Avarice--Anger: Two of the Seven Cardinal Sins

by Eugène Sue

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THE SEVEN CARDINAL SINS
AVARICE

"Axe in hand."
Original etching by Adrian Marcel.

Illustrated Cabinet Edition

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Avarice—Anger
Two of the Seven Cardinal Sins
By Eugene Sue

Illustrated with Etchings by
Adrian Marcel

Dana Estes & Company
Publishers
Boston

Copyright, 1899
By Francis A. Niccolls & Co.

Avarice—Anger

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER		PAGE
AVARICE.
[I.]	An Unfortunate Choice	[13]
[II.]	A Touching Example of Unselfish Devotion	[25]
[III.]	A Shameful Deception	[36]
[IV.]	The Voice of the Tempter	[46]
[V.]	Father and Son	[57]
[VI.]	A Father's Ambition	[65]
[VII.]	The Forged Letter	[72]
[VIII.]	A Startling Discovery	[78]
[IX.]	Commandant de la Miraudière's Antecedents	[86]
[X.]	The Mystery Explained	[97]
[XI.]	Hidden Treasure	[106]
[XII.]	A Voice from the Grave	[113]
[XIII.]	The Miser Extolled	[118]
[XIV.]	Plans for the Future	[122]
[XV.]	Madame Lacombe's Unconditional Surrender	[126]
[XVI.]	A Capricious Beauty	[132]
[XVII.]	The Hôtel Saint-Ramon	[139]
[XVIII.]	A Novel Entertainment	[146]
[XIX.]	A Change of Owners	[152]
[XX.]	The Return	[159]
[XXI.]	The Awakening	[166]
ANGER.
[I.]	The Duel	[177]
[II.]	Another Ebullition of Temper	[186]
[III.]	The Warning	[194]
[IV.]	Those Whom the Gods Destroy They First Make Mad"	[199]
[V.]	Deadly Enmity	[208]
[VI.]	A Cunning Scheme	[217]
[VII.]	Home Pleasures	[225]
[VIII.]	The Captain's Narrative	[234]
[IX.]	Conclusion of the Captain's Narrative	[240]
[X.]	Segoffin's Dissimulation	[248]
[XI.]	Sabine's Confession	[255]
[XII.]	Suzanne's Enlightenment	[265]
[XIII.]	Onésime's Conquest	[271]
[XIV.]	Arguments For and Against	[279]
[XV.]	An Unwelcome Visitor	[287]
[XVI.]	Segoffin's Ruse	[294]
[XVII.]	The Voice of the Tempter	[302]
[XVIII.]	"My Mother's Murderer Still Lives!"	[309]
[XIX.]	After the Storm	[316]
[XX.]	The Midnight Attack	[322]
[XXI.]	A Last Appeal	[329]
[XXII.]	Conclusion	[338]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

	PAGE
"Axe in hand"	[Frontispiece]
"'Go away and let me alone'"	[53]
"'My star has not deserted me'"	[155]
"Several men rushed upon him"	[236]

Avarice and Anger.

THE MILLIONAIRES

AVARICE.

CHAPTER I.
AN UNFORTUNATE CHOICE.

The narrow street known for many long years as the Charnier des Innocents (the Charnel-house of the Innocents), near the market, has always been noted for the large number of scriveners who have established their booths in this densely populated part of Paris.

One fine morning in the month of May, 18—, a young girl about eighteen years of age, who was clad in working dress, and whose charming though melancholy face wore that peculiar pallor which seems to be a sort of sinister reflection of poverty, was walking thoughtfully down the Charnier des Innocents. Several times she paused as if in doubt in front of as many scriveners' booths, but either because the proprietors seemed too young or too unprepossessing in appearance or too busy, she went slowly on again.

Seeing, in the doorway of the last booth, an old man with a face as good and kind as it was venerable, the young girl did not hesitate to enter the modest little establishment.

The scrivener, struck in his turn by the young girl's remarkable beauty and modest bearing, as well as her timid and melancholy air, greeted her with almost paternal affability as she entered his shop, after which he closed the door; then drawing the curtain of the little window, the good man motioned his client to a seat, while he took possession of his old leather armchair.

Mariette—for that was the young girl's name—lowered her big blue eyes, blushed deeply, and maintained an embarrassed, almost painful, silence for several seconds. Her bosom rose and fell tumultuously under the small gray shawl that she wore over her faded calico gown, while the hands she had clasped in her lap trembled violently.

The old scrivener, anxious to reassure the poor girl, said to her, almost affectionately, "Come, come, my child, compose yourself. Why should you feel this embarrassment? You came to ask me to write some request or petition for you, or, perhaps, a letter, did you not?"

"Yes, monsieur, it was—it was to ask you to write a letter for me that I came."

"Then you do not know how to write?"

"No, monsieur," replied Mariette, blushing still more deeply, as if ashamed of her ignorance, whereupon the scrivener, regretting that he had thus humiliated his client, said, kindly:

"You certainly cannot suppose me capable of blaming you for your ignorance. On the contrary, it is a sincere compassion I feel for persons who, for want of an education, are compelled to come to me, to apply to a third party, who may betray their confidence, and, perhaps, even ridicule them! And yet they are compelled to confide their dearest and most secret thoughts to these strangers. It is very hard, is it not?"

"It is, indeed, monsieur," replied Mariette, touched by these words. "To be obliged to apply to a stranger to—"

The young girl did not finish the sentence, but blushed deeply, and her eyes filled with tears.

Gazing at his youthful client with even greater interest, the scrivener said:

"Do not be so troubled, my child. You have neither garrulousness nor ridicule to fear from me. I have always regarded as something indescribably touching and sacred the confidence which persons who have been deprived of the advantages of an education are obliged to repose in me."

Then, with a kindly smile, he added: "But pray do not suppose for one moment, mademoiselle, that I say this to glorify myself at the expense of my confreres, and to get their clients away from them. No, I am saying exactly what I think and feel; and at my age, one certainly may be allowed to do that."

Mariette, more and more surprised at the old man's words, said, gratefully:

"I thank you, monsieur; you relieve me very much by thus understanding and excusing my embarrassment. It is very hard not to know how to read and write," she added, sighing," but, alas! very often one cannot help it."

"I am sure, my poor child, that in your case, as in the case of many other young girls who apply to me, it is not the good-will but the opportunity that is lacking. Many of these young girls, from being obliged to take care of their young brothers and sisters while their parents are busy away from home, have had no chance to attend school. Others were apprenticed at an early age—"

"Like myself, monsieur," said Mariette, smiling. "I was apprenticed when I was only nine years old, and up to that time I had been obliged to remain at home and take care of a little brother, who died a short time before my father and mother."

"Poor child! your history is very similar to that of most young girls of your station in life. But, since your term of apprenticeship expired, have you made no effort to acquire a little education?"

"Since that time I have had to work all day and far into the night to earn enough to keep my godmother and myself alive, monsieur," said Mariette, sadly.

"Alas! yes, time is bread to the labourer, and only too often he has to choose whether he shall die of hunger or live in ignorance."

Then, becoming more and more interested, he added: "You spoke of your godmother just now; so your father and mother are both dead, I suppose?"

"Yes, as I told you a little while ago," replied Mariette, sadly. "But pardon me, monsieur, for taking up so much of your time instead of telling you at once what I want you to write for me."

"I am sure my time could not have been better spent, for I am an old man, and I have had a good deal of experience, and I feel sure that you are a good and worthy girl. But now about the letter. Do you prefer to give me a rough idea of what you wish to write and let me put it in my own words, or do you prefer to dictate the letter?"

"I would rather dictate it, monsieur."

"Then I am ready," said the old man, putting on his spectacles, and seating himself at his desk with his eyes fixed upon the paper so as not to increase his client's embarrassment by looking at her.

So, after a moment's hesitation, Mariette, with downcast eyes, proceeded to dictate, as follows:

"Monsieur Louis."

On hearing this name, the old scrivener made a slight movement of surprise,—a fact that was not noticed by Mariette, who repeated, in a less trembling voice this time, "Monsieur Louis."

"I have written that," said the scrivener, still without looking at Mariette, whereupon the latter continued, hesitating every now and then, for, in spite of her confidence in the old man, it was no easy matter to reveal her secret thoughts to him:

"I am greatly troubled, for I have heard nothing from you, though you promised to write me while you were away."

"While you were away," repeated the scrivener, whose face had suddenly become thoughtful, and who was saying to himself, with a vague anxiety: "This is a singular coincidence. His name is Louis, and he is away."

"I hope you are well, M. Louis," Mariette continued, "and that it is not on account of any illness that you have not written to me, for then I should have two causes of anxiety instead of one.

"To-day is the sixth of May, M. Louis, the sixth of May, so I could not let the day pass without writing to you. Perhaps the same thought will occur to you, and that day after to-morrow I shall receive a letter from you, as you will receive one from me. Then I shall know that it was not on account of forgetfulness or sickness that you have delayed writing to me so long. In that case, how happy I shall be! So I shall wait for day after to-morrow with great impatience. Heaven grant that I may not be disappointed, M. Louis."

Mariette stifled a sigh as she uttered these last words, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

A long pause followed. The features of the scrivener who was bending over his desk could not be seen by the young girl, but they were assuming a more and more anxious expression; and two or three times he tried to steal a furtive glance at his client, as if the interest he had felt in her had given place to a sort of distrust caused by grave apprehensions on his part.

The young woman, keeping her eyes still fixed upon her lap, continued:

"I have no news to tell you, M. Louis. My godmother is still very ill. Her sufferings seem to increase, and that renders her much more irritable. In order that I may be with her as much as possible, I sew at home now most of the time, instead of going to Madame Jourdan's, so the days seem long and gloomy; for the work done in the shop with my companions was almost a pleasure, and seemed to progress much more rapidly. So I am obliged to work far into the night now, and do not get much sleep, as my godmother suffers much more at night than in the daytime, and requires a great deal of attention from me. Sometimes I do not even wake when she calls me because I am so dead with sleep, and then she scolds, which is very natural when she suffers so.

"You can understand, of course, that my life at home is not very happy, and that a friendly word from you would be a great comfort, and console me for many things that are very unpleasant.

"Good-bye, M. Louis. I expected to have written to you through Augustine, but she has gone back to her home now, and I have been obliged to apply to another person, to whom I have dictated this letter. Ah, M. Louis, never have I realised the misfortune of not knowing how to read or write as much as I do at this present time.

"Farewell, M. Louis, think of me, I beg of you, for I am always thinking of you.

"With sincere affection I once more bid you adieu."

As the young girl remained silent for a minute or two after these words, the old man turned to her and asked:

"Is that all, my child?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"And what name is to be signed to this letter?"

"The name of Mariette, monsieur."

"Mariette only?"

"Mariette Moreau, if you think best, monsieur. That is my family name."

"Signed, Mariette Moreau," said the old man, writing the name as he spoke.

Then, having folded the letter, he asked, concealing the secret anxiety with which he awaited the girl's reply:

"To whom is this letter to be addressed, my child?"

"To M. Louis Richard. General delivery, Dreux."

"I thought as much," secretly groaned the old man, as he prepared to write the address Mariette had just given him.

If the young girl had not been so deeply preoccupied she could hardly have failed to notice the change in the expression of the scrivener's face,—a change which became still more noticeable when he discovered for a certainty for whom this missive was intended. It was with a look of positive anger now that he furtively watched Mariette, and he seemed unable to make up his mind to write the address she had just given him, for after having written upon the envelope the words, "To Monsieur," he dropped his pen, and said to his client, forcing a smile in order to conceal alike his resentment and his apprehensions:

"Now, my child, though this is the first time we ever saw each other, it seems to me you feel you can trust me a little already."

"That is true, monsieur. Before I came here, I feared I should not have the courage to dictate my letter to an entire stranger, but your manner was so kind that I soon got over my embarrassment."

"I certainly see no reason why you should feel the slightest embarrassment. If I were your own father, I could not find a word of fault with the letter you have just written to—to M. Louis, and if I were not afraid of abusing the confidence you say that you have in me, I should ask—but no, that would be too inquisitive."

"You would ask me what, monsieur?"

"Who this M. Louis Richard is?"

"That is no secret, monsieur. M. Louis is the clerk of a notary whose office is in the same building as the shop in which I work. It was in this way that we became acquainted on the sixth of May, just one year ago to-day."

"Ah! I understand now why you laid such stress upon that date in your letter."

"Yes, monsieur."

"And you love each other, I suppose,—don't blush so, child,—and expect to marry some day, probably?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"And M. Louis's family consents to the marriage?"

"M. Louis has no one but his father to consult, and we hope he will not refuse his consent."

"And the young man's father, what kind of a person is he?"

"The best of fathers, M. Louis says, and bears his present poverty with great courage and cheerfulness, though he used to be very well off. M. Louis and his father are as poor now, though, as my godmother and I are. That makes us hope that he will not oppose our marriage."

"And your godmother, my child,—it seems to me she must be a great trial to you."

"When one suffers all the time, and has never had anything but misfortunes all one's life, it is very natural that one should not be very sweet tempered."

"Your godmother is an invalid, then?"

"She has lost one of her hands, monsieur, and she has a lung trouble that has confined her to the bed for more than a year."

"Lost her hand,—how?"

"She used to work in a mattress factory, monsieur, and one day she ran a long, crooked needle into her hand. The wound became inflamed from want of care, for my godmother had not time to give it the attention it should have had, and the doctors were obliged to cut her arm off. The wound reopens now and then, and causes her a great deal of pain."

"Poor woman!" murmured the scrivener, absently.

"As for the lung trouble she has," continued Mariette, "many women who follow that trade contract the disease, the doctors say, from breathing the unwholesome dust from the old mattresses they make over. My godmother is bent almost double, and nearly every night she has such terrible fits of coughing that I have to hold her for hours, sometimes."

"And your godmother has nothing but your earnings to depend on?"

"She cannot work now, monsieur, of course."

"Such devotion on your part is very generous, I must say."

"I am only doing my duty, monsieur. My godmother took care of me after my parents died, and paid for a three years' apprenticeship for me. But for her, I should not be in a position to earn my living, so it is only right that she should profit now by the assistance she gave me years ago."

"But you must have to work very hard to support her and yourself?"

"Yes; I have to work from fifteen to eighteen hours a day, monsieur."

"And at night you have to nurse her instead of taking the rest you so much need?"

"Who else would nurse her, monsieur?"

"But why doesn't she try to get into some hospital?"

"They will not take her into a hospital because the lung trouble she has is incurable. Besides, I could not desert her like that."

"Ah, well, my child, I see that I was not mistaken. You are a good, noble-hearted girl, there is no doubt of it," added the old man, holding out his hand to Mariette.

As he did, either through awkwardness, or intentionally, the scrivener overturned the inkstand that stood on his desk in such a way that a good part of the contents ran over the letter, which lacked only the address to complete it.

"Good heavens! How unfortunate, the letter is covered with ink, monsieur!" exclaimed Mariette.

"How awkward in me!" responded the old man, with a disgusted air. "Still, it doesn't matter very much, after all. It was a short letter. I write very rapidly, and it will not take me more than ten minutes to copy it for you, my child. At the same time, I will read it aloud so you can see if there is any change you would like to make in it."

"I am truly sorry to give you so much trouble, monsieur."

"It serves me right, as it was all my fault," responded the old man, cheerfully.

And he began to read the letter aloud as he wrote, exactly as if he were recopying it, as he proceeded with the reading. Nevertheless, from the scrivener's manner it seemed evident that a violent struggle was going on in his breast, for sometimes he sighed and knit his brows, sometimes he seemed confused and kept his eyes sedulously averted from the ingenuous face of Mariette, who sat with one elbow resting upon the table, and her head supported on her hand, watching with envious eyes the rapid movements of the old man's pen, as it traced characters which were undecipherable to her, but which would, as she fondly supposed, convey her thoughts to the man she loved.

The young girl expressing no desire to make the slightest change in her artless missive, the scrivener handed it to her after having carefully sealed it.

"And now, monsieur, how much do I owe you?" timidly inquired the girl, drawing a little purse containing two small silver corns and a few sous from her pocket.

"Fifty centimes," replied the old man after a moment's hesitation, remembering, perhaps, that it was at the cost of a day's bread that the poor girl was writing to her lover; "fifty centimes," repeated the scrivener, "for you understand, of course, my child, that I expect you to pay for only one of the letters I have written. I alone am responsible for my awkwardness."

"You are certainly very honest, monsieur," said Mariette, touched by what she considered a proof of generosity on the part of the scrivener. Then, after having paid for her letter, she added:

"You have been so kind to me, monsieur, that I shall venture to ask a favour of you."

"Speak, my child."

"If I have any other letters to write, it would be almost impossible for me to apply to any one but you, monsieur."

"I shall be at your service."

"But this is not all, monsieur. My godmother is as I am. She can neither read nor write. I had a friend I could depend upon, but she is out of town. In case I should receive a letter from M. Louis, would you be kind enough to read it to me?"

"Certainly, my child. I will read your letters to you with pleasure. Bring them all to me," replied the old man, with much inward gratification. "It is I who should thank you for the confidence you manifest in me. I hope I shall soon see you again, and that you leave here much more easy in mind than when you came."

"I certainly could not expect such kindness as you have shown me from any one else."

"Farewell, then, my child, and be sure that you consider me your reader and secretary henceforth. It really seems as if we must have known each other a dozen years."

"That is true, monsieur. Au revoir."

"Au revoir, my child."

Mariette had hardly left the booth when a postman appeared in the doorway, and holding out a letter to the old scrivener, said, cordially:

"Here, Father Richard, is a letter from Dreux."

"A letter from Dreux!" exclaimed the old man, seizing it eagerly. "Thank you, my friend." Then, examining the handwriting, he said to himself: "It is from Ramon! What is he going to tell me? What does he think of my son? Ah! what is going to become of all the fine plans Ramon and I formed so long ago?"

"There are six sous to pay on it, Father Richard," said the postman, arousing the old scrivener from his reverie.

"Six sous! the devil! isn't it prepaid?"

"Look at the stamp, Father Richard."

"True," said the scrivener, sighing heavily, as he reluctantly drew the ten sous piece he had just received from his pocket and handed it to the postman.

While this was going on, Mariette was hastening homeward.

CHAPTER II.
A TOUCHING EXAMPLE OF UNSELFISH DEVOTION.

Mariette soon reached the gloomy and sombre thoroughfare known as the Rue des Prêtres St. Germain-l'Auxerrois, and entered one of the houses opposite the grim walls of the church. After traversing a dark alley, the girl began to climb a rickety stairway as dark as the alley itself, for the only light came through a courtyard so narrow that it reminded one of a well.

The porter's room was on the first landing only a few steps from the stairway, and Mariette, pausing there, said to the woman who occupied it:

"Madame Justin, did you have the goodness to go up and see if my godmother wanted anything?"

"Yes, Mlle. Mariette, I took her milk up to her, but she was in such a bad humour that she treated me like a dog. Had it not been for obliging you, I would have let the old crosspatch alone, I can tell you."

"You must not be too hard on her, Madame Justin; she suffers so much."

"Oh, you are always making excuses for her, I know. It shows how good-hearted you are, but it doesn't prevent your godmother from being a hateful old thing. Poor child, you certainly are having your purgatory in advance. If there is no paradise for you hereafter you will certainly be cheated out of your rightful dues. But wait a minute, I have a letter for you."

"A letter?" exclaimed Mariette, her heart throbbing with relief and hope, "a letter from some one out of the city?"

"Yes, mademoiselle, it is postmarked Dreux, and there are six sous to pay on it. Here it is, and see, on the corner of the envelope the writer has put the words, 'Very urgent.'"

Mariette seized the letter and slipped it into her bosom; then, drawing out her little purse again, she took from it her last ten sous piece and paid the woman, after which she hastened up to her room, pleased and at the same time anxious and sad; pleased at having received a letter from Louis, anxious concerning the significance of those words, "Very urgent," written in a corner of the envelope, and sad because several hours must elapse before she would know the contents of the letter, for she dared not absent herself again after having left her godmother alone so long.

It was with a sort of dread that she finally opened the door of the room on the fifth floor that she occupied with her godmother. The poor woman was lying on the only bed the two women possessed. A thin mattress now rolled up out of the way in a corner, but laid on the floor at night, served as a bed for Mariette. A table, an old bureau, two chairs, a few cooking utensils hanging on the wall near the fireplace, were the only articles of furniture in the dimly lighted room, but everything was scrupulously clean.

Madame Lacombe—for that was the invalid's name—was a tall, frightfully pale, and emaciated woman, about fifty years of age, with a peevish, disagreeable face. Bent nearly double in the bed, one could see of her only her mutilated arm swathed in bandages, and her irascible face, surrounded by an old cap from which a wisp of gray hair crept out here and there, while her bluish lips were continually distorted by a bitter and sardonic smile.

Madame Lacombe seemed to be suffering greatly. At all events she was in an execrable temper, and her hollow eyes gleamed ominously. Making an effort to turn herself in bed, so as to get a look at her godchild, she exclaimed, wrathfully:

"Where on earth have you been all this time, you gadabout?"

"I have been gone barely an hour, godmother."

"And you hoped to find me dead when you got back, didn't you, now? Oh, you needn't deny it. You've had enough of me, yes, too much. The day my coffin lid is screwed down will be a happy day for you, and for me, too, for it is too bad, too bad for any one to have to suffer as I do," added the poor woman, pressing her hand upon her bosom, and groaning heavily.

Mariette dried the tears her godmother's sarcastic words had excited, and approaching the sufferer, said, gently:

"You had such a bad night last night that I hoped you would be more comfortable to-day and get a little sleep while I was out."

"If I suffer or if I starve to death it makes no difference to you, evidently, provided you can run the streets."

"I went out this morning because I was absolutely obliged to, godmother, but before I left I asked Madame Justin—"

"I'd as lief see a death's-head as that creature, so when you want to get rid of me you have only to send her to wait on me."

"Shall I dress your arm, godmother?"

"No, it is too late for that now. You stayed away on purpose. I know you did."

"I am sorry I was late, but won't you let me dress it now?"

"I wish to heaven you would leave me in peace."

"But your arm will get worse if you don't have it dressed."

"And that is exactly what you want."

"Oh, godmother, don't say that, I beg of you."

"Don't come near me! I won't have it dressed, I say."

"Very well, godmother," replied the girl, sighing. Then she added, "I asked Madame Justin to bring up your milk. Here it is. Would you like me to warm it a little?"

"Milk? milk? I'm tired of milk! The very thought of it makes me sick at my stomach. The doctor said I was to have good strong bouillon, with a chop and a bit of chicken now and then. I had some Monday and Wednesday—but this is Sunday."

"It is not my fault, godmother. I know the doctor ordered it, but one must have money to follow his directions, and it is almost impossible for me to earn twenty sous a day now."

"You don't mind spending money on clothes, I'm sure. When my comfort is concerned it is a very different thing."

"But I have had nothing but this calico dress all winter, godmother," answered Mariette, with touching resignation. "I economise all I can, and we owe two months' rent for all that."

"That means I am a burden to you, I suppose. And yet I took you in out of the street, and had you taught a trade, you ungrateful, hard-hearted minx!"

"No, godmother, I am not ungrateful. When you are not feeling as badly as you are now you are more just to me," replied Mariette, restraining her tears; "but don't insist upon going without eating any longer. It will make you feel so badly."

"I know it. I've got dreadful cramps in my stomach now."

"Then take your milk, I beg of you, godmother."

"I won't do anything of the kind! I hate milk, I tell you."

"Shall I go out and get you a couple of fresh eggs?"

"No, I want some chicken."

"But, godmother, I can't—"

"Can't what?"

"Buy chicken on credit."

"I only want a half or a quarter of one. You had twenty-four sous in your purse this morning."

"That is true, godmother."

"Then go to the rôtisseur and buy me a quarter of a chicken."

"But, godmother, I—"

"Well?"

"I haven't that much money any longer, I have only a few sous left."

"And those two ten sous pieces; what became of them?"

"Godmother—"

"Where are those two ten sous pieces, tell me?"

"I—I don't know," repeated the poor girl, blushing. "They must have slipped out of my purse. I—I—"

"You lie. You are blushing as red as a beet."

"I assure you—"

"Yes, yes, I see," sneered the sick woman, "while I am lying here on my death-bed you have been stuffing yourself with dainties."

"But, godmother—"

"Get out of my sight, get out of my sight, I tell you! Let me lie here and starve if you will, but don't let me ever lay eyes on you again! You were very anxious for me to drink that milk! There was poison in it, I expect, I am such a burden to you."

At this accusation, which was as absurd as it was atrocious, Mariette stood for a moment silent and motionless, not understanding at first the full meaning of those horrible words; but when she did, she recoiled, clasping her hands in positive terror; then, unable to restrain her tears, and yielding to an irresistible impulse, she threw herself on the sick woman's neck, twined her arms around her, and covering her face with tears and kisses, exclaimed, wildly:

"Oh, godmother, godmother, how can you?"

This despairing protest against a charge which could have originated only in a disordered brain restored the invalid to her senses, and, realising the injustice of which she had been guilty, she, too, burst into tears; then taking one of Mariette's hands in one of hers, and trying to press the young girl to her breast with the other, she said, soothingly:

"Come, come, child, don't cry so. What a silly creature you are! Can't you see that I was only joking?"

"True, godmother, I was very stupid to think you could be in earnest," replied Mariette, passing the back of her hand over her eyes to dry her tears, "but really I couldn't help it."

"You ought to have more patience with your poor godmother, Mariette," replied the sick woman, sadly. "When I suffer so it seems as if I can hardly contain myself."

"I know it, I know it, godmother! It is easy enough to be just and amiable when one is happy, while you, poor dear, have never known what happiness is."

"That is true," said the sick woman, feeling a sort of cruel satisfaction in justifying her irritability by an enumeration of her grievances, "that is true. Many persons may have had a lot like mine, but no one ever had a worse one. Beaten as an apprentice, beaten by my husband until he drank himself to death, I have dragged my ball and chain along for fifty years, without ever having known a single happy day."

"Poor godmother, I understand only too well how much you must have suffered."

"No, child, no, you cannot understand, though you have known plenty of trouble in your short life; but you are pretty, and when you have on a fresh white cap, with a little bow of pink ribbon on your hair, and you look at yourself in the glass, you have a few contented moments, I know."

"But listen, godmother, I—"

"It is some comfort, I tell you. Come, child, be honest now, and admit that you are pleased, and a little proud too, when people turn to look at you, in spite of your cheap frock and your clumsy laced shoes."

