Suddenly, a man in the uniform of the Helmans waved his sword, and the Cossacks pulled up their horses and turned them with inconceivable dexterity. This movement showed the length of their column. The gipsy was right, there were hundreds.

Simon, at this moment, uttered the exclamation:

"Back with you!" he cried. "To your places among the rocks!"

The mountaineers had seen the Cossacks fall, and all the old hatred that had sent their fathers to the Rhine in '92, again sprang to life in their veins. They rushed from out their shelter, regardless of danger. They heard Simon's voice, but did not understand his order, their rage deafened them. They had hitherto been amenable to discipline, but they were intoxicated by victory. It seemed to them that they could crush the invasion then and there. In vain did Simon shout "Halt!" They went on, and reached the rock.

"I don't like this," said Simon. "This retreat of the Cossacks looks like a ruse. Our men must go no further."

Then took place a horrible thing. The peasants were trying to crowd through the narrow passage by the rock. They were in such haste that they formed a struggling mass. Then from the dark corner rose the gipsy with the Judas face, and glided to the corner where hung the torch arranged by Simon. Presently, there was a little flash of light, and the gipsy threw himself far down the slope, just as a fearful explosion was heard. The rock split and fell upon the peasants. Of these valiant patriots only five remained—seven with Michel and Simon. They all stood nailed to the ground with horror.

And back came the Cossacks at full gallop. The rock had cut off all retreat. These seven men were between the barred-up gorge and the Cossacks.

Michel was the first to fall pierced by a lance. Simon realized that these men will reach his home, his wife and children, before he was nailed to the trunk of an oak by a Cossack's sword, and now Simon is dead!

Over this body of this hero, rolls the horrible flood that is to engulf France.

Talizac, Simon's brother, had said that the invasion should take this direction!



CHAPTER X.

THE HUT AT OUTREMONT.

How did the Cossacks ever discover that poor little hut sheltered among the rocks?

Simon's wife and children reached this place, and said to old Lasvene:

"Simon is fighting for France. Will you give us shelter?"

Lasvene took them in with a simple "yes." They were all very weary. Jacques had done all in his power to protect his little sister, who was not in the least frightened, only curious.

The old man shook out some fresh straw, gave them each a great bowl of smoking soup, and said:

"Everything here is yours, eat and sleep."

And when all was quiet the old man brought out two guns, which he had kept in spite of Napoleon's edict. He sat down by the fire, and began to clean them.

Suddenly, he felt a hand—a small one—laid on his arm, and a voice said,

"What are you doing with your guns? Do you think there is any danger here?"

The old man hesitated for a reply, and the boy said,

"Show me how to manage them, it may be useful."

Lasvene hesitated a moment, but finally decided to teach little Jacques how to fire these long guns. The boy quickly grasped the movement. When he bit his first cartridge he made a wry face. When one is inexperienced the powder gets between the teeth.

"Once more," he said, "I am not quite sure yet."

When the clock struck three, Jacques could load the gun like any old grenadier, but he had not been permitted to fire it.

"Your mother is asleep and little sister too," the old man said.

Jacques did not persist.

"Now lie down, my boy, and get a little sleep."

At six o'clock in the morning—it was at that hour that Simon died—a pistol shot scattered the straw on the roof of the hut.

Lasvene rushed to the door and half opening it, cried:

"The Cossacks!"

He knew them well, for he had been in the campaign of 1805.

Jacques started to his feet, and Francoise, pale as death, clutched her little girl to her breast.

"They are only going by," said Lasvene. "They know there is nothing to pillage here."

Lasvene believed himself and his guests under his roof to be safe. He, therefore, threw open the door wide.

He saw about fifty Cossacks.

"I am not making any defence," he said, "what do you want?"

The old soldier said this reluctantly, for the blood leaped hot in his veins, but he had a woman and two children there.

The Cossacks sat still on their horses, and seemed to be waiting. For what were they waiting?

Suddenly and most incomprehensibly, from behind old Lasvene came two shots. Two Cossacks fell. Who had fired? He ran back into the hut. Jacques stood near the chimney, looking at the guns which he had not fired. Who had?

These shots were answered by a furious clamor. A volley was fired into the cottage. Lasvene ran to the other side of the hut, and saw two men running away. It was these men who fired. Both were dressed like gipsies, but one was Cyprien, the lacquey of Monsieur de Talizac.

"We are lost!" thought Lasvene.

Instantly he pulled across the door his old oaken chest, and piled chairs and tables upon it, the bed, everything that was movable in the hut. Then, snatching one gun, he said:

"We must fight. Take the other!"

The Cossacks were amazed, but they fired through the window.

"Now!" cried Lasvene, and an officer fell. Jacques handed him the other gun, and loaded the first.

Again a Cossack fell.

Francoise rushed to the old man's side.

"Save the children!" she cried.

"At the peril of your life?" he asked.

"Yes," was the reply of the devoted mother.

"Then take the other gun!"

Francoise obeyed.

"Come!" said the old man to Jacques.

"No," answered the boy, "they will kill mamma!"

"For Simon's sake!" cried Francoise.

Then Lasvene stooped to the ground, and with the aid of an iron ring lifted a trap door.

"Down with you!" said the old man. "It is a subterranean passage, and leads to the Fongereues estate. You have a league to go. God guard you!"

Another deafening discharge of musketry. The mother sank on her knees.

"Save Francinette!" she moaned.

"They have killed my mother!" sobbed the boy.

"Go!" cried Lasvene, "they are coming in!"

He seized the little girl and put her in her brother's arms, and thrusting a pistol into the hands of the little fellow, he pushed him toward the trap door.

"Mother! Mother!" cried the boy.

There was no time to lose. Lasvene lifted him by the collar and dropped him into the dark hole, and closed the cover. Francoise extended her arms to the old man. "Thanks!" she said.

"We are caught like rats in a hole!" he growled.

The Cossacks began to tear down the walls.

"Can you walk?" said the old soldier to Francoise.

"No!"

"Then you must die!"

"Will the children be saved?"

"Yes."

"Then do what you will!"

Lasvene snatched a burning log from the fire and threw it into the middle of a pile of brushwood.

"Fan it!" he whispered hoarsely.

And Francoise dragged herself forward and fanned the flames with her dying breath.

"Brave woman!" cried Lasvene. "And now, welcome death! Vive la France!"

He poured his flask of powder on the floor. There was a terrible explosion.

Francoise and old Lasvene have done their duty ere they died. The walls of the hut fall, and hide the trap door.



CHAPTER XI.

CHILDREN IN DARKNESS.

The trap door closed on the two children, leaving them in total darkness. Lasvene had not thought of that.

The boy hesitated. His mother had bidden him save Francinette—here was safety, even if there were also darkness. He kissed his little sister tenderly.

"Can you walk, dear?" he said.

"No—I am afraid!"

Jacques remembered that he was ten, and that Francinette, who was only six, had a right to be afraid.

"Afraid!" he repeated, "what is there to fear? I am not afraid!"

He was not speaking the truth, but he had a vague idea that it was not wrong to tell a falsehood on this occasion. He placed Francinette on the ground, and she clung to his legs. He passed his hand over the wall, and they slowly crept on. The ground was slippery and the air foul. Suddenly Jacques tripped and fell. The little girl began to cry. Her brother had lost his hold on the wall, and when he gathered himself up, he missed the touch of those little hands.

"Cinette! Cinette!" he cried.

She replied with sobs, and he suddenly realized that these sobs were becoming fainter and fainter. Where was she?

"Cinette! stand still."

The voice replied:

"Jacques! Oh! mamma! I want mamma!"

It was plain that the child was lost, and that several paths ran from the point where he stood. He called to his sister again—no reply. He began to run, and came up against the wall. He started again, then stopped. He saw a red light at the end of a long gallery. This light came from the funeral pyre of Francoise and the old man.

The boy smiled—he fancied that aid was coming. He called: "Mamma! Mamma!" Suddenly his hurrying feet encountered an obstacle, and he fell from a height. His head struck a rock, and he felt the blood stream over his face. Then he fainted.

How long he lay there he never knew. After a while he struggled to his feet, and then hurried on, always away from the red light, not toward it. Suddenly he felt the air strike his face, and he saw the sunshine. The subterranean passage ended. He emerged upon a plain. An old chateau stood on the brow of a hill opposite.

"If I go there," he said to himself, "I can find people who will look for Francinette with me."

He tried to run; his foot slipped. He looked down and beheld a pool of blood. A dead body lay near, and then another, and another—death and slaughter everywhere!

These were French soldiers who had been surprised and shot. Three guns were fastened together, holding a pot over a fire not yet entirely gone out.

Jacques was now wild with terror; he wished he were back in the darkness of the subterranean passage, but still he struggled on for his little sister's sake. Suddenly he started. Around the neck of a soldier he saw a cord to which hung a bugle. Jacques made his way to the body. He extended his arm, then pulled it back, but impelled by the hope of safety, he at last succeeded in reaching the bugle without touching the body, but he could not take it away because of the cord. Then Jacques closed his eyes, and supporting himself on one hand, he placed his lips to the mouth of the bugle. His face was very near that of the dead soldier. He remembered the lessons he had received from Simon.

"Tarara! Tarara!"

The sound came rich and full, but the exertion had been too great.

Jacques fainted, and his pale face lay on the stiff, outstretched arm of the dead soldier.



CHAPTER XII.

THE RISING SUN.

That morning the worthy Schwann, whose ancestors had kept the inn known as the Rising Sun for one hundred and fifty years, said that in all his experience he had never been so busy. Three travelers, three guests in February! It was most amazing. And the worthy innkeeper knew that this was not all. Six more strangers might arrive at any moment; but when he was asked who these strangers were, he winked mysteriously, but looked highly pleased. At the hour when this chapter opens, Master Schwann had just witnessed a veritable slaughter in his poultry yard; pots and saucepans were smoking on the fire, and vigorous preparations were made in the kitchen.

The door was suddenly thrown open, and loud laughter made the windows rattle. The innkeeper started, but before he could speak, he was lifted off his feet by the long arms of a vigorous looking young man, with a most enormous mouth. His costume was something wonderful; a startling combination of colors; a red coat, a yellow vest trimmed with huge black buttons, green breeches and long black hose.

"Iron Jaws!" cried the innkeeper, struggling in the grasp of the Colossus.

"Yes, my best beloved cousin, Iron Jaws it is; let me give you a good shake of the hand."

"Not too hard!" said Schwann, plaintively.

