"Virtue is a very good thing," she said, "but it neither feeds you nor clothes you. And it is rather a hard thing to starve and be cold when you are young, and then die in a hospital when you grow old. If a girl only realized this, she would never refuse what a nice young fellow offered!"

Francine started up with a burning face.

"What are you saying?" she cried. "But I do not wish to understand. Where am I?" She wrung her hands. "I remember now! I was gagged and carried away. I am not an ignorant child—I know too well the wickedness of this world, and I understand all. A villain, whose name my lips shall never pronounce, has placed me in this woman's house." Francine grasped La Roulante's arm. "Move aside," she said, "let me pass!"

La Roulante now stood in front of the door.

"Listen to me," said Francine. "I will forgive you if you let me go now. If you refuse, I will call for aid, and I will denounce you to the police!"

"It is too late, little girl, too late! Your lover was here with you all night!"

Francine uttered a terrific shriek and rushed to the window. She threw it open, and leaning out, cried:

"Help! Help!"

La Roulante immediately seized her and pulled her back. Robeccal ran in. The girl struggled until, breathless and exhausted, she was thrown on the floor.

"Give me that bottle!" said La Roulante.

Robeccal understood, as did poor Francine, who resolutely closed her lips. The man brutally pried them open with his fingers, while the woman poured a teaspoonful down the girl's throat, who in another moment lay unconscious.

Then La Roulante and Robeccal put the room in order, and going out, closed the door and returned to their wine below. They began to play cards, while waiting for the arrival of Frederic, from whom they had received the note.

The weather was still stormy, and about six o'clock Frederic, wrapped in a cloak, arrived. As soon as he rapped on the door the giantess opened it, but barred all passage.

"Have you the money?" she asked.

"Yes, yes—give me the key!"

Talizac threw down a pocketbook, and the giantess, with most exaggerated respect, pointed to the stairs.

As soon as Talizac had left the lower floor, she turned to Robeccal.

"And now we will make ourselves scarce!"

Hardly had the door closed on their retreating forms than an angry cry rang through the house. Talizac rushed from Francine's room. The girl had disappeared.



CHAPTER XXXII.

SURPRISES.

By what miracle had Francine vanished? How could she with her frail strength escape from that room, situated as we have said on the second floor of this house, and from the garden surrounded on all sides by walls which no man could climb.

When these wretches gave Francine the narcotic, they in their eagerness gave her too much, and the girl was utterly prostrated. She lay for an hour motionless while her jailers played cards and drank; and then her pulse began to flutter and nervous contractions shook her frail form, still she did not open her eyes. Her brain was over-excited. Suddenly she started up with eyes wide open, but eyes that saw not. She moved slowly and noiselessly. Did she reason? Not in the least. Instinct was her only guide.

Have you ever when half asleep heard the same words repeated over and over again? In Francine's brain the words "too late! too late!" were repeated with the regularity of a pendulum. The old woman had struck a cruel blow. The girl had believed for a few moments that she was dishonored and this thought now haunted her vaguely. She placed her feet on the floor, then glided toward the door. She tried it and found it locked. She turned to the window; she slowly and gently opened the blinds, and then stepped upon the cornice outside; then she feels her way down to another projection where she places one foot and then the other until she finds herself on the ground. She then glides on until she reaches the wall.

Ah! child, it is useless for you to try! Not so! The clinging vines form a rope-ladder for her light weight. She reaches the top of the wall, and easily descends on the other side. She is saved! But she does not know this, and her pale lips murmur,

"Too late! Too late!"

Where is she going? Ah! she knows not. She feels no fatigue, but goes on and on. She has crossed the outer Boulevard, and moves swiftly on through the now crowded streets, where no one seems to notice her pallor. The fog is so thick that she is but dimly seen. She reaches the bridge over the Saint Martin Canal; here she stops, and leaning over the parapet seems to contemplate the dark water running below. While she stands there, we will see what is taking place in the house she has left.

Robeccal and La Roulante when they left the house, went to take the diligence in the Rue Saint Denis. Their plans had been long made; they meant to return to Robeccal's former home. They were groping their way through the fog, when suddenly Robeccal was lifted from the ground, and then flung some distance, while a voice shouted:

"Scoundrel! I have you at last!"

At the same moment, an iron grasp nailed the giantess to the spot where she stood. The two wretches gasped out the names:

"Fanfar! Bobichel!"

"Where is Francine?" said Fanfar, sternly.

La Roulante laughed, and would not reply.

"Speak!" said Fanfar. "I know the whole story. Where is that girl?"

La Roulante knew that Fanfar was not to be trifled with, and after all why should she not now tell? She wanted to be free, that she and Robeccal might go far away.

"Take your hand away, and I will tell you."

"The truth, you understand, and make haste."

"Well, the girl is not far away."

"Alone?"

"I do not know."

"Show me the house."

"It is easy enough to find."

"Show me the way."

"No, it was not in the bargain."

"Show me the way."

Bobichel looked upon this delay as worthy of being celebrated, by lifting Robeccal by the skin of his neck as he would have lifted a cat.

These people now took their way to the deserted house.

La Roulante uttered a cry as they reached the house, for the door was open. She ran into the house, and flew toward the stairs. Fanfar was behind her. She beheld the window open.

"Look!" she cried, "he has taken her away!"

"Of whom do you speak?"

"Of the Vicomte de Talizac."

"Talizac!" exclaimed Fanfar, "would that I could kill that man!"

The house was searched, and found entirely deserted.

A folded paper lay on the table in the lower room. She snatched it up. It contained only these words from Talizac:

"You have infamously swindled me. You have taken the girl away, but I shall find her and be even with you."

"The man lies!" yelled the woman.

Fanfar was nearly stunned. He now had not the smallest clue to Francine.

"Bobichel," he said, sadly. "Fate is against us. Come with me."

"But what am I to do with him?" asked Bobichel, pointing to Robeccal, "Ah! I have it."

He seized a rope and bound Robeccal firmly, and then bundled him into a closet, which he locked and put the key into his pocket. They drove La Roulante out of the house, and locked that door also, and then hurried back to the city.

La Roulante when she was thus left hesitated a moment.

"No," she said, "if I let him out I shall have to divide the money."

And without more thought of Robeccal she too went away.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

FACE TO FACE.

The hotel of the Marquis de Fongereues was ablaze with lights. Magdalena having determined that her son's triumph should be dazzling, invitations had been sent to every one of distinction. For a long time rumors had been in circulation adverse to the Fongereues family, and the gay crowd, always ready to desert a falling house, had shown great coolness to them all. But as soon as the favors shown by the king became known at the clubs, the family were quickly reinstated in public opinion.

About nine o'clock carriages began to roll through the streets near the hotel, the doors of which were thrown wide open to welcome the coming guests, who bore the oldest and noblest names of France.

Fongereues, under an air of great dignity, concealed the joy and pride that swelled his heart. Magdalena was superb in her matronly beauty and her diamonds. Talizac was excessively pale, his worn face telling the story of his excesses and the excitement of the previous night. Francine's flight, which he believed to have been arranged by the man and woman whom he had employed as his tools, had driven him nearly mad with rage, from which he had not yet recovered.

Suddenly a murmur of admiration ran around the room. Mademoiselle de Salves had just come in. Her mother had with difficulty risen from her sick bed to witness the triumph of her child.

Irene was certainly very beautiful, and her toilette was characterized by exquisite simplicity. But her face was sad, and the brilliancy of her eyes was due to fever. Why had she come? Why had she not resisted the wishes of her mother? A great change had come over the girl. All her former energy and innumerable caprices had given way to a charming timidity. She was all the time conscious that she concealed a secret in her heart, and that since a certain memorable day she thought of but one person. Her vanity, her patrician pride, all revolted against this truth. The name she repeated over and over again, was that of Fanfar. Whenever she closed her eyes she saw him, haughty and courageous, risking his life to save that of his adopted father. She heard his rich voice and the words he uttered:

"Make yourself beloved."

She struggled with all her power against this infatuation, and had come to Paris. There she saw him again, no longer in his theatrical costume, but dressed like the young men she met in society. He had saved her from being killed by the heavy timber. He had held her a minute in his arms, and she had felt his heart beat against her own. A hundred times since then she had seen him ride past the house, and over and over again she knew that he had thrown flowers over the wall. With trembling joy she had carried these flowers to the privacy of her own rooms. She questioned them, but they were mute and kept the secret that Fanfar had undoubtedly confided to them.

Who was this Fanfar? Irene's imagination ran riot. She heard him called a conspirator whom the police watched. He belonged to the party who aimed at the overthrowal of the royal power. How did one so lowly venture to menace one so high? Irene meditated and studied; her youthful mind awoke to great truths, and she realized that men like Fanfar were working for a great cause, and her soul was filled with noble wrath against those persons who were ruining and dishonoring France. How solitary she felt herself! How ignorant! How she longed to interrogate Fanfar on these great subjects. But she well knew that this was an impossible dream. He was far away from her, and love had made her timid. She ceased to struggle, but all the time asked herself why he did not come to save her from the fate hourly drawing nearer. She knew that her mother had promised her hand to the Vicomte de Talizac, and she knew that if she made any resistance it would break her mother's heart; but as the hour drew near when her sacrifice was to be consummated, Irene felt herself very weak.

