“You’re very good, mesdames,” said a cook, stuffing into her basket the fowl she had just bought, which, from its odor, might have been taken for game, “you’re very good, but my master’s waiting for his chocolate; he wants to go out early and I ain’t lighted my fire yet.—Quick, madame, my regular number; here’s thirty-six sous—please hurry up.”

The cook took her ticket and returned to her master, making figures on the way: the fowl had cost her fifty sous; by calling it eighty-six sous, she would get her ticket for nothing, which was very pleasant. To be sure, her master would eat a tainted fowl instead of a delicate bird; but one must have one’s little perquisites, and what was the use of being a cordon bleu if one did not make something out of the marketing?

“The considérés are very old combinations,” said a little man who had been gazing at the list for three-quarters of an hour; “they’re excellent to play by extracts.”

“See,” said another, “notice that the 6 is a prisoner; it will soon come out.”

“The 2 has come, that brings the 20.”

“The 39 in a hundred and three drawings—it’s an ingot of gold! Zeros haven’t done anything for a long while.”

“That’s true; I’ll bet that they’ll come in a terne or an ambe.”

“I’m shrewder than you, my dear man,” said an old candy woman; “I’ve got a talisman.”

“A talisman!”

“Yes, it’s a fact; a fortune-teller told me the secret.”

“What is it?” shouted all the gossips at once.

“A bit of clean parchment, with letters written on it with my blood.”

“Mon Dieu! that’s worse than the play at the Ambigu.—Tell us, what do your letters say?”

“Faith! I don’t know; they’re Hebrew, so she said.”

“Look out, Javotte! don’t trust it; it may be an invention of the devil, and then you’ll go straight to hell with your talisman.”

“Bah! I ain’t afraid, and I won’t let go of my little parchment. I’m a philosopher!”

“What a fool she is with her talisman!” said the gossips, when Javotte had gone. “It beats the devil what luck it brings her! She owes everybody in the quarter, and she can’t pay.—But it’s almost market time, and I haven’t put out my goods.”

“And I ought by now to be at the Fontaine des Innocents!”

“Bless my soul! you remind me that my children ain’t up yet, and I’m sure they’re squalling, the little brats! and their gruel has been on the fire ever since eight o’clock.”

“It’ll be well cooked!”

“See you soon; we shall have the list if the sun shines.”

Amid this mob, pushed by one, pulled by another, deafened by them all, Edouard waited for three-quarters of an hour for his turn to come. At last he reached the desk; all that he had heard about considérés, prisoners and lucky numbers was running in his head; but as he had no idea what to choose, he put twenty francs on the first numbers that occurred to him, and left the office with hope in his pocket.

On the street he met many individuals most shabbily clad, who offered him fifty louis in gold for twelve sous. These gentlemen and ladies apparently disdained for themselves the fortune that they proposed to sell to the passers-by at such a bargain. But Murville declined their offers. He had in his pocket what he wanted. He was already building castles in Spain, for his numbers were excellent—so the agent told him—and could not fail to draw something. He was about to be released from embarrassment; he could live in style, and keep the prettiest, aye, and the most expensive women, which would drive Madame de Géran frantic. In short, he would deny himself nothing.

Dufresne left the village behind him, with rage in his heart and his head filled with schemes of revenge. It was no longer the hope of seeing Adeline share his brutal passion that tormented him; he felt that that was impossible now; only by the most infamous craft had he succeeded in gratifying his lust; and Adeline was no less virtuous than before. In vain had he hoped, by that method, to change the sentiments of Edouard’s wife; she detested him more than ever. What did he propose to do? Was she not unhappy enough? She wept for a fault which she had not committed; she had lost the affection of her husband; she would soon find herself reduced to penury! What other blows could he deal her?

Forced to leave the apartment which he occupied alone in a handsome house, he went to Dufresne and took up his abode with him. The latter had been anxious for some days after his return from the country; he was afraid that Jacques would pursue him to Paris, and, in order to avoid his search, he changed his name, and urged his companion to do the same. Dufresne called himself Courval, and Edouard, Monbrun. It was under these names that they hired lodgings, in a wretched lodging house in Faubourg Saint-Jacques, having no other associates than blacklegs and men without means, who like Dufresne had reasons of their own for avoiding the daylight.

Three weeks after Madame Germeuil’s death, what she had left was already spent, and they were compelled to have recourse every day to all sorts of expedients to obtain means of subsistence.

One evening, when Dufresne and Edouard had remained at home, having no money to gamble, and cudgeling their brains to think of a way of procuring some, there was a knock at their door, and one Lampin, a consummate scamp, worthy to be Dufresne’s intimate friend, entered their room with a joyous air, and with four bottles under his arm.

“Yes, messieurs, it’s me. Come, come, comrade Monbrun, come, stop your dreaming! I have brought something to brighten you up.”

“What’s that?”

“Wine, brandy and rum.”

“The deuce it is! so you are in funds, are you?”

“Faith, I won ten francs at biribi, and I have come to drink ’em up with my friends.”

“That’s right, Lampin, you’re a good fellow. You have come just in time to cheer us up, for we were as dismal as empty pockets, Monbrun and I.”