"You are not glad to see your old friend, then?"

"Not so; but you are so strong that you hurt people without knowing it. But where are all the rest of you?"

"Oh! they are coming on. I did not want to hurry Brelion and Bechette."

"What! Have you those two animals yet?"

"To be sure. Why not? They don't look their age."

"And your wife?"

Gudel, or Iron Jaws, as he was called, hesitated a moment.

"Things are going smoothly there, I hope," said the innkeeper, with a wink.

"Well! We will talk of something else, if you please!"

"Oh! women, women! you have much to answer for!" sighed the innkeeper.

"I was happy enough with my first wife, though, and Caillette is her very image."

"She must be a big girl, now, it is five years since I saw her."

"And she is nearly sixteen. An angel without wings!"

"How does she get on with your wife?"

"Oh! Roulante can't endure her!"

Schwann shook his head.

"Ah! my lad, you made a great mistake. I felt it when you told me that you were about to marry the giantess. She had something about her eyes I didn't like. She doesn't ill-treat Caillette, I hope?"

"Not if I know it!" answered Gudel, clenching his enormous fist. "Just let her lay a finger on the girl, that is all!"

"You need not get so excited. And now about Bobichel—how is he?"

"Just the same as ever, honest and stupid."

"And Robeccal?"

"I mean to get rid of him for reasons of my own."

"And the little boy?"

Gudel shouted with laughter.

"The little boy! Just wait until you see him. He is six feet, and a treasure. I am strong, but Fanfar is different from me. He has wrists and ankles like a woman, with the hands of a Duchess, but his back and shoulders are iron and his fingers steel. He is, moreover, as good and gentle as possible."

"You love him as much as ever, I see."

The excellent Gudel opened his mouth to speak, when with loud fife and horn, the wagon that held all his worldly possessions rattled up to the door.

We will call the vehicle a chariot, as it is more complimentary than the title of wagon. Four huge wheels held the body of this vehicle, from which rose posts striped like barbers' poles, decorated with parti-colored curtains.

Underneath the chariot hung all sorts of queer looking things—kegs of wine, rope, ladders, baskets, and hoops with torn covers of rose colored tissue paper.

Bobichel must be mentioned first, as he stands on one of the shafts and blows a long horn. The clown is dressed all in yellow with a gray hat. His legs looked like matches in their striped hose. His head was small and pointed, his nose very long and very sharp.

Behind Bobichel sits Caillette, Gudel's daughter, a pretty, dainty creature with light hair. She turned with a merry laugh to say something to a third person, who lay on a pile of bundles of all shapes and sizes, and smiled back upon the young girl. Still further back was a huge mass which might be supposed to be a woman, from the tawny locks that floated over the shoulders, and if out of curiosity one examined more closely, a large face with pendant cheeks was discovered, a retreating forehead, a pair of small, half closed eyes. A double, or rather a triple chin, rested on an enormous bosom, which seemed to have torn half the buttons from a much spotted cloth waist. This charming being was known as La Roulante, in which sobriquet was lost her real name of Charlotte Magnan. She was also the lawful wife of Gudel.

And finally, to complete this hurried description, we must mention a person who followed the chariot on foot. He was short, slender and bow legged, very pale, and had light eyes without lashes. His scanty hair, as white as an albino's, escaped from a vizorless hat. His costume was much like his appearance; a well worn velvet coat, much too short in the sleeves, and long fingered hands, with one peculiarity, that the thumbs were as long as the fore fingers.

"Ah! you have come, children, have you?" cried Gudel. "And I am thankful, for hunger gnaws my vitals."

"And mine, too," Bobichel replied, throwing a somersault as he spoke; which he ended with a sudden leap on the shoulders of the good Schwann, who stood the shock with wonderful philosophy.

But at the third shout he decided to go outside. When the giantess saw him, she called out, angrily:

"Are you coming to help me?"

Gudel looked on with concentrated rage, and as Robeccal went toward the chariot, he said to him:

"Not another step!"

"Indeed! And who will prevent me?"

Gudel's eyes flashed.

"Scoundrel!" he muttered under his breath.

"Well! are you coming?" called La Roulante. "Give him a push and come on!"

These words encouraged the fellow, but as he moved toward the chariot Iron Jaws struck him a tremendous blow in the chest. Robeccal pulled out a knife and leaped on Gudel, but was caught by Fanfar and tossed in the air as if he had been a ball. The fellow landed nearly at the side of the giantess, who tumbled herself off the chariot and rushed upon Fanfar. Schwann appeared at the door at this moment.

"Dinner is ready, good people," he said, soothingly.

Robeccal said a few words in a whisper to the giantess, who shrugged her huge shoulders and made at once to the dining-room. Gudel held out his arms to his daughter.

"Jump, child!" he said.

And the girl obeyed. The father kissed her tenderly, for the two loved each other very much.

"Do you mean to stay there forever, Fanfar?" was Gudel's next remark.

Fanfar was the person to whom Caillette had addressed her smiles. With a laugh he swung himself down, and hung by his wrists a moment.

"Good boy!" said Gudel. "You mean to keep yourself in practice, I see."

Robeccal, with his hands in his pockets, lounged into the kitchen, and stood watching the preparations for dinner. La Roulante sat as motionless as the Sphynx in the Desert. Gudel said to her, respectfully:

"Are you coming?"

The woman turned her eyes slowly upon him, and then, with a sniff of disdain, called for Robeccal, who heard the stentorian shout, but did not care to be disturbed in his contemplation of the spit on which the fowls were roasting.



CHAPTER XIII.

MISCHIEF.

While these people were repairing the fatigues of their journey, a door opened very softly at the end of the room. But Schwann heard it. This door had access to the stairs which led to the upper floor. He instantly hastened toward the person, who stood half concealed.

This man was about forty, small, and wearing a brown cloth coat, braided and trimmed with Astrachan. His vest was blue, as was a neckerchief. He wore straps and spurs—a costume, in fact, in the last mode of 1825—and yet, no human being looked less like a dandy. His feet were huge, his hands ugly and bony. His face expressed timidity and hypocrisy. He took off his hat as Schwann approached. The stranger's eyes were half closed, as if the light from the long windows pained them—in reality, he was examining each face at the table.

"You want breakfast, sir, I presume?" asked the innkeeper.

"Yes," said the other, "yes, yes," but he did not seem to have understood the question, although he took a seat at one of the tables.

"Give me some brandy!" he said. "I am expecting some one, and when he comes you will serve our breakfast up-stairs."

"Very good, sir!" And Schwann walked away. "He is the intendant of some great lord, I fancy," he said to himself.

Again the door opened, and two more customers appeared. One looked like a horse jockey, the other, though in citizen's dress, was without doubt an old soldier. His heavy gray moustache imparted a certain harshness to his expression, though his eyes were frank and honest.

"Where shall I serve your breakfast, gentlemen?" asked the innkeeper.

There was a little hesitation. The last arrivals noticed the man in the brown braided coat, and did not seem to like his appearance. It was plain that some mysterious tie existed among these travelers, however, for Iron Jaws, hearing the voices of the new-comers, looked up and exchanged a rapid glance with them.

"We will eat there," said one of the two men, pointing to a table at some distance from the man in brown, who smiled slightly as he saw the gesture. He himself had been in the meantime supplied with a decanter of brandy, and now took some newspapers from his pocket, one of which he began to read, holding it in such a way that he was concealed from the observation of every one in the room.

When Schwann brought in a delicious-looking omelette, the horse jockey said, in a loud voice:

"Is Remisemont far from here?"

"Remisemont! Ah! gentlemen, it is plain that you do not belong in these parts. It is not more than two leagues away."

"Then we can easily get there this afternoon?"

Schwann saw that he had made a blunder, and endeavored to retrieve it.

"We had better call it three leagues, and the road is a bad one, and you have to ford the river. There has been a great deal of rain, and two men were drowned there last year; and, by the way, they looked much like you."

"Many thanks!" And the old soldier laughed.

"They didn't know the road, you see——"

"But you can furnish us with a guide?"

"Yes, but not to-day."

"And why not?"

"Because I am alone in the house."

The mountebanks had by this time finished their meal. Gudel came toward the two men.

"If these gentlemen desire it," he said, politely, "I will take them on early to-morrow morning in my wagon."

"That is an excellent idea!" cried the innkeeper. "With Iron Jaws there is no danger."

The strange costume worn by Gudel, and the equally strange name by which Schwann called him, did not seem to amaze the two strangers. They consulted each other with a look, and then courteously accepted the offer.

"I give a little representation here to-night," Gudel continued, "and start at an early hour for Remisemont."

Nothing could have been more natural than this scene, nor that Gudel should have accepted the brandy and water offered him, and it would have been a very distrustful nature that would have suspected any secret understanding between Gudel and the two men with whom he was now drinking. Nevertheless, the man behind the newspaper, who had not lost a word of this dialogue, smiled until he showed every tooth in his head.

The giantess and Robeccal left the room together. After a few words together, Robeccal returned, and asked Gudel if he wanted him again, and when his employer said no, that he was at liberty, he once more left the room. The man behind the newspaper did the same, and the two met in the passage.

"One word, if you please," said the man in the brown coat. "Answer me frankly, and you shall have twenty francs. Who is Iron Jaws?"

"A mountebank."

"He has another name?"

"Yes—Gudel."

"Do you know the two men with whom he is talking?"

"No."

"You hate him?"

"What is that to you?"

"A good deal, and to you, too, if you wish him any harm. You are a member of his troupe?"

"Not for long, you had better believe!"

"Long enough to earn a few louis?"

"What do you want done?"

"I will tell you. If you hate this Gudel I will give you an opportunity to pay off your score, and I will pay you at the same time."

"That is nonsense!"

"All right. I am in no hurry. I can wait an hour or two."

The man took a louis from his pocket and dropped it on the ground. Robeccal put his foot upon it. During this brief colloquy the two men had not looked at each other. The stranger lounged away, indifferent to all appearance, and Robeccal picked up the gold and disappeared in a different direction.

Meanwhile, Gudel was talking in a low voice to his apparently new acquaintances. Schwann had returned to his saucepans.

"Well?" said the soldier, leaning over his glass as if to smell the wine.

"All goes well," answered Gudel. "The grain was well sown—the harvest waits."

"We will talk elsewhere. Did you notice that fellow who sat reading over there in the corner?"

"Yes—a bad face. A lacquey, I think."

"A lacquey or a spy. Look out for him! Now, when and where can I see you quietly?"

