Then in a low voice he told the Marquis how Iron Jaws had then in his possession papers which would prove the whole plot, and give the names of the conspirators.

"Let him fall into the hands of the law," concluded Cyprien, "and the end is certain. We can contrive to give to the plot enormous proportions, and he will be condemned."

The Marquis shrugged his shoulders.

"No, that won't do. We can't rely on these judges. One never knows what whims they may take into their heads."

"But what do you propose?"

Fongereues hesitated.

"Who is this man," he asked, "who has revealed to you the conversation of Gudel and his accomplices?"

"He is a scoundrel named Robeccal, who belongs to their troupe."

The Marquis tore a leaf from his note book, and wrote a few words in haste.

"Take this man with you, and go to Remisemont," he said. "Go to the Comte de Vernac, who is a rabid monarchist. He has vast influence, and this very night the police will be here, these two men will be made prisoners, and I have no doubt they will resist. Then I will attend to the rest; a criminal who resists may be silenced."

Cyprien smiled meaningly.

"Now go, at once, there is no time to be lost. Fanfar must be killed; Gudel must be taken alive. Gudel will tell his story in the court-room. The Comte de Vernac can never say that the information on which he acted came from me, and without any trouble we shall get rid of the heir of Simon Fougere. Before these same judges, moreover, Labarre shall deliver the will, and tell the secret. Let no one see you and this Robeccal go away together."

"Rely on me."

Before many minutes, Robeccal and Cyprien started off together.



CHAPTER XXII.

POOR BOBICHEL.

More than two hours had elapsed since the departure of the two spies. The little town of Saint Ame was plunged in profound obscurity. The wind raged down the narrow street, and the roar and rush of the torrent was heard in the distance.

One of the rooms in the inn presented a singular aspect. Caillette lay exhausted on her bed, but she was not asleep; she lay with her eyes wide open thinking of Fanfar. The poor little creature's heart was very sore, but she was too innocent to know why. She felt a vague terror complicated by a certain bitterness. She felt without understanding.

Suddenly, she heard a strange noise. She looked around the room, dimly lighted by a night-lamp. On the floor lay the giantess, who had drank too much brandy. Robeccal had said a few words to her before he went away with the lacquey. She did not seem to understand him, but fell into a doze while he was talking. When she awoke, though by no means herself, she determined to rise from her bed. She did so, and staggered half across the room, then fell on the floor. Half laughing she looked about, and met the surprised, half frightened eyes of Caillette. This was not the first time that the young girl had surprised her in this degraded condition but this time she was more than ever shocked, and shuddered perceptibly.

All at once, the giantess seemed to recognize in Caillette an enemy. She uttered a sound that was almost a growl, and, unable to stand, crawled across the room to the girl's bed.

Caillette recoiled until she could go no further. She wanted to scream, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.

La Roulante saw her terror, and laughed. Determined to torture the child, she began to talk.

"You want your Fanfar, don't you? Let me tell you that he cares not a sou whether you live or die."

She stopped talking for a few minutes, and seemed to be reflecting.

"No, I won't kill you—it is not worth while. What was it that my little Bob said to me? Where has he gone, I should like to know!"

She repeated these words over and over again. Presently she vaguely recalled what Robeccal had last said to her.

"'He will not be long,' he said, 'he was going—' Where was he going? Oh! for the police—Gudel and Fanfar had better look out!"

She now crawled away from the bed until she found the brandy bottle, which she drained, all the time saying over and over confused words about the police and papers which would cost two persons their lives.

Although Caillette did not understand, she saw that there was danger, pressing and immediate, for both Gudel and Fanfar. She waited until La Roulante's heavy breathing showed that she was asleep, and then the young girl cautiously crept from her bed and to the door, which, fortunately, was not locked. She hurried to her father's room. Some one lay before the door. She stooped and recognized the faithful clown, who had thus mounted guard.

"Bobichel! I must speak to my father," she whispered.

"What! is it you, little Caillette? Is there trouble?"

"Yes—and not one moment to lose!"

Bobichel was wide awake and on his feet. He opened the door for Caillette. Her father was on the bed asleep. Fanfar was asleep, too, sitting in his chair.

Fanfar started up. "Caillette!" he exclaimed.

"Yes—wake my father at once!"

"He is so weary, and needs rest."

"It is a question of your liberty—his liberty and your lives!"

Gudel now opened his eyes.

"What is the matter, child?" he asked.

"The police are coming to arrest you!"

"What nonsense!"

Caillette instantly repeated the disconnected words uttered by La Roulante.

"She can't know anything!" said Gudel, uneasily. "Bobichel!" he called.

"I am here, master!" answered the clown.

"Where is Robeccal?"

"I don't know—he went away three hours ago."

"Where was he going?"

"I don't know—I was too sleepy to ask."

Gudel questioned Caillette again. "Had La Roulante distinctly spoken of papers?"

It was only too clear that there had been spies in their camp.

"Fanfar," said Gudel, "when one accepts a mission like ours his life no longer belongs to himself. We must fly, and at once!"

"But how?"

"We will take the horses that belong to the chariot."

"And do you forget me, father?" asked Caillette.

"No—I confide you to Bobichel."

"Oh! Fanfar, do not leave me!" sobbed the young girl.

"Dear child, there are great dangers to run!"

"Yes, but with you I should not be afraid."

"And master—am I to be left behind?" asked the clown.

"Very well, we four will go, then," answered Gudel. "But you forget that we have not horses enough," he added.

"But I have legs," interposed Bobichel, "and I can overtake you wherever you go. You can take Caillette on behind."

"Yes, that would do very well, would it not, Fanfar?" asked the girl, eagerly.

"Where shall we go?" said Fanfar to Gudel.

"We had best take the road to Paris. If we are pursued, we shall find a hiding-place there as well as anywhere else."

"Shall we wake Schwann?" asked the clown.

"No, no—what is the use? I do not wish him to be compromised, either, and when they question him they will find that he really knows nothing. You, Bobichel, bring out the horses—the saddles are in the wagon. Go, and make haste!"

Gudel here stopped short.

"My wife!" he said.

"But, master, it is she who has betrayed you!" cried Bobichel.

"It is she who has saved us!" Gudel replied.

"Yes, but without meaning to do so."

"I must see her, at all events."

And Gudel hurried to her room, and beheld her lying in a drunken stupor on the floor. He shook his head sadly.

"After all, she has nothing to fear, and we may as well part in this way as in any other—the end was coming!"

And he returned to his daughter and his friends, who in the meantime had been making a rope of the sheets and blankets on the bed. With their aid Bobichel dropped from the window.

"Now it is my turn!" said Caillette, and, light as a bird, she seized the rope.

"Take care, child! Take care!" cried Fanfar.

"Would it pain you," she asked quickly, "if I came to grief?"

"Hush! child."

Little Caillette was very gay, and it was with a pretty, childish laugh that she swung herself to the ground, where in two minutes her father and Fanfar also stood.

The two horses, all saddled, stood ready.

"You have the papers, Fanfar?" asked Gudel, in a whisper.

"Yes—I have them."

"Then let us start at once."

Caillette, without the smallest hesitation, sprang on Fanfar's horse.

"And you, Bobichel?"

"Don't be troubled about me!"

"Hark!" cried Fanfar.

They listened, and heard distinctly the tread of horses in the distance.

"The police!" said Bobichel.

"They have lost no time, at all events!" And Gudel laughed. "But we have the advantage, and I know a cross-road which will cut off a good bit."

The two horses stepped gingerly out of Schwann's premises, and when once on the high road dashed madly forward. The inn was wrapped in silence and almost in darkness—only one room was lighted, the one where the Marquis sat, impatient and anxious. He, too, heard the horses galloping. His plan had succeeded, then. In a few minutes the house would be surrounded.

A group of horsemen suddenly appeared on the Square. Robeccal and Cyprien were with them.

When Robeccal went away, he had taken the precaution to leave a window open on the lower floor, which Schwann had not discovered in making his rounds for the night.

Robeccal entered through this window and opened the door.

Schwann was aroused by footsteps below, and rushed down the stairs. Seeing the police in uniform, he uttered an exclamation.

"The police in my house!" he cried.

"I ask your pardon, sir," answered the Brigadier of police, "but there was urgent need. In the name of the king!"

Schwann repeated the words with a sigh.

"You have conspirators lodging here—enemies of the monarchy!"

"You are greatly mistaken, Brigadier—"

"Not so. Their names are Gudel and Fanfar."

Schwann laughed. "That is ridiculous!" he said.

"That may be, but I have orders to arrest these men! Where are they?"

"I will show you!" said Robeccal, quickly. The door of the chamber was locked.

"Break it in!" cried Robeccal.

"Wait! Law before all else." And standing in a military attitude, the Brigadier shouted: "In the name of the king, open!"

As may be supposed, there was no reply. Then, with his shoulder, the Brigadier burst it open.

"Gone!" roared Robeccal, and looking round he quickly espied the improvised rope at the window, and flew down the stairs.

Cyprien drew the Brigadier aside. "Spare no exertion. The fate of France depends on you, now!" he said.

The Brigadier became immensely important on hearing these words. He took a lantern and hunted for traces of the fugitives.

"This way!" cried Robeccal, "they have made their escape toward the forest."

"I know every inch of the forest," answered the Brigadier, waving his sword, as if he were about to attack an enemy.

Cyprien stood biting his lips. Could it be that Fanfar was to escape him now? The police rode off at a rapid pace, and Cyprien felt that they must overtake the fugitives.