She entered the Fongereues salon in a state of suppressed excitement, very pale but very beautiful. The Marquis met her and drew her arm through his. This marriage was his salvation. He, too, thought of Fanfar with a certain pity, for he knew that this mountebank, as he scornfully called him, was the only man who had the right to call himself the Marquis de Fongereues.

Irene's arrival was the signal for the opening of the ball. The orchestra began to play a waltz. Then came a sudden silence. A magnificent person entered, an officer of the Royal Guard, in his white and gold uniform. He was received by the Marquis de Fongereues.

"Marquis," he said, "I come in the name of the king."

Every one listened with bated breath. Fongereues was radiant.

"Desirous of recompensing services rendered to the holy cause of monarchy, His Majesty has condescended to lend a favorable ear to certain applications, and, Monsieur, I am the bearer of the commission which confers on your son the rank of lieutenant in the King's Guards."

Magdalena laid her hand on Frederic's shoulder.

"Talizac," she said, "remember that your life and the lives of the Fongereues belong to the king."

Talizac bowed low, and as he turned he gave Irene a look of triumph. She, poor girl, knew that her fate was sealed.

"How happy you will be!" whispered her mother, tenderly.

"Happy!" repeated Irene, drearily.

But this was not all. The Royal Envoy had not completed his mission. La Vicomte de Talizac was made a Chevalier de Saint-Louis.

"Vive le Roi!" cried the women, gayly.

Monsieur de Montferrand turned to his son Arthur. "You see, sir," he said, in a severe tone, "how our King, a worthy son of Henri IV., rewards those whom he finds worthy of his protection."

Arthur de Montferrand had, in obedience to his father's wishes, accompanied him to this entertainment. The two young men exchanged a few words of feigned cordiality, but Arthur felt the most profound contempt for the Vicomte; while the image of Francine in the power of those scoundrels haunted him perpetually.

Fernando did not make his appearance, and Arthur dared not talk to any one else of this miserable affair in which he had been engaged. He listened with a shudder to the congratulations and compliments showered upon the Vicomte, who finally had the audacity to go up to Arthur and demand his felicitations.

Arthur started, and said low in his ear, "I will congratulate you, sir, when the mark upon your cheek, which I imprinted there, is no longer to be seen."

Talizac uttered an exclamation, but Monsieur de Montferrand, suspecting what was going on, stepped forward.

"Arthur," he said sternly, "apologize to the Vicomte for your rash words, or leave this house!"

Arthur looked reproachfully at his father, and moved toward the door. At the same moment a great tumult was heard in the hall.

"What can it be?" said De Fongereues, nervously.

A door was flung open, servants were thrust aside, and a man bearing the inanimate form of a young girl, entered the ball-room.

"Fanfar!" cried Arthur de Montferrand. It was, indeed, Fanfar.

Standing in the centre of the ball-room, for no man ventured to oppose his progress, he addressed himself to the crowd.

"Gentlemen," he said, "behold the body of the unhappy girl whom the Vicomte de Talizac has murdered!"

There was a moment of silence, then the women screamed and fled, while the men turned pale and looked at each other.

Talizac caught at the mantel for support. Fongereues had heard Arthur utter the name of Fanfar, and shuddered at the ill-omen.

From Francine's drenched garments water was dripping upon the floor, and the pale face rested on Fanfar's shoulder.

The Marquis hastened forward. "Who is this man? What is he doing here?" he cried.

"Monsieur," said Fanfar, "a crime has been committed, the guilty must be punished, and this guilt is upon your son's head. You, gentlemen, seem to think that to your rank everything is permitted. Behold a young girl who, pure and industrious, toiled for her daily bread. This Vicomte de Talizac abducted her with the assistance of his paid emissaries. The poor creature, driven to despair, committed suicide. This is what your son has done, Marquis! Can you conceive of a more cowardly or infamous act?"

And Fanfar, with head erect and lightning in his eyes, looked with contempt on the people about him.

Arthur rushed to his side. "Dead!" he cried, "is she dead?"

Fanfar gently laid Francine upon the floor. "Is there no one among all these ladies who will see if this girl lives? Beats there not one heart under all this silk and velvet?"

A woman advanced and knelt by the side of Francine. It was Irene de Salves.

"What does this senseless comedy mean?" asked the Marquis de Fongereues, angrily.

"It is no comedy, it is a horrible tragedy," answered Fanfar, coldly. "Ask what explanations you please from your son; he must answer you. See how he trembles; ask him if what I have said is not true?"

Talizac made a violent effort, and turning to his father, said, "This man lies!"

"And I, sir, swear that he speaks the truth!" cried Arthur de Montferrand. "Ah! Monsieur de Talizac, you forget too quickly; but my memory recalls the fact that the marks now on your face were imprinted yesterday by my hand, when you attacked me with a knife, because I endeavored to prevent you from committing this crime!"

"Liar!" shouted Talizac. Then turning to the crowd of spectators: "Gentlemen," he said, "I am the victim of a most monstrous calumny, and I call on you to treat this scoundrel with his trumped-up tale as he deserves!"

Not one moved. Fanfar, with folded arms, stood looking at them.

"She lives!" cried Irene. "She breathes! Mother, dear mother, permit this girl to be carried to our home. I will bring her back to life; you will give me permission?" she asked, turning to Fanfar.

"She is my sister!" said Fanfar.

Irene imprinted a kiss on Francine's brow. This was her reply to Fanfar's words.

Talizac ran to the door of the salon and summoned the lacqueys. "Here, take this man away!"

And, as they crowded in, Fanfar said: "Who dares lay a hand on me?"

"I do!" answered a voice behind him, as a hand was laid on his shoulder. "In the name of the king, I arrest you!"

The man who uttered these words wore a white scarf, fringed with gold. Soldiers filled every doorway.

"Monsieur," said the Magistrate, to Fongereues, "a man has just been found endeavoring to conceal himself in the apartments of His Majesty. He had arms concealed about his person, and did not hesitate to confess that he came with the intention of killing the king."

A cry of horror ran around the room. Fongereues was overjoyed. Cyprien had kept his word.

"And this man," continued the Magistrate, "when summoned to name his accomplices, said that he obeyed the instructions of a secret society, of which this Fanfar is the chief."

"An infamous falsehood!" exclaimed Fanfar.

"An assassin! never!" murmured Irene, as she rose from her knees, hastily.

Arthur held her back. He had divined her secret. "Do not betray yourself," he whispered, "rely on me."

Fanfar looked around. Escape was impossible. He turned to Irene. "Save my sister!" he said to her.

She bowed assent. Then Fanfar spoke to the Magistrate. "This unfounded accusation will recoil on the heads of my calumniators. I have been against the monarchy, but I have had no hand in any plot with murder as its object. I am at your service, gentlemen!"

Arthur whispered in the ear of de Talizac:

"To-morrow, if you are not a coward, I shall expect you!"

"And I will kill you!" answered the Vicomte.

In another hour the guests had left the Hotel de Fongereues.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

LEIGOUTTE.

The kind reader who has followed thus far, has not forgotten a certain little village among the Vosges mountains, where in January, 1814, brave peasants fought and died in the defence of their country.

When Simon left Leigoutte with Sergeant Michel, he had no idea that the fury of the invaders would lead them to commit the crime of killing women and children, and to burn their homes. The Cossacks and the emigres avenged themselves on French flesh and blood, and French homes and firesides.

While the Russians burned the cottage where Francoise and the children had taken shelter, Talizac, in order to ensure his possession of the title and Fongereues estates, set fire to the inn which was Simon's home. The emigres took fiendish delight in destroying the school-room. Was it not there that the Republicans talked of duty and their country to the children? And when this band of royal thieves had passed, desolation settled down upon the valley.

The king was proclaimed at the Tuileries, and lying on his bed embroidered with purple fleur de lis, never condescended to think of the villages in the East that had welcomed the invaders with powder and shot.

By degrees Leigoutte, like its neighbors, began to hold up its head once more, and the few survivors agreed to take care of the women and children who had been left without protectors. The oldest among them remembered Simon's teachings, and repeated them to their children.

One day they experienced a great surprise. It became known that a stranger had purchased the land on which had formerly stood the inn and the school of Simon Fougere. Every one wondered what the old man, who seemed to be an intendant, meant to do with this place, about which hung so many sad legends. Then came an architect, who employed the workmen in the village. They were paid well and promptly. The older inhabitants were consulted as to the plan of the old inn and the school.

When wonder had passed, the villagers were amazed to find the inn had been built exactly like the old one that had been burned by the emigres. Yes, there was the large, well-lighted room where Francoise, with her little girl in her arms, had cordially welcomed the travelers, while little Jacques flew about with bright cheeks and brighter eyes. The sign, too, was just the same as the old one. The only difference was that the tri-colored flag did not wave in the morning breeze. The new proprietor was named Pierre Labarre. Who was he? No one knew. He had a benevolent face, and he liked to talk of Simon Fougere, and made the villagers tell him the story of his death over and over again. Sometimes he was seen to listen with tears in his eyes.

"He knew him, that's sure!" said the peasants.

He selected a man and his wife to keep the inn. They had two children, a boy and a girl. The girl was named Francine. This completed the resemblance to the past. As a schoolmaster, Pierre appointed an old soldier, who was intelligent and honest.