"Oh, so far as that is concerned, godmother, I always feel ashamed, somehow, when I see people looking at me. When I used to go to the workroom there was a man who came to see Madame Jourdan, and who was always looking at me, but I just hated it."

"Oh, yes, but for all that it pleases you way down in your secret heart; and when you get old you will have something pleasant to think of, while I have not. I can't even remember that I was ever young, and, so far as looks are concerned, I was always so ugly that I never could bear to look in the glass, and I could get no husband except an old drunkard who used to beat me within an inch of my life. I didn't even have a chance to enjoy myself after his death, either, for I had a big bill at the wine-shop to pay for him. Then, as if I had not trouble enough, I must needs lose my health and become unable to work, so I should have died of starvation, but for you."

"Come, come, godmother, you're not quite just," said Mariette, anxious to dispel Madame Lacombe's ill-humour. "To my certain knowledge, you have had at least one happy day in your life."

"Which day, pray?"

"The day when, at my mother's death, you took me into your home out of charity."

"Well?"

"Well, did not the knowledge that you had done such a noble deed please you? Wasn't that a happy day for you, godmother?"

"You call that a happy day, do you? On the contrary it was one of the very worst days I ever experienced."

"Why, godmother?" exclaimed the girl, reproachfully.

"It was, for my good-for-nothing husband having died, as soon as his debts were paid I should have had nobody to think of but myself; but after I took you, it was exactly the same as if I were a widow with a child to support, and that is no very pleasant situation for a woman who finds it all she can do to support herself. But you were so cute and pretty with your curly head and big blue eyes, and you looked so pitiful kneeling beside your mother's coffin, that I hadn't the heart to let you go to the Foundling Asylum. What a night I spent asking myself what I should do about you, and what would become of you if I should get out of work. If I had been your own mother, Mariette, I couldn't have been more worried, and here you are talking about that having been a happy day for me. No; if I had been well off, it would have been very different! I should have said to myself: 'There is no danger, the child will be provided for.' But to take a child without any hope of bettering its condition is a very serious thing."

"Poor godmother!" said the young girl, deeply affected. Then smiling through her tears in the hope of cheering the sick woman, she added:

"Ah, well, we won't talk of days, then, but of moments, for I'm going to convince you that you have at least been happy for that brief space of time, as at this present moment, for instance."

"This present moment?"

"Yes, I'm sure you must be pleased to see that I have stopped crying, thanks to the kind things you have been saying to me."

But the sick woman shook her head sadly.

"When I get over a fit of ill-temper like that I had just now, do you know what I say to myself?" she asked.

"What is it, godmother?"

"I say to myself: 'Mariette is a good girl, I know, but I am always so disagreeable and unjust to her that way down in the depths of her heart she must hate me, and I deserve it.'"

"Come, come, godmother, why will you persist in dwelling upon that unpleasant subject, godmother?" said the girl, reproachfully.

"You must admit that I am right, and I do not say this in any faultfinding way, I assure you. It would be perfectly natural. You are obliged almost to kill yourself working for me, you nurse me and wait on me, and I repay you with abuse and hard words. My death will, indeed, be a happy release for you, poor child. The sooner the undertaker comes for me, the better."

"You said, just now, that when you were talking of such terrible things it was only in jest, and I take it so now," responded Mariette, again trying to smile, though it made her heart bleed to see the invalid relapsing into this gloomy mood again; but the latter, touched by the grieved expression of the girl's features, said:

"Well, as I am only jesting, don't put on such a solemn look. Come, get out the chafing-dish and make me some milk soup. While the milk is warming, you can dress my arm."

Mariette seemed as pleased with these concessions on the part of her godmother as if the latter had conferred some great favour upon her. Hastening to the cupboard she took from a shelf the last bit of bread left in the house, crumbled it in a saucepan of milk, lighted the lamp under the chafing-dish, and then returned to the invalid, who now yielded the mutilated arm to her ministrations, and in spite of the repugnance which such a wound could not fail to inspire, Mariette dressed it with as much dexterity as patience.

The amiability and devotion of the young girl, as well as her tender solicitude, touched the heart of Madame Lacombe, and when the unpleasant task was concluded, she remarked:

"Talk about Sisters of Charity, there is not one who deserves half as much praise as you do, child."

"Do not say that, godmother. Do not the good sisters devote their lives to caring for strangers, while you are like a mother to me? I am only doing my duty. I don't deserve half as much credit as they do."

"Yes, my poor Mariette, I would talk about my affection for you. It is a delightful thing. I positively made you weep awhile ago, and I shall be sure to do the same thing again to-morrow."

Mariette, to spare herself the pain of replying to her godmother's bitter words, went for the soup, which the invalid seemed to eat with considerable enjoyment after all, for it was not until she came to the last spoonful that she exclaimed:

"But now I think of it, child, what are you going to eat?"

"Oh, I have already breakfasted, godmother," replied the poor little deceiver. "I bought a roll this morning, and ate it as I walked along. But let me arrange your pillow for you. You may drop off to sleep, perhaps, you had such a bad night."

"But you were awake even more than I was."

"Nonsense! I am no sleepyhead, and being kept awake a little doesn't hurt me. There, don't you feel more comfortable now?"

"Yes, very much. Thank you, my child."

"Then I will take my work and sit over there by the window. It is so dark to-day, and my work is particular."

"What are you making?"

"Such an exquisite chemise of the finest linen lawn, godmother. Madame Jourdan told me I must be very careful with it. The lace alone I am to put on it is worth two hundred francs, which will make the cost of each garment at least three hundred francs, and there are two dozen of them to be made. They are for some kept woman, I believe," added Mariette, naïvely.

The sick woman gave a sarcastic laugh.

"What are you laughing at, godmother?" inquired the girl, in surprise.

"A droll idea that just occurred to me."

"And what was it, godmother?" inquired Mariette, rather apprehensively, for she knew the usual character of Madame Lacombe's pleasantries.

"I was thinking how encouraging it was to virtue that an honest girl like yourself, who has only two or three patched chemises to her back, should be earning twenty sous a day by making three hundred franc chemises for—Oh, well, work away, child, I'll try to dream of a rest from my sufferings."

And the sick woman turned her face to the wall and said no more.

Fortunately, Mariette was too pure-hearted, and too preoccupied as well, to feel the bitterness of her godmother's remark, and when the sick woman turned her back upon her the girl drew the very urgent letter the portress had given her from her bosom, and laid it in her lap where she could gaze at it now and then as she went on with her sewing.

CHAPTER III.
A SHAMEFUL DECEPTION.

Discovering, a little while afterward, that her godmother was asleep, Mariette, who up to that time had kept the letter from Louis Richard—the scrivener's only son—carefully concealed in her lap, broke the seal and opened the missive. An act of vain curiosity on her part, for, as we have said, the poor girl could not read. But it was a touching sight to see her eagerly gaze at these, to her, incomprehensible characters.

She perceived with a strange mingling of anxiety and hope that the letter was very short. But did this communication, which was marked "Very urgent" on a corner of the envelope, contain good or bad news?

Mariette, with her eyes riveted upon these hieroglyphics, lost herself in all sorts of conjectures, rightly thinking that so short a letter after so long a separation must contain something of importance,—either an announcement of a speedy return, or bad news which the writer had not time to explain in full.

Under these circumstances, poor Mariette experienced one of the worst of those trials to which persons who have been deprived of the advantages of even a rudimentary education are exposed. To hold in one's hand lines that may bring you either joy or sorrow, and yet be unable to learn the secret! To be obliged to wait until you can ask a stranger to read these lines and until you can hear from other lips the news upon which your very life depends,—is this not hard?

At last this state of suspense became so intolerable that, seeing her godmother continued to sleep, she resolved, even at the risk of being cruelly blamed on her return,—for Madame Lacombe's good-natured fits were rare,—to hasten back to the scrivener; so she cautiously rose from her chair so as not to wake the sick woman, and tiptoed to the door, but just as she reached it a bitter thought suddenly checked her.

She could not have the scrivener read her letter without asking him to reply to it. At least it was more than probable that the contents of the letter would necessitate an immediate reply, consequently she would be obliged to pay the old man, and Mariette no longer possessed even sufficient money to buy bread for the day, and the baker, to whom she already owed twenty francs, would positively refuse, she knew, to trust her further. Her week's earnings which had only amounted to five francs, as her godmother had taken up so much of her time, had been nearly all spent in paying a part of the rent and the washerwoman, leaving her, in fact, only twenty-five sous, most of which had been used in defraying the expenses of her correspondence with Louis, an extravagance for which the poor child now reproached herself in view of her godmother's pressing needs.

One may perhaps smile at the harsh recriminations to which she had been subjected on account of this trifling expenditure, but, alas! twenty sous does not seem a trifling sum to the poor, an increase or decrease of that amount in their daily or even weekly earnings often meaning life or death, sickness or health, to the humble toiler for daily bread.

To save further expense, Mariette thought for a moment of asking the portress to read the letter for her, but the poor girl was so shy and sensitive, and feared the rather coarse, though good-natured woman's raillery so much, that she finally decided she would rather make almost any sacrifice than apply to her. She had one quite pretty dress which she had bought at a second-hand clothes store and refitted for herself, a dress which she kept for great occasions and which she had worn the few times she had gone on little excursions with Louis. With a heavy sigh, she placed the dress, together with a small silk fichu, in a basket to take it to the pawnbroker; and with the basket in her hand, and walking very cautiously so as not to wake her godmother, the girl approached the door, but just as she again reached it Madame Lacombe made a slight movement, and murmured, drowsily:

"She's going out again, I do believe, and—"

But she fell asleep again without finishing the sentence.

Mariette stood for a moment silent and motionless, then opening the door with great care she stole out, locking it behind her and removing the key, which she left in the porter's room as she passed. She then hastened to the Mont de Piété, where they loaned her fifty sous on her dress and fichu, and, armed with this money, Mariette flew back to the Charnier des Innocents to find the scrivener.

Since Mariette's departure, and particularly since he had read the letter received from Dreux that morning, the old man had been reflecting with increasing anxiety on the effect this secret which he had discovered by the merest chance would have upon certain projects of his own. He was thus engaged when he saw the same young girl suddenly reappear at the door of his shop, whereupon, without concealing his surprise, though he did not betray the profound uneasiness his client's speedy return caused him, the scrivener said:

"What is it, my child? I did not expect you back so soon."

"Here is a letter from M. Louis, sir," said the young girl, drawing the precious missive from her bosom, "and I have come to ask you to read it to me."

Trembling with anxiety and curiosity, the girl waited as the scrivener glanced over the brief letter, concealing with only a moderate degree of success the genuine consternation its contents excited; then, uttering an exclamation of sorrowful indignation, he, to Mariette's intense bewilderment and dismay, tore the precious letter in several pieces.

"Poor child! poor child!" he exclaimed, throwing the fragments under his desk, after having crumpled them in his hands.

"What are you doing, monsieur?" cried Mariette, pale as death.

"Ah, my poor child!" repeated the old man, with an air of deep compassion.

"Good heavens! Has any misfortune befallen M. Louis?" murmured the girl, clasping her hands imploringly.

"No, my child, no; but you must forget him."

"Forget him?"

"Yes; believe me, it would be much better for you to renounce all hope, so far as he is concerned."

"My God! What has happened to him?"

"There are some things that are much harder to bear than ignorance, and yet I was pitying you a little while ago because you could not read."

"But what did he say in the letter, monsieur?"

"Your marriage is no longer to be thought of."

"Did M. Louis say that?"

"Yes, at the same time appealing to your generosity of heart."

"M. Louis bids me renounce him, and says he renounces me?"

"Alas! yes, my poor child. Come, come, summon up all your courage and resignation."

Mariette, who had turned as pale as death, was silent for a moment, while big tears rolled down her cheeks; then, stooping suddenly, she gathered up the crumpled fragments of the letter and handed them to the scrivener, saying, in a husky voice:

"I at least have the courage to hear all. Put the pieces together and read the letter to me, if you please, monsieur."

"Do not insist, my child, I beg of you."

"Read it, monsieur, in pity read it!"

"But—"

"I must know the contents of this letter, however much the knowledge may pain me."

"I have already told you the substance of it. Spare yourself further pain."

"Have pity on me, monsieur. If you do really feel the slightest interest in me, read the letter to me,—in heaven's name, read it! Let me at least know the extent of my misfortune; besides, there may be a line, or at least a word, of consolation."

"Well, my poor child, as you insist," said the old man, adjusting the fragments of the letter, while Mariette watched him with despairing eyes, "listen to the letter."

And he read as follows:

"'My dear Mariette:—I write you a few lines in great haste. My soul is full of despair, for we shall be obliged to renounce our hopes. My father's comfort and peace of mind, in his declining years, must be assured at any cost. You know how devotedly I love my father. I have given my word, and you and I must never meet again.

"'One last request. I appeal both to your delicacy and generosity of heart. Make no attempt to induce me to change this resolution. I have been obliged to choose between my father and you; perhaps if I should see you again, I might not have the courage to do my duty as a son. My father's future is, consequently, in your hands. I rely upon your generosity. Farewell! Grief overpowers me so completely that I can no longer hold my pen.

"'Once more, and for ever, farewell.

"'Louis.'"

While this note was being read, Mariette might have served as a model for a statue of grief. Standing motionless beside the scrivener's desk, with inertly hanging arms, and clasped hands, her downcast eyes swimming with tears, and her lips agitated by a convulsive trembling, the poor creature still seemed to be listening, long after the old man had concluded his reading.

He was the first to break the long silence that ensued.

"I felt certain that this letter would pain you terribly, my dear child," he said, compassionately.

But Mariette made no reply.

"Do not tremble so, my child," continued the scrivener. "Sit down; and here, take a sip of water."

But Mariette did not even hear him. With her tear-dimmed eyes still fixed upon vacancy, she murmured, with a heart-broken expression on her face:

"So it is all over! There is nothing left for me in the world. It was too blissful a dream. I am like my godmother, happiness is not for such as me."

"My child," pleaded the old man, touched, in spite of himself, by her despair, "my child, don't give way so, I beg of you."

The words seemed to recall the girl to herself. She wiped her eyes, then, gathering up the pieces of the torn letter, she said, in a voice she did her best to steady:

"Thank you, monsieur."

"What are you doing?" asked Father Richard, anxiously. "What is the use of preserving these fragments of a letter which will awaken such sad memories?"

"The grave of a person one has loved also awakens sad memories," replied Mariette, with a bitter smile, "and yet one does not desert that grave."

After she had collected all the scraps of paper in the envelope, Mariette replaced it in her bosom, and, crossing her little shawl upon her breast, turned to go, saying, sadly: "I thank you for your kindness, monsieur;" then, as if bethinking herself, she added, timidly:

"Though this letter requires no reply, monsieur, after all the trouble I have given you, I feel that I ought to offer—"

"My charge is ten sous, exactly the same as for a letter," replied the old man, promptly, accepting and pocketing the remuneration with unmistakable eagerness, in spite of the conflicting emotions which had agitated him ever since the young girl's return. "And now au revoir, my child," he said, in a tone of evident relief; "our next meeting, I hope, will be under happier circumstances."

"Heaven grant it, monsieur," replied Mariette, as she walked slowly away, while Father Richard, evidently anxious to return home, closed the shutters of his stall, thus concluding his day's work much earlier than usual.

Mariette, a prey to the most despairing thoughts, walked on and on mechanically, wholly unconscious of the route she was following, until she reached the Pont au Change. At the sight of the river she started suddenly like one awaking from a dream, and murmured, "It was my evil genius that brought me here."

In another moment she was leaning over the parapet gazing down eagerly into the swift flowing waters below. Gradually, as her eyes followed the course of the current, a sort of vertigo seized her. Unconsciously, too, she was slowly yielding to the fascination such a scene often exerts, and, with her head supported on her hands, she leaned farther and farther over the stream.

"I could find forgetfulness there," the poor child said to herself. "The river is a sure refuge from misery, from hunger, from sickness, or from a miserable old age, an old age like that of my poor godmother. My godmother? Why, without me, what would become of her?"

Just then Mariette felt some one seize her by the arm, at the same time exclaiming, in a frightened tone:

"Take care, my child, take care, or you will fall in the river."

The girl turned her haggard eyes upon the speaker, and saw a stout woman with a kind and honest face, who continued, almost affectionately:

"You are very imprudent to lean so far over the parapet, my child. I expected to see you fall over every minute."

"I was not noticing, madame—"

"But you ought to notice, child. Good Heavens! how pale you are! Do you feel sick?"

"No, only a little weak, madame. It is nothing. I shall soon be all right again."

"Lean on me. You are just recovering from a fit of illness, I judge."

"Yes, madame," replied Mariette, passing her hand across her forehead. "Will you tell me where I am, please?"

"Between the Pont Neuf and the Pont au Change, my dear. You are a stranger in Paris, perhaps."

"No, madame, but I had an attack of dizziness just now. It is passing off, and I see where I am now."

"Wouldn't you like me to accompany you to your home, child?" asked the stout woman, kindly. "You are trembling like a leaf. Here, take my arm."

"I thank you, madame, but it is not necessary. I live only a short distance from here."

"Just as you say, child, but I'll do it with pleasure if you wish. No? Very well, good luck to you, then."

And the obliging woman continued on her way.

Mariette, thus restored to consciousness, as it were, realised the terrible misfortune that had befallen her all the more keenly, and to this consciousness was now added the fear of being cruelly reproached by her godmother just at a time when she was so sorely in need of consolation, or at least of the quiet and solitude that one craves after such a terrible shock.

Desiring to evade the bitter reproaches this long absence was almost sure to bring down upon her devoted head, and remembering the desire her godmother had expressed that morning, Mariette hoped to gain forgiveness by gratifying the invalid's whim, so, with the forty sous left of the amount she had obtained at the Mont de Piété still in her pocket, she hastened to a rôtisseur's, and purchased a quarter of a chicken there, thence to a bakery, where she bought a couple of crisp white rolls, after which she turned her steps homeward.

A handsome coupé was standing at the door of the house in which Mariette lived, though she did not even notice this fact, but when she stopped at the porter's room as usual, to ask for her key, Madame Justin exclaimed:

"Your key, Mlle. Mariette? Why, that gentleman called for it a moment ago."

"What gentleman?"

"A decorated gentleman. Yes, I should say he was decorated. Why, the ribbon in his buttonhole was at least two inches wide. I never saw a person with such a big decoration."

"But I am not acquainted with any decorated gentleman," replied the young girl, much surprised. "He must have made a mistake."

"Oh, no, child. He asked me if the Widow Lacombe didn't live here with her goddaughter, a seamstress, so you see there could be no mistake."

"But didn't you tell the gentleman that my godmother was an invalid and could not see any one?"

"Yes, child, but he said he must have a talk with her on a very important matter, all the same, so I gave him the key, and let him go up."

"I will go and see who it is, Madame Justin," responded Mariette.

Imagine her astonishment, when, on reaching the fifth floor, she saw the stranger through the half-open door, and heard him address these words to Madame Lacombe:

"As your goddaughter has gone out, my good woman, I can state my business with you very plainly."

When these words reached her ears, Mariette, yielding to a very natural feeling of curiosity, concluded to remain on the landing and listen to the conversation, instead of entering the room.

CHAPTER IV.
THE VOICE OF THE TEMPTER.

The speaker was a man about forty-five years of age, with regular though rather haggard features and a long moustache, made as black and lustrous by some cosmetic as his artistically curled locks, which evidently owed their raven hue to artificial means. The stranger's physiognomy impressed one as being a peculiar combination of deceitfulness, cunning, and impertinence. He had large feet and remarkably large hands; in short, despite his very evident pretensions, it was easy to see that he was one of those vulgar persons who cannot imitate, but only parody real elegance. Dressed in execrable taste, with a broad red ribbon in the buttonhole of his frock coat, he affected a military bearing. With his hat still on his head, he had seated himself a short distance from the bed, and as he talked with the invalid he gnawed the jewelled handle of a small cane that he carried.

Madame Lacombe was gazing at the stranger with mingled surprise and distrust. She was conscious, too, of a strong aversion, caused, doubtless, by his both insolent and patronising air.

"As your goddaughter is out, my good woman, I can state my business with you very plainly."

These were the words that Mariette overheard on reaching the landing. The conversation that ensued was, in substance, as follows:

"You asked, monsieur, if I were the Widow Lacombe, Mariette Moreau's godmother," said the sick woman tartly. "I told you that I was. Now, what do you want with me? Explain, if you please."

"In the first place, my good woman—"

"My name is Lacombe, Madame Lacombe."

"Oh, very well, Madame Lacombe," said the stranger, with an air of mock deference, "I will tell you first who I am; afterwards I will tell you what I want. I am Commandant de la Miraudière." Then, touching his red ribbon, he added, "An old soldier as you see—ten campaigns—five wounds."

"That is nothing to me."

"I have many influential acquaintances in Paris, dukes, counts, and marquises."

"What do I care about that?"

"I keep a carriage, and spend at least twenty thousand francs a year."

"While my goddaughter and I starve on twenty sous a day, when she can earn them," said the sick woman, bitterly. "That is the way of the world, however."

"But it is not fair, my good Mother Lacombe," responded Commandant de la Miraudière, "it is not fair, and I have come here to put an end to such injustice."

"If you've come here to mock me, I wish you'd take yourself off," retorted the sick woman, sullenly.

"Mock you, Mother Lacombe, mock you! Just hear what I have come to offer you. A comfortable room in a nice apartment, a servant to wait on you, two good meals a day, coffee every morning, and fifty francs a month for your snuff, if you take it, or for anything else you choose to fancy, if you don't,—well, what do you say to all this, Mother Lacombe?"

"I say—I say you're only making sport of me, that is, unless there is something behind all this. When one offers such things to a poor old cripple like me, it is not for the love of God, that is certain."

"No, Mother Lacombe, but for the love of two beautiful eyes, perhaps."

"Whose beautiful eyes?"

"Your goddaughter's, Mother Lacombe," replied Commandant de la Miraudière, cynically. "There is no use beating about the bush."

The invalid made a movement indicative of surprise, then, casting a searching look at the stranger, inquired:

"You know Mariette, then?"

"I have been to Madame Jourdan's several times to order linen, for I am very particular about my linen," added the stranger, glancing down complacently at his embroidered shirt-front. "I have consequently often seen your goddaughter there; I think her charming, adorable, and—"

"And you have come to buy her of me?"

"Bravo, Mother Lacombe! You are a clever and sensible woman, I see. You understand things in the twinkling of an eye. This is the proposition I have come to make to you: A nice suite of rooms, newly furnished for Mariette, with whom you are to live, five hundred francs a month to run the establishment, a maid and a cook who will also wait on you, a suitable outfit for Mariette, and a purse of fifty louis to start with, to say nothing of the other presents she will get if she behaves properly. So much for the substantials. As for the agreeable part, there will be drives in the park, boxes at the theatre,—I know any number of actors, and I am also on the best of terms with some very high-toned ladies who give many balls and card-parties,—in short, your goddaughter will have a delightful, an enchanted life, Mother Lacombe, the life of a duchess. Well, how does all this strike you?"

"Very favourably, of course," responded the sick woman, with a sardonic smile. "Such cattle as we are, are only fit to be sold when we are young, or to sell others when we are old."

"Ah, well, Mother Lacombe, to quiet your scruples, if you have any, you shall have sixty francs a month for your snuff, and I shall also make you a present of a handsome shawl, so you can go around respectably with Mariette, whom you are never to leave for a moment, understand, for I am as jealous as a tiger, and have no intention of being made a fool of."

"All this tallies exactly with what I said to Mariette only this morning. 'You are an honest girl,' I said to her, 'and yet you can scarcely earn twenty sous a day making three hundred franc chemises for a kept woman.'"

"Three hundred franc chemises ordered from Madame Jourdan's? Oh, yes, Mother Lacombe, I know. They are for Amandine, who is kept by the Marquis de Saint-Herem, an intimate friend of mine. It was I who induced her to patronise Madame Jourdan,—a regular bonanza for her, though the marquis is very poor pay, but he makes all his furnishers as well as all his mistresses the fashion. This little Amandine was a clerk in a little perfumery shop on the Rue Colbert six months ago, and Saint-Herem has made her the rage. There is no woman in Paris half as much talked about as Amandine. The same thing may happen to Mariette some day, Mother Lacombe. She may be wearing three hundred franc chemises instead of making them. Don't it make you proud to think of it?"

"Unless Mariette has the same fate as another poor girl I knew."

"What happened to her, Mother Lacombe?"

"She was robbed."

"Robbed?"

"She, too, was promised mountains of gold. The man who promised it placed her in furnished apartments, and at the end of three months left her without a penny. Then she killed herself in despair."

"Really, Mother Lacombe, what kind of a man do you take me for?" demanded the stranger, indignantly. "Do I look like a scoundrel, like a Robert Macaire?"

"I don't know, I am sure."

"I, an old soldier who have fought in twenty campaigns, and have ten wounds! I, who am hand and glove with all the lions of Paris! I, who keep my carriage and spend twenty thousand francs a year! Speak out, what security do you want? If you say so, the apartment shall be furnished within a week, the lease made out in your name, and the rent paid one year in advance; besides, you shall have the twenty-five or thirty louis I have about me to bind the bargain, if you like."

And as he spoke, he drew a handful of gold from his pocket and threw it on the little table by the sick woman's bed, adding: "You see I am not like you. I am not afraid of being robbed, Mother Lacombe."

On hearing the chink of coin, the invalid leaned forward, and cast a greedy, covetous look upon the glittering pile. Never in her life had she had a gold coin in her possession, and now she could not resist the temptation to touch the gleaming metal, and let it slip slowly through her fingers.

"I can at least say that I have handled gold once in my life," the sick woman murmured, hoarsely.

"It is nothing to handle it, Mother Lacombe. Think of the pleasure of spending it."

"There is enough here to keep one in comfort five or six months," said the old woman, carefully arranging the gold in little piles.

"And remember that you and Mariette can have as much every month if you like, Mother Lacombe, in good, shining gold, if you wish it."

After a long silence, the sick woman raised her hollow eyes to the stranger's face, and said:

"You think Mariette pretty, monsieur. You are right, and there is not a better-hearted, more deserving girl in the world. Well, be generous to her. This money is a mere trifle to a man as rich as you are. Make us a present of it."

"Eh?" exclaimed the stranger, in profound astonishment.

"Monsieur," said the consumptive, clasping her hands imploringly, "be generous, be charitable. This sum of money is a mere trifle to you, as I said before, but it would support us for months. We should be able to pay all we owe. Mariette would not be obliged to work night and day. She would have time to look around a little, and find employment that paid her better. We should owe five or six months of peace and happiness to your bounty. It costs us so little to live! Do this, kind sir, and we will for ever bless you, and for once in my life I shall have known what happiness is."