About two miles from the village the road wound round a hill, on one side of which was a deep precipice. Day was breaking, and Robeccal, who of course had joined in the pursuit, rose in his stirrups in hopes to see some sign of the men they were pursuing.

Suddenly one of the horses fell, then the one behind meeting with the same obstacle, fell also, until five out of the seven were on the ground.

"It is a rope!" cried the Brigadier, "a rope stretched across the road—the rascals!"

The men who were in their saddles leaped to the ground and endeavored to assist their comrades, one of whom had a leg broken.

Robeccal stamped with rage.

"Halloo!" cried a voice, "you had best meddle with honest people again!" And Bobichel, standing on the side of the road, danced with glee.

"You shall pay for that!" shouted Robeccal, and snatching a pistol from the belt of one of the police, he fired at Bobichel.

The clown flung out his arms. "They are saved, at all events!" he shouted, as he disappeared, falling into the abyss at his feet.

Fanfar and Gudel were far away. Poor Bobichel!



CHAPTER XXIII.

FRANCE—1824.

The 29th of February, 1824, was a Sunday, and a fete day. At that time the Carnival was in full blast, and the streets were crowded with curious spectators. A carriage drew up before a fashionable restaurant in the Palais Royal. The carriage was driven by a coachman wearing a powdered wig, and the horses were magnificent. Three young men with cigars in their mouths descended from the carriage, and took the path that led to the garden.

They were wrapped in Venetian cloaks and each wore on his shoulder knots of ribbon, different in hue, and each concealed his face under a white satin mask, to which mask the police made no objection, as it was a sign of high birth and nobility.

These young men laughed when they found they were to pass through a double row of spectators, to whose jokes they replied in kind.

Lights were beginning to twinkle among the trees when they established themselves at a table in the cafe.

"I am thankful to say," exclaimed one of the young men, "that the Carnival is nearly over."

"Fernando is right," said one of the two others. "We have been out now for two hours, and we have not had the smallest adventure."

"Pshaw!" answered the third youth, who was called Arthur by his friends, "we have a long evening before us, and it would be odd if we did not find some excitement and could not create a little scandal!"

Of these three young men one was named Arthur de Montferrand; his father had made himself a name in the Chamber of Peers by defending the assassins of Marshal Brune; the other, Gaston de Ferrette, was a great duelist, although not more than twenty-four, and belonged to the best blood in France.

The third was less known in Paris. He was an Italian who was traveling in France. His name was Fernando de Vellebri. He came with letters from princes and ambassadors, which opened to him the first hotels in the Faubourg. This was the time when the word "dandy" began to be used, and these three aspired to the title.

"Where is Frederic?" said one. "Would he fail us now?"

"Of course not. Besides, he wrote to me to say that he was to go with Mademoiselle de Salves to witness some ceremony at Notre Dame!"

"Poor Frederic!"

"He is not so much to be pitied, if you please, for Mademoiselle de Salves is a most charming person."

"But does he love her? That is the question."

"It seems to me that you take a great deal of interest in my private affairs, gentlemen!" said a clear voice behind them.

"Frederic! Frederic, at last!"

"Yes, Frederic, who has been listening to you for some minutes, and who thinks you a little venturesome in your remarks."

He whom these young men greeted as Frederic wore no mask. His costume was what in 1824 was regarded as the height of elegance. His friends looked at him with admiration and envy, audibly regretting that they had appeared in mask and costume.

"Then go and take them off," said Frederic. "I will wait for you here, or, better still, you may stop for me an hour later at the Mille Colonnes."

Frederic was left alone. He was a youth of about twenty, but looked older. Heavy brows shaded deep-set eyes, his shoulders were square, with a slight deformity of the spine. His name was Frederic de Talizac.

Ten years had elapsed since the son of Magdalena scorned and insulted France. We shall soon discover if the man fulfilled the promise of his childhood.

The Vicomte left the rotunda, and putting up his eyeglasses, began to examine the crowd in the garden.

The Palais Royal was at that time the central point of Paris, and served as a rendezvous for everybody. Each cafe had its special customers. The Bonapartists went to one, foreigners to another—the Mille Colonnes—speculators to the Cafe de Fois, and so on. The Cafe de Valois was frequented by military men, the survivors of the great Revolution, and it was also believed that it was a resort of the Republicans. Wonder was frequently expressed that the police had not suppressed this scandal. It was toward this cafe that the Vicomte now took his way. Hardly had he passed the gallery than he was attracted by a group of young men earnestly conversing together. Frederic watched them a moment, and then went up to them. He touched one of the men on his shoulder, saying:

"Will you grant me a few minutes' conversation, sir?"

The young man to whom this question was addressed was about twenty-five. His regular features indicated great determination. He looked at Talizac for a moment, and then replied, very coldly:

"I am at your service, sir."

The two men then walked into an almost deserted street.

"I first wish to know your name," said the Vicomte. "I am Frederic de Talizac."

"As I am well aware."

"And I wish to know your name that I may know also, if I am to speak to you as to a gentleman, or strike you as I would a lacquey."

The young man turned very pale, but with a calmness that was absolutely terrifying under the circumstances, he replied:

"There can be nothing in common between us two."

"I am to marry Mademoiselle de Salves in a month," said Talizac, between his close shut teeth. "Yesterday, at noon, you had the impertinence, when riding past her mother's hotel, to throw a bouquet over the garden wall."

"Well?"

"You probably have excellent reasons for concealing your name, but I give you fair warning that if you are again guilty of similar conduct, that your chastisement will be swift and sure!"

The Vicomte stopped short, for the young man grasped him by the wrist with such strength that Frederic caught his breath in pain.

The stranger spoke in a low, calm voice.

"You have insulted me—wait!"

He turned and called to his friends.

"Gentlemen," he said, "this man has insulted me. Shall I fight him? He is the Vicomte de Talizac."

One of the friends, who wore the ribbon of the Legion of Honor, replied:

"You cannot fight with a Talizac!"

The Vicomte uttered a cry of rage, but the other still held him firmly.

"You see," he said, "we do not fight with people whom we do not respect. If you do not understand me, apply to your father for an explanation—he will give it to you. The day may come when you may have an opportunity of killing me—if you can. Now go—return to your shameful pleasures!"

With features convulsed with rage the Vicomte, unable to speak, drew from his pocket a handful of cards, and flung them into the face of the unknown, who started forward, but one of his friends laid a restraining hand on his arm.

"You do not belong to yourself!" he said, warningly.

Talizac disappeared. As he was hurrying on, blind with anger, a voice cried:

"Is this the way you keep your appointments?"

It was the Italian, Fernando de Vellebri. He added, with a wink:

"You ought to have killed that fellow. You know him?"

"Very little."

"He was concerned in that affair at Tivoli. You will tell me about it."

The tone which the Italian employed was not pleasing to Frederic, who, glad to have found a new adversary, answered quickly:

"I suppose you mean that I can tell you, if I choose. You seem to give me orders."

"Suppose we sit down." And the Italian pointed to two chairs which were unoccupied. He seated himself at once.

"My dear Vicomte," he said, serenely, "it seems to me that, situated as we are, there should be no misunderstanding or quarrel between us."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean what you seem to have forgotten, that yesterday, in a moment of absent-mindedness, you signed a certain paper with a name that was not your own."

The Vicomte turned very pale.

"How did you know this?" he stammered.

The Italian took out an elegant little pocketbook.

"Here it is," he said, opening a paper bearing the royal mark.

"But how did it come into your hands?"

"In a very simple way—I bought it."

"You—and for what reason?"

"Can you not suppose that my only motive was to render you a service?"

The Vicomte shrugged his shoulders.

"You are right," answered Fernando, in reply to this mute protest. "I have another reason. I do not wish the Vicomte de Talizac to come to grief because my fortune is intimately connected with his—because his father, the Marquis de Fongereues, has rendered and will render great services to a cause that is mine. You must promise me to be guilty of no more imprudences like this."

"Do you mean to give me that paper?"

"No, it is not altogether mine; those who retain an interest in it can alone surrender it to you."

"And who are those persons?"

"Friends, defenders of the Monarchy and of Religion. But we will say no more on this trifle now. I merely wished to prove to you that I had a right to your confidence. Resume your story, and tell me why you hate this man whom you just now provoked."

This trifle, as the Italian called it, could place the Vicomte at the criminals' bar, as both men well knew, but Frederic deemed it advisable not to insist. He suspected the truth, and had long since decided that the Italian belonged to the mysterious association. It was enough for him that the danger was momentarily averted.

"Very well," said Talizac, "you were speaking of Tivoli. The crowd was very great at the fete, the fireworks were going on, at that moment the king's arms were exhibited. Suddenly there was a grand excitement; part of the scaffolding gave way. Mademoiselle de Salves in her fright dropped my arm and began to run. I saw a great timber falling and believed she was lost. I could not reach her. A man emerged from the crowd, and with incredible strength seized this timber and eased it to the ground. She fainted, and when the crowd permitted me to reach her side, this young man was holding her in his arms. She opened her eyes, and I am certain that this man was no stranger to her. When, however, we all gathered about her, the unknown bowed respectfully and vanished. I noticed, however, that this romantic cavalier carried away with him a ribbon from the dress of the young lady—only a ribbon. I told Irene of this impertinence; she did not even condescend to answer me."

"But the Paladin did not long content himself with this silent homage, I presume?"

