Naturally enough this reflection led him to wonder why such a rich woman should become the Marquis de Valorsay's accomplice, and lend a hand in so vile and cowardly a plot, which horrified even him—Fortunat. "For she must be an accomplice," he thought.

And he marvelled at the freak of fate which had connected the unfortunate man who had been sacrificed with the unacknowledged daughter, and the cast-off sister, of the Count de Chalusse. A vague presentiment, the mysterious voice of instinct, warned him, moreover, that his profit in the affair would depend upon the antagonism, or alliance, of Mademoiselle Marguerite and Madame d'Argeles. But his meditations were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a discussion in an adjoining room. He stepped eagerly forward, hoping to hear something, and he did hear a man saying in a coarse voice: "What! I leave an interesting game, and lose precious time in coming to offer you my services, and you receive me like this! Zounds! madame, this will teach me not to meddle with what doesn't concern me, in future. So, good-bye, my dear lady. You'll learn some day, to your cost, the real nature of this villain of a Coralth whom you now defend so warmly."

This name of Coralth was also one of those which were engraven upon M. Fortunat's memory; and yet he did not notice it at the moment. His attention was so absorbed by what he had just heard that he could not fix his mind upon the object of his mission; and he only abandoned his conjectures on hearing a rustling of skirts against the panels of the door leading into the hall.

The next moment Madame Lia d'Argeles entered the room. She was arrayed in a very elegant dressing-gown of gray cashmere, with blue satin trimmings, her hair was beautifully arranged, and she had neglected none of the usual artifices of the toilette-table; still any one would have considered her to be over forty years of age. Her sad face wore an expression of melancholy resignation; and there were signs of recent tears in her swollen eyes, surrounded by bluish circles. She glanced at her visitor, and, in anything but an encouraging tone exclaimed: "You desired to speak with me, I believe?"

M. Fortunat bowed, almost disconcerted. He had expected to meet one of those stupid, ignorant young women, who make themselves conspicuous at the afternoon promenade in the Bois de Boulogne; and he found himself in the presence of an evidently cultivated and imperious woman, who, even in her degradation, retained all her pride of race, and awed him, despite all his coolness and assurance. "I do, indeed, madame, wish to confer with you respecting some important interests," he answered.

She sank on to a chair; and, without asking her visitor to take a seat: "Explain yourself," she said, briefly.

M. Fortunat's knowledge of the importance of the game in which he had already risked so much had already restored his presence of mind. He had only needed a glance to form a true estimate of Madame d'Argeles's character; and he realized that it would require a sudden, powerful, and well-directed blow to shatter her composure. "I have the unpleasant duty of informing you of a great misfortune, madame," he began. "A person who is very dear to you, and who is nearly related to you, was a victim of a frightful accident yesterday evening and died this morning."

This gloomy preamble did not seem to produce the slightest effect on Madame d'Argeles. "Whom are you speaking of?" she coldly asked.

M. Fortunat assumed his most solemn manner as he replied: "Of your brother, madame—of the Count de Chalusse."

She sprang up, and a convulsive shudder shook her from head to foot. "Raymond is dead!" she faltered.

"Alas! yes, madame. Struck with death at the very moment he was repairing to the appointment you had given him at the Hotel de Homburg."

This clever falsehood, which was not entirely one, would, so the agent thought, be of advantage to him, since it would prove he was acquainted with previous events. But Madame d'Argeles did not seem to notice, or even to hear the remark. She had fallen back in her arm-chair, paler than death. "How did he die?" she asked.

"From an attack of apoplexy."

"My God!" exclaimed the wretched woman, who now suspected the truth; "my God, forgive me. It was my letter that killed him!" and she wept as if her heart were breaking—this woman who had suffered and wept so much.

It is needless to say that M. Fortunat was moved with sympathy; he always evinced a respectful sympathy for the woes of others; but in the present instance, his emotion was greatly mitigated by the satisfaction he felt at having succeeded so quickly and so completely. Madame d'Argeles had confessed everything! This was indeed a victory, for it must be admitted that he had trembled lest she should deny all, and bid him leave the house. He still saw many difficulties between his pocket and the Count de Chalusse's money; but he did not despair of conquering them after such a successful beginning. And he was muttering some words of consolation, when Madame d'Argeles suddenly looked up and said: "I must see him—I will see him once more! Come, monsieur!" But a terrible memory rooted her to the spot and with a despairing gesture, and in a voice quivering with anguish she exclaimed:

"No, no—I cannot even do that."

M. Fortunat was not a little disturbed; and it was with a look of something very like consternation that he glanced at Madame d'Argeles, who had reseated herself and was now sobbing violently, with her face hidden on the arm of her chair. "What prevents her?" he thought. "Why this sudden terror now that her brother is dead? Is she unwilling to confess that she is a Chalusse? She must make up her mind to it, however, if she wishes to receive the count's property—and she must make up her mind to it, for my sake, if not for her own."

He remained silent, until it seemed to him that Madame d'Argeles was calmer, then: "Excuse me, madame," he began, "for breaking in upon your very natural grief, but duty requires me to remind you of your interests."

With the passive docility of those who are wretched, she wiped away her tears, and replied, gently: "I am listening, monsieur."

He had had time to prepare his discourse. "First of all, madame," he remarked, "I must tell you that I was the count's confidential agent. In him I lose a protector. Respect alone prevents me from saying a friend. He had no secrets from me." M. Fortunat saw so plainly that Madame d'Argeles did not understand a word of this sentimental exordium that he thought it necessary to add: "I tell you this, not so much to gain your consideration and good-will, as to explain to you how I became acquainted with these matters relating to your family—how I became aware of your existence, for instance, which no one else suspected." He paused, hoping for some reply, a word, a sign, but not receiving this encouragement, he continued: "I must, first of all, call your attention to the peculiar situation of M. de Chalusse, and to the circumstances which immediately preceded and attended his departure from life. His death was so unexpected that he was unable to make any disposition of his property by will, or even to indicate his last wishes. This, madame, is fortunate for you. M. de Chalusse had certain prejudices against you, as you are aware. Poor count. He certainly had the best heart in the world, and yet hatred with him was almost barbaric in its intensity. There can be no doubt whatever, that he had determined to deprive you of your inheritance. With this intention he had already begun to convert his estates into ready money, and had he lived six months longer you would not have received a penny."

With a gesture of indifference, which was difficult to explain after the vehemence and the threatening tone of her letter, Madame d'Argeles murmured:

"Ah, well! what does it matter?"

"What does it matter?" repeated M. Fortunat. "I see, madame, that your grief prevents you from realizing the extent of the peril you have escaped. M. de Chalusse had other, and more powerful reasons even than his hatred for wishing to deprive you of your share of his property. He had sworn that he would give a princely fortune to his beloved daughter."

For the first time, Madame d'Argeles's features assumed an expression of surprise. "What, my brother had a child?"

"Yes, madame, an illegitimate daughter, Mademoiselle Marguerite, a lovely and charming girl whom I had the pleasure of restoring to his care some years ago. She has been living with him for six months or so; and he was about to marry her, with an enormous dowry, to a nobleman bearing one of the proudest names in France, the Marquis de Valorsay."

The name shook Madame d'Argeles as if she had experienced the shock of an electric battery, and springing to her feet, with flashing eyes: "You say that my brother's daughter was to marry M. de Valorsay?" she asked.

"It was decided—the marquis adored her."

"But she—she did not love him—confess that she did not love him."

M. Fortunat did not know what to reply. The question took him completely by surprise; and feeling that his answer would have a very considerable influence upon what might follow, he hesitated.

"Will you answer me?" insisted Madame d'Argeles, imperiously. "She loved another, did she not?"

"To tell the truth, I believe she did," the agent stammered. "But I have no proof of it, madame."

"Ah! the wretch!" she exclaimed with a threatening gesture; "the traitor! the infamous scoundrel! Now I understand it all. And to think that it occurred in my house. But no; it was best so, I can still repair everything." And darting to the bell-rope, she pulled it violently.

A servant at once appeared. "Job," she said, "hasten after Baron Trigault—he left the house a moment ago and bring him back. I must speak with him. If you do not overtake him, go to his club, to his house, to the houses of his friends, go to every place where there is any chance of finding him. Make haste, and do not return without him."

And as the man turned to obey, she added: "My carriage must be in the courtyard. Take it."

Meanwhile M. Fortunat's expression of countenance had undergone a marked change. "Well!" thought he, "I have just made a mess of it! M. Valorsay is unmasked; and now, may I be hung, if he ever marries Mademoiselle Marguerite. Certainly, I do not owe much to the scoundrel, for he has defrauded me of forty thousand francs, but what will he say when he discovers what I've done? He will never believe me if I tell him that it was an involuntary blunder, and Heaven only knows what revenge he will plan! A man of his disposition, knowing that he is ruined, is capable of anything! So much the worse for me. Before night I shall warn the commissary of police in my district, and I shall not go out unarmed!"

