which is so strong in the
      hearts of mothers vanished from Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s for ever. The depths of
      selfishness and cunning she discerned in Wilkie&rsquo;s mind appalled her. She
      now understood why he had declared himself ready to brave public opinion&mdash;why
      he had proved willing to accept his share of the past ignominy. It was not
      his mother&rsquo;s, but the Count de Chalusse&rsquo;s estate that he claimed. &ldquo;Ah! so
      you&rsquo;ve heard of that,&rdquo; she said, in a tone of bitter irony. And then,
      remembering M. Isidore Fortunat, she asked: &ldquo;Some one has sold you this
      valuable secret. How much have you promised to pay him in case of
      success?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Although Wilkie prided himself on being very clever, he did not pretend to
      be a diplomatist, and, indeed, he was greatly disconcerted by this
      question; still, recovering himself, he replied: &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t matter how I
      obtained the information&mdash;whether I paid for it, or whether it cost
      me nothing&mdash;but I know that you are a Chalusse, and that you are the
      heiress of the count&rsquo;s property, which is valued at eight or ten millions
      of francs. Do you deny it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles sadly shook her head. &ldquo;I deny nothing,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;but
      I am about to tell you something which will destroy all your plans and
      extinguish your hopes. I am resolved, understand, and my resolution is
      irrevocable, never to assert my rights. To receive this fortune, I should
      be obliged to confess that Lia d&rsquo;Argeles is a Chalusse&mdash;and that is a
      confession which no consideration whatever will wring from me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She imagined that this declaration would silence and discomfit Wilkie, but
      she was mistaken. If he had been obliged to depend upon himself he would
      perhaps have been conquered by it; but he was armed with weapons which had
      been furnished by the cunning viscount. So he shrugged his shoulders, and
      coolly replied: &ldquo;In that case we should remain poor, and the government
      would take possession of our millions. One moment. I have something to say
      in this matter. You may renounce your claim, but I shall not renounce
      mine. I am your son, and I shall claim the property.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Even if I entreated you on my knees not to do so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s eyes flashed. &ldquo;Very well. I will show you that this
      estate can never be yours. By what right will you lay claim to it? Because
      you are my son? But I will deny that you are. I will declare upon oath
      that you are nothing to me, and that I don&rsquo;t even know you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But even this did not daunt Wilkie. He drew from his pocket a scrap of
      paper, and flourishing it triumphantly, he exclaimed: &ldquo;It would be
      extremely cruel on your part to deny me, but I foresaw such a contingency,
      and here is my answer, copied from the civil code: &lsquo;Article 341. Inquiry
      as to maternity allowed, etc., etc.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What the exact bearing of Wilkie&rsquo;s threat might be Madame d&rsquo;Argeles did
      not know. But she felt that this Article 341 would no doubt destroy her
      last hope; for the person who had chosen this weapon from the code to
      place it in Wilkie&rsquo;s hand must have chosen it carefully. She understood
      the situation perfectly. With her experience of life, she could not fail
      to understand the despicable part Wilkie was playing. And though it was
      not her son who had conceived this odious plot, it was more than enough to
      know that he had consented to carry it into execution. Should she try to
      persuade Wilkie to abandon this shameful scheme? She might have done so if
      she had not been so horrified by the utter want of principle which she had
      discovered in his character. But, under the circumstances, she realized
      that any effort in this direction would prove unavailing. So it was purely
      from a sense of duty and to prevent her conscience from reproaching her
      that she exclaimed: &ldquo;So you will apply to the courts in order to constrain
      me to acknowledge you as my son?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you are not reasonable&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is to say, you care nothing for the scandal that will be created by
      such a course. In order to prove yourself a member of the Chalusse family
      you will begin by disgracing the name and dragging it through the mire.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Wilkie had no wish to prolong this discussion. So much talk about an
      affair, which, in his opinion, at least, was an extremely simple one,
      seemed to him utterly ridiculous, and irritated him beyond endurance. &ldquo;It
      strikes me this is much ado about nothing,&rdquo; he remarked. &ldquo;One would
      suppose, to hear you talk, that you were the greatest criminal in the
      world. Goodness is all very well in its way, but there is such a thing as
      having too much of it! Break loose from this life to-morrow, assume your
      rightful name, install yourself at the Hotel de Chalusse, and in a week
      from now no one will remember that you were once known as Lia d&rsquo;Argeles. I
      wager one hundred louis on it. Why, if people attempted to rake up the
      past life of their acquaintances, they should have far too much to do.
      Folks do not trouble themselves as to whether a person has done this or
      that; the essential thing is to have plenty of money. And if any fool
      speaks slightingly of you, you can reply: &lsquo;I have an income of five
      hundred thousand francs,&rsquo; and he&rsquo;ll say no more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles listened, speechless with horror and disgust. Was it
      really her son who was speaking in this style, and to her of all people in
      the world? M. Wilkie misunderstood her silence. He had an excellent
      opinion of himself, but he was rather surprised at the effect of his
      eloquence. &ldquo;Besides, I&rsquo;m tired of vegetating, and having only one name,&rdquo;
       he continued. &ldquo;I want to be on the move. Even with the small allowance
      I&rsquo;ve had, I have gained a very good position in society; and if I had
      plenty of money I should be the most stylish man in Paris. The count&rsquo;s
      estate belongs to me, and so I must have it&mdash;in fact, I will have it.
      So believe me when I tell you that it will be much better for you if you
      acknowledge me without any fuss! Now, will you do so? No? Once, twice,
      three times? Is it still no? Very well then; to-morrow, then, you may
      expect an official notice. I wish you good-evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He bowed; he was really going, for his hand was already on the door-knob.
      But Madame d&rsquo;Argeles detained him with a gesture. &ldquo;One word more,&rdquo; she
      said, in a voice hoarse with emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      He scarcely deigned to come back, and he made no attempt to conceal his
      impatience. &ldquo;Well, what is it?&rdquo; he asked, hastily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish to give you a bit of parting advice. The court will undoubtedly
      decide in your favor; I shall be placed in possession of my brother&rsquo;s
      estate; but neither you nor I will have the disposal of these millions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because, though this fortune belongs to me, the control of it belongs to
      your father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie was thunderstruck. &ldquo;To my father?&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Impossible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is so, however; and you would not have been ignorant of the fact, if
      your greed for money had not made you forget to question me. You believe
      yourself an illegitimate child. Wilkie, you are mistaken. You are my
      legitimate child. I am a married woman&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And my husband&mdash;your father&mdash;is not dead. If he is not here
      now, threatening our safety, it is because I have succeeded in eluding
      him. He lost all trace of us eighteen years ago. Since then he has been
      constantly striving to discover us, but in vain. He is still watching, you
      may be sure of that; and as soon as there is any talk of a law-suit
      respecting the Chalusse property, you will see him appear, armed with his
      rights. He is the head of the family&mdash;your master and mine. Ah! this
      seems to disturb you. You will find him full of insatiable greed for
      wealth, a greed which has been whetted by twenty years&rsquo; waiting. You may
      yet see the day when you will regret the paltry twenty thousand francs a
      year formerly given you by your poor mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Wilkie&rsquo;s face was whiter than his shirt. &ldquo;You are deceiving me,&rdquo; he
      stammered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-morrow I will show you my marriage certificate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not this evening?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because it is locked up in a room which is now full of people.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what was my father&rsquo;s name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Arthur Gordon&mdash;he is an American.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then my name is Wilkie Gordon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And&mdash;-is my father rich?&rdquo; he inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does he do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everything that a man can do when he has a taste for luxury and a horror
      for work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This reply was so explicit in its brevity, and implied so many terrible
      accusations, that Wilkie was dismayed. &ldquo;The devil!&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;and
      where does he live!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He lives at Baden or Homburg in the summer; in Paris or at Monaco in the
      winter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! oh! oh!&rdquo; ejaculated Wilkie, in three different tones. He knew what he
      had to expect from such a father as that. Anger now followed stupor&mdash;one
      of those terrible, white rages which stir the bile and not the blood. He
      saw his hopes and his cherished visions fade. Luxury and notoriety,
      high-stepping horses, yellow-haired mistresses, all vanished. He pictured
      himself reduced to a mere pittance, and held in check and domineered over
      by a brutal father. &ldquo;Ah! I understand your game,&rdquo; he hissed through his
      set teeth. &ldquo;If you would only quietly assert your rights, everything could
      be arranged privately, and I should have time to put the property out of
      my father&rsquo;s reach before he could claim it. Instead of doing that&mdash;as
      you hate me&mdash;you compel me to make the affair public, so that my
      father will hear of it and defraud me of everything. But you won&rsquo;t play
      this trick on me. You are going to write at once, and make known your
      claim to your brother&rsquo;s estate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you won&rsquo;t? You refuse&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; He approached threateningly, and
      caught hold of her arm. &ldquo;Take care!&rdquo; he vociferated; &ldquo;take care! Do not
      infuriate me beyond endurance&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As cold and rigid as marble, Madame d&rsquo;Argeles faced him with the undaunted
      glance of a martyr whose spirit no violence can subdue. &ldquo;You will obtain
      nothing from me,&rdquo; she said, firmly; &ldquo;nothing, nothing, nothing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Maddened with rage and disappointment, M. Wilkie dared to lift his hand as
      if about to strike her. But at this moment the door was flung open, and a
      man sprang upon him. It was Baron Trigault.
    </p>
    <p>
      Like the other guests, the baron had seen the terrible effect produced
      upon Madame d&rsquo;Argeles by a simple visiting card. But he had this advantage
      over the others: he thought he could divine and explain the reason of this
      sudden, seemingly incomprehensible terror. &ldquo;The poor woman has been
      betrayed,&rdquo; he thought; &ldquo;her son is here!&rdquo; Still, while the other players
      crowded around their hostess, he did not leave the card-table. He was
      sitting opposite M. de Coralth, and he had seen the dashing viscount start
      and change color. His suspicions were instantly aroused, and he wished to
      verify them. He therefore pretended to be more than ever absorbed in the
      cards, and swore lustily at the deserters who had broken up the game.
      &ldquo;Come back, gentleman, come back,&rdquo; he cried, angrily. &ldquo;We are wasting
      precious time. While you have been trifling there, I might have gained&mdash;or
      lost&mdash;a hundred louis.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was nevertheless greatly alarmed, and the prolonged absence of Madame
      d&rsquo;Argeles increased his fears each moment. At the end of an hour he could
      restrain himself no longer. So taking advantage of a heavy loss, he rose
      from the table, swearing that the beastly turmoil of a few moments before
      had changed the luck. Then passing into the adjoining drawing-room, he
      managed to make his escape unobserved. &ldquo;Where is madame?&rdquo; he inquired of
      the first servant he met.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the little sitting-room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; a young gentleman is with her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron no longer doubted the correctness of his conjectures, and his
      disquietude increased. Quickly, and as if he had been in his own house, he
      hastened to the door of the little sitting-room and listened. At that
      moment rage was imparting a truly frightful intonation to M. Wilkie&rsquo;s
      voice. The baron really felt alarmed. He stooped, applied his eye to the
      keyhole, and seeing M. Wilkie with his hand uplifted, he burst open the
      door and went in. He arrived only just in time to fell Wilkie to the
      floor, and save Madame d&rsquo;Argeles from that most terrible of humiliations:
      the degradation of being struck by her own son. &ldquo;Ah, you rascal!&rdquo; cried
      the worthy baron, transported with indignation, &ldquo;you beggarly rascal! you
      brigand! Is this the way you treat an unfortunate woman who has sacrificed
      herself for you&mdash;your mother? You try to strike your mother, when you
      ought to kiss her very footprints!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As livid as if his blood had been suddenly turned to gall&mdash;with
      quivering lips and eyes starting from their sockets&mdash;M. Wilkie rose,
      with difficulty, to his feet, at the same time rubbing his left elbow
      which had struck against the corner of a piece of furniture, in his fall.
      &ldquo;Scoundrel! You brutal scoundrel!&rdquo; he growled, ferociously. And then,
      retreating a step: &ldquo;Who gave you permission to come in here?&rdquo; he added.
      &ldquo;Who are you? By what right do you meddle with my affairs?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the right that every honest man possesses to chastise a cowardly
      rascal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie shook his fist at the baron. &ldquo;You are a coward yourself,&rdquo; he
      retorted. &ldquo;You had better learn who you are talking to! You must mend your
      manners a little, you old&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The word he uttered was so vile that no man could fail to resent it, much
      less the baron, who was already frantic with passion. His faced turned as
      purple as if he were stricken with apoplexy, and such furious rage gleamed
      in his eyes that Madame d&rsquo;Argeles was frightened. She feared she should
      see her son butchered before her very eyes, and she extended her arms as
      if to protect him. &ldquo;Jacques,&rdquo; she said beseechingly, &ldquo;Jacques!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was the name which was indelibly impressed upon Wilkie&rsquo;s memory&mdash;the
      name he had heard when he was but a child. Jacques&mdash;that was the name
      of the man who had brought him cakes and toys in the comfortable rooms
      where he had remained only a few days. He understood, or at least he
      thought he understood, everything. &ldquo;Ah, ha!&rdquo; he exclaimed, with a laugh
      that was at once both ferocious and idiotic. &ldquo;This is very fine&mdash;monsieur
      is the lover. He has the say here&mdash;he&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not have time to finish his sentence, for quick as thought the
      baron caught him by the collar, lifted him from the ground with
      irresistible strength, and flung him on his knees at Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s
      feet, exclaiming: &ldquo;Ask her pardon, you vile wretch! Ask her pardon, or&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
       &ldquo;Or&rdquo; meant the baron&rsquo;s clinched fist descending like a sledge-hammer on M.
      Wilkie&rsquo;s head.
    </p>
    <p>
      The worthy youth was frightened&mdash;so terribly frightened that his
      teeth chattered. &ldquo;Pardon!&rdquo; he faltered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Louder&mdash;speak up better than that. Your mother must answer you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alas! the poor woman could no longer hear. She had endured so much during
      the past hour that her strength was exhausted, and she had fallen back in
      her arm-chair in a deep swoon. The baron waited for a moment, and seeing
      that her eyes remained obstinately closed, he exclaimed: &ldquo;This is your
      work, wretch!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And lifting him again, as easily as if he had been a child, he set him on
      his feet, saying in a calmer tone, but in one that admitted of no reply:
      &ldquo;Arrange your clothes and go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This advice was not unnecessary. Baron Trigault had a powerful hand; and
      M. Wilkie&rsquo;s attire was decidedly the worse for the encounter. He had lost
      his cravat, his shirt-front was crumpled and torn, and his waistcoat&mdash;one
      of those that open to the waist and are fastened by a single button&mdash;hung
      down in the most dejected manner. He obeyed the baron&rsquo;s order without a
      word, but not without considerable difficulty, for his hands trembled like
      a leaf. When he had finished, the baron exclaimed: &ldquo;Now be off; and never
      set foot here again&mdash;understand me&mdash;never set foot here again,
      never!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie made no reply until he reached the door leading into the hall.
      But when he had opened it, he suddenly regained his powers of speech. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m
      not afraid of you,&rdquo; he cried, with frantic violence. &ldquo;You have taken
      advantage of your superior strength&mdash;you are a coward. But this shall
      not end here. No!&mdash;you shall answer for it. I shall find your
      address, and to-morrow you will receive a visit from my friends M. Costard
      and M. Serpillon. I am the insulted party&mdash;and I choose swords!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A frightful oath from the baron somewhat hastened M. Wilkie&rsquo;s exit. He
      went out into the hall, and holding the door open, in a way that would
      enable him to close it at the shortest notice, he shouted back, so as to
      be heard by all the servants: &ldquo;Yes; I will have satisfaction. I will not
      stand such treatment. Is it any fault of mine that Madame d&rsquo;Argeles is a
      Chalusse, and that she wishes to defraud me of my fortune. To-morrow, I
      call you all to witness, there will be a lawyer here. You don&rsquo;t frighten
      me. Here is my card!&rdquo; And actually, before he closed the door, he threw
      one of his cards into the middle of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The baron did not trouble himself to pick it up; his attention was devoted
      to Madame d&rsquo;Argeles. She was lying back in her arm-chair, white,
      motionless and rigid, to all appearance dead. What should the baron do? He
      did not wish to call the servants; they had heard too much already&mdash;but
      he had almost decided to do so, when his eyes fell upon a tiny aquarium,
      in a corner of the room. He dipped his handkerchief in it; and alternately
      bathed Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s temples and chafed her hands. It was not long
      before the cold water revived her. She trembled, a convulsive shudder
      shook her from head to foot, and at last she opened her eyes, murmuring:
      &ldquo;Wilkie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have sent him away,&rdquo; replied the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor woman! with returning life came the consciousness of the terrible
      reality. &ldquo;He is my son!&rdquo; she moaned, &ldquo;my son, my Wilkie!&rdquo; Then with a
      despairing gesture she pressed her hands to her forehead as if to calm its
      throbbings. &ldquo;And I believed that my sin was expiated,&rdquo; she pursued. &ldquo;I
      thought I had been sufficiently punished. Fool that I was! This is my
      chastisement, Jacques. Ah! women like me have no right to be mothers!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A burning tear coursed down the baron&rsquo;s cheek; but he concealed his
      emotion as well as he could, and said, in a tone of assumed gayety:
      &ldquo;Nonsense! Wilkie is young&mdash;he will mend his ways! We were all
      ridiculous when we were twenty. We have all caused our mothers many
      anxious nights. Time will set everything to rights, and put some ballast
      in this young madcap&rsquo;s brains. Besides, your friend Patterson doesn&rsquo;t seem
      to me quite free from blame. In knowledge of books, he may have been
      unequalled; but as a guardian for youth, he must have been the worst of
      fools. After keeping your son on a short allowance for years, he suddenly
      gorges him with oats&mdash;or I should say, money&mdash;lets him loose;
      and then seems surprised because the boy is guilty of acts of folly. It
      would be a miracle if he were not. So take courage, and hope for the best,
      my dear Lia.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She shook her head despondingly. &ldquo;Do you suppose that my heart hasn&rsquo;t
      pleaded for him?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I am his mother; I can never cease to love
      him, whatever he may do. Even now I am ready to give a drop of blood for
      each tear I can save him. But I am not blind; I have read his nature.
      Wilkie has no heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! my dear friend, how do you know what shameful advice he may have
      received before coming to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles half rose, and said, in an agitated voice: &ldquo;What! you try
      to make me believe that? &lsquo;Advice!&rsquo; Then he must have found a man who said
      to him: &lsquo;Go to the house of this unfortunate woman who gave you birth, and
      order her to publish her dishonor and yours. If she refuses, insult and
      beat her! &lsquo;You know, even better than I, baron, that this is impossible.
      In the vilest natures, and when every other honorable feeling has been
      lost, love for one&rsquo;s mother survives. Even convicts deprive themselves of
      their wine, and sell their rations, in order to send a trifle now and then
      to their mothers&mdash;while he&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She paused, not because she shrunk from what she was about to say, but
      because she was exhausted and out of breath. She rested for a moment, and
      then resumed in a calmer tone: &ldquo;Besides, the person who sent him here had
      counselled coolness and prudence. I discovered this at once. It was only
      toward the close of the interview, and after an unexpected revelation from
      me, that he lost all control over himself. The thought that he would lose
      my brother&rsquo;s millions crazed him. Oh! that fatal and accursed money!
      Wilkie&rsquo;s adviser wished him to employ legal means to obtain an
      acknowledgment of his parentage; and he had copied from the Code a clause
      which is applicable to this case. By this one circumstance I am convinced
      that his adviser is a man of experience in such matters&mdash;in other
      words, the business agent&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What business agent?&rdquo; inquired the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The person who called here the other day, M. Isidore Fortunat. Ah! why
      didn&rsquo;t I not bribe him to hold his peace?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron had entirely forgotten the existence of Victor Chupin&rsquo;s
      honorable employer. &ldquo;You are mistaken, Lia,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;M. Fortunat has
      had no hand in this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then who could have betrayed my secret?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, your former ally, the rascal for whose sake you allowed Pascal
      Ferailleur to be sacrificed&mdash;the Viscount de Coralth!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The bare supposition of such treachery on the viscount&rsquo;s part brought a
      flush of indignant anger to Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s cheek. &ldquo;Ah! if I thought
      that!&rdquo; she exclaimed. And then, remembering what reasons the baron had for
      hating M. de Coralth, she murmured: &ldquo;No! Your animosity misleads you&mdash;he
      wouldn&rsquo;t dare!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron read her thoughts. &ldquo;So you are persuaded that it is personal
      vengeance that I am pursuing?&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;You think that fear of ridicule
      and public odium prevents me from striking M. de Coralth in my own name,
      and that I am endeavoring to find some other excuse to crush him. This
      might have been so once; but it is not the case now. When I promised M.
      Ferailleur to do all in my power to save the young girl he loves,
      Mademoiselle Marguerite, my wife&rsquo;s daughter, I renounced all thought of
      self, all my former plans. And why should you doubt Coralth&rsquo;s treachery?
      You, yourself, promised me to unmask HIM. If he has betrayed YOU, my poor
      Lia, he has only been a little in advance of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She hung her head and made no reply. She had forgotten this.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Besides,&rdquo; continued the baron, &ldquo;you ought to know that when I make such a
      statement I have some better foundation for it than mere conjecture. It
      was to some purpose that I watched M. de Coralth during your absence. When
      the servant handed you that card he turned extremely pale. Why? Because he
      knew whose card it was. After you left the room his hands trembled like
      leaves, and his mind was no longer occupied with the game. He&mdash;who is
      usually such a cautious player&mdash;risked his money recklessly. When the
      cards came to him he did still worse; and though luck favored him, he made
      the strangest blunders, and lost. His agitation and preoccupation were so
      marked as to attract attention; and one acquaintance laughingly inquired
      if he were ill, while another jestingly remarked that he had dined and
      wined a little too much. The traitor was evidently on coals of fire. I
      could see the perspiration on his forehead, and each time the door opened
      or shut, he changed color, as if he expected to see you and Wilkie enter.
      A dozen times I surprised him listening eagerly, as if by dint of
      attention, or by the magnetic force of his will, he hoped to hear what you
      and your son were saying. With a single word I could have wrung a
      confession from him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This explanation was so plausible that Madame d&rsquo;Argeles felt half
      convinced. &ldquo;Ah! if you had only spoken that word!&rdquo; she murmured. The baron
      smiled a crafty and malicious smile, which would have chilled M. de
      Coralth&rsquo;s very blood if he had chanced to see it. &ldquo;I am not so stupid!&rdquo; he
      replied. &ldquo;We mustn&rsquo;t frighten the fish till we are quite ready. Our net is
      the Chalusse estate, and Coralth and Valorsay will enter it of their own
      accord. It is not my plan, but M. Ferailleur&rsquo;s. There&rsquo;s a man for you! and
      if Mademoiselle Marguerite is worthy of him they will make a noble pair.
      Without suspecting it, your son has perhaps rendered us an important
      service this evening&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas!&rdquo; faltered Madame d&rsquo;Argeles, &ldquo;I am none the less ruined&mdash;the
      name of Chalusse is none the less dishonored!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She wanted to return to the drawing-room; but she was compelled to
      relinquish this idea. The expression of her face betrayed too plainly the
      terrible ordeal she had passed through. The servants had heard M. Wilkie&rsquo;s
      parting words; and news of this sort flies about with the rapidity of
      lightning. That very night, indeed, it was currently reported at the clubs
      that there would be no more card-playing at the d&rsquo;Argeles establishment,
      as that lady was a Chalusse, and consequently the aunt of the beautiful
      young girl whom M. and Madame de Fondege had taken under their protection.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      VIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Unusual strength of character, unbounded confidence in one&rsquo;s own energy,
      with thorough contempt of danger, and an invincible determination to
      triumph or perish, are all required of the person who, like Mademoiselle
      Marguerite, intrusts herself to the care of strangers&mdash;worse yet, to
      the care of actual enemies. It is no small matter to place yourself in the
      power of smooth-tongued hypocrites and impostors, who are anxious for your
      ruin, and whom you know to be capable of anything. And the task is a
      mighty one&mdash;to brave unknown dangers, perilous seductions, perfidious
      counsels, and perhaps even violence, at the same time retaining a calm eye
      and smiling lips. Yet such was the heroism that Marguerite, although
      scarcely twenty, displayed when she left the Hotel de Chalusse to accept
      the hospitality of the Fondege family. And, to crown all, she took Madame
      Leon with her&mdash;Madame Leon, whom she knew to be the Marquis de
      Valorsay&rsquo;s spy.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, brave as she was, when the moment of departure came her heart almost
      failed her. There was despair in the parting glance she cast upon the
      princely mansion and the familiar faces of the servants. And there was no
      one to encourage or sustain her. Ah, yes! standing at a window on the
      second floor, with his forehead pressed close against the pane of glass,
      she saw the only friend she had in the world&mdash;the old magistrate who
      had defended, encouraged, and sustained her&mdash;the man who had promised
      her his assistance and advice, and prophesied ultimate success.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I be a coward?&rdquo; she thought; &ldquo;shall I be unworthy of Pascal?&rdquo; And
      she resolutely entered the carriage, mentally exclaiming: &ldquo;The die is
      cast!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The General insisted that she should take a place beside Madame de Fondege
      on the back seat; while he found a place next to Madame Leon on the seat
      facing them. The drive was a silent and tedious one. The night was coming
      on; it was a time when all Paris was on the move, and the carriage was
      delayed at each street corner by a crowd of passing vehicles. The
      conversation was solely kept alive by the exertions of Madame de Fondege,
      whose shrill voice rose above the rumble of the wheels, as she chronicled
      the virtues of the late Count de Chalusse, and congratulated Mademoiselle
      Marguerite on the wisdom of her decision. Her remarks were of a
      commonplace description, and yet each word she uttered evinced intense
      satisfaction, almost delight, as if she had won some unexpected victory.
      Occasionally, the General leaned from the carriage window to see if the
      vehicle laden with Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s trunks was following them,
      but he said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last they reached his residence in the Rue Pigalle. He alighted first,
      offered his hand successively to his wife, Mademoiselle Marguerite, and
      Madame Leon, and motioned the coachman to drive away.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the man did not stir. &ldquo;Pardon&mdash;excuse me, monsieur,&rdquo; he said,
      &ldquo;but my employers bade&mdash;requested me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To ask you&mdash;you know, for the fare&mdash;thirty-five francs&mdash;not
      counting the little gratuity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well!&mdash;I will pay you to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, monsieur; but if it is all the same to you, would you do so
      this evening? My employer said that the bill had been standing a long time
      already.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, scoundrel!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Madame de Fondege, who was on the point of entering the house,
      suddenly stepped back, and drawing out her pocketbook, exclaimed: &ldquo;That&rsquo;s
      enough! Here are thirty-five francs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man went to his carriage lamp to count the money, and seeing that he
      had the exact amount&mdash;&ldquo;And my gratuity?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I give none to insolent people,&rdquo; replied the General.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You should take a cab if you haven&rsquo;t money enough to pay for coaches,&rdquo;
       replied the driver with an oath. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be even with you yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marguerite heard no more, for Madame de Fondege caught her by the arm and
      hurried her up the staircase, saying: &ldquo;Quick! we must make haste. Your
      baggage is here already, and we must see if the rooms I intended for you&mdash;for
      you and your companion&mdash;suit you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Marguerite reached the second floor, Madame de Fondege hunted in her
      pocket for her latch-key. Not finding it, she rang. A tall man-servant of
      impudent appearance and arrayed in a glaring livery opened the door,
      carrying an old battered iron candlestick, in which a tiny scrap of candle
      was glaring and flickering. &ldquo;What!&rdquo; exclaimed Madame de Fondege, &ldquo;the
      reception-room not lighted yet? This is scandalous! What have you been
      doing in my absence? Come, make haste. Light the lamp. Tell the cook that
      I have some guests to dine with me. Call my maid. See that M. Gustave&rsquo;s
      room is in order. Go down and see if the General doesn&rsquo;t need your
      assistance about the baggage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Finding it difficult to choose between so many contradictory orders, the
      servant did not choose at all. He placed his rusty candlestick on one of
      the side-tables in the reception-room, and gravely, without saying a
      single word, went out into the passage leading to the kitchen. &ldquo;Evariste!&rdquo;
       cried Madame de Fondege, crimson with anger, &ldquo;Evariste, you insolent
      fellow!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he deigned no reply, she rushed out in pursuit of him. And soon the
      sound of a violent altercation arose; the servant lavishing insults upon
      his mistress, and she unable to find any response, save, &ldquo;I dismiss you;
      you are an insolent scamp&mdash;I dismiss you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Leon, who was standing near Mademoiselle Marguerite in the
      reception-room, seemed greatly amused. &ldquo;This is a strange household,&rdquo; said
      she. &ldquo;A fine beginning, upon my word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the worthy housekeeper was the last person on earth to whom
      Mademoiselle Marguerite wished to reveal her thoughts. &ldquo;Hush, Leon,&rdquo; she
      replied. &ldquo;We are the cause of all this disturbance, and I am very sorry
      for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The retort that rose to the housekeeper&rsquo;s lips was checked by the return
      of Madame de Fondege, followed by a servant-girl with a turn-up nose, a
      pert manner, and who carried a lighted candle in her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can I apologize, madame,&rdquo; began Mademoiselle Marguerite, &ldquo;for all the
      trouble I am giving you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! my dear child, I&rsquo;ve never been so happy. Come, come, and see your
      room.&rdquo; And while they crossed several scantily-furnished apartments,
      Madame de Fondege continued: &ldquo;It is I who ought to apologize to you. I
      fear you will pine for the splendors of the Hotel de Chalusse. We are not
      millionaires like your poor father. We have only a modest competence, no
      more. But here we are!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The maid had opened a door, and Mademoiselle Marguerite entered a
      good-sized room lighted by two windows, hung with soiled wall paper, and
      adorned with chintz curtains, from which the sun had extracted most of the
      coloring. Everything was in disorder here, and in fact, the whole room was
      extremely dirty. The bed was not made, the washstand was dirty, some
      woollen stockings were hanging over the side of the rumpled bed, and on
      the mantel-shelf stood an ancient clock, an empty beer bottle, and some
      glasses. On the floor, on the furniture, in the corners, everywhere in
      fact, stumps of cigars were scattered in profusion, as if they had
      positively rained down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; gasped Madame de Fondege, &ldquo;you haven&rsquo;t put this room in order,
      Justine?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, madame, I haven&rsquo;t had time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s more than a month since M. Gustave slept here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it; but madame must remember that I have been very much hurried
      this last month, having to do all the washing and ironing since the
      laundress&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s sufficient,&rdquo; interrupted Madame de Fondege. And turning to
      Marguerite, she said: &ldquo;You will, I am sure, excuse this disorder, my dear
      child. By this time to-morrow the room shall be transformed into one of
      those dainty nests of muslin and flowers which young girls delight in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Connected with this apartment, which was known to the household as the
      lieutenant&rsquo;s room, there was a much smaller chamber lighted only by a
      single window, and originally intended for a dressing-room. It had two
      doors, one of them communicating with Marguerite&rsquo;s room, and the other
      with the passage; and it was now offered to Madame Leon, who on comparing
      these quarters with the spacious suite of rooms she had occupied at the
      Hotel de Chalusse, had considerable difficulty in repressing a grimace.
      Still she did not hesitate nor even murmur. M. de Valorsay&rsquo;s orders bound
      her to Marguerite, and she deemed it fortunate that she was allowed to
      follow her. And whether the marquis succeeded or not, he had promised her
      a sufficiently liberal reward to compensate for all personal discomfort.
      So, in the sweetest of voices, and with a feigned humility of manner, she
      declared this little room to be even much too good for a poor widow whose
      misfortunes had compelled her to abdicate her position in society.
    </p>
    <p>
      The attentions which M. and Madame de Fondege showed her contributed not a
      little to her resignation. Without knowing exactly what the General and
      his wife expected from Mademoiselle Marguerite, she was shrewd enough to
      divine that they hoped to gain some important advantage. Now her &ldquo;dear
      child&rdquo; had declared her to be a trusted friend, who was indispensable to
      her existence and comfort. &ldquo;So these people will pay assiduous court to
      me,&rdquo; she thought. And being quite ready to play a double part as the spy
      of the Marquis de Valorsay, and the Fondege family, and quite willing to
      espouse the latter&rsquo;s cause should that prove to be the more remunerative
      course, she saw a long series of polite attentions and gifts before her.
    </p>
    <p>
      That very evening her prophecies were realized; and she received a proof
      of consideration which positively delighted her. It was decided that she
      should take her meals at the family table, a thing which had never
      happened at the Hotel de Chalusse. Mademoiselle Marguerite raised a few
      objections, which Madame Leon answered with a venomous look, but Madame de
      Fondege insisted upon the arrangement, not understanding, she said,
      graciously, why they need deprive themselves of the society of such an
      agreeable and distinguished person. Madame Leon in no wise doubted but
      this favor was due to her merit alone, but Mademoiselle Marguerite, who
      was more discerning, saw that their hostess was really furious at the
      idea, but was compelled to submit to it by the imperious necessity of
      preventing Madame Leon from coming in contact with the servants, who might
      make some decidedly compromising disclosures. For there were evidently
      many little mysteries and make-shifts to be concealed in this household.
      For instance, while the servants were carrying the luggage upstairs,
      Marguerite discovered Madame de Fondege and her maid in close
      consultation, whispering with that volubility which betrays an unexpected
      and pressing perplexity. What were they talking about? She listened
      without any compunctions of conscience, and the words &ldquo;a pair of sheets,&rdquo;
       repeated again and again, furnished her with abundant food for reflection.
      &ldquo;Is it possible,&rdquo; she thought, &ldquo;that they have no sheets to give us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It did not take her long to discover the maid&rsquo;s opinion of the
      establishment in which she served; for while she brandished her broom and
      duster, this girl, exasperated undoubtedly by the increase of work she saw
      in store for her, growled and cursed the old barrack where one was worked
      to death, where one never had enough to eat, and where the wages were
      always in arrears. Mademoiselle Marguerite was doing her best to aid the
      maid, who was greatly surprised to find this handsome, queenly young lady
      so obliging, when Evariste, the same who had received warning an hour
      before, made his appearance, and announced in an insolent tone that
      &ldquo;Madame la Comtesse was served.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For Madame de Fondege exacted this title. She had improvised it, as her
      husband had improvised his title of General, and without much more
      difficulty. By a search in the family archives she had discovered&mdash;so
      she declared to her intimate friends&mdash;that she was the descendant of
      a noble family, and that one of her ancestors had held a most important
      position at the court of Francis I. or of Louis XII. Indeed, she sometimes
      confounded them. However, people who had not known her father, the wood
      merchant, saw nothing impossible in the statements.
    </p>
    <p>
      Evariste was dressed as a butler should be dressed when he announces
      dinner to a person of rank. In the daytime when he discharged the duties
      of footman, he was gorgeous in gold lace; but in the evening, he arrayed
      himself in severe black, such as is appropriate to the butler of an
      aristocratic household. Immediately after his announcement everybody
      repaired to the sumptuous dining-room which, with its huge side-boards,
      loaded with silver and rare china, looked not unlike a museum. Such was
      the display, indeed, that when Mademoiselle Marguerite took a seat at the
      table, between the General and his wife, and opposite Madame Leon, she
      asked herself if she had not been the victim of that dangerous optical
      delusion known as prejudice. She noticed that the supply of knives and
      forks was rather scanty; but many economical housewives keep most of their
      silver under lock and key; besides the china was very handsome and marked
      with the General&rsquo;s monogram, surmounted by his wife&rsquo;s coronet.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, the dinner was badly cooked and poorly served. One might have
      supposed it to be a scullery maid&rsquo;s first attempt. Still the General
      devoured it with delight. He partook ravenously of every dish, a flush
      rose to his cheeks, and an expression of profound satisfaction was visible
      upon his countenance. &ldquo;From this,&rdquo; thought Mademoiselle Marguerite, &ldquo;I
      must infer that he usually goes hungry, and that this seems a positive
      feast to him.&rdquo; In fact, he seemed bubbling over with contentment. He
      twirled his mustaches a la Victor Emmanuel, and rolled his &ldquo;r,&rdquo; as he
      said, &ldquo;Sacr-r-r-r-r-e bleu!&rdquo; even more ferociously than usual. It was only
      by a powerful effort that he restrained himself from indulging in various
      witticisms which would have been most unseemly in the presence of a poor
      girl who had just lost her father and all her hopes of fortune. But he did
      forget himself so much as to say that the drive to the cemetery had
      whetted his appetite, and to address his wife as Madame Range-a-bord, a
      title which had been bestowed upon her by a sailor brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      Crimson with anger to the very roots of her coarse, sandy hair&mdash;amazed
      to see her husband deport himself in this style, and almost suffocated by
      the necessity of restraining her wrath, Madame de Fondege was heroic
      enough to smile, though her eyes flashed ominously. But the General was
      not at all dismayed. On the contrary, he cared so little for his wife&rsquo;s
      displeasure that, when the dessert was served, he turned to the servant,
      and, with a wink that Mademoiselle Marguerite noticed, &ldquo;Evariste,&rdquo; he
      ordered, &ldquo;go to the wine-cellar, and bring me a bottle of old Bordeaux.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The valet, who had just received a week&rsquo;s notice, was only too glad of an
      opportunity for revenge. So with a malicious smile, and in a drawling
      tone, he replied: &ldquo;Then monsieur must give me the money. Monsieur knows
      very well that neither the grocer nor the wine-merchant will trust him any
      longer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Fondege rose from the table, looking very pale; but before he had
      time to utter a word, his wife came to the rescue. &ldquo;You know, my dear,
      that I don&rsquo;t trust the key of my cellar to this lad. Evariste, call
      Justine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The pert-looking chambermaid appeared, and her mistress told her where she
      would find the key of the famous cellar. About a quarter of an hour
      afterward, one of those bottles which grocers and wine-merchants prepare
      for the benefit of credulous customers was brought in&mdash;a bottle duly
      covered with dust and mould to give it a venerable appearance, and
      festooned with cobwebs, such as the urchins of Paris collect and sell at
      from fifteen sous to two francs a pound, according to quality. But the
      Bordeaux did not restore the General&rsquo;s equanimity. He was silent and
      subdued; and his relief was evident when, after the coffee had been
      served, his wife exclaimed: &ldquo;We won&rsquo;t keep you from your club, my dear. I
      want a chat with our dear child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Since she dismissed the General so unceremoniously, Madame de Fondege
      evidently wished for a tete-a-tete with Mademoiselle Marguerite. At least
      Madame Leon thought so, or feigned to think so, and addressing the young
      girl, she said: &ldquo;I shall be obliged to leave you for a couple of hours, my
      dear young lady. My relatives would never forgive me if I did not inform
      them of my change of residence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was the first time since she had been engaged by the Count de
      Chalusse, that the estimable &ldquo;companion&rdquo; had ever made any direct allusion
      to her relatives, and what is more, to relatives residing in Paris. She
      had previously only spoken of them in general terms, giving people to
      understand that her relatives had not been unfortunate like herself&mdash;that
      they still retained their exalted rank, though she had fallen, and that
      she found it difficult to decline the favors they longed to heap upon her.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, Mademoiselle Marguerite evinced no surprise. &ldquo;Go at once and
      inform your relatives, my dear Leon,&rdquo; she said, without a shade of sarcasm
      in her manner. &ldquo;I hope they won&rsquo;t be offended by your devotion to me.&rdquo; But
      in her secret heart, she thought: &ldquo;This hypocrite is going to report to
      the Marquis de Valorsay, and these relatives of hers will furnish her with
      excuses for future visits to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The General went off, the servants began to clear the table, and
      Mademoiselle Marguerite followed her hostess to the drawing-room. It was a
      lofty and spacious apartment, lighted by three windows, and even more
      sumptuous in its appointments than the dining-room. Furniture, carpets,
      and hangings, were all in rather poor taste, perhaps, but costly, very
      costly. As the evening was a cold one, Madame de Fondege ordered the fire
      to be lighted. She seated herself on a sofa near the mantelpiece, and when
      Mademoiselle Marguerite had taken a chair opposite her, she began, &ldquo;Now,
      my dear child, let us have a quiet talk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite expected some important communication, so that she
      was not a little surprised when Madame de Fondege resumed: &ldquo;Have you
      thought about your mourning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About my mourning, madame?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. I mean, have you decided what dresses you will purchase? It is an
      important matter, my dear&mdash;more important than you suppose. They are
      making costumes entirely of crepe now, puffed and plaited, and extremely
      stylish. I saw one that would suit you well. You may think that a costume
      for deep mourning made with puffs would be a trifle LOUD, but that depends
      upon tastes. The Duchess de Veljo wore one only eleven days after her
      husband&rsquo;s death; and she allowed some of her hair, which is superb, to
      fall over her shoulders, a la pleureuse, and the effect was extremely
      touching.&rdquo; Was Madame de Fondege speaking sincerely? There could be no
      doubt of it. Her features, which had been distorted with anger when the
      General took it into his head to order the bottle of Bordeaux, had
      regained their usual placidity of expression, and had even brightened a
      little. &ldquo;I am entirely at your service, my dear, if you wish any shopping
      done,&rdquo; she continued. &ldquo;And if you are not quite pleased with your
      dressmaker, I will take you to mine, who works like an angel. But how
      absurd I am. You will of course employ Van Klopen. I go to him
      occasionally myself, but only on great occasions. Between you and me, I
      think him a trifle too high in his charges.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite could scarcely repress a smile. &ldquo;I must confess,
      madame, that from my infancy I have been in the habit of making almost all
      my dresses myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The General&rsquo;s wife raised her eyes to Heaven in real or feigned
      astonishment. &ldquo;Yourself!&rdquo; she repeated four or five times, as if to make
      sure that she had heard aright. &ldquo;Yourself! That is incomprehensible! You,
      the daughter of a man who possessed an income of five or six hundred
      thousand francs a year! Still I know that poor M. de Chalusse, though
      unquestionably a very worthy and excellent man, was peculiar in some of
      his ideas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, madame. What I did, I did for my own pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But this assertion exceeded Madame de Fondege&rsquo;s powers of comprehension.
      &ldquo;Impossible!&rdquo; she murmured, &ldquo;impossible! But, my poor child, what did you
      do for fashions&mdash;for patterns?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The immense importance she attached to the matter was so manifest that
      Marguerite could not refrain from smiling. &ldquo;I was probably not a very
      close follower of the fashions,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;The dress that I am wearing
      now&mdash;&mdash;.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is very pretty, my child, and it becomes you extremely; that&rsquo;s the truth.
      Only, to be frank, I must confess that this style is no longer worn&mdash;no&mdash;not
      at all. You must have your new dresses made in quite a different way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I already have more dresses than I need, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! black dresses?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I seldom wear anything but black.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Evidently her hostess had never heard anything like this before. &ldquo;Oh! all
      right,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;these dresses will doubtless do very well for your
      first months of mourning&mdash;but afterward? Do you suppose, my poor
      dear, that I&rsquo;m going to allow you to shut yourself up as you did at the
      Hotel de Chalusse? Good heavens! how dull it must have been for you, alone
      in that big house, without society or friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A tear fell from Marguerite&rsquo;s long lashes. &ldquo;I was very happy there,
      madame,&rdquo; she murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You think so; but you will change your mind. When one has never tasted
      real pleasure, one cannot realize how gloomy one&rsquo;s life really is. No
      doubt, you were very unhappy alone with M. de Chalusse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! madame&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tut! tut! my dear, I know what I am talking about. Wait until you have
      been introduced into society before you boast of the charms of solitude.
      Poor dear! I doubt if you have ever attended a ball in your whole life.
      No! I was sure of it, and you are twenty! Fortunately, I am here. I will
      take your mother&rsquo;s place, and we will make up for lost time! Beautiful as
      you are, my child&mdash;for you are divinely beautiful&mdash;you will
      reign as a queen wherever you appear. Doesn&rsquo;t that thought make that cold
      little heart of yours throb more quickly? Ah! fetes and music, wonderful
      toilettes and the flashing of diamonds, the admiration of gentlemen, the
      envy of rivals, the consciousness of one&rsquo;s own beauty, are these delights
      not enough to fill any woman&rsquo;s life? It is intoxication, perhaps, but an
      intoxication which is happiness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Was she sincere, or did she hope to dazzle this lonely girl, and then rule
      her through the tastes she might succeed in giving her? As is not
      unfrequently the case with callous natures, Madame de Fondege was a
      compound of frankness and cunning. What she was saying now she really
      meant; and as it was to her interest to say it, she urged her opinions
      boldly and even eloquently. Twenty-four hours earlier, proud and truthful
      Marguerite would have silenced her at once. She would have told her that
      such pleasures could never have any charm for her, and that she felt only
      scorn and disgust for such worthless aims and sordid desires. But having
      resolved to appear a dupe, she concealed her real feelings under an air of
      surprise, and was astonished and even ashamed to find that she could
      dissemble so well.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Besides,&rdquo; continued Madame de Fondege, &ldquo;a marriageable young girl should
      never shut herself up like a nun. She will never find a husband if she
      remains at home&mdash;and she must marry. Indeed, marriage is a sensible
      woman&rsquo;s only object in life, since it is her emancipation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Was Madame de Fondege going to plead her son&rsquo;s cause? Mademoiselle
      Marguerite almost believed it&mdash;but the lady was too shrewd for that.
      She took good care not to mention as much as Lieutenant Gustave&rsquo;s name.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The season will certainly be unusually brilliant,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and it will
      begin very early. On the fifth of November, the Countess de Commarin will
      give a superb fete; all Paris will be there. On the seventh, there will be
      a ball at the house of the Viscountess de Bois d&rsquo;Ardon. On the eleventh,
      there will be a concert, followed by a ball, at the superb mansion of the
      Baroness Trigault&mdash;you know&mdash;the wife of that strange man who
      spends all his time in playing cards.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is the first time I ever heard the name mentioned.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really! and you have been living in Paris for years. It seems
      incomprehensible. You must know then, my dear little ignoramus, that the
      Baroness Trigault is one of the most distinguished ladies in Paris, and
      certainly the best dressed. I am sure her bill at Van Klopen&rsquo;s is not less
      than a hundred thousand francs a year&mdash;and that is saying enough, is
      it not?&rdquo; And with genuine pride, she added: &ldquo;The baroness is my friend. I
      will introduce you to her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Having once started on this theme, Madame de Fondege was not easily
      silenced. It was evidently her ambition to be considered a woman of the
      world, and to be acquainted with all the leaders of fashionable society;
      and, in fact, if one listened to her conversation for an hour one could
      learn all the gossip of the day. Though she was unable to interest herself
      in this tittle-tattle, Marguerite was pretending to listen to it with
      profound attention when the drawing-room door suddenly opened and Evariste
      appeared with an impudent smile on his face. &ldquo;Madame Landoire, the
      milliner, is here, and desires to speak with Madame la Comtesse,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this name, Madame de Fondege started as if she had been stung
      by a viper. &ldquo;Let her wait,&rdquo; she said quickly. &ldquo;I will see her in a
      moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The order was useless, for the visitor was already on the threshold. She
      was a tall, dark-haired, ill-mannered woman. &ldquo;Ah! I&rsquo;ve found you at last,&rdquo;
       she said, rudely, &ldquo;and I&rsquo;m not sorry. This is the fourth time I&rsquo;ve come
      here with my bill.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Fondege pointed to Mademoiselle Marguerite, and exclaimed:
      &ldquo;Wait, at least, until I am alone before you speak to me on business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Landoire shrugged her shoulders. &ldquo;As if you were ever alone,&rdquo; she
      growled. &ldquo;I wish to put an end to this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Step into my room then, and we will put an end to it, and at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This opportunity to escape from Madame de Fondege must not be allowed to
      pass; so Marguerite asked permission to withdraw, declaring, what was
      really the truth, that she felt completely tired out. After receiving a
      maternal kiss from her hostess, accompanied by a &ldquo;sleep well, my dear
      child,&rdquo; she retired to her own room. Thanks to Madame Leon&rsquo;s absence, she
      found herself alone, and, drawing a blotting-pad from one of her trunks,
      she hastily wrote a note to M. Isidore Fortunat, telling him that she
      would call upon him on the following Tuesday. &ldquo;I must be very awkward,&rdquo;
       she thought, &ldquo;if to-morrow, on going to mass, I can&rsquo;t find an opportunity
      to throw this note into a letter-box without being observed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was fortunate that she had lost no time, for her writing-case was
      scarcely in its place again before Madame Leon entered, evidently out of
      sorts. &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; asked Marguerite, &ldquo;did you see your friends?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t speak of it, my dear young lady; they were all of them away from
      home&mdash;they had gone to the play.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I shall go again early to-morrow morning; you must realize how
      important it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Madame Leon, who was usually so loquacious, did not seem to be in a
      talkative mood that evening, and, after kissing her dear young lady, she
      went into her own room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She did not succeed in finding the Marquis de Valorsay,&rdquo; thought
      Marguerite, &ldquo;and being in doubt as to the part she is to play, she feels
      furious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young girl tried to sum up the impressions of the evening, and to
      decide upon a plan of conduct, but she felt sad and very weary. She said
      to herself that rest would be more beneficial than anything else, and that
      her mind would be clearer on the morrow; so after a fervent prayer in
      which Pascal Ferailleur&rsquo;s name was mentioned several times, she prepared
      for bed. But before she fell asleep she was able to collect another bit of
      evidence. The sheets on her bed were new.
    </p>
    <p>
      If Marguerite had been born in the Hotel de Chalusse, if she had known a
      father&rsquo;s and a mother&rsquo;s tender care from her infancy, if she had always
      been protected by a large fortune from the stern realities of life, there
      would have been no hope for her now that she was left poor and alone&mdash;for
      how can a girl avoid dangers she is ignorant of? But from her earliest
      childhood Marguerite had studied the difficult science of real life under
      the best of teachers&mdash;misfortune. Cast upon her own resources at the
      age of thirteen, she had learned to look upon everybody and everything
      with distrust; and by relying only on herself, she had become strangely
      cautious and clear-sighted. She knew how to watch and how to listen, how
      to deliberate and how to act. Two men, the Marquis de Valorsay and M. de
      Fondege&rsquo;s son, coveted her hand; and one of the two, the marquis, so she
      believed, was capable of any crime. Still she felt no fears. She had been
      in danger once before when she was little more than a child, when the
      brother of her employer insulted her with his attentions, but she had
      escaped unharmed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Deceit was certainly most repugnant to her truth-loving nature; but it was
      the only weapon of defence she possessed. And so on the following day she
      carefully studied the abode of her entertainers. And certainly the study
      was instructive. The General&rsquo;s household was truly Parisian in character;
      or, at least, it was what a Parisian household inevitably becomes when its
      inmates fall a prey to the constantly increasing passion for luxury and
      display, to the furore for aping the habits and expenditure of
      millionaires, and to the noble and elevated desire of humiliating and
      outshining their neighbors. Ease, health, and comfort had been
      unscrupulously sacrificed to show. The dining-room was magnificent, the
      drawing-room superb; but these were the only comfortably furnished
      apartments in the establishment. The other rooms were bare and desolate.
      It is true that Madame de Fondege had a handsome wardrobe with glass doors
      in her own room, but this was an article which the friend of the
      fashionable Baroness Trigault could not possibly dispense with. On the
      other hand, her bed had no curtains.
    </p>
    <p>
      The aspect of the place fittingly explained the habits and manners of the
      inmates. What sinister fears must have haunted them! for how could this
      extreme destitution in one part of the establishment be reconciled with
      the luxury noticeable in the other, except by the fact that a desperate
      struggle to keep up appearances was constantly going on? And this constant
      anxiety made out-door noise, excitement, and gayety a necessity of their
      existence, and caused them to welcome anything that took them from the
      home where they had barely sufficient to deceive society, and not enough
      to impose upon their creditors. &ldquo;And they keep three servants,&rdquo; thought
      Mademoiselle Marguerite&mdash;&ldquo;three enemies who spend their time in
      ridiculing them, and torturing their vanity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus, on the very first day after her arrival, she realized the real
      situation of the General and his wife. They were certainly on the verge of
      ruin when Mademoiselle Marguerite accepted their hospitality. Everything
      went to prove this: the coachman&rsquo;s insolent demand, the servants&rsquo; 
      impudence, the grocer&rsquo;s refusal to furnish a single bottle of wine on
      credit, the milliner&rsquo;s persistence, and, lastly, the new sheets on the
      visitors&rsquo; beds. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; thought Mademoiselle Marguerite to herself, &ldquo;the
      Fondeges were ruined when I came here. They would never have sunk so low
      if they had not been utterly destitute of resources. So, if they rise
      again, if money and credit come back again, then the old magistrate is
      right&mdash;they have obtained possession of the Chalusse millions!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      IX
    </h2>
    <p>
      On this side, at least, Mademoiselle Marguerite had no very wide field of
      investigation to explore. Her common sense told her that her task would
      merely consist in carefully watching the behavior of the General and his
      wife, in noting their expenditure, and so on. It was a matter of close
      attention, and of infinitesimal trifles. Nor was she much encouraged by
      her first success. It was, perhaps, important; and yet it might be
      nothing. For she felt that the real difficulties would not begin until she
      became morally certain that the General had stolen the millions that were
      missing from the count&rsquo;s escritoire. Even then it would remain for her to
      discover how he had obtained possession of this money. And when she had
      succeeded in doing this, would her task be ended? Certainly not. She must
      obtain sufficient evidence to give her the right of accusing the General
      openly, and in the face of every one. She must have material and
      indisputable proofs before she could say: &ldquo;A robbery has been committed. I
      was accused of it. I was innocent. Here is the culprit!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What a long journey must be made before this goal was reached! No matter!
      Now that she had a positive and fixed point of departure, she felt that
      she possessed enough energy to sustain her in her endeavors for years, if
      need be. What troubled her most was that she could not logically explain
      the conduct of her enemies from the time M. de Fondege had asked her hand
      for his son up to the present moment. And first, why had they been so
      audacious or so imprudent as to bring her to their own home if they had
      really stolen one of those immense amounts that are sure to betray their
      possessors? &ldquo;They are mad,&rdquo; she thought, &ldquo;or else they must deem me blind,
      deaf, and more stupid than mortal ever was!&rdquo; Secondly, why should they be
      so anxious to marry her to their son, Lieutenant Gustave? This also was a
      puzzling question. However, she was fully decided on one point: the
      suspicions of the Fondege family must not be aroused. If they were on
      their guard, it would be the easiest thing in the world for them to pay
      their debts quietly, and increase their expenditure so imperceptibly that
      she would not be able to prove a sudden acquisition of wealth.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the events of the next few days dispelled these apprehensions. That
      very afternoon, although it was Sunday, it became evident that a shower of
      gold had fallen on the General&rsquo;s abode. The door-bell rang incessantly for
      several hours, and an interminable procession of tradesmen entered. It
      looked very much as if M. de Fondege had called a meeting of his
      creditors. They came in haughty and arrogant, with their hats upon their
      heads, and surly of speech, like people who have made up their minds to
      accept their loss, but who intend to pay themselves in rudeness. They were
      ushered into the drawing-room where the General was holding his levee;
      they remained there from five to ten minutes, and then, bowing low with
      hat in hand, they retired with radiant countenances, and an obsequious
      smile on their lips. So they had been paid. And as if to prove to
      Mademoiselle Marguerite that her suspicions were correct, she chanced to
      be present when the livery stable-keeper presented his bill.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Fondege received him very haughtily. &ldquo;Ah! here you are!&rdquo; she
      exclaimed, rudely, as soon as he appeared. &ldquo;So you are the man who teaches
      his drivers to insult his customers? That is an excellent way to gain
      patronage. What! I hire a one-horse carriage from you by the month, and
      because I happen to wish for a two-horse vehicle for a single day, you
      make me pay the difference. You should demand payment in advance if you
      are so suspicious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The stable-keeper, who had a bill for nearly four thousand francs in his
      pocket, stood listening with the air of a man who is meditating some
      crushing reply; but she did not give him time to deliver it. &ldquo;When I have
      cause to complain of the people I employ, I dismiss them and replace them
      by others. Insolence is one of those things that I never forgive. Give me
      your bill.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man, in whose face doubt, fear, and hope had succeeded each other in
      swift succession, thereupon drew an interminable bill from his pocket. And
      when he saw the bank-notes, when he saw the bill paid without dispute or
      even examination, he was seized with a wondering respect, and his voice
      became sweeter than honey. They say the payment of a bad debt delights a
      merchant a thousand times more than the settlement of fifty good ones. The
      truth of this assertion became apparent in the present case. Mademoiselle
      Marguerite thought the man was going to beg &ldquo;Madame la Comtesse to do him
      the favor to withhold a portion of the small amount.&rdquo; For the Parisian
      tradesman is so constituted that very frequently it is not necessary to
      pay him money, but only to show it.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, this creditor&rsquo;s abnegation did not extend so far; still he did
      entreat Madame la Comtesse not to leave him on account of a blunder&mdash;for
      it was a blunder&mdash;he swore it on his children&rsquo;s heads. His coachman
      was only a fool and a drunkard, who had misunderstood him entirely, and
      whom he should ignominiously dismiss on returning to his establishment.
      But &ldquo;Madame la Comtesse&rdquo; was inflexible. She sent the man about his
      business, saying, &ldquo;I never place myself in a position to be treated with
      disrespect a second time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This probably accounted for the fact that Evariste, the footman, who had
      been so wanting in respect the previous evening, had been sent away that
      very morning. Mademoiselle Marguerite did not see him again. Dinner was
      served by a new servant, who had been sent by an Employment Office, and
      engaged without a question, no doubt because Evariste&rsquo;s livery fitted him
      like a glove. Had the cook also been replaced? Mademoiselle Marguerite
      thought so, though she had no means of convincing herself on this point.
      It was certain, however, that the Sunday dinner was utterly unlike that of
      the evening before. Quality had replaced quantity, and care, profusion. It
      was not necessary to send to the cellar for a bottle of Chateau-Laroze; it
      made its appearance at the proper moment, warmed to the precise degree of
      temperature, and seemed quite to the taste of excellent Madame Leon.
    </p>
    <p>
      In twenty-four hours the Fondege family had been raised to such affluence
      that they must have asked themselves if it were possible they had ever
      known the agonies of that life of false appearances and sham luxury which
      is a thousand times worse than an existence of abject poverty. &ldquo;Is it
      possible that I am deceived?&rdquo; Marguerite said to herself, on retiring to
      her room that evening. For it surprised her that a keen-sighted person
      like Madame Leon should not have remarked this revolution; but the worthy
      companion merely declared the General and his wife to be charming people,
      and did not cease to congratulate her dear young lady upon having accepted
      their hospitality. &ldquo;I feel quite at home here,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;and though my
