"And Bobichel! you here, too!" cried Caillette, overjoyed.

Irene went to Fanfar's side. "I have come," she said, quietly.

Without leaving his mother he took the girl's fair hand and pressed it to his lips.

Arthur began to question Gudel, and from him learned the whole truth.

The friends, after Fanfar's body was removed, decided on reflection that Cyprien was the sole person who could aid them. At first he refused to give them the smallest information, but finally he was made to speak. They went to the Hotel de Fongereues, but the sad party had left for Alsace. Two leagues away they were overtaken however. Labarre was told the whole truth. Fanfar was liberated, and restored to life by the physician whom Gudel had brought with him. The Marquis de Fongereues went on to the chateau with the body of the Vicomte.

"And Labarre, where is he?"

"In the boat waiting for us, but I have not yet told you all. We should have made an end of Cyprien, for he threatened to denounce us. The only thing for Fanfar is to flee the country. A quarter of a league from shore a vessel awaits us. Come, Fanfar, there is no time to lose, you know that you start for America to-night."

There was a long silence. Labarre entered.

"Marquis," he said, "it is time."

There was a startled exclamation. Whom did he salute by this title?

Fanfar rose.

"Do not call me by this name. I am Jacques, the adopted son of Simon Fougere."

Irene went to him.

"Jacques," she said, "you long since bade me seek to make myself loved. Have I followed your advice?"

"I love you," answered Fanfar, simply.

"Do you wish me to become your wife?"

Caillette uttered a smothered exclamation.

"Fanfar," she said, "the lady loves you truly."

The young man pressed his hand upon his eyes.

"Thanks," he said, "your hearts are all noble and good."

"Come one and all!" cried Iron Jaws, gayly.

"Are you going?" asked Arthur.

Francine replied with downcast eyes: "Can I leave my brother?"

"Then I too will go," Arthur exclaimed, "I too will begin to take life seriously, if you will aid me."

* * * * *

After the Vicomte de Talizac was buried, the Marquis disappeared and was no more heard of. Magdalena committed suicide. Bobichel married Caillette, whom he adored as much as he adored Fanfar. Francoise and Labarre neither of them lived long. Cyprien continued to act as spy for the French government. And La Roulante was assassinated in a drunken frolic.

This was the story of Fanfar, which we have completed, for Fanfar's modesty was too great to allow him to say what we have said for him.

The party all went to Algeria, intending thence to start for America, but finally decided to remain where French activity finds such a wide field. They lived contented and happy, forgotten and forgetting.

"And I am truly thankful," said Fanfar, in conclusion, extending his hand to Monte-Cristo, "that I have been permitted to utilize my former talents for your benefit."

Monte-Cristo lingered a week or more that Esperance might recover from his fatigue of both body and mind, but the day finally came when the caravan started for France.

"Monsieur Fanfar," said the Count, "are we never to meet again?"

"Ah! who can say!" and Fanfar smiled. "I shall never forget my beloved France, and I am sometimes sick with longing to return."

"Then, some day if I need you for the protection of my son, and send for you," said Monte-Cristo, "you will come?"

"I swear that I will." And Fanfar laid his hand on the boy's head.

"We will all swear!" cried Iron Jaws. "The son of Monte-Cristo is sacred to us. Who ever touches a hair of his head shall suffer."

We have now to learn how Fanfar and his friends kept this promise.



CHAPTER XLIII.

A LETTER FROM MONTE-CRISTO.

"MY DEAR CHILD:

"Twelve years have elapsed since that terrible day when, with the assistance of our dear friends in Algeria, I was enabled to save you from a most awful death. Since then many events have swept over my head, which is to-day becoming very gray.

"I am over sixty, and yet I hope to do a little more good in the world. But I must hasten.

"I have borne up against many misfortunes and great catastrophes, and one, even alone, prostrated me and deprived me of courage, and that was the death of your beloved mother. I realized then that I was only a man. I said to myself: 'Monte-Cristo, the color has fled from your cheek, the fire from your eye. You are in possession of old Faria's secrets and science, but you are powerless against Death. You have triumphed over Villefort, Morcerf, Danglars, Benedetto and Maldar, but you cannot triumph over Death! Remember that you are only a man!'

"You were just sixteen, Esperance, when your mother was taken from us, and your tears fell with mine, but you said to yourself: 'My father remains!' But, my beloved son, something in that father died at that time, or rather, I should say that something was born—his self-confidence vanished forever, and doubt took its place. For many long years, my son, your father deemed himself master of his own destiny, and with a certain simplicity at which I smile to-day, he fancied that he could make all wills bend to his. From that moment wrinkles came to my brow and my hair grew white, and I cannot smooth away those wrinkles, nor can my will, strong though it be, bring back the color to my lips nor fire to my eyes. I have punished the evil-doers, but when I sought to repair the evil I had committed, I have not always succeeded.

"I released the son of Mercedes from the fanatics of Ouargla, but two years later, in December, 1851, he fell, on the day of that 'attentat,' which is not yet avenged.

"Where is Maximilian Morel, where is the daughter of Villefort, the gentle Valentine, whose happiness was dear to me? Did not they all perish in the frightful revolt of the Sepoys in India in 1859? It is clear to me that my love was powerless to protect.

"If I write this to you, my son, it is not with a wish to sadden you. But you are not only my son but my confessor, as well as my one joy and my hope. From your mother you inherit generous instincts and a spirit of devotion. From me you have received vigor and energy, but I trust that you inherit none of my pride.

"When this letter reaches you I shall be far away. Yes, and I wish you to know why. There is a suggestion of weakness in your nature which I wish to eradicate. When you are with me you do not do justice to yourself—you are content to walk in my shadow and see life through my eyes. But I desire to remind you that you have arrived at man's estate, and that you must live your own life and think your own thoughts. You are free, you are twenty-two, and you are wealthy. You have, therefore, no reason to fear that any obstacles will be thrown in your path. You have no enemies—I have scattered them from your path. Think only of making friends for yourself. I have had proteges rather than friends.

"I know you to be sincere and generous. Believe and give. It is good sometimes for a man to make mistakes. True experience is made up of errors. Do not be afraid of their consequences. But, nevertheless, be cautious. Avoid the irreparable. To kiss is a crime, the only one, possibly, because it is the only one that cannot be repaired. If, however, you commit great faults, do not hesitate to acknowledge them.

"Make your own way through life, my son. I have left you that you may do so. You have near you devoted hearts. Coucon will never forsake you. I have taken my old Bertuccio with me. I did not wish you to think that I had left any one to watch you and report to me. In case of danger, summon Fanfar.

"Up to this time I feel that you have had no secrets from me. Your heart is free, let it be your guide. Remember that love, often great happiness, is more often great sorrow.

"I love you, my son, though I leave you. I know not where I am going. I long to do good, and hope to find happiness.

"Dear, dear child! Oh! how I love you!

"MONTE-CRISTO."



CHAPTER XLIV.

ESPERANCE.

The youthful son of Monte-Cristo was twenty-two years of age, and wonderfully handsome. His dark curls shaded a fair, white brow, and his eyes were haughty like his father's. His slender white hands were womanly in their delicacy. But we will examine his surroundings.

Whenever Monte-Cristo established himself in a new home, the house became transformed as if a magician of the Arabian Nights had touched it with his wand. There was not a dark or gloomy corner to be seen. Lights blazed everywhere. The rarest pictures and choicest furniture were to be seen. Everything was magnificent and harmonious. The tall stature of the Count, his excessive pallor and the exaggerated attention he paid to his dress, added to this effect, as did the dark face of Ali, who, invariably draped in soft, white folds, stood like a bronze statue near the many colored portieres. With the Vicomte, however, all colors were softer than with his father. The cabinet, for example, where we find him, was hung with gray and black velvet, and the rugs were fur, of the same soft gray.

The Vicomte's dress was in no ways peculiar, though careful. He disliked anything that made him conspicuous. His face and his voice had a certain sadness that contrasted strangely with his name of Esperance.[A] Books lay open on the table before him; they were on philosophical subjects, heat and cold. Imagination had never touched him with her golden wand.

[A] Esperance means Hope.

Esperance was very pale as he read his father's letter. He extended his hand and rang the bell.

Coucon entered, looking very differently from those old days in Africa. Not that he wore a livery, but his brown suit was simple and well cut. In his eyes, however, was much of the old fire.

"Has my father gone?" asked Esperance.

"Yes, sir, while you were asleep."

"Why was not I awakened?"

"Because the Count forbade it. He simply said, as he went away, that a letter was to be given to you."

"Was Bertuccio with my father?"

"Yes, sir."

"In what direction did he go?"

"I know not, and I assure you that no one in the hotel knows more than I."