The servant went off, and Madame d'Argeles then turned to her visitor again. But she seemed literally transfigured by the storm of passion which was raging in her heart and mind; her cheeks were crimson, and an unwonted energy sparkled in her eyes. "Let us finish this business," she said, curtly; "I am expecting some one."

M. Fortunat bowed with a rather pompous, but at the same time obsequious air. "I have only a few more words to say," he declared. "M. de Chalusse having no other heir, I have come to acquaint you with your rights."

"Very good; continue, if you please."

"You have only to present yourself, and establish your identity, to be put in possession of your brother's property."

Madame d'Argeles gave the agent a look of mingled irony and distrust; and after a moment's reflection, she replied: "I am very grateful for your interest, monsieur; but if I have any rights, it is not my intention to urge them."

It seemed to M. Fortunat as if he were suddenly falling from some immense height. "You are not in earnest," he exclaimed, "or you are ignorant of the fact that M. de Chalusse leaves perhaps twenty millions behind him."

"My course is decided on, monsieur; irrevocably decided on."

"Very well, madame; but it often happens that the court institutes inquiries for the heirs of large fortunes, and this may happen in your case."

"I should reply that I was not a member of the Chalusse family, and that would end it. Startled by the news of my brother's death, I allowed my secret to escape me. I shall know how to keep it in future."

Anger succeeded astonishment in M. Fortunat's mind. "Madame, madame, what can you be thinking of?" he cried, impetuously. "Accept—in Heaven's name—accept this inheritance; if not for yourself, for the sake of——"

In his excitement, he was about to commit a terrible blunder. He saw it in time, and checked himself.

"For the sake of whom?" asked Madame d'Argeles, in an altered voice.

"For the sake of Mademoiselle Marguerite, madame; for the sake of this poor child, who is your niece. The count never having acknowledged her as his daughter, she will be left actually without bread, while her father's millions go to enrich the state."

"That will suffice, monsieur; I will think of it. And now, enough!"

The dismissal was so imperious that M. Fortunat bowed and went off, completely bewildered by this denouement. "She's crazy!" he said to himself. "Crazy in the fullest sense of the word. She refuses the count's millions from a silly fear of telling people that she belongs to the Chalusse family. She threatened her brother, but she would never have carried her threats into execution. And she prefers her present position to such a fortune. What lunacy!" But, although he was disappointed and angry, he did not by any means despair. "Fortunately for me," he thought, "this proud and haughty lady has a son somewhere in the world. And she'll do for him what she would not consent to do for herself. Through her, with a little patience and Victor Chupin's aid, I shall succeed in discovering this boy. He must be an intelligent youth—and we'll see if he surrenders his millions as easily as his mamma does."



XVI.

It is a terrible task to break suddenly with one's past, without even having had time for preparation; to renounce the life one has so far lived, to return to the starting point, and begin existence anew; to abandon everything—the position one has gained, the work one has become familiar with, every fondly cherished hope, and friend, and habit; to forsake the known to plunge into the unknown, to leave the certain for the uncertain, and desert light for darkness; to cast one's identity aside, assume a strange individuality, become a living lie, change name, position, face, and clothes—in one phrase, to cease to be one's self, in order to become some one else.

This is indeed, a terrible ordeal, and requires an amount of resolution and energy which few human beings possess. The boldest hesitate before such a sacrifice, and many a man has surrendered himself to justice rather than resort to this last extremity. And yet this was what Pascal Ferailleur had the courage to do, on the morrow of the shameful conspiracy that had deprived him of his good name. When his mother's exhortations and Baron Trigault's encouraging words had restored his wonted clearness of perception, the only course he felt disposed to pursue was to disappear and fly from the storm of slander and contempt; and then, in a secure hiding-place, to watch for the time and opportunity of rehabilitation and revenge.

Madame Ferailleur and her son made all needful arrangements. "I shall start out at once," said Pascal, "and before two hours have elapsed I shall have found a modest lodging, where we must conceal ourselves for the present. I know a locality that will suit us, and where no one will certainly ever think of looking for us."

"And I," asked Madame Ferailleur, "what shall I do in the meantime?"

"You, mother; you must, at once, sell all that we possess here—everything—even my books. You will only keep such of our linen and clothes as you can pack in three or four trunks. We are undoubtedly watched; and so it is of the utmost importance that every one should imagine I have left Paris, and that you are going to join me."

"And when everything is sold, and my trunks are ready?"

"Then, mother, you must send some one for a cab, and order the driver to take you to the Western Railway Station, where you will have the trunks removed from the cab and placed in the baggage-room, as if you did not intend to leave Paris till the next day."

"Very good, I will do so; even if any one is watching us, he won't be likely to suspect this ruse. But afterward?"

"Afterward, mother, you must go to the waiting-room upstairs, and you will find me there. I will then take you to the rooms I shall have rented, and to-morrow we'll send a messenger with the receipt the railway people will give you, to fetch our luggage for us."

Madame Ferailleur approved of this plan, deeming herself fortunate in this great calamity that despair had not destroyed her son's energy and resources of mind. "Shall we retain our name, Pascal?"

"Oh, no. That would be an unpardonable imprudence."

"What name shall we take, then? I must know, for they may ask me at the station."

He reflected for a moment and then said: "We'll take your maiden name, mother. It will bring us good luck. Our new lodgings shall be hired in the name of the Widow Maumejan."

They talked for some time longer, anxious to take every precaution that prudence could suggest. And when they were convinced that they had forgotten nothing, Madame Ferailleur suggested that Pascal should start off. But before doing so he had a sacred duty to perform. "I must warn Marguerite," he muttered. And seating himself at his desk, he wrote his beloved a concise and exact account of the events which had taken place. He told her of the course he intended to pursue; and promised her that she should know his new abode as soon as he knew it himself. In conclusion, he entreated her to grant him an interview, in which he could give her the full particulars of the affair and acquaint her with his hopes. As for exculpating himself, even by so much as a single word—as for explaining the snare he had been the victim of, the idea never once occurred to him. He was worthy of Mademoiselle Marguerite; he knew that not a doubt would disturb the perfect faith she had in his honor.

Leaning over her son's shoulder, Madame Ferailleur read what he had written. "Do you intend to trust this letter to the post?" she inquired. "Are you sure, perfectly sure, that it will reach Mademoiselle Marguerite, and not some one else who might use it against you?"

Pascal shook his head. "I know how to insure its safe receipt," he replied. "Some time ago, Marguerite told me that if ever any great peril threatened us, I might call for the housekeeper at the Chalusse mansion and intrust my message to her. The danger is sufficiently great to justify such a course in the present instance. So I shall pass down the Rue de Courcelles, ask to see Madame Leon, and give her this letter. Have no fear, my dear mother."

As he spoke, he began to pack all the legal documents which had been confided to him into a large box, which was to be carried to one of his former friends, who would distribute the papers among the people they belonged to. He next made a small bundle of the few important private papers and valuables he possessed; and then, ready for the sacrifice, he took a last survey of the pleasant home where success had smiled so favorably upon his efforts, where he had been so happy, and where he had cherished such bright dreams of the future. Overcome by a flood of recollections, the tears sprang to his eyes. He embraced his mother, and fled precipitately from the house.

"Poor child!" murmured Madame Ferailleur; "poor Pascal!"

Was she not also to be pitied? This was the second time within twenty years that a thunderbolt had fallen on her in the full sunlight of happiness. And yet now, as on the day following her husband's death, she found in her heart the robust energy and heroic maternal constancy which enable one to rise above every misfortune. It was in a firm voice that she ordered her servant to go in search of the nearest furniture dealer, no matter which, provided he would pay cash. And when the man arrived she showed him through the rooms with stoical calmness. God alone knew how intensely she was suffering. And yet while she was waiting for the dealer, each piece of furniture had acquired an extraordinary value in her eyes. It seemed to her as if each object were a part of herself, and when the man turned and twisted a chair or a table she almost considered it a personal affront.

The rich, who are accustomed from birth to the luxury that surrounds them, are ignorant of the terrible sufferings which attend such cases as these. The persons who do suffer are those of the middle classes, not the parvenus, but those who bid fair to become parvenus when misfortune overtook them. Their hearts bleed when inexorable necessity deprives them of all the little comforts with which they had gradually surrounded themselves, for there is not an object that does not recall a long ungratified desire, and the almost infantile joy of possession. What happiness they felt on the day when they purchased that large arm-chair! How many times they had gone to admire those velvet curtains in the shop windows before buying them! Those carpets represented months of self-denial. And that pretty clock—ah! they had fancied it would only herald the flight of prosperous and pleasant hours. And all these things the dealer handles, and shakes, and jeers at, and depreciates. He will scarcely condescend to purchase. Who would care to buy such trash? He knows that the owner is in need of money, and he profits by this knowledge. It is his business. "How much did this cost you?" he asks, as he inspects one piece of furniture after another.

"So much."

"Well, you must have been terribly cheated."

You know very well that if there is a cheat in the world, it is this same man; but what can you say? Any other dealer you might send for would act in the same way. Now, Madame Ferailleur's furniture had cost some ten thousand francs; and, although it was no longer new, it was worth at least a third of that sum. But she obtained only seven hundred and sixty francs for it. It is true, however, that she was in haste, and that she was paid cash.

