When he returned to his post in front of the Cafe Riche, M. Wilkie was no longer alone at his table. He was finishing his coffee in the company of a man of his own age, who was remarkably good-looking—almost too good-looking, in fact—and a glance at whom caused Chupin to exclaim: "What! what! I've seen that face somewhere before—". But he racked his brain in vain in trying to remember who this newcomer was, in trying to set a name on this face, which was positively annoying in its classical beauty, and which he felt convinced had occupied a place among the phantoms of his past. Irritated beyond endurance by what he termed his stupidity, he was trying to decide whether he should enter the cafe or not, when he saw M. Wilkie take his bill from the hands of a waiter, glance at it, and throw a louis on the table. His companion had drawn out his pocketbook for the ostensible purpose of paying for the coffee he had taken; but Wilkie, with a cordial gesture, forbade it, and made that magnificent, imperious sign to the waiter, which so clearly implies: "Take nothing! All is paid! Keep the change." Thereupon the servant gravely retired, more than ever convinced of the fact that vanity increases the fabulous total of Parisian gratuities by more than a million francs a year.

"My gallant youths are coming out," thought Chupin. "I must keep my ears open." And approaching the door, he dropped on one knee, and pretended to be engaged in tying his shoestrings. This is one of the thousand expedients adopted by spies and inquisitive people. And when a man is foolish enough to tell his secrets in the street, he should at least be wise enough to distrust the people near him who pretend to be absorbed in something else; for in nine cases out of ten these persons are listening to him, possibly for pay, or possibly from curiosity.

However, the young men whom Chupin was watching were far from suspecting that they were under surveillance. M. Wilkie came out first, talking very loud, as often happens when a man has just partaken of a good dinner, and is blessed with an excellent digestion. "Come, Coralth, my good fellow, you won't desert me in this way? I have a box for the Varietes, and you must go with me. We'll see if Silly imitates Theresa as perfectly as they say."

"But I have an appointment."

"Oh, well, let it wait. Come, viscount, is it agreed?"

"Ah, you do with me just as you like."

"Good! But, first of all let us take a glass of beer to finish our cigars. And do you know whom you will find in my box?"

At this moment they passed, and Chupin rose to his feet. "Coralth," he muttered, "Viscount de Coralth. He's not one of our clients. Let me see, Coralth. This is certainly the first time I have ever heard the name. Can it be that I'm mistaken? Impossible!"

The more he reflected, the more thoroughly he became convinced of the accuracy of his first impression, consoling himself with the thought that a name has but a slight significance after all. His preoccupation had at least the advantage of shortening the time which he spent in promenading to and fro, while the friends sat outside a cafe smoking and drinking. It was still M. Wilkie who monopolized the conversation, while his companion listened with his elbow resting on the table, occasionally nodding his head in token of approbation. One thing that incensed Chupin was that they loitered there, when one of them had a ticket for a box at the theatre in his pocket.

"Idiots!" he growled; "they'll wait till the play's half over before they go in. And then they'll let the doors slam behind them for the express purpose of disturbing everybody. Fools, go!"

As if they had heard the command, they rose suddenly, and an instant after they entered the Varietes. They entered, but Chupin remained on the pavement, scratching his head furiously, in accordance with his habit whenever he wished to develop his powers of imagination. He was trying to think how he might procure admission to the theatre without paying for it. For several years he had seen every play put upon the stage in Paris, without spending a sou, and he felt that it would be actually degrading to purchase a ticket at the office now. "Pay to see a farce!" he thought. "Not I. I must know some one here—I'll wait for the entr'acte."

The wisdom of this course became apparent when among those who left the theatre at the close of the first act he recognized an old acquaintance, who was now working on the claque, [3] and who at once procured him a ticket of admission for nothing. "Well, it is a good thing to have friends everywhere," he muttered, as he took the seat assigned him.

It was a very good place they had given him—a seat in the second gallery commanding an excellent view of the house. The first glance around told him that his "customers," as he styled them, were in a box exactly opposite. They were now in the company of two damsels in startling toilettes, with exceedingly dishevelled yellow hair, who moved restlessly about, and giggled and stared, and tried in every possible way to attract attention. And their stratagem succeeded. However, this did not seem to please the Viscount de Coralth, who kept himself as far back in the shade as he possibly could. But young Wilkie was evidently delighted, and seemed manifestly proud of the attention which the public was compelled to bestow upon his box. He offered himself as much as possible to the gaze of the audience; moved about, leaned forward, and made himself fully as conspicuous as his fair companions. Less than ever did Chupin now forgive Wilkie for the insult he had cast in the face of Madame Lia d'Argeles, who was probably his mother.

As for the play, M. Fortunat's emissary did not hear twenty words of it. He was so overcome with fatigue that he soon fell asleep. The noise and bustle of each entr'acte aroused him a little, but he did not thoroughly wake up until the close of the performance. His "customers" were still in their box, and M. Wilkie was gallantly wrapping the ladies in their cloaks and shawls. In the vestibule, he and M. de Coralth were joined by several other young men, and the whole party adjourned to a neighboring cafe. "These people are certainly afflicted with an unquenchable thirst," growled Chupin. "I wonder if this is their everyday life?"

He, too, was thirsty after his hastily eaten dinner; and necessity prevailing over economy, he seated himself at a table outside the cafe, and called for a glass of beer, in which he moistened his parched lips with a sigh of intense satisfaction. He sipped the beverage slowly, in order to make it last the longer, but this did not prevent his glass from becoming dry long before M. Wilkie and his friends were ready to leave. "It seems to me we are going to stay here all night," he thought, angrily.

His ill-humor was not strange under the circumstances, for it was one o'clock in the morning; and after carrying all the tables and chairs round about, inside, a waiter came to ask Chupin to go away. All the other cafes were closing too, and the fastening of bolts or the clanking of shutter chains could be heard on every side. On the pavement stood groups of waiters in their shirt-sleeves, stretching and yawning, and inhaling the fresh night air with delight. The boulevard was fast becoming deserted—the men were going off in little groups, and female forms could be seen gliding along in the dark shadow cast by the houses. The police were watching everywhere, with a word of menace ever ready on their lips; and soon the only means of egress from the cafes were the narrow, low doorways cut in the shutters through which the last customers—the insatiable, who are always ordering one thimbleful more to finish—passed out.

It was through a portal of this sort that M. Wilkie and his companions at last emerged, and on perceiving them, Chupin gave a grunt of satisfaction. "At last," he thought, "I can follow the man to his door, take his number, and go home."

But his joy was short-lived, for M. Wilkie proposed that the whole party should go and take supper. M. de Coralth demurred to the idea, but the others over-ruled his objections, and dragged him away with them.



XIX.

"Ah! this is a bad job!" growled Chupin. "Go, go, and never stop!"

What exasperated him even more than his want of sleep was the thought that his good mother must be waiting for him at home in an agony of anxiety; for since his reformation he had become remarkably regular in his habits. What should he do? "Go home," said Reason; "it will be easy enough to find this Wilkie again. There can be little doubt that he lives at No. 48, in the Rue du Helder." "Remain," whispered Avarice; "and, since you have accomplished so much, finish your work. M. Fortunat won't pay for conjectures, but for a certainty."

Love of money carried the day; so, weaving an interminable chaplet of oaths, he followed the party until they entered Brebant's restaurant, one of the best known establishments which remain open at night-time. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning now; the boulevard was silent and deserted, and yet this restaurant was brilliantly lighted from top to bottom, and snatches of song and shouts of laughter, with the clatter of knives and forks and the clink of glasses, could be heard through the half opened windows.

"Eight dozen Marennes for No. 6," shouted a waiter to the man who opened oysters near the restaurant door.

On hearing this order, Chupin shook his clenched fist at the stars. "The wretches!" he muttered through his set teeth; "bad luck to them! Those oysters are for their mouths, plainly enough, for there are eight of them in all, counting those yellow-haired women. They will, no doubt, remain at table until six o'clock in the morning. And they call this enjoying themselves. And meanwhile, poor little Chupin must wear out his shoe-leather on the pavement. Ah! they shall pay for this!"

It ought to have been some consolation to him to see that he was not alone in his misery, for in front of the restaurant stood a dozen cabs with sleepy drivers, who were waiting for chance to send them one of those half-intoxicated passengers who refuse to pay more than fifteen sous for their fare, but give their Jehu a gratuity of a louis. All these vehicles belonged to the peculiar category known as "night cabs"—dilapidated conveyances with soiled, ragged linings, and drawn by half-starved, jaded horses.

However, Chupin neither thought of these vehicles, nor of the poor horses, nor, indeed, of the drivers themselves. His wrath had been succeeded by philosophical resignation; he accepted with good grace what he could not avoid. As the night air had become very cool, he turned up the collar of his overcoat, and began to pace to and fro on the pavement in front of the restaurant. He had made a hundred turns perhaps, passing the events of the day in review, when suddenly such a strange and startling idea flashed across his mind that he stood motionless, lost in astonishment. Reflecting on the manner in which M. Wilkie and the Viscount de Coralth had behaved during the evening, a singular suspicion assailed him. While M. Wilkie gradually lost his wits, M. de Coralth had become remarkably cold and reserved. He had seemed to oppose all M. Wilkie's propositions; but he had agreed to them at last, so that his objections had produced much the same effect as a stimulant. It seemed then as if M. de Coralth had some strange interest in wishing to gain ascendency over his friend. At least such was Chupin's opinion. "Oh, oh!" he murmured. "What if HE should be working up the same little scheme? What if he were acquainted with Madame Lia d'Argeles? What if he knew that there's a fortune waiting for a claimant? I shouldn't at all be surprised if I found that he wanted to cook his bread in our oven. But father Fortunat wouldn't be pleased with the news. Ah! no—he wouldn't even smile——"

While carrying on this little conversation with himself, he stood just in front of the restaurant, looking up into the air, when all of a sudden a window was thrown noisily open, and the figures of two men became plainly visible. They were engaged in a friendly struggle; one of them seemed to be trying to seize hold of something which the other had in his hand, and which he refused to part with. One of these men was M. Wilkie as Chupin at once perceived. "Good!" he said to himself; "this is the beginning of the end!"