“Let’s have a drink first; that will set you up, and then we will talk.”

The four bottles were placed on a table; the gentlemen took their places at it, and the glasses were filled and emptied rapidly.

“We haven’t a sou, Lampin, and that’s a wretched disease.”

“Bah! because you are fools!—Here’s your health.”

“What do you mean by that, Jean-Fesse?”

“I mean that if I had your talents, and especially Monbrun’s, I wouldn’t be where you are now, but I would have my bread well buttered.”

“What do you mean?” asked Edouard, pouring out a glass of brandy; “explain yourself.”

“Anybody can understand that, my son; I tell you again that if I knew how to handle a pen as you do, I would speculate on a large scale! But you’re scared to death!”

“We have speculated enough, but it hasn’t succeeded with us.”

“Tell us, Lampin, what you would have done to——”

“Ah! I’m a blade, I am; I would risk the job! But I write like a cat.”

“But what is it that you’d write?”

“That depends—sometimes one thing, sometimes another.—Look here, here’s a note that a friend entrusted to me; it is the proceeds of his father’s property, which is to be paid him here in Paris, because he means to enjoy himself with us.”

“What is it?”

“A note for twelve hundred francs, accepted by a famous banker of Paris. Oh! it’s good, anyone would discount it for you on the instant; my colleague knows a man who lives in the suburbs of Paris, and who proposed to give him rocks for his paper.—Well, my boy, make one like it, and you can get that discounted too.”

“What? What do you say? Counterfeit this note?”

“Oh, no, not counterfeit it, for instead of twelve hundred francs I would make it twelve thousand; it’s just an imitation. Here’s your health.”

“Why, you villain! that’s forgery!”

“No, it ain’t forgery; it’s a note that we put in circulation; it ain’t forgery; is it, Dufresne? In all this, the banker is the only one that’s fooled; but those rascals are rich enough to make us a little present.”

“In fact,” said Dufresne, “it isn’t exactly a forgery; we create a note, that’s all, and we make someone else pay it.”

“That’s just it, my boy, it’s only a little joke.—Oh! you understand such games, you do; but Monbrun is a little dull.”

“Is that so? Well, you’ll never get ahead, my man, and you’ll die of hunger, like the fleas in winter!”

“It is true that we have no resources,” said Dufresne; “no linen, no clothes except those we have on!”

“That’s very fine! Just reflect that you have everything to gain and nothing to lose.”

“What about honor?” said Edouard in a weak voice.

“Honor! Pardi! I rather guess yours has been roaming the country for a long while; as for Dufresne, he’s like me, never had any, for fear of losing it.”

“This rascal of a Lampin is always joking! Let’s have a drink, messieurs.”

“Remember, too, that with the twelve thousand francs you will get, you can make up all your losses. I have discovered a sure way of winning; you only need three hundred louis to catch a thousand.”

“Really?”

“On my word as an honest man; I will teach you my scheme, and we will share the profits.”

“That is really attractive,” said Dufresne, examining the note closely, while Lampin filled Edouard’s glass with rum, and he began to lose command of his wits.

“You say, Lampin, that you know a man who would discount your friend’s note?”

“Yes, he knows that it is all right. It can’t look suspicious to him, I tell you; he will think that the inheritance was larger, that’s all.”

“True,” said Dufresne; “who will ever know about it? It is a secret between ourselves.”

“And our conscience?” faltered Edouard.

“Oh! damn! What an ass he is with his conscience! Do you think you’re talking to small boys?”

“Well! what have you got to say to that, booby? Are you going to make more fuss? You hear, he takes the whole thing on himself; I should say that that was acting like a friend?”

“What! Dufresne, would you——”

“Faith, I see no other way of extricating ourselves from poverty; I tell you again, it will not put you forward in any way!”

“Are you sure of it?”

“Bah! What’s the matter with you, Nicodemus, when he tells you that you won’t be put forward? Look here, colleagues, I happen to have on me a blank note, all stamped; just cut a quill, Dufresne, and let’s amuse ourselves by making different kinds of letters.”

“My hand trembles, messieurs,” said Edouard; “I shall never be able to write.”

“Go on, go on! that’s just right! Ah! how rich I should be if I had been able to do as much! But my education was rather neglected.”

“Suppose we should be arrested, identified as the authors of——”

“Bah! it is impossible; and if you should be, you would get off with a few months in prison; and you are very well off there, you enjoy yourself and make acquaintances.”

The note was written, Dufresne exerted himself to counterfeit the signatures, and succeeded perfectly, whereat Edouard alone was surprised. They invented endorsers; the unhappy Murville, who allowed himself to be led wherever they would, disguised his handwriting and wrote on the back of the note the names that they gave him.

Lampin was overjoyed, and for greater safety proposed to carry the note to the man who had agreed to discount the one for twelve hundred francs, and who lived in a small town not far from Paris. This plan was agreed upon: Dufresne was to accompany Lampin, because those gentry did not trust him sufficiently to leave their note in his hands; and Edouard, who was less bold than they, was to await at Paris the result of the affair.

Everything being arranged, they drank again, Edouard to deaden his conscience more completely, the others for conviviality’s sake. They formed plans for the use of their future wealth, and ended by falling asleep with their elbows on the table.

