I trembled lest the scandal of a separation should fall upon her. But it was useless suffering on my part. She was as surely lost as you yourself were; and it was your work, too!"

"What! you blame me for that?"

"Whom ought I to blame, then? Who took her to balls, and theatres and races--to every place where a young girl ought NOT to be taken? Who initiated her into what you call high life? and who used her as a discreet and easy chaperon? Who married her to a wretch who is a disgrace to the title he bears, and who has completed the work of demoralization you began? And what is your daughter to-day? Her extravagance has made her notorious even among the shameless women who pretend to be leaders of society. She is scarcely twenty-two, and there is not a single prejudice left for her to brave! Her husband is the companion of actresses and courtesans; her own companions are no better--and in less than two years the million of francs which I bestowed on her as a dowry has been squandered, recklessly squandered--for there isn't a penny of it left. And, at this very hour, my daughter and my son-in-law are plotting to extort money from me. On the day before yesterday--listen carefully to this--my son-in-law came to ask me for a hundred thousand francs, and when I refused them, he threatened if I did not give them to him that he would publish some letters written by my daughter--by his wife--to some low scoundrel.

I was horrified and gave him what he asked. But that same evening I learned that the husband and wife, my daughter and my son-in-law, had concocted this vile conspiracy together. Yes, I have positive proofs of it. Leaving here, and not wishing to return home that day, he telegraphed the good news to his wife. But in his delight he made a mistake in the address, and the telegram was brought here. I opened it, and read: 'Papa has fallen into the trap, my darling. I beat my drum, and he surrendered at once.' Yes, that is what he dared to write, and sign with his own name, and then send to his wife--my daughter!"

Pascal was absolutely terrified. He wondered if he were not the victim of some absurd nightmare--if his senses were not playing him false.

He had little conception of the terrible dramas which are constantly enacted in these superb mansions, so admired and envied by the passing crowd. He thought that the baroness would be crushed--that she would fall on her knees before her husband. What a mistake! The tone of her voice told him that, instead of yielding, she was only bent on retaliation.

"Does your son-in-law do anything worse than you?" she exclaimed. "How dare you censure him--you who drag your name through all the gambling dens of Europe?"

"Wretch!" interrupted the baron, "wretch!" But quickly mastering himself, he remarked: "Yes, it's true that I gamble. People say, 'That great Baron Trigault is never without cards in his hands!' But you know very well that I really hold gambling in horror--that I loathe it. But when I play, I sometimes forget--for I must forget. I tried drink, but it wouldn't drown thought, so I had recourse to cards; and when the stakes are large, and my fortune is imperilled, I sometimes lose consciousness of my misery!"

The baroness gave vent to a cold, sneering laugh, and, in a tone of mocking commiseration, she said: "Poor baron! It is no doubt in the hope of forgetting your sorrows that you spend all your time--when you are not gambling--with a woman named Lia d'Argeles. She's rather pretty. I have seen her several times in the Bois----"

"Be silent!" exclaimed the baron, "be silent! Don't insult an unfortunate woman who is a thousand times better than yourself." And, feeling that he could endure no more--that he could no longer restrain his passion, he cried: "Out of my sight! Go! or I sha'n't be responsible for my acts!"

Pascal heard a chair move, the floor creak, and a moment afterward a lady passed quickly through the smoking-room. How was it that she did not perceive him? No doubt, because she was greatly agitated, in spite of her bravado. And, besides, he was standing a little back in the shade. But he saw her, and his brain reeled. "Good Lord! what a likeness!" he murmured.

III.

It was as if he had seen an apparition, and he was vainly striving to drive away a terrible, mysterious fear, when a heavy footfall made the floor of the dining-room creak anew. The noise restored him to consciousness of his position. "It is the baron!" he thought; "he is coming this way! If he finds me here I am lost; he will never consent to help me. A man would never forgive another man for hearing what I have just heard."

Why should he not try to make his escape? The card, bearing the name of Maumejan, would be no proof of his visit. He could see the baron somewhere else some other day--elsewhere than at his own house, so that he need not fear the recognition of the servants. These thoughts flashed through his mind, and he was about to fly, when a harsh cry held him spell-bound. Baron Trigault was standing on the threshold. His emotion, as is almost always the case with corpulent people, was evinced by a frightful distortion of his features. His face was transformed, his lips had become perfectly white, and his eyes seemed to be starting from their sockets. "How came you here?" he asked, in a husky voice.

"Your servants ushered me into this room."

"Who are you?"

"What! monsieur, don't you recognize me?" rejoined Pascal, who in his agitation forgot that the baron had seen him only twice before. He forgot the absence of his beard, his almost ragged clothing, and all the precautions he had taken to render recognition impossible.

"I have never met any person named Maumejan," said the baron.

"Ah! monsieur, that's not my name. Have you forgotten the innocent man who was caught in that infamous snare set for him by the Viscount de Coralth?"

"Yes, yes," replied the baron, "I remember you now." And then recollecting the terrible scene that had just taken place in the adjoining room: "How long have you been here?" he asked.

Should Pascal tell a falsehood, or confess the truth? He hesitated, but his hesitation lasted scarcely the tenth part of a second. "I have been here about half an hour," he replied.

The baron's livid cheeks suddenly became purple, his eyes glittered, and it seemed by his threatening gesture as if he were strongly tempted to murder this man, who had discovered the terrible, disgraceful secrets of his domestic life. But it was a mere flash of energy. The terrible ordeal which he had just passed through had exhausted him mentally and physically, and it was in a faltering voice that he resumed: "Then you have not lost a word--a word of what was said in the other room?"

"Not a word."

The baron sank on to the divan. "So the knowledge of my disgrace is no longer confined to myself!" he exclaimed. "A stranger's eye has penetrated the depths of misery I have fallen into! The secret of my wretchedness and shame is mine no longer!"

"Oh, monsieur, monsieur!" interrupted Pascal. "Before I recross the threshold of your home, all shall have been forgotten. I swear it by all that is most sacred!"

He had raised his hand as if to take a solemn oath, when the baron caught hold of it, and, pressing it with sorrowful gratitude, exclaimed: "I believe you! You are a man of honor--I only needed to see your home to be convinced of that. You will not laugh at my misfortunes or my misery!" He must have been suffering frightfully, for big tears rolled slowly down his cheeks. "What have I done, my God! that I should be so cruelly punished?" he continued. "I have always been generous and charitable, and ready to help all who applied to me. I am utterly alone!

I have a wife and a daughter--but they hate me. They long for my death, which would give them possession of my wealth. What torture! For months together I dared not eat a morsel of food, either in my own house, or in the house of my son-in-law. I feared poison; and I never partook of a dish until I had seen my daughter or my wife do so. To prevent a crime, I was obliged to resort to the strangest expedients. I made a will, and left my property in such a way that if I die, my family will not receive one penny. So, they now have an interest in prolonging my life." As he spoke he sprang up with an almost frenzied air, and, seizing Pascal by the arm, again continued. "Nor is this all! This woman--my wife--you know--you have heard the extent of her shame and degradation. Ah, well!

I--love her!"

Pascal recoiled with an exclamation of mingled horror and consternation.

"This amazes you, eh?" rejoined the baron. "It is indeed incomprehensible, monstrous--but it is the truth. It is to gratify her desire for luxury that I have toiled to amass millions. If I purchased a title, which is absurd and ridiculous, it was only because I wished to satisfy her vanity. Do what she may, I can only see in her the chaste and beautiful wife of our early married life. It is cowardly, absurd, ridiculous--I realize it; but my love is stronger than my reason or my will. I love her madly, passionately; I cannot tear her from my heart!"

So speaking, he sank sobbing on to the divan again. Was this, indeed, the frivolous and jovial Baron Trigault whom Pascal had seen at Madame d'Argeles's house--the man of self-satisfied mien and superb assurance, the good-natured cynic, the frequenter of gambling-dens? Alas, yes! But the baron whom the world knew was only a comedian; this was the real man.

After a little while he succeeded in controlling his emotion, and in a comparatively calm voice he exclaimed: "But it is useless to distract one's mind with an incurable evil. Let us speak of yourself, M.

Ferailleur. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?"

"To your own kind offer, monsieur, and the hope that you will help me in refuting this slander, and wreaking vengeance upon those who have ruined me."

"Oh! yes, I will help you in that to the full extent of my power,"

exclaimed the baron. But experience reminded him that confidential disclosures ought not to be made with the doors open, so he rose, shut them, and returning to Pascal, said: "Explain in what way I can be of service to you, monsieur."

It was not without many misgivings that Pascal had presented himself at the baron's house, but after what he had heard he felt no further hesitation; he could speak with perfect freedom. "It is quite unnecessary for me to tell you, Monsieur le Baron," he began, "that the cards which made me win were inserted in the pack by M. de Coralth--that is proven beyond question, and whatever the consequences may be, I shall have my revenge. But before striking him, I wish to reach the man whose instrument he was."

"What! you suppose----"

"I don't suppose--I am sure that M. de Coralth acted in obedience to the instructions of some other scoundrel whose courage does not equal his meanness."

"Perhaps so! I think he would shrink from nothing in the way of rascality. But who could have employed him in this vile work of dishonoring an honest man?"

"The Marquis de Valorsay."

On hearing this name, the baron bounded to his feet. "Impossible!" he exclaimed; "absolutely impossible! M. de Valorsay is incapable of the villainy you ascribe to him. What do I say?--he is even above suspicion.

I have known him for years, and I have never met a more loyal, more honorable, or more courageous man. He is one of my few trusted friends; we see each other almost every day. I am expecting a visit from him even now."

"Still it was he who incited M. de Coralth to do the deed."

"But why? What could have been his object?"

"To win a young girl whom I love. She--loved me, and he saw that I was an obstacle. He put me out of the way more surely than if he had murdered me. If I died, she might mourn for me--dishonored, she would spurn me----"

"Is Valorsay so madly in love with the girl, then?"

"I think he cares but very little for her."

"Then why----"

"She is the heiress of several millions."

It was evident that this explanation did not shake Baron Trigault's faith in his friend. "But the marquis has an income of a hundred and fifty or two hundred thousand francs," said he; "that is an all-sufficient justification. With his fortune and his name, he is in a position to choose his wife from among all the heiresses of France. Why should he address his attentions in particular to the woman you love?

Ah! if he were poor--if his fortune were impaired--if he felt the need of regilding his escutcheon, like my son-in-law----"