The Son of Monte-Cristo, Volume II

by Jules Lermina

THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO

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CHAPTER I

FANFARO'S ADVENTURES

Spero, the son of Monte-Cristo, was peacefully sleeping in another room, while, gathered around the table in the dining-room of Fanfaro's house, were Monte-Cristo, Miss Clary, Madame Caraman, Coucou, and Albert de Morcerf, ready to listen to the story of Fanfaro's adventures, which, as narrated at the close of the preceding volume, he was about to begin.

The following is Fanfaro's narrative:

It was about the middle of December, 1813, that a solitary horseman was pursuing the road which leads through the Black Forest from Breisach to Freiburg. The rider was a man in the prime of life. He wore a long brown overcoat, reaching to his knees, and shoes fastened with steel buckles. His powdered hair was combed back and tied with a black band, while his head was covered with a cap that had a projecting peak. The evening came, and darkness spread over the valley: the Black Forest had not received its name in vain. A few miles from Freiburg there stands a lonely hill, named the Emperor's Chair. Dark masses of basalt form the steps of this natural throne; tall evergreens stretch their branches protectingly over the hill. A fresh mountain air is cast about by the big trees, and the north wind is in eternal battle with this giant, which it bends but can never break.

Pierre Labarre, the solitary horseman, was the confidential servant of the Marquis de Fougereuse, and the darker the road became the more uncomfortable he felt. He continually spurred on his horse, but the tired animal at every stride struck against tree roots which lined the narrow path.

"Quick, Margotte," said Pierre to the animal, "you know how anxiously we are awaited, and besides we are the bearers of good news."

The animal appeared to understand the words, began to trot again at a smart pace, and for a time all went well.

Darker and darker grew the night, the storm raged fiercer and fiercer, and the roar of the distant river sounded like the tolling of church-bells.

Pierre had now reached a hill, upon which century-old lindens stretched their leafless branches toward heaven; the road parted at this point, and the rider suddenly reined in his horse. One of the paths led to Breisach, the other to Gundebfingen. Pierre rose in the stirrups and cautiously glanced about, but then he shook his head and muttered:

"Curious, I can discover nothing, and yet I thought I heard the clatter of a horse's hoofs."

He mechanically put his hand in his breast-pocket and nodded his head in a satisfied way.

"The portfolio is still in the right place," he whispered. "Forward, Margotte—we must get under shelter."

But just as the steed was about to start, the rider again heard the sound of a horse's hoofs on the frozen ground, and in a twinkling a horse bounded past Pierre like the wind. It was the second rider who had rushed past the servant at such a rapid gait.

Pierre was not superstitious, yet he felt his heart move quickly when the horseman galloped past him, and old legends about spectres rose up in his mind. Perhaps the rider was the wild huntsman of whom he had heard so much, or what was more likely, it was no spectre, but a robber. This last possibility frightened Pierre very much. He bent down and took a pistol out of the saddle-bag. He cocked the trigger and continued on his way, while he muttered to himself:

"Courage, old boy; if it should come to the worst you will kill your man."

Pierre rode on unembarrassed, and had reached a road which would bring him to Freiburg in less than half an hour. Suddenly a report was heard, and Pierre uttered a hollow groan. A bullet had struck his breast.

Bending with pain over his horse's neck he looked about. The bushes parted and a man enveloped in a long cloak sprung forth and rushed upon the servant. The moment he put his hand on the horse's rein, Pierre raised himself and in an angry voice exclaimed:

"Not so quickly, bandits!"

At the same moment he aimed his pistol and fired. The bandit uttered a moan and recoiled. But he did not sink to the ground as Pierre had expected. He disappeared in the darkness. A second shot fired after him struck in the nearest tree, and Pierre swore roundly.

"Confound the Black Forest," he growled as he rode along; "if I had not fortunately had my leather portfolio in my breast-pocket, I would be a dead man now! The scoundrel must have eyes like an owl: he aimed as well as if he had been on a rifle range. Hurry along, Margotte, or else a second highwayman may come and conclude what the other began."

The horse trotted along, and Pierre heard anew the gallop of a second animal. The bandit evidently desired to keep his identity unknown.

"Curious," muttered Pierre, "I did not see his face, but his voice seemed familiar."

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CHAPTER II

THE GOLDEN SUN

Mr. Schwan, the host of the Golden Sun at Sainte-Ame, a market town in the Vosges, was very busy. Although the month of February was not an inviting one, three travellers had arrived that morning at the Golden Sun, and six more were expected.

Schwan had that morning made an onslaught on his chicken coop, and, while his servants were robbing the murdered hens of their feathers, the host walked to the door of the inn and looked at the sky.

A loud laugh, which shook the windows of the inn, made Schwan turn round hurriedly: at the same moment two muscular arms were placed upon his shoulders, and a resounding kiss was pressed upon his brown cheek.

"What is the meaning of this?" stammered the host, trying in vain to shake off the arms which held him. "The devil take me, but these arms must belong to my old friend Firejaws," exclaimed Schwan, now laughing; and hardly had he spoken the words than the possessor of the arms, a giant seven feet tall, cheerfully said:

"Well guessed, Father Schwan. Firejaws in propria persona."

While the host was cordially welcoming the new arrival, several servants hurried from the kitchen, and soon a bottle of wine and two glasses stood upon the cleanly scoured inn table.

"Make yourself at home, my boy," said Schwan, gayly, as he filled the glasses.

The giant, whose figure was draped in a fantastical costume, grinned broadly, and did justice to the host's invitation. The sharply curved nose and the large mouth with dazzling teeth, the full blond hair, and the broad, muscular shoulders, were on a colossal scale. The tight-fitting coat of the athlete was dark red, the trousers were of black velvet, and richly embroidered shirt-sleeves made up the wonderful appearance of the man.

"Father Schwan, I must embrace you once more," said the giant after a pause, as he stretched out his arms.

"Go ahead, but do not crush me," laughed the host.

"Are you glad to see me again?"

"I should say so. How are you getting along?"

"Splendidly, as usual; my breast is as firm still as if it were made of iron," replied the giant, striking a powerful blow upon his breast.

"Has business been good?"

"Oh, I am satisfied."

"Where are your people?"

"On their way here. The coach was too slow for me, so I left them behind and went on in advance."

"Well, and—your wife?" asked the host, hesitatingly.

The giant closed his eyes and was silent; Schwan looked down at his feet, and after a pause continued:

"Things don't go as they should, I suppose?"

"Let me tell you something," replied the giant, firmly; "if it is just the same to you, I would rather not talk on that subject."

"Ah, really? Poor fellow! Yes, these women!"

"Not so quickly, cousin—my deceased wife was a model of a woman."

"True; when she died I knew you would never find another one to equal her."

"My little Caillette is just like her."

"Undoubtedly. When I saw the little one last, about six years ago, she was as pretty as a picture."

"She is seventeen now, and still very handsome."

"What are the relations between your wife and you?"

"They couldn't be better; Rolla cannot bear the little one."

The host nodded.

"Girdel," he said, softly, "when you told me that day that you were going to marry the 'Cannon Queen,' I was frightened. The woman's look displeased me. Does she treat Caillette badly?"

"She dare not touch a hair of the child's head," hissed the giant, "or—"

"Do not get angry; but tell me rather whether Bobichel is still with you?"

"Of course."

"And Robeckal?"

"His time is about up."

"That would be no harm; and the little one?"

"The little one?" laughed Girdel. "Well, he is about six feet."

"You do not say so! Is he still so useful?"

"Cousin," said the giant, slowly, "Fanfaro is a treasure! Do you know, he is of a different breed from us; no, do not contradict me, I know what I am speaking about. I am an athlete; I have arms like logs and hands like claws, therefore it is no wonder that I perform difficult exercises; but Fanfaro is tender and fine; he has arms and hands like a girl, and skin like velvet, yet he can stand more than I can. He can down two of me, yet he is soft and shrewd, and has a heart of gold."

"Then you love him as much as you used to do?" laughed the host, in a satisfied way.

"Much more if it is possible; I—"

The giant stopped short, and when Schwan followed the direction of his eye, he saw that the wagon which carried the fortune of Cesar Girdel had rolled into the courtyard.

Upon four high wheels a large open box swung to and fro; on its four sides were various colored posts, which served to carry the curtains, which shut out the interior of the box from the eyes of the curious world. The red and white curtains were now cast aside, and one could see a mass of iron poles, rags, weights, empty barrels, hoops with and without purple silk paper, the use of which was not clear to profane eyes.

The driver was dressed in yellow woollen cloth, and could at once be seen to be a clown; he wore a high pasteboard cap adorned with bells, and while he swung the whip with his right hand he held a trumpet in his left, which he occasionally put to his lips and blew a blast loud enough to wake the very stones. The man's face was terribly thin, his nose was long and straight, and small dark eyes sparkled maliciously from under his bushy eyebrows.

Behind Bobichel, for this was the clown's name, Caillette, the giant's daughter, was seated. Her father had not overpraised his daughter: the tender, rosy face of the young girl had wonderfully refined features; deep blue soulful eyes lay half hidden under long, dark eyelashes, and gold-blond locks fell over her white neck. Caillette appeared to be enjoying herself, for her silvery laugh sounded continually, while she was conversing with Bobichel.

At the rear of the wagon upon a heap of bedding sat a woman whose dimensions were fabulous. She was about forty-five years of age; her face looked as if it had been chopped with an axe; the small eyes almost disappeared beneath the puffed cheeks, and the broad breast as well as the thick, red arms and claw-like hands were repulsive in the extreme. Bushy hair of a dirty yellow color hung in a confused mass over the shoulders of the virago, and her blue cloth jacket and woollen dress were full of grease spots.

Robeckal walked beside the wagon. He was of small stature, but nervous and muscular. The small face lighted up by shrewd eyes had a yellowish color; the long, thin arms would have done honor to a gorilla, and the elasticity of his bones was monkeyish in the extreme. He wore a suit of faded blue velvet, reddish brown hair only half covered his head, and a mocking laugh lurked about the corners of his lips while he was softly speaking to Rolla.

Bobichel now jumped from the wagon. Girdel hurried from the house and cordially exclaimed:

"Welcome, children; you have remained out long and are not hungry, are you?"

"I could eat pebblestones," replied Bobichel, laughing. "Ah, there is Schwan too. Well, old boy, how have you been getting along?"

While the host and the clown were holding a conversation, Girdel went to the wagon and stretched out his arms.

"Jump, daughter," he laughingly said.

Caillette did not hesitate long; she rose on her pretty toes and swung herself over the edge of the wagon into her father's arms. The latter kissed her heartily on both cheeks, and then placed her on the ground. He then glanced around, and anxiously asked:

"Where is Fanfaro?"

"Here, Papa Firejaws," came cheerfully from the interior of the wagon, and at the same moment a dark head appeared in sight above a large box. The head was followed by a beautifully formed body, and placing his hand lightly on the edge of the wagon, Fanfaro swung gracefully to the ground.

"Madcap, can't you stop turning?" scolded Girdel, laughingly; "go into the house and get your breakfast!"

Caillette, Fanfaro, and Bobichel went away; Girdel turned to his wife and pleasantly said:

"Rolla, I will now help you down."

Rolla looked at him sharply, and then said in a rough, rasping voice:

"Didn't I call you, Robeckal? Come and help me down!"

Robeckal, who had been observing the chickens in the courtyard, slowly approached the wagon.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Help me down," repeated Rolla.

Girdel remained perfectly calm, but a careful observer might have noticed the veins on his forehead swell. He measured Rolla and Robeckal with a peculiar look, and before his look Rolla's eyes fell.

"Robeckal, are you coming?" cried the virago, impatiently.

"What do you wish here?" asked Girdel, coolly, as Robeckal turned to Rolla.

"What do I wish here?" replied Robeckal; "Madame Girdel has done me the honor to call me, and—"

"And you are thinking rather long about it," interrupted Rolla, gruffly.

"I am here," growled Robeckal, laying his hand upon the edge of the wagon.

"No further!" commanded Girdel, in a threatening voice.

"Ha! who is going to prevent me?"

"I, wretch!" thundered Firejaws, in whose eyes a warning glance shone.

"Bah! you are getting angry about nothing," said Robeckal, mockingly, placing his other hand on the edge of the wagon.

"Strike him, Robeckal!" cried Rolla, urgingly.

Robeckal raised his right hand, but at the same moment the athlete stretched him on the ground with a blow of his fist; he could thank his stars that Girdel had not struck him with his full force, or else Robeckal would never have got up again. With a cry of rage he sprung up and threw himself upon the giant, who waited calmly for him with his arms quietly folded over his breast; a sword shone in Robeckal's hand, and how it happened neither he nor Rolla knew, but immediately after he lay on top of the wagon, close to the Cannon Queen.

"Enough of your rascality, Robeckal," said the voice of him who had thrown the angry man upon the wagon.

"I thought the wretched boy would come between us again," hissed Rolla; and without waiting for any further help she sprung from the wagon and rushed upon Fanfaro, for he it was who had come to Girdel's assistance.

"Back, Rolla!" exclaimed Firejaws, hoarsely, as he laid his iron fist upon his wife's shoulder. Schwan came to the door and cordially said:

"Where are your comrades? The soup is waiting."

Robeckal hurriedly glided from the wagon, and approaching close to Rolla, he whispered a few words in her ear.

"Let me go, Girdel," said the giantess. "Who would take such a stupid joke in earnest? Come, I am hungry."

Firejaws looked at his wife in amazement. Her face, which had been purple with anger, was now overspread by a broad grin, and shrugging his shoulders, Girdel walked toward the house. Fanfaro followed, and Robeckal and Rolla remained alone.

"We must make an end of it, Rolla," grumbled Robeckal.

"I am satisfied. The sooner the better!"

"Good. I shall do it to-night. See that you take a little walk afterward on the country road. I will meet you there and tell you my plan."

"Do so. Let us go to dinner now, I am hungry."

When Rolla and Robeckal entered the dining-room, Girdel, Caillette, Bobichel, and Fanfaro were already sitting at table, and Schwan was just bringing in a hot, steaming dish.

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CHAPTER III

OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCES

While the hungry guests were eating, the door at the back of the large dining-room was very softly opened. None of the strangers observed this, but the host, whose eyes were all over, went toward the door, at the threshold of which stood a man about forty years of age. The man was small and lean, and wore a brown overcoat trimmed with fur; the coat was cut out at the bosom and allowed a yellow vest and sky-blue tie to be seen. Trousers of dark-blue cloth reached to the knee, and his riding-boots, with spurs, completed the wonderfully made toilet.

The man's face had a disagreeable expression. He had deep squinting eyes, a large mouth, a broad nose, and long, bony fingers.

When the host approached the stranger he bowed and respectfully asked:

"How can I serve you, sir?"

The stranger did not reply; his gaze was directed toward the table and the guests, and the host, who had observed his look, again repeated the question.

The stranger walked into the middle of the room, and, seating himself at a table, said:

"Bring me a glass of brandy."

"I thought—I believed—" began the host.

"Do as I told you. I am expecting some one. Get a good dinner ready, and as soon as—the other one arrives, you can serve it."

"It shall be attended to," nodded Schwan, who thought the man was the steward of some big lord.

Just as the host was about to leave the room, the door was opened again and two more travellers entered. The first comer threw a look at the new arrivals, and a frown crossed his ugly face.

The last two who entered were entirely dissimilar. One of them, to judge from his upright bearing, must have formerly been a soldier. He was dressed plainly in civilian's clothes, and his bushy white mustache gave his face a threatening look; the deep blue eyes, however, served to soften the features. The other man was evidently a carman; he wore a blue linen blouse, leathern shoes, knee-breeches and a large round hat. When the host praised his kitchen to the new-comers, his words fell on fertile ground, for when he asked the first guest whether he would like to have some ham and eggs, the proposition was at once accepted.

"Where shall I serve the gentlemen?"

For a moment there was deep silence. The guests had just perceived the first comer and did not seem to be impressed by his appearance. Nevertheless, the man who looked like a soldier decided that they should be served at one of the side tables. When he said this Girdel looked up, and his features showed that the new-comers were not strangers to him. The man in the brown overcoat laughed mockingly when he perceived that the two strangers chose a table as far away from his as possible. He looked fixedly at them, and when Schwan brought him the brandy he had ordered, he filled his glass and emptied it at one gulp. He then took some newspapers out of his pocket and began to read, holding the pages in such a way as to conceal his face.

The host now brought the ham and eggs. As he placed them on the table, the carman hastily asked:

"How far is it, sir, from here to Remiremont?"

"To Remiremont? Ah, I see the gentlemen do not belong to the vicinity. To Remiremont is about two hours."

"So much the better; we can get there then in the course of the afternoon."

"That is a question," remarked Schwan.

"How so? What do you mean?"

"The road is very bad," he replied.

"That won't be so very dangerous."

"Oh, but the floods!"

"What's the matter with the floods?" said the old soldier.

"The enormous rainfall of the last few weeks has swollen all the mountain lakes," said the host, vivaciously, "and the road to Remiremont is under water, so that it would be impossible for you to pass."

"That would be bad," exclaimed the carman, excitedly.

"It would be dangerous," remarked the old soldier.

"Oh, yes, sir; last year two travellers were drowned between Sainte-Ame and Remiremont; to tell the truth, the gentlemen looked like you!"

"Thanks for the compliment!"

"The gentlemen probably had no guide," said the carman.

"No."

"Well, we shall take a guide along; can you get one for us?"

"To-morrow, but not to-day."

"Why not?"

"Because my people are busy; but to-morrow it can be done."

In the meantime, the acrobats had finished their meal. Girdel arose, and, drawing close to the travellers, said:

"If the gentlemen desire, they can go with us to-morrow to Remiremont."

"Oh, that is a good idea," said the host gleefully; "accept, gentlemen. If Girdel conducts you, you can risk it without any fear."

In spite of the uncommon appearance of the athlete, the strangers did not hesitate to accept Girdel's offer; they exchanged glances, and the soldier said:

"Accepted, sir. We are strangers here, and would have surely lost ourselves. When do you expect to go?"

"To-morrow morning. To-night we give a performance here, and with the dawn of day we start for Remiremont."

"Good. Can I invite you now to join us in a glass of wine?"

Girdel protested more politely than earnestly; Schwan brought a bottle and glasses, and the giant sat down by the strangers.

While this was going on, the first comer appeared to be deeply immersed in the paper, though he had not lost a word of the conversation, and as Firejaws took a seat near the strangers, he began again to laugh mockingly.

Robeckal and Rolla now left the dining-room, while Fanfaro, Caillette and Bobichel still remained seated; a minute later Robeckal returned, and drawing near to Girdel, softly said to him:

"Master."

"Well?"

"Do you need me?"

"What for?"

"To erect the booth?"

"No, Fanfaro and Bobichel will attend to it."

"Then good-by for the present."

Robeckal left. Hardly had the door closed behind him than the man in the brown overcoat stopped reading his paper and left the room too.

"One word, friend," he said to Robeckal.

"Quick, what does it concern?"

"Twenty francs for you, if you answer me properly."

"Go ahead."

"What is this Firejaws?"

"Athlete, acrobat, wrestler—anything you please."

"What is his right name?"

"Girdel, Cesar Girdel."

"Do you know the men with whom he just spoke?"

"No."

"You hate Girdel?"

"Who told you so, and what is it your business?"

"Ah, a great deal. If you hate him we can make a common thing of it. You belong to his troupe?"

"Yes, for the present."

"Bah, long enough to earn a few gold pieces."

"What is asked of me for that?"

"You? Not much. You shall have an opportunity to pay back the athlete everything you owe him in the way of hate, and besides you will be well rewarded."

Robeckal shrugged his shoulders.

"Humbug," he said, indifferently.

"No, I mean it seriously."

"I should like it to be done," replied Robeckal, dryly.

"Here are twenty francs in advance."

Robeckal stretched out his hand for the gold piece, let it fall into his pocket, and disappeared without a word.

"You have come too late, my friend," he laughed to himself. "Girdel will be a dead man before the morrow comes, as sure as my name is Robeckal."

In the meantime Girdel continued to converse with the two gentlemen; Schwan went here and there, and Fanfaro, Caillette and Bobichel were waiting for the athlete's orders for the evening performance.

"How goes it?" asked the carman, now softly.

"Good," replied Girdel, in the same tone.

"The peasants are prepared?"

"Yes. The seed is ripe. They are only waiting for the order to begin to sow.

"We must speak about this matter at greater length, but not here. Did you notice the man who was reading the paper over there a little while ago?"

"Yes; he did not look as if he could instil confidence into any one; I think he must be a lackey."

"He could be a spy too; when can we speak to one another undisturbed?"

"This evening after the performance, either in your room or in mine."

"Let it be in yours; we can wait until the others sleep; let your door remain open, Girdel."

"I will not fail to do so."

"Then it is settled; keep mum. No one must know of our presence here."

"Not even Fanfaro?"

"No, not for any price."

"But you do not distrust him? He is a splendid fellow—"

"So much the better for him; nevertheless, he must not know anything. I can tell you the reason; we wish to speak about him; we desire to intrust certain things with him."

"You couldn't find a better person."

"I believe it. Good-by, now, until to-night."

"Au revoir!"

"Sir," said the carman, now aloud, "we accept your proposal with thanks, and hope to reach Remiremont to-morrow with your help."

"You shall."

Girdel turned now to Fanfaro, and gayly cried:

"To work, my son; we must dazzle the inhabitants of Sainte-Ame! Cousin Schwan, have we got permission to give our performance? You are the acting mayor."

"I am," replied Schwan; "hand in your petition; here is some stamped paper."

"Fanfaro, write what is necessary," ordered Girdel; "you know I'm not much in that line."

"If you are not a man of the pen, you are a man of the heart," laughed Fanfaro, as he quickly wrote a few lines on the paper.

"Flatterer," scolded Girdel. "Forward, Bobichel; bring me the work-box; the people will find out to-night that they will see something."

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CHAPTER IV

BROTHER AND SISTER

Half an hour later the inhabitants of Sainte-Ame crowded about the open place in front of the Golden Sun. They seldom had an opportunity of seeing anything like this, for very few travelling shows ever visited the small Lorraine village; and with almost childish joy the spectators gazed at Bobichel, Fanfaro, and Girdel, who were engaged in erecting the booth. The work went on briskly. The posts which had been run into the ground were covered with many-colored cloths, and a hurriedly arranged wooden roof protected the interior of the tent from the weather. Four wooden stairs led to the right of the entrance, where the box-office was; this latter was made of a primitive wooden table, on which was a faded velvet cover embroidered with golden arabesques and cabalistic signs. All the outer walls of the booth were covered with yellow bills, upon which could be read that "Signor Firejaws" would lift with his teeth red-hot irons of fabulous weight, swallow burning lead, and perform the most startling acrobatic tricks. Rolla, the Cannon Queen, would catch cannon balls shot from a gun, and do other tricks; at the same time the bill said she would eat pigeons alive, and with their feathers on. Caillette, the "daughter of the air," as she was called, would send the spectators into ecstasies by her performance on the tight rope, and sing songs. Robeckal, the "descendant of the old Moorish kings," would swallow swords, eat glass, shave kegs with his teeth; and Fanfaro would perform on the trapeze, give his magic acts, and daze the public with his extraordinary productions. A pyramid, formed of all the members of the troupe, at the top of which Caillette shone with a rose in her hand, stood at the bottom of the bills in red colors, and was gazed upon by the peasants in open-mouthed wonder. The hammering which went on in the interior of the booth sounded to them like music, and they could hardly await the night, which was to bring them so many magnificent things.

Girdel walked up and down in a dignified way and the crowd respectfully made way for him, while the giant, in stentorian tones, gave the orders to Fanfaro and Bobichel.

Bobichel's name was not on the bills; he was to surprise the public as a clown, and therefore his name was never mentioned. He generally amused the spectators in a comical way, and always made them laugh; even now, when he had finished his work, he mingled with the peasants and delighted them with his jokes.

Fanfaro and Caillette were still engaged constructing the booth. The young man arranged the wooden seats and the giant's daughter hung the colored curtains, which covered the bare walls, putting here and there artificial flowers on them. Sometimes Caillette would pause in her work, to look at Fanfaro with her deep blue eyes.

Fanfaro was now done with the seats and began to fasten two trapezes. They hung to a centre log by iron hooks, and were about twelve feet from the ground and about as far distant from each other.

Fanfaro lightly swung upon the centre log and hammered in the iron hooks with powerful blows.

The wonderfully fine-shaped body was seen to advantage in this position, and a sculptor would have enthusiastically observed the classical outlines of the young man, whose dark tights fitted him like a glove.

Fanfaro's hands and feet were as small as those of a woman, but, as Girdel had said, his muscles and veins were as hard as iron.

The iron hooks were fast now, and the young man swung himself upon a plank; he then glided down one trapeze, and with a quick movement grasped the other.

Like an arrow the slim body shot through the air, and then Fanfaro sprung lightly to the ground, while the trapeze flew back.

At the very moment the young man let go of the trapeze a faint scream was heard, and Caillette, deadly pale, stood next to Fanfaro.

"How you frightened me, you wicked fellow," said the young girl, drawing a deep breath.

"Were you really frightened, Caillette? I thought you would have got used to my exercises long ago."

"I ought to be so," pouted Caillette, pressing her hands to her fast-beating heart, "but every time I see you fly, fear seizes hold of me and I unconsciously cry aloud. Oh, Fanfaro, if an accident should happen to you—I would not survive it."

"Little sister, you are needlessly alarming yourself."

Caillette held down her pretty little head and the hot blood rushed to her velvety cheeks, while her hands nervously clutched each other.

"Caillette, what ails you?" asked Fanfaro.

"Oh—tell me, Fanfaro, why do you always call me 'little sister'?"

"Does the expression displease you, mademoiselle?" laughingly said the young man; "is it the word 'little,' or the word 'sister'?"

"I did not say the expression displeased me."

"Should I call you my big sister?"

"Why do you call me sister at all?"

A cloud spread over the young man's face.

"Did we not grow up together like brother and sister?" he asked; "you were six years old when your father took the deserted boy to his home."

"But you are not my brother," persisted Caillette.

"Perhaps not in the sense commonly associated with the term, but yet I love you like a brother. Doesn't this explanation please you?"

"Yes and no. I wished—"

"What would you wish?"

"I had rather not say it," whispered Caillette, and hastily throwing her arms about Fanfaro she kissed him heartily.

Fanfaro did not return the kiss; on the contrary he turned away and worked at the trapeze cord. He divined what was going on in Caillette, as many words hastily spoken had told the young man that the young girl loved him not as the sister loves the brother, but with a more passionate love. Caillette was still unaware of it, but every day, every hour could explain her feelings to her, and Fanfaro feared that moment, for he—did not love her.

How was this possible? He could hardly account for it himself. Caillette was so charming, and yet he could not think of the lovely creature as his wife; and as an honest man it did not enter his mind to deceive the young girl as to his feelings.

"Caillette," he said, now trying to appear cheerful, "we must hurry up with our preparations, or the performance will begin before we are done."

Caillette nodded, and taking her artificial flowers again in her hand, she began to separate them. At the same time the door opened and Firejaws appeared in company with two ladies. Fanfaro and Caillette glanced at the unexpected guests and heard the elderly lady say:

"Irene, what new caprice is it that brings you here, and what will the countess say if she hears of it?"

"Madame Ursula, spare your curtain lectures," laughed the young lady; "and if you cannot do so, you are free to return to the castle."

"God forbid," exclaimed Madame Ursula in affright.

She was a perfect type of the governess, with long thin features, pointed nose, small lips, gray locks, and spectacles. She wore a hat which fell to her neck, and a long colored shawl hung over her shoulders.

The appearance of the young lady compared very favorably with that of the duenna. A dark-blue riding costume sat tightly on a magnificent form; a brown velvet hat with a long white feather sat coquettishly on her dark locks; fresh red lips, sparkling black eyes, a classically formed nose, and finely curved lips completed her charming appearance. The young lady appeared to be about eighteen or nineteen years old; a proud smile hovered about her lips and the dark eyes looked curiously about.

Fanfaro and Caillette paused at their work, and now the young girl exclaimed in a clear bell-like voice:

"Monsieur Girdel, would it be possible for me to secure a few places for this evening, that is, some that are hid from the rest of the spectators?"

"H'm—that would be difficult," said Girdel, looking about.

"Of course I shall pay extra for the seats," continued the young lady.

"We have only one price for the front rows," said Firejaws, simply; "they cost twenty sous and the rear seats ten sous."

The governess sighed sorrowfully; Irene took an elegant purse from her pocket and pressed it in Girdel's hand.

"Take the money," she said, "and do what I say."

"I will try to get you the seats you desire, mademoiselle," he said politely, "but only for the usual price. Fanfaro," he said, turning to the young man, "can't we possibly fix up a box?"

Fanfaro drew near, and the young lady with open wonder gazed at the beautiful youth.

"What's the trouble, Papa Girdel?" he said.

Before the giant could speak Irene said:

"I do not ask very much. I would like to look at the performance, but naturally would not like to sit with the crowd. You know, peasants and such common people—"

"H'm!" growled Girdel.

"It is impossible," said Fanfaro, coolly.

"Impossible?" repeated the young lady in amazement.

"But, Fanfaro," interrupted Girdel, "I should think we could do it. A few boards, a carpet, and the thing is done."

"Perhaps, but I shall not touch a finger to it."