Nine o'clock was striking when her trunks were at last piled on a cab, and she called out to the driver: "Take me to the Place du Havre—to the railway station." Once before, when defrauded by a scoundrel, she had been obliged to part with all her household treasures. Once before she had left her home, taking merely the wreck of her fortune with her. But what a difference between then and now!

Then, the esteem and sympathy of all who knew her was hers, and the admiring praise she received divested the sacrifice of much of its bitterness, and increased her courage two-fold. Now, she was flying secretly, and alone, under an assumed name, trembling at the thought of pursuit or recognition—flying as a criminal flies at thought of his crime, and fear of punishment. She had far less suffered on the day, when, with her son upon her knees, she journeyed to the cemetery, following all that was mortal of the man who had been her only thought, her love, her pride, her happiness, and hope. Though crushed by the sense of her irreparable loss, she had not rebelled against the hand that struck her; but now it was human wickedness that assailed her through her son, and her suffering was like that of the innocent man who perishes for want of power to prove his innocence. Her husband's death had not caused her such bitter tears as her son's dishonor. She who was so proud, and who had such good reason to be proud, she could note the glances of scorn she was favored with as she left her home. She heard the insulting remarks made by some of her neighbors, who, like so many folks, found their chief delight in other people's misfortunes.

"Crocodile tears," some had exclaimed. "She is going to meet her son; and with what he has stolen they will live like princes in America." Rumor, which enlarges and misrepresents everything, had, indeed, absurdly exaggerated the affair at Madame d'Argeles's house. It was reported in the Rue d'Ulm that Pascal had spent every night at the gaming table for more than five years; and that, being an incomparable trickster, he had stolen millions.

Meanwhile, Madame Ferailleur was approaching the station. The cab horse soon slackened its pace to climb the acclivity of the Rue d'Amsterdam; and shortly afterward the vehicle drew up in the courtyard of the railway station. Faithfully observing the directions which had been given her, the worthy woman had her trunks taken to the baggage-room, declaring that she should not leave Paris until the next day, whereupon she received a receipt from the man in charge of the room. She was oppressed by vague apprehensions, and looked closely at every one who passed her; fearing the presence of spies, and knowing full well that the most profound secrecy could alone insure the success of Pascal's plans. However, she did not see a single suspicious looking person. Some Englishmen—those strange travellers, who are at the same time so foolishly prodigal and so ridiculously miserly—were making a great hue and cry over the four sous gratuity claimed by a poor commissionaire; but these were the only persons in sight.

Partially reassured, Madame Ferailleur hastily ascended the staircase, and entered the large waiting-room. It was here that Pascal had promised to meet her; but, though she looked round on all sides, she did not perceive him. Still, this delay did not alarm her much; nor was it at all strange, since Pascal had scarcely known what he would have to do when he left the house. She seated herself on a bench, as far back in the shade as possible and gazed sadly at the ever-changing throng, when all of a sudden she was startled by a man, who abruptly paused in front of her. This man proved to be Pascal. But his hair had been closely cut, and he had shaved off his beard. And thus shorn, with his smooth face, and with a brown silk neckerchief in lieu of the white muslin tie he usually wore, he was so greatly changed that for an instant his own mother did not recognize him. "Well?" asked Madame Ferailleur, as she realized his identity.

"I have succeeded. We have secured such rooms as I wished for."

"Where?"

"Ah!—a long way off, my poor mother—many a league from those we have known and loved—in a thinly populated part of the suburbs, on the Route de la Revolte, just outside the fortifications, and almost at the point where it intersects the Asnieres road. You will not be very comfortable there, but you will have the pleasure of a little garden."

She rose, summoning all her energy. "What does it matter where or what our abode is?" she interrupted, with forced gayety. "I am confident that we shall not remain there long."

But it seemed as if her son did not share her hopes, for he remained silent and dejected; and as his mother observed him closely, she fancied by the expression of his eyes, that some new anxiety had been added to all his other troubles.

"What is the matter?" she inquired, unable to master her alarm—"what has happened?"

"Ah! a great misfortune!"

"My God! still another?"

"I have been to the Rue de Courcelles; and I have spoken to Madame Leon."

"What did she say?"

"The Count de Chalusse died this morning."

Madame Ferailleur drew a long breath, as if greatly relieved. She was certainly expecting to hear something very different, and she did not understand why this death should be a great misfortune to them personally. One point, however, she did realize, that it was imprudent, and even dangerous, to carry on this conversation in a hall where a hundred persons were passing and repassing every minute. So she took her son's arm, and led him away, saying: "Come, let us go."

Pascal had kept the cab which he had been using during the afternoon; and having installed his mother inside, he got in himself, and gave his new address to the driver. "Now tell me all," said Madame Ferailleur.

Poor Pascal was in that state of mind in which it costs one actual suffering to talk; but he wished to mitigate his mother's anxiety as much as possible; and moreover, he did not like her to suppose him wanting in endurance. So, with a powerful effort, he shook off the lethargy that was creeping over him, and in a voice loud enough to be heard above the noise of the carriage wheels, he began: "This is what I have done, mother, since I left you. I remembered that some time ago, while I was appraising some property, I had seen three or four houses on the Route de la Revolte, admirably suited to our present wants. Naturally I went there first. A suite of rooms was vacant in one of these houses. I have taken it; and in order that nothing may interfere with the liberty of my movements, I have paid six months' rent in advance. Here is the receipt, drawn up in the name we shall henceforth bear." So saying, he showed his mother a document in which the landlord declared that he had received from M. Maumejan the sum of three hundred and fifty francs for two quarters' rent, etc. "My bargain concluded," he resumed, "I returned into Paris, and entered the first furniture shop I saw. I meant to hire the necessary things to furnish our little home, but the dealer made all sorts of objections. He trembled for his furniture, he wanted a sum of money to be deposited as security, or the guarantee of three responsible business men. Seeing this, and knowing that I had no time to lose, I preferred to purchase such articles as were absolutely necessary. One of the conditions of the purchase was that everything should be in the house and in its place by eleven o'clock to-night. As I stipulated in writing that the dealer should forfeit three hundred francs in case he failed to fulfil his agreement, I can rely upon his punctuality; I confided the key of our lodgings to him, and he must now be there waiting for us."

So, before thinking of his love, and Mademoiselle Marguerite, Pascal had taken the necessary measures for the execution of his plan to regain his lost honor. Madame Ferailleur had scarcely supposed him capable of so much courage and firmness, and she rewarded him with a warm pressure of the hand. Then, as he was silent: "When did you see Madame Leon, then?" she asked.

"When all the household arrangements were completed, mother. On leaving the furniture-shop, I found that I had still an hour and a quarter before me. I could defer no longer, and at the risk of obliging you to wait for me, I hastened to the Rue de Courcelles."

It was evident that Pascal felt extreme embarrassment in speaking of Mademoiselle Marguerite. There is an instinctive delicacy and dislike of publicity in all deep passion, and true and chaste love is ever averse to laying aside the veil with which it conceals itself from the inquisitive. Madame Ferailleur understood this feeling; but she was a mother, and as such, jealous of her son's tenderness, and anxious for particulars concerning this rival who had suddenly usurped her place in the heart where she had long reigned supreme. She was also a woman—that is to say, distrustful and suspicious in reference to all other women. So, without taking pity on Pascal's embarrassment, she urged him to continue.

"I gave the driver five francs on condition that he would hurry his horses," he resumed, "and we were rattling along at a rapid rate, when, suddenly, near the Hotel de Chalusse, I noticed a change in the motion of the vehicle. I looked out and saw that we were driving over a thick layer of straw which had been spread across the street. I can scarcely describe my feelings on seeing this. A cold perspiration came over me—I fancied I saw Marguerite in agony, dying—far from me, and calling me in vain. Without waiting for the vehicle to stop, I sprang to the ground, and was obliged to exercise all my self-control to prevent myself from rushing into the concierge's lodge, and wildly asking: 'Who is dying here?' But an unforeseen difficulty presented itself. It was evident that I ought not to go in person to inquire for Madame Leon. Whom could I send? There were no commissionaires at the street corners, and nothing would have induced me to confide the message to any of the lads in the neighboring wine-shops. Fortunately, my driver—the same who is driving us now—is an obliging fellow, and I intrusted him with the commission, while I stood guard over his horses. Ten minutes later, Madame Leon left the house and came to meet me. I knew her at once, for I had seen her a hundred times with Marguerite when they lived near the Luxembourg; and having seen me pass and repass so often, she recognized me in spite of my changed appearance. Her first words, 'M. de Chalusse is dead,' relieved my heart of a terrible weight. I could breathe again. But she was in such haste that she could not stop to tell me any particulars. Still I gave her my letter, and she promised me a prompt reply from Marguerite. Everybody will be up and moving about the house to-night, and she said she could easily make her escape for a few moments. So, at half-past twelve to-night she will be at the little garden gate, and if I am promptly at hand, I shall have a reply from Marguerite."