The sick woman's tone was so sincere, her request so artless, that the stranger, who could not conceive of any human creature being stupid enough really to expect such a thing of a man of his stamp, felt even more hurt than surprised, and said to himself:

"Really, this is not very flattering to me. The old hag must take me for a country greenhorn to make such a proposition as that."

So bursting into a hearty laugh, he said, aloud:

"You must take me for a philanthropist, or the winner of the Montyon prize, Mother Lacombe. I am to make you a present of six hundred francs, and accept your benediction and eternal gratitude in return, eh?"

The sick woman had yielded to one of those wild and sudden hopes that sometimes seize the most despondent persons; but irritated by the contempt with which her proposal had been received, she now retorted, with a sneer:

"I hope you will forgive me for having so grossly insulted you, I am sure, monsieur."

"Oh, you needn't apologise, Mother Lacombe. I have taken no offence, as you see. But we may as well settle this little matter without any further delay. Am I to pocket those shining coins you seem to take so much pleasure in handling, yes or no?"

And he stretched out his hand as if to gather up the gold pieces.

With an almost unconscious movement, the sick woman pushed his hand away, exclaiming, sullenly:

"Wait a minute, can't you? You needn't be afraid that anybody is going to eat your gold."

"On the contrary, that is exactly what I would like you to do, on condition, of course—"

"But I know Mariette, and she would never consent," replied the sick woman, with her eyes still fixed longingly upon the shining coins.

"Nonsense!"

"But she is an honest girl, I tell you. She might listen to a man she loved, as so many girls do, but to you, never. She would absolutely refuse. She has her ideas—oh, you needn't laugh."

"Oh, I know Mariette is a virtuous girl. Madame Jourdan, for whom your goddaughter has worked for years, has assured me of that fact; but I know, too, that you have a great deal of influence over her. She is dreadfully afraid of you, Madame Jourdan says, so I am sure that you can, if you choose, persuade or, if need be, compel Mariette to accept—what? Simply an unlooked-for piece of good fortune, for you are housed like beggars and almost starving, that is evident. Suppose you refuse, what will be the result? The girl, with all her fine disinterestedness, will be fooled sooner or later by some scamp in her own station in life, and—"

"That is possible, but she will not have sold herself."

"That is all bosh, as you'll discover some day when her lover deserts her, and she has to do what so many other girls do to save herself from starving."

"'Go away and let me alone.'"
Original etching by Adrian Marcel.

"That is very possible," groaned the sick woman. "Hunger is an evil counsellor, I know, when one has one's child as well as one's self to think of. And with this gold, how many of these poor girls might be saved! Ah! if Mariette is to end her days like them, after all, what is the use of struggling?"

For a minute or two the poor woman's contracted features showed that a terrible conflict was raging in her breast. The gold seemed to exercise an almost irresistible fascination over her; she seemed unable to remove her eyes from it; but at last with a desperate effort she closed them, as if to shut out the sight of the money, and throwing herself back on her pillow, cried, angrily:

"Go away, go away, and let me alone."

"What! you refuse my offer, Mother Lacombe?"

"Yes."

"Positively?"

"Yes."

"Then I've got to pocket all this gold again, I suppose," said the stranger, gathering up the coins, and making them jingle loudly as he did so. "All these shining yellow boys must go back into my pocket."

"May the devil take you and your gold!" exclaimed the now thoroughly exasperated woman. "Keep your money, but clear out. I didn't take Mariette in to ruin her, or advise her to ruin herself. Rather than eat bread earned in such way, I would light a brazier of charcoal and end both the girl's life and my own."

Madame Lacombe had scarcely uttered these words before Mariette burst into the room, pale and indignant, and throwing herself upon the sick woman's neck, exclaimed:

"Ah, godmother. I knew very well that you loved me as if I were your own child!"

Then turning to Commandant de la Miraudière, whom she recognised as the man who had stared at her so persistently at Madame Jourdan's, she said contemptuously:

"I beg that you will leave at once."

"But, my dear little dove—"

"I was there at the door, monsieur, and I heard all."

"So much the better. You know what I am willing to do, and I assure you—"

"Once more, I must request you to leave at once."

"Very well, very well, my little Lucrece, I will go, but I shall allow you one week for reflection," said the stranger, preparing to leave the room.

But on the threshold he paused and added:

"You will not forget my name, Commandant de la Miraudière, my dear. Madame Jourdan knows my address."

After which he disappeared.

"Ah, godmother," exclaimed the girl, returning to the invalid, and embracing her effusively, "how nobly you defended me!"

"Yes," responded the sick woman, curtly, freeing herself almost roughly from her goddaughter's embrace, "and yet with all these virtues, one perishes of hunger."

"But, godmother—"

"Don't talk any more about it, for heaven's sake!" cried the invalid, angrily. "It is all settled. What is the use of discussing it any further? I have done my duty; you have done yours. I am an honest woman; you are an honest girl. Great good it will do you, and me, too; you may rest assured of that."

"But, godmother, listen to me—"

"We shall be found here some fine morning stiff and cold, you and I, with a pan of charcoal between us. Ah, ha, ha!"

And with a shrill, mirthless laugh, the poor creature, embittered by years of misfortune, and chafing against the scruples that had kept her honest in spite of herself, put an end to the conversation by abruptly turning her back upon her goddaughter.

It was nearly night now.

Mariette went out into the hall where she had left the basket containing the sick woman's supper. She placed the food on a small table near the bed, and then went and seated herself silently by the narrow window, where, drawing the fragments of her lover's letter from her pocket, she gazed at them with despair in her soul.

On leaving Mariette, the commandant said to himself:

"I'm pretty sure that last shot told in spite of what they said. The girl will change her mind and so will the old woman. The sight of my gold seemed to dazzle the eyes of that old hag as much as if she had been trying to gaze at the noonday sun. Their poverty will prove a much more eloquent advocate for me than any words of mine. I do not despair, by any means. Two months of good living will make Mariette one of the prettiest girls in Paris, and she will do me great credit at very little expense. But now I must turn my attention to business. A fine little discovery it is that I have just made, and I think I shall be able to turn it to very good account."

Stepping into his carriage, he was driven to the Rue Grenelle St. Honoré. Alighting in front of No. 17, a very unpretentious dwelling, he said to the porter:

"Does M. Richard live here?"

"A father and son of that name both live here, monsieur."

"I wish to see the son. Is M. Louis Richard in?"

"Yes, monsieur. He has only just returned from a journey. He is with his father now."

"Ah, he is with his father? Well, I would like to see him alone."

"As they both occupy the same room, there will be some difficulty about that."

The commandant reflected a moment, then, taking a visiting card bearing his address from his pocket, he added these words in pencil: "requests the honour of a visit from M. Louis Richard to-morrow morning between nine and ten, as he has a very important communication which will brook no delay, to make to him."

"Here are forty sous for you, my friend," said M. de la Miraudière to the porter, "and I want you to give this card to M. Louis Richard."

"That is a very easy way to earn forty sous."

"But you are not to give the card to him until to-morrow morning as he goes out, and his father is not to know anything about it. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, monsieur, and there will be no difficulty about it as M. Louis goes out every morning at seven o'clock, while his father never leaves before nine."

"I can rely upon you, then?"

"Oh, yes, monsieur, you can regard the errand as done."

Commandant de la Miraudière reëntered his carriage and drove away.

Soon after his departure a postman brought a letter for Louis Richard. It was the letter written that same morning in Mariette's presence by the scrivener, who had addressed it to No. 17 Rue de Grenelle, Paris, instead of to Dreux as the young girl had requested.

We will now usher the reader into the room occupied by the scrivener, Richard, and his son, who had just returned from Dreux.

CHAPTER V.
FATHER AND SON.

The father and son occupied on the fifth floor of this old house a room that was almost identical in every respect with the abode of Mariette and her godmother. Both were characterised by the same bareness and lack of comfort. A small bed for the father, a mattress for the son, a rickety table, three or four chairs, a chest for their clothing—these were the only articles of furniture in the room.

Father Richard, on his way home, had purchased their evening repast, an appetising slice of ham and a loaf of fresh bread. These he had placed upon the table with a bottle of water, and a single candle, whose faint light barely served to render darkness visible.

Louis Richard, who was twenty-five years of age, had a frank, honest, kindly, intelligent face, while his shabby, threadbare clothing, worn white at the seams, only rendered his physical grace and vigour more noticeable.

The scrivener's features wore a joyful expression, slightly tempered, however, by the anxiety he now felt in relation to certain long cherished projects of his own.

The young man, after having deposited his shabby valise on the floor, tenderly embraced his father, to whom he was devoted; and the happiness of being with him again and the certainty of seeing Mariette on the morrow made his face radiant, and increased his accustomed good humour.

"So you had a pleasant journey, my son," remarked the old man, seating himself at the table.

"Very."

"Won't you have some supper? We can talk while we eat."

"Won't I have some supper, father? I should think I would. I did not dine at the inn like the other travellers, and for the best of reasons," added Louis, gaily, slapping his empty pocket.

"You have little cause to regret the fact, probably," replied the old man, dividing the slice of ham into two very unequal portions, and giving the larger to his son. "The dinners one gets at wayside inns are generally very expensive and very poor."

As he spoke, he handed Louis a thick slice of bread, and the father and son began to eat with great apparent zest, washing down their food with big draughts of cold water.

"Tell me about your journey, my son," remarked the old man.

"There is very little to tell, father. My employer gave me a number of documents to be submitted to M. Ramon. He read and studied them very carefully, I must say. At least he took plenty of time to do it,—five whole days, after which he returned the documents with numberless comments, annotations, and corrections."

"Then you did not enjoy yourself particularly at Dreux, I judge."

"I was bored to death, father."

"What kind of a man is this M. Ramon, that a stay at his house should be so wearisome?"

"The worst kind of a person conceivable, my dear father. In other words, an execrable old miser."

"Hum! hum!" coughed the old man, as if he had swallowed the wrong way. "So he is a miser, is he? He must be very rich, then."

"I don't know about that. One may be stingy with a small fortune as well as with a big one, I suppose; but if this M. Ramon's wealth is to be measured by his parsimony, he must be a multi-millionaire. He is a regular old Harpagon."

"If you had been reared in luxury and abundance, I could understand the abuse you heap upon this old Harpagon, as you call him; but we have always lived in such poverty that, however parsimonious M. Ramon may be, you certainly cannot be able to see much difference between his life and ours."

"Ah, father, you don't know what you're talking about."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, M. Ramon keeps two servants; we have none. He occupies an entire house; we both eat and sleep in this garret room. He has three or four courses at dinner, we take a bite of anything that comes handy, but for all that we live a hundred times better than that skinflint does."

"But I don't understand, my son," said Father Richard, who for some reason or other seemed to be greatly annoyed at the derogatory opinion his son expressed. "There can be no comparison between that gentleman's circumstances and ours."

"My dear father, we make no attempt to conceal our poverty at all events. We endure our privations cheerfully, and if I sometimes, in my ambitious moments, dream of a rather more comfortable existence, you know it is not on my own account, for I am very well satisfied with my lot."

"My dear boy, I know what a kind heart you have, I know, too, how much you love me, and the only thing that consoles me for our poverty is the knowledge that you do not repine at your lot."

"Repine at my lot when you share it? Besides, what we lack is really only the superfluous. We do not eat capons stuffed with truffles, it is true, but we eat with a good appetite,—witness the rapid disappearance of this big loaf of bread; our clothes are threadbare, but warm; we earn, both together, from seventeen to eighteen hundred francs a year. Not a colossal amount, by any means, but we owe no man a penny. Ah, my dear father, if Heaven never sends me any worse trouble than this, I shall never complain."

"You have no idea how much pleasure it gives me to see you accept your lot in life so cheerfully. But tell me, are you really happy?"

"Very happy."

"Really and truly?"

"Why should I wish to deceive you? Do I ever look glum and sour like a man who is discontented with his lot?"

"That is only because you have such an uncommonly good disposition, perhaps."

"That depends. If I were obliged to live with that abominable old skinflint Ramon, I should soon become intolerable."

"Why are you so hard upon that poor man?"

"The recollection of the torture I endured under his roof, I suppose."

"Torture?"

"What else do you call it, father, to live in a big, cold, dilapidated, cheerless house,—a house so dreary, in fact, that the grave seems a cheerful abode in comparison? And then to see those two thin, solemn-faced, famished-looking servants wandering about in that grim sepulchre! And the meals,—meals at which the master of the house seems to count each morsel that you eat! And his daughter,—for the man has a daughter who will perpetuate the breed, I suppose,—and his daughter, who doles out scanty portions for the domestics, and then carefully locks up the remains of the meagre meal!"

"Louis, Louis, how is it that you, who are usually so charitably inclined, should be so strangely hostile to this poor man and his daughter?"

"His daughter! Can you call such a thing as that a daughter, a big, raw-boned creature, with feet and hands like a man's, a face like a nutcracker, and a nose,—great Heavens! what a nose,—a nose as long as that, and of a brick-red colour? But justice compels me to say that this incomparable creature has yellow hair and black teeth to make up for her red nose."

"The portrait is not flattered, evidently, but all women cannot be pretty, and a kind heart is much better than a pretty face."

"True, father, but how strange it is that there should be such remarkable contrasts in some families."

"What do you mean?"

"Judge of my surprise on seeing in one of the apartments of that gloomy house the portrait of a woman with such a charming, refined, distinguished face that it seemed as if the picture must have been placed there expressly to spite hateful Miss Red Nose. You shake your head, father, but I am sure you ought not to censure me very severely. At first I felt very sorry for the young lady when I saw her so excessively ugly, and, above all, condemned to live with such an old skinflint of a father; but afterwards, when I saw her nearly badger the life out of those two poor servants, scolding them continually for the merest trifle, and doling out the very smallest amount of food that would suffice to keep them alive, my compassion changed to aversion and positive loathing. But to return to the subject of the picture. The portrait bore such a striking resemblance to one of my old schoolmates that I asked old Harpagon who the lady was, and greatly to my surprise he told me that it was a portrait of his sister, the late Madame de Saint-Herem. 'Then this lady is, doubtless, the mother of the young Marquis de Saint-Herem?' I asked, and if you could only have seen old Ramon's face! One would have supposed I had just evoked the very devil himself. Miss Red Nose, too, made a gesture of pious horror (I forgot to tell you, to complete the picture, that she is one of the worst of bigots), whereupon her worthy parent answered that he had the misfortune to be the uncle of an infernal scoundrel named Saint-Herem."

"This M. de Saint-Herem must bear a very bad reputation, I judge."

"What! Florestan? the bravest and most delightful fellow in the world."

"But his uncle—"

"Listen, father, and you shall judge for yourself. Saint-Herem and I were very intimate at college, but I had lost sight of him for a long time, when about six months ago, as I was walking along the boulevard, I saw everybody turning to look at a beautiful mail phaeton drawn by two magnificent horses, and with two tiny footmen perched up behind. And who do you suppose was driving this exquisite turnout? My old college friend, Saint-Herem, who looked handsomer than ever; in fact, it would be impossible to conceive of a more distinguished-looking young man."

"I should judge that he must be a terrible spendthrift, though."

"Wait until you hear the end of my story, my dear father. The vehicle stopped suddenly, the little grooms jumped down and ran to the horses' heads. Saint-Herem sprang out of the phaeton, rushed up to me, and positively embraced me in his delight at meeting me again after such a long separation. I was dressed like the poor devil of a notary's clerk that I am, and you must admit, my dear father, that most men of fashion would have shrunk from even recognising such a plebeian-looking creature, but Florestan did not even seem to notice my plain apparel. As for me, I was both pleased and embarrassed by this manifestation of friendly feeling on his part, for we seemed to attract a great deal of attention. Saint-Herem, too, must have noticed the fact, for he exclaimed:

"'Did you ever see such a set of gaping idiots? Where are you going?'

"'To the office.'

"'Then get in with me. We can talk as we drive along.'

"'What! get into that stylish carriage with my clumsy shoes and big umbrella? What will people think?' I replied. But Florestan only shrugged his shoulders, and, seizing me by the arm, half led, half dragged me to the carriage. On our way to the office he made me promise that I would come and see him, and finally he set me down at the notary's door with the warmest protestations of friendship and good-will. Now what do you think of a man who would act like that, father?"

"Pooh!" responded the scrivener, with a by no means enthusiastic air, "he yielded to a kindly impulse, that is all. I always distrust people who are so inclined to make a display of their friendship; besides, you are in no position to keep up such an acquaintance."

"I know that; still, under the circumstances, I felt obliged to keep my promise to take breakfast with Florestan on the following Sunday. The kind-hearted fellow treated me as if I were a prince, and begged me to come again, but I left for Dreux soon afterward, so I have not seen him since."

"It is very strange that you never said anything to me about your visit to him."

"Shall I tell you why I did not? I said to myself: 'My poor father loves me so much he may fear that the sight of Florestan's splendour will excite my envy, and make me dissatisfied with my own humble condition in life, so I will conceal the fact that I once breakfasted with a Sardanapalus or a Lucullus.'"

"My dear, brave boy!" exclaimed the old man, with deep emotion, "I understand; and the delicacy of your conduct touches me deeply. It is only one more proof of your kindness and generosity of heart, but I beg that you will now listen to me attentively for a moment, for it is to this very generosity of feeling, as well as to your affection for me, that I am about to appeal. There is an extremely grave and important matter about which I must speak to you."

The scrivener's expression had become so serious and even solemn that the young man gazed at him with surprise; but just then the porter knocked at the door and said:

"Here is a letter for you, M. Louis."

"Very well," replied the young man, abstractedly, too much engaged in wondering what the important matter to which his father had alluded could be to pay much attention to the letter, which Father Richard instantly recognised as the one which he had written to his son that morning, and which he had addressed to the Rue de Grenelle instead of to Dreux, as poor Mariette had requested.

Knowing the contents of the missive, the old scrivener was on the point of advising his son to read the letter immediately, but, after a moment's reflection, he adopted the opposite course, and said:

"My dear boy, you will have plenty of time to read your letter by and by. Listen to me now, for I repeat there is a matter of great importance both to you and to me, that I must consult you about."

"I am at your service, my dear father," replied Louis, laying the letter which he had been about to open on the table.

CHAPTER VI.
A FATHER'S AMBITION.

Father Richard remained silent for a moment, then, turning to his son, said:

"I have warned you that I am about to appeal to your generosity as well as to your affection for me."

"Then you have only to speak, father."

"You told me just now that, if you sometimes dreamed of a less humble existence than ours, it was not on your own account, but mine."

"And that is perfectly true."

"Ah, well, my son, it only depends upon yourself to see this desire realised."

"What do you mean?"

"Listen to me. Reverses of fortune which closely followed your mother's death, while you were but an infant, left me barely property enough to defray the expenses of your education."

"Yes, my dear father, and the courage and resignation with which you have endured this misfortune have only increased my love and respect for you."

"Our pecuniary condition seems likely to speedily become worse instead of better, I regret to say. With old age fast coming on, and my failing vision, I realise that the day is near at hand when it will be impossible for me to earn even the pittance needed for my support."

"But, father, you may be sure—"

"Of your willing aid, I know that; but your own future is precarious in the extreme. The most you can hope for is to become chief clerk in a notary's office, for it takes money to study a profession, and I am poor."

"Do not worry, father. I shall always be able to earn money enough for us two."

"But what if sickness should come, or some accident should befall either of us, or you should be thrown out of employment for several months, what would become of us then?"

"My dear father, if we poor people stopped to think of the misfortunes that might befall us, we should lose courage. Let us close our eyes to the future, and think only of the present. That, thank Heaven! is not alarming."

"Yes, I admit that it is better not to think of the future when it is alarming, but when it may be happy and prosperous, if we choose to make it so, is it not well to open our eyes instead of closing them?"

"Certainly."

"So I repeat, that it depends entirely upon yourself to make our future both happy and prosperous."

"You may consider it done, then. Only tell me how I am to do it."

"I shall surprise you very much, I am sure, when I tell you that this M. Ramon with whom you have just spent several days, and whom you so cruelly misjudge, is an old friend of mine, and that the visit you just paid him was planned by him and me."

"But the papers my employer—"

"Your employer kindly consented to assist us by charging you with a pretended mission to Ramon."

"But why was it considered necessary to resort to this trick?"

"Ramon wished to see you and study you; in other words, to become thoroughly acquainted with you without your suspecting it, and I feel it my duty to tell you that he is delighted with you. I received a long letter from him this very morning, in which he speaks of you in the highest terms."

"I regret that I am unable to return the compliment; but how can M. Ramon's good or bad opinion affect me?"

"It does affect you very seriously, though, my dear boy, for the prosperous future of which I spoke is entirely dependent upon the opinion Ramon has of you."

"You speak in enigmas, father."

"Ramon, without being what is called rich, possesses a comfortable fortune, which, by reason of his wise economy, is increasing every day."

"I can readily believe that, only what you call economy is contemptible stinginess, father."

"Don't let us haggle about terms, my son. Call it parsimony or economy, or what you will, in consequence of it Ramon is sure to leave his daughter a handsome fortune, though he will give her nothing during his lifetime."

"That does not surprise me in the least; but I really cannot imagine what you are driving at, father?"

"I rather hesitate to tell you, because, however erroneous first impressions may be, they are very tenacious, and you have expressed yourself so harshly in relation to Mlle. Ramon—"

"Miss Red Nose? On the contrary, I assure you that I have been extremely lenient."

"Oh, you will get over your prejudice, I am sure. Believe me, Mlle. Ramon is one of those persons who have to be known to be appreciated. She is a young woman of remarkable strength of character as well as of the most exemplary piety. What more can one ask in the mother of a family?"

"The mother of a family?" repeated Louis, who, though he was far from suspecting the danger that menaced him, began to be conscious of a vague uneasiness. "And what difference does it make to me whether Mlle. Ramon proves an admirable mother of a family or not?"

"It is a matter of vital importance to you."

"To me?"

"Yes."

"And why?" demanded Louis, anxiously.

"Because it is the one desire of my life to see you Mlle. Ramon's husband," answered the old man, firmly.

"Mlle. Ramon's husband!" cried Louis, springing up with a movement of positive horror; "I marry that woman?"

"Yes, my son. Marry Mlle. Ramon, and our future is assured. We will go to Dreux to live. The house is large enough for us all. Ramon will give his daughter no dowry, but we are to live with him, that is decided, and he will procure you a lucrative situation. When your father-in-law dies, you will come into a handsome fortune. Louis, my son, my beloved son," added the old man, imploringly, seizing his son's hands, "consent to this marriage, I beg of you. Consent to it, and you will make me the happiest of men."

"Ah, father, you do not know what you are asking," replied Louis.

"You are going to say that you do not love Mlle. Ramon, perhaps; but mutual respect and esteem are sufficient, and you can give both to Mlle. Ramon, for she deserves them. As for her father, the parsimony that shocked you so much at first, will seem less objectionable when you recollect that, after all, you are the person who will profit by it, eventually. Ramon is really a most estimable man. The one ambition of his life is to leave his daughter and the husband of her choice a handsome fortune; to attain this end, he keeps his expenses down as much as possible. Is this any crime, I should like to know? Come, Louis, my dear boy, answer me, give me a word of hope."

"Father, much as it costs me to thwart your plans, what you ask is impossible," replied the young man, sadly.

"Louis, can it be you that answers me in this way when I appeal to your love for me?"

"In the first place, you would derive no personal advantage from this marriage. You are thinking only of my interest when you urge it upon me."

"What! is it nothing to be able to live with Ramon without being obliged to spend a sou? For it is understood that we are to live there for nothing, I tell you, as he gives his daughter no dowry."

"So long as I have a drop of blood in my veins, I will accept charity from no man, father. More than once already I have begged you to abandon your profession of scrivener, and let me supply our modest wants without any assistance from you. I can easily do it by working a little harder."

"But if your health should fail, and old age should prevent me from earning a livelihood, there would be nothing left for me but to go to the almshouse."

"I have faith in my courage. I shall not lose my health, and you will want for nothing; but, if I had to marry Mlle. Ramon, I should certainly die of grief and despair."

"You are not in earnest, Louis?"

"I certainly am, father. I feel, and I always shall feel, an unconquerable aversion to Mlle. Ramon; besides, I love a young girl, and she, and she alone, shall be my wife."

"I fancied I had your confidence, and yet you have come to such an important decision as this without my even suspecting it."

"I have been silent on the subject, because I wished to give convincing proofs of the permanent nature of this attachment before I confided my intentions to you. I, and the young girl I love, accordingly agreed to wait one year in order to see if our natures were really congenial, and if what we considered real love were only an ephemeral fancy. Our love has withstood every test, thank God! The year expires to-day, and I shall see the girl I love to-morrow, in order to decide upon the day that she will broach the subject to her godmother who reared her. Forgive me, father," added Louis, interrupting the old man as he was about to speak; "I wish to say one word more. The girl I love is poor, and works for her daily bread as I do, but she is the best and noblest creature I know. Never will you find a more devoted daughter. Her earnings and mine will suffice for our needs; she is accustomed to even greater privations than we are. I will toil with redoubled ardour and diligence, and, believe me, you shall have the rest you so much need. Any disagreement between you and me is intensely painful to me. This is the first time, I believe, that we have ever differed in opinion, so spare me the sorrow of again refusing to comply with your request, I beseech you. Do not insist further upon the subject of this marriage. I can never resign myself to it, never! Nor will I ever have any other woman for my wife than Mariette Moreau!"

Louis uttered these last words in such a firm, though respectful tone that the old man, not considering it advisable to insist further, replied, with a disappointed air:

"I cannot believe, Louis, that all the reasons I have urged in favour of this marriage will remain valueless in your eyes. I have more faith in your heart than you have in mine, and I feel sure that a little reflection on your part will lead you to reconsider your decision."

"You must not hope that, father."

"I will so far comply with your wishes as to insist no further at this time; I trust to reflection to bring you to a different frame of mind. I give you twenty-four hours to come to a final decision. I will promise not to say another word to you on the subject until that time expires; and I must request you, in turn, to make no further allusion to your wishes. Day after to-morrow we will talk the matter over again."

"So be it, father, but I assure you that at the expiration of—"

"We have agreed not to discuss the matter further at this time," interrupted the old man, beginning to walk the room in silence, with an occasional furtive glance at Louis, who, with his head supported on his hands, still remained seated at the table on which he had placed the letter a short time before.

CHAPTER VII.
THE FORGED LETTER.

