Sanselme, filled with disgust at her cupidity, answered:

"Let everything alone. I will pay whatever is necessary."

"Very good, sir; if you answer for it, that's all right."

"And now I want a physician," he added.

"A physician! Oh, that is nonsense. You must not be taken in in this way. She goes out every evening for her daughter, who is apprenticed to a milliner, and this time she took a drop too much, that is all!"

A bitter sob was heard from the girl, who sat with her hands covering her face.

Sanselme pitied the poor child. He took a twenty franc piece from his pocket.

"I want a doctor," he said, "and pray make haste."

"Very good, sir, since I see you are willing to pay him, and that it won't be left for me to do."

Sanselme was left alone with these two women. He was greatly annoyed that accident had brought him to such a house, and was half tempted to fly. He had done his duty and had defended the two women from their assailants. What more had he to do here?

The merest trifle would compromise his position, for Lyons, though a large city, is but a village; every trifle becomes known, and is commented upon and exaggerated.

He stood twisting his hat in his hands. Presently, with an air of decision, he tossed it on a chair.

"It won't do to be cowardly!" he said, half aloud.

This man, who had been so vicious, was now eager to do good. He must see the physician. But could he do nothing while awaiting his arrival? Whatever were the errors of this poor creature, she was a woman, and suffering. He did not know what she required. He turned to the girl.

"Mademoiselle!" he said, making his voice as gentle and paternal as possible.

She looked up, and for the first time he saw her. She was absolutely adorable, with her glossy, dark hair carried back plainly from her fair brow. How old was she? Sixteen, perhaps, but so slender that she looked younger.

"You must unfasten your mother's dress," said Sanselme, "that she may have air."

The girl looked at him as if she did not understand him. Oh! what shame and humiliation were in that young heart!

Sanselme understood, for he said:

"She is your mother, I believe?"

She rose quickly and went to the bed, and leaning over the woman, kissed her brow. This was her answer to Sanselme's question. She then loosened the sick woman's garments. Feeling her child's hands, and able to breathe better, the woman said:

"Do not touch me; I am in agony!"

That was the beginning of delirium.

"I am cold!" she cried. "Why do you put ice on my feet?" and she started up so suddenly that her daughter could not hold her.

"Help me, sir," the girl cried to Sanselme.

He ran to her assistance. He was astonished to see that the woman was not more than thirty-five, but her eyes were haggard, and she bore the marks of precocious old age.

She uttered a shriek so wild and despairing that it curdled the blood in Sanselme's veins, and as he looked her full in the face, he trembled from head to foot.

The doors opened; it was the physician, who looked utterly disgusted that he should have been called to such a place. He entered noisily, without removing his hat, and as he caught sight of the sick woman, looking like an inspired Pythoness, he said roughly:

"Come, now, lie down."

She looked at him with evident terror, and then, docile as a child, she lay down on the bed.

The physician made a rapid examination.

"There is nothing to be done," he said; "this woman is at the end of her rope."

"For Heaven's sake, sir, be quiet!" whispered Sanselme, angrily. "The woman hears you, and you will kill her!"

The Doctor took off his spectacles and closed them with a snap; then looking at Sanselme from head to foot, he said:

"You are much interested in Madame. A relative, I presume?"

"That is none of your affairs, sir. I beg you to confine yourself to writing your prescriptions, and I will see that you are paid."

The physician was impressed by the tone in which these words were uttered. He wrote the prescription and went away. Then Sanselme said he would go for the medicine. He was absolutely livid and could hardly stand. He returned in twenty minutes, and met the mistress of the house on the street, where she was waiting.

"Look here!" she said; "I don't like all this in my house, and I am going to bundle Zelda off to the Hospital. I don't want her to die here."

Sanselme hardly heard her.

"Tell me," he said, hastily, "what this woman's name is."

"That is easy enough; I have her papers. It is something like Zeld, and we have got to calling her Zelda—it is more taking, you know."

"Yes, I see; but do you know anything of her past?"

"Not much."

"She has a daughter?"

"Yes, which is not at all pleasant for us. Of course, the child can't live here; she stays across the street. Zelda goes every night to the shop for her. It is nonsense, of course, for she will go the same way as her mother in the end."

"Will you show me the papers?" asked Sanselme, "and I will do all I can for this woman."

"Help me to get rid of her! That is all I ask."

"Rely on me."

Sanselme presently had the papers in his hands. The sick woman's name was Jane Zeld. She came from a little village in Switzerland, near Zurich. There was also a paper dated many years since, signed by her father, authorizing her to reside in the Commune of Selzheim, in Alsace. Sanselme turned sick and dizzy; he caught at the wall for support.

"What on earth is the matter?" asked the old woman.

He stammered a few incoherent words. Then in a measure recovering himself, he said:

"I give you my word that I will take her away in the morning."

"But if she should die in the night! However, I am too kind-hearted for my own good. She may stay here to night. But who will take care of her?"

"I will," answered Sanselme; "but I must beg that you will take her daughter out of the room."

"I can give her a bed in the closet next her mother's room. But you know if it were known, I should get into trouble, because she's a minor."

They returned to the sick room. Zelda seemed calmer. The daughter was crouched upon the floor at the side of the bed. Sanselme spoke to her gently.

"My child," he said, "I will take care of your mother to-night. You are tired, and a room is ready for you."

"No! no!" cried the child. "I cannot stay here to-night, unless I am in my mother's room."

And she looked so horrified that Sanselme was silent. He realized what this young creature must feel at the terrible life led by her mother. When the girl understood that the room she was to have could be reached only through that occupied by her mother, she said no more, but she seemed to shrink from the very air she breathed.

The unhappy Zelda had fallen into a state of prostration, that rendered her unconscious of all that was going on about her. Her daughter went to her side.

"Do not disturb her," said Sanselme, "she is asleep."

For the first time the girl looked him full in the face. "You are very kind," she said. "You knew my mother then?"

"Oh! no," answered Sanselme, eagerly, "but you are very tired, and some one must stay with her to-night."

He spoke with a certain hesitation, as if he were telling a falsehood. The girl was too innocent to notice this manner.

"If my mother wakes you will call me. Poor mamma! she is so kind."

"I will call you, I give you my word," Sanselme answered.

And the girl left the room, and in some ten minutes Sanselme heard her regular breathing; tired Nature asserted herself.

Then he turned to the bed. From the rooms below came shrill laughter and the rattle of glasses. They cared little down there whether this poor creature lived or died. She was dying, of this Sanselme felt sure. He began to walk up and down the room, occasionally stopping at the side of the bed, as if seeking to discover in this pale, drawn face some forgotten image.

It was very cold, and the light was dim; by degrees the house became quiet. He sat in the one chair in the room buried in thought. Suddenly the sick woman began to toss on her bed. He went to her, and said, gently, "Are you in pain?"

"No."

"Then try to sleep."

"Sleep!" repeated the poor creature, and then, without any apparent reason, she said to herself, over and over again, "Accursed! Accursed!"

Then she began to whisper. She raised herself in her bed, and was terrible to look upon. "I was a good girl," she said, "more than that, I was an innocent one. I used to go to confession. I was told to do so."

Sanselme listened with beads of sweat on his brow. He determined to drink the cup to the dregs. "Yes," he said, "go on. It was at Selzheim."

"Selzheim! yes. Oh! how sweet it was there. There was a mountain, and a lovely brook where I bathed my feet when I was a little thing."

"And a Square and a fountain," whispered Sanselme.

"Yes, how gay it was there, when we all played together. And then he came, all in black. We thought him so kind and good. He was the cure, you know."

Sanselme started back.

"And when he said to me, 'Jane, why do you not come to confession?' I told him the truth, and said it was because I had nothing to confess."

"Go on! go on!" said Sanselme.

Further doubt was impossible, he was himself the infamous priest. He fell on his knees, and sobbed and wept.

The dying woman continued: "I went to confession as the cure bade me, and—"

But we will not dwell on this terrible story as told by these dying lips. The priest abused his trust. His superiors knew the truth, but with that esprit de corps, which is in fact complicity, simply removed him and avoided all open scandal. His victim remained in the village. And because of his crime, she was condemned and despised. She was driven away, and gave birth to her child. And then, to live and to give bread to this child, she had become what she was.

Sanselme took the hand of the dying woman.

"And the child?" he asked. "Where is she?"

The woman looked at him with her big dark eyes. For the first time she seemed conscious of his presence. And suddenly, in spite of the lapse of years, she recognized him. She shrank away with a frenzied shrink.

"Yes, it is I! pardon me!" and Sanselme sank on his knees; "and tell me, I implore you, where the child is?"

She did not speak, she could not. She stretched out her hand, and pointed to the room where her daughter was.

"And she is my child?" cried Sanselme.

"Yes," answered the dying woman. And as if this simple word had snapped the mainspring of life, she fell dead on the floor.

He lifted her and laid her on the bed, and then the wretched man, crushed under the weight of his shame, dared to pray.

When morning broke he knocked on the door of the next room. The girl awoke with a start and ran out.

"Your mother is dead," he said, gently.

The next day Sanselme laid the poor woman in her grave. Then he said to the girl:

"I knew your mother. Before she died she made me promise never to desert you. Will you come to me?"

Jane Zeld was utterly crushed. She had no will of her own. Where else could she have gone? She felt herself surrounded by a circle of crime. As long as her mother lived, the affection she received from her made her forget sometimes the sinister truth. But when she was alone in the world, she felt absolutely crushed by this ignominy. Pure as she was it seemed to herself that her mind was smirched.

Sanselme had come to a grave decision. He left Lyons and took Jane with him, she having no idea of the reason of his devotion. He called himself her intendant, and was anxious to perform the most menial offices, and in these felt as if he were in a measure making amends for the past. He had one aspiration, that of paternal martyrdom. Gently and with paternal affection Sanselme soothed the girl's shame and despair. He had preserved much of the persuasiveness of a priest, his language stirred and softened at one and the same time. But now every word that he uttered was sincere.

Jane remained excessively sad.

Sanselme had saved several thousand francs. What should he do with Jane? He had left Lyons, hoping that a change of scene would go far toward restoring cheerfulness to Jane. Vain hope. She never forgot her mother, nor that mother's life. She learned with marvelous rapidity. Study was her best distraction. From this Sanselme hoped much. He taught her himself all that he had formerly learned, and wondered at the progress she made.