Madame Ferailleur seemed to be expecting something more, and as Pascal remained silent, she remarked: "You spoke of a great misfortune. In what does it consist? I do not perceive it."

With an almost threatening gesture, and in a gloomy voice, he answered: "The misfortune is this: if it had not been for this abominable conspiracy, which has dishonored me, Marguerite would have been my wife before a month had elapsed, for now she is free, absolutely free to obey the dictates of her own will and heart."

"Then why do you complain?"

"Oh, mother! don't you understand? How can I marry her? Would it be right for me to think of offering her a dishonored name? It seems to me that I should be guilty of a most contemptible act—of something even worse than a crime—if I dared speak to her of my love and our future before I have crushed the villains who have ruined me."

Regret, anger, and the consciousness of his present powerlessness drew from him tears which fell upon Madame Ferailleur's heart like molten lead; but she succeeded in concealing her agony. "All the more reason," she answered, almost coldly, "why you should not lose a second, but devote all your energy and intelligence to the work of justification."

"Oh, I shall have my revenge, never fear. But in the meantime, what is to become of HER? Think, mother, she is alone in the world, without a single friend. It is enough to drive one mad!"

"She loves you, you tell me. What have you to fear? Now she will be freed from the persecutions of the suitor they intended to force upon her, whom she has spoken to you about—the Marquis de Valorsay, is it not?"

This name sent Pascal's blood to his brain. "Ah, the scoundrel!" he exclaimed. "If there was a God in heaven——"

"Wretched boy!" interrupted Madame Ferailleur; "you blaspheme when Providence has already interposed on your behalf. And who suffers most at this moment, do you think?—you, strong in your innocence, or the marquis, who realizes that he has committed an infamous crime in vain?"

The sudden stopping of the cab put an end to their conversation. Leaving the Route d'Asnieres, the driver had turned into the Route de la Revolte, and had drawn up in front of an unpretentious two-storied house which stood entirely alone. "We have arrived, mother," said Pascal.

A man, who was standing on the threshold, stepped forward to open the cab door. It was the furniture-dealer. "Here you are at last, M. Maumejan," said he. "Come in, and you'll see that I've strictly fulfilled the conditions of our contract." His words proved true. He was paid the sum stipulated, and went away satisfied.

"Now, my dear mother," said Pascal, "allow me to do the honors of the poor abode I have selected."

He had taken only the ground floor of this humble dwelling. The story above, which had an independent entrance and staircase, was occupied by the quiet family of the owner. Although the space was small, the architect had made the most of it. He had divided it into four small rooms, separated by a corridor; and the kitchen looked out upon a little garden about four times as large as an ordinary sheet. The furniture which Pascal had purchased was more than plain; but it was well suited to this humble abode. It had just been brought in, but any one would have supposed it had been in its place for a couple of years.

"We shall be very comfortable here," declared Madame Ferailleur. "Yes, very comfortable. By to-morrow evening you won't recognize the place. I have saved a few trifles from the wreck—some curtains, a couple of lamps, a clock—you'll see. It's wonderful how much four trunks can be made to hold."

When his mother set him such a noble example Pascal would have blushed to allow himself to be outdone. He very quietly explained the reasons which had influenced him in choosing these rooms, the principal one being that there was no concierge, and he was therefore assured absolute liberty in his movements, as well as entire immunity from indiscreet gossip. "Certainly, my dear mother," he added, "it is a lonely and unattractive neighborhood; but you will find all the necessaries of life near at hand. The owner of the house lives on the floor above. I have talked with the wife—they seem to be honest, quiet people—and she will pilot you about. I inquired for some one to do the heavy work, and she mentioned a poor woman named Vantrasson, who lives in the neighborhood, and who is anxious to obtain employment. They were to inform her this evening, and you will see her to-morrow. And above all, don't forget that you are henceforth Madame Maumejan."

Occupied with these arrangements for the future, he was still talking, when Madame Ferailleur, drawing out her watch, gently remarked: "And your appointment? You forget that the cab is waiting at the door."

It was true; he had forgotten it. He caught up his hat, hastily embraced his mother, and sprang into the vehicle. The horses were almost exhausted, but the driver was so willing that he found a means of making them trot as far as the Rue de Courcelles. However, on arriving there, he declared that his animals and himself could endure no more, and after receiving the amount due to him, he departed.

The air was chilly, the night dark, and the street deserted. The gloomy silence was only disturbed at long intervals by the opening or shutting of a door, or by the distant tread of some belated pedestrian. Having at least twenty minutes to wait, Pascal sat down on the curbstone opposite the Hotel de Chalusse, and fixed his eyes upon the building as if he were striving to penetrate the massive walls, and see what was passing within. Only one window—that of the room where the dead man was lying—was lighted up, and he could vaguely distinguish the motionless form of a woman standing with her forehead pressed against the pane of glass. A prey to the indescribable agony which seizes a man when he feels that his life is at stake—that his future is about to be irrevocably decided—Pascal counted the seconds as they passed by. He found it impossible to reflect, to deliberate, to decide on any plan of action. He forgot the tortures he had endured during the last twenty-four hours; Coralth, Valorsay, Madame d'Argeles, the baron, no longer existed for him. He forgot his loss of honor and position, and the disgrace attached to his name. The past was annihilated, as it were, and he could think of no future beyond the next few moments. His physical condition undoubtedly contributed to his mental weakness. He had taken no food that day, and he was faint from want of nourishment. He had come without an overcoat, moreover, and the cold night air chilled him to the bone. There was a strange ringing in his ears, and a mist swam before his eyes. At last the bell at the Beaujon Hospital tolled the appointed hour, and roused him from his lethargy. He seemed to hear a voice crying to him in the darkness, "Up! the hour has come!"

Trembling, and with tottering limbs, he dragged himself to the little gate opening into the gardens of the Chalusse mansion. Soon it softly opened, and Madame Leon appeared. Ah! it was not she that Pascal had hoped to see. Unfortunate man! He had been listening to that mysterious echo of our own desires which we so often mistake for a presentiment; and it had whispered in his heart: "Marguerite herself will come!"

With the candor of wretchedness, he could not refrain from telling Madame Leon the hope he had entertained. But, on hearing him, the housekeeper recoiled with a gesture of outraged propriety, and reproachfully exclaimed: "What are you thinking of, monsieur? What! could you suppose that Mademoiselle Marguerite would abandon her place by her dead father's bedside to come to a rendezvous? Ah! you should think better of her than that, the dear child!"

He sighed deeply, and in a scarcely audible voice, he asked: "Hasn't she even sent me a reply?"

"Yes, monsieur, she has; and although it is a great indiscretion on my part, I bring you the letter. Here it is. Now, good-evening. I must go at once. What would become of me if the servants discovered my absence, and found that I had gone out alone——"

She was hurrying away, but Pascal detained her. "Pray wait until I see what she has written," he said, imploringly. "I shall perhaps be obliged to send her some message in reply."

Madame Leon obeyed, though with rather bad grace, and not without several times repeating: "Make haste!"—while Pascal ran to a street lamp near by. It was not a letter that Marguerite had sent him, but a short note, written on a scrap of crumpled paper, folded, and not sealed. It was written in pencil; and the handwriting was irregular and indistinct. Still, by the flickering light of the gas, Pascal deciphered the word "Monsieur." It made him shudder. "Monsieur!" What did this mean? In writing to him of recent times, Marguerite had always said, "My dear Pascal," or, "My friend."

Nevertheless, he continued: "I have not had the courage to resist the entreaties made to me by the Count de Chalusse, my father, in his last agony. I have solemnly pledged myself to become the wife of the Marquis de Valorsay.

"One cannot break a promise made to the dying. I shall keep mine, even though my heart break. I shall do my duty. God will give me strength and courage. Forget her whom you loved. She is now the betrothed of another, and honor commands her to forget your very name. Once more, and for the last time, farewell! If you love me, you will not try to see me again. It would only add to my misery.

"Think as though she were dead—she who signs herself—MARGUERITE."

The commonplace wording of this letter, and the mistakes in spelling that marred it, entirely escaped Pascal's notice. He only understood one thing, that Marguerite was lost to him, and that she was on the point of becoming the wife of the vile scoundrel who had planned the snare which had ruined him at the Hotel d'Argeles. Breathless, despairing, and half crazed with rage, he sprang toward Madame Leon. "Marguerite, where is she?" he demanded, in a hoarse, unnatural voice; "I must see her!"

"Oh! monsieur, what do you ask? Is it possible? Allow me to explain to you——" But the housekeeper was unable to finish her sentence, for Pascal had caught her by the hands, and holding them in a vicelike grip, he repeated: "I must see Marguerite, and speak to her. I must tell her that she has been deceived; I will unmask the scoundrel who——"

The frightened housekeeper struggled with all her might, trying her best to reach the little gate which was standing open. "You hurt me!" she cried. "Are you mad? Let me go or I shall call for help?" And twice indeed she shouted in a loud voice, "Help! murder!"