As he spoke, M. Wilkie's hat fell on the window-sill, slipped off, and dropped on to the pavement below. With a natural impulse Chupin picked it up, and he was turning it over and over in his hands, when M. Wilkie leant out of the window and shouted in a voice that was thick with wine: "Halloo! Eh, there! Who picked up my hat? Honesty shall be rewarded. A glass of champagne and a cigar for the fellow who'll bring it me in room No. 6."

Chupin hesitated. By going up, he might, perhaps, compromise the success of his mission. But on the other hand his curiosity was aroused, and he very much wished to see, with his own eyes, how these young men were amusing themselves. Besides, he would have an opportunity of examining this handsome viscount, whom he was certain he had met before, though he could not tell when or where. In the meantime, M. Wilkie had perceived him.

"Come, you simpleton!" he cried; "make haste. You can't be very thirsty."

The thought of the viscount decided Chupin. Entering the restaurant and climbing the staircase, he had just reached the landing when a pale-looking man, who had a smoothly-shaven face and was dressed in black, barred his way and asked: "What do you want?"

"M'sieur, here's a hat which fell from one of your windows and——"

"All right, hand it here."

But Chupin did not seem to hear this order. He was beginning a long explanation, when a curtain near by was pushed aside, and M. Wilkie called out: "Philippe! eh, Philippe!—bring me the man who picked up my hat."

"Ah!" said Chupin, "you see, m'sieur, that he asks for me."

"Very well," said Philippe. "Go on, then." And raising the portiere he pushed Chupin into room No. 6.

It was a small, square apartment, with a very low ceiling. The temperature was like that of a furnace, and the glare of the gaslights almost blinded one. The supper was over, but the table had not yet been cleared, and plates full of leavings showed that the guests had fairly exhausted their appetites. Still, with the exception of M. Wilkie, every one present seemed to be terribly bored. In one corner, with her head resting on a piano, sat one of the yellow-haired damsels, fast asleep, while, beside the window, M. de Coralth was smoking with his elbows propped upon the table. The four other young men were looking on phlegmatically. "Ah! here's my hat," exclaimed M. Wilkie, as soon as Chupin appeared. "Wait and receive your promised reward." And thereupon he rang the bell, crying at the top of his voice: "Henry, you sleepy-head—a clean glass and some more of the widow Cliquot's champagne!"

Several bottles were standing upon the table, only half empty, and one of M. Wilkie's friends called his attention to this fact, but he shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. "You must take me for a fool," he said, contemptuously. "A man doesn't drink stale wine when he has the prospect of such an inheritance as is coming to me."

"Wilkie!" interrupted M. de Coralth, quickly; "Wilkie!"

But he was too late; Chupin had heard and understood everything. His conjectures had proved correct. M. Wilkie knew his right to the estate; M. Fortunat had been forestalled by the viscount, and would merely have his labor for his pains. "No chance for the guv'nor!" thought the agent's emissary. "And what a blow after the De Valorsay affair! It's enough to give him the jaundice!"

For a youth of his age, Chupin controlled his feelings admirably; but the revelation came so suddenly that he had started despite himself, and changed color a trifle. M. de Coralth saw this; and, though he was far from suspecting the truth, his long repressed anger burst forth. He rose abruptly, took up a bottle, and filling the nearest glass, he rudely exclaimed: "Come, drink that—make haste—and clear out!"

Victor Chupin must have become very sensitive since his conversion. In former times he was not wont to be so susceptible as to lose his temper when some one chanced to address him in a rather peremptory manner, or to offer him wine out of the first available glass. But M. de Coralth inspired him with one of those inexplicable aversions which cannot be restrained "Eh! tell me if it's because we've drank champagne together before that you talk to me like that?" the young fellow retorted, savagely.

It was only a random shot, but it reached home. The viscount seemed touched to the quick. "You hear that, Wilkie," said he. "This will teach you that the time of your compatriot, Lord Seymour, has passed by. The good-humored race of plebeians who respectfully submitted to the blows with which noblemen honored them after drinking, has died out. This ought to cure you of your unfortunate habit of placing yourself on terms of equality with all the vagabonds you meet."

Chupin's hair fairly bristled with anger. "What! what!" he exclaimed; "I'll teach you to call me a vagabond, you scoundrel!"

His gesture, his attitude, and his eyes were so expressive of defiance and menace that two of the guests sprang up and caught him by the arm. "Go, go," they said.

But he freed himself from their grasp. "Go!" he replied. "Never! He called me a vagabond. Am I to pocket the insult quietly and walk off with it? You can scarcely expect that. First, I demand an apology."

This was asking too much of the Viscount de Coralth. "Let the fool alone," he remarked, with affected coolness, "and ring for the waiters to kick him out."

It did not require this new insult to put Chupin in a furious passion. "Come on!" he exclaimed. "Ah, ha! Where's the fellow who'll turn me out? Let him come. I'll teach him a lesson!" And as he spoke he squared his shoulders, inflated his chest, and threw the weight of his entire body on his left leg, after the most approved method of sparring-masters.

"Go, go!" insisted Wilkie's friends.

"Yes, I'll go with pleasure, but your friend must go, too. Is he a man? Then let him come, and we'll settle this outside." And seeing that they were again trying to seize him: "Hands off!" he thundered, "or I'll strike. You were not obliged to invite me here. It isn't my business to furnish amusement to parties who've drunk too much wine. And why should you despise me? It's true I haven't any money while you have plenty—that I work and you carouse. Still that's no reason why you should scorn me. Besides, those who are poor in the morning are sometimes rich in the evening. Every dog has his day. I have an idea that I shall have some coin when yours is all gone. Then it will be my turn to laugh; and as I'm a good-natured fellow, I will give you my half-smoked cigars."

M. Wilkie seemed delighted. He had climbed on to the piano and seated himself, with his feet on the keyboard; and there, as on a judgment seat, he listened and applauded, alternately taking Chupin's part, and then the viscount's. "Bravo, gamin!" or, "Give it to him, Coralth!" he shouted in turn.

This irritated the viscount exceedingly. "I see that we shall be obliged to call in the police to settle the affair," he said, sneeringly.

"The police!" roared Chupin. "Ah! that won't do, you scamp—" But his voice died away in his throat, and he stood motionless, speechless, with his arm raised as if he were about to strike, and his eyes dilated with astonishment.

For a change of expression in M. de Coralth's face had enlightened him; and he suddenly recollected when and under what circumstances he had known this so-called viscount. He remembered, too, the name he had borne when he first met him. "Oh!" he stammered; "oh! oh!"

However, the effect of this discovery was to dispel his anger, or rather to restore his calmness, and, addressing M. de Coralth, he exclaimed: "Don't be angry at what I've said, m'sieur; it was only a jest—I know that there's a wide difference between a poor devil like me and a viscount like you—I haven't a sou, you see, and that maddens me. But I'm not so very bad-looking, fortunately, and I'm always hoping that the daughter of some rich banker will fall in love with me and marry me. Some people have such luck, you know. If I meet with any you may be sure I shall pass myself off as the lost child of some great personage—of a duke, for instance—and if the real son exists, and troubles me, why I'll quietly put him out of the way, if possible."

With but one exception the persons present did not understand a single word of this apparent nonsense; and indeed the yellow-haired damsels stared at the speaker in amazement. Still it was evident that each of these words had a meaning, and a terrible meaning for M. de Coralth. Accustomed for years to control his features, he remained apparently unmoved—he even smiled; but a close observer could have detected anguish in his eyes, and he had become very pale. At last, unable to endure the scene any longer, he drew a hundred-franc bank-note from his pocketbook, crumpled it in his hand and threw it at Chupin, saying: "That's a very pretty story you are telling, my boy; but we've had enough of it. Take your pay and leave us."

Unfortunately, the note struck Chupin full in the face. He uttered a hoarse cry of rage, and, by the way in which he seized and brandished an empty bottle, it might have been imagined that M. de Coralth was about to have his head broken. But no. Thanks to a supreme effort of will, Chupin conquered this mad fury; and, dropping the bottle, he remarked to the young women who were uttering panic-stricken shrieks: "Be quiet; don't you see that I was only in fun."

But even M. Wilkie had found the fun a little rough, and even dangerous. Several of the young fellows present sprang up, with the evident intention of pushing Chupin out of the room, but he checked them with a gesture. "Don't disturb yourselves, gentlemen," he said. "I'm going, only let me find the bank-note which this gentleman threw at me."

"That's quite proper," replied M. Wilkie, approvingly; "look for it."

Chupin did so, and at last found it lying almost under the piano. "Now," he remarked, "I should like a cigar."