The merest accident revealed to him Jane's amazing talent for music. If Art should take hold of her and absorb her entirely, she would forget and enter a new life.

She studied music thoroughly, and Sanselme took care, living as they were, in Germany at that time, that she should constantly hear good music.

Her memory was prodigious, her voice exceptionally true, her taste perfect. Sanselme felt that here was safety for him.

At the end of a few years Jane, now become a great artist, went with her benefactor to Paris.

Their position toward each other was in no degree modified. He was very respectful in his manner, and always kept a certain distance between them. He did not wish her to know anything more about herself than that she was the daughter of the wretched Zelda.

By degrees the recollection of Lyons seemed to fall from the mind of Jane. Never was there the most distant allusion ever made to her mother, and the girl never spoke of her.

This silence astonished Sanselme, and troubled him as well. He had studied Jane so closely that he thoroughly understood her character, her goodness, unselfishness and passionate gratitude. He knew that she had not forgotten her mother, and would never do so, and that the reason she never mentioned her was because her pain and shame were quite as acute as ever. Jane's character was a singular mixture of audacity and timidity. It was her own proposition that she should offer her services at the concert, and when Sanselme proposed that she should go to Sabrau's, the artist, she had not hesitated in doing so.

She sought to distract her mind, for she was haunted by a spectre. She had a ghastly fear that she might be tempted to lead the life her mother had led.

The theatre, so often calumniated, would be her safeguard, and in her pride as a great artist she would forget the past. It was her salvation, her glory, and the path to fortune. She would be respected, honored and happy. These were the dreams in which Sanselme indulged. Perhaps, too, some honest man would give her his name, and that of Jane Zeld would be merged in a happy matron.

It was with great joy that he took Jane to the reception at the artist's, and here basked in the admiration and respect she received. If she would but consent to go on the stage her fortune was secured—but hitherto she had refused even to listen to this plan.

That evening Sanselme had been shocked to meet Benedetto. The spectre of his past again arose before him, but he thought it impossible that Benedetto should recognize him. He had been guilty of one imprudence. When he heard the name of the Vicomte of Monte-Cristo, he remembered the rage of Benedetto at Toulon, and how he had sworn to be avenged on him.

A secret instinct warned Sanselme that Benedetto would wreak his vengeance on the son of his enemy, and concealed behind the curtain he had given Esperance the warning that had so startled him. Then he hurried away, aghast at what he had done. What was the young Vicomte to him? What did he care for Benedetto's hates?

When the fire caught Jane's robe, he had been a witness of the energetic promptness shown by the young man, and then he said to himself that he was glad he gave the warning. And when they returned home that night, Sanselme had never been in better spirits; it seemed to him that a great Future was unfolding before him. To his surprise he found Jane weeping. For the first time she had spoken angrily, but Sanselme would have forgiven her if she had struck him.

He saw that memory still haunted her, that there was no peace or rest for her. He wanted her to travel, but the money, where was he to get money? And it was while tortured by these thoughts that Benedetto appeared to him.

And this was not all. Benedetto knew his secret, and now, as if all this were not enough, Jane herself had vanished. It was more than human energy could support.

While Sanselme stood on the bridge absorbed in these wretched thoughts, he heard a quick, running step. His well-trained ear could not be deceived. It was a woman's step—if it were she? He started forward. It was dark, and he could see nothing, and the steps were dying away. He ran on toward the Pont de Jena, and presently he heard the steps again, and before him on the bridge was a dark shadow. Was it Jane?

He called, "Jane, my child!"

Then he saw the shadow spring to the parapet, and something black passed between him and the sky—the splash of water, and all was still.

"Too late!" cried Sanselme, "but I will save her." And he in his turn leaped into the water. He was a vigorous swimmer, as will be remembered by our readers.

When he rose to the surface after his plunge, he looked around, and at some distance beheld a dark spot. He swam toward it and seized the woman's arm. She was just sinking. And now this man was so overwhelmed with emotion, that the blood rushed to his brain and his limbs were almost paralyzed. Fortunately the shore was not far away, but the woman clung convulsively to him.

He called for aid, but all was silent and dark. He knew that he was sinking, and that the end was near. Suddenly a voice shouted:

"Courage! we are coming." And two men appeared swimming vigorously.

"I have one, Bobichel!"

"And I have another, Monsieur Fanfar."

With their burthens our old friends reached the shore.

"God grant that it is not too late!" said Fanfar, kneeling by the side of the two inanimate forms. "What had we best do?"

"Take them up on our shoulders, sir, and carry them along. Fortunately, the house is not far off."

And Bobichel threw Sanselme over his shoulder as easily as if he had been a bag of meal, while Fanfar took the woman. They stopped at a small house not far from the Quai; every blind was closed; Fanfar uttered a peculiar cry.

"Is that you?" asked a woman's voice.

"Myself," answered Fanfar.

The door opened, and presently the two bodies were laid on the floor.

Fanfar took a lamp and looked at them.

"I saw this man at the door where we stood to-night," said Bobichel.

"Yes, I saw him, too," answered Fanfar. "But who can this woman be?"

She was an old woman, with white hair.

"We must all go to work. Madame Fanfar, we want your help; hot linen and flannels, if you please!"



CHAPTER LIV.

CARMEN.

Very stately and magnificent were the offices of the Banque de Credit Imperial. The prospectus made one's mouth water. It was a magnificent conception of the Emperor's. To interest small capitalists would naturally result in great popularity.

Napoleon III. always felt a great interest in the money of other people, and also, to use a vulgar expression, liked to have his hand in everybody's pie.

The governor elected was Monsieur de Laisangy, who was looked upon as a marvelous financier. Although an old man, his activity was immense, both of mind and body.

It was about ten o'clock in the morning. In an exquisite room, where each detail was in the best of taste and very rich, Carmen, in a peignoir trimmed with lace, was half lying on a couch. Her beautiful hair was loosely tied, and fell over her shoulders in a golden cascade.

She was a beautiful creature, and yet there was a certain refinement lacking. Her hands, though white, were not delicately made, and her foot, in its rose-colored slipper, was not as slender as those of Parisian women. She seemed to be wrapped in thought. Finally, as if weary of arguing with herself, she extended her hand and rang the bell.

A pretty maid servant entered.

"What o'clock is it?"

"Half-past ten."

"Send a footman to tell Monsieur de Laisangy that I am waiting for him to come to breakfast."

"But are you not going to dress?" asked the woman in surprise.

"What for? I am not going out until four o'clock."

"Yes, but you will not care to go to the dining-room in your peignoir?"

"No, I will breakfast here in my boudoir."

"With Monsieur de Laisangy?"

"Yes. You look astonished. I do not like such airs. Arrange that small table, and wait upon us yourself."

"Very good, Mademoiselle."

As the woman left the room, she said to herself:

"They are certainly very queer people, but it is none of my business if a young lady chooses to breakfast half dressed with her father!"

In less than fifteen minutes the banker knocked at the door of the boudoir. He took his daughter's hand and pressed a paternal kiss upon it. As they were alone, Carmen withdrew her hand, and said quickly:

"None of that, if you please!"

The old man looked strangely disturbed, and fearing that these words had been spoken in too audible a voice, he laid a warning finger on his lip.

They presently seated themselves at the table. The breakfast was served a la Russe—that is, with every thing on the table at once.

"You can leave us," said Carmen to her maid.

Laisangy ate heartily, but Carmen merely nibbled. The banker did not speak until he had eaten so much he could eat no more. He drank only water.

Carmen began to be impatient.

"It seems to me that I was never so hungry in my life before!" said Laisangy.

"Ah!" answered Carmen, "and yet there were times in your life when you were starving!"

Laisangy was eating a bit of cheese. He stopped with his fork in the air.

"We will not talk of that!" he replied.

"And why not? Everybody is not born with a million in his cradle. I, too, have been near starvation!"

"Carmen!"

"It is true, but pray finish your breakfast. I want to talk to you."

If Goutran, assisted by some magician, had been able to see and hear this interview, he would have been thunderstruck. What a tone! What an expression! Not that she was less pretty, but there was a something in her manner and appearance which would have offended his taste.

Laisangy finally stopped eating. Any other person would have been crimson after such a meal, but he actually looked paler than ever.

Carmen rang the bell for coffee, and then they were again alone.

"My dear Carmen, I am ready to listen to you," said the banker. She had lighted a cigarette, and was smoking, with her eyes fixed on him.

"You want money, I suppose?"

"No—I want information."

"Information!"

"Ah! that makes you uneasy, does it not? I am well aware that you are not fond of questions."

Laisangy, who was drinking his third cup of coffee, shivered a little at these words.

"I do not understand you," he said.

"You will, presently. But I never saw anybody with such an appetite. When I was sixteen and could hardly get a crust of bread, I could not eat like that."

"Why dwell on these memories, Carmen?"

"Because, if I remind you of what and who I am, I shall have a better chance, perhaps, to learn who you are."

"Carmen! Carmen!" said the old man imploringly, and becoming even paler than before.

"I tell you that I intend to know who you are. Now hold your tongue and let me speak. I have had a weight on my heart for a long time, and now I intend to make a clean breast of it."

No words can describe the terror on the face of the banker. He stammered and choked.

"But, Carmen, we are so comfortable and happy. What do you want more?"

"I wish to have my curiosity satisfied," answered Carmen, coldly. "Everything about you is a mystery and a fraud. In fact, you terrify me!"

"But——"

"Yes—even your way of eating is not natural. There is something of the wild beast about you, and I tell you I am afraid!"

"But this is childish. You have known me a long time."

"Yes. I am twenty-two now, and I was fifteen when you took me, while Mamma Lousteau was your cook at Florence—"

"Hush! Carmen, you will be heard!"

"Who cares! Yes, the whole world may hear the story of a girl whose mother was cook in a banker's house. The banker entered the girl's room in the night, the mother discovered it. Her rage and distress brought on an attack of apoplexy. She died, and I remained with you! These are the bare facts."

"Carmen!"

"Oh! I am not complaining. You were rich, you gave me jewels and fine clothes. I was only sixteen, I forgot your brutality and I remained with you. When you came back to France you told me that a certain regard must be paid to appearances, that we must lie, in short, and I agreed to pass as your daughter. And now, I ask"—she folded her arms on her breast—"I ask why you did not marry me?"

"Good heavens! because—"

"Because what? You cannot give me a good reason. Not a word of truth can ever be torn from you. I am convinced that back of all these lies there is some horrible infamy which you dare not acknowledge even to me."