But her cries were lost in the stillness of the night. If any one heard them, no one came; still they recalled Pascal to a sense of the situation, and he was ashamed of his violence. He released Madame Leon, and his manner suddenly became as humble as it had been threatening. "Excuse me," he said, entreatingly. "I am suffering so much that I don't know what I'm doing. I beseech you to take me to Mademoiselle Marguerite, or else run and beg her to come here. I ask but a moment."

Madame Leon pretended to be listening attentively; but, in reality, she was quietly manoeuvring to gain the garden gate. Soon she succeeded in doing so, whereupon, with marvellous strength and agility, she pushed Pascal away, and sprang inside the garden, closing the gate after her, and saying as she did so, "Begone, you scoundrel!"

This was the final blow; and for more than a minute Pascal stood motionless in front of the gate, stupefied with mingled rage and sorrow. His condition was not unlike that of a man who, after falling to the bottom of a precipice, is dragging himself up, all mangled and bleeding, swearing that he will yet save himself, when suddenly a heavy stone which he had loosened in his descent, falls forward and crushes him. All that he had so far endured was nothing in comparison with the thought that Valorsay would wed Marguerite. Was such a thing possible? Would God permit such a monstrous iniquity? "No, that shall never be," he muttered. "I will murder the scoundrel rather; and afterward justice may do whatever it likes with me."

He experienced that implacable, merciless thirsting for vengeance which does not even recoil before the commission of a crime to secure satisfaction, and this longing inflamed him with such energy that, although he had been so utterly exhausted a few moments before—he was not half an hour in making his way back to his new home. His mother, who was waiting for him with an anxious heart, was surprised by the flush on his cheeks, and the light glittering in his eyes. "Ah, you bring good news," she exclaimed.

His only answer was to hand her the letter which Madame Leon had given him, saying as he did so, "Read."

Madame Ferailleur's eyes fell upon the words: "Once more, and for the last time, farewell!" She understood everything, turned very pale, and in a trembling voice exclaimed: "Don't grieve, my son; the girl did not love you."

"Oh, mother! if you knew——"

But she checked him with a gesture, and lifting her head proudly, she said: "I know what it is to love, Pascal—it is to have perfect faith. If the whole world had accused your father of a crime, would a single doubt of his innocence have ever entered my mind? This girl has doubted you. They have told her that you cheated at cards—and she has believed it. You have failed to see that this oath at the bedside of the dying count is only an excuse."

It was true; the thought had not occurred to Pascal. "My God!" he cried in agony; "are you the only one who believes in my innocence?"

"Without proofs—yes. It must be your task to obtain these proofs."

"And I shall obtain them," he rejoined, in a tone of determination. "I am strong now that I have Marguerite's life to defend—for they have deceived her, mother, or she would never have given me up. Oh! don't shake your head. I love her, and so I trust her."



XVII.

M. Isidore Fortunat was not the man to go to sleep over a plan when it was once formed. Whenever he said to himself, "I'll do this, or that," he did it as soon as possible—that very evening, rather than the next day. Having sworn that he would find out Madame d'Argeles's son, the heir to the Count de Chalusse's millions, it did not take him long to decide which of his agents he would select to assist him in this difficult task. Thus his first care, on returning home, was to ask his bookkeeper for Victor Chupin's address.

"He lives in the Faubourg Saint-Denis," replied the bookkeeper, "at No.—."

"Very well," muttered M. Fortunat; "I'll go there as soon as I have eaten my dinner." And, indeed, as soon as he had swallowed his coffee, he requested Madame Dodelin to bring him his overcoat, and half an hour later he reached the door of the house where his clerk resided.

The house was one of those huge, ungainly structures, large enough to shelter the population of a small village, with three or four courtyards, as many staircases as there are letters in the alphabet, and a concierge who seldom remembers the names of the tenants except on quarter-days when he goes to collect the rent, and at New Year, when he expects a gratuity. But, by one of those lucky chances made expressly for M. Fortunat, the porter did recollect Chupin, knew him and was kindly disposed toward him, and so he told the visitor exactly how and where to find him. It was very simple. He had only to cross the first courtyard, take staircase D, on the left-hand side, ascend to the sixth floor, go straight ahead, etc., etc.

Thanks to this unusual civility, M. Fortunat did not lose his way more than five times before reaching the door upon which was fastened a bit of pasteboard bearing Victor Chupin's name. Noticing that a bell-rope hung beside the door, M. Fortunat pulled it, whereupon there was a tinkling, and a voice called out, "Come in!" He complied, and found himself in a small and cheaply furnished room, which was, however, radiant with the cleanliness which is in itself a luxury. The waxed floor shone like a mirror; the furniture was brilliantly polished, and the counterpane and curtains of the bed were as white as snow. What first attracted the agent's attention was the number of superfluous articles scattered about the apartment—some plaster statuettes on either side of a gilt clock, an etagere crowded with knickknacks, and five or six passable engravings. When he entered, Victor Chupin was sitting, in his shirt-sleeves, at a little table, where, by the light of a small lamp, and with a zeal that brought a flush to his cheeks, he was copying, in a very fair hand a page from a French dictionary. Near the bed, in the shade, sat a poorly but neatly clad woman about forty years of age, who was knitting industriously with some long wooden needles.

"M. Victor Chupin?" inquired M. Fortunat.

The sound of his voice made the young man spring to his feet. He quickly lifted the shade from his lamp, and, without attempting to conceal his astonishment, exclaimed: "M'sieur Fortunat!—at this hour! Where's the fire?" Then, in a grave manner that contrasted strangely with his accustomed levity: "Mother," said he, "this is one of my patrons, M'sieur Fortunat—you know—the gentleman whom I collect for."

The knitter rose, bowed respectfully, and said: "I hope, sir, that you are pleased with my son, and that he's honest."

"Certainly, madame," replied the agent; "certainly. Victor is one of my best and most reliable clerks."

"Then I'm content," said the woman, reseating herself.

Chupin also seemed delighted "This is my good mother, sir," said he. "She's almost blind now; but, in less than six months she will be able to stand at her window and see a pin in the middle of the street, so the physician who is treating her eyes promised me; then we shall be all right again. But take a seat, sir. May we venture to offer you anything?"

Although his clerk had more than once alluded to his responsibilities, M. Fortunat was amazed. He marvelled at the perfume of honesty which exhaled from these poor people, at the dignity of this humble woman, and at the protecting and respectful affection evinced by her son—a young man, whose usual tone of voice and general behavior had seemed to indicate that he was decidedly a scapegrace. "Thanks, Victor," he replied, "I won't take any refreshment. I've just left the dinner-table. I've come to give you my instructions respecting a very important and very urgent matter."

Chupin at once understood that his employer wished for a private interview. Accordingly, he took up the lamp, opened a door, and, in the pompous tone of a rich banker who is inviting some important personage to enter his private room, he said: "Will you be kind enough to step into my chamber, m'sieur?"

The room which Chupin so emphatically denominated his "chamber" was a tiny nook, extraordinarily clean, it is true, but scantily furnished with a small iron bedstead, a trunk, and a chair. He offered the chair to his visitor, placed the lamp on the trunk, and seated himself on the bed, saying as he did so: "This is scarcely on so grand a scale as your establishment, m'sieur; but I am going to ask the landlord to gild the window of my snuff-box."

M. Fortunat was positively touched. He held out his hand to his clerk and exclaimed: "You're a worthy fellow, Chupin."

"Nonsense, m'sieur, one does what one can; but, zounds! how hard it is to make money honestly! If my good mother could only see, she would help me famously, for there is no one like her for work! But you see one can't become a millionaire by knitting!"

"Doesn't your father live with you?"

Chupin's eyes gleamed angrily. "Ah! don't speak of that man to me, m'sieur!" he exclaimed, "or I shall hurt somebody." And then, as if he felt it necessary to explain and excuse his vindictive exclamation, he added: "My father, Polyte Chupin, is a good-for-nothing scamp. And yet he's had his opportunities. First, he was fortunate enough to find a wife like my mother, who is honesty itself—so much so that she was called Toinon the Virtuous when she was young. She idolized him, and nearly killed herself by working to earn money for him. And yet he abused her so much, and made her weep so much, that she has become blind. But that's not all. One morning there came to him—I don't know whence or how—enough money for him to have lived like a gentleman. I believe it was a munificent reward for some service he had rendered a great nobleman at the time when my grandmother, who is now dead, kept a dramshop called the Poivriere. Any other man would have treasured that money, but not he. What he did was to carouse day and night, and all the while my poor mother was working her fingers to the bone to earn food for me. She never saw a penny of all his money; and, indeed, once when she asked him to pay the rent, he beat her so cruelly that she was laid up in bed for a week. However, monsieur, you can very readily understand that when a man leads that kind of life, he speedily comes to the end of his banking account. So my father was soon without a penny in his purse, and then he was obliged to work in order to get something to eat, and this didn't suit him at all. But when he didn't know where to find a crust he remembered us; he sought us out, and found us. Once I lent him a hundred sous; the next day he came for forty more, and the next for three francs; then for five francs again. And so it was every day: 'Give me this, or give me that!' At last I said, 'Enough of this, the bank's closed!' Then, what do you think he did? He watched the house until he saw me go out; then he came in with a second-hand furniture-dealer, and tried to sell everything, pretending that he was the master. And my poor, dear mother would have allowed him to do it. Fortunately, I happened to come in again. Let him sell my furniture? Not I. I would sooner have been chopped in pieces! I went and complained to the commissary of police, who made my father leave the house, and since then we've lived in peace."