"Women are idiots, you know, and this man now passes Irene's windows daily, and even throws flowers over the garden wall; and this woman, who is to be my wife, stands behind the curtain and watches for his coming. This my own eyes have seen, and I have come to the conclusion that it has gone on long enough—"

"Ah! and you wish to get rid of this gallant. The matter ought to be easy enough."

"Yes, one would think so. I have kept my valet on the watch, and discovered that he came every day to the Cafe de Valois at this hour—"

"My dear Talizac, I can put an end to all your difficulties. If Mademoiselle de Salves has built up a pretty romance, I can banish her dreams by telling her the name of her lover. Your rival, my dear fellow, is or was rather, a mountebank, and his name is Fanfar."

The Vicomte laughed long and loud.

"Upon my word!" he exclaimed, as soon as he could speak, "I should have made a fool of myself, had I fought a duel with the fellow! But do the men who are with him know who he is?"

"Certainly. They know perfectly well. And yet shake hands with him! They call him their friend."

The Italian could stand no more of this. He rose from his chair. "Come," he said, "this is the Carnival, let us end the day merrily."

"I should be only too glad to do so," was the Vicomte's reply, "anything to make me forget the disagreeable scene with that man!"

The Vicomte called the contumely heaped on his father's name and his own, "a disagreeable scene."

The two young men sauntered across the garden. Just as they reached the fountain, Frederic stopped.

"What is it?" asked the Italian.

A young girl was singing to a guitar. A curious crowd had gathered about her. She was a pretty creature; her brown curls were covered by a handkerchief of white wool, her face was perfect in shape and in coloring, her eyes were dark—gay, but at the same time innocent.

She accompanied herself on a guitar as she sang, and her voice was so delicious that the crowd clamored for more. The girl bowed her thanks, and extended the back of her guitar for money. She colored deeply as she did so. When she reached Frederic, he said, in a whisper, as he laid a gold piece on the instrument, "You are alone to-day."

She started, looked up quickly, and passed on.

"The 'Marquise' is in a lofty mood," said the Italian, stooping as he spoke, and picking the gold piece from the ground. "Take it, Vicomte, it is yours, since she would have none of it."

Frederic uttered a sullen oath.

"And this has been going on for two months!" Fernando laughed, as he stated this as a fact, "and every day the Marquise—by the way, why is she called by that name!—repels the homage of the Vicomte!"

"Do you spend all your time watching me, Fernando? Take care, patience has its limits!"

"I am glad to hear it. You bear too much from this girl!"

Frederic caught his arm. "Listen to me, Fernando, my brain reels with mad projects. Help me to avenge myself on Fanfar—help me to carry off this girl, and I belong to you, body and soul!"

"Well said!" answered the Italian, "as the bargain is concluded, suppose we go to dinner?"

"But this girl?"

"We will talk of her to-night, and I am quite sure you will have no reason to complain of me!"



CHAPTER XXIV.

THE MARQUISE.

Forty-eight hours have elapsed since the scenes we have described in the last chapter, and the day is Mardi Gras. Opposite the Cafe Turc, which in 1824 had a European reputation, stood a house of squalid appearance, inhabited, because of the low rent at which rooms could be obtained, by a number of modest tradespeople, who for the greater part of the year carried on the numerous booths on the Square.

Before describing this picturesque corner of old Paris, unknown to the present generation, we will enter this house to which we have alluded, and which bore the number 42 of the Boulevard du Temple. In a room on the fifth floor, the girl who was called the Marquise was finishing her toilette before the mirror. A poor little room enough, with its faded wall paper, its narrow bed pushed into the corner, its two chairs and pine table. The window closed but imperfectly, and the wind blew out the curtain like a sail. Colored prints were fastened against the wall, and everything was exquisitely clean. A white napkin was spread upon the table, and the bed had snowy curtains. The mirror at this moment was worth more than any from Venice, for it reflected a charming Greuze-like face.

The singer was twisting up her rebellious curls, and endeavoring to bring her hair into some kind of order. Her complexion was exquisite, her big dark eyes were full of sunshine, and her lips were beautiful and fresh. She fastened on her muslin cap, and then the graceful hands fluttered about her dress arranging that also.

Suddenly a deep sigh, apparently from the next room, reached her ear. She ran to the communicating door, and, opening it cautiously, looked in.

"Poor woman!" she said to herself, "she is awake. I wonder if she suffers still."

Then a voice called, "Cinette! little Cinette!"

"How strange!" said the girl, "when I hear her speak that name, it seems to me the voice is familiar."

"Come, Cinette!"

This time the girl entered the room. She beheld a woman vainly seeking to raise herself in her bed.

Her face was hideously scarred and seared, while the bloodshot eyes could not endure the light. It was clear that the poor creature had been the victim of a horrible accident.

"I am thirsty," she faintly articulated.

"Yes, mamma," answered the girl who was called Cinette.

And the woman smiled. She was mad in addition to her helplessness. No one knew who she was, nor whence she came.

The reader has recognized in the girl who ministered to her needs, little Cinette, the child of Simon Fougere and Francoise. She had run distractedly through those subterranean vaults when she lost Jacques, and finally escaped from the labyrinth to fall into the hands of those people whom Hugo has immortalized.

These people—a husband, wife and children—were pillaging the dead on a battle-field, but when Cinette appeared they smiled upon her.

The little girl could give no explanation as to why she was thus alone and deserted. To all questions she could only reply by the words "papa Simon," and "mamma Francoise." Of course this was too indefinite for these people to act upon; besides, at that time they had much to do—the invasion promised them much spoil. They took Cinette away, and after the peace they continued to keep her. They had amassed quite a little property, and bought a farm in Blaisois. Cinette was happy in these days, for she was too young to remember her woes.

In the village there was an old soldier whose violin and songs had often enlivened the bivouac. He soon discovered that Cinette, for she still went by that name, possessed a wonderful voice. He took it into his head to start a musical school; he had three pupils, only two of which paid a sou; on the third, Cinette, he built many projects. He was making arrangements to transport his pupil to a wider stage, when an epidemic broke out in the village, and the girl was left alone in the world.

The "Good Sisters" offered her a home in the convent, but she had always been accustomed to the open air, to flowers that nodded a welcome to her as she passed, and to sunshine, and was afraid of the cloister, of its dimness, and of watchful eyes.

She finally took her departure, and begged her way to Paris. Some one gave her an old guitar that had been left behind by some wanderer, which the child had gazed at with longing eyes. She escaped the many snares that were laid for her, and finally found shelter in a house where only the very poor lived, but they were all honest, industrious people. She obtained the necessary permission to sing on the street, and then had another idea. In the part of the city where she lived there was a great deal of poverty, and she undertook the care of a poor woman, she was so confident in her ability to make money.

"But the person you propose to take care of has been dreadfully disfigured, and is unpleasant to look upon," said one of the neighbors.

The child asked to be told all that was known of the unfortunate creature.

She had been found among the mountains long before, and the people who had found her were dead, but she was still taken care of by these kind, good creatures who, however, found the burthen a heavy one.

Francine went to see this poor creature. There was a long silence, the girl seemed to hesitate, then, suddenly, she stooped and kissed her.

"Will you go with me, mamma?" she said.

Why did she use the word mamma? She could not have told herself, and yet this woman was really her mother. Yes, this unfortunate, this mad woman was Francoise, the wife of Simon. After the agony of that fearful night, she lost her memory and her reason. She did not know how she had escaped, and yet she was here and restored to her child. Fate had brought the two together. Mother and daughter were alike victims of the Talizacs.

Francine took this woman, whom she had volunteered to support, and installed her next her own room. Day and night she watched over her with a solicitude that was absolutely filial.

The elder woman was happy only when Cinette was with her, and when the girl was away, she repeated the name over and over.

Francine worked hard. She now had her regular audiences, and could be heard at certain places at certain hours. Her programmes were regularly made out. The name that had been given her of the Marquise was not given unkindly. She was neither vain nor proud, but she wore her simple woolen gown in such a dainty fashion, and put the little kerchief on her head in such a way, that the people called her the Marquise. But to return to our tale.

"I am going out, mamma," said Francine, "and you will be very good while I am away, will you not?"

"Yes, Cinette—yes."

"You will not try to get up?"

"No, Cinette."

"And to-morrow you shall have a pretty new cap—"

"With ribbons?"

"Yes, with ribbons."

The woman laughed with delight, but presently she uttered a cry of distress.

"The box! the box!—where is the box?"

Francine had heard this same exclamation over and over again, and attached no significance to it, but to humor the invalid, she answered:

"Oh! you shall have the box."

"Yes, I must have it. Everything is in it—fortune, money, titles. Where have I put it?"

Her voice dropped so low that Francine could hardly hear her.

It was time for the girl to go out, and, as it was Mardi Gras, she hoped for large receipts. She returned to her chamber and took her guitar. Just as she was going out, she heard a knock on her door. She started, and called out:

"Who is it?"

"A friend?"

"Your name?"

"You do not know me."

"Tell me your name."

A stifled oath was the reply.

"Open the door, I say. My name is Robeccal."

The young girl drew a breath of relief, for she was becoming sorely frightened by the pursuit of the Vicomte, and an unusual knock made her feel that it was he. But the voice and the name of Robeccal tranquillized her fears. She opened the door—our old friend of the circus stood before her. He began to grumble and scold.

"I beg your pardon," said the girl, gently, "but I am in haste, and if—"

"Suppose you offer me a chair, young lady! What manners!"

Francine repeated that she was in haste, and would be glad to know the occasion of his visit. Her manner was so decided that Robeccal saw that he must speak.