"To-night, after the representation, in my room or yours."

"In yours, then. We will wait until the house is quiet. Leave your door open. And now, be careful that no one suspects our presence here!"

"What! not even Fanfar? You need not distrust him. He is good, brave, and devoted to you."

"We will talk of that later on." In a louder voice he said: "Then, comrade, we will accept your offer, and go with you to Remisemont to-morrow."

Gudel nodded, then called Fanfar.

"To work, my lad," he cried. "We must stir up these excellent people in this village. Schwann, where is my permit from the mayor?"

Schwann hurried in wiping his hands, and from under a pile of plates he drew out a paper.

"Fanfar, sign it for me, your hand is better than mine, for the truth is I never learned to write. And now this is done, we must go forth and warn the people of the great pleasure in store for them."



CHAPTER XIV.

TWO PLACES, S. V. P.

In five minutes all the population of Saint Ame was on the Square, for in these Lorraine villages amusements are rare. They were watching the erection of an enormous shed covered with canvas and strange pictures. An enormous handbill with letters that could be read a hundred feet off, bore most astonishing inscriptions. At the top was Iron Jaws, who held enormous weights with his teeth. The Giantess, who ate raw pigeons, or any other fowl that was most convenient. The wonderful Almanzor (that was Robeccal,) a descendant of the Moors of Spain, crushed glass with his teeth and swallowed swords. Then there was Caillette, the rope-dancer, who charmed the world with her voice, as well as with her aerial lightness. And lastly, in letters of the same length as those which Gudel used for himself, came Fanfar's name.

"FANFAR! FANFAR! FANFAR!

"STRENGTH, SKILL, DEXTERITY.

"He knows everything. He can do everything!"

And finally, there was a representation of a human pyramid, at the top of which was Caillette, all smiles, and a flower in her hand.

The good peasants were naturally delighted with all this.

Iron Jaws, with his hands in his pockets, was marching up and down, giving his orders like a general at the head of an army. Suddenly he called,

"Bobichel!"

Between two pictures, one of which was a lion devouring a crocodile, appeared the clown's head, grinning from ear to ear. He was so utterly grotesque that the crowd shrieked with laughter.

Bobichel's name did not appear on the handbill. It had been omitted to leave more room for that of his friend Fanfar, and Gudel had called him to introduce him, so to speak, to the crowd.

Fanfar and Caillette were alone. He was trying the ropes of the trapeze, while she was giving some finishing touches to the interior decoration. Suddenly, she stopped and looked up at Fanfar, who was swinging from a wooden bar. An artist would have been struck with the beauty of his figure.

Caillette watched him breathlessly as he went through his exercises, and as he dropped at last on the floor, so lightly that his feet scarcely left their imprint, she threw both arms around his neck.

"How bad you are!" she cried, "you frighten me half out of my wits."

"Frighten you, child! Are you not yet accustomed to my exercises, little sister?"

Caillette colored, and half turned away.

"Why do you call me little sister?" she said.

Fanfar dropped her hands, which he had taken from his neck. A cloud passed swiftly over his brow.

"Because we have been brought up together," he answered, slowly. "You were not more than six years old when your father took me into his service. But does it vex you for me to call you sister?"

"No, it does not vex me, but I would rather you did not."

Fanfar understood her, and was disturbed. He had long since seen in the girl a growing passion for himself. Her innocence and purity were exquisite, but at the same time she loved Fanfar. He did not love her. He would have given his life for her, but he did not wish to spend it with her, and at the thought of Caillette as his wife he drew back. He now disengaged himself gently from her clinging arms.

"To work!" he said, "it is growing late."

Caillette took up her needle, as the door opened to admit Gudel. He was not alone, two ladies of aristocratic bearing were with him.

"But, my dear Irene, this is a strange caprice," said the elder of the two. "What will the Countess say?"

"My dear Madame Ursula, it would oblige me if you would cease your moans, that is, unless you should prefer to return to the chateau alone!"

The dear Madame Ursula was a tall, thin woman, wearing blue glasses. She was evidently a companion or governess.

Irene, in her riding-habit, looked about twenty. Her hair was jet black, and curled over a marble white brow. Her hat, Louis XIII. in shape, with curling plumes, gave a haughty expression to her dainty features. She looked as if she might have stepped from out the frame of one of the pictures of Velasquez. Her beauty was striking. Fanfar grasped it, Caillette studied it.

"Pray tell me," said the young lady to Gudel, "if you have no seats where I can avoid contact with the crowd? I am ready to pay any sum you ask."

"Oh! we have but one price, ten sous."

The governess uttered a small gasp, and the young girl shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

She drew out a handful of gold pieces from her bag.

"Take these," she said, "and do the best you can for me."

Gudel was puzzled and troubled.

"Fanfar!" he called, "have you time to construct a sort of private box for these ladies?"

Fanfar advanced, and when Caillette saw the admiring gaze he riveted on the stranger, she clenched her little hands.

"I don't think I quite understand," he said.

Irene replied:

"It is a very simple matter. I desire to be present at your exhibition, and I do not care to mingle with the vulgar herd."

Fanfar listened to these words very coldly, and then said:

"What you ask is impossible."

"I don't know about that," interposed Gudel, quickly. "I think a private box could be quickly made with a few boards—"

"Only I refuse to make it," said Fanfar.

"You refuse?"

Irene started. Caillette smiled and blushed.

"And may I know why?" asked the stranger, with a disdainful smile. "Why does——" She hesitated for the name. Fanfar supplied it. "Why does Monsieur Fanfar refuse to gain a few louis for his master?"

"Not his master," said Gudel, hastily.

"Let me speak," interrupted Fanfar. "I will explain to the lady. Our public are bourgeois and common folk who support us, and bring us success. Their hands are large, but they applaud well. They are good people, and I do not wish to humiliate them. To do what you ask would wound them deeply."

Irene listened, with a frown.

Gudel retreated to the background where he indulged in a silent laugh.

Fanfar waited, calmly.

"This is a lesson you read me?" she said, at last.

"No, Mademoiselle, it is only advice. Make yourself beloved by these peasants. I have much to do, and pray that you will excuse me."

He bowed, and was about to retire.

"Monsieur Fanfar," said Irene, "you are right, and I thank you."

Then, turning to Gudel, she asked him with bewitching grace to retain two seats for her.

"Certainly, and the best. Will we not, Fanfar?"

The young man met Irene's eyes, and started.

"Will you give these few louis to the poor?" added Irene, "and I will accept two seats gratefully."



CHAPTER XV.

MASTER AND SERVANT.

When the young girl, followed by Madame Ursula, who was choking with rage, emerged upon the Square, all the peasants lifted their hats.

"There is the carriage!" said Ursula.

A lacquey in livery approached, leading a fine English horse. Irene arrested the animal.

"Do you intend to mount again? I thought," said Madame Ursula, "that you had promised to return in the carriage with me."

But Irene was already in her saddle.

The governess continued:

"The Comtesse expected—"

"Never mind that! And now, John, to the Chateau at once," said Irene, galloping off.

"Who is that lady?" asked Bobichel.

"Mademoiselle de Salves," a peasant replied, "the wealthiest heiress in the neighborhood."

"A handsome girl!" muttered Bobichel.

"She is too haughty to those beneath her," said some one.

"She is made of Paris stuff," said another. "She's not calculated for our village."

A new incident now occurred.

A post-chaise, drawn by vigorous horses, now dashed into the Square, and drew up before Master Schwann's inn.

Before the worthy innkeeper could come down the steps to welcome the new arrival, another person had dashed past him. This was the man, who, sheltered by his newspaper, had so closely watched all that was going on around him.

"Monsieur le Marquis," he said, presenting his arm to the gentleman in the post-chaise, "I see my letter reached you in time."

The new arrival is not unknown to our readers; it was he who, earlier in our tale, was known as the Vicomte de Talizac, and who to-day, by the death of the old Marquis, had been invested with all the titles of the Fongereues family.

Ten years had elapsed since we last saw him, and though hardly forty, he seems an old man—his figure is bent and his stern face covered with wrinkles.

The man who was waiting for him had long been his accomplice; together they had concocted the criminal plan to which Simon fell a victim, and as a reward for his villainy, Cyprien had been made intendant instead of valet.

The Marquis entered the inn and looked around suspiciously, but saw no one but Schwann, who stood hat in hand; he did not advance, as the frown of the Marquis was far from encouraging.

"Serve dinner in my room," said Cyprien, and he showed the silent Marquis up-stairs.

When Schwann had laid the table and placed the dinner upon it, Cyprien took him aside.

"You need not come up again, unless I call you."

"Very good, sir."

"And this is not all; please do not gossip about my master. If any one questions you, make no reply."

"What could I say?" asked Schwann. "I know nothing!"

"You might indulge in suppositions, which I advise you to avoid."

"Zounds!" muttered Schwann, as he descended the stairs, "all these airs displease me! I very much prefer my rope dancers to this great lord!"

Cyprien looked up and down the corridor, and listened at the doors of the next rooms, to ascertain that they were empty.

The Marquis, in the meantime, had thrown his hat and cloak on the bed.

"We are alone?" he asked impatiently.

"Yes, sir."

"Speak, then. Your letter told me that you have found traces of that miserable Labarre."

"Yes, sir, and I trust you will be satisfied with what I have done."

"Did you see the man?"

"No, sir. Your instructions were to avoid all contact with him. I know, however, where to lay my hands on him."

"You have done well. I wish my presence here to be like a thunderclap to him. And then I expect that in his terror he will make the avowal which will be my salvation."

"May I ask, sir, if your affairs have in any way ameliorated since my departure?"

"Ameliorated!" Fongereues repeated with an angry gesture, "no, quite the contrary. Ruin is approaching with rapid strides, and in a few months I shall be lost!"

"But the favor of His Majesty—"

Fongereues laughed bitterly. "His Majesty cares little for me. Ever since I was unfortunate enough to displease his fair friend, the tide has turned."

"But can nothing be done?"

Fongereues shrugged his shoulders. "What is the use? I am sick of manoeuvering and intriguing. I have told the king that his faithful emigres should be his best counsellors, and that it was his duty as well as his interest to rely on me. But it was of no use.

"They think they have paid us," the Marquis continued, "because they have thrown us, as food to the dogs, a few louis of indemnity. As if France were not ours, as if we had no rights over these people who have assassinated their king and kissed the feet of an adventurer; but they are afraid, and talk of patience. I told His Majesty, one day, of my embarrassments. 'Sir,' he said to me, 'a Fongereues never begs!' and the next day I received four thousand louis. Confound the nonsense!"