Certainly this was more than sufficient to explain and excuse Victor Chupin's indignation. And yet he had prudently withheld the most serious and important cause of his dislike. What he refrained from telling was that years before, when he was still a mere child, without will or discernment, his father had taken him from his mother, and had started him down that terrible descent, which inevitably leads one to prison or the gallows, unless there be an almost miraculous interposition on one's behalf. This miracle had occurred in Chupin's case; but he did not boast of it.

"Come, come!" said M. Fortunat, "don't worry too much about it. A father's a father after all, and yours will undoubtedly reform by and by."

He said this as he would have said anything else, out of politeness and for the sake of testifying a friendly interest; but he really cared no more for this information concerning the Chupin family than the grand Turk. His first emotion had quickly vanished; and he was beginning to find these confidential disclosures rather wearisome. "Let us get back to business," he remarked; "that is to say, to Casimir. What did you do with the fool after my departure?"

"First, monsieur, I sobered him; which was no easy task. The greedy idiot had converted himself into a wine-cask! At last, however, when he could talk as well as you and I, and walk straight, I took him back to the Hotel de Chalusse."

"That was right. But didn't you have some business to transact with him?"

"That's been arranged, monsieur; the agreement has been signed. The count will have the best of funerals—the finest hearse out, with six horses, twenty-four mourning coaches—a grand display, in fact. It will be worth seeing."

M. Fortunat smiled graciously. "That ought to bring you a handsome commission," he said, benignly.

Employed by the job, Chupin was the master of his own time, free to utilize his intelligence and industry as he chose, but M. Fortunat did not like his subordinates to make any money except through him. Hence his approval, in the present instance, was so remarkable that it awakened Chupin's suspicions. "I shall make a few sous, probably," he modestly replied, "a trifle to aid my good mother in keeping the pot boiling."

"So much the better, my boy," said M. Fortunat. "I like to see money gained by those who make a good use of it. And to prove this, I'm about to employ you in an affair which will pay you handsomely if you prosecute it successfully."

Chupin's eyes brightened at first but grew dark a moment afterward, for delight had been quickly followed by a feeling of distrust. He thought it exceedingly strange that an employer should take the trouble to climb to a sixth floor merely for the purpose of conferring a favor on his clerk. There must be something behind all this; and so it behove him to keep his eyes open. However, he knew how to conceal his real feelings; and it was with a joyous air that he exclaimed: "Eh! What? Money? Now? What must I do to earn it?"

"Oh! a mere trifle," replied the agent; "almost nothing, indeed." And drawing his chair nearer to the bed on which his employee was seated, he added: "But first, one question, Victor. By the way in which a woman looks at a young man in the street, at the theatre or anywhere—would you know if she were watching her son?"

Chupin shrugged his shoulders. "What a question!" he retorted. "Nonsense! monsieur, it would be impossible to deceive me. I should only have to remember my mother's eyes when I return home in the evening. Poor woman! although she's half blind, she sees me—and if you wish to make her happy, you've only to tell her I'm the handsomest and most amiable youth in Paris."

M. Fortunat could not refrain from rubbing his hands, so delighted was he to see his idea so perfectly understood and so admirably expressed. "Good!" he declared; "very good! That's intelligence, if I am any judge. I have not been deceived in you, Victor."

Victor was on fire with curiosity. "What am I to do, monsieur?" he asked eagerly.

"This: you must follow a woman whom I shall point out to you, follow her everywhere without once losing sight of her, and so skilfully as not to let her suspect it. You must watch her every glance, and when her eyes tell you that she is looking at her son, your task will be nearly over. You will then only have to follow this son, and find out his name and address, what he does, and how he lives. I don't know if I explain what I mean very clearly."

This doubt was awakened in M. Fortunat's mind by Chupin's features, which were expressive of lively astonishment and discontent. "Excuse me, monsieur," he said, at last, "I do not understand at all."

"It's very simple, however. The lady in question has a son about twenty. I know it—I'm sure of it. But she denies it; she conceals the fact, and he doesn't even know her. She secretly watches over him, however—she provides him with money, and every day she finds some way of seeing him. Now, it is to my interest to find this son."

Chupin's mobile face became actually threatening in its expression; he frowned darkly, and his lips quivered. Still this did not prevent M. Fortunat from adding, with the assurance of a man who does not even suspect the possibility of a refusal: "Now, when shall we set about our task?"

"Never!" cried Chupin, violently; and, rising, he continued: "No! I wouldn't let my good mother eat bread earned in that way—it would strangle her! Turn spy! I? Thanks—some one else may have the job!" He had become as red as a turkey-cock, and such was his indignation that he forgot his accustomed reserve and the caution with which he had so far concealed his antecedents. "I know this game—I've tried it!" he went on, vehemently. "One might as well take one's ticket to prison by a direct road. I should be there now if it hadn't been for Monsieur Andre. I was thirsting for gold, and, like the brigand that I was, I should have killed the man; but in revenge he drew me from the mire and placed my feet on solid ground once more. And now, shall I go back to my vile tricks again? Why, I'd rather cut my leg off! I'm to hunt down this poor woman—I'm to discover her secret so that you may extort money from her, am I? No, not I! I should like to be rich, and I shall be rich; but I'll make my money honestly. I hope to touch my hundred-franc pieces without being obliged to wash my hands afterward. So, a very good evening to your establishment."

M. Fortunat was amazed, and at the same time much annoyed, to find himself forsaken on account of such a trifle. He feared, too, that Chupin might let his tongue wag if he left his employment. So, since he had confided this project to Chupin, he was determined that Chupin alone should carry it into execution. Assuming his most severe and injured manner, he sternly exclaimed: "I think you have lost your senses." His demeanor and intonation were so perfectly cool that Chupin seemed slightly abashed. "It seems that you think me capable of urging you to commit some dangerous and dishonorable act," continued M. Fortunat.

"Why—no—m'sieur—I assure you."

There was such evident hesitation in the utterance of this "no" that the agent at once resumed: "Come, you are not ignorant of the fact that in addition to my business as a collector, I give my attention to the discovery of the heirs of unclaimed estates? You are aware of this? Very well then: pray tell me how I am to find them without searching for them? If I wish this lady to be watched, it is only in view of reaching a poor lad who is likely to be defrauded of the wealth that rightfully belongs to him. And when I give you a chance to make forty or fifty francs in a couple of days, you receive my proposition in this style! You are an ingrate and a fool, Victor!"

Chupin's nature combined, in a remarkable degree, the vices and peculiarities of the dweller in the Paris faubourgs, who is born old, but who, when aged in years, still remains a gamin. In his youth he had seen many strange things, and acquired a knowledge of life that would have put the experience of a philosopher to shame. But he was not fit to cope with M. Fortunat, who had an immense advantage over him, by reason of his position of employer, as well as by his fortune and education. So Chupin was both bewildered and disconcerted by the cool arguments his patron brought forward; and what most effectually allayed his suspicions was the small compensation offered for the work—merely forty or fifty francs. "Small potatoes, upon my word!" he thought. "Just the price of an honest service; he would have offered more for a piece of rascality." So, after considering a moment, he said, aloud: "Very well; I'm your man, m'sieur."

M. Fortunat was secretly laughing at the success of his ruse. Having come with the intention of offering his agent a handsome sum, he was agreeably surprised to find that Chupin's scruples would enable him to save his money. "If I hadn't found you engaged in study, Victor," he said, "I should have thought you had been drinking. What venomous insect stung you so suddenly? Haven't I confided similar undertakings to you twenty times since you have been in my employment? Who ransacked Paris to find certain debtors who were concealing themselves? Who discovered the Vantrassons for me? Victor Chupin. Very well. Then allow me to say that I see nothing in this case in any way differing from the others, nor can I understand why this should be wrong, if the others were not."

Chupin could only have answered this remark by saying that there had been no mystery about the previous affairs, that they had not been proposed to him late at night at his own home, and that he had acted openly, as a person who represents a creditor has a recognized right to act. But, though he felt that there WAS a difference in the present case, it would have been very difficult for him to explain in what this difference consisted. Hence, in his most resolute tone: "I'm only a fool, m'sieur," he declared; "but I shall know how to make amends for my folly."

"That means you have recovered your senses," said M. Fortunat, ironically. "Really, that's fortunate. But let me give you one bit of advice: watch yourself, and learn to bridle your tongue. You won't always find me in such a good humor as I am this evening."

So saying, he rose, passed out into the adjoining room, bowed civilly to his clerk's mother, and went off. His last words, as he crossed the threshold, were, "So I shall rely upon you. Be at the office to-morrow a little before noon."

"It's agreed m'sieur."