      room is a trifle small, I shall have nothing to wish for when it has been
      refurnished.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite spent a restless and uncomfortable night. In spite
      of her reason, in spite of the convincing proofs she had seen, the most
      disturbing doubts returned. Might she not have judged the situation with a
      prejudiced mind? Had the Fondeges really been as reduced in circumstances
      as she supposed? Like every one who has been unfortunate, she feared
      illusions, and was extremely distrustful of everything that seemed to
      favor her hopes and wishes. The only thing that really encouraged her was
      the thought that she could consult the old magistrate, and that M. de
      Chalusse&rsquo;s former agent might succeed in finding Pascal Ferailleur. M.
      Fortunat must have received her letter by this time: he would undoubtedly
      expect her on Tuesday, and it only remained for her to invent some excuse
      which would give her a couple of hours&rsquo; liberty without awakening
      suspicion.
    </p>
    <p>
      She rose early the next morning, and had almost completed her toilette,
      when she heard some one in the passage outside rapping at the door of
      Madame Leon&rsquo;s room. &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s there?&rdquo; inquired that worthy lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Justine, Madame de Fondege&rsquo;s maid, who answered in a pert voice,
      &ldquo;Here is a letter, madame, which has just been sent up by the concierge.
      It is addressed to Madame Leon. That is your name, is it not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marguerite staggered as if she had received a heavy blow. &ldquo;My God! a
      letter from the Marquis de Valorsay!&rdquo; she thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was evident that the estimable lady was expecting this missive by the
      eagerness with which she sprang out of bed and opened the door. And
      Marguerite heard her say to the servant in her sweetest voice: &ldquo;A thousand
      thanks, my child! Ah! this is a great relief, I have heard from my
      brother-in-law at last. I recognize his hand-writing.&rdquo; And then the door
      closed again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Standing silent and motionless in the middle of her room, Marguerite
      listened with that feverish anxiety that excites the perceptive faculties
      to the utmost degree. An inward voice, stronger than reason, told her that
      this letter threatened her happiness, her future, perhaps her life! But
      how could she convince herself of the truth of this presentiment? If she
      had followed her first impulse, she would have rushed into Madame Leon&rsquo;s
      room and have snatched the letter from her hands. But if she did this, she
      would betray herself, and prove that she was not the dupe they supposed
      her to be, and this supposition on the part of her enemies constituted her
      only chance of salvation.
    </p>
    <p>
      If she could only watch Madame Leon as she read the letter, and gain some
      information from the expression of her face; but this seemed impossible,
      for the keyhole was blocked up by the key, which had been left in the lock
      on the other side. Suddenly a crack in the partition attracted her
      attention, and finding that it extended through the wall, she realized she
      might watch what was passing in the adjoining room. So she approached the
      spot on tiptoe, and, with bated breath, stooped and looked in.
    </p>
    <p>
      In her impatience to learn the contents of her letter, Madame Leon had not
      gone back to bed. She had broken the seal, and was reading the missive,
      standing barefooted in her night-dress, directly opposite the little
      crevice. She read line after line, and word after word, and her knitted
      brows and compressed lips suggested deep concentration of thought mingled
      with discontent. At last she shrugged her shoulders, muttered a few
      inaudible words, and laid the open letter upon the rickety chest of
      drawers, which, with two chairs and a bed, constituted the entire
      furniture of her apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My God!&rdquo; exclaimed Marguerite, with bated breath, &ldquo;if she would only
      forget it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But she did not forget it. She began to dress, and when she had finished
      she read the letter again, and then placed it carefully in one of the
      drawers, which she locked, putting the key in her pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall never know, then,&rdquo; thought Marguerite; &ldquo;no, I shall never know.
      But I must know&mdash;and I will!&rdquo; she added vehemently.
    </p>
    <p>
      From that moment a firm determination to obtain that letter took
      possession of her mind; and so deeply was she occupied in seeking for some
      means to surmount the difficulties which stood in her way that she did not
      say a dozen words during breakfast. &ldquo;I must be a fool if I can&rsquo;t find some
      way of gaining possession of that letter,&rdquo; she said to herself again and
      again. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure I could find in it the explanation of the abominable
      intrigue which Pascal and I are the victims of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Happily, her preoccupation was not remarked. Each person present was too
      deeply engrossed in his or her own concerns to notice the behavior of the
      others. Madame Leon&rsquo;s mind was occupied with the news she had just
      received; and, besides, her attention was considerably attracted by some
      partridges garnished with truffles, and a bottle of Chateau-Laroze. For
      she was rather fond of good living, the dear lady, as she confessed
      herself, adding that no one is perfect. The General talked of nothing but
      a certain pair of horses which he was to look at that afternoon, and which
      he thought of buying&mdash;being quite disgusted with job-masters, so he
      declared. Besides, he expected to get the animals at a bargain, as they
      were the property of a young gentleman who had been led to commit certain
      misdemeanors by his love of gambling and his passion for a notorious woman
      who was addicted with an insatiable desire for jewelry.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for Madame de Fondege, her head seemed to have been completely turned
      by the prospect of the approaching fete at the Countess de Commarin&rsquo;s. She
      had only a fortnight left to make her preparations. All the evening
      before, through part of the night, and ever since she had been awake that
      morning, she had been racking her brain to arrive at an effective
      combination of colors and materials. And at the cost of a terrible
      headache, she had at last conceived one of those toilettes which are sure
      to make a sensation, and which the newspaper reporters will mention as
      noticeable for its &ldquo;chic.&rdquo; &ldquo;Picture to yourself,&rdquo; she said, all ablaze
      with enthusiasm, &ldquo;picture to yourself a robe of tea-flower silk, trimmed
      with bands of heavy holland-tinted satin, thickly embroidered with
      flowers. A wide flounce of Valenciennes at the bottom of the skirt. Over
      this, I shall wear a tunic of pearl-gray crepe, edged with a fringe of the
      various shades in the dress, and forming a panier behind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But how much trouble, time and labor must be expended before such an
      elaborate chef-d&rsquo;oeuvre could be completed! How many conferences with the
      dressmaker, with the florist, and the embroiderer! How many doubts, how
      many inevitable mistakes! Ah! there was not a moment to lose! Madame de
      Fondege, who was dressed to go out, and who had already sent for a
      carriage, insisted that Mademoiselle Marguerite should accompany her. And
      certainly, the General&rsquo;s wife deemed the proposal a seductive one. It is a
      very fashionable amusement to run from one shop to another, even when one
      cannot, or will not, buy. It is a custom, which some noble ladies have
      imported from America, to the despair of the poor shopkeepers. And thus
      every fine afternoon, the swell shops are filled to overflowing with
      richly-attired dames and damsels, who ask to see all the new goods. It is
      far more amusing than remaining at home. And when they return to dinner in
      the evening, after inspecting hundreds of yards of silk and satin, they
      are very well pleased with themselves, for they have not lost the day. Nor
      do the shrewdest always return from these expeditions empty-handed. A
      dozen gloves or a piece of lace can be hidden so easily in the folds of a
      mantle!
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet, to Madame de Fondege&rsquo;s great surprise, Marguerite declined the
      invitation. &ldquo;I have so many things to put in order,&rdquo; she added, feeling
      that an excuse was indispensable.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Madame Leon, who had not the same reasons as her dear child for
      wishing to remain at home, kindly offered her services. She was acquainted
      with several of the best shops, she declared, particularly with the
      establishment of a dealer in laces, in the Rue de Mulhouse, and thanks to
      an introduction from her, Madame de Fondege could not fail to conclude a
      very advantageous bargain there. &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; replied Madame de Fondege,
      &ldquo;I will take you with me, then; but make haste and dress while I put on my
      bonnet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They left the breakfast-room at the same time, closely followed by
      Mademoiselle Marguerite, who was disturbed by a hope which she scarcely
      dared confess to herself. With her forehead resting against the wall, and
      her eye peering through the tiny crack, she watched her governess change
      her dress, throw a shawl over her shoulders, put on her best bonnet, and,
      after a glance at the looking-glass, rush from the room, exclaiming: &ldquo;Here
      I am, my dear countess. I&rsquo;m ready.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And a few moments afterward they left the house together.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the outer door closed after them, Marguerite&rsquo;s brain whirled. If she
      were not deceived, Madame Leon had left the key of the drawers in the
      pocket of the dress she had just taken off. So it was with a wildly
      throbbing heart that she opened the communicating door and entered her
      &ldquo;companion&rsquo;s&rdquo; room. She hastily approached the bed on which the dress was
      lying, and, with a trembling hand, she began to search for the pocket.
      Fortune favored her! The key was there. The letter was within her reach.
      But she was about to do a deed against which her whole nature revolted. To
      steal a key, to force an article of furniture open, and violate the secret
      of a private correspondence, these were actions so repugnant to her sense
      of honor, and her pride, that for some time she stood irresolute. At last
      the instinct of self-preservation overpowered her scruples. Was not her
      honor, and Pascal&rsquo;s honor also, at stake&mdash;as well as their mutual
      love and happiness? &ldquo;It would be folly to hesitate.&rdquo; she murmured. And
      with a firm hand she placed the key in the lock.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter was out of order and the drawer was only opened with
      difficulty. But there, on some clothes which Madame Leon had not yet found
      time to arrange, Marguerite saw the letter. She eagerly snatched it up,
      unfolded it, and read: &ldquo;Dear Madame Leon&mdash;&rdquo; &ldquo;Dear me,&rdquo; she muttered,
      &ldquo;here is the name in full. This is an indiscretion which will render
      denial difficult.&rdquo; And she resumed her perusal: &ldquo;Your letter, which I have
      just received, confirms what my servants had already told me: that twice
      during my absence&mdash;on Saturday evening and Sunday morning&mdash;you
      called at my house to see me.&rdquo; So Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s penetration
      had served her well. All this talk about anxious relatives had only been
      an excuse invented by Madame Leon to enable her to absent herself whenever
      occasion required. &ldquo;I regret,&rdquo; continued the letter, &ldquo;that you did not
      find me at home, for I have instructions of the greatest importance to
      give you. We are approaching the decisive moment. I have formed a plan
      which will completely, and forever, efface all remembrance of that cursed
      P. F., in case any one condescended to think of him after the disgrace we
      fastened upon him the other evening at the house of Madame d&rsquo;Argeles.&rdquo; P.
      F.&mdash;these initials of course meant Pascal Ferailleur. Then he was
      innocent, and she held an undeniable, irrefutable proof of his innocence
      in her hands. How coolly and impudently Valorsay confessed his atrocious
      crime! &ldquo;A bold stroke is in contemplation which, if no unfortunate and
      well-nigh impossible accident occur, will throw the girl into my arms.&rdquo;
       Marguerite shuddered. &ldquo;The girl&rdquo; referred to her, of course. &ldquo;Thanks to
      the assistance of one of my friends,&rdquo; added the letter &ldquo;I can place this
      proud damsel in a perilous, terribly perilous position, from which she
      cannot possibly extricate herself unaided. But, just as she gives herself
      up for lost, I shall interpose. I shall save her; and it will be strange
      if gratitude does not work the necessary miracle in my favor. The plan is
      certain to succeed. Still, it will be all the better if the physician who
      attended M. de C&mdash;&mdash; in his last moments, and whom you spoke to
      me about (Dr. Jodon, if I remember rightly), will consent to lend us a
      helping hand. What kind of a man is he? If he is accessible to the
      seductive influence of a few thousand francs, I shall consider the
      business as good as concluded. Your conduct up to the present time has
      been a chef-d&rsquo;oeuvre, for which you shall be amply compensated. You have
      cause to know that I am not ungrateful. Let the F&rsquo;s continue their
      intrigues, and even pretend to favor them. I am not afraid of these
      people. I understand their game perfectly, and know why they wish my
      little one to marry their son. But when they become troublesome, I shall
      crush them like glass. In spite of these explanations, which I have just
      given you for your guidance, it is very necessary that I should see you. I
      shall look for you on Tuesday afternoon, between three and four o&rsquo;clock.
      Above all, don&rsquo;t fail to bring me the desired information respecting Dr.
      Jodon. I am, my dear madame, devotedly yours&mdash;V.&rdquo; Below ran a
      postscript which read as follows: &ldquo;When you come on Tuesday bring this
      letter with you. We will burn it together. Don&rsquo;t imagine that I distrust
      you&mdash;but there is nothing so dangerous as letters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For some time Marguerite stood, stunned and appalled by the Marquis de
      Valorsay&rsquo;s audacity, and by the language of this letter, which was at once
      so obscure and so clear, every line of it threatening her future. The
      reality surpassed her worst apprehensions, but realizing the gravity of
      the situation, she shook off the torpor stealing over her. She felt that
      every second was precious, and that she must act, and act at once. But
      what should she do? Simply return the letter to its place, and continue to
      act the role of a dupe, as if nothing had happened? No; that must not be.
      It would be madness not to seize this flagrant proof of the Marquis de
      Valorsay&rsquo;s infamy. But on the other hand, if she kept the letter, Madame
      Leon would immediately discover its loss, and an explanation would be
      unavoidable. M. de Valorsay would be worsted, but not annihilated, and the
      plans which made the physician&rsquo;s intervention a necessity would never be
      revealed. She thought of hastening to her friend the old magistrate; but
      he lived a long way off, and time was pressing. Besides she might not find
      him at home. Then she thought of going to a notary, to a judge. She would
      show them the letter, and they could take a copy of it. But no&mdash;this
      would do no good&mdash;the marquis could still deny it. She was becoming
      desperate, and was accusing herself of stupidity, when a sudden
      inspiration illumined her mind, turning night into day, as it were. &ldquo;Oh,
      Pascal, we are saved!&rdquo; she exclaimed. And without pausing to deliberate
      any longer, she threw a mantle over her shoulders, hastily tied on her
      bonnet, and hurried from the house, without saying a word to any one.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unfortunately she was not acquainted with this part of Paris, and on
      reaching the Rue Pigalle she was at a loss for her way. Unwilling to waste
      any more time, she hastily entered a grocer&rsquo;s shop at the corner of the
      Rue Pigalle and the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, and anxiously inquired: &ldquo;Do
      you know any photographer in this neighborhood, monsieur?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her agitation made this question seem so singular that the grocer looked
      at her closely for a moment, as if to make sure that she was not jesting.
      &ldquo;You have only to go down the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;and
      on the left-hand side, at the foot of the hill, you will find the
      photographer Carjat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The grocer stepped to the door to watch her. &ldquo;That girl&rsquo;s certainly
      light-headed,&rdquo; he thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her demeanor was really so extraordinary that it attracted the attention
      of the passers-by. She saw this, and slackening her pace, tried to become
      more composed. At the spot the grocer had indicated, she perceived several
      show frames filled with photographs hanging on either side of a broad,
      open gateway, above which ran the name, &ldquo;E. Carjat.&rdquo; She went in, and
      seeing a man standing at the door of an elegant pavilion on the right-hand
      side of a large courtyard, she approached him, and asked for his employer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is here,&rdquo; replied the man. &ldquo;Does madame come for a photograph?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then will madame be so kind as to pass in. She will not be obliged to
      wait long. There are only four or five persons before her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Four or five persons! How long would she be obliged to wait?&mdash;half an
      hour&mdash;two hours? She had not the slightest idea. But she DID know
      that she had not a second to lose, that Madame Leon might return at any
      moment, and find the letter missing; and, to crown all, she remembered now
      that she had not even locked the drawer again. &ldquo;I cannot wait,&rdquo; she said,
      imperiously. &ldquo;I must speak to M. Carjat at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At once, I tell you. Go and tell him that he must come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her tone was so commanding, and there was so much authority in her glance,
      that the servant hesitated no longer. He ushered her into a little
      sitting-room, and said, &ldquo;If madame will take a seat, I will call
      monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sank on to a chair, for her limbs were failing her. She was beginning
      to realize the strangeness of the step she had taken&mdash;to fear the
      result it might lead to&mdash;and to be astonished at her own boldness.
      But she had no time to prepare what she wished to say, for a man of
      five-and-thirty, wearing a mustache and imperial, and clad in a velvet
      coat, entered the room, and bowing with an air of surprise, exclaimed:
      &ldquo;You desire to speak with me, madame?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a great favor to ask of you, monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She drew M. de Valorsay&rsquo;s letter from her pocket, and, showing it to the
      photographer, she said, &ldquo;I have come to you, monsieur, to ask you to
      photograph this letter&mdash;but at once&mdash;before me&mdash;and quickly&mdash;very
      quickly. The honor of two persons is imperilled by each moment I lose
      here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s embarrassment was extreme. Her cheeks were
      crimson, and she trembled like a leaf. Still her attitude was proud,
      generous enthusiasm glowed in her dark eyes, and her tone of voice
      revealed the serenity of a lofty soul ready to dare anything for a just
      and noble cause. This striking contrast&mdash;this struggle between
      girlish timidity and a lover&rsquo;s virgil energy, endowed her with a strange
      and powerful charm, which the photographer made no attempt to resist.
      Unusual as was the request, he did not hesitate. &ldquo;I am ready to do what
      you desire, madame,&rdquo; he replied, bowing again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! monsieur, how can I ever thank you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not stop to listen to her thanks. Not wishing to return to the
      reception-room, where five or six clients were impatiently awaiting their
      turn, he called one of his subordinates, and ordered him to bring the
      necessary apparatus at once. While he was speaking, Mademoiselle
      Marguerite paused; but, as soon as his instructions were concluded, she
      remarked: &ldquo;Perhaps you are too hasty, sir. You have not allowed me to
      explain; and perhaps what I desire is impossible. I came on the impulse of
      the moment, without any knowledge on the subject. Before you set to work,
      I must know if what you can do will answer my purpose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will the copy you obtain be precisely like the original in every
      particular?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In every particular.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The writing will be the same&mdash;exactly the same?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Absolutely the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So like, that if one of your photographs should be presented to the
      person who wrote this letter&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He could no more deny his handwriting than he could if some one handed
      him the letter itself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the operation will leave no trace on the original?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A smile of triumph played upon Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s lips. It was as
      she had thought; the defensive plan which she had suddenly conceived was a
      good one. &ldquo;One more question, sir,&rdquo; she resumed. &ldquo;I am only a poor,
      ignorant girl: excuse me, and give me the benefit of your knowledge. This
      letter will be returned to its author to-morrow, and he will burn it. But
      afterward, in case of any difficulty&mdash;in case of a law-suit&mdash;or
      in case it should be necessary for me to prove certain things which one
      might establish by means of this letter, would one of your photographs be
      admitted as evidence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The photographer did not answer for a moment. Now he understood
      Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s motive, and the importance she attached to a
      facsimile. But this imparted an unexpected gravity to the service he was
      called upon to perform. He therefore wished some time for reflection, and
      he scrutinized Mademoiselle Marguerite as if he were trying to read her
      very soul. Was it possible that this young girl, with such a pure and
      noble brow, and with such frank, honest eyes, could be meditating any
      cowardly, dishonorable act? No, he could not believe it. In whom, or in
      what, could he trust if such a countenance deceived him? &ldquo;My facsimile
      would certainly be admitted as evidence,&rdquo; he replied at last; &ldquo;and this
      would not be the first time that the decision of a court has depended on
      proofs which have been photographed by me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, his assistant had returned, bringing the necessary apparatus
      with him. When all was ready, the photographer asked her, &ldquo;Will you give
      me the letter, madame?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She hesitated for a second&mdash;only for a second. The man&rsquo;s honest,
      kindly face told her that he would not betray her, that he would rather
      give her assistance. So she handed him the Marquis de Valorsay&rsquo;s letter,
      saying, with melancholy dignity, &ldquo;It is my happiness and my future that I
      place in your hands&mdash;and I have no fears.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He read her thoughts, and understood that she either dared not ask for a
      pledge of secrecy, or else that she thought it unnecessary. He took pity
      on her, and his last doubt fled. &ldquo;I shall read this letter, madame,&rdquo; said
      he, &ldquo;but I am the only person who will read it. I give you my word on
      that! No one but myself will see the proofs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Greatly moved, she offered him her hand, and simply said, &ldquo;Thanks; I am
      more than repaid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To obtain an absolutely perfect facsimile of a letter is a delicate and
      sometimes lengthy operation. However, at the end of about twenty minutes,
      the photographer possessed two negatives that promised him perfect proofs.
      He looked at them with a satisfied air; and then returning the letter to
      Mademoiselle Marguerite, he said, &ldquo;In less than three days the facsimiles
      will be ready, madame; and if you will tell me to what address I ought to
      send them&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She trembled on hearing these words, and quickly answered, &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t send
      them, sir&mdash;keep them carefully. Great heavens! all would be lost if
      it came to the knowledge of any one. I will send for them, or come
      myself.&rdquo; And, feeling the extent of her obligation, she added, &ldquo;But I will
      not go without introducing myself&mdash;I am Mademoiselle Marguerite de
      Chalusse.&rdquo; And, thereupon, she went off, leaving the photographer
      surprised at the adventure and dazzled by his strange visitor&rsquo;s beauty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rather more than an hour had elapsed since Marguerite left M. de Fondege&rsquo;s
      house. &ldquo;How time flies!&rdquo; she murmured, quickening her pace as much as she
      could without exciting remark&mdash;&ldquo;how time flies!&rdquo; But, hurried as she
      was, she stopped and spent five minutes at a shop in the Rue Notre Dame de
      Lorette where she purchased some black ribbon and a few other trifles. How
      else could she explain and justify her absence, if the servants, who had
      probably discovered she had gone out, chanced to speak of it?
    </p>
    <p>
      But her heart throbbed as if it would burst as she ascended the General&rsquo;s
      staircase, and anxiety checked her breathing as she rang the bell. &ldquo;What
      if Madame de Fondege and Madame Leon had returned, and the abstraction of
      the letter been discovered!&rdquo; Fortunately, Madame de Fondege required more
      than an hour to purchase the materials for the elaborate toilette she had
      dreamt of. The ladies were still out, and Mademoiselle Marguerite found
      everything in the same condition as she had left it. She carefully placed
      the letter in the drawer again, locked it, and put the key in the pocket
      of Madame Leon&rsquo;s dress. Then she breathed freely once more; and, for the
      first time in six days, she felt something very like joy in her heart. Now
      she had no fear of the Marquis de Valorsay. She had him in her power. He
      would destroy his letter the next day, and think that he was annihilating
      all proofs of his infamy. Not so. At the decisive moment, at the very
      moment of his triumph, she would produce the photograph of this letter,
      and crush him. And she&mdash;only a young girl&mdash;had outwitted this
      consummate scoundrel! &ldquo;I have not been unworthy of Pascal,&rdquo; she said to
      herself, with a flash of pride.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, her nature was not one of those weak ones which are become
      intoxicated by the first symptom of success, and then relax in their
      efforts. When her excitement had abated a little, she was inclined to
      disparage rather than to exaggerate the advantage she had gained. What she
      desired was a complete, startling, incontestable victory. It was not
      enough to prove Valorsay&rsquo;s GUILT&mdash;she was resolved to penetrate his
      designs, to discover why he pursued her so desperately. And, though she
      felt that she possessed a formidable weapon of defence, she could not
      drive away her gloomy forebodings when she thought of the threats
      contained in the marquis&rsquo;s letter. &ldquo;Thanks to the assistance of one of my
      friends,&rdquo; he wrote, &ldquo;I can place this proud girl in a perilous, terribly
      perilous, position, from which she cannot possibly extricate herself
      unaided.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These words persistently lingered in Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s mind. What
      was the danger hanging over her? whence would it come? and in what form?
      What abominable machination might she not expect from the villain who had
      deliberately dishonored Pascal? How would he attack her? Would he strive
      to ruin her reputation, or did he intend to forcibly abduct her? Would he
      attempt to decoy her into a trap where she would be subjected to the
      insults of the vilest wretches? A thousand frightful memories of the time
      when she was an apprentice drove her nearly frantic. &ldquo;I will never go out
      unarmed,&rdquo; she thought, &ldquo;and woe to the man who raises his hand against
      me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The vagueness of the threat increased her fears. No one is courageous
      enough to confront an unknown, mysterious, and always imminent danger
      without sometimes faltering. Nor was this all. The marquis was not her
      only enemy. She had the Fondege family to dread&mdash;these dangerous
      hypocrites, who had taken her to their home so that they might ruin her
      the more surely. M. de Valorsay wrote that he had no fears of the Fondeges&mdash;that
      he understood their little game. What was their little game? No doubt they
      were resolved that she should become their son&rsquo;s wife, even if they were
      obliged to use force to win her consent. At this thought a sudden terror
      seized her soul, so full of peace and hope an instant before. When she was
      attacked, would she have time to produce and use the facsimile of
      Valorsay&rsquo;s letter? &ldquo;I must reveal my secret to a friend&mdash;to a trusty
      friend&mdash;who will avenge me!&rdquo; she muttered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fortunately she had a friend in whom she could safely confide&mdash;the
      old magistrate who had given her such proofs of sympathy. She felt that
      she needed the advice of a riper experience than her own, and the thought
      of consulting him at once occurred to her. She was alone; she had no spy
      to fear; and it would be folly not to profit by the few moments of liberty
      that remained. So she drew her writing-case from her trunk, and, after
      barricading her door to prevent a surprise, she wrote her friend an
      account of the events which had taken place since their last interview.
      She told him everything with rare precision and accuracy of detail,
      sending him a copy of Valorsay&rsquo;s letter, and informing him that, in case
      any misfortune befell her, he could obtain the facsimiles from Carjat. She
      finished her letter, but did not seal it. &ldquo;If anything should happen
      before I have an opportunity to post it, I will add a postscript,&rdquo; she
      said to herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had made all possible haste, fearing that Madame de Fondege and Madame
      Leon might return at any moment. But this was truly a chimerical
      apprehension. It was nearly six o&rsquo;clock when the two shoppers made their
      appearance, wearied with the labors of the day, but in fine spirits.
      Besides purchasing every requisite for that wonderful costume of hers, the
      General&rsquo;s wife had found some laces of rare beauty, which she had secured
      for the mere trifle of four thousand francs. &ldquo;It was one of those
      opportunities one ought always to profit by,&rdquo; she said, as she displayed
      her purchase. &ldquo;Besides, it is the same with lace as with diamonds, you
      should purchase them when you can&mdash;then you have them. It isn&rsquo;t an
      outlay&mdash;it&rsquo;s an investment.&rdquo; Subtle reasoning that has cost many a
      husband dear!
    </p>
    <p>
      On her side, Madame Leon proudly showed her dear young lady a very pretty
      present which Madame de Fondege had given her. &ldquo;So money is no longer
      lacking in this household,&rdquo; thought Mademoiselle Marguerite, all the more
      confirmed in her suspicions.
    </p>
    <p>
      The General came in a little later, accompanied by a friend, and
      Marguerite soon discovered that the worthy man had spent the day as
      profitably as his wife. He too was quite tired out; and he had reason to
      be fatigued. First, he had purchased the horses belonging to the ruined
      spendthrift, and he had paid five thousand francs for them, a mere trifle
      for such animals. Less than an hour after the purchase he had refused
      almost double that amount from a celebrated connoisseur in horse-flesh, M.
      de Breulh-Faverlay. This excellent speculation had put him in such good
      humor that he had been unable to resist the temptation of purchasing a
      beautiful saddle-horse, which they let him have for a hundred louis. He
      had not been foolish, for he was sure that he could sell the animal again
      at an advance of a thousand francs whenever he wished to do so. &ldquo;So,&rdquo;
       remarked his friend, &ldquo;if you bought such a horse every day, you would make
      three hundred and sixty-five thousand francs a year.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Was this only a jest&mdash;one of those witticisms which people who boast
      of wonderful bargains must expect to parry, or had the remark a more
      serious meaning? Marguerite could not determine. One thing is certain, the
      General did not lose his temper, but gayly continued his account of the
      way in which he had spent his time. Having purchased the horses, his next
      task was to find a carriage, and he had heard of a barouche which a
      Russian prince had ordered but didn&rsquo;t take, so that the builder was
      willing to sell it at less than cost price; and to recoup this worthy man,
      the General had purchased a brougham as well. He had, moreover, hired
      stabling in the Rue Pigalle, only a few steps from the house, and he
      expected a coachman and a groom the following morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And all this will cost us less than the miserable vehicle we have been
      hiring by the year,&rdquo; observed Madame de Fondege, gravely. &ldquo;Oh, I know what
      I say. I&rsquo;ve counted the cost. What with gratuities and extras, it costs us
      now fully a thousand francs a month, and three horses and a coachman won&rsquo;t
      cost you more. And what a difference! I shall no longer be obliged to
      blush for the skinny horses the stable-keeper sends me, nor to endure the
      insolence of his men. The first outlay frightened me a little; but that is
      made now, and I am delighted. We will save it in something else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In laces, no doubt,&rdquo; thought Mademoiselle Marguerite. She was intensely
      exasperated, and on regaining her chamber she said to herself, for the
      tenth time, &ldquo;What do they take me for? Do they think me an idiot to flaunt
      the millions they have stolen from my father&mdash;that they have stolen
      from me&mdash;before my eyes in this fashion? A common thief would take
      care not to excite suspicion by a foolish expenditure of the fruits of his
      knavery, but they&mdash;they have lost their senses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Leon was already in bed, and when Mademoiselle Marguerite was
      satisfied that she was asleep, she took her letter from her trunk, and
      added this post-script: &ldquo;P. S.&mdash;It is impossible to retain the shadow
      of a doubt, M. and Madame de Fondege have spent certainly twenty thousand
      francs to-day. This audacity must arise from a conviction that no proofs
      of the crime they have committed exist. Still they continue to talk to me
      about their son, Lieutenant Gustave. He will be presented to me to-morrow.
      To-morrow, also, between three and four, I shall be at the house of a man
      who can perhaps discover Pascal&rsquo;s hiding-place for me,&mdash;the house of
      M. Isidore Fortunat. I hope to make my escape easily enough, for at that
      same hour, Madame Leon has an appointment with the Marquis de Valorsay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      X.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The old legend of Achilles&rsquo;s heel will be eternally true. A man may be
      humble or powerful, feeble or strong, but there are none of us without
      some weak spot in our armor, a spot vulnerable beyond all others, a
      certain place where wounds prove most dangerous and painful. M. Isidore
      Fortunat&rsquo;s weak place was his cash-box. To attack him there was to
      endanger his life&mdash;to wound him at a point where all his sensibility
      centred. For it was in this cash-box and not in his breast that his heart
      really throbbed. His safe made him happy or dejected. Happy when it was
      filled to overflowing by some brilliant operation, and dejected when he
      saw it become empty as some imprudent transaction failed.
    </p>
    <p>
      This then explains his frenzy on that ill-fated Sunday, when, after being
      brutally dismissed by M. Wilkie, he returned to his rooms in the company
      of his clerk, Victor Chupin. This explains, too, the intensity of the
      hatred he now felt for the Marquis de Valorsay and the Viscount de
      Coralth. The former, the marquis, had defrauded him of forty thousand
      francs in glittering gold. The other, the viscount, had suddenly sprung up
      out of the ground, and carried off from under his very nose that
      magnificent prize, the Chalusse inheritance, which he had considered as
      good as won. And he had not only been defrauded and swindled&mdash;such
      were his own expressions&mdash;but he had been tricked, deceived, duped,
      and outwitted, and by whom? By people who did not make it their profession
      to be shrewd, like he did himself. Just fancy, his business was to outwit
      others, and a couple of mere amateurs had outgeneraled him. He had not
      only suffered in pocket, he had been humiliated as well, and so he
      indulged in threats of such terrible import.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, at the very moment when he was dreaming of wreaking vengeance on
      the Marquis de Valorsay and the Viscount de Coralth, his housekeeper,
      austere Madame Dodelin, handed him Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s letter. He
      read it with intense astonishment, rubbing his eyes as if to assure
      himself that he were really awake. &ldquo;Tuesday,&rdquo; he repeated, &ldquo;the day after
      to-morrow&mdash;at your house&mdash;between three and four o&rsquo;clock&mdash;I
      must speak with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His manner was so strange, and his usually impassive face so disturbed by
      conflicting feelings, that Madame Dodelin&rsquo;s curiosity overcame her
      prudence, and she remained standing in front of him with open mouth,
      staring with all her eyes and listening with all her ears. He perceived
      this, and angrily exclaimed: &ldquo;What are you doing here? You are watching
      me, I do believe. Get back to your kitchen, or&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She fled in alarm, and he then entered his private office. His heart was
      leaping with joy, and he laughed wickedly at the hope of a speedy revenge.
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s on the scent,&rdquo; he muttered; &ldquo;and she has luck in her favor. She has
      chanced to apply to me on the very day that I had resolved to defend and
      rehabilitate her lover, the honest fool who allowed himself to be
      dishonored by those unscrupulous blackguards. Just as I was thinking of
      going in search of her, she comes to me. As I was about to write to her,
      she writes to me. Who can deny the existence of Providence after this?&rdquo;
       Like many other people, M. Fortunat piously believed in Providence when
      things went to his liking, but it is sad to add that in the contrary case
      he denied its existence. &ldquo;If she has any courage,&rdquo; he resumed, &ldquo;and she
      seems to have plenty of it, Valorsay and Coralth will be in a tight place
      soon. And if it takes ten thousand francs to put them there, and if
      neither Mademoiselle Marguerite nor M. Ferailleur has the amount&mdash;ah,
      well! I&rsquo;ll advance&mdash;well, at least five thousand&mdash;without
      charging them any commission. I&rsquo;ll even pay the expenses out of my own
      pocket, if necessary. Ah, my fine fellows, you&rsquo;ve laughed too soon. In a
      week&rsquo;s time we&rsquo;ll see who laughs last.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused, for Victor Chupin, who had lingered behind to pay the driver,
      had just entered the room. &ldquo;You gave me twenty francs, m&rsquo;sieur,&rdquo; he
      remarked to his employer. &ldquo;I paid the driver four francs and five sous,
      here&rsquo;s the change.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep it yourself, Victor,&rdquo; said M. Fortunat.
    </p>
    <p>
      What! keep fifteen francs and fifteen sous? Under any other circumstances
      such unusual generosity would have drawn a grimace of satisfaction from
      young Chupin. But to-day he did not even smile; he slipped the money
      carelessly into his pocket, and scarcely deigned to say &ldquo;thanks,&rdquo; in the
      coldest possible tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Absorbed in thought, M. Fortunat did not remark this little circumstance.
      &ldquo;We have them, Victor,&rdquo; he resumed. &ldquo;I told you that Valorsay and Coralth
      should pay me for their treason. Vengeance is near. Read this letter.&rdquo;
       Victor read it slowly, and as soon as he had finished his employer
      ejaculated, &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Chupin was not a person to give advice lightly. &ldquo;Excuse me, m&rsquo;sieur,&rdquo;
       said he, &ldquo;but in order to answer you, I must have some knowledge of the
      affair. I only know what you&rsquo;ve told me&mdash;which is little enough&mdash;and
      what I&rsquo;ve guessed. In fact, I know nothing at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Fortunat reflected for a moment. &ldquo;You are right, Victor,&rdquo; he said, at
      last. &ldquo;So far the explanation I gave you was all that was necessary; but
      now that I expect more important services from you, I ought to tell you
      the whole truth, or at least all I know about the affair. This will prove
      my great confidence in you.&rdquo; Whereupon, he acquainted Chupin with
      everything he knew concerning the history of M. de Chalusse, the Marquis
      de Valorsay, and Mademoiselle Marguerite.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, if he expected these disclosures to elevate him in his
      subordinate&rsquo;s estimation he was greatly mistaken. Chupin had sufficient
      experience and common sense to read his master&rsquo;s character and discern his
      motives. He saw plainly enough that this honest impulse on M. Fortunat&rsquo;s
      part came from disappointed avarice and wounded vanity, and that the agent
      would have allowed the Marquis de Valorsay to carry out his infamous
      scheme without any compunctions of conscience, providing he, himself, had
      not been injured by it. Still, the young fellow did not allow his real
      feelings to appear on his face. First, it was not his business to tell M.
      Fortunat his opinion of him; and in the second place, he did not deem it
      an opportune moment for a declaration of his sentiments. So, when his
      employer paused, he exclaimed: &ldquo;Well, we must outwit these scoundrels&mdash;for
      I&rsquo;ll join you, m&rsquo;sieur; and I flatter myself that I can be very useful to
      you. Do you want the particulars of the viscount&rsquo;s past life? If so, I can
      furnish them. I know the brigand. He&rsquo;s married, as I told you before, and
      I&rsquo;ll find his wife for you in a few days. I don&rsquo;t know exactly where she
      lives, but she keeps a tobacco store, somewhere, and that&rsquo;s enough. She&rsquo;ll
      tell you how much he&rsquo;s a viscount. Ha! ha! Viscount just as much as I am&mdash;and
      no more. I can tell you the scrapes he has been in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt; but the most important thing is to know how he&rsquo;s living now,
      and on what!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not by honest work, I can tell you. But give me a little time, and I&rsquo;ll
      find out for sure. As soon as I can go home, change my clothes, and
      disguise myself, I&rsquo;ll start after him; and may I be hung, if I don&rsquo;t
      return with a complete report before Tuesday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A smile of satisfaction appeared on M. Fortunat&rsquo;s face. &ldquo;Good, Victor!&rdquo; he
      said, approvingly, &ldquo;very good! I see that you will serve me with your
      usual zeal and intelligence. Rest assured that you will be rewarded as you
      have never been rewarded before. As long as you are engaged in this
      affair, you shall have ten francs a day; and I&rsquo;ll pay your board, your
      cab-hire, and all your expenses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was a most liberal offer, and yet, far from seeming delighted, Chupin
      gravely shook his head. &ldquo;You know how I value money, m&rsquo;sieur,&rdquo; he began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Too much, Victor, my boy, too much&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, it&rsquo;s because I have responsibilities, m&rsquo;sieur. You know my
      establishment&rdquo;&mdash;he spoke this word with a grandiloquent air&mdash;&ldquo;you
      have seen my good mother&mdash;my expenses are heavy&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In short, you don&rsquo;t think I offer you enough?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the contrary, sir&mdash;but you don&rsquo;t allow me to finish. I love
      money, don&rsquo;t I? But no matter, I don&rsquo;t want to be paid for this business.
      I don&rsquo;t want either my board or my expenses, not a penny&mdash;nothing.
      I&rsquo;ll serve you, but for my own sake, for my own pleasure&mdash;gratis.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Fortunat could not restrain an exclamation of astonishment. Chupin, who
      was as eager for gain as an old usurer&mdash;Chupin, as grasping as
      avarice itself, refuse money! This was something which he had never seen
      before, and which he would no doubt never see again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Victor had become very much excited; his usually pale cheeks were crimson,
      and in a harsh voice, he continued: &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a fancy of mine&mdash;that&rsquo;s
      all. I have eight hundred francs hidden in my room, the fruit of years of
      work. I&rsquo;ll spend the last penny of it if need be; and if I can see Coralth
      in the mire, I shall say, &lsquo;My money has been well expended.&rsquo; I&rsquo;d rather
      see that day dawn than be the possessor of a hundred thousand francs. If a
      horrible vision haunted you every night, and prevented you from sleeping,
      wouldn&rsquo;t you give something to get rid of it? Very well! that brigand&rsquo;s my
      nightmare. There must be an end to it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Coralth, who was a man of wide experience, would certainly have felt
      alarmed if he had seen his unknown enemy at the present moment, for
      Victor&rsquo;s eyes, usually a pale and undecided blue, were glittering like
      steel, and his hands were clinched most threateningly. &ldquo;For he was the
      cause of all my trouble,&rdquo; he continued, gloomily. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve told you, sir,
      that I was guilty of an infamous deed once upon a time. If it hadn&rsquo;t been
      for a miracle I should have killed a man&mdash;the king of men. Ah, well!
      if Monsieur Andre had broken his back by falling from a fifth-floor
      window, my Coralth would be the Duc de Champdoce to-day. And shall he be
      allowed to ride about in his carriage, and deceive and ruin honest people?
      No&mdash;there are too many such villains at large for public safety. Wait
      a little, Coralth&mdash;I owe you something, and I always pay my debts.
      When M. Andre saved me, though I richly deserved to have my throat cut, he
      made no conditions. He only said, &lsquo;If you are not irredeemably bad you
      will be honest after this.&rsquo; And he said these words as he was lying there
      as pale as death with his shoulder broken, and his body mangled from his
      fall. Great heavens! I felt smaller than&mdash;than nothing before him.
      But I swore that I would do honor to his teachings&mdash;and when evil
      thoughts enter my mind, and when I feel a thirst for liquor, I say to
      myself, &lsquo;Wait a bit, and&mdash;and M. Andre will take a glass with you.&rsquo; 
      And that quenches my thirst instantly. I have his portrait at home, and
      every night, before going to bed, I tell him the history of the day&mdash;and
      sometimes I fancy that he smiles at me. All this is very absurd, perhaps,
      but I&rsquo;m not ashamed of it. M. Andre and my good mother, they are my
      supports, my crutches, and with them I&rsquo;m not afraid of making a false
      step.&rdquo; Schebel, the German philosopher, who has written a treatise on
      Volition, in four volumes, was no greater a man than Chupin. &ldquo;So you may
      keep your money, sir,&rdquo; he resumed. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m an honest fellow, and honest men
      ought to ask no reward for the performance of a duty. Coralth mustn&rsquo;t be
      allowed to triumph over the innocent chap he ruined. What did you call
      him? Ferailleur? It&rsquo;s an odd name. Never mind&mdash;we&rsquo;ll get him out of
      this scrape; he shall marry his sweetheart after all; and I&rsquo;ll dance at
      the wedding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he finished speaking he laughed a shrill, dangerous laugh, which
      revealed his sharp teeth&mdash;but such invincible determination was
      apparent on his face, that M. Fortunat felt no misgivings. He was sure
      that this volunteer would be of more service than the highest-priced
      hireling. &ldquo;So I can count on you, Victor?&rdquo; he inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As upon yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you hope to have some positive information by Tuesday?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before then, I hope, if nothing goes amiss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well; I will devote my attention to Ferailleur then. As to
      Valorsay&rsquo;s affairs, I am better acquainted with them than he is himself.
      We must be prepared to enter upon the campaign when Mademoiselle
      Marguerite comes, and we will act in accordance with her instructions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Chupin had already caught up his hat; but just as he was leaving the room,
      he paused abruptly. &ldquo;How stupid!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;I had forgotten the
      principal thing. Where does Coralth live?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unfortunately, I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      According to his habit when things did not go to his liking, Chupin began
      to scratch his head furiously. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s bad,&rdquo; growled he. &ldquo;Viscounts of his
      stamp don&rsquo;t parade their addresses in the directory. Still, I shall find
      him.&rdquo; However, although he expressed this conviction he went off decidedly
      out of temper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall lose the entire evening hunting up the rascal&rsquo;s address,&rdquo; he
      grumbled, as he hastened homeward. &ldquo;And whom shall I ask for it?&mdash;Madame
      d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s concierge? Would he know it&mdash;M. Wilkie&rsquo;s servant? That
      would be dangerous.&rdquo; He thought of roaming sound about M. de Valorsay&rsquo;s
      residence, and of bribing one of the valets; but while crossing the
      boulevard, the sight of Brebant&rsquo;s Restaurant put a new idea into his head.
      &ldquo;I have it!&rdquo; he muttered; &ldquo;my man&rsquo;s caught!&rdquo; And he darted into the
      nearest cafe where he ordered some beer and writing materials.
    </p>
    <p>
      Under other circumstances, he would have hesitated to employ so hazardous
      an expedient as the one he was about to resort to, but the character of
      his adversaries justified any course; besides, time was passing, and he
      had no choice of resources. As soon as the waiter served him, he drained
      his glass of beer to give himself an inspiration, and then, in his finest
      hand, he wrote:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;MY DEAR VISCOUNT&mdash;Here&rsquo;s the amount&mdash;one hundred francs&mdash;that I
     lost to you last evening at piquet.  When shall I have my revenge?
     Your friend,
                                              &ldquo;VALORSAY.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      When he had finished this letter he read it over three or four times,
      asking himself if this were the style of composition that very fashionable
      folks employ in repaying their debts. To tell the truth, he doubted it. In
      the rough draft which he penned at first, he had written bezique, but in
      the copy he wrote piquet, which he deemed a more aristocratic game.
      &ldquo;However,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;no one will examine it closely!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then, as soon as the ink was dry, he folded the letter and slipped it into
      an envelope with a hundred franc-note which he drew from an old
      pocketbook. He next addressed the envelope as follows: &ldquo;Monsieur le
      Vicomte de Coralth, En Ville,&rdquo; and having completed his preparations, he
      paid his score, and hastened to Brebant&rsquo;s. Two waiters were standing at
      the doorway, and, showing them the letter, he politely asked: &ldquo;Do you
      happen to know this name? A gentleman dropped this letter on leaving your
      place last evening. I ran after him to return it; but I couldn&rsquo;t overtake
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The waiters examined the address. &ldquo;Coralth!&rdquo; they replied. &ldquo;We scarcely
      know him. He isn&rsquo;t a regular customer, but he comes here occasionally.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And where does he live?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you wish to know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So as to take him this letter, to be sure!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The waiters shrugged their shoulders. &ldquo;Let the letter go; it is not worth
      while to trouble yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Chupin had foreseen this objection, and was prepared for it. &ldquo;But there&rsquo;s
      money in the letter,&rdquo; he remonstrated. And opening the envelope, he showed
      the bank-note which he had taken from his own pocket-book.
    </p>
    <p>
      This changed the matter entirely. &ldquo;That is quite a different thing,&rdquo;
       remarked one of the waiters. &ldquo;If you find money, you are, of course,
      responsible for it. But just leave it here at the desk, and the next time
      the viscount comes in, the cashier will give it to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A cold chill crept over Chupin at the thought of losing his bank-note in
      this way. &ldquo;Ah! I don&rsquo;t fancy that idea!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Leave it here?
      Never in life! Who&rsquo;d get the reward? A viscount is always generous; it is
      quite likely he would give me twenty francs as a reward for my honesty.
      And that&rsquo;s why I want his address.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The argument was of a nature to touch the waiters; they thought the young
      man quite right; but they did not know M. de Coralth&rsquo;s address, and they
      saw no way of procuring it. &ldquo;Unless perhaps the porter knows,&rdquo; observed
      one of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The porter, on being called, remembered that he had once been sent to M.
      de Coralth&rsquo;s house for an overcoat. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve forgotten his number,&rdquo; he
      declared; &ldquo;but he lives in the Rue d&rsquo;Anjou, near the corner of the Rue de
      la Ville l&rsquo;Eveque.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This direction was not remarkable for its precision, but it was more than
      sufficient for a pure-blooded Parisian like Victor Chupin. &ldquo;Many thanks
      for your kindness,&rdquo; he said to the porter. &ldquo;A blind man, perhaps, might
      not be able to go straight to M. de Coralth&rsquo;s house from your directions,
      but I have eyes and a tongue as well. And, believe me, if there&rsquo;s any
      reward, you shall see that I know how to repay a good turn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if you don&rsquo;t find the viscount,&rdquo; added the waiters, &ldquo;bring the money
      here, and it will be returned to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Naturally!&rdquo; replied Chupin. And he strode hurriedly away. &ldquo;Return!&rdquo; he
      muttered; &ldquo;not I! I thought for a moment they had their hands on my
      precious bank-note.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he had already recovered from his fright, and as he turned his steps
      homeward he congratulated himself on the success of his stratagem. &ldquo;For my
      viscount is caught,&rdquo; he said to himself. &ldquo;The Rue d&rsquo;Anjou Saint Honore
      hasn&rsquo;t a hundred numbers in it, and even if I&rsquo;m compelled to go from door
      to door, my task will soon be accomplished.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On reaching home he found his mother engaged in knitting, as usual. This
      was the only avocation that her almost complete blindness allowed her to
      pursue; and she followed it constantly. &ldquo;Ah! here you are, Toto,&rdquo; she
      exclaimed, joyously. &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t expect you so soon. Don&rsquo;t you scent a
      savory smell? As you must be greatly tired after being up all night, I&rsquo;m
      making you a stew.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As customary when he returned, Chupin embraced the good woman with the
      respectful tenderness which had so surprised M. Fortunat. &ldquo;You are always
      kind,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but, unfortunately, I can&rsquo;t remain to dine with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you promised me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true, mamma; but business, you see&mdash;business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The worthy woman shook her head. &ldquo;Always business!&rdquo; she exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;when a fellow hasn&rsquo;t ten thousand francs a year.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have become a worker, Toto, and that makes me very happy; but you are
      too eager for money, and that frightens me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s to say, you fear I shall do something dishonest. Ah! mother! do
      you think I can forget you and Monsieur Andre?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His mother said no more, and he entered the tiny nook which he so
      pompously styled his chamber, and quickly changed the clothes he was
      wearing (his Sunday toggery) for an old pair of checked trousers, a black
      blouse, and a glazed cap. And when he had finished, and given a peculiar
      turn to his hair, no one would have recognized him. In place of M.
      Fortunat&rsquo;s respectable clerk, there appeared one of those vagabonds who
      hang about cafes and theatres from six in the evening till midnight, and
      spend the rest of their time playing cards in the low drinking dens near
      the barrieres. It was the old Chupin come to life once more&mdash;Toto
      Chupin as he had appeared before his conversion. And as he took a last
      look in the little glass hanging over the table, he was himself astonished
      at the transformation. &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; he muttered, &ldquo;I was a sorry looking devil in
      those days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Although he had cautiously avoided making any noise in dressing, his
      mother, with the wonderfully acute hearing of the blind, had followed each
      of his movements as surely as if she had been standing near watching him.
      &ldquo;You have changed your clothes, Toto,&rdquo; she remarked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why have you put on your blouse, my son?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Although accustomed to his mother&rsquo;s remarkable quickness of perception, he
      was amazed. Still he did not think of denying it. She would only have to
      extend her hand to prove that he was telling a falsehood. The blind
      woman&rsquo;s usually placid face had become stern. &ldquo;So it is necessary to
      disguise yourself,&rdquo; she said, gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, mother&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, my son! When a man doesn&rsquo;t wish to be recognized, he&rsquo;s evidently
      doing something he&rsquo;s ashamed of. Ever since your employer came here, you
      have been concealing something from me. Take care, Toto! Since I heard
      that man&rsquo;s voice, I&rsquo;m sure that he is quite as capable of urging you to
      commit a crime as others were in days gone by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The blind woman was preaching to a convert; for during the past three
      days, M. Fortunat had shown himself in such a light that Chupin had
      secretly resolved to change his employer. &ldquo;I promise you I&rsquo;ll leave him,
      mother,&rdquo; he declared, &ldquo;so you may be quite easy in mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well; but now, at this moment, where are you going?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was only one way of completely reassuring the good woman, and that
      was to tell her all. Chupin did so with absolute frankness. &ldquo;Ah, well!&rdquo;
       she said, when the narrative was finished. &ldquo;You see now how easy it is to
      lead you astray! How could you be induced to play the part of a spy, when
      you know so well what it leads to? It&rsquo;s only God&rsquo;s protecting care that
      has saved you again from an act which you would have reproached yourself
      for all your life. Your employer&rsquo;s intentions are good now; but they WERE
      criminal when he ordered you to follow Madame d&rsquo;Argeles. Poor woman! She
      had sacrificed herself for her son, she had concealed herself from him,
      and you were working to betray her. Poor creature! how she must have
      suffered, and how much I pity her! To be what she is, and to see herself
      denounced by her own son! I, who am only a poor plebeian, should die of
      shame under such circumstances.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Chupin blew his nose so loudly that the window-panes rattled; this was his
      way of repressing his emotion whenever it threatened to overcome him. &ldquo;You
      speak like the good mother that you are,&rdquo; he exclaimed at last, &ldquo;and I&rsquo;m
      prouder of you than if you were the handsomest and richest lady in Paris,
      for you&rsquo;re certainly the most honest and virtuous; and I should be a
      thorough scoundrel if I caused you a moment&rsquo;s sorrow. And if ever I set my
      foot in such a mess again, I hope some one will cut it off. But for this
      once&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For this once, you may go, Toto; I give my consent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went off with a lighter heart; and on reaching the Rue d&rsquo;Anjou he
      immediately began his investigations. They were not successful at first.
      At every house where he made inquiries nobody had any knowledge of the
      Viscount de Coralth. He had visited half the buildings in the street, when
      he reached one of the handsomest houses, in front of which stood a cart
      laden with plants and flowers. An old man, who seemed to be the concierge,
      and a valet in a red waistcoat, were removing the plants from the vehicle
      and arranging them in a line under the porte cochere. As soon as the cart
      was emptied, it drove away, whereupon Chupin stepped forward, and
      addressing the concierge, asked: &ldquo;Does the Viscount de Coralth live here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. What do you want with him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Having foreseen this question, Chupin had prepared a reply. &ldquo;I certainly
      don&rsquo;t come to call on him,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;My reason for inquiring is this:
      just now, as I passed near the Madeleine, a very elegant lady called me,
      and said: &lsquo;M. de Coralth lives in the Rue d&rsquo;Anjou, but I&rsquo;ve forgotten the
      number. I can&rsquo;t go about from door to door making inquiries, so if you&rsquo;ll
      go there and ascertain his address for me, I&rsquo;ll give you five francs for
      yourself,&rsquo; so my money&rsquo;s made.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Profiting by his old Parisian experience, Chupin had chosen such a clever
      excuse that both his listeners heartily laughed. &ldquo;Well, Father Moulinet,&rdquo;
       cried the servant in the red waistcoat, &ldquo;what do you say to that? Are
      there any elegant ladies who give five francs for YOUR address?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there any lady who&rsquo;s likely to send such flowers as these to YOU?&rdquo; was
      the response.
    </p>
    <p>
      Chupin was about to retire with a bow, when the concierge stopped him.
      &ldquo;You accomplish your errands so well that perhaps you&rsquo;d be willing to take
      these flower-pots up to the second floor, if we gave you a glass of wine!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No proposal could have suited Chupin better. Although he was prone to
      exaggerate his own powers and the fecundity of his resources, he had not
      flattered himself with the hope that he should succeed in crossing the
      threshold of M. de Coralth&rsquo;s rooms. For, without any great mental effort,
      he had realized that the servant arrayed in the red waistcoat was in the
      viscount&rsquo;s employ, and these flowers were to be carried to his apartments.
      However any signs of satisfaction would have seemed singular under the
      circumstances, and so he sulkily replied: &ldquo;A glass of wine! you had better
      say two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ll say a whole bottleful, my boy, if that suits you any better,&rdquo;
       replied the servant, with the charming good-nature so often displayed by
      people who are giving other folk&rsquo;s property away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I&rsquo;m at your service!&rdquo; exclaimed Chupin. And, loading himself with a
      host of flower-pots as skilfully as if he had been accustomed to handling
      them all his life, he added: &ldquo;Now, lead the way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The valet and the concierge preceded him with empty hands, of course; and,
      on reaching the second floor, they opened a door, and said: &ldquo;This is the
      place. Come in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Chupin had expected to find that M. de Coralth&rsquo;s apartments were handsomer
      than his own in the Faubourg Saint Denis; but he had scarcely imagined
      such luxury as pervaded this establishment. The chandeliers seemed marvels
      in his eyes; and the sumptuous chairs and couches eclipsed M. Fortunat&rsquo;s
      wonderful sofa completely. &ldquo;So he no longer amuses himself with petty
      rascalities,&rdquo; thought Chupin, as he surveyed the rooms. &ldquo;Monsieur&rsquo;s
      working on a grand scale now. Decidedly this mustn&rsquo;t be allowed to
      continue.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thereupon he busied himself placing the flowers in the numerous
      jardinieres scattered about the rooms, as well as in a tiny conservatory,
      cleverly contrived on the balcony, and adjoining a little apartment with
      silk hangings, that was used as a smoking-room. Under the surveillance of
      the concierge and the valet he was allowed to visit the whole apartments.
      He admired the drawing-room, filled to overflowing with costly trifles;
      the dining-room, furnished in old oak; the luxurious bed-room with its bed
      mounted upon a platform, as if it were a throne, and the library filled
      with richly bound volumes. Everything was beautiful, sumptuous and
      magnificent, and Chupin admired, though he did not envy, this luxury. He
      said to himself that, if ever he became rich, his establishment should be
      quite different. He would have preferred rather more simplicity, a trifle
      less satin, velvet, hangings, mirrors and gilding. Still this did not
      prevent him from going into ecstasies over each room he entered; and he
      expressed his admiration so artlessly that the valet, feeling as much
      flattered as if he were the owner of the place, took a sort of pride in
      exhibiting everything.
    </p>
    <p>
      He showed Chupin the target which the viscount practised at with pistols
      for an hour every morning; for Monsieur le Vicomte was a capital marksman,
      and could lodge eight balls out of ten in the neck of a bottle at a
      distance of twenty paces. He also displayed his master&rsquo;s swords; for
      Monsieur le Vicomte handled side arms as adroitly as pistols. He took a
      lesson every day from one of the best fencing-masters in Paris; and his
      duels had always terminated fortunately. He also showed the viscount&rsquo;s
      blue velvet dressing-gown, his fur-trimmed slippers, and even his
      elaborately embroidered night-shirts. But it was the dressing-room that
      most astonished and stupefied Chupin. He stood gazing in open-mouthed
      wonder at the immense white marble table, with its water spigots and its
      basins, its sponges and boxes, its pots and vials and cups; and he counted
      the brushes by the dozen&mdash;brushes hard and soft, brushes for the
      hair, for the beard, for the hands, and the application of cosmetic to the
      mustaches and eyebrows. Never had he seen in one collection such a variety
      of steel and silver instruments, knives, pincers, scissors, and files.
      &ldquo;One might think oneself in a chiropodist&rsquo;s, or a dentist&rsquo;s
      establishment,&rdquo; remarked Chupin to the servant. &ldquo;Does your master use all
      these every day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, or rather twice a day&mdash;morning and evening&mdash;at his
      toilette.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Chupin expressed his feelings with a grimace and an exclamation of mocking
      wonder. &ldquo;Ah, well! he must have a clean skin,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      His listeners laughed heartily; and the concierge, after exchanging a
      significant glance with the valet, said sotto voce, &ldquo;Zounds! it&rsquo;s his
      business to be a handsome fellow!&rdquo; The mystery was solved.
    </p>
    <p>
      While Chupin changed the contents of the jardinieres, and remained
      upstairs in the intervals between the nine or ten journeys he made to the
      porte-cochere for more flowers, he listened attentively to the
      conversation between the concierge and the valet, and heard snatches of
      sentences that enlightened him wonderfully. Moreover, whenever a question
      arose as to placing a plant in one place rather than another, the valet
      stated as a conclusive argument that the baroness liked it in such or such
      a place, or that she would be better pleased with this or that
      arrangement, or that he must comply with the instructions she had given
      him. Chupin was therefore obliged to conclude that the flowers had been
      sent here by a baroness who possessed certain rights in the establishment.
      But who was she?
    </p>
    <p>
      He was manoeuvering cleverly in the hope of ascertaining this point, when
      a carriage was heard driving into the courtyard below. &ldquo;Monsieur must have
      returned!&rdquo; exclaimed the valet, darting to the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      Chupin also ran to look out, and saw a very elegant blue-lined brougham,
      drawn by a superb horse, but he did not perceive the viscount. In point of
      fact, M. de Coralth was already climbing the stairs, four at a time, and,
      a moment later, he entered the room, angrily exclaiming, &ldquo;Florent, what
      does this mean? Why have you left all the doors open?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Florent was the servant in the red waistcoat. He slightly shrugged his
      shoulders like a servant who knows too many of his master&rsquo;s secrets to
      have anything to fear, and in the calmest possible tone replied, &ldquo;If the
      doors are open, it is only because the baroness has just sent some
      flowers. On Sunday, too, what a funny idea! And I have been treating
      Father Moulinet and this worthy fellow&rdquo; (pointing to Chupin) &ldquo;to a glass
      of wine, to acknowledge their kindness in assisting me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fearing recognition, Chupin hid his face as much as possible; but M. de
      Coralth did not pay the slightest attention to him. There was a dark frown
      on his handsome, usually smiling countenance, and his hair was in great