A score or so were lying in a dish. He gravely selected one of them and coolly cut off the end of it before placing it in his mouth. Those around watched him with an air of profound astonishment, not understanding this ironical calmness following so closely upon such a storm of passion. Then he, Victor Chupin, who had, it seems to me, but one aim in life—to become rich—Victor Chupin, who loved money above anything else, and had stifled all other passions in his soul—he who often worked two whole days to earn five francs—he who did not disdain to claim his five sous when he went to hire a cab for his employer—he, Chupin, twisted the bank-note in his fingers, lit it at the gas, and used it to light his cigar.

"Ah! he's crazy!" murmured the yellow-haired damsels, with despair in their voices.

But M. Wilkie was enthusiastic. "There's form!" said he. "Fine form and no mistake!"

But Chupin did not even deign to turn his head. He opened the door, and standing on the threshold, he bowed to M. de Coralth with an ironical smile. "Until we meet again, Monsieur Paul," said he. "And kindly remember me to Madame Paul, if you please."

If the others had been less astonished, they would have no doubt have remarked the prodigious effect of this name upon their brilliant friend. He became ghastly pale and fell back in his chair. Then, suddenly, he bounded up as if he wished to attack his enemy. But pursuit seemed likely to yield no result, for Chupin was already on the boulevard.

It was daybreak. Paris was waking up; the bakers were standing at their doors, and boys in their shirt-sleeves, with their eyes swollen with sleep, were taking down the shutters of the wine-shops. A cloud of dust, raised by the street-sweepers, hung in the distance; the rag-pickers wandered about, peering among the rubbish; the noisy milk-carts jolted along at a gallop, and workmen were proceeding to their daily toil, with hunches of bread in their hands. The morning air was very chilly; nevertheless, Chupin seated himself on a bench across the boulevard, at a spot where he could watch the entrance of the restaurant without being seen. He had just experienced one of those sudden shocks which so disturb the mind, that one becomes insensible to outward circumstances, whatever they may be. He had recognized in the so-called Viscount de Coralth, the man whom he had hated above all others in the world, or, rather, the only man whom he hated, for his was not a bad heart. Impressionable to excess like a true child of the faubourgs, he had the Parisian's strange mobility of feeling. If his anger was kindled by a trifle, the merest nothing usually sufficed to extinguish it. But matters were different respecting this handsome viscount! "God! how I hate him!" he hissed through his set teeth. "God! how I hate him!"

For once, years before, as he had confessed to M. Fortunat, Chupin had been guilty of a cowardly and abominable act, which had nearly cost a man his life. And this crime, if it had been successful, would have benefited the very fellow who concealed his sinful, shameful past under the high-sounding name of Coralth. How was it that Chupin had not recognized him at once? Because he had worked for this fellow without knowing him, receiving his orders through the miserable wretches who pandered to his vices. He had only seen him personally once or twice, and had never spoken to him. Later—too late—he discovered what vile intrigue it was that he had served. And when he became sincerely repentant he loathed this Coralth who had caused his crime.

Nor was this all. The recognition of Coralth had inspired him with remorse. It had aroused in the recesses of his conscience a threatening voice which cried: "What are you doing here? You are acting as a spy for a man you distrust, and whose real designs you are ignorant of. It was in this way you began before. Have you forgotten what it led to? Have you not sin enough already upon your conscience? Blood enough upon your hands? It is folly to pretend that one may serve as a tool for villains, and still remain an honest man!"

It was this voice which had given Chupin the courage to light his cigar with the bank-note. And this voice still tortured him, as seated on the bench he now tried to review the situation. Where, indeed, was he? With rare good luck he had discovered the son whom Madame Lia d'Argeles had so long and successfully concealed. But contrary to all expectations, this young fellow already knew of the inheritance which he was entitled to. M. de Coralth had already achieved what M. Fortunat had meant to do; and so the plan was a failure, and it was useless to persist in it.

This would have ended the matter if Chupin had not chanced to know the Viscount de Coralth's shameful past. And this knowledge changed everything, for it gave him the power to interfere in a most effectual manner. Armed with this secret, he could bestow the victory on M. Fortunat, and force M. de Coralth to capitulate. And he could do this all the more easily, as he was sure that Coralth had not recognized him, and that he was perhaps ignorant of his very existence. Chupin had allowed himself to be carried away by a sudden impulse of anger which he regretted; he had made an ironical illusion to his enemy's past life, but after all this had done no particular harm. So nothing prevented him from lending M. Fortunat his assistance, and thus killing two birds with one stone. He could have his revenge on Coralth, and at the same time insure his patron a large fee, of which he could claim a considerable share for himself. But no! The idea of deriving any profit whatever from this affair inspired him with a feeling of disgust—honor triumphed over his naturally crafty and avaricious nature. It seemed to him that any money made in this way would soil his fingers; for he realized there must be some deep villainy under all this plotting and planning; he was sure of it, since Coralth was mixed up in the affair. "I will serve my guv'nor for nothing," he decided. "When a man is avenged, he's well paid."

Chupin decided upon this course because he could think of no better plan. Still, if he had been master of events he would have acted otherwise. He would have quietly presented the government with this inheritance which he found M. Wilkie so unworthy of. "The devil only knows what he'll do with it," he thought. "He'll squander it as my father squandered the fortune that was given him. It is only fools who meet with such luck as that."

However, his meditations did not prevent him from keeping a close watch over the restaurant, for it was of the utmost importance that M. Wilkie should not escape him. It was now broad daylight, and customers were leaving the establishment; for, after passing what is generally conceded to be a joyous night, they felt the need of returning home to rest and sleep. Chupin watched them as they emerged. There were some who came out with drooping heads, mumbling incoherent phrases; while others who were equally intoxicated, but more nervous, evinced considerable animation, and sang snatches of songs, or jested loudly with the street-sweepers as they passed on. The more sober, surprised by the sunlight, and blushing at themselves, slunk hastily and quietly away. There was one man, moreover, whom the waiters were obliged to carry to his cab, for he could no longer stand on his feet.

At last Chupin saw the individual clad in black whom Wilkie had addressed as Philippe, and who had endeavored to prevent him from entering the restaurant, come out, and walk rapidly away. He was warmly clad in a thick overcoat, but he shivered, and his pale, wan face betrayed the man who is a martyr to the pleasures of others—the man who is condemned to be up all night and sleep only in the daytime—the man who can tell you how much folly and beastliness lurk in the depths of the wine-cup, and who knows exactly how many yawns are expressed by the verb "to amuse one's self." Chupin was beginning to feel uneasy. "Can M. Wilkie and his friends have made their escape?" he wondered.

But at that very moment they made their appearance. They lingered awhile on the pavement to chat, and Chupin had an opportunity of observing the effect of their night's dissipation on their faces. The brilliant sunlight made their eyes blink, and the cold sent purple blotches to their bloated cheeks. As for the young women with yellow hair, they appeared as they really were—hideous. They entered the only cab that remained, the most dilapidated one of all, and the driver of which had no little difficulty in setting his horse in motion; whereupon the gentlemen went off on foot.

Many persons would have been vexed and even humiliated by the necessity of appearing at this hour on the boulevard in disorderly attire, which plainly indicated that they had spent the night in debauchery. But with the exception of the Viscount de Coralth, who was evidently out of humor, the party seemed delighted with themselves, as it was easy to see by the way they met the glances of the passers-by. They considered themselves first-class form—they were producing an effect—they were astonishing people. And what more could they desire?

One thing is certain—they were irritating Chupin terribly. He was following them on the opposite side of the boulevard, at some little distance in the rear, for he was afraid of being recognized. "The wretches!" he growled. "One couldn't draw a pint of manly blood from the veins of all six of them. Ah, if they knew how I hate them!"

But he had not long to nurse his wrath. On reaching the Rue Drouot, two of the gentlemen left the party, and two more went down the Rue Lepelletier. M. Wilkie and the viscount were left to walk down the boulevard alone. They linked their arms and carried on an animated conversation until they reached the Rue du Helder, where they shook hands and separated. What had they said at parting? What agreement had been made between them? Chupin would willingly have given a hundred sous from his private purse to have known. He would have given as much more to have been able to double himself, in order to pursue the viscount, who had started off in the direction of the Madeleine, without having to give up watching and following his friend. But the days of miracles are over. So Chupin sighed, and, following Wilkie, he soon saw him enter No. 48 of the Rue du Helder. The concierge, who was at the door busily engaged in polishing the bell-handle, bowed respectfully. "So there it is!" grumbled Chupin. "I knew he lived there—I knew it by the way that Madame d'Argeles looked at the windows yesterday evening. Poor woman! Ah! her son's a fine fellow and no mistake!"

His compassion for the unhappy mother seemed to recall him to a sense of duty. "Scoundrel that I am!" he exclaimed, striking his forehead with his clenched fist. "Why, I'm forgetting my own good mother!" And as his task was now ended, he started off on the run, taking the shortest cut to the Faubourg Saint-Denis. "Poor mother!" he said to himself as he tore along, "what a night she must have had! She must have cried her eyes out!"

He spoke the truth. The poor woman had passed a night of agony—counting the hours, and trembling each time the door of the house opened, announcing some tenant's return. And as morning approached, her anxiety increased. "For her son would not have allowed her to remain in such suspense," she said to herself, "unless he had met with some accident or encountered some of his former friends—those detestable scamps who had tried to make him as vile as themselves." Perhaps he had met his father, Polyte Chupin, the man whom she still loved in spite of everything, because he was her husband, but whom she judged, and whom indeed she knew, to be capable of any crime. And of all misfortunes, it was an accident, even a fatal accident, that she dreaded least. In her heroic soul the voice of honor spoke even more loudly than the imperious instinct of maternity; and she would rather have found her son lying dead on the marble slabs of the Morgue than seated in the dock at the Assize Court.