Coucon was glad when this examination was over. Esperance was never harsh or severe with his people, but they never felt at ease with him as with his father. But in fact Bertuccio had given no hint of where the Count was going, and when Esperance was fully convinced of this he dismissed Coucon; but as the Zouave was leaving the room, the young master stopped him.

"I want to say to you, Coucon, that I am fully aware of your fidelity, and that I trust you implicitly. You once assisted my father to save my life."

"Never mind that, sir."

"And if my manner is cold toward you, my heart is not. Shake hands with me."

Coucon, greatly pleased, laid his huge hand into the delicate one of the Vicomte, who pressed it warmly.

The Zouave uttered an exclamation.

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing—only—"

"Only what?"

"Well, sir, you have a tremendous squeeze, I must say. Your fingers felt as if they were made of steel."

Esperance looked at his hands in some surprise.

"Yes," he said, in a dreamy voice, "I am strong, I believe."

"Strong! I should say you were."

"I did not hurt you, I trust?" and Esperance still gazed at his hands in a troubled sort of way.

"Where will you breakfast, sir?" asked Coucon.

"In the gallery, I think."

"And alone?"

"I don't know; I do not remember inviting any one."

Coucon departed, proud of the shake of the hand he had received, although he still rubbed his fingers to restore the circulation.



CHAPTER XLV.

"WHAT WILL HE DO?"

Esperance was alone; his brow was thoughtful. He sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands. Suddenly he started up, and drawing aside the heavy portiere over a door, entered a small, dark room that seemed to be an oratory.

Stained glass windows admitted an uncertain light. Esperance threw open the sash and the daylight streamed in, and with it the delicious breeze of spring. Esperance turned to the wall, on which hung a fine picture of Monte-Cristo. Next this portrait hung one of his mother.

The young man spoke aloud. "Father!" he said, "mother! listen to me, judge me and counsel me. Who and what am I? What is my future to be? Am I guilty or am I—mad?"

Esperance shivered. Then throwing his head back proudly, he said, "No, I am not mad, and yet I cannot understand myself. Oh! father, why did I not have courage to speak to you frankly? You would have understood me and encouraged me. I am afraid of life, I am afraid of myself—afraid of the very name I bear, and of your greatness, the shadow of which falls on me."

In the letter written by Monte-Cristo to his son, he had spoken the truth. He had not thought sufficiently of developing the especial characteristics of his son, and had made of him a philosopher.

Esperance had been compelled to reason calmly on all subjects, and the inconsequence of youth had been frowned upon by his father.

Edmond Dantes had been young, vivacious and full of illusions and hopes. Monte-Cristo forgot this, and forgot that Esperance was but twenty. He had been kind and loving to Esperance; he had, as he believed, armed him for the battle of life, but he had extinguished his boyishness and engrafted the seeds of distrust.

Esperance never accused his father, but the result of this education was that he was afraid of himself and others. Monte-Cristo saw his son silent and sad at times, but he did not realize that it was because he had quenched the youth in him and made him prematurely old. He moreover suddenly became convinced that it was best for Esperance to leave him, and therefore departed silently and mysteriously.

Esperance was armed against the tragedies of life, but not against its daily annoyances.

Esperance had enormous muscular strength, and yet he was weak to resist sorrow. He could have held his hand on a brazier of burning coals, but he would have started at a pin-prick. And now that Monte-Cristo had gone, Esperance felt like a child deprived of its mother.

A bell rang, announcing a visitor.

He passed his hand over his brow. Then addressing the dear portraits once more, "Beloved mother!" he murmured, "give me your enthusiasm and your delicacy, and, my father, give me strength and courage. God grant that I may be worthy of you both!"

He went to the window, and gazed up at the blue sky with an expression that was almost mystical. Then he closed the room, and returned to his chamber.

Coucon appeared bearing two cards on a silver tray.

Esperance looked at the cards, and uttered an exclamation of joy.

"Lay two more covers," he said, "I will come down at once."



CHAPTER XLVI.

FORWARD!

Esperance hurried down, and in the dining-room, a marvel of marqueterie and mosaic, was a young man.

"My dear Goutran," he said, as the stranger advanced to meet him, "I cannot tell you how obliged I am for this visit."

This Goutran, Goutran Sabrau, was a tall young fellow of about twenty-five, with blonde hair and a frank face. He was a painter, and had already attained some celebrity.

"Upon my word, this is a welcome worth having," said Goutran. "But what is going on here, you do not look like yourself. Your eyes are much brighter than usual. Have you not some secret to confide to me?"

The two young men took their seats at a table, laid with great elegance.

"No. I have no secrets," answered Esperance, "and I am unaware of any change."

"And yet the very tones of your voice are altered."

Esperance interrupted his friend with some impatience.

"Never mind that! I assure you that so far from having anything pleasant to communicate, I am out of spirits. My father has gone away."

Goutran looked at him with some surprise.

The intimacy between these young men had begun by Esperance wishing to buy a picture of Goutran's, which had obtained a great success at the Salon. The picture was of a gipsy girl playing a violin and dancing. Bertuccio went to the painter's studio, and offered an enormous sum for the picture, which was refused by Goutran. Accustomed to the gratification of all his caprices, he went himself to the studio. But the young man replied:

"You offer me, sir, twenty thousand francs for a canvas for which a picture dealer would not give me fifty louis, and yet I refuse. At the same time I am immensely flattered, and feel that I owe you an explanation. The picture is dear to me for reasons which are neither a drama nor a poem. I had a friend whom I adored. She had an affection of the lungs and I often took her into the country. We were one day at Mendon when we heard strange music, wild barbarian music. We approached softly, and beheld through the trees a young gipsy girl playing a violin and lightly dancing as she played. We listened in astonishment, for the music was most singular. Suddenly I felt that my companion was clinging heavily to my arm. She had fainted. I seized her in my arms, and bore her away. In a week death was very near. Then she said to me:

"'I must hear that gipsy again!'

"I could not leave her, but I sent a friend to find this unknown girl. Each morning I discovered that the search had been fruitless. The sick girl said when I told her, 'Very well! I shall not die until she comes.' On the fourth day she half lifted herself from her bed exclaiming:

"'There she is! I hear her!'

"I ran to the window, and beheld the gipsy in the garden. How did the sick girl know she was there? The gipsy had not played a note. I could not refuse my poor Aimee anything, and sent for the gipsy to come at once to the room where the sick girl lay. The gipsy began to play such soft, mysterious melodies. Poor Aimee listened with a faint smile. Suddenly she drew me to her, kissed me, and died. This gipsy, sir, is the one I have painted. You see therefore that I could never part with this picture."

At this time Esperance was doing his best to copy his father's manners. He was but twenty-one and he affected impassibility. He adopted his most phlegmatic English air, and replied to the painter:

"Your story is most interesting, but I will give fifty thousand francs."

Goutran was surprised and somewhat displeased. He repeated his refusal, and Esperance departed discontented with himself and with every one else.

On thinking the whole affair over he was heartily ashamed of himself. On the third day he went to the studio, and, on entering, said simply:

"For two days I have been uncomfortable. I beg you to accept my apologies for my ungentlemanly conduct."

Goutran was an excellent person, he had early learned indulgence to others. He at once saw that this handsome young fellow was a boy in reality, with plenty of theories, but no experience of life. He therefore received this apology frankly, and talked for some time to him as to a younger brother.

Esperance listened without a word. The distrust which was a part of his nature struggled against the cordiality shown by Goutran.

Finally Esperance had a friend. To Goutran alone did he ever open his heart, and even when he had been with him for hours, laughing and talking with gayety, he appeared before Monte-Cristo as impassive as ever.

Goutran did not attempt to penetrate the secrets of his life. He knew, however, that the day could not be far off when the butterfly would emerge from the chrysalis.

"My father has gone away," Esperance had said.

"Indeed! And where has he gone?"

"I have no idea. He simply wrote me a few lines announcing his departure."

Goutran did not think it worth while to be astonished, for this was a most singular household.

"Then you are entirely your own master?"

"Yes," answered Esperance, "I am free."

"I have a favor to ask," said Goutran, after a minute's silence.

"Ask it. You know every thing I have is yours."

"Yes—another minute you would offer me millions."

"No, I did not think of doing so. I am rich, I know, but it is not my fault. And I do not think it generous in you to reproach me with these millions."

"I did not mean to offend you. If I needed money I would ask you for it."

"Money! what is that? I should have only to fill out a check, you know. But ask me to fight for you, to be killed for you!"

Goutran took the hand of the youth in his, and smilingly said:

"Do you know, Esperance, the greatest sacrifice I can ask of you?"

"Go on."

"It would be to mount upon the imperial of an omnibus. Ah! you are astonished, and are asking yourself if I am not laughing at you, but I assure you that I am in solemn earnest. The truth is, Esperance, that you are not happy."