"You refuse?" exclaimed Irene. "Why, if I may ask?"

"Bravo, Fanfaro!" whispered Caillette, softly.

"Will you answer my question, monsieur—— I do not know your name?" said Irene, impatiently.

"I am called Fanfaro," remarked the young man.

"Well then, Monsieur Fanfaro," began Irene, with a mocking laugh, "why do you refuse to lend your master a helping hand?"

"His master?" replied Girdel, with flaming eyes; "excuse me, mademoiselle, but you have been incorrectly informed."

"Come, Papa Girdel," laughed Fanfaro, "I will tell the young lady my reasons, and I think you will approve of them. The public of 'peasants,' and such 'common people,' who are so repulsive to you, mademoiselle, that you do not desire to touch them with the seam of your dress, admire us and provide us with our sustenance. The hands which applaud us are coarse, I cannot deny it; but in spite of this, we regard their applause just as highly as that given to us by people whose hands are incased in fine kid gloves. To give you an especial box, mademoiselle, would be an insult to the peasants, and why should we do such a thing? Am I right or not?"

While Fanfaro was speaking, Irene looked steadily at his handsome face. The governess muttered something about impertinence. When the young man looked up, Irene softly said:

"That was a sharp lesson."

"No; I merely told you my opinion."

"Good. Now let me give you my answer; I will come this evening!"

"I thought so," replied Fanfaro simply.

---

CHAPTER V

MASTER AND SERVANT

When the young lady and her governess left the booth and wended their way along the country road, the peasants respectfully made way for them and even Bobichel paused in his tricks. Irene held her little head sidewise as she walked through the crowd, while the governess marched with proudly uplifted head.

"Thank God," said Madame Ursula, "there is the carriage."

An elegant equipage came in sight, and a groom led a beautiful racer by the bridle.

"Step in, Madame Ursula," said Irene, laughing, as she vaulted into the saddle.

"But you promised me—"

"To be at the castle the same time as you," added the young lady. "And I shall keep my promise. Forward, Almanser!"

The horse flew along like an arrow, and Madame Ursula, sighing, got into the carriage, which started off in the same direction.

"Who is the handsome lady?" asked Bobichel.

"The richest heiress in Alsace and Lorraine, Mademoiselle de Salves," was the answer.

"Ah, she suits me," said the clown.

"Bah, she is as proud as a peacock," growled an old peasant.

"It is all the same to me," said a second peasant; "she is going to be married to a gentleman in Paris, and there she fits better."

A heavy mail-coach, which halted at the Golden Sun, interrupted the conversation. Mr. Schwan ran to the door to receive the travellers, and at the same moment the man in the brown overcoat appeared at the threshold of the door. Hardly had he seen the mail-coach than he hurried to open the door, and in a cringing voice said:

"Welcome, Monsieur le Marquis; my letter arrived, then, opportunely?"

The occupant of the coach nodded, and leaning on the other's arm, he got out. It was the Marquis of Fougereuse. He looked like a man prematurely old, whose bent back and wrinkled features made him look like a man of seventy, while in reality he was hardly fifty.

In the marquis's company was a servant named Simon, who, in the course of years, had advanced from the post of valet to that of steward.

"What does the gentleman desire?" asked the host, politely.

"Let the dinner be served in my room," ordered Simon; and, giving the marquis a nod, he strode to the upper story in advance of him.

The door which Simon opened showed an elegantly furnished room according to Schwan's ideas, yet the marquis appeared to pay no attention to his surroundings, for he hardly gazed around, and in a state of exhaustion sank into a chair. Simon stood at the window and looked out, while the host hurriedly set the table; when this was finished, Simon winked to Schwan and softly said:

"Leave the room now, and do not enter it until I call for you."

"If the gentlemen wish anything—"

"I know, I know," interrupted Simon, impatiently. "Listen to what I say. You would do well to keep silent about the purpose of my master's visit here. In case any one asks you, simply say you know nothing."

"Neither I do," remarked Schwan.

"So much the better, then you do not need to tell a lie; I advise you in your own interest not to say anything."

The host went away and growled on the stairs:

"Confound big people and their servants. I prefer guests like Girdel and his troupe."

As soon as the door had closed behind Schwan, Simon approached the marquis.

"We are alone, master," he said timidly.

"Then speak; have you discovered Pierre Labarre's residence?"

"Yes, master."

"But you have not gone to see him yet?"

"No, I kept within your orders."

"You were right. I must daze the old scoundrel through my sudden appearance; I hope to get the secret from him."

"Is everything better now, master?" asked Simon, after a pause.

"Better? What are you thinking of?" exclaimed the marquis, angrily. "Every one has conspired against me, and ruin is near at hand."

"But the protection of his majesty—"

"Bah! the protection of the king is useless, if the cabinet hate me. Besides, I have had the misfortune to anger Madame de Foucheres, and since then everything has gone wrong."

"The king cannot have forgotten what you did for him," said Simon.

"A few weeks ago I was driven to the wall by my creditors, and I went to the king and stated my case to him. Do you know what his answer was? 'Monsieur,' he said, earnestly, 'a Fougereuse should not demean himself by begging,' and with that he gave me a draft for eighty thousand francs! What are eighty thousand francs for a man in my position? A drop of water on a hot stove."

Simon nodded.

"But the vicomte," he observed; "his majesty showers favors upon him—"

"I am much obliged for the favors! Yes, my son is spoken of, but in what a way! The vicomte gambles, the vicomte is always in a scrape, the vicomte is the hero of the worst adventures—and kind friends never fail to tell me all about it! I hope his marriage will put a stop to all this business. Have you heard anything further of the De Salves ladies?"

"Not much, but enough. The estate of the young heiress is the largest for miles about, and she herself is a beauty of the first class."

"So much the better. Think of it, four millions! Oh, if this should be lost to us!"

"That will hardly be the case, Monsieur le Marquis; the marriage has been decided upon."

"Certainly, certainly, but then—if the old countess should find out about our pecuniary embarrassments all would be lost. But no, I will not despair; Pierre Labarre must talk, and then—"

"Suppose he won't? Old people are sometimes obstinate."

"Have no fear, Simon, my methods have subdued many wills."

"Yes, yes, you are right, sir," laughed Simon.

"I can rely on you, then?"

"Perfectly so, sir. If it were necessary I would pick it up with ten Pierres!"

"You will find me grateful," said the marquis. "If Pierre Labarre gives the fortune to the Fougereuse and the vicomte becomes the husband of the countess, we will be saved."

"I know that you have brilliant prospects, my lord," replied Simon, "and I hope to win your confidence. The last few weeks I had an opportunity to do a favor to the family of my honored master."

"Really? You arouse my curiosity."

"My lord, Monsieur Franchet honored me with his confidence."

The marquis looked in amazement at his steward; Franchet was the superintendent of police. Recommended by the Duke of Montmorency, he was an especial favorite of the Society of Jesus. The Jesuits had spun their nets over the whole of France, and the secret orders emanated from the Rue de Vaugirard. Franchet had the reins of the police department in his hands, and used his power for the furtherance of the Jesuits' plans. The amazement which seized the marquis when he heard that his steward was the confidant of Franchet, was only natural; that Simon would make a good spy, Fougereuse knew very well.

"Go on," he softly said, when Simon paused.

"Thanks to the superintendent's confidence in me," said Simon, "I am able to secure a much more influential position at court for Monsieur le Marquis than he has at present."

"And how are you going to perform the miracle?" asked the marquis, sceptically.

"By allowing Monsieur le Marquis to take part in my projects for the good of the monarchy."

"Speak more clearly," ordered the marquis, briefly.

"Directly."

Simon went close to his master, and whispered:

"There exists a dangerous conspiracy against the state. People wish to overturn the government and depose the king."

"Folly! that has been often desired."

"But this time it is serious. A republican society—"

"Do not speak to me about republicans!" exclaimed Fougereuse, angrily.

"Let me finish, Monsieur le Marquis. My news is authentic. The attempt will perhaps be made in a few weeks, and then it will be a question of sauve qui peut! Through a wonderful chain of circumstances the plans of the secret society came into my hands. I could go to the king now and name him all the conspirators who threaten his life, but what would be my reward? With a servant little ado is made. His information is taken, its truth secretly looked into and he is given a small sum of money with a letter saying that he must have been deceived. If the Marquis of Fougereuse, on the other hand, should come, he is immediately master of the situation. The matter is investigated, the king calls him his savior, and his fortune is made."

The marquis sprung up in excitement.

"And you are in a position to give me the plans of this society? You know who the conspirators are?" he exclaimed, with sparkling eyes.

"Yes, my lord."

"You would allow me to reap the profit of your discovery?"

"Yes, my lord; I am in the first place a faithful servant."

"Simon, let us stop this talk with turned down cards. What do you wish in return?"

"Nothing, my lord; I depend upon your generosity."

"You shall not have cause to regret it," said the marquis, drawing a deep breath. "Should I succeed in securing an influential position at court, you shall be the first to profit by it."

"Thanks, my lord. I know I can count on your word. To come back to Pierre Labarre, I think we should hunt him up as soon as possible."

"I am ready; where does he live?"

"At Vagney, about three hours distant."

"It is now three o'clock," said the marquis, pulling out his watch. "If we start now, we will be able to return to-night."

"Then I shall order horses at once!"

Simon went away, and the marquis remained behind thinking. No matter where he looked, the past, present and future were alike blue to him.

The old marquis had died in 1817, and the vicomte had immediately set about to have the death of his brother, which had taken place at Leigoutte in 1814, confirmed. Both the wife and the children of Jules Fougere had disappeared since that catastrophe, and so the Vicomte of Talizac, now Marquis of Fougereuse, claimed possession of his father's estate.

But, strange to say, the legacy was far less than the vicomte and Madeleine had expected, and, as they both had contracted big debts on the strength of it, nothing was left to them but to sell a portion of the grounds.

Had the marquis and his wife not lived so extravagantly they would not have tumbled from one difficulty into the other, but the desire to cut a figure in the Faubourg St. Germain consumed vast sums, and what the parents left over, the son gambled away and dissipated.

Petted and spoiled by his mother, the Vicomte de Talizac was a fast youth before he had attained his fifteenth year. No greater pleasure could be given his mother than to tell her, that her son was the leader of the jeunesse dorée. He understood how to let the money fly, and when the marquis, alarmed at his son's extravagance, reproached his wife, the latter cut him short by saying:

"Once for all, Jean, my son was not made to save; he is the heir of the Fougereuse, and must keep up his position."

"But in this way we shall soon be beggars," complained the marquis.

"Is that my fault?" asked Madame Madeleine, sharply. "What good is it that you—put your brother out of the way? His portion of the fortune is kept from you, and if you do not force Pierre Labarre to speak you will have to go without it."

"Then you think Pierre Labarre knows where the major part of my father's fortune is?" asked the marquis.

"Certainly. He and no one else has it in safe keeping, and if you do not hurry up, the old man might die, and we can look on."

The marquis sighed. This was not the first time Madeleine provoked him against Pierre Labarre, but the old man had disappeared since the death of his master, and it required a long time before Simon, the worthy assistant of the marquis, found out his residence.

In the meantime the position of the Fougereuses was getting worse and worse. At court murmurs were heard about swindling speculations with which the marquis's name was connected, and the vicomte did his best to drag the proud old name in the dust. A rescue was at hand, in a marriage of the vicomte with the young Countess of Salves, but this rescue rested on a weak footing, as a new escapade of "The Talizac Buckle," as the heir of the Fougereuse was mockingly called, might destroy the planned union.

Talizac was the hero of all the scandals of Paris; he sought and found his companions in very peculiar regions, and several duels he had fought had made his name, if not celebrated, at least disreputable.

This was the position of the marquis's affairs when Simon found Pierre Labarre; the marquis was determined not to return to Paris without first having settled the affair, and as Simon now returned to the room with the host, his master exclaimed:

"Are the horses ready?"

"No, my lord; the Cure has overflowed in consequence of the heavy rains, and the road from here to Vagney is impassable."

"Can we not reach Vagney by any other way?"

"No, my lord."

"Bah! the peasants exaggerate the danger so as to get increased prices for their services. Have you tried to get horses?"

"Yes, my lord; but unfortunately no one in the village except the host owns any."

"Then buy the host's horses."

"He refuses to give me the animals. An acrobat who came here this morning, and who owns two horses, refused to sell them to me."

"That looks almost like a conspiracy!" exclaimed the marquis.

"I think so too, and if I am permitted an advice—"

"Speak freely; what do you mean?"

"That the best thing we can do is to start at once on foot. If we hurry, we can reach Vagney this evening, and the rest will take care of itself."

"You are right," replied the marquis; "let us go."

Schwan was frightened when he heard of their intention, but the marquis remained determined, and the two were soon on the road.

"If no accident happens," growled the host to himself, "the Cure is a treacherous sheet of water; I wish they were already back again."

---

CHAPTER VI

THE PERFORMANCE

While the marquis and Simon were starting on their journey, Robeckal and Rolla had met on the country road as appointed, and in a long whispered conversation had made their plans. They both hated Girdel, Caillette, Fanfaro and Bobichel, and their idea was to kill both Girdel and Fanfaro that very evening. Caillette could be attended to afterward, and Bobichel was of no importance. Rolla loved Robeckal, as far as it was possible for a person like her to love any one, and desired to possess him. Robeckal, on his side, thought it would not be a bad idea to possess Girdel's business along with its stock, with which he ungallantly reckoned Rolla and Caillette. Caillette especially he admired, but he was smart enough not to say a word to Rolla.

"Enter, ladies and gentlemen, enter," exclaimed Bobichel, as he stood at the box-office and cordially greeted the crowds of people.

"I wonder whether she will come?" muttered Caillette to herself.

"Everything is ready," whispered Robeckal to Rolla; the Cannon Queen nodded and threw dark scowls at Girdel and Fanfaro.

The quick gallop of a horse was now heard, and the next minute Irene de Salves stepped into the booth.

"Really, she has come," muttered Caillette in a daze, as she pressed her hand to her heart and looked searchingly at Fanfaro.

The latter looked neither to the right nor left. He was busy arranging Girdel's weights and iron poles, and Caillette, calmed by the sight, turned around.

When Irene took her seat a murmur ran through the crowded house. The Salves had always occupied an influential position in the country; the great estate of the family insured them power and influence at court, and they were closely attached to the monarchy.

Irene's grandfather, the old Count of Salves, had been guillotined in 1793; his son had served under Napoleon, and was killed in Russia when his daughter had hardly reached her third year. The count's loss struck the countess to the heart; she retired to her castle in the neighborhood of Remiremont and attended to the education of her child.

Irene grew up, and when she often showed an obstinacy and wildness strange in a girl, her mother would say, with tears in her eyes:

"Thank God, she is the picture of her father."

That nothing was done under the circumstances to curb Irene's impetuosity is easily understood. Every caprice of the young heiress was satisfied, and so it came about that the precocious child ruled the castle. She thought with money anything could be done, and more than once it happened that the young girl while hunting trod down the peasants' fields, consoling herself with the thought:

"Mamma gives these people money, and therefore it is all right."

When Irene was about fifteen years old her mother became dangerously ill, and remained several months in bed. She never recovered the use of her limbs, and day after day she remained in her arm-chair, only living in the sight of her daughter. When Irene entered the room the poor mother thought the sun was rising, and she never grew tired of looking in her daughter's clear eyes and listening to her silvery voice. The most singular contradictions reigned in Irene's soul; she could have cried bitterly one minute, and laughed aloud the next; for hours at a time she would sit dreaming at the window, and look out at the autumnal forest scenery, then spring up, hurry out, jump into the saddle and bound over hill and valley. Sometimes she would chase a beggar from the door, the next day overload him with presents; she spent nights at the bedside of a sick village child, and carried an old woman at the risk of her life, from a burning house; in short, she was an original.

A few months before, the lawyer who administered the countess's fortune had appeared at the castle and had locked himself up with her mother. When he left the castle the next day, the young lady was informed that she was to be married off, and received the news with the greatest unconcern. She did not know her future husband, the Vicomte de Talizac, but thought she would be able to get along with him. That she would have to leave her castle and her woods displeased her; she had never had the slightest longing for Paris, and the crowded streets of the capital were intolerable to her; but seeing that it must be she did not complain.

It was a wild caprice which had induced the young girl to attend Girdel's performance; Fanfaro's lecture had angered her at first, but later on, when she thought about it, she had to confess that he was right. She was now looking expectantly at the young man, who was engaged with Bobichel in lighting the few lamps, and when he drew near to her, she whispered to him:

"Monsieur Fanfaro, are you satisfied with me?"

Fanfaro looked at her in amazement, but a cordial smile flew over his lips, and Irene felt that she could stand many more insults if she could see him smile oftener.

Madame Ursula, who sat next to her pupil, moved up and down uneasily in her chair. Irene did not possess the least savoir vivre. How could she think of addressing the young acrobat? and now—no, it surpassed everything—he bent over her and whispered a few words in her ear. The governess saw Irene blush, then let her head fall and nod. What could he have said to her?

Caillette, too, had noticed the young lady address Fanfaro, and she became violently jealous.

What business had the rich heiress with the young man, whom she was accustomed to look upon as her own property?

For Caillette, as well as Madame Ursula, it was fortunate that they had not heard Fanfaro's words, and yet it was only good advice which the young man had given Irene.

"Mademoiselle, try to secure the love of those who surround you," he had earnestly said. And Irene had, at first impatiently and with astonishment, finally guiltily, listened to him. Really, when she thought with what indifference her coming and going in the village was looked upon, and with what hesitation she was greeted, she began to think Fanfaro was right; the young man had been gone long, and yet his words still sounded in her ears. Yes, she would try to secure love.

In the meantime the performance had begun. Girdel played with his weights, Rolla swallowed stones and pigeons, Robeckal knives and swords, and Caillette danced charmingly on the tight-rope. During all these different productions, Fanfaro was continually assisting the performers; he handed Girdel the weights and took them from him; he accompanied Robeckal's sword exercise with hollow beats on a tambourine; he played the violin while Caillette danced on the rope, and acted as Bobichel's foil in his comic acts. Fanfaro himself was not to appear before the second part; for the conclusion of the first part a climax was to be given in which Girdel would perform a piece in which he had everywhere appeared with thunders of applause; the necessary apparatus was being prepared.

This apparatus consisted of a plank supported by two logs which stood upright in the centre of the circus. In the centre of the plank was a windlass, from which hung an iron chain with a large hook.

Fanfaro rolled an empty barrel under the plank and filled it with irons and stones weighing about three thousand pounds. Thereupon the barrel was nailed up and the chain wound about it; strong iron rings, through which the chain was pulled, prevented it from slipping off.

Girdel now walked up. He wore a costume made of black tights, and a chin-band from which an iron hook hung. He bowed to the spectators, seized the barrel with his chin hook and laid himself upon his back. Fanfaro stood next to his foster-father, and from time to time blew a blast with his trumpet. At every tone the heavy cask rose a few inches in the air, and breathlessly the crowd looked at Girdel's performance. The cask had now reached a height on a level with Girdel; the spectators cheered, but suddenly an ominous breaking was heard, and while a cry of horror ran through the crowd, Fanfaro, quick as thought, sprung upon the cask and caught it in his arms.

What had happened? Girdel lay motionless on the ground. Fanfaro let the heavy cask glide gently to the floor and then stood pale as death near the athlete. The chain had broken, and had it not been for Fanfaro's timely assistance Girdel would have been crushed to pieces by the heavy barrel.

The violent shock had thrown Girdel some distance away. For a moment all were too frightened to stir, but soon spectators from all parts of the house came running up and loud cries were heard.

Caillette had thrown herself sobbing at her father's feet; Bobichel and Fanfaro busied themselves trying to raise the fallen man from the ground, and Rolla uttered loud, roaring cries which no doubt were intended to express her grief. Robeckal alone was not to be seen.

"Oh, Fanfaro, is he dead?" sobbed Caillette.

Fanfaro was silent and bent anxiously over Girdel; Rolla, on the other hand, looked angrily at the young man and hissed in his ear:

"Do not touch him. I will restore him myself."

Instead of giving the virago an answer, Fanfaro looked sharply at her. The wretched woman trembled and recoiled, while the young man, putting his ear to Girdel's breast, exclaimed:

"Thank God, he lives!"

Caillette uttered a low moan and became unconscious; two soft hands were laid tenderly on her shoulders, and when the tight-rope dancer opened her eyes, she looked in Irene's face, who was bending anxiously over her.

Girdel still remained motionless; the young countess handed Fanfaro an elegantly carved bottle filled with smelling-salts, but even this was of no avail.

"Wait, I know what will help him!" exclaimed Bobichel, suddenly, and hurrying out he returned with a bottle of strong brandy.

With the point of a knife Fanfaro opened Girdel's tightly compressed lips; the clown poured a few drops of the liquid down his throat, and in a few moments Girdel slowly opened his eyes and a deep sigh came from his breast. When Bobichel put the bottle to his mouth again, he drank a deep draught.

"Hurrah, he is rescued!" exclaimed the clown, as he wiped the tears from his eyes. He then walked to Rolla and mockingly whispered: "This time you reckoned without your host."

Rolla shuddered, and a look flew from Bobichel to Fanfaro.

Robeckal now thought it proper to appear and come from behind a post. He said in a whining voice:

"Thank God that our brave master lives. I dreaded the worst."

Schwan, who was crying like a child, threw a sharp look at Robeckal, and Fanfaro now said:

"Is there no physician in the neighborhood?"

"No, there is no physician in Sainte-Ame, and Vagney is several miles distant."

"No matter, I shall go to Vagney."

"Impossible, the floods have destroyed all the roads; you risk your life, Fanfaro," said Schwan.

"And if that is so, I am only doing my duty," replied the young man. "I owe it to my foster-father that I did not die of cold and starvation."

"You are an honest fellow. Take one of my horses and ride around the hill. It is certainly an out-of-the-way road, but it is safe. Do not spare the horse; it is old, but when driven hard it still does its duty."

"Monsieur Fanfaro," said Irene, advancing, "take my riding horse; it flies like the wind, and will carry you to Vagney in a short time."

"She is foolish," complained Madame Ursula, while Fanfaro accepted Irene's offer without hesitating; "the riding horse is an English thoroughbred and cost two thousand francs."

No one paid any attention to her. Fanfaro swung himself into the saddle, and, throwing a cloak over his shoulders, he cordially said:

"Mademoiselle, I thank you."

"Don't mention it; I am following your advice," laughed Irene.

---

CHAPTER VII

PIERRE LABARRE

The marquis and his steward had likewise hurried along the road to Vagney. They were often forced to halt to find the right direction, as the overflowing Cure had flooded the road at different points, but yet they reached the hill on which the city rests before night.

"The danger is behind us now," said Simon.

A quarter of an hour later they stopped before a small solitary house. Simon shook the knocker, and then they both waited impatiently to get in.

For a short time all was still, and Simon was about to strike again, when a window was opened and a voice asked:

"Who is there?"

The two men exchanged quick glances; Pierre Labarre was at home, and, as it seemed, alone.

"I am the Marquis of Fougereuse," said the marquis, finally.

No sooner had the words been spoken than the window was closed. The bolt of the house door was shoved back in a few moments and a lean old man appeared on the threshold.

Ten years had passed since Pierre Labarre rode alone through the Black Forest, and saved himself from the bullet of the then Vicomte de Talizac by his portfolio. Pierre's hair had grown gray now, but his eyes looked as fearlessly on the world as if he had been thirty.

"Come in, vicomte," said the old man, earnestly.

The marquis and Simon followed Pierre into a small, plainly furnished room; the only decoration was a black piece of mourning almost covering one of the walls. While the old man turned up the small lamp, Simon, without being noticed, closed the door. Pierre pointed to a straw chair and calmly said:

"Monsieur le Vicomte, will you please take a seat?"

The marquis angrily said:

"Pierre Labarre, it surprises me that in the nine years which have passed since the death of my father, the Marquis of Fougereuse, you should have forgotten what a servant's duties are! Since seven years I bear the title of my father; why do you persist in calling me Monsieur le Vicomte?"

Pierre Labarre stroked the white hair from his forehead with his long bony hand and slowly said:

"I know only one Marquis of Fougereuse."

"And who should bear this title if not I?" cried the marquis, angrily.

"The son of the man who was murdered at Leigoutte in the year 1805," replied Pierre.

"Murdered?" exclaimed the marquis, mockingly: "that man fell fighting against the legitimate masters of the country."

"Your brother, Monsieur le Vicomte, was the victim of a well-laid plan; those persons who were interested in his death made their preparations with wonderful foresight."

The marquis frothed with anger, and it did not require very much more until he would have had the old man by the throat. He restrained himself, though; what good would it do him if he strangled Pierre before he knew the secret?

"Let us not discuss that matter," he hastily said; "other matters have brought me here—"

As Pierre remained silent, the marquis continued:

"I know perfectly well that that affair disturbed you. As the old servitor of my father you naturally were attached to the dead man. Yet, who could avert the catastrophe? The father, the mother and the two children were all slain at the same hour by the Cossacks, and—"

"You are mistaken, vicomte," interrupted Pierre, sharply; "the father fell in a struggle with paid assassins, the mother was burned to death, but the children escaped."

"You are fooling, old man," exclaimed the marquis, growing pale; "Jules's two children are dead."

The old man crossed his arms over his breast, and, looking steadily at the marquis, he firmly said:

"Monsieur le Vicomte, the children live."

The marquis could no longer restrain himself.

"You know where they are?" he excitedly exclaimed.

"No, vicomte, but it cheers me to hear from your words that you yourself do not believe the children are dead."

The marquis bit his lips. He had betrayed himself. Simon shrugged his shoulders and thought in his heart that the marquis was not the proper person to intrust with diplomatic missions for the Society of Jesus.

"Monsieur le Marquis," he hurriedly said, "what is the use of these long discussions? Put the question which concerns you most to the obstinate old man, and if he does not answer, I will make him speak."

"You are right," nodded the marquis; and turning to Pierre again he threateningly said:

"Listen, Pierre Labarre; I will tell you the object of my visit. It is a question of the honor of the Fougereuse."

A sarcastic laugh played about the old man's lips, and half muttering to himself, he repeated:

"The honor of the Fougereuse—I am really curious to know what I shall hear."

The marquis trembled, and, casting a timid look at Simon, he said:

"Simon, leave us to ourselves."

"What, Monsieur le Marquis?" asked Simon in amazement.

"You should leave us alone," repeated the marquis, adding in a whisper: "Go, I have my reasons."

"But, Monsieur le Marquis!"

"Do not say anything; go!"

Simon went growlingly away, and opening the door he had so carefully locked, he strode into the hall; taking care, however, to overhear the conversation.

As soon as the nobleman was alone with Pierre, his demeanor changed. He approached close to the old man, took his hand and cordially shook it. Pierre looked at the marquis in amazement, and quickly withdrawing his hand, he dryly said:

"To business, vicomte."

"Pierre," the marquis began, in a voice he tried to render as soft and moving as possible, "you were the confidant of my father; you knew all his secrets, and were aware that he did not love me. Do not interrupt me—I know my conduct was not such as he had a right to expect from a son. Pierre, I was not wicked, I was weak and could not withstand any temptation, and my father often had cause to be dissatisfied with me. Pierre, what I am telling you no human ear has ever heard; I look upon you as my father confessor and implore you not to judge too harshly."

Pierre held his eyes down, and even the marquis paused—he did not look up.

"Pierre, have you no mercy?" exclaimed the nobleman, in a trembling voice.

"Speak further, my lord," said Pierre; "I am listening."

The marquis felt like stamping with his foot. He saw, however, that he had to control himself.

"If you let me implore hopelessly to-day, Pierre," he whispered, gritting his teeth, "the name of Fougereuse will be eternally dishonored."

"The name of Fougereuse?" asked Pierre, with faint malice; "thank God, my lord, that it is not in your power to stain it; you are only the Vicomte de Talizac."

The marquis stamped his foot angrily when he heard the old man's cutting words; it almost surpassed his strength to continue the conversation to an end, and yet it must be if he wished to gain his point.

"I see, I must explain myself more clearly," he said after a pause. "Pierre, I am standing on the brink of a precipice. My fortune and my influence are gone; neither my wife nor my son imagines how I am situated, but if help does not come soon—"

"Well, what will happen?" asked Pierre, indifferently.

"Then I will not be able to keep my coat of arms, which dates from the Crusades, clean and spotless."

"I do not understand you, vicomte. Is it only a question of your fortune?"

"No, Pierre, it is a question of the honor of the Fougereuse. Oh, God! You do not desire to understand me; you want me to disclose my shame. Listen then," continued the marquis, placing his lips to the old man's ears: "to rescue myself from going under, I committed an act of despair, and if assistance does not come to me, the name of the Fougereuse will be exposed to the world, with the brand of the forger upon it."

The old man's face showed no traces of surprise. He kept silent for a moment, and then asked in cold tones:

"Monsieur le Vicomte, what do you wish of me?"

"I will tell you," said the marquis, hastily, while a gleam of hope strayed over his pale face; "I know that my father, to have the major part of his fortune go to his eldest son, made a will and gave it to you—"

"Go on," said Pierre, as the marquis paused.