      disorder. Evidently enough, something had greatly annoyed him. &ldquo;I am going
      out again,&rdquo; he remarked to his valet, &ldquo;but first of all I must write two
      letters which you must deliver immediately.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He passed into the drawing-room as he spoke, and Florent scarcely waited
      till the door was closed before uttering an oath. &ldquo;May the devil take
      him!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Here he sets me on the go again. It is five o&rsquo;clock,
      too, and I have an appointment in half an hour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A sudden hope quickened the throbbings of Chupin&rsquo;s heart. He touched the
      valet&rsquo;s arm, and in his most persuasive tone remarked: &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve nothing to
      do, and as your wine was so good, I&rsquo;ll do your errands for you, if you&rsquo;ll
      pay me for the wear and tear of shoe-leather.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Chupin&rsquo;s appearance must have inspired confidence, for the servant
      replied:&mdash;&ldquo;Well&mdash;I don&rsquo;t refuse&mdash;but we&rsquo;ll see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The viscount did not spend much time in writing; he speedily reappeared
      holding two letters which he flung upon the table, saying: &ldquo;One of these
      is for the baroness. You must deliver it into HER hands or into the hands
      of her maid&mdash;there will be no answer. You will afterward take the
      other to the person it is addressed to, and you must wait for an answer
      which you will place on my writing-table&mdash;and make haste.&rdquo; So saying,
      the viscount went off as he had entered&mdash;on the run&mdash;and a
      moment later, his brougham was heard rolling out of the courtyard.
    </p>
    <p>
      Florent was crimson with rage. &ldquo;There,&rdquo; said he, addressing Chupin rather
      than the concierge, &ldquo;what did I tell you? A letter to be placed in
      madame&rsquo;s own hands or in the hands of her maid, and to be concealed from
      the baron, who is on the watch, of course. Naturally no one can execute
      that commission but myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true!&rdquo; replied Chupin; &ldquo;but how about the other?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The valet had not yet examined the second letter. He now took it from the
      table, and glanced at the address. &ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I can confide this one
      to you, my good fellow, and it&rsquo;s very fortunate, for it is to be taken to
      a place on the other side of the river. Upon my word! masters are strange
      creatures! You manage your work so as to have a little leisure, and the
      moment you think yourself free, pouf!&mdash;they send you anywhere in
      creation without even asking if it suits your convenience. If it hadn&rsquo;t
      been for you, I should have missed a dinner with some very charming
      ladies. But, above all, don&rsquo;t loiter on the way. I don&rsquo;t mind paying your
      omnibus fare if you like. And you heard him say there would be an answer.
      You can give it to Moulinet, and in exchange, he&rsquo;ll give you fifteen sous
      for your trouble, and six sous for your omnibus fare. Besides, if you can
      extract anything from the party the letter&rsquo;s intended for, you are quite
      welcome to it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Agreed, sir! Grant me time enough to give an answer to the lady who is
      waiting at the Madeleine, and I&rsquo;m on my way. Give me the letter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here it is,&rdquo; said the valet, handing it to Chupin. But as the latter
      glanced at the address he turned deadly pale, and his eyes almost started
      from their sockets. For this is what he read: &ldquo;Madame Paul. Dealer in
      Tobacco. Quai de la Seine.&rdquo; Great as was his self-control, his emotion was
      too evident to escape notice. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter with you?&rdquo; asked the
      concierge and the valet in the same breath. &ldquo;What has happened to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A powerful effort of will restored this young fellow&rsquo;s coolness, and ready
      in an instant with an excuse for his blunder, he replied, &ldquo;I have changed
      my mind. What! you&rsquo;d only give me fifteen sous to measure such a distance
      as that! Why, it isn&rsquo;t a walk&mdash;it&rsquo;s a journey!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His explanation was accepted without demur. His listeners thought he was
      only taking advantage of the need they had of his services&mdash;as was
      perfectly natural under the circumstances. &ldquo;What! So you are
      dissatisfied!&rdquo; cried the valet. &ldquo;Very well! you shall have thirty sous&mdash;but
      be off!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I will, at once,&rdquo; replied Chupin. And, imitating the whistle of a
      locomotive with wonderful perfection, he darted away at a pace which
      augured a speedy return.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, when he was some twenty yards from the house he stopped short,
      glanced around him, and espying a dark corner slipped into it. &ldquo;That fool
      in the red waistcoat will be coming out to take the letter to that famous
      baroness,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m here, and I&rsquo;ll watch him and see where he
      goes. I should like to find out the name of the kind and charitable lady
      who watches over his brigand of a master with such tender care.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The day and the hour were in his favor. Night was coming on, hastened by a
      thick fog; the street lamps were not yet lighted, and as it was Sunday
      most of the shops were closed. It grew dark so rapidly that Chupin was
      scarcely able to recognize Florent when he at last emerged from the house.
      It is true that he looked altogether unlike the servant in the red
      waist-coat. As he had the key to the wardrobe containing his master&rsquo;s
      clothes, he did not hesitate to use them whenever an opportunity offered.
      On this occasion he had appropriated a pair of those delicately tinted
      trousers which were M. de Coralth&rsquo;s specialty, with a handsome overcoat, a
      trifle too small for him, and a very elegant hat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fine doings, indeed!&rdquo; growled Chupin as he started in pursuit. &ldquo;My
      servants sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t serve me in that way if I ever have any.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he paused in his soliloquy, and prudently hid himself under a
      neighboring gateway. The gorgeous Florent was ringing at the door of one
      of the most magnificent mansions in the Rue de la Ville l&rsquo;Eveque. The door
      was opened, and he went in. &ldquo;Ah! ah!&rdquo; thought Chupin, &ldquo;he hadn&rsquo;t far to
      go. The viscount and the baroness are shrewd. When you have flowers to
      send to anybody it&rsquo;s convenient to be neighbors!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He glanced round, and seeing an old man smoking his pipe on the threshold
      of a shop, he approached him and asked politely &ldquo;Can you tell me whom that
      big house belongs to?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To Baron Trigault,&rdquo; replied the man, without releasing his hold on his
      pipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, monsieur,&rdquo; replied Chupin, gravely. &ldquo;I inquired, because I
      think of buying a house.&rdquo; And repeating the name of Trigault several times
      to impress it upon his memory he darted off on his errand.
    </p>
    <p>
      It might be supposed that his unexpected success had delighted him, but,
      on the contrary, it rendered him even more exacting. The letter he carried
      burned his pocket like a red-hot iron. &ldquo;Madame Paul,&rdquo; he muttered, &ldquo;that
      must be the rascal&rsquo;s wife. First, Paul is his Christian name; secondly,
      I&rsquo;ve been told that his wife keeps a tobacco shop&mdash;so the case is
      plain. But the strangest thing about it is that this husband and wife
      should write to each other, when I fancied them at dagger&rsquo;s ends.&rdquo; Chupin
      would have given a pint of his own blood to know the contents of the
      missive. The idea of opening it occurred to him, and it must be confessed
      that it was not a feeling of delicacy that prevented him. He was deterred
      by a large seal which had been carefully affixed, and which would plainly
      furnish evidence if the letter were tampered with. Thus Chupin was
      punished for Florent&rsquo;s faults, for this seal was the viscount&rsquo;s&rsquo; 
      invariable precaution against his servant&rsquo;s prying curiosity. So our
      enterprising youth could only read and re-read the superscription and
      smell the paper, which was strongly scented with verbena. He fancied that
      there was some mysterious connection between this letter intended for M.
      de Coralth&rsquo;s wife and the missive sent to the baroness. And why should it
      not be so? Had they not both been written under the influence of anger?
      Still he failed to perceive any possible connection between the rich
      baroness and the poor tobacco dealer, and his cogitations only made him
      more perplexed than ever. However, his efforts to solve the mystery did
      not interfere with the free use of his limbs, and he soon found himself on
      the Quai de la Seine. &ldquo;Here I am,&rdquo; he muttered. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve come more quickly
      than an omnibus.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Quai de la Seine is a broad road, connecting the Rue de Flandres with
      the canal de l&rsquo;Ourcq. On the left-hand side it is bordered with miserable
      shanties interspersed with some tiny shops, and several huge coal depots.
      On the right-hand side&mdash;that next to the canal&mdash;there are also a
      few provision stores. In the daytime there is no noisier nor livelier
      place than this same Quai; but nothing could be more gloomy at night-time
      when the shops are closed, when the few gas-lamps only increase the
      grimness of the shadows, and when the only sound that breaks the silence
      is the rippling of the water as its smooth surface is ruffled by some
      boatman propelling his skiff through the canal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Viscount must certainly have made a mistake,&rdquo; thought Chupin; &ldquo;there
      is no such shop on the Quai.&rdquo; He was wrong, however; for after passing the
      Rue de Soissons he espied the red lantern of a tobacco-shop, glimmering
      through the fog.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Having almost reached the goal, Chupin slackened his pace. He approached
      the shop very cautiously and peered inside, deeming it prudent to
      reconnoitre a little before he went in. And certainly there was nothing to
      prevent a prolonged scrutiny. The night was very dark, the quay deserted.
      No one was to be seen; not a sound broke the stillness. The darkness, the
      surroundings, and the silence were sinister enough to make even Chupin
      shudder, though he was usually as thoroughly at home in the loneliest and
      most dangerous by-ways of Paris as an honest man of the middle classes
      would be in the different apartments of his modest household. &ldquo;That
      scoundrel&rsquo;s wife must have less than a hundred thousand a year if she
      takes up her abode here!&rdquo; thought Chupin.
    </p>
    <p>
      And, in fact, nothing could be more repulsive than the tenement in which
      Madame Paul had installed herself. It was but one story high, and built of
      clay, and it had fallen to ruin to such an extent that it had been found
      necessary to prop it up with timber, and to nail some old boards over the
      yawning fissures in the walls. &ldquo;If I lived here, I certainly shouldn&rsquo;t
      feel quite at ease on a windy day,&rdquo; continued Chupin, sotto voce.
    </p>
    <p>
      The shop itself was of a fair size, but most wretched in its appointments,
      and disgustingly dirty. The floor was covered with that black and
      glutinous coal-dust which forms the soil of the Quai de la Seine. An
      auctioneer would have sold the entire stock and fixtures for a few
      shillings. Four stone jars, and a couple of pairs of scales, a few odd
      tumblers, filled with pipes and packets of cigarettes, some wine-glasses,
      and three or four labelled bottles, five or six boxes of cigars, and as
      many packages of musty tobacco, constituted the entire stock in trade.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Chupin compared this vile den with the viscount&rsquo;s luxurious abode, his
      blood fairly boiled in his veins. &ldquo;He ought to be shot for this, if for
      nothing else,&rdquo; he muttered through his set teeth. &ldquo;To let his wife die of
      starvation here!&rdquo; For it was M. de Coralth&rsquo;s wife who kept this shop.
      Chupin, who had seen her years before, recognized her now as she sat
      behind her counter, although she was cruelly changed. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s her,&rdquo; he
      murmured. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s certainly Mademoiselle Flavie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had used her maiden name in speaking of her. Poor woman! She was
      undoubtedly still young&mdash;but sorrow, regret, and privations, days
      spent in hard work to earn a miserable subsistence, and nights spent in
      weeping, had made her old, haggard, and wrinkled before her time. Of her
      once remarkable beauty naught remained but her hair, which was still
      magnificent, though it was in wild disorder, and looked as if it had not
      been touched by a comb for weeks; and her big black eyes, which gleamed
      with the phosphorescent and destructive brilliancy of fever. Everything
      about her person bespoke terrible reverses, borne without dignity. Even if
      she had struggled at first, it was easy to see that she struggled no
      longer. Her attire&mdash;her torn and soiled silk dress, and her dirty cap&mdash;revealed
      thorough indolence, and that morbid indifference which at times follows
      great misfortunes with weak natures.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Such is life,&rdquo; thought Chupin, philosophically. &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s a girl who was
      brought up like a queen and allowed to have her own way in everything! If
      any one had predicted this in those days, how she would have sneered! I
      can see her now as she looked that day when I met her driving her gray
      ponies. If people didn&rsquo;t clear the road it was so much the worse for them!
      In those times Paris was like some great shop where she could select
      whatever she chose. She said: &lsquo;I want this,&rsquo; and she got it. She saw a
      handsome young fellow and wanted him for her husband; her father, who
      could refuse her nothing, consented, and now behold the result!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had lingered longer at the window than he had meant to do, perhaps
      because he could see that the young woman was talking with some person in
      a back room, the door of which stood open. Chupin tried to find out who
      this person was, but he did not succeed; and he was about to go in when
      suddenly he saw Madame Paul rise from her seat and say a few words with an
      air of displeasure. And this time her eyes, instead of turning to the open
      door, were fixed on a part of the shop directly opposite her. &ldquo;Is there
      some one there as well, then?&rdquo; Chupin wondered.
    </p>
    <p>
      He changed his post of observation, and, by standing on tiptoe, he
      succeeded in distinguishing a puny little boy, some three or four years
      old, and clad in rags, who was playing with the remnants of a toy-horse.
      The sight of this child increased Chupin&rsquo;s indignation. &ldquo;So there&rsquo;s a
      child?&rdquo; he growled. &ldquo;The rascal not only deserts his wife, but he leaves
      his child to starve! We may as well make a note of that: and when we
      settle up our accounts, he shall pay dearly for his villainy.&rdquo; With this
      threat he brusquely entered the shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you wish, sir?&rdquo; asked the woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing; I bring you a letter, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A letter for me! You must be mistaken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me; aren&rsquo;t you Madame Paul?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then this is for you.&rdquo; And he handed her the missive which Florent had
      confided to his care.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Paul took hold of it with some hesitation, eying the messenger
      suspiciously meanwhile; but, on seeing the handwriting, she uttered a cry
      of surprise. And, turning toward the open door, she called, &ldquo;M. Mouchon!
      M. Mouchon! It&rsquo;s from him&mdash;it&rsquo;s from my husband; from Paul. Come,
      come!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A bald-headed, corpulent man, who looked some fifty years of age, now
      timidly emerged from the room behind the shop with a cap in his hand. &ldquo;Ah,
      well! my dear child,&rdquo; he said, in an oily voice, &ldquo;what was I telling you
      just now? Everything comes to those who know how to wait.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      However she had already broken the seal, and she was now reading the
      letter eagerly, clapping her hands with delight as she finished its
      perusal. &ldquo;He consents!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s frightened&mdash;he begs me
      to wait a little&mdash;look&mdash;read!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But M. Mouchon could not read without his spectacles, and he lost at least
      two minutes in searching his pockets before he found them. And when they
      were adjusted, the light was so dim that it took him at least three
      minutes more to decipher the missive. Chupin had spent this time in
      scrutinizing&mdash;in appraising the man, as it were. &ldquo;What is this
      venerable gentleman doing here?&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a middle class man,
      that&rsquo;s evident from his linen. He&rsquo;s married&mdash;there&rsquo;s a wedding-ring
      on his finger; he has a daughter, for the ends of his necktie are
      embroidered. He lives in the neighborhood, for, well dressed as he is, he
      wears a cap. But what was he doing there in that back room in the dark?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile M. Mouchon had finished reading the letter. &ldquo;What did I tell
      you?&rdquo; he said complacently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you were right!&rdquo; answered Madame Paul as she took up the letter and
      read it again with her eyes sparkling with joy. &ldquo;And now what shall I do?&rdquo;
       she asked. &ldquo;Wait, shall I not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no!&rdquo; exclaimed the elderly gentleman, in evident dismay. &ldquo;You must
      strike the iron while it&rsquo;s hot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he promises me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To promise and to keep one&rsquo;s promises are two different things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He wants a reply.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell him&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; But he stopped short, calling her attention with
      a gesture to the messenger, whose eyes were glittering with intense
      curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      She understood. So filling a glass with some liquor, she placed it before
      Chupin, and offered him a cigar, saying: &ldquo;Take a seat&mdash;here&rsquo;s
      something to keep you from feeling impatient while you wait here.&rdquo;
       Thereupon she followed the old gentleman into the adjoining room, and
      closed the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even if Chupin had not possessed the precocious penetration he owed to his
      life of adventure, the young woman and the old gentleman had said enough
      to enable him to form a correct estimate of the situation. He was certain
      now that he knew the contents of the letter as perfectly as if he had read
      it. M. de Coralth&rsquo;s anger, and his order to make haste, were both
      explained. Moreover, Chupin distinctly saw what connection there was
      between the letter to the baroness and the letter to Madame Paul. He
      understood that one was the natural consequence of the other. Deserted by
      her husband, Madame Paul had at last become weary of poverty and
      privations. She had instituted a search for her husband, and, having found
      him, she had written to him in this style: &ldquo;I consent to abstain from
      interfering with you, but only on conditions that you provide means of
      subsistence for me, your lawfully wedded wife, and for your child. If you
      refuse, I shall urge my claims, and ruin you. The scandal won&rsquo;t be of much
      use to me, it&rsquo;s true, but at least I shall no longer be obliged to endure
      the torture of knowing that you are surrounded by every luxury while I am
      dying of starvation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Yes, she had evidently written that. It might not be the precise text; but
      no doubt it was the purport of her letter. On receiving it, Coralth had
      become alarmed. He knew only too well that if his wife made herself known
      and revealed his past, it would be all over with him. But he had no money.
      Charming young men like the Viscount de Coralth never have any money on
      hand. So, in this emergency, the dashing young fellow had written to his
      wife imploring her to have patience, and to the baroness, entreating, or
      rather commanding her to advance him a certain sum at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was no doubt the case, and yet there was one circumstance which
      puzzled Chupin exceedingly. In former years, he had heard it asserted that
      Mademoiselle Flavie was the very personification of pride, and that she
      adored her husband even to madness. Had this great love vanished? Had
      poverty and sorrow broken her spirit to such a degree that she was willing
      to stoop to such shameful concessions! If she were acquainted with her
      husband&rsquo;s present life, how did it happen that she did not prefer
      starvation, or the alms-house and a pauper&rsquo;s grave to his assistance?
      Chupin could understand how, in a moment of passion, she might be driven
      to denounce her husband in the presence of his fashionable acquaintances,
      how she might be impelled to ruin him so as to avenge herself; but he
      could not possibly understand how she could consent to profit by the
      ignominy of the man she loved. &ldquo;The plan isn&rsquo;t hers,&rdquo; said Chupin to
      himself, after a moment&rsquo;s reflection. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s probably the work of that
      stout old gentleman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a means of verifying his suspicions, for on returning into the
      adjoining room, Madame Paul had not taken her son with her. He was still
      sitting on the muddy floor of the shop, playing with his dilapidated
      horse. Chupin called him. &ldquo;Come here, my little fellow,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child rose, and timidly approached, his eyes dilating with distrust
      and astonishment. The poor boy&rsquo;s repulsive uncleanliness was a terrible
      charge against the mother. Did she no longer love her own offspring? The
      untidiness of sorrow and poverty has its bounds. A long time must have
      passed since the child&rsquo;s face and hands had been washed, and his soiled
      clothes were literally falling to rags. Still, he was a handsome little
      fellow, and seemed fairly intelligent, in spite of his bashfulness. He was
      very light-haired, and in features he was extremely like M. de Coralth.
      Chupin took him on his knees, and, after looking to see if the door
      communicating with the inner room were securely closed, he asked: &ldquo;What&rsquo;s
      your name, little chap?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Paul.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know your father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Doesn&rsquo;t your mother ever talk to you about him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what does she say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That he&rsquo;s rich&mdash;very rich.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what else?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The child did not reply; perhaps his mother had forbidden him to say
      anything on the subject&mdash;perhaps that instinct which precedes
      intelligence, just as the dawn precedes daylight, warned him to be prudent
      with a stranger. &ldquo;Doesn&rsquo;t your papa ever come to see you?&rdquo; insisted
      Chupin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mamma is very poor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And wouldn&rsquo;t you like to go and see him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know. But he&rsquo;ll come some day, and take us away with him to a
      large house. We shall be all right, then; and he will give us a deal of
      money and pretty dresses, and I shall have plenty of toys.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Satisfied on this point, Chupin, pushed his investigations farther. &ldquo;And
      do you know this old gentleman who is with your mamma in the other room?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes!&mdash;that&rsquo;s Mouchon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who&rsquo;s Mouchon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s the gentleman who owns that beautiful garden at the corner of the
      Rue Riquet, where there are such splendid grapes. I&rsquo;m going with him to
      get some.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does he often come to see you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Every evening. He always has goodies in his pocket for mamma and me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why does he sit in that back room without any light?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, he says that the customers mustn&rsquo;t see him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It would have been an abominable act to continue this examination, and
      make this child the innocent accuser of his own mother. Chupin felt
      conscience-smitten even now. So he kissed the cleanest spot he could find
      on the boy&rsquo;s face, and set him on the floor again, saying, &ldquo;Go and play.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The child had revealed his mother&rsquo;s character with cruel precision. What
      had she told him about his father? That he was rich, and that, in case he
      returned, he would give them plenty of money and fine clothes. The woman&rsquo;s
      nature stood revealed in all its deformity. Chupin had good cause to feel
      proud of his discernment&mdash;all his suppositions had been confirmed. He
      had read Mouchon&rsquo;s character at a glance. He had recognized him as one of
      those wily evil-minded men who employ their leisure to the profit of their
      depravity&mdash;one of those patient, cold-blooded hypocrites who make
      poverty their purveyor, and whose passion is prodigal only in advice. &ldquo;So
      he&rsquo;s paying his court to Madame Paul,&rdquo; thought Chupin. &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it shameful?
      The old villain! he might at least give her enough to eat!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So far his preoccupation had made him forget his wine and his cigar. He
      emptied the glass at a single draught, but it proved far more difficult to
      light the cigar. &ldquo;Zounds! this is a non-combustible,&rdquo; he growled. &ldquo;When I
      arrive at smoking ten sous cigars, I sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t come here to buy them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      However, with the help of several matches and a great deal of drawing, he
      had almost succeeded, when the door opened, and Madame Paul reappeared
      with a letter in her hand. She seemed greatly agitated; her anxiety was
      unmistakable. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t decide,&rdquo; she was saying to Mouchon, whose figure
      Chupin could only dimly distinguish in the darkness. &ldquo;No, I can&rsquo;t. If I
      send this letter, I must forever renounce all hope of my husband&rsquo;s return.
      Whatever happens, he will never forgive me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He can&rsquo;t treat you worse than he does now, at all events,&rdquo; replied the
      old gentleman. &ldquo;Besides, a gloved cat has never caught a mouse yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll hate me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The man who wants his dog to love him, beats it; and, besides, when the
      wine is drawn, one must drink it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This singular logic seemed to decide her. She handed the letter to Chupin,
      and drawing a franc from her pocket she offered it to him. &ldquo;This is for
      your trouble,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      He involuntarily held out his hand to take the money, but quickly withdrew
      it, exclaiming: &ldquo;No, thank you; keep it. I&rsquo;ve been paid already.&rdquo; And,
      thereupon, he left the shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      Chupin&rsquo;s mother&mdash;his poor good mother, as he called her&mdash;would
      certainly have felt proud and delighted at her son&rsquo;s disinterestedness.
      That very morning, he had refused the ten francs a day that M. Fortunat
      had offered him, and this evening he declined the twenty sous proffered
      him by Madame Paul. This was apparently a trifle, and yet in reality it
      was something marvellous, unprecedented, on the part of this poor lad,
      who, having neither trade nor profession, was obliged to earn his daily
      bread through the medium of those chance opportunities which the lower
      classes of Paris are continually seeking. As he returned to the Rue de
      Flandres, he muttered: &ldquo;Take twenty sous from that poor creature, who
      hasn&rsquo;t had enough to satisfy her hunger for heaven knows how long! That
      would be altogether unworthy of a man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It is only just to say that money had never given him a feeling of
      satisfaction at all comparable with that which he now experienced. He was
      impressed, too, with a sense of vastly-increased importance on thinking
      that all the faculties, and all the energy he had once employed in the
      service of evil, were now consecrated to the service of good. By becoming
      the instrument of Pascal Ferailleur&rsquo;s salvation he would, in some measure,
      atone for the crime he had committed years before.
    </p>
    <p>
      Chupin&rsquo;s mind was so busily occupied with these thoughts that he reached
      the Rue d&rsquo;Anjou and M. de Coralth&rsquo;s house almost before he was aware of
      it. To his great surprise, the concierge and his wife were not alone.
      Florent was there, taking coffee with them. The valet had divested himself
      of his borrowed finery, and had donned his red waistcoat again. He seemed
      to be in a savage humor; and his anger was not at all strange under the
      circumstances. There was but a step from M. de Coralth&rsquo;s house to the
      baroness&rsquo;s residence, but fatalities may attend even a step! The baroness,
      on receiving the letter from her maid, had sent a message to Florent
      requesting him to wait, as she desired to speak with him! and she had been
      so inconsiderate as to keep him waiting for more than an hour, so that he
      had missed his appointment with the charming ladies he had spoken of. In
      his despair he had returned home to seek consolation in the society of his
      friend the concierge. &ldquo;Have you the answer?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, here it is,&rdquo; replied Chupin, and Florent had just slipped the letter
      into his pocket, and was engaged in counting out the thirty sous which he
      had promised his messenger, when the familiar cry, &ldquo;Open, please,&rdquo; was
      heard outside.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. de Coralth had returned. He sprang to the ground as soon as the
      carriage entered the courtyard, and on perceiving his servant, he
      exclaimed: &ldquo;Have you executed my commissions?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They have been executed, monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you see the baroness?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She made me wait two hours to tell me that the viscount need not be
      worried in the least; that she would certainly be able to comply with his
      request to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Coralth seemed to breathe more freely. &ldquo;And the other party?&rdquo; he
      inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gave me this for monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The viscount seized the missive, with an eager hand, tore it open, read it
      at one glance, and flew into such a paroxysm of passion that he quite
      forgot those around him, and began to tear the letter, and utter a string
      of oaths which would have astonished a cab-driver. But suddenly realizing
      his imprudence, he mastered his rage, and exclaimed, with a forced laugh:
      &ldquo;Ah! these women! they are enough to drive one mad!&rdquo; And deeming this a
      sufficient explanation, he added, addressing Florent. &ldquo;Come and undress
      me; I must be up early to-morrow morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This remark was not lost upon Chupin, and at seven o&rsquo;clock the next
      morning he mounted guard at M. de Coralth&rsquo;s door. All through the day he
      followed the viscount about, first to the Marquis de Valorsay&rsquo;s, then to
      the office of a business agent, then to M. Wilkie&rsquo;s, then, in the
      afternoon, to Baroness Trigault&rsquo;s, and finally, in the evening, to the
      house of Madame d&rsquo;Argeles. Here, by making himself useful to the servants,
      by his zeal in opening and shutting the doors of the carriages that left
      the house, he succeeded in gathering some information concerning the
      frightful scene which had taken place between the mother and the son. He
      perceived M. Wilkie leave the house with his clothes in disorder, and
      subsequently he saw the viscount emerge. He followed him, first to the
      house of the Marquis de Valorsay, and afterward to M. Wilkie&rsquo;s rooms,
      where he remained till nearly daybreak.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus, when Chupin presented himself in M. Fortunat&rsquo;s office at two o&rsquo;clock
      on the Tuesday afternoon, he felt that he held every possible clue to the
      shameful intrigue which would ruin the viscount as soon as it was made
      public.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Fortunat knew that his agent was shrewd, but he had not done justice to
      his abilities; and it was, indeed, with something very like envy that he
      listened to Chupin&rsquo;s clear and circumstantial report. &ldquo;I have not been as
      successful,&rdquo; he remarked, when Chupin&rsquo;s story was ended. But he had not
      time to explain how or why, for just as he was about to do so, Madame
      Dodelin appeared, and announced that the young lady he expected was there.
      &ldquo;Let her come in!&rdquo; exclaimed M. Fortunat, eagerly&mdash;&ldquo;let her come in!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite had not been compelled to resort to any subterfuge
      to make her escape from Madame de Fondege&rsquo;s house. The General had
      decamped early in the morning to try his horses and his carriages,
      announcing, moreover, that he would breakfast at the club. And as soon as
      her breakfast was concluded, Madame de Fondege had hurried off to her
      dressmaker&rsquo;s, warning the household that she would not return before
      dinner-time. A little while later, Madame Leon had suddenly remembered
      that her noble relative would certainly be expecting a visit from her, and
      so she dressed herself in haste, and went off, first to Dr. Jodon&rsquo;s and
      thence to the Marquis de Valorsay&rsquo;s.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus, Mademoiselle Marguerite had been able to make her escape without
      attracting any one&rsquo;s attention, and she would be able to remain away as
      many hours as she chose, since the servants would not know how long she
      had been absent even if they saw her when she returned. An empty cab was
      passing as she left the house, so she hailed it and got in. The step she
      was about to take cost her a terrible effort. It was a difficult task for
      her, a girl naturally so reserved, to confide in a stranger, and open to
      him her maidenly heart, filled with love for Pascal Ferailleur! Still, she
      was much calmer than she had been on the previous evening, when she called
      on the photographer for a facsimile of M. de Valorsay&rsquo;s letter. Several
      circumstances combined to reassure her. M. Fortunat knew her already,
      since he was the agent whom the Count de Chalusse had employed to carry on
      the investigations which had resulted in her discovery at the foundling
      asylum. A vague presentiment told her that this man was better acquainted
      with her past life than she was herself, and that he could, if he chose,
      tell her her mother&rsquo;s name&mdash;the name of the woman whom the count so
      dreaded, and who had so pitilessly deserted her. However, her heart beat
      more quickly, and she felt that she was turning pale when, at Madame
      Dodelin&rsquo;s invitation, she at last entered M. Fortunat&rsquo;s private office.
      She took in the room and its occupants with a single glance. The handsome
      appointments of the office surprised her, for she had expected to see a
      den. The agent&rsquo;s polite manner and rather elegant appearance disconcerted
      her, for she had expected to meet a coarse and illiterate boor; and
      finally, Victor Chupin, who was standing twisting his cap near the
      fireplace, attired in a blouse and a pair of ragged trousers, fairly
      alarmed her. Still, no sign of her agitation was perceptible on her
      countenance. Not a muscle of her beautiful, proud face moved&mdash;her
      glance remained clear and haughty, and she exclaimed in a ringing voice:
      &ldquo;I am the late Count de Chalusse&rsquo;s ward, Mademoiselle Marguerite. You have
      received my letter, I suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Fortunat bowed with all the grace of manner he was wont to display in
      the circles where he went wife-hunting, and with a somewhat pretentious
      gesture he advanced an arm-chair, and asked his visitor to sit down. &ldquo;Your
      letter reached me, mademoiselle,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;and I was expecting you&mdash;flattered
      and honored beyond expression by your confidence. My door, indeed, was
      closed to any one but you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marguerite took the proffered seat, and there was a moment&rsquo;s silence. M.
      Fortunat found it difficult to believe that this beautiful, imposing young
      girl could be the poor little apprentice whom he had seen in the
      book-bindery, years before, clad in a coarse serge frock, with dishevelled
      hair covered with scraps of paper. In the meantime, Marguerite was
      regretting the necessity of confiding in this man, for the more she looked
      at him, the more she was convinced that he was not an honest,
      straightforward person; and she would infinitely have preferred a cynical
      scoundrel to this plausible and polite gentleman, whom she strongly
      suspected of being a hypocrite. She remained silent, waiting for M.
      Fortunat to dismiss the young man in the blouse, whose presence she could
      not explain, and who stood in a sort of mute ecstasy, staring at her with
      eyes expressive of the most intense surprise and the liveliest admiration.
      But weary at last of this fruitless delay, she exclaimed: &ldquo;I have come,
      monsieur, to confer with you respecting certain matters which require the
      most profound secrecy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Chupin understood her, for he blushed to the tips of his ears, and started
      as if to leave the room. But his employer detained him with a gesture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Remain, Victor,&rdquo; he said kindly, and, turning to Mademoiselle Marguerite,
      he added: &ldquo;You have no indiscretion to fear from this worthy fellow,
      mademoiselle. He knows everything, and he has already been actively at
      work&mdash;and with the best result&mdash;on your behalf.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand you, sir,&rdquo; replied the girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Fortunat smiled sweetly. &ldquo;I have already taken your business in hand,
      mademoiselle,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;An hour after the receipt of your letter I began
      the campaign.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I had not told you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What you wished of me&mdash;that&rsquo;s true. But I allowed myself to suspect&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fancied I might conclude that you wished the help of my experience and
      poor ability in clearing an innocent man who has been vilely slandered, M.
      Pascal Ferailleur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marguerite sprang to her feet, at once agitated and alarmed. &ldquo;How did you
      know this?&rdquo; she exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Fortunat had left his arm-chair, and was now leaning against the
      mantel-shelf, in what he considered a most becoming and awe-inspiring
      attitude, with his thumb in the armhole of his waistcoat. &ldquo;Ah! nothing
      could be more simple,&rdquo; he answered, in much the same tone as a conqueror
      might assume to explain his feat. &ldquo;It is part of my profession to
      penetrate the intentions of persons who deign to honor me with their
      confidence. So my surmises are correct; at least you have not said the
      contrary?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had said nothing. When her first surprise was over, she vainly
      endeavored to find a plausible explanation of M. Fortunat&rsquo;s acquaintance
      with her affairs, for she was not at all deceived by his pretended
      perspicacity. Meanwhile, delighted by the supposed effect he had produced,
      he recklessly continued: &ldquo;Reserve your amazement for what I am about to
      disclose, for I have made several important discoveries. It must have been
      your good angel who inspired you with the idea of coming to me. You would
      have shuddered if you had realized the dangers that threatened you. But
      now you have nothing to fear; I am watching. I am here, and I hold in my
      hand all the threads of the abominable intrigue for ruining you. For it is
      you, your person, and your fortune that are imperilled. It was solely on
      your account that M. Ferailleur was attacked. And I can tell you the names
      of the scoundrels who ruined him. The crime originated with the person who
      had the most powerful interest in the matter&mdash;the Marquis de
      Valorsay. His agent was a scoundrel who is generally known as the Viscount
      de Coralth; but Chupin here can tell you his real name and his shameful
      past. You preferred M. Ferailleur, hence it was necessary to put him out
      of the way. M. de Chalusse had promised your hand to the Marquis de
      Valorsay. This marriage was Valorsay&rsquo;s only resource&mdash;the plank that
      might save the drowning man. People fancy he is rich; but he is ruined.
      Yes, ruined completely, irretrievably. He was in such desperate straits
      that he had almost determined to blow his brains out before the hope of
      marrying you entered his mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; thought Chupin, &ldquo;my employer is well under way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was indeed the case. The name of Valorsay was quite sufficient to set
      all M. Fortunat&rsquo;s bile in motion. All thought of his ex-client irritated
      him beyond endurance. Unfortunately for him, however, his anger in the
      present instance had ruined his plans. He had intended to take
      Mademoiselle Marguerite by surprise, to work upon her imagination, to make
      her talk without saying anything himself, and to remain master of the
      situation. But on the contrary he had revealed everything; and he did not
      discover this until it was too late to retrieve his blunder. &ldquo;How the
      Marquis de Valorsay has kept his head above water is a wonder to me,&rdquo; he
      continued. &ldquo;His creditors have been threatening to sue him for more than
      six months. How he has been able to keep them quiet since M. de Chalusse&rsquo;s
      death, I cannot understand. However, this much is certain, mademoiselle:
      the marquis has not renounced his intention of becoming your husband; and
      to attain that object he won&rsquo;t hesitate to employ any means that may
      promise to prove effectual.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Completely mistress of herself, Mademoiselle Marguerite listened with an
      impassive face. &ldquo;I know all this,&rdquo; she replied, in a frigid tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! you know&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; but there is one thing that baffles my powers of comprehension. My
      dowry was the only temptation to M. de Valorsay, was it not? Why does he
      still wish to marry me, now that I have no fortune?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Fortunat had gradually lost all his advantage. &ldquo;I have asked myself the
      same question,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;and I think I have found an answer. I believe
      that the marquis has in his possession a letter, or a will, or a document
      of some sort, written by M. de Chalusse&mdash;in fact an instrument in
      which the count acknowledges you as his daughter, and which consequently
      establishes; your right to his property.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the marquis could urge this claim if he became my husband?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly he could.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Fortunat explained M. de Valorsay&rsquo;s conduct exactly as the old
      magistrate had done. However, Mademoiselle Marguerite discreetly refrained
      from committing herself. The great interest that M. Fortunat seemed to
      take in her affairs aroused her distrust; and she decided to do what he
      had attempted in vain&mdash;that is, allow him to do all the talking, and
      to conceal all that she knew herself. &ldquo;Perhaps you are right,&rdquo; she
      remarked, &ldquo;but it is necessary to prove the truth of your assertion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can prove that Valorsay hasn&rsquo;t a shilling, and that he has lived for a
      year by expedients which render him liable to arrest and prosecution at
      any time. I can prove that he deceived M. de Chalusse as to his financial
      position. I can prove that he conspired with M. de Coralth to ruin your
      lover. Wouldn&rsquo;t this be something?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She smiled in a way that was exceedingly irritating to his vanity, and in
      a tone of good-natured incredulity, she remarked: &ldquo;It is easy to SAY these
      things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And to do them,&rdquo; rejoined M. Fortunat, quickly. &ldquo;I never promise what I
      cannot perform. A man should never touch a pen when he is meditating any
      evil act. Of course, no one is fool enough to write down his infamy in
      detail. But a man cannot always be on the qui vive. There will be a word
      in one letter, a sentence in another, an allusion in a third. And by
      combining these words, phrases, and allusions, one may finally discover
      the truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He suddenly checked himself, warned of his fresh imprudence by the
      expression on Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s face. She drew back, and looking
      him full in the eyes, she exclaimed: &ldquo;Then you have been in M. de
      Valorsay&rsquo;s confidence, sir? Would you be willing to swear that you never
      helped him in his designs?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A silent and ignored witness of this scene, Victor Chupin was secretly
      delighted. &ldquo;Hit!&rdquo; he thought&mdash;&ldquo;hit just in the bull&rsquo;s-eye. Zounds!
      there&rsquo;s a woman for you! She has beaten the guv&rsquo;nor on every point.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Fortunat was so taken by surprise that he made no attempt to deny his
      guilt. &ldquo;I confess that I acted as M. de Valorsay&rsquo;s adviser for some time,&rdquo;
       he replied, &ldquo;and he frequently spoke to me of his intention of marrying a
      rich wife in order to retrieve his shattered fortunes. Upon my word, I see
      nothing so very bad about that! It is not a strictly honest proceeding,
      perhaps, but it is done every day. What is marriage in this age? Merely a
      business transaction, is it not? Perhaps it would be more correct to say
      that it is a transaction in which one person tries to cheat the other. The
      fathers-in-law are deceived, or the husband, or the wife, and sometimes
      all of them together. But when I discovered this scheme for mining M.
      Ferailleur, I cried &lsquo;halt!&rsquo; My conscience revolted at that. Dishonor an
      innocent man! It was base, cowardly, outrageous! And not being able to
      prevent this infamous act, I swore that I would avenge it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Would Mademoiselle Marguerite accept this explanation? Chupin feared so,
      and accordingly turning quickly to his employer, he remarked: &ldquo;To say
      nothing of the fact that this fine gentleman has swindled you
      outrageously, shrewd as you are&mdash;cheating you out of the forty
      thousand francs you lent him, and which he was to pay you eighty thousand
      for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Fortunat cast a withering look at his clerk, but the mischief was done:
      denial was useless. He seemed fated to blunder in this affair. &ldquo;Well,
      yes,&rdquo; he declared, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s true. Valorsay HAS defrauded me, and I have sworn
      to have my revenge. I won&rsquo;t rest until I see him ruined.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite was partially reassured, for she understood his
      zeal now. Her scorn for the man was only increased; but she was convinced
      that he would serve her faithfully. &ldquo;I like this much better,&rdquo; said she.
      &ldquo;It is better to have no concealment. You desire M. de Valorsay&rsquo;s ruin. I
      desire the rehabilitation of M. Ferailleur. So our interests are in
      common. But before acting in this matter, we must know M. Ferailleur&rsquo;s
      wishes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They cannot be considered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because no one knows what has become of him. When the desire for revenge
      first took possession of me, I at once thought of him. I procured his
      address, and went to the Rue d&rsquo;Ulm. But he had gone away. The very day
      after his misfortune, M. Ferailleur sold his furniture and went away with
      his mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am aware of that, and I have come to ask you to search for him. To
      discover his hiding-place will be only child&rsquo;s play to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you suppose I haven&rsquo;t thought of this?&rdquo; replied M. Fortunat. &ldquo;Why, I
      spent all day yesterday searching for him. By questioning the people in
      the neighborhood I finally succeeded in ascertaining that Madame
      Ferailleur left her home in a cab several hours after her son, and took a
      very large quantity of baggage with her. Well, do you know where she
      drove? To the Western railway station. I am sure of this, and I know she
      told a porter there that her destination was London. M. Ferailleur is now
      en route for America, and we shall never hear of him again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite shook her head. &ldquo;You are mistaken, sir,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There can be no mistake about what I have just told you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t question the result of your investigations, but appearances are
      deceitful. I thoroughly understand M. Ferailleur&rsquo;s character, and he is
      not the man to be crushed by an infamous calumny. He may seem to fly, he
      may disappear, he may conceal himself for a time, but it is only to make
      his vengeance more certain. What! Pascal, who is energy itself, who
      possesses an iron will, and invincible determination, would he renounce
      his honor, his future, and the woman he loves without a struggle? If he
      had felt that his case was hopeless, he would have destroyed himself, and
      as he has not done so, he is not without hope. He has not left Paris; I am
      sure of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Fortunat was not convinced. In his opinion this was only sentiment and
      rubbish. Still there was one person present who was deeply impressed by
      the confidence of this young girl, who was the most beautiful creature he
      had ever seen, and whose devotion and energy filled his heart with
      admiration, and this person was Chupin. He stepped forward with his eyes
      sparkling with enthusiasm, and in a feeling voice he exclaimed: &ldquo;I
      understand your idea! Yes, M. Ferailleur is in Paris. And I shall be
      unworthy of the name of Chupin, if I don&rsquo;t find him for you in less than a
      fortnight!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite knew Pascal Ferailleur. Suddenly struck down in
      the full sunlight of happiness by a terrible misfortune, he, of course,
      experienced moments of frenzy and terrible depression; but he was
      incapable of the cowardice which M. Fortunat had accused him of.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite only did him justice when she said that the sole
      condition on which he could consent to live was that of consecrating his
      life, and all his strength, intelligence and will to confounding this
      infamous calumny. And still she did not know the extent of Pascal&rsquo;s
      misfortune. How could she suppose that he believed himself deserted by
      her? How could she know the doubts and fears and the anguish that had been
      roused in his heart by the note which Madame Leon had given him at the
      garden gate? What did she know of the poignant suspicions that had rent
      his mind, after listening to Madame Vantrasson&rsquo;s disparaging insinuations?
    </p>
    <p>
      It must be admitted that he was indebted to his mother alone for his
      escape from suicide&mdash;that grim madness that seizes hold of so many
      desperate, despairing men. And it was still to his mother&mdash;the
      incomparable guardian of his honor&mdash;that he owed his resolution on
      the morning he applied to Baron Trigault. And his courage met with its
      first reward.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was no longer the same man when he left the princely mansion which he
      had entered with his heart so full of anguish. He was still somewhat
      bewildered with the strange scenes which he had involuntarily witnessed,
      the secrets he had overheard, and the revelations which had been made to
      him; but a light gleamed on the horizon&mdash;a fitful and uncertain
      light, it is true, but nevertheless a hopeful gleam. At least, he would no
      longer have to struggle alone. An honest and experienced man, powerful by
      reason of his reputation, his connections and his fortune, had promised
      him his help. Thanks to this man whom misfortune had made a truer friend
      than years could have done, he would have access to the wretch who had
      deprived him both of his honor and of the woman he loved. He knew the weak
      spot in the marquis&rsquo;s armor now; he knew where and how to strike, and he
      felt sure that he should succeed in winning Valorsay&rsquo;s confidence, and in
      obtaining irrefutable proofs of his villainy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pascal was eager to inform his mother of the fortunate result of his
      visit, but certain arrangements which were needful for the success of his
      plans required his attention, and it was nearly five o&rsquo;clock when he
      reached the Route de la Revolte. Madame Ferailleur was just returning home
      when he arrived, which surprised him considerably, for he had not known
      that she had intended going out. The cab she had used was still standing
      before the door, and she had not had time to take off her shawl and bonnet
      when he entered the house. She uttered a joyful cry on perceiving her son.
      She was so accustomed to read his secret thoughts on his face, that it was
      unnecessary for him to say a word; before he had even opened his lips, she
      cried: &ldquo;So you have succeeded?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, mother, beyond my hopes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was not deceived, then, in the worthy man who came to offer us his
      assistance?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, certainly not. Do what I may, I can never repay him for his
      generosity and self-denial. If you knew, my dear mother, if you only knew&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He kissed her as if he wished to apologize for what he was about to say,
      and then he quickly replied: &ldquo;Marguerite is the daughter of Baroness
      Trigault.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Ferailleur started back, as if she had seen a reptile spring up in
      her pathway. &ldquo;The daughter of the baroness!&rdquo; she faltered. &ldquo;Great
      Heavens!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the truth, mother; listen to me.&rdquo; And in a voice that trembled with
      emotion, he rapidly related all he had learned by his visit to the baron,
      softening the truth as much as he could without concealing it. But
      prevarication was useless. Madame Ferailleur&rsquo;s indignation and disgust
      were none the less evident. &ldquo;That woman is a shameless creature,&rdquo; she
      said, coldly, when her son&rsquo;s narrative was concluded.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pascal made no reply. He knew only too well that his mother was right, and
      yet it wounded him cruelly to hear her speak in this style. For the
      baroness was Marguerite&rsquo;s mother after all.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So,&rdquo; continued Madame Ferailleur, with increasing indignation, &ldquo;creatures
      do exist who are destitute even of the maternal instincts of animals. I am
      an honest woman myself; I don&rsquo;t say it in self-glorification, it&rsquo;s no
      credit to me; my mother was a saint, and I loved my husband; what some
      people call duty was my happiness, so I may be allowed to speak on this
      subject. I don&rsquo;t excuse infidelity, but I can understand how such a thing
      is possible. Yes, I can understand how a beautiful young woman, who is
      left alone in a city like Paris, may lose her senses, and forget the
      worthy man who has exiled himself for her sake, and who is braving a
      thousand dangers to win a fortune for her. The husband who exposes his
      honor and happiness to such terrible risk, is an imprudent man. But when
      this woman has erred, when she has given birth to a child, how she can
      abandon it, how she can cast it off as if it were a dog, I cannot
      comprehend. I could imagine infanticide more easily. No, such a woman has
      no heart, no bowels of compassion. There is nothing human in her! For how
      could she live, how could she sleep with the thought that somewhere in the
      world her own child, the flesh of her flesh, was exposed to all the
      temptations of poverty, and the horrors of shame and vice? And she, the
      possessor of millions, she, the inmate of a palace, thinking only of dress
      and pleasure! How was it that she didn&rsquo;t ask herself every minute, &lsquo;Where
      is my daughter now, and what is she doing? What is she living on? Has she
      shelter, clothes and food? To what depths of degradation she may have
      sunk? Perhaps she has so far lived by honest toil, and perhaps at this
      very moment this support fails her, and she is abandoning herself to a
      life of infamy.&rsquo; Great God! how does this woman dare to step out of doors?
      On seeing the poor wretches who have been driven to vice by want, how can
      she fail to say to herself: &lsquo;That, perhaps, is my daughter!&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal turned pale, moved to the depths of his soul by his mother&rsquo;s
      extraordinary vehemence. He trembled lest she should say: &ldquo;And you, my
      son, would you marry the child of such a mother?&rdquo; For he knew his mother&rsquo;s
      prejudices, and the great importance she attached to a spotless reputation
      transmitted from parent to child, from generation to generation. &ldquo;The
      baroness knew that her husband adored her, and hearing of his return she
      became terrified; she lost her senses,&rdquo; he ventured to say in extenuation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you try to defend her?&rdquo; exclaimed Madame Ferailleur. &ldquo;Do you really
      think one can atone for a fault by a crime?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, certainly not, but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps you would censure the baroness more severely if you knew what her
      daughter has suffered&mdash;if you knew the perils and miseries she has
      been exposed to from the moment her mother left her on a door-step, near
      the central markets, till the day when her father found her. It is a
      miracle that she did not perish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Where had Madame Ferailleur learned these particulars? Pascal asked
      himself this question without being able to answer it. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand
      you, mother,&rdquo; he faltered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you know nothing of Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s past life. Is it
      possible she never told you anything about it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only know that she has been very unhappy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has she never alluded to the time when she was an apprentice?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has only told me that she earned her living with her own hands at one
      time of her life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I am better informed on the subject.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal&rsquo;s amazement was changed to terror. &ldquo;You, mother, you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; I&mdash;I have been to the asylum where she was received and
      educated. I have had a conversation with two Sisters of Charity who
      remember her, and it is scarcely an hour since I left the people to whom
      she was formerly bound as an apprentice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Standing opposite his mother with one hand convulsively clutching the back
      of the chair he was leaning on, Pascal tried to nerve himself for some
      terrible blow. For was not his life at stake? Did not his whole future
      depend upon the revelations Madame Ferailleur was about to make? &ldquo;So this
      was your object in going out, mother?&rdquo; he faltered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you went without warning me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it necessary? What! you love a young girl, you swear in my presence
      that she shall be your wife, and you think it strange that I should try to
      ascertain whether she is worthy of you or not? It would be very strange if
      I did not do so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This idea occurred to you so suddenly!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Ferailleur gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, as
      if she were astonished to have to answer such puerile objections. &ldquo;Have
      you already forgotten the disparaging remarks made by our new servant,
      Madame Vantrasson?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good Heavens!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understood her base insinuations as well as you did, and after your
      departure I questioned her, or rather I allowed her to tell her story, and
      I ascertained that Mademoiselle Marguerite had once been an apprentice of
      Vantrasson&rsquo;s brother-in-law, a man named Greloux, who was formerly a
      bookbinder in the Rue Saint-Denis, but who has now retired from business.
      It was there that Vantrasson met Mademoiselle Marguerite, and this is why
      he was so greatly surprised to see her doing the mistress at the Hotel de
      Chalusse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It seemed to Pascal that the throbbing of his heart stopped his breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By a little tact I obtained the Greloux&rsquo;s address from Madame
      Vantrasson,&rdquo; resumed his mother. &ldquo;Then I sent for a cab and drove there at
      once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you saw them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; thanks to a falsehood which doesn&rsquo;t trouble my conscience much, I
      succeeded in effecting an entrance, and had an hour&rsquo;s conversation with
      them.&rdquo; His mother&rsquo;s icy tones frightened Pascal. Her slowness tortured
      him, and still he dared not press her. &ldquo;The Greloux family,&rdquo; she
      continued, &ldquo;seem to be what are called worthy people, that is, incapable
      of committing any crime that is punishable by the code, and very proud of
      their income of seven thousand francs a year. They must have been very
      much attached to Mademoiselle Marguerite, for they were lavish in their
      protestations of affection when I mentioned her name. The husband in
      particular seemed to regard her with a feeling of something like
      gratitude.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you see, mother, you see!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As for the wife, it was easy to see that she had sincerely regretted the
      loss of the best apprentice, the most honest servant, and the best worker
      she had ever seen in her life. And yet, from her own story, I should be
      willing to swear that she had abused the poor child, and had made a slave
      of her.&rdquo; Tears glittered in Pascal&rsquo;s eyes, but he breathed freely once
      more. &ldquo;As for Vantrasson,&rdquo; resumed Madame Ferailleur, &ldquo;it is certain that
      he took a violent fancy to his sister&rsquo;s apprentice. This man, who has
      since become an infamous scoundrel, was then only a rake, an unprincipled
      drunkard and libertine. He fancied the poor little apprentice&mdash;she
      was then but thirteen years old&mdash;would be only too glad to become the
      mistress of her employer&rsquo;s brother; but she scornfully repulsed him, and
      his vanity was so deeply wounded that he persecuted the poor girl to such
      an extent that she was obliged to complain, first to Madame Greloux, who&mdash;to
      her shame be it said&mdash;treated these insults as mere nonsense; and
      afterward to Greloux himself, who was probably delighted to have an
      opportunity of ridding himself of his indolent brother-in-law, for he
      turned him out of the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The thought that so vile a rascal as this man Vantrasson should have dared
      to insult Marguerite made Pascal frantic with indignation. &ldquo;The wretch!&rdquo;
       he exclaimed; &ldquo;the wretch!&rdquo; But without seeming to notice her son&rsquo;s anger,
      Madame Ferailleur continued: &ldquo;They pretended they had not seen their
      former apprentice since she had been living in grandeur, as they expressed
      it. But in this they lied to me. For they saw her at least once, and that
      was on the day she brought them twenty thousand francs, which proved the
      nucleus of their fortune. They did not mention this fact, however.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Marguerite!&rdquo; murmured Pascal, &ldquo;dear Marguerite!&rdquo; And then aloud:
      &ldquo;But where did you learn these last details, mother?&rdquo; he inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At the asylum where Mademoiselle Marguerite was brought up, and there,
      too, I only heard words of praise. &lsquo;Never,&rsquo; said the superior, &lsquo;have I had
      a more gifted, sweeter-tempered or more attractive charge.&rsquo; They had
      reproached her sometimes for being too reserved, and her self-respect had
      often been mistaken for inordinate pride; but she had not forgotten the
      asylum any more than she had forgotten her former patrons. On one occasion
      the superior received from her the sum of twenty-five thousand francs, and
      a year ago she presented the institution with one hundred thousand francs,
      the yearly income of which is to constitute the marriage dowry of some
      deserving orphan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal was greatly elated. &ldquo;Well, mother!&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;well, is it
      strange that I love her?&rdquo; Madame Ferailleur made no reply, and a sorrowful
      apprehension seized hold of him. &ldquo;You are silent,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and why? When
      the blessed day that will allow me to wed Marguerite arrives, you surely
      won&rsquo;t oppose our marriage?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my son, nothing that I have learned gives me the right to do so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The right! Ah, you are unjust, mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unjust! Haven&rsquo;t I faithfully reported all that was told me, although I
      knew it would only increase your passion?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true, but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Ferailleur sadly shook her head. &ldquo;Do you think,&rdquo; she interrupted,
      &ldquo;that I can, without sorrow, see you choose a girl of no family, a girl
      who is outside the pale of social recognition? Don&rsquo;t you understand my
      disquietude when I think that the girl that you will marry is the daughter
      of such a woman as Baroness Trigault, an unfortunate girl whom her mother
      cannot even recognize, since her mother is a married woman&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! mother, is that Marguerite&rsquo;s fault?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did I say it was her fault? No&mdash;I only pray God that you may never
      have to repent of choosing a wife whose past life must ever remain an
      impenetrable mystery!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal had become very pale. &ldquo;Mother!&rdquo; he said in a quivering voice,
      &ldquo;mother!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean that you will only know so much of Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s past
      life as she may choose to tell you,&rdquo; continued the obdurate old lady. &ldquo;You
      heard Madame Vantrasson&rsquo;s ignoble allegations. It has been said that she
      was the mistress, not the daughter, of the Count de Chalusse. Who knows
      what vile accusations you may be forced to meet? And what is your refuge,
      if doubts should ever assail you? Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s word! Will
      this be sufficient? It is now, perhaps; but will it suffice in years to
      come? I would have my son&rsquo;s wife above suspicion; and she&mdash;why, there
      is not a single episode in her life that does not expose her to the most
      atrocious calumny.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does calumny matter? it will never shake my faith in her. The
      misfortunes which you reproach Marguerite for sanctify her in my eyes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pascal!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! Am I to scorn her because she has been unfortunate? Am I to regard
      her birth as a crime? Am I to despise her because her MOTHER is a
      despicable woman? No&mdash;God be praised! the day when illegitimate
      children, the innocent victims of their mother&rsquo;s faults, were branded as
      outcasts, is past.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Madame Ferailleur&rsquo;s prejudices were too deeply rooted to be shaken by
      these arguments. &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t discuss this question, my son,&rdquo; she interrupted,
      &ldquo;but take care. By declaring children irresponsible for their mother&rsquo;s
      faults, you will break the strongest tie that binds a woman to duty. If
      the son of a pure and virtuous wife, and the son of an adulterous woman
      meet upon equal ground, those who are held in check only by the thought of
      their children will finally say to themselves, what does it matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was the first time that a cloud had ever arisen between mother and son.
      On hearing his dearest hopes thus attacked, Pascal was tempted to rebel,
      and a flood of bitter words rose to his lips. However he had strength
      enough to control himself. &ldquo;Marguerite alone can triumph over these
      implacable prejudices,&rdquo; he thought; &ldquo;when my mother knows her, she will
      feel how unjust they are!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And as he found it difficult to remain master of himself, he stammered
      some excuse, and abruptly retired to his own room, where he threw himself
      on his bed. He felt that it was not his place to reproach his mother or
      censure her for her opinions. What mother had ever been so devoted as she
      had been? And who knows?&mdash;it was, perhaps, from these same rigid
      prejudices that this simple-minded and heroic woman had derived her
      energy, her enthusiastic love of God, her hatred of evil, and that
      virility of spirit which misfortune had been powerless to daunt. Besides,
      had she not promised to offer no opposition to his marriage! And was not
      this a great concession, a sacrifice which must have cost her a severe
      struggle? And where can one find the mother who does not count as one of