"I have come," he said, "to put you in the way of earning a little money."

"Go on."

"I assist in restaurants on fete days. I am an 'extra,' you understand, and am now at the Veau Saute, at the corner. You know—"

"I know the establishment, certainly."

"Well, the master wishes to give a little entertainment to his customers to-night, and I thought of you. He will give you twenty francs."

Twenty francs! It was quite a fortune to the child, and yet she hesitated.

"Did the master give you no note for me?" she asked, at length.

"How suspicious you are! What are you afraid of!"

"Nothing. I will call at the restaurant now, when I go out."

"You must decide now, for if you decline I am to go for the man who has no arms, but who sings so well."

Robeccal showed her a card on which was written the girl's address and that of the armless singer.

Francine's hesitation vanished—she accepted the proposition.

"I will go," she said, "and at what hour?"

"At eight o'clock, sharp," Robeccal replied.

"And how long shall I be wanted?"

A wicked light came into the man's eyes.

"I don't know exactly—until ten or eleven, I suppose."

"But I must be home before midnight."

"Oh! of course; and if you are afraid to come alone, I am at your service. And now, good-bye."

He ran lightly down the stairs. When he reached the street he looked around. A man wrapped in a large cloak, a disguise much employed at that time, and wearing a broad-brimmed hat, approached him.

"Well?" he said, quickly.

"It is all right!" answered Robeccal. "She will come."

This man, who was none other than Fernando, the worthy friend of the Vicomte de Talizac, now slipped a gold piece into the scoundrel's hand.

"Twenty louis more," he said, "when the affair is accomplished!"

"Very good, sir. When I undertake anything, it is sure, let me tell you. La Roulante will see to everything."

The two men separated.

While these two accomplices were talking, Francine had reached the Square where she was to sing.



CHAPTER XXV.

THE VEAU SAUTE.

"Hurry up, Perrette! How about that sauce? Have you forgotten the parsley?"

And the proprietor of the Veau Saute tore about in the most distracted manner. Aube had dreamed of vast rooms and huge kitchens, but the obstinacy of the people already living in the same building could not be conquered, and as yet he had not obtained the space he desired. They resisted every offer and every threat he made. He could have borne it better had these refractory persons been tenants whose vicinity added eclat to his establishment. But it was not so. These tenants were a man known as Iron Jaws, a rope dancer called Fanfar, a girl named Caillette, and a clown with an odd name.

This Fanfar gave lessons in prestigiation, but the people who went up his private stairs were well dressed, and most of them looked like old soldiers.

While Aube was worrying about these matters and many more, a carriage drove up to the door of the restaurant, and three gentlemen got out. These were Frederic de Talizac, Fernando de Vellebri, and Arthur de Montferrand, the duelist, all strangely alike in their lack of moral sense and in their cynicism, neither of them hesitating to do anything, however evil, to gratify their passions. Room No. 11 was ready for these gentlemen. The waiter took their cloaks and hats. Arthur threw himself on a sofa, and announced that there was to be no heavy talk until the dessert came on.

"Bravo!" said Fernando. "But perhaps you would kindly define what you mean by heavy talk? As for you, Frederic, I think you had an interview with your father to-day?"

"Champagne!" shouted Frederic, flinging his glass at the door, an original manner of summoning a waiter, which he had invented.

"Yes," he replied, "and the Marquis is resolved that the marriage shall take place in a fortnight—as if I had not other fish to fry!"

"But it seems to me," said Arthur, "that a union so desirable in every respect, a fortune so large—"

"Do you mean to insinuate, sir, that a fortune is essential?" asked Frederic, haughtily.

Here the Italian interfered, and smoothed down the Vicomte's asperities.

At this moment a fresh, young voice rose from the lower room, which was crowded, and when the voice ceased there came loud applause.

"That is a charming voice!" said Arthur. "I would like to see this nightingale a little nearer."

"And why not?" asked Talizac.

Fernando wished to oppose this idea, which might disarrange his carefully prepared plans, but the champagne had by this time affected the Vicomte.

"I say," he persisted, angrily, "I do not see any objection. I for one should like to hear the girl sing up here before the adventure."

"The adventure?" repeated Montferrand.

"A little surprise we have arranged for her—that is all."

Arthur looked bewildered, and then exclaimed:

"Ah! I see. Bravo!—call the proprietor, and bid him send the singer to us."

"Gentlemen! gentlemen!" said Fernando, "be careful what you do. No imprudences! Remember that you are not in the Palais Royal. The people down stairs won't stand any nonsense!"

Frederic rang the bell furiously, and the waiter was sent for the proprietor. Aube presently appeared. He was very obsequious in his manner, for the party had ordered bottle after bottle of champagne.

"Who is that girl singing to the people in the cafe?" asked Frederic, abruptly.

"She is called the Marquise, sir—a pretty little creature, and as good as she is pretty!"

"I dare say! Now send her up here, and tell the waiter to bring up three more bottles of your best champagne."

Aube stood still, twisting his cap in his hands.

"Well?" said Frederic, "why don't you go?"

"I wish to say, sir, that the girl is very respectable."

"We don't doubt it. We will pay her for her song—three louis, five—is that enough?"

Aube felt that he had no right to deprive the girl of this money, and it was more than probable that these young fellows were not as wild as they seemed. Fernando's calm superciliousness reassured him in some degree.

"Are you going?" asked Frederic, somewhat rudely.

Aube reluctantly left the room.

The restaurant was filled with customers, all respectable people with the exception of those seated around a table in the further corner of the room—they were doubtful in appearance. When Robeccal, in the discharge of his duties as "extra," came to this table he lingered there, even drinking a glass of wine, first taking care that his employer could not see him.

Aube, greatly disturbed by the orders he had received, returned to the dining-room just as the Marquise was making her rounds to collect the money that was laid on the back of her guitar. Aube touched her shoulder.

"I want to speak to you, petite," he said, as he drew her into a corner. "You are not rich, I fancy?"

"I should say not!" And Francine laughed. "What a queer thing to say!"

"I have a proposal to make."

"And what may that be?"

Aube's kindly face inspired the girl with no distrust. He hesitated.

"You know," he said, "that I have no advice to give, but if you choose, you can make five louis."

"A hundred francs! You are jesting!"

"And only by singing two or three songs."

"But that would be better pay than the opera singers receive!"

"That may be!"

"But where am I to sing?"

"Here—on the next floor."

"Hallo! ambassador, are you never coming?" shouted Montferrand from the top of the stairs.

Francine started.

"They are young men, are they not?"

"Yes, but you need not be alarmed—they are only a little gay."

A hundred francs was a good deal of money. She could buy an easy chair for the poor invalid, and give her a little treat.

"Well?" asked Aube, who would have been glad had she refused.

"I accept," she answered, "but you must not go far away. You must be near in case I should call."

"All right. No harm shall come to you in my house, let me tell you."

The girl went toward the stairs.

"What does that mean?" said one of the men at the table at the end of the room. "The linnet seems to be going of her own free will!"

"Silence!" said Robeccal, passing the table. "Watch and be ready!"

Meanwhile the people in the restaurant began to grumble at Francine's departure. She looked back from the stairs.

"Have a little patience," she said, with her lovely smile, "when I come back very shortly, I will sing you my best songs."

She followed Aube to No. 11. The proprietor was astonished to see that the door was open, and that one of the gentlemen had vanished.

Arthur and Fernando were there. Francine had seen the Italian before in the street, but Arthur was entirely unknown to her.

"I hope, Mademoiselle, you will sing us something," said Montferrand, politely.

Our readers will notice that this young man's instincts were not bad, and when removed from Frederic's influence, they resumed their ascendancy. The girl's gentle manner, her refined, pure face commended his respect.

Aube, now quite reassured, hastened back to his duties below.

Francine began a prelude to a simple song, when suddenly she stopped, her guitar slipped from her hands. She saw Frederic de Talizac gliding into the room.

"Go on, ma belle" he said, "surely you are not afraid of me!" And he tried to take her by the waist.

"No," she replied, "I shall sing no more."

Frederic, though very tipsy, threw himself in front of the door.

"Yes, you will sing, and for each one of your sweet notes I will give you a kiss."

The girl drew back from his extended arms, and turning to the two men who stood looking on, she cried, with infinite contempt:

"Cowards! will neither of you interfere to prevent a woman from being insulted?"

Arthur's heart was stirred by this appeal.

"You are right," he replied. "Come, Frederic, no more of this!"

"Are you talking to me?" hiccoughed Frederic. "Take her from me if you dare!" And he put his arm around her.

"Help!" cried Francine. "Help!"

At the same moment, Frederic received a tremendous blow from Montferrand.

The Vicomte snatched a knife from the table, and the two men engaged in a hand to hand contest.

Francine was so terrified that she could not move.

Why had not Aube heard this noise? We will return to the lower floor.

Robeccal was disgusted when he saw Francine go up-stairs. He felt that the ground was cut from under his feet, and that he was to lose the reward he had been promised. He stole partly up the stairs and listened. He went on, and when the quarrel burst out and he saw the knife in the hand of the Vicomte, he rushed down the stairs, and summoned the men at the table, who were on the watch for a signal from him.

Aube had heard Francine's cry and ran to her aid, but two of the men summoned by Robeccal stood before the door.

"Let me pass!" cried Aube.

"Softly, good sir," was the reply. "Don't meddle in what does not concern you."

Furious at being thus braved in his own establishment, Aube thrust the men aside, but was driven back by repeated blows.

He turned to his customers.