Her poor eyes were weary of weeping when she at last recognized Victor's familiar step approaching down the passage. She hastily opened the door, and as soon as she FELT that he was near her, for she could not see him, she asked: "Where have you spent the night? Where have you come from? What has happened?"

His only answer was to fling his arms round her neck, following alike the impulse of his heart and the advice of experience, which told him that this would be the best explanation he could give. Still it did not prevent him from trying to justify himself, although he was careful not to confess the truth, for he dreaded his mother's censure, knowing well enough that she would be less indulgent than his own conscience.

"I believe you, my son," said the good woman, gravely; "you wouldn't deceive me, I'm sure." And she added: "What reassured me, when you kissed me, was that you hadn't been drinking."

Chupin did not speak a word; this confidence made him strangely uneasy. "May I be hung," he thought, "if after this I ever do anything that I can't confess to this poor good woman!"

But he hadn't time for sentimental reflections. He had gone too far to draw back, and it was necessary for him to report the result of his researches as soon as possible. Accordingly, he hastily ate a morsel, for he was faint with hunger, and started out again, promising to return to dinner. He was in all the greater haste as it was Sunday. M. Fortunat was in the habit of passing these days in the country, and Chupin feared he might fail to see him if he was not expeditious in his movements. And while running to the Place de la Bourse, he carefully prepared the story he meant to relate, deeply impressed by the wisdom of the popular maxim which says: "It is not always well to tell the whole truth." Ought he to describe the scene at the restaurant, mention Coralth, and say that there was nothing more to be done respecting M. Wilkie? After mature deliberation he decided in the negative. If he revealed everything, M. Fortunat might become discouraged and abandon the affair. It would be better to let him discover the truth himself, and profit by his anger to indicate a means of vengeance.

It happened that M. Fortunat had decided not to go to the country that Sunday. He had slept later than usual, and was still in his dressing-gown when Chupin made his appearance. He uttered a joyful cry on seeing his emissary, feeling assured that he must be the bearer of good news, since he came so early. "You have succeeded, then?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, monsieur."

"You have discovered Madame d'Argeles's son?"

"I have him."

"Ah! I knew that you were a clever fellow. Quick, tell me everything. But no, wait a moment."

He rang the bell, and Madame Dodelin at once made her appearance. "Put another plate on the table," said the agent. "M. Chupin will breakfast with me—and serve us at once. You agree, don't you, Victor? It's ten o'clock; I'm hungry; and we can talk better over a bottle of wine."

This was a great honor; and it gave Chupin a fitting idea of the value of the service he had rendered. He was not too much elated, however; though he felt very sorry that he had eaten before he came. On his side, M. Fortunat by no means regretted having conferred this favor on his clerk, for the story which the latter related, caused him intense delight. "Very good!—well done," he exclaimed every other minute. "I could not have done better myself. You shall be abundantly rewarded, Victor, if this affair is successful." And at this thought his satisfaction overflowed in a complacent monologue: "Why shouldn't it succeed?" he asked himself. "Could anything be more simple and certain? I can make any demand I please—one, two, three hundred thousand francs. Ah, it was a good thing that the Count de Chalusse died! Now, I can forgive Valorsay. Let him keep my forty thousand francs; he's quite welcome to them! Let him marry Mademoiselle Marguerite; I wish them a large and flourishing family! And Madame d'Argeles, too, has my benediction!"

He was so confident his fortune was made that at noon he could restrain himself no longer. He hired a cab and accompanied by Chupin he set out for M. Wilkie's abode, declaring that he would wake that young gentleman up if needs be, but at all events he must see him without delay. When he reached the Rue du Helder, he told Chupin to wait in the cab, and then entering the house, he asked: "Monsieur Wilkie?"

"On the second floor, the door to the right," replied the concierge.

M. Fortunat ascended the stairs very slowly, for he felt the necessity of regaining all his composure, and it was not until he had brought himself to a proper frame of mind that he rang the bell. A small servant, M. Wilkie's fag, who took his revenge in robbing his employer most outrageously, came to the door, and began by declaring that his master was out of town. But M. Fortunat understood how to force doors open, and his manoeuvres succeeded so well that he was finally allowed to enter a small sitting-room, while the servant went off, saying: "I will go and inform monsieur."

Instead of wasting time in congratulating himself on this first achievement the agent began to inspect the room in which he found himself, as well as another apartment, the door of which stood open. For he was of the opinion that a dwelling-place indicates the character of its inmate, as surely as a shell indicates the form of the creature that inhabits it. M. Wilkie was comfortably lodged; but his rooms were most pretentiously ornamented. They were indeed decorated in more than doubtful taste. There were very few books lying about, but costly riding-whips, spurs, rifles, cartridge-boxes, and all the paraphernalia of a fashionable sporting man, were here in abundance.

The only pictures on the wall were a few portraits of celebrated horses, which foreshadowed the fact that M. Wilkie must have, at least, an eighth share in some well-known racer. After this inspection, M. Fortunat smiled complacently. "This young fellow has expensive tastes," he thought. "It will be very easy to manage him."

However his reflections were interrupted by the return of the servant, who exclaimed: "My master is in the dining-room, and if monsieur will enter——"

The heir-hunter did enter, and found himself face to face with M. Wilkie, who was partaking of a cup of chocolate. He was not only up, but he was dressed to go out—dressed in such a style that he would have been taken for a respectable groom. A couple of hours' sleep had made him himself again; and he had regained the arrogance of manner which was the distinguishing trait of his character, and a sure sign that he was in prosperous circumstances. As his unknown visitor entered he looked up, and bruskly asked: "What do you want?"

"I called on business, monsieur."

"Ah, well! this isn't a favorable moment. I must be at Vincennes for the races. I'm interested in a horse. So, you understand——"

M. Fortunat was secretly amused by M. Wilkie's nonchalance. "The young fellow won't be in so much of a hurry when he learns my business," he thought. And he replied aloud: "I can explain what brings me in a few words, monsieur."

"Proceed, then."

M. Fortunat began by closing the door which had been intentionally left open by the servant; and then, returning to M. Wilkie's side, he began with an air of the greatest mystery: "What would you give a shrewd man if he suddenly placed you in undisputed possession of an immense fortune—of a million—two millions, perhaps?"

He had prepared this little effect most carefully, and he fully expected to see Wilkie fall on his knees before him. But not at all; the young gentleman's face never moved a muscle; and it was in the calmest possible tone, and with his mouth half full that he replied: "I know the rest. You come, don't you, to sell me the secret of an unclaimed inheritance, which belongs to me? Very well, you have come too late."

If the ceiling had fallen and crushed M. Fortunat there and then he would, mentally at least, have not been in a more pitiable condition. He stood silent, motionless, utterly confounded, with his mouth wide open, and such an expression of consternation in his eyes that M. Wilkie burst into a hearty laugh. Still the agent struggled against fate, and ultimately faltered: "Let me explain—permit me——"

"Oh, it would be useless. I know my rights. I have already arranged with a party to prosecute my claims; the agreement will be signed on the day after to-morrow."

"With whom?"

"Ah, excuse me; that's my affair."

He had finished his chocolate, and he now poured out a glass of ice-water, drank it, wiped his mouth, and rose from the table. "You will excuse me, my dear sir, if I leave you," he remarked. "As I said before, I am going to Vincennes. I have staked a thousand louis on 'Pompier de Nanterre,' my horse, and my friends have ventured ten times as much. Who knows what may happen if I'm not there at the start?" And then, ignoring M. Fortunat as completely as if he had not existed, M. Wilkie exclaimed: "Toby, you fool! where are you? Is my carriage below? Quick, bring me my cane, my gloves, and my glasses. Take down that basket of champagne. Run and put on your new livery. Make haste, you little beast, I shall be too late."

M. Fortunat left the room. The frightful anger that had followed his idiotic stupor sent his blood rushing madly to his brain. A purple mist swam before his eyes; there was a loud ringing in his ears, and with each pulsation of his heart his head seemed to receive a blow from a heavy hammer. His feelings were so terrible that he was really frightened. "Am I about to have an attack of apoplexy?" he wondered. And, as every surrounding object seemed to whirl around him, the very floor itself apparently rising and falling under his feet, he remained on the landing waiting for this horrible vertigo to subside and doing his best to reason with himself. It was fully five minutes before he dared to risk the descent; and even when he reached the street, his features were so frightfully distorted that Chupin trembled.

He sprang out, assisted his employer into the cab, and bade the driver return to the Place de la Bourse. It was really pitiful to see the despair which had succeeded M. Fortunat's joyful confidence. "This is the end of everything," he groaned. "I'm robbed, despoiled, ruined! And such a sure thing as it seemed. These misfortunes happen to no one but me! Some one in advance of me! Some one else will capture the prize! Oh, if I knew the wretch, if I only knew him!"

"One moment," interrupted Chupin; "I think know the man."

M. Fortunat gave a violent start. "Impossible!" he exclaimed.

"Excuse me, monsieur—it must be a vile rascal named Coralth."