"I assure you—"

"No, you are not happy because you are hampered by conventionalities. You never were in an omnibus, I suppose?"

"No, never."

"When you wish to go out you ring the bell, and your carriage is brought round. If you go to the theatre a spacious loge is in readiness for you. You go into society—you are received with smiles. Do you know that a life like that would be my death?"

"Why do you talk thus to-day?" asked Esperance.

"I can't tell you why. The words come of themselves, but they express my feelings precisely. You millionaires know nothing of life. You are like a drop of oil in a pitcher of water—you do not mingle with the rest of humanity, and you are bored!"

Esperance was annoyed that his mood had been so readily divined.

"But you have not told me what sacrifice you desired of me."

"I did not say sacrifice—I said service."

"Well, whichever it may be, I am ready."

"Very good! You are certainly the best fellow in the world!"

Here it must be mentioned that Esperance never drank wine. The table was supplied with several kinds, but, like his father, Esperance never touched them.

Goutran poured some sherry into the glass of his friend.

"I have come," he said, "to make a confession and ask a loan."

He tossed off a glass of wine as he spoke. Esperance mechanically drank also.

"This is my confession: I, Goutran, a painter, propose to give a soiree to-morrow night."

"You!"

"Yes, neither more nor less, and I intend to add to this soiree a ball."

"In your atelier?"

"Why not? It is not as large as the Square, to be sure, but it will be a success."

"But what is the occasion of these festivities?"

"Oh! thereby hangs a tale. A great Italian lord was, when I was in Rome, extremely kind to me. He treated me like a son. He has come to Paris, and I must do something for him and for other friends. He is immensely wealthy himself—not to be mentioned the same day with you, to be sure. I intend to kill two birds with one stone, and invite my friends to send their pictures on exhibition. I need your assistance, and I need some tapestries."

Esperance listened attentively, and did not notice that Goutran had filled his glass with sherry again.

"I want my studio to be magnificent on this occasion, and as we artists are not rich enough to buy oriental hangings, we are all going to our friends to borrow of them. You have treasures of this nature—will you lend them to me? And the great service was simply that you should lend me some of those marvelous Japanese hangings of yours."

"I regret extremely that you ask such a trifle at my hands, and now beg that you will grant me one."

"What is that?"

"Will you give up the arrangement of the studio to me? I will send men and all my Smyrna and India stuff to-morrow morning, and they will do it all."

"No, no! Do you think I would allow common upholsterers to touch your treasures! I wish to mount step-ladders in my shirt sleeves, with a big hammer in my hand, and put them up myself."

And, as Esperance looked at him with troubled surprise, Goutran continued:

"My dear friend, open your boxes for me, let me select what I want. We two will study the effects, and then I will carry off a bundle in my arms with joy and gratitude. By the way, I shall expect you at my soiree!"

"Oh! you know that I always work in the evening."

"What has that to do with it? You need not work unless you choose. Come—there will be ladies there!"



CHAPTER XLVII.

JANE ZELD.

A thoroughly artistic atmosphere was that of Sabrau's studio. There was not a picture nor a picture frame, a bronze nor a bit of china that did not attract attention. Uniformity had been carefully avoided—all tints, all forms, blended into one original whole.

Goutran had arranged the place with his own hands for the fete, which, as Goutran said, had a double aim. He wished not only to return the princely hospitality he had received, but to make of the affair a private exhibition of the works of his young friends; he himself only hung his gipsy. Rachel Marstens, the great actress, assisted by Emma Bruges, consented to do the honors. Every artistic celebrity accepted his invitations. Even the critics came, and were amiable.

Comte Velleni was among the earliest arrivals. He was a fine-looking old man, and extremely courteous to all the young artists, and as he was very wealthy, his compliments on their work excited many hopes. He was not alone. He was accompanied by his secretary, by whom the young painters were not favorably impressed. His eyes were deep-set under bushy eyebrows, his hair and beard were black as jet.

"A bad looking fellow!" murmured one to another.

The age of this individual was uncertain—he might have been fifty. A deep scar ran across one cheek. His expression was crafty, his eyes shifting, and he kept in the background.

There was a little stir when Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Laisangy were announced, for that same morning the official journal of the empire had announced the opening of the Banque de Credit Imperial, with a capital of sixty million. Monsieur de Laisangy was the director of this new bank.

Goutran advanced to meet this gentleman with an eagerness that would have marred the interest which we feel in him had it not been explained by the presence of the charming daughter of the banker, Carmen de Laisangy.

Goutran had painted Carmen's portrait, which had excited much commendation at the Salon, to which fact was probably due the presence of the banker and his daughter at this soiree.

Carmen had no mother, and she had been brought up somewhat in the American style, but as she was very beautiful and had committed none but the most trifling indiscretions, many things were overlooked in her which in other girls would not have been tolerated.

The banker was an old man and excessively thin, he held himself with English stiffness; a muscular contraction affected his upper lip. He stood well at Court. He had, it was said, made large loans at the time of the coup d'etat in '51, and Bonaparte's accomplices called him their friend.

"I am deeply indebted to you, Mademoiselle," said Goutran, "for your acceptance of an invitation which I was almost afraid to send."

Carmen was very pretty, as we have said. Her dress was cut very low, and revealed too much of an admirably modelled bust. Her manner was not that of a young girl, it was more assured. But she was charming.

She laughed, and said, in reply, "You are my especial artist, you know, and history tells us that even queens visit their painters—"

"For example, the Duchess of Ferrara!" said a young man to a friend, in a low voice. He had caught her words as he passed, and hazarded this allusion, somewhat too broad, perhaps, to the visit paid by the Duchess to Titian, when she was painted in the costume of mother Eve. He undoubtedly supposed that the young lady would not understand his remark, and yet it was plain that she with difficulty restrained a laugh.

She led Goutran to the picture gallery. "I am told," she said, "that you have two great surprises for your guests, to-night."

"Oh! no; only one. You have heard of Jane Zeld, that marvelous bird who has come to us from Finland, Lapland, or some other place—we will call it Russia?"

"But I was told that she had refused to sing in Paris at present—declined even to go to Compiegne."

"Yes, but for you," and Goutran bowed low, "I have obtained what was refused to an Emperor!"

He pressed Carmen's arm against his own, as he spoke.

The girl turned and looked him full in the face for a moment. "Take me to my father," she said.

Was it fancy, or did she emphasize the two words, "my father," in an odd sort of way?

As in silence he obeyed her request, which though brief, was by no means stern, a singular scene was taking place.

Signor Fagiano, who talked little, was wandering about through the salons. Suddenly he found himself face to face with Monsieur de Laisangy.

Signor Fagiano started back, and half covered his face with his hand, but in turning to make good his retreat, he half stumbled and fell.

The banker instinctively extended his hand to assist him. Fagiano bowed low as he recovered himself, and went into another room.

There was certainly nothing very remarkable in this incident, but Carmen started and instantly hastened to the side of the banker, who seemed calmly indifferent to what had taken place. Seeing this, her anxiety, if she felt any, was dissipated, and she began to talk to Goutran.

At this moment the footman announced two names: "Mademoiselle Jane Zeld!" "The Vicomte de Monte-Cristo!"

"You see, I did have two surprises for you," said Goutran.

But suddenly he exclaimed, "My dear Monsieur de Laisangy, you are ill, I fear—"

"No, no," stammered the banker, "but it is very warm here, and I will go out on the terrace a while, if you will permit me."

He left his daughter, who seemed to attach little importance to this sudden indisposition of her father's.

Goutran went forward to receive his new guests. A murmur of admiration greeted the lady—Jane Zeld, the cantatrice.

She was tall and slender, and dressed in black tulle with crimson roses. She advanced with a smile on her lips. She was young, not more than twenty-two, with dark hair raised over her brow like a diadem and falling at the back of her head in loose braids. Her complexion was clear but pale, her eyes were almond-shaped with long lashes and had a singular fixity of expression.

Who was she? No one knew. She had appeared on the stage of public life in a singular way. There had been a fire about two months before at one of the theatres, and a musical evening had been organized for the benefit of the victims.

Society, which likes amusements and is willing to be benevolent at the same time, had responded to the appeal, and on the evening of the performance the hall was crowded. The principal attraction was the return to public life of a tenor, who had had a fit of the sulks and had deserted the stage. He had promised to sing with the Diva a celebrated duet. When the audience had assembled a message arrived at the theatre. The Diva was ill, or pretended to be so, and now, at the last moment, announced that it was impossible to appear.

This was terrible. The tenor was implored to sing alone, but he positively refused, and the non-appearance of the two stars made the affair an utter fiasco. Artists and journalists, director and secretaries assembled in the foyer—all talked together in their excitement. The tenor, half lying on a couch, caressed his black beard, while he listened with nonchalance to the entreaties addressed to him. But the moment was rapidly approaching when the fatal announcement must be made to the audience.

