A CHILD OF THE NIGHT

CHAPTER I
AN ENCOUNTER IN THE STREETS

It was as I turned the corner into the Rue de l’Evêque that a woman ran straight into my arms. I could hear her gasping for breath, and a glance told me that she was young and pretty. She clutched nervously at my sleeve, and, not unwillingly, I put my arm about her to prevent her falling.

“What is it, Mademoiselle?” I questioned.

She seemed too agitated and exhausted to reply, but pointed down the street, where, through the gloom, I saw a man running towards us.

“He is following you?” I asked.

She nodded.

“And you wish to be relieved of him?”

Again she nodded.

“Very well, Mademoiselle,” I said, “do you remain here, and I will say two words to this intruder.”

I placed her in the shadow of the wall, and drawing my sword, advanced to meet her pursuer. I had not far to go, for he was almost upon us. He attempted to pass me, but stopped when he saw my point at his breast.

“Not so fast, Monsieur,” I said. “It would be well to pause here for a moment. You are quite out of breath and further exertion might easily bring on an apoplexy.”

He stared at me in amazement, his face purple, his eyes starting from his head. I saw by his attire that he was a bourgeois of the better class. He was very fat, which accounted for the fact that the girl had outstripped him, and was perhaps sixty years of age. I looked him in the eyes with a smile, and the thought came to me that those were not the eyes of an honest man.

“And who the devil are you?” he cried, when he had recovered his breath sufficiently to speak.

“My name is of no moment, Monsieur,” I answered. “It is enough that I do not wish you to pass, but to return by the way you came.”

He stared at me for a moment, his amazement visibly increasing. I merely smiled the more, for the situation amused me greatly.

“If this is a jest,” he said, at last, holding in his anger, “it is a sorry one and one that will cost you dear.”

“It is no jest,” I declared. “On the contrary, I was never more in earnest. The way is barred for the present. Return, I beg of you, or I shall be obliged to enforce my request, though I am far from wishing to harm you,” and I made a significant gesture with my sword.

“So you are the lover!” he sneered. “I suspected there was a lover,” and he looked me up and down. “I shall not forget your appearance, Monsieur, though I do not know your name. I warn you again that you are playing a dangerous game.”

“Dangerous or not,” I retorted, losing patience, “I play it to suit myself. Be off!”

“She is my niece,” he protested. “I am her legal guardian. You are setting the law at defiance.”

“Be off!” I cried again, for I feared every moment that a section of the watch would chance into the street. He doubtless had the same thought, for he looked about him with expectant eyes, but saw the street deserted. He glanced at me again, and I prodded him gently with my sword. He started as he felt the point and walked slowly away, muttering horrible curses and shaking his fists in the air in an ecstasy of rage. I had never before seen a man so wholly lose grip of his temper, and more than half expected him to fall in a fit.

But he did not fall, only staggered from side to side of the street like a drunken man. I watched him until he faded from sight in the gathering darkness, and then turned back to the fugitive.

She had apparently recovered from her exhaustion, for she arose as I approached and looked at me shyly. She was prettier than I had thought.

“Well, Mademoiselle,” I said, “it seems I have rid you of your pursuer. Now whither shall I conduct you? Believe me, I am wholly at your service.”

She glanced up into my face and went red, then white, then red again, and lowered her eyes in helpless confusion. Standing so, I could see her long, sooty lashes outlined against her cheek, the droop of the lids, the little nose, the shell-like ear—’twas enough to make any man play the fool. I confess, I had done it for much less.

“I do not know, Monsieur,” she stammered, at last, “where you can take me.”

“What?” I cried, astonished in my turn. “But your home, Mademoiselle; your family?”

“It is from my home that I flee,” she answered, sadly, a little break in her voice. “It is my family whom I fear.”

“But your friends?” I persisted, my heart warming towards her. “At least you have friends.”

She shook her head, and I fancied I could see the tears shining beneath the lashes.

“None who would not conceive it their duty to deliver me to my family,” she said, and stood knitting her fingers together nervously.

I paused a moment in sheer bewilderment. Here was a problem!

“Perhaps it is my duty also to deliver you to your family,” I remarked at last, but my heart was not in the words.

“Ah, you would not say so, Monsieur, if you knew the story!” and she looked up at me beseechingly, her eyes bright with tears. There was no mistaking this time, and I, certainly, could not resist their appeal, which sent the blood bounding in my temples.

“Come,” I said, “we must get away from here, at any rate, or your amiable uncle will return with reënforcements and surprise us. Take my arm, Mademoiselle.”

She did so without hesitation, and I led her across the Rue St. Honoré and into the gardens of the Tuileries. The place was thronged with people, as it always is in the evening, summer or winter, and, deciding that no one could discover us among so many, I found an unoccupied seat under the trees near the river, where I installed her.

On the way, I had reflected on the situation in which I found myself, and its complete absurdity struck me for the first time. Here was I, a young man alone in Paris, knowing no one, with no fortune but youth’s hope for the future, assuming the protection of a pretty girl of sixteen or seventeen, whom I had never seen until ten minutes since and whose name I did not even know.

I could not help laughing as I seated myself beside her. She looked at me for a moment with a glance clear and unembarrassed, but in which there was nothing bold nor immodest, and then, comprehending my thought, she threw back her head and laughed with me. I was enchanted, and in my admiration forgot my mirth. I saw that her throat was full, round, and white, that her chin was adorable, that there were dimples in her cheeks, that her mouth was finely arched, and her teeth small and regular. I felt a sudden warmth about my heart. Plainly here was a girl innocent as well as beautiful, and who looked at the world with eyes in which there was no trace of jaundice or suspicion. Harm such a one? Not I!

“Come, Mademoiselle,” I said at last, “it is necessary for us to arrive at an understanding of the situation. You behold in me Pierre le Moyne, late of Mont-de-Marsan, but for a week past and I trust for the future, of Paris, and, I repeat, wholly at your service,” and as I said the word I arose and bowed before her.

She acknowledged my bow with a pretty little nod of the head.

“And I, M. le Moyne,” she answered, “am Mademoiselle Anne Ribaut; although I much prefer to be called Nanette, and, I fear, very greatly in need of your services.”

“Tell me the story,” I suggested, and reseated myself beside her.

“Well, M. le Moyne,” she began, “it is like this. My father and mother are both dead—have been dead for so long that I remember neither of them—and my father’s brother, Jacques Ribaut, a jeweller of the Rue des Moulins, is my guardian. Until a week ago he kept me at the convent of the Sacred Heart, and then, finally, just as I began to think I was to spend my whole life there, he sent for me. Oh, how pleased I was when the time came to leave those fearful gray walls, within which one never dared speak above a whisper! But I did not imagine what was about to befall me, or I should not have been so happy. I arrived at the Rue des Moulins; I was shown into the presence of my uncle, and I tried to make him love me. He looked me over much as he would have inspected an ox he was about to purchase, and he seemed well satisfied.”

“I do not doubt it,” I said, and I looked at her sparkling eyes and laughing mouth, and thought that a man must indeed be hard to please who would not be satisfied.

“Do not interrupt, I beg of you, Monsieur,” she cried, “or I shall lose my place, as we used to say at the convent. Well, as I said, he appeared pleased, and I had begun to hope that we should be very happy together, and that he would be good to me and permit me to see something of the world. But the next day he brought in another man to see me—oh, a horrible man, with a great nose which seemed to spread all over his face, and green eyes that would make you tremble. He also looked me over in a way that made my flesh tingle—that filled me with shame and anger, as though I had been insulted—and then they both went away and I tried to forget all about it. But the next day my uncle came to see me again and informed me that I was to marry this man, whose name, it seems, is Jean Briquet. I protested that I did not wish to marry, and especially not such a monster. I said that I had, as yet, seen nothing of the world, except that gray and dreary bit enclosed within the four walls of the convent—that I was still young and that there was plenty of time. But my uncle was inexorable. He said it was already a thing accomplished, since he had promised M. Briquet my hand, and that the wedding should take place in a week’s time.”

She paused for a moment, overcome by the horror of the recollection, and I found that in some manner her hand had made its way to mine. She did not attempt to remove it, and I held it closely, with a strange tenderness in my heart. It was so warm, so soft, so confiding—a child’s hand.

“Yes, yes,” I said, fearing that if she paused she would see her hand a captive, “and then?”

“I heard no more about it until to-night, when my uncle came to me and told me that the wedding was to take place at nine o’clock to-morrow morning. He paid no heed to my entreaties and reproaches, but warned me not to fail to be ready at the hour, and turned on his heel and left me. I could think of only one thing to do—that was to flee. Anything seemed preferable to marrying that hideous creature. So I put on my hat, placed in my purse the little money I possess, stole down the stairs, and through the front door into the street. Unfortunately, my uncle caught a glimpse of me as I ran past the house, and started in pursuit. You know the rest, Monsieur. You do not blame me?” and she looked at me with eyes soft with entreaty.

“No,” I said, “I do not blame you. You were right to flee, since there was no other way. No one could expect you to marry a monster.”

“Ah, how glad I am to hear you say that!” she cried. “And you will protect me, Monsieur, will you not? How I admired the manner in which you disposed of my uncle this evening,” and she smiled at me in a way there was no resisting.

Evidently even within the walls of a convent a woman may learn many things—or perhaps no woman needs to be taught the surest way to reach a man’s heart.

CHAPTER II
I FIND MYSELF BROTHER TO AN ENCHANTING GIRL

We sat for some time in silence, she looking with childish delight at the brilliant and ever-changing scene before her, I pondering over the perplexities of the situation. I saw that I should need all my wit to straighten out the snarl, and though I was proud of my wit, as every Gascon must be, I doubted somewhat if it would prove equal to this task. But this misgiving did not vex me long,—we of the south take trouble as it comes. Besides, was I not here, in one of the loveliest spots of the most beautiful city in the world, with an enchanting girl at my side, who permitted me to hold her hand and gaze into her eyes? Mordieu! in such a situation, how could a man, with warm, red blood in him, doubt his power for bringing things to pass?

Indeed, the scene itself was one to make a man forget his troubles, as I saw it had made my companion forget hers, and I had not looked upon it so often that I could contemplate it with indifferent eyes. The moon was just rising behind the long line of the Tuileries and showed us in the walks and about the fountains the crowds which had gathered to get a breath of air and exchange a word of gossip. A row of lanterns had been swung from end to end of the Allée des Orangers—by order, perhaps, of some wealthy bourgeois, who wished to hold a fête there—and two or three men, in a uniform I did not know, were busy keeping loiterers away. It was public ground, of course, but then money will work miracles, especially in Paris. Away to our right gleamed the quays and the river; the former even more crowded than the gardens, the latter sparkling with the lanterns of grain-barges and fishing-boats, drifting with the current, or slowly making head against it. And everywhere was the murmur of voices, like the wind stirring the leaves of a great forest.

I saw how the girl’s eyes sparkled and her lips opened with delight as she gazed at all this.

“Beautiful, is it not, Mademoiselle?” I asked, at last, merely to make her look at me, that I might see again into her eyes.

“Oh, beautiful! I had never imagined the like!”

“Not even when you were building your castles of the future in the convent?”

She made a little grimace of disgust.

“This is life,” she said. “That was not life—it was only the gray shadow of it.”

Then suddenly I saw that she shivered.

“You are cold!” I cried. “And you have no cloak—only this thin dress. Come, we must go!”

“Go?” she questioned, looking at me, all her worry back upon her in an instant. “Yes—but whither, Monsieur? Not to my uncle’s!”

She was quite white with the horror of the thought, and I felt that her hand was trembling. I pressed it in both of mine—a child’s hand, I repeated to myself.

“No, not back to your uncle’s,” I assured her. “But you must go somewhere for the night. Could you not return to the convent?”

She breathed a deep sigh of relief and the color swept back into her cheeks again. But she shook her head in answer to my question.

“I had thought of that,” she said; “but they would deliver me again to my uncle in the morning, Monsieur.”

“True,” I murmured, and I pondered over the problem deeply. Clearly, there was only one thing to be done, but it could hardly fail to compromise her, and I paused. I had need to be very sure of myself.

“Mademoiselle,” I said, at last, “you believe me to be a man of honor, do you not?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered, and she looked at me and smiled again.

“I pray you to believe me so, Mademoiselle,” I continued earnestly. “I am going to assume a brother’s right to protect you. To-morrow, I shall call upon your uncle, and will say a few things to him which I trust will bring him to his senses. But to-night, since you cannot remain in the gardens here, you must pass in my room.”

She glanced at me with frightened eyes, but my face reassured her.

“Very well, M. le Moyne,” she answered quietly. “As I said before, I believe you to be a man of honor.”

I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed it.

“I appreciate your trust, Mademoiselle,” I said, “and shall do everything in my power to deserve it.”

She glanced at me again and I saw that her eyes were shining.

“Come, let us go,” she said, and we arose.

“The house I occupy, Mademoiselle,” I explained, as we started away, “is in the Rue du Chantre, and the room is but a poor affair, yet I trust you will find it comfortable. I have been in Paris only a week, and have not yet found better lodgings. In fact,” I added, judging it best to tell her the whole truth at a breath, “my fortune is not a large one, and not knowing how soon I should be able to increase it, I judged it best to husband it as much as possible.”

“There, there, Monsieur,” she cried, “do not apologize, I beg of you! You forget that I have no claim upon you and that what you are doing is out of charity, without hope of reward.”

A reply leaped to my lips as I looked into her eyes, but I choked it back and we passed through the streets in silence. In my heart I felt a great tenderness for this innocent and confiding creature, who leaned so naturally upon my arm, and who evidently had heretofore gazed upon the world only from a distance, comprehending nothing of what she saw; but I reflected that I, who knew not how to support myself, certainly could not hope to support a wife also, and put the thought behind me.

The Rue St. Honoré was crowded as we left the garden and turned into it, and the front of the Palais Royal brilliantly lighted, but every one was occupied with his own affairs and we seemed to be unobserved. Pushing our way through the crowd, we soon reached the Rue du Chantre. The street grew more and more deserted as we left the Rue St. Honoré behind.

“This is the place, Mademoiselle,” I said, at last, and as we entered the house together I saw the old woman who acted as concierge, and whom I had come to detest even in a week’s time, leering at us horribly. My blood was boiling as I caught the meaning of her grimace, but I said nothing, fearing to alarm my companion, and we slowly mounted the dark staircase.

“’Tis on the third floor,” I said, and we kept on, awakening a thousand echoes. “This is the door, Mademoiselle. I will open it. There is a candle on the table. Good-night.”

I took her hand, which I felt was trembling.

“And you?” she asked in a whisper.

“I will remain here,” I said. “I will sleep upon the threshold. No one can enter without arousing me, so that you may sleep calmly without fear. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” she answered, and there were tears in her voice. She lingered yet a moment, as though there were something she still wished to say, then entered the room and closed the door behind her. I heard her moving about for a few moments, and then all was still.

I sat down upon the top step of the staircase and considered the situation. I confess it appeared to me an awkward one, for, though I had spoken so confidently to her, I had small hope that whatever I might say would have any weight with her ogre of an uncle. He doubtless detested me as heartily as I did him, and it was not to be denied that he had the law behind him, though in this instance, as in many others, quite divorced from justice. I trembled at thought of the blow her reputation must sustain if it were known that for a night she had been my guest—the face of the concierge, as I had seen it leer at us, gave earnest of what the whole gay, evil world of Paris would believe. I tore my kerchief from my throat, for the thought suffocated me. No one should ever know—how could they, in this great, seething, clamorous city? And if they did—if any dared to hint—thank God, I could answer with my sword!

He had thought me her lover—curse his shifty, treacherous eyes! Perhaps she had a lover—and I winced at the thought. But no, I would not believe it! She would have told me. She would have asked me to take her to him. And besides, I reflected, with a sigh of relief, she had said that she had left the convent a week before only to find her uncle’s house another prison. She could not have made such progress in knowledge of the world in so short a time—indeed the frankness of her look was proof enough.

With this thought, which somehow soothed and pleased me, I wrapped my cloak about me, and sword at side, lay down athwart the threshold. A vision of her sweet face danced before me—her eyes looked into mine, pure and limpid as twin stars. Marvelling at their guilelessness, I bent to kiss their rosy lids. Still they gazed at me, serene, untroubled, and I stopped, shamed in my inmost consciousness, as one who had thought to desecrate a flower.