      the sublime joys of maternity the task of seeking a wife for her son, of
      choosing from among all others the young girl who will be the companion of
      his life, the angel of his dark and of his prosperous days? His mind was
      occupied with these thoughts when his door suddenly opened, and he sprang
      up, exclaiming: &ldquo;Who is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Madame Vantrasson, who came to announce that dinner was ready&mdash;a
      dinner which she had herself prepared, for on going out Madame Ferailleur
      had left her in charge of the household. On seeing this woman, Pascal was
      overcome with rage and indignation, and felt a wild desire to annihilate
      her. He knew that she was only a vile slanderer, but she might meet other
      beings as vile as herself who would be only too glad to believe her
      falsehoods. And to think that he was powerless to punish her! He now
      realized the suffering his mother had spoken of&mdash;the most atrocious
      suffering which the lover can endure&mdash;powerlessness to protect the
      object of his affections, when she is assailed. Engrossed in these gloomy
      thoughts, Pascal preserved a sullen silence during the repast. He ate
      because his mother filled his plate; but if he had been questioned, he
      could scarcely have told what he was eating. And yet, the modest dinner
      was excellent. Madame Vantrasson was really a good cook, and in this first
      effort in her new situation she had surpassed herself. Her vanity as a
      cordon-bleu was piqued because she did not receive the compliments she
      expected, and which she felt she deserved. Four or five times she asked
      impatiently, &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t that good?&rdquo; and as the only reply was a scarcely
      enthusiastic &ldquo;Very good,&rdquo; she vowed she would never again waste so much
      care and talent upon such unappreciative people.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Ferailleur was as silent as her son, and seemed equally anxious to
      finish with the repast. She evidently wanted to get rid of Madame
      Vantrasson, and in fact as soon as the simple dessert had been placed on
      the table, she turned to her, and said: &ldquo;You may go home now. I will
      attend to the rest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Irritated by the taciturnity of these strange folks, the landlady of the
      Model Lodging House withdrew, and they soon heard the street door close
      behind her with a loud bang as she left the house. Pascal drew a long
      breath as if relieved of a heavy weight. While Madame Vantrasson had been
      in the room he had scarcely dared to raise his eyes, so great was his
      dread of encountering the gaze of this woman, whose malignity was but
      poorly veiled by her smooth-tongued hypocrisy. He really feared he should
      not be able to resist his desire to strangle her. However, Madame
      Ferailleur must have understood her son&rsquo;s agitation, for as soon as they
      were alone, she said: &ldquo;So you have not forgiven me for my plain speaking?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can I be angry with you, mother, when I know that you are thinking
      only of my happiness? But how sorry I shall be if your prejudices&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Ferailleur checked him with a gesture. &ldquo;Let us say no more on the
      subject,&rdquo; she remarked. &ldquo;Mademoiselle Marguerite will be the innocent
      cause of one of the greatest disappointments of my life; but I have no
      reason to hate her&mdash;and I have always been able to show justice even
      to the persons I loved the least. I have done so in this instance, and I
      am going perhaps to give you a convincing proof of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A proof?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She reflected for a moment and then she asked: &ldquo;Did you not tell me, my
      son, that Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s education has not suffered on account
      of her neglected childhood?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And it&rsquo;s quite true, mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She worked diligently, you said, so as to improve herself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Marguerite knows all that an unusually talented girl can learn in four
      years, when she finds herself very unhappy, and study proves her only
      refuge and consolation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If she wrote you a note would it be written grammatically, and be free
      from any mistakes in spelling?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, certainly!&rdquo; exclaimed Pascal, and a sudden inspiration made him pause
      abruptly. He darted to his own room, and a minute later he returned with a
      package of letters, which he laid on the table, saying: &ldquo;Here, mother,
      read and see for yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Ferailleur drew her spectacles from their case, and, after
      adjusting them, she began to read.
    </p>
    <p>
      With his elbows on the table, and his head resting upon his hands, Pascal
      eagerly watched his mother, anxious to read her impressions on her face.
      She was evidently astonished. She had not expected these letters would
      express such nobility of sentiment, an energy no whit inferior to her own,
      and even an echo of her own prejudices. For this strange young girl shared
      Madame Ferailleur&rsquo;s rather bigoted opinions. Again and again she asked
      herself if her birth and past had not created an impassable abyss between
      Pascal and herself. And she had not felt satisfied on this point until the
      day when the gray-haired magistrate, after hearing her story, said: &ldquo;If I
      had a son, I should be proud to have him beloved by you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It soon became apparent that Madame Ferailleur was deeply moved, and once
      she even raised her glasses to wipe away a furtive tear which made
      Pascal&rsquo;s heart leap with very joy. &ldquo;These letters are admirable,&rdquo; she said
      at last; &ldquo;and no young girl, reared by a virtuous mother, could have given
      better expression to nobler sentiments; but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; She paused, not
      wishing to wound her son&rsquo;s feelings, and as he insisted, she added:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, these letters have the irreparable fault of being addressed to you,
      Pascal!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This, however, was the expiring cry of her intractable obstinacy. &ldquo;Now,&rdquo;
       she resumed, &ldquo;wait before you censure your mother.&rdquo; So saying, she rose,
      opened a drawer, and taking from it a torn and crumpled scrap of paper,
      she handed it to her son, exclaiming: &ldquo;Read this attentively.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This proved to be the note in pencil which Madame Leon had given to
      Pascal, and which he had divined rather than read by the light of the
      street-lamp; he had handed it to his mother on his return, and she had
      kept it. He had scarcely been in his right mind the evening he received
      it, but now he was enjoying the free exercise of all his faculties. He no
      sooner glanced at the note than he sprang up, and in an excited voice,
      exclaimed, &ldquo;Marguerite never wrote this!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The strange discovery seemed to stupefy him. &ldquo;I was mad, raving mad!&rdquo; he
      muttered. &ldquo;The fraud is palpable, unmistakable. How could I have failed to
      discover it?&rdquo; And as if he felt the need of convincing himself that he was
      not deceived, he continued, speaking to himself rather than to his mother:
      &ldquo;The hand-writing is not unlike Marguerite&rsquo;s, it&rsquo;s true; but it&rsquo;s only a
      clever counterfeit. And who doesn&rsquo;t know that all writings in pencil
      resemble each other more or less? Besides, it&rsquo;s certain that Marguerite,
      who is simplicity itself, would not have made use of such pretentious
      melodramatic phrases. How could I have been so stupid as to believe that
      she ever thought or wrote this: &lsquo;One cannot break a promise made to the
      dying; I shall keep mine even though my heart break.&rsquo; And again: &lsquo;Forget,
      therefore, the girl who has loved you so much: she is now the betrothed of
      another, and honor requires she should forget even your name!&rsquo;&rdquo; He read
      these passages with an extravagant emphasis, which heightened their
      absurdity. &ldquo;And what shall I say of these mistakes in spelling?&rdquo; he
      resumed. &ldquo;You noticed them, of course, mother?&mdash;command is written
      with a single &lsquo;m,&rsquo; and supplicate with one &lsquo;p.&rsquo; These are certainly not
      mistakes that we can attribute to haste! Ignorance is proved since the
      blunder is always the same. The forger is evidently in the habit of
      omitting one of the double letters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Ferailleur listened with an impassive face. &ldquo;And these mistakes are
      all the more inexcusable since this letter is only a copy,&rdquo; she observed,
      quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; a verbatim copy. Yesterday evening, while I was examining it for the
      twentieth time, it occurred to me that I had read some portions of it
      before. Where, and under what circumstances? It was a puzzle which kept me
      awake most of the night. But this morning I suddenly remembered a book
      which I had seen in the hands of the workmen at the factory, and which I
      had often laughed over. So, while I was out this morning I entered a
      book-shop, and purchased the volume. That&rsquo;s it, there on the corner of the
      mantel-shelf. Take it and see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal obeyed, and noticed with surprise that the work was entitled, &ldquo;The
      Indispensable and Complete Letter-writer, for Both Sexes, in Every
      Condition of Life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now turn to the page I have marked,&rdquo; said Madame Ferailleur.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did so, and read: &ldquo;(Model 198). Letter from a young lady who has
      promised her dying father to renounce the man she loves, and to bestow her
      hand upon another.&rdquo; Doubt was no longer possible. Line for line and word
      for word, the mistakes in spelling excepted, the note was an exact copy of
      the stilted prose of the &ldquo;Indispensable Letter-writer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It seemed to Pascal as if the scales had suddenly fallen from his eyes,
      and that he could now understand the whole intrigue which had been planned
      to separate him from Marguerite. His enemies had dishonored him in the
      hope that she would reject and scorn him, and, disappointed in their
      expectations, they had planned this pretended rupture of the engagement to
      prevent him from making any attempt at self-justification. So, in spite of
      some short-lived doubts, his love had been more clear-sighted than reason,
      and stronger than appearances. He had been quite right, then, in saying to
      his mother: &ldquo;I can never believe that Marguerite deserts me at a moment
      when I am so wretched&mdash;that she condemns me unheard, and has no
      greater confidence in me than in my accusers. Appearances may indicate the
      contrary, but I am right.&rdquo; Certain circumstances, which had previously
      seemed contradictory, now strengthened this belief. &ldquo;How is it,&rdquo; he said
      to himself, &ldquo;that Marguerite writes to me that her father, on his
      death-bed, made her promise to renounce me, while Valorsay declares the
      Count de Chalusse died so suddenly, that he had not even time to
      acknowledge his daughter or to bequeath her his immense fortune? One of
      these stories must be false; and which of them? The one in this note most
      probably. As for the letter itself, it must have been the work of Madame
      Leon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If he had not already possessed irrefutable proofs of this, the
      &ldquo;Indispensable Letter-writer&rdquo; would have shown it. The housekeeper&rsquo;s
      perturbation when she met him at the garden gate was now explained. She
      was shuddering at the thought that she might be followed and watched, and
      that Marguerite might appear at any moment, and discover everything.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think it would be a good plan to let this poor young girl know that her
      companion is Valorsay&rsquo;s spy,&rdquo; remarked Madame Ferailleur.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pascal was about to approve this suggestion, when a sudden thought
      deterred him. &ldquo;They must be watching Marguerite very closely,&rdquo; he replied,
      &ldquo;and if I attempt to see her, if I even venture to write to her, our
      enemies would undoubtedly discover it. And then, farewell to the success
      of my plans.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you prefer to leave her exposed to these dangers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, even admitting there is danger, which is by no means certain. Owing
      to her past life, Marguerite&rsquo;s experience is far in advance of her years,
      and if some one told me that she had fathomed Madame Leon&rsquo;s character, I
      should not be at all surprised.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was necessary to ascertain what had become of Marguerite; and Pascal
      was puzzling his brain to discover how this might be done, when suddenly
      he exclaimed: &ldquo;Madame Vantrasson! We have her; let us make use of her. It
      will be easy to find some excuse for sending her to the Hotel de Chalusse:
      she will gossip with the servants there, and in that way we can discover
      the changes that have taken place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was a heroic resolution on Pascal&rsquo;s part, and one which he would have
      recoiled from the evening before. But it is easy to be brave when one is
      hopeful; and he saw his chances of success increase so rapidly that he no
      longer feared the obstacles that had once seemed almost insurmountable.
      Even his mother&rsquo;s opposition had ceased to alarm him. For why should he
      fear after the surprising proof she had given him of her love of justice,
      proving that the pretended letter from Mademoiselle Marguerite was really
      a forgery?
    </p>
    <p>
      He slept but little that night and did not stir from the house on the
      following day. He was busily engaged in perfecting his plan of attack
      against the marquis. His advantages were considerable, thanks to Baron
      Trigault, who had placed a hundred thousand francs at his disposal; but
      the essential point was to use this amount in such a way as to win
      Valorsay&rsquo;s confidence, and induce him to betray himself. Pascal&rsquo;s hours of
      meditation were not spent in vain, and when it became time for him to
      repair to his enemy&rsquo;s house, he said to his mother: &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve found a plan;
      and if the baron will let me follow it out, Valorsay is mine!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      It was pure childishness on Pascal&rsquo;s part to doubt Baron Trigault&rsquo;s
      willingness to agree even with closed eyes to any measures he might
      propose. He ought to have recollected that their interests were identical,
      that they hated the same men with equal hatred, and that they were equally
      resolved upon vengeance. And certainly the events which had occurred since
      their last interview had not been of a nature to modify the baron&rsquo;s
      intentions. However, misfortune had rendered Pascal timid and suspicious,
      and it was not until he reached the baron&rsquo;s house that his fears vanished.
      The manner in which the servants received him proved that the baron
      greatly esteemed him: for the man must be stupid indeed who does not know
      that the greeting of the servants is ever in harmony with the feelings of
      the master of the house. &ldquo;Will you be kind enough to follow me?&rdquo; said the
      servant to whom he handed his card. &ldquo;The baron is very busy, but that
      doesn&rsquo;t matter. He gave orders that monsieur should be shown up as soon as
      he arrived.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal followed without a word. The elegance of this princely abode never
      varied. The same careless, prodigal, regal luxury was apparent everywhere.
      The servants&mdash;whose name was legion&mdash;were always passing
      noiselessly to and fro. A pair of horses, worth at least a thousand louis,
      and harnessed to the baroness&rsquo;s brougham, were stamping and neighing in
      the courtyard; and the hall was, as usual, fragrant with the perfume of
      rare flowers, renewed every morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      On his first visit Pascal had only seen the apartments on the ground
      floor. This time his guide remarked that he would take him upstairs to the
      baron&rsquo;s private room. He was slowly ascending the broad marble staircase
      and admiring the bronze balustrade, the rich carpet, the magnificent
      frescoes, and the costly statuary, when a rustle of silk resounded near
      him. He had only time to step aside, and a lady passed him rapidly,
      without turning her head, or even deigning to look at him. She did not
      appear more than forty, and she was still very beautiful, with her golden
      hair dressed high on the back of her head. Her costume, brilliant enough
      in hue to frighten a cab horse, was extremely eccentric in cut; but it
      certainly set off her peculiar style of beauty to admirable advantage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the baroness,&rdquo; whispered the servant, after she had passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pascal did not need to be told this. He had seen her but once, and then
      only for a second; but it had been under such circumstances that he should
      never forget her so long as he lived. And now he understood the strange
      and terrible impression which had been produced upon him when he saw her
      first. Mademoiselle Marguerite was the living prototype of this lady, save
      as regards the color of her hair. And there would have been no difference
      in this respect had the baroness allowed her locks to retain their natural
      tint. Her hair had been black, like Marguerite&rsquo;s, and black it had
      remained until she was thirty-five, when she bleached it to the
      fashionable color of the time. And every fourth day even now her
      hairdresser came to apply a certain compound to her head, after which she
      remained in the bright sunlight for several hours, so as to impart a
      livelier shade of gold to her dyed locks.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pascal had scarcely regained his composure, when the servant opened the
      door of an immense apartment as large as a handsome suite of rooms, and
      magnificently furnished. Here sat the baron, surrounded by several clerks,
      who were busily engaged in putting a pile of papers and documents in
      order.
    </p>
    <p>
      But as soon as Pascal entered, the baron rose, and cordially holding out
      his hand, exclaimed, &ldquo;Ah! here you are at last, Monsieur Maumejan!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So he had not forgotten the name which Pascal had assumed. This was a
      favorable omen. &ldquo;I called, monsieur&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; began the young man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;I know&mdash;I know!&rdquo; interrupted the baron. &ldquo;Come, we must
      have a talk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And, taking Pascal&rsquo;s arm, he led him into his private sanctum, separated
      from the large apartment by folding-doors, which had been removed, and
      replaced by hangings. Once there he indicated by a gesture that they could
      be heard in the adjoining room, and that it was necessary to speak in a
      low tone. &ldquo;You have no doubt come,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;for the money I promised
      that dear Marquis de Valorsay&mdash;I have it all ready for you; here it
      is.&rdquo; So saying, he opened an escritoire, and took out a large roll of
      bank-notes, which he handed to Pascal. &ldquo;Here, count it,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;and
      see if the amount is correct.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Pascal, whose face had suddenly become as red as fire, did not utter a
      word in reply. On receiving this money a new but quite natural thought had
      entered his mind for the first time. &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; inquired the
      baron, surprised by this sudden embarrassment. &ldquo;What has happened to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, monsieur, nothing! Only I was asking myself&mdash;if I ought&mdash;if
      I can accept this money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah! and why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because if you lend it to M. de Valorsay, it is perhaps lost.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;PERHAPS! You are polite&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, monsieur, you are right. I ought to have said that it is sure to be
      lost; and hence my embarrassment. Is it not solely on my account that you
      sacrifice a sum which would be a fortune to many men? Yes. Very well,
      then. I am asking myself if it is right for me to accept such a sacrifice,
      when it is by no means certain that I shall ever be able to requite it.
      Shall I ever have a hundred thousand francs to repay you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But isn&rsquo;t this money absolutely necessary to enable you to win Valorsay&rsquo;s
      confidence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and if it belonged to me I should not hesitate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Though the baron had formed a high estimate of Pascal&rsquo;s character, he was
      astonished and deeply touched by these scruples, and this excessive
      delicacy of feeling. Like most opulent men, he knew few poor people who
      wore their poverty with grace and dignity, and who did not snatch at a
      twenty-franc piece wherever they chanced to find it. &ldquo;Ah, well, my dear
      Ferailleur,&rdquo; he said, kindly, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t trouble yourself on this score. It&rsquo;s
      not at your request nor solely on your account that I make this
      sacrifice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; I give you my word of honor it isn&rsquo;t. Leaving you quite out of the
      question, I should still have lent Valorsay this money; and if you do not
      wish to take it to him, I shall send it by some one else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After that, Pascal could not demur any further. He took the baron&rsquo;s
      proffered hand and pressed it warmly, uttering only this one word, made
      more eloquent than any protestations by the fervor with which it was
      spoken: &ldquo;Thanks!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly, like a man who fails to
      see that he has done anything at all meritorious, or even worthy of the
      slightest acknowledgment. &ldquo;And you must understand, my dear sir,&rdquo; he
      resumed, &ldquo;that you can employ this sum as you choose, in advancing your
      interests, which are identical with mine. You can give the money to
      Valorsay at such a time and under such conditions as will best serve your
      plans. Give it to him in an hour or in a month, all at once or in fifty
      different instalments, as you please. Only use it like the rope one ties
      round a dog&rsquo;s neck before drowning him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The keenest penetration was concealed beneath the baron&rsquo;s careless
      good-nature. Pascal knew this, and feeling that his protector understood
      him, he said: &ldquo;You overpower me with kindness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You offer me just what I came to ask for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So much the better.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you will allow me to explain my intentions?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is quite unnecessary, my dear sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me; if I follow my present plan, I shall be obliged to ascribe
      certain sentiments, words, and even acts, to you, which you might perhaps
      disavow, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a careless toss of the head, accompanied by a disdainful snap of the
      fingers, the baron interrupted him. &ldquo;Set to work, and don&rsquo;t give yourself
      the slightest uneasiness about that. You may do whatever you like, if you
      only succeed in unmasking this dear marquis, and Coralth, his worthy
      acolyte. Show me up in whatever light you choose. Who will you be in
      Valorsay&rsquo;s eyes? Why, Maumejan, one of my business agents, and I can
      always throw the blame on you.&rdquo; And as if to prove that he had divined even
      the details of the scheme devised by his young friend, he added: &ldquo;Besides,
      every one knows that a millionaire&rsquo;s business agent is anything but a
      pleasant person to deal with. A millionaire, who is not a fool, must
      always smile, and no matter how absurd the demands upon him may be, he
      must always answer: &lsquo;Yes, certainly, certainly&mdash;I should be only too
      happy!&rsquo; But then he adds: &lsquo;You must arrange the matter with my agent.
      Confer with him.&rsquo; And it is the unlucky agent who must object, declare
      that his employer has no money at his disposal just now, and finally say,
      &lsquo;No.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal was still disposed to insist, but the baron was obdurate. &ldquo;Oh!
      enough, enough!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t waste precious time in idle
      discussion. The days are only twenty-four hours long: and as you see, I&rsquo;m
      very busy, so busy that I&rsquo;ve not touched a card since the day before
      yesterday. I am preparing a delightful surprise for Madame Trigault, my
      daughter, and my son-in-law. It has been rather a delicate operation, but
      I flatter myself that I have succeeded finely.&rdquo; And he laughed a laugh
      that was not pleasant to hear. &ldquo;You see, I&rsquo;ve had enough of paying several
      hundred thousand francs a year for the privilege of being sneered at by my
      wife, scorned by my daughter, swindled by my son-in-law, and vilified and
      anathematized by all three of them. I am still willing to go on paying,
      but only on conditions that they give me in return for my money, if not
      the reality, at least a show of love, affection, and respect. I&rsquo;m
      determined to have the semblance of these things; I&rsquo;m quite resolved on
      that. Yes, I will have myself treated with deference. I&rsquo;ll be petted and
      coddled and made much of, or else I&rsquo;ll suspend payment. It was one of my
      old friends, a parvenu like myself&mdash;a man whose domestic happiness I
      have envied for many years&mdash;who gave me this receipt: &lsquo;At home,&rsquo; said
      he, &lsquo;with my wife, my daughters, and my sons-in-law, I&rsquo;m like a peer of
      England at an hotel. I order first-class happiness at so much a month. If
      I get it I pay for it; if I don&rsquo;t get it, I cut off the supplies. When I
      get extras I pay for them cheerfully, without haggling. Follow my example,
      my old friend, and you&rsquo;ll have a comfortable life.&rsquo; And I shall follow his
      advice, M. Ferailleur, for I am convinced that his theory is sound and
      practicable. I have led this life long enough. I&rsquo;ll spend my last days in
      peace, or, as God hears me, I&rsquo;ll let my family die of starvation!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His face was purple, and the veins on his forehead stood out like
      whipcords, but not so much from anger as from the constraint he imposed
      upon himself by speaking in a whisper. He drew a long breath, and then in
      a calmer tone, resumed: &ldquo;But you must make haste and succeed, M.
      Ferailleur, if you don&rsquo;t want the young girl you love to be deprived of
      her rightful heritage. You do not know into what unworthy hands the
      Chalusse property is about to fall.&rdquo; He was on the point of telling Pascal
      the story of Madame d&rsquo;Argeles and M. Wilkie, when he was interrupted by
      the sound of a lively controversy in the hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s taking such liberty in my house?&rdquo; the baron began. But the next
      instant he heard some one fling open the door of the large room adjoining,
      and then a coarse, guttural voice called out: &ldquo;What! he isn&rsquo;t here! This
      is too much!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron made an angry gesture. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s Kami-Bey,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;the Turk
      whom I am playing that great game of cards with. The devil take him! He
      will be sure to force his way in here&mdash;so we may as well join him, M.
      Ferailleur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On reentering the adjoining apartment Pascal beheld a very corpulent man,
      with a very red face, a straggling beard, a flat nose, small, beadlike
      eyes, and sensual lips. He was clad in a black frock-coat, buttoned tight
      to the throat, and he wore a fez. This costume gave him the appearance of
      a chunky bottle, sealed with red wax. Such, indeed, was Kami-Bey, a
      specimen of those semi-barbarians, loaded with gold who are not attracted
      to Paris by its splendors and glories, but rather by its corruption&mdash;people
      who come there persuaded that money will purchase anything and everything,
      and who often return home with the same conviction. Kami was no doubt more
      impudent, more cynical and more arrogant than others of his class. As he
      was more wealthy, he had more followers; he had been more toadied and
      flattered, and victimized to a greater extent by the host of female
      intriguers, who look upon every foreigner as their rightful prey.
    </p>
    <p>
      He spoke French passably well, but with an abominable accent. &ldquo;Here you
      are at last!&rdquo; he exclaimed, as the baron entered the room. &ldquo;I was becoming
      very anxious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About what, prince?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Why Kami-Bey was called prince no one knew, not even the man himself.
      Perhaps it was because the lackey who opened his carriage door on his
      arrival at the Grand Hotel had addressed him by that title.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About what!&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;You have won more than three hundred thousand
      francs from me, and I was wondering if you intended to give me the slip.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron frowned, and this time he omitted the title of prince
      altogether. &ldquo;It seems to me, sir, that according to our agreement, we were
      to play until one of us had won five hundred thousand francs,&rdquo; he said
      haughtily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true&mdash;but we ought to play every day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Possibly: but I&rsquo;m very busy just now. I wrote to you explaining this, did
      I not? If you are at all uneasy, tear up the book in which the results of
      our games are noted, and that shall be the end of it. You will gain
      considerably by the operation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kami-Bey felt that the baron would not tolerate his arrogance, and so with
      more moderation he exclaimed: &ldquo;It isn&rsquo;t strange that I&rsquo;ve become
      suspicious. I&rsquo;m so victimized on every side. Because I&rsquo;m a foreigner and
      immensely rich, everybody fancies he has a right to plunder me. Men,
      women, hotel-keepers and merchants, all unite in defrauding me. If I buy
      pictures, they sell me vile daubs at fabulous prices. They ask ridiculous
      amounts for horses, and then give me worthless, worn-out animals.
      Everybody borrows money from me&mdash;and I&rsquo;m never repaid. I shall be
      ruined if this sort of thing goes on much longer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had taken a seat, and the baron saw that he was not likely to get rid
      of his guest very soon; so approaching Pascal he whispered: &ldquo;You had
      better go off, or you may miss Valorsay. And be careful, mind; for he is
      exceedingly shrewd. Courage and good luck!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Courage! It was not necessary to recommend that to Pascal. He who had
      triumphed over his despair in the terrible hours, when he had reason to
      suppose that Marguerite believed him guilty and had abandoned him, could
      scarcely lack courage. While he was condemned to inaction, his mind had no
      doubt been assailed by countless doubts and fears; but now that he knew
      whom he was to attack&mdash;now that the decisive moment had come, he was
      endowed with indomitable energy; he had turned to bronze, and he felt sure
      that nothing could disconcert or even trouble him in future. The weapons
      he had to use were not at all to his taste, but he had not been allowed a
      choice in the matter; and since his enemies had decided on a warfare of
      duplicity, he was resolved to surpass them in cunning, and vanquish them
      by deception.
    </p>
    <p>
      So, while hastening to the Marquis de Valorsay&rsquo;s residence, he took stock
      of his chances, and recapitulated his resources, striving to foresee and
      remember everything. Thus if he failed&mdash;for he admitted the
      possibility of defeat, without believing in it&mdash;he would have no
      cause to reproach himself. Only fools find consolation in saying: &ldquo;Who
      could have foreseen that?&rdquo; Great minds do foresee. And Pascal felt almost
      certain that he was fully prepared for any emergency.
    </p>
    <p>
      That morning, before leaving home, he had dressed with extreme care,
      realizing that the shabby clothes he had worn on his first visit to the
      Trigault mansion would not be appropriate on such an occasion as this. The
      baron&rsquo;s agent could scarcely have a poverty-stricken appearance, for
      contact with millionaires is supposed to procure wealth as surely as
      proximity to fire insures warmth. So he arrayed himself in a suit of
      black, which was neither too elegant nor too much worn, and donned a broad
      white necktie. He could see only one immediate, decisive chance against
      him. M. de Valorsay might possibly recognize him. He thought not, but he
      was not sure; and anxious on this account, he at first decided to disguise
      himself. However, on reflection, he concluded not to do so. An imperfect
      disguise would attract attention and awaken suspicion; and could he really
      disguise his physiognomy? He was certain he could not. Very few men are
      capable of doing so successfully, even after long experience. Only two or
      three detectives and half a dozen actors possess the art of really
      changing their lineaments. Thus after weighing the pros and cons, Pascal
      determined to present himself as he was at the marquis&rsquo;s house.
    </p>
    <p>
      On approaching M. de Valorsay&rsquo;s residence in the Avenue des Champs
      Elysees, he slackened his pace. The mansion, which stood between a
      courtyard and a garden, was very large and handsome. The stables and
      carriage-house&mdash;really elegant structures&mdash;stood on either side
      of the courtyard, near the half-open gate of which five or six servants
      were amusing themselves by teasing a large dog. Pascal was just saying to
      himself that the coast was clear, and that he should incur no danger by
      going in, when he saw the servants step aside, the gate swing back, and M.
      de Coralth emerged, accompanied by a young, fair-haired man, whose
      mustaches were waxed and turned up in the most audacious fashion. They
      were arm in arm, and turned in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe.
      Pascal&rsquo;s heart thrilled with joy. &ldquo;Fate favors me!&rdquo; he said to himself.
      &ldquo;If it hadn&rsquo;t been for Kami-Bey, who detained me a full quarter of an hour
      at Baron Trigault&rsquo;s, I should have found myself face to face with that
      miserable viscount, and then all would have been lost. But now I&rsquo;m safe!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was with this encouraging thought that he approached the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The marquis is very busy this morning,&rdquo; said the servant to whom Pascal
      addressed himself at the gate. &ldquo;I doubt if he can see you.&rdquo; But when
      Pascal handed him one of his visiting cards, bearing the name of Maumejan,
      with this addition in pencil: &ldquo;Who calls as the representative of Baron
      Trigault,&rdquo; the valet&rsquo;s face changed as if by enchantment. &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said he,
      &ldquo;that&rsquo;s quite a different matter. If you come from Baron Trigault, you
      will be received with all the respect due to the Messiah. Come in. I will
      announce you myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Everything in M. de Valorsay&rsquo;s house, as at the baron&rsquo;s residence,
      indicated great wealth, and yet a close observer would have detected a
      difference. The luxury of the Rue de la Ville-l&rsquo;Eveque was of a real and
      substantial character, which one did not find in the Avenue des Champs
      Elysees. Everything in the marquis&rsquo;s abode bore marks of the haste which
      mars the merest trifle produced at the present age. &ldquo;Take a seat here, and
      I will see where the marquis is,&rdquo; said the servant, as he ushered Pascal
      into a large drawing-room. The apartment was elegantly furnished, but had
      somewhat lost its freshness; the carpet, which had once been a marvel of
      beauty, was stained in several places, and as the servants had not always
      been careful to keep the shutters closed, the sunlight had perceptibly
      faded the curtains. The attention of visitors was at once attracted by the
      number of gold and silver cups, vases, and statuettes scattered about on
      side-tables and cheffoniers. Each of these objects bore an inscription,
      setting forth that it had been won at such a race, in such a year, by such
      a horse, belonging to the Marquis de Valorsay. These were indeed the
      marquis&rsquo;s chief claims to glory, and had cost him at least half of the
      immense fortune he had inherited. However, Pascal did not take much
      interest in these trophies, so the time of waiting seemed long. &ldquo;Valorsay
      is playing the diplomat,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;He doesn&rsquo;t wish to appear to be
      anxious. Unfortunately, his servant has betrayed him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At last the valet returned. &ldquo;The marquis will see you now, monsieur,&rdquo; said
      he.
    </p>
    <p>
      This summons affected Pascal&rsquo;s heart like the first roll of a drum beating
      the charge. But his coolness did not desert him. &ldquo;Now is the decisive
      moment,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;Heaven grant that he may not recognize me!&rdquo; And with
      a firm step he followed the valet.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. de Valorsay was seated in the apartment he usually occupied when he
      remained at home&mdash;a little smoking-room connected with his bedroom.
      He was to all intents busily engaged in examining some sporting journals.
      A bottle of Madeira and a partially filled glass stood near him. As the
      servant announced &ldquo;Monsieur Maumejan!&rdquo; he looked up and his eyes met
      Pascal&rsquo;s. But his glance did not waver; not a muscle of his face moved;
      his countenance retained its usually cold and disdainful expression.
      Evidently he had not the slightest suspicion that the man he had tried to
      ruin&mdash;his mortal enemy&mdash;was standing there before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;M. Maumejan,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;Baron Trigault&rsquo;s agent?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, monsieur&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray be seated. I am just finishing here; I shall be at leisure in a
      moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal took a chair. He had feared that he might not be able to retain his
      self-control when he found himself in the presence of the scoundrel who,
      after destroying his happiness, ruining his future, and depriving him of
      his honor&mdash;dearer than life itself&mdash;was at that moment
      endeavoring, by the most infamous manoeuvres, to rob him of the woman he
      loved. &ldquo;If my blood mounted to my brain,&rdquo; he had thought, &ldquo;I should spring
      upon him and strangle him!&rdquo; But no. His arteries did not throb more
      quickly; it was with perfect calmness&mdash;the calmness of a strong
      nature&mdash;that he stealthily watched M. de Valorsay. If he had seen him
      a week before he would have been startled by the change which the past few
      days had wrought in this brilliant nobleman&rsquo;s appearance. He was little
      more than a shadow of his former self. And seen at this hour, before
      placing himself in his valet&rsquo;s hands, before his premature decrepitude had
      been concealed by the artifices of the toilet, he was really frightful.
      His face was haggard, and his red and swollen eyelids betrayed a
      long-continued want of sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fact is, he had suffered terribly during the past week. A man may be a
      scapegrace and a spendthrift and may boast of it; he may have no principle
      and no conscience; he may be immoral, he may defy God and the devil, but
      it is nevertheless true that he suffers fearful anguish of mind when he is
      guilty, for the first time, of a positive crime, forbidden by the laws and
      punishable with the galleys. And who can say how many crimes the Marquis
      de Valorsay had committed since the day he provided his accomplice, the
      Viscount de Coralth, with those fatal cards? And apart from this there was
      something extremely appalling in the position of this ruined millionaire,
      who was contending desperately against his creditors for the vain
      appearance of splendor, with the despairing energy of a ship-wrecked
      mariner struggling for the possession of a floating spar. Had he not
      confessed to M. Fortunat that he had suffered the tortures of the damned
      in his struggle to maintain a show of wealth, while he was often without a
      penny in his pocket, and was ever subject to the pitiless surveillance of
      thirty servants? His agony, when he thought of his precarious condition,
      could only be compared to that of a miner, who, while ascending from the
      bowels of the earth, finds that the rope, upon which his life depends, is
      slowly parting strand by strand, and who asks himself, in terror, if the
      few threads that still remain unsevered will be strong enough to raise him
      to the mouth of the pit.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, the moment which M. de Valorsay had asked for had lengthened into
      a quarter of an hour, and he had not yet finished his work. &ldquo;What the
      devil is he doing?&rdquo; wondered Pascal, who was following his enemy&rsquo;s
      slightest movement with eager curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Countless sporting newspapers were strewn over the table, the chairs, and
      the floor around the marquis, who took them up one after another, glanced
      rapidly through their columns, and threw them on the floor again, or
      placed them on a pile before him, first marking certain passages with a
      red pencil. At last, probably fearing that Pascal was growing impatient,
      he looked up and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am really very sorry to keep you waiting so long, but some one is
      waiting for this work to be completed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! pray continue, Monsieur le Marquis,&rdquo; interrupted Pascal. &ldquo;Strange to
      say, I have a little leisure at my command just now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The marquis seemed to feel that it was necessary to make some remark in
      acknowledgment of this courtesy on his visitor&rsquo;s part, and so, as he
      continued his work, he condescended to explain its purpose. &ldquo;I am playing
      the part of a commentator,&rdquo; he remarked. &ldquo;I sold seven of my horses a few
      days ago, and the purchaser, before paying the stipulated price, naturally
      required an exact and authentic statement of each animal&rsquo;s performances.
      However, even this does not seem to have satisfied the gentleman, for he
      has now taken it into his head to ask for such copies of the sporting
      journals as record the victories or defeats of the animals he has
      purchased. A gentleman is not so exacting generally. It is true, however,
      that I have a foreigner to deal with&mdash;one of those half-civilized
      nabobs who come here every year to astonish the Parisians with their
      wealth and display, and who, by their idiotic prodigality, have so
      increased the price of everything that life has become well-nigh an
      impossibility to such of us as don&rsquo;t care to squander an entire fortune in
      a couple of years. These folks are the curse of Paris, for, with but few
      exceptions, they only use their millions to enrich notorious women,
      scoundrels, hotel-keepers, and jockeys.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal at once thought of the foreigner, Kami-Bey, whom he had met at
      Baron Trigault&rsquo;s half an hour before, and who had complained so bitterly
      of having had worthless scrubs palmed off upon him when he fancied he had
      purchased valuable animals. &ldquo;Kami-Bey must be this exacting purchaser,&rdquo;
       thought Pascal, &ldquo;and it&rsquo;s probable that the marquis, desperately
      straitened as he is, has committed one of those frauds which lead their
      perpetrator to prison?&rdquo; The surmise was by no means far-fetched, for in
      sporting matters, at least, there was cause to suspect Valorsay of great
      elasticity of conscience. Had he not already been accused of defrauding
      Domingo&rsquo;s champions by a conspiracy?
    </p>
    <p>
      At last the marquis heaved a sigh of relief. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve finished,&rdquo; he muttered,
      as he tied up the bundle of papers he had laid aside, and after ringing
      the bell, he said to the servant who answered the summons: &ldquo;Here, take
      this package to Prince Kami at the Grand Hotel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal&rsquo;s presentiments had not deceived him, and he said to himself: &ldquo;This
      is a good thing to know. Before this evening I shall look into this affair
      a little.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A storm was decidedly gathering over the Marquis de Valorsay&rsquo;s head. Did
      he know it? Certainly he must have expected it. Still he had sworn to
      stand fast until the end. Besides, he would not concede that all was lost;
      and, like most great gamblers, he told himself that since he had so much
      at stake, he might reasonably hope to succeed. He rose, stretched himself,
      as a man is apt to do after the conclusion of a tiresome task, and then,
      leaning against the mantel-shelf, he exclaimed: &ldquo;Now, Monsieur Maumejan,
      let us speak of the business that brings you here.&rdquo; His negligent attitude
      and his careless tone were admirably assumed, but a shrewd observer would
      not have been deceived by them, or by the indifferent manner in which he
      added: &ldquo;You bring me some money from Baron Trigault?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal shook his head, as he replied: &ldquo;I regret to say that I don&rsquo;t,
      Monsieur le Marquis.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This response had the same effect as a heavy rock falling upon M. de
      Valorsay&rsquo;s bald pate. He turned whiter than his linen, and even tottered,
      as if his lame leg, which was so much affected by sudden changes in the
      weather, had utterly refused all service. &ldquo;What! You haven&rsquo;t&mdash;this is
      undoubtedly a joke.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is only too serious!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I had the baron&rsquo;s word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! his word!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had his solemn promise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is sometimes impossible to keep one&rsquo;s promises, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The consequences of this disappointment must have been terrible, for the
      marquis could not maintain his self-control. Still he strove valiantly to
      conceal his emotion. He thought to himself that if he allowed this man to
      see what a terrible blow this really was, he would virtually confess his
      absolute ruin, and have to renounce the struggle, and own himself
      vanquished and lost. So, summoning all his energy, he mastered his emotion
      in some degree, and, instead of appearing desperate, succeeded in looking
      only irritated and annoyed. &ldquo;In short,&rdquo; he resumed, angrily, &ldquo;you have
      brought no money! I counted on a hundred thousand francs this morning.
      Nothing! This is kind on the baron&rsquo;s part! But probably he doesn&rsquo;t
      understand the embarrassing position in which he places me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, Monsieur le Marquis, he understands it so well that, instead
      of informing you by a simple note, he sent me to acquaint you with his
      sincere regret. When I left him an hour ago, he was really disconsolate.
      He was particularly anxious I should tell you that it was not his fault.
      He counted upon the payment of two very large amounts, and both of these
      have failed him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The marquis had now recovered a little from the shock, though he was still
      very pale. He looked at Pascal with evident distrust, for he knew with
      what sweet excuses well-bred people envelope their refusals. &ldquo;So the baron
      is disconsolate,&rdquo; he remarked, in a tone of perceptible irony.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is indeed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor baron! Ah! I pity him&mdash;pity him deeply.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As cold and as unmoved as a statue, Pascal seemed quite unconscious of the
      effect of the message he had brought&mdash;quite unconscious of Valorsay&rsquo;s
      sufferings and self-constraint. &ldquo;You think I am jesting, monsieur,&rdquo; he
      said, quietly, &ldquo;but I assure you that the baron is very short of money
      just now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense! a man worth seven or eight millions of francs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should say ten millions, at least.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then the excuse is all the more absurd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. &ldquo;It astonishes me, Monsieur le
      Marquis, to hear YOU speak in this way. It is not the magnitude of a man&rsquo;s
      income that constitutes affluence, but rather the way in which that income
      is spent. In this foolish age, almost all rich people are in arrears. What
      income does the baron derive from his ten millions of francs? Not more
      than five hundred thousand. A very handsome fortune, no doubt, and I
      should be more than content with it. But the baron gambles, and the
      baroness is the most elegant&mdash;in other words, the most extravagant&mdash;woman
      in Paris. They both of them love luxury, and their establishment is kept
      up in princely style. What are five hundred thousand francs under such
      circumstances as those? Their situation must be something like that of
      several millionaires of my acquaintance, who are obliged to take their
      silver to the pawn-broker&rsquo;s while waiting for their rents to fall due.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This excuse might not be true, but it was certainly a very plausible one.
      Had not a recent lawsuit revealed the fact that certain rich folks, who
      had an income of more than a hundred thousand francs a year, had kept a
      thieving coachman for six months, simply because, in all that time, they
      were not able to raise the eight hundred francs they owed him, and which
      must be paid before he was dismissed? M. de Valorsay knew this, but a
      terrible disquietude seized him. Had people begun to suspect HIS
      embarrassment? Had any rumor of it reached Baron Trigault&rsquo;s ears? This was
      what he wished to ascertain. &ldquo;Let us understand each other, Monsieur
      Maumejan,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;the baron was unable to procure this money he had
      promised me to-day&mdash;but when will he let me have it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal opened his eyes in pretended astonishment, and it was with an air
      of the utmost simplicity that he replied, &ldquo;I concluded the baron would
      take no further action in the matter. I judged so from his parting words:
      &lsquo;It consoles me a little,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;to think that the Marquis de Valorsay
      is very rich and very well known, and that he has a dozen friends who will
      be delighted to do him this trifling service.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Until now, M. de Valorsay had cherished a hope that the loan was only
      delayed, and the certainty that the decision was final, crushed him. &ldquo;My
      ruin&rsquo;s known,&rdquo; he thought, and feeling that his strength was deserting
      him, he poured out a brimming glass of Madeira, which he emptied at a
      single draught. The wine lent him fictitious energy. Fury mounted to his
      brain; he lost all control over himself, and springing up, with his face
      purple with rage, he exclaimed: &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a shame! an infamous shame! and
      Trigault deserves to be severely punished. He has no business to keep a
      man in hot water for three days about such a trifle. If he had said &lsquo;No&rsquo; 
      in the first place, I should have made other arrangements, and I shouldn&rsquo;t
      now find myself in a dilemma from which I see no possible way of escape.
      No gentleman would have been guilty of such a contemptible act&mdash;no
      one but a shopkeeper or a thief would have stooped to such meanness! This
      is the result of admitting these ridiculous parvenus into society, just
      because they happen to have money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It certainly hurt Pascal to hear these insults heaped upon the baron, and
      it hurt him all the more since they were entirely due to the course he had
      personally adopted.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, a gesture, even a frown, might endanger the success of his
      undertaking, so he preserved an impassive countenance. &ldquo;I must say that I
      don&rsquo;t understand your indignation, Monsieur le Marquis,&rdquo; he said, coldly.
      &ldquo;I can see why you might feel annoyed, but why you should fly into a
      passion&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you don&rsquo;t know&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; began M. de Valorsay, but he stopped
      short. It was time. The truth had almost escaped his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Know what?&rdquo; inquired Pascal.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the marquis was again upon his guard. &ldquo;I have a debt that must be paid
      this evening, at all hazards&mdash;a sacred obligation&mdash;in short, a
      debt of honor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A debt of one hundred thousand francs?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it is only twenty-five thousand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it possible that a rich man like you can be troubled about such a
      trifling sum, which any one would lend you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Valorsay interrupted him with a contemptuous sneer. &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t you just
      tell me that we were living in an age when no one has any money except
      those who are in business? The richest of my friends have only enough for
      themselves, even if they have enough. The time of old stockings, stuffed
      full of savings, is past! Shall I apply to a banker? He would ask two days
      for reflection, and he would require the names of two or three of my
      friends on the note. If I go to my notary, there will be endless forms to
      be gone through, and remonstrances without number.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For a moment or more already, Pascal had been moving about uneasily on his
      chair, like a man who is waiting for an opportunity to make a suggestion,
      and as soon as M. de Valorsay paused to take breath, he exclaimed: &ldquo;Upon
      my word! if I dared&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would offer to obtain you these twenty-five thousand francs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before six o&rsquo;clock this evening?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A glass of ice-water presented to a parched traveller while journeying
      over the desert sands of Sahara could not impart greater relief and
      delight than the marquis experienced on hearing Pascal&rsquo;s offer. He
      literally felt that he was restored to life.
    </p>
    <p>
      For ruin was inevitable if he did not succeed in obtaining twenty-five
      thousand francs that day. If he could procure that amount he might obtain
      a momentary respite, and to gain time was the main thing. Moreover, the
      offer was a sufficient proof that his financial difficulties were not
      known. &ldquo;Ah! I have had a fortunate escape,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;What if I had
      revealed the truth!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he was careful to conceal the secret joy that filled his heart. He
      feared lest he might say &ldquo;Yes&rdquo; too quickly, so betray his secret, and
      place himself at the mercy of the baron&rsquo;s envoy. &ldquo;I would willingly accept
      your offer,&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;if&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would it be proper for me, after the baron has treated me in such a
      contemptible manner, to have any dealings with one of his subordinates?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal protested vigorously. &ldquo;Allow me to say,&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;that I am
      not any one&rsquo;s subordinate. Trigault is my client, like thirty or forty
      others&mdash;nothing more. He employs me in certain difficult and delicate
      negotiations, which I conduct to the best of my ability. He pays me, and
      we are each of us perfectly independent of the other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      From the look which Valorsay gave Pascal, one would have sworn that he
      suspected who his visitor really was. But such was not the case. It was
      simply this: a strange, but by no means impossible, idea had flashed
      through the marquis&rsquo;s mind&mdash;&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; thought he, &ldquo;this unknown party
      with whom Maumejan offers to negotiate the loan, is probably none other
      than the baron himself. That worthy gambler has invented this ingenious
      method of obliging me so as to extort a rate of interest which he would
      not dare to demand openly. And why not? There have been plenty of such
      instances. Isn&rsquo;t it a well-known fact that the N&mdash;&mdash; Brothers,
      the most rigidly honest financiers in the world, have never under any
      circumstances directly obliged one of their friends? If their own father,
      of whom they always speak with the greatest veneration, asked them to lend
      him fifty francs for a month, they would say to him as they do to every
      one else: &lsquo;We are rather cramped just now; but see that rascal B&mdash;&mdash;.&rsquo; 
      And that rascal B&mdash;&mdash;, who is the most pliable tool in
      existence, will, providing father N&mdash;&mdash; offers unquestionable
      security, lend the old gentleman his son&rsquo;s money at from twelve to fifteen
      per cent. interest, plus a small commission.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These ideas and recollections were of considerable assistance in restoring
      Valorsay&rsquo;s composure. &ldquo;Enough said, then,&rdquo; he answered, lightly. &ldquo;I accept
      with pleasure. But&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! so there is a but!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is always one. I must warn you that it will be difficult for me to
      repay this loan in less than two months.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This, then, was the time he thought necessary for the accomplishment of
      his designs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That does not matter,&rdquo; replied Pascal, &ldquo;and even if you desire a longer
      delay.&rdquo; &ldquo;That will be unnecessary, thank you! But there is one thing
      more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What will this negotiation cost me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal had expected this question, and he had prepared a reply which was
      in perfect keeping with the spirit of the role he had assumed. &ldquo;I shall
      charge you the ordinary rates,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;six per cent. interest, plus
      one-and-a-half per cent. commission.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Plus the remuneration for my trouble and services.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what remuneration will satisfy you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One thousand francs. Is it too much?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If the marquis had retained the shadow of a doubt, it vanished now. &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo;
       he sneered, &ldquo;that strikes me as a very liberal compensation for your
      services!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he would gladly have recalled the sneer when he saw how the agent
      received it. Pascal drew up his head with a deeply injured air, and
      remarked in the chilling tone of a person who is strongly tempted to
      retract his word, &ldquo;Then there is nothing more to be said, M. le Marquis;
      and since you find the conditions onerous&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not say so,&rdquo; interrupted M. de Valorsay, quickly&mdash;&ldquo;I did not
      even think it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This gave Pascal an opportunity to present his programme, and he availed
      himself of it. &ldquo;Others may pretend to oblige people merely from motives of
      friendship,&rdquo; he remarked. &ldquo;But I am more honest. If I do anything in the
      way of business, I expect to be paid for it; and I vary my terms according
      to my clients&rsquo; need. It would be impossible to have a fixed price for
      services like mine. When, on two different occasions, I saved a gentleman
      of your acquaintance from bankruptcy, I asked ten thousand francs the
      first time, and fifteen thousand the second. Was that an exaggerated
      estimate of my services? I might boast with truth that I once assured the
      marriage of a brilliant viscount by keeping his creditors quiet while his
      courtship was in progress. The day after the wedding he paid me twenty
      thousand francs. Didn&rsquo;t he owe them to me? If, instead of being a trifle
      short of money, you happened to be ruined, I should not ask you merely for
      a thousand francs. I should study your position, and fix my terms
      according to the magnitude of the peril from which I rescued you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was not a sentence, not a word of this cynical explanation which had
      not been carefully studied beforehand. There was not an expression which
      was not a tempting bait to the marquis&rsquo;s evil instincts. But M de Valorsay
      made no sign. &ldquo;I see that you are a shrewd man, Monsieur Maumejan,&rdquo; said
      he, &ldquo;and if I am ever in difficulty I shall apply to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal bowed with an air of assumed modesty; but he was inwardly jubilant,
      for he felt that his enemy would certainly fall into the trap which had
      been set for him. &ldquo;And now, when shall I have this money?&rdquo; inquired the
      marquis.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By four o&rsquo;clock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I need fear no disappointment as in the baron&rsquo;s case?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly not. What interest would M. Trigault have in lending you a
      hundred thousand francs? None whatever. With me it is quite a different
      thing. The profit I&rsquo;m to realize is your security. In business matters
      distrust your friends. Apply to usurers rather than to them. Question
      people who are in difficulties, and ninety-five out of a hundred will tell
      you that their worst troubles have been caused by those who called
      themselves their best friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had risen to take leave, when the door of the smoking-room opened, and
      a servant appeared and said in an undertone: &ldquo;Madame Leon is in the
      drawing-room with Dr. Jodon. They wish to see you, monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Though Pascal had armed himself well against any unexpected mischance, he
      changed color on hearing the name of the worthy housekeeper. &ldquo;All is lost
      if this creature sees and recognizes me!&rdquo; he thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fortunately the Marquis was too much engrossed in his own affairs to note
      the momentary agitation of Baron Trigault&rsquo;s envoy. &ldquo;It is strange that I
      can&rsquo;t have five minutes&rsquo; peace and quietness,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I told you that I
      was at home to no one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough! Let the lady and gentleman wait.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The servant withdrew.
    </p>
    <p>
      The thought of passing out through the drawing-room filled Pascal with
      consternation. How could he hope to escape Madame Leon&rsquo;s keen eyes?
      Fortunately M. de Valorsay came to his relief, for as Pascal was about to
      open the same door by which he had entered, the marquis exclaimed: &ldquo;Not
      that way! Pass out here&mdash;this is the shortest way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And leading him through his bedroom the marquis conducted him to the
      staircase, where he even feigned to offer him his hand, saying: &ldquo;A speedy
      return, dear M. Maumejan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It is not at the moment of peril that people endure the worst agony; it is
      afterward, when they have escaped it. As he went down the staircase,
      Pascal wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. &ldquo;Ah! it was a narrow
      escape!&rdquo; he exclaimed, under his breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      He felt proud of the manner in which he had sustained a part so repugnant
      to his nature. He was amazed to find that he could utter falsehoods with
      such a calm, unblushing face&mdash;he was astonished at his own audacity.
      And what a success he had achieved! He felt certain that he had just
      slipped round M. de Valorsay&rsquo;s neck the noose which would strangle him
      later on. Still he was considerably disturbed by Madame Leon&rsquo;s visit to
      the marquis. &ldquo;What is she doing here with this physician?&rdquo; he asked
      himself again and again. &ldquo;Who is this man? What new piece of infamy are
      they plotting to require his services?&rdquo; One of those presentiments which
      are prompted by the logic of events, told him that this physician had
      been, or would be, one of the actors in the vile conspiracy of which he
      and Mademoiselle Marguerite were the victims. But he had no leisure to
      devote to the solution of this enigma. Time was flying, and before
      returning to the marquis&rsquo;s house he must find out what had aroused the
      suspicions of the purchaser of those horses, the biographies of which had
      been so rigidly exacted. Through the baron, he might hope to obtain an
      interview with Kami-Bey&mdash;and so it was to the baron&rsquo;s house that
      Pascal directed his steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the more than cordial reception which the baron had granted him that
      morning, it was quite natural that the servants should receive him as a
      friend of the household. They would scarcely allow him to explain what he
      desired. It was the pompous head valet in person who ushered him into one
      of the small reception-rooms, exclaiming: &ldquo;The baron&rsquo;s engaged, but I&rsquo;m
      sure he would be annoyed if he failed to see you; and I will inform him at
      once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A moment later, the baron entered quite breathless from his hurried
      descent of the staircase. &ldquo;Ah! you have been successful,&rdquo; he exclaimed, on
      seeing Pascal&rsquo;s face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everything is progressing as favorably as I could wish, Monsieur le
      Baron, but I must speak with that foreigner whom I met here this morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kami-Bey?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo; And in a few words, Pascal explained the situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Providence is certainly on our side,&rdquo; said the baron, thoughtfully. &ldquo;Kami
      is still here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it possible?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a fact. Did you think it would be easy to get rid of this confounded
      Turk! He invited himself to breakfast without the slightest ceremony, and
      would give me no peace until I promised to play with him for two hours. I
      was closeted with him, cards in hand, when they told me you were here.
      Come, we&rsquo;ll go and question him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They found the interesting foreigner in a savage mood. He had been winning
      when the servant came for the baron, and he feared that an interruption
      would change the luck. &ldquo;What the devil took you away?&rdquo; he exclaimed, with
      that coarseness of manner which was habitual with him, and which the
      flatterers around him styled &ldquo;form.&rdquo; &ldquo;A man should no more be disturbed
      when he&rsquo;s playing than when he&rsquo;s eating.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, come, prince,&rdquo; said the baron, good-naturedly, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t be angry, and
      I&rsquo;ll give you three hours instead of two. But I have a favor to ask of
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The foreigner at once thrust his hand into his pocket, with such a natural
      gesture, that neither the baron nor Pascal could repress a smile, and he
      himself understanding the cause of their merriment broke into a hearty
      laugh. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s purely from force of habit,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Ah! since I&rsquo;ve been in
      Paris&mdash;&mdash; But what do you wish?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron sat down, and gravely replied: &ldquo;You told us scarcely an hour ago
      that you had been cheated in the purchase of some horses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cheated! it was worse than highway robbery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would it be indiscreet to ask you by whom you have been defrauded?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kami-Bey&rsquo;s purple cheeks became a trifle pale. &ldquo;Hum!&rdquo; said he, in an
      altered tone of voice, &ldquo;that is a delicate question. My defrauder appears
      to be a dangerous fellow&mdash;a duellist&mdash;and if I disclose his
      knavery, he is quite capable of picking a quarrel with me&mdash;not that I
      am afraid of him, I assure you, but my principles don&rsquo;t allow me to fight.
      When a man has an income of a million, he doesn&rsquo;t care to expose himself
      to the dangers of a duel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, prince, in France folks don&rsquo;t do a scoundrel the honor to cross
      swords with him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just what my steward, who is a Frenchman, told me; but no matter.
      Besides, I am not sufficiently sure of the man&rsquo;s guilt to noise it abroad.
      I have no positive proofs as yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was evidently terribly frightened, and the first thing to be done was
      to reassure him. &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; insisted the baron, &ldquo;tell us the man&rsquo;s name. This
      gentleman here&rdquo;&mdash;pointing to Pascal&mdash;&ldquo;is one of my most esteemed
      friends. I will answer for him as I would for myself; and we will swear
      upon our honor not to reveal the secret we ask you for, without your
      permission.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have our word of honor,&rdquo; replied both the baron and Pascal in a
      breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      After casting a half-frightened glance around him, the worthy Turk seemed
      to gather courage. But no! He deliberated some time, and then rejoined:
      &ldquo;Really, I&rsquo;m not sufficiently convinced of the accuracy of my suspicions
      to incur the risk of accusing a man who belongs in the very best society;
      a man who is very rich and very highly respected, and who would tolerate
      no imputations upon his character.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was plain that he would not speak. The baron shrugged his shoulders,
      but Pascal stepped bravely forward. &ldquo;Then I will tell you, prince,&rdquo; he
      said, &ldquo;the name that you are determined to hide from us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you must allow me to remark that the baron and myself retract the
      promise we made you just now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Naturally.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, your defrauder is the Marquis de Valorsay!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If Kami-Bey had seen an emissary of his sovereign enter the room carrying