"Gentlemen!" he cried, "they are insulting a poor girl up-stairs. Help me to save her; it is the Marquise—the singer!"

A number of men started up at this appeal.

The two bandits stood on the stairs with knives in their hands, and feet and hands ready to repel any one who attempted to ascend the stairs.

"Help! Murder!" shouted Aube.

Women screamed, and clung to the arms of their husbands to prevent them from taking part in the contest. Others, less courageous, threw bottles and glasses at the scoundrels who promptly returned them.

In the meantime, Arthur had thrown Frederic on the floor. Fernando endeavored to separate them, but they were no more amenable to reason than if they had been wild beasts.

Pale and trembling, Francine leaned against the wall. Robeccal went to her.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "this is not my fault. Why did you come up here?"

"Why did I?" she repeated in agony.

"I got you into this trouble unintentionally, and now I must get you out!"

She did not distrust him, she was too good for that.

"Follow me!" said Robeccal. "I know a way into the street. No one will see you."

Arthur and Frederic were still fighting; the tumult below had not decreased.

Robeccal took the girl's hand, and led her to the door which opened into the private apartments of Aube. They passed through these until they reached another flight of stairs. Down these the girl ran, closely followed by Robeccal. They went out through a narrow alley. Suddenly, Francine heard a whistle, and she was seized, a handkerchief over her head stifled her cries, and she felt that she was being carried away by vigorous arms.

"Well done!" said Robeccal, "and now for La Roulante!"



CHAPTER XXVI.

A MAN CHASE.

When the men on the stairs heard the whistle blown by Robeccal, they rushed through the crowd brandishing their knives. They disappeared in the street.

Aube hurried up-stairs. Francine had disappeared. Fernando had finally succeeded in separating the combatants, and pushed Frederic out of the door.

Arthur, foaming with rage, called out to Aube:

"Make haste, the girl has been carried off by the order of these people! I know what I say!"

Aube hastened to his private rooms; he found the door that led to the stairs unlocked and open.

"What scoundrels they are!" cried Aube.

"Yes," answered Montferrand, "but scoundrels who bear the best names in France—one is the Vicomte de Talizac, son of the Marquis de Fongereues."

A young man suddenly appeared on the stairs.

"Who speaks of Talizac and de Fongereues?" he asked.

"Ah! Monsieur Fanfar! heaven has sent you to my assistance. My establishment is ruined, but that is nothing to the ruin of this poor girl!"

"What poor girl?" asked Fanfar. "Pray explain yourself, Monsieur Aube."

Montferrand had heard that this Fanfar was only a rope-dancer; but his air and manner, his dress, too, proclaimed him to hold a very different position, and he was greatly attracted by his appearance.

"It is a disgraceful piece of business, sir," he answered, "in which, I am sorry to say, I am in a measure concerned;—the Vicomte de Talizac—"

"I knew it!" murmured Fanfar.

"And his friend, Fernando de Vellebri—"

"The Italian spy, who betrayed his brothers, the Carbonari, and is now the slave of the Jesuits."

"All of which I knew nothing of; but at all events these two men, whom I have called my friends, to my shame, have carried off a young girl, a street singer—

"A most odious crime; but have you any idea where they have taken her?"

"No, not the slightest."

"And this girl, has she no father, no mother?"

"She is an orphan, and is called the Marquise."

"Ah! but her real name? Where does she live?"

"Only a little way from here, but a man named Robeccal can tell you exactly."

"Robeccal! A miserable scoundrel!"

"You know him then?"

"Only too well!"

"I know that the Marquise boards with a woman who is bed-ridden, and I remember that she is sometimes spoken of as Cinette, or Francine."

"Cinette!" cried Fanfar, "how old is she!"

"Fifteen or sixteen, I should say."

"Merciful Heavens! Can it be she! Am I going mad?"

"What are you saying, sir?" and Montferrand seemed to feel a real interest.

"You can't understand, but I shall save her. If I chance to meet that Talizac, I will crush him as I would a venomous reptile!"

"You are going in pursuit of the girl?" asked Aube.

"Most certainly, nor will I rest until I have rescued her!"

"Accept my services," said Montferrand.

"Where am I to turn? What shall I do first? My head is dizzy." He held himself more erect. "But this is no time to give way. Thank you, sir, for your generous offer, of which I may avail myself later."

"I regret to have seemed, even for a moment, the accomplice of these men. My name is Arthur, son of the Marquis de Montferrand. Here is my card."

Fanfar took the bit of shining pasteboard.

"And here is my hand!" added Arthur.

"And now," said Fanfar, after a vigorous exchange of handshaking, "and now we have not a moment to lose!"

There was another disturbance below. A great noise, and a voice shouting, "Open! in the name of the law!"

Fanfar started.

"At last!" cried Aube. "It is the police; probably by this time the men are arrested."

Fanfar laid his hand on his shoulder, and said rapidly, "No, no; the police of Louis XVIII. do not disturb themselves for such trifles; they are after other game than criminals—"

"Open, in the name of the king! If not, we force the door!"

"These officers are in pursuit of men who have sworn eternal war against oppression and corruption—who detest a despotic monarchy and demand a free and honest republic!"

"Do you speak of yourself?" asked Montferrand, quickly.

Aube opened his eyes wide. Certainly, this was a most extraordinary evening!

"You are lost!" cried Montferrand.

"Not yet!" answered Fanfar. "Pray, Monsieur Aube, hold them in conversation, a few minutes. Good-bye, but remember that I shall rescue Francine." As he spoke, he ran lightly up the upper stairs.

Aube, according to his instructions, slowly raised the bars of the door, at which the police were impatiently knocking. When at last the door was opened, a crowd poured in, headed by a Police Commissioner.

"Keeping me waiting in this way will cost you dear, let me tell you!" foamed this important functionary.

"But why are you here?" stammered the proprietor of the restaurant.

"I don't suppose we are bound to tell you that, are we? But first, who is that man?" and he pointed to Arthur, who pale and covered with blood, was not especially reassuring in appearance.

"That man, sir, of whom you speak so rudely," said Arthur, with some heat, "is the son of the Marquis de Montferrand."

"I beg ten thousand pardons!" said the official, in the most obsequious tone, "but this house is a den—"

"A den!" gasped Aube.

"Yes, a den where the enemies of our beloved king plot together."

"And who are these enemies? What may their names be?"

"Gudel, or Iron Jaws, and a scoundrel named Fanfar."

"Indeed! Very good, sir, if you have come to arrest these men, do not let me detain you!"

Arthur and Aube exchanged a glance. Fanfar was by this time undoubtedly in safety.

"The house is well watched," continued the Commissioner, "and they cannot escape our vigilance!"

Montferrand started on hearing this. The Commissioner ran up-stairs, followed by his men. He reached the upper floor. An oath was heard.

"The birds have flown!" he shouted.

"They went by the roof!" some one called from below. This some one was Cyprien, who had been on guard in the street, and had seen forms against the sky.

"To the roof, then! And remember your orders, take them alive or dead!"

Cyprien, as agile as a tiger cat, now stood by the side of the Commissioner.

"You must go out this way," he said, pointing to the window.

"Zounds!" muttered the Commissioner, drawing back.

"Take care!" sneered Cyprien, "the king has his eyes on you!"

Thus cheered and encouraged, the Commissioner stepped out on the narrow cornice.

"There they are!" cried Cyprien. "There they are! They wish to reach the next house. We shall have them! we shall have them!"

Gudel and Fanfar had gone as far as they could. They found they must turn. Fanfar stopped short and seemed to be doing something to a chimney.

"Surrender!" shouted the Commissioner, some distance off.

"Surrender!" repeated Cyprien.

At this moment a man was seen to vault into space; it was Fanfar, who had sprang across the gulf between the two houses. With him he had taken the end of the rope which he had fastened to the chimney. He held the rope so firmly that it made a bridge. Gudel began the perilous voyage.

"At all events, we will have a dead body!" growled the Commissioner, who advanced to cut the rope.

Cyprien did not at first understand.

"Stop!" he shouted. "Stop!"

To kill Gudel was ruin, for he was the only human being who could prove Fanfar's birth. But he was too late, the zealous Commissioner had cut the rope.

"Fool!" shouted Cyprien, and then he listened to hear the dull thud of the body falling on the stones below.

But he heard nothing, for Gudel had not fallen. By a movement more rapid than thought, Fanfar, divining what was to happen, had thrown himself flat on the roof with his arms extended beyond the gutter, and had shouted to Gudel:

"Hold fast to the rope!"

Iron Jaws snatched the rope between his formidable jaws, and when the rope was cut he simply hung and waited. Fanfar slowly drew him up. It was a magnificent display of energy and strength. And presently Fanfar and Gudel stood side by side.

"Now, gentlemen, it is your turn," said Fanfar.

"No! it is my turn!" shouted Cyprien, taking a pistol from his pocket and firing.

The ball broke a slate which fell into the street. As to Gudel and Fanfar, they were far away and a high chimney hid them from view.



CHAPTER XXVII.

A GHOST.

Although our two friends had made their escape for the time being, they were by no means in an enviable position, for it must be confessed that midnight on the roof of an unknown house is not very delightful. Iron Jaws and Fanfar had accomplished a miracle of strength and audacity, but what were they to do next?

"I must say that I should like a few hours of rest," said Gudel.

"Yes, and we must have a little talk, but where I know not."

Fanfar's tone struck his friend as being rather depressed.

"What is it?" said Gudel. "You have had encounters with the police before, and will have again, I imagine."