CHAPTER III
I FIND MY PART A DIFFICULT ONE

I awoke with a start and looked about me, but could discern nothing, for the darkness was absolute, impenetrable. What it was that had disturbed me I could not guess. I was about to tell myself I had been dreaming, when I heard a stealthy footstep on the stair. A second followed. Some one was mounting cautiously. With heart leaping at promise of adventure, I grasped my sword and sat upright, noiselessly. The steps drew near and nearer; they were at the top of the stair—and in an instant some one had stumbled over my extended legs and come down with a crash upon the floor. I was upon the intruder in a flash, and was astonished to find it was a woman.

“Who are you?” I whispered fiercely, between my teeth. “And what seek you here?”

“Rather tell me what you seek here, Monsieur,” answered a voice twisted and quivering with rage and malice, but which I nevertheless recognized as that of the concierge. “You have rented the apartment, but not the landing in front of it.”

“I will occupy the landing no longer than to-night,” I said. “But you have not yet told me your business here.”

“I am going to bed,” she answered sullenly. “My room is the one at the end of the corridor.”

“Go, then,” I said, loosing my hold of her, my suspicions not yet allayed. “But remember that I shall still be here and it would be well for you to remain in your room till morning. Another fall such as that might snap some of your dry, old, rotten bones.”

The woman got slowly to her feet and I could hear her cursing softly to herself. She took a step away from me and paused. I could guess what her face was like!

“Since when has it been the fashion,” she snarled, “for a young man to give up his bed to a pretty girl and himself sleep without the door? It was not so in my day.”

“I can well believe it!” I retorted. “Begone!”

She shuffled slowly down the passage. I heard the opening and closing of a door and all was still.

I wrapped my cloak about me once again, but sleep came no more to my eyes. The encounter had filled me with uneasiness. That she was simply on the way to her room, as she had said, I did not believe, but what her object was I could not guess. During my whole week’s wanderings in the streets of Paris I had encountered no face which repelled me as did hers, with its yellow eyes, its sallow, withered cheeks, its surly, snarling mouth. When I had seen it first, it had struck me as threatening and terrible, and this impression deepened as I saw it oftener. Something, I know not what, about the woman told me that she was trembling at heart, that she lived in a state of constant terror. A suggestion of the gutter and the darkness seemed to cling to her, as though she had dragged herself through an abyss reeking with unspeakable foulness.

I could have sworn that she had read my thought in my eyes the first time I looked at her, so livid did her face become, and this belief disturbed me so that I determined to change my lodging, but had chanced upon no other matching the lightness of my purse. I am not a man to be frightened at phantoms of my own imagining, but as I sat there in the darkness I promised myself that another night should find me far from the Rue du Chantre.

Morning came, and the filthy panes of the little window above the stair-head turned from black to gray as I sat there musing. I arose, removed from my clothing the traces of the dirty floor and went down into the court, where I made my toilet at a trough in the yard, keeping one eye upon the stair meanwhile to see that none descended. I had scarce gained the stair-head again, when the door of my room opened, and Mlle. Ribaut appeared framed in the doorway, fresh and rosy as a picture by Watteau.

“Good-morning, M. le Moyne,” she cried, and courtesied to me with a grace worthy of Louis’s court.

“Good-morning, Mademoiselle,” I said, bowing and taking her hand, which, I told myself, was one of the prerogatives of a brother. “I trust you slept well?”

“Never better in my life, Monsieur,” she answered gayly. “I have never before been honored with a guard at my door, especially one on whom I could rely so thoroughly.”

I bowed again at the compliment, and she must have seen the tenderness which I could not keep from my face, for she drew her hand away, and glanced nervously at the floor. I watched her glowing cheek with ravished eyes until, of a sudden, I remembered that a brother would not do so.

“Come, Mademoiselle,” I cried, “we must get breakfast. I know a splendid place just around the corner, where they serve the most excellent coffee, and rolls which fairly melt in one’s mouth.”

“And I am famously hungry,” she answered, laughing, her embarrassment forgotten in an instant. “Wait until I get my hat, Monsieur.”

She was back in a moment, and we went down the stairs together and out into the street. The morning was bright and warm and the streets were thronged with people. I glanced again at my companion’s happy face, and resolved to do nothing which could bring a shade upon it, however difficult I might find the task.

We were soon at the café in the Rue de Beauvais, and the waiter gave us a little table in a corner near the window, whence we could look out upon the busy street. I shall not soon forget that meal. Mlle. Ribaut laughed with delight as the coffee was placed before her, and served it with the prettiest grace in the world. As for me, I almost forgot to eat in gazing at her.

“You appear distracted, M. le Moyne,” she cried. “I’ll wager you are thinking with what an irksome charge you have burdened yourself.”

“Not at all, Mademoiselle,” I answered quickly. “I was thinking how difficult it is to be a brother to an adorable girl with whom one is just getting acquainted.”

“I do not find it at all difficult, Monsieur,” and she laughed gayly. “I assure you, I find it delightful to be a sister. I have never before been a sister, Monsieur, and I enjoy having a big brother immensely.”

I glanced at her merry face, but saw there only guilelessness and innocent good will. My heart fell within me, and I cursed myself for a fool.

“Well, Mademoiselle,” I began.

“Oh, come, Monsieur,” she interrupted, “does a man always call his sister Mademoiselle?”

“No more than a sister calls her brother Monsieur,” I retorted readily.

“Well, my name is Nanette, as I have already had the honor of telling you,” she said.

“And mine is Pierre.”

She clapped her hands together gleefully.

“Splendid!” she cried. “We are getting along famously. I think it is a very pretty name—Pierre. Now, what was it you were about to say?”

In the shock of delight at hearing her pronounce my name, I had quite forgotten. But I rallied my wits with an effort.

“I was about to say that at ten o’clock I shall call upon your uncle. I shall approach him with an assured air, as one who will not brook denial. I shall say to him that you would die rather than consent to this marriage and that you will not return home until he agrees to say no more about it.”

“Ah, you do not know my uncle,” she said sadly. “Believe me, Pierre, he will never agree.”

“In that case,” I answered, with a cheerfulness I confess I did not feel, “we will secure a cottage at St. Cloud, or some other delightful place. I will send for my sister who is in retreat at Aignan, and who would joy to come. You will love each other, I am sure. And there we shall all live happily together until your uncle does consent or until an apoplexy carries him off.”

“That will be charming!” she cried, with dancing eyes. “I almost hope he will not consent, so that it may come true. But, Pierre,” and she hesitated.

“Yes?”

“All this will take money,” she continued, after a moment, “and you told me your fortune is not great.”

“Well, I will increase it,” I declared, though I confess I had no idea how I should do so, unless I enlisted as a brigand under that arrant knave and prince of thieves, Cartouche. Yet not even that could I do—there was my sister—I had kissed the cross—you shall hear.

She was silenced for a moment, and then took a purse from the bosom of her dress.

“Will you keep this for me,” she asked, “and use it when there is need? ’Tis what I brought from home with me, my sweetmeat money.”

“Impossible,” I protested. “Keep your money, Mademoiselle.”

She looked at me a moment with quivering lips.

“That is not like my brother,” she said at last. “My brother would understand that I do not wish to be a burden to him. At least, he would consent to keep it for me, for fear that I might lose it.”

I reached out, took the purse, and placed it carefully in my bosom.

“When you wish it again, you have only to ask for it, Nanette,” I said.

“That is better,” and her face cleared. “And now, Pierre, what shall I do while you are conferring with my uncle?”

“I think it will be best for you to remain in my room,” I answered, after a moment’s thought. “I will return there at once, so soon as I have seen him, and if I am unsuccessful we can set about securing that cottage I mentioned a moment ago.”

“Very well,” she said sedately. “And I assure you that I shall not be idle. I saw some clothing in your room this morning that was oh, so badly in need of repair. I intend to make you a good sister, Pierre.”

“A good sister!” I murmured, and bit my tongue to keep it still.

“Yes, a good sister,” and then she looked at me, her face suddenly serious. “But there is one thing that must be remedied—I know so little about my brother. You must tell me more, Pierre.”

“Ah, I should love to!” I cried. “And you really care to know?”

Who, looking deep into her eyes, could have lacked inspiration?

“All! All!” she nodded, and leaned towards me, her chin in her hands, her elbows on the table. “Of my life I told you in a sentence—I have done nothing—nothing has happened to me. But with you, it is different—you are a man. You have lived always in the great world.”

I looked at the curve of her dainty wrists, the little pink, interlocked fingers, the cheeks soft and delicate as peach-bloom, and then up into the eyes, dark, pure and quite fathomless. I pinched my leg beneath the table to make sure I was not dreaming. Was ever youth so fortunate?

“We have an hour,” she concluded. “You are going to see my uncle at ten—it is not yet nine. So you will have time to tell me all—every word.”

“Yes, every word,” I echoed. “But shall it be here, or——”

“Oh, here! Here it is so cosey, so homelike, and we seem to have known each other for ages instead of merely since last night. Can it be that I have known you only since last night?”

“No,” I said, with conviction. “We have known each other long and long, only fate held us apart. Now we can laugh at fate.”

“Yes. But the story.”

“Very well—the story.”

“And, mind—no skipping!” she cried, shaking her finger at me warningly. “I must have every word.”

Who, looking deep into her eyes, could have lacked inspiration?

CHAPTER IV
IN WHICH I COME TO PARIS

But it was not to tell that story I set pen to paper. Indeed, it were scarce worth the telling, save to sympathetic ears, such as were those tiny pink ones into which I poured it that morning.

Yet, two words about it.

We of Marsan have not always been so poor. Time was, when, as fief of the house of Cauteret, we held broad fields and deep woods. Unfortunately, M. le Comte, being half-Spanish himself, was so foolish as to espouse the Spanish side in one of the innumerable intrigues against the thirteenth Louis—they trod so fast upon each other’s heels that I never knew just which it was. At any rate, in the event, M. le Comte was fain to seek safety on his wife’s estates at Valladolid, and rode away merrily enough, little regretting France.

We le Moynes, though we had followed M. le Comte to battle as in duty bound, were honest enough to refuse to change our French coats for Spanish ones, and so remained behind. We were too small fry to attract the displeasure of the King, who had a host of greater cares to worry him, so we were left to follow our own devices and keep ourselves from starving as best we might.

The sixty years preceding my arrival had been spent by the le Moynes getting a living as honestly as might be, and if we found a bit of brigandage needful now and again to keep body and soul together, why, we were ever ready to answer for it, man to man.

It was in a small house of stone on the right bank of the Midouze I first saw the light. My father I never knew—he had been killed in some foray a month or two before my birth—but my mother continued living on there with her husband’s brother, Chabert le Moyne, and his wife. The first ten or twelve years of my life passed peacefully enough, my mother giving me such instruction as she could, and insisting that I go with her every Saturday morning, wet or shine, to the curé for my lesson. The remainder of the time I spent as it pleased me—wandering along the river or paddling about in it; or exploring the great forest, which had one time belonged to M. le Comte, but which was now the King’s.

But at the age of twelve, my uncle Chabert took me suddenly in hand. This was the more surprising because, up to that time, he had taken not the slightest notice of me, save to assist me with his toe whenever he chanced to find me scrambling out of his way. But now, all this was changed. I must learn to ride, it seemed; to shoot with the pistol, and to use dagger and rapier. I tell you, he kept me busy—and how I relished it! There were some hard falls, just at the first, that shook the teeth in my head, until I learned the trick of sticking to my horse’s back, but after that only the long rides and the bouts with my uncle. He seldom let me escape without a tap or two on the crown, just to show me what a booby with the blade I was, but I thought nothing of such petty things.

He was a tall, lean man, this uncle of mine, with moustache twisted to a needle-point above a mouth which never opened needlessly. His eyes, too, I remember—few cared to meet them at any time, none when he was enwrathed. A dozen blackguards, who lived somewhere near by—God knows where!—called him master and would have joyfully gone to hell for him. Sometimes they would gather at the house at nightfall, my uncle would kiss his wife and stamp out to his horse. I, looking big-eyed from one corner of the little window in my bed-room, would see him fling himself into the saddle and spur away, the others falling naturally in behind.

It was enough to make one tremble, and if I ventured down the ladder into the room where my aunt and mother were—pretending I wanted a drink or some such thing—I would find them in tears, and my mother would look at me sorrowfully and draw me tenderly to her and weep over me, as though some dreadful fate threatened me. The days that followed, they would spend in horrible suspense, and how they would welcome him when he came riding home again!

I understood nothing of all this, but my sister did. For it was at this time she came home from the convent at Aignan, where the good sisters had been caring for her. She had been sent there, a mere baby, at the time my mother was expecting me, and she had been kept there since, we being too poor to feed another mouth, and the good sisters hoping that she would in the end enter the cloister. But when the time came, she found herself lacking in courage or devotion—I do not know, for this is one of the things about her I never quite understood—and so she was sent home again. At least, here she was, tall and fair and dark-eyed, and we were all a little afraid of her until we found how warm and tender her heart was. Yes, and brave, too,—how could I have said she lacked courage?—as I was presently to find out for myself.

It was one evening in early June. As the twilight deepened along the river, I heard far off the tramp of horses and knew that another journey was afoot. I went to the door to see them dash up along the road, and very fine and brave they looked to me. They pulled full-stop at the door, harness clanking, sword rattling against thigh, and my uncle, who was at table, hastily swallowed the last of his meat, and rose to don sword and headgear. I, who was still gaping out the door, heard the sound of my sister’s voice.

“Where do you go, uncle?” she asked.

He was girding on his sword, and paused an instant to look at her in sheer amazement. Then he turned away without answering.

“If it be upon a Godless errand you go, as I suspect,” she went, on, quite calm and steady, “I pray you to think of your soul. What of it?”

My faith, but I was trembling for her and the women staring open-mouthed!

I saw my uncle’s face darken, but he drew on his gauntlets and turned to the door, saying never a word. He found her before him. For a moment he stood looking into her eyes with a gaze that brought the sweat to my forehead. I protest I am no coward, but I could not look in his face—no, not even now—with such calm as hers.

But the moment passed. With a swift movement of his hand, he swept her from his path and strode from the house. We heard him leap to saddle and then the clatter of hoofs down the road. The girl stood silent, listening, until the distance swallowed up the sound.

“He will not come back,” she said at last, with the air of a prophetess. “The Virgin told me so this morning. He will never come back, and he goes to his death unshriven.”

Then she went from the room, while terror still held her hearers palsied.

Even yet can I remember the agony of those days, the prayers on our knees before the cross, the straining of eyes down the road. And then, at last, in the gray dawn of the fourth day, came the rush of a single horse’s hoofs, and a rude clatter at the door. I, peeping out my window, saw a man sitting on his horse—such a man!—mud-stained, blood-stained, unkempt, breathless, with livid fear still on his face and in his eyes. I could hear my aunt fumbling at the bar with trembling hands and then the door opened.

“Le Moyne is dead,” said the man abruptly, in a terrible voice. “So are all the others but one or two. It was an ambush. We thought we had the coach and good plunder, when out they spurred from front and rear, left and right. We had no chance, curse them! but they paid two for one—aye, four for le Moyne. There was a man!” and with a horrible choking in his throat, he struck spur to flank and pushed on.

Well, we lived on in a way—the wood gave us fagots—the earth a little grain—sometimes my snares brought game to table. But what a life for a lusty youth of nineteen, hot with impatience to see the world, yet bound to three women! I loved them, I would not have left them, but how I gnawed my heart out with longing to be gone!

We were well off the highway, hidden deep in the woods along the river, else we must have fallen prey to violence ere we did, for that sister of mine had grown into a woman fit to make men mad to look at. But it came at last.

I was staggering home one day under a load of fagots from the wood—what disgrace for a le Moyne to gather fagots! Mordieu, it makes me warm even yet to think of! Well, I was staggering home, and cursing my unhappy fate, when of a sudden I heard a woman scream, and knew the voice for my sister’s. I dropped the fagots and ran forward, stooping low to avoid the branches. In a moment I was at the house.

Before it were three horses, one of them bestrode by the finest gentleman I had ever seen, the others riderless. Through the open door came the sounds of a struggle.

“What is it?” I demanded roughly. “What do you here, Monsieur?”

He scarcely deigned me a glance.

“Be off, canaille!” he said, and turned to the door. “Bring her out,” he cried, “but so much as a bruise and I’ll kill you both.”