Presently a voice began to sing the jewel song from Faust. The singer was at the piano in the foyer, but was so enveloped in black lace that she could hardly be seen. Her voice was so good, her method so perfect, that every one listened in delight. Even the tenor, for he was a thorough musician, was completely carried away.

The lady finished the song, then rising from her seat she stood leaning against the piano without the smallest embarrassment.

The tenor went forward. "Madame," he said, "do you know the duet we were about to sing?"

The singer reseated herself at the piano and playing a prelude, sang two or three bars with exquisite expression.

"Madame," began the tenor.

"Mademoiselle," corrected the lady, raising her vail.

"You have a hundred times more talent than Mademoiselle X."

"We will not talk of her, and she must always remain in ignorance of this defection of one of her greatest admirers."

But the feeling against the prima donna was that day of excessive bitterness, and every one agreed with the tenor.

"Will you sing with me?" asked the tenor.

The lady answered, "As this fete is for charity, I cannot decline."

The director then said:

"We will express our thanks later, dear lady; please give me your name that I may make the announcement."

The tenor lifted his head.

"I will lead the lady on, and that is quite enough."

When the public saw that the singer was not the celebrated X. they were for a moment confounded, but the tenor was the guaranty, he could not be mistaken. The duet began; never had the tenor sang so well.

The unknown was a thorough artist. She looked like a statue of Passion, as she stood at the piano, and her triumph was so great that it was the talk of Paris for three days. But the strangest part of all was, that after receiving this ovation she disappeared. The reporters could not find her. Finally one of them, more indefatigable than the others, discovered her in a small hotel on the Champs Elysees. Her name was inscribed as Jane Zeld, from Russia, and she was accompanied by an intendant named Maslenes.

The reporter, armed with this information, proceeded to concoct a legend. She belonged, he said, to a great family in Russia. She had left her home "for reasons which the Journal was not at liberty to reveal."

For a fortnight, managers and directors were on the qui vive, but as a poetical personage of importance took this time to commit suicide, the name of Jane Zeld was gradually forgotten.

When two days before his fete, Goutran received a perfumed note in which Jane offered to sing for him, he was charmed.

The lady entered the room, followed at some little distance by Esperance, who had conquered his timidity and come. His father had bidden him "live," and the young man felt that he was in a measure obeying his order when he drove to Goutran's studio, where he arrived just in time to assist the fair stranger from her carriage.

The horizon of Paris is so vast that there is always room for a new star. And Jane Zeld, even if she had not shrouded herself in so much mystery, and without a voice, would have been conspicuous for her beauty, which was of aristocratic delicacy. Her lips were like pomegranate flowers in their rich red. Her bust was discreetly vailed, her arms were beautifully rounded, firm and white, and terminated in exquisite hands.

Goutran had begged Esperance to come to his fete. The Vicomte did so, and Goutran seemed to forget his presence. Only a few curious glances were turned upon him. All eyes were watching Jane who, too, seemed to forget the person who had so gallantly assisted her from her carriage. Every one was eager for an introduction to this queen of the evening, and when she went to the piano a great hush fell upon the room. She sang melodies, Slavonic airs, that had never before been heard in Paris, and then an aria of a great composer, and when she concluded there was immense applause.

"Do you know," said a voice, in the ear of the host, "that you are a most eccentric person!"

The painter colored deeply, for it was Carmen who spoke. Goutran had indeed behaved very strangely to her. He apologized in some confusion, his duties as host, his many interruptions, etc.

"I forgive you," answered Carmen, "on one condition."

"Any thing!"

"Oh! I shall only ask a trifle. Can you spare me a few moments?"

"Certainly."

"Then give me your arm, and take me out on the terrace."

"The terrace! How did you know that I had a terrace?" asked Goutran, astonished.

"Pray do not be uneasy. I never visited your studio in your absence. I heard Monsieur Laisangy say, just now, that he would go to the terrace for a little fresh air."

"Yes," said Goutran, "your father came one day to talk about your portrait, and I showed him the place which I dignify with the name of terrace. It is but a small square of zinc, on which a few sickly plants are withering. It was not worthy to be shown to my friends."

"But you will make an exception in my favor?"

"Most assuredly."

They crossed the studio. Goutran started. He had seen Esperance leaning against a door, pale and absorbed in thought. The liquid strains of Jane's voice had reached him here, softer and sweeter than ever.

"Will you allow me to present to you the Vicomte de Monte-Cristo?" asked Goutran.

"Is he the son of the celebrated Count?" Carmen replied, looking at the young man with curiosity.

"Precisely, and one of the best fellows in the world."

"Is that the reason you let him stand there all by himself?" she asked with an etourderie that did not seem quite natural.

"It is my misfortune to-night," answered Goutran, "that I am forced to neglect all that is dear to me."

Carmen did not reply, but again she turned and looked him full in the eyes.

"Yes," she said presently, "introduce the young man, if you choose. Being both forgotten to-night, it is well that we should be together."

Esperance looked up at this moment, and Goutran made him a signal.

"Mademoiselle," said the host, "permit me to present to you the Vicomte de Monte-Cristo."

Esperance bowed low.

"I think I have never had the pleasure of meeting you before, Vicomte," said Carmen.

"Oh! Esperance is a workingman!" cried Goutran. "He disdains our worldly pleasures."

Esperance protested with a gesture, but evidently his mind was elsewhere.

"I rely on you, Mademoiselle, and on your charming friends," continued Goutran, "to cure this misanthrope of his bad habits!"

Carmen, probably displeased at the indifference manifested by Esperance, now drew her host away.

"What do you think of him?" asked Goutran.

"He is good looking, certainly, but I cannot judge of his mind."

"He is entirely upset of late. I have just taken his education in hand."

Carmen seemed trying to recall something.

"The Count of Monte-Cristo is the person who met with such a series of incredible adventures, and is named Edmond Dantes?" she asked.

"Yes, you are right."

"And tell me, if you can—excuse the question—if Monsieur de Laisangy had ever any relations with him?"

"Ah! that I cannot say. Your father has not been in Paris for some years, and the Count has been here very little of late. But I can easily find out for you."

"No, no—pray make no inquiries!" said Carmen, eagerly. "But the terrace—where is it?"

"Here it is!" answered Goutran, raising a curtain.

The apartment that Goutran occupied was on the second floor, and the terrace, of which he had spoken so slightingly, was draped with clematis, and commanded a beautiful view down the avenue to the Place de la Concorde.

The evening was calm and the air delicious. Carmen certainly deserved to be called imprudent. She looked very lovely in the moonlight, and Goutran was young and passionately in love. Carmen still leaned on his arm. She murmured softly:

"How delicious it is here!"

He slipped his arm around her waist, and as she threw back her head to look up at the moon, Goutran leaned forward and kissed her. Let her who is without sin throw the first stone!

At this precise moment a clear voice came from the garden below, and this voice said:

"Do not be too anxious to learn my name, Monsieur de Laisangy."

The two young people separated hastily. Carmen ran to the balustrade and looked over, but she could see nothing, and heard now only two angry voices disputing. Carmen went to the window, and opening it, said coldly:

"We will go in, if you please!"

As they entered the gallery, the Vicomte de Monte-Cristo hurried up to Goutran.

"Come with me," he said, "I must see you at once!"



CHAPTER XLVIII.

A THUNDER CLAP.

Goutran was startled by the tone in which Esperance spoke. He hastened with Carmen to the music-room, and then returned to the Vicomte.

"I have been very negligent," the artist said, penitently, "and I have a thousand apologies to make. And now, what may I do for you?"

The Vicomte was very pale. He hesitated.

"My friend," he said at last, "you have entire confidence in me, have you not?"

"Most certainly. You have won both my esteem and affection."

"And you think me incapable of falsehood?"

"What a question!"

"Then listen to me. I was standing in this spot just now—I had been listening to that girl's divine voice. You passed me and spoke to me, but I hardly knew what you said, when suddenly from behind that hanging came these words, distinctly pronounced:

"Take care, son of Monte-Cristo, take care! You are walking into a snare laid for you. Take care!"

"A snare! Who was it that spoke?"

"I know not. I instantly drew aside the curtain, but there was no one there."

"No one!" Goutran smiled. "But this is sorcery, my dear fellow. You must have been dreaming. It was, of course, some illusion."

"Illusion!" repeated Esperance, impatiently, "I tell you that I heard the words distinctly."

"Then it was some one who, seeing you buried in thought, played this wretched joke."

"That may be, but there was a tone of sincerity in the voice that struck me."

"But there is no sense in the words. A snare! Who could spread one for you in this house but myself? Now will you, in your turn, tell me if you have absolute faith in me? I have been anxious to coax you from your studies and your solitude, and I was glad when I saw you come in to-night. Now, my dear fellow, dismiss these fancies. Take my arm and make a plunge into the furnace!"