His eyes having at last chanced to fall upon this letter addressed to him in a handwriting he did not recognise, Louis broke the seal mechanically.

A moment afterward, the old man, who was still silently pacing the floor, saw his son suddenly turn pale and pass his hand across his forehead as if to satisfy himself that he was not the victim of an optical delusion, then re-read with increasing agitation a missive which he seemed unable to credit.

This letter, which Father Richard had written in a disguised hand that morning, ostensibly from Mariette's dictation, far from expressing that young girl's real sentiments, read as follows:

"M. Louis:—I take advantage of your absence to write you what I should not dare to tell you,—what, in fact, I have put off confessing for more than two months for fear of causing you pain. All idea of a marriage between us must be abandoned, M. Louis, as well as all idea of ever seeing each other again.

"It is impossible for me to tell you the cause of this change in my feelings, but I assure you that my mind is fully made up. The reason I did not inform you yesterday, the sixth of May, M. Louis, the sixth of May, is that I wished to think the matter over once more, and in your absence, before telling you my decision.

"Farewell, M. Louis. Do not try to see me again. It would be useless and would only cause me great pain. If, on the contrary, you make no attempt to see me, or to induce me to reconsider my determination, my happiness as well as that of my poor godmother is assured.

"It is consequently for the sake of the happiness and peace of mind of both of us, M. Louis, that I implore you not to insist upon another meeting.

"You are so kind-hearted that I am sure you would not like to cause me unnecessary pain, for I solemnly swear that all is over between us. You will not insist further, I hope, when I tell you that I no longer love you except as a friend.

Mariette Moreau.

"P.S. Instead of addressing this letter to Dreux, as you requested, I send it to your Paris address, in order that you may find it there on your return. Augustine, who has written for me heretofore, having gone home on a visit, I have had recourse to another person.

"I forgot to say that my godmother's health remains about the same."

The perusal of this letter plunged Louis into a profound stupor. The ingenuous style of composition, the numerous petty details, the allusion, twice repeated, to the sixth of May, all proved that the missive must have been dictated by Mariette, so, after vainly asking himself what could be the cause of this sudden rupture, anger, grief, and wounded pride, all struggled for the mastery in the young man's heart, and he murmured:

"She need not insist so strongly upon my making no attempt to see her again! Why should I desire to do so?"

But grief soon overcame anger in the young man's heart. He endeavoured to recall all the particulars of his last interview with Mariette, but no indication of the slightest alienation of affection presented itself to his mind. On the contrary, never had she seemed more loving and devoted,—never had she seemed so eager to unite her lot with his. And yet, unless appearances were deceiving him, Mariette, whom he had always believed so pure and honest, was a monster of dissimulation.

Louis could not believe that; so, impatient to solve the mystery, and unable to endure this suspense any longer, he resolved to go to Mariette's home at once, even at the risk of offending her godmother, who, like Father Richard, had had no suspicion of the young people's mutual love up to the present time.

Not one of the different emotions which had in turn agitated the young man had escaped the scrivener's watchful eye, as, thinking it quite time to interfere, he said:

"Louis, we must leave for Dreux early to-morrow morning, for, if we do not, Ramon is sure to be here day after to-morrow, as has been agreed upon."

"Father!"

"Such a proceeding on our part does not compromise us in the least, and if you are determined to oppose the dearest wish of my heart, I only ask that you will spend a few more days with Ramon and his daughter, as a favour to me. After that, you will be perfectly free to act as you see fit."

Then seeing Louis pick up his hat, as if he intended to go out, Father Richard exclaimed:

"What are you doing? Where are you going?"

"I have a slight headache, father, and I am going out for awhile."

"Don't, I beg of you," exclaimed the old man, with growing alarm. "You have looked and acted very strangely ever since you read that letter. You frighten me."

"You are mistaken, father. There is nothing the matter with me. I have a slight headache, that is all. I shall be back soon."

And Louis left the room abruptly.

As he passed the porter's lodge, that functionary stopped him, and said, with a mysterious air:

"M. Louis, I want to see you alone for a moment. Step inside, if you please."

"What is it?" asked Louis, as he complied with the request.

"Here is a card that a gentleman left for you. He came in a magnificent carriage, and said that his business was very important."

Louis took the card, and, approaching the lamp, read:

"Commandant de la Miraudière,
17 Rue du Mont-Blanc.

"Requests the honour of a visit from M. Louis Richard to-morrow morning between nine and ten, as he has a very important communication, which will brook no delay, to make to him."

"Commandant de la Miraudière? I never heard the name before," Louis said to himself, as he examined the card, then, turning it over mechanically, he saw, written in pencil on the other side:

"Mariette Moreau, with Madame Lacombe, Rue des Prêtres St. Germain l'Auxerrois."

For M. de la Miraudière, having jotted down Mariette's address on one of his visiting cards, had, without thinking, written upon the same card the request for an interview which he had left for Louis.

That young man, more and more perplexed, endeavoured in vain to discover what possible connection there could be between Mariette and the stranger who had left the card. After a moment's silence, he said to the porter:

"Did the gentleman leave any other message?"

"He told me to give you the card when your father was not present."

"That is strange," thought the young man.

"What kind of a looking man was he—young or old?" he asked, aloud.

"A very handsome man, M. Louis, a decorated gentleman, with a moustache as black as ink, and very elegantly dressed."

Louis went out with his brain in a whirl. This new revelation increased his anxiety. The most absurd suspicions and fears immediately assailed him, and he forthwith began to ask himself if this stranger were not a rival.

In her letter Mariette had implored Louis to make no attempt to see her again. Such a step on his part, would, she said, endanger not only her own happiness, but that of her godmother as well. Louis knew the trying position in which the two women were placed, and a terrible suspicion occurred to him. Perhaps Mariette, impelled as much by poverty as by her godmother's persistent entreaties, had listened to the proposals of the man whose card he, Louis, had just received. In that case, what could be the man's object in requesting an interview? Louis racked his brain in the hope of solving this mystery, but in vain.

These suspicions once aroused, the supposition that he had been betrayed for the sake of a rich rival seemed the only possible explanation of Mariette's strange conduct. Under these circumstances he abandoned his intention of going to Mariette's house for the present, or at least until after his interview with the commandant, from whom he was resolved to extort an explanation.

He returned home about midnight, and his father, convinced by the gloomy expression of his son's countenance that he could not have seen the girl and discovered the deception that had been practised upon both of them, again proposed that they should leave for Dreux the next morning, but Louis replied that he desired more time for reflection before taking this important step, and threw himself despairingly on his pallet.

Sleep was an impossibility, and at daybreak he stole out of the room to escape his father's questions, and after having waited in mortal anxiety on the boulevard for the hour appointed for his interview with Commandant de la Miraudière, he hastened to that gentleman's house.

CHAPTER VIII.
A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

When Louis presented himself at the house of Commandant de la Miraudière, that gentleman was sitting at his desk, enveloped in a superb dressing-gown, smoking his cigar, and examining a big pile of notes and bills.

While he was thus engaged, his servant entered, and announced:

"M. Richard."

"Ask M. Richard to wait in the drawing-room a moment. When I ring, show him in."

As soon as the servant left the room, M. de la Miraudière opened a secret drawer in his desk, and took out twenty-five one thousand franc notes, and placed them beside a sheet of the stamped paper used for legal documents of divers kinds, then rang the bell.

Louis entered, with a gloomy and perturbed air. His heart throbbed violently at the thought that he was, perhaps, in the presence of a favoured rival, for this poor fellow, like sincere lovers in general, greatly exaggerated the advantages which his competitor possessed, so M. de la Miraudière, wrapped in a handsome dressing-gown, and occupying an elegant suite of apartments, seemed a very formidable rival indeed.

"Is it to M. Louis Richard that I have the honour of speaking?" inquired M. de la Miraudière, with his most ingratiating smile.

"Yes, monsieur."

"The only son of M. Richard, the scrivener?"

These last words were uttered with a rather sarcastic air. Louis noted the fact, and responded, dryly:

"Yes, monsieur, my father is a scrivener."

"Excuse me, my dear sir, for having given you so much trouble, but it was absolutely necessary that I should talk with you alone, and as that seemed well-nigh impossible at your own home, I was obliged to ask you to take the trouble to call here."

"May I ask why you wished to see me, monsieur?"

"Merely to offer you my services, my dear M. Richard," replied M. de la Miraudière in an insinuating tone. "For it would give me great pleasure to be able to call you my client."

"Your client? Why, who are you, monsieur?"

"An old soldier, now on the retired list,—twenty campaigns, ten wounds,—now a man of affairs, merely to pass away the time. I have a number of large capitalists as backers, and I often act as an intermediary between them and young men of prospective wealth."

"Then I do not know of any service you can render me."

"You say that, when you are leading a life of drudgery as a notary's clerk, when you are vegetating—positively vegetating—living in a miserable attic with your father, and dressed, Heaven knows how!"

"Monsieur!" exclaimed Louis, fairly purple with indignation.

"Excuse me, my young friend, but these are, I regret to say, the real facts of the case, shameful as they appear. Why, a young man like you ought to be spending twenty-five or thirty thousand francs a year, ought to have his horses and mistresses and enjoy life generally."

"Monsieur, if this is intended as a joke, I warn you that I am in no mood for it," said Louis, angrily.

"As I have already told you, I am an old soldier who has proved his valour on many a well-fought field, my young friend, so I can afford not to take offence at your manner, for which there is plenty of excuse, I must admit, as what I am saying must seem rather extraordinary to you."

"Very extraordinary, monsieur."

"Here is something that may serve to convince you that I am speaking seriously," added the man of affairs, spreading out the thousand franc notes on his desk. "Here are twenty-five thousand francs that I should be delighted to place at your disposal, together with twenty-five hundred francs a month for the next five years."

Louis, unable to believe his own ears, gazed at M. de la Miraudière in speechless astonishment, but at last, partially recovering from his stupor, he said:

"You make this offer to me, monsieur?"

"Yes, and with very great pleasure."

"To me, Louis Richard?"

"To you, Louis Richard."

"Richard is a very common name, monsieur. You probably mistake me for some other person."

"No, no, my young friend, I know what I am talking about, and I also know who I am talking to. It is to Louis Désiré Richard, only son of M. Alexandre Timoléon Bénédict Pamphile Richard, aged sixty-seven, born in Brie Comte Robert, but now residing at No. 17, Rue de Grenelle St. Honoré, a scrivener by profession. There is no mistake, you see, my young friend."

"Then as you know my family so well, you must also know that my poverty prevents me from contracting any such a loan."

"Your poverty!"

"Yes, monsieur."

"It is shameful, it is outrageous, to rear a young man under such a misapprehension of the real state of affairs," exclaimed the commandant, indignantly, "to compel him to spend the best years of his life in the stock, as it were, and to compel him to wear shabby clothes and woollen stockings and brogans. Fortunately, there is such a thing as Providence, and you now behold a humble instrument of Providence in the shape of Commandant de la Miraudière."

"I assure you that all this is extremely tiresome, monsieur. If you cannot explain more clearly, we had better bring this interview to an immediate conclusion."

"Very well, then. You believe your father to be a very poor man, do you not?"

"I am not ashamed of the fact."

"Oh, credulous youth that you are! Listen and bless me ever afterward."

As he spoke, M. de la Miraudière drew a large leather-bound book resembling a ledger toward him, and, after a moment's search, read aloud as follows:

"'Inventory of Personal Property of M. Alexandre Timoléon Bénédict Pamphile Richard, from information secured by the Committee on Loans of the Bank of France, May 1, 18——.

"'1st.	Three thousand nine hundred and twenty shares of the Bank of France, market value,	924,300	fr.
"'2d.	Notes of the Mont de Piété,	875,250
"'3d.	On Deposit in the Bank of France,	259,130
	"'Total,	2,058,680	fr.'

"You see from these figures, my ingenuous young friend, that the known personal property of your honoured parent amounted, on the first of this month, to considerably over two million francs; but it is more than likely that, after the fashion of most misers who take a vast amount of pleasure in seeing and handling a part of their wealth, he has a large amount of money hoarded away in some convenient hiding-place. Even if this should not be the case, you see that the author of your being possesses more than two million francs, and as he spends barely twelve hundred francs out of an income of nearly one hundred thousand, you can form some idea of the amount of wealth you will enjoy some day, and you can no longer wonder at the offer I have just made you."

Louis was petrified with astonishment by this revelation. He could not utter a word, but merely gazed at the speaker with inexpressible amazement.

"You seem to be knocked all in a heap, my young friend. You act as if you were dazed."

"I really do not know what to think of all this," stammered Louis.

"Do as St. Thomas did, then. Touch these bank-notes and perhaps that will convince you. The capitalists who are backing me are not inclined to run any risk with their lucre, and they are willing to advance you this money at seven per cent., with a like commission for my services in addition. Interest and loan together will scarcely amount to one-half of your father's yearly income, so you will still be piling up money, even if you should live as a gentleman ought to live, and spend fifty thousand francs a year. It will be impossible for you to get along on less than that, but you can at least wait with patience for the hour of your honoured parent's demise, you understand. And, by the way, I have provided for every contingency, as you will see when I tell you about the little scheme I have invented, for of course your good father will be astonished at the change in your mode of living, so you are to invest in a lottery ticket—the prize, a magnificent five hundred louis diamond; price of tickets, ten francs each. The drawing takes place day after to-morrow; you will win the prize and sell it again for eight or nine thousand francs. This money you must allow a friend to invest for you in a wonderfully successful enterprise, which will yield three hundred per cent a year. Thanks to this stratagem, you can spend twenty-five or thirty thousand francs a year under your father's very nose. Tell me, now, young man, haven't you good cause to regard me in the light of a guardian angel, or a beneficent Providence? But what on earth is the matter with you? What is the meaning of this clouded brow, this solemn air, this gloomy silence, when I expected to see you half-delirious with joy, and fairly turning somersaults in your delight at being transformed from a clerk into a millionaire, in less than a quarter of an hour. Speak, young man, speak! Can it be that joy and astonishment have bereft him of reason?"

It is a fact that a revelation which would undoubtedly have filled any one else with the wildest joy had only aroused a feeling of painful resentment in Louis Richard's breast. The deception his father had practised upon him wounded him deeply, but bitterer still was the thought that, but for Mariette's cruel desertion, he might have shared this wealth with her some day, and changed the laborious, squalid life the young girl had always led into one of ease and luxury.

This reflection, reviving as it did such poignant regrets, dominated him so completely that, forgetting everything else, he drew out the visiting card the commandant had left for him, and demanded, abruptly:

"Will you tell me how it happens that Mlle. Moreau's name and address are written in pencil on the back of this card?"

"What!" exclaimed the commandant, amazed at the question, especially at such a moment. "You wish to know—"

"How it happens that Mlle. Moreau's address is on this card. When I ask a question, I expect to have it answered."

"The devil! My young friend, you are trying to carry things with a high hand, it strikes me."

"You are at perfect liberty to take offence at my manner, if you choose."

"Really, monsieur!" exclaimed the usurer, straightening himself up and twirling his black moustache quite ferociously. Then, with a sudden change of manner, he added: "Oh, nonsense! I have proved my valour beyond all question. An old soldier, with any number of wounds, I can afford to let many things pass; so I will merely say, my dear client, that that young girl's name and address happen to be on the card because I wrote them there so I would not forget them."

"You know Mlle. Mariette, then?"

"I do."

"You are paying court to her, perhaps?"

"Rather."

"With hopes of success?"

"Decidedly."

"Very well, I forbid you ever to set foot in her house again."

"Ah, ha! so I have a rival," the usurer said to himself. "How funny! I understand the girl's refusal now. I must get ahead of my client, though. He is young and unsophisticated,—that means he is jealous. He will be sure to fall into the trap, then I can oust him, for I've set my heart on the girl, and if I can't get her this young fellow sha'n't. I'm resolved upon that!"

After which, he added aloud:

"My dear friend, when I am forbidden to do anything, I consider it my bounden duty to do precisely what I am forbidden to do."

"We will see about that, monsieur."

"Listen, young man. I have fought fifty-seven duels, so I can easily dispense with fighting the fifty-eighth with you. I prefer, consequently, to try to induce you to listen to the voice of reason, if possible. Permit me, therefore, to ask you one question: You have just returned from a journey, I believe?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"You were absent several days, I think. May I ask if you have seen Mariette since your return?"

"No, monsieur, but—"

"Ah, well, my young friend, the same thing has happened to you that has happened to many other lovers. Mariette was not aware that you were the son of a millionaire; I presented myself in your absence, and offered her what has never yet failed to turn the head of a half-starved grisette. Her godmother, who was also dying of hunger, craved the fleshpots of Egypt, naturally,—and, well, 'les absents ont toujours tort,' you know. Ha, ha, you understand!"

"My God!" groaned Louis, his anger giving place to profound despair. "My God! it is true, then."

"If I had known that I was interfering with a prospective client, I would have abstained, I assure you. Now it is too late. Besides, there are as good fish in the sea—You know the proverb. Come, my young friend, don't take it so much to heart. The girl was entirely too young for you. She needs training. You will find plenty of charming women already trained and thoroughly trained. I can particularly recommend a certain Madame——"

"Wretch!" exclaimed Louis, seizing the man of affairs by the collar, "wretch!—"

"Monsieur, you shall answer for this!" exclaimed the commandant, trying to wrench himself from his rival's iron grasp.

Just then the door opened suddenly, and, at the sound of a loud laugh, both men turned simultaneously.

"Saint-Herem!" exclaimed Louis, recognising his old schoolmate.

"You here!" exclaimed Florestan de Saint-Herem, while the usurer, adjusting the collar of his dressing-gown, muttered savagely under his breath:

"What the devil brought Saint-Herem here just at this most inopportune moment, I should like to know!"

CHAPTER IX.
COMMANDANT DE LA MIRAUDIÈRE'S ANTECEDENTS.

M. de Saint-Herem was a handsome man, not over thirty years of age, with a remarkably distinguished manner and bearing. His refined and rather spirituelle face sometimes wore an expression of extreme superciliousness, as when he addressed any remark to Commandant de la Miraudière, for instance; but at the sight of his old schoolmate he seemed to experience the liveliest joy. He even embraced him affectionately, and Louis returned the embrace heartily, spite of the conflicting emotions that agitated him.

But this manifestation of surprise and pleasure over, the chief actors in the scene relapsed into the same mood they had been in when Saint-Herem so unexpectedly burst in upon them, and Louis, pale with anger, continued to cast such wrathful glances at the usurer that M. de Saint-Herem said to that gentleman, with a mocking air:

"You must admit that I arrived very opportunely. But for my timely appearance upon the scene of action, it seems to me my friend Louis would soon have taken all the starch out of you."

"To dare to lay his hand on me, an old soldier!" exclaimed the commandant, advancing a step toward Louis. "This matter shall not be allowed to end here, M. Richard."

"That is for you to say, M. de la Miraudière."

"M. de la Miraudière? Ha, ha, ha!" roared Florestan. "What! my dear Louis, you really take that fellow seriously? You believe in his title, in his cross, in his campaigns, his wounds, his duels, and his high-sounding name?"

"Enough of this jesting," said the pretended commandant, colouring with vexation. "Even friendly raillery has its limits, my dear fellow."

"M. Jerome Porquin," began Florestan, then, turning to Louis, he added, pointing to the usurer, "his real name is Porquin, and a very appropriate name it is, it seems to me."

Then once more addressing the pretended commandant, Florestan added, in a tone that admitted of no reply:

"This is the second time I have been obliged to forbid your calling me your dear friend, M. Porquin. It is different with me, I have bought and paid for the right to call you my dear, my enormously, entirely too dear M. Porquin, for you have swindled me most outrageously—"

"Really, monsieur, I will not allow—"

"What is that? Since when has M. Porquin become so terribly sensitive?" cried Saint-Herem, with an affectation of intense astonishment. "What has happened? Oh, yes, I understand. It is your presence, my friend Louis, that makes this much too dear M. Porquin squirm so when I expose his falsehoods and his absurd pretensions. To settle this vexed question once for all, I must tell you—and let us see if he will have the effrontery to contradict me—who M. le Commandant de la Miraudière really is. He has never served his country except in the sutler's department. He went to Madrid in that capacity during the late war, and as he proved to be too great an expense to the government, he was asked to take himself off. He did so, and transformed himself into what he calls a man of affairs, or, in other words, into a usurer, and an intermediary in all sorts of shady transactions. The decoration he wears is that of the Golden Spur, a papal order, which one holy man procured from another holy man as a reward for his assistance in a most atrocious swindle. He has never fought a duel in his life, in the first place because he is one of the biggest cowards that ever lived, and in the second place because he bears such a bad reputation that he knows perfectly well that no respectable man would condescend to fight with him, and that if he becomes insolent the only thing to do is to give him a sound thrashing."

"When you want to make use of me you do not treat me in this fashion, monsieur," said the usurer, sullenly.

"When I need you, I pay you, M. Porquin, and as I know all your tricks, my too dear M. Porquin, I feel it my duty to warn my friend, M. Richard, against you. You are doubtless eager to devour him; in fact, it is more than likely that you have already begun to weave your toils around him, but—"

"That is the way some persons reward faithful service!" exclaimed M. Porquin, bitterly. "I reveal a secret of the highest importance to him, and—"

"I understand your motive now," responded Louis Richard, dryly, "so I owe you no gratitude for the service you have rendered me,—that is, if it be a service," he added, sadly.

The usurer had no intention of losing his prey, however, and, deeming it advisable to ignore the insults M. de Saint-Herem had heaped upon him, he said to Saint-Herem, with as much assurance as if that gentleman had not so roughly unmasked him:

"Your friend, M. Richard is at perfect liberty to tell you the conditions of the bargain I just proposed to him, and you can then judge whether my demands are exorbitant or not. As my presence might be a constraint, gentlemen, will you kindly step into the adjoining room? I will await M. Richard's decision here; that is, of course, if he desires to ask your advice on the subject."

"An admirable suggestion, truly, my too dear M. Porquin," responded Florestan, promptly. And, taking Louis by the arm, he led him toward the door, remarking to the usurer, as he did so:

"On my return, I will tell you the object of my visit, or rather, I will tell you now. I must have two hundred louis this evening. Here, examine these securities."

And M. de Saint-Herem, drawing some papers from his pocket, threw them to the usurer, then entered the adjoining room, accompanied by his friend.

The revelation of M. Porquin's real character was another terrible blow to Louis Richard. The knowledge that it was for the sake of such a wretch as this that Mariette had been false to him caused him bitter sorrow, and, unable to restrain his feelings, as soon as he found himself alone with his friend, he seized both Saint-Herem's hands, and, in a voice trembling with emotion, exclaimed:

"Oh, Florestan, how miserable I am!"

"I suspected as much, my dear Louis, for it must be worse than death for a sensible, industrious fellow like you to find yourself in the clutches of a scoundrel like Porquin. What is the trouble? Your habits have always been so frugal, how did you manage to get into debt? Tell me about it. What seems an enormous sum to you may be but a trifle to me. I just told that rascal in there that he was to let me have two hundred louis this evening, and I am sure he will. You shall share them with me, or you can have the whole amount if you want it. Two hundred louis will certainly pay all the debts any notary's clerk can have contracted. I do not say this to humiliate you, far from it. If you need more, we will try to get it elsewhere, but for God's sake don't apply to Porquin. If you do you are lost. I know the scoundrel so well."

Saint-Herem's generous offer gave Louis such heart-felt pleasure that he almost forgot his sorrows for the moment.

"My dear, kind friend, if you knew how much this proof of your friendship consoles me," he exclaimed.

"So much the better. You accept my offer, then."

"No."

"What?"

"I do not need your kind services. This usurer, whom I had never heard of before, sent for me yesterday to offer to loan me, each year, more money than I have spent in my whole life."

"What! He makes you such an offer as that, this usurer who never loans so much as a sou without the very best security. Men of his stamp set a very small valuation on honesty, industry, and integrity, and I know that these are your sole patrimony, my dear Louis."

"You are mistaken, Florestan. My father is worth over two millions."

"Your father!" exclaimed Saint-Herem, in profound astonishment. "Your father?"

"Yes. In some mysterious way this usurer has managed to discover a secret, of which even I had not the slightest suspicion, I assure you, so he sent for me—"

"To offer you his services, of course. He and others of his ilk are always on the lookout for hidden fortunes, and when they find them they offer to the prospective heirs such advances as will enable them to squander their wealth before they inherit it. So you are rich, my dear Louis! You need not feel any doubts on the subject. If Porquin has made you such an offer, he knows it for a certainty."

"Yes, I think so, too," said Louis, almost sadly.

"Why do you speak so mournfully, Louis? One would suppose that you had just made some terrible discovery. What is the matter with you? What is the meaning of those tears I saw in your eyes a little while ago? And of that exclamation, 'I am very miserable!' You miserable, and why?"

"Do not ridicule me, my friend. The truth is, I love, and I have been deceived."

"You have a rival, then, I suppose."

"Yes, and, to crown my misfortunes, this rival—"

"Go on."

"Is this rascally usurer."

"Porquin, that old scoundrel! The girl prefers him to you? Impossible! But what leads you to suppose—"

"Several suspicious circumstances; besides, he says so."

"Fine authority that! He lies, I am certain of it."

"But, Florestan, he is rich, and the girl I loved, or rather whom I still love in spite of myself, is terribly poor."

"The devil!"

"Besides, she has an invalid connection to take care of. This scoundrel's offers must have dazzled the poor child, or want may have induced her to listen to the voice of the tempter, as so many others do. What does the discovery of this wealth profit me now? I care nothing for it if I cannot share it with Mariette."

"Listen, Louis, I know you, and I feel confident that you must have placed your affections wisely."

"Yes; and for more than a year Mariette has given every proof of her faithful attachment to me, but yesterday, without the slightest warning, came a letter breaking our engagement."

"A good girl who has loved a man as poor as you were faithfully for a year would not have been so quickly won over by the promises of an old villain like Porquin. He lied to you; I haven't a doubt of it."

Then calling out at the top of his voice, to the great surprise of Louis, he exclaimed:

"Commandant de la Miraudière, come here a minute!"

"What are you going to do, Florestan?" asked Louis, as the usurer appeared in the doorway.

"Keep still and let me manage this affair," replied his friend. Then, turning to the usurer, he continued:

"M. de la Miraudière, I feel sure that you must be labouring under a misapprehension in relation to a very nice young girl who—according to your account—has fallen a victim to your charms. Will you do me the favour to tell me the truth so I may know what action to take in the matter?"