Once more Leigoutte began to take heart. Pierre Labarre spent several days each year in the village, and yet the good people knew nothing of him more than his name. Pierre Labarre was not the real benefactor, who slept in his tomb, but when dying he had said to his old servant:

"I have been unfaithful to my duty toward Simon. I have been cowardly toward him. I have a large amount for my grandchildren, where, you alone will know. Seek these children, and make them rich. If Fate be against us, if you cannot find these children, consecrate this fortune to making the name of Simon beloved. Go to the poor village of Leigoutte, and let those who loved him, that is, all who knew him, be the heirs of that son whom the Marquis de Fongereues adored in his heart."

For many years he sought in vain for the smallest clue, but one day, after much discouragement, a new hope sprang to life in his heart. It was when the so-called Marquis de Fongereues came to demand at his hands the secret entrusted to the old man by his master. The very violence of the two men on that day proved that Simon's son was living. Had he been dead, the heirs of the Fongereues would have applied to the courts.

Then Pierre Labarre resumed his search, and an old man was continually seen on all the highways and by-ways of France, entering the humblest cottages and asking, in tremulous tones:

"Do you remember? It was in 1814."

But this was ten years ago. No one had seen two children flying for their lives. How many hopes were based upon a word, and how many disappointments followed!

Finally, he determined to act on the last words of his dying master, and he went to Leigoutte. It was an idea of his own to restore to Leigoutte its old look, the look it had one day long before when Simon Fougere gave him a seat at his fireside, and Jacques looked at the stranger with his big, earnest eyes, while Cinette ran around the room.

The evening of which we write, this old servant of an emigre sat under the trees opposite the school-room. He had gathered the village children about him. Night was coming on, but the spring air was soft and sweet. He spoke in a low voice, for the authorities of the village might have considered his words as somewhat of an incendiary nature. He said, softly:

"In other days, in Simon Fougere's school, all the children said, 'Vive la France! Vive la Republique!'"

And the little children repeated these words: "Vive la France! Vive la Republique!"

At this moment a strange scene took place on the Square. Two shadows, dimly seen in the twilight, were kneeling before the inn. No one had seen them approach. Pierre Labarre was the first to notice them, and he felt a quick contraction of the heart that heralded some unlooked-for event. He rose quickly, and signed to the children to keep perfectly still. He nearly reached the two unknown without their hearing him. He saw that one was endeavoring to raise the other, who seemed to be infirm. She extended her hand to the inn, and seemed to be saying something, and then the two slowly mounted the steps of the inn.

Pierre, who was very near them, heard a sob. Who could they be? Pierre asked himself. The two strangers were now in the large room, where nothing seemed changed since the day that the wounded soldier leaned against the wall, exhausted by suffering and fatigue. There was the huge chimney, and there the shining tables.

The infirm woman now walks unaided. She goes straight to the fireplace, and seats herself in a chair. She looks at the door eagerly and expectantly.

Labarre again asked himself who this woman was, and what frightful accident had so injured her. Suddenly, while Labarre was watching her, the woman smiled.

"Ah! you have come, Simon!" she said with a smile, as if speaking to some one who had just come in. "The children are waiting for you, and the soup is ready. Jacques has been good, but you must talk to Cinette—she is a perfect little fiend, sometimes!"

Labarre, with his heart in his mouth, clutched at the wall to prevent himself from falling.

"Come! Cinette—come; you must not be naughty!"

It was plain to Labarre who this person was—he had heard her voice before. But this girl—who was she?

The old man now entered the room. The girl saw him, and said, apologetically:

"Pray, do not scold us—we mean no harm."

"Whoever asks hospitality at this door receives it," answered Labarre. "But tell who you both are."

Caillette, for it was she, laid her finger on her lips and whispered low:

"She is mad!"

Tears came to the old man's eyes.

"I beg of you," he asked again, "to tell me who this woman is."

"A poor, sick creature, who was once very happy. She has lost her husband and her children, and met with some terrible accident beside."

"But her name?"

"I have not the smallest idea. Cinette always calls her mamma."

"Cinette! Who bears that name?"

"A good little girl in Paris, who earns her bread by singing in the streets. It now seems that she is the sister of Fanfar. It is a very strange sorrow, one fall of sorrow!"

"And Fanfar—whom do you call Fanfar?" asked the old man, with a troubled face.

Caillette started. She remembered that her love had been disdained, but she was kind-hearted, of the stuff of which martyrs are made.

"Fanfar was a foundling. He is now a young man both good and handsome."

"Where have I heard that name?" Labarre said to himself.

Suddenly the woman seated in the chair looked up.

"Excuse the simplicity of the arrangements—the inn does as well as possible."

"Francoise Fougere!" he cried.

Francoise started up, as if sustained by supernatural strength.

"Who calls me?" she cried. "Who is it that speaks my name?"

"Francoise, do you remember Simon, Jacques, Cinette?"

"My children? Yes, yes—I remember them. Where is it that I have just seen them? Oh! yes—I remember. I was all alone. Cinette's little bed was empty, and then the door opened and Jacques came!"

"Is he alive?" cried Labarre.

"Yes," answered Caillette. "They knew each other at once."

"But where is Francine?"

"She has been abducted by the Vicomte de Talizac."

"Talizac!"

Labarre caught at a chair for support. Francoise heard these words.

"Talizac! Oh! the base, cruel man. Quick! we cannot stay here. I must save Francine and Jacques. Oh! my box—where is my box?"

My readers must now learn how Francoise and Caillette found themselves at Leigoutte. They will remember that just as Fanfar recognized in the poor, sick woman the mother whose loss he had so deeply deplored, and in Francine the worshipped little sister whose agonized cries he had heard in the subterranean passages among the Vosges, all clue was lost, for Bobichel vanished, and with him Caillette.

And Gudel's daughter, who loved Fanfar with a love that was without hope, said to him:

"She is your mother. Will you allow me to take care of her?"

Fanfar looked at Caillette with loving, grateful eyes, and then hastened away with Bobichel and Gudel.

Then Caillette was left alone with the sick woman, who began to cry and sob. Her mind had been so long torpid that now this shock seemed to have swept away the last vestige of her intelligence. But Caillette was good and patient, and finally the sick woman slept. Caillette watched her and waited through the twilight, and at last, holding the hand of her charge in hers, she too fell asleep.

When the girl opened her eyes it was daybreak, and the bed was empty. Yes, Fanfar's mother, whom she had promised to guard, had vanished. She ran into the next room. No one was there, and the door was open.

Caillette ran to the concierge. "Where is she?" she cried.

"Do you mean the old woman? Oh! she went away before light."

"Impossible! She cannot walk."

"I was astonished myself, but my wife said to me, who is that coming down stairs? I looked, and I saw a ghost—not a pretty one either, begging your pardon. It was the paralytic, the old woman who had never walked a step all the while that the Marquise took care of her.

"'Where are you going?' I said to her.

"'To save Jacques.'"

"Jacques is her son, go on, quick," interrupted Caillette.

"'But you can't save any one,' I then said. This was not kind, Miss, but I was so astonished. She did not seem to mind it though, for she began to talk about a box, and told me to open the door. I had no right to disobey, you know."

"And she went away?" cried Caillette.

"Yes, and quick enough, too."

Caillette did not wait to hear more. She flew down the stairs also.

It was seven o'clock in the morning. Caillette did not dare to find Jacques, and tell him she had been faithless to her trust. No, she must find Francoise herself. She asked questions of all she met, and at last she had a ray of light. An old rag picker told her that he had seen a woman answering to the description given by Caillette. She at once started in the direction he pointed out; it was the road to Germany she took. She sold a small gold locket, which held a bit of ribbon from a sash Fanfar had once given her. She kept the ribbon, and received several crowns for the locket. She walked all day, finally certain that Francoise was not far in advance. It was not until the morning of the second day that the girl was rewarded by seeing Francoise at the door of an inn. Caillette rushed forward.

"Mother!" she cried.

"Ah! you know her?" said the innkeeper. "She is very strange."

"What did she say to you?"

"She asked for bread, and ate it without a word. Then, just as she saw you, she asked me where some village was. I never heard the name before."

The old woman now came to meet Caillette.

"Leigoutte!" she said. "Leigoutte!"

"Leigoutte!" repeated Caillette, "that is Fanfar's village."

The old woman shook her head, she did not know the name.

"I mean Leigoutte is where Jacques came from."

"Yes—yes—Jacques. I must save Jacques and the box!"

What was going on in the impaired mind of Francoise? Fanfar's sudden appearance had carried her memory back to the last interview she had with Simon, when, our readers will remember, he had given his wife the papers that proved his birth and that of Jacques. And now Francoise had but one idea, to return to Leigoutte. In vain did Caillette urge her to return to Paris, and the girl had promised Fanfar not to leave his mother. She therefore went on toward Germany with her. Fortunately, a wagoner took pity on these two women, and took them up. In this way they reached Leigoutte. Francoise was silent, except a few low words that she muttered under her breath at long intervals. Caillette thought with despair of Fanfar, and his agony at his mother's disappearance.

Alas! poor girl, she did not know that the night when she and Francoise entered the inn at Leigoutte, Fanfar, alone in his prison, thought of his mother whom he had scarcely seen, and of the sister whom he had held in his arms. Ah! it was a bitter trial for the strong, faithful heart.

Caillette and Pierre Labarre watched Francoise, when finally she arose from her chair, and went toward the door. On the threshold she seemed to hesitate. She thrust back her gray hair, and pressed her hand to her brow. Then, as if she suddenly remembered something, she turned and went toward the door in the back of the house, Caillette and Pierre following her every step she took. She went out into the garden, and up a winding path to the hill, which she began to climb with panting breath.