Goutran laughed as he led the way toward the room where Jane Zeld had been singing.

"Can the snare," continued Goutran, "be found in the delicious tones of that voice, which has moved you so deeply? Those eyes are wonderfully bright."

Esperance found himself near the piano. Jane had risen, and was receiving the many compliments of her admirers. She saw Esperance, and as her eyes fell upon him, Goutran felt his companion start.

"Suppose," he said, "that I present you to our star? Surely she will exorcise your dismal thoughts. Mademoiselle," he added, addressing Jane, "one of your most ardent admirers solicits the honor of being presented to you."

The two—Jane and Esperance—were now face to face. Esperance, pale and silent, looked at Jane, while she stood waiting possibly for some words of praise.

The crowd swept on, leaving these two persons almost alone, and at this moment a candle fell from one of the chandeliers upon the train of Jane's black tulle, and shrieks from all the women rent the air. Flames threatened to envelop Jane. With a rapidity that was quicker than thought, Esperance tore down one of the heavy Eastern portieres, and wrapped it around the girl. He did this so skilfully that in a minute the flames were stifled, and Jane stood, pale but smiling, as if she hardly knew the danger she had been in. She was magnificent, enveloped in this mantle that looked like a royal robe.

Having accomplished his work Esperance drew back, like a worshipper recoiling in terror after touching the goddess.

At this moment a man made his way through the crowd. He was dressed in an old-fashioned livery. His face was large-featured and solemn, but now contracted with terror.

"Are you hurt?" he cried, as he reached Jane. Two persons started on hearing this voice—one was Jane. She colored deeply, and in much agitation answered quickly:

"No, my friend, I am not hurt. It was a slight accident, and this gentleman saved me."

Esperance started, because he felt sure that this voice and the one that had addressed to him the strange words he had repeated to Goutran, was the same. The man turned and looked at the Count.

"Who is this man who seems so interested in his friend?" asked some one.

"Oh! he is the intendant—Master Jacques—who goes everywhere with Jane Zeld," answered the ever-present reporter, delighted to have an opportunity of displaying his erudition. "He is called Maslenes at the hotel."

Jane turned to Esperance:

"Will you kindly add to your kindness by giving me your arm to my carriage?"

While the crowd, who had by no means recovered from their agitation, complimented her on her courage, Jane moved slowly from the room. Goutran made no effort to detain her, though he knew very well that her departure would be the signal for a general move, as it was long after midnight.

Esperance tried to speak, but he found it impossible to say a word to Jane. The intendant preceded them. It was plain to the most casual observer that he had by no means gotten over his terror. His feet were unsteady, and his hands trembled to that degree that he could hardly open the carriage door.

"Once more let me thank you," said Jane, softly. "We shall meet again I trust."

Esperance, almost as if in a dream, bowed over her extended hand, and pressed a kiss upon it. The hand trembled, but it was not withdrawn too hastily.

Then Esperance saw nothing more—neither the intendant, who lingered as if to speak to him, nor the coachman as he gathered up the reins. He heard the rattle of wheels that bore Jane away, and laid his hand on his heart to quell the strange tumult there. He remained standing on the pavement, blind to the curious gaze of his servants.

"Are you going home sir, now?" asked his own coachman.

"Ah! what did you say?" Esperance aroused himself and looked around. "Yes, I wish to go home." He took a step to the carriage.

"If you will wait a moment, sir, the footman will go for your hat."

His hat! Esperance did not know that his head was uncovered. He was amazed at himself, he felt a certain sense of shame.

"No," he replied, "I will go for it myself."

He went back to Goutran's apartment. As he passed through the vestibule he heard a sarcastic laugh. He was of course mistaken, for only Goutran, with Carmen, were coming down the stairs—Monsieur de Laisangy, Comte Velleni, and his Secretary Fagiano.

"You have behaved like a hero, Count!" cried Carmen, as soon as she saw him.

Her father at this moment had a violent attack of coughing. Through it all he said:

"You have done well, sir."

Signor Fagiano said in clear, distinct tones:

"The Vicomte is a worthy son of his father!"

I know not why, but these words sounded disagreeably to Esperance, who turned quickly. But Fagiano was in the shadow, and Esperance saw only his eyes, which were very bright. The Vicomte began to think his nerves were sadly out of order.

Goutran, when the door had closed on the last of his guests, turned to him and asked how he would like a little walk up the Champs-Elysees.

"Very much," answered the Vicomte, "I need fresh air."

He took his hat from the hands of a lacquey, and the two young men walked off together. Neither knew that Fagiano had not driven away with Comte Velleni, but that, standing in a dark doorway, he followed the Vicomte with his eyes. Hissing through his close shut teeth, he said:

"Yes, worthy son of thy father, I swear that I will have my revenge!"



CHAPTER XLIX.

HOW AND WHERE.

As the reporter had discovered, Jane Zeld occupied an apartment on the first floor of a small hotel, or rather, in one of those boarding-houses frequented by respectable people who come from the four quarters of the globe to enjoy the attractions of Paris. It was a most respectable establishment, with its iron gate a l'Anglaise, its well scrubbed steps, its parlor on the rez de chaussee, and its three floors above all occupied.

The lady who managed this enterprise was the widow of a captain. She wore English curls, spoke a few words in various languages, and had a marvelous ability for making out long bills. Her prices were high, very high, but the situation of her house was at once elegant and retired. It was a wonder that these items were not entered on the bill. She had never admitted any artists into her sanctuary until the intendant Maslenes one day offered her five hundred francs for an apartment which she usually rented for three, and no single women. Now Jane Zeld seemed to be a single woman, but Madame closed her eyes to this, and now that she divined a star in the future, Madame Vollard redoubled her courtesy to her lodger. She felt that she was a mine of wealth in the future. That night Madame Vollard had insisted on dressing Jane herself, and she had excellent taste. She spent a number of hours dwelling on the undoubted success of "the dear child," and it was two o'clock when she heard the carriage. She ran down the stairs, and when she saw Jane and her remarkable costume, she raised her hands in astonishment.

"You have had a pleasant time, I trust!" she exclaimed.

Maslenes gently pushed her back.

"Excuse me, Madame, but the young lady is fatigued, and somewhat ill, I fear."

"Ill! What can I do for her? I have camphor, lavender water—what shall I get?"

Maslenes led Jane hastily to her room, saying as he did so:

"No, no, it is nothing. To-morrow will do. She only needs rest now."

Jane sank into a chair on reaching her salon.

Maslenes closed the door, and stood motionless and silent until she should see fit to speak.

How old was this man? Sixty probably, and yet his face was unwrinkled although his hair was perfectly white. His eyes were gray. He inspired at first sight a certain repulsion. There were indications of vices, but they were of vices that had burned themselves out, of passions that had crumbled to ashes. Now, as he stood with his arms folded on his breast, his face expressed something more than the interest of a servant in his mistress. In his faded eyes there was great compassion. His pale lips trembled. Jane did not speak. He said gently:

"You are suffering?"

She started as if from sleep.

"No," she replied, "no. I did not know." Then she looked up. "Ah!" she said, "why did you drag me among these people? I will never go anywhere again. No, never!"

The man bit his lips. "And yet," he said, "you were received like a queen!"

"Why do you say that?" she asked, in a tone of great irritation. "Why do you try to awaken in me thoughts which should never be mine? A queen! I!"

"But your talent—your voice?"

"What of them? Ah! leave me. I wish to be alone!"

She spoke with some harshness.

He answered sadly enough.

"I am always willing to obey you, Jane. Do not speak in that tone."

"Yes, I know that. Forgive me if I am cruel. Alas! You know what agony I hide within my breast." She rose to her feet as she spoke. "Why," she cried, "why did not that fire burn me to death? I should have suffered less than from this flame which devours my heart!"

She leaned her head against the wall, and burst into passionate weeping.

Maslenes, too, had tears in his eyes. It was plain that he cherished a mysterious affection for this beautiful woman, who was tortured by some secret sorrow.

"Jane,—Miss Jane," he corrected himself quickly. "I have never seen you like this before. Some one must have insulted you!"

His eyes flashed as he said this.

"No," murmured Jane. "No, nothing of the kind."

"Then you are over-excited by this accident. Pray, try and control yourself. I know that there are sad thoughts, which you cannot drive from your mind, but you are young; you have the future before you, you will forget the past. You must!"

Jane dried her tears with her lace handkerchief, and her face became suddenly calm.

"Yes, I will forget," she replied, firmly. "You are right, I must do so. Forgive me!"

She extended her hand.

He hesitated and, drawing back, replied:

"We will talk together to-morrow. You know that you may rely on me."

"Yes, and I am very weary."