And there appeared in the doorway two ruffians, bearing my sister between them.

Then I understood, and my blood turned to fire.

How I did it, I know no more now than I did then, but I sprang upon them and flung them right and left—one crashing against the door-post, the other backward into the road that I might stamp his life out. I heard a curse behind me, and a whip was brought hissing down across my face—see, there is the scar, just at the corner of my eye. But I turned on him like the wild beast I in that moment felt myself to be and dragged him down from the saddle. I knew the others would be upon me, that I could not escape, but I prayed Christ that I might kill him first. I had him by the throat, bending him backward; I saw his eyes start, his tongue swell—and then heavy steps behind me. I waited the stab that I knew must come. Ah, my brave sister! it was you who saved me, seizing my sword from the scabbard as it hung just within the door, and using it how well!

One rode away hot-foot, in safety. The others lay where they had fallen, and we staring down at them. Then my sister looked at the red blade in her hand and dropped it, shuddering and faint.

“Their blood is on their own hands, not on ours,” I said. “Why did they not pass in peace?”

“Yes, why did they not?” and she stared down at them. “I was here, alone, the others had gone to wash at the river, when they came by. He saw me, and—oh, infamous! The world is well rid of him!”

I saw the other women coming towards us under the trees, and then of a sudden I knew our danger.

“We cannot stay here,” I cried. “They will be back again. The one who fled will bring them, hot for vengeance. We must go!”

The women looked down the road, white-faced.

“Not you others, perhaps,” I said. “You were not here—they will not seek for you. But we—I and my sister—must go.”

“Yes—but whither?” asked my aunt.

Whither? I did not know. I did not care. Here there was only death.

It was my sister who proved the wisest—then as always.

“I will go to Aignan,” she said, with a calmness that astonished me. “The good sisters will protect me and give me sanctuary. You, dear Pierre, must go farther—to some great city, where you can lose yourself for a time.”

My blood was tingling. I knew whither I would go.

“To Paris!” I cried. “To Paris!”

My mother uttered a little cry of horror.

“Paris! Oh, no, Pierre! How can you cover those two hundred leagues?”

My eyes were on the horse, which stood patiently by its master, waiting for him to rise and mount.

“The horse will carry me,” I said. “Yes, and provide me money at my journey’s end.”

She would have protested, would have pleaded, but I broke away into the house, donned the best suit my uncle had left behind, stretching it somewhat in the struggle, buckled on sword and dagger, and was ready. Never had I felt so strong, so confident. At last was I to have a bout with fortune!

But money? I had little—well—and then, as I left the house, I saw again the gallant lying stark in the dust. Perhaps in his pockets were broad gold-pieces—a jewel flashed on his finger—but even as I stooped, a hand was laid on my shoulder, and I turned to find myself looking into my sister’s eyes.

“Not that, Pierre,” she said hoarsely. “For Christ’s sake, not that! The le Moynes have been thieves long enough—now let them be honest men!”

I felt my throat contract and my eyes grow wet.

“But I cannot starve,” I faltered, cursing my own weakness.

I saw the blood die from her lips.

“Here, take this!” she cried, and she tore open her gown and snatched a cross from her bosom. I saw that it was of gold. “It was given to me,” she said, “at Aignan. Now I give it to you to buy bread. It is the dearest thing I have, but I give it gladly, for I am ransoming your soul. Henceforth the le Moynes will be honest men.”

I could not speak, but I dropped at her feet and kissed the cross as she held it down to me. It is an oath, thank God, I have never broken.

“And you will not sell the horse,” she added—what a woman she was! “You will ride him as far as Tours. There you will deliver him to a coureur to be returned to Marsan. I will see that he is claimed. Good-by, dear Pierre,” and she held up her lips.

I kissed her as I would have kissed the Virgin, then my mother and aunt. They seemed quite broken, yet it was clear we must be off. To Marsan and back was only a matter of three hours, and near an hour of this was already gone. I sprang to saddle and looked at them all, once again, standing there in the road. Then I touched spur to flank and was off.

And so, in the course of days, I came to Tours, where I sold the cross and delivered the horse to the coureur. Then to Paris, where I arrived at last, weary and somewhat stained by the road, yet with ten pistoles in my pocket, a good sword at my side, and a light heart in my bosom—the heart of youth!

Two words, did I say? How memory makes one garrulous!

CHAPTER V
M. RIBAUT IS OBDURATE

She sat looking at me for a moment without speaking, her chin in her hands, her eyes bright.

“That is life!” she said, at last. “That is living! That is what I long for! And, oh, how I shall love your sister! What is her name, Pierre?”

“Ninon,” I answered.

“Ninon!” and she lingered on the word. “Why, that is almost Nanette! Oh, that I could see her, now—this moment!”

“Perhaps you soon will—that cottage at St. Cloud, you know,” and I smiled at her eager face. “Come, it is time for me to pay my respects to your amiable uncle.”

She gave a little gasp.

“And you are not afraid?” she asked. “Do you think he will harm you, Pierre?”

“Harm me?” I laughed. “No,” and I touched the hilt of my sword. “There is nothing to fear—on my account. Come.”

She arose with a little sigh, and paused in the doorway for a backward look.

“But I have been happy here,” she said softly, and together we passed out into the street.

We made our way back to the Rue du Chantre in silence. She seemed oppressed by some foreboding, and I was considering what I would best say to her uncle. It was not an easy matter to decide—I felt that, in this case, I should be readier with my sword than with my tongue, I hated him so already! We entered the little court and paused at the stair-foot.

“I will leave you here, Nanette,” I said. “I shall not be long away.”

She answered with a pressure of the hand and smiled into my eyes. How often, afterwards, in my dreams, did I see her standing so!

I watched her for a moment as she mounted the stair, and then turned away. I caught a glimpse of the hideous concierge leering at me from her box, and hurried from the place, disgusted, resolved anew to seek another lodging. On through the streets I pressed, for I was anxious to have my errand done—along the crowded, clamorous Rue St. Honoré, to the Rue des Frondeurs, then to the Rue de l’Evêque—with leaping heart I saw again the corner where Nanette had sought shelter in my arms, months agone, it seemed!—and so onward across the Rue des Orties, to the Rue des Moulins.

She had described the house for me, and I had no difficulty in finding it, for a gilded board, bearing the legend

JACQUES RIBAUT,
BIJOUTIER.

projected into the street. I mounted the steps and knocked at the door, noting as I did so that the house was a large one and in good repair, a thing somewhat uncommon in Paris. A servant answered the knock, and I was surprised to see that he was in livery. M. Jacques Ribaut must indeed be wealthy.

“Is M. Ribaut within?” I asked.

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“I wish to see him,” and, as the man hesitated, I added, “Tell him it is some one who brings him news from his niece.”

“Wait just a moment, Monsieur,” and the man disappeared down the hallway. He was back almost immediately.

“You are to enter, Monsieur,” he said, and I followed him down the hall. He opened a door before me, and I was in the presence of a little fat man whom I recognized at once. He knew me also, and he leaned back in his chair and gazed at me, his eyes agleam with hatred.

“What is your price, Monsieur?” he asked abruptly.

I stared at him in amazement

“I do not understand,” I said, after a moment.

“Oh, come,” he burst out, his anger getting the better of him, “let us descend from the heights and get to business. You have possession, I suppose, of the body of my niece. I ask you what price you demand to deliver her to me?”

I felt my cheeks burning, but I determined to keep my temper.

“Monsieur,” I answered as quietly as I could, “my price is your promise to break off at once this wedding which you propose and to sign in the presence of witnesses a paper which I shall have executed in which you will agree to permit your niece to choose her own husband.”

“Believing, doubtless, that she will choose you!” he sneered. “May I ask, Monsieur, where you met my niece?”

“In the Rue de l’Evêque, as you know.”

“You had never met her before last night?”

“No. I had never seen her before that.”

He gazed at me astonished, for he saw that I spoke the truth.

“May I ask your name, Monsieur?” he said.

“Pierre le Moyne.”

“And your home?”

“Mont-de-Marsan.”

“I might have guessed it!” he cried. “Only a Gascon would attempt a thing so ridiculous. Come, Monsieur, return me my niece and cease this farce. It has been carried too far already. You imagine, doubtless, that you are performing one of those Quixotic deeds for which your countrymen are famous, but you do not understand the situation. This husband whom I have chosen for my niece is M. Briquet, a wealthy and respected man, well fitted to make her happy. She is young and does not know her own mind. She has been bred in a convent and has arranged some little romance for herself, in which the hero is doubtless a prince, young, rich, and beautiful. She forgets that she is a poor girl and that her marriage portion is hardly worth considering. M. Briquet is a good match—better than could have been hoped for. In a year from now she will think him adorable,” and he leered at me in a way that made my flesh creep, “for he is good-natured—he does not ask what has happened since last night—he will not set watch on her too closely—no doubt there will still be a place for you.”

I felt my blood grow hot against the brute, but I kept close grip on my temper. After all, I had an end to accomplish.

“I have already told you, Monsieur,” I answered, coldly, “on what terms your niece will be returned to you. If she then chooses to marry M. Briquet, well and good. If not, she will marry some one else.”

His self-control slipped from him, as cloak from shoulder, and left his wrath quite naked.

“Mordieu!” he yelled, springing from his chair and shaking his fist in my face, “you speak as though you had the right to meddle in this affair. I will call in the law! I will have you thrown into the conciergerie! I will compel you to return the girl!”

“Perhaps the law might also inquire why you are so anxious to have her become Madame Briquet,” I retorted, for want of something better, and paused in astonishment. He had fallen back into his chair, his face livid. What possessed the man?

“Get out of here!” he screamed, when he had regained the power of speech. “Get out of here, and tell your harlot never to show her face here again, or I will denounce her as a woman of the town!”

He got no farther, for I was upon him, all my blood in my face. I caught him up from the chair and smote him in the mouth with my open hand.

“You dog!” I cried. “You dog!” and I struck him again.

“Murder!” he shrieked. “Help! He is killing me!”

I heard steps rushing down the hallway and the door behind me opened. With a last blow I hurled Ribaut back into his chair and turned towards the door, facing a man whom, from his surpassing ugliness, I knew instantly to be Briquet. I had never seen a countenance more repulsive, and I looked at him with loathing.

“Who are you, Monsieur,” he cried, “and what do you here?”

“I am punishing that scoundrel yonder for daring to ask his niece to marry another scoundrel such as you!” I answered, and I looked him in the eyes, all my contempt in my face.

His face went from red to purple.

“Kill him!” screamed Ribaut from the chair where he sat, the blood streaming from nose and mouth. “It was he who took the girl from me.”

With an oath, Briquet snatched a pistol from his pocket. But I was too quick for him, for, seizing a chair, I knocked the barrel up even as he pulled the trigger and brought the chair down upon his head. He fell like an ox.

“Ribaut,” I said, turning to the miserable object cowering in the chair, “if I gave you your deserts I would kill you like the cur you are, but I scorn to draw my sword against such vermin. I warn you that if you so much as lift your finger against that girl you shall pay for it with your life,” and fearing that my passion would yet get the better of me, I turned from the room, strode down the hallway and left the house.

As I made my way to the Rue du Chantre I tried in vain to solve the mystery of which I had caught but a glimpse—the terror of Ribaut, the ferocity of Briquet, the evident understanding between the two. Why were they determined to sacrifice the girl? I could find no answer to the question, and I turned to another problem which demanded immediate solution.

How was I to provide for her now that the die was cast? I remembered with a melancholy accuracy that my fortune was limited to the contents of my purse and that my purse was anything but heavy. What a cottage at St. Cloud would cost I dared not think, and then a wardrobe had also to be provided, since she had brought with her only the clothes she wore.

It was with this problem weighing on my mind that I turned into the entrance and slowly mounted the stairs to my room. I knocked at the door, but there was no response. With a great fear at my heart I flung the door open and entered. One glance told me that the room was empty. Chairs had been overturned, the lock of the door was broken. With a trembling hand I picked up a garment in which there was still a threaded needle. I could read the story at a glance. She had been surprised, overpowered, carried away. And in the moment of agony that followed I knew that I loved her.

CHAPTER VI
RIBAUT PLAYS A CARD

I stood for a moment dazed by this unexpected blow, for which I had been wholly unprepared. From what direction had it come? Clearly not from Ribaut, since I had been with him all the time. From whom, then? And in an instant I remembered the mysterious actions of the old woman who had fallen over my feet the night before. I ran down the stairs like the wind, and as I reached the court I perceived her sitting in her ruinous little lodge. I drew my sword, threw the door open and entered.

“Madame,” I said, with all the calmness I could muster, “you will tell me at once what has happened to the lady who was in my room.”

She crouched back in her chair away from the point at her throat and looked at me with venomous eyes.

“I know nothing about it,” she snarled. “You will have to look elsewhere, my fine blade.”

“No lies!” I said sharply. “You cannot deceive me. She could not have been carried off without you seeing it, even if you did not lend a hand.”

“Carried off, indeed!” she retorted with a sneer. “And what if she had simply grown weary of you and took the first chance to escape? On my word, I should not blame her!”

“She did not go away of her own will,” I said, quite positively. “She was carried away. Tell me what you saw.”

“I saw nothing,” she repeated sullenly.

“Very well,” I said between my teeth, “it seems you are prepared to die, then. Say your prayers. Commend your soul to God, if you possess one, for I warn you that I will kill you as I would a snake, without an instant’s hesitation.”

She looked at me for a moment, her eyes glittering, her face livid, her mouth working convulsively. She licked her lips and swallowed with an effort.

“Come,” I repeated, “you have nothing more to say then?” and my sword quivered in my hand.

She saw I was in earnest.

“I will tell you what I know, Monsieur,” she said at last.

“Good. That is the only way to save your life,” and I lowered my point. “If I find you lying to me, you shall die none the less surely.”

“All that I know, Monsieur, is that ten minutes after you had left three men entered. One remained on guard here, while the others mounted the stair. In a moment they returned, bringing the lady with them. Despite her struggles, they placed her in a coach which was waiting in the street, and drove away as fast as their horses could take them.”

“And who were these men?” I asked. “Where did they take the girl?”

“I do not know, Monsieur.”

“You lie!” I cried fiercely. “It was you who set them on! It was you who told them she was alone! Tell me who they were!”

She was snarling again from the depths of her chair, and I looked at her in disgust.

“Come,” I repeated after a moment, “you must tell me. There is no way of escaping it.”

I saw her glance past me into the court, and heard footsteps on the stones without. I turned to see two men standing there.

“Is there a gentleman lodged here by the name of Pierre le Moyne?” asked one of them.

“That is my name,” I answered.

“Will you be good enough to accompany us, Monsieur?”

“And why?” I inquired.

“We have been commissioned to conduct you to M. d’Argenson, lieutenant of police,” he answered. “He will doubtless explain everything to you, Monsieur.”

“I am under arrest, then?” I asked, with a sinking heart.

“If you choose to call it so, Monsieur,” and the man bowed.

I heard the concierge chuckling savagely in her chair behind me.

“Very well,” I said, after a moment’s reflection, “I shall be very glad to see M. le Comte d’Argenson. But I have some clothing and other property in my room here which I do not care to have stolen.”

“We will seal the door, Monsieur, if you will show us the room. Nothing will then be disturbed in your absence.”

I led the way to the room and we entered.

“We were also instructed to bring to M. d’Argenson a girl named Anne Ribaut,” said the fellow, looking about the room and seeing it empty. “Where is she, Monsieur?”

“I do not know,” I answered bitterly. “I left her here an hour since. When I returned she had disappeared. Look at the condition of the room, Monsieur, and judge if she went willingly.”

They looked about the room with practised eyes, which took in every detail.

“Have you a theory, Monsieur?” asked one of them at last.

“Only that the woman who is concierge knows more about it than she cares to tell,” I answered. “I was endeavoring to force a confession from her at the point of my sword when you interrupted me.”

“Ah,” and the man smiled. “We must look into that. If she has anything to tell she will tell it, Monsieur, rest assured of that. We have a more effective method of securing confessions than the sword-point,” and he smiled again.

They made another careful survey of the place, disturbing nothing, and then, motioning me to follow, left the room and sealed the door behind them. We descended to the court, but found that the concierge was no longer in her lodge.

“We shall get her, Monsieur, never fear,” one of them remarked. “No one can escape us in Paris.”