Edouard, who had drunk more, and who was less able to stand excessive indulgence in wine and liqueurs than the others, did not wake until eight o’clock in the morning. The first thought that came to his mind was that of the dishonorable act he had committed the night before. He shuddered, for he realized the full extent of his crime; he looked for Dufresne, to urge him to destroy the false note; but Dufresne was not there, he had gone away early with Lampin, anticipating remorse on Edouard’s part, and by his own absence making it impossible for him to retrace his steps.

At a street corner, he heard a cry; someone uttered his name. He quickened his pace, not daring to look back; but someone ran after him, overtook him and grasped his arm; he trembled, the cold perspiration stood on his brow; he raised his eyes and saw his wife and daughter before him.

“Is it really you? I have found you at last!” said Adeline; “oh! I have been looking for you for a long, long while.”

“You frightened me,” said Edouard, greatly surprised by this meeting. “But why are you here? Why did you leave the country?”

“Your creditors have turned me out of the house I was living in; it no longer belongs to you. Some time ago the notary warned me that your fortune was impaired; that such property as you possessed was subject to numerous mortgages.”

“I know all that, madame; spare me your useless complaints and reproaches.”

“I don’t propose to make any complaints or reproaches; and yet—Oh! my dear, how changed you are!”

“I have been sick.”

“Why not have written to me? I would have come and nursed you.”

“I needed nobody.”

“Do you want me to make a show of myself to the passers-by?”

“How can the sight of a father kissing his child be absurd, in the eyes of decent people? But let us go in somewhere, into a café.”

“I haven’t any time.”

“Where do you live now?”

“A long way from here; I was in very straitened circumstances, and Dufresne took me in to lodge with him.”

“You live with Dufresne? A villain who has already been guilty of all sorts of crimes!”

“Hold your tongue, and don’t bore me with your preaching! I do what I choose and I see whom I choose; I give you leave to do the same.”

Edouard was moved; his heart was agitated by pity and remorse, and he looked at his daughter for the first time.

“Well,” he said to Adeline, “I will see; if I can arrange my affairs, I will go with you.”

“What detains you now?”

“A single thing, but a most important one; I must find out—where are you staying now?”

“At a hotel in Faubourg Saint-Antoine; see, here is my address.”

“Give it to me; to-morrow I will go to see you.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes; until to-morrow. Adieu, I leave you.”

Edouard hurried away, and Adeline returned to her hotel, passing from hope to fear and from fear to hope. She knew her husband, she knew how little she could rely upon his promises, so that she awaited the morrow with anxiety. But on the morrow Dufresne and Lampin returned with money. The discounter had fallen into the trap; he had thought that he had recognized the banker’s signature. Those men led Edouard away; they abandoned themselves anew to the pleasures of the table and the gambling house. They made Murville drunk; they put his remorse and his scruples to silence; they laughed at his fears; and Adeline, instead of seeing him whom she expected, received in the morning a note containing only these words:

Adeline bathed the letter in her tears.

“You have no father now,” she said to little Ermance; “poor child, what will your lot be? Let us leave this city, let us follow my husband’s last orders. Let us go back to the honest villagers; at the farm they will not spurn me. I shall not blush to ask them for work. O mother! If you were still alive, I should find comfort in your arms. If only I had followed your advice! Perhaps Edouard then—but it’s too late! At all events, you never knew the full extent of my sorrow.”

The farmer’s family were in despair at Madame Murville’s flight. Since the day that Dufresne had been driven from the village, Adeline, buried in the most profound melancholy, had not left her home; she took no diversion whatever, and the solicitations of the peasants had failed to induce her to emerge from her retirement.

Jacques did not know what to think of his brother’s conduct. He easily guessed that he made his wife unhappy; but he was still far from suspecting the extent of his misbehavior! Edouard’s brother dared not question Adeline, but she read in his eyes his sympathy with her distress, and her grateful heart rewarded the honest laborer with the most sincere friendship. Every two days Jacques went to the village to enquire for Madame Murville’s health. One morning when he rang as usual at the courtyard gate, the old gardener answered the bell, with tears in his eyes.

“What’s the matter, Père Forêt, what has happened to Madame Murville now?” Jacques asked anxiously; “can it be that that scamp of the other day has come again?”

“Ah! my dear monsieur, more than one scamp has come to-day! And they have turned my mistress out of doors!”

“Turned her out! That isn’t possible, ten thousand dead men!”

“What were they? brigands, robbers?”

“No, no, monsieur, they were bailiffs, creditors, what do I know? They showed madame some papers, and told her that she wasn’t in her own house any longer. Poor woman! she cried, but she didn’t make any answer; she just did her clothes up in a bundle, took her daughter in her arms, and left.”

“Left! She has gone away? Is it possible? The villain! he has reduced her to destitution!”

“Monsieur Jacques, I tell you there was a lot of them. Look, here’s the placard; this house is for sale now, and they left me here, so that there might be some one to show it to people.”

“Do you know where Madame Murville has gone?”

“Bless me! she took the Paris road.”

“She has gone to join him.”