Concluding that it would be politic to sacrifice a caprice that he had little chance of gratifying to the advantage of having Louis Richard for a client, Porquin replied:

"I must confess that I deeply deplore a stupid jest that seems to have annoyed M. Richard so much."

"I told you so," remarked Florestan, turning to his friend. "And now M. le commandant must do me the favour to explain how the idea of this stupid jest, or rather what I should call an atrocious calumny, happened to occur to him."

"The explanation is very simple, monsieur. I saw Mlle. Mariette several times in the establishment where she is employed. Her beauty struck me. I asked for her address, secured it, and, finding her godmother at home when I called, I proposed to her that—"

"Enough, monsieur, enough!" cried Louis, indignantly.

"Permit me to add, however, that the aforesaid godmother declined my offer, and that the young lady, herself, chancing to come about that time, coolly ordered me out of the house. I am making a frank confession, you see, M. de Saint-Herem. I do it, I admit, in the hope that it will gain me M. Richard's confidence, and that he will decide to accept my services. As for you, M. de Saint-Herem," continued the usurer, in his most ingratiating manner, "I have examined the securities you submitted to me, and I will bring you the money you want this evening. And, by the way, when you hear the offer I have made to M. Richard, I feel confident that you will consider my terms very reasonable."

"I do not want your money, monsieur," said Louis, "and I consider it an insult for you to think me capable of trading upon my father's death, as it were—"

"But, my dear client, permit me to say—"

"Come, Florestan, let us go," Louis said to his friend, without paying the slightest attention to the usurer's protest.

"You see, my too dear M. Porquin," said Saint-Herem, as he turned to depart, "you see there are still a few honest men and women left in the world. It is useless to hope that this discovery will serve either as an example or a lesson for you, however. You are too set in your ways ever to reform; but it is some comfort to know of your double defeat."

"Ah, my dear Florestan," remarked Louis, as they left the house, "thanks to you, I am much less miserable. The fact that Mariette treated this villain with the scorn he deserved is some comfort, even though she has decided to break her engagement with me."

"Did she tell you so?"

"No, she wrote me to that effect, or rather she got some other person to do it for her."

"What, she got some other person to write such a thing as that for her!"

"You will sneer, perhaps, but the poor girl I love can neither read nor write."

"How fortunate you are! You will at least escape such epistles as I have been receiving from a pretty little perfumer I took away from a rich but miserly old banker. I have been amusing myself by showing her a little of the world,—it is so pleasant to see people happy,—but I have not been able to improve her grammar, and such spelling! It is of the antediluvian type. Mother Eve must have written in much the same fashion. But if your Mariette can neither read nor write, how do you know but her secretary may have distorted the facts?"

"With what object?"

"I don't know, I am sure. But why don't you have an explanation with her? You will know exactly how you stand, then."

"But she implored me, both for the sake of her peace of mind and her future, to make no attempt to see her again."

"On the contrary, see her again, and at once, for the sake of her future, now you are a prospective millionaire."

"You are right, Florestan, I will see her, and at once; and if this cruel mystery can be satisfactorily explained, if I find her as loving and devoted as in the past, I shall be the happiest man in the world. Poor child, her life up to this time has been one of toil and privation. She shall know rest and comfort now, for I cannot doubt that my father will consent. My God!"

"What is the matter?"

"All this has made me entirely forget something that will surprise you very much. My father insists that I shall marry your cousin."

"What cousin?"

"Mlle. Ramon. A short time ago I went to Dreux; in fact, I have just returned from there. I had not the slightest suspicion of my father's plans, when I first saw the young lady, but, even if I had not been in love with Mariette, your uncle's daughter impressed me so unfavourably that nothing in the world—"

"So my uncle is not ruined, as he pretended he was several years ago," said Florestan, interrupting his friend. "No, evidently not, for if your father wishes you to marry my cousin, it is because he thinks such an alliance would be to your advantage. Doubtless my uncle's pretended failure was only a subterfuge."

"My father resorted to the same expedient, I think, though he has always given me to understand that extreme poverty was the cause of the parsimonious manner in which we lived."

"Ah, Uncle Ramon, I knew that you were sulky, ill-tempered, and detestable generally, but I did not believe you capable of such cleverness of conception. From this day on I shall admire and revere you. I am not your heir, it is true, but it is always delightful to know that one has a millionaire uncle. It is such a comforting thought in one's financial difficulties; one can indulge in all sorts of delightful hypotheses, in which apoplexy and even cholera present themselves to the mind in the guise of guardian angels."

"Without going quite as far as that, and without wishing for any one's death," said Louis, smiling, "I must admit that I would much rather see your uncle's fortune pass into your hands than into those of his odious daughter. You would at least enjoy the possession of it, and, with all that wealth, I feel sure that you would—"

"Contract debts without number," Saint-Herem interrupted, majestically.

"What, Florestan, with a fortune like that—"

"I should contract debts without number, I tell you. Yes, of course I should."

"What, with a fortune of two or three million francs?"

"With ten, even twenty millions, I should still contract debts. My theory is that of the government,—the larger a country's debt, the better that country's credit is. But I will expound my financial theories some other time. Don't lose a moment now in hastening to Mariette, and be sure and tell me what success you meet with. Here it is nearly noon, and I promised the little perfumer—who amuses me immensely—that she should try a new saddle-horse to-day, the handsomest hack in Paris,—it cost me a nice price, by the way,—and she wrote me this morning to remind me that I had promised to take her to the Bois. So hasten to your Mariette. I feel confident that your love affair will end happily after all. But write to me, or else come and see me as soon as possible, for I shall be so anxious to hear the result of your interview."

"You shall hear from me, my dear Florestan, whatever happens."

"Farewell then, my dear Louis, it is agreed that I shall see or hear from you before to-morrow."

As he spoke, M. de Saint-Herem stepped into the handsomely appointed brougham which was waiting for him at the usurer's door, and Louis Richard wended his way on foot to Mariette's home.

CHAPTER X.
THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED.

When Louis Richard entered the room occupied by Mariette and her godmother, he paused a moment on the threshold, overwhelmed with grief and despair at the affecting scene that presented itself to his gaze.

Mariette was lying to all appearance lifeless on a mattress on the floor. Her features, which were overspread with a death-like pallor, contracted convulsively from time to time. Her eyes were closed, and there were still traces of tears on her marble cheeks, while in one of the clenched hands crossed upon her breast was the envelope containing the fragments of the letter she had received from Louis.

Madame Lacombe's usually grim and sardonic face showed that she was a prey to the most poignant grief and distress. Kneeling beside the mattress on which her goddaughter was lying, she was supporting Mariette's head upon her mutilated arm, and holding a glass of water to the girl's inanimate lips with the other.

Hearing a sound, Madame Lacombe turned hastily, and her features resumed their usually hard and irascible expression, as she saw Louis standing motionless in the doorway.

"What do you want?" she demanded, brusquely. "Why do you come in without knocking? I don't know you. Who are you?"

"My God! in what a terrible condition I find her!" exclaimed Louis.

And without paying any attention to Madame Lacombe's question, he sprang forward, and, throwing himself on his knees beside the pallet, exclaimed, imploringly:

"What is the matter, Mariette? Answer me, I beseech you."

Madame Lacombe, who had been as much surprised as annoyed at the young man's intrusion, now scrutinised his features closely, and, after a moment's reflection, said, sullenly:

"You are Louis Richard, I suppose?"

"Yes, madame, but in Heaven's name what has happened to Mariette?"

"You have killed her, that is all!"

"I? Great God! But, madame, something must be done. Let me run for a doctor. Her hands are like ice. Mariette, Mariette! Oh, my God! my God! she does not hear me."

"She has been in this state ever since last night, and it was your letter that caused it."

"My letter! What letter?"

"Oh, you intend to deny it now, I suppose. You needn't, for last night the poor child couldn't bear it any longer, and told me all."

"Great Heavens! What did she tell you?"

"That you never wanted to lay eyes on her again, and that you had deserted her for another. That is always the way with you men!"

"On the contrary, I wrote to Mariette that—"

"You lie!" exclaimed the old woman, more and more incensed. "She told me what was in the letter. She has it here in her hand. I haven't been able to get it away from her. Hadn't she enough to bear without your treating her in this way? Get out of this house, you scoundrel! Mariette was a fool, and so was I, to refuse the offer made us, and I told her so at the time. 'See how we shall be rewarded for our honesty,' I said to her. And my words have come true. She is dying, and I shall be turned out into the street, for we are behind in our rent, and the little furniture we have will be taken from us. Fortunately, I have a quarter of a bushel of charcoal left," she added, with a grim smile, "and charcoal is the friend and deliverer of the poor."

"This is horrible!" cried Louis, unable to restrain his tears; "but I swear to you that we are all the victims of a most deplorable mistake. Mariette, Mariette, arouse yourself! It is I—I, Louis!"

"You are determined to kill her, I see!" exclaimed Madame Lacombe, making a desperate effort to push the young man away. "If she recovers consciousness, the sight of you will finish her!"

"Thank God!" exclaimed Louis, resisting Madame Lacombe's efforts, and again bending over Mariette; "she is moving a little. See! her hands are relaxing; her eyelids are quivering. Mariette, darling, can't you hear me? It is Louis who speaks to you."

The girl was, in fact, gradually recovering consciousness, and her tear-stained eyes, after having slowly opened and wandered aimlessly around for a moment, fixed themselves upon Louis. Soon, an expression of joyful surprise irradiated her features, and she murmured, faintly:

"Louis, is it really you? Ah, I never expected—"

Then, the sad reality gradually forcing itself upon her mind, she averted her face, and, letting her head again fall upon Madame Lacombe's bosom, she said, with a deep sigh:

"Ah, godmother, it is for the last time! All is over between us!"

"Didn't I tell you how it would be?" exclaimed Madame Lacombe. "Go, I tell you, go! Oh, the misery of being so weak and infirm that one cannot turn a scoundrel out of one's house!"

"Mariette," cried Louis, imploringly, "Mariette, in pity, listen to me. I do not come to bid you farewell; on the contrary, I come to tell you that I love you better than ever!"

"Good God!" exclaimed the young girl, starting up as if she had received an electric shock; "what does he say?"

"I say that we are both the victims of a terrible mistake, Mariette. I have never for one moment ceased to love you, no, never! and all the time I have been away I have had but one thought and desire,—to see you again and make all the necessary arrangements for our speedy marriage, as I told you in my letter."

"Your letter!" exclaimed Mariette, in heart-broken tones, "he has forgotten. Here, Louis, here is your letter."

And, as she spoke, she handed the young man the crumpled, tear-blurred fragments of the letter.

"He will deny his own writing, see if he don't," muttered Madame Lacombe, as Louis hastily put the torn pieces together. "And you will be fool enough to believe him."

"This is what I wrote, Mariette," said Louis, after he had put the letter together:

"'My Dearest Mariette:—I shall be with you again the day after you receive this letter. The short absence, from which I have suffered so much, has convinced me that it is impossible for me to live separated from you. Thank God! the day of our union is near at hand. To-morrow will be the sixth of May, and as soon as I return I shall tell my father of our intentions, and I do not doubt his consent.

"'Farewell, then, until day after to-morrow, my beloved Mariette. I love you madly, or rather wisely, for what greater wisdom could a man show than in having sought and found happiness in a love like yours.

"'Yours devotedly, Louis.

"'I write only these few lines because I shall reach Paris almost as soon as my letter, and because it is always painful to me to think that another must read what I write to you. But for that, how many things I would say to you.

Yours for ever.
"'L.'"

Mariette had listened to the letter with such profound astonishment that she had been unable to utter a word.

"That, Mariette, is what I wrote," remarked Louis. "What was there in my letter to make you so wretched?"

"Is that really what was in the letter, M. Louis?" asked Madame Lacombe.

"See for yourself, madame," said Louis, handing her the scraps of paper.

"Do you suppose I know how to read?" was the surly response. "How was it that the letter was read so differently to Mariette, then?"

"Who read my letter to you, Mariette?" asked Louis.

"A scrivener."

"A scrivener!" repeated Louis, assailed by a sudden suspicion. "Explain, Mariette, I beg of you."

"The explanation is very simple, M. Louis. I asked a scrivener on the Charnier des Innocents to write a letter to you. He wrote it, and just as he was about to put your address on it he overturned his inkstand on the letter, and was obliged to write it all over again. On my return home, I found your letter waiting for me; but having no one to read it to me in Augustine's absence, I went back to the scrivener, a very kind and respectable old man, and asked him to read what you had written to me. He read it, or at least pretended to read it, for, according to him, you said that we must never meet again, that your future and that of your father demanded it, and for that reason you entreated me—"

But the poor girl's emotion overcame her, and she burst into tears.

Louis understood now that chance had led Mariette to his father for assistance, that the pretended accident had been merely a stratagem that enabled the scrivener to write a second letter of an entirely different import from the first, and to address it, not to Dreux, but to Paris, so Louis would find it on his arrival in that city. He understood, too, his father's object in thus deceiving Mariette in regard to the real contents of the second letter, when she again applied to him. The discovery of this breach of confidence on the part of his father—the reason of which was only too apparent—overwhelmed Louis with sorrow and shame. He dared not confess to his sweetheart the relation that existed between him and the scrivener, but, wishing to give the two women some plausible explanation of the deception that had been practised upon them, he said:

"In spite of this scrivener's apparent kindness of heart, he must have taken a malicious pleasure in playing a joke upon you, my poor Mariette, for he read you the exact opposite of what I had written."

"How shameful!" cried the girl. "How could he have had the heart to deceive me so? He had such a benevolent air, and spoke so feelingly of the sympathy he always felt for those unfortunate persons who, like myself, could neither read nor write."

"But you can see for yourself that he did deceive you shamefully? Still, what does it matter, now?" added Louis, anxious to put an end to such a painful topic. "We understand each other's feelings now, Mariette, and—"

"One moment," interposed Madame Lacombe; "you may feel satisfied and reassured, Mariette, but I do not."

"What do you mean, godmother?"

"I mean that I strongly disapprove of this marriage."

"But listen, madame," pleaded Louis.

"As you are the son of a public scrivener, you haven't a sou to your name. Mariette hasn't, either, and two people in such circumstances as that have no right to marry. My goddaughter has me to take care of. She would be sure, too, to have a lot of children, and a nice fix we should all be in!"

"But, godmother—"

"Don't talk to me. I know what you intend to do. The first thing you'll try for is to get rid of the old woman. There won't be bread enough for us all, and I shall be turned out into the street to be arrested as a public vagabond. I shall be sent to the workhouse, so you won't be troubled with me any more. Oh, yes, I understand your scheme."

"Oh, godmother, how can you imagine such a thing as that?"

"Dismiss all such fears from your mind, I beg of you, madame," Louis made haste to say, "This very day I made a most unexpected discovery. My father, for reasons which I must respect, has concealed from me the fact that we are rich, very rich."

Mariette manifested much more astonishment than delight on hearing this startling announcement, but turning to Madame Lacombe after a moment, she said:

"You see you need be troubled by no more of these terrible misgivings in regard to my future, godmother."

"Ha, ha!" laughed Madame Lacombe, sardonically; "so she really believes it—"

"But, godmother—"

"Nonsense, child, can't you see that he has invented this story so I will consent to your marriage?"

"But I swear, madame—"

"I tell you it is all a lie," exclaimed Madame Lacombe; "for if you were as rich as you say, you wouldn't want Mariette any longer. Would the son of a rich man be fool enough to marry a poor working girl who can neither read nor write?"

Though she did not exactly share her godmother's doubts, Mariette gazed at Louis a little sadly and uneasily, as she thought of the great change in his fortunes.

The young man must have understood the meaning of the look, for he said:

"You are very much mistaken, Madame Lacombe; the son of a rich man keeps the promise he made as a poor man when the happiness of his life depends upon that promise."

"Bah! that is all talk!" interrupted the invalid, in surly tones; "but rich or poor, you won't get Mariette without I am sure of a living. I don't ask much,—six hundred francs a year will do,—but the money must be deposited in the hands of a reliable notary before the marriage contract is signed."

"Oh, godmother, have you no more confidence in Louis than that?"

"A nice fix you'll find yourself in if you place confidence in any man," exclaimed the poor creature. "Oh, I know all about it. Before marriage they'll promise anything you ask; afterward, they'll take the old woman by the arm, and drag her off to the poorhouse without saying so much as by your leave. I'm not afraid that Mariette would turn me into the street. I've been a sad burden to her, and she has had quite enough of me, I know, but she is a kind-hearted little thing; besides, she's afraid of me; but once married, she will side with her husband, and out I shall have to go. No, there sha'n't be any marriage unless I'm sure of six hundred francs a year."

While Madame Lacombe was indulging in these recriminations, Mariette and Louis exchanged sadly significant glances.

"You hear her, Louis," the girl seemed to say. "Was I not right when I told you that she had been hopelessly embittered by her many misfortunes?"

"Poor Mariette," the young man seemed to say in reply, "how much you must have suffered! And how hard it is to see such tender and saint-like devotion as yours rewarded in such a way!"

"Madame," replied Louis, when the sick woman had ended her tirade, "you may rest assured that you shall be well provided for. Mariette and I will never forget that you took her in when she had no other home, and whether you prefer to live with us, or to live alone, you shall be made comfortable for life."

"Oh, thank you, Louis, thank you for sharing my feeling for my poor godmother, my second mother," exclaimed Mariette, gratefully.

And the girl bent over Madame Lacombe to embrace her, but the invalid, pushing her away, said, angrily:

"Can't you see that he is only amusing himself at our expense? Marry you? Pension me for life? Was such a thing ever heard of? He wants to get around me, that is all, and if he is rich, as he says he is, he will only fool you, and some fine day you'll hear of his marriage with another girl, so I forbid him ever to set foot in this house again."

"But you will at least allow me to present myself here in company with my father to make a formal request for Mariette's hand in marriage?"

"Oh, yes, when you come for that purpose it will be when two Sundays come together," answered the old woman, sneeringly.

"It will be to-morrow, Madame Lacombe."

Then, turning to the young girl, he added:

"Farewell, Mariette. I shall come to-morrow, accompanied by my father."

On hastening to his father's office a few moments afterward, Louis found it closed, and ascertained upon inquiry that M. Richard had not been there at all that day. Amazed at this strange change in the old man's regular habits, Louis hastened to the lodgings they shared in the Rue de Grenelle.

CHAPTER XI.
HIDDEN TREASURE.

As Louis was passing the porter's lodge, that functionary remarked to him:

"Your father went out a couple of hours ago, M. Louis. He left this note for you, which I was to take to the office where you are employed, if you did not return before two o'clock in the afternoon."

The young man took the note. It read as follows:

"My Dear Son:—I am in receipt of a few lines from my friend, Ramon, who apprises me of his intention of leaving Dreux in company with his daughter almost simultaneously with his letter. He will, consequently, reach Paris to-day. As he has never been on a railway in his life, and is anxious to try that mode of travel, he will stop at Versailles, and he wishes us to meet him there. We can visit the palace, and afterward come on to Paris together by one of the late trains.

"I am to meet Ramon at the Hôtel du Reservoir. If we should leave there to visit the palace before you arrive, you can easily find us. It is understood that this meeting with Mlle. Ramon is not to compromise you in the least. I merely desire that you should take advantage of this opportunity to see the injustice of your prejudice against that young lady. Besides, whatever your plans may be, you must realise that it would be very discourteous to Ramon, one of my most particular friends, to fail to keep the appointment he has made with us. So come, my dear Louis, if only for appearance's sake.

"From your father who loves you, and who has but one desire in the world,—your happiness.

"A. Richard."

But Louis, in spite of the deference he usually showed to his father's wishes, did not go to Versailles, feeling the utter uselessness of another meeting with Mlle. Ramon, as he was now even more than ever determined to marry Mariette.

The discovery of his father's wealth made no change in the industrious habits of Louis, who hastened to the office to perform his usual duties, and apologise for his absence during the morning. A desire to atone for that, as well as the preparation of several important documents, kept him at the office much later than usual. As he was preparing to leave, one of his fellow clerks rushed in excitedly, exclaiming:

"Ah, my friend, such a terrible calamity has occurred!"

"What has happened?"

"There has been a frightful accident on the Versailles railroad."

"Good God!" exclaimed Louis, turning pale.

"The Paris train was derailed, several cars were telescoped, they took fire, nearly all the passengers were either crushed or burned to death, and—"

Louis could wait to hear no more. Forgetting his hat entirely, he rushed out of the office, and, running to a neighbouring cab-stand, he sprang into one of the vehicles, saying to the coachman:

"Twenty francs pourboire if you take me to the Versailles railway station at the top of your speed,—and from there, but I don't know yet,—only start, in Heaven's name start at once!"

"On the right or left bank of the river, monsieur?" asked the coachman, gathering up the lines.

"What?"

"There are two roads, monsieur, one on the right, the other on the left bank of the river."

"I want to go to the road where that terrible accident just occurred."

"This is the first I have heard of it, monsieur."

Louis drove back to the office to inquire of the fellow clerk who had brought the news, but, finding no one there, he ran out and was about to enter the cab again when the driver said:

"I have just learned that the accident was on the left line, monsieur."

Louis accordingly ordered him to drive to that station. Here the sad news was confirmed. He also learned at what point on the line the accident had occurred. The main road and then a cross road enabled him to reach Bas Mendon about nightfall, and, guided by the blaze of the burning cars, he soon found the scene of the catastrophe.

The press of the time gave such graphic accounts of this frightful calamity that is not necessary to enter into further particulars; we will merely say that all night Louis searched in vain for his father among the charred, disfigured, and terribly mutilated bodies. About four o'clock in the morning the young man, overcome with grief and fatigue, returned to Paris, with a faint hope that his father might have been one of the few who had escaped injury, and that he might have returned home during the night.

The carriage had scarcely reached the house before Louis sprang out and ran to the porter's lodge.

"Has my father returned?" he exclaimed.

"No, M. Louis."

"Ah! there can be no further doubt, then," murmured Louis. "Dead! dead!"

His knees gave way under him, and he was obliged to sit down. After resting a few moments in the room of the porter, who offered him the usual condolences, Louis went slowly up to his room.

On seeing the bare, poorly furnished room so long shared with a father who had loved him so devotedly, and who had just met with such a frightful death, Louis's grief became uncontrollable, and he threw himself down on the bed, and, burying his face in his hands, wept long and bitterly.

About half an hour afterward he heard some one knock at the door, and the porter entered.

"What do you want?" asked Louis.

"I am sorry to disturb you at such a time, monsieur, but the coachman—"

"What coachman?" asked Louis, who in his grief had forgotten all about the carriage.

"Why, the coachman you kept all night. He says you promised him twenty francs drink money, which, with his charge for yesterday afternoon and last night, makes forty-nine francs in all that you owe him, and he wants his money."

"Pay him and let him go!" responded the young man, with sorrowful impatience.

"But forty-nine francs is a large sum of money, and I haven't that much, M. Louis."

"Good Heavens! what is to be done?" exclaimed Louis, suddenly aroused by this demand of the material interests of life. "I have no money, either."

And he spoke the truth, for he had never had at his disposal one-fourth of the amount that he owed the coachman.

"Then why did you keep the carriage so long, and above all, why did you promise the driver such a large pourboire? You must be mad! What are you going to do? Hadn't you better see if there is any money in your father's desk?"

These last words reminded Louis of a fact which, in his grief, he had entirely forgotten. His father was rich, and thinking that there might be some money concealed somewhere in the room, but not wishing to institute a search for it in the porter's presence, he said:

"I may need the cab again this morning, so tell the man to wait. If I am not down in half an hour, you can come back again, and I will give you the money."

The porter went out, and the young man, thus left alone, experienced a feeling almost akin to remorse, as he thought of the search he was about to make,—a search which at such a moment seemed almost sacrilege, but necessity left him no choice.

The furniture of the room consisted of a writing-desk, a bureau, and a big chest similar to those seen in the houses of well-to-do peasants, and which was divided into two compartments, one above the other.

Louis examined the desk and bureau, but found no money in either of them. The keys of the chest were in their respective locks. He opened both compartments, but saw only a few articles of clothing. A long drawer separated the two compartments. In this drawer there was nothing except a few unimportant papers; but the idea that there might be some secret compartment occurred to Louis, so he took the drawer out of the chest, and proceeded to examine it. A careful search resulted in the discovery of a small brass knob in the left side of the drawer. He pressed this knob, and immediately saw the board which apparently formed the bottom of the drawer move slowly out, disclosing to view another opening below, about four inches deep, and extending the entire length of the drawer. This space was partitioned off into a number of small compartments, and each of these compartments was filled with piles of gold pieces of different denominations and nationalities. It was evident that each coin must have been carefully polished, for they all sparkled as brilliantly as if they had just come out of the mint.

Louis, in spite of his profound grief, stood a moment as if dazzled at the sight of this treasure, the value of which he knew must be very considerable. On recovering from his surprise a little, he noticed a paper in the first compartment, and, recognising his father's handwriting, he read these words:

"This collection of gold pieces was begun on the 7th of September, 1803. Its market value is 287,634 francs, 10 centimes. See Clause IV. of my will, entrusted to the keeping of Master Marainville, No. 28 Rue St. Anne, with whom is likewise deposited all my title-deeds, mortgages, stocks, and bonds. See also the sealed envelope under the piles of Spanish double pistoles, in fifth compartment."

Louis removed several piles of the large, heavy coins designated, and found an envelope sealed with black.

Upon this envelope was written in bold characters:

"To My Dearly-beloved Son."

Just as Louis picked up the envelope some one knocked at the door, and remembering that he had told the porter to return, he had barely time to take out one of the coins and close the chest before that functionary entered.

The porter examined the coin which the young man handed to him with quite as much surprise as curiosity, exclaiming, with a wondering air:

"What a handsome gold piece! One would suppose it had just been coined. I never saw one like it before."

"Go and pay the cabman with it!"

"But how much is a big gold piece like this worth, monsieur?"

"More than I owe. Go and get it changed, and pay the coachman."

"Did your father leave many of these big gold pieces, M. Richard?" asked the porter, in a mysterious tone. "Who would have supposed that old man—"

"Go!" thundered Louis, exasperated at the heartlessness of the question, "go and pay the coachman, and don't come back."

The porter beat a hasty retreat, and Louis, to guard against further intrusion, locked the door and returned to the chest.

Before opening his father's letter the young man, almost in spite of himself, gazed for a moment at the glittering treasure, but this time, though he reproached himself for the thought at such a moment, he remembered Mariette, and said to himself that one-fourth of the wealth that was lying there before him would assure his wife's comfort and independence for life.