I doubted this somewhat, but deemed it best to say nothing, and followed them into the street. They led the way to the Rue St. Honoré, turned down the Bons Enfants, and entered at one of the smaller doors of the Palais Royal. In a moment we were in an ante-chamber which was crowded with people, many of whom shot curious glances at me as we passed. Here there was a short delay, and then we were shown into a room where a man sat writing at a table.

I looked at him with interest, for that this was the renowned Comte Voyer d’Argenson, who had organized the police system of Paris into the most perfect in the world, I did not doubt. At the first glance I was struck by nothing so much as his surpassing ugliness, for his face was horribly disfigured by small-pox, and yet when I looked again this impression faded imperceptibly and I saw only a man with kindly eyes and winning mouth.

He listened in silence to the report of the men who had arrested me, glancing keenly at my face once or twice, but for the most part playing with the pen he still held in his hand.

“Very good,” he said, as the report was concluded. “I need not tell you that it is necessary to arrest this woman. Do so without delay, and find out everything possible about her past. You may go.”

They went out and closed the door behind them.

“Sit down, M. le Moyne,” he continued, and I fancied I detected a trace of kindness in his voice. “I should be glad to hear your story of your connection with Mlle. Ribaut.”

“May I ask first, Monsieur,” I questioned, “why I have been arrested?”

“You are charged with the abduction and detention of the girl, with drawing your sword against her legal guardian, M. Jacques Ribaut, and with subsequently assaulting him and his friend, M. Jean Briquet, at his residence in the Rue des Moulins. Luckily, they were not injured seriously, and so could lodge complaint against you without delay.”

“But they did not know my lodging,” I protested, looking at him with bewildered eyes. “How was I found so speedily?”

D’Argenson smiled and turned to a great book which lay beside him on the table.

“Listen,” he said, and opened it. “Ah, here it is,” he added, after turning a page or two. “An entry on this page reads as follows, under date of July 10: ‘Pierre le Moyne, age about twenty, brown hair, brown eyes, well built, entered by the Porte St. Antoine at sunrise. Found lodging at the Epée Flamboyante, Rue du Chantre. A Gascon, Mont-de-Marsan. Unsuspected.’”

He smiled again as he glanced at my astonished face.

“It is our record,” he said, “of all strangers who enter Paris. We have agents at every gate—a simple thing. You see we had you under our hand.”

Still I could not speak. It was incredible. But I began to understand how no one could escape M. D’Argenson.

“As to the charges,” he added more gravely, “I trust they are not true, M. le Moyne, for they are of a most serious nature.”

CHAPTER VII
I AM FORTUNATE IN FINDING A NEW FRIEND

I sat looking at him without answering, dismayed somewhat at the gravity of his face. Yet there were still the kindly eyes and mouth—surely I need fear no injustice from this man!

“I will tell you the story, M. le Comte,” I said, after a moment’s thought. “You shall judge for yourself in how far I am guilty.” And I gave him a detailed account of everything that had happened from the moment I had encountered Mlle. Ribaut in the Rue de l’Evêque until the moment of my arrest. D’Argenson did not once interrupt me, but glanced at me keenly from time to time, and remained for a moment silent after I had finished.

“M. le Moyne,” he said at last, “I need not tell you that you have been setting the law at defiance in all this, and that however I may respect you as a man of honor, as lieutenant of police there is only one course open to me, and that is to punish you. A father or legal guardian has an absolute and unquestioned right to dispose of a girl’s hand in marriage. There are only two conditions under which this right can be called into question. One is when there is some legal impediment which would prevent the marriage and which is being concealed. The other is when the proposed marriage is in the nature of a conspiracy, for the purpose of defrauding the girl in some way, or of doing her some other wrong.”

“Ah, Monsieur,” I cried, “if you could but see this creature, this Briquet! He is hideous, horrible! It seems to me that it is wrong enough that any girl should be compelled to marry him and live with such a monster.”

D’Argenson laughed bitterly.

“I have seen him, M. le Moyne,” he said. “It was he who came here to make complaint against you on behalf of M. Ribaut. I confess he is not lovely, but you could scarce expect me to take action on that ground, else I should be pronouncing a decree against my own countenance.”

“But there is a difference, M. le Comte!” I cried, and I wondered that I had ever thought him repulsive. “Mere irregularity of features, or even disfigurement, does not constitute ugliness. No countenance is offensive, Monsieur, which is lighted by kindly eyes and a smiling mouth. It is not so with Briquet. One shrinks from him instinctively as from a snake.”

D’Argenson did not answer, but sat musing deeply.

At last he raised his head.

“M. le Moyne,” he said, his eyes full on mine, “tell me truly why you came to Paris. It was not merely to seek your fortune?”

His eyes seemed to be reading my very heart. I had no thought of telling aught but the truth. So the truth I told, just as I had told Nanette, only more briefly—the attack on my sister and my killing of the libertine who had ordered it. Neither this time did M. le Comte interrupt me, but sat listening quietly, only looking at me with those eyes there was no denying. He was smiling when I ended, and I took courage.

“You have strong hearts, you le Moynes, men and women,” he said. “Some rumor of this affair hath reached Paris, only in another guise. It was that M. Philippe de Nizan and two attendants had been set upon by a gang of outlaws, and de Nizan and one of his men killed. The other, who escaped, told a pretty story of the fight, doubtless to save his own reputation. But I knew he was lying, for private advices from Marsan tell me that not a jewel nor pistole had been stolen. Only one of the horses was missing.”

“I rode it away, as I told you, M. le Comte,” I protested earnestly. “It has been sent back from Tours and should be at Marsan by this time awaiting its owner. That will prove the truth of my story, Monsieur.”

But D’Argenson silenced me with a gesture of his hand.

“I need no proof, M. le Moyne,” he said kindly. “I believe it already. I can detect truth from falsehood—that is why I am head of the police. You did well to trust me.”

I turned red with pleasure and tried to stammer my thanks, but he silenced me again.

“If the varlet sticks to his lie, you, of course, will not be troubled,” he added. “Should he tell the truth, the whole truth, there could be no charge against you. Should he tell a half-truth, implicating you, I will take a hand in the affair. I can protect you there, because you had the law on your side, but about this other I am not so certain. You have struck at one of the props of our society, and there is no crime more serious. If a parent or guardian may not dispose of his child in marriage, we will have simply chaos.”

I did not know what to answer. I had no wish to bring about a revolution, yet I knew quite well that I should never permit Nanette to be returned to her infamous uncle—but I could not say that to M. le Comte. He sat for some moments deep in thought, while I tried vainly to discover a way out of the coil.

“Well, M. le Moyne,” he said at last, “it is evident that the most important thing now is to find the girl, since she is no longer with you. Until that is done and her testimony can be secured, I will see that the charge against you is not pressed.”

“And in the mean time,” I questioned breathlessly, “I trust you will not think it necessary to send me to prison, M. le Comte?”

“And why not?” he asked smiling.

“Because in prison, Monsieur, I could do nothing towards assisting your agents to recover Mlle. Ribaut.”

“I had thought of that,” said d’Argenson. “Well, Monsieur, I will give you your freedom on two conditions.”

“And what are they?” I asked.

“One is that you report here to me at eight o’clock every morning so that I can detain you if there is need.”

“I agree!” I cried.

“The other is that if you succeed in finding Mlle. Ribaut, you will bring her here to me at once and surrender her into my hands without question.”

I hesitated for a moment, but a glance at d’Argenson’s face convinced me that he would use me fairly.

“Very well, Monsieur,” I said, “I agree to your second condition. But in return I would ask of you one thing.”

“And what is that?”

“It is, M. le Comte, that you make a little inquiry into the affairs of Ribaut and Briquet. I am certain that a conspiracy of some kind does exist,” and I told him of Ribaut’s terror, when, for want of something better to say, I had threatened him with a police investigation.

“It may be as you say,” assented d’Argenson thoughtfully. “At any rate, I will gladly do as you suggest, for I do not conceal from you, M. le Moyne, that my heart is with you in this matter. I can appreciate a gentleman, Monsieur, wherever I find him,” and he arose and gave me his hand. “If I can aid you in any way, I will do so—I can promise you that much. Adieu, Monsieur, and do not forget to report to-morrow morning. I may have some news for you.”

I pressed his hand warmly, thanked him, and took my leave. Evening was already at hand as I reached the street, and my stomach reminded me that I had eaten nothing since morning. I sought out the café in the Rue de Beauvais where we had breakfasted, and as I ate my solitary meal, I saw again before me the laughing, piquant face of Nanette Ribaut. I lingered at the table, revelling in the companionship which my thoughts created for me, and nine o’clock was striking from the Louvre as I once more reached the street. I reflected that I could do nothing better than return to my room and get a good night’s rest, for I was accustomed to a softer bed than I had had the night before, and felt greatly fatigued. Besides, it was just possible that the old concierge might return, and nothing would please me so much as to turn her over to d’Argenson, that she might be put to the question.

I was soon at the house, but saw in a moment that the lodge of the concierge was dark and deserted. I mounted to my own room, found the seals on the door undisturbed, broke them and entered. My heart was beating madly as I lighted the candle and looked around. It seemed to me that I could still detect the sweet, faint perfume of Nanette’s presence in the room. I set to work to repair its disorder, and picked up with reverent fingers the garment upon which she had been working. I did not remove the threaded needle, but resolved that it should remain there, and that I would treasure the worn garment always.

Long time I sat by the table and mused over the day’s events. D’Argenson had said that the law was against me, and that, if no impediment was found, Nanette must do her uncle’s bidding. I shut my teeth together as I determined that this impediment should be found; that I would penetrate this mystery; that I would prevent this sacrifice. But how, how?

In an agony of apprehension, I prepared for bed. As I removed my doublet, something fell to the floor, and when I stooped to look more closely I saw it was the purse Nanette had given me. I picked it up with trembling hand, and sleep found me with it clasped close against my heart.

CHAPTER VIII
I KEEP AN APPOINTMENT

I awoke in the morning strong, refreshed, and hopeful, and I arose without delay, for I was eager to commence the contest. The day was singularly bright and pleasant. It reminded me of the sweet springs I had known in the south, and I descended the stairs with a light heart, confident that I should yet win the victory. That is what it is to be young!

As I passed the lodge of the concierge I saw that there was some one within, and I opened the door to find an old man looking at me.

“Good-day, Monsieur,” he said politely. “Is there anything you wish?”

“Are you the concierge?” I asked.

“Since this morning only, Monsieur,” he answered.

“Can you tell me what has become of your predecessor?”

“I did not know him, Monsieur.”

I looked at the man sharply, but he returned my gaze without winking.

“How, then, did you obtain the place?” I asked.

“The concierge of the next house, who is a friend of mine, told me there was a vacancy here, so I came and was accepted.”

I looked at him again. If he was lying, he was doing it admirably and with a perfect composure.

“Very well, my friend,” I said at last. “I trust you will do your duty better than your predecessor. Yesterday my room, which is on the third floor, was entered and some property carried away. You will oblige me by keeping an eye upon my room,” and I laid a crown upon the table, for I reflected that I could lose nothing by gaining the friendship of this man, who might, perhaps, be able to assist me.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” he said, reddening with pleasure at sight of the coin. “Monsieur may rest assured that his room will not again be disturbed.”

“I trust so, at least,” I answered, and turned into the street. I knew that eight o’clock could not be far distant, so, without waiting for breakfast, I hastened towards the Palais Royal and was soon in M. d’Argenson’s ante-chamber.

It was, if anything, more crowded than on the previous day, and a circumstance which astonished me was that so few of those present wore uniforms. Indeed, the crowd which eddied ceaselessly back and forth seemed to be drawn from every rank of life, from the highest to the lowest, and as I glanced over this motley assemblage I gained an idea, vague and meagre no doubt, of the extent of the great system of espionage which the Comte d’Argenson had established, and which penetrated into every corner of Parisian life, like an enormous and insatiable vine, continually throwing out creepers and seeking a fresh foothold in some spot not already occupied. I paused beside a man who seemed to be the gardien, and who attentively scanned all who entered.

“If one wishes to see M. le Comte d’Argenson, Monsieur,” I inquired, “how does one proceed?”

“You will find him very busy, Monsieur,” he answered, “unless your business is of importance.”

“I have an appointment with him at eight o’clock,” I said dryly.

“Ah, in that case there will be no trouble. M. d’Argenson allows nothing to interfere with his appointments,” and the man smiled. “Give your name to that gentleman whom you see standing by the closed door yonder, Monsieur.”

“Many thanks,” I said, and did as he directed. In a few moments the man signalled me to follow him, and led the way into M. d’Argenson’s office.

“Good-morning, M. le Moyne,” he cried, as I entered. “Take a chair, if you please, and pardon me for one moment,” and he resumed the examination of a great number of papers, passing from one to another with incredible rapidity, affixing his signature here, erasing a line there, and laying a few to one side for further consideration.

I had opportunity to examine his face more attentively than had been possible the day before, and, the first impression produced by its disfigurement past, I found it more and more admirable.

The fame of the Comte d’Argenson had penetrated to the four corners of France, until Le Dammé, as he was called because of his formidable countenance, had become a word to frighten children with. A thousand stories were told of him, how he commenced his audiences at three o’clock in the morning and worked all day, dictating to four secretaries at once; making his rounds at night in a carriage in which there was a desk lighted by candles, so that no single moment might be lost; facing street riots with a cool courage which made him master of the mob; striking home with an absolute disregard of form and precedent, overcoming many obstacles, and achieving his object before another man could have planned the attack.

Certain it was that he had brought order out of chaos, suppressed crime with a rigid hand, and developed a system of espionage so complete that there were few in Paris concerning whose habits and conduct from day to day he could not be fully informed, should he choose to inquire about them. Clothed with an authority almost absolute, he had yet strength to use it gently and wisely; above corruption, discreet, ever leaning towards the merciful; a thorough gentleman, with whom any secret was safe, so that it did not interfere with the law or with the State—a fact which a thousand women knew by experience and thanked God for—it is little wonder that I gazed at him with interest and attention.

“Ah, M. le Moyne,” he said at last, looking up from a paper which he held in his hand, “here is a report which will interest you. The name of the concierge, it seems, is Mère Fouchon—at least, that is the only name she has ever been known to have. She secured her place as concierge in the Rue du Chantre nearly five years ago, by means of recommendations which my agents have since discovered were forged. Of her previous history we have as yet been able to ascertain nothing, but we will in time. During the five years she was concierge she made no friends—none, at least, to whom she told anything of her past life. She seems to have emerged from the darkness, and the fact that so little is known concerning her is in itself suspicious. No one, especially no woman, covers up her past unless there is something to conceal. Decidedly, I am interested in Mère Fouchon.”

“And you have not succeeded in finding her, I suppose, Monsieur?” I inquired.

“No,” answered d’Argenson, “she seems to have disappeared completely. She has descended into that darkness from which she emerged five years ago, and she has done it in a way which shows that she has kept in touch with the life of the sewers. But she cannot escape the eyes of my agents, which are everywhere—especially in the Paris which lives underground. We shall hear from her in a day or two, Monsieur, and after that our course will be an easy one.”

There was nothing more to be said, and as d’Argenson turned to other matters, I left the place and strolled moodily through the streets. I stopped at the first cabaret I came to and ordered breakfast, and, as I ate, endeavored to form some plan which held out at least a promise of success.

I could think of nothing better than to take M. d’Argenson’s hint and search those quarters of the town along the river and in the faubourgs where the criminal classes congregated, in the chance of catching a glimpse of Mère Fouchon, but I had little hope of success. To search for a single human being in those swarming dens of vice was a task which even the police found onerous—but I could not sit still with folded hands while Nanette was in danger, and I set about my task without delay.

CHAPTER IX
A DESCENT INTO A CESSPOOL

I turned first towards the quays, hoping that in the crowd of beggars, thieves, and cut-throats which swarmed over them I might chance upon the object of my search. The streets were crowded with carriages and heavy carts, which went their way with a fine disregard of the foot-passengers, who kept out of danger as best they could, seeking shelter behind the protections thrown out at each corner, or dodging back and forth under the noses of the horses.