“Yes, no doubt she has gone to her husband; but look you, between ourselves, they say that he is a regular good-for-nothing; that he raises the devil at Paris; and you must agree, Monsieur Jacques, that when one has a pretty, good, young wife like madame—For, bless my soul, she is virtue and goodness personified! And then a child, which will be its mother’s portrait; well, I say, when a man has all that, and forgets them all the year round, it ain’t right, and it don’t speak well for him.”

Jacques’s patience was beginning to be exhausted; he was on the point of leaving the farm and going to Paris, when one morning the joyous outcry of the children announced some good news. It was Adeline, who appeared at the farm with her little Ermance.

Everybody ran to meet her; they surrounded her, pressed against her, embraced her, and manifested the most sincere joy. Adeline, deeply moved by the attachment of the peasants, found that she could still feel a sensation of pleasure.

“Ah!” she said to them, “I have not lost all, since I still have sincere friends.”

Jacques did not know what he was doing; he seized Adeline’s hands, kissed them, swore, cried, stamped, and turned away to hide his tears. Sans-Souci, overjoyed by Adeline’s return, and by the pleasure which his comrade felt, leaped and gamboled about among the hens and the ducks, and played with all the children; which he did only in moments of good humor.

While Adeline was speaking, profound emotion was depicted on the features of those who surrounded her; Louise could not restrain her tears; Guillot, with wide-open mouth and eyes fastened upon Madame Murville, heaved profound sighs every moment, and Sans-Souci twisted his moustaches and passed his hand over his eyes.

But Jacques, more deeply moved, more touched than they, at sight of the resignation of a lovely woman, who came to bury herself in a farm-house, renouncing all the pleasures of the capital and all the customs of aristocratic society, without uttering a word of reproach against the man who was responsible for her misfortunes,—honest Jacques could not restrain himself; he pushed away Louise and Guillot, who stood beside Adeline, and, shaking the young woman’s arm violently, as she gazed at him in amazement:

“No, sacrebleu!” he cried; “you shall not work, you shall not risk your health, you shall not roughen that soft skin by labor beyond your strength; I will take it upon myself to look after the support of you and your child. I will take care of you, I will watch over you both; and morbleu! so long as there is a drop of blood in my veins, I shall find a way to do my duty.”

“What do you say, Jacques? your duty?”

“Yes, madame, yes, my duty; my brother has ruined your life, and the least that I can do will be to devote my life to you, and to try to repair his villainy.”

“Is it possible? You are——”

Adeline embraced Jacques warmly; she felt the keenest joy in meeting her husband’s brother, and the peasants exclaimed aloud in surprise, while Sans-Souci shouted at the top of his lungs as he rubbed his hands:

“I knew it! I knew it! but my comrade closed my mouth and I wouldn’t have said a word for all of the great Sultan’s pipes!”

“But why conceal from me so long the bond that unites us?” Adeline asked Jacques; “did you doubt it would please me to embrace my husband’s brother?”

“No,” replied Jacques, somewhat embarrassed, “no; but I wanted first of all to know you better; people sometimes blush for their relations.”

“Ah! my friend, when a man wears this symbol of honor, can he conceive such fears?”

“Ten thousand bombs! that’s what I have been killing myself telling him every day,” said Sans-Souci; “but he is a little pig-headed, is my friend; when he gets a thing into his head, he won’t let it go again.”

“You have found me now that I can be useful to you; that is all that is necessary. Let us embrace again, and look upon me as your brother, as the father of this poor child; since he who ought to cherish her, and to adore you, has not a heart like other men; since he is unworthy to—Well, well! you want me to hold my tongue; you love him still, I see. Well! I am done; we won’t talk about him any more, and we will try to forget him.”

“If he had seen me!—But I must let that drop.—Let us forget an ingrate, who is not worthy of a single one of the tears you shed for him.”

“Yes, yes, let’s be merry and joyful,” said Guillot; “morgué! we mustn’t be groaning all the time; that makes a body stupid as a fool. Let’s sit down at the table, and to-night Brother Jacques will tell us about one of his battles, to amuse us. That’s amusing, I tell you! When I have been listening to him, I dream about battles all night long, I take my wife’s rump for a battery of artillery, and her legs for a battalion of infantry; and I think I hear the cannon.”

“Hold your tongue, my man.”

After the meal, they set about making the preparations required by Adeline’s presence at the farm. Louise arranged for her a small room looking on the fields; she tried to make it as pleasant as possible, by carrying thither such pretty things as she could find in the house. In vain did Adeline try to prevent her; when Louise had determined upon anything, that thing must be done; she refused to listen to the young woman when she implored her to look upon her as nothing but a poor peasant woman; the farmer’s wife desired to make Madame Murville forget her change of fortune, by redoubling her efforts to serve her with zeal and affection. Jacques did not thank the farmer’s wife, but he took her hands and pressed them fondly every time that she did anything for his sister, and Sans-Souci cried, bringing his hand down upon Guillot’s back:

“Morbleu! you have a fine wife, cousin! She manages things right well!”