Cyprien could not refrain from a smile. Four thousand louis did not seem to him a trifle, nor nonsense.

"But His Majesty is interested in your son."

"My son! These Puritans have much to say about my son. He gambles and he does other shocking things. One would think, to hear them talk, that they were themselves paragons of virtue. As soon as the Vicomte marries and settles down—by the way, what about Mademoiselle de Salves?"

"I only arrived last night, and have simply learned that their chateau is not more than two leagues away, and that they must soon leave it to return to Paris."

"Four millions!" cried the Marquis. "And to think that this fortune may escape us!"

"The marriage is not yet decided, then?"

"Not precisely; and the smallest incident may ruin my plans. This Labarre must be made to speak, even if violence be necessary."

"He is an incorruptible old fellow, and these honest people are sometimes very hard to deal with."

The Marquis looked at him intently for a minute or two in silence, and then, with an indescribable smile, said:

"I think we can manage him, nevertheless!"

Cyprien smiled.

"You know, beside," continued the Marquis, "that I am not ungrateful. Let this Labarre surrender this secret and my son become the husband of young Irene de Salves, and my position becomes stronger than ever. And you may be certain that I shall not forget you!"

"I hope, sir, that it may be soon in my power to render you a most important service."

"What may that be?"

"You are aware, I presume, that I take great interest in the preservation of the present regime?"

"I was not aware of that," the Marquis said, with a slight elevation of the eyebrows. It seemed to him that the opinions of Monsieur Cyprien were of little importance, and that the government was not likely to benefit by his sympathy and protection.

"The fact is, sir, your future and that of the monarchy are too nearly allied for me to separate the two questions."

"You are right."

"And, in addition, I hold relations with persons who condescend to recognize in me a certain ability in the management of confidential matters."

"Pshaw! Who are these persons!"

"I will give you the name of one, sir—Monsieur Franchet."

And Cyprien stole a glance at his master, who started in spite of all his self-control. This Franchet was at the climax of his celebrity, and exercised the mysterious function of Director-General of the Police. He owed his elevation solely to the Society of Jesus. This occult power, whose ramifications extended all over France, was mysterious and tremendous in its workings. No one could expect any favor if he did not first render this society most abject homage.

Cyprien now became invested with immense importance in the eyes of the Marquis. He was now not only an accomplice, but a protector, who might become a formidable adversary.

A brief silence followed this revelation, and then the Marquis bade Cyprien go on with what he was saying.

"I was saying, sir, that I have employed all the resources of my weak mind in the defence of the sacred interests of the society, and that I had the power to replace you in the position which your imprudence has forfeited!"

The lacquey was becoming insolent.

"And how will you perform this miracle?" asked the Marquis.

"By including you in the great plan which will prove our zeal for the monarchy."

The Marquis frowned. He was not pleased at the association!

Cyprien dropped his voice.

"A vast conspiracy," he said, "is forming to overthrow the king!"

The Marquis started.

"Not so—the monarchy is strong."

"There is no chariot so strong that it is not at the mercy of a grain of sand. I assure you, sir, that the danger is real. A Republican party——"

Fongereues shrugged his shoulders.

"A Republican party," repeated Cyprien, emphasizing the word, "is covering the country with its net. In a few months—in a few weeks, perhaps—a movement will burst out simultaneously all over France, and it may come to pass that the throne will fall quicker than we think. Royalty is unpopular in these days. Strength is the only sustaining force. And is the throne strong enough to resist a general uprising? I doubt it. And I, poor servant that I am, can arrest this movement, even now! I can betray the chiefs of this association. But I am an insignificant person. No matter how great the services may be that I render, a bone or two will be thrown to me to gnaw, and that will be deemed sufficient. But let the Marquis de Fongereues, peer of France, denounce at the Tuileries the formidable association that threatens the throne and the altar—let him present himself in the cabinet of the king with his hands full of proofs—let him show the documents and the lists of the conspirators, and the Marquis de Fongereues will become master of France. He may exact any recompense he pleases for saving the throne and the altar!"

The Marquis rose hastily. His eyes flashed.

"And you say that this formidable secret is yours Cyprien?"

"I hold the threads of the plot in my hand!"

"And yet, you are ready to abandon the benefits which would assuredly be yours should you decide to make the revelation?"

"I am, first of all, your servant, sir!"

"Throw your cards on the table, Cyprien! What do you want me to do in exchange for this great service?"

"I impose no condition. I have faith in the generosity of my master."

"And you are right!" the Marquis replied. "If I succeed, I will make you rich, and place you so high on the social ladder that the greatest names in France will bow before you!"

"Thank you, honored sir. When the hour arrives, I will remind you of your words. But now we must think of Pierre Labarre. Time presses!"

"I am ready. Where are we to find him?"

"Two leagues from here, near the little town of Vagney."

"It is now three o'clock," said the Marquis. "We can surely return here to-night. You had best order the horses at once."

When the Marquis was alone, he bowed his face in his hands.

"If I could believe him!" he murmured. "But I am afraid!"

A few brief words of explanation are here necessary. The Fongereues family re-entered France with the allied armies, and immediately obtained the favor of the king. The old Marquis was elevated to the peerage, and Magdalena felt that her ambitious projects were on the eve of fulfilment. The Vicomte de Talizac easily obtained proof of the death of Simon Fougere; his wife and children had disappeared, and probably perished. The Vicomte, therefore, did not hesitate to claim as sole heir the estate on the death of the Marquis in 1817. But this estate, though considerable, was far less important than he and Magdalena had hoped. The Vicomte was deeply in debt, and his creditors became impatient. If he and the Vicomtesse had not been madly extravagant, all the more so from the restrictions they had so long endured, their revenues would have been more than sufficient. But these two persons, who had not recoiled from a terrible crime to ensure their undisputed possession of the Fongereues fortune, were now carried away by a wild thirst for excitement and gayety. The hotel they occupied became the scene of perpetual fetes and the rendezvous of the aristocracy.

Magdalena's son, who now bore the title of the Vicomte de Talizac, brought up amid this mad prodigality, developed early the faults of his nature, which were increased by the foolish indulgence of his mother.

His father read his character at a glance, and cautioned Magdalena, who at the first syllable he uttered silenced him in the most peremptory manner.

"Do you think," said Magdalena, "that my son is to conduct himself as if he were to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow? I am happy to say that he knows nothing of your petty economies."

As her husband protested, she lowered her voice and looked him full in the face. "Do you think," she said, "that it was to make a beggar of my son, that I told you to kill the other?"

The two guilty creatures gazed at each other; the Marquis was the first to turn his uneasy eyes away. From this moment the struggle began, and the Marquis led a most terrible life.

Before long the alliance with Mademoiselle de Salves was projected. This marriage was to the Marquis de Fongereues the last plank between himself and destruction. Unless this plan was carried to a happy termination, he was ruined. Already there were rumors floating about the court of spots on the hitherto untarnished shield of the Marquis de Fongereues. People were beginning to desert the hotel as rats fly from a falling house. The haughty manners of the Marquis and of Magdalena had conciliated no one. The insolence of Talizac had become proverbial; he had fought several duels from which he had come off unharmed. The approaching fall of this detested family was hailed with delight. It is therefore easy to understand why the Marquis was so eager to find Pierre Labarre.

He was interrupted in his reflections by Cyprien, who now returned with the innkeeper.

"I am sorry, sir," said the latter, "to be the bearer of annoyances. You know that we at this season are liable to inundations, and we have just learned that the torrent that crosses the road at Vagney is rising rapidly, and makes it dangerous to travel."

"But is there no other road?"

"None which is not equally flooded. Every where the danger would be just as great."

"I am willing to pay any price to get on this afternoon."

The innkeeper did everything to place obstacles in the path of the Marquis, who, however, insisted on going.

"Well!" said Schwann, to himself, "I shall not be easy until they return, for I fear that the inundation has only just begun."



CHAPTER XVI.

WALK IN, GENTLEMEN!

While Gudel and Fanfar were making arrangements for the representation of the evening, while Fongereues and Cyprien exchanged their honest confidences, Robeccal went forth to meet La Roulante.

It was this amiable giantess whom Gudel had been foolish enough to marry, although what charms he had discovered in this mountain of flesh it would be difficult to say. But he was alone; he was very unhappy over his wife's death, and La Roulante had consoled him. When once in possession of Gudel's name, this woman frankly threw aside the mask and displayed her real qualities and disposition. She was covetous and intemperate, presenting, in fact, an extraordinary specimen of human depravity. She hated Caillette for her youth and her beauty; she hated Fanfar for his goodness, and hated Gudel for his patience and for his good spirits.

Robeccal joined the troop. Gudel had found him dying of hunger, and had rescued him. Soon he and Roulante were on excellent terms; both were thoroughly vicious. This liaison was furthermore cemented by a common hatred, and now they wanted to kill Gudel and Fanfar. They wished to keep Caillette that they might torture her as children torture young birds.

These two excellent persons, Robeccal and the giantess, sat down by the roadside and talked over their plans.

At this time the peasants had long been deprived of all amusements, and the circus company had been welcomed with enthusiasm which would certainly result in heavy receipts. If Iron Jaws should disappear by accident, or in any other way, La Roulante would remain mistress of this money, of the chariot and the horses—a snug little fortune, if properly managed.

The giantess only wished to get rid of Gudel, whom she now hated, and marry this man whom she loved. It was clear that Gudel's suspicions were excited—in fact, his wife and Robeccal were doing their best to arouse him.

If Gudel were dead, La Roulante would look out for his daughter, of course, and the giantess saw opening before her a vista of delightful cruelties she could practice on the girl. But Fanfar would certainly be in the way, for he never would allow the child to suffer, and therefore it was plain that Fanfar should disappear with Gudel.

Such steps as these required serious consideration, and it was growing dark when these two conspirators returned to Saint Ame.

In the meantime, two of our friends were taking a walk. Though the justice of this phraseology may be questioned, my readers shall judge. Bobichel placed his hat carefully on the side of the road, and then gravely began the charming exercise which is called the "frog." Bobichel did this with the most remarkable ease, and his wittiest sallies were uttered in this attitude.

Caillette laughed, and at once began to dance, standing on the points of her toes and whirling round and round.

But they were not so absorbed in their practice that they refrained from talking.

"You are sad," said Bobichel.

"No," answered Caillette, suddenly throwing out her left leg.