It was a bellow rather than a cry of rage that escaped M. Fortunat's lips. To a man of his experience, only a glimmer of light was required to reveal the whole situation. "Ah! I understand!—I see!" he exclaimed. "Yes, you are right, Victor; it's he—Coralth—Valorsay's tool! Coralth was the traitor who, in obedience to Valorsay's orders, ruined the man who loved Mademoiselle Marguerite. The deed was done at Madame d'Argeles's house. So Coralth knows her, and knows her secret. It's he who has outwitted me." He reflected for a moment, and then, in a very different tone, he said: "I shall never see a penny of the count's millions, and my forty thousand francs are gone forever; but, as Heaven hears me, I will have some satisfaction for my money. Ah!—so Coralth and Valorsay combine to ruin me! Very well!—since this is the case, I shall espouse the cause of Mademoiselle Marguerite and of the unfortunate man they've ruined. Ah, my cherubs, you don't know Fortunat yet! Now well see if the innocent don't get the best of you, and if they don't unmask you. I shall do my best, since you have forced me to do it—and gratis too!"

Chupin was radiant; his vengeance was assured. "And I, monsieur," said he, "will give you some information about this Coralth. First of all, the scoundrel's married and his wife keeps a tobacco-shop somewhere near the Route d'Asnieres. I'll find her for you—see if I don't."

The sudden stopping of the vehicle which had reached the Place de la Bourse, cut his words short. M. Fortunat ordered him to pay the driver, while he himself rushed upstairs, eager to arrange his plan of campaign—to use his own expression. In his absence a commissionaire had brought a letter for him which Madame Dodelin now produced. He broke the seal, and read to his intense surprise: "Monsieur—I am the ward of the late Count de Chalusse. I must speak to you. Will you grant me an interview on Wednesday next, at a quarter-past three o'clock? Yours respectfully,

"MARGUERITE."



XX.

When Mademoiselle Marguerite left the dead count's bedside at ten o'clock at night to repair to Pascal Ferailleur's house, she did not yet despair of the future. Father, friend, rank, security, fortune—she had lost all these in a single moment—but she could still see a promise of happiness in the distance.

She suffered undoubtedly, and yet she experienced a sort of bitter pleasure at the thought of uniting her life to the man who was as unfortunate as herself, who was slandered as she herself had been slandered, branded with the most cruel and unjust imputations, and had neither fortune nor friends. Others might scorn them; but what did they care for the world's disdain so long as they had the approval of their consciences? Would not their mutual esteem suffice since they loved each other? It seemed to Marguerite that their very misfortunes would bind them more closely to each other, and cement the bonds of their love more strongly. And if it were absolutely necessary for them to leave France—ah, well! they would leave it. To them Fatherland would always be the spot where they lived together.

As the cab approached the Rue d'Ulm she pictured Pascal's sorrow, and the joy and surprise he would feel when she suddenly appeared before him, and faltered: "They accuse you—here I am! I know that you are innocent, and I love you!"

But the brutal voice of the concierge, informing her of Pascal's secret departure, in the most insulting terms, abruptly dispelled her dreams. If Pascal had failed her, everything had failed her. If she had lost him, she had lost her all. The world seemed empty—struggling would be folly—happiness was only an empty name. She indeed longed for death!

Madame Leon who had a set of formulas adapted to all circumstances, undertook to console her. "Weep, my dear young lady, weep; it will do you good. Ah! this is certainly a horrible catastrophe. You are young, fortunately, and Time is a great consoler. M. Ferailleur isn't the only man on earth. Others will love you. There are others who love you already!"

"Silence!" interrupted Marguerite, more revolted than if she had heard a libertine whispering shameful proposals in her ear. "Silence! I forbid you to add another word." To speak of another—what sacrilege! Poor girl. She was one of those whose life is bound up in one love alone, and if that fails them—it is death!

The thought that she was utterly alone added to the horror of her situation. Whom could she depend upon? Not on Madame Leon. She distrusted her; she had no confidence whatever in her. Should she ask for the advice of either of her suitors? The Marquis de Valorsay inspired her with unconquerable aversion, and she despised the so-called General de Fondege. So her only friend, her only protector was a stranger, the old justice of the peace who had taken her defence, by crushing the slander of the servants, and whom she had opened her heart to. But he would soon forget her, she thought; and the future, such as it was presented to her imagination, seemed a terrible one. However, she was too courageous to remain for long in despair—she struggled against her sorrow; and the thought that she might, perhaps, reach Pascal through M. Fortunat at last occurred to her mind. This hope was her sole chance of salvation. She clung to it as a shipwrecked mariner clings to the plank which is his only hope of life.

When she returned to the mansion her mind was made up, and she had regained her usual composure. For ten minutes or so she had been praying by the count's bedside, when M. Bourigeau, the concierge, appeared and handed her a letter which had just been brought to the house. It was addressed to "Mademoiselle Marguerite de Durtal de Chalusse, at the Hotel de Chalusse, Rue de Courcelles."

Mademoiselle Marguerite blushed. Who was it that addressed her by this name which she no longer had the right to bear? She studied the handwriting for a moment, but she did not remember ever having seen it before. At last, however, she opened the letter and read: "My dear, dear child." "Dear child!" indeed. What could this mean? Was there any one in the world sufficiently interested in her welfare, or loving her enough, to address her in this style? She quickly turned the sheet to see the signature; and when her eyes fell on it she turned pale. "Ah!" she exclaimed, involuntarily, "ah! ah!"

The letter was signed: "Athenais de Fondege." It had been written by the General's wife. She resumed her perusal of it, and this is what she read: "I this instant hear of the cruel loss you have sustained, and also learn that, for want of testamentary provisions, the poor Count de Chalusse leaves you, his idolized daughter, almost without resources. I will not attempt to offer you consolation, God alone can assuage certain sorrows. I should come and weep with you if I were not kept in bed by illness. But to-morrow, whatever happens, I shall be with you before breakfast. It is at such a time as this, my poor dear afflicted child, that one can tell one's true friends; and we are yours as I hope to prove. The General feels that he should be insulting and betraying the memory of a man who was his dearest friend for thirty years, if he did not take the count's place, if he did not become your second father. He has offered you our modest home; you have refused. Why? With the authority conferred upon me by my age and my position as the mother of a family, I tell you that you ought to accept. What other course can you possibly think of? Where would you go, my poor, dear child? But we will discuss this matter to-morrow. I shall find a way to persuade you to love us, and to allow yourself to be loved. In MY heart you will fill the place of the beloved and lamented daughter I have lost—my beautiful and gentle Bathilde. Once more I say farewell until to-morrow—trusting that you will accept the sympathy and affection of your best friend,

"ATHENAIS DE FONDEGE."

Mademoiselle Marguerite was thunderstruck, for the writer of this epistle was a lady whom she had only met five or six times, who had never visited her, and with whom she had scarcely exchanged twenty words. Moreover, she well remembered certain glances with which Madame de Fondege had, on one occasion, tried to crush her—glances so full of cruel contempt that they had drawn bitter tears of sorrow, shame, and anger, from the poor girl. The count himself had said to her at the time: "Don't be so childish, Marguerite, as to trouble yourself about this foolish and impudent woman."

And now this same woman sent her a letter overflowing with sympathy, and claimed her affection and confidence in the tone of an old and tried friend. Was such a change natural? Not being what is called a credulous person, Mademoiselle Marguerite was unable to believe it. She divined that Madame de Fondege must have had some hidden motive in writing such a letter—but what motive was it? Alas! she divined this also only too well. The General, suspecting that she had stolen the missing money, had imparted his suspicions to his wife; and she, being as avaricious and as unscrupulous as himself, was doing her best to secure the booty for her son. Such a calculation is a common one nowadays. Steal yourself? Fie. never! You would not dare. Besides, you are honest. But it is quite a different thing to profit by other people's rascality. Besides, there are no risks to be encountered.

On perusing the letter a second time, it seemed to Mademoiselle Marguerite that she could hear the General and his wife discussing the means of obtaining a share of the two millions. She could hear Madame de Fondege saying to her husband: "You are a block-head! You frightened the girl by your precipitancy and roughness. But fortunately, I'm here. Let me manage the affair; and I'll prove that women are far more clever than men." And, thereupon, she had seized her pen, and commenced this letter. In Mademoiselle Marguerite's opinion, the epistle betrayed the joint efforts of the pair. She could have sworn that the husband had dictated the sentence: "The General feels that he should be insulting and betraying the memory of a man who was his dearest friend for thirty years, if he did not become your second father." On the other hand, the phrase, "I shall find a way to persuade you to love us, and to allow yourself to be loved," was unmistakably the wife's work. The writer's insincerity was fully revealed by one passage of the letter. "You will fill the place of the beloved daughter I have lost," wrote Madame de Fondege. It is true that she had once had a daughter; but the child had died of croup when only six months old, and more than twenty-five years previously.

It was strange, moreover, that this letter had not been sent until ten o'clock in the evening; but, on reflection, Mademoiselle Marguerite was able to explain this circumstance satisfactorily to herself. Before taking any decided step, M. and Madame de Fondege had wished to consult their son; and they had been unable to see him until late in the evening. However, as soon as the brilliant hussar had approved the noble scheme concocted by his parents, a servant had been dispatched with the letter. All these surmises were surely very plausible; but it was difficult to reconcile them with the opinion advanced by the magistrate—that M. de Fondege must know what had become of the missing millions.

Mademoiselle Marguerite did not think of this, however. She was losing her presence of mind at thought of the odious suspicions which rested on her, suspicions which she had seemed to read in the eyes of all who approached her, from Dr. Jodon to the Marquis de Valorsay. It is true that the magistrate had taken her defence; he had silenced the servants, but would that suffice? Would she not remain branded by an abominable accusation? And even the consciousness of her innocence did not reassure her, for Pascal's case warned her that innocence is not a sufficient safeguard against slander.