"Carmen! no more of this, I implore you! What has gone wrong with you?"

"Everything. I simply wish to know, and am resolved to know, who you are—if not—"

"If not?"

"I have not quite decided. There are some things, bad as I am, which I will not stand, and I will make it the business of my life to discover what crimes you have committed, and I will denounce you!"

Laisangy started to his feet.

"Look at yourself in the mirror," cried Carmen, "and tell me if you do not look like a murderer!"

Laisangy bit his lips so fiercely that the blood started. Then suddenly, as if a thought had struck him, he cried:

"Come now, Carmen, don't say any more nasty things to me. I am an old man and have had many troubles."

"Indeed?"

"You have never questioned me like this before. Even my appetite offends you. Surely, there is no crime in that! You want to know something about me. One thing I will tell you—it may strike you as rather a joke. Once in Italy, going from one city to another, I had a large sum of money with me, and I was taken by brigands. These villains took it into their heads to sell me every mouthful I ate at its weight in gold. For some time I would not yield, and was nearly starved. Since that time I have had paroxysms of violent hunger. Do you see?"

Carmen did not see, and she said:

"But why did not the brigands take your money without subjecting you to this torture?"

Laisangy looked troubled as he replied:

"I am sure I don't know."

"It looks to me as if these men whom you call brigands were inflicting a chastisement upon you, perhaps."

"Carmen!"

"Come, throw down your cards. I tell you I will no longer submit to this miserable farce we are playing here. I will no longer call myself your daughter, nor will I be dragged into the maze of intrigues which I divine."

"Carmen! once more I implore you—"

"I will not be your accomplice and be dragged by you into an abyss of infamy!"

"But why should you say such things? I am rich, and honored by the favor of the Emperor."

"A fine recommendation, that!" cried Carmen, disdainfully.

"I am respected and honored by every one."

Carmen rose from her chair and looked the banker full in the face.

"Then tell me why, when we were at the soiree last evening, at a name pronounced by a lacquey you became ghastly pale."

"You are mistaken—"

"It is true; you fled as if you had seen a ghost, and the name was Monte-Cristo."

Laisangy was terrible to look at.

"Hold your tongue! Hold your tongue!" and the banker rushed toward her with uplifted hand.

But Carmen, with her arms folded upon her breast, looked at him with such disdain that his arm fell at his side.

"And this is not all," she continued. "You met many enemies last evening, it seems; for some one said in the garden, 'Take care that you do not learn my name too soon, Monsieur de Laisangy.' These may not be the precise words, but they are nearly so."

"Ah! you are a spy, then! Look out!"

"I am not in the least afraid of you; but let me tell you that your present conduct strengthens all my suspicions, and I, in my turn, bid you look out! I shall learn the truth, and then—"

"And then—"

"I shall leave you. But if, in self-defence, you raise a finger against one whom I esteem, I will denounce you!"

Laisangy, exasperated beyond all self-control, seized a knife from the table. The door opened and the maid entered.

"Here is a card which the gentleman wished me to hand you at once, sir."

Carmen took the card and read the name.

"Signor Fagiano!" she read aloud. "Ah! he has come to tell you his right name, I fancy!"

Laisangy took the card from Carmen's hand and dashed from the room. Carmen said, half aloud:

"Goutran is the friend of the Vicomte de Monte-Cristo. I will watch!"



CHAPTER LV.

THE BANKER.

Signor Fagiano was standing, when Monsieur de Laisangy entered the room. He was a man of fifty, but extremely fine looking, with a little of the air of the Duc de Morny in his best days. He had, however, a scar across one cheek that disfigured him. No one would have recognized him as the convict Benedetto. Laisangy entered with a pale face of disdain.

We must not omit to mention what took place in the garden the previous evening. When the banker, overcome by the heat of the rooms, took refuge in the fresh air, he had been followed by Fagiano, who said to him, when out of hearing of every one:

"Monsieur de Laisangy, I know your past."

Laisangy started, and even uttered an exclamation of surprise. The other continued—a threat in every word. He asked for money—much money. Laisangy knew that in his long career he had left many creditors in the lurch, and finally he said:

"Who are you? Why should I give you money? What is your name?"

To these questions the mysterious stranger replied:

"Take care—you will know my name only too soon!"

Since then Laisangy had been very uneasy. Possibly his conscience was not quite clear. He now came to see this Fagiano in a state of rage, exasperated by the scene with Carmen, and the favorite of the Emperor now came to measure weapons with this stranger.

"Well, sir," said the banker, "this is the second time that you have seen fit to throw yourself in my path. Yesterday you addressed me in a fashion that savored of blackmail. What do you want? I do not know you, nor you me. I am a patient man, but even my patience has limits; and it may happen that I give my servants orders to throw you out of doors, neck and heels!"

The other, leaning with one elbow on the mantel, laughed aloud as he said:

"Ring, if you choose, my good fellow. There will then be a nice scandal!"

The banker's hand, even then on the bell, dropped at his side.

"Ah! I see you do not care for witnesses!"

Laisangy opened his lips to speak.

"And you are right, perhaps. Napoleon, who knew the world, said, 'It is always best to wash your dirty linen at home!' and we have—you and I—a tremendous wash on hand!"

Laisangy did not move; his eyes were fixed on the face of this man, to whom he could not give a name. He finally managed to say:

"I am not fond of mysteries. Who are you?"

"You do not know me, then?"

Fagiano laughed, and in this laugh was a certain ferocity.

"Give me two hundred thousand francs and you will never see me again!"

Laisangy answered with a certain dignity:

"I never give alms to strangers."

"Bless my soul!" cried Fagiano, "your manners are improving. You do not know my name, but I know yours, Monsieur Danglars!"

At this name the banker started back.

"You are mad!" he cried.

"Very well; but what would you say if at the Tuileries you heard yourself announced by your real name, Monsieur Danglars?"

Danglars, for it was he, drew a pistol from his pocket and presented it to Fagiano's breast. He with a quick blow struck it from the banker's hand. It fell on the floor and fortunately did not go off. Fagiano picked it up and drew the charge.

"Dangerous playthings and sad interruptions in a conversation," he said. "We can understand each other without this. And now, having gotten through with this melodramatic scene, I tell you that I shall not be content with less than five hundred thousand francs."

Danglars was utterly confounded. But presently, gathering himself together, he said:

"I am not intimidated by your threats. You can make what use you please of your knowledge, you share it with many others. No one cares."

"But I have more to say. I propose to reveal my own name to you. Can I so change that you do not recognize me?"

"I never saw you before."

"How does it happen, Monsieur Danglars, that you have a daughter of twenty when your wife was living fifteen years since? She had a daughter by you, and her name was not Carmen."

Danglars was disconcerted. He threw himself upon a chair.

"Go on," he said.

"Ah! you are beginning to understand me, are you? I know what I say, and will prove it to you. You, as a banker, enriched yourself in speculations, each more dishonorable than the other, and you encountered a man who crushed you like a worm under his heel. You fell, but you are of the kind that bounds, and to-day you are once more upon a pinnacle. You vegetated for years, until the moment came when you could once more seize fortune in your grasp. You are no longer Danglars the bankrupt and thief—you are Laisangy, respected and trusted. Know then that I have it in my power to throw you back into the mire from which you have struggled. I am ready to be your enemy or your accomplice, the choice is in your hands."

"Ah! I know you!" cried Danglars, throwing up his hands. "You are Andrea Cavalcanti. Yes, it is all coming back to me. You called yourself by a title to which you had no claim; you professed to have a fortune that had no existence, and you introduced yourself into my family. But the day came when the law interfered!"

"Ah! your memory is an excellent one!" Then relinquishing his sneer and his smile, he leaned toward Danglars. "I am Benedetto, the assassin; Benedetto, the convict. But that is not all. Are you acquainted with my father's name?"

"I heard of a scandalous suit, but I was not in France."

"No, you had fled. You were not here when, in the court-room, I flung my hatred and my loathing at the head of the Procureur du Roi—at the head of my father, Monsieur de Villefort. And do you know the name of my mother?"

"It was never given."

"I will tell it to you, nevertheless. She was Madame Danglars."

The banker started to his feet, his whole frame twitching nervously.

"It is not true! It is not true!" he cried.

"She was my mother, I tell you, and I punished her as she deserved, for I killed her!"

"Horrible! Horrible!" And the wretched man who listened to these words wrung his hands.

"Yes, and here is the proof."

Benedetto drew from his pocketbook the paper on which Sanselme had written the lines he had dictated.

"Read this," he said. "I was not alone; the witness is still living, and I can produce him if necessary."

Danglars had fallen back in his chair.

"Now then," continued Benedetto, "you know who I am, and you know, too, that I hesitate at nothing. Once more, will you obey me?"

"But what do you wish me to do?"

"In the first place, I want money. I am tired of poverty, and of the incessant perils which it forces me to run. You are rich. Make me rich."

"You shall have money."

"And much money. But this is not all."

Benedetto laid his hand on the shoulder of his companion.

"Have you forgotten," he said, in a stern voice, "the man who humiliated and tortured you? Do you feel no thirst for revenge?"

Danglars looked up quickly.

"That man," continued Benedetto, "was and is your evil genius, as well as mine. He tempted me. He launched me into a world where all my appetite for luxury was developed, then suddenly he sent me to a prison. You remember all the tortures he inflicted on you. Now it is in our power to heap on this man a vengeance so terrible that he will writhe at our feet. This vengeance I mean to have. Danglars, do you wish to see this man suffer? Then give me your hand, and we will work together."

Danglars murmured:

"It is impossible. Vengeance is sweet, but it can not be."

"Impossible!" sneered Benedetto. "We two will succeed, I swear to you."

"No, no, I am afraid of him!"

"Are you a child? Once more, Danglars, do you wish to be revenged on Monte-Cristo, if I can prove to you that you personally run no risk? I too am afraid of him. I too have thought for a long time that he was all-powerful and not to be reached. To-day I have discovered a fault in his armor, and intend that this man shall weep tears of blood. Once more, will you assist me?"

"Ah! if it were possible!" sighed Danglars.

"Listen to me a moment. This man has one immense passion, his love for his son, and it is through this love that we shall reach him. The Count of Monte-Cristo is invincible, you say. You forget that he has a son."

"The Vicomte Esperance!"

"To strike the son is to kill the father!"