      the fatal bow-string he would not have seemed more terror-stricken. He
      sprang nervously on to his short, fat legs, his eyes wildly dilating and
      his hands fluttering despairingly. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t speak so loud! don&rsquo;t speak so
      loud!&rdquo; he exclaimed, imploringly.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he did not even attempt to deny it, the truth of the assertion might be
      taken for granted. But Pascal was not content with this. &ldquo;Now that we know
      the fact, I hope, Prince, that you will be sufficiently obliging to tell
      us how it all happened,&rdquo; he remarked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Poor Kami. He was in despair. &ldquo;Alas!&rdquo; he replied, reluctantly, &ldquo;nothing
      could be more simple. I wanted to set up a racing stable. Not that I care
      much for sport. I can scarcely distinguish a horse from a mule&mdash;but
      morning and evening, everybody says to me: &lsquo;Prince, a man like you ought
      to make your name celebrated on the turf.&rsquo; Besides I never open a paper
      without reading: &lsquo;Such a man ought to be a patron of the noblest of
      sports.&rsquo; At last, I said to myself: &lsquo;Yes, they are right. I ought to take
      part in racing.&rsquo; So I began to look about for some horses. I had purchased
      several, when the Marquis de Valorsay proposed to sell me some of his,
      some that were very well known, and that had&mdash;so he assured me&mdash;won
      at least ten times the amount they had cost him. I accepted his offer, and
      visited his stables, where I selected seven of his best horses and paid
      for them; and I paid a good round price, I assure you. Now comes the
      knavery. He has not given me the horses I purchased. The real animals, the
      valuable ones&mdash;have been sold in England under false names, and
      although the horses sent to me may be like the others in appearance, they
      are really only common animals, wanting both in blood and speed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal and the baron exchanged astonished glances. It must be confessed
      that frauds of every description are common enough in the racing world,
      and a great deal of dishonest manoeuvring results from greed for gain
      united with the fever of gambling. But never before had any one been
      accused of such an audacious and impudent piece of rascality as that which
      Kami-Bey imputed to Valorsay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How did you fail to discover this at the outset, prince?&rdquo; inquired Pascal
      in an incredulous tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because my time was so much occupied.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But your servants?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! that&rsquo;s another thing. I shouldn&rsquo;t be at all surprised if it were
      proved that the man who has charge of my stables had been bribed by the
      marquis.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, how were your suspicions aroused?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was only by the merest chance. A jockey whom I thought of employing
      had often ridden one of the animals which I fancied myself the owner of.
      Naturally, I showed him the horse, but he had no sooner set eyes on it
      than he exclaimed: &lsquo;That the horse! Never! You&rsquo;ve been cheated, prince!&rsquo; 
      Then we examined the others, and the fraud became apparent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Knowing Kami&rsquo;s character better than Pascal, the baron had good reason to
      distrust the accuracy of these statements. For the Turkish millionaire&rsquo;s
      superb contempt of money was only affected. Vanity alone unloosed his
      purse-strings. He was quite capable of presenting Jenny Fancy with a
      necklace costing five-and-twenty thousand francs for the sake of seeing
      his generosity recorded in the Gaulois or the Figaro the next day; but he
      would refuse to give a trifle to the mother of a starving family. Besides,
      it was his ambition to be regarded as the most swindled man in Europe. But
      though he was shamefully imposed upon, it was not voluntarily&mdash;for
      there was a strong dose of Arabian avarice and distrust in his
      composition.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Frankly, prince,&rdquo; said the baron, &ldquo;your story sounds like one of the wild
      legends of your native land. Valorsay is certainly no fool. How is it
      possible that he could have been guilty of so gross a fraud&mdash;a fraud
      which might be, which could not fail to be discovered in twenty-four hours&mdash;and
      which, once proven, would dishonor him forever?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before perpetrating such a piece of deception upon any one else, he would
      have thought twice; but upon me it&rsquo;s different. Isn&rsquo;t it an established
      fact that a person incurs no risk in robbing Kami-Bey?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had I been in your place I should have quietly instituted an
      investigation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What good would that have done? Besides, the sale was only conditional,
      and took place under the seal of secrecy. The marquis reserved the right
      to take his horses back on payment of a stipulated sum, and the time he
      was to have for consideration only expired on the day before yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh! why didn&rsquo;t you tell us that at first?&rdquo; cried the baron.
    </p>
    <p>
      The marquis&rsquo;s rascality was now easily explained. Finding himself in a
      desperate strait, and feeling that his salvation was certain if he could
      only gain a little time, he had yielded to temptation, saying to himself,
      like unfaithful cashiers when they first appropriate their employers&rsquo; 
      money: &ldquo;I will pay it back, and no one will ever know it!&rdquo; However, when
      the day of settlement came he had found himself in as deplorable a plight
      as on the day of the robbery, and he had been compelled to yield to the
      force of circumstances.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what do you intend to do, prince?&rdquo; asked Pascal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! I am still in doubt. I have compelled the marquis to give me the
      papers in which the exploits of these horses are recorded. These
      statements will be of service in case of a law-suit. But shall I or shall
      I not enter a complaint against him? If it were a mere question of money I
      should let the matter drop; but he has defrauded and deceived me so
      outrageously that it annoys me. On the other hand, to confess that he has
      cheated me in this fashion would cover me with ridicule. Besides, the man
      is a dangerous enemy. And what would become of me if I happened to side
      against him? I should be compelled to leave Paris. Ah! I&rsquo;d give ten
      thousand francs to any one who&rsquo;d settle this cursed affair for me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His perplexity was so great, and his anger so intense, for that once he
      tore off his eternal fez and flung it on to the table, swearing like a
      drayman. However, controlling himself at last, he exclaimed in a tone of
      assumed indifference: &ldquo;No matter, there&rsquo;s been enough said on this subject
      for one day&mdash;I&rsquo;m here to play&mdash;so let us begin, baron. For we
      are wasting precious time, as you so often remark.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal had nothing more to learn; so he shook hands with the baron, made
      an appointment with him for the same evening, and went away.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was only half-past two; a good hour and a half remained at his
      disposal. &ldquo;I will profit by this opportunity to eat something,&rdquo; he
      thought; a sudden faintness reminding him that he had taken nothing but a
      cup of chocolate that day. Thereupon perceiving a cafe near by, he entered
      it, ordered breakfast, and lingered there until it was time to return to
      the Marquis de Valorsay&rsquo;s. He would have gone there before the appointed
      time if he had merely listened to the promptings of his impatience, so
      thoroughly was he persuaded that this second interview would be decisive.
      But prudence advised him not to expose himself to the danger of an
      encounter with Madame Leon and Dr. Jodon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! Monsieur Maumejan,&rdquo; cried the marquis, as soon as Pascal made his
      appearance. He had been counting the seconds with intense anxiety, as his
      tone of voice unmistakably revealed.
    </p>
    <p>
      In reply Pascal gravely drew from his pocket twenty-four bank-notes, of a
      thousand francs each, and he placed them upon the table, saying: &ldquo;Here is
      the amount, Monsieur le Marquis. I have, of course, deducted my
      commission. Now, if you will write and sign a note for twenty-five
      thousand francs, payable to my order two months hence, our business for
      to-day will be concluded.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Valorsay&rsquo;s hand trembled nervously as he penned the desired note,
      for, until the very last moment, he had doubted the promises of this
      unknown agent who had made his appearance so opportunely Then, when the
      document was signed, he carelessly slipped the money into a drawer and
      exclaimed: &ldquo;So here&rsquo;s the needful to pay my debt of honor; but my
      embarrassment is none the less great. These twenty-four thousand francs
      won&rsquo;t take the place of the hundred thousand which Baron Trigault promised
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And, as Pascal made no reply, the marquis began a desultory tramp up and
      down the smoking-room. He was very pale, his brows were knit; he looked
      like a man who was meditating a decisive step, and who was calculating the
      consequences. But having no time to waste in hesitation, he soon paused in
      front of Pascal, and exclaimed: &ldquo;Since you have just lent me twenty-four
      thousand francs, why won&rsquo;t you lend me the rest?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Pascal shook his head. &ldquo;One risks nothing by advancing twenty-five
      thousand francs to a person in your position, Monsieur le Marquis.
      Whatever happens, such a sum as that can always be gathered from the
      wreck. But double or triple the amount! The deuce! that requires
      reflection, and I must understand the situation thoroughly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if I told you that I am&mdash;almost ruined, what would you reply?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shouldn&rsquo;t be so very much surprised.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Valorsay had now gone too far to draw back. &ldquo;Ah, well!&rdquo; he resumed,
      &ldquo;the truth is this&mdash;my affairs are terribly involved.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The devil! You should have told me that sooner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait; I am about to retrieve my fortune&mdash;to make it even larger than
      it has ever been. I am on the point of contracting a marriage which will
      make me one of the richest men in Paris; but I must have a little time to
      bring the affair to a successful termination, and I need money&mdash;and
      my creditors are pressing me unmercifully. You told me this morning that
      you once assisted a man who was in a similar position. Will you help me?
      You can set your own price on your services.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      More easily overcome by joy than by sorrow, Pascal almost betrayed
      himself. He had attained his object. Still, he succeeded in conquering his
      emotion, and it was in a perfectly calm voice that he replied: &ldquo;I can
      promise nothing until I understand the situation, Monsieur le Marquis.
      Will you explain it to me? I am listening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      It was nearly midnight when M. Wilkie left the Hotel d&rsquo;Argeles after the
      terrible scene in which he had revealed his true character. On seeing him
      pass out with haggard eyes, colorless lips, and disordered clothing, the
      servants gathered in the vestibule took him at first for another of those
      ruined gamblers who not unfrequently left the house with despair in their
      hearts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Another fellow who&rsquo;s had bad luck!&rdquo; they remarked sneeringly to one
      another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt about that. He is pretty effectually used up, judging from
      appearances,&rdquo; one of them remarked.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not until some moments later that they learned a portion of the
      truth through the servants who had been on duty upstairs, and who now ran
      down in great terror, crying that Madame d&rsquo;Argeles was dying, and that a
      physician must be summoned at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie was already far away, hastening up the boulevard with an agile
      step. Any one else would have been overcome with shame and sorrow&mdash;would
      have been frightened by the thought of what he had done, and have striven
      to find some way to conceal his disgrace; but he, not in the least. In
      this frightful crisis, he was only conscious of one fact&mdash;that just
      as he raised his hand to strike Madame Lia d&rsquo;Argeles, his mother, a big,
      burly individual had burst into the room, like a bombshell, caught him by
      the throat, forced him upon his knees, and compelled him to ask the lady&rsquo;s
      pardon. He, Wilkie, to be humiliated in this style! He would never endure
      that. This was an affront he could not swallow, one of those insults that
      cry out for vengeance and for blood. &ldquo;Ah! the great brute shall pay for
      it,&rdquo; he repeated, again and again, grinding his teeth. And if he hastened
      up the boulevard, it was only because he hoped to meet his two chosen
      friends, M. Costard and the Viscount de Serpillon, the co-proprietors of
      Pompier de Nanterre.
    </p>
    <p>
      For he intended to place his outraged honor in their care. They should be
      his seconds, and present his demand for satisfaction to the man who had
      insulted him. A duel was the only thing that could appease his furious
      anger and heal his wounded pride. And a great scandal, which he would be
      the hero of, was not without a certain charm for him. What a glorious
      chance to win notoriety at an epoch when newspapers have become public
      laundries, in which every one washes his soiled linen and dries it in the
      glare of publicity! He saw his already remarkable reputation enhanced by
      the interest that always attaches to people who are talked about, and he
      could hear in advance the flattering whisper which would greet his
      appearance everywhere: &ldquo;You see that young man?&mdash;he is the hero of
      that famous adventure,&rdquo; etc. Moreover, he was already twisting and turning
      the terms of the notice which his seconds must have inserted in the
      Figaro, hesitating between two or three equally startling beginnings:
      &ldquo;Another famous duel,&rdquo; or &ldquo;Yesterday, after a scandalous scene, an
      encounter,&rdquo; etc., etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unfortunately, he did not meet either M. Costard or the Viscount de
      Serpillon. Strange to say, they were not in any of the cafes, where the
      flower of French chivalry usually congregates, in the company of
      golden-haired young women, from nine in the evening until one o&rsquo;clock in
      the morning. This disappointment grieved M. Wilkie sorely, although he
      derived some benefit from it, for his disordered attire attracted
      attention at each place he entered, and acquaintances eagerly inquired:
      &ldquo;Where have you come from, and what has happened to you?&rdquo; Whereupon he
      replied with an air of profound secrecy: &ldquo;Pray don&rsquo;t speak of it. A
      shocking affair! If it were noised abroad I should be inconsolable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At last the cafes began to close, and promenaders became rare. M. Wilkie,
      much to his regret, was obliged to go home. When he had locked his door
      and donned his dressing-gown, he sat down to think over the events of the
      day, and collect his scattered wits. What most troubled and disquieted him
      was not the condition in which he had left Madame Lia d&rsquo;Argeles, his
      mother, who was, perhaps, dying, through his fault! It was not the
      terrible sacrifice that this poor woman had made for him in a transport of
      maternal love! It was not the thought of the source from which the money
      he had squandered for so many years had been derived. No, M. Wilkie was
      quite above such paltry considerations&mdash;good enough for commonplace
      and antiquated people. &ldquo;He was too clever for that. Ah! yes. He had a
      stronger stomach, and was up with the times!&rdquo; If he were sorely vexed in
      spirit it was because he thought that the immense property which he had
      believed his own had slipped, perhaps for ever, from his grasp. For rising
      threateningly between the Chalusse millions and himself, he pictured the
      form of his father, this man whom he did not know, but whose very name had
      made Madame d&rsquo;Argeles shudder.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie was seized with terror when he looked his actual situation in
      the face. What was to become of him? He was certain that Madame d&rsquo;Argeles
      would not give him another sou. She could not&mdash;he recognized that
      fact. His intelligence was equal to that. On the other hand, if he ever
      obtained anything from the count&rsquo;s estate, which was more than doubtful,
      would he not be obliged to wait a long time for it? Yes, in all
      probability such would be the case. Then how should he live, how would he
      be able to obtain food in the meantime? His despair was so poignant that
      tears came to his eyes; and he bitterly deplored the step he had taken.
      Yes, he actually sighed for the past; he longed to live over again the
      very years in which he had so often complained of his destiny. Then,
      though not a millionaire by any means, he at least wanted for nothing.
      Every quarter-day a very considerable allowance was promptly paid him,
      and, in great emergencies, he could apply to Mr. Patterson, who always
      sent a favorable answer if not drawn upon too heavily. Yes, he sighed for
      that time! Ah! if he had only then realized how fortunate he was! Had he
      not been one of the most opulent members of the society in which he moved?
      Had he not been flattered and admired more than any of his companions? Had
      he not found the most exquisite happiness in his part ownership of Pompier
      de Nanterre!
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, what remained? Nothing, save anxiety concerning the future, and all
      sorts of uncertainties and terrors! What a mistake! What a blunder he had
      made! Ah! if he could only begin again. He sincerely wished that the great
      adversary of mankind had the Viscount de Coralth in his clutches. For, in
      his despair, it was the once dear viscount that he blamed, accused, and
      cursed.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was in this ungrateful frame of mind when a loud, almost savage, ring
      came at his door. As his servant slept in an attic upstairs, Wilkie was
      quite alone in his rooms, so he took the lamp and went to open the door
      himself. At this hour of the night, the visitor could only be M. Costard
      or the Viscount de Serpillon, or perhaps both of them. &ldquo;They have heard
      that I was looking for them, and so they have hastened here,&rdquo; he thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      But he was mistaken. The visitor was neither of these gentlemen, but M.
      Ferdinand de Coralth in person. Prudence had compelled the viscount to
      leave Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s card-party one of the last, but as soon as he was
      out of the house he had rushed to the Marquis de Valorsay&rsquo;s to hold a
      conference with him, far from suspecting that he was followed, and that an
      auxiliary of Pascal Ferailleur and Mademoiselle Marguerite was even then
      waiting for him below&mdash;an enemy as formidable as he was humble&mdash;Victor
      Chupin.
    </p>
    <p>
      At sight of the man who had so long been his model&mdash;the friend who
      had advised what he styled his blunder&mdash;Wilkie was so surprised that
      he almost dropped his lamp. Then as his wrath kindled, &ldquo;Ah! so it&rsquo;s you!&rdquo;
       he exclaimed, angrily. &ldquo;You come at a good time!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But M. de Coralth was too much exasperated to notice Wilkie&rsquo;s strange
      greeting. Seizing him roughly by the arm, and closing the door with a
      kick, he dragged Wilkie back into the little drawing-room. &ldquo;Yes, it&rsquo;s I,&rdquo;
       he said, curtly. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s I&mdash;come to inquire if you have gone mad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Viscount!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can find no other explanation of your conduct! What! You choose Madame
      d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s reception day, and an hour when there are fifty guests in her
      drawing-room to present yourself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, well! it wasn&rsquo;t from choice. I had been there twice before, and had
      the doors shut in my face.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You ought to have gone back ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times,
      rather than have accomplished such an idiotic prank as this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did I recommend? Prudence, calmness and moderation, persuasive
      gentleness, sentiments of the loftiest nature, tenderness, a shower of
      tears&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Possibly, but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But instead of that, you fall upon this woman like a thunderbolt, and set
      the whole household in the wildest commotion. What could you be thinking
      of, to make such an absurd and frightful scene? For you howled and
      shrieked like a street hawker, and we could hear you in the drawing-room.
      If all is not irretrievably lost, there must be a special Providence for
      the benefit of fools!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In his dismay, Wilkie endeavored to falter some excuses, but he was only
      able to begin a few sentences which died away, uncompleted in his throat.
      The violence shown by M. de Coralth, who was usually as cold and as
      polished as marble, quieted his own wrath. Still toward the last he felt
      disposed to rebel against the insults that were being heaped upon him. &ldquo;Do
      you know, viscount, that I begin to think this very strange,&rdquo; he
      exclaimed. &ldquo;If any one else had led me into such a scrape, I should have
      called him to account in double-quick time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Coralth shrugged his shoulders with an air of contempt, and
      threateningly replied: &ldquo;Understand, once for all, that you had better not
      attempt to bully me! Now, tell me what passed between your mother and
      yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;First I should like&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dash it all! Do you suppose that I intend to remain here all night? Tell
      me what occurred, and be quick about it. And try to speak the truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was one of M. Wilkie&rsquo;s greatest boasts that he had an indomitable will&mdash;an
      iron nature. But the viscount exercised powerful influence over him, and,
      to tell the truth, inspired him with a form of emotion which was nearly
      akin to fear. Moreover, a glimmer of reason had at last penetrated his
      befogged brain: he saw that M. de Coralth was right&mdash;that he had
      acted like a fool, and that, if he hoped to escape from the dangers that
      threatened him, he must take the advice of more experienced men than
      himself. So, ceasing his recriminations, he began to describe what he
      styled his explanation with Madame d&rsquo;Argeles. All went well at first; for
      he dared not misrepresent the facts.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when he came to the intervention of the man who had prevented him from
      striking his mother, he turned crimson, and rage again filled his heart.
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry I let myself get into such a mess!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;You should
      have seen my condition. My shirt-collar was torn, and my cravat hung in
      tatters. He was much stronger than I&mdash;the contemptible scoundrel!&mdash;ah!
      if it hadn&rsquo;t been for that&mdash;&mdash; But I shall have my revenge. Yes,
      he shall learn that he can&rsquo;t trample a man under foot with impunity.
      To-morrow two of my friends will call upon him; and if he refuses to
      apologize or to give me satisfaction, I&rsquo;ll cane him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was evident enough that M. de Coralth had to exercise considerable
      constraint to listen to these fine projects. &ldquo;I must warn you that you
      ought to speak in other terms of an honorable and honored gentleman,&rdquo; he
      interrupted, at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh! what! You know him then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s defender is Baron Trigault.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie&rsquo;s heart bounded with joy, as he heard this name. &ldquo;Ah! this is
      capital!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;What! So it was Baron Trigault&mdash;the noted
      gambler&mdash;who owns such a magnificent house in the Rue de la Ville
      l&rsquo;Eveque, the husband of that extremely stylish lady, that notorious
      cocotte&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The viscount sprang from his chair, and interrupting M. Wilkie: &ldquo;I advise
      you, for the sake of your own safety,&rdquo; he said, measuring his words to
      give them greater weight, &ldquo;never to mention the Baroness Trigault&rsquo;s name
      except in terms of the most profound respect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was no misunderstanding M. de Coralth&rsquo;s tone, and his glance said
      plainly that he would not allow much time to pass before putting his
      threat into execution. Having always lived in a lower circle to that in
      which the baroness sparkled with such lively brilliancy, M. Wilkie was
      ignorant of the reasons that induced his distinguished friend to defend
      her so warmly; but he DID understand that it would be highly imprudent to
      insist, or even to discuss the matter. So, in his most persuasive manner,
      he resumed: &ldquo;Let us say no more about the wife, but give our attention to
      the husband. So it was the baron who insulted me! A duel with him&mdash;what
      good luck! Well! he may sleep in peace to-night, but as soon as he is up
      in the morning he will find Costard and Serpillon on hand. Serpillon has
      not an equal as a second. First, he knows the best places for a meeting;
      then he lends the combatants weapons when they have none; he procures a
      physician; and he is on excellent terms with the journalists, who publish
      reports of these encounters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The viscount had never had a very exalted opinion of Wilkie&rsquo;s
      intelligence, but now he was amazed to see how greatly he had
      overestimated it. &ldquo;Enough of such foolishness,&rdquo; he interrupted, curtly.
      &ldquo;This duel will never take place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should like to know who will prevent it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will, if you persist in such an absurd idea. You ought to have sense
      enough to know that the baron would kick Serpillon out of the house, and
      that you would only cover yourself with ridicule. So, between your duel
      and my help make your choice, and quickly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The prospect of sending his seconds to demand satisfaction from Baron
      Trigault was certainly a very attractive one. But, on the other hand,
      Wilkie could not afford to dispense with M. de Coralth&rsquo;s services. &ldquo;But
      the baron has insulted me,&rdquo; he urged.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you can demand satisfaction when you obtain possession of your
      property: but the least scandal now would spoil your last chances.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will abandon the project, then,&rdquo; sighed Wilkie, despondently; &ldquo;but pray
      advise me. What do you think of my situation?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Coralth seemed to consider a moment, and then gravely replied: &ldquo;I
      think that, UNASSISTED, you have no chance whatever. You have no standing,
      no influential connections, no position&mdash;you are not even a
      Frenchman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! that is precisely what I have said to myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Still, I am convinced that with some assistance you might overcome your
      mother&rsquo;s resistance, and even your father&rsquo;s pretentions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but where could I find protectors?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The viscount&rsquo;s gravity seemed to increase. &ldquo;Listen to me,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;I
      will do for you what I would not do for any one else. I will endeavor to
      interest in your cause one of my friends, who is all powerful by reason of
      his name, his fortune, and his connections&mdash;the Marquis de Valorsay,
      in fact.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The one who is so well known upon the turf?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you will introduce me to him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Be ready to-morrow at eleven o&rsquo;clock, and I will call for you and
      take you to his house. If he interests himself in your cause, it is as
      good as gained.&rdquo; And as his companion overwhelmed him with thanks, he
      rose, and said: &ldquo;I must go now. No more foolishness, and be ready
      to-morrow at the appointed time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thanks to the surprising mutability of temper which was the most striking
      characteristic of his nature, M. Wilkie was already consoled for his
      blunder.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had received M. de Coralth as an enemy; but he now escorted him to the
      door with every obsequious attention&mdash;in fact, just as if he looked
      upon him as his preserver. A word which the viscount had dropped during
      the conversation had considerably helped to bring about this sudden
      revulsion of feelings. &ldquo;You cannot fail to understand that if the Marquis
      de Valorsay espouses your cause, you will want for nothing. And if a
      lawsuit is unavoidable, he will be perfectly willing to advance the
      necessary funds.&rdquo; How could M. Wilkie lack confidence after that? The
      brightest hopes, the most ecstatic visions had succeeded the gloomy
      forebodings of a few hours before. The mere thought of being presented to
      M. de Valorsay, a nobleman celebrated for his adventures, his horses, and
      his fortune, more than sufficed to make him forget his troubles. What
      rapture to become that illustrious nobleman&rsquo;s acquaintance, perhaps his
      friend! To move in the same orbit as this star of the first magnitude
      which would inevitably cast some of its lustre upon him! Now he would be a
      somebody in the world. He felt that he had grown a head taller, and Heaven
      only knows with what disdain poor Costard and Serpillon would have been
      received had they chanced to present themselves at that moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is needless to say that Wilkie dressed with infinite care on the
      following morning, no doubt in the hope of making a conquest of the
      marquis at first sight. He tried his best to solve the problem of
      appearing at the same time most recherche but at ease, excessively elegant
      and yet unostentatious; and he devoted himself to the task so unreservedly
      that he lost all conception of the flight of time: so that on seeing M. de
      Coralth enter his rooms, he exclaimed in unfeigned astonishment: &ldquo;You here
      already?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It seemed to him that barely five minutes had elapsed since he took his
      place before the looking-glass to study attitudes and gestures, with a new
      and elegant mode of bowing and sitting down, like an actor practising the
      effects which are to win him applause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you say &lsquo;already?&rsquo;&rdquo; replied the viscount. &ldquo;I am a quarter of an
      hour behind time. Are you not ready?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, certainly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us start at once, then; my brougham is outside.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The drive was a silent one. M. Ferdinand de Coralth, whose smooth white
      skin would ordinarily have excited the envy of a young girl, did not look
      like himself. His face was swollen and covered with blotches, and there
      were dark blue circles round his eyes. He seemed, moreover, to be in a
      most savage humor. &ldquo;He hasn&rsquo;t had sleep enough,&rdquo; thought M. Wilkie, with
      his usual discernment; &ldquo;he hasn&rsquo;t a bronze constitution like myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie himself was insensible to fatigue, and although he had not
      closed his eyes the previous night, he only felt that nervous trepidation
      which invariably attacks debutants, and makes the throat so marvellously
      dry. For the first, and probably the last time in his life, M. Wilkie
      distrusted his own powers, and feared that he was not &ldquo;quite up to the
      mark,&rdquo; as he elegantly expressed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sight of the Marquis de Valorsay&rsquo;s handsome mansion was not likely to
      restore his assurance. When he entered the courtyard, where the master&rsquo;s
      mail-phaeton stood in waiting; when through the open doors of the handsome
      stables he espied the many valuable horses neighing in their stalls, and
      the numerous carriages shrouded in linen covers; when he counted the
      valets on duty in the vestibule, and when he ascended the staircase behind
      a lackey attired in a black dress-coat, and as serious in mien as a
      notary; when he passed through the handsome drawing-rooms, filled to
      overflowing with pictures, armor, statuary, and all the trophies gained by
      the marquis&rsquo;s horses upon the turf, M. Wilkie mentally acknowledged that
      he knew nothing of high life, and that what he had considered luxury was
      scarcely the shadow of the reality. He felt actually ashamed of his own
      ignorance. This feeling of inferiority became so powerful that he was
      almost tempted to turn and fly, when the man clothed in black opened the
      door and announced, in a clear voice: &ldquo;M. le Vicomte de Coralth!&mdash;M.
      Wilkie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a most gracious and dignified air&mdash;the air of a true GRAND
      seigneur&mdash;the only portion of his inheritance which he had preserved
      intact, the marquis rose to his feet, and, offering his hand to M. de
      Coralth, exclaimed: &ldquo;You are most welcome, viscount. This gentleman is
      undoubtedly the young friend you spoke of in the note I received from you
      this morning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The same; and really he stands greatly in need of your kindness. He finds
      himself in an extremely delicate position, and knows no one who can lend
      him a helping hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, well, I will lend him one with pleasure, since he is your friend. But
      I must know the circumstances before I can act. Sit down, gentlemen, and
      enlighten me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie had prepared his story in advance, a touching and witty
      narrative; but when the moment came to begin it, he found himself unable
      to speak. He opened his mouth, but no sound issued from his lips, and it
      seemed as if he had been stricken dumb. Accordingly it was M. de Coralth
      who made a statement of the case, and he did it well. The narrative thus
      gained considerably in clearness and precision; and even M. Wilkie noticed
      that his friend understood how to present the events in their most
      favorable light, and how to omit them altogether when his heartless
      conduct would have appeared too odious. He also noticed&mdash;and he
      considered it an excellent omen&mdash;that M. de Valorsay was listening
      with the closest attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      Worthy marquis! if his own interests had been in jeopardy he could not
      have appeared more deeply concerned. When the viscount had concluded his
      story, he gravely exclaimed: &ldquo;Your young friend is indeed in a most
      critical position, a position from which he cannot escape without being
      terribly victimized, if he&rsquo;s left dependent on his own resources.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it is understood that you will help him, is it not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Valorsay reflected for a little, and then, addressing M. Wilkie,
      replied: &ldquo;Yes, I consent to assist you, monsieur. First, because your
      cause seems to me just, and, also, because you are M. de Coralth&rsquo;s friend.
      I promise you my aid on one condition&mdash;that you will follow my advice
      implicitly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The interesting young man lifted his hand, and, by dint of a powerful
      effort, he succeeded in articulating: &ldquo;Anything you wish!&mdash;upon my
      sacred word!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must understand that when I engage in an enterprise, it must not
      fail. The eye of the public is upon me, and I have my PRESTIGE to
      maintain. I have given you a great mark of confidence, for in lending you
      my influence I become, in some measure at least, your sponsor. But I
      cannot accept this great responsibility unless I am allowed absolute
      control of the affair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I think that we ought to begin operations this very day. The main
      thing is to circumvent your father, the terrible man with whom your mother
      has threatened you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! but how?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall dress at once and go to the Hotel de Chalusse, in order to
      ascertain what has occurred there. You on your side must hasten to Madame
      d&rsquo;Argeles and request her politely, but firmly, to furnish you with the
      necessary proofs to assert your rights. If she consents, well and good! If
      she refuses, we will consult some lawyer as to the next step. In any case,
      call here again at four o&rsquo;clock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the thought of meeting Madame d&rsquo;Argeles again was anything but
      pleasing to Wilkie. &ldquo;I would willingly yield that undertaking to some one
      else,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Cannot some one else go in my place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fortunately M. de Coralth knew how to encourage him. &ldquo;What! are you
      afraid?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Afraid! he?&mdash;never! It was easy to see that by the way he settled his
      hat on his head and went off, slamming the door noisily behind him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What an idiot!&rdquo; muttered M. de Coralth. &ldquo;And to think that there are ten
      thousand in Paris built upon the very same plan!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Valorsay gravely shook his head. &ldquo;Let us thank fortune that he is as
      he is. No youth who possessed either heart or intelligence would play the
      part that I intend for him, and enable me to obtain proud Marguerite and
      her millions. But I fear he won&rsquo;t go to Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s house. You
      noticed his repugnance!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you needn&rsquo;t trouble yourself in the least on that account&mdash;he&rsquo;ll
      go. He would go to the devil if the noble Marquis de Valorsay ordered him
      to do so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Coralth understood Wilkie perfectly. The fear of being considered a
      coward by a nobleman like the Marquis de Valorsay was more than
      sufficient, not only to divest him of all his scruples, but even to induce
      him to commit any act of folly, or actually a crime. For if he had looked
      upon M. de Coralth as an oracle, he considered the marquis to be a perfect
      god.
    </p>
    <p>
      Accordingly, as he hastened toward Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s residence, he said
      to himself: &ldquo;Why shouldn&rsquo;t I go to her house? I&rsquo;ve done her no injury.
      Besides, she won&rsquo;t eat me.&rdquo; And remembering that he should be obliged to
      render a report of this interview, he resolved to assert his superiority
      and to remain cool and unmoved, as he had seen M. de Coralth do so often.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, the unusual aspect of the house excited his surprise, and puzzled
      him not a little. Three huge furniture vans, heavily laden, were standing
      outside the gate. In the courtyard there were two more vehicles of the
      same description, which a dozen men or so were busily engaged in loading.
      &ldquo;Ah, ha!&rdquo; muttered M. Wilkie, &ldquo;it was fortunate that I came&mdash;very
      fortunate; so she was going to run away!&rdquo; Thereupon, approaching a group
      of servants who were in close conference in the hall, he demanded, in his
      most imperious manner: &ldquo;Madame d&rsquo;Argeles!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The servants remembered the visitor perfectly; they now knew who he really
      was, and they could not understand how he could have the impudence and
      audacity to come there again so soon after the shameful scene of the
      previous evening. &ldquo;Madame is at home,&rdquo; replied one of the men, in anything
      but a polite tone; &ldquo;and I will go and see if she will consent to see you.
      Wait here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went off, leaving M. Wilkie in the vestibule to settle his collar and
      twirl his puny mustaches, with affected indifference; but in reality he
      was far from comfortable. For the servants did not hesitate to stare at
      him, and it was quite impossible not to read their contempt in their
      glances. They even sneered audibly and pointed at him; and he heard five
      or six epithets more expressive than elegant which could only have been
      meant for himself. &ldquo;The fools!&rdquo; thought he, boiling with anger. &ldquo;The
      scoundrels! Ah! if I dared. If a gentleman like myself was allowed to
      notice such blackguards, how I&rsquo;d chastise them!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the valet who had gone to warn Madame d&rsquo;Argeles soon reappeared and
      put an end to his sufferings. &ldquo;Madame will see you,&rdquo; said the man,
      impudently. &ldquo;Ah! if I were in her place&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, make haste,&rdquo; rejoined Wilkie, indignantly, and following the
      servant, he was ushered into a room which had already been divested of its
      hangings, curtains, and furniture. He here found Madame d&rsquo;Argeles engaged
      in packing a large trunk with household linen and sundry articles of
      clothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      By a sort of miracle the unfortunate woman had survived the terrible shock
      which had at first threatened to have an immediately fatal effect. Still
      she had none the less received her death-blow. It was only necessary to
      look at her to be assured of that. She was so greatly changed that when M.
      Wilkie&rsquo;s eyes first fell on her, he asked himself if this were really the
      same person whom he had met on the previous evening. Henceforth she would
      be an old woman. You would have taken her for over fifty, so terrible had
      been the sufferings caused her by the shameful conduct of her son. In this
      sad-eyed, haggard-faced woman, clad in black, no one would have recognized
      the notorious Lia d&rsquo;Argeles, who, only the evening before, had driven
      round the lake, reclining on the cushions of her victoria, and eclipsing
      all the women around her by the splendor of her toilette. Nothing now
      remained of the gay worldling but the golden hair which she was condemned
      to see always the same, since its tint had been fixed by dyes as indelible
      as the stains upon her past.
    </p>
    <p>
      She rose with difficulty when M. Wilkie entered, and in the expressionless
      voice of those who are without hope, she asked: &ldquo;What do you wish of me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As usual, when the time came to carry out his happiest conceptions, his
      courage failed him. &ldquo;I came to talk about our affairs, you know,&rdquo; he
      replied, &ldquo;and I find you moving.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not moving.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense! you can&rsquo;t make me believe that! What&rsquo;s the meaning of these
      carts in the courtyard?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are here to convey all the furniture in the house to the
      auction-rooms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Wilkie was struck dumb for a moment, but eventually recovering himself a
      little, he exclaimed: &ldquo;What! you are going to sell everything?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Astonishing, upon my honor! But afterward?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall leave Paris.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah! and where are you going?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a gesture of utter indifference, she gently replied: &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know; I
      shall go where no one will know me, and where it will be possible for me
      to hide my shame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A terrible disquietude seized hold of Wilkie. This sudden change of
      residence, this departure which so strongly resembled flight, this cold
      greeting when he expected passionate reproaches, seemed to indicate that
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s resolution would successfully resist any amount of
      entreaty on his part. &ldquo;The devil,&rdquo; he remarked, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think this at all
      pleasant! What is to become of me? How am I to obtain possession of the
      Count de Chalusse&rsquo;s estate? That&rsquo;s what I am after! It&rsquo;s rightfully mine,
      and I&rsquo;m determined to have it, as I told you once before. And when I&rsquo;ve
      once taken anything into my head&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused, for he could no longer face the scornful glances that Madame
      d&rsquo;Argeles was giving him. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be alarmed,&rdquo; she replied bitterly, &ldquo;I
      shall leave you the means of asserting your right to my parents&rsquo; estate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah&mdash;so&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your threats obliged me to decide contrary to my own wishes. I felt that
      no amount of slander or disgrace would daunt you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course not, when so many millions are at stake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I reflected, and I saw that nothing would arrest you upon your downward
      path except a large fortune. If you were poor and compelled to earn your
      daily bread&mdash;a task which you are probably incapable of performing&mdash;who
      can tell what depths of degradation you might descend to? With your
      instincts and your vices, who knows what crime you wouldn&rsquo;t commit to
      obtain money? It wouldn&rsquo;t be long before you were in the dock, and I
      should hear of you only through your disgrace. But, on the other hand, if
      you were rich, you would probably lead an honest life, like many others,
      who, wanting for nothing, are not tempted to do wrong, who, in fact, show
      virtue in which there is nothing worthy of praise. For real virtue implies
      temptation&mdash;a struggle and victory.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Although he did not understand these remarks very well, M. Wilkie evinced
      a desire to offer some objections; but Madame d&rsquo;Argeles had already
      resumed: &ldquo;So I went to my notary this morning. I told him everything; and
      by this time my renunciation of my rights to the estate of the Count de
      Chalusse is already recorded.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! your renunciation. Oh! no.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Allow me to finish since you don&rsquo;t understand me. As soon as I renounce
      the inheritance it becomes yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no wish to deceive you. I only desire that the name of Lia
      d&rsquo;Argeles should not be mentioned. I will give you the necessary proofs to
      establish your identity; my marriage contract and your certificate of
      birth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was joy that made M. Wilkie speechless now. &ldquo;And when will you give me
      these documents?&rdquo; he faltered, after a short pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall have them before you leave this house; but first of all I must
      talk with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Agitated and excited though he was, M. Wilkie had not once ceased to think
      of M. de Coralth and the Marquis de Valorsay. What would they do in such a
      position, and how should he act to conform himself to the probable example
      of these models of deportment? Manifestly he ought to assume that stolid
      and insolent air of boredom which is considered a sure indication of birth
      and breeding. Convinced of this, and seized with a laudable desire to
      emulate such distinguished examples, he had perched himself upon a trunk,
      where he still sat with his legs crossed. He now pretended to suppress a
      yawn, as he growled, &ldquo;What! some more long phrases&mdash;and another
      melodramatic display?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Absorbed in the memories she had invoked, Madame d&rsquo;Argeles paid no heed to
      Wilkie&rsquo;s impertinence. &ldquo;Yes, I must talk with you,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and more
      for your sake than for my own. I must tell you who I am, and through what
      strange vicissitudes I have passed. You know what family I belong to. I
      will tell you, however&mdash;for you may be ignorant of the fact&mdash;that
      our house is the equal of any in France in lineage, splendor of alliance,
      and fortune. When I was a child, my parents lived at the Hotel de
      Chalusse, in the Faubourg Saint Germain, a perfect palace, surrounded by
      one of those immense gardens, which are no longer seen in Paris&mdash;a
      real park, shaded with century-old trees. Certainly everything that money
      could procure, or vanity desire, was within my reach; and yet my youth was
      wretchedly unhappy. I scarcely knew my father, who was devoured by
      ambition, and had thrown himself body and soul into the vortex of
      politics. Either my mother did not love me, or thought it beneath her
      dignity to make any display of sensibility; but at all events her reserve
      had raised a wall of ice between herself and me. As for my brother he was
      too much engrossed in pleasure to think of a mere child. So I lived quite
      alone, too proud to accept the love and friendship of my inferiors&mdash;abandoned
      to the dangerous inspirations of solitude, and with no other consolation
      than my books&mdash;books which had been chosen for me by my mother&rsquo;s
      confessor, and which were calculated to fill my imagination with visionary
      and romantic fancies. The only conversation I heard dealt with the means
      of leaving all the family fortune to my brother, so that he might uphold
      the splendor of the name, and with the necessity of marrying me to some
      superannuated nobleman who would take me without a dowry, or of compelling
      me to enter one of those aristocratic convents, which are the refuge, and
      often the prison, of poor girls of noble birth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not pretend to justify my fault, I am only explaining it. I thought
      myself the most unfortunate being in the world&mdash;and such I really
      was, since I honestly believed it&mdash;when I happened to meet Arthur
      Gordon, your father. I saw him for the first time at a fete given at the
      house of the Comte de Commarin. How he, a mere adventurer, had succeeded
      in forcing his way into the most exclusive society in the world, is a
      point which I have never been able to explain. But, alas! it is only too
      true that when our glances met for the first time, my heart was stirred to
      its inmost depths; I felt that it was no longer mine&mdash;that I was no
      longer free! Ah! why does not God allow a man&rsquo;s face to reflect at least
      something of his nature? This man, who was a corrupt and audacious
      hypocrite, had that air of apparent nobility and frankness which inspires
      you with unlimited confidence, and the melancholy expression on his
      features seemed to indicate that he had known sorrow, and had good cause
      to rail at destiny. In his whole appearance there was certainly a
      mysterious and fatal charm. I afterward learned that this was only a
      natural result of the wild life he had led. He was only twenty-six, and he
      had already been the commander of a slave ship, and had fought in Mexico
      at the head of one of those guerilla bands which make politics an excuse
      for pillage and murder. He divined only too well the impression he had
      made upon my heart. I met him twice afterward in society. He did not speak
      to me; he even pretended to avoid me, but standing a little on one side,
      he watched my every movement with burning eyes in which I fancied I could
      read a passion as absorbing as my own. At last he ventured to write to me.
      The moment a letter addressed to me in an unknown hand was covertly handed
      me by my maid, I divined that it came from him. I was frightened, and my
      first impulse was to take it, not to my mother&mdash;whom I regarded as my
      natural enemy&mdash;but to my father. However, he chanced to be absent; I
      kept the letter, I read it, I answered it&mdash;and he wrote again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! from that moment my conduct was inexcusable. I knew that it was
      worse than a fault to continue this clandestine correspondence. I knew my
      parents would never give my hand in marriage to a man who was not of noble
      birth. I knew that I was risking my reputation, the spotless honor of our
      house, my happiness, and life! Still I persisted&mdash;I was possessed
      with a strange madness that made me ready to brave every danger. Besides,
      he gave me no time to breathe, or reflect. Everywhere, constantly, every
      instant, he compelled me to think of him. By some miracle of address and
      audacity, he had discovered a means of intruding upon my presence, even in
      my father&rsquo;s house. For instance, every morning I found the vases in my
      room full of choice flowers, though I was never able to discover what
      hands had placed them there. Ah! how can one help believing in an
      omnipresent passion which one inhales with the very air one breathes! How
      can one resist it?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only discovered Arthur Gordon&rsquo;s object when it was too late. He had
      come to Paris with the fixed determination of trapping some rich heiress,
      and forcing her family to give her to him with a large dowry, after one of
      those disgraceful scandals which render a marriage inevitable. At the very
      same time he was pursuing two other rich young girls, persuaded that one
      of the three would certainly become his victim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was the first to yield. One of those unforeseen events which are the
      work of Providence, was destined to decide my fate. Several times,
      already, in compliance with Arthur&rsquo;s urgent entreaties, I had met him at
      night time in a little pavilion in our garden. This pavilion contained a
      billiard-room and a spacious gallery in which my brother practised fencing
      and pistol shooting with his masters and friends. There, thanks to the
      liberty I enjoyed, we thought ourselves perfectly secure from observation,
      and we were imprudent enough to light the candles. One night when I had
      just joined Arthur in the pavilion, I thought I heard the sound of hoarse,
      heavy breathing behind me. I turned round in a fright and saw my brother
      standing on the threshold. Oh! then I realized how guilty I had been! I
      felt that one or the other of these two men&mdash;my lover or my brother&mdash;would
      not leave that room alive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tried to speak, to throw myself between them, but I found I could
      neither speak nor move; it was as if I had been turned to stone. Nor did
      they exchange a word at first. But at last my brother drew two swords from
      their scabbards, and throwing one at Arthur&rsquo;s feet, exclaimed: &lsquo;I have no
      wish to assassinate you. Defend yourself, and save your life if you can!&rsquo; 
      And as Arthur hesitated, and seemed to be trying to gain time instead of
      picking up the weapon that was lying on the floor near him, my brother
      struck him in the face with the flat side of his sword, and cried: &lsquo;Now
      will you fight, you coward! In an instant it was all over. Arthur caught
      up the sword, and springing upon my brother, disarmed him, and wounded him
      in the breast. I saw this. I saw the blood spurt out upon my lover&rsquo;s
      hands. I saw my brother stagger, beat the air wildly with his hands, and
      fall apparently lifeless to the floor. Then I, too, lost consciousness and
      fell!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Any one who had seen Madame d&rsquo;Argeles as she stood there recoiling in
      horror, with her features contracted, and her eyes dilated, would have
      realized that by strength of will she had dispelled the mists enshrouding
      the past, and distinctly beheld the scene she was describing. She seemed
      to experience anew the same agony of terror she had felt twenty years
      before; and this lent such poignant intensity to the interest of her
      narrative that if M. Wilkie&rsquo;s heart was not exactly touched, he was, as he
      afterward confessed, at least rather interested. But Madame d&rsquo;Argeles
      seemed to have forgotten his existence. She wiped away the foam-flecked
      blood which had risen to her lips, and in the same mournful voice resumed
      her story.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I regained my senses it was morning, and I was lying, still dressed,
      on a bed in a strange room. Arthur Gordon was standing at the foot of the
      bed anxiously watching my movements. He did not give me time to question
      him. &lsquo;You are in my house,&rsquo; said he. &lsquo;Your brother is dead!&rsquo; Almighty God!
      I thought I should die as well. I hoped so. I prayed for death. But, in
      spite of my sobs, he pitilessly continued: &lsquo;It is a terrible misfortune
      which I shall never cease to regret. And yet, it was his own fault. You,
      who witnessed the scene, know that it was so. You can still see on my face
      the mark of the blow he dealt me. I only defended myself and you.&rsquo; I was
      ignorant then of the accepted code of duelling. I did not know that by
      throwing himself upon my brother before he was on guard, Arthur Gordon had
      virtually assassinated him. He relied upon my ignorance for the success of
      the sinister farce he was playing. &lsquo;When I saw your brother fall,&rsquo; he
      continued, &lsquo;I was wild with terror; and not knowing what I did, I caught
      you up in my arms and brought you here. But don&rsquo;t tremble, I know that you
      are not in my house of your own free will. A carriage is below and awaits
      your orders to convey you to your parents&rsquo; home. It will be easy to find
      an explanation for last night&rsquo;s catastrophe. Slander will not venture to
      attack such a family as yours.&rsquo; He spoke in the constrained tone, and with
      that air which a brave man, condemned to death, would assume in giving
      utterance to his last wishes. I felt as if I were going mad. &lsquo;And you!&rsquo; I
      exclaimed, &lsquo;you! What will become of you?&rsquo; He shook his head, and with a
      look of anguish, replied: &lsquo;Me! What does it matter about me! I am ruined
      undoubtedly. So much the better. Nothing matters now that I must live
      apart from you&rsquo;! Ah! he knew my heart. He knew his power! Swayed by an
      emotion which was madness rather than heroism, I sprang toward him, and
      clasped him in my arms: &lsquo;Then I, too, am lost!&rsquo; I cried. &lsquo;Since fate
      united us, nothing but death shall separate us. I love you. I am your
      accomplice. Let the curse fall upon both!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A keen observer would certainly have detected a gleam of fiendish joy in
      his eyes. But he protested, or pretended to protest. With feigned energy
      he refused to accept such a sacrifice. He could not link my destiny to
      his, for misery had ever been his lot; and now that this last and most
      terrible misfortune had overtaken him, he was more than ever convinced
      that there was a curse hanging over him! He would not suffer me to bring
      misery upon myself, and eternal remorse upon him. But the more he repulsed
      me, the more obstinately I clung to him. The more forcibly he showed the
      horror of the sacrifice, the more I was convinced that my honor compelled
      me to make it. So at last he yielded, or seemed to yield, with transports
      of gratitude and love. &lsquo;Well! yes, I accept your sacrifice, my darling!&rsquo; 
      he exclaimed. &lsquo;I accept it; and before the God who is looking down upon
      us, I swear that I will do all that is in human power to repay such
      sublime and marvellous devotion.&rsquo; And, bending over me, he printed a kiss
      upon my forehead. &lsquo;But we must fly!&rsquo; he resumed, quickly. &lsquo;I have my
      happiness to defend now! I will not suffer any one to discover us and
      separate us now. We must start at once, without losing a moment, and gain
      my native land, America. There, we shall be safe. For rest assured they
      will search for us. Who knows but even now the officers of the law are
      upon our track? Your family is all-powerful&mdash;I am a mere nobody&mdash;we
      should be crushed if they discover us. They would bury you in a gloomy
      cloister, and I should be tried as a common thief, or as a vile assassin.&rsquo; 
      My only answer was: &lsquo;Let us go! Let us go at once!&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It had been easy for him to foresee what the result of this interview
      would be. A vehicle was indeed waiting at the door, but not for the
      purpose of conveying me to the Hotel de Chalusse&mdash;as was proved
      conclusively by the fact that his trunks were already strapped upon it.
      Besides, the coachman must have received his instructions in advance for
      he drove us straight to the Havre Railway station without a word. It was
      not until some months afterward that these trifles, which entirely escaped
      my notice at the time, opened my eyes to the truth. When we reached the
      station we found a train ready to start, and we took our places in it. I
      tried to quiet my conscience with miserable sophistries. Remembering that
      God has said to woman: To follow thy husband thou shalt abandon all else,
      native land, paternal home, parents and friends, I told myself that this
      was the husband whom my heart had instinctively chosen, and that it was my
      duty to follow him and share his destiny. And thus I fled with him,
      although I thought I left a corpse behind me&mdash;the corpse of my only
      brother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie was actually so much interested that he forgot his anxiety
      concerning his attitude, and no longer thought of M. de Coralth and the
      Marquis de Valorsay. He even sprang up, and exclaimed: &ldquo;Amazing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Madame d&rsquo;Argeles had already resumed: &ldquo;Such was my great, inexcusable,
      irreparable fault. I have told you the whole truth, without trying either
      to conceal or justify anything. Listen to my chastisement! On our arrival
      at Le Havre the next day, Arthur confessed that he was greatly embarrassed
      financially. Owing to our precipitate flight, he had not had time to
      realize the property he possessed&mdash;at least so he told me&mdash;a
      banker, on whom he had depended, had moreover failed him, and he had not
      sufficient money to pay our passage to New York. This amazed me. My
      education had been absurd, like that of most young girls in my station. I
      knew nothing of real life, of its requirements and difficulties. I knew,
      of course, that there were rich people and poor people, that money was a
      necessity, and that those who did not possess it would stoop to any
      meanness to obtain it. But all this was not very clear in my mind, and I
      never suspected that a few francs more or less would be a matter of vital
      importance. So I was not in the least prepared for the request to which
      this confession served as preface, and Arthur Gordon was obliged to ask me
      point-blank if I did not happen to have some money about me, or some
      jewelry which could be converted into money. I gave him all I had, my
      purse containing a few louis, a ring and a necklace, with a handsome
      diamond cross attached to it. However, the total value was comparatively
      small, and such was Arthur&rsquo;s disappointment that he made a remark which
      frightened me even then, though I did not fully understand its shameful
      meaning until afterward: &lsquo;A woman who repairs to a rendezvous should
      always have all the valuables she possesses about her. One never knows
      what may happen.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Want of money was keeping us prisoners at Le Havre, when Arthur Gordon
      chanced to meet an old acquaintance, who was the captain of an American
      sailing vessel. He confided his embarrassment to his friend, and the
      latter, whose vessel was to sail at the end of the same week, kindly
      offered us a free passage. The voyage was one long torture to me, for it
      was then that I first served my apprenticeship in shame and disgrace. By
      the captain&rsquo;s offensive gallantry, the lower officers&rsquo; familiarity of
      manner, and the sailors&rsquo; ironical glances whenever I appeared on deck, I
      saw that my position was a secret for no one. Everybody knew that I was
      the mistress and not the wife of the man whom I called my husband: and,
      without being really conscious of it, perhaps, they made me cruelly
      expiate my fault. Moreover, reason had regained its ascendency, my eyes
      were gradually opening to the truth, and I was beginning to learn the real
      character of the scoundrel for whom I had sacrificed all that makes life
      desirable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not that he had wholly ceased to practise dissimulation. But after the
      evening meal he often lingered at table smoking and drinking with his
      friend the captain, and when he joined me afterward, heated with alcohol,
      he shocked me by advocating theories which were both novel and repulsive
      to me. Once, after drinking more than usual, he entirely forgot his
      assumed part, and revealed himself in his true character. He declared he
      bitterly regretted that our love affair had ended so disastrously. It was
      deplorable to think that so happily conceived and so skilfully conducted a
      scheme should have terminated in bloodshed. And the blow had fallen just
      as he fancied he had reached the goal; just as he thought he would reap
      the reward of his labor. In a few weeks&rsquo; more time he would undoubtedly
      have gained sufficient influence over me to persuade me to elope with him.
      This would, of course, have caused a great scandal; the next day there
      would have been a family conclave; a compromise would have been effected,
      and finally, a marriage arranged with a large dowry, to hush up the
      affair. &lsquo;And I should now be a rich man,&rsquo; he added, &lsquo;a very rich man&mdash;I
      should be rolling through the streets of Paris in my carriage, instead of
      being on board this cursed ship, eating salt cod twice a day, and living
      on charity.&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! it was no longer possible to doubt. The truth was as clear as
      daylight. I had never been loved, not even an hour, not even a moment. The
      loving letters which had blinded me, the protestations of affection which
      had deceived me, had been addressed to my father&rsquo;s millions, not to
      myself. And not unfrequently I saw Arthur Gordon&rsquo;s face darken, as he
      talked with evident anxiety about what he could do to earn a living for
      himself and me in America. &lsquo;I have had trouble enough to get on alone,&rsquo; he
      grumbled. &lsquo;What will it be now? To burden myself with a penniless wife!
      What egregious folly! And yet I couldn&rsquo;t have acted differently&mdash;I
      was compelled to do it.&rsquo; Why had he been compelled to do it? why had he
      not acted differently?&mdash;that was what I vainly puzzled my brain to
      explain. However, his gloomy fears of poverty were not realized. A
      delightful surprise awaited him at New York. A relative had recently died,
      leaving him a legacy of fifty thousand dollars&mdash;a small fortune. I
      hoped that he would now cease his constant complaints, but he seemed even
      more displeased than before. &lsquo;Such is the irony of fate,&rsquo; he repeated
      again and again. &lsquo;With this money, I might easily have married a wife
      worth a hundred thousand dollars, and then I should be rich at last!&rsquo; 
      After that, I had good reason to expect that I should soon be forsaken&mdash;but
      no, shortly after our arrival, he married me. Had he done so out of
      respect for his word? I believed so. But, alas! this marriage was the
      result of calculation, like everything else he did.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We were living in New York, when one evening he came home, looking very
      pale and agitated. He had a French newspaper in his hand. &lsquo;Read this,&rsquo; he
      said, handing it to me. I took the paper as he bade me, and read that my
      brother had not been killed, that he was improving, and that his recovery
      was now certain. And as I fell on my knees, bursting into tears, and
      thanking God for freeing me from such terrible remorse, he exclaimed: &lsquo;We
      are in a nice fix! I advise you to congratulate yourself! &lsquo;From that time
      forward, I noticed he displayed the feverish anxiety of a man who feels
      that he is constantly threatened with some great danger. A few days
      afterward, he said to me: &lsquo;I cannot endure this! Have our trunks ready
      to-morrow, and we will start South. Instead of calling ourselves Gordon,
      we&rsquo;ll travel under the name of Grant.&rsquo; I did not venture to question him.
      He had quite mastered me by his cruel tyranny, and I was accustomed to
      obey him like a slave in terror of the lash. However, during our long
      journey, I learned the cause of our flight and change of name.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Your brother, d&mdash;n him,&rsquo; he said, one day, &lsquo;is hunting for me
      everywhere! He wants to kill me or to deliver me up to justice, I don&rsquo;t
      know which. He pretends that I tried to murder him!&rsquo; It was strange; but
      Arthur Gordon, who was bravery personified, and who exposed himself again
      and again to the most frightful dangers, felt a wild, unreasoning,
      inconceivable fear of my brother. It was this dread that had decided him
      to burden himself with me. He feared that if he left me, lying unconscious
      beside my brother&rsquo;s lifeless form, I might on recovering my senses reveal
      the truth, and unconsciously act as his accuser. You were born in
      Richmond, Wilkie, where we remained nearly a month, during which time I
      saw but little of your father. He had formed the acquaintance of several
      rich planters, and spent his time hunting and gambling with them.
      Unfortunately, fifty thousand dollars could not last long at this rate;
      and, in spite of his skill as a gambler, he returned home one morning
      ruined. A fortnight later when he had sold our effects, and borrowed all
      the money he could, we embarked again for France. It was not until we
      reached Paris that I discovered the reasons that had influenced him in
      returning to Europe. He had heard of my father and mother&rsquo;s death, and
      intended to compel me to claim my share of the property. He dared not
      appear in person on account of my brother. At last the hour of my
      vengeance had arrived; for I had taken a solemn oath that this scoundrel
      who had ruined me should never enjoy the fortune which had been his only
      object in seducing me. I had sworn to die inch by inch and by the most
      frightful tortures rather than give him one penny of the Chalusse
      millions. And I kept my word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I told him that I was resolved not to assert my rights, he seemed
      utterly confounded. He could not understand how the down-trodden slave
      dared to revolt against him. And when he found that my decision was
      irrevocable, I thought he would have an attack of apoplexy. It made him
      wild with rage to think that he was only separated from this immense
      fortune&mdash;the dream of his life&mdash;by a single word of mine, and to
      find that he had not the power to extort that word from me. Then began a