"Ah! she is going to the little farm of Lasvene which was burned," said Pierre to himself.

Then, all the time watching Francoise, he began to question Caillette.

What motive had Francoise in these persistent wanderings? Was it merely the whim of a mad woman or had she some fixed design?

Francoise walked on. Sometimes she stopped short, and called Jacques, then Cinette. Labarre asked himself if it were not his duty to stop this poor woman, but a secret instinct bade him watch her to the end.

An hour elapsed, but Francoise seemed to feel no fatigue. At the cross-roads she did not hesitate. Finally they reached the Gorge d'Outremont. In the fast gathering darkness, the place was horrible and gloomy. As in a former description we have said, the mountain seemed at this gorge to have been cleft in twain by a gigantic hatchet.

At this moment, the clouds parted, and a pale young moon looked down on the landscape.

Francoise stopped short, Pierre well knew why. The little cottage of old Lasvene had vanished, and the poor woman was bewildered. Labarre went to her, and took her hand. He knew where the foundations of the cottage were, and convinced that this was why she had come, he led her to the ruins. She laughed in a childish way.

"Burned? Ah! yes;" she repeated the cry of the Cossacks. "Death to the French!" And then she began to run.

It was an outbreak of madness. Caillette and Pierre uttered cries of fright.

The mystery of such a strange occurrence may never be solved, but Francoise threw herself on the ground in a corner where the little garden had stood, and began to dig furiously in the earth. Presently, she screamed:

"The box! The box! Jacques is not my son; Cinette is the Marquise de Fongereues. Jacques—Fanfar is Vicomte de Talizac!" And she fell unconscious into the arms of Labarre.



CHAPTER XXXV.

THE NEST.

Two white beds stood near each other. Muslin curtains tied with blue ribbons covered the windows with billowy folds. Among the pillows of one of the beds lay a beautiful face, and a young girl at her side held her frail hands.

This chamber was that of Irene de Salves, and very unlike it was to the chamber of the spoiled child in the Chateau des Vosges. There she had created a mixture of all colors—violent reds and yellows. Now everything was delicate and calm. The sweet face among the pillows was Francine's. The two young girls were like sisters. Irene felt that to love, protect, and care for Francine, was to love Fanfar. The shock Francine had experienced was terrible; she hardly knew what had taken place—whether she deliberately threw herself into the water, or whether faint and dizzy, she fell in; when Fanfar leaped to her rescue she clung to him convulsively. Then came the fever and delirium, and when she was at last conscious she beheld a sweet face bending over her, and Irene said, "Courage, sister, courage!"

Francine, surprised and touched, extended her thin hands, but suddenly imagining that she was again in the house where she had suffered so much, she shrieked "Let me die! Let me die!"

A relapse took place, and for several days her life hung on a thread. Irene was indefatigable in her care, and finally she began to recover very slowly.

She questioned Irene as soon as she was able. What had become of the poor woman, the care of whom she had assumed? Hardly had she escaped from the jaws of death, than she began to think of others. Irene could tell her little. Ever since the violent scene of the ball, Arthur de Montferrand, without confessing his real motives, for he loved Francine, had placed himself at the disposal of Irene. He had divined her secret, and prevented her from betraying it to the curious crowd.

Fanfar was in prison. His trial was soon coming on. It was believed that his condemnation was certain. The disturbance to the health of the king, consequent on the attempted assassination at the Tuileries, had, it was said, greatly embittered the monarchists. A report was in circulation that an infamous comedy had been enacted by this Fanfar and his sister in order to break off the marriage between Talizac and Mademoiselle de Salves, a money-making scheme, worthy of a street singer and a mountebank.

The sick woman had disappeared. This intelligence drove Francine to despair. Who was this Caillette, who had pretended to take her place, and then disappeared, leaving no trace behind her?

"But," said Francine, "who was it who saved me?"

"Do you not know?" answered Irene, coloring deeply.

"No, I heard you mention a name that I do not know."

"Yes, that of Monsieur Fanfar."

"Who is he?"

Irene looked at her and wondered if in her fever the girl's reason had deserted her.

"I do not understand. Do you not know your brother?"

"My brother!"

Irene passed her hand over her troubled brow.

"My brother. Ah! what is it you say? I never had but one brother, dear little Jacques, who was always so good and kind to me!"

"Jacques! but that is the name of—Monsieur Fanfar!"

"I tell you," answered Francine, "that I never met any one of that name. Stop a moment, I remember a company of mountebanks on the Square; they were under the management of a man called Iron Jaws, and with him was this Fanfar, if I don't mistake."

"Precisely, and this Fanfar is your brother, I heard him say so, himself, when I went to help you. He said to me, 'she is my sister—'"

"Where is he? I must see him. He saved my life. Suppose that he is Jacques! But no, poor Jacques is dead!"

Irene could not help the poor girl; although she fully believed in the truth of what Fanfar had said, she could offer no proof.

Suddenly Francine exclaimed, "If he is my Jacques, he ought to be about twenty. He ought to be very handsome."

Irene colored, as she said, "He is handsome!"

"With black eyes, and brown curling hair?"

Irene was unwilling to admit that she had studied Fanfar in all these details, but she stammered out, "Yes, that describes him."

"For pity's sake, tell me all you know!"

Irene asked herself why she should hesitate. After all there was nothing to be ashamed of in her sentiments towards Fanfar.

"I will tell you all," she said, in a low voice.

"Why are you so disturbed?" asked Francine. "When you mention the name of this Fanfar, you have tears in your eyes."

Irene buried her face on her friend's shoulder: "I love him!" she whispered, "and I love you as if you were my sister!"

The two young girls embraced each other tenderly.

"But where is he?" said Francine, disengaging herself, "I wish to see him."

Irene started. Alas! amid all these emotions she had forgotten the sad truth that the brother, whom Francine ardently desired to embrace, was in a narrow cell, crushed under the accusation of an attempt on the life of the king.

"Why do you not tell me where I can find him?" asked Francine, her eyes bright with fever.

At this moment the door opened, and a tall and stately individual, known as Madame Ursula, made a sign to Irene, who instantly obeyed the summons, glad to avoid the necessity of replying to Francine's questions.

"What is it?" she said.

Madame Ursula was unchanged. She was still in a constant state of horror at Irene's conduct and defiance of conventionalities.

"A very strange looking man wishes to speak to the young lady."

"She can not receive him," replied Irene, promptly.

"So I supposed, but I delivered the message because I thought she knew this person, and I myself have seen him before." Madame Ursula looked down in some confusion. "He was pretending to be a frog, on a certain occasion—"

"I do not understand you."

"He is one of those clowns who amused the peasants at Saint Ame."

"His name! his name!" cried Irene, impatiently.

"I don't know his name. He wore a gray hat—"

"Bobichel! It must be Bobichel!"

Irene had forgotten none of these names.

"Let him come in!" she cried. "Let him come in!"

In another moment Bobichel appeared. Was this the poor clown? No; there were no smiles on his lips, no quips and cranks on his tongue. His thinness had become emaciation.

Irene went forward.

"You come from him?" she said, hastily.

"From Fanfar? Oh! no—not directly, at least. They won't let me see him, you know."

"Who sends you here, then?"

"Gudel—Iron Jaws, you know."

"Why did he not come himself?"

"Ah! that I can't say. Gudel bade me give this note to you."

Irene broke the seal. The envelope contained two letters. One was directed to "Miss Irainne," the other to "Mademoiselle de Salves." Why did she open the latter? Did she know from the defective orthography that the first could not come from Fanfar? The letter she opened was from Fanfar. This was it:

"You, who are so good and kind, be doubly so to the sister I found when too late. The hour draws near when the so-called justice of man will strike an innocent person. You do not doubt me, I know. I am not one who would dishonor a sacred cause. Say to my sister that little Jacques has endeavored to be worthy of his father—Simon Fougere.

"I beg my adopted father, Gudel, to explain to you in detail the singular events of my life. I place entire confidence in you. I leave to your care poor Francoise and little Cinette. Love them, and they will return your affection. You have not forgotten the words addressed to you so long ago: 'Make yourself beloved.'

"I do not know whether I should now bid you an eternal farewell. I recognize the fact that I am the object of venomous hatred to some one, but to whom? Let no one seek to solve this mystery. I forgive this enemy, whomsoever he may be.

"In a few days—to-morrow, perhaps—my fate will be decided. Do not despair."

Tears filled Irene's eyes as she finished this letter.

Bobichel watched her all the time, restraining his sobs with difficulty.

"You love him!" he said softly, "and you are right, for he is the best man I ever knew!"

Irene extended her hand, and the clown knelt to kiss it.

"But we must save him!" cried Irene. "He shall not be condemned—"

"Condemned?" said a voice. "Of whom do you speak?"

Francine, obeying an impulse, had thrown on a peignoir of white cashmere, and appeared, white and trembling, at the door. Irene ran to her side.

"Courage! sister," she cried, "courage!"

Then Irene herself gave way, and burst into passionate weeping. Francine took her brother's letter and read it slowly, but when she came to the words "little Jacques" and "Cinette," her eyes closed, and she would have fallen had not Bobichel caught her.

"You must not cry like that!" he said. "You must not weep. We will save Fanfar! Please, Mademoiselle Irene, read the letter Iron Jaws sends you. He has an idea, and he knows what he is about. He will save Fanfar!"