As I crossed the river and turned into the Quai des Théatins, I heard a shrill scream of terror, and witnessed an accident such as happened many times daily in Paris. A child had been knocked down by a passing horse, and lay sprawling on the pavement. In a moment the heavy wheels of a cart would have crushed her, for the crowd regarded the accident with a singular indifference, but I sprang forward with an oath at their carelessness, and dragged her to her feet. With two strides I gained the protection of a projecting flight of steps, and paused to look at her.

I saw at a glance that she was a creature of the streets, one of those unfortunate beings with no home but the ash-heaps, no food but that she managed to rescue from the garbage-piles. She might have been ten years old, or twenty, it was impossible to tell—or, rather, it would be more correct to say that her body had the arrested development of a sickly child of ten, her face the preternatural shrewdness and knowledge of a street-woman twice that age. The rags in which she was clothed were horribly dirty, and as I set her again on her feet I shuddered to see that her legs were hideously bowed.

“There, my child,” I said, as I put her down, “you are quite safe now. In future be more careful where you are going. Another time you may not escape so fortunately.”

She looked at me with large eyes, in which there was a trace of tears.

“Yes, Monsieur,” she said. “You are very kind.”

“There, run along,” I answered, touched with pity as I looked at her pinched face, which under other circumstances might have been attractive—even pretty.

“Yes, Monsieur,” she said again. Still she did not move, but stood looking wistfully up into my face.

“What is it, my dear?” I asked, stooping down beside her.

She hesitated a moment, looked down at the pavement, and then slowly raised her eyes again to mine.

“I think—I should like you—very much, Monsieur,” she stammered, and turned away into the street. I gazed after her in amazement, for I could have sworn that she had blushed. I watched her until she was out of sight, and then continued on my way, pondering over this new wonder, until I plunged into the fetid quarter near the Halles, and found plenty there to occupy my mind.

In an hour’s time my heart was sick of the task. The tottering buildings, the filthy streets, the sore-eyed, half-naked children swarming with vermin; the hideous creatures who had once been men and women, but who now were merely monsters disguised in forms scarce human; the sickening, penetrating stench which hung over everything; the squalor, disease, corruption, vice, which were evident on every hand—all these filled me with disgust and dismay, for I, reared under the trees and the blue sky, had never dreamed of anything so terrible, and I trembled at the thought that perhaps in one of those filthy holes, reeking with crime and disease, Nanette—my Nanette, dainty, beautiful, innocent—might be concealed. The thought turned my heart sick within me, and I pushed on from street to street, looking to right and left, mad with horror and despair.

My brain was reeling as I made my way back to the river’s edge for a breath of pure air and a glimpse of God’s blue sky unsullied by the miasma of disease and filth. Then I turned again to my work, peering into reeking courts, along foul alleys, under noisome doorways, my hand always on my sword, for I detected everywhere black looks and threatening gestures which would have meant death had I been unprepared. But nowhere did I catch a glimpse of Mère Fouchon, and at last, sick at heart, and with every organ of my body in revolt, I turned away and went slowly back to the Rue du Chantre.

As I entered the court, I saw the concierge beckoning to me eagerly from his box, and I hastened to him.

“What is it?” I asked. “You have something to tell me?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” he answered, with a smile. “You were asking this morning about my predecessor.”

“Well, what then?” and I endeavored to control my impatience.

“She sent this morning for some clothing she had left behind.”

“Yes, yes. Go on.”

“She sent a girl, a gamine, only so high, all rags, all dirt, a horrible sight.”

“Make haste!” I cried. “What then?”

“Well, I gave this girl the clothes, Monsieur. She took them and went away.”

“And is that all?” I asked, my heart falling again.

“Not quite, Monsieur. It happened that my grandson was here at the time, and I told him to follow the girl, believing that in this way we might learn where her mistress is hiding.”

“Splendid!” I cried. “And he followed her?”

“Yes, he followed her, Monsieur—ah, such a distance! Along the Rue des Poulies to the river, along the quays, across the Pont Neuf, through the Rue de la Pelleterie, again along the quays, across the Rue St. Croix, through the Rue Cocatrix, doubling back and forth like a rabbit, doubtless to render pursuit impossible, until finally she turned into the Rue du Chevet. When my grandson reached the corner she had disappeared.”

“’Twas well done!” I cried. “Here is a crown for your grandson, who is a brave boy,” and I turned away.

“Where do you go, Monsieur?” asked the concierge.

“To the Rue du Chevet, to be sure,” I answered. “Depend upon it, I shall soon find her hiding-place.”

“Have a care, Monsieur,” he protested. “’Tis a dangerous place for honest men.”

“I have my sword,” I answered, and hurried into the street.

Darkness had already come, but I traversed the quays and crossed the Pont Neuf, with its queer little semicircular shops, its dentists and quack doctors and its equestrian statue of our great Henri, without pausing for breath. It was only when I plunged into the maze of streets beyond that I was compelled to stop and inquire my way, and even then it was with the greatest difficulty that I found the Rue du Chevet.

I should have given up the task as hopeless, but the thought of Nanette a captive, suffering I knew not what indignities, spurred me on. The quarter was plunged in absolute darkness, there being no pretence of lighting the streets, and I could not see two paces before me, but from the stench which assailed my nostrils—the vapor of crime and disease—I knew I was again in one of those filthy quarters of the town where I had spent the day.

Shadows passed me, leaving behind an impression of incredible foulness. Strange shapes brushed against me. There was something terrible and threatening in the very atmosphere. I felt that, although I could see nothing, I was fully visible to these denizens of the night, whose eyes had grown accustomed to its blackness. Here and there a feeble ray of light penetrated the shutters of a window or fought its way through a crevice in a doorway and faintly illumined a few inches of the dirty pavement. Everywhere else was gloom, so thick, so heavy, so absolute, that it seemed to press upon and suffocate me.

I put my hand to my face and found my forehead damp with perspiration.

“Come,” I said, “this will not do. You are frightening yourself, my friend. There is really nothing here to fear,” and I continued on.

At the end of a moment, I ran against a wall. I felt along it with my hands and found that it completely closed the end of the street. Evidently it was a cul-de-sac and I must retrace my steps. I reflected that it were folly to attempt anything more until daylight came to my assistance, and that the wisest thing for me to do was to return to the Rue du Chantre and secure a good night’s rest. Then in the morning, with the help of M. d’Argenson’s men, I would soon unearth Mère Fouchon. I shuddered to think that Nanette was condemned to spend a second night in such a place, but plainly I was powerless to prevent it.

As I turned away from the wall, I seemed to hear the sound of many feet shuffling along the pavement, of many voices whispering together. A thousand eyes seemed glaring at me through the darkness. There was something inexpressibly chilling and menacing in this murmur, which continually receded as I advanced, only to close in behind me. I felt that I had but to stretch out my hand to touch a wall of living bodies, and yet I dared not do so.

Suddenly a door right beside me was thrown open and a flood of light poured out into the street. For a moment I was blinded, and then, framed in the doorway, I saw the shrivelled form and leering face of Mère Fouchon.

“Oh, oh!” she cried, in a shrill voice, “so it is M. le Moyne—the chivalrous M. le Moyne, who prefers a bed on the floor to his own couch when a pretty girl occupies it!”

My sword was out of its sheath in a breath.

“Hellcat!” I cried, and sprang towards her.

She vanished from the doorway like a shadow, but I was after her. Even as I passed the threshold, I heard a clear, piercing cry.

“Pierre!” screamed the voice. “Oh, Pierre! This way!”

“Nanette!” I cried. “Nanette! In a moment, my darling!” and I hurled myself across the room and down the hallway whence the cry seemed to come.

In that instant, I saw a huge shadow quivering on the wall above me and before I could turn, a crushing blow fell upon my head. There was a burst of flame before my eyes, my sword slipped from my hand, I felt myself falling, falling, and all was black.

CHAPTER X
MÈRE FOUCHON SCORES

I awoke with a great pain in my eyes, and when I raised my hand to my head, I found that my hair was clotted with blood. A weight of iron seemed to burden every limb, and I groaned aloud as I tried to rise, and fell back again, palsied by the agony the movement cost me. I felt the wall behind me, and dragging myself to it with infinite suffering, I propped my back against it and looked about me. I could see nothing, for a veil of impenetrable darkness shut me in, and no single crevice admitted a ray of light. The wall against which I leaned was cold and slimy, and once or twice a drop of water fell upon my head.

How long I sat there I do not know, but finally, by a supreme effort, I got to my knees and then to my feet. Feeling along the wall, I advanced a step, two steps, three. And then something seemed to seize me by the waist and hurl me backward. I lay still for a moment, half-dazed, not understanding what had happened. I put my hands to my waist and in an instant I comprehended. Around my waist, just above the hips, an iron band was clamped. At the back of the band was a hasp, through which a chain passed. I ran my hands along the chain. It was perhaps three feet in length, and the other end was fastened to the wall.

I suppose I must have fainted, for I remember nothing more until I was torn from the merciful grasp of sleep by a burning thirst, a thirst which tortured and maddened me. I could feel my throat contracting; my tongue swelling in my throbbing mouth—my blood seemed to be aflame. I scraped my fingers over the reeking wall and sucked them for a bit of moisture. I held my mouth open, upward, in the hope that a drop of water might fall into it. I cursed aloud and jerked at my chain in an agony of desperation. At last, I fell exhausted against the wall, and sank into a troubled sleep, disturbed by hideous dreams.

When I opened my eyes again, I seemed stronger. The pain in my head was less intense, but my throat was still dry and parched and I felt hot and feverish. A chance motion of my hand brought it into contact with something on the floor beside me. I felt it cautiously. It seemed to be a vessel of some kind. I placed my fingers within it and found it full of water. With a gasp of thankfulness, I placed it to my lips and drank, trembling at the thought that had I turned in my sleep I might have upset it and spilled its precious contents.

Ah, how I drank! I swallowed in great gulps. I filled my mouth to bursting and allowed the blessed liquid to trickle slowly down my throat. I turned my head from side to side, that every portion of my gullet might be reached. I gloated over it as a miser over his gold, and at last with a sigh of utter content, set down the vessel empty.

The water ran through my veins like wine, and I arose to my feet, strong and invigorated. My eyes had grown somewhat accustomed to the darkness, and I could dimly perceive the wall stretching away on either side. And for the first time, I remembered—the search through the night, the opening of the door, Nanette’s scream for help, the shadow on the wall—it flashed through my brain like lightning through a summer sky—I must escape, I must keep cool—and with set teeth I choked back the trembling that would have seized me.

The spasm passed, and with my fingers I carefully examined the iron belt about my waist. It was, I judged, three inches wide by half an inch in thickness. The ends, which overlapped, were provided with a series of teeth, which fitted together and were clamped into place by a lock. The ends had been pushed past each other until the belt was fitted close to my waist. I tried to work it down over my hips, but soon perceived that this could not be done. Clearly, if I ever left the place, it would be with the belt about me.

I turned my attention to the hasp at the back. It was heavy and riveted through the belt. I examined the chain link by link, but found none that showed a sign of weakness. A heavy iron ring held it to the wall. How the ring was secured I could not tell, but I exerted all my strength against it and found I could not move it a hair’s-breadth. Certainly my captors had overlooked no detail that would tend to make me more secure. What fiendish ingenuity had devised this place of torture!

As I sat down again with a sigh of discouragement, I heard a sharp click as of a spring released, a heavy door creaked back, and a woman appeared carrying a lantern. At a glance I recognized Mère Fouchon. Her face was illumined by a devilish joy as she looked about and saw me sitting there.

“Ho, ho,” she laughed, “can this be the gallant who was going to spit me on his sword only the other morning?”

I did not answer, and she placed her lantern on the ground and sat down on a heap of dirt opposite me, but well out of reach, and rocked herself back and forth, and chuckled. I felt myself choking with rage.

“And the girl, too,” she continued, after a moment, “the girl with the dark eyes and little red mouth. She is called Nanette, is she not? What a shame that she should be crying her eyes out in the room just overhead!”

I ground my teeth together at the thought of my own impotence.

“Ah, curse!” she cried, “curse your heart out! Christ, how it gladdens my soul! Ho, ho!” and she rocked back and forth in a paroxysm of mirth.

“Come,” I said at last, mastering my anger as best I could. “Why are you doing all this?”

“For money,” she answered gayly. “Ten thousand crowns, at the very least, Monsieur. It is a pretty sum, is it not?”

“Very pretty,” I said. “Who is fool enough to part with it?”

“Who but M. Jacques Ribaut, of the Rue des Moulins?” and the hag laughed more than ever.

“Ribaut?” I murmured, a great fear at my heart.

“Assuredly, Ribaut,” and she leered at me horribly. “Perhaps M. Jean Briquet may pay a portion of it. ’Tis worth it to get such a bride, do you not think so, Monsieur?—such a sweet bride, so soft, so young, so innocent—a jewel of a bride!”

“A bride?” I groaned. “Speak out, woman, and tell me what you mean.”

I thought she would choke with laughing.

“In two words, Monsieur,” she gasped, so soon as she had regained her breath. “When once the terms are settled, which will be to-morrow, or perhaps even yet to-day, the girl will be delivered to her anxious and loving uncle, none the worse for her little visit here, where she is quite as safe as in your bed in the Rue du Chantre,” and she paused again to catch her breath. “A day or two after that, M. Briquet will have the honor of leading her to the altar, whither, since she believes you dead, she will accompany him without resistance. And what a bride she will make—so plump, so warm, so rosy, so adorable! Ah, how I envy that happy man!” and she smacked her lips, like a glutton over a choice morsel.

I was pacing up and down the wall. I tore at my chain. In that moment, I would have sold my soul to get my fingers about her neck—scraggy, yellow, seamed—God, how I would have twisted it!

“You hag!” I said between my teeth. “You shall burn in hell for this. Pray God it may be I who send you there!”

She was screaming with laughter.

“Oh, oh,” she gasped, “that I should have lived to see this! And he was going to kill me with that sword of his!”

Again she was forced to stop, and sat for some minutes rocking back and forth, shaking with laughter.

I glared at her and cursed her. If there be merit in curses that come from the very bottom of the soul, then is she damned eternally.

CHAPTER XI
TORTURE

But this devil did not heed my curses. Perhaps she knew herself damned already, and so feared God nor man. So, seeing her squatting laughing there, my wrath choked itself out, and I stood silent, hot with hate.

“Go on, Monsieur,” she screamed. “Do not stop, I beg of you. Oh, the delight of this moment!”

I bit my lips to keep them silent. That I, Pierre le Moyne, should be here, a dupe, a gull, a puppet, a fool, a make-sport for this creature!

“It is sublime,” she gasped, “this jest! Everything has played into my hands so nicely, and at last it is to be my turn. I have waited fifteen years for my turn, Monsieur, and now it has come. I think I shall tell you. It is too good to keep to myself; and then, too, I know the secret will be as safe with you as in the tomb,” and she paused to laugh again. “Those two creatures of d’Argenson endeavored to learn something about me, I’ll wager.”

“Yes,” I said, “but they found very little.”

“Mère Fouchon knows how to cover her steps,” and the woman chuckled grimly. “The gendarmerie think themselves very acute, but there are others who are sharper. How could they suspect that Mère Fouchon, twenty years ago, was Madame Basarge, housekeeper for M. and Mme. Charles Ribaut, and their brother, that very respectable M. Jacques Ribaut, whom we both love so dearly?”

She saw my look of dazed astonishment, and smiled again, still more grimly.

“It seems you do not understand,” she continued after a moment, during which she seemed to be debating how much she should tell me. Caution warned her to be silent; but the spirit of bravado held her in its grip; a silence of many years clamored to be broken; the devil in her urged her on, not to be denied. “After all,” she said, “what harm in talking to a dead man? Listen attentively, then, Monsieur. It was sixteen years ago, while I was employed in the Ribaut household, that Madame Ribaut gave birth to a girl—that adorable Nanette whom you already know. The mother died a week later, and the father soon followed her. He was a good man, and so adored his wife that he found life not worth living without her—just the opposite of most men! Ah, I remember her so well—picture to yourself, Monsieur, a woman twice as beautiful as this Nanette and with a soul like the Virgin’s—well, that would be she. I have never seen another like her—if she had lived, there might, perhaps, have been another story to tell.”

She paused for a moment, and I gazed at her astounded. Her mouth was working and her fingers clutching at the bosom of her dress—could it be, after all, that this hell-hag had a heart? But she caught my eyes and threw her emotion from her.