"The will contains many clauses," continued the nobleman. "My father hid a portion of his wealth, and in his last will named the spot where it lies buried, providing that it should be given to his eldest son or his descendants! Pierre, Jules is dead, his children have disappeared, and therefore nothing hinders you from giving up this wealth. It must be at least two millions. Can you hesitate to give me the money which will save the name of Fougereuse from shame and exposure?"

The marquis hesitated; Pierre rose slowly and, turning to a side wall, grasped the mourning cloth and shoved it aside.

The nobleman wonderingly observed the old man, who now took a lamp and solemnly said:

"Vicomte, look here!"

The marquis approached the wall, and in the dim light of the lamp he saw a tavern sign, upon which a few letters could be seen. The sign had evidently been burned.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, do you know what that is?" asked Pierre, threateningly.

"No," replied the marquis.

"Then I will tell you, vicomte," replied Pierre. "The inscription on this sign once read, 'To the Welfare of France.' Do you still wish me to give you the will and the fortune?"

"I do not understand you," stammered the nobleman, in a trembling voice.

"Really, vicomte, you have a short memory, but I, the old servant of your father, am able to refresh it! This sign hung over the door of the tavern at Leigoutte; your brother, the rightful heir of Fougereuse, was the landlord and the bravest man for miles around. In the year 1805 Jules Fougere, as he called himself, fell. The world said Cossacks had murdered him. I, though, vicomte, I cry it aloud in your ear—his murderer was—you!"

"Silence, miserable lackey!" exclaimed the marquis, enraged, "you lie!"

"No, Cain, the miserable lackey does not lie," replied Pierre, calmly; "he even knows more! In the year 1807 the old Marquis of Fougereuse died; in his last hours his son, the Vicomte of Talizac, sneaked into the chamber of death and, sinking on his knees beside the bedside of the dying man, implored his father to make him his sole heir. The marquis hardly had strength enough to breathe, but his eyes looked threateningly at the scoundrel who dared to imbitter his last hours, and with his last gasp he hurled at the kneeling man these words: 'May you be eternally damned, miserable fratricide!'

"The vicomte, as if pursued by the furies, escaped; the dying man gave one more gasp and then passed away, and I, who was behind the curtains, a witness of this terrible scene—I shall so far forget myself as to deliver to the man who did not spare his father the inheritance of his brother? No, vicomte, Pierre Labarre knows his duty, and if to-morrow the name of the Fougereuse should be trampled in the dust and the present bearer of the name be placed in the pillory as a forger and swindler, then I will stand up and say:

"'He is not a Fougereuse, he is only a Talizac. He murdered the heir, and let no honest man ever touch his blood-stained hand!' Get out of here, Vicomte Talizac, my house has no room for murderers!"

Pale as death, with quaking knees, the marquis leaned against the wall. When Pierre was silent he hissed in a low voice:

"Then you refuse to help me?"

"Yes, a thousand times, yes."

"You persist in keeping the fortune of the Fougereuse for Jules's son, who has been dead a long time?"

"I keep the fortune for the living."

"And if he were dead, nevertheless?"

Pierre suddenly looked up—suppose the murderer were to prove his assertion?

"Would you, if Jules's son were really dead, acknowledge me as the heir?"

"I cannot tell."

"For the last time, will you speak?"

"No; the will and fortune belong to the Marquis of Fougereuse, Jules's son."

"Enough; the will is here in your house; the rest will take care of itself."

Hereupon the marquis gave a penetrating whistle, and when Simon appeared his master said to him:

"Take hold of this scoundrel!"

"Bravo! force is the only thing," cried Simon, as he rushed upon the old man. But he had reckoned without his host; with a shove Pierre Labarre threw the audacious rascal to the ground, and the next minute the heavy old table lay between him and his enemies. Thereupon the old man took a pistol from the wall, and, cocking the trigger, cried:

"Vicomte Talizac, we still have an old score to settle! Years ago you attempted to kill me in the Black Forest; take care you do not arouse my anger again."

The vicomte, who had no weapon, recoiled: Simon, however, seized a pocket-pistol from his breast, and mockingly replied: "Oh, two can play at that game!"

He pressed his hand to the trigger, but Pierre Labarre put his pistol down, and contemptuously said:

"Bah! for the lackey the dog will do. Catch him, Sultan!"

As he said these words he opened a side door; a large Vosges dog, whose glowing eyes and crispy hair made him look like a wolf, sprang upon Simon, and, clutching him by the throat, threw him to the ground.

"Help, my lord marquis!" cried the steward.

"Let go, Sultan," commanded Pierre.

The dog shook his opponent once more and then let him loose.

"Get out of here, miscreants!" exclaimed Pierre now, with threatening voice, as he opened the door, "and never dare to come into my house again."

The wretches ran as if pursued by the Furies. Pierre caressed the dog and then laughed softly; he was rid of his guests.

---

CHAPTER VIII

A MEETING

Fanfaro had urged Irene's horse on at great speed, and while it flew along like a bird, the most stormy feelings raged in his heart.

The gaze of the pretty girl haunted him; he heard her gentle voice and tried in vain to shake off these thoughts. What was he, that he should indulge in such wild fancies? A foundling, the adopted son of an acrobat, who had picked him up upon the way, and yet—

Further and further horse and rider flew; before Fanfaro's eyes stood Girdel's pale, motionless face, and he thought he could hear Caillette's bitter sobs. No, he must bring help or else go under, and ceaselessly, like lightning, he pushed on toward the city.

The marquis and Simon ran breathlessly along. Their only thought was to get far from the neighborhood of the old man and his wolf-hound. Neither of the two spoke a word. The stormy, roaring Cure was forgotten, the danger to life was forgotten; on, on they went, like deer pursued by a pack of bloodthirsty hounds, and neither of them paid any attention to the ominous noise of the overflowing mountain streams.

Suddenly Simon paused and seized the marquis's arm.

"Listen," he whispered, tremblingly, "what is that?"

A thunderous noise, ceaseless, rolling, and crashing, reached their ears from all sides; from all sides frothy, bubbling masses of water dashed themselves against the rocks, and now—now an immense rock fell crashing in the flood, which overflowed into the wide plain like a storm-whipped sea.

Despair seized the men; before, behind, and around them roared and foamed the turbulent waters; they turned to the right, where a huge rock, which still projected above the waves, assured them safety, but just then the marquis struck his foot against a stone—he tumbled and fell with a half-smothered cry for help, "Help—I am sinking!" into the dark depths.

Simon did not think of lending his master a helping hand; he sprang from rock to rock, from stone to stone, and soon reached a high point which protected him from the oncoming waters.

The marquis had been borne a short distance along by the raging waters, until he succeeded in clambering upon a branch of an evergreen tree. The flood still rolled along above his body, but with superhuman strength he managed to keep his head above water and despairingly cry, "Help, Simon! Rescue me!"

Suddenly it seemed to the half-unconscious man as if he heard a human voice calling to him from above:

"Courage—keep up."

With the remainder of his strength the marquis gazed in the direction from which it came, and recognized a human form which seemed to be hanging in the air.

"Attention, I will soon be with you," cried the voice, now coming nearer.

The marquis saw the form spring, climb, and then the water spurted up and the marquis lost consciousness.

Fanfaro, for naturally he was the rescuer, who appeared at the hour of the greatest need, now stood up to his knees in water, and had just stretched his hand out toward the marquis, when the latter, with a groan, let go of the tree branch, and the next minute he was borne along by the turbulent waters.

Fanfaro uttered a slight cry, but he did not hesitate a moment. Plunging into the seething waves, he parted them with muscular strokes, and succeeded in grasping the drowning man. Throwing his left arm about him, he swam to the rocky projection upon which the evergreen tree stood. Inch by inch he climbed toward the pathway which was upon the top of the hill. Perspiration dripped from his forehead, and his wind threatened to give out, but Fanfaro went on, and finally stood on top. Putting the marquis softly on the ground, Fanfaro took out a small pocket-lantern which he always carried with him. With great trouble he lighted the wet wick, and then let the rays fall full on the pale face of the motionless man. Seized by an indescribable emotion, the young man leaned over the marquis. Did he suspect that the man whom he had rescued from the stormy waters, at the risk of his life, was the brother of the man who had taken mercy on the helpless orphan, and was at the same time his father? The marquis now opened his eyes, heaved a deep sigh, and looked wildly around him.

"Where am I?" he faintly stammered. "The water—ah!"

"You are saved," said Fanfaro, gently.

The sound of the voice caused all the blood to rush to the marquis's heart.

"Did you save me?"

"Yes."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Fanfaro, and I am a member of Girdel's troupe, which is at present in Sainte-Ame. Can you raise yourself?"

With the young man's assistance, the marquis raised himself up, but uttered a cry of pain when he put his feet on the ground.

"Are you wounded?" asked Fanfaro, anxiously.

"No, I do not think so; the water knocked me against trees and stones, and my limbs hurt me from that."

"That will soon pass away. Now put your arm about my neck and trust yourself to me; I will bring you to a place of safety."

The marquis put his arms tightly about the young man's neck, and the latter strode along the narrow pathway which led to the heights.

Soon the road became broader, the neighing of a horse was heard, and drawing a deep breath the young man stood still.

"Now we are safe," he said, consolingly; "I will take you on the back of my horse, and in less than a quarter of an hour we will be in Sainte-Ame. I rode from there to Vagney, to get a physician for my foster-father, Girdel, who injured himself, but unfortunately he was not at home, and so I had to return alone. Get up, the road is straight ahead, and the mountains now lie between us and the water."

In the meantime Fanfaro had helped the marquis on the back of the horse, and now he raised his lantern to untie the knot of the rope with which he had bound the animal to a tree. The light of the lamp fell full upon his face, and the marquis uttered a slight cry; his rescuer resembled in a startling way the old Marquis of Fougereuse.

Had he Jules's son before him?

A satanic idea flashed through the brain of the noble rogue, and when Fanfaro, after putting out his lantern, attempted to get on the horse's back, the marquis pressed heavily against the horse's flank and they were both off like the wind in the direction of the village.

Fanfaro, who only thought that the horse had run away with the marquis, cried in vain to the rider, and so he had to foot the distance, muttering as he went:

"If the poor fellow only doesn't get hurt; he is still feeble, and the horse needs a competent rider."

---

CHAPTER IX

THE GRATITUDE OF A NOBLEMAN

Fanfaro was hardly a hundred feet away from Sainte-Ame, when Girdel opened his eyes and looked about him.

"What, my little Caillette is weeping!" he muttered, half-laughing. "Child, you probably thought I was dead?"

"Oh, God be praised and thanked!" cried Caillette, springing up and falling upon her father's neck.

Bobichel almost sprung to the ceiling, and Schwan, between laughing and crying, exclaimed:

"What a fright you gave us, old boy. The poor fellow rode away in the night to get a physician, and—"

"A physician? For me?" laughed Girdel. "Thank God, we are not so far gone."

"But you were unconscious more than half an hour; we became frightened, and Fanfaro rode to Vagney."

"He rode? On our old mare, perhaps? If he only returns," said Girdel, anxiously. "The water must be dangerous about Vagney."

"He has a good horse; the Countess of Salves gave Fanfaro her thoroughbred," said Bobichel.

"Ah! that is different. Now, children, let me alone. Cousin Schwan, send me the two men whom I am to bring to Remiremont to-morrow; I must speak to them."

Caillette, Bobichel, Schwan and Rolla went away. In the dark corridor a figure passed by Rolla, and a hoarse voice said:

"Well?"

"All for nothing," growled Rolla; "he lives, and is as healthy as a fish in the water."

"You don't say so," hissed Robeckal.

"It was your own fault," continued the virago. "A good stab in the right place, and all is over; but you have no courage."

"Silence, woman!" growled Robeckal. "I have attended to that in another way; he shall not trouble us long. Tell me, does he ever receive any letters?"

"A great pile," said Rolla.

"And you cannot tell me their contents?"

"No; I never read them."

This discretion had good grounds. Rolla could not read, but she did not wish to admit it to him. Whether Robeckal suspected how things were, we do not know; anyhow, he did not pursue the subject any further, but said:

"Schwan brought two men to Girdel a little while ago; come with me to the upper story; we can listen at the door there and find out what they say."

When Robeckal and Rolla, after listening nearly two hours, slipped downstairs they had heard all that Girdel and the two gentlemen had said. They knew Fanfaro had been deputed to take important papers to Paris and give them to a certain person who had been designated; Girdel had guaranteed that Fanfaro would fill the mission promptly.

When Robeckal returned to the inn, Simon rushed in pale and trembling. He could hardly reply to the landlord's hurried questions; the words, "In the water—the flood—dead—my poor master!" came from his trembling lips, and immediately afterward he sank to the floor unconscious.

While Schwan was busy with him, the sound of a horse's hoofs was heard.

"Thank God, here comes Fanfaro!" exclaimed Bobichel and Caillette, simultaneously, and they both rushed to the door.

Who can describe their astonishment when they saw the marquis, dripping with water and half frozen, get down from the horse and enter the room?

"Where is Fanfaro?" asked Bobichel, anxiously.

"He will soon be here," replied the marquis; "the horse ran away with me, and I could not hold him."

"Then the brave fellow is not injured?" asked Schwan, vivaciously.

"God forbid; quick, give me a glass of brandy and lead me to Girdel; I must speak to him at once."

While the host went to get the brandy, Simon and the marquis exchanged looks; the next minute Schwan returned and the nobleman drank a large glass of brandy at a gulp.

"Ah, that warms," he said, smacking his lips, "and now let us look for Girdel."

As soon as the marquis left the room, Robeckal drew near to the steward and whispered:

"Follow me, I must speak to you."

They both went into the hall and held a conversation in low tones.

Suddenly a cry of joy reached their ears, and the next minute they saw Bobichel, who, in his anxiety about Fanfaro, had hurried along the road, enter the house with the young man.

"There he is," whispered Robeckal, "God knows how it is, but neither fire nor water seems to have the slightest effect on him."

"We will get rid of him, never fear," said Simon, wickedly.

From the upper story loud cries were heard. Rolla danced with a brandy bottle in her hand, and Girdel was asking himself how he ever could have made such a low woman his wife.

A knock was now heard on his door; Girdel cried, "Come in," in powerful tones, and a man, a stranger to him, crossed the threshold.

"Have I the honor of addressing Monsieur Girdel?" the stranger politely asked.

"At your service; that is my name."

"I am the Marquis of Fougereuse, and would like to have an interview with you."

"Take a seat, my lord marquis, and speak," said Girdel, looking expectantly at his visitor.

"I will not delay you long, Monsieur Girdel," the marquis began; "I know you have met with a misfortune—"

"Oh, it was not serious," said the athlete.

"Monsieur Girdel," continued the nobleman, "about one hour ago I was in peril of my life, and one of your men rescued me at the risk of his."

"You don't say so? How did it happen?" cried Girdel.

"I was in danger of drowning in the Cure; a young man seized me from out of the turbulent waters and carried me in his arms to a place of safety."

"Ah, I understand, the young man of whom you spoke—"

"Was your son, Fanfaro!"

"I thought so," said the athlete; "if Fanfaro is alone only one second, he generally finds time to save somebody. Where is the boy now?"

"He will be here soon. He asked me to get on the back of the horse with him. I got up first, and hardly had the fiery steed felt some one on his back than he flew away like an arrow. I was too feeble to check the horse, and so my rescuer was forced to follow on foot."

"Fanfaro doesn't care for that; he walks miles at a time without getting tired, and in less than fifteen minutes he will be here."

"Then it is the right time for me to ask you a few questions which I do not wish him to hear. You are probably aware what my position at court is?"

"Candidly, no; the atmosphere of the court has never agreed with me."

"Then let me tell you that my position is a very influential one, and consequently it would be easy for me to do something for you and your—son."

The marquis pronounced the word "son" in a peculiar way, but Girdel shook his head.

"I wish Fanfaro was my son," he sighed; "I know of no better luck."

"If the young man is not your son," said the marquis, "then he would need my assistance the more. His parents are, perhaps, poor people, and my fortune—"

"Fanfaro has no parents any more, my lord marquis."

"Poor young man!" said the nobleman, pityingly; "but what am I saying?" he interrupted himself with well-played anger. "Fanfaro has no doubt found a second father in you; I would like to wager that you were a friend of his parents, and have bestowed your friendship upon the son."

"You are mistaken, my lord; I found Fanfaro on the road."

"Impossible! What singular things one hears! Where did you find the boy?"

"Ah! that is an old story, but if it interests you I will relate it to you: One cold winter day, I rode with my wagon—in which was, besides my stock, my family and some members of my troupe—over a snow-covered plain in the Vosges, when I suddenly heard loud trumpet tones. At first I did not pay any attention to them. It was in the year 1814, and such things were not uncommon then. However, the tones were repeated, and I hurried in the direction from whence they proceeded. I shall never forget the sight which met me. A boy about ten years of age lay unconscious over a dead trumpeter, and his small hands were nervously clutched about the trumpet. It was plain that he had blown the notes I had heard and then fallen to the ground in a faint. I took the poor little fellow in my arms; all around lay the bodies of many French soldiers, and the terrors of the neighborhood had no doubt been too much for the little rogue. We covered him in the wagon with warm cloaks, and because the poor fellow had blown such fanfares upon the trumpet, we had called him Fanfaro."

"Didn't he have any name?" asked the marquis, nervously.

"That, my dear sir, wasn't so easy to find out. Hardly had we taken the boy to us than he got the brain-fever, and for weeks lay on the brink of the grave. When he at length recovered, he had lost his memory entirely, and only after months did he regain it. At last he could remember the name of the village where he had formerly lived—"

"What was the name of this village?" interrupted the marquis, hurriedly.

"Leigoutte, my lord."

The nobleman had almost uttered a cry, but he restrained himself in time, and Girdel did not notice his guest's terrible excitement.

"His name, too, and those of his parents and sister, we found out after a time," continued Girdel; "his father's name was Jules, his mother's Louise, his sister's Louison, and his own Jacques. On the strength of his information I went to Leigoutte, but found out very little. The village had been set on fire by the Cossacks and destroyed. Of the inhabitants only a few women and children had been rescued, and the only positive thing I heard was that Jacques's mother had been burned to death in a neighboring farmhouse. The men of Leigoutte had made a stand against the Cossacks, but had been fairly blown into the air by them. I returned home dissatisfied. Fanfaro remained with us; he learned our tricks, and we love him very much. Where he managed to procure the knowledge he has is a riddle to me; he never went to a regular school, and yet he knows a great deal. He is a genius, my lord marquis, and a treasure for our troupe."

Cold drops of perspiration stood on the nobleman's forehead. No, there was no longer any doubt: Fanfaro was his brother's son!

"Have you never been able to find out his family name?" he asked, after a pause.

"No; the Cossacks set fire to the City Hall at Weissenbach and all the records there were destroyed. An old shepherd said he had once been told that Jules was the scion of an old noble family. Anything positive on this point, I could not find out—I—"

At this point the door was hastily opened and Fanfaro entered. He rushed upon Girdel and enthusiastically cried:

"Thank God, Papa Girdel, that you are well again."

"You rascal, you," laughed Girdel, looking proudly at the young man. "You have found time again to rescue some one."

"Monsieur Fanfaro," said the marquis now, "permit me once more to thank you for what you have done for me. I can never repay you."

"Don't mention it, sir," replied Fanfaro, modestly, "I have only done my duty."

"Well I hope if you should ever need me you will let me know. The Marquis of Fougereuse is grateful."

When the marquis went downstairs shortly afterward, he found Simon awaiting him.

"Simon," he said, hurriedly, "do you know who Fanfaro is?"

"No, my lord."

"He is the son of my brother, Jules de Fougereuse."

"Really?" exclaimed Simon, joyfully, "that would be splendid."

"Listen to my plan; the young man must die, but under such circumstances as to have his identity proved, so that Pierre Labarre can be forced to break his silence. You understand me, Simon?"

"Perfectly so, my lord; and I can tell you now that I already know the means and way to do the job. A little while ago a man, whom I can trust, informed me that Fanfaro is going to play a part in the conspiracy against the government which I have already spoken to you about."

"So much the better; but can he be captured in such a way that there will be no outlet for him?"

"I hope so."

"Who gave you this information?" asked the marquis, after Simon had told him all that Robeckal had overheard.

"A man called Robeckal; he is a member of Girdel's troupe."

"Good."

The marquis took out a note-book, wrote a few lines, and then said:

"Here, take this note, Simon, and accompany Robeckal at once to Remiremont. There you will go to the Count of Vernac, the police superintendent, and give him the note. The count is a faithful supporter of the monarchy, and will no doubt accede to my request to send some policemen here this very night to arrest Girdel and Fanfaro. The rest I shall see to."

"My lord, I congratulate you," said Simon, respectfully.

---

CHAPTER X

ESCAPED

Before Robeckal had gone with Simon, he had hurried to Rolla and told her that he was going to Remiremont now to get some policemen.

"Our score will be settled now on one board," he said, with a wink.

The fat woman had looked at him with swimming eyes, and in a maudlin voice replied:

"That—is—right—all—must—suffer—Caillette—also!"

"Certainly, Caillette, too," replied Robeckal, inwardly vowing to follow his own ideas with respect to this last, and then he hurried after the steward.

Caillette and Rolla slept in the same room; when the young girl entered it she saw the Cannon Queen sitting in an intoxicated condition at the table surrounded by empty bottles. The horrible woman greeted the young girl with a coarse laugh, and as Caillette paid no attention to her, Rolla placed her arms upon the table, and threateningly exclaimed:

"Don't put on such airs, you tight-rope princess; what will you do when they take your Fanfaro away?"

"Take Fanfaro away? What do you mean?" asked Caillette, frightened, overcoming her repulsion, and looking at Rolla.

"Ha! ha! ha! Now the pigeon thaws—yes, there is nothing like love," mocked the drunken woman. "Ah, the policemen won't let themselves be waited for; Robeckal and the others will look out for that."

Caillette, horror-stricken, listened to the virago's words. Was she right, and were her father and Fanfaro in danger?

"I am going to sleep now," said Rolla, "and when I wake up Fanfaro and Girdel will have been taken care of."

Leaning back heavily in the chair, the woman closed her eyes. Caillette waited until loud snoring told her Rolla was fast asleep, and then she silently slipped out of the room, locked it from the outside, and tremblingly hurried to wake her father.

As she reached Girdel's door, a dark form, which had been crouching near the threshold, arose.

"Who's there?" asked Caillette softly.

"I, little Caillette," replied Bobichel's voice. "I am watching, because I do not trust Robeckal."

"Oh, Bobichel, there is danger. I must waken father at once."

"What is the matter?"

"Go, wake father and tell him I must speak to him; do not lose a minute," urged Caillette.

The clown did not ask any more questions. He hurried to wake Girdel and Fanfaro, and then called Caillette. The young girl hastily told what she had heard. At first Girdel shook his head doubtingly, but he soon became pensive, and when Caillette finally said Rolla even muttered in her sleep about an important conspiracy and papers, he could no longer doubt.

"What shall we do?" he asked, turning to Fanfaro.

"Fly," said the young man quickly. "We owe our lives and our strength to the fatherland and the good cause; to stay here would be to put them both rashly at stake. Let us pray to God that it even now may not be too late."

"So be it, let us fly. We can leave the wagon go, and take only the horses. Is Robeckal at home?" asked Girdel, suddenly turning to Bobichel.

"No, master, he has gone."

"Then forward," said the athlete firmly. "I will take Caillette on my horse and you two, Fanfaro and Bobichel, mount the second animal."

"No, master, that won't do," remarked the clown, "you alone are almost too heavy for a horse; Fanfaro must take Caillette upon his and I shall go on foot. Do not say otherwise. My limbs can stand a great deal, and I won't lose sight of you. Where are we going?"

"We must reach Paris as soon as possible," said Fanfaro. "Shall we wake the landlord?"

"Not for any money," said Girdel; "we would only bring him into trouble."

"You are right," replied Fanfaro; "we must not open the house door either, we must go by way of the window."

"That won't be very difficult for such veterans as we are," laughed Girdel. "Bobichel, get down at once and saddle the horses. You will find the saddles in the large box in the wagon. But one minute—what will become of my wife?"

The others remained silent, only Fanfaro said:

"Her present condition is such that we cannot take her along; and, besides, there is no danger in store for her."

Girdel scratched his head in embarrassment.

"I will look after her," he finally said, and hurried out.

In about two minutes he returned.

"She is sleeping like a log," he said; "we must leave her here. Schwan will take care of her."

In the meantime Bobichel had tied the bedclothes, opened the window, and fastened the clothes to the window hinges. He then whispered jovially: "Good-evening, ladies and gentlemen," and let himself slide down the improvised rope. Caillette followed the clown, then came Girdel, and finally Fanfaro.

"Let the clothes hang," ordered Girdel.

They all crept softly to the stable and in about five minutes were on the street.

Bobichel ran alongside Girdel. Suddenly he stopped and hurriedly said:

"I hear the sound of horses' hoofs; we escaped just in time."

The noise Bobichel heard really came from the policemen, who had hurried from Remiremont to Sainte-Ame and were now surrounding the Golden Sun. Robeckal and Simon were smart enough to keep in the background. The brigadier, a veteran soldier, knocked loudly at the house-door, and soon the host appeared and asked what was the matter.

"Open in the name of the king," cried the brigadier impatiently.

"Policemen, oh my God!" groaned Schwan, more dead than alive. "There must be a mistake here."

"Haven't arrested any one yet who didn't say the same thing," growled the brigadier. "Quick, open the door and deliver up the malefactors."

"Whom shall I deliver?" asked Schwan, terror-stricken.

"Two acrobats, named Girdel and Fanfaro," was the answer.

"Girdel and Fanfaro? Oh, Mr. Brigadier, you are mistaken. What are they accused of?"

"Treason! They are members of a secret organization, which is directed against the monarchy."

"Impossible; it cannot be!" groaned Schwan.

"I will conduct the gentlemen," said Robeckal, coming forward.

"Scoundrel!" muttered the host, while Robeckal preceded the policemen up the stairs, and pointed to Girdel's room.

"Open!" cried the brigadier, knocking at the door with the hilt of his sword.

As no answer came, he burst open the door, and then uttered an oath.

"Confound them—they have fled!" exclaimed Robeckal.

"Yes, the nest is empty," said the brigadier; "look, there at the window, the bed-sheets are still hanging with which they made their escape."

"You are right," growled Robeckal; "but they cannot be very far off yet."

"No; quick—to horse!" cried the brigadier to his men; and while they got into the saddle, Robeckal looked in the stables and discovered the loss of the two horses. The tracks were soon found, and the pursuers, with Robeckal at the head, quickly gained the forest. But here something singular happened. The brigadier's horse stumbled and fell, the horse of the second policeman met with the same accident, and before the end of two seconds two more horses, together with their riders, lay on the ground. All four raged and cried in a horrible manner; one of them had broken a leg, the brigadier's sword had run into his left side, and two horses were so badly hurt that they had to be killed on the spot.

"The devil take them!" cried Robeckal, who was looking about with his lantern to discover the cause of these accidents, "the scoundrels have drawn a net of thin cords from one tree to the other."

"Yes, the scoundrels happened to be smarter than other people," came a mocking voice from the branch of an oak-tree, and looking up, Robeckal saw the clown, who, with the quickness of an ape, had now slid down the tree and disappeared in the bush.

"Villain!" exclaimed Robeckal, angrily, and taking a gun from one of the policemen he fired a shot at Bobichel.

Did the shot take effect?

---

CHAPTER XI

IN PARIS

On the 29th of February, 1824, a great crowd of laughing, noisy people wandered up and down the streets of the French capital, for it was the last Sunday of the carnival; the boulevards in the neighborhood of the Palais-Royal especially being packed with promenaders of both sexes.

An elegant carriage drawn by two thoroughbreds halted at the edge of the pavement, and three young men got out. They had cigars in their mouths, which at that time was something extraordinary; white satin masks hid their faces, and dark (so-called) Venetian mantles, with many colored bands on their shoulders, covered their forms.

The young men answered the jokes and guys of the crowd in a jolly manner, and then took seats in the Cafe de la Rotonde. Darkness came on, the lights gleamed, and one of the young men said, sorrowfully:

"The carnival is coming to an end; it's a great pity—we had such fun."

"Fernando, are you getting melancholy?" laughed the second young man.

"Fernando is right," remarked the third; "the last day of the carnival is so dull and spiritless that one can plainly see it is nearing the end. For more than two hours we have been strolling about the boulevards, but have not met with one adventure. Everywhere the stereotyped faces and masks; the same jokes as last year; even the coffee and the cake look stale to me. Arthur, don't you agree with me?"

"You demand too much," cried Arthur, indifferently; "we still have the night before us, and it would not be good if we could not find something to make the hours fly. As a last resort we could get up a scandal."

"Hush! that smells of treason. The dear mob nowadays is not so easy to lead, and the police might take a hand in the fight," warned Fernando.

"So much the better; the scandal would be complete then. The police are naturally on our side, and our motto—'after us the deluge'—has always brought us luck."

The young men laughed loudly. They were evidently in good humor. The one whom his companions called Arthur was the son of the Count of Montferrand, who made a name for himself in the House of Deputies on account of his great speech in favor of the murderers of Marshal Brune; the second, Gaston de Ferrette, was related to the first families of the kingdom; he had accompanied the Duke of Angoulême to Spain, and was known as an expert fencer. He was hardly twenty years of age, but had already come out victorious in several duels.