Bobichel's confidence was so great, his honest affection was so apparent, that the two girls exchanged a hopeful glance.

"Read!" said Francine.

Iron Jaws' letter was not faultless in respect to orthography. Its errors we will not repeat:

"Fanfar must be saved! I know your attachment for him. You have great influence with people in power. Try to see him, and give him something that Bobichel will hand you. I rely on your doing this."

"What am I to say to Iron Jaws?" asked Bobichel.

"Tell him that I will do all he asks. But you have another note for me?"

"No, not a note." And Bobichel, with infinite care, took from the flap of his coat a pin, an ordinary pin though of large size, not large enough, however, to excite the smallest suspicion.

"Do you see that?" cried the clown, with much of his former gayety. "Do you see that, ladies and gentlemen? This pin does not look like much, does it, now? But you can screw off the head, and then you will find a tiny note—"

"It is most ingenious," said Irene, with a smile "and it shall be delivered as you desire."

"Ah! you are a brave creature, and if some day you want some one to amuse your children—that is, when you have any, you know—send for me, and I will be frogs for them all day long!"

And with this somewhat startling promise, Bobichel departed.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

SUPREME EFFORT.

Monsieur de Fongereues was alone in his cabinet. Magdalena had left him only a few moments before. A violent scene had taken place between the husband and wife.

The ruin that threatened the Fongereues mansion had been temporarily staved off by the marriage that had been arranged between Irene and the Vicomte, but as soon as the world knew that the marriage was broken off, the tongues of gossips began to wag.

The Fongereues felt that their doom was sealed when they knew that Irene's millions were forever lost to them. Then this unhappy pair began to quarrel. To Magdalena's violent reproaches Fongereues answered by violent recriminations. Was it not her senseless indulgence that had caused the Vicomte to become the depraved and worthless person upon whom every one now turned a cold shoulder? If they were ruined, was it not because of the mad extravagance of mother and son?

And Magdalena replied:

"If I have been weak, was it not still more your duty to be strong? Who is the proper guide for a young man if not his father? You have been faithless to your duties, and, moreover, has he a vice which is not yours?"

Fongereues foamed with rage, and before he could speak his wife had the audacity to say:

"You are choked by the blood of your brother!"

She thus reproached him for a crime that he had committed at her instigation. A moment more and this great lord would have demeaned himself to brutalities worthy of a lacquey, but with a look of contempt Magdalena swept past him and left the room. And now, crushed into a large arm-chair, the Marquis sat with his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Count Fernando de Vellebri wishes to see you," a servant knocked at the door to say.

"One moment!" answered the Marquis.

He hurried to his dressing room, bathed his face in cold water and hastily brushed his fast whitening hair. He took his seat at his desk, which was covered with papers.

"Show Monsieur de Vellebri up," he said.

He shuddered as he spoke, for he had learned through Cyprien that this Fernando belonged to the society of the Jesuits. The young man entered.

He was no longer the obsequious person with the stereotyped smile, who had done the will of the Vicomte de Talizac. Dressed in black, a long single-breasted coat, Fernando was the type of the Jesuits who pervaded French society. His dark hair rendered his pallor more remarkable. His half closed eyes were brilliant in spite of their heavy lids.

Fongereues divined a contest. What new struggle would he be compelled to undergo? He pointed to a chair, but the Italian bowed and remained standing.

"You wished to see me," said the Marquis, "and I am at your service. But what is this costume? I was not aware that you belonged to any religious society, officially, at least."

"As to my claims to this dress," answered De Vellebri, coldly, "I am quite ready to explain them, if you will condescend to listen to me."

His voice was monotonous, as he continued:

"You are not ignorant, sir, of how greatly the conduct of the Vicomte de Talizac has compromised himself and his family."

"I beg your pardon," interrupted the Marquis, "but may I ask if you were not the companion of my son in most of his excesses?"

Fernando smiled satirically.

"Perhaps you are not quite aware of the part I played in these excesses. Monsieur de Talizac is not a child, to be influenced for good or evil by his friends. Perhaps, instead of accusing me, you should thank me for having saved the honor of your house more than once."

"Indeed, sir! I confess I do not understand."

"It seems to me," said Fernando, still very calm, "that we are wandering from the real subject of this conversation. A powerful Society, sir, attached above all else to the practice of all virtues and to the triumph of God's cause, has for a long time been watching you. Your influence and your talents all give a guarantee that you may become a most useful auxiliary to the society to which I have the honor to belong."

"The Society of Jesus?" interrupted the Marquis.

Fernando did not reply to this direct question other than with a slight bow.

"This society," he continued, "is disposed to come to your aid. It is they who have prevented His Majesty from revoking the favors shown to your son."

Fongereues uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"And they, too, will enable you to re-conquer the rank to which you belong."

"On condition that I will be their slave!" said the Marquis, with a constrained smile.

It was certain that in this terrible crisis the Marquis was ready to snatch at anything that would save him. But in spite of himself, he felt an invincible repugnance to giving himself up entirely to the control of these people and to have no will of his own. He hesitated. Fernando seemed to read his every thought.

"I think, sir," he said, "that you exaggerate the consequences of the step I suggest."

"And if I refuse?"

"You will not refuse," said the Italian, quietly.

Fongereues bit his lips.

"What does the Society of Jesus require of me?"

"Two things—a great service and a guarantee."

"What do they offer me?"

"The position of Prime Minister."

The Marquis started.

"I do not understand you," he said.

"The position of Prime Minister."

Beads of sweat broke out on the brow of the Marquis. He knew that the society was strong enough to keep its promises. He knew that as Prime Minister all his dreams of power and wealth would be realized.

"You spoke also of a service and a guarantee," he said, quietly.

"The service is the greatest that can be rendered by any man to the Catholic world and to his Holiness the Pope."

Fernando lowered his voice.

"You are aware, sir, that by a Royal Edict of 1764 the Jesuits were expelled from France. Two years since, in 1822, His Majesty, unable to elevate in its integrity the standard of Catholicism, contented himself with authorizing the sojourn in France of the Fathers of the Faith. The time has now come to arrest these persecutions entailed on the Society of Jesus. We are resolved that they shall be solemnly re-established under their own name, with all their rights and privileges, and this not by virtue of a royal edict, but by a legal measure emanating from the Chamber of Peers. This is a bold act and one full of danger. We are fully aware of it, and do not propose to deny it. To carry out this plan successfully would require great dexterity and astuteness, as well as profound faith in the justice of the cause you defend. The reward would be the dazzling recompense I have named. Monsieur de Fongereues, are you—can you be this man?"

Fongereues started to his feet.

"Yes—I can!" he cried.

"We will assist you," said the Jesuit. "We are certain of the support of a respectable minority. It is for you to scatter rewards, and warm lukewarm consciences, and I repeat, sir—a work like this is magnificent."

"I belong to you, heart and soul," said Fongereues, "and to-morrow—"

"Wait," said Vellebri, laying his hand on the arm of the Marquis, thus forcing him back to his seat. "I spoke of a guarantee."

"Ah! yes," answered Fongereues, "my word of honor, I presume, is enough?"

Fernando did not seem to think a reply incumbent upon him. He continued:

"The man in whom the Society places enough confidence to entrust him with arms which will ensure his victory, should be bound to them by strong ties."

Fongereues listened with interest and curiosity.

"And the strongest ties are those of gold," said the Jesuit, slowly and distinctly. "You questioned me as to my claim to my dress. I am the Secretary of the General of the Society, and I am required to ask, if you are willing to aid in the establishment of houses like those of Montrouge and Saint-Acheul in Parma and Tuscany?"

"Most certainly," answered Fongereues, uneasily, for this allusion to money was most unwelcome. "I am ready to second all efforts of this Society, but still it would be necessary for me to know just what amount would be required of me. My resources are just now greatly restricted, and—"

"Do not be concerned," said Vellebri, coldly, "the amount need not disturb you." Fongereues sighed with relief. "You will have to give but one million."

"A million!" repeated the Marquis, in despair.

"In fixing this sum our Superiors have merely carried out their plan of attaching you to their cause."

"But a million!" repeated the Marquis, "it is impossible. Were I to sell all that I now have in the world, I should not realize the half of this sum!"

"Is this, then, a refusal?"

"By no means. But a million!—I haven't it," and he repeated these words over and over again.

"But you have resources which should make such a sacrifice easy."

"No, you are mistaken. I am ruined, entirely ruined!"

His agitation was so great that he forgot to dissimulate.

"But the fortune of your father was very large, and cannot be exhausted."

"But I was robbed of that!"

Fernando rose from his chair.

"Permit me," he said, "to decline to enter into any affairs foreign to the matters we have under consideration. I came to offer you peace or war. Peace means fortune and power, and war—"

"War!" repeated Fongereues, "I do not understand you."

"When the Society proposes a compact, when, as I have just done to you, she unveils her secret designs, she holds in reserve a weapon which places at her mercy the man of whom she wished to make an ally, and whom she does not choose to have for an adversary."

"I! I an adversary of the Society of Jesus! You cannot mean what you say."

"Everything is possible, Marquis. This is our ultimatum—either you will accept the proposals I have made, and placing in my hands within five days the million I ask, you will at once begin the campaign whose success is certain, or within five days a certain person will place in the hands of the Procureur de Roi papers which will be your ruin."

"What do you mean?"

Fongereues was livid as he asked this question.