"You are right—and I, like you, hate him!"

"Then join me, and we shall have a terrible revenge. I must have money, though, and you must swear to obey me blindly."

"And you say that we will crush Monte-Cristo?"

"I swear it!"

"Then," said Danglars, "I join you, for I hate him!"

And the two men shook hands in ratification of their oath.



CHAPTER LVI.

ESPERANCE, MONTE-CRISTO'S SON.

Now let us go back to Esperance. Three days have elapsed since Jane was borne into the hotel on the Champs-Elysees.

We find Madame Caraman deep in a conference with the person on whom she has more reliance than on any one else in the world, none other than herself! The good woman was lying on a sofa, listening to every sound which came from the room where Jane lay utterly prostrated.

"I don't know," said the old lady half aloud, "whether I am doing right or not. The Count begged me to look out for his son, and I have tried to do this. I have now accepted a new duty from the Vicomte, and for three days and nights I have been watching over this poor young girl. This is all very well. The Vicomte has requested me to keep the affair secret, even from his father, and I have consented. Here I am not sure that I have done wisely. The Count said: 'If you have any especial communication to make to me, you may go to Monsieur Fanfar.' That is clear enough. But if I obey the father I disobey the son!"

All these arguments failed to satisfy the good woman of the excellence of her cause, for she shook her head several times. She heard a long sigh, and ran to Jane's bed. The girl's face looked like wax, her eyelids had a brownish tinge. Her lips were parted with the sigh that her nurse had heard.

Poor Jane! Was she on the road to recovery? Alas! the physicians did not yet answer for her life. Goutran had, at the request of Esperance, brought two men of great science, but they agreed that the girl was in great danger.

When Madame leaned over her to give her the medicine, Jane seemed to be terribly frightened. The color rushed to her cheeks, and she panted for breath.

Suddenly her eyes opened wide, and she cried aloud:

"Ah! let me die—let me die!"

"My poor, dear child!" said Madame Caraman, kissing her tenderly on her brow, "you must not say that! Try to be calm and good."

But Jane did not listen to her. She seemed to be haunted by some terrible spectre. Delirium has some astonishing resurrections. She struggled so fiercely in the arms of her nurse that Madame, who had been told to summon Esperance at any moment, leaned forward and touched a bell.

In a moment the Vicomte appeared. Oh! how pale and hollow-eyed he was! As he entered, Jane fell back among her pillows, covering her face with her hands.

"What is it?" asked Esperance.

"Only a little more fever, sir, but I feared an accident, and called you."

"You did right, and I thank you."

He took the girl's hands gently in his. At his touch tears sprang to Jane's closed eyes, and a little shiver passed over her whole body.

"She is calmer now," said Madame, "and I am almost sorry that I have disturbed you."

"No—I am very glad you did. You must be very weary. Lie down, and I will stay here until dawn."

"No—I am old, I do not require much sleep, while you——"

Esperance sat on the foot of the bed, holding Jane's slender hands.

"Do you think," he said gently, "that I can sleep while she is suffering? Go, I beg of you—I will call you soon."

Madame still resisted a little, perhaps for form's sake, but finally obeyed his wishes. The young man then sank on his knees, still holding Jane's hands.

They remained thus, silent and motionless. From the touch of the Vicomte's hand Jane seemed to experience profound relief. Is it not certain that between two persons a certain magnetic communication may take place—an electric fluid may pass from one to the other, making the two momentarily one?

Esperance bowed his head and pressed his lips on Jane's hand. Then the young girl opened her eyes. The fever was gone. Her glorious eyes had regained all their softness, and her pulse beat more regularly.

"Jane! Jane!" whispered the young man. It seemed to him that he felt a gentle pressure of her fingers. "You hear me?" he said. "Will you allow me to remain near you? If you only knew how much I suffer in seeing your sufferings, and how gladly I would spare you a pang!" Again the little quivering pressure.

"When I saw you the other night it did not seem to me that it was the first time. I felt as if I had seen you in my dreams. Jane, why did you wish to die?"

Was she listening? Did she hear him? A delicious torpor had taken possession of the girl. She thought she was dreaming, and was afraid to move lest she should awaken. The past seemed far away.

He continued:

"Jane, before I saw you I did not live. I was always sad. What did it matter to me the luxury with which I was surrounded? I have always felt singularly alone, my life was incomplete. But now I feel as if it were well rounded. You have suffered, but now all that is over. You will tell me all, because we are to have no secrets from each other. We will leave Paris, and find some quiet retreat together."

She did not speak, but from under her half-closed eyes a tear stole down her cheek. Esperance kissed the tear away. She smiled faintly, and then fell into a sweet sleep. Seeing this, Esperance rose and softly left the room.

In the ante-room Madame Caraman lay asleep on the sofa. Esperance smiled, but as he knew that Jane was safe, he did not arouse her nurse.

He went to his room. Hardly had the sound of his footsteps died away than the portiere is lifted in yonder corner, and a dark form appears. It was a man. His face was hidden by a black vail. In his hand was a white handkerchief and a glass bottle. He stole to the bed so softly that not a sound was heard.

Who is this man? It was thus that Monte-Cristo once entered the room of Valentine de Villefort. But this was not Monte-Cristo. As he reached the bed he extended his arm and held to the girl's face the handkerchief, from which exhaled a blue vapor.

Jane was breathing naturally. Suddenly her whole form quivered, then came immobility. Her limbs straighten, the rose fades from her cheek, her brow becomes like marble. The man lifted the inert form in his arms, and slowly, with infinite precautions, he moved toward the portiere, which he pushes aside and disappears.

Ah! Madame Caraman, ah! Esperance, you little know what is going on!

This man is Benedetto. His revenge has begun!

And in that empty room there is now no other sound than the ticking of the clock.



CHAPTER LVII.

THEY MUST BE SAVED!

My readers have not forgotten the romantic episode that followed Jane's suicide. How happened it that our old friends Fanfar and Bobichel were near and able to save the life of Sanselme?

It is a very simple matter. Monte-Cristo had said to Fanfar, "I trust my son to you. You love me, love him, also. Be to him what you have been to me."

"Rely on me," Fanfar said, and Monte-Cristo went away, confiding in himself, in everything, and still more in the strange fatality which had always served him.

Fanfar kept his word. He watched everything that Esperance did. He had been told, also, not to permit this surveillance to be suspected unless some real danger made it necessary to disclose it.

The evening that Esperance went to Goutran's, Fanfar, accompanied by the inseparable Bobichel, had seen the young man enter his friend's house, he had seen him place Jane in the carriage, and finally had watched him walk away with Goutran.

Could there be anything more reassuring? Fanfar thought not, and in a state of perfect satisfaction they walked along the left shore of the Seine, where Fanfar had a little house in the Rue Bellechasse.

They were talking earnestly, when they heard loud cries for aid. They instantly plunged into the river and swam in the direction of the cries.

They were successful in their efforts, and saved the lives of both the man and the woman. Sanselme, however, had a brain fever, and the woman, Fanfar discovered, was insane. With her it was a passing delirium. Fanfar was greatly puzzled to know what to do with her. Who was she? Whence came she? There was nothing about her person which would elucidate the mystery. It was possible that she had escaped from some hospital, and Fanfar went to the Prefecture to make inquiries, but no such disappearance was registered there.

Fanfar naturally felt that there must be some connection between these two persons. Some frightful tragedy had been enacted. But he also felt that absolute secrecy was due the two unfortunates, till at last it was plain that there was no danger in revealing the adventure.

Days elapsed. Sanselme had terrible attacks of frenzy, and the woman, when she was able to move, had risen from her bed and gone to the door of her room, where she stood with terror and anguish imprinted on every feature, and if any one entered the room she would press both hands on her breast and utter a terrible shriek.

Finally Fanfar's wife had called him to see a scar on the breast of the unfortunate creature. She had certainly received a terrible wound, but when and where? The scar was not a new one.

Fanfar had sent Bobichel to the Vicomte's, for he had reproached himself that he had neglected Esperance in his interest for these two strangers. He sat near Sanselme's bed, and in the next room the mad woman was asleep, crouching on the floor near the door.

Fanfar looked at the man before him, and his unerring instinct told him that this livid, worn face had known not only great sorrow, but terrible remorse.

Sanselme said something. Fanfar leaned over him to hear more distinctly.

"My daughter; dead! dead!"

And these words were repeated over and over again. What did this mean? The woman Sanselme had saved was older than he; she could not be his daughter.

Fanfar said in distinct but soothing tones, "You have a daughter? You have lost her?"

"Yes, my Jane!"

Sanselme flung himself from one side of the bed to the other in intense agony, and Fanfar asked question after question. He could not tear from the man the smallest information.

Having taken a sedative the sick man fell asleep, but it was plain that his dreams were troubled. Fanfar took up a book, when he heard the door-bell, and Bobichel suddenly appeared all out of breath. He dropped on a chair, and seemed to be in great trouble.

"What is the matter?" asked Fanfar.

"Oh! such a dreadful thing has happened to Monte-Cristo's son!"

"To the Vicomte!" cried Fanfar, leaping from his chair. He seized Bobichel's arm rather roughly, and shaking it, cried, "Will you speak?"

"Yes, master, but I don't know how to tell you that the Vicomte has gone away."

"Gone away, and what of that?"

"But he has disappeared!"

"Who says so?"

"Old Madame Caraman and Coucon."

Fanfar passed his hand over his troubled brow. "My dear old friend," he said, "take pity on me, and tell me all you know; do not compel me to ask so many questions."

"Well, then, listen. You as well as I, became a little anxious because we had heard nothing of Monsieur Esperance for so long. I have found out that the night of the soiree, while we were saving those two old people in there, he was also doing something of the same kind."

"Did he not go home then, as we supposed?"

"Not he! He did not go home for over two hours, then he and Monsieur Goutran had a person with them who had been wounded—a young girl—she had been shot!"

"What preposterous tale is this?"

"It is true, sir. I did not believe it myself, at first, and as I felt sure you would doubt the story, I took the liberty of bringing the witnesses with me. Caraman and Coucon are here, sir."

"Oh! Bobichel, why could you not have said this before? Let me see them at once, and I swear that I will get at the truth!"

Fanfar, in addition to his impatience, felt a certain remorse. If any accident happened to Esperance he felt in a measure responsible.

Caraman and Coucon came in. They were in great trouble.