Could she hope to escape when he had succumbed? She could tell by the agony that was torturing her own heart, how much he must have suffered. Where was he now? Beyond the frontiers of France? They had told her so, but she did not, could not believe it. Knowing him as she knew him, it seemed to her impossible that he had accepted his fate so quickly and without a struggle. A secret presentiment told her that his absence was only feigned, that he was only biding his time, and that M. Fortunat would not have far to go in search of him. It was in M. de Chalusse's bedroom that she thus reflected, but a few steps from the bed on which reposed all that was mortal of the man whose weakness had made her life one long martyrdom, whose want of foresight had ruined her future, but whom she had not the heart to censure. She was standing in front of the window with her burning forehead resting against the glass. At that very moment Pascal was waiting, seated on the curbstone opposite the mansion. At that very moment he was watching the shadow on the window-curtain, wondering if it were not Marguerite's. If the night had been clear she might have discerned the motionless watcher in the street below, and divined that it was Pascal. But how could she suspect his presence? How could she suspect that he had hastened to the Rue de Courcelles as she had hastened to the Rue d'Ulm?

It was almost midnight when a slight noise, a sound of stealthy footsteps, made her turn. Madame Leon was leaving the room, and a moment later Marguerite heard the house-door leading into the garden open and shut again. There was nothing extraordinary about such an occurrence, and yet a strange misgiving assailed her. Why, she could not explain; but many trivial circumstances, suddenly invested with a new and alarming significance, recurred to her mind. She remembered that Madame Leon had been restless and nervous all the evening. The housekeeper, who was usually so inactive, who lounged in her arm-chair for hours together, had been moving uneasily about, going up and down stairs at least a dozen times, and continually glancing at her watch or the clock. Twice, moreover, had the concierge come to tell her that some one wished to see her. "Where can she be going now, at midnight?" thought Mademoiselle Marguerite; "she who is usually so timid?"

At first, the girl resisted her desire to solve the question; her suspicions seemed absurd to her, and, besides, it was distasteful to her to play the spy. Still, she listened, waiting to hear Madame Leon re-enter the house. But more than a quarter of an hour elapsed, and yet the door did not open or close again. Either Madame Leon had not left the house at all, or else she was still outside. "This is very strange!" thought Mademoiselle Marguerite. "Was I mistaken? I must convince myself." And, obeying a mysterious influence, stronger than her own will, she left the room and went down the stairs. She had reached the hall, when the garden door suddenly opened, and Madame Leon came in. The lights in the hall were burning brightly, so that it was easy to observe the housekeeper's manner and countenance. She was panting for breath, like a person who had been running. She was very pale, and her dress was disordered. Her cap-strings were untied, and her cap had slipped from her head and was hanging over her shoulders. "What is the matter with you?" asked Mademoiselle Marguerite in astonishment. "Where have you been?"

On seeing the girl Madame Leon recoiled. Should she fly off or remain? She hesitated for an instant; and it was easy to read her hesitation in her eyes. She decided to remain; but it was with a constrained smile and in an unnatural voice that she replied: "Why do you speak to me like that, my dear young lady? One might suppose you were angry with me. You must know very well that I've been in the garden!"

"At this hour of the night?"

"MON DIEU! yes—and not for pleasure, I assure you—not by any means—I—I——" She was evidently seeking for some excuse; and, for a moment or two, she stammered forth one incoherent sentence after another, trying to gain time and imploring Heaven to grant her an inspiration.

"Well?" insisted Mademoiselle Marguerite, impatiently. "Why did you go out?"

"Ah! I—I—thought I heard Mirza barking in the garden. I thought she had been forgotten in all the confusion, and that the poor creature had been shut out, so I summoned all my courage, and——"

Mirza was an old spaniel that M. de Chalusse had been very fond of, and the animal's caprices were respected by all the inmates of the house.

"That's very strange," remarked Mademoiselle Marguerite, "for when you rose to leave the room, half an hour ago, Mirza was sleeping at your feet."

"What—really—is it possible?"

"It's certain."

But the worthy woman had already recovered her self-possession and her accustomed loquacity at the same time. "Ah! my dear young lady," she said, bravely, "I'm in such sorrow that I'm losing my senses completely. Still, it was only from the kindest of motives that I ventured into the garden, and I had scarcely entered it before I saw something white run away from me—I felt sure it was Mirza—and so I ran after it. But I could find nothing. I called 'Mirza! Mirza!' and still nothing. I searched under all the trees, and yet I could not find her. It was as dark as pitch, and suddenly a terrible fear seized hold of me—such a terrible fright that I really believe I called for help, and I ran back to the house half crazed."

Any one hearing her would have sworn that she was telling the truth. But, unfortunately, her earlier manner had proved her guilt.

Mademoiselle Marguerite was not deceived when she said to herself: "I am on the track of some abominable act." However, she had sufficient self-control to conceal her suspicions; and she pretended to be perfectly satisfied with the explanation which the house-keeper had concocted. "Ah, my dear Leon, you are altogether too timid; it's absurd," she said, kindly.

The housekeeper hung her head. "I know that I make myself ridiculous," she said, humbly. "But how can I help it? When a person's frightened, she can't reason. And that white object which I saw, as plainly as I see you, what could it have been?" And, convinced that her fable was believed, she grew bolder, and ventured to add: "Oh, my dear young lady, I shall tremble all night if the garden isn't searched. Pray send the servants out to look. There are so many thieves and rascals in Paris!"

Under any other circumstances Mademoiselle Marguerite would have refused to listen to this ridiculous request; but, determined to repay the hypocrite in her own coin, she replied. "Very well; it shall be done." And calling M. Casimir and Bourigeau, the concierge, she ordered them to take a lantern and explore the garden carefully.

They obeyed, though with rather bad grace, not being particularly courageous, either of them, and, of course, they found nothing.

"No matter," said Madame Leon, "I feel safe now." And she did indeed feel more tranquil in mind. "I had a lucky escape!" she said to herself. "What would have become of me, if Mademoiselle Marguerite had discovered the truth?"

But the housekeeper congratulated herself on her victory too soon. Mademoiselle Marguerite not only suspected her of treason, but she was endeavoring to procure proofs of it. She felt certain that the plausible housekeeper had deceived her, and cruelly wronged her as well. But what she could not understand was, how Madame Leon had been able to do so. She had spent a long time in fruitless conjectures, when suddenly she remembered the little garden gate. "The deceitful creature must have used that gate," she thought.

It was easy for her to verify her suspicion. The little gate had not been exactly condemned, but many months had elapsed since it had been used; so it would be a very simple matter to ascertain whether it had been recently opened or not. "And I will know for certain before an hour has passed," said Mademoiselle Marguerite to herself.

Having come to this conclusion, she feigned sleep, keeping a sharp watch over Madame Leon from between her half-closed eyelids. The housekeeper, after twisting uneasily in her arm-chair, at last became quiet again; and it was soon evident that she was sleeping soundly. Thereupon Mademoiselle Marguerite rose to her feet and stole noiselessly from the room downstairs into the garden. She had provided herself with a candle and some matches, and as soon as she struck a light, she saw that her surmises were correct. The little gate had just been opened and closed again. The cobwebs round about the bolts were torn and broken; the rust which had filled the keyhole had been removed, and on the dust covering the lock the impress of a hand could be detected. "And I have confided my most precious secrets to this wicked woman!" thought Mademoiselle Marguerite. "Fool that I was!"

Already thoroughly convinced, she extinguished her candle. Still, having discovered so much, she wished to pursue her investigation to the end, and so she opened the little gate. The ground outside had been soaked by the recent rains, and had not yet dried, and by the light of the neighboring street-lamp, she plainly distinguished a number of well-defined footprints on the muddy soil. An experienced observer would have realized by the disposition of these footprints that something like a struggle had taken place here; but Mademoiselle Marguerite was not sufficiently expert for that. She only understood what a child would have understood—that two people had been standing here for some time. Poor girl! She had not seen Pascal when he was sitting in front of the mansion some hours before! And now no presentiment warned her that these footprints were his. In her opinion, the man who had been talking with Madame Leon was either M. de Fondege, or the Marquis de Valorsay—that is to say, Madame Leon was hired to watch her and to render an account of all she said and did.

Her first impulse was to denounce and dismiss this miserable hypocrite; but as she was returning to the house, an idea which an old diplomatist need not have been ashamed of entered her mind. She said to herself that as Madame Leon was unmasked she was no longer to be feared; so why should she be sent away? "A known spy can undoubtedly be made a most valuable auxiliary. Why shouldn't I make use of this wicked woman?" thought Mademoiselle Marguerite. "I can conceal from her what I don't wish her to know, and with a little skill I can make her carry to her employers such information as will serve my plans. By watching her, I shall soon discover my enemy; and who knows if, by this means, I may not succeed in finding an explanation of the fatality that pursues me?"

When Mademoiselle Marguerite returned to her place beside the count's bedside, she had calmly and irrevocably made up her mind. She would not only retain Madame Leon in her service, but she would display even greater confidence in her than before. Such a course was most repugnant to Marguerite's loyal, truthful nature; but reason whispered to her that in fighting with villains, it is often necessary to use their weapons; and she had her honor, her life, and her future to defend. A strange and but imperfectly defined suspicion had entered her mind. To-night, for the first time, she thought she could discover a mysterious connection between Pascal's misfortunes and her own. Was it mere chance which had struck them at the same time, and in much the same manner? Who would have profited by the abominable crime which had dishonored her lover, had it not been for M. de Chalusse's death and her own firmness? Evidently the Marquis de Valorsay, for whom Pascal's flight had left the field clear.