The third young man was a foreigner, but having the very best recommendations he was soon at home in the capital. His name was Fernando de Velletri, and he was by birth an Italian of the old nobility; he was received in all the palaces of the Faubourg St. Germain, and was acquainted with everything that went on in the great world.

"Where is Frederic?" asked Arthur now.

"Really, he seems to have forgotten us," replied Fernando, "I cannot understand what delays him so long."

"Stop!" exclaimed Gaston de Ferrette. "Come to think of it, I understand that he was going to accompany the Countess of Salves to some ceremony at Notre Dame."

"Poor fellow!"

"He is not to be pitied. The Countess of Salves is a charming girl."

"Bah, she is going to become his wife."

"So much the more reason that he should love her before the marriage; afterward, it isn't considered good form to have such feelings."

"He loves her, then?"

"I am very grateful to you, gentlemen; even in my absence you occupy yourselves with my affairs," said a clear, sharp voice now.

"Frederic, at last; where have you been?"

"Oh, I have been standing over five minutes behind you, and heard your conversation."

"Has it insulted you?" asked Gaston, laughing.

Frederic did not answer immediately; he let his gaze fall pityingly over his companion, and Gaston hastily said:

"Really, Frederic, your splendor throws us in the shade; look at him, he has no mask, and is dressed after the latest fashion."

The costume of the last comer was, indeed, much more elegant than those of the other young men. A long overcoat, made of fine brown cloth, sat tightly about the body and reached to the knees; the sleeves, wide at the shoulder, narrowed down toward the wrists and formed cuffs, which fell over the gloved hand. A white satin handkerchief peeped out coquettishly from the left breast pocket. White trousers, of the finest cloth, reached to the soles of his shoes, which were pointed and spurred. A tall, silk hat, with an almost invisible brim, covered his head.

Frederic allowed himself to be admired by his friends, and then said:

"Take my advice and put off your masks at once, and dress yourselves as becomes young noblemen; let the mob run around with masks on."

"Frederic is right," said Gaston, "let us hurry to do so."

"I shall await you here and bring you then to Robert; or better still, you can meet me at the Cafe Valois."

The three masks left, and the Vicomte Talizac, for he was the last comer, remained alone.

His external appearance was very unsympathetic. The sharply-cut face had a disagreeable expression, the squinting eyes and rolling look were likewise repulsive, and if his back was not as much bent as usual, it was due to the art of Bernard, the tailor of the dandies.

The Cafe de Valois, toward which the vicomte was now going, was generally the meeting-place of old soldiers, and the dandies called it mockingly the cafe of the grayheads. Rumor had it that it was really the meeting-place of republicans, and it was a matter of surprise why Delevan, the head of the police department, never took any notice of these rumors.

When the vicomte entered the gallery of the cafe, he looked observingly about him, and then approached a group of young men who all wore plain black clothing and whose manners were somewhat military.

The young men moved backward at both sides when the vicomte approached them. Not one of them gazed at the dandy. The latter, however, stepped up to one of them, and laying his hand lightly upon his shoulder, said:

"Sir, can I see you for a moment?"

The person addressed, a man about twenty-five years of age with classically formed features, turned hurriedly around; seeing the vicomte, he said in a cold voice:

"I am at your service, sir."

The vicomte walked toward the street and the man followed. On a deserted corner they both stopped, and the vicomte began:

"Monsieur, first I must ask you to tell me your name; I am the Vicomte de Talizac."

"I know it," replied the young man coldly.

"So much the better; as soon as I know who you are I will be able to tell whether I should speak to you as an equal or punish you as a lackey."

The young man grew pale but he replied with indomitable courage:

"I don't know what we two could ever have in common."

"Sir!" exclaimed Talizac angrily, "in a month I shall lead the Countess de Salves to the altar; therefore it will not surprise you if I stigmatize your conduct as outrageous. You rode to-day at noon past the De Salves palace, and threw a bouquet over the wall and into the garden."

"Well, what else?"

"You have probably good reasons not to give your name, the name of an adventurer, but in spite of all I must inform you that in case you repeat the scene I shall be obliged to punish you. I—"

The vicomte was unable to proceed; the iron fist of the young man was laid upon his shoulder, and so powerful was the pressure of his hand that the vicomte was hardly able to keep himself on his feet. The young man gave a whistle, upon which signal the friends who had followed him hurried up. When they were near by, Talizac's opponent said:

"Vicomte, before I provoke a scene, I wish to lay the matter before my friends; have patience for a moment. Gentlemen," he said, turning to his companions, "this man insulted me. Shall I fight a duel with him? It is the Vicomte de Talizac."

"The Vicomte de Talizac?" replied one of the men addressed, who wore the cross of the Legion of Honor. "With a Talizac one does not fight duels."

The vicomte uttered a hoarse cry of rage, and turned under the iron fist which was still pressed on his shoulder and held him tight; the young man gave him a look which made his cowardly heart quake, and earnestly said:

"Vicomte, we only fight with people we honor. If you do not understand my words, ask your father the meaning of them; he can give you the necessary explanations. Perhaps a day may come when I myself may not refuse to oppose you, and then you may kill me if you are able to do so! I have told you now what you ought to know, and now go and look up your dissipated companions, and take your presence out of the society of respectable people."

Wild with rage, his features horribly distorted, unable to utter a word, the Vicomte de Talizac put his hand in his pocket, and threw a pack of cards at his opponent's face. The young man was about to rush upon the nobleman, but one of his companions seized his arm and whispered:

"Don't be too hasty, you must not put your life and liberty at stake just now—you are not your own master;" saying which, he pointed to three masked faces who had just approached the group.

The young man shook his head affirmatively, and Talizac took advantage of this to disappear. He had hardly gone a few steps, when an arm was thrown under his own and a laughing voice exclaimed:

"You are punctual, vicomte; your friends can vouch for that."

The vicomte kept silent, and Fernando, lowering his voice, continued:

"What was the difficulty between you and the young man? You wanted to kill him. Are you acquainted with him?"

"No, I hardly know him; you overheard us?"

"Excuse me, my dear fellow; your opponent spoke so loudly that we were not obliged to exert ourselves to hear his estimate of you. Anyhow I only heard the conclusion of the affair; you will no doubt take pleasure in relating the commencement to me!"

The words, and the tone in which they had been said, wounded Talizac's self-love, and he sharply replied:

"If it pleases me, Signor Velletri!"

The Italian laughed, and then said, in an indifferent tone:

"My dear vicomte, in the position in which you find yourself, it would be madness for me to imagine that you intend to insult me, and therefore I do not consider your words as spoken."

"What do you mean, signor?"

"Oh, nothing, except that yesterday was the day of presentation for a certain paper, which you, in a fit of abstraction, no doubt, signed with another name than your own!"

The vicomte grew pale, and he mechanically clinched his fist.

"How—do—you—know—this?" he finally stammered.

The Italian drew an elegant portfolio from his pocket, and took a piece of stamped paper from it.

"Here is the corpus delicti," he said, laughing.

"But how did it get into your hands?"

"Oh, in a very simple way: I bought and paid for it."

"You, signor? For what purpose?"

"Could it not be for the purpose of doing you a service?"

The vicomte shrugged his shoulders; he had no faith in his fellow-men.

"You are right," said Fernando, replying to the dumb protest, "I will be truthful with you. I would not want the Vicomte de Talizac to go under, because my fate is closely attached to his, and because the vicomte's father, the Marquis de Fougereuse, has done great service for the cause I serve. Therefore if I earnestly ask you not to commit such follies any more, you will thank me for it and acknowledge that this small reciprocation is worth the favor I am showing you."

"Then you will return the paper to me?" cried the vicomte, stretching out his hand for it.

"No, the paper does not belong to me."

"But you just said—"

"That I bought it, certainly. I paid the price for it only because I received the amount from several friends."

"And these friends—"

"Are the defenders and supporters of the monarchy; they will not harm you."

Talizac became pensive.

"Let us not speak about the matter," continued Fernando; "I only wished to show you that I have a right to ask your confidence, and I believe you will no longer look upon it as idle curiosity if I ask you what business you had with that man."

The Italian's words confirmed to Talizac the opinion of the world that Velletri was a tool of the Jesuits. However, he had done him a great service, and he no longer hesitated to inform Velletri of the occurrence.

"I accompanied the Countess de Salves and her daughter to a party at Tivoli," he began, as he walked slowly along with his companion, "and we were enjoying ourselves, when suddenly loud cries were heard and the crowd rushed wildly toward the exits. The platform where dancing was indulged in gave way, and the young countess, in affright, let go of my arm and ran into the middle of the crowd. I hurried after her, but could not catch up with her; she was now in the neighborhood of the scene of the accident, and, horror-stricken, I saw a huge plank which hung directly over her head get loose and tumble down. I cried aloud; the plank would crush her to death. At the right minute I saw a man grasp the plank and hold it in the air. How he did it I have never been able to tell; the plank weighed at least several hundred pounds, but he balanced it as if it had been a feather. The young countess had fainted away. When I finally reached her, the young man held her in his arms, and from the way in which she looked at him when she opened her eyes, I at once concluded that that wasn't the first time she had seen him. The old countess thanked him with tears in her eyes; I asked him for his name, for I had to find out first if it were proper for me to speak with him. He gave me no answer, but disappeared in the crowd. The only reward he took was a ribbon which the lady wore on her bosom and which he captured. The ribbon had no intrinsic value, but yet I thought it my duty to inform Irene about it. Do you know what answer she gave me?"

"No," replied Velletri, calmly.

"None at all. She turned her back to me."

"Impossible," observed the Italian, laughing; "well, I suspect that the knight without fear or reproach followed up the thing?"

"He did; he permits himself to ride past the Salves's palace every day, throws flowers over the wall, and I really believe the young countess picks up the flowers and waits at the window until he appears. Should I stand this?"

"No," replied Velletri, laughing; "you must, under all circumstances, get rid of this gallant. For your consolation, I can tell you it is not a difficult job."

"Then you know the man? I sent my servant after him, but could not find out anything further than that he visits the Cafe Valois every day at this hour, and that is the reason I went there to-day."

"Without having been able to accomplish your object. My dear vicomte, I place my experience at your service. The man is no rival, cannot be any; and if the young countess has built any air-castles in her romantic brain, I can give you the means to crumble them to pieces."

"And the means?"

"Simply tell her the name of her admirer."

"Yes; but he didn't mention his name to me."

"That does not surprise me. He was formerly an acrobat, and his name is Fanfaro."

The vicomte laughed boisterously. Fanfaro, a former acrobat, ran after young, noble ladies—it was too comical!

"So that is why the young man did not wish to fight me," he finally cried; "it doesn't surprise me any more, and is cowardly too."

The Italian, who had witnessed the scene in which Fanfaro had refused to cross weapons with a Talizac, laughed maliciously.

"The companions of the former acrobat are, no doubt, ignorant of whom they are dealing with?" asked Talizac.

"On the contrary, they know him well."

"I don't understand it! They speak to him, shake hands with him; it is extraordinary."

The vicomte's stupidity excited the Italian's pity, but he did not allow his feelings to be perceived, and said:

"I think we have discussed this Fanfaro long enough. Let us not forget that we are still in the Carnival, and that we must hurry if we still wish to seek some distraction; forget the fatal scene of a short while ago."

The vicomte had forgotten long ago that he and his father had been stigmatized as dishonorable rogues, and in great good humor he accompanied his companion toward the Rue Vivienne.

They had not gone far when the vicomte paused and nudged his friend.

Leaning against the balustrade of a house, a young girl, whose features were illuminated by the rays of a street lamp, sang in a clear voice to the accompaniment of a guitar. A large crowd of passers-by had assembled around the singer, who was a perfect vision of beauty.

Chestnut brown hair framed a finely cut face, and deep black eyes looked innocently from underneath long eyelashes. The fingers which played on the instrument were long and tapering, and every movement of the body was the personification of grace.

When the song was finished loud applause was heard. The young songstress bowed at all sides, and a flush of pleasure lighted up the charming face. Every one put a penny on the instrument. When the vicomte's turn came, he threw forty francs on the guitar, and approached close to the songstress.

"You are alone to-day?" he boldly asked.

The young girl trembled from head to foot and walked on. The vicomte gazed after her, and the Italian laughingly observed:

"The 'Marquise' is very strict to-day."

Thereupon he bent down and picked something up from the ground.

"Here, vicomte, is your money; the little one threw it away."

The vicomte uttered a cry of rage.

"The impertinent hussy!" he hissed.

"The affair has been going on in this way for the last two months," said the Italian, dryly; "and you could have known long ago, vicomte, that the 'Marquise' spurns your attentions."

"Fernando, I really believe you play the spy upon me!" exclaimed Talizac; "have a care, my patience has its limits."

"You are too tragical," replied Velletri, shrugging his shoulders; "instead of pursuing the little one with platonic declarations, you ought to try to break her spirit."

"Velletri, you are right," replied Talizac; "yes, I will revenge myself upon Fanfaro and possess this girl. What am I peer of France for?"

"Bravo, vicomte, you please me now—let us go to dinner, and then—"

"But the 'Marquise'?"

"Have patience. You will be satisfied with me."

---

CHAPTER XII

THE "MARQUISE."

Mardi-Gras had come and folly reigned supreme at Paris. Opposite the Café Turque, which had already at that time a European reputation, stood a small poverty-stricken house. It was No. 48 Boulevard du Temple, and was inhabited by poor people.

In a small but cleanly room on the fifth story a young girl stood before a mirror arranging her toilet. The "Marquise," for it was she, looked curiously out of place in her humble surroundings.

A dark, tightly fitting dress showed her form to perfection, and the dark rose in her hair was no redder than the fresh lips of the young girl. The little singer gave a last glance in the mirror, smoothed back a rebellious curl, and seized her guitar to tune it.

A low moan came from a neighboring room. The street-singer immediately opened the curtained door and slipped into the room from which a cry now came.

"Louison—little Louison!"

"The poor thing—she has woke up," sighed the girl as she approached the small bed which stood in the equally small space.

"Mamma, how goes it?" she asked.

The form which lay on the bed looked almost inhuman. The cadaverous face was half burned and the bloodshot eyes, destitute of eyebrows, could not stand the least ray of light. The hands were horribly burned, and her laugh exposed her toothless gums.

"Thirst, Louison," stammered the woman, pulling her long gray hair over her eyes.

"There, mamma, drink," said Louison, bending tenderly over the poor woman.

The woman drank eagerly the glass of milk offered, and then muttered softly to herself.

"It is so warm, I am burning, everywhere there are flames."

The poor woman was crazy, and no one would have ever recognized in her, Louise, the wife of the landlord Jules Fougeres.

The reader will have guessed long since that Louison, the street-singer, was none other than Fanfaro's lost sister. The young girl, however, did not know that the poor woman she so tenderly nursed was her mother.

Louison had once lost herself in the woods, and in her blind fear had run farther and farther until she finally reached an exit. As she stood in a field sobbing bitterly, a man approached her and asked her who she was and where she had come from. The child, exhausted by the excitement of the last few days, could not give a clear answer, and so the man took her on his arm and brought her to his wife, who was waiting for him in a thicket. The man and his wife carried on a terrible trade; they hovered about battlefields to seek prey, and more than one wounded man had been despatched by them if his purse or his watch attracted the robbers' attention. Nevertheless, these "Hyenas of the battlefield" were good and kind to the lost child; they treated her just like their own children, of whom they had three, and at the end of the war, in consequence of the good crop they had secured on the battlefield, they were possessed of sufficient competence to buy a little place in Normandy.

Louison grew up. An old musician, who discovered that she had a magnificent voice, took pride in teaching the child how to sing, and when on Sundays she would sing in the choir, he would enthusiastically exclaim, "Little Louison will be a good songstress some day, her voice sounds far above the others."

An epidemic came to the village soon after, and at the end of two days her foster-parents were carried away, and Louison was once more alone in the world.

The nuns of the neighboring convent took the child, taught it what they knew themselves, and a few years passed peacefully for Louison.

A thirst to see the world took hold of her; the convent walls stifled her, and she implored the nuns to let her wander again. Naturally her request was refused, and so Louison tried to help herself.

One dark, stormy night she clambered over the garden wall, and when the nuns came to wake her next morning for early mass, they found her bed empty and the room vacant.

Singing and begging, the child wandered through Normandy. In many farmhouses she was kept a week as a guest, and one old woman even presented her with a guitar, which a stranger had left behind.

The proverb "all roads lead to Rome" would be more true in many cases if it said they lead to Paris; and thus it was with Louison. After a long and difficult journey she reached the capital, the El Dorado of street singers from Savoy; and, with the sanguine temperament of youth, the fifteen-year-old girl no longer doubted that she would support herself honestly.

In a miserable quarter of the great city, in the midst of people as poor as herself, Louison found a habitation. The wondrous beauty of the girl soon attracted attention, and when she sang songs on some street-corner she never failed to reap a harvest. At the end of four weeks she had her special public, and could now carry out a project she had long thought of. She went to the inspector of the quarter and begged him to name her some poor, sickly old woman whom she could provide for.

"I do not wish to be alone," she said, as the inspector looked at her in amazement, "and it seems to me that my life would have an aim if I could care for some one."

Petitions of this kind are quickly disposed of, and on the next day Louison received an order to go to another house in the same quarter and visit an old mad woman whose face had been terribly disfigured by fire.

Louison did not hesitate a moment to take the woman, whose appearance was so repulsive, to her home. When she asked the crazy woman, who gazed at her, "Mother, do you wish to go with me?" the deserted woman nodded, and from that day on she was sheltered.

Who could tell but that Louison's voice recalled to that clouded memory the recollection of happier days? Anyhow the maniac was tender and obedient to the young girl, and a daughter could not have nursed and cared for the poor old woman better than Louison did.

The sobriquet of the "Marquise" had been given to Louison by the people of the quarter. She was so different from her companions; she looked refined and aristocratic, although her clothes were of the cheapest material, and no one would have dared to say an unkind or bold word to the young girl.

As the old woman handed the empty glass back to the girl, Louison cheerfully said:

"Mother, I must go out; promise me that you will be good during my absence."

"Good," repeated the maniac.

"Then you can put on your new cap to-morrow."

"The one with the ribbons?"

"Yes."

"Oh, then I will be good."

The poor thing clapped her hands, but suddenly she uttered a cry of pain.

"Ah!—my head—it is burning!"

Louison, with heavenly patience, caressed her gray hair and calmed her.

"Ah! where is the box?" the maniac complained after a while.

"To-morrow I will bring it to you," said the songstress, who knew the whims of the sick woman.

"Do not forget it," said the old woman; "in that box is luck. Oh, where did I put it?"

She continued to mutter softly to herself. Louison allowed her to do so, and slipped into the other room. It was time for her to go about her business. This being Mardi-Gras, she expected to reap a rich harvest. As she was about to open the door, she suddenly paused; she thought she heard a voice, and listened. A knock now sounded at the door, and Louison asked:

"Who is there?"

"A friend," came back in a loud voice.

"Your name?"

"You do not know me."

"Tell me your name."

"Robeckal; please admit me."

The young girl did not open at once; an indefinable fear seized her. Suppose the vicomte, who had followed her all over, had at last found out where she lived?

"Well, are you going to open?" cried Robeckal, becoming impatient.

Hesitatingly Louison pushed back the bolt, and with a sigh of relief she saw Robeckal's face; no, that was not the vicomte.

"H'm, mademoiselle, you thought perhaps that I was a beggar?" asked Robeckal, mockingly.

"Please tell me quickly what you want," cried Louison, hurriedly. "I must go out, and have no time to lose."

"You might offer me a chair, anyway," growled Robeckal, looking steadily at the handsome girl.

"I told you before I am in a hurry," replied Louison, coldly; "therefore please do not delay me unnecessarily."

Robeckal saw that the best thing he could do would be to come to the point at once, and grinning maliciously, he said:

"Mademoiselle, would you like to earn some money?"

"That depends—go on."

"Let me first speak about myself. I am an extra waiter. Do you know what that is?"

"Yes, you assist in saloons on Sundays and holidays."

"Right. For the past three days I have been at The Golden Calf, just in the street above."

"Ah, by Monsieur Aube?"

"Yes. The landlord would like to treat his guests to-day to some special amusement, and so he said to me last night, 'Robeckal, do you know of anything new and piquant!'

"'The "Marquise," master,' I replied.

"'But will she come?'

"'H'm, we must ask her. How much do you intend to spend?'

"'Twenty francs.'

"'Good,' I said, 'I will ask her,' and here I am."

Louison had allowed Robeckal to finish. The man displeased her, but his offer was worth considering. Twenty francs! For the young girl the sum was a small fortune, and her heart ceased to beat when she thought of the many little comforts she could provide her protégée with it.

"Did not Monsieur Aube give you a letter for me?" she asked, still hesitating.

"No, mademoiselle. Do you mistrust me?"

"I did not say that, but I cannot decide so hastily. I will be at the Golden Calf in a little while, and give the gentleman my answer."

"Mademoiselle, tell me at once that you don't care to go, and I will get the man without arms, who will do just as well. He won't refuse, I warrant you."

With these words, Robeckal took out a card and pointed to two addresses thereon. The first was Louison's address, the second that of a street-singer who was well known to the young girl. Louison no longer doubted.

"I shall come," she said firmly; "when shall I make my appearance?"

"At eight o'clock."

"And when will I be done?"

A peculiar smile, unnoticed by Louison, played about Robeckal's lips.

"I really do not know," he finally replied, "but it will be between ten and eleven. With such good pay a minute more or less won't make much difference."

"No, but it must not be later than midnight."

"On no account, mademoiselle; if you are afraid, why, I will see you home," Robeckal gallantly cried.

"Good—tell Monsieur Aube I shall be punctual."

"Done. I suppose, mademoiselle, you will not forget to give me a portion of the twenty francs? I was the one, you know, who brought it about."

"With pleasure."

"Then good-by until this evening."

Robeckal hurried down the five flights of stairs. In front of the house a man enveloped in a wide mantle walked up and down.

When he saw Robeckal, he anxiously asked:

"Well?"

"It is settled."

"Really? Will she come?"

"Certainly."

The man in the cloak, who was no other than Fernando de Velletri, let some gold pieces slip into Robeckal's hand.

"If everything goes all right, you will get five hundred francs more," he cried.

"It is as good as if I had the money already in my pocket. Besides, the racket is rather cheap, for the little one is a picture."

"So much the better," laughed the Italian.

While the worthy pair were discussing their plans, Louison went as usual to the boulevards and sang her pretty songs.

In the Golden Calf, Monsieur Aube's restaurant, things were very lively. The guests fairly swarmed in. The landlord ran busily to and fro, now in the kitchen turning over the roast, then again giving orders to the waiters, pulling a tablecloth here, uncorking a bottle there, and then again greeting new guests. On days like this the place was too narrow, and it always made Aube angry that he could not use the first story. The house belonged to an old man, who had until recently lived on the first floor, but since then new tenants had moved in, who were a thorn in the saloon-keeper's side. He had tried his best to get rid of them, advanced the rent, implored, chicaned, but all in vain. They stayed.

If they had only been tenants one could be proud of; but no! The family consisted of an athlete who called himself Firejaws; his daughter Caillette, a tight-rope dancer, a clown called Mario, and a young acrobat, Fanfaro. Every day the troupe performed on the Place du Chateau d'Eau, and, besides this, people visited the house under the pretence of taking lessons from Fanfaro in parlor magic.

These visitors, strange to say, looked very respectable; most of them appeared to be old soldiers. They certainly had no need to learn magic.

The large hall was filled to the last seat, and the waiters ran here and there with dishes, when an elegant equipage drove up and immediately afterward the stentorian voice of the landlord cried:

"Jean, the gentlemen who have ordered room No. 11 have arrived. Conduct them upstairs."

The gentlemen were the Vicomte de Talizac, Arthur de Montferrand and Fernando de Velletri. Jean led them to the room, and began to set the table.

"Tell me, Frederic," began Arthur, as he threw himself lazily in a chair, "how you got the idea of inviting us to this hole for dinner?"

The waiter threw an angry look at Arthur, who had dared to call the Golden Calf a hole.

"My dear Arthur," said the vicomte, coldly, "have patience yet a while. It is not my fashion to speak about my affairs in the presence of servants."

Jean hastily drew back, and only the thought of losing his tip prevailed upon him to serve his customers.

"Now we are alone," said Arthur, "and we'll finally find out all about it—"

"I must beg your pardon once more," interrupted the vicomte, "but before dessert I never bother about serious affairs."

"Ah, it is serious then," remarked Arthur. He knew that Talizac was often short and feared that he was about to ask for a loan. The young men dined with good appetite, and as the waiter placed the dessert upon the table, the vicomte threw a glass filled with red wine against the wall and exclaimed:

"Champagne, bring champagne!"

"Well, I must say that you end the Carnival in a worthy way," laughed Velletri.

"Bah! I must drown my troubles in champagne," replied the vicomte, shrugging his shoulders. "I tell you, my friends, I had a conversation with my father to-day which made me wild."

"Ah, it was about your marriage, no doubt!" said the Italian.

"Yes. The marquis wants me to go to the altar in fourteen days. That would be a fine thing."

"But I thought the marriage was a good one for both sides; the fortune of the Salves—"

"Oh, bother with the fortune!" interrupted the vicomte.

"And, besides, the young countess is very beautiful," continued Arthur.

"Beautiful?" repeated the vicomte, mockingly; "not that I can see. She puts on airs, as if the whole world lay at her feet, and poses as such a virtuous being. And yet I really believe she is no better than other people; I—"

"Frederic," interrupted Velletri, warningly; he feared that the vicomte would inform young Montferrand what had occurred between his bride and the acrobat.

"Well," said Arthur, hastily, "I hope that when Irene de Salves becomes your bride you will be more pleasant to her."

"Really, Arthur, you have such antediluvian notions," laughed the vicomte; "formerly we said that marriage was the grave of love; but if there has been no love beforehand, it follows that the grave will remain empty. No, my friends, if I am bound by marriage ties, I authorize you both to hunt on my ground, and it will give me pleasure if you score a success. Who knows? The countess is, perhaps, less prudish than she seems."

"Perhaps I shall make use of the permission," laughed Arthur, carelessly.

"I wish you joy. I haven't the stuff of a jealous husband in me, and the freedom I ask for myself I grant to others!"

"That is unselfish," said the Italian; "not every one is so liberal with his wife."

"Bah! the wife of a friend is decidedly more piquant than one's own, and who knows but that I may revenge myself later on. I—"

At this moment a clear, fresh girlish voice was heard coming from downstairs, and the first verse of a ballad by Romagnesi was delightfully phrased. The young men listened attentively to the simple song, and when at the end of the same a storm of applause followed, Arthur clapped his hands too.

"What a pity," he said, "that one cannot hear this nightingale nearer."

"Why should not that be possible?" cried the vicomte, springing up as if electrified.

Fernando grew frightened. This idea might disturb his plan.

"What is there in a street-singer?" he contemptuously asked.

Talizac, however, who was under the influence of the champagne he had drunk, did not understand the hint, and angrily exclaimed:

"Now she shall just come upstairs; first she must sing to us, and then—"

"And then?" repeated Arthur curiously.

"Ah, it is merely a little surprise we arranged for the little one," observed Velletri, with a cynical laugh.

"What! a surprise?"

"Yes."

"And she does not suspect anything?"

"Nothing."

"Well, I am curious to see the little one; let us call Aube, he can show his singer to us."

"Gentlemen, no folly," warned Velletri, "we are not in the Palais Royal here, and in some things the mob does not see any fun."

"I will attend to the people downstairs," said Arthur, while the vicomte rang loudly.

When the waiter came he received the order to send the landlord up, and in less than five minutes the latter came and bowed respectfully to the guests who had drunk so much champagne.

"Monsieur Aube," began the vicomte, "who is the little bird that sings so beautifully downstairs?"

"A young, modest, and very respectable girl, gentlemen."

The young men burst into loud laughter.

"A saint, then?" exclaimed Arthur.

"Really, gentlemen, she is very virtuous and respectable."

"So much the better," said the young men to Aube. "We would like to take a good look at the little one. Send her up to us so that she can sing a few songs for us, and at the same time put a few more bottles on the ice."

Monsieur Aube did not know what to do.

"What are you waiting for?" asked the vicomte, in a maudlin voice.

"Gentlemen, the little one is so pure," said the landlord, earnestly.

"Are we going to ruin her?" exclaimed Talizac, with a laugh. "She shall sing, and we will pay her well for it. She shall get a hundred francs; is that enough?"

The landlord considered. He knew Louison was poor, and he said to himself he had no right to prevent the pretty girl from earning so much money. Moreover, she was not called "The Marquise" for nothing, and Velletri's mien reassured the host. So he came to the conclusion that there was no danger to be feared for his protégée. Even if the other two were drunk, the Italian was sober; and so the host finally said:

"I will send the little one."

As the landlord entered the hall, Louison was just going about and collecting. The crop was a rich one, and with sparkling eyes the songstress returned to her place, to give a few more songs, when Aube drew her into a corner.

"Louison," he softly said, "I have got a good business to propose to you."

"What is it, Father Aube?"

The landlord, somewhat embarrassed, stammeringly answered:

"If you desire you can make one hundred francs in fifteen minutes."

"So much? You are joking?"

"Not at all; you sing two or three songs, and the money is earned."

"Where shall I sing?"

"Here in my house, on the first story."