"My good friends," said Fanfar, taking Madame's hand. She was sobbing fit to break her heart, while Coucon was gnawing the ends of his moustache, in order not to imitate her example. "My good friends, I do not yet believe that what Bobichel tells me is true. He says that the Vicomte has disappeared."

"Yes, sir," growled Coucon.

"Then, Madame Caraman, this is no time for tears. Tears remedy nothing, and we must have all our wits about us."

Madame held out her arms to Fanfar, as she fell on her knees before him.

"I am the one in fault, and I shall never forgive myself."

"Pray tell me the whole."

"I have broken all my promises in not sending to you before, and yet all the time I had a presentiment of evil."

She wept and sobbed to such a degree that Fanfar could scarcely understand her, but he finally managed to soothe her. She had little to explain, however. She told how Esperance and Goutran had come in late at night, and brought with them a young girl who had been wounded by a pistol shot, and who seemed to be dying. How she herself had watched over this girl night and day. She told how, in obedience to the Vicomte, she had gone to lie down, being very weary and sleepy.

"I can't say how it happened," she sighed. "I had been greatly fatigued. I only meant to rest, not to sleep, but when I opened my eyes it was broad daylight. I jumped up, and ran to the door and listened, but all was silent; then I stole to the bed, I thought she was asleep, of course. Suddenly it occurred to me that the silence was too profound. I tore open the curtain, the bed was empty. At first I thought the girl might have been carried to some other room, she was too weak to walk, you understand, and perhaps Coucon had helped, so I went to him and he rubbed his eyes and yawned."

"Madame Caraman!" exclaimed Coucon.

"Yes, you did, and were as stupid as possible. At all events, he had heard nothing, seen nothing. Then I took it into my head that the Vicomte had taken her away. And—and—I can't tell you what I thought, but did not like to go to the Vicomte. I knew if she was in his room, that he would not like any one to know it. This was an infamous thought on my part, for she is a good girl, I am sure."

"Pray, go on with your story, my dear lady," said Fanfar, with a shade of impatience. "We are losing a great deal of precious time."

"You are right! Well, I finally decided to go to the Vicomte's door. He was sitting at the table studying some books on medicine, and I told him. Oh! how sorry I was for him. I had no idea that he would care, but he became deadly pale, and thrusting me aside, a little rudely I must confess, he ran to the room I had just left, and when he found I had told him the simple truth he went nearly crazy. Even if, as I first thought might be the case, the girl had an attack of delirium, she could not have opened the window, besides it was fastened inside. The doors were all bolted too. I did not know what to think. Monsieur Esperance was in such a rage that I don't like to think of him. But after all he was right, I had no business to sleep in that way."

"Go on; tell me about Esperance. When did he go away?"

"We have not seen him since last evening. He put his hat on his head, and went out without saying a word to us."

Fanfar reflected.

"You have no idea where he went?"

"Not the slightest. Oh! what will the Count say to us!"

"You have been very imprudent, but there is no use in recriminations. We must look for Esperance at once. Do you know how the girl was wounded?"

"No, but Monsieur Goutran does."

"I will go to him immediately."

"Oh! we have been there, and he has gone away for the day. Here is a little bag which we found in the young lady's room, and it may tell you something."

And Madame, as she spoke, handed Fanfar one of those little morocco bags so much in vogue to be hung at the belt. Fanfar opened the bag, and found a letter without address.

"We must look at this," he said.

The letter was only a few lines of thanks written to the young girl by Goutran, when she consented to sing at his soiree. The note began with the words "Miss Jane!"

"Miss Jane!" cried Fanfar, a sudden recollection flashing over him.

To this cry there was a response. The door opened, and Sanselme tottered in.

"Jane! Jane! Did you say Jane?"

Fanfar ran to his assistance.

"Don't trouble yourself about me," cried Sanselme. "Tell me, did I hear you speak the name of Jane?"

"That is certainly the name on this note," answered Fanfar, extending the paper in his hand, which Sanselme snatched from him.

"Yes, it is hers. It is my dau—" He stopped even in his delirium he had strength to conceal his secret. "It is Jane's," he added.

"Then you know this girl?" Fanfar asked, excitedly.

"Do I know her? Was it not she who wished to die? Was it not she whom I rescued?"

"No, calm yourself. You are mistaken. You must try and tell me what I wish to know. Terrible dangers threaten those whom perhaps we both love."

"Is Jane in danger?" asked Sanselme, frantically. "Let me go! I must leave this place at once."

He started from his chair, but his strength failed him, and if Fanfar had not caught him he would have fallen.

"Ah!" he half sobbed, "I might have known it! That wretch Benedetto is always a signal of misfortune to me."

"Who speaks of Benedetto!" said a hoarse voice.

Every one started. Before them stood the mad woman in torn and shabby garments, with her white hair in disorder. And as Sanselme looked up he saw her. A terrible cry escaped from his lips, and he recoiled with staring eyes riveted on the spectre before him.

"It is she!" he murmured. "The dead, it seems, are permitted to revisit the earth!"

The woman slowly approached Sanselme, and looked at him closely. She came so near that she could touch him, and then with a wild laugh, she screamed:

"The convict! Yes, it is he!"

And then, shuddering from head to foot, she repeated, "Benedetto! Who speaks of Benedetto?"

"What does all this mean?" asked Fanfar.

"I will tell you," said Sanselme, averting his eyes. "Yes, it is true, I am an escaped convict. This woman is right, but I never did her any harm. Look at me, woman! Tell me, was it I who struck you?"

The mad woman tore away the rags that covered the terrible scar on her breast.

"Oh! how it hurts," she said, moaning, "and how hot my head is."

"But who did it?"

The woman in a frightened whisper, answered:

"It was Benedetto—my son!"

A cry of horror escaped from every heart.

"Yes," exclaimed Sanselme, "and the wretch still lives. He assassinated his mother, and by what miracle she escaped, I know not. He—this Benedetto—is to-day in Paris. He has come to avenge himself on Monte-Cristo."

Fanfar questioned Sanselme, who avowed everything except that Jane was his daughter. He would not have admitted this had he been threatened with the guillotine. Fanfar listened attentively.

"It is as clear as day to me," he said, at last, "that all this is Benedetto's work. Therefore we will first find him, and of him we will demand an account of this new crime. Sanselme, you have been a great criminal. Are you ready to prove your repentance?"

"I will obey you in whatsoever you order. Save Jane, no matter what becomes of me."

"Then all of you will make ready for the fray. I will summon the Count of Monte-Cristo, as it was agreed I should do in case of danger. He will be here in three days, and we must be able to say to him that we have saved his son."

"Yes, we must say that," cried the Zouave, "or Coucon will be dead."

"To work then," said Fanfar, rising. "Sanselme, come into my cabinet, there are several questions I wish to ask. But first, who is this woman?"

"Benedetto never told me," answered Sanselme.

Fanfar went to the mad woman, who was crouching near the door.

"Who are you?" he said. "What is your name?"

She laughed in a stupid way.

"I have no name, I am dead!"



CHAPTER LVIII.

GOUTRAN AND CARMEN.

Goutran was really in love, although for a time his attention had been distracted by the strange affair of Jane Zeld. But now that calm was in a measure restored, Goutran thought of Carmen with quickened pulse. He no longer hesitated. He resolved to write to a millionaire uncle of his who spent his last days hunting wolves in the Ardennes, and beg him to come up and lay his proposal before the banker. He told Esperance what he meant to do, and the Vicomte encouraged the plan.

When he had come to this conclusion, he was astonished to find that the same indecision again attacked him. Why did he hesitate? He would have been at a loss to say. He determined, however, on one of two things, either to ask Carmen's hand or never see her again. He had been with Esperance for forty-eight hours, encouraging him and ministering to Jane, and now he felt the need of fresh air. He walked toward Saint Cloud, softly saying to himself among the green trees:

"I love her! I love her!"

On his return the decision was made. He would write to his uncle the next day. As he entered the hotel, the concierge said to him mysteriously:

"There was a lady here, sir."

"A lady! What lady?"

"Ah! sir, that I can't say. My discretion was too great to permit me to ask her name. I think she is young and pretty, though she was heavily vailed. She asked for you, and when I told her you were out she looked embarrassed, and finally drew from her pocket a little note which she had prepared. She gave it to me, saying it was very urgent."

"A note! Where is it? You should have given it to me at once."

"Oh! it is safe, sir, in my davenport."

A concierge with a davenport! What is the world coming to, thought Goutran.

Finally the good man produced the paper in question, rose colored and perfumed. Goutran tore it open, but did not read it until he reached his own room. The address was in delicate, long letters, the result of lessons from an English master. Who could have sent it? He did not know the writing. But when he glanced at the signature he with difficulty refrained from a cry of surprise. The note was signed, "Carmen de L——." These were its contents:

"MONSIEUR GOUTRAN—or will you allow me to call you my friend—I must see you at once on matters of vast importance. To-night, at eleven o'clock, I shall expect you. Ring at the side door of the hotel; my maid will be in attendance. Do not fail, for you and those you love are in danger."

Goutran was amazed. What did these mysterious lines mean? And of whom did Carmen speak when she said "those you love"? He was greatly disturbed, but he was not the man to hesitate.

At ten o'clock he was already walking up and down a street which commanded a view of the Hotel Laisangy, but he felt none of the emotion natural to a lover going to a rendezvous. He had a feeling of strange oppression. Finally the clock struck eleven. The side door was on the Rue Saint Honore. Goutran was about to ring the bell, when the door was opened and a hand was laid on his.

"Come this way," said a woman's voice.

It was the curious maid whom we have already seen. She was enchanted, feeling sure that it was a lover she admitted. The stairs were carpeted and dimly lighted. Presently he entered Carmen's boudoir, but she was not there.

"I will notify the young lady," said the maid, with one of those knowing smiles that tell so much.

Goutran was standing with his hat in his hand when Carmen entered. She was very simply dressed in black. Her beautiful face was very pale. Her blonde hair looked like burnished gold. She extended her hand as he advanced with a profound bow.

"Many thanks," she said, "for having come. I hardly dared expect you."

"Why did you doubt me? Did you suppose that I could be deaf to such a mark of confidence?"

Carmen smiled sadly.

"Yes," she said, "I do feel entire confidence in you, a confidence that is most real."

She seated herself and motioned him to a chair, and with her large eyes fixed on her companion, was silent for a minute. At last she said, abruptly:

"Monsieur Goutran, do you love me?"