Thus Adeline became an inmate of the farm house; she worked rapidly with the needle, and Louise was obliged to allow her to employ her whole day, either in sewing or spinning. Jacques felt that his strength was increased twofold since his brother’s wife and his little niece were with him. He alone was worth three farm hands; having become expert in the labor of the farm, he added to the farmer’s income by the pains that he took with everything which he did. Sans-Souci for his part imitated his comrade; he would have been ashamed to remain idle while the others employed their time to such good purpose. So that everything went well at the farm; Guillot and his wife scolded Adeline because she worked too much, and forbade Jacques to do so large a share of the work. But no heed was paid to them, and they had the agreeable certainty that they were not a burden to the worthy peasants.

Several months passed thus, without bringing any change in the situation of the people at the farm. Adeline would have been content with her lot, if she could sometimes have heard from her husband; for she still loved the man who had wrecked her life, and the memory of Edouard constantly disturbed her repose. “What is he doing now?” she would ask herself each day; and the thought that Dufresne was with him added to her unhappiness and redoubled her anxiety. Often she formed the plan of going to Paris to make inquiries concerning her husband’s conduct; but she was afraid of offending Jacques, who, being bitterly angry with his brother, did not wish to hear his name mentioned, and had begged Adeline never to talk to him about Edouard.

So Adeline and Jacques concealed from each other the thoughts that engrossed them, because each of them feared to distress the other by renewing the memory of his or her grief. Sans-Souci was the confidant of them both; Guillot sometimes had errands to be done in Paris, either to sell his grain, or to buy things that were needed at the farm; it was always Sans-Souci who was sent, because Jacques refused to go, lest he should meet his brother. But every time that Sans-Souci was to pay a visit to the capital, Adeline took him aside and begged him to ascertain what her husband was doing; Jacques dared not give the same commission to his comrade, but he would overtake Sans-Souci a little way from the farm, stop him a moment and say in an undertone:

“If you learn anything unpleasant about the man who has forgotten us, remember to hold your tongue, sacrebleu! If you breathe a word of it to my sister, you are no longer my friend.”

Fortune seemed to smile anew upon the wretches who, to obtain money, had been false to honor and had defied all the laws of society; it was a fresh temptation, which impelled them toward crime and prevented them from turning back. The first success seems to warrant impunity for the future; the guilty man grows bolder, and one who enters in fear and trembling the path of vice soon casts aside all shame and seeks to surpass those who have led him on to dishonor.

The gaming table, to which Edouard abandoned himself more madly than ever, had ceased to be unfavorable to him; he won constantly, and the wretch congratulated himself upon having found an expedient to restore his fortune. Dufresne and Lampin taught him all the methods employed by blacklegs to play, without risk of loss, with such gulls as would play with them. Then the worthy trio would laugh among themselves at the expense of the dupes they had ruined, and each of them tried to invent some more rascally trick, in order to outdo his comrades.

When fortune had been favorable, or they had found some new dupe, they thought only of enjoying themselves. They would take to their rooms some of those women who go everywhere, and who, for money, sell themselves to the mason, the pensioner, the banker, or the bootblack, indiscriminately. Such women alone were suitable companions for men who took part in the most horrible orgies, the most unbridled debauchery.

One evening, when they were waiting for Lampin before taking their seats at the table, he arrived laughing, and hastened to inform his friends, as a very amusing piece of news, that a certain note had been declared a forgery, and that the discounter was out of pocket to the amount of the note. Edouard was horrified and turned pale; Dufresne reassured him by declaring that they could never be discovered; they had changed their names and abode since then, and no one could recognize them; there were no proofs to be produced against them. Lampin alone might be sought for; but he was so accomplished in changing his face and his whole person, that he snapped his fingers at the police.

Edouard was not reassured; however, he tried to divert his thoughts and to drive away his fears. Two young women, frequent guests of these gentlemen, arrived opportunely to enliven the company.

“Parbleu,” said Lampin, “Véronique-la-Blonde must tell us some amusing story; she always knows the most interesting news; that will brace up our friend Bellecour—this was Edouard’s new name—who is rather in the dumps to-night.”

“Oh! I am not just in the mood for fooling,” replied Véronique, with a sigh; “I am sort of upside down myself to-day.”

“Oh! don’t talk a lot of nonsense. Really, my heart is terribly sore.”

“The deuce you say! Have you had trouble with the beaks?”

“No, it ain’t that; but I’ve got a friend who’s mixed up in a bad piece of business, and that troubles me.”

“What business is it? Tell us; perhaps we can help her out of it.”

“Oh, no! The law has got its hand on her, and yet the poor child is as innocent as you and me.”

“The devil! that’s saying a good deal; but tell us what it’s all about.”

“You must know that my friend, who has only been in the business a little while, was formerly a servant, a lady’s maid in several houses; among others she worked for a widow lady who died a little while ago. Well, would you believe that they have taken it into their heads, in the quarter, that that lady was poisoned! That report came to the ears of the authorities; they dug up the dead woman, and it seems that the doctors say the same thing as the neighbors. So they looked into the matter, and they’ve arrested my friend, because she worked for the lady at that time; but the poor child is as pure as this glass of wine, I swear.”