"It is not that; but first we will walk over these roofs, to the end."

"Very good!"

They started, Fanfar going a little in front. Suddenly he stopped.

"Zounds!" he said, "here is a wide courtyard; it is impossible for us to cross it. We must get down now."

"And how, for Heaven's sake!"

"By taking hold of the gutters and the balconies."

"One would suppose that we were gorillas," sighed Gudel.

"We must do something!"

"Yes, but I am a little heavy, as you have reason to acknowledge. How can we tell that guards are not below waiting for us. Let us see if we can't get into some window."

"And find the room inhabited?"

"Oh! I will explain that we don't mean to steal, but that we will give him money if he will aid us."

"Very good. Now do you take the lead, I will follow."

Fanfar was strangely preoccupied. While Gudel talked to him a voice was continually repeating in his ear:

"Cinette! Cinette!"

Gudel saw that there was something unusual going on in the mind of his friend. He had been long accustomed to unquestioning obedience to Fanfar. Ever since La Roulante left him after the attempt at assassination, Gudel had been a different man and subject to fits of great depression from which Fanfar alone could rouse him, and when Fanfar rushed into his room calling out, "The police! the police!" Gudel followed him without a question.

Suddenly Gudel stumbled. Fanfar caught him, but it was too late. There was a crash of broken glass. Gudel had broken one of those small windows in the roof which landlords consider sufficient for tenants who pay only sixty francs per annum for their attics. And from this window emerged a long, strange, white object, which was probably a man, as it terminated in a white cotton nightcap. This strange form had two long arms. One hand held a candle and the other sheltered it from the wind. There was a yell of amazement from their throats.

"Fanfar!"

"Bobichel!"

"I thought you were dead, Bobichel," said Iron Jaws, severely.

"No, I am not dead; but I was asleep."

"You are alone!"

"Of course!"

"Then you can take us in."

Bobichel uttered an oath. "Of course I can!" he shouted.

It was clear that he was not a ghost. Ghosts do not swear nor carry candles in their hands. Finally the three were seated in a small attic about four yards square. They all talked at once.

How did Bobichel get there? Where had he been?

He had been taken to the hospital and there detained on account of some peculiarities in his condition, which greatly excited the curiosity of the medical students. One day as Bobichel was recovering, he was in the garden and noticed a door in the wall, and saw that the gardener had left his key in it. He selected the moment judiciously, and finally found himself on the road to Paris, where he had arrived that very morning. He had not a sou, but he had rented this garret which the landlord had had on his hands for three months by reason of the rats, and therefore nobly refrained from asking money in advance. A bundle of straw had taken his remaining five sous, and on this the ex-clown extended himself, thinking of the past and resolutely closing his eyes to the future. His first care was to regain his strength, which had been sorely taxed by his journey. While half asleep, he had heard steps on the roof, and with a vague belief that the whole hospital force were in pursuit of him, he resolved to brave them. Fate had brought to him, however, his two best friends—Gudel and Fanfar.

After they had heard this explanation, it became Bobichel's turn to question.

"Let Fanfar tell you," said Gudel. "I really know nothing except that he bade me fly, that my neck has been nearly broken, and that he saved my life; but why I have been obliged to run about over roofs in this way, I really can't say."

"Perhaps you are still conspiring?" asked Bobichel, innocently.

Fanfar shouted with laughter. "Yes," he replied, "and more than ever!"

"Tell me," asked the clown, "is it a difficult trade? I have nothing in the world to do, and I must have some occupation, of course."

"We will see about that later."

"You have said nothing about Mademoiselle Caillette."

"She is in safety. She knew nothing of the pursuit of the police. To-morrow, before she begins to be uneasy, we will send her word where we are, and bid her come to us."

The clock struck two.

"Do you hear that, Bobichel?" said Fanfar. "You are far from strong, and must rest."

"No, no. I have found you, and there is rest in that!"

"My dear fellow, you must get yourself into the best possible condition if you join us. You will need your legs, I assure you. Sleep, Bobichel, sleep."

The truth was that, in spite of his good intentions, Bobichel was dead with sleep, and presently he tumbled upon his mattress, and loud snores informed the two friends that he had succumbed to their entreaties. Then, and not until then, Fanfar leaned toward Gudel.

"You will admit," he said, "that I do not easily become a prey to illusions, but the truth is, that I am greatly disturbed by something that has happened. Will you answer a few questions?"

"Certainly, my boy—any questions."

"You know, my second father, the strange accident by which I was thrown in your way. You have told me of the researches you made in the village of Leigoutte. You learned, did you not, that my mother perished in a fire?"

"Yes—a fire set by the Cossacks."

"And my father?"

"Died on the field of battle, in the defence of France!"

"I am haunted by a dim remembrance of a flight through the darkness, leading my little sister by my side, and then she seemed to vanish."

"And you have never seen her since?"

"No; but I have never forgotten her, and I am convinced that if she is living she has not forgotten her brother. Ah! when I think of all this, I hate more than ever the oppressors of France, who have opened a road to the throne over dead bodies!"

"But why are you troubled with these thoughts to-day?"

"I will tell you. My sister's name was Francine, but we called her Cinette, and this evening a girl was carried away by violence from the Veau Saute."

"And that Aube has such a good face!"

"Oh! he was not concerned in this villainy. The crime was committed by a man who has more than once crossed our path—the Vicomte de Talizac!"

"Oh! what a family that is!" cried Gudel. "It was his lacquey, or his father's, who denounced us to-night!"

"This is not all. The truth is, Gudel—you will probably think me mad—but I am convinced that the girl who was carried off—the one called Cinette—"

"You mean that you believe her to be your—"

"I can't reason," interrupted Fanfar. "It is the name of my little sister, and the conviction is unalterable that this girl is my sister. And now I can do nothing for her, and she in such deadly peril!" He stopped short. "Gudel," he exclaimed, "you have never seen me shrink from danger?"

"Not I."

"And yet, to-night I feel as weak as a child."

Tears came into the eyes of Fanfar as he spoke. His nerves were thoroughly shaken by the exertions he had made to save Gudel and himself.

Bobichel here lifted himself up.

"Fanfar," he said, "let me help you!"

At these kind words uttered by this honest, faithful voice, Fanfar started. He had no right to despair, he said to himself, when he had such friends.

"You are right, Bobichel," he cried. "I have no right to talk of my energy, for I am trembling like a woman!"

"I should like to tell you what I think, sir," the clown stammered, "though I do not wish to take a liberty, but didn't you say you thought you had found your sister?"

"Oh! do not say that!"

"Yes, I must say it, and I think it would be best if you made up your mind that it was she, and acted on that supposition."

"I think you are right. I am told that this girl lives with a poor paralytic. I will go to her and question her. From her replies I shall be able to judge if chance has really put me on the track of her whom I lost so long ago. But we ought to follow these scoundrels at once!"

"I will see to them!" said Iron Jaws.

"Can you give me the smallest clue?"

"Only that of Robeccal's name."

"Robeccal's name!" exclaimed Bobichel. "If he has anything to do with this matter I will soon finish him up."

Fanfar laid his hand on Gudel's shoulder.

"My friend," he said, "I hesitate to touch an unhealed wound, but we must speak frankly to each other. La Roulante and this Robeccal went away together. This woman was thoroughly vicious; it is difficult to imagine the scale of vice to which she would not fall. I am sorry to pain you, but I feel sure if Robeccal has assisted in carrying away this girl that he has placed her with La Roulante. Therefore, while I go to see Cinette's sick friend, you will hunt up this woman and her accomplice. Will you do this, Gudel?"

Gudel, whose face had been buried in his hands, now looked up.

"Fanfar," he said, "were I to die of shame and grief, I will obey you, for I should be doing a good act."

"This girl must be saved! I dare not indulge in the hope that she is Cinette, and, moreover, I need all my courage. Gudel, your hand. Bobichel, I rely on you!"

These friends in a cordial grasp of their hands, exchanged a solemn oath which bound them to the sacred cause of justice.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

CINETTE! CINETTE!

Francine's chamber is dark. The little bed with its white curtains looks as if it were built of marble. There is not a sound. The room is empty. The hours pass on, and still Francine does not return. Her absence excites great wonder in the house, for she is always in very early. "Could anything have happened to her?" one person asked another, but not a voice breathed a word reflecting on the girl's purity. Had any one known where she had gone, some one would have started in search of her. The porter looked once more down the street; the clock had struck twelve. No one came.

In the gray, chilly dawn, a hand slowly pushed open the door of Cinette's room. It is the mad woman. She instinctively knows that Francine never goes to sleep at night without kissing her. She has not felt those dewy lips touch her forehead this night. Restless and uneasy this sick woman, who for years has hardly left her bed, has crawled to Cinette's room. She is familiar with it, for she has many times implored Francine to take her there; and when the girl succeeded in doing so, the old woman laughed to see the curtains so white and the flowers so gay.

She reaches the bed, and feels with her poor withered hands for the girl's head. Cinette is not there, and the poor creature realizes it and weeps in agony. She would have reminded one of an Hindoo idol had she been seen. An hour elapsed, but the poor deformed woman still lies there.

Suddenly she raises her head. She hears rapid steps on the stairs. When Cinette went out she had locked the door of her room. The porter to be sure had another key. When some one knocked at the porter's lodge he was not yet up, and answered gruffly that the Marquise had not come in and the old woman could not move. There were several rapid knocks on the door.

"Open! open!" a voice called.

The voice had a strange, familiar tone. She listens. And Fanfar, for it is he, repeats his demand.