      struggle between us, which became more and more frightful as the money he
      possessed gradually dwindled away. But it was in vain that he resorted to
      brutal treatment; in vain that he struck me, tortured me, and dragged me
      about the floor by the hair of my head! The thought that I was avenged,
      that his sufferings equalled mine, increased my courage a hundredfold, and
      made me almost insensible to physical pain. He would certainly have been
      the first to grow weary of the struggle, if a fiendish plan had not
      occurred to him. He said to himself that if he could not conquer the wife,
      he COULD conquer the mother and he threatened to turn his brutality to
      you, Wilkie. To save you&mdash;for I knew what he was capable of&mdash;I
      pretended to waver, and I asked twenty-four hours for reflection. He
      granted them. But the next day I left him forever, flying from him with
      you in my arms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie turned white, and a cold chill crept up his spine. However, it
      was not pity for his mother&rsquo;s sufferings, nor shame for his father&rsquo;s
      infamy that agitated him, but ever the same terrible fear of incurring the
      enmity of this dangerous coveter of the Chalusse millions. Would he be
      able to hold his father at bay even with the assistance of M. de Coralth
      and the Marquis de Valorsay? A thousand questions rose to his lips, for he
      was eager to hear the particulars of his mother&rsquo;s flight; but Madame
      d&rsquo;Argeles hurried on with her story as if she feared her strength would
      fail before she reached the end.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was alone with you, Wilkie, in this great city,&rdquo; she resumed. &ldquo;A
      hundred francs was all that I possessed. My first care was to find a place
      of shelter. For sixteen francs a month, which I was compelled to pay in
      advance, I found a small, meagrely furnished room in the Faubourg Saint
      Martin. It was badly ventilated and miserably lighted, but still it was
      shelter. I said to myself that we could live there together by my work,
      Wilkie. I was a proficient in feminine accomplishments; I was an excellent
      musician, and I thought I should have no difficulty in earning the four or
      five francs a day which I considered absolutely necessary for our
      subsistence. Alas! I discovered only too soon what chimerical hopes I had
      cherished. To give music lessons it is necessary to obtain pupils. Where
      should I find them? I had no one to recommend me, and I scarcely dared
      show myself in the streets, so great was my fear that your father would
      discover our hiding-place. At last, I decided to try to find some
      employment in needlework, and timidly offered my services at several
      shops. Alas! it is only those who have gone about from door to door
      soliciting work who know the misery of the thing. To ask alms would be
      scarcely more humiliating. People sneered at me, and replied (when they
      deigned to reply at all) that &lsquo;there was no business doing, and they had
      all the help they wanted.&rsquo; My evident inexperience was probably the cause
      of many of these refusals, as well as my attire, for I still had the
      appearance of being a rich woman. Who knows what they took me for? Still
      the thought of you sustained me, Wilkie, and nothing daunted me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I finally succeeded in obtaining some bands of muslin to embroider, and
      some pieces of tapestry work to fill in. Unremunerative employment, no
      doubt, especially to one ignorant of the art of working quickly, rather
      than well. By rising with daylight, and working until late at night, I
      scarcely succeeded in earning twenty sous a day. And it was not long
      before even this scanty resource failed me. Winter came, and the cold
      weather with it. One morning I changed my last five-franc piece&mdash;it
      lasted us a week. Then I pawned and sold everything that was not
      absolutely indispensable until nothing was left me but my patched dress
      and a single skirt. And soon an evening came when the owner of our
      miserable den turned us into the street because I could no longer pay the
      rent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This was the final blow! I tottered away, clinging to the walls for
      support; too weak from lack of food to carry you. The rain was falling,
      and chilled us to the bones. You were crying bitterly. And all that night
      and all the next day, aimless and hopeless, we wandered about the streets.
      I must either die of want or return to your father. I preferred death.
      Toward evening&mdash;instinct having led me to the Seine&mdash;I sat down
      on one of the stone benches of the Point-Neuf, holding you on my knees and
      watching the flow of the dark river below. There was a strange fascination&mdash;a
      promise of peace in its depths&mdash;that impelled me almost irresistibly
      to plunge into the flood. If I had been alone in the world, I should not
      have stopped to consider a second, but on your account, Wilkie, I
      hesitated.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Moved by the thought of the danger he had escaped, M. Wilkie shuddered.
      &ldquo;B-r-r-r!&rdquo; he growled. &ldquo;You did well to hesitate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not even hear him, but continued: &ldquo;I at last decided that it was
      best to put an end to this misery, and rising with difficulty, I was
      approaching the parapet, when a gruff voice beside us exclaimed: &lsquo;What are
      you doing there?&rsquo; I turned, thinking some police officer had spoken, but I
      was mistaken. By the light of the street lamp, I perceived a man who
      looked some thirty years of age, and had a frank and rather genial face.
      Why this stranger instantly inspired me with unlimited confidence I don&rsquo;t
      know. Perhaps it was an unconscious horror of death that made me long for
      any token of human sympathy. However it may have been, I told him my
      story, but not without changing the names, and omitting many particulars.
      He had taken a seat beside me on the bench, and I saw big tears roll down
      his cheeks as I proceeded with my narrative. &lsquo;It is ever so! it is ever
      so!&rsquo; he muttered. &lsquo;To love is to incur the risk of martyrdom. It is to
      offer one&rsquo;s self as a victim to every perfidy, to the basest treason and
      ingratitude.&rsquo; The man who spoke in this fashion was Baron Trigault. He did
      not allow me to finish my story. &lsquo;Enough!&rsquo; he suddenly exclaimed, &lsquo;follow
      me!&rsquo; A cab was passing, he made us get in, and an hour later we were in a
      comfortable room, beside a blazing fire, with a generously spread table
      before us. The next day, moreover, we were installed in a pleasant home.
      Alas! why wasn&rsquo;t the baron generous to the last? You were saved, Wilkie,
      but at what a price!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She paused for a moment, her face redder than fire; but soon mastering her
      agitation, she resumed: &ldquo;There was one great cause of dissension between
      the baron and myself. I wished you to be educated, Wilkie, like the son of
      a noble family, while he desired you should receive the practical training
      suited to a youth who would have to make his own way in the world, and win
      position, fortune, and even name for himself. Ah! he was a thousand times
      right, as events have since proved only too well! But maternal love
      blinded me, and, after an angry discussion, he went away, declaring he
      would not see me again until I became more reasonable. He thought that
      reflection would cure me of my folly. Unfortunately, he was not acquainted
      with the fatal obstinacy which is the distinguishing characteristic of the
      Chalusse family. While I was wondering how I could find the means of
      carrying the plans I had formed for you into execution, two of the baron&rsquo;s
      acquaintances presented themselves, with the following proposal: Aware of
      the enormous profits derived by clandestine gambling dens, they had
      conceived the project of opening a public establishment on a large scale,
      where any Parisian or foreigner, if he seemed to be a gentleman, and
      possessed of means, would find no difficulty in obtaining admission. By
      taking certain precautions, and by establishing this gambling den in a
      private drawing-room, they believed the scheme practicable, and came to
      suggest that I should keep the drawing-room in question, and be their
      partner in the enterprise. Scarcely knowing what I pledged myself to, I
      accepted their offer, influenced&mdash;I should rather say decided&mdash;by
      the exalted positions which both these gentlemen occupied, by the public
      consideration they enjoyed, and the honored names they bore. And that same
      week this house was rented and furnished, and I was installed in it under
      the name of Lia d&rsquo;Argeles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But this was not all. There still remained the task of creating for
      myself one of those scandalous reputations that attract public attention.
      This proved an easy task, thanks to the assistance of my silent partners,
      and the innocent simplicity of several of their friends and certain
      journalists. As for myself, I did my best to insure the success of the
      horrible farce which was to lend infamous notoriety to the name of Lia
      d&rsquo;Argeles. I had magnificent equipages and superb dresses, and I made
      myself conspicuous at the theatres and all places of public resort. As is
      generally the case when one is acting contrary to conscience, I called the
      most absurd sophistries to my assistance. I tried to convince myself that
      appearances are nothing, that reality is everything, and that it did not
      matter if I were known as a courtesan since rumor lied, and my life WAS
      really chaste. When the baron hastened to me and tried to rescue me from
      the abyss into which I had flung myself; it was too late. I had discovered
      that the business would prove successful; and for your sake, I longed for
      money as passionately, as madly, as any miser. Last year my gaming-room
      yielded more than one hundred and fifty thousand francs clear profit, and
      I received as my share the thirty-five thousand francs which you
      squandered. Now you know me as I really am. My associates, my partners,
      the men whose secret I have faithfully kept, walk the streets with their
      heads erect. They boast of their unsullied honor, and they are respected
      by every one. Such is the truth, and I have no reason to make their
      disgrace known. Besides, if I proclaimed it from the house-tops, no one
      would believe me. But you are my son, and I owe you the truth, the whole
      truth!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In any age but the present, Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s story would have seemed
      absolutely incredible. Nowadays, however, such episodes are by no means
      rare. Two men&mdash;two men of exalted rank and highly respected, to use a
      common expression&mdash;associate in opening a gaming-house under the very
      eyes of the police, and in coining money out of a woman&rsquo;s supposed
      disgrace. &lsquo;Tis after all but an everyday occurrence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The unhappy woman had told her story with apparent coldness, and yet, in
      her secret heart, she perhaps hoped that by disclosing her terrible
      sacrifice and long martyrdom, she would draw a burst of gratitude and
      tenderness from her son, calculated to repay her for all her sufferings.
      But the hope was vain. It would have been easier to draw water from a
      solid rock than to, extract a sympathetic tear from Wilkie&rsquo;s eyes. He was
      only alive to the practical side of this narrative, and what impressed him
      most was the impudent assurance of Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s business associates.
      &ldquo;Not a bad idea; not bad at all,&rdquo; he exclaimed. And, boiling over with
      curiosity, he continued: &ldquo;I would give something handsome to know those
      men&rsquo;s names. Really you ought to tell me. It would be worth one&rsquo;s while to
      know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Any other person than this interesting young man would have been crushed
      by the look his mother gave him&mdash;a look embodying the deepest
      disappointment and contempt. &ldquo;I think you must be mad,&rdquo; she remarked
      coldly. And as he sprang up, astonished that any one should doubt his
      abundant supply of good sense, &ldquo;Let us put an end to this,&rdquo; she sternly
      added.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thereupon she hastily went into the adjoining room, reappearing a moment
      later with a roll of papers in her hand. &ldquo;Here,&rdquo; she remarked, &ldquo;is my
      marriage certificate, your certificate of birth, and a copy of my
      renunciation&mdash;a perfectly valid document, since the court has
      authorized it, owing to my husband&rsquo;s absence. All these proofs I am ready
      and willing to place at your disposal, but on one condition.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This last word fell like a cold shower-bath upon Wilkie&rsquo;s exultant joy.
      &ldquo;What is this condition?&rdquo; he anxiously inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is that you should sign this deed, which has been drawn up by my
      notary&mdash;a deed by which you pledge yourself to hand me the sum of two
      million francs on the day you come into possession of the Chalusse
      property.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Two millions! The immensity of the sum struck Wilkie dumb with
      consternation. Nor did he forget that he would be compelled to give the
      Viscount de Coralth the large reward he had promised him&mdash;a reward
      promised in writing, unfortunately. &ldquo;I shall have nothing left,&rdquo; he began,
      piteously.
    </p>
    <p>
      But with a disdainful gesture Madame d&rsquo;Argeles interrupted him. &ldquo;Set your
      mind at rest,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;You will still be immensely rich. All the
      estimates which have been made are far below the mark. When I was a girl I
      often heard my father say that his income amounted to more than eight
      hundred thousand francs a year. My brother inherited the whole property,
      and I would be willing to swear that he never spent more than half of his
      income.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Wilkie&rsquo;s nerves had never been subjected to so severe a shock. He tottered
      and his brain whirled. &ldquo;Oh! oh!&rdquo; he stammered. This was all he could say.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only I must warn you of a more than probable deception,&rdquo; pursued Madame
      d&rsquo;Argeles. &ldquo;As my brother was firmly resolved to deprive me even of my
      rightful portion of the estate, he concealed his fortune in every possible
      way. It will undoubtedly require considerable time and trouble to gain
      possession of the whole. However I know a man, formerly the Count de
      Chalusse&rsquo;s confidential agent, who might aid you in this task.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And this man&rsquo;s name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is Isidore Fortunat. I saved his card for you. Here it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie took it up, placed it carefully in his pocket, and then
      exclaimed: &ldquo;That being the case, I consent to sign, but after this you
      need not complain. Two millions at five per cent. ought to greatly
      alleviate one&rsquo;s sufferings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles did not deign to notice this delicate irony. &ldquo;I will tell
      you in advance to what purpose I intend to apply this sum,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I intend one of these two millions to serve as the dowry of a young girl
      who would have been the Count de Chalusse&rsquo;s sole legatee, if his death had
      not been so sudden and so unexpected.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the other one?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The other I intend to invest for you in such a way that you can only
      touch the interest of it, so that you will not want for bread after you
      have squandered your inheritance, even to the very last penny.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This wise precaution could not fail to shock such a brilliant young man as
      M. Wilkie. &ldquo;Do you take me for a fool?&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;I may appear very
      generous, but I am shrewd enough, never you fear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sign,&rdquo; interrupted Madame d&rsquo;Argeles, coldly.
    </p>
    <p>
      But he attempted to prove that he was no fool by reading and rereading the
      contract before he would consent to append his name to it. At last,
      however, he did so, and stowed away the proofs which insured him the
      much-coveted property.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said Madame d&rsquo;Argeles, &ldquo;I have one request to make of you. Whenever
      your father makes his appearance and lays claim to this fortune, I entreat
      you to avoid a lawsuit, which would only make your mother&rsquo;s shame and the
      disgrace attached to the hitherto stainless name of Chalusse still more
      widely known. Compromise with him. You will be rich enough to satisfy his
      greed without feeling it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie remained silent for a moment, as if he were deliberating upon
      the course he ought to pursue. &ldquo;If my father is reasonable, I will be the
      same,&rdquo; he said at last. &ldquo;I will choose as an arbiter between us one of my
      friends&mdash;a man who acts on the square, like myself&mdash;the Marquis
      de Valorsay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My God! do you know him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is one of my most intimate friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame d&rsquo;Argeles had become very pale. &ldquo;Wretched boy!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;You
      don&rsquo;t know that it&rsquo;s the marquis&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; She paused abruptly. One
      word more and she would have betrayed Pascal Ferailleur&rsquo;s secret plans,
      with which she had been made acquainted by Baron Trigault. Had she a right
      to do this, even to put her son on his guard against a man whom she
      considered the greatest villain in the world?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; insisted M. Wilkie, in surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Madame d&rsquo;Argeles had recovered her self-possession. &ldquo;I only wished to
      warn you against too close a connection with the Marquis de Valorsay. He
      has an excellent position in society, but yours will be far more
      brilliant. His star is on the wane; yours is just rising. All that he is
      regretting, you have a right to hope for. Perhaps even now he is jealous
      of you, and wishes to persuade you to take some false step.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you little know him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have warned you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie took up his hat, but, though he was longing to depart,
      embarrassment kept him to the spot. He vaguely felt that he ought not to
      leave his mother in this style. &ldquo;I hope I shall soon have some good news
      to bring you,&rdquo; he began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before night I shall have left this house,&rdquo; she answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course. But you are going to give me your new address.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&mdash;No!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She shook her head sadly, and in a scarcely audible voice responded: &ldquo;It
      is not likely that we shall meet again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the two millions that I am to turn over to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Patterson will collect the money. As for me, say to yourself that I&rsquo;m
      dead. You have broken the only link that bound me to life, by proving the
      futility of the most terrible sacrifices. However, I am a mother, and I
      forgive you.&rdquo; Then as he did not move, and as she felt that her strength
      was deserting her, she dragged herself from the room, murmuring,
      &ldquo;Farewell!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Stupefied with astonishment, M. Wilkie stood for a moment silent and
      motionless. &ldquo;Allow me,&rdquo; he faltered at last; &ldquo;Allow me&mdash;I wish to
      explain.&rdquo; But Madame d&rsquo;Argeles did not even turn her head; the door closed
      behind her and he was left alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      However strong a man&rsquo;s nature may be, he always has certain moments of
      weakness. For instance, at the present moment Wilkie was completely at a
      loss what to do. Not that he repented, he was incapable of that; but there
      are hours when the most hardened conscience is touched, and when long
      dormant instincts at last assert their rights. If he had obeyed his first
      impulse, he would have darted after his mother and thrown himself on his
      knees before her. But reflection, remembrance of the Viscount de Coralth,
      and the Marquis de Valorsay, made him silent the noblest voice that had
      spoken in his soul for many a long day. So, with his head proudly erect,
      he went off, twirling his mustaches and followed by the whispers of the
      servants&mdash;whispers which were ready to change into hisses at any
      moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      But what did he care for the opinion of these plebeians! Before he was a
      hundred paces from the house his emotion had vanished, and he was thinking
      how he could most agreeably spend the time until the hour appointed for
      his second interview with M. de Valorsay. He had not breakfasted, but &ldquo;his
      stomach was out of sorts,&rdquo; as he said to himself, and it would really have
      been impossible for him to swallow a morsel. Thus not caring to return
      home, he started in quest of one of his former intimates, with the
      generous intention of overpowering him with the great news. Unfortunately
      he failed to find this friend, and eager to vent the pride that was
      suffocating him, in some way or other, he entered the shop of an engraver,
      whom he crushed by his importance, and ordered some visiting cards bearing
      the inscription W. de Gordon-Chalusse, with a count&rsquo;s coronet in one of
      the corners.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus occupied, time flew by so quickly that he was a trifle late in
      keeping his appointment with his dear friend the marquis. Wilkie found M.
      de Valorsay as he had left him&mdash;in his smoking-room, talking with the
      Viscount de Coralth. Not that the marquis had been idle, but it had barely
      taken him an hour to set in motion the machinery which he had had in
      complete readiness since the evening before. &ldquo;Victory!&rdquo; cried Wilkie, as
      he appeared on the threshold. &ldquo;It was a hard battle, but I asserted my
      rights. I am the acknowledged heir! the millions are mine!&rdquo; And without
      giving his friends time to congratulate him, he began to describe his
      interview with Madame d&rsquo;Argeles, presenting his conduct in the most odious
      light possible, pretending he had indulged in all sorts of harsh
      rejoinders, and making himself out to be &ldquo;a man of bronze,&rdquo; or &ldquo;a block of
      marble,&rdquo; as he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are certainly more courageous than I fancied,&rdquo; said M. de Valorsay
      gravely, when the narrative was ended.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that really so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is, indeed. Now the world is before you. Let your story be noised
      abroad&mdash;and it will be noised abroad&mdash;and you will become a
      hero. Imagine the amazement of Paris when it learns that Lia d&rsquo;Argeles was
      a virtuous woman, who sacrificed her reputation for the sake of her son&mdash;a
      martyr, whose disgrace was only a shameful falsehood invented by two men
      of rank to increase the attractions of their gambling-den! It will take
      the newspapers a month to digest this strange romance. And whom will all
      this notoriety fall upon? Upon you, my dear sir; and as your millions will
      lend an additional charm to the romance, you will become the lion of the
      season.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie was really too much overwhelmed to feel elated. &ldquo;Upon my word,
      you overpower me, my dear marquis&mdash;you quite overpower me,&rdquo; he
      stammered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I too have been at work,&rdquo; resumed the marquis. &ldquo;And I have made numerous
      inquiries, in accordance with my promise. I almost regret it, for what I
      have discovered is&mdash;very singular, to say the least. I was just
      saying so to Coralth when you came in. What I have learned makes it
      extremely unpleasant for me, to find myself mixed up in the affair;
      accordingly, I have requested the persons who gave me this information to
      call here. You shall hear their story, and then you must decide for
      yourself.&rdquo; So saying, he rang the bell, and as soon as a servant answered
      the summons, he exclaimed: &ldquo;Show M. Casimir in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the lackey had retired to carry out this order, the marquis remarked:
      &ldquo;Casimir was the deceased count&rsquo;s valet. He is a clever fellow, honest,
      intelligent, and well up in his business&mdash;such a man as you will
      need, in fact, and I won&rsquo;t try to conceal the fact that the hope of
      entering your service has aided considerably in unloosening his tongue.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Casimir, who was irreproachably clad in black, with a white cambric tie
      round his neck, entered the room at this very moment, smiling and bowing
      obsequiously. &ldquo;This gentleman, my good fellow,&rdquo; said M. de Valorsay,
      pointing to Wilkie, &ldquo;is your former master&rsquo;s only heir. A proof of
      devotion might induce him to keep you with him. What you told me a little
      while ago is of great importance to him; see if you can repeat it now for
      his benefit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In his anxiety to secure a good situation, M. Casimir had ventured to
      apply to the Marquis de Valorsay; he had talked a good deal, and the
      marquis had conceived the plan of making him an unsuspecting accomplice.
      &ldquo;I never deny my words,&rdquo; replied the valet, &ldquo;and since monsieur is the
      heir to the property, I won&rsquo;t hesitate to tell him that immense sums have
      been stolen from the late count&rsquo;s estate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie bounded from his chair. &ldquo;Immense sums!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Is it
      possible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur shall judge. On the morning preceding his death, the count had
      more than two millions in bank-notes and bonds stowed away in his
      escritoire, but when the justice of the peace came to take the inventory,
      the money could not be found. We servants were terribly alarmed, for we
      feared that suspicion would fall upon us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ah! if Wilkie had only been alone he would have given vent to his true
      feelings. But here, under the eyes of the marquis and M. de Coralth, he
      felt that he must maintain an air of stoical indifference. He ALMOST
      succeeded in doing so, and in a tolerably firm voice he remarked: &ldquo;This is
      not very pleasant news. Two millions! that&rsquo;s a good haul. Tell me, my
      friend, have you any clue to the thief?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The valet&rsquo;s troubled glance betrayed an uneasy conscience, but he had gone
      too far to draw back. &ldquo;I shouldn&rsquo;t like to accuse an innocent person,&rdquo; he
      replied, &ldquo;but there was some one who constantly had access to that
      escritoire.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who was that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle Marguerite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know the lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s a young girl who is&mdash;at least people say&mdash;the count&rsquo;s
      illegitimate daughter. Her word was law in the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What has become of her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has gone to live with General de Fondege, one of the count&rsquo;s friends.
      She wouldn&rsquo;t take her jewels and diamonds away with her, which seemed very
      strange, for they are worth more than a hundred thousand francs. Even
      Bourigeau said to me: &lsquo;That&rsquo;s unnatural, M. Casimir.&rsquo; Borigeau is the
      concierge of the house, a very worthy man. Monsieur will not find his
      equal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Unfortunately, this tribute to the merits of the valet&rsquo;s friend was
      interrupted by the arrival of a footman, who, after tapping respectfully
      at the door, entered the room and exclaimed: &ldquo;The doctor is here, and
      desires to speak with Monsieur le Marquis.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; replied M. de Valorsay, &ldquo;ask him to wait. When I ring, you
      can usher him in.&rdquo; Then addressing M. Casimir, he added:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may retire for the present, but don&rsquo;t leave the house. M. Wilkie will
      acquaint you with his intentions by and by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The valet thereupon backed out of the room, bowing profoundly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a story for you!&rdquo; exclaimed M. Wilkie as soon as the door was
      closed. &ldquo;A robbery of two millions!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The marquis shook his head, and remarked, gravely: &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a mere nothing.
      I suspect something far more terrible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, pray? Upon my word! you frighten me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait! I may be mistaken. Even the doctor may lie deceived. But you shall
      judge for yourself.&rdquo; As he spoke, he pulled the bell-rope, and an instant
      after, the servant announced: &ldquo;Dr. Jodon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was, indeed, the same physician who had annoyed Mademoiselle Marguerite
      by his persistent curiosity and impertinent questions, at the Count de
      Chalusse&rsquo;s bedside; the same crafty and ambitious man, constantly
      tormented by covetousness, and ready to do anything to gratify it&mdash;the
      man of the period, in short, who sacrificed everything to the display by
      which he hoped to deceive other people, and who was almost starving in the
      midst of his mock splendor.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Casimir was an innocent accomplice, but the doctor knew what he was
      doing. Interviewed on behalf of the Marquis de Valorsay by Madame Leon, he
      had fathomed the whole mystery at once. These two crafty natures had read
      and understood each other. No definite words had passed between them&mdash;they
      were both too shrewd for that; and yet, a compact had been concluded by
      which each had tacitly agreed to serve the other according to his need.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as the physician appeared, M. de Valorsay rose and shook hands
      with him; then, offering him an arm-chair, he remarked: &ldquo;I will not
      conceal from you, doctor, that I have in some measure prepared this
      gentleman&rdquo;&mdash;designating M. Wilkie&mdash;&ldquo;for your terrible
      revelation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By the doctor&rsquo;s attitude, a keen observer might have divined the secret
      trepidation that always precedes a bad action which has been conceived and
      decided upon in cold blood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To tell the truth,&rdquo; he began, speaking slowly, and with some difficulty,
      &ldquo;now that the moment for speaking has come, I almost hesitate. Our
      profession has painful exigencies. Perhaps it is now too late. If there
      had been any of the count&rsquo;s relatives in the house, or even an heir at the
      time, I should have insisted upon an autopsy. But now&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On hearing the word &ldquo;autopsy,&rdquo; M. Wilkie looked round with startled eyes.
      He opened his lips to interrupt the speaker, but the physician had already
      resumed his narrative. &ldquo;Besides, I had only suspicions,&rdquo; he said,
      &ldquo;suspicions based, it is true, upon strange and alarming circumstances. I
      am a man, that is to say, I am liable to error. In the kingdom of science
      it would be unpardonable temerity on my part to affirm&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To affirm what?&rdquo; interrupted M. Wilkie.
    </p>
    <p>
      The physician did not seem to hear him, but continued in the same dogmatic
      tone. &ldquo;The count apparently died from an attack of apoplexy, but certain
      poisons produce similar and even identical symptoms which are apt to
      deceive the most experienced medical men. The persistent efforts of the
      count&rsquo;s intellect, his muscular rigidity alternating with utter
      relaxation, the dilation of the pupils of his eyes, and more than aught
      else the violence of his last convulsions, have led me to ask myself if
      some criminal had not hastened his end.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Whiter than his shirt, and trembling like a leaf, M. Wilkie sprang from
      his chair. &ldquo;I understand!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;The count was murdered&mdash;poisoned.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the physician replied with an energetic protest. &ldquo;Oh, not so fast!&rdquo;
       said he. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t mistake my conjectures for assertions. Still, I ought not
      to conceal the circumstances which awakened my suspicions. On the morning
      preceding his attack, the count took two spoonfuls of the contents of a
      vial which the people in charge could not or would not produce. When I
      asked what this vial contained, the answer was: &lsquo;A medicine to prevent
      apoplexy.&rsquo; I don&rsquo;t say that this is false, but prove it. As for the motive
      that led to the crime, it is apparent at once. The escritoire contained
      two millions of francs, and the money has disappeared. Show me the vial,
      find the money, and I will admit that I am wrong. But until then, I shall
      have my suspicions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not speak like a physician but like an examining magistrate, and
      his alarming deductions found their way even to M. Wilkie&rsquo;s dull brain.
      &ldquo;Who could have committed the crime?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It could only have been the person likely to profit by it; and only one
      person besides the count knew that the money was in the house, and had
      possession of the key of this escritoire.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And this person?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is the count&rsquo;s illegitimate daughter, who lived in the house with him&mdash;Mademoiselle
      Marguerite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Wilkie sank into his chair again, completely overwhelmed. The
      coincidence between the doctor&rsquo;s deposition and M. Casimir&rsquo;s testimony was
      too remarkable to pass unnoticed. Further doubt seemed impossible. &ldquo;Ah!
      this is most unfortunate!&rdquo; faltered Wilkie. &ldquo;What a pity! Such
      difficulties never assail any one but me! What am I to do?&rdquo; And in his
      distress he glanced from the doctor to the Marquis de Valorsay, and then
      at M. de Coralth, as if seeking inspiration from each of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My profession forbids my acting as an adviser in such cases,&rdquo; replied the
      physician, &ldquo;but these gentlemen have not the same reasons for keeping
      silent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me,&rdquo; interrupted the marquis quickly; &ldquo;but this is one of those
      cases in which a man must be left to his own inspirations. The most I can
      do, is to say what course I should pursue if I were one of the deceased
      count&rsquo;s relatives or heirs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray tell me, my dear marquis,&rdquo; sighed Wilkie. &ldquo;You would render me an
      immense service by doing so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Valorsay seemed to reflect for a moment; and then he solemnly
      exclaimed: &ldquo;I should feel that my honor required me to investigate every
      circumstance connected with this mysterious affair. Before receiving a
      man&rsquo;s estate, one must know the cause of his death, so as to avenge him if
      he has been foully murdered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For M. Wilkie the oracle had spoken. &ldquo;Such is my opinion exactly,&rdquo; he
      declared. &ldquo;But what course would you pursue, my dear marquis? How would
      you set about solving this mystery?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should appeal to the authorities.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And this very day, this very hour, without losing a second, I should
      address a communication to the public prosecutor, informing him of the
      robbery which is patent to any one, and referring to the possibility of
      foul play.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that would be an excellent idea; but there is one slight drawback&mdash;I
      don&rsquo;t know how to draw up such a communication.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know no more about it than you do yourself; but any lawyer or notary
      will give you the necessary information. Are you acquainted with any such
      person? Would you like me to give you the address of my business man? He
      is a very clever fellow, who has almost all the members of my club as his
      clients.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This last reason was more than sufficient to fix M. Wilkie&rsquo;s choice.
      &ldquo;Where can I find him?&rdquo; he inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At his house&mdash;he is always there at this hour. Come! here is a scrap
      of paper and a pencil. You had better make a note of his address. Write:
      &lsquo;Maumejan, Route de la Revolte.&rsquo; Tell him that I sent you, and he will
      treat you with the same consideration as he would show to me. He lives a
      long way off, but my brougham is standing in the courtyard; so take it,
      and when your consultation is over, come back and dine with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you are too kind!&rdquo; exclaimed M. Wilkie. &ldquo;You overpower me, my dear
      marquis, you do, upon my word! I shall fly and be back in a moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went off looking radiant; and a moment later the carriage which was to
      take him to M. Maumejan&rsquo;s was heard rolling out of the courtyard.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor had already taken up his hat and cane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will excuse me for leaving you so abruptly, Monsieur le Marquis,&rdquo;
       said he, &ldquo;but I have an engagement to discuss a business matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am negotiating for the purchase of a dentist&rsquo;s establishment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I. You may tell me that this is a downfall, but I will answer, &lsquo;It
      will give me a living.&rsquo; Medicine is becoming a more and more
      unremunerative profession. However hard a physician may work, he can
      scarcely pay for the water he uses in washing his hands. I have an
      opportunity of purchasing the business of a well-established and
      well-known dentist, in an excellent neighborhood. Why not avail myself of
      it? Only one thing worries me&mdash;the lack of funds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The marquis had expected the doctor would require remuneration for his
      services. Before compromising himself any further, M. Jodon wished to knew
      what compensation he was to receive. The marquis was so sure of this, that
      he quickly exclaimed: &ldquo;Ah, my dear doctor, if you have need of twenty
      thousand francs, I shall be only too happy to offer them to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my honor!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And when can you let me have the money?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In three or four days&rsquo; time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The bargain was concluded. The doctor was now ready to find traces of any
      poison whatsoever in the Count de Chalusse&rsquo;s exhumed remains. He pressed
      the marquis&rsquo;s hand and then went off, exclaiming: &ldquo;Whatever happens you
      can count upon me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Left alone with the Viscount de Coralth, and consequently freed from all
      restraint, M. de Valorsay rose with a long-drawn sigh of relief. &ldquo;What an
      interminable seance!&rdquo; he growled. And, approaching his acolyte, who was
      sitting silent and motionless in an arm-chair, he slapped him on the
      shoulder, exclaiming: &ldquo;Are you ill that you sit there like that, as still
      as a mummy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The viscount turned as if he had been suddenly aroused from slumber. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m
      well enough,&rdquo; he answered somewhat roughly. &ldquo;I was only thinking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your thoughts are not very pleasant, to judge from the look on your
      face.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I was thinking of the fate that you are preparing for us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! A truce to disagreeable prophecies, please! Besides, it&rsquo;s too late to
      draw back, or to even think of retreat. The Rubicon is passed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! that is the cause of my anxiety. If it hadn&rsquo;t been for my wretched
      past, which you have threatened me with like a dagger, I should long ago
      have left you to incur this danger alone. You were useful to me in times
      past, I admit. You presented me to the Baroness Trigault, to whose
      patronage I owe my present means, but I am paying too dearly for your
      services in allowing myself to be made the instrument of your dangerous
      schemes. Who aided you in defrauding Kami-Bey? Who bet for you against
      your own horse Domingo? Who risked his life in slipping those cards in the
      pack which Pascal Ferailleur held? It was Coralth, always Coralth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A gesture of anger escaped the marquis, but resolving to restrain himself,
      he made no rejoinder. It was not until after he had walked five or six
      times round the smoking-room and grown more calm that he returned to the
      viscount&rsquo;s side. &ldquo;Really, I don&rsquo;t recognize you,&rdquo; he began. &ldquo;Is it really
      you who have turned coward? And at what a moment, pray? Why, on the very
      eve of success.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish I could believe you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Facts shall convince you. This morning I might have doubted, but now,
      thanks to that vain idiot who goes by the name of Wilkie, I am sure,
      perfectly, mathematically sure of success. Maumejan, who is entirely
      devoted to me, and who is the greediest, most avaricious scoundrel alive,
      will draw up such a complaint that Marguerite will sleep in prison.
      Moreover, other witnesses will be summoned. By what Casimir has said, you
      can judge what the other servants will say. This testimony will be
      sufficient to convict her of the robbery. As for the poisoning, you heard
      Dr. Jodon. Can I depend upon him? Evidently, if I pay without haggling.
      Very well; I shall pay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But all this did not reassure M. de Coralth. &ldquo;The accusation will fall to
      the ground,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;as soon as the famous vial from which M. de
      Chalusse took two spoonfuls is found.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me; it won&rsquo;t be found.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I know where it is, my dear friend. It is in the count&rsquo;s
      escritoire, but it won&rsquo;t be there any longer on the day after to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who will remove it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A skilful fellow whom Madame Leon has found for me. Everything has been
      carefully arranged. To-morrow night at the latest Madame Leon will let
      this man into the Hotel de Chalusse by the garden gate, which she has kept
      the key of. Vantrasson, as the man is called, knows the management of the
      house, and he will break open the escritoire and take the vial away. You
      may say that there are seals upon the furniture, placed there by the
      justice of the peace. That&rsquo;s true, but this man tells me that he can
      remove and replace them in such a way as to defy detection; and as the
      lock has been forced once already&mdash;the day after the count&rsquo;s death&mdash;a
      second attempt to break the escritoire open will not be detected.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The viscount remarked, with an ironical air: &ldquo;All that is perfect; but the
      autopsy will reveal the falseness of the accusation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Naturally&mdash;but an autopsy will require time, and that will suit my
      plans admirably. After eight or ten days&rsquo; solitary confinement and several
      rigid examinations, Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s energy and courage will
      flag. What do you think she will reply to the man who says to her: &lsquo;I love
      you, and for your sake I will attempt the impossible. Swear to become my
      wife and I will establish your innocence?&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think she will say: &lsquo;Save me and I will marry you!&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Valorsay clapped his hands. &ldquo;Bravo!&rdquo; he exclaimed; &ldquo;you have spoken
      the truth. Remember, now, that your dark forebodings are only chimeras!
      Yes, she will swear it, and I know she is the woman to keep her vow, even
      if she died of sorrow. And the very next day I will go to the examining
      magistrate and say to him: &lsquo;Marguerite a thief! Ah, what a frightful
      mistake. A robbery has been committed, it&rsquo;s true; but I know the real
      culprit&mdash;a scoundrel who fancied that by destroying a single letter
      he would annihilate all traces of the breach of fidelity he had committed.
      Fortunately, the Count de Chalusse distrusted this man, and proof of his
      breach of trust is in existence. I have this proof in my hands.&rsquo; And I
      will show a letter establishing the truth of my assertion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No forebodings clouded the marquis&rsquo;s joy; he saw no obstacles; it seemed
      to him as if he had already triumphed. &ldquo;And the day following,&rdquo; he
      resumed, &ldquo;when Marguerite becomes my wife, I shall take from a certain
      drawer a certain document, given to me by M. de Chalusse when I was on the
      point of becoming his son-in-law, and in which he recognizes Marguerite as
      his daughter, and makes her his sole legatee. And this document is
      perfectly en regle, and unattackable. Maumejan, who has examined it,
      guarantees that the value of the count&rsquo;s estate cannot be less than ten
      millions. Five will go to Madame d&rsquo;Argeles, or her son Wilkie, as their
      share of the property. The remaining five will be mine. Come, confess that
      the plan is admirable!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Admirable, undoubtedly; but terribly complicated. When there are so many
      wheels within wheels, one of them is always sure to get out of order.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Besides, you have I don&rsquo;t know how many accomplices&mdash;Maumejan, the
      doctor, Madame Leon, and Vantrasson, not counting myself. Will all these
      people perform their duties satisfactorily?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Each of them is as much interested in my success as I am myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But we have enemies&mdash;Madame d&rsquo;Argeles, Fortunat&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame d&rsquo;Argeles is about to leave Paris. If Fortunat is troublesome I
      will purchase his silence; Maumejan has promised me money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But M. de Coralth had kept his strongest argument until the last. &ldquo;And
      Pascal Ferailleur?&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;You have forgotten him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No; M. de Valorsay had not forgotten him. You do not forget the man you
      have ruined and dishonored. Still, it was in a careless tone that ill
      accorded with his state of mind that the marquis replied: &ldquo;The poor devil
      must be en route for America by this time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The viscount shook his head. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s what I&rsquo;ve in vain been trying to
      convince myself of,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Do you know that Pascal was virtually
      expelled from the Palais de Justice, and that his name has been struck off
      the list of advocates? If he hasn&rsquo;t blown his brains out, it is only
      because he hopes to prove his innocence. Ah! if you knew him as well as I
      do, you wouldn&rsquo;t be so tranquil in mind!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped short for the door had suddenly opened. The interruption made
      the marquis frown, but anger gave way to anxiety when he perceived Madame
      Leon, who entered the room out of breath and extremely red in the face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There wasn&rsquo;t a cab to be had!&rdquo; she groaned. &ldquo;Just my luck. I came on
      foot, and ran the whole way. I&rsquo;m utterly exhausted;&rdquo; and so saying, she
      sank into an arm-chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. de Valorsay had turned very pale. &ldquo;Defer your complaints until another
      time,&rdquo; he said, harshly. &ldquo;What has happened? Tell me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The estimable woman raised her hands to heaven, as she plaintively
      replied: &ldquo;There is so much to tell? First, Mademoiselle Marguerite has
      written two letters, but I have failed to discover to whom they were sent.
      Secondly, she remained for more than an hour yesterday evening in the
      drawing-room with the General&rsquo;s son, Lieutenant Gustave, and, on parting,
      they shook hands like a couple of friends, and said, &lsquo;It is agreed.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And is that all?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One moment and you&rsquo;ll see. This morning Mademoiselle went out with Madame
      de Fondege to call on the Baroness Trigault. I do not know what took place
      there, but there must have been a terrible scene; for they brought
      Mademoiselle Marguerite back unconscious, in one of the baron&rsquo;s
      carriages.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you hear that, viscount?&rdquo; exclaimed M. de Valorsay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes! You shall have the explanation to-morrow,&rdquo; answered M. de Coralth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And last, but not least,&rdquo; resumed Madame Leon, &ldquo;on returning home this
      evening at about five o&rsquo;clock, I fancied I saw Mademoiselle Marguerite
      leave the house and go up the Rue Pigalle. I had thought she was ill and
      in bed, and I said to myself, &lsquo;This is very strange.&rsquo; So I hastened after
      her. It was indeed she. Of course, I followed her. And what did I see?
      Why, Mademoiselle paused to talk with a vagabond, clad in a blouse. They
      exchanged notes, and Mademoiselle Marguerite returned home. And here I am.
      She must certainly suspect something. What is to be done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If M. de Valorsay were frightened, he did not show it. &ldquo;Many thanks for
      your zeal, my dear lady,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;but all this is a mere nothing.
      Return home at once; you will receive my instructions to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite had been greatly surprised on the occasion of her
      visit to M. Fortunat when she saw Victor Chupin suddenly step forward and
      eagerly exclaim: &ldquo;I shall be unworthy of the name I bear if I do not find
      M. Ferailleur for you in less than a fortnight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It is true that M. Fortunat&rsquo;s clerk did not appear to the best advantage
      on this occasion. In order to watch M. de Coralth, he had again arrayed
      himself in his cast-off clothes, and with his blouse and his worn-out
      shoes, his &ldquo;knockers&rdquo; and his glazed cap, he looked the vagabond to
      perfection. Still, strange as it may seem, Mademoiselle Marguerite did not
      once doubt the devotion of this strange auxiliary. Without an instant&rsquo;s
      hesitation she replied, &ldquo;I accept your services, monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Chupin felt at least a head taller as he heard this beautiful young girl
      speak to him in a voice as clear and as sonorous as crystal. &ldquo;Ah! you are
      right to trust me,&rdquo; he rejoined, striking his chest with his clinched
      hand, &ldquo;for I have a heart&mdash;but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what, monsieur?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am wondering if you would consent to do what I wish. It would be a very
      good plan, but if it displeases you, we will say no more about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what do you wish?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To see you every day, so as to tell you what I&rsquo;ve done, and to obtain
      such directions as I may require. I&rsquo;m well aware that I can&rsquo;t go to M. de
      Fondege&rsquo;s door and ask to speak to you; but there are other ways of seeing
      each other. For instance, every evening at five o-clock precisely, I might
      pass along the Rue Pigalle, and warn you of my presence by such a signal
      as this: &lsquo;Pi-ouit!&rsquo;&rdquo; So saying he gave vent to the peculiar call, half
      whistle, half ejaculation, which is familiar to the Parisian
      working-classes. &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; he resumed, &ldquo;you might come down and I would tell
      you the news; besides, I might often help you by doing errands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite reflected for a moment, and then bowing her head,
      she replied:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What you suggest is quite practicable. On and after to-morrow evening I
      will watch for you; and if I don&rsquo;t come down at the end of half an hour,
      you will know that I am unavoidably detained.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Chupin ought to have been satisfied. But no, he had still another request
      to make; and instinct, supplying the lack of education, told him that it
      was a delicate one. Indeed, he dared not present his petition; but his
      embarrassment was so evident, and he twisted his poor cap so despairingly,
      that at last the young girl gently asked him: &ldquo;Is there anything more?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He still hesitated, but eventually, mustering all his courage, he replied:
      &ldquo;Well, yes, mademoiselle. I&rsquo;ve never seen Monsieur Ferailleur. Is he tall
      or short, light or dark, stout or thin? I do not know. I might stand face
      to face with him without being able to say, &lsquo;It&rsquo;s he.&rsquo; But it would be
      quite a different thing if I only had a photograph of him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A crimson flush spread over Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s face. Still she
      answered, unaffectedly, &ldquo;I will give you M. Ferailleur&rsquo;s photograph
      to-morrow, monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I shall be all right!&rdquo; exclaimed Chupin. &ldquo;Have no fears,
      mademoiselle, we shall outwit these scoundrels!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So far a silent witness of this scene, M. Fortunat now felt it his duty to
      interfere. He was not particularly pleased by his clerk&rsquo;s suddenly
      increased importance; and yet it mattered little to him, for his only
      object was to revenge himself on Valorsay. &ldquo;Victor is a capable and
      trustworthy young fellow, mademoiselle,&rdquo; he declared; &ldquo;he has grown up
      under my training, and I think you will find him a faithful servant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A &ldquo;have you finished, you old liar?&rdquo; rose to Chupin&rsquo;s lips, but respect
      for Mademoiselle Marguerite prevented him from uttering the words. &ldquo;Then
      everything is decided,&rdquo; she said, pleasantly. And with a smile she offered
      her hand to Chupin as one does in concluding a bargain.
    </p>
    <p>
      If he had yielded to his first impulse he would have thrown himself on his
      knees and kissed this hand of hers, the whitest and most beautiful he had
      ever seen. As it was, he only ventured to touch it with his finger-tips,
      and yet he changed color two or three times. &ldquo;What a woman!&rdquo; he exclaimed,
      when she had left them. &ldquo;A perfect queen! A man would willingly allow
      himself to be chopped in pieces for her sake; and she&rsquo;s as good and as
      clever as she&rsquo;s handsome. Did you notice, monsieur, that she did not offer
      to pay me. She understood that I offered to work for her for my own
      pleasure, for my own satisfaction and honor. Heavens! how I should have
      chafed if she had offered me money. How provoked I should have been!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Chupin was so fascinated that he wished no reward for his toil! This was
      so astonishing that M. Fortunat remained for a moment speechless with
      surprise. &ldquo;Have you gone mad, Victor?&rdquo; he inquired at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mad! I?&mdash;not at all; I&rsquo;m only becoming&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; He stopped
      short. He was going to add: &ldquo;an honest man.&rdquo; But it is scarcely proper to
      talk about the rope in the hangman&rsquo;s house, and there are certain words
      which should never be pronounced in the presence of certain people. Chupin
      knew this, and so he quickly resumed: &ldquo;When I become rich, when I&rsquo;m a
      great banker, and have a host of clerks who spend their time in counting
      my gold behind a grating, I should like to have a wife of my own like
      that. But I must be off about my business now, so till we meet again,
      monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The foregoing conversation will explain how it happened that Madame Leon
      chanced to surprise her dear young lady in close conversation with a
      vagabond clad in a blouse. Victor Chupin was not a person to make promises
      and then leave them unfulfilled. Though he was usually unimpressionable,
      like all who lead a precarious existence, still, when his emotions were
      once aroused, they did not spend themselves in empty protestations. It
      became his fixed determination to find Pascal Ferailleur, and the
      difficulties of the task in no wise weakened his resolution. His starting
      point was that Pascal had lived in the Rue d&rsquo;Ulm, and had suddenly gone
      off with his mother, with the apparent intention of sailing for America.
      This was all he knew positively, and everything else was mere conjecture.
      Still Mademoiselle Marguerite had convinced him that instead of leaving
      Paris, Pascal was really still there, only waiting for an opportunity to
      establish his innocence, and to wreak his vengeance upon M. de Coralth and
      the Marquis de Valorsay. On the other hand, with such a slight basis to
      depend upon, was it not almost madness to hope to discover a man who had
      such strong reasons for concealing himself? Chupin did not think so in
      fact, when he declared his determination to perform this feat, his plan
      was already perfected.
    </p>
    <p>
      On leaving M. Fortunat&rsquo;s office, he hastened straight to the Rue d&rsquo;Ulm, at
      the top of his speed. The concierge of the house where Pascal had formerly
      resided was by no means a polite individual. He was the very same man who
      had answered Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s questions so rudely; but Chupin had
      a way of conciliating even the most crabbish doorkeeper, and of drawing
      from him such information as he desired. He learned that at nine o&rsquo;clock
      on the sixteenth of October Madame Ferailleur, after seeing her trunks
      securely strapped on to a cab had entered the vehicle, ordering the driver
      to take her to the Railway Station in the Place du Havre! Chupin wished to
      ascertain the number of the cab, but the concierge could not give it. He
      mentioned, however, that this cab had been procured by Madame Ferailleur&rsquo;s
      servant-woman, who lived only a few steps from the house. A moment later
      Chupin was knocking at this woman&rsquo;s door. She was a very worthy person,
      and bitterly regretted the misfortunes which had befallen her former
      employers. She confirmed the doorkeeper&rsquo;s story, but unfortunately she,
      too, had quite forgotten the number of the vehicle. All she could say was
      that she had hired it at the cab stand in the Rue Soufflot, and that the
      driver was a portly, pleasant-faced man.
    </p>
    <p>
      Chupin repaired at once to the Rue Soufflot, where he found the man in
      charge of the stand in the most savage mood imaginable. He began by asking
      Chupin what right he had to question him, why he wished to do so, and if
      he took him for a spy. He added that his duty only consisted in noting the
      arrivals and departures of the drivers, and that he could give no
      information whatever. There was evidently nothing to be gained from this
      ferocious personage; and yet Chupin bowed none the less politely as he
      left the little office. &ldquo;This is bad,&rdquo; he growled, as he walked away, for
      he was really at a loss what to do next; and if not discouraged, he was at
      least extremely disconcerted and perplexed. Ah! if he had only had a card
      from the prefecture of police in his pocket, or if he had been more
      imposing in appearance, he would have encountered no obstacles; he might
      then have tracked this cab through the streets of Paris as easily as he
      could have followed a man bearing a lighted lantern through the darkness.
      But poor and humble, without letters of recommendation, and with no other
      auxiliaries than his own shrewdness and experience, he had a great deal to
      contend against. Pausing in his walk, he had taken off his cap and was
      scratching his head furiously, when suddenly he exclaimed: &ldquo;What an ass I
      am!&rdquo; in so loud a tone that several passers-by turned to see who was
      applying this unflattering epithet to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Chupin had just remembered one of M. Isidore Fortunat&rsquo;s debtors, a man
      whom he often visited in the hope of extorting some trifling amount from
      him, and who was employed in the Central office of the Paris Cab Company.
      &ldquo;If any one can help me out of this difficulty, it must be that fellow,&rdquo;
       he said to himself. &ldquo;I hope I shall find him at his desk! Come, Victor, my
      boy, you must look alive!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      However, he could not present himself at the office in the garb he then
      wore, and so, much against his will, he went home and changed his clothes.
      Then he took a cab at his own expense, and drove with all possible speed
      to the main office of the Cab Company, in the Avenue de Segur.
      Nevertheless it was already ten o&rsquo;clock when he arrived there. He was more
      fortunate than he had dared to hope. The man he wanted had charge of a
      certain department, and was compelled to return to the office every
      evening after dinner. He was there now.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was a poor devil who, while receiving a salary of fifteen hundred
      francs a year, spent a couple of thousand, and utilized his wits in
      defending his meagre salary from his creditors. On perceiving Chupin, he
      made a wrathful gesture, and his first words were: &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t got a
      penny.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Chupin smiled his most genial smile. &ldquo;What!&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;do you fancy
      I&rsquo;ve come to collect money from you here, and at this hour? You don&rsquo;t know
      me. I merely came to ask a favor of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The clerk&rsquo;s clouded face brightened. &ldquo;Since that is the case, pray take a
      seat, and tell me how I can serve you,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well. At nine o&rsquo;clock in the evening, on the sixteenth of October, a
      lady living in the Rue d&rsquo;Ulm sent to the stand in the Rue Soufflot for a
      cab. Her baggage was placed upon it, and she went away no one knows where.
      However, this lady is a relative of my employer, and he so much wishes to
      find her that he would willingly give a hundred francs over and above the
      amount you owe him, to ascertain the number of the vehicle. He pretends
      that you can give him this number if you choose; and it isn&rsquo;t an
      impossibility, is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the contrary, nothing could be easier,&rdquo; replied the clerk, glad of an
      opportunity to explain the ingenious mechanism of the office to an
      outsider. &ldquo;Have you ten minutes to spare?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten days, if necessary,&rdquo; rejoined Chupin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you shall see.&rdquo; So saying the clerk rose and went into the adjoining
      room, whence a moment later he returned carrying a large green box. &ldquo;This
      contains the October reports sent in every evening by the branch offices,&rdquo;
       he remarked in explanation. He next opened the box, glanced over the
      documents it contained, and joyfully exclaimed: &ldquo;Here we have it. This is
      the report sent in by the superintendent of the cab-stand in the Rue
      Soumot on the 16th October. Here is a list of the vehicles that arrived or
      left from a quarter to nine o&rsquo;clock till a quarter past nine. Five cabs
      came in, but we need not trouble ourselves about them. Three went out
      bearing the numbers 1781, 3025, and 2140. One of these three must have
      taken your employer&rsquo;s relative.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I must question the three drivers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The clerk shrugged his shoulders. &ldquo;What is the use of doing that?&rdquo; he
      said, disdainfully. &ldquo;Ah! you don&rsquo;t understand the way in which we manage
      our business! The drivers are artful, but the company isn&rsquo;t a fool. By
      expending a hundred and fifty thousand francs on its detective force every
      year, it knows what each cab is doing at each hour of the day. I will now
      look for the reports sent in respecting these three drivers. One of the
      three will give us the desired information.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This time the search was a considerably longer one, and Chupin was
      beginning to grow impatient, when the clerk waved a soiled and crumpled
      sheet of paper triumphantly in the air, and cried: &ldquo;What did I tell you?
      This is the report concerning the driver of No. 2140. Listen: Friday, at
      ten minutes past nine, sent to the Rue d&rsquo;Ulm&mdash;&mdash; do you think of
      that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s astonishing! But where can I find this driver?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t say, just at this moment; he&rsquo;s on duty now. But as he belongs to
      this division he will be back sooner or later, so you had better wait.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will wait then; only as I&rsquo;ve had no dinner, I&rsquo;ll go out and get a
      mouthful to eat. I can promise you that M. Fortunat will send you back
      your note cancelled.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Chupin was really very hungry, and so he rushed off to a little
      eating-house which he had remarked on his way to the office. There for
      eighteen sous he dined, or rather supped, like a prince; and as he
      subsequently treated himself to a cup of coffee and a glass of brandy, as
      a reward for his toil, some little time had elapsed when he returned to
      the office. However, No. 2140 had not returned in his absence, so he
      stationed himself at the door to wait for it.
    </p>
    <p>
      His patience was severely tried, for it was past midnight when Chupin saw
      the long-looked-for vehicle enter the courtyard. The driver slowly
      descended from his box and then went into the cashier&rsquo;s office to pay over
      his day&rsquo;s earnings, and hand in his report. Then he came out again
      evidently bound for home. As the servant-woman had said, he was a stout,
      jovial-faced man, and he did not hesitate to accept a glass of &ldquo;no matter
      what&rdquo; in a wine-shop that was still open. Whether he believed the story
      that Chupin told to excuse his questions or not, at all events he answered
      them very readily. He perfectly remembered having been sent to the Rue
      d&rsquo;Ulm, and spoke of his &ldquo;fare&rdquo; as a respectable-looking old lady,
      enumerated the number of her trunks, boxes, and packages, and even
      described their form. He had taken her to the railway station, stopping at
      the entrance in the Rue d&rsquo;Amsterdam; and when the porters inquired, as
      usual, &ldquo;Where is this baggage to go?&rdquo; the old lady had answered, &ldquo;To
      London.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Chupin felt decidedly crestfallen on hearing this. He had fancied that
      Madame Ferailleur had merely announced her intention of driving to the
      Havre railway station so as to set possible spies on the wrong track, and
      he would have willingly wagered anything, that after going a short
      distance she had given the cabman different instructions. Not so, however,
      he had taken her straight to the station. Was Mademoiselle Marguerite
      deceived then? Had Pascal really fled from his enemies without an attempt
      at resistance? Such a course seemed impossible on his part. Thinking over
      all this, Chupin slept but little that night, and the next morning, before
      five o&rsquo;clock, he was wandering about the Rue d&rsquo;Amsterdam peering into the
      wine-shops in search of some railway porter. It did not take him long to
      find one, and having done so, he made him the best of friends in less than
      no time. Although this porter knew nothing about the matter himself, he
      took Chupin to a comrade who remembered handling the baggage of an old
      lady bound for London, on the evening of the sixteenth. However, this
      baggage was not put into the train after all; the old lady had left it in
      the cloak-room, and the next day a fat woman of unprepossessing appearance
      had called for the things, and had taken them away, after paying the
      charges for storage. This circumstance had been impressed on the porter&rsquo;s
      mind by the fact that the woman had not given him a farthing gratuity,
      although he had been much more obliging than the regulations required.
      However, when she went off, she remarked in a honeyed voice, but with an
      exceedingly impudent air: &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll repay you for your kindness, my lad. I
      keep a wine-shop on the Route d&rsquo;Asnieres, and if you ever happen to pass
      that way with one of your comrades, come in, and I&rsquo;ll reward you with a
      famous drink!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What had exasperated the porter almost beyond endurance, was the certainty
      he felt that she was mocking him. &ldquo;For she didn&rsquo;t give me her name or
      address, the old witch!&rdquo; he growled. &ldquo;She had better look out, if I ever
      get hold of her again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Chupin had already gone off, unmoved by his informant&rsquo;s grievances.
      Now that he had discovered the stratagem which Madame Ferailleur had
      employed to elude her pursuers, his conjectures were changed into
      certainties. This information proved that Pascal WAS concealed somewhere
      in Paris; but where? If he could only find out this woman who had called
      for the trunks, it would lead to the discovery of Madame Ferailleur and
      her son but how was he to ascertain the woman&rsquo;s whereabouts? She had said
      that she kept a wine-shop on the Route d&rsquo;Asnieres. Was this true? Was it
      not more likely that this vague direction was only a fresh precaution?
    </p>
    <p>
      This much was certain: Chupin, who knew every wine-shop on the Route
      d&rsquo;Asnieres, did not remember any such powerful matron as the porter had
      described. He had not forgotten Madame Vantrasson. But to imagine any bond
      of interest between Pascal and such a woman as she was, seemed absurd in
      the extreme. However, as he found himself in such a plight and could not
      afford to let any chance escape, he repaired merely for form&rsquo;s sake to the
      Vantrasson establishment. It had not changed in the least since the
      evening he visited it in company with M. Fortunat&mdash;but seen in the
      full light of day, it appeared even more dingy and dilapidated. Madame
      Vantrasson was not in her accustomed place, behind the counter, between
      her black cat&mdash;her latest idol&mdash;and the bottles from which she