The intendant left the room. When outside the room, he caught at the railing, and with almost a sob, exclaimed: "How miserable I am!"

"Well!" asked Madame, from the foot of the stairs, "is the poor child any better?"

"Yes, thank you. There was an accident; her dress took fire."

"What a pity! A new dress, too. But I can offer her another in its place—one that has just come into my hands."

"You can talk with her about it to-morrow. At present I am worn out."

He hurried to his room, which was in the attic under the eaves, furnished with the most excessive simplicity: an iron bedstead, a table, and one chair. A trunk with a large lock upon it was also in the room.

Maslenes locked the door, and then dropped on the one chair the place contained. He sat for some minutes buried in thought.

"What am I to do? What am I to do?"

Then he rose, and opened the trunk of which we have spoken, with a key that he took from his pocket. He took out a bag, and a portfolio. He tried the weight of the bag and shrugged his shoulders. He then loosened the cord that held the bag together, and produced ten louis, at which he looked sadly. The portfolio contained three bank notes of one hundred francs each.

"And in two days I have five hundred francs to pay, and afterward what is to become of us?"

Then a long silence broken by the words once more, "Oh! how miserable I am!" He paced his room like a prisoner in his cell.

"What am I to do? I am afraid to try anything. I might, to be sure, earn a crust of bread for myself, but what is to become of her? Poor Jane! and yet I would give my very life to spare her one pang. If she pleased she might, with her talent, be as rich as a queen, but she cannot forget the past, and that is my work!"

He counted the louis over and over again. Suddenly he started. It seemed to him that he heard a sound without; he threw the bag and the portfolio into the trunk and locked it, then rushed to the door. On opening it there was no one to be seen.

"Is there any one here?" he asked.

There was no reply.

"I was mistaken, of course."

He returned to his room and there found that the sounds were repeated, and came from the window. He went to it, and looking out saw the outlines of a human being. No robber would have attracted attention thus. Nevertheless Maslenes took down a revolver before he opened the window.

"Who is there?" he asked.

"Some one who wishes to speak to you!" And with these words the person jumped into the room.

Maslenes raised his revolver, but at this moment the light fell on the face of the unknown. He uttered a cry of horror.

"You here! Ah! leave me, leave me at once, or I swear that I will blow out your brains."

"No, sir, you will do nothing of the kind. It would be very inconvenient for you to find yourself with a dead body to get rid of. You would be obliged to give your name, and you certainly don't care for the police to put their nose into your affairs."

And as the intendant did not reply, the new comer continued:

"That is right! You are becoming reasonable, I see. It is really droll that we should meet again after all these years in this way!"

He seated himself, and drawing out a cigar, lighted it at the candle.

"Now listen to me," said Maslenes. "Why are you here? Go your way, and let me go mine. I am doing my best to repair the evil that I have committed in my life. I do not interfere with you, and I only ask that you shall leave me alone. You call yourself Fagiano, and my name is Maslenes. Now, go."

The other sneered:

"You have become very haughty, convict Sanselme."

Sanselme, for he it was, uttered an angry exclamation:

"And you, Benedetto, are still the same scoundrel that you were!"



CHAPTER L.

CATASTROPHES.

The two men started to their feet, looking at each other as they had looked when Fate and their crimes first brought them together. Yes, it was Sanselme, who had simply changed the letters in his name and become Maslenes, who now spoke to his former associate with such contempt.

And it was Benedetto who sneered and laughed in the face of the man whom at Toulon he had almost hated. They neither of them spoke, but in their faces a strange transformation took place. Sanselme, first so bold, almost arrogant, by degrees began to hang his head, while Benedetto looked more and more triumphant.

"Let us sit down and reason together," he said.

"And why?" answered Sanselme, drearily. "You and I have nothing in common."

"I don't know that!"

"Listen to me for one moment. Our respective positions must be distinctly defined. Fate brought us together—Fate separated us. Neither you nor I desire to awaken all these terrible memories. I now bid you forget my very existence—"

He stopped short. Benedetto had laid his hand on his shoulder.

"And suppose I do not wish to be forgotten by you?" he said, slowly.

Sanselme started and looked at him with a terrified expression.

"I desire quite the contrary, in fact. I wish you to recall every circumstance of our former acquaintance, up to that night at Beausset—"

"For Heaven's sake, say no more!"

"I must, for I need a witness to authenticate certain facts. And that witness must be yourself."

"You forget, I fancy, that were I to reveal the truth the scaffold would be your end!"

"Ah! that is my affair, Sanselme. You have but to answer my questions truly. I rely on you, for really," sneered Benedetto, "you have quite the air of an honest man. You remember. Do you remember the night of the 24th of February, 1839?"

"Am I dreaming?" murmured Sanselme, hiding his face. "Can he really ask such a question?"

"Do you remember the little house behind the church?"

"Yes, yes, I remember."

"A certain person of my acquaintance had a little business to attend to in that house. He was successful, and he carried off a million."

"I know nothing about that!" cried Sanselme, eagerly. And then with a gesture of loathing, he added, "I never saw any of the money."

"I dare say. You were extremely disinterested! I took the money and meant to get away with it quietly, but accident defeated this plan."

"For God's sake, say no more! Have you a heart?"

Benedetto shrugged his shoulders, and continued:

"You know I heard two persons come up the stairs. I hid behind the door with my knife, and when the door opened, I struck at the first person I saw—"

"And it was your mother!"

"Ah! I see your memory is returning. Yes, it was my mother; but how did you know it?"

"I had seen her in the gorge, and she had told me her story and implored me to save her son."

"And did she tell you her name?" asked Benedetto, with some uneasiness.

"She told me all, but I swore never to reveal it to any one."

"And she believed in the oath of a convict?"

"I have kept it, at all events."

"You are a hero! But you can, at least, tell me the name."

"No," answered Sanselme, with energy. "You are planning some new villainy. I shall not tell you!"

Benedetto laughed.

"You must think me very simple. I merely wished to test your memory. The name of this woman was Danglars."

Sanselme uttered an exclamation. He had hoped that his refusal would frustrate some nefarious design.

"Now go," he said, sadly. "You can have nothing more to say to me."

"You are mistaken! One would think that you did not care to see me."

"The truth is, Benedetto, that anything connected with the past is hideously painful to me. I wish to forget."

"You wish to forget, too, that you once tried to kill me."

"Let us say no more about that. Tell me frankly what you want me to do, and if possible I will do it."

"You are becoming more reasonable, Sanselme. But what is that new life of which you speak so glibly and with a certain tenderness in your voice? Perhaps I can guess. She is pretty, that is a fact!"

Sanselme started and took hold of Benedetto's arm.

"Not another word like that, Benedetto! Not if you wish to live!"

"Indeed! What would you do?"

"My fate is in your hands," answered Sanselme. "You can at any moment denounce me as an escaped convict. Do what you please, but you shall not say one word of her who is in this house."

"Upon my word, Sanselme, it seems to me that you carry matters with rather a high hand. Suppose I do not obey you?"

"Then I will denounce you, with the certainty that my arrest will follow yours. You may laugh when I say that in spite of my shameful past I am to-day an honest man, devoting my whole life to a creature who has no one but myself in the world. If she knew who I was she would despise me."

Benedetto listened with his maddening smile. Suddenly he said:

"Have you pen, ink and paper?"

"Yes, I have them. Why?"

"Produce them. I will give my reasons later."

Sanselme produced what was required.

"Very good," said Benedetto. "And now take this pen and oblige me by writing a few lines."

"What shall I write?"

"I will dictate to you, that will be easier.

"On the 24th of February, 1839, Benedetto, an escaped convict from Toulon, assassinated Madame Danglars, his mother."

"But this is horrible! No, I will not write that!"

"You had better do it without further objections. You can sign any name you please."

Sanselme still hesitated.

"No," he said, finally, "I refuse. I of course do not know what use you intend to make of this paper, but I know you. Some infamous machination is on foot which I will not aid."

Benedetto smiled.

"You are far from rich," he said, "for I was at the window some little time before I knocked. I must tell you that Comte Velleni's hotel is next this, and I had not the smallest difficulty in coming here."

Sanselme glanced at the trunk that contained his scanty means.

"Precisely," said Benedetto, "a few louis and two or three bits of paper."

"I ask nothing from you."

"But I offer these." And Benedetto took from an elegant portfolio ten bank notes of one thousand francs each, and spread them out on the bed. "Write what I bid you and this money is yours."

Sanselme turned very pale. It seemed as if Benedetto was his evil genius—his tempter. He instantly realized what this sum would do for her whose welfare was his perpetual anxiety.

"Will you write?"