"In the name of Francine, I beg you to open the door. It is for her sake."

By what miracle did this paralyzed frame struggle to her feet? She takes a step—then another.

"Make haste!" said Fanfar.

The woman obeys. She turns the key in the lock, with many efforts, but it is done. Fanfar enters, and in the pale morning light is confronted by this horrible apparition. He contemplates her with horror and pity.

"Madame," he said, "is not Francine here?"

She did not reply. She is looking at him earnestly.

"She has been carried off, by a man named Talizac."

The sick woman tried to repeat this name.

"Tell me," continued Fanfar, "the life of this girl, who cares for you, who loves you, may depend on what you tell me. Have you ever seen any man by the name of Talizac here? And a woman of great size known as La Roulante, has she never been here to propose an infamous bargain?"

But he is interrupted. The paralytic falls upon her knees, and stretching out her arms, cries:

"Jacques! Jacques!"

"Who is this terrible creature," asks Jacques, "who calls me by the name of my boyhood?"

Suddenly a strange idea flashes into his mind. He looks eagerly into the eyes of the poor woman. He recognizes her; he leans over her.

"You called me Jacques, did you not? Yes, that was my name, when I was a boy in a village among the mountains. My father's name was Simon, Simon Fougere, and I had a little sister Cinette."

The woman quivered from head to foot. She threw her arms around his neck.

"Jacques! my child! My name is Francoise, and I am the widow of Simon Fougere."

"Mother! dear mother!"

This shock has been so great that the vail that obscured the poor woman's brain was rent in twain. She sees, she knows, she understands. It is he—it is the boy she held on her knees, in those days so long ago. He took her tenderly in his arms, and both weep.

"Ah! dear mother," he said, "you braved death for the sake of your children. How did you escape?"

But the momentary glimmer of reason had in a measure vanished, and when he spoke of Cinette she did not seem to be aware of who the girl was.

"You must listen to me, mother," said Fanfar, rapidly. "Jacques was not alone in that inn. There was another child; she was small, she had light curls."

His voice was so sympathetic and persuasive that Francoise saw it all, saw the little rosy face once more.

What was to be done? Time was passing, and now Fanfar knew that she who was in the power of a scoundrel, was his little sister Francine. He sees a miniature hanging on the wall, he takes it down.

"Yes, it is she—it is Cinette!" he cries.

The sick woman snatches it from his hand. She looks at it.

"Yes, it is my child."

"And you never knew it before?"

"No, she called me mamma, but I never called her daughter."

"And, mother, your daughter is in danger."

"Ah! I knew it, she did not kiss me to-night. Where is she?"

"In the power of a scoundrel, of the Vicomte de Talizac."

"Talizac!" The sick woman was troubled by the name, but she could not grasp the memories it had aroused.

The door opened hastily, and Gudel appeared.

"Gudel! Have you found Robeccal or La Roulante?"

"They have vanished. They have been living in la Rue des Venaigrurs, but last night they announced that they were about to move."

"And this is all you have discovered?"

"All."

"Then Gudel, I must tell you that this unfortunate creature I have in my arms is my mother, and Francine is my sister."

Gudel looked utterly aghast. Before he could speak, Bobichel appeared.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said to Fanfar, "but knowing that the sick lady was alone, I went for some one."

Caillette stepped forward.

The girl said in a low voice to Fanfar:

"Will you allow me to take care of your mother?"

She then turned to Francoise, and kissed her as Cinette would have done.

"Good, kind souls!" murmured Fanfar, "with the assistance of such people we ought to succeed."

He kissed his mother again, then turning to Gudel and Bobichel, he cried:

"Come with me! And may Eternal Justice be with us also!"



CHAPTER XXIX.

A CONSPIRACY.

When Francine found herself in the power of these scoundrels she fainted away, and these men carried her over their shoulders as if she had been a bag of flour, perfectly indifferent to her beauty.

Robeccal suddenly bade them halt. They had reached the vile place known as the Cour de Bretagne, a part of Paris known for its poverty and vice.

"I think it is about time!" grumbled one of Robeccal's men in reply.

"Oh! I suppose you thought you were to be paid for nothing, did you?"

Without heeding the growling of these fellows, Robeccal stepped up to a door and knocked. It was opened by a person who stood back in the shadow, and a hurried conversation took place. Satisfied apparently with what he heard, Robeccal bade his men follow him. They went to Belleville, which at that time was an excessively pretty place, as almost all the houses of any pretension had gardens and grounds. Robeccal had been extremely adroit in diverting suspicion and the observation of the people they encountered. He now knocked at a door in a wall half hidden by overhanging ivy.

"Who is there?" called a woman's voice.

"Robec and the kid," was the reply.

The door opened noiselessly on well-oiled hinges.

"Come in, all of you." It was Roulante who spoke.

Francine was at once carried to a little cottage at the foot of a long garden, where, still unconscious, she was laid on a couch.

Then Robeccal paid his assistants the sum agreed upon. They were not altogether satisfied, but he managed to get rid of them.

La Roulante was unchanged since the day when she and her lover discussed the assassination of Iron Jaws.

"I have done well, have I not?" asked Robeccal, with a friendly tap on the massive shoulders of this monstrosity.

"Her beauty is not marred, I hope?" she asked, anxiously.

"I am not such a fool as that! But I am afraid that the handkerchief was too tight. She is confoundedly pretty, that is a fact!"

"What is that to you?" asked the giantess, angrily. "Now give me that bottle."

"What are you going to do?"

"None of your business! Hand it here."

The woman poured out something that looked like wine, and dropped a spoonful between the girl's lips. She had so much difficulty in doing so, that Robeccal took a knife from his pocket, and inserted it between Francine's close shut teeth. As soon as the liquid disappeared down the girl's throat she started.

"You are not poisoning her?" asked Robeccal.

"Am I a fool? Hark! I hear a carriage. Take this girl up-stairs."

Robeccal snatched Francine from the sofa, and ran lightly up the stairs.

The room above was elegantly furnished, and had long windows looking out upon the garden, which seemed to stretch out indefinitely. In reality it ended at no very great distance in a wall sixteen feet in height.

As Robeccal laid the girl on the bed, he looked at her again with some anxiety. She was absolutely motionless.

There came a knock at the door. Robeccal started.

"That must be he!" said La Roulante.

It was in fact Talizac, who had arrived. Fernando was with him, but the Vicomte had knocked with the handle of his cane. It was not the signal agreed upon, and the door was not opened. Suddenly Frederic uttered an oath.

"Oh! it is he!" said Robeccal. "That is better than a visiting card!"

But La Roulante insisted on a little argument through the door before she would consent to move the heavy bolts.

"Damned sorceress!" cried Talizac, "you deserve that I should cut your face with my cane, for keeping me waiting so long."

La Roulante made no reply to this gentle address, and Talizac, with blood-stained face and torn clothing, entered the house, followed by Fernando, who was as dignified and correct in costume as he always was.

When Talizac reached the salon, he dropped into a chair. "Water! for the love of Heaven, give me some water!" he murmured. He felt almost ill, and would have been glad of a few hours of rest. "Is she here?" he asked.

"Yes, she is here," answered La Roulante.

Talizac rose. "I must repair the disorder of my toilette," he said. "Robeccal, come with me."

On Talizac's return, he asked La Roulante where the Marquise was.

"Oh! she is asleep," was the reply.

"Show me where she is, and move a little faster!"

"It strikes me, sir, that you are not over polite," muttered Robeccal.

"Let him have his own way," sneered the giantess; "he is in a hurry to see his darling, and has no time to be civil!" She made a grotesque reverence as she spoke. She preceded the Vicomte to show him the way. "Do you know," she cried, stopping on the stairs, "that the girl is as pretty as a pink."

"That is none of your affairs," answered Talizac, roughly, "I pay you to serve me, not to talk!"

"You are a little hard on us, I think," said La Roulante, with a sneer, "but I suppose when people are rich they can say and do as they please!"

"Is that the room?" Talizac asked, as he reached the top of the stairs, "if so, open the door at once, or I will force it!"

"No, you won't injure my house like that! But you want to see her, do you? Very well, I will show her to you, then."

She quickly slid back a narrow panel in the door, which permitted him to look into the room.

"Look in, gentlemen and ladies," said La Roulante, in the sing-song tone of a showman at the circus, "look in, it won't cost you anything!" And then the creature laughed.

Talizac did not heed her, but leaning toward the open panel looked at Francine, who lay with her arms folded on her breast like a child. Her hair was loosened, and nothing could have been lovelier than this face with its delicate features, reminding one of Raphael's pictures. Talizac looked, and forgot that this child was the victim of a miserable conspiracy. He was so impressed by her beauty and her innocence that he was ready to kneel before her. But La Roulante touched his arm with a cynical laugh.

"Open the door, I say!"

La Roulante closed the panel with a snap, and slowly drew a key from her pocket and stood with it in her fingers, and then said quietly and firmly:

"If I unlock that door, it will cost you twenty thousand francs!"

Talizac started back. "What do you mean?" he exclaimed.

"Just what I say, twenty thousand francs!"

"But this is abominable. Have I not paid the sum agreed upon?"

"A trifle, yes; but that won't do!"

"It is robbery, bare-faced robbery—"

"None of that, sir, you are not so honest yourself, that you can afford to taunt others!"

He looked at her in astonishment, and then rushed at the door as if to force it open. She called for Robeccal, who hurried to obey her summons. Talizac called Fernando, and Robeccal turned back. Drawing an enormous knife, he said, fiercely:

"Don't you interfere! My wife will settle her own matters with this gentleman!"