The blind woman had risen, and had bowed respectfully; but, as soon as she was alone with her son, she asked: "What is this business he bids you undertake in such a high and mighty tone?"

"Oh! an every-day matter, mother."

The old woman shook her head. "Why were you talking so loud then?" she inquired. "Weren't you quarrelling? It must be something very grave when it's necessary to conceal it from me. I couldn't see your employer's face, my son; but I heard his voice, and it didn't please me. It isn't the voice of an honest, straightforward man. Take care, Toto, and don't allow yourself to be cajoled—be prudent."

However, it was quite unnecessary to recommend prudence to Victor Chupin. He had promised his assistance, but not without a mental reservation. "No need to see danger till it comes," he had said to himself. "If the thing proves to be of questionable propriety after all, then good-evening; I desert."

It remains to know what he meant by questionable propriety; the meaning of the expression is rather vague. He had returned in all honesty and sincerity of purpose to an honest life, and nothing in the world would have induced him, avaricious though he was, to commit an act that was positively wrong. Only the line that separates good from evil was not very clearly defined in his mind. This was due in a great measure to his education, and to the fact that it had been long before he realized that police regulations do not constitute the highest moral law. It was due also to chance, and, since he had no decided calling, to the necessity of depending for a livelihood upon the many strange professions which impecunious and untrained individuals, both of the higher and lower classes, adopt in Paris.

However, on the following morning he arrayed himself in his best apparel, and at exactly half-past eleven o'clock he rang at his employer's door. M. Fortunat had made quick work with his clients that morning, and was ready, dressed to go out. He took up his hat and said only the one word, "Come." The place where the agent conducted his clerk was the wine-shop in the Rue de Berry, where he had made inquiries respecting Madame d'Argeles the evening before; and on arriving there, he generously offered him a breakfast. Before entering, however, he pointed out Madame d'Argeles's pretty house on the opposite side of the street, and said to him: "The woman whom you are to follow, and whose son you are to discover, will emerge from that house."

At that moment, after a night passed in meditating upon his mother's prophetic warnings, Chupin was again beset by the same scruples which had so greatly disturbed him on the previous evening. However, they soon vanished when he heard the wine-vendor, in reply to M. Fortunat's skilful questions, begin to relate all he knew concerning Madame Lia d'Argeles, and the scandalous doings at her house. The seeker after lost heirs and his clerk were served at a little table near the door; and while they partook of the classical beef-steak and; potatoes—M. Fortunat eating daintily, and Chupin bolting his food with the appetite of a ship-wrecked mariner—they watched the house opposite.

Madame d'Argeles received on Saturdays, and, as Chupin remarked, "there was a regular procession of visitors."

Standing beside M. Fortunat, and flattered by the attention which such a well-dressed gentleman paid to his chatter, the landlord of the house mentioned the names of all the visitors he knew. And he knew a good number of them, for the coachmen came to his shop for refreshments when their masters were spending the night in play at Madame d'Argeles's house. So he was able to name the Viscount de Coralth, who dashed up to the door in a two-horse phaeton, as well as Baron Trigault, who came on foot, for exercise, puffing and blowing like a seal. The wine-vendor, moreover, told his customers that Madame d'Argeles never went out before half-past two or three o'clock, and then always in a carriage—a piece of information which must have troubled Chupin; for, as soon as the landlord had left them to serve some other customers, he leant forward and said to M. Fortunat: "Did you hear that? How is it possible to track a person who's in a carriage?"

"By following in another vehicle, of course."

"Certainly, m'sieur; that's as clear as daylight. But that isn't the question. The point is this: How can one watch the face of a person who turns her back to you? I must see this woman's face to know whom she looks at, and how."

This objection, grave as it appeared, did not seem to disturb M. Fortunat. "Don't worry about that, Victor," he replied. "Under such circumstances, a mother wouldn't try to see her son from a rapidly moving carriage. She will undoubtedly alight, and contrive some means of passing and repassing him—of touching him, if possible. Your task will only consist in following her closely enough to be on the ground as soon as she is. Confine your efforts to that; and if you fail to-day, you'll succeed to-morrow or the day after—the essential thing is to be patient."

He did better than to preach patience—he practised it. The hours wore away, and yet he did not stir from his post, though nothing could have been more disagreeable to him than to remain on exhibition, as it were, at the door of a wine-shop. At last, at a little before three o'clock, the gates over the way turned upon their hinges, and a dark-blue victoria, in which a woman was seated, rolled forth into the street. "Look!" said M. Fortunat, eagerly. "There she is!"



XVIII.

The woman in the carriage was none other than Madame Lia d'Argeles. She was attired in one of those startling costumes which are the rage nowadays, and which impart the same bold and brazen appearance to all who wear them: so much so, that the most experienced observers are no longer able to distinguish the honest mother of a family from a notorious character. A Dutchman, named Van Klopen, who was originally a tailor at Rotterdam, rightfully ascribes the honor of this progress to himself. One can scarcely explain how it happens that this individual, who calls himself "the dressmaker of the queens of Europe," has become the arbiter of Parisian elegance; but it is an undeniable fact that he does reign over fashion. He decrees the colors that shall be worn, decides whether dresses shall be short or long, whether paniers shall be adopted or discarded, whether ruches and puffs and flowers shall be allowed, and in what form; and his subjects, the so-called elegant women of Paris, obey him implicitly.

Madame d'Argeles would personally have preferred less finery, perhaps, but it would not have done for her to be out of the fashion. She wore an imperceptible hat, balanced on an immense pyramidal chignon, from which escaped a torrent of wavy hair. "What a beautiful woman!" exclaimed the dazzled Chupin, and indeed, seen from this distance, she did not look a day more than thirty-five—an age when beauty possesses all the alluring charm of the luscious fruit of autumn. She was giving orders for the drive, and her coachman, with a rose in his buttonhole, listened while he reined in the spirited horse. "The weather's superb," added Chupin. "She'll no doubt drive round the lakes in the Bois de Boulogne——"

"Ah, she's off!" interrupted M. Fortunat. "Run, Victor, run! and don't be miserly as regards carriage hire; all your expenses shall be liberally refunded you."

Chupin was already far away. Madame d'Argeles's horse went swiftly enough, but the agent's emissary had the limbs and the endurance of a stag, and he kept pace with the victoria without much difficulty. And as he ran along, his brain was busy. "If I don't take a cab," he said to himself, "if I follow the woman on foot, I shall have a perfect right to pocket the forty-five sous an hour—fifty, counting the gratuity—that a cab would cost."

But on reaching the Champ Elysees, he discovered, to his regret, that this plan was impracticable, for on running down the Avenue de l'Imperatrice after the rapidly driven carriage, he could not fail to attract attention. Stifling a sigh of regret, and seeing a cab at a stand near by, he hastily hailed it. "Where do you want to go, sir?" inquired the driver.

"Just follow that blue victoria, in which a handsome lady is seated, my good fellow."

The order did not surprise the cabman, but rather the person who gave it; for in spite of his fine apparel, Chupin did not seem quite the man for such an adventure. "Excuse me," said the Jehu, in a slightly ironical tone, "I——"

"I said exactly what I mean," retorted Chupin, whose pride was severely wounded. "And no more talk—hurry on, or we shall miss the track."

This last remark was correct, for if Madame d'Argeles's coachman had not slackened his horse's speed on passing round the Arc de Triomphe, the woman would have escaped Chupin, for that day at least. However, this circumstance gave the cabman an opportunity to overtake the victoria; and after that the two vehicles kept close together as they proceeded down the Avenue de l'Imperatrice. But at the entrance of the Bois de Boulogne Chupin ordered his driver to stop. "Halt!" he exclaimed; "I shall get out. Pay the extra cab charges for passing beyond the limits of Paris!—never! I'll crawl on my hands and knees first. Here are forty sous for your fare—and good-evening to you."

And, as the blue victoria was already some distance in advance, he started off at the top of his speed to overtake it. This manoeuvre was the result of his meditations while riding along. "What will this fine lady do when she gets to the Bois?" he asked himself. "Why, her coachman will take his place in the procession, and drive her slowly round and round the lakes. Meantime I can trot along beside her without attracting attention—and it will be good for my health."

His expectations were realized in every respect. The victoria soon turned to the left, and took its place in the long line of equipages which were slowly winding round the lake. Having gained the foot-path which borders the sheet of water, Chupin followed the carriage easily enough, with his hands in his pockets, and his heart jubilant at the thought that he would gain the sum supposed to have been spent in cab hire, in addition to the compensation which had been promised him. "This is a strange way of enjoying one's self," he muttered, as he trotted along. "There can't be much pleasure in going round and round this lake. If ever I'm rich, I'll find some other way of amusing myself."

Poor Chupin did not know that people do not go to the Bois to enjoy themselves, but rather to torment others. This broad drive is in reality only a field for the airing of vanity—a sort of open-air bazaar for the display of dresses and equipages. People come here to see and to be seen; and, moreover, this is neutral ground, where so-called honest women can meet those notorious characters from whom they are elsewhere separated by an impassable abyss. What exquisite pleasure it must be to the dames of society to find themselves beside Jenny Fancy or Ninette Simplon, or any other of those young ladies whom they habitually call "creatures," but whom they are continually talking of, and whose toilettes, make-up, and jargon, they assiduously copy!