      prepared her ratafia, now her supreme consolation here below. There was no
      one in the shop but the landlord. Seated at a table, with a lighted candle
      near him, he was engaged in an occupation which would have set Chupin&rsquo;s
      mind working if he had noticed it. Vantrasson had taken some wax from a
      sealed bottle, and, after melting it at the flame of the candle, he let it
      drop slowly on to the table. He then pressed a sou upon it, and when the
      wax had become sufficiently cool and stiff, he removed it from the table
      without destroying the impression, by means of a thin bladed knife similar
      to those which glaziers use. However, Chupin did not remark this singular
      employment. He was engaged in mentally ejaculating, &ldquo;Good! the old woman
      isn&rsquo;t here.&rdquo; And as his plan of campaign was already prepared, he entered
      without further hesitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Vantrasson heard the door turn upon its hinges, he rose so awkwardly,
      or rather so skilfully, as to let all his implements, wax, knife, and
      impressions, fall on the floor behind the counter. &ldquo;What can I do to serve
      you?&rdquo; he asked, in a husky voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing. I wished to speak with your wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has gone out. She works for a family in the morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was a gleam of light. Chupin had not thought of the only hypothesis
      that could explain what seemed inexplicable to him. However, he knew how
      to conceal his satisfaction, and so with an air of disappointment, he
      remarked: &ldquo;That&rsquo;s too bad! I shall be obliged to call again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you have a secret to tell my wife?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t I do as well, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you how it is. I&rsquo;m employed in the baggage room of the western
      railway station, and I wanted to know if your wife didn&rsquo;t call there a few
      days ago for some trunks?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The landlord&rsquo;s features betrayed the vague perturbation of a person who
      can count the days by his mistakes, and it was with evident hesitation
      that he replied:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my wife went to the Havre station for some baggage last Sunday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought so. Well, this is my errand: either the clerk forgot to ask her
      for her receipt, or else he lost it. He can&rsquo;t find it anywhere. I came to
      ask your wife if she hadn&rsquo;t kept it. When she returns, please deliver my
      message; and if she has the receipt, pray send it to me through the post.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The ruse was not particularly clever, but it was sufficiently so to
      deceive Vantrasson. &ldquo;To whom am I to send this receipt?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To me, Victor Chupin, Faubourg Saint Denis,&rdquo; was the reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      Imprudent youth! alas, he little suspected what a liberty M. Fortunat had
      taken with his name on the evening he visited the Vantrassons. But on his
      side the landlord of the Model Lodging House had not forgotten the name
      mentioned by the agent. He turned pale with anger on beholding his
      supposed creditor, and quickly slipping between the visitor and the door,
      he said: &ldquo;So your name is Victor Chupin?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, certainly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you are in the employment of the Railway Company?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As I just told you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That doesn&rsquo;t prevent you from acting as a collector, does it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Chupin instinctively recoiled, convinced that he had betrayed himself by
      some blunder, but unable to discover in what he had erred. &ldquo;I did do
      something in that line formerly,&rdquo; he faltered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vantrasson doubted no longer. &ldquo;So you confess that you are a vile
      scoundrel!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;You confess that you purchased an old
      promissory note of mine for fourpence, and then sent a man here to seize
      my goods! Ah! you&rsquo;d like to trample the poor under foot, would you! Very
      well. I have you now, and I&rsquo;ll settle your account! Take that!&rdquo; And so
      saying, he dealt his supposed creditor a terrible blow with his clinched
      fist that sent him reeling to the other end of the shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fortunately, Chupin was very nimble. He did not lose his footing, but
      sprung over a table and used it as a rampart to shield himself from his
      dangerous assailant. In the open field, he could easily have protected
      himself; but here in this narrow space, and hemmed in a corner, he felt
      that despite this barrier he was lost. &ldquo;What a devil of a mess!&rdquo; he
      thought, as with wonderful agility he avoided Vantrasson&rsquo;s fist, a fist
      that would have felled an ox. He had an idea of calling for assistance.
      But would any one hear him? Would any one reply? And if help came, would
      not the police be sure to hear of the broil? And if they did, would there
      not be an investigation which would perhaps disturb Pascal&rsquo;s plans?
      Fearing to injure those whom he wished to serve, he resolved to let
      himself be hacked to pieces rather than allow a cry to escape him; but he
      changed his tactics, and instead of attempting to parry the blows as he
      had done before, he now only thought of gaining the door, inch by inch.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had almost reached it, not without suffering considerable injury, when
      it suddenly opened, and a young man clad in black, with a smooth shaven
      face, entered the shop, and sternly exclaimed: &ldquo;Why! what&rsquo;s all this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The sight of the newcomer seemed to stupefy Vantrasson. &ldquo;Ah! it is you,
      Monsieur Maumejan?&rdquo; he faltered, with a crestfallen air. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s nothing; we
      were only in fun.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. Maumejan seemed perfectly satisfied with this explanation; and in the
      indifferent tone of a man who is delivering a message, the meaning of
      which he scarcely understood, he said: &ldquo;A person who knows that your wife
      is in my employ requested me to ask you if you would be ready to attend to
      that little matter she spoke of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly. I was preparing for it a moment ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Chupin heard no more. He had hurried out, his clothes in disorder, and
      himself not a little hurt; but his delight made him lose all thought of
      his injuries. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s M. Ferailleur,&rdquo; he muttered, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure of it, and
      I&rsquo;m going to prove it.&rdquo; So saying he hid himself in the doorway of a
      vacant house a few paces distant from the Vantrassons&rsquo;, and waited.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then as soon as M. Maumejan emerged from the Model Lodging House, he
      followed him. The young man with the clean shaven face walked up the Route
      d&rsquo;Asnieres, turned to the right into the Route de la Revolte, and at last
      paused before a house of humble aspect. At that moment Chupin darted
      toward him, and softly called, &ldquo;M&rsquo;sieur Ferailleur!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young man turned instinctively. Then seeing his mistake, and feeling
      that he had betrayed himself, he sprang upon Chupin, and caught him by the
      wrists: &ldquo;Scoundrel! who are you?&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Who has hired you to
      follow me! What do you want of me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so fast, m&rsquo;sieur! Don&rsquo;t be so rough! You hurt me. I&rsquo;m sent by
      Mademoiselle Marguerite!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O God! send Pascal to my aid,&rdquo; prayed Mademoiselle Marguerite, as she
      left M. Fortunat&rsquo;s house. Now she understood the intrigue she had been the
      victim of; but, instead of reassuring her the agent had frightened her, by
      revealing the Marquis de Valorsay&rsquo;s desperate plight. She realized what
      frenzied rage must fill this man&rsquo;s heart as he felt himself gradually
      slipping from the heights of opulence, down into the depths of poverty and
      crime. What might he not dare, in order to preserve even the semblance of
      grandeur for a year, or a month, or a day longer! Had they measured the
      extent of his villainy? Would he even hesitate at murder? And the poor
      girl asked herself with a shudder if Pascal were still living; and a
      vision of his bleeding corpse, lying lifeless in some deserted street,
      rose before her. And who could tell what dangers threatened her
      personally? For, though she knew the past, she could not read the future.
      What did M. de Valorsay&rsquo;s letter mean? and what was the fate that he held
      in reserve for her, and that made him so sanguine of success? The
      impression produced upon her mind was so terrible that for a moment she
      thought of hastening to the old justice of the peace to ask for his
      protection and a refuge. But this weakness did not last long. Should she
      lose her energy? Should her will fail her at the decisive moment? &ldquo;No, a
      thousand times no!&rdquo; she said to herself again and again. &ldquo;I will die if
      needs be, but I will die fighting!&rdquo; And the nearer she approached the Rue
      Pigalle, the more energetically she drove away her apprehension, and
      sought for an excuse calculated to satisfy any one who might have noticed
      her long absence.
    </p>
    <p>
      An unnecessary precaution. She found the house as when she left it,
      abandoned to the mercy of the servants&mdash;the strangers sent the
      evening before from the employment office. Important matters still kept
      the General and his wife from home. The husband had to show his horses;
      and the wife was intent upon shopping. As for Madame Leon, most of her
      time seemed to be taken up by the family of relatives she had so suddenly
      discovered. Alone, free from all espionage, and wishing to ward off
      despondency by occupation, Mademoiselle Marguerite was just beginning a
      letter to her friend the old magistrate, when a servant entered and
      announced that her dressmaker was there and wished to speak with her. &ldquo;Let
      her come in,&rdquo; replied Marguerite, with unusual vivacity. &ldquo;Let her come in
      at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A lady who looked some forty years of age, plainly dressed, but of
      distinguished appearance, was thereupon ushered into the room. Like any
      well-bred modiste, she bowed respectfully while the servant was present,
      but as soon as he had left the room she approached Mademoiselle Marguerite
      and took hold of her hands: &ldquo;My dear young lady,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I am the
      sister-in-law of your old friend, the magistrate. Having an important
      message to send to you, he was trying to find a person whom he could trust
      to play the part of a dressmaker, as had been agreed upon between you,
      when I offered my services, thinking he could find no one more trusty than
      myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Tears glittered in Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s eyes. The slightest token of
      sympathy is so sweet to the heart of the lonely and unfortunate! &ldquo;How can
      I ever thank you, madame?&rdquo; she faltered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By not attempting to thank me at all, and by reading this letter as soon
      as possible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The note she now produced ran as follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;MY DEAR CHILD&mdash;At last I am on the track of the thieves. By
      conferring with the people from whom M. de Chalusse received the money a
      couple of days before his death, I have been fortunate enough to obtain
      from them some minute details respecting the missing bonds, as well as the
      numbers of the bank-notes which were deposited in the escritoire. With
      this information, we cannot fail to prove the guilt of the culprits sooner
      or later. You write me word that the Fondeges are spending money lavishly;
      try and find out the names of the people they deal with, and communicate
      them to me. Once more, I tell you that I am sure of success. Courage!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; said the spurious dressmaker, when she saw that Marguerite had
      finished reading the letter. &ldquo;What answer shall I take my brother-in-law?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell him that he shall certainly have the information he requires
      to-morrow. To-day, I can only give him the name of the carriage builder,
      from whom M. de Fondege has purchased his new carriages.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give it to me in writing, it is much the safest way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite did so, and her visitor who, as a woman, was
      delighted to find herself mixed up in an intrigue, then went off repeating
      the old magistrate&rsquo;s advice: &ldquo;Courage!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But it was no longer necessary to encourage Mademoiselle Marguerite. The
      assurance of being so effectually helped, had already increased her
      courage an hundredfold. The future that had seemed so gloomy only a moment
      before, had now suddenly brightened. By means of the negative in the
      keeping of the photographer, Carjat, she had the Marquis de Valorsay in
      her power, and the magistrate, thanks to the numbers of the bank-notes,
      could soon prove the guilt of the Fondeges. The protection of Providence
      was made evident in an unmistakable manner. Thus it was with a placid and
      almost smiling face that she successively greeted Madame Leon, who
      returned home quite played out, then Madame de Fondege, who made her
      appearance attended by two shop-boys overladen with packages, and finally
      the General, who brought his son, Lieutenant Gustave, with him to dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lieutenant was a good-looking fellow of twenty-seven, or thereabouts,
      with laughing eyes and a heavy mustache. He made a great clanking with his
      spurs, and wore the somewhat theatrical uniform of the 13th Hussars rather
      ostentatiously. He bowed to Mademoiselle Marguerite with a smile that was
      too becoming to be displeasing; and he offered her his arm with an air of
      triumph to lead her to the dining-room, as soon as the servant came to
      announce that &ldquo;Madame la Comtesse was served.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Seated opposite to him at table, the young girl could not refrain from
      furtively watching the man whom they wished to compel her to marry. Never
      had she seen such intense self-complacency coupled with such utter
      mediocrity. It was evident that he was doing his best to produce a
      favorable impression; but as the dinner progressed, his conversation
      became rather venturesome. He gradually grew extremely animated; and three
      or four adventures of garrison life which he persisted in relating despite
      his mother&rsquo;s frowns, were calculated to convince his hearers that he was a
      great favorite with the fair sex. It was the good cheer that loosened his
      tongue. There could be no possible doubt on that score; and, indeed, while
      drinking a glass of the Chateau Laroze, to which Madame Leon had taken
      such a liking, he was indiscreet enough to declare that if his mother had
      always kept house in this fashion, he should have been inclined to ask for
      more frequent leaves of absence.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, strange to say, after the coffee was served, the conversation
      languished till at last it died out almost entirely. Madame de Fondege was
      the first to disappear on the pretext that some domestic affairs required
      her attention. The General was the next to rise and go out, in order to
      smoke a cigar; and finally Madame Leon made her escape without saying a
      word. So Mademoiselle Marguerite was left quite alone with Lieutenant
      Gustave. It was evident enough to the young girl that this had been
      preconcerted; and she asked herself what kind of an opinion M. and Madame
      de Fondege could have of her delicacy. The proceeding made her so
      indignant that she was on the point of rising from the table and of
      retiring like the others, when reason restrained her. She said to herself
      that perhaps she might gain some useful information from this young man,
      and so she remained.
    </p>
    <p>
      His face was crimson, and he seemed by far the more embarrassed of the
      two. He sat with one elbow resting on the table, and with his gaze
      persistently fixed upon a tiny glass half full of brandy which he held in
      his hand, as if he hoped to gain some sublime inspiration from it. At
      last, after an interval of irksome silence, he ventured to exclaim:
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle, should you like to be an officer&rsquo;s wife?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; answered Marguerite.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really! But at least you understand my motive in asking this question?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Any one but the complacent lieutenant would have been disconcerted by
      Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s dry tone; but he did not even notice it. The
      effort that he was making in his intense desire to be eloquent and
      persuasive absorbed the attention of all his faculties. &ldquo;Then permit me to
      explain, mademoiselle,&rdquo; he resumed. &ldquo;We meet this evening for the first
      time, but our acquaintance is not the affair of a day. For I know not how
      long my father and mother have continually been chanting your praises.
      &lsquo;Mademoiselle Marguerite does this; Mademoiselle Marguerite does that.&rsquo; 
      They never cease talking of you, declaring that heart, wit, talent,
      beauty, all womanly charms are united in your person. And they have never
      wearied of telling me that the man whom you honored with your preference
      would be the happiest of mortals. However, so far I had no desire to
      marry, and I distrusted them. In fact, I had conceived a most violent
      prejudice against you. Yes, upon my honor! I felt sure that I should
      dislike you; but I have seen you and all is changed. As soon as my eyes
      fell upon you, I experienced a powerful revulsion of feeling. I was never
      so smitten in my life&mdash;and I said to myself, &lsquo;Lieutenant, it is all
      over&mdash;you are caught at last!&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pale with anger, astonished and humiliated beyond measure, the young girl
      listened with her head lowered, vainly trying to find words to express the
      feelings which disturbed her; but M. Gustave, misunderstanding her
      silence, and congratulating himself upon the effect he had produced, grew
      bolder, and with the tenderest and most impassioned inflection he could
      impart to his voice, continued: &ldquo;Who could fail to be impressed as I have
      been? How could one behold, without rapturous admiration, such beautiful
      eyes, such glorious black hair, such smiling lips, such a graceful mien,
      such wonderful charms of person and of mind? How would it be possible to
      listen, unmoved, to a voice which is clearer and purer than crystal? Ah!
      my mother&rsquo;s descriptions fell far short of the truth. But how can one
      describe the perfections of an angel? To any one who has the happiness or
      the misfortune of knowing you, there can only be one woman in the world!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had gradually approached her chair, and now extended his hand to take
      hold of Marguerite&rsquo;s, and probably raise it to his lips. But she shrank
      from the contact as from red-hot iron, and rising hurriedly, with her eyes
      flashing, and her voice quivering with indignation: &ldquo;Monsieur!&rdquo; she
      exclaimed, &ldquo;Monsieur!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was so surprised that he stood as if petrified, with his eyes wide open
      and his hand still extended. &ldquo;Permit me&mdash;allow me to explain,&rdquo; he
      stammered. But she declined to listen. &ldquo;Who has told you that you could
      address such words to me with impunity?&rdquo; she continued. &ldquo;Your parents, I
      suppose; I daresay they told you to be bold. And that is why they have
      left us, and why no servant has appeared. Ah! they make me pay dearly for
      the hospitality they have given me!&rdquo; As she spoke the tears started from
      her eyes and glistened on her long lashes. &ldquo;Whom did you fancy you were
      speaking to?&rdquo; she added. &ldquo;Would you have been so audacious if I had a
      father or a brother to resent your insults?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The lieutenant started as if he had been lashed with a whip. &ldquo;Ah! you are
      severe!&rdquo; he exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      And a happy inspiration entering his mind, he continued: &ldquo;A man does not
      insult a woman, mademoiselle, when, while telling her that he loves her
      and thinks her beautiful, he offers her his name and life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite shrugged her shoulders ironically, and remained
      for a moment silent. She was very proud, and her pride had been cruelly
      wounded; but reason told her that a continuation of this scene would
      render a prolonged sojourn in the General&rsquo;s house impossible; and where
      could she go, without exciting malevolent remarks? Whom could she ask an
      asylum of? Still this consideration alone would not have sufficed to
      silence her. But she remembered that a quarrel and a rupture with the
      Fondeges would certainly imperil the success of her plans. &ldquo;So I will
      swallow even this affront,&rdquo; she said to herself; and then in a tone of
      melancholy bitterness, she remarked, aloud: &ldquo;A man cannot set a very high
      value on his name when he offers it to a woman whom he knows absolutely
      nothing about.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me&mdash;you forget that my mother&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your mother has only known me for a week.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      An expression of intense surprise appeared on the lieutenant&rsquo;s face. &ldquo;Is
      it possible?&rdquo; he murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your father has met me five or six times at the table of the Count de
      Chalusse, who was his friend&mdash;but what does he know of me?&rdquo; resumed
      Mademoiselle Marguerite. &ldquo;That I came to the Hotel de Chalusse a year ago,
      and that the count treated me like a daughter&mdash;that is all! Who I am,
      where I was reared, and how, and what my past life has been, these are
      matters that M. de Fondege knows nothing whatever about.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My parents told me that you were the daughter of the Count de Chalusse,
      mademoiselle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What proof have they of it? They ought to have told you that I was an
      unfortunate foundling, with no other name than that of Marguerite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They ought to have told you that I am poor, very poor, and that I should
      probably have been reduced to the necessity of toiling for my daily bread,
      if it had not been for them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      An incredulous smile curved the lieutenant&rsquo;s lips. He fancied that
      Mademoiselle Marguerite only wished to prove his disinterestedness, and
      this thought restored his assurance. &ldquo;Perhaps you are exaggerating a
      little, mademoiselle,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not exaggerating&mdash;I possess but ten thousand francs in the
      world&mdash;I swear it by all that I hold sacred.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That would not even be the dowry required of an officer&rsquo;s wife by law,&rdquo;
       muttered the lieutenant.
    </p>
    <p>
      Was his incredulity sincere or affected? What had his parents really told
      him? Had they confided everything to him, and was he their accomplice? or
      had they told him nothing? All these questions flashed rapidly through
      Marguerite&rsquo;s mind. &ldquo;You suppose that I am rich, monsieur,&rdquo; she resumed at
      last. &ldquo;I understand that only too well. If I was, you ought to shun me as
      you would shun a criminal, for I could only be wealthy through a crime.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, through a crime. After M. de Chalusse&rsquo;s death, two million francs
      that had been placed in his escritoire for safe keeping, could not be
      found. Who stole the money? I myself have been accused of the theft. Your
      father must have told you of this, as well as of the cloud of suspicion
      that is still hanging over me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She paused, for the lieutenant had become whiter than his shirt. &ldquo;Good
      God!&rdquo; he exclaimed in a tone of horror, as if a terrible light had
      suddenly broken upon his mind. He made a movement as if to leave the room,
      but suddenly changing his mind, he bowed low before Mademoiselle
      Marguerite, and said, in a husky voice: &ldquo;Forgive me, mademoiselle, I did
      not know what I was doing. I have been misinformed. I have been beguiled
      by false hopes. I entreat you to say that you forgive me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I forgive you, monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But still he lingered. &ldquo;I am only a poor devil of a lieutenant,&rdquo; he
      resumed, &ldquo;with no other fortune than my epaulettes, no other prospects
      than an uncertain advancement. I have been foolish and thoughtless. I have
      committed many acts of folly; but there is nothing in my past life for
      which I have cause to blush.&rdquo; He looked fixedly at Mademoiselle
      Marguerite, as if he were striving to read her inmost soul; and in a
      solemn tone, that contrasted strangely with his usual levity of manner, he
      added: &ldquo;If the name I bear should ever be compromised, my prospects would
      be blighted forever! The only course left for me would be to tender my
      resignation. I will leave nothing undone to preserve my honor in the eyes
      of the world, and to right those who have been wronged. Promise me not to
      interfere with my plans.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite trembled like a leaf. She now realized her
      terrible imprudence. He had divined everything. As she remained silent, he
      continued wildly: &ldquo;I entreat you. Do you wish me to beg you at your feet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ah! it was a terrible sacrifice that he demanded of her. But how could she
      remain obdurate in the presence of such intense anguish? &ldquo;I will remain
      neutral,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;that is all I can promise. Providence shall
      decide.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; he said, sadly, suspecting that perhaps it was already too
      late&mdash;&ldquo;thank you.&rdquo; Then he turned to go, and, in fact, he had already
      opened the door, when a forlorn hope brought him back to Mademoiselle
      Marguerite, whose hand he took, timidly faltering, &ldquo;We are friends, are we
      not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not withdraw her icy hand, and in a scarcely audible voice, she
      repeated: &ldquo;We are friends?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Convinced that he could obtain nothing more from her than her promised
      neutrality, the lieutenant thereupon hastily left the room, and she sank
      back in her chair more dead than alive. &ldquo;Great God! what is coming now?&rdquo;
       she murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      She thought she could understand the unfortunate young man&rsquo;s intentions,
      and she listened with a throbbing heart, expecting to hear a stormy
      explanation between his parents and himself. In point of fact, she almost
      immediately afterward heard the lieutenant inquire in a stern, imperious
      voice: &ldquo;Where is my father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The General has just gone to his club.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And my mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A friend of hers called a few moments ago to take her to the opera.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What madness!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That was all. The outer door opened and closed again with extreme
      violence, and then Marguerite heard nothing save the sneering remarks of
      the servants.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was, indeed, madness on the part of M. and Madame de Fondege not to
      have waited to learn the result of this interview, planned by themselves,
      and upon which their very lives depended. But delirium seemed to have
      seized them since, thanks to a still inexplicable crime, they had suddenly
      found themselves in possession of an immense fortune. Perhaps in this wild
      pursuit of pleasure, in the haste they displayed to satisfy their covetous
      longings, they hoped to forget or silence the threatening voice of
      conscience. Such was Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s conclusion; but she was not
      long left to undisturbed meditation. By the lieutenant&rsquo;s departure the
      restrictions which had been placed upon the servants&rsquo; movements had
      evidently been removed, for they came in to clear the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having with some little difficulty obtained a candle from one of these
      model servants, Mademoiselle Marguerite now retired to her own room. In
      her anxiety, she forgot Madame Leon, but the latter had not forgotten her;
      she was even now listening at the drawing-room door, inconsolable to think
      that she had not succeeded in hearing at least part of the conversation
      between the lieutenant and her dear young lady. Marguerite had no wish to
      reflect over what had occurred. As she was determined to keep the promise
      which Lieutenant Gustave had wrung from her, it mattered little whether
      she had committed a great mistake in allowing him to discover her
      knowledge of his parent&rsquo;s guilt, and in listening to his entreaties. A
      secret presentiment warned her that the punishment which would overtake
      the General and his wife would be none the less terrible, despite her own
      forbearance, and that they would find their son more inexorable than the
      severest judge.
    </p>
    <p>
      The essential thing was to warn the old magistrate; and so in a couple of
      pages she summarized the scene of the evening, feeling sure that she would
      find an opportunity to post her letter on the following day. This duty
      accomplished, she took a book and went to bed, hoping to drive away her
      gloomy thoughts by reading. But the hope was vain. Her eyes read the
      words, followed the lines and crossed the pages, but her mind utterly
      refused to obey her will, and in spite of all her efforts persisted in
      turning to the shrewd youth who had solemnly sworn to find Pascal for her.
      A little after midnight Madame de Fondege returned from the opera, and at
      once proceeded to reprimand her maid for not having lighted a fire. The
      General returned some time afterward, and he was evidently in the best of
      spirits.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They have not seen their son,&rdquo; said Mademoiselle Marguerite to herself,
      and this anxiety, combined with many others, tortured her so cruelly, that
      she did not fall asleep until near daybreak. Even then she did not slumber
      long. It was scarcely half-past seven when she was aroused by a strange
      commotion and a loud sound of hammering. She was trying to imagine the
      cause of all this uproar, when Madame de Fondege, already arrayed in a
      marvellous robe composed of three skirts and an enormous puff, entered the
      room. &ldquo;I have come to take you away, my dear child,&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;The
      owner of the house has decided to make some repairs, and the workmen have
      already invaded our apartments. The General has taken flight, let us
      follow his example&mdash;so make yourself beautiful and we&rsquo;ll go at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Without a word, the young girl hastened to obey, while Madame de Fondege
      expiated on the delightful drive they would take together in the wonderful
      brougham which the General had purchased a couple of days before. As for
      Lieutenant Gustave, she did not even mention his name.
    </p>
    <p>
      Accustomed to the superb equipages of the Chalusse establishment,
      Mademoiselle Marguerite did not consider the much-lauded brougham at all
      remarkable. At the most, it was very showy, having apparently been
      selected with a view to attracting as much attention as possible. Madame
      de Fondege was not in a mood to consider an objection that morning. She
      was evidently in a nervous state of mind, extremely restless and excited
      indeed, it seemed impossible for her to keep still. In default of
      something better to do, she visited at least a dozen shops, asking to see
      everything, finding everything frightful, and purchasing without regard to
      price. It might have been fancied that she wished to buy all Paris. About
      ten o&rsquo;clock she dragged Marguerite to Van Klopen&rsquo;s. Received as a habituee
      of the establishment, thanks to the numerous orders she had given within
      the past few days, she was even allowed to enter the mysterious saloon in
      which the illustrious ruler of Fashion served such of his clients as had a
      predilection for absinthe or madeira. On leaving the place, and before
      entering the carriage again, Madame de Fondege turned to Marguerite and
      inquired: &ldquo;Where shall we go now? I have given the servants an &lsquo;outing&rsquo; on
      account of the workmen, and we cannot breakfast at home. Why can&rsquo;t we go
      to a restaurant, we two? Many of the most distinguished ladies are in the
      habit of doing so. You will see how people will look at us! I am sure it
      will amuse you immensely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! madame, you forget that it is not a fortnight since the count&rsquo;s
      death!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Fondege was about to make an impatient reply, but she mastered
      the impulse, and in a tone of hypocritical compassion, exclaimed: &ldquo;Poor
      child! poor, dear child! that&rsquo;s true. I had forgotten. Well, such being
      the case, we&rsquo;ll go and ask Baroness Trigault to give us our breakfast. You
      will see a lovely woman.&rdquo; And addressing the coachman she instructed him
      to drive to the Trigault mansion in the Rue de la Ville l&rsquo;Eveque.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Madame de Fondege&rsquo;s brougham drew up before the door, the baron was
      standing in the courtyard with a cigar between his teeth, examining a pair
      of horses which had been sent him on approbation. He did not like his
      wife&rsquo;s friend, and he usually avoided her. But precisely because he was
      acquainted with the General&rsquo;s crime and Pascal&rsquo;s plans, he thought it
      politic to seem amiable. So, on recognizing Madame de Fondege through the
      carriage window, he hastened forward with outstretched hand to assist her
      in alighting. &ldquo;Did you come to take breakfast with us?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;That
      would be a most delightful&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The remainder of the sentence died unuttered upon his lips. His face
      became crimson, and the cigar he was holding slipped from his fingers. He
      had just perceived Mademoiselle Marguerite, and his consternation was so
      apparent that Madame de Fondege could not fail to remark it; however, she
      attributed it to the girl&rsquo;s remarkable beauty. &ldquo;This is Mademoiselle de
      Chalusse, my dear baron,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;the daughter of the noble and
      esteemed friend whom we so bitterly lament.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ah! it was not necessary to tell the baron who this young girl was; he
      knew it only too well. He was not overcome for long; a thought of
      vengeance speedily flashed through his mind. It seemed to him that
      Providence itself offered him the means of putting an end to an
      intolerable situation. Regaining his self-control by a powerful effort, he
      preceded Madame de Fondege through the magnificent apartments of the
      mansion, lightly saying: &ldquo;My wife is in her boudoir. She will be delighted
      to see you. But first of all, I have a good secret to confide to you. So
      let me take this young lady to the baroness, and you and I can join them
      in a moment!&rdquo; Thereupon, without waiting for any rejoinder, he took
      Marguerite&rsquo;s arm and led her toward the end of the hall. Then opening a
      door, he exclaimed in a mocking voice: &ldquo;Madame Trigault, allow me to
      present to you the daughter of the Count de Chalusse.&rdquo; And adding in a
      whisper: &ldquo;This is your mother, young girl,&rdquo; he pushed the astonished
      Marguerite into the room, closed the door, and returned to Madame de
      Fondege.
    </p>
    <p>
      Paler than her white muslin wrapper, the Baroness Trigault sprang from her
      chair. This was the woman who, while her husband was braving death to win
      fortune for her, had been dazzled by the Count de Chalusse&rsquo;s wealth, and
      who, later in life, when she was the richest of the rich, had sunk into
      the very depths of degradation&mdash;had stooped, indeed, to a Coralth!
      The baroness had once been marvellously beautiful, and even now, many
      murmurs of admiration greeted her when she dashed through the Champs
      Elysees in her magnificent equipage, attired in one of those eccentric
      costumes which she alone dared to wear. She was a type of the wife created
      by the customs of fashionable society; the woman who feels elated when her
      name appears in the newspapers and in the chronicles of Parisian &ldquo;high
      life&rdquo;; who has no thought of her deserted fireside, but is ever tormented
      by a terrible thirst for bustle and excitement; whose head is empty, and
      whose heart is dry&mdash;the woman who only exists for the world; and who
      is devoured by unappeasable covetousness, and who, at times, envies an
      actress&rsquo;s liberty, and the notoriety of the leaders of the demi-monde; the
      woman who is always in quest of fresh excitement, and fails to find it;
      the woman who is blase, and prematurely old in mind and body, and who yet
      still clings despairingly to her fleeting youth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Inaccessible to any emotion but vanity, the baroness had never shed a tear
      over her husband&rsquo;s sufferings. She was sure of her absolute power over
      him. What did the rest matter? She even gloried in her knowledge that she
      could make this man&mdash;who loved her in spite of everything&mdash;at
      one moment furious with rage or wild with grief, and then an instant
      afterward plunge him into the rapture of a senseless ecstasy by a word, a
      smile, or a caress. For such was her power, and she often exercised it
      mercilessly. Even after the frightful scene that Pascal had witnessed, she
      had made another appeal to the baron, and he had been weak enough to give
      her the thirty thousand francs which M. de Coralth needed to purchase his
      wife&rsquo;s silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, this time the baroness trembled. Her usual shrewdness had not
      deserted her, and she perfectly understood all that Marguerite&rsquo;s presence
      in that house portended. Since her husband brought this young girl&mdash;her
      daughter&mdash;to her he must know everything, and have taken some fatal
      resolution. Had she, indeed, exhausted the patience which she had fancied
      inexhaustible? She was not ignorant of the fact that her husband had
      disposed of his immense fortune in a way that would enable him to say and
      prove that he was insolvent whenever occasion required; and if he found
      courage to apply for a legal separation, what could she hope to obtain
      from the courts? A bare living, almost nothing. In such a case, how could
      she exist? She would be compelled to spend her last years in the same
      poverty that had made her youth so wretched. She saw herself&mdash;ah!
      what a frightful misfortune&mdash;turfed out of her princely home, and
      reduced to furnished apartments rented for five hundred francs a year!
    </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite was no less startled and horror-stricken than
      Madame Trigault, and she stood rooted to the spot, exactly where the baron
      had left her. Silent and motionless, they confronted each other for a
      moment which seemed a century to both of them. The resemblance&mdash;which
      had astonished Pascal could not fail to strike them, for it was still more
      noticeable now that they stood face to face. But anything was preferable
      to this torturing suspense, and so, summoning all her courage, the
      baroness broke the silence by saying: &ldquo;You are the daughter of the Count
      de Chalusse?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think so, but I have no proofs of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And&mdash;your mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know her; madame, and I have no desire to know her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Disconcerted by this brief but implacable reply, Madame Trigault hung her
      head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What could I have to say to my mother?&rdquo; continued Marguerite. &ldquo;That I
      hate her? My courage would fail me to do so. And yet, how can I think
      without bitterness of the woman who, after abandoning me herself,
      endeavored to deprive me of my father&rsquo;s love and protection? I could have
      forgiven anything but that. Ah! I have not always been so patient and
      resigned! The laws of our country do not forbid illigitimate children to
      search for their parents, and more than once I have said to myself that I
      would discover my mother, and have my revenge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you have no means of discovering her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In this you are greatly mistaken, madame. After the Count de Chalusse&rsquo;s
      death, a package of letters, a glove and some withered flowers were found
      in one of the drawers of his escritoire.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baroness started back as if a yawning chasm had suddenly opened at her
      feet. &ldquo;My letters!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;Ah! wretched woman that I am, he kept
      them. It is all over! I am lost, for of course, they have been read?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The ribbon securing them together has never been untied.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that true? Don&rsquo;t deceive me! Where are they, then&mdash;where are
      they?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Under the protection of the seals affixed by the justice of the peace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Trigault tottered, as if she were about to fall. &ldquo;Then it is only a
      reprieve,&rdquo; she moaned, &ldquo;and I am none the less ruined. Those cursed
      letters will necessarily be read, and all will be discovered. They will
      see&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; The thought of what they would see endowed her with the
      energy of despair, and clutching hold of Marguerite&rsquo;s wrists: &ldquo;Listen!&rdquo;
       said she, approaching so near that her hot breath scorched the girl&rsquo;s
      cheeks, &ldquo;no one must be allowed to see those letters!&mdash;it must not
      be! I will tell you what they contain. I hated my husband; I loved the
      Count de Chalusse madly, and he had sworn that he would marry me if ever I
      became a widow. Do you understand now? The name of the poison I obtained&mdash;how
      I proposed to administer it, and what its effects would be&mdash;all this
      is plainly written in my own handwriting and signed&mdash;yes, signed&mdash;with
      my own name. The plot failed, but it was none the less real, positive,
      palpable&mdash;and those letters are a proof of it. But they shall never
      be read&mdash;no&mdash;not if I am obliged to set fire to the Hotel de
      Chalusse with my own hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Now the count&rsquo;s constant terror, the fear with which this woman had
      inspired him, were explained. He was an accomplice&mdash;he also had
      written no doubt, and she had preserved his letters as he had preserved
      hers. Crime had bound them indissolubly together.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horrified beyond expression, Marguerite freed herself from Madame
      Trigault&rsquo;s grasp. &ldquo;I swear to you, madame, that everything any human being
      can do to save your letters shall be done by me,&rdquo; she exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And have you any hope of success?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied the girl, remembering her friend, the magistrate.
    </p>
    <p>
      Moved by a far more powerful emotion than any she had ever known before,
      the baroness uttered an exclamation of joy. &ldquo;Ah! how good you are!&rdquo; she
      exclaimed&mdash;&ldquo;how generous! how noble! You take your revenge in giving
      me back life, honor, everything&mdash;for you are my daughter; do you not
      know it? Did they not tell you, before bringing you here, that I was the
      hated and unnatural mother who abandoned you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She advanced with tearful eyes and outstretched arms, but Marguerite
      sternly waved her back. &ldquo;Spare yourself, madame, and spare me, the
      humiliation of an unnecessary explanation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Marguerite! Good God! you repulse me. After all you have promised to do
      for me, will you not forgive me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will try to forget, madame,&rdquo; replied the girl and she was already
      stepping toward the door when the baroness threw herself at her feet,
      crying, in a heart-rending tone: &ldquo;Have pity, Marguerite, I am your mother.
      One has no right to deny one&rsquo;s own mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the young girl passed on. &ldquo;My mother is dead, madame; I do not know
      you!&rdquo; And she left the room without even turning her head, without even
      glancing at the baroness, who had fallen upon the floor in a deep swoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XIX
    </h2>
    <p>
      Baron Trigault still held Madame de Fondege a prisoner in the hall. What
      did he say to her in justification of the expedient he had improvised? His
      own agitation was so great that he scarcely knew, and it mattered but
      little after all, for the good lady did not even pretend to listen to his
      apologies. Although by no means overshrewd, she suspected some great
      mystery, some bit of scandal, perhaps, and her eyes never once wandered
      from the door leading to the boudoir. At last this door opened and
      Mademoiselle Marguerite reappeared. &ldquo;Great heavens!&rdquo; exclaimed Madame de
      Fondege; &ldquo;what has happened to my poor child?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For the unfortunate girl advanced with an automatic tread, her eyes fixed
      on vacancy, and her hands outstretched, as if feeling her way. It indeed
      seemed to her as if the floor swayed to and fro under her feet, as if the
      walls tottered, as if the ceiling were about to fall and crush her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Fondege sprang forward. &ldquo;What is the matter, my dearest?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alas! the poor girl was utterly overcome. &ldquo;It is but a trifle,&rdquo; she
      faltered. But her eyes closed, her hands clutched wildly for some support,
      and she would have fallen to the ground if the baron had not caught her in
      his arms and carried her to a sofa. &ldquo;Help!&rdquo; cried Madame de Fondege,
      &ldquo;help, she is dying!&mdash;a physician!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But there was no need of a physician. One of the maids came with some
      fresh water and a bottle of smelling salts, and Marguerite soon recovered
      sufficiently to sit up, and cast a frightened glance around her, while she
      mechanically passed her hand again and again over her cold forehead. &ldquo;Do
      you feel better my darling?&rdquo; inquired Madame de Fondege at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you gave me a terrible fright; see how I tremble.&rdquo; But the worthy
      lady&rsquo;s fright was as nothing in comparison with the curiosity that
      tortured her. It was so powerful, indeed, that she could not control it.
      &ldquo;What has happened?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, madame, nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am subject to such attacks. I was very cold, and the heat of the room
      made me feel faint.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Although she could only speak with the greatest difficulty, the baron
      realized by her tone that she would never reveal what had taken place, and
      his attitude and relief knew no bounds. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t tire the poor child,&rdquo; he
      said to Madame de Fondege. &ldquo;The best thing you can do would be to take her
      home and put her to bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I agree with you; but unfortunately, I have sent away my brougham with
      orders not to return for me until one o&rsquo;clock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that the only difficulty? If so, you shall have a carriage at once, my
      dear madame.&rdquo; So saying, the baron made a sign to one of the servants, and
      the man started on his mission at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Fondege was silent but furious. &ldquo;He is actually putting me out
      of doors,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;This is a little too much! And why doesn&rsquo;t the
      baroness make her appearance&mdash;she must certainly have heard my voice?
      What does it all mean? However, I&rsquo;m sure Marguerite will tell me when we
      are alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Madame de Fondege was wrong, for she vainly plied the girl with
      questions all the way from the Rue de la Ville l&rsquo;Eveque to the Rue
      Pigalle. She could only obtain this unvarying and obstinate reply:
      &ldquo;Nothing has happened. What do you suppose could have happened?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Never in her whole life had Madame de Fondege been so incensed. &ldquo;The
      blockhead!&rdquo; she mentally exclaimed. &ldquo;Who ever saw such obstinacy! Hateful
      creature!&mdash;I could beat her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not beat her, but on reaching the house she eagerly asked: &ldquo;Do you
      feel strong enough to go up stairs alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I will leave you. You know Van Klopen expects me again at one
      o&rsquo;clock precisely; and I have not breakfasted yet. Remember that my
      servants are at your disposal, and don&rsquo;t hesitate to call them. You are at
      home, recollect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was not without considerable difficulty&mdash;not without being
      compelled to stop and rest several times on her way up stairs&mdash;that
      Mademoiselle Marguerite succeeded in reaching the apartments of the
      Fondege family. &ldquo;Where is madame?&rdquo; inquired the servant who opened the
      door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is still out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will she return to dinner?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;M. Gustave has been here three times already; he was very angry when he
      found that there was no one at home&mdash;he went on terribly. Besides,
      the workmen have turned everything topsy-turvy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      However, Marguerite had already reached her own room, and thrown herself
      on the bed. She was suffering terribly. Her brave spirit still retained
      its energy; but the flesh had succumbed. Every vein and artery throbbed
      with violence, and while a chill seemed to come to her heart, her head
      burned as if it had been on fire. &ldquo;My Lord,&rdquo; she thought, &ldquo;am I going to
      fall ill at the last moment, just when I have most need of all my
      strength?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She tried to sleep, but was unable to do so. How could she free herself
      from the thought that haunted her? Her mother! To think that such a woman
      was her mother! Was it not enough to make her die of sorrow and shame? And
      yet this woman must be saved&mdash;the proofs of her crime must be
      annihilated with her letters. Marguerite asked herself whether the old
      magistrate would have it in his power to help her in this respect. Perhaps
      not, and then what could she do? She asked herself if she had not been too
      cruel, too severe. Guilty or not, the baroness was still her mother. Had
      she the right to be pitiless, when by stretching out her hand she might,
      perhaps, have rescued the wretched woman from her terrible life.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus thinking, the young girl sat alone and forgotten in her little room.
      The hours went by, and daylight had begun to wane, when suddenly a shrill
      whistle resounded in the street, under her windows. &ldquo;Pi-ouit.&rdquo; It came
      upon her like an electric shock, and with a bound she sprang to her feet.
      For this cry was the signal that had been agreed upon between herself and
      the young man who had so abruptly offered to help her on the occasion of
      her visit to M. Fortunat&rsquo;s office. Was she mistaken? No&mdash;for on
      listening she heard the cry resound a second time, even more shrill and
      prolonged than before.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was no time for hesitation, and so she went down-stairs at once. Hope
      sent new blood coursing through her veins and endowed her with invincible
      energy. On reaching the street-door, she paused and looked around her. At
      a short distance off she perceived a young fellow clad in a blouse, who
      was apparently engaged in examining the goods displayed in a shop window.
      Despite his position, he hurriedly exclaimed: &ldquo;Follow me at a little;
      distance in the rear until I stop.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marguerite, obeyed him in breathless suspense. The young fellow was our
      friend Victor Chupin, now somewhat the worse for his encounter with
      Vantrasson that same morning. His face was considerably disfigured, and
      one of his eyes was black and swollen; nevertheless he was in a state of
      ecstatic happiness. Happy, and yet anxious; for, as he preceded
      Mademoiselle Marguerite, he said to himself: &ldquo;How shall I tell her that I
      have succeeded? There must be no folly. If I tell her the news suddenly,
      she will most likely faint, so I must break the news gently.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On reaching the Rue Boursault, he turned the corner, and paused, waiting
      for Mademoiselle Marguerite to join him. &ldquo;What is the news?&rdquo; she anxiously
      asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everything is progressing finely&mdash;slowly, but finely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know something, monsieur! Speak! Don&rsquo;t you see how anxious I am?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did see it only too well; and his embarrassment increased to such a
      pitch that he began to scratch his head furiously. At last he decided on a
      plan. &ldquo;First of all, mademoiselle, brace yourself against the wall, and
      now stand firm. Yes, like that. Now, are you all right? Well, I have found
      M. Ferailleur!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Chupin&rsquo;s precaution was a wise one, for Marguerite tottered. Such a
      success, so quickly gained, was indeed astounding. &ldquo;Is it possible?&rdquo; she
      murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So possible that I have a letter for you from M. Ferailleur in my pocket
      mademoiselle. Here it is&mdash;I am to wait for an answer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She took the note he handed her, broke the seal with trembling hand, and
      read as follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are approaching the end, my dearest. One step more and we shall
      triumph. But I must see you to-day at any risk. Leave the house this
      evening at eight o&rsquo;clock. My mother will be waiting for you in a cab, at
      the corner of the Rue Pigalle and the Rue Boursault. Come, and let no fear
      of arousing suspicions of the Fondeges deter you. They are henceforth
      powerless to injure you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;PASCAL&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will go!&rdquo; replied Marguerite at once, careless of the obstacles that
      might impede the fulfilment of her promise. For it was quite possible that
      serious difficulties might arise. Madame Leon, who had been invisible
      since the morning, might suddenly reappear, or the General and his wife
      might return to dinner. And what could Marguerite answer if they asked her
      where she wanted to go alone, and at such an hour of the evening? And if
      they attempted to prevent her from keeping her appointment, how could she
      resist? All these were weighty questions and yet she did not hesitate.
      Pascal had spoken, that sufficed, and she was determined to obey him
      implicitly, cost what it might. If he advised such a step, it was because
      he deemed it best and necessary; and she willingly submitted to the
      instructions of the man in whom she felt such unbounded confidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having told Chupin that she might be relied upon for the evening, she was
      retracing her way home, when suddenly the thought occurred to her that she
      ought not to neglect this opportunity to place a decisive weapon in
      Pascal&rsquo;s hands. She was close to the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette and so
      without more ado she hurried to the establishment of Carjat the
      photographer. He was fortunately disengaged, and she at once obtained from
      him a proof of the compromising letter written by the Marquis de Valorsay
      to Madame Leon. She placed it carefully in her pocket, thanked the
      photographer, and then hurried back to the Rue Pigalle to wait for the
      hour appointed in Pascal&rsquo;s letter. Fortunately none of her unpleasant
      apprehensions were realized. The dinner-hour came and passed, and still
      the house remained deserted. The workmen had gone off and the laughter and
      chatter of the servants in the kitchen were the only sounds that broke the
      stillness. Faint for want of food&mdash;for she had taken no nourishment
      during the day&mdash;Marguerite had considerable difficulty in obtaining
      something to eat from the servants. At last, however, they gave her some
      soup and cold meat, served on a corner of the bare table in the
      dining-room. It was half-past seven when she finished this frugal meal.
      She waited a moment, and then fearing she might keep Madame Ferailleur
      waiting, she went down into the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      A cab was waiting at the corner of the Rue Boursault, as indicated. Its
      windows were lowered, and in the shade one could discern the face and
      white hair of an elderly lady. Glancing behind her to assure herself that
      she had not been followed, Marguerite eagerly approached the vehicle,
      whereupon a kindly voice exclaimed: &ldquo;Jump in quickly, mademoiselle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marguerite obeyed, and the door was scarcely closed behind her before the
      driver had urged his horse into a gallop. He had evidently received his
      instructions in advance, as well as the promise of a magnificent gratuity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sitting side by side on the back seat, the old lady and the young girl
      remained silent, but this did not prevent them from casting stealthy
      glances at each other, and striving to distinguish one another&rsquo;s features
      whenever the vehicle passed in front of some brilliantly lighted shop.
      They had never met before, and their anxiety to become acquainted was
      intense, for they each felt that the other would exert a decisive
      influence upon her life. All of Madame Ferailleur&rsquo;s friends would
      undoubtedly have been surprised at the step she had taken, and yet it was
      quite in accordance with her character. As long as she had entertained any
      hope of preventing this marriage she had not hesitated to express and even
      exaggerate her objections and repugnance. But her point of view was
      entirely changed when conquered by the strength of her son&rsquo;s passion, she
      at last yielded a reluctant consent. The young girl who was destined to be
      her daughter-in-law at once became sacred in her eyes; and it seemed to
      her an act of duty to watch over Marguerite, and shield her reputation.
      Having considered the subject, she had decided that it was not proper for
      her son&rsquo;s betrothed to run about the streets alone in the evening. Might
      it not compromise her honor? and later on might it not furnish venomous
      Madame de Fondege with an opportunity to exercise her slanderous tongue?
      Thus the puritanical old lady had come to fetch Marguerite, so that
      whenever occasion required she might be able to say: &ldquo;I was there!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As for Marguerite, after the trials of the day, she yielded without
      reserve to the feeling of rest and happiness that now filled her heart.
      Again and again had Pascal spoken of his mother&rsquo;s prejudices and the
      inflexibility of her principles. But he had also spoken of her dauntless
      energy, the nobility of her nature, and of her love and devotion to him.
      With Marguerite, moreover, one consideration&mdash;one which she would
      scarcely have admitted, perhaps&mdash;outweighed all others: Madame
      Ferailleur was Pascal&rsquo;s mother. For that reason alone, if for no other,
      she was prepared to worship her. How fervently she blessed this noble
      woman, who, a widow, and ruined in fortune by an unprincipled scoundrel,
      had bravely toiled to educate her son, making him the man whom Marguerite
      had freely chosen from among all others. She would have knelt before this
      grand but simple-hearted mother had she dared; she would have kissed her
      hands. And a poignant regret came to her heart when she remembered her own
      mother, Baroness Trigault, and compared her with this matchless woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile the cab had passed the outer boulevards, and was now whirling
      along the Route d&rsquo;Asnieres, as fast as the horse could drag it. &ldquo;We are
      almost there,&rdquo; remarked Madame Ferailleur, speaking for the first time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marguerite&rsquo;s response was inaudible, she was so overcome with emotion. The
      driver had just turned the corner of the Route de la Revolte; and it was
      not long before he checked his panting horse. &ldquo;Look, mademoiselle,&rdquo; said
      Madame Ferailleur again, &ldquo;this is our home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Upon the threshold, bareheaded, and breathless with impatience and hope,
      stood a man who was counting the seconds with the violent throbbings of
      his heart. He did not wait for the cab to stop, but springing to the door,
      he opened it; and then, catching Marguerite in his arms, he carried her
      into the house with a cry of joy. She had not even time to look around
      her, ere he had placed her in an arm-chair, and fallen on his knees before
      her. &ldquo;At last I see you again, my beloved Marguerite,&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;You
      are mine&mdash;nothing shall part us again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They sobbed in each other&rsquo;s arms. They could bear adversity unmoved; but
      their composure deserted them in this excess of happiness; and standing in
      the door-way, Madame Ferailleur felt the tears come to her eyes as she
      stood watching them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can I tell you all that I have suffered!&rdquo; said Pascal, whose voice
      was hoarse with feeling. &ldquo;The papers have told you all the details, I
      suppose. How I was accused of cheating at cards; how the vile epithet
      &lsquo;thief&rsquo; was cast in my face; how they tried to search me; how my most
      intimate friends deserted me; how I was virtually expelled from the Palais
      de Justice. All this is terrible, is it not? Ah, well! it is nothing in
      comparison with the intense, unendurable anguish I experienced in thinking
      that you believed the infamous calumny which disgraced me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marguerite rose to her feet. &ldquo;You thought that!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;You
      believed that I doubted you? I! Like you, I have been accused of robbery
      myself. Do you believe me guilty?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good God! I suspect you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was mad, Marguerite, my only love, I was mad! But who would not have
      lost his senses under such circumstances? It was the very day after this
      atrocious conspiracy. I had seen Madame Leon, and had trusted her with a
      letter for you in which I entreated you to grant me five minutes&rsquo; 
      Conversation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! I never received it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that now; but then I was deceived. I went to the little garden
      gate to await your coming, but it was Madame Leon who appeared. She
      brought me a note written in pencil and signed with your name, bidding me
      an eternal farewell. And, fool that I was, I did not see that the note was
      a forgery!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite was amazed. The veil was now torn aside, and the
      truth revealed to her. Now she remembered Madame Leon&rsquo;s embarrassment when
      she met her returning from the garden on the night following the count&rsquo;s
      death. &ldquo;Ah, well! Pascal,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;do you know what I was doing at
      almost the same moment? Alarmed at having received no news from you, I
      hastened to the Rue d&rsquo;Ulm, where I learned that you had sold your
      furniture and started for America. Any other woman might have believed
      herself deserted under such circumstances, but not I. I felt sure that you
      had not fled in ignominious fashion. I was convinced that you had only
      concealed yourself for a time in order to strike your enemies more
      surely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not shame me, Marguerite. It is true that of us two I showed myself
      the weaker.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lost in the rapture of the present moment, they had forgotten the past and
      the future, the agony they had endured, the dangers that still threatened
      them, and even the existence of their enemies.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Madame Ferailleur was watching. She pointed to the clock, and
      earnestly exclaimed: &ldquo;Time is passing, my son. Each moment that is wasted
      endangers our success. Should any suspicion bring Madame Vantrasson here,
      all would be lost.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She cannot come upon us unawares, my dear mother. Chupin has promised not
      to lose sight of her. If she stirs from her shop, he will hasten here and
      throw a stone against the shutters to warn us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But even this did not satisfy Madame Ferailleur.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You forget, Pascal.&rdquo; she insisted, &ldquo;that Mademoiselle Marguerite must be
      at home again by ten o&rsquo;clock, if she consents to the ordeal you feel
      obliged to impose upon her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was the voice of duty recalling Pascal to the stern realities of
      life. He slowly rose, conquered his emotion, and, after reflecting for a
      moment, said: &ldquo;First of all, Marguerite, I owe you the truth and an exact
      statement of our situation. Circumstances have compelled me to act without
      consulting you. Have I done right or wrong? You shall judge.&rdquo; And without
      stopping to listen to the girl&rsquo;s protestations, he rapidly explained how
      he had managed to win M. de Valorsay&rsquo;s confidence, discover his plans, and
      become his trusted accomplice. &ldquo;This scoundrel&rsquo;s plan is very simple,&rdquo; he
      continued. &ldquo;He is determined to marry you. Why? Because, though you are
      not aware of it, you are rich, and the sole heiress to the fortune of the
      Count de Chalusse, your father. This surprises you, does it not? Very
      well! listen to me. Deceived by the Marquis de Valorsay, the Count de
      Chalusse had promised him your hand. These arrangements were nearly
      completed, though you had not been informed of them. In fact, everything
      had been decided. At the outset, however, a grave difficulty had presented
      itself. The marquis wished your father to acknowledge you before your
      marriage, but this he refused to do. &lsquo;It would expose me to the most
      frightful dangers,&rsquo; he declared. &lsquo;However, I will recognize Marguerite as
      my daughter in my will, and, at the same time, leave all my property to
      her.&rsquo; But the marquis would not listen to this proposal. &lsquo;I don&rsquo;t doubt
      your good intentions, my dear count,&rsquo; said he,&rsquo; but suppose this will
      should be contested, your property might pass into other hands.&rsquo; This
      difficulty put a stop to the proceedings for some time. The marquis asked
      for guarantees; the other refused to give them&mdash;until, at last, M. de
      Chalusse discovered an expedient which would satisfy both parties. He
      confided to M. de Valorsay&rsquo;s keeping a will in which he recognized you as
      his daughter, and bequeathed you his entire fortune. This document, the
      validity of which is unquestionable, has been carefully preserved by the
      marquis. He has not spoken of its existence; and he would destroy it
      rather than restore it to you at present. But as soon as you became his
      wife, he intended to produce it and thus obtain possession of the count&rsquo;s
      millions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! the old justice of the peace was not mistaken,&rdquo; murmured Mademoiselle
      Marguerite.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pascal did not hear her. All his faculties were absorbed in the attempt he
      was making to give a clear and concise explanation, for he had much to
      say, and it was growing late. &ldquo;As for the enormous sum you have been
      accused of taking,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;I know what has become of it; it is in
      the hands of M. de Fondege.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that, Pascal&mdash;I&rsquo;m sure of it; but the proof, the proof!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The proof exists, and, like the will, it is in the hands of the Marquis
      de Valorsay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it possible! Great Heavens! You are sure you are not deceived?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have seen the proof, and it is overpowering, irrefutable! I have
      touched it&mdash;I have held it in my hands. And it explains everything
      which may have seemed strange and incomprehensible to you. The letter
      which M. de Chalusse received on the day of his death was written by his
      sister. She asked in it for her share of the family estate, threatening
      him with a terrible scandal if he refused to comply with her request. Had
      the count decided to brave this scandal rather than yield? We have good
      reason to suppose so. However, this much is certain: he had a terrible
      hatred, not so much for his sister, perhaps, as for the man who had
      seduced her, and afterward married her, actuated by avaricious motives
      alone. He had sworn thousands of times that neither husband nor wife
      should ever have a penny of the large fortune which really belonged to
      them. Believing that a lawsuit was now inevitable, and wishing to conceal
      his wealth, he was greatly embarrassed by the large amount of money he had
      on hand. What should he do with it? Where could he hide it? He finally
      decided to intrust it to the keeping of M. de Fondege, who was known as an
      eccentric man, but whose honesty seemed to be above suspicion. So, when he
      left home, on the afternoon of his illness, he took the package of
      bank-notes and bonds, which you had noticed in the escritoire that
      morning, away with him. We shall never know what passed between your
      father and the General&mdash;we can only surmise. But what I do know, and
      what I shall be able to prove, is that M. de Fondege accepted the trust,
      and that he gave an acknowledgment of it in the form of a letter, which
      read as follows:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;&lsquo;MY DEAR COUNT DE CHALUSSE&mdash;I hereby acknowledge the receipt, on
   Thursday, October 15, 186-, of the sum of two millions, two
   hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I shall deposit, in my
   name, at the Bank of France, subject to the orders of Mademoiselle
   Marguerite, your daughter, on the day she presents this letter.
   And believe, my dear count, in the absolute devotion of your old
   comrade,