At this minute the hall-door opened and loud laughter came from above. Louison looked anxiously at the host and asked:

"Who wants to hear me?"

"Some guests, Louison; high-toned guests."

"Are they ladies and gentlemen, or only gentlemen?"

"Gentlemen, jolly young gentlemen."

"And if I go up will you stay in the neighborhood?"

"Certainly; this house is my house, and you are under my protection."

Louison considered. One hundred francs was a treasure with which she could do wonders. A comfortable chair could be bought for the invalid, wine and other strengthening things kept in the house, and—

"I agree," she said, picking up her guitar; "when shall I go up?"

"Directly, Louison, I will accompany you."

"H'm, what does that mean?" exclaimed a solid-looking citizen as he saw Louison go up the stairs; "is the performance over?"

"No," said Aube to his guests, "Louison will sing more later on. Have a little patience."

When the landlord and the young girl entered the room of the young men, Aube was agreeably surprised at seeing that the vicomte had disappeared. He was perfectly calm now. It had been the vicomte of whom Aube had been afraid, and with a light heart he left the apartment.

"'Marquise,' will you be so kind as to sing us a song?" asked Arthur, politely.

Louison's modesty began to have a good influence on him, and he already regretted having assisted Talizac in his plan.

Louison tuned her instrument and then began to sing a pretty little air. Montferrand and Velletri listened attentively, and when she had ended they both asked her in the most polite way imaginable to sing another song. Louison did not wait to be coaxed; she began a simple ballad and sang it with melting sweetness. Suddenly she uttered a loud scream and let her guitar fall. Frederic de Talizac stood before her.

"Continue your song, my pretty child," giggled the vicomte; "I hope I have not frightened you?"

As he said this he tried to put his arm around Louison's waist.

She recoiled as if stung by a rattlesnake.

"I will not sing any more," she said firmly; "let me go."

"Nonsense, my little pigeon, you remain here," said the vicomte huskily, placing himself in front of the door, "and for each note you sing I will give you a kiss."

The poor child was paralyzed with fear. She threw an agonizing look upon the drunken man's companions, and when she saw them both sit there so calm and indifferent, her eyes sparkled with anger.

"Miserable cowards!" she contemptuously exclaimed. "Will you permit a drunken scoundrel to insult a defenceless girl?"

Arthur sprang up. A flash of shame was on his classically formed features, and turning to Talizac he hastily said:

"She is right, vicomte; are you not ashamed?"

"Are you speaking to me?" laughed Talizac, mockingly. "I really believe you wish to be the Don Quixote of this virtuous Dulcinea del Toboso! No, my friend, we did not bet that way; the girl must be mine, and I should like to see the man who will oppose me."

He grasped Louison's arm; the young girl cried aloud for help, and the next minute the vicomte tumbled back struck by a powerful blow of the fist. Montferrand had come to the street-singer's rescue.

The vicomte roared like a wild bull, and, seizing a knife from the table, rushed upon Arthur. The two men struggled with one another. The table fell over; and while Louison unsuccessfully tried to separate the combatants, Velletri looked coolly at the fray.

"Help! murder!" cried Louison in desperation. She did not think of escape. She hoped Aube would make his appearance.

The landlord had really hastened up at the first cry, but at the head of the stairs Robeckal had held him tight and uttered a peculiar whistle. Two powerful men came in answer to the signal, and seizing the host in their arms, they bore him to a small room where the brooms were kept. Aube imagined his house had been entered by burglars. He threw himself with all his force against the door, he cried for help, and soon a few guests who had been sitting in the restaurant came to his assistance and rescued him.

"Follow me, gentlemen," cried the landlord, angrily. "It is a dastardly conspiracy! Upstairs there they are driving a poor, innocent girl to despair. Help me to rescue her. It's the 'Marquise.' Oh, heavens! her cries have ceased, she must be dead!"

Twenty men, in company with the landlord, rushed into the young men's rooms. Louison was no longer there, and in the centre Montferrand and the vicomte were still fighting with one another. Montferrand had already taken the knife away from the drunken man, when the vicomte angrily rushed at Arthur and hit him in the neck. A stream of blood gushed from the wound, and with a low moan the wounded man sank to the ground.

Before he could rise to his feet again, Velletri had seized the vicomte by the arm, and in spite of his resistance dragged him down the stairs. When Aube looked around for them, they had already left and not a trace of Louison could be found.

"Merciful God!" he despairingly cried, "where is the poor child? I promised her I would protect her, and now—"

"The scoundrels have abducted her!" exclaimed Arthur, who had in the meantime recovered. "It was a shrewdly planned piece of business."

"Abducted her? Impossible!" cried the landlord, looking at Arthur in amazement. "Who are the men?"

A crowd of guests had gathered about Arthur and the landlord, and while a barber tried to stanch the still bleeding wound, Montferrand bitterly said:

"One of the scoundrels bears a noble old name. Shame over the nobility of France that it tolerates a Talizac and Fougereuse in its ranks."

"Who speaks of Talizac and Fougereuse?" cried a fresh voice, and a very handsome man approached Monsieur Aube.

"Ah, Monsieur Fanfaro," said the landlord vivaciously, "Heaven sends you at the right time. Forget all the troubles and the cares I have caused you; I will never say another word against athletes and acrobats, but help us!"

"What has happened?" asked Fanfaro in astonishment. "I just came home and found every one in the restaurant excited. I asked, but no one knew anything, so I hurried here. Tell me what I can do for you; I am ready."

"May God reward you, Monsieur Fanfaro; oh, if it is only not too late."

"Monsieur Aube," asked Fanfaro, politely, "what is the matter?"

"A young girl—it will bring me to my grave when I think that such a thing should happen in my house—I—"

"Landlord," interrupted Arthur, "let me tell the story to the gentleman.

"Unfortunately," continued Montferrand, turning to Fanfaro, "I am mixed up in the affair myself. I let myself be persuaded by the Vicomte de Talizac—"

"I thought so," growled Fanfaro.

"And his friend Velletri to accompany them here—"

"Velletri? The Italian spy? The tool of the Jesuits, who treacherously betrayed his own countrymen, the Carbonari?" asked Fanfaro, contemptuously.

"Really, you are telling me something new," replied Arthur, "but it served me right. Why wasn't I more particular in the choice of my companions! Well, this worthy pair have abducted a young girl, a street-singer."

"The scoundrels! Where have they carried the poor child to?"

"God alone knows! I only heard here about the plan, but the scoundrels did not inform me where they intended to bring the poor child," replied Arthur, feeling ashamed at having had even the slightest connection with the affair, and inwardly vowing never again to have anything to do with the scoundrels who bear noble names.

"But the girl, no doubt, has relatives, parents or friends, who will follow her traces?"

"No," replied Aube, "she is an orphan, and is called the 'Marquise.'"

"Why has she received that sobriquet?"

"I do not know. She is a very respectable girl."

"Where does she live?"

"Not far from here, No. 42 Boulevard du Temple, fifth story. Robeckal, an extra waiter, who, as I have since found out, is a cunning scoundrel, had engaged her for to-night."

"If Robeckal had a hand in the affair then it can only be a scoundrelly one!" exclaimed Fanfaro, with a frown.

"Do you know him?"

"Unfortunately, yes; tell me what more do you know?"

"Not much. The 'Marquise' lives with an old, poor crazy woman, who lost her reason and the use of her limbs at a fire. The young girl, whose name is Louison—"

"Louison?" cried Fanfaro, in affright.

"Yes; why, what is the matter with you?"

"Nothing; tell me how old is the girl?"

"About sixteen."

"My God, that would just be right; but no, it cannot be."

"Monsieur Fanfaro," said Montferrand, gently, "can I do anything for you, you seem to be in trouble?"

"Oh, I have a horrible suspicion, I cannot explain it to you now, but the age and the name agree. Ah, that infamous Talizac! again and again he crosses my path; but if I catch him now, I will stamp upon him like a worm!"

"Do you intend to follow the robbers?"

"Certainly, I must rescue the girl."

"Monsieur Fanfaro," said Montferrand, "do with me what you will, I will help you!"

---

CHAPTER XIII

THE PURSUIT

Fanfaro looked gratefully at the young nobleman and then said:

"Please tell me your name, so that I may know whom I am under obligations to?"

"My name is Arthur de Montferrand," said the nobleman, handing his card to the young man, whose profession he knew, with the same politeness as if he were a peer of France.

Fanfaro bowed and then hurriedly said:

"Let us not lose any more time; I—"

Loud knocking at the house-door and the murmur of several voices, which came from below, made the young man pause. The planting of muskets on the pavement was now heard and a coarse voice cried:

"Open in the name of the law!"

Fanfaro trembled.

"The police!" exclaimed Aube, breathing more freely; "perhaps the robbers have already been captured."

Fanfaro laid his hand upon Aube's shoulder.

"Monsieur Aube," he said bitterly, "the police to-day do not bother about such trivial affairs. The minions of Louis XVIII. hunt different game."

"Open," came louder than before, "or we shall burst in the door."

"My God! my God! what a day this is," complained Aube, sinking helplessly on a chair; "what do the police want in my house?"

"Monsieur Aube, they seek conspirators, heroes of freedom and justice," said Fanfaro earnestly.

"How so? What do you mean?" asked Aube, opening wide his eyes and looking at the young man.

"I am one of the men the police are looking for," exclaimed Fanfaro coolly.

"You!" exclaimed Montferrand in terror, "then you are lost."

"Not yet," laughed Fanfaro. "Monsieur Aube, hurry and open the door and try to detain the people. That is all that is necessary. Good-by for the present, and do not forget to hunt for the girl; with the aid of God we will find her."

He ran out, and the nobleman and the landlord heard him bound up the stairs. Aube now began to push back the iron bolt of the street door, and when it opened several policemen and an inspector entered.

"I must say, Monsieur Aube," cried the inspector angrily, "you took a long time to obey his majesty's order."

"But at this time of night," stammered Aube. "What are you looking for, inspector?"

"Ask rather whom I am looking for?" retorted the inspector.

His gaze fell on Arthur, who did not look very attractive with his bloody clothes and torn shirt.

"Who is this tramp?" asked the inspector roughly.

"The tramp will have you thrown out if you are impertinent. My name is Arthur de Montferrand, and I am the son of the Marquis of Montferrand."

The inspector opened his eyes wide with astonishment. How could such a mistake happen to him? The son of the Marquis of Montferrand. The inspector would have preferred just now to hide himself in a corner. He stammered apology upon apology, and then in an embarrassed way muttered:

"I have got a painful mission. I am to look for a 'suspect' in this house."

"A 'suspect'?" whispered Aube, anxiously.

"Yes; conspirators who threaten the sacred person of the king."

"And you are looking for these people in my house?" asked Aube, apparently overwhelmed at the intelligence.

"Yes, they are said to live here; two acrobats, named Girdel and Fanfaro."

"Inspector, I am inconsolable; but I will not oppose you; do your duty," said Aube, with the mien of a man who gives a kingdom away.

Arthur and the landlord exchanged knowing looks as the inspector strode toward the door. Fanfaro must be in safety by this time.

"The house is surrounded," said the inspector, as he went away, "and I think we shall have little to do."

Montferrand trembled. Suppose Fanfaro had been captured! The policemen went to the upper story, which had been pointed out to them by the landlord as the residence of Girdel and Fanfaro.

"Open, in the name of the law!" thundered a voice, which shook the house; and then followed, hardly less loud, the angry exclamation:

"By Jupiter, the nest is empty; the birds have flown!"

At this moment a voice cried from the street:

"Inspector, they are escaping over the roofs."

It was Simon, the worthy steward of the Marquis of Fougereuse, who assisted the police to-day. He had stationed himself, with several officers, in front of the house, and had noticed two shadows gliding over the roofs.

"Forward, men," cried the inspector. "We must catch them, dead or alive."

In a moment, Simon had bounded up the stairs and now stood near the official at the skylight.

"How slanting that roof is!" growled the inspector. "One misstep and you lie in the street."

He carefully climbed out; Simon followed, and then they both looked around for the escaped conspirators.

"There they are!" exclaimed the steward, hastily. "Look, they have reached the edge of the roof and are going to swing themselves over to the neighboring roof! They are fools; the distance must be at least ten feet. They will either fall down and smash their heads on the pavement, or else fall into our hands."

Simon had seen aright. Girdel and Fanfaro were at the edge of the roof, and now the young man bent down and swung something his pursuers could not make out.

"Surrender!" cried the inspector, holding himself on a chimney.

Fanfaro now rose upright. He made a jump and the next minute he was on the neighboring roof.

The inspector and Simon uttered a cry of rage, and redoubled it when they saw Fanfaro busying himself tying a stout rope to an iron hook which he connected with another hook on the roof he had just left.

Girdel now clambered to the edge of the roof, grasped the rope with both hands, and began to work his way across to Fanfaro.

"Quick, a knife!" cried the inspector.

Simon handed him his pocket-knife and the policeman began to saw the rope through. Luckily for Girdel, the work went very slow, for the knife was as dull as the rope was thick, and Simon, who only now began to remember that Girdel must not be killed at any price, loudly exclaimed:

"Stop, inspector, are you out of your senses?"

The policeman was no longer able to heed the warning. The knife had done its duty, the rope was cut!

Girdel did not fall to the pavement though. At the decisive moment Fanfaro bent far over the roof, and with superhuman strength held on to the rope on which Girdel was, at the same time crying to him:

"Attention, the rope is cut, take your teeth."

Girdel understood at once, and his mighty jaws held the rope firmly.

Fanfaro had bent far forward to hinder Girdel from being dashed against the wall, and kept in that position, until the athlete could work himself with his hands and teeth to the edge of the roof.

The roof was at length reached. Fanfaro swung his arms about Girdel, and the next minute they both disappeared behind a tall chimney!

"Papa Girdel, we have nothing to fear now," said Fanfaro, laughing; but soon he thought of Louison, and he sighed heavily.

"What is the matter with you, my boy?" asked Girdel, in amazement.

"I will tell you some other time. Let us try to reach the street first, for our pursuers will surely try to get into the house and begin the hunt anew."

The athlete saw he was right, and they both began their perilous flight over the roofs. For a time everything went right, but suddenly Fanfaro paused and said:

"We are at a street corner."

"That is a fatal surprise," growled Girdel; "what shall we do now?"

"We must try to reach a roof-pipe and glide down."

"That is easier said than done. Where will you find a roof-pipe able to sustain my weight?"

Fanfaro looked at Girdel in amazement. He had not thought of that.

"Then let us try to find a skylight and get into some house," he said, after a pause.

"Suppose the window leads to an inhabited room?" observed Girdel.

"Then we can explain our perilous position. We will not be likely to tumble into a policeman's house."

"Let us hope for the best," replied Girdel.

At the same moment a terrific crash was heard and Fanfaro saw his foster-father sink away. Girdel had unconsciously trodden on a window-pane and fallen through!

"That is a new way of paying visits," cried a voice which Fanfaro thought he recognized, and while Girdel made desperate attempts to swing himself again on the roof, a hand armed with a tallow candle appeared in the opening.

"I will light the gentlemen," continued the voice.

"Bobichel, is it you?" cried Fanfaro, joyously.

"Certainly, and I ought to know you," was the reply; "really, the master and Fanfaro."

"Bobichel," said Girdel, greatly astonished, "is it really you? We thought you were dead!"

"Bah! a clown can stand a scratch; but come quickly into my room, it is cold outside."

Girdel and Fanfaro entered the small attic and Bobichel received his old comrades cordially.

"The ball did not hit you, then?" asked Girdel; "we thought you were gone."

"Almost," replied the clown; "I dragged myself a few steps further, with the bullet in my side, and then sank down unconscious. When I awoke I found myself in the hospital at Remiremont, where I remained until a week ago. Later on I will give you all the details. For to-day I will only say that I arrived in Paris yesterday and rented this room here. I expected to find you here, and I intended to look about to-morrow morning. What happy accident brought you here?"

"In the first place, the police," replied Fanfaro; "they hunted us like a pack of dogs a wild animal, and if we had not escaped over the roofs we would now be behind lock and key."

"But why are you pursued?" asked Bobichel, anxiously. "Do you belong to the conspiracy of which there is so much talk?"

"Probably," replied Girdel.

"Is there a place for me in the conspiracy?" asked the clown, vivaciously, "I am without employment just now, and if you wish to take me in tow, I—"

"We shall attend to it," said Fanfaro, cordially.

"How is little Caillette getting on?" asked Bobichel, after a pause.

"Very well, thank you. We shall let her know to-morrow morning that we are safe."

"Then she is in Paris, too?"

"Certainly. We lived up till now in the Golden Calf. However, we must look for other rooms now. We can speak about that to-morrow. Let us go to sleep now, it must be very late," said Girdel; and looking at his watch, he added: "Really it is two o'clock."

"Bobichel's eyes knew that long ago," laughed Fanfaro. "Go to bed, old friend, you are tired."

"Oh, I am not tired," said the clown, yawning in spite of himself. "I will not go to bed after I have found you again."

"You must do so, Bobichel," said Fanfaro, earnestly. "You are still weak and must husband your strength. Go calmly to bed. Girdel and I have still a great deal to consider, and we are both glad that we need not camp in the street."

Bobichel hesitated no longer; he threw himself on his hard couch and in less than five minutes he was fast asleep.

As soon as Girdel found himself alone with Fanfaro, he said, in an anxious voice:

"Fanfaro, tell me what ails you. I know you too well not to be aware that something extraordinary has happened. Place confidence in me; perhaps I can help you."

"If you only could," sighed Fanfaro; "but you are right, I will tell you all. First, Papa Girdel, I must ask you a few questions about my past—"

"Speak; what do you wish to know?"

"What did you find out about my mother?"

"That she was the victim of a conflagration. She was in a farmhouse which had been set fire to by Cossacks."

"And my father?"

"He died the death of a hero, fighting for his country."

"As far as my memory goes," said Fanfaro, pensively, "I was in a large, dark room. It must have been a subterranean chamber. My parents had intrusted my little sister to my care. I held her by the hand, but suddenly I lost her and could never find her again."

"I know, I know," said Girdel, sorrowfully.

"Since this evening," continued the young man, "I have been thinking of my poor little Louison. I have not been able to tell you yet that a respectable young girl, who earns her living by singing, was forcibly abducted from the Golden Calf this evening."

"Impossible! Monsieur Aube is a brave man," exclaimed Girdel, impatiently.

"Ah! Aube knows nothing of the matter. He is innocent. The villain who did it is a bad man, who has already crossed our path."

"And his name?"

"Vicomte de Talizac."

"Talizac? Has this family got a thousand devils in its service? It was the vicomte's father, the Marquis of Fougereuse, who wished to kill us at Sainte-Ame; his steward ran to Remiremont to get the police."

"Like father like son. The proverb says that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. The young girl whom Talizac abducted is named Louison, and I—"

"My poor boy, you do not really think—"

"That this Louison is my poor lost sister? Yes, I fear so, Papa Girdel. When I heard the name, I trembled in every limb, and since then the thought haunts me. If I knew that Louison were dead I would thank God on my knees, but it is terrible to think that she is in the power of that scoundrel. The fact that Robeckal has a hand in the affair stamps it at once as a piece of villany."

"Robeckal is the vicomte's accomplice?" cried Girdel, springing up. "Oh, Fanfaro, why did you not say so at once? We must not lose a minute! Ah, now I understand all! Robeckal abducted the poor child and brought it to Rolla. I know they are both in Paris, and I will move heaven and earth to find them!"

"May God reward you, Papa Girdel," said Fanfaro, with deep emotion. "I will in the meantime try to find the invalid with whom the street-singer lives, and—"

"Is there nothing for Bobichel to do?" asked the clown, sitting up in his bed.

"Oh, Bobichel!" exclaimed Fanfaro, gratefully, "if you want to help us?"

"Of course I do. I will accompany master to Robeckal, for I also have a bone to pick with the scoundrel."

---

CHAPTER XIV

LOUISE

Louison's crazy mother had passed a miserable night. Accustomed to see Louison before going to sleep and hear her gentle voice, and not having her cries answered on this particular evening, the poor woman, who had not been able to move a step for years, dragged herself on her hands and feet into the next room and shoved the white curtains aside.

The painful cry of the invalid as she saw the bed empty, drowned a loud knock at the door, and only when the knocking was repeated and a voice imploringly cried: "Open, for God's sake, open quick!" did the burned woman listen. Where had she heard the voice?

"Quick, open—it is on account of Louison," came again from the outside. It was Fanfaro who demanded entrance.

A cry which was no longer human came from the breast of the burned woman, and, collecting all her strength, she crawled to the door and tore so long at the curtains which covered the pane of glass that they came down and Fanfaro could see into the room. As soon as he saw the position of the poor woman, he understood at once that she could not open the door, and making up his mind quickly, he pressed in the window, and the next minute he was in the room.

"Where is Louison, madame?" he exclaimed.

The woman did not answer; she looked steadily at him and plunged her fingers in her gray hair.

"Madame, listen to me. Louison has been abducted. Don't you know anything?"

The poor thing still remained silent, even though her lips trembled convulsively, and the deep-set eyes gazed steadily at the young man.

"Madame," began Fanfaro, desperately, "listen to my words. Can you not remember where Louison told you she was going? You know who Louison is; she nurses and cares for you. Can you not tell me anything?"

At length a word came from the burned woman's breast.

"Jacques, Jacques!" she stammered, clutching the young man's knees and looking at him.

Fanfaro trembled. Who was this horrible woman who called him by the name of his childhood?

"Louison! Jacques!" uttered the toothless lips, and hot, scalding tears rolled over the scarred cheeks.

A flood of never-before-felt emotions rushed over Fanfaro; he tenderly bent over the poor woman, and gently said:

"You called me Jacques. I was called that once. What do you know of me?"

The burned woman looked hopelessly at him; she tried hard to understand him, but her clouded mind could not at first grasp what he meant.

"I will tell you what I know of the past," continued Fanfaro, slowly. "I formerly lived at Leigoutte in the Vosges. My father's name was Jules, my mother's Louise, and my little sister Louison—where is Louison?"

At last a ray of reason broke from the disfigured eyes, and she whispered:

"Jacques, my dear Jacques! I am Louise, your mother, and the wife of Jules Fougeres!"

"My mother!" stammered Fanfaro with emotion, and taking the broken woman in his arms, he fervently kissed her disfigured face. The poor woman clung to him. The veil of madness was torn aside and stroking the handsome face of the young man with her broken fingers, she softly murmured:

"I have you again. God be thanked!"

"But where is Louison?" broke in Fanfaro, anxiously.

Still the brain of the sick woman could not grasp all the new impressions she had received, and although she looked again and again at Fanfaro, she left the question unanswered.

At any other time Fanfaro would have left the sick woman alone, but his anxiety about Louison gave him no peace. He did not doubt a minute but that his mother had recognized Louison long ago as her daughter, and so he asked more urgently:

"Mother, where is Louison? Your little Louison, my sister?"

"Louison?" repeated the sick woman, with flaming eyes. "Oh, she is good; she brings me fruit and flowers."

"But where is she now?"

"Gone," moaned the invalid.

"Gone? Where to?"

"I do not know. Her bed is empty."

"Then I was not deceived. She has been abducted by that scoundrel, Talizac!"

"Talizac?" repeated the maniac, with a foolish laugh. "Oh, I know him, do not let him in; he brings unhappiness—unhappiness!"

"Then he has been here?" cried Fanfaro, terror-stricken.

"No, not here—in—Sachemont—I—oh! my poor head."

With a heart-rending cry the poor woman sank to the ground unconscious. The excitement of the last hour had been too much for her. Fanfaro looked at the fainting woman, not knowing what to do. He took her in his arms and was about to place her on the bed when the door was softly opened and three forms glided in.

"Girdel, thank Heaven!" cried Fanfaro, recognizing the athlete, "have you found Robeckal?"

"No, the wretches moved out of their former residence in the Rue Vinaigrier, yesterday, and no one could tell us where they went."

"I thought so," groaned Fanfaro, and then he hastily added: "Girdel, the unhappy woman I hold in my arms is my mother. No, do not think I am crazy, it is the truth; and the girl who was abducted is my sister Louison."

"Impossible!" stammered Girdel.

"His mother!" came a whisper behind Fanfaro, and turning hastily round he saw Caillette—who stood at the door with tears in her eyes—with Bobichel, who said:

"Caillette will take care of the invalid until we have found Louison; I say that we move heaven and earth so that we find her."

"You are right, Bobichel," said Fanfaro, and, pressing a kiss upon his mother's forehead, he ran off with Girdel and the clown.

---

CHAPTER XV

SWINDLED

While Montferrand and Talizac were struggling, Robeckal slipped up to the door and winked to Louison. She hurried out and implored Robeckal to bring her out of this miserable house. This was just what the wretch had been waiting for, and hardly five minutes later he was in a small street with the betrayed girl. In this street a carriage stood. Robeckal seized the unsuspecting girl by the waist, lifted her into the carriage, and sprang in himself. The driver whipped up the horses and away they went at a rapid gait.

"Where are you bringing me to?" cried Louison in terror, as she saw the carriage take a wrong direction.

"Keep still, my little pigeon," laughed Robeckal, "I am bringing you to a place where it will please you."

Louison for a moment was speechless; she soon recovered herself, however, comprehended her position at a glance, hastily pulled down the carriage window, and cried aloud for help.

"Silence, minx!" exclaimed Robeckal roughly, and pulling a cloth out of his pocket he held it in front of Louison's face.

"Ah, now you are getting tame," he mockingly laughed, as the young girl, moaning softly, fell back in the cushions. The carriage hurried along and finally stopped in an obscure street of the Belleville Quarter.

Robeckal sprang out, and taking the unconscious Louison in his arms, he carried her up the stairs of a small house, and pulled the bell, while the carriage rolled on.

"Ah, here you are; let me see the chicken!"

With these words Rolla received her comrade.

She put the lamp close to Louison's face, and then said:

"Your Talizac hasn't got bad taste; the little one is handsome."

"Is everything in order?" asked Robeckal, going up the stairs after the "Cannon Queen."

"Certainly, look for yourself."

Robeckal entered an elegantly furnished room, and, placing Louison on a sofa, he said in a commendatory tone:

"It's pretty fair."

"Don't you think so? Leave the rest to me; I have a grand idea."

"An idea?" repeated Robeckal, doubtingly.

"Yes, an idea that will bring us in a nice sum of money."

"Then I am satisfied. If the little one only does not cause us any embarrassment."

"No fear of that. In the first place she should sleep."

The virago poured a few drops of a watery liquid in a spoon and approached Louison. The latter had her lips parted, but her teeth were tightly drawn together. Robeckal carefully put the blade of his knife between them, and Rolla poured the liquid down Louison's throat.

"Now come downstairs with me," she said, turning to Robeckal, "and if your vicomte comes you will praise me."

The worthy pair now left Louison, who was sleeping; and after Rolla had tightly locked the door and put the key in her pocket, they both strode to the basement. Here they entered a small, dirty room, and Rolla had just filled two glasses with rum when a carriage stopped in front of the door.

"Here they are," said Robeckal, hastily emptying his glass and going to the street door, from whence came the sound of loud knocks.

Shortly afterward he returned in company with Talizac and Velletri. The vicomte's face was flushed with the wine he had been drinking; spots of blood were on his clothes, and his walk was uneven and unsteady. Velletri, on the other hand, showed not a trace of excitement, and his dress was neat and select.

"A glass of water!" commanded the vicomte, in a rough voice, turning to Rolla.

The fat woman looked angrily at him, and while she brought the water she muttered to herself:

"Wait now. You shall pay dearly for your coarseness."

Talizac drank, and then said:

"Is the little one here?"

"Yes."

"You haven't done anything to her, have you?"

"What do you take me for?" growled Rolla.

"Bring me some wash water," said the vicomte, without noticing Rolla's sensitiveness, and turning to Velletri, he added: "Montferrand handled me roughly; I look as if I had been torn from the gallows."

"As if you won't get there one of these days," growled Rolla; and, lighting a candle, she said aloud, "If the gentlemen wish I will conduct them to the 'Marquise.'"

"Go on; where is she?"

"In the upper story—she is sleeping."

"So much the better. I will lavish my affection on her, and see if she is still as prudish."

Rolla preceded the vicomte up the stairs. As she went past she exchanged a quick glance with Robeckal, and the latter growled to himself:

"There is something up with her; I will watch and help her should it be necessary."

Rolla and Talizac were now in front of the door which led to Louison's room. The vicomte looked inquiringly at his companion and said:

"Open it."

"One moment, we are not as far as that yet. Just look at the little one first."

With these words Rolla opened a sliding window in the door and stepped back, while the vicomte bent down and looked into the partly lighted room.

Louison lay fast asleep on the sofa. The pretty head rested on the left arm, while the right hung carelessly down, and the long eyelashes lay tightly on the slightly flushed cheeks. The small, delicate mouth was slightly compressed, and the mass of silky hair fell in natural curls about the white forehead.

"Isn't she charming?" giggled Rolla.

Talizac was a libertine, a dissipated man, and yet when he saw the sleeping girl, a feeling he could not account for overcame him. He forgot where he was, that the miserable woman at his side had helped to carry out his dastardly plans, and all his longing now was to throw himself at Louison's feet, and say to her:

"I love you dearly!"

"Open," he hastily ordered.

Rolla let the window fall again and looked impertinently at him.