All these thoughts were well calculated to drive away sleep; but the poor girl was only twenty, and it was the second night she had watched by the count's bedside. Thus at last fatigue overcame her, and she fell asleep.

In the morning, about seven o'clock, Madame Leon was obliged to shake her to rouse her from the kind of lethargy into which she had fallen. "Mademoiselle," said the housekeeper, in her honeyed voice; "dear mademoiselle, wake up at once!"

"What is the matter? What is it?"

"Ah! how can I explain? My dear young lady, the undertaker's men have come to make arrangements for the ceremony."

Those in charge of the last rites had indeed arrived, and their heavy tread could be heard in the hall and in the courtyard. M. Casimir, who was bursting with self-sufficiency, hurried here, there? and everywhere, indicating, with an imperious gesture, where he wished the black hangings, embroidered with silver and emblazoned with the De Chalusse arms, to be suspended. As the magistrate had given him carte-blanche, he deemed it proper, as he remarked to Concierge Bourigeau, to have everything done in grand style. But he took good care not to reveal the fact that he had exacted a very handsome commission from all the people he employed. The hundred francs derived from Chupin had only whetted his appetite for more. At all events, he had certainly spared no pains in view of having everything as magnificent as possible; and it was not until he considered the display thoroughly satisfactory that he went to warn Mademoiselle Marguerite. "I come to beg mademoiselle to retire to her own room," he said.

"Retire—why?"

He did not reply by words, but pointed to the bed on which the body was lying, and the poor girl realized that the moment of eternal separation had come. She rose, and dragged herself to the bedside. Death had now effaced all traces of the count's last agony. His face wore its accustomed expression again, and it might have been fancied that he was asleep. For a long time Mademoiselle Marguerite stood looking at him, as if to engrave the features she would never behold again upon her memory. "Mademoiselle," insisted M. Casimir; "mademoiselle, do not remain here."

She heard him, and summoning all her strength, she leaned over the bed, kissed M. de Chalusse, and went away. But she was too late, for in passing through the hall she encountered the undertakers, who carried on their shoulders a long metallic case enclosed in two oaken ones. And she had scarcely reached her own room before a smell of resin told her that the men were closing the coffin which contained all that was mortal of M. de Chalusse, her father.

So, none of those terrible details, which so increase one's grief, were spared her. But she had already suffered so much that she had reached a state of gloomy apathy, almost insensibility; and the exercise of her faculties was virtually suspended. Whiter than marble, she fell, rather than seated herself, on a chair, scarcely perceiving Madame Leon, who had followed her.

The worthy housekeeper was greatly excited, and not without cause. As there were no relations, it had been decided that M. de Fondege, the count's oldest friend, should do the honors of the mansion to the persons invited to attend the funeral; and he had sworn that he would be under arms at daybreak, and that they might positively depend upon him. But the hour fixed for the ceremony was approaching, several persons had already arrived, and yet M. de Fondege had not put in an appearance. "It is incomprehensible," exclaimed Madame Leon. "The General is usually punctuality personified. He must have met with some accident." And in her anxiety she stationed herself at the window, whence she could command a view of the courtyard, carefully scrutinizing every fresh arrival.

At last, about half-past nine o'clock, she suddenly exclaimed: "Here he is! Do you hear, mademoiselle, here's the General!"

A moment later, indeed, there was a gentle rap at the door, and M. de Fondege entered. "Ah, I'm late!" he exclaimed; "but, dash it all! it's not my fault!" And, struck by Mademoiselle Marguerite's immobility, he advanced and took her hand. "And you, my dear little one, what is the matter with you?" he asked. "Have you been ill? You are frightfully pale."

She succeeded in shaking off the torpor which was stealing over her, and replied in a faint voice; "I am not ill, monsieur."

"So much the better, my dear child, so much the better. It is our little heart that is suffering, is it not? Yes—yes—I understand. But your old friends will console you. You received my wife's letter, did you not? Ah, well! what she told you, she will do—she will do it. And to prove it, in spite of her illness, she followed me—in fact, she is here!"



XXI.

Mademoiselle Marguerite sprang to her feet, quivering with indignation. Her eyes sparkled and her lips trembled as she threw back her head with a superb gesture of scorn, which loosened her beautiful dark hair, and caused it to fall in rippling masses over her shoulders. "Ah! Madame de Fondege is here!" she repeated, in a tone of crushing contempt—"Madame de Fondege, your wife, here!"

It seemed to her an impossibility to receive the hypocrite who had written the letter of the previous evening—the accomplice of the scoundrels who took advantage of her wretchedness and isolation. Her heart revolted at the thought of meeting this woman, who had neither conscience nor shame, who could stoop so low as to intrigue for the millions which she fancied had been stolen. Mademoiselle Marguerite was about to forbid her to enter, or to retire herself, when the thought of her determination to act stealthily restrained her. She instantly realized her imprudence, and, mastering herself with a great effort, she murmured: "Madame de Fondege is too kind! How can I ever express my gratitude?"

Madame de Fondege must have heard this, for at the same moment she entered the room. She was short, and very stout—a faded blonde, with her complexion spoilt by a multitude of freckles. She had very large hands, broad, thick feet, and a shrill voice; and the vulgarity of her appearance was all the more noticeable on account of her pretensions to elegance. For although her father had been a wood-merchant, she boasted of her exalted birth, and endeavored to impress people with the magnificence of her style of living, though her fortune was problematical, and her household conducted in the most frugal style. Her attire suggested a continual conflict between elegance and economy—between real poverty and feigned prodigality. She wore a corsage and overskirt of black satin; but the upper part of the underskirt, which was not visible, was made of lute-string costing thirty sous a yard, and her laces were Chantilly only in appearance. Still, her love of finery had never carried her so far as shop-lifting, or induced her to part with her honor for gewgaws—irregularities which are so common nowadays, even among wives and mothers of families, that people are no longer astonished to hear of them.

No—Madame de Fondege was a faithful wife, in the strict and legal sense of the word. But how she revenged herself! She was "virtuous;" but so dangerously virtuous that one might have supposed she was so against her will, and that she bitterly regretted it. She ruled her husband with a rod of iron. And he who was so terrible in appearance, he who twirled his ferocious mustaches in such a threatening manner, he who swore horribly enough to make an old hussar blush, became more submissive than a child, and more timid than a lamb when he was beside his wife. He trembled when she turned her pale blue eyes upon him in a certain fashion. And woe to him if he ventured to rebel. She suppressed his pocket-money, and during these penitential seasons he was reduced to the necessity of asking his friends to lend him twenty-franc pieces, which he generally forgot to return.

Madame de Fondege was, as a rule, most imperious, envious, and spiteful in disposition; but on coming to the Hotel de Chalusse she had provided herself with any amount of sweetness and sensibility, and when she entered the room, she held her handkerchief to her lips as if to stifle her sobs. The General led her toward Mademoiselle Marguerite, and, in a semi-solemn, semi-sentimental tone, he exclaimed: "Dear Athenais, this is the daughter of my best and oldest friend. I know your heart—I know that she will find in you a second mother."

Mademoiselle Marguerite stood speechless and rigid. Persuaded that Madame de Fondege was about to throw her arms round her neck and kiss her, she was imposing the most terrible constraint upon herself, in order to conceal her horror and aversion. But she was unnecessarily alarmed. The hypocrisy of the General's wife was superior to that of Madame Leon. Madame de Fondege contented herself with pressing Mademoiselle Marguerite's hands and faltering: "What a misfortune! So young—so sudden! It is frightful!" And, as she received no reply, she added, with an air of sorrowful dignity: "I dare not ask your full confidence, my dear unfortunate child. Confidence can be born only of long acquaintance and mutual esteem. But you will learn to know me. You will give me that sweet name of mother when I shall have deserved it."

Standing at a little distance off, the General listened with the air of a man who has a profound respect for his wife's ability. "Now the ice is broken," he thought, "it will be strange if Athenais doesn't do whatever she pleases with that little savage."

His hopes were so brightly reflected upon his countenance, that Madame Leon, who was furtively watching him, became alarmed. "Ah! what do these people want?" she said to herself; "and what do all these endearments mean? Upon my word, I must warn my patron at once." And, fancying that no one noticed her, she slipped quietly and noiselessly from the room.

But Mademoiselle Marguerite was on the watch. Determined to fathom the plotting that was going on around her, and frustrate it, she realized that everything depended upon her watchfulness and her ability to profit even by the most futile incidents. She had noticed the General's triumphant smile, and the look of anxiety that had suddenly clouded Madame Leon's face. So, without troubling herself about "the proprieties," she asked M. and Madame de Fondege to excuse her for a second, and darted alter the housekeeper. Ah! she did not need to go far. Leaning over the banisters, she saw Madame Leon and the Marquis de Valorsay in earnest conversation in the hall below; the marquis as phlegmatic and as haughty as usual, but the house-keeper fairly excited. Marguerite at once understood that as Madame Leon knew that the marquis was among the funeral guests, she had gone to warn him of Madame de Fondege's presence. This trivial circumstance proved that M. de Fondege's interests were opposed to those of M. de Valorsay; that they must, therefore, hate each other, and that, with a little patience and skill, she might utilize them, one against the other. It also proved that Madame Leon was the Marquis de Valorsay's paid spy and that he must therefore have long been aware of Pascal's existence. But she lacked the time to follow out this train of thought. Her absence might awaken the Fondeges' suspicions; and her success depended on letting them suppose that she was their dupe. She therefore returned to them as soon as possible, excusing herself for her abrupt departure as well as she could; but she was not accustomed to deceive, and her embarrassment might have betrayed her had it not been for the General, who fortunately interrupted her by saying: "I, too, must excuse myself, my dear child; but Madame de Fondege will remain with you. I must fulfil a sacred duty. They are waiting for me downstairs, and they are no doubt becoming impatient. It is the first time in my life that I was ever behind time."