                                &ldquo;GENERAL DE FONDEGE.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite was thunderstruck. &ldquo;Who can have furnished you
      with these particulars?&rdquo; she inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Marquis de Valorsay, my dearest; and I will explain how he was
      enabled to do so. M. de Fondege wrote the address of his &lsquo;old comrade&rsquo; on
      this letter, which was folded and sealed, but not enclosed in an envelope.
      M. de Chalusse proposed to post it himself, so that the official stamp
      might authenticate its date. But on reflection, he became uneasy. He felt
      that this tiny, perishable scrap of paper would be the only proof of the
      deposit which he had confided to M. de Fondege&rsquo;s honor. This scrap might
      be lost, burned, or stolen. Then what would happen? He had so often seen
      trustees betray the confidence of which they had seemed worthy. So M. de
      Chalusse racked his brains to discover a means of protection from an
      improbable but possible misfortune. He found it. Passing a stationer&rsquo;s
      shop, he went in, purchased one of those letter-presses which merchants
      use in their correspondence, and, under pretext of trying it, took a copy
      of M. de Fondege&rsquo;s letter. Having done this, he placed the copy in an
      envelope addressed to the Marquis de Valorsay, and, with his heart
      relieved of all anxiety, posted it at the same time as the original
      letter. A few moments later he got into the cab in which he was stricken
      down with apoplexy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Extraordinary as Pascal&rsquo;s explanations must have seemed to her, Marguerite
      did not doubt their accuracy in the least. &ldquo;Then it is the copy of this
      letter which you saw in the possession of the Marquis de Valorsay?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the original?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;M. de Fondege alone can tell what has become of that. It is evident that
      he has somehow succeeded in obtaining possession of it. Would he have
      dared to squander money as he has done if he had not been convinced that
      there was no proof of his guilt in existence? Perhaps on hearing of the
      count&rsquo;s sudden death he bribed the concierge at the Hotel de Chalusse to
      watch for this letter and return it to him. But on this subject I have
      only conjectures to offer. If they wish you to marry their son, it is
      probably because it seems too hard that you should be left in abject
      poverty while they are enjoying the fortune they have stolen from you. The
      vilest scoundrels have their scruples. Besides, a marriage with their son
      would protect them against any possible mischance in the future.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was silent for a moment, and then more slowly resumed: &ldquo;You see,
      Marguerite, we have clear, palpable, and irrefutable proofs of YOUR
      innocence; but in my efforts to clear my own name of disgrace, I have been
      far less fortunate. I have tried in vain to collect material proofs of the
      conspiracy against me. It is only by proving the guilt of the Marquis de
      Valorsay and the Viscount de Coralth that I can establish my innocence,
      and so far I am powerless to do so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s face brightened with supreme joy. &ldquo;Then I can
      serve you, in my turn, my only love,&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;Ah! blessed be God
      who inspired me, and who thus rewards me for an hour of courage. My poor
      father&rsquo;s plan also occurred to me, Pascal. Was it not strange? The
      material proof of your innocence which you have sought for in vain, is in
      my possession, written and signed by the Marquis de Valorsay. Like M. de
      Fondege, he believes that the letter which proves his guilt is
      annihilated. He burned it himself, and yet it exists.&rdquo; So saying, she drew
      from her bosom one of the copies which she had received from Carjat the
      photographer, and handed it to Pascal, adding, &ldquo;Look!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal eagerly perused the marvellous facsimile of the letter which the
      marquis had written to Madame Leon. &ldquo;Ah! this is the scoundrel&rsquo;s death
      warrant.&rdquo; he exclaimed, exultantly. And approaching Madame Ferailleur, who
      still stood leaning against the door, silent and motionless: &ldquo;Look,
      mother,&rdquo; he repeated, &ldquo;look!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he pointed to this paragraph which was so convincing and so explicit,
      that the most exacting jury would have asked for no further evidence. &ldquo;I
      have formed a plan which will completely efface all remembrance of that
      cursed P. F., in case any one could condescend to think of him, after the
      disgrace we fastened upon him the other evening at the house of Madame d&rsquo;A&mdash;&mdash;.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor is this all,&rdquo; resumed Mademoiselle Marguerite. &ldquo;There are other
      letters which will prove that this plot was the marquis&rsquo;s work and which
      give the name of his accomplice, Coralth. And these letters are in the
      possession of a man of dubious integrity, who was once the marquis&rsquo;s ally,
      but who has now become his enemy. He is known as Isidore Fortunat, and
      lives in the Place de la Bourse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marguerite felt that Madame Ferailleur&rsquo;s keen glance was riveted upon her.
      She intuitively divined what was passing in the mind of the puritanical
      old lady, and realized that her whole future, and the happiness of her
      entire wedded life, depended upon her conduct at that moment. So, desirous
      of making a full confession, she hastily exclaimed: &ldquo;My conduct may have
      seemed strange in a young girl, Pascal. A timid, inexperienced girl, who
      had been carefully kept from all knowledge of life and evil, would have
      been crushed by such a burden of disgrace, and could only have wept and
      prayed. I did weep and pray; but I also struggled and fought. In the hour
      of peril I found myself endowed with some of the courage and energy which
      distinguished the poor women of the people among whom I formerly earned my
      bread. The teachings and miseries of the past were not lost to me!&rdquo; And as
      simply as if she were telling the most natural thing in the world, she
      described the struggle she had undertaken against the world, strong in her
      faith in Pascal and in his love.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, you are a noble and courageous girl!&rdquo; exclaimed Madame Ferailleur.
      &ldquo;You are worthy of my son, and you will proudly guard our honest name!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For some little time already the obstinate old lady had been struggling
      against the sympathetic emotion that filled her heart, and big tears were
      coursing down her wrinkled cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unable to restrain herself any longer, she now threw both arms around
      Marguerite&rsquo;s neck, and drew her toward her in a long embrace, murmuring:
      &ldquo;Marguerite, my daughter! Ah! how unjust my prejudices were!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It might be thought that Pascal was transported with joy on hearing this,
      but no: the lines of care on his forehead deepened, as he said: &ldquo;Happiness
      is so near! Why must a final test, another humiliation, separate us from
      it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Marguerite now felt strong enough to meet even martyrdom with a smile.
      &ldquo;Speak, Pascal!&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t you see that it is almost ten o&rsquo;clock?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He hesitated; there was grief in his eyes and his breath came quick and
      hard, as he resumed: &ldquo;For your sake and mine, we must conquer, at any
      price. This is the only reason that can justify the horrible expedient I
      have to suggest. M. de Valorsay, as you know, has boasted of his power to
      overcome your resistance, and he really believes that he possesses this
      power. Why I have not killed him again and again when he has been at my
      mercy, I can scarcely understand. The only thing that gave me power to
      restrain myself was my desire for as sure, as terrible, and as public a
      revenge as the humiliation he inflicted on me. His plan for your ruin is
      such as only a scoundrel like himself could conceive. With the assistance
      of his vile tool, Coralth, he has formed a league, offensive and
      defensive, with the son of the Count de Chalusse&rsquo;s sister, who is the only
      acknowledged heir at this moment&mdash;a young man destitute of heart and
      intelligence, and inordinately vain, but neither better nor worse than
      many others who figure respectably in society. His name is Wilkie Gordon.
      The marquis has acquired great influence over him, and has persuaded him
      that it is his duty to denounce you to the authorities. He has, in short,
      accused you of defrauding the heirs of the Chalusse estate of two millions
      of francs and also of poisoning the count.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The girl shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. &ldquo;As for the robbery, we have
      an answer to that,&rdquo; she answered, &ldquo;and as regards the poisoning&mdash;really
      the accusation is too absurd!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Pascal still looked gloomy. &ldquo;The matter is more serious than you
      suppose,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;They have found a physician&mdash;a vile, cowardly
      scoundrel&mdash;who for a certain sum has consented to appear in support
      of the accusation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dr. Jodon, I presume!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; and this is not all. The count&rsquo;s escritoire contains the vial of
      medicine of which he drank a portion on the day of his death. Well,
      to-morrow night, Madame Leon will open the garden gate of the Hotel de
      Chalusse and admit a rascal who will abstract the vial.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marguerite shuddered. Now she understood the fiendish cunning of the plot.
      &ldquo;It might ruin me!&rdquo; she murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pascal nodded affirmatively. &ldquo;M. de Valorsay wishes you to consider
      yourself as irretrievably lost, and then he intends to offer to save you
      on condition that you consent to marry him. I should say, however, that M.
      Wilkie is ignorant of the atrocious projects he is abetting. They are
      known only to the marquis and M. de Coralth; and it is I who, under the
      name of Maumejan, act as their adviser. It was to me that the marquis sent
      M. Wilkie for assistance in drawing up this accusation. I myself wrote out
      the denunciation, which was as terrible and as formidable as our bitterest
      enemy could possibly desire, combining, as it did, with perfidious art,
      the reports of the valets and the suspicions of the physician, and
      establishing the connection between the robbery and the murder. It
      finished by demanding a thorough investigation. And M. Wilkie copied and
      signed this document, and carried it to the prosecution office himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite sank half-fainting into an arm-chair. &ldquo;You have
      done this!&rdquo; she faltered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was necessary, my daughter,&rdquo; whispered Madame Ferailleur.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it was necessary, absolutely necessary,&rdquo; repeated Pascal, &ldquo;as you
      will see. Justice, which is a human institution, and limited in its
      powers, cannot fathom motives, read thoughts, or interfere with plans,
      however abominable they may be, or however near realization. Before it can
      interfere, the law must have material, tangible proof, convincing to the
      senses. Until you are arrested, the crimes committed by M. de Valorsay,
      and those associated with him, do not come within the reach of human
      justice; but as soon as you are in prison, I can hasten to our friend the
      justice of the peace, and we shall go at once to the investigating
      magistrate and explain everything. Now, when your innocence and the guilt
      of your accusers have been established, what do you fancy the authorities
      will do? They will wait until your enemies declare themselves, in order to
      capture them all at once, and prevent the escape of a single one.
      To-morrow night some clever detectives will watch the Hotel de Chalusse,
      and just as Madame Leon and the wretch with her think themselves sure of
      success, they will be caught in the very act and arrested. When they are
      examined by a magistrate, who is conversant with the whole affair, can
      they deny their guilt? No; certainly not. Acting upon their confession,
      the authorities will force an entrance into Valorsay&rsquo;s house, where they
      will find your father&rsquo;s will and the receipt given by M. de Fondege&mdash;in
      a word, all the proofs of their guilt. And while this search is going on,
      all your enemies, reassured by your arrest, will be at a grand soiree
      given by Baron Trigault. I shall be there as well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mademoiselle Marguerite had mastered her momentary weakness. She rose to
      her feet, and in a firm voice exclaimed: &ldquo;You have acted rightly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! there was no other way. And yet I wished to see you, to learn if this
      course were too repugnant to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She interrupted him with a gesture. &ldquo;When shall I be arrested?&rdquo; she asked,
      quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This evening or to-morrow.&rdquo; was his answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well! I have only one request to make. The Fondeges have a son who
      has no hand in the affair, but who will be more severely punished than his
      parents, if we do not spare them. Could you not&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can do nothing, Marguerite. I am powerless now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Everything was soon arranged. Marguerite raised her forehead to Pascal for
      his parting kiss, and went away accompanied by Madame Ferailleur, who
      escorted her to the corner of the Rue Boursault. The General and his wife
      had returned home in advance of Marguerite. She found them sitting in the
      drawing-room, with distorted faces and teeth chattering with fear. With
      them was a bearded man who, as soon as she appeared, exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are Mademoiselle Marguerite, are you not? I arrest you in the name of
      the law. There is my warrant.&rdquo; And without more ado he led her away.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      XX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Money, which nowadays has taken the place of the good fairies of former
      times, had gratified M. Wilkie&rsquo;s every longing in a single night. Without
      any period of transition, dreamlike as it were, he had passed from what he
      called &ldquo;straitened circumstances&rdquo; to the splendid enjoyment of a princely
      fortune. Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s renunciation had been so correctly drawn up,
      that as soon as he presented his claims and displayed his credentials he
      was placed in possession of the Chalusse estate. It is true that a few
      trifling difficulties presented themselves. For instance, the old justice
      of the peace who had affixed the seals refused to remove them from certain
      articles of furniture, especially from the late count&rsquo;s escritoire,
      without an order from the court, and several days were needed to obtain
      this. But what did that matter to M. Wilkie? The house, with its splendid
      reception-rooms, pictures, statuary and gardens, was at his disposal, and
      he installed himself therein at once. Twenty horses neighed and stamped in
      his stables; there were at least a dozen carriages in the coach-house. He
      devoted his attention exclusively to the horses and vehicles; but acting
      upon the advice of Casimir, who had become his valet and oracle, he
      retained all the former servants of the house, from Bourigeau the
      concierge down to the humblest scullery maid. Still, he gave them to
      understand that this was only a temporary arrangement. A man like himself,
      living in this progressive age, could scarcely be expected to content
      himself with what had satisfied the Count de Chalusse. &ldquo;For I have my
      plans,&rdquo; he remarked to Casimir, &ldquo;but let Paris wait awhile.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He repudiated his former friends. Costard and Serpillon, pretended
      viscounts though they were, were quite beneath the notice of a
      Gordon-Chalusse, as M. Wilkie styled himself on his visiting cards.
      However, he purchased their share of Pompier de Nanterre, feeling
      convinced that this remarkable steeplechaser had a brilliant future before
      him. He did not trouble himself to any great extent about his mother. Like
      every one else, he knew that she had disappeared, but nothing further. On
      the other hand, the thought of his father, the terrible chevalier
      d&rsquo;industrie, hung over his joy like a pall; and each time the great
      entrance bell announced a visitor, he trembled, turned pale, and muttered:
      &ldquo;Perhaps it&rsquo;s he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Tortured by this fear, he clung closely to the Marquis de Valorsay as if
      he felt that this distinguished friend was a powerful support. Besides,
      people of rank and distinction naturally exercised a powerful attraction
      over him, and he fancied he grew several inches taller when, in some
      public place, in the street, or a restaurant, he was able to call out, &ldquo;I
      say, Valorsay, my good friend,&rdquo; or, &ldquo;Upon my word! my dear marquis!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Valorsay received these effusions graciously enough, although, in
      point of fact, he was terribly bored by the platitudes of his new
      acquaintance. He intended to send him to Coventry later on, but just now
      M. Wilkie was too useful to be ignored. So he had introduced him to his
      club, and was seen with him everywhere&mdash;in the Bois, at the
      restaurants, and the theatres. At times, some of his friends inquired:
      &ldquo;Who is that queer little fellow?&rdquo; with a touch of irony in their tone,
      but when the marquis carelessly answered: &ldquo;A poor devil who has just come
      into possession of a property worth twenty millions!&rdquo; they became serious,
      and requested the pleasure and honor of an introduction to this fortunate
      young man.
    </p>
    <p>
      So M. de Valorsay had invited Gordon-Chalusse to accompany him to Baron
      Trigault&rsquo;s approaching fete. It was to be an entertainment for gentlemen
      only, a monster card-party; but every one knew the wealthy baron, and no
      doubt with a view of stimulating curiosity he had declared, and the Figaro
      had repeated, that he had a great surprise in store for his guests. Oh!
      such a surprise! They could have no idea what it was! This fete was to
      take place on the second day after Mademoiselle Marguerite&rsquo;s arrest; and
      on the appointed evening, between nine and ten o&rsquo;clock, M. de Valorsay and
      his friend Coralth sat together in the former&rsquo;s smoking-room waiting for
      Wilkie to call for them, as had been agreed upon. They were both in the
      best of spirits. The viscount&rsquo;s apprehensions had been entirely dispelled;
      and the marquis had quite forgotten the twinges of pain in his injured
      limb. &ldquo;Marguerite will only leave prison to marry me,&rdquo; said M. de
      Valorsay, triumphantly; and he added: &ldquo;What a willing tool this Wilkie is!
      A single word sufficed to make him give all his servants leave of absence.
      The Hotel de Chalusse will be deserted, and Madame Leon and Vantrasson can
      operate at their leisure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was ten o&rsquo;clock when M. Wilkie made his appearance. &ldquo;Come, my good
      friends!&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;my carriage is below.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They started off at once, and five minutes later they were ushered into
      the presence of Baron Trigault, who received M. Wilkie as if he had never
      seen him before. There was quite a crowd already. At least three or four
      hundred people had assembled in the Baron&rsquo;s reception-rooms, and among
      them were several former habitues of Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s house; one could
      also espy M. de Fondege ferociously twirling his mustaches as usual,
      together with Kami-Bey, who was conspicuous by reason of his portly form
      and eternal red fez. However, among these men, all noticeable for their
      studied elegance of attire and manner, and all of them known to M. de
      Valorsay, there moved numerous others of very different appearance. Their
      waistcoats were less open, and their clothes did not fit them as
      perfectly; on the other hand, there was something else than a look of
      idiotic self-complacency on their faces. &ldquo;Who can these people be?&rdquo;
       whispered the marquis to M. de Coralth. &ldquo;They look like lawyers or
      magistrates.&rdquo; But although he said this he did not really believe it, and
      it was without the slightest feeling of anxiety that he strolled from
      group to group, shaking hands with his friends and introducing M. Wilkie.
    </p>
    <p>
      A strange rumor was in circulation among the guests. Many of them declared&mdash;where
      could they have heard such a thing?&mdash;that in consequence of a quarrel
      with her husband, Madame Trigault had left Paris the evening before. They
      even went so far as to repeat her parting words to the Baron: &ldquo;You will
      never see me again,&rdquo; she had said. &ldquo;You are amply avenged. Farewell!&rdquo;
       However, the best informed among the guests, the folks who were thoroughly
      acquainted with all the scandals of the day, declared the story false, and
      said that if the baroness had really fled, handsome Viscount de Coralth
      would not appear so calm and smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      The report WAS true, however. But M. de Coralth did not trouble himself
      much about the baroness now. Had he not got in his pocket M. Wilkie&rsquo;s
      signature insuring him upward of half a million? Standing near one of the
      windows in the main reception-room, between the Marquis de Valorsay and M.
      Wilkie, the brilliant viscount was gayly chatting with them, when a
      footman, in a voice loud enough to interrupt all conversation, suddenly
      announced: &ldquo;M. Maumejan!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It seemed such a perfectly natural thing to M. de Valorsay that Maumejan,
      as one of the baron&rsquo;s business agents, should be received at his house,
      that he was not in the least disturbed. But M. de Coralth, having heard
      the name, wished to see the man who had aided and advised the marquius so
      effectually. He abruptly turned, and as he did so the words he would have
      spoken died upon his lips. He became livid, his eyes seemed to start from
      their sockets, and it was with difficulty that he ejaculated: &ldquo;He!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who?&rdquo; inquired the astonished marquis.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      M. de Valorsay did so, and to his utter amazement he perceived a numerous
      party in the rear of the man announced under the name of Maumejan. First
      came Mademoiselle Marguerite, leaning on the arm of the white-haired
      magistrate, and then Madame Ferailleur; next M. Isidore Fortunat, and
      finally Chupin&mdash;Victor Chupin, resplendent in a handsome, bran-new,
      black dress-suit.
    </p>
    <p>
      The marquis could no longer fail to understand the truth. He realized who
      Maumejan really was, and the audacious comedy he had been duped by. He was
      so frightfully agitated that five or six persons sprang forward
      exclaiming: &ldquo;What is the matter, marquis? Are you ill?&rdquo; But he made no
      reply. He felt that he was caught in a trap, and he glanced wildly around
      him seeking for some loophole of escape.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, the word of command had evidently been given. Suddenly all the
      guests scattered about the various drawing-rooms poured into the main
      hall, and the doors were closed. Then, with a solemnity of manner which no
      one had ever seen him display before, Baron Trigault took the so-called
      Maumejan by the hand and led him into the centre of the apartment opposite
      the lofty chimney-piece. &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; he began, in a commanding tone,
      &ldquo;this is M. Pascal Ferailleur, the honorable man who was falsely accused
      of cheating at cards at Madame d&rsquo;Argeles&rsquo;s house. You owe him a hearing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pascal was greatly agitated. The strangeness of the situation, the
      certainty of speedy and startling rehabilitation, perhaps the joy of
      vengeance, the silence, which was so profound that he could hear his own
      panting breath, and the many eyes riveted upon him, all combined to
      unnerve him. But only for a moment. He swiftly conquered his weakness, and
      surveying his audience with flashing eyes, he explained, in a clear and
      ringing voice, the shameful conspiracy to obtain possession of the count&rsquo;s
      millions, and the abominable machinations by which Mademoiselle Marguerite
      and himself had been victimized. Then when he had finished his
      explanations he added, in a still more commanding voice, &ldquo;Now look; you
      can read the culprits&rsquo; guilt on their faces. One is the scoundrel known to
      you as the Viscount de Coralth, but Paul Violaine is his true name. He was
      formerly an accomplice of the notorious Mascarot; he is a cowardly
      villain, for he is married, and leaves his wife and children to die of
      starvation!&rdquo; The Viscount de Coralth fairly bellowed with rage. But Pascal
      did not heed him. &ldquo;The other criminal is the Marquis de Valorsay,&rdquo; he
      added, in the same ringing tone. There was, moreover, a third culprit who
      would have inspired mingled pity and disgust if any one had noticed him
      shrinking into a corner, terrified and muttering: &ldquo;It wasn&rsquo;t my fault, my
      wife compelled me to do it!&rdquo; This was General de Fondege.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pascal did not mention his name. But it was not absolutely necessary he
      should do so, and besides, he remembered Marguerite&rsquo;s entreaty respecting
      the son.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, while the young lawyer was speaking, the marquis had summoned all
      his energy and assurance to his aid. Desperate as his plight might be, he
      would not surrender. &ldquo;This is an infamous conspiracy,&rdquo; he exclaimed.
      &ldquo;Baron, you shall atone for this. The man&rsquo;s an impostor!&mdash;he lies!&mdash;all
      that he says is false!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it is false!&rdquo; echoed M. de Coralth.
    </p>
    <p>
      But a clamor arose, drowning these protestations, and the most opprobrious
      epithets could be heard on every side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How will you prove your assertion?&rdquo; cried M. de Valorsay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t try that dodge on us!&rdquo; shouted Chupin. &ldquo;Vantrasson and mother Leon
      have confessed everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who defrauded us all with Domingo?&rdquo; cried several people; and, loud above
      all the others, Kami-Bey bawled out: &ldquo;To say nothing of the fact that the
      sale of your racing stud was a complete swindle!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, Pascal&rsquo;s former friends and associates, his brother advocates
      and the magistrates who had listened to his first efforts at the bar,
      crowded round him, pressing his hands, embracing him almost to
      suffocation, censuring themselves for having suspected him, the very soul
      of honor, and pleading in self-justification the degenerate age in which
      we live&mdash;an age in which we daily see those whom we had considered
      immaculate suddenly yield to temptation. And a murmur of respectful
      admiration rose from the throng when the excitement had subsided a little,
      and the guests had an opportunity to observe Mademoiselle Marguerite,
      whose eyes sparkled more brightly than ever through her happy tears; and
      whose beauty acquired an almost sublime expression from her deep emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The wretched Valorsay felt that all was over&mdash;that he was
      irretrievably lost. Seized by a blind fury like that which impels a hunted
      animal to turn and face the hounds that pursue him, and bid them defiance,
      he confronted the throng with his face distorted with passion, his eyes
      bloodshot, and foam upon his lips; he was absolutely frightful in his
      cynicism, hatred, and scorn. &ldquo;Ah! well, yes!&rdquo; he exclaimed&mdash;&ldquo;yes, all
      that you have just heard is true. I was sinking, and I tried to save
      myself as best I could. Beggars cannot be choosers; I staked my all upon a
      single die. If I had won, you would have been at my feet; but I have lost
      and you spurn me. Cowards! hypocrites! that you are, insult me if you
      like, but tell me how many among you all are sufficiently pure and upright
      to have a right to despise me! Are there a hundred among you? are there
      even fifty?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A tempest of hisses momentarily drowned his voice, but as soon as the
      uproar had ceased, he resumed, sneeringly: &ldquo;Ah! the truth wounds you, my
      dear friends. Pray, don&rsquo;t pretend to be so distressingly virtuous! I was
      ruined&mdash;that is the long and short of it. But what man of you is not
      embarrassed? Who among you finds his income sufficient? Which one of you
      is not encroaching upon his capital? And when you have come to your last
      louis, you will do what I have done, or something worse. Do not deny it,
      for not one among you has a more uncompromising conscience, more moral
      firmness, or more generous aspirations than I once possessed. You are
      pursuing what I pursued. You desire what I desired&mdash;a life of luxury,
      brief if it must be, but happy&mdash;a life of gayety, wild excitement,
      and dissipation. You, too, have a passion for pleasure and gambling,
      race-horses, and notorious women, a table always bountifully spread,
      glasses ever overflowing with wine, all the delights of luxury, and
      everything that gratifies your vanity! But an abyss of shame awaits you at
      the end of it all. I am in it now. I await you there, for there you will
      surely, necessarily, inevitably come. Ah, ha! you will not then think my
      downfall so very strange. Let me pass! make way! if you please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He advanced with his head haughtily erect, and would actually have made
      his escape if a frightened servant had not at that moment appeared crying:
      &ldquo;Monsieur&mdash;Monsieur le Baron! a commissary of police is downstairs.
      He is coming up. He has a warrant!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The marquis&rsquo;s frenzied assurance deserted him. He turned even paler than
      he already was if that were possible, and reeled like an ox but partially
      stunned by the butcher&rsquo;s hammer. Suddenly a desperate resolution could be
      read in his eyes, the resolution of the condemned criminal, who, knowing
      that he cannot escape the scaffold, ascends it with a firm step.
    </p>
    <p>
      He hastily approached Baron Trigault, and asked in a husky voice: &ldquo;Will
      you allow me to be arrested in your house, baron? me&mdash;a Valorsay!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It might have been supposed that the baron had expected this reproach, for
      without a word he led the marquis and M. de Coralth to a little room at
      the end of the hall, pushed them inside, and closed the door again.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was time he did so, for the commissary of police was already upon the
      threshold. &ldquo;Which of you gentlemen is the Marquis de Valorsay?&rdquo; he asked.
      &ldquo;Which of you is Paul Violaine, alias the Viscount de&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The sharp report of firearms suddenly interrupted him. Every one at once
      rushed to the little room, where the wretched men had been conducted.
      There extended, face upward, on the floor, lay the Marquis de Valorsay,
      with his brains oozing from his fractured skull, and his right hand still
      clutching a revolver. He was dead. &ldquo;And the other!&rdquo; cried the throng; &ldquo;the
      other!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The open window, and a curtain rudely torn from its fastenings and secured
      to the balustrade, told how M. de Coralth had made his escape. It was not
      till later that people learned what precautions the baron had taken. On
      the table in that room he had laid two revolvers, and two packages
      containing ten thousand francs each. The viscount had not hesitated.
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      Pascal Ferailleur and Mademoiselle Marguerite de Chalusse were married at
      the church of Saint Etienne du Mont, only a few steps from the Rue d&rsquo;Ulm.
      Those who knew the mystery connected with the bride&rsquo;s parentage were
      greatly astonished when they saw Baron Trigault act as a witness on this
      occasion, in company with the venerable justice of the peace. But such was
      the fact, nevertheless. Treated more and more outrageously by his daughter
      and her husband, separated from his wife, who had nearly lost her reason,
      although her letters were saved, the baron has nowadays found affection
      and a home with Pascal and his wife. He plays cards but seldom now&mdash;only
      an occasional game of piquet with Madame Ferailleur, and he amuses himself
      by making her start when she is too long in discarding, by ejaculating, in
      a stentorian voice: &ldquo;We are wasting precious time!&rdquo; Sometimes they go out
      together, to the great astonishment of such as chance to meet the
      puritanical old lady leaning on the baron&rsquo;s arm. She often goes to visit
      and console the widow Gordon, formerly known as Lia d&rsquo;Argeles, who now
      keeps an establishment near Montrouge, where she provides poor, betrayed
      and forsaken girls with a home and employment. She has yet to receive any
      token of remembrance from her son. As for her husband, she supposes he is
      dead or incarcerated in some prison.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is to Madame Gordon that the Fondeges are often indebted for bread.
      Obliged to disgorge their plunder, and left with no resources save the
      fifty francs a month allowed them by their son, who has been promoted to
      the rank of captain, their poverty is necessarily extreme. Oh! those
      Fondeges! M. Fortunat only speaks of them with horror. But he is loud in
      his praises of Madame Marguerite, who repaid him the forty thousand francs
      he had advanced to M. de Valorsay. He speaks in the highest terms of
      Chupin also; but in this, he is scarcely sincere, for Victor, who has been
      set up in business by Pascal, told him very plainly that he was determined
      not to put his hand to any more dirty work, and that expression, &ldquo;dirty
      work,&rdquo; rankles in M. Fortunat&rsquo;s heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      Chupin&rsquo;s resolution did not, however, prevent him from attending the trial
      of Vantrasson and Madame Leon&mdash;the former of whom was sentenced to
      hard labor for life, and the latter to ten years&rsquo; imprisonment. Nothing is
      known concerning M. de Coralth; but his wife has disappeared, to the great
      disappointment of M. Mouchon. As a dentist, Dr. Jodon is successful. As
      for M. Wilkie, you can learn anything you wish to know concerning him in
      the newspapers, for his sayings, doings, and movements, are constantly
      being chronicled. The reporters exhaust all the resources of their
      vocabulary in describing his horses, carriages, and stables, and the
      gorgeous liveries of his servants. His changes of residence are always
      mentioned; his brilliant sayings are quoted. He is a social success; he is
      admired, fondled, and flattered. He makes a great stir in the fashionable
      world&mdash;in fact, he reigns over it like a king. After all, assurance
      is the winning card in the game of life!
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





End of Project Gutenberg&rsquo;s Baron Trigault&rsquo;s Vengeance, by Emile Gaboriau

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BARON TRIGAULT&rsquo;S VENGEANCE ***

***** This file should be named 547-h.htm or 547-h.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
        http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/547/

Produced by David Widger

Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase &ldquo;Project
Gutenberg&rdquo;), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://gutenberg.org/license).


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (&ldquo;the Foundation&rdquo;
 or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; appears, or with which the phrase &ldquo;Project
Gutenberg&rdquo; is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
&ldquo;Plain Vanilla ASCII&rdquo; or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original &ldquo;Plain Vanilla ASCII&rdquo; or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, &ldquo;Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.&rdquo;
 
- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
&ldquo;Defects,&rdquo; such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the &ldquo;Right
of Replacement or Refund&rdquo; described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you &lsquo;AS-IS&rsquo; WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm&rsquo;s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation&rsquo;s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
http://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state&rsquo;s laws.

The Foundation&rsquo;s principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation&rsquo;s web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     gbnewby@pglaf.org


Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://pglaf.org

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.


Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.


Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

     http://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.


</pre>
  </body>
</html>
generated by cgit v1.2.3 (git 2.25.1) at 2026-02-06 18:10:26 +0000