Then he tried to forget the cruel stratagem his father had resorted to, and even comforted himself with the thought that he should have secured the old man's consent to his marriage with Mariette eventually, and that, though he might not have confessed to the wealth he possessed, he would at least have provided comfortably for the young couple.

The discovery of this treasure excited in Louis's breast none of that avaricious or revengeful joy that the heirs of misers often feel when they think of the cruel privations a parent's avarice has imposed upon them.

On the contrary, it was with devout respect that the young man broke the seal of the letter which doubtless contained his aged father's last wishes.

CHAPTER XII.
A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE.

This communication, dated about two months before, read as follows:

"My Beloved Son:—When you read these lines I shall have ceased to live.

"You have always believed me to be poor; on the contrary, I leave you a large fortune accumulated by avarice.

"I have been a miser. I do not deny it. On the contrary, I glory in the fact.

"And these are my reasons:

"Up to the time of your birth,—which deprived me of your mother,—I had, without being extravagant, been indifferent about increasing either my own patrimony or the dowry my wife had brought me; but as soon as I had a son, that desire to make ample provision for him which is the sacred duty of every parent gradually aroused a spirit of economy, then of parsimony, and finally of avarice, in my breast.

"Besides, the privations I imposed upon myself did not affect you in your infancy. Born sturdy and robust, the wholesome simplicity of your bringing up was rather beneficial than otherwise, tending as it did to the development of an excellent constitution.

"When you were old enough to begin your education, I sent you to one of the best schools open to the poor, at first, I must admit, purely from motives of economy, but afterward, because I considered such a training the best preparation for an honest, industrious life. The success of this plan even exceeded my expectations. Reared with the children of the poor, you acquired none of those luxurious, extravagant tastes, and felt none of the bitter envy and jealousy, that so often exert a fatal influence upon a young man's future. You were thus spared much of the chagrin which is no less bitter because the victim of it is a child.

"It is generally supposed that because children of entirely different conditions in life wear the same uniform, eat at the same table, and pursue the same studies, a feeling of equality exists between them.

"This is a great mistake.

"Social inequality is as keenly felt among children as in the social world.

"The son of a wealthy tradesman or a great nobleman generally displays the same pride and arrogance at ten years of age as at twenty-five.

"As for you, reared with children of the people, you heard them all talk of the hard toil of their parents, and the necessity of labour was thus impressed upon your mind almost from infancy.

"Other schoolmates told of the privations and poverty which the members of their households were obliged to endure, and in this way you became accustomed to our poverty.

"At the age of fifteen, I made you compete for a scholarship in the admirable institution in which you completed your studies, and your early education already began to bear excellent fruits, for, though many of your schoolmates were wealthy or of noble lineage, contact with them never impaired your sterling qualities, or made you envious or discontented.

"At the age of seventeen you entered the office of a notary, an intimate friend of mine, who alone knows the secret of my great wealth, and who has charge of my investments. Up to this time, this friend's discretion has equalled his devotion, and, thanks to him, you have acquired a fair knowledge of law, and also of business methods, which will be of immense service to you in the management of the very handsome property I have amassed.

"My conscience does not reproach me in the least, consequently, though sometimes I admit I fear you may address this reproach to my memory:

"'While you were amassing all this wealth, father, how could you bear to see me subjected to such cruel privations?'

"But the recollection of the many times you have remarked to me that, though we were poor, you were perfectly contented, and that you craved wealth only for my sake, always drove this fear from my heart.

"In fact, your invariable good humour, the evenness of your disposition, your natural gaiety, and your devoted affection for me have always convinced me that you were contented with your lot; besides, I shared it. What I earned as a scrivener, together with your earnings, have enabled us to live without touching any of the income from my property, which has consequently been accumulating in prudent hands for the last twenty years, so at this present writing the fortune I leave to you amounts to over two millions and a half.

"I do not know how many more years I have to live, but if I live ten years longer I shall have reached the allotted age of man. You will be thirty-five, and I shall have amassed a fortune of four or five millions, as property doubles itself in ten years.

"So, in all probability, you will have reached middle age when you come into possession of this large property, and the sober, frugal, and laborious habits acquired in infancy will have become second nature with you; so will you not be in the best possible condition to inherit the wealth I have amassed for you, and to use it wisely and well?

"If I had acted differently, what benefit would have accrued to either of us?

"If I had been lavish in my expenditures, I should have reduced you to poverty.

"If I had contented myself with spending my income only, then, instead of devoting ourselves to some useful employment, we should probably have led idle, aimless lives; instead of living frugally, we should have indulged in luxuries and more or less vain display; in short, we should have led such a life as nearly all wealthy people of the middle class lead.

"And what should we have gained by it?

"Should we have been better or more useful citizens? I doubt it, and, at my death, I should have left you a small property, not sufficient for the realisation of any extensive or generous enterprise.

"One word more, my dear child, to answer in advance any reproach that you may in future address to my memory.

"Rest assured if I kept my wealth a secret from you, it was not from any desire to deceive you, nor from any distrust on my part.

"These were my reasons:

"Ignorant of my wealth, you were resigned to poverty; aware of our wealth, you might have accepted the humble existence I imposed upon you without murmuring, but in your secret heart you might have accused me of cruelty and selfishness.

"Nor was this all. Forgive, my son, this foolish fear,—this apprehension so insulting to your affectionate heart,—but during my lifetime I was loath that you should know that you would profit by my death.

"Another, and possibly the most potent reason of all, led me to conceal my wealth from you. I love you so much that it would have been impossible for me to see you subjected to the slightest privation had you known it depended only upon me to give you an easier, broader, and more luxurious life.

"In spite of the apparent contradiction between this feeling and my avaricious conduct toward you, I hope that you will understand me.

"And now that in thought I place myself face to face with death, which may strike me down to-morrow, to-day, this very hour, I solemnly declare that I bless you from the inmost depths of my soul, my beloved son. You have never given me one moment's pain or sorrow, but only joy and happiness.

"God for ever bless you, my good and loving son. If you are as happy as you deserve to be, the dearest wish of my heart will be gratified.

"Your father, A. Richard.

"Paris, February 25, 18—."

Deeply touched by this strange letter, Louis fell into a deep, sad reverie, and the day was nearing a close when the young man heard some one knock at the door of his garret, and the well-known voice of Florestan de Saint-Herem greeted his ears.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE MISER EXTOLLED.

Saint-Herem threw himself in his friend's arms, exclaiming:

"Louis, my poor friend, I know all. The porter just told me of your father's death. What a sudden and cruel blow!"

"Read this, Florestan, and you will understand how bitter my regret must be!" said Louis, brokenly, handing Saint-Herem the dead man's letter.

"Now do you think any one can blame my father for his avarice?" Louis asked, when his friend had finished the letter. "His one thought seems to have been to enrich me, and to prepare me to make a good use of the large property he would bequeath to me. It was for my sake that he hoarded his wealth, and imposed the hardest privations upon himself!"

"No sacrifice is too great for a miser," replied Florestan. "Misers are capable of the grandest and most heroic acts. This may seem a paradox to you, but it is true, nevertheless. The prejudice against misers is unjust in the extreme. Misers! Why, we ought to erect altars to them!" added Saint-Herem, with growing enthusiasm. "Is it not wonderful the ingenuity they display in devising all sorts of ways to save? Is it not marvellous to see them accumulating, by persistent efforts, a fortune from the ends of matches and the collecting of lost pins. And people deny the existence of alchemists, and of discoverers of the philosopher's stone! Why, the miser has found the philosopher's stone, for does he not make gold out of what would be worthless to others?"

"You are right in that respect, Florestan."

"In that respect and all other respects, for, Louis, observe my simile closely. It is wonderfully just and worthy of my best rhetorical efforts. There is a dry and sterile tract of land. Some one digs a well there. What is the result? The smallest springs, the almost imperceptible oozings from the earth, the tiniest threads of water, accumulate drop by drop in this well. Gradually the water deepens, the reservoir becomes full, then comes a beneficent hand that diffuses the contents all around, and flowers and verdure spring up as if by enchantment on this once barren soil. Say, Louis, is not my comparison a just one? Is not the wealth amassed by the miser almost always spent in luxuries of every kind? for, as the proverb says: 'An avaricious father, a spendthrift son.' And let us consider the miser from a religious point of view."

"From a religious point of view?"

"Yes; for it is seen from that standpoint that he is especially worthy of praise."

"That is a very difficult assertion to prove, it seems to me."

"On the contrary, it is extremely easy. Self-abnegation is one of the greatest of virtues, is it not?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Well, my dear Louis, I defy you to mention any monastic order whose members renounce all earthly pleasures as absolutely as the majority of misers do. Capuchins renounce champagne, race-horses, dancing girls, hunting, cards, and the opera. I should think so. Most of them have good reasons for it. But how different with the miser! There, in his coffers, under lock and key, are the means of gratifying every wish and indulging in every luxury and pleasure, and yet he possesses the moral courage and strength of will to resist all these temptations. In his disinterestedness, too, the miser is sublime."

"Disinterestedness, Florestan?"

"Yes, I repeat that his disinterestedness is sublime. He knows perfectly well that he is execrated during life, and that his heirs will dance upon his grave when he is dead. He knows all that, and yet, mention a single case where a miser has tried to take his treasure with him, though it would be an easy matter, as it wouldn't take five minutes to burn two millions in bank-notes. But no, these kind-hearted misers, full of compassion, practise forgiveness of injuries, and leave their vast wealth to their heirs in almost every case."

"But, my friend, it sounds very strangely to hear a person who spends money as lavishly as you do lauding avarice to the skies."

"All the more reason that I should."

"And why?"

"Who can appreciate the excellence of the armourer's work as well as the warrior? The excellence of a horse as well as the rider? the excellence of a musical instrument as well as the person who plays upon it? Pope Paganini has canonised Stradivarius, the maker of those wonderful violins the great artist plays so divinely; and I, who could spend millions so admirably, shall certainly feel like canonising my uncle—that heroic martyr to avarice—if Fate so wills that the means of prodigality which he had been accumulating penny by penny ever falls into my hands."

"My God!"

"What is the matter, Louis?"

"Then you do not know—"

"What?"

"I told you of my poor father's desire for a marriage between me and your cousin."

"Yes, what of it?"

"Your uncle, ignorant of my refusal, and anxious to hasten this union which he desired as ardently as my father, apparently, left Dreux yesterday, in company with his daughter, and this morning—"

"Both arrived in Paris, I suppose. Why this hesitation, my dear Louis?"

"Your uncle and cousin did not come straight through to Paris. They stopped at Versailles, Florestan, at Versailles, where my poor father went to—"

But Louis could not finish the sentence. His emotion overcame him completely.

"Courage, my friend," said Saint-Herem, deeply affected, "I understand your feelings."

"Florestan," said the young man, drying his tears, after a long silence, "my father went to Versailles to meet your uncle and cousin."

"Well?"

"It was agreed that they were to accompany my father back to Paris. There is little doubt that they did so, and as it is almost certain that they were all in the same railway carriage—"

"They, too! Oh, that would be too horrible!" exclaimed Saint-Herem, covering his face with his hands.

The exclamation of horror and the tone of profound pity in Saint-Herem's voice were so sincere and so spontaneous that Louis was deeply touched by this proof of noble-heartedness on the part of his friend, who had manifested only a feeling of generous commiseration, without one particle of the satisfaction or selfish joy that might have been considered almost excusable under the circumstances.

CHAPTER XIV.
PLANS FOR THE FUTURE.

Louis and Saint-Herem remained silent for several minutes. The former was the first to speak.

"I cannot tell you how deeply your sensibility touches me, my dear Florestan," he said, at last "It is so thoroughly in accord with my own feelings at this sad moment."

"Why, what else could you expect, my dear friend? I had no affection for my uncle, as you know, but one must be heartless, indeed, not to feel deeply grieved and horrified at the mere possibility that my relatives may have shared your poor father's cruel fate. I retract nothing I have said in regard to avarice and its far-reaching consequences, though it would have given my thoughts a much more serious turn had I foreseen that the question was to affect me personally; but I can at least say, with truth, that I am not one of those persons who receive an inheritance with unalloyed delight. Now tell me, Louis,—and forgive the necessity of a question that is sure to revive your grief,—in your sorrowful search for your father did you see nothing that would lead you to hope that my uncle and his daughter might have escaped such a horrible death?"

"All I can say, Florestan, is that I remember perfectly having seen neither your uncle nor cousin among the killed and injured. As for the unfortunate persons who shared my father's fate, it was impossible to identify any of them, as they were burned almost to ashes."

"Then your supposition is probably correct, my poor Louis, as my uncle and his daughter are almost certain to have been in the same carriage as your father, and even in the same compartment. In that case, there can be little doubt that they met with the same fate. I shall write to Dreux at once, and I shall also have a careful search for their remains instituted without delay. If you hear anything more, inform me as soon as possible. But now I think of it, how about Mariette? The sad announcement you have just made to me almost made me forget the object of my visit."

"It was a cruel misunderstanding that caused all the trouble, as I suspected, Florestan. I found her more loving and devoted than ever."

"Her love will be a great consolation to you in your deep sorrow. Courage, my poor Louis, courage! All that has occurred should only serve to strengthen the bonds of friendship between us."

"Ah, Florestan, but for this friendship and Mariette's affection, I do not know how I could endure this crushing blow. Farewell, my friend. Keep me advised of the progress of your search for your uncle, I beg of you."

The two friends separated. Left alone, Louis reflected some time in regard to the course he should pursue. Finally he placed in his satchel the hidden gold he had just discovered, then, taking his father's letter, he repaired to the house of his employer, who was also the business agent and friend of his deceased parent, as he had just learned from the letter found with the gold.

The notary, deeply affected by the harrowing details of his late patron's terrible fate, tried to console Louis, and also offered to attend to the necessary legal formalities.

This arrangement made, Louis said:

"There is another question I should like to ask. As soon as these formalities have been complied with, do I come into possession of my father's property?"

"Certainly, my dear Louis."

"Then I will tell you what I intend to do. I have brought you gold coin to the amount of more than two hundred thousand francs. I found it in a chest in the room I occupied with my father. Out of this amount, I wish you to take enough to purchase an annuity of twelve thousand francs for the godmother of a young girl that I am about to marry."

"But does this young girl's financial condition—"

"My dear patron," interrupted Louis, respectfully but firmly, "the young girl I speak of is a working girl, and supports herself and her godmother by her daily toil. I have loved her a long time, and no human power can prevent me from marrying her."

"So be it," replied the notary, understanding the uselessness of any further protest. "I will settle the desired amount upon the person designated."

"I also desire to take from this sum of money about fifteen thousand francs to set up housekeeping in a suitable manner."

"Only fifteen thousand francs!" exclaimed the notary, surprised at the modesty of this request. "Will that be enough?"

"My affianced wife is, like myself, accustomed to a frugal and laborious life, so the income from fifteen thousand francs, together with the proceeds of our labour, will more than suffice."

"The proceeds of your labour! What! do you intend—"

"To remain in your office if you do not consider me unworthy of your confidence."

"Remain a notary's clerk when you have an income of more than two hundred thousand francs a year?"

"I cannot and will not take possession of this immense fortune for a long time to come. Even when the death of my father has been legally established, I shall still feel a vague hope of again seeing the parent I so deeply mourn."

"Alas! I fear there is little hope of that, my poor Louis."

"Still, I shall cherish the hope as long as possible; and so long as I do, I shall not consider myself at liberty to dispose of my father's property,—at least only to the extent I have indicated to you. Will you not, therefore, continue to take charge of the estate exactly as you have done in the past?"

"I cannot but admire the course you have decided upon, my dear Louis," replied the notary, with unfeigned emotion. "Your conduct now conforms in every respect with that you have always maintained. You could not do greater honour to your father's memory than by acting thus. It shall be as you wish. I will remain the custodian of your fortune, and the annuity you spoke of shall be purchased this very day."

"There is a detail in relation to that matter, about which I should like to speak, trivial and almost absurd as it may appear to you."

"What do you mean?"

"The poor woman upon whom I desire to settle this annuity has seen so much trouble during her long life that her character has become embittered, and she feels no confidence in any one. Any promise would seem utterly valueless to her, if the promise was not based upon something tangible; so to convince the poor creature, I want to take her fifteen thousand francs in gold, which will represent very nearly the amount that will have to be expended for the annuity. It is the only way to thoroughly convince the poor creature of my good intentions."

"Take any amount you please, of course, my dear Louis. The matter shall be arranged to-morrow."

CHAPTER XV.
MADAME LACOMBE'S UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER.

On leaving the notary's office, Louis hastened to Mariette's home. He found the young girl sewing by the bedside of her godmother, who seemed to be sound asleep.

Her lover's extreme pallor, as well as the sad expression of his face, struck the young girl at once, and running toward him, she exclaimed, anxiously:

"Oh, Louis, something terrible must have happened, I am sure."

"Yes, Mariette. Have you heard of the frightful accident that occurred on the Versailles railroad yesterday?"

"Yes, it was horrible. People say there were nobody knows how many victims."

"I can hardly doubt that my father was one of the number."

Quick as thought, Mariette threw herself, sobbing, on Louis's breast, and for a long time the two stood clasped in a silent embrace. Louis was the first to speak.

"Mariette, you know how devotedly I loved my father, so you can judge of my despair," he said, sadly.

"It is a terrible blow to you, I know, Louis."

"The only consolation I have is your love, Mariette, and I am about to ask a fresh proof of this love."

"You have but to speak, Louis."

"I want you to marry me at once."

"Can you doubt my consent? Is this the proof of love that you asked?" inquired the young girl.

Then, after a moment's reflection, she added:

"But can we marry before your period of mourning, that only begins to-day, expires?"

"I entreat you, Mariette, not to be deterred by that scruple, decent as it appears."

"I—I will do whatever you wish."

"Listen, Mariette, my heart will be torn with regrets for a long, long time. True mourning is of the soul, and, with me, it will long exceed the period fixed by custom. I know that I honour my father's memory in every fibre of my being, and it is for this very reason that I do not feel it necessary to conform to any purely conventional custom. Believe me, a marriage contracted at so sad a time as this is of a much more solemn and sacred nature than if we married under different circumstances."

"You are right, perhaps, Louis; nevertheless, custom—"

"Because you will be my wife, Mariette,—because you will mourn for my father with me,—because you will share my grief, will he be less deeply regretted? Besides, Mariette, crushed with grief, as I am, I could not live on alone, separated from you,—all I have left in the world now. It would kill me."

"I am only a poor seamstress who knows little or nothing of the laws of society, so I can only tell you how I feel about this matter, Louis. Though a moment ago the idea of marrying you at once seemed almost a breach of propriety, the reasons you give have made me change my mind. Possibly I am wrong; possibly it is the desire to please you that influences me, but now I should not feel the slightest remorse if I married you at once, and yet it seems to me that I am as susceptible as any one I know."

"Yes, and more ungrateful than any one I know," exclaimed Madame Lacombe, tartly, raising herself up in bed.

Then, seeing the surprise depicted on the features of her goddaughter and Louis, she added, in sneering tones:

"Yes, you thought the old woman asleep, and so took advantage of the opportunity to decide all about the wedding, but I heard everything you said, everything—"

"There was nothing said that we were unwilling for you to hear, madame," replied Louis, gravely. "Mariette and I have no desire to retract a single word we have uttered."

"I am certain of that, for you two think only of yourselves. You seem to have no other idea in your head except this detestable marriage. As for me, one might suppose I was already in my coffin. I tell you once for all that—"

"Permit me to interrupt you, madame," said Louis, "and to prove to you that I have not forgotten my promise."

As he spoke, he took a small box which he had deposited upon the table at his entrance, and placed it on Madame Lacombe's bed, saying, as he handed her a key:

"Will you be kind enough to open this box, madame? The contents belong to you."

Madame Lacombe took the key with a suspicious air, opened the box, looked in, and exclaimed, like one both dazzled and stupefied:

"Good God! Good God!"

Recovering from her bewilderment at last, the sick woman emptied the contents of the box out upon the bed; but it seemed as if she could not believe her eyes when she saw the big pile of glittering gold coins before her.

"Oh, what a pile of gold! What a pile of gold!" she exclaimed, ecstatically. "And it is real gold—not a counterfeit piece among it. Great Heavens! What big, handsome coins they are! They must be one hundred sou pieces at least. What an immense amount of money this must be! Enough to make two poor women like Mariette and me comfortable for life," she added, with a sigh.

"You have about fifteen thousand francs there, madame," replied Louis. "They are yours."

"Mine?" cried the sick woman, "mine?"

Then, shaking her head with an incredulous air, she said, sharply, "Why do you want to mock an old woman? How can this gold belong to me?"

"Because this gold is to purchase you an annuity of twelve hundred francs, so that, after Mariette's marriage, you can live alone or remain with your goddaughter as you prefer, for to-morrow our marriage contract will be signed, and, at the same time, you will receive papers assuring you a yearly income of twelve hundred francs in exchange for this gold. I brought the money here to convince you of the sincerity of my promises. Now, madame, as you overheard our conversation, you know my reasons for entreating Mariette to hasten our marriage. You are comfortably provided for now. If there is any other obstacle to my union with Mariette, tell us, I beseech you, madame. Anything that either she or I can do to satisfy you, we will do. Our happiness will not be complete if you, too, are not content."

The words were uttered in a kind, almost affectionate tone, but Mother Lacombe's only reply was a heavy sigh, as she turned her back upon the speaker.

Louis and Mariette gazed at each other in silent astonishment for a moment; then the girl, kneeling by the invalid's bedside, asked, tenderly:

"What is the matter, godmother?"

Receiving no reply, Mariette leaned over the old woman, and, seeing tears trickling through her wasted fingers, exclaimed:

"Good Heavens, Louis, my godmother is weeping. This is the first time in ten years!"

"What is the matter, madame? Tell us, in Heaven's name."

"I appear like a beggar. I seem to be thinking only of money, and I am ashamed of it," responded the poor creature, sobbing bitterly. "Yes, you think I care only for money; you think I am selling Mariette to you exactly as I would have sold her to that villain, if I had been a bad woman."

"Do not say that, godmother," exclaimed Mariette, embracing the invalid tenderly. "Can you suppose for one moment that Louis and I had any intention of humiliating you by bringing you this money? Louis has done what you asked, that is all."

"I know that, but it was the fear of dying in the street, and of seeing you after marriage far more miserable than you are now, that made me ask for this money. I knew very well that I had no right to any money, but think what it must be to be afraid of being turned into the street when one is old and infirm. I asked for entirely too much, and I did very wrong. What do I really need? Only a mattress in some corner, and a morsel to eat now and then, and, above all, that Mariette will not desert me. I am so used to seeing her around. If she left me I should feel as lonely as if I were in the grave. Besides, there is nobody else in the world who would be so kind and so patient with a cross old sick woman like me. All I ask is to stay with Mariette. To have all this gold thrown in my face, as it were, humiliates me. One may be a mere worm, and yet have a little pride left. When that scoundrel came and offered me gold if I would sell Mariette to him, it made me mad, that is all; but this time it is very different, it makes me weep,—a thing I haven't done before for ten years, as you said yourself, child. This cuts me to the heart."

"Come, come, my dear Madame Lacombe, you need not give yourself the slightest uneasiness with regard to the future," said Louis, deeply touched. "Mariette will not leave you; we will all live, not luxuriously, but very comfortably together."

"Are you in earnest? Will you let me live with you, really and truly?"

At this fresh proof of the unfortunate woman's unconquerable distrust, Louis and Mariette again exchanged compassionate glances, and taking her godmother's hand, the girl said, tenderly:

"Yes, godmother, yes; we will keep you with us, and care for you as if you were our own mother. You shall see if we do not make you very, very happy."

"It will be no fault of ours if we do not, you may be sure of that," added Louis, earnestly.

The tone and expression of the two young people would have convinced the most skeptical, but it was so hard for this unfortunate woman to believe that such happiness could ever be hers, that, though she tried to conceal her doubts for fear of wounding Mariette and her lover, it was with an involuntary sigh that she replied:

"I believe you, children. Yes, I believe that M. Louis has money, and I believe you both mean well toward me, but after awhile I am afraid you'll find me very much in the way. Newly married people like to be alone, and—"

"What, godmother, you still doubt us, after all we have said?"

"Forgive me, children, I don't mean to," sobbed the poor woman; then, with a heart-broken smile, she added: "Perhaps it is all the better for me that I do doubt, for if, after fifty years of trouble and poverty, I should really come to believe that there was such a thing as happiness for me, I might go mad."

Then, in accents of inexpressible bitterness, she added:

"It wouldn't surprise me if I did. It would be just my luck."

CHAPTER XVI.
A CAPRICIOUS BEAUTY.

Five years have elapsed since the events we have just related, and on the evening of the 12th of May, 18—the anniversary of the terrible catastrophe on the Versailles railroad, the following scene was taking place.

It was half-past nine in the evening, and a young woman about twenty-five years of age, a decided brunette, with a perfect figure, and a remarkably spirituelle and high-bred face, was just completing a superb evening toilet with the assistance of two maids, one of whom had just clasped a necklace of diamonds as big as hazelnuts around the neck of her beautiful mistress, while another adjusted a magnificent diadem of the same costly gems upon the lady's beautiful black hair. The low corsage, too, of pale green satin, trimmed with superb lace and bows of pale pink satin ribbon, also glittered with precious stones.

The selection of diamonds as ornaments seemed to have been the result of careful reflection, for on a table close by were several cases containing complete and no less costly garnitures. Two of them, one composed of enormous rubies, the other of magnificent pearls of extraordinary size and lustre, would have excited the admiration of any jeweller.

One of the attendants, who was much older than her companion, seemed—thanks, probably, to her long service—to be on quite familiar terms with her mistress, who, like herself was a Russian, and the other maid, a young Frenchwoman, not understanding the Russian language, consequently heard without understanding the following conversation between the Comtesse Zomaloff and her trusted maid, Mlle. Katinka:

"Does madame like the way in which I have adjusted her diadem?"

"Very well," replied the countess.

And with a final glance in the glass, she added, as she rose:

"Where is my bouquet?"

"Here, madame."

"What, that horrid withered thing!" cried Madame Zomaloff.

"It is the one M. le duc sent for madame la comtesse."

"I recognise his taste," said Madame Zomaloff, shrugging her shoulders. Then she added, with a mocking air, "It is one he picked up at a bargain, I'll be bound. Some lover who quarrelled with his sweetheart yesterday morning failed to send last evening for the bouquet he had ordered. It takes M. de Riancourt to discover such bargains."

"Ah, madame cannot suppose M. le duc is as stingy as all that. He is so rich."

"All the more reason that he should be."