Dufresne listened attentively to Véronique’s story, while Lampin toyed with the other young woman, and Edouard, who had relapsed into his reflections concerning a forgery of which he knew that he was guilty, had thrown himself into an easy-chair in a corner of the room, paying no heed to a story which did not interest him in the least.

“Suzanne; she is a good child, on my honor, and incapable of tearing a hair from anybody’s head, I don’t care whose.”

At the name of Suzanne, Dufresne showed signs of perturbation. But instantly recovering himself, he glanced about the room, saw that Murville was not listening, and that Lampin was busy; and he continued to question Véronique.

“It seems to me that your Suzanne will have difficulty in getting out of the scrape, if, as you say, this lady had no other servant than her?”

“Oh! that don’t make any difference; Suzanne suspects who it was that did the job.”

“Really?”

“Yes, my friend. A young man, a friend of the widow, her lover, used to come to see her; he was a gambler, a rascal, a sharper.”

“All right! all right! I understand!—Well?”

“The poor woman ruined herself for the good-for-nothing!—Wait a minute, I know her name—Madame Dou—Dol———”

“No matter! no matter!” said Dufresne, abruptly interrupting Véronique, “I don’t need to know her name.”

“That’s so, that don’t make any difference about the business. However, this lady was mad over her lover, who didn’t care anything for her and robbed her all he could. It seems that they had a row toward the end, and that the monster must have poisoned her to revenge himself because she proposed to tell about all his goings-on.”

“That is very probable.”

“Ah! men are vile dogs nowadays. They kill a woman as quick as a fly!”

“Oh! she has already told the police all this, so that they can get track of the criminal, who is now I don’t know where.”

“That is very wise, and I hope they will discover the truth.”

Dufresne said these last words in an undertone. Despite the assurance which he affected, the discomposure of his features betrayed the sensations that agitated him.

The evening came to an end earlier than usual. Edouard was anxious, and Dufresne also seemed greatly excited. They sent the two young women away. Lampin, who alone had retained his good spirits, poured out bumper after bumper for his friends, making fun of their gloom. Edouard drank to forget himself, but Dufresne was not inclined to bear them company, and Lampin got tipsy alone, trying in vain to make his companions laugh.

“Come, come, my boys, this won’t work,” he said, filling the glasses; “you’re as solemn to-night as gallows-birds! I forgive Bellecour, who is only a chicken-hearted fellow anyway! But you over there—Vermontré—Courval—Dufresne—or whatever you choose to call yourself——”

“Hold your tongue, you idiot!” cried Dufresne angrily; “I forbid you to call me by that last name now!”

“You forbid me! Well, upon my soul! what a savage look! You used to call yourself that, when you lived with that poor Dolban, who thought you really loved her, and who——”

“Hold your tongue, I say, you sot!”

“For heaven’s sake, go to bed, Lampin; you see that Edouard is asleep already, and you will wake him up with your laughter.”

“Well! what’s the harm if I should wake him? The deuce! You’re terribly careful of him to-night! But I propose to laugh, to laugh and drink; and I don’t propose to go to bed, do you understand? I feel in the mood for raising the deuce! I’m sorry I let our girls go; I’m just the man to deal with ’em.—Tra la la la.”

“Do you mean that you don’t propose to go to bed at all to-night?”

“I will go to bed when I please, you fox. Oh! I see that you’re in an ugly mood, I tell you. You are keeping something from us; Véronique’s story dried you up altogether, my poor Dufresne!”

“You villain, will you hold your tongue?” cried Dufresne, seizing Lampin by the throat; he struggled, stepped back and almost fell upon Edouard, who had fallen asleep in a corner of the room, and who, being awakened with a start, glanced about him in terror, crying:

“Here they are! here they are! they have come to arrest me!”

“Ha! ha! what fools you are!” cried Lampin, rising and trying to maintain his equilibrium; “one of them is dreaming and the other one doesn’t see it!”

“Ah! it was only a dream,” said Edouard, passing his hand across his brow.

“Why, yes! you are a couple of babies; but, my boy, don’t take it into your head to grasp my windpipe again, or I shall lose my temper for good and all.”

“It’s getting late, messieurs,” said Dufresne; “I’m tired and I’m going to lie down!”

“Well, go! Our friend here will keep me company and finish up this bottle of rum.”

“No, I’m going to bed too; my head is in a whirl already.”

“Go to the devil! I will drink all by myself.”

“Once more, Lampin, don’t make so much noise; it may annoy the neighbors.”

“Let the neighbors go to grass! I don’t care a hang, and I’ll make more noise than ever.—Tra la la.”

Lampin sang at the top of his voice, as he drank a large glass of rum. Edouard and Dufresne had taken candles, to go to their bedroom, when there came three very loud knocks at the street door.

Dufresne started back in dismay, Edouard listened, trembling from head to foot, and Lampin threw himself on a couch.

“Somebody’s knocking,” said Edouard, looking at Dufresne.

“Yes, I heard it.”

“Hush! somebody is opening the door, I think.”

“Somebody must open the door to let them in! In a furnished lodging house, especially one of this kind, don’t people come in at all hours of the night? However, come what may, I snap my fingers at it, and I propose to keep on drinking.”

“I don’t hear anything more,” said Dufresne; “it evidently wasn’t for us.”