At this most unexpected question, Goutran started.

"Yes," he answered, gravely. "I love you, and I feel a devotion for you which is, perhaps, better than love."

Carmen's long lashes rested on her burning cheeks.

"Your words are sweeter to me than you can well imagine. By and by you will understand me better. I need your affection, and I need your assistance, but I am about to put your interest in me to a very severe test."

"You have but to express your wishes," said Goutran.

Carmen waited. Evidently she had not strength to go on with her explanation.

"Listen to me," she resumed. "I owe you a declaration which will remove every possibility of a misunderstanding between us. A few days ago, when on the terrace of your house my hands rested in yours, I fully realized that, so far as you were concerned, a tacit engagement from that moment existed between us."

"From that moment," interrupted Goutran, "I felt that if you would accept my hand and name——"

"And yet you did not apply to Monsieur Laisangy?" said Carmen, gently.

"Did you doubt me? I did not dare."

"And you were right, for, Monsieur Goutran, I can never be your wife!"

Goutran rose quickly.

"Was it to break my heart that you summoned me here to-night?" he cried.

"I can never be your wife," repeated Carmen, "because only an unstained woman should bear your name!"

Goutran turned deadly pale.

"And I," she continued, "am not such a woman!"

"Ah! Mademoiselle, I cannot understand you."

"Listen to me. Every word I speak I have thoroughly weighed, and I understand my duty. I hope my frankness will at least win your esteem, and possibly your pity."

"My pity! Ah! Carmen, for God's sake do not say such things!"

"I have not finished. Goutran, I love you, deeply and sincerely. Your character, your talents, all inspire me, for the first time in my life, with those sentiments which tend to elevate us. Before knowing you I passed through life knowing little, and caring little, of what was right or what was wrong."

Tears were now pouring down her cheeks.

"I am not the daughter," she sobbed, "I am not the daughter, I am the friend, of Monsieur de Laisangy!"

A pained exclamation broke from Goutran's breast, and he hid his face in his hands. He felt as if a dagger had struck him in the heart.

"Yes," continued Carmen, with a smile of contempt, "this old man, for reasons of his own, insisted on my bearing his name. Do not condemn me too greatly," she continued, "I was not sixteen when I fell into the trap that this man laid for me. Think of it!"

"The miserable scoundrel!"

"Yes, he ruined me, body and soul! All the finer instincts of my nature he sneered at. He taught me to despise everything—himself, myself! For five long years I endured this martyrdom. When we reached Paris, he added another wrong to those he had already inflicted on me. He compelled me to profane the sacred name of father, and yet I did not realize my shame until the day I met you. I sat to you for my portrait, and as you talked I felt a whole new world opening before me. I knew then, for the first time, that I was unworthy of the love of an honest man. Ah! Goutran, how I have suffered in loving you!"

And the poor girl sank on her knees, a very Magdalen.

Goutran laid his hand on her head.

"Carmen, these avowals prove to me that I was not wrong in thinking you the best and the most adorable woman in the world!"

"You do not loathe me, then?"

"Have I any right to be your judge? I have certainly received a sad shock."

He lifted her to a chair.

"If you have made me this terrible confidence it is because you wish to give me a proof of your great confidence in me. I shall be worthy of it, be sure of that. And now, tell me what you wish."

Carmen lifted her sad eyes to his.

"How good you are!" she said, quietly. "But you are right. Now you will not doubt my motives nor me?"

"I swear that I will believe every syllable you utter!"

Carmen, after a few moments' consideration, said:

"You are very fond of this young Monte-Cristo?"

"Certainly I am. He is one of the noblest fellows I ever met. But why do you speak of him?"

"Because it was to speak of him that I summoned you here to-night. Your friend, Goutran, is in great danger, as are you—and myself, too."

"Danger!"

"We must find some means of avoiding it, but your enemies——"

"I have no enemies!"

"Yes, and Monsieur de Laisangy is one of them."

"That scoundrel!"

"Yes, and he is worse than I supposed, and the other foe is—but did you notice an Italian here, the secretary of the Italian Count?"

"Yes—his name was Fagiano."

"He calls himself Fagiano, but that is not his real name."

"Who is he, then?"

"I cannot say. But listen. For some time I have hated and loathed Laisangy. I felt that he was a greater criminal towards others than myself, and as my conscience began to stir, I felt my suspicions daily increase. At your soiree I noticed that this man whom I called father started and turned pale when he heard the name of Monte-Cristo, and then he invented some pretext to leave the room."

"I remember," said Goutran.

"Then, when we were on the terrace—" Carmen hesitated. There were memories connected with that terrace which she did not care to approach.

Goutran said, kindly:

"Go on, dear child."

"I do not know if you remember as well as myself a dispute which we, in a measure, overheard. I recognized Laisangy's voice, and the disconnected words confirmed my suspicions. Early the next morning I sent for him and questioned him very closely, and in a most peremptory manner. In the midst of our animated discussion a card was brought in. This Signor Fagiano had called to see Monsieur de Laisangy.

"I heard no more of him, saw no more of him, until yesterday, when, as I entered the hotel, I saw Fagiano coming in. I at once ran into Laisangy's private office, and reached it first, where I hid in a closet, ready to listen to every word. Do not reprove me. All means are lawful when dangers threaten those you love, and some instinct taught me that I should learn something of you and the Vicomte."

Goutran kissed Carmen's hand as his sole reply.

"The two men came in a moment or two, and I at once learned from the first words they uttered that they were associates in some crime. What it is I know not, but Fagiano said:

"'I have done it, and now our vengeance is certain. But I need money.'

"'I have already told you that I would give it to you. Here is what you want. And now, what do you mean to do?'

"'She is in my power now, and I shall soon have him, too.'

"'No imprudence! We must not be compromised.'

"'I am hardly foolish enough for that. I will torture Monte-Cristo's son, but not in a way that the law can reach!'

"'Let him be tortured! Let him pay for all the agony his father has inflicted on me!'

"'You shall be satisfied!'

"The two men then walked away still talking, but in such low voices that I could not hear. I rushed from my hiding-place and hastened to my room. I had learned little, it is true; but what I heard had opened wide and fearful possibilities. I knew Monsieur de Laisangy, and knew that he would stop at nothing. It would be useless for me to interfere openly, and then I thought of you."

"And you we're right in sending for me. In your recital, however, there are many points that are obscure. Thank you for warning me. You asked me, a few moments since, if I loved Esperance. I look upon him as my brother, and I would give my life to spare him a pang."

"But of whom did the man speak when he said, 'she is in my power'?"

"I do not venture to say; but in an hour we shall know."

The young man turned toward the door. Carmen came to his side and gave him her hand. He drew her to his breast.

"You have hurt me, Carmen, but I respect you more than ever, and I love you!"

"Ah!" she said, passionately, "those words from your lips have made me your slave. I belong to you from this moment! I will mount guard over the enemy, and we will work together!"



CHAPTER LIX.

UPON THE TRACK.

Goutran left Carmen's room, his brain all in a whirl. It was late, but the young man knew not too late to go to the Vicomte's. Throwing himself into a carriage, he drove to the hotel in the Champs Elysees. He was amazed to find it in total darkness, and when he asked for the Vicomte, was surprised at the embarrassed manner of the Swiss, as well as to hear that Esperance was out, without leaving word when he would return.

"And Madame Caraman and Coucon?"

"They are out too, sir."

While Goutran was thus impatiently questioning the man, a carriage stopped, from which descended Fanfar, Sanselme, Coucon and Madame Caraman.

"Ah! Monsieur Goutran!" exclaimed Fanfar, "I have just been to your rooms, and am thankful to meet you here. I am anxious to consult with you."

"You know, then, what is going on?" cried Goutran.

"I think I do; but let us go up-stairs; before we begin the fray, it is well to understand the battlefield, and to become familiar with it."

As he said this, Fanfar entered the vestibule, but the Swiss hurried after him.

"But, sir," he said, in some confusion, "in the absence of the Count and his son, I really cannot—"

"Shut yourself up in your room, and pay no heed to what is going on here," Fanfar replied, sternly, showing, as he spoke, a ring that he wore on his finger.

It belonged to Monte-Cristo, and had been entrusted to Fanfar by the Count when he went away. This ring was well known to every one of the Count's people. The man bowed low.

"I beg your pardon, sir. Shall I call the footman?"

"No; and on your life do not admit a living creature. You understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

They ascended the stairs and entered the large rooms one after the other. When the Vicomte's cabinet was entered, it was found all in disorder.

"The Vicomte, you see, has taken his pistols," said Coucon.

"What time did the Vicomte go?" asked Fanfar.

"I know not," answered Coucon, "and Madame was weeping so bitterly that she was of little use."

Fanfar was annoyed that he could elicit so little, knowing well that if Monte-Cristo were there his eagle eye would have discovered something.

"Send me the porter," he said.

And when the man appeared, he asked at what hour the Vicomte went out last. The man, in some confusion, replied that he did not see him go out.

"You were absent from your post, then?"

"No, sir, I was not. I was not away for one moment yesterday."

"And you saw every one who came in and went out?"

"Yes, sir. The Vicomte did go out, but he came in again."

"Came in!" cried Madame and Coucon, together.

"Yes; it was about an hour after that, when you came and told me he had disappeared. I thought that he might have gone out, and I not heeded it."

"And may not this have been so?" asked Fanfar. "If the Vicomte is not in the hotel, he must have gone out, you know."

"I beg to observe, sir, that the Vicomte might have gone out by the small door which communicates directly with his apartment; but every night when I shut up the house I bolt that door, and it is still bolted; so that my young master did not go that way. It is possible, of course, that he could have passed my door without my seeing him. I can't always answer for myself; but I have proof that he did not do this."

"What is your proof?"

"Every night I fasten the great door with a chain and padlock and take the key. If any one wishes to go out in the night he must call me. As soon as the Vicomte came in I put up this chain. I assure you, sir, that I am speaking the truth. At first I was troubled and afraid I had been careless, but since I have collected my ideas, I am sure that I have nothing to reproach myself with."

"Do you mean to say, then," cried Coucon, "that the Vicomte walked through the wall?"

"It is very strange," said Fanfar, thoughtfully. "And now, my friends," he added, turning to Coucon and Madame, "you may leave me here with Monsieur Goutran."

"And with me?" added Bobichel.

"You can stay, if you will. I may need you."