“But she did not live,” she said, with an ugly laugh. “I am what I am—there is no going back. Let me get on with the story. Charles Ribaut was a good man, but his brother, Jacques—well, that they could have been moulded in the same womb was a miracle—they were like black and white, like night and day, like hell and heaven. His brother was left to take care of the baby and to look after her fortune for her—for her father was rich, oh, tremendously rich. She was sent off to a convent for the good sisters to care for. The name on the sign in front of the shop in the Rue des Moulins was altered from Charles Ribaut to Jacques Ribaut. I was discharged, for it seems that he did not wish to have any one near him who had known his brother. In ten years no one remembered that such a man as Charles Ribaut had ever existed. His brother was still taking care of his fortune, and as the moment drew near when he knew he must part with it, the thought came to him, why part with it at all? Clearly, there was only one thing which could disturb his possession—that was the girl’s marriage. Her husband would, of course, demand an accounting of her affairs.”

She paused for a moment and looked at me.

“Yes,” I nodded. “I begin to see.”

“You will understand, then,” she continued, “that it was necessary for Ribaut to find for the girl a husband who would not be too curious—who would be satisfied with a dowry of twenty or thirty thousand crowns and who would ask no questions. Such a husband was found in the person of a certain M. Jean Briquet.”

I shuddered as I recalled that hideous face.

“I see you know him,” she chuckled. “He is beautiful, is he not?”

“But how do you know all this?” I asked.

She hesitated for a moment—but the temptation was too strong. And, after all, what harm in talking to a dead man?

“You have perhaps noticed, Monsieur,” she said at last, “that I do not speak the argot of the sewers, and yet for ten years I was a part of them. After leaving Ribaut, I made a mistake, a false step—no matter what. It was necessary for me to remain concealed from the police. I was no longer Mme. Basarge. I became Mère Fouchon, a consort of thieves and drabs—a receiver of stolen goods—a thing of the night. Do you fancy I relished it, Monsieur? At the end of ten years, I thought it safe to emerge from the darkness. I became concierge of the house in the Rue du Chantre, and dreamed of a day when I might regain my old place in the world. I had been in hell, but I fancied I could drag myself out.”

Again she paused, and I looked at her with something like pity in my heart. I could see what those ten years in the sewers of Paris had done for her. D’Argenson’s theory, then, had been correct.

“It was at that time I thought of applying to M. Ribaut,” she continued. “I thought perhaps he might be willing to assist me. I did not then suspect what a dog he was. But he raved at me like a madman, and threatened to denounce me to the police should I ever again appear before him. I began to suspect something. I made inquiries, but I could find out nothing. His niece, they said, was at the Sacré Cœur getting her education. Had she been home? No, no one had ever seen her. But I saw her—the scrub-woman at the convent pointed her out to me. Indeed, I did not need to have her pointed out—she was so like her mother, I thought for a moment I was looking at a ghost, and grew quite faint. But it passed, and I looked at her well and saw she was not happy. What girl could be in that gray, cold, silent place? Ugh, it makes me shiver to think of it! Even the sewers were better, for, after all, there is life in the sewers, not always and always silence! But I did not rest there. I made a friend of a concierge just across from the Ribaut house, but she could tell me nothing. Was the girl coming home? She did not know. Had she been betrothed? Well, there was a rumor that she was destined for a certain M. Briquet, a great friend of her uncle’s. Then in a flash I understood, Monsieur, for I had known M. Briquet, having met him during those ten years spent in the darkness,” and she laughed harshly. “His is not a pleasant character, though he has raised himself out of the abyss.”

I said nothing, fearing to interrupt this remarkable story.

“But though I knew everything,” she went on after a moment, “I could do nothing, as I had no wish to make the acquaintance of M. d’Argenson’s men. It was not until I saw you enter the court of the Epée Flamboyante with Mlle. Ribaut on your arm that I found a plan. Now, M. le Moyne, my plan is working admirably. I hold the key to the situation. In a day or two, Ribaut will come to terms. I will take my ten thousand crowns and pouf!—there will no longer be a Mère Fouchon. I will go to Marseilles, Bordeaux, Nice—anywhere away from this execrable Paris. I shall have money—I shall live well—I shall no longer fear the police or a return to the life of the Rue des Marmosets. I shall escape from hell, after all.”

“And what do you propose doing with me?” I asked.

She looked at me a moment with glittering eyes, all her venom in her face.

“Ah, you, M. le Moyne. It is most unfortunate for you that you did not remain contentedly in the Rue du Chantre instead of following the girl here. You have put your head in the trap, and in the trap you stay. Out of it, you would trouble me. You are too intimate with M. d’Argenson. So, when I am ready to leave Paris, I shall close the outer door, swing into place a certain slab of stone, and go away. That will be the end. A century from now, perhaps, workmen will find a cavern under the street. In the cavern will be a skeleton chained to the wall. They can wonder as they please, but I’ll wager they’ll not guess the story. Perhaps some one will make a very pretty romance of it. Think what an honor, Monsieur! The hero of a romance!”

Honor! Ah, well, this devil should not see I feared her. Besides, was not the lieutenant of police my friend? He would learn from the concierge whither I had gone. Doubtless he was already searching for me.

So I laughed in her face.

“You deceive yourself, Madame,” I said. “I have friends who know that I came here. They will turn this whole quarter upside down but they find me, and then you will be sent to ornament a gibbet at Bicetre.”

She rocked back and forth, clasping her knees and leering into my face.

“Find you?” she echoed. “Not soon, Monsieur; certainly not in time to save you, unless the earth opens. The police have been this way, and they have passed without finding a trace of you or of me. You would never have discovered me, never have found a trace of me, had I not opened the door that you might walk in. I saw my chance to be revenged—and revenge is very sweet—so I opened the trap and in you came! For you had not behaved nicely to me, Monsieur; you had looked at me in a way that any woman would resent; you had spoken words to me that were not to be forgiven. Well, you are in the trap, and you will never get out. Do you fancy I would have taken the risk of sending for that clothing had I not been certain I could laugh at the police?”

She paused for breath. Now that the gates were opened, that silence of fifteen years was being broken with a vengeance!

“Nevertheless, they will find me,” I repeated resolutely. “You do not know Monsieur d’Argenson.”

“Do I not!” and she laughed horribly, with contorted face. “For fifteen years has he been seeking me, yet he has never found me. Nor will he ever find you, for you are well hidden, Monsieur; so well that Christ may not find you at Judgment. That would be horrible—not to get your reward for sleeping on the hard floor the other night, and leaving that pretty girl to go, pucelle, to our friend, Bri——”

But she did not finish, for, mad with rage, I caught from the floor the vessel that had held the water, and dashed it full at her face. But quick as a flash, she bent aside, and the dish crashed against the wall behind her.

She sat for a moment looking at me, a queer light in her eyes.

“You love her, do you not, Monsieur?” she said quietly, at last. “Too bad your fate should bring you here, for there is no way out.”

No way out! There was a finality in her tone that chilled me. I sat down again trembling, against the wall.

“I bought the secret of this place at a price”—she paused, and her features became frightful, “at a price of body and soul,” she continued, hoarsely. “I had to have it—to save my life—I did not hesitate. Now, it is serving me once more, Monsieur. When I leave it to-morrow, for the last time, it will never again be opened.”

I felt myself gazing, fascinated, over the edge of an abyss.

“It is a very interesting place,” she went on, sneeringly. “The man of whom I—bought it—had been a scholar before he became a brute—I think it is your men of genius who fall the lowest when they fall—and he told me about it one day. He said that at one time this little island was all Paris, and that this cavern was hewn in the rock by some tyrant who ruled here then—a queer name he had—I have forgotten. Its very existence had been unknown for I know not how many centuries, until this beast I tell you of chanced upon the secret of the entrance there. A hundred men have eaten their hearts out, bound in that belt, sitting just where you are sitting.”

I shuddered at the thought. I felt that my blood was chilled, that my manhood was slipping from me.

“You will leave me here to starve, then?” I asked at last.

“No, I will be merciful, Monsieur,” she answered. “I have no wish to torture you. I am, in a way, sorry for you. Before I go I will place by your side a cup of wine. You will drink the wine, and you will fall into a pleasant sleep from which you will never awaken.”

“Oh, you fiend!” I groaned, sick at the thought. “You fiend!”

“I think you understand the situation now,” and she laughed harshly as she arose to go. “Do you suppose for a moment that I will allow the life of one man or of twenty men to stand between me and success? Do you suppose I would go back to the Rue des Marmosets—to the life that was a living hell—for anything on earth? I was so sure that you must die—that I could not with safety spare you, even if I so desired—that I have thrown into the Seine the key of the lock at your belt. That belt is there to stay, Monsieur, until it rots away.”

She picked up her lantern and took a step towards the door.

“I will tell you one thing more, Monsieur,” she added, pausing, “that you may guess what my life has been. The drink which I will give you is one that I have kept by me for fifteen years. I preferred that death to the wheel—yes, a thousand times. But I shall no longer have need of it, Monsieur, so I give it to you. You see that I am generous.”

She laughed again, and in a moment the door swung shut behind her and I was left alone in the darkness.

CHAPTER XII
A CHILD OF THE NIGHT

I sat for a long time, dazed and desperate, my head in my hands, my heart cold within me. It seemed that the last shred of my courage had been stripped from me. I was never again to see the trees nor the blue sky, or bare my head to the good sunshine. I was never again to lie in the grass and gaze up, up, through the heavens at the bright stars. I was never again to feel on my face the sweet breath of the south wind. I thought of the deep, placid Midouze, of the wide fields, of the dark forest, with the wild-flowers nestling in its depths. I thought of my mother, of my sister, of Nanette—I was never again to see Nanette—to hold her hand—to gaze into her eyes—she was to become prey to a monstrous appetite—ah, Christ!—my very soul trembled within me. She had called me—in terror and despair, she had called me—and I had not come! Instead, I had rushed headlong into this trap. I had played the fool! If I, alone, were to suffer I might endure it, but that she should suffer too——

But the mood passed, the throbbing in my brain subsided, stark fear hid its face. I shook myself together. After all, I was not yet dead, and so might yet escape. Still, the more I pondered the situation, the more remote did any chance of escape appear. I saw no way of accomplishing even the first step towards freedom, that of loosening myself from the chain which held me to the wall, and even were that done, I dared not think of the difficulties I must still encounter before I should be free. And yet I could not believe it was to be my fate to die here, chained to the wall, like a rat in a trap.

I heard the door opening again, and I stared in amazement at the queer figure that entered, carrying in one hand a candle and in the other a plate of food. It was a girl with legs grotesquely bowed, and in an instant I recognized the child I had rescued on the Quai des Théatins. At the same moment, the light from the candle fell upon my face, and she knew me.

“You!” she cried. “You! Oh, my God!” and she let fall the candle and plate upon the floor, her legs seemed to give way beneath her, and she sat rocking herself helplessly, despair writ large upon her face.

I stared at her a moment astounded, understanding nothing of her emotion. Then the words she had uttered, blushing, on the quay, came back to me—words called forth, perhaps, by the first touch of kindness she had ever known——

“I think—I should like you—very much, Monsieur!”

I looked at her again, and a ray of hope came to me. Perhaps in this unfortunate creature I might find an ally.

“Come,” I said, “this is not the way to help me, to spill my supper. I assure you, Mademoiselle, that I am very hungry.”

She gathered up the bread and meat without a word and gave them to me. I went at them vigorously and without minding the fact that some particles of dirt from the floor still clung to them. She set the candle upright beside her and watched me with eyes dark with apprehension. As I looked at her a thought suddenly occurred to me.

“Was it you,” I asked, “who went to the house in the Rue du Chantre to get Mère Fouchon’s clothing?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” she said.

“And you were on your way there when I picked you up on the quay?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

I smiled grimly as I reflected on the extraordinary chance which had taken me there just in time to save her life.

Suddenly she burst into a flood of tears.

“Oh, you smile!” she sobbed. “You do not understand, then. You do not know that you are to be left here, after we are gone, and that no one will ever find you.”

“Oh, yes, I have been told so,” I answered, “but I do not believe it.”

She raised her head and looked at me fixedly.

“You mean you will escape?” she asked, after a moment.

I nodded and smiled again.

“Oh, but you do not know,” she cried. “A man could not escape from here if he had the strength of a hundred men.”

“Nevertheless,” I began, but the hoarse voice of Mère Fouchon interrupted me.

“La Bancale,” she cried, “come here at once, and be sure to bolt the door after you.”

“I must go,” she said. “I will do what I can, Monsieur.”

I watched her as she went. So she was called La Bancale, the bandy-legged, and my eyes were wet with tears as I thought of what her life had been—of what it yet must be. She would do all she could, she had said, and yet what could she accomplish? She was so frail, so weak. Still, for a moment, I felt more hopeful. To a drowning man, even a straw is welcome. Besides, she was not without her shrewdness—witness how she had doubled on her tracks to prevent pursuit, and had finally evaded her pursuer. Or was it really a trap that had been set for me, and into which I had walked blindly?

The problem was too great a one for my wit to solve, for my head was paining me again severely. It was no light blow that had been given me, and I wondered that it had not crushed my skull. I could feel that the blood had soaked through my hair and dried about my face, but I had no way of removing it. The air of the cellar seemed foul and close; I was shivering with the cold and damp. At last, in sheer exhaustion, my head fell forward and I slept.

A touch on the arm awakened me. I opened my eyes, but could see nothing.

“Are you here, Monsieur?” a voice whispered. “Speak to me.”

“I was asleep,” I said. “Is it thou, La Bancale?”

“Oh, do not call me by that hideous name,” she sobbed.

“What shall I call you, then, my dear?”

“Anything, anything you like, Monsieur, only not that.”

“But have you no other name? Surely, you were not always called that!”

“Always, Monsieur,” she sobbed. “Ever since I can remember.”

Poor child! And she might have been a girl, happy like any other!

“Let me see,” I said, “I will call you Ninon. I have a sister named Ninon. I am sure you would love her.”

“I am sure of it also, if she is your sister, Monsieur,” she answered softly.

“How does it happen that you are here?” I asked, vaguely troubled by the tone of her voice. “Where is Mère Fouchon?”

“She went away just now, and as she said she was going to the Rue des Moulins she cannot be back for an hour at least.”

“To the Rue des Moulins?” I cried. “Oh, I must escape!” and I sprang to my feet and tugged at my chain in an ecstasy of rage. “Ninon,” I said suddenly, “could you not step into the street and say two words to a gendarme about my being here?”

“Alas, Monsieur,” she answered, “I am as much a prisoner as yourself. Mère Fouchon always locks me in when she leaves the house.”

I groaned aloud and could hear her sobbing.

“Come,” I said, mastering myself at the end of a moment, “this will not do. We must be brave. Cease crying, Ninon, and sit here beside me.”

She did as I bade, and as I passed my arm about her and drew her to me, I felt her body trembling and shaken by sobs. My lips quivered with pity as I perceived how thin she was.

“Now,” I said, “we are comfortable. Place your head against my shoulder—so. How old are you, Ninon?”

“I do not know, Monsieur.”

“Pierre is my name,” I said.

“I do not know how old I am, M. Pierre,” and it seemed to me that her voice dwelt lovingly on the word.

“And is Mère Fouchon your mother?”

“I do not know that, either, M. Pierre. Only——” and she hesitated.

“Only what, Ninon? Tell me; do not be afraid.”

“Only I hope that she is not my mother, because I hate her.”

“She has not been kind to you then, Ninon?”

“Kind to me!” and I felt her shudder. “Ah, if you knew, Monsieur! The beatings—the nights and days spent here in this cavern—sometimes I thought she would kill me. If she were my mother, she would not hate me so, would she, Monsieur?”

I held her closer to me with aching heart.

“No, she would not hate you if she were your mother, Ninon; she would love you. I am sure she is not your mother. Have you always lived here?”

“Always, Monsieur. After she became concierge, I remained here, and she came home every night.”

“She did not sleep at the Rue du Chantre, then?”

“No, never, Monsieur. Always here.”

I smiled grimly to myself at this proof that the hag had been lying to me on the night she tripped over my legs in the hallway.

“And she has never told you anything about yourself?” I continued after a moment.

“Never, Monsieur.”

“But you have asked her to tell you, have you not, Ninon?”

“Oh, yes, Monsieur, many times.”

“And how did she answer?”

“With a beating, M. Pierre.”

I drew her closer to me and gathered both her hands into my own.