"They are notes, forged by the Vicomte, your son!"

"Talizac a forger! Impossible!"

"I assure you that it is only too true. Once more, let me ask for your decision."

"I beg you to remember that my devotion to the Society is unalterable. But a million—you know!"

"You understand," repeated Vellebri, "it is a million that is demanded?"

"Yes, I know. Grant me a little time."

"We give you five days, as I said, at the end of which time the proposition I have named must be presented to the Chamber of Peers."

"I will present it."

"But the Society will not permit you to interfere until you have given the required guarantee. And now, good-morning, sir."

In vain did Fongereues petition the Italian to remain, but Fernando bowed coldly and departed.

Fongereues sank back in his chair, utterly crushed. For a few moments he had indulged in the hope of a proud future, and now, knowing that he could not raise a million, he felt that he was in deeper perplexity than ever.

Cyprien now appeared.

"You made a mistake, sir, in hesitating for a moment. Write to the Society that before five days have elapsed you will have fulfilled the conditions imposed."

"That would be folly!"

"Is not Fanfar in prison?"

"What of that? He will not be condemned."

"By the judges, possibly not—but by us."

Fongereues held himself more erect.

"Tell me what you mean, Cyprien?" he asked.

The lacquey laughed.

"I mean simply, that I will kill this Fanfar!"



CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE TRIAL.

Political trials are all much alike, and this of Fanfar was no exception. On the day that it was to take place the pretended assassin and his pretended accomplice (that is to say Fanfar), were led to the court-room, where the magistrates, in their red robes and ermine, were seated. The newspapers, while attacking Fanfar furiously, had not omitted to mention that the accused was excessively handsome. This naturally brought a large number of women to the trial, and when the prisoner appeared, there was a low hum of admiration and surprise. Fanfar's companion, the man of whom Fanfar had made, it was said, a tool, excited neither admiration nor sympathy. Fanfar looked at him once and turned away in disgust.

It is now the proper time to say that this man, whom Cyprien had chosen to play the part of regicide, was none other than Fanfar's former enemy, Robeccal himself, who had been found in the closet and liberated by Cyprien.

This man had fallen so low that it mattered little to him what he did. The lacquey Cyprien profited by this mood, and in a short time obtained the result he desired.

To the declaration of the accused, who had been found secreted in the Tuileries, Fanfar replied with contempt. He told who this man was, and the crimes of which he had been guilty. All this, however, by no means proved that he himself was innocent of participation in the crime. Fanfar had not mentioned the affair of the deserted house, for he did not wish his sister's name to appear. This was a great relief to Robeccal, who, in spite of the manner in which he had been treated by La Roulante, did not wish to get her into trouble.

The trial took its course. Robeccal wept and expressed great penitence, said that he loved the king, etc. All this produced an excellent effect on the jury, who considered the fellow a little simple.

Then came Fanfar's turn. He stood with arms folded on his breast, and once turned and looked toward the end of the court-room. He probably saw what he wished, for he smiled, and a light came into his eyes. Then he looked again at the President, and waited. In reality there was no other charge against him than the persistent declaration of Robeccal, but this was by the judges considered quite proof enough of his culpability.

"You belong to a secret association, do you not?" asked the judge.

"I am a Frenchman," answered Fanfar, "and like others of this heroic nation claim liberty of thought and action. Do you call France a secret society?"

The President reproved Fanfar for this speech, and called him in his anger an assassin. The young man replied, in a voice of great feeling:

"Only those," he said, "should be called assassins who have cut the throat of France and plucked a blood-stained crown from the men!"

There was a great tumult. "Bravo! Fanfar," said a voice among the audience.

Naturally a dozen innocent men were accused of uttering this incendiary exclamation, while Gudel, in a quiet livery, was not interfered with. Irene de Salves never moved her eyes from Fanfar. Finally, quiet was restored.

"Mr. President," said Fanfar, "my father fell in the French frontier, fighting against the Cossacks and the emigres. There are no assassins in our family!"

From this moment the trial went on rapidly. The sentence was a foregone conclusion.

Robeccal was condemned to death. Fanfar, under the name of Jacques Fougere, was sentenced to the galleys for life.

But just as the sentenced was pronounced, a singular event occurred. Fanfar rose and opened his lips as if to speak, extended his arm, and fell full length on the floor. Cries of astonishment arose from the crowd.

"He has killed himself!" cried some.

"He has been poisoned!" said others.

Irene hastened to find Gudel. She had seen him near the door, but he had vanished. The crowd departed, saying to each other, sadly:

"He is dead!"

Robeccal was carried off more dead than alive. His sentence had frightened him. Perhaps he had not unbounded confidence in the honest people who had employed him.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE CRISIS.

"At last!" cried the Marquis, when the news of Fanfar's death reached him. He sent for Magdalena.

"Madame!" he said, "rejoice with me. Let us forget our mutual wrongs, for a new horizon stretches before us. All our anxieties are over. The man who stood between us and the possession of a fortune is dead!"

"Of whom do you speak?"

"Of this Fanfar, who, after making an attempt on the life of our king, was struck dead in the court-room during his trial."

"And this Fanfar was the son of Simon de Fongereues?"

"Yes, Madame, of my brother. And our father, who hated us, as you know, left the larger part of his fortune in the care of a fanatical body-servant of his, who held it as in trust for Simon's son whenever he should find him. He refused to relinquish this trust until he had proof of the death of the youth. Now he must be made to speak, for the only heir of the Fongereues fortune is myself, and I shall appeal to the law."

The Marquise talked with her husband for a long time. The next thing to do was to make Gudel speak frankly. This he had no hesitation in doing, and he again told the story he had told to the Marquis.

As to Pierre Labarre, of course he could make no further resistance. So long as the Marquis knew that Fanfar was living he had been obliged to be cautious; now no such reason existed.

The dreams of the Marquis were realized—a million for the Jesuits, and the gratification of his ambition and pride.

"Our son will be rich and happy!" said Magdalena, in an ecstasy of joy. "But where is the boy? Write, Marquis, write to him at once. He must be suffering intolerably in this exile you have imposed upon him."

But Fongereues did not heed her words. He was thinking of other things.

"Cyprien has served me well!" he said. "How is it that I have not seen him for two days?"

"I was speaking of our son!" answered Magdalena, angrily. "Do you not think of your son? Do you not love your son?"

The Marquis took her hand. "It is time that we understood each other," he said, sadly. "For twenty years I have lived a melancholy life. I have yielded to your caprices, I have followed your counsel, and to what end? Look at me—my hair is gray, my face is seamed and lined. I have never had one hour of repose. For whom have I carried this burthen? For myself? I despise mankind, I despise power, I despise you, and despise myself. I have but one real passion in life, and that is my love for this wretched boy who bears my name. What have you, his mother, done for him?"

Magdalena turned away from her husband's melancholy eyes.

"Why I love him," continued the Marquis, "I know not, except that criminals love their children as wild beasts their young. You have questioned me, and I have answered you. Are you satisfied?"

There came at this moment a hurried knock at the door.

"Come in!" cried the Marquis, angrily.

A valet entered with a very pale face.

"Monsieur! my young master—"

"Ah! he has come!" cried the Marquise, rushing to the door.

But the lacquey extended his arms, as if to stop her.

"Madame!" he began.

"Well! what is it?"

"My young master is dead!" said the lacquey, with trembling lips.

Then there went up the cry of two stricken hearts. The two criminals looked at each other. They must have misunderstood the servant, who now pointed to the stairs, up which were coming men bearing a bier. What was underneath the cloth? Was it their son? Impossible!

A young man appeared. Magdalena rushed toward him, without a word. The youth bowed his head.

"Yes, he is dead. Monsieur de Talizac has been killed in a duel!"

Magdalena sank upon the floor, unconscious. Fongereues laughed hysterically.

"Nonsense! My son has fought no duel," he said.

"Yes—with Arthur de Montferrand, whose sword pierced his heart!"

Fongereues tore the cloth from the bier. Yes, it was the Vicomte de Talizac. The wretched father tried to speak. Every muscle in his face quivered. The servants fell back, shocked by all this agony.

"Tell me all!" he said at last.

"There is little to tell, sir, beyond the bare fact. I have, however, a letter which the Vicomte gave me before he went on the ground."

Magdalena snatched this letter and tore it open. It contained but one line:

"Faithless parents, I curse you with my dying breath!"

These words, coming from beyond the tomb, were terrible.

At this moment the door opened. An old man, with head uncovered and long, white hair, stood there.

"The Vicomte de Talizac is dead!" whispered one of the servants.

The stranger started, and, with a compassionate look, laid his hand on the shoulder of the Marquis, who was kneeling by the body of his son. The Marquis looked up and shrank back, saying:

"Pierre Labarre!"

It was, indeed, the old servant, sad eyed and hopeless. He had come to Paris as quickly as possible, leaving Francoise and Caillette to follow. He went at once to the court-room, and there heard that Fanfar had been carried to one of the lower rooms. Physicians had been sent for, who had attributed his death to an aneurism.

"You are avenged, Pierre!" cried the Marquis. "Why are you here? Leave this house at once!"

But the old man did not move.

"No!" he said, "you must hear me. We have not done with each other." He extended his hand toward the dead body. "You may well weep for your son, Marquis, but you may also weep for Fanfar."

"Yes, because this fellow, for whom you would have stolen my father's fortune, is dead. This Fanfar was my brother's son—I know it, and you know it, too, but you do not know that I killed him!"