However, Chupin indulged in none of these reflections. He was engaged in noting Madame d'Argeles's evident anxiety and restlessness. She looked eagerly on all sides, sometimes half leaning out of her carriage, and immediately turning her head whenever she heard the gallop of a horseman behind her. She was evidently looking or waiting for some one, but the person did not make his appearance, and so, growing weary of waiting, after driving three times round the lake, she made a sign to her coachman, who at once drew out of line, and turned his horse into a side-path. Chupin hastened after the victoria, keeping it in sight until he was fortunate enough to meet an empty cab, which he at once hired. Madame d'Argeles's coachman, who had received his orders, now drove down the Champs Elysees, again crossed the Place de la Concorde, turned into the boulevards, and stopped short at the corner of the Chaussee d'Antin, where, having tied a thick veil over her face, Madame Lia abruptly alighted and walked away.

This was done so quickly that Chupin barely had time to fling two francs to his driver and rush after her. She had already turned round the corner of the Rue du Helder, and was walking rapidly up the street. It was a little after five o'clock, and dusk was setting in. Madame d'Argeles had taken the side of the street allotted to the uneven numbers. After she had passed the Hotel de Homburg, she slackened her pace, and eagerly scrutinized one of the houses opposite—No. 48. Her examination lasted but a moment, and seemed to be satisfactory. She then turned, and rapidly retraced her steps as far as the boulevard, when, crossing the street to the side of the even numbers, she walked up it again very slowly, stopping before every shop-window.

Convinced that he had almost reached the goal, Chupin also crossed, and followed closely at her heels. He soon saw her start and resume her rapid gait. A young man was coming toward her so quickly indeed that she had not time to avoid him, and a collision ensued, whereupon the young man gave vent to an oath, and hurling an opprobrious epithet in her face, passed on.

Chupin shuddered. "What if that should be her son?" he thought. And while he pretended to be gazing into a shop window, he stealthily watched the poor woman. She had paused, and he was so near that he could almost have touched her. He saw her raise her veil and follow her insulter with a look which it was impossible to misunderstand. "Oh! oh! It was her son that called her that——" said Chupin to himself, quite horrified. And without more ado, he hastened after the young man.

He was between two and four-and-twenty years of age, rather above the medium height, with very light hair and an extremely pale complexion. His slight mustache would have been almost imperceptible if it had not been dyed several shades darker than his hair. He was attired with that studied carelessness which many consider to be the height of elegance, but which is just the reverse. And his bearing, his mustache, and his low hat, tipped rakishly over one ear, gave him an arrogant, pretentious, rowdyish appearance. "Zounds! that fellow doesn't suit my fancy," growled Chupin, as he trotted along. For he was almost running in his efforts to keep pace with Madame d'Argeles's insulter. The latter's haste was soon explained. He was carrying a letter which he wished to have delivered, and no doubt he feared he would not be able to find a commissionaire. Having discovered one at last, he called him, gave him the missive, and then pursued his way more leisurely.

He had reached the boulevard, when a florid-faced youth, remarkably short and stout, rushed toward him with both hands amicably extended, at the same time crying, loud enough to attract the attention of the passers-by: "Is it possible that this is my dear Wilkie?"

"Yes—alive and in the flesh," replied the young man.

"Well, and what the devil have you been doing with yourself? Last Sunday, at the races, I looked for you everywhere, and not a vestige of Wilkie was to be found. However, you were wise not to go. I am three hundred louis out of pocket. I staked everything on Domingo, the Marquis de Valorsay's horse. I thought I was sure to win—yes, sure. Well, Domingo came in third. Can you understand that? If every one didn't know that Valorsay was a millionaire, it might be supposed there had been some foul play—yes, upon my word—that he had bet against his own horse, and forbidden his jockey to win the race." But the speaker did not really believe this, so he continued, more gayly: "Fortunately, I shall retrieve my losses to-morrow, at Vincennes. Shall we see you there?"

"Probably."

"Then good-by, until to-morrow."

"Until to-morrow."

Thereupon they shook hands, and each departed on his way.

Chupin had not lost a word of this conversation. "Valorsay a millionaire!" he said to himself. "That's good! Ah, well! now I know my little gamecock's name, and I also know that he goes to the races. Wilkie that must be an English name; I like the name of d'Argeles better. But where the devil is he going now?"

M. Wilkie had simply paused to replenish his cigar-case at the tobacco office of the Grand Hotel; and, after lighting a cigar, he came out again, and walked up the boulevard in the direction of the Faubourg Montmartre. He was no longer in a hurry now; he strolled along in view of killing time, displaying his charms, and staring impudently at every woman who passed. With his shoulders drawn up on a level with his ears, and his chest thrown back, he dragged his feet after him as if his limbs were half paralyzed; he was indeed doing his best to create the impression that he was used up, exhausted, broken down by excesses and dissipation. For that is the fashion—the latest fancy—chic!

"Will you never have done?" growled Chupin.

"You shall pay for this, you little wretch!" He was so indignant that the gamin element in his nature stirred again under his fine broadcloth, and he had a wild longing to throw stones at M. Wilkie. He would certainly have trodden on his heels, and have picked a quarrel with him, had it not been for a fear of failing in his mission, and thereby losing his promised reward.

He followed his man closely, for the crowd was very great. Light was coming on, and the gas was lit on all sides. The weather was very mild, and there was not an unoccupied table in front of the cafes, for it was now the absinthe hour. How does it happen that every evening, between five and seven o'clock, every one in Paris who is known—who is somebody or something—can be found between the Passage de l'Opera and the Passage Jouffroy? Hereabout you may hear all the latest news and gossip of the fashionable world, the last political canards—all the incidents of Parisian life which will be recorded by the papers on the following morning. You may learn the price of stocks, and obtain tips for to-morrow's Bourse; ascertain how much Mademoiselle A's necklace cost, and who gave it to her; with the latest news from Prussia; and the name of the bank chairman or cashier who has absconded during the day, and the amount he has taken with him.

The crowd became more dense as the Faubourg Montmartre was approached, but Wilkie made his way through the throng with the ease of an old boulevardier. He must have had a large circle of acquaintances, for he distributed bows right and left, and was spoken to by five or six promenaders. He did not pass the Terrasse Jouffroy, but, pausing there, he purchased an evening paper, retraced his steps, and about seven o'clock reached the Cafe Riche, which he entered triumphantly. He did not even touch the rim of his hat on going in—that would have been excessively BAD form; but he called a waiter, in a very loud voice, and imperiously ordered him to serve dinner on a table near the window, where he could see the boulevard—and be seen.

"And now my little fighting-cock is going to feed," thought Chupin. He, too, was hungry; and he was trying to think of some modest restaurant in the neighborhood, when two young men passed near him and glanced into the cafe.

"Look, there's Wilkie!" observed one of them.

"That's so, upon my word!" responded the other. "And he has money, too; fortune has smiled upon him."

"How do you know that?"

"Why, by watching the fellow; one can tell the condition of his purse as correctly as he could himself. If his funds are low, he has his meals brought to his room from a cook-shop where he has credit; his mustache droops despondingly; he is humble even to servility with his friends, and he brushes his hair over his forehead. When he is in average circumstances, he dines at Launay's, waxes his mustache, and brushes his hair back from his face. But when he dines at the Cafe Riche, my boy, when he has dyed his mustache, and tips his hat over his ear, and deports himself in that arrogant fashion, why, he has at least five or six thousand francs in his pocket, and all is well with him."

"Where does he get his money from?"

"Who can tell?"

"Is he rich?"

"He must have plenty of money—I lent him ten louis once, and he paid me back."

"Zounds! He's a very honorable fellow, then." Thereupon the two young men laughed, and passed on.

Chupin had been greatly edified. "Now I know you as well as if I were your concierge," he muttered, addressing the unconscious Wilkie; "and when I've followed you home, and learned your number, I shall have richly earned the fifty francs M. Fortunat promised me." As well as he could judge through the windowpane, M. Wilkie was eating his dinner with an excellent appetite. "Ah!" he exclaimed, not without envy, "these fighting-cocks take good care of their stomachs. He's there for an hour at least, and I shall have time to run and swallow a mouthful myself."

So saying, Chupin hastened to a small restaurant in a neighboring street, and magnificently disbursed the sum of thirty-nine sous. Such extravagance was unusual on his part, for he had lived very frugally since he had taken a vow to become rich. Formerly, when he lived from hand to mouth—to use his own expression—he indulged in cigars and in absinthe; but now he contented himself with the fare of an anchorite, drank nothing but water, and only smoked when some one gave him a cigar. Nor was this any great privation to him, since he gained a penny by it—and a penny was another grain of sand added to the foundation of his future wealth. However, this evening he indulged in the extravagance of a glass of wine, deciding in his own mind that he had fairly earned it.