Some one rapped at the door of the chamber adjoining the dressing-room, and the French maid who went to answer the summons returned in a moment to say:

"M. le Duc de Riancourt has come, and is awaiting madame's pleasure."

"Let him wait," replied Madame Zomaloff. "The princess is in the drawing-room, I suppose."

"Yes, madame la comtesse."

"Very well. Here, Katinka, fasten this bracelet," continued the young woman, holding out her beautiful arm. "What time is it?"

But as Katinka was about to reply, Madame Zomaloff added, with a mocking smile:

"After all, what is the use of asking that question? The duke has just arrived, consequently it must be exactly half after nine."

The clock on the mantel interrupted the countess by striking the half-hour designated, and the lady laughed heartily as she exclaimed:

"What did I tell you, Katinka? M. de Riancourt is as punctual as the clock itself."

"That only proves his ardour and his love."

"I should prefer a less well-regulated emotion, I think. Persons who adore you at a stated time always seem to me to have a watch in place of a heart. Hand me a smelling-bottle,—no, not that one. Yes, this one will do. I am almost sorry that I am dressed, so I cannot keep the poor duke waiting longer to punish him for his tiresome punctuality."

"Why, madame, how unjust you are to him! Why do you marry him if you feel this way toward him?"

"Why do I marry M. de Riancourt?" the countess replied, as she took one more look in the mirror. "You have more curiosity than I have, Katinka. Does any woman ever know why she marries a second time?"

"The reason seems apparent to every one. The duke, though he has no gold mines in the Crimea, and no silver mines in the Ural Mountains—"

"Spare me this tiresome enumeration of my worldly possessions, Katinka."

"Well, madame, though M. le duc cannot boast of such immense possessions as you have, he is one of the wealthiest and most powerful noblemen in France. He is young and good-looking; he has not led a life of dissipation like so many other young men; on the contrary, he is very devout, and—"

"Oh, yes, he is a paragon of virtue, of course. Bring me a heavy wrap; the nights are still cool."

"Has madame any orders to give for the twentieth?"

"Orders?"

"Is it possible that madame forgets her marriage is to take place one week from to-morrow?"

"What! as soon as that?"

"Certainly, madame. You decided on the twentieth of May, and this is the twelfth."

"If I said the twentieth, it will have to be the twentieth. But how strange it is. One is leading a delightful life; one is young and free, and one hates restraint, and yet one cannot give oneself another master too soon."

"A master? A man as kind and gentle as M. le duc? Why, you can make whatever you please of him, madame!"

"I shall never make a charming man of him, and yet I shall marry him. Ah, aunt, aunt, you are responsible for all this. There is one good thing about it, though. One will at least escape the bother of having to ask oneself what one had better do."

The countess proceeded in a leisurely fashion to the drawing-room, where she found her aunt and the Duc de Riancourt awaiting her.

The Princesse Wileska, Madame Zomaloff's aunt, was a tall, distinguished-looking woman, with gray hair which she wore slightly powdered. The Duc de Riancourt was a small man, about thirty years of age, with a thin, rather crooked neck, long, straight hair parted in the middle, a somewhat sanctimonious air, and eyes set rather obliquely, while his slow, precise movements indicated a remarkable amount of self-control.

When Madame Zomaloff entered the room, he advanced to meet her, bowed profoundly, and raised nearly to his lips the pretty hand the countess carelessly offered him, then, straightening himself up, he gazed at her a moment as if dazzled, exclaiming:

"Ah, madame la comtesse, I never saw you arrayed in all your diamonds before! I do not believe there are any other diamonds like them in the world. How beautiful they are! Good Heavens! how beautiful they are!"

"Really, my dear duke, you quite overpower me by your admiration—for my diamonds; and as my necklace and diadem arouse such tender emotion in your breast and inspire you with such graceful compliments, I will tell you, in strict confidence, the name of my jeweller. It is Ezekiel Rabotautencraff, of Frankfort."

While M. de Riancourt was trying to find some suitable response to Madame Zomaloff's raillery, the aunt of that young lady gave the duke a reproachful look, remarking, with a forced smile:

"See how this mischievous Fedora delights in teasing you. It is a very common way of concealing the affection one feels for people, I believe."

"I humbly admit, my dear princess, that, dazzled by these magnificent jewels, I failed to render due homage to their wearer," said M. de Riancourt, in the hope of repairing his blunder. "But—but may not a person be so dazzled by the sun as to be unable to see even the most beautiful of flowers?"

"I am so impressed by this comparison of yours that I am almost tempted to believe that the same glaring sunshine you speak of must have withered these poor blossoms," retorted the mischievous young woman with a gay laugh, holding up for the duke's inspection the rather faded bouquet he had sent her.

That gentleman blushed up to his very ears; the princess frowned with an impatient air, while the countess, perfectly indifferent to these signs of disapproval, coolly remarked, as she walked toward the door:

"Give your arm to my aunt, M. de Riancourt. I promised my friend, the wife of the Russian ambassador, that I would be at her house very early, as she wishes to present me to one of her relatives, and you know we have first to inspect that wonderful mansion—that enchanted palace everybody is talking about."

After waiting a few seconds in the vestibule, the countess and her aunt saw a clumsy landau, drawn by two emaciated horses, lumber up to the door, and the young widow, turning to the duke in evident surprise, said:

"Why, this is not your carriage! What has become of that dark blue berlin drawn by two handsome gray horses that you placed at our disposal yesterday morning?"

"Under the circumstances I feel no hesitation about confessing a little detail of domestic economy to you, my dear countess," replied the duke, with touching naïveté. "To save my grays, for which I was obliged to pay a good round sum, I assure you, I always hire a carriage in the evening. It is very much more economical than to risk one's own turnout at night."

"And you are perfectly right, my dear duke," the princess hastened to say, fearing another shaft of ridicule from her niece. M. de Riancourt's footman was in attendance. He opened the door of the antiquated vehicle. The princess, assisted by the duke, quickly entered it, but as that gentleman offered his hand to the young widow for the same purpose, the petulant beauty paused with the tip of her white satin slipper lightly poised on the carriage step, and said, with an air of the deepest apprehension:

"Do examine every nook and corner of the carriage carefully, aunt, I beseech you, before I get in."

"But why, my dear?" inquired the princess, naïvely. "What is the necessity of this precaution?"

"I am afraid some red-headed girl or some stout shopkeeper may have been left in a corner, as it is in vehicles of this description that worthy shopkeepers drive about all day with their families when they treat themselves to an outing."

Laughing heartily, the young widow sprang into the carriage. As she seated herself, the princess said to her, in a low tone, but with a deeply pained air:

"Really, Fedora, I do not understand you. You are strangely sarcastic toward M. de Riancourt. What can be your object?"

"I want to cure him of his shameful stinginess. How could I better manifest my interest in him?"

Just then the duke took the seat opposite them. He seemed to endure with Christian meekness the ridicule of this young woman who possessed such magnificent diamonds, as well as all sorts of gold and silver mines; but the furtive glance he bestowed on her now and then, and a certain contraction of his thin lips, indicated that a sullen rage was rankling in his heart.

The footman having asked for orders, M. de Riancourt replied:

"To the Hôtel Saint-Ramon."

"Pardon me, M. le duc," answered the footman, "but I don't know where the Hôtel Saint-Ramon is."

"At the end of the Cours la Reine," responded M. de Riancourt.

"Does M. le duc mean that large house on which they have been working several years?"

"Yes."

The footman closed the door, and repeated the instructions to the coachman who applied the whip vigorously to his bony steeds, and the landau started in the direction of the Cours la Reine.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE HOTEL SAINT-RAMON.

M. de Riancourt's clumsy equipage moved so slowly that when it reached the entrance to the Cours la Reine a pedestrian, who was proceeding in the same direction, kept pace with it without the slightest difficulty.

This pedestrian, who was very poorly dressed, did not seem to be very active, for he leaned heavily on his cane. His long beard, his hair, and his bushy eyebrows were as white as snow, while the swarthy hue of his wrinkled face gave him the appearance of an aged mulatto. When M. de Riancourt's carriage had advanced about half way up the Cours la Reine, its progress was still further impeded by a long line of vehicles, which were evidently also on the way to the Hôtel Saint-Ramon; so the old man passed the landau, and walked on until he came to an avenue glittering with gaily coloured lamps, and filled from end to end with a long procession of carriages.

Though the old man seemed deeply absorbed in thought, his attention was naturally attracted to the large crowd that had assembled near the handsome gateway that served as an entrance to this brilliantly lighted avenue, so he paused, and, addressing one of the bystanders, inquired:

"Can you tell me what all these people are looking at?"

"They are looking at the guests who are going to the opening of the famous Saint-Ramon mansion."

"Saint-Ramon?" murmured the old man, with evident surprise. "How strange!"

Then he added aloud:

"What is this Hôtel Saint-Ramon, monsieur?"

"The eighth wonder of the world, people say. It has taken five years to build it, and the owner gives a house-warming to-night."

"To whom does this house belong, monsieur?"

"To a young man worth several millions."

"And what is his name?"

"Saint-Harem, or Saint-Herem, I believe."

"I thought as much," the old man said to himself. "But, in that case, why do they call it the Saint-Ramon mansion?" Then, turning to the same bystander again, he asked aloud: "Will you be kind enough to tell me what time it is?"

"Half-past ten, exactly."

"Thank you, monsieur," responded the old man, getting a little nearer to the gate. "Half-past ten," he said to himself. "I need not be at Chaillot until midnight, so I have plenty of time to solve this mystery."

After a moment's hesitation, the old man passed through the gateway, and proceeded up a walk shaded with magnificent elms, to a brilliantly lighted half-circle in front of the house itself, which was a veritable palace,—a superb example of the palmiest days of Renaissance architecture.

Crossing the half-circle, the old man found himself at the foot of the imposing perron leading to the peristyle. Through the glass doors that enclosed the entire front of this peristyle, he saw a long row of tall, powdered footmen clad in gorgeous liveries, but all the while the carriages that drew up at the foot of the perron were depositing men, women, and young girls, whose plain attire contrasted strangely with the splendour of this fairy palace.

The old man, to whom allusion has already been made, urged on, apparently, by an almost irresistible curiosity, followed several of these newcomers up under the peristyle, where two tall Swiss, halberds in hand, opened the broad portals of the large glass double door to all, making their halberds ring noisily on the marble floor as each guest entered. Still mingling with a party of invited guests, the old man passed through a double row of footmen in bright blue livery, profusely trimmed with silver, into a large reception-room, where numerous valets, clad in bright blue jackets, black satin knee breeches, and white silk stockings, were in attendance, all manifesting the utmost deference to these guests whose unpretending appearance seemed so out of harmony with the princely luxury of the abode. The guests passed from this room into a large music-room, fitted up for concerts, and from that into an immense circular hall surmounted by a dome. This hall served as a nucleus for three other large apartments,—or rather four in all, including the music-room,—one intended for a ballroom, another for a banquet-hall and the other for a cardroom.

It is impossible to describe the splendour, elegance, and sumptuous furnishings of these large, brilliantly lighted apartments, whose lavish adornments in the shape of paintings, statuary, and flowers were multiplied again and again in the enormous mirrors that lined the walls. The most illustrious artists of the time had assisted in this work of ornamentation. Masterpieces by Ingres and Delacroix hung side by side with those of Scheffer and Paul Delaroche; while the future fame of Couture and Gérôme had evidently been divined by the wealthy and discerning builder of this palace. Among the most magnificent works of art, we must not forget to mention an immense sideboard in the banquet-hall, loaded with superb silver, worthy of the master hand of Benvenuto Cellini, and consisting of candelabra, pitchers, epergnes, and fruit-dishes, each and every one entitled to an honoured place in a museum, by reason of its rare beauty of form and exquisite ornamentation.

One word more in relation to a peculiar feature of the spacious rotunda. Directly over a gigantic white marble mantel, a monument to the genius of David of Angers, the French Michael Angelo, with allegorical figures in alto-relievo, representing the Arts and Sciences at the base, was a portrait that might with reason have been attributed to Velasquez. It represented a pale, austere-looking man with strongly marked features, hollow cheeks, and sunken eyes. A brown robe similar to those worn by monks imparted to this person the impressive character of those portraits of saints or martyrs so frequently encountered in the Spanish school of art,—a resemblance that was heightened by a sort of halo which shone out brightly against the dark background of the picture, and seemed to cast a reflected radiance upon the austere and thoughtful countenance. On the frame below, in German text, were the words:

SAINT-RAMON.

The aged stranger, who had continued to advance with the crowd, at last found himself opposite this fireplace, but, on seeing the portrait, he paused as if overwhelmed with astonishment. His emotion was so great that tears rose to his eyes, and he murmured, almost unconsciously:

"My poor friend, it is indeed he! But why has the word 'saint' been added to his name? Why has this aureole been placed around his head? And this strange entertainment, how is it that a person as poorly clad as I am, and a stranger to the master of the house, besides, should be allowed to enter here unhindered?"

Just then a servant, carrying a large waiter loaded with ices, cake, and similar dainties, paused in front of the old man, and offered him refreshments. This offer was declined, however, by the stranger, who was striving, though in vain, to determine the social status of those around him. The men, who were for the most part plainly but neatly dressed, some in coats and others in new blouses, while they seemed delighted to participate in the fête, appeared perfectly at ease, or, in other words, perfectly at home, and not in the least astonished at the wonders of this palatial abode; while the women and the young girls, many of whom, by the way, were extremely pretty, were evidently much more deeply impressed by the splendour around them. The young girls, particularly, who were nearly all attired in inexpensive, though perfectly fresh, white dresses, exchanged many admiring comments in low tones.

The venerable stranger, more and more anxious to solve this mystery, at last approached a group composed of several men and women who had paused in front of the fireplace to gaze at the portrait of Saint-Ramon.

"You see that picture, Juliette," he heard a sturdy, pleasant-faced young man say to his wife. "It is only right to call that worthy man Saint-Ramon. There is many a saint in paradise who is not to be compared with him, judging from the good he has done."

"How is that, Michel?"

"Why, thanks to this worthy saint, I, like most of my fellow workmen here, have had lucrative employment for the last five years, and we all owe this good fortune to the original of this portrait, M. Saint-Ramon. Thanks to him, I have not been out of work for a single day, and my wages have not only been liberal enough to support us comfortably, but also to enable us to lay aside a snug little sum for a rainy day."

"But it was not this worthy man whose portrait we see here that ordered and paid for all this work. It was M. de Saint-Herem, who is always so pleasant and kind, and who said so many nice things to us just now when we came in."

"Of course, my dear Juliette, it was M. de Saint-Herem who employed us, but, as he always said to us when he came to see how we were getting on: 'Ah, boys, if it were not for the wealth I inherited from another person, I could not give you employment or pay you as such industrious and capable workmen ought to be paid, so always hold in grateful remembrance the memory of the person who left me all this money. He accumulated it, penny by penny, by depriving himself of every comfort, while I have the pleasure of spending his wealth. In fact, it is my bounden duty to spend it. What is the good of money, if it is not to be spent? So hold in grateful remembrance, I say, the memory of yonder good old miser. Bless his avarice, for it gives me the pleasure of accomplishing wonderful things, and you, liberal wages, richly earned.'"

"Still, while we are, of course, under great obligations to this worthy miser, we ought to be equally grateful to M. de Saint-Herem, it seems to me. So many wealthy people spend little or nothing; or, if they do employ us, haggle about the price of our work, or keep us waiting a long time for our money."

The venerable stranger listened to this conversation with quite as much interest as astonishment. He also lent an attentive ear to other conversations that were going on around him, and everywhere he heard a chorus of praises and benedictions lavished upon Saint-Ramon, while M. de Saint-Herem's nobility of soul and liberality were lauded to the skies.

"Is all this a dream?" the old man said to himself. "Who would ever believe that these eulogiums and protestations of respect were addressed to the memory of a miser,—of a person belonging to a class of people that is almost universally despised and vilified? And it is the spendthrift heir of this miser who thus eulogises him! But what strange whim led him to invite all his workmen to his entertainment?"

The astonishment of the old man increased as he began to note a strange contrast that was becoming apparent between the guests, for quite a number of correctly dressed and extremely distinguished-looking men—many with decorations in their buttonholes—were now moving about the spacious rooms with exquisitely dressed ladies on their arms.

Florestan de Saint-Herem, handsomer, gayer, and more brilliant than ever, seemed to be entirely in his element in this atmosphere of luxury and splendour. He did the honours of his palace delightfully, receiving every guest with wonderful grace and perfect courtesy. He had stationed himself near the door of the large circular hall into which the reception-room opened, and no woman or young girl entered to whom he did not address a few of those cordial and affable words which, when they are sincere, never fail to charm even the most timid, and make them perfectly at ease.

Florestan was thus engaged when he saw the Comtesse Zomaloff, accompanied by the Princesse Wileska and the Duc de Riancourt, enter the hall.

CHAPTER XVIII.
A NOVEL ENTERTAINMENT.

Saint-Herem had never seen the Comtesse Zomaloff and her aunt before, but he had known M. de Riancourt a long time, so on seeing him enter, accompanied by two ladies, Florestan stepped quickly forward to meet him.

"My dear Saint-Herem," said the duke, "permit me to introduce to you Madame la Princesse Wileska and Madame la Comtesse Zomaloff. These ladies hope they have not been indiscreet in accompanying me here this evening to see your new house and its wonders."

"I am delighted to have the honour of receiving the ladies, and shall be only too glad to show them what you are pleased to call the wonders of my house."

"And M. de Riancourt is right, for, on entering here, I must confess that it is difficult to decide what one should admire most, everything is so beautiful," remarked the countess.

"I also feel it my duty to tell you, my dear Saint-Herem, that Madame Zomaloff's visit is not altogether one of curiosity," remarked the duke, "for I have told the countess of your intentions in regard to the house, and as I shall be so fortunate as to have the honour of bestowing my name on the countess a week from now, you understand, of course, that I can come to no decision in this matter without consulting her."

"Really, madame, as M. de Riancourt thus gives himself all the airs of a married man in advance, don't you think it only fair that he should submit to the consequences of his revelation?" exclaimed Florestan, gaily, turning to Madame Zomaloff. "So, as a husband never gives his arm to his wife, will you not do me the honour to accept mine?"

In this way Florestan escaped the necessity of offering his arm to the princess, who seemed likely to prove a much less agreeable companion than her young and pretty niece, who graciously accepted her host's proffered arm, while M. de Riancourt, as in duty bound, offered his arm to the princess.

"I have travelled a great deal, monsieur," said Madame Zomaloff, "but I have never seen anything to compare, not with the magnificence, for any millionaire could compass that,—but with the exquisite taste which has presided over every detail in the construction of this mansion. It is really a superb museum. You will pardon me, I trust, but I really cannot refrain from expressing the admiration the superb decoration of this ceiling excites."

"The artist's reward should follow admiration for his work, do you not think so, madame?" inquired Florestan, smiling. "So it depends upon you to make the artist who painted that ceiling both proud and happy."

And as he spoke Saint-Herem pointed out to Madame Zomaloff one of the most illustrious masters of the modern school of art.

"I thank you a thousand times, monsieur, for this piece of good fortune!" exclaimed the young woman, advancing with Florestan toward the artist.

"My friend," Saint-Herem said to him, "Madame la Comtesse Zomaloff wishes to express to you her intense admiration for your work."

"Not only my admiration, but my gratitude as well," added the lady, graciously. "The profound pleasure the sight of such a chef-d'œuvre excites certainly places the beholder under a deep obligation to the creator of it."

"However pleasing and flattering such praise may be to me, I can take only a part of it to myself," replied the illustrious painter, with great modesty and good taste. "But leaving my own works out of the question entirely, so I may be able to express myself more freely, let me advise you to notice particularly the decorations of the ceiling of the music-room. They are the work of M. Ingres, our Raphael, and will furnish pilgrims of art in days to come with as many objects of adoration as the finest frescoes of Rome, Pisa, or Florence, yet this chef-d'œuvre would not be in existence but for my friend Saint-Herem. Really, madame, in this extravagant but essentially materialistic age, is it not a delightful phenomenon to meet a Medici, as in the palmy days of the Italian republics?"

"That is true, monsieur," replied the countess, quickly, "and history has been only just in—"

"Pardon me for interrupting you, madame la comtesse," said Saint-Herem, smiling, "but I am no less modest than my famous friend here, so for fear that your enthusiasm may lead you astray, I must point out the real Medici to you. There he is," added Florestan, pointing to the portrait of Saint-Ramon, as he spoke.

"What an austere face!" exclaimed the countess, scrutinising the portrait with mingled surprise and curiosity; then seeing the name inscribed upon the frame, she asked, turning to Florestan in evident astonishment, "Saint-Ramon? What saint is that?"

"A saint of my own making, madame. He was my uncle, and, though I am not a pope, I have ventured to canonise this admirable man as a reward for his long martyrdom and for the miracles he has wrought since his death."

"His long martyrdom! The miracles he wrought after his death!" Madame Zomaloff repeated, wonderingly. "You are jesting, monsieur, are you not?"

"Far from it, madame. My uncle imposed the severest privations upon himself during his life, for he was a confirmed miser. That was his martyrdom. I inherited his wealth; so the artistic achievements you so much admire really owe their origin indirectly to him. These are the miracles to which I alluded."

Madame Zomaloff, more and more impressed by Saint-Herem's originality, was silent for a moment, but M. de Riancourt, who had been standing a little distance off, now approached Florestan, and said:

"There is a question I have been wanting to ask you ever since our arrival, my dear Saint-Herem. Who are these people? I have recognised three or four great painters and a celebrated architect among them, but who are the others? The princess and I have been trying in vain to solve the mystery."

"As M. Riancourt has ventured to ask this rather indiscreet question, I must confess that I share his curiosity, monsieur," added Madame Zomaloff.

"You have doubtless noticed, madame, that most of the persons I have taken such pleasure in welcoming this evening do not belong to the fashionable world."

"That is true."

"Still, you were much pleased just now, were you not, madame, to meet the great artist whose work you so greatly admired?"

"Yes, monsieur; I told you how much pleasure the opportunity to meet him afforded me."

"You must consequently approve, I think, of my having extended an invitation to him as well as to a number of his colleagues."

"It seems to me that such an invitation was almost obligatory upon you, monsieur."

"Ah, well, madame, I feel that it was likewise obligatory upon me to extend the same invitation to all who had assisted in any way in the construction of this house, from the famous artists to the humblest mechanic, so they are all here with their families enjoying the beauties they have created, as they, in my opinion, at least, have an undoubted right to do."

"What!" exclaimed M. de Riancourt, "do you mean to say that you have the carvers, and gilders, and locksmiths, and carpenters, and paper-hangers, and even the masons, here? Why, this passes my comprehension."

"Do you know anything about the habits of bees, my dear duke?"

"Not much, I must admit."

"You might consider their habits exceedingly reprehensible, my dear duke, inasmuch as the insolent creatures insist upon occupying the cells they themselves have constructed; and, what is worse, they even assert their claim to the delicious honey they have accumulated with so much skill and labour for their winter's need."

"And what conclusion do you draw from all this?"

"That we drones should give the poor and industrious human bees the innocent satisfaction of enjoying, at least for a day, the gilded cells they have constructed for us,—for us who subsist upon the honey gathered by others."

Madame Zomaloff had dropped Florestan's arm a few moments before. She now took it again, and walking on a few steps, so as to leave her aunt and the duke a little way behind her, she said to Saint-Herem, with deep earnestness:

"Your idea is charming, monsieur, and I do not wonder at the expression of contentment I notice on the faces of your guests. Yes, the more I think of it, the more just and generous the idea seems to me. After all, as you say, this superb mansion represents the combined labour of artisans of every degree, high and low; hence, in your eyes, this house must be much more than a marvel of good taste and luxury, as the associations connected with its construction will always be unspeakably precious to you. That being the case—"

"Go on, madame."

"I cannot understand how—"

"You hesitate, madame. Speak, I beg of you."

"M. de Riancourt has informed you of our intended marriage, monsieur," said Madame Zomaloff, with some embarrassment, after a moment's silence. "A couple of days ago, while talking with him about the difficulty of securing as large and handsomely appointed house as I desired, M. de Riancourt happened to remember that some one had told him that you might be willing to dispose of the house you had just completed."

"Yes, madame, M. de Riancourt wrote, asking to be allowed to go through the house, and I advised him to wait until this evening, as I intended to give an entertainment, and he would consequently be much better able to judge of the arrangement and appearance of the reception-rooms, but I did not expect to have the honour of receiving you, madame."

"I have ventured to ask you several questions already, monsieur," remarked the young woman, with marked hesitation, "and I am going to hazard one more. How, monsieur, can you have the courage or the ingratitude to think of abandoning this home which you have created with so much interest and love, this home with which so many kind and generous memories are already associated?"

"Good Heavens! madame," replied Saint-Herem, with the most cheerful air imaginable, "I am going to sell the house because I am ruined, utterly ruined! This is my last day as a man of wealth, and you must admit, madame, that, thanks to your presence here, the day could not have a happier or more brilliant ending."

CHAPTER XIX.
A CHANGE OF OWNERS.

Florestan de Saint-herem had uttered the words, "I am ruined, utterly ruined," with such unruffled good-humour and cheerfulness that Madame Zomaloff stared at him in amazement, unable to believe her ears; so after a moment, she exclaimed:

"What, monsieur, you are—"

"Ruined, madame, utterly ruined. Five years ago my sainted uncle left me a fortune of nearly or quite five millions. I have spent that and nearly eighteen hundred thousand francs more, but the sale of this house and its contents will pay what I owe and leave me about one hundred thousand francs, upon which I can live in comfort in some quiet retreat. I shall turn shepherd, perhaps. That existence would be such a charming contrast to my past life, when impossibilities and marvellous dreams were changed into realities for me and my friends by the vast wealth of which I had so unexpectedly become the possessor, and when all that was beautiful, elegant, sumptuous, and rare was blended in my dazzling career. Would you believe it, madame, I was famed for my liberality through all Europe? Europe? Why! did not a Chandernagor lapidary send me a sabre, the handle of which was encrusted with precious stones, with the following note: 'This scimitar belonged to Tippoo-Sahib; it ought now to belong to M. de Saint-Herem. The price is twenty-five thousand francs, payable at the house of the Rothschilds in Paris.' Yes, madame, the rarest and most costly objects of art were sent to me from every part of the world. The finest English horses were in my stables; the most costly wines filled my cellar; the finest cooks quarrelled for the honour of serving me, and the famous Doctor Gasterini—you know him, madame, do you not?"

"Who has not heard of the greatest gourmand in the known world?"