Labarre drew back in terror.

"No, no—do not say that!"

"Why should I not say it? It is true. I discovered the secret of his birth, and I removed him from my path—I poisoned him!"

The old man staggered to the wall, where he leaned for support.

"Now, denounce me!" cried the Marquis, "and I am ready to mount the scaffold. I killed this Fanfar, and this thought is all that gives me a ray of comfort!"

"Hush! This Fanfar was not the Marquis de Fongereues, he was not Simon's son. Do you remember a night which you once spent in a humble cottage at Sachemont?"

"Sachemont?" repeated Fongereues.

"That night two men claimed the hospitality of an old man. One of these strangers was a Frenchman, but he was base enough to insult the daughter of the old man. He did worse—he committed a dastardly crime. That man, sir, was known as the Marquis de Talizac!"

Fongereues sat with his eyes fixed on the old man.

"The Vicomte fled like a scoundrel, leaving dishonor and despair on his track. But he never knew that the poor girl gave birth to a child—a son."

"What of that!" cried Fongereues, who did not choose to understand.

"Silence! I have not finished. Do you know who took that child and educated him? It was the brother whom you hated. Your victim was dead and he married her sister, and later, when you set the Cossacks on the village of Leigoutte and bade them to kill women and children, there was one child named Jacques and that child was your son."

Fongereues was deadly pale; large drops stood on his brow.

"You lie!" cried the Marquis, "Fanfar was my brother's son."

"Here is the certificate of his birth," said Pierre. "You knew Simon's writing, for you intercepted his letters to your father. Look! these lines tell the story."

"I, eldest son of the Marquis de Fongereues, declare, on my sacred word of honor, that the child who bears my name and passes for my son, is the child of Jacqueline Lemaitre and the Vicomte de Talizac."

"The paper is signed with Simon's full name."

The Marquis fell on his knees.

"Ah! Monsieur, these are terrible days, but you will not say again that you poisoned Fanfar."

Fongereues shuddered, and endeavored to hide his face.

Labarre felt dizzy with horror. "Answer me," he repeated.

Fongereues answered in a low voice:

"Kill me! I have killed my son!"

The old servant started forward as if to fell the Marquis to the earth, but suddenly he remembered his old master, the man whom he had loved so tenderly, and he could not harm his son. He half turned away.

"Tell me the whole," he faltered, "I must know the whole."

"Yes," stammered the Marquis. "Cyprien, who is my slave, poisoned him. I determined to have the fortune without longer delay. I bade him do this deed, and he obeyed me. I am accursed!"

Labarre went toward the door.

"Farewell!" he said.

"No," cried the Marquis, "you must not leave me alone with this dead man. I am afraid! You must take me too to see the other."

Labarre stopped short. "Where was Cyprien?" he asked hastily.

The Marquis understood him. He rang his bell furiously. It might be after all that he was not guilty of Fanfar's death.

A servant entered. The Marquis asked for Cyprien; he had not been seen in the hotel for two days, the lacquey replied.

The Marquis turned to his father's servant.

"I have grave duties to perform," he said, quietly, "first I must see my son. You must go with me."

Labarre shook his head.

"In the name of my brother!" said Fongereues. Then stopping, he said, suddenly, "Does this fortune left by my father really exist?"

Labarre started. Could it be that this man at this time could be thinking of money?

"You misunderstand me!" cried the Marquis, "but never mind, answer me!"

"The money is safe," said Pierre.

"And you can give me a million to-morrow?"

"What do you want of a million?"

"Can you give it to me, that is the question?"

"I can."

Fongereues wrote a few words, and rang the bell.

"Take this letter to Monsieur Fernando de Vellebri, and see that there is no delay. And now, Pierre, come with me."



CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE AUTOPSY.

In a house opposite the Palais de Justice, two men were talking together in an attic room. One of these men was seated, the other was standing. The one who was seated, robust and vigorous, was anxiously questioning a person, who answered slowly and coldly.

"Then Doctor, you are sure?"

"Have no uneasiness. I know what I am doing."

"You understand that it is for to-morrow, and nothing can be done during the night. It means, in short, forty hours."

"When I accepted the terrible responsibility which you proposed to me, I weighed every detail. And once more I bid you have entire confidence in me and in science, and in the devotion of those who are brothers in a common cause."

"Forgive me!" repeated the other. "Forgive my anxiety and apparent distrust."

"I am at your disposal at all times and seasons; if the important moment be advanced or retarded, be sure that I shall be in readiness."

The two men shook hands cordially, and the Doctor went out. The other threw himself on a chair, and covering his face with his huge hands, wept bitterly—wept like a child, did this poor Iron Jaws. Suddenly he started up, and cried:

"This must succeed! This must succeed!"

He heard hurried steps coming up the stairs, and then a knock at the door.

"Who is it?"

"Bobichel!"

It was indeed Bobichel, red and much out of breath.

"Well?" asked Gudel.

"Oh! she is an angel! she had been crying when I got there. She brought me here in her carriage, and she wants to see you."

Gudel strode from the room. On the lower floor he found Irene waiting; she was pale and dressed in black.

"Ah! sir," she said, anxiety sharpening her voice, "tell me what all this means!"

"Fanfar is not dead."

The girl swayed to and fro. Gudel caught her, and went on.

"No, he is not dead. I thought you ought to know it."

"Where is he?"

"Ah! dear lady, he lies at this moment in a dark room, and looks as if he could never again rise."

"Horrible!"

"Yes, in a way, but not so bad when you come to think about it, for to-morrow Fanfar will be alive and free."

"Alive and free! Ah! I dare not hope. But tell me the whole."

"You remember that I sent you a note to give to Fanfar?"

"Yes—I have it still."

"Now, if you are not afraid of a little dampness, I will show you something."

Irene looked at Gudel in amazement.

"Very good, but first about Fanfar?"

"I assure you, dear lady, that he is safe. Now, Bobichel, go; see and hear all you can, and if you find out anything new, come to me at once."

"All right, master," and with a double somersault Bobichel vanished.

Gudel lighted a lantern, and then said to Irene that he was ready. They went out into a corridor, and Gudel, taking a key from his pocket, opened a small door which showed stone steps going down.

"Be careful," said Iron Jaws, "for the steps are very slippery."

He held the lantern high and guided her steps. It was like a gnome guiding a fairy into some mine of wealth. But it was not toward any treasure that Gudel conducted Irene. He opened another door after pushing several bolts.

"Up with you!" he cried, "you have company!"

Notwithstanding all her courage, Irene started back.

"Have no fear, Mademoiselle," said Iron Jaws, "he is a ferocious beast, but he is chained!"

Irene beheld a man fastened to the wall with an iron chain. At first she did not recognize him.

"This individual," said Gudel, "is Cyprien, the man who does all the dirty work of his excellency the Marquis de Fongereues, going so far as to do a little poisoning on occasion."

"Undo my chain!" cried Cyprien.

"Not if I know it! But if you answer my questions, you shall have something to eat."

"I am hungry!" murmured the rascal.

"Pshaw! one meal each day will certainly prevent your being miserable. Now, why did you poison Fanfar?"

The fellow sighed.

"Tell me what interest you had in poisoning Fanfar."

"I don't know."

"That is a lie!"

"He can tell you nothing," whispered Irene, "let him go."

"No, Mademoiselle. This scoundrel bribed one of the jailers to give Fanfar a drug that would have killed him in five minutes. Fortunately, I was on the watch. I captured Cyprien and I brought him here. But I confess I am greatly puzzled by one thing—it is that I can't make out what the Marquis had against Fanfar, and this animal will not tell me."

"My friend," said Irene, "however guilty you may be, you are but the instrument of others. Why, then, do you not try to make amends for your errors by telling the truth?"

Cyprien hesitated, but he said again:

"I do not know."

"Then good-night, my dear fellow!" said Gudel. "Here is a loaf of bread for you, rascal that you are!"

Irene hastened from the dungeon, and when they had again ascended the stairs, Gudel said to her:

"These fellows are all alike, after all!"

"What are you trying to do?" asked Irene.

"It is simple enough. Instead of poison, Fanfar took a narcotic, and lies as if dead. He will be buried, of course, but we will look out for that, and he will be taken care of."

The shock to Irene was so great that she burst into passionate weeping. Gudel was doing his best to soothe her, when suddenly the door was thrown open and Bobichel rushed in, all pale and dishevelled.

"Oh! master," he cried, "all is lost! There is to be an autopsy. One of the great physicians advises it."

Irene uttered a shriek of agony and dropped on her knees.

"Run!" she cried, "the truth must be made known at once. Oh! save him!"

Gudel tore his hair. Suddenly a thought struck him.

"Who is the physician?"

"Dr. Albant, from the Tuileries."

Iron Jaws reflected. He took Irene's hands in his.

"I am but a poor fellow, dear lady, only a strolling player, but I swear to you that Fanfar shall be saved!"

Irene was comforted.



CHAPTER XL.

BETWEEN CHARYBDIS AND SCYLLA.

The situation was indeed a terrible one. Bobichel's words were true.

When Fanfar fell as if dead, it was supposed that it was an attack of apoplexy, and some good people ventured to call it a judgment from heaven for his crimes. Others again spoke of poison, and arraigned the governor of the prison for carelessness. There was one physician among those who were called in who could not agree with the others. He used a number of scientific expressions, but the fact remained the same—Fanfar was dead. But there was so much discussion that a post-mortem examination was deemed essential. The body, therefore, was carried on a litter to the hospital, where he was examined by a crowd of curious medical students, who declared that he was so splendidly developed that he ought to have lived to be a hundred years old.