Edouard put his ear to the door opening on the landing, and listened attentively. Lampin resumed his singing, and tried to put to his lips a glass which his hand was no longer strong enough to raise. Suddenly Edouard seemed to become more excited.

“What is it?” Dufresne asked in an undertone.

“I hear several voices whispering; the noise is coming nearer—yes, they are coming up these stairs. Ah! there is no more doubt; they are coming to arrest us,—we are discovered!”

“Silence! what imprudence!” said Dufresne, trying to overcome his own alarm; “if they are really coming here, let us not lose our heads, and be careful what you say; above all things, do not call me Dufresne.”

“I don’t know where I am,” said Edouard, whose terror redoubled as the noise drew nearer.

“Well! I—I don’t know what my name is, myself,” said Lampin, dropping his glass; “but I tell you that they don’t want us.”

At that moment there was a ring at the door on the landing. Edouard fell, almost lifeless, on a chair; Dufresne remained standing in the middle of the room, motioning to the others not to stir. Soon there was another ring, accompanied by violent knocking.

“Damn!” said Dufresne, “we must open the door now.—Who’s there?”

“Open, messieurs, or we shall be obliged to break in the door.”

“Break away, my friend!” said Lampin; “it’s all one to me! The house ain’t mine.”

Dufresne, seeing that there was no way to avoid it, decided to open the door, after motioning to the others to be prudent; but Lampin could no longer see, and Murville had lost his head completely.

Several gendarmes and a sergeant entered the apartment. At sight of them Dufresne turned pale. Edouard uttered a cry of alarm, and Lampin rolled from his chair to the floor.

“You must come with us, monsieur,” said the sergeant, addressing Dufresne. He tried to put a bold face upon the matter and asked insolently by what right they came to disturb his rest.

“Yes, by what right do you disturb respectable people in their pleasures?” stammered Lampin; “why, I will answer for my friend, body for body!”

“Your guarantee is of no value; we know you, Master Lampin.”

“Well, then you have a pleasant acquaintance, I flatter myself.”

“You must come with us, too.”

“I? Ah! that will be rather hard; I wouldn’t walk a step for a bowl of punch; judge whether I will go to prison.”

“As for monsieur,” said the sergeant, turning to Edouard, “I have no orders to arrest him, but I advise him to select his acquaintances more wisely.”

Dufresne was furious to find that he was to be arrested and that Edouard would not accompany him to prison.

“You have made a mistake, messieurs,” said he; “I have done nothing to be arrested for.”

“You are Dufresne, who lived with Madame Dolban?”

“You are mistaken, my name is Vermontré.”

“Oh! that’s the truth,” said Lampin, trying to stand up without the help of the gendarmes; “it’s at least two months that he’s been calling himself that.”

“It’s of no use for you to try to deny it. The police have been watching you for a long while, and when we heard of the murder of which you are accused, it was not difficult for us to find you, despite all the false names you have assumed.”

“Murder! murder!” exclaimed Lampin; “one moment, messieurs, I haven’t got anything to do with that. I thought that you came about the matter of the scrap of paper, which is only a trifle. But a murder! Damnation! let us understand each other. I am as white as snow, and Fluet, who’s over there in the corner, will tell you as much. We only worked on the writings, we two.”

“On the writings?”

The sergeant listened attentively, and Edouard’s terror, combined with Lampin’s fragments of sentences, led him to guess that those gentry were the authors of some rascality of a different sort from the affair which had brought him thither. The crime committed upon Madame Dolban was the occasion of that midnight visit, undertaken because they wished to make sure of Dufresne; the forgery had only been discovered the day before, and the police had not yet found the tracks of the culprits.

“After what I have heard, you will have to come with us too, monsieur,” said the sergeant to Edouard; “if you are innocent, it will be easy for you to clear your skirts.”

“Oh! I will confess everything,” said Edouard, allowing the gendarmes to lay hold of him.

“Well! you’re nothing but a fool, on the faith of Lampin! For my part, I won’t confess anything.—Come, my friends, carry me, if you want me to go with you.”

They dragged away Dufresne, who tried to resist. Edouard, on the contrary, allowed himself to be led away without uttering a word. As for Lampin, they were obliged to carry him; for he could not stand on his legs. The three men passed the rest of the night in prison.

Edouard was confined with Lampin at La Force, until judgment should be pronounced upon him for the forgery. Dufresne was not with them; being accused of having poisoned Madame Dolban, he was to be tried before his two friends, and he had been taken to the Conciergerie.

Edouard, who had not taken the precaution to supply himself with money, was confined with Lampin in a pestilential room, in the midst of a multitude of wretches, all arrested for theft or offences of that nature. He slept upon a handful of straw, and his food was that supplied by the prison to those awaiting trial. Lampin gaily made the best of it; he sang and shouted and played the devil with the outcasts who surrounded him. But Edouard had not the courage of crime; he felt remorse and regret in the depths of his soul. He wept at night on the stone which served him as a bed, and his tears were a source of jest and witticisms to the miserable creatures confined with him.