Sanselme dipped his pen into the ink and began. Some instinct warned him that he was doing wrong. He acted without volition of his own, and simply in obedience to another, it is true, and it seemed to him that he himself risked nothing, for he simply told the truth, and yet he was troubled. Had Sanselme been alone in the world with no one but himself to care for he might not have been so strict, for he had run many risks in his life. But he felt that this was something wrong, and that evil consequences would alight on not only himself, but her. The money fascinated him, however. He wrote a few words, and then, dashing down the pen, started up.

"No, I will not write. Take away your money, Benedetto, it will bring me misfortune."

Benedetto uttered a furious oath. Then seizing a pen he himself wrote a couple of lines. Laying the paper before Sanselme, he said, "You will write just what I say, or I will send this!"

The two lines commenced thus: "She who bears the name of Jane Zeld, is—"

Sanselme read no more. With a cry of rage he sprang at Benedetto, who thrust him back fiercely.

"No more of this nonsense!" he said. "Either you write, or I do, and my words shall appear in three of the most prominent Parisian journals."

Sanselme, with haggard eyes, did not seem to hear. Then suddenly he seized the pen and wrote what Benedetto required.

"If I give you this paper," he said, hoarsely, "will you swear by—good heavens! He believes in nothing! What will he swear by?"

"My dear fellow, I have not the smallest interest in troubling your repose. This is better than any oath," said Benedetto.

Sanselme made no further resistance.

Benedetto looked at the paper. "The fool has signed his own name!" he said to himself. "But it may be better, after all!" And in another moment Benedetto vanished through the window.

Sanselme sat motionless for some time, then his wandering eyes fell on the bank-notes. He snatched them up.

"We must fly!" he said aloud. "He knows all, and there is not a moment to lose. Jane—my Jane! Yes, she will consent, I am sure. We will take the seven o'clock train to Havre, and then will go to America. There she will lead a new life!" He looked around the room.

"My baggage," he said to himself, "will not be much of a hindrance; but Jane must be aroused at once. What shall I say to her? What reason shall I give? Pshaw! she will require none. Besides, there is nothing to keep us in Paris."

With infinite caution he opened the door and stole down the stairs, feeling his way along the corridor in the darkness, until he reached Jane's door, which he found open.

Sanselme was aghast. The chamber was empty.

Sanselme, with a frightful imprecation, rushed down stairs; the street door was open. Half mad, Sanselme went out into the street.



CHAPTER LI.

A SHOT FROM A REVOLVER.

Goutran and Esperance went out together from the little hotel in the avenue Montaugne. Slowly and without talking they walked on side by side. The moon had gone down; it was one of those soft, starry nights which are so delicious. The Champs Elysees was deserted.

Suddenly Goutran exclaimed, "It is best to go on with it, I am sure!"

Esperance looked at his friend in surprise. "What are you saying?" he asked.

Goutran laughed. "I was only thinking aloud," he said. "The fact is, I am attempting to decide upon an important question. To marry, or not to marry. What do you say?"

"I know so little of life that I can give no advice," answered Esperance, "and yet," he continued, "it seems to me that no happiness can be so great as to spend your life in the companionship of one who will share your joys and your sorrows."

"Then you advise me to marry?"

"If the woman is worthy of you."

Goutran had begun this conversation in a gay, familiar tone, but the gravity of Esperance influenced him, and he continued more seriously, "I wished to consult you, because I knew you to be a man who weighed such matters seriously. You noticed a young lady, to-night—but what is the matter?"

Esperance had started. "It is nothing, my foot slipped. And this young lady?"

"The pretty blonde is the one I mean."

"Oh!" answered Esperance, with a sigh of relief, "I congratulate you, most warmly. You love her?"

"I hardly know. I am attracted by her, I admire her beauty, the brilliancy of her eyes, her figure and her manner. Is this love?"

"I have no experience in such matters, you know."

"But you have instinct, which is worth ten times as much as experience. Carmen is an adorable creature, and when I am with her I can think of no one else. Twenty times this evening the decisive words were on my lips."

"And why did you not speak?"

"Ah! that is as much of a mystery to me as to you. A strange reluctance kept me back—almost a presentiment of evil. Do you know what I mean?"

"I understand that. I have felt the same thing at times."

"But to return to Carmen. Whenever I think of asking her to marry me, I feel as if I were deliberately inviting misfortune."

"You are not well, perhaps?"

"Bless my soul! How reasonable you are! No, I am well, I am greatly in love, and yet—"

"Upon my word!" said the Vicomte, "I can't see what you expect me to say."

"I have not told you all, and I have an admission to make that is not altogether agreeable. The truth is, I was so carried away by Carmen's beauty, that—"

"You became engaged to her?"

"I kissed her, my friend, and I was not repulsed nor reproved. She considered the kiss given to her fiance. And now, shall I marry her? I tell you, that even when my lips met hers, I felt more sharply than ever the presentiment of which I spoke. I know that after what has taken place I ought to apply to her father for her hand. Why do I hesitate? I cannot tell."

"Does Monsieur de Laisangy inspire you with absolute confidence?" asked Esperance, after a long pause.

The two friends had passed the Arc de Triomphe by this time, and entered the dark shadows of the Bois.

"Monsieur de Laisangy seems to have an excellent reputation. Bankers are measured by a standard of their own, and public opinion is never very strict in regard to them. Monsieur de Laisangy is rich, but no one says he has made his money dishonestly. I know nothing of his past, but have never heard a whisper against him, and yet sometimes he inspires me with absolute repulsion."

"My dear Goutran," said Esperance, in that grave, steady voice, which was so like his father's, "I am very young, I know nothing of life, I have never loved, but it seems to me that I could not speak as you have done, if I felt sincerely or deeply. I do not think I could analyze my ambitions so artistically." Esperance now began to speak more rapidly and with emotion. "To love is to give up one's entire being, to live in another. You say that you love, that your lips have touched those of whom you have chosen, and that your heart sank at that same moment. No, you do not love Carmen de Laisangy!"

At this moment both men heard the report of a pistol.

"What is that?" cried Goutran.

"Some crime, I fear," answered his companion.

The two friends forced their way through the underbrush, Esperance a little in advance. Suddenly he beheld in an open space a prostrate form. It was that of a woman. Esperance rushed forward and lifted her from the ground. He uttered a hoarse cry. It was she whose life he had so recently saved—it was Jane Zeld. A small revolver lay at her side.

Esperance, bearing her in his vigorous arms, made his way into the road.



CHAPTER LII.

"WILL JANE ZELD LIVE?"

Goutran had not seen the face of the burthen borne by Esperance, who had uttered no name, and whose movements had been so rapid that Goutran had some difficulty in overtaking him.

Where did Esperance propose to go? He had not asked himself this question. Goutran ran after him.

"Where are you carrying that dead body?" he shouted.

Esperance stopped short. "Was she dead?" he asked himself. "No, no," he cried, "she lives—she breathes! She must not die!"

"Do you know this woman?" asked Goutran. Suddenly he started back.

Jane was still wrapped in the oriental stuff. He remembered the material.

"Good heavens!" he cried, "what does this mean? It is Jane!"

They reached the avenue, and looked about for a carriage, but none was to be seen.

"Where are we to take this poor thing?" said Goutran.

"To my rooms," answered Esperance. "But I am afraid she will die in my arms!"

"I will hasten on and arouse the servants, and have everything prepared."

"Yes, by all means. I am strong, and shall be there almost as soon as yourself."

In a very few minutes they reached the hotel, which Goutran opened with a key given him by Esperance. They entered the corridor that led to the rooms formerly occupied by Haydee.

Esperance, with infinite precautions, laid Jane on the bed.

The girl's hair had fallen loose, and its darkness made an admirable background for her delicate features.

When Esperance saw this frail form thus inert, and the blue-veined lids closing the eyes, he yielded to his emotion and sobbed like a child. He was very unlike his father, and in these few moments he probably suffered more than his father had ever done.

Goutran, in the meantime, had lighted the room, then coming to the side of the bed, he leaned over the girl.

"Esperance!" he said, "rouse yourself, if you wish to save her!"

With a violent effort Esperance resumed his self-control.

"Ah! you are right, my friend. But if Jane is dead, I shall die also, for I love her—I love her!"

And he uttered these words in a tone of such sincerity that Goutran understood the whole.

"We must see the wound," continued Esperance, "for I am something of a physician."

Goutran gently removed the shawl, and on the left bosom there was a small, dark spot. Esperance listened for the beating of her heart. There was a moment of terrible suspense. At last Esperance rose from his knees.

"She is living," he said, in a grave voice. "Goutran, go to my room and bring me a small sandal-wood case on the chimney-piece."

Esperance spoke now with absolute calmness. He was himself once more. When alone with Jane he took her head in his hands.

"Why," he said in his low, harmonious tone, "why did you wish to die? You shall live, Jane, and nothing shall ever separate us more!"

He pressed his lips to Jane's. This kiss was an oath. Would Esperance keep it?