“Perhaps it will not be always so,” I said gently. “Perhaps some day there will be people who will love you and who will try to make you happy.”

She was sobbing against my shoulder, her hands clutching at me nervously.

“You would go with me, Ninon, would you not,” I asked, “if I escaped from here?”

“Oh, yes, M. Pierre,” she sobbed. “I would go with you anywhere.”

“That is right,” I said, and I bent and kissed her forehead. “But first, I must escape, and in order to escape, I must be rid of this chain. Do you think you could find me a file, Ninon?”

“A file? I do not know, Monsieur. I will try. But I must go. She will soon be returning,” and she drew herself away. “If I can find a file, I will bring it to you, M. Pierre,” and a moment later, I heard the door close behind her.

CHAPTER XIII
A NIGHT OF AGONY

I sat for a long time pondering over the unhappy fate of this child. What her story had been I could only guess. Stolen, doubtless, by this devil in whose care she was—brought up, certainly, in the midst of filth and shame; stunted, tortured, misshapen—until she had become a mere fungus of humanity, growing only in the dark, without blood or healthy vigor—a hideous travesty upon girlhood and womanhood. The horror and sadness of the thing moved me strangely—yet had I not seen a thousand such during those hours I had spent in the slums?

But Ninon—would she bear transplanting into other soil? I doubted it, yet it seemed to me that death itself were preferable a thousand times to such a life as this. At least, God willing, I would make the trial.

So the hours dragged on. Sometimes I dozed; more often I sat plunged in gloomy thought, trying in vain to work out the problem of escape. At last the door opened again, and Ninon brought me another plate of meat and a can of water.

“I know where there is a file, M. Pierre,” she whispered, as she set them down. “I will try to get it when Mère Fouchon goes out again.”

I pressed her hand for answer, and was glad that I had said nothing, for at that moment the woman herself appeared at the door with her lantern. She motioned the girl to leave, and herself sat down on the dirt-heap opposite me.

I looked at her with astonishment, for her eyes were gleaming and her withered face was distorted with a malignant joy.

“Well, Monsieur,” she said after a moment, “it seems that I must take leave of you sooner than I had thought.”

“And why?” I asked, with a sinking heart.

“My business is finished,” she answered. “Ribaut was more reasonable than I had hoped. I regret that I did not ask for twenty thousand crowns instead of ten. Ah, there was a pretty scene! You should have seen him—you who love him no more than I. It warmed my heart. He raved; he swore. He foamed at the mouth, his face grew purple, just as though he were about to have a fit. But he calmed down when he found me inexorable. The girl was cheap at the price, and he knew it. So we soon came to terms.”

“He has paid you the money, then?”

“He will do so in the morning.”

“And you have given him back his niece?”

She laughed harshly.

“What do you take me for, Monsieur?” she asked. “A fool? No, no. M. Ribaut will get his niece ten minutes after he has given me the money!”

I could find nothing to say, but sat looking at her in dazed bewilderment and despair.

“It is all arranged,” she continued. “At six o’clock I am to receive ten thousand crowns, in return for which I turn over to him this pretty Nanette. Then I say good-by to Paris and to Mère Fouchon. Ah, do not fear; I shall not forget you, Monsieur. I have the dose here,” and she drew a little vial from the bosom of her dress. “When the door has closed for the last time, Monsieur, I should advise you to drink it at once. It is the easiest way, much pleasanter than starving.”

Still I said nothing.

“Ah, I forgot one thing,” she added, pausing as she turned to go. “At nine o’clock to-morrow morning at the church of St. Landry there will be a ceremony, Monsieur—such a charming ceremony. Can you not guess what? Well, I will tell you. At this ceremony, that pretty little Nanette, whom you love so much, will be transformed into Mme. Jean Briquet.”

I dashed at her with an oath, but the chain jerked me back against the wall. She stood for a moment and laughed at me.

“You see now, Monsieur, do you not, how much wiser it will be to drain that little vial without delay? Suppose you play the coward—suppose you are alive at nine o’clock—you here in this hole, looking death in the face—this enchanting Nanette before the altar looking into the face of her husband! Bah!” and she made a sudden grimace. “I think I should prefer your part, Monsieur. Death itself must be less hideous than Jean Briquet. All the same,” she added, “you will do well to drink with a steady hand—you will find it a pleasant death—a dropping to sleep, sweet dreams, and then—darkness. I know. I have seen others, happy, smiling, sink into the abyss. I will have La Bancale give it to you in the morning,” and she was gone.

I sank down against the wall, dazed at this new stroke of fortune. Give me a day, two days, and escape might be possible—but the bargain had been made; in a few hours it would be too late.

How long I lay there in a half-stupor I do not know, but at last I heard the door open again and Ninon’s voice whispering my name. I groaned for reply.

“Oh, M. Pierre,” she whispered, bending over me, “I have the file. Here is the file.”

“The file!” I cried. “Oh, give it me, Ninon! There is not a moment to lose.”

She placed her trembling hand in mine and gave me the file. I ran my fingers over it. It was old, rusty, dull—but it had been a good file, once; doubtless part of some long-dead burglar’s kit—would it do the work? In an agony of haste I ran my hand along the chain until I found what seemed the weakest link, and set to work upon it. At the end of a few minutes I found I had made a scratch in the iron, and hope began to revive in my heart. The sound of sobbing startled me.

“Is it you, Ninon?” I whispered. “Forgive me, my dear; I had forgot to thank you.”

“Oh, it is not that, M. Pierre,” she sobbed. “It is not that!”

“Here, sit beside me,” I said. “Let me put my arm around you—so. Now, tell me what it is.”

She was silent a moment, and I could feel her little body quivering.

“Oh, M. Pierre,” she whispered at last, “I heard all that Mère Fouchon said this afternoon,” and I raised my hand to her face to find it wet with tears.

“Well,” I said, “what then, Ninon?”

“And do you love her so very much, this Nanette?”

“Yes, very much, Ninon.”

“Enough to die for her, perhaps?”

“Oh, yes,” I answered. “To die for her were nothing, Ninon.”

“That is right, M. Pierre,” she whispered, and her voice was shaking. “That is the way to love. I have seen her. She is pretty, oh, so pretty, even though her eyes were red with weeping. Tell me, M. Pierre, must one be pretty to be loved?”

“Oh, no, Ninon,” I said. “One needs only to be good. You are good, Ninon, and there will be somebody some day who will love you and who will make you happy.”

She said nothing for a moment, as though pondering this answer.

“No, there never will be any one, M. Pierre,” she said at last, with a little sigh. “But this Nanette—ah, she is adorable. She heard your voice when you came in that night, calling her name. She thinks you dead, M. Pierre. They have told her that you are dead, that you were killed that night. I believe she loves you also, she has wept so much.”

“Oh, if I am only in time,” I said, trembling with apprehension, and I picked up my chain again.

“Yes, I will go,” said the girl; and then, “will you do something for me, M. Pierre?”

“You have only to name it, Ninon.”

“Kiss me good-by, Monsieur. You may not have time in the morning.”

“But I am coming back for you, Ninon,” I cried. “It is not good-by. You are to live with us always.”

“No, no,” and she was sobbing again. “That cannot be. I am not of your world, Monsieur. I am of the darkness. I could not bear the light. I am hideous, Monsieur—I know it.”

“Come here, Ninon,” I whispered. “I will kiss you good-night, not good-by. You shall be pretty, Ninon, when you live surrounded by our love, as you are going to live.”

She pressed her lips to mine, and then went away, still sobbing softly. As the door closed, I set to work again at my chain, knowing that no sound I might make could penetrate those massive walls. The hours passed, my hands were torn and bleeding, but still I urged the file back and forth across the iron. The cut in the link was slowly growing deeper—but, oh, so slowly. At last it was almost through, and I paused from sheer exhaustion. My brain was reeling and my hands were shaking like those of a man with palsy. I laid my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. Tired nature conquered and I fell asleep.

“Oh, M. Pierre,” cried a voice in my ear, “you have slept!”

I opened my eyes with a start. It was Ninon, this time with a lantern.

“You have slept!” she cried again. “You have not severed the chain. It is morning, and you will be too late!”

“Too late, yes, too late!” I cried. “And all because of my accursed weakness!” and I picked up my chain and tore at it like a madman.

“She has gone away,” cried Ninon. “She said she would be back in an hour. She took Nanette with her. When she returns we are to leave Paris.”

I groaned. My hands were trembling so I could not control them. I tried to pick up the file and found that I could not hold it.

“It is too late,” I groaned. “Did she tell you to give me a vial, Ninon?”

“Yes, yes,” she cried. “Here it is,” and she held it up.

“Give it to me,” I said, and reached for it.

“What is it, M. Pierre?” she asked, springing back, her eyes large with terror.

“No matter,” I answered. “Give it me, Ninon. It is the easiest way.”

“No, no! Be a man, Monsieur! Oh, you are a man—such a brave man!” and she raised the vial and dashed it against the wall. It broke with a little crash. The liquid trickled down over the stones and filled the cell with a pleasant, sweetish odor.

“Give me the file,” she said, and took it from my palsied hand. “Do not despair, Monsieur, there is yet time,” and she was filing away at the chain with all her little strength. “Oh, I was wrong to say you slept. See, it is almost through. In half an hour it will be quite through, and you will be free.”

Back and forth the file went. I watched her stupidly, and saw without understanding it that her hands turned red and that the chain was wet with blood.

“Think of Nanette, M. Pierre,” she said, looking up for a moment into my eyes. “Think of Nanette, that dear Nanette, whom you are going to rescue presently—whom you are going to make so happy.”

I was sobbing wildly, out of sheer weakness.

“Hasten!” I whispered. “Oh, hasten, Ninon!”

She sprang to her feet with a little cry of triumph.

“It is done!” she cried. “The chain is through. Take hold here, Monsieur. Now pull. Pull with all your might. Ah!”

The chain was broken, I staggered towards the outer door like a drunken man.

“Free!” I muttered to myself. “Free!” and I reeled through the door into the outer room.

Ninon was beside me, her finger on her lips, her face white with fear.

“Hush,” she whispered. “I hear footsteps. She is returning. Perhaps there are others with her. In here, quick,” and before I could resist, even if in my great weakness I had thought of resistance, she pushed me into a little closet, just as Mère Fouchon unlocked the outer door and entered.

CHAPTER XIV
GREATER LOVE THAN MINE

I leaned against the wall of the little closet in which I was, and looked out through the half-opened door into the room. I saw that Mère Fouchon carried in her arms a leathern bag, which she placed upon the table with a sigh of relief at being rid of its weight.

“Come, make ready,” she said to the girl, “the wagon will be here in a moment. Did you give our friend the bottle?”

As she turned, she perceived that the door of my cell was open. She sprang to it, cast one look within and saw by the light of the lantern that it was empty.

“He is gone!” she screamed, and turned her glaring eyes and working face upon the girl. “You drab, it was with your help!”

Doubtless in that instant she saw her plans crumbling about her, she felt the meshes of the law tightening, at the end of the path loomed the black gibbet. This time she would not escape! Small wonder that the blood leaped to her eyes, as she stood there trembling, strangled by rage, unable to speak!

Then the bonds loosened and she sprung upon the girl like a cat upon its prey.

“Curse you!” she screamed. “You shall pay for it—you!” and she snatched a knife from the table.

In an instant, my strength and manhood came back to me, and I dashed open the door.

“You devil!” I said between my teeth. “You devil!” and I was upon her.

Even as I grasped her hair, she raised the knife and plunged it deep into the girl’s breast. I dragged back her head, dashed my fist into her face and threw her against the wall with all my strength. She struck with a dull crash, rebounded to the floor and lay there with closed eyes, the blood oozing from her nose and mouth, her red knife still in her hand.

“Pray heaven, I have killed you!” I said, and stooped and raised Ninon in my arms.

She opened her eyes and gazed at me with a smile of ineffable sweetness.

“It is better so,” she whispered. “I was not of your world, M. Pierre, and now I shall not have to live when you are gone.”

The hot tears were on my cheeks as I looked at her, and she raised her hand to my face with a gesture of tenderness inexpressible.

“Are those tears for me?” she asked. “Oh, how glad I am that you care enough to weep! I am not sorry to die. I had never dreamed that I should have the joy of dying in your arms like this, with your dear eyes looking down upon me. And you will soon dry your tears, M. Pierre, when you look upon another face more beautiful—oh, a thousand times more beautiful than mine.”

I opened my mouth, but could not speak. I felt her body stiffening in my arms.

“You told me,” she whispered, “that you loved her enough to die for her, M. Pierre. But I love you more than that—oh, so much more than that! I love you enough to give you to another, M. Pierre—to die that she may possess you.”

She gazed at me a moment longer, then her eyes slowly closed, her lips parted in a sigh that bore her spirit with it. I was sobbing wildly as I laid the little form reverently upon the pallet in one corner and turned to go. As I did so I fancied I saw Mère Fouchon move.

“So you are not dead,” I said, speaking aloud as though she could hear me. “Well, you shall not escape,” and catching her by the arm, I dragged her within the cell and shut the door. As I pushed it into place, I saw that by swinging back two slabs of stone, the door was masked, and the wall of the cellar was apparently unbroken. I trembled as I thought what my fate would have been had Mère Fouchon thrown those stones into place and gone away.

As I turned again into the outer room my eyes fell upon the bag which she had placed on the table. I opened it and was astonished to find it full of gold. I understood in a moment. It was the price Ribaut had paid for Nanette.

“Come,” I said, “I will take this with me. It will be proof of my story.”

I left the room and found myself at the foot of a flight of stairs which led to a hallway above. Following this, I came to a room which I recognized as that which I had entered sword in hand in pursuit of Mère Fouchon. As I stepped into it, I heard some one knocking at the outer door. I flung it open, and saw outside a man who shrank back in alarm as his eyes fell upon me. A cart was standing in the street.

“Ah, it is the driver,” I cried. “Come, my friend, you are to take me to the Palais Royal as quickly as possible.”

“I came for a woman, not for a madman!” he protested.

“I am no madman,” I said. “Come,” and I opened my bag and gave him a louis. “This will pay you for your trouble.”

“Where is the woman?” he asked.

“She no longer has need of you.”

He looked at me a moment with staring eyes.

“Monsieur,” he said at last, “a crime has been committed here.”

“I do not deny it,” I answered, “only it is not I who have committed it. Why, man, I want you to take me to M. d’Argenson at the Palais Royal. Do you think I should go there, if I had committed a crime?”

“To M. d’Argenson?” he repeated. “Ah, ah—that is different. Come, Monsieur, I will take you,” and he sprang into his cart. I was beside him ere the words were spoken.

“Make haste!” I cried, and leaned against the side of the cart, sick with apprehension. If I should be too late!

He whipped his horse into a run and we bumped rapidly along the street and across the river to the quays. Here the crowd delayed us and we could proceed but slowly. At last we reached a side-street and turned into it at a gallop. In a moment we had crossed the Rue St. Honoré and were at the Palais Royal. I sprang from the wagon and up the steps into the ante-chamber just as the clocks were striking eight. I ran straight to the man who stood at the inner door.

“Tell M. d’Argenson that M. le Moyne is here to make his report and that it is important,” I panted.

He stared at me a moment in amazement and then disappeared through the door. In an instant he was back.

“You are to enter, Monsieur,” he said, and closed the door behind me.

D’Argenson was seated at his table, and he gazed at me in astonishment.

“Good God, M. le Moyne,” he cried, “what has happened to you?”

Not until that moment did I realize the strangeness of my appearance—my hair matted with blood, my clothing torn and filthy, an iron belt around my waist from which dangled a chain a foot long, my doublet red with Ninon’s blood. I did not wonder that the carter had believed me a madman, or that he had scented a crime.

Briefly as possible I told my story, d’Argenson listening in silence to the end. As I finished, he struck a bell at his elbow. The usher entered instantly.

“My carriage at once,” he said, “and send two men to a house in the Rue du Chevet of which they will see the street door open. They will find an old woman lying in the inner portion of the cellar, and will lodge her at once in the conciergerie.”

The man bowed and withdrew. D’Argenson picked up the bag of money which I had placed on the table before him, and after a glance at its contents, threw it into a drawer, which he locked.

“The wedding, you say, is to take place at nine o’clock?” he asked.

“Yes, Monsieur, at the Church of St. Landry.”