"My lord," she said, with a courtesy, "before I open this door you will pay me twenty thousand francs."

"Woman, are you mad?"

"Bah! you would shout so! I said twenty thousand francs, and I mean it. Here is my hand. Count in the money and I will get the key."

"Enough of this foolish talk," cried the vicomte, in a rage. "I paid your comrade the sum he demanded, and that settles it."

"You are more stupid than I thought," laughed Rolla. "If you do not pay, nothing will come of the affair."

"But this is a swindle," said the vicomte.

"Do not shout such language through the whole house," growled Rolla. "Do you think it is a pleasure to abduct girls? Robeckal had enough trouble with the little one and—"

What Rolla said further was drowned by the noise Talizac made as he threw himself against the door. It did not move an inch though; and before the vicomte could try again, Robeckal hurried up with a long knife in his hand.

"What is the matter?" he angrily cried.

"Your friend the vicomte forgot his purse and thinks he can get the girl on credit," mockingly replied Rolla.

The noise brought Velletri up too; but as soon as he saw Robeckal's long knife, he turned about again. The vicomte too became pacified.

"I will give you all the money I have with me," he said, as he turned the contents of his purse into Rolla's big hand. "Count and see how much it is."

"Ten, twenty, eight hundred francs," counted the Cannon Queen; "we shall keep the money on account, and when you bring the rest, you can get the key."

"This is miserable," hissed Talizac, as he turned to go; "who will vouch to me that you won't ask me again for the money?"

"Our honor, vicomte," replied Rolla, grinning. "We think as much of our reputation as high-toned people."

"Scoundrels," muttered Talizac, as he went away with Velletri. "If we could only do without them!"

---

CHAPTER XVI

MACHIAVELLI AND COMPANY

The Marquis of Fougereuse was sitting in his study, and Simon stood beside him.

"So he has escaped from us again?" remarked the marquis frowning.

"God knows how it happened, my lord; my plans were all so well laid that I cannot understand how the affair fell through?"

"Postponed is not given up," observed the nobleman; "and as Fanfaro does not yet suspect who he really is, he can go on compromising himself. Have you any further details with regard to the conspiracy?"

"Yes, my lord, we have trustworthy witnesses, who can swear, in case of need, that Fanfaro planned an attempt upon the sacred person of the king."

"Very good; but still the attempt must be really made, so that Fanfaro could be convicted."

"I have attended to that. One of our agents will set the harmless attempt in motion, and the individual selected—who, by the way, has escaped the gallows more than once—will swear in court that Fanfaro is the intellectual head of the assassination and chief conspirator."

Before the marquis could express his satisfaction, the Marquis of Montferrand was announced.

"A visit at this hour!" cried Fougereuse, in amazement; "it is hardly seven o'clock."

"The gentleman comes on important business, as he informed me," said the servant.

"Bring the marquis in," ordered the nobleman; and as the servant went away he hastily said to Simon: "Hide behind the curtain, and remain there until the interview is over; perhaps you might hear something that will further our plans." Simon nodded and disappeared, while the marquis was led in.

Arthur's father was a man of imposing presence. He looked down upon the beggar nobility which fawned about the court, to receive money or favors.

The old man looked pale. He hastily approached the marquis and said:

"Marquis, you imagine you are a faithful adherent of the monarchy, but scandals such as take place to-day are not calculated to raise the Fougereuse and Talizacs in the estimation of the court."

"You are speaking in riddles, marquis!" exclaimed Fougereuse, in amazement.

"So much the worse for you, if your son's conduct must be told you by another party," said the old man, sternly.

"What is the matter with my son?"

"The Vicomte de Talizac has dishonored himself and the cause you serve."

"My son is young and wild. Has he again committed one of his stupid follies?" asked the marquis, uneasily.

"If it only were a stupid folly! The vicomte had a quarrel last night with my son, because my son wished to hinder him from committing a dastardly act. My son boxed the vicomte's ears, upon which the latter tried to stab him with a knife."

"Impossible!" cried Fougereuse, in a rage.

"I am speaking the truth," declared the old gentleman, calmly.

"What was the nature of this dastardly act?"

"The vicomte was drunk and employed people to abduct a respectable young girl, a street-singer. My son was in the society of yours, in a restaurant of a low order. When he heard what the affair was, he energetically protested and tried to hinder the vicomte and his friend Velletri from carrying out their plot. They quarrelled, the vicomte was boxed on the ears and my son was stabbed. They both received what they deserved. What brought me here is another matter. You are aware that I consented to speak to my cousin the Comtesse of Salves in relation to the marriage of her daughter with your son. From what happened last night, I should regard it as a misfortune for Irene if she becomes the vicomte's wife. I came here to tell you this."

Fougereuse became pale and clutched the back of a chair to keep from falling. At this moment the rustle of a silk dress was heard, and Madeleine, the marquis's wife, entered the room.

The marquis excitedly approached her.

"The vicomte is a scoundrel!" he cried, in a rage; "he has dragged the old noble name in the mud, thanks to his mother's bringing up. You have never refused him a wish."

Madeleine's blue eyes shot gleams of fire; she looked above her husband as if he had been empty air, and turned to the Marquis of Montferrand.

"Monsieur le Marquis," she politely said, "my son desired me to offer you his apologies."

"Apology?" repeated Montferrand, coldly, "for the box on the ear he got?"

"No, my lord, but because he was so intoxicated as to raise the ire of your son. He would not have gone so far if he had been sober. As to the affair with the street-singer, it is not so serious as you imagine. My son regrets very much that such a trivial affair has been the means of causing a rupture between him and your son. He has already taken steps to indemnify the girl for the wrong he did her, and I am positive the little one will have her liberty restored to her before many hours have passed. Is the word of the Marquise de Fougereuse sufficient for you, my lord?"

"Perfectly sufficient," said Montferrand, gallantly kissing the marquise's hand.

"Then we can count on seeing you to-night at our house?" asked Madeleine. "I have a surprise in store for my friends."

"Can one find out in advance the nature of it?" asked Montferrand, while Fougereuse looked anxiously at Madeleine.

"Oh, yes; his majesty has condescended to appoint the vicomte a captain in the Life Guards with the decoration of St. Louis," said the marquise proudly.

"Oh, I call that a surprise," cried Fougereuse, more freely, and Montferrand hastened to extend his congratulations.

"The Countess of Salves and her daughter have signified their intention of being present," continued Madeleine, "and as soon as my son receives his commission, the engagement of the young couple will be announced."

"It is only what one might expect from the Marquise of Fougereuse," said Montferrand politely, as he rose. "Good-by then, until this evening."

The marquis accompanied the old man to the door, then returned to his wife and excitedly asked:

"Madeleine, is all this true?"

Instead of answering, the marquise contemptuously shrugged her shoulders and left the room to hunt up her son.

"It is all settled," she said; "here are the twenty thousand francs you need to silence the girl; and now try to bring honor to your new position."

Madeleine placed a pocket-book on the table and went away. Talizac laughed in his sleeve. He did not think he could obtain the money so easily.

---

CHAPTER XVII

LOUISON

Toward noon Louison awoke from the lethargic sleep in which Rolla's liquid had thrown her, and her first look fell upon the virago, who was sitting in a half-drunken condition near the window. The young girl unconsciously uttered a cry when she saw the repulsive woman, and this cry aroused Rolla from out of her dreams about well-filled brandy bottles into reality.

"Well, my pigeon, how goes it?" she asked, grinning.

"My head hurts," replied Louison faintly, and throwing an anxious look about the strange apartment, she timidly added: "Where am I?"

"Where are you? Among good people certainly, who have become interested in you and will do what's right."

Louison was silent and tried to collect her thoughts. But it was no use, she had to close her eyes again from exhaustion.

"Ah, you are sensible I see; that pleases me," said Rolla, giggling. "Robeckal thought you would stamp and cry, but I said right away: 'The little one is smart, she will not throw her fortune away.' What is the use of virtue, anyway? It hardly brings one dry bread, so the sooner you throw it overboard the better it is. Oh, you will make your way, never fear. Your face is handsome, and who knows but that you will have your own elegant house and carriage one of these days? The little vicomte is certainly no Adonis, with his high shoulder, but one cannot have everything and—"

Louison had listened to Rolla's words with increasing loathing, and when she heard the name of the vicomte pronounced, her memory returned to her. Hastily springing up, she uttered a loud cry, and clutching Rolla tightly about the shoulder she exclaimed:

"Let me go or you shall be sorry for it!"

Rolla looked at the street-singer with a foolish laugh, and, shaking her thick head, she laconically said:

"Stay here."

"But I will not stay here," declared Louison firmly. "I will go away! Either you let me go or I shall cry for help. I am a respectable girl, and you ought to be ashamed to treat me in this way."

"So you—are a respectable girl," said the woman, in a maudlin voice. "What conceit—you have! You might have been so yesterday, but to-day—try it—tell the people that you spent a few hours in the Cannon Queen's house in Belleville and are still a respectable girl. Ha! ha! They will laugh at you, or spit in your face. No, no, my pretty dear, no one will believe that fairy story, and if an angel from heaven came down and took rooms in my house, it would be ruined. Give in, my chicken, and don't show the white feather! No one will believe that you are respectable and virtuous, and I think you ought to save yourself the trouble. It is too late now."

"You lie!" cried Louison, in desperation.

"So—I lie—it is about time that I shut your bold mouth," growled the virago, and raising her voice, she cried: "Robeckal, bring me the bottle."

The next minute hurried steps were heard coming up the stairs, and Rolla hastened to open the locked door. It was Robeckal, who entered with a small bottle in his hand. When Louison saw him she turned deathly pale, and running to the window she burst the panes with her clinched fist and called loudly for help.

"Minx!" hissed Robeckal, forcibly holding her back and throwing her to the ground.

With Rolla's assistance he now poured the contents of the bottle down her throat. When he tried to open the tightly compressed lips, Louison bit him in the finger. He uttered an oath, put a piece of wood between her teeth, and triumphantly exclaimed:

"For the next few hours you are done for, you little hussy."

"If it were only not too much," said Rolla, as Louison, groaning loudly, sank backward and closed her eyes.

"Have no fear; I know my methods," laughed Robeckal. "I am not so foolish as to kill the little one before we have the vicomte's money in our hands. She will sleep a few hours, and wake up tamed. Come, let us put her on the sofa and leave her alone."

The worthy pair laid the unconscious girl on the sofa and went away. Rolla, on closing the door, put the key in her pocket. They began to play cards in the basement, a pursuit which agreed with them, and at the same time swallowed deep draughts of brandy.

Toward six o'clock the vicomte entered. He threw a well-filled pocket-book on the table, and in a tone of command said: "The key!"

"First we will count," growled Rolla; and opening the pocket-book with her fat hands she passed the contents in review.

"It is correct," she finally said; and taking the key out of her pocket she handed it to the vicomte.

As soon as the latter had left the room, Rolla shoved the pocket-book in her dirty dress, and hastily said:

"Come, Robeckal, the little one might make a noise. Let him see how he will get through with her."

Robeckal acquiesced, and they both quickly left the house, leaving all the doors open behind them.

They had hardly been gone, when a cry of rage rang through the house, and immediately afterward the vicomte burst into the room.

"You have deceived me," he cried, in a rage; "the window is open and the girl is gone!"

---

CHAPTER XVIII

THE CANAL

By what miracle had Louison escaped? In his anxiety to make the young girl harmless, Robeckal had given her such a strong dose that the narcotic had just the opposite effect, and before an hour had passed, a hammering and beating of her temples awakened her again. The excited state in which she was made her unable to grasp a clear thought; but one thing stood plainly before her—she must leave this horrible house at any price.

Slowly rising, she felt for the door; it was locked. She then walked softly to the window and looked at the street. It was deserted and empty of pedestrians, a fog hung over it, and if Louison could only reach the street she would be safe.

Through the broken pane the fresh air entered, and she tried then to collect her thoughts. The horrible woman had spoken about Belleville; if she were only in the street she would soon reach the Boulevard du Temple, and then—further than this she did not get with her plans. Away, only away, the rest would take care of itself.

What had the virago said? "Too late, too late, too late!" The horrible words rang in her ears like a death-knell; every pulse-beat repeated, "Too late!"

Pressing her hand to her temples, Louison began to sob. Just then the coarse laughter of her torturers sounded from the basement and her tears immediately dried.

Softly, very softly, she opened the window, stood on the sill and swung herself to the outer sill. A pole which served to support a grapevine gave her a hold. She carefully climbed down its side, reached the street and ran as if pursued by the Furies.

The fog grew denser, and more than once Louison knocked against a wall or ran against passers-by, but these obstacles did not hinder her from running on.

How long she had been going in this way she did not know, but suddenly a blast of cold air grazed her burning face, and looking up she perceived that she had reached the Canal St. Martin. She had only to cross the bridge to reach those quarters of the great city which were known to her, but still she did not do it. A short while she stood there not knowing what to do. Then she strode on, timidly looking around her and walked down the damp stone steps leading to the water.

For a long time she stood on the last step. All around everything was still, and only the monotonous ripple of the waves reached the deserted girl's ears. With her arms folded across her bosom, she gazed at the black waters; the murmuring waves played about her feet and then she paused so long—long—

Robeckal and Rolla hurried through the streets with feverish haste. The ground burned under their feet, and they did not dare to breathe before they had turned their back upon the capital. They were just turning into the Rue St. Denis, when an iron fist was laid upon Robeckal's shoulder, and forced the frightened man to stand still.

"What does this mean?" he angrily cried, as he turned around, "a—"

He paused, for he had recognized Fanfaro. Bobichel had clutched Rolla at the same time, and shaking her roughly, he cried:

"Monster, where is the street-singer?"

"What do I know of a street-singer?" cried Rolla, boldly. "Let me go or I shall cry out."

"Cry away," replied Bobichel. "You must know best yourself whether you desire the interference of the police or not."

Rolla thought of the well-filled pocket-book and kept silent. Robeckal, in the meantime, had almost died of strangulation, for Fanfaro's fingers pressed his throat together; and when he was asked if he intended to answer, he could only nod with his head.

"Where is Louison?" asked Fanfaro, in a voice of thunder.

"No. 16 Rue de Belleville."

"Alone?"

"I do not know."

"Scoundrels, God help you, if all is not right," hissed Fanfaro, "bring us quickly to the house named."

"Oh, it is very easy to find," began Rolla, but Bobichel threatened her with his fist and cried:

"So much the better for you, forward march!"

Robeckal and the Cannon Queen, held in the grips of Fanfaro and the clown, proceeded on the way to Belleville. They stopped in front of No. 16, and it required the application of force to get them to enter.

Rolla, in advance of the others, went to the top story. The door was wide open and the room empty.

"Really, he has taken her along?" she exclaimed in amazement.

"Of whom are you speaking?" asked Fanfaro, trembling with fear.

"Of whom else but the little vicomte."

"His name?"

"Talizac."

"The villain!" muttered Fanfaro to himself.

Bobichel was still holding Rolla by the arm. His gaze, roving about the room, had espied a note on the table. Rolla saw it, too, but before she could take it the clown had called Fanfaro's attention to it.

"You have swindled me," the young man read; "you have helped her to escape, confound you!"

"Thank God all is not lost yet," whispered Fanfaro, handing Bobichel the paper.

"One moment," said the clown; "I have an idea which I would like to carry out."

With a quick movement Bobichel threw Robeckal to the ground, bound him with a thick rope and threw him into a closet. He locked it and putting the key in his pocket, he turned to Rolla.

"March, away with you," he said, roughly, "and do not attempt to free him; he can ponder over his sins."

Rolla hurried to leave the house. If Robeckal died she would be the sole possessor of the twenty thousand francs. Bobichel and Fanfaro left the house likewise, and Robeckal remained crying behind.

---

CHAPTER XIX

SPLENDOR

The Fougereuse mansion was resplendent with light. Madeleine intended to celebrate the vicomte's appointment to a captaincy in a fitting way, and hundreds of invitations had been issued and accepted.

One fine carriage after another rolled up; the marquise, dressed in princely style, received her guests in the fairy-like parlors, and soon a brilliant assembly crowded the rooms.

The marquis and his wife looked proudly at the vicomte, who, however, could hardly restrain his disappointment. He did not know what hurt him most, the loss of Louison or the twenty thousand francs, and he railed against himself for being so foolish as to imagine that Robeckal and Rolla would keep their word.

"Do not frown so," whispered Madeleine to her son, "here comes Irene."

The vicomte bit his lips until they bled, and then approached Irene de Salves, who had just entered, accompanied by her mother and the Marquis de Montferrand.

Irene was dazzlingly beautiful, and her rich dress enhanced her charming appearance. There was, however, a melancholy look in her dark eyes, but her voice sounded clear and strong as she replied to the vicomte's greeting.

Brought up in the traditions of the nobility, Irene did not think of resisting her mother when the latter told her that her engagement with the Vicomte de Talizac would be announced that evening. Irene loved Fanfaro with all the fervor of her soul, but she would never have dared to tell her mother of her attachment for the acrobat.

When the vicomte pressed her hand upon his arm, she trembled violently, and a gleam of rage shot out of the dark eyes, while Talizac thought to himself that the young girl had every reason to be proud of him. Captain in the Life Guards and Knight of St. Louis. The more he considered it the more he came to the conclusion that he could demand more, and only the circumstance that the young countess possessed several millions caused him to submit to the match.

The first notes of a polonaise were heard now, and the guests, grouping themselves in pairs, strode through the wide halls. A quadrille followed the polonaise, and it was a charming sight to see all these graceful women and young girls dance. Irene kept up a cross-fire of words with the vicomte and Velletri. Talizac had just whispered some gallant sentence to her, when a high officer of the Royal Life Guards appeared and handed the vicomte his commission.

Great enthusiasm arose. The vicomte and his parents were congratulated from all sides, and the young girls envied Irene, for it was an open secret that she would be the future Vicomtesse de Talizac.

Arthur de Montferrand was the only one who could not force himself to congratulate the vicomte. It was only on his father's account that he came at all, and while Talizac was being surrounded on all sides, Arthur's thoughts went back to the scene of the previous evening. He saw Louison's pleading looks, he heard her contemptuous words, and could never forgive himself for having given her good reason to believe that he was one of Talizac's accomplices.

The vicomte's voice aroused him from his dreams.

"Well, Arthur," said Talizac laughing, "have you no congratulation for me?"

Arthur looked penetratingly at the vicomte, and in a low voice replied:

"Vicomte, if I cannot discover any traces of the punishment you received yesterday on your cheeks, I hope to be able to pay up for what I have lost. For to-day you must excuse me."

Deathly pale, Talizac looked at Montferrand, but before he had a chance to reply, a commotion was heard in the corridor, followed by a war of words.

The marquis looked uneasily at the door, and was about to give an order to a servant to inquire after the cause of the disturbance, when the folding doors were thrown open and a man who carried the lifeless, dripping form of a young girl in his arms rushed into the ballroom.

"Fanfaro!" cried Montferrand in amazement.

Fanfaro, for it was really he, laid the young girl's body tenderly upon the ground, and, turning to the assembled guests, cried with threatening voice:

"Ladies and gentlemen, here is the corpse of a young girl whom the Vicomte de Talizac murdered."

The women uttered cries of terror and the men looked threateningly at Talizac, who was trembling and trying hard to appear indifferent.

The Marquis of Fougereuse was as white as a spectre. Was this Fanfaro going to pursue him forever?

"Who is the bold fellow?" he audaciously said. "Throw him out."

"Don't be so quick, marquis," said Fanfaro earnestly; "it is a question of a terrible crime, and your son the Vicomte de Talizac is the criminal! Oh, the shame of it! Does he think that because he is a nobleman he can do what he pleases? This young girl lived modestly and plainly; she was pure and innocent. The Vicomte de Talizac regarded her as his prey. He bribed a couple of scoundrels and had the poor child abducted.

"Half crazed with horror and despairing of humanity, the victim sought peace and forgetfulness in suicide. Marquis, do you know of any infamy equal to this?"

Proud, with head erect like an avenger of innocence, Fanfaro stood in the centre of the room and his eyes shot forth rays of contempt.

Montferrand hurried toward him and cordially shook him by the hand.

"Is she dead—is she really dead?" he asked.

"I fear so," replied the young man, slowly, "yet I do not like to give up all hope. Is there no lady here who will take care of the poor child and try to soften the vicomte's crime?" continued Fanfaro, raising his voice. "Does not a heart beat under these silks and satins?"

From the group of timid ladies came a tall figure clad in a white silk dress, and kneeling next to Louison she softly said:

"Here I am."

"The farce is becoming uproarious," cried the Marquis of Fougereuse, nervously laughing.

"Do not call it a farce; it is a drama, a terrible drama, my lord," replied Fanfaro, earnestly. "Ask your son, who is leaning pale and trembling against the wall, whether I am telling you the truth or not?"

"Yes, it is a lie!" exclaimed Talizac, hoarsely.

"It is no lie," declared Arthur de Montferrand, stepping in front of Talizac. "Vicomte, you have a bad memory, and if my hand had not fortunately stamped your face you might have even denied it to my face. Look at the vicomte, gentlemen; the traces which burn on his pale cheeks he owes to me, for I was present when he made the first attempt to scandalize this poor girl. I chastised him, and he stabbed me."

"He lies! He is crazy!" cried the vicomte, in despair.

But none of those who had a quarter of an hour before overwhelmed him with congratulations condescended to look at the wretch, and with a moan Talizac sank back in a chair.

In the meantime Irene had busied herself with Louison, and now triumphantly exclaimed:

"She lives, she breathes, she can still be saved! Mamma," she said, turning quickly to her mother, "we will take the poor child home with us and nurse her."

The countess assented with tears in her eyes; she was proud of her daughter.

"The poor thing is my sister," said Fanfaro in a low voice to Irene.

Irene bent over Louison and kissed her pale forehead. This was her answer to Fanfaro's information.

Talizac had now recovered his senses. He tore open the door and angrily cried:

"Is there no one here who will show this impudent fellow out? Come in, lackeys and servants; lay hands on him!"

"I would advise no one to touch me," said Fanfaro, coldly.

At this moment a hand was laid on Fanfaro's shoulder, and a deep voice said:

"In the name of the king, you are my prisoner!"

As if struck by lightning, the young man gazed upon an old man who wore a dark uniform with a white and gold scarf. All the entrances to the ballroom were occupied by soldiers, and Fanfaro saw at once that he was lost.

"My lord marquis," said the officer, turning to the master of the house, "I regret very much to disturb you, but I must obey my order. Less than an hour ago a man with a knife in his hand entered the apartments of his majesty and said that he intended to kill the king."

A cry of horror followed these words, and, pale and trembling, the guests crowded about the officer, who continued after a short pause:

"Asked about his accomplice, the would-be murderer declared that he was an agent for a secret society whose chief the prisoner Fanfaro is."

"Oh, what a monstrous lie!" exclaimed Fanfaro, beside himself with rage, while Irene de Salves rose upright and with flaming eyes said:

"He a murderer? Impossible!"

"Prudence," whispered Arthur to the young woman, "what I can do for him I will."

"Save my sister, Irene," said Fanfaro softly, and sorrowfully turning to the official, he declared with a loud voice: "Sir, I must deny the accusation that I am a murderer. I have openly fought against the present government, but have never employed any assassin! Do your duty, I will follow you without resistance and calmly await the judge's sentence."

With head erect Fanfaro strode toward the door and disappeared in company with the soldiers. Montferrand approached Talizac and hissed in his ear:

"It might be doing you an honor, but if there is no other remedy I will fight a duel with you to rid the world of a scoundrel—I await your seconds."

"You shall pay for this," said the vicomte, "I will kill you."

Half an hour later the splendid halls of the Fougereuse mansion were deserted; the guests hurried to leave a house where such things had occurred.

---

CHAPTER XX

IN LEIGOUTTE

Like so many other places, Leigoutte had risen from the ashes after the war was over. A great sensation was caused one day by the appearance in the village of an old gray-headed man. He said he intended to erect a new building on the spot where the school and tavern house formerly stood. The old man paid without any haggling the price asked for the ground, and shortly afterward workmen were seen busily carting the ruins away and digging a foundation.

The villagers thought a new and elegant house would replace the old one now, but they deceived themselves. Strange to say, the new building resembled the old one even to the smallest details. In the basement was the kitchen from which a door led to the low narrow tavern-room, and in the upper story were two bedrooms and the large schoolroom.

When the house was finished, a sign half destroyed by fire was fastened to one end, and the peasants swore it was the sign of the former innkeeper, Jules Fougeres. In the right corner the words "To the welfare of France" could be clearly seen.

The new owner did not live in the house himself. He gave it free of charge to the poorest family in the village, with the condition that he be allowed to live there a few weeks each year. A schoolmaster was soon found in the person of a former sergeant, and as Pierre Labarre—such was the name of the new owner—undertook to look out for the teacher's salary, the inhabitants of Leigoutte had every reason to be thankful to him. When Pierre came to the village, which was generally in spring, the big and little ones surrounded him, and the old man would smile at the children, play with them, and assemble the parents at evening in the large tavern-room, and relate stories of the Revolution.

He had come this spring to Leigoutte and the children gleefully greeted him. On the evening of a March day he was sitting pensively at the window of the tavern, when he suddenly saw two curious figures coming up the road. One of the figures, apparently a young, strong girl, had her arm about a bent old woman, who could hardly walk along, and had to be supported by her companion.

Pierre felt his heart painfully moved when he saw the two women, and following an indefinable impulse he left the room and seated himself on a bench in front of the house.

The wanderers did not notice him. When they were opposite the house the old woman raised her head, and Pierre now saw a fearfully disfigured face. The woman whispered a few words to her companion; the young girl nodded and began to walk in the direction of the school-house. The paralyzed woman climbed the few steps which led into the house, and walking along the corridor she entered the parlor.

Pierre could not sit still any more. He noiselessly arose and entered the corridor. The parlor door was wide open, and he saw the gray-haired woman sitting at a table and looking all around her. Her small, fleshless lips parted, and half aloud she muttered:

"Where can Jules be? The dinner has been ready a long time, the children are getting impatient, and still he does not come! Come here, Jacques; father will be here soon. Louison, do not cry or I shall scold! Ah, little fool, I did not mean it: be quiet, he will soon be here!"

Pierre Labarre felt his heart stand still. The crippled, disfigured woman who sat there could be none other than Louise, Jules's wife! But who could her companion be?

No longer able to control himself, he softly entered the room. The young girl immediately perceived him, and folding her hands, she said, in a pleading tone:

"Do not get angry, sir! We shall not trouble you long."

"Make yourselves at home," replied Pierre, cordially; "but tell me," he continued, "who is this woman?"

Caillette, for she was the young woman, put her finger to her forehead, and looked significantly at the old woman.

"She is crazy," she whispered.

Pierre Labarre laid his hand over his eyes to hide his tears, but he could not prevent a nervous sob from shaking his broad frame.

"Tell me," he repeated softly, "who is the woman?"

"Ah! the poor woman has gone through a great deal of trouble," replied Caillette, sorrowfully. "She has lost her husband and her children, and was badly injured at a fire. Only a few weeks ago she could hardly move a limb, but since a short time her condition has wonderfully improved, and she can now walk, though not without assistance."

"But her name—what is she called?"

"Ah, my dear sir, I do not know her real name; the people who live in her neighborhood in Paris call her the 'Burned Woman,' and Louison calls her mamma or mother."

"Louison? Who is that?"

"A young girl who has taken care of her. She earns her living through singing, and is a charming girl. Her brother is named Fanfaro. Ah! it is a curious story, full of misfortune and crime."

Pierre was silent for a moment, and then asked:

"Who is this Fanfaro whom you just spoke about?"

Caillette did not answer immediately. Fanfaro was to her the incarnation of all that was good and noble in the world, but of course she could not tell the old man this.

"Fanfaro is a foundling," she finally said; "of course he is a man now, and just as energetic and brave as any one."

"Fanfaro, Fanfaro," repeated the old man, pensively; "where have I heard the name before?"

The maniac now raised her eyes, and, seeing Pierre, she politely said:

"Excuse the plain service, sir; it is very little, but comes from our hearts."

Pierre Labarre uttered a cry of astonishment.

"Louise—Louise Fougeres!" he cried, beside himself.

The invalid looked sharply at Pierre, and tremblingly said:

"Who called me? Who pronounced my name just now?"

"I, Louise," replied Pierre. "Louise Fougeres, do you not recollect your husband, Jules, and your children, Jacques and Louison?"

"Of course I remember them. Ah, how glad I would be if I could see them again! Where can Jules be? and Jacques—Jacques—"

The maniac was silent, and ran her crippled fingers through her gray hair, as if she were trying to recollect something.

"Yes, I know," she murmured pensively, "Louison is here, she sleeps in a neat white bed, but she is away now—and—and—"

Expectantly Pierre gazed at the poor woman, who was palpably confounding imagination with reality, and after a pause she continued:

"Oh, the door opens now, and Jacques enters! Welcome, my dear child. How handsome you have become. Thank God, I have you again!"

"Has she really found Jacques again?" asked Labarre, tremblingly, and turning to Caillette. "Is he living?"

"Yes, he is the same person as Fanfaro."

"God be praised. And Louison?"

"Louison has been abducted and—"

"Abducted? By whom?"

"By the Vicomte of Talizac."

"By Talizac? O my God!" stammered Labarre, in horror.