During the day the prisoners were allowed to walk in a large courtyard; Edouard did not go with them, in order that he might be alone for a few moments, and at all events lament at liberty. He saw no one from outside; he had no friends; his companions in dissipation did not come to visit him in prison; and yet the other prisoners, who were no better than he, received visits every day and were not deserted by their worthy comrades. But Edouard bore the reputation among them of a weak and pusillanimous creature; men of that description are good for nothing; the slightest reverse discourages them, and cowards are as much despised by criminals as they are ignored by respectable people.

One day, Lampin approached Murville, and his joyous air seemed to announce good news.

“Are we pardoned?” Edouard at once asked him.

“Pardoned! oh, no! we needn’t expect that. Besides, you jackass, you made our affair so clear, that unless they are blind, they can’t help convicting us. Ah! if you had been another kind of man; if you had simply recited your lesson, we would have mixed the whole thing up so that they wouldn’t have seen anything but smoke; but you chatter like a magpie.”

“Do you forget that it was your fault that I was arrested? It was you who put those officers on the track.”

“Oh! my boy, that’s different; I was drunk, like a good fellow; I drank for you too, and in wine, as the proverb says,—in vino—the truth.—But after all, that isn’t what I wanted to talk about: our friend Dufresne is luckier than we are.”

“Have they given him his liberty?”

“To death! Why, what has he done?”

“What has he done? Well, well! that’s a good one, that is. Have you just come out of a rat-hole? Do you mean to say that you don’t know why they pinched him?”

“I thought it was on account of that miserable note,—for the same reason that they took us.”

“Oh, no! it’s something better than that. But I do remember now, that fright acted on you like wine; you didn’t know what was going on. Let me tell you that Dufresne is accused of poisoning a certain Madame Dolban, with whom he used to live.”

“Great God! the monster!”

“It seems that his case is serious; he will be sentenced to death in default; but you understand that he won’t return to these diggings, to be caught. We shan’t see him again; I am sorry for that, for he is a smart fellow; it’s a pity that he went too far.”

“And we?”

“We are to be transferred to the Conciergerie before long, to be tried. That’s the place, my man, where you will need firmness and eloquence. If you weep there as you do here, it’s all over; we shall take a sea voyage in the service of the government.”

“You villain! is it possible?”

“Hush, they’re listening to us; enough said.”

But that peaceful life could not endure; a certain trip of Sans-Souci’s to Paris was destined to cause a great change. Jacques’s excellent comrade set out one day for the great city, intrusted as usual with secret commissions from Adeline and her brother-in-law, both of whom, although without communicating with each other, had the same thought, the same desire, and burned to know what Edouard was doing.

Hitherto Sans-Souci had been unable to obtain any information, but an unlucky chance led this time to his meeting a friend whom he had not seen for a very long time. This friend, after practising divers trades, had become a messenger at the Conciergerie. He was employed by those prisoners who were still allowed to communicate with the outside world. Sans-Souci mentioned the name of Edouard Murville; his friend informed him that he was in the prison, and that his sentence was to be pronounced on the following day.

“In prison!” cried Sans-Souci; “my brave comrade’s brother! Ten thousand cartridges! this will be a sad blow to Jacques.”

“But why is he in prison?” asked Sans-Souci anxiously; “what has he done? Speak! tell me. Is it for debt?”

“Yes, yes; I believe it’s about a note,” replied the messenger, hesitating, and resolved not to disclose the truth; and he tried, but in vain, to change the subject.

“Morbleu! his brother—her husband—in prison! Poor little woman! Poor fellow!”

“Don’t say anything about it to them, my friend, don’t mention it to them. I am sorry myself that I told you this distressing news.”

“You are right, I will hold my tongue, I won’t say anything. After all, they can’t help it. That Edouard is a bad fellow! So much the worse for him.”

“Oh, yes! he is a very bad fellow, and they will do well to forget him.”

“Yes, of course, we can think that, we fellows; but a wife, a brother, they have hearts, you see, and when it’s a question of someone you love, the heart always drives you on.—Good-bye, old man; I am going back to the farm, very sorry that I met you, although it isn’t your fault. My heart is heavy, and the trouble is that I am too stupid to make-believe.”

For two days the honest soldier’s courage held good against Adeline’s prayers. But he reflected upon the plight of Edouard, whom he believed to be in prison for debt; he thought that his wife might have acquaintances in Paris, through whom she could probably alleviate Edouard’s situation. Edouard had been guilty; but perhaps misfortune would have matured his character. And it was not right to deprive him of help and encouragement. These reflections caused Sans-Souci to decide to conceal no longer from Adeline what he knew. The opportunity soon presented itself; the next day the young woman entreated him again to tell her what her husband was doing; Sans-Souci surrendered, on condition that she would not mention it to Jacques, by whom he feared to be scolded. Adeline promised, and then he told her all that he had learned in Paris.

As soon as Adeline heard that her husband was in prison, she made up her mind what course to pursue; she left Sans-Souci, went to her chamber, collected a few jewels, the last remnant of her past fortune, made a little bundle of her clothes, and after writing on a sheet of paper that they must not be disturbed by her absence, she took her little Ermance in her arms and secretly left the farm house, resolved to leave no stone unturned to obtain her husband’s freedom, or to share his captivity.