The General was right in losing no more time. At least a hundred and fifty guests had assembled in the reception-rooms on the ground floor, and they were beginning to think it very strange that they should be kept waiting in this style. And yet curiosity somewhat tempered their impatience. Some of the strange circumstances attending the count's death had been noised abroad; and some well-informed persons declared that a fabulous sum of money had been stolen by a young girl. It is true, they did not think this embezzlement a positive crime. It certainly proved that the young lady in question possessed a strong and determined character; and many of the proudest among the guests would gladly have taken the place of De Valorsay, who, it was rumored, was about to marry the pretty thief and her millions.

The person who was most disturbed by the delay was the master of the ceremonies. Arrayed in his best uniform, his thin legs encased in black silk stockings, his mantle thrown gracefully over his shoulders, and his cocked hat under his arm, he was looking anxiously about for some one in the assembled crowd to whom he could give the signal for departure. He was already talking of starting off when M. de Fondege appeared. The friends of M. de Chalusse who were to hold the cords of the pall came forward. There was a moment's confusion, then the hearse started, and the whole cortege filed out of the courtyard.

Deep silence followed, so deep that the noise made in closing the heavy gates came upon one with startling effect. "Ah!" moaned Madame de Fondege, "it is over."

Marguerite's only reply was a despairing gesture. It would have been impossible for her to articulate a syllable—her tears were choking her. What would she not have given to be alone at this moment—to have been able to abandon herself without constraint to her emotions! Alas! prudence condemned her to play a part even now. The thought of her future and her honor lent her strength to submit to the deceitful consolations of a woman whom she knew to be a dangerous enemy. And the General's wife was by no means sparing of her consolatory phrases; in fact, it was only after a long homily on the uncertainty of life below that she ventured to approach the subject of her letter of the previous evening. "For it is necessary to face the inevitable," she pursued. "The troublesome realities of life have no respect for our grief. So it is with you, my dear child; you would find a bitter pleasure in giving vent to your sorrow, but you are compelled to think of your future. As M. de Chalusse has no heirs, this house will be closed—you can remain here no longer."

"I know it, madame."

"Where will you go?"

"Alas! I don't know."

Madame de Fondege raised her handkerchief to her eyes as if to wipe a furtive tear away, and then, almost roughly, she exclaimed: "I must tell you the truth, my child. Listen to me. I see only two courses for you to adopt. Either to ask the protection of some respectable family, or to enter a convent. This is your only hope of safety."

Mademoiselle Marguerite bowed her head, without replying. To learn the plans which the General's wife had formed she must let her disclose them. However, the girl's silence seemed to make Madame de Fondege uncomfortable, and at last she resumed: "Is it possible that you think of braving the perils of life alone? I cannot believe it! It would be madness. Young, beautiful, and attractive as you are, it is impossible for you to live unprotected. Even if you had sufficient strength of character to lead a pure and honest life, the world would none the less refuse you its esteem. Mere prejudice, you say? You are quite right; but it is nevertheless true that a young girl who braves public opinion is lost."

It was easy to see by Madame de Fondege's earnestness that she feared Mademoiselle Marguerite would avail herself of this opportunity of recovering her liberty. "What shall I do, then?" asked the girl.

"There is the convent."

"But I love life."

"Then ask the protection of some respectable family."

"The idea of being in any one's charge is disagreeable to me."

Strange to say, Madame de Fondege did not protest, did not speak of her own house. She was too proud for that. Having once offered hospitality, she thought it would arouse suspicion if she insisted. So she contented herself with enumerating the arguments for and against the two propositions, remarking from time to time: "Come, you must decide! Don't wait until the last moment!"

Mademoiselle Marguerite had already decided but before announcing her decision she wished to confer with the only friend she had in the world—the old justice of the peace. On the previous evening he had said to her: "Farewell until to-morrow," and knowing that his work in the house had not been concluded, she was extremely surprised that he had not yet put in an appearance.

While conversing with Madame de Fondege she had dexterously avoided compromising herself in any way when suddenly a servant appeared and announced the magistrate's arrival. He entered the room, with his usual benevolent smile upon his lips, but his searching eyes were never once taken off Madame de Fondege's face. He bowed, made a few polite remarks, and then addressing Marguerite, he said: "I must speak with you, mademoiselle, at once. You may tell madame, however, that you will certainly return in less than a quarter of an hour."

Marguerite followed him, and when they were alone in the count's study and the doors had been carefully closed, the magistrate exclaimed: "I have been thinking a great deal of you, my child, a great deal; and it seems to me that I can explain certain things which worried you yesterday. But first of all, what has happened since I left you?"

Briefly, but with remarkable precision, Marguerite recounted the various incidents which had occurred—her useless journey to the Rue d'Ulm, Madame Leon's strange midnight ramble and conversation with the Marquis de Valorsay, Madame de Fondege's letter, and lastly, her visit and all that she had said.

The magistrate listened with his eyes fixed on his ring "This is very serious, very serious," he said at last. "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps M. Ferailleur is innocent. And yet, why should he abscond? why should he leave the country?"

"Ah! monsieur, Pascal's flight is only feigned. He is in Paris—concealed somewhere—I'm sure of it; and I know a man who will find him for me. Only one thing puzzles me—his silence. To disappear without a word, without giving me any sign of life——"

The magistrate interrupted her by a gesture. "I see nothing surprising in that since your companion is the Marquis de Valorsay's spy. How do you know that she has not intercepted or destroyed some letter from M. Pascal?"

Mademoiselle Marguerite turned pale. "Great Heavens! how blind I have been!" she exclaimed. "I did not think of that. Oh, the wretch! if one could only question her and make her confess her crime. It is horrible to think that if I wish to arrive at the truth, I must remain with her and treat her in the future just as I have treated her till now."

But the magistrate was not the man to wander from the subject he was investigating. "Let us return to Madame de Fondege," said he. "She is extremely unwilling to see you go out into the world alone. Why?—through affection? No. Why, then? This is what we must ascertain. Secondly, she seems indifferent as to whether you accept her hospitality or enter a convent."

"She seems to prefer that I should enter a convent."

"Very well. What conclusion can we draw from that? Simply, that the Fondege family don't particularly care about keeping you with them, or marrying you to their son. If they don't desire this, it is because they are perfectly sure that the missing money was not taken by you. Now, let me ask, how can they be so certain? Simply because they know where the missing millions are—and if they know——"

"Ah! monsieur, it is because they've stolen them!"

The magistrate was silent. He had turned the bezel of his ring inside, a sure sign of stormy weather, so his clerk would have said—and though he had his features under excellent control he could not entirely conceal some signs of a severe mental conflict he was undergoing. "Well, yes, my child," he said, at last. "Yes, it is my conviction that the Fondeges possess the millions you saw in the count's escritoire, and which we have been unable to find. How they obtained possession of the money I can't conceive—but they have it, or else logic is no longer logic." He paused again for a moment, and then he resumed, more slowly: "In acquainting you with my opinion on this subject, I have given you, a young girl, almost a child, a proof of esteem and confidence which, it seems to me, few men are worthy of; for I may be deceived, and a magistrate ought not to accuse a person unless he is absolutely certain of his guilt. So you must forget what I have just told you, Mademoiselle Marguerite."

She looked at him with an air of utter astonishment. "You advise me to forget," she murmured, "you wish me to forget."

"Yes; you must conceal these suspicions in the deepest recesses of your heart, until the time comes when you have sufficient proof to convict the culprits. It is true that it will be a difficult task to collect such proofs; but it is not impossible, with the aid of time, which divulges so many crimes. And you may count upon me; I will give you the benefit of all my influence and experience. It shall never be said that I allowed a defenceless girl to be crushed while I saw any chance of saving her."

Tears came to Mademoiselle Marguerite's eyes. So the world was not composed entirely of scoundrels! "Ah! how kind you are, monsieur," she said; "how kind you are!"

"To be sure!" he interrupted, in a benevolent tone. "But, my child, you must help yourself. Remember this: if the Fondeges suspect our suspicions, all is lost. Repeat this to yourself at every moment in the day—and be discreet, impenetrable; for people with unclean consciences and hands are always distrustful of others."

There was no necessity to say anything more on this point; and so, with a sudden change of tone he asked: "Have you any plan?"

She felt that she could, and ought, to confide everything to this worthy old man, and so rising to her feet, with a look of energy and determination on her face, she replied in a firm voice: "My decision is taken, monsieur, subject, of course, to your approval. In the first place I shall keep Madame Leon with me, in whatever capacity she likes, it doesn't matter what. Through her I shall no doubt be able to watch the Marquis de Valorsay, and perhaps eventually discover his hopes and his aim. In the second place, I shall accept the hospitality offered me by the General and his wife. With them, I shall be in the very centre of the intrigue, and in a position to collect proofs of their infamy."

The magistrate gave vent to an exclamation of delight. "You are a brave girl, Mademoiselle Marguerite," he said, "and at the same time a prudent one. Yes; that is the proper course to pursue."