Bobichel picked up a sou with his teeth.

"Has anybody been worrying you, dear?" he asked, as soon as he had disposed of the coin.

"Nobody," answered the girl, dancing on. "If I am sad, it is about nothing, at all events. Everybody has dark hours—"

"Indeed they have. And Caillette, listen. There are, indeed, people about us,"—and the frog drew up his legs and jumped at least a foot—"this Robeccal will play us a trick some fine day, and your father's wife—well! we will see, we will see. But here they come, and I am sure they have been plotting together."

"Come, Bobichel, do not let us wait until they overtake us," cried Caillette.

"Do you think I shall run away? Now you go on, little girl; after a while I will overtake you. I want to have a little talk with this villain!"

"Don't get into any trouble, papa would be offended."

"Good-bye, then."

Robeccal saw the girl run off toward the village, and a wicked smile gleamed over his face.

"Good," he said, between his teeth, "we shall make you pay for that!"

When he reached Bobichel, who was still in his frog attitude, the clown gave a flourish with his leg and his foot, quite by accident of course, knocking off Robeccal's hat.

"Look out!" cried Robeccal.

"Oh! a thousand pardons," answered Bobichel, "I did not see you!"

"Didn't you! Well! little Caillette saw me, and ran away, as if the devil were coming."

"A girl's nonsense. Never mind her. I am glad she has gone. The truth is, these people are putting on airs, and I don't like it."

Robeccal was no fool, and these words inspired him with suspicion. "Does he want me to talk?" he said to himself. And he was right in this idea.

"And as for Fanfar!" continued Bobichel, now standing on his feet.

"And what of him? You are as intimate as possible with Fanfar?"

Bobichel, with a sagacious nod, replied, "Of course I am, he is the master's favorite, but all the same I am not pleased with him. He eats our bread, and what does he do?"

"He adds to the success of the entertainments."

"I think, Robeccal, you are trying to provoke me. Because he is strong, because he has learned a lot of things, and can play on a lot of instruments, does not prove that he is worth more than either of us."

"Oh! if I only knew whether you were to be trusted!" cried Robeccal.

Bobichel in vain tried to preserve utter impassibility. Robeccal surprised a look in his eyes, which he translated at once as meaning, "He is going to speak. I have him."

"I am to be trusted," said Bobichel, "particularly if there is a dirty piece of business on hand!"

This was enough. Robeccal was warned.

"Well then," he said, in a whisper, "I am about to leave Gudel."

"No, not really!"

"And if you desire, we can start together. I know of a place where we shall be received with open arms. What will Iron Jaws do without us! I laugh when we think of it!"

"It is a good idea," said Bobichel. "When shall we go?"

"One of these nights, when it is not cold."

"Have we far to go?"

"What! Already afraid of fatigue? We will make that all easy, but I must go now!"

"Where are you going?"

"Come now, Bobichel, none of that! I don't like questions, and I don't choose to be watched!"

And Robeccal walked off.

The clown looked after him, and then began to pound his own head until tears came to his eyes.

"Idiot! Fool!" he muttered. "Will you never learn any sense. Why did you let that rascal see your game? You must warn Fanfar without delay."

And as he saw some boys looking at him, they thinking that his despair heightened his comic appearance, he began to run toward the inn.

Gudel met him at the door.

"Well, Bob, what is the matter? You look disturbed. Come in, and take a glass of wine. And Schwann, join us."

An hour later, the Square of Saint Ame was bright with lights, to the great joy of the peasants, who uttered many ohs! and ahs! as they entered the shed. Bobichel stood at the door.

"Come in, gentlemen and ladies, come in!" And then he continued his shouts. "Wonderful Spectacle. The amazing Iron Jaws! The Wild Woman! And Fanfar! Come in, gentlemen, come in!"

Caillette, behind the curtain, was looking through a hole, with beating heart, murmuring, "She is not coming."

And Robeccal, passing La Roulante, whispered in her ear, "It is done!"

A horse, covered with sweat, was pulled up before the door.

"You have not forgotten me?" said Irene de Salves to Bobichel.

Gudel came forward.

"We were waiting for you before we began. But you are alone!"

"My governess will be here in a moment."

"She has come!" said Caillette, turning pale and looking up at Fanfar, who was arranging an iron chain, and did not seem to have heard.

And the clown continued to say;

"Come in, gentlemen, come in!"

And the peasants, elbowing each other, said, "Oh! we must see this; it won't kill us for once."



CHAPTER XVII.

ROBECCAL'S IDEA.

The frequenters of the theatres and circuses of the present day would consider this establishment of Gudel's very modest, with its single gallery, a little red serge, and its shabby velvet curtain. There was an orchestra, but what an orchestra! All the actors when not occupied on the stage assisted in it. Gudel at intervals played the trombone. The gallery was crowded; so crowded that, from time to time, there were ominous crackings, but the people in their excitement did not notice this.

But a great silence fell on the spectators, when Irene de Salves entered. Erect and haughty, she moved through the crowd, with the slightest possible inclination of the head in apology for disturbing them.

A word here in regard to this young lady. She was looked upon as a very eccentric person. Her father had followed Bonaparte's fortunes, and had fallen in Russia, leaving his widow sole guardian of this girl, then only four years of age.

The Countess, broken-hearted at her loss, shut herself up in the chateau, and devoted herself to her daughter. Irene seemed to have inherited her father's adventurous spirit, and her mother encouraged rather than restrained it, so great was her joy in the resemblance. She had his exuberant vitality, his contempt for danger, and his pride of race. Irene, possessing an enormous fortune and accustomed to the indulgence of every caprice, soon began to look upon herself as of superior clay to these peasants who doffed their hats to her as she passed. She believed in the great power of money, and the Countess encouraged this belief. But illness came, and the Countess was confined to her sofa by paralysis. She lived now only for her daughter, and it was the one bright spot in her day when Irene rushed in, bringing with her fresh air and the sweet scents of the woods.

The child had become a woman, a woman full of contradictions. She was by turns charitable or pitiless, benevolent or disdainful. Sometimes, gay as a child, she rode all over the country—other days she hid herself in the woods or climbed to some inaccessible height, and there, with ardent eyes, indifferent to the wind that tossed her dark hair, she dreamed those dreams in which girls delight. She had moods of motiveless irritation, and of unreasonable indulgence. One day a village boy threw a stone at her horse. She pursued him with uplifted whip. Suddenly he turned, and folding his arms, defied her. She laughed aloud, and tossed him her purse.

Another time she was told that a fire had destroyed a village. She hardly seemed to hear. It was winter. In the middle of the night she arose and saddled her horse with her own hands, and rode off to the sufferers, working over them for hours.

She was not liked—none could tell why. Suddenly she learned, after a visit made by the Notary to her sick mother, that she was to marry the Vicomte Talizac. She cared nothing about it one way or the other. If her mother's heart was set upon it she was perfectly willing. The only thing she disliked in the plan was that she must leave her beautiful mountains. She had never been attracted by Paris, the streets and the people frightened her, but she was consoled by the thought that it would be a new world to conquer. On her return to the chateau, the daring words uttered by Fanfar dwelt in her memory: "Make yourself beloved." She had entered the booth where the exhibition had taken place, in a moment of idle curiosity, and was surprised at the impression made on her by the place and the people. She was greatly irritated withal. This mountebank, this rope-dancer, had taken a great deal upon himself, certainly. Why had she not answered him as he deserved? What did he mean—"Make yourself beloved"—as if she were not already beloved! She remembered the eyes which the peasants riveted on her. Could it be that they did not love her? And now she was seated on a wooden bench, Madame Ursula, who had at last arrived, on one side, and on the other a pretty but dirty child, who was playing with the fringe of her dress.

Meanwhile the entertainment was going on. Gudel gave more than he promised in his handbill. Before the curtain went up, he called together the members of his troupe, and encouraged them to do their best. La Roulante went up to him, and to his great amazement said a few conciliatory words. As Gudel was by no means ill-natured, he shook hands with her. The giantess turned her face toward Robeccal and winked at him.

Poor Gudel was very happy in this reconciliation. After all, things would go smoothly if he once got rid of Robeccal. Then Caillette kissed him, in her lace and spangles. Light as a bird, she skipped up to him and whispered in his ear:

"Am I not lovely to-night, papa?"

"Adorable!" he answered. He did not know that his darling was comparing herself with Irene.

Fanfar had his hands full, and seemed so little interested in the audience that Caillette was enchanted, for in her heart lurked a fear that some one would love her Fanfar. But after all it did not matter, for he cared little for all the beauties in the world. He handed La Roulante the stones which were to form her apparent nutriment. He whispered a new witticism to Bobichel, and gave Robeccal some advice as to the manner in which he should hold his sword. Then he took a position where he could see without being seen.

"Now, Fanfar," said Iron Jaws, "it is your turn! Look out for Caillette!"

The girl was to execute a new step on the tight-rope, and when she appeared, led forward by Fanfar, and made the three deep "reverences," there was a hum of admiration. She was charming—her delicacy was fairy-like. She lightly placed her foot on Fanfar's hand and sprang upon the rope. Standing there, she looked at Irene, who was leaning back with an air of indifference.

Fanfar now took up a violin, and raising the instrument to his shoulder, he began. He played at first very slowly. Caillette, with her arms folded—she had long before renounced the balancing pole—advanced up the rope. She knelt, and remained absolutely motionless. Then there came a peremptory summons from the violin. She arose and extended her arms above her head, and began to dance. Fanfar was an artist, his playing was wonderful. The music became faster and faster, and Caillette's little feet seemed hardly to touch the rope, they twinkled like stars, while Fanfar's bow looked only like a silver thread. He dropped the violin, and Caillette leaped into his arms. As she touched the ground, she threw at Irene a glance of laughing triumph.

Then came Robeccal's turn. He was a horrible object when he swallowed the swords. It was not admiration, it was horror, that he inspired. He seemed to enjoy this, and had imitated drops of blood on the sabres that he put down his throat. A few delicate persons shouted "Enough!" and Gudel appeared, not as Gudel, be it understood, but as Iron Jaws, the athlete. His enormous shoulders, his bull neck, contrasted with Fanfar's delicate form. Gudel tossed heavy weights and bent iron bars, and did all sorts of wonderful things. No one noticed the agility with which Fanfar, in his subordinate role, passed these weights to his employer. And now, the principal feat was to be performed. Fanfar rolled a barrel upon the stage, on which already stood a curious apparatus of bars and chains. Over this was a platform. The barrel was placed under this platform, and filled with stones. A rim was fitted to this barrel, and it was hoisted a little distance from the ground by a chain. It was this enormous weight that Gudel was to lift with his teeth.