Louise, too, had heard the name, and raising herself with difficulty, she whispered:

"Talizac? He must know it! Jacques—the box, O God! where is the box?"

* * * * *

How did these two women get to Leigoutte?

When Fanfaro went to search for Louison, his mother had remained behind under the protection of Caillette. The day passed, night came, but neither Fanfaro, Girdel nor Bobichel returned. The maniac screamed and cried. She wanted to see Jacques, and Caillette could hardly calm her. Finally long past midnight she fell into a slumber, and Caillette, too, exhausted by the excitement of the last few hours, closed her eyes.

When she awoke it was daylight. She glanced at the maniac's bed. Merciful Heaven, it was empty!

Trembling with fear, Caillette hurried downstairs and asked the janitress whether she had seen anything of the "Burned Woman." The janitress looked at her in amazement and said she had thought at once when she saw the old crippled woman creeping down the stairs two hours before that all was not right in her head.

"But she cannot walk at all, how could she get out?" groaned Caillette. "Suppose Fanfaro came now and found that his mother was gone?"

"A milk-wagon stopped in front of the door," said the janitress, "and the driver let the old woman get in. I thought it had been arranged beforehand and was all right."

Caillette wrung her hands and then hurried to the station house and announced the disappearance of the "Burned Woman."

If her father and Bobichel, even Fanfaro, had come, she would have felt at ease. But no one showed himself, and Caillette, who knew that Girdel and Fanfaro were wanted, did not dare to make any inquiries.

She ran about in desperation. The only clew was the milkman, but where could she find him? Caillette passed hours of dreadful anxiety, and when a ragpicker told her that he saw a woman who answered her description pass the Barriere d'Italie on a milk-wagon, she thought him a messenger of God.

As quick as she could go, she ran to the place designated; a hundred times on the way, she said to herself that the wagon must have gone on; and yet it struck like a clap of thunder when she found it was really so. What now? Caillette asked from house to house; every one had seen the woman, but she had gone in a different direction; and so the poor child wandered onward, right and left, forward and backward, always hoping to discover them. Finally, after she had been thirty-six hours on the way, she found the maniac in a little tavern by the roadside. She was crouching near the threshold, and smiled when she saw Caillette.

"God be praised! I have found you," cried the young girl, sobbing; and when the hostess, who had been standing in the background, heard these words, she joyfully said:

"I am glad I did not leave the poor woman go; she spoke so funny, I thought at once that she had run away from her family."

"What did she say?" asked Caillette, while the "Burned Woman" clung to her.

"Oh, she asked for bread, and then inquired the way to the Vosges."

"Yes, to the Vosges," said the maniac, hastily.

"But, mother, what should we do in the Vosges?" asked Caillette, in surprise.

"To Leigoutte—Leigoutte," repeated the maniac, urgently.

"Leigoutte—that is Fanfaro's home!" exclaimed the young girl, hastily.

"Not Fanfaro—Jacques," corrected the old woman.

"But what should we do in Leigoutte, mother?"

"The box—Jacques—Talizac—the papers," the woman replied.

And so we find Caillette and her patient, after weary wanderings, in Leigoutte. The young girl had sold, on the way, a gold cross, the only jewel she possessed, to pay the expenses of the journey. Charitable peasants had given the women short rides at times; kind-hearted farmers' wives had offered them food and drink, or else a night's lodging. Yet Caillette thanked God when she arrived at Leigoutte. What would happen now, she did not know. Nothing could induce the maniac to return, and the young girl thought it best not to oppose her wish. Little by little, she began to suspect herself that the journey might be important for Fanfaro; who could tell what thoughts were agitating the mad woman's brain; and, perhaps, the unexpected recovery of her son might have awakened recollections of the past.

"I must speak to old Laison," said the "Burned Woman," suddenly; "he must help me."

She arose, shoved Caillette and Pierre aside, and hobbled toward the back door. Opening it, she reached the open field, and without looking around, she walked on and on. Pierre and Caillette followed her unnoticed. She had now reached the spot on which the old farmhouse of Laison stood, and, looking timidly around her, she turned to the right.

Suddenly she uttered a loud scream, and when Caillette and Pierre hurried in affright to her, they found the maniac deathly pale, leaning against a hollow tree, while her crippled fingers held a box, which she had apparently dug out of the earth; for close to the hollow tree was a deep hole, and the box was covered with dirt and earth.

"There it is!" she cried to Pierre, and from the eyes in which madness had shone before, reason now sparkled. "Jacques is not my son, but Vicomte de Talizac, and Louison is the Marquise of Fougereuse—here are the proofs."

She clutched a number of papers from the box and held them triumphantly uplifted; but then nature demanded her right, and, exhausted by the great excitement, she sank senseless into Caillette's arms.

---

CHAPTER XXI

EXCITED

The street-singer was resting in the beautiful boudoir of the young countess, Irene de Salves. The poor child lay under lace covers, and Irene's tenderness and attachment had banished her melancholy.

After the terrible scene in the Fougereuse mansion, the young countess, with the help of Arthur, brought Louison to a carriage, and, to Madame Ursula's horror, she gave the young girl her own room and bed. For Fanfaro's sister nothing could be good enough, and the young countess made Louison as comfortable as possible.

After the young girl had rested a few hours, she felt much stronger, but with this feeling the recollection of what she had gone through returned, and in a trembling voice she asked Irene:

"Who saved me?"

"Don't you know?" asked the countess, blushing. "It was Fanfaro."

"Fanfaro? Who is that?"

Irene looked at her in astonishment. Was it possible that Louison did not know her own brother, or had the excitement of the last days crazed her mind?

"Won't you tell me who Fanfaro is?" asked Louison, urgently.

"Don't you really know your own brother?" asked Irene in surprise.

"My brother?"

Louison laid her hand on her head and became thoughtful.

"I had a brother once," she said, pensively; "he was a few years older than I, and did everything to please me, but it is long ago since I saw Jacques—many, many years."

"Jacques and Fanfaro are identical," replied Irene, softly.

She had been told this by her cousin Arthur, who took a great interest in the brother and sister.

"Fanfaro," repeated Louison, pensively. "Ah! now I know who this man is. He belongs to a company of acrobats who give performances in the Place du Chateau d'Eau. They have all such peculiar names. One of them is named Firejaws—"

"Perfectly right; he is Fanfaro's foster-father, and Fanfaro is your brother."

"Who told you so?"

"He, himself; he begged me to care for his sister."

"But why does he not come? I long to see him."

Irene, too, longed to see Fanfaro.

"Let me speak a little about him," said Louison, vivaciously; "perhaps Fanfaro is identical with Jacques; he must be twenty years of age."

"That may be so."

"And then he must be very handsome. Jacques was a very pretty boy."

"That is correct, too," replied Irene, blushing.

"Has he black eyes and dark, curly hair?"

"I think so," stammered Irene, who knew all these details, yet did not wish to confess it.

"You think so," repeated Louison; "you haven't looked carefully at him?"

"I—I—" stammered the countess, in confusion; "what do you look at me for?"

A smile flitted across Louison's lips, but she kept silent, and Irene thanked God, as Madame Ursula now came in and softly said:

"Irene, a word."

"What is the matter?" asked the countess, hastily.

"There is a man outside who would like to speak to you."

"His name?"

"Bobichel—"

"Bobichel? Ah! bring him in the next room directly!"

Madame Ursula nodded and disappeared, while Irene turned to Louison and said in explanation:

"Excuse me a moment; I will not leave you long alone."

She went to the next room, where Bobichel was already awaiting her. He did not look as jolly as usual, and, twirling his cap between his fingers in an embarrassed way, he began:

"Mademoiselle, excuse me for disturbing you, but—"

"You come from him—from Fanfaro?" said Irene, blushing.

"Unfortunately no," replied Bobichel, sorrowfully; "I was not allowed to see him."

"Who sent you here?"

"His foster-father—Girdel."

"Why does he not come personally?"

"I do not know. I have something to give you."

"What is it?"

"Here it is," said Bobichel, pulling a small package out of his pocket and handing it to Irene.

The young countess hastily unfolded the package. It contained two letters, one of which was addressed to "Mademoiselle Irene," while the other bore, in clear, firm letters, her full name, "Countess Irene de Salves."

Without accounting for her feelings, Irene feverishly broke the last letter. Did she suspect from whom it came?

"Countess, you are brave and noble!" wrote Fanfaro, "and therefore I dare to ask you to take care of my sister, whom I barely rescued from death. The hour is near at hand in which my sentence will be pronounced. You have never doubted me, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart! I have fought for the rights of humanity, and I hope at some future time to be enrolled among those to whom right is preferable to material things. One thing, however, I know now: a powerful enemy pursues me with his hatred, and if the sentence should turn out differently from what this enemy expects, he will find the means to make me harmless. I therefore say farewell to you—if forever, who can say? Irene, do not despair, eternal heavenly justice stands above human passions. But if I should succumb, I will die peacefully, knowing that my mother and my sister will not be deserted."

The letter bore no signature. Irene read again and again the words of her beloved, and hot tears fell on the paper.

Bobichel, deeply affected, observed the young girl, and to console her he said:

"Who knows, he might not be found guilty anyhow?"

"Whom are you talking of? Who will be found guilty?" came from a frightened voice behind Irene, and as the latter hastily turned round, she saw Louison, who, enveloped in a soft shawl and pale as a spectre, stood in the doorway.

"Louison, how did you get here?" cried Irene, beside herself. "O God! I am neglecting you. Quick, go to your room again, you shall know all to-morrow."

"Sister," whispered Louison, softly, "why do you wish to conceal something from me which I already know? Tell me what has happened to Fanfaro? I know danger threatens him, and two can bear the heaviest burden easier than one."

"Yes, you are right," replied Irene, embracing Louison, and, gently leading her to her room, she sat down beside her and hastily told her what she knew about the conspiracy and the part Fanfaro took in it. Bobichel put in a word here and there, and when Irene had finished he said with a smile:

"Mademoiselle, in your eagerness to read one of the letters you forgot to open the other."

"That's so!" exclaimed Irene blushing, and unfolding Girdel's letter she read the following words, written in an original orthographical style:

"We must reskue Fanfaro and this is only posibel in one way. You have great inflooence; try to make the thing which Popichel will give you all right, but not until after the trial, which will take place in two days. I trust in you.

Girdel."

"What answer shall I bring master!" asked the clown after Irene had read the letter.

"That I will do as he says," replied Irene. "Where is the thing Girdel intrusted to you?"

"Here," said Bobichel, handing the young lady a pin with a pretty large head; and as Irene, amazed, looked inquiringly at him, he quickly tore off the head and showed her a small hollow in which a note lay.

"You see, mademoiselle," he laughingly said, "prestidigitation is sometimes of use. And now good-by. I will tell master that he struck the right person."

He disappeared, and the two young girls looked after him filled with new hope.

From the time that the old Countess of Salves had informed the Marquise of Fougereuse that under existing circumstances a marriage between her daughter and the Vicomte de Talizac was out of the question, violent scenes had taken place in the Fougereuse mansion.

Financial ruin could now hardly be averted, and, far from accusing her son of being the cause of this shipwreck of her plans, Madeleine placed the blame entirely on her husband. It was already whispered in court circles that the newly appointed captain in the Life Guards and Knight of St. Louis would lose his position, and though the other young noblemen were no better than the vicomte, they had the advantage that this was not universally known.

The marquis and Madeleine had just been having a quarrel, and the marquis, pale and exhausted, lay back in his chair, when Count Fernando de Velletri was announced. The marquis bathed his face and forehead in cold water, and ordered the Italian to be sent up. He attached great importance to this visit, for Simon had told him that Velletri was a member of the Society of Jesus, and a man of great influence.

Velletri entered and his appearance was so different from what it ordinarily was that the marquis looked at him in amazement. He wore a long black coat, a black cravat, and a round hat of the same color. These things marked Velletri at once as a member of an ecclesiastical society. The dark cropped hair lay thick at the temples, and his eyes were cast down. The Italian was inch by inch a typical Jesuit, and his sharp look made the marquis tremble. He knew Loyola's pupils and their "energy."

Velletri bowed slightly to the marquis, and then said in a cold voice:

"Marquis, I begged for an interview with you which I desire principally for your own good. Are we undisturbed here?"

"Entirely so," replied the marquis, coldly.

The Italian sat down in a chair which the marquis had shoved toward him, and began in a business tone:

"Marquis, it is probably not unknown to you that the conduct of your son, the Vicomte de Talizac, compromises his own position and that of his family. I—"

"But, count," interrupted the marquis vivaciously, "you were the chum of my son, and you even encouraged his dissipations."

Velletri laughed maliciously.

"The Vicomte of Talizac," he said, weighing each word, "is no child any more, and not influenced either in a bad or good way by any of his companions. If I have apparently taken part in his dissipations, it was in the first place to prevent something worse and to shield the honor of the Fougereuse, which was often at stake."

"You, count—but I really do not understand," stammered the marquis.

"It seems to me," interrupted the Italian, sharply, "that we are swerving from the real object of our interview. Let me speak, marquis. A powerful society, with which I have the honor of being associated, has had its eye on you for a long time. Your influence, your opinions and your family connections are such that the society hopes to have in you a useful auxiliary, and I have therefore received the order to make arrangements with you. The society—"

"You are no doubt speaking of the Society of Jesus?" interrupted the marquis.

Velletri bowed and continued:

"Thanks to the assistance of the pious fathers, his majesty has foregone his original intention of stripping the Vicomte de Talizac of all his honors—"

The marquis made a gesture of astonishment, and Velletri went on:

"The society is even ready to give you the means to put your shattered fortune on a firm basis again."

"And the conditions?" stammered Fougereuse hoarsely.

"I will tell them to you directly; they are not very difficult to fulfil."

"And should I refuse them?"

"Do you really intend to refuse them?" asked the Jesuit, softly.

Fougereuse bit his lips; he had already said too much. The Jesuit was a worthy pupil of his master, and the marquis felt that should he oppose him he would be the loser.

"What does the society ask of me?" he said, after a pause.

"Two things—an important service and a guarantee."

"And what does it offer?"

"The position of his majesty the king's prime minister."

The marquis sprang up as if electrified.

"I have misunderstood you," he said.

"Not at all; it is a question of the premiership."

Cold drops of perspiration stood on the marquis's forehead; he knew the society had the power to keep its promises. Prime minister! Never in his dreams had he even thought so high. The position guaranteed to him riches, influence and power.

"You spoke of an important service and a guarantee," he said, breathing heavily; "please explain yourself more clearly."

"I will first speak of the service," replied Velletri, calmly; "it is of such a nature that the one intrusted with it can be thankful, for he will be able to do a great deal of good to His Holiness the Pope and the Catholic world."

Fougereuse closed his eyes—this outlook was dazzling.

Fernando de Velletri continued with:

"Marquis, you are no doubt aware that the Jesuits have been expelled from France under the law of 1764. About two years ago, in January, 1822, his majesty the king allowed them to stay temporarily in his kingdom. The good prince did not dare at that time to do more for us. The time has now come to put an end to the oppression under which the Jesuits have so long suffered. What we desire is the solemn restoration of all their rights to the fathers. They should hold up their heads under their true names and enjoy anew all their former privileges. To secure this end we must have a law—not a royal edict, a sound constitutional law—which must be passed by the Chamber of Peers. It is a bold undertaking, and we do not deceive ourselves with regard to the difficulties to be encountered, and the man who does it must be quick and energetic, but the reward is a magnificent one. The man we shall elevate to the prime ministership will be in possession of great power. Marquis, do you think you have the necessary strength to be this man?"

Fougereuse had arisen. Excited, flushed with enthusiasm, he looked at Velletri.

"Yes, I am the man!" he firmly exclaimed, "I will easily overcome every obstacle, conquer every opposition—"

"With our assistance," added the Jesuit. "We are already in possession of a respectable minority, and it will be easy for you, with the aid of promises and shrewd insinuations, to win over those who are on the fence. Marquis, the work intrusted to you is a sublime one—"

"I am yours body and soul," interrupted the marquis impatiently. "And to-day—"

"One moment," said the Jesuit, placing his hand lightly on the marquis's shoulder; "I also spoke about a guarantee."

"Really," cried Fougereuse sincerely, "I forgot all about that, but I should think my word of honor would be sufficient."

Velletri did not reply to his last observation, but coolly said:

"The man in whom the society places such entire confidence as to give him the weapons which must lead to victory must be bound to us by ties which cannot be torn asunder."

The marquis's face expressed naïve astonishment.

"The strongest chains," continued the Jesuit, "are, as is well known, the golden ones, and the guarantee we desire is based on this fact. Marquis, I am the secretary of the general of the order, and it is my mission to ask you whether you are ready to assist the society financially by founding new colonies such as the Montrouge and Saint-Acheul houses in Parma and Tuscany?"

"Certainly," stammered Fougereuse, "I am ready to help the Society of Jesus to the extent of my means, and should like to know beforehand how high the sum is that is required. My finances are at present exhausted and—"

"Have no fear," interrupted Velletri dryly; "the sum in question is not so immense that you need be frightened about it."

Fougereuse breathed more freely.

"To found the houses named only a very modest sum is necessary, not more than a million!"

"A million!" stammered the marquis, "a million!"

"The sum is very small in comparison to the office you buy with it, and only the particular friendship our order had for you caused it to give you the preference, to the exclusion of numerous applicants."

"But a million!" groaned Fougereuse, "the sum is impossible to secure! If I were to sell or pawn everything, I would not succeed in raising a quarter of this sum."

"Then you refuse?" asked Velletri.

"God forbid, only I do not know how I shall satisfy the demand of the society. A million is, under the circumstances, a terrible sum!"

"Marquis, the house of Fougereuse possesses a fortune which is fabulous in comparison to the demands of the society."

"If it were only so," groaned Fougereuse, "but unfortunately you are mistaken; I am ruined, totally ruined!"

"Impossible! The fortune your father left behind him was too immense to have been spent in a few years! No matter what your embarrassments previously were, the fortune must have been sufficient to cover them and enrich you enormously besides!" replied Velletri.

"Count, I was robbed of my legacy—dastardly robbed," whined Fougereuse.

The Italian rose up angrily.

"Marquis," said he, "I am not used to bargaining and haggling. I ask you for the last time, what is your decision? I offer you peace or war. Peace means for you power and influence, while war—"

"War?" repeated Fougereuse, confused. "I—do not understand you!"

"Then I will express myself more clearly. When the society reposes its confidence in a man like you and discloses its most secret plans, it always has a weapon in the background, to be used in case of necessity. A comrade sometimes becomes an opponent—"

"I—should I ever become an enemy of the fathers? Oh, you do not believe that yourself!"

"Our measures are such that it cannot be done very easily, anyhow," replied Velletri, with faint malice; "this is our ultimatum: Either you accept my proposition and hand over the sum named within five days, or one of our emissaries will place certain papers in the hands of the district-attorney!"

Fougereuse trembled with fear and his teeth chattered as he stammeringly said:

"I—do not—understand—you."

"Then listen. The papers are drafts whose signatures have been forged by the Vicomte de Talizac, and which are in our hands."

"Drafts? Forged drafts? Impossible—my son is not a criminal!" cried the marquis, desperately.

"Ask the vicomte," replied Velletri, coldly, and rising, he added: "Marquis, I give you time to consider. As soon as you have made up your mind, please be so kind as to let me know."

"One moment, count. Are your conditions unchangeable?"

"Perfectly so. Inside of the next five days the preliminary steps must be taken in the Chamber of Peers—"

"I will do them to-morrow," cried the marquis, hastily.

"But only in case you are able to give the necessary guarantee. Marquis, adieu!"

The Italian went away, and Fougereuse, entirely broken down, remained behind.

He was still sitting thinking deeply, when Simon, who had remained behind the curtain and overheard the interview, softly stepped forth, and said:

"Courage, marquis; there is no reason for despair. Write to the pious fathers that you will satisfy their demands within the required five days."

"But I do not understand—"

"And yet it is very clear. Fanfaro is in prison—"

"Even so—he will not be condemned to death."

"If the judges do not kill him, there are other means."

"Other means?"

"Yes, my lord; the legacy of the Fougereuse will fall into your hands, and then the cabinet position is sure."

"Simon, are you mad?"

"No, my lord. I will kill Fanfaro!"

---

CHAPTER XXII

THE TRIAL

Political trials are in all ages similar; and then, as now, the verdict is decided upon long before the proceedings have begun.

It was only after Fanfaro had been brought to the courtroom that he caught a glimpse of the man who had allowed himself to be used as a tool to set the assassination of the king in motion. A contemptuous smile played about the young man's lips when he saw it was Robeckal. The wretch looked like the personification of fear; his knees quaked together, his face was covered with cold perspiration, and his teeth chattered audibly.

Robeckal had been still half intoxicated when he undertook to carry out Simon's proposition to play the regicide. Not until now, when he found himself in the presence of his judges, had he comprehended that it might cost him his head, and his bold assurance gave way to cowardly despair.

Fanfaro answered the questions put to him briefly and clearly. He described Robeckal's actions during the time he had been a member of Girdel's troupe. He declared that the wretch had cut the chain in Sainte-Ame for the purpose of killing the athlete, and said everything in such a passionless way that the judges became convinced that he was speaking the truth. As soon as the indictment had been read, the proceedings began. Robeckal whiningly declared that he bitterly regretted what he had done. He had been seduced by Fanfaro, and would give his right hand if he could blot out the recollection of the attempted assassination.

"Thanks be to God that Providence protected our king!" he concluded, bursting into tears, the presence of which were a surprise even to himself, while a murmur of sympathy ran through the courtroom. He certainly deserved a light punishment, poor fellow, and—

Now came Fanfaro's turn.

"You are a member of a secret society which bears the proud title of 'Heroes of Justice'?" asked the presiding judge.

"I am a Frenchman," replied Fanfaro, "and as such I joined with the men who desire to free their country."

"And to do this you attempted assassination?" asked the judge, sharply.

"I am not an assassin," replied the young man, coldly; "these men who negotiated with foreign powers to cut France in pieces for the sake of conquering a crown sunk in mud have more right to the title."

"Bravo!" came from the rear of the hall, and then a terrible tumult arose. With the help of the policemen, several dozen men were hustled out of the room, while the man who had uttered the cry was let alone. It was Girdel, who wore the dress of a lackey and consequently aroused no suspicion.

Irene de Salves was also one of the spectators. Her sparkling eyes were directed at Fanfaro, and whenever he spoke, a look of pride shone in them.

When quiet had been restored, the judge turned once more to Fanfaro. He asked him to tell everything he knew about the attempt, and shook his head when the young man declared on his honor that he was the victim of a conspiracy.

"My father," Fanfaro concluded, "fell in defence of his country, and it would be a bad way of honoring his memory were I to stain his name with the shame of regicide."

Fanfaro's defender was a very able lawyer, but he was stopped in the middle of his speech, and when he protested he was forced to leave the courtroom.

Fifteen minutes later the verdict was given. Robeckal was condemned to death by strangulation, and Fanfaro to the galleys for life.

But at the moment the sentence was pronounced a terrible thing occurred.

Fanfaro arose, opened his mouth as if he wished to speak, stretched out his arms, turned around in a circle, and then fell heavily to the floor!

Loud cries broke forth.

"He has committed suicide," some cried.

"He has been poisoned," came from others, and all rushed toward the unconscious man.

Irene de Salves had hurried toward Girdel, she wished to ask him a question; but when she finally reached the place where she had seen the athlete he had disappeared. All attempts at recovery remained fruitless, and Fanfaro was carried off. Robeckal, too, was almost dead from fright. The sentence came upon him like a stroke of lightning.

---

CHAPTER XXIII

THE CRISIS

"At last," cried the Marquis of Fougereuse, when he heard of Fanfaro's sudden death, and in great good humor he went in search of his wife.

"Madeleine!" he exclaimed, "all our troubles are at an end now; he who stood between us and fortune is dead."

"Of whom are you speaking?"

"Of whom else but that common regicide."

"What, of that Fanfaro who lately had the audacity to come into our parlor and create that terrible scene?"

"Of him—he is dead."

"Heaven be praised. We shall now receive the legacy."

"Without a doubt. All that is now necessary is to get Girdel to speak, and that can be easily arranged. He has only to repeat before witnesses what he has told me already."

"I had hardly dared to hope any more that this dream would be realized," said Madeleine. "The cabinet position is now sure, and our son has a brilliant future before him. Where is Frederic staying? He has been gone already several hours."

The marquis paid no attention to Madeleine's last words. He was thinking about Simon and the great service the latter had done for him.

"Where can Simon be?" he uneasily remarked, "I have not seen him in two days."

"Bah! he will turn up, let us rather speak about our son. I—"

A knock was heard at the door.

"Come in," said the marquis expectantly; but instead of Simon, as he thought, a servant entered.

"My lord," he stammered, "the vicomte—"

"Ah, he is outside!" cried the marquise eagerly; "tell the vicomte we are awaiting him."

Saying which she advanced toward the door. The servant, however, prevented her from opening it, and placing his hand on the knob, he hesitatingly said:

"Madame—I—"

"What do you mean?" cried the marquise, angrily. "You announce the vicomte and lock the door instead of opening it?"

"My lord," said the servant, turning to the marquis.

The expression of the man's face was such that the nobleman felt his heart stand still with terror, and in a faint voice he stammered:

"Madeleine, let Baptiste speak."

"The—vicomte—is dead," stammered Baptiste.

A cry of despair came from the marquise's lips, while the unfortunate father looked at the messenger in a daze. He did not seem to know what was the matter.

But soon the terrible significance of the words was made clear to him. Heavy steps were heard in the corridor. They ceased at the door, and now—now four men entered the parlor and laid gently on the floor the burden they had been carrying. The burden was a bier, covered with a cloth, under which could be seen the outlines of a human form.

Neither the marquis nor Madeleine had the courage to raise the cover. In a daze they both stared at the bier and the pallbearers, and only when Gaston de Ferrette, Talizac's friend, stepped on the threshold of the door did life return to the unhappy parents.

"Gaston, what has happened?" cried the marquis in despair, as he imploringly held his hand toward the young man.

"He is dead," replied Gaston, in a hollow voice.

"Who is dead? For Heaven's sake speak!" moaned Madeleine.

"Your son, the Vicomte de Talizac, fell in a duel," said Gaston, earnestly.

Madeleine uttered a loud cry and sank unconscious to the floor. While Baptiste and the marquise's maid hurried to her assistance, Fougereuse gazed vacantly before him, and then raising his head, he passionately exclaimed:

"You lie—my son had no duel!"

"Would to God you were right, marquis," replied Gaston, sorrowfully; "unfortunately it is the truth. The vicomte and Arthur de Montferrand fought a duel, and the sword of the latter ran through Talizac's heart!"

The marquis still remained unconvinced, and carefully gliding toward the bier, he shoved the cloth aside with a trembling hand.

Yes, it was his son who lay on the bier. The pale face was stiff and cold. The eyes were glassy and on the breast was a deep red wound.

The marquis uttered a hoarse cry and his hand nervously grasped the cloth. His eyes shone feverishly and he stammered forth disconnected sentences.

Gaston de Ferrette consoled the unhappy father, but his words made no impression, and as Madeleine had in the meantime been brought back to consciousness by her maid, Gaston thought it best to go away for the present.

He softly strode to the door, but had hardly reached it when the marquis sprang up, and, laying his hand heavily on the young man's shoulder, said:

"Do not leave this room. I must know how he died."

A wink from Gaston sent the servants away, and as soon as he was alone with the parents he began his story.

"The vicomte sent his seconds to Arthur de Montferrand," he said; "the motive for the duel was to be kept secret by both combatants, and I of course had nothing to say to this. The meeting was agreed upon for this morning and took place in the Bois de Boulogne. When the vicomte arrived on the spot, he was so terribly excited that the seconds thought it their duty to ask for a postponement of the affair. This proposition was agreed to by Monsieur de Montferrand, but the vicomte firmly opposed it. We tried in vain to change his determination. He became angry, accused his seconds of cowardice, and threatened to horsewhip them. Under such circumstances nothing could be done. The distance was measured off and the duel began. The vicomte was already lost after the first tourney. In his passion he ran upon his opponent's sword, the blade of which penetrated his heart, and death immediately followed."

Pale, with eyes wide open, the marquis and Madeleine listened to Gaston's story. The marquise clinched her fist and angrily exclaimed:

"My son has been murdered, and I will avenge him!"

The marquis remained silent, but his silence made a deeper impression on the young man than Madeleine's anger.

"Did my son leave any letter?" asked the marquise, suddenly.

"Yes, my lady. Before we rode to the Bois de Boulogne the vicomte gave me a sealed letter, which I was to give to his parents in case of his death."

The young man thereupon handed the marquise the letter. Madeleine tore the envelope with a trembling hand. There were only a few lines:

"You have brought me up badly. You are the cause of my death. I hate you!"

A terrible laugh, the laugh of madness, came from the marquise's breast, and, rushing upon her husband, she held the paper before his eyes.

"Read," she cried, "read these words, which our only child sends us from his grave. He hates us—ha, ha, ha!—hates—hates!"

The cup of sorrow caused the marquise to become unconscious again, and this time Gaston ordered the servants to take her away. Madeleine was carried to her bedroom, and Gaston, who saw the marquis kneeling at his son's bier, noiselessly went away.