“Ah, well, we shall be there,” and d’Argenson smiled, “and I fancy we shall have a little surprise for M. Ribaut and M. Briquet. I do not think that Mère Fouchon, or Mme. Basarge, will ever trouble you again, Monsieur. Her hour has struck.”

CHAPTER XV
TO THE CHURCH OF ST. LANDRY

There was a tone in his voice that made me tremble. I realized that this man could be terrible, inexorable upon occasion. I had good cause to hate the woman, but, God knows, I pitied her now.

“Her hour has struck,” repeated d’Argenson. “She has lived fifteen years too long already. She has cheated the gallows, but the gallows will claim its own.”

I questioned him with my eyes.

“She called it a mistake, you told me—that was a gentle name for it. I remember it very well, for this mistake was one of the most horrible of the first year of my administration. The police was not organized then as it is now, or she would not have escaped us.”

“And what was this mistake, Monsieur?” I questioned.

“It is a pretty story,” he said musingly. “There is not time to tell it now as it should be told—but, in a word, this woman, after she left Ribaut, secured a place with a pastry-cook named Durand, in the Rue Auxerois. He was wealthy and she seems to have conceived a passion for him. One morning his wife was found dead in bed. He welcomed the release, perhaps, but he did not look twice at Madame Basarge. Instead, he married again, this time a pretty girl from Orleans, which had been his home. One day, the pastry-shop did not open. The neighbors became alarmed and burst in the door. They found Durand and his wife in bed. They had been dead for hours, and their purple flesh proved they had been poisoned. Madame Basarge was missing. So was Durand’s little daughter. We found out afterwards that the woman had learned her infamous art from one of the disciples of the Widow Montvoisin.”

He paused, and his face grew stern.

“You can conceive, Monsieur, how I searched for that woman. I had just come to the office. I felt personally responsible—my reputation seemed at stake. But we found not a trace of her. She descended into depths from which even the police recoiled. But I have waited. I knew that fate would deliver her to me. I am prepared.”

He turned to a case of papers at his side, and after a moment’s search, drew out one, opened it, and glanced over it.

“There was no question of her guilt,” he continued, after a moment, “and a decree of death was issued against her. I hold it here in my hand. There need be no further delay in its execution.”

He folded the paper again, and sat for a time, tapping it against the table.

“That woman is a genius,” he said, at last. “I admire her. She baffled us so completely. Your concierge told my men he had sent you to the Rue du Chevet, and we scoured the quarter from top to bottom, but could find no trace of you. It is not often my men fail, M. le Moyne, but how were they to suspect the existence of a cavern thirty feet underground? I must see it for myself, some day. And the girl—well, we found no trace of the girl, either, nor of Madame Basarge, nor of this gamine you say she had with her—they must have had another hiding-place.”

But my brain was busy with another problem.

“You said, M. le Comte,” I began, “that a daughter of the confectioner Durand was missing. Was she ever found?”

“She was never found. Ah, I see,” and he looked at me suddenly. “This gamine—how old was she?”

I shook my head.

“I do not know, Monsieur. She might have been fifteen—twenty—twenty-five—she was old enough to love.”

“Well,” he cried, “I venture the guess that it was Durand’s daughter. The woman’s object in stealing the child always puzzled me, but now I understand—she wanted some one upon whom she might wreak her hatred.”

That was it—in a flash I saw it. Some one upon whom to wreak her hatred—some one to torture! Ah, Ninon, what a fate was yours!

The opening of the door brought me from my thoughts, and I turned to see an attendant enter.

“Your carriage is waiting, M. le Comte,” he announced.

“Very well,” cried d’Argenson, springing to his feet and seizing his cloak and hat. “I am going with you myself, M. le Moyne, for I am curious to witness this little coup de théâtre. It is not often that I give myself a treat of this kind,” and he led the way into the ante-chamber. “Here, Bernin,” he called to an officer who was standing there, “you will deliver this order to the jailer of the conciergerie at once,” and he handed him the paper containing the sentence of Mère Fouchon. Her hour had struck, indeed! “Come with me, Monsieur,” he added to me and led the way rapidly down the steps and to the carriage.

“We have ample time,” he said, as the carriage started. “It is yet twenty minutes of nine o’clock. I imagine that these good people whom we are going to surprise will believe they see a ghost when you appear before them,” he added, with a smile. “Upon my word, I doubt if even the charming Nanette will know you. You are enough to frighten a woman half to death.”

“There was no time,” I said, “or I should have changed my garments.”

“No, no,” cried d’Argenson, “I would not have one speck of dirt less. Believe me, with that bloody head, those torn hands, those filthy clothes, those haggard eyes—and above everything, with that belt of iron about your waist—you are admirable!”

He looked at me in silence for a moment, as the carriage rolled along the Rue St. Honoré.

“M. le Moyne,” he said suddenly, “I need not tell you we have no proof that there is really a conspiracy between Ribaut and Briquet?”

“No proof, Monsieur?” I stammered, for I had believed the way quite clear.

“No proof whatever,” repeated d’Argenson. “Nothing but the suspicions of an old woman, which there is little chance of confirming. There are, of course, many things which point in the same direction—the pertinacity of Ribaut, his willingness to sacrifice ten thousand crowns in order that the marriage might take place, his terror when you threatened a police investigation, the apparent unfitness of Briquet, the hint that he was once a thief or worse—all these indicate that Mère Fouchon’s theory is the right one. Still there is no proof. Not a single suspicious circumstance has been unearthed by my agents.”

“You will permit the wedding to take place, then?” I cried in despair. “You will do nothing to prevent it?”

“Rest assured, Monsieur,” said d’Argenson, kindly, “that I will do everything in my power to prevent it. For I believe that a conspiracy does exist, even though I have no proof of it. The facts stated by Mère Fouchon had already been ascertained by my agents. Charles Ribaut left a very large fortune; his daughter Anne is the only heir, her uncle has had absolute control of the estate for fifteen years. But in all of this there is nothing which resembles a conspiracy, even in the least degree. It is quite possible that he intends turning the whole fortune over to Briquet.”

“What then will you do, Monsieur?” I questioned anxiously.

“There is only one thing to be done,” he answered. “We will assume a bold front. We will act as though we held great forces in reserve. We will endeavor to frighten them. It is an old trick, but one which is often successful with the guilty. Let us hope it will be so in this case.”

We were crossing the Pont au Change, and I looked out upon the river with eyes that saw nothing. I had thought success so certain, and now, it seemed, I might yet lose! I raised my eyes to find d’Argenson looking at me with a smile whose meaning I did not understand.

“M. le Moyne,” he said, “I am going to ask you a question which you need not answer if you do not choose.”

“What is it, Monsieur?” I asked.

“It is concerning Mlle. Ribaut. I have reason to believe that you love her. Is it not so, Monsieur?”

“That is so, M. le Comte,” I replied, and my hands were trembling.

“I am glad to hear it,” he said, and fell into a reverie, smiling to himself. It was not until we stopped before the church that he spoke again.

“Here we are,” he cried, “and with still ten minutes to spare. Come with me,” and we left the carriage and entered the church. An old man met us at the door and cast an astonished glance at me.

“Are you the sacristan?” asked d’Argenson.

“Yes, Monsieur,” answered the fellow.

“There is to be a wedding here at nine o’clock, is there not?”

“I do not know, Monsieur. There has already been one wedding here at eight o’clock.”

My heart fell within me. Could it be that the hour had been changed?

“What were their names?” asked d’Argenson sharply.

“The man was named Brujon,” answered the sacristan. “I do not remember the woman’s name.”

I breathed again. We were still in time.

“Very well,” said d’Argenson. “I will see the curé and find out about this other marriage.”

“Pardon, Monsieur,” protested the man, “but the curé is very busy.”

“You will tell him,” said d’Argenson grimly, “that the Comte d’Argenson, lieutenant of police, wishes to speak to him and at once.”

The fellow’s face turned livid and he bowed to the ground.

“Oh, M. d’Argenson,” he stammered, “that is another matter. Follow me, Messieurs, and I will conduct you to the curé.”

He led the way along a side aisle to the sacristy at the rear. He tapped at the door, and a voice bidding us enter, he opened it and ushered us in. The curé was sitting at a table writing.

“This is M. le Comte d’Argenson, M. le Curé,” said the sacristan, and went out, closing the door after him.

The curé looked at us with alarmed and astonished eyes.

“This is an honor,” he said, at last. “Will you not sit down, Messieurs?”

“M. le Curé,” began d’Argenson abruptly, “you are to celebrate a marriage here at nine o’clock, are you not?”

“Yes, Monsieur. A M. Briquet and a niece of M. Ribaut. It was to have taken place a week ago, but was postponed by the illness of the bride.”

“That is it. Well, M. le Curé, this wedding must not take place, since it is believed to be a conspiracy to defraud the girl.”

“A conspiracy, Monsieur?” gasped the curé.

“Yes, a conspiracy. Will you require any further proof of it?”

“Not if I have your word, M. d’Argenson,” answered the curé, readily.

D’Argenson hesitated a moment.

“M. le Curé,” he said, at last, “I will tell you candidly that we have no absolute proof of this conspiracy. For myself I do not doubt that it exists. In any event, I will assume all responsibility in the matter.”

The curé bowed.

“I will also assume full responsibility for anything that follows,” added d’Argenson. “What I may ask you to do will be somewhat irregular, Monsieur, but, believe me, it will be just.”

“M. d’Argenson’s assurance is more than sufficient,” and the curé bowed again. “His passion for justice is well known.”

Who could think of opposing the Lieutenant of Police—this man who carried all before him? Certainly not the curé of a small church!

“I will tell you one thing more, Monsieur,” he added. “This girl has not been ill—she has been imprisoned. She will come to the altar faint and trembling, not from illness, but from horror. We are here to save her. I do not wish the parties to be forewarned. We will challenge them at the altar. A great deal will depend upon the completeness of the surprise.”

“Very well, Monsieur.”

“Is there any place in which we could remain concealed?”

“You could pause behind the tapestry at the doorway, Monsieur. From there you could hear and see everything.”

A tap at the door interrupted him and, at his bidding, the sacristan entered.

“A wedding-party waiting for you, Monsieur,” he announced to the curé.

“Very well,” said the latter, “I will be there in a moment.” The sacristan withdrew and the curé donned his stole and surplice. “Now, follow me, Messieurs,” and he led the way to the door opening into the church, before which hung a tapestry. “You will be concealed here,” he said, and raising the tapestry, he entered the church and stood before the altar.

CHAPTER XVI
M. D’ARGENSON’S COUP

My head was singing strangely as I stared out into the church, and a great trembling seized me, for I was faint from loss of sleep, of food, of blood—of everything, in a word, that makes life. I heard myself praying wildly to the Virgin, the building seemed to rock before my eyes—and then I felt a strong and kindly hand upon my shoulder.

“Be brave, M. le Moyne,” said d’Argenson’s voice. “Be strong. You have need of your strength now, if ever.”

The voice—the clasp of the hand—nerved and steadied me. I felt that with this man beside me I could vanquish fate itself.

Once more I looked out into the church. I saw the acolyte arrange the altar-cloth and light the candles. Then the priest raised his hand, and the wedding-party advanced from the vestibule. It consisted only of Nanette, her uncle, and the hideous Briquet. The men held the girl between them and were almost carrying her. Her face was white as death, and she turned her eyes appealingly from one to the other, but saw only ferocity in those two savage countenances. At last they were at the altar-rail, and she dropped to her knees and buried her face in her hands. I knew that she was praying.

“M. le Curé,” said Ribaut, “in case the bride cannot answer, her legal guardian is permitted to answer for her, is he not?”

“Yes, M. Ribaut,” replied the curé in a low voice, “that is permitted.”

“Very well, Monsieur, proceed,” and the men dropped to their knees beside the girl.

I could see her form shaken with sobs.

“Oh, come,” I whispered to d’Argenson, “hasten. Monsieur. This is more than I can bear.”

“It will be but a moment longer,” and he pressed my hand.

“Is there any one here present,” asked the priest, “who knows of any reason why these two should not be man and wife?”

D’Argenson put the tapestry back and advanced slowly to the altar-rail. Ribaut and Briquet saw him, and the eyes of the latter dilated with terror, for he had seen d’Argenson as you know, and knew him now. Nanette did not raise her head, but continued sobbing softly. Plainly she had abandoned hope.

“I forbid the marriage, M. le Curé,” said d’Argenson.

As she heard these words, Nanette raised her head with a start. She saw d’Argenson standing there. She fixed her eyes on his and what she read there seemed to reassure her, for she smiled and her weeping ceased.

Ribaut was on his feet in an instant, but Briquet remained kneeling, seemingly paralyzed by d’Argenson’s words. His mouth was working convulsively and his face was livid.

“Who is this fellow?” asked Ribaut, looking from d’Argenson to the priest, purple with rage.

“I forbid the marriage,” continued d’Argenson, before the priest could answer, “because it is a conspiracy between these two men to defraud Anne Ribaut of her property.”

“It is a lie!” screamed Ribaut, and he shook his fist in his accuser’s face. D’Argenson merely looked at him and smiled. He read guilt in his eyes.

“I forbid the marriage”

“Come, M. Ribaut,” he said coolly, “how about those ten thousand crowns you parted with this morning?”

Ribaut stared in astonishment, and his blood shot to his eyes, as he realized his danger.

“M. le Curé,” he protested at last, with an effort at composure, “one does not believe the ranting of every madman who happens in from the street. Let him bring forward his proof of this ridiculous charge.”

“I have my proof,” said d’Argenson, with a calmness I was far from sharing. “Come forward, my friend,” he added, turning towards the place where I stood.

I lifted the tapestry and stepped into the church. Ribaut and Briquet stared at me in amazement. Evidently they did not know me, but the eyes of love were keener.

“Pierre!” cried Nanette. “Oh, Pierre! And they told me you were dead!”

“Really, M. le Curé,” sneered Ribaut, “one would say this was a theatre and not a church. What comedy is this? From what gutter did you drag that scoundrel?”

“You have a short memory, it seems, M. Ribaut,” I retorted. “I did not think you would forget our last interview so quickly. I see that you still have the marks of it on your face.”

He stared at me with eyes starting from his head.

“So,” he murmured at last, “it is the lover!” and his eyes glittered with passion. “M. le Curé, you will not heed the ravings of such scoundrels?”

The curé smiled dryly.

“It appears you do not know this gentleman,” said he, glancing at d’Argenson.

“No,” snarled Ribaut, “nor do I wish to know him.”

“You may be interested, nevertheless,” went on the curé, “in knowing that it is M. le Comte d’Argenson, lieutenant of police.”

“D’Argenson!” cried Ribaut, and I saw the blood struck from his face as by a blow. “D’Argenson! Very well,” he continued after a moment, vainly trying to steady his voice, as he saw that the game was lost. “This wedding, then, will not take place. I yield. But I am still this girl’s guardian, am I not, Monsieur?”

“Yes, you are still her guardian,” assented d’Argenson.

“And she is still under my control?”

“In all things save that of this marriage.”

“Very well,” cried Ribaut in a ferocious voice. “She will return home with me. Come, Mademoiselle,” and he grasped her by the arm and turned away.

My brain was whirling as I saw Nanette look piteously at me. I started after them to commit I know not what act of violence, but d’Argenson waved me back.

“Stop a moment, M. Ribaut,” he called. “There is only one thing which can release your niece from the duty of obedience to you. That is her marriage. You have lost your right to exact obedience in that.”

He descended to Nanette’s side and took her hands. He smiled into her eyes, and her face brightened as she looked at him.

“I repeat, Mademoiselle,” he said, “that your marriage is the only thing which can make you independent of your uncle. It seems a pity that all these preparations should go for naught—that these candies should burn uselessly. Perhaps there is some one else present whom you would be willing to marry. The curé has assured me that he will overlook any little irregularity in the proceedings.”

His face was smiling and tender, all its ugliness vanished. I heard as in a dream.

“Oh, yes,” cried Nanette. “There is some one, Monsieur,” and she turned and looked at me.

For a moment I did not understand.

“Me?” I stammered. “Me?”

“Yes, you!” cried d’Argenson gayly. “Come, M. le Moyne, wake up!”

A mist seemed to fall from before me, and I saw Nanette gazing at me with eyes wet with tears and lips quivering with tenderness.

“My darling!” I cried. “My life!” and I stretched wide my arms to receive her.