Iron Jaws placed himself on this platform.

Fanfar blew a blast from his trumpet, and Iron Jaws grasped the chain in his teeth. The barrel moved up and up. The crowd was absolutely silent, this excess of strength inspired them with terror. Suddenly, a strange sound was heard.

What was it? No one knew. No one had time to see. Gudel lay insensible on the ground. And Fanfar had caught this barrel in his iron arms. Had it absolutely fallen, for the chain had broken, nothing could have saved Gudel. As it was, the shock deprived him of consciousness. Fanfar himself could hardly stand.

Caillette and Bobichel ran to Gudel. La Roulante knelt at his side, and uttered shriek after shriek. Robeccal did not appear.

The peasants gathered around the injured man. They thought him dead.

Fanfar drew Caillette away, and then leaned over his friend.

La Roulante pushed him aside.

"Don't interfere," she said, "he is my husband."

Fanfar looked her in the face, and continued his examination. He opened Gudel's vest and shirt, and laid his hand on his heart. There was a moment of silence.

"He is living," said Fanfar.

Caillette uttered a little cry, and would have fallen had not a hand caught her. She turned, and saw it was Irene.

"Will you give these salts to Monsieur Fanfar?" said Irene.

"Ah! thanks!" cried Fanfar, without waiting for Caillette to give it to him, and took it, as he spoke, from the young lady's hand.

"Pshaw! I have something better than that," said Bobichel, and dashing to the inn he returned with a bottle of brandy.

"Two drops of this," he said, "will do more than all the salts in the world."

Fanfar administered a few drops to Gudel, who presently uttered a long sigh.

"Living!" cried Fanfar.

"Heaven be praised!" shouted Bobichel. Then, turning swiftly toward La Roulante, he added,

"Made a mistake, eh?"

The giantess started.

"Ah! he is better," said a treacherous voice. It was Robeccal who spoke. He feared lest his absence would look badly, and he had come back.

"A physician is wanted," exclaimed Fanfar, turning to Schwann, who was weeping like a child.

"There is none in the village, none nearer than Vagney, a league away."

"Then I will go for him."

"But the inundation. Fanfar, you can't do it."

"I must try it, at all events."

"Monsieur Fanfar," said Irene, "I beg you to take my horse. She is a splendid animal, and goes like the wind!"

Madame Ursula raised her hands to heaven. "A splendid animal indeed!" she thought, "it cost two thousand francs."

Caillette wrung her hands in despair.

"I accept your kindness," answered Fanfar, simply. "You are very good, Mademoiselle, and I thank you."

"I remembered your words of advice," she replied.

Fanfar looked at her a moment. Then, passing his hand over his brow, he seemed to try to shake himself together.

"Let him be carried to the inn, and the doctor shall see him as quickly as possible," he said.

The peasants slowly raised the injured man, and as they crossed the Square, they beheld a singular scene. Bobichel had Robeccal by the throat, and pressed his knees on his adversary's chest.

"Ah! Bobichel," cried Schwann, "is this the time to fight?"

Bobichel rose, and seemed to hesitate, then he flung the scoundrel from him, with contempt and loathing.

Fanfar leaped upon Irene's horse, and dashed off in the direction of Vagney.

"My father, and he," murmured Caillette, "all that I love and have in the world."

And with her handkerchief to her eyes, she followed the sad procession.



CHAPTER XVIII.

PIERRE LABARRE.

We have left the Marquis and his most excellent servant Cyprien going toward Vagney, but it was not without anxiety that they ventured on this expedition. Both these men valued their lives highly, and felt no fears of ordinary foes, but with an inundation no cunning would prevail. Cyprien was extremely uncomfortable, and held his breath to listen to the rush of waters. He heard it soon enough, and saw it too. The water looked brown and had a silver foam upon it, but high as was the torrent it was still confined to its rocky bed. The intendant's courage returned. The Marquis stopped short to look at the cataract in admiration, but Cyprien urged him on, for it was growing late.

Suddenly, Cyprien laid his hand on the arm of the Marquis, who started. Criminals are subject to these involuntary starts.

"We are here," said Cyprien.

"Ah!" answered the Marquis.

"Do you see on that side hill a tiny house, which seems to hold its equilibrium almost by a miracle? It is there that we shall find Pierre Labarre."

"But he may not be at home?"

"He never goes out, this hermit." And Cyprien laughed.

The house that Cyprien pointed out was much more like a hut—it consisted of one story. Before the door were two or three worn stone steps. The door was of oak, and looked strong. On each side of the door was a window, which had heavy shutters that could be bolted at night. These were now open.

There was not a sound nor a movement about the house, at the back of which was an enclosure of moderate dimensions most carefully cultivated.

The Marquis hastened on, impatiently. He struck two or three blows with his cane on the door.

A voice within called out, "Who is there?"

The two accomplices exchanged a glance. Their expedition promised well.

"The Marquis de Fongereues."

Instantly the door opened, and an old man appeared. It was the man whom we saw in the Black Forest in the beginning of our narrative, the man who then escaped from the assassin, and who told the old Marquis of Simon's retreat. But the ten years that had since elapsed had left their traces on his brow; and perhaps it was not years alone that had lined his brow, faded his eyes, and bent his form. His face was sad—a shadow rested upon it.

"Enter, sir," said the former servant of the Fongereues family.

The room into which the Marquis stepped was simply furnished—one corner was curtained off.

"Please be seated, Monsieur le Vicomte," said Pierre.

"I am forced to believe, Pierre," answered the Marquis, "that in the nine years that have elapsed since my father's death you have forgotten your good breeding. Will you kindly remember that my title is the Marquis de Fongereues?"

Pierre held himself more erect. His face was like one of Rembrandt's pictures, where each wrinkle hides a thought.

"I know but one Marquis de Fongereues!" he said, slowly.

"And who may that be?" asked the Marquis, bringing his closed hand down upon the table.

"The son of the man who was murdered in 1815, in the village of Leigoutte!" answered Labarre, with perfect calmness.

"Murdered! That man fell when fighting against the true masters of France!"

"Your brother, Monsieur le Vicomte, was killed by those who had sworn his death, and who struck him down, when, in defending his country, he was doing his duty!"

The Marquis could hardly contain himself, his rage was so great. Cyprien feared an explosion. He had no objection to the man being killed, but not until he had been made to speak.

"Let that pass!" said the Marquis, at last. "It is needless to awaken these memories." Then lowering his voice he added, with an affectation of pity:

"It was a terrible affair, Pierre, and I understand that an old and faithful servant must have felt it deeply—the father, mother, and two children to die at the same time!"

"You are mistaken," answered Labarre. "The father was shot, the mother perished in the flames, but the two children escaped."

"It is strange that you can persist in this illusion, Pierre. Simon's two children are dead."

The old man answered.

"No—they are living!"

The Marquis forgot himself:

"Ah! you know, then, where they are?"

"No; but your exclamation proves that you yourself do not believe in their death."

Fongereues bit his lips.

Cyprien shrugged his shoulders. He felt a little contempt for his master and doubted. The Society of Jesus would never trust him with a mission of diplomacy. He thought it was time for him to interfere.

"It seems to me, sir," he said to the Marquis, "that absolute certainty in this matter is impossible. I have made the most careful search without the smallest success, though I had no difficulty in finding this house."

"Ah! it was you, then, who discovered my retreat?" And Labarre shook his head.

"That is enough!" interposed the Marquis. "Labarre, all this is useless. Give me your attention. I am about to speak of the honor of the Fongereues family."

Labarre's pale face was lighted by a smile as he repeated the words: "The honor of the Fongereues family!"

The Marquis shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"Cyprien," he said to his intendant, "you can leave us!"

Cyprien was astonished. This was no part of the programme, but he remembered that he could return, and also that he could listen.

As soon as the Marquis was alone with Labarre, an entire transformation took place in his manner. He seemed to throw aside a mask. He seized Labarre's hand, who shrank from the contact.

"Listen to me, Pierre, and for God's sake throw aside this distrust, which is an insult to me. You were the friend and the confidant of my father, you knew his secret thoughts, and you know that he did not love me. I am ready to admit that my father had reason to be offended at many of my acts and many of my words. I was young, and very reckless. You see, Pierre, that I am speaking to you with entire frankness. God forgives the penitent. Are you harsher than He?" He felt the hand he held tremble in his grasp. "Guilty though I be," continued the Marquis, "great as have been my faults and my errors, I bear to-day the name of my father, and that name, Pierre Labarre, will be forever dishonored unless you come to my assistance!"

"I do not understand," said Labarre. "I am an old man and poor. What can I do for you?"

"I will tell you. I am ruined, my influence is lost. This is not all—I am crushed under the weight of engagements so heavy that were I to give up every sou I have in the world, and reduce my wife and my son to beggary, I could not release myself and save my honor!"

Labarre did not speak.

"I have tried every plan," continued the Marquis, "and—hear me, Pierre—I have gone too far. What would you say, Pierre, if the name of your old master should be borne by a forger?"

Pierre did not evince the smallest emotion.

"Well?" said the Marquis, breathlessly.

"What do you want of me?" asked Pierre.

"I will tell you. I know that my father, in order to reserve for Simon a portion of his fortune, and fearing, with the suspicion of an old man, that in some way he would lose it, made a will, which he gave to you——"

"Go on, sir."

"This will contains a secret—it tells where this money reserved for Simon is concealed. This will gives direction that only Simon, or his heirs, shall receive this will. Simon is dead, his children have disappeared. Your duty is plain. This money now amounts to two millions, at least. What was always my father's first wish? Was it not to preserve his family name without a spot or blemish? Give me this will. Without this money I am dishonored!"

The old man released his hand and crossed the room. He stopped before the dark curtain, and then, with a solemn gesture, lifted it. The Marquis leaned forward. This was what he saw: A sheet of iron was fastened to the wall. It was twisted and out of shape. Strange lines were upon it, as if flames had licked it.

"Do you know what that is?" said Labarre.

"No," answered the Marquis, surprised and uneasy.