Hardly had he left the room, when the door was slowly opened and a gray-haired man entered. He saw the grief-stricken father beside his son's corpse, and an expression of deep sympathy crossed his stony face. Softly walking behind the marquis, he laid his hand upon his shoulder. Fougereuse looked up and an expression of dumb terror appeared on his features, while he tremblingly murmured: "Pierre Labarre!"

Yes, it was really Pierre Labarre who had accompanied Caillette and Louise to Paris, and had heard there that Fanfaro's trial had begun. As soon as he could he hurried to the court house and heard there what had happened. Several physicians stood about the so suddenly deceased young man, and they declared that death was brought about by the bursting of a vein.

Crushed and annihilated, Pierre Labarre hurried to the Fougereuse mansion, and the marquis trembled at sight of him, as if he were a spectre.

"Pierre Labarre," he cried in a hollow voice, "you come to gloat over my grief. Ah, you can triumph now. I know you are glad at my misfortune. Get out!" he suddenly exclaimed in angry tones, "get out, I have nothing to do with you!"

"But I have with you, marquis," replied Pierre calmly. "I have something to tell you, and you will listen to me!"

"Aha! have you finally become reasonable?" mockingly laughed the marquis. "Now you will no longer dare to prevent me from claiming my rights or dispute my legal title."

"No," replied Pierre, sorrowfully; "the real Vicomte de Talizac is dead, and from to-day on you are for me the Marquis of Fougereuse."

"I do not understand you," said the marquis, confused. "What has the death of my son got to do with my title?"

"I do not speak of the son who lies here a corpse, but of the other—"

"Which other?" asked the nobleman, more and more surprised.

"You will soon understand me—it is about Fanfaro—"

"Ah, I could have thought so; to his death I owe the fact that Pierre Labarre calls me the Marquis of Fougereuse, and that now that no one is living to whom he can give the hidden millions he must necessarily deliver them up to me!"

With a mixture of surprise and horror Pierre looked at the man, who could still think of money and money matters in the presence of his dead son.

"Why do you not speak?" continued the marquis, mockingly. "You are, no doubt, sorrowful at the death of Fanfaro, whom you imagine to be the legitimate heir of the Fougereuse? Yes, I cannot help you; gone is gone; and if it interests you, you can learn how Fanfaro came to his death. I killed him!"

"Impossible—do not say that!" cried Pierre Labarre in terror. "Say that it was a joke, my lord, or a misunderstanding. You did not kill him!"

"And why not?" asked the nobleman. "Yes, I got rid of him; I hired the murderer, who freed me of him! Ha! ha! ha! I knew who Fanfaro was—I recognized him immediately on account of his resemblance to my father and my brother, and as he stood in my way I got rid of him by means of poison! What are you staring at? I really believe you are getting childish in your old age!"

Pale as a ghost, Pierre leaned against the wall, and his hand was clasped over his eyes, as if he wished to shut the marquis out of his sight.

"Unhappy father," he murmured, in a broken voice; "would to God somebody took the duty off my hands of telling you what you have done."

"Spare your pity," said Fougereuse, proudly; "if anything can console me for the death of my son, it is the knowledge that my brother Jules's son, who was always a thorn in my side, is at last out of the way."

"For Heaven's sake be silent: this Fanfaro was not your brother's son!"

"So much the worse!"

"My lord, in the presence of this corpse which lies before us, I beseech you do not blaspheme, and listen to what I have to say. Do you recollect the village of Sachemont?"

"Sachemont?" repeated Fougereuse, pensively.

"Yes—Sachemont. On the 16th of May, 1804, you and another officer took lodgings in the cottage of a peasant in Sachemont. You were running away from France. You had taken part in Cadoudal's conspiracy, and barely escaped from the hands of the officers of the law. The peasant received you hospitably, and, in return, the wretches insulted their host's daughters. One of the officers, a German, was repulsed by the young girl he had impudently approached, but the other one, a Frenchman, took advantage of the other sister, and after committing the dastardly outrage, he ran away with his companion. Marquis, shall I name you the man who acted so meanly? It was the then Vicomte de Talizac!"

Fougereuse looked at the old servant in amazement. Where had Pierre Labarre found all this out?

"The nobleman left the cottage like a thief in the night, and left behind him despair and shame," continued Pierre; "and this despair increased when the unhappy victim of the Vicomte de Talizac gave birth to a son, about the commencement of the year 1805—"

"Go on! What else?" asked Fougereuse, mockingly, as Pierre paused.

"The unhappy girl died, and the child, which had neither father nor mother, stood alone in the world," said the old man softly; "it would have died wretchedly if a brave and noble man had not made good the misfortune another caused. Jules de Fougereuse, the brother of the Vicomte de Talizac, married, under the name of Jules Fougeres, the sister of the dead woman, and both of them took care of the child. They brought the boy up as if he had been their own, and in the village of Leigoutte no one suspected that little Jacques was only an adopted child. In the year 1814 you induced the Cossacks to destroy Leigoutte. Jules Fougeres, your only brother, died the death of a hero, and if the wife and children of the victim did not get burned to death, as was intended, it was not the fault of the instigator of the bloody drama."

This time the nobleman did not reply mockingly; pale and trembling he gazed at Pierre Labarre, and cold drops of perspiration stood on his forehead.

"My information is at an end," said the old man now, as he advanced a step nearer to the nobleman. "Fanfaro and Jacques Fougeres are identical with the Vicomte de Talizac's son."

"It is a lie," hissed Fougereuse, "this Fanfaro was my brother's son; tell your fables to others."

Instead of answering, Pierre Labarre searched in his breast-pocket and handed the marquis a package of papers. With trembling hands Fougereuse opened the ones on top and tried to read, but a veil was before his eyes and he tremblingly said:

"Read them, Pierre, I cannot see anything."

Pierre read the following aloud:

"I, Jules de Fougereuse, elder son of the marquis of the same name, swear that the child, Jacques Fougeres, which is supposed to be my own and bears the name of Fougeres, which I at present answer to, is not my son, but the son of my sister-in-law Therese Lemaire, and my brother, the Vicomte de Talizac.

"Jules Fougeres."

"Those words have been written by some unmitigated liar!" cried the marquis. "Pierre Labarre, say that it is not true, or else—I must have poisoned my own son!"

"Would to God I could say no," replied Pierre, shuddering, "but I cannot! Fanfaro was your son—his blood lies on your head!"

"No! no!" cried the marquis, pale as death; "his blood will not fall upon me, but upon the devil who led me to do the dastardly deed."

"His name?" asked Pierre.

"Is Simon—my steward! He advised me to poison Fanfaro, so that I could force you to give up the legacy. I acceded to his proposition, and he committed the deed."

Pierre looked contemptuously at the coward who did not hesitate to throw the responsibility of the terrible deed on his servant.

"I am going now," he said, coldly; "I have nothing more to do here."

"No, remain. Do not leave me alone with the dead—I am frightened!" whined the marquis.

"I must go. I want to look after your other dead son," replied Pierre.

"Ah, take me along! Let me see him, let me beg forgiveness of the corpse against which I have sinned so," implored the broken-down man.

Pierre thought for a while, and then said earnestly:

"Come then—you are right."

"Thanks, a thousand thanks! But tell me, Pierre, what will become of the fortune you have in safe keeping. It exists yet, I hope?"

Labarre trembled with contemptuous rage; the man before him was more mercenary and wicked than he thought could be possible. He buried both his sons almost at the same hour, but he still found time and opportunity to inquire about the legacy for which he had made so many sacrifices.

"Well," exclaimed Fougereuse impatiently, "tell me, where are the millions of my father?"

"In a safe place," replied Pierre dryly.

"God be praised! I could draw a million then this evening?"

"My God, marquis! do you need a million to confess your sins?"

"Later! Later! Now answer me, when can I get the million?"

"To-morrow; the documents and bonds are deposited with a lawyer here."

"So much the better."

The marquis hurried to his writing-table, wrote a few lines and rang.

"Here, this note must be brought at once to Count Fernando de Velletri," he said to Baptiste. "Wait for an answer and bring it at once to me; you will find me in the court-house."

While the servant was hurrying away, the marquis hastily put on a cloak, and left the house with Labarre.

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CHAPTER XXIV

THE AUTOPSY

In a House opposite the court-house, which stood at the corner of a street which has long since disappeared, were two men who were earnestly conversing.

"Doctor," said one of them, "you guarantee a success?"

"Have no fear; I have often made such experiments, and always with success. I haven't grown gray in the service of science for nothing. I know what I am speaking about."

"But the long time," said the other anxiously. "You know we can operate only at night, and forty hours are sometimes an eternity."

"Before I entered upon the plan I weighed everything carefully," said the physician earnestly, "otherwise I should not have taken the responsibility. Have confidence in me; what my knowledge and care can do will be done to bring everything to a good end."

The other man shook the physician's hand heartily.

"Thank you, faithful friend," he cordially said. "I wish I could stop the uneasy beating of my heart, but I suppose it is only natural that I am anxious."

"That's it exactly," replied the doctor; "and to quiet you I will stay here from now on until the decisive hour. Good-by, I must go. You know where I am to be found."

The doctor went, while the other man struck his face with his hands and softly murmured:

"God grant that he be right. I would rather die a thousand deaths than lose the dear boy in this way."

Hot tears ran over the man's brown cheeks, and his broad breast rose and fell, torn by convulsive sobs.

"Shame yourself, Firejaws!" he murmured, "if any one saw you now! Let us hope everything will be all right, and then—"

A loud knock at the door interrupted Girdel's self-conversation, and upon a hasty "Come in," Bobichel entered the room.

"Well, Bobi, how goes it?" asked the athlete.

"She is downstairs," said the clown, with a significant gesture.

Without asking another question, Girdel hurried out, while Bobichel looked observantly around the room, and soon found a well-filled bottle of wine and a glass; he filled the glass and emptied it with one swallow.

In the meantime Girdel had met Irene de Salves in the corridor of the house.

The young lady wore a black dress, and when she saw the athlete she ran to meet him and sobbingly cried:

"He's not dead, is he?"

"No, he is not dead," confirmed Girdel; and seeing Irene's pale face, he said, more to himself: "I knew how the news would work, and yet it could not be helped—as God pleases, it will all be right again."

"But where is he?" asked Irene anxiously.

"Countess," began the athlete, somewhat embarrassed, "at present he is a corpse on a bier and whoever sees him thinks he is dead; but to-morrow at this time he will be well and at liberty."

"Ah, if I could only believe it—"

"You can do so," cried Girdel, hastily; "if I had not thought you were more courageous than women in general, I would have kept silent; but I thought to myself you were in despair, and I therefore concluded to speak."

"A thousand thanks for your confidence, but tell me everything that has happened—I can hardly understand the whole thing."

"I believe you. If you were to accompany me to the cellar now you would see one of the chief actors in the drama. Downstairs in a cage lies a wild beast which we have captured. I just want to call Bobichel and give him a message, then I will accompany you downstairs."

A low whistle from the athlete brought the clown directly to him, and Girdel ordered him to slip into the court-house and watch what occurred there. He then accompanied Irene into the damp cellar. Lighting a pocket lantern and holding it aloft, he said:

"Follow me, countess; we will soon be there."

The countess followed her guide without hesitation; she had perfect confidence in Girdel, and after a short journey they both stood in front of a heavy iron door.

"Here we are," said the athlete, triumphantly; and taking an iron bar which stood in a corner in his hand, he cried in stentorian tones:

"Get up, scoundrel, let us look at you!"

Low moans answered the gruff command, and Irene uttered a cry of terror, for in the cell a human form moved.

"Step nearer, mademoiselle," said Girdel, putting on the manners of a circus proprietor; "the wild beast is pretty tame now—we have taken out its teeth and chained it."

"But I do not understand—" stammered Irene.

"Who this beast is? You shall know it at once; the magnificent personage is Simon, the factotum of the Marquis Fougereuse. In his leisure hours the miserable wretch occupies himself with poisoning experiments, and it would not be a loss to humanity if he should never see daylight again. Come, boy, play your tricks; the performance begins."

"Mercy," whispered Simon, for he was really the prisoner, "let me free."

"Really? Perhaps later on, but now you must obey. Quick, tell us what brought you here."

"I am hungry," growled Simon.

"Really? Well, if you answer my questions probably you shall have food and drink. Why did you want to poison Fanfaro?"

"I do not know," stammered the steward.

"How bad your memory is. What interest did your master, the Marquis of Fougereuse, have in Fanfaro's death?"

Simon was silent. Girdel nudged him gently in the ribs with the iron bar, and turning to Irene, said:

"Would you believe, mademoiselle, that this fellow was very talkative a few days ago when he tried to bribe Fanfaro's jailer. Growl away, it is true, anyway! You promised fabulous sums to the jailer if he would mix a small white powder in Fanfaro's food. Fortunately I have eyes and ears everywhere, so I immediately took my measures. With Bobichel's assistance I captured this monster here, and then I went to the bribed jailer and gave him, in the name of his employer, the white powder. He took it without any objection. That I had changed the powder in the meantime for another he was unaware of. If I only knew," he concluded with a frown, "what object this marquis has to injure Fanfaro. This beast won't talk, and—"

"Let me speak to him," said the countess, softly. And turning to the grating, she urged Simon to confess his master's motives and thereby free himself. At first Simon looked uneasily at the young girl; he made an attempt to speak, but reconsidered it and closed his lips.

"Let us leave him alone, mademoiselle," said Girdel; "solitude will do him good."

When Simon saw that Girdel and Irene were about to depart, he groaned loudly, but the athlete ordered him to keep still if he did not wish to be gagged, and this warning had the desired effect.

When Girdel and Irene reached the room, the latter sank, sobbing, upon a chair, and "the brave athlete" tried his best to console her.

"It will be all right," he assured her; "Fanfaro has swallowed a strong narcotic which makes him appear as if dead. To-morrow he will be buried; we shall dig him up again, and then bring him away as soon as possible."

At this moment Bobichel breathlessly rushed into the room, and Irene uttered a cry of terror when she saw his pale face.

"What has happened?" she cried, filled with gloomy forebodings.

"O God—he is lost!" stammered the clown.

"Who is lost?"

"Fanfaro."

"Speak clearly," cried Girdel, beside himself.

"They have brought—Fanfaro—to the—Hotel Dieu," said Bobichel, sobbing.

"Well, that isn't such a misfortune," said the athlete, breathing more freely. "You need not have frightened us."

"But the worst is to come—they want to hold an autopsy over him to find out the cause of death."

"Merciful God! that must not be," cried Irene, wringing her hands. "We must run to the hospital and tell all."

"Who is the physician that is going to undertake the autopsy?" asked Girdel.

"Doctor Albaret, as I was informed."

"Then rely on me, countess," cried the athlete, rushing away; "either I rescue Fanfaro or else I die with him."

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CHAPTER XXV

FROM SCYLLA TO CHARYBDIS

Bobichel unfortunately had not said too much. The fact that Fanfaro had dropped dead so suddenly had caused great excitement in the scientific world, and Dr. Albaret, the king's private physician, was the first to propose the autopsy. His colleagues immediately consented, and Fanfaro was at once brought to the Hotel Dieu and placed upon the marble table in the anatomy room. The attendants busily rushed here and there, and while they brought in the necessary instruments—lances, needles, knives, saws and bandages,—numerous disciples of Esculapius stood about the dead man and admired his beautiful proportions and strong muscles.

"He could have lived to a hundred years," said the physician, as he beat Fanfaro's breast, and his colleagues agreed with him. Fanfaro lay like a marble statue upon the table; the dark locks covered the pale forehead, and a painful expression lay over the firmly closed lips. Did the poor fellow suspect that he would become a victim of science and be delivered over to the knife?

In the meantime the hall had become crowded, and when Dr. Albaret appeared a murmur of expectation ran through the ranks of the students and physicians.

Dr. Albaret, a sturdy old man, bowed to all sides, and hastily taking off his coat he took the dissecting knife in his hand and began to speak: "Gentlemen! a death so sudden as this in a person apparently in the best of health demands the attention of all physicians, and I hope that we will be able to discover the cause of this surprising phenomenon. There are different ways of beginning an autopsy such as this. The German professors, for instance, make a cut from the chin to the pit of the stomach, the Italians from the underlip to the breast-bone, while the French—"

"Dr. Albaret," cried a stentorian voice at this moment—"where is Dr. Albaret?"

The physician frowned, he did not like such interruptions, but when he saw that the man who was hurriedly pressing through the rows of listeners wore the livery of a royal lackey, his face became clear again.

"A message from his majesty the king," said the man breathlessly.

"A message from his majesty?" repeated the physician eagerly, as he grasped the note the messenger gave him.

Hurriedly running over the few lines, Albaret nodded, and quickly putting his coat on again, he said, in a tone of importance:

"Gentlemen, much to my regret I must leave you; an urgent matter requires my immediate attendance at the Tuileries, and I shall go there directly."

"But the autopsy?" remarked an elderly colleague.

"It isn't worth the trouble to postpone it," replied Albaret, indifferently; "let the poor fellow, who is stone-dead, be buried. Death undoubtedly was produced by the bursting of a blood vessel in the brain, and the excitement under which the deceased was laboring proves this very clearly. Adieu, gentlemen, next time we shall make up for what we have lost now."

He hurried out. In the corridor he was stopped by the superintendent of the hospital, who asked him to put his signature under the burial certificate. Albaret signed it standing, got into the carriage which was waiting at the door, and rode rapidly away, while the royal servant, who was no other than Girdel, ran in an opposite direction, and took off his livery in a little house where Bobichel was awaiting him.

"Bobi, just in time," he breathlessly cried, "five minutes more and Fanfaro would have been done for."

Girdel's further arrangements were made with the utmost prudence. Irene de Salves had given him unlimited credit, and the well-known proverb that a golden key opens all doors was conclusively proved in this particular case. The man whose duty it was to bury those who died in the Hotel Dieu had, for a good round sum, consented to allow Girdel to do his work, and so the athlete had nothing else to do than to clothe himself appropriately and hurry back to the hospital.

The superintendent had just ordered the hearse to be put in readiness, when the Marquis of Fougereuse was announced. On the upper corner of the visiting card was a peculiar mark, and hardly had he seen it than he hurried to meet the marquis.

The nobleman leaned on Pierre Labarre's arm, and returning the superintendent's greeting, he tried to speak, but his voice was broken by sobs, and so he handed the official a folded paper and looked inquiringly at him.

Hardly had the official read the paper, than he respectfully observed that the marquis's wish should be complied with, and that he would give the necessary orders at once.

The note contained an order from the Minister of Justice to hand over to the Marquis of Fougereuse the body of Fanfaro; thus it will be seen that the marquis's present of a million to the Society of Jesus had already borne fruit, and Pierre Labarre felt his anger diminish when he saw for what purpose the marquis had demanded the money. He no longer thought of the cabinet position, he had bought the right with his million to have the son who had never stood near to him in life buried in the Fougereuse family vault.

"I should like—to see—the deceased," stammered the broken-down father.

The official bowed, and accompanied his guide up to the operating room where Fanfaro's body still lay.

The marquis sank on his knees beside the dead man, and murmured a silent prayer; how different was the son who had fallen in a duel to the brother whom the father had sacrificed for him.

"Marquis, shall I call the carriers?" asked Pierre, gently.

The nobleman nodded, and soon Fanfaro's body was laid upon a bier, which was carried to the Fougereuse mansion by four men. The marquis and Pierre followed the procession with uncovered heads. When they arrived at the Fougereuse mansion, Fanfaro was laid beside his brother, and the marquis then said:

"There is only one thing left for me—I must bury my sons and then die myself."

"But Madame la Marquise," said Pierre, anxiously.

"The marquise will have the same wish as I have to suffer for our sins," said the marquis, frowning; "and—"

At this moment Baptiste rushed into the room, and with a frightened look exclaimed:

"Madame la Marquise is nowhere to be seen, and her maid fears she has done herself an injury—she was talking so strangely."

Pierre and the marquis exchanged a silent look, and then the nobleman gently said:

"She did right. Of what further use was she in the world? Oh, I envy her!"

* * * * *

Girdel and Bobichel waited almost a full hour at the rear entrance of the Hotel Dieu. The athlete finally became impatient. He went inside of the house and asked if the body wasn't going to be put in the hearse.

"I really forgot all about it," cried the superintendent to whom Girdel had gone for information. "The body has been taken away long ago."

"Taken away?" repeated the athlete, astonished.

"Yes; the Marquis of Fougereuse claimed him and took him along. I believe he intends to bury him in his family vault."

"Almighty God! Is that true?" asked Girdel, horror-stricken.

"Yes, certainly; he brought carriers along, and that settled the matter."

"Where is the family vault of the Fougereuse?" asked Girdel.

"Oh, far from Paris; somewhere in Alsace, if I remember aright."

"God have mercy on me!" muttered Girdel to himself.

The official looked at him with amazement. What was the matter with the man?

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CHAPTER XXVI

MISTAKEN

Before Robeckal had consented to play the part of a regicide, he had made his conditions, and not before they were accepted had he undertaken the job. He had been told that he would be condemned to death pro forma, and set free at the right moment. He would then be given an amount necessary for him to go to England or America and live there.

Notwithstanding these promises, Robeckal felt a cold shudder run down his back when he heard the death sentence, and when he was taken back to jail again he impatiently awaited further developments. He thought it very strange that he should be left to his fate, and when hour after hour had passed and neither Simon nor any one else came to his cell, he began to feel seriously uneasy.

Suppose they no longer remembered the compact?

Cold drops of perspiration stood on the wretch's forehead, and his hands clinched nervously as these thoughts ran through his mind, and he tried to banish them. No, that must not be done to him. The rescue must come—he had not committed the fatal act for nothing. At last, the heavy iron door swung open, and Vidocq, the great detective, entered his cell. Robeckal knew him, and breathed more freely. Vidocq, no doubt, came to release him.

"Thank God you have come, Monsieur Vidocq," cried Robeckal to the official; "the time was becoming rather long for me."

"I am sorry that I have kept you waiting," replied Vidocq, quietly; "but there were certain formalities to be settled, and I—"

"Ah! no doubt in regard to the money?" said Robeckal, laughing. "Have you brought the yellow birds along?"

"Slowly, slowly—first let me inform you that the death sentence has been torn up."

"Really? I did not expect anything else."

"You do not say so," observed the official, ironically. "Then you already know your fate?"

"Yes, I am going to England and from there to America."

"I don't know anything about that; my information is that you will not leave France."

Robeckal's face became a shade paler, still he did not lose courage.

"Where am I to be sent?" he hastily asked.

"For the present to the south of France."

"To—the—south—of—France," repeated Robeckal.

"To Toulon."

"To Toulon?" cried the wretch, in terror. "That is impossible!"

"And why should it be impossible?" asked Vidocq, smiling maliciously.

"Because—because," stammered Robeckal, faintly, "the sentence—"

"Was death by strangulation. Thanks to the efforts of your friends, it has been commuted to the galleys for life, and I think you ought to be satisfied with the change."

"But—the—promise?" whined the criminal. "But, come, now, you are only joking?"

"I never joke," said the detective, earnestly; "besides, you must have been very innocent to imagine any one would make a compact with a scoundrel like you. It would be a crime against society to allow you to continue your bad course. No, thank God, the judges in France know their duty."

With these words, Vidocq beckoned to four muscular men to enter the cell. They seized Robeckal and put handcuffs and chains on him, in spite of his cries and entreaties. As the wretch continued to shout louder, a gag was put in his mouth, and in less than a quarter of an hour he was on the way to Toulon, which place he never left alive.

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CHAPTER XXVII

FREEDOM

In a poor fisherman's cottage in Havre a young man was walking up and down in feverish uneasiness. From time to time he looked through the window which opened on to the sea. The waves ran high, the wind whistled, while dark clouds rolled over the starless sky.

A slight knock was now heard at the door of the cottage.

"Who is there?" asked the young man, anxiously.

"We are looking for Fanfaro," came from the outside; and, when the man hastily shoved back the bolt, two slim female forms, enveloped in dark cloaks, crossed the threshold.

Before the young man had time to greet the strangers, another knock was heard, and upon the question, "Who is there?" the answer came this time, in a soft, trembling voice:

"We have been sent here to find Fanfaro."

"Come in," cried the young man, eagerly; and two more female forms entered the cottage. One of them was young and strong; the other, old, gray-haired and broken-down, clung to her companion, who almost carried her.

They all looked silently at each other; finally, one of those who had first entered let her cloak, the hood of which she wore over her head, sink down, and, turning to the young man, she vivaciously said:

"Arthur, have you sent me this invitation?"

With these words, she handed Arthur de Montferrand, for he was the young man, the following note:

"Whoever wants to see Fanfaro once more should come to the fisherman's cottage of Antoine Michel, in Havre, on the 18th day of March."

"I received a similar invitation," said Arthur. "I was told, at the same time, to come in the afternoon; to answer any inquiries that might be made; and to see that no stranger be admitted. Who invited us here, I do not know; but I think we shall not be kept waiting long for an explanation."

"As God pleases, this hope may be confirmed," replied Irene de Salves, and turning to her companion, who was softly sobbing, she whispered consolingly to her: "Courage, Louison, you will soon embrace your brother."

The two other women were Caillette and Louise; the latter looked vacantly before her, and all of Louison's caresses were of no avail to cheer her.

"Jacques—where is Jacques?" she incessantly repeated, and the fact that Louison was really her daughter seemed to have entirely escaped her.

Arthur de Montferrand never turned his eyes from the girl for whose honor he had fought so bravely, and every time Louison looked up she met the eyes of the young nobleman.

A skyrocket now shot up in the dark sky; it exploded aloft with a loud noise, and a golden rain lighted up the horizon for a while.

"That was undoubtedly a good sign," thought Arthur, hastily opening the cottage door.

Loud oar-sounds were now heard, and a light boat struck for the shore with the rapidity of an arrow.

The keel now struck the sand and a slim form sprang quickly out of the bark and hurried toward the cottage.

"Fanfaro!" joyously exclaimed the inmates of the cottage, and the young man who had been rescued from the grave was soon surrounded on all sides. He, however, had eyes alone for the broken-down old woman who clung to Caillette in great excitement and gently implored:

"Jacques—where is Jacques? I do not see him!"

"Here I am, my poor dear mother," sobbed Fanfaro, sinking on his knees in front of the old lady.

With trembling hands she caressed his hair, pressed her lips upon her son's forehead, and then sank, with a smile, to the floor. Death had released her from her sufferings after she had been permitted to enjoy the last, and, to her, highest earthly joy.

* * * * *

Here Fanfaro's story ended. Girdel knew something to add to it after Fanfaro had closed. He and Bobichel had succeeded in overtaking the funeral cortege which the marquis and Pierre Labarre conducted to the family vault. In a few words Pierre was informed of the condition of things, and as the marquis had become thoroughly exhausted, the faithful old servant had undertaken to bring Fanfaro's body to a place of safety. Girdel had been prudent enough to take along the physician who had given him the narcotic, and soon Fanfaro opened his eyes.

As soon as he had sufficiently recovered, Pierre told him, in short outlines, who he was. The young man listened with deep emotion to the story, and then he swore a sacred oath that he would never call another man father than the one who had taken pity on him, the helpless child; the Marquis of Fougereuse had no right to him, and he would rather have died than touch a penny of his money. No power on earth could induce him to have anything to do with the marquis. He would leave France, and try to forget, in a foreign country, what he had suffered.

That very night Fanfaro travelled, in company with his sister, Girdel, Bobichel, and Caillette, to Algiers. Before the ship lifted anchor, Fanfaro had received from Irene's lips the promise that she would become his wife. Her mother's life hung on a thread, and as long as she remained on earth the daughter could not think of leaving her.

The old countess died about six months afterward, and as soon as Irene had arranged her affairs, she prepared herself for the journey to Africa.

She was not surprised when Arthur offered to accompany her. She was aware that a powerful magnet in the person of Louison attracted him across the ocean, and when the young nobleman landed in France again, after the lapse of a few months, he was accompanied by a handsome young wife, whom the old Marquis of Montferrand warmly welcomed to the home of his fathers—for was she not a scion of the house of Fougereuse, and the sole heiress of all the property of that family? Louison's uncle, the Marquis Jean de Fougereuse, had ended his dreary life shortly after the Vicomte de Talizac's death, and it was not difficult for Arthur, with Pierre Labarre's assistance, to maintain Louison's claims as the daughter of Jules de Fougereuse and sole heiress of the legacy. Of course, the Society of Jesus was much put out by the sudden apparition of an heiress, for it had hoped to come into possession of the millions some day.

Bobichel had become Caillette's husband; and though the handsome wife did not conceal the fact from him that not he, but Fanfaro, had been her first love, the supremely happy clown was satisfied. He knew Caillette was good to him and that he had no ground any more to be jealous of Irene's husband.

The life which the colonists led in Africa was full of dangers, but had also its pleasures and joys, and through Louison and her husband they remained in connection with their fatherland, whose children they remained in spite of everything.

* * * * *

At the end of a week Spero had entirely recovered, and the count prepared to depart for France. Before he parted from his kind host, he turned to Fanfaro and begged him in a solemn tone to stand by his son with his assistance and advice, should he ever need them, and Fanfaro cheerfully complied with his request.

"Rely on my word," he said, as the little caravan was about to start. "The son of the Count of Monte-Cristo is under the protection of all of us, and if he should ever call us to his assistance, whether by day or night, we shall obey the call!"

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