"But, Monsieur Fanfar," said poor Madame, "I think we, too, are good for something. You ought not to send us away."

The poor woman was greatly distressed.

"Oh! I have something for you to do. Examine the garden carefully, and if you see the smallest thing that is unusual, come to me instantly."

"There won't be a corner in which I shall not put my nose, be sure of that!" cried Coucon.

"Oh! if the Count were only here!" sighed Madame.

Fanfar was alone with Bobichel and Goutran.

"Have you anything to suggest?" he said, suddenly turning to Goutran. "Do you know of any secret egress from this hotel?"

"None whatever," answered the artist.

"And yet you will observe that the girl was not carried away by either of the doors that are known, and she is gone!"

"I did not think of that! There is unquestionably some issue known only to the Count."

"Alas! the Count's enemies know it, also," answered Fanfar.

"Let us go to the room that the girl was in—"

"I was about to make that proposal. Now is the time, Bobichel," said Fanfar, turning to the former clown, "to see if we cannot regain a little of our cleverness."

"I am ready, even to go through the eye of a needle, if it be necessary!" answered Bobichel.

Goutran took a candle and led the way. When they reached Jane's room Fanfar took up a position in the centre of it, examined the ceiling, the floor and the walls. Then Bobichel explored every inch of the floor, which was covered with a thick carpet. But nothing could be found.

"This is most extraordinary," murmured Fanfar, "and yet I am convinced that I am on the track."

Suddenly Bobichel uttered an exclamation. "Here is something, master!"

Fanfar and Goutran hastened to him. In one of the silk folds of the hanging on the wall there was a bit of white lace, evidently torn from something.

"I recognize that," said Goutran. "I ordered the peignoirs she required, for we did not wish to admit any one into our secrets; and that lace trimmed one of the peignoirs."

"And now we have it!" shouted Bobichel, inserting the blade of his knife in one of the plaits of the silk.

Fanfar said hastily, "It is an iron door, and there must be a spring. Let us try, each of us, and feel over the whole wall, if it is necessary."

They went to work, and presently Bobichel was lucky enough to press a little knob. A panel slowly opened, and a puff of warm air came full in the eager faces of the anxious men. With the light of their candles they saw a well-finished passage and two or three stairs; it was too dark to see more.

"This is the way that Jane was abducted, and this is the way that Esperance went. Let us see where it goes." And Fanfar started first.

Hardly had they reached the stairs than they heard the iron door close behind them. In spite of all their courage, they shuddered. Had the door shut of itself, or had it been closed by some invisible enemy? They turned back hastily, but there was not the smallest sign to be seen of door or spring.

"What had we best do?" asked Goutran, uneasily.

Fanfar reflected a moment. "As we cannot go back, let us hasten forward with all possible speed. We will find the way out."

"Or we will make one!" cried Bobichel.

The three friends started once more, Bobichel in front, holding a heavy bronze candelabra.



CHAPTER LX.

ESPERANCE IN DESPAIR.

It was indeed by this mysterious path that Esperance had gone. When he heard that Jane was not to be found, he at first could hardly comprehend what was said. He ran to Jane's room and looked about, then scarce knowing what he did, he left the house and then returned to it, after having wandered over Paris for two or three hours. No one noticed his pallor when he entered the hotel. He went to Jane's room again, and there, lying back in a low chair, he looked about with sad eyes.

Suddenly he saw a panel slowly open in the wall. He was not afraid. Esperance did not know the sensation, and now he simply expected some revelation. He instantly knew that this was the path by which Jane had been taken away. He rose and entered the dark corridor. He had no light, and the door at once closed behind him; but he had inherited his father's singular power of seeing in the dark.

He discovered the stairs, and began to descend them. He went on and on, and then another corridor, and then more stairs. Finally he reached a door, which he opened, and entered a large room hung with silk. It was one of the houses which had been so useful to Monte-Cristo years before. The path by which Esperance had come crossed the Champs Elysees under ground, and communicated with this house.

All was magnificent, but Esperance saw nothing. Nothing but a lacquer table on which lay a letter. This letter contained the words, "If the son of Monte-Cristo be not a coward, if he wishes to find her whom he has lost, he will go from here to a certain Malvernet, who lives at Courberrie. There he will learn what he wishes to know, and will act as he deems best."

Esperance was delighted. He did not stop to think of the singularity of finding this note in this place. What did he care for this mystery that surrounded him? He had found Jane Zeld, or rather he had found traces of her. He went to the chimney to look at the clock, for he had lost all idea of time, and happening to see his own face in the mirror, he could not repress a start. He looked to himself at least ten years older than when he last stood before a mirror. He wondered at himself, when he remembered his father, whose youth seemed eternal, in spite of the trials through which he had passed. When he went out from the hotel the first time he had mechanically put in his pocket a pair of revolvers—he had them now.



CHAPTER LXI.

ESPERANCE GOES TO COURBERRIE.

Twenty years since Courberrie was very far from what it is to-day. The houses were scattered and much fewer. Along the Seine extended deserted fields, against which the sullen tide rose and fell. In one of these fields stood an old wooden house which was not inhabited, for both wind and rain penetrated its roof and walls. On this especial night, however, any one familiar with the locality would have been astonished to see a light gleam through the worm-eaten shutters. In one room was a chair and a table. On the table was a lamp, but there was no other furniture.

Pacing the room, and occasionally stopping to listen to the storm that shook the old house like the bones of a skeleton, was a man—a reddish beard covered half his face. He was dressed in black, and had thrown a cloak and broad-brimmed hat on the table.

"Will he come?" he muttered, "will the long-expected hour ever strike?"

A slight sound was heard without. The dry branches crackled; the man started, then snatched his hat and pulled it well down over his forehead. The hand that was hidden in the folds of the cloak which he threw over his shoulders, held a dagger.

"I won't use it, though!" he said aloud, "his sufferings would be too brief!"

There came a knock at the door.

"Does a man named Malvernet live here?" asked a voice.

"Yes, come in," and the door was thrown wide open.

Esperance entered.

"What do you want of me? I am Malvernet," said a gruff voice.

Esperance looked about the room. The man was alone, and Esperance knew that he could defend himself.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked.

"No. I was told to wait for a man here, who would come. I have done as I was bidden, that is all."

"I will tell you then. I am Esperance, the son of the Count of Monte-Cristo. I am rich, so rich that I do not myself know how much I have. Now if you obey me faithfully, I will make you so rich that every wish you have will be realized."

A sneer was on Malvernet's lips.

"You offer me money, do you, and why? Tell me what you want of me?"

"Scoundrels entered my house in the night—"

"And robbed you?"

"Yes, they robbed me of a treasure—a treasure for which I would give all else I have in the world. They carried away a young girl whom I love."

"And the girl's name?"

"Jane. And now I wish you to take me to her."

"And if I refuse?"

"I will kill you!" answered Esperance, coldly.

The other began to laugh noisily.

"No," he said, "you will not kill me! You know that if you did that, with me would disappear every trace of her whom you love, and you would say to yourself, if he refuses to-day he may yield to-morrow. You see, son of Monte-Cristo, that your threats are preposterous and can't frighten me."

"Then you refuse to do as I ask?"

"By no means. Only I wish to prove to you that these grand airs are simply foolish. You need me, but I do not need you. The game is not equal!"

"You are right," said Esperance, "and I ask your pardon."

The eyes of Benedetto—for it was Benedetto—flashed with triumph to see the son of his enemy thus humble. He had him in his power now and could kill him if he pleased, but death would not have assuaged his thirst for vengeance.

"All right," he said, "I was a little provoked with you, but I will help you now."

Esperance uttered an exclamation of thankfulness.

"Then let us hasten. When I have found Jane, ask me for my life if you choose."

Benedetto opened the door.

"Go on, sir, I will follow you."

And as they went out, Benedetto muttered:

"You little know what you say. Your life is indeed mine, and I mean to have it."

The night was excessively dark, but Esperance felt neither rain nor wind; his fever was so great that he was not cold.

Ah! Monte-Cristo, where are you? Here is your son rushing into the most terrible danger, and you far away!

Through the darkness Esperance followed Benedetto the assassin. Suddenly it seemed to him that the obscurity was rent away like a vail.

"Where are we?" he said to his guide.

"On the bank of the Seine. We have not far to go. Are you afraid?"

Esperance did not reply to this insulting question.

"Go on!" he said.

Presently they stopped before a dark building. Not a light was to be seen. Benedetto turned to the son of Monte-Cristo.

"This is the place to which I agreed to bring you."

"Do you mean that my beloved Jane is in this house?"

"She is here."

"I cannot believe it. The whole thing is a plot!"

"Will you kindly tell me, sir," said Benedetto, "why I should take the trouble to come all this way? A half hour since we were together where no human eye could see us, nor human ear hear us. What would have prevented my attacking you then, had my intentions been sinister?"

"That is true; but tell me that you are mistaken—that my poor Jane is not here!"

At this moment shrill laughter and ribald songs came from the house near which Esperance stood.

"Let us go in!" cried the Vicomte. "Jane must not stay here one other minute."

"Come, then," answered Benedetto, "you shall be satisfied."

He opened the door, but it was as dark within as without. Esperance heard the door close; he spoke, but there was no answer. He stretched out his arms and felt the wall, and instantly his eyes regained their peculiar facility of sight. He was alone in a small, square room without door or window. He uttered a cry of rage.

"I have been deceived! The scoundrel!"

But at the same moment the wall opened before him like two sliding panels, but in the place of the wall were iron bars. And through these bars Esperance beheld Jane, but what he saw was so terrible that he recoiled and uttered a cry of terror, which was drowned in shrieks of laughter, wild songs and the clatter of glasses.



CHAPTER LXII.

COUCON.

Goutran had entire faith in Carmen, and he was now anxious to communicate with her. He called the former Zouave.

"Coucon," he said, "do you know where Monsieur Laisangy lives?"

"The great banker? Oh! yes, sir, everybody knows that."

"Then without losing one minute, I want you to go to his hotel. This note must be given to his daughter at once."

"To Miss Carmen, sir?"

"Precisely; but understand me—no one else must see it. This note must be given into her hands."

"I understand, sir; it shall be done. There is nothing I would not do, sir, to repair my own stupidity."

Coucon started off. To go to the hotel and ask for Miss Carmen was simple enough, but he took it into his head that it would be better if no one knew that he was there. He thought he would examine the premises before he decided on his course of action.