"I will tell you. Among the Vosges mountains there lived a man, honest and kindly. He was loved by all. He kept an inn, and taught the children of the peasants, to whom he sold wine. Yes, and this man bore one of the noblest names in France. One day cowards killed him, and at the same time other scoundrels and cowards, in obedience to fratricidal commands, attacked the house where he had so long struggled against poverty; other villains again attacked his wife and tried to kill his children. This, Monsieur de Talizac, is the sign that hung on the front of the inn kept by Simon, Marquis de Fongereues, and I defy you, his brother and his murderer, to repeat to me what you have already said in the face of this witness. Pray and entreat, if you will, if you dare—I, the lacquey of your father, reply: Cain! you are stained with the blood of your brother—begone!"

The Marquis uttered a yell of rage.

"Your memory is short, Monsieur de Talizac, and I will remind you that in 1817, one night the good man whom you killed with your infamy lay dying. You had the cruel courage to enter his room, and knelt at the side of his bed——"

"Be silent!" cried the Marquis.

"My master cursed you, cursed you as a murderer! It was a horrible scene—I saw and heard it all. You implored this dying man to have mercy on you and tell you where this money was placed. But my master did not yield, nor will I!"

Deadly pale, and with compressed lips, the Marquis murmured:

"Then you refuse?"

"I refuse—the son of Simon de Fongereues is living!"

"And if he be dead—am I not the sole heir?"

"I do not know."

"You have no right to keep back a will. Once more I ask—will you speak?"

"I will not!"

"Very well. The will is here; we will take it!"

The Marquis whistled, and Cyprien appeared.

"We must help ourselves," said the Marquis.

"All right!" answered the lacquey.

Strangely enough, this man who looked so infirm now bounded back and placed himself behind a table. He drew from his pockets two pistols, which he pointed toward his adversaries.

"Monsieur de Talizac," he said, "you tried to kill me once before, in the Black Forest—take care!"

Fongereues had no arms. Cyprien had been wiser. He, too, drew a pistol, but before he could touch the trigger, Pierre had opened the door behind him.

"For a valet," he said, "a dog is all that is required."

A dog of the Vosges, as large as a wolf, with bloodshot eyes and bristling hair, flew at Cyprien's throat, who fell on the floor.

"Help! Help!" cried the scoundrel.

The Marquis, livid with terror, had succeeded in opening the door.

"Here, Cliepe! Here!" shouted Pierre.

The dog gave Cyprien another furious shake, and dropped him. He rolled himself out of the door. Pierre flung it to and bolted it.

"Farewell!" he cried. "You will get your punishment in another world!"

And from his window he watched two black shadows fleeing toward Saint-Ame.



CHAPTER XIX.

A FIRST MEETING.

Just as Fanfar mounted his horse, an incident occurred which passed unperceived by the others.

Irene went up to the groom who held her horse, and with the air of giving him some directions, she said to Fanfar, in a low voice:

"Are you not wounded? Are you not risking your life to save that of your father?" She emphasized the word father, as if to make amends for having previously called him master.

"I am always ready to die for those I love!" answered Fanfar, as he examined the animal with attention.

Irene was silent for a moment. She admired the courage and the devotion of this man, but was at the same time irritated at the attraction she felt toward him. Obeying her sarcastic impulse, she said, quickly:

"I have christened my horse since I saw you. His name is Fanfar!"

Fanfar smiled.

"Very good!" he answered, as he patted the animal's glossy side. "We two Fanfars must not shrink from any danger!"

Irene remembered the inundation, but before she could speak the animal and rider were away.

"The carriage is waiting for you," said Madame Ursula, approaching.

"Yes, let us go," answered the girl, with feverish haste, and as she took her seat in the carriage, she said to herself: "Yes, I see what he means—make myself beloved, is what he said!"

Fanfar, directed by some peasants, was now far on the road. He tore off his hat and flung it away. His brow was burning. Was it his violent exertions that had given him this fever? Or was it the anxiety he felt for his adopted father? But Gudel's pale face was obscured by a mocking though sweet face, which flitted between him and all else. How beautiful she was!

* * * * *

The two men, when they fled from the cottage of old Labarre, were entirely routed and discomfited. It was not the Marquis who was afraid of the pistol—he fled from the echo of his father's words, which the old servant had repeated.

Cyprien could hardly draw a breath without pain, for the dog had wounded him on the throat.

The Marquis was enraged with himself that he had taken no arms with him. He had supposed that he would not have the smallest difficulty in bending the old man to his will. Why had he not leaped at the fellow's throat when he opened the door?

They had reached the rocks near the cataract, when Cyprien, seizing the arm of the Marquis, cried:

"Listen!"

The cataract roared through the narrow passage, but this was not all. What was that sound of crashing rocks? They soon discovered. Huge blocks of granite had rolled down from above, diverting the course of the water, which now tumbled down on the highway like a sheet of foam. And what was this behind them? Another great sheet of water coming on. The flood was pursuing them. The two men began to run. Suddenly the Marquis stumbled and fell. The water swept over him and carried him toward the abyss.

"Help! Help!" cried Fongereues.

Cyprien gathered together all his strength for one mighty effort—he was saved!

The Marquis clung to the trunk of a pine tree that grew close to the precipice. The water rolled over his head and blinded him, but did not succeed in washing him away. Suddenly, from the summit of the rocks, came a voice.

"Courage!" it cried, "courage!"

The voice came from a man, but how did any man maintain a foothold there? He descended the rock, crying all the time: "Courage! Courage!" Suddenly his hands ceased to clutch the rocks, and he dropped. The water rose to his knees, but tempestuous as was the rush, he maintained his footing.

The voice that had shouted for assistance was growing weaker. But Fanfar, for he it was, soon found the Marquis, but just as he had succeeded in reaching him he slipped, and believed himself lost.

No, a strong hand grasped his arm and drew him up, but the burthen was heavy, for the Marquis was unconscious. Slowly, very slowly, Fanfar raised his load and himself, and finally sank upon the turf above, nearly as unconscious as the Marquis.

Fortunately, a small lantern, which Fanfar wore at his belt, was not broken; he lighted it and examined the face of the man he had rescued.

Yes, Fanfar, the resemblance is great. This is the brother of the man who died at Leigoutte. This is the man who outraged a woman one terrible night, and that woman was the sister of Simon's wife, and this man, who was then the Vicomte de Talizac, is to-day the Marquis de Fongereues. This man is your father! Does Fanfar know all this? Not he!

The Marquis opens his eyes, he sees Fanfar in the darkness.

"You have saved me!" he murmured.

"Can you stand? Can you walk?" asked Fanfar.

The Marquis struggled to his feet, but uttered a cry of pain.

"Are you hurt?"

"I think not, but I seem to have no strength left."

"Wait!" said Fanfar.

He went to the side of the rock, and examined it with his lantern. He uttered a joyous exclamation.

"Most men," he said to himself, "would find this rock impracticable, but Fanfar can do it."

He returned to the Marquis.

"Put your arms about my neck," he said, "and trust to me."

The Marquis obeyed, and Fanfar, weighed down again by this burthen, climbed the path heretofore trodden only by goats. They reached the top in safety, there they found Irene's horse.

"I am going to take you on the saddle with me," he said to the Marquis. "I had been to a neighboring village for a physician, and returning I am only too thankful that accident brought me in this direction."

He assisted the Marquis to the saddle, and that his hands might be free requested the Marquis to hold the lantern.

He did so, and, with instinctive curiosity, flashed the light into the face of his preserver. He started back, for he saw before him the living image of the old Marquis de Fongereues. He must know the truth at any price. He fought against his fatigue, and just as Fanfar was about to leap into the saddle, the Marquis pressed the animal with his knee, and the animal was off like the wind. Fanfar believed that the horse had ran away.

"I hope he will get to the inn in safety," said Fanfar, anxiously. "I must get back on foot, it seems!"



CHAPTER XX.

THIN PARTITIONS.

Gudel had been carried to his room, the innkeeper moaning over and over again, "How could this have happened?"

La Roulante established herself by the sick bed. She was livid with fear. The attempt had been a failure, and Bobichel had guessed it!

The persistent questions of Schwann made her very uneasy. Caillette said the same thing. She hardly knew what had happened; she only knew that her father had been injured.

Bobichel came in.

"The chain has been examined," he said, looking in La Roulante's face.

"What of that!" she cried. "Why do you meddle in what does not concern you? Do you mean to say that any one meddled with the chain?"

"That is precisely what I mean!" answered Bobichel, forgetting all caution.

La Roulante rushed at him. Caillette threw herself between them, and Schwann dragged her back.

La Roulante caught Caillette by the arm and swung her off, then the girl picked herself up and ran to Gudel's bed. "Help! father!" she cried, "help!"

The girl's voice seemed to produce a magical effect. He half rose in his bed, and looked about.

Every one was amazed and delighted.

"I knew he would get well!" cried Schwann, as he rushed to Gudel, and took his hands.

Bobichel immediately poured out some brandy and gave it to Gudel, whose eyes almost at once regained a natural appearance. He saw Caillette first, and kissed her tenderly.

"Where is Fanfar?" he said. "Was he hurt?"

"He has gone to Vagney for a doctor for you, dear father."

Iron Jaws laughed aloud.

"I want none of your poisoners here, let me tell you." He caught sight of Bobichel, as he spoke. The clown was crying like a baby. "What is the matter with you, Bob?" he asked.

"Nothing, master, nothing at all; I am so happy."

"You have been fighting, sir?" said Gudel.

La Roulante bustled forward.

"No, he was impertinent to me," she said, "and I gave him such a shaking as he deserved, that was all. But have not you a word for your wife?"

Gudel turned his head away. Bobichel took advantage of this movement to shake his fist in the face of the giantess.

"Now let me see if I can stand," said Gudel. "One! two! three!"

He was on his feet.

"I must look at that chain," he said, "when Fanfar comes. And where is he? It seems to me that he is gone a long time."

"He will be here soon," answered the innkeeper, "unless the inundation has increased."

"Is he on foot?" asked Gudel.

"No, the lady lent him her horse," said Bobichel, but he stopped short when he saw Caillette turn pale.

Gudel could not see his daughter.

"The young lady is kind-hearted, in spite of all her affectations," he said. "And now, good people, I must ask you to leave me. While I am waiting for Fanfar, I must see these men that I am to take to-morrow to Remisemont."

"You do not really mean to go to-morrow?"

"I can't say yet. Caillette, my dear, you must go to bed and get some rest at once."

Gudel was not in the least hurt; he had received a great shock, that was all.

When La Roulante left the room, she was met at the door by Robeccal.

"You see," he said, in a fierce whisper, "that if I had done as I wished, and used a knife, the whole thing would have been settled by this time."

The two accomplices stood talking in the large room which the men of the company shared.

"Who the devil could have supposed," the one said to the other, "that Fanfar would have been able to save Gudel. Such a tremendous weight!"

While they were talking, Robeccal and La Roulante heard heavy steps on the stairs, and then a knock at Gudel's door.

Robeccal started. He suddenly remembered the brief colloquy which he had had with the unknown—who was in fact, Cyprien. Might it not be if he did what this man desired that in it he would also find his revenge?

"If you hate Gudel," this man had said, "I will give you an opportunity of paying off old scores."

Robeccal opened the door and looked out.

Yes, these were the men. Turning to the giantess,

"Listen!" he said, "it is by no means certain that all is lost."

"I don't understand."

"No, but tell me quick. Does he seem to have any secrets?"

"He is always reading the newspapers. He goes himself for his letters always, and brings back a quantity."

"Have you never read any of them?"

"I can't read."

"Wait a little. I think we have him now."

The two persons whom we saw in the dining-room now stood at the foot of Gudel's bed.

"You have had a narrow escape," said one.

"Yes, thanks to Fanfar. His brains, his arms and his muscles saved me."

"It was of him that we came to speak," replied the man who was dressed like a horse jockey.

"If it is time to act," said Gudel, "you may rely on him."

"Are you sure? We do not doubt you nor him, but for such work as ours—of which the aim is to return to France that liberty which has been stifled by the iron hand of Bonaparte and by the Bourbons—we need men who are ready to sacrifice their lives—to walk straight on, even if the scaffold stands at the termination of their road. Is Fanfar such a man?"

"I am not much of a speaker," answered Gudel. "My father was a soldier of the Republic. I myself was condemned to death in 1815. My father gave his life for France, and I lived through accident. It was about that time that little Fanfar fell into my hands, and I have always taught him to feel the greatest respect for the Revolution. You know, too, that his father was murdered by the allies, his mother was burned by the Cossacks, and his sister, poor little soul, died of starvation. Do you wonder that Fanfar hates the Bourbons? And you ask if you may trust him!"

There was a brief silence, and then the man who looked like an old soldier spoke.

"Gudel," he said, "we believe you. For ten years, over and over again, you have proved to us your devotion and your honesty."

Iron Jaws blushed with pleasure.

"Fanfar will be here presently. You will find him ready to do your bidding, and to risk his life in the performance of his duty."

"You know the situation," resumed one of the men; "our enemies are already quarreling among themselves, our friends are redoubling their efforts. General Foy has stigmatized the purchasers of votes and rendered their names infamous. Roger Collard has distinctly asked a terrible question—'where will you be in seven years?' The excitement is general, and we must send a man of activity to Paris—a man who is young and active, who is willing to make any sacrifice. Can Fanfar be this man?"

Gudel contented himself with a simple affirmative.

"Then," said the old soldier, drawing out a pocketbook, "here are papers so important that were they to fall into the hands of our adversaries, our heads would be in danger and our plans ruined. These papers Fanfar must carry to Paris; he will give them to the committee, who in their turn will give him orders, which he is to execute without hesitation or curiosity. Can you answer for Fanfar?"

"Upon my honor, I can."

The two men continued to talk in a low voice with Gudel, and then they went out. Absorbed in thought, they did not notice a man who started back when they appeared. Robeccal had heard every syllable.

Cyprien now arrived at the inn. White, trembling and breathless, he could scarcely reply to the questions addressed to him. He believed the Marquis to be dead, and was finally able to tell his story.

Schwann began to be very anxious. Where was Fanfar? Suddenly a horse was heard coming at full speed. Schwann and Caillette rushed to the door. They uttered a simultaneous cry of surprise. It was the Marquis.

"And Fanfar? Where is he?"

"He is coming. But I have not a moment to lose. Take me to Gudel's chamber."

The tone was too peremptory for Schwann to hesitate; being reassured, too, in regard to Fanfar, he was ready to obey without stopping to ask the meaning of this extreme haste. Cyprien started forward, but the Marquis gave him a look that commanded silence, and as he passed, said in a low voice:

"Patience!"

The door closed. Then Cyprien felt a hand on his shoulder and recognized the man whose assistance he had endeavored to buy.

"Come out with me," said this man.

"You have learned something?"

"Come out with me, I tell you. Do you think I am fool enough to talk under these walls?"

As they stepped out on the square they saw Fanfar, but Fanfar did not notice these two shadows. He entered the inn and Caillette threw herself into his arms, sobbing with joy.

"I am glad to see you," muttered Schwann, half ashamed of his own emotion.

In the silence that followed, the voice of La Roulante was heard singing while drowning her sorrows in a bottle of brandy.



CHAPTER XXI.

THE GRATITUDE OF A MARQUIS.

After the departure of the two strangers, who, it will be understood, now renounced their trip for Remisemont, Gudel remained very pensive. He said to himself that after all he had no right to imperil the future of Fanfar and to have made that promise for him. He began to feel very uneasy at the long absence of the young man. There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," called Iron Jaws.

His surprise was great when he beheld a stranger walk in.

"I am," said this stranger, "the Marquis de Fongereues, and I wish to talk with you."

"I am entirely at your service," answered Iron Jaws, bringing forward a chair.

"You are probably astonished, Monsieur Gudel," said the Marquis, "at my coming here at this time. I know of your accident, and I trust you will excuse my indiscretion when you hear my reasons."

Iron Jaws bowed.

"I was, a half hour since, in great danger, and one of your people saved my life. You will hear about that later on, I can not now delay to tell you."

"But who was this person?"

"His name was Fanfar."

"I might have known it!" shouted Gudel, "he is always doing such things. But where is he? Is he hurt?"

"Not in the least. He assisted me upon his horse, and the animal was uncontrollable; he, however, brought me here in safety, but my preserver was obliged to walk back."

"He does not mind that, let me tell you. He will be here in ten minutes."

"And the more reason why I should make haste in what I have to say. My name tells you the position I hold at court—"

"I know very little of such matters."

"Then I will tell you that my name is well known, and that my credit is great. I am ready to serve your—son—"

"My son! Alas, sir, I wish Fanfar were my son, but, unfortunately, he is no relation of mine."

"But this young man has parents? I can serve them, undoubtedly."

"Fanfar has no parents."

The Marquis bit his lips. With difficulty he curbed his impatience; it showed in his voice and his eyes. Gudel suspected nothing.

"A poor orphan, then?" asked the Marquis, in the most honeyed tones, "entrusted to your care by a dying father?"

"No, sir, I found Fanfar."

"Pray tell me how and where? I am greatly interested in this young man."

"It is a simple story, sir. My father and I were mountebanks, and there are worse trades, let me assure you. I have served my time under the Republic, and was easy in my mind when there came the trouble of 1812. I with the rest was called out again. I had left my wife and my little girl at home in a village which the allies would have gobbled up at a mouthful, so I asked for a short leave and started off. I tumbled my family and their goods into my chariot, where were already packed the things I used in my profession. I must not omit to mention that Bobichel had kept up the business for me. We travelled along not very rapidly, for there was already fighting going on in France, and we were obliged to turn off the highway many times. One morning, passing through a field, I heard the sound of a bugle. It was the French bugle call. It sounded a little queer, but I said to myself, 'Hullo! there are comrades near.' I ran round a hillock, and saw something that I shall never forget in my life."

"Go on!" cried the Marquis.

Gudel opened his eyes in amazement, but he could not well see the face of his companion, and was flattered by the evident curiosity of the Marquis.

"I saw soldiers, several of them, lying dead, butchered by the Cossacks. I looked around to see who had sounded the bugle. You won't believe me when I tell you that it was a boy, certainly not over ten, who had discovered this bugle and blown it. I ran to him, but I don't know that he even saw me, for he fell back fainting at that very moment."

"And you picked him up?"

"Of course I did! And this was Fanfar."

"Did you make any search for his parents?"

"How could I! The Cossacks were at my heels, and there was fire and blood everywhere."

"But later on?"

"The child was sick for a long time, entirely out of his head, and when he began to recover we feared that his brain was hopelessly affected. It was not until eighteen months had elapsed that he was able to tell me he came from Leigoutte, among the Vosges mountains."

"Ah!" The Marquis drew his breath with pain. "Go on! go on!" he muttered in a hoarse voice.

"He said his father's name was Simon, his mother's name Francoise, and a little sister was called Francinette, but he gave me no family name. I did my best and found that the father had been killed in an engagement among the mountains, the mother was burned in a fire set by the Cossacks, the sister had disappeared; my little Fanfar was all alone. I kept him, and did what I could for him. I taught him my profession. This is the whole story. On one side good, brave people, on the other cowards and assassins."

The Marquis was livid. There was now no doubt. It was Simon's son who had been thus thrown in his path. He asked one more question.

"But could you not learn the father's name?"

"No, the village was burned, almost all the inhabitants had perished, the Cossacks had done their work well. One of the peasants did tell me that he always thought this Master Simon—he taught a school—was a great lord in disguise, but there are always just such foolish stories, and you know in those days great lords were not often killed in defending France."

Fanfar entered somewhat abruptly.

"This is the lad, sir," said Gudel, drawing him to his side. "He is good, he is honest, he is strong!"

"I wish to thank you, young man," said the Marquis, turning to Fanfar, "for saving my life."

Fanfar answered courteously.

"You were in peril. I only did my duty."

"Do not forget that if I can ever serve you, you are to apply to me without hesitation," said the Marquis, and bowing he left the room.

Fanfar and Gudel were now alone.

Cyprien waited for his master, who seized him by the arm and dragged him into the room where they had talked together in the morning.

"Cyprien," he whispered, fiercely, "hell has come to our aid; this young man who saved my life, this Fanfar—"

"Well?"

"Is the son of Simon Fougere—the son of my brother!"

My readers will please remember that only Francoise knew the secret of the birth of little Jacques, who was supposed to be the son of Simon. And of Francoise, the fire had destroyed every trace.

"At last!" exclaimed Cyprien.

"Hush! I have reflected. This young man must die, but his identity must be perfectly clear. We require Gudel's testimony, and then, when all this is plain, we can control Labarre."

Cyprien assented to the wisdom of the plan, but he wished a little delay. He saw evidences of great impatience on the part of the Marquis.

"I am not so simple, sir, as you think. This Gudel is one of the leaders of the conspiracy of which I have told you, and Fanfar is the man on whom these bandits rely to arouse the populace in Paris."