A messenger was sent to Dr. Albant, and the dissecting table was prepared.

This time the plan of the heroes of the right had failed. Fanfar was alive, but he would certainly be killed now, as his torpidity was so great that he would not utter a cry or a groan until the instruments touched some vital organ.

The door opened and Dr. Albant, a handsome old man, entered with smiles and nods. He removed his coat and tied on a large apron. Trying the edge of his scalpel on his nail, he turned to the students and physicians, and began to talk of the German method of conducting a post mortem.

"We French, however, begin here," he said, lightly placing his scalpel on the tender flesh.

"Dr. Albant!" cried a stentorian voice.

The surgeon turned. A messenger in the king's livery stood in the doorway.

"Gentlemen, excuse me—the king communicates with me!"

A close observer would have thought it singular that the king should send a letter by an ordinary servant, like a simple bourgeois. But this did not seem to strike Dr. Albant, who, with a face beaming with smiles, turned to the students, saying:

"Excuse me, gentlemen, but the king demands my presence."

"But the autopsy?"

"Oh! that may be given up. This man died from cerebral congestion—I see it as plain as day!"

As he spoke he tore off his apron, and got himself into his coat again with all possible speed.

"Bury the man at once!" he said as he left the room. A carriage awaited him at the door, and he drove off.

The royal messenger waited a moment and then he, too, walked away, and going down a narrow alley he entered a little wineshop by a back door, and throwing himself on a bench, exclaimed:

"I was just in time, Bobichel. A second later and Fanfar would have been no more!"

The hospital was now anxious to get rid of this useless body, and orders were given that it should be buried without delay. Gudel and his friends had bribed the functionaries.

All went smoothly, and in an hour the hearse was to take Fanfar away. But before this, a card was brought in to the governor of the hospital. On this card was the name of the Marquis de Fongereues, and in the corner of the glossy bit of pasteboard was a tiny sign, which signified that his visitor was especially recommended by the Society of which he was a member. He gave orders that the Marquis should be shown in at once.

Fongereues appeared, leaning on the arm of Pierre Labarre. The Marquis had suddenly grown old, his strength was gone, and his feet were as uncertain as those of a drunken man.

The governor rose to receive him. Fongereues tried to speak, but his voice died in his throat. He handed the governor an order from the minister, directing that the body of the man named Fanfar should be surrendered to the Marquis de Fongereues.

Our readers will notice that the promised million had already borne fruit in the granting of the first request made by the Marquis, who had laid aside his ambition and thought only of recovering the body of his son in return for the million.

"Can I see the body?" asked the Marquis.

The governor bowed assent and led him to the room where Fanfar still lay. Fongereues looked down on the noble features and manly form. How entirely they differed from those of the son for whom the Marquis had sacrificed everything. The Marquis knelt in silence for some minutes, while Labarre shed bitter tears.

"What does the Marquis propose to do?" asked the governor, who did not understand this scene, and was becoming impatient.

Labarre said, in a low voice, "The men will come up with a bier."

In a few minutes Fanfar's body was carried to the Hotel de Fongereues and laid by the side of the Vicomte.

Labarre made no attempt to resist this caprice of the Marquis. The old servant, now that De Fongereues showed such humility and grief, had become his devoted servant.

The Marquis asked for his wife, and was told that she had left the hotel alone and on foot.

"Pierre," said the Marquis, "I must say a few words to you. With the exception of this million I have required at your hands, the fortune which should have been Simon's must be given to his daughter. Tell her the whole truth; it is only just. Watch over this girl, proclaim her right to the name and property of our house. When I am dead do not lay me in French soil—I am not worthy of France—but place me where I am unknown and unheard of. You will obey these wishes?"

Labarre answered, solemnly, "I will obey them."

"Very good; we will start to-night for the chateau, and there side by side we will bury the two sons whom I have murdered."

While Fongereues, crushed under the weight of his remorse, was thus announcing his last wishes, another scene was taking place in the hospital. Gudel and Bobichel had applied for Fanfar's body.

"Too late!" answered the concierge. And the two men heard with consternation that Fanfar had been taken away. And where? No one knew.

Delay was inevitable. Gudel and the former clown went out into the street and there abandoned themselves to their distress.



CHAPTER XLI.

VIDOCQ, THE CHIEF OF POLICE.

To be condemned to death cannot be a very pleasant feeling, and Robeccal, though assured that he should not suffer, was naturally very uneasy. He did his best to keep up his courage, hoping every minute that some one would appear and furnish him with the means of leaving France. Finally the door opened, and Vidocq himself, the Chief of Police, entered.

Robeccal, in a state of suppressed delight, had the audacity to wink at him.

"At last!" said the prisoner. "Really, sir, I think I have had about enough of this. When am I to leave France?"

"I think, my dear sir," answered Vidocq, in a somewhat sarcastic voice, "that you will not leave France."

"Ah! I am glad to hear that."

"A residence has been assigned to you in a most delightful climate."

"And where may that be? What is the name of the place?"

"You will have no difficulty in remembering it, I fancy. Toulon is the name."

"Toulon!" repeated Robeccal, his eyes fairly starting from his head.

"Yes, your punishment has been changed. You are condemned, not to death, but to imprisonment for life."

Robeccal tried to smile. It was a joke, of course, but he did not like it.

"My dear sir," continued Vidocq, calmly and politely, "You are a scoundrel, and you accepted a base role. You think we have broken faith with you, but faith can not be kept with creatures like yourself."

Robeccal protested and raved, all to no purpose.

Vidocq went to the door and called; four men, each Hercules, appeared.

"Take this fellow away," said Vidocq, "he is to go with the other prisoners to Toulon in the morning."

Robeccal began to curse and swear.

"You will gag him," added Vidocq, "it is better. Good-bye, Monsieur Robeccal, I don't think we are likely to meet again!"

Vidocq looked on with a satirical smile while Robeccal was carried off.

Some months later he endeavored to make his escape from Toulon, and was shot.



CHAPTER XLII.

TO THOSE WHO LOVE FANFAR.

Night was coming on. The last rays of the setting sun shone on the water at Havre.

Down on the shore among the rocks, was a fisherman's hut; in it was a man alone; he was restlessly pacing to and fro. Occasionally he stopped and seemed to listen, but he only heard the lapping of the water on the beach. Hour after hour elapsed; he seemed to be waiting for some one.

Suddenly he started; he heard a stone fall. He went to the door and looked out. Two figures were to be seen dimly in the fog. He waited a minute, and then he said, "Whom do you seek?"

A brief silence, and a sweet voice replied, "Fanfar."

The two shadows were two women—Francoise and Caillette.

The young man seized a lamp and went to meet them.

"But Fanfar! where is Fanfar?" asked Caillette.

Presently other steps were heard.

"Whom do you seek?" asked the young man, once more.

"Fanfar!" answered a trembling voice.

And under the yellow rays of the lamp two more women were seen—Irene de Salves and Francine. When the latter beheld Arthur de Montferrand she started, while Irene impulsively pronounced his name.

They all entered the cottage, and looked around the room anxiously. The same name was on every lip. Fanfar, where was he?

The night after Fanfar had been carried to the hotel Fongereues, a mysterious note had been sent to Irene, to Francine, and Caillette.

"To all who love Fanfar:

"Repair at once to Havre. Go to the cottage of the fisherman Pierre. Wait! Hope!"

Similar instructions had been sent to Arthur, but to the questions addressed to him by these four ladies, he could only say that he knew no more than they.

"We must wait," he said.

"But Gudel?" asked Caillette. "Where is he?"

"I know not," Arthur replied, "and yet I am almost sure that these notes are from him."

Caillette went to Irene's side. The poor girl loved Fanfar with all her heart, and she believed that he was lost to her, for if by a miracle she were to see him again it would be as Irene's lover. But she accepted the sacrifice. She said in a low voice to Irene:

"I am glad you came, for you love him."

Irene pressed her hand; she could not speak.

Suddenly Irene started, her instinct had told her the truth.

"And you," she exclaimed, "you also love him."

The two girls embraced each other tenderly. All this time Francoise sat perfectly silent, she was content now that Cinette was near her, but still she thought of Jacques with longing.

Where was old Labarre?

Arthur leaned against the window looking out into the night, and listening to the voice of the waters. He had long since discovered that he loved Francine, and he said to himself:

"If I restore her brother to her, she may learn to love me."

And now he waited anxiously for a signal, which would give him the right to speak a word of hope to this little group of friends. He uttered a little exclamation.

"Come here!" he cried, gayly, "come here, and look out!"

From among the dark waters rose a brilliant rocket which, darting through the air, fell in a shower of brilliant sparks.

The three girls ran to the window. How long were those last moments of waiting. Finally the measured beat of oars was heard, the prow of a boat struck against the pebbly beach, and shadows were seen coming toward the cottage. The door opened.

Irene and Caillette burst into tears.

Francine cried, "Fanfar! my brother!"

"Zounds!" cried Gudel, "it was not such an easy matter getting here."

Fanfar sank on his knees before Francoise. "My poor mother!" he exclaimed.

And the invalid took Fanfar's head in her trembling hands, and kissed him tenderly.