"Ah, well, madame, that famous man declared he dined quite as well at my table as at his own—and he did not speak in equally flattering terms of M. de Talleyrand's cuisine, I assure you. Believe me, madame, I have the consoling consciousness of having spent my fortune generously, nobly, and discriminately. I have no cause to reproach myself for a single foolish outlay or unworthy act. It is with a mind filled with delightful memories and a heart full of serenity that I see my wealth take flight."

Saint-Herem's tone was so earnest, the sincerity of his sentiments and his words were so legibly imprinted upon his frank and handsome face, that Madame Zomaloff, convinced of the truth of what he said, replied:

"Really, monsieur, such a philosophical way of viewing the subject amazes me. To think of renouncing a life like that you have been leading without one word of bitterness!"

"Bitterness! when I have known so many joys. That would be ungrateful, indeed!"

"And you can leave this enchanted palace without one sigh of regret, and that, too, just as you were about to enjoy it?"

"I did not know that the hour of my ruin was so close at hand until my rascally steward showed me the state of my bank account hardly a week ago, so you see I have lost no time. Besides, in leaving this palace which I have taken so much pleasure in creating, I am like a poet who has written the last verse of his poem, like the artist who has just given the last touch to his picture, after which they have the imperishable glory of having achieved a masterpiece to console them. In my case, madame,—excuse my artistic vanity,—this temple of luxury, art, and pleasure will be a noble monument; so how ungrateful I should be to complain of my lot! And you, madame, will reign here as the divinity of this temple, for you will purchase the house, I am sure. It would suit you so well. Do not let the opportunity to secure it pass. M. de Riancourt may or may not have told you, but he knows that Lord Wilmot has made me a handsome offer for it. I should be so sorry to be obliged to sell to him, for he is so ugly, and so is his wife and his five daughters as well. Think what presiding spirits they would be for this splendid temple, which seems somehow to have been built expressly for you. I have one favour to ask, though, madame. That large painting of my uncle is a fine work of art, and though the name and face of Saint-Ramon appear several times in the medallions that adorn the facade, it would be a pleasure to me to think that this worthy uncle of mine would gaze down for ages to come upon the pleasures which he denied himself all his life!"

The conversation between the countess and Saint-Herem was here interrupted by M. de Riancourt. The party had been making a tour of the reception apartments as they talked, and the duke now said to Florestan:

"The house is superb, and everything is in perfect taste, but eighteen hundred thousand francs is entirely too much to ask for it, even including furniture and silver."

"I have no personal interest in the matter, I assure you, my dear duke," replied Florestan, smiling. "The eighteen hundred thousand francs will all go to my creditors, so I must needs be unpleasantly tenacious in regard to price; besides, Lord Wilmot offers me that amount, and is urging me to accept it."

"'My star has not deserted me.'"
Original etching by Adrian Marcel.

"But you will certainly make concessions to me that you would not make to Lord Wilmot, my dear fellow. Come, Saint-Herem, don't be obdurate. Make a reasonable reduction—"

"M. de Saint-Herem," hastily interposed the countess, "the duke must permit me to interfere with his negotiations, for I will take the house at the price you have mentioned. I give you my word, and I ask yours in return."

"Thank Heaven, madame, my star has not deserted me," said Florestan, cordially offering his hand to Madame Zomaloff. "The matter is settled."

"But, madame!" exclaimed M. de Riancourt, greatly surprised and not a little annoyed at this display of impulsiveness on the part of his future wife,—for he had hoped to secure a reduction in price from Saint-Herem,—"really, this is a very important matter, and you ought not to commit yourself in this way without consulting me."

"You have my word, M. de Saint-Herem," said Madame Zomaloff, again interrupting the duke. "This purchase of mine is a purely personal matter. If convenient to you, my agent will confer with yours to-morrow."

"Very well, madame," replied Saint-Herem. Then, turning to M. de Riancourt, he added, gaily, "You are not offended, I hope, monsieur. It is all your own fault, though. You should have played the grand seigneur, not haggled like a shopkeeper."

Just at that moment the orchestra, which had not been playing for nearly a quarter of an hour, gave the signal for the dancing to begin.

"Pardon me for leaving you, countess," remarked Saint-Herem, again turning to Madame Zomaloff, "but I have invited a young girl to dance this set with me,—a very pretty girl, the daughter of one of the head carpenters who built my house, or, rather, your house, madame. It is pleasant to take this thought, at least, away with me on leaving you."

And bowing respectfully to Madame Zomaloff, their host went in search of the charming young girl he had engaged as a partner, and the ball began.

"My dear Fedora," said the princess, who had watched her niece's long conversation with Saint-Herem with no little annoyance, "it is getting late, and we promised our friend that we would be at her house early."

"You must permit me to say that I think you have acted much too hastily in this matter," said the duke to his fiancée. "Saint-Herem has got to sell this house to pay his debts, and, with a little perseverance, we could have induced him to take at least fifty thousand francs less, particularly if you had insisted upon it. It is always so hard to refuse a pretty woman anything," added M. de Riancourt, with his most insinuating smile.

"What are you thinking of, my dear Fedora?" asked the princess, touching the young woman lightly on the arm, for her niece, who was standing with one elbow resting on a gilded console loaded with flowers, seemed to have relapsed into a profound reverie, and evidently had not heard a single word that her aunt and the duke had said to her. "Why don't you answer? What is the matter with you?"

"I hardly know. I feel very strangely," replied the countess, dreamily.

"You need air, probably, my dear countess," said M. de Riancourt. "I am not at all surprised. Though the apartments are very large, this plebeian crowd renders the atmosphere suffocating, and—"

"Are you ill, Fedora?" asked the princess, with increasing uneasiness.

"Not in the least. On the contrary, the emotion I experience is full of sweetness and charm, so, my dear aunt, I scarcely know how to express—"

"Possibly it is the powerful odour of these flowers that affects you so peculiarly," suggested M. de Riancourt.

"No, it is not that. I hesitate to tell you and my aunt; you will think it so strange and absurd."

"Explain, Fedora, I beg of you."

"I will, but you will be greatly surprised," responded the young widow with a half-confidential, half-coquettish air. Then, turning to M. de Riancourt, she said, in an undertone:

"It seems to me—"

"Well, my dear countess?"

"That—"

"Go on. I beg of you."

"That I am dying to marry M. de Saint-Herem."

"Madame!" exclaimed the astonished duke, turning crimson with anger. "Madame!"

"What is the matter, my dear duke?" asked the princess quickly.

"Madame la comtesse," said the duke, forcing a smile, "your jest is—is rather unseemly, to say the least, and—"

"Give me your arm, my dear duke," said Madame Zomaloff, with the most natural air imaginable, "for it is late. We ought to have been at the embassy some time ago. It is all your fault, too. How is it that you, who are punctuality personified, did not strike the hour of eleven long ago."

"Ah, madame, I am in no mood for laughing," exclaimed the duke, in his most sentimental tones. "How your cruel jest pained me just now! It almost broke my heart."

"I had no idea your heart was so vulnerable, my poor friend."

"Ah, madame, you are very unjust, when I would gladly give my life for you."

"Would you, really? Ah, well, I shall ask no such heroic sacrifice as that on your part, my dear duke."

A few minutes afterward, Madame Zomaloff, her aunt, and the duke left the Hôtel Saint-Ramon.

Almost at the same instant the stranger who looked so much like an aged mulatto left the palatial dwelling, bewildered by what he had just seen and heard. The clock in a neighbouring church was striking the hour as he descended the steps.

"Half-past eleven!" the old man murmured. "I have plenty of time to reach Chaillot before midnight. Ah, what other strange things am I about to hear?"

CHAPTER XX.
THE RETURN.

The old man climbed the hill leading to the Rue de Chaillot, and soon reached the church of that poor and densely populated faubourg.

Contrary to custom at that hour, the church was lighted. Through the open door the brilliantly illuminated nave and altar could be plainly seen. Though the edifice was still empty, some solemn ceremony was evidently about to take place, for though midnight was close at hand, there were lights in many of the neighbouring houses, and several groups had assembled on the pavement in front of the church. Approaching one of these groups, the old man listened attentively, and heard the following conversation:

"They will be here soon, now."

"Yes, for it is almost midnight."

"It is a strange hour to be married, isn't it?"

"Yes, but when one gets a dowry, one needn't be too particular about the hour."

"Who is to be married at this hour, gentlemen?" inquired the old man.

"It is very evident that you don't live in this neighbourhood, my friend."

"No. I am a stranger here."

"If you were not, you would know that it was the night for those six marriages that have taken place here on the night of the twelfth of May, for the last four years. On the night of the twelfth of May, every year, six poor young girls are married in this church, and each girl receives a dowry of ten thousand francs."

"From whom?"

"From a worthy man who died five years ago. He left a handsome fund for this purpose, and his name is consequently wonderfully popular in Chaillot."

"And what is the name of the worthy man who dowered these young girls so generously?" inquired the stranger, with a slight tremor in his voice.

"They call him Father Richard, monsieur. He has a son, a very fine young man, who carries out his father's last wishes religiously. And a nobler man than M. Louis never lived. Everybody knows that he and his wife and child live on three or four thousand francs a year, and yet they must have inherited a big fortune from Father Richard, to be able to give six young girls a dowry of ten thousand francs apiece every year, to say nothing of the expenses of the school and of Father Richard's Home."

"Pardon a stranger's curiosity, monsieur, but you speak of a school."

"Yes, Father Richard's School. Madame Mariette has charge of it."

"Madame Mariette, who is she?"

"M. Louis Richard's wife. The school was founded for twenty-five little boys and as many little girls, who remain there until they are twelve years old, and are then apprenticed to carefully chosen persons. The children are well clothed and fed, and each child receives ten sous a day besides, to encourage them to save their money."

"And you say it is M. Louis Richard's wife who has charge of this school?"

"Yes, monsieur, and she says she takes so much interest in it because before her marriage she was a poor working girl who could neither read nor write, and that she herself suffered so cruelly from a lack of education, that she is glad to be able to prevent others from suffering what she suffered."

"But the home—You also spoke of a home, I believe."

"That was founded for working women who are ill, or no longer able to work. Madame Lacombe has charge of that."

"And who is Madame Lacombe?"

"Madame Mariette's godmother, a good woman who has lost one arm. She is kindness and patience personified to the poor women under her charge, and it is not at all to be wondered at, for she too knows what it is to be poor and infirm; for, as she tells everybody, before her goddaughter married M. Louis they often went hungry for days at a time. But here comes the bridal party. Step in here beside me so you can see them better."

Louis Richard, with Madame Lacombe on his arm, walked at the head of the little procession; then came Mariette, holding a handsome little four-year-old boy by the hand.

No one would have recognised Madame Lacombe. Her once pallid and wrinkled face was plump and rosy, and characterised by an expression of perfect content. She wore a lace bonnet, and a handsome shawl partially concealed her silk gown.

Louis Richard's countenance wore a look of quiet happiness. It was evident that he realised the great responsibility that devolved upon him. Mariette, who was prettier than ever, had that air of gentle dignity that suits young mothers so well. In spite of her marriage, she still clung to the simple garb of her girlhood. Faithful to the coquettish little cap of the grisette, she had never worn a bonnet, and she was quite irresistible in her freshness, grace, and beauty, under her snowy cap with its bows of sky-blue ribbon.

After Louis, his wife and child, and Mother Lacombe, came, dressed in white and crowned with orange blossoms, the six young girls who were to receive dowries that year, attended by the parents or the witnesses of their betrothed husbands, then the six bridegrooms escorting the relatives or witnesses of their affianced wives, all evidently belonging to the labouring class. Following them came the twenty-four couples that had been married during the four preceding years, then the children of Father Richard's School, and, finally, such inmates of the home as were able to attend the ceremony.

It took nearly a quarter of an hour for the procession to pass into the church, and the aged stranger watched it sadly and thoughtfully while such comments as the following were exchanged around him:

"It is all due to Father Richard that these good, industrious girls can become happy wives."

"Yes, and how happy the married couples look!"

"And they owe it all to Father Richard, too."

"And to M. Louis, who carries out his father's wishes so faithfully."

"Yes; but if it were not for the large fortune Father Richard left him, M. Louis would not have been able to do any of these things."

"And the schoolchildren. Did you notice how plump and rosy and contented they looked,—the boys in their comfortable woollen jackets, and the girls in their warm merino dresses."

"Think of it, there were nearly one hundred and fifty persons in the procession, and every one of them has shared Father Richard's benefits!"

"That is true; and when one remembers that this work has been going on for four years, it makes between six and seven hundred people who have been taught or supported or married through Father Richard's bounty."

"To say nothing of the fact that, if M. Louis lives thirty years longer, there will be five or six thousand persons who will owe their happy, respectable lives to Father Richard—for poverty causes the ruin of so many poor creatures!"

"Five or six thousand persons, you say; why, there will be many more than that."

"How do you make that out?"

"Why, there will be children in each of these households. These children will share the advantages that have been bestowed upon their parents. They will consequently be well brought up and receive a fair education. Later in life they will receive their share of the small fortune their thrifty and industrious parents are almost certain to accumulate, for it is an easy matter to save when one has something to start with."

"True; and calculating in this way, the number of persons benefited is increased at least three-fold; while if one thinks of the second and third generations, the good this worthy man has accomplished becomes incalculable."

"And yet it is so easy to do good, and there are so many persons who have more money than they know what to do with. But what is the matter with you, my friend?" exclaimed the speaker. "What the devil are you crying about?" he added, seeing that the stranger beside him was sobbing violently.

"What I have heard you say about Father Richard, and the sight of all these happy people, touches me so deeply—"

"Oh, if that is the cause of your tears, they do you honour, my friend. But as all this seems to interest you so much, let us go into the church and witness the ceremony. You can go to the home, too, afterward, if you choose; it is open to everybody to-night."

The crowd in the church was so great that the old man was unable to secure a place that commanded a view of the altar, but after a moment's reflection he seemed to become perfectly reconciled to the fact, and stationed himself by the holy-water font near the door.

The ceremonies ended, a solemn silence pervaded the edifice, finally broken by the grave voice of the officiating priest, who addressed the newly wedded couples as follows:

"And now that your unions have been consecrated by God, my young friends, persevere in the honest, industrious, and God-fearing life that has secured you this good fortune, and never forget that you owe this just reward of courage in adversity and of dignity in poverty to a man imbued with the tenderest affection for his brother man; for, faithful to the spirit of a true Christian, he did not consider himself the master, but simply as the custodian and almoner of the wealth with which Heaven had blessed him. Does not Christ tell his followers to love one another, and bid those who are endowed with this world's goods to give to those who have none? The Saviour rewarded this good man by giving him a son worthy of him, and his obedience to the laws of Christian fraternity makes him deserve to have his name ever cherished and honoured among men. You, in your just gratitude for benefits conferred, owe him this remembrance, and Father Richard's name should be for ever blessed by you, your children, and your children's children."

An approving murmur from the crowd greeted these words, and drowned the sobs of the aged stranger, who had dropped upon his knees, apparently completely overcome with emotion.

The noise the newly married couples made in leaving the altar aroused the old man, who hastily rose just in time to see Louis Richard advancing toward him with Madame Lacombe on his arm. The old man trembled in every limb, but as Louis was about to pass he hastily caught up a dipper of holy water and offered it to Mariette's husband.

"Thank you, my good father," said Louis, kindly. Then noting the shabby clothing and white hair of the donor, and seeing a request for alms in the act, the young man slipped a shining gold piece in the extended hand, saying, almost affectionately:

"Keep it and pray for Father Richard."

The old man seized the coin greedily, and, raising it to his lips, kissed it again and again, while the tears streamed down his wrinkled cheeks.

Louis Richard did not notice this strange incident, however, for he had left the church, and, followed by the bridal party and a large number of the spectators, was on his way to the home, whither the aged stranger, leaning heavily on his cane, also followed him.

CHAPTER XXI.
THE AWAKENING.

The home stood upon a high knoll in a location as pleasant as it was salubrious, and large shady grounds surrounded the spacious building.

The night was clear and still; spring perfumes filled the air, and when the old man reached the spot he found the people ranged in a half-circle around the steps of the building, no room inside being large enough to hold the crowd.

Soon Louis Richard, according to his custom each year, came out upon the perron, and said:

"My friends, five years ago to-night I lost the best and kindest of fathers. He died a frightful death in that terrible catastrophe on the Versailles railway. My father, being the possessor of a handsome fortune, might have lived in luxury and idleness. On the contrary, he preferred to lead a frugal and industrious life, so while he denied himself all comforts, and earned his bread by his daily toil, his wealth slowly but surely increased day by day; but when the day of his premature death came, I had to mourn one of the warmest friends of humanity, for nearly all his wealth was devoted to the accomplishment of three great and noble works: the amelioration of the condition,—

"First, Of poor children deprived of the advantages of an elementary education.

"Secondly, Of poor but honest and industrious young girls who are too often exposed to terrible temptation by reason of ill health, inadequate wages, and poverty.

"And lastly, Of aged or infirm women who, after a long life of toil, are incapacitated for further labour.

"True, the result accomplished each year is painfully small when one thinks of the ills of humanity, but he who does all the good he can, even if he only shares his crust with his starving brother, does his duty as nobly as the person who gives millions.

"It is the duty of every right-minded man to make every possible effort to improve the condition of his fellow men; but in this work I am acting only as my father's agent, and the accomplishment of this glorious duty would fill my life with unbounded happiness if I were not obliged to mourn the loss of the most beloved of parents."

Louis Richard had scarcely uttered these last words when quite a commotion became apparent in the crowd, for the aged stranger's strength seemed suddenly to fail him, and he would have fallen to the ground had it not been for the friendly support of those near him.

On hearing the cause of the hubbub, Louis Richard hastened to the old man's aid, and had him taken into the home in order that he might receive immediate attention, after which he requested the bridal parties to adjourn to the immense tent, where supper was to be served, and where Madame Lacombe and Mariette would do the honours in his absence.

The old man had been carried in an unconscious condition to Louis's office, a room on the ground floor. His profound respect for his father's memory had prevented him from parting with the furniture of the room he and his father had shared so long. The writing-desk, the old bureau, the antique chest, as well as the cheap painted bedstead, all had been kept, and it was on this same bed the unconscious man was laid.

As soon as he entered the room Louis despatched the servant to a neighbouring drug store for some spirits, so he was left alone with the patient, whose features were almost entirely concealed by his long white hair and beard.

Louis took the old man's hand to feel his pulse, but as he did so the patient made a slight movement and uttered a few incoherent words.

The voice sounded strangely familiar to Louis, and he endeavoured to get a better look at the stranger's features, but the dim light that pervaded the room and the patient's long hair and beard rendered the attempt futile.

A moment more and Louis Richard's guest languidly raised his head and gazed around him. His eyes having fallen on the rather peculiarly shaped gray bedstead, he made a movement of surprise, but when he saw the old-fashioned chest, he exclaimed, excitedly:

"Where am I? My God, is this a dream?"

Again the voice struck Louis as being so familiar that he, too, gave a slight start, but almost immediately shaking his head and smiling bitterly, he muttered under his breath:

"Alas! regret often gives rise to strange illusions." Then addressing the old man in affectionate tones, he asked:

"How do you feel now, my good father?"

On hearing these words, the old man, seizing Louis's hand, covered it with tears and kisses before the latter could prevent it.

"Come, come, my good father," said Mariette's husband, surprised and touched, "I have done nothing to deserve such gratitude on your part. I may be more fortunate some day, however. But tell me how you feel now. Was it weakness or overfatigue that caused your fainting fit?"

The old man made no reply, but pressed Louis's hand convulsively to his panting breast. The younger man, conscious of a strange and increasing emotion, felt the tears spring to his eyes.

"Listen to me, my good father," he began.

"Oh, say that once more—just once more," murmured the old man, hoarsely.

"Ah, well, my good father—"

But Louis did not finish the sentence, for his guest, unable to restrain himself any longer, raised himself up in bed, at the same time exclaiming, in a voice vibrating with tenderness:

"Louis!"

That name, uttered with all the passion of a despairing soul, was a revelation.

The younger man turned as pale as death, started back, and stood as if petrified, with fixed, staring eyes.

The shock was too great, and several seconds elapsed before the thought, "My father is not dead," could penetrate his brain.

Does not the sudden transition from intense darkness into bright sunlight blind us for a time?

But when the blissful truth dawned upon Louis's mind, he threw himself on his knees by the old man's bedside, and, putting back his long white locks with a feverish hand, studied his father's features with eager, radiant eyes, until, convinced beyond a doubt, he could only murmur in a sort of ecstasy: "My father, oh, God, my father!"

The scene that ensued between father and son beggars description; but when the first transports of happiness had given place to a momentary calm, Father Richard said to his son:

"I will tell you my story in a few words, my dear Louis. I have been asleep for five years, and woke only forty-eight hours ago."

"What do you mean?"

"I was with poor Ramon and his daughter in one of the worst wrecked carriages. In some providential way my life was saved, though my right leg was broken, and fright deprived me of reason."

"You, father?"

"Yes, I became insane with terror. I lost my reason completely. Removed from the scene of the catastrophe, my fractured limb was set in the home of a worthy physician, and after I recovered from that injury I was taken to an insane asylum near Versailles. My lunacy was of a harmless type. I talked only of my lost wealth. For nearly four years there was no change in my condition, but at the end of that time a slight improvement became apparent. This continued until my recovery became complete, though I was not allowed to leave the hospital until two days ago. It would be impossible to describe my feelings on my entire restoration to reason, when I woke as I told you from my long five years' sleep. My first thought, I blush to confess, was one of avarice. What had become of my property? What use had you made of it? When I was released from the hospital yesterday, the first thing I did was to hasten to my notary, your former employer, and my friend. You can imagine his astonishment. He told me that at first it was your intention to leave the property untouched, that is, except for a small stipend for your maintenance and that of your wife, until you attained the age of thirty-six; but after a serious illness, thinking that death might overtake you before you had accomplished what you considered a sacred duty, you changed your mind, and came to consult him in regard to certain plans, to which he gave his unqualified approval. 'What were these plans?' I asked. 'Have the courage to wait until to-morrow night,' he replied; 'then, go to the church of Chaillot, and you will know all, and thank God for having given you such a son.' I did wait, my dear Louis. My long beard and my white hair changed me a great deal, but I stained my skin to disguise myself more completely, and to enable me to approach you without any danger of recognition. Oh, if you knew all I have seen and heard, my dear, noble child! My name revered and blessed, thanks to your nobility of soul and the subterfuge prompted by your filial love! Ah, what a revulsion of feeling this wrought in me. But, alas! the illusion was of short duration. I had no hand whatever in the noble deeds attributed to me."

"How can you say that, father? But for your self-denial and perseverance, how could I ever have done any good? Did you not leave me the means of accomplishing it, an all-powerful lever? My only merit consisted in having made a good use of the immense power bequeathed to me by you at the cost of so many privations on your part, and in realising the duties wealth imposed upon me. The terrible poverty and the lack of education from which my beloved wife had suffered so much, and the perils to which this poverty and lack of education had exposed her, her godmother's cruel suffering,—all had served to enlighten me as to the needs of the poor, and all three of us longed to do everything in our power to save others from the ills we had suffered. But after all, it is your work, not mine. I have reaped; it was you who sowed."

The door suddenly opened, and Florestan Saint-Herem rushed in, and threw himself into his friend's arms with so much impetuosity that he did not even see Father Richard.

"Embrace me, Louis, rejoice with me!" he exclaimed. "You are my best friend, and you shall be the first to hear the news. I knew I should find you here, so I did not lose a minute in coming to tell you that Saint-Ramon has proved a saint indeed, for he has just worked the most wonderful of miracles."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, two hours ago I was utterly ruined, but now I am far richer than I ever have been. Think of it, Louis, gold mines and silver mines, and diamonds by the bushel,—fabulous wealth, in short, wealth amounting to dozens of millions. Oh, Saint-Ramon, Saint-Ramon, blessed be thy name for ever! I was right to canonise thee, for thou hast not proved ungrateful, thank Heaven!"

"For pity's sake, explain, Florestan."

"An hour ago, just as the entertainment I was giving to those honest workmen was drawing to a close, one of my servants came to inform me that a lady wished to see me in private. Who should it be but the Countess Zomaloff, a young and charming widow, who was to have married the Duc de Riancourt a week from now. Earlier in the evening she had come to look at my house, with a view to purchasing it. She had purchased it, in fact. Astonished to see her again, I stood perfectly silent for a moment. And what do you suppose she said to me, in the most natural tone imaginable?

"'A thousand pardons for disturbing you, M. de Saint-Herem. I can say all I have to say in a couple of words. I am a widow. I am twenty-eight years old. I have no idea why I promised Riancourt that I would marry him, though very possibly I might have made this foolish marriage if I had not met you. You have a generous heart and a noble soul. The entertainment you gave this evening proves that. Your wit delights me, your character charms me, your goodness of heart touches me, and your personal appearance pleases me. So far as I, myself, am concerned, this step I am now taking should give you some idea of what kind of a person I am.

"'This peculiar and unconventional procedure on my part, you will understand, I think. If your impression of me is favourable, I shall be both proud and happy to become Madame de Saint-Herem, and live in the Hôtel Saint-Ramon with you. I have a colossal fortune. It is at your disposal, for I trust my future to you, unreservedly, blindly. I shall await your decision anxiously. Good-evening.' And with these words the fairy disappeared, leaving me intoxicated with happiness at my good fortune."

"Florestan," said Louis, with a grave but affectionate air, "the confidence this young woman has shown in coming to you so frankly and confidingly throws a weighty responsibility upon you."

"I understand that," responded Saint-Herem, with undoubted sincerity. "I may have squandered the fortune that belonged to me, and ruined myself, but to squander a fortune that does not belong to me, and ruin a woman who trusts her future so unreservedly to me, would be infamous."

Madame Zomaloff married Florestan de Saint-Herem about one month after these events. Louis Richard, his father, and Mariette attended the wedding.

Father Richard, in spite of his resurrection, made no attempt to change the disposition Louis had made of his property up to the present time. The old man merely asked to be made steward of the home, and in that capacity he rendered very valuable assistance.

Every year, the twelfth of May is doubly celebrated.

Louis, his father, and Mariette, who are on the most intimate terms with M. and Madame de Saint-Herem, always attend the magnificent entertainment which is given at the Hôtel Saint-Ramon on the anniversary of the owner's betrothal, but at midnight Florestan and his wife, who adore each other, for this marriage became a love match, pure and simple, come to partake of the bridal supper at Father Richard's Home.

THE END.