Goutran returned with the case.

"Shall I not call some one?" asked the young man.

"No, not yet," Esperance replied.

He opened the box and took out an instrument.

"My hand does not tremble, does it?"

"No," said the painter, "it is perfectly firm."

Then, entirely master of himself though deadly pale, Esperance probed the wound.

Goutran watched every movement and studied his face. It was a strange scene. Jane, with her fair bosom all uncovered, seemed to sleep.

"Goutran," said Esperance in a whisper, "the ball has not gone far—I can touch it! Give me the case again," he said presently. He selected other instruments. "I have it!" exclaimed Esperance, and the ball was in his hand.

As he spoke the kind face of Madame Caraman appeared at the door. For the last twenty minutes she had heard footsteps over her head in the room of the deceased Countess, which no one ever entered except the Count, and now she beheld a stranger on the bed in this sacred room.

"Madame Caraman," said Esperance, "here is a lady accidentally wounded. I beg of you to take care of her—do all that her condition requires."

"Poor soul!" cried the good woman. "What does it all mean?"

"I am just about to dress the wound. Do not be frightened. One word, however—I do not wish any one to know that she is here. You will treat her as if she were my sister."

"Of course, sir, of course, but am I to say nothing to the Count?"

"He is away, I know not where. I desire the secret to be kept punctiliously."

"Yes, sir, on one condition."

"A condition? And what may that be?"

"It is that, like your father, you will call me Mamma Caraman—not Madame!"



CHAPTER LIII.

JANE ZELD'S SECRET.

Sanselme rushed from the Maison Vollard. He seemed half wild with grief and rage. Where was he going? He knew not. Jane had gone without a word of farewell, and this man, whom we have seen unmoved amid all the horrors of Toulon, now wept as he ran. Whom should he ask? Two policemen passed, and, great as was Sanselme's terror of the police, he went up to them at once. Having by this time recovered his composure, he questioned them calmly. He was waiting for a lady, he was her intendant. As she was a foreigner, he was afraid she had gone astray.

One of the men replied, in a surly tone:

"If the lady has servants, how is it that she is out alone and on foot?"

To this natural remark Sanselme had no reply ready. He had been guilty of a great folly. He realized this now, and felt sure that he would be watched. Jane had no acquaintances in Paris. She had been out but twice, once to the charitable fete, when she sang and met with such success, and the second time was that same night.

Sanselme asked if Jane's mind could be affected. Could insanity come on thus suddenly? There was a secret in Jane's life, and he himself had seen her only a few hours before overcome with grief.

Sanselme went up and down the Champs Elysees for an hour. Suddenly he remembered that the Seine was not far off. Why had he not thought of this before? He hastened to the river side, but saw nothing to confirm his suspicions.

We will now disclose the secret tie between this man and Jane Zeld. Fifteen years before, the convict Sanselme had witnessed a terrible scene in a cottage at Beausset, a village between Toulon and Marseilles. A son had killed his mother, and then departed, carrying with him a large sum of money. Bad as was Sanselme, he shuddered at this terrible crime. He had aided in Benedetto's escape with the hope of receiving part of the money, but he repulsed the blood-stained hand that offered it.

"Be off with you or I will kill you!" he cried, and Benedetto fled. Our readers will remember how he was finally thrown up by the sea on the island of Monte-Cristo.

Sanselme remained alone with the corpse. The sun rose, and finally a ray crept over the face of the dead woman. Sanselme started. Perhaps she is not dead after all. He stooped and lifted her from the floor. Should he call for assistance? To do so was to deliver himself up as an escaped convict. And this was not all. He would be suspected of the murder. He would be led not to the galleys but to the scaffold.

"It would be useless for me to make any denial."

Still his humanity was large enough to induce him to run the risk, and he would probably have called for assistance had he not at that moment heard the sound of wheels. It was the priest returning home. Sanselme breathed a sigh of relief. Now he would have the aid he required. He would wait until the priest came up. The outer door stood wide open. It was through this door that Benedetto had fled. Sanselme heard the priest utter an exclamation of surprise, and then he went to his servant's door, and knowing her deafness knocked and called loudly to her to awake. This was Sanselme's salvation. He leaned from the window and caught a branch from the tree by which Benedetto had clambered to the upper room. This done, it was easy for Sanselme then to drop to the ground. He ran around the house instantly. He was saved. He hastily decided that Benedetto had taken the shortest road to the sea, and that he himself would try to get out of France by the eastern frontier.

We will not dwell on all he endured. But a month later, Sanselme, completely changed in appearance, entered Switzerland, going thence to Germany. Intelligent and active, he had no difficulty in obtaining employment. And Benedetto's crime seemed to have had a marvelous effect upon him. He seemed resolved upon repentance. For ten years, utilizing his acquaintance with foreign languages, Maslenes—he had taken this name—lived quietly in Munich. Not the smallest indiscretion on his part attracted the attention of the police. He was almost happy with these children about him, his pupils; but he was alone in his so-called home, and all at once a great longing came over him to see France once more. He was well aware that it would be a great imprudence on his part to return to his native land; he might be recognized, or some chance might reveal his past.

Nevertheless, he went. Ten years had elapsed since he crossed the frontier. He went first to Lyons, not daring to attempt Paris, although he chose a large city, believing that there he would incur less risk of being recognized. He had saved some money, and thought he could teach again. He had not been six months in Lyons before he was known as the good Monsieur Maslenes, and was liked by every one. He led the most regular life that could be imagined, and no one would have suspected that this stout, placid-looking person could be an escaped convict. He fully intended to live and die thus in obscurity, and really enjoyed the torpor of this existence. In the evening he took long walks, and from motives of prudence went out but little by daylight. Alone in the darkness, he often felt intense remorse, and remorse is not a pleasing companion.

One winter's night—the snow had been falling all day—Sanselme stayed out later than usual. The cold was sharp and there was no moon. Suddenly he heard an angry discussion across the street. Coarse voices and then a woman's tone of appeal. Sanselme did not linger, he had made it a rule never to interfere in quarrels. He feared any complication which should compromise him. But as he hurried on, he heard a wild cry for help.

"Oh! leave my child!" the woman cried. "Help! Help!"

Sanselme forgot all his prudence and ran in the direction of the cries. He found a woman struggling with three drunken men, trying to tear from them a young girl about thirteen, simply dressed. The girl was struggling, but oddly enough she did not utter a sound.

"Don't put on these airs, Zelda," said one of the ruffians, "let the little girl have a fling too. You have had yours."

In her struggle the girl dropped a box she carried. Tulles and laces were scattered over the ground. She saw Sanselme, and then for the first time she screamed for help. Then with one blow Sanselme felled the man who held the girl. He fell stunned to the ground. The child was free, and the two remaining scoundrels turned their attention to the defender. They were stout, strong fellows, with well-developed muscles, but they were no match for Sanselme. He hurled one against the wall and the other into the middle of the street.

"Be off with you!" said Sanselme.

"Oh! thank you, sir. But my mother, my poor mother!"

The woman had sunk upon the snow exhausted. The girl endeavored to lift her.

"Let me," said Sanselme. "Do you live far from here?"

This question, though so simple, seemed to agitate the girl. Sanselme now held her mother in his arms.

"Well! Where am I to go?"

She answered slowly:

"Two steps from there. The Rue Travehefoin."

"I don't think I know the street."

"Very possibly," stammered the girl. "I will show you the way."

She had returned the laces to the box, and then with a determined step led the way. A few feet from the Quai, where this scene had taken place, there was at this time a network of narrow, dark and wretched streets. It was in fact regarded as the worst part of the town. Sanselme did not care for this. He was happy that he had done some good at last. The girl turned into a lane that was very dark, in spite of the street lamp burning at the further end. The girl finally stopped before a tall house, from which came shouts of laughter and singing. The door was not close shut and the girl pushed it open. A stout woman stood just within.

"Upon my word!" she cried. "Did Zelda need two hours to—"

"My mother is dying," said the child, as she held the door wide open.

Sanselme appeared, carrying the inanimate form.

"Drunk again!" cried the stout woman.

"This woman is ill," answered Sanselme, roughly, who now understood the kind of a place he was in. "Get out of my way!" he added.

"Ill! Oh! what stuff. Come on, though. I will see to this to-morrow!"

And she took down a lantern from the wall and led the way up the creaking stairs. Two or three men came out of the lower room at the same moment.

"Is that Zelda?" they shouted. "Send her here to sing for us."

But the stout woman opened a door and Sanselme laid his burden on the bed. It was a sordid room in which he found himself. On the dirty walls hung some colored prints of doubtful propriety. On one was a dark stain, as if a glass of wine had been thrown upon it.

"Let me take off the quilt," said the woman, extending her hand to remove the ragged covering on the bed.