When he reached the hotel, to his great surprise he found the doors wide open and the courtyard blazing with lights. Carriage after carriage was driving up, and stopping at the vestibule.

"Upon my life," said Coucon, "this is bad enough."

He stepped into a wine-shop, and asked for a bottle of wine; as he drank it he said to himself: "How the deuce am I to see Miss Carmen? She is in the salon receiving her guests. Of course, she won't come into the anteroom to get a billet doux, but if the mountain won't come to Mohammed, Mohammed must go to the mountain, which means, that if Miss Carmen won't come to me in the anteroom, I must go to her!"

At this moment a Chasseur d'Afrique entered the wine-shop.

"Will you have the kindness to tell me," he asked, of the shop-keeper, "where I shall find the hotel of a rich banker about here? Laisangy, I think, is the name."

"Almost opposite—where all those carriages stand."

"Ah! thanks!" And as the soldier turned round he saw Coucon.

The recognition was mutual, and the two former companions fell into each other's arms.

"Galaret!" cried Coucon.

"Yes. And now let us have a glass."

"Can't stop, have a commission to perform!"

Nevertheless, Coucon did stop to drink a little, and to gossip. "When did you come to Paris?" he asked.

"This very day, in the escort of Mohammed-Ben-Omar, a sort of Pasha, you know, and to-night he slipped on the stairs and wrenched his ankle. Take another glass, friend. Well, as I was saying, he was asked to this soiree at the banker's and had to write a refusal. As he lies on his sofa, and is likely to lie there for some little time, this note I must deliver."

Coucon did not seem to hear what his friend was saying, but suddenly exclaimed to an innocent looking bourgeois, at another table:

"What are you staring at?"

In vain did the man stammer that he was not even looking at them. One word led to another until a hot quarrel was in progress, the police were called in, and Galaret was arrested.

"Give me your note," said Coucon, in the most obliging manner, "I will see that it is delivered."

And he dashed out of the shop with suspicious alacrity. "You are a fool, Coucon," he said to himself, "if you don't manage to deliver your own note at the same time!"

Our readers must not suppose that Coucon was so simple as to think of penetrating the Laisangy salons, even with the note he had obtained in so abominable a manner from his friend. The plan he had devised was more audacious and more sure. Ten minutes later the former Zouave entered the shop of a costumer in the Rue de Peletere. And in five minutes more he sallied forth a magnificent Bedouin, draped in white and wearing an enormous turban. He called out to the astonished coachman:

"Rue de Rivoli! and drive fast!"



CHAPTER LXIII.

CARMEN KEEPS HER WORD.

"I will watch the enemy," Carmen had said to Goutran, when they parted. The enemy was the man who had taken advantage of her inexperience, and induced her to call him father. Why had she not realized what she was doing sooner? She had, however, shown her womanly courage by the confession she had made to Goutran, and now she found herself without shield or buckler in opposition to the man under whose roof she lived. She resolved to defend Goutran and all those he loved. Woe to whomsoever should attack them.

That same morning, Laisangy asked to be received by her. She was quite ready for another quarrel, but Laisangy was amiable and smiling, for he had at that moment heard from Benedetto that his vengeance was near being accomplished.

Strangely enough this man Laisangy was in deadly terror of Monte-Cristo, and fully estimated the almost superhuman power of this wonderful man. But when Benedetto appeared before him and he found that there was one villain greater than himself, he was encouraged and comforted. What joy it would be to torture, without danger to himself, the soul of him whom he had so feared.

Danglars had given himself, soul and body, to Benedetto, as in legends a man abandons himself to a demon. He smiled as he entered Carmen's room.

"What do you want of me?" she said, coldly.

"You have not forgotten that we give a grand reception this evening."

"This evening! Surely you mistake—"

"No. This is your own list of invitations that I hold in my hand."

Carmen had forgotten entirely that these invitations had been sent out a week before.

Laisangy looked at her closely.

"I fancied," he said, "that this entertainment had escaped your memory."

"I certainly shall not appear!" answered Carmen.

The banker bit his lips, this was precisely what he feared. He began to argue the matter gently. And she, in her turn, began to reflect. She saw on the list the name of Goutran, which she had written with a breaking heart. After all, had she the right to desert her post?

"Very well," she said, "I will be present."

Laisangy was astonished at his prompt success.

"Yes," she repeated, "on condition that you do not once call me your daughter."

"What shall I call you?" stammered Laisangy.

"Whatever you choose, only take care that you do not disobey me!"

In fact, the banker cared little upon this point. He had obtained what he wanted. His fete would be made brilliant by Carmen's presence. He did not retire, however, and the girl saw that he had something else to say.

"What more do you want?" she asked, impatiently.

"My dear child," began Laisangy, with some pomposity, "you have, doubtless, ere this discovered that matters of finance are composed of a thousand details more important than those of diplomacy."

"I have certainly learned that swindling is a troublesome business," she said through her teeth, and with intense disdain.

Laisangy pretended not to hear this.

"To-night," he said, with perfect sang froid, "we leave the Tuileries."

He had counted on the effect of these words. Carmen shrugged her shoulders, which certainly was not respectful to the Emperor.

"And I am greatly disturbed," continued the banker. "It may be necessary for me to leave for an hour. I shall pretend indisposition, which may be attributed to the heat, and while I am supposed to be recovering in my own room, I can go out and attend to my affairs."

"You may be obliged to go out, then?"

"Certainly; did you not understand?"

"Why do you not tell me that you wish to go to the Bourse?"

Laisangy was annoyed. He saw that Carmen was on the qui vive, and Carmen said to herself: "What does this mean? He is lying, and some infernal machination is on foot. I must learn what it is."

She replied more gently:

"But I care little about these matters; the Bourse does not interest me. At what hour did you say you might be called away?"

"About midnight."

"Very good. Then you would like me, I suppose, to be very anxious about you, and urge you to withdraw?"

"Precisely!" answered the banker, much pleased. "Ah, Carmen, how well you understand me. Had you chosen, we two would have governed France!"

"Not I!" answered Carmen, abruptly. "We are companions, not accomplices. I do not understand you, and I do not propose to aid you in your infamy."

At this word Laisangy started, and thus confirmed the suspicions of Carmen, who was watching him.

He took her hand, and she withdrew it quickly. He had obtained what he desired, and was now ready to depart.

"What is he planning?" said Carmen to herself. "Is it really some financial operation, which, of course, I care nothing about, or is it——?"

Goutran's name rose to her lips. All day she watched him, but saw nothing to justify her in her belief, and yet she knew that her woman's instinct had not played her false. Over and over again she was tempted to retract her promise, for the idea of this fete was intolerable to her. She thought of Goutran, and remembered that she might save him.

The evening came, and Carmen's maid could hardly believe it was she who replied:

"What dress, did you say? I don't care in the least!"

Nevertheless, when Carmen appeared in the salons there was an audible murmur of admiration. In her white dress, with a few flowers in her beautiful hair, Carmen had never been more beautiful. She moved slowly through the rooms, looking for Goutran, who was not there, as we know.

Little did Carmen care for these men and women, who were the tools and slaves of the man of December. Laisangy was radiant, however. Carmen shivered whenever she looked at him. It seemed to her that he was in a state of unusual excitement.

The orchestra was playing delightfully, and lacqueys were announcing the first names of the empire—counts, and barons, and princes. Suddenly a new name was heard:

"Mohammed-Ben-Omar!"

And a magnificent personage, wearing the Legion of Honor on his white bournous, entered the room. Every one turned to look at him. He was a magnificent looking Arab. With a gravity that was truly oriental, and with his face half concealed in the folds of his mantle, his brown hands folded on his breast, Mohammed-Ben-Omar advanced.

Laisangy went forward to meet him. In fact, he could hardly believe in his good fortune. Mohammed-Ben-Omar belonged to that class of Algerians who, listening to the counsel of French financiers, always cherished the project of making Algeria into a veritable El Dorado, and had now come to France to lend the support of his name and authority to some one of the speculations built on the sands of the desert, of which the Tuileries people were so fond.

Laisangy, learning of his arrival in Paris, had hastened to send him an invitation, but had hardly hoped to see him. He was, therefore, more than usually civil.

Ben-Omar replied to his courtesies only by carrying his hand to his heart and then to his forehead, in the recognized Mussulman manner. He did not speak one word of French, and yet, when Carmen passed, he said "Beautiful!" with a guttural intonation.

"My daughter, sir!" answered the banker, with pride.

"Beautiful! beautiful!" repeated the Mohammedan.

Laisangy signed to Omar to accompany him to the group where Carmen was talking. There he went through the ceremony of introduction. Then, leaning toward her, Omar said, under his breath:

"I come from Goutran. Allah il Allah!" he added, aloud.

Carmen started. Never was she so astonished. The name of Goutran from these lips was like lightning from a clear sky. She looked at the Arab's bronze face and his huge moustache.

"Take His Excellency's arm," said Laisangy, "and show him the gallery and statuary."

Carmen hesitated, but Omar at once threw his bournous aside and offered the young lady his arm.

Laisangy whispered in Carmen's ear:

"Do not delay too long. I have received the signal and must do what was agreed upon between us."

Carmen paid little heed to these words, but moved through the crowd on Omar's arm, slowly and thoughtfully. Omar was very solemn, but under his moustache he whispered:

"I come from Monsieur Goutran."

"Who are you?" she asked, raising her fan to hide her lips as she spoke.

Whenever the crowd came too near he raised his arm, and with a grand sweep of bournous, hand and arm, he said:

"Allah il Allah! Rassoul il Allah!"

Everybody drew back much impressed, for the incomprehensible has always great power.

At last, Omar and Carmen were alone in a small salon.

"Will you tell me who you are?" asked Carmen once again.

"I am Coucon—devoted to Monsieur Goutran and to Esperance, the son of Monte-Cristo."

"And you disguised yourself to see me?"

"Yes, for I had a note to bring from Monsieur Goutran."

"Give it to me!" Carmen cried.

When at last Coucon succeeded in finding it among the folds of his bournous, she snatched it from him.

This is what she read:

"Carmen, my friend and my ally, you have promised your assistance. Gladly do I claim it. My friends are in great peril. Jane Zeld has vanished in the most mysterious manner, as has Esperance. There must be in the Hotel de Monte-Cristo some secret issue which our enemies do not know. The infamous L—— must possess this secret. Do your best to discover it. You see that I place my reliance on you, for I love you.