Fernando's attitude during the fight between Frederic and Montferrand has already informed us as to the courage of this man. Perhaps he was wise in not risking his life to defend Talizac, whom he estimated at his proper value. He was interested in the Fongereues family only as an emissary of that Society which at that time labored to strangle Liberalism at its birth.

"Very good!" answered Fernando, shrugging his shoulders indifferently, but as he did not propose to be mixed up in any disagreeable affair in this house, he determined to take himself off.

The giantess was not alarmed by Talizac's mad attempt. She calmly lifted him by the collar and landed him on the stairs, half way down.

"Robbers! Murderers!" shouted the Vicomte.

"Confound you! hold your tongue!" said Robeccal, flourishing the knife which had such an effect on Fernando.

"Why do you not keep your word?" angrily asked the Vicomte; "you promised—"

"People like us do not keep our promises," answered La Roulante, cynically. "You paid us for carrying off the girl, you paid us for giving her a shelter; we have done both. But if you wish to enter that room it will cost you twenty thousand francs!"

"But that is an enormous sum!" moaned Talizac.

"Not to a man like you, who has a grandee for a father, and a mother rolling in wealth. She has diamonds, plenty of them!"

"Wretches that you are!"

"Thank you! I don't care for any more of these hard names, if it is all the same to you! And now let me tell you, if you don't hand over this money that the police will be at your heels."

At the word police, Fernando went to the Vicomte. "Come," he said, "we had better not remain in this cut-throat place. You must give the matter up, that is all there is to be said."

"No, I tell you, no!" Feeling in his pocket, Talizac drew out a handful of gold and flung it at the woman.

"Take this," he cried, "and unlock that door!"

La Roulante counted the money. "No," she replied, "this is but thirty-two louis."

"Come," persisted Fernando, dragging Talizac away.

"Call again!" shouted the woman. "You need not be in a hurry, but call again!"

And the door closed.

"My idea is a good one," said La Roulante to Robeccal. "He will come back, and will bring the twenty thousand francs!"



CHAPTER XXX.

MACHIAVELLI & CO.

Day was breaking. The Marquis de Fongereues was standing in his dressing-room, listening with frowning brow to Cyprien, who was narrating the events of the night.

"I assure you, sir," said the valet, obsequiously, "that every precaution was taken, and yet we failed."

"There is one comfort—that Fanfar is every day compromising himself more deeply with these conspirators."

"Yes, and when the hour comes, Fanfar's condemnation is certain."

"But if he escapes us?"

"Impossible! We shall have him, even if we are forced to put the entire police on his track!"

A lacquey knocked at the door and entered.

"The Marquis de Montferrand desires to see you, sir, on a matter of great importance."

"Show him up at once!" said his master, who added to Cyprien: "Do not go away. I do not like this visit—I may need your services. Take your position behind that portiere."

The heavy folds had scarcely fallen over him when the Marquis appeared. He was a noble-looking, white haired old man. He was excessively pale.

"Monsieur de Fongereues," he said, "we are morally responsible for the crimes our children commit, are we not?"

"How do you mean?"

"I speak of the Vicomte de Talizac, who is dishonoring himself, dishonors you, and compromises the cause to which you belong!"

"My son is young—if he has committed some peccadillo——"

"Peccadillo is hardly the word to use. Are you thus lenient toward one who is some day to bear your name?"

Fongereues writhed under this severe language, and yet he tried to contain himself, for De Montferrand was a precious ally. It was he who had induced Monsieur de Salves to accept the overtures of marriage made by the De Fongereues family.

"Speak," he said, "speak frankly. Your age and the long intimacy existing between our families give you the right to do so."

"The Vicomte de Talizac has this night endeavored to murder my son!"

"Impossible, sir!"

"My son never lies. He endeavored to prevent an infamous act, and Talizac attacked him with a knife. Arthur in return slapped the Vicomte's face."

Fongereues started forward.

"Wait!" said the old gentleman. "Hear my tale. Talizac paid scoundrels to abduct a girl, a street singer. My son became disgusted with the adventure, and it was then that the Vicomte attacked him. To-morrow the journals will all have this tale. I shall lay the facts before Monsieur de Salves, as it was I who acted as intermediary in the proposed marriage."

Fongereues became livid. He staggered, and caught at a table for support.

At this moment a portiere was lifted, and Magdalena, Talizac's mother, appeared. Fongereues exclaimed:

"Madame! your son is a scoundrel. He is ruined, as are we all! This is the result of the education you have given him!"

Magdalena looked perfectly unmoved.

"Monsieur de Montferrand," she said, "I am aware that my son has been unfortunate enough to quarrel with yours. I come with his apologies."

"Apologies!" repeated both gentlemen, in amazement.

"You are astonished, I see, but remember that I am a mother, though I bear the name of de Fongereues. I know that my son has been greatly in the wrong. I know the whole story, and I cannot see why there should be so much said because the Vicomte de Talizac chanced to admire a daughter of the people. You talk of crime, of infamy. These are large words for a small matter. But the quarrel between the young men is of more importance. They had both been drinking, and I sincerely trust that such folly will be forgotten in view of the old friendship between the families. And I authorize you to kiss my hand as a token of forgiveness and reconciliation."

This little speech had been delivered with such assurance and ease that the old Marquis was nearly taken off his feet. The fair Magdalena was still beautiful.

Monsieur de Montferrand bowed over the fair hand, and Fongereues wondered and admired.

"And now let us talk a little," the lady said, as she seated herself. "I must not omit to say that my son promises not to see this girl again—it was but a passing fever. I realize that, and I promise to use all my influence with my son to induce him to forget this affair. But what are we to do to silence the scandal which will certainly be on every tongue to-morrow? Yes, that is the first consideration. The girl will be free in a few hours, and her silence can be bought. I am particularly anxious that there shall be no talk, as it would interfere greatly with my plans."

Fongereues ventured to ask to what plans his wife referred.

"You are aware," she said, "that for some time I have been anxious to obtain for my son a captaincy in His Majesty's Guards."

"Well?" asked her husband, breathlessly.

"I have received the royal promise, and to-day Talizac will have his commission, and also the order of Saint-Louis."

This was an immense joy to Fongereues, and from that moment the monarchist—the Marquis de Montferrand—felt that Talizac, a captain in the King's Guard, could do no evil.

"Forgive a mother's vanity," continued Magdalena. "I have sent out a large number of invitations for this evening, and as soon as the officer of His Majesty's household hands to my son the commission which he has won by his merits and the badge of the Legion of Honor, Monsieur de Fongereues will officially announce the marriage of his son to Mademoiselle Salves. I rely on your aid, Monsieur de Montferrand."

"Ah! Madame," cried the old Marquis, "you are excessively clever, and you are an angel!"

She smiled.

"Arthur will come with you, I am sure, so that no cloud shall remain in our sky."

"Certainly, Madame, my son will come. Captain of the Guards—Chevalier de Saint-Louis. Zounds! that is a good deal for one day!"

"To-night, then, I shall see you, Marquis!" said Magdalena, as she rose from her chair.

Montferrand raised her hands to his lips once more, and took his leave.

Instantly Fongereues turned to his wife.

"Is this true?" he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully, and left the room in silence. She went to her son's chamber.

"It is all settled," she said to him. "In a few hours you will have the twenty thousand francs you need to silence this scandal, and you will try to make yourself worthy of the favor of your king."

As soon as his mother left the room, Frederic sent to the house at Belleville, by a trusty messenger, the following note:

"I will be with you at four o'clock—shall bring the sum required. I desire that you shall leave me alone in the house with——you know."



CHAPTER XXXI.

TRIUMPH.

A triumph like this was, of course, to be celebrated by La Roulante and Robeccal after their own fashion. They sat opposite each other at a table covered with bottles. In the centre lay the bag of gold. As they talked they played with it, making it up in little piles and arranging it in figures.

"We will buy a little place in the country, now," said La Roulante, as she filled her glass.

"Why does the girl sleep like this?" asked Robeccal.

"Oh! it is a secret that I learned some time ago—to make little girls submissive."

There was a sudden sound, a long, shivering sigh from above stairs.

"Did you hear that?" asked Robeccal, in a startled tone.

"It is nothing!" answered La Roulante, superciliously. "It is only the girl waking up at last!"

"But she will scream, I am sure!"

"Let her, if she dare!" and the giantess clenched her enormous fist. "I would crush her to jelly if she did!"

"And then you would lose the twenty thousand francs!"

The woman nodded in a tipsy manner.

"That's so!" she answered. "I had best go and talk to the Princess, anyway."

Another long sigh.

"I am coming! I am coming!" grunted La Roulante, slowly feeling her way up the stairs that creaked under her weight. She drew the key from her pocket with considerable difficulty, and finally succeeded in opening the door.

The young girl lay in the same position, but she seemed oppressed by a nightmare, for big tears rolled down her cheeks and sighs rent her breast.

La Roulante went to the side of the bed.

"Well, my child," she said, endeavoring to soften her harsh voice, "how are you to-night? Do you want anything?"

Francine's eyelids fluttered, and then slowly opened. A look of terrible horror came on her face as she beheld this most repulsive creature.

"Where am I?" faintly ejaculated the poor child.

"You are with good friends, who are anxious to make you happy."

Francine frowned. She was evidently trying to remember what had taken place.

La Roulante grew bolder. She seated herself on the foot of the bed.