Then Caillette was left alone with the sick woman, who began to cry and sob. Her mind had been so long torpid that now this shock seemed to have swept away the last vestige of her intelligence. But Caillette was good and patient, and finally the sick woman slept. Caillette watched her and waited through the twilight, and at last, holding the hand of her charge in hers, she too fell asleep.

When the girl opened her eyes it was daybreak, and the bed was empty.

Yes, Fanfar's mother, whom she had promised to guard, had vanished. She ran into the next room. No one was there, and the door was open.

Caillette ran to the concierge. "Where is she?" she cried.

"Do you mean the old woman? Oh! she went away before light."

"Impossible! She cannot walk."

"I was astonished myself, but my wife said to me, who is that coming down stairs? I looked, and I saw a ghost--not a pretty one either, begging your pardon. It was the paralytic, the old woman who had never walked a step all the while that the Marquise took care of her.

"'Where are you going?' I said to her.

"'To save Jacques.'"

"Jacques is her son, go on, quick," interrupted Caillette.

"'But you can't save any one,' I then said. This was not kind, Miss, but I was so astonished. She did not seem to mind it though, for she began to talk about a box, and told me to open the door. I had no right to disobey, you know."

"And she went away?" cried Caillette.

"Yes, and quick enough, too."

Caillette did not wait to hear more. She flew down the stairs also.

It was seven o'clock in the morning. Caillette did not dare to find Jacques, and tell him she had been faithless to her trust. No, she must find Francoise herself. She asked questions of all she met, and at last she had a ray of light. An old rag picker told her that he had seen a woman answering to the description given by Caillette. She at once started in the direction he pointed out; it was the road to Germany she took. She sold a small gold locket, which held a bit of ribbon from a sash Fanfar had once given her. She kept the ribbon, and received several crowns for the locket. She walked all day, finally certain that Francoise was not far in advance. It was not until the morning of the second day that the girl was rewarded by seeing Francoise at the door of an inn. Caillette rushed forward.

"Mother!" she cried.

"Ah! you know her?" said the innkeeper. "She is very strange."

"What did she say to you?"

"She asked for bread, and ate it without a word. Then, just as she saw you, she asked me where some village was. I never heard the name before."

The old woman now came to meet Caillette.

"Leigoutte!" she said. "Leigoutte!"

"Leigoutte!" repeated Caillette, "that is Fanfar's village."

The old woman shook her head, she did not know the name.

"I mean Leigoutte is where Jacques came from."

"Yes--yes--Jacques. I must save Jacques and the box!"

What was going on in the impaired mind of Francoise? Fanfar's sudden appearance had carried her memory back to the last interview she had with Simon, when, our readers will remember, he had given his wife the papers that proved his birth and that of Jacques. And now Francoise had but one idea, to return to Leigoutte. In vain did Caillette urge her to return to Paris, and the girl had promised Fanfar not to leave his mother. She therefore went on toward Germany with her. Fortunately, a wagoner took pity on these two women, and took them up. In this way they reached Leigoutte. Francoise was silent, except a few low words that she muttered under her breath at long intervals. Caillette thought with despair of Fanfar, and his agony at his mother's disappearance.

Alas! poor girl, she did not know that the night when she and Francoise entered the inn at Leigoutte, Fanfar, alone in his prison, thought of his mother whom he had scarcely seen, and of the sister whom he had held in his arms. Ah! it was a bitter trial for the strong, faithful heart.

Caillette and Pierre Labarre watched Francoise, when finally she arose from her chair, and went toward the door. On the threshold she seemed to hesitate. She thrust back her gray hair, and pressed her hand to her brow. Then, as if she suddenly remembered something, she turned and went toward the door in the back of the house, Caillette and Pierre following her every step she took. She went out into the garden, and up a winding path to the hill, which she began to climb with panting breath.

"Ah! she is going to the little farm of Lasvene which was burned," said Pierre to himself.

Then, all the time watching Francoise, he began to question Caillette.

What motive had Francoise in these persistent wanderings? Was it merely the whim of a mad woman or had she some fixed design?

Francoise walked on. Sometimes she stopped short, and called Jacques, then Cinette. Labarre asked himself if it were not his duty to stop this poor woman, but a secret instinct bade him watch her to the end.

An hour elapsed, but Francoise seemed to feel no fatigue. At the cross-roads she did not hesitate. Finally they reached the Gorge d'Outremont. In the fast gathering darkness, the place was horrible and gloomy. As in a former description we have said, the mountain seemed at this gorge to have been cleft in twain by a gigantic hatchet.

At this moment, the clouds parted, and a pale young moon looked down on the landscape.

Francoise stopped short, Pierre well knew why. The little cottage of old Lasvene had vanished, and the poor woman was bewildered. Labarre went to her, and took her hand. He knew where the foundations of the cottage were, and convinced that this was why she had come, he led her to the ruins. She laughed in a childish way.

"Burned? Ah! yes;" she repeated the cry of the Cossacks. "Death to the French!" And then she began to run.

It was an outbreak of madness. Caillette and Pierre uttered cries of fright.

The mystery of such a strange occurrence may never be solved, but Francoise threw herself on the ground in a corner where the little garden had stood, and began to dig furiously in the earth. Presently, she screamed:

"The box! The box! Jacques is not my son; Cinette is the Marquise de Fongereues. Jacques--Fanfar is Vicomte de Talizac!" And she fell unconscious into the arms of Labarre.

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

THE NEST.

Two white beds stood near each other. Muslin curtains tied with blue ribbons covered the windows with billowy folds. Among the pillows of one of the beds lay a beautiful face, and a young girl at her side held her frail hands.

This chamber was that of Irene de Salves, and very unlike it was to the chamber of the spoiled child in the Chateau des Vosges. There she had created a mixture of all colors--violent reds and yellows. Now everything was delicate and calm. The sweet face among the pillows was Francine's. The two young girls were like sisters. Irene felt that to love, protect, and care for Francine, was to love Fanfar. The shock Francine had experienced was terrible; she hardly knew what had taken place--whether she deliberately threw herself into the water, or whether faint and dizzy, she fell in; when Fanfar leaped to her rescue she clung to him convulsively. Then came the fever and delirium, and when she was at last conscious she beheld a sweet face bending over her, and Irene said, "Courage, sister, courage!"

Francine, surprised and touched, extended her thin hands, but suddenly imagining that she was again in the house where she had suffered so much, she shrieked "Let me die! Let me die!"

A relapse took place, and for several days her life hung on a thread.

Irene was indefatigable in her care, and finally she began to recover very slowly.

She questioned Irene as soon as she was able. What had become of the poor woman, the care of whom she had a.s.sumed? Hardly had she escaped from the jaws of death, than she began to think of others. Irene could tell her little. Ever since the violent scene of the ball, Arthur de Montferrand, without confessing his real motives, for he loved Francine, had placed himself at the disposal of Irene. He had divined her secret, and prevented her from betraying it to the curious crowd.

Fanfar was in prison. His trial was soon coming on. It was believed that his condemnation was certain. The disturbance to the health of the king, consequent on the attempted a.s.sa.s.sination at the Tuileries, had, it was said, greatly embittered the monarchists. A report was in circulation that an infamous comedy had been enacted by this Fanfar and his sister in order to break off the marriage between Talizac and Mademoiselle de Salves, a money-making scheme, worthy of a street singer and a mountebank.

The sick woman had disappeared. This intelligence drove Francine to despair. Who was this Caillette, who had pretended to take her place, and then disappeared